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Sister, Sister


Date:  February 7, 2005
Place:  Telgar Weyr Living Cavern
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  The antics of children are frustrating things.  And 
that's just as true whether you're their brother or you're their 
mother. :P ;) Kassima and Stavren have another chance to bond over the 
behavior of  their young charges, and the greenrider makes a promise 
one hopes she won't later regret.

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The Log:

You walk past the lintel and into the wide living cavern.

It's a vaguely frazzled Wingleader who strides in from yon Bowl, giving
Pierron an exasperated glance for his greeting rather than a rude gesture,
making her way to the food supply without any hailed greetings to Wingmates
or acquaintances. Once there, Kassima stops and just stares at the serving
for awhile. Not that it's so unusual; it's more the stare of someone trying
to make a decision while their mind is somewhere else. Eventually she
shakes her head, thumps her own temple with the heel of her palm as if that
will help, and reaches for a plate and tongs, loading the former up with a
modest supper.

Stavren is quietly drinking klah in a chair by the hearth. In profound
contrast, two girls are playing tag-among-the-chairs, with optional
upgrades that involve jumping onto empty tables and crawling underneath
other tables and occasionally snatching stray cookies when Pierron's not
looking. "One or both of you," Stav informs them without looking up from
his klah, "are going to fall and break all your bones, and I'm not cleaning
it up. Don't trip the Wingleader." Pierron's snort must have warned him. He
turns in his chair to smile at Kassima, some hint of mischief lurking in
the expression. "Evening, Kassi. You feeling up to eating again? Need any
special sauces?"

"The thought of never eating again did occur t'me," Kassima remarks once
she's turned and seen who addresses her, and caught the reference--she
must've glimpsed him at Ista; and she makes a good-natured face at him now.
"And occurred t'me, and occurred t'me, about fifty thousand times a'fore I
stopped regretting the whole experience *quite* so heartily. M'stomach's
forgiven me now, though... mostly... although it's made me promise never
t'do that to it again. I'm nay cleaning the broken bones or blood or
squished guts up either," she adds helpfully for the children's benefit,
not that either are likely to be listening to her.

Stavren's sisters apparently possess bones of unbreakable stuff, since they
continue gaily cavorting amid furniture and other peoples' legs without a
care in the world. Big brother makes sure no one's in imminent danger of
being trampled before answering Kassi. "I'm kind of amazed your stomach is
so forgiving. Mine almost got mad at me for subjecting it to the
experience, and I was only watching. May I ask /why/ it was so necessary to
dip...those things..." We shall not name them in front of small adventurous
children. "--into oddly-colored sauces and have an eating contest? My
friend Corona said something about honor and glory." He clearly doesn't
think either of those had much to do with it.

Kassima takes her plate of spiderclaws, banana bread, and other things
better fit for human consumption than the meal they speak of over to her
Wing's table and the chair at its head. She doesn't seem bothered by the
children, although she tracks them when they come near lest she run into
one. "Honor and glory," she answers with a wry grin for him. "Indeed,
exactly. That's much of it. For the story of it--who can say they've done
such a thing, and with a bug that only flies every twenty Turns? For the
chance t'beat M'rek, *always* worthwhile, and most of all, for a bottle of
single malt liquor. And marks." There's a slight pause, so slight it might
well be missed. "And the runner-thing. You should've chipped in a mark and
joined us. Mayhaps the honor and glory could've been yours."

Stavren chuckles. "Do I look like I have a mark?" he asks,
semi-rhetorically, plucking at the collar of his so-simple-it's-either-
high-fashion-or-sheer-laziness shirt. "I came in too late to chip in on 
any bets. Though if it makes you feel better, I was rooting for you and 
M'tri. I was just there because R'maas said 'I'm going to Ista, want to 
come?' and I needed a break from sister-herding." He pauses, considering a 
certain factor just introduced. "Was it /good/ single-malt liquor? Some of 
that stuff can peel her hair right off your chest...er." Watch him visibly 
scramble for a better phrase to use in front of a lady. Greenrider. 
Whatever.

"Who knows where marks hide? You might be surprised who has 'em and who
doesn't, of those who look plain. At least hereabouts. I appreciate the
betting, though." Kassima's long fingers crack open a spiderclaw and dunk
it into the sauce she's taken. She eats this with rather more relish than a
SuSu. "Did you see the eggs while 'twere there? Better t'see them than
t'see men throwing up. Honestly. M'rek hit somebody's *boots*. I believe
'twas good, although d'you know, I never asked? Only assumed." She gives a
sad headshake for her own folly. The gesture pauses mid-motion; over the
half of spiderclaw she holds, she slants him an amused look. "I promise,"
she says, "that was never a danger for me."

Stavren must take a moment to look at his own (clean) boots and clear his
throat. Don't mind him, or the giggling ten-Turn-old whispering "Stav's
/blushing!/" nearby. "That's...good. Can be a tragic problem, I've heard.
Anyway." Ista's eggs are a much safer topic, one that he seizes on. "No, I
didn't. R'maas did say there was a clutch, and I was hoping to find someone
to point me in the direction of the Hatching Ground after all the
excitement was over, but I got to talking with some people, and then we had
to leave. Do they let people other than Candidates and riders look at the
eggs? Prior to the Hatching, I mean?"

Kassima quips, reaching for another 'claw, "Particularly tragic for whoever
gets the delightful task of cleaning all that peeled hair up from wherever
it falls. Can you imagine *that* livelihood?" The twitch at her
mouth-corner might suggest that she overheard that whisper, but she has the
decency not to give other sign. "Look at 'em? Certes. Touching's forbidden,
but anyone and everyone can look, so long as they don't do aught t'be
displeasing the clutchparents. Ulfianth and Essieth, in this case. 'Tisn't
a bad clutch 'tall. Sixteen eggs, which is fair normal for the Interval."

Stavren looks quite fascinated by this bit of information. It's not likely
he'd be looking that fascinated over the thought of sweeping up peeled
hair, at any rate. "I'll keep that in mind. R'maas has been very generous
with his and Ciriath's time; maybe I can convince him to take me and a
sister or two out to Ista to look at the eggs. /If/ any sisters are
well-behaved." This statement leads to a slight slowdown in the mad dashes
around the cavern, and some sugar-sweet looks from the girls. "Faranth
forbid that any of us should displease the sire and dam. Is there a gold?"

"If'n he doesn't want t'take you, there's bound t'be someone going t'see
eggs from time t'time. They have an interest," Kassima offers, grinning.
"For riders. Personally, I'd nay even dream of taking a sister who caused
any problems for me at all t'be seeing the clutch. Wouldn't that be
tragic?" She doesn't look at the girls, nor directly address them, but the
amused gleam in her eyes as she talks to Stavren is a giveaway of itself.
"I don't believe so. Don't trust my word, though. 'Twas sure Volath had
sired none, and look where *that* got me."

Stavren looks confused, complete with furrowed brow. "I'll assume Volath is
a bronze or brown dragon you know, since I don't know the name. You have to
understand, up until two sevendays ago, the only thing I heard from morning
till night was "wedding wedding wedding". Thread could have started falling
again, and none of us would have noticed except to worry it would clash
with Rishka's dress." He steals a quick, laughing look at his sisters, who
are now sitting silently in two nearby chairs hanging onto Kassi's every
word, in case she suddenly decides to fly to Ista. "Let me guess--you lost
a mark or two on Volath's siring capabilities?"

Nor does Kassima miss those two quiet presences, whether she looks directly
at them or not. She's a mother. Sensing what children are up to is an
inevitable talent. "In point of fact, though," she adds, thoughtful,
musing, "if'n I heard of sisters who behaved themselves quite well, for at
least a day or two... why, I might be persuaded t'take them with me
sometime. I don't know, though. Mayhaps sisters aren't capable of being
good for that long." She doesn't even dare break her seeming with a wink,
but there's a moment's half-grin, the side of her mouth farthest from the
girls lifting. "Volath is Vel's bronze, aye, who sired the latest clutch at
High Reaches--and don't worry; Thread's silver, it goes with aught. Which I
can't believe I just said. Anyway, 'twas something like that. Vel and I had
a deal that if'n there was a gold egg, I'd cook and serve him breakfast;
if'n there wasn't, he'd do the same for me. We didn't think there was, so
he did--and then what should hatch but a gold after all? So now I owe him
*two* breakfasts."

Stavren suggests, big dark eyes just brimfull of innocence, "You could fry
him up an omelet of the leftovers from Ista." Ah, but that would certainly
be Wrong. "It's very difficult for sisters to behave, but they've been
known to do it. I'm sure they'll try their best, especially if it means
getting to ride a dragon." His own mouth doesn't mimic Kassi's
half-smile--the girls are watching--but the amusement is there, and eternal
longsuffering sibling affection. "Out of idle curiosity, what /would/ you
have done with a green runner statue if you had won it? Lysseth's not like
Daikoth, wanting knickknacks and the like. Simply betting might have been
safer."

Kassima's laugh is low, rich, and fond, something explained by her reply
of, "I'd never dream of it--the inherent wrongness of making an *omelet*
from dragon eggs aside. I prefer Vel quite unfried. Well, then, just you
tell me two or three days from now whether you know any sisters who've
behaved themselves enough t'rate, and if'n I can't provide the ride m'self,
'twill ask one of m'Wingmates t'do the favor out of wonder for this
marvel." Again there's one of those momentary pauses. But she's breezy
enough in saying, "Put it on m'shelf of mementos as a trophy of a valiant
battle won, like as nay; 'twouldn't be the strangest trophy by *any*
stretch. Or I might have kept it as a Turnday gift for one of m'children.
Truth be told, I'm thinking of trying t'buy it from M'tri for just that
purpose."

"You'd have to fight Daikoth for it," Stavren warns. He has clearly not
seen Lysseth's excellent persuasive skills at work. "Unless he's already
done what M'tri feared and chucked it off his ledge. I never imagined
dragons could be so wei--quirky." Good save for the Crafthall boy! Glancing
again at his increasingly-delighted looking sisters, he adds soberly, "I'm
sure if you or any of your wingmates took anyone on a trip to Ista, your
passengers would be very well-behaved and write thank you notes. And they
would also go to bed when their brother tells them, so I don't have to go
find Mum and make /her/ do it." Between one breath and the next, chairs are
vacated and two dark heads are vanishing into the lower caverns. Stav sits
back with a sigh of relief. "You have made my life so much easier for the
next couple of days. You have no idea."

"He hasn't done that," Kassima assures, shaking her head quickly.
"Lysseth's asked after the statue on m'behalf, in fact. He's... reluctant,
but methinks Lyss can persuade him. She has a way about her." Evidently so.
Her grin shows clearly that she caught what he was *going* to say, and
doesn't mind it: "Go ahead, say weird. He is. Delightfully weird, but
weird." As the girls disappear, she does turn her head to watch them go at
last. A low chuckle sounds from her throat. "Don't stake on that. My
afternoon was spent trying t'keep m'two youngest sons from killing each
other, and when I sent 'em t'Simaeva for punishment, the elder informed me
quite vehemently that he hates me and wishes 'twere dead. And the younger
cried and smacked m'hand away when I reached to him. There's very little
'twouldn't believe right now about how maddening children can be."

Stavren makes a wry face. "Oh, I've been there. Mum still tells the story
of when she found me holding Cashie in one hand and Aldria in the other,
arms-length apart, both of them swearing to feed the other to tunnel
snakes. They were six and four at the time. And I have been hated, loathed,
despised, and declared void of all understanding and human compassion.
Granted, that last was from Bri after I broke her ex-boyfriend's nose..."
He shakes his head and tries to steer the subject away from insane family
members to--insane dragons. "Are there any other dragons like Daikoth I
should be warned about. Or with any other quirks? I've heard rumors that
some dragons keep caverns of humans as their personal slaves, but I'm
pretty sure that woman was joking."

Kassima takes a deep draught from her mug of cider. "'Tweren't kidding,
either, 'twould warrant. Someday I'm going t'figure out what it is that
makes siblings hate each other quite so outrageously. I've several
theories, but none seem t'be explaining it all. Wait'll you have your own
children, if'n you do. You'll *really* know passionate hatred then."
There's a certain weariness in this, maybe a touch of bitter, but she gives
a half-grin anyway and lifts her mug in silent toast to the anger of
children. "So why'd you break the boyfriend's nose? Dragons with quirks.
Shards and stars, a'course. They're like people, y'ken: personalities all
their own, and aught with a personality is going t'have weirdness of *some*
kind to it, unless that personality is very, very boring. Daikoth's got an
odder set than most. And I've never *heard* of any who wanted whole caverns
of slaves, but there are a few who might expect you t'scritch them whenever
you're near enough as their rightful due. And others who'll be highly
affronted if'n you come too close, t'say naught of touching."

Stavren nods and looks to be taking serious mental notes on which dragons
to politely avoid. "No touching unless invited. Fair enough. As to Bri's
boyfriend..." He leans back in his chair and absently presses his fingers
into his forehead, as though pushing thoughts into order. "Oh, I think I've
told you a little about Bri. She's a flirt and doesn't really think
anything about it, she just does it because /she/ thinks it's fun. About
six months ago, I overheard her boyfriend--they'd been together a couple
months--boasting to his friends. Saying things you just /don't/ say about a
woman." One hand closes briefly around the arm of the chair. "After that,
he went on to assure all his friends that Bri was easy and they could all
have a turn. At which point I walked up to him and broke his nose. Was on
the verge of trying for his hands as well, but other people got into it
about that time. Bri hated me for disfiguring her true love, until her
friends told her what the fellow had been saying. Then she just declared me
a big stupid dumb male who fixes all his problems by fighting." He
half-shrugs. "I can't win. But I'm used to it. And not sorry, either."

An affirming nod from Kassi for the first; for the second, she echoes his
posture, leaning back to listen with her fingers curled around the mug.
"The one who might end up pregnant," she agrees. "You mentioned. Saying
things...." She trails off. "Now I'm curious as t'what things, that were so
bad as that, but I can't really ask, can I? But--shells, for the sake of
kin of mine, I'd probably have broken his nose *too*." Curiosity has given
way to audible disgust. "I hope you walked away relatively unscathed, but
for his sake also that it healed clean. Has your sister's taste at least
improved a little from the experience?"

Stavren laughs softly. "Ah, the little wher was eight inches shorter than
me. He didn't have time to hit back. One punch knocked him down, the second
broke his nose, and the third had him mostly unconscious. The worst I got
was bruised knuckles." He briefly considers Brijanta's taste in men.
"Somewhat, I'll grant her that. She's sixteen, she still tends to fixate on
the good-looking ones even if they're tailforks. But she's improved. Except
for the whole thing with her new brothers-in-law, which I think I mentioned
is why we're all down here." He finishes that statement with a jaw-cracking
yawn, and stands up slowly. "I think my cot is calling me. Good night to
you, Kassi. I hope Lysseth gets that statue without having to resort to
threats against Daikoth."

Rather than horrified or disturbed, Kassima looks vaguely impressed by this
account. "Three punches and he didn't land a one on you? That's fair
impressive. Mayhaps we should spar someday." Offered with all evidence of
sincerity. "Fixating on good-looking ones isn't always something age cures,
I fear. 'Twill nay deny that I don't find good-looking a bad quality
m'self. But she'll hopefully learn t'be spotting the tunnelsnakes in the
caverns, and--aye, you mentioned. At least it's gotten you a break from
ordinary life?" The grin she flashes him is amused, but sympathetic too.
Then, "G'night t'you, too, Stavren. Pleasure talking with you again--don't
forget t'let me know how your sisters do, aye? Lyss will appreciate your
well-wishes."

Stavren walks towards the inner cavern.

You walk down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.