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.
Weyrling Barracks - Ista Weyr(#57RAJ$)
Smooth stone walls slope upward to form an almost perfectly domed ceiling, barren of decoration but lively nonetheless. It's a massive cavern, hollowed out with a few smaller protrusions that seem to imply various sections with various uses. The largest of these caverns the one furthest from the entrance must be the sleeping area, where there are nearly a hundred cots tucked beside rush-lined depressions of various sizes, all large enough to play host to a growing dragon. Adjacent to this is a lesser but still impressively large outlet with slate boards and various items with instructing purposes.
Smaller demi-caverns delve into the depths of the mountains, some used for storage and some for instruction and some for multiple purposes. Oil vats with rows of buckets, paddles, cloths, and rags hover about in one of these areas, the ground continually cleaned that little of the slippery substance clings to stone floors. Just beside this is a pile of what appears to be straps-in-the-making, a tangle of leather and buckles thrown over benches and hung from metal hooks in the walls. Despite the ordered chaos of the interior, there is a homespun quality to these barracks - an escape for those who are set here to learn and grow together.
Weyrlingmaster's Weyr Bowl
Vesta rolls her eyes at the dragons, but she raises both eyebrows at the answer to that question. She peers at Nimoth for a moment, and the dragon tilts his head a bit at his lifemate and whuffs softly, "No Nimoth, I will NOT read you anymore poetry tonight." She sighs, "Alright, alright...I find that poem about the green dragon again." She gives Kassandra and Cymber both looks and then chuckles wryly, "Now, Nim is beginning to practice bespeaking in flowery terms. I'm curious to see what happens when he's REALLY interested."
J'sen ahhs and continues to simply watch the dragons silently for a while. "Well, there's no stopping them from maturing, I'm afraid. And things are only going to get worse from this point. Of course, they males shouldn't show too much more than a passing interest when a green isn't proddy. Athough," he says thoughtfully, tapping his chin with his quill, "isn't unheard of for a green to form an attachment or two more like a gold."
Genevrath aims a facetted gaze at Nimoth, all but cocking her eye at the brown before curling her sinuous neck round about Cymber and whuffling ever-so-gently at her lifemate's hair. Whatever silent conversation takes place betwixt the two lends the young woman to blink, twice. "I suppose so, beloved," she speaks softly, reaching out to rest her hand on a soft, emerald nose. "She thinks that learning poetry is very.. admirable, Vesta." That's spoken to her friend, coming out round a wry smile even as she pays heed to J'sen.
Kassandra chuckles softly at Vesta. "A poetic dragon. What a thought." J'sen's answer causes her to peer more closely at Didarath, who hasn't stopped watching Genevrath and her sprawl. "I think that's all it is, passing interest," she says thoughtfully. "And he's never even remotely exhibited the same sort of thing for Isyrath, and she sleeps right next to him. Does that have something to do with the fact taht he's blue?" Her tone is much less dismaying now, and more analytical.
Vesta grins and Nimoth seems very proud of himself. He croons happily and flicks his tail back and forth in the couch, scattering pillows hither and thither. Vesta catches a newer looking pillow of yellow brocade and gives Nimoth a look.
The subject on hand appears to have Kealath interested, more than Z'vind is, in fact. The lad is sprawled on a protruding cot, probably someone else's, brown head heavy above his black, where two pairs of eyes -- blue and grey respectively watch the scene with impassive valour.
D'kar heads out beneath the arched exit to the bowl.
J'sen shrugs lightly at Kassandra's question. "It might be, Kassandra, but that's one of those grey areas where we're really not sure," he admits.
Jalani comes in beneath the wide archway from the bowl.
Kassandra hms, watching as Didarath still stares at Genevrath for a long moment before chuckling. "Oh, well. I suppose it's not anything I need to worry about for a while yet, and as long as it remains a passing interest, it's not going to hurt anything."
Jalani says "Hurt? Who is hurt?"
Kassandra grins at Jalani as she comes in. "Nobody, Assistant Weyrlingmaster," she says with a brisk salute.
Jalani clears her throat. "Z'vind! Front and center please."
Cymber's rises to salute in Jalani's direction, but not before Genevrath shifts around to gift Nimoth with a most pleased look. Not unaware of either the blue or the brown that rest nearby, she resettles her graceful self to offer the best view from either side. Her lifemate, glances to Vesta and rolls her eyes.
Z'vind salutes and snaps a greeting to Jalani, and he's not so tardy about it now. He even bothers to get up from the cot and lumber casually forward. "At your service," comes as mutter, sly look cast toward Kealath.
Kassandra has disconnected.
Vesta sighs softly and giggles, returning Cymber's look and rolled eyes. She salutes Jalani smartly and pats Nimoth with a wry grin.
Jalani hmms. "You might want to move a bit faster than that, weyrling." A faint twinkle is in the back of her eyes but she has a very serious expression on her face. "Take your straps, take your dragon and follow me, please."
Z'vind can move fast when he needs to-- a dark snout pushed towards the boy's back together with affectionate croon urges him on, grabbing their straps from where they hang, half-attached to his lifemate.
Without a backward glance, Jalani heads outwards the bowl.
Jalani heads out beneath the arched exit to the bowl.
Z'vind looks at Kealath and Jalani both, which leaves him cross-eyed when the two exit for the bowl.
You head out beneath the arched exit to arrive in the bowl.
Northern Bowl - Ista Weyr(#21RJa$)
Huddled into the narrower end of the bowl, separated by the jagged interjection of mountainous inlets from either side of the caldera, this area boasts one of the most breathtaking views throughout the Weyr. South, there lies the wall-encompassed bowl with the shadowed pockmarks of countless draconic habitations and the glow-illuminated interior of the lower caverns. The finger-like issuances of the long-since dormant Istan volcano shoot crooked and irregular spikes into the skyline, casting definite but oddly shaped shadows along the length of the bowl.
North, there lies the precipice at the edge of the bowl, a sharp but easy slope that trails down to the beach and all her environs. Glittering sea lies at the farthest reaches, enveloping the island in a cool, sapphire embrace as far as the eye can see. The weyrling barracks like to the southwest from here, their gaping entrance almost perfectly across from the large pool that drops off the sheerest side of the cliff to form a frothy-white waterfall. Adjacent to this pool but rimmed by a wooden fence are the feeding grounds where the distant shapes and sounds of herbdeasts filter across, echoing gently between the walls of the bowl.
Southern Bowl Feeding Grounds Waterfall Pool Weyrling Barracks Jungle Path
It is currently late evening on day 25 of the 4th month of Turn 199 of the 10th Interval.
Kealath comes out from beneath the shadowy, arched entrance of the weyrling barracks.
Falina heads over from the southern end of the bowl.
J'sen comes out from beneath the shadowy, arched entrance of the weyrling barracks.
Jalani nods. "Please have Kealath extend his wings for me? I would like to check him over." She casually continues. "Before I release him to fly for his first time."
J'sen heads off toward the southern end of the bowl.
Meriath comes up the steep trail from the jungle clearing.
Dragon> All dragons sense that Zianneth fully awakens from her evening slumber, only to begin in a slight humming, building in volumn and in pace by the moment. Shouldn't they be humming along with her?
Serriena heads over from the southern end of the bowl.
Kealath has flying on high precedence on his list, and thus does he extend his wings, /wide/, with merely a flick of a grey eye at him from Zar. "Go on, Kea," he encourages lightly, slapping the dark rear. The straps flap a bit idly, and Zar hitches on the last buckle while he's on the dragon's leeward side.
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 0 Turns, 7 months, 20 days, measuring 21.3 metres in length, with a wingspan of 31.95 metres.
Jalani grins as she walks around. "Bend your knees, if you wouldn't mind, Kealath?"
Kealath bends all 21 metres of his form, sinews flexing
mightily on a form
that's not yet fully matured, however he'd like to think.
Serriena walks in from the southern side of the bowl looking a bit more relaxed than when she ran past the other night. She glances around and spies the dragonriders and Falina as well. "
Jalani smiles and looks at Z'vind. "He looks fine and happy. Have you the straps on properly?"
Vesta comes out from beneath the shadowy, arched entrance
of the weyrling barracks.
Vesta heads off toward the southern end of the bowl.
Z'vind nods firmly. "I believe they are." Still he is distracted, turned inwards for some brief heartbeats of discussion. Did he say something-- "they are," he repeats, running a hand along Kealath's side.
Cymber comes out from beneath the shadowy, arched entrance of the weyrling barracks.
Jalani checks over the straps and chuckles. "Very good indeed." She smiles. "Pay attention Z'vind. I know there is something else going on but this is very important."
Serriena is standing quietly to one side watching the dragonriders and Falina.
Heading on after Vesta, Cymber does pause to toss a smile to Z'vind as she steps from the barracks. Another for Kealath, and then she's off, winding around towards D'kar and Serriena. "Going for a mug of klah if either of you'd like to come." Her eyes drift over both of them, and then she's gone.
Cymber heads off toward the southern end of the bowl.
Oh yes, there is. But nothing's more important than Kealath's brimming pride, spilling over in the rustle and twitch of restless wings. "Of course," Z'vind affirms to Jalani now, nudging a boot to one side.
While klah is not inspiring any joy in her, conversation shall, so Serriena heads off after Cymber who is following Vesta.
Serriena heads off toward the southern end of the bowl.
Falina goes home.
Jalani speaks carefully. "This is your lifemate's first flight. I want you to make sure you and he pay -close- attention. Meriath will demonstrate what to do, of course, your lifemate won't do as well, in his first flight, but he will get the general idea. Once around the bowl, then land." She looks over to the brown. "I hope you heard that."
Presumably, the brown weyrlings manage to neglect the other sights and sounds around the bowl, such as people passing, though the larger one of the pair does point a wingtip at the vanishing 'lings. "Only once?" And for confirmation, Z'vind adds, "Kealath wants to know." Not him.
D'kar has disconnected.
Jalani grins. "Only once. Then he lands. Is that clear?"
Meriath slightly bends at the knees, pauses for a moment, then pushes herself forward, smoothly unfurling her wings as she soars high above the bowl. She turns gracefully, gliding with only the faintest use of her wings. An encouraging croon down to the brown, then she lands carefully, knees bent, pinpoint landing.
Jalani sighs as Meriath lands. "Isn't she graceful? Now, when he is ready, please send him up."
Once. Kealath droops at 'sails tip, just a little. He rears his head back and up then, with an impatient draconic grimace down at Jalani. Small Jalani. Big Meriath. Ahh. Z'vind mumbles something; shakes his head. "You'll make it to the skies next time--" he gets half of it before the brown launches, forelegs sending up -- dust that graces Zar's tunic umber.
Jalani looks up as the young dragon takes off. "Good form so far.." She watches every move.
Kealath does his hasty drumbeats on that dust, and rises, over eagerness marking his passage with another spray of that wind-blown sand from dark talons. He launches, slightly too high, and spreads his wings to glide, attempting to achieve Meriath's grace. He curves about, a crooked trajectory that dips a little, and finally, with a yelp from his 'ling, the brown lands, talontips sprawled untidily on the bowl floor.
Jalani doesn't laugh. Nope, biting her inner cheek works wonders. "Ah, would you like to try t hat again, Kealath? This time, pay more attention to the wind thermals and less attention to the impression you might be making?"
Z'vind says, for the sake of argument, that "he did it right the first time, you know." Really. He posits for the brown's benefit: "Maybe a little more attention to the winds, of course, and use your wings properly, Kea."
Jalani grins. "Send him up again, his colour is good. This time, try to glide more, Kealath."
Kealath huffs at Lani, and never mind that some more of that sand might just smatter near her by mistake. He tries it again, hind legs propelling him off the staid lower realm towards that higher reality of the sky -- he twists and turns this time, awkward bulk splashed darkly across the darkening evening once he's there. He glides, wingsails cast aloft, glorifying the night, before he loses momentum and just fumbles for a while, then lands, this time with less of a screech.
Jalani shakes sand out of her hair and chuckles."Cute, Kealath, cute. Remind me to keep you away from Meriath, will you? That was much better!"
Kealath drops his headknobs near to the lower plane: a bow learnt by the assiduous student as he furls his pinions in one swift motion. "Thank you," Zar voices for his 'mate, and nods up at the weyrling dragon.
Jalani hmms. "See to your lifemate, Z'vind, check to make sure the straps are fine, his colour is great. Meriath tells me I am needed."
Jalani heads off toward the southern end of the bowl.
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.
Lower Caverns Stairs Kitchens Infirmary Bowl
Z'vind comes in, out and in again: a fit of pacing that brings him into the living caverns yet again, meatroll crunched in a flexing fist. He stops at the hearth and bends over it momentarily.
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 alto voice.
His outfit appears smart, for its a uniform: jet-dark shorts underneath a bright gold tunic that matches his Istan Weyrling's knot exactly. The tunic is untucked, it's shimmering threads loose over a non-existent belly; leather boots cap his feet, and a knot's loop intrudes upon his shoulder, tangling a single cord of earthy brown.
He is 14 Turns, 8 months, 4 days old.
Ismaye's eyes turn; she watches Z'vind curiously a moment, as if pondering something. Finally, and somewhat tentatively -- this is going to destroy her quiet time, after all -- she asks, aloud, "You all right? You look..worried."
The blank, pale complexion of one that rarely sees the sun leads off this young woman's appearance, like delicate bone china, in stark contrast to the jet black of her gently waved hair. Her slim body shows little sign of muscle, as though she keeps active, but rarely does anything strenuous, making her appear even moreso fragile, and perhaps a little waif-like. Perhaps five foot five is her height, but certainly little more than that, although she strains higher on the balls of her feet, as if walking on a cloud of air. Deep, coal shaded eyes are set back in her face, slightly sunken, passing shadows onto her slim, long nose, and defined features. A scarlet ribbon -- a startling contrast to her colorless appearance -- acts as a headband, pulling her hair from her face, and letting said hair fall gently onto her shoulders, although the style makes her younger than her 18 Turns, 9 months, 5 days.
Fine linen has been shaped into her airy tunic of deep green, thin and sculptured around her body, and worn over flowing, creamy-shaded pants of a light cotton. Fawn-shaded boots with only a very little tread indicate that her work is indoors, and have been painstakingly dyed a rich scarlet to match the ribbon in her hair. On the rare occasions that she is seen outdoors, a straw hat of a complicated weave protects her pale face from the rays of the sun.
Worn on her shoulders is the neaty pressed, and rather complex, knot of Headwoman, the color of the cords indicating Ista Weyr.
Z'vind sees naught of interest there, and promptly lifts his head to glance at Ismaye. "Headwoman," he dips grey eyes, drops the hand to free cloth's press on his nape. "There's no problem. We were contemplating something of -- importance." Ahh, yes. "Is there, umm, a washcloth around here?"
"Ismaye." The Headwoman has one main rule in life, other than making sure -everything- is obsessively clean, and that is that her name is more important than her title. Her lips purse somewhat -- a facial movement that almost always insists that she's curious -- and she replies, "Ah, I see." She doesn't. "A washcloth? There should be a bucket on the serving table." Must keep faces clean, even when eating, after all.
It's about habit. Habit and being a weyrling; Z'vind looks to the serving table, strides there for the cloth. He picks one up, and tosses it, dirt and all over one shoulder. "There." Turning, he adds a "thanks" before moving on, on and out -- "Oh yeah. Incidentally, would you happen to have furs handy, Ismaye? For the barracks, you know?" A casual question, it is.
Belena comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.
Belena disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
Ismaye indicates her head to the right, dark eyes focusing on Z"vind for a long moment. "Storerooms," she says, at last, "Possibly. Most folks don't need furs in the middle of Ista." She's right curious, now, not that she'd show it through her calm exterior.
Z'vind shoots back, put on the defensive, "just in case, you see. There are always moments when we need something warm and there aren't clothes around, though I suspect a large towel would do just as well." He actually looks back, gazes through a growing smirk. "It's better--" he falters, waves it away.
Ismaye pauses a moment, then indicates her head into a short, slow nod. Slowly, with a careful, cool voice, she replies, "Do try the storerooms, then. There may be something, there may not be." She is nothing if not one who picks up intricacies, eyebrows raising at his smirk. "I see."
Discreet is good, and so are intricacies. Z'vind nods right back at Ismaye, wise for wise, then takes the indicated direction with another wave towards her. "That will do. They're essential for my chores," says he as he heads off down those stairs.
You follow a flight of stairs deeper into the Weyr caverns.
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