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to the southern continent

D'Sanctine Weyr takes place in 10th Pass Pern. AIVAS was never discovered, and Thread still falls on the planet. Overpopulating causes stress in the Weyrs, which leads to the foundation of a new southern Weyr, dubbed D'Sanctine. A Hold is founded to support the Weyr, titled Sanctis Hold. Old riders and prospective candidates flock to the new Weyr for a chance at an easier, less crowded life, but the hatching of dragons of strange colors has left the more conservative holds and Weyrs in the north uneasy. The political atmosphere is tense as a drawn bowstring-- it is only a matter of time before the arrow is loosed.

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Summer - P10 T16


5/4/17 - Mornings have been foggy thanks to warm days and cool evenings. There was recently a routine Threadfall that only resulted in a few injuries and no fatalities. The weyrfolk are gathering and brewing up some vats of numbweed to resupply, so a section of the Weyr is going to be awfully stinky for a few days.

4/1/17 - Fall has arrived, and with it pleasant breezes and the occasional storm. It's by no means cold, but it isn't as impossibly hot and humid as summer gets.
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 A Stitch or a Letter, Alessonde's history/background drabbles
A'nde
 Posted: Apr 30 2016, 11:29 PM
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Silverrider
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Posts: 256
Joined: 16-April 16
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Location: D'Sanctine Weyr
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Age: 14
Loc: Clearstone Minehold
A Heart In Blue

"Benden?!" Kalesten groaned, sinking back in his chair.

"Benden, with several cotholders and small holds otherwise looking to me. " Isste smiled serene, unperturbed by the melodramatic reaction of their father. She sat sideways in her chair, arms folded up over its back, the very picture of relaxed repose.

Alessonde watched her like a hawk from the other side of the room, noting the set of the older teenager's jaw, the way the one heel slowly ground against the sanded stone floor. Isste was, in fact, furious. The ride from Fort Hold to Telgar had been uncomfortable for the both of them. Pleased to have the company, both dreading facing their father, yet compelled to visit. Their mother was, at least, blessedly kind.

They assumed Kalesten would be impossible to deal with, considering little Oneste's enthusiastic response to a Search recently. That made four out of five children who fled the hold, rather against their father's wishes, despite their mother's encouragement.

Solen, whom they had not heard from since disappering after a recent threadfall, took off with the trader caravans with little more than the coat on his back and a solid blade at his side. Isste, now elevated to journeyman, worked herself to exhaustion for years hence with the Harpers. Alessonde himself, initially following his sister's footsteps, took to Harper Hall soon as age allowed, but found himself drawn instead to the healers nearby. Then, Oneste. Oneste found on Search young, almost too young, but she seemed to dazzle the dragon who met her. The little girl climbed atop the green's head and scratched just above her eyes with giggles aplenty before anyone knew it, horrifying all but the dragon's rider. Or so the stories went.

Kalesten, now thoroughly melded with his plush chair, seemed to deflate. He skimmed a hand through his sandy blond hair, then scratched his fingertips through his beard on the right side. "How will we ever manage? There's hardly enough hands to plant, and the mine..."

"Would not be filled by espousing me to Tevengrad, however resourceful he may be." Isste finished smoothly, her voice soft. She slowly leaned her side to the back of her chair. "You could throw open doors to any willing to earn their bread and marks. Telgar's full, I assume you know well enough, and not enough cotholders to house all comfortably with death falling from on high. There would be no lack of willing hands, were you willing."

The holder stared at the harper for several long seconds, his lips drawing to a thin line. "I see your studies have yet to instill any semblance of respect in you."

"Nor even desperation any common sense in you," she answered mildly still, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

Alessonde cleared his throat and broke the terse atmosphere with a peace offering of sweet drinks and questions of what happened to be going right around the minor hold. Things were not, in fact, half so bad as their father claimed.

The older man spoke on at some length of the day to day tribulations of keeping the surrounding areas organized, and the mine producing between. His scattered emphasis and the way he studied Alessonde as he spoke betrayed a more subtle, judging intent. He still held hope that his youngest son would, like his eldest brother, take over a section of the holding one day.

That retelling trailed off when he once again focused on troubles. Even so close to the weyr, and never with a lapse in protection, he had trouble with panicky men and women at the very threat of threadfall.

Only to be expected, even if the Pass had been in motion for years, his children both agreed solemnly.

A welcome relief passed palpable through the room when Isolde returned from the errand which carried her out to the surrounding holders' doors. She bore a basket of sweet breads freshly baked, a roasted side of wherry, and another smaller basket of greens.

"Seber, Kollot, and Peldrand all hope you'll put on performances while you're here, lovely," their mother crooned over Isste. She then favored Alessonde with a smile, as she started to put up the foodstuffs for later. "And Kollot's lady has a question of some delicacy that you in particular may be able to help with, apprentice."

"I will, and no doubt he can help." His sister puffed up ever so slightly as she talked Alessonde up, and talked for him. "He'll make journeyman early, yet, just you watch. They'll walk him at fifteen, sixteen, easy." Isste beamed even as a blotchy red flush colored his face, her voice lilting up with honest amusement. "And cross-train harper after too. Master Oklew is chomping like a Ruathan race runner to take him under wing personally." Her eyes slid over to her brother, giving him a sidelong grin. "He's still acting like a jilted child that you went healer, even if it's been years hence."

Alessonde rolled his eyes, but laughed. "Don't I know it, and I think he already has apprenticed me out from under Master Uragar! Healers don't walk half so early, though! Uragar said he'd keep me into the twenties to learn everything. Copying out those instruction sheets and lists alongside the new tunings for Oklew, however... Harpers want them out as badly as the healers do. I don't understand why he doesn't use the press for it."

Isste broke into quiet laughter, which proved infectious, then took on such cadence that she obviously mocked Oklew's voice. "The written word conveys so much more emotion and respect than—"

"Than mechanically set lettering ever will be capable, thus it's imp-er-a-tive that we retain and retrain such necessary skills for generations to come. I know, I know. Still!" Alessonde finished with such a groan that elder sister and parents all broke into laughter despite earlier reservations.

"And I hear you've quite the steady hand for stitches or letters, whatever they put you to." Isste kicked a foot idly, favoring him with a second grin. "Don't let them keep you on at Fort forever, because between Healer Uragar and Archivist Oklew, they will try. Travel will do you well."

Alessonde laughed, his smile genuine. "You might have to come rescue me, o' wizened one."

Their father broke in with a groan of his own. "Who will rescue me from the troubles here?"

"Kalonde," Alessonde chirped decisively - so cheerfully as to be derisive - prompting another set of laughs. When his father caught himself after a good chortle, he scolded the boy for the subtle insult to his eldest sibling.

--------------------
A'nde of silver Dulceth
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A'nde
 Posted: May 4 2016, 02:44 PM
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Age: 16
Loc: Ista Weyr
The Ickle Dragonqueen

Though shorter than him by nearly two heads, the younger girl grasped him by the shoulders. With her chin lifted and head craning, despite youth and stature small, she held all the air and repose of a true leader. Such behavior ran in the family, although they were several times removed from Lord Holders in titling. Blood could be telling at times, even still.

"Promise me. Swear me you'll remember, on your honor." Her soft voice, so often chiming and full of laughter, came tersely. "It's important."

When had Oneste grown up so?

She stood on the sands twice already. It had only been three or four years since he picked her up and ran with her, as she shrieked and laughed with her arms out. His ickle dragonqueen, he had called her. She was not quite small enough to pick up easily any more, nor was he quite strong enough.

Several years he had been away at Fort, himself, mired deep in his apprenticeship to the healers at the Hall. Each time he had opportunity to see his little sister, Oneste always seemed to have grown unbelievably fast, and this made no exception. He could swear her more mature than he, now. Understandable, though. From everything he heard, one grew up fast among weyrfolk, especially during a Pass.

Soon circumstance would pull them apart again, her to her candidate duties elsewhere in the Ista weyrbowl and he taken between to the alien, warm southern continent even farther away.

Alessonde regarded her through several slow breaths, much to the pale-haired girl's chagrin. Her fingers tightened claw-like and she gave the tall boy a jerking tug. He refrained fighting the pull, and sank down on one knee to allow her to loom over him. Not that she needed the height to be imposing; she managed perfectly fine even when he stood so much taller. Still, she looked down on him with the imperious demeanor of a Queen's candidate intended. Back lit and haloed by the slight frizz of her nearly white hair, she held an ethereal and otherworldly air of power.

"Your WORD," she pushed on his shoulders now, as though she could force him down further. Alessonde finally smiled, the neutral and guarded look he held before falling away in an instant.

He could not deny her, not for the world. She had always been his favored sibling, and best friend besides.

"My word," he repeated, meeting her serious stare. "Of course you've my word, my lady."

A breath drawn preceded Alessonde repeating her words of warning, lest Oneste rattle and pull him again. The tense draw of her shoulders upwards warned that she fully intended to.

"No fear before hatchlings, nor competition, nor colleagues, regardless of whatever may come. Hardly a worry, that, I love frightening things." The corners of his mouth lifted again in a smile he could not help.

Oneste finally did rattle him for the digression, shaking him by the shoulders and repeating her urgent words, "It's important, Aless!"

"No fears, and always keep contact. Visit when it becomes possible. I will send letters to you, over every mundane thing, and everything I learn. Weyrwomen are traditionally the Keepers of Records, though. You'll know more than I, one day! In fact, in this, I believe you do know more even now." Alessonde's laughter bubbled up, growing more intense as his younger sister shook him again.

"Which is why I'm telling you." She put her fingers over his mouth, whispering fiercely. "You stop that, and finish."

He smiled behind the fingertips, composed himself as best as able, and dutifully continued. "Always focus, always be in control. Do not fight those who I will fight alongside, and afford everyone respect else wise. Bow before Queens, and maybe sketch bows to others as well, as much as they do for us. Should I Impress, never let my charge gorge blindly. Is this really what they drill into your head day in and out?"

"Yes!" She just about hissed the word, then prompted him, "And..."

"Speak no ill however much I may be inclined, yes. Yes, I know. I memorized your last letter, and see no need to repeat the entirety of it word for word, Ickle. Upon my honor, though, I will live by these tenets you set before me." By the end of his recitations, he bowed his head.

Oneste tapped upon his crown, an abrupt and girlish giggle escaping her. Once again she chimed, and once again she was but a child rather than the demanding presence of an inevitable junior weyrwoman or caverns headwoman in the making.

He wondered if she was aware of her knack to sway others. His older sister seemed to have the same talent, as well, masked by wrapping it all up in entrancing Harper's tunes.

"Heard and witnessed," she announced formally and interrupted his train of thought, puffing up. A moment later she threw her arms around his neck, still giggling. "And for good measure, I hope you bond your first time standing."

Alessonde laughed again, himself, but his answer came in a rough whisper against her shoulder. "I would never presume," he started, then pulled her into a hug proper. "Not even presume that I will ever even Impress. The south is a good place for Healers to learn too, though. But you? You'll be in white on gold, some day. Not a doubt in my heart. Let's go thank our noble blue courier and show respects to the watch and riders for giving us a chance to talk before I head on, Ickle."

"You'll like it there. I liked it there, though we didn't stay too long." Oneste tugged at his arm, bidding him to stand.

The lanky boy cocked his head in confusion, eyebrows shooting up. "You've been to D'Sanctine? I'd no idea."

Oneste nodded as she led him back towards where the Search dragon sunned. "Sasianth's first clutch- they allowed us to stand on the sands, too. It's a really nice place. They're really nice people. And their candidates were amazing! I was told all of the dragons that came to Ista from that clutch are already very strong. Promise me you'll make friends at D'Sanctine, and be good to all of them, too?"

"Of course," he murmured absently as they stepped out into the bright light of the open weyr bowl.

"Their riders were really cute, too."

"What," the young man gave his little sister a side-eyed glance. She was all of thirteen, and he swore vengeance in his heart if anybody yet dared--

"What?!" Oneste asked right back, laughing.

Shards, he realized abruptly, giving her a dumb grin. She's going to be an absolute heart breaker in a few years.

Poor Ista Weyr.

--------------------
A'nde of silver Dulceth
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A'nde
 Posted: Jun 1 2016, 12:53 AM
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Age: 11
Loc: Clearstone Minehold
Guardian, Joker, and a Fire Stoker

Solen was a handsome devil. He inherited their mother's pretty looks, and the height of their father. His hair burned a striking red rather than the platinum to sand blonds of his siblings, and Alessonde thought he looked some hero out of fable and myth. Definitely the strongest of the five siblings, and the only one interested in martial disciplines.

He pinned Alessonde in a headlock, which the youth found anything but heroic. The pale blond squirmed, trying to get a good kick in at Solen's leg. He landed a pair of hits, but they did little.

His older brother laughed and knocked a foot out from under him in retaliation, forcing the boy off balance. Only held up by the ginger's arm at his throat, he more or less clotheslined himself on it, windpipe abruptly aching in a manner distressing. "You're too good, brat. Stop squirming and listen to me for a minute."

Alessonde stilled, more for sake of trying to rasp in air than humoring the teenager's moods. "Whaddayamean too good?" He hissed the words out in confusion.

"Numbers, puzzles, knowing your marks, tweedles and tunings, those fiddly little stitches you put together. Izzy sings your bleeding praises constantly over every little thing, and Onnie thinks you're a wonder walking. Mum, too. They're spoiling you. You, Aless. You need some real talk." Solen tugged the boy up against his side in a motion full of camaraderie, abruptly letting his neck go to instead wrap that arm behind his shoulders.

Alessonde coughed sharply, rubbing his throat with one hand, then smacked Solen in the chest with his fist. That earned him a wallop to the back of the head, after which his brother hugged him much too hard in order to restrain him from further attacks. He squeaked out an uncomfortable sound, then whispered. "Okay- okayokay. Okay stop. Stop! Ow. The- the- ow... tunings are fun, and numbers too. Why shouldn't I be good at them?"

Even if the younger boy did not dare try to hit his brother again, he spoke as defiantly as he could manage for hardly being able to breathe yet.

Solen snorted above his head - an amused, derisive sound. That made for another habit the teen picked up from the mine guardsmen, as much as his rough housing wrestling moves. "Being too good at too much will turn people against you faster than anything. Remember that, okay? You've got an ego already, and it's my duty as your blood to knock some sense into you 'fore somebody else does."

Alessonde squirmed again, trying to pull away, but the elder held him fast.

Solen chuckled, bringing his free arm over to ruffle the blond's hair. "So I'm going to say it again, Al. You're not the best at everything, even if the girls keep telling you that."

Ducking his head and swatting at Solen's hand, the thin boy grumbled. "I'll remember. Don't brag. Bragging's what made me hit Peldrand, anyway. Hate it when others do it. Kalonde always does."

Another of those amused snorts escaped the teenager holding him fast. Solen did not hold the best opinion of their eldest sibling, but interacted with him so little that it rarely became any issue. Kalonde was the dutiful son, the man already working on starting a family of his own, readying to take over the holdings and the mine some day.

Neither younger brother thought well of the man. He treated them with aloof disdain, never really having the time for either. Solen in particular had always hated that attitude, and made a point of being involved in the lives of the other children.

Not a week went by where their father did not compare the two eldest boys. He hardly approved of Solen's inclination for hanging about 'ruffians and rabble.' Nor, were he to find out of the handsome teenager's quiet disappearances, would he approve of how he spent his time. If not with so-called ruffians and rabble, then with a certain young lady or two of the neighboring valley and mountain passes.

Solen finally loosened up the hold on the younger boy, laughing. "Speaking of. Remember when Peldrand stomped your pipes? It's because you were doing something better than he could, and showing off even if you didn't realize ya were."

Alessonde bristled, his shoulders hunching up. "I still hate him for that. Isste made them! Isste made them just for me, and they had a real harper seal and everything!"

"So, did you think you were better than him?" Solen asked, leaning away from Alessonde on his other hand.

"I AM better than that deadglow!" The boy snapped back.

Solen breathed a heavy sigh, pulling the arm that had been behind his younger brother up to rub his face as though exasperated. "Look, that's what I'm talking about."

He shifted his weight before continuing. "Everybody's good at something. You might not see it. You know numbers and patterns and have a sharp eye and sharper head, yeah. We know. Peldrand's strong and can climb like it's second nature. He's got a way with the herd critters, and can sort ores into different types before I can even say, 'Well, that's a rock, I don't know what kind.' There's different ways of being smart and useful. He's the kind of smart made for a place in the mountains like this. You're the kind of smart made for somewhere with books and better teachers. Do you get it?"

Alessonde stared at Solen angrily, chewing on the corner of his lip. His face screwed up, but after several moments of silence he sank. "No. Yeah. Maybe. I think so."

"Good." The redhead grinned, sitting up. "Somebody'll knock you down or tear up what you love, if you think, or worse, act like that. Can't watch your back all the time, and not at all when you're off to Fort soon. Izzy will be there, but she'll be busy."

"I can handle myself!" Alessonde's voice rose again, indignant.

"You can handle records, maybe a puzzle or two. Not showing off, no looking down on anybody, or baiting fights. Help, like you do with the kids from down the valley. Okay?"

The kid sighed heavily, rubbing at his throat, then folding his arms across his stomach to sulk. "Okay. I get it, I get it. But- if I DO get into a fight, can you show me the wrist thing again?"

"Sure can. C'mon, let's go out to the field."

--------------------
A'nde of silver Dulceth
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A'nde
 Posted: Jun 28 2016, 10:59 AM
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Age: 16
Loc: Healer Hall, Fort Hold
Reticent Rebellious Tendencies

"Shouldn't this be mandatory training? How can we work if we do not intimately know what we are working on? How... how do they get on saying what I wanted to do was... was... abhorrent, when..." The apprentice, weedy and grown tall, spoke calmly despite his pauses. He seethed. It could have been classified as outrage. His eyes never lifted, no shakes ruined his work. Setting his thin blade aside, he reached for thin glass squares, making a row of them.

The healer observing his apprentice's process - a middle aged, forgettable man with plain brown hair, wearing similarly plain clothing of earthy tones - frowned, spitting a sharp 'tch.' He turned his hands up in a motion helpless. "Elements of it are required, for certain disciplines. I believe it should be taught young, across all. Younger than this, certainly. Those who taught me similarly believed so. Masterhealers, and master healers besides, have ever tried to keep all the skills we can alive." After speaking, he took up his drafting pencil once more and resumed drawing on a broad sheet of paper.

"Surely the skills can't be lost across the tenure of one man with a squeamish stomach and hard head." Alessonde plucked up a silver needle between fingers stained ruddy by redwort. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he gently pinned back a flap of skin from the small mammal's vivisected form.

Master Uragar paused in his illustration, lips pursing thin. His voice shifted down a notch, to the serious tone of a teacher's order. "Never speak so boldly of said man, even within this space, apprentice. He's earned his respects, even if I privately do not give him his due. If you are picking up my bad habits, we will have to see to amending such mistakes both on your part and mine."

Alessonde murmured a half-hearted apology before the senior healer continued.

"That said, no. Beasthealers and dragonhealers, then those specializing in certain procedures for maternity must keep the skills alive for the good of all. Yet..."

Uragar sighed, taking a moment to gather more pins and place them down on the cloth sheet before Alessonde. He plucked his pencil up again after, finishing out his sketch of the loose shape of the furry animal.

The apprentice dared interrupt again in the pause, finishing for him in an irate mutter. "Yet, he's the support of several holds, and even masters of our own ilk, who believe invasion of any form an abomination that should be struck from records. Curse the consequence and curse future lives in need."

"Focus, boy." Uragar chided the teenager. "Now, fill in the rest of this, and label what you can see. What you do not remember from the book diagrams, give me an educated guess, and I would prefer you think aloud as you do." The healer placed the pencil down near Alessonde, even as the young man added one more silver pin to the subject.

The young man grumbled as he placed needles. "A human subject would be of greater value, even if you say these are roughly analogous. We hardly have any truly accurate teaching material which—"

A thin, wry laugh escaped the teacher, who tapped two fingers to the tabletop and interrupted. "Would have us cast into suspicion for life, if not worse. Less trying to argue before you have the footing to do so, and more labeling. When you have these, you'll start removing elements. Carefully, and in whole. There will be no sawing, pulling, or jabbing. If you cannot make a mark with care—"

"Then best not mar at all. Stop, consider, and then begin again. You're stealing Master Oklew's turns of phrase," Alessonde finished for him and teased, even as he slid a step over to pick up the pencil and reproduce what he saw.

Uragar sighed heavily as he paced around to the other side of the room, plucking a folder up from a counter. He flipped through its contents, speaking like a man resigned. "I am much too lax, if you see fit to keep talking back to me instead of quaking with terror in my very presence. No other here would take this. Also, I ought point out that I may use his turns of phrase, but you? You talk like him."

"I do not try with others, and shall take that for a compliment. Master Oklew is a very, very good orator. Though... consider it fear tempered by adoration?" Aless answered absently, glancing back and forth between his subject and the paper as he finished out the rest of the diagram as bid. "And a healthy dose of - what did you say, last week? Being too flaming sharp for my own good? Besides, work and talk helps me focus, rather than detracting. At least with stuff like this."

"Ah. So I must cease praise altogether to keep that ego in check. Noted, young man."

Alessonde snorted in a little laugh, shaking his head. "You say, after feeding that ego. I'm surprised you trust me not to slip."

"Slip with the blade, the unrepentant conceit and egotism, or with the content of your private studies? Hmn!" Uragar chuckled, mood lifting again. "I wonder. I cannot imagine you wish another dressing down over ethics, nor - pardon my pun - illegal operations. Ah, tut. No laughing. Focus."

The blond just grinned wide as he printed labels.

"Though now, I must ask for certainty's sake. What is this we working on right now, apprentice?"

Alessonde placed the pencil down, and reached for the razor thin blade. "Liniment and tisane for use in ailments common to cold zones, particularly against persistent cough, and the amount of herb to infuse versus oil or liquid ratios. Prioritizing locally available materials of High Reaches, Crom, or... wait, is this a kidney in the back?"

Uragar leaned to look. "Yes."

"Ooh, weird." Alessonde ducked his head with interest, and Uragar chuckled in sudden amusement.

"Sometimes," the healer murmured fondly, "you sound very old. And sometimes you remind me that you are still very, very young in the grand scheme of things. Now, give me those ratios and methods that you're supposed to be learning tonight. I do need to be certain that you truly learned it all, especially when one of the masters may surprise question you about such tomorrow."

"You, Master, are an underhanded sneak," Alessonde said.

--------------------
A'nde of silver Dulceth
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A'nde
 Posted: Apr 3 2017, 05:04 AM
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Age: 17
Location: Weyrling Barracks, D'Sanctine Weyr
A Memory At Odds

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Gentle taps at his desk and soft muttering betrayed A'nde hard at work on a lesson he tried to finish before Jessath called them for the day. He had a while, yet, though. He had taken advantage of an early suggestion - or punishment, perhaps, considering perspectives - from Weyrleader T'yl and stuck with it adamantly since. It gave him reason to study how the weyr ran, beyond wings and threadfall.

So... technically, he was doing a queenrider's homework. As far as he cared, though, he needed to be able to understand it backwards and forwards to be able to explain it.

It would be useful later, anyway. Some day. Some how. He had no doubts.

"... highest weyrlinghood survival rate of any weyr besides Southern, Ista also boasts..." The blond's lips moved as he continued on silently, pausing to write something on the side. Across the room, Dulceth watched him with dark eyes, blue as the unspoiled ocean.

"So, we don't actually know what averages for weyrlings here would be, yet. Thus, going by our current number..."

The silver's tail twitched, faint clicks of his claws echoing the soft scratch of nib to paper as A'nde made his marks.

"I think I balanced it."

I cordially invite you to consult an abacus. Dulceth sniped to his speaking aloud, tone acidic. The silver dragon stretched across his couch, claws tapping rhythmically.

A'nde lifted his head from over his desk, looking back over his shoulder. With a nudge, he turned his chair aside to face the young dragon. "Tch. What's got your tail in a knot today, rumplebutt?"

Dulceth stood, his bunched hide gleaming in silvers and the most pale hints of blue cast. His claws raked against the stone with an uncomfortable sound that caused A'nde's shoulders to rise.

You ignored me before you started. It is not balanced. It cannot be.

"For sake of general use? The record says..." A'nde started, defensively.

It is incorrect. The dragon insisted, irate. His eyes were still dark and calm, despite the agitated mannerisms. Find the copy from the record room in the lower caverns. The Harpers' version is correct. The Weyrwoman's is not. The figures should match, without the complexities you have added to make it work. They are apt, but unnecessary.

A'nde looked down at the sheet, then back at the dragon. "What."

Check. I insist. The marks for Southern and Eastern are incorrect. The tip of the silver's forked, green tongue pushed at the corner of his mouth. He tossed his head, breathing a sharp whuff of air. After staring at his rider for several moments longer, he turned back, and laid down again. This time he faced away from A'nde.

Well, now A'nde had to go look. Some of the dragon's agitation bled over to him, and he stood away from his desk. A hand rubbed the side of his face, he leaned to swipe up the record, and stalked off with it.

A few minutes later, the sharp creak of the entry door to the barracks sounded back down the halls as the blond slipped out.

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A'nde of silver Dulceth
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A'nde
 Posted: Apr 3 2017, 05:59 AM
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Silverrider
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Age: 18
Location: Lower Caverns, D'Sanctine Weyr
Black Night, Silver Moon

"N'body asked yer opinion, asswipe. Why don'cha butt out of m'life this time, bleedin' heart healer wannabe." The other young man shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away, hunching as he moved to leave the hall.

These dark moods seemed to come on without warning, sometimes. There were causes, sure. A'nde could make educated guesses, but understanding the other fellow's thought process was beyond him at times. He had levels of emotional reaction beyond anything A'nde knew how to deal with. They'd met on such good terms, too. It had a lot of promise. His personality... he was a little shit.

Turns out? A'nde discovered he liked little shits. He certainly liked the way they interacted away from anyone else. Sometimes he got some seriously interested, intelligent talk. Sometimes he got a flirt. Sometimes help.

But, sometimes, this.

"C'mon, seriously. I just want to talk to you." A'nde said.

"Can't b'assed t'give two shits 'bout wha' ya' want."

This was not working. He needed something to catch the queenrider's interest. Talk bored R'eme. It always had. Needed a challenge, to reel him in without spurring the guy into hating his guts or, he didn't know, getting killed maybe. The line there felt pretty thin. The needles, the knives, the attitude - A'nde knew what kind of arsenal he packed. He had seen the type before, too.

The queenrider was capable, if their dragons didn't stop them. He had developed some serious doubts about Sombreth's moral character over time, though. She acted like a queen, yeah. But she planned like a killer. The militaristic feel her egg had held during the touching that attracted A'nde early on had bloomed into something else entirely as she grew.

He wondered if dragons could be born killers. Maybe all that talk about the black egg had been right. Maybe it was because of who she bonded.

A path to open discussion, or at least how turn the situation to his benefit, came to mind. That led to words which spilled out before A'nde gave himself a chance to regret it.

He took a breath, and spat: "Fucking figures, holdless exile's foster trash." The words did not matter half so much as the way they were spoken. Fighting words. The blond's chin lifted with all the self righteous attitude he could muster. Lucky him. He had practice playing this part, before. For a brief, gross moment, A'nde felt like his father.

The line of R'eme's shoulders stiffened and he rounded like a ballista mounted on a turnstone, green eyes narrowed and glinting with sudden, dangerous focus. The corner of his lip lifted in a sneering snarl, canines bared. "Wha' t'fuck?"

"Folk like you are all alike. 'Ey, fuck off, s'not m'job.'" A'nde mimicked. "Must be why you shirk and run from everything that has a whiff of responsibility." There had been an urge there, an insidious background urge to bring a mention of his brother into this, imply it ran in the family.

But then he really would kill over insult. Or never talk to A'nde again. Neither of those were options for the silver rider at the time. Honestly? He wanted to hear more about that brother of his, sometime, anyway. Besides, he still thought a bit too highly of him to go for quite so low a blow just to spur him on.

Maybe R'eme did not share the sentiment about high regards. Whatever the case, he certainly wasn't running from this.

R'eme took one slow step towards A'nde, full of threatening promise. "Yer jes' beggin' me t'kick your ass, beanpole."

"Actually, yeah," he answered. "Pretty much exactly what I'm after."

The redhead blinked, some of that venom abruptly draining away. "Wha'."

The corner of A'nde's mouth tugged up, and he couldn't resist the first thing that came to mind again. "Did I stutter, or are you having a dim glow kind of night?"

R'eme stared. He drew a slow breath, scowl gradually giving over to a predatory smile. Looked like he was considering taking the blond's head off, for a minute there.

He said, "Fuck, should've asked. M'into it."

That was, more or less, the story of how A'nde ultimately got his ass kicked by someone well over a foot shorter than himself. Repeatedly. Perspectives were always important to learn, though, as were ways to communicate with people he thought impossible to deal with.

The little shit, if nothing else, gave him a challenge. R'eme also taught him a manner of fighting that he picked up on better than their formal lessons, that he understood better than what his brother had attempted to teach. Some disconnect in thought process, some lack of physical strength, some desire to heal and educate rather than harm and knock senseless made it very hard for him to ever pick up well on self-defense. Knife fighting had never been for him, nor had wrestling, nor moves that overpowered people.

He needed to know how to defend himself, though, and he knew he did.

A'nde had never been a killer, not really. Not directly. It was never a desire that crossed his mind. He probably could if he ever got cornered, though. If it ever got to some point where someone threatened his dragon, threatened any of their colorful brethren or their riders, he probably could.

The guy gave him an edge if that push ever came to some desperate shove. He could defend himself. Maybe. Probably. If it mattered. If other people were at stake.

Much to A'nde's chagrin, the educational ass kickings and the challenge were all that R'eme ultimately ever gave him.

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A'nde of silver Dulceth
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A'nde
 Posted: Apr 3 2017, 08:02 AM
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Silverrider
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Age: 18
Location: Weyrling Barracks, D'Sanctine Weyr
Idylls of the King


"No petty competitions with your brothers." A'nde rubbed two fingers to his brow, then his temple on the right. Exhaustion slowed his words, and his enunciation slipped. "We really cann'ford..."

His nose crinkled, and facing him, Dulceth echoed the small motion. On the silver, however, hide bunched and shined. Even as the growing dragon filled out his form he still managed expressions that made his bonded think of some overgrown fuzzy animal.

We can't afford to waste time posturing, Dul. Knowledge and working skill.

Dulceth's snout wrinkled more, and the space between his eye ridges creased. The dragon slowly canted his head aside as if in thought, but honestly it was so A'nde could, visibly, see the curl of his lips to bare long teeth.

On a human, the expression was insulting and possibly intimidating at worst. A sneer on a dragon proved sheer threat.

A'nde did not feel threatened, though he understood what Dulceth was getting at. Passive dragon did not mean pushover dragon, nice wasn't synonymous with doormat.

"Wha's gotten into you, lately, huh? Fightin me on direction, bucked in Threadfall and argued with me bad 'nuff that Cal stepped in... argued me when you were gliding, too."

He finished the line of thoughts silently to the dragon. He was too tired to keep talking aloud, really, even to his other half.

Somewhere, you stopped treating this like an equal partnership. You act, at times, as though I am lesser. The silver dragon's sneer deepened. The expression made A'nde think of what a dragon trying to mimic a particularly dimpled wher might look like.

Dulceth snorted abruptly in amusement, then opened his mouth with a soft hiss. No making me laugh. I am very serious.

"Sorry," A'nde rolled back on his bed and mumbled at the ceiling. "... ow." He shuffled and pulled a clay tablet wedged against his back out, tossing it aside on the blanket.

You may wish to place that out of the way. Copy of the record you requested from Master Oklew. The dragon settled back down slowly, his tail quivering slightly as he curled it up against his side.

The human half of the pair folded his arm over his eyes after he moved the tablet off the bed entirely.

Thanks. I'm sorry if I'm not treating you right, big guy. You're my number one priority. I don't know what I'm doing wrong to make you feel that way. Talk to me?

Dulceth rested his head down, neck stretched out so that his snout lay near the side of the bed. His eyes lidded over slowly. All I request of you is to pay very, very careful attention to how I answer questions and solve problems over the next few days. As you put it, mind my knowledge. My working skill.

A'nde's head turned aside towards the silver dragon's. He peeked at him with one eye beneath the fall of his arm. His words slurred together. "Reminn me t'morrow, prolly too tired to remember any'v this right now."

I will remember and remind you. Dulceth noted dutifully.

A'nde paid no particular attention to the emphasis. It would be a while yet before he truly got it.

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A'nde of silver Dulceth
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