The World of Pern(tm) copyright (c) 1967 by Anne McCaffrey.
The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.
An online session, recorded by permission of the author for the benefit
of members unable to attend.
=======================================================================

February 8, 1999.  PernMUSH.  E'vrin's POV.
--
Your location's current time: 3:55 on day 11, month 2, Turn 26, of the
Tenth Pass. It is a winter night.
Cast:  E'vrin, Kassima.

Kassima visits, with presents, but all is not quite loverly.
=======================================================================
Sharath's Weyr, Igen Weyr(#1629RA)
Striated with glossy black and stippled with knobby sepia, the
sandstone walls of this wide and airy weyr hoard coolth and darkness
within a cavern resonant with bronze-sized echoes. The dragon couch's
crescent bows out scant paces from the ledge exit, which casts a
protective lee across the deep-piled rushes and worn, midnight-patched
quilt lining the stony bed.
A stove squats its round metal belly near enough to the ledge for
ventilation and for warming both couch and a small, spartan
conversation area: low table and chairs, rare cushions, niches holding
decorations. Riding and fighting straps mount the wall beyond the
niches, opposite the couch and above chests of gear and glowbasket
standards. At the weyr's rear, a broad step leads down under the dull,
night-hued curtain that conceals private living space.
Contents:
Sharath(#9757aes)
Obvious exits:
LEdge  
There are several +views about the weyr.
--

Dragon> Sharath senses that Lysseth extends a silver thought-net,
seeking, seeking--ah. There. Found 'im. << My rider and I to see you
and yours, >> she calls, quite cheery-sounding. << May we visit? >>

Sharath> Lysseth senses that Sharath extends a sleepy, rosy-warm fishy
into the net: << May. Stay on the ledge; not enough room in here. >>

Dragon> Sharath senses that Lysseth is intrigued by the fish for a
moment, forgetting original purpose; however, her rider is not, and
manages to get her back on track relatively easily. << Will do, and
thank you. >>

Following whatever traces of wingbeat's sound might make their way
from the ledge, a female voice with a distinctive brogue calls towards
the interior, "Dare I hope that Sharath didn't mean I should stay
outside, too?"

Harper-supported, cavern-hollowed baritone rings back out, rather
nearer the entrance than further away: "Actually, he did, but I
threatened to turn the stove off. C'min."

Kassima comes in from the ledge.

E'vrin crouches near the entrance, all right, half-shielded by a niche
there and Sharath right above him, practically. By the heat reddening
the rider's face and the blue glowing in the dragon's eyes, /that/
must be the stove the former had mentioned.

--
A smith's discard has become a dragon's delight: the stove standing
between ledge exit and conversation area has seen long days -- by the
rust clinging to, and the crimps and knocks in, its blackened metal --
but it puts forth pot-bellied heat all the same to warm cold feet (and
paws). A matching rusty poker and bucket of Cromcoal are the stove's
companions in its little shielded corner.
--

Kassima doesn't hesitate to accept that invitation, lugging in a very
sizeable basket and peeking out from behind the rim of cloak's
hood. "Good of you t'be interceding for me, m'dear!" she replies,
rather merrily. "For what 'tis worth, I don't visit empty-handed,
though I doubt *he'd* appreciate any of this stuff. Dear Faranth, 'tis
warm in here--mind if'n I set this down and shrug out of this cloak?"

Sharath does extend an idle muzzle to sniff towards visitor and basket
(basket!), then swings his head back around to admire the little black
stove puffing quietly for his cold paws' benefit.

E'vrin swipes at his beast -- out of the way -- and sits back on his
heels, peering round-eyed up at their visitor. "Oh, of course. Sling
it over on a chair?" Vague wave to the conversation area, spartan and
small, on the stove's other side. "...I redecorated. Not that you saw
the original, but -- What's in the basket?"

Kassima nods gravely to Sharath in turn, before her attention is
caught by the stove. "Oh, my," is her articulate observation. "So
*that's* what's causing all the heat--ah. Food, m'dear; a very, very
belated Turnover gifting, for which you'll have t'forgive me, but I
just couldn't get away sooner. Alas, that we've nay yet our island
t'be eating it on!" The weighty and aromatic bundle is indeed set on a
chair, to allow Kassi to unfasten and remove black-and-crimson outer
cloak. "That's much better. And I like it; 'tis a sight less cluttered
than mine."

E'vrin says with appropriate humility, "I haven't accumulated quite as
much experience and memories as you. That is, you're old." A grin
flickers in and out, and he stands. "Food, hmm? But it hasn't turned
over, if you'll pardon the pun?"

Kassima's eyebrows loft into her hairline. "Old!" she exclaims, with
mock-irritation, setting hands on hips. "Old! I'll show you *old* in a
minute, you young whipper-snapper!" Grin is replaced by grimace for a
moment. "I sound like m'*grandsire*. And I should, as he would, hit
you for that one. But I'll be nice. You owe me, though." Patting the
basket, she explains, "Some of Ofira's finest, and a few treats and
goodies from here and there, too; I didn't know much of what you like,
so I took the chance *something* will suit you."

E'vrin lifts his chin, half-lids his eyes. "Show me; I'm simply
terrified. Although I'm rather more interested in the food, I
think..."

Kassima makes a face at the bronzerider, though not before stealing a
belated kiss. "Now I know where *your* priorities are. Well, then--" A
quick fiddle with the latch allows the basket to open, revealing
smaller baskets and cloth-covered plates whose smells war for
dominance over the whole. "Chicken with butter sauce, mushrooms, and a
bit of bacon; Ed-noodles; fruits, nuts, cheese--and kiwi-flavored cake
for dessert. With wine for you and juice for me in the bargain. Will
this entice you to forgive me the lateness of it?"

"The sight of your face did that; the food is only the frosting on the
cake ... so to speak." E'vrin grins quick apology for slanting wit,
then drags a chair closer to the low table. Goodies! "Sit, sit,
please, and I'll play proper host. It all looks so good.... You really
got Master Ofira's work? For me?"

Kassima sinks into the chair rather gratefully, but not before
curtseying to said host. "I've never found fault with your
hospitality, bronzer, nor am I apt to. And a'course I did! For whom
else? Well, all right, I'll admit that there's enough t'be feeding two
for a reason; I love fancy food, but *hate* to eat it alone." She
assumes a mournful expression, green puppy-dog eyes peering
plaintively from under wayward forelock.

E'vrin squints. "Now, don't make me get up and try to smooth that look
away... We should eat," he points out primly. "Since you don't want to
eat alone -- it isn't too warm in here, is it? Desert freezes at
night; just ask Sharath's paws."

Sharath grunts. Flexes a pawful of talons in the stove's shimmery
pale. Yup.

"Are you kidding? After having Telgar's ice sink into my bones for so
long, warmth is a blessed relief." Nevertheless, Kassi's sent her
jacket along the same way of the cloak, and appears much happier for
it. "Aye, aye, you're right, a'course. Forgive me. There'll be time
enough for such later. I'm being remiss in m'politenesses as a guest;
I've yet t'be asking how the clutching went? I'm assuming Sharath's
done the Weyr proud, a'course."

E'vrin starts basket-plundering, answers, "Twenty-nine. Not a bad
clutch; her last was thirty-one." He looks up wryly. "That would be
the clutch from which Sharath Hatched, mind you. Clutching his own dam
... should we worry about double-headed dragonets or other
monstrosities?"

Kassima snorts with amusement, helping herself to some of the booty
herself--including a generous portion of the layered tomato, pasta,
cheese, and ground bovine dish known as Ed-noodles. "You've never seen
the Benden tree, have you, from which Lysseth sprung? 'Tis practically
*mandatory* for a Benden-blooded dragon t'mate with a
relative. Mayhaps Igen could profit a bit from taking after the best
of the best bloodlines." A wink, to show that she's teasing... well,
partially. Then, more seriously, "And you? You're doing well, I hope?"

Sharath skins back an upper eyelid to consider the back of Kassima's
head. E'vrin grimaces past her at the bronze. "It's a compliment; go
back to roasting. He's not sensitive about the flight or eggs or any
of that, you know -- it's all in a day for a proper dragon, he says --
but to suggest he did something /wrong/...." He blinks back to the
Ed-noodles and settles on some chicken for himself. "I'm well, I
suppose. Nothing new to report, or the dragons would have passed it
on. You? Kris?"

Kassima assures hastily, "A compliment to him, aye--he's got a fairly
strong root in Benden blood himself, and from that line are all the
finest dragons produced. But then, one could guess that." She lifts
her goblet of redfruit juice to the bronze in an impromptu toast. "I
sometimes wonder what 'twould be like t'have a dragon that could
reproduce... Lyss is curious, sometimes, but she'll never know. As
t'me, I'm well enough. Back on-duty as Wingleader, and Kris has been
keeping my nights busy... but he's starting t'sleep through them now,
which is why I could sneak away." Of course, someone less mind-fuzzed
than she is might note that she did forget to remove the spit-up rag
from her shoulder. "His eyes changed color the other day. Green, but
nay surprise there. He's going t'be a striking young man someday."

E'vrin sighs relief. "Good. He'll take after you, then."
You say "And you do realize there's a rag on your shoulder?"

Kassima waggles a finger at her lover. "Nay entirely, m'dear. He
doesn't look like either you or me particularly... just like
himself. I'truth, I rather like it. Hmmm?" Distracted from the
noodles, she peers at her shoulder, and her cheeks heat in a
blush. "Shells and shards, I must've lost m'head t'forget that was
there. Thankee." The rag is pulled off and hastily stowed away. "I'm
always forgetting about those."
Kassima adds, now that the rag matter is taken care of, "Besides, you
strike me as striking, so I don't see why he couldn't be taking after
you."

E'vrin calmly chews his chicken. "...N'problem -- erm. 'Scuse me." He
/chews/ the chicken, apparently caught on an especially sinewy bit,
then swallows a sip of wine with the remains. "--Oh, I'm not
striking. Even if I hit you, I wouldn't be striking. I blend in very
well. Antithesis of striking. /You're/ striking: your eyes, your hair,
your height, the way you move..." Let him count the ways.

"With your eyes and voice, bronzerider," Kassima chides over her
noodles, which are fortunately rather less chewy, "you could never
blend in. And I mean that quite positively. Besides, striking's in the
eye of the beholder--as you yourself prove; others would call me
plain." Still, her eyes sparkle viridian (hah! Used the word!) at the
compliment.

E'vrin snorts, shakes his head, and surrenders. "Did you come to
engage in a you're-prettier-than-I contest, or...?"

Kassima can't help but laugh, setting down her juice glass long enough
to do so. "Ah, nay. If'n I chose t'do *that*... I've been in flattery
contests a'fore, and sweet-tongued bronzeriders have conceded ultimate
defeat. I know how t'lay it on thick when I choose; *that* was just
truth. Try some of that cheese, why don't you? 'Tis Fortian cheddar,
direct from the source."

E'vrin obediently swallows the last chicken bite and reaches for the
cheese. "Not some of the salty kind, is it? I like sharp or mellow."
His mouth tugs sideways. "Rather like my group of friends, I think."

Kassima promises, "Nay salty. I can't stand the salty stuff m'self."
Setting down empty Ed-noodle plate to pick up a kiwi for herself, she
wonders, "Your friends are all either sharp or mellow? Nay happy
medium?"

"Aren't we all sharp or mellow by turns?" E'vrin inquires after a
nibble. "Mmm. Good cheese, yes. And good people, too: we are none of
us /one/ person throughout our lives, but play parts depending on the
circumstances. One minute, someone's Moreta out of the ballads; the
next, a crabby old auntie who should've died ten Turns ago, for the
sake of everyone's ears around her."

"I suppose so," Kassi muses, around a mouthful of fruit. "And sweet
and tart, too, like this kiwi. If'n we were all always *one* thing,
we'd be dreadfully boring people, and while I kno a few like
that... well. Make me a promise? Will you whang me upside the head
with a frying pan when I get t'be the crabby old auntie?"

E'vrin murmurs into his cheese, "Assuming that hasn't already
happened, of course...."

Kassima pauses mid-bite to eye E'vrin thoughtfully, then sets down her
kiwi fruit and reaches into the basket for the lid of one of the pots
used to keep the foodstuffs warm. This in hand, she walks to the side
of the bronzerider's chair, sinks to one knee, and proffers the
lid. "As a crabby old auntie of Pern," she informs him solemnly, but
serious tone is given away by mirthful glints, "I submit myself to
your mercy. Whack the living daylights out of me as you will."

E'vrin takes the lid in one hand and cups the other to the side of her
face. "Better," says he, pressing a kiss to her brow, "that you save
it for your return to Telgar. If Master Ofira finds out a lid is
missing..." His humor seems thin, if genuine, and his mouth stretches
a little too wide in the smile. "Violent talk -- how unbecoming of us
both."

Kassima sighs with mock regret, reaching up her fingertips to brush at
the edge of that smile. "True. True. Strange; they said they thought
I'd gone soft since I... came t'know you," how strange, the pause
there, as though replacing words with something else, "but 'twouldn't
have thought I'd submit m'self for beating a'fore. Such strange things
you do t'me, bronzer."

E'vrin taps a hard fingertip against her nose, drops it to touch the
dip centered in her upper lip. He's frowning faintly, pensive. "I do?
I'm sorry."

Kassima matches the frown for a moment, though hers is more
perplexed. "Whatever have you t'be apologizing for? I didn't say 'twas
a *bad* thing, just strange. I don't normally accost men in their
weyrs wielding baskets of food, y'know." Though with that black cloak,
she *did* bear a marked resemblance to Little Black Riding Hood.

And who's lupine here? "Not 'accost,'" E'vrin protests, but it's pro
forma and comes out sounding as such, and he sits back in his chair,
still holding her gaze, still pensive. "I'm sorry, and that's not an
apology for the apology. Perhaps I'm not the company you were seeking
tonight, with the lovely basket and food..."

Kassima rocks back on her heels, her own gaze troubled. "The fault is
mine, if'n anyone's," she finally says. "Hardly yours. I should've
asked ahead of time whether 'twere in the mood for company tonight."

"I am," E'vrin says, weakly, and grits his teeth. "It's just
... shards. I don't know. Shall we just eat, talk of light things?
Tell me about your new weyrlings."

Kassima nods minutely and rises, resettling herself in her resumed
chair; she doesn't reach again for the food, though. "As 'twill." A
smile flickers across her face, unforced, but halfhearted at
best. "I've nay seen much of 'em, y'know; Maylia keeps a pretty tight
rein--probably doesn't want any of us corrupting 'em ere she's had a
chance t'be doing it. Still, those who've had a chance t'watch them
say the dragonets are growing up well. Trila and Syri and their blues,
certes."

You say "So good to see Trilana -- Trila, now? -- Impressed. You'll
have someone for stealing sticks up there."

"I don't think I'd want her stealing any sticks of mine," is Kassi's
wry reply. "I don't think I'd be apt t'pay the persuasion fee to a
woman. Perhaps she'll start stealing the sticks of the other Weyrling
lads, though."

"Persuasion," E'vrin remembers and snorts breathily. "Yes. Well, maybe
she might, at that. She has some spunk to her. I'm friends with the
new gold rider's cousin; small world, isn't it?"

"And a friend of Kindre's cousin, too, in Macami," Kassi reminds. She
starts to say something else, perhaps... but stops, and reaches back
for jacket and cloak insteaad. "I should get back to the Icy Wastes,
in case Kris should need me," she apologizes. Another pause. "And... I
*am* sorry for coming at a bad time. Timing's never been m'gift;
'twill leave the decision of when next we meet t'you, hmm?"

E'vrin climbs to his feet, decidedly on the awkward side of striking,
mm-hmm. "I suppose so. I'm glad you came...." He trails off, fixes on
the glitter of glass in one of the area's wall-niches, then looks
back, clearer. "Company's never been /my/ gift, but you've gentled me
there, too, whatever I've done to you, and I'm grateful. Come back
... whenever. And kiss Kris for me, please. Sing him a song."

--
The largest of the conversation area's decorative stone gaps has been
meticulously smoothed to support and frame glasswork standing in
singular, solitary expression of floral fancy. The wine goblet's bowl
raises rosy petals from deep ruby to the delicately pink rim caught in
a thin gold ring; aureate streaks course down within the bowl's inner
walls to warm it with rich dawnfire. Rose sleeks then into a green
stem tapered and wickedly thorned, blown dark as malachite and
perilously thin. Bronze supports the strand, however: wires twined up
and around from the foot's rounded leaf to brace the softly parting
blossom above.
--

Kassima hesitates a moment, then leans to steal a final kiss, though
it's a gesture that borders on the uncertain. "Aught you've done to
*me* has been positive," she replies simply. "I hope I've reciprocated
likewise. 'Twill, and gladly... though m'singing is naught t'yours." A
wisp of a smile, and she turns, stepping back out in a whirl of sable
cloak-cloth.

[Players were sleepy; chars were pensive.  Log ends.]