L'shil is tapped for Zephyr

July 10th 1998
Logged by L'shil

A mass of mousy brown curls perch atop his head, seeming to have been cut using a bowl as the only guide; bright eyes of a warm mahogany peek out from beneath a shaggy fringe of hair. Jovial features mark his pimpled, rounded face, the shadow of a mustache ghosting over his top lip while his barrel torso matches the rest of his chunky, awkward form. Huge hands and knobby wrists provide a bit of contrast, his legs seeming far too long for him though the dainty feet at their ends appear faintly ludicrous.
Distinctively padded with bright jacinth patches everywhere they could possibly be needed, L'shil's leathers mark him even from a distance. >From head to toe a wash of blues clothes him, hues swirlled steadily lighter towards the ground. Helmet darkest, near-purple and plain, leads the eye next to jacket made with room to grow, ranging from periwinkle to Istan ocean; pants loose and slightly billowing from extra length cascade into sturdy boots, the faintest chill shade of frosted sky. Perched on L'shil's shoulder is Lissel.
A cord of royal blue and another of black drape over one shoulder, looped once before trailing into a small tail adorned by twin tassles to declare his rank of Sr. Weyrling Wingleader while the brick-brown ribbon twisted in it gives mute testimony to his pride in brown Piccath.
L'shil is 14 Turns, 1 month, and 14 days old.

The piquant zip of spiced sienna zings along the quirky, compact build of this brick-brown dragon, his stubby wings and short-coupled body built for barnstorming, not gliding flight. Copper rivets his poppy-peppered hide all along the ranks of 'ridges that march down his foreshortened neck and back, and those rusty motes also festoon the jiggery-pokery of his mettlesome muzzle. Thick-muscled, his abbreviated tail is a spitfire's guiding rudder to the intrepid irascibility that illuminates the spangled swirl of wide-set eyes.
Light, clear blue just shy of summer skies wraps Piccath in well-oiled comfort, plain copper buckles a gleaming accent to his hide's speckles. Despite their obvious sturdiness, the straps still give the appearance of being a mere decoration.
Piccath is 1 Turn, 5 months, and 9 days old.
He is 32 meters long, with a wingspan of 53 meters.

Piccath senses Seivvath breezes gently: hot, dry - bone-dry - air all gritty with the scent of the desert and yet there lingers minimal traces of salt. » Visit? We'd like to see you. « to him.

Piccath thinks to you, « I bespoke Seivvath with: Piccath responds with a rustle of warm, forest-rich delight speckled by bright flowers. » Coming! « to him. »

Broad in width, yet skinny in all other aspects is Seivvath's ledge. Talons to slate stone, you land.
Seivvath's Ledge Jagged spires of weathered stone provide all the view their is for this high-set ledge although a downward glance can secure the bustling of the bowl, flooded with ant-sized persons. Talon scrapped ruts channel ragged patterns in the ancient stone, drenched a sombre gray by the joint efforts of Time and the elements; the cragged rim, broad from left to right and so-slender forthward, shows weather-work preformed. Rain and wind have pared at and shrunk it, though it was never huge to begin with. Likewise, the tunnel entrance arches tall but beaten at by forceful gales so that it no longer retains smooth, polished edges.
It is a spring midmorning.
Brown Piccath is here.

You wiggle and push and otherwise act the contortionist to get yourself out from those ridges, and then slip off Piccath as though it all was easy as pie.

You go to the Seivvath's Weyr.
Seivvath's Weyr
Cathedral in height and magnitude, this cavernous weyr has held its pair long enough for them to hand paint the high vaulted ceilings and pin rough-hewn walls with series of tapestries. Curtains ring an arc before an alcove yet larger and more prominent is Seivvath's rush-padded couch, spattered with nothing but black sparseness.
Bronze Seivvath is here.
O'feri is here.

Short though he may be, muscular ropes bind his heavily boned figure with fluid strength and vigor. Sallow flesh stretches tauntly over cheekbones and nose, creating a thin-lipped expression that is not leavened by a shorn ruff of sparsely silvered mud-and-tar hair; nor by the glaring set of creases banding his broad forehead. Instead zealous, almond eyes, thickly fringed by coaly lashes, express the chesire cat mirth he truly feels and savors.
Scuffed, scarred whersuede clinches his bard's shirt's easy billow within the soft-stretched folds of his pitch-black jacket; deepest hunter trims both cuff and collar, the latter opening into the loose-laced neck of his white tunic as the former curls over bony wrists. Pockets line either side of his baggy trous which loosely tuck into knee-high boots, all shiny and worn where crossed laces crease the leather. O'feri's Pouch hangs limply upon O'feri's belt. Perched on O'feri's shoulder is Hareton.
O'feri is 56 Turns, 7 months, and 19 days old.

Taut murky bronze hide skins the flesh from his wind-buffed skeleton, drum-tight over the prominent jags of his ribs, and jutting angles of shoulders. Flanks cut a strained arc away from the slice of his torso, rigging subtle framework for the canopy of chiffon'd wing sails, steeped in Guinness ale from spars to pinions. Gargoyle's claws are marked by dusk, underscored by lucid amber; his boxy muzzle attains splinters of mocked tincture, as do the cusps of craggy ridges that wickedly barb his neck and tail.
Seivvath is 33 Turns, 3 months, and 7 days old.
He is 37 meters long, with a wingspan of 61 meters.

Piccath senses Seivvath quickly retracts, a snail pulling back into his shell. - Besides, who likes flowers anyhow. to him.

L'shil grins cheerily, snapping off a salute that somehow echos his attitude. "Good day to you both, O'feri, Seivvath."

Morning light leaves a broad wake before the arch to Seivvath's weyr and within that light sits the bronzerider, a wineskin at his left side while his dragon allows his nose to be used a back-rest - and a heated one, at that. "Likewise, L'shil," O'feri returns quickly, the words passing his teeth with the speed of an officer. "Likewise," again, softer.

L'shil strolls over to stand in front of him. "Quirky said that Seivvath asked us to visit. Was that your thought, as well?" It's obvious from his tone that he means no offence; it's plain and simple curiousity that prompts the question.

O'feri tilts his head back, passing the wine over his lips - his tongue - his throat before he nods, then wipes remaining moisture from his mouth, "Ah, yes. It would appear that I did. Seivvath would rather not make contact with anyone, anything .. /ever/. Odd dragon, odd, odd, odd… and only will when I have him; so yes, I requested you to come."

Seivvath shifts, coiling his tail tighter as well as strengthening the support of his rider. Sit up O'feri, sit up. I can't breathe- "Not that I don't like the brute," O'feri continues to add, rubbing the bronze's muzzle briefly.

L'shil ahs, folding himself to take a seat on the floor. "Good. What sort of visit did you have in mind? I'd be happy to gossip, but I'd be worse than useless as a drinking partner. Quirky…" A gulp, here, "Quirky says he has plenty of little things he'd like to share. Of course you do! Never yet met a rider who didn't like their lifemate, and here's hoping I never do."

O'feri twitches a finger - just one -, scratching the high, elegant arch of Seivvath's nostril as his other hand clamps over the wine. "Wine partner," he repeats, his tenor loosing all cadance as he drifts close to a whispering murmur. "You'll have to learn, you know, and now's as good a time as ever - have some wine, my friend!" and the rider sticks his hand out, the wine as well. "It's good .. Benden."

L'shil takes only a very, very tiny sip, more out of politeness than anything else. "I wouldn't have anything to really compare it to, O'feri. I was too young before I Impressed, and have drunk nothing more than klah since then, til now. Why will I have to learn?"

"Why?" O'feri, again, says after L'shil. "Why /not/!" his proud voice jumps back, doing exactly that - jumping, pouncing. "Or maybe there's another reason," he says slyly, his eyebrows raised ever so gently as he leans up against Seivvath with snake-like coyness, a mischief all his own. "Maybe, eh? Have some more!"

L'shil shakes his head, gently. "Won't do, getting myself drunk. Can it wait, perhaps, until I'm more used to the taste, if I ever am?"

Like dragon, like rider: Seivvath lids one, maybe two of his eyelids and peers through the opacity with blue-green swirls; a dizzying array of color, churning and changing and him, the dragon, /staring/ through it all. "Not on two sips you won't," O'feri counters, leaning on his elbows with his legs crossed before him. "-but I won't pressure you .. now. Let me think. There's a reason you're here, isn't there? And not just because I invited you. What's your opinion .. am I a drunken old man? Do I have a purpose? Do /you/ have a purpose. Maybe you already know." It's a purr, content and amused: enjoying himself with chesire cat glee, and confusion.

L'shil leans forward himself. And keeps leaning. "Thank you. I wouldn't know, O'feri, but I'm sure you'll - " *thunk* "Ow…" This, after he fell on his face, literally. "That hurt. You'll, er, think of it?"

O'feri eyes the boy - it's really all he is, isn't it? - with wariness, with concern. "Perhaps I was wrong and.." He tugs a foot beneath him, lazily. "Okay, L'shil. I admit. I never forgot. You're no longer a weyrling. Did you know that? You're part of my wing. Did they let you know? -I bet not, I /hope/ not. And either way, you'd've forgotten." O'feri presumes this, considering the other's condition. "Funny how this works, eh? You get wine, you get a wing. Oh, and a knot. Want it?" he asks, reaching for his pocket.

L'shil pushes himself back up, and to his feet. "No, I didn't, they didn't, and I wouldn't have. Yes, please! I'd fall over in shock, but I already fell over once, and it wouldn't do to fall over again, and I guess it is funny." Laughter lights his eyes from within.

O'feri's fingers light upon the knot, take ahold of it then toss it upwards towards the- the new /rider/. "Aye, well. Welcome to Zephyr, L'shil. Enjoy and be gone!" The man lazes back on his dragon, pleasently satisfied: another has been snitched. "Oh, and learn to hold your wine, and like it too, eh?" It's an afterthought.

L'shil chuckles, plucks the knot from his wingleader's fingers, nods, and dashes out to the ledge. "I'll consider it!"

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