Ilare - Friday, December 15, 2000, 10:01 AM
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Chanticoth
Oh what sweet, sweet treacle flavours his slimly elongated curves,
 lightening the glimmering patina of burnt pinewood; oh what bright, bright
 ridges carol along his snow and mistletoe back, kissing the gingerbread
 surface below. But it is the patterned decadence of brandy-butter that
 defines this rogue: toasted to perfection from the ruddy nubs that cap his
 head to the festive curve of that spoon-shaped tail candycane-striped with
 russet, his sweetly blunted snout is fairy-dusted with holly-crimson,
 which also reddens freckled cheeks. His chestnut hide roasts in the open
 air of winter's breath wings, along which a darker brown tracery gaily
 hunts for perfection. Smouldering embers of evening's end warm his
 underbelly, stretching dusky shadows except where disturbed by the rare
 sunburst of flames, breathing life into the whole of his enchanting body.
Chanticoth is 1 month and 22 days old.
He is 12 feet (3m) long, with a wingspan of 20 feet (6m).
Chanticoth senses Ilare looking at him.
Chanticoth seems to be listening.

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that Zizth presses
 lightly upon her clutchmate's minds, tickling-light champagne bubbles
 bursting lively within her fluttery soprana mindvoice. <<Morning, all!>>

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that his mind echoes outward,
 rich warmth spilling towards the minds of others, and deep mind voice
 bubbles like hot klah for a few moments, before he replies.
 <<G'morning....>> *YAWN*

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that Zizth chuckles in her
 draconic way, a rich, fruity laugh. <<Still sleepy, Chanthicoth?>> Not
 everyone's as lively as her - always awake, bubbling with life.

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that he whuffles, sending friendly
 flickers of gold back. <<I was asleep.>> So, you could say he was tired.
 <<But now I am not. I am not tired.>> Well.. not much.

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that Zizth's bubbling over as
 usual. Pale champagne gold flecked with vivid hot pink flickers through
 her mind briefly - to be overtaken by a plummy red wine. <<I am not tired
 anymore, either. Mine is oiling me. I like it.>> 

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that he has been bathed. And
 oiled. And will soon need another nap. But first.. <<I have grown
 again..>> Smug reds coil about gold flickering embers, and he 'giggles'.
 << Ilare says she is not surprised. >> 

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that Zizth turns to look over her
 apple green self... <<I grew a little. Just a little.>> A flick of her
 tail sends fuchsia sparks through her thoughts, smug, happy. She's small,
 and proud to be small. <<Why is yours no surprised?>>

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that he burbles, looking over his
 fiery brown-red-copper-yellow-brown christmasy self and preens. << She
 says she thinks I will be a beautiful big brown. She has seen dragons grow
 before. She used to live at another Weyr. >> 

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that Zizth ohs. Sparkles and
 fizzles of silver stars and exploding firecrakers burst in her thoughts,
 illuminating her hot-pink mindvoice. <<Another Weyr...>> She echoes,
 questioning. <<Is it cold, like here? Slippa is always complaining about
 the cold. I think it is nice.>> 

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that he send out an image of a
 weyr upon an island, large, with lots of sunshine. He seems slightly
 sceptical, oranges flickering in the tendrils of mindtouch. <<She says
 it is called Ista. And that is is always hot. >> A purely mental snort
 is heard. << Maybe it is real. But no place can surely stay warm all the
 time? >> A headshake, before.. <<Yes, I like the coolness here. It is our
 home. We are safe here. >> 

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that Zizth revels in the image for
 a few moments, basking in her own sunlight. <<Mine says that where she
 comes from is always hot. She says it is very cold here. It has lots of
 water in... Ista?>> 

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that he is still sceptical, the
 'sunlight' not affecting him. << She says it is an island. A place
 surrounded by water. Such a place cannot exist! >> Well, he's a strange
 one, neh?

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that he is confused, and still
 slightly sleep befuddled. But the question that he sends out to the Weyr
 is clear. << Is this... Ista... a real place? My lifemate says it is an
 island.. What is an island? >>

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that Zizth's bubbliness gets
 brighter. <<Slippa says she lived on Ista island... in a Gar. Whatever
 that is.>> Confused blue whirls ticklingly light at the edges of her
 thoughts. 

<Junior Weyrling Wing> Chanticoth senses that he bubbles his confusion like
 heat bubbles through freshly made klah, eyes whirling with colour. << My
 rider says she lived in the Ista Weyr. She says there is a dragon there
 who is one with her father. >> A long pause.. <<What is a father?>> Silly
 brown, he should know THAT. <<Oh...>> He looks to his life mate. << She
 says he is B'oat, lifemate to Shipppith. He is to her what Bronze Rixesith
 is to us.. >>

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that Siulth laps at the question like
 idle waves along a crusty beach: Istan waves, turquoise now, and clear as
 sky.  << It is.  Mine says I hatched there. >> And the humour that fizzes
 through that remark suggests it's purest folly to assume that a dragon of
 her size -- even if she's the tiniest of the full-grown -- could ever fit
 in an /egg/.  << Islands are things with sandy beaches and warm breezes
 and trees on and plenty of water all around to play in. >>  Or at least,
 so goes the description of the only island this green knows.

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that he blinks, and is awed to hear
 his lifemates words echoed and elaborated upon by a fellow dragon. << Such
 places are truely real? Is our Weyr on an island too? >> He's such a
 curious bebe.. 

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that Siulth froths merrily at the
 Little, adding giddy seafoam.  << Oh no. We're not an island.  We don't
 have warm beaches and palm trees.  We're a mountain.  Mountains are tall,
 foldy rocks with ice on top and sometimes snow and sometimes mud on the
 ground.  >>  So her impromptu geography lesson's seriously skewed.  She'd
 never notice.

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that he boggles.. Well, the
 klah-swirls of his mund bubble at least as he tries to picture this.
 << ... >> Perhaps this IS a bit much for him to absorb right now.
 << Okay... If you say so.. >>  

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that Myrineth drifts herself into the
 conversation. << Like this. >> A picture is worth a thousand words, and
 Myrineth's images are of gliding over snow and ice and rock and deep, dark
 forests.

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that he thrums faintly, tendrils of
 scarlet threading with gold and muted magenta embers. A bubble of thanks
 is sent to both others, before he whirls out more words. << Ahhh.. So we
 are a mountain? And Ista is a Island? I.. think.. I understand. >> A short
 pause, before.. << Ilare is amused. >> Bright orange sparks splutter,
 before waves of equal amsuement tickle other minds. << Ah well, she did
 tell me, but I did not believe.. >>

Weyrling Barracks
The large covered entryways open into two immense U-shaped caverns that
 stretch back deep into the rock of the cliffside.  Glow baskets lining the
 cavern walls cast a soft light dispelling the shadows and illuminating the
 home of all High Reaches weyrlings.  Stone couches, some smaller for the
 greens and blues and some, for bronzes and the occasional gold, so large
 they have to be climbed into, rise up to loom over the walkways of
 well-packed dirt.
Along the walls nearest the entrances, shelves and pegs sport several sets
 of leathers and various books and tools needed when teaching and
 practicing; crates and supplies also take up residence in various nooks
 and crannies.  Toward the back, a large, man-dug pool for use by the
 dragonets and their lifemates and several large containers kept full of
 fresh meat serve as conveniences for the busy residents of these barracks.
To the southwest, you see Zaqith and Niamhyth.
Snuggled in with the leather supplies and tools are eight firelizards.
Brown Backstreeth, blue Recounth, brown Akilth, and blue Catiminith are here.
You see Weyrling Progress Record and Dragon Wing here.
Obvious exits:
Staff Office     Bowl     Couches

Chanticoth clambers out of Chanticoth's couch.
Ilare is led in by Chanticoth.

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that Siulth subsides in a slish-slosh
 of smug, foam-festooned teal.  << We have a little bit of island here
 though.  See? >> And she shares a rose-tinted view of High Reaches'
 tear-shaped lake with its rough beach, overlaid with a view of the lake
 from underneath the chill waters.  It's a well-worn image, lovingly
 caressed a thousand times.

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that Myrineth prefers to soar, the
 alpine meadows mutated through her vision from spring's bloom to summer's
 grace and on to winter's snowfields, the volcanic pool steaming
 invitingly. << Here is nice. Here is ours. >>

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that he can't soar yet. He's only a
 bebe. But he will soon, some day. Right? << Here is HOME. Ilare says we
 will always be safe here. >> As did Cadgwith, after all the adult dragons
 scared this poor brown bebe silly.. 

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that Myrineth pans her vision across
 the bowl, from the weyrling barracks across the many weyr entrances. <<
 High Reaches is home, >> she agrees, though sunnier climes and a black
 -sand beach flicker as strobe images at the back of her thoughts.

<High Reaches Weyr> Chanticoth senses that he snatches one of the strobe
 images, holding it briefly. << That is where Ilare was hatched, or so she
 says. >> Well, he doesn't know how people are born - are they not clutched
 and hatched out too? << But this is home. And it is not cold! >> that
 thought is cearly directed at his lifemate.

You go to the Training Grounds.
Training Grounds
The marks of thousands of claws give testament to the shuffling of the
 young dragons that have torn up what little grass once grew in this corner
 of the bowl. Tucked in between the feeding pens to the south and the curve
 of the Weyrleader's complex, the training grounds are home to daily
 exercises and classes, all taking place well out of the way of the hectic
 bustle of the rest of the bowl. Cut deep into the cliff face, the large,
 covered openings leading into the extensive weyrling barracks rise high
 over the heads of any who come near, although the height of the caldera's
 spindles far above cast their own reaching shadows across the hard packed
 earth.
  It is an autumn before dawn.  The tip of your nose feels cold in the
 early dawn. The sky is dark, clouds hiding the stars and moons, trying to
 keep the sun from emerging over the horizon.
Soaring high overhead are Satyr, Shugogetten, and Harme.
Green Zaqith and green Niamhyth are here.
Obvious exits:
Weyrling Barracks     Northern Bowl     Corrals

Chanticoth holds his wings and tail high, careful not to trip as he
 shuffles in from the Weyrling Barracks.

Above, Dsalth loops in from above the feeding pens.

Above, Dsalth drops towards the ground.

Dsalth glides in from above.

Dsalth
Restrained strands of sorrel and khaki overlap the lithe body of this
 dragon in a regimental pattern undermined by escaping tendrils of amber.
 Near enough in shade to blend with the design, they curl against it,
 flickering against the sharp line of his jaw before escaping down the
 geometric line of his neckridges. Ancient pale primrose -- the hue of
 old, forgotten books - curls down his spine in a uniformed march towards
 the similarly stained wingbones. Heavy ginger drapes, wing membrane made
 more substantial by its darkness, an abandoned blazer carefully hung from
 the long length of his wings. Mustard floats over his tail, musty mist
 lifting towards haunches reinforced by the strength of rusty iron.
Thick leather straps, fastidiously cared for wrap around Dsalth's neck,
 well worn and supple. Their deep chesnut colour appears almost part of the
 dragon's body, for they fit so snugly against his hide. Buckles, shiney
 and meticulously polished reflect the sun's rays, or the moon's mysterious
 hues while flaxen stiches are sewn firmly along the strap's length suiting
 practicality rather than decoration. 
Positioned between the precise lines of Dsalth's neckridges are Khalila and
 P'rru.
Loaded onto Dsalth is Pot of Leather Oil.
Dsalth is 22 Turns, 8 months, and 7 days old.
He is 64 feet (19m) long, with a wingspan of 106 feet (32m).
Dsalth seems to be listening.

Chanticoth senses Dsalth looking at him.

"....And that's the white kitten constellation," A voice, soft yet loud
 enough to be carried across the bowl, giggles briefly. "Yes, I know it
 doesn't look like a feline, but the Starcrafters are the ones who.." The
 voice trails off as a brown dragon arrives, and the brownling pair blink.
 Chanticoth bugles softly at Dsalth, voice tinkling, jet shy, while his
 lifemate waves to the rider perched 'twixt the ridges. "Hello!" Ilare
 calls.

Dsalth lands with immaculate precision, wide rosewood head swinging gently
 towards the brownlings. Funnily enough, instead of snorting reproval, the
 brown dragon whuffles a musky breath towards the pair. P'rru eases off a
 shoulder, feet thumping in the dust. "Tilar...no, no you've changed your
 name.." with a frown, he paces over, fingers scratching his chin...what
 was that name?

Dsalth watches with interest as P'rru descends carefully

Ilare giggles, nodding, making no effrt to move from where she's sat
 crosslegged by her bebe brown, who's grown, don'tcha know? She's just
 soooo prroud! "It's Ilare now," she supplies, moving one arm to drape
 over the shoulders of Chanticoth, currently lain out beside her like a
 sphinx. Tail curls about her, wrapping about her other arm. Mineminemine.

P'rru chuckles and croses those last few steps between himself and the
 pair. "Well Ilare, Dsalth tells me his name is Chanticoth," now the
 brownrider smiles, a faint recollection of his own Impression. "So how
 fare you today, Chanticoth? Dsalth was musing about visiting the feeding
 pens... Won't be long until you've past that luxury of being hand fed."

Chanticoth blinks, and rumbles lighty; a welcoming noise, not a purr or a
 croon, but both combined. "He says he is well, thank you." Manner? Yup,
 both have 'em.. Well, he's picking them up from Ilare.. "How is Dsalth? He
 is looking well.." She strokes the soft hide of Chanticoth's neck
 absently, still caught in the whirlwind that is Impressing a dragon, 
 still secretly half-afraid it is but a dream..

Dsalth pads around the training grounds, sniffing this or that. Not a care
 really for this new brownling and his lifemate anymore. P'rru rolls his
 eyes "He's rather bored, you see...no more candidates around to help scrub
 his leathery hide" at this wry comment, Dsalth faps his tail in the dust,
 showering his rider with dirt. After a brief coughing fit, and a silent
 unheard reprimand, the rider continues "He's a lovely shade, rather..."
 peering, he offers his hand to Chanticoth.

Ilare smiles, covering her face as the shower of dust and dirt flies her
 way too. Brownling coughs a bit, and the brown dragonet shuts two out of
 three lids to stop getting dirt in his eyes. Whoo.. "Thank you," a
 brillant smile is flashed at P'rru before being lovingly turned upon her
 lifemate. "He's more than I possibly could have dreamed.." Chanticoth
 nuzzles the cheek of his weyrmate and bestest bestest friend before
 extending his nose to touch the hand being offered in greeting. 
 *Whuffle!* 

P'rru chuckles, bobbing down to squat on his knees. Dsalth's interest still
 isn't perked...there's a bunny in front of him playing hard to catch.
 "Wait till your my age, lass, and you'll sometimes wish your brown 'baby'
 could behave himself every once in awhile" harsh words, if they weren't
 said with a grin and a wink. "How are you adjusting to weyrling hood?
 I'll admit Chanticoth is the first of the clutch I've properly met.." his
 hand smooths gently up the brown's muzzle. "I'd forgotten Dsalth was once
 ever this small..." oy, he might start reminiscing...run and cover?

Chanticoth tilts his head, eyes whirling beneath the lids in colours, and
 Ilare zones out a moment, eyes glowing gold. "He says he likes you - you
 aren't the first non-clutch member he's met, but you are not Zephyr."
 Direct from dragon brain to human lips. It may not make much sense, but
 *hee* that's Ilare and Chanti for you. Eyes blink, settling back to their
 usual amber, and a giggle escapes the weyrling. "Oh, it's good. All good.
 Even if Chanti here likes to have me up at the worst dawn hours.."
 Affection coats her voice, and a head shake is given. "It's...
 interesting. An experience, to be sure."

P'rru shifts, sitting indian style, long legs awkwardly holding him upright
 somehow. "Oh, well thank you ever so much for the recomendation,
 Chanticoth" another foolish grin, and the rider snorts. "I lucked out,
 that lug over there could sleep all day" he adds, a glance thrown over
 leather clad shoulder to his lifemate, pawing at the poor rabbit. "The
 browns clutched were marvelous, I'll admit" of course, brownrider he is
 and terribly biased. "Dsalth tells me that for a 'reaches clutch, it
 wasn't bad" And now that lughead comes marching over, muzzle poked right
 in Ilare's face. *puff* Call it a sign of affection.

Ilare smiles, and winks as Chanticoth burbles softly, eyes spinning swiftly
 before settling into a cooler blue shade. "Oh, this clutch had some fine
 dragons in it, but he's is simply the best of the bunch." Biased, much?
 Well, she'd thought so even before he'd decided she was the One for him,
 so she can't possibly have THAT bad judgement, eh? Before she can say
 more, a bigger - huge, even - brown nose comes muzzle-to-face with her
 and she umms. "Uh, hello Dsalth." *patpat* A sign of her affection is
 tapped lightly on his nose, while Chanticoth gapes upwards in awe.
 Oooooo...

Dsalth arranges himself behind his lifemate, casting quite a shadow over
 the group. Hmph. Elbowing the forepaw edged against his back P'rru blushes
 slightly "He's clammouring for my attention...seems he's got a terrible
 hunger" once more, brownrider rolls his eyes as Dsalth drops the tip of
 his muzzle on his shoulder. Hint, hint? Nah. "The bronzes were a good
 size, and it's a fine sign that Pyrene's gold clutched soon after... busy
 sands eh" trying ever so hard to ignore that snout on his shoulder, P'rru
 blinks back at the weyrlingpair.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he's eyes whirl, as he stares at the bigger
 brown dragon. << You are big! >> Well, he's a bit lost for words right
 now. Give him a moment, and I'm sure he'll find his bearings.

Above, Kelitath glides in from the central bowl.

Above, Kelitath drops towards the ground.

Kelitath glides in from above.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Dsalth stares down at the young brown, eyes
 inspecting every curve and shoulder. <<Of course>> the words swirl
 matter-of-factly <<You will grow fast, and learn new things everyday>>
 voice trails away in a nary whisper.

Mhari slides from Kelitath's neck and lands gently on the ground.

Ilare giggles. It appears that dragons, no matter what age theey are, need
 their two legged humans to feed them. Not necessarily by hand, bt they'd
 best be there. "A very good sign indeed." She agrees, before blinking at
 the arrival of yet another dragon. Gee, lookit, we're attracting a crowd!

P'rru follows Ilare's gaze, hand raised in stif wave to the greenrider.
 Dsalth supplies the name of one half of the pair at least. "How fare you
 and Kelitath today?" his smooth voice rings out, brown lifemate whuffling
 in apparent greeting to the newcomers.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he is awed, so he is. Yus. Muchly. << Good
 morning, >> is flickered like sparks from a fire in Kelitath's direction,
 before Dsalth is stared up at again. Coo.. << I have already grown, >> he
 points out, see? He's MUCH bigger than he was yesterday.

Mhari isn't the type of crowd you want to attract.  In fact, she should be
 shut up somewhere safe.  Kelitath is sidling away as soon as her rider's
 hit the ground, patently ignoring hte males.  Irritating creatures.
 Mhari, however, is quite a different matter.  High Reaches' most proper
 greenrider might usually hide her curves under several layers of clothing,
 but not so today.  Hips swing slowly as she makes her way over to the
 other riders, slow smile coy.  "Morning."  It's a purr.

Purr? And what's with the hip-swing? Ilare gives a nod, arm still across
 the back of the bebe brown present, who stares at this new rider now, eyes
 whirling. Eyes unfocus briefly, before she shakes her head at Chanticoth.
 "I wouldn't know," is the spoken reply, before she glancces at P'rru and
 back to Mharie. Thank Faranth Chanti's far too young to be affected... she
 hopes. "Good Morning..."

G'deon quietly strides in from the Weyrling Barracks.

Nylanth carefully and as silently as possible tramps in from the Weyrling
 Barracks.

G'deon
G'deon appears at first glance to be quite calm and collected, though a
 mischievous gleam seems to tint his baby blue eyes from time to time.  He
 shows signs of growing into what is now a somewhat lanky build, standing
 at 5' 11'', but many Turns of hard work have helped his shoulders to fill
 out considerably, along with his arms and hands.  His legs however are
 still the wiry limbs of his youth, which he'll probably never lose.  His
 sandy blond hair is kept quite clean but seems to have been forgotten
 lately, small tufts beginning to grow past his ears, managing to look a
 bit tousled at times.  The calmness of his eyes makes up for that,
 however, clear and blue as the summer sky over High Reaches.
Sturdy black boots, darker than deepest night, give way to rather thick,
 close-fitting black trousers which are dotted at various areas and heights
 with pockets.  From there is found a thick, black, wherhide belt cinched
 tightly at the waist, holding a rather tight royal blue shirt in place. 
 The shirt is a bit coarse but appears warm.  The rather loose sleeves fall
 to the wrists in modest bellows, tied firmly at the cuffs, and the collar
 comes together in a V-shape below neck, tied firmly together with cords
 like those at his wrists.
Unwavering shadows intertwine with the deep dark blue of glaciers, the two
 cords forming a single loop.  Mingling with the cords is a fine ribbon of
 shimmering bronze, naming G'deon as a bronze junior weyrling of High
 Reaches.
He is awake and looks alert.
G'deon is 20 Turns, 2 months, and 6 days old.

Nylanth
The torrent of darkness that blacks this dragon's claret hide rides his
 lean, broad-shouldered frame as a cascade of shadows.  However dark that
 jeweled hide twinkles -- oh how it fits with never a wrinkle, that darkly
 gleaming skin -- his dashing, darkling glory is offset by those moonlit
 galleon's sails.  Doe-skin brown may soften his hindquarters, but it is
 bronze that crinkles bright at his ale-laced throat, clatters down the
 gallop of neckridges steeling his spine and dashes madly along the rapier
 length of his tail. His eyes -- bright, like the moon at midnight -- eyes
 like the stroke of midnight, gleam with a robber's gaze.
Nylanth is 1 month and 24 days old.
He is 13 feet (4m) long, with a wingspan of 21 feet (6m).
Nylanth seems to be listening.

You notice G'deon looking at you.

P'rru has disconnected.
P'rru falls asleep.

Chanticoth senses G'deon looking at him.

Mhari pauses, gaze running thoughtfully over older rider, and onto the
 weyrlings, lips curving slowly to a large smile as G'deon emerges.  Aah,
 another one.  Lovely.  "Good morning, weyrling," comes the first sally.
 Harmless ebnough. Give her time.  "Keeping you busy, are they?"  This is
 directed to both the recently impressed, as one slender hand goes back to
 rest upon Kelitath's haunch, halting hte green as she sidles away.

The housekeeper arrives to cart P'rru off to bed.

G'deon emmerges slowly with his bronze lifemate close behind.  Both yawn
 almost simulaneously, G'deon stretching his arms high over head.  He nods
 to Ilare, then grins at Mhari.  With a slight shiver he glances about. 
 "You two are up early."

Primavera glides in from the Weyrling Barracks.

Ilare gives a nod, even as she suppresses giggles at comments heard only in
 her head. "Yes, they are, ma'am." She knowws not this rider, or her dragon
 - until Chanticoth supplies her brain with it. "It's hard work but worth
 it.." Brownling smiles upon her lifemate, who swings his head back about
 to nuzzle her happily. "How are you, and Kelitath?" Head glances over the
 muzzle of Chanticoth before she giggles at G'deon. "Chanticoth wanted to
 see the stars. I'm not Starcrafter, but I do know some constellations.."  

Kelitath
Haunting sea-green ripples across her neck, surging in tempestuous waves up
 winsomely refined 'ridges and spilling over her withers in a froth that
 swirls its decadent way down the spine of this devilish little dragon. Her
 head is that of an elegant sybarite, compact and svelte but highlighted
 along the jawline with a shimmering smidgen of brass that's echoed in the
 barest hint of flames licking her slender chest. Sleek but petite, her
 lithesome form is cloaked in luminous sage dapples that creep up from
 arrogantly sharp talons and trim belly until velvety moss peeps through to
 darken her rump. Malachite fades in through slim shoulders, the sumptuous
 color fanning across gossamer thin 'sails where skeins of coppery bronze
 are tangled embroidery against wine-red stains. Intricately braided
 filaments twist and turn about her tail, scintillating metallic hues
 reflecting -- refracting -- light in a maze of mesmerising mirrors.
Meticulously stitched jade green straps wind their way around Kelitath's
 slender form, painstakingly perfect rows of pale yellow stitches holding
 them together. Formed to be adjustable, they will allow the clutch's
 smallest dragon to grow within them. 
Kelitath is 5 Turns, 2 months, and 24 days old.
She is 42 feet (12m) long, with a wingspan of 70 feet (21m).
Kelitath seems to be listening.

Mhari
Crinkly masses of blonde hair are pulled back into a rough knot at the base
 of Mhari's neck, an elegant, long fingered hand habitually going up to
 brush away an errant curl. Her skin is tanned, and freckles are liberally
 scattered across a slightly snub nose. Two splashes of bright blue are her
 eyes, cheerfully inspecting all around her with interest. Her figure is
 lithe and slender, and perhaps starting to develop, although if she
 notices, she doesn't admit it.
Crimson wherhide encompasses Mhari in sleek brilliance, a close-fitting
 jacket of eye-catching fire. Soft fleece in contrasting cream peeks out
 from the high collar, the lining made especially warm for High Reaches'
 winters and the long colder void of ::between::. Orange and gold flames
 lick up the long sleeves in tasteful embroidery: neither too flamboyant
 nor overly subtle, they match the flames which flicker over the Inferno
 Wing badge as well as the embroidered emblem on jacket's back, an exact
 replica of the wing's chevron shaped insignia which rides high and proud
 on one crimson shoulder. Fitted black wherhide trous tuck neatly into
 knee high fleece lined black boots, completing the outfit.  Perched on
 Mhari's shoulder is Chewy.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 3 minutes.
Carrying:
 Chewy                                  Inferno Wing Badge
Mhari is 23 Turns, 3 months, and 4 days old.

From Atop Niamhyth's mint splashed 'ridges Lyri wakes up.

"We're well.  I am, at any rate.  I'm absolutely marvellous.  Keli's a
 little grumpy, aren't you love?"  The last is cooed to the green, who
 contents herself with a disgusted look aimed at her rider, before turning
 her head away once more.  "I'm sure it's just early morning crankiness. 
 The stars, though?  They're lovely, here, aren't they?  So crisp, so easy
 to see.  So different, too, to those at Ista."  She glides easily from one
 comment to another, hands waved to punctuate.  No dawn bleariness here,
 just hips tilted just so, and a coquettish smile.

G'deon smiles softly as he watches Mhari, then glances at Ilare, then up
 towards the stars.  "It's a bit cloudy, but aye, it's quite beautiful," he
 comments idly as eyes search out his lifemate.  "Now, Nylanth, you
 probably won't be able to fly that high."
 
Ilare raises an eyebrow, not sure how stars can possibly be different - she
 really ISN'T a starcrafter  - but a grin is tilted at G'deon, before smile
 is sent at her lifemate. "Indeed." Who she's talking to isn't clear, but
 it answers all questions, neh? Hand pushes forelock from her eyes, braid
 swinging a little, before she supresses a shiver. "It's a bit chilly..."
 Blinking, she rolls her eyes. "Maybe not to you, Chanti, but to me it is."

Mhari pouts a little.  Nobody's wiggling back at her.  She pouts well, so
 perhaps that will work.  A "A little chilly?  Are you joking>?  This place
 is freezing w even when the sun shines.  I'll never, ever get used to it." 
 A delicate shiver, and her arms are wrapped around herself.

"You're from Ista then?" G'deon asks the greenrider curiously as Nylanth
 buts his little... well, not all that little, bronzen head against his
 shoulder.  The weyrling turns to him and just grins.  "I don't know, Ny."

Ilare gives a smile of sympathy. "It IS cold - I'm from Ista Weyr
 originally, so I know how you feel.." Chanticoth nudges the seated
 brownling, and she grins. "Told you," she replies simply, ignoring the
 pout. She's imune..

"What don't you know?" comes the quick question, Mhari's glance almost
 suspicious.  G'deon is eyed for a long moment, brows drawn together in a 
 slight frown, before the frown melts into a smile, and she continues. 
 "Ista Weyr?  I lived there.  Cooked, actully.  I'm from a tiny little
 cothold about a day's ride out, but I was at the weyr for a long time
 before I came here.  I still visit a lot, I've family."  G'deon gets the
 benefit of her smiles now.  Ilare's not reacting satisfactorily at all.

Ilare blinks, then giggles. "I was a baker.. briefly. But I wasn't very
 good..." Chanticoth croons, and her expression melts. "Thank you Chanti.."
 What ever has been said passes between them and earns the brown a cuddle.
 "So, how's Nylanth today G'deon?"

G'deon grins as he leans on Nylanth's shoulder slightly, his head tilted
 slightly.  "Well, now we know," he replies.  "It's good to keep in contact
 with family if possible..."  He turns to Ilare after a brief moment, then
 suddenly flashes one of his very best smiles.  "Fantastic... just
 fantastic.  How are you and Chanticoth?"

Ilare can now keep in contact with her father always. Dragon to dragon
 'phone' lines are just wonderful! "He and I are both well, thanks. He's
 just seems to keep on growing!" Not that she minds, of course. Is he not
 just the most beeeeuooootiful brown in the whole entire world?

Mhari has disconnected.
Mhari falls asleep.

G'deon grins at Ilare and nods.  "I understand that one," he replies
 reaching up to rub Nylanth's not-so-tiny headknobs again.  "Won't be long
 before they're too big to hug," he comments, then shoots a look at Ilare,
 a fainth blush creeping into his cheeks.  He shrugs it off however and
 slowly puts his arms around Nylanth's neck for a moment, his face against
 his dragon's spicy hide.

Ilare gives a grin at that, hugging the big brown head to her as Chanticoth
 cries a denial in her mind. "Oh, I don't know about that. I think he will
 always be huggable. I'll hug just his nose if I have to." Croooooon!
 Luvluvluvluv... The adoring brown manages to block any view of G'deon's
 face, so the blush goes unnoticed. Well, not by Chanti. Just by Ilare.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he blinks, nuzzling his lifemate, before
 gently prodding a tendril of flame red amusement at Nylanth. << Your human
 has gone red. Why? >> Oh, the things dragons want to know..

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Nylanth cranes his neck slowly to glance at
 G'deon, a puzzled array of dark navy and midnight black mingling with
 moonlit clouds.  << I am not sure... it does not happen often.  Perhaps he
 is sick >> comes the suddenly worried response.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he blinks at that, turning hiss head away
 from his lifemate to peer at the bronzling pair. << Sick? >> That's not
 good! 

G'deon laughs softly and reaches up to pull the bronzeling's head towards
 his own.  "I'm not sick silly," he says, almost confidentially.  "Just...
 caught off-guard."

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Nylanth thinks << But G'deon, that also is
 not good.  When we fly... >>

Ilare blinks at the alarm in her lifemate's mind, stroking him gently.
 "Chanti? What's wrong?" A moment of silence, before she focuses on G'deon.
 "Sick? You okay?" Her dragon relays what he 'hears' to her, and she nods.
 "Exactly. You sure you're okay?" 

"We're not flying yet, are we?" G'deon replies to yet another comment and
 glances at Ilare, the red fading to just a shadow of pink.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he rumbles faintly, head tilting. << He is
 pink now! What would make him change colour? >> This iss directed at both
 Nylanth AND Ilare.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Niamhyth sends a puff of pine on a rather
 crackly ribbon of golden red.  <<It's called embarassment.>> Blunt, isn't
 she?

Ilare gives a shrug, a raised eyebrow and a grin. "I don't know, Chan. Why
 would G'deon be embarrassed?" 

G'deon shoots a guarded look at Ilare, then looks back at Nylanth who
 simply shifts, whirling eyes intent on his own weyrling.  "I'm not...
 embarassed really.  I just...."  A frustrated sigh escapes the young man
 before he smiles at Ilare, the pink finally fading into his normal tan. 
 "Men aren't supposed to talk about hugging... even their dragons."

Ilare stares at G'deon a long moment, before she starts to.. well.. laugh.
 Not supposed to.. since when? What? Why? "That," she giggles, "Is the
 silliest thing I've ever heard." 

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Nylanth sends soothing golden drops through
 the dark of night, the sun rising in the distance.  << It is alright,
 G'deon, you can still hug me >>  A long pause, then spirals of amused
 red... << None of us stay small forever.  >>

G'deon stares back at Ilare for a long moment, but the ends of his mouth
 keep quirking upwards.  "Well... it's..." he sighs and shrugs.  "You know
 what, you're right."

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he echoes his lifemate's amusment, the
 spinning spirals and swirls of gold glowing against the red. << Hugging?
 Why is that embarrassing? My lifemate hugs me all the time... >> And he
 will NEVER grow too big for a cuddle. EVER. 

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Niamhyth attempts to be soothing, though
 humor oozes through every word.  <<He may hug me as well, if he likes.>> 
 Oh bad, bad green. If she weren't slightly glowy, she /could/ be accused
 of teasing.  

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Nylanth thinks << Who?  Chanticoth, G'deon
 or me? >>

"Oh course I am," is the totally modest reply, as the brown weyrling pushes
 herself to her feet, Chanticoth rising up beside her. Ilare flips her
 braid over her shoulder, ignoring as Chanti tugs playfully on it. 

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Niamhyth is even more amused, but she's
 trying to hide it.  <<Yes.>>

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he doesn't get it.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Nylanth turns bluegreen eyes toward
 Niamhyth, then towards G'deon.  << He says not for a long time, Niamhyth.
 That he's the only one who will hug me for a long time. >>

G'deon sighs as he glances up at Nylanth, an amused grin on his face. 
 "Alright, that's enough, youn'un.  We can't have everyone knowing they
 have a silly wherry for a weyrling."

<Local> Chanticoth senses that Niamhyth sends a comforting wave of blue and
 green.  <<It's alright, you won't until you are older.>>  Then, perhaps,
 he will understand. <<Hugs are good. I get hugs occasionally.>>   Even if
 her rider is too tough to give them out in public.  <<Hugs are good for
 everyone.>> Apparently, she's been hanging out with Auri.

<Local> Chanticoth senses that he blinks, and nods faintly. << Ilare echoes
 you. But no one will tell me what it is I'm too young to understand. >> He
 sounds a tad put out by this. << And hugs a always good. Ilare gives the
 best hugs.. >>

Ilare chuckles. "Nah, you're not silly." Well, he is, but she can't say
 that in front of everyone. Besides, ALL smiths are silly. Chanticoth
 croons, and a hug is lovingly given, quite unashamedly.

G'deon goes home.
Nylanth carefully and as silently as possible tramps to the Weyrling
 Barracks.