Post by merope on Sept 23, 2012 6:48:56 GMT -5
((OPEN FOR ALL. Come on in and I will Impress yer PRE characters. One per person, unless no interest, as there are only 14 babies.
For those of you that don't know Pern etiquette:
It's really simple. I swear it'll be the easiest thing. Your character is unarmed and wearing a plain white robe. Please be between the ages of 12 and 24. You do not already have a dragon; you were either born in the Weyr (where dragon people live) or the Hold (where no dragon people live). Thread eats people alive and it falls from the sky and dragons burn it.
But that's really not too important. The point is getting dragons, and that's what your character is here to do. Go out and don't touch the eggs, because Bressith will eat you. The colors that will appear in this clutch are Green, Brown, Blue, and Bronze. There aren't any Golds, to prevent favoritism or w/e.
So just derp around in a funky medieval setting with giant fire-breathing telepathic dragons.))
The pale queen stood over her clutch, paper-thin wings draping them from the rain dripping down from the ceiling above. Whoever decided that an open roof for a hatching sands was an idiot, Bressith constantly repeated. But at least the large Gold could keep her clutch safe and dry.
It was not for the better. Fourteen eggs with no Queen egg is hardly anything good for the height of the pass. The Weyr blamed the stress of losing her favorite Bronze; the Threadscores were too much for him to take. His rider was given enough fellis to put him to sleep forever. No matter what Merope said, though, Bressith could not be consoled.
She'd forget it eventually, though, and is already starting to forget it now. Especially with the egg situation. Merope appears in the entrance to the sands, leaning against the doorframe and not willing to go out into the rain. Not doing well, dear?
Everything is wet.
It'll dry soon.
Bressith bares her teeth, wingfingers twitching. Everything is not supposed to be wet.
Merope sips her klah and shrugs. Better than Thread falling on the Weyr.
Bressith growls and keeps her wings covering the eggs. And why can't we use the other Sands, the ones that aren't wet?
Because those tunnels aren't stable, dear. Merope considers going out and stroking her dragon's massive nose, but decides against it. The Miners will have it fixed by the time your daughter flies, I promise.
I don't care about her. I want it to not be wet!
There's a moment of silence and Merope's not willing to fill it with a witty remark. She didn't love K'seras, but they got along amicably as one would expect a weyrleader and weyrwoman to do. It was like losing a friend, and one of the only bronze riders in the Weyr she could trust.
Probably the only one, actually. The fact that his Tythflown Bressith for the past four years (a good third of Bressith's twelve years of Flights) had been enough to convince the Weyr that they were a pair. In reality, things were different. K'seras had a man of his own; a blue rider, one with a talent for music and Searching. Merope kept to herself, but eventually placed trust that K'seras would never treat her like former Bronze riders had. Never once did he lay his hands on her out of a Flight; never once did she ever recoil from him in fear, or curse his name, or swear that she'd transfer Weyrs if the harassment didn't stop.
She's not looking forward to Bressith's next Flight, and she's not looking forward to this Hatching, either.
A hand is placed on her shoulder. She turns to see him--L'ril, K'seras's blue rider, probably one of her few friends left in the Weyr.
"Averoth is getting antsy," he says. "Like he usually does before..."
There comes a crack from the sands and one of the eggs falls on its side. Bressith screeches, raising up on her hind legs and swishing her wings just a bit. No! Not now! Not in the rain! Stop hatching!
Dragons appear in the air, and suddenly the Stands are filled with wings. The rain's almost unnoticeable beneath all the dragon wings.
"Looks like it's started," Merope says bluntly. "The last Clutch of Tyth and Bressith."
L'ril bites his lip. "We should... Probably go up on the stands."
The Weyrwoman nods. Averoth comes down and lands nearby; Bressith almost lunges at the tiny blue, but she's more concerned with keeping her eggs dry. And with her rider is secure on Averoth's neck, Bressith has no intentions of chasing the blue between.
He's not Tyth.
Tyth trusted him, Merope replies, clinging to L'ril's back so the Blue could bring them up to the ledge normally reserved for the Weryleaders.
Bressith glances up at them, repeating, He's not Tyth.
Sliding down and resting in the shelter of Averoth's wing, Merope rolls her eyes. Bress, just back up.
But the rain will get my eggs all wet!
Water doesn't kill hatchlings. I don't need you mauled by a rampaging Dragonet, so shoo.
With a low growl, the pale gold steps back, wings folding. She remains standing, though, her eyes focused entirely on the incoming Candidates. The swirling red is enough for most to know not to mess with her, for she has teeth and claws and isn't afraid to use them.
And frankly, her rider's too annoyed to give a damn at the moment, thank you very much.