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May You Live In Interesting Times


Date:  November 2, 2004
Places:  Telgar Weyr's Southern Bowl and Living Cavern
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:  Life's been one remarkable thing after another for 
V'lano and Volath lately.  First, graduation; then, catching Lysseth;
then, catching Lhiannonth of High Reaches--and now, the very next day, 
a tapping.  It's certainly enough to keep any dragonpair very busy 
and very, very teased. ;)  Kassima's on hand to witness and to provide
something vaguely like moral support, whereas Lysseth's rather more 
interested in finding a way to warm up despite her icy surroundings.
There's lots of dragon RP as well as human in this very enjoyable 
scene. :)

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The Log:

You fly downwards towards the bowl.

<*> The sun set on an abandoned, dangerously-sloping ledge just above the
center of Telgar's bowl, the bronze and his lifemate off to learn a little
about a distant Weyr under cover of picking up meatcarving supplies. A fit
task for V'lano, to be sure, but some butcher at Telgar's been unhappy
today, since it's come clear to the sun setting again before Volath sails
down out of the sky, landing as his rider points: as close to the caverns
as he can find clearance. While the chin-high dragon folds lustrous wings
against the red-hued evening, V'lano hands himself down off of his straps
with nary a comment but one: as he leaps the last few feet to the ground
and lands heavily, he exhales a deep, wearied sigh. Volath's abandoned
then, and the butcher's boy makes first steps toward the caverns.

<*> Poor, unfortunate Lysseth. She greets the chill of the ground beneath
her claws, to say nothing of the air, with a dismayed sound rather like a
dragonet's creel at the end of her spiralled descent; her wings tuck in
close to her body as if to act as silken coat. "You absolute spoiled brat,"
Kassi protests affectionately through her chattering teeth. "We aren't
moving t'Boll. We're just nay. I don't care what plaintive noises you
make--and aye, I know you're very good at them--" as the green tries
another soft creel to try and wake sympathy in that evil thing she calls a
rider. No heed from Kassi: she slides down with a thump, caressing
lifemate's jaw on her way past, and it's the sigh out of shadow that
catches her attention. "Volath, V'lano--" she calls out, heading that way
herself. "Shall I hail the returning prodigals?"

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.

The bronze's head soars high, flying on his neck like a flag, and he bugles
- as much as Volath ever sings, it's softspoken, but surely a bugle
nonetheless - a welcome to Lysseth. The trumpet fades off into a low
rumble, but he lifts his wings and shows them off, the whole display only
spoiled a little bit by a spot of snow - possibly dislodged from the high
rocks overhead by the green's descent, or a late-falling flake - splotting
him in the middle of the snout. His nose twitches. V'lano's response is
hardly so game: his shoulder rise, his chin drops, and he shuffles a little
faster - until Kassima calls out and he crunches an about-face in the snow.
"H'lo," he murmurs. "Uh, I suppose. It's...er... good to be home."

How could a green continue to try and look pathetic, with such a greeting
to welcome her? Perhaps some greens could; Lysseth can't, and doesn't,
abandoning all pretense of creel to ring out with a warble that's
considerably more musical a sound. There's a hint of laughter in it, and
she takes the liberty of picking through the snow until she's close enough
to attempt to blow off that marring snow-spot or at least melt it with warm
breath. Kassima slows and stops when she reaches the bronzerider, hands
tucked into her pockets out of the wind. "We heard," she mentions.
Presumably less that it's good to be home than why. "Did it... was it
terribly awkward?"

"Oh," he replies in a breath, and a smile of relief appears more in his
dark eyes than on his lips. He lifts his chin, shoulders relaxing somewhat,
and looks not quite -at- the greenrider's green eyes. "No... not entirely.
Perhaps somewhat, after - " His hands find his own pockets, setting his
elbows out at angle to his body, and he shrugs. Though noncommital and
private, the gesture releases most of the rest of the tension from his
shoulders. "She's a busy woman," he summarizes at last. "I'll be going back
from time to time. Volath's insufferable." Though perhaps Lysseth's fooled;
the bronze allows his nose to be melted off while folding his wings, then
wheels his head around for a piercing glance at V'lano. At this, the rider
fairly winces. "Yes, yes, go ahead," he exclaims, then, softly, for
Kassima, "Sorry."

Such a look, perhaps surprisingly and perhaps not, raises a measure of
relief also in the eyes he's not quite looking at. Kassima's mouth curves
in the beginnings of a wry smile. "Well," she reasons, "wouldn't be, until
after. Unless something unusual had happened, I suppose." She turns enough
to look towards his lifemate. "That surprises me nay 'tall--i'truth, I
admit, I'd half expected nay t'see you back here save for drills until the
Hatching. Sometimes 'tis that way," said carefully, but even so there's a
hint that she's not displeased that this time, it's not. "What sorry?"
Lysseth draws back to watch as her rider does, doubtless made curious by
that so-pointed glance.

"Something unusual?" V'lano's expression largely warms, though one brow
quirks upward with dry curiousity - and there're more questions coming.
First, though, he turns a quarter-revolution and gestures a semi-courtly,
semi-casual flick of fingers toward the living caverns. "Sorry, for talking
out loud to him. I was hoping for a drink," he explains frankly, of two
separate topics, without breath between. "How do you mean, something
unusual? And sometimes 'tis -what- way? And what do you mean - " Sly now,
good-naturedly suspicious even - "-expected?-"

"As if'n I never talk out loud t'Lysseth," Kassima points out, jerking her
chin towards her green with a grin that hints at droll. "Nay apologies
needed for that. I'm all for a drink. Been drinking, some, but nay so much
that another glass or two will have me standing on the table and singing...
I hope." She sweeps a low bow to him that would be ever so much more formal
did she not look so amused while doing it, and heads for the Cavern indeed;
but pauses in the thresshold to turn and answer, "Something unusual, as in
suffering B'var's fate and have someone plant a knee someplace
unfortunate," she says, fully wicked. "That could be awkward. Just slightly
so. Sometimes 'tis that a clutchsire and rider are so enamored of the
thought of clutch, or the gold, that they come home only when they have
to," rather more soberly. "Didn't know whether you and he might be so. Glad
you're nay, frankly. We'd have missed you." A grin that's rather sheepish,
and perhaps even touching on shy, before she moves into the Cavern proper.

You walk past the lintel and into the wide living cavern.

Pierron humphs thoughtfully as the Wingleader of Thunderbolt arrives.

V'lano walks in from the bowl.

"Really? Even someone they just met?" The young bronzer looks highly
skeptical, though the scents of evergreens and freshly-made pastries
soothes his nerves visibly. He pulls off gloves and, after stuffing them in
a pocket, the jacket as well. "Smells good in here," he murmurs, likely
loud enough for Pierron to hear, before looping the leather over his arm
and turning toward the wingleader to continue, "And of the clutch - I've
only just started thinking. Now -Volath's- a bit enamoured." Lower,
grinning: "Mostly with himself. - Can I get you anything?" Tables, bah. Who
needs a table. There's ale, and wine, and mulled variations on both, and
toward them V'lano's looking.

Kassima can only shrug. "D'mon and Gay seemed that way," she points out.
"Though, come t'think of it... I think he might've Stood with her, back
when. But I never heard they were particularly close. Oh, warmth." She
sighs that. Sliding hands from pockets, she works on the fastenings of her
jacket. "Nay like tubers for once," she agrees, innocently and definitely
meant for Pierron's ears too. "It should be an experience. I'm guessing you
didn't *expect*--but I probably should've expected *that*." Laughter. After
glancing towards the supplies, she asks hopefully, "Red wine? I can snag us
a place t'sit while you do, if'n you don't mind company with your drink."

There was a wince back there, somewhat belatedly, for some comment
regarding a knee. In the present, however, V'lano's most interested in
question after question, as well as finding the wines. "Snag away," he
instructs, then helpfully tries to delay her by continuing conversation.
"An -experience,- the way you say it, I'm sure. Didn't expect what? And you
didn't say what you half expected, never mind what you should have
expected." He forces a pout of sorts - it goes badly, the arrangement of
features unmeant for his countenance - and moves toward the jugs and skins
to pour.

Kassima clarifies, while scanning tables--halfheartedly scanning tables;
the distraction delay is successful--"Should've expected Volath t'be
enamoured of himself." There's a decidedly amused sidelong look for him
there. "Nay undeservedly. What I half-expected and shouldn't have was that
you'd be one of those aforementioned pairs, the enamored pairs." She's
apologetic in saying it. "I aim sometimes t'be a pessimist. It makes being
wrong far more palatable." Finally she does manage to locate a small and
neutral table, and claims it for them, slinging her jacket over the back of
a chair.

Lysseth> Left behind. Curse those itty bitty cavern-entrances into which
bulky bronzes, and even limber greens, do not fit. Volath's neck cranes a
bit, head sweeping low toward the ground to watch his rider disappear
within. Something like a sigh escapes the dragon then, after which he
returns attention to Lysseth. For her, he shares a fresh recollection: tall
spires surrounding a different, rocky Weyr and a breathtaking soaring above
them.

Lysseth> Lysseth makes a game try regardless, going so far as to take a few
steps and aim a nudge of slender muzzle towards that entrance way and
perhaps startle someone within if her luck is good, but 'slender' is after
all a relative word at sizes such as theirs. Withdrawing from the Caverns'
entrance in tactical retreat, she settles into the snow with a sweep of
tail and focuses on the image so shared. A place familiar, hazily familiar;
after a moment, she colors in the misty memory of an ice-rimed Lake not
quite identical to their own. This Weyr, this place?

V'lano replies only with a crooked smile before he's out of easy earshot by
the beverages. The glass of red is easily come by, but then he's stymied
for a few moments trying to choose his own venom; finally he settles for a
little each of three: hard fruited cider, mulled red wine, and ale. The
former and latter go into earthenmade mugs and the middle into a goblet
like Kassima's, if less full; of the three picks, he's taken least of the
wine. Finally he's coming back to the table, both mugs' handles looped
through fingers on one hand and the glass stems twined between fingers on
the other. He sets them down, then straightens his back and drapes his own
jacket across from hers. His short stint as bartender over, he finally
manages a witty retort: "I -am- one of those pairs. Just not at High
Reaches." A wink's dared before, more solemn, he adds, "Nor she with me, I
suspect. She was kind enough. Should be an adventure."

"If'n I'd known you wanted that much t'drink, I'd have offered t'fetch down
something stronger from m'weyr." Kassima's not censurious; entertained, if
anything, and she offers, "Which I could still do if'n you're of a mind
after that lot--thankee most kindly." She stretches a leg out under the
table to nudge out that chair for him. She's caught by surprise, mid-nudge;
she laughs, and colors, and teases, "That's right, I'd forgotten about
M'tri--" before raising her glass in silent toast, and thanks. "--Ah, well.
I'd make disparaging remarks about her taste then, but the few rumors I
hear out of the 'Reaches suggest she may be with someone these days anyway.
'Tis well that she treated you well. And it shouldn't be a bad thing,
staying at another Weyr for awhile once the clutch is laid... I can think
of persons who'd likely be willing t'visit, if'n you wanted the company."

Lysseth> So it would seem, but Volath's confirmation is shaky: so little of
it he's seen from anywhere but aloft, and for some reason that is -just- on
the edge of his conscious recollection at the moment, he wasn't looking
very well during his largest overhead tour of the area. Nevertheless, the
green's image has the right feel to it, and the bronze belly-whispers one
of his not-rumbles of assent. << We will be going back, >> he explains,
completely.

"I don't know if I do. I just couldn't decide." V'lano grins as the chair
seems to pull itself out for him, and even mocks a shallow bow at it for
its courteousness. "I doubt I'll get through it all. I feel like I haven't
slept in days." He sinks into the chair, oblivious to the probable
appropriateness of his own remark, and raises his glass to echo her
gesture, though his brows quirk at it. "Who're we - ? M'tri?" Good enough
reason, then; he raises the wine a second time before swallowing a
fine-sized gulp. Not a tasteur, here. After swallowing he lifts the back of
his hand to wipe across his mouth and remarks, "With someone?" A pause,
then, "Oh. Ah. Huh. Not..." Dark eyes narrow against a cloudy memory,
contrasting with a face draining of color. "M'rek. Not him?"

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth's thoughts, turning away from
place-image and more towards the verbal, take on a quicksilver
sheen--subtle merriment--over some of those spires. No recollection at all
on her part, naturally; but she can guess that not-quite-there reason based
on rider's awareness and perhaps be amused that he does not recall. It's an
amusement she has the grace not to express if so. << You would have to, >>
she acknowledges. << Do you look forward to it? >>

Kassima quips with a moment's grin, "I'd try t'make the chair curtsey
somehow, but I'd probably just tip it over and *then* where would we be. So
stressful as that?" Now her voice picks up shades of concern. "You can
guess now why I looked relieved, earlier, but so did you. Because of
stress? M't--oh, nay." She shakes her head, grinning, and drinks before
elucidating: "You. Nay t'say M'tri isn't worth his own toasts, I'm sure.
*Josilina* with M'rek--nay, nay that I've ever heard, and I rather doubt
it." She's decidedly puzzled, and perhaps slightly disturbed for this
paling. "You didn't disembowel M'rek or something, did you?"

Dragon> Volath bespoke Lysseth with << Look forward. >> Ah, that trick of
borrowing recollection from the rider. The bronze thinks of it when that
rider's within sightline, but when he's out of sight and somewhat out of
mind as such, it takes a real need - or the sense from someone else it can
be done - to think of it. Lysseth knows so much more about this, from her
tone, so he delves for information where best he can, and comes up with a
sun-dappled startlement which soon fades into anticipation. << Little, >>
he muses, half-thinking of a V'lanoey image of a much littler Volath
playing mirror-mirror with no particular green. << Many of them. >> And
then, memory clocks in with a tidal wave, black beneath the surface and
blinding on top, a thought not to be denied. << She wants me there! >>

Lysseth> K'ran comes down from Mirrath's Ledge.

Lysseth> Volath lowers his head, then, innerlids closing one pair after
another, leaving his suddenly deep eyes milky from the coverings. Unawares
for a moment of his surroundings save for the green he's been conversant
with, he exhales a hot sigh of shock toward the ground, sinking the snow in
a spot where the breath makes the uppermost layer melt.

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth agrees, << Yes, >> for little; and, 
<< Yours, >> and her own, rather whimsical image of the dragonets-to-be 
paints many of them as bronze as him, it's true; but the rest are green, a 
rainbow of green colors, not resembling any in particular but simply the 
many hues the color may claim. Studying this image with satisfaction, she 
decides, << It will be a good clutch. >> Trust that to be her criteria. 
<< --When they are Hatching, no doubt. But there could not be eggs yet; 
does she want *now*? >>

"Of course I looked relieved. You didn't treat me like I'd grown a third
arm." V'lano smirks a moment, then takes in more of the red wine, leaving
less than half of the small portion he'd started with in the glass. "Don't
say her name," he begs softly, and his voice is desperately sincere
although there's some levity to the curl of his mouth. "She suggested I
not. Asked I not. She had good-sounding reasons." Not like the whole Weyr
wouldn't know if a dragon took to mind sharing the news. The bronzerider
sighs over the rim of his glass, steaming its bowl with his breath, then
delivers it back to the tabletop so idle fingers may consider the handle of
the cider-bearing mug. "I certainly didn't. We played cards. But twice 
now - " The grin weakens.

Lysseth> Lysseth watches this melting with interest, and though she has no
shock of her own as incentive, perhaps curiosity will serve: she blows
experimentally against the white snow just before her foreclaws, to see
what that might do. Soon she's melting another spot, and another; probably
her rider will have words with her about polka-dotting the Bowl soon.

Lysseth> Dressed casually and with a heavy blanket wrapped around his
shoulders, K'ran descends the steps from the weyr he shares with Tarien
even as he stifles a yawn behind a forearm. With a glance for silouhettes
of dragons, he drifts toward the entrance to the living cavern.

Lysseth> The bronze notices the Weyrleader a bit too late to draw breath
and whuffle or make some other kind of greeting-sound, so merely watches as
that human shape, too, disappears into that space too small for dragons to
go, innerlids peeling back to better his brief view of the departure/entrance.

K'ran walks in from the bowl.

Pierron eyes the Weyrleader suspiciously for a moment before grunting a
greeting.

"Should I have?" Kassima inquires, apparently somewhat startled by the
idea. "Unless a'course you *have*. 'Twould explain how you're planning
t'handle three cups at once. Can I see it?" Tease falters, though, and she
nods more seriously to his request. "I can be avoiding that if'n you'd
rather. Though 'tis rather... an odd request, as such things go. Oh, twice
lost." This clears her puzzlement considerably. A wry grin tugs the corners
of her mouth up. "I'd nay fash m'self. I've nay known M'rek so very long,
but I've a hunch--based on what I do know--that his ego and his dragon's
are stauncher things than that. He's probably nay going t'lurk in your weyr
in wait for you, t'take you out so that Ulfianth can have these finest of
dragons that Volath is flying. Might be entertaining if'n he tried, mind.
Hard t'be ambushing when you're trying nay t'slide out into the Bowl."

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Volath laughs in tumbling river-brook ripples
glittering light and dark over a riverbed of star-dashed stones. << So
many! >> Not of any particular color - just that Lysseth's presented so
many little dragons in image. << Now, >> he echoes, though not to affirm
it; instead he turns the concept over and over in his draconic mind before
deciding, << When the eggs come. At that Now, not this one. >>

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth explains that so-many with a rather
mischievous, << You fly well, >> set in sparkling crystal, vivid with
amethyst's deep glitter. << I don't know that I'd trade her, though--having
to lay so many eggs. Flying free suits me. That should be awhile. >> A
pause before it, with the flicker of attention to suggest it was spent
consulting with her rider. << They do not come right away. There is time to
dwell in this Now. >>

The tease hits a mark that makes V'lano a little more merry, spurring a
soft chuckle from his throat. "Well, it's not my request. I mean, it is,
but - oh, timbers. Say it's mine and say I'm odd and that will settle it."
His eyes flash though his lashes lower, and his thoughtful hand decides at
the last moment to sweep up the ale-mug rather than the cider one. Raising
it to a spot beneath his nose from which he can talk with grin concealed
and smell the potent brew before tasting, he notes, "I don't think that
dragon could ambush a dead wherry from three feet away. There's something
flashy about how he flies. I think Volath was giving thought to taking a
taste of him halfway through, but -that- was too hard to focus on."

K'ran musters himself out the wintry air and pauses inside the threshold to
soak in the living cavern's warmth for a few moments, before he shambles
across toward the serving tables, the klah pot. He has a grunt for Pierron,
a glance for the others present, and then he's drawing a mug to chase away
the cold.

Dragon> Volath bespoke Lysseth with << Do I? >> But the question is coy,
something Volath manages only rarely, and perhaps mostly this time because
of his rider's reflections and current company assisting his admittedly
limited recollective powers. << I would not trade either, but I do not mind
staying with her. >> There is that subtle undertone of 'as if I could.' On
his next remark there is a defining of a plural - an echo of himself and
his rider as one duo, but of himself and Lysseth, there in the bowl, as
another. << But Now, we are here. >>

Kassima asks, affecting a pout with little more success than V'lano had
earlier, "Is that a nay? Oh, I meant odd of her t'ask it of you. Having
been asked, for you t'ask is nay quite so odd. But I'm willing enough t'say
you're odd." Quite as if this is a generous concession. She's still sipping
at her wine, evidently taking care for all her earlier words of no singing
on tables. "Ulfianth! Shells, I meant *M'rek* ambushing; the image of
Ulfianth... that's beautiful, Vel. Beautiful. You really might want t'tell
Volath though that 'tisn't bronze hide he's supposed t'want t'taste," and
her grin is outright devilish. She sits across from the bronzerider at a
small table with no Wing affiliation. The grunt gets her attention; she
looks first to Pierron as if suspecting him to be the cause, but then
catches sight of K'ran and nods an amiable enough greeting to him. "G'deve,
K'ran."

Lysseth> Lysseth laughs rather suddenly, a sound more rumbling than a human
throat might produce but still recognizeable as such. She abandons all
attempts to fill the Bowl with melted dots in favor of sidestepping towards
her bronze companion, and extending her long green neck to aim a glide of
muzzle along the arch of his: appreciative, and an answer to some unheard
question.

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth confirms in richly resonant words
besides: << You do. Or so my own's memory suggests--and to fly me at all,
you must. >> Well, naturally. At least in Lysseth's world. << She'll
appreciate the support, >> she supposes, as one who can't ever quite know.
<< Yes. We are. I find it good. >>

V'lano does laugh a little about M'rek, and a little more about what color
hide his dragon should have been nibbling for. Obliged to lower the mug or
risk bumping his nose into it as he drops his head for giggling, he
collects himself before lifting his head to turn toward the serving tables,
picking up on Kassima's direction of greeting before grasping the content.
"G'deve," he echoes, and then his mind catches up. Interrupting his shaky
effort at tacking on the appropriate "Weyrleader" is the soft thud of his
mug's base making contact with the table's surface, after which he skates a
panicked, wide-eyed, doe-with-hungry-dragon-passing-overhead look at Kassima.

"Evening," K'ran can finally offer, after he's grimaced down a swallow of
klah, and bent to top off his mug again. "Sharding frigid out," he then
mutters. "Not even a fit night for a walk for fresh air."

Kassima grins with real and simple delight, leaning back in her chair to
appreciate the effect of her teasing. Only to lean forward again to murmur,
earnestly, "Haven't done aught *wrong*, Vel--" She gives a firm headshake
to emphasize this point. Taking up her wine glass again, she agrees with
K'ran, "Lyss and I fled t'Boll earlier to escape it. Sometimes I wonder
what Telgar's founders were thinking when they put a Weyr here."

V'lano senses Kassima drops back to a near-whisper to point out, "He'll
have to know, if the gossip hasn't reached him already--I can be the one
t'bring it up if you want, easy enough; but surely
she-who-must-nay-be-named didn't mean it t'be a secret from your Weyrleaders."

"Bad timing," V'lano hisses back over the table, but he pauses a moment
after leaning forward, then nods once, simply. That done, he does his best
at arranging his limbs and face such that he looks relaxed and poised. This
amounts to one elbow draping over the chair's back, the other hand lazing
nervously next to his ale-mug, and one leg crossing the other at the ankle
with the upraised foot wobbling back and forth in a slow-motion fidget.
"Thinking it looked like a defensible position near arable land," he muses
haltingly. "And probably in summertime, too."

Lysseth> Volath arches his neck a bit, though not so much to carry his
muzzle out of nuzzling-reach. There's a sniff of curiousity at her
laughter, then subsidence into her attention, an affection he returns with
a casually outstretched wing. Just in case it should, uh, start snowing
again. Right.

Dragon> Volath bespoke Lysseth with << I am honored to be worthy. >>
There's still a glimmering flicker of luminous mirth in this, but the
overall ring is true. Away from little Volathlets and other thoughts of
golden forms and eggs' becoming his mind strays, fixing on the snow and the
dots the green's breathed into it. Then, as affectionate and - well, bronze
- as he is, he proves himself still a young dragon. << Do you know any snow
games? >>

You sense V'lano's nod, though unaccompanied by other comment, happens to
fall just at the point of the greenrider suggesting she could bring it up.
Easy way out, here we come!

Lysseth> Lysseth can be a fanciful dragon when she wishes, and a pragmatic
dragon when she wishes. Expecting further snow may be fanciful. But being
prepared for the necessity? Surely pragmatic. And so all in all it's very
little wonder she slips in beneath that wing, resting warm green side
against warm bronze side and flicking her tail to brush against his if he
doesn't move it fast enough. Even if it doesn't snow, surely it's sensible
enough to share warmth against the night's cold. Right? Of course right!

"My guess," K'ran reasons, "is that they originally settled in the middle
of a desert, and tried to find a place with climate furthest from." Still
half-huddled under a heavy wool blanket, he shuffles over toward both
Kassima and V'lano, and nods his head toward a chair. "May I sit?"

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth answers with a contented hum, crystal
spires resonating in a harmony broken only by the occasional, random sweet
chime. The question surprises her, but suits her good mood. << Several, >>
she assures. A memory then, not so very timeworn: the forward sweep of a
dusky green wing sending snow flying all over a Bitran Lady and her
guardians, while rider and others fling smaller missiles about.

"They might've also been thinking of the beer," Kassima admits. "All that
wheat. Hard t'be turning it down. The desert theory has merit too; I might,
might like our weather better than Igen's--oh, certes." She aims a foot to
kick out that chair in invitation. "We've just been discussing the latest
news from High Reaches, if'n you hadn't yet heard. You do look half-frozen;
did the klah lure you out?"

He may have been expecting it, but V'lano pales a shade further anyway on
the Thunderbolt wingleader's so-casual comment. He swallows to prepare
reply, which comes to only two things in total - "Please, go ahead," for
the Weyrleader, with a nod at the chair moving out from the table's edge,
and then, "Speaking of beer - just thinking about a drink kept me thawed
'til I came in. Can I get you anything to add to that, or...?" The effort
at smooth ends there, badly. V'lano subsides, half-expectant.

"Rumblings," K'ran confirms, as he slides into the chair. "Not so much the
klah -- Tarien drifted off, but I was too worn out to sleep, you know? And
then *he* insists on keeping me on the ledge for a while, to watch the sky,
before he'll let me escape back indoors, and all I had to drink in the weyr
was whiskey, which I didn't want to sleep with a head full of." He seems to
recognize that he's babbling, and quirks a bit of a smile. "So. Yeah,
rumblings. I've heard I'm losing a rider to Reaches for a while, which I'm
not particularly happy about. But I figure I should probably ask that rider
what his intentions are." He gestures, vaguely, with the lip of his
klah-mug toward V'lano. "Would seem a fair way to do things, don't you think?"

Kassima's nod is rather unsurprised. "Dragons are gossips," she says, to
state the obvious, casting V'lano a ruefully amused look. "'Tis t'be
expected. But your head hasn't been whacked off and sent bouncing across
the room yet. I do believe 'tis a good sign." She deadpans this, but
there's a quick wink for Volath's rider to assure she's teasing. "Dragons
are also *sadists*. Couldn't he have viewed the sky from somewhere warm,
if'n he had such a pressing need t'view it? Nay, don't tell me, I know if'n
he's aught like Lyss only the exact want will do. It does seem fair
enough." She glances to V'lano again, but this time her expression's more
encouraging.

"Yes, sir." Always a good answer; plus, it tends to buy time to think.
Bringing some spirits for the Weyrleader's klah would have bought more, but
beggars can't be choosers. Guzzled wine and a few sips of ale, however, may
have had their toll on the youth, since with that bartered moment what he
thinks of to say is so simple: "Intentions, sir?" Again his gaze dashes
toward Kassima, looking for translation instead of salvation this time, a
little eased by her encouraging ribbing. "I know it's a miserable
inconvenience with my training barely done and all. I promise I'll do my
best to represent Telgar while I'm there," he hammers out in a rush. After
unhooking his elbow from the chair-back he lifts the ale mug, a tiny shield
to hold both-handed between himself and K'ran.

Lysseth> Why on Pern would his tail have moved just then? Better hold
position and be snuggled tailwise, so it does so. His wing lowers a bit,
tightening the protective shelter, and he murmurs a rumbling croon
somewhere in the lower octaves of draconic comment. As if listening, he
tilts his head aside one way, then the other, giving thoughtful
consideration to the snow.

"You don't mean t'transfer, Vel, I'm sure," Kassi throws in, obliging the
seeking glance. "And you've said you don't intend t'spend all your time
there even a'fore the eggs are laid, aye? Unless I misunderstood?"

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Volath considers the snow-strewn landscape,
overlaying it with a glinting cellophane of the green's vision of the
snow-fight. << But we have no targets, >> he decides, flickering a wary
thought on his own moody-wary rider as well as Lysseth's and worse, the
Weyrleader, within that warm klah-place where dragons may not go. << And I
do not wish to be cold, >> he tacks on, in case she should start thinking
of him more as a target and less as a heating pad.

K'ran squints across at V'lano as the younger bronzerider answers; after
downing a swallow of klah, then, he nods in a half-aside toward Kassima.
"That was what I was getting at," he says. "What are your intentions, in
terms of time spent there?" He's dipped a hand into a pocket to fish out an
item which he displays in an open palm. "Since, y'see, I had intended to
offer you this." *This* being an embroidered patch, sized to be sewn to the
shoulder of a riding jacket, and bearing the device of Icewind wing.

Lysseth> Lysseth steals her tail around him, then, or as much around him as
it can reach--he's not been such a small dragon that she could hope to
encircle him for quite some time. She thrums a low contralto note that may
be better felt than heard, innermost lids slipping shut in simple draconic
contentment. Cold or not, snow or not, Lysseth's life just now is good.

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth's agreement comes lazily, faintly
glowing in gem-tones cool to the sight but warm to the intangible touch. 
<< I suspect Indrath's rider would yell most impressively, but not in a 
good way. Another night might be better. >> She's rather fond of this 
warmth too, see. << He is not so unreasonable, Indrath's, >> she adds as 
an abrupt afterthought. << My rider says. She would have yours know. All 
will be well. >>

The onetime butcher's mouth works, but no sound comes out. Just as well,
since the shape of his lips suggests a singular, well-selected curse. His
shadowed jaw snaps up a moment after, though his dark eyes stick to that
patch. V'lano exercises a deep breath in, then a slow one out, relaxing the
muscles necessary for speech. "I'd intended," he begins, gaze lifting to
seek the Icewind 'leader's, "to be here as much I can until the eggs are on
the sands. And if he'll let me, or if I can catch a ride with someone else,
after that some, unless there'll be duties for me there - " Blinking, he
startles at himself for so much speech. Slower, earnest, he explains, "I
want to represent us well. I won't shirk my responsibility there, as long
as I come to know what it is. But I won't here, either." His mouth thins to
an apologetic line, lips tight, piece said.

Kassima's slow grin is no more surprised than her earlier nod. It is,
however, considerably more pleased. "Glory accrues t'Telgar with a clutch
sired," she observes to neither in particular, "for all the inconvenience
attached. It sounds like a fair and duty-minded plan."

K'ran's nod is to concur with Kassima, and he lays the wingbadge on the
table. "I should warn you," he tells V'lano, his tone cautionary rather
than admonishing, "that you're going to fall behind your wingmates, in
terms of practice drilling with the wing. You'll end up playing some
catch-up, there." He stops to grimace down another swallow of klah before
adding, "Also, there's one of my wingmates who's in sort of a bad place
with things. Before you take that patch, resolve yourself to making things
right with her, hm? I don't want to have to get all grumpy older brother at
you, or anything."

The younger bronzerider's already putting the ale aside and leaning forward
to snake a hand out across the table's surface toward the badge, nodding
never-care to the news of being behind on training, but the Weyleader's
closing remark halts his hand's progress several inches short of the prize.
Again he looks up, and when he does it's with a worried wince of pain. "I
think I understand," he replies. "I wouldn't say no to advice if it was
available, grumpy or otherwise." One brow lifts a bit, but without waiting
for say-so twice he picks up the badge. With something new to cling to as
shield, he adds, "Also - about Reaches. She's very busy." Presumably he
doesn't mean the Weyr with that feminine pronoun. Another wince: "Advice
there would be fine too."

And for *that*, K'ran has an amused grin. "I suspect your mentor, or maybe
Tarien, can counsel you better than I can about the needs of women. I've
been trying to figure 'em out for twenty or so Turns, now."

Kassima's eyebrows hitch upwards, and the glance she throws the new
bronzerider this time is inquisitive. Her eyes flick between him and the
Weyrleader for a moment, but settle back on V'lano as she brings up a hand
to salute. "Felicitations, Wingrider," she says rather warmly. Of course,
she had to pick that moment to reach for her wine glass and drain it, and
so manages to choke a bit on the liquid at K'ran's suggestion.

Lysseth> Volath, too, seems content, though at this time or that he crooks
his head toward the green at his side, fixing her with curious expressions
with eyes whirling pale seafoam-green. He tucks his tail and legs in as
best he can to facilitate the curling hers attempts, pleased and smug with
the comfort in this situation.

"Er, good ... point," V'lano manages to assent before blinking sidelong at
Kassima's salute. "Thank you," he adds, rather dumbly, then takes refuge in
gazing down at the badge, admiring for a moment its stitching and make.
"Until the clutching, or until I find out otherwise, my time at Reaches
fits around my duty here. And - other things." A glance shot the
Thunderbolt 'leader there is a little more promising than threatening, but
only a little. "Dawn drill tomorrow?" It's a weirdly expectant question,
directed mostly at K'ran.

Dragon> Volath bespoke Lysseth with << Indrath's is... >> Well, leader,
see, his identity tangled all but inextricably with that of the dragon
named. << He did look very cold. He had a weave-thing around him, even
though it makes them clumsy. >> Tenses, plurals blend to indicate 'people'
over just one person. Then, thoughtfully, and much belated: << I have told
him. We are chosen... I think. >>

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth is momentarily distracted by the whim
to, imaging Indrath's rider and that blanket in question, draw the cloth
into a shape vaguely like a dragon's furled wings. << It is as close as
they can get to wings, >> she supposes. << Along with helping against the
cold. Most such things are in very silly colors for wings, however. >> Her
light-pulse of assent is swift and carries its own warmth: << Mine confirms
this. She knew where you were to go some time ago, but could not speak to
yours of it. >>

K'ran seems to weigh the question briefly before deciding, "Day after
tomorrow," with a minute shrug of his shoulders. "Since it's so late. Take
tomorrow to sort things out -- we'll get you a new weyr assigned, too, and
you might want to move out of whatever hole you've been stuck in." He
tosses back the dregs of his klah, just then, and then does offer, "I am
available, by the way, to chat about the whole clutchfather thing. I'm sure
Is would be, too," before he gathers that blanket around his shoulders and
begins to stand.

"I'd a'course be glad t'offer all the counsel in the needs of women that he
should desire of me," Kassima says with a perfectly straight, almost bland
expression, once she's managed to stop choking. "Just let me know if'n you
should want such a thing, Vel. I'm sure I can find time t'be accomodating."
She allows that blandness to give way to a momentary grin--for that glance,
presumably--before bobbing her head in agreement with K'ran. "Or Ursa," she
tosses in. "Might be useful, getting multiple perspectives. I can't know
much about it, but I'd wager every time's a bit different. G'deve, K'ran,
if'n you're going; g'luck in talking Indrath into letting you stay inside,
aye?"

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Volath ripples ocean-whitecap laughter. << Mine
claims they do not need, or want, wings. But then why adore -us- so? >> The
revelation that he and his have been had meets with a slightly sour turn of
the tide, though, and Volath all but whines, << You could have told -me.- I
would not have told him. >> Uh, sure.

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth gleams amusement in the form of a
silver crescent moon, almost within reach of the whitecaps as a real moon
could never be. << Perhaps they do not need or want them *because* they
have ours, >> she theorizes. << Either way, there are many other reasons to
adore dragons, surely. >> Why, no, she's not particularly proud to be a
dragon at all, why? Her shading turns towards black velvet warmth, the
darkness between stars on a clear summer night. << But I could not.
Indrath's would have been angry with us then, me and my Kassima. It doesn't
do to anger the leader if one can avoid it. >>

"Thank you, sir," V'lano breathes. The relief in his voice is dual, though
as it comes only after the offer of advice it could be assumed that, rather
than the lack of a morning drill, was the better of lucky circumstances. "I
think I better see about K'ran's, er, our wingmate before I take -too- many
lessons from you," he asides to Kassima, fitting in a "Good evening, and
thank you again," with a lift of the badge as if toasting with a drink for
farewell to the Weyrleader. Then, more to the wingleader yet at the table:
"Not that I'd turn down your advice on handling -that.-"

"Ursa's another good one," K'ran agrees. "Or, jays, S'dar, if he pokes his
head in." Then a nod to Kassima. "Yeah, I think so -- he's dozing, now, and
I might be able to sneak past him to bed. You two have a good night, hm?"

Kassima tilts her head, momentarily puzzled, but comprehension strikes her
soon enough. "*That* Wingmate. I'd thought mayhaps another. Well." She
takes to chewing on her lower lip for a moment or two. "Depends on how you
want t'handle it, largely... where do things stand there just now?" Her
voice is a little quieter, in deference to the sensitivity of the topic.
"--S'dar's been clutchfather several times, aye, so he'd know a thing or
two. 'Twill endeavor; hope you do the same, and sleep well when you do."

V'lano's eyes widen. "Several times," he echoes, a bit dumfounded there for
a moment, then shakes his head to clear it. "Thank you," he repeats for
K'ran's restful wishes, hapless to find anything smarter to say until he
realizes Kassima's realization and turns to her to remark, "Things? Stand?"
Weary smile. "There was a time Before Dragons. We've agreed that much. And
since then - has been a long time."

"Thanks," returns K'ran, with a grateful nod tipped first to Kassima, then
to V'lano; he gathers the blanket about his shoulder, then, eyes the exit
back into the bowl as he prepares to run the wintry gauntlet, and then
heads out.

K'ran walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

Dragon> Volath bespoke Lysseth with << Oh. I would not want -anyone- to be
angry at you. >> There's merely a monochrome glimmer of a Kassima-like
shape in addendum to that: she ranks, belonging to Lysseth, as someone he
wouldn't want anger directed at, but almost all of the affection's saved
for the elder green. << We are strong, and clever, and beautiful, >> he
suggests as good dragon-adoring reasons. 

Kassima counts off on fingers, "Jenryth as a junior; Elisanth as a senior;
Herath as a junior; Omfaleth as a senior... and I think that's been twice
now, come t'think on it. So five, 'tis? Mayhaps six? Twice Weyrleader." But
then it's on to the other subject. Her half-smile isn't so weary, but it is
rueful. "Before Dragons. A good term for it. Dragons change... many things.
I recall the rumors about you and she as Candidates, and I recall that
there've been almost nay rumors for much of the past Turn."

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth seems to take this in stride; likely,
after all, she wouldn't exactly be as inclined to curl up in the snow with
V'lano as she is with Volath, either. Her appreciation is for both
affection and sentiment. << Thank you, Volath. >> There's a hint of
waterfall-susurra to his name. << We're certainly all these things. And we
are loyal; we love them. >> As if such even needed stating.

After staring a bit about that impressive count, the younger rider laughs
softly regarding the unnamed, but well-understood of identity, co-standee
in question. It's not a joyless laugh, but there's a little cold-klah
bitterness in it. "Probably that we're hardly seen together," he admits.
"We got to have a good talk after graduation. There's still something there
- or I think there is, and she acts the part well enough if not." The grin
that creeps onto his mouth is both pleased and rueful. "But with dragons,
were there rumors they'd be fact." And then something rather unpleasant
causes his eyes to widen and his unencumbered hand - one still holding that
badge - to raise to his mouth, palming the smile from his lips in a long,
dreading stroke. "Oh, no," he murmurs, then - helpfully - turns to the
greenrider to explain only, "Sonaith. Sonaith! Kassima, will you excuse me?
Please? I -have- to find T'bay!" On his feet as fast as words, he turns
toward her, then away, then back. "Thank you for all of your help. And
patience. Really, especially, patience. Can I find you soon?"

"There's that," Kassi agrees, not ungently. "Save at the dinner; then,
but--so. If'n she feels and you don't, that's one problem; if'n you both do
but nay the same, that's another; if'n you both do and the same and you're
wondering what to do about it...." Whatever more she might say on the
subject is prevented, though. Her eyes wide, she agrees at once,
"A'course--I hope naught's wrong--but aye, go if'n you need and welcome." A
flickered smile greets the last. "A'course. Send word through the dragons
if'n naught else--we'll be around, or we can come and find you."

A hasty nod, a grin of appreciation, and - real testament to what little's
aware in his suddenly flustered head - V'lano leans over to the table to
pick up the cider mug, the only one left unsampled. He raises it toward
Kassima, a wordless toast, then yanks up his jacket from the chair-back and
dashes for the bowl, braving the cold with leather in hand rather than on
back.

V'lano walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

Lysseth> Smug at Lysseth's remarks, the bronze dips his head low, lower
than hers, curving his great neck around to breathe soft breaths upon her
neckridges in warning for a nuzzling to come. A little awareness of his
rider's sudden distress makes Volath's breath catch, but not for long. When
V'lano goes crunching past at almost a dead run, he only turns his head
closer to the green to allow one eye to follow the rider's path.

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Volath ponders the tracks of his lifemate
before deciding, << I will go lift him if Sarevith does not wake, >> he
remarks. << But Sarevith will. >> Certain of this, for a little longer at
least, the young bronze goes nowhere.

Lysseth> Lysseth watches this movement of V'lano's with a vague interest
made vaguer by the distraction Volath provides, for breaths and potential
nuzzlings are in the long run rather more within her sphere of interest
than what humans do. She's a lady of priorities. Still, this doesn't keep
her from shifting enough to allow *Volath* to better see: when the human is
one's rider, what they do becomes much more important.

Lysseth> Volath senses that Lysseth agrees equanimably enough, << If he
needs a ride, you must. Understood. >> This isn't to say the unspoken
thought that runs under words is anything but pleased that movement may
not, at least for the moment, be necessary.