The World of Pern(tm) copyright (c) 1967 by Anne McCaffrey.
The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.
An online session, recorded by permission of the author for the benefit of
members unable to attend.
============================================================================

April 23, 2001.  PernMUSH.  E'vrin's POV.
--
Your location's current time: 22:22 on day 6, month 9, Turn 35, of the Tenth
  Pass. It is a autumn evening.
Cast:  E'vrin, St'fen, Schmitt, Mh'al; Kassima.

After his visit with Kichevio, E'vrin comes across a small aftermath of a
green's mating flight and then retreats to a happier welcome-back in the
storerooms.
============================================================================
[In the Telgar living cavern, after Talisha's Imanath went up:]

E'vrinambles inside with a bit of a hum trailing him like some well-worn
  scarf. He's half-smiling. Life is good.

St'fen nods. "St'fen. From Reaches yes." he pounces on something to say. E'vrin
  is noticed and he does the duty bit, looking away from Schmitt for a mere 
  moment. "High Reaches duties." he sounds weary.

--
Remarkable changes have been made to this once Herder Apprentice. His height
  now rivals his dad's at three inches over six foot. Maturity has added a more 
  grownup look about his face. Little ears are more visible since his hair has 
  been cut off and in the middle of that mature face sits a cute little button 
  nose. Above that nose are a pair of blue eyes, a hint of green emerging when 
  emotions run high. Long lashes help to make this face alittle more 
  attractive. His pure red hair has been closely cut on the sides, standing up 
  an inch or two on the top. It takes on the look alot of male riders have 
  adapted. A more musclar body is evident in his thickened forarms and legs. 
  His skin tone has lighten up abit since his move to the North.
He seems to be 24 Turns, 9 months, and 7 days turns old
        An oversized tunic falls just past his waist. Dark green in color, it
  often causes the green in his eyes to emerge. An older shirt, it is not 
  completly worn but looks to only have a few turns left. His dusty brown pants 
  are often tucked into brown calf high rideing boots. But when he is not 
  wearing those, a simple pair of work boots cover his feet.
--

Oh, it is, is it? Schmitt glares up from hunkering over her wineskin as the hum
  intrudes on her communion with it. "Humming," she says flatly. "Stop."

"Thanks," E'vrin says after a moment's consideration. To St'fen, that is;
  Schmitt gets a wide-eyed look of hurt innocence. "Sorry."

--
Very tall and rather thin, Schmitt rises above many people and always looks a
  little too long for her clothes. In her long oval face, her eyes are gray and 
  infinitely curious. Her nose is long and straight, and her mouth seems small 
  comparatively. Long skinny arms, hands and fingers add an appearance almost 
  of comedy, though her expression is usually serious. Light brown hair, cut to 
  just below her ears, swirls about her face; probably her best feature. 
  Schmitt wears a ragged dusky blue shirt and tan pants, complete with sturdy 
  boots. The blue strand of her Telgar knot matches her shirt and can be seen 
  only where it crosses over the black and white strands. Her flight jacket and 
  other such dragonriding necessities are usually found somewhere around her 
  person, and a gleam of gold sparks from her left hand. She is 29 Turns, 0 
  months, and 2 days old. (+detail available)
--

Schmitt bares her teeth in something sort of vaguely meant to resemble a grin.

St'fen looks back to Schmitt quickly, surprised at her tone. He tips his skin
  back to drink and finds it empty. "Shells." he says simply all gone. "Maybe I 
  should go too." he looks worriedly, and well sad that he has to leave 
  Schmitt's side. "I'm sure you'll be fine..."

E'vrin takes this chance to sidle around towards the food and investigate the
  pickings there -- not humming. Definitely, not humming.

Schmitt lifts one hand and wiggles her fingers at Sf'fen. "Bye-bye," she says
  sadly. "'nks for being nice to me."

St'fen stands and makes his way to the bowl.
St'fen walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

Schmitt stares at her wineskin, prodding it with one finger.

Mh'al whistles some sailor's jig, uncorking each wineskin and flask from his
  pouch as he adds all the contents into the bucket without discretion.

--
         This wiry reed of a man has a welcoming smile on his tanned face. His
  angular face isn't too sharp, but isn't effeminate at the same time. His 
  cheekbones are prominent with a solid, square jaw, allowing him to look 
  either very amused or very agitated without a thought. His nose is sized 
  perfectly for his face, gently tapered at the end. His hazel-gold eyes are 
  slightly wider, though they are almost almond-shaped in actuality. His lips 
  always seem caught up in a barely visible smirk, or hiding some personal 
  joke. His long, disheveled blonde hair is pulled back into a ragged leather 
  thong to keep it from his vision. The small mane stops around the middle of 
  his shoulderblades of his muscled back. His total stature, appearing around 
  6'2", shows many days under the sun, working hard labor with developed 
  muscles and sun-kissed skin. Altogether, he seems a nice fellow from 
  appearance, but the long, whitish scar running along his cheek shows he's had 
  his fights as well.
        At the moment, this young man sports the rugged leather outfit of a
  dragonrider. His worn leather jacket, thickly set with insulating wool on the 
  inside, is usually strapped up with very tight, binding straps. The hint of a 
  crimson-colored tunic peeks out whenever he loosens his jacket. His muscled 
  legs are shielded by the same type of leather, hugging close to his skin. 
  Protecting from his knees to his toes are a pair of sturdy, somewhat-black 
  boots that appear very broken in. The very visage of a rider, with helm and 
  gloves in hand. Attached to his shoulder, the colors of High Reaches and 
  Sebring silently speak of his origin.
        He appears to be 20 Turns, 6 months, and 11 days old.
--

E'vrin finishes collecting a handful of nibbly food and turns back to the
  cavern. After a gauging glance over Mh'al, he considers Schmitt. "Doing 
  better?" he ventures.

"Nooooooo," Schmitt drawls out with another nasty grin, "Thanks for asking."
  She flops the half-empty wineskin down on the table, thumping it absently.

You say "Don't mention it," and sounds serious. That's a nasty grin, all right.
  He stays /right/ where he is, nibbling on his food and flicking attention 
  between the two of them, High Reaches visitor and the owner of the grin. 
  "Need any more wine? While I'm over here."

Schmitt boppity-bops on the wineskin listlessly, then picks it up again,
  uncorks and takes another long swallow. "Think I'm set," she half-gasps as 
  she thuds it back down.

E'vrin looks, then, to Mh'al inquiringly.

Mh'al grins broadly, capping all the 'skins and flasks carefully. He sloshes
  the contents of the bucket with a merry grin. "I think I'm taken care of..." 
  The bucket isn't very small, but it's rather full with all kinds of liquors 
  he put in it without second thought.

E'vrin asks delicately, "But what are you doing with it all, if I may know?"

"Drown 'imself in it," Schmitt suggests most undelicately.

Mh'al takes a seat at the table, sliding everything back into the pouch.
  "Drinking it?" He looks at E'vrin, grinning. "Good stuff, I assure you."

E'vrin appears dubious, but has the manners to treat the guest as he should be
  treated. (But a /bucket/...?) "It should be, from here," he says with small 
  pride. Then he skates a look back at Schmitt, serving as prime exhibit of the 
  good stuff's goodness. "Well. I just came in to get a bite to eat, really...."

Mh'al chuckles, shaking his head. "I brought my own." The bucket looks like one
  a drudge would to put dirty water in. Not tonight, though. "Reaches duty, as 
  well."

Schmitt sniffs audibly. "Then eat 'nd shut up about it, for Faranth's sake,"
  she says, "And bring me s'more wine while you're at it?" Her eyes roll up to 
  focus on E'vrin with another, somewhat smaller baring of teeth.

"Thank you, and our regards to your queens and Weyrleaders." E'vrin can make
  nice with Mh'al even if his spine does stiffen at Schmitt's sally. But he'll 
  do nice there, too, fetching a cup of the stuff from the sideboard and 
  placing it within arm's reach. "So much for conversation," he murmurs before 
  backing away again.

"'nk you," Schmitt says a bit more meekly, clutching at the cup. Slurping down
  a good portion of it, she then turns towards E'vrin and rather obviously sets 
  about looking up and down him.

Mh'al smiles proudly into his bucket, peering to E'vrin and Schmitt. "Want
  some?"

E'vrin turns eloquent: "Um." He defers to the blue rider. She can go first!

"D'I look like I'm needin' that swill?" Schmitt sucks up another mouthful of
  wine and works it around for a few minutes. "'ve got wine." She squints 
  towards the Reachian, developing a bit of morbid curiousity, "You gon' try 
  and drink all o' that?"

Mh'al snorts under his breath, appearing quite insulted. "Swill?! This drink
  encompasses all the flavors of Pern. I will drink it all, if noone wants any."

Schmitt leans forward, shoulders still hunched, and tosses Mh'al the Grin from
  Heck. "Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!" It's hard to tell from her slightly 
  slurred voice whether she's being sarcastic, or is actually trying to be 
  encouraging.

E'vrin decides, "I'll have to do without -- this time, anyway. Maybe on your
  next visit?" Watch him back towards the bowl, slowly. Never run in a 
  situation like this; attracts their attention.

Mh'al shrugs his shoulders, grinning. "Fine, fine; don't know what you're
  missing." He tips the bucket, starting to drink his concoction.

E'vrin scrams.

[After a short walk, he finds himself back in the caverns:]
--
Storage Rooms(#15883RAFJL)
You are in a huge, irregularly shaped cavern with an extremely high ceiling
  that serves as the unloading area for all of Telgar's supplies. To the north 
  is a set of double doors, large enough for a tithe wagon to pass through, 
  leading to the rest of the Weyr. Entries to all the storage rooms lie off 
  this cavern; doorways marked 'Root' Cellar, 'Textile' Storage, 'Cold' storage 
  and 'Dry' storage are the most frequented. Weyrfolk bustle about this area, 
  unloading tithe trains, sorting goods, and taking care of all the business 
  involved in communicating with the outside world. Platforms of varying sizes 
  are scattered about, wagons and carts of all sizes are unloaded here.
Many people bustle in and out of the caverns at all times, day and night.
Contents:
Kassima(#11005PMOVceqs$)
--

Glowlight leaks from the half-open doorway of one of the general storerooms,
  and sound leaks likewise, both faint; the latter has the tune of song, 
  cheerful and bright and interspersed with the rustlings of someone searching 
  amongst the clothes.

E'vrin slithers his lean length around the door, but leathers catch on it and
  drag it creakingly further open. Scowling (bad door!), he walks in more 
  openly, commenting when he's nearer the song, "That's a good tune for this 
  time of night, I think. Need help hunting?"

"The drunken rider tune is *always* a good tune." It's more amused comment than
  protest, given as Kassi turns her head towards the source of that creak. 
  "Mayhaps, mayhaps. I'm nay really certain of what I'm looking for, though. 
  Aught that looks as though it might be useful, and if'n that isn't vague as 
  search terms go... g'deve t'you too, I should add."

"And to you," E'vrin returns, gracious as he always is. (Well, almost always.)
  He folds his arms and peers at the rummaged clothing with a good bit of 
  interest. "Something for one of the children? For yourself?"

Kassima admits, "Either," and holds up a shirt about the size for a young
  teenager; it has lace ruffles. She makes a face and throws it aside. "But 
  more likely one of the children, and the bairn best yet. I don't go through 
  clothes quite as quickly, I should hope!"

E'vrin edges around to finger those ruffles. "I wonder if Ysaeve ... No, you're
  not so tough on clothes as they are, but you're pickier, I'd say." He offers 
  a grin to leaven the words.

Kassima offers a raspberry to match, giving the shirt in question a nudge
  towards him. "I, picky--you make it sound as though I'm a regular 
  mirror-gazer, Ev, instead of someone who's walking about in the same clothes 
  she's had for at least seven Turns. Please note, nay the same clothes she's 
  had *on* for at least seven Turns. Big difference. Take the shirt, if'n you 
  want it--I doubt anyone would be minding."

E'vrin does so, his hands absently folding the shirt into a neat, flat package
  while he squints back at the wingleader. "You're pickier than /I/ am, then," 
  he allows. "--How's Lysseth's wing?"

"Your clothes are even older, then?" Kassi burrows deeper into the pile,
  merrily displacing garments and muttering imprecations. "If'n I see one more 
  *frill*--wing. Wing. Oh." She raises back up to give him a faintly startled 
  look. "You hadn't--word hasn't reached you yet, then?"

E'vrin is bland, which isn't easy for a man wrist-deep in ruffly shirt. "Just
  back from Hold Balan's watch this evening. I stopped down here to see Kris 
  before he went to bed, visited a wingmate to get the next Fall's formations, 
  ate something in the living cavern -- and here I am. What have I missed, 
  Wingleader?"

Kassima mutters with mock-direness, "You'd better nay have woken up that ferret
  of his in the doing, or 'Maeva tells me the critter will never get back 
  t'sleep--" It's not a true threat, and distracted at that. Maybe it's too 
  hard to threaten a man wrist-deep in ruffly shirt? Her answer to the last 
  question is a bit vague: "Oh... well, a bit of news, but naught truly 
  imperative to the Wing or aught, really--though speaking of imperative 
  things, tell me, have you any marks in a betting pool currently?"

E'vrin's obviously guilty start at that last bit can't be hidden, even by a
  hundred ruffly shirts. "I've heard something, I suppose. Why?"

"'Twas just going t'suggest that you should place a few marks, if'n you haven't
  yet," is Kassi's glib reply. "And I could suggest a pool or two for you, 
  mayhaps?"

E'vrin folds his hands primly on the folded shirt and composes his expression
  to match. "I'm horrible at betting, Kassi, as you know, so whatever advice 
  you could give--"

Kassima makes a rude sound--at the expression, at the concept of anyone being
  horrible at betting and admitting it? Whichever, she suggests while 
  considering a rather large pair of pants, "The pool on I'sai's always 
  popular. I've several fairly high-stake bets that he'll have eight or more 
  children, y'know, and there've been *rumors* that certain of those I've bet 
  against have made a pact with I'sai t'make sure I don't win."

And there's the leap, less the intelligence that got him into Harper Hall
  training than the intuition that got him stuck with a dragon at Igen: "You're 
  pregnant by I'sai!" E'vrin exclaims, as if this had never, ever happened 
  before at all on the face of Pern. Ever.

Kassima heaves a great sigh, and casts her eyes up towards the ceiling as
  though it could grant her plea for an end from frustration. "'Tisn't *fair*," 
  she complains to the ceiling, "that people should be able t'*guess* if'n I so 
  much as breathe about marks. After all the work I put into keeping it a 
  secret--" Another great, melodramatic sigh, and she gives him a woeful look. 
  "You've gone and spoiled m'fun. You owe me for that one, bronzer."

E'vrin is still being surprised; smugness will come in a moment. "But -- but,
  /Kassi./ To be only the next woman in such a long string, with just as many 
  more to follow you..." He gives her big hurt eyes, a darker green than her 
  own and just as woeful. "I'd expected better from you."

"'Twas a flight, E'vrin," Kassi points out, balling up the pants to throw at
  him. "More than a *choice*--but what's so shameful about that, hey? He's only 
  the next *man* in such a long string, though admittedly six is fewer than 
  eight, so at least the score's equal. I can't give someone their firstborn 
  *every* time."

E'vrin hasn't been away from the Weyr so long that he's lost his instincts
  around Kassima: duck! "...Sorry. I know. But--" He takes a breath, a 
  judicious pace away now. "A surprise, that's all. So, how should I enter my 
  wager, then?"

Kassima blinks once, slowly, and then... then her face lights up. Never a good
  sign. "You can still bet against eight," she assures. "I'm still taking 
  wagers on that. And just so I can be entertained, who would you *have* me 
  spawn by?" A pause here while she stoops to recover those pants, motions 
  still unawkward. Mostly.

You say "Well, me, of course."

Now there's a priceless expression for you, the one on Kassi's face as she
  straightens. "Ev," she points out, "we *already* have a child, and you've nay 
  doubt scads of women who could give you another. Nay t'mention that we 
  stopped being in much position t'produce one some time agone."

E'vrin takes a moment to admire the expression, unself-conscious about his gaze
  as he is, and then admits, "You have me there. That doesn't mean I don't care 
  about you and don't find you attractive any more. It doesn't turn off and on 
  like some smith's toy." Carefully then, he shakes his head, shakes the 
  subject away. "Why are you betting against eight, anyway?"

Kassima makes another rude sound, this one colored by amusement. "Oh, please.
  The reasons we were together always had more t'do with something else than 
  attraction, m'dear--but you're kind t'flatter. Thankee." The pants are 
  folded, and neatly replaced amongst the much-strewn pile. "It seemed like a 
  good number. F'hlan and M'kla each had eight, y'know, and they're Benden and 
  Telgar's most legendary spawners. L'cher aside."

E'vrin looks ready to argue the point, even after having just dismissed the
  topic, but doesn't. Could be here all night, after all... "It takes so little 
  for a man to sire children, though," he muses, more to himself than to her. 
  "Eight seems low."

"Nay quite so little," Kassi murmurs, not smug so much as keeping back
  laughter--which isn't to say she's not sincere, mind. "Nay so little as that, 
  but I take your meaning. Still. Remarkably few *have* eight, for all of that; 
  particularly men with male weyrmates, I might be adding."

E'vrin grants that point with a nod, then asks, "How /are/ they doing, by the
  way? I've seen I'sai only in passing, and M'kon not at all in the past few 
  months, I think."

Kassima lifts one hand to tilt it from side to side. "Methinks they're doing
  well enough; I've nay heard aught about Saskia in an age, although there's 
  always a new crop of young women falling in love with I'sai--standard, that. 
  Myk, now, I don't see so much of, but from what I gather he's still as hale 
  as ever."

"Good to hear it," and E'vrin looks genuinely pleased, explaining then, "I've
  been too long away, even with the occasional sweep and the Falls with the 
  wing. Some things I'd counted on, like I'sai and M'kon, and I didn't want to 
  come back to find things -- changed. Or gone. Y'know?"

"'Tis easy t'be getting wrapped up in work and your own business and lose sight
  of the things outside," Kassi agrees with the wisdom of one who would, after 
  all, know. "Done it a time or two. 'Tis really terribly *boring* in 
  comparison, I later find... but that's still a solid rock in the sea of 
  existance, and there are others."

E'vrin's hand curls around the ruffly shirt. "Yeah," he says, soft now.
  "--Well. I'd bet that I'sai fathers more than eight children. How are you 
  defining that, by the way? Do they have to live past a certain age? Or do 
  pregnancies alone count?" Here comes the harper now, analyzing and digging 
  for those precious operational definitions; but he's eyes-alight smiling, 
  too, enjoying the game.

Kassima's features pull into a faint grimace. "You can't," she complains,
  "that's *my* bet; I'm only taking bets against. You're sure you won't bet 
  against? They do have t'be born, and born live; probably live long enough 
  t'be named, though *that* hasn't been an issue yet." She's a little more 
  sober in discussing this matter for whatever reason, but she does crook a 
  grin at *his* pleasure.

E'vrin sighs. "Kassi, you have to have strict rules for deciding wagers won or
  lost -- oh, listen to me. Teach your granddam to suck eggs next, I will. If I 
  started my own pool on I'sai's offspring, /I'd/ put in those guidelines." And 
  he nods firmly: so there.
You say "I'll bet I'sai gets tired of being discussed like this. Do you think?"

"My granddam doesn't suck eggs," Kassi primly insists. "That wouldn't be
  *healthy*, surely. Scramble them, now--well, you're welcome t'start your own 
  pool; I may even bet in it. Pity you won't bet in mine. You're *sure* you 
  won't?" My, she does sound wistful. "And, y'know, methinks he might, only 
  methinks also that part of him surely enjoys it. There *is* a pleasure t'be 
  had in being notorious, if'n you're bent that way."

E'vrin tries a withering look. "It's an /expression./ As you well know." He
  touches the shirt again, looks back at her soberly. "No, I don't suppose I 
  will bet against that, nor will I start my own pool. I leave that to the 
  master, of course," and there's a slight bow on the last word. "Now, if you 
  ever decided to make a pool on /me/ -- I like a little notoriety. Better than 
  the banality of Hold Balan, pardon the wordplay."

Kassima sighs again, but her headshake is fond. "There goes a chance at easy
  marks. I suppose I should give up on fleecing anyone else with this one, but 
  *'twas* worth a go for awhile... Ev, Ev, start siring more children and I 
  just might. I could start a 'which new lover will he take this month' pool, I 
  suppose, but--all things considered--I think 'twould rather nay, though 
  'twould nay doubt net me scads of marks if'n you fed me inside information 
  like a good Wingrider should."

E'vrin answers like a good wingrider, "Kichevio and I had sex tonight."
You say "But she's not interested in procreation. No chance there, and I
  haven't had /any/ kind of chance at Hold or Hall these past months. Sorry, no 
  pool for me, I guess."

"I take back what I said about the inside information," Kassi decides,
  crinkling her nose. "Although I suppose knowing that could come in handy in 
  some future pool. I'll try t'be thinking of one. And who's t'say you mightn't 
  have more, hey? I don't recall the first two being expected either."

E'vrin quips back at her, "Flights."

Kassima holds up a finger. "But *unexpected* flights. Aye?"

You say "True. I missed one tonight. Sharath was ... perturbed. I'm rather
  hoping he'll go into one of his dry spells for a few months, though, to let 
  me readjust to Weyr life." His grin lances out. "/Then/ we'll talk wagering. 
  I'd love to have more children to spoil. May I borrow Kaylira sometime?"

Kassima supplies without surprise, "Imanath's--Lysseth told me. Thank *Faranth*
  'twill be a long time ere we have t'be dealing with that again. I always 
  thought you enjoyed flights; you don't?" A chuckle meets the lancing grin. 
  "Fair enough. I don't know about borrowing Kay, though. She might resent 
  being thought of as a child at this point... she's sixteen now, after all."

E'vrin opens his mouth, then shuts it. "Don't mention that in front of her
  /mother,/" he mutters to himself. More than one way to borrow -- ahem. He 
  summons up a sunny expression. "I've enjoyed them, but they're exhausting, 
  don't you think? I want to loll around some before Sharath plunges me into 
  that madness on a regular basis again."

"Don't," Kassi quite readily agrees. "She probably wouldn't have you,
  anyway--nay offense. Nay interested in that sort of thing yet, and thanks be 
  t'Faranth for it." Her eyes roll up towards the ceiling again. "Exhausting. I 
  suppose so--certes proddiness is; the rest... depends who you're with, 
  doesn't it now?"

You say "It does, indeed." He tucks the shirt up under his arm and gives her a
  lazy partial salute. "No offense meant to you or your daughter, either, for 
  my part -- and I'd best be heading off now, so I can get this gift to /my/ 
  daughter before tomorrow's workday starts."

"Don't do *that*, either," Kassi chides for the salute, shaking a shirt-sleeve
  at him. "But none taken. Best wishes t'Ysaeve, if'n she's in need of 'em, and 
  fair winds as always t'you and yours."

Willfully ignoring both the admonition and the shirt-sleeve, E'vrin stretches a
  smile at her. "Thanks; I'll pass it along to her. Sleep well, Kassi, and--" 
  ironic gleam of eye here "--take care of that wing of Lysseth's now, hmm?"

Kassima just shakes her head in exasperation, starting to turn back to her
  clothing hordes. "I'll do m'level best, you rogue. Now scoot off before I 
  throw something else at you... and you dream sweet, too."

E'vrin -- what else? -- obeys, trailing laughter.

[Bedtime!  Log ends.]