NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Personal Affairs

2015-10-31T17:54:09Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Parli, Parli{{!}}Swaronth |what=Parli and Swaronth collect trees. |where=Forested Area, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=14 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=Parli, Parli{{!}}Swaronth
|what=Parli and Swaronth collect trees.
|where=Forested Area, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=14
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.31
|quote=<< I'm also more of a man than you are. >>
|weather=Snowy.
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Parli Miserable.png, Icon Swaronth Glower.png,
|log=Snow crunched under Parli's boots as she and Swaronth made their way, on foot, through the forest.

"This is ''stupid''. You don't need a door this badly. Your wallow isn't even in front of the opening and we're too high up for it to matter."

<< We should have done this before winter. >>

"We totally would have, if you didn't get it into your head to go chase every green that decided to go up."

<>

"Sure. Okay. Because me spending about an hour with a strange person every time you catch isn't ''my'' personal crap, too."

He glowered at her, mentally and physically. She threw her hands in the air.

"What. Seriously? You can't pretend that doesn't happen. It's not like I can go back to the weyr to work on something while you're banging happily away on whatever green you caught."

<< There's no reason to be crude. >>

Parli raised an eyebrow.

<< We ''make love''. Harpers would weep to write ballads of such love-making. Their instruments would catch on fire and their throats would rupture for the glory of it. >>

"Jays. That's so gross."

<< Besides. We must sleep with the enemy to know them. >>

"They aren't the enemy."

<< Yet. >>

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

Swaronth pushed a forepaw against a tree and sniffed it. His eyes narrowed, in as much as dragon eyes could - which is to say not at all, but the mental sense of it was one that Parli was familiar with.

<< Put the rig on. We'll take this one. >> He turned slightly and nodded at another. << And that one. >>

"... you do realize that we're going to have to dry the wood out. You aren't even going to have ''this'' door until late spring at this rate. I told you we should have just gone to the Woodcraft and picked up some planks there."

Swaronth fixed his gaze on her with a low, singular chuckle.

<< I've already taken the liberty of asking one of our former wingmates to retrieve the old door in the meantime. >>

"... oh jays no."

<< We'll mount that one for now. >>

"It won't fit," she hoped.

<< We'll need to cut it to size, but it will fit just fine. >>

"Then why... why are we even doing ''this''? This is stupid."

<< Because, that's why. >> He grunted and Parli, grudgingly, mounted up to attach the tree-felling rig to Swaronth's straps. Next up were her pitons and ''her'' tree-climbing gear. He reared up and she caught onto the tree, only to climb the last little bit up to connect the rig.

"You're kind of a jerk, you know that?"

<< I'm also more of a man than you are. >>

"But- what. How does ''that'' make any sense. That's not even relevant to anything ever. You picked me, anyway, so what does ''that'' say about your manliness." Parli couldn't even muster the energy to question him properly.

<< You know full well that I have a weakness for pretty women and breakfast foods. >>

"You like porcines and wherries. That doesn't count as 'breakfast food'. Also, you have the worst taste in women. I've seen the greens you caught."

<< And I picked you. >>

"Like I said - the worst taste in women."

Swaronth grunted again. << Is it on? >>

"Yeah. Sure. Let me get down."

The rigging was simple enough - rather than cut the tree down, Swaronth could just uproot and pull it down. Two hours later and they had a fine pair of trees to strap together - and take away, to a small, secret place in the South where she could turn it into planks and let it dry.

Eventually.
}}

Logs:Building Character

2015-10-27T04:37:40Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Parli, Parli{{!}}Swaronth |what=Swaronth and Parli work on a thing. |where=The Weyramid of Greatness, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=10 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=In..."

{{Log
|who=Parli, Parli{{!}}Swaronth
|what=Swaronth and Parli work on a thing.
|where=The Weyramid of Greatness, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=10
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.27
|quote=<< We need more metalworking equipment. >>
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Parli Eyeroll.png, Icon Swaronth Grunt.png,
|desc=>---< The Weyramid of Greatness, Fort Weyr(#1625Rs$) >-----------------------<

The ledge leads into a surprisingly spacious space, for all that the
exterior suggests a cramped weyr to match the ledge. Suitable for even a
large gold, there's more than enough room for a dragon to move around in.
It's roughly kidney bean shaped, curved to the right; a dragon wallow
resides in the left "bubble", raw stone left unpolished or softened by
blankets or rushes. Shelves have been roughly hewn into the walls, with
hooks embedded here and there. Dragon care supplies and straps and
leathers and all of the other accoutrements of a dragon and rider can be
found - neatly organized, of course. Directly opposite of the door is an
oddity; a framed and glass-covered image, meticulously hand-drawn on
parchment. The bold letters at the bottom of the image declare it to be
"Swaronth's Pyramid of Greatness". The rest of the text is harder to read.
It is definitely a pyramid and there are definitely sketches of the dragon
in question on either side.
Around the bend, the shelving continues - but the contents take a
dramatic shift. A workshop of sorts has been set up in that area, designed
to handle a combination of crafts - from leather to metal to wood, there's
a little bit of everything here. It's not a grand affair by any means, but
minor feats of metalworking can be achieved. Carpentry and leatherwork
seem to hold the greatest emphasis, gauging by the size of the work table
and the collected tools hanging or placed in their spaces. Thick books
full of plans and designs have been set up in another set of shelves -
wooden shelves built just for that purpose. And then there are the heavy,
wooden trunks with their locks and secrets; bits of chain and leather hung
from convenient hooks. It is a haven of masculinity, with a few
interesting items carved of wood or created of metal or stone that can be
picked out here and there. There is also, of all things, a grill - and
some other bits designed to cook and serve booze. A comfortable chair, a
table, and a well-crafted, wooden chair are arranged around a brazier near
one wall.
And then there's the rider area, which is a little bubble off of that
curve. It's small, sure, but efficiently designed. It has a bed, shelves,
and a closet - without doors, but there are hinges. It's a dark, ill-lit
place in comparison to the rest of the weyr; the clothing is enough to
betray that the rider is a woman - or just prefers women's clothing.
Tapestries and pillows and blankets soften the space considerably.
|log="This is so stupid."

<< It builds character and muscle. >>

"It's still stupid."

<< Put some alcohol in your mouth to block the words from coming out. >>

''That totally works when I can do this.''

<< You know what I mean. >>

Parli rolled her eyes but couldn't quite muster the energy to heave a long-suffering sigh. She'd been up since the crack of dawn (or, as Swaronth put it: << Enjoy it: this is the one morning this seven that I'll let you sleep in. >>) and had been busy ever since.

It was a day of taking measurements and placing orders and preparing the work space for the largest project she'd undertaken since the last time she had to build him a door.

This time, it would be different.

<< We need more metalworking equipment. >>

"Ugh. No. We don't. We've had this discussion a million times already. I don't want to die because of metalworking fumes. If you were happier with that other weyr, the one that was lower down..."

<< You shut your damned mouth. >>

Parli threw her hands in the air half-heartedly. "See? So. We're up here. There is no ventilation. You'll just have to suffer with someone else making all the metal things and whatever."

Swaronth sulked in a sea of whiskey and sawdust.

Parli rolled her eyes again and went back to moving things around.

Another sevenday.

Maybe two.

And then Swaronth would have his damned door.
}}

Logs talk:To Adapt

2015-10-27T03:47:27Z

Weylaughn: Comment provided by Ulyana - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:To Adapt]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Faryn (17:42, 26 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

He's terrifying me make him stop.
==Ulyana (20:47, 26 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Yay, there's someone else that can not-talk like Qhyluth! /confetti

Logs:Threads

2015-10-26T03:14:08Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edric |what=Some of Edric's loose threads are tied up; most are left to dangle. |where=Edric's Office, Black Cliff Hold |day=7 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=1..."

{{Log
|who=Edric
|what=Some of Edric's loose threads are tied up; most are left to dangle.
|where=Edric's Office, Black Cliff Hold
|day=7
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.25
|quote=It was as it was every turn.
|mentions=Erinta, Hattie, Rhiannon, X'vin, Z'riah
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Edric plotting.jpeg,
|log=His return to Black Cliff Hold was uneventful.

Edric had maintained his duties as best as he could for the duration of his contract and that made a return to normal life much easier.

There were, of course, plenty of trips to be made to the outlying cotholds - but that was why certain contracts to certain greenriders existed.

There were plenty of ''other'' trips to be made. Trips in the wee hours. Strange hours. Hours that begged questions that could not be asked.

The work was done. The carefully maintained machines continued to run smoothly.

Turn's End went off without a hitch - a tasteful affair, all in all. Elegant but not extravagant. Well-attended. Finely decorated. Exquisitely catered.

It was as it was every turn.

And that was purposeful.

-----

Still. Visits to Fort Weyr were necessary - Erinta would not ask for him and he knew it, but there were still things that he wanted to do.

Needed to do.

X'vin was still there. Z'riah, too. Rhiannon.

Loose threads, all of them, in their varying ways.

The taxes. The budget. All of it.

The Weyr should be reaching financial solvency by the third month of the new turn if his calculations - and the reports he was able to get from the Weyr - were at all correct. Eight months after his initial budget was implemented. Not quite perfect timing - but close enough. He had anticipated a better response from the riders; had anticipated a higher level of compliance with the taxes.

No matter.

He snorted to himself, shook his head, studied the blank paper on his desk. One more report to write. One more set of recommendations to make.

And from there?

Plenty else to be seen to.

Plenty more to be done.
}}

Z'kiel

2015-10-26T02:17:11Z

Weylaughn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

=Ahtzudaeth=

{{DragonTab}}

=History=
His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

On the 28th day of the 12th month of turn 38, Ahtzudaeth makes his first Search: [[Jocelyn]].

On the 21st day of the 13th month of turn 38, Ahtzudaeth Searches [[Torlynna]].

On the 3rd day of the 2nd month of turn 39, Ahtzudaeth made his final Search: [[Ellerey]].
=Relationships=

== High Reaches Weyr ==
Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. ... and, maybe, I will smile. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade. 
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me. 
[[Jocelyn]] - He saw something in you. So did ''she''. Do not disappoint them. 
[[Torlynna]] - He is happy with your energy - and hers. It is as it should be. 
[[Ellerey]] - Yours is a fierce one. He may be able to help. You are not alone.

== Igen Weyr ==

Kasdeja - The rest of the blood might have dried up - but you remain. Thank you. 
Sitri - I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. I don't think even Ahtzudaeth has words for it.

== Fort Weyr ==

[[Tabitha]] - ''Hnnnh.''

=Family=
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Zierad
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=951696000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Iekila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=983606400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Kadeila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1244995200}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Zakaid
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1256832000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Ieliare
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Erailei
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Niece
{{!}}Eilamina
{{!}}Child
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1440892800}}
{{!}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

=Brazen=

''Son of Autumn's Misfortune Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen, Cry Baby)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite 
Sire: Jo's Mime 
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

=RP Logs=

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Bronzerider
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Dragonrider
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}

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

Logs:Foreseen

2015-10-26T01:59:31Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth |what=Ahtzudaeth is satisfied with his soothsaying abilities. Z'kiel, not so much. |where=Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High..."

{{Log
|who=Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth
|what=Ahtzudaeth is satisfied with his soothsaying abilities. Z'kiel, not so much.
|where=Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.25
|quote=<< Trust me. >>
|mentions=Ellerey, Faryn, Jocelyn, Torlynna,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon Ahtzudaeth Sly.png
|log=He was busy the night before.

Ivory cording. Beads. Paper. Ink.

Z'kiel sucked his teeth and made the bracelets, mindful to keep his thoughts clear. Hopeful. Full of good tidings.

It was hard - but Ahtzudaeth insisted.

Three bracelets.

Three notes.

Three Candidates.

''Are you sure?''

<< Trust me. >>

-----

He trusted - and Ahtzudaeth proved trustworthy.

Z'kiel sat as close to the front as he could, shoulders rolled forward. Brazen hummed away in his nest of scarves; Ahtzudaeth hummed away from his perch. The bronzerider tugged a necklace out from under his shirt and ran his thumb over the beads there; three beads, for now. Three.

Ahtzudaeth had picked the beads out, had insisted on keeping a record.

Spinnerwebbed purple glass.

Cracked silver.

Amber with something inside.

Jocelyn. Torlynna. Ellerey.

He sucked his teeth and rubbed the beads and watched with breath that was more often held than not. There were the three - and one more. He watched ''her'' more than the others, his forehead knitted up tight. There was no bead nor bracelet for her - but there should have been.

<< The order is wrong, >> Ahtzudaeth mused absently.

Z'kiel caught himself rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

''Does it matter?''

<< It might. >> A beat. << It might not. >> Enigmatic murmurings drifted, flecks of dust mingling with motes of light that danced and shimmer with ''anticipation'' and ''possibilities.''

With ''hope.''

Torlynna first.

Then Jocelyn.

Ellerey.

''How...?''

But the bronze offered no more than a good-natured chuckle and a flicker of light.

Torlynna. Jocelyn. Ellerey. But not- no.

While Ahtzudaeth's thoughts swirled with satisfaction, Z'kiel's twisted. He looked from the broken shells to those Candidates that remained. His jaw tightened for just a moment - and then he pushed to his feet.

Ahtzudaeth asked no questions - which suited him just fine.

Z'kiel wasn't in a mood to tell him to go fuck himself.

Not when there was someone else he needed to talk to.
|Categories=Hatching Logs
}}

File:Icon Ahtzudaeth Sly.png

2015-10-26T01:55:54Z

Weylaughn:

File:Icon Ahtzudaeth Thoughtful.png

2015-10-26T01:55:54Z

Weylaughn:

File:Icon Ahtzudaeth Tough.png

2015-10-26T01:55:54Z

Weylaughn:

File:Icon Ahtzudaeth Future.png

2015-10-26T01:55:54Z

Weylaughn:

File:Icon Ahtzudaeth Looming.png

2015-10-26T01:55:54Z

Weylaughn:

File:Icon Ahtzudaeth Alone.png

2015-10-26T01:55:53Z

Weylaughn:

File:Icon Ahtzudaeth Fight.png

2015-10-26T01:55:53Z

Weylaughn:

Logs:Breakfast Is Dangerous

2015-10-19T01:38:59Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=E'dre, Parli,
|what=Parli happens upon E'dre over breakfast
|where=Living Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=14
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.18
|weather=Let it snow!
|mentions=N'rov, X'vin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Hah.jpg, Icon Parli Bored.png,
|desc=>---< Living Cavern, Fort Weyr(#513RIJMas$) >--------------------------------<

Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.

To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns.
|log=The morning saw the Weyr waking up to those large, soft, snow-flakes of a mild snowstorm that feels more magical and inviting than other storms may. The caverns are busy this morning as groups continue to wake and stream in for the breakfast offerings. E'dre's settled at a table recently vacated by his wingmates, still nursing his nearly cold klah as he browses a hide in front of him.

Oh boy. ''Morning.'' Narrow-eyed and sour-faced, Parli shuffles into the living cavern and heads directly for the klah pots. She's already dusted in a bit of snow, though it melts relatively quickly once she's well inside. Klah is poured, sampled, and "Ugh"ed at. It must pass the test - or, more likely, requesting a fresh pot of klah is too much effort - for she gathers up some manner of breakfast (pastries, mostly) before eventually setting eyes on the table a smattering of her wingmates occupy. A long-suffering sigh follows. She goes that way, which - fortunately or unfortunately - requires passing by the table E'dre is at.

E'dre doesn't generally find reason to be talkative in the living caverns (when he does taek a meal there) and might've let Parli simply grumble past him but there's something that catches his eye and he lifts a hand to stall her. "You didn't seem to like the klah," he comments, amusement clear in the gaze he tips at her and the smirky-smile that settles on his face. "You think they burned it this morning?"

Welp. Parli is successfully stalled, but at the cost of another sigh. She stops and half-turns to obliquely look askance at E'dre, one eyebrow slowly rising as he speaks. "No," is drawn out just a little - the tone is best described as bored sarcasm. "I mean, probably, but it's too weak to tell if it's burned or just trying too hard to be real klah." Her expression is delightfully deadpan throughout, though her raised eyebrow remains securely in place.

E'dre muses over this as he peers into the dregs of his remaining klah. He looks up at Parli and then back to his klah. He sidebars a glance towards the klah kettle that's ''clearly'' in closer reach to Parli than to him. "Huh," he muses, setting his mug on the table and sliding it away from him - and neaerer to the other brownrider. "I'd have to taste this latest batch to really draw any conculsions," he hints and then he picks that hide back up to stare at. Business-like.

"Yeah, you probably should," Parli agrees blandly. "It's kind of gross but, whatever." An indifferent shrug follows - but she's certainly not following the rest of his all-too-obvious hinting. Instead, she sets ''her'' mug down - within range of him to reach, but not really at a comfortable range. "Ugh, no. I don't want ''your'' gross klah. You can have mine." She cuts a look to her wingmates, wrinkles her nose, and adds, "It looks like a whiskey morning ''anyway''." Matter-of-fact, that.

''That'' draws E'dre's attention from his hide and towards Parli's wingmates. "They do that often?" he asks far too calmly. He gestures for her to sit, pushing her klah back in her direction. "I'll brave it when I get up next," he explains as he frowns again towards that table. He's looking back to Parli and then to his hide with a grumbled, "Shards." He slams the hide down and then he's gulping the last of his klah with a grimace.

"Them? Faranth no. I mean, maybe, I don't know." Parli shrugs again, the boneless kind of shrug that only the perpetually bored can manage. "I do, but only because they're idiots and alcohol makes them easier to deal with." The offer to sit is, eventually, taken. She does take her mug of klah back with a sense of weighty disappointment, but settles into picking at her pastry with a distinct lack of interest. A slow swig of klah follows, an eyebrow creeping skyward once more at that grumble and slamming of hide. "Uh... huh." Her gaze flicks to the hide and, if her hands weren't busy, she'd probably be wagging a finger at it. "Bad hide. You're the worst hide ever. Look at what you made the Weyrleader do."

"The hide, the drunks, either would suit for a reason for me to grumble and slam things around," E'dre drawls at Parli. Something of her boredom and sarcasm must be infectious as now ''he's'' sighing like someone who is long suffering. "Just one more thing added to the list of the day," he admits to her with a shrug. He spies an opportunity and lifts his hand, a come-hither wave and point given to his mug. A kitchen staff member bustles over without issue to refill his mug with the newly made klah. "There you are, sir. Nice to see you this morning, sir," the young boy murmurs to E'dre before dashing off to his other tasks. Satsified, E'dre takes his mug up and cradles it against his chest in growing contentment.

"I guess," Parli replies and absently continues picking at the pastry and taking bits and pieces. Her features screw up at something or another - the glazing over of her eyes does plenty to suggest the source - and then she's snorting to herself. She pushes the pastry a bit closer to E'dre. "Go ahead. Point on the pastry where the bad hide touched you." A beat, then: "You have an assistant, right? I mean, just make them deal with it today or whatever. Go do," vague and airy gesticulation ensues, "like, I don't know, whatever else you have to do."

E'dre can't help but chuckle over Parli's pastry and commentary. "No. The pastry wouldn't hold up if I began pointing out all the wrongs of the hide against me." He sips his klah and grimaces against the flavor. "I'll have to talk to them about where we're getting the klah these days. This is ''horrible''." He pats his chest and grimaces again against the burn as it goes down. "An assistant?" E'dre's amusement seems inclined to stay this morning. Parli must've caught him on one of his ''good'' days. "I ''was'' the Weyrsecond. I don't have one trained up as a back-up. Though I let N'rov try for a few days." He eyes her briefly and then gazes back to her wingmates. "You enjoying Flint? Aside from," he gestures in a back-handed way. "That."

A one-shouldered-"whatever floats your boat" shrug resolves in Parli pulling the pastry back. "It would probably be a better fate than it's going to suffer now," she muses. Not that she cares. That thing is going to be destroyed long before it's actually eaten. Both eyebrows raise at his proclamation, her slow smile - a rare thing, indeed - being very much of the unspoken (but obvious) 'I told you so' variety. Aloud: "So why don't you make him do it anyway? Or, I don't know, make some other Wingleader your 'Second of the day or whatever." The question is met with a vague noise, yet another shrug - such powerful shoulders! - and a bored, "I guess. I mean, it's okay. It's not, like, busy all the time any more or anything. Just drills and more drills and, oh boy, even more drills." Go, go, lazy jazz hands. "It's better than talking to Holders like before." ''Ugh.'' - unvoiced, but still there.

E'dre's interest just seems to keep catching as Parli speaks, something sparking in his gaze as he takes more sips from his klah and nods encouragement to her sharing. "I see," he offers, interest turning quickly to calculations. "I never was a fan of talking to Holders. They always seemed to ''want'' something in exchange for our presence," he adds, shifting in his seat. "Which could get annoying. Which Holders did you talk to? I mean, some of them are pretty decent, but others...," he lifts a hand and wriggles it side-to-side as a descriptor. "I guess now that you all don't do that and you've gotta drill," he adds, grinning, "those that don't like the drills are drinking?"

The klah is tried again, to much the same effect as before. Parli sucks her teeth a little, eats some pastry, and slouches a little in her seat. "Well, yeah. I mean. If they came here, wouldn't you want something from them?" Her nose wrinkles. "Ugh. I can't even remember. X'vin has all my reports, so. I guess talk to him or something. I'm sure he still has them somewhere." Another long, deep sigh of the long-suffering, soul-heavy sort is given, coupled with an eyeroll that lasts a second or two too long. "I can't speak for the others, but ''I'' like the drinking. Thank you, alcohol." She raises her klah briefly in a toast to the beverage that is definitely not there. "But, whatever. The drills still get done, so..." She'll just leave that there.

A chance must've been missed for E'dre's not as cheerful and chummy as he was. "Of course X'vin's got your reports," he agrees as he takes a longer pull from his klah. "And if the drinking is really turning into such sport, perhaps I'll have to chat him up a bit about that. Safety. Sanity. Y'know. Can't have all our riders tossing back booze to celebrate the coming of the sun." He shifts in his seat and then stands, pushing the bench out from behind him as he goes. "I'm going to take this offensive hide to throw at N'rov's head," he comments, grabbing the hide. "See if he wants to make sense of it." He's got a smirk for Parli on that, "Thanks for the idea." He tips his head to her and then moves to head out of the caverns. He's got that klah mug but he's left the rest of his dishes behind for someone else to deal with.

There's another rolling of eyes, but Parli doesn't say any more; she's a bit more occupied with her business, such as it is. Her wingmates eventually get up and file out - presumably to get ready for drills - but she doesn't join them. "Sure. Yeah. Just make sure to fold it up or something before you throw it. It doesn't go far otherwise." Spoken from experience, that. There is no getting up to salute, no farewells; there's a vague little wave, though, so there's something? In either case, he leaves and she lingers - and she'll eventually get to her drills. Probably even while it's still morning. Maybe.
}}

Parli

2015-10-18T18:11:56Z

Weylaughn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Parli.jpg
|mother=Paressa (+20)
|father=Vierly (+23)
|siblings=Rissavely (-3)
|body=== Description ==
Average in height and with a lean, but slender, build, this young woman is either in her late teens or late twenties. Her age is perhaps frustratingly ambiguous; her features are still youthful, from large, almond-shaped brown eyes to expressive brows, to a smallish mouth that seems inclined less toward smiling and more toward wry lines. Her face is oval, her nose a blade that's upturned at the end, and everything just seems to fit in a way that would be pretty if she didn't look permanently bored. Her dark brown hair is just past shoulder-length and is generally clipped back from her face. Her skin is tanned, smooth, and unmarred.

Her clothing tends toward dark and functional. When she's not in her riding leathers - well-fitted and black, of course - then she's readily found in various combinations of knee-length dresses, leggings, short skirts, sweaters, and blouses. Boots and flats are the full sum of her shoe collection, tending more toward boots than not in most cases. Her knot is that of a Fortian brownrider, hung at a shoulder or on her hip as appropriate.

{{wysk}}

=Swaronth=
{{DragonTab}}

=History=

Viparlyessa was the first born of Holders Vierly and Paressa of some tiny, ridiculously named Hold, followed a few turns later by her sister, Rissavely. Both of them were raised by parents desperate for them to be perfect Ladies - as would be fitting to those who were tangentially connected to Fort's Blood. Her parents tried hard. They meant well. But, in the end, Viparlyessa came out relatively unscathed. She was anything but the Lady they wanted her to eventually become. She was introverted, easily bored, and distinctly indifferent to anything and everything in the Hold.

Her parents, in a desperate maneuver, finally arranged a marriage for her. She went along with it right up until the end.

She ran away from the first wedding to a Holder that she didn't care about enough to remember if he had a name.

Though her parents were embarrassed, they chalked it up to youthful rebelliousness.

She ran away from the second, this time to another lad from a different Hold whose name she just can't be bothered to remember.

When she ran away from the third (who would eventually wed her sister), it was with a bluerider who promised her nothing but a different life - and she took it. Telgar Weyr became her home, if by accident: no sooner than she'd arrived than the bluerider Searched her and she accepted with utter indifference.

The bluerider made good on his promise.

Swaronth took care of the rest.

She had scarcely turned sixteen... and Impressed him on the 1st day of the 12th month of turn 26 - the second brown out of Iskiveth's and Yesdrieth's clutch. He dubbed her Parli - and it stuck.

They've been together ever since.

Although Telgar proved to be a perfect home for them for nearly twelve turns, it would seem that she's either been struck with wanderlust or Telgar's grown tired of her perceived laziness; in either case, when Telgar needed a rider with a certain set of skills, they proposed a trade with Fort Weyr. The trade went through - and Fort is now in possession of a new brownrider.

=Family=
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Vierly
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=902419200}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Paressa
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=935078400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Rissavely
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1177833600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother-in-Law
{{!}}What's-his-face-Kurrgen-or-Kurghen-or-something
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1116864000}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

=Acquaintances=

... sure, she has those. Somewhere.

==Fort Weyr==
[[X'vin]] - ''whatever'' - So. Tired. Of. Drills. Faranth. 
[[E'dre]] - ''ugh'' - Better not let Swaronth see that knot or he'll get more stupid ideas. 
[[Dee]] - ''okay?'' - Just... whatever. Do whatever goldriders are supposed to do or something. 

==Everywhere==
Alcohol - ''friend'' - Thank you, alcohol.

=RP Logs=

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Telgar Weyr, Brownriders, Flint Wing
}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Telgar_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Brownriders]]
[[Category:Flint_Wing]]

Parli

2015-10-18T18:11:14Z

Weylaughn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Parli.jpg
|mother=Paressa (+20)
|father=Vierly (+23)
|siblings=Rissavely (-3)
|body=== Description ==
Average in height and with a lean, but slender, build, this young woman is either in her late teens or late twenties. Her age is perhaps frustratingly ambiguous; her features are still youthful, from large, almond-shaped brown eyes to expressive brows, to a smallish mouth that seems inclined less toward smiling and more toward wry lines. Her face is oval, her nose a blade that's upturned at the end, and everything just seems to fit in a way that would be pretty if she didn't look permanently bored. Her dark brown hair is just past shoulder-length and is generally clipped back from her face. Her skin is tanned, smooth, and unmarred.

Her clothing tends toward dark and functional. When she's not in her riding leathers - well-fitted and black, of course - then she's readily found in various combinations of knee-length dresses, leggings, short skirts, sweaters, and blouses. Boots and flats are the full sum of her shoe collection, tending more toward boots than not in most cases. Her knot is that of a Fortian brownrider, hung at a shoulder or on her hip as appropriate.

{{wysk}}

=Swaronth=
{{DragonTab}}

=History=

Viparlyessa was the first born of Holders Vierly and Paressa of some tiny, ridiculously named Hold, followed a few turns later by her sister, Rissavely. Both of them were raised by parents desperate for them to be perfect Ladies - as would be fitting to those who were tangentially connected to Fort's Blood. Her parents tried hard. They meant well. But, in the end, Viparlyessa came out relatively unscathed. She was anything but the Lady they wanted her to eventually become. She was introverted, easily bored, and distinctly indifferent to anything and everything in the Hold.

Her parents, in a desperate maneuver, finally arranged a marriage for her. She went along with it right up until the end.

She ran away from the first wedding to a Holder that she didn't care about enough to remember if he had a name.

Though her parents were embarrassed, they chalked it up to youthful rebelliousness.

She ran away from the second, this time to another lad from a different Hold whose name she just can't be bothered to remember.

When she ran away from the third (who would eventually wed her sister), it was with a bluerider who promised her nothing but a different life - and she took it. Telgar Weyr became her home, if by accident: no sooner than she'd arrived than the bluerider Searched her and she accepted with utter indifference.

The bluerider made good on his promise.

Swaronth took care of the rest.

She had scarcely turned sixteen... and Impressed him on the 1st day of the 12th month of turn 26 - the second brown out of Iskiveth's and Yesdrieth's clutch. He dubbed her Parli - and it stuck.

They've been together ever since.

Although Telgar proved to be a perfect home for them for nearly twelve turns, it would seem that she's either been struck with wanderlust or Telgar's grown tired of her perceived laziness; in either case, when Telgar needed a rider with a certain set of skills, they proposed a trade with Fort Weyr. The trade went through - and Fort is now in possession of a new brownrider.

=Family=
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Vierly
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=902419200}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Paressa
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=935078400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Rissavely
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1177833600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother-in-Law
{{!}}What's-his-face-Kurrgen-or-Kurghen-or-something
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1116864000}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

=Acquaintances=

... sure, she has those. Somewhere.
[[X'vin]] - ''whatever'' - So. Tired. Of. Drills. Faranth. 
[[E'dre]] - ''ugh'' - Better not let Swaronth see that knot or he'll get more stupid ideas. 
[[Dee]] - ''okay?'' - Just... whatever. Do whatever goldriders are supposed to do or something. 
Alcohol - ''friend'' - Thank you, alcohol.

=RP Logs=

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Telgar Weyr, Brownriders, Flint Wing
}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Telgar_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Brownriders]]
[[Category:Flint_Wing]]

Logs:Breakfast Is Dangerous

2015-10-18T16:47:08Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=E'dre, Parli,
|what=Parli happens upon E'dre over breakfast
|where=Living Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Area
|day=14
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.18
|weather=Let it snow!
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Hah.jpg, Icon Parli Bored.png,
|desc=>---< Living Cavern, Fort Weyr(#513RIJMas$) >--------------------------------<

Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.

To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns.
|log=The morning saw the Weyr waking up to those large, soft, snow-flakes of a mild snowstorm that feels more magical and inviting than other storms may. The caverns are busy this morning as groups continue to wake and stream in for the breakfast offerings. E'dre's settled at a table recently vacated by his wingmates, still nursing his nearly cold klah as he browses a hide in front of him.

Oh boy. ''Morning.'' Narrow-eyed and sour-faced, Parli shuffles into the living cavern and heads directly for the klah pots. She's already dusted in a bit of snow, though it melts relatively quickly once she's well inside. Klah is poured, sampled, and "Ugh"ed at. It must pass the test - or, more likely, requesting a fresh pot of klah is too much effort - for she gathers up some manner of breakfast (pastries, mostly) before eventually setting eyes on the table a smattering of her wingmates occupy. A long-suffering sigh follows. She goes that way, which - fortunately or unfortunately - requires passing by the table E'dre is at.

E'dre doesn't generally find reason to be talkative in the living caverns (when he does taek a meal there) and might've let Parli simply grumble past him but there's something that catches his eye and he lifts a hand to stall her. "You didn't seem to like the klah," he comments, amusement clear in the gaze he tips at her and the smirky-smile that settles on his face. "You think they burned it this morning?"

Welp. Parli is successfully stalled, but at the cost of another sigh. She stops and half-turns to obliquely look askance at E'dre, one eyebrow slowly rising as he speaks. "No," is drawn out just a little - the tone is best described as bored sarcasm. "I mean, probably, but it's too weak to tell if it's burned or just trying too hard to be real klah." Her expression is delightfully deadpan throughout, though her raised eyebrow remains securely in place.

E'dre muses over this as he peers into the dregs of his remaining klah. He looks up at Parli and then back to his klah. He sidebars a glance towards the klah kettle that's ''clearly'' in closer reach to Parli than to him. "Huh," he muses, setting his mug on the table and sliding it away from him - and neaerer to the other brownrider. "I'd have to taste this latest batch to really draw any conculsions," he hints and then he picks that hide back up to stare at. Business-like.

"Yeah, you probably should," Parli agrees blandly. "It's kind of gross but, whatever." An indifferent shrug follows - but she's certainly not following the rest of his all-too-obvious hinting. Instead, she sets ''her'' mug down - within range of him to reach, but not really at a comfortable range. "Ugh, no. I don't want ''your'' gross klah. You can have mine." She cuts a look to her wingmates, wrinkles her nose, and adds, "It looks like a whiskey morning ''anyway''." Matter-of-fact, that.

''That'' draws E'dre's attention from his hide and towards Parli's wingmates. "They do that often?" he asks far too calmly. He gestures for her to sit, pushing her klah back in her direction. "I'll brave it when I get up next," he explains as he frowns again towards that table. He's looking back to Parli and then to his hide with a grumbled, "Shards." He slams the hide down and then he's gulping the last of his klah with a grimace.

"Them? Faranth no. I mean, maybe, I don't know." Parli shrugs again, the boneless kind of shrug that only the perpetually bored can manage. "I do, but only because they're idiots and alcohol makes them easier to deal with." The offer to sit is, eventually, taken. She does take her mug of klah back with a sense of weighty disappointment, but settles into picking at her pastry with a distinct lack of interest. A slow swig of klah follows, an eyebrow creeping skyward once more at that grumble and slamming of hide. "Uh... huh." Her gaze flicks to the hide and, if her hands weren't busy, she'd probably be wagging a finger at it. "Bad hide. You're the worst hide ever. Look at what you made the Weyrleader do."

"The hide, the drunks, either would suit for a reason for me to grumble and slam things around," E'dre drawls at Parli. Something of her boredom and sarcasm must be infectious as now ''he's'' sighing like someone who is long suffering. "Just one more thing added to the list of the day," he admits to her with a shrug. He spies an opportunity and lifts his hand, a come-hither wave and point given to his mug. A kitchen staff member bustles over without issue to refill his mug with the newly made klah. "There you are, sir. Nice to see you this morning, sir," the young boy murmurs to E'dre before dashing off to his other tasks. Satsified, E'dre takes his mug up and cradles it against his chest in growing contentment.

"I guess," Parli replies and absently continues picking at the pastry and taking bits and pieces. Her features screw up at something or another - the glazing over of her eyes does plenty to suggest the source - and then she's snorting to herself. She pushes the pastry a bit closer to E'dre. "Go ahead. Point on the pastry where the bad hide touched you." A beat, then: "You have an assistant, right? I mean, just make them deal with it today or whatever. Go do," vague and airy gesticulation ensues, "like, I don't know, whatever else you have to do."

E'dre can't help but chuckle over Parli's pastry and commentary. "No. The pastry wouldn't hold up if I began pointing out all the wrongs of the hide against me." He sips his klah and grimaces against the flavor. "I'll have to talk to them about where we're getting the klah these days. This is ''horrible''." He pats his chest and grimaces again against the burn as it goes down. "An assistant?" E'dre's amusement seems inclined to stay this morning. Parli must've caught him on one of his ''good'' days. "I ''was'' the Weyrsecond. I don't have one trained up as a back-up. Though I let N'rov try for a few days." He eyes her briefly and then gazes back to her wingmates. "You enjoying Flint? Aside from," he gestures in a back-handed way. "That."

A one-shouldered-"whatever floats your boat" shrug resolves in Parli pulling the pastry back. "It would probably be a better fate than it's going to suffer now," she muses. Not that she cares. That thing is going to be destroyed long before it's actually eaten. Both eyebrows raise at his proclamation, her slow smile - a rare thing, indeed - being very much of the unspoken (but obvious) 'I told you so' variety. Aloud: "So why don't you make him do it anyway? Or, I don't know, make some other Wingleader your 'Second of the day or whatever." The question is met with a vague noise, yet another shrug - such powerful shoulders! - and a bored, "I guess. I mean, it's okay. It's not, like, busy all the time any more or anything. Just drills and more drills and, oh boy, even more drills." Go, go, lazy jazz hands. "It's better than talking to Holders like before." ''Ugh.'' - unvoiced, but still there.

E'dre's interest just seems to keep catching as Parli speaks, something sparking in his gaze as he takes more sips from his klah and nods encouragement to her sharing. "I see," he offers, interest turning quickly to calculations. "I never was a fan of talking to Holders. They always seemed to ''want'' something in exchange for our presence," he adds, shifting in his seat. "Which could get annoying. Which Holders did you talk to? I mean, some of them are pretty decent, but others...," he lifts a hand and wriggles it side-to-side as a descriptor. "I guess now that you all don't do that and you've gotta drill," he adds, grinning, "those that don't like the drills are drinking?"

The klah is tried again, to much the same effect as before. Parli sucks her teeth a little, eats some pastry, and slouches a little in her seat. "Well, yeah. I mean. If they came here, wouldn't you want something from them?" Her nose wrinkles. "Ugh. I can't even remember. X'vin has all my reports, so. I guess talk to him or something. I'm sure he still has them somewhere." Another long, deep sigh of the long-suffering, soul-heavy sort is given, coupled with an eyeroll that lasts a second or two too long. "I can't speak for the others, but ''I'' like the drinking. Thank you, alcohol." She raises her klah briefly in a toast to the beverage that is definitely not there. "But, whatever. The drills still get done, so..." She'll just leave that there.

A chance must've been missed for E'dre's not as cheerful and chummy as he was. "Of course X'vin's got your reports," he agrees as he takes a longer pull from his klah. "And if the drinking is really turning into such sport, perhaps I'll have to chat him up a bit about that. Safety. Sanity. Y'know. Can't have all our riders tossing back booze to celebrate the coming of the sun." He shifts in his seat and then stands, pushing the bench out from behind him as he goes. "I'm going to take this offensive hide to throw at N'rov's head," he comments, grabbing the hide. "See if he wants to make sense of it." He's got a smirk for Parli on that, "Thanks for the idea." He tips his head to her and then moves to head out of the caverns. He's got that klah mug but he's left the rest of his dishes behind for someone else to deal with.

There's another rolling of eyes, but Parli doesn't say any more; she's a bit more occupied with her business, such as it is. Her wingmates eventually get up and file out - presumably to get ready for drills - but she doesn't join them. "Sure. Yeah. Just make sure to fold it up or something before you throw it. It doesn't go far otherwise." Spoken from experience, that. There is no getting up to salute, no farewells; there's a vague little wave, though, so there's something? In either case, he leaves and she lingers - and she'll eventually get to her drills. Probably even while it's still morning. Maybe.
}}

Logs:First Lesson

2015-10-15T20:30:37Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=Alida, Z'kiel
|what=True to her word, Alida gives Z'kiel his first 'extended self-defense' lesson.
|where=HRW: Workout Room
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=7
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.14
|quote="You show me yers, I'll show you mine."
|weather=Cool, showers.
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated. I can't find any icons for Zak (nor Ahtzu) anymore. >.<
|icons-new=Icon alida snarlingwhitewolf.jpg, Icon Z'kiel.jpg
|log=True to her 'word,' Alida sent a slightly grumpy (and brooding) Pyrite to Z'kiel to give him the message of her having some free time that evening for their first meet up. Luckily for both blonde and bronzerider, the tiny gold not only had her mate to look after her eggs while she was busy, but also a tasty piece of jerky to reward her 'above and beyond' efforts when she returned to her human. At the stated place and time indicated upon the little scrap of rolled hide (tied in a 'necklace' with a piece of grey yarn about the base of the flit's neck), the bluerider awaits her newest 'pupil,' nobody else in attendance within the workout cavern, this late. Alida is finishing up her warm-up session with a jump-rope, her skin giving off a hint of gleam in places from the faint sweat of effort. She's clad in undyed workout half-pants and a dingy-white tank-top, tied-on canvas shoes of similar, drab coloration. Upon one of the long benches, Pyrite sits, tucking into her small strip of jerky with churrs of relish.

At the very least, Pyrite was welcomed warmly enough - which is to say, she was given a scrap of jerky as thanks before Z'kiel carefully took the note. Lucky, lucky firelizard, indeed. The bronzerider arrives promptly - a little early, as is his tendency, but mostly to make sure he's well-prepared. He wears a loose-fitting tank top, equally loose-fitting workout pants that cinch at the waist, wraps on his feet, and naught else. His shoes and the rest of his things are stowed just inside the entrance of the chamber, safely off to a side where they'll be left alone. He's not the sort to stop and stare; there's a reptilian analysis of her while she jumps rope and then a clearing of his throat, which might be wholly unnecessary to announce his presence - but does well to signify his readiness to begin.

The little minx gets *two* treats? Lucky-ducky Pyrite, indeed, and she's just smart enough to not let on that she got yums from Z'kiel...who received a quick rub of the queen's head to his hand before she tore into *his* offering. As it should be. Now gorging herself to her heart's content, the tiny gold gives a sweet chirrup out to the tunnel that leads into this place, her senses keener than her human's. Alerted by her 'early warning system,' Alida slows, then stops her skipping, flings the rope far-aside as she observes Z'kiel in return, likewise fashion. "Warmed up, yet?" comes the woman's clipped alto after her small nod. When answered, she'll tack on a low, "Tell me everything ya know." Beat, smirk. "All relevant self-defense, offensive things ya know. Don't leave out anything."

"Some bodyweight stuff." Not much - or, at least, not enough to bring a sweat-sheen to his scarred self. So, while she starts to lay out her questions, the once Igenite goes to get properly warmed up in his way - slow, calculated stretches and twists that will, eventually, lead into a sort of dance routine. "Fought some with my brother," is truth, but also offered purely for completion. "Father, too. Got into some scuffles early on. Got better at fighting later. Sometimes had to fight what I was hunting. Not all kills went down easy." The twisting and stretching shifts to undulations and contractions that set muscle straining visibly beneath skin. "Did some guard work for traders." ''Grunt.'' "Ugly work. Got good enough that I didn't get hurt every time there was trouble." A pause. A breath. A huff. "Training here during weyrlinghood."

Quietly pleased that she doesn't have to 'bother' instructing Z'kiel in how to properly stretch and loosen up, Alida settles for nodding again, the woman then shaking out her limbs and moving over to Pyrite's bench to nab up a towel and blot perspiration off her pale skin. If her eyes more-than-occasionally peer over to Zak and his exhertions, there's nothing more apparent within them besides curiosity and a certain pleasure in another's physical effort and prowess. "Okay," is murmured after the bronzerider's done answering, Alida in no particular hurry as she drops her towel back to bench, and moves over a few more steps to offer her finishing-up pet a fingerstoke upon neck. Churrrr. That reward-time over, the blonde then makes her way over to the near wall which holds thick mats hanging upon some spikes driven deep into the rock. Soon enough, she's wrestling the large, unwieldy things down - a pair of them, in fact - and not exherting too much effort dragging the things to the open center of the cavern. Thump! While engaged in her own actions, the bluie notes in a voice just loud enough to carry, "When yer done, we'll meet here." On the mats. "Wan'cha ta come at me in "sparrin'" fashion, first. Use whatever techniques ya feel like." She appears to 'trust' Zak that he understands the difference between 'spar' and 'for real.'

He's no stranger to this side of things, at least; the motions might not look especially strenuous on their own, but there's clearly a considerable amount of control in play. Z'kiel's done only when he finally breaks out into a light sweat - a sweat that he'll clean off with a towel that he's had the forethought to toss on a nearby bench. He watches Alida lug the mats out, but won't interrupt that process; she knows what she's doing. He pads over once things are set up, his bare feet quiet on the floor. It's a small thing, really, but entirely unconscious - much like that predatory sense about him. ''Hnnnh'' is all he has to 'say' to her challenge, such as it is, and the bronzerider nods only once before he takes up a boxer's stance - it's comfortable and easy to maneuver in, if nothing else, and once she's ready, he starts in with a couple of jabs and feints to test the water, so to speak.

As Zak heads over, Alida makes one more small change - plucking off her own canvas shoes and tossing them in the same direction the bench lies in. Luckily, Pyrite's already gone - finished with her treat(s) and Betweening back to 'her' weyr and the basket of eggs within - so the skidding thumps of the footwear can't bother her. Barefooted, she joins Z'kiel on the mats in near-silence, quietly watching him process, seeing how his body moves before they engage. As it is, when he strikes that boxing stance, she does so as well, though it's not a 'traditional' one in enough respects. A bob of plaited head has the woman reacting like freshly-oiled clockworks to Zak's jabs, feints, her strong and dextrous form ducking and weaving when necessary, easily avoiding the blows, though his reach is longer than hers. After some longer seconds of this: his actions, her avoidance, her clipped, tighter voice whooshes out a quick, "Now *you* avoid mine." This is her only warning between a switch from defense to offense, the motions again as smooth as glass. Her almost-hits - this being sparring, after all - are a study in lightning-fast reactions that tend to strike and retreat, batter and bob.

He moves fluidly - and perhaps more quickly than one might expect. But this ''is'' a sparring match and there is no raw sense of ferocity to his attacks. They're testing. Probing. And, gauging by her reactions, perhaps all is as it should be. Z'kiel grunts once to the change in plans, dips his chin, and adjusts his stance to suit in that split second between the end of his assault and the start of hers. What he lacks in skill he mostly makes up for in natural speed and dexterity; he's able to twist and move out of the way of most of her blows, though the near hits would be more likely to hit his forearms than his midsection. And, all the while, he's ''watching''. ''Studying''. Narrowed eyes and muted hisses of breath with every strike she makes - regardless of whether it lands or not, that expulsion of breath is there - are coupled with serpentine movements that ''flow'' rather than ''jerk''. The one thing he absolutely has on his side is endurance; he'll keep up (though he'll take his fair share of would-be-blows) for as long as she intends to lay into him.

She's studying even while engaged, Alida noting Z'kiel's fluidity and grace with flashes of keen, green eyes as she hammers, darts, and 'dances' around with him. Noted between motions, and in puffed out, yet controlled breaths, "Yer smooth. Dance well." The praise is factual, not meant to stroke egos...and rather rare from this person, though Zak might not know that. Their traded-role of attacker and attackee is kept up for only a couple minutes or so, until Alida skitters backwards, holds up one hand in clear signal to stop. Huff-puff. As they get their breaths back, the bluie intones quietly, "Now...the ugly shit." Beat. "Whether ya learned it formally, 'r via the craft uv' hard knocks, I wanna see the down-an'-dirty stuff ya know how ta pull." Clear green eyes are locked firmly to the bronzer's own greens, and hold nothing but seriousness. "Again, this is a spar...but this round, I'm gonna letcha' tag me, on purpose, if I feel I c'n handle it." Yes. "Bruises 're fine. Yer doin' nothin' ta injure, maim, kill." Stated because this is fucking "important." "I'll fall, give, cushion whenever I need ta." 'Trust her,' she seems to be subtly asking. "You c'n stop whenever ya want, 'r if I need ya to. Signal's this..." and here the blonde simply holds up an outward-facing palm flat upon the air. Blink. "Feel okay about this?"

Nor is the observation taken as praise; it's just met with a different caliber of grunt - acknowledging, mostly - that's easily made between the trading of blocks for blows. When she calls for a break, though, Zak'll take it - if a bit grudgingly, gauging from the way his arms remain up and ready for another round. His arms drop all the same, just a beat later than they should. He sucks his teeth while he listens but even before she's reached the end, he's slowly shaking his head, forehead furrowed deeply. His eyes will meet and hold with hers, but there's something cold and nasty in those eyes of his, something that flickers and is suppressed swiftly. "No," is grated out after a moment, his voice still just a bit ragged from catching his breath. "The ugly shit is supposed to do that. Maim. Kill. Worse. Can't pull it back. Not like fighting." And there's evidently a difference there, if only to his understanding; there's ''fighting'' and then there's the ''other shit'' and never the twain shall meet. "Don't figure I'd be able to hurt you if you didn't want it," is honest enough. "But it's not just to hurt." And there might be something else there, too; something briefly caught in that earlier glimmer. A fear - something elusive and unpleasant - but one that's slithering just Nor is the observation taken as praise; it's just met with a different caliber of grunt - acknowledging, mostly - that's easily made between the trading of blocks for blows. When she calls for a break, though, Zak'll take it - if a bit grudgingly, gauging from the way his arms remain up and ready for another round. His arms drop all the same, just a beat later than they should. He sucks his teeth while he listens but even before she's reached the end, he's slowly shaking his head, forehead furrowed deeply. His eyes will meet and hold with hers, but there's something cold and nasty in those eyes of his, something that flickers and is suppressed swiftly. "No," is grated out after a moment, his voice still just a bit ragged from catching his breath. "The ugly shit is supposed to do that. Maim. Kill. Worse. Can't pull it back. Not like fighting." And there's evidently a difference there, if only to his understanding; there's ''fighting'' and then there's the ''other shit'' and never the twain shall meet. "Don't figure I'd be able to hurt you if you didn't want it," is honest enough. "But it's not just to hurt." And there might be something else there, too; something briefly caught in that earlier glimmer. A fear - something elusive and unpleasant - but one that's slithering just under the surface, all the same.

Alida notes that slow letting down of his guard with a faint nod, a slightly nasty hint of a smirk. "Best ta keep it that way. Never know when someone's lyin'." About stopping a fight. And then keen greens notice not only that head shaking, but the young man's hints of hesitation...and even that nuance of fear behind his eyes. Damned guard. She wasn't fully ready for that reaction from him, still, and - after some moments to fully parse what's being traded between them - his reaction finds her studying his face intently as she speaks. "Even guards get caught off-balance, sometimes..." is a response for him not being able to tag her unless she wanted. "Not often, mind ya. But..." Smirk. She's back to nothing but serious again in a twinkling, then, pale head gravely nodding again in understanding. "As ya wish, but..." But? "I need ya ta tell me about 'em...all those dirty tactics ya know. I promise yeh, ya won't surprise me, disgust me, whatever." Has she truly heard, seen, done enough ugly things in her life to be inured to bad reactions? It's only after Zak's answered fully, and she's had time to further parse that her soft, still firm voice notes, "Y've hurt...badly, before. Maybe even killed."

''Hnnnh.'' Z'kiel remains tense, even if his defenses appear to be down for the time being. The physical defenses, anyway; the mental ones are another story entirely. His expression is somewhat sour and dark, though it eases up a little when there's no demand to ''press'' the issue. He's silent for a little while after she's finished; in that time he works out the kinks in his hands and does a couple of calf-raises just to keep the blood flowing. Eventually: "Wouldn't want to catch you off your feet. Wouldn't-" but there's no need to finish that and he snorts, shakes his head, and picks up with a much more familiar, rasping tone, "Some is just breaking what I get my hands on. Fingers. Ribs. Elbows. Hard to do that one, but." It can be done. "Depends on the position. The situation." A breath is drawn. Held. Released in a steadying flow. "Eye gouges, breaking noses, crushing throats, ear claps, choking," that's all standard fare and he knows it, pushing past to, "Pulling jaws out of place. Catch fingers just here," he taps on the teeth in his lower jaw. "Hook under the tongue. Pull." A shoulder rises. Falls. And, yet, even that motion is stiff. Tense. The fluidity is arrested. "Probably doesn't hurt as much as the other thing I've seen done. Face down. Bite a stick. Kick to the back of the head." Not him, that; the memory sends a fine wash of gooseflesh over his arms. The last bit, the noting, that's only answered with a nod - and no clarification or elaboration.

"I'll try not ta le'cha..." Alida intones with dryest humor, her mouth twitching a little. For one with a history of pressing...well, she's apparently not going to, at least right now, the blonde doing some of her own limbering motions to keep her body ready while they talk. The bronzerider's recitations of his knowledge of 'dirty work' meet with minimal reactions from the bluie, faint nods, gutteral little sounds of understanding, faint lip-purses. Perhaps to make him feel less isolated, or perhaps for other reasons entirely, the very-serious looking woman grunts a quiet, "Stomp an instep, crush a kneecap, punch a kidney..." Those last couple of 'methods,' however, do earn Z'kiel - for the first - a small raise of one brow, and the second a frown between brows for a moment. "Still got all yer fingers, I see." That is noted for the former... the latter finally making the woman shake her head once. *Very* nasty. "Y' ever work with anything more than hunter's tools, before? Bow an' arrows, net, spear, knives an' such?" Blink. "Even been on the receivin' end uv' anything beyond a fist 'r club?"

And he'll nod along to the others; the instep, the kneecap, the kidney. All fine ways to drop a person or make them suffer. But then there's that raising of her eyebrow, no matter how slight. "Pull hard. Pull ''fast''." Z'kiel lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers, though faint scars might be spotted on the knuckles, buried beneath the burns. "Almost lost one." The ring finger, which is twitched and appears slightly ''off'' - broken, maybe, or badly dislocated and even more badly healed. "The other-" he just shakes his head, features twisted up a little. "There's ugly and then there's ''that''. Broken teeth. Broken jaw. All bad." And it's there, in his head, a nasty little poisoned memory. So when it comes to weapons, he'll move on with gratitude, unspoken though it is. "Mostly those. Sometimes weights here," he taps his palm, just below his fingers. "Heavier hits with those. Prefer to barehand it if it's a fight." And the last? A barked sound, nearly laughter, and he turns just enough to allow him to point to a few places on his back and side, "Knives. Plenty of those. Mostly shallow. Not all." The one on his side, near his ribs, is tapped demonstratively.

"I'll keep it in mind, in case uv' emergency." And Alida can honestly speak that flatly and "mean" it. His wayward finger is given a solid going over by intent greens, though they soon rise again to take in the man's own gaze as he speaks further of that latter 'dirty trick.' She seems about to speak further on that travesty - the blonde looking a little fascinated in clinical fashion - and then snaps her trap shut just as Zak moves past it. Maybe Alida *is* starting to learn a little restraint. Zak's further words of weaponry evince the woman's own soft 'mmm' of sound, her gaze flicking to the various portions of himself that he points out as having been 'tagged' in the past, his 'laugh' earning him a thin and knowing slice of a smirk. Finally offered back, and rather quietly at that, is her "I don' teach everyday people" 'Not-guards' "things about weaponry...fer good reasons." She's back to complete seriousness, again, with an added under-current of something that might seem like formal solemnity. "Beyond what we all learned in Weyrlinghood...wha'daya know how ta do with a knife?" Beat. "Not only a belt-knife... A *real* one." By this time, she's lapsing into some motion again, her body not obliging to keeping still, anymore...Alida slowly stepping back and forth across the mats in almost feline fashion.

There will, no doubt, be other times to explore such horrific things; other times when he's not trying to work himself down from a palpable edge. Z'kiel is still in motion of a sort, slow calf-raises and flexes of fingers or slight side-to-side shifts of his torso that reflect a curious degree of control over his midsection. "Wise of you," says he. "Most people can't handle their fists. Best not give them something to gut themselves on." Matter-of-fact. Deadpan. Just like his next words: "Skinning. Disemboweling." That's a ''new'' word, gauging from the way he carefully goes over it. And when she starts to move, he does; it's as if some measure of permission was granted and he takes it. For now, it's just a mirror of her movements, but it's enough to start working the sharpest part of his energy out. "Haven't used one on a person," is a further admission. "Just on animals."

That control over his midsection gets more of Alida's concentration as Z'kiel 'works it,' the blonde slightly fascinated by such, and even alluding to it in a clipped and curious, "Comes from yer dancin'..." Right? After a few moments of silence, "I do lots uv' stuff ta stay limber, in shape... took up this thing called 'yoga'" *smirk* "after I talked to a Healer. Incredible stuff fer makin' one flexible." If Alida notices that 'edge' on Zak (rather likely), she doesn't make any comment about such, the blonde merely nodding about training limitations as she continues to listen to the bronzerider. As they move in tandem to work off their 'steam,' a low grunt issues from the bluie's throat, and she rather suddenly steps off the mats towards where her gear is stowed along one wall. Give her some moments to fish around inside a heavily-wrapped bundle, and she's soon returning with two pairs of matched, wooden knives in her hands. One pair is the same heft and size of a standard beltknife, while the other pair are more like the pig-stickers she tends to carry. All are of excellent craftsmanship, with rounded/blunted ends, and show some scarring in places. After setting her burdens down - except for the wooden belt knife stand-ins - at the side of one of the mats - the woman steps up smoothly towards Z'kiel again, offers him one of the mock-weapons hilt-first. "Same as before: bruises 'r fine, but nothin' that'll take either uv' us out uv' commission in any way."

"Yeah," is huffed out in agreement. Z'kiel explains a few moments later, "Have to be aware of your body. What it's doing. What it's capable of. A lot of people don't think about where their hands are; what their stomach's doing. Can't lose track of any of it when you're on stage." The side to side shifts slide into serpentine up-down undulations. Slow. Measured. His head tilts at the mention of yoga. "That. What is that? Yoga?" Color him intrigued. He'll not delve too deeply into it just yet, though; not when the bluerider moves away to collect that pair of knives. He maintains his sequence of slow, tightly controlled motions, but his interest shifts to the weapons of her choosing. He sucks his teeth, eyes narrowed a little at the offerings. As the wooden, mock belt knife is held out to him, he closes his fingers around it - but doesn't remove it right away. Eyes meet, or seek to, and he issues a low noise, a not-quite-grunt. "Got it." And he'll take the weapon once it's released - and step into a defensive stance for the moment. Just to get his thoughts together. Just to prepare.

As she's moving to get those mock-weapons, bringing them back, Alida replies, "Thought it sounded ridiculous...at first." Smirk. "It's a way uv' stretchin', limbering yer body...an' clearin', focusing the mind." Grunt. "It *works*...but it ain't as easy as it c'n look. I'll never be anywhere as good as the Healer who introduced me to it - *she's* been doin' it fer over twenty Turns - but after a Turn an' a half puttin' in my time... I'm more flexible, balanced, 'solid' than before." After looking at more of those wave-like motions of Zak's abdomen, the bluie quietly notes, "You show me yers, I'll show you mine." A flash of white teeth in a broad grin is soon abandoned in favor of those wooden knives, the blonde nodding firmly to her erstwhile opponent, and stepping backwards while adopting her own defensive stance. Did he expect her to immediately attack? If so, he'll be waiting.

'Hnnnh.'' Aloud: "After." It's a promise. Tit for tat. For the moment, in the here and now, Z'kiel is in that posture only long enough to get his head together; then he's moving, calculated and quick, but cautious, too. The weapon lends a wariness that wasn't there before; he ''respects'' the thing in his hand. Not the wood itself, but the symbol of what it is - what it ''could'' be. His attacks speak clearly of that caution; blows aren't precisely pulled - rather, they just aren't extended as sharply in the first place. He attacks with it with markedly less frequency, relying more on watching her for what few weak moments he might find - or feinting to try to draw something out and make an opening. His free hand serves two roles; to keep his balance in whatever moves he makes - and to occasionally strike, when the knife is otherwise engaged. That he's graceful at it is a side effect of his ''other'' training; it makes the not-goodness look only slightly less not-good.

Exactly what she wants to see: someone with the 'brains' to not only wield their weapon properly, but show the proper respect for it...for what it represents. Another, if smaller bob of Alida's pale head is followed by her swift, precise, skilled reactions to Z'kiel's 'attacks,' each defense enacted showing years of training that has become absolute second nature to the woman. Her own free hand functions much as his own: balance and (in her case) defense, slapping away Zak's own extremity, even parrying it rather like the 'weapon' in her other hand. She allows them to continue this way for about 3 minutes before visually and vocally signaling that they 'break,' Alida lowering her wooden training weapon slowly, clear green eyes observing her 'student' intently...her guard not truly down. As they puff and recover, she notes dryly, "Not too bad. Definitely better than the standard-issue weyrling fare." Just the facts, ma'am. But, instead of wiping the faint hints of perspiration from her brow, the bluerider notes briskly, "Now, off hand. The same." She also changes up weapon hands, following the bronzer's own move, then dropping into a defensive crouch.

It's a result that's to be expected - but Z'kiel doesn't show any signs of irritation or frustration. He's ''watching'' as much as he's attacking. Studying. ''Learning''. And if he picks up a few bruises for his trouble, all the better; reminders of what he did both right and wrong. The end doesn't come soon enough - though, some part of him balks that it comes ''too'' soon. That's the part he suppresses for the time being, a huff of breath escaping him when the break is called. His guard remains up as well, even if he's the one on the offensive; predatory and prepared. Just in case. There's a grunt of acknowledgement for her words, a nod, and another sharp exhalation that seems to be an audible version of shaking things out. And though there's a knitting of his sweat-sheened brow, there is no protest at the next instruction. Off hand it is - and all the clumsiness that comes with it. Caution from before manifests anew, but altered; he might have done his share of fighting off-handed in the past, but it doesn't translate at all to weapon-oriented combat. Boxing is probably one thing; this is an entirely different animal. To his credit, his expression remains a thing of grim neutrality - but she, more than anyone, will be able to pick up the internalized frustration at his own awkwardness as he steps in to make his attacks.

Learning: it's key to so much. Pleased to see that Z'kiel's not simply a brainless 'clubbing machine' (like too many think of *her*), Alida shifts her form to present the least amount of target possible as the man engages her...and proceeds to use her forearms even more than that knife in her off hand. Oh, 'blade' meets 'blade,' alright, but the blonde's natural weaponry is used (along with her lower body) to deflect, bump, shove away his unwieldy wielding hand as much as possible. Her own reactions are not as awkward as his own, but they show her to indeed be working with her off hand, though the woman's features show only determination the entire time. This time, she allows them to spar longer - 5 minutes, enough to work up a sound sweat as body-work becomes just as important as knife-work - then calling a halt, again. Huff-puff.

Not that he has any immediate sense of her slight ''offness'' when on her off-hand; that will come later, when he replays the sparring match in his head. What contact is made is solid; if he can sneak in a hit with his free hand, he certainly will. And with lower body blocks worked in, he steps things up a little with a scant handful of similar strikes. Z'kiel is, at least, determined to see this through, even if he has to fight the drip of sweat in his eyes and his less-than-certain grip on the weapon. The longer it goes on, the more sure he gets - which isn't terribly certain, but it's more than it was. Towards the end, his tenaciousness persists and his strikes actually increase in frequency, though they lose out on accuracy. Bit by bit. And then the break is called and he lowers his weapon - slightly - and eases into a defensive stance again, prepared more to use his forearms than the weapon itself from the way he holds it. Still. There's breath to be caught and he does that, one eye squinching shut against a rogue bead of sweat that decides, hey, this seems like a perfectly good place to hang out.

When he appears to want to continue after the called break, Alida shakes her head firmly, steps back smoothly - more crab-stepping, really - and 'sheathes' her wooden blade in one deep pocket. All along, green eyes watch Zak intently, noting every shift, twitch, motion. Like him, she'll have some pretty bruises in no time at all, but the blonde appears to not even notice her small pains. "Relax; that's an order." It comes out firm, but not harsh, the bluie waiting to make certain Z'kiel steps out of that special mental place enough to allow both of them to recoup...which she'll do if *he* does, the woman moving to grab up a towel from one bench, and blot the sweat from her face, neck.

There. That. With the order given, Z'kiel's demeanor shifts almost immediately; his hold on the knife shifts into something closer to how cooks carry their knives in the kitchen. Blade pointing down, the "sharp" part facing back and away. Tension bleeds out to leave him loose - relatively speaking, anyway. A nod is signal enough that he heard her, but there's a rasped, "Done," to confirm the deed is, indeed, done. The knife eventually finds a home with the others at the edge of the mat for now; more pressing is getting a good toweling off and a drink of water. A good, long drink of water. Eventually: "... need to get a bandana."

A quirk of head shows Alida's obvious interest in how Z'kiel reacts to her 'order,' the blonde murmuring a thoughtful, "You get any guard trainin' at all; even informal?" through her puffs for breath. As they both move to dash off the sweat, and indeed get rehydrated, the bluie at first grunts, then pointely looks up to the bronzerider's bare head before noting with some wry humor, "Just grow back sum' hair." Her own, lightly-feathered bangs have held back a decent part of what perspiration was on her forehead. Puff, peer. "Why the total shave, still?"

"Some." A shoulder rises in a lopsided shrug. "Had to protect the dancers from time to time. Sometimes had to help others. So. Learned a little from the guards." Z'kiel's mouth pulls to a side in a wry half-smile. "Not enough." Apparently. He pushes the towel over his head in a final pass and pauses in mid-motion to angle a sidelong look Alida's way. "Nah. Just going to see if Edyis's sisters can make something that'll work to catch it." He finally finishes the toweling down and drapes it over his shoulders, his expression settled into neutrality - if of the teeth-sucking sort. Thoughtful. Silent. Then: "Easier." A beat. "And it itches worse that Ahtzudaeth's hide when it does start growing in. Can't stand it." A thin shudder trips down his spine at that, unbidden as it is.

"It shows..." Alida notes in slightly-pleased fashion. As for his follow-up comment, "It's a ...demandin' craft." That hasn't ever been a formal craft at all. The woman seemed ready to use another word instead of 'demanding,' but her hesitation was small, though her mouth sets in a temporary, harder line. As for Ed's sisters, there's a faintly surprised look over at the bronzerider, and a casual, "You two friends?" Beat. "Sometimes a weyrlin' class' members'll remain tight." Unlike she did with any of her own. As for itching, there's a wrinkle of nose and a quick nod, followed by another deep draught of water. Apparently she's had experience, somehow, with that particular irritation. Once the both of them appear to have recovered from their intense little spar, the bluerider ambles slowly over back to the mats, unpockets her wooden blade, and sets it beside the others, hefting both of the practice 'hunting' blades in each hand...visually weighing them as she does physically, as well.

"It's hard, ugly work, from what I've seen of it," Z'kiel replies and tips his head back for a moment to study the ceiling. "Have a lot of respect for the guards. Always have." The towel remains where it is for the time being, with the ends loosely knotted in his hands. There's a slight lift of an eyebrow in response to that equally slight surprise. "Something like that. Her sisters made me some hats. I gave her all my beads for her hair." They're no good for him, after all. It's the latter note that elicits a mild, "Didn't stay on too much with most of the others. Happens, I guess." The towel is shed only when Alida crosses back to the mats; he folds it neatly and drops it onto a bench while he watches her go through the weighing and studying of them. Silent, now. Just watching.

"Yeah..." is Alida's own monosyllabic reply, something rather grim in her eyes before they shift the conversation again. "Young woman's got quite a family, apparently..." is noted briskly, the blonde's shoulders shrugging slightly. Blink. "Don't tr...er, gypsy an' Igen caravan families make a lot uv' their hair...beads 'n ribbons, stuff like that?" She's still hefting the blades in her hands, though the bluie finally stands up straight.

"Good that she has them." Z'kiel leaves that as it is, while the conversation continues along this new line. Back to some calf raises for him, if only to keep himself moving and keep the blood up, as it were. "Most do, yeah," he replies. "Inherited most of mine - the beads and charms. The ribbons were all mine. Know a few traders willing to make nice charms. Can make some out of teeth and horn. They're rough, but they do the job." Whatever that might be. Shoulders roll - forward and back - in slow circles to work out the kinks. He's watching and waiting - but without a weighty sense of anticipation. For once.

Listening, sometimes glancing over at Z'kiel, Alida bobs her plaited head a few times, and finally offers out one of those wooden blades to the man, again, hilt-first. When she speaks again, it's all business. "We switch, this time. But... mix it up, on occasion." Beat. "Like a real fight. Take the offensive when ya think ya have an opening. Otherwise, defensive." Again, since this is a spar, the bluie steps backwards and awaits his confirmation before she moves in.

The blade is taken - and it's right back to business for the former Igenite. Like a shade has been pulled, or some switch flipped. Z'kiel shifts his grip on the handle, but won't take it until he's given his confirmation in the form of "Got it." A shallow duck of his chin follows - and, as she steps back, he takes a defensive posture. Readiness returns easily, instinctively. But, this time, he will wait for her to make that first move - to assess her moves, her manner, and everything else with a near-clinical awareness.

"Ready..." the blonde clips off dully...and doesn't dart in. Instead, Alida circles her 'prey' - a dull glint noticable in her eyes - lightly waving her 'blade' before her in complex little designs upon the air between them. In the middle of one of those traceries, the knife's rounded tip flicks out like a stiking serpent, seeking to connect with skin in a slicing motion just before she's dancing back out, again, half-spinning to the right. She's fast, light on her feet, and cautious of Zak's greater reach and step the whole time, flurries of cuts aimed at whatever opportunity presents itself, no matter where.

He'll not let her get behind him; not enough that he can't quickly adjust for, in any case. Z'kiel does have height and range in his favor and he uses it, every bit of it. The dancing of that 'knife' is seen for what it is and he focuses, instead, on her arm, her feet, her form - until she strikes. He's able to twist out of the way of that one, no effort made to deflect; instead, he dances to a side and retaliates with a quick strike that might - at best - have lead to a glancing blow if it makes any kind of contact. She strikes in a flurry; he's slower, more deliberate. Measured. A little more confident than before, but that does little to make up for a lack of experience. More of her blows are deflected with a forearm or, occasionally, a shin, than they are by his knife. If he can parry, he will; but, it seems, he's just as likely to take the hit directly if he can't skirt out of range.

Those hits, when they score, are well-measured things, much of their force blunted, withheld. There'll be a few bruises, of course, but nothing truly painful. And Zak's more deliberate blows? One of them does land by dint of the bluie trying to confuse him again, and thus taking a bit too long to dance aside. A grunt is followed by a steely look flooding the woman's eyes, and she slightly ups the intensity of their spar...silently nodding to Z'kiel on occasion, then finally grunting out, "Target uv' opportunity, now. Whatever suits, defensive 'r offensive." Her own smaller feet seek to strike almost as often as her hands, now, and elbows, knees are added into the mix, though never does the guard go for low blows or disabling ones. No groins, no eyes or ears, no throats or stunning blows, as they agreed upon.

There's no time to revel in the small victory of a landed hit; Z'kiel's too focused on not bleeding out - so to speak. Each hit landed on him is mentally noted; that much is apparent in his steadily hardening features. Her grunt is met with an answering one of his own, grit added to grimness and a brief, if toothy and savage, smile escapes. Then it's time to up the game - and he does, switching the wooden weapon to his off hand, but keeping his stance as it is. Easier to fight that way; easier to deflect her blows with the knife-hand, if need be. His feet aim low - for ankles and insteps - in lieu of going the higher - and dirtier - route. He's keeping to the rules of the game, but it's difficult; at least once, he'll have to shift his attack to correct himself, a corrective misstept that will present at fine opportunity to strike.

As Z'kiel becomes more gritty, Alida does, as well, that savage little smile of his meeting up with a wolfish snarl-grin of her own. Not in over 4 Turns has she sparred with another Weyr resident who has presented more than standard fighting competence...and the woman is apparently enjoying it quite a bit. It becomes almost a kind of dance for her: the exchange of blows, the flurries of testing and weaving about one another, the flashes of wooden knives and lashings of limbs, extremities. The sound of their breathing and blows, the firm give of the mat underfoot...the smell of sweat; all of it is a kind of mantra in the blonde's brain, and the battle-fire she rarely allows herself to feel begins to ignite in her belly, a warmth that flushes the woman's cheeks a low pink. Her attempts, honest strikes become firmer, though they're attempted less often, and on occasion, when Zak lands one, it sparks quick study and soon 'retaliation.'

It's all a dance - especially to him. Even if Z'kiel doesn't know all the moves to ''this'' one, he's adaptive. Quick. He'll take the harder hits with a sharp exhalation just before they land; easier to take them that way, perhaps. Keeps him focused. The shift of that dance does not go unnoticed - and as things transition to that half-step past a comfortable sparring match and into something a touch more serious, he moves with it. Sharply huffed breaths; the smack of wood on wood or skin on skin. The savage smile from before manifests again, with a slight, feral, curving of his upper lip. It's a dangerous dance, all in all, and when he does land something, there's that constant need to check himself before he pulls from his ugly bag of tricks. It's a good thing, then, that she lands more blows than he; that he's more often on the defensive than pressing an offensive. This time, anyway.

Perhaps there's one way they differ in 'dancing'/fighting: though Alida is now 'into' this, there's almost always a part of her brain that's a large step 'aside' from the pure killing portion. It's the portion that was preserved by her teachers to keep her 'human,' to keep her able to co-exist 'peacefully' in a community, when her skills and mindset might cause undue fear or tension. It's this part of the bluerider that analyzes Zak's feral expression - even as her own mouth flashes a wicked grin in return - her own blows remaining measured and fully controlled without conscious application of will. Is there something like joy behind clear green eyes as the bluerider's moves become almost purely ecomonical, her motions minimal and mostly direct even as they focus more and more on key places that would become killing blows if this were real?

She's efficient. Controlled. And he is, too - just in a different way. What Z'kiel has is somewhat trained, but not refined; still animalistic and predatory, rather than geared toward clean movements - clean kills. It's the part of him that will take a few hits if that means he can get one of his own in - through brute force tempered with fluidity of movement and serpentine speed. Would he be dead by now? Most likely - but not without landing something of his own for her to remember him by. Maybe he'd be left without an arm. Without two, possibly - but, from the look on his face, it's entirely possible that he'd still come after her with ''teeth''. The trouble is that it's not ''that'' kind of fight and baring his teeth is as far as he gets; as close as he comes to what ''really'' drives him. The part that Ahtzudaeth can't ''quite'' touch. How many more hits will he take? As many as she's willing to give, perhaps.

Joy/battle/pleasure/excitement! Controlled in this situation, yes, by Alida's Turns of brutal training, but... But, at her own heart, she too is rather 'animalistic,' and her reponses to Z'kiel might show this: soft little snarls, flushed skin, leaping heart. For her own lifemate, *this* is the part of his human that he is most enflamed by; Ilicaeth sensing it from the first upon scorching sands when he chose her. Passion. A fire hot enough to burn stone and metal to slag. Blade to blade, thew to thew...teeth, nails and whatever else she might have on her...all their promises are offered within those green eyes as they track every relevant motion and movement Zak makes. She's built for the long haul, and it shows in the control of her breathing, in the springy motions of feet, limbs, hands as they strike out, defend, parry and riposte. If anyone were to happen upon them, right now, they likely would think this was 'real'...except for the lack of dragons roaring, and the lack of steel flashing. Outside, on the Rim, Ilicaeth's wings mantle and rustle, his blue gaze flecked here and there with orange...his tail lashing, claws flexing into rock.

It's a fine match - what he lacks in outright skill is made up for, in some measure, by determination and raw stubbornness. Z'kiel's still quick - and he has endurance to spare, enough to keep this devilish dervish of a dance going for some time. Eyes narrowed against the dripping of sweat, breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts; the audible huff before a blow lands, to rob it of the worst of its impact. Somewhere, Ahtzudaeth looks up with all the seeming of one who is finally pulling his head out of an enthralling book; his focus shifts inwards and there is, then, the strong sense of a beast who is simply ''studying'' what's transpiring in the heart and mind of the man. Amusement takes him, rather than the raw, heated energies that course through his rider; cool and analytical, the bronze is simply ''aware''. The fight - blows exchanged for blows, with some skin showing scratches now with the inclusion of the occasional rake of nails - begins to shift again. Closer. Tighter. Hotter - in the literal sense, with both bodies shining with sweat and exchanging heated breath with heated blows. It's fierce and dangerous and he all but ''basks'' in it. There's a purpose to the tightening of proximity, one that Alida will readily be able to discern; his feet are quickly working to pick out where her steps might be weak or off-balance, with all-but-telegraphed intentions to send her to the mat.

She's wanting to bring him to the edge...of his rawness, without pushing him over into true savageness. Nearly everyone is capable of that, unvarnished. But controlling the 'beast' within...that's the ticket. Her own skin almost literally glistens with the perspiration of effort and concentration, 'lida's body 'giving' a little when Zak manages to glance or even land one of his own blows. A tiny bit of blood? That's more than acceptable for the intensity of this 'workout,' small gouges of her own nails prickling the bronzerider's own flesh, here and there...mirroring the same on her paler skin. As he closes, Alida allows the taller man tighter into her territory, too-lucid eyes flicking everywhere to take in the lay of Z'kiel's 'land,' noting that firm intent to put her down. It looks as if she's going to come at him with her knife-occupied, right fist quite suddenly, the move looking to land square in his solar plexus, if her body is telegraphing the motion properly. If she's pulling the slice/punch any, it's hard to tell, given the intent/intensity of her body's motion. And, not even a quarter-way into the motion - *that's* when the knife suddenly switches hands. There's no fumbling or hesitation, her shift cool and sure - right to left - the move of a professional. Her former feint abandoned, Alida's fake-'off'-hand - solid wood within - seeks to offer Zak's core a bruise it likely won't forget, her efforts calling out a low bark of sound from the woman.

He's there - but it's tenuous, that grip. Shaky. How long can he hold it? A while, maybe; maybe not. Z'kiel, for that time, is fixed on a course of action that's liable - no, ''due'' - to be changed no sooner than he tries to enact it. So he presses in. He telegraphs. And ''she'' telegraphs, which takes a moment to register as ''wrong'' to his mind. Just a moment - but it's a moment too long. He's ready for a hit to the midsection, barking out a breath pre-emptively to ensure that the wind isn't knocked out of him. And then there's a switch. A shift. Revelation. His core is hard and ready; it'll take the hit - but the hit will knock the half-breath he took in those split seconds before it landed. The bruise will, in its time, swallow up a smattering of small scars there, including one that might have been an old stab from turns ago. The bark turns into a slow hiss of a laugh and the fight is done - not out of pain, not because of the bruise-that-will be, but because that's the last blow she ''would'' need to end it.

In the end, it was a bit of 'dirty' fighting that scored the blow, but it was still backed mostly by prowess. Alida's not one to rub it in - Zak's no enemy, after all - and so, with his hiss of a laugh comes her dancing backwards, and a huge, cocky grin. "Done." Is it as simple as that? Saying they're over, once all their blood is up? Even now, those glittering green eyes of hers watch carefully to take in Z'kiel's reaction...though her mouth forms, "We need ta do this more often." Smirk.

Once they break, Z'kiel passes a callused palm over the impact point with another rough laugh. "Messy kill," is mostly mused. But, it's done all the same. The knife is offered back, hilt first, his feral state gone almost as quickly as it was riled; he's sweaty, buzzing with raw energy, and yet? He's not one to take that lingering raw edge out on her. There's a whole gym to deal with - and a bowl to run laps in. It's the latter that he's liable to indulge in. For now? "Ayuh. Call when you're free. I'll make time." There's no salute for her this time, though; instead, the bronzerider taps his knuckles over his heart, ducks his head in a deeper nod, and then it's off to towel off, drink up, and get some fresh air.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Klah, the Ultimate Watchrider Tool

2015-10-14T23:11:06Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=Dee, Parli, Parli{{!}}Swaronth, Dee{{!}}Taeliyth
|what=Flint's Parli is shadowed by Dee during her shift playing watchrider.
|where=Starstones, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=27
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.13
|quote="And that's why Faranth created klah, or whatever."
|mentions=N'rov, X'vin
|type=Log
|icons=dee short.jpg, Parli Bored.png, dee taeliyth attentive.jpg, Swaronth Default.png
|desc=>---< Starstones, Fort Weyr(#779RJs$) >--------------------------------------<

The Star Stones are located on a kind of stone platform on the rim of the
Bowl, with the time-honoured Finger Rock, Star Stone, and Eye Rock in
their respective places. It's also a perfect vantage point to observe the
goings on far below. A watchdragon is generally posted here in addition to
a few other choice locations along the rim of the Weyr.
|log=It's a little later in the afternoon and Parli is precisely where she's been told to be - at the Star Stones. Swaronth is pacing back and forth, head held high and his expression indescribably more grim than it usually is - it's just something about the set of his jaw, the hue of his eyes and the way his eyeridges sit, really. His rider is leaned up against something or another, thoroughly bundled up to the point where the only visible things are her eyes. A large mug of still-steaming klah is in her mittened hands and she is, currently, pondering the puzzle of how to get it in her mouth without moving the scarf. For now, the scarf is winning. Another mug of klah is nestled in a nook nearby to keep it safe from wind and free of debris, along with a pair of pastries wrapped in cloth.

Taeliyth is timely in her arrival, the tiny (for a) wheaten gold landing neatly on the Star Stones. Her greeting to Swaronth comes in the form of the sound of crunching leaves and branches as a soft tread brings the wood with her arrival. Dee is quick to dismount and make her way over to the brownrider, to salute as she arrives. "Rider Parli," is the accompanying greeting, polite but with a friendly smile.

Oh. Right. ''Salutes.'' Parli shifts her mug to one hand and returns the salute with one of her own; it's crisp, at least. Efficient. Then it's back to contemplating the mug after she has both hands on it. "Dee, right? Right. So. Um." She lifts her chin indicating the bowl of the Weyr - which she's facing, for now, while Swaronth turns his attention to the world outside. The weyrling gold's mind will meet with wood and whiskey; a solid presence, not unlike a mental wall. Audibly, he grunts and cuts a sidelong look her way. "Normally, we'd be out at some Hold or something, but X'vin said we're not supposed to do that any more or whatever." Her shrug is lopsided, matching the implied pull of her mouth. Thanks, scarf. "Sooo. We're doing this. That's your klah there. You'll need it. This is the most boring thing ever."

"For a couple more months, ma'am," Dee adds as she dips her head to acknowledge the name. Her eyes go to the klah before she moves to take it up, "Thank you." She glances to her dragon, settling on the edge of the ledge and letting her head dip down eyes whirling swiftly with her keen interest in the on-goings. "Boring for us, maybe." A questioning look casts briefly toward Swaronth. "How do you get through it, ma'am?"

"Parli. Just... just Parli. Seriously." Parli huffs out a long-suffering sigh that turns into a plume of condensation past the scarf. "He's ''just'' Swaronth - no matter what he says ''otherwise''. Don't mind him. He takes this stuff ''so seriously''." She finally gives in and tugs the scarf down, just enough to let her take a sip of the klah. The question is met with a bit of side-eyeing. "Through what? Watch duty? Or, like- weyrlinghood? Because it's all kind of the same, I guess. Just hurry up and wait for things to happen." Sigh. "I mean, he made me ''do things''," Faranth ''forbid'', "but, like, the rest of it really was just... waiting. And that's why Faranth created klah, or whatever."

The brownrider's request gets an incline of the weyrling's helmeted head, conceding. "Does he find the duty engaging or just-- boring too?" It's not just Dee who'd like to know but Taeliyth, reaching to echo the inquiry directly. "I'd meant watch duty. Seems like different people have different tactics to stay awake, or not freeze to death," that last has a wry edge to it. "What kinds of things did he make you do?" Dee can't help but ask with brows furrowed in the beginnings of concern and an odd sort of curiosity. At least she doesn't start talking about klah bark and trees and other farmcrafterly nonsense to dissuade the idea that Faranth made this blessed beverage.

"He needs things to keep him busy," Parli replies with another shrug and sigh. "This keeps him busy. He's kind of weird like that, I guess. I don't know." Another swig of klah is paired with a grimace. "This is worse than the stuff they served in Telgar," is mostly muttered. Louder, for the sake of conversation, she says, "Klah. Lots of klah. Like. The good strong stuff. And, like. The Candidate shuffle, or whatever you want to call it." She demonstrates by listlessly shifting her feet from side to side. Taeliyth's inquiry is met with, well, more of the same. Raw masculinity. Strength. He grunts again and, though he doesn't ''look'' at her, his attention turns toward her. << This is much better than trying to talk to Holders, >> is his stance on the situation. "Ugh. Don't ask," Parli says with a wrinkling of her nose. "Oil him. Feed him. Make straps for him. ''Work''. It's so gross. Worse when we had to help the Weyrlingmaster, because it wasn't ''just'' him." And, yes, that is a flickering flare of pride from the brown. Go figure. "But, mostly, he made me learn how to work with wood and leather and whatever. Because ''he'' can't. He made the mistake of being born a dragon."

A laugh is muffled quickly at the demonstration of the hungry. "Maybe they need better klah at Telgar because it's so cold there. Colder than here, isn't it?" Dee seems unsure. For all that they've had their wings and betweening down now for some time, it sounds like Dee hasn't been making much of the privilege. She takes a tentative sip, but then a bigger one when it doesn't burn her lips. << Do ''you'' try to talk to Holders? >> Taeliyth can't resist asking him with a tease to her tone. "Work," Dee takes in with a slow nod, the concern clearing from her face. Instead she schools her expression to something vaguely sympathetic. "And without him you wouldn't? Work, that is." There's something thoughtful to the way she asks, "What kinds of things with wood and leather?"

"I guess? I mean," Parli purses her lips, the rest of her features screwing up a little with it. "To be fair, I had to dose mine with whiskey all the time. It made the klah drinkable. And, hey, it helped me to stop caring that my face was numb. Thanks, alcohol." A longer pull of her klah follows; it does not appear to have been doctored with booze. This time. << Me? Talk to Holders? >> Swaronth doesn't laugh, but there is a puff of sawdust in his mind. Amused. << No. That's why I have her. >> At least he's honest? That's something. "Ugh. No. Never. I managed to get through candidacy without doing a chore. And then ''he'' happened. So. I paid for it. Otherwise, I don't know. I guess I'd just... do whatever. Or something." She waggles one hand in a vaguely jazz-hands-y motion. "Anyway. I make stuff. Trunks and good straps and... just. I don't know. ''Stuff''. He's full of ideas. I made some shelves a few turns back." A beat. "They're still in one piece." Side-eye. "What did you do before her?"

The first has Dee's lips pressing together, a small smile there. "It's a good tactic against the cold, so long as one toes the line, I imagine. Too much probably doesn't make for a good watcher." Her smile tugs a litlte broader. << Does she do it well? >> Taeliyth inquires with innocent interest. ''Innocent''. Dee doesn't comment on the very descriptive 'whatever or something', but just nods slowly. "Have much experience shaping wood into serviceable planks that could be made into say, a wall?" This isn't an innocent question. It can't be. "I was a farmcraft apprentice down in Southern Weyr."

"Well, he doesn't drink, sooo..." Parli will just leave that there, though. << She protects me from the stupid, >> is the sum of Swaronth's probably-not-helpful assessment. He grunts and moves a little further away, squinting - or doing the draconic equivalent thereof - in the distance. << There. Do you see that? >> "Uh." Parli slides a slow look askance to Dee again, though she takes a solid swig of her rapidly cooling klah before answering. "Sure. I mean. How tall of a wall are you talking about? How long? Or wide, I guess." Pragmatic, that. As for the apprenticeship, there's just a nod - acknowledging, but it's clearly not as much of interest as this hot wall talk is probably going to be.

Dee blinks rapidly and looks down at her mug, lips pressed together again. << That's good of her, >> Taeliyth's tone is touched with a tart sarcasm before her attention shifts to seek whatever he's seen. << Can you be more specific? >> is requested of the direction with still a touch of sass, but now also sweetness. "I'm putting together plans to put up wooden walling in my weyr so as it feels a bit more like that I'm used to back at Southern, with the bungalows and all, but since we really have no idea what we're doing," she and someone or someones else, "we don't have plans for how big or anything."

Swaronth doesn't look away from whatever he's looking at, but there's still that unmistakable ''sense'' of him staring at Taeliyth. That stare transmutes into a ''squint'' - but then it passes and he allows a new thought to slip free. << Here. >> The image that's sent to her is crystal clear, startlingly so perhaps. Unnecessary details are then stripped away in layers, leaving only the visible shifting of something in the snow in the distance. An animal of some sort, probably. Hard to tell. "Uh huh." Parli turns her mug around in both hands, but her attention remains mostly on Dee. "Right. Well. Why not have someone just build you a bungalow somewhere instead of using the weyr." It's not quite a question. One eyebrow creeps up. "Unless you really just want to keep everyone out. I can totally understand that."

Taeliyth tosses her head to regard Swaronth sidelong before looking back, her mind tracing along the image to seek out direction, to find the source of it with her own eyes. It's cleverly done, following those clues. "A lot of reasons. I don't have land to build a bungalow on, I don't have marks for that kind of project, so it's what I-- and my friend-- and our friends, I guess--" each edit to Dee's list makes her brows furrow just a touch more, "what we can do with our own hands and the supplies we can gather for free. Maybe you could come take a look sometime. Maybe give me some lessons about shaping the boards and joining them. I can ask at Southern, but that means going to Southern and I'm not sure it will ever not feel like 'an affair' to visit anywhere ever again."

The movement ceases after a time. Yet, Swaronth remains keen on ''that'' spot for the time being, his focus intense. He remains utterly still and patient, as if he were actually stalking whatever it is, rather than watching from afar. Parli's raised eyebrow creeps a little higher as Dee continues speaking. "Right. Well. Good luck with that, I guess." She takes a swig of her klah, grimaces all over again, and steps aside to dump the remaining contents of her mug out over the edge. Where it lands, she clearly doesn't care. "You're going to have to go all kinds of places, so you should probably get over ''that'' right now," says she of that last bit, though her tone remains bland. "Holds. Halls. Other Weyrs. Oh no." Jazz hands again, listless and with both hands this time, even if one still has a mug in it. "I mean, you probably won't have to do as much of it as those of us in boring ol' regular wings, but you'll have to make your peace with it." Shrug. "Anyway. If you want our help, sure. We'll do that. Just, like... I don't know, talk to X'vin or whatever to get our duties switched."

There's a little more blinking from Dee, probably about the time that the jazz hands make their reappearance. "Yeah," is empty agreement, "okay," as if it were really all just that easy. Taeliyth's attention lingers on Swaronth's but for less time than the brown, shifting away to her own observations. "I'll ask him about it. I don't mind doing the labor or it taking time-- actually, I'd prefer it," doing the labor and it taking time, "but I'm just not entirely sure where to start. I keep meaning to talk to the woodcrafters but... there never seems to be enough time." She shrugs, lifting her klah to her lips again.

"Ugh." Parli squints into her mug, then looks askance at Swaronth before her attention, finally, settles on Dee again. "Right. So. Yeah. It'll be hard work, but whatever. If you're willing to do most of it, sure. But, you have to make sure the wood is good wood and then it has to be shaped and sealed and blah, blah, blah." That's all for the brown that's finally, ''finally'' turning his attention away from whatever ''was'' out there. << Next time. >> "So. I guess, that should be your first project. Get the wood and, uh. I guess we'll just go from there." She looks in her mug again, as if it might have miraculously refilled itself. It has not. "I need to get more of this. So. Um. Just... stay here and we'll be back." Eventually. Hopefully.

<< Uh huh, >> Taeliyth just might not be listening anymore. She's found interesting things to occupy her attention down in the bowl below. Dee gives a slight nod to the matter of the wood and a bigger one for the klah. She looks to Taeliyth before moving over toward the gold to tuck herself against the dragon's side, one of Taeliyth's delicate wings unfurling enough to create some measure of protection from the chill and wind at this altitude.
}}
[[Category:FTW_Clutch_32_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Need More Greens

2015-10-14T23:08:36Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=Farideh, K'del, Z'kiel
|what=In the galleries, there's talk of dragon numbers and politics!
|where=Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.14
|quote="I've heard the queens know what the Weyr needs. They breed what's best."
|mentions=Irianke, Edeline
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh aside.png, Icon Z'kiel.jpg,
|desc=>---< Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr(#290RJs) >-----------------------<

Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of
carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground
-- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers,
and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from
falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into
the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off
some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even
feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.

The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire
cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the
expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is
easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a
broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels
that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks,
however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
|log=The eggs are still on the sands, and the queens too; much to the dismay of many. It's snowing outside, but warm in the hatching cavern, which makes it a still-perfect haven from the coldness of the climate. One might even say the galleries are ''crowded'' today, though certainly nothing like the scene at any hatching. On the bottom row, Farideh's seated between two separate piles of hides and clutter, with a clean piece of paper in her lap that she's busily jotting notes on, only glancing up to look at the topmost hide to her right. She's seemingly oblivious to anyone else in the galleries, or anything really; not even paying attention to Roszadyth, who keeps nudging one of the darker eggs around its brethren.

K'del's not really inclined to spend large amounts of time in the galleries, even when his dragon is sire of one of the clutches; but then, Cadejoth, too, is inclined to spend time away. For now, however, the pale bronze has escaped the snow outside to curl up alongside his mate, and his rider stands, now, at the front of the galleries, staring moodily out over the clutch(es). Surely he's aware of Farideh; equally surely, he's not (yet) made any move to interrupt.

On the other hand, Z'kiel's been spending a fair amount of time down here - though usually at hours when others aren't inclined to visit. Today's a little different, given givens, and he enters the galleries with a notepad of sorts tucked under an arm. His gaze shifts back and forth between clarity and draconic communion, with no immediate sign of Ahtzudaeth to be found anywhere in the general vicinity. It's in a moment of clarity that the once Igenite realizes the others in the area; whether it's seen or not, a pair of salutes is snapped off - for K'del and Farideh, respectively, before he ventures toward the front, to a point nearest the eggs. No audible greeting is given, but the fact that his silent footfalls have ceased to be so silent is telling enough.

Farideh writes down a couple more words and exhales loudly, cheeks puffing out as she reads over whatever she's just written. Then, her eyes lift, in enough time to catch the salute Z'kiel gives ''her'' and his subsequent one to K'del, which leads her eyes over ''that way''. "Z'kiel," she greets, first, with a convivial tone and polite smile. "Weyrleader," is to K'del, second, and more polite. She sets down her paper, to her right, covering the hides, and her pen next. "If I didn't know better, I'd say the eggs were hatching," would sound wry, except she's looking around now, at the many faces filling the galleries.

"I think we're all just ready for them to do so," is K'del's mild reply, made as he turns to acknowledge both riders in turn, if a little distantly. "The waiting's always hard, and after everything..." He stops, as if to break himself out of some train of thought that displeases him, and then shakes his head. "Plus the weather. Excuse me." So much for visiting the eggs, because now he's hurrying himself out again.

''Hnnnh.'' Z'kiel slows a bit and, at that greeting from Farideh, he looks properly in her direction. "Soon enough." A beat. "Hopefully not too soon." He sucks his teeth, brow furrowed just a touch at something or another. The bronzerider shakes his head to clear it and moves to take a seat somewhat behind and to the left of Farideh, putting a touch of distance between himself and whatever she's working on. His notebook is opened and he looks out over the eggs with a slight pull of his mouth to one side. When K'del speaks, he looks over - but just as he's opening his mouth to reply, the Weyrleader's gone and he, in turn, settles into a throaty grunt.

"I think it will never be ''too'' soon," Farideh replies, after silently watching the weyrleader's departure with a furrowed brow. "I want my dragon back. She loves her eggs ''too'' much, but I miss her. I ''might'' be jealous." She glances back at Z'kiel, lips transforming into a sublime smile that reaches her eyes and causes a crinkles at the edges. "Do you have any bets on them? Guesses? Rumors? I always love to hear what other people think-- it keeps me out of my own paranoia."

There's a slight nod, a barely there gesture, and Z'kiel straightens up again. Whatever he's here to do, it can wait. "Going to be her where you are, soon enough," he observes obliquely. "Or not soon enough." A shoulder rises and falls, leaving that speculation where it is. There's a bit more teeth sucking before, after a time, he shakes his head. "No. I'm no good for guesses unless there's a gold egg." Dry, that. "Bad about it since Igen. Don't think I'll be any better. Even if they're all greens, all twenty eight, it'll be good for the Weyr." A beat. "Mostly. Ahtzudaeth has his thoughts, but he's not telling me just yet. Wants to wait a little before speculating."

"It's ''strange'' how quickly I took it for granted. Flying with Roszadyth-- being part of the ''flying team''. It's not the same as getting a ride with someone else, when she can't come with, and we can't go ''between'' wherever we want." Farideh's lips purse as she turns a contemplative eye over the sands, and the gold steadily shuffling eggs for the spectators. "No? I don't even know if there's one of ''those''. None of them look like-- not like Roszadyth's egg. Not any of Niahvth's either. If they all hatched greens, I don't think anyone would complain. Everyone gets a happy ending, that way, unless, of course, one has aspirations, but--" Now, she shrugs, unable to speculate properly. "No? ''Ahtzudaeth.''"

"There are worse things," Z'kiel replies blandly and, after another moment or two, packs up and scoots down to be on the level with Farideh. Easier to talk that way. "But. It's..." he hesitates, brow knitted up. "It's interesting to think of how quickly we got so accustomed to it. How it became a part of us. Our lives." He tilts his head to eye her askance. "Couldn't imagine being grounded like that. But. It's a small price to pay for bringing more of them into the world." He draws a breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. Some manner of deal is reached between man and dragon, for: "We'll see. He thinks-" Grunt. "-should be plenty of chromatics out of Niahvth. He's not so sure there'll be many bronzes. Might be a fair number out of Roszadyth, though. It was a strong flight, from what I heard."

"There ''are''," Farideh murmurs quietly. She remains politely silent as she watches him get up and sit closer, though she's studying him more inquisitively now that he's on her same level. "Isn't it? I ''remember'' before, but not-- what it was like, not like ''this''. I remember it being hard to learn, and I was weak-- everything's different ''now'', and it will always be." Roszadyth stops shifting the eggs around long enough to sit and watch them, collectively, as though they might sprout legs and run away; horror! "I'm sure A'rist-- ''Lythronath'' would be pleased if there were bronzes. I'll keep my fingers crossed for more greens for now.."

"Interesting how little it takes for us to adapt." The words come slowly, perhaps borrowed from Ahtzudaeth. Z'kiel shakes his head a little, then looks more properly at Farideh. "How little it takes to change us." A shrug follows, shallow and somewhat helpless in a peculiar way. Then it's back to speculation, with a grunted, "Need more greens, I think - but I've heard the queens know what the Weyr needs. They breed what's best. So. Could be there are greens. Or blues. Or browns in abundance." Then, with a wry snort of a sound, coupled with a sardonic: "Or maybe they'll all be golds."

"Does it bother you that you've changed? That ''we'' change, with our Impressions? I don't think it's unrealistic. You are, after all, adding another facet to yourself-- a dragon, full of their own personality and quirks." Farideh's gaze shifts from Z'kiel to her dragon, but it inevitably returns, her eyebrows knitting over uncertain eyes. "I think ''everyone'' would be happier with more greens. Perhaps not places that are too ''traditional'', that like their bronzes leading wings. I don't see the allure. Mielline and Quinlys are greater leaders on their own, not to mention Taikrin, being a female on brown." She taps a finger against her knee and cants her head towards Z'kiel. "Don't ''jinx us'', Zak."

"Should it?" Is his counter to that question. "Haven't changed much. Haven't changed ''enough''." Z'kiel sucks his teeth and shifts his gaze from her to the eggs again. "But. There's time. Need. He's just like me, in some ways. Makes it easier. Is she a lot like you? Different? Then? Now?" The line of questioning is left as it is, scattered and probably more of Ahtzudaeth's making than his own. There's a slight twisting of his features at that - but, to his credit, it's not as much as it might have been, turns ago. "Sounds more like you want fewer bronzes to chase Roszadyth next time," is his interpretation, darkly humorous as it is. "More greens to take their attention. And, who knows. Might be a gold or two in there. The dark might be covering something bright."

"It doesn't bother ''me'', but that's not a gage of what should, or shouldn't, bother ''you''." Farideh's fingers at her knee ceases movement and her feet are drawn in under the bench. "I think you've changed ''some''. Roszadyth is-- yes and no. She's polite and ladylike, and feminine and ''soft'', but she's sensible and kind and ''bright''. In a lot of ways, she helps me. She keeps me from jumping to conclusions a lot of times, keeps me from saying angry words, or make rash decisions. It's a balance." Of the bronzes and flights, she rolls her eyes ceiling-ward. "No, but I definitely don't need another flight like the last. Brown catchers would keep the numbers low and more golds out of the picture. Sustainability," sounds like something she's ''heard''; not organic.

"Few things bother me," Z'kiel replies. "And he never does." He lapses into silence while he listens, a thoughtful sound escaping him here and there; he ''is'' listening, at least. "He helps with words. Helps remind me of what I should be. What I'm ''meant'' to be." But there's little to add to it, at least for now. It's at her next words that he looks over again and his mouth pulls taut - not a smile, but something else entirely. "I wouldn't complain if there were more bronzes or more golds. More of all of them. Keep the dragons strong. Keep their numbers high. It was sustainable during a Pass. It still is." A beat. Then: "Better than them dying out because there weren't enough golds."

"And, what's that?" Both of Farideh's eyebrows lift, gaze intent on Z'kiel as she waits for his response; she's obviously curious about his ''meaning''. It's the last that gets a frown and a sigh, her fingers flexing against her knee in agitation. "Where would we get the candidates? Tillek is already limiting us with search. What if the other Holds join in? I'd prefer that what happened at Fort, with the green, not happen ''here''." That green, that time, ''then''.

But there is no answer for that first. Just a low ''hnnnh'' and a shake of his head. Z'kiel does say, "It'll make sense in time," but those words are definitely more Atzudaeth than former-Igenite. The inflection is precisely the bronze's own, in fact. Back to the last, then, and her concerns. "Build relations with the Holds," is one thing. "Discourage long jumps Between at the Weyrs." Is an obvious solution - to him, at any rate. "There are plenty of young people out there. Plenty to pull from. Plenty who will dream of riding a dragon - and will run away to do it." A sidelong look is angled to Farideh then. "What happened with the green could happen at any Weyr. If it's meant to happen, it will. Nothing to be done for it. Won't do you - or her," is angled toward her lifemate on the sands, "to worry about the what ifs. The what might bes."

"Encouraging weyr women to keep their pregnancies-- we're already doing that, but building relations with Holds the Weyr already has long-standing history with is easier said than done." Farideh sighs and gives Z'kiel a ''look''. "I'm doing my part, but we can't expect every woman, every rider, to want to sacrifice their lifestyle for a child-- even one they put permanently in the creche or foster out. It's all great in theory until it doesn't work anymore. And I ''do'' worry, because High Reaches is home, now. I want the best for the Weyr and everyone in it. Short term, long term, whenever. Even the what ifs." There, she wrinkles her nose.

He is, it would seem, immune to that ''look'' because he levels his gaze on her, eyes seeking eyes. Z'kiel intones, "What has been tried with the Holds?" He lets that sit for a moment, then follows with, "What hasn't been tried?" Odd question, perhaps, but it's there. He turns it over himself, at least for a little while, before the next. "It has always worked, Farideh. We've never been short for candidates. Fewer than we want, yes. But never less than what's on the Sands." His chin lifts, indicating the eggs. "And if we're short. If the Holds will not cooperate." The thoughts are broken, barely connected by a breath, "Then maybe we should turn to the older ways. Find a way to make the Weyr sustainable on its own for food, resources. Then take the rest." Serious? Joking? Impossible to say.

"That is a question better suited for Irianke, honestly." Farideh doesn't mince the words, doesn't pretend to know a place other than her ''own''. "We are ''only'' just into the Interval, Z'kiel. We have many, many more turns to go, with the same lackluster response from the holds. We can't sustain that way. We ''shouldn't'' be relying on--" But, there's a strangled sound, and then a sigh, fingers pressing into her forehead as her eyes close. "I'm sorry. You have ideas, Z'kiel, but you should voice them to Irianke or K'del. I'm in over my head with ''those'' ideals. I see from the other side and I ''might'' be biased." Opening her eyes, she offers her clutch-mate a sad smile, before pushing to her feet. "Stay. Enjoy." And she, she's gathering her things up in her arms, with the obvious intention of leaving.

But, for most of it, there's silence from the bronzerider. The silence lingers, even while she gathers her things to rise to her feet. Z'kiel stands when she does, however, and offers a shallow dip of his chin in a nod. "I'll speak to them. Be well. Be strong." In the realm of dragon minds, Ahtzudaeth reaches out briefly to Roszadyth with a touch of mirth and hope and reassurance - as steady a presence as he ever was, even with a mind wrought of smoke and mirrors. "If you need anything, ask." And never mind that she surely has more than a handful willing to leap into action at her beck and call; the offer is earnestly given, much like the faint ghost of a smile that manifests. He won't sit until she's gone - and, only then, does he settle into whatever task he's been sent to do.

The emotion on Farideh's face is not ''surprise'', but it's something not wholly definable, though it's followed by a small smile for his benefit. "You're too kind, Z'kiel. I don't think enough people know that." She gives him a nod in return, and turns then, to trek back out and into the cold weather outside.
|Categories=HRW Clutch Logs, HRW Clutch 38 Logs, General Logs
}}

Logs:Calling, Again

2015-10-12T22:06:16Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Torlynna, Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth |what=Ahtzudaeth decides Torlynna is missing the ''right'' knot. |where=Courtyard, Crom Hold |involves=Crom Hold |day=21 |mo..."

{{Log
|who=Torlynna, Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth
|what=Ahtzudaeth decides Torlynna is missing the ''right'' knot.
|where=Courtyard, Crom Hold
|involves=Crom Hold
|day=21
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="He just knows the knot you have is the wrong one."
|weather=Light snowfall.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon Ahtzudaeth.png,
|desc=>---< Crom Hold(#1196RAJ) >--------------------------------------------------<

Like many Holds of Pern, Crom is built within the shelter of a solid panel
of rock. An expansive courtyard rests beneath this shelter, leaving up
towards massive stone-wrought doors and a wide deck of smoothed boulders.
The distinctive shadows of the watchdragon's ledge, the drumheights, and
the fireheights rise high on the cliff and dotted along the wall are
windows that are either flung open or shuttered depending on the weather
or, more dangerously, Thread. Vegetation is lacking in this mine-based
Hold, though the carts and beaten paths of miners returning home weave in
twisted circles about the Hold, leading far off towards the furthest
reaches of the few mines untouched near Crom itself.

A proud Hold, the crests and banners of the family flap in the wind,
hanging from the highest windows of the stone walls.

The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers
off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little
sticks.
|log=The slow swirl of falling snow is briefly interrupted by the manifestation of a bronze, one that circles high above the hold before angling toward the ground in a calculated spiral. Ahtzudaeth lands lightly in the courtyard and utters a low, throaty sound that edges toward a ''chortle'' of all things. Z'kiel dismounts and shoots a goggle-hidden glare at the beast. He quickly exchanges goggles and helmet for a knitted skullcap and scarf - and he adds a heavy bag while he's at it, slinging it crosswise over his person. The man grunts at the bronze, the bronze grunts back, and the rider starts off at a slow, measured pace toward the Hold proper.

The Cromese peoples are still enjoying the days of Lady Crom's turnday festival. That might explain why Torlynna is milling around one of the weaver craft vendors with her eyes coveting a long wool and fur cloak on display. It's the sort of item far outside her budget given her quality of clothing and the lust burning in her narrowed eyes. It's so busy, however, that she gets a few chances to stroke the thick pelt of the hood while the crafters are busy making actual sales to people with coin. The first few days of the festivities might have made her jerk around to gawk at arriving dragons but the thrill of seeing the big beasts has worn off now or, perhaps she's so absorbed in her daydreams that she doesn't notice the additional dragon and rider arriving. At last, and with a big sigh, she pushes away from the cloak and starts towards the hall, putting her path in line with Z'kiel so they are strolling together towards the source of warmth and protection from the snows.

It is, perhaps, somewhat heartening that the festival doesn't linger beneath the shadow that passed over it not that long ago. Ahtzudaeth, for one, doesn't seem terribly troubled by the situation - and, as dragons go, he seems far more interested in watching the swirl of people than in engaging with the other dragons scattered about. He pads a little closer, his steps careful - and, somehow, ''thoughtful''. His head moves this way and that, luminous eyes bright with a mirth that's reflected in the slight gape-grin of his mouth. Z'kiel, grim-faced as ever, doesn't share in his better half's amusement - nor does he seem interested in anything ''except'' doing whatever he's there to do. The bronzerider cuts a look askance to the young woman that joins his course and studies her with eyes that are narrowed - habit, that, rather than any overt sense of distrust. His study is cold and strange, predatory for a fleeting moment, and then it just ''stops.''. So does he, for that matter. Abruptly and with an audible ''hnnnh.''

Torlynna has her mind on other things. Lust of goods most likely. Her jaw clutching, indio gaze fixed on a spot in the middle distance as her long legs carry her forward. It's only when the taller man beside her stops does it seem to dawn on her that he head has been in the clouds and she's completely ignored the man. Her own narrowed gaze softens and she forces herself to release the clamped teeth to offer a slanted smile to the dragon-man. "Happy Gather." She calls, tossing a hand up and towards him but she's not stopping it seems, long strides widening a little more.

The bronze continues his approach - at least until he can go no further. Booths and the crush of people make it all but impossible for him to move forward. Ahtzudaeth settles back on his haunches with the utmost of patience, head held high and grin widening. Z'kiel, for all that he looks back at the dragon, ultimately shakes his head with a slight pinching of his brows. It's only when the tall, young woman raises a hand and calls to him that his attention is wrenched back into the here and now. But, when he speaks, it's not to wish her the same. Rather: "'''Wait.'''" The word falls hard, Igen-accented and laden with grit. It's aimed ''her'' way, but a few other passersby slow down or stop in confusion, looking at him, then at each other, as if uncertain as to just which he's speaking to.

Torlynna takes another two steps after the call for her because, well, why would the stranger need her? Then she realizes that she's not going to make it to the warmth of the hearth just yet and stops, turning to regard the man with eyebrows swung up over narrowed eyes. "Hhmm?" Another woman who was also nearby stops as well, smaller and more reactionary, the little woman's eyes widen and round as she makes fluttery movements with her hands. Torlynna is less responsive but curious, glancing from the woman to the dragonrider. "Need directions?" She asks, not unkindly asked, maybe a touch of sympathy.

Of course, now that people ''have'' stopped, Z'kiel's the one left looking confused. He shoots a look back to Ahtzudaeth who, helpfully, rears up a little more and raises a forepaw in a queerly human-like gesture to ''point'' at someone. From the distance and angle, though, it's impossible to make sense of it. "The worst. That's you," Z'kiel grouses just under his breath. Torlynna's words are caught just above that and he exhales sharply with an equally sharp shake of his head. "No." He winces a little at the sheer weight of the word and shakes his head again as if that might dull it. "No," he tries again. "Something- no. Some''one'' is missing something here." There's a tilt of his head, an indication of the not-so-distant bronze and his odd gesticulation. "And ''he's'' not helping." There's a brief clench of his jaw, then: "Come with me. The lot of you. Not you," excludes the two or three young men, leaving perhaps three other young women in the summoned lot. "Please," is an afterthought, grated out with frustration that's dragon-centric.

Torlynna's eyes are drawn towards the movement of the rearing dragon and the oos and aaahs of the crowd close by to the magestic beast to witness this show. Torlynna's head tips slowly as she squints at the dragon and slowly shifts her focus to the dragonrider, sweeping a look over him consideringly. Beside her, the gush of the smaller woman drowns out whatever she might have said. No way she's making a scene like that. Instead she folds her arms over her chest and lets the little woman dart in front of her, trying not to get tripped up. At last her expression settles into amusement, why not? SHe opens her mouth to ask but it's the simpery little woman who bolts headlong, "What's missing? Oh! Missing someone! Oh my!" And such excited blustering that Tor glances at the rider with a widening smile. Yup, more sympathy there as she trails with the small group.

"Not. No. Not-" Z'kiel gives up, his jaw tensing again. He gestures, sweeping Torlynna, the smaller woman, and the other two along - not unlike a canine herding ovines, except without biting. It's only when they draw nearer to Ahtzudaeth that the bronze settles down again, settling into a languid posture; on his belly, forelegs crossed just ''so'' and with his head tipped down. The former Igenite rubs the bridge of his nose and steps aside, letting the bronze do- well, nothing, from the looks of it. Nothing except look ''very'' intently at each of them, with equal measures of time for the two others, the smaller one, and Torlynna herself. "Which one? The least you can do is not do the thing you're doing ''now''." The beast chortles again, amused. To the women: "Someone's missing ''something'' here. Not you," he settles on, pointing at one of the younger women in the lot. Sixteen, maybe. She shuffles off with a pout.

Torlynna keeps her arms folded over her chest in a protective set of shoulders as she moves along with the others. She's at liberty to admire the dragon up close. It could be said she's looking him over with the same intensity fixed on her. Then she lets her focus shift, turning to the dragonrider, tightening her thick arms over her ample chest as he begins to translate. "How can he tell someone's missing anything?" She asks and watches the younger woman drifting back the way they'd come.

With the field narrowed slightly, Ahtzudaeth turns his attention more keenly to Z'kiel, who glares at him with a slight shake of his head. With a snort, the bronzerider shifts his gaze from the beast to Torlynna when she speaks. "Has a knack for it," he replies. "Somewhat. Some dragons look for something that's ''there''. He can't make it easy like that." Another woman is sent off - mid-twenties and pretty, though she looks mostly relieved that she's turned away with that gesture. "But what he ''sees'' is- different. One of you two." Torlynna and the smaller woman that came with her, that is. "Names?" The question is barely a question and asked with a note of uncertainty that's slanted right back to the utterly still bronze. "Why is that even important," isn't a question at all and is ''definitely'' for the dragon who is, for the moment, looking utterly and completely ''smug'' about something.

The little woman shoots a look up at Torlynna as though they are in some contest and hurriedly gushes out, "I'm Marandra Dragonrider sir. Dragon. Um..." She twines her little hands together and fidgits, almost vibrating with excitement. She might fly appart at any moment. Torlynna for her part just wings up her eyebrow and rocks back on her heels a little. In contrast, she's calm and reserved, but her smile is there, her expression curious and mild as she gives the little woman a reasuring smile for her eagerness. If the prize was for the most eager, the little chit would certainly be in the top awards. "If you're really asking for our names, I'm Torlynna. And yours is? You have a strange accent." Not worldly enough to know where it might be from though. Marandra gawks at her for being so forward, distracted from her nervous shivering.

"Marandra." The name is rolled around a bit, then it's on to "Torlynna." Z'kiel sucks his teeth, forehead furrowed. "He's curious about them," comes the eventual clarification. "Not sure why. But." One shoulder rises and falls, with the 'Reachian rider looking from one woman to the other with a growing sense of consternation. "I'm Z'kiel. He's Ahtzudaeth. We ride for Alpine Wing at High Reaches Weyr," though that bit might be unnecessary; his knot is pinned to a shoulder. "I was from Igen Weyr. You're from here?" ''Hnnnh.'' "He likes your ''energy'' Marandra," the emphasis clearly added by the dragon-half of the pairing. "But you." Z'kiel's eyes narrow a bit more as he studies Torlynna. "''You're'' missing something. Something here." He points at her shoulder - or, more specifically, at her knot, of all things.

Torlynna's narrow eyes squint a fraction more. "Pleased to meet you both. I'm Lemos born but Woodcraft apprentice by trade and posted here." Her arms loosen from the shield they'd provided over her body and long fingers touch at her shoulder. "It's gather day, I left my knot--" Marandra scowls at her, still full of that nervous excitement. Tor ignores her in favor of talking with the dragon-man. "He could see my missing knot from all the way over there?" Torlynna asks, sounding skeptical.

"No. But," Z'kiel glances at Marandra again, before all but dismissing her for the time being. She's not sent off - not yet, anyway - but there's a more pressing situation at hand. "No," he tries again. "He just knows the knot you have is the wrong one. Doesn't matter if you wore it or not. The one he ''sees'' is missing." He speaks slowly, as if trying to make sense of whatever the bronze is relaying to him. Ahtzudaeth starts grinning again, as it were, and he issues a low rumble of satisfaction. "Torlynna. There are two clutches hardening on the sands at High Reaches. He says he likes how you ''look''. Our Headwoman will have the right knot for you." A beat. Then: "He is ''calling''. He says the young ones are, too." He's not certain of that last, but it matters little. He continues, slow and somber and ''serious'': "Will you answer? Will you Stand at High Reaches?"

Torlynna stares at the bronze dragon hard. "I have worked very hard for the knot." She tells the smiling dragon and then turns back to the rider with a starlted, 'oh', when he explains more fully. A sudden smile breaks across her face as she listens and at last gives a single nod of her chin. Though she might not fully believe her good fortune, she's not one to say so aloud. "I'd be honored to stand for the hatching!" Marandra wrings her hands together a little more and wobbles from one foot to the other, mouth opening and closing around a mixture of hope and dread. That she's not been sent away seems to give her the courage to stay put rather than dashing off. Torlynna glances at the smaller girl and then back to the rider expectantly.

The bronze rumbles and ducks his head; Z'kiel nods, unconsciously mirroring that very gesture. "You worked hard for it," the rider echoes. "But. They'll let you keep studying your craft." He'll not take it into 'just in case' territory, though; he leaves it there, with a glance angled to Marandra again. Another grunt. Another round of narrow-eyed teeth-sucking. Then: "No. He doesn't... see ''that'' with you." There is no apology for it; no consolation prize. Just: "Enjoy the rest of the Gather, Marandra. You," Torlynna is looked at again. "Get what you need. We can bring you back for the rest. I have a spare jacket and helmet," so, at least, she won't freeze Between. There's that, at least.

The two women exchange a look. Tearful and jealous on Marandra's side and compassionate on Torlynna's though the little woman whirls away and jogs off through the snow so as not to be caught with tearful eyes. Torlynna worries her lower lip in her teeth and then lets out a quiet sigh, nodding to the dragonrider. "Right." Seeming to take his lack of apology to heart--it's just the way it goes. "I'll just be a moment." And she is only gone a short time, returning with a small pack and scarf wrapped around her throat. Her eyes gleam with excitement despite her attemps at being cool and reserved. Riding a dragon is worth getting a little bubbly about!
|Categories=Search Logs
}}

Z'kiel

2015-10-12T21:56:45Z

Weylaughn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

=Ahtzudaeth=

{{DragonTab}}

=History=
His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

On the 28th day of the 12th month of turn 38, Ahtzudaeth makes his first Search: [[Jocelyn]].

On the 21st day of the 13th month of turn 38, Ahtzudaeth Searches [[Torlynna]].
=Relationships=

== High Reaches Weyr ==
Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. ... and, maybe, I will smile. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade. 
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me. 
[[Jocelyn]] - He sees something in you. Do not disappoint him. 
[[Torlynna]] - We will see how well you do.

== Igen Weyr ==

Kasdeja - The rest of the blood might have dried up - but you remain. Thank you.

== Fort Weyr ==

[[Tabitha]] - ''Hnnnh.''

=Family=
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Zierad
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=951696000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Iekila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=983606400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Kadeila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1244995200}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Zakaid
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1256832000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Ieliare
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Erailei
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Niece
{{!}}Eilamina
{{!}}Child
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1440892800}}
{{!}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

=Brazen=

''Son of Autumn's Misfortune Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen, Cry Baby)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite 
Sire: Jo's Mime 
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

=RP Logs=

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Weyrling
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}

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

Logs:Unsettling

2015-10-11T18:35:18Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Everett, Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth |what=Lakes are creepy, or: Everett meets Qhyluth. |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=9 |mont..."

{{Log
|who=Everett, Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth
|what=Lakes are creepy, or: Everett meets Qhyluth.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.07
|quote="''He'' judges."
|weather=Foggy. Foggier. Foggiest.
|type=Log
|ooc=Belated posting, boo.
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|desc=>---< Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr(#276RJs) >-------------------------------<

The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but
here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening
and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions
to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.

A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides
warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced
off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water
there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows
drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge
undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be
bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge
divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky
outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one
-- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly
tempting stairs.

A blanket of cold, dense fog fills the bowl with its oppressive presence
and obscures vision.
|log=It's creeping inexorably closer to evening and, yet, the fog doesn't seem to have any intention of lifting. The thick blanket of condensation shudders from time to time on the lake, but there's naught to see there - even if one were to squint. On the shore, a diminutive young woman stands, dressed in a blue dark enough to be black; a long dress, a long coat, and thick gloves to pair with equally thick boots. Her braids hang down her back - dark and long - but heavy scarves in blue and black cover the rest of her head and her face. She's looking into the fog over the water, unblinking and utterly still. Watchful - and waiting.

Fog provides an illusion of privacy, little pockets of it, in what light's left. Everett's little pocket of it is moving, though, a crunch of footsteps along the shore. Oblivious footsteps, accompanied by the occasional sound of liquid sloshing in a flask as he tips it back. Sure, it's early, but some jobs require taking one's leisure at odd times. He's stopped, tucked it away, spent several moments looking out over the lake with his hands in the pockets of his coat, before he really seems to register that the dark figure there isn't only a shadow. "Sorry, I didn't really think anyone would be out here, today."

The sound of his approach is noted long before his manifestation - and Ulyana cocks her head just slightly to better listen for it. She maintains her vigil at the water's edge, her expression a dull one; past neutrality and into empty indifference. "There is no need to apologize," is intoned, deadpan - a good handful of seconds after a response might actually be expected. The flat affectation remains as she explains, "He is always out here. I am not." A shoulder rises. Falls. "He prefers the weather when it is like this." A tip of her head and slide of her eyes catches Everett in her peripheral vision. "There are no others to wake him."

The hestitation is just long enough to give her the chance to actually answer, but Everett's peering over with more than a bit of puzzlement. Still, polite: "Him?" Picture of propriety, at least now that he's not actively imbibing. Small talk in the mist. "It's hard to imagine anyone preferring this weather. The damp makes it feel like the cold's gotten into everything. But the Snowasis is already more crowded than I like to see, and I thought it would be nice to have some quiet before work." Thus the conversation. Obviously. Or else it's just words to fill the apprehensive space.

Something stirs in the water; a ripple washes up onto the shore, licking at boots that are too close to the water. Hers. Maybe his. "Yes," is delayed, as if the young man's words require processing. Ulyana finally moves, but only to face him, to fix him with cool, gray eyes. A slow blink follows. "Him." Another shifting in the water; a brief shredding of fog that mends itself. "Qhyluth." There is no smile. For his explanation, there's a stiff, mechanical nod - up-down-center - and a flatly queried, "What is your purpose?" Which isn't the ''right'' word, perhaps, but there is no correction following it - just that steady, unblinking look.

Squinting, Everett peers out in the direction of the lake, long after the disturbance has faded back to invisibility. Waiting for another? Trying to figure out what that was? "Mouthful of a name," he says, though not loud enough. Maybe more to himself than to her. "I'm a bartender. Here. There, I mean, not literally here. I don't think I've seen you." The politeness frays around the edges; the last seems almost accusatory, as inappropriate as that is.

Silence uncoils again, his words left to hang - untouched - in the fog for a time. The water doesn't ripple again. The fog settles into stillness. And Ulyana, for her part, remains as she is - at least for now. No blink this time. No shift in expression. Eventually, deadpan: "I do not drink." Her head tilts to one side, just a touch. Her gaze sharpens. Clinical. Cool. "I am most often in the living cavern. I do not recall ever seeing you there." It goes both ways, perhaps - the difference being that she seems to have no limit to her seeming indifference, paradoxically mixed as it is with curiosity.

She doesn't drink, she just... drives others to it? Everett doesn't seem to see much need to conceal the need for another nip. It's chilly. Perfectly normal reaction. "Work keeps me at odd hours, and I've never seen any reason to linger there too long. Food's not bad, but it's not that good, you know?" A bright smile that dulls quickly. Hard to keep that up. His gaze skims over her unblinking face and out to the fog. "It's a bit of an acquired taste, drink. Maybe you just need to find something you like."

Her head straightens and she pivots to face the water again, with a faint and fleeting furrow to her brow. Ulyana intones blandly, "It is sufficient." The food, probably. Her silence is broken with another shivery ripple of water and fog - and, this time, something terrible and dark emerges. It's slow and mostly silent, an undulation of darkness that remains, more or less, unwavering some distance away. "I have something better than alcohol," and if those words are said in a voice that's perilously close to an uncharacteristic purr, so be it. The distant shadow's eyes open, revealing a sickly, will o' wisp green luminescence. "I cannot imagine what you serve could be better." A fact? A challenge? It's hard to tell.

"What? Sex?" Look, it's a Weyr, Everett should be able to at least suggest quite sensibly that those two things are reasonably like in the world of pleasures, but doing so seems to render him distinctly uncomfortable once the words are out of his mouth, and he frowns. "I mean, I can't say better, but I can say that it's more than possible to cover up the liquor with something sweet, if that's what you prefer." And he sounds like he cannot possibly picture her preferring that, come to think of it, but he hasn't got any better sounds to coax out of his mouth than the generic ones. "That is... him? In the water, there?" Hopeful.

The parsing takes a little longer this time, long enough for the darkling shape to finally push toward shore - angling to step out of the water ''behind'' Ulyana, or, rather, to the side of her that's facing away from the bartender. Water spills off of deep blue hide, the sound coupled with a throaty gurgling. "No," Ulyana finally determines, with another mechanical shake of her head. Left, right, center. "''Him.''" A beat. Two. Then: "Sex is acceptable." Flat. The notion of covering the liquor with sweetness elicits a slow blink. "I do not think it will be wise for me to attempt it," she intones, "unless he is asleep." The ''He'' in question dips his dripping head over her and she reaches up, the motion slow and dreamlike, to touch his chin - and answer that hopeful question with confirmation: "Yes."

He might have done anyway, with all that water, but Everett's couple steps back are significantly less sure than they might otherwise be. "Ah, yes. I... can see that. Of course." Not with any sound of real comprehension in it. Visitor from a different world than that one, certainly. He turns the flask around and then puts it back in his pocket. "He's very..." It takes a moment to search out an appropriate compliment. "Striking." Close enough. Seize about, lay hands--or thoughts--on a notion that is a bit more concrete: "Qhyluth." Or some vague approximation of the name. "You said that was his name? Do you have a name? I'm Everett."

The blue presses into that contact, only to crane his neck further, to get a better look at the man in the fog. A thread of yellow flickers across his eyes and Qhyluth withdraws to settle in a posture that's peculiar at best: on his haunches, with forepaws resting on his knees and wings partially furled. His neck curves and his head lowers, eyes leveled in a sickly-luminous stare at Everett. Ulyana's back is to the beast, framed by his form, and she presses a hand to one of his hindlegs. "Qhyluth," is a subtle correction. Oft-made. "You may call me Ulyana. It is our pleasure to meet you, Everett."

"Always have this vague feeling that they're judging me, dragons. Probably all in my head." Played off lightly, only not that light at all. Everett raises a hand like he might do likewise, but then he thinks better of this, and puts it into the coat pocket where it can stay warm and safe from whatever it is that fails to feel particularly safe about all of this. Oh, but if his coat could perform the same miracle for the rest of him. "Pleasure, yes. Think... I'd best head back. Going to be dark, soon. Days are so short this time of year."

There's a thin smile, strange and stretched and ill-fitted to her face. "''He'' judges." That purr again. "It is not all in your head," is probably meant to be a reassurance - but not in ''that'' tone. The blue gurgles, the sound thick and wet. The kind of sound that ''sticks''. Ulyana's smile withers and dies quickly, her tone returning to its usual, hollow quality. "Yes. Perhaps that is wise, Everett. I do not know how long you have been here - but it will be getting cold soon." A beat. "Be well and be safe." She does not move; nor does the blue. "We will watch for you."

Accordingly, Everett looks not the least bit reassured. Little bitty girl like that, dragon in a Weyr full of dragons, funny how a foggy day can make such a difference. Or maybe he would have been unsettled in either case. A gambler might put a bet on him telling himself later that it was just that sort of a day. For now: "I'll... do my best to be worth watching, then," is the best he can come up with in the way of a response, and so long as they stay still, he can put distance between them at a healthy pace, back to dryness and warmth and light.
}}

Logs talk:Calling

2015-10-07T02:42:03Z

Weylaughn: Comment provided by Z'kiel - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Calling]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Alida (20:24, 4 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

More luvs for Ahtzudaeth! ;D
==Z'kiel (19:42, 6 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Of course he'd have to make it difficult for Z'kiel to explain. Because why make it ''easy'', when he can make it ''fun''?

Z'kiel

2015-10-05T03:26:35Z

Weylaughn:

=Home=
{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

=Ahtzudaeth=

{{DragonTab}}

=History=
His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

On the 28th day of the 12th month of turn 38, Ahtzudaeth makes his first Search: [[Jocelyn]].

=Relationships=

== High Reaches Weyr ==
Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. ... and, maybe, I will smile. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade. 
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me. 
[[Jocelyn]] - He sees something in you. Do not disappoint him.

== Igen Weyr ==

Kasdeja - The rest of the blood might have dried up - but you remain. Thank you.

=Family=
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Zierad
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=951696000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Iekila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=983606400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Kadeila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1244995200}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Zakaid
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1256832000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Ieliare
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Erailei
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Niece
{{!}}Eilamina
{{!}}Child
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1440892800}}
{{!}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

=Brazen=

''Son of Autumn's Misfortune Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen, Cry Baby)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite 
Sire: Jo's Mime 
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

=RP Logs=

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Weyrling
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}

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

Logs:Calling

2015-10-05T02:56:56Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth |what=Ahtzudaeth likes how Jocelyn looks. A Search happens - maybe? |where=Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Re..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth
|what=Ahtzudaeth likes how Jocelyn looks. A Search happens - maybe?
|where=Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=28
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.04
|quote="If it's a quick question ... ?"
|weather=Windy, rainy, sleety, and gross.
|mentions=Jounine,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon Ahtzudaeth.png,
|desc=>---< Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#250RJs) >-----------------------------<

The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only
sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of
daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond,
allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven
jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late
afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the
bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far
north.

Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward
to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by
more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground
here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in
spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most
frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the
Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching
sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.

Wind, rain, and snow combine to make for miserable, sleety weather today.
|log=The weather is approximately the precipitation equivalent of ten gallons of herdbeast manure shoved into a five gallon bucket. It's just a bad time for everyone involved, frankly. There is a slight lull in the onslaught of wind and rain and sleet, but it's a lull that isn't destined to last terribly long. Ahtzudaeth is hunkered in the bowl a dragonlength or two from the entrance of the living cavern, one wing partially spread to provide shelter to his rider. Inconveniently, Z'kiel is on the opposite side of the bronze, away from the living cavern, and he's busy pulling bags down from the beast's straps. He is not amused. Ahtzudaeth, for his part, ''seems'' amused, gauging from the whirl and hue of his eyes.

Wrapped into the thick bundle of layers and coats that make up traditional High Reaches winter garb, complete with one of those fur-lined hoods to provide some sort of headcover against the wintry assault, a figure is steadily making its way through the ongoing sleet from the other side of the bowl. Its hands are stuffed deep into pockets and head, bent as a slow but steady stride brings its owner toward the western end of the caldera. Apparently headed in the direction of the lower caverns, its progress slows as it gets within speaking distance of bronze and unamused rider, scarf wrapped tightly enough about its face to reveal little save for a pair of light eyes. "If that delivery's for the caverns, I can help carry it in." Jocelyn's alto is considerably muffled by the scarf about nose and mouth, never mind that the wind could carry her words easily away.

The wind might well waft those words away, but Ahtzudaeth is ''aware'' and he swings his great head around to study Jocelyn. His maw gapes in a grin and his other wing unfurls to offer some shelter to her as well. Z'kiel grunts something, but it's (un)fortunately muffled by his heavy jacket. He shoulders several of the bags and it takes a low warbling - no, a ''chortling'' - from his better half to get the man to look around. ''Hnnnh.'' "Sure. This one and this one," two other bags are hefted in a hand as he eventually steps around the bronze beast. "For the kitchen," he explains further.

Jocelyn shifts to duck under the offered cover of that unfurling wing, stepping forward to take the two additional bags once Z'kiel's brought them around. Gloved hands emerge from her pockets to heft the bags up to her own shoulder, hooded head dipping in an acknowledging nod. "Alright, " is her verbal agreement as she resumes her trek toward the entrance to the caverns, glancing back briefly at her draconic observer. "Tell him I said thank you for the momentary shelter, " are her first words once they reach the threshold where the sounds of the elements begin to break in favor of the indoors.

The bronzerider sucks his teeth and nods, waiting until Jocelyn has the bags securely shouldered before he starts after her. But, as they start toward the caverns, they're not alone. Ahtzudaeth lumbers after, his steps light - for a bronze, anyway - but his interest obvious and ''keen'' on something. Another ''chortle'' escapes him, his maw still gaped just that little bit. Jocelyn's words are noted with a grunt from Z'kiel, but his features tighten a little and he cuts a look back at the beast. "It was a pleasure," is probably a direct translation, said in a tone that's clearly reserved for such things. A beat. Then a deep furrowing of his brow precedes: "Says he wants to ask you something."

All for preceding fully indoors to get out of the weather, Jocelyn nevertheless pauses when the desire to make an inquiry is relayed. The set of her shoulders shifts, even if the movement is difficult to ascertain through all of those layers. "We should get these to their destination, " businesslike as ever. "If it's a quick question ... ?" Still, there's an almost uncertain slant to her gaze as she turns slightly to face the bronzerider more fully, insomuch as she can.

Looming behind the tall Igenite is the dark, sharp visage of Ahtzudaeth - and his eyes are terribly ''bright''. His maw gapes a little wider when Jocelyn looks back, but it doesn't take much for Z'kiel to step, just so, and block out the view. "It's quick," he grates out. "The bags are weather-proofed," in case that's the concern. But. Deadpan, he intones: "He wants to know if you're ready." The words come slowly. Carefully. "For the eggs. No," he stops, frowns, and tries again, "For the ones ''in'' the eggs. The ''hatching''?" That's half-asked over his shoulder at the bronze who is, for his part, trying to use a wing to shield them from the return of the wind and rain and nastiness. "I think that's what he's asking. If you're ready for the hatching."

Shoulders tensed in unease relax slightly; this question, she can handle. "We'll be ready, of course, " is Jocelyn's reply, short and quick. "It's mostly a matter of following a good routine the day ''they're'' ready, and managing the candidate class between now and then." A roll of one shoulder allows the bags to be brought down as she ducks just inside the entrance to rest them against a wall before pulling off her gloves and starting to unwrap that scarf. "Do these need to go into cold storage?"

"No," is emphatic. Vehement, even. It's dialed down a bit, but only to answer her question, "No. Dry goods. And-" Another glance back ends up with Z'kiel sucking his teeth and grimacing. "No," is in that strange, vehement tone. "Are ''you'' ready? He's-" There's a shake of his head, a dark glare angled over his still-burdened shoulder, and a ''loud'' chortling from the bronze. Almost a proper laugh. ''Almost.'' "He says you don't look ready. You're missing something. Here." He points at her shoulder, where a knot presumably already hangs.

Reaching down to take up the bags again, Jocelyn automatically straightens to glance down at the aforementioned shoulder, brow creasing as one hand quickly pushes back the hood of her outer coat so that she can better aim a narrow look at Z'kiel. "Well, assure him that I ''am'' wearing my knot today, even if it isn't visible under all of these layers. I won't abandon protocol the day of, if that's what's bothering him."

"No. That's not-" Oh, the frustration. The normally calm former hunter is getting flustered - but it's not at ''her''. "You should get a new knot from the Headwoman." Context leaves the phrase to hang oddly until he has something to hang it on. Z'kiel continues slowly, as if struggling to parse whatever's coming in, "If you want to Stand. Your face- he sees you ''differently''. He ''sees''..." ''Hnnnh.'' A shoulder rises. Falls. A helpless thing; words have failed him. And then he straightens, shoulders squared and hands resting on the straps of his bags. "He's ''calling'' - and he thinks they are, too. He ''says'' they are," but on ''that'' point, he sounds dubious. Ahtzudaeth ''chuffs'' - and, by Rukbat, if he doesn't sound ''smug''. That dubiousness fades in favor of a much firmer, much more solid: "Will you answer?"

"A new knot. From Jounine." Skepticism laces the assistant headwoman's tone up until the bronzerider continues. And then she goes still, regret and discomfort warring briefly over her face. "I answered that call as a child, " she says quickly, but her voice doesn't hold completely steady. "I didn't - " One hand lifts as if to reach in Ahtzudaeth's direction and promptly drops again with a tremble. "I'd have to discuss this with someone who wears a bigger knot if I'm to give it any consideration, " she says after a long moment, the tempo of her speech brisk once more. "I understand there will need to be as large an available number of options for the clutches as possible, but I don't want there to be a - conflict of interest." To go from managing the candidates to being among their number might prove more than just a little awkward.

"It's your life," Z'kiel replies evenly. He steps aside a little, just enough to allow the bronze to poke his head in a bit. "Your choice. The Weyr will not crumble if you say yes. Jounine will find more to help her." A beat. Then: "They will not take away your turnday." That's with a sidelong, and very confused, look to Ahtzudaeth. Maybe that's a translation that should have stayed internal. "There are twenty eight eggs out there." A dip of his chin, a grunt. "It's ''your'' choice whether to stand with them or not. You'll have to go to the Headwoman for the knot anyway. He doesn't think she'll protest. I don't, either."

"Some people wouldn't mind losing a birthing day, " and Jocelyn allows some dry humor to color her words, however briefly. She sobers again, lifting both bags back up to her shoulder. "You have my word that I'll think about it, " she says to what she can see of the bronze, before turning back to his rider with lifted eyebrows. "Dry goods, you said. I'll go ahead and take these two down."

There's a throaty sound, a near-grunt, from Z'kiel - and that's that, ultimately. Ahtzudaeth settles where he is, forepaws crossed just ''so'' while he watches and for as long as he can watch, at any rate. Despite the young woman's words, the beast still ''looks'' terribly amused at something or another. The once-Igenite lifts his chin, wordlessly motioning Jocelyn onward and he'll follow with his bags in tow.
|Categories=Search Logs
}}

Logs:Suggestions

2015-10-04T20:44:33Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=E'dre, Edric |what=E'dre and Edric meet. They talk business - sort of. |where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=5 |month=12 |turn=38 |IP=Inter..."

{{Log
|who=E'dre, Edric
|what=E'dre and Edric meet. They talk business - sort of.
|where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=5
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.04
|quote="Good day, ''Acting'' Weyrleader."
|weather=Boring.
|mentions=Hattie
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated!
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Well.jpg, Icon Edric wat.jpg,
|desc=>---< The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr(#533RJs$) >------------------------------<

Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and
frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly
in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque
glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements;
round-backed booths carved from stone, lined with deep, terra-cotta
colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a
subtle red shade. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of
smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into
the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.

All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the
massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the
ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all,
having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A
curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of
glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a
sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain
has become an elegant place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with
their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and
fancy desserts.
|log=It's roughly mid-day and the day after the temporary consultant's contract was set to expire. And, yet, the man lingers, in a sense. His presence in the lower caverns is still strong, as he's busy tying up some loose ends - free of charge, presumably. Some might well be whispering about his meeting with Hattie in this very place just the day before, but not when the man himself is around. Which, conveniently, is the case: he's not at the bar but, rather, seated in his usual booth, with a kettle of hot water, a tin of loose tea, and a mug of tea readily at hand. Another mug - left empty - is across from him. He's reviewing some file or another, with an occasional glance up at the entrance as people pass by, in, or out. Nothing to eat for him - not yet, anyway - just the lingering dregs of work to be done between sips of his drink.

It's nearing lunch time when a group of Hematite rider's head into the Fountain. They've stripped off most of their riding gear but the smudge of soot and dirt still mar features and the leathers they're wearing show they've come recently from drills. E'dre laughs as he listens to something one of the brownrider's tells him and shakes his head. He eyes Edric in passing and then thinks better of joining his group. "Order me a klah and something for lunch," he tells the brownrider with a clap to her shoulder before he turns and slides into the booth opposite Edric. "I hadn't thought I'd see you still here," the Acting Weyrleader opens with a cautious smile. "Are you waiting for a train to take you back?"

There's just the barest tilt of Edric's head, enough to send light skittering over his lenses - and then the man straightens. The smile that's offered is thin - but unfailingly polite - and paired with a slight dip of his chin. "Ah. Weyrleader. A pleasure." His paperwork is neatly stacked and set aside, though a glance will betray that it appears to be something or another to do with Fort Weyr and inventory. Red marks and question marks litter the document on top. "Would you care for some tea?" A beat is there to allow an answer before he, in turn, answers with a mild, "I told the Weyrwoman that I would have an answer for her offer by the end of this seven." Hands splay, palm up, over the table before they lace together and rest there. "One of your fine riders will be taking me back ''if'' that's the decision I've made. He will be well-compensated for his service, if that is an issue."

E'dre shakes his head over the offer for tea, tossing a glance over his shoulder and the group he's departed from. "I'll join them shortly for my food and drink," he tells the man as he swings his gaze back over to him. "She told me briefly about it," he answers, gaze drifting towards the stacks of records on the table. "I figured since you enjoyed dictating the use or non-use of marks, that you'd have agreed to stay on and run Dice."

"Mm." Edric slants a glance in that direction, then fixes his gaze on E'dre once more. "You mistake me for a man who enjoys seeing people throw good marks after bad." One corner of his mouth distorts with sardonic humor. "It turns my stomach to bear witness to people who are willing to throw their marks away for the chance at, possibly, making something back on their dubious investment." He shakes his head and takes a pull of his tea. "No. If I ''were'' in charge of that particular establishment, I would gut it and transform it into something I could stomach."

That perks the Acting's interest. "Oh?" he queries, lifting a brow, "and what would that be? Dice brings in a fair amount of marks both from ours here at Fort and visitors who come for that great opportunity of earning more for nothing more than a won game of chance." The brownrider has never been seen in Dice recently and likely, if asked, most would comment that they have never seen E'dre within the establishment.

"If it did half as well as you imply," Edric counters, "then the Weyr wouldn't currently be where it is, now would it." Observation, that. "Dice is a poor man's Bitra. And, from what I have seen of the place, it is..." There are no words for it, frankly; his expression briefly goes sour, judgment writ large for just a fleeting moment. "No. There are plenty of options that might do as well - if not better. An art gallery for Weyr artists to display and sell their wares; an auction house, a theater - of sorts," though he gestures a bit vaguely here; there's something at work, but he doesn't delve too deeply into it. "Regardless. It's all ''hypothetical'' at this point. It would take far more to do than the other project I proposed to the Weyrwoman."

E'dre shakes his head at each suggestion the other man makes. "Unless we want to start a crafter revolution within the Weyr, I see no profit to be had with things that one would normally find within the Halls." He leans back against the booth, stretching one arm up and out against the top of the seat. "What about the other project? All I am aware of is that she was kind enough to offer you an assistant position here." He seems at his ease with this casual interrogation of Edric though no smile ever makes its way forward during the course of this conversation.

"Ah, yes. Because Crafters who are still with their Craft ''are'' the only ones who can produce things of value." One of Edric's eyebrows lifts slightly, but it settles shortly after. The topic, then, is dismissed with a small, curt gesture, and his fingers lace again on the table. "I had suggested that Fort Weyr work with the Holds to assist in widening the roads - and with the Woodcraft, to both clear some of the forest to either side of the road and potentially sell the wood to them or any other craft that has need of raw wood. It would rely heavily on your riders, admittedly, but it would serve as a show of good faith to the Holds that Fort Weyr is willing to do what it takes to prevent another tithe-related debacle of ''that'' sort."

E'dre laughs at Edric's statement about crafters, "I made enough marks in my younger turns selling outside the Weavercraft to know it ''can'' be. I was simply making a statement that going to such lengths seemed unprofitable to ''me''." He puffs out a sigh and shakes his head at the mention of working further with the Holds. "Always this 'show of good faith' to the Holds. Or moving towards helping them. It seems to me, we more than ''earn'' what little tithes they send these days. I see no purpose in assisting them ''further''."

"Unless Thread starts falling again," Edric notes in deadpan, "it is an unfortunate reality that the Weyr will have to continue earning their tithes, as it were. Clearing the forest, even a mere ten or twenty feet in either direction, would give the Weyr plenty of resource leverage to trade with the Crafts - and a significant sum of marks to help the Weyr's finances recover." He settles back, head tipped just a touch up. "Even though I am not on the Weyr's payroll," as of a day ago, but it's technically true, "I do want to see it succeed - and thrive. I ''want'' to see the Weyr turn into a money-making venture that does not ''have'' to rely on the Holds for its survival."

There's a shrewd glance given to Edric with his statement of the obvious. "If we are to not survive off of the Holds in a traditional sense of getting what we are due for the services we already supply them, you're suggesting we pander ourselves to them as day laborers instead?" He shakes his head and hefts himself out of the booth. "You say a great deal about how this Weyr should run to the man who is currently running it," he comments, giving Edric a long look. "I find that more telling than anything else." He tips his head towards Edric, "I'll leave you to your lunch or whatever it is you were doing here."

An indulgent smile emerges, if slowly, and Edric muses, "I've said nothing about how it ''should'' run - nor how ''I'' would run it. I've offered suggestions and my hopes for the Weyr, nothing more." With E'dre rising, however, he deigns to remain seated - and simply sends the other man off with a nod and a not-so-subtly weighted, "Good day, ''Acting'' Weyrleader."

E'dre's eyes flash at Edric's tone though he does nothing more than turn and head towards his group. If the meal and company don't seem to hold his interest as much as the man at the table does, well - that is only to be expected.
}}

Edric

2015-10-04T20:28:56Z

Weylaughn:

=Home=
{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Edric.jpg
|friends=X'vin
|body=== Description ==

There is, at first glance, nothing special about this man. He's in his mid-thirties, tall, and with a build that borders on the average side of athletic. His face is oval-shaped, with strong features - nose, chin, and jawline alike are distinctive, but not obtrusive. His dark brown hair is kept neatly trimmed and well-styled. Glasses provide an interesting visual hook - distinctive in their design, while remaining highly functional. His eyes are a light blue edging toward gray - intense and inquisitive in contrast to his perpetual expression of seriousness.

His clothing is always fashionable; though his colors tend toward blues, blacks, and grays, he can be seen with some white accents here and there. His typical ensemble is a well-fitted coat or jacket, coupled with matching trousers and a white, button-down shirt. He is just as likely be spotted in a vest instead of the coat or jacket. His shoes are black or brown as the situation demands - and always, always well-polished. Gloves, a satchel, and a leather bracer on his left forearm complete his outfit; a knot indicating that he's from Black Cliff Hold appears to be an unfortunate afterthought.

{{wysk}}

=History=

His past is, ultimately, unimportant.

The future is what he strides toward.

At present, he's on a six month contract at Fort Weyr to assist Erinta in her duties as Headwoman. He is known to be the Steward of Black Cliff Hold and that he spends several days at the Weyr before returning to the Hold.

=Acquaintances, Associates, and Alliances=

'''Erinta'''. ''Capable.'' I do hope you know what you're in for. 
'''[[Hattie]]'''. ''Weyrwoman.'' I wonder just how much you ''trust'' your own people - and how much you ''really'' want to wear that knot. 
'''[[Rhiannon]]'''. ''Useful.'' I'll teach you - for a price. 
'''[[X'vin]]'''. ''Friend.'' Ah, it will be a ''pleasure'' to work with you again. 
'''[[Z'riah]]'''. ''Potential.'' Now. Let's see if you'll be ''useful''.

=Family=

None of note.

=Competence=
== More Than Purposeful Bronze Competence ==

As sizes go, this bronze firelizard has sacrificed bulk for sheer length. His tail is just a little longer than it ought to be, much like the rest of his limbs - including his wings. His features are sharp and curious, leading into a beast that's naturally aerodynamic. His hide is an even hue of bronze that's unbroken throughout; from nose to tailtips and all the way through his talons, he's the selfsame bland and boring shade of bronze. Still, his intelligent mien does plenty to suggest that his personality might be far more interesting than his hide.

=Callousness=
== All Glass And Spite Gold Callousness ==

This delicate firelizard is as small as golds can get, though she makes up for it in sheer personality. She's a frail waif of a thing, hewn of an ethereal gold so light that it scarcely seems to settle on the surface of her hide. Her wingsails are practically translucent, kissed only faintly with aureate brilliance. Proper gold settles subtly in the creases of joints and anywhere that shadows gather - but on such an angular and sharp creature, the shadows are hard to find. Her digits are dangerously long and cunning, while her talons are even more so - all meant for grabbing and tearing with complete disregard for safety or kindness.

=Soundtrack=

'''Flobots''' - ''Handlebars'' ([https://youtu.be/HLUX0y4EptA])

''I know how to run a business'' 
''And I can make you wanna buy a product'' 
''Movers shakers and producers'' 
''Me and my friends understand the future'' 
''I see the strings that control the system'' 
''I can do anything with no assistance 'cause'' 
''I can lead a nation with a microphone'' 
''My reach is global'' 
''My tower secure'' 
''My cause is noble'' 
''My power is pure'' 
''I can hand out a million vaccinations'' 
''Or let 'em all die in exasperation'' 
''Have 'em all healed from their lacerations'' 
''Or have 'em all killed by assassination'' 
''I can make anybody go to prison'' 
''Just because I don't like them'' 
''And I can do anything with no permission''

'''Apartment 26''' - ''Axel Off'' ([https://youtu.be/Wa7mQRkmuxY])

''With strong intent, I set the goal'' 
''Now spin the wheel; let the dice roll'' 
''I just try to be aware!'' 
''Arms stretching out to take it all'' 
''Now spin the wheel and answer the call'' 
''I just try to be aware'' 
''What kind of purpose do you have?'' 
''I never meant to make you mad'' 
''Oh, the stakes are increasing'' 
''You know it's just a business to me'' 
''You say you don't feel safe'' 
''So cover up your head'' 
''Quit looking over there'' 
''Where do you want to go?'' 
''Feel free to take a seat'' 
''Just try to be aware!'' 

''That I am the devil dressed up like you to lure you into a false sense of security'' 
''Oh, wait'' 

'''Akira Yamaoka/Oscar Wilkenson''' - ''Rain of Brass Petals (Three Voices Edit)'' ([https://youtu.be/r2jOLRj6ztI])

''I am the first,'' 
''a shadow at the end'' 
''of the hallway.'' 
''I spin the carousel,'' 
''the laughter recedes away.'' 
''My finger on your lips.'' 
''I stole something precious.'' 

''I am the third.'' 
''A master,'' 
''a sentinel of awakeness.'' 
''I hold truth like a torch,'' 
''shadows flicker before me.'' 
''Rapid eye follow the'' 
''chain of thought'' 
''until the silence ends.'' 

'''Kanye''' - ''Power'' ([https://youtu.be/KdlYMR_b8TY])

''No one man should have all that power'' 
''The clock's tickin', I just count the hours'' 
''Stop trippin', I'm trippin' off the power'' 
''Til then, fuck that, the world's ours'' 

'''Kevin Gates''' - ''I Don't Get Tired'' ([https://youtu.be/KmwfIKx9n7U])

''Only meaning one thing, don't get tired, I go hard'' 
''Don't play with the hustle, you eat or you starve'' 
''Don't mimic pretenders, just be who you are'' 
''Get it, get fly, I got six jobs, I don't get tired'' 

'''Lorde''' - ''Everybody Wants To Rule The World'' ([https://youtu.be/WwGNPtBX7Nk])

''Welcome to your life'' 
''There's no turning back'' 
''Even while we sleep'' 
''We will find you'' 
''There's a room where the light won't find you'' 
''Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down'' 
''When they do I'll be right behind you'' 
''So glad we've almost made it'' 
''So sad they had to fade it'' 
''Everybody wants to rule the world''

=RP Logs=

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

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

{{Icons}}
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{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Fort Area, Fort Weyr
}}

Parli

2015-10-02T00:00:35Z

Weylaughn:

=Home=
{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Parli.jpg
|mother=Paressa (+20)
|father=Vierly (+23)
|siblings=Rissavely (-3)
|body=== Description ==
Average in height and with a lean, but slender, build, this young woman is either in her late teens or late twenties. Her age is perhaps frustratingly ambiguous; her features are still youthful, from large, almond-shaped brown eyes to expressive brows, to a smallish mouth that seems inclined less toward smiling and more toward wry lines. Her face is oval, her nose a blade that's upturned at the end, and everything just seems to fit in a way that would be pretty if she didn't look permanently bored. Her dark brown hair is just past shoulder-length and is generally clipped back from her face. Her skin is tanned, smooth, and unmarred.

Her clothing tends toward dark and functional. When she's not in her riding leathers - well-fitted and black, of course - then she's readily found in various combinations of knee-length dresses, leggings, short skirts, sweaters, and blouses. Boots and flats are the full sum of her shoe collection, tending more toward boots than not in most cases. Her knot is that of a Fortian brownrider, hung at a shoulder or on her hip as appropriate.

{{wysk}}

=Swaronth=
{{DragonTab}}

=History=

Viparlyessa was the first born of Holders Vierly and Paressa of some tiny, ridiculously named Hold, followed a few turns later by her sister, Rissavely. Both of them were raised by parents desperate for them to be perfect Ladies - as would be fitting to those who were tangentially connected to Fort's Blood. Her parents tried hard. They meant well. But, in the end, Viparlyessa came out relatively unscathed. She was anything but the Lady they wanted her to eventually become. She was introverted, easily bored, and distinctly indifferent to anything and everything in the Hold.

Her parents, in a desperate maneuver, finally arranged a marriage for her. She went along with it right up until the end.

She ran away from the first wedding to a Holder that she didn't care about enough to remember if he had a name.

Though her parents were embarrassed, they chalked it up to youthful rebelliousness.

She ran away from the second, this time to another lad from a different Hold whose name she just can't be bothered to remember.

When she ran away from the third (who would eventually wed her sister), it was with a bluerider who promised her nothing but a different life - and she took it. Telgar Weyr became her home, if by accident: no sooner than she'd arrived than the bluerider Searched her and she accepted with utter indifference.

The bluerider made good on his promise.

Swaronth took care of the rest.

She had scarcely turned sixteen... and Impressed him on the 1st day of the 12th month of turn 26 - the second brown out of Iskiveth's and Yesdrieth's clutch. He dubbed her Parli - and it stuck.

They've been together ever since.

Although Telgar proved to be a perfect home for them for nearly twelve turns, it would seem that she's either been struck with wanderlust or Telgar's grown tired of her perceived laziness; in either case, when Telgar needed a rider with a certain set of skills, they proposed a trade with Fort Weyr. The trade went through - and Fort is now in possession of a new brownrider.

=Family=
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Vierly
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=902419200}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Paressa
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=935078400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Rissavely
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1177833600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother-in-Law
{{!}}What's-his-face-Kurrgen-or-Kurghen-or-something
{{!}}Holder
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1116864000}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

=Acquaintances=

... sure, she has those. Somewhere.

=RP Logs=

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

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{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Telgar Weyr, Brownriders, Flint Wing
}}

Z'kiel

2015-10-01T23:55:33Z

Weylaughn:

=home=
{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

=Ahtzudaeth=

{{DragonTab}}

=History=
His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

=Relationships=

== High Reaches Weyr ==
Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade.
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me.

== Igen Weyr ==

Kasdeja - The rest of the blood might have dried up - but you remain. Thank you.

=Family=
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}Zierad
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=951696000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Iekila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=983606400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Kadeila
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1244995200}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Zakaid
{{!}}Hunter
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1256832000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Ieliare
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Erailei
{{!}}Weyrfolk
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1266825600}}
{{!}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Niece
{{!}}Eilamina
{{!}}Child
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1440892800}}
{{!}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

=Brazen=

''Son of Autumn's Misfortune Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen, Cry Baby)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite 
Sire: Jo's Mime 
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

=RP Logs=

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Weyrling
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}

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

Ulyana

2015-10-01T23:38:58Z

Weylaughn:

=Home=
{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Lea T Ulyana.jpg
|mother=Helma (dec.)
|father=Brownrider @ HRW
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ here]
|body=== Description ==

She appears younger than her 17 turns of age, which does not particularly help her at all. Her features are sharp and not wholly attractive as they are; highly arched eyebrows, wide eyes, and distinctive cheek bones just don't fit quite right on her narrow face.

Her hair is long and black, done in a pair of plaits that hang down her back. Her eyes are a pale gray and are coupled with thin, bloodless lips. Her nose is a perilous blade of a thing that practically cuts her face in half for its severity. Her skin is milk pale and unblemished, while her hands are smooth and suggest plenty about her upbringing.

She's the epitome of waiflike androgyny, with only her clothing to say otherwise. Dresses, blouses and skirts are her preferred garments. In all their forms, her clothes and shoes are of a nondescript color and without much decoration. Belts are worn when necessary, as are jackets and cloaks, but her plain, utilitarian clothing is of little note. A bluerider's knot - blue, High Reaches Weyr - hangs at her shoulder.

{{wysk}}

=Qhyluth=
{{DragonTab}}

=History=

There's naught to say of Ulyana, really. She was just another wee girl at Crom Hold, a bit unnerving and quiet but otherwise dutiful. She doesn't know her parents and was always told she was an orphan with no siblings. She was sickly in her youth and was unable to pick up any real set of skills. She's adept at reading and writing, however, and was able to be something of a scribe when she was old enough and healthy enough to do so. She was particularly skilled at handling ledgers and manifests - so, she often assisted in taking inventory and the like. She was ultimately searched not long after her 15th turnday to stand at Fort Weyr. Her acceptance was initially grudging, but she grew to enjoy spending time with her fellow candidates.

When the revelation came that there would be no clutch, she was left in a conflicted state. She misses her home Hold desperately - but she's equally tied up in the youthful fantasy of becoming a dragonrider someday. She is frustrated and confused by the situation as well; she suffers from the lingering effects of culture shock, confusion over how this sort of thing can even happen, and a great deal of frustration with the decision that she'll have to make as a result.

Resentment is there - but she has no name for it, nor any idea what to do with it.

She has only recently learned of her dubious parentage and has yet to decide what to do with that knowledge.

She has discovered an unusual side to herself - one that Qhyluth likely unlocked. She is something of an artist - and not just for the things that reside in her blue's head.

27.13.35.I10 - Ulyana was struck ill with what was presumed to be tainted flour from Gar Hold. She spent almost two weeks in the infirmary before being released - and her recovery is slow.

25.02.36.I10 - Ulyana Impresses The Beast Beneath Blue Qhyluth.

21.02.37.I10 - Ulyana transfers to High Reaches Weyr and joins the Frostbite wing.

=Relationships=

== High Reaches Weyr ==
Qhyluth - Why? 
[[A'rist]] - You fascinate me. 
[[K'del]] - Thank you. 

== Fort Weyr==
[[D'shal]] - You asked and answered. That was more than I could hope from the others. 
[[Elise]] - I trusted you. 
[[Katriona]] - You were persistent. You questioned. These are good things. 
[[Lilah]] - You did not care for my questions. I did not appreciate your silence. He will mourn your passing. I will not. 
[[N'muir]] - You were contradictory and I still do not know if I can trust you.

=RP Logs=

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|playedby=Lea T
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Fort Weyr, High Reaches Area, Crom, Crom Hold, High Reaches Weyr, Riders, Blueriders
}}

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

Z'kiel

2015-10-01T23:32:55Z

Weylaughn:

=home=
{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

=Ahtzudaeth=

{{DragonTab}}

=History=
His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

=Relationships=

Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade.
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me.

=Brazen=

''Son of Autumn's Misfortune Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen, Cry Baby)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite 
Sire: Jo's Mime 
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

=RP Logs=

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Weyrling
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}

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

Logs:Exchange

2015-10-01T23:26:29Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Aiden, Z'kiel, |what=Z'kiel encounters Aiden in the galleries. Food is exchanged. |where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=13..."

{{Log
|who=Aiden, Z'kiel,
|what=Z'kiel encounters Aiden in the galleries. Food is exchanged.
|where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=13
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.29
|quote="Is it really as dangerous out there as I've heard it is?"
|weather=Gray.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg,
|desc=>---< Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr(#290RJs) >-----------------------<

Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of
carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground
-- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers,
and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from
falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into
the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off
some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even
feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.

The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire
cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the
expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is
easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a
broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels
that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks,
however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
|log=It's a little later in the afternoon and the day itself is gray and cool and a bit on muggy side - but at least no snow has fallen. The galleries are a popular place on days like this - and not just for the healthy clutch of eggs on display. Z'kiel, for his part, has found a spot somewhat near the eggs to settle in, a baby bronze firelizard tucked up in the crook of his arm. A cloth-wrapped parcel of something that might have either been lunch or possibly early dinner rests on the seat next to him. He's looking out over the eggs, forehead pinched, but with an otherwise unreadable expression for the time being.

Aiden walks into the galleries and at first goes right to the railing to look at the sands and the eggs currently on it. Once a good look is given he turns back to the seats. The closest one is near Z'kiel, so Aiden walks over and addresses the rider. "Hello sir, is someone sitting here?" He indicates the space next to him. He himself has a bundle tied up that smells faintly of fresh bread.

There's a slight narrowing of Z'kiel's eyes at that 'sir', but the grunt that follows is ambivalent at best. A sidelong look is spared to the approaching one, a look that turns cool and reptilian and clinical - at least until he looks away and back at the eggs again. He pulls his parcel a little closer to himself and motions at Aiden with a slight jerk of his chin. "No," is grated out in his distinctive, Igenite accent. "Sit." A beat. "It's a good spot." He remains more or less rigidly upright, his posture painfully pristine for the sake of the beast that's clearly napping on his bent arm.

Aiden hesitates a moment before taking the seat and nods as he looks back at the eggs. "It is a good spot," he agrees. "I haven't had a chance to come see them, and they're the first I've seen personally. I've never been to a hatching myself." He puts the bundle on his lap and unwraps it, revealing twists of bread with yellow streaks from the cheese that had been baked into it. He looks at Z'kiel and offers, "Would you like one?"

''Hnnnh.'' It's a sound without weight, and yet. Z'kiel sucks his teeth and lifts his chin a bit at the eggs laid out. "Holder," is less a question and more an observation of the youth. On the heels of it: "More than were expected," says he of the spread. "Roszadyth might lay more." A glance is angled back to Aiden. "Get to see two clutches and two hatchings, if you're here for them. It's... something. Never watched one. It'll be strange to be up here for a change." The offering of the cheese bread is noted with a slight pinch to his features but, ultimately, he extends a hand to accept - and offer, in kind: "Some jerky in that cloth. Peppered. From Igen."

Aiden smiles at the return offer. "Thanks. Yes, I'm from Balen Hold. My name is Aiden. It's nice to meet you." He looks back at the eggs again. "Two hatchings in a short space, I guess that usually doesn't happen. I bet nobody guessed there would be that many eggs either. Is the number of eggs a problem, do you think? Considering that the Beastcraft isn't allowing anybody to be searched? Not that that's the only place to get candidates from, but if others followed suit..." He trails off and takes a bite out of one of the other pieces of bread. "I met a Beastcraft apprentice the other day who said that anybody who breaks that rule has to pay the Craft back for their room and board."

There's a slight nod of acknowledgement, confirmation, and agreement before he replies, "Z'kiel. Bronze Ahtzudaeth's. And Zen, here." There's a faint snort from him as "No one from Tillek," is added tangentially to the list. "But. I'm sure a lot of bets were lost on those. More might be lost on Roszadyth." A shoulder rises. Falls. "Not a betting man, so it doesn't matter. More worried about making sure they find theirs." A look askance is followed with a bland, "Doubt the other crafts will be that extreme. Seems like it'd hurt them in the long run. Be hard to recruit when that's the punishment for answering the call of dragons."

Aiden smiles at the napping bronze firelizard when it's named and adds to the rider, "Well met Z'kiel." Another bite gone from his bread. "Oh, I hadn't heard that about Tillek. I don't bet either. Not that I have a lot to bet *with*, but my father trained me to originally be a steward and I helped with some of the record keeping. I learned to value my money. I also don't know enough about hatchings and eggs to make a good choice anyway." He nods with an ahh. "I hadn't thought about that, it hurting a craft. But you're right, I can see that happening. I'm glad it looks like the others won't follow suit, because it looks like the Weyr is going to need more candidates than they thought."

A click of tongue on teeth precedes, "Good." It's a heavily uttered word, Z'kiel's reply to most everything encapsulated in that sound. The accepted roll is placed within the jerky parcel for now, while he lapses into silence for a little while. Just long enough to leave a buffer between Aiden's last words and his next. "Plenty within the Weyr that can stand. Other Crafts. Other Holds." He issues a lopsided shrug. "More worried about getting the ''right'' ones." There's an odd hazing of his eyes as that, the kind that suggests the dragon-rider bond being pulled into play. Then he shakes his head to clear it, snorts, and studies the eggs once again.

Aiden nods "That's true. But it's supposed to work out in the end, isn't it? Somehow the dragon knows which one is the right one?" He leans closer. "Is it really as dangerous out there as I've heard it is? My mother is an assistant headwoman at the Hold, and another assistant kept telling stories about it. She was upset because her son was searched and she was worried about what 'horrible' things were going to happen to him. Although in his case he didn't impress but stayed at the Weyr." He smiles. "That started another series of horror stories which becamse more fantastical as they went along."

"Usually." Z'kiel faces the eggs, but he's not looking at them - not now. "But. They can only pick from what they're given. Choice of a lifetime and minutes to make it in. So. More candidates is good. Makes it easier." There's a slight shake of his head for the concerns, though, and he adds, "Not too bad. Touchings help. Get you familiar with the eggs, the dam, the sire. Not sure how it'll go with that many." His mouth pulls to a side. "Sometimes people get hurt or killed. Usually only if they aren't careful. Same as hunting." There's a throaty grunt for the rest; another grim shake of his head. "Weyrlife isn't so different. Dragons are here, sure. And there are flights. Nudity. But it's not a horrible life."

Aiden nods with a smile. "I haven't been here long, but I can see that too. It's different, but not completely. But don't worry I didn't have too many preconceptions. I figured some of her stories were a mother's panic. I have to admit I hadn't really thought much about life at a Weyr until it was decided my training was going to be at one. I'd only told the Bakers that I wanted to start my apprenticeship away from home, and they chose the place. So far so good."

"Silly thing to worry about," Z'kiel replies. "But, mothers worry." He's silent again while he listens, with Aiden caught in his peripheral vision while he speaks. "Weyrbred. So. It's easier. Nothing to adjust to, except ''him''." Eventually: "Didn't care for the Hold." Mostly observation, that. "Why?" It's not even a 'why here' type of question - that's answered, technically - but just that 'why'. The firelizard wakes up with a startled 'snrk' and looks around, wild-eyed, until he settles into slumber again.

Aiden wraps up the remaining bread in it's bundle and leaves it on his lap. "My father is Steward of Balen Hold, and expected me to take his place someday. I have worked for him a few turns, I guess as an unofficial assistant steward. I did learn a lot of useful things, but I wasn't as interested in being a Steward as he was interested in me being one. So it was a little awkward when he found out I was learning to cook on my own with the intention of becoming a crafter." He shrugs. "He stopped talking to me, and I took that time to finally join."

''Hnnnh.'' again. Z'kiel reaches to collect his parcel of jerky and lone roll, while shifting to let him drop the slumbering firelizard into a safe pocket. "Some fathers are like that," is neutral, but contrasted by the slight darkening of his expression. "Hope the Weyr treats you better." And then he's up and on his feet, belongings gathered, and his feline-quiet stride threatening to take him out of earshot soon.

Aiden smiles and nods "Thanks, and it is so far. I'm also hoping that he changes his mind. Or at least we can agree to disagree about my future." He looks up at Z'kiel hwen he stands. "It was nice meeting you," he says to the departing rider.
}}

Z'kiel

2015-09-27T19:27:58Z

Weylaughn:

{{Profile
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

== History ==

His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

== Relationships ==

Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade.
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me.

== Son of Autumn's Misfortune Bronze Firelizard ==

''Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite 
Sire: Jo's Mime 
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Weyrling
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

Logs:Investments

2015-09-27T19:07:06Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edric, Rhiannon |what=Rhiannon and Edric formally meet - and discussions of the future are had. |where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=7 |mon..."

{{Log
|who=Edric, Rhiannon
|what=Rhiannon and Edric formally meet - and discussions of the future are had.
|where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=7
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.27
|quote="Though can they say they don't trust you, if your recommendations work? Once they see the good results?"
|weather=Foggy.
|mentions=E'dre, Erinta, Hattie, X'vin, Z'riah
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edric plotting.jpeg
|desc=Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and
frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly
in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque
glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements;
round-backed booths carved from stone, lined with deep, terra-cotta
colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a
subtle red shade. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of
smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into
the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.

All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the
massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the
ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all,
having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A
curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of
glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a
sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain
has become an elegant place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with
their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and
fancy desserts.
|log=Three days past the set expiration of Edric's contract finds the former consultant in his usual haunt. As usual, the spectacled Steward has paperwork in front of him, all written in the curiously cramped short-hand of his. A mug of tea and a kettle of hot water are readily at hand, though no food has yet to manifest on his table. He's occupied - and deeply so, given the pinching of his brow and the flattening of his mouth into a bloodless line. Periodically, he makes further notes on this bit of paper or that, though such notes are terse at best. He is alone at his chosen booth - where he faces the entrance - though an empty mug rests opposite him as if he might be expecting company at some point.

Rhiannon comes in and stops when she sees the chandelier, then moves closer to give it a better inspection. She seems pleased with what she sees, and lingers there for a few moments before going over to the bar to order something. As she waits she turns to look at the room's inhabitants. She's been here long enough that there's a few people she nods or waves to if their eyes meet. When her order is done - a mug of klah - she turns around to take it, and walks over to Edric's booth. "Sorry to bother you. We haven't been formerly introduced but I've seen you around. My name is Rhiannon, and I'm one of the assistant headwomen." She has not presumed to sit down, and is still standing next to the booth.

Arrivals are noted as they always are, with a flicked look that doesn't detract from his otherwise neutral visage. It's only when Rhiannon approaches that the Steward straightens and gestures at the seat opposite him - and, in that gesture, moves the empty mug aside to make room. "Do not apologize," Edric responds - polite but cool, well-matched to the thin smile he offers. "I'm Edric, the Steward at Black Cliff Hold." The papers are not covered, nor is there much need - if she is the nosy sort, she'll find they're historical records of wood prices and a myriad of similar details. "Sit. Please. It is unfortunate that we are meeting under these circumstances," he continues, with a slight dip of his chin. "But. Erinta has spoken highly of you."

Rhiannon sits down with a smile. She puts the mug of klah in front of her but doesn't drink yet. "She has? I'm glad of that. I've been learning a lot since I came here. I'm more used to bookkeeping for the traders but going from a group of traveling traders to staying on one place, being an assistant headwoman does let me meet a lot of people." She finally does take a sip of her klah. "I've been meaning to ask you. Sometimes when traveling I hear about Holds not treating the Weyrs well. I don't know if the bandits attacking the last tithe is a sign that they don't respect the Weyr or just a sign that they wanted to steal - but is there any goods or services that are new and desirable that could be developed that only the Weyr could do? During a pass it was fighting thread, but it seems now luxeries might be a way to go." She grins and shrugs. "I guess it's the trader in me trying to think of what the customer wants."

The paperwork is stacked and set aside on the booth next to him, allowing Edric to prop his elbows on the table and lace his fingers just at his lower lip. He listens - but the light sits just so on his lenses, making it difficult to discern just where his eyes are. "There is a considerable amount ''to'' learn," he muses. "A pity we could not have met earlier. I would have been happy to teach you what I know." There's a slight pursing of his lips in thought and a barely perceptible shake of his head. "The Holds tend to forget the role that Weyrs play. When they are no longer in danger of dying from Thread, they tend to... grow lax in their duties. I suppose the bandits, or whoever they truly are, were just acting out of opportunistic greed. It wouldn't have mattered ''what'' was on that train; they were going to take it, regardless." He draws a breath, holds it, and releases it slowly. "I had proposed to the Weyrwoman that we send riders out to widen roads and fell trees - and sell those trees to the Woodcraft, but she does not seem amenable to doing so. She has had more interest in being paranoid than in ensuring the well-being of the Weyr and its people." He gestures dismissively. "There should be enough riders who remain strong in their craft to pull from- but. I would consider the Weyr being better at transport than creation, frankly. The issues with the tithe trains could be eliminated if riders carried all such goods - for a nominal fee to the Holds, of course."

Rhiannon nods at what Edric is saying. "It seems like it may be a good deal for the Holds if they thought about it. They wouldn't have to pay people to travel with the tithe, or keep as many animals to pull it, chance losing people and goods to bandits, and their responsibility would end at the Hold rather than having to deliver it to us. But I was thinking less crafts than natural goods that only dragons could reach, since if they don't respect the Weyr enough, they won't necessarily agree that Weyr made goods had extra value. I'm not a herbalist, but one example would be if there was a valued spice that only dragons could get to, or like you mentioned the woodcraft, a valued type of wood only reachable by dragon. Or a beautiful vacation spot that needed a dragon to get to, but was worth it to see it. I don't know if those things exist, but it would be nice if they did." She pauses to sip her klah. "How long are you staying with us? If you need help with something while you're here, I don't mind working extra time if I'm learning new skills while I do it." It's a good trade off."

"It would be," Edric agrees and straightens a little, though his hands remain where they are. "The animals are another matter, but-" a shoulder rises, just slightly, in a shrug "-it's nothing that a rider escort can't oversee." It's the rest that elicits a far more perceptible nod and a thin smile, as polite as before, of course, but just deep enough to all but touch the corners of his eyes. Fleeting, that. "That was my initial thought with the wood- however. I am fairly certain that the Weyrleader could be convinced to send a wing or two out on scouting missions to seek such things out. In a world as large as ours," he points out, "how could something like that ''not'' exist?" Rhetorical, that. He takes a pull of his tea at long last and tips his head back at her last question. "Unfortunately," is, at least, uttered in a neutral tone, "my contract expired three days ago. I have four days in which to decide whether the Weyrwoman's offer," caught in audible air quotes, that, "to either manage the Dice or become an assistant Headwoman is suitable." A beat. "But. I will be visiting from time to time. I could teach you then, but it would come with a cost."

Rhiannon hmms. "Well, it makes sense that it would cost if you were visiting, and I wasn't helping you out with your work in exchange." She smiles. "Nothing comes free." She pauses to think. "So you have to decide whether to remain with your Hold, go from running a Hold to running a small part of the Weyr, or be an assistant to someone else you were more equal to before. That can't be an easy choice. Would you at least not be called assistant headwoman?" She smiles again. "Unless you like gambling, in which case you might be suited to the Dice. I haven't explored there yet. I'm more frugal with my funds."

"Oh, no. She made it ''quite'' clear that I would have less access to things than I had previously," Edric replies, though he - to his credit - keeps things mild and wryly amused rather than bitter. "I would be considered an assistant Headwoman - though I suppose it might be Head''man'' instead, unless she felt especially spiteful." A roll of his eyes follows, but it carries no malicious weight; just a sense of mild exasperation. "And I applaud your frugality. I am very much the same way. I am not entirely against risky ventures - but there are some risks that I am just not willing to make. Running a gambling den would be- mm. Distasteful, at best." His hands drop, just at the moment a server arrives with a plate of mixed pastries - some sweet, some savory - and a couple of smaller plates to divide them amongst. "I suspect she simply does not trust me enough and is fully intent on running me off from the Weyr that she successfully ran into the ground, financially." Matter-of-fact, that. "Regardless," he gestures and loops things around, "we can discuss my rate at another time, once this business is settled."

Rhiannon frowns a little. "So if you took the assistant position, if you think that you don't have a great relationship with the Weyrwoman, it's unlikely you'll get promoted if there's an opening. Because sometimes taking a lower position if it has room to grow might be better in the long run. I don't envy you the choices." She stops with the mug almost to her lips. "All those measures that you've helped to implement, will they get us out of our problems or are they only going to ease things, or slow the progression? This is my new home, and I don't want to see it in trouble."

"She asked if I was going to "metaphorically burn the Weyr down" when I left," is remarked with a measure of incredulity. Edric snorts and starts selecting pastries, with a motion to her to indulge in the same. "The budget recommendations," he replies after a beat, "should see the Weyr reaching financial solvecy in-" some quick mental math is made "-approximately four to six months from now. They were initially harsher to accelerate the process, but the Weyrleaders declined to trust in their people's resiliency to endure discomfort for a few months. Provided they maintain the budget as it is, all should be well in short order." One corner of his mouth distorts, pulling into a line that's darkly amused. "I doubt it ''will'' stand once I'm gone."

Rhiannon smiles at the first part. "I'm glad that we'll be back on track. And if Erinta has worked well with you, you might be wrong and she may keep doing the good business practices you have helped implement. Or at least I hope so, since going through hardship for nothing would be absolutely pointless." She shrugs with a smile. "Maybe an exploration of the world will help find *something* to help, though there's no point in leaving all the hope there." She takes one of the pastries with a "Thank you," before adding, "What is your Hold like? Do you prefer it to the Weyr or do you only want to stay because you don't want all your work to be in vain?"

He doesn't eat - not yet - but Edric is taking his time to meticulously organize the pastries on his plate. "I will hope that she is canny enough to keep things on an even keel," he replies. "She is quite ''capable'' as Headwomen go." Another sip of tea follows - after a quick wipe of fingers on a napkin. "It would be worth your while to recommend that exploration to the Weyrleader," he notes. "The riders are his realm - and if he's on board with the idea, then it shouldn't take much to get the rest to follow." One of the rolls is split apart and spread with butter from a tiny dish on the larger plate. A deep breath is drawn and released, while his lips purse in thought. "It is home. I've been the Steward at Black Cliff Hold for about a decade now - and, unless there is something compelling to keep me anywhere else, that's what I imagine I'll be doing until the end of my days. The Hold is prosperous and strong; the people are good people. The Weyr is different and I have my reasons to want to stay- but I have to weigh the desire to stay against the cost of working with those who do not trust me to do the job."

Rhiannon nods. "Though can they say they don't trust you, if your recommendations work? Once they see the good results?" She smiles as Edric talks about his Hold. "That's one of the reasons I decided to leave the traders and settle somewhere. I didn't have one place that I called home. In a way that was a good thing, because home was where my family was so it was more about the people than the place. But sometimes it's nice to be invested in a place as well. As for the suggestion to the Weyrleader, do you think it's my place or should I go through the Headwoman? She might feel that I have overstepped."

There's another shake of his head and Edric finally takes a bite of something. Chew. Swallow. Sip of tea. Then: "I'm sure she will, regardless of how things go. She'll suspect that I've left something horrible in my wake that will go off long after I'm gone." Snort. The topic is dismissed after that, while he settles into listening and eating his light breakfast. "Mm. Yes. Fort Weyr, despite its faults, is a fine place to be invested in. You should do well here, if you can keep your eyes open and be aware." As for the last, there's a thoughtful pause and furrowing of his brow before: "For you, that might be wise. Speak with Erinta first. I would recommend writing the proposal up, in case she would prefer to speak with the Weyrleader directly. That way your words are not distorted accidentally - and to ensure that credit is given as it is due, should the venture be successful."

Rhiannon shrugs with a smile. "I don't care *too* much about credit if it works, though it doesn't hurt to have a good reputation when it comes to receiving duty assignments. I figure I won't have a lot of upward movement for a long time since I'm the newest of several assistants. And if you took the position you should rightly be above me in seniority due to your experience. But in spite of what some think, it would probably be good for the Weyr to have someone with such experience with the financials."

"It's important," Edric emphasizes. "If only to prove to Erinta and the Weyrleadership that you are ''precisely'' what this Weyr needs." A beat. "Which is someone who can think of ways to make this into more than ''just'' a home for dragons and into a significant, money-making venture." He spreads his hands, palm up, over the table. "All the more reason that I should train you. They don't have anyone else who can handle the heavier accounting duties." Back to the tea, then, but only to finish off the last dregs of it. "Perhaps you might be able to talk sense into the Weyrwoman where I have not," might be a joke of some sort, but it's hard to tell. "Regardless. If you ever need to speak with me and I'm not ''here'', seek out either X'vin or Z'riah. They'll know how to reach me."

Rhiannon smiles and nods. "Thank you, you're right. It's a small chance of success, but if I don't bring it up, then it'll definitely fail. And that's what I was actually thinking - that the Weyr needed to to to find ways to make money since they can't rely on Thread to give people a reason to think they need us. Not that they don't need the Weyr, because Thread will fall again eventually." She shakes her head with a frown. "If I ever have children, I'd want to make sure they had a better life than I, and they should do the same for their children. It's short sighted to think the bad we do now won't effect the generations to come." She smiles at Edric. "Thank you, I will talk to them if I need to, and once you figure out what path you're going on, we'll talk again about that training. I'm looking forward to improving."

"Mm. Good. Let me know how it turns out; I might be able to assist in some small measure." Perhaps. Edric finishes up his breakfast and gathers his paperwork in an arm, leaving the rest of the pastry plate in her care. "You have admirable goals, Rhiannon," and there is ''weight'' given to that name; ''purpose'' of some sort. "You have intelligence and a good heart. Do not squander any of those things; invest wisely." He slides out of the booth and rises with a dip of his head in her direction. "We'll be in touch. For now, I have work to do. Be well." He isn't the sort to linger or look back when he departs - and he does not do so now, leaving Rhiannon to her own devices.

Rhiannon smiles. "I will, thank you. I'll use the advice you've given me and hope to have a chance to get more in the future." She watches Edric go, and sits quietly sipping the rest of her klah as she thinks.
}}

Logs talk:Naming

2015-09-24T23:26:14Z

Weylaughn: Comment provided by Z'kiel - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Naming]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (16:06, 24 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

<3 <3 <3 <3 This, is awesome. So much Ahtz love. So much.
==Jo (16:21, 24 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Do I have to steal Ahtzudaeth too?? ((sighs)) Adorable. Mime will likely come visit Zen!
==Z'kiel (16:26, 24 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Nuuu, don't take my wizard dragon. D: (but visits are always welcome!)

Z'kiel

2015-09-24T23:12:19Z

Weylaughn:

{{Profile
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

== History ==

His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

== Relationships ==

Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade.
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me.

== Firelizard ==

''Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite 
Sire: Jo's Mime 
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Weyrling
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

Z'kiel

2015-09-24T23:11:37Z

Weylaughn:

{{Profile
|picture=Ethan rains zadkiel.jpg
|mother=Iekila (+22)
|father=Zierad (+25)
|siblings=Kadeila (-3), Zakaid (-4), Ieliare (-5) and Erailei (-5)
|livejournal=[http://brittlehearts.livejournal.com/ Here]
|body=== Description ==

A wayward son of the desert is this one. He's tall and sleek, with bronzed skin through a combination of good genetics and plenty of time outdoors. His features are just shy of being severe; strong and masculine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His lips are full and quick to smile, a suiting match to almond-shaped green eyes that seem to perpetually glitter with amusement. Perhaps he's in his twenties. Perhaps he's older. It's hard to tell, gauging by those eyes alone. His head is meticulously kept shaved, his baldness a self-imposed state. The rest of him is hewn of hard lines and sharp angles. Though his movements are fluid - obscenely graceful, in truth - his form is anything but. The observant will note that his long-fingered hands are both quick and callused, meant to work - and worked hard over the turns. His forearms - up to the elbows - are covered in burn scars that appear relatively recent.

His clothing is roughly appropriate for the warmer weather at the 'Reaches - typically a combination of wherhide pants with a matching, and elaborately painted, vest. In cooler weather, a hooded cloak is worn. A brightly colored sash - and matching kerchief - are also worn. In all cases, boots are worn only when sandals simply aren't appropriate. He's rarely seen without the tools of his trade - a bow and quiver full of arrows - and rarer still seen without a knife somewhere on his person. The knot of a 'Reachian weyrling - threaded with bronze - claims his shoulder.

{{wysk}}

== History ==

His line starts - and, presumably, will end - at Igen Weyr. His mother was a cook; his father a hunter. His grandfather was also a hunter. And so on down the line. It's unclear how many generations of his family have been at Igen Weyr, but it may well have been from the very beginning.

He started his life as a hunter early on and proved to have a knack for hunting from runnerbeast-back. It was all he wanted to do - and he would have been happy doing so forever. It was what he knew. What he was good at. And it was purposeful.

But then the dragons started to call. They Searched him as soon as he was old enough to Stand - and kept Searching for every clutch thereafter. Only for Igen Weyr- and he only Stood when asked. Though he's been left Standing every time, he's never felt as if he were missing something.

In the turns after that first Search, he began to build ties with the traders in the region. His skills as a hunter - and as a rider of beasts, specifically - were beneficial to them and he put them to good use. It wasn't just a matter of trading his hunting skills for goods - but his ability to track people as well as beasts. He turned into something of a messenger for certain trading families, renowned for his ability to do whatever needed to be done without too many questions.

Such was life.

And then he was Searched again - and, this time, for High Reaches Weyr.

On the 25th day of the 7th month of the 37th turn of the 10th Interval, he found himself paired with bronze Ahtzudaeth.

Nothing will be the same.

On the 23rd day of the 11th month of turn 38, he Impressed a bronze firelizard (or: Ahtzudaeth acquires a minion)

== Relationships ==

Ahtzudaeth - I do not know what you were truly looking for - but I will do my best. 
[[Farideh]] - Perhaps the curse of this Weyr will be lifted under your presence. Perhaps. 
[[Edyis]] - I will teach you if you are willing to learn. 
[[K'zin]] - You called. I answered. I am only sorry that you called for the wrong Weyr. 
[[Irianke]] - ''grunt'' 
[[T'mic]] - Hit ''harder''. 
[[Faryn]] - Talk and I will listen. 
[[Alida]] - You can teach me. I can give you jerky. Not sure if that's a fair trade.
[[Jo]] - You're dangerous - but not like me.

== Firelizard ==

''Bronze Brazen (aka: Zen)''

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

Dam: Alida's Pyrite
Sire: Jo's Mime
Hatched: 23.11.38.I10

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Weyrling
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Weyrling
|dragon=Fire-Born Vanguard Bronze Ahtzudaeth
|birthplace=Igen Weyr
|playedby=Ethan Rains
|status=Active
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Riders, Bronzeriders
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

Logs:Naming

2015-09-24T23:01:40Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth |what=Z'kiel has a firelizard. Ahtzudaeth helps name it. |where=Oversized Chessboard Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches W..."

{{Log
|who=Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth
|what=Z'kiel has a firelizard. Ahtzudaeth helps name it.
|where=Oversized Chessboard Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=26
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.24
|quote=<< In ''that'' case... Dazzle? Nuzzler? ''Pizzazz?'' >>
|weather=Pretty nice, actually.
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon Ahtzudaeth.png,
|desc=Further inside, there's a pair of 'pillars' by the door that are really
just stacks of outsized checkers, one set of interlocking pieces stained
darker than the other. Past those are a couple of dusty wallows for a
dragon or two, the space designed with them in mind. The rock of the
couches is smooth, but outcroppings behind them are rough, perfect for
taking care of that awkwardly-located itch. The human parts of the weyr
seem almost an afterthought, being small and rough-hewn. They're located
at the bottom of a small series of steps, where a sitting area at the
front boasts a couple of padded chairs and nothing else. The sleeping area
at the back has a small fireplace and a couple of alcoves filled with a
bed and a clothes press, respectively. The decorations here are the work
of a woodcrafter, the bed ornately carved with roses and ships, its posts
topped with pawns. Included here are the missing chess pieces from
outside.
|log=<< Autumn? >>

"No."

<< Fall? >>

"No."

<< Flame? Fire? Heat? >>

"No, no, ''no''."

<< Copper? Cinnamon? Spice? >>

"'''No.'''"

<< Sear? Spark? ''Pyre''? >>

Z'kiel cradled the tiny bronze firelizard in his palm and continued to oil the slumbering beast. It had been a few days already and, yet- no names had come. Not a one. He squinted at the creature, turned it over, and, yet, nothing seemed to ''fit''.

<< Lucky? >>

That earned only a stare from Z'kiel and a good-natured, gape-mawed grin from Ahtzudaeth.

<< Perhaps "Fortune" instead? "Fortunate"? "Fortuitous"? >>

"He doesn't ''need'' a name," Z'kiel grunted. "I feel him here." He raps a knuckle.

<< No, >> Ahtzudaeth supposed with sparkles in his thoughts. << No, he probably doesn't ''need'' a name. Nor do I think he would care if he ''had'' one at all. But. >> And, here, the bronze's tendency toward oddly human gestures manifested: he held up a talon, just one, in a "wait" motion. << Names ''are'' important. >>

Z'kiel squinted at the larger bronze.

The little bronze just chirped and rolled over in his oiled palm bed.

<< You ''were'' Zadkiel. You had a past as that man. >> Ahtzudaeth chuffed. << You ''are'' Z'kiel - and as ''Z'kiel'', you have a ''future''. I am and always have been Ahtzudaeth. That is how I will be known long after we have both gone ''Between'' at the end of our days. >>

Something about the latter thought made Z'kiel grimace.

<< We have turns yet to go before ''that'', >> he chortled. << Plenty of time to have adventures and learn and grow ''strong''. >>

"And what does that have to do with names?"

<< We - you and I - will ever be known only by our names. That is how the records will know us and future generations will only have those things to attach to ''our'' stories. >> The bronze stirred on his couch and moved off of it, wings shifting to adjust. << And while ''he'' might not care about such things- well. People and dragons do. He needs a name to carry on into history, a name to link him to ''us''. >>

Z'kiel thought on it for a while.

Then a little longer.

Until:

"Then he needs a 'Z' in it."

Ahtzudaeth burst into laughter - or as near to laughter as dragons can manage. Mentally and physically, he laughed and laughed until he was all but breathless.

The little bronze just uttered a sleepy trill and tried to cover his head by stuffing it under Z'kiel's thumb.

<< In ''that'' case... Dazzle? Nuzzler? ''Pizzazz?'' >>

"Why. No. Stop."

<< Breeze? No, wait. Emblazoned? Blaze? Lizard... >>

"We'll go with Lizard."

<< No, that was a test to see if you were still listening. You passed. >>

Z'kiel groaned.

<< Azimuth? Anodized? >>

"That isn't a word."

Ahtzudaeth just ''chortled'' in that knowing way of his.

<< There ''is'' "Vizier". I do like the sound of that one. Or "Bizarre". He might "Amaze" or make you "Agonize" as well. >>

"No more than you're doing now."

<< Ah! I have it. >>

Z'kiel raised an eyebrow.

<< Brazen. Or, I suppose, "Zen" for short. >>

Z'kiel squinted again. The wee bronzeling squeaked, squirmed and fell right back to sleep.

"Zen?"

<< Out of Brazen, yes. Brazen is perfectly balanced, you see. And Zen- well. It certainly carries a ''charm'' with it, don't you think? >>

Z'kiel sucked his teeth, looked down, and finally nodded.

"Zen." Beat. "Brazen."

<< Both. >>
}}

Logs:Eggstravaganza

2015-09-24T22:15:07Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=Alida, Edyis, Faryn, Z'kiel, Alida {{!}}Ilicaeth, Edyis {{!}}Akluseth, Z'kiel {{!}}Ahtzudaeth
|what=The first of Pyrite's eggs hatch late at the nighthearth.
|where=HRW: Nighthearth
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=23
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.22
|quote=<< ...I hear it is ''delightful'' to have their little claws getting into all the places your rider can't. >>
|weather=Late autumn evening; cool, partly-cloudy.
|mentions=A'rist, Jo, Yesia
|type=Log
|ooc=Mime posed with permission. As always, it seems, I'm having to re-post due to problems with proper word-wrapping. Ugh.
|icons-new=Icon alida.jpg, Icon edyis excited.jpg, Icon faryn.png, Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon alida ilicaeth come and get it.jpg, Icon edyis akluseth firelizards.jpg, Icon Ahtzudaeth.png,
|log=Yes; it's 10pm or so. Sadly, babies wait for no person's schedule...and so, when Alida notices Pyrite's first indications of intent examination and un-burying of a few of her batch of 8 eggs, she has Ilicaeth send out 'invitations' to those already stationed at the Weyr. Jo's buddies aren't Weyrfolk, so their wants come second. << Pyrite's eggs're just barely movin'. >> the blue responds with a certain easy pleasure to Ahtzudaeth and Akluseth. He likes being a sort-of uncle to the tinies about to emerge. << Oh! Somebody find... >> Insert the image of Faryn *here* << ...an' drag 'er outta bed. >> If she's in it, anyway. Tacked on to his somewhat eager warble is a baritone, << Might take awhile. Alida's movin' 'em to the night hearth. >>

Good news for everybody: Faryn's not ''in'' bed, and so nobody has to brave the wrath of her new roommate with the twitchy reputation. Lycinea probably wouldn't take so well to any of those people barging in at such an hour, even if it's earlier than when Faryn often heads back in. If she comes back in at all. As is often the case, she's fallen asleep in the chair near the hearth, curled in a tiny ball in the largest chair, with her jacket as a blanket and her knit cap pulled down over her ears, using the arm of the chair as a pillow. Likely, she won't be happy to be woken up, not even by ''this'' lot.

<< Ah! Delightful! Z'kiel will be there shortly. >> Ahtzudaeth's enthusiasm is a quivering, glittering thing that tingles at the periphery. It positively ''pulses'' with anticipation. The Igenite, for his part, is evidently not in bed - nor anywhere near it. He's still wearing his leathers - sans helmet and gloves - and he carries a satchel with him. It's a fairly small satchel and appears to have something or another in it, but it's hard to really tell. << This will be ''exciting''! >> the bronze declares - even if he'll have to borrow his rider's eyes for some of it. Once he's in the nighthearth, though, his attention drifts from the space itself - to the chair that holds Faryn. He's not about to wake her up, but he ''will'' get a mug of klah to set on the table near it.

That Edyis is jogging and somewhat out of breath is probably a sign that Akluseth has made his will known on such invitations, by attempting to avoid mention of them. As she reaches the destination, the ribbon woven braid is flipped over a shoulder, setting the tiny charms attached to tinkle. Dark eyes scan the room then, a wide toothy smile flashes as dark eyes rest on the bluerider, bronzerider and the unsuspecting sleeping Faryn. The last is of course eyed, and from Edyis's expression, possibly about to be prodded into wakefulness. "Pyrite babies!" is her happy greeting, which sounds more like the gleeful chant of a child than a grown woman of twenty some turns. Don't judge.

<< It was fun the first time, too! >> Ilicaeth responds with his own anticipation to brown and bronze, the blue's humming kept mostly telepathic so as to not disturb those resting, right now. It takes his rider a good 5 minutes to wrangle those precious eggs and their large tub of warm sand into a big sack, hoisted up to Ilicaeth's near shoulder and affixed to his harness. And by the time the woman's hurrying into the hearth area, she's sweaty and puffing from the all the effort of lugging fifty-plus pounds around in a hurry. "Z'kiel..." is clipped off tightly, the man hopefully correctly interpreting the bluerider's chin jerk down at her burden. She could use a hand. Flying about her head and humming for all she's worth, Pyrite waits until the hidden eggs are gently laid to rest before the actual foot of the hearth before she climbs atop the sands and starts digging a few free. Hot on her heels is clutchpappa Mime, who takes a perch on the side of the large basket and adds his hum to the gold's. That the people are all here before her is no surprise, but everybody still earns a mass bob of the blonde's head in silent greeting while, outside - and having to 'watch' through his lifemate's eyes - Ilicaeth buddies up close to Ahtzudaeth and Akluseth and issues a very low, very soft snippet of a hum.

Dragon> To Ahtzudaeth and Ilicaeth, Akluseth does not approve, yo.

Dragon> To Akluseth and Ilicaeth, Ahtzudaeth tuts - but even that chastisement is a merry-sounding thing. << It will do them good to have young little things to care for. >> Or maybe he just means Z'kiel? Hard to tell.

It takes a certain skill to sleep through the noise of others, catching some slumber while things go on around you, but Faryn's perfected it. If it were just three riders and a heavy burden, she might stay that way, out like a light and strangely peaceful for all that, but then there's humming to take in. Hangover from candidacy, or the years she's spent in weyrs - however low that number - has Faryn shaking herself awake with a start, both eyes flying open to peer at the group that's gathered with the surliest expression to counterpoint her peace, all relaxation shifting to tension while she takes in the faces there. "''What''?" is not as standoffish as it sounds; she's clearly confused.

Dragon> Ilicaeth 'sounds' both indulgent, amused, and understanding of both brown and bronze's viewpoints. << Ain't like we c'n really stop 'em. >> Not when they get something into their heads, anyhow. Chuff. (To Akluseth and Ahtzudaeth from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> To Ahtzudaeth and Ilicaeth, Akluseth mutters something about flat-chested women and their silly ideas. His seas green with something....

There's a slight tensing of Z'kiel's jaw at the loudness of the greeting - relative to the mostly-quiet of the nighthearth, that is. But, what's done is done and all he can do is nudge the klah a little closer to Faryn without a word. And, about that time is when Alida manifests - and the issuing of his name is barely necessary. He's in motion as soon as he sees her plight and he'll take the basket (or just help, depending on how much she's willing to relinquish) until it's where it needs to be. It's heavy, sure, but not ''that'' heavy to the likes of him. Ahtzudaeth bobs his head with a gape-mawed at the blue that joins them. It's a birdlike gesture and delighted at that - and once Ilicaeth starts to hum, so, too, does the bronze.

Dragon> To Akluseth and Ilicaeth, Ahtzudaeth's thoughts fizz and sparkle a bit with amusement. Clearly that muttering comes through, for he asks with great mirth, << Am ''I'' a flat-chested woman with silly ideas? >> ''Chortle.'' << Brother-mine, that color of water simply does not suit you. >>

Akluseth isn't humming. Still he's content enough to sulk near the cheery bronze and blue. Edyis looks a little abashed at that tense of Z'kiel's jaw, but she's practically buzzing with energy, dark eyes drifting over and watching that basket get tugged over. Sorry, is mouthed, but she doesn't entirely look it, being as chipper as Akluseth is dour. "Alida said the firelizard eggs are about to pop." Edyis notes sticking over near Faryn, perhaps a little worried that Pyrite might be a little over protective at the moment.

Dragon> To Ilicaeth and Akluseth, Ahtzudaeth's thoughts uncurl into conspiratorial smoke, sliding to shift over Akluseth's water. << You know. I hear it is ''delightful'' to have their little claws getting into all the places your rider can't. >> Then again, he's the one with most of the itching issues; of course he'd hear about something like ''that''.

"Thanks..." Alida puffs in earnest to the bronzerider once the basket's situated properly upon the floor, the woman then slowly standing to blot at her sweaty face with cloth-covered arms. No jacket, given her hurry. "Thing's unwieldy after a few hundred yards at a trot..." her clipped alto notes of the basket of sand and eggs. To Edyis is quietly huffed, "A few uv' 'em, anyway. She laid some a day apart, so..." Shrug. They hatch when they hatch. Blink. Faryn's over there? The bluie appears momentarily confused, then simply goes with the flow, though she never extended a purposeful invitation to the former Herder. To the three other humans here is quickly noted, "I figure we could use the old stew still in the pot...butcha' gotta cool it down, first." Too hot for even ravenous baby mouths. "I brought jerky, too, in case there's not enough stew." She sounds oddly sure about how to deal with the impending hatching, unlike lat time this happened. Upon 'their' basket, bronze and gold firelizards continue to hum, the volume of the sound slowly increasing as a creamy-colored egg with splotches of butterscotch all over it wiggles.

Dragon> The bronze's gaped-mouthed grin meets with its twin as Ilicaeth does the same, the blue laughing internally at 'poor' Akluseth's consternation...in a good way, though. << He's right, man. They help scratch the itches an' bathe ya when ours can't help. >> Mm Yeah...especially those damned awful itches. (To Akluseth and Ahtzudaeth from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> To Ahtzudaeth and Ilicaeth, Akluseth remains dubious, but the idea seems to settle him some.

Oh, Faryn's ''grouchy'', firelizards or no. And she's been hanging around with Z'kiel too much, too, because she ''grunts'' in a fair mimicry of his own sound and reaches for the klah he offers, uncurling halfway just so she can stretch over the arm of the couch to take it. Her eyebrow arches at Edyis' proximity, and the warning comes from a sleep-thick tongue as she finally hooks it and pulls it close: "Do you think they ''know'' when we're sleeping?" A large pull of klah and two smaller sips seem enough to put her to rights: that is, sullen but awake, her hands wrapped around her drink, with her eyebrows lifted for Edyis' cheerful proximity. The yawn from behind the mugs is enormous. And because there was no formal invitation - even if she's heard plenty about little Pyrite and her clutch - Faryn settles back in her chair, all content to watch with the bitterness of the recently roused. "Wanting one of those is insane."

And, of course, Z'kiel ''eyes'' Pyrite right back for the duration of the basket moving and situating and everything. He nods once to Alida's assertions, issues a grunt that's possibly empathetic, and then he's patting down the bag ''he'' brought. There's a bit of a grimace, a fogging of his eyes, and a slight shake of his head. "Thought I packed jerky." ''Hnnnh.'' Alida's suggestion of stew, then, is one that he'll take. He crosses to collect two bowls, mindful to pick out as much meat as he can. "Should be enough for you, Edyis," he adds, only for his attention to slide to Faryn. "They're useful. Smart. Can be trained." One corner of his mouth pulls in a thing that might be a lopsided smile - but doesn't last long enough to be identified. "I'd have agreed with you a few turns ago. Now-" grunt, shrug. That should say it all.

"Thank you Zak." Edyis smiles, "I've got some tunnel snake, it's about as tasty as it sounds, though." Fishing the pouch from her bag and offering it in Z'kiel's direction, since he's sharing too. "I have wanted one ever since I was a kid," Edyis confesses to Faryn, "Hunted beaches all over Monaco for them when I lived down south, but never found any." It's almost wistful, but she smiles at Z'kiel. "Hopefully this lot takes after Mime in the well behaved department." Moving to get a closer view of the adults now humming.

To groggy and unsympathetic Faryn, Alida clips off a low, "*She* hurled 'erself at me. Little shit gave *me* no choice." A jerk of chin out to speedy-eye-whirling, humming Pyrite leaves no room for doubt who the bluerider means. She'll leave out how she ran away (gasp!) from the whole wild clutch in the first place. Since nobody helped her out back then, perhaps she'll just leave the ex-Herder to her own fate, as well. Shrug. "Like he said..." is the guard's simple agreement with Z'kiel, tough she adds, "*If* yer a responsible owner, an' train them right. Gotta remember, though, they're not as fool-proof as a dragon. Even Pyrite's been known ta screw-up every-so-often." Hearing her name causes the queen to turn her bright blue eyes upon her 'owner' for a moment before she rejoins Mime in looking down intently upon the eggs...another of which has decided to join the butterscotch one in quivering, and now fissuring. To the three other humans, Alida lips off, "Ya know how this goes, right?" Any even-halfway confused looks from them will evince a clinical-sounding response. "Positive thoughts; lure 'em with food, no aggressive stances 'r loudness." And, on the tail-end of that pronouncement, the butterscotch egg heaves convulsively, splits down the near-middle...and out rolls a wet and sand covered hatchling, its squalling muffled by a mouthful of grit.

Faryn doesn't so much hold up a hand as she extends her fingers slightly in an abbreviated gesture of surrender for Z'kiel's assessment and a nod. Carry on. "If that's the point," she yields, though her eyes on the bronzerider are amused, and the suggestion in her tone is that he might still be insane. Edyis, too, and Alida to round out the diadem of lunacy. And yet, Faryn reaches out to tap Zak on the hip with the back of her hand, wiggling her fingers in a gimme gesture at the bowl that Edyis has rejected, even as she says, "You sold me," with such wryness as to almost be unkind. The first piece of meat she plucks out is for herself though, just a test and a grimace, then, "Do you mind?" That's for Alida, her eyes dipping down to the hatchling as it spills out.

Thank you. Don't figure they'll know the difference." Z'kiel will take some of the offered tunnelsnake meat - and put the bits in his bowl. The second bowl is, indeed, handed over to Faryn without question - though there is a slightly quirked eyebrow for ''something''. It's not an unkind expression, at least. An eye is kept on the humming 'lizards, wary - and watchful, naturally. It's while the first egg splits and Alida runs down the rules - such as they are - that he steps closer to the basket. There's a mental check with his ostensibly better half, a barely perceptible nod, and he stays where he is, blowing on the bowl of stew meat and stirring it up with the tunnelsnake. "So," he finally ventures, "it's a little like dragons. But, with bribery." Deadpan, that. And then the wee one is hatched and covered in sand. Squint. "Don't eat that," is either for Faryn and her meat-sampling - or the sand-eating hatchling. Either way.

"Who ever said dragons were fool-proof." Edyis snorts, grinning. She fishes out a few chunks of snake meat and cooked meat, mounding it in her palm, and studying the stuff critically. Happy thoughts seem to be no problem for the bright-eyed brownrider. Grinning at the deadpanning bronzerider. "Hey I know where you sleep, sometimes." Edyis blithely teases back at the assistant's wryness. The hatchling, and its sand eating get appropriate giggles.

Spectacular joy and triumph! That's what miniature gold and bronze show with their first baby's hatching, Pyrite giving a trill of delight before nuzzling at the next, rocking egg: an off-white one with pale, multi-colored spots and blotches all over it. Outside, Ilicaeth has to contain his warble of enjoyment at the hatching of that first egg, the blue instead 'grinning' hugely again at Ak and Ahtzu. <> Exciting, right?! As for Alida - who looks interested and pleased, herself - but cautiously distant in physical presence - well, the blonde finds herself peering at Faryn's inquiry, then nodding a couple of times. "In the end, all I guess I c'n ask is that ya be kind ta them, responsible." Z'kiel's words of dragons versus firelizards earn him a smirk and a low, "Kinda. Dragon hatchlings'll generally stop themselves from maulin' ya too much." And firelizards don't? "You know what I mean..." 'lida raps off with some good-natured snark to Edyis...while the second egg decides to fracture...inside a mound of sand. Only the sand-covered nose of the little blighter within can be seen sticking out of the basket...and breathing. As for its first-hatched sibling? Well, it's coughing up sand, spitting and drooling, snorting loudly as it rights itself. Hey now...what's that scent? MEAT. Red eyed and starving, the struggling little tyke hurls itself at the first piece of food to catch its eye...and winds up trying to eat Z'kiel's fingertips, as well as the real food. Is there blood? No matter, Alida's already wincing at the behavior, while Pyrite croons loudly, hums again.

>---< Z'kiel's Bronze >----------------------------------------<

Why the long face? He's a chiselled, grand fellow, an incarnation of autumn's blazing colors: golden sunlight, scarlet leaves, pumpkin-copper, and cinnamon spice streaked broadly over the greater background of a typically-bronze hide at headknobs, over wings and upon back and flanks. There's something almost sad about his features, though; a small and natural down-turn of mouth at corners plus a certain canting of headknobs and eye ridges that lends him the aire of silent, habitual melancholy. No doubt that oddly tear-shaped blotch of palest-bronze just beneath his left eye adds to the mystery of his apparent presence, as well, though he holds his lanky body upright.

>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<

Faryn apparently presumes Z'kiel's warning is for her, and her nibbling stops with a rebounded excuse. "I was making sure it's not too hot." Like you do for babies. But she's finding her feet at Alida's acquiescence, blowing on that piece of meat as she moves to join her friends, now fully awake and at least interested in the goings on. "I was a herder..." she's forgotten Alida's name, if she ever knew it, "I wouldn't be cruel to any animal. It's ''people''." A puff of breath: annoyance, maybe, or a laugh at Z'kiel's little catch. Her amusement is low and plain, said with a simple sincerity. "He's handsome," she notes, "and look at you, all that ''bronze''. Maybe I'll take my chances with lots of meat, next I stand. Numbweed's in my bag," if he'd like, but she's not getting it. She, instead, leans over the remaining eggs, and their parents, with her brows furrowed curiously and that cooling piece of meat between her fore and middle fingers, between the knuckles and with her fingertips drawn back protectively against any little teeth that might try the same trick as the bronze.

Oh, ho! Outside, Ahtzudaeth's humming reaches dragon-hatching levels of loudness and his thoughts meet with Ilicaeth's in a burst of light and brilliance. The blue's grin is mirrored with his own - and can it be helped if the bronze shifts in place with excitement? << Oh, it's ''beyond'' words, >> the bronze declares, though he'll no doubt find words to describe it later. As for Z'kiel, there's a grunt and a nod. "Makes sense. They're not ''as'' smart as dragons. Figure they'd be more like animals." And, oh. Well. Go figure. Timing is apparently everything - and the hunter, even as focused as he is, isn't fast enough to avoid what happens next. The bronze's teeth meet callused skin and meat - well, non-finger meat as well as finger meat, that is - and the Igenite bites back a hiss. If that chewing keeps up, he will bleed; for now, though, he tries to wordlessly convince the wee hatchling that the real meat - the chunks of stuff that were formerly in a bowl - is food. There is a flicked look to Faryn and a chuff - a ''chuff'' - of laughter and agreement. "I'll get it later." For now, he has a wee bronze to wrangle.

Edyis watches, amused, as the little bronze attempts to gnaw Z'kiel's fingertips, holding out the meat a little more carefully as a result of this observation. Alida's assertion earns another reproachful look, and she snorts. "I can think of several people who'd probably disagree with you on that point too." Faryn gets eyed at her suggestion, "Careful, Lythronath sired that clutch, you might just get eaten." Her hand is held out fingers curled carefully away the way one might offer treats to a runner. "He looks like the sort to match your disposition." Grinning at the bronze rider.

"Likewise..." Alida smirk-murmurs over to Faryn's view of animals versus humans, though her eyes are mostly for Z'kiel's 'capture' and blooding by his new pet. "Little savage..." is snerted out of the frowning baby bronzeling, the blonde slightly intrigued by the outer-melancholy on the hatchling's face...the face whose sharp little teeth have quickly figured out what's delicious and what's not. ICK; human tastes gross. For now, the red-eyed tyke's hungry-demanding, so as long as Zak keeps the tab open, he's likely in no further danger of being bitten. Hopefully. "Don't be so fuckin' exact, Edyis..." the guard eyerolls to the brownie, then letting her gaze slip over to Faryn when Ed 'warns' her about Lythronath's tendencies. "No shit..." is murmured a bit heavily, though the bluie winds up smirking and nodding her agreement at Edyis' opinion of the 'like pet, like owner' looks going on between Z'kiel and the little bronze. Somewhere in all that talking and looking around, another egg shudders and rocks beneath sand, while the second one crumples in on itself...releasing another hatchling that finally crawls out from under all that sand, and shakes itself violently. Nope, much of the grit is still sticking to it. Food? It smells it, but where is the stuff? Waaaay up there? Peer.

"Fuck Lythronath," Faryn says blandly, like she's commentating on the weather, or a canine that ran into a window and not obscening a dragon. Her nose wrinkles up in consternation at the mention of that particular bronze, while she examines Z'kiel's out of the corner of her eye. "He's a big pain in my ass, maybe if I throw meat at him on the sands he'll leave me alone." It's the least she can hope, anyways. For Zak, it's, "He's not that sad looking. He just ''laughed''." Chuffed. Whatever.

Once the little bronze has figured out the difference between fingers and food, Z'kiel will collect the hatchling and move away slightly to continue feeding him. "And what disposition is that." It's a flatly uttered query angled to Edyis, though there is - naturally - no malice in the words. It's probably a joke. It most likely is one. And while he feeds the melancholic-looking bronze, he carefully rubs the remaining bits of sand off and gives the little fellow a good looking over. A sidelong look is angled at Faryn, a warning look - or, rather, it would be if she were most anyone else. Laugh? He did not - and from that look, he will deny it up and down. "Do they stop when they're full?" That's for Alida, with a slight furrow of his brow. He has no clue. He just knows that baby firelizards need meat and he'll give this one little bits at a time.

Edyis sticks her tongue out at the bluerider for the comment on being exact. Comments on the bestial bronze earn a look, but no further comment. "A'rist can't be that bad, he can actually be kind of sweet sometimes." Oddly noted as Z'kiel's joke (or what she takes as a joke) is grinned at. "You know, tall, angular, broody." Something teasing and affectionate in her tone, her attention back at the newly escaped hatchlings. "Come on now, your mom can sniff out a meat roll from a mile away."

"Wait until you might have a *lifemate* take t'the skies in a Flight alongside 'im..." Alida mutters a little darkly Faryn-wards of Lythronath. Outside, Ilicaeth rumbles low for just a moment at the temporary concern his human expresses, but - quickly enough - it's back to enjoying the moment with Ahtzudaeth...and maybe even Akluseth. Over to the slowly withdrawing Zak is murmured, "Yeah...then they conk out. Y'll wanna oil 'im while 'e's sleeping. Tend to 'em mostly like dragons...though they're capable uv' gettin' food on their own pretty quick. Still, y'wanna make sure they develop a solid bond with ya, so keep it almost-all hands-on fer awhile." Nod. Over to Edyis, "He's okay, I guess." A'rist. "I kinda-think 'is dragon sorta...broke 'im in a way, though." Or was he broken before Lynner got to him? Hmm. Oh...yes! That *is* food! Sighing in relief that it won't have to go looking farther than offering fingertips, the sandy little hatchling wriggles and shakes its way quickly over to Faryn's hand, and nabs the meat from them, chowing down with gusto as crusts of sand fall away from its hide.

>---< Faryn's Brown >----------------------------------------<

Enough might label him spindly, even bony; his dusty brown hide a sirocco-whipped chiaroscuro of parched straw, dusty umber pebbles, and eroding soil. Dry ravines wander aimlessly amidst the thirsty landscape of long limbs and tail, while deep-hidden moisture tinged hide slightly darker at long belly and narrow chest, deepening to fertile loam at protected creases and joints. This penury is relieved only when shorter, but wide wings are unfurled: a dappled smattering of early autumn's colors imprinting themselves amidst the withered curl of late-summer's dead leaves. Baked rust, old gold, burned copper: these surprising tones ride along bones, at joints, and re-awaken at trailing edges of his pinions. All these colors highlight and contrast the desiccation of body, the arbors of his wings giving shade and a promise of the rainy season sure to come.
Only in the withered, dark mahogany of his claws - that coloration also found at very tips of neck ridges - can be seen the fiercest heat of the long summer that bore him.
>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<

"I wouldn't know. A'rist was nowhere to be seen the last time he did it. I even told him to get him and," with gravitas, "in case we all forgot, no dragon wanted me, last time. Forgive me if I'm not terribly hopeful that -- ah, ''grabby''," Faryn cuts herself off suddenly, her wry expression leaving Edyis and Alida for the little thing that has taken the meat from her hands, apparently surprising her. She yanks her hand back like it's been nipped, though it hasn't, but recovers herself quickly. The smile for the little creature is a lot kinder than the rest of her expressions have been, at any rate, and Faryn's content enough to pluck another piece with her free hand from the cooling bowl to keep it coming, just in case the little brown lizard gets bored.

The rumbling of the blue elicits a friendly nudge attempt from Ahtzudaeth, like as not to bring him back into the joyous moment that's unfolding. Still, his thoughts quickly turn to the little bronze and he is, in his own way, glowing as if ''he'' fathered the little thing. << The name-! That will be the most important part! >> that bit is a bit louder than he clearly intended, for he clears his mental throat and offers an apologetic gape-maw grin to both his brother and Ilicaeth. "Good," Z'kiel replies, grunts, and nods to Alida for everything. "I'll do that." And even if he had half a thought not to? Ahtzudaeth would have his hide. There's a click of tongue against teeth at Edyis, a narrowing of his eyes - but, mostly, the bronzerider doesn't seem irritated. Which is the closest to ''amused'' that one will get, probably. Then again, maybe he's just distracted. He lingers long enough to see just which one claims Faryn's offering, but he's soon fading into the background to watch - and feed the nameless bronze until he slumbers.

Edyis shivers at the thought of chasing alongside Lythronath. "I'm not saying the bronze isn't a problem," wrinkles working into her brow. "Maybe." Something unreadable in her expression, but it melts instantly as the brown finds his way over to Faryn, an easy laugh, "Aww he's cute Faryn." She notes. Amused, as she glances over at her friends. Then back on the sand. Akluseth seems dubious of the bronze's enthusiasm," For his rider, Edyis laughs, at the click of his tongue.

Ya might wanna..." Alida begins. Too late, though, as the wee brown hatchling nabs meat, and causes Faryn to jerk backwards in reaction, the bluerider smirking a little and shaking her head, while the newborn firelizard hisses at the potential removal of food from its face. MINE! Keep it coming, human. At some point, the little brat even attempts to climb up on Faryn's hand and claim that which brings food. "I know they're...well, A'rist's workin' on it..." Alida comments to Edyis. They *did* take off to Ierne for awhile. Shrug. Z'kiel's words have the blonde nodding silently at him, not bothering the bronzerider as he withdraws to concentrate fully upon his new companion, who is quickly asleep...unlike Faryn's new 'buddy...' and the only other egg that's currently in motion. The orange-streaked, pale-yellow egg - once mostly-covered by sand - hitches and heaves upward and side-to-side, more striated cracks forming in a random latticework all over its surface - until one massive lurch nearly sends it spinning out of the basket...teetering precariously upon a straw side. Pyrite squawks loudly, fans her wings, and Mime shrills in tandem, lunges forward...while Alida utters an odd little squeak of consternation.

"Ow. Ow. Ow." Each syllable is a complaint as tiny claws dig in and clamber for purchase on her hand, with Faryn using her other hand to grab a piece of meat and shove it, forcefully, into the little brown's mouth while trying to avoid the teeth there. "Little cuss," she says of him, but there's an automatic protective instinct in the herder too: maybe it's craft training, to want to take care of tiny animals; maybe it's just that she has ovaries. Either way, if only to stop him climbing higher, Faryn draws her hand against her chest to hold him there snugly so she can continue the methodical application of meat while she splits her attention between Z'kiel, Edyis, and the tiny sands. If she reflexively tries to extend a hand again - and is complained at by her new friend - then it's only the desire to ''catch'' the egg, before it shatters on the hard floor.

"He isn't," Whatever she wants to say in defense of the bronze is lost then. "They are a little rough, but that isn't all there is to him." She says of A'rist, though if it's just what she wants to believe, or the truth? Edyis is darkly amused watching Faryn and the brown, "Well at least his claws are ''tiny''." But suddenly she is on her feet, reaching out in tandem with Faryn, a turn of dealing with her lifemate's precarious tumbles well ingrained into her reflexes. "Damn egg's got a death wish or something."

Needle-sharp little claws they are indeed, and the tiny brown has no knowledge of how to *not* use them, yet. Faryn's going to have to teach him restraint...and other things, like not inhaling his food, or shrieking like a banshee in protest when his human perch lurches forward to save a fellow egg. At least Edyis (along with Pyrite and Mime) was on-the-ball...and that rocking, cracking, orange-streaked egg finally plummets towards...the brownrider's fingers and palms, where it shatters 'softly' (as compared to crashing upon stone), releasing a very-surprised-looking firelizard that quickly snuffles around Ed's palm in search of food. Alida almost wilts in obvious relief at the smooth save, then slowly notes in wry tones to the brownie, "Congratulations...an' watch out fer yer skin." Smirk.

>----< Edyis' Green >----------------------------------------<

Refined of form, lithe and long of limb and body, this dewy-eyed, vital green lady moves with the bold energy of one that is forever-youthful. An ingenue gaze - rather reminiscent of her dam's - is set beneath fine eyeridges arched in such a way as to suggest benevolently humored examination... while long, slender headknobs dip in slightly concave fashion above. Her hide is a blossoming landscape of tender greenery: first-grass' paler shoots, unfurling leaves and buds, complex swirls of tiny ivy creepers weaving their harmony of re-awakening life in complex designs... paling to sun-hazed green at shoulders and long back. Upon flexing claws and long, slender wings, a hue closer to champagne reigns amidst veils of rich moss and sage, touched with smudges of near-true gold...as if nascent sunlight dapples through her 'sails.

>----------------------------------------------------------------------------<

Defense of A'rist or his bronze are forgotten in that moment, and perhaps the first thing her new companion is going to have to learn is ''patience''. "No," she scolds, missing the cracking of the egg because she's turned her gaze very firmly on the hungry and whirling eyes of the brown, and there are long moments in the middle there where no amount of tiny clawing or angry shrieking will get him what he wants. She's still got him tucked very close, anyways, so eventually he'll have to calm, and she'll have to praise, softly, "Good," when he does, and more meat will be his reward. "You're not going to let me sleep tonight, I bet," is only fair, as the ex-crafter rocks back on her heels to find her feet, her gaze finding the green finally with a little breath of amusement. "She's going to be a handful. She looks like...Yesia, in the eyes." And that's just cruel, isn't it? But Faryn's picking up her bowl now, with a large piece of meat to tide her over as she tries to head back to her seat with her companion in tow, apparently keen on its comforts compared to leaning.

Akluseth snorts. << Serves you right, told you they were useless. >> Firelizards, he must mean. Since Edyis is staring at the tiny green in her palm, brows furrowed. "You are supposed to be way, ''way'' bigger and a boy. Just look at you, you'll never be big enough to deliver parcels." Sigh. "They aren't all really stupid are they?" Green firelizards she must mean, but meat gets nudged closer to the creature in her palm. "At least you are pretty I suppose." There's a dark, murderous look thrown at Faryn for the Yesia comment. "Don't even think such horrible things." So cruel Faryn, So cruel. Still she reaches to stroke the tiny creature carefully with a fingertip, a smile starting to work into her expression despite herself.

Oh, the bittersweet irony of this particular Impression! There's restrained amusement in Alida's eyes as she silently regards rescuer and rescuee...one hand quickly flying to cover the huge grin that comes at Faryn's words of Yesia. Nope, not saying a word, over here...for once. Ahem. To cover her dark amusement, the bluerider turns to the once-Crafter and notes to her, "Be careful not ta stuff 'em beyond full, or they'll get thicktail...er, bound-up." Beat. "They'll letcha' know when they're hungry, mostly. It'll be frequently, at first, then slow down as time passes." How oddly easily the often caustic bluie slips into dragonhealer mode. "Oil 'em often, too...they're growin' hideously fast, like dragons. They show you...make ya feel their emotions, too, and vise-versa." Thiiink. "Any uv you have any questions, problems about 'r with 'em, talk ta the dragonhealers." Which, apparently, she doesn't yet really believe herself to be one of. Over to Edyis, of flit intelligence is noted somewhat factually, "I've seen bronzes as dumb as posts, so why not smart greens?" Nose-wrinkle. "Ilicaeth's a smart blue, Lythr..." Oh my. Did Alida just manage to self-censor? Maybe she's making progress. Ahem. "Teach 'em well, kiddies..." the blonde quietly ventures to those left in attendance, a vague smirk-smile touching one corner of her mouth as she dips down to a squat to stroke a fingertip over proud Pyrite's head and neck...while Mime unexpectedly climbs up her arm and shoulder, and soon nests deeply within unbound hair. Heh.

Faryn's nod is absent as she listens to Alida, but she is listening undoubtedly. She doesn't seem the sort to do anything of the sort, at any rate, and is pacing the brown just enough to keep him from squawking -- and withholding when he gets too bossy or demanding. When he pauses, she does too, to examine the scrapes on her hand and wrist. "Yesia ''was'' pretty," she points out, pulling the brown into a little hug as she settles in, perhaps for the night. The way she pulls her jacket up certainly says she may stay, but she's at least taking breaks for her klah as she tries to soothe the fiesty firelizard into submission, so she might continue her own rest.

Edyis glares at Faryn. But Alida's words seem to mollify her concerns about the small green. "Well then we shall lay some ground rules little lady. No being stupid, and definitely no extending your proddiness to me." She watches the others, and smiles a little at the bluerider. "You are enjoying this way too much just so you know." Settling in to let the tiny green feed to her heart's content.

And Alida? Again - and perhaps wisely - the woman remains silent at Edyis' statements, ample hints of her sassy humor found within green eyes, however...though they remain turned down upon Pyrite as the little gold chirrups, curls up on the basket of sands that still contains 5 slumbering eggs, and assumes quiet guard. Bluerider and cadre will remain here for another hour while the low fire in the hearth re-warms those nearby sands to proper intensity to last the whole night...then departing for their weyr with much less haste than their precipitous arrival.
|Categories=General Logs
}}
[[Category:RP_Logs]]

User:Weylaughn

2015-09-21T04:48:43Z

Weylaughn:

==About Me==

Artist. Writer. Costumer. Baker. Whatever. I'm a whole bunch of things to a whole bunch of people.

Mostly, I'm weird and unavailable all the time. :|

==Availability==

* Evening: after 6pm PST
* Day: Before 6pm PST

===September Schedule===
{| class="table table-striped"
|-
! Sunday !! Monday !! Tuesday !! Wednesday !! Thursday !! Friday !! Saturday
|-
| || || 1 Available (evening) || 2 Available (day) || 3 Available (day) || 4 Unavailable|| 5 Unavailable
|-
| 6 Unavailable || 7 Unavailable|| 8 Available (evening) || 9 Unavailable || 10 Available (evening) || 11 Unavailable|| 12 Available (day)
|-
| 13 Available|| 14 Unavailable|| 15 Available (evening) || 16 Unavailable || 17 Available (evening) || 18 Unavailable|| 19 Available (day)
|-
| 20 Available || 21 Unavailable|| 22 Available (evening) || 23 Available (evening) || 24 Available (evening) || 25 Unavailable|| 26 Available (day)
|-
| 27 Available|| 28 Unavailable|| 29 Available (evening) || 30 Unavailable || || ||
|}

==Character List==

{|class="table table-striped"
|-valign="top"
|style="width:120px"|[[Image:Icon Ulyana.jpg]]
|'''[[Ulyana]]''' (''August 2014 - present'') A sickly recordskeeper at Crom Hold turned bluerider. She Impressed at Fort Weyr to blue Qhyluth, but later transferred to High Reaches Weyr for health reasons.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Icon Z'kiel.jpg]]
|'''[[Z'kiel]]''' (''March 2015 - present'') Igen born, a hunter and a dancer. Zadkiel had every intention of returning to Igen Weyr after Niahvth's clutch at High Reaches Weyr; Ahtzudaeth had other plans. After a turn, it seems that he's finally accepted his place at the Weyr - and, now, is looking to turn that place into ''home''.
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Icon edric default.jpg]]
|'''[[Edric]]''' (''July 2015 - present'') Ah. Yes. The Steward of Black Cliff Hold - and consultant at Fort Weyr. He exists only to serve. But whom? [[Erinta]]? His Lord? [[X'vin|Someone]] else? Or is he simply out for himself?
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Icon Parli Default.png]]
|'''[[Parli]]''' (''September 2015 - present'') So, what brings a Telgari brownrider to Fort Weyr? Apparently it just takes a rider exchange. She's not thrilled about it, but Parli and "thrilled" are not words that belong in the same sentence. Swaronth is pretty pleased with the change, but why wouldn't he be? He's seeing a brownrider act as Weyrleader - and that gives him ''ideas.''
|-valign="top"
|[[Image:Icon weylaughn blank.jpg]]
|'''[[Weylaughn]]''' (''Unknown - Retired'') Convinced by his [[Yewlani|mother]] that he was the son of a Lord, he later learned the truth. Much later, she was sent off to the Mind Healers - and Weylaughn vanished into the ether with his siblings.
|-valign="top"
|
|'''[[Vidar|V'dar/Vidar]]''' (''Unknown - Retired'') An ill-fated weyrling. Bronze Sidrinth Impressed to him; bronze Sidrinth, who was barely more than half a dragon. The bronze died after some months. V'dar, who returned to Vidar, slowly lost his mind and eventually died. Many assume suicide - but the truth is that it was probably delusion.
|}

== Recent Logs ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:Weylaughn}}}}

==Log Stats==
{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Weylaughn}}

{{Cloud | player=Weylaughn| exclude=Weylaughn;Ulyana;V'dar;Vidar;Z'kiel;Edric}}

Alts:Weylaughn

2015-09-21T04:42:21Z

Weylaughn:

{{Alts
|alt1=Ulyana
|alt2=Weylaughn
|alt3=Z'kiel
|alt4=Edric
|alt5=Vidar
|alt6=Parli
}}

Logs:Corruption

2015-09-20T23:03:47Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth
|what=Ulyana has a revelation.
|where=Nowhere
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.20
|quote=And I want and I want and I want.
|weather=Immaterial.
|type=Log
|ooc=Lyrics from: Recoil's "Want" (Link: https://youtu.be/QQrGRR6Su4E ) - reading and listening together is probably wise!
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|log=It was days after the flight that she saw it.

''I want to know how it will end.''

A crack in the bedrock beneath the tower.

''I want to be sure of what it will cost.''

A space where water flowed ''up'' and ''in''.

''I want to strangle the stars for all they promised me.''

He never wanted the tower.

''I want to keep you alive so there is always the possibility of murder later.''

He wanted something else.

''I want to be there when you learn the cost of desire.''

Her stomach twisted.

''I want you to understand that my malevolence is just a way to win.''

She fled into the tower and sought out the great, iron-clad door that lead into the dark place within. Her fingers hesitated at the lock. Trembled. She bit her lower lip hard enough to make it bleed in both flesh and mind. It was her. It was only her. But what had he done? How much of him made it inside?

''I want the name of the ruiner.''

How much of ''her'' did ''he'' see?

''I want matches in case I have to suddenly burn.''

She wrenched the lock open and heaved the great door open. She stood at the mouth of the darkness, arms spread and palms on either side of the jamb.

''I want you to know that being kind is overrated.''

After a deep breath - and, oh, the smells, dank and dark and ''alien'' as they were, they were ''hers'' - she finally started down the slick stairs. No light. No railing.

''I want to write my secret across your sky.''

No need.

''I want to watch you lose control.''

She knew these steps better than she knew the ones that went up and up and up forever.

''I want to watch you lose.''

And she knew they never went far enough.

''I want to know exactly what it's going to take.''

At the bottom, her feet hit water. A shallow layer, perhaps a quarter of an inch - but it was enough. The dungeons were a great and sprawling place, filled with chambers - some with bars, some with iron doors - that contained any of a number of ''things''. ''Her'' things. They were fine before Qhyluth. They weren't so ''active''. But, now, they clattered and howled in their cages, each of them with a name she knew by heart. They scraped and screamed and she walked through those dark, moist halls with no need for illumination.

''I want to see you insert yourself into glory.''

And then there was light. Sickly and green-yellow, the hue of Qhyluth's eyes when he was distressed. It spread over the walls, shaped into obscene patterns and unnatural glyphs that made her stomach turn over and over again for the sight of them. How deep did his touch reach? How far did the corruption go?

''I want your touches to scar me so I'll know where you've been.''

She didn't want to know.

''I want you to watch when I go down in flames.''

She had to know.

''I want a list of atrocities done in your name.''

She moved further. The things within shrieked and howled and struggled; she silenced them with an acid whisper and a dark look. They know. They ''knew''. She pressed onward and to another door, a deeper door, a door that was not touched by the irradiated phosphoresence. She pushed on it and it groaned open. In, then.

''I want to reach my hand into the dark and feel what reaches back.''

The ''other'' was there. Still there. Still coiled. Still nameless. Still sleeping.

''I want to remember when my nightmares were clearer.''

Ulyana breathed a shuddery sigh of relief and eased the door shut again with a barely audible click. She pressed her fingers to the door and began to draw in the muck and foulness. It was a symbol, a twisted version of the ones Qhyluth had given her. A shattered shape that trembled when she finished it.

''I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open.''

She knelt to jam cloth into the space between the door and floor.

''I want to taste my own kind.''

Her stomach twisted when she realized how damp that cloth was.

''I want to be wrapped in cold wet sheets to see if it's different on this side.''

''He'' was there. Within. Nearby.

''I want you to come on strong.''

She rose and turned and began to walk back, taking her time to scrub his light from her walls.

''I want to leave you out in the cold.''

Darkness followed as she moved.

''I want to throw you.''

She felt him slithering through the halls. She stopped. Listened.

''I want you to know I know.''

Closer. Closer still.

''I want to know if you read me.''

She shut her eyes, reached out her hands and ''felt''.

''I want to swing with my eyes shut and see what I hit.''

Her fingers struck spongy, squamous flesh that quivered at the contact. He tried to wrap around her. She tensed. She ''knew''.

''I want to know just how much you hate me so I can predict what you'll do.''

He tightened his grip. She tightened hers. Skin split. Ichor mixed with blood and tainted the water. Green and red spread in blossoms on his skin; on hers.

''I want you to know the wounds are self-inflicted.''

She ''pulled'' and he - no, ''He'' - followed.

''I want a controlling interest.''

Back down the newly darkened hall to the ''other''. Back to the place ''She'' feared and loved the most.

''I want to be somewhere beautiful when I die.''

''He'' peeled the cloth back with a nameless appendage that quivered.

''I want to be your secret hater.''

''She'' opened the door - and the sigul glowed, strange and blue and ''warm''.

''I want to stop destroying you but I can't.''

''He'' never wanted Ulyana - and ''She'' never wanted Qhyluth.

''And I want and I want and I want and I will always be hungry.''

''He'' slithered in - and in that wishful place where no barriers resided between them, between ''Him'' or ''Her'', ''they'' embraced.

''And I want and I want and I want.''
}}

Logs:Corruption

2015-09-20T23:01:21Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth
|what=Ulyana has a revelation.
|where=Nowhere
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.20
|quote=And I want and I want and I want.
|weather=Immaterial.
|type=Log
|ooc=Lyrics from: Recoil's "Want" (Link: https://youtu.be/QQrGRR6Su4E ) - reading and listening together is probably wise!
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|log=It was days after the flight that she saw it.

''I want to know how it will end.''

A crack in the bedrock beneath the tower.

''I want to be sure of what it will cost.''

A space where water flowed ''up'' and ''in''.

''I want to strangle the stars for all they promised me.''

He never wanted the tower.

''I want to keep you alive so there is always the possibility of murder later.''

He wanted something else.

''I want to be there when you learn the cost of desire.''

Her stomach twisted.

''I want you to understand that my malevolence is just a way to win.''

She fled into the tower and sought out the great, iron-clad door that lead into the dark place within. Her fingers hesitated at the lock. Trembled. She bit her lower lip hard enough to make it bleed in both flesh and mind. It was her. It was only her. But what had he done? How much of him made it inside?

''I want the name of the ruiner.''

How much of ''her'' did ''he'' see?

''I want matches in case I ahve to suddenly burn.''

She wrenched the lock open and heaved the great door open. She stood at the mouth of the darkness, arms spread and palms on either side of the jamb.

''I want you to know that being kind is overrated.''

After a deep breath - and, oh, the smells, dank and dark and ''alien'' as they were, they were ''hers'' - she finally started down the slick stairs. No light. No railing.

''I want to write my secret across your sky.''

No need.

''I want to watch you lose control.''

She knew these steps better than she knew the ones that went up and up and up forever.

''I want to watch you lose.''

And she knew they never went far enough.

''I want to know exactly what it's going to take.''

At the bottom, her feet hit water. A shallow layer, perhaps a quarter of an inch - but it was enough. The dungeons were a great and sprawling place, filled with chambers - some with bars, some with iron doors - that contained any of a number of ''things''. ''Her'' things. They were fine before Qhyluth. They weren't so ''active''. But, now, they clattered and howled in their cages, each of them with a name she knew by heart. They scraped and screamed and she walked through those dark, moist halls with no need for illumination.

''I want to see you insert yourself into glory.''

And then there was light. Sickly and green-yellow, the hue of Qhyluth's eyes when he was distressed. It spread over the walls, shaped into obscene patterns and unnatural glyphs that made her stomach turn over and over again for the sight of them. How deep did his touch reach? How far did the corruption go?

''I want your touches to scar me so I'll know where you've been.''

She didn't want to know.

''I want you to watch when I go down in flames.''

She had to know.

''I want a list of atrocities done in your name.''

She moved further. The things within shrieked and howled and struggled; she silenced them with an acid whisper and a dark look. They know. They ''knew''. She pressed onward and to another door, a deeper door, a door that was not touched by the irradiated phosphoresence. She pushed on it and it groaned open. In, then.

''I want to reach my hand into the dark and feel what reaches back.''

The ''other'' was there. Still there. Still coiled. Still nameless. Still sleeping.

''I want to remember when my nightmares were clearer.''

Ulyana breathed a shuddery sigh of relief and eased the door shut again with a barely audible click. She pressed her fingers to the door and began to draw in the muck and foulness. It was a symbol, a twisted version of the ones Qhyluth had given her. A shattered shape that trembled when she finished it.

''I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open.''

She knelt to jam cloth into the space between the door and floor.

''I want to taste my own kind.''

Her stomach twisted when she realized how damp that cloth was.

''I want to be wrapped in cold wet sheets to see if it's different on this side.''

''He'' was there. Within. Nearby.

''I want you to come on strong.''

She rose and turned and began to walk back, taking her time to scrub his light from her walls.

''I want to leave you out in the cold.''

Darkness followed as she moved.

''I want to throw you.''

She felt him slithering through the halls. She stopped. Listened.

''I want you to know I know.''

Closer. Closer still.

''I want to know if you read me.''

She shut her eyes, reached out her hands and ''felt''.

''I want to swing with my eyes shut and see what I hit.''

Her fingers struck spongy, squamous flesh that quivered at the contact. He tried to wrap around her. She tensed. She ''knew''.

''I want to know just how much you hate me so I can predict what you'll do.''

He tightened his grip. She tightened hers. Skin split. Ichor mixed with blood and tainted the water. Green and red spread in blossoms on his skin; on hers.

''I want you to know the wounds are self-inflicted.''

She ''pulled'' and he - no, ''He'' - followed.

''I want a controlling interest.''

Back down the newly darkened hall to the ''other''. Back to the place ''She'' feared and loved the most.

''I want to be somewhere beautiful when I die.''

''He'' peeled the cloth back with a nameless appendage that quivered.

''I want to be your secret hater.''

''She'' opened the door - and the sigul glowed, strange and blue and ''warm''.

''I want to stop destroying you but I can't.''

''He'' never wanted Ulyana - and ''She'' never wanted Qhyluth.

''And I want and I want and I want and I will always be hungry.''

''He'' slithered in - and in that wishful place where no barriers resided between them, between ''Him'' or ''Her'', ''they'' embraced.

''And I want and I want and I want.''
}}

Logs:Corruption

2015-09-20T22:57:22Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth |what=Ulyana has a revelation. |where=Nowhere |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=14 |month=11 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015...."

{{Log
|who=Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth
|what=Ulyana has a revelation.
|where=Nowhere
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.20
|quote=And I want and I want and I want.
|weather=Immaterial.
|type=Log
|ooc=Lyrics from: Recoil's "Want"
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|log=It was days after the flight that she saw it.

''I want to know how it will end.''

A crack in the bedrock beneath the tower.

''I want to be sure of what it will cost.''

A space where water flowed ''up'' and ''in''.

''I want to strangle the stars for all they promised me.''

He never wanted the tower.

''I want to keep you alive so there is always the possibility of murder later.''

He wanted something else.

''I want to be there when you learn the cost of desire.''

Her stomach twisted.

''I want you to understand that my malevolence is just a way to win.''

She fled into the tower and sought out the great, iron-clad door that lead into the dark place within. Her fingers hesitated at the lock. Trembled. She bit her lower lip hard enough to make it bleed in both flesh and mind. It was her. It was only her. But what had he done? How much of him made it inside?

''I want the name of the ruiner.''

How much of ''her'' did ''he'' see?

''I want matches in case I ahve to suddenly burn.''

She wrenched the lock open and heaved the great door open. She stood at the mouth of the darkness, arms spread and palms on either side of the jamb.

''I want you to know that being kind is overrated.''

After a deep breath - and, oh, the smells, dank and dark and ''alien'' as they were, they were ''hers'' - she finally started down the slick stairs. No light. No railing.

''I want to write my secret across your sky.''

No need.

''I want to watch you lose control.''

She knew these steps better than she knew the ones that went up and up and up forever.

''I want to watch you lose.''

And she knew they never went far enough.

''I want to know exactly what it's going to take.''

At the bottom, her feet hit water. A shallow layer, perhaps a quarter of an inch - but it was enough. The dungeons were a great and sprawling place, filled with chambers - some with bars, some with iron doors - that contained any of a number of ''things''. ''Her'' things. They were fine before Qhyluth. They weren't so ''active''. But, now, they clattered and howled in their cages, each of them with a name she knew by heart. They scraped and screamed and she walked through those dark, moist halls with no need for illumination.

''I want to see you insert yourself into glory.''

And then there was light. Sickly and green-yellow, the hue of Qhyluth's eyes when he was distressed. It spread over the walls, shaped into obscene patterns and unnatural glyphs that made her stomach turn over and over again for the sight of them. How deep did his touch reach? How far did the corruption go?

''I want your touches to scar me so I'll know where you've been.''

She didn't want to know.

''I want you to watch when I go down in flames.''

She had to know.

''I want a list of atrocities done in your name.''

She moved further. The things within shrieked and howled and struggled; she silenced them with an acid whisper and a dark look. They know. They ''knew''. She pressed onward and to another door, a deeper door, a door that was not touched by the irradiated phosphoresence. She pushed on it and it groaned open. In, then.

''I want to reach my hand into the dark and feel what reaches back.''

The ''other'' was there. Still there. Still coiled. Still nameless. Still sleeping.

''I want to remember when my nightmares were clearer.''

Ulyana breathed a shuddery sigh of relief and eased the door shut again with a barely audible click. She pressed her fingers to the door and began to draw in the muck and foulness. It was a symbol, a twisted version of the ones Qhyluth had given her. A shattered shape that trembled when she finished it.

''I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open.''

She knelt to jam cloth into the space between the door and floor.

''I want to taste my own kind.''

Her stomach twisted when she realized how damp that cloth was.

''I want to be wrapped in cold wet sheets to see if it's different on this side.''

''He'' was there. Within. Nearby.

''I want you to come on strong.''

She rose and turned and began to walk back, taking her time to scrub his light from her walls.

''I want to leave you out in the cold.''

Darkness followed as she moved.

''I want to throw you.''

She felt him slithering through the halls. She stopped. Listened.

''I want you to know I know.''

Closer. Closer still.

''I want to know if you read me.''

She shut her eyes, reached out her hands and ''felt''.

''I want to swing with my eyes shut and see what I hit.''

Her fingers struck spongy, squamous flesh that quivered at the contact. He tried to wrap around her. She tensed. She ''knew''.

''I want to know just how much you hate me so I can predict what you'll do.''

He tightened his grip. She tightened hers. Skin split. Ichor mixed with blood and tainted the water. Green and red spread in blossoms on his skin; on hers.

''I want you to know the wounds are self-inflicted.''

She ''pulled'' and he - no, ''He'' - followed.

''I want a controlling interest.''

Back down the newly darkened hall to the ''other''. Back to the place ''She'' feared and loved the most.

''I want to be somewhere beautiful when I die.''

''He'' peeled the cloth back with a nameless appendage that quivered.

''I want to be your secret hater.''

''She'' opened the door - and the sigul glowed, strange and blue and ''warm''.

''I want to stop destroying you but I can't.''

''He'' never wanted Ulyana - and ''She'' never wanted Qhyluth.

''And I want and I want and I want and I will always be hungry.''

''He'' slithered in - and in that wishful place where no barriers resided between them, between ''Him'' or ''Her'', ''they'' embraced.

''And I want and I want and I want.''
}}

Logs:Float

2015-09-20T20:51:02Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth |what=Post-flight, Ulyana and Qhyluth go swimming. |where=Close to the Ground Weyr, High Reaches Weyr; Secret Cove |involves=High Reaches..."

{{Log
|who=Ulyana, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth
|what=Post-flight, Ulyana and Qhyluth go swimming.
|where=Close to the Ground Weyr, High Reaches Weyr; Secret Cove
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.20
|quote=<< No. >>
|weather=Stormy - then clear
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|log=She made it back to her weyr without difficulty, though climbing up the ladder left her light-headed all over again. By the time she made it into the weyr itself, she was drained and uneasy, her stomach twisted up into knots all over again.

Qhyluth finally emerged from the lake to land on the ledge, dripping with water from both lake and sky. He lingered outside, eyes gone pale - nearly gray, but no quite. He gurgled and, at long last, pressed his head past the canvas and into the weyr.

''She'' was on his couch.

''She'' was not well.

Concern washed color from his hide and the blue crept inside, tail dragging and head held low. ''She'' didn't look at him and he knew why. All he could offer ''Her'' were images of warm waters, distant waters, waters that were not his own. Water reflected on his water, with sunlight fighting against sickly moonlight cast from twin sickles in his clouded mental skies.

''She'' pressed a palm to his muzzle and pulled ''Herself'' upright. There was no need for straps. Not for ''Her''. Not for ''them''.

''She'' gave him the image - and he took it.

---

They came out somewhere in the South; familiar to them both. It had no name, this cove; it was a secret place that they'd visited a few times, the coordinates shared by a fellow wingrider.

So, perhaps, not nearly so secret, but they'd never encountered another soul while they were there before - and this was no exception. His hide stung where claws and teeth had caught him, but it mattered little. He lowered himself down and urged ''Her'' to dismount.

Ulyana did, eventually, slide off of him, but only to curl up on the sands, gagging anew with the shift in temperature and height and everything else. When she was finally able to gather her wits again, Qhyluth started to nudge at her, aiming her for the water. She stalled him, but only long enough to fumble a couple of candied ginger pieces from one of her pockets. She sucked on the rough pieces long and hard, trying to scrub out the ''taste'' that seemed too stubborn to go away.

She was never much for swimming. She learned how to keep herself from not dying in the water, but that was always the extent of it; he was the watery thing, she was to stay on the shore and keep watch.

He was not to be deterred.

Ulyana peeled her clothes off as she made her way to the water and, once she got there, she sank in as deeply as she could. He followed and pushed her along with a gentle nudge here and there to take her further and further out. She didn't think. Couldn't.

The taste remained on her tongue, even while she ran the ginger bits in her mouth hard enough to make the roof of her mouth bleed.

She sucked harder.

But it wasn't that. It never was. Something else gnawed at her bones and pulled at her heart and she fought against it until, finally, they were in waters too deep for her - and just right for ''him''.

''I cannot give you what you want.''

He curved around, caught her in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

''I cannot be what you need.''

He gurgled, low and throaty, and tried to nudge her onto his neck.

''I am sorry. ''

<< No. >> It was no moaning and distant sycophant that answered; the voice that spoke was terrible and glorious and maddening all at once. It was rusted razorwire dragged over steel; acid and glass rubbed into her mind. Her teeth ached; her head throbbed. << No. >> came again. Softer. Fainter. Weaker. Painful, still, but better. Slightly.

''You need someone to love you. I do not know-''

<< No. >>

And she was on his neck, hugging a jagged neckridge, eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears. And she cried, silent at first but louder and louder when he reminded her in his way that they were alone.

''I cannot...''

But he pushed back against the denials gently; a warm wash of water licked her feet in the flesh and in the mind. Soothing. Loving. ''Showing''. The waters embraced her mind as she embraced his neck.

''She'' cried and he knew that ''She'' understood.

<< Yes, >> was a sycophant, sighing on a breeze.

''She'' slid back into the water with him. ''She'' needed him to keep ''Her'' afloat. ''She'' needed ''Him''.

Finally, ''She'' understood.

<< Yes. >>
|Categories=Post-Flight Logs
}}

Logs:Troubled Tithe Train

2015-09-20T20:22:05Z

Weylaughn:

{{Log
|who=Edric, Hattie, Kh'tyr, Parli, Rhiannon, X'vin, Dee/ST, X'vin{{!}}Besmernyth, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, Parli{{!}}Swaronth
|what=The Boll tithe train needs help! Fortians respond.
|where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr, and on the road to Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=11
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.19
|quote=<< Any who would assist in bringing the tithe to the Weyr and in aiding those accompanying the train should gather in the southern end of the bowl for a quick departure. >>
|weather=Stormy, sleety, rainy.
|mentions=Erinta, Jenilynn
|type=Log
|ooc=[https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/1B7k5fU1VTaqTQrvjA4Edldp1dSTfo3smogZ1o8jkhBk/edit?usp=sharing Because visuals are helpful!]
|icons=edric business.jpg, Hattie Hmm.png, kh'tyr hand.jpg, Parli Really.png, x'vin isnotamused.png, Hattie Elaruth.png, x'vin bes tsaroflife.png, Swaronth Glare.png
|log=As the autumn deepens, the storms that are a usual part of this time of the turn have begun to roll in. Today's which features not only dark clouds, winds and rain, but also is interspersed with sleet and not-quite-snow. There's a tension in the Weyr with the last of the autumn tithes expected in the morning now running late.

It's late afternoon by the time the train is heard from and that word comes by way of bedraggled messenger now entering the living cavern with one Assistant Headwoman, Rhiannon, at his side. The messenger is a youth of fifteen, his clothes soaked to the bone and the lad looking like his knees might give out from him given half the chance. His eyes search wildly among the faces before looking to Rhiannon like she might know what to do better, he being the Holder on Weyr turf.

Towards the back of the cavern, the Weyrwoman sits towards the end of one of the long tables, half a dozen of the caverns staff - primarily those whose responsibility it is to make sure that the larger caverns are kept tidy - sat with her, and all but one of them taking notes from the conversation being held. None of them look particularly pleased, it has to be said, nor does Hattie herself, but then, arguably autumn and winter threaten more work than the summer months. As she takes a breath, hesitating, her gaze catches on Rhiannon, then slides to the boy, his state processed with a moment's concerned silence.

Of course, Edric is there - surveying the latest edible offerings with an expression that's wholly unreadable. The consultant appears content enough with his tea, in the end, and he turns away from the food to return to whatever he was doing. But movement catches his eye and he cuts a glance toward the latest arrivals with a flattening of his mouth into a bloodless line. He does not approach - but he makes himself ''available'', which is significant in its own right. There is no need to glance at notes or any other such thing; like as not, the narrowing of his eyes speaks to a sense of ''knowing'' - which, conveniently, is also his job.

Somewhere in the cavern, slouched down in a chair, is Parli. Swaronth is somewhere in the bowl, probably; or maybe he's eating. Whatever. The newly transferred and now-Flinty-brownrider is currently buried in a book while a plate of picked over food and cold klah (probably from this morning, to be totally honest) sprawls over her chosen table. She's alone, which is probably because she's given the ol' stink eye to anyone that's tried to sit with her thus far.

Rhiannon looks around the Living Cavern, looking in as much a hurry as the messenger, just perhaps a little less wet. Her gaze reaches the Weyrwoman, and with a relieved expression she tabs the messenger on the shoulder and heads in her direction. "Weyrwoman, I'm sorry to bother you. But we have news about problems with the tithe from Boll, and I was sent to find help." She's not talking quietly, so anybody nearby could have heard. She takes a few steps to a table with drinks and pours some klah and holds it out for the drenched messenger to hopefully strengthen him.

By afternoon X'vin has settled in for a late lunch and mug of something warm. He doesn't seem terribly perplexed by the late tithes, like so many are with their nervous fidgets, at least not until that half-drowned feline of a holder comes dragging himself in. X'vin's head quirks to the side and something darker briefly touches his smile as twirls his hooked mug on a finger, he murmurs, "Excellent." If he's within range of Edric, filling the mug but ''passing'' deliberately to angle apparently for Parli's table, so be it.

One former Igenite is having a bad day, really. What former Igenite ''wouldn't be'' in this kind of weather? Still, it's improved by klah which means Kh'tyr's arriving somewhere near the newest bit of action to claim a drink for himself.

"We'll finish this later," Hattie tells those she's been conversing with, and all but one, who happens to also be the one who's not taken any notes, quickly disperse to return to their duties, leaving that last soul to linger and rather obviously wait for the latest news (gossip). The goldrider stands, as if to more clearly invite the messenger to sit, asking of him and Rhiannon both, "I think we're going to need to know what kind of problems and what kind of help before any of us can be of any use. I imagine sending assistance won't be a problem, but it's no good us turning up and just being bodies amongst chaos."

The messenger's too-wide eyes take in the Weyrwoman when Rhiannon addresses her, "M-ma'am," could be stutter for cold or for rank. He gratefully accepts the drink from the assistant before refocusing on the woman, "They're in a bad way, ma'am. Lead wagon's broke. They're tryin' t'maneuver th'others 'round it, but they sent me on t'get help before the cold took all the vegetables and ruined whatever else the oilskins can't protect. Train ain't meant for this kind of weather," which probably means the Bollians should've left sooner, but... certainly, that's not a decision of this lad's doing. "They're 'bout an hour's hard ride south of here." South, too, then of Fort Hold. "Please, ma'am," is pleaded with a more personal note. Those are ''his people'' out there. Only then does he drink, but the seat has been foregone his frame rigid in a way that seems to expect he'll be going right back out into the growing storm.

A faint smile teases at the corners of Edric's mouth when X'vin passes by. His response is little more than a shallow inclination of his head, that fleeting smile forced into neutrality again. He has work to tend to. By the time Rhiannon approaches the Weyrwoman, Edric is ''there'', but not precisely by the woman's side. He's not the Headwoman, after all, but the tithes are still his business - at least until the end of the month. An eyebrow lifts just slightly at the explanation and he purses his lips with a sidelong look to Hattie. Unless she has another suggestion, he intones, "Would you like me to arrange for a crew here to be ready for when the tithe ''does'' arrive?" Since she'll be busy, or so the implication goes.

Parli picks at some bit of pastry or another, sighs, and flips to another page in her book. It's only when she's aware of someone in authority approaching - kind of - that she blows out a breath, rolls her eyes, and forces herself to sit upright. The book remains out, of course, and she's not about to look up to see the approaching Presence of Doom Itself, but she's aware. The klah is sampled with a sour expression and she puts the mug down and pushes it out of immediate reach. "Gross," is muttered. The drama unfolding elsewhere in the cavern is, well, elsewhere.

Rhiannon seems ready to defer any decisions to the Weyrwoman on what to do next, but she does add, "The Headwoman has been informed, and she sent me and the other assistants out to inform the Weyr." She looks around at the others who seem to be paying attention. "There were mention of volunteers to help the tithe train," and then back to the Weyrwoman, "and if I can help then I'd like to."

"I ''know''," X'vin says cheerily to Parli, perhaps the only person still smiling in the caverns now. It's just what his face does. His eyes follow Rhiannon and her charge, levelling on Hattie very briefly before he sits down at the chair across from Flint's newest brownrider. His eyes are unfocused as he takes a drink from his mug, and then, "I hope you've had enough time to settle." Small talk, his gaze skipped over her shoulder - between Edric, Rhiannon, Hattie. That boy. "May have work to do."

"I hope you're not afraid of dragons or heights, because it looks like you're going to be helping with directions once anyone is near enough to your estimated location," Hattie tells the boy a little dryly. "We'll assist, but your Lady needs to be informed as well." Then: "We'll handle that too." To Rhiannon, she says, "If you wish to help, I suggest you go and get changed. It doesn't sound like it's going to be easy going." Only then does her gaze settle on the Steward. "I want you to work with Erinta and make sure that there are not only hands available to deal with the tithe, but that the infirmary is ready to deal with anything that any of Boll's people require," she tells Edric. "Whether the latter is needed or not, we should be prepared." Which could just as well be 'she needs the practice', but with Rhiannon there she doesn't undermine the Headwoman aloud.

Dragon> The slender, cold fingers of Besmernyth's mind are delicate in their reach, gentle but insistent; he doesn't wait for her to acknowledge him, when his breath of cold air carries, << We've riders there already. The Lady Boll will know soon enough. >> (To Elaruth from Besmernyth)

"Of course. The teams have been ready since this morning, but I suspect their focus has waned," Edric notes blandly and with a slight shake of his head at something or another. "I will make sure they're prepared to move quickly." Hattie's additional suggestions are taken with a thin, polite smile and a dip of his chin in concession. "Absolutely. The Infirmary, stores, and stables will be prepared for their arrival. Now, if you'll excuse me. We have further preparations to make." Subtle weight sits on that ''we'', Erinta implied if not named. There's a flicked glance askance to X'vin, one that's unreadable, and then he's gone to see that things are handled efficiently - and properly.

Parli's eyes narrow as X'vin sits. Not that it's effective or anything, but she does it anyway. She marks her place in the book, sets it in her lap, and pushes the picked at plate of pastries toward him with a slow, creeping motion. The eye contact she does provide is unwavering. "No, not really," is honest and deadpan with a healthy dose of slightly annoyed. "I was kind of hoping to get a few more naps in my bed before we had to do anything." Work? Oh, no. That's a filthy, filthy word to use around ''her''.

Though the messenger boy blanches slightly, he does say, "I'll manage, ma'am." The rest of the how to and what to do is out of his hands so he'll bend his head to drink deep for the fortifying that hot klah can do in the scant time between now and departing.

Rhiannon nods at the Weyrwoman. "Yes, ma'am." She seems interested in the plans made between Edric and the Weyrwoman, but since there's limited time she doesn't linger. She leaves through the Inner Caverns exit and returns a few minutes later changed into warmer clothing and a coat. She carries another coat over her arm, and holds it out to the messenger. "This will only be a little big, and it might be better than the one you've already soaking in." On her arm under the coat was a towel, which she also holds out to the messenger when he's ready.

Dragon> << Then they will request a meeting with the Weyrleaders once they have conveyed their message, >> is the quiet response, the mists of Elaruth's presence allowing only some of the chill to diffuse through and slip into her mind. It's not a question that she asks, but an order given, for all its gentleness. << And you will tell me when this is done. >> (To Besmernyth from Elaruth)

Dragon> A hanging hesitation, and in the chill there is the sense of a conference - elsewhere, away from her. But ultimately, Besmernyth's smooth tenor returns with acquiescence: << Of course. Would you like a rider to remain for communication? >> (To Elaruth from Besmernyth)

"Ah," X'vin says, rapping a knuckles on the table a couple times and laughing at her. It makes it sound stark, even if X'vin's clearly paying attention to what's happening. His tip of the head is minute for Edric, easily just a natural sway, but then his eyes drift down to make contact with Parli's as she adjusts. "You'll have plenty of time for naps, Parli. Just not today. I hope you've treated your leathers for the rain. A Flint rider should take that boy." It's a suggestion. A ''nudge''. A test.

Dragon> To Fort dragons, Elaruth is not ''loud'' when she reaches out to all the dragons of her Weyr, yet there is suddenly a quiet, but insistent voice there where before there might have been silence or the murmurings of the dragon community. << The tithe train from Boll requires urgent assistance, >> is an announcement impossible to escape from. << Any who would assist in bringing the tithe to the Weyr and in aiding those accompanying the train should gather in the southern end of the bowl for a quick departure. >> And that's where she'll be waiting, some of Citrine already gathered around her.

Dragon> << Thank you. >> There might be too much weight in those two words, as Elaruth takes a moment to adjust her voice and narrow in on one, rather than broadcast to many. << The more able would be best served assisting the train. We will send one of our own to remain at the Hold. >> Being one of Citrine, and thus often less likely to be able to do the heavier work required. A flicker of an apology follows, shallow waters brackish, meant for her earlier slip-up, though could be misinterpreted as for the latter of the matters. (To Besmernyth from Elaruth)

"My thanks, ma'am," is offered to the assistant by the messenger as he puts empty cup down and takes up the towel to give himself as much of a once-over as he can manage in limited time before donning the jacket and making to follow those heading for the bowl.

"Fine. I ''guess''." And that's that, then. Thanks X'vin. Parli pushes listlessly up from her seat and tucks her book into her jacket for the time being. One will hope that she has somewhere to put it later, because- oh, right, there isn't much later. "They're treated," is an eye-rolled afterthought, though there isn't a trace of malice in her voice; that would require effort. Sure enough, that nudge seems to suffice to get her moving. She's soon where the collection of messenger, Rhiannon, and Weyrwoman are gathered. "Swaronth and I can take him back and get the coordinates out to everyone," she cocks her head toward the messenger.

Kh'tyr's head cocks to the side as if listening to something faraway. The look on his face is resigned then so it can be little wonder that he starts buckling his flight jacket and making paces toward the bowl.

Dragon> To Elaruth, Besmernyth's displeasure is a brief thing, a snapping of someone walking too heavily on thin ice, but without the resulting shout of surprise or splash. It glosses and mends itself at once, and again comes his crisp agreement. << We will pull our riders from Boll. >> Which is a very specific statement, though he volunteers nothing further on it -- and several moments later, as promised, his mist drops low. << The Lady is aware. Flint gathers in the bowl. >>

Hattie lifts her voice to call, "Well, you heard her," in the manner of one used to being heard without outright ''shouting''. For those who ''haven't'' heard Elaruth, she adds, "Anyone who'll assist Boll's tithe train should find meet our riders in the bowl." ''Where'' must be obvious by now, given the growing collection of dragons. She gathers her notes up from the table and hugs them to her chest, telling Parli, "Then you had better get going. We'll all be ready to follow soon." She glances to the messenger, then back to the brownrider. "Don't let him freeze," is lower, yet not entirely out of hearing range. As for her, she's off to do as she advised Rhiannon: to change, and to gather Elaruth's straps before the group departs.

Flint is a hard wing to track, often scattered to the winds as it is; even so, when X'vin stands, fingers nimbly working the fastens of his jacket, several other riders with matching patches follow suit and are quicker to make their way for the bowl, where their dragons are gathering in loose formation, shaking their wings and grumbling in the rain. "Thank you, Parli," X'vin says after her, pleased, and lingers only long enough to make sure the new Telgari rider does as she was bidden before he turns to stride out and gather his ranks.

Rhiannon nods at the Weyrwoman's words, and makes her way out to the bowl to join the other volunteers. She buttons the warm coat she grabbed for herself as she walks.
----

When the dragons blink into the storming skies above the road thanks to the visuals sent back by Swaronth, the weather-shrouded wagon is difficult to make out. Sleet and rain mix to make equal parts of the misery being endured below. The bulk of the wagons can be seen in a low pass, the head one, indeed, stilled in its tracks and the farthest two back maneuvered to allow the second in the line to try to make it 'round the first but in this particular section of road with the sparse trees on either side seems to be making that impossible without risking a wagon wheel stuck in the mud. There's movement among the train, though, so it seems hands haven't been idle in the time the messenger's been gone, but little more can be made out from the sky.

The nearest convenient place to land is a clearing on the west side through those trees that aren't set near enough to one another to make a wood, just close enough to be problematic for any dragon trying to land closer. It seems the dragonmen will have to approach on foot (through the mud), ''lucky dragonmen''.

>---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 3 by X'vin >----------------------<
10 7 3
>-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---<

>---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 3 by Rhiannon >-------------------<
4 6 7
>-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---<

>---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 3 by Parli >----------------------<
3 7 1
>-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---<

ST> (To X'vin): It might have been missed entirely were it not for Besmernyth's position in the formation but as you come over the road, a brief lightening of the rain affords you a brief glimpse of the people below. More toward the front of the train with that broken wagon, others scattered along the rest and toward the back an unexpected amount of ''movement''. Maybe they're just trying to move the livestock along, but it's... odd when so much of the manpower is focused on that front pair of wagons. 

ST> (To Rhiannon): It's hard to see much through the sleet and rain, but just as the dragon you ride on moves to make landing, you hear a shout. It could just be someone urging on an oxen, but it has a distinctly startled tone. With all the wind, maybe you only think you heard it? Still, something doesn't seem right. 

ST> (To Parli): With as long as Swaronth's been in the area, you've had the opportunity to circle, largely concealed from the eyes that aren't looking for you to be there ''anyway''. The efforts of getting the second wagon around the first seem to be drawing on more manpower, but still there are a number of guards spread farther back along the train. For safety maybe? Who can say. The messenger behind you is anxious and shivering. It's a bad day to be out and about. 

<< There, >> Besmernyth says almost as once when they appear in the sky, his scope of the area made quickly and a landing zone determined, and the image relays through his wing - and beyond it, to others - quickly. Plenty of people gathered near the front of a caravan, and notably, << Land there, >> with a sense of authority that perhaps is odd for him. There are more riders now that they've arrived than were gathered in the bowl -- though, notably, Flint is still very short of a wing; where the other half might be is anyone's guess, and probably not close to the mind as he angles for a neat landing among the trees. If two of the greens make a pass around the rear, for a full evaluation to complete their image of the caravan in the darkness, they can't be blamed for thoroughness.

Rhiannon is now safely on the ground, and seems ready to get to work. "Thank you, Wingleader," she says to X'vin for giving her a ride. She squints into the rain, and doesn't wait to be given an order, and wades into the action to lend what help she can. She turns suddenly, as if she's heard something from that direction, and starts trudging through the mud.

Lucky messenger. He'll be kept warm with a borrowed jacket and helmet and gloves snitched from ''somewhere'' or another. He'll just have to endure riding on a big ol' brown that, frankly, doesn't give a damn if his landing is a little on the rough side. The mahogany-hued dragon will land - once the all clear is given - and Parli remains mounted for the time being. She twists around and reaches to knock, gently, on the messenger's helmet. "Stay here until we figure out what to do with you, I guess." And it's easier to find that out via telepathy, although it takes a bit to rouse the beast to actually ask: << What's the plan? >> This is angled mostly to his new Wingleader, but traces of his musk-and-whiskey voice will inevitably reach out to touch all the dragon minds in the area.

>---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 2 by X'vin >----------------------<
4 7
>-------------------------------------------------------------< Success! >---<

Elaruth remains aloft even after most of the arriving party has landed, her path one that takes in her lazy circles around the immediate area, currents coasted along to keep her on an even, steady path that involves the minimum of effort. With the amount of dragons landing nearby and all those trees, perhaps it's safety concerns that keep her in the air and watching the dragons of her flock, or maybe she just wishes to take in the bigger picture. << Keep them all from trying to solve the problem in different ways, so that we might deal with the lead wagon first. Report any injuries. >>

ST> (To X'vin): One of the greens reports just a lot of gross storm, and do they ''really'' need to be out here? The second, however, has a touch that holds confusion and uncertainty. << They're shouting, >> she seems fairly sure, << for help? >> is less sure. It's not hard to put that together with the direction that Rhiannon turned, toward the end of the wagon train rather than the head. 

Elaruth remains aloft even after most of the arriving party has landed, her path one that takes in her lazy circles around the immediate area, currents coasted along to keep her on an even, steady path that involves the minimum of effort. With the amount of dragons landing nearby and all those trees, perhaps it's safety concerns that keep her in the air and watching the dragons of her flock, or maybe she just wishes to take in the bigger picture. << Keep them all from trying to solve the problem in different ways, so that we might deal with the lead wagon first. Report any injuries. >>

<< Because you have to, >> is clearly an overflow of private conversation, and one of Flint's greens flinches in the air before she angles her wings and flips back around to try and land with the group, her rider careful to not worry any of the livestock any more than they already are. The second green fares better, it seems, and her pretty mindvoice touches them all, though her words are for Besmernyth and Elaruth, particularly: << There are more back here. And animals. >> A wistful sigh. <> And X'vin surveys from his ground vantage only long enough to signal and provide Swaronth and the others a firm answer, << X'vin says to move on foot. Unless there is another landing zone in the rear. >>

There is movement up ahead as riders and weyrfolk draw through the trees. "Can't do!" can be heard shouted from one of the guards by the second wagon, audible to those heading toward the north end, and toward the south? The animals are scattering amid shouts rising in volume and desperation.

Elaruth waits until the last of Fort's dragons has landed before she begins to make a descent of her own, angling for a spot that brings her a little too near to the edge of the clearing and those trees for her broad wings to be entirely safe, yet she doesn't ask anyone to get out of the way and move for ''her''. As her paws touch the ground, there's a soft, off-key noise from her that doesn't sound like it can herald anything but pain, though there's no fuss beyond it. Even once Hattie has dismounted, she remains where she is, one side kept facing away from the dragons gathered. << Prioritise the people, then the livestock, >> she requests. Her rider stares up at her for a long moment, then heads off through the trees.

>---< NorConMUSH: Dice Roll 10-sided die x 1 by Rhiannon >-------------------<
4
>-------------------------------------------------------------< Failure. >---<

Rhiannon trudges through the mud and comes to where the animals have scattered and she looks for someone in charge of them. In lieu of actually figuring out who that is in the chaos, she just calls out. "What have you got that can get a hold of these beasts?" She eyes a chicken that runs past her and ignores it for the moment, perhaps figuring out that chasing a chicken in the mud wouldn't do much good. "Now I know why our caravan was out of this area before this time of year. I'd want to miss this weather too."

<< Obviously, >> is dry for Elaruth's order, and there is an icy prickle. And X'vin, conveniently, remains on Rhiannon's heels, the wingleader clearing the trees eventually, if not the mud, since the road is churned up. The chicken gets an eye for it's annoying clucking, but the wingleader's eyes are in search of someone who has that ''air'' -- the person in charge of this catastrophe, probably.

It's possible that Rhiannon might not recognize what she's seeing when she arrives near those livestock, what with the rain and the worried animals. The green above has the distance and the weather to contend with, but proximity for the assistant affords obviousness: there are men, fighting among the animals. Others, digging into the last wagon of the train the oilskins thrown back and items being removed and handed to others. It's more than bad weather besetting the tithe train and without quick action, the Weyr may be out whatever goods are being wrested from them judging by the way that one man after another slips into the wooded area on the north side of the road.

<< Fight! >> is a delighted blue. A blue whose rider is too young to have taught him that not all fights mean excitement and gambling marks with good drinks and good company.

The incoming aren't the only ones beginning to pick up on what's happening and some guards who were helping toward the head of the caravan are responding to shouts toward the back, though slogging through the mud on the road will take time.

Rhiannon yells "Bandits!" at the top of her voice when she sees what is happening, just in case not everyone has realized what's going on. She hesitates on what to do personally, since it appears she doesn't have any weapons. The Weyrwoman said to change, not to arm. She looks around and finds a loose rock nearby. And while it probably isn't the best thing to do when you are unarmed amongst bandits, she throws the small rock at one of the men leaving with the Weyr's belongings.

Besmernyth earns himself the ash-tainted weight of Elaruth's displeasure for the quality of his response, the commanding presence given her colour one that settles in the centre of her focus; a silent warning, whether one of her own, or with other origins. A decade or so ago might have seen Hattie head straight for the back of the train and the fray, but she today she hikes the knife in her right boot free as she heads in that direction, her approach more cautious than a headlong rush.

At some point or another, the messenger is helped down - perhaps to the lad's relief, frankly, given how agitated Swaronth himself is. Too many trees; not enough room to move in. He's a big guy. Big guys need room. Parli, meanwhile, just stays strapped in while everyone else is off doing... well, whatever they're doing, because she has no clue what's happening at this point. It's just wet and chaotic and she's not about to add another chef to the kitchen, so to speak - at least until that word << Fight! >> is kicked out there. That gets Swaronth's attention and he swings his head around in search of the source. He pushes through the trees as best he can - but, it seems, he doesn't need to go ''too'' far before trouble manifests. One unfortunate fellow finds himself staring down the barrel - er, muzzle - of the brown. "Ugh," is all Parli can manage before she's dismounting with startling speed given her otherwise bored manner about things. The poor bastard will get caught one way or another - and Parli (okay, let's be honest, Swaronth) will keep him "occupied" until someone or something comes to take care of the situation.

<< Bandits! >> corrects the Flint green primly in a flash of lightning, and there are several beats before she realizes exactly what that means. << Oh no. >> She's too large to angle back around for a landing, though she tries before vaulting in frustration to the rest of her wing, where her rider - like most of Flint, has changed tack from surveying damage to drawing hidden weapons and slipping around caravans. "A ''rock?" X'vin asks, exasperated, as two more wingriders take to fleet foot and run into the shadows after the bandits. Cool. Aloof, Besmernyth asks, << Should we prioritize people over our tithes, my queen? >>

Rhiannon's rock sails true. Some might call it a lucky shot or perhaps the assistant's aim is just that good. It hits one of the men now loaded down with a pack and aiming to slip into the trees to the north, jarring him badly enough to go to a knee where a man dressed just like him snags him into a grapple, "Have you taken leave of your senses, Bart?" is demanded. One guard to another? And yet... the others there making their way away and grappling with less formally attired men who are just as wet and tired looking are surely in Bollian guard uniforms.

Rhiannon shrugs at X'vin's comments. "It was better than nothing." She wipes her muddy hand (the hand she used to throw the rock) on her coat. Now that the riders have gotten word and more experienced people are prepared to take on the bandits, she changes direction and looks for any injured people who need help.

It's hard to say as the melee increases to include the riders and weyrfolk as well as guards coming from the front of the caravan which of the Bollians is friend and which is foe. Even if one can distinguish by who's carrying items away from the tithe train alone, can the rest be trusted?

There's patience in Elaruth's reply, if the same weight that's been there since she landed. << To the best of your ability, >> she says slowly and surely, << keep your riders to preventing ''anyone'' from leaving. >> As futile as that might be, by now. It's by chance more than anything that Hattie finds herself with someone clearly ''fleeing'' in her path, and though she might not have weight or true strength on her side, she's well-trained enough in combat and how to use that ever-present knife that he ends up with the blade pressed to his throat before she shoves him into the waiting grasp of one of Hematite. "''Don't'' send him back to Boll," she instructs in a growl. She doesn't trek any further into the mess, but turns and begins to head back to her queen. << We go to the Hold, >> Elaruth shares with all. << Bring ''all'' to the Weyr. >> People, innocent of intent or those otherwise who might be caught, goods - everything.

Rhiannon's return quip is missed when her rock lands true, and X'vin is surprisingly quick on the heels of his riders from there. Their path is quickly cut towards him - and the man who is addressing him. If they're not quick, they'll be set upon by Flint's riders, as are several up and down the road where they'd scattered out to offer their aid. Some get away -- there is a furious roar from a blue when his rider loses footing and, consequently, a large load of goods and the man carrying them into the trees -- but there seem to be no injuries or heavy mishaps. When X'vin wraps his fist in the collar of the fallen man, his smile is more ''wicked'' than pleasant. His words are too friendly. "Going for a ride, my friend. What was it? Bart, is that what he said? Bart." Beat, a little too long. "You're riding with ''me''. It'll be ''fun''."

The speaker seems as confused as anyone about what's happening. Only the look to X'vin's shoulder seems to silence protests into a, "Sir," of (perhaps grudging) respect. There are other mishaps as men are apprehended, some putting up more of a fight than others, but the dragonriders and weyrfolk outnumber the lot still with the tithe train. It takes time and effort but in the end, the majority of the tithe is transported from wagons to dragons and the tithe is delivered unconventionally to the Weyr. The only ones left to the mercy of the storm are a trio of herders and a pair of dragonriders as guards, and whatever men managed to slip the riders sent to circle wider in hopes of catching them before giving up the chase.
----

'''Bollian Tithes and... Captives?'''

''The Boll tithes didn't arrive on the morning of day 11, month 11 as expected. When a single rider dispatched from the tithe train arrived in late afternoon to beg help for the train stuck south of the Weyr and Hold and facing a grim storm of sleet and rain, the Weyr responded. Elaruth led volunteer weyrfolk and riders including half of Flint wing to the broken down tithe train.''

''Upon arriving, however, they had not only the storm to contend with but chaos of another sort. Accounts vary, but it seems that some of the guards were trying to make off with what they could carry of the Weyr's tithes when the riders arrived. Not all the guards or accompanying drivers and herdsmen seemed in on whatever plan was afoot, but anyone who traveled with the tithe who could be collected was along with as much of the tithe as could be managed and brought back to the Weyr. The only outstanding Bollians arrive the following day, herding what beasts could be wrangled back together after the storm, escorted by the pair of Flint riders left behind to keep guard over them through it.''
}}
[[Category:Fight_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:First or Worst

2015-09-20T19:44:21Z

Weylaughn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ulyana, Telavi, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth, Telavi{{!}}Solith |what=Solith rises. Qhyluth catches. Then it just gets awkward. |where=Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involv..."

{{Log
|who=Ulyana, Telavi, Ulyana{{!}}Qhyluth, Telavi{{!}}Solith
|what=Solith rises. Qhyluth catches. Then it just gets awkward.
|where=Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.19
|quote="I've never had someone who hated girls before."
|weather=Stormy.
|type=Log
|ooc=Feel free to change as desired.
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon telavi eyebrow.jpg, Icon telavi solith girlofair-solith.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|desc=>---< Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#466RJs) >-------------------------------<

This broad ledge is dappled with bright light in the morning and commands
a lovely view of the eastern end of the bowl, including the lake and the
trees that dot the shoreline. Reached by a flight of stone steps that
climb up from the bowl floor, the ledge is relatively low, an easy jump
down to the ground; possibly its selection was a safety precaution, so
anyone stumbling out the wrong way after a flight would be unlikely to
break his or her neck. Within the weyr itself is a comfortably-sized
dragon wallow, rarely used but swept clean nonetheless.

The cavern broadens as it stretches back away from the entrance to reveal
a neatly made double-sized bed pushed up against the back wall, a press at
its foot with an extra blanket folded on top of it and two chairs standing
guard to either side of the hearth. A rectangular table lurks against the
side wall, kept stocked with a pitcher of water and a basket of seasonal
fruits. The weyr is well-lit and kept immaculately clean, the refreshing
scents of citron-infused sweetsand mingling with the tang of herbs.
|log=It's been a long few days, except when it's not; Tela's kept less and less track of time, airy and light and ''cheerful''. She couldn't be let loose, of course; once they set her to spend time with the aunties, which entertained her and them for a few hours until she wandered off and never came back again. Nobody did that today. Today she ''wandered'', as increasingly tactile as Solith, the green glowing in mood if not yet in hide. Endorphin-bringers, both of them. Tela was nudged to eat lunch, to eat dinner, but it's during the latter that she had to put her fork down because Solith was... was... doing what she does and doing it so well. Tela made it to the guest weyr through the winds whipping at her dress, and there found that bedpost to rub her back up against, innocent and shameless as Solith bled a beast out. Solith, innocent and hungry and soon to be hunted, raising a gasp from her rider when at last she, glowing, took on the rising winds and flew. "Beautiful." Telavi, wonderingly. Soft. Solith glows, and sideslips a differently-hungry brown, and whispers her way into the deepening storm.

In her weyr, Ulyana sits and continues writing in The Book - mismatched hide patched into a surreal cover, the interior pages packed full of nonsensical words and strange symbols and stranger beasts that will blissfully never see the true light of day. In the lake, Qhyluth lurks. He is ''aware'' of everything, as he often is; the waters of his mind transmuted to vapor and breezing through the collective consciousness of the Weyr's dragons. Solith's shift in moods is caught - and, for the first time in a long time, the blue is roused to emerge from his shadowy dominion. Ulyana puts The Book down with trembling hands and waits, waits until the nightmare beast has winged into the feeding grounds, still wet and glistening. She waits until the first beast is felled, dissected, and left to bleed out while Qhyluth takes none. Waits until the Deep One takes to the skies after the green. Only then does she work her way down the rope ladder from his ledge and make her way toward the guest weyr - only to stop just outside and press her shoulder to the stone in search of stability. The rising howl of the storm might be what forces her to press her hands to the head - or it might be the thunder of primordial waters finally stirred into ''life''.

Blood, wasted blood, muddied blood, Solith pays no mind. Her chasers, though, those she does once the first flush has risen; she's luminous in the falling waters, a bright and teasing glow that's all too easy to underestimate. It can't be precognition that has her catching a gust or being caught by one, sweeping away from a pursuer or being tossed right where it would interfere with another's trials, and yet. Nor does she seem to mind nightmares; there's no veering away from Qhyluth any more than she might another, and there's a ''fizz'' whenever she gets a little too close only to turn over herself and twist to freedom. Maybe it won't last forever, but maybe it won't need to; Telavi's already breathless beneath others' venturing hands that touch cloth and skin and, yes, her own blonde hair. It reflects the glowlight; Solith simply ''glows''. There are others who attempt her: a large, strong brown with a likewise-uncanny eye for the winds; Rasavyth, who knows her well; dragons who avoid the rest of the pack through finesse, and those who will joyfully take on challengers with tooth and claw. ''Claws''. More than one male will be bloodied green before the tumult is done, before one is ''proven'' in truth.

Rain is a far different element than the lake or the ocean - but it's enough of the same that Qhyluth feels at ''home''. But that feeling is one that's faint and distant, buried beneath the rising tide of ''want'' and ''need'' and ''lust'' that colors the typically dark waters of his mind. The fog is gone, the moons are luminous, tinged rose madder, and his eyes are a reflection of those great orbs. He moves with purpose, his claws set to use if need be; what he ''wants'' and what he ''needs'' is that glowing thing, that source of radiance that just might bring light into the darkness - and he will have it. He ''must'' have it. More monster than dragon; he is uncaring of the others that fly with him, around him, against him. He gurgles, he rumbles, he snarls - he lashes out, with mind and claws alike. And if he must suffer in turn, he will - and does, as water mingles with faint streaks of ichor that ooze from scrapes and shallow gouges. What's another cut? A bite? Worse? His hunger - no, his utter madness - knows no fear of such things. Far below, so far below, Ulyana sinks to the ground and struggles to maintain her steady breathing, hands pressed to the sides of her head and eyes shut fiercely. She is spared the crush of bodies within the weyr; she is not spared from the downpour that soaks her through to the bone.

More and more, that need entices-- not solely Qhyluth's, but Solith's own, and those around them. She exhausts herself for more of it, more, ''more'', eating up that hunger to gnaw cavernously within them, giving tastes here and there of her own life force with the glimpse of shimmering wingsail, the near-touch of tail. So ''close''. The air vibrates with real thunder. Suddenly Telavi grabs on-- whatever she ''can'' grab onto-- and the sweet dark water might as well be falling onto her own face, into her own hair as Solith turns. There aren't so many males, now, whether fended off by those who lash out for her, or losing their will when she isn't so easy pickings, or simply ''outflown''. The storm isn't as cold as it could be, for all that it drums and dances and demands. It ''wants'', too. Then a possibility of Solith becomes visible, no, two: a larger dragon is struggling for her, silhouetted against the moonlight-- a risk-taker could raid the dregs of his own speed and try to intercept her, to trust that if she turns it will be the right way... or attempt to batter the larger male in hope of picking up the pieces after. Or ''other''. There could be another way. If ''an''other doesn't get there first. ''Thunder.'' The end is, inevitably, nigh.

He will consume everything. All of her essence. All of ''her''. But, first, he must get his claws on her. Qhyluth shoves past a dwindling knot of exhausted pursuers, his own reserves yet to be tapped fully. He is in his element - in the rain, the wet, the thunder and lightning - more than it might seem. His wet-sounding calls of challenge grow deeper and booming, echoing the brazen bells that sound out a soul-deep warning to those that are too close. The water rises, froths, and boils. The Great Thing Of Nightmares within finally starts to pull itself free and, as that tentacled and winged mass of horror launches itself at the psyche of the larger male that strives to take what is rightfully ''Qhyluth's'', the blue reserves some of his mental tentacles to extend toward Solith even asa he finally ''pushes'' himself. There is no enticement here, no hiding the raw and naked and bestial desires that fill him - and drive him - to stretch neck and tail and talons for her glowing visage. There is no attempt to mask what he wants, what he needs, what he hungers most for - and that failure to mask provides a rare glimpse past the water, the moons, the shadowy shapes that gather on the shore; past the protections and straight through to the hearts of a beast that wants only to ''love'' and ''be loved''.

He ''pushes'', and ''she'' seeks to prolong it moments more, as though it could be sweetened with every exhausting wingbeat-- the larger dragon's staggering, not much but just barely enough-- and he might have her anyway, but Solith sees and with that glimpse she goes gladly. As much as she is taken, she gives, twining herself about Qhyluth even if it's with talons that she's impaled, an underwater beacon in the deepening dark. She's warmth, and light, and joy. He wants; well, he can ''have''. And Telavi, she goes where Solith goes-- with Qhyluth's rider if she's to be had, cold and wet as she is-- and if not... there's always another way.

Victory is a bittersweet thing, an ache that twists through his hearts. Qhyluth claims and is claimed, every ounce of his being shifted to pour ''into'' Solith, rather than to devour her utterly. He will carry her forever, if she'll let him; carry her to the deepest oceans or highest skies - even with the rending of his hide, and the exhaustion that gnaws at his very bones. That seizing of light, it's enough; Ulyana's compelled to enter that place once the bodies have started to filter out. Forced by needs that are not entirely her own. For this, at least, she welcomes the intrusion of Qhyluth's mind and, for a time, the tower is left unattended, while the ocean of ''lust'' swallows her whole. She's wet and cold and as uncaring of that reality as her dragon is; until the waters finally ebb, she is Telavi's - and Telavi hers.

Solith ''will'' let him, ''welcome'' him; in such bliss, she might not even notice such rending so long as they fly high. It could be forever, for all of ''her''. It's as those waters begin to abandon the humans on the strand that Telavi, not yet wholly back to herself, plucks fretfully at a clammy sheet; it's ''damp''.

When those waters recede, it's almost as violent as when they surged forth to claim. It won't be until after they've landed and had a chance to breathe; not until the riders have ''complied''. The water drains away from the shared shores of their minds - and it's not long before Qhyluth extricates himself from Solith's grasp. His hearts are heavy again, the burden one that has no name. He flies away - and alone - to seek the solace that only the lake can offer for now. And then there's the matter of the riders and that bed. The sheets are damp and cool, but not cold, and the bed itself is empty save for Telavi. Clothing is left intact - though some might have been torn in haste - but the bluerider, at least, didn't have much presence of mind to remove anything of herself, or the other. Outside, on the ledge, the sounds of someone getting violently sick can be heard. It's not much of a reach to suss out just who.

The lake. He wants to fly to the... ''lake''. Solith, on the Rim, peers down and across at him before venturing a short little glide to hole up with a more hospitable friend. With a more hospitable rider too, maybe, to ''sigh'' and then dry her off while Telavi recovers. But as much as Qhyluth gets away, as long as Solith remembers, she'll look at him and she'll ''know''. Telavi herself, though, isn't looking much of anywhere. There's a muted ''ugh'', and a kick of her heels; she pats the mattress cautiously, finds it damp and only then opens her eyes. One eye, really, what with the rumpled cloak of her hair. ''Ugh.'' Easing up to her elbows, she stares with the beginnings of wariness towards that ledge. "Do you have a ''cold''?"

"No," is strained, but audible - which is perhaps better than it would have been minutes ago. It's clearly been a less-than-spectacular afterglow for her. Gagging follows again but, this time, it seems Ulyana's done; the dry-heaving turns into a brittle-sounding cough, followed by a lengthy coil of silence. "I am sorry," is, really, all she can manage - but she sounds uncertain of the words, as if unsure that they need to be said at all. Did she bite? Did she leave bruises? She can't ''remember'' - and, really, that's for the best. Whatever urges took her, she likely ''won't'' recall. Maybe it's an apology for the sickness? The dragon? All of it? In the lake, there's only the moaning, unspeakable presence of a miserable blue dragon - a perfect mirror to his rider's mood, paradoxical as it may seem given givens.

That, if not precisely a ''good'' answer, is not the ''bad'' answer. Telavi nibbles on her lip, brows drawn together-- and then swings her legs around, tugs her dress down, puts her feet on the floor... only to not go anywhere after all. Her toes wiggle. "What's wrong," she half-asks. If she can hear the moaning from there, whether through Solith (who, head on paws on the overhang, is ''staring'' at him) or otherwise, there's no mention. "Are you drunk?"

"No," is a bit more flatly issued. A little more solid. The sickness seems to have passed, though there's no sign that Ulyana's going to be approaching the guest weyr any time soon. "I do not drink," is a matter-of-fact utterance. Bland. Which just leaves the half-question to be answered - and it will be, but it seems to take her a few moments to pick through the words. Eventually: "It is not your fault. This is his first time catching." Her next words are distorted through another shuddery cough. "It is my first time with a woman." Which, evidently, is not settling well with her.

Rustle-rustle-pitter-patter-- and then, whether or not the bluerider hears it and runs, there's Telavi at the cave's mouth with the furs draped around her shoulders and ''peering'' at Ulyana with huge green-today eyes. "''Really''?" Beat. Her lips part again, even though she doesn't manage out loud this time: ''really?!''

The sight that greets her isn't as bad as it would seem; the sicking was done over the edge of the ledge, so it's not on display. Ulyana herself is with her back facing the weyr's entrance, a shoulder pressed to the stone, and arms hanging listlessly at her sides. "I did not stutter," is deadpan - there is no mockery or acidity to her tone, just more of that dullness, that queer flatness of hers. "He is also sorry. I am certain he will apologize to Solith when he is-" she trails, with no words left to describe whatever passes for Qhyluth's normal. Her features distort, unseen. "I will leave as soon as I am certain of my feet."

Telavi's already ''pssh''-ing her breath out; "Don't be." Sorry? Or something else. "Why should he be sorry? Why ''is'' he off moping, anyway?" While she's at it, "You'll catch a cold out there like that."

There's only a slight, mechanical shake of Ulyana's head. "He feels guilt. He feels it when he chases - and he does not chase often." A beat. "I think he has only chased Solith one time before. No others." A shoulder rises. Falls. "I cannot explain any better than that." Nor can the blue, in his water and with his thoughts clouded with irradiated fog. "I will be fine," is for the rest of it, soaked as she is. "It will not be the first time I have been in this kind of weather." She finally half-turns, catching Telavi just in the corner of her sight. But, there's nothing left ''to'' say.

Telavi, with her gilt hair that, side-lit, catches the glowlight. "Well, she ''likes'' being chased," she tells the bluerider, tugging the furs closer about her. "I don't know why he feels guilty, and maybe he would anyway, but it wouldn't be any ''fun'' if she rose and he-- they--" she frees a hand to wave it in the air. "It wouldn't be right." Her brows are still down. ''She'' isn't short of things to say. Including, a deep breath later, "If you catch a cold, you'll just give it to whoever else you kiss." There might not have been anything else except, more quietly as though she's running out of not that fog but steam, "I've never had someone who hated girls before."

"And he likes ''chasing''," is noted. "He feels it after. When it's done." Ulyana finally pushes away from the wall and starts for the edge of the ledge to make the short hop down. There's a glance over her shoulder at that, a flat, "I do not think that will be a point of concern," for the worries over the cold, and a further, lopsided shrug as she actually ''makes'' that hop. "I do not hate women," is issued as a bland correction, all weight stripped from the words to leave them bare. "I just have no preference for them."

"Well, ''that's'' all right then," says Telavi, brightly, deflecting all that peculiar vulnerability. "Enjoy your--" she audibly repurposes it into, "evening."

Just one more breath. "''Ulyana''."
|Categories=Flight Logs, Post-Flight Logs
}}

Dragon:Swaronth

2015-09-18T03:52:42Z

Weylaughn:

{{Dragon
|egg credit=Parli
|dragon credit=Parli
|insta=Yes
|body=== It's A Meat Tornado Egg ==

This egg is both large and upsetting. It's a whirling, blotchy mess of reds and browns and whites that looks like it's exuding some kind of fluid - but, in truth, it's just a very glossy shell. It's a whirlwind of what appears to be meat from all manner of animal, whipping around within the confines of its ovoid self.

''At long last, It's A Meat Tornado Egg seems to be done. The contents consumed, its occupant finally smashes its way out without hesitation. A stocky, wood brown dragonet sniffs despondently at the deceptively red shards. There is no more sustenance to be found and, in a fit of rage, the brown smashes the shells and wheels around with wild, red eyes. The sound of his stomach snarling is almost as loud as the infuriated bellow that escapes the young beast. And the hunt begins.''

== A Master Woodcrafter's Masterpiece Brown ==

At first glance, one might believe that this dragon is hewn out of a tremendously large piece of walnut that's been polished to a perfect shine. There's much to be said about the perfectly even hue of his hide, that rich, dark brown of walnut wood. Grain lines in darker brown start at the tip of his blunted muzzle and whorl, like knots, around his eyes. His features seem set in a perpetual scowl, which is only underscored by the relative darkness of his hide. The rest of him is thickly built and, simply, massive; as browns go, he probably should have been a bronze. But, no; he's solidly brown throughout, with no deviation in his finely grained hide - save one: his wings are three shades lighter, but still marked as the rest of him is. His claws are long, thick, and just a shade or two darker than the rest of him. All in all, he's an example of a masterpiece - if woodcrafters could make dragons, that is.

== Temperament ==

You thought you could get out of Candidacy if you did absolutely nothing, did you? Well, Swaronth is intent on changing that. Sort of. You're going to do things. Lots of things. Mostly keeping him oiled and full of meat - and especially the latter. As a hatchling, he will be rough and tumble, the type of dragon that needs to get up, get outside, and do all the things dragons are supposed to do. He'll learn quickly, though he'll often come up with his own methods that may or may not be better.

<< Listen well, for I will not be saying this ever again: I have a compromise. >>

That, truly, is what Swaronth is - a dragon that just wants to be a dragon. Free and clear to do what he wants to do. Admittedly, he really just wants to hunt and eat meat and chase the ladies (and how), but that's just because he doesn't have the ability to work wood or make his own straps. He'll be a damned fine hunter, though, and while he'll have a knack for catching fish, he doesn't generally eat them because << Fish meat... is practically a vegetable. >> Bring on the bovines!

<< Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Don't teach a man to fish, and you feed yourself. He's a grown man. Fishing's not that hard. >>

He will be a man's man of a dragon, especially as he gets older. He'll insist that you learn all those things a man is supposed to learn, above and beyond the requisite leather-working. You will, eventually, find yourself in a weyr filled with tools that you may or may not know how to use (or care to). There is no negotiating; that's just how it'll be. It'll be a man's weyr, through and through, though he'll allow some space for yourself to claim as your own.

<< Cultivating a manly musk puts your opponents on notice.>>

His beliefs are... interesting. And, for a dragon that despises politics and the political machine in general, he will be plenty aware of it all. Granted, he only wants to throw wrenches into the machine, but still. That's the big one, really; he doesn't like the Weyr's structure, in which golds rule by dint of their hue and the rest are arbitrarily arranged in groups that are supposed to work together with varying degrees of cohesiveness. In a time when Thread fell, he might have been better; he would have been focused entirely on slaughtering Pern's age-old enemy (and he would have been damned perfect at it). But, in a time of peace, he needs something to fight against - and that something just happens to be politics.

He believes in freedom. He believes that the Weyr should not control the individual. In fact, the whole operation should be a for-profit institution, with riders selling their services and all of Pern clamoring for them.

Or something like that.

<< The whole point of this world is if you wanna eat garbage, balloon up to 600 pounds and die of a heart attack at 43, you can! You are free to do so! To me, that's beautiful. >>

He also has a musical side. He will not admit this to anyone. Not even you.

He might eventually make a good Weyrlingmaster or Assistant Weyrlingmaster - educating the youth of the perils of the terrible and oppressive system that is the Weyr's matriarchy will be a rare pleasure for him. He might also angle for being a Wingleader or Wingsecond. And if he ever becomes Weyrleader? Rest assured that the Weyr will crumble to the ground by noon while he declares freedom from tyranny.

Good thing browns don't usually manage to pull that off, eh?

In flights, he will be passionate - if not downright animalistic. He'll be feral, hungry, and chase with a need that will rival the most desperate of golds. He'll casually discard greens after the fact; golds will be treated with a similar lack of respect. As a clutchsire, he'll be attentive, but not doting. He'll educate his spawn through their shells as best as he can - but will, inevitably, be disappointed when they don't all hatch brown and wood-grained like himself.

<< Never half-ass two things. Whole-ass one thing. >>

In you, he finds his other half, the half that will protect him from idiocy via callous indifference. You will be his bulwark against stupidity - and he'll be the greatest protector you'll ever know.

Just, you know. Don't let him down.

<< Parli was supposed to be the ledge that kept the idiot hordes away from Swaronth Weyr. Instead she blew up the Weyr and stabbed me in the face. >>

== Public Impression Message ==

No meat there. No meat over there, either. Desperation sinks hooks into the hangry brown and he bullishly pushes his way through a knot of Candidates, bellowing as he goes. He trips over a fallen, white-clad body and finds himself looking up at a young woman who has been attempting to remain unobtrusive the entire time. It didn't work. He pushes to his feet and bumps his nose to her middle, eyes gone from the red of ravenous hunger to the blue of successful Impression.

== Private Impression Message ==

Everything vanishes abruptly. You're in the forest, lost and confused, while something massive pursues you. You turn and turn (in your head? In the flesh?) but whatever it is, it's hunting you. And it's gaining. Pressure hits your midsection and you're made aware of something that is not teeth or claws. It's a voice. A man's voice. << What is that? Is that- >> Laughter washes over you in an intoxicating rush of whiskey and saw dust. << That's not your name - and shut your damn mouth. It's Parli. You're Parli. >> The world coalesces around you and, before you, is a finely wrought brown - mahogany brown, through and through. Your hesitation elicits a grunt from the brown and he picks up on something you might not realize you'd thought. << Ready? I was born ready. I'm Swa-fucking-ronth. Now. I want all the meat you have. >>

== Mindvoice ==

Masculine. Rich. Deep. Everything he says has a weight to it, a weight that's accented in any one of a hundred ways. Metallic tones or leathery notes; oil, whiskey, or saw dust. Everything he touches in your head (and everyone else's, really) will exude raw masculinity in every stereotypical way possible.

Prolonged exposure might result in the development of chest and/or back hair.

You're welcome.

== Itchyspots ==

He does not itch. Or, rather, he'll never admit to being itchy, so you'd better have a crystal ball at the ready to figure out just what's itchy and how bad it is.

If you don't figure it out, be prepared for a dragon that will grow increasingly more agitated until he (figuratively) explodes into expletives.

Good luck.

== Dragon Inspiration ==

Ron Swanson. There you go. That's it.
}}

Parli

2015-09-18T03:43:38Z

Weylaughn:

{{Profile
|picture=Parli.jpg
|mother=Paressa (+20)
|father=Vierly (+23)
|siblings=Rissavely (-3)
|body=== Description ==
Average in height and with a lean, but slender, build, this young woman is either in her late teens or late twenties. Her age is perhaps frustratingly ambiguous; her features are still youthful, from large, almond-shaped brown eyes to expressive brows, to a smallish mouth that seems inclined less toward smiling and more toward wry lines. Her face is oval, her nose a blade that's upturned at the end, and everything just seems to fit in a way that would be pretty if she didn't look permanently bored. Her dark brown hair is just past shoulder-length and is generally clipped back from her face. Her skin is tanned, smooth, and unmarred.

Her clothing tends toward dark and functional. When she's not in her riding leathers - well-fitted and black, of course - then she's readily found in various combinations of knee-length dresses, leggings, short skirts, sweaters, and blouses. Boots and flats are the full sum of her shoe collection, tending more toward boots than not in most cases. Her knot is that of a Fortian brownrider, hung at a shoulder or on her hip as appropriate.

{{wysk}}

== History ==

Viparlyessa was the first born of Holders Vierly and Paressa of some tiny, ridiculously named Hold, followed a few turns later by her sister, Rissavely. Both of them were raised by parents desperate for them to be perfect Ladies - as would be fitting to those who were tangentially connected to Fort's Blood. Her parents tried hard. They meant well. But, in the end, Viparlyessa came out relatively unscathed. She was anything but the Lady they wanted her to eventually become. She was introverted, easily bored, and distinctly indifferent to anything and everything in the Hold.

Her parents, in a desperate maneuver, finally arranged a marriage for her. She went along with it right up until the end.

She ran away from the first wedding to a Holder that she didn't care about enough to remember if he had a name.

Though her parents were embarrassed, they chalked it up to youthful rebelliousness.

She ran away from the second, this time to another lad from a different Hold whose name she just can't be bothered to remember.

When she ran away from the third (who would eventually wed her sister), it was with a bluerider who promised her nothing but a different life - and she took it. Telgar Weyr became her home, if by accident: no sooner than she'd arrived than the bluerider Searched her and she accepted with utter indifference.

The bluerider made good on his promise.

Swaronth took care of the rest.

She had scarcely turned sixteen... and Impressed him on the 1st day of the 12th month of turn 26 - the second brown out of Iskiveth's and Yesdrieth's clutch. He dubbed her Parli - and it stuck.

They've been together ever since.

Although Telgar proved to be a perfect home for them for nearly twelve turns, it would seem that she's either been struck with wanderlust or Telgar's grown tired of her perceived laziness; in either case, when Telgar needed a rider with a certain set of skills, they proposed a trade with Fort Weyr. The trade went through - and Fort is now in possession of a new brownrider.

{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

== Acquaintances ==

== RP Logs ==

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{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Telgar Weyr, Brownriders, Flint Wing
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