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.

================================== Ista Weyr =================================
Message: 2/13 Posted Author
Threadfall Report Sun Apr 21 Shannen
On day 5 of the 2nd month of Turn 7 of the 11th Pass, a short Threadfall passed over Ista Island itself. Kytara's Wing, T'rrent's Wing, the Queens' Wing (with Cariana and Jeseth of Igen Weyr), and Hannah's Wing were the fighting compliment. The Weyrling Wing flew in its first Threadfall to date, with fifteen pairs prepared to work on re-fill duty, stationed even below the Queens' Wing to replenish firestone as necessary.

The 'fall went fairly well in the beginning, though Beowulth was injured rather severely. Five members of the groundcrew were injured, with three of them dying, in an uncommon accident that many on scene attributed to their own gross carelessness. The only fatalities were blue Valith and Lorena, who left their position in the Weyrling Wing and were caught by Thread. The untrained blue disappeared into Between and was unable to return. (See the Weyrling/Candidate Bboard, #10, for more information.)

<OOC> Thanks to T'rrent (who set up the emitter and commandeered the whole Threadfall!), Kytara (her first 'fall as a Wingleader!), Shiae, Z'vind, J'nah, Serriena, Cianna, and Q'rin for flying in the 'fall, and to Linnelei and Galieden for being the groundcrew. I'm sending a log to Llilian for the webpage as soon as it's cleaned up.
Shannen - Green Faemirth's Lifemate - Asst. Weyrlingmaster

============================= Candidate/Weyrling =============================
Message: 8/24 Posted Author
Weyrlings in 'Fall Sun Apr 21 Shannen
Fifteen weyrling pairs were prepared to fly in the most recent Threadfall, over the Weyr itself. The Weyrling Wing flew re-fill duty, providing easier access to extra firestone for the fighting Wings, staying at an altitude below even the Queens' Wing. Shannen and Faemirth acted as the Wingleaders for the Weyrling Wing. One young brownrider left the Wing early, after a narrow miss with an injured brown from the Weyrleader's Wing. The rest seemed to be doing very well, until the second half of the 'fall.

Having been warned already that they were not to break formation, Lorena and Valith left their place in the Wing to send a new bag of firestone to B'ayel and brown Nemoth from Kytara's Wing. Unfortunately, a patch of Thread managed to break the ranks at that moment and, with no one to cover the duo, ran directly into Valith. The young blue, acting on instinct, disappeared into Between but, lacking training, was unable to reappear. The Weyrling Wing, though visibly shaken, finished out the 'fall, with no further injuries. Valith and Lorena are the first pair lost from Niaryth's and Arisvath's Clutch.
Shannen - Green Faemirth's Lifemate - Asst. Weyrlingmaster

Southern Sky - Ista Weyr
The view - in a word - is breathtaking. All of Ista Weyr stretches out beneath you, her stony environs speckled by greenery within and the jungles that surround her. Stony fingers protrude toward the sky, their jagged, sharp outlines casting crooked shadows on the floor of the bowl. The small, green oasis that surrounds the waterfall pool is easily visible from this height, the greenery melting into the meadow of the feeding grounds. Tiny, herdbeast figurines mill about there, their shapes only slightly larger and more discernible at this height than the small silhouettes of people.
Ledges dot the walls, their shadowed interiors occasionally illuminated by hearths or glows lighted within. The bowl is directly beneath with the living caverns in the southernmost wall and the waterfall in the northermost. The Hatching Grounds and Weyrling Barracks are accessible to the east, while ground Weyrs and feeding grounds located along the western walls.
Obvious exits:
Weyrs Star Stones Hatching Grounds Upper Sky Northern Sky Down

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 8 Turns, 5 months, 4 days, measuring 35 metres in length, with a wingspan of 52.5 metres.

** Faemirth apparently sees the errant strand, moving into a position to come between the stray Thread and a few of the young weyrling dragons. The older green, aligning herself with the patch, watches to see if it maeks it through the Queens' Wing, timing a burst of flame so that it tidily singes the escaping tangle. Beneath her, Valith and Lorena as well as a young greenriding duo get a shower of ash sprinkled down on them. Good wake up call, maybe?
Invalid player name.

** Spiraling from above like a feather of an avian, a mass of silver detaches, streamers of Thread unravel only to soar at an acute angle toward Kytara's wing. Billowing like a cloud, the mass spreads its tendrils over the wing and detaches further, a silver ribbon gunning directly for Shiae.

** With an odd wave of his hand, T'rrent signals another formation change, sending the left-hand side of the reversed V back to pull the wing into one long line. In wonderfully practiced unison, they turn to the left to sweep across the very leading edge of the 'Fall, where the Thread is most abundant.

** From Carianth's neckridges, Shiae turns back just as H'fen and his blue shift over, watching and calling a warning to those below as yet another delicious morsel of Thready-destruction slips past the wings. Yell is echoed by others behind her, and Shiae swivels back in panic, Carianth managing to blast some of the Thread, but not all. One delicate finger brushes her wing and she screams, disappears *between* and reappears far below, near the Weyrlings once more.

** Making its way down through Pern's atmosphere, a hideously long congregation of thread plummets its way down towards Ista Weyr. The silvery strands intertwine with one another, seeking out matter to consume.

** B'ayel and brown Nemoth, in Kytara's Wing, have been belching flame at just about everything that came their way. Is it any wonder that they've run out of firestone? With a rather irritated grumble, the brown telegraphs his request toward the members of the Weyrling Wing, falling out of formation to descend to their level and collect a bag for themselves. Lorena, in her ambitious impudence, sends Valith up in an attempt to meet them, dodging out of the way of Carianth in a very narrow miss.

** Triciath seems to be moving too fast for the Thread to hit, weaving in and out of the fray, semi in her space but looking to be hard put to keep it, what with darting out and in to mount attacks on the Thread falling all around her, the shimmering waves of it falling all around her. Perhaps it is beautiful.. from afar. Up close, it's nothing but terrifying.. if she let it be. But she can't. She can't afford it. The green moves into a downards spin, flaming away into nothing a clump of shimmering light... and nearly getting hit square on by another. Only Cianna's scream of, "Trici!" and the green's reflexes make it a glancing hit only. A flash of green, and they are gone to *between*, reappearing a moment later, the green flaming as she makes her enterance with a vengeance.

** From Vinrath's neckridges, Kytara briefly notices the clump of thread heading for Cianna and shouts out a warning but it may be lost as Vinrath soon has to quickly manuever his way around the streamers of Thread heading in the direction of their wing, quickly flaming what he can and letting the rest be taken care of by other wingriders. Another signal is given for the formation to change again and Tara looks relieved to see that Cianna and Triciath are unharmed.

** Myrdith flames with abandon, his wings deftly pushing him from side to side as the pair wade through clump after clump of the drifting menace. One clump strays a bit too close to the blue's hide and he winks between, skipping ahead to avoid the pain that would have surely insued moments later. The formation change is welcomed as the small blues hide it paling significantly. With ease Myrdith and one of the standby dragons exchange places, keeping the wing fresh and swift

** Wind snatches a wayward clump of Thread and whips it along the flank of Kytara's wing's dragons at such speed there's only one possible response: duck! First a blue, then a green, then another blue blink Between to avoid the tangled mass of fungus. It falls, then, tumbling aimlessly, only to be caught up by another gust and hurled directly at Niaryth.

** Now, had fate aligned itself differently, B'ayel and Nemoth might not currently be a useless pair. As it stands, the brown is completely out of firestone at a particular crucial moment: A patch escapes the upper Wings, catching one of those tropical winds to send it plummoting directly for the brown and his lifemate. They, being experienced, get out of the way in plenty of time. Valith and Lorena, however, don't have such experience from which to draw. In one of those moments people remember a LONG time afterward, the entire mass slams into the young blue. A sickening creel later, the untrained pair disappear into Between and... well... never reappear.

** From Kerelth's neckridges, Q'rin smiles slightly, as the blue beneath him and flames the clump closest to him. He grips the straps beneath him as the blue veers sharply, avoiding another tangle that's too close to his wings to flame himself. They call down a warning to the dragons below before moving on.

** Carianth screams after the younger blue, only to be caught up short by her rider. Shiae steals another moment to recollect herself and her lifemate before blinking *between* yet again, back into formation this time. She reappears just in time to discover a tangle of Thread ripe for flaming and takes care of it with a savage breath, leaving nothing but ash to mourn Valith's passing.

** A bulbous mass of thread twists in formation like a ball of twine, shedding strands as it falls. The released strands fall like silver rain amongst the wings, sparing none in its onslaught. Just at the wrong time, one of the legendary Ista winds throws the smouldering remains of flamed thread back up to the unprotected underbellies of some of the dragons.

** Kealath has been flaming all along in the age-old maneuvers: flame, scorch, tilt his head and wings, Betweening to escape char and draconic fervour. His lifemate sits low over the brown's back, muffled by goggles and leathers, but the new death brings a paling nonetheless, briefly glimpsed on each before they slide into the void once again, re-emerging at a safer place.

** Thirteen weyrling pairs - all of thsoe remaining in the makeshift Wing - brake visibly for a second, the forced formation of their Wing unravelling a little as they no doubt wait for Valith's return. But the blue never does reappear. Faemirth, seeing Carianth with the offending Thread, turns back to reform the Wing, already beginning to lead the young dragons back toward the Weyr; close enough to the end of fall now to not make much different. B'ayel and Nemoth, for their part, rejoin their wing with a noticable loss of zeal.

** As the torrential rain continues to pour down on the living tapestry of bronze, brown, blue and green in the sky, a mass of silver erupts to the right of Shiae, peeling off into multiple strands as the clumps practically bloom in mid-air. As they detach, the clump of silver strands detach further, the largest mass of silver sweeps down by Kytara's wing.

** Kerelth blinks into the cold of ::between:: as Thread flies up carried by the wind towards his unprotected belly. The blue pair winks back into reality a moment later, reaching out to flame one last clump before again directing a warning below.

** Niaryth has a good eye and what Vinrath missed, she will get, or rather Serriena will. With face raised, and agenothree tank ready, Serriena and Niaryth both go at the thread. Serriena pulls the trigger and nothing happens. Tank must be empty. Quickly the pair wink between appearing ahead of the thread as Jesseth who came from Igen to help, and her rider take the thread and flame it.

** From Vinrath's neckridges, Kytara doesn't notice that the wind has snatched a clump of Thread and whipped it along the flank of her wing. Vinrath is quick to duck from the possible collision, making another narrow escape that causes Tara to curse outloud. The thread (or what is left of it) is saught after and flamed, before the blue keens briefly for the loss of Valith and Lorena. But both rider and dragon focus attention back on what needs to be done, the blue rising back up into position and only having to blink between again as the smouldering remains of flamed thread is thrown upwards at him. Reappearing moments afterwards, Vinrath continues to flame what he can. With a larg mass of thread sweeping down by her wing, Tara shouts out a warning just as her lifemate pulls off to avoid being hit and then possibly pursuing the silver mass.

** Triciath twirls an answer to Kytara's warning, hearing it only after she reappears from *between*. Cianna sends a quick, sassy sort of half salute towards the wingleader, and then plunges right back into the fight and into the wing's formation as much as she possibly can, silver moving here and there and being flamed if it is at all in the reach of the green.. and then the masses descend. With a loud trumpet of offended challenge, Triciath moves deftly into the fray, <<Take /that/!>> her normally velvety mindvoice is now filled with open indignance that this Thread /dare/ attempt to ravage the beauty of the ground below.

** A blue dragon dives to sear a clump, and flames it to lifeless ash, but not before a few strands manage to stray aground, carried by gravity. The angle of the wind bears it just beyond the most luxuriant vegetation to the fringe of some undergrowth, where it burrows inwards with mindless hunger.

** Carianth, visibly tiring, sideslips left, away from the knotty tangle. She turns to give the hindmost a breath of flame, chastising the silver strands for being too slow? Sideslip right once the danger has past, turn head back for another refill of 'stone. Behind her another green is replaced by a fresher blue who promptly blasts left and right, frying Thread with wicked glee.

** The deadly fall of silver rain begins to thin, causing a renewal of energy among the fighting wings. The end of the Fall is close, tantalizingly close, apparent from the rapidly thinning Threads, and the brightening atmosphere as more and more sun can break through the lethal cloud.

** The Weyrling Wing is already banking beneath the fighting Wings, the array of young dragons headed back toward the Weyr. Their formation is a little shaky, nowhere near the rigid perfection of the other Wings, but they don't look terribly dejected. They light in the bowl presently, the dazed young riders taking a great deal of time to unhook themselves from their flying straps.

** Kealath flies wingtip-to-wingtip with an adjacent pair, delighting in the fierce terror of the quicksilver rain. As the other pair hangs right, he keeps left, heaving orange breath at part of the deadly clump. It shrivels into cinders, but another's approaching quickly, and he flames in the nick of the time, ending up with a fistful of char dusting his nostrils. Chastened, they vanish briefly, reappearing further up with a glance at the 'Leaders.

** Vinrath did what he could and to his best, but he can't help but begin to show lack of energy as the blue begins to tire. A final patch of thread is flammed before Tara decides its best they head back. She signals to Cianna, having her lifemate relay the message as well that the greenrider is to take over the wing for now. Staying only a moment longer, Vinrath eventually goes between and back to the Weyr to rest.

** The last few Threads twist towards the ground, making easy pickings for the remaining, uninjured dragons as they swoop to char the final remnants of the Fall. A ragged cheer arises from a few in the fighting wings, as the realization sweeps through fatigued minds that, at least for one more Fall, their home is safe from burrow and score.

Announcement: Agent Smith shouts "Thank you all for coming!!! :)"

** Triciath 's wings finally begin to slow, so her form is somewhat more visible in the sky, sending out a last burst of flame at a silver thread in front of her, and whirling around once more on her guard, as if expecting more of it to fall on top of her. After a wary moment, the green finally seems to relax a bit, regaining a bit of her sassy aspect, tossing off an almost playful turn to avoid the remants of a clump of thread. Receiving Kytara's signal, Cianna moves up to take her place at the head of the formation, just to lead them home. Letting out a whistle of approval, Cianna calls, "Now /this/ part of leadership I can take... Let's go home everyone!" She grins rougishly in part relief for her state of alive-ness, and for those of her wing.. and slowly begins to turn to lead them back home.

** From Kerelth's neckridges, Q'rin sighs, then directs his own blue back to the Weyr for some much needed rest. They wink ::between::.

** The end! Morpheth blasts forth with a triumphant bugle as T'rrent signals for the wing to break formation and head back home. It's Miller Time! Or something.

** Morpheth wings down to a landing near the ground weyrs.

** From Carianth's neckridges, Shiae waits first for T'rrent and Morpheth's signal, then for the rest of the wing to begin their retreat. Only then does she too head home, weariness in every lissome line.

** Carianth wings her way over to the northern sky.
** From the northern sky, Carianth wings her way over from the southern sky.
** From the northern sky, Carianth follows along the outer rim of the bowl.

** Kealath doesn't know, doesn't care that there's no more to flame, that the skies are thinning. The brown darts about for a moment more, skimming his wings over the endless mass of dragons, neck tipped to watch the air, then the Weyr below. Even Cianna's order he ignores -- until the realization seeps in and he suddenly sags with exhaustion, finally circling, circling to trail his Wing's passage.

You wing down to a landing in the southern bowl.

** Cianna slips deftly down to the bent foreleg of Triciath, the Green lowering to a crouch and watching with gentle eyes as the she hops to the ground.

Taking a hold of umber straps, you launch yourself off supple crevices and slide down -- to the ground and whatever lurks beyond.

Southern Bowl - Ista Weyr(#69RJa$)
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.
Obvious exits:
Infirmary Caverns Tunnel Ground Weyrs Hatching Grounds Northern Bowl

From the sky overhead, Niaryth swims underneath, wings floating in the sky as she and Serriena fall back in formation. Any dragon that would have fallen, she'd have supported. But when Morpheth gives the order to Isyrath, the smallest gold in Ista follows her dam and leader into between and back to the skies above Ista Weyr.

Niaryth wings down to a landing.
Niaryth has arrived.

Serriena dismounts from Niaryth, using her extended forelimb for help down.
Serriena has arrived.

"Well, I don't know about any of you, but food sounds glorious just about now," Cianna says with a long sigh as she slides down Triciath's side. The green lets out an agreeable snort, but seems to disagree on some point as well. Cianna leans her head against her green's side in exhausted laughter, her body shaking slightly with it. "Yes, dear. Sleep is second on my list of glorious things...." Looking around at the dragons landing around her, she calls, "Everyone in one piece?" with a faint hopeful smile at an optimistic answer.

Shannen slips easily down from Faemirth's silken green neckridges, the dragon giving a slightly warble at her lifemate's departure.
Shannen has arrived.

Niaryth croons now, her cries echoing across Ista. deep within the heart of the bowl. Valith was lost, along with his weyrling rider, and though the weyrlings will be reprimanded in someway, for now mourning takes place for the lost blue.

The weyrlings begin to disperse, having had a quick and rather brisk de-briefing before most of them head toward the waterfall pool or the beach for a MUCH needed bath. Shannen, meanwhile, takes stock quickly of the injuries, nodding to a Capable Dragonhealer about the treatment of Beowulth. With that all accomplished, she glances at Cianna with a lifted brow - but says nothing.

Z'vind crawls off Kealath gingerly, taking the climb one step at a time. Even the final jump to the ground seems jarring; he hides a wince, then turns to nod to wingmates. A job well-done, indeed, judging by the smiles wreathing some of their faces. A bluerider returns Cianna's question with a booming "Yes!", another grins his "Aye," and Z'vind gives the woman a thumbs-up sign. "Is your lifemate well?" he adds, a touch wearily.

Stretching out her body with the air of one long used to such a practice, Cianna shakes out her wind tossed and wild hair as she slowly takes off her goggles her heavier jacket to toss them into a pack on the side of Triciath's straps. With the response her question receives, Cianna is all too happy to give a tired smile and a comment of, "Excellent...." The lost blue's mourning is joined in quietly by Triciath, and by a brief close of the eyes of the greenrider. When she opens them, though, it is all Cianna again. "Yes. She took a bit of a glance on the side... it'll hurt her vanity more than anything... is Kealath all right?" she asks, walking over to her wingmate.

Linnelei has connected.

Z'vind mutters to Cianna, "Ash marks, and a scorched area on his haunch. Someone's flame was too strong." He gives way to a laugh, even, incongruous as it is with the mourning going on. His gear has already been removed, and he totes the goggles along by their straps while Kealath stretches out to one side, wings furled into tight knots, a deep keen rattling his throat. Z'vind glances back. "Too bad that kid had to die."

Dragon> Kealath senses that Niaryth gently eases your mind, taking that pain and numbing it until the healers get here. There is warm summer sunshine in her thoughts, although an unhappy ring behind it, as a summer rainfall might drown the day. <<Kealath you did very well.>>

Shannen sends this Look toward Z'vind and Cianna. Brief though it might be, it seems to convey a wealth of information in the simple glance: She is not a happy camper. Seeing as how she can't very well do that, the greenrider instead turns toward Faemirth, ridding the green of her straps.

Death happens, yes. But Cianna has never been one to let it get her down more than it absoltuely has to.. but nor is she disrespectful of the dead. Triciath is resting, her gear already removed and sitting besidd her, not looking to want to move any time soon, and so Cianna gives up a quick idea she may have had of going home to her weyr. "Yes," Cianna agrees quietly, meeting Shannen's look briefly with one full of sympathy. "Let's go inside, Z
"Let's go inside, Z

<OOC> Cianna dies. I give up.

Dragon> Niaryth senses that Kealath allows some of those taut knots to ease, a tide ebbing shortly into the proffered sunlight. The rest of him remains stretched with a bowstring's twang, a weak note caused by the breaking of a fellow. << Thank you. >> Warmth seeps in, mixed with bitter currents, and /yes/, rain. << But not good enough. >>

Pragmatic Cianna. Z'vind nods, peeling off a hank of forgotten leather off his lifemate's neck. Straps, with all the works. He halts, not in respect, though his eyes stare unseeing; then, "Yes, inside. Let's go." To where the wine is.

Dragon> Kealath senses that Niaryth will do as she can, turning off the pain sensors and keep you still until you can be properly attended so as not to worry Z'vind or yourself. <<You'll be fine Kealath. It is not so bad.>>

Linnelei has disconnected.

Pulling lightly on his arm for a moment before releasing it, Cianna moves towards the caverns as quieetly as she can, her stride somewhat subdued from her normal to the combined factors of the day, moving inside quick enough to sweep past Shannen as quickly as possible. Somehow it seemed that any words she offered might as well mean nothing.. and so disappearing inside seemed the better option.

Cianna heads into the long tunnel to disappear into the lower caverns.
Cianna has left.

Dragon> Niaryth senses that Kealath leaves his misery, miserly pose to thank thee, his queen. << I don't doubt that I will be fine. >> Knife-edged, his mind-voice is, softened by an off-key melody in the backdrop. << We go through this every fall. There's no need to worry about me. >> The trouble ... lies elsewhere.

For his part, Z'vind doesn't look at Shannen. Whatever it is, there's enough of it here. He turns on a heel to catch up with his wingmate.

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

Living Caverns - Ista Weyr(#94RJMa$)
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
Betting Scroll
Obvious exits:
Infirmary Lower Caverns Stairs Kitchens Bowl

Dragon> Kealath senses that Niaryth senses the discord beneath the pain <<What news of trouble Kealath? Your emotions are not unknown to myself>> She can feel that misery. <<Why do you feel so bad?>>

Kealath> Shannen has disconnected.

Dragon> Niaryth senses that Kealath was hurt. By their enemy, no less. Who wouldn't feel bad? This he relates in a torrent of flame, gushing lava that sweeps over once-dry banks and laps up on tiny, weakling dams. He stems -- masks -- the honesty to put it into ragged voice, curbing the turmoil: << Don't worry about us. >>

Dragon> Kealath senses that Niaryth does worry though, although she pries no further and simply lets the healers take care of the injury.

Kealath> Serriena has left.

Stripping out of her jacket quickly, Cianna tosses it on a nearby chair, clad in a much more comfortable fitted top, breathing out a long sigh of relief as she heads quickly towards the table of drinks, walking maybe just a /bit/ too quickly, or just with just a /bit/ too much energy. "What would you like?" Cianna asks, lifting up bottles of this and that, looking up as Z'vind enters... attempting not to show her shaking hands and hide her slightly forced smile, and let the moisture in her eyes pass for a glittering alertness in the fainter light. Life goes on. "Can I get you anything while I'm up here?"

Z'vind strides into the caverns, letting droplets of ash flake away where he enters from the tunnel. Dust to dust. "Hello, hello," he intones to the riders filing past, voice droll and dry after the rush of Threadfall. "Wine, please, and make it strong," he calls up to Cianna, headlong and unheeding of her pain, "I don't drink weak wine." Meanwhile, the bartender heads over from his verbal tussle with a pair of greenriders, to whisk bottles from under her shaky hands. He juggles glasses, drinks, and nods to everyone. "Coming right up. You'll be fine after this, miss."

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 22 Turns, 8 months, 12 days old.

Here are green eyes as deep as a perfectly cut emeralds, with a touch of misty gray, making them seem tinged with smoke around the edges. So vivid, full of life, so bright, sharp, intelligent for a face so young. Her face is a study in confidence, nothing remarkable about it, other than those eyes. A pair of high cheekbones, rather small lips, and a nondescript nose complete it, the skin very fair, almost porcelain white. Framing her face are wisps of long blue-black falls in cascades of wavy locks to her mid-back when loosed, but most often secured with a small ribbon at the nape of her neck. She stands with a confident, yet almost casual air about her, a bit under average height, but still looking everyone in the eye with her proud chin tilted up to face the world.
My, haven't we changed? A loose blouse adornes Cianna's upper part of her body, v-necked and fluttering loosely around her torso, all in pure white, with sleeves huge and puffy that end in cuffed edges around her wrists with a slit for a small button or link to close. All in all, it appears to be a rather large man's shirt that she wears, altered to fit her very feminine figure, with a thin choker around her neck, snugly fitting with a sort of silver charm hanging off it in the front. It is tucked in loosely to a skirt of light, floating material that whispers and sighs over the ground, it's light, gauzy material floating around her and behind her as she moves, more of a dancer's or a gypsy's skirt than anything else, in dark colors that swirl around each other, and light sandaled feet peeking out from beneath, made of a rough brown, comfortable looking material.
Cianna is 19 Turns, 2 months, 16 days old.

The bartender wrests away the bottles that Cianna had been handling with a slightly huffy look on his face. "I'll do this, missy," he says, sounding more than slightly like a crotchety old geezer than anything else. Cianna can't help but let a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "Well, yes, /sir/," she says, shaking out her head the best she can, moving her petite frame around his side and towards where Z'vind sits and settling herself down in a casually elegant manner, giving him a ghost of one of her old conspiratorial smiles. "A man after my own heart.. it's not worth it if it's not the best, I think," Cianna says, drawing off her gloves finger by finger.

Galieden comes up the flight of stairs from the inner caverns.
Galieden has arrived.

Z'vind is among the best of the casual ones. He's sprawled out over a chair, shoulders hunched slightly in contemplation of the table before it. As Cianna returns, he gives her a salute, ignoring the snigger of another wingmate nearby. The caverns are crowded today, for some reason. "Not worth the marks, certainly. I want a drink that hits the spot with /this/ crowd around," he refers with a grin, raising a hand to beckon a drudge over when the drinks are ready.

Cianna tosses Z'vind a casual salute of her own, touching her fingers to her forehead briefly and ending it with a mock half bow from the waist in her seat. "Oh, yes, that looks absolutely wonderful," Cianna priases the drudge who delivers it, and gives a wave of approval towards the bartender, who appears to be wrapped up with those greenriders again, however, and doesn't see it. The caverns /are/ crowded today.. it seems like everyone had the same idea for escape that she did.. "After today, I need a few of these to be myself again..." For a woman who can take two glasses at most without having an effect on her personality... Cianna reaches up to let her windblown hair loose finally from it's confines, falling in cascades down her back and over her shoulders. After a moment of attempting to tame it, she gives up and leans down to pick up her glass a moment later. "To another day alive," Cianna says in toast, raising her glass in the air.

Cedric comes up the flight of stairs from the inner caverns.
Cedric has arrived.
Cedric disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
Cedric has left.

Linnelei comes up the flight of stairs from the inner caverns.
Linnelei has arrived.
Linnelei disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
Linnelei has left.

Galieden comes walking into the living cavern after having a soak in the bathing room and he heads over to get himself a glass of wine, "What a day."

Z'vind slides a look at the bartender, but more than that, keeps his gaze on Cianna and her cascading hair. His grin wavers a hair's breadth, and his toast is belated. "Another day alive," goes the rallying cry. He tacks on, "To wash our dragons and fly some more drills." Which, fortunately, is drowned out in the unexpected chorus of toasts that rise from the tables about. Many are hoarse, drunken, and reeking of alcohol. Zar tilts his glass to Galieden, too, for good measure.

Galieden hmms a bit and he nods to Z'vind as he settles down near the two of you and he takes a deep drink from his glass.

This young man appears to be somewhere around 20 turns old, but it's hard to tell an exact age. His hair falls just past his broad shoulders and the onyx strands wave slightly, giving him a sort of devilish appearance. That devilish appearance is enhanced by a cheeky smile that lights up his face with humor. He is rarely without a smile and his deep aqua-blue eyes always seem to sparkle with that merry humor. His facial features are firm, with high cheekbones and a broad forehead that is covered somewhat by neatly cut bangs that drift just above sweeping onyx eyebrows. His nose is an aquiline sweep that juts out from his face, giving him a hawk-like appearance. His lips are firm and curve almost constantly in a smile. His jaw is chiseled and firm, adding to that devilish look due to the cleft in his chin and the dimples that peek out when he smiles. His shoulders are definitely broad from hard work and muscles can be seen as he moves, his long arms end in large hands that seem to be able to deliver the gentlest touch to the animals he tends. His torso narrows slightly from his shoulders down and his chest seems to be muscled as much as his shoulders and his belly is flat, one could determine that he is decidedly fit due to his position in life. His waist is narrow for a man and his legs are lean and long, and one could guess that the length of his legs might be the reason he stands at close to 6'3 inches tall.
His shoulders are covered by the white shirt that causes the golden tan of his skin to stand out. That tan deepens the blue of his eyes and accentuates the bright white of his smile. The short sleeves of the shirt bare part of his upper arms and all of his forearms, allowing the muscles there to flex freely when he bends his arms. The shirt tucks into a pair of buff breeches that conform loosely to the shape of his body, allowing some of the muscles in his legs to show as he walks. His breeches are held up with a dark brown belt that keeps them from sliding down as he works. The breeches tuck into a pair of polished black riding boots that are worn but serviceable showing that he works hard. On his shoulder he wears the orange and black knot of Ista Weyr that marks him as a resident.

A toast, a toast! And more to follow. Z'vind gulps down a third of the glasses' contents, then swirls it around, the eternal dilettante. He licks his lips, to complete the mask, and speaks over the rim to her, leaning closer as well. "Can't hold their liquor, the half of them," he supplies in answer. He laughs too, baritone spiked with harsh burrs, but lifted to make his next statement half a question. "All the life we've got-- No, I won't get drunk today. This wine isn't strong enough. All the same, I propose a toast to ... your hair, Cianna."

"My hair?" Cianna says in utter bewilderment, looking at a strand of it and tossing it out of her face. "Are you /sure/ you're not drunk?" she says, looking at him in consideration, as if attempting to see that for herself. "No, I don't believe you are. Why my hair?" Cianna asks curiously, and then looks over to the other people, sipping at her wine, nearly finished with the first glass she has. Her own voice is cultured and velvety smooth, thanks to her father, and now, shaking with laughter. "Sorry. Just imaginging what this place is going to look like when the bartender decides it's late.. probably'll have to chase them off with a broom.."

Z'vind suggests, "Or leave them here till morning. They'll clear off by themselves. Just look at P'ring over there. Completely knocked out. I wouldn't do that." He waves his glass at her so that the light liquid sloshes, "Yes, yes, that's what I said. Your hair is -- different." A swallow brings up a chuckle from the man; humour to match suppressed laughter, it is, and he runs hands over his own slicked black mop-o'hair.

"That, too. Yes, it /would/ take an army to move P'ring, I should think. That is one /large/ man," Cianna says, looking over to the table where his friends he appeared to have come with were merrily still drinking away. "I suppose we should be grateful they aren't singing yet-" "AiiieeeeEEEeeyahh!" Wince. "Spoke too soon," Cianna says wryly, glancing over at the horribly off key singers. But then. Back to hair. "Why is my hair different? Your hair's nearly the same color as mine... Besides, I always wanted to be blond. All women want to be blond. It's so much more.. feminine," Cianna says, signaling for a refill of her glass, which the drudge quickly gives her.

Xan comes up the flight of stairs from the inner caverns.
Xan has arrived.
Xan disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
Xan has left.

Z'vind chuckles at the singers, but refrains from joining in -- it's a sea ditty they're carrying, very catchy, albeit tuneless -- he takes on the hair argument, then. "I like blondes. My girl was blonde. But your color isn't bad," he says, admiring the broad puffiness on her head. "Feminine, you say? Aye, it does give a woman more." A pause, for a word: "--substance, maybe." He shrugs; drinks deep, grey eyes staring into the glass.

Xan comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.
Xan has arrived.
Xan goes home.
Xan has left.

Giving a mock little flutter of airheaded pleasure at Z'vind, Cianna says crooningly, "Oh /do/ you approve of my color? Your praise simply /overwhelms/ me, kind sir! I don't know what I shall do with such compliments to turn my head! 'Not bad!' I shall faint, I do vow..." She gives herself a mock fanning, fluttering her eyelashes madly. She holds the pose, her fingers cupping under her chin for a moment, and then falls out of it, laughing richly. "In truth, you've found my one vanity, my hair. I won't cut it. At first my father wouldn't let me.. and now I won't do it, either. Damn him for forming the habit," Cianna says, tossing said hair in a cascade of shimmering black over one shoulder. Taking a sip of her wine, she tilts her head to the side. "Your girl? I didn't know you had a current lady..." she teases lightly.

Xan comes up the flight of stairs from the inner caverns.
Xan has arrived.

Kessen has connected.

Now it's Z'vind's turn to shudder with repressed laughter. "I hadn't known such praise would please you, my lady, or I would have employed it sooner," he mocks, "Faint, and I'd catch you anytime, even in here. Even if your father disapproves." His smile glints, as ever, a hint of bright above a sordid tan. "All that is over now." And let him remember it. "Your father was right to let you retain it." Hair talk, post-Threadfall.

Kessen disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
Kessen has left.

And now it's Cianna's turn to laugh, a rich, ringing laugh that floats over the table where the sit over towards him. "People usually disapprove of my father, not the other way around," Cianna's eyes dance and twinkle. "I should let you know I was brought up with a self-admitted scoundrel and rake for a father. And those were the polite names," Cianna grins impetously, fluttering her eyelashes angelically. "They say he was a bad influence. I don't know, do you see it?" The angel pose manages to hold for a full few minutes, even. Impressive.

Xan wanders into the Caverns, headed straigtht for something to drink. Pouring herself a cup of juice, she moves toward a comfortable seat, her shoulders sagging as she melts into it. Glancing aroung over the rim of her cup, she gives a quick wave to the others seated near her.

Galieden hnmmms slightly and he finishes his drink.

Z'vind unprops himself, elbows leaving the table to unfold hands. He applauds. "Very good, Cianna dear, very good. For one who has such a father, you weren't influenced at all. You must have had a good childhood." Soaking it up, he is, and quite possibly believing in the act, all of it. Guess. The clapping stops, while he looks puzzled. "Where is he now?"

"He's a good man," Cianna says, dropping the pose with an acknolwedgement of the clapping in the form of a laughing wink and a smile and reaching out to delicately sip a bit more of her wine, the noise in the place seeming to be more tuned out than it was before as she adjust to her surroundings. "He just lets his reputation get exaggerated for the sake of amusing himself. It's an ego thing." Cianna rolls her eyes, and then sips some more of her wine. "He lives at Fort Weyr with that crotchety brown of his. I still see him every few months or so...." She smiles, as if reminiscing quietly for a moment, but then shakes it off. "And I do believe you avoided my question about the blonde lady. Come on now... who was she?" Cianna says, kicking him lightly under the table.

Z'vind seeks a place to look, and latches on Xan. He ponders her, then glances back to Cianna, darkness crept back into his long face in lieu of earlier amusement. "A dragonrider too, you say. Yes, I know how the way matters go, how good men can end up with bad reputations. None of it is true, of course, that's just the way it is." The shadows lurk, grey at the edges. But he'll not kick back. The glass gets hooked up instead, and is teasingly waved at her. "Didn't mention anyone, did I? Did you hear me talk about anyone else?" he appeals to Galieden.

Bright sapphire eyes peer out in curiosity from below her jet brows, carefully arched to perfection. High cheekbones and pouting rose lips contrast with the clear porcelain of her skin. Shining ebony falls in a silken stream to her hips, usually left loose. Her body is slender and athletic, although she tries to hide the curving at hips and chest with her usual wardrobe of full blouses, wrapping skirts, and pants. Xan appears to be 17 Turns, 0 months, 20 days Turns old.
Xan's Cot

Galieden blinks a bit, "Talk about anyone else? Not that I heard sir."

Z'vind says to Cianna, "See? He didn't hear either." To Galieden, he nods in all seriousness. "Good man."

Cianna looks over towards where Z'vind had been, and tosses a friendly enough wave towards Xan.. she doesn't appear to be drunk, anyway. Bonus points for her. She turns back to Z'vind, though, curling herself in a comfortable ball in her seat, the curtain of black hair draped over her back and chest, "Oh, /some/ of it was true.. it just got out of hand. You know the old, 'he said, she said, and my best friends third cousin's half sister's former employer heard that...' sort of thing," Cianna says, sipping at the last of her second glass. Her smile is bright with laughter. "Oh, you definitely did! You mentioned how 'your girl' had been blonde," Cianna says definitely, glancing towards Galieden for his answer. "Oh, bah. Fine then." Cianna pulls a face at them both.

Xan returns the curious look with one of her own. Shyly she keeps her cup in front of her for protection, just in case. You never know with those riders. Turning her gaze to the other woman, she cants her head slightly, before studying Galieden in turn. She has no clue what the conversation is about, so she says nothing. Xan takes another peek at Z'vind, though.

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

Kessen enters the Living Caverns, nodding to those that he knows as he saunters over to the Serving Table for his usual inspection. The fruit bowl is the first thing to undergo inspection, several fruits poked and prodded, discarding those that don't meet his satsification, keeping the few that do.

Z'vind smirks back, obligingly, to Xan. And turns back to Cianna, comfortable with the father-talk. "Rumours. You can't believe those. The old aunties have a vested interest in spreading them, just to keep their job. It's how they can sit around all day and, and use their needles." He waves a dismissing hand. "Knitting. They're cleverer than they seem. I bet your father was as good a man as I ever was." Two tables back, a rider slumps on crossed arms, out for the count.

Cianna mutters something about 'men in conspiracy', though it appears to be fairly good natured, minus some words she really shouldn't know laced into her mutterings. She probably doesn't know what half of them mean, anyway. She stops and laughs liltingly. "You ever were? Are you telling me you're /not/ a good man, Z'vind?" Cianna says, lifting one eyebrow. "And the aunties have to make up stories, or nobody would talk to them. I knew one old auntie who had problems talking and sewing at the same time. Ended up with some pretty roughed up fingers, she did.." She puts down her glass with a contented sigh. "That was absolutely heavenly," Cianna says breathily, attempting to relax.. and jerked out of that by the singing across the room. Oh. right. She'd almost forgotten about them. "Fresh air sounds lovely right about now... Anyone care to join me?" she asks, slowly bringing herself upright.

Z'vind defends himself with a flash of teeth. "But I /am/, Cianna. You're just twisting my words. A nice girl like you really shouldn't curse like that. I would do it for you, you just have to ask," he explains nicely to her. "The old ones can talk to themselves. In fact, the ones who knit all day down there already talk to themselves all day. It can't get any worse." His third glass set aside, the brownrider glances up at the standing woman. Wingmate, perhaps. "Outside. To walk, or to fly?" That is the question.

Kessen twitches a brow at them talking about aunties and daddies, shaking his head a little as he decides to pick a different table from the others, his only food being the chosen few ones, biting into one. A chair is pulled out, Kessen sits down, leaning back as his feet come up to the table, chewing and listening, though his eyes aren't watching them, just a blank spot on the cavern wall.

Long, shoulder-length of silken threads of golden fire frames the features of Kessen's face, making him appear youthful yet mature at the same time. His silvered orbs complements the cheekbones and crimson lips with that strong chin. The thing that makes most people stare at him would have to be either his strange silver eyes or his uncommonly smooth blond hair.

On Kessen's torso resides a brown sleeveless tunic, showing off his tanned muscular arms. But two scars are visible on his left arm, one more on his right forearm. The shirt is tucked into a black pair of trousers with a belt looping around his waist. On the belt are two things, a pouch and a knife sheath. A intricately designed hilt of his knife shows from the sheath while the lower half of his sheath covers the knife's blade. His wherhide boots appear new, coming up to about mid-calf high, with four straps and buckles on them, heel is somewhat thick, raising Kessen's height a couple of inches taller. A shoulder knot represents the Craft he belongs to, the Smithcraft, with Ista Hold's colors in it as well. The design of this knot tells others that he is a Journeyman Smithcrafter. This man looks to be about 21 Turns, 2 months, 20 days.

Xan moves her cup away from the propped up feet nearby, her hand moving to cover it. Nothing floating in her juice, thank you. Peering at the others, she mutters to herself, a hide set out in front of her.

Galieden just looks sort of confused at the turn of the conversation and he just stays out of it.

"You know, I've always found that terribly unfair. Men my age get to curse all they want, but for some reason, I'm not allowed to," Cianna puts her hands on her hips, looking slightly huffy about the whole thing. "I would like to know who made those rules up, because it's really unjust..." She tosses her hair over her shoulders, and then flashes a smile, "I'm not twisting your words. I"m interpreting them, you see. There's a difference." She wrinkles her nose. "To walk? I thought I'd let Trici rest for a bit longer... Up to come with me?"

Kessen's hands come to his belly, smoothing the tunic out there with a free hand, eyes casting downwards before briefly glancing up at Xan. His feet are wearing boots, thank you. Netherless, the Smithcrafter moves them away from the cup, tilting his head as he listens.

"Of course," Z'vind tosses up, "I'm not drunk yet." He turns the chair and straddles it at his leisure while fingers tap at his temples thoughtfully. "And why are /you/ not allowed to? Beats me. It's surprising that you think there're rules at all, 'cause I don't see any." He blinks, meekly. Smirks at her, then turns it at a crafter down the way. Interpretation, twisting, whatever-she-says.

Hrmph. "Tell /that/ one to my father," Cianna laughs, and shakes her head. "Oh, well. Enough about that crotchety old fellow for one evening, I think. I don't really like using those words a lot /all/ the time, anyway. They're not very pretty." She just laughs at his meek little look, pulls a face at this smirk at her, and begins walking towards the doorway, tossing a wave at Kessen along her way, swaying slightly as she walks. "Goodbye, all," she tosses over her shoulder for those who had been sitting around her.

Cianna disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
Cianna has left.

Z'vind is going to have to meet Cianna's father one day. He shakes his head, looks bemusedly at the others, then trots after her. Out, for today.

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

Southern Bowl - Ista Weyr(#69RJa$)
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.

================================== +Weather ==================================

Darkness stretches fully, curling about the springtime island that whispers with comfortable breezes.

---------------------------------- Ista Weyr ---------------------------------

Night has long claimed the Weyr, but Z'vind trots out without forethought and the requisite glowbasket. He lingers at her heels, staying near the pooled lights of the living caverns. A deep breath for springtime air, and he says, "Well. We're out."

"This way," Cianna calls cheerfully over her shoulder towards him, but he's already following her. She blinks her eyes once or twice to adjust them to the night.. but honestly, this is when she's most comfortable anyway. She breathes in the night, farther away from the lights than he is, a form half encased in shadow, the light of hte stars the only thing that really illuminates her. "Yes, we're out," she breathes. "Thank Faranth. One more moment of that singing, and I think /I/ would have beaten someone with a broom..." She tilts her head slightly to the side, her foot tapping out an idle rythum. Perhaps she's a bit silly. Oh, well. Three glasses of wine will do that to a girl. "Couldn't have that... especially on a Thread day.."

Z'vind knows; this is /their/ Weyr, after all, and home, in a sense. He does follow, pausing where light gives way to near-utter darkness, hands stuffed deep in leathern pockets. "The singing wasn't all that bad. I've heard worse. On the sea, you know, when the sea's all black around you and there's nothing to do but drink and sing." A smile, unseen probably. "Tired, already?"

After Thread. Inane, really.

"You've been to sea?" Cianna asks, seizing on the opportunity, coming back closer to him and leaning against the rock of the Bowl, the area around them lit gently, but not brightly, enough for them to see each other, but perhaps miss some details. "Tired? Gee, I can't imagine why I would be," Cianna says with a bit of a wry smile. "But tell me about traveling on the sea.. I've never done it before.." She leans casually against the wall, her head tilted to the side with her hair, inquiringly looking at him.

Not so inane. I got it.

Foolish or not, Z'vind resumes. "I was there for about five turns. Tending the sails, scrubbing the decks, that kind of thing. Woke up at dawn every day, helped them to check the catch, survey the quarters, watch the seacrafters--" Deckhand work in all its glory, though you might think otherwise. He pauses, backing up to the rock she's on. His idea, really. He slides his back onto the cool surface, shoulders following, but leans forward from there, a crooked leg supporting his stance. "--Not so different from here. Less glamourous perhaps, but it was worthwhile work. Earned my marks, got the family off my back." He looks at her, then roams the eyes away again.

"Other than the whole 'getting up at dawn' thing," Cianna says with a theatrically exaggerated sort of grimace, her eyes clearly laughing even in the faint light coming from the caverns, "That sounds like an interesting life. You must have seen so many things while you were out there, or /caught/ so many things..." She looks over at him with a wry, understanding sort of smile. "And that's what it's all about, isn't it? First step to a happy life: Get family off one's back," Cianna laughs liltingly, tilting her head back and away for a few moments. She looks back, saying, "Step two: Do whatever pleases you." A playful wink before she continues, "How did you end up around here?" Cianna asks, idly running a foot up the other leg that is supporting her and back down again, tossing hair from her eyes.

Stories behind stories, shadows behind the dark. Z'vind enjoys the laugh, rolls one of his own to join in, baritone deepening to leave boyish tenor behind. "Seen a lot, yes, and learnt much. I've been away from home all my life, never needed them around, but moving away for good was satisfying." He judges that smile and withdraws, staring down at the long, calloused hands he spreads in front of grey, still-laughing eyes. "Pleased? I /was/ pleased. Do you mean that coming here was your wish?" And implied, his arrival here.

"Satisfying isn't the world. Liberating, maybe, for me," Cianna says with a slight smile. "Not that I was ever really that much controlled at home. He tried. It failed." She gives a charming, sprite like little smile towards him, looking up out of doe-like eyes under long lashes, the last of her laughter mixing with his, and then fading away. Her eyes twinkle under her lashes. "Were you? Rising at dawn? Oh, you hvaen't lived until you've slept 'til noon in a warm bed, I tell you..." She smiles and then pauses a moment. "Coming here my wish? Well.. I don't know if it was a wish as much as it just.. happened. I decided to visit here.. and never went home. Why? Did you wish to stay out with your fishing nets?" Cianna asks lightly, teasingly pushing his leg with one foot. "Surely we weyrfolk aren't /that/ bad.."

Z'vind puts his foot down for good, slanting his head back against the bowl's wall, with hands to cushion the fall. "Good for you, then. So you get your wish and can do whatever you want. Ride your dragon, fly Thread," his tone hardens, flattens, "Sweeps, the works." He glances back, sardonic smile laced with a trace of something -- envy? "I never said you were bad. Anyway, I'm worse." He nudges back with a kneecap. Hoo.

"I never said I was doing whatever I want all the time," Cianna says, her tones going slightly defensive. "Like today. Believe me, there are a thousand places I would rather have been than up there, but I-" She stops, and gives him a wry smile. "I'm sorry.. I'm sure you did love your sea life. I'd love to try that some day.. it's on my list. As long as it is..." Cianna grins at him, her eyes dancing. "Oh, /really/? Would you like to make a bet on that?" She nudges back with the side of one of her hips, whistling and looking up into the air with a 'Who me? Nope, didn't do that..' expression on her face.

Z'vind rolls right (as opposed to left) on his impromptu armrest, towards her. He pauses, says, "Thread. Of course. But /I/ didn't like the sea." An arm twitches down, declining to pillow any longer, and wriggles fingers to attack her waist instead. /Tickle/. He repeats, then: "Try the sea when you get tired of this place. It's near. I'm warning you against it, though." So solemn, when juxtaposed with the bemused gaze and the nosy fingers.

"I'm never going to get a straight answer out of you, am I?" Cianna says, turning to him in utter bewilderment. "One minute, I think I've offended you, the next you're- Ooh!" Cianna says, laughing at the attack at her waist. Somebody is /very/ /very/ ticklish, indeed. She reaches out towards his side and runs her fingers up and down it in a retaliating tickle action. "I'll do that," she says calmly, just as if she's not tickling him, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Why warn me against it?" she asks. "Is it /that/ bad?" Her fingers move a bit downwards for another tickle. Hah. Take that.

Z'vind chuckles, preempting her counterattack with palms that release her from ticklishness to snag quick fingers. His voice is dry, still, but the smile is more genuine and glow-dappled. "I'm not a foolish child, Cianna," he says calmly in return, "Nor am I new to the Weyr. The sea is a dark place, with--" Forehead wrinkles. "--Creatures other than fish. And men change when they touch the sea, with those long days." The mute appeal melts as he extends his free hand to join in the skirmish.

"Did I say you were foolish?" Cianna says with a tilt of her head, looking almost comically confused for a moment. "If I did, you /definitely/ misinterpreted something along the way, dear..." She pauses as he continues with his story, a slow smile spreading over her face, her eyes glinting almost ferally in the late evening light. "Why, Z'vind, I do believe you're trying to scare me!" Her eyes glitter. "So did you change? Perhaps become some sort of sea monster?" She reaches out to reach around his hands to tickle at his chest, trying hard to hold in the shaking laughter with almost partial success. She looks at him playfully, her eyes laughing, her hands moving from one side to another in quick attacks and retreats. "You don't /look/ like a monster... Or do you hunt in disguise?"

Z'vind loops an arm, a wandering arm, over to catch her waist this time, though he allows space to dodge. He tickles on with the other hand, freely, though oddly silent for a few heartbeats. His jacket-covered chest convulses, tension and laughter mingled and echoed in his angular features. "I'm not scaring you," he argues on, "It's all true. Except for the part about monsters, which I didn't mention. I meant people." Bad people. Uncertainty stems the easy flow of laughter and movement, all at once. A grin cracks, spills over into a wink's guise. "Yes. I--hunt--quietly, where no one sees." Tickle goes the scary monster.

"No, you're not scaring me," Cianna says, pulled against his chest by the wandering arm, her voice soft and laughing, her eyes dancing under her lashes as she looks upwards. "I said you were /trying/ to." And with that, Cianna's hands tickle up his chest lightly, her smile still teasing, squirming this way and that from the tickles, getting in a bit of a surprise tickle on his leg with her toes. "You hunt? Oh, really?" She winks playfully. "What's your prey?" The scary monster gets an impetuous pixie smile at him, almost challenging as she moves to continue her tickling down his side.

Z'vind jogs a bit with that unexpected touch, but remains unmoving otherwise, save for the free hand that yet lingers near her waist, poking devilishly deep. The battle's on her side now, and possibly the win, for it's two against one. Three, if you count the toe. "I did. You were scared." Biting off the snigger, he cants his forehead to gaze on her. Prey. "Prey," his mouth shapes, whisper-soft, and he bends to brush her lips. Prize. Perhaps?

"I was?" Cianna questions, and then starts to make a show of it.. "Oh, I was! Simply terrified! You keep on in that manner, and I really /will/ just have to faint.. all this talk of monsters and sea creatures! Enough to make a girl of any sensibility swoon dead away..." She mock fans herself.. until the poke in the side. "Heyy!" she exclaims laughingly, jumping somewhat away from it.. but hardly far enough to move out of his arm. Hey, she's small. Then she reaches forward to poke him with both hands, one finger above each hip. "Serves you right," she says, tossing her hair sassily at him. But suddenly, some of the laughter seems to die out of her eyes, and she closes them slowly, tilting her head up to meet his in the first soft touch of lips, "Caught. For now..." she whispers, just before their lips meet. Perhaps, indeed...

Drama queen. Z'vind watches that hair, rapt by some unusual fascination while he extends the kiss. Savours it, even murmurs against it. "A girl of sense, huh?" He halts the malicious poking, at least, and settles for the other contact.

[Long pause in which we discuss where to do. We players had long overshot our half-hour estimate.]

"For which you'd best be grateful. Otherwise, you'd have an hysterical female on your hands," Cianna says lowly. "And I have plenty of sensibiility.. when it's sensible to have it." Her mouth quirks slightly in a smile, flashing her dimple into existence. She reaches up to wind her arms around his neck, kissing him again.. and tickling her fingers at the nape of his neck, the smile evident against his mouth as she does so... but letting the smile die away after a moment, much more concerned with other things than tickling at the moment.

Sense, sensible, sensibility. All of which Cianna says she has. Z'vind smiles, in smug denial of everything. "You do," he overrides, dragging out the word into a note, then bending to apply himself more fully to the smiling mouth. At the next pause for breath, he dredges out his voice again. "--You sure you're not one of the silly ones, right?" And in the next inhalation, smoothly: "What about coming up to my Weyr, where we can talk? More air up there."

"Me? Silly?" Cianna says with a flutter of her lashes, deliberate and showy. "Why, perish the thought! I wouldn't even so much as bend in the direction of silly...." She pauses. ".. at least.. not very often." She grins, and wraps her arms more tightly around his neck, kissing him back with all she can muster inside her, first tendrils of desire awakening in her eyes. Taking a step backwards to gasp for breath quietly, she glances quickly at her resting green. All seems to be well. She hesitates for only a moment, before she agrees, "Yes, air seems to have been a problem in the last few minutes," she says with a slight laugh, running a teasing hand up his chest. "All your fault, of course."

"--My fault," Z'vind laughingly agrees. He's doing a lot of laughing today. Her fault, of course. Staring at her eyes, he flares nostrils for a breath, then says, "If your lifemate is willing? Mine's sleeping. Healer said he'd need patching up." Forget that sigh; he lowers his nose amiably to meet hers, hand catching, caressing the smaller fingers at his chest. "My /dear/," he jests, "Please?"

Green eyes look up at him laughingly. "Welllllllllllll...." she drawls out as if considering. "I /suppose/ so." She deposits a quick kiss and then turns around, her hand still in his. The green gives a draconic sort of moan of awakening as she looks over at Cianna and Z'vind. "Trici, darling..." The green just snorts at her. Cianna grins angelically. "I knew you'd understand.. yes,I'll oil you in the morning, I promise. Oh, stop being such a crybaby.. You're fine. Absolutely beautiful, isn't that right, Z'vind?" Cianna says, nudging him in the side as she walks towards her green and hoists herself upwards.

Z'vind says tamely, "She's lovely. You're beautiful, Triciath. Just like your rider is." So what if he nearly didn't get her name right? "She'll oil you, and I might get my 'lizard to help if you're nice," he adds, tugging Cianna closer as he follows her to the dragon's side. And then the climb, joints groaning in complaint. It's been a loooong day.

Triciath indicates her disapproval and amusement at such an accusation that she wouldn't be nice. She's /always/ nice.. at least, outwardly. Really. The green shifts to allow them to mount, settling themselves in comfortably enough for the ride up to the weyr. "All right, dear, you've got to tell me where we're going here," Cianna says, nudging Z'vind where he sits behind her, trying not to give into the yawn. It has indeed been a long day.

Cianna steps up to Triciath's bent foreleg as the Green crouches low with a gently whirling eyes. Cianna swings up easily and settles between two neckridges.
Cianna has left.

Gossamer saffron drifts amid dark jade, draping a bounty of melding hues in a gentle harem of sinewy splendor across the entirety of this green. Forbidden jewels of emerald traipse the length of her neck ridges, daring to reveal the ardor that is matched with equal fever in rapturous trickles of purest jade at her dorsal ridges. The secrets of barren of space are held within her hide, hidden colors of shimmering sisal green appearing under a depth of transparent milky, frosted beryl, converging in a delicate sensuality over her haunches and the satiny magnitude of her tail. Wings are marvelous green: Blackened ebony of space amidst a paler hue of peridot, an essentially deep mixture spangled with the pale sparkles of starshine. Colors frolic and shimmy down her wingsails as an undulating jet stream of inky green, rainbowed variances of true green flashing oily ambles over the delicacy of her wingbones. The darker forest green pays homage to a delicate face, dancing sunlight glinted from her eyeridges in myriad greenish-yellow flickers. Perhaps the most stunning part of her form - beyond the mere eloquence of shape and shade - would be the apex juncture of her torso, where a daring splash of molten amber suddenly pinions a tiny heart of colors, radiant inferno suddenly brightening a midnight lake to aquatic green.

Once Cianna is settled, you approach Triciath's raised foreleg, the Green crouching to assist you.

Who's she calling 'dear'? Z'vind eyes the ground, eyes her /hair/. "Up and steer south," he advises.

"Gotcha," Cianna says, tossing that hair in his face, /still/ not realizing the effect it has on him, relaying that message to the green.

You leap aloft, finding a thermal to help carry you into the sky over the Bowl.

Cianna slips down to Triciath's foreleg, the Green crouching low that to facillitate her hop to the ground.
Cianna has left.

You slip down to Triciath's bent foreleg, the Green crouching low to bring you closer to the ground as you hop to it.

Z'vind's and Kealath's Weyr(#381RJh)

Spacious if not exorbitantly so, the confines of this hollowed-out weyr has been transformed by its occupants into a bedlam. Clothes can often be found strewn about the weyr's only cot, spilling out from the chest of drawers, though the divide is absolute between the spotless stone couch and the rest of the untidy place. The dragon holds proud sway over much of the demesne -- by his cavernous couch lies a rug and a thick set of furs extending from end to end, and the entrance to this part has been cleared to give more wing-round. A small hearth is embedded within the inner wall, where the wall hanging obscuring the bathing pools from the weyr proper also hangs. Glows bracket the dim stone, lining the walls to add a cheery aspect, but the furnishings are sparse and lacking in brightness, save that of a tapestry which hangs from the wall beside a less distinctive scene of a ship.
Outside, the ledge stretches out from the weyr's edge, scarred by the talons of countless landings. Graven grey, its ivory cast overlooks the bowl, and reaches out from thence in watchfulness: position if not possession of the weyr's nexus.

a colorful tapestry(#378h)
Obvious exits:

Triciath has left.

Triciath has arrived.

Z'vind tumbles off Triciath and waves towards the inner weyr, bending slightly to her. "Please," he invites. And they head in, for good or for evil.

Most likely for evil..b ut who knows? Maybe there's some good to be found in evil.. Cianna grins and preceeds him inside, drawing off her gloves slowly as her green relaxes outside.. but probably not...

Cianna has disconnected.