The following is a log of roleplay on Threadfall MUSH, logged by Z'vind.
All references to the world and characters of Pern™ based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction are copyrightę 1967 by Anne McCaffrey, all rights reserved. The Dragonriders of Pern« is registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey and used here with permission.

Kealath> Kealath glides, wings at their full spread, then backwings into an unlucky wherry, upsetting the poor creature. Z'vind mutters as he takes the sharp drop from knee to ground, fall barely cushioned by thick soles before the brown's off on his own merry way. It's feeding time, apparently.

You head deeper into the bowl, in the general direction of the living caverns and Hatching grounds.

Southern Bowl - Ista Weyr(#69RJ$)
Spread out along the larger end of the caldera, this end of the bowl is significantly larger than that which lies just beyond the small inlet of two feet of craggy mountains that creep down to form an incomplete partition. The walls of the ancient volcano, long-since slumbering inactive, spread upward with sheer cliffaces that reach into the sky, their outlines reminiscent of four pointed fingers and a thumb. Activity bustles in this area at nearly all hours of the day with dragons or people coming and going throughout the bowl on various errands.
Tucked into the southernmost wall are the living caverns, the gaping tunnel that leads within illuminated by the glowbaskets set within; just beside this is a larger entrance that leads to the dragon infirmary. The Hatching grounds are found in this area, with a tunnel a ground level just large enough to allow passage for an egg-heavy Queen and a larger, gaping entrance in the side of the mountain for draconic spectators to enter. Numerous weyrs dot the mountainside and the ground in this area, some darkened and some illuminated from within.

Ista Weyr Living Caverns> M'gus shrugs his shoulders for a brief moment, cloth growing taut as muscles strain for the few seconds. "Alright than, just something for me. How do you do the work? Maybe I can help...I'm not terribally stupid, it might just be something you missed. I notice, when I tend to work alot...that, I miss things as well. If your willing to teach, I'd be willing to try and learn." The rider offers as heavy booted steps bring him back to the hides in question. With a small sip of klah, the work is studied again for a quiet moment. "How hard can it be?" Famous last words, mind you.

You head through the narrow tunnel and into the bustling living caverns.

Living Caverns - Ista Weyr(#94RJa$)
Vibrant environs enclosed by smooth stone walls, these caverns are the very heart of bustling Weyr life. The largest is massive and designed to house almost the entire population of the Weyr at once, with tables and benches arranged in perfectly neat rows that run almost the entire length of the half-circle cave. Tapestries are flung from the ceiling, draping down in bright hues of Istan black and orange as well as colorful scenes of past heroics detailing all the fiery glory of Pernese history. Hearths line the walls, at least one of which constantly burning with a pot of stew and a pitcher of klah set there to keep warm.
Tunnels branch off from these central caverns, leading deeper into various parts of the Weyr. To the east lie the infirmaries, both human and draconic, beyond a small wooden door to minimize the noise that will filter through. West are the kitchens and the storerooms from which emanate delectable smells at nearly all hours of the day or night, drudges bustling to and from with dishes and platters. Stairs lead down into the lower caverns while a man-sized tunnel cuts through the stone and back out to the bowl. Smaller tunnels diverge here and there as well.
Jalani Stone
Auntie Iza

Resting atop a deep auburn-brown plaque is a rock that just doesn't seem to match the quality of that upon which it has been mounted. The rock itself looks about the same as any other ordinary rock might: A deep brownish-gray in color, with perhaps a few graceful swirling tendrils of a deeper black mixed in places, and about the size of a small man's fist (or maybe even a large woman's). The polished wood underneath it seems to have been prepared with great care, a carving above the stone in graceful, curving lettering spelling out "Jalani Stone". In smaller, block letters along the bottom edge of the plaque is an inscription that reads: "Pride Goeth Before a Fall - day 21 of the 5th month of Turn 1 of the 11th Pass".

<OOC> Description courtesy Falina.

M'gus just glanced your way.

Shiae's lower lip revists between-the-teeth as she frowns at her hide. "Well... I don't suppose it could hurt." Such boundless enthusiasm. "See, some Lord Holders want to buy matched runners, right? So it'd be nice to be able to know what colors you'd get from any particular breeding." She shoves one of the hides before her over to M'gus. "Black and bay's easy - C.. Journeyman Conall wants me to concentrate on the hard ones, like 'why shouldn't you breed two palominos together' and how to avoid producing white overos." Lost yet?

Narrow set eyes of a nondescript hazel watch the world from under bushy brows. Her skin is only faintly tanned, with freckles spattered across cheekbones and sharp thrust of chin. Shiae stands perhaps half a hand under six feet in stockings, all angles and elbows. Strawberry blondish hair has been gathered with a ragged ribbon of khaki into a loose runnertail at her nape. Occasional strands slip free of the band and hover about her face, only to be irritably brushed back into a semblance of place.
Currently she wears a cotton dress dyed olive. Ecru ribbons trim the hems of skirt and sleeve alike; more sensible ribbons of black lace up the bodice. Sleeves end just above her elbow while hem of skirt brushes against the ankles of her comfortable low black boots. A wide belt about her waist holds several pouches, all securely fastened, as well as a belt knife. On one shoulder is the white and yellow of the Beastcraft, the simplicity indicating that she's an apprentice.
You might guess that she has between 15 and 17 Turns.

Keeping up with engagements is seldom a simple matter, but anything that involves Z'vind seldom is. The brownrider slumps into the caverns proper, footfalls irrelevantly heavy on stone and rugs alike. Waves are distributed at random to the inhabitants, and a particular one for a petite girl who's sitting at stew at one of the back tables, toting a tiny bundle.

Stubby, short but stubbornly black hair sprouts scalp-close from generally clean-shaven features, boyishly tanned with a frail line of stubble to demarcate chin from cheek. His face is highly angular, jaw etched with sly lines of woe or laughter. Grey eyes and clipped chin straggle casually together with the rest of this youth's sturdy, slightly lanky form, long legs claiming a wide stride as an obscure slur marks his baritone.
Earthy riding leathers fit closely to Zar's tanned skin, oiling and long usage giving them a fine sheen. A jet, tooled jacket smartens up the ensemble, matching the darker brown of long leather pants that tuck effortlessly into knee-high boots. In errant contradiction, his tunic's tails spill out, not quite concealing the belt that snakes in cocky imitation of the Istan knot he sports higher up: saffron on sable on a single thread of chaste brown.

He is 19 Turns, 7 months, 0 days old.

By the look on the poor bronzerider's face, he was lost the moment he said -- let me see if I can help. "Yeah...why shouldn't you breed two palominos together? G'day, rider." M'gus calls to Z'vind, noting his entrance with a slight tilt of lips, indicating a smile. Than, a thoughtful look takes charge over a dumbfounded face, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about runners, would you?" The ex-hunter asks the elder rider out of curiosity. Even if not so, three minds would definately be better than two.

Tall, M'gus is over six feet for his age of roughly seventeen to twenty turns, looking rather cut for even such a young age. The statuesque man carries himself well, his body well-toned with sinuous muscle covered with suntanned flesh, bearing the distinct brazen hue of someone who spends many hours under the sun. Massive and rather impressive shoulders are often held in a proud manner, whatever profession prior to becoming Pseusath's Lifemate has done him well. An odd assortment of pale scars adorn the young man's chest and arms, but other then that, the rider seems to be perfectly unflawed. Dark, resembling a midnight covered in heavy fog with hints of sapphire of the blackest quality, hair is messily arranged on his head. It seems to be combed forward, but spikes up in many other places then in the front; which seems to be the style the young man has gone for. Eyes of the darkest jade hue twinkle mischievously, tiny flame-forged golden dots arranged on the green plane like constellations caught in the sky. The former hunter has a well-sculpted chin, clefted and slightly stubbled to further adhance a 'diamond in the rough' qualities. Quite noticeably, his left hand bears a narrow and long scar, from a hunting accident. Tall, dark and handsome are three adjectives which suit M'gus rather well, a charming smile almost always available to anyone to further advance his rugged good looks.
Wardrobe the bronze wingrider wears, is simplistic and yet holding elegance unmatched even by the nicest riding leathers. Not flashy, or overly plain, M'gus wears a hooded tunic combination used for leisurely flight and warm enough to tide the coldness of Between. Deep golden touched ochre of soft spun wool adorns the muscular man's torso and abdomen, clinging lightly to an expanse of muscular chest. The shirt bears a hood, riding the shoulders and hardly ever up. Over this is a sleeveless tunic of dark, regally tanned night-black suede, almost made of two separate pieces of hide. The dark hide is piped with flame kissed silver embroidery along the swooping V-neck color, laced lazily with dark blue wher hide strips. Caught tight at the waist, a thick corded belt of intricate braiding of similar wher hide dyed a deep shade near golden ochre is fashioned. Buckled in light amber-kissed bronze, the image of a dragon in flight forms the basis of the clasp which holds the leather cords tight to the waist. Tanned wher hide leather of natural earthen tones, umber and ochre amongst the essence of amber, straps adorn the cut physique of the wingrider's chest in an 'X' which feed into the belt. Simple burnt-sienna stichery creates sinuous designs along the lengths to further detail the straps. Loose-fitting and comfortable looking wher-hide trousers retain the dark twilight-black hue the tunic sports, cut and fashioned to be less a hinder than billowing pants and still comfortable for formal wear. Boots finish the riding uniform off, shining in twilight gloss the wher-hide is impeccable and tightly laced with similar cords. A slender hunting knife, aged long past it's time yet seeming to be function perfectly for it's job, rests clasped firmly in a sheath of dark crimson wher-hide attached to the back of the right boot. Kept more as a memento, although this former hunter probably knows how to use the weapon if the situation should arise. Rounding off the bronzerider's ensemble, is a cord of rugged black wher-hide, suspended on it's length an inch and a half of twisted crimson & scarlet glass. Spun like crystalline strands of some red gem, it appears to be have wrought in the shape of a leaping flame. Proudly pinned to his right shoulder is an intricately braided knot of an Istan wingrider, tendrils of consuming pitch and fiery orange twining about one rather bold length of rich amber-bronze color. By this, one can easily tell the rider's lifemate is Bronze, and those whom know him personally would know that it's Pseusath.

Shiae says "Well, if you do mate two palaminos, you could end up with a cremello. Um... some people call 'em albinos." She makes another scribbled note on her hide before setting her quill down. She addresses Z'vind directly, bringing him into her conversation will-he, nill-he. Of course, it's up to the brownrider if he manages to escape. "And albinos don't have enough pigmentation - they get sunburnt real easily. They're not as hardy."

Shiae just glanced your way.

Z'vind turns a lengthwise look to the pair of them: rider and apprentice, M'gus and Shiae, and that's between his long-legged, lethargic strides toward the young lady and her stew. "Good day," returns he in a still-boyish baritone. "What's this about? I knew runners once, many turns ago," he adds, a slanted smile wavering from one to the other. "Didn't see much of those albinos, though, we did the working type."

Elisa comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.
Elisa has arrived.

Aha! See, someone whose actually had some expierence with runners. The only expierence M'gus had with them, was cleaning up after them during candidacy. Not a fun task mind you, no doubtly why he doesn't seem to take much an interest in their coloration. "So, don't breed them together if they produce albinos? Sounds easy enough, I think. If Palominos do that, that is." Pointing out the obvious, seems to be a trick the bronzerider has learned over the turns. A sip of klah is taken, as jade and golden eyes remained focused on the hide. This could take awhile.

"But they don't /always/," Shiae points out, hammering a finger into her much-abused hide. "Sometimes they produce a chestnut, and sometimes palominos!" Oh, the perfidy of runners! "And that's not even getting into overo pintos." She blows out her breath in a fit of pique, flinging herself back into her chair. "Sometimes I think C.. he's just doing this to get back at me."

Elisa wanders into the Caverns from the bowl, humming a merry tune as she walks briskly along. Her mind elsewhere, she is not exactly paying attention to where she's going.

You see before you a young lady. Her icy indigo eyes seems to cut through your heart like a hot knife through butter. Her wild red hair seems to whip around her face like a wildfire in the forest. She wears a plain dress of dark blue that seems to compliment her fiery hair. She holds a wooden staff that seems like a guardian to this wild figure. Her boots reach up to her knees and are made of black leather.
Elisa appears to be 18 Turns, 0 months, 20 days Turns old.

Z'vind takes the last few steps toward the intended destination, pausing on the last to sweep an extended bow to the lady at the back table. "--I did promise, you know," he notes in a pseudo-intelligent manner, sliding into the accompanying seat. He turns though, in response to M'gus and Shiae. "I had someone teach me once. Sometimes they just don't give all the facts."

M'gus looks dreadfully confused now, as intermingled hues of jade and gold sweep across the hide yet again. "That's not fair. They should stay the same color, all the time. That way, people wouldn't have to do that work and you can look at a palo-whatever and know it's going to have children like that. I'll stick to hunting, Shiae. I honestly am getting shardin' confused now." The bronzerider says with a wistful sigh, finally giving up as he idly sips at his klah. He made an attempt, which, was...not a good one, but an attempt all the same. "How does he expect people to know this?" Mags further questions, unable to comprehend why certains runners have certain colored offspring.

Shiae blinks befuddled hazel eyes back at the bronzerider. "Well, because he does. And it's something I'm interested in - like if you breed a palomino to a chestnut overo, will you get a palomino with overo markings?" Pern to Shiae, come in Shiae. "It's kinda like looking at a dragon mating and knowing what colors they'll produce." That might recatch the riders' attention.

Elisa pauses and looks around for a moment, seeing the riders and Shiae she smiles. She wanders over to Shiae and M'gus, a tad bit curious.

Nearer the back of the caverns, Z'vind is receiving the package of cloths from someone; ungloved hands pluck at the coverings awkwardly, revealing a kicking child to anyone who's looking in their direction. The jet-haired lad leans over for softer conference a moment, after which the woman disappears down a tunnel, and Zar starts cradling the load. "Or like a dimglow child who looks like his unflattering mother--" he calls out droll addition to the current conversation.

"That's easy, though. A gold mates with a bronze, you are guaranteed greens, blues, browns, bronzes and sometimes a gold. If a brown mates with a gold, like what happened just a few sevendays ago, you can get everything but the chance of a gold. See? Easy. Not hard at all, Shiae. I think runner's family history is harder to plan than dragons." M'gus points out with a little grin, leaning back in his chair. A sip of klah is idly taken, the bronzerider giving up on the infernal hide for now. A curious look is sent back to Z'vind as his comment rises to his ears, although M'gus makes no intention to ask. None of his buisness.

Shiae presses her lips together at M'gus, looking highly exasperated. "Well of course those colors, but how many?" She turns, spotting Elisa, and continues talking as if the older woman had been in the conversation since the beginning. "I mean, if you could /know/ that, oh, Trinyth to Pseusath would always produce a gold, wouldn't you want to encourage that mating? Or if Niaryth to Morpheth would give you twice as many blues as browns?"

Elisa says "You would be able to encourage it, but that does not necessarily guarantee that they will be the pairing, though right?"

Shiae says "Well why not?" Back to M'gus. "You said Pseusath was intelligent, right? So why couldn't you just /explain/ to him?"

Z'vind has perfected his art over the turns, or is on his plodding way to perfecting it, depending on whether the answerer is one of the much-bullied drudges around this place. "You can't control dragons," his wavering laughter carries, along with his footfalls, thus turned towards the trio. "Nor humans, for that matter. --Hello there," as he pulls up a seat with one hand.

"I know you're trying to help me understand, but, I'm getting caught up in dragon logic. Usually, there is a queen egg when there -needs- to be a queen egg. To many golds, could be bad. But yes, I see what your getting at, it's good to know what with what makes what. That way, you have what you need or want. And yes, Z'vind is right, theres no controlling them. No matter how intelligent 'Sath is, he's sleeping. C'mon Shiae, the suns up and I have the day off, you actually think he's gonna be up and about doing work?" The bronzerider asks with a little smirk, lifting his klah mug as the dragon-theory point is made by both riders. "I'd say, get a history of the runners...who bread them, if they've been bread, etc etc. That might help?" He offers between sips of klah.

Both Z'vind and M'gus get the full force of exasperated Shiae. "They /should/, though." She drops a brisk nod to Elisa as well. So there. It would make her life so much easier. But she relents at M'gus' final suggestion. "I suppose - not who bred them, but the color of their sire and dam and any offspring. That might work. Help me figure out why, anyway."

Z'vind would toast the guy if he had a glass or mug of his own, but as it is, he settles for a wry grin that twists his face awry. "That's right. No point doing extra work as it is." And not understanding the issue completely, he chooses the simpler expedient of hitching a boot onto a knee and leaning backwards skeptically. And the name, "Shiae, right? It could just be in the blood. They have records for these things." The dusty stuff he never bothered to read.

Shiae acknowledges her name with another dip of her head. "Unfortuntely all the records are back at the Crafthall. But I suppose I could write up what I /would/ do if I had them..." As she reaches for her quill again her eyes glaze and teeth catch her lower lip to nibble on.

M'gus would volunteer to take a little trip to Keroon, that is, if Pseusath was awake. No such luck, so, the rider simply keeps to himself in a quiet manner now. A sip of klah is taken just so it looks like he's doing something, or other. "You think that'd work? Writing what you would do?" Mags finally asks, curiosity taking the better of him. The bronzerider leans back in his own chair, no longer daring to take look at the hide. To much work, this beastcrafting stuff. No wonder why he never joined a craft hall.

Elisa says "Well, then people might know what she would do in the situatioon. That might be helpful."

Z'vind cocks his head over the quill-wielder with apparent interest. That's until his load wakes and sets up a spate of struggling that occupies the brownrider for some long moments. "Hides and babies are both unneeded. Can't see why they're here..." Eyebrows raise with an attempt at a knowing look, pointed towards Elisa. "What if they don't?"

Shiae continues to mangle her much-abused lower lip. "I -think- so..." She automatically gathers her hides - both of them, lucky M'gus - up, capping her ink as well, and stuffing her pen into a pocket. "I think I'll go ask Journeyman Conall." She stands, edging around Z'vind with a vague smile. "Scuse me. Thanks for your help, M'gus, and you too." Both Elisa and Z'vind get nods, once she's far enough away to see them both easily.

Elisa offers a nod to the Apprentice and then looks to the riders. "Pleasure to be of service to you."

M'gus shrugs his wide shoulders yet again, tunic growing taut around his frame for a brief moment, "No problem. I guess?" The former hunter says with a little grin, taking note of the time with a little look of thought crossing his face. "I think, I should get see if 'Sath is awake yet. We need to go take a trip to Nerat, deliver some messages. Than the hold, than to Fort for a little bit. Nice talking with you all, I'll see everyone soon." The rider says with a cheerful grin, pushing himself out of his chair with ease. The empty mug is put in the right spot, where all used dishes go, as he saunters out torwards the Southern Bowl. For some odd reason, M'gus happens to -always- get message duty.

M'gus disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
M'gus has left.

"He isn't mine, of course. Just doing a favour for a friend," Z'vind states in a tone which brooks no argument, gauging a wink at Shiae in passing. "The name's Z'vind, by the way, and clear skies." The last being put to M'gus, et cetera. More struggling as the babe -- horror -- moves.

Shiae heads down the stairs, deeper into the Weyr.
Shiae has left.

Elisa sits down at the table herself...looking around her and trying to relax a moment.

Their table's suddenly deserted by the initial pair, giving Z'vind the room to shove the bench back a notch and to wriggle the child experimentally. It's not much good; he's not much good, and a thin wailing begins, mixed into the general hubbub of the caverns noise. Spying Elisa, the young man tries: "Lo there. Could you hold him for a moment?" There's klah to order.

Elisa looks to Z'vind and then to the child, "Sure," She reaches out for the kid, and smiles to him.

Z'vind hands the kid over with unwonted haste. "Thanks," he essays, holding up a hand for a drudge. "One klah for me-- do you want anything?"

Elisa begins slowly rocking the child and speaking to it in hushed tones in attempts to calm it down. She looks to Z'vind, "Me? I'll have a klah if you don't mind.."

"Give us two mugs," Zar agrees, waggling the fingers that so recently hailed the drudge. The rake-thin creature bobs her assent almost immediately and races away, leaving the lad's bemused grin behind. "They're all like that," he dismisses, and eyes the rocking girl steadily. Soberly, too. "So. How many children do you have?"

Z'vind is socially retarded. Comes with the drinking.

Elisa looks back to Zar, and blushes, "None..." She is a little young for that isn't she? She smiles a bit shyly to the rider. (Shock this almost never happens)

Z'vind runs his hands, now bereft of their bundle, along the facing table, tapping a staccato beat to punctuate his words. "None - that's good. Not sure about me, but the weyrfolk tend to have too many too early. The lower caverns ones, especially." Just then, the drudge scuttles back, holding a tray that's twice her breadth; something flits across her face, an expression that resembles disgruntlement more than embarrassment, as the mugs are deposited. "Ah, yes. There."

Elisa smiles as the mugs are deposited, "Well I'm not from the weyr, sir." She looks down to the child beginning to softly coo again.

Z'vind picks up the mug testily, gulping some of its contents down on first touch. The dark hair raises only afterwards, mouth agape in as bright a smile as he can muster with -klah- in front of him. "Where do you come from? Ista hasn't received many travellers lately, and I don't think you're a crafter." He adds encouragingly, "You're very good with him."

Elisa says "I'm from Ista Hold. I've been visiting the weyr in hopes to learn a bit more about life here. I've been quite sheltered most of my life and have developed a curiosity. And as for the child? I used to take care of the children in the Hold."

Sheltered. That strikes a chord, one which twangs Z'vind's face up and forwards to glance over the holdfolk's features. He widens lips and teeth in a lopsided, decidedly sly grin, and follows the gesture with a sideways tip of mug. "Weyr life's pretty good, if you ask me." And she is, naturally she is asking him. "You could create a niche for yourself right here. Take some of the 'brats off the nannies' hands, brew some klah when you have the time..." So long as Zar can delay the inevitable handover.

Elisa smiles faintly, "Actually, I'd rather try and find a job where I can work closely with dragons and their riders if at all possible."

Z'vind has learnt to keep a straight face in these maneuvres, and does. "Why, you could always come up to my Weyr and help wash Kealath. Kea always needs oiling at the wrong times of the day, and since you're such a dab hand at babies--" A perfectly innocent shrug proceeds to switch his shoulderblades.

Elisa looks to you excitedly, "Y'mean it?" She is obviously excited.

Z'vind nods calmly, his face heightened in its sharpness by the action. "I mean what I say." Even more, perhaps. "Of course, the Weyr's always hospitable to its residents, and the kitchen would never grudge your meals." He rubs his chin slowly, thoughtfully, though the eyes continues flashing their greyness at the young woman. "Don't see any obstacles to it."

Elisa hands the calm boy back to you, "He seems very sweet, when he starts crying just rock him a speak softly, it should work." She sips her own klah.

And there was the drudge, who is still hovering nearby, wiping the table with assiduous care. The lad scoops up his mug again; drinks deeply to the very dregs, then reaches for the child, leaving the drained drink aside. "I don't prefer to speak softly, but it will do. So what do you say?" he prods at the question.

Elisa says "Just about anything positive. Even some soft singing will work."

Z'vind hums a tune softly, under his breath, a half-forgotten sea ditty. Then pauses mid-hum, absently fiddling with the boy's little coverlet, not sure where to put it. "Um, okay, sing. But do you say to the other matter?"

Elisa smiles, "I'd love to help out, of course I'd need to learn first but I'd be more than happy to help."

Elisa just glanced your way.

Z'vind puts out his hand to grasp the empty mug, but the drudge moves faster, snagging it from him with unexpected agility from such a malnourished-looking one. "I've been listening, rider boy," she drawls, moving away out of their reach. "You'll be warming his cot if you're not careful." She drifts off -- Zar starts shaking his head at Elisa.
You say "I did her an ill turn once, didn't mean to but that's what she thought."

"So sounds like you're the ladies man of the weyr?" Eli quirks an eyebrow to Zar.

Z'vind denies that with a wave of a klah-flecked palm. "I wouldn't go to that extent. My weyr's too empty now, you could check." He's even telling the truth. Wow.

Elisa blushes, "So who is the mother?" She wonders curiously.

Z'vind gives a flat smile, a trace of the glitter gone out of it. "Hena, a lower caverns girl, doesn't know who the father is, but it can't be me. You sure you're H--" He changes his mind at the last minute though, shaking his head again. Can't run from a good deal when you see one. "That's not very important at this juncture. Would you like to meet Kealath? He's finished his meal." A good time for a display of bad grace, and a slight flushing that matches hers.

Elisa looks curiously to you, "You know, you've got me curious as to what you were going to ask...but, yes I would like to meet Kealath..."

Z'vind raps lightly on the table. "In time, in time," he murmurs to Elisa, and stands, offering his arm with a repeat of the earlier grin. "He's coming-- Yes. He says his belly's full and that a bath would be nice. You could start now." There's a hint of tentativeness in his voice, but the stance is all pride, albeit with a slight hunch.

Elisa nods excitedly, "So if the kid's not yours how'd you get stuck taking care of him?"

Z'vind switches arms to accommodate the baby, who occupies most of his crooked cradle. "I'm helping out, like I said," he mentions, annoyance creeping in for a beat or two. "She did say that she'd be back, ahh, there she is now. Hena, meet--" Oops. Said woman darts by, taking the child from Zar with practised ease. The lad looks distinctly uncomfortable. "Did I get your name?"

Elisa blushes some more, this time from slight embarassment, "No, I'm sorry, the name's Elisa.."

"Z'vind, as you know," the brownrider exchanges quickly as Hena speaks her own prim greeting, mingled with thanks directed at a point above his head. "Now I'm sure we have to be going, Elisa. We'll see you around, Hena and, um, Rai," Rai-whatever. With that, he ushers her out, or tries to, anyway. He's not very good at it.

Ista Weyr Bowl> Kealath heads over from the other side of the fence at the feeding grounds.
Kealath> You head deeper into the bowl, in the general direction of the living caverns and Hatching grounds.

A dragon's bugle carries from the tunnel that leads to the bowl.

Elisa follows closely behind Z'vind

You head out through the narrow tunnel to emerge in the bowl.

Southern Bowl - Ista Weyr(#69RJ$)
Spread out along the larger end of the caldera, this end of the bowl is significantly larger than that which lies just beyond the small inlet of two feet of craggy mountains that creep down to form an incomplete partition. The walls of the ancient volcano, long-since slumbering inactive, spread upward with sheer cliffaces that reach into the sky, their outlines reminiscent of four pointed fingers and a thumb. Activity bustles in this area at nearly all hours of the day with dragons or people coming and going throughout the bowl on various errands.
Tucked into the southernmost wall are the living caverns, the gaping tunnel that leads within illuminated by the glowbaskets set within; just beside this is a larger entrance that leads to the dragon infirmary. The Hatching grounds are found in this area, with a tunnel a ground level just large enough to allow passage for an egg-heavy Queen and a larger, gaping entrance in the side of the mountain for draconic spectators to enter. Numerous weyrs dot the mountainside and the ground in this area, some darkened and some illuminated from within.

Elisa comes out of the narrow tunnel from the living caverns.
Elisa has arrived.

Kealath lounges outside the caverns, claws splayed out before him, tail arrayed near the deep grey of the weyr's stone. A rumble vibrates his throat as the pair are spotted, and he nudges his muzzle nearer, wings fanning to half-mast.

Pyria comes out of the narrow tunnel from the living caverns.
Pyria has arrived.

"Kealath," Z'vind is first to say, lengthening his stride toward the glided brown. "Meet Elisa -- Elisa, Kealath," he tosses back over his shoulder, comparatively careless when it comes to this introduction. "He also smells a bit nasty at present, but it'll go away soon." Ahh, the promises. In the bustle and the crowd, Pyria's exit after them isn't noticed at all.

Elisa walks up to Kealath, "Hello there Kealath," She offers a slight bow to the dragon.

Elisa has disconnected.

Pyria goes home.
Pyria has left.

Kealath proffers his forearm, and they presumably leave for his weyr, or the lake, whichever.

Conclusive perfection is depicted in every mottled nuance of this divinely crafted brown dragon, his form a complete depiction of the verdancy of a newly born world. Raw earth drifts in darkened crevices across the landscape of his back, broad and deep with the bluish shadows of networking subterranean caves tinged only faintly with the stubbornly clinging fingers of finely dusted emerald lichen. Curving wingbones arch with finely honed precision to support the chaotic imagery of his nearly translucent wingsails, themselves animated to depict the fiery flow of amber-touched lava across the mahogany of virgin soil, rich tresses of curling bubbles that erupt into splattered droplets of illuminated gold. Trickles of these more livid hues creep along the sinuous line of his belly, slowly hardening into duskier hues of obsidian that flicker with mirror-like polish over the warm cinnamon of his heavily muscled hindquarters, a powerful compliment to the chaotic vortex of creation. Thick fronds of burnt sienna billow along his extremities, swirling as if caught on the first breeze of existence to envelop the elegant spade of his tail, the fierce curve of his talons, and the gentle slope of his muzzle in the warmth of a newborn embrace. The crest of the surf clings to his forelimbs, paling the jungle of silvery cedar where waves might lap against a seaward forest, the soft azure dappled with milky brown shadows of a thick canopy's web of overhanging branches.

Kealath is approximately 5 Turns, 3 months, 18 days, measuring 35 metres in length, with a wingspan of 52.5 metres.

On, over, all aboard! You approach Kealath, the brown offering a descending foreleg for an extra step up, then drop into your customary cave on the broad neck.

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