Post by **Auria (etc)** on Mar 9, 2010 16:32:02 GMT -5
[Ooc: I'm just keeping my mind occupied by working the flitter egg I won into one of my charries' lives. Need to think about something other than "real life" for a while. However, if anyone wants to come upon S'tar, for whatever reason, I'd be more than happy to turn this into an interactive thread.]
The tall, mossy green weyrling dragon stretched her long neck and looked out over the world. The meadows beyond the Weyr were lengths behind them, and S'tar, bundled in a fur-lined flight jacket, sat astride Hatsheth, frowning down upon the parchment in his hands. He had thought the skills earned in his time on the mauraders' ship might benefit him here, for he'd learned to map and chart from navigators who not only knew the entire coast of Southern, but who could plot a course that remained undetected by the authorities.
Undetected was where the tall, lean greenrider wished to remain. He glanced behind, saw no movement following, and then looked forward again before marking his map. There was a thick forested area in the distance to the east, and he noted it on the chart in symbols, the final piece of this section.
Another few lengths for today my love, just to that bend in the river. How are your wings holding out?
Hatsheth launched gracefully, her long legs a lithe springboard, and soared just a few dragonlengths above the planet's surface. Though the weyrlings were just barely flightworthy, and had flown north in spurts under careful supervision, Hatsheth's unusual height and strength of wing was an advantage.
I am strong, Mine, and willing enough. My wings are not tired, though I still do not understand why we must do this. Surely it would be more efficient if mapping tours were done in teams--
Hatsheth was already showing her rider that she was inclined to get her chores done quickly, efficiently, and with as little effort as possible. S'tar, however, had other designs for this trip that he wasn't sure his dragon would understand.
Just a bit farther, love, he thought to her soothingly. The new Weyrwoman might find these charts useful. I'm not even sure she knows who I am ... and I'd like to know that when she does notice me, she does so favorably.
The green soared around the bend of the river where high snow-laden brush and a rocky outcropping obscured the view ahead. S'tar felt her about to respond to his thoughts, when she abruptly ceased, and dropped out of the sky.
"Wha--?" the young rider began, startled, and was even more startled with his own dragon Shhushed him rather curtly!
'Sheth--?
There are voices ahead, the young green said, and moved forward cautiously at a walk.
Concerned, S'tar tucked his parchment into his harness pack, and tried to pull her back. I would rather not be seen, he said, leaning his thoughts back toward the Weyr. Part of the reason S'tar had gone north was to move farther away from those who'd kept him captive for so many turns. Could the maurauders have come this far up river from the coast?
They have runner-beasts, not ships, Hatsheth reassured him, and ignored his silent plea to return home. I do not like the smell of them. Their harness jingles, they are moving.
Another crop of stone was ahead, and, heedless of her rider's desires otherwise, the young dragon moved toward it, keeping her head lowered. Even S'tar could hear voices now.
"--a mighty haul, indeed!" one burly-sounding voice said, ending with a laugh.
"--hide out for a few sevendays, then we can pawn this lot," a second voice, lighter, also male.
They were right up to the rocks now, and even S'tar was curious. Hatsheth kept her head low, and stretched her forelegs up onto the ridge. S'tar could just see over the crest, and noted with some nervous amusement that the dragon had snaked her long neck out to peer around the side of the rocks.
Three men were there. Two were mounted on runners, the third had his reins looped around an arm as he tended to several pack animals, tugging straps. The bundles on these were tied down rather haphazardly, and any curiosity S'tar had about what they might contain was answered when one of the mounted men laughed and said:
"That stupid Lord Holder's guards -- we were in and out and leagues away before they even knew the hold had been robbed!"
Burly cast him a shadowed look, "You hope!" He left the pack-checking loosely done and swung up into the saddle. "I think I'd feel safer if we made it to the camp-caves afore dark, though. I want to stash this stuff, and we need to set up a hot spot quick."
"Whyzzat?" the light-voiced man asked.
"You had to go and insist we take those--"
At that moment, a chilly wind blew across S'tar. It was gusty, tricky, and he could almost hear it laughing as it caught Hatsheth's dragon-scent and blew it right up the nostrils of those runners.
Before the riders knew what hit them, the beasts were off at a gallop, screaming their frightened neighs into the mischievous breeze!
Hatsheth, startled, raised her head high and let out a little sound that was half-snort and half-bugle. This made the terrified beasts certain they were about to become dragon-fodder.
The rearmost pack beast bucked twice before finding its running feet again.
A clatter and crash, and the glint of metallic objects on the snow, told S'tar it had lost some of its load.
"Wait here -- I'd rather not have to deal with explaining a death today, even if they are a bunch of thieves," the young man said to his dragon, as he slid down her shoulder and landed at a jog. He had no desire to catch up with the robbers, but thought that perhaps a look at the fallen booty might give a hint as to who had been burgled.
S'tar had a strong distaste for those who thought they could take what was not rightly theirs ... and the emotional scars that remained deep and painful over having, himself, been long considered purloined goods.
As he reached the fallen objects, however, he really did not see anything that might mark them as to ownership. Some candlesticks made of a bright brassy metal, a few bits of none-too-valuable jewelry, a small pile of sand.
Sand? Why would anyone steal--
And then the pile moved.
Shards.
The greenrider bent low, and brushed away some of the sand with a trembling hand. Buried beneath was an egg.
He had seen firelizard eggs before, of course, for the sea marauders used to delight in stealing them wherever they came across them. This one was fairly large, and as he scooped it up, he could feel that it was still quite warm.
"...we need to set up a hot spot quick...."
The robber's words were understood -- the light-voiced man had insisted on taking the eggs, and they needed hot sand to hatch in. He ran a finger along the shell -- it felt odd, slightly soft. Not yet mature enough to hatch, he thought, as he left the other booty laying in the snow and meandered slowly back to Hatsheth. Knowing the egg must be kept warm, he went to tuck it inside his furs.
Then, the egg moved again. He jumped, and stared down at it. If it wasn't quite ready to hatch, how could it be moving? He rolled it in his hand -- and the answer stared back at him.
The egg was cracked. It had been damaged in the fall, and the little occupant inside, not quite ready to greet the world, was pushing against the opening.
S'tar ran for his dragon.
What is it, Mine?
A firelizard egg. It's broken! The little one is going to hatch prematurely!
Hatsheth's eyes were whirling yellow with worry by the time S'tar reached her. She lowered herself, and he was about to step onto her foreleg and mount when a flurry of movement in his hand halted him.
The shell of the egg opened up. Rather than cracking like a normal flitter egg, it almost peeled apart, and a tiny head half reached, half fell, through the opening. The eyes of the baby firelizard were cloudy, covered by a thin membrane, and the soft hide was coated in slime. The little one tried feebly to stretch, and the shell peeled and bent, more like old, stiff parchment than an eggshell, as its occupant unfurled.
It opened it's mouth and attempted to creel, but it's tiny voice came out as a gurgle.
Its mouth and throat were full of fluid. S'tar thought of the puppies born to a spit canine when he was a young lad. He'd watched his mother lift each up, and, her arms held long and elbows locked, give them one long sweeping shake to clear their breathing passages. S'tar, bracing the tiny creature's long, fragile neck and spine, did the same.
A small spatter of mucus flew through the air, and the little one sneezed, open its mouth, and drew a deep, cold breath.
Then ... it screamed.
Its eye membrane pulled back, and tiny bright jewels glared angrily up at the greenrider.
His stomach lurched -- he was suddenly starving!
S'tar tucked the flitter into his jacket to warm it, then leapt to Hatsheth's offered foreleg and dug into his harness pack for the meatroll he'd packed for lunch. He broke off a piece and offered it to the carefully cradled infant. The tiny creature struggled to eat it, choked for a moment, and the meat fell out into the fur lining of the jacket.
Shells.
S'tar then took a bite himself, and began to chew it. He mixed it with saliva, gnawed and mashed it into a pulp, and spit some of the slimy, pasty substance onto the tip of his little finger. The firelizard opened his mouth, and the young man placed the chewed meat on its tongue.
The gooey paste slid down easily, and the flitter cried for more.
A finger-length of mashed, spit-mingled meatroll later, the little one suddenly stopped eating and fell deeply and instantly asleep.
Climbing to his place behind Hatsheth's neck ridges, S'tar strapped himself in, and allowed the dragon to carefully pick her way back toward the Weyr. He looked down into his jacket and examined his new little companion, from whom he was surprised to feel emotions of safety and comfort. He could also tell, though, that the tiny premature creature was weak.
"I hope you make it," he said softly. He opened his jacket to allow more light in, and attempted to determine what color the firelizard was. At the moment, its thin skin was hard to judge. It was not yet fully developed, as far as he could tell, and he could even see shadows of the jewel-like eyeballs under the closed outer lids. It appeared to be a pale dusky sand in color, fading to creamy white where the skin stretched tight, over the sharp bones, the sails of the wings. Yet, in the folds of looser skin, there was a deep burnt-orange that glittered in its wetness. Unaware that he was thinking as loud as he was, the rider was slightly startled to hear his dragon say:
He is bronze. And he will make it. He will be a proud and strong little cousin some day.
At Hatsheth's thoughts, reality began to settle, and S'tar's amazed and adoring gaze became touched with worry.
A bronze firelizard. And a stolen one at that. Here he'd hoped to get in Lady Crown's good graces. How on Pern was he going to explain THIS?
The tall, mossy green weyrling dragon stretched her long neck and looked out over the world. The meadows beyond the Weyr were lengths behind them, and S'tar, bundled in a fur-lined flight jacket, sat astride Hatsheth, frowning down upon the parchment in his hands. He had thought the skills earned in his time on the mauraders' ship might benefit him here, for he'd learned to map and chart from navigators who not only knew the entire coast of Southern, but who could plot a course that remained undetected by the authorities.
Undetected was where the tall, lean greenrider wished to remain. He glanced behind, saw no movement following, and then looked forward again before marking his map. There was a thick forested area in the distance to the east, and he noted it on the chart in symbols, the final piece of this section.
Another few lengths for today my love, just to that bend in the river. How are your wings holding out?
Hatsheth launched gracefully, her long legs a lithe springboard, and soared just a few dragonlengths above the planet's surface. Though the weyrlings were just barely flightworthy, and had flown north in spurts under careful supervision, Hatsheth's unusual height and strength of wing was an advantage.
I am strong, Mine, and willing enough. My wings are not tired, though I still do not understand why we must do this. Surely it would be more efficient if mapping tours were done in teams--
Hatsheth was already showing her rider that she was inclined to get her chores done quickly, efficiently, and with as little effort as possible. S'tar, however, had other designs for this trip that he wasn't sure his dragon would understand.
Just a bit farther, love, he thought to her soothingly. The new Weyrwoman might find these charts useful. I'm not even sure she knows who I am ... and I'd like to know that when she does notice me, she does so favorably.
The green soared around the bend of the river where high snow-laden brush and a rocky outcropping obscured the view ahead. S'tar felt her about to respond to his thoughts, when she abruptly ceased, and dropped out of the sky.
"Wha--?" the young rider began, startled, and was even more startled with his own dragon Shhushed him rather curtly!
'Sheth--?
There are voices ahead, the young green said, and moved forward cautiously at a walk.
Concerned, S'tar tucked his parchment into his harness pack, and tried to pull her back. I would rather not be seen, he said, leaning his thoughts back toward the Weyr. Part of the reason S'tar had gone north was to move farther away from those who'd kept him captive for so many turns. Could the maurauders have come this far up river from the coast?
They have runner-beasts, not ships, Hatsheth reassured him, and ignored his silent plea to return home. I do not like the smell of them. Their harness jingles, they are moving.
Another crop of stone was ahead, and, heedless of her rider's desires otherwise, the young dragon moved toward it, keeping her head lowered. Even S'tar could hear voices now.
"--a mighty haul, indeed!" one burly-sounding voice said, ending with a laugh.
"--hide out for a few sevendays, then we can pawn this lot," a second voice, lighter, also male.
They were right up to the rocks now, and even S'tar was curious. Hatsheth kept her head low, and stretched her forelegs up onto the ridge. S'tar could just see over the crest, and noted with some nervous amusement that the dragon had snaked her long neck out to peer around the side of the rocks.
Three men were there. Two were mounted on runners, the third had his reins looped around an arm as he tended to several pack animals, tugging straps. The bundles on these were tied down rather haphazardly, and any curiosity S'tar had about what they might contain was answered when one of the mounted men laughed and said:
"That stupid Lord Holder's guards -- we were in and out and leagues away before they even knew the hold had been robbed!"
Burly cast him a shadowed look, "You hope!" He left the pack-checking loosely done and swung up into the saddle. "I think I'd feel safer if we made it to the camp-caves afore dark, though. I want to stash this stuff, and we need to set up a hot spot quick."
"Whyzzat?" the light-voiced man asked.
"You had to go and insist we take those--"
At that moment, a chilly wind blew across S'tar. It was gusty, tricky, and he could almost hear it laughing as it caught Hatsheth's dragon-scent and blew it right up the nostrils of those runners.
Before the riders knew what hit them, the beasts were off at a gallop, screaming their frightened neighs into the mischievous breeze!
Hatsheth, startled, raised her head high and let out a little sound that was half-snort and half-bugle. This made the terrified beasts certain they were about to become dragon-fodder.
The rearmost pack beast bucked twice before finding its running feet again.
A clatter and crash, and the glint of metallic objects on the snow, told S'tar it had lost some of its load.
"Wait here -- I'd rather not have to deal with explaining a death today, even if they are a bunch of thieves," the young man said to his dragon, as he slid down her shoulder and landed at a jog. He had no desire to catch up with the robbers, but thought that perhaps a look at the fallen booty might give a hint as to who had been burgled.
S'tar had a strong distaste for those who thought they could take what was not rightly theirs ... and the emotional scars that remained deep and painful over having, himself, been long considered purloined goods.
As he reached the fallen objects, however, he really did not see anything that might mark them as to ownership. Some candlesticks made of a bright brassy metal, a few bits of none-too-valuable jewelry, a small pile of sand.
Sand? Why would anyone steal--
And then the pile moved.
Shards.
The greenrider bent low, and brushed away some of the sand with a trembling hand. Buried beneath was an egg.
He had seen firelizard eggs before, of course, for the sea marauders used to delight in stealing them wherever they came across them. This one was fairly large, and as he scooped it up, he could feel that it was still quite warm.
"...we need to set up a hot spot quick...."
The robber's words were understood -- the light-voiced man had insisted on taking the eggs, and they needed hot sand to hatch in. He ran a finger along the shell -- it felt odd, slightly soft. Not yet mature enough to hatch, he thought, as he left the other booty laying in the snow and meandered slowly back to Hatsheth. Knowing the egg must be kept warm, he went to tuck it inside his furs.
Then, the egg moved again. He jumped, and stared down at it. If it wasn't quite ready to hatch, how could it be moving? He rolled it in his hand -- and the answer stared back at him.
The egg was cracked. It had been damaged in the fall, and the little occupant inside, not quite ready to greet the world, was pushing against the opening.
S'tar ran for his dragon.
What is it, Mine?
A firelizard egg. It's broken! The little one is going to hatch prematurely!
Hatsheth's eyes were whirling yellow with worry by the time S'tar reached her. She lowered herself, and he was about to step onto her foreleg and mount when a flurry of movement in his hand halted him.
The shell of the egg opened up. Rather than cracking like a normal flitter egg, it almost peeled apart, and a tiny head half reached, half fell, through the opening. The eyes of the baby firelizard were cloudy, covered by a thin membrane, and the soft hide was coated in slime. The little one tried feebly to stretch, and the shell peeled and bent, more like old, stiff parchment than an eggshell, as its occupant unfurled.
It opened it's mouth and attempted to creel, but it's tiny voice came out as a gurgle.
Its mouth and throat were full of fluid. S'tar thought of the puppies born to a spit canine when he was a young lad. He'd watched his mother lift each up, and, her arms held long and elbows locked, give them one long sweeping shake to clear their breathing passages. S'tar, bracing the tiny creature's long, fragile neck and spine, did the same.
A small spatter of mucus flew through the air, and the little one sneezed, open its mouth, and drew a deep, cold breath.
Then ... it screamed.
Its eye membrane pulled back, and tiny bright jewels glared angrily up at the greenrider.
His stomach lurched -- he was suddenly starving!
S'tar tucked the flitter into his jacket to warm it, then leapt to Hatsheth's offered foreleg and dug into his harness pack for the meatroll he'd packed for lunch. He broke off a piece and offered it to the carefully cradled infant. The tiny creature struggled to eat it, choked for a moment, and the meat fell out into the fur lining of the jacket.
Shells.
S'tar then took a bite himself, and began to chew it. He mixed it with saliva, gnawed and mashed it into a pulp, and spit some of the slimy, pasty substance onto the tip of his little finger. The firelizard opened his mouth, and the young man placed the chewed meat on its tongue.
The gooey paste slid down easily, and the flitter cried for more.
A finger-length of mashed, spit-mingled meatroll later, the little one suddenly stopped eating and fell deeply and instantly asleep.
Climbing to his place behind Hatsheth's neck ridges, S'tar strapped himself in, and allowed the dragon to carefully pick her way back toward the Weyr. He looked down into his jacket and examined his new little companion, from whom he was surprised to feel emotions of safety and comfort. He could also tell, though, that the tiny premature creature was weak.
"I hope you make it," he said softly. He opened his jacket to allow more light in, and attempted to determine what color the firelizard was. At the moment, its thin skin was hard to judge. It was not yet fully developed, as far as he could tell, and he could even see shadows of the jewel-like eyeballs under the closed outer lids. It appeared to be a pale dusky sand in color, fading to creamy white where the skin stretched tight, over the sharp bones, the sails of the wings. Yet, in the folds of looser skin, there was a deep burnt-orange that glittered in its wetness. Unaware that he was thinking as loud as he was, the rider was slightly startled to hear his dragon say:
He is bronze. And he will make it. He will be a proud and strong little cousin some day.
At Hatsheth's thoughts, reality began to settle, and S'tar's amazed and adoring gaze became touched with worry.
A bronze firelizard. And a stolen one at that. Here he'd hoped to get in Lady Crown's good graces. How on Pern was he going to explain THIS?
