Ilare - Wednesday, January 10, 2001, 16:35 PM --------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 a winter midmorning. The sun ascends higher, trying to warm the land, but the air is still cool, and the clouds are thickening to the north. Soaring high overhead are Shugogetten, Ripper, and Harme. Blue Lainnoth and brown Chanticoth are here. Nylanth carefully and as silently as possible tramps in from the Weyrling Barracks. G'deon slides from Nylanth's neck and lands gently on the ground. You notice G'deon looking at you. Chanticoth senses G'deon looking at him. 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. A well-oiled pair of riding straps are fastened to Nylanth's neck. The straps are doubled over to allow for growth, and dyed alternatively in cromcoal black and midnight blue, offset by gleaming silver buckles that twinkle in the light. Nylanth is 9 months and 10 days old. He is 48 feet (14m) long, with a wingspan of 80 feet (24m). Nylanth seems to be listening. 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 promising signs of growing into what is still a somewhat lanky build, standing less than an inch under six feet, 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 never lose. His sandy blond hair is kept quite clean and is beginning to grow out noticeably, locks of hair curling well past his ears and to his shoulders, 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, 5 months, and 27 days old. G'deon carefully climbs down from Nylanth's neck, then waves to Ilare and Chanticoth. "Good morning!" he calls out as he quickly loosens the buckles on his dragon's riding straps. Ilare leans against her dragon's shoulder, forming something in her hands made of snow. Thoughtfully, she examines it, before glancing at Chanticoth and giggling. "No no, no snow boulders. Maybe later. You could help me build a snow dragon." Let him puzzle that out for a while.. Nylanth is noticed, and G'deon waved to, before she returns to making a perfectly shaped snowball. "Good morning, G'deon. How are you and Nylanth today?" "Fine, fine," G'deon answers brightly, grinning at the other weyrling pair. "There's always plenty to do, which is good if you ask me. How are you and Chanticoth?" Above, Niamhyth loop-de-loops in from the Northern part of the bowl. Above, Niamhyth drops towards the ground. Niamhyth glides in from above. Lyri slides from Niamhyth's neck and lands gently on the ground. Ilare giggles, looking away from her snowball. Chanticoth rumbles a greeting. "We're both well, thank you. Been doing a lot of wing stretches and such, practicing flying," she pauses, then.. "Don't annoy Luxonth's rider, D'argo. He has a very short temper." Lyri A slight girl, barely reaching 5'8, with short, ebony tresses that have been allowed to grow out to just above her ears which, oddly enough, are a rather lovely shade of purple. Her jade green eyes are her most noticeable feature, looking out from under long, thick, lashes. High arching eyebrows stand out against skin tanned to a yellow brown that has been stained a deep plum while soft, ruby lips curve gently. A small, upturned nose compliments her angular chin (making the soft lavender of that area stand out nicely), which is often tilted defiantly and gives her a rather impish look. Farther down, her frame, while rather frail in appearance, does carry the curves that show her to be female, though little else about her presence would indicate it, in fact, her newly aquired coloration would make her look more like some dimented weaver's creation. Her arms are a bit long with tapering fingers and rather short nails and her legs seem to be a bit much for her to control. Bright hues of deep forest green fold and crease their way down the wherhide riding jacket, ending at midthigh. Soft undercolorings of light brown and tan play just beneath the jungle of colors, culminating in a rich mixture over the snug fitting hood. Soft fur lines the jacket, peeking out at the cuffs and hemlines, a much needed protection from the cold of ::between::. A wide belt circles her waist, shifting in color from emerald to jungle in smooth fluid motion; small metal loops dot the belt, ready for straps or gear. 'Emerald riding pants fit her loosely, while her gloves fit tighter, but still allow the free range of movement. Rich emerald boots round out the ensemble, lacing up the sides to her knees. Perched on Lyri's shoulder is Cyclone. Twined cords of blue and black twisted with a strand of green identify her as a wingrider and AWLM of High Reaches Weyr. She is awake and looks alert. Lyri is 20 Turns, 7 months, and 8 days old. Lyri glances over at G'deon, frowning slightly. "You, Nylanth's aren't you? Have him step forward for a flight. I want to see how those excersizes have been going." Stern look.. oooh, run. G'deon nods slowly to Ilare, a slight smile on his face. "I'll try to remember that," he replies, then turns to wave at Lyri and Niamhyth before a strange look crosses his face. "Flight? Oh, sure," he responds. Nylanth shuffles forward a few steps. Ilare grins faintly, even as Chanticoth warbles a faint greeting to Niamhyth. Staying by her dragon's shoulder, she continues her snowball making process, while watching the flight. And trying to not giggle at Lyri's.... purple.. skin. Niamhyth moves out of the way and, for visual demonstration, performs her own instructions. Room is made for the young bronze to take his own place in the air and a bugle of encouragement given; see? Anyone can do it. Nylanth ambles over to one side of the training grounds, then after a curious glance at his rider, the bronze begins running, picking up a bit of speed before his outstretched wings take their first down beat... then another, and one more. The morning sun glints off his wings as he glides the rest of the way . Ilare watches Nylanth take flight, pleasure diffusing her features. "He flies well, G'deon," she compliments, even as Chanticoth nudges her shoulder, and she shakes her head. He's already flown this morn. Lyri nods her own agreement, with seeming reluctance. "Very well. Though it's the landing that's always the hard part.. can't really practice for that until you get a chance to /do/ it." Chanticoth senses that Nylanth thinks << That feels good, can I do it again? >> Chanticoth senses that Niamhyth sends out a warm band of amused blue-green. <> G'deon nods to Lyri as he smiles faintly, pride flashing in his eyes as he watches his lifemate. "Yes, I suppose so." Chanticoth senses that he gives his fellow clutchmate an encouraging spiral of blue-green. << You fly well! Far better than I did the first time. >> An image of Chanti going face first in the snow on landing is shared, tinged with good humour. << I am much better at it now. >> Nylanth turns slowly, his wings folded in once, then stretched out once more as he begins to run again. This time however, just before the first downsweep of his wings, his front leg skids a bit in a pile of snow. Luckily his wings are more than capable of keeping his nose from shoveling into another mound of snow. With a couple more beats of his wings he climbs a bit higher than the first time, then glides over towards the small group, stopping just in front of G'deon. Ilare smiles at that, curious to see just how well he'll land: she rubs her brown's shoulder comfortingly as he pictures his own mishaps the first time. "Dsalth said you had improved muchly, hun - don't worry about it." she sooths. Lyri nods to G'deon. "Alright, fine show he puts on." There's a note of wry humor in her voice for some reason. "You're cleared to have him fly anywhere /within/ the weyr, no going out. I don't have to tell you what kind of punishment would be given out if you try to fly with him.. and we /would/ find out." Chanticoth senses that Nylanth seems to pause mentally as his bronzen head turns back towards the direction he'd just come from. << I forgot about the snow... >> Chanticoth senses Niamhyth sends out a tickling tendril of whispy mint scented smoke. <> to him. G'deon sends Lyri a rather dashing smile and nods. "Aye, stay in the weyr, got it." He then grins at Ilare and Chanti and winks. "As long as we can fly now, I'm happy." Chanticoth senses that Niamhyth sends a shower of sparkles out along her mindvoice. <> The word 'experience' is followed by images of her rider being knocked into several snow banks. <> Snicker. Lyri chuckles. "Right.. but they'll get to hunt next." Chanticoth thinks to you, << I bespoke Niamhyth with: Chanticoth extends warm flickers of thanks to you, flattered and pleased at the praise. to her. >> Lyri walks to the Weyrling Barracks. Ilare gives a laugh at G'deon's eager tone. "I agree. As does Chanticoth." And did Lyri say.. "Hunting? That will be.. interesting." Nylanth goes home. G'deon goes home. ====================== End Log ======================