Post by Rhush on Sept 30, 2012 0:25:39 GMT -5
Srunae's getting taken from Ista to Mavros~
Excited murmurs and hums of impatience resounded in the bowl, each different voice a warm and eager herald of a new beginning. A few candidates milled about, talking about their hopes and dreams, their interest in the new chances to impress at this place called Mavros. Gossip ran rampant about the latest situations surrounding the southern Weyr, ranging from the poisoning of a weyrwoman and a weyrling gold to the flagging ability of the Weyr as a whole to survive threadfall on its own. Srunae simply sat quietly amidst the small gathering of transfers, listening to the painful stories and likely unfounded gossip of those she could expect to be with her in the candidate barracks. Mostly gentlemen, this lot, but there were a few women around besides the tawny-haired beastcrafter, generally chatting gaily with each other about the clutch on the sands laid by the unfortunately poisoned weyrwoman’s gold. Chatter about it ranged from the two gold eggs to the relative size of the clutch, a massive seventeen count. Sizes, she was hearing were anywhere from the smallest (and most likely to be a green’s) egg to the large golden shells of the Queen’s daughters.
Srunae chuckled as one young girl declared she was going to impress one of the fledgling queens, and another boy said he would impress a bronze. Srunae? She would be happy if she impressed even a little green, slim and slender and waif-like as she might be. Turns of failure, of rejection - they tended to change one’s expectation of impression. When she was younger? Perhaps she might have quietly dreamed that she would impress one of the young metallic females. Turns of being left standing generally did nothing beyond make one expect less, prefer less, and in general, just be happy with whatever little suede-hided baby found their way to you. She sat primly and quietly upon her belongings in Ista Weyrbowl, mind lost in the imaginings of another Weyr, another place, another chance. She was excited too, though not as outwardly as the others, to have this chance - but at the same time, she expected it to be nothing but hardship, whether she impressed this go around or not. Stunted tithes, madmen in the mountains poisoning the weyrfolk, the Weyr itself being left essentially on its own to survive as best as it may...
What kind of a world was that?
Srunae had been through many a hardship in her lifetime, but this...? She had always had food on the table, always been secure in her financial standings, her work ethic, her ability to handle beasts - but never had she been thrust into a new world with positively nothing. Even then, from what she was hearing, this weyr might not even survive the next threadfall - and what of them? She gazed around at the younger, buoyant candidates and their claims to fame. What would happen to them, if they impressed and Thread took the Weyr? Would they go to Mirran Weyr instead? So many worries danced through her mind, and yet Srunae couldn’t get up the desire to take her things back to the Caverns like some of the earlier arrivals had. She could do something, she believed, anything, to help, and the first way to do that was to get on one of the Mavros’ dragons and head for the South.
Speaking of which... She looked around thoughtfully, warm hazel eyes rising to the sky. Where were those dragonriders? They were nearly late.
Excited murmurs and hums of impatience resounded in the bowl, each different voice a warm and eager herald of a new beginning. A few candidates milled about, talking about their hopes and dreams, their interest in the new chances to impress at this place called Mavros. Gossip ran rampant about the latest situations surrounding the southern Weyr, ranging from the poisoning of a weyrwoman and a weyrling gold to the flagging ability of the Weyr as a whole to survive threadfall on its own. Srunae simply sat quietly amidst the small gathering of transfers, listening to the painful stories and likely unfounded gossip of those she could expect to be with her in the candidate barracks. Mostly gentlemen, this lot, but there were a few women around besides the tawny-haired beastcrafter, generally chatting gaily with each other about the clutch on the sands laid by the unfortunately poisoned weyrwoman’s gold. Chatter about it ranged from the two gold eggs to the relative size of the clutch, a massive seventeen count. Sizes, she was hearing were anywhere from the smallest (and most likely to be a green’s) egg to the large golden shells of the Queen’s daughters.
Srunae chuckled as one young girl declared she was going to impress one of the fledgling queens, and another boy said he would impress a bronze. Srunae? She would be happy if she impressed even a little green, slim and slender and waif-like as she might be. Turns of failure, of rejection - they tended to change one’s expectation of impression. When she was younger? Perhaps she might have quietly dreamed that she would impress one of the young metallic females. Turns of being left standing generally did nothing beyond make one expect less, prefer less, and in general, just be happy with whatever little suede-hided baby found their way to you. She sat primly and quietly upon her belongings in Ista Weyrbowl, mind lost in the imaginings of another Weyr, another place, another chance. She was excited too, though not as outwardly as the others, to have this chance - but at the same time, she expected it to be nothing but hardship, whether she impressed this go around or not. Stunted tithes, madmen in the mountains poisoning the weyrfolk, the Weyr itself being left essentially on its own to survive as best as it may...
What kind of a world was that?
Srunae had been through many a hardship in her lifetime, but this...? She had always had food on the table, always been secure in her financial standings, her work ethic, her ability to handle beasts - but never had she been thrust into a new world with positively nothing. Even then, from what she was hearing, this weyr might not even survive the next threadfall - and what of them? She gazed around at the younger, buoyant candidates and their claims to fame. What would happen to them, if they impressed and Thread took the Weyr? Would they go to Mirran Weyr instead? So many worries danced through her mind, and yet Srunae couldn’t get up the desire to take her things back to the Caverns like some of the earlier arrivals had. She could do something, she believed, anything, to help, and the first way to do that was to get on one of the Mavros’ dragons and head for the South.
Speaking of which... She looked around thoughtfully, warm hazel eyes rising to the sky. Where were those dragonriders? They were nearly late.
