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And Shadows Skirt the Bloody Sun


Date:  February 27, 2005
Place:  Volath's Ledge
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:  After the events at High Reaches, Kassima returns to 
her own Weyr--and weyr--troubled.  She had every intention of brooding
over the matter alone, but Volath and V'lano offer unexpected comfort.
Only that comforting doesn't work out as either of them likely 
intended, and in the end, both greenrider and bronzerider are left 
more troubled than before.

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The Log:

Dragon> A ripple of awareness, sun-brilliant on waterfall spray, chases the
descending green not quite all the way from her appearance above the Star
Stones to her landing point. A mere luminescence of thought echoes
Agrarth's bugle with none of the noise, none of the show, though perhaps a
faint sense of outspread wings is offered against the diminishing heat of a
ruddy sun.

Dragon> It's possible that in the contact, he'll sense something... not
entirely right in Lysseth's mind-pattern, which automatically welcomes his
touch regardless. The crystal is there in all its spires, but the
purple-toned river that runs through them is unusually sluggish; the
resonance of crystal is not fully harmonic. Nonetheless: << Volath. >> Warm
and pleased, recognizing him instinctively. Even a touch of humor to her
wordless query: is he seeking something to shelter with those wings?
Something green, perhaps?

Dragon> Volath bespoke Lysseth with << Lysseth. >> But his reply has
surprise in it, wary surprise of that single note akilter in their chord.
The aberrance is mulled, turned over and over in his ill-remembering mind
without, as often is the case, even a thought to hunt answers in his
rider's head. After brief consideration a thought barely even shared, the
simplicity of dragonkind taken to sky, is discarded, and the bronze decides
something else is amiss. The envisionment intensifies: the bronze on his
ledge, his hide stained copper by oncoming sunset, wings spread wide in
welcome. He sets language to the query, joke-free: << Do you wish to come
rest? >>

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth gives a sense of restless semi-apology:
it isn't him, that causes the minor discordance; something far, something
distant, with a ghost of seven spires behind it and the faint impression of
another dragon's distress. << *We* are all right-- >> Yet that's hardly
refusal, with her colors taking on an extra vibrancy. It's not sunlight
that lends it, but his copper, mirrored and borrowed and warming her
already just by its offering. << We come, >> she decides. << Let your rider
know? >>

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.

<*> Lysseth springs from the ground, the air from her wings churning up
dust as she takes to the skies.

You spring from Lysseth's ledge with one downsweep of your wings, soaring
into the sky above the Northern Bowl.

You land on Volath's Ledge.

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.

Lysseth's image must have accompanied Volath's obedient sharing, for by the
time the green's talons reach for his ledge, the dragon's rider waits
beneath one of those welcoming wings. Cast in gold and red by the light
reflected from the bronzen awning above, V'lano wears a plainly concerned
expression. << Welcome, >> is barely a breath of an afterthought while
Volath twitches a spar-talon downward to make of the Lyssward wing a curved
shelter. His rider, one hand fidgeting nail-against-thumbnail with an
uncanny soft clicking that echoes along the wall of the bowl behind the
ledge, murmurs lowly enough that dragon-echoes might have to convey the
words against the sunset breeze, "-Are- you all right?"

Lysseth is not long in suiting deed to word and stretching her sails for
the jump, the glide, that leads from her ledge to his. She makes her
landing neat. Furthermore, she has the decency to allow her rider to climb
down before seeking that wing-shelter haven that was promised, warbling
softly to the bronze who'd give it. "I am, I promise," Kassima answers
V'lano as lowly, stepping away from the ledge's rim and closer to
him--under the span of that wing too, in fact, should Volath be as
indulgent of green's rider as of green. "We're fine, really... 'tis only...
'twere at High Reaches today. Has the word carried?"

Volath is pleased to shed his saffron light on riders and dragon alike,
snaking his neck double to exhale a soft breath of warmth toward Kassima -
not -too- rank of firestone, at least two days away from having had a nip
of the stuff - then swings his head around himself toward Lysseth to offer
a rub of headknobs along her neck, outright twining if she'll take such
comfort there beneath his wing. On the other side, V'lano makes a step
toward Kassima, then just spreads his arms in unconscious imitation of the
bronze above, inviting her. "You haven't been back long," he suggests, half
a question. "You can't mean about the baby - unless you do?" Maybe it'll
give her a much-needed laugh that, against all probability, a faint flicker
of panic sounds off in his deep brown eyes at the very notion that such an
occasion might send Lysseth and her rider here in such state.

It might be too far for Kassi to reach, but she extends a hand, anyway, to
offer a glide of fingers against muzzle; or to acknowledge his greeting, or
both. Lysseth's eyes are blue, if a darker, more murky blue than they might
be accustomed to seeing. Certainly she'll accept all comfort given. Twine
her neck with his, with a sigh that's pensive and a second, softer sigh a
moment later of comfort, and curl her tail around him, to better still its
end's restless flickering. Back to rider. There's a flicker of slight
surprise in her eyes before she steps very willingly into V'lano's arms and
winds hers around him in exchange. "You're concerned," she says in
something like wonder. For a moment, she hugs him tightly; then draws back
enough to meet his eyes. "Thankee for it." That's soft. The next is a
little more conversational. "Nay, nay, 'tisn't Josilina's baby. A wee lad;
I did just hear about him while 'twas there--you'd heard already?--but,
nay." Not a laugh, either, but she does smile wryly at him and lean forward
and up enough to press a kiss to his forehead if he allows. "Nay such happy
news. Matheny was shot, with a crossbow, at Ista. She's going t'live,"
hastily added. "But she might nay be able t'stay senior."

The bronze puts his nose within reach of that hand, holding his breath for
the touch which, even as muscles ripple in his broad neck and send the skin
shimmering, his rider watches with a careful eye as though he suspects the
fingers take more comfort than does the muzzle. After, he loops that neck
beneath Lysseth's, providing support in place of possession, and listens to
her sighs with an attentiveness betraying his generally spur-of-the-moment
mind. V'lano, trying to scoot a palm along Kassima's shoulders as she leans
into him, chuckles where she does not - but only mildly, a self-knowing
rattle of breath with a nod to assent to his concern for the greenrider,
his having heard tell of Jorel. He bends his head to facilitate the kiss,
ears reddening at the form of affection more from his onetime mentee than
from his sometime lover - but all such shows of emotion drain away at the
greenrider's final explanation. "Shot," he echoes. "That badly," he adds on
after a beat, as if there are levels of badness to being shot - and perhaps
there are. His turn to pull back a little now, seeking green eyes with
brown, searching for more. "Go on."

It may be so. Certainly Lysseth takes a measure of peace and comfort from
him, the tension in her furled wings and entire frame--subtle, minor, but
present--slowly melting away, moment by moment in her curl with him.
Kassima mock-gripes, "You could have told me; here I went there with nay
better present than a green runner--" The attempt at levity fades again.
She meets his eyes squarely, her own not particularly frightened, nor
grieving, but grave. "It might be. Lyss saw her come in, with M'rek--I
didn't--there was a fair amount of blood. She won't *die*, but she might
lose the use of an arm. That's what the Weyrleader said. T'Josilina, nay
me. 'Twas only there eavesdropping." And now she's here, rambling, which
she recognizes and checks. "I came out with Sria and Josilina... M'rek was
with her when it happened, helped bring her home. S'rist was angry with
him. *Punched* him. But he's going t'be looking into it--and Josilina's
acting senior. He said it might nay be temporary."

"A runner - " V'lano's eyes are ever more troubled, the simpler sensation
of fear related to other things fleeing in the shadow of burgeoning horror.
Still prone to leap to conclusions, warring muscles beneath his jawline and
varied flickers of his brows suggest there's too many possible places to
jump. It makes him mute for a while, nodding with thoughtful grimace for
the retelling of Matheny's arrival. His expression finds a place to stick,
though, when she relates the thrown blow. One brow crooks up, the other
furrowing, and his eyes narrow against a smile that's unusual for the
good-guy bronzerider - canny, crooked, displeased. Through it, he manages
softly, "He's a risk." Which could be meant in several ways, the least
positive perhaps part of what sours his face, but he tangles the idea with
a further note, low, "Maybe not the only one." His eyes skate off toward
the shape of evening sky framed by the arch of dragonwing overhead, and
despite obvious irritation in his posture, a warm arm offers to snug the
greenrider just a bit closer, safer. A sigh prepares him to ask, "How'd she
take it?"

One of Kassi's hands leaves his back to come up to his cheek, stroking it
with the backs of curled fingers. Now there is concern in her gaze, for him
if not herself--and she can't seem to decide whether to shake her head or
nod, since she does the one, then the other, and then the one again. "A
runner for Josilina. Matheny doesn't have one--and Matheny was shot in the
Sandbar. At Ista. I didn't have the chance t'tell Josilina what the
runner's for...." Now there's a hint of worry. "I asked her t'be hiding it
until we can talk again." For a time, she studies the quality of that
smile. It causes her own brows to draw together, a line briefly appearing
between them; and then a sardonic glint appears in green, as if she can
guess, at least, whom his displeasure is for. Yet, "He's a risk. T'himself
most of all. I don't know that he had aught t'do with why Matheny was
shot--" Doesn't know, and yet does, by instinct if not fact. The rue
beneath her caution tells as much. She's snuggled readily, willingly,
hugging herself to the warmth of him and borrowing a little comfort. "I
don't think she likes it. Who would? 'Tis awful. She said though that she
can do it--take it month by month, is how she put it. 'Twill be a month by
the sound a'fore she'll be healed enough for 'em t'know whether she'll get
the arm back. S'rist...." Her breath is warm against his neck as she too
sighs. "She's his weyrmate. Methinks he's taking it hardest."

"Where you found the kidnapper," he interjects, immediately, and 'you'
presumably refers to a mysterious plural not present. The bronzerider's
eyes remain on the sky, watching the passings of dragons with a wariness
that cannot be merely hunting for comfort in the beauty of sunset. "If you
need me to, I'll go. I have more than one thing obliging me to bring her my
wishes now," he murmurs, the smile easing away from his mouth to leave in
its place a grim, unsmiling expression nevertheless preferable to the
snarl-in-training it replaces. "I don't need to know," he breathes, and
forces another sigh, then another, and a third, each breath stealing with
it more of the displeasure, but not a certain tense agitation, like an
animal ill-content at the end of a long leash. "I see. That will make it
worse for her." But V'lano squints a little more narrowly at the sky, then
turns toward the greenrider, tilting his head down toward her. "Shall we go
in? One of the dragons should inform Indrath - of the leadership, if
nothing else." As he's looking for her eyes, she'll have ample chance to
catch the wince on his eyelids, the apparent pain from the lightning-spark
of a new neurological pathway forming: deceit.

"Right," Kassima murmurs as confirmation. Although she stays where she is,
leaning in close to him, her head is tilted so that her temple rests on his
shoulder, so that she might be able to catch at least a glimpse of his eyes
and where they lead. "Go--? To High Reaches?" Clearly, the offer surprises
her. She squeezes him a bit tighter. "I don't mind going. I suggested that
she and Sria could come t'Telgar t'see me, too, if'n they needed time...
away. Thankee though, Vel. And she'll be glad t'take your wishes, t'see
you--I doubt it nay 'tall." She straightens some so that she's not leaning
so much into him and can face him, study him again, while a hand strokes at
the hair at the very back of his skull, over his nape. "You," she observes,
observant woman, "are troubled. Talk t'me, Vel. He's designated Sria t'take
on some of the work while he's by Matheny's bedside--she's willing enough;
it might help," said on a more practical note than the quiet imploring that
preceded it. She leaves off smoothing his hair now, to touch with a
fingertip the outer corner of a deep brown eye. Slowly, "We can... and
a'course the Weyrleaders will need t'know of that... my thought is that
'tis for High Reaches t'decide how much detail they want t'be giving on
why. But what do you think?"

V'lano squeezes back, gently, too gently. "I don't mean - I have to see her
anyway, is all." Awkward for a moment, he allows the stroking, but does not
relax into it, tension driving his shoulders tight and his elbow a bit
stiff around her. He shakes his head a single time at her request, as if he
won't talk, isn't troubled, is in denial. "And of course she has Sria.
She'll be fine." Perhaps convincing himself, on that note, that his
concern's not needed, but wanted or not he has it in spades. When her
finger comes to his eye, he suppresses a flinch. The touch lands, however,
and he's stilled by it a moment, even soothed if his expression - tender -
is anything to go by. His tongue parts his lips to prepare them for words;
when they come, they're soft and a little rough. "I don't know enough to
make sense of what I do know, Kassima. I'll leave the telling upward to 
you - " Which pains him again, visibly, and which he explains with, "If I 
did, I'd say more than that. - Kassi." Too somber, and he's pulling away 
now, too. "I'm sorry. I need to work this over in my head. When you've been 
and come back, have Lysseth tell Volath - unless you mind me going first, 
with my well-wishes."

"A'course." Kassima's subdued, and if anything more tense than she was upon
arriving. What relaxation she'd managed to achieve is fairly well gone by
now. "She will do fine," is her opinion, "but she'd still appreciate your
concern and seeing you. I told her--it isn't my place, but I did tell her I
thought Telgar would be willing t'help, if'n there was aught we could do."
There pass a few moments of silence while she just looks at him. Still
tense, but that tenderness in his mien brings a warmth to hers, at least
until such time as she listens. "'Tis a labyrinth. 'Twill tell if'n you'd
rather, but--" But, but, she's torn on how much to protest, and chews a lip
that's already been worried by teeth today. "I don't mind you going
whenever you like. Or talking t'her about any of this, if'n you like.
Mayhaps you could come with me when I do go back--if'n you'd want to--"
She's stepping back as well. "In the meanwhile... aye, 'twill let you know.
Clear skies t'you, Vel."

V'lano's aware he's made it worse; perhaps the green beneath the other wing
has benefited from Volath's shelter, but such comfort hasn't equally spread
to the riders on the other side. "I hope - " And what he hopes is lost to
the growing gap between them, his mouth just hanging for a while until more
words come to fill it. "I know I should, Kassima, but if you need to say
anything say I'm too worried about Josilina to think straight. It's half
true," he ruefully admits. "She shouldn't have to, like this, right 
now. - " There's a catch of breath after that, realizing what the 
greenrider's offered, and he backs up a step on it. The motion isn't 
retreating nor staggering; by the look on his face it's relieved. "I would. 
If our schedules permit," he tacks on drily, "I would want to." A pause. 
"I'm sorry. I'll be better soon." On that he turns and does retreat, now,
denning deeper in the cave beyond the ledge.