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… What's happening?!
Over ten turns of Thread has fallen in 12th Pass over a conservative Pern peppered liberally (pun intended) with progressive Oldtimers from 10th interval, in Harper's Tale's current iteration. The conflict of ideology between the traditionalist nowtimers and the Oldtimers - liberal survivors of apocalyptic comets from 10th Interval that both destroyed Crom Hold and changed the face of Pern as any remembered it to be - makes life, as they say, interesting.
More than Thread challenges those that walk the many roads available in HT's setting. From dirty trader politics in Igen Weyr's in-house and eccentric bazaar, icy antics of the indigenous wildlings in Southern Barrier Hold, and the struggles of both weyrs (Igen and Southern) that rise to defend all of the above, there's a little taste for any plotline that a player may be interested in delving into. Log in and check us out for more information!
… Are you a returning player?
You'll want to get caught up! Log in and see what interests you most: bringing your character forward or "reskinning" your existing character into a future character/rider at one of the new areas ({New} Southern Weyr / Igen Weyr). A lot of options are open to returning players — even if you've not connected in a long time!
Check out our areas: Igen & Southern!
Game Announcements!
Curious to see what's been going on in-game?? Check out our game announcements below!
| Title | OOC Date | Summary |
2019's Threadfall Dates!
Want to see our Threadfall history? Head on over to HT's Thread Schedule! Below are the Threadfall dates for the next quarter! The Thread Schedule can also be found from the top nav: Pern -> Thread Schedule!
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Today's Logs
Curious to see what's been happening today?? Check out our logs below!
There have been 6 scenes in the last day.
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Flapping
   Training Grounds A broad and sheltered swoop of bowl lies bare for the talons and tread of countless weyrlings that-will-be, encased by stone scoured and scarred by those-that-were. Dirt lies as neatly as dirt can lie, swept and raked daily, at the mouth of the caverns that must indubitably be the weyrling barracks. Devoid of decoration, the place stands strangely absent of pressence when empty, the everpresent wind of Southern giving strange acoustics to those under the shelter of the towering bowl-wall. With Rukbat about halfway towards it's apex and most morning chores having been accomplished, F'kan strolls across the training grounds to his brown giving him the silent order to call the next class for flight lessons. With so many weyrlings and flight lessons best conducted in small groups, it's not surprising some have yet to experience it first hand. So Quaverilth puts out the call to a small group who have yet to have the pleasure, entering their mind with a thick swirl of mist and a crackle of anticipatory energy. « Come along! Gather in the Training grounds with your bonded. It's your turn to fly. » Even though it's morning, the humidity is opressive and so his riding jacket is discarded for a short sleeved tunic instead, his hair recently cut, but still sticking out all over the place. When weyrling pairs start exiting the Barracks, the brownrider waves them over with a bright grin. "Gather up around us please, and as soon as we're all here we'll start," he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth. It can't come soon enough for Myrraith. She has - quite literally - been waiting for this moment her whole life, all six months of it, and she bounds across the training ground with all the enthusiasm of a canine after a ball. "Hold, it, slow down!" T'quil is in hot pursuit. They both come to a halt a few yards from Quaverilth. The young green tells her instructor, « I'm so ready! Everyone else has been flying for days. » This isn't strictly true, as the rest of the class hasn't flown yet either, but the emotions with the words are honest: it's been hard to wait. T'quil arrives and salutes F'kan. He has also gone for short sleeves - a tunic of uniform-bright-green over a pair of hardwearing black trousers. "Good morning, sir. She's… rather eager." Driving him crazy, in other words. Doing the saluting thing back to the arriving weyrling each in turn, F'kan holds back a chuckle for Myrraith's enthusiasm while Quaverilth extends his nose towards the young green, « Not everyone, there are still many groups left to go. » the brown points out the reality of the situation. « And impatience will not help you here either, so make sure you listen carefully and follow all the steps, » he adds for all the young ones benefit. F'kan clears his throat for attention once everyone has gathered. "So yes, we are going to be doing first flights today, but we have to take it one step at a time." He nods at Quaverilth then, who starts the normal routine of wing stretches, galaxy-painted wingsails moving fluidly through the moves. "First, we need to warm up the flight muscles, so everyone please follow Quaverilth." Myrraith visibly wilts at those quenching words, but she has the sense to comply. "Come on, love, let's find a space." T'quil points her at a spot where her wings won't foul anyone else's, and she moves there, turns to face the brown, and begins to stretch. The routine's familiar, and she's keen to show that she can do it right. T'quil breathes a sigh of relief as his green starts to settle down. She's even keeping time with Quaverilth. Wonders will never cease! He takes deep breaths for his own benefit, and tries to exude calm in her direction. As his lifemate leads the exercises, F'kan wanders along the weyrlings with a critical eye to their form. "Don't let him be lazy on the down motion and just drop his wings," he says to a blueling, "Make sure it's a measured descent." He has a few more choice comments to make on others, but when he gets to Myrraith, he just grins warmly at T'quil, "Good form." Then Quaverilth changes it up a bit, subtle moving from stretching to a more flapping-like motion the brown focusing the feel of his muscles over the mind link with the younger dragons. « Make sure you're using these muscles with each stroke, » he remarks while the human part of the pair is speaking to the weyrling riders, "Now, when we are done warming up, Quaverilth will demonstrate what your dragonets are to do, which will be starting here and then flying the length of the Grounds before landing. Your job is to make sure that they stick to the exercise, and pay attention to any pain or discomfort, the last thing you want is to strain flight muscles and get grounded so they can heel." Myrraith's eyes ripple with green and blue at the praise, but she continues stretching, and moves smoothly into the flapping motion as she follows Quaverilth's lead. « I am! I am! » She's really trying her hardest here. T'quil watches her carefully, though he turns his attention to F'kan as instructions are given. When the brownrider asks for any questions, he starts to raise his hand, but drops it hastily at a mental blast of enthusiasm from Myrraith. Thinking better of it, he shakes his head and murmurs, "No, sir." « Easy little one, you're doing fine, » Quaverilth replies with a husky mental chuckle as he finishes up the warm ups, finally folding his wing sails onto his back with a rumble. In a fluid motion, he weaves through the pairs gathered until he has cleared some space around himself, the long stretch of empty Grounds in front of him. F'kan defers to his lifemate in this part of the demonstration, standing back and watching the pairs to make sure that they are paying attention. When he gets the nod from the brownrider, Quaverilth takes a couple of bounding steps, wings outstretched, « A bit of momentum goes a long way, » he comments just as he bunches his hinduarters and leaps into the air at the same time as he takes a powerful downstroke with his wings, pulling him higher. « Go no further than this high, » he instrusts as he levels off and glides towards the end of the course, before backwinging, and coming to land with practised precision. « Don't forget to backwing, it will help so you're not coming up too fast for the landing. And Bend. Your. Knees! » the last is said with emphasis on all the words, probably because it's a common mistake to make. As Quaverilth returns to the start, F'kan claps his hands together in anticipation. "Ok, so Quav will fly with each of you one at a time. Just do exactly what he did, and you should be fine. Now who should go first….? Myrraith?" It's almost phrased like a question, but as he nods at T'quil it's obvious that the greenrider is being volunteered to go first. Myrraith and her rider both watch Quaverilth as if their lives depended on it. When the brown backwings before landing, Myrraith mimics that precise wing angle, and follows it with a knee-bend, as if trying to fix it in her muscles as well as her mind. She trills her excitment as F'kan tells her to go first, and moves away from the others to give herself room. A couple of bounds, a big spring, and she's in the air - and flapping like crazy to stay there, though she's not managing full beats. « Oohhhhhhhhhh! This is hard. » T'quil takes several steps forward, then stops, helpless. "Why does she find it so difficult?" Still, she's climbing - in fact, her efforts are gradually taking her higher than she's supposed to go. "Ease off, love, ease off…" He's murmuring aloud as well as sending the thoughts to his struggling dragon. She just replies with a frantic, « WOOOAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! » Quaverilth follows after the green as she takes her bounding start, following her in the air where he immediately sees her problem. « You need to take fuller strokes, faster doesn't work. Extend them all the way before bring them back up, » he counsels as his movements show what she should be doing. On the ground, F'kan splits his attention from the dragons in the sky and T'quil here on the ground. "Even though it's what they are bred to do, it takes time to learn new things. Just think about a child learning to walk, it's a gradual process." His blue eyes lift once more to the skies just in time to see Quaverilth turn his wizened visage in her direction, « Settle down! You need a cool head to fly without injuring yourself or others. Now even out and just glide… » The scolding is mild enough, the brown trying for encouraging instead as they hit the mid-point of the flight. T'quil holds his breath as he watches. Myrraith's eyes are yellow and fearful, but she obeys Quaverilth. She spreads her wings and glides, which steadies her. Then she takes a full, deep wingbeat, and rises. Another has the same effect. « Yesssss! I am flying! » So she is - and still higher than she ought to be. « Ohhhh, the end of the field! What do I do? » T'quil remembers to breathe as Myrraith finally seems to get the hang of using her wings - and then there's a sharp intake of breath. "She's going to be in the Bowl if she doesn't come down." With a wave of soothing wrapped in a warm tendril of mist, Quaverilth croons softly at the green as she seems to get the hang of it, even though she's going higher than he had indicated, he's focusin on the positives here. When she asks about landing, he sends her an image of the landing he made, focusing on the backwing and the knee bend. « Remember? Backwing to slow down, and bend your knees on impact. » He reminds her gently, keeping pace and veering them if need be to keep them over the Training Grounds mentally calling out to those who might be below to move out of the way. F'kan is trying not to wince, so instead he just crosses his arms over his broad chest and watches the green's first flight with an intense scrutiny. "She'll be fine, Quaverilth will see her down safely," he responds, reaching out to give T'quil's shoulder a brief squeeze of reassurance if he'll allow it. Allow it? T'quil doesn't even notice it! He's intent on the green form at the far end of the Training Grounds. Myrraith responds to Quaverilth's mental nudge by gliding again, and leaning so that she turns - not entirely what this first exercise was supposed to entail, but it does work, and she does end up touching down within the Training Grounds. She even manages to backwing as instructed, and bends her knees in the approved fashion. It's a surprisingly neat landing, considering what's gone before. T'quil only relaxes once she's on the ground, then winces as he and probably every dragon within range are blasted with, « That was brilliant! I want to do it again! » T'quil fixes his eyes and his mind on her, and she does at least return to the others on foot. « Easy Myrraith, patience. The others still need their turns, » Quaverilth reminds her when they finally touch down again, an approving croon for her neat landing. « Very well executed! Now please walk back to your bonded and make sure everything feels alright and maybe you'll have another chance to fly after. » F'kan shakes T'quil's shoulder a little shake to diffuse the tension. "That was a good first try, even with the hiccups. You couldn't have asked for a better landing," F'kan focuses on the positives as Quaverilth quickly glides back over to take up his position for the next person, who the brownrider picks out of those eagerly raising their hands to go next. "Thank you, sir." T'quil moves away to meet Myrraith as she returns, and returns to the group with her. Naturally he's telling her what a fine landing that was, and how she has to wait for the others: they'll watch and see how everyone else does. There will be other times to fly! Flapping has 0 comments. |
Myrraith's first flight doesn't go entirely to plan. |
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Frosty Feelings Frosty Feelings
  "I figured I would see if you're ok before I got started with my own day,"  Star Stones The climb up here on foot is steep, narrow stone steps carved high into the sandstone, and from the top the precipice-drop to the jagged-craggy stones far, far below is treacherous. It's a wide sweep of ledge, a dragonlength and a half jutting out from a rough cliff wall. The wind here is ceaseless, dusty-dry during daytimes and biting at night. But for those who brave the climb to this lookout perched high above the Weyr's bowl, the view from these sandy-red rocks is breathtaking. Igen stretches wide-wide-wide around, a vast expanse of deep blue lake and lush green swamp and the myriad rust-rich colours of desert and rock. The real purpose of this spot, though, is highlighted not in its view of what is below but its view of what is above. Three tall rocks stand, one balanced across the tops of the other two, at the focal point of the ledge, perpetually framing one slice of the desert sky beyond. Night's beginning held a celebratory and festive note, as the Weyr welcomed nineteen new weyrlings into the fold. The caverns (and cantinas) saw an influx of folk to take part in the social mingling over food and drink. One was not present for any of it, however and it wasn't until far later into the night that whisperings finally caught up. Nineteen weyrlings and twenty eggs? The math wasn't right. Most were too into their cups to put it wholly together but for those who could… the end result was obvious. Divale is a fickle creature on most days but under duress it's worse. Feeling the pressure of a series of events, the now acting Wingleader of Parhelion sought refuge where she could without actually leaving the Weyr's grounds. The Star Stones are not comfortable, especially with autumn's cooler night winds but she's dressed in thicker clothing and still dons her flight jacket. She'd taken the narrow stone steps up here, leaving Lukoith to go settle where he wished and undisturbed. Save for the few glows she brought in a convenient carrying lantern, there's nothing else here but her and the view below — and it's perfect. Well it may not remain perfection for long, sorrynotsorry Divale! Not a big drinker, Zaria usually keeps to her limits well, and so quickly clued into the math not adding up. Unfortunately, Wingleader duties the next morning meant an early night for the bluerider. As soon as she awoke though, she had Azrith bespeak Lukoith on the off chance the brownrider was already (or still is more likely when dealing with Divale) awake. She had gotten herself dressed in the time the response came back with her location. Quickly strapping up Azrith, she directs them to the Standing Stones, bringing along her own glow-lantern, and then sending him off as she makes the rest of the climb on her own to the Star Stones. It's not hard to miss the glow light and the red-head holds her own up as she whisper-calls a little hoarsely, "Divale? You up here?" At first there is no response but even with the dull light of fading nightfall and the glow lantern, Divale's silhouette is clearly there. She's just not moving to face Zaria, keeping her gaze forwards and to the sprawling Igen landscape below. At last, there's a deep inhale, as she seems to draw herself back enough to the present and out of her own head to acknowledge the other woman's presence. "Hello, Zaria." she murmurs, a touch flatly as she turns her head just enough to peer at her from over her shoulder. "You are up and about early… earlier than usual." Tentatively moving towards the silouetted brownrider, Zaria clears her throat with a dip of her head, "I figured I would see if you're ok before I got started with my own day," the bluerider replies in an uncharacteristic show of boldness and her concern for Parhelion's temporary Wingleader. "You don't have to talk about it, obviously, but I wanted to say sorry and…I'm here," she shrugs bony shoulders as if to make it a more casual declaration than it is, her crooked smile aimed at Divale. "Why would I not be?" Divale's humour is as dry and dark as ever, her expression yielding no signs of bemusement though her voice at least hints at a smirk. She turns a little more, giving the her a visible once over with an unreadable gaze before relenting with a heavy exhale. "I figured as much." Which sounds dismissive but by know she would know it's not; it's just Divale's way of saying 'thank you' without expressing it clearly. For a short span, conversation dwindles and she doesn't seem hurried to pick up the threads. Her arms cross loosely over her chest, more to ward off the chill of the winds as they gust by. "Were you at the festivities then?" Zaria's eyes widen in brief panic as Divale's dark humor rears it's ugly head, not sure what to say in response. But she clues in pretty quickly and relaxes with her own sight. And true to her word, she doesn't press the topic any further, instead nodding in response to the brownrider's question. "Yeah, I was at Last Call for a bit, there's going to be many a sore head this morning among the wings." Turning her own gaze out over the dull silouettes of Igen Weyr far below, she asks her own question, "Have you been out here all night?" Unfortunately there is going to be a lot of that type of humour, as Divale is in a mood and not likely to censor herself. Not with Zaria, at least! She'll expect the bluerider to either be able to weather the storm or leave if it overcomes her (expectations being heaviest on the last). "… as is to be expected. Fortune has it we will not be having 'Fall today." Zero pity for those with hangovers if there was to be Threadfall! Zaria may be overlooking the scenery below, but Divale's gaze lingers on her for a spell. "Yes." she states quietly and simply, before turning her gaze away and out to the horizon again. "It was necessary." Cryptic response but she leaves it at that. "I'd briefly considered visiting Eala to see if there was any change in Oria's condition but…" No, not yet. Later, perhaps, if she can be less miserable company. "That is fortunate," Zaria replies simply with another sigh, taking the path of weathering the storm…for now. She catches Divale looking at her out of the corner of her eye and finally turns her head towards the other woman, nodding in response to her answer. "Then I hoped it helped," she quips before a rather frigid gust of wind slips down the back of her collar causing her to visibly shiver. "Could you not have found a spot that wasn't so cold?" she asks with a soft chuckle as she wraps her arms around her afterlifting her collar to protect her neck. "I'm always cold," Divale admits with a shrug of her shoulders while her arms remain crossed over her chest. Spoken in a manner that betrays her thoughts in perceiving this as normal fact. "And the cold winds here would guarantee that rare few would venture here." Her focus returns to her again, head tilting slightly as a vague smirk curves her lips. "You could always step closer to me, if you're feeling chilled?" She teases but it leaves an unspoken invitation hanging. Few could approach her now but Zaria has a chance. At least until Divale's mood changes and it could be a fleeting moment! "Well…not always…" Zaria replies, the dark masking the blush warming her cheeks. "There are times you can be quite…hot." It's brazen for the normally awkward bluerider, and so are the steps that she takes to bridge the gap between them when invited to do so. At least Divale is right about one thing, up here, at this hour, they're almost guaranteed privacy. Unfolding her arms, one hand reaches out, finger tips brushing at the other woman's hip as she draws closer and looks down at the slightly shorter brownrider, lips parted. "Is there anything else, I could do for you to help in any way?" she murmurs softly as her hazel eyes search Divale's if she'll let her. Divale is surprised by that brazenness and it draws a gruff and low throated laugh from her. "Zaria, this is a new and not unwelcomed side to you!" she muses with a shadow of a grin, some of that cold exterior of hers thawing despite herself. That fleeting touch from her draws her focus to where fingers rest by her hips and for a moment it looks as though she struggles not to draw away. Instead she leans into her, side by side, though her arms remain stubbornly crossed. Glancing up, she chuckles again, "This is enough. Anything more and I will be tempted to forgo our duties this morning and that… will look poorly on us both." Her brows furrow then, her mood already shifting from cooly playful to shadowed and troubled. "I am not looking forwards to it." The meetings that'll no doubt happen at some point once dawn properly arrives. Among the other Wingleaders, then Weyrleadership. Then she has Parhelion business to handle — stressful enough without the added news. "What can I say? You're a bad influence on me," Zaria replies with her own chuckling and a shrug of her shoulders. She won't press for more contact, just happy that Divale isn't pulling away and taking that as a minor triumph. the brownrider's comment about beign tempted to forgo their duties brings another round of laughter as she nods in agreement, "Yeah, that wouldn't be good, and people might ask questions…" she muses before trailing off as Divale's mood takes a turn again. But the bluerider takes it in stride, used to the tempestuous nature of the brownrider's emotions, or at least somewhat. "Yeah, I wouldn't expect you to. But it'll be over with and then you'll have all the other duties to fill your day. And to give you something to look forward to at the end of the day maybe…we can have dinner tonight? At mine?" Food may not be the only thing on the menu by the tone in which the invitation is given. "More questions is something I'd rather avoid," Divale grimaces with a small shake of her head, leaving the rest of the conversation to go uncommented upon. All save the invitation given by Zaria, which is met with a wry smirk as she straightens and pulls away. "I don't see why not," she murmurs quietly, accepting the offer and what may be implied along with it. Glancing one last time to the vista below, she'll begin to turn and head for the stairs. There is a brief pause, another over the shoulder look to the other woman. "There is time yet as the sun is still rising. Shall we eat?" Not that her appetite is great but it'll at least be a gentler move back into the social fold than merely abruptly showing up at potentially charged meetings. "I kind of figured," Zaria replies with a crooked grin that brightens when Divale accepts her invitation even though she's pulling away. Stuffing her own hands deep in her pockets, fingertips still tingling from the brief contact with the brownrider, she follows the other woman's gaze out over Igen and nods when she mentions food. "Breakfast sounds great. I could do with some klah as well to get the chill out of my bones," she replies as she turns to follow the brownrider, and start the day in earnest. Frosty Feelings has 0 comments. |
Zaria comes to check up on Divale the morning after the hatching to make sure she's alright. |
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Uninvited Guests Uninvited Guests
  "Perhaps we should invite him over. He looks very lonely. And surely he would take his goldrider's side on the antics of an old brownrider."  The Crescent Designed to attract a higher spectrum of patrons, but accessible to a more modest crowd, the Crescent is a space to lounge, dine, or partake in an array of singers and performers. Retreat into a fluid space of curtains all of which are a deep navy blue, the color easy on the eyes after time out among the desert sun. Small hardwood tables stained deep red are circular and able to hold no more than four at once, though two larger settings are available upon the request and coin. Performers are screened in advance for their skill, a scant few will make it off the street and to the stage. Glowbaskets are regularly spaced, but few in overall number to keep the atmosphere perpetually dim, save for the main dais. The floor is native sandstone half-polished to provide both a little traction and luxury. One thing is absolutely, entirely certain: K'vre sticks out in this place like a sore thumb. He wouldn't, of course, if he had a modicum of interest in true vanity; if his composition of physicality was at all like his composition of character. But the clean line of his jaw is obscured with that bristly beard-growth, and his hair still needs cut, and he's wearing dusty leathers that he probably wore on sweeps this morning. And he is sitting, alone, at one of those small hardwood tables, enjoying what appears to be the rarest of drinks at Igen - an iced one. He appears to be paying attention to tonight's performers, a trio with a folksy sound, the girl with her long hair unbound and the pair of boys on gitar and box-lute. It's a good night, with a good crowd, and not even out-of-place K'vre can change either fact. In contrast, Ione looks as though she was born to be in a place like this. That long red hair is bound up in a knot atop her head, with delicate braids pinned to her scalp in twisting patterns before they wrap around the larger bun. Her full-length dress is of a soft blue, the fabric shifting with her every movement. It's truly fine craftsmanship, the sort befitting a woman of her means. She's there with a date, although her interest in the man appears to be swiftly waning, so much so that her gaze casts about the place in search of an exit strategy. It's in this search that she spots K'vre, and carefully excuses herself from her date for what she assures him is a very important conversation. She slides into the second seat at the table without asking, resting her arms on the table and greeting him with a bright, "I'll just be a moment, I promise." K'vre slants his attention to his peacock-bright clutchsib and visibly rolls his eyes. It's just not a phenomenon that he can really control; in some things he must go with what his gut demands, and in this case, his gut demands EYE ROLLING. The brownrider kicks out his long legs before him, crossed at the ankles, and lifts his drink to his lips. One elbow hitches over the chairback adjacent to his shoulders. He becomes every bit the visible manifestation of insouciance. Definitely not an important conversation, here, with his casual air. "You're not drawing the line at making the Cantina's happy hour a bitter experience for me, then, and now you've gone to stalking me through to other locales?" He gestures with his drink at the rarified air around him. If K'vre can roll his eyes about her presence, Ione can certainly roll her eyes about his commentary. Which she does, channeling her inner teenager with an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh. "Take a look around you, K'vre. If anyone is stalking in these surroundings, it's you." She waves a flippant hand to encompass the refined air of the place, before gesturing between herself and him. "Which one of us looks out of place here? It's not me. I'm just here for a little break from my date, so I don't end up using a wine bottle for the wrong purposes. I'll be gone before you know it, and you can go back to… whatever this is." Oh look, it's just like old times. Teenaged Ione and… K'vre. "I'm enjoying a beer," he lifts his drink to indicate what he's speaking about, "In a very nice place with no company and no desire for company." A pointed look, slate-blue eyes a little tired (when don't they look tired?) as he looks past Ione. "I don't need to know where you're putting a wine bottle, Ione. Go back to your date. I'm sure he's better company than a man who seduces young girls." His voice isn't bitter AT ALL. "And you don't have company, you have a momentary guest who's taking refuge from a terrible bore," Ione retorts, firing back the words almost immediately. She stares down that pointed look, shrugging slim shoulders in answer. If it were that easy to get rid of her, she would never have made it this far in life. "I don't think anyone ever said anything about seducing anyone, K'vre," she answers airily, ignoring his command to return to her table. "I don't think you're in a state to seduce anyone, frankly." "Make up your mind, Ione," K'vre replies in a bland voice, flipping a callused hand. "You seem to have no problems with smearing my good name, to my face I might add, when it suits you. And then you insinuate that I'm a worthless bastard the next moment. Am I a lothlario or a sad slob? It seems to me that I cannot be both simultaneously." Seemingly tired with the conversation already, he lifts his beer to his lips and gazes back toward the musical talent. "Go back to your bore." Leave the adults alone is clear in his undertone. (Once a teenager, always a teenager.) "Plenty her age are married, it's hardly smearing your good name to suggest you might be interested. I've found people really take offense when there's a note of truth to an accusation." Even though Ione rests her forearms on the edge of the table and leans forward, her posture is still proper. Her words are measured, in the unhurried manner of someone with nowhere else to be. "You're awfully dramatic, I have to say. I make a few bland comments, and you act as though the world is ending." She's not moving. "I would've thought someone as mature as you could handle a benign comment without throwing a temper tantrum." A craggy eyebrow lifts to Ione. "I'm sorry, do you see a temper tantrum?" His beer sweeps expansively. "Shouting? Screaming? Throwing things?" The other eyebrow lifts to join its brother. "If you want to talk about temper tantrums, though…" his voice drifts off. Surely teenaged Ione had a few temper tantrums of her own. Or maybe he just eludes to something that isn't immediately within grasp. "You're the real mature one. Leaving your date to come over here and talk to an old man." He seems to take a real low-key enjoyment out of calling himself an old man in this circumstance. The bastard then has the gall to instigate eye contact with the Ione-date-bore and saluting him with his drink and an easy smile. "I think he misses you." Ione snorts, an unladylike sound in the midst of a laugh. "I seem to recall you storming out, Kev. Did you forget that part?" Most of teenaged Ione's temper tantrums were reserved for Sa'mael — the exact reason she's so bent upon this particular topic. But their all-out rows must have been witnessed by others on occasion, so it's likely K'vre has some cause to lift his brows. If nothing else, Ione has a flair for the dramatic. "You're not old, first of all," she answers with a roll of her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. And he's AWFUL. I'd rather be over here arguing with you, that's how miserable I am." A hand goes to her heart, as some of that flair for drama surfaces. "I'm sure he does miss having a date with a goldrider, you're right." "If he's worried about dating you because you're a goldrider, he definitely has his priorities screwed up," K'vre states with the perverse cheer of a man with his own particular sense of humor. It's not immediately evident if it's a compliment or a denigration, but it's surely one or the other. "Pardon my frankness, but you were being a bitch to me and I removed myself from your presence before it could go south," is his return to recounting their previous conversation from the Cantina, his voice measured. He gestures at a passing waitstaff for another beer, because he's classy like that, and then without a pause carries on to continue, "Perhaps we should invite him over. He looks very lonely. And surely he would take his goldrider's side on the antics of an old brownrider." K'vre starts to lift his hand, as if to beckon the man over, because he's an asshole, too. "Why else would he be interested in dating me? He doesn't know me." Ione flips her hand back to gesture from her face down her body, before adding, "Obviously it could be to bed me, too, but either way it's a shallow interest." She seems content to accept his comment either way, untroubled by the possible insult. A shrug is offered first in answer, as she attempts to cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder toward her date, abandoning the act mid-motion when it becomes clear she can't pull it off. "I'm not afraid of a brawl. I'd rather that, than see someone dodging around an issue. I still remember how to hit a man with a bottle when the situation calls for it." Her lip curls reflexively in disgust at the mention of bringing the man over, holding up a hand to halt him. "He can describe the personalities of herdbeasts, do not bring him over here." "This might be a newsflash to you," K'vre says, leaning forward abruptly as if to impart grand knowledge that Ione may not yet possess in her worldview, "But men ask women out on dates because they want to bed them. That's ninety-nine percent of all reasons." It's true. Men are pigs. K'vre is very well-connected with that part of him, except the angst and the bitter dislike of negative asperations cast upon his personal love life, nonexistent as it may be. He's turned that hand-raise into a full wave for someone past Ione's date, and there's a moment fumbling before the Bazaarite beyond tentatively waves back. K'vre's probably just accidentally proposed marriage to some Akzhan girl by this, and it's all Ione's fault. "Just because you think something is an issue or want to discuss it doesn't mean that person is obliged to give you the time of day, goldrider. Life doesn't work that way." Cue another hard roll of her eyes. "Yes, I realize that," Ione declares with a little huff of annoyance. "But sometimes, when you've got a big, fancy knot, men also invite you out to dinner because they want to show off, and not because they're particularly interested in what's between your legs." She echoes his tone with her last words, as though it might actually be him who isn't in the know. She flops back in her seat, losing some of that perfect posture as she relaxes ever so slightly. Relief shows upon her features when he doesn't actually summon her date, even if it does mean his imminent engagement. It's worth it, K'vre. TRUST HER. "Of course they're not," she retorts, "but I also think it's fair to warn someone her age about the dangers of falling for damaged men. I never said you had ill intentions, but you can do more damage than you know even if you mean well." In return for that, K'vre just shoots her a look. A Look, even. Translation: it's still what's between your legs, Ione. Showing off is just a prelude for the main event, after all. And then he's shaking his head again. "You keep talking about Khulan in a frame that doesn't exist. She's a sweet child, Ione. Child. She's probably young enough to be my daughter." Never stopped anyone before, really, but K'vre's emotionally challenged. Instead he toasts Ione again: "From one damaged person to another, cheers." Ione shrugs, because what else is there to say? She's not everyone's type, surely. "I was called child plenty of times by the person who slept with me first, K'vre. Words mean very little in the end." She holds up a hand quickly to stop any sort of rejoinder on that point. "I'm not saying you will do anything, I'm just saying that vowing that someone is a child is a meaningless gesture." Because booze and feelings do funny things to a person, and too many people find damaged men alluring. She raises a nonexistent glass with a faint smile. "I'd drink to that." "Faranth fuck that man," K'vre mutters, more to himself than to Ione; it sounds both annoyed and irritated that the man in question isn't here to take Ione in hand and keep the goldrider out of the brownrider's hair. "Maybe to you," is what he says, simply, regarding meaningless gestures. He has a new beer, and he lifts it to her in salute. And then he smiles, because he is Rhovvth's lifemate, and he rises to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, goldrider?" is his pleasant-questioned exit, and then he's going over to sit with Ione's erstwhile date. Surely it's not a question of quality of companion, and choice. Surely he's just taking the bullet for Ione to slip out while he has the man distracted. Surely. "Which one?" Maybe the words weren't for her, but Ione can't resist tossing that dry question out there. There's probably more than one man who fits the bill. She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, not pressing any further on meaningless gestures. Her piece has been said, and she's satisfied. Her brow arches as K'vre gets to his feet, and then goes… there. What? If he's looking for better company, the joke's on him, but Ione decides to take this moment as a gift. Still, she can't quite resist stopping a woman on her way out, and murmuring something about K'vre's prowess in bed and how interested he was in her, before shoving the woman in the brownrider's direction. Playing wingman, or just being a pain in the ass? HARD TO SAY, but that's her parting present as she saunters out the door. ugh ione Uninvited Guests has 0 comments. |
Ione abandons her date for K'vre. Clutchmates don't kill each other. References to adult activity, possibly mild language? |
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Loud Thoughts Loud Thoughts
   "Do you ever consider that how you speak to others might make them… less than confident of your sanity?" Rooftops If you can find the handholds to haul your way up - and there are plenty, if you know where to look - then there is a hidden highway of tile and adobe that waits for knowing travellers to tread its path. A road best travelled by those sure of foot and able to stomach the occasional leap between buildings without falling victim to vertigo, the rooftops represent a quick and possibly convenient way of travelling about the bazaar; though don't be surprised if there's the odd shady opportunist willing to take a risk this high above what law lies below. The view from up here is spectacular; rooftops, sun-bleached, weathered, beaten by time, spread like an uneven patchwork quilt from here to the very borders of the bazaar. Some flat, some tiled, some frequented and some abandoned - it's not unusual to find the odd potted garden, stored goods or even a precious chicken coop, locked down to protect the feathered denizens within its thread-protected casing. The sounds of the bazaar are muffled, the scents blissfully so too, making it a potentially pleasant little getaway for those in need of a little peace and quiet to observe the skies, to travel the high walkways, or to simply soak in some of Rukbat's rays. Rukbat sets. It is a brilliant and bloody display of the day's death: red and orange at the horizon, with bright pink clouds patterned against a faded field of blue thus flowing. Some of the bazaarites have gotten it into their mind that the rooftops are the best place to watch the skies and enjoy the bit of day that is indisputably their own. K'vre is using the rooftop highway as a quick way to go longer distances, judging a rooftop-to-rooftop jump to a nicety before ending up just behind the group of people. "Did I miss a bloody invite?" he asks, his voice half-exasperated, half-wary, as if he expects them to be engaged in some kind of ceremonial animal sacrifice up here. It's not readily apparent why a certain raven-haired greenrider is up on the rooftops of the Bazaar, and the uncertainty of her steps make it clear that Xanthee is in wholly unfamiliar territory. A weyrbrat born and bred, her exploration of the bazaar was later than some and with less interest. And now, after impressing Liowyth, she has fewer reasons to explore out here. Her steps are wary if a little tentative, but she's no timid mouse either. There's a knife at her belt and her clothes are a simple outfit of tunic and trous that is is easy to move in, her hair pulled out of her face in a sing long braid. Keen emerald eyes scan the rooftops as she tries a more casual stroll when coming upon the group of bazaarites and the newly arrived rider. The sunset does catch her eye then, causing the greenrider to pause as she watches the display of colors. Sunsets, even as spectacularly beautiful as this one may be, are not I'dre's thing. It's not the view either that's dragged him up here, out of his element and comfort zone. He's no stranger to the Bazaar, but he usually prowls the streets and not the roofs! Navigating those gaps took some muttered cursing as encouragement and a silent promise of drinking extra tonight. Y'know, self "care" and all. Whatever it was or whoever it was that dragged the bluerider here isn't immediately found and he gives a frustrated exhaled breath. "Damn it all," Cue a rather stormy glare at the back of those people and within K'vre's vicinity, having not fully grasped that another rider is there among the rest. Likewise Xanthee has not been spotted yet either, as ever I'dre is firstly concerned only with himself. After that talk of ceremonial animal sacrifices, someone has to be up to the task. And that someone is Aderyna, who is in fact sitting there with a dead creature attached to her hip, casually watching the sunset like she's not wearing a carcass at her side. She's toward the back of the crowd, ever-so-slightly separate from the group, and perhaps that's why she's easily able to hear arriving voices. "You're interrupting," she sing-songs without glancing over her shoulder. "The music of the sunset should not be disturbed. It might upset the cycle." All of this is uttered in lilting tones, punctuated by a laugh. She rests her weight back on her hands, leaning back just far enough that she can tilt her head back and stare at the lot of them upside-down. "Careful, careful." "Fuck it all if you're not a tall one," is K'vre's reflexive response at I'dre's arrival, half-turning to take the bluerider's measure. He's not one to be daunted, especially by other men, but it's not every-day that someone eclipses him by more than a shaved clip, either. His gaze slips past the other man to Xanthee, and his eyebrows furrow in vague recognition of the Whirlwind rider before he takes in Aderyna. His unvoiced 'oh fuck' shows on his face, the brownrider raises a hand to scrub over his scruffy-bearded face and considers what exactly he's done so poorly in life to deserve continual run-ins with crazy. "Thanks. I get that a lot." I'dre deadpans as he tilts his gaze towards K'vre, though he seems more relieved that he doesn't have to look too far down. His gaze lingers just long enough for the obvious once-over to the brownrider, taking in any detail of use to him. He is still oblivious to Xanthee's arrival and all because of Aderyna's level of… extra. "Uh…" I'dre's close to voicing the same f-worded curse himself as he openly stares at the dead carcass at the girl's side. That upside down look? Yeah, watch the tallest guy here step backwards a bit. "I… have no idea what you're talking about, woman." Cue a sharp look to K'vre. "Do you?" Mention of a tall one has Xanthee looking around in natural curiosity, and upon seeing her clutchmate, she flashes him a warm and friendly smile if she manages to catch his eye, accompanied with a waggle of her fingers in his direction. K'vre is giving a considered look then, faint recognition as having seen the man round, but nothing beyond that. As is her manner, she was just about to introduce herself to the unknown Parhelion rider when that sing-song voice stops her in her tracks, and she blinks owlishy several times to try and process exactly what the woman is trying to say, but to no avail. "I'm sorry, I wasn't saying anything." it's a weak defense, but she's still puzzling over the woman's words. "You were thinking very loudly," Aderyna informs Xanthee with the utmost confidence, and her upside-down grin fixes toothily upon the greenrider. "But don't worry, they're much louder." She shifts her weight to one hand so that she can jab a finger first toward K'vre, and then toward I'dre. "Told you I'd see you again." That's for the brownrider, before Aderyna rights her neck and straightens up, swiveling around in her seat to stare at the three riders properly. That carcass at her side is settled across her lap, and she absentmindedly strokes its fur as she watches the new arrivals. K'vre is as he always is: in this case, off-duty, but does he ever look it? Worn-in leathers, a faded blue shirt, heavy boots. He's in desperate need of a shave and haircut, but it's not like he's going to be giving in to either of those. The man lifts a hand more toward his ear and itches the hair directly above it, slanting an opaque gaze toward I'dre and then Xanthee. He's about to say something, but Aderyna… Aderynas, and he focuses on the girl again. "So you did," he says instead. "Is that dead?" he asks, perhaps unnecessarily, gesturing toward the carcass now in her lap. And this is probably why Xanthee doesn't go new places like this. Aderyna's reply is even more puzzling, perhaps too puzzling for the greenrider, because with a shake of her head, the raven-haired igenite is noping out of there. Heading off the way she came, she's obviously tonight is not the night for this kind of exploration. "I'd like to hope it's dead," I'dre's almost at his full limit for crazy tonight. There's a scowl sent to Aderyna as he scoffs, "I'm not that loud!" Maybe he is, just a little? Spotting Xanthee, recognition dawns in a surprised look but just before he can bluntly ask her what the hell she's doing up here, she's gone! Shaking his head, he'll glance towards the distance, where sunlight continues to bleed out in that fiery display as nightfall encroaches. "What's so fantastic about a sunset, anyhow?" he mutters sullenly. Why is he even up here, if not for that? Aderyna glances down at the thing in her lap for the first time, pausing in her stroking to lift the dead thing up and shake it a little. She cants her head in an assessing manner, before uttering a soft 'hmm' and shrugging out her answer. "Seems like it." And yet, she's back to petting it. This is how the plague starts, people. "You're very loud," she informs I'dre with wide-eyed solemnity. "Inside and out. Just try-" She makes a mouth out of fingers and thumb and shuts it. Her curious gaze trails after Xanthee as the greenrider departs unexpectedly, a small frown furrowing her usual uncanny cheerfulness. As for sunsets? "I think it's nice that they continue to happen. Don't you?" "She probably had the right of it," K'vre mutters towards I'dre as young Xanthee scampers off. Then he's eyeballing Aderyna, leaning back on his heels and knitting his hands together behind his back. It's a very militant stance and it works for K'vre, the once-guard and current-Parhelion living up to his behavior. "Aderyna, do you ever consider that how you speak to others might make them… less than confident of your sanity?" This is more into other people's business than he normally gets, and way more fucks than he typically gives. Now he's at the NOPE! stage and I'dre takes another half step back after initially bristling for Aderyna's hand-gesture demonstration. Eyes narrowing, he'll glare at the young woman though he keeps his tongue in check (Mhiruth would be so proud… somewhat). "Nah, this is too much right now. I've got bigger troubles right now than this one," he grumbles sourly, eyeing K'vre as if to say she's all his to handle! I'dre is OUT! "I need a drink… drinks…" Further mumbling to no one in particular as he drifts away. Though he's going to tuck that name away, even if he never caught the Parhelion brown riders or gave his own. It's not like he's hard to miss to track down. Just as sudden as he arrived, he's gone as well, muttering under his breath all the while. Why do all these people keep leaving? Aderyna seems slightly less surprised that one of the two grumpy ones is making his exit, but she still eyes I'dre like some strange animal for not wanting to keep her company. "I guess that's one way to quiet yourself," she calls after him, waving brightly. And then there were two. Plus the whole crowd of bazaarites at her back. "Do you ever consider that how you speak to other might make them more confident of your sanity than they should be?" she retorts, her head tilted in silent challenge as she stares up at him. "I manage expectations." I'dre's leaving prompts resignation to K'vre's face, and he watches the bluerider go rather than focus on the girl with the carcass. But eventually he must, and his blue-grey eyes land on the young woman with the selfsame resignation as a moment prior. He opens his mouth to say something, considers his words, and checks his comment before it's spoken. "Everyone would be best served by doubting my sanity, perhaps, but that is more due to my lifemate's influence than… anything else." There's a lie in his words, but not for her. Aderyna continues to caress the fur of what will likely be her dinner for a moment longer, before ever-so-gently removing it from her lap and laying it to rest at her side. It's still better than the time she hacked off a bird's head in the middle of a bar, at least. "Everyone would be best served by doubting the sanity of all the dragon men and women. No one who sees that much death and pain walks away unchanged. It's a wonder so many continue to make the sacrifice." She shrugs, glancing over her shoulder toward the setting sun. That's not really a phenomenal bar to set, see, and despite himself, K'vre seems as though he might - hesitantly - want to help. Well. Until she goes off about the dragons. "We have created a mythos about it all. But the bond is… truth. Even when you don't want to hear it." K'vre licks his lips briefly, dry in the Igen heat, and glances towards the dying of the light. "Perhaps you should try places where people cannot throw you off the sides of tall buildings," he directs to her, and it's not a threat, honestly — even considering the things he does for love. "I am sure the bond is 'truth,' as you put it. But people are very fond of their own skins." Aderyna can't quite resist patting the carcass with those words, the twitch of a smile upon her lips. "I would consider it, were I asked, but I think my feet belong upon the ground." She uncrosses her legs as she speaks, wiggling her feet within boots enough that the movement shows through the leather. "No one will throw me off," she retorts with a laugh, giving him a pointed look that suggests she knows he's not going to toss her over the edge. "Not when you have a dragon." It's the simplest form of truth that K'vre knows, and he offers it without penalty or bribe. And it is: dragonriders have a peculiar hero complex, to go against what they face, week after week after week, until they die. "Very well." About nobody throwing her off. K'vre's face isn't quite sold on it all, but he is up here to use the quick-fast roads of the rooftops, and this has cut into his time savings. "Well, my lady, I fear it's time for me to depart." He's forgotten her name, if he ever knew it. "I have an appointment to meet." It's not with Rosie's, lest someone think that. Instead, the man inclines his scruffy chin to the girl, and starts back on his way, the blood-red finale of the sunset following his steps. Aderyna offers the heavy sigh of, "Yes, I know," following his words, with a sort of teasing exasperation which comes from being often misunderstood. "Don't worry, I won't go trying to throw you off of your rooftops, either." Her words are chosen deliberately, and paired with an enigmatic smile which only grows as he moves to make his exit. She makes no attempt to offer her name again when it seems he lacks it. Instead, she simply turns around, leaning against her crossed legs as she follows the last of the sky's draining colors. Loud Thoughts has 0 comments. |
Some people pause to watch the sunset, with middling to poor results. A dead thing and some language. |
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Protocols Protocols
     Sands The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be. Applause competes against the even din of observational comments, last-minute bets, and socialization, as a well-known Weyrbrat Impresses to a brown he repeats as Ojabith. Nasrin watches the likeable new rider walk side-by-side his new life-mate to the side of the arena thick with weyrlingmasters and eighteen other Impressees. Rajakhelath lowers her front half in a delicious stretch, half-lidding her eyes, then exits the hatching sands in a slow sway. Her rider pulls her head that way, curious about that timing. There's still one egg on the sands and close to twenty candidates. "Uh, Divale?" Less than eloquently, the junior tries to read between the lines. A few footsteps bring her to Parhelion's acting Wingleader. "She isn't sharing much but I think there's something wrong with that last one." It's about a dragonlength away and doesn't look like there's so much as a hairline crack on it. Swept up in the chaos that a Hatching can be and though she is no stranger to these proceedings, it takes a moment for Divale to register that something is amiss; or perhaps it's already been lurking, like a dark thought hovering beneath the surface. Were there signs? Perhaps, perhaps. Frowning, her gaze narrows as she studies the milling group of remaining Candidate-hopefuls before turning her focus to Nasrin. "Was that one the one earning comments on being an 'oddity'?" Comments she chose to dismiss when gossip fed back to her ears ? she recalls many 'odd' eggs from her lone experience and Lukoith's own egg was no exception. Grimacing, her posture straightens in the beginning of wary tension. "Perhaps you should have some dragon healer's brought. I'll take care of them…" A curt nod to that poor group of hopefuls and without a word, Divale begins to stalk forwards across the sands. Lukoith would have made his escape by now as well, but the brown lingers in the farthest edge of the sands. Dragonhealers are certainly close enough although the few purple corded knots seem to be occupied in the mass of newly hatched dragons and their lifemates. All sorts of measures and once overs need to be taken as well as making sure any that stumbled over their own wings didn't do any true damage. Doji finishes coiling up her measuring rope now that the dainty little green in front of her's measures have all been jotted down when the brownrider blinks. She spins and her hand can be seen moving and doing a quick recount before she slips away from the crowd of weyrlings and weyrlingmasters and over towards Nasrin and Divale. She tries to keep her voice down, but worry has definitely set into her face as she looks over at the one remaining egg. "There's only nineteen…" To state the obvious there… « Bear it between. » Rajakhelath's smoky alto flows as slow lava down a peak. Her comment isn't clearly addressed: to Lukoith or Nasrin? As Divale suggests a reasonable course of action, Nasrin nods decisively and makes strides over to the new-hatched dragonets and their emotional riders. "Congratulations, new defenders of Pern," she hails them and simultaneously meets Doji. Looking from weyrling pairs to the auburn-haired rider, "the twentieth is over there, see that olive-colored dome half-buried?" Accompanied by a quick point. "Raja isn't thinking it's viable." Should Lukoith pick up some of that smoke and slowing lava from Rajakhelath, the brown only answers with the impregnable depths of the forests of his mind and the sound of low rolling growls not far from thunder. Even in the lessening din, his outward growl will be lost. Most folk are clearing from the galleries, while a few linger and no doubt are drawing the same assumptions ? or are waiting like vultures to spread the best of the best 'gossip', no matter how grim. While Nasrin is meeting with Doji to update her on the situation, Divale is shooing away the lingering Candidates with sharp words and darker looks. It's effective and those who don't catch on quick enough are escorted by a few assistant weyrlingmasters, after a few gestures and hand-signs. No need to go blurting out the news! At last, they are gone and only the egg remains, with Divale frowning, stone-faced as ever, at the olive-toned shell. "There's no sign the shell ever cracked," she states dryly and likely only when Nasrin and Doji finish their approach. "And it hasn't moved. Nothing." Eventually one of the new weyrlings will put two and two and two and two… together until they realize they can't get to a full twenty, but tonight will not be that night. They're bound to a night of feeding and oiling and passing out in a pile from sheer exhaustion. Doji will take a few steps closer to that buried problem-child of an egg, but winces as Nasrin shares the queen's rather blunt opinion and the Divale adds her own piece as well. "That's… unusual." Indeed. it's been a while since Igen's sands didn't seem to have all the eggs hatching, but the flight itself was rather unusual too. "Rajakhelath is a young dragon too. Normally wouldn't even be a concern until a queen is nearing forty…" Gossips will have no luck from Doji's words since she is doing her best to keep to a whisper when she can. Rajakhelath encroaches upon Lukoith's black forest domain, her lava flow crisping at its edges into a deceptively cool grey-black crust. Just try to walk on it. « You aren't bound to me or the sands any longer. » An inevitable cold shoulder now that the eggs are gone? « But you may still watch me hunt. » Throwing the brown a bone, Raja's lava field makes mirage lines out of the mindscape air and grows quiet. She's either feeding or up to no good, perhaps both. As the crowds disperse both in the galleries and on the sands themselves, Nasrin aligns some loose hair behind her ears and joins the duo around the egg in question. She reaches out to touch its shell. "It is warm but anything would be sunk in these sands." As to the prominence of dud eggs, Nasrin has very little practical experience to go by. "Protocol tells us we carry it between. Is that what you'd suggest, Doji?" « Tempting offer, my dear. » Cold-shoulder ignored, Lukoith's forests remain steadfast by that encroaching lava, though dull firelight lend to create glimpses of corrupted shadows deep within. His voice is silver-tongued and gentlemanly, but beneath lurks something else. He does not leave, despite Rajakhelath reminding him he is no longer bound to her or this place; he lingers only because the thoughts of his rider are… intriguing. Divale's expression is deadpan and unreadable, though it's evident enough from her posture that she's uncomfortable and unsure. "I'd say fault lays not in Rajakhelath or Lukoith," Yes, she'll go as far as to lay blame on him too. "But nature itself." In reference to the sandstorm and the flight aligning in the worst of ways. She looks between Doji and Nasrin and her jaw sets all the more grim and tense for the 'protocol' mentioned. "If it's true…" she trails off. Was that her almost volunteering? "It seems almost wrong to just cart it off so quickly. To not give it a full chance?" Doji reaches out to gingerly touch that pristine shell, not a fracture to be seen. And if she might have been expecting some trace of something like was so common in those eggs she touched during her own candidacy well, that's not to be found here. "I'll be honest. This isn't a protocol I've brushed up on much. But I believe we will go with the advice of the dam?" She glances between both her fellow riders as if they might have been able to find a better idea in those few seconds. Nasrin gives up her squatting position to bring blood back to her knees once more. Now standing, the junior dictates all fact and observations thus far. "Candidates did mentioned during the touchings there was an egg that didn't project much of anything. Rajakhelath is ignoring it and though she has her ways, I do not think she'd just abandon it. And we can't see any cracks or signs it tried to hatch." On a hunch, Nasrin bends again to dig at the base of the egg, then pull it out until it's horizontally balanced on the sands. "I can't see any on this end either but please double check." Building upon Divale's opinion of nature, "sometimes the fowl in the menagerie have ones that don't always hatch. Maybe dragons are like waterfowl." « No such possibility. » A lava bubble pops from a certain someone. "How long do you intend for us to sit by and wait?" Divale's words are blunt towards Doji but she'll exhale and add with less curtness. "Would there be a way for checking for life within? Like a pulse… anything? Even if so far the signs are damning." She is not one to hold out hope and likely has already set her mind to one path. Her gaze will settle on Nasrin next, as she digs at the base of the sands and her request has her shifting forwards to crouch, though she gives Doji more room should the brownrider approach as well. "I don't see anything." she mutters, pulling back some of the sand to confirm her observations. She scoffs a bit, eyes shifting to peer sidelong and up to Nasrin. "I do not think a comment like that would be well received… though I believe I understand what you meant." Doji steps back as Nasrin starts her excavation, but holds out a hand to steady the egg once it is freed from the rest of the sands. She gnaws on her lip at Divale's brusque question as she didn't really have an answer for 'how long'. But the next she does. "Yes, well… maybe." A few seconds later a gold and bronze firelizard arrive bearing a small, metal cone that looks rather like a simplified horn. Doji is willing to look past any unintended offense about dragon-duck analogies as she puts the cone to the shell and her ear to the cone. "It's not unheard of for eggs to sometimes not hatch. Like you said before. There are… protocols." That Divale and Doji didn't show insult by comparing dragons to ducks is fortunate, especially when Nas didn't quite intend the comparison to be complete. Nasrin puts a hand to the collar of her neck in further deliberations as Doji more intricately checks out the unhatched egg. "After Doji's final assessment, Divale would you do us the reluctant kindness of carrying it between? If not, I would do so." Nasrin lowers the hand from around her neck and steps to the side to give Doji more room. Spent eggshells snap underfoot. "We'll do our part to help keep the bloodlines strong." Divale will rise from her crouching as Doji steps in with that cone-like instrument. Though she has training as a dragonhealer, it has been a long, long time since she actively studied or practiced beyond the occasional check-in with Parhelion's wounded. "Protocols we already outlined," she mutters as she moves to stand next to Nasrin. No gesture of comfort is offered, not even so much as a hand to the shoulder but there is a glance that seems to convey as much, if subtle. "Lukoith and I will do it. Once it is confirmed and… decided that this is the correct course of action." Meaning she's waiting on Doji's verdict, to be likewise agreed on by Nasrin. One word and it'll be done! So like all the pressure. That's no big deal. Doji will be moving almost painstakingly slow as she circles around the egg, readjusting her listening-cone every so often. She doesn't really have much to answer as she keeps listening and circling. After the third pass, she sighs and straightens up. "I can't hear anything." Sure, she didn't have anything to do with the egg not hatching, and more than likely it was that windstorm, but she sure sounds defeated. It is not easy news to swallow when even up in the air but once confirmed? Divale is the luckiest of this unlikely trio and has a way to 'escape', albeit briefly. "Then it's decided," she murmurs low and darkly tense, as she turns to leave. "I'll go and prepare." Which leaves Doji and Nasrin alone for the time it takes her to leave the Sands and gather Lukoith's straps. Anyone who attempts to glean information from her on the way are given such a look that they do not press the brownrider further. Lukoith will eventually move to the entranceway, no doubt to meet with his rider on her return so he can be dutifully outfitted. It's a small blessing that although Cremla may not have had to deal with this situation, she's experienced enough to be able to wing her own protocols. The path from the Hatching Sands and galleries have been cleared with everyone strongly encouraged to join the feast in the Caverns. Divale's path will most likely be unmolested by curious lookie-lous. Doji's job may have been done, but she doesn't quiet abandon Nasrin just yet. The dragonhealer turns that listening-cone over in her hands as she looks at that egg. "I'm sorry." Nasrin looks down at the condition of her attire and though not her choice for a hatching day, the aged set of cocoa brown leathers will suffice. The time to change would be even greater delay than already transpired. As Divale and Lukoith follow through, Nasrin looks over to Doji and nods several times. She has a game face on, serious but completely willing to forge ahead. "It's for the best. The weyrlings should be our focus now, and whatever celebration we can salvage. Care to join me and we'll try and find K'mine?" Two sets of eyes are better than one… In no time at all, Divale returns and with a shadow in tow; a very large and obvious one being that it's Lukoith looming above. "We'll see to it being done… as discreetly as possible." Not that word isn't spreading already in a slow trickle. Maybe if the feasting and celebration swings up, it'll delay the grim truth until later. Let the positive win out for the night! Taking a steadying breath, Divale will nod to both of them, as grim featured as ever. "I…" Words falter, fail and she can only give an exasperated click of her tongue followed by a tight spoken. "Enjoy the rest of the festivities." If they can, implied and unspoken. Divale is not one to give or seek comfort, it's to be expected she'd be brisk and a bit rough, but she'll wordlessly turn away again to mount up and settle in, while Lukoith will reach for the egg. Needless to say, the rest that follows needs no descriptive tale to outline it; only that the task is done. Doji looks as if she might refuse the offer of festivities but on second thought, she nods. "It'd be noticed quicker if we were absent, I guess. And the parents of the weyrlings should remember this as a happy night." Even if others might be drinking for less celebratory reasons. There's no farewells or instructions for Divale. The wingleader probably has as good an idea as anyone else about what needs to be done, so she'll just give a nod and watch as Lukoith takes off with that sad burden before straightening up and turning towards Nasrin. "After you, weyrwoman?" Nasrin looks at Divale over her shoulder, grateful for her assistance, and not at all slighted by the brusque display. Her background has steeled her against such minor insecurities. "It will be better than you think, trust me." Cool-headed Nasrin has a knack for being at least believable, her chosen smile reinforcement for facing the crowd. And if Divale should return and be willing, there will be a ready seat for her too. Protocols has 0 comments. |
Rajakhelath and Lukoith's clutch hatches, but it's not as joyous an occasion as one might hope. These three riders are left to sort out just what is the proper protocol. Not all the eggs hatch. |
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A Waiting Game A Waiting Game
   "In the bazaar, they'll tell you that time is more valuable than money. From what I'm given to understand."  Tannery Nestled in a distant corner of the bazaar, you might be able to overlook the turn that leads you to the heart of the tanners quarters, but anybody with a working nose can't miss it completely. Vats of various odiferous compounds and hides in all stages of preparation dominate this open aired courtyard. Despite the smells, business must be done and various crafters can always be seen going about their daily duties. There's probably not a good time to come visit the heart of Igen's tanneries. There are certain smells that just never get out no matter how much a breeze might be blowing and F'mond has just the luck that there's absolutely no wind to be had as he crosses the thresh-hold into one of the nearest tanner shops. Despite the stench, the business seems to be booming. Bazaar folk and weyrfolk a like mill about waiting. With a sigh, the man takes a little wooden placard with a number charred into it. A voice at the desk calls out "Twenty seven? Twenty seven?" A quick look at his own number just earns a grumble. "Shard it." A man can hope and such hopes can very easily be dashed. Very rarely is Iaela found in completely traditional garb: being raised by a vaguely piratical clan will divest a young woman of the sensibility and modesty that bazaar-raised girl-children are typically invested with. But here? In the tannery? With no wind? She's looking far more exotic than is her norm, with her canted hazel eyes visible over a green-streaked gold veil, her dark hair mostly but not all covered with the same wrap. She moves closer to F'mond, and laughs. "I will trade with you for a fee," she says, turning over her number: the placard reads 31. F'mond looks very traditional in another sense. Those flight leathers he wears are standard Weyr issue, regular dusty brown with only a few minor modifications added to make more tolerable in this desert clime. Right now, as he waits, the bronzerider fishes a handkerchief (clean, he promises!) out to dab at the sweat already beginning to form where he once had more hair. The woman's offer gets a grunt and an eyebrow raise as his interest is peeked. He made no effort to hide that his own number was a lowly 42. "Sounds interesting. But I gotta have enough marks left to secure the goods I came for in the end." He's spent enough time patrolling the bazaars to be sure that everybody's out to empty is beltpurse. There's really never a good time to visit the tanneries. The acrid stench of curing hides and the chemicals used to refine them only seems to be worse on the hottest days, and while the breeze may offer relief from the heat, it offers no relief from the disgusting reek. So it is that when Zetali, brown Odskovith's, comes striding briskly into the tanners' yard, it's with a strip of cloth tied securely around her face. It doesn't help too much, but it does help. F'mond is here, and so she tilts her head to him, one eye squinted a little against the reek. She'll wait, though, eyeing both bronzerider and Assistant Bazaarmaster curiously. To F'mond, she'll quirk a brow curiously. "Hmmmm," Iaela drawls, her lovely alto drawing out the hum. "In the bazaar, they'll tell you that time is more valuable than money. From what I'm given to understand." The assistant bazaarmaster makes it sound as though she has no clue what they do in the bazaar, while wearing full regalia. "You might want to grab a number," Iaela tells the brownrider when the girl appears. "I think they just called number twenty-seven." The tanneries. It's where life's happenin', in Igen. "And just who might be the ones telling you that?" F'mond hmmms as he flips his own token in his hands. "Probably the ones that come up with some new fangled gidget that'll solve all your ills and save you a grand total of 4 seconds a day or something," The man gives a snort at that. For the moment he'll be keeping his number at least, although he does eye the facial fabric covering that even Zetali is wearing. He gives a nod of greeting and while having some fabric to block the stench might be nice, F'mond nose is just going to have to bear it as he shoves the hanky back in his jacket pocket. "That depends on what you plan on doing with that time." The brownrider speaks up from her holding pattern over there, far enough that she's not intruding, but close enough that her voice can carry. She looks slightly crestfallen at Iaela's proclamation, sighing into her cloth-scrap veil as she reaches up to adjust it into place. (It doesn't help.) "Shards… I was hoping I could get in and out of here sooner rather than later. Well, if there's that much of a line, I can always come back later." She folds her arms, though she doesn't look like she's going anywhere just yet. Her head tilts a little at talk of wonderful time-saving widgets. She leans over F'mond's way and then says, very quietly, with an audible grin, "Cure-all tea, Wingrider. Cure-all tea." Honest answer: the ones that end up bribing the bazaarmaster instead of being forced to go through incredibly tedious and time-consuming processes that, of course, Iaela administers. She is not an adjunct to corruption, but some days it might feel that way. And so the young woman smiles under her veil, the amusement visible in her hazel eyes. "No, not quite. But people who realize that their time is more valuable than small marks." Knotless, she apparently feels secure enough in not acting ditzy. Or possibly enough time has passed that she doesn't need to now? Anyone's guess, really. "Cure-all tea?" she inquires of Zetali, curiosity in her tone. Shifting her weight, Zetali folds her arms and spares a quick glance about the yard, as though to mentally gauge whether her turn could feasibly pop up before she dies of old age. Apparently she didn't need to shop for flight straps that badly; they'll hold until tomorrow morning. Instead she slips her hands into her trouser's pockets. The brownrider tilts her head at a sharp angle at F'mond's question, and then snorts, sharply enough to flutter her impromptu veil. "Me? Nah. I'd rather save them for something important. Like the new flight straps I came for. Nothing that can't wait 'til tomorrow, though. Oddy and I are going to have to get back into the sky before tomorrow morning, though, so I'd better not take a number." Her eyes trail over to watch the ancient uncle nearly napping. "I'll lean towards 'cause a riot.' If we hadn't shown up, there might have been trouble." Sea-green eyes flit to Iaela, considering. "Oh. Bit of an incident in the bazaar. A… while ago, now. It's a long story, and I'm sure F'mond here can fill you in on the details." Is she grinning behind that veil? Yes she is. "I think I'm going to get out of here before even my firelizards don't want anything to do with the way I smell, though. Clear skies, F'mond. Ma'am." Iaela earns a polite nod, before the brownrider turns and strolls out of the tannery yard, hands in pockets. "Dawn is a horrible time. We should outlaw it." Iaela turns her attention onto Zetali as the girl starts to explain. Her dark eyebrows lift and stay up while the brownrider flees, and she turns her attention back to F'mond. "Make you a deal," she says, lifting up her placard-piece. "Tell me the story of this cure-all almost-riot, and I'll switch with you." There has to be a catch in there. "You can try," F'mond drawls out from his wall-lounge. "But Rukbat negotiates pretty sharding hard." He should know. He's tried more than a time or two. Dawn always wins and you might get a sunburn for your troubles. Zetali's departure earns a small salute. "Clear skies. And if your straps are getting too bad, should be something to rummage up in stores." It's not like they have a clutch of junior weyrlings at this very moment hogging up the leather supplies, although that will soon enough be rectified. Iaela's sudden interest in the story earns another eyebrow raise, but it doesn't take long for him to consider the offer. "Story that happens often enough. Some trader slipped in under the bazaarmaster's radar. Charismatic fella. Had the old ladies hanging on his every word. Was selling some bullshit tea." He shrugs. "Claimed it cured the arthritis. Flus… maybe some other stuff too. But one auntie got tired of all her friends being taken advantage of and snagged me on my patrol." "Well, it could still exist," Iaela allows, "But we just prevent people being awake at that hour." She leans forwards abruptly, leaning in with eyes a little wide: "Did you know that some people get up and run at dawn?" Just in case he wasn't aware. As she leans in, she at least brings with her the sweet-bitter scent of mint and rosemary, sharp enough to cut through the tannery reek. She stays closer when he gives his story, and speculation lifts an eyebrow. "Oh? So you came to the rescue of all of these little old aunties? Did you drive him out with a whip or just beat him bloody in the middle of the bazaar?" Again, the hint of a smile in veiled eyes. F'mond stares at Iaela as if the woman's revelation might as well be common fact. "Yeah? Been through that a time or two myself." Or more depending on how his wingleader is feeling. There's a snort at the assumptions of heroics. "Nah. Zetali came around and jumped in. Guess the former harper in the girl got the best of her that day." It certainly wasn't a situation he would have been inserting himself in if he had had a choice in the matter. "Basically just broken them apart, took a few statements and tossed it all over to Caepan for failure to actually report his earnings for tithes. Bazaar matter." And he wasn't willing to stick his weyr nose in it further than that! Iaela looks all but disappointed at how the story ends, but a deal is a deal. She holds out her placard to F'mond even as the tanner's tinny voice rises to call, "Thirty-one? Thirty one!" The veiled woman's smile surely shows in the crinkle of her eyes. "It would appear that your number is up, dragonrider. Thank you for your service to the bazaar. It is appreciated." Except that the weyr can keep all of that exercising-at-dawn bullshit. Some things just can't be imported. Exercise routines might be one of them. F'mond does look a little surprised as she actually does pass over the placard, but he's still going to take it. Normally there might be some attempt at chivalrous ladies go first, but every moment surrounded by the noxious aromas of the tanning vats is an assualt on his nostrils. "Guess I better get moving then. Promise I won't take too long." He gives a wink. And true to his word, when he gets up to the counter, his order is fairly straight forward. Exactly the same as last turn and the turn before that and so on and so forth. The bronzerider is a creature of habit after all. A Waiting Game has 0 comments. |
A scene where some numbers are definitely better than other numbers and veils turn out to have a use after all. |
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