-------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Gift of the Kisai Date: November 27, 2001 Place: Telgar Weyr's Workroom Game: PernMUSH Copyright Info: The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kassi's Note: It's I'sai's Turnday--or somewhere near it, anyway--and so one of his daughters and her mother have come bearing gifts. I decided to post this log mostly because it has some terribly cute father/daughter roleplay; if any one incident on-camera or off would perfectly display the parental dynamic between these three, this would probably be it. :) -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Log: Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth extends a feather-light thought, half to tickle, half to tap, and all to test: anyone home? You place one hand on Lysseth's neck and she warbles down at you fondly. You grin and scratch her eyeridges once before climbing up onto her lower neckridges, using the riding straps and Lysseth's thoughtfully offered foreleg. Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth revels in a mental yawn - asleep, he's wakened, if only fractionally - and as afterthought yields a sense of warm stone walls large and small, the larger encompassing other dragon's wings, the other possessed of hearth and long table and scratchings on hide fit to blur sight. <*> Lysseth spreads her wings to their full extent, bringing them down with a rush of wind as she leaps nimbly into the air. You spring off the edge of the Star Stones, soaring up over the bowl. Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth steals that image away for her and hers, and leaves a warm touch in its wake: sleep, sleep, and pleasant dreaming; perhaps of stars, or perhaps of plumed things. You fly downwards towards the bowl. You backwing for a landing. You slide off of Lysseth's neck to land beside her easily. She rumbles, cocking her head down at you, and you rub her eyeridges gratefully. You push aside the curtain and enter the workroom. Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth manages a last shimmer-reflection as it leaves him, enough to shin with those stars - plumed? - stars... The glows are dimmed, chairs shoved back where wingmates have already gone, leaving poor I'sai sprawled back and - snoring? no, it's just a low eyes-closed mutter to the ceiling. It didn't take long for Kassi to follow her dragon's query; only as long as necessary to rouse her dragon, and perhaps to rouse her child, for the toddler held one-armed at her hip has slightly bleary eyes. Maybe it's as well. Kiss might be more inclined to yell a greeting fully awake, and this way Kassi can better creep up on her muttering prey. Tip-toe. Tip-toe. And when she's close enough, a casually stated, "Y'know, 'tisn't as if'n that ceiling's able t'talk *back*." A jolt - a jerk, noun or verb - Is startles upright, "What? It -is- you, did you bring me a wherry? and it does, it does, it... hello, sweet girl; c'mere and give your father a hug," and he reaches out all right, but has to pause to put his inkwell -back-. "Do tell," Kassi invites, having prudently pulled herself back a bit so as to give that jerk--so to speak--room; her eyes gleam, and with a more amused light than her daughter's. Kisai's simply pleased, piping, "H'lo, Papa," half through a yawn, but with a smile and a wriggle out of Mother's arms for his. She'll hug, too, though she only has one arm free. The other's wrapped around... a *present*. Come to think of it, there's a similar parcel tucked under Kassi's free arm too. "What does it say t'you, does it tell you secrets?" I'sai one-handedly welcomes daughter -and- parcel to his lap, and lifts lazy blue-glinting eyes up to her mother; "It tells me what I ought to do, and ought not have to done, over and over and over again." Nor is Kisai reserved about making herself at home there, tucking herself snugly against him as she may well have done many a time. "And what *ought* you have done?" Kassi wants to know, eyebrow arching. "What ought you nay have done, for that matter? Was it the ceiling which warned of us? Only you didn't run--which is good; your present was *belated* last time." Quite as if it were his fault, except those eyes are still dancing. I'sai rests his chin atop her head, softly; "Lots of things," he murmurs. "Lots and lots of things, and... now I can't run," as if sadly. "I'm all weighted down. Look at her - at you! - grown so tall. Why, you're almost taller than Ysaira, aren't you?" that last sheer loving exaggeration. Kisai cranes her head to look up, and never mind that her hair might tickle his chin that way; proudly, a bit smugly, she agrees, "I'm *big* now--be bigger'n *all* sissers and brothers soon." Uh-huh. Kassi bites her lip, and very carefully does not laugh at this... audibly. Kiss pays her no heed in any case, having thought of an anxious question: "Still small enough for your lap?" She evidently wouldn't want to *squish* Papa. Kassima quips more realistically, "She's grown an inch in the past sevenday, I'd nigh swear. It must be all the greens I'm forcing her to eat, mean and evil Mum that I am." It's a pointy chin; it can hack it. "You are, are you? I'd bet - I mean, guess - that Kaylira must be pretty scared by now... and yes, you're just fine. Right here. 'Course, your mother's not too big either," I'sai tells the little mophead, "And she's -grown up-." Kisai's dark hair, shoulder-length, drifts a bit into her face as she gives him her most solemn nod. And unsuccessfully tries to stifle another yawn. "But won't stomp her," the girl decides. "When I'm big." Thus assured, she snuggles in closer, little warmth-seeker that she is. "What, you'd hold her and me both on your lap?" Kassi marvels, allowing herself a grin at him. "You'd probably end up with broken legs that way--and what would Taralyth do then?" "You wouldn't -both- fit that way," I'sai informs the greenrider. "You'd have to hold Kiss and then you'd both squish me. Because she doesn't stomp. Or is it just Kay you don't stomp?" only that question trails off, quietly, so the little girl needn't answer if she's falling asleep. "An' you don't need legs to fly. So there. ...Do I open these, or are they just for looks?" Not quite asleep, no; just sleepy, but Kiss still holds her present, and it's not quite the right shape for snuggly holding. "That might work," Kassi allows, grave, "if'n the weight of the most mighty one here didn't squish *me*, much less you." She lets Kisai answer her own question, which the little one does, guileless and sincere: "Wouldn't stomp *you*, Papa--open! Open!" She wriggles a bit to offer him her gift, square in shape and wrapped in cloth that... well, it's hard to tell what color it used to be; it's now covered liberally with tiny handprints in rainbow colors of paint. "Open, a'course," Kassi seconds for her part. "Whichever one you want t'open first; i'truth, you'll probably like Kiss's best, so whether you want it first or would save the best for last is up t'you." "That's true. Squished Kassi - the stain would never, ever come out of my shirt," I'sai teases the pair of them, and balances Kisai's wriggling - careful of those elbows - to try that opening, with the explanation, "She's hurrying me up, see." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- To: I'sai Subject: Gifts. :) ============================================================================= It's not so soft, so thin as sisal; nor should it be, for when one is talking about a sweater, thickness means greater warmth. Lush as it is, this lambs-wool pullover should be warm indeed. Not that you could tell it by the color--its blue is richly royal, no flame-heart here, and it's frosted to boot. Chilly ice blue is mingled with supreme silver, the prickle of the metallic yarn a contrast to the gentle fuzz of the whole; they form a jagged rime at cuffs and hem, at shallow V-neck, depending from the latter and defying gravity to freeze upwards for the former. A bit ostentatious, perhaps, but who doesn't like to combine pragmatism with just a touch of dazzle now and then? And as for Kisai's gift... it has nothing of pragmatism to it, but much of sentiment. Obviously, Kiss didn't draw this small sketch bound by a simple frame of polished skybroom wood herself; her little hands could scarcely hold the variety of charcoal sticks used. Yet something of the girl went into it: her image, and her patience, to sit still enough to be so drawn, particularly with that half-finished structure--'structure' being the only word for it, clearly built by her careless and whimsical hands--and several loose building blocks tantalizingly close. Her favorite stuffed dragon is tucked in close to her other side, the artist's skill such that one can pick out the plushness of his hide as easily as the frayed thread that strays from Kiss's tiny sweater or the fine, dark strands of her increasingly flyaway hair... assuming one is apt to look for such details. First one would have to look away from the toddler's expression, with its large, bright eyes, round cheeks, and sweet smile, as full of childish joy as if she'd known whom she was posing for. Wind to thy wings, Kassima, green Lysseth's rider and Thunderbolt Wingleader, Telgar Weyr. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Kassima teases right back, while her daughter mercifully quiets to watch the Great Unwrapping, "The laundry-workers would be having your *hide*, though that shirt's nigh the right color t'be hiding it... nay worries, nay worries; I quite understand. Someday I'll succeed in teaching her patience. Really." Just probably not in this century. "In the Interval, all things will be made possible," I'sai intones - and then breaks off for the sight of it, of her, that sketch made with such care; he lifts his head, angles a look over Kisai's shoulder with eyes gone wider and greener, as if to compare it with the sleepy original. "In the Interval, she'll be a *teenager*; you try teaching a teenager patience sometime, why don't you," but Kassi, too, breaks off, to watch him only slightly less avidly than their eager, trying-not-to-squirm daughter. Said child peeks up at him past a wayward strand of hair and asks with hope in voice and wide, matching-hued eyes, "You like, Papa?" I'sai hasn't any teenagers yet; he doesn't know better - but by that smile gone dreamy, that kiss plunked teasingly towards that pert nose of their daughter's, he might not even have heard. "It's perfect," he assures. "You must have sat so still. And Kassi, it's such a good thing to have thought of, with those -blocks-." Kisai crinkles her nose a bit, but not in displeasure, not with that giggle. "I sat *really* still," she agrees, almost fervent, "for lots and lots. Sisser said I should. Love you, Papa--hap...." A pause; a glance to her mother, who mouths the words to help her remember: "Happy *Turnnay*," Kiss finishes in triumph. Kassima's smile is less of triumph and more of relief, relief and delight at his pleasure with it. "Khari's idea, the pose," she confesses. "'Twouldn't have thought Kiss could sit so still near a toy m'self, however good her intention. But she proved me wrong, the clever bairn." "You look like your mother when you do that," I'sai notes, "Except she only does it when she's ... not happy? not approving? but not, y'know, getting out the _knives_. And thank you. It is. Happy. I'll have to thank Khari later - how many Turns has she gotten? - and..." now he's eyeing that second present, but first stashing the picture with the briefly-explained reason being its safety. Now satisfied that her gift is well-received, Kisai feels free to curl up in preparation for drowsing; it is a late hour for such a small child, but her eyes stay half-open yet, and a smile touches her mouth at the comment. "Nay *only*," Kassi protests, even as she disproves her own point by, indeed, crinkling her nose; "*sometimes* there are other reasons. Khari has sixteen, Faranth help me. And she was happy t'do it. Which isn't t'say she wouldn't appreciate the thanks." She finds a table to lean against as she speaks, watching the eyeing with some amusement. "'Twill nay bite you, y'know." I'sai has some rearranging to do - those elbows, those knees of hers are as sharp as her father's, sometimes - but then, then he's digging in with a marvelling, "If you say so - sixteen! - and if you're sure, you're sure..." and then he's burying his nose into the pullover, only not to sneeze, it seems; straightening, bright-eyed, "That's soft. But not just soft! I'll have to try it." When not toddlerified, it seems. "Good choice." And it's a sign of Kisai's sleepiness that she placidly allows this rearranging, piping up as an afterthought, "Made a *song* for you, too, Papa--play it later?" Which is doubtless a mercy to the Weyr at large, given how drum- and whistle-intensive it surely must be; Kassi's grin is wicked. Until the opening, anyway. "You like it, then?" she asks, nearly as anxious as Kiss's question earlier. "'Tis nay so much, I know, and I did warn Kiss's was the best... but I seem t'recall that your other sweater looks half-ready t'decompose at any minute." Now, if she can only hold the whistle up with one hand, beat on the drum with the other... "Which one?" I'sai asks, round-eyed. "That wouldn't be the, ah, colorful one, would it? I promise it's not hued with mildew - and yes. Thank you," and his smile's ever so bright. "It's not pink, it's not fluffy, and it -is- the colors I like; and if it's too small, I'll _make_ it stretch. We'll see. And..." there's a slight pause, there, nudging at a strand of their daughter's dark hair; "...omeone-say eeds-nay o-tay o-gay ed-nay." She'd certainly be willing to *try*. "'Twas thinking of the Benden red," Kassi volunteers, quirking brows upwards. "'Tis colorful, certes, especially when you wear it with *yellow* and *blue* and other such odd accompaniments--and it shouldn't be too small; I suggested too large, if'n aught, but I have t'grant that I didn't sneak into your weyr and take your measurements." No Tape Measure Fairy here. "It should be warm, 'tany rate. *Ed-nay*?" But she does seem to get the gist, reaching in an offer to take her. I'sai listens, he does, nodding - "Didn't even bribe a laundry-worker? Well, there's nothing like saving your marks," he teases, and leans to return their daughter to her arms, gathering up the packages with care. "And I'm glad you know what I meant; there's a reason why I didn't become a harper, right?" As if that were the only one; and so when all's ready, he yawns the door wide for her, to better have all accomplished. Kassima's tone turns sheepish: "I didn't even think of it, i'truth. And I *should* have." She'd probably digress further into self-recrimination if she weren't gathering Kiss up to her shoulder, the toddler accepting this transference with the tranquility of those dead to the world. "I've been studying m'I'sai-speak, I suppose; but you'd nay have made a bad Harper, since children at least would just *love* any instruments you made." That's teasing, said as she bobs her head in acknowledgment and thanks for that door, and carries both self and spawn into the night. You leave the workroom and head out into the bowl.