All references to worlds and characters based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction are copyright © Anne McCaffrey 1967,2000, all rights reserved, and used by permission of the author. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey, used here with permission. Use or reproduction without a license is strictly prohibited. For more information, visit the Worlds of Anne McCaffrey.

12-10-01: Home Truth
Relian carries his boots in one hand, not quite tiptoe-ing in his socked feet across the caverns, hesitating only momentarily...

Relian carries his boots in one hand, not quite tiptoe-ing in his socked feet across the caverns, hesitating only momentarily by the edge of one of the more empty tables. Winding the laces of his boots about the fingers of his left hand, he sidles towards the serving table, here filling a bowl with an oatmeal-like substance, gathering up a spoon. Turning back, he heads back across to that mostly-empty table, taking a seat, boots set down on the floor beside him.

Weaver enters, as Relian does, her steps just slightly more tentative than his, a finger tip-touching her bottom lip. Quirking a 'brow, Nyla begins poking about for a warm jug of klah, and when finding one, scooping a glazed-blue mug up in her fingers and filling it, shuffling towards Relian and grinning devilishly, pine-needle green eyes glancing over at him, and the girl sliding onto a seat across from him. "You're up early." She remarks, chuckling.

"It's the best part of the day," is Relian's glib comment, only slightly tinted with a hint of mimicry and mirth. "More seriously, I couldn't sleep. And what about you? No later for you." He kicks his boot under the table further, a clumping sound indicative of this, as his spoon is raised, hesitantly, over his oatmeal. He eyes it, consideringly. "Hmm."

Sage nod, and Nyla's lips spread in a warm, if not dashing smile, her head tilted just so.. perfectly, shall we say, that the Weaver can give the Resident a quick look-over. Hmmm. "Someone meeting me here to discuss a commission I may or may not be taking." She shrugs, and eyes the 'oatmeal' warily. "Istan bread is much better than that goop."

Relian, with an audacity that might not be entirely indicative of his usual demeanor, waggles his eyebrows in response to the look-over, his spoon dripping the oatmeal with somewhat subdued relish. "I think you might have the right of it," agrees the young man, letting the oatmeal subside back into the bowl. "Mother always said that a warm breakfast was a good thing, though--and she made me promise I'd look after myself." He gives the meal another dubious glance. "But..."

Chuckling, Nyla rests her head against her palm, finger tracing the rim of the still-brimming mug in front of her. "Don't Weavers always." She comments idly, in response to Relian's first statement. "Hmmm? Mother?" What with her never having an /actual/ one - her fostermother did fine 'nough, "Are you new to the Weyr?" Weaver asks, inquiring in that sarcastic tone that always nips her tongue.

"No," retorts Relian, over earnest and absolutely obvious. Letting the spoon slip down into the bowl, quite gooey, he pushes it away, cocking his head to the side to watch Nyla from a new angle. "Yes, I've been here since Spring began, more or less. I'm my mother's youngest." Again, he's earnest -- as if oblivious to her sarcasm, but somewhat prideful of his own words.

Nyla reclines back in the seat, cocking her head and chortling softly, lips pursed as she takes a sip of the klah after the giggles die down. "/Right/." She remarks, hiking 'brows and nodding quickly. "Really? Who are the others? And where are you from? You talk so... blue-bloodedly, if you get what I mean."

Relian's face pinkens at Nyla's laughter, his eyes downcast, as if seeking great mysteries from the bowl of oatmeal no longer in front of him. "The others? Oh -- there's six of them. My father is the Holder of Black Rock River, down south." Mildly repentant, the young man adds, quietly, "I don't *mean* to talk like that, it's just..." Trailing off, he blushes again.

Taking another deep sip of the klah, Nyla's tongue rolls out and over her lips, as if scooping up any of the rich, chestnut-flecked liquid that might have remained on them. "Holder? Well, it rubs off. You bein' all handsome - all Holders are handsome, right?" Chuckling again, the Weaver winks at Relian, her face all glowy 'n stuff. The hair, the pine-needle green eyes all wide and glossy - t'would normally make for a cute look. Unfortunately, it doesn't.

"Handsome?" squeaks Relian -- such a good look, let alone sound -- flushing furiously. "Er, I don't know. I mean..." Whatever he means, he doesn't say, peering more inqusitively than ever at the table. Wood grains; mmm. "You weyr people *like* making me blush," he complains, the flush receeding. "Don't you?"

More unrestrained giggles. Weaver shakes her head and sweeps away the comment with a gesture of her hand, her eyes glancing, for the first time, towards the mug of klah, tipping the cup a little towards herself and frowning. "I'm just fooling with you. Don't be so..." So? "Fiesty." Mwah. Swiping a lock of hair from her cheek, Nyla gives her head a quick toss and the long, ashen-blonde hair falls precisely in place. "Weyr people? I'm Istan, but not from the Weyr. I'm over at the Weaver Hall, just off the Hold. Come visit, sometime, oh," A pause, as the girl glances over at Relian, quirking a 'brow, "What /was/ your name?"

Relian struggles valiantly, and is rewarded by restraint; instead of blushing, he merely coughs into his hand, raising his eyes to meet Nyla with an expression of true patience. "We all have our little games, I suppose," is his breezy comment, made with more confidence than his posture belies. "Oh. From the Hold." Maybe it's just Northern people. "Oh! I *am* sorry, that was exceedingly rude of me. I'm Relian. Well met -- er, and who are you?"

"T'wasn't really a game," Nyla ripostes eagerly, downing the last of her beverage and lowering her chin, "More so a test on how well you'll survive here." A shrug; a simple rise and fall of shoulders, follows this comment, made ever so languidly. "Nyla, Weaver Senior Apprentice, and Ista Hold Resident respectively." Tipping her head towards him in a slight nod, she offers her hand over the table, avoiding the ignored oatmeal. "Well met, Relian. How long are you planning on staying at Ista Weyr?"

"And the conclusion?" Relian's retort is bemused; he can laugh at his own responses, now that he's past responding. "Very poor?" He leans backwards within his chair, hoisting his arms to rest them upon the edge of the table, tracing woodgrains. "Well met, Nyla," he notes, lifting a newly down-placed hand with a mild rueful smile, shaking her own with a firm, strong grasp. "As long as it takes. I'm here to research: I'm creating my family tree." Only; it's round.

With a satisfied bob of head, Nyla replies almost instantaneously, "Three sevendays, at the most." Another wink, and she too relaxes back in her own seat, an arm reclining lazily across the head of it as if she's hugging someone beside her. Though, that grasp did surprise her - she had expected something a little softer. Eyes oddly wide, she glances back to Relian. "Ah. Where are your roots, at Ista?" She asks. And no, she doesn't mean that in more than one light.

"Three sevendays!" responds Relian, with mock-horror. "Oh dear. I'm never going to find what I need, am I, if I go insane and run away screaming -- and drown myself, probably -- within three sevendays." He pauses, adding, "Although, I've been here for longer than that already." Hah? "Er, no. An uncle of mine -- well, a great-great uncle -- came this way, turns back. I'm hoping to find him." Pause. "At least, his descendents. Or traces of 'em."

Nodding promptly, Nyla grins and rubs her hands together, fingers intertwining and relaxing again. "And if there ever were a more perfect place to drown, I'd like to see it. Ista's water's are /just/ divine!" She cackles, rolling the last word around on her tongue. And then, a lift of 'brow. "I daresay that you won't find much of him around," A comment, made blatantly during his speech, "Ah, yes. Well. Tapping a newly-found stick against the table, Nyla glances outside, and frowns. "I'd better be going.. t'was nice to meet you, Relian. I sincerely hope we never meet again." What? Well. With that sly wink and audible laughter, one can tell the girl is fooling again. Oh well.

"Not as nice as Black river's!" insists Relian, not quite defensive -- in fact, he's teasing, if the glint in his eye is any indication. "Possibly not." He pauses, then nods, "Oh, okay. I'll see you...maybe. Some time. Nice meeting you, too!" He flushes, at her laughter, scuttling away -- boots gathered up into one hand. Poor dear.