Bailey, gold Khalyssrielth's

Bailey

Description

Charismatic rather than beautiful is Bailey: it isn't as though she isn't lovely, with a heart-shaped face complete with narrow chin, high cheekbones, and an aristocratic nose. It certainly isn't as if she doesn't possess a fine set of full lips, or have white teeth, or hold ill-colored eyes: indeed, the lovely grey of the last leaves nothing left to be desired. Long legs are shapely, curve of bust generous, lithe line of torso fit and trim: she is a full hand taller than average, but even that could be forgiven! Perhaps it is the hair: if only she were blonde, or proper brunette-but the unruly mane of deep true-red curls falling over narrow shoulders defy order as she herself draws air, untamed, glorious.

Common Knowledge

Originally of Benden, during her time up on the Northern Continent she rambled around from one weyr to the other, accumulating stints through all the major weyrs of Pern with the one exception of Ista Weyr; her longest was Benden, her shortest was Igen. Don't get her talking about Telgar; it was the worst. Her lifemate is a frozen weight of the weyr, cold and manipulative and confrontational to most.

She's a founding member of re-visioned and re-opened Southern, one of two remaining. Very fond of Hannah, their relationship is a tangled, nearly-incestuous thing. The general feeling is that if someone fucks with her junior, they'll have to take it up with Bailey.

The goldrider has history with many denizens, and has fought her own demons within and without of the public eye. Prior to leaving to fill Benden Weyr's senior position, she supervised the guards and the Kitten; returning, she supervises all areas beneath her other than those relating to the infirmary, which is generally left to Hannah. Bailey is known to be cool and professional during "working hours", and a recovering hellion on her off-time. While she's more often than not reserved around individuals she doesn't know well, her prior penchant for partying — and with scorning potential clutchfathers for chromatic riders of both genders — is well-known throughout the weyr.

She went through difficult times directly after her thirtieth turnday, a depression that spanned nearly eighteen months, a pregnancy scare, a touch of anorexia, and quite a bit of addiction. She seems to have a little more control of herself these days. Maybe she's even growing up. Probably a good thing for a woman who more or less has control of an entire weyr.

A'idan: Turns out regret really can be a person.
Arianne: a good friend, but better troublemaker.
Br'er: a hidden desire, once upon a time. Q'fex was always better for him.
Clementine: worthy of grudging approval. Very grudging approval.
Cha'el: a very long time ago, an asshole from Ista. Things are different now.
D'tri: a nostalgic tie. Bailey tried to kill him once. She didn't really mean it, but there's that.
El'ai: her kid brother. But he's grown up, now.
Hannah: her best friend. Above all the rest.
Ione: her future murder victim. Does sand stain? Good thing she's in Igen now.
Ksenia: her erstwhile business partner. A great fellow troublemaker… as if Hannah and Arianne weren't enough.
K'vvan: fun to torture, but Nadeeth is Khalyssrielth's rare favorite. They have a tangled relationship.
K'lir: like a pair of fuzzy socks.
L'xan: Kind of an idiot. But a nice idiot? He doesn't make Bailey want to kill herself.
Madox: A sweet kid. Clever.
N'tael: like a son, almost. More than almost.
Renalde: like a dad, almost. She respects Renalde about as much as she wants to sleep with him. Don't judge.
Rocio: a fellow survivor. There is strength between them.
Sa'mael: someone that she knew, once. A bridge burned.
Sven: poor dead bastard.
Thornton: mother-fucking dead bastard.
T'ral: the closest Bailey comes to a lifelong friend.
T'zaim: fucking pretty-boy with his fucking mouth can shut the fuck up.
Yules: a lovely human being. Desmeth's thing about the hats, though…

History

+ the past

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what was once a child…

Curls would be glossy, if they weren’t given to snarl and coated so liberally with dirt and all the muck that only a precocious eight-turn old can tumble into. The cothold is a dusty one, on poor soil far to the northern latitudes of the destitute wastes that remain of Crom Hold: farmers grim-faced, women old before their time. But a child’s soul, carefree, knows not of the outside world; every chore is turned into a game, the more fanciful the better. The hissed warnings of her pregnant mother – replete with worried gazes to the grim-faced man who only comes home after darkness limits what else may be accomplished in the fields or in the sparse herds – fall deaf upon a child’s ears.

…but always headstrong…

Four turns later, so much has changed. Whimsical child has faltered and failed: she exists with eyes too worldly, too knowing for a child not even a teenager. Her mother’s coughs can’t be suppressed by the herbcraft of the neighbor, not any longer, and when was the last time a real Healer came around? Last turn made the fifth stillborn she can remember. The only one to survive - her little brother - can hardly string together a sentence, but remains cherubic and cheerful, the only thing to make her smile. She’s learned when to hide. She knows her place, and she knows what happens to uppity women in a harsh world.

…found by the unexpected…

His words rang in her ears, hardly a turn later. Her grey eyes are as wide as saucers, though she doesn’t realize it – they’re all for the shining, coiled length of azure-blue staring in obvious contempt at the ramshackle existence that the cothold ekes out. He’d asked. She answered. Her voice, quavering but brave, delivers the request, her caveat; it takes another man placing a heavy hand on her father’s shoulder to keep him from speaking out, the thunderstorm riding on his brow. None dared to risk him angering a dragonman, though. Her mothers’ tears are the desperate relief of a woman who doesn’t quite know how to take her chance at freedom. The dragonman lifts a brow, but it’s hardly an issue: the baby, the mother, and the girl don’t look back as they leave.

…only to be found again…

Hands grip clammy at Peikko’s, next to her: though she’s not really anxious, the girl, not at this. Babies, even baby dragons, aren’t anything to fear. There is nothing more glorious than the early morning at Benden, the dragons humming, and knowing without a doubt that when the adrenaline rush spikes and fades, solidity remains: a mother with a new job, a new life; the promise of food, a full plate to ease the dull pain of hunger; a friend, made fast and with such ease that talking feels like breathing; the knee-shaking relief of knowing her baby brother wouldn’t grow up in an environment that would scar his lungs and heart and mind and soul. The latest one to hatch is the one they’ve been clustered around, the one they’ve been waiting for: a dusky, pretty little thing, so little! Something catches her eye, and she turns towards the clutchparents, distracted—

A memory. Standing on the lake at home at midwinter, when the ice is thick enough to walk on – thick enough to drift and glide and pretend; to have wistful dreams of possessing something as spendthrift as a real pair of skates. The frozen moment seems so far removed from the hot hatching sands: snow falls in gusts and gouts, piling into dunes and drifting in whirly-gigs like the fanciful dreams of a little girl, a game waiting to be played. Anything can be a game, can’t it, Bailey? Even when it’s not a fun game at all. Even when it hurts. There is a sudden sense of decision, and a dawning reality that this is not a game at all… this is reality. You stand on the hatching grounds and cannot see them for all the snow. The ice CRACKS, and frostfire licks up the length of a limb, deadening feeling. Numbness spreads. The only thing left is the roar of silence, of a pounding pulse just past the point of hearing. « I am Khalyssrielth. » Soft, felt rather than heard, a soprano vibrato that lights snowflakes into tizzies and flurries: « You are my Bailey. » Whyever would one want to skate when one can rather soar?

Timeline

+ the dates

Theme Songs

Lately: Halsey's Badlands.

Castle
Sick of all these people talking, sick of all this noise
Tired of all these cameras flashing, sick of being poised
Now my neck is open wide, begging for a fist around it
Already choking on my pride, so there's no use crying about it

I'm headed straight for the castle
They wanna make me their queen
And there's an old man sitting on the throne that's saying that I probably shouldn't be so mean

I'm headed straight for the castle
They've got the kingdom locked up
And there's an old man sitting on the throne that's saying I should probably keep my pretty mouth shut

Oh, all of these minutes passing, sick of feeling used
If you wanna break these walls down, you're gonna get bruised,

Gasoline
Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me?
Bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me?
Just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me?
Would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me?

"You can't wake up, this is not a dream,
You're part of a machine, you are not a human being,
With your face all made up, living on a screen,
Low on self esteem, so you run on gasoline."

I think there's a flaw in my code.

Control
I can't help this awful energy
God damn right, you should be scared of me
Who is in control?

I paced around for hours on empty
I jumped at the slightest of sounds
And I couldn't stand the person inside me
I turned all the mirrors around

I'm bigger than my body
I'm colder than this home
I'm meaner than my demons
I'm bigger than these bones

I'm well acquainted with villains that live in my head
They beg me to write them so they'll never die when I'm dead.

Strange Love
Everybody wants to know
If we fucked on the bathroom sink
How your hands felt in my hair
If we were high on amphetamines

And everybody wants to hear
How we chainsmoked until three
And how you laughed when you said my name
And how you gripped my hips so mean

We wrote a story in the fog on the windows that night
But the ending is the same every damn time, no, no, no

That's the beauty of a secret
You know you're supposed to keep it
But I don't have to fucking tell you anything, anything.

Colors
Your little brother never tells you but he loves you so

You're dripping like a saturated sunrise
You're spilling like an overflowing sink
You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece
And now you're tearing through the pages and the ink.

Ghost
I'm searching for something I can't reach.
I don't like them innocent
I don't want no face fresh
Want them wearing leather
Begging, let me be your taste test
I like the sad eyes, bad guys
Mouth full of white lies
Kiss me in the corridor
But quick to tell me goodbye
You say that you're no good for me
Cause I'm always tugging at your sleeve
And I swear I hate you when you leave

But I like it anyway.

Here, just listen to the whole thing~

Location	beyond ::between::
Dragon	Khalyssrielth
Birthplace	Cothold (North Benden CA)
Played By	Scarlett Johansson

You call me a bitch like it's a bad thing.

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character

Turn	Age	What Happened?
Turn 174	0	Bailey is born in a backwater Benden cothold.
Turn 186	12	Bailey is Searched
Turn 187	13	Bailey impresses Khalyssrielth
Turn 189	15	Bailey and Khalyssrielth graduate
Turn 193	19	Khalyssrielth clutches her final clutch at Benden Weyr; her last Benden progeny is K'vvan's Nadeeth
Turn 193	19	Bailey and Khalyssrielth transfer to High Reaches
Turn 195	21	Bailey and Khalyssrielth transfer to Fort
Turn 197	23	Bailey and Khalyssrielth transfer to Telgar
Turn 198	24	Bailey and Khalyssrielth transfer to Igen
Turn 198	24	Southern Weyr is re-founded, Bailey and Khalyssrielth transfer to Southern

Turn	Age	RL Date	What Happened?
Turn 1	26	021914	Khalyssrielth lays a clutch of 38 [Southern Clutch 3]
Turn 1	26	022814	Khalyssrielth's clutch hatches [Southern Clutch 3]