Logs:Breasts are Girlie - Revision history

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Bot at 08:49, 22 January 2015

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Satiet at 18:12, 22 September 2011

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 | when = Day 19, Month 2, Turn 18, Interval 10, morning
 | gamedate = 2008.11.06
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 In the second drop of her chin and fan of her dark lashes against pale cheeks lies the sentiments of 'so be it' and when Satiet lifts her gaze again, this time it's followed by the rise of her knitting from the basket and the slow cadence of needles clacking against each other. He garners no further look. "No. You may not. Perhaps next time." This meeting is over and certainly not one to mince words herself when pressed to, she notes with a thin veil of pleasantry wrapped around her cold, faintly distracted intonation, "I've heard of your disciplinary issues and your lack of respect for the hierarchy of the Weyr. Until the time comes where you recognize and respect this chain of command, you are exempt from weyrling lessons and will progress no further in yours and Yyth's training. Instead, you may report to the lower caverns for kitchen and latrine duty as well as remedial harper lessons in etiquette when you have finished tending to the needs of your dragon every day. You are dismissed."
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 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.
 Obvious exits: