Dragonriders of Pern series 1. Just Better than You

(Dragonriders of Pern, and all related concepts are copyright of Anne McCaffrey. I'd like to extend a personal thanks to her for not only the wonderful world of Pern, but permission to play in it.)

(Yung Weyr and all related concepts belong to Yung Weyr and to Despairing of the Weyr. Yung is an excellent roleplaying community, and we look out for our own. Anyone found using the ideas of its history will be persecuted not only by Despairing, but by the whole of the weyr. However, being persecuted by Despairing is scary enough in its own right.)

(Lastly, Lanark, his family and his story belong to me. Enough said.)

(I lied. Liliencamp is one of Yung Weyr's principal holds.)

_The Lord Holders have long ago begun to disbelieve the possibility that Thread will ever return to Pern, and the Weyrs have fallen into disrepute. As they are autonomous, suspicions run high as each begin to gather their secrets, which grow more and more sinister in quality as time passes onward. (And Fort Weyr is the first, and only, to discover that the dragons can pass /between/ time..)_

_Racism begins to crop up- or, more specifically, nationalism; pride for your birthplace so distinct that those folk considered others to be inferior, lesser, unworthy. As the paranoia achieves its zenith, Ista makes its move- and, in a single devastating swathe, destroys the populations of all the other Weyrs in order to make room for its own growth. The few survivors are made to swear allegiance to Ista or to go down with the rest of their Weyrs. But though the brief holocaust is over, the revolution is just beginning.._

_Enter Saresa, a backstabbing goldrider of the High Reaches who lies through her teeth about allegiance. What cares she for the dragonman's honor when it is her lifemate at stake? And why do they think she'd be foolish enough to waste the rest of her life in a little Weyr where she will always be belittled for her origins? And revenge- revenge, too, is a prominent factor in her mind._

_Over the Turns, she gathers supporters, until finally, actions /must/ be proposed.. or else. And what she proposes is this: They are not strong enough in numbers to attack Ista, so they are to retreat to the south, to breed and to grow, until their ranks are strong enough to take Ista down. Reluctantly, the plan is agreed to, and they- aided by the information of a very reluctant Fort rider- retreat several Turns into the past to build their Weyr, subsequent hold, and to grow.—_history of Yung Weyr

The day was like the countless others which spanned before and behind Lanark. His days had been dutifully chewed and swallowed and rendered into a monotony interrupted only in pricks and sparks of vague hope. The young man's hopes lay in the promise that with age his life was to get notably worse or better. It didn't really matter to him one way or another: for all he could care they could break the afternoon he laid in now, sack the hold and take his life. If anything else death would help the days pass quicker. A slow smile snarked across the corners of his mouth as his eyes came into focus as he was called out of the gray spaces in his brain by a picking voice, "My boy I swear you were born under the glow of the red star."

Lanark opened his eyes and found his reflection locked in the eyes of his mother. He said nothing in response save a moody swing of his body over the chair and a cheeky expression which wordlessly agreed with the words of his mother. She was a woman gray and expanded with the burdens of age: one would guess by her hips and breasts that she carried her share of the population in her time. In many ways she had: she managed a small heard of weans in the crèche with a handful of other women skilled in such manors. However, her offspring which were hers by blood numbered only one: and in the past few years he morphed from an ambitious and charismatic child to a teenage stranger who could only be described as lanky.

Controlling a boy like Lanark, even in the manor of maternal guidance was about as effective as lion-herding with a cow. His rebellion was of the subtlest breed: he was a bright boy, shining with intellectual ambition that outglew the lights of not only his peers, but most of the adults as well. The problem stemmed from the fact that he made this painfully obvious. Cynical teens whom placed themselves above the general majority society generally had little place in society.

This was also emphasized painfully by the fact that Lanark had no practical talents. He was pale, thin, and rather sickly. It was a minor miracle that he hadn't been mercifully whipped from existence during childhood. He knew his physical boundaries and felt not need to push them without higher purpose. Unfortunately both he and his mother were becoming quickly aware that the life he was persisting was much like that of a professional student, stuck in a limbo in which one becomes familiar, but never very good at many things. More times than he cared to admit potential apprenticeships had been warded off by those wary to claim him as pupil. Coldness grew in the air which hung between he and his mother, and the bitterness was almost tangible.

"Did you hear your father and the other men talking?"

The intent behind this comment was masked, and Lanark cocked his head at her sudden change of tone, uncertain to which the purpose of it truly lay. It could just as easily have been a jab at the fact that he did not associate with the other men—and thus would not have heard the men talking, as it could have been a genuinely interesting piece of gossip she held. After some deliberation he responded without any outward signs of emotion, "No."

"Yung's Queen has finally risen and claimed her mate."

"Oh?"

Mild bemusement was the only sign that the boy was paying any attention. The weyr to him was something which, because of a lack of real importance in his daily life, was unnecessary at best. Yung and its foundation were if anything a slight embarrassment of Lanark. He was merely at Liliencamp—its principal hold for convenience's sake. His father was trained briefly in the beastcraft, and however spotty his learning had been, he was unlikely to be missed. It would've been exceedingly dangerous for someone likely to be missed to travel to Liliencamp: however for those who could afford to go missing the new hold held unprecedented chances of social mobility. Lanark and his mother had been dragged down to the hold subsequently. A few seconds passed as this brief history of exactly why he was stuck in a hastily built hold likely to be destroyed at any notice, dryly, and after much thought he added, "It's about time."

A few more seconds of thought, and a look of slight disappointment on the part of the older woman whom seemed to be genuinely surprised that her son was not bouncing up and down with the news—Lanark meanwhile mused, "I mean, she had to be born after the holocaust, else there's a good chance she would've been killed: but not to far afterwards, as it takes some time to organize something like Yung."

"My son. You know little of weyrlife."

"Nor do you."

"I'm not pretending I do."

"Shaffit mum. I know little of weyrlife, but I do know this much: the hold needs to be wary of the sharding weyrwoman and the whole sharding weyr. The only reason we were not incinerated like so many of the dragonmen say they were was because we were not dragonmen. The hold is finally starting to settle down and we'd be going forked tail first if we thought to celibrate matters such as the queen's rising. That means a change in weyr leadership?"

Lanark's mother had adopted the clandestine smirk-smile so often worn on the face of her son, and like the Cheshire cat turned and began to walk out, not of course before adding, "It'll be a hot day between when I'll have any respect for a man whom cannot admit that he's ignorant. My son: you forget that not everyone here comes with the same ambitions as your fathers."

Dryly the boy mumbled, "All of the holderfolk do."

"I've hoped better for you."

"I have no sharding idea what you're talking about."

"Of course. You're father will be home shortly. You can see what he thinks about this."

"He'll have his head in a bend because he knows that the sharding searches will start to run and his animals will be sacrificed to the weyr at the expense of the hold."

"Indeed."

With that the woman left the room, quietly, and left Lanark to brood upon the world he was thrust into. It was almost amusing the watch the insects as they crawled around frantically, pray to any rumor which happened to befall them.


	2. Holdfolk make Crispy Treats

Lanark's world had suddenly and literally turned itself upside down. It was several sevendays from the quasi-argument he had had with his mother and just seconds after being disrupted from the result of the conversation. Lanark, it was said, had to take up some veil of responsibility. The responsibility was incarnated with a new set of chores involving his father, work barely above that performed by a common drudge, and a rather large group of bovine heardbeasts. The better part of the morning had been spent counting.

One, two, "set that one for the slaughter…"

Four, five, "that one's going to drop a calf pretty soon…"

Seven, eight, "Watch out M'boy—you've just trodden in a dung-pie."

Lanark's father, much like Lanark himself, was a man whose company few relished. He was in the later stages of middle age were the power of youth had long left him, and the grace inherent in age had not come. He had never peaked and never really amounted to anything, which in turn had left him embittered. At the best, particularly for his only son, he was sour company. Lanark had found that pretending not to really be with him, and not thinking make the mindless counting and monotony survivable.

Fourty-five, fourty-six…

A sudden change of events however, had interrupted the chain, and left Lanark not only unaware of where he was, but quite convinced that the world was about to come to an end. He, only seconds previous, had been standing in front and slightly off to the side of a rather fat hoofed animal. Now it seemed that he was flat on his face with a minor stampede of fat hoofed animals and a good deal more dung heaps than was considered pleasant to roll about in. Reflexes kicked in and he rolled off to the side with his head clenched tightly by his hands: concerned not with why he had been knocked on the ground, or why the stupid beasts were suddenly bolting for their lives, but the immediate danger of being trodden upon. Half-crawling out of his roll, bruised and bewildered, but better than dead he slowly stood out of the immediate danger.

Awareness for the first time of frantic cursing, which could only be explained by his father, placed puzzle pieces in his brain at what on earth was happening. To place the words plainly, Lanark had not in his life heard such vulgarity emerge from the mouths the man before. The heardbeasts had scattered, destroying the mornings work and possibly bringing a broken leg or some other misfortune upon an animal of value. He realized vaguely that the sun was strangely covered, and that he and his father were standing in a shadow which had not been their previously.

The Weyr, and the hold were entwined like creatures mating in the dark. However, being in the dark, the one rarely saw the other and tried to keep the connection out of mind and sight. Dragonmen and their beasts simply came from another plane of life than the holdfolk and their chores and interactions were not common or particularly relished. Dragons, were things which were seen frequently enough to confirm their existence (which was far too frequently in the minds of men such as Lanark's father) but with a degree of rarity which marked the sudden appearance of one of their number something of a curiosity.

One familiar with the anatomy of the dragons would say the navy-dark-blue creature smugly seated before was positively runty. One such as Lanark and his father however, were teetering between awe and great annoyance. The blue was thin, ill proportioned and looked as it had been assembled by someone who was unfamiliar with the sleek stereotypes of dragons. The blue had also caused the majority of the holds heard to scatter in fear.

It took the sound of a hearty chuckle and a, "ho ho! The faces…" the voice was momentarily interrupted by a fit of laughter, "—on you two…were---priceless." To alert Lanark and his father of the rule that wherever a dragon was present its rider couldn't be far off. The 'rider in this case, looked like he could've come from the crèche. However, it was a welcome realization that the man was holding no flame thrower, and was not an Istan preparing to burn the hold to the ground. Before perhaps thinking of the disparity in size between himself and the blue creature before him Lanark heartily waved his fist and ushered out a cry which surprised even his father, "Go straight to the red star or die between!"

Not to be outdone of course by his half-grown boy, Lanark's father amended his son's statement, "What by Faranth are you trying to accomplish?"

The rider straightened himself up in mock seriousness (shiver's ran down the spine of the father to realize that this man of seemingly military nature seemed scarce as old as his own child) and cleared his throat, "I rider K'lain of Ierynth the beautiful am here to steal the children of the hold and offer them up for sacrifices of Yung Weyr's dark alters."

The seeming ability to make a dark shadow pass over his eyes make Lanark and his Father pause for a moment before considering the validity of this statement, "Your darling beast has caused a panic among mind…disrupted the herds…and nearly killed my son. The Lord of the hold will hear of this."

Cheekily the man-boy dismounted, bowing mockfully to the other man, and winking to Lanark. The wink was received with something of a sneer. Lanark did not take well to an entire morning of work—and his pride, being shattered. He didn't like the Weyr to begin with and his distaste was only compounded by the willy-nill casualness of the man. He felt himself meeting the eyes of the rider and staring him down, as if some personal test of will. Hatred impassioned with a strange subconscious challenge seemed to make the rest of the world spin out of his mind.

For the second time that day Lanark found himself in a tangle of feet, dirt and dung, and only faintly away he heard a voice mumbling, "The boy's fainted again. He's been in the sun…"

The casual observer, and in fact the two other men who were involved at the scene, would've been given the impression that the glare of the search-rider's eyes had brought Lanark into a dead faint. Unbeknownst however, was Lanark's tendency to skip meals. It was often assumed, without placing to count his dining habits, that his skeletal build was natural. Only he was aware of how self-induced his condition was. Blood sugar levels were something he and his world were ignorant to: but the truth of his faint was in the skipped meals and rigorous work. Although he awoke mere seconds after swooning to escort the rider to those in positions of authority the implications of the action proved to be multifoliate.

That night as Lanark was preparing for bed, his routine was interrupted with a sharp knock at the door of his chambers. Now, being half-dressed and rather sore from the days activities he was not immediately inclined to answer it. Wearily he stood up, and permitted himself a few moments of self-pity, before straightening his spine and smearing a sarcastic smile over his face. He opened the door expecting to meet the face of his mother: instead however, he was greeted with the beaming brows of the bluerider.

Flatly Lanark asked, "what?"

K'lain ambled into the boy's personal chambers. He was a funny sort of looking man, the lines of his face read that he was in his early thirties, but his stature remained boyish, as did his general demeanor. His hair was a delicate shade of reddish rust which Lanark had never seen before. Lanark himself was familiar with ethnic oddities (after all his own blue eyes were seen at best infrequently among the population) but he'd never seen a man with red hair before. He was not sure how to react to the 'rider's behavior, he wanted to be insulted, but the shoulder knots the man wore told no lies.

Lanark was outranked immensely and owed, at least begrudging honor to the rider, he corrected his harsh first words with a, "What in the name of the sharding red star do you want?"

A sly chuckle spread over the round face of the other, "You know. You're an intelligent boy. I can tell that. Your mind is…bright…and rather crispy."

Lanark was not exactly sure if the man's words were intended as an insult or a compliment, so he looked smug and self-assured.

Lanark was very skilled at doing such.

A few more seconds passed, "It worries me however, that you seem to be the last person in the hold to catch onto what I'm doing."

Lanark offered nothing but a cocked eyebrow and a slow, "What exactly are you doing then?"

"I'd personally rather be between than sitting in this room talking to you right now."

"You're not alone with your sentiments."

"I don't know why Ierynth likes you so much."

"I could care less if Ierynth likes or dislikes me."

The smile on the other mans face was adverted with something that might've been annoyance, but he hid it well and suddenly became fascinated with the process of chewing his nail, "You are aware that I'm on a sharding search?"

The truth was Lanark had not exactly figured out what was going on, and why this mans appearance seemed to be so significant (although the entire significance of the search was lost on him entirely) but he responded brightly none the less with a convincing, "Perfectly."

"You are also aware that you are of the favored age for male candidates."

"Yes."

K'lain calmly explained in a tone which left Lanark uncertain to whether the man was being serious, "This is your cue to start playing favors on the system. Your role, the bored poor hold boy with a serious superiority complex and poor dietary habits. My role, the poor search rider who is forced to listen to the holds multitudes of parents whom are all either begging me to take their spawn away, or for me not to. You. You want me to take you away. You're supposed to look eagerly to me, get all misty eyed and jumpy when I mention things about my Ierynth favoring you. The system. Its all in the system!"

K'lain had worked himself up to a point of minor fervor and it became obvious in Lanark's eyes that something much more personal than disillusionment with his career. He responded quietly, "Die systems."

A laugh which was impossible to read ushered forth, "By my dragon's shell. I swear I should search you just for the sake of pissing off J'na. You know that."

"J'na?"

"Estranged lover. No seriously. I'm sorry boy. Things haven't been going to well with me. But you. Your just a candidate."

"Candidate?"

"Yeah. I think I'm going to piss of J'na, you don't mind of course?"

"Mind what?"

"Playing a role in some stupid lover's spat. I'm only half kidding. But seriously."

"Seriously what?"

"Ierynth believes that you should stand in the cluch hardening on the sands."

"What?"

The man stood up rather enigmatically with a slight jump and a wink back, "I said what I mean. I'll be back in a sevenday. If you want to go. You are invited. You'll go. I know your sort."

Lanark, rather confused, and uncertain over whether he was dreaming, or having a rather vivid hallucination. From the hallway he heard K'lain's voice calling back, "oh, and Ierynth believes you should eat better. You know, put on some weight before the hatching."

With that, Lanark decided to fall asleep before any other crazy people chose to try to take their stab at him. The searches were something that happened to other people who were stupid and felt as if they needed an artificial bond with some beast. Lanark knew that he was not a stupid person, and above anything else, he did not need to give the Weyr his talents, time or even thought.

With a few more mindtrains along those tracks he derobed and passed into dreamless sleep.


End file.

Dragonriders of Pern series, Drama