--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Please, Sir, Draw Me a Greenrider


Date:  February 22, 2003
Place:  Telgar Weyr's Hot Springs
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:  This was an interesting scene; a young artist newly
arrived at Telgar stumbles across Kassi and Lyss in the hot springs, 
and idle conversation ensues.  It's surprisingly deep conversation for
total strangers, which is part of why I decided to post the log--the 
other part was Kassi's being sketched, and the lovely desc of the 
sketch which followed. :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Log:

Jorr walks in from outside the room.

For once, rather than lingering in the pools, Kassima and Lysseth are
taking advantage of the broad sunning rocks a short distance up; the green
is lounging, tail draped over one edge and chin ressed on her crossed
forelimbs, as her rider leans against her side and sorts through hidework.
"Die, die, L'cher must die. Die, die, L'cher must die," she murmurs wryly
to herself as she scans over the page in front of her, casting her eyes
then briefly skyward in a silent plea for patience.

Jorr steps in from the caverns, looking around, eyes darting from one huge
pool to the next. Bathers, bathers, everywhere, and none seem to be the one
he must be looking for. With a quiet sigh of disappointment, he shoves his
shoulder-slung drawing pouch behind his back to avoid a few gossiping
greenriders, unintentionally circling the room to find an easier way out
than just bulling through the crowd. He glances up as he hears someone
faintly chanting something, noticing green dragon parts above one of the
rocks overhead. "Ma'am? Are you all right?" he asks, stopping and looking up.

"Why do people call me that?" Kassima wants to know, her voice rather
plaintive, even before she looks down to see who's speaking. "Mayhaps I
shouldn't answer; mayhaps I should hide, and wait for someone old or
respectable t'respond to the query, since it must've been directed to them
anyway. That could work." She's being facetious, though, and after saying
this leans forward to peer down over the rim of the rocks. "I'd be better
if'n you'd nix the M-word, but otherwise I'm fine; thankee for asking. Is
there something I can do for you?"

Jorr frowns faintly; he'd only been trying to be respectful. Still, this is
a dragonrider, and they should be allowed an eccentricity or two. The frown
vanishes beneath the thought. "Well, I'm not sure. I just wondered why you
were repeating the same thing over and over again, whatever it was. Do you
mind if I come up? It's kind of hard to talk at this distance," he replies,
gesturing to the sunning rocks overhead.

Kassima replies, rather wryly, "Because it bore repeating? A free set of
Springs 'tis; you can come up if'n you like, by all means, just don't step
on Lyss's tail along the way. She'd be miffed." Hello, understatement.
There's a faint rumble from the green as if to confirm this notion, and a
fainter rustle as her rider pulls free the next hide in her assortment.

Jorr shrugs. "Well, some people are touchy about their privacy. I figured
it'd be more polite to ask first," he says, by way of patient explanation.
"I'm on my way up." Fortunately, it's not a difficult climb, and a moment
later he's pulling himself over the lip of the flat sunning rock and
sitting down, carefully avoiding the green's tail, forelimbs, hindlimbs,
wingspars, and anything else green and potentially sensitive.

The various green parts and their drowsing owner probably appreciate that
avoidance, but neither they nor she give outward sign of it; the
twice-lidded eyes don't even seem to glance towards him, though it's
difficult to tell for certain beneath the cloudy membranes. "You're a
visitor here?" Kassima hazards, sounding a touch amused. "If'n 'tis so, I'm
curious as t'what brings you to our Springs. Or are you a native after all?"

Jorr unshoulders his pouch, which has the babit of digging into his side
when he's sitting down, and sets it aside. "Well, I'm no native, though
I've come here to live rather than visit," he explains, fiddling with the
pouch to avoid looking at her, though he does glance up once in a while.
She's prettier than she had appeared from below, which isn't a good thing
for his train of thought. "I came in looking for someone who arrived quite
a while back, a Baker I met at High Reaches. I mean, the pools aren't just
used by dragonriders, are they?" He doesn't sound as if he's sure of this.
"But she doesn't seem to be here."

"You poor soul. Having t'live in the Icy Wastes." Kassi sounds distinctly
amused, but not mocking; more sympathetic, and perhaps just a little bit
teasing. She would seem to be in a good humor, earlier chants for her
Wingrider's death aside. "Are you sure about this, that you'd nay rather
take up residence in a place with seasons? Nay, though, the pools are open
t'whoever cares t'use 'em. Though the dragon pool's more often used by
dragons and riders than anyone else. Can't say I've seen any Bakers about,
but then, I've been wrapped up in m'reports... what's the lady's name?"

Jorr shakes his head at the name 'Icy Wastes.' "Every place has its own
beauty, from the tropical flowers and black sands of Ista, to the stark
majesty of an Igen sunrise," he answers the name, though he doesn't sound
as if he is lecturing, just stating a firmly-held belief of his own.
Remembering the subject at hand, he rubs the back of his head
self-consciously. "Sorry, I get caught up in that sometimes. Her name is
Shoshana. She's a little taller than you, long blonde hair, gentle ways,
rather dry sense of humor. Painfully shy about some things. Have you seen
her?"

Leaning a bit more against her lifemate's side, Kassi parries amiably,
"Aye, but every place likewise has its personal faults and horrors of
climate, at least for those unprepared for them--even for those prepared,
sometimes; ask a Holder in this region who's seen his beast pens covered in
an avalanche... so, every Weyr's a Waste of a kind, at least by me. The
Ancient Wastes, the Snowy Wastes, the Arid Wastes, the Frozen Wastes, the
Humid Wastes, the Icy Wastes; and doubtless the Southern Weyrs are Wastes
too of some kind, only I've never been there." She flashes him a quick
grin. "What, like I'm about t'fault for getting caught up? I try nay t'be a
hypocrite of quite that magnitude. Shoshana. I know the name, I'll admit,
but I don't think I've met the lady yet, and certes I've nay seen her about
today."

Jorr shakes his head. "Oh, no, I don't mean those things should be ignored.
It's just, well, there are good parts to most places, too, that shouldn't
be ignored. Sometimes those good parts are worth remembering, when the bad
parts seem overwhelming." Getting back to the original subject, he nods. "I
was afraid of that. I haven't seen her in over a Turn. Except for the
letters I've gotten and written from time to time." He shakes his head.
"Shells, I'm asking you all these questions and I haven't even had the
sense to ask your name! Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asks,
with an apologetic smile.

Kassima quips, the wryness returning to her voice, "Well, if'n you're going
t'live here that's certes a wise attitude t'hold--Faranth knows a sane soul
needs *something* t'get them through a Telgar winter. Sorry that I can't be
more assistance in finding your Baker lass. I don't doubt that she's
*around*, but I couldn't tell you where t'be looking, save mayhaps for the
kitchens if'n you've nay already taken a peek there. You have the dubious
pleasure," she answers at the last, not bothering to repress her grin, "and
I do stress dubious there, of addressing Kassima, green Lysseth's rider. Or
Kassi if'n you prefer; I'm nay picky. And you are?"

Jorr nods. "I did check around those places first, but I couldn't get much
of a look. It's /busy/ in there," he says, smiling faintly at the hustle
and bustle that he'd rarely seen in High Reaches. "I didn't really want to
go into the women's dormitory, because...well, for obvious reasons," he
explains, blushing faintly. "This was the only other place I could think
of." He does smile a little more surely at her introduction. "Well, I
haven't found the pleasure of your company dubious," he says, though a
faint look of confusion flickers over his features as he realizes how that
sounded. He quickly resumes his former smile. "I'm called Jorr. It's a
pleasure to meet you."

Kassima bobs her head in quick agreement. "Oh, you're nay just whistling
the quaint regional melody; I'm scarcely ever permitted in the kitchens,
but I've been inside enough t'know the chaos. Worse than 'twas when Ofira
ruled 'em with her iron pan, methinks--though nay by *that* much. She might
have her own rooms anyway, as a posted Crafter," she muses thoughtfully,
tilting her head to one side. "Shoshana, I mean; so the dormitories may nay
even be the place, though I couldn't say for certain either way. I suppose
she might be in the Records Room--well, or Living Cavern a'course--but any
place is as likely as another. As to m'company, methinks you flatter me,
but thankee. A pleasure 'tis t'be making your acquaintance likewise. I'd
offer duties t'wherever you're from, but if'n you're soon t'be living here,
there may well be nay point."

Jorr smiles faintly at that. "Well, I've called too many places home to ask
someone to offer duties to them all. It'd take most of a half hour for the
formal greetings." He's not exaggerating, not much, judging from the fact
that his clothes seem to take small touches from a variety of places,
despite their overall plainness. "Hmm. I hadn't thought of the records
room. I'll check that way later. The living cavern and the hallways around
their looked a bit too crowded earlier to try up that way," he says,
shivering faintly at the thought of working his way through the
hurly-burly. Brr.

"Why?" Kassima wants to know, a brief furrow-mark of bemusement appearing
between her brows. "You aren't a Trader, are you? I wouldn't have guessed
it; you didn't immediately start trying t'sell me something--" All right,
so that's somewhat deadpan. "Anyway, the duties go t'wherever you call home
at the moment. And the Living Cavern's *always* crowded, I fear."

Jorr blinks in confusion. His old friends never did... "Oh, no, I'm no
trader, though I've traveled with two different caravans on occasion.
I'm...well, I'm something of an artist. The most I've ever sold is a
painting I've done for someone."

Kassima explains with a fleeting smile at that confused look, "Most of the
Traders I've run into, who came to the Weyr at least, were keen on
unloading merchandise and immediately started hinting about the bounty of
fine things they had waiting for just the right customer. It can be an
entertaining experience, depending; I've heard there was a Trader lass here
once who was trying t'unload some kind of animal skeleton, if'n you can
credit it... *oh*, an artist!" This gets a nod of understanding from her.
"I've a daughter here who's an artist, and a cousin elsewhere. Have you
studied at the Harper Hall, or d'you learn and work on your own?"

Jorr looks a bit uncomfortable at that question. "Well, my mother taught me
some, when I was very young," he replies, unable to help a look of faint
pride at that. "I've really just experimented and developed my own
techniques. I wanted to study at Harper Hall, but I never lived close
enough to try, and the few Harpers who saw my work just didn't seem
impressed." His gaze slowly drops. "People have asked me for lessons once
or twice. I feel kind of bad telling them that I really have no technique I
can teach. I just kind of let what I'm looking at or remembering guide me."

Kassima nods along to this as she listens. "Somewhat like Khari, then...
well, save the Harpers seeing her work; I don't know if'n any have--don't
know that she'd care what they thought of it if'n they did, mind you.
Syraemia might, but then she's always been nigh as interested in the money
as the art itself--and I digress, anyway. Scarce aught t'feel bad about
if'n you can't teach your gift. I can't really teach people how t'gamble
successfully, either, however they ask, or how t'throw a knife just *so*
if'n they weren't born with the basic ability. Some things are more about
talent or luck than technique."

Jorr nods. "It sounds like your daughter and cousin know the problem I
have, then. Though they're probably better at this than I am. I mean,
wouldn't those few Harpers have been more impressed if they really thought
I was worth teaching?" He ponders his own words for a moment, then glances
up at Kassima in surprise. "Wait a minute, you said you have a daughter?"
he asks, surprise registering across his face.

Kassima raises her right shoulder in a helpless half-shrug. "Hard t'be
saying; nay every Harper's any judge of art, surely. Mayhaps you'd ill luck
in those you spoke to. I'truth, I couldn't be saying. I've met a lass who's
being trained by the Craft in art, but I never asked her how she got them
t'take her on--and she was fair talented, but scarcely *perfect* yet."
Amusement flickers through her eyes, brightening their dark green for a
moment. "Aye--four daughters, actually. And two fine sons for 'em t'torment
endlessly in the way of sisters and brothers everywhere."

Jorr grins sheepishly. "I'd never have thought it. You don't look much
older than me, really." Not that Jorr himself looks his age, but that's
something he's always had trouble with.

Kassima slants him a glance at once thoughtful and amused. "And how old are
you, or is that impertinent of me t'be asking? Either way, unless you're
about t'tell me you've sixty Turns or the like--which I'm somehow given
t'doubt--I thankee most kindly for that."

Jorr smiles a bit shaking his head. "No, I don't mind. I don't keep as good
a count of the Turns as I should, but I'm between twenty-one and
twenty-two." He gives her an equally thoughtful look. "It's impolite to ask
a lady her age, I've been told, but I would like to know. It's very
difficult to tell in your case. You seem young at heart. Maybe that helps."

A rather rueful, though good-naturedly so, expression crosses Kassi's face.
"I don't suppose 'twould suffice t'be saying that *she*," with a jerk of
her thumb back over her shoulder to indicate the green she sits against,
"has thirty and one Turns, would it, and let you draw conclusions from
there? I suppose nay; enough people Impress in their twenties it might
imply an age I'd rather it didn't, at that--since you answered me, I'll
tell you: forty and six. But ask me again later and I may nay admit to it.
I thankee for that last compliment too. I've a theory, y'know," the
greenrider drawls, her voice taking on a hint of impishness, "that the
secret to eternal youth is eternal immaturity, but somehow I've nay been
able t'sell others yet on the idea."

Jorr laughs quietly. "I won't ask again, I promise." He smiles, considering
the theory. "Well, maturity takes a lot of different forms. I don't think
there are any real standards to judge that sort of thing against, and
common sense isn't a lot of help. A young trader I knew who was the biggest
prankster and gadabout I'd ever seen then once took a spear aimed at me
when a caravan I was traveling with was attacked by robbers. I'd have never
given him credit for maturity before then," he says, looking thoughtful.
"Maybe it's just not something you see everyday, but only when the need for
it is there."

Kassima chuckles, low in her throat. "I'm much obliged. And a'course you've
a point; there's immaturity and then there's immaturity, and I'd scarcely
champion or embrace the brand that would make me an ill leader for m'Wing."
A pause; then, wryly, "At least, I *hope* I don't embrace it... but as you
say, there can still be room for pranks and tricks and jokes t'live beside
duty or courage. I've known many a rider who's proven that. Methinks 'tis
when someone lets responsibility, duty take over their life so that it
shows *all* the time--nay just when 'tis needed--'tis when they begin
t'prematurely age themselves. And what sort of life is that t'live, really?"

Jorr nods. "Then too, some people are just serious by nature. I know a man
like that, who at one time was very duty conscious. He was another trader,
a scout like the fellow I mentioned earlier. Taught him, in fact, though
I've never seen two men more different. He's lived an eventful life,
working with several different trains, breaking runnerbeasts for riding,
keeping people under his protection alive under the worst conditions there
are, even ones that weren't his responsibility. He was aboard the 'Azurite
Swift' when it was wrecked, trying to get people who were below decks out
when the ship broke open on the rocks. It messed up his leg pretty bad. But
even with the limp that gave him, he can keep up with almost anyone, and he
still rides as a scout. And he still takes his responsibilities just as
seriously."

"The world needs people like that," Kassima opines, running an absent hand
through her bangs and over the crown of her head. "*Someone* has t'keep
things solid when they need t'be, balance out those of us who are mayhaps a
bit too prone t'being light-hearted--but 'twill say, I don't begin t'envy
them their lives. Their dedication is wonderful for those around them, but
I always wonder how happy they are at the end of the day. Perhaps they're
thoroughly so. What makes one person happy can thoroughly confound another."

Jorr nods. "That's very true. I guess it just depends on who you are." He
rubs his chin, his eyes falling on his drawing pouch. "Say, do you mind if
I do a sketch of yourself and your green? Or just youself if she's not in
the mood?" he adds hastily, looking at the /very/ relaxed green.

Kassima adopts a light tone to sing, whimsically, "'There's only one thing
that I know how to do well, and I've often been told that you only can do
what you know how to do well, and that's be you; be what you're like; be
like yourself....' Oh, aye." The last two words are spoken, the song
abandoned mid-verse. "'Tis arguable that *everything* depends on who you
are, when you get right down to it." Surprise registers: "You wish t'be
sketching us? Welladay, if'n you'd like, I certes won't object. Nor will
the Sky-Lady, I should imagine. She's too dead to the world t'be that
contrary." The decidedly sleepy *snort* Lysseth gives to this is answer
enough, even without words, and her rider doesn't bother hiding a grin at
the response.

Jorr smiles to himself at the green's response. "I'll need a minute to get
my sketchboard out," he says, opening the top flap of the leather pouch
beside him and riffling through its contents. He sets aside a couple of
capped tubes, then a small wooden box with a hinged lid, and finally pulls
out a wooden board with a wire clip at each corner. He reaches for one of
the tubes, opens it, and slips out a blank sheet of parchment, clipping it
to the board before recapping the tube and setting it down. Trouble is, he
brushes against the other tube, which tips over and begins rolling toward
Lysseth. "Oh, no, could you catch that, please?" he hurriedly asks Kassima,
setting the drawing board aside and getting up just in case she doesn't.

Kassima has dexterity on her side, though, if not the lapfull of hidework;
she manages to snag the rolling tube before it can hit her dragon, though
several hides slough off her pile in the process. "Nary a problem," she
tells Jorr with wry humor, offering the tube with one hand and gathering
her work back into a semblance of order with the other. Then, wisely,
putting it aside once it's so gathered. No use taking further chances. "And
take your time, by all means."

Jorr accepts the offered tube with a nod of thanks. "Thank you. Those are
some of my old sketches, and I'd hate to lose them," he says with a
relieved smile. After a moment, he finds his seat again and begins work.
The faint scratch of the charcoal pencil over the page is almost inaudible
as it works, scoring basic outlines and picking up details here and there,
working separate lines into a unified whole. He glances up once in a while,
but otherwise keeps his eye on the page.

"I'd daresay. Khari'd nigh be in hysterics if'n aught happened t'her past
work," though that's said with a mother's fond exaggeration, and a smile
from the greenrider besides. Afterwards, though, Kassi falls silent, the
better to keep still--casually still more than board-stiff still. She's
posed for a few sketches before. Lysseth, of course, has no trouble staying
in place, shamelessly slothful beast that she's being.

Jorr smiles faintly at Kassima's words, though it's a little slow in
coming. Finally, he sets down the pencil after one last line of detail.
"Okay, I'm done." Not a long time for a drawing. Maybe some of his concerns
about his art are warranted. He stands and steps over to Kassima, offering
her the drawing board.


---

Framed by the edges of the page, a dark-haired woman reclines against a
lithe green dragon, up near her head. Most of the rest of the dragon's body
would be outside the border of the page, but her strength and suppleness
are emphasized in the small area of visible shoulders, and the slender
neck. The green is asleep, but even then there's a faint aloofness in her
posture, visible in the curve of her neck and the angle of her head. The
woman herself appears agelessly pretty, though maturity and youthful humor
somehow come through in her dark eyes as she casts a faintly exasperated,
though very fond, look at the drowsing green. Down in one corner, a tiny
line of script reads "Quiet time." :)

---


Kassima accepts the board, turning it about so she can get a good look at
the sketch. Both black eyebrows arch upwards, trying to lose themselves
under her forelock. "This in such a short time as that?" she marvels,
turning the board slightly this way, slightly that, to study it from
angles. "Welladay. You can be coloring me impressed, at least--shells, I
should commission you t'be drawing m'family sometime. Faranth knows 'twould
take someone with skill *and* speed t'get all the hellions a'fore they can
run off or start t'fidget." Teasing, yes, but the appreciation seems to be
sincere. "'Tis a lovely work, and a flattering one, and I'm gratified t'you
for showing it t'me. I hate t'have t'pose and run, but Her Lethargy tells
me Amelyssan wants a meeting with me--if'n 'twill excuse?" She offers the
board back after a last long look, her smile somewhat sheepish.

Jorr smiles, blushing faintly at the praise. "Thank you. I've been
practicing a lot lately. If you do want me to draw something for you
another time, I'd be glad to. I can also copy this one for you, if you
like. I try to keep the originals, just in case I ever decide to do a
painting from one." He nods at the word of the meeting. "You're excused,
don't worry. I know better than to keep a dragonrider from her duties," he
says with a grin. "Clear skies, Kassima."

"Can't say I'd nay like a copy, at that, but only if'n 'tisn't too much
trouble," Kassima answers as she gathers up her reports, bundling them
under one arm prior to standing. "And I'll look forward t'having further
occasion t'see your art, mayhaps, if'n you're staying about. It's been a
pleasure meeting you, g'luck finding your Baker, and all that sort of
thing!" She flashes another grin, then--after a quick slap to Lysseth's
shoulder--sets off down the stairs, two at a time.

You travel along the tunnel into the Weyr, leaving drips of water behind you.