The Dragonriders of Pern® is a trademark, Registered U.S. Patent & Trademark Office, of Anne McCaffrey. This is a recorded session, generated by Harper's Tale MOO on September 23rd, 2001 for the benefit of members unable to attend. Logged by Pyrene.

A Request from Telgar

Council Chambers
Smoothed stone, polished by the passage of thousands of turns, gleams in the light of myriad glowbaskets strung up on the walls of the dome ceilinged chamber. Tapestries on all sides add vivid splashes of color, some old, some new, but each depicting a facet of Weyr life both past and present. Centering the rocky hall is the great council table, a thick heavy stone tablet set on several low pillars and surrounded by highbacked wooden chairs. All around the room, painted florils in High Reaches blue and black accent the snow-white banner that runs along the walls near floor and ceiling. If you look carefully, you might find a wayward 'scroll' lying untended.
Various half-hidden stairwells lead up to the weyrs above, and a warm tunnel runs west towards the nearby Hatching Sands.

Shaela
Violet eyes gleam out from within the dark-skinned face of the petite woman, their deep shade reaching an almost blue-black tone in most lighting. Jet-black hair, defiantly still of plaitable length, is knotted up so as to fit easily beneath a riding cap. Shiny though her hair is, it has a permanent look of not enough washing, due to many hours spent with said cap firmly in place. Bangs frame her indistinct forehead, curling and waving in their unstyled way to fringe on thick 'brows. Black lashes, full and long, match the furried eyebrows. Lips often curved in a crooked smile reveal gaps spacing disproportionate and misaligned teeth.
So tight are they, the junior weyrwoman's riding leathers appear nearly painted on, an effort to reaffirm her regaining of the petite, skin-and-bones figure she was known for before her pregnancy. Nevertheless, her hips are a little more rounded now, her bust actually evident: in essence, she has grown into a woman, no longer a child. The leathers are relatively simple, of basic dark chocolate with strawberry red linings and lemon gold stitching, in a two-piece trous and jacket with underlying basic white shirt. The plunging neckline of the shirt is accented by the undoing of the top buttons of the jacket. Blue Neckpouch hangs heavily from Shaela's shoulder.
Two cords, one blue, one black, intertwine to form a double loop marking Shaela as a Jr. Weyrwoman of High Reaches. A golden thread has also been woven into the simple knot, indicative of the girl's lifemate, gold Chayath.
She is awake and looks alert.
Shaela is 25 Turns, 8 months, and 19 days old.

Pyrene
Slight and spindly, her frame is nevertheless held as stubbornly tall as possible, falling only just shy of average height. Curves have in part softened the sharp angles of old, leading sharp and scrawny towards thin and trim, while breast and hip bear slim testament to her motherhood. Still, there's nothing neat about the shrewish set of her limbs, or about the skimpy plait that struggles to keep her hair under control. Lank dark brown tendrils escape it to plague her point-nosed, thin-lipped face, only serving to emphasise the peakiness of her complexion. Yet if there were any doubts about her vitality, the grey eyes that snap out from beneath dark brows eliminate them as effectively as twin thunderstorms.
A light cotton blouse drapes shoulder to hip, while loose fawn trous enclose almost as thin legs, stretching to sandalled feet. They may not be practical for keeping the cold out, but at least they provide no encumbrance when dragon-caring and the unadorned fabric is all the more comfortable for its simplicity. Poldhu is playing with Pyrene's knot.
Black, blue and sea-washed gold tangle their way over the badge worn by all members of Esprit wing.
She is awake and looks alert.
You notice Pyrene looking at you.
Pyrene is 26 Turns, 2 months, and 9 days old.

Daeyn
Wiry and lean, her form is as streamlined as mercury, the lines of corded muscles and sparse curves melding and melting into each other. Lithe and elongated, she must stand over six feet tall. Her face glows light golden beneath its soft sandalwood tan, as if lit by some inner incandescence. Her pale blue eyes are of disconcerting lightness, sharp and keen. They leap out like beacons in a face composed of high arches and angles ... a face stark and faintly mishapen that is further marred by the outline of a deep knife-scar across her left cheekbone. Sunkissed mahogany tendrils curl about her features, escaped from the tight braid that falls to midway down her back. Dark, thin brows expressively accent her expression, though her face tends towards the hidden neutrality of a mask. When she speaks, her voice is even blended between alto and tenor, cool and androgynous.
A full tunic of deep lavender sisal, sleeves cuffed at three-quarter length, falls comfortably about her, worn quite loose but obviously tailored to her comfort. A single tie of complementary darker hue fastens at the neck, and matching trim lines the base of the shirt. It falls to mid-hip, hiding the top of fitted deep green trousers - obviously the lower half of riding leathers - that in turn disappear into crease-worn but polished obsidian boots. Perched on Daeyn's shoulder is Cytherea.
A flash of opal and gold catches the light and illuminates the ring on her finger. Always on, it is thus - like the one who gave it to her - never far from her heart.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Michel's Ring Cytherea
Surreal Pleasantly Fluked Llama Bebe
Daeyn is 24 Turns, 3 months, and 3 days old.

Pyrene drifts in, making her way to as unobtrusive a seat as possible when everybody's around a table. Daeyn gets a wary look, just because. Meetings. Feh.

Mitria slips into the chambers, successfully managing to blend in with various wingleaders and walls. Her usual chair is taken, next to Pyrene, and the goldrider settles down, wearing a weary expression.

Daeyn comes to rest on the edge of her seat, stiff-shouldered, poised, a wry look flickered sideways at Pyrene. The goldrider knows she doesn't bite ... she nods once to Mitria, resisting the reflexive urge to massage her temples. "Are we all here?"

Pyrene shrugs one shoulder. "Looks like it," she murmurs. "I definitely am." And she's already starting to fidget. Watch out, she'll be passing notes soon. Or whispering... which is what she does to her neighbours: "Know what this is about?"

Shaela has never been a fan of meetings either -- they often result in assignments, also known as more work. The goldrider was among the first to arrive, already seated by the time Pyrene and the remainder of the Esprit wing wandered in, so a nod of greeting is given to each of them as they take their seats, but no chit-chat. shae would like to get this meeting done and over, as the impatient tapping of her nails on the tabletop attests.

Mitria nods to Daeyn in return, and Shaela, and rewards Pyrene with the littlest of shrugs. "I don't know," is murmured back, the older woman shaking her head slightly for emphasis. But, intend on finding out, and also wanting to get this over with, she leans back in her seat and looks expectantly at the Weyrsecond. Get on with it already!

Daeyn blinks once. "I suppose," she remarks with dry humor, "that was a ridiculous question, all things considered." Fingers steepling, she is silent for a moment before heeding the fidgets ... you'd think they were a class of young weyrbrats. "Telgar," she explains. "I've had a request from Weyrleader B'dor. They have only two queens, both elderly, and are asking for us to transfer one of ours."

Pyrene blinks at Daeyn. That was abrupt. The news slowly begins to filter in, and it's just about possible to see the cogs going within her skull as it does so. Slowly, her gaze moves from Daeyn and around the table to look at the rest of Esprit wing. A pause. Her brow creases. And her eyes flick back to the Weyrsecond as she asks tensely: "Who?"

A strangled gasp emerges from Mitria's seat, although the 'rider does what she can to mask it as a weird cough. "Transfer? To Telgar?!" The words come out breathlessly, her expression one of slight disbelief. "I mean... I thought they had a queen egg last clutch," she mumbles half-heartedly, trying to swallow her sudden nervousness. And managing quite capably. She's gotten quite adept at hiding her emotions.

Shaela's eyes widen, and not especially attractively, considering the manner in which they dominate her face to begin with. Her mouth forms an 'O', and she leans back from the table, as though if she could distance hreself enough to be no lnoger noticeable. She is, after all, the gold most regularly assigned visits to Telgar.. but she's certainly not interested in a permanent assignment! Her eyes flash between the other five golds -- please, maybe one of them will volunteer?

Rustling in the back, one of the Wingseconds coughs slightly and mutters something to her joint-wingsecond, eyes flicking over the goldriders' faces.

Daeyn shakes her head minutely, holding up a hand for silence, realizing that probably won't get it, and letting it drop again. "Transfer to Telgar, yes," she says quietly, wondering if it's just hypocrisy that has her so calm. They're not threatening to send her anywhere, after all. "They didn't name names, Pyrene," she continues, frowning at her own phrasing, but not correcting herself.

Mitria sends thoughtful glances towards Shaela and Pyrene - and narrow ones towards Lani. Then again, even though it would be nice if Lani went, they probably wouldn't want more /old/ goldriders at Telgar. "Don't... don't you think they'd prefer the... younger ones?" she asks hopefully? After all, she /is/ younger than Lani, but then again, older than Py and Shae.

Well, that's a given -- everybody's older than Shae, just about. But not everybody has a weyrmate and a young daughter to consider. "You wouldn't.. transfer people without also transferring their weyrmate, would yuo?" Shaela wants -- no, needs -- to know. "And you'll take volunteers, right? Not that i'm volunteering. But if, say, Pyrene did, you'd send her, right? And she has no weyrmate toconsider." Shae wants that to be known.

"All of us are quite young..." Pyrene points out hastily, although her voice trails off as she glances at Nuff. Nuff apparently didn't notice though, too busy eating a filched cookie and safe in the knowledge that Telgar aren't likely to accept her in transfer. "And some of us /already/ have connections to Telgar. For example," and a glare at Shaela as Pyrene returns the favour. "Shaela fostered her daughter there."

"She has a child, though!" Mitria states quickly, glaring at Shaela. "Whose father is living here, isn't he, Pyrene?" If they want to transfer young weyrwomen without weyrmates or children... yet. Though, insecure as she is, she doesn't offer herself for transfer. They probably wouldn't take her anyway. A sigh escapes the goldrider's lips as she slumps a little in her chair.

"Shouldn't someone go who's not too well settled?" A wingleader in the back pipes up. This time, it's Ch'yp, rider of brown Kukeeth. He's a young wingleader, and brash. Hence why he spoke up, right?

Iselle nods. "It would be really bad, having to be separated from your Weyrmate. Though if it is necessary to transfer, then it must be done. We have our duties to Pern, to protect it." The 39 Turn-Old rider nods. "That is our mission."

Daeyn starts to lift her hands again, then settles for resting them on the table in the manner of one who'd like to slap it, rather hard. Make some racket, at that. "I'm sure we can help Telgar out without undue upheaval ..." She glances dubiously around the room. Maybe a bit late for that.

A wingsecond, standing near his wingleader, wonders: "Do they really want one of our youngest queens?"

One of the older wingleaders sends Nuff a dirty leer and whispers something that makes his wingsecond bark with laughter.

"Duty, of course, and I know my duty," Shaela responds, her tone already turning snarky, "but I have duties here as well that must be attended to. I'm merely suggesting that maybe Pyrene shuold be looked at as a more appropriate choice than myslf, if a yung rider must be chosen."

Pyrene nods urgently, sending a grateful look to Mitria as the older goldrider becomes an unexpected ally. "F'ish likes to see Sephne on a regular basis... as do I! We both think that's important, when it comes to bringing up children." She straightens her shoulder, with the air of one who knows that she is /the/ authority in child-rearing in the Weyr. Iselle's words lend her extra fuel. "Exactly, if it's our /duty/, we should be prepared to leave a Weyrmate. But a child... now that's a blood-tie."

Iselle nods to Pyrene. "True. So, this will take deep thought." She looks from Pyrene to Shae, and smirks candidly. She returns to the meeting.

"I have a daughter as well, Pyrene," Shaela reminds in a warning tone. "She's five turns, and not only does she have a father, she has L'shil, my weyrmate, as well, with whom she is /exremely/ close." So much as someone next to her touches her arm in an effort to calm her down, it'll take someone with a lot more authority to get hre to quiet up.

Mitria looks rather pale by now, though it doesn't seem to have all to do with just the meeting. There're slight shadows around her eyes as well, as if she isn't sleeping enough... perhaps she's on her way to a midlife crisis, seeing as she's also seemingly gained quite a few extra pounds.

Pyrene shrugs offhandedly. "Yes, but L'shil /isn't/ her father, is he? Does the father visit often." Her tone suggests she can't remember who he is, and doubts Shaela can either.

Iselle shakes her head. "Listen you two, this is an important matter that requires all the attention that it can get. I may be of a lower rank, but please, we need to consider the consequences. Can you please continue this after the meeting?"

Daeyn shakes her head. "I'm sure all these debates have merit," she says dryly, "but I take it no one is willing to leap to Telgar right now?" Her tone implies this is the only important question.

Pyrene also shakes her head, managing to glare at Shaela the whole time. "I'm not volunteering," she says clearly.

Mitria looks at Daeyn, her mouth opening, then closing, her head moving slowly in a shake, saddened eyes lowering themselves to the table surface.

Shaela gasps, and is about to respond to pyrene, but decides to wait until later when she can catch the goldrider alone. "I'm certainly not interested," Shaela answers Daeyn's qustion, her glare still firmly affixed on Pyrene..

Iselle looks at Mitria who appears to be disturbed. She turns back to the council. "This is a difficult decision, indeed..." She looks to Pyrene, and then to Shaela, then shakes her head and sighs.

Daeyn clears her throat softly. "And not one, it seems, that we can decide in an afternoon." Or at least, not with the Weyrsecond keeping her sanity. "Perhaps we should tell Telgar we need time? A month?" During which she vows to be unfindable by those of the goldrider ilk ...

"Sounds good to me," Pyrene says coolly. A month to persuade the Weyr that they need to get rid of Shae? She's up to that.

Iselle sighs softly. "At least that's settled. A month is reasonable." Hopefully, by that time the two Gold Riders will calm down a bit.

And Mitria makes no comment. Instead she stares at the table tragically. Take that as a yes?

Daeyn shakes her head, resisting the urge to do something drastic. "I'll inform Telgar's leadership, in that case ... meeting's dismissed, and thank you all ..." For not biting her, at least? It's something.

Mitria immediately leaps to her feet and disappears upon Daeyn's words, prompting Lani to mutter something to the Wingleader next to her.

"Right then... see you later," Pyrene declares. And she too strides out.

Quiet Corners
Thick woolen tapestries dull the noise from the rest of the caverns, turning this well-lit little room into a welcome escape. The stairs up place it against the bowl wall somewhere above the living caverns, carpeted against the winters chill or left as cool stone floor in summer. Some high and narrow windows can be opened to the world outside, or secured with their heavy metal-sided shutters and blue-threaded curtains.
Glowlight gleams, brightening the well-cushioned stone couches and lighting the weyr residents half-finished projects: knitting undone, sewing only started, leathers being worked soft, and even a hide of sketches or half-finished Thread-chart spread out across one of the tables.
Curled up amongst the baskets of wool are Sahara, Eclipse, Dystopia, Zauberer, and Samedi.
You see Gigi here.
Obvious exits:
Inner Stairs

Lylia slips in from the little door.

Pyrene paces back and forth, fingers wreaking havoc to some rag she picked up from a basket. People slipping in get glares of welcome. "Did you /hear/ what happened?"

Bustle, bustle...pause? What's going on here? The baker was actually just going to come and have a nice little lunch alone. Or perhaps rendezevous (sp?) with a certain someone who's up from Tillek. *cough* Fortunately, he's not here yet, but she is holding a platter with all sorts of delectables. Not a very healthy lunch, but at least it's there, right? "Py?" Even Damia doesn't appreciate glares and Py very rarely gives her one -- it's cause for alarm. "I 'aven't...wha'...?" And she'll just leave that hanging there.

"Hrm?" An innocent flutter of eyelashes follows Lylia's entrance, hips swaying as she just kind of stares. She's felt the weird vibe that suddenly appeared. Maybe Pyrene will have amuse her with a story. "Hear about what happening? Did they decide to stop baking cookies?"

Pyrene filches some of the delectables as she passes by Damia next. "No, Lylia, this /is/ serious," she snaps at the rider. Yes. More serious than cookies. Better sit down. "They're transferring one of the goldriders... To /Telgar/! It's /cold/ at Telgar!" Whereas High Reaches is practically tropical.

R'ley takes the stairs two at a time, black cloak billowing out behind him and various lizards sprawled on his broad muscled shoulders. Emerald eyes scan the room stopping when they reach Pyrene, her glare isn't imposeing to him but he stays silent for the moment anyway letting the baker talk. Besides listening gives him such interesting information.

Damia's lips press into a tight line, "Not while I'm 'round they ain't," The baker replies stoutly. As a pastry specialist, she knwos everything there is to know about cookies and, in addition, she definitely isn't going to let 'reaches starve without them. 'Mia either doesn't notice the filching or, more likely, doesn't care. Damia plops ungracefully down, shooting a glance at R'ley before it flits over toward PYrene again, "'tis cold 'ere too, Py," Unabashed, the head cook comments -- Rene, apparently, doesn't scare her. She does, however, begin to nibble on her delectables. "'sides...they wouldn't send /ye/ wouldthey?"

"Really? They are? Which one?" Lylia's eyes brighten slightly, absinthe glowing. "Telgar's so lovely! Wonder if I could paint Druseth gold and sneak through." 'Course, she'd never leave Quara, but hey, she likes Telgar. Nice place. "That's kind of exciting. Getting to go off to a new Weyr, away from the 'brats and such..." And the 'lings. Escape the 'lings. Yes.

"Oh... we're allowed to choose. To volunteer. Except nobody wants to, so /of course/ they'll send me," Pyrene despairs at the ceiling. She suddenly spins around to face them, and for the first time registers R'ley. "If you're here to ask for Ista, then tough. We're only doing one at a time. But who else would they send? I'm the youngest and most of them think I'm trouble anyway." And with good cause.

R'ley slouches against the doorjamb, nearly filling the whole entryway with his hulking form. "As much as I'd like more golds at Ista, I'm just here to drop off a letter to the gold rider Pyrene. From your conversation I'd hazard to guess your her?" his voice is deap and tinged with a foreign sounding rather alluring accent.

Damia shakes her head, white lock moving into her eyes...again. "You aren't th'youngest, Py. Shae's th'youngest." Granted, Pyrene /is/ the most junior, but Damia's attempting to cool the weyrwoman's rage, not point out the facts. Head cants to the side, "'owcome none o' th'seniors wanna go?" Of course, she's not a Senior Weyrwoman, so she can't really say anything, but if she were, she'd want to go. Or something.

"Why would they necessarily send you? I mean, they could send Shaela or Mitria. Maybe even Lani. Who knows." High Reaches is weird like that. Lylia offers a little shrug, but a little flicker of /something/ is apparent in her eyes as she suddenly bites her lower lip. "They wouldn't send you, would they?"

Pyrene narrows her eyes. "If it's something giving me good reason to stay here, I'll take it," she tells him, before getting distracted by Damia's reasoning. "Well, they need one because their queens are old. They won't want Nuff, let's face it. Lani and Mitria... well, neither of them volunteered. Mitria almost burst into tears at the thought. Areiah obviously is ineligible, while Shaela and I are both young with young dragons. And people here like Shaela more than me." Not that she's fishing for reassurance or anything.

If Lorsalia were here, she'd be jumping all over Pyrene for that. She thinks Pyrene is just the bees' knees!

Well, let us thank Faranth that Lorsalia isn't here then. The feeling's not mutual.

R'ley fish's the rolled hide leather from inside his cloak, "It's from a pregnant greenrider at Ista, can't remmember her name but she said she knows you." he rumbles by way of explenation while holding it out. "Why don't you want to go?." he asks with a small amount of curiosity in his tone of voice.

Blink. Blinkblink. "How d'ya figger?" The baker inquires in her quaint little speech, still nibbling on various pieces of pastry on the platter. It seems she planned to be here /quite/ a bit before whoever it was she was going to meet. That way, she could have some of the goodies to herself, right? Right. "I mean, if'n Cadge pickedya, ye've gotta be good, right? An' y'work wi' kiddies -- 'fore ye 'pressed, an' tha' means ye 'afta be good." Or something like that.

"Aww. That's not true. I'm sure /somebody/ likes you. I like you, at least." Lylia gives a sage little nod, coppery braid bouncing. "Besides... are they wanting one for a clutch /soon/? 'Cause if it's somewhat pressing to get a few more dragons, Cadgwith /did/ clutch last... And Shae /is/ the youngest. But she does have a lot of support, too." Hrm. And suddenly she gets all squeakishly mushy. "Chayath /is/ Druseth's mama. I'd hate to see her go." Family ties and all.

Pyrene glares at Lylia. "Remember who you stood with," she snaps. "And I don't want to go because I /like/ it here. I have friends here." Even if they do like Shaela more than her. "Oh... Ugh. Look... Do me a favour and try and speak nicely of me. Y'know... put in a good word here and there." Maybe slander Shaela while they're at it. Or something.

And with that, Pyrene stalks out.

[End of Log]