This is a log of roleplay from Virtuapern and is provided for the benefit ofplayers who participated or were unable to attend.
[note: Character descriptions are listed at the end of the log to make foreasier reading]
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath backwings and touches down lightly.
FabrinathForest's raging fire drenches golden hide with rippling flame, red highlights hazing against the sun and thickened air. A lacework of amber sparks intertwine with cooling platinum, dancing in delicate swirls and weaves; heated to burning and then cooled to perfection, broad, wide wings spread out like polished shields: beacons in the sunlight; darker, burnished talons click against the stone ground. A bit stockier than classic, yet she bristles with health and strength, sinuous tail a golden lash that mirrors her moods. Intelligence and humor leap from high-set, immensely faceted eyes, mischievious tendencies betrayed in their depths.Fabrinath is 29 turns 5 months and 14 days old.
Keiden walks up the stairs from the Hatching Grounds' tunnel.
[-XanaWGH-] Lyllya walks in from the entry hall.[-XanaWGH-] Sabria sways in from the entry hall.
[-XanaWGH-] Sabria rushes through the hall, aiming for the back hallway, muttering under her breath. "She could have given a little more warning!" the weyrwoman growls. Her eyes flick around the hall, wondering where that darn bronze rider from Fort had gone. "Great! Just sharding wonderful! Fabrinath's fit to burst and he's no where to be found!"
[-XanaWGH-] Sabria has left.
From the Hatching Sands, Sabria heads out from the main ground tunnelentrance to the Sands.
[-XanaWGH-] Celina smiles softly. "I miss it frequently, actually," the short woman says, shifting her position in the window. "I have to agree with you, though, his version of klah WOULD peel the paint of the walls." She grimaces, and then eyes the wine. "What vintage?" she asks of Tarias. She drinks wine, honest. Siryn peeks out silently as two new people enterthe hall, and chirps, hiding again at the angry tones.
[-XanaWGH-] Lyllya makes her way in, looking about with a bit of a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Hrm.." After a moment's hesitation at seeing the small crowd, she manages to speek up. "I'm looking for A...." The exiting goldrider's words stop anything she might have said and, for a moment, she's left standing there, blinking numbly. "Huh?" Now there is true genius.
[-XanaWGH-] Murkat walks in from the entry hall.
Elisa actually tends to retreat here because who in their right mind would look for a goldrider on the Sands when her dragon isn't in clutch? Then again, this is Xanadu Weyr. Whoever claimed /any/ resident here is in their right mind?
Yi-Shien just changed the party! Type @party to check it out! Fabrinath's starting to scour the sands! Come watch the clutching, just @move me to #248 and watch the festivities!-- Yi-Shien at Fri Mar 9 02:31:50 2001 CET
Typhon walks in.
[-XanaWGH-] Karasa nods her silent agreement with Lasarah. Simkus would indeed peel paint from the walls. Maybe we should give him a call when we need paint to be peeled, hm? Klah is sipped and the paged turned and suddenly she spies Murkat entering the hall. "Murkat!" she squeals excitedly, calling out his name. "I'm glad to see you again!"
Mhairi walks in.
[-XanaWGH-] Karasa sends Zelphyn winging off her shoulder.
Linden walks in.
Zelphyn has arrived.
[-XanaWGH-] Lasarah glances up at Sabria's words. "Fit to burst? Fabrinath's fit to burst?" She actually sets down her precious klah, striding towards the door. "I'm going to watch, aren't you? Not every day, you get to see a gold dragon clutch!"
Mhairi walks slowly up the stairs, one hand on her back and she smiles "Elisa, room for me there?" she says a bit breathlessly. She shakes her head "I did not know that was such a walk up here." She grins as she crosses the galleries towards her clutch sister.
Lasarah walks in.Murkat walks in.Aniy walks in.
[-XanaWGH-] Lyllya blinks. "Watch?" Lasarah is given a questioning look. "Oh.. you mean eggs.." Again. Duh. And, so, the weaver follows the crowd, curiosity moving her along.[-XanaWGH-] Lyllya exits the room for the smaller entry hall.
Elisa nods and looks chagrined. So much for her escape. "Aye, plenty so far." She pats the place next to her. "Hurry, it'll fill up fast."
[-XanaWGH-] Celina blinks. "She's clutching? I'd like to see that," she says, standing up and walking past Tarias. "Bring the wine, Tarias," she calls out behind her, hurrying to watch.
K'les comes down from the viewing ledge.
[-XanaWGH-] Celina exits the room for the smaller entry hall.
[-XanaWGH-] Tarias arches his eyebrow, intrigued even by a question from a herder about wine. "You drink do you?" he asks, and between coneisseurs of wine it's a question that doesn't need to be explained. He notices Murkat from the other day enter the hall, but doesn't pay too much attention to the goings on from the riders. Down at Igen Sea in fact rider's aren't see too often except when something heavy needs moving. "A gold is clutching?" he adds curisously to Celina.
Celina walks in.Karasa walks in.Karasa picks up Zelphyn.
[-XanaWGH-] Tarias walks out.
Tarias walks in.
Mhairi smiles and slips into the seat next to Elisa, her breath returning "Looks like they are filling up fast, well Fabrinath always liked a show I thought." She sighs softly and sits back, trying to find a comfortable spot. "I did not interrupt anything did I Elisa?"
Aniy coasts into the galleries, wind-blown and mildly breathless. No words spoken, the Fortian brownrider cautiously weave-slinks amidst crowds to pinpoint a decent seat.
Wahken walks in.
From the Hatching Sands, Sabria picks her way across the sands, hopping as the surface is hot, hot enough to almost burn. "Fabrinath? Are you sure it's your time now?" she asks her queen as she moves over to the large hulking dragon nosing around the cavern. The queen lifts her head and nudges the redhaired woman, warbling with impatience and then rumbles warningly at those starting to file into the galleries. "They're not going to bother you love, don't worry."
Karasa follows the Herder Master hurriedly, carting her study book and brown fire-lizard with her. She scoots through the hordes of gathered people and finds an empty seat somewhere in the crowds near Lasarah, eyes wide. "I've never seen a clutching before," she says to no one in particular.
Wilyn walks in.
Lyllya makes her way into the galleries, her hand going up to settle Rogue, who is currently hissing softly at the gathering crowd of unknowns. "Hush," the brown is ordered under her breath though, as usual, the order goes unheeded. "Oh well.. at least.." No. She's not going to talk to herself. A seat is taken and her gaze sent to the sands. "Oh my.."
Typhon warily settles into a seat, giving a nod to the other people there. He hopes T'on isn't anywhere around, with another sword. /This/ time the guard is going to be on his best behavior. Leaning forward slightly, he focuses his sharp eyes on the sands of the hatching ground.
Wahken slides in, finding barely any room left in the galleries. Talk about busy! But with fingers sweeping through ebon mop he shucks and shuffles into a gap, rather on the side and towards the back. And talk about the heat, beads of sweat already forming.
Meshach walks in.
Celina makes her way into the galleries, her small frame manuvering through the crowds with easy grace. She's seen clutchings before, oh, yes, even stood for one once, oh, so long ago. What an experience that was. She loves clutchings and hatchings, yes she does. Spying Lasarah she makes her way over to the woman, sitting down by her. "Have you ever seen clutchings before, Lasarah?" she asks curiously.
Lasarah trots up the stairs to the galleries, eyes already on the sands as she enters. She slides in along the wall, eyes moving from the figures on the sands to the figures in the stands. "Oh, Keiden," she smiles, a shy little wave sent his way, moving among the crowd to find an empty seat.
K'les strolls down the stairs, pulling off her riding gloves and jacket as she decends well into the tiers. "G'day! How are ya? "Excuse me..." K'les greets various folks as she picks her way down an aisle to take a seat behind Mhairi and Elisa.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath trudges out onto the cavern, her golden form reflecting the lights of the glows scattered throughout the large enclosure. Shifting restlessly and kicking up a swath of sand, she huffs softly before moving on, testing out a good patch of heated surface before crouching over it. Regally, she turns her jeweled gaze upon the people gathering up in the galleries, giving warning against coming closer, save for that of her rider. Straining, her sides ripple, her breath becoming labored from her exertion. Then there it is! The first egg, a large shiny thing of opalescent ruby that sags softly as the queen dragon curls up around it proudly.
Tarias sidles up to Celina, his already opened cask of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. Whispering to her so as not to get anyone else interested, he opens his pack and brings out a wineskin that looks like it's been around since Thread. "This my dear" he carresses the wineskin almost lovingly, "Is corked 38turns, I hope you like red". He uncorks the skin and lets the scent of sweetness and age waft into his nostrils.
From the Hatching Sands, Tragic Trapped in Roses EggFrom the Hatching Sands, Blood red and pure white roses vie for supremacy across the sleek shell of this ovoid, and yet there is graceful symmetry in their numbers. Soft, fragile petals hide sharp, deadly thorns, warnings to others not to take them too lightly. Hidden among the shadows and curled in a fetal position is a gentle hearted princess who would be a prince and beside her a trapped bride who wants to be a 'real girl'. Shadows drift again and the image is lost - or is it? What sacrifice will free them both from the tragedies that hold them in their thrall?
Galagidae walks in.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath stirs the sands again, and Sabria sighs in agreement with her lifemate's thoughts. "I know it's not as pretty as Bahrain's sands dearheart, what matters is that it's warm enough for your eggs, right?" Indeed, these sands lack the luster of the older grounds with the thousands of turns worth of hatched eggshells to add a layer of glitter. Time, of course, will remedy this. Time and thousands of eggs, Fabrinath is certainly attempting to add her share. She squirms and in quick succession, offers another three towards that number: luminescent blue, silver-speckled green, and a sunset touched orb that matches the desert sands of Igen. These are nestled next to the first and scooped-over with warm sand.
Eriol walks in.
From the Hatching Sands, Egyptian Prince EggFrom the Hatching Sands, Alabaster slicks its way across half of this oblong, its smooth white forbidding violation and pushing back the world outside. The hard sheen seems impervious to any invasion from without, but along the edges, the quiet interloper lurks: a mottled tan encroaches ever so slightly on the pale stone, sandstorms flinging their particles in a natural assault against the unnatural smoothness. On that side of the egg, a quiet chaos reigns; tiny flecks whirl in patterns undecipherable, and swirls of other colors mingle into the mix: a hint of sunset red, the cool blue of water, the hot yellow of the sun. Frozen into its instant of conflict, the contest seems inevitable: chaos will win, and alabaster walls will be abandoned.
Peydra walks in.
Elisa waggles fingers at K'les as she notices the other rider. "Looks like chaos comes to Xanadu." More than usual.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabby paws through an untouched mound of sand, sending unbiased sprinkles everywhere in her persuit of the next perfect spot. With a glance to rider and the clutch's sire, a duo of bright, moist eggs are laid in a shallow hollow. With a surprise grunt, a third egg is laid, which is quickly placed next to its siblings and covered with hot sand. Then restlessness precedes the inevitable contraction that strikes Xanadu's eldest queen as she lumbers off to dig another depository for her next child-to-be. Emitting a throaty moan, she positions herself above the shallow hole and bears down. One egg and then another follow in a quick succession before Fabrinath turns to study the pair. Satisfied, she covers both quickly.
From the Hatching Sands, Casper the Friendly EggieFrom the Hatching Sands, The opaquity of clean bleached linen coats this egg totally in white, with only the faintest traces of darkness sloshed across its surface in places. Two roughly circular patches and a rough line which follows the surface to curve lightly hint out the details of a face, a ghostly facade which is hollow and colorless. Somewhere in the barren smoothness, however, lurks a certain warmth and life, a charm which belies the distant harshness and softens it into a type of friendly goodwill.
Cavait walks in.
R'ana comes down from the viewing ledge.
Mhairi glances to see who Elisa is waving at and grins broadly and then waves as well and then her attetion goes to the sands "Caos on galleries and sands, looks like Fabrinath is determined to make this a good sized clutching."
Aniy folds lightly back into a seat, coltish legs tangling as she sets her concentration on the sands. Midway through the third egg's appearance, she pulls (from the cavernous depths of a pocket) a handful of sweetsticks. "Nice colors," she mumbles, talking muffled by candy.
Peydra walks to the galleries, her temples traced with thin lines of sweat, her hair a bit damp. Her gaze flicks to Eriol, then around the crowded seating area, looking for some free seats -- not as bad as hatching time, anyway. "Any wagers on numbers yet?" she wonders.
Galagidae goes home.
Celina takes an appriciative whiff of the red wine. "I like red, or white. This smells wonderful, Tarias," she comments, reaching out for a glass. Siryn scoots backwards on her shoulder, so as to not loose his balance and fall once again into a glass. Ow.
Lyllya leans forward just a bit, her interest in the event at hand seeming to make her forget her previous shyness. "Oh, now that's lovely." Of course, each newly appearing egg is given its own silent "Ooh " as the weaver takes out her sketch book, making quick notes on each ovoid's color.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath's wary gaze turns quickly to the galleries before resting possessively upon the already laid and sand- covered eggs. With a quick shuffle, a new hollow is dug into the sand and is obscured by her large form. After the gold turns slowly, a small egg is laid, swirls of russet and amber across its length as it falls neatly into the hole and the sand around the border begins to erode. The egg can be seen for only the briefest moment; since quickly enough the queen conceals it under a mound of sand.
From the Hatching Sands, Book of the Clow EggFrom the Hatching Sands, Lurid crimson makes its mark upon an oblong surface, a vivid hue that evelopes a rounded surface like smooth velvet. While there is no deviation in shade upon this large ovoid's surface, it is embellished in time-stained gold. Tarnished but never losing its metallic luster, it blazes not so carefully one rounded side; it is there a large feline blazes rampant, ruby crowned within its forehead as a flutter of silk that matches the beast's fur ranges at the egg's apex. Flanked by wings of ivory, the beast protects that which is within in the likeness of a vermillion and metal encrusted moon under a banner marked with cryptic symbols. However, even the back of the egg is not left unmarred -- instead, a warding done within the shell's primary colors has been etched there, a sure sign that some legendary quantity rests inside.
From the Hatching Sands, Sabria shakes her head, counting off the covered mounds. "It looks like nine so far?" She glances over at the other weyrwoman up in the galleries. "Looks like it'll be a big clutch with so many so soon! Oops! Make that...ten now!"
Eriol shoos some assistant stewards out of a spot, smiling fixedly at each of their wary glances. "Shoo, shoo. Go find seats for yourself; I told you yesterday that these were to be mine." Turning back to Peydra, he grins. "Rank has its priveleges, at times," he notes, gesturing to the seats.
Tarias leans closer to Celina as he offers her the brimming glass of warm red, aged almost 40 turns. "You up for a wager?" he says with a wink and gestures toward the gold on the sands. Surely other's would have heard that comment, which is fine by him. Nothing wrong with a friendly wager he's always though. "How many eggs you think we'll see?" he continues, sipping his glass
K'les chuckles. "And chaos yet to come," she agrees. "Wait 'til we're inundated with candidates..." Always a busy time for the weyr, to be sure. "Any guesses as to how many Fabrinath will clutch?" A curious question, not a suggestion to wager, really.
From the Hatching Sands, The queen's tail helps to slather sand over the newly-laid, before she begins a new hollow to the side of the current, digging another long, shallow trench, thus forcing her rider to vacate her post on the gold's forearm. Sabby moves quickly away from the flying sand, reluctantly finding a spot safely out of range, but can still getting first view of the eggs being laid. "That's it, Fabrinath. Keep it up." She's got a few bets riding on how many there would be as usual.
Meshach slips in quietly, his eyes sweeping around for a quick moment as he stands in the back. Slowly a smile twists the corners of his lips and Mesh walks boldly forward. Now which of the lovely ladies here will share a seat with him? "May I sit here, miss?" He asks overly nobly of an older women. Of course age never mattered that much with Mesh.
From the Hatching Sands, Shrine of Seiryuu EggFrom the Hatching Sands, Deliberate cerulean strokes caress the apex of this deceptively smooth shell, enshrouded by a violent deluge of midnight that obscures any veracious intent. Instead, pastel mist offers counterfeit aid to the confused opalescent smears that wanders across in search of a lost companion. Foreign power is wielded through liquid amber that leisurely trickles down to its stable nadir, flaunting unconquerable presence and patiently biding its time until it strikes its vengeful blow. What seems to be a statue of a wingless dragon wraps around these troubles, his metal-dipped scales glowing with a divine indigo aura. There a choice is made: the cruel azure of betrayal thwarts a crimson tendril that seeks a lost friendship despite implied enmity, reaffirming the hostility between hues.
Elisa shrugs as she studies the gold on the Sands. "Faranth only knows how many," she says to K'les and Mhairi. "But the bettors are clustered over there if you want to get your bets in before she's done," the Weyrwoman points out to the gathered riders perched on the edge of the viewing ledge, gathering marks and writing down the names and bets placed.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath's neck now swings low, her head lolling at the brief respite she receives until another contraction causes her golden sides to spasm. Her jeweled orbs whirl erratically with distress as muscles clench and release. "You can do it, come on Fabby." her rider croons encouragingly. Turning to block most onlookers' views with her heaving body, the queen gently deposits another egg into the trench that she's dug.
From the Hatching Sands, Tweety Bird EggFrom the Hatching Sands, Brilliant sunshine swirls across a tiny orb, pattern overlapping pattern in a suggestion of bright yellow plumage. No hint of complexity here; in fact, there seems to be an exuberant joy taken in mere existence. Endearingly innocent, this sunny ovoid's purpose is solely for the pleasure of those who would behold it. The buttery surface exudes a childlike wonder, blithely evading perils that seem to forever surround it. Still, there's an aura of patient vigilance from a pair of wide baby blue eyes from round splashes at the side, watch back at its watchers and doting guardian, giving an underlying wisdom that is its ultimate protection.
J'lia walks in.
Mhairi shakes her head "I need all my marks, cannot waste them on betting, I never seem to get it correct anyway." She sucks in a breath "Ooh that is a bright one there." She smiles "Fabrianth will have as many as she thinks she should have."
Celina grins. "I'd say that I see eleven here currently, and I guess I'm up for a wager. I'd say somewhere around twenty five to thirty," the Headwoman comments in a vague bet. The wine is sipped carefully, and washed around her mouth to take in all the flavor and she tries not to melt with delight. "Ah, it's been a while," she breaths contentedly.
Peydra grins at Eriol and slides into the offered seat. "Does look encouraging," she notes, nodding out there. "Coming out fast." Her gaze flicks to the bettors, but she will forego the pleasure for now; her marks purse is dangerously depleted already. "Suppose there'll be a gold egg?" she wonders.
From the Hatching Sands, Sabria peers at this egg curiously, moving closer to it. Even she is careful not to go too close to the sunny hued egg, making soothing noises to calm the queen. "Hmm, what do we have here Fabby?" she says cautiously, her voice echoing in the large cavern. Disappointment reigns though, as she spies the blue spots on the other side of it. "Ah, no..not what I thought."
From the Hatching Sands, Ah, here is a likely spot. Dark sand is shoveled out and flung across the the surface of the Sands, hissing softly as the tiny grains slide down the surfaces of already half buried eggs. Fabrinath pauses to glare balefully at the illuminated corner where the two-legs perch, oogling before dismissing them. Once a sufficiently satisfying depression is achieved, the gold turns and deposits yet another of the soft shelled ovoids into it.
J'lia drags a pair of Fort Weyr children down the steps from the ledges with her, a wry smile tilting across her face as the pair chatters on...and on...and on. And she hasn't even found a seat for them yet.
From the Hatching Sands, Eighth Level of Hell EggFrom the Hatching Sands, Bleak browns, blacks and dismal reds churn and writhe on the surface of this egg, with twisted, tortured shapes forming a most unpleasant backdrop. Out of this hellish environment emerges a shape, perhaps, once, a man. Foreboding form has masked features; thin, iron-black lines emit, crisscrossing the shell, binding it as if chains. Billowing out around this creature is an immense black cloak, tatter-edged and lined blood-red; it embraces the tenuous life within, defending, deflecting, securing.
Typhon leans over towards the bettors. "A half-mark says it's at least 35." he says quietly. He's got enough money to be safe with betting. Shaking his head, he replies "Probably not for this clutching."
Lasarah is settled on a bench, chin cupped in her hands, raptly watching the show. Little oohhs escape her, and soft comments are whispered to benchmates, as she's drawn into the show, despite her well-known reservations about all things draconic.
Lyllya is, apparently, trying to keep count on her fingers, and failing completely. A few more notes are jotted down on the page before a grin settles upon her lips. "Going to be a lot of business after this..." Wait.. this is supposed to be a good thing? The guesses are heard and, forgetting herself completely, she grins. "Nah. thirty nine or forty." Like she would know.
Avicia walks up the stairs from the Hatching Grounds' tunnel.
From the Hatching Sands, Moving on, the aged Queen smooths over another patch of sand, irritably testing the quality of the location before evidently finding it acceptable. In quick succession, five eggs are dropped, pooling together slightly before Fabrinath banks them to keep them warm. Sabria looks over the grouping, nodding to herself before calling up to the watchers in the galleries. "Probably greens and blues in this cluster."
"Well let's not wager marks then, let's just have a guess?" K'les cajoles Mhairi. "I'd rather keep what marks I have, myself. But if I /were/ to wager, I'd say... oh, 22."
From the Hatching Sands, Golden dragon rumbles yet again, limbs twitching with repressed energy as she tries to make herself comfortable. Just as she folds her wing exactly to her liking, she hisses in annoynance and moves forward to the most recently prepared nook in the sand. Crouching down lowly, she carefully shields the newest egg from view with her tail before turning to bury it quickly.
Eriol tilts his head, examining Fabrinath carefully. "I really don't know, Peydra. Fabrinath isn't the youngest of queens, but that hasn't stopped them before," he notes, settling into his seat before anyone else can steal it. "Now, Peydra-love, sit before someone takes the seat."
From the Hatching Sands, Righteous Combat EggFrom the Hatching Sands, The eerie glint of hand-polished iron marks ovoid's form in sharp diagonal slash amidst a tumultuous sea of crimson right in the bulbous middle. Surrounding such a center in smaller blotches are twin crossed bamboo shoots to the lower left and a snaky, inky black mess in the upper right shot through with a crimson strip of its own. The lower right bares a violet-infused blue, with no less than four grey claw like with the upper left decorated with the earthen brown of a stoppered jug.
Karasa wiggles excitedly, eyes round as, well, the eggs as she watches, her breath ragged. "Their so...so...beautiful..." she whispers in awe. Zelphyn just snorts. HIS egg was much more ebautiful than those large, lumbering eggs. Yes it was.
Mhairi frowns as she peers over the sands "I would say upwards of that, Fabrinath always has large clutches "28 or more?" She smiles "Yes lets just keep it within friends."
Mirimae walks in.
Typhon sits back in disappointment. Nobody wants to bet. Spoilsports. Oh well, he's got a few other wagers going.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath pauses to sniff at a cluster of eggs protruding from the surface as she seeks another place to relieve herself of more of her burden. Sabria chuckles softly. "You were there already. Come on, come on, move along." The queen huffs at her rider before she scoops additional sand to add to their concealment before traveling on a little further. Here she pauses, sides heaving with the heavy breathing of, if not hard, at least prolonged labor. After a breather, Fabrinath hollows out more sand and deposits another egg.
Tarias nods to Celina and grins, "A fine number m'dear but I'll wager 10 marks she'll be done at 35 tops" and with that he takes another longwinded swig of the red liquid, a content sigh escaping his lips as he settle back and enjooys the show silently, even though most things of a dragon nature make him rather uneasy.
From the Hatching Sands, Scottish Medieval Castle Egg From the Hatching Sands, Grays, blacks and browns blend and overlay, giving the impression of rough hewn stone to the coarse pebbled surface of this egg. Stately castle ramparts jut into a fire tinged night sky, heralding barbaric siege, and framed against this forbidding sky are winged shadows, a defending clan. Blazing paired points of raging-white and battle-red dot these shadowy shapes as eyes. The dimensions of this stone cold egg are formidable; one would almost expect the creature within to be of biblical proportions.
Elisa wrinkles her nose but doesn't comment. The larger the clutch, the more... vexing the Holds and Crafts will be, both loathe to lend people to the cause. "Zivath'd split down the middle if she had more than twenty- seven. And I don't think I could deal with two Zivaths."
From the Hatching Sands, Sabria looks at the numbers of eggs in amused consternation. "So many so soon, take your time dearling. Don't over strain." At least this isn't like the clutch almost a decade and a half ago, where all of the Weyr's queens decided to take up the Sands at the same time. Oy.
From the Hatching Sands, Dig dig dig... pause to sniff. Whirling eyes watch the humans warily as Fabrinath inspects the latest hollow, this one in the midst of several already deposited eggs. A low growl of warning is issued to the distant eyes as she pauses yet again to allow herself some rest. Not that she doesn't want to offload as soon as possible, but it is a lot of work. Head swings low over the sands as she shifts and angles her backside, curling her tail out of the way so another egg can be released to the Sands.
Celina smiles softly, taking another sip. "Indeed, but I think ten marks is rather steep, Tarias. I'm only a Headwoman," she comments, taking another sip of the red wine, and gazing over the queen appraisingly. "I think you're right about teh thirty-five tops, however."
Lyllya winces a little as Oogle, roused by the conversations going on and the heat coming from the sands, inches her way up the weaver's shoulder to wrap one taloned hand in her hair. "Ow.." The young 'lizard is moved onto the journeyman's lap and attention is given back to the action on the sands. "Lovely eggs. Wonderful coloring."
From the Hatching Sands, Shattered Hubris Egg From the Hatching Sands, Dark, ominous cobalt, laced with the blood red pain and rage of broken friendships, circles the large mass of this destructive ovoid. Striations --the streets of Neo-Tokyo-- scream across its surface with drab gray and frosted street-lamp pewter shades. A monster rages at the egg-city's apex, reaching into the heavens with painted, metallic tentacles flailing atop amorphous blotches of green, pink and blue that undulate where the leaden city has been devoured. The pain of a drugged sleep and a frantic chase explodes everywhere about the exterior as hazy bursts of electric lemon. Visual screams of one boy echo with a surge of power and pure energy; a voice crying out to the universe and universes beyond.
Typhon swivels back around at Tarias. "Well now. 10 marks eh? I'd be willing to bet on that. More than 35 eggs."
Peydra obeys. Faranth, has the world come to an end? Seated, she keeps her attention on the sands. "I never really understood why this is as interesting as it is," she observes. "I mean, really, it's kind of reminiscent of watching someone in a bowel movement or something." Mirimae blinks, and stares at the eggs down on the sand. Not overly interesting to this teen. She steps around people in the galleries, finally finding a place near the Sr. Weyrwoman. She nods her head in hello, then turns to watch the sands. "No, no Kellsi there."
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath takes her time now, wandering back and forth around the sands with all the disdain of a primadonna. Hmm, maybe this little hollow here... No, no. It won't do, too deep, too warm. Sabria mops at her brow with a sleeve. "Oh come on now! There's lots of good places here!" The queen looks back and rumbles at her rider, tail swishing behind her. Not contrite at all, the queen takes even more time before digging out another section of sand and drops a single egg into it. It's large, glittery..nope, not gold, this one is dark and shadowy. Sabria even has to lean forward to make sure anything was there at all! "You can do better than that!"
Tarias calls across to Typhon from his spot on the gallery, "You're on Guard" he winks raising his glass and accepting the wager with no hint of manners. Must get to know that lad, he thinks to himself, a guard can't usually afford that kind of wager so he's either rich in family, stupid, or brave.
From the Hatching Sands, Shadowy Mecha Egg From the Hatching Sands, Orb of midnight, shadows coalesced to give shape to darkness, only a hint of blackened metal rising out of the depths of a starless space to suggest that something might be there. Etchings of gold trace around broad lines that might be shoulders, a gleam of silver along front and back that are oddly straight and orderly, a pattern of mechanization that suggests of artistry more man made than natural. Breaking through the inky night is a length of steel topped by an arch of flourescent green, glowing brightly to sear through the darkness like a scythe. More darkness at it's back, ebon cloak of wings that spreads out in protective watch, almost impossible to discern save for the light of it's surroundings.
Eriol manages not to sputter with laughter by careful application of hand to mouth, though a few smothered chuckles escape in spite of his care. Gradually regaining his composure, he arches a brow. "Ah, Peydra-love, you're /far/ too cynical."
K'les 's brow furrows as she watches the rapid progression of clutch size. "Hmm. Looks like I'd've lost my wager... she's droppin' 'em awful quick!" A smirk as she bites her tongue is all that reveals that she's overheard Peydra's comment. Well, now that she's mentioned it...
Typhon smiles. He's got half his life savings on this bet, but what's life without a little risk. "Ten marks it is then. Fabrinath lays 35 or more." Taking a deep breath, he leans forward to count eggs again.
Meshach grins as the lady makes no reply. That's almost as good as a yes. It's certainly better then a no after all. Only after Mesh has settled down next to the oblivious lady does he pay a bit more attention to the sands. His first impression is size. The clutching gold is bigger then the harper songs ever led him to believe. "A creature that size could hold fifty eggs or more." Of course werry eggs he's using to estimate this sum with are a bit smaller then dragon's.
From the Hatching Sands, Finding another open patch of sand, Fabrinath quickly digs as the relentless contractions force her to lay another pair. With a grunt of effort, the two are laid and covered quickly as the queen searches for more viable space. She takes a small glance towards the galleries, focusing there for a fraction of a second before a contraction takes hold and reminds her of her purpose. A small crater is dug in stealth, the queen squatting, albeit gracefully, over the hole and leaving it occupied by a mirthfully-colored egg. With a subtle lash of her tail and a croon towards her rider, the forest-decked egg is covered, safe and sound.
Wilyn has disconnected.
From the Hatching Sands, Swingin' Sherwood Forest Egg From the Hatching Sands, Sunlight breaks though in small pinpoints of light, drifting through patches of evergreen and swirls of deep umber that cover this shell. Sky blue and cloudy granite break through braided branches of hemlock and spruce in an almost musical pattern, the remnants of a foot-stompin', belly-bustin' spring evening's celebration in the heart of this mysterious wood. Cares and worries tossed aside, the forest primeval swings and grooves to its own beat. Peering through fronds and oak, lincoln green carefully hides what might be a hint of foxy orange or honey bear, not to mention others that frolic through the woods waiting for a fattened prince to come by.
J'lia settles the children on either side of her, hands each a cookie, and comments on the shadowy egg, "I /like/ that one." She tugs one dark- leather sleeve. Black. Mmmm.
Mhairi holds onto her stomach "Oh don't make me laugh, two Zivath's? I don't want to split just yet, No Vanuth my egg is not cracking." She pauses "I think?" She shakes her head "No two Zivath's would be a bit much."
Lyllya claps a hand over her mouth, for she overheard that comment, she did. A giggle is stifled and her attention forcefully kept on the sands. It's just not right for a young woman to laugh at such a joke, you know. The newest egg gives the weaver something to occupy her for the moment, and she's saved the embarrassment of laughter.
Peydra's eyes flick to Eriol. "What?" she says. "It is. I mean, it /is/ interesting. I'm not saying it isn't. Really. But... well. She's... dropping
things." Her eyes return to the sands. "Faranth's overactive ovaries, how many are /out/ there?"
Walking into this big crowd, a rather short figure with swinging long hair should be virtually unnoticable, as she attempts to dart her way through any openings she sees to the front of the galleries... but *that* seems to be virtually impossible. With a wry sigh, Avicia begins to jump up and down like the kidlets that she looks after to see what is going on.... ah, ha! An opening! Darting through, Avicia grins triumphantly and leans forward to watch.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath angles over slightly from the last trench, her golden sides heaving with effort. Swinging her massive head around towards Sabria, her great whirring eyes seem to ask for encouragement and reassurances from her lifemate. A silent nod is returned and Fabrinath slowly scoops sand yet again with her huge tail, sliding her body into the trench, weariness evident in every movement. A pause, and another egg is added to the clutch, this one smaller than the rest, almost a mockery of the effort it took to lay, but no less precious than the rest.
From the Hatching Sands, Down by the Sea Egg From the Hatching Sands, Serene oceanic aquas ripple across the bottom of the egg, rising to greet the band of creamy pale sand drifting across the equator of the egg's shell, topped with cotton spotted azure skies. Tiny motes of shadow sprinkle across the celestial blue, tiny arcs shaped like distant flying avians dancing in time with crashing waves. Apart from the nearby shore, a spar of rock rises from the water, and a lass sits gazing longingly towards the shore. Long, auburn tresses conceal most of her form, save for glimpses of porcelain skinned shoulder. What seems to be an emerald skirt is not a skirt at all, but a fish's tail instead of human legs.
The improbable girl dreaming of impossible dreams; who could have guessed both could become real?
"You just have to insist upon-" Eriol breaks off, staring, dumbfounded, at Peydra. "O-over...overactive /ovaries/? Thppt..." Another round of smothering laughter behind a hand. "P-peydra!"
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath huffs at her rider, rising slightly again as she glances into the hollow she made, tilting her head sideways as if to examine the amount of room within. Then with a slightly recalcitrant air, she adds three more eggs into the pile before kicking sand over it before laying down beside the cluster, resting a moment. This isn't an easy job, at least that's the general impression that the queen is giving off, arching her neck as she twines her tail around the clutch possessively.
From the Hatching Sands, Coveted Sea-Foam Egg From the Hatching Sands, A deep longing penetrates through the scintillating shell of this ovoid, iridescent pastel freckles of loss and loneliness sprinkle alongside splatters of russet love and the grim cast of violet holding the essence of regret, surrounding the rotund nadir. Evergreen blooms with protection from a murky continuance along the zenith by a small silhouette of light, fitted with the one-horned, otherworldly exquisiteness of the unicorn where the motley hues converge. The lone tinge of pristine ivory unleashes tendrils of cascading light, compelled to find others like it within the bleakness above. In a secluded gray tower above a shore, a soul burns with scarlet-infused desire and sends flames find the snowy chaste wanderer. The consuming crimson tongues of fiery greed obey and round up the soothing invariance of innocence found in the pale porcelain delicacy of single-horned dapples dotting the turquoise waves.
Turning her head from the sands, Mirimae takes a moment to reguard Elisa, before opening her mouth. "Have you seen a kidlet, about this high?" She holds out her hand guessing the child's height. "She has curly black hair, and she's usually causing trouble. Answers to the name of Kellsi." Miri bites her lip in frustration. She's been all over, and no one has yet seen the missing kidlet.
From the Hatching Sands, A light prod tests the next patch of sand, as Sabria hastens to catch up with her lifemate who's making it quite a run about the cavern this time. The gold Queen shifts, brushing aside the grains to form yet another trench, and her frame shudders slightly, two more eggs appearing. Sapphire-swirled copper and gleaming ebony- lavender settle next to one another, before being properly arranged and buried by the warm sand.
"What?" Peydra's reply is plaintive. She grew up in a barracks; what do you expect? Worse than a barn, really. "She /did/. Have them. I mean, she sharding populated a species, right?" She shrugs. "Glad I didn't bet," she notes. "There's gotta be 30 out there by now, and she doesn't look done yet. I would've bet 35."
From the Hatching Sands, Crystalized Darkness Egg From the Hatching Sands, Darkness swarms across the surface of this ovoid shape which nestles into the light sands beneath it. Jagged edges are etched across its surface, showing defects and flaw where a shard from the crystal is missing. Shining palely through the darkness at the top of the egg are three glowing orbs which seem to be heading towards a conjunction. Shrouded in the darkness are a jumble of figures but standing prominent is a splash of white which seems to be outstretched like a pair of wings. Nestled between the wings are two figures, one carrying a glowing piece of crystal as they head from the turbulence towards the shattering.
Karise walks in.
Elisa blinks as her name is spoken and she looks at Mirimae blankly. "I haven't seen any children by the name Kellsi, but the description fits half the weyrchildren anyway." Don't ask Elisa, that's why the Weyr hires nannies... let /them/ chase the kids.
From the Hatching Sands, The queen really is tired now, so many eggs laid, and who knows how many more there are? Moving on, she finds another patch quickly and first-lids, laying neck to ground and crooning tetchily. Another turbulent egg falls to the sands, and is critically examined by her rider before another two join it. Sabria beams at these eggs. "Big ones, browns...maybe bronzes." The Weyr could use more. Fabrinath snorts, causing sand to billow up before she lays back down. Just resting here.
Tarias refills his glass and offers Celina the same, leaning forward he counts out the the eggs and looks a little nervous. Calling out to the guard fella across the gallery he says, "You might have my ten marks matey", he smiles before sitting back down to see if Celina wanted that refill.
From the Hatching Sands, Brush of an Angel's Wing Egg From the Hatching Sands, A pearlized sheen cocoons the egg in a frothy concoction of clouds, blanketing the surface of the shell so that the underlying dark shades are partially hidden beneath. Within the swirls, one can make out a few generalized shapes. An obsidian silhouette of two figures seems to be in the middle of the egg - twin siblings, one girl and one boy, hands held tightly together. Brushing across the face of the girl is a wisp of white, like the wing of an angel, setting the already darkened outline further into shadow. Circling the egg to the opposite side, one finds an unusual set of patterns stamped upon the surface. Glinting beneath the whiteness is a metallic gleam - a sword, if the shape seems right, inlaid with a single ruby jewel in the center. And beneath the weapon bleeds yet another symbol, a circular design that pulses with every heartbeat of the dragon laying nestled within.
Eriol merely subsides into silence, closing his eyes as he continues to smirk slightly. What luck -- she's got a sense of humor that matches his fairly well. "Really, Peydra-love, I do know that Faranth must've had ovaries. But you didn't have to put it so bluntly..."
Lyllya simply oohs as each new egg comes into view. "Lovely. Simply lovely." Peydra's words are given a wince as she, again, attempts to stifle a fit of giggles. Really, she's going to give the impression that weavers /enjoy/ such humor.
Mirimae nods slowly, expecting the answer before it even arrived. "Thank you," she murmurs, turning from the festivities for a moment to contemplate. What should she do next? She swivels her grey-blue eyes and looks back at Elisa. "I am allowed to stay here? I'm not Weyrfolk."
Karasa smiles, and offers her glass for refilling with a chuckle. "It happens, Tarias."
Typhon smiles avariciously as he makes a rough tally. "Looks like it." he replies calmly, letting none of the excitement he feels inside to show on the outside.
From the Hatching Sands, Fabrinath's head swings, to look at the ballywho that's going on in the sands. It's enough to bring a flare to her nostrils, before her fluid neck twists enough to bring that large muzzle back to the comfort of her lifemate's hands. Sabria steps forward to caress the gigantic head, murmuring soothingly. "It's alright, just a little more." Still the dragon chuffs -- a festival, while the host does all the work? Hardly fair, that, yet certainly expected, to a point. Still, a ripple along flame shot sides heralds the coming of yet another flacid ovoid to be gaped at; this one almost denotes a party of its own, set by the coolness of verdant greens, colors frolicing without a whit of what goes on in the world about it.
Peydra sends Eriol a brief, amused look. "Oh, right," she says. "Me, subtlety distilled and bottled. Faranth." She rolls her eyes, returning them in the process to the sands. "Oh, that's a nice one."
Celina smiles, and offers her glass for refilling with a chuckle. "It happens, Tarias."
From the Hatching Sands, Vines of Eternal Slumber Egg From the Hatching Sands, Climbing vines of eternal green creep up from below, twining and imprisoning all by its thorns; but underneath the protective wall lies beauty in slumber, awaiting the right moment to christen her awakening. The flutter of silk rippling peeks out over the ovoid's surface, shimmering and soft looking save for the oddity of the clashing colors of pink and blue mingling throughout. It was as if two warring faeries had a major disagreement over it's creation, one inspired by the gentle hue of tea roses, the other conjuring the color of a sweet spring sky. The two mingle to form a gown that would otherwise be fit for a princess, though it is draped across jutting spars and wheels of oak brown, a spinning wheel catching it by a sharp needle point, just a gleam of silver near the bottom of this dragon's egg. Elisa nods at Mirimae absently. "Aye, certainly. This isn't a for weyrfolk- eyes only sort of thing."
From the Hatching Sands, Tiredly, the queen scoops out another hollow of sand and peers into it critically. Her massive form shakes and her sides convulse before she drops one solitary egg into the sand. It's a fairly large egg, heavy enough to slide to the bottom of the pit before Fabrinath makes a tired sigh of relief as she shoves sand around it and lies down. The queen curls up protectively, her jeweled eyes gazing over the all grounds defensively, then first lids as she indicates that she's done now.
K'les leans forward, not that it particulary helps improve her view any. Leaning forward doesn't stop Fabrinath from burying the eggs as she goes. "Elisa, what's the largest clutch Zivath's ever laid?"
Tarias waits for someone to make the final tally, but he thinks his marks are safe after all.
From the Hatching Sands, Sabria moves over towards her lifemate's head, reaching up to soothingly rub an eyeridge. "Rest now love. You did wonderfully." Rubbing an arm across her own brow, the weyrwoman turns and heads for the relative coolness of the galleries, "You guys keeping count up there?" she calls as she approaches the railing, grabbing hold of one of the lower bars and pulling herself upwards.
From the Hatching Sands, Sabria leaves the foot-baking sands for the cooler galleries.
Sabria climbs up from the sands onto the gallery steps.
"Zivath? I think it was twenty-seven, but she's small." For a gold, anyway. For which Elisa can be grateful. Fewer eggs to worry about.
Riain walks in.
Meshach remains silent as he catches occasional flashes of quivering metallic hide and gleaming wet eggs. From the glimpses of eggs he's gotten between the crowd he'd receive his count of how many orbs that gold could hold. Fifty is all well and good unless the eggs are a big a people. Of course Mesh isn't about to admit he's wrong, especially not when there are so many people around.
Eriol tilts his head, considering the latest addition calmly. "I think that the last one is rather frightening, in fact," he muses, peering at it through narrowed eyes. "And you just have a knack of putting it in the exact way that will make me laugh."
R'ana wakens from her stupor of egg-watching. She's on ride-duty tonight, of course. She has to do all the work while everyone else parties. Ah, well. Just another factor to make R'ana bitter this eve. "Don't worry, Buedath-Dear. They'll clear out before the middle of the night, or they won't clear until tomorrow afternoon."
Tarias stands up, brushing some of his white locks off his eyes he excuses himself from Celina for a moment, "Be right back" he whispers. Dropping his overcoat he walks towards the dragon's mate. Waiting a few moments before interrupting, he steps forward, "Scuse me Sabria?" he asks, her name not exactly hard to pick up at her gold's clutching of course.
Peydra's lips twitch upwards for a moment. "Kin's egg nearly gave me a heart attack the first time I touched it," she notes. "It -- he just leaped into my mind from it. It was amazing." She shakes her head slightly, a wistful expression brushing her lips. "Took a long time before I'd touch it again."
Mhairi smiles as she watches, remembering another clutch, her hands on her belly protectively
Avicia has disconnected.
Mhairi has disconnected.
Lyllya looks at her own tally and frowns. "I think I lost count." Lovely, now she gets to tell all of those curious weavers that she doesnt' know. "That's a lot of eggs." She finally announces to herself, and goes back to her sketchbook for a few final notes, writing down various details for later.
Aniy goes home.
Typhon lost count around the twentieth egg. Narrowing his eyes, he scans the sands, trying, but not succeeding well, in counting eggs. 10 marks lies on this counting.
Sabria scowers the galleries, waving to some of the other riders before heading up to plop down beside one of the older ones. "Hey, Karise. Didn't think you'd come out for this mess again. It's blasted hot, not quite like Bahrain was. Not worried I'm going to shanghai you into being Weyrlingmaster again?" She's kidding really. Her name being called, she looks back over a shoulder momentarily. "Hmm?"
"Sounds like a wonderful experience, though, Peydra," Eriol notes calmly, patting her hand. "Even if Kinzhalth doesn't like me, he's still a huge part of you."
Tarias sees his moment of attention, "Tarias of Igen Sea" he introduces himself to Sabria, "My apologies for the interruption, but I wondered if perhaps you got a final tally on the eggs?" he asks her delicately, a bow indicating from the start of the question his respect.
Elisa sits back and stretches her shoulders a bit. "Ah, me. I'm going to have to find another corner to hide in." With a gold on the sands, the egg- gawkers will be... well. Gawking.
R'ana stands, stretching. She spots a few people sitting about still, watching the queen as she takes a well-deserved rest. "Lovely clutch, Sabria!" Is said in passing. Buedath sends his congratulations to the queen below in the form of a rumble-trumpet. Keiden has been a silent presence the entire time, off in one of the forward corners of the galleries as one of the first people in. His attention was reverent, but now the spell is broken-- The massive raven-haired man stands, making his way for the exits. That he lived to see something so fascinating at this.. Well, he's not only kept count, but committed what he could see of the eggs to memory. Now he's going to go write it all down and do some drawings so he won't forget the experience.
[end clutching log]
The Characters As They Appeared (roughly)
Elisa Silver frosts the copper and gold of her hair as it brushes the nape of her neck, waves and curls more telltale with the short length. Tiny lines crease the corners of large, deep indigo eyes, a hint of exotic in their slight tilt. Skin a dusky bronzen hue, it also hints at a bit of weathering. Soft rose red kisses her lips, brushes her cheeks, in natural coloration. Grace in her bearing is spoken in the way she carries herself. Callouses upon her slender, long- fingered hands tell of her familiarity with labor most would consider beneath her station. Equally, shapely legs that give her the sometimes foreboding height of 5'10", her demeanor softens a potentially imposing aire. The twining of purple and silver, the colors of Xanadu Weyr, is outshown by the vibrant ribbon of brillian red gold woven between, the multiple loops and tassles representing her position as Senior Weyrwoman. A thin cloud of purest azure drapes loosely from her shoulders and blouses out lightly to fall in an ocean of folds near her waist, where a belt of braided leather holds the material snug. The remainder of the folds fall neatly past her hips to rest at midthigh, the hem decorated sparingly with minscule flowers in rainbow hues. The collar and cuffs of the tunic maintain an over-all rounded shape, the sleeves ending at elbow length, and have been decorated in the same many colored flowers in decorative chains. The trouse are dyed a darker blue and fit rather snuggly while maintaining ease of movement, the outer seem decorated in the same fashion as the tunic to give the outfit a more uniform appearance. A pair of calf-high boots round things out, the soles made extra thick and heels a bit thicker, giving them an elevated appearance. On a thin chain, a gold pendant in the shape of a flying dragon clutching a faceted red stone hangs, glittering as it catches the light. Elisa looks to be in her mid thirties.
Keiden Keiden is a young man evidently in his late-teens, apparent in his height and scruffy, unshaven facade. His blocky facial shape is offset by raven- black locks of hair, the back grown long enough to keep in a small runner- tail. Despite all attempts at keeping the front and sides trimmed, a thatch hangs down over his forehead, nearly obscuring a curious pair of hearty eyebrows. Hardly unattractive by any measure at 6'2, he effects a 'devil may care' attitude, oatmeal-colored shirt with rougishly flared sleeves and dark trousers tucked into a careworn set of boots. Somehow, Keiden carries himself with a shy sort of dignity; one forged from his natural lone-wolf tendancies. A massive twenty hands high and finally out of his akward years, he's not so much a striking figure as a very sturdy and solid one. Eyes the color of a rich, luminescant, violet are in constant distracted motion; Somehow more striking than any of his other features. Keiden looks to be in his late teens.
Sabria Thick strawberry-blonde locks bound by a crown of wide braid cascades to Sabria's shoulder, coiling about her high cheekbones and curling in front of her slightly almondine forest green eyes. A pale, creamy complexion is attributed to her High Reaches mother despite the weathering of Xanadu's hot tropics. Pouty lips smile with almost girlish charm, eyes dancing with mischief and iron will. Her lithe figure displays the womanly curves of a mother, evident also in the slighly tired lines of her otherwise ageless face. Any sort of knot ranking is missing from her shoulder. Grace and sophistication personified, Sabria wears a casual set of riding leathers that enfolds a finer set of clothing beneath. Black wherhide fits snugly, accenting curvatures and soft lines. Trim in Xanadu Weyr's purple flows along delicately stitched seams with ribbons of contrasting white and gold twisting around collar flaps and wrist cuffs. Though belted at the waist, the jacket lies open to reveal a thin sisal tunic dyed a deep amethyst with a heart-shaped, plunging neckline also accented with more white and gold. Her soft suede breeches, also in midnight black, cling to her thighs though they sag just a bit where they tuck into the tops of Sabria's mid- calf boots of dark violet. Sabria looks to be in her mid forties.
Typhon Closely cropped black hair frames an inscrutable, unlined face made up of stony planes and agles. Ice cold blue-grey eyes stare out from deep sockets. A hawk-like nose dominates the grim visage. Typhon is tall, about 6'5, and fairly lean, with a wiry strength apparent in all his movements and a ramrod straight posture. His movements are smooth and sinuous, with a deadly grace to them. They are smooth and spare, with no wasted motion or gesture. He is always on the alert, looking around constantly as if expecting an ambush. His hands never stray too far from the hilt of his sword. He seems relaxed, but with the air of a coiled spring, always ready to spring into action. A snowy white cloak embroidered with a spear-head worked in silvery- blue thread on the left breast hangs from the shoulders of this Guard. A blindingly white high-necked shirt is tucked into ice-blue breeches. The raven-hued knee-high boots seem all the darker for comparison. A night- black heavy belt is also worn, seeming to divide the man in two parts, with a sword on one wide and a long knife on the other. The sword is encased in a plain, white scabbard with deep blue thread patterning the edge. The gleaming blade of the sword is long and slightly curved, sharp on one edge only. The hilt is long and undecorated, in chilling white. The broad bladed knife is more a short sword than a knife. The hilt of the knife is long and is deep blue. This guard wears both with the ease of long familiarity and looks ready to use them at any time. A pair of black gloves are carefully tucked into the belt as well. Typhon looks to be in his late twenties.
Mhairi Tall with boundless energy, Mhairi strides from place to place. When not tied out of the way, her long brown hair streams out behind her, a shining golden brown wave of sisal flowing down her back. Mhairi's face is covered with freckles from spending so much time out of doors, most of which seem to congregate on her turned up nose. Though her pregnancy is showing on her body, her face is still thin, accentuating her cheekbones, but these are offset from causing her face from being too angular by her eyes, brown as the deepest klah before the milk is added, framed by long black eyelashes. A tightly fitted sapphire dress hugs close to newly formed curves. It slinks down sides and over newly rounded stomach and drops to swirl out from hips in light pleats around calves. On her feet are a light pair of brown clogs which are easily slipped off, the toes of which are showing light scuff marks from constant use. A soft look about her face and a slight rounding over belly and a few other places are the only indicators of her pregnancy. Mhairi looks to be in her early thirties.
Linden A young man in his early teens. Straight, sandy blonde hair sits atop his head cut quite short. Looking out at the world are a pair of deep blue eyes, as wide and unyielding as the sea. Gangaly arms and legs, give him that typical adolesent look of most boys his age. On his shoulder is a red and white knot representing his apprentice status in the Smith Hall. A blue tunic, spotted with dirt, covers the boy's torso. A pair of brown wherhide pants are torn at the knees. Brown boots cover his feet. Linden looks to be in his early teens.
Lasarah Thick chestnut hair falls in waves down Lasa's back, reaching nearly to her waist, framing her oval face with soft tendrils she's forever pushing off her cheeks. Large grey-blue eyes are wideset above a slightly upturned nose, her full lips usually pulled into some expression that betrays her current mood. Although small in stature, her form is womanly, and the hint of muscles speak to the physical labor of her craft. She moves with an almost innocent femininity, seemingly unaware of any effect her fluid moves and quick and brilliant smile might have on others. From her shoulder hangs a complex knot of yellow and white, identifying her as Herderhall Craftsecond. She wears a knee-length white tunic of a linen/wool blend, cut to flow comfortably over her ripening form. The long, loose sleeves cinch down at the wrist, in bone-buttoned cuffs embellished with an colorful band of embroidered flowers. More such flowers circle the scooped neckline before plunging down the front of the tunic to spread out around the hem. Under this final band of embroidery, soft blue trousers disappear into worn but well-kept brown leather boots; the boots show signs of polishing, despite the traces of stable muck clinging in the more hard-to- scrape creases. Sly perches on Lasarah's shoulder. a pair of tiny golden earrings that sparkle softly in the light Lasarah looks to be in her early twenties.
Murkat A young man in his late teens. Red, straight hair falls across his face slightly covering one eye. He is constantly pushing it out of his face, but it never seems to want to stay there. Intensely examining everything around him are a pair of deep green eyes set into a face full of freckles. He has that tall, athletic build about him of one that is always on the go. He is wearing a blue tunic that is just a little short in the sleeves and grey wherhide pants with a pair of boots tucked underneath. The clothing is not new but is apparently in well kept condition. A blue cloak is tied around his neck and thrown back over his shoulders to reveal a silver necklace in the shape of what appears to be a small flame. Murkat looks to be in his early twenties.
Aniy A kinetic tracery of mint spreads 'cross the sun-bleached canvases of spectrally monochrome eyes, their over-bright pallor assuaged by the shrouds of cinnabar-licked lashes. A face washed in naturally tawny tones is fleshed with candid, unsophisticated facial features, a small nose curves before the mulberry-tones of curved, scar-kinked, and elegantly full lips. Teak eyebrows slink in thin lines 'bove an expressively wide gaze, spirals of copper, ocher, and russet raveled into the multicolored whorls of chin- length tresses, cheekbone touching bangs unevenly layered, as is the rest of her hair. Her coltish body creates an easy sort of grace, muscles smooth and understated. Minimalist's curves round her bosom and her hip; rangy limbs more prominent than either touch of femininity. Rising just past five and half feet, she's not excessively tall, but perhaps a shade too thin. Brown and black, spun again with a ribbon of sparkling teak, and twisted with a shot of swarthy, newly twined red -- colors cord and twirl on Aniy's slim shoulder, overbearingly cleanly. The dark-hued knot (crumple of cording) marks the girl as Hiroth's rider, and wingmember of Blackhawk. Aniy wears a low-slung, thick pair of cotton trousers, a brilliant color of golden, lush maize. Though not terribly appropriate for frequent ::betweening::, they cling cladestinely to her only faintly feminine hips, tapering outward around her calves and crinkling in excess around soft, dark tawny boots. A high-collared, wool-padded denim jacket with many, many pockets ends in a sparkly argent line of wool /just/ before pants' drawstring waistline can be detected. Beneath the jacket brownrider wears a snuggly-warm white woolly sweater, the collar rolled into a turtle-neck and the cuffs long enough to show out from her jacket's sleeves, hemline ending just below her navel. Candy-crazed. Aniy looks to be in her late teens.
Lyllya Soft auburn hair falls down her shoulders and past her waist in a flow of gentle waves. Green eyes gaze out from under thick lashes, contrasting with her pale skin that is only interruped by a soft blush and a scattering of light freckles. Her mouth is small but not thin and set above a rather angular chin. She is not tall, standing at 5'1 and carries just a touch of baby fat while still remaing rather slim. Her arms and legs are proportional to her height, with long fingers on her slender hands. She wears a single loop of twisted white and lavendar with double tassles hanging down, signifying that she is a weaver journeyman The soft, clear, creamy white skin of her shoulders, collarbones and back is bare, limned by luxuriant shades of crimson, with delicate hints of cinnamon and bittersweet, coalesced in exquisite balance on her crushed velvet dress. Sleeveless and strapless, buoyed only by her soft round bosom, it conforms to her figure snugly, though by no means constricting. The back is closed with a set of small brass clasps, enfolded within a gathered seam and loosely spaced down to her hips, leaving the center of her back slightly exposed. At her hips the fit is relaxed to a loosely spread skirt, slit down the left from her mid thigh to the hem, which glides just above the floor. Translucent elegance is revealed as she walks, as the dress is lined with a scintillating goldenrod slip made of sheer satin, with a broad border of lace trim running along the hem. As she moves about her dark red, cloth topped slippers can be seen, leaving her light on her feet and adding a subtle grace to her steps. A small, black wrap embraces her shoulders and is speckled with silvery flecks, sparkling as she moves and clasped in front with a half moon pendant of filigree silver, evoking an image of a star filled sky. Rogue perches on Lyllya's shoulder. Lennier perches on Lyllya's shoulder. Elior perches on Lyllya's shoulder. Oogle perches on Lyllya's shoulder. Lyllya looks to be in her early twenties.
K'les K'les is of average form, medium of height and build, though her few turns as a rider has trimmed her form to the athletic side. Wide set eyes are bright with intellect and humour; little escapes their notice. A dainty, well shaped nose, fine lipped mouth and a firm chin, all set in a heart shaped face, combine for a subtly pleasing effect. A light tan across her cheekbones and nose, and a smattering of pale freckles add color to her fair skin and emphasizes the green in her darkly hazel eyes. Curly chestnut hair with highlights of sun-streaked gold frame her face in a short cut, and a long thin braid, woven with Pfelth- green cloth and tiny bells hangs from the nape of her neck. K'les' shoulder knot identifies her a Xanadu wingrider, Garabaldi wing. K'les' riding leathers are of a deep 'Pfelth' green. Wher-hide pants are snugly fitted at the waist with enough fullness in the legs to allow for freedom of movement. Wide criss-cross black stitching strikes a pattern down each outside seam. Tailored riding jacket is a fine fit across shoulders and torso, flareing at the waist to fall mid- thigh, the same criss- cross pattern running down each full sleeve. Matte black boots, heavy soled and fleece lined, run knee high, with a matching leather belt pounch hanging from her belt. Calm, cool and collected. K'les looks to be in her mid twenties.
Tarias Not a tall man or a short man, Tarias stands around 5ft8 with /almost/ white hair cropped on each side and a fringe that hangs over the right side of his face. His eyes are wide and round with a deep blue hue and shaded by thick eyelashes. High cheekbones and a strong chin are the most prominant features of his face, and the jawline would almost be too squarish except it is softened by the wideish mouth and thick lips. He's a thin but fit man with broad shoulders and robust arms. His legs are smooth and ordinary, but hide a strength that conveys him easily wherever he wants to go. His hands are large but soft and there is a tattoo on his right arm, a simple pattern banded at his bicep that goes all the way around. Tarias wears a light blue coloured shirt of linen, with a dark green tunic over the top. His trousers are simple enough, a dark green to match his tunic, and his boots are a browny leather polished to a bright shine, bits of silver adorn it and line the heel and tip. The leather itself is excellent quality and treated for wear, engravings etched into them of waves and boats somewhat unusual but eloquent and of a fine hand. A belt holds his trousers up comfortably, and a short knife is strapped to it in a sheath. He also carries a canvas bag on one shoulder and a long overcoat is draped over the other. It's expensive weavery, made from cotton and dyed a deep purple. A thin chain of silver links around his neck, holds a silver sailing boat encased in a turqouise circle. He also wears a golden ring on his right hand with the same symbol engraved and set with four diamonds. Tarias is in a good mood today. Tarias looks to be in his early twenties.
Karasa Soft strands of light brown hair flow down the apprentice Herder's back, the braid-crimped waves often delicately framing her slightly tanned features. Her hazel eyes are deepset in their sockets, seeming lit from the inside, the greens, browns, grays and even a few hints of blue seeming to shift around each time the are gazed at. Her torso is slender, well muscled, the chest well formed and full, supported by hidden undergarments. Her arms and legs are long and muscular, her frame finely- boned yet not entirely delicate. Her feet -- if ever seen out of her boots -- are long and as carefully shaped as the rest of her. A softly woven blue tunic covers this apprentice Herder's full top, barely going down to her waist and always rising up to show her flat belly when her hands go up over her head to search a high shelf, or to muck out a stall--lots of twisting involved there you know--or when her twin brother tickles her--brothers always seem to know the other siblings weak spots, don't they? Her legs are covered by an all purpose set of wherhide tan trous, tight fitting to prevent catches on nails or a splintered rail. Protecting her feet and calves are a pair of wherhide riding boots, a dark brown, almost black shade. On her shoulder a double-corded strand of mingled yellow and white clings. A single loop indicates her current status: Herder Apprentice. Zelphyn perches on Karasa's shoulder. Karasa looks to be in her late teens.
Celina Soft blonde curls fall about her slender frame in all the various shades of blonde that are. Sun-bleached, ashen, and maybe even the slightest hint of orange, all intermingled and creating different highlights in her waist-length tresses. Her eyes are as varied in their shades as her fair hair, midnight, cobalt, ice, cerulean, and even just plain blue make up her striking blue mixture of color that are her eyes. Strength, and courage are reflected from within her eyes, and by her strong, yet femininely beautiful features. Her nose is sloped delicately, the fair skin pale as the twin moons' romantic light, and her cheekbones are somewhat high, her fair skin always showing the slightest blush, though this woman is not embarrassed often. Her jaw is well set, her chin not quite round, not quite pointy, but somewhere inbetween, perhaps not perfect, but by no means ugly. Her eyebrows are for the most part a dark, ashen tone, and her brow has the finest hint of lines from constant furrowing. Her slender, and somewhat lengthy neck is mostly hidden by her friendly curls, but slopes down into the well muscled shoulders, which turn into pale, well muscled arms, and her hands, though finely boned, are somewhat callused, perhaps from field labor, or kitchen duties, or perhaps from something else entirely. Her torso is well proportioned, from her well rounded, though not quite full, chest, down to her elegantly curved hips and flat abdomen. Her legs are the main stay of her height, however, and her stature may seem a bit short, since she is only about 5'5, but her bearing is tall, despite this, perhaps even--dare we say it?-- proud. Soft, tawny brown tones are the mainstay of this simple, everyday outfit. The skirt of this dress is long, down to her ankles in fact, and made of softly woven fabric. The material is thin, so it will be cool, though it is occasionally traded in for a pair of brown trous for activities no suited for such maidenly tresses. The top of the dress has a slightly low decolletage, to let her skin breathe even though the tawny material does it's best to keep this well built woman cool in the humidly hot kitchens. The sleeves, of course, are short, only about at her elbows, and the string of leather can be loosened so that she may roll them up higher should the need arise. Siryn perches on Celina's shoulder. Celina looks to be in her mid twenties.
Wahken Thunders broil in deep hazey pools, framed in lax breathy lashes pale and crisp. Ebon knots twist and turn, shaggy as they fall sparse upon a high forehead, and down the nape of a slender neck. Withdrawn cheekbones, and a steely straight nose drives down from those eyes towards an upturned mouth, twitching, arcing into a honeydew curve. Willowy thin, limbs rake with clear flaxen skin, knees more prone to 'knobbliness' more than he would somewhat prefer. From lofty height and gangly measure he somehow manages to carry himself, not nearly towards perfection, yet not to far from it's path. It's a nondescript outfit from a washed out blue shirt, collar crumpled round his neck- to the thick wherhide pants in a dark sepia faded at the cuffs. Coupled with boots of black, laces loosely bowed, he doesn't stand out in the crowd with what he's wearing. He's no show-pony. Wahken looks to be in his late teens.
Wilyn Large, cinnamon brown eyes peek out from a palish, rotund face. Her cheeks and nose are dotted over by a light splatter of freckles, barely noticable against her skin. Wilyn's hair, straight as a board, careers over her shoulders in a deluge of yellow orange, ebbing at mid-back. To keep her locks under control and out of the way, she often wears it in a ponytail or braid. Around 5', she's a little offset in build, with legs that seem a smidgen too short and a thicker--not fat, just not 'slim'-- sort of boxy torso. Sweeping to her ankles in an inundation of faded forest green and hovering just above sandal-clad feet, Wilyn's skirt accents her firey hair. Her blouse is tinged with a grayish off- white and edged with black on the collar and sleeve cuffs. Embroidered above her chest is the silloute of a small dragon flying past one of Pern's moons. Around her neck is a small silver necklace, a dainty little firelizard decorating the simple chain. Wilyn looks to be in her late teens.
Meshach Pale skin sets the mood for this unattractive teen's appearance. His slim face is speckled with boyish freckles and more than a few pimples. A small salvation might be gained from his strong chin and high cheekbones if the unorganized cedar mop crowning his head didn't counter them so completely. Below his sun-speckled face stretch long and lanky limbs almost devoid of muscle or grace. The only positive effect this lack of body mass may afford is that the bits of hard won muscle clinging to his frame are all the more visible. When the teen remembers to wear them silver and blue mark Meshach as the head barkeep of Xanadu Hold. Light sisal shows its natural shades as it drapes over the narrow shoulders and torso. The plain fabric has been tailored into a cool and serviceable shirt that stops evenly at the upper thigh. Emerging from under the short sleeved tunic are twill shorts the color of rust, one of the few shades that doesn't war with this boy's carrot top complexion. Iago perches on Meshach's shoulder. Meshach looks to be in his late teens.
Galagidae A burly man of a height of 5'8. His grayish-green eyes accent the long waves of dark hair that fall past his shoulders about an inch. A thick neck leads from his head to his broad, built shoulders. After his muscular upperbody his trim, set waist accents the curvature of his toned legs. All parts seen to the eye are tanned proof of outside labor and long daylight treks. A simple knot of white and red hangs from this ones shoulder signifying him as being an apprentace at SmithHall. As a shirt he wears a ribbingly tight, gray tunic. He also wears a vest made from the hide of a heardbeast. Burnt clearly into the left chest of the vest is he name 'Galagidae' in script letters. He also sports a pair of trousers that look rough at the common junctions. Holding these trousers tight about his waist is an old leather belt. Printed on it is his father's name 'Karati' in regular print. About his feet are a normal looking pair of black boots lightly scuffed at the toe area. Galagidae looks to be in his late teens.
Peydra A solidly muscular build cinches Peydra's steady androgyny: broad shoulders support a heavy frame with little fat. At five foot, nine inches, she stands well above average for a woman, her mass imposingly laid out. Thick arms and legs have the bulk of muscle considered appealing on a man, but less attractive without the Y chromosome. Her dirty blond hair is slowly growing, a riot of curls held back and tamed via a visible clutter of hairpins. Still not quite long enough to reach the collar of her shirt in the back, it is sufficient to obscure the brownrider's vision. A few freckles spatter her nose, and vivid blue eyes reflect light and moods with equal ease. Silver and purple twine on Peydra's shoulder; the mating of threads into a declaration of position: Wingrider of Xanadu Weyr. The strand of brown that laces through the ensemble marks her lifemate's color. A light tunic of tan cotton has been loosely belted around Peydra's waist, just tight enough to avoid obstruction without granting her much shape or cutting off the brush of air against the skin underneath. Her pants are long but loose and thin. Her thick boots are the only rebellion she makes against the heat; supremely practical in their durability. Peydra looks to be in her late teens.
Eriol Black contrasts sharply with oh-so-pale skin, silken strands of ebon determinedly tumbling over dark grey eyes limned with eyelashes surely too long for decency. The softness of those eyes is belied by the rangy, lean body: Turns of work have shaped too-slender frame into some semblance of masculinity, adding sharp edges to shoulders and trim waist, yet bringing no bulk of muscle to defy that delicate appearance. Clearly- defined, however, are his features, sharp chin and straight nose adding a canny, worldly air to add the final complexity to his definition. Black, again, coarse and well-worn, hangs loosely from Eriol's shoulders - - a loose shirt, comfortable and light. Around the cuffs, simple embroidery appears, a light pattern of white-edged flower blossoms. Pants, too, are loose and comfortable, matching the shirt in both embroidery and color. Eriol looks to be in his late teens.
Cavait Ebon locks tumble messily over the boy's head, thick and naturally streaked with dirty, dark grey -- possibly attractive, but, for the most part, unnoticable in boyishly-cut hair. Wide, rounded golden-brown eyes gaze out from underneath a layer of shaggy bangs, sparkling with startling mischeivousness -- or innocence, it's unclear. On the whole, his appearance is one comprised of angles: prominate cheekbones, a defined jaw -- almost handsome. Chisled features are paired with an unattractively feline-esque build: lanky, lightly tanned limbs, suited more for lounging than anything else, and a sort of wiry-strength appearance. Painfully thin, almost -- certainly slender, and possibly scrawny -- Cavait's collective appearance is one reminicent of a scruffy alley-cat. Fine garments for one so lacking in a fine appearance -- black wherhide, worn and greyed with use (and probably a layer of travel-dust, too) clings to Cav's lank frame, second-skin trousers and flare-skirted, ankle-length jacket falling just short of being threadbare. In coat's absence, a shirt is visible -- certainly better looking than everything else, comprised of slightly poofed black sleeves, and exaggeratedly large cuffs and collar. A red cape, simple and inexpensive in appearance, flaps behind, attatched with only a loose knot -- and tied around his neck, no less. White gloves and chunky white boots complete an ensomble, and add to a wholly immature appearance. Impish and cheerful, Cav is his usual ingratiating self. Cavait looks to be in his late teens.
R'ana Harmonic brilliance glows on fair and befreckled cheeks, the continually pink-coral color creating a lovely setting for two dazzling green orbs, the lush jungles of the Southern Continent keeping vigil over all in her presence. A frame for this soft-featured face, a tumble of red-gold curls defiantly blaze downwards, unlike the fire they are so akin to, small wisps at the nape of her neck appear likewise ablaze. Obsequious is her supple figure standing at a semi- tall 5'9, though never let her appearance deceive you in any way, shape or form. The delicate silver and purple of Xanadu is entwined with a brown ribbon as denotes R'ana as a Brownriding Assistant WeyrlingMaster of Xanadu Weyr. A mauve hide jacket reaches to the waist and flares out just before being pulled tight by a pigeon gray wrap-around belt while wool thinly lines the insides and collar. The sleeves flow loosely down the length of the arm and billow out slightly at the wrists, also lined with down. Feathery hide breeches of a slightly darker shade start just below the belt and travel tightly down both legs before swelling out and then promptly being tucked into boots mid-ankle. A satiny hide undershirt peeks from beneath the jacket. It's collar flows into a rather revealing v-neck, while it reflects tones of gray and soft lavender mixed. Fine embroidery in spiral shapes of black flow down the pant legs and the v-neck collar. Vibrant and alive again, R'ana is the picture of health. No more motherly signs mar her supple figure. R'ana looks to be in her late twenties.
J'lia Some concealing shadow plies its trade across her thin-lipped countenance, the curtained mist of steady gaze baring out of darkened solace. She's a tall woman, J'lia is, limbs long and round despite a rider's life, and hands atnd feet show unproportioned largeness to arm and leg length. Behind the profound muddyness of deep-set eyes is the bite of humor and hardness both, cutting deeply into some inherent softness that lingers, while face is round and chin a jutting moon shape. There's pride, and perhaps sullen defiance in the lift of her chin and shoulders, while a neutral calm hangs about that life-sculpted face. Hair wisps skybroom, hung in neatly shorn locks that make a smooth bowl- cut paused just above the tilt of ears, and the skin left bare by haircut is an icy pale, monochromatic with the rest of face, neck, arms, and rare-revealed feet. Undeniable, Wingseconds elaborate set of cords twines Fort's brown and black, Anuith's oily-dark brown, and Peregrine Wing's gray. Fog-threaded night encases her in an almost continuous stream of leather on leather. From the slope of her neck to the curve of her hip, a jacket hangs, black hide contrasted by the mist-hued tunic underneath. Sleeves lap loosely at her wrists, leather glossy in sun and shade. Trousers are equally dark, no confinement of movement resulting from the midnight length of sisal and wool that draps as far as her boots; again black, yet laced with strings of cloud's-bottom-gray. J'lia looks to be in her early thirties.
Avicia Long waves of thick auburn hair fall in cascades down to her waistline, left loose and free to sway slightly as she walks. These long locks frame a heart-shaped face of pale, almost porcelain skin, and one sees if you look farther down that her gracefully thin neck is the same color of creamy white. Auburn eyebrows arch high on her smooth forehead, thin and expressively eloquent should she ever choose to use them, above a pair of blue eyes. No, the color for these eyes could only be called oceanic, deep swirls of color that seem to take life when emotion animates her face, whether it be the dark squalls of anger, or the clear waters of a sunny day. A pair of high cheekbones rise to a bit below these eyes, with a strong chin, held high. A sprinkling of light freckles can be seen over her nose when in the broad light of day, that become more prominent with signs of laughter. Beneath a small scub nose, a small pert mouth to match, with rosy red lips rests, usually with some kind of emotion playing upon it. As your gaze travels down, you notice that her shoulders are held straight, her body is softly rounded in very feminine curves, and her head is up, probably to escape the fact that she has to look up at most of the world, owing to her rather.. short stature. Still, she does not appear to be out of control, for all that she's shorter than almost everyone she meets. She wears a long, flowing gown of red and gold material, that falls down to the ground around her, completely exposed without her habitual cloak around it. The dress, a compliment to her red hair, clings to her body as if molded there, seeming to be an extension of the skin. The neckline of he dress is trimmed with subtle golden sparkles that shine as they catch the light, and around her neck hangs a simple golden chain with a heart shaped locket that hangs off it, shiny and polished, bouncing as she walks. Avicia looks to be in her late teens. Mirimae Chiseled features define the young woman's delicate face. Dark brown hair would fall to her back, but it is twisted up into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. One strand hangs free, a light blonde in contrast to the rest of her head. Her almond shaped eyes peer out upon the world in various shades of green, blue, and gray. They change depending on her surroundings, and sometimes even her mood. Dark lashes frame her eyes, which seem to have a spark lit within them. At times it seems ready to ignite, and at others, hidden by a shroud. Her mouth is set in a grim line, thin slivers of rose blossoms. This young woman's complexion is tanned with sun, softening the hardened look about her. Contrary to this serious face are the small lines that crease the edges of her eyes. Laugh lines. She, indeed, can laugh, although it is a rare occurrence. Her neck is long and slender, much like the swan she seems to personify. She is of a moderate height, standing just over five feet. This young woman has grown into her body, and her curves have begun to fit. She has finally caught up with herself. Her natural grace has begun to reappear after a long absence during her early teens. Deft fingers are always busy, floating about their task as if they had wings. The rest of her body follows suit, seeming to fly through the air as if separate from the rest of the world. She is the swan: graceful, lovely, calm, and serious. Black and white are Mirimae's colors. A plain, well pressed white shirt falls over the top of a pair of black leggings. Both are ironed to perfection, without a single spot. Though the clothes may be plain, Mirimae likes them that way. Mirimae looks to be in her late teens.
Karise Dark as night, ebon hair is the start of this woman, the shoulder length thick and full with nary a curl to ruin its shine. The bangs fall just into violet eyes, usually shining with some form of mirth or micheviousness. Fine, high cheekbones are covered in china pale skin, her dark coloring almost a bewtitching combination. Tall, but not overly so, her form is plagued with an assortment of curves, all fitting in the right places, from the long, strong legs, to delicate, spinly fingers, a reminder of her weaver days. Simple and created for a time in warmer weather, this outfit is style brought on by necessity. A pale violet is brushed across a linen shirt -- short sleeved, the scoop necked creation is decorated with silver geometric patterns around the collar and sleeve hems, no pattern delinated. That shirt is tucked into faded brown shorts which were probably once pants, though now the trous legs have disappeared. On her feet are dark sandals, open toed and tied at the ankle. Tasuki perches on Karise's shoulder. Karise looks to be in her late forties.
Riain She's sarcasm embodied, but hides it well within the vapid and sparse- lashed stare. And for all of her classic coloring -- bright gold hair and near- flawless skin to match the bright blue gaze -- she'll never be a beauty, and her slow gain on promised height has not eliminated the chubbiness of her prepubescent curves. If there's something elegant within that frame, its the twin lengths of her braids, grown to reach a widened waist. Smithcraft's red and white is the exception to her customary black -- the knot of an apprentice, at that. Black, black and -- yes! -- more black: scuffed boots lace up to her knees, hiding the part of her ripped stockings that isn't covered by the pleated skirt, topped by a tight camisole. That is craddled in Riain's arms. Riain looks to be in her late teens.
