ADA. Adalaya! Aaaaaaaada! Fionabhairth says you're Ada now! We hope you love her! You came to us, woo'd us, and made us call you OURS! Welcome (back) to Ista Weyr! We are sooooooooooo happy you applied! HERE IS YOUR AWESOME GIRL! She's part banshee, part woman, part Riverdance — why, she's everything you could ask for and more! Full of suger and spice and everything else! While we worked to give you everything you asked for, Fionabhairth is yours to play as you will. We hope you enjoy her! — Lida, Alys, N'ayl, and Kanga

Ada's Wail of Warning O'er the Moor Green Fionabhairth


Clutching Message
At long last, Dedanseth seems content with the nest she's made. She eventually positions herself just so, then waits. And waits. Good thing dragons don't need privacy for this sort of thing… Finally, the first three appear. She wastes little time covering their bases with nice hot sand, because that is not the whole of this clutch. Back to the waiting.

A Virgin Shall Summon Us Egg
A smudge of feline black guards the base of this egg from unwitting innocence, a tiny smudge against the forested darkness and the insinuation of a cottage that lies within. Purple smoke winds around the chimney'd apex, the ghostly suggestion of three tiny figures silhouetted against it - one on a broom, one on a mop and one on a… vacuum cleaner?

Hatching Message
A Virgin Shall Summon Us Egg shudders in its sandy recess, cobwebbed cracks crackling the guise of smokey softness to the egg's shell. Shell shards fall away slowly, as if the being inside is taking its grand old time with emerging. But soon two hazy green wings force the egg into two equal sized chunks, allowing A Wail of Warning O'er the Moor Green Dragonet to emerge with confident swiftness into the world.

A Wail of Warning O'er the Moor Green Dragonet
Softly breathes the delicate gasp of chilly pine, a spectral green hue laced in raveling ribbons of layered mist; they race in horizontal streamers, shivering ripples of satin fog, obscuring the hint of lean haunch and compact ribs. Forward racing, at the center of her narrow chest they meet in stark points directed down, forming the natural V of entwining silver bands that encircle her slender throat as clasping hands, linked e'er atop the crowning center of her hidden heart. Brave and cool, this tinsel band braids whispered patterns down her spine, woven knots that glitter softly amidst intricate ridges, spanning from long tail up to ghosting gilded features, a face long and ageless of sculpted cheekbones and steady gaze beneath the regal crown of long curving headknobs. The steady shade of frost hazes thicker on ascension through wingsails, dispersing at the fringes of fine flight membrane with a faded sigh. Deeper, sweeter, in her shade soft moss grows thicker and darker into forest night to encase long lady's toes in clingy velvet shadows.

Public Impression Message
A Wail of Warning O'er the Moor Green Dragonet harkens to that hope. Two souls drift as passing shapes in the void, bound in silvered chains of fate. Her trains of misty wings sleek, and while there are shell fragments and candidates, these things matter not - her grace of being sees only a single runway set. Patiently, continues her trek across the sands, her body moving almost weightlessly as she peruses the candidates; taking her time on this, the most important of searches. There, is that it? Something down the line catches her eye. Perhaps it's the springing auburn curls. Or maybe it's the pale blue eyes? But this young green has found /something/ that calls out to her, hearkening her upon Adalaya's person as she stares up into whirling eyes. Home.

Private Impression Message
A rustle whispers, just the slightest of breezes that blows o'er the gentle rolling landscape that forms behind your eyes. At first it is dark and silent, just that smell of dewy grass, a fresh fallen rain gently tickling your senses — before the moon rises. Silvery light splays between the gnarled branches of dark leafy trees even as a forlorn sounding cry echoes around you. « Ada. » It is a soft voice, a feminine voice, coming from everywhere and no where, even as the brick and mortar of a manor house begins to take form in the distance, that wind picking up to send the slightest of chills. « I am Fionabhairth. » Tone is clipped, breathy, while the clatter of ghostly dancers performing upon a wooden floor echoes as an eerie wail to the senses. An almost unseen but lingering presence persists onward. « And I am hungry. »


The Banshee

Who sits upon the heath forlorn,
With robe so free and tresses torn?
Anon she pours a harrowing strain,
And then she sits all mute again!
Now peals the wild funeral cry
And now… it sinks into a sigh.

- Unknown

The theme for this clutch was "Haunted Legends" and we could think of nothing more suited to your strong feminine green than the Irish Banshee. Banshee, or Bean-sidhe, is Irish for "fairy woman". Her sharp cries and wails are also called "keening". The English word "Keen" is from the Irish Caoineadh meaning "lament". There is no harm or evil in her mere presence, unless she is seen in the act of crying, which is a fatal sign. The wail of a banshee pierces the night, its notes rising and falling like the waves of the sea to announce a mortal's death. She is a solitary woman fairy, mourning and forewarning only those in the best families in Ireland, those with the most ancient Celtic lineages. The banshee loves the old mortal families with a fierce and unearthly caring.


She sharply contrasts against the night's blackness, her white figure emerging with silver-grey hair streaming to the ground and a grey-white cloak of a cobweb texture clinging to her tall, thin body. Her face is pale, her eyes red with centuries of crying, but this is not the only way that the banshee appears. At times she is seen as a beautiful young girl with long, red-golden hair, wearing a green kirtle and scarlet mantle, broached with gold after the Irish fashion. At other times, she will appear shrouded and muffled in a dark, mist-like cloak.

White Lady of Sorrow, some people name her, and Lady of Death. She is the Woman of Peace and the Spirit of the Air, for despite her wailing, she is somehow graced with a manner of peace. Unseen, banshees attend the funerals of the beloved dead, and sometimes she can be heard wailing, her voice blending in with the mournful cries of others. Each banshee has her own mortal family. Out of love, she followed the old race across the ocean to distant lands. Her wails or keening can be heard wherever the true Irish have settled, for they never forget their blood ties, and neither does she.

Egg Inspiration

Hocus Pocus! I love this movie - it's probably my favourite Halloween-themed ones. The egg is the witches' cottage, with Binx guarding the base from any curious virgins who might bring back the evil witches. And the title? From their curse, of course!


Name Inspiration

When trying to come up with a name for your Celtic beauty of a dragon, Lida and Alys went to town looking up Gaelic names. They went through literally at least twenty, nixing this and that because while some of them LOOKED pretty, they sounded terrible, or they had the right SOUND (feminine yet strong) but looked overly masculine or like someone sneezed letters and called it a day. Finally, after a good deal of searching, Lida found the name Fionnabhair which comes from the Old Irish name Finnabarr: finn "bright, fair" + siabhre "phantom, fairy". Thus, we cropped out one of the n's, and this bright and fair phantom became your Fionabhairth. According to pronunciation guides, the name should be pronounced fyuhn-OORth, but you are welcome to pronounce it any way you like.


She'll be stark, Ada. Not jarring, not… really but there will be a severity to your green that will grip her, an undercurrent of something haunted and wispy that she shall carry for the entirety of her life. She is somehow weightless, somehow both removed and unattainable, but also soft in her own way. And not unkind in her bearing.

Her looks are based heavily on thick, foggy moors, all faded washed out blue-greens that seem to layer up beneath thin sheets and veils of rising mist.


Her feet are darker, murkier, a deep mossy green through her toes and fingers, which are exceptionally long and delicately articulated at each joint. As they rise into her legs, the fineness of her narrow bone structure will be most evident - she is long-legged and just slightly angular at the elbows, ankles and knees. The dark coloration of her feet will begin to unravel, thin bars and ribbons of frosty gray-green growing steadily thicker and overlapping more and more, making faint suggestions of horizontal stripes wisping along her flanks and hips until, by the time it reaches her wings, it's a sort of milky pale, frosted-grass hue that appears almost weightless as clouds, filtering light through their thin, smoky sails.

Her neck is not overly long, but it arches into a delicate swan-like bow, supporting a face of glossy silver; her visage is delicate but not *slight* - her cheekbones are prominent, her headknobs extending unusually long and slightly curved inwards towards their ends - she is more empress than maiden, her bones long and regal, refined but not so delicate as to appear fragile. She is a predator, your Fionabhairth. Sophisticated, complicated in what she desires, but still a predator, and her silver talons and the hidden daggers of her teeth pay homage to the assured idea - even at a glance - that she eats her meat alive.

From the back of her skull, trailing clear down her nape and beyond, this silver of her mask pours; atop the misty greens of her back, it laces in complicated networks in and out of the line of her ridges with trails of pristine silver. They intertwine in patterned knots, orderly and precise, growing more and more narrow as it nears the tip of her tail.


This narrow band of knots has only one break - just above her shoulders, where her neck fits into her body; the fall of silver trickles around her neck in a delicate choker that terminates in a V at the hollow of her throat. Here, at the crowning center of her body, there exists her core, her heart. You asked for a claddagh, a ring given as a token of love or friendship - here over her chest will it rest. Whether you feel it is a literal shape atop her breast or a hidden secret for only you to understand is yours to decide.


But she is yours, truly, and this place at the center of her chest is indeed her weak spot for the love she has for you, Ada. It will be her undoing. When you stroke this region, just below her throat, when you oil her, when you rest your head here, she will melt for you. Call it an Achilles' heel, call it your secret weapon - she won't care.

« Yessss… » The sense of a breath held, the shiver of bated fog freezing over - and then settling to cling against the skin in melted, clammy drape. « Right there. »

She is a self-possessed and unflinching green. There is a sort of dainty precision to the way she moves that brings to mind the word ‘picking' - she picks her way along the ground, her wings and silvered tail drifting behind her natural wake like a tattered shawl of mist. It's not *prissy* picking - the movements are reminiscent of the way a deer would move through tall grass- feet lifted up very high on long, lean legs and set down with each light step like a spear, balance perfected, tight muscles hardly seeming to even roll beneath the skin.

Flight will be much the same - your green may seem so involved with her own inward world you may worry sometimes whether she even enjoys flying at all. She's cold, and she flies without the typical green-dragon's fixation with sharp turns and mad races for speed. She's not slow by any means. Just fuss-less, without nonsense. She has heart, and she has many passions, but the heart put into her flights is something measured and controlled as an ice skater performing complicated spins. Concentration. Practice. Execution.

This will be the nature of all her movements. She will eat in neat snips and quick nips, she will lie down with the deliberate ease of a weighted fog settling on a bank. Her hunting will be wickedly effective but as seemingly joyless as her flight. She has no interest in sadistic kills, but neither is she of a sympathetic mind for her prey. The banshee is a creature aware of life and death; it is an awareness that threads through her every action, and when she comes for the lives of her food, they will simply be brought down. They will simply be killed. They will simply be eaten.

And when she is done she will be remarkably cooperative with her bathing, even when she's young and sloppy with her movements. For there WILL be a little sloshing and missteps. Think of a fawn - strong, capable legs, a general instinctive grace… and sometimes, sometimes a phenomenal blunder in balance when her own confidence gets the better of her.

For all of this chilly precision and firm courses of action, for all her long bones and sharp joints, you would think she was chilly to outsiders. But her presence is somehow… inexplicably… soft. Almost sorrowful in a detached way. With her clutch siblings, she will have a strange, wordless sort of indirect gentleness at times that may feel almost… pained. Possibly awkward, if she tries to play. She cares. But she is cool and drifting behind her cold, cold mists. And while the mist is gentle, while the mist may kiss the flesh of those that pass through it and allow them deep as they may venture, it is not a thing that can be possessed. And as gentle as she may be, she may just as gently slip away when no one is looking, like fog beneath a rising sun.


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor

- Loreena Mckennit, The Highwayman

Ethereal. Soft, gentle, as light as the touch of a spider's web to your skin. It's a whispering of feeling that expands beyond that first touch to the eerie, ghostly moon that hangs high in the sky. Large and round, it eclipses even the harvest moon, a single moon that silver's the moor.

The moon behind trees, the moon high in the sky. The darkened land that shadowed forest green so tied with the night. It's forever the witching hour, the hour when the line between this world and the next is at its thinnest. Streamers of fog stretch like bony fingers across the rolling land of the moor, the trees caught in the moon's ever-seeing eye. A lone manor house stands guard, vacant and empty.


A shiver of disquiet perhaps crawls up your spine at this visage, for it is eerie. The first time you hear her voice, it will be the breath of sweet caress against your mental ears. A soft sound. Delicate. Feminine.

« Ada. The spot on my hip itches ever so much. Would you be so kind as to…? » The question hovers on the air, unfinished with that breathless waiting that comes when the idea shimmers on the end like silken thread. She waits, her touch as delicate as spider's silk, a gentle wind brushing over the eerie, moonlit moor. A haunting of thought, of words, and of desire.

When she wants something, or when she's cajoling you or your clutchmates for the whims of her desire, she will have this delicacy to her voice and desires. It will be mere haunting of desires, the sweet soprano voice lilting sweetly in your ear. The words are faintly accented, a touch like a Fortian accent, though altered somehow. While Ada would not know this, were you to supplant yourself into Pern, you'd know this accent for a touch of the Irish. Ancient Irish without the taint of modern days.

However, Fionabhairth's touch does not always have such delicacy and finesse. Her moors are not always silent and eerie. She is female, and not just female but a banshee, and that potent combination comes with wild mood swings that wreck havoc upon the body's ability to stand beneath the full onslaught of her temper.


« Jhiovharameyth!! You cretin! You ATE MY DINNER! » The sweep of the moors seeks to drown out the sound of the other's smacking mindvoice, the eerie moon hangs like an eye of judgement as her true nature emerges. The high, keening wail of grief starts small at first, the hint of a wind that is no wind: a psychic wind of grief and wailing rising high on a banshee's howl. Her voice is a soprano rage that eclipses even the lone manor house, no longer able to stand guard. « I will not forget this. » The sweet lilt to her words becomes a cutting cadence, the authority of the banshee's wail undeniable. It is strong enough to buffet the mind; a clear, clear sign of Fionabhairth's anger.

When she's angry, the eerie, ghostly moor becomes a backdrop to her banshee wail. It's a scream of pain, anger, grief, and sorrow, braided into one strong voice of authority. The once sweet sound is twisted into a female's ire that no one can ignore.

It will sweep across her dark moors, bending the trees to her whim, stirring the fog that drifts across the open spaces, and turning the moon's light to something sinister. Putrid yellow rather than cool, milky silver.


Now, Fionabhairth has many moods between the sweetly cajoling girl to the banshee's howl. The banshee's howl will come when force is needed, when will is desired. Sometimes she weaves it together, to get what she wants or to do what needs to be done. Underscoring all of her words, all of her mental touches is the sense of tapping feet, of the movement of bodies in a delicate dance. If Fionabhairth is the banshee, this is her audience. The ghostly call that answered her summons to perform the ghostly dance across the moors.

« Ada. » Her voice is sweet, soft. The soprano tones lilt sweetly, innocently. « You need to remind T'ab the next time he tells you he'd have you that you are a Lady. » The subtle tap of feet underscores the stirring of wind that signifies the start of the banshee's howling voice. When it is not Fionabhairth, but the Banshee, that emerges. Tap-tap-tap, tlot-tlot — the sound is hushed, muted by the moor's moon soaked night but it's there. The ghostly dance has begun, the authority rings true, her soprano tones hard and unyielding in her desire to see you treated right.


Fionabhairth is a lady, above all else. She will speak to any and all that she chooses on her whim. As the ghostly banshee, her whim is hard to predict and even harder to understand, so be prepared to find her talking to just about anything that catches her fancy. That's not to say she's chatty, but that she's a creature of moonlight, ghost stories, and intricate dance. Who's to say what part of the number she's on?


Right from cracking shell, Fionabhairth is a lady, Ada – and that's just something you'll have to get used to. The other dragons in your clutch may go through more of an adolescent mental stage, but your green remains generally constant in her approach to all things on Pern save for very few: distant. High up in the candlelit windows of her country moor manor house, your green surveys lands both real and mindscaped, protecting, observing, and learning all she can.

This green knows who she is, where she came from, and who you are from the moment that she looked up at you with those whirling eyes. You two are partners. A team. You have each other's backs, and you are the one she wishes to share this world with. You two are going places, and while she may play sweet and innocent with other unfamiliar dragons and their riders, with you she can often be somewhat brutally honest.

Castle: What's the strangest pet you've ever had?
Beckett: You.

Your relationship will certainly not be the easy partnership that some other dragonriding pairs enjoy from the moment of bonding. Fionabhairth is, for the most part, a solitary creature, living inside her mindscape's manor house as she roves between the true real world and the one of her own creation. She loves you, this much is incredibly evident by the fact that she'll let you wander those moors alongside her, chatting as the silky breeze of her mental ease both cools and comforts on a hot Istan day. While she may chide you, especially if you are acting in a way that she deems not ladylike, it is simply out of her love for you that she does so. You are her family, and she wants what's best for you.

The only other dragons, save for a special few that may later in life earn her favor, who will enjoy this level of confidence with Fionabhairth are her immediate family. Like the Bean-sidhe, whose charge it is to protect and warn her family of any impending doom, your green will feel a fierce and undeniable loyalty to those she, and you, call family. This applies especially to her clutchparents, Dedanseth and Tyroth, and your mother Taya and her green Otyliath. It is their approval she is seeking when she chooses to stand out from the crowd, and their honor she seeks to protect. Thus, being that her clutchparents are the current Senior Queen and Weyrleader dragons, her loyalty to Ista is incredibly strong. Her mindvoice may suggest that she prefers cooler climates, but be forewarned, should you choose to spend any significant time off of the island, your delicate Fionabhairth will begin to complain, pining almost wistfully for the sandy shores of her homeland.

A delicate breeze becomes just a tad more forceful as it pushes at your consciousness, the smell of wet earth and greenery becoming more and more potent as a distant wail is heard; a heartbreakingly sad noise floating on the wind. « Ada.. are we to go home soon? »

And even if you resist, telling her you have business at Fort, or a luncheon at Gar, she'll simply want to return home. This may cause some problems when it becomes time for you to choose a career. Your best bet would be something where your duties would keep you close to the Weyr most of the time, close to her family. While Fionabhairth does take great pride in promoting her home and heartland, after a sevenday or two diplomacy duties, and transporting dignitaries, and sitting in on meetings, she'd become listless and restless and would become prone to interruption.

Did we mention that Fionabhairth is vocal? She is a dragon who loves to listen /to the sound of her own voice/. She finds strength and power in using her voice, which she does whenever possible. And we don't mean just in flights, it is any time the inclination hits her. Like the Siamese cat of the dragon world, she is expressive. Not content to simply have silent exchanges with you, they will always be accompanied by some colorful sort of noise to illustrate her point.

Fionabhairth rumbles in a moan-like fashion « I stubbed my talon. »
Fionabhairth shrieks excitedly « DRILLS ARE SOON! »

And a voice can be such a powerful thing. You'll find her trying to use her voice to manipulate her herdbeasts before they become dinner, to frighten random canines into running across the bowl, and even in attempts to /break stuff/. Yes, she is fascinated with anything made of glass and will try her best to warble or rumble at a frequency to break it to pieces. Although that is probably not possible, it will definitely cause some eardrums to hurt the more she tries it. So this may be something you have to work on with her in weyrlinghood, just to tell her /when to keep the pie hole shut/.


When it comes to her clutchsiblings, Fionabhairth has a bit less of an adoration, and more of a true sibling relationship: mainly, she finds them embarrassing and a tad annoying at first. Should Jhiovharameyth attempt to make conversation with her about the precise measurement of lilac in the oils she prefers, she'll sigh (both audibly AND mentally) and tell him, albeit snappily. The poor guy likely won't know what hit him until he's completely shut out of her mind as she moves onto whatever interests her next. Though perhaps in the next sevenday or so, she'll ask that you find something scented to add to his oils (or maybe it's just to cover up that nacho smell). There's a sense of toying there, knowing she's in control of their relationship, and when it gets closer to her proddy cycle, poor Jhio had better watch out.

Out of all other members of her clutch, Dzyveth will receive a kind of begrudging respect, both because of his color and size and because of his somewhat diabolical nature. He, unlike any of her other siblings, will have the power to manipulate her, that smooth voice able to penetrate her senses. She'll do a bit more to keep on his good side, perhaps sensing his ambitions, and take heed of his thoughts on important issues. While she certainly won't step down to him on any issue, she allots him more outward respect than some of her other siblings. The hot girl having the thing for the bad boy? What else is new?

Eabryllth's somewhat bumbling nature in the romantic world will give Fionabhairth cause for pause, often sticking up her nose a bit because she thinks SHE knows better. Any time he tries to flatter her, she will cut him down with a somewhat clipped question, asking for clarity, pretending she misheard, or any number of excuses to make the poor blue feel a bit the fool.

« Oh, Fionabhairth, I love you. »
« What did you just say, Eabryllth? »
« Uh… olive juice. I said 'olive juice', I thought that would go well on your herdbeast. The humans seem to like it. »
« Have you eaten today? That is ridiculous. »

Auralyth. Besides you, Ada, there's only one being in this world who will see the soft, sweet side of Fionabhairth, and that's Auralyth. Her green sister will soften Fionabhairth's ire, even when she's filled with rage. She will feel the incessant need to protect the innocent Auralyth, to guard her from all ill which would threaten to burst the little bubble of sunshine she's created around herself. She will let Auralyth frolic in her moors, chasing phantom butterflies and finding hidden caves and valleys.

There is one simple way to incur Fionabhairth's wrath: to insult her family. She may get to think that a majority of her clutch siblings are unfit for polite society, but should one other dragon harp upon the imperfection of her brothers or sisters, whether it be in the form of an insult or constructive criticism, be prepared for a very VOCAL and very ANGRY lifemate.

The rush of a maelstrom of wind surges hard from the sky, thick clouds of rain descending upon the moor in painful shards. « VRYKTH. » She does not call, she /shrieks/, voice coming from everywhere and no where even as a dark mist rolls in, a distant wailing managing to pierce the night. « How /DARE/ you criticize Jhiovharameyth! He is TEN TIMES the dragon you will ever be! »

Beckett: I don't look, I hunt. And trust me, you don't want that.

Both controlling her temper and overcoming her vocal outbursts will keep you busy during your weyrlinghood period. But even afterwards, she will constantly surprise you. Whether it's a new training regimen which allows her body to bulk up a bit to jostle those boys around next flight, or deciding that she's only going to eat goats for the next month — it is hard to tell what her true motives are. A lady never tells.

Beckett: Oh Castle, so many layers to the Beckett onion, how ever will you peel them all?

Fionabhairth, as already stated, is a lady and above all else comes with a lady's quirks. Yet, not only is she a lady, but she's a lady with her own personal power. She will seek to rise among the ranks of dragonkind. Wingsecond, wingleader, assistant weyrlingmaster — these, to her, are but steps on the ladder of rank. She's very, very conscious of her own personal rank against others.

« Ada… » A whisper in the darkness, the delicate touch of a spider's web that could be the thin strands of the banshee's hair. Beyond, the darkness envelopes the moor, fingers of fog stretching across the rolling land like finger bones. Candles flicker in the upper windows of the lone manor house that surveys all. « I cannot believe that Kehemath has a higher status than I. » Her words are cutting, the razor-sharp edge of a gossip's tongue wagging in your ear, her voice sweet and venomous. « I would make a much better assistant weyrlingmaster. »

She will disdain anything she finds beneath her, but at the same time, will seek to bestow upon anyone else the relative boon of her graces. While she might back-bite about other dragons to everyone else, to their face, she is achingly sweet.

Now, Ada. That's not to say that while she desires these ranks, that she does anything with them. Nay! Should you attain some rank within the weyr —

The howling wind spells one thing and one thing only: ire. « Ada, we are wingsecond. Why are we not wingleader? Vrykth is a horrible choice for wingleader of his wing, we would be better. » The ghostly galleon of the moon is a putrid yellow that hangs in the sky. The banshee's voice cries out in the distance, full of rage and aching loneliness. « If they let carrion like that into their ranks, WE should too. » Expectation comes with the ghostly dance of hundreds of hard-soled feet tap-tap-tapping in rhythmic cadence. « Ada… We need to be wingleader. »

— she will constantly push to the next highest level. However, once rank is attained, she sits on it like a glittering jewel in a jewel box. And. Do. Nothing. By do nothing, we mean, do nothing. She'll attain her coveted rank, and sit on it. This will earn you some stares, because no matter how hard you try, you're not going to get her to budge an inch. Until she wants the next rank, that is.

"Fionabhairth, we need to get going. We've got to set up before drills."

« Pfft. I am resting right now. I need my beauty rest. » Sweetly deadly, the banshee's voice is a soft howl that tumbles through the moor and wraps around the solitary manor house that watches all. The moon's ghost hangs in the sky, indifferent to her moods. « I will go when I feel like it. »

"B-but… we're wingsecond… We have to be there."

« I do not care. »


As you see, rank is a mere glittering jewel to put in her box of "conquered" social levels. Its only use is so that she can be above the other dragons, or at least of equal social level. She loathes being "lower rank" than anyone she's conversing with. This constant comparison… well it will happen with EVERY dragon or person you will EVER encounter for the rest of your weyrlinghood.

This will be a source of contention between you, because this behavior will reflect upon you. Fionabhairth seeks rank only so that when she compares herself against someone else, she can be better than they are. Human or dragon alike, she wants to be the uppercrust of Weyr society. She wants to be the crème de la crème, to have the rank that others dream about.

As such, Fionabhairth will not like to be out of the loop. Her weyr will be smack in the middle of the "important" people. Like any social climber, a Lady very much assumes that if you hobnob and rub against the "important" people or dragons, you'll sort of get their "specialness" through symbiosis.


Ada, dear, you'll know it doesn't work that way. However, no matter what you say or how you say it, you will never get her to understand.

« Go, go, go. There's T'ab with Lanti. Go talk to them! » The rushing of the wind echoes eerie through the moor, the banshee's cry still soft, Fionabhairth's voice still sweet but the edge of danger is there. As if, if you do not obey, that keening sound will reverberate through your ears. And NO ONE wants to incite Fionabhairth's temper.

"But… Fionabhairth… that won't…" You might start to say, knowing the truth of things and how they work.

« GO NOW! »

That single word… and so you'll go. And probably be embarrassed to butt in on a conversation while the other people look at you like you've grown a second head.

Be prepared to have awkward moments like this. It's not the same as Jhiovharameyth's awkwardness, but maybe you can bond a little with what Iili goes through. Because this life… well it's yours now. As Fionabhairth is yours.

One saving grace exists in having Fionabhairth as your lifemate, and that's hunting: She will eat delicately, she will eat cleanly — even as a baby dragon — with very little mess. You'll never have to take her to her bath after a meal because there will be not a SPOT on her.

The downside?

It takes her FOREVER to eat. She eats in mincing bites when she's a baby, taking the food you've cut up and eating as if it were a five course meal set up at an expensive Holder's table. One candlemark… two candlemarks … all your friends have left the barracks… three candlemarks… your duties are supposed to start… four candlemarks… FIONABHAIRTH HURRY UP!

Everrrrrryone will despair when Fionabhairth has to eat, because it is an affair. And hell hath no fury than a banshee-green's dinner disturbed. Some of your clutchmates — and you! — will get the sharp side of her tongue if any doth disturb her!

When she's old enough to hunt, she will disdain it. Until she realizes you're not going out there to prepare her meals for her. So she will, but she will complain the ENTIRE time.

« I cannot BELIEVE that I have to prepare and kill my own meal. What happened to before?! » Her banshee's nature will be in full force, the ghostly dance an almost chaotic tap-tap-tapping against the backdrop of the eerie moor.

Oh, but Ada, be prepared, for she will cajole you and beg you and try to barter with you to kill her food for her. Maybe you'll cave, maybe you won't, but be prepared for a fight if you don't!

« Oh, please, please, Ada. I am not feeling well today. » Fionabhairth's voice is sweet, coy, a soft touch to your mind. The silvery moon hangs above the dark moors, shadow'd forest-green deep in the trees that surround the land. « Would you please prepare a feast for me today? » The lilt to her voice pulls at the heartstrings, the banshee's voice absent in the wake of such gentle persuasion — it is all Lady Fionabhairth!

"Not feeling well?" you might inquire. If it is the first time, you might fall for it, but if it is the second, third, or five-hundredth time, you'll be more the wiser. "Do you need to see a dragonhealer, Fionabhairth?" Slyness might work.

« Dragonhealer? » Mental pause as ire and temper stir up the howl of a far off pitiful cry that spills from the manor's flickering-light windows. « No. I am fine. » Each word is a snap of a tree branch, a hard tlot-tlot of tap-shoes as the ghostly dance is stirred. « Forget it. I will, of course prepare my own meal. As usual! »

Do you cave? Will there be times when you have the Weyr's herders butcher a meal, skin it, and then cut it up for an adult green dragon to feast upon? This is wholly and entirely your decision, but if you don't, be prepared for the first sweet caress of cajoling to the fiery banshee scream of temper.

Fionabhairth is a LADY, after all!

To other lady-dragons, she will see them as both friends and enemies. In the crowd, she will gossip and talk about the ladies, even with other ladies. She will forget her tongue sometimes — she is that cold, beautiful creature in the crowd that everyone wants to be friends with, but no one can stand should she hold secrets that could be leverage. She's a social climber — she will be loved and hated for that, by all, but especially by those dragons who are female enough to really… well.. be girls together.

Kehemath? Won't understand her, and truthfully, Fionabhairth won't really understand Kehemath since she's not the traditional female, lady-dragon. A dragon like Rahkshamanith will intrigue her, but her cyclical nature will confuse your poor green. And Faranth help Pern should she meet any of the dragons from High Reaches's past clutches, because Eriphyliriuth will make her head spin with her fractured wisdom and Zhizusikolymuth will turn her off with her almost militaristic ambition.

But others… oh she will understand others. Especially the Southern lady Dzakath and young queen Jivayath. And you will have to control that wagging tongue of hers!

To other male-dragons, why, they are the secret to social success, right? Even the dumbest among them are still male, still the keys to the social kingdom so to speak. Should she want something, she'll try to charm higher ranking dragons like Vrykth and Gudrotgoth, attempting to appeal to their more basic masculine natures even when neither of them will have any of it. On the flip side, with dragons like Ruenalth and Tyroth, this might just work. Especially if Fionabhairth offers a little… shall we say? … incentive? Hey, don't fault her for her archaic thinking; were you not on Pern, you'd understand that this is her way of clinging to the newfound beliefs of a patriarchal society brought to the Irish Celts by the invaders, that social caste system that relies on the males rather than the females. A girl's way of adaptation, of thriving, and of gaining a toe-hold in this new society. It's just too bad /Pern/ has not lost that matriarchal social ladder, for then Fionabhairth would succeed very, very, /very/ well.

You'll try to remind her that among her kind, it is the females that rule. The golds — but no, Fionabhairth won't listen. Were she human, she'd sleep her way to the top, and she might still try.


Does she want that pretty new knot? Well, she might PURPOSEFULLY time her flight to include the person who could give it to her and have that person's male dragon win. And then order you to remind them of how wonderful the flight was and that maybe they should consider her for that position.

It might work…

… buuuuuut most likely not.

From baths (she MUST look her best) to eating (a Lady is NEVER rushed) to attaining social rank (which she will SQUANDER), Fionabhairth is a dragon you'd better be prepared to handle because it's going to be one HELL of a ride.

Welcome to riderhood, Ada. Welcome to AWESOME-CRAZY riderhood!



Upon a darkened night
the flame of love was burning in my breast
And by a lantern bright
I fled my house while all in quiet rest

Shrouded by the night
And by the secret stair I quickly fled
The veil concealed my eyes
while all within lay quiet as the dead

Oh night thou was my guide
of night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other

-Loreena Mckennit The Dark Night of the Soul

Your Fionabhairth is quite the spectacle in flights. Lucky for you, she will give you /plenty/ of warning before she is about to go up. Perhaps too much warning…to the point where it might be annoying to get her minute by minute updates.

« Ada » She'll wispily waft over your consciousness « Ada » and then another « ADA! »
« WHAT?! » you may say, woken from a really good sleep.
« I think it might be tomorrow that it happens. »
« Okay, okay, just, luckyeep, won't you?? »

But tomorrow it may be the same thing, but she's wailing about a stubbed talon, or the weather being imperfect for a flight or something.


Now, for the flights themselves, here's the run down. She prefers to go up at night when the shroud of darkness can be used to her advantage. If there's fog, or it's raining? All the better! And she's a very picky dragon, preferring browns and bronzes to blues; only the most /noble/ suitors can she accept, in her opinion. A strong woman, she commands the chasers with authority, and they /better/ chase her in her preferred formation - an erratic approach just won't do.

Like the "Blue Irish Dance" depicted above, she'll dance between the edges of the spotlight of suitors, and they better keep in time with her, or else. Weaving, bobbing and twirling, delicately dancing in and out of the conscious thoughts of her suitors, driving their flames of passion with a strong bodhran beat, knotting their feelings and hormones into a tightly woven ball, stirring their emotions to the point of frenzy. Pity the dragon who tries any fancy dive-bombing or colliding or threatening of the other competitors, they will get the "Fiona Is Mad At You" treatment (TM). This consists of loud keening, shrieking and moaning, to the point where it may even /hurt/ the ears of both dragon and human alike. During the culmination of the flight, expect a victory scream that will /definitely/ be heard all across the Weyr bowl. After flights you may hear people in the caverns asking, "What happened last night, it sounded like a hundred herdbeasts were being tortured and beaten to death." That's your Fionabhairth!

And, that's not all. You know your lifemate's tendency to be very, very, /very/ noisy during mating flights and the act itself? That's not just her half of your bond. You may find yourself, under her influence, to really let loose in the bedroom, both during flights, and maybe even other encounters of the bow chicka bow yow kind. If you end up choosing a weyr that is over the pools, or close to water, other Weyr residents may be treated to a /show/ of the auditory kind any time you have a suitor over… seeing as water carries sound so very well.

Ada, we hope you love your Fionabhairth! She was fun to write, and she will hopefully give you something new and fun to play at Ista Weyr. Remember, this inspiration is simply a guide, because Fionabhairth is YOURS. We cannot wait to see what amazing things you do with her!


Egg desc: Rushka
Dragonet desc: N'ayl
Messages: Lida, Alys tweak
Name: Lida, Alys tweak
Puppetted by: N'ayl
Inspiration: Lida, Alys, Kanga, N'ayl

Ada's Green Fionabhairth
Harper's Tale: 61st PC Clutch
Ista Weyr
Lanti's gold Dedanseth and T'ab's bronze Tyroth
November 20, 2011


Nerai (Arienne) and green Auralyth
Reana (Breannah) and blue Eabryllth
Iili (Yaiili) and brown Jhiovharameyth
Sk'ar (Skylar) and bronze Dzyveth

Candy and green Cornth
Bunn (Bunnia) and green Iculath
Meiji (Meisjin) and green Leitanith
Mary and green Sanderth
E'gan (Eagon) and green Slimerth
S'rah (Sarrah) and green Ssonth
R'ler (Rydler) and blue Derbith
J'ack (Jovack) and blue Sallyth
M'rry (Murray) and blue Shelleyth
J'ber (Jiber) and blue Wokth

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License