The following is a log of roleplay on Threadfall MUSH, logged by Zarvind.
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.
Cast: Falina, N'ait, Quiann, Zarvind, with NPCs Bil and Laira
Living Caverns - Ista Weyr
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 gold 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
Falina nods, "Y-yes, I kn-know." she says with a smile.
N'ait overhears the commentary about him, but moreover the precise words. Dipping klah into a mug, he furrows his brow slightly over to Quiann, a lightly wry smile on his features, "One of the nice ones? What do you mean? We're all nice at one point or another." He makes a sweep of his arm, turning to grab rolls and meat before he settles in a nearby chair, adding, with a grin, "Thankyou kindly, though."
Grown from an obviously lanky youth, N'ait stands at a height that isn't overly beyond the norm for a man of his youthful age. His hair is straight, brushed to one side mostly, a dark slice of wicked darkness that hints at blue when wet. His build is muscled cleanly to accomadate his leanness, with strong arms and quick legs. His skin is a darkened shade of sandy tan, his features almost giving him a serious expression at all times, although anyone that knows him could argue with their truth. Those features are all rather straight, save perhaps his nose, where it curves slightly. Light freckles disappear into the tan of his skin, a line across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Eyes of a dark midnight blue hinted with soft mint green are defined by the bones surrounding them, shadowed by darkly amused eyebrows.
Covering the torso of N'ait's body is a loose tunic of pale black, the sleeves curbing off at his upper arms while the tail of the tunic is captured by a pair of thinly woven black trousers. Those trousers tuck neatly into a pair of well cared for wherhide boots, the toes worn out just slightly. Pulled tightly over the bluerider's long-fingered hands are a pair of cloth gloves that happen to be missing the knuckles, made from a gold tinged orange material with a wherhide palm sewn in. Circling his brow and tied tightly at the top of his neck is a bandanna made of basically the same cloth, keeping his hair out of his eyes at all times. Tied down over his usual clothes are his riding leathers, added with a patch that stands for Ista Weyr, a blue dragon predominant. Around his shoulder is a knot depicting the colors of Ista Weyr and a strand of blue to show his rank as a bluerider of Peruth.
From the looks of him, N'ait is only about 25 Turns, 3 months, 2 days old, but still working on his.. personality quirks?
Quiann snickers, standing up to fill himself a mug of klah. He says to N'ait with a grin, "Sure, but some people take the time to greet new people. Others... well, they don't." He shrugs as he lifts the klah pot to pour.
Average height for a young man of 14 Turns, 9 months, 17 days, he might seem delicate, even frail, were it not for the glow of health radiating from his tanned skin. A shock of thick, pale blonde hair caps his head, bangs scattering across his forehead in such a way that he's always pushing at them fussily. Large, vivid blue eyes peer about brightly from behind the feathers of his hair, fringed with blonde lashes that some say belong on a girl. High cheekbones often flush with pink strawberry marks from excitement or exursion. Full lips crease somewhat tentatively into a smile that reveals even white teeth. He's growing, but not yet to his full height by any means, though he'll never be more than average in inches. Thin and wiry in form, he walks with an odd grace for a male. Features and stance are decidely feminine, though it's obvious to see he's not a girl. When he speaks or sings, a clear, rich tenor voice rings out.
Quiann's thin form is clad in simple, but neat clothing. His shirt is off white, long sleeved, and laces up the front. This is covered with a lavendar tunic which also laces up the front, but with a contrasting string of black. Legs are covered in gray pants which are tucked into knee high boots, again that lace up the front.
Zarvind enters, complete with backpack resplendent on his shoulder, the shoulders themselves hunched in a manner suggestive of reticence. Contrarily, he stumbles on unsteady boots, steadying himself on the nearest bench. Near that speaking harper, perhaps.
A mop of black caps an awkward seeming demeanour, dripping askew over one ear in unpractised roguishness. Grey eyes and clipped chin straggle casually together with the rest of this youth's sturdy but slightly lanky form, long legs claiming a striding gait as an obscure slur marks alto voice.
Pragmatic brown clads Zar, wrapping over torso to meet pants of a lighter shade. Grime greases his boots, clapped tight for utility, on wherhide singed a dark cinnamon.
He looks to be about 14 Turns, 0 months, 9 days old.
N'ait flicks a brow in thoughtfulness before he tilts his mug towards Quiann, "Point recognized and agreed with." He grins, casting a glance towards Zarvind as he speaks, "So if I stop saying hello to people, I'll be one of the un-nice ones?" He looks to Quiann with a hurt, curious expression. Still, to Zarvind, he nods, "Welcome to Ista." He says welcome, well, because he's never seen Zarvind, so he adds, "Or just hello if you're already here." Ha. Whoever uses the words 'bluerider' and 'sanity' in the same sentence need a check-up from the neck up.
Falina sighs, and looks into her empty mug, finally deciding she has enough energy to refill it, so she gets up and does just that, sitting back down with a deep sigh.
Quiann looks at Zarvind, eyebrows shooting up with suprise. He says to the young man, "Are you alright?" Setting his klah mug down, he blinks and frowns with some concern.
Zarvind looks up from his contemplation of the bench, at the hello, at the question. "Ahh, a good day to you," he offers in response, free hand winding through unruly black hair. More steadily, he adds an "I'm all right."
N'ait sends a cursory look over to Falina before he trains his eyes on Zarvind, nodding to him as he decides to say, "I'm N'ait. Perhaps you should set your backpack down..?" Yeah, like he is the best source on this sort of thing.
Quiann points to the bench quickly, then pulls his hand back, suggesting to the young man, "Maybe you should sit down?" His eyes are wide as he speaks to the other young man, "I... yes, and put your pack down?" Nodding to show he agrees with N'ait's words.
Zarvind straightens slightly, but not by much; its not really the weight of his backpack that's bowing him down thus. "Sit down, of course. Thanks for the hospitality, sirs." And now that he can't hide any more, the boy does take advantage of the bench. "I am--Zarvind. Not here for long, I think."
Quiann, being closest, offers his hand to the other young man in greeting once he's settled, "Quiann. Apprentice Harper." He smiles tentatively, "You've been travelling?"
N'ait looks to Quiann, chuckling slightly before he grins towards the lad, "Don't you know? Once you enter the Weyr, you can never leave.." He pretends to be evil,b ut it's really just a ridiculous attempt. N'ait couldn't be truly evil if he was paid.
Quiann glances over at N'ait with a grin, then back at Zarvind.
Zarvind has cracked his facade, by fractions. "--didn't want to come," he mumbles for starters, eyes greying at the questioning pair of folks, backlit by the questing glows. "Suppose I'm waiting for someone. Mind me doing that?"
N'ait lifts a brow slightly, looking to Quiann and asking him, "Well, do we mind?" He looks thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head and returning his gaze to Zarvind, "No, no. I don't think we mind.." Suddenly, the bluerider seems to be talking to himself, an exasperated expression overcoming his features, "Can't it -wait-? I'm tired, Perry.. you went out there only a few candlemarks ago!" He motions towards the bowl, the beach, or more simply, the ocean with both arms. Then, he allows them to go limp and just sighs, nodding, "All right. Give me a few minutes to finish my breakfast, will ya?" He takes a drink of his klah, mumbling to himself about 'goofy blue...'
Zarvind speaks up again, out of the blue. His attention has strayed from the others, evidently. "Have you heard of someone named Laira, by the way? One of the ship's--" pause "--survivors?" And maybe he catches a glimpse of N'ait's expansive gesture at the end of it all: "Is that a no?"
Quiann grins at N'ait and rolls his eyes, "As if I have any sayso around here at all." To Zarvind he says, "Sure you can stick around. I don't think anyone here will mind at all. I don't know anyone named Laira... but I've not been here that long." Again he turns to N'ait and Falina, this time his eyes questioning.
Falina just looks from Quiann to Zarvind to N'ait. She doesn't say anything...Mainly because she doesn't have anything to say anyhow...
N'ait blushes slightly at the words before his (gasp!) serious expression is turned to Zarvind, his brow furrowing in thought. He says, after a moment, "Well, I can't say I heard her name exactly, but everyone that was on the ship survived. If you're not going to be here long, check out Ista Hold.. she might still be there." He shrugs lightly, "I flew the last sweep, and no one else was in the water." He drinks from his mug again, then sets it down, "If you cannot find her just by looking, speak with the Weyrwoman, Weyrleader, Headwoman here, and the Lord and Lady Holders over at the Hold.. they should be able to find her." A light grin, "Especially Alyssa."
Quiann's eyes dart to N'ait and widen, "Yeah, but after how she was acting the other night... should we send anyone near her?" His question is an earnest one from a lad who's never been around a goldrider as her dragon is rising.
"More than I do," Zarvind notes to Quiann. "Th-we lost everything back there in that sea, you know." He's demoralised, but that's not for saying out loud; he slumps some more, deeper into the cool-cool wood of the bench. "Its not a problem. I came from the Hold, rider, and she must be here." He fingers his hair again, then shoots a glare at a dark alcove in the corner.
Falina has partially disconnected.
N'ait doesn't seem too overly sympathetic, although he notes to Zarvind, "You're alive, aren't you?" He looks to Quiann, nodding reassuringly, "Oh, yeah. She's usually only like that when she's proddy and in Flight.." He grins, though, before adding, "Just don't mention anything about Morpheth catching, or you're a dead man.."
Quiann stands there blinking at this warning, obviously not comprehending at all, "Oooookay. I'll make sure to avoid that subject." He picks up his klah mug that he'd filled, returning to his seat next to Falina and his gitar.
Zarvind ought to get up and shuffle on like a good kid, but he does not. In the meantime, normal caverns noise flows around and above him: passing drudges, busy weyrfolk, doing work he isn't partaking of, while the dark corner and the stream of conversation are getting flickering glances.
N'ait sets his mug down with a light sigh, snagging one of his rolls as he mumbles, "All right, all right. I'm coming." He rises from his chair, dusting off his trousers lightly as he notes to Quiann, "Peruth says he wants a bath. I'll see you later, Quiann." He nods to Zarvind, whether the lad pays mind or not, "And you to, lad.." He then strides towards the bowl, whistling quietly to himself.
Quiann waves to N'ait, saying, "Sure, see you later." He turns to Zarvind, asking with open curiosity, "Is there something in that corner that's got your attention?"
N'ait disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
N'ait has left.
Zarvind looks sidelong at N'ait, or at his back as the case might be. "See you later." Why not, seeing as he is here despite-- "Nothing," is promptly tossed to Quiann. "Just looking. He should be here." Zar himself simply sits; maybe his gaze is turned, but that's the only moving part of him.
Quiann nods doubtfully, still unsure of this young man. He sips his klah.
And maybe he is. A youth around Zarvind's age strides in, trailed by a pig-tailed, lanky girl. "Zar!" comes the greetings, sending the lad to his feet in a maneuvre more practised than spontaneous. "Glad you found her. Can we go back now?" Shifty-eyed, he swivels for a brief glance at Quiann. "No?"
Falina has partially disconnected.
Quiann jumps at the loud greeting, jerking around to look at the girl and her companion. He can only assume this is Laira. Wide, curious eyes dart between them and Zarvind, then back again.
Zarvind leans down to the pair, and discussion takes place. Its soft but urgent, coupled with wide gesticulating from Laira--Zarvind turns back to scan the cavern silently, new furrows across his forehead. "We can't stay," he remarks, more loudly than before. A step back, and he appeals to Quiann's wide eyes. "Know anything of the trading in these parts--" what's his name now, "Quiann?"
Quiann blinks, then finds his wits again suddenly. He's being addressed. "Oh. Actually, I don't. Sorry. I just moved here a few sevendays ago myself."
Zarvind twists his mouth into a smile, tense yet cordial, "thanks for your help anyway." The apparent leader of the bunch, the older trader, then steps off with a scowl for Zar, Quiann and whoever else happens to be gawking in his direction. "Later," the youth slips in, before he's dragged along in the undertow. Out, again.
You head out through the narrow tunnel to emerge in the bowl.
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