The Candidates of Dedanseth and Tyroth's Clutch in Winter 2009!
Here will be posted all the vignettes of the super-cool Candidates!
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Got your vignette done and want it posted, email it to T'ab at moc.liamg|lidabot#moc.liamg|lidabot
Running
She's seventeen, and she's running across the northern continent of Pern.
It’s early spring and she’s been up since dawn. The last Messenger station she stopped at was run by a family who reminds her of her own, for all that they’re swarthy brunettes with strangely light green eyes. Her time was marked, her legs were rubbed, hot bath and hot food were given, and a long bed with a soft mattress. And now she’s alone again, running the trace.
She’s starting to hit her stride, now, lungs working like bellows to give her blood oxygen. Right now, she feels as if she could run forever. She’s passing through the foothills of Benden, heading south for Nerat. The trace conditions are good. It rained the night before last, and the footing is springy without being too damp. Her feet fall in regular soft thuds against the thick moss. Her braid bounces from one shoulder blade to the other, her skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat. She feels wonderful.
All around her, enormous trees grow, reaching up to sweep the sky with their branches. Skybroom trees, starting to bloom, give off a heady, musky scent, and as she starts down-slope, she spreads her arms wide, catching the air with her hands. For just a moment she closes her eyes and tips her head back and pretends that she’s flying.
— a memory, half-lost, of her father holding her overhead, laughing while she giggles and spreads her arms out like wings —
And then common sense takes over again and she opens her eyes and puts her arms down and runs. Around her the buzz and trill of insects and small animals fills the silence between breaths, and the rush of the leaves being caressed by the wind underlies everything, as if the world itself were breathing with her.
At mid-day she stops for lunch and rest. She spends a few minutes cooling down, stretching, shaking out her legs and arms and slowing her heart enough so that she can eat without choking. She has heard of a small, hidden pool around here, and she finds it without too much trouble. The water is cool and clear and sweet, welling up from underground and trickling away into the underbrush. She looks around, sees no one, and strips naked.
The water slips over her skin like a sigh, and she revels in the feel of it. Eyes close, head tilts back in bliss, fingers spread under the surface to test the resistance of the water as she swirls her hands around. She can feel soft fronds of underwater plants reaching up to tickle the backs of her knees. She dips under, wets her entire head, and comes back up for her sandwich.
Lunch is eaten, and she knows she should be going, but she decides to linger for just a few minutes longer. She tips her head back and brings her feet up and floats on the surface. The sun filters down to land, warm, on her face, across her body, a delicious contradiction to the cool water. The wind whispers over her, makes her shiver. With her ears under the water, she can’t hear anything but the thrumming rush of her own heartbeat. She feels… completely at peace. Somewhere in the back of her mind, music plays.
It’s a beautiful moment.
Finally, though, she knows she must go on if she wants to make the next Messenger station by dusk, so she lifts her head from the water and plants her feet on the silty bottom and stands up in the waist-deep water.
And sees the man.
He is standing there, eyes wide. He wears no knot, and though his clothes are old they are well-maintained and mostly clean. He is tall, and dark, and undeniably handsome, with dark irises in a tanned face, framed by a neatly trimmed chestnut beard.
She gasps, startled, terrified, and exhilarated all at once. She is naked. Alone. He is looking at her. Without thinking, she dashes toward the opposite shore where her shoes, her clothes, her bo-staff, her messenger pack, all lie in a neat pile. She snatches up her things and streaks away, a pale form in the dark forest, quickly disappearing toward the trace and leaving the man, still startled and motionless, behind.
She reaches the trace and bolts down it, toward her night’s destination, belongings still clutched to her chest instead of on her where they belong. For a good half-mile she simply runs as fast as she can, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder to see if she’s being followed.
Her wits catch up with her, finally, and she stops. Listens. Hears nothing but her own ragged breathing and the sounds of the foothills. Hands shaking, she dresses herself, resumes the protection that clothing can offer. Her feet are another story. While the trace itself would allow for barefoot running in most places, the woods she dashed through did not. Numerous cuts and bruises cover the soles, and she hisses in pain as she pulls on her socks and shoes. Nothing for it but to continue, though.
Continue she does, and she makes the next station well before dusk. There her time is noted, her feet are tended, and admonishments given along with hearty food and a long, warm bed. It takes her a few days to recover, for the cuts to heal, before she’s allowed back on the trace again. Her hosts never get the full story about how it happened. She doesn’t tell anyone. Every night, she dreams of the man.
He scares her, but at the same time, some vague, half-recognized feeling has been awakened for the first time. A slow, low heat, a nervous, excited sort of energy, an indefinable yearning. These things are new to her. Frightening.
She buries them. Afraid to think of what the feelings are, she ruthlessly squashes them down, turns her mind to other things, burns off the energy through running. In running, she know her purpose, who she is, what to do. There is no uncertainty here.
This is what she does. She puts her head down and stretches her legs out, one and then the other, and propels herself forward. She runs.
Taking a Rishk
She looks like her mother, minus the eccentricities of her appearence. She has her father's eyes. She has her grandmother's temper, but the patience of her grandfather. Family. You are the product of your raising, she has always been told. You are Harper and Weyrbred, and thus, those are really the only paths that your life can take. You can either, like your mother, forsake the Craft and live a life of servitude to the dragons and their lifemates, or, like your father, cultivate skills and a knowledge that will serve to make you a prominant member of society.
What will you choose, Madeline?
She's sixteen turns old. Old enough to make her own decisions, but young enough to not be taken seriously by those older than she. Her right hand on the banister of the staircase, she slowly ascends to the corridor, where she knows she must face the music, pun intended. Each step is taking deliberately, but so slowly it seems as if she'd give anything to prolong these moments of the in between. Her head down at her chest, she focuses on keeping her breathing steady, but chews on her lower lip, her own nervous tick. Too soon she is knocking on the door, and familiar voices beckon her inside.
The faces of these family members, so similar to her own, are speculative. Their eyes take in her tense stance, her lip-chewing, and her downcast grey eyes. They look at each other, and each emits a sigh. And without her saying anything; they know.
"I suppose we'll get in contact with your mother," the grandmother comments, reaching over to locate a spare bit of parchment to begin penning a note to the greenrider. "Though don't expect her to reply quickly. She never was prompt, that one." She doesn't make eye contact with her granddaughter, whose tense stature has devolved into wounded, as she takes in the disappointment evident the older woman's voice.
"What will you do?" the grandfather asks, voice not as peppered with emotion as his wife's. "Do you intend to garden, like your mother?" He may not convey as much with his voice, but his posture becomes rigid, and unyielding.
"I.. I don't know," Madeline speaks, eyes focusing quickly from one to the other. "Perhaps I'll be a Nanny. Or assist the Headwoman. My handwriting has always been good." A Harper skill, she realizes too late, but the older pair remains silent.
Her grandfather's bronze firelizard pops in from between, and the grandmother is quick to attach the letter. Within a blink of an eye, it is done. "You should pack," the woman instructs with another sigh and a shake of her head.
"You'll have Tildy soon," Madeline attempts to assuage her family. "Mum says she's an artist. She'll take to the Hall much better than I ever could have." The chewing on her lower lip continues. "I'm.. I'm sorry," she apologizes quickly before she offers the two Harpers a departing salute. "Thank you, for everything." And with that, like her mother before her, Madeline exits.
After her departure, the older couple reach to hold each other's hands. "She is so much like her mother," the male comments, an odd smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he pats his paretner's hand. "Whether she wants to be or not."
"I suppose you're right," the woman answers him, her own ghost of a smile appearing as she again shakes her head. "Whether she wants to or not."
Siraji
Baji is five in this vignette. I'm hoping the rest will be self-explanatory.
His mom was finally asleep, after having been awake and worried for so, so long, when Baji crept into the infirmary. His dad was in the chair beside the cot and the crib now, and that little thing, that little thing was so small he could hardly see it for his dad's big, warm arm.
"Dad?"
He was shushed almost instantly, and he could feel his stomach turn a little. They hadn't even let him see it yet. But his dad's big shoulders turned around, and an arm reached out toward him, the fingers making little wave moves, asking him to come closer. So he did.
"You've got to talk quietly. You don't want to wake your mom up." His dad's voice was so low and soft he wondered if it wasn't just Nverath talking his dad into his head. Baji looked out toward the ground weyrs, but there was no familiar glow of dragon eyes. His nose wrinkled, but he didn't have time to think about it. His dad's big hand fell around his shoulders, gave a little squeeze, and drew him closer. The other arm, meanwhile, tilted that little thing just a bit so that Baji might have a better chance of seeing in the dimmed light of a mostly-lidded glow basket.
He was careful to whisper this time. "So that's… it?" When he reached his hand toward that little thing, Baji could feel his dad smiling more than he could see it. He touched the folds of the blanket that his parents had that little thing wrapped in, but he was scared to try and touch what was inside. He knew it was fragile.
"Siraji."
"Siraji," Baji repeated, and the name felt strange.
That big hand on his shoulder moved up to ruffle at his hair. "S'okay, Baji. Y'can touch her."
But Bajiren didn't reach for her again, bringing his arm back in against his belly, and rubbing the finger that had touched the blanket in the palm of his other hand.
His dad's big shoulders lifted up and down as he sighed, but the big man didn't sound angry. "Reason she's so small is she was born too early. That's why everyone's been so worried. S'why we been stayin' in here."
Bajiren kept on twisting that finger against his palm. His dad's hand had fallen back to his shoulder, and it made his shoulders feel so little. But not as small as that thing his dad was holding. That little thing.
"We just want t'make sure she's gonna be okay." His dad's voice sounded strange suddenly, skinny and small, and he looked away from that little thing in the blanket and up to that big face. "They ain't s'posed t'be born so early. A little sooner an' she probably wouldn't even be here now."
Baji straightened his shoulders under that big hand, stopped his own hands from fidgetting. He could feel his dad watching him, but he had to take his time and make sure his idea was as solid as that broad chest he was next to. But he could be just that strong.
"Can I hold it?"
His dad didn't answer for a while, and Baji started to feel he'd done something wrong. But then the big man was up, moving very quietly, and pointing with his free hand to the chair while keeping that little thing up against his chest. "You have to sit down, first."
He sat as carefully as he could, and let his dad show him how to hold his arms. When his dad laid that little thing in cradle he'd made over his lap, he was surprised at how heavy she was. But he knew why everyone was so scared she'd break, too. She squirmed a little, and Baji's eyes went wide, and he leaned back in his chair and brought his knees up, and rested his feet on a crossbar between the front chair legs, to make a better cradle so she wouldn't fall, and he held her in closer against his chest. She held still, and he could swear he heard her fart. It made him smile.
His dad was hovering over him, his arms crossed over his chest now, and Baji could feel that his dad was smiling, too. He looked up at that big man, and asked, still speaking as quietly as he could, so he wouldn't wake his mom or Siraji up, "Dad? D'you love her?"
The big, shaggy head nodded, and his dad said, "A whole lot."
Baji smiled, making sure to keep his arms strong, even if they were starting to get tired, making sure to hold his little sister Siraji good and close. "Me too."
Underneath
It stank.
That’s what stood out in Ianto’s mind every time he looked back at that seedy little tavern in Tillek.
It was dark, the few glow baskets strewn around on the tables were faded, not that anyone really wanted the place to be better lit anyway. It was darker still under the table where he crouched, peering around warily at the other patrons, some already slumped over in drunken hazes, others busy getting inebriated.
"Stay outta tha way." A gravely voice growled out above him. Ian peers at the stout legs clad in patched breeches beside him, familiar as they’re often seen sending a kick his way.
"Ya." His answer was short and succinct, having learned early on not to bother his uncle whenever he started drinking or whenever his dubious friends showed up. More legs appeared and settled around the rough hewn table and soon the rattling of dice could be heard above him as well.
The coarse conversation held little interest for Ian, occupying himself with just gnawing on an end of a rather old loaf of bread and almost dozing off in the heat pouring out of the hearth while leaning against at a table leg.
It was the rise in the voices around him that startled him into wakefulness though. The dice had stopped rolling it seemed.
"That was a bad roll." A rather surly and grating voice said, laughing hoarsely. "You're gonna have to pay up on that Kobin."
"Shardin' dice!" Kobin whines. A fist pounds on the table top, making Ian jump underneath.
"Got the marks to back up that mouth of yours?" the other voice asks. "Yer credit's run out."
"Come on, Arzo. Another round, I could win this time."
"You've had enough chances Kobin, if you can't pay up, we'll take whatever you have."
"I've got nuttin' left, you know that." There's an ominous pause. "What about a boy?"
Ian freezes, a frisson of cold running down his spine and fear clutching at his chest till he can barely breathe. Slowly he starts edging out towards the end of the table, not going to take his chances.
"What? Fah, that scrawny thing that you've got tagging around? He'd probably eat more than he's worth." Arzo sneers. "You're gonna pay up on them marks Kobin or we're cutting 'em out of your tripes." A chair scrapes against the stone floor and the legs belonging to the other gambler leave the table.
Breathing a sigh, Ian huddles while nursing a building sense of anger deep inside. It's been a growing thing lately, each time he's gone hungry because Kobin drank away his marks without worry about feeding his nephew, every swat from his drunken hands.
"Lousy, good for nuthin' kid. Wasting my money and.."
"And nuttin'. Ya drink 'way all ya git all the time." Ian snaps finally, crawling out and glaring at his uncle from the other side of the table. "Haven't had a warm place ta sleep since ya lost yer little cot and ya bad with the dice too."
"Rotten kid! Never shoulda taken ya when Adala brought you here, squalling little brat." Kobin's face is thunderous but then falls after a moment. Was that regret in his eyes? Grief perhaps? "She shouldn'a died too. So young, me little sister." Ian almost heads around the table to console his uncle, but then the man reaches for his tankard again and the boy shies back. He knows where this is going.
Without another word, Ian turns and quickly heads out the door, pausing only for an instant to look back at the man drunkenly crying into his cups one last time. "Goodbye."