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Black Satin and Silver


Date:  April 15, 2008
Place:  Igen Weyr's Infirmary
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  To deliver A'deth's gift Kassi braves the dread 
Infirmary and all the Healers lying in wait therein.  Nothing untoward
happens; she might have found it worth it, if it had, to see A'deth's
expression on receiving it.  Thanks again to Sesquina for the robe's
beautiful desc. :)

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The Log:

You walk into the Infirmary.

For all that this is not that half-wild beach, or his sybaritic den, A'deth
seems just as much at home here as he is in those other places. Ensconced
at his desk in his high-backed chair, bespectacled and with his hair bound
back to keep it out of the way, he gives meticulous attention to a stack of
sorely-neglected hidework, fountain pen scribbling away.

Now that the Weyrlings are graduated and there's seldom need to escort them
in with a case of thicktail, a banged claw, or a traumatized mind in need
of psychotherapy after their lifemate actually flirted with Ashryl, Kassima
is seldom seen in the Infirmary. Very seldom. It would be never, but one
must beg one's mint sticks from somewhere. She eyes the shelves,
considering, but that isn't tonight's mission--and so she shifts the
cloth-wrapped bundle she holds from one arm to the other and dares approach
the desk. Yea, though she walk through the valley of the shadow of Healers,
she shall fear no evil, for she can run like the dickens. "Now you're
*marking* them," she observes. "They'll never make a clean escape from you
into the arms of another now. You horrid, scandalous man."

A'deth's head snaps up, and he blinks at her over his reading lenses.
"Kassima." And if there are any Healers waiting to stick her from the
shadows, well, they're well-hidden. Probably cowering in fear. "...Is
something wrong? Did someone get hurt?" Because, after all, she is so
rarely here!

Kassima checks for them, too, flickering wary glances this way and that;
she can't be too sure. "Naught's wrong," she assures him. "Wait. Amend
that. I'm sure there's plenty wrong. Somewhere, someone is drinking Tillek
Swill *right now*. Naught's wrong you can fix, 'tisn't a business visit...
have I caught you at a bad time?" A gesture to the hidework with her free
hand.

A'deth sets his pen down, and straightens from his slight stoop; his height
sometimes gives him the look of a skinny roosting dragon when he's bent
over his work. "No. You never do." His expression shifts from the
abstraction of work to pleasantly attentive.

Kassima attends, a moment, to the look of him in his glasses, which she
likes quite as well as his look without and sees more seldom. She recalls
herself, and proffers the parcel. "In that case," she says, "I've just
picked this up from Tillek, for you. I decided 'twould be safe enough
t'give you here. Probably. I reserve the right t'carve the vitals out of
any snickering Healers and put them in little jars."

A'deth blinks again, and quite automatically takes it. "Kassima..." His
voice softens with surprise. "Should I be touched, or frightened? Or both?"
THe Healers keep their distance, oh yes, oh yes.

It's a simple bundle, white cloth around... more cloth, by the feel, or
something light and small wrapped very well. Beneath its covering it shifts
in a peculiarly fluid way. "Open it and then decide," Kassima
suggests--she's grinning. Good sign? Bad sign? "'Twill be happy t'keep it
if'n you don't like it, but that doesn't help much, does it? It could be
the coiled intestines of one of m'enemies. I've gotten on an innards kick
somehow, sorry. I blame the scenery."

"Well," A'deth remarks, "It's not like I'm not used to the sight of those,
either." Grossing him out is quite an undertaking, given his penchant for
painting dissections in full gory detail. And as he speaks, his long
fingers busily open the package, spread the paper on the desk, and then
carefully unfold what's been hidden inside.

And a cloud of swarming insects flies out and consumes his face! ...No, no,
no. Black, gleaming satin lies nestled beneath the more humble linen, its
nature revealed when unfolded thus:


A simple cut and casual appearance complement the cool, smooth black satin
from which this robe has been crafted. The shoulders are wide without being
overly broad. The sleeves are long, yet not so long that they would
interfere with movement. The two sides of the robe cross over the
breastbone, tapering down to where the belt ties off at the waist. The robe
is long enough to reach the ankles of a taller than average person. The
inside is just as luxurious as the outside, lined by another layer of
smooth, cool satin. Within the left lining has been sewn a small matching
pocket just large enough to hold two or three marks. Concealed in the
lining are two hook-and-loop closures at the waist, providing added
security and allowing the robe to be worn without the belt. The final
detail comes in stitching of matching but matte black thread forming small
dragon wings, spaced about the length of a forefinger apart. The robe's
cuffs and hem sport this design, making this simple and comfortable robe a
treat to look at, as well as to wear.


Kassima leans her hip against the edge of the desk while she watches.
Anxiously, a little. "I commissioned this sevendays a'fore Turnover," she
says. "I swear it. I thought of it when I first saw your... err...." She's
not too embarrassed to give him satin robes in the middle of his workplace,
but publically stating she's seen his bedroom is a little more
blush-inducing. Never mind that trailing off there leaves only too many
possibilities for eavesdroppers to supply for themselves.

Indeed, and these healers are used to their resident senior, and his
proclivities... So there might be a /little/ snickering from the shadows.
"My what?" This, of course, generates /more/ snickering; A'deth's arched
eyebrow and the very green gleam in his gaze might well indicate that he
knows he's not helping! "My magnificent physique? My lovely, ah, gitar?
Perhaps that set of pipes... ...But this is beautiful-- shall I try it on
now?" He'd do it, too.

Kassima's glowering look into those shadowy places would be much more
effective were her face not red and she not trying valiantly not to grin,
despite herself. "Your physique had something t'do with it. I had t'give
the Weaver your measurements, didn't I? Only I had t'be approximating. Hand
gestures. Your--ah--" *So* red. Really not helping! "Nay those!
Although--nay those. The place where you sleep." There, that's nice and
dignified. She stopped by his weyr and saw where he slept. And decided to
give him a present for it. It's all sublimely innocent! "I thought you
should really have something t'lounge around in up there, drinking wine and
being indolent. By all means try it on. You can be telling me if'n the
double satin has the feel I imagined." Of course, she's probably assuming
he means to try it on over his clothes.

A'deth must rise, and push the chair back, and shake that long sweep of
black satin out to admire it properly. Even a few healers peek out long
enough to observe. "Magnificent," he breathes. "Your design? Or someone
else's? And look, tall enough, but not too wide. And..." And the detail at
the hem is somewhat obscured by the dimness of the room, but he squints
anyway. "Embroidery?"

Kassima's attention is all for A'deth and his reaction to his gift, and the
Healers just may escape suspicious eyeing. "I told the Weavers what I
wanted," she tells him, "length and cut, and aye, embroidery, instead of
sequins or tassles. But Sesquina--she did the making--suggested dragon
wings as the pattern and thought of that pocket inside. Elegance suits you;
she achieved just what I pictured."

A'deth flushes just a little, and then lays it out on the desk, too, safely
on the paper-- not that black ink would show very much on black velvet, but
staining it so, and so soon, would be inpossibly rude. He shrugs out of his
vest, drops it into the chair, and begins to undo his shirt. "I am
profoundly grateful," he assures her, "That it's such lovely embroidery,
and not sequins or tassels." He may be fabulous, but he's not /that/ fabulous.

Eyebrows rising, Kassima watches him doff clothing. And makes no stir to
protest, thank you. "If'n any of your associates decide t'throw mark pieces
at you, and I catch 'em, I'm keeping 'em. I could imagine sequins or
tassels--" She flashes him a grin. "*Or* tassels. Both would be much. But
on something more ostentatious, like Gather clothes. Although I can almost
picture you wearing this to a Gather!"

A'deth shrugs out of his shirt, and then into the robe! And, indeed, a few
marks do indeed fly forth from the dark. One patient even whistles as the
greenrider shimmies, watching the black satin flare and sway, revelling in
the sensation of it sliding over his skin-- he's used enough to his own
scars that the odd sensations are determinedly ignored. And the lining
means that it doesn't catch over those rough bits. "I'd wear it to a
gather. I'll be the envy, start a new fashion." And he looks at her, arms
stretched out from his own admiration of the drape of the sleeves. "Is it
as lovely on my dried-up carcass as it was before I put it on?"

Kassima only has two hands! She can't catch them all! Rest assured however
that she tries, tries mightily, and does snag at least a couple of wooden
disks for herself. They weren't meant for her, but A'deth's pleasure in her
present has her feeling cheeky: she blows a kiss to the shadows. "Far
lovelier," she assures the Dragonhealer. "Whether you weren't a fairer
sight without it is in question, but both have their merits. Does it do
what I thought? I imagined with satin at such length every movement would
glide it around like a caress. A touch through it--" She nudges away from
the desk to reach and brush the backs of her fingers over one outstretched
forearm. Only that. The Healers have gossip fodder enough.

A'deth's breath hisses softly-- one could easily assume that it's
discomfort at that touch over satin-covered scarring, but it isn't. Desire
briefly tightens his expression -- witnesses, witnesses! -- before he
schools it into cheerful pleasantry. He does, however, move to embrace
her-- with restraint. "I love it," he murmurs. "I'm honored that you
thought of me so. My thanks are inadequate, but you have them."

Kassima knows that look well enough, by now, to be fairly sure she didn't
hurt him. There's a little quirk to her mouth, an arch to her eyebrow that
says all she can here about her amusement--and return of the
emotion--before she puts both away. For now. Another place, another
time.... She gives him a warm hug and refrains from being provocative.
Intentionally. Her answer is a soft, "I hoped 'twould. You make it look as
beautiful as it deserves t'be. You're welcome; your pleasure in it thanks
me quite nicely." And she kisses him then. Light, relatively chaste as such
things go, but her shyness before witnesses doesn't extend into shame in
their more-than-friendship. Let the mark-throwers see--and envy.

It's then that a decision crystallises in A'deth's mind, a precious gift
for a precious gift, but he doesn't yet speak of it. Instead, he pulls
back, lifts both of her hands to his lips, examines them, and then kisses
each one of her fingers. "When we are alone," he murmurs, even as the
healers turn away from their duties and give them some few moments' peace,
"You may touch me through it." Where, he'll leave up to her.

Fixed on his lips and her fingers beneath them, Kassima's eyes are softer
than they were. It isn't that the desire has gone anywhere. Her affection
in this instant is stronger, and each emotion is richer for the company of
the other. "Oh, I plan to." A turn of her wrists catches his hands now in
hers, that she may set a kiss in the palm of each for his keeping. "Here...
Infirmary or nay, I don't think I quite dare." She glances up with sudden
merry wickedness. "Even if'n they'd throw more marks at us. See how I
resist temptation?"

A'deth's smile is as soft as the satin of the robe that she's given him,
and he curls his long fingers closed over each kiss. "I still have a few
hours left in my shift," he states apologetically. Of course, he sets his
own hours, his own schedule, but he rarely deviates from it, and never to
foist his duties on someone else whilst he indulges. "But if you're still
awake then..."

Kassima nods, unsurprised and accepting. Seeking him out at work made the
first likely. The second, she knows him at least that well. "I think I
might be. If'n I'm nay," she says, and grins a warm grin, "you're welcome
t'wake me. Or sleep beside if'n you're tired but still want company."

A'deth inclines his head, and leans in to nuzzle the top of hers. "Both of
those sound lovely."

Kassima bends her neck obligingly. This, too, makes her smile. So many of
the things he says and does do. "One way or another, then," she murmurs,
"'twill see you. Later, or morning. Should I let you return t'despoiling
your hides now?" A touch wistful, perhaps, and she doesn't yet move away
from him, but she knows what duty is.

A'deth's hands finally open, and move to gently caress her cheeks. "You
must," he whispers, just as wistful, and regretful, but determined. "Or it
won't be hides that I'll be despoiling at my desk."

Kassima touches the backs of his hands with only her fingertips, far too
weak a pressure to hold them where they are; enough to give the idea that
she would like to. The skin beneath his fingers warms as it turns red.
There's a light in her eyes, though--something about his words delights and
amuses her out of proportion, but whatever the reason, she's not discussing
it here. "You're so helpful," she sighs, meaning just the opposite. "I'm
going, I'm going--" Not without a kiss for the meanwhile, of course,
stealing via lingering in it a precious moment or two more--the
oh-so-cheerful, slightly wicked grin returns when she breaks away and steps
back. She makes herself turn for the exit; but pauses to throw a glance
back over her shoulder. "Don't forget t'be picking those marks up. You
earned 'em fair and square."

Indeed. He sinks to one knee, the robe puddling around him like a jet black
waterfall, so that he might do just as she advises. Glowlight gleams on his
hair, his spectacles, throwing his hollowed features into sharp relief, as
his nimble fingers gather up his rightful tribute. "Goodnight, Kassima."
His voice is a low caress for her ears alone, sound indulging in what he
cannot.

Though she is so uneasy with kneeling, when he isn't kneeling to her, when
the light puts the contrast of silken silver and satin black on such fine
display and makes all of him shine as seems meant--Kassima can admire.
Cannot, her breath caught, do otherwise. "Good night, A'deth," she
whispers. Even if her head is high and her step its usual casual stride,
she's fleeing something. It's just her wavering resolve instead of Healers
in all their terror.

You stride out to the Bowl.