tua's 100 theme challenge

[tuathade]

BUTAREYOULOOKINGFORACHALLEEEEENGE?!

Adding rules like all the coolkids:
*Any given prompt will be as long as I damn well feel like writing it.
*I will attempt to clearly indicate which fills are Warden's canon, which fills are purely hypothetical what-ifs, and which ones are ridiculous crack.
*CONTENT WARNINGS FOR EVERYTHING. Assume the following may appear in this thread at some point: murder, suicide, strong language, sex (non-explicit), dubious consent (non-explicit), gore, abuse, and Arkady.

1. Eating Glows
2. Bubbly pie goes splat (in someone's face) - Qu'an
3. Trundle with the Trundle Bugs
4. Bloodletting for Wherlets - Rivek
5. Gather Fun!
6. Hatching Time!
7. First Flight - C'ross/I'saac
8. A candidate midnight rendevouz
9. Flaming Thread
10. Flying high
11. Chore Duty
12. Swimming with Shipfish - Rodana
13. Bountiful Eggs
14. Corraling the herdbeast
15. Forever Mine
16. Runner Races! - W'ill
17. Harper's Dance - Arkady
18. Frolicking with friends
19. Fly With Me
20. We go together, Mine - W'ill
21. Too Much Klah - R'vyn
22. We the Hold Folk
23. A Lord's gotta do what a Lord's gotta do
24. My Craft
25. Those of the Dark
26. Beneath the Dawn Sisters
27. Run Run Run! Thread has Come!
28. Tunnelsnake Trouble
29. Oh Shards
30. Colors - C'ross
31. Protect Me
32. Candidates Can Party Too!
33. Female and Proud of It
34. Weyrlings are Rampant - C'ross
35. Getting into Trouble
36. A Healer's Duty - R'vyn
37. Fight and Defend
38. Exploring
39. I'm Yours; You're Mine
40. Black, Blacker, Blackest
41. I Outrank You! - Qu'an
42. I Wanna be a Harper - Arkady
43. Flames
44. Disaster Strikes
45. It's...Complicated
46. My Craft is Better
47. Seriously?
48. Sibling Rivalry
49. Egg Touching - C'ross
50. Sharding Hot Sands!
51. There's No Stronger Bond
52. Peace at Last
53. Things that Glow in the Night
54. I Love You
55. No Other Choice
56. Wherry Hunt
57. The Child in Me
58. Firelizard(s) - R'vyn
59. Swim with Me - Rodana
60. A Good Oiling
61. No Such Thing (As too Much Wine) - Arkady + gitar + a shitload of alcohol
62. Dancing
63. Sing Me a Song - Arkady
64. Sleep Little Hatchlings
65. Looking My Best
66. A Little Wild
67. Starstones - Qu'an
68. Wings in the Sky
69. Drifting
70. Crunchy Firestone
71. Tunnelsnake Toss
72. Voices in My Head
73. You Can't Fly! (wher) - Rivek
74. Dragonless - C'ross
75. Wherless - Rivek
76. We Bleed Green
77. The Bond
78. It's Called Tag
79. An Heir's Duty
80. Broken Shells and Broken Hearts
81. A Right of Passage - Rodana
82. A Gather
83. Welcome to the Family
84. With Sweat and Blood and Tears, I Made This
85. Those Troublesome Twos
86. Silence is Golden - G'rus
87. A Lady's Jewels
88. Simple Pleasures
89. A New Home - Qu'an
90. Saving Grace (AKA Saving a Goldrider)
91. A precious gift (A new baby) - R'vyn
92. Joys of Search
93. Expression of the Heart - G'rus
94. Aerobatics - C'ross
95. Joining the Ranks
96. Infirmary
97. Stuck!
98. Stuffy Records
99. Bathing Time
100. One of the Same

[tuathade]

34. Weyrlings are Rampant
Canon - C'ross/Merceth, weyrlinghood

"Of all the sharding dragons in the weyr, I'm stuck with you."

Merceth hissed and lowered his head, jaws gaping and eyes a brilliant shade of red-orange. Just barely seven months old, and he was already well over twenty feet in length, his shoulder higher than his rider's head, every inch as big as a full-grown green... and his solid proportions indicated he would only continue to grow at the same prodigious rate. Some weyrlings would have been delighted by the prospect that theirs would someday be one of the largest dragons in the weyr, with the wingspan and stamina to potentially pursue a queen. Right now, C'ross was wishing that the bronze was still small enough to pin to the ground and sit on.

The cold rain drove into C’ross everywhere that wasn’t covered by his flight leathers, plastering his dark hair to his head. Fat raindrops bounced off Merceth’s flanks and clung in rivulets to the dark mottled hide. The weyrling riding straps hung loosely from C’ross’ right hand in an oilskin bag; Merceth’s gaze flickered towards it, and a snarl echoed from deep within the barrel chest.

Tall and broad-shouldered, sixteen turns old, the rider matched the dragon: all draybeast-stubbornness and bravado, with the graceless look of one who still has another growth spurt left to go before everything settles into place. Not that Merceth gave him any room for the usual clumsy gawkiness of adolescence. This would not be their first manned flight – although it would be their first time in foul weather – but rain or shine made no difference to Merceth. Every time since the first, the same ritual. C’ross would not be permitted to put the harness on until he bested his own dragon in a fight.

Let's dance. Two words that were more of a mental assault, and the dragon’s tail cut a furrow in the sopping-wet mud. The bronze could not truly harm him, of course, but C’ross knew from experience that Merceth skirted that line: he could easily be knocked off his feet, thrown into the mud, pinned there… or simply have his flight leathers shredded by the dragon’s claws until he was forced to retreat in humiliation.

C’ross took a step forward, then another. A muscle in the dragon’s shoulder twitched. Without taking his eyes off Merceth’s, the rider slipped the riding straps out of their protective bag, feeling for the buckle. The bronze was standing on a patch of relatively solid ground, not liking the feel of sinking up to his claws in mud; C’ross could dart in, he would have stable footing long enough to – but before he could so much as think it, the bronze’s wings snapped out. Even as C’ross bolted forward to prevent it, Merceth launched himself into the air in a spray of water, and the rider had to dive and roll to one side to avoid getting a wing to the face.

Did you forget? I can read you like a piece of hide, the bronze scoffed, head held high and neck arched proudly as he landed again, a dragonlength away. C’ross spat mud, then picked himself up. More carefully this time, he blocked the bronze’s thoughts out of his mind. It would make it harder, not to be able to hear Merceth… but then the dragon wouldn’t be able to hear him either. Patience was the key. Merceth didn't shirk, he wanted to be in the air as much as C’ross did. He just wanted C’ross to fight for it. If C’ross didn’t make a move, then Merceth would come at him again, close the distance.

Still, a little taunting never hurt. "Come on, you lazy sack of wherrybones! Can't fly in a little rain? Are you going to try again, or are you going to sit there until the weyrlingmaster comes over to ask you nicely?" Sure enough – the bronze hissed, snorted water off his muzzle, then charged. On the ground, C’ross was faster. He would always be faster. He felt for a solid foothold under the clinging mud, twisted out of the way of scything claws, then threw the straps over the dragon’s neck and vaulted himself aboard as Merceth passed. The momentum carried him onto Merceth’s shoulder, just above the wing-joint. He reached down and grabbed the stray end of one strap in his free hand, just as the dragon underneath him bucked hard and veered to the right. C’ross slid, then locked one leg around Merceth’s lowest neck-ridge, hands still working furiously on the buckle. He just had to pull it tight, and –

The dragon’s violent motion stopped. His head swung around on that flexible serpentine neck, and he fixed C’ross with an eye that whirled half orange, half the shade of brilliant sky blue that C’ross was beginning to understand meant amusement. It’s twisted. I’m not flying with a twisted strap. Come down here and fix it.

“Go throw yourself between,” C’ross replied coolly, already sliding down the rain-slicked flank. The fight was won, his victory acknowledged. Merceth would let him finish the job in relative peace.

You first.

[tuathade]

49. Egg Touching
Canon – Corloss, pre-Impression

It looked unhealthy.

That was the first thing Corloss noticed about the egg. The rest of the clutch all looked normal enough – inasmuch as a Candidate only on his second clutch could ever decide what was ‘normal’ for dragon eggs. The clutchsiblings were all brightly colored, with a myriad of interesting patterns that caught the eye and invited gentle touches from curious hands… Except for this one. It listed to one side at an odd angle, huge and imposing. A likely candidate for bronze, if size was any indicator; the shell was a pattern of abstract coils of black on black only broken up with a few traces of dark red, the whole thing bearing an unnatural-looking slick sheen.

He wasn’t intending to touch it at all. There were other eggs, pleasant sturdy ones, of the right sort of size to possibly contain a brown. He would be all right with a brown; they were reliable, versatile, potential Wingsecond material if he chose to stay at the Weyr but not so rare or so large to make it impossible to move to a Crafthall if weyrlife did not suit him. Corloss was a practical creature at heart. He wanted something that would be a useful partner for the future.

A younger Candidate approached the egg with confidence, the kind of swagger that implied he was only seeing the size of the egg and thinking metallic. Thoughtless. The egg sent him packing with a sudden violent shudder; Corloss was not privy to whatever passed between them mentally, but to judge from the way the other Candidate went ghost-white it wasn’t pretty. The black egg was almost fully tipped over to one side now, like a foundering ship, occasionally twitching. Corloss wasn’t entirely sure, but something about it seemed like it was seething mutely.

…Ahh, what the shards. He walked away from the lovely chatoyant blue egg he’d been sizing up, and approached the hostile black egg. Kneeling, he looped an arm around the egg, and began to carefully shift it back to its original angle. From the unpleasant luster, he had been expecting the texture to be repellent… But it was dry and hot and a little bit silky to the touch, and not at all what he would have thought.

The presence in his head was less enjoyable: all harsh noise, it beamed wrath and danger and overwhelming hunger at him. Corloss ignored it, let it pass over him without troubling him. He knew this kind of façade well; how many people had he pushed away like this, not so loudly perhaps, but with a sharp word that cut right to the bone? It stilled, eventually, gave up when its attempts to pick a fight met with no response. And underneath all that was… fear. Distrust of everyone, and a little loneliness, and the nagging terror that maybe it was completely alone, without any suitable bondmate. For a Candidate, it would just mean trying again. For a dragon, it would mean death. No second chance. Did they know that? Could they know that, in the egg?

It didn’t want to die alone. In a way, he almost felt sorry for it.

He re-packed the sand around the base of the egg, restabilizing it in its original position. It was silent now in his head, but an expectant, impatient silence. It was waiting for something, and Corloss had no sharding clue what. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand and laid it squarely against the black shell. No expectations, just a calm mind and a flat palm. You’ll do all right.

It responded with a faint, muffled hum that reached well into the bass range. Corloss got up, brushed the sand off himself, and walked away.

[tuathade]

61. No Such Thing (As too Much Wine)
Arkady – cracktastic
CONTENT WARNINGS: MURDER, SKEEVE, ARKADY

“I want your love,” Arkady sang, strumming happily on the guitar and keeping time with the tapping of one foot. “Love, love, love, I want your love.”

He paused, picked up the wineskin, took another swig, then leaned over and stole a kiss from his captive audience. The Benden was sweeter (and this was a sharding fine Benden) but the kiss was more intoxicating, laced as it was with a thrill of adrenaline. He fancied he could taste it. Or maybe that was the alcohol after all. He’d had a lot of alcohol. “I want your horror, I want your design,” he continued, “‘cause you’re a criminal as long as you’re mine-“

“Please.” The quiet voice cut him off, barely audible above the guitar but enough to make him pause. “Please - I just want to go home.”

Arkady frowned. “As much as I appreciate your contributions, darling, that’s not even in the right key. Nowhere close. I know you’re not Harper-trained, and I respect that, but at least put in a little effort here, all right? Now where was I… Ah, shells, I forget. Haven’t quite worked out the bridge yet, but I sort of know how I want it to go…” He led in with a few chords. “I want your love, and I want your revenge, I want your love, I don’t wanna be friends~ And then here, see,” he broke back from singing to speaking, “I'll put in something in trader cant, that sounds nice and exotic, right?”

The only response this time was a muffled sob.

The Harper sighed. “All right, all right. Look. I haven’t even done anything to you yet. But if you’re going to be tedious, fine, I’ll make it quick.” He fished through his pack, found the knife, and briefly busied himself with it. There was an abrupt scream (high A, a little flat, still very nice) then it cut off with a desperate gurgle. He wiped the knife off, put it back in the pack, and picked up the guitar again.

“You and me could write a bad romance…”

[tuathade]

67. Starstones

The Candidate barracks were stifling. It was not the limited space; Quidelan’s room back home had not been all that much larger or more generously furnished. It was the crowds. With the queen looking closer to a Flight with each passing day, every bed was filled. Everywhere he went, Candidates chatting, gossiping, trading information and aspirations – already so many of them entrenched in the usual color politics, with clearly defined preferences. Most of them were weyrbrats, for whom this was a well-established tradition. He had no information to contribute, and no desire to make a fool of himself by asking questions everyone else knew the answers to. So he remained silent.

Back home, if he needed to escape, there was always somewhere to go, or at least something that needed doing. The herds would always need tending. Or he could go fetch water from the deep well, or simply walk the borders of the farmstead, on the watch for tunnelsnakes and holdless bandits. Here… Who would attack a weyr? More importantly, was he even permitted such behavior, or was he expected to remain in the barracks unless called on? The Candidatemaster’s explanations had been almost solely Hatching-related details… Useful to know, but not useful right now, when Quidelan wasn’t sure what was expected of him between assigned chores.

Something flickered in his peripheral vision. Little claws settled onto his shoulder, and a tiny firelizard voice went preep? at him. Quidelan gently took the scrap of hide from the flit’s claws, and unfolded it to read the brief note in familiar handwriting.

Come outside. Rider’s orders.
-T

He smiled despite himself. She was waiting in the dusk outside, silhouetted against the sleek stormy blue form that was her dragon; she had to stand on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck, but he returned the hug, only a little stiffly. Taalo didn’t bother asking the usual questions – the how are you doing, are you adjusting well to weyrlife, are you making friends? obligatory displays of concern, to which he would be equally obligated to respond with polite, meaningless assurances that yes, he was fine. Taalo did not play such games. He would be fortunate to someday bond to a dragon who could read him half as well as the Searchrider.

“It’s my watch,” she told him, offering him a hand up onto Deltath’s back. “Keep me company?”

He climbed up, settled onto Deltath’s neck behind her. She glanced back, grinned at him. “You’re going to fall if you don’t hang on to something.” He shifted, gingerly scooted forward until he could wrap an arm around her waist. A heartbeat later his stomach turned a somersault as the ground fled from them, vanishing intermittently from his view with every rise of the blue dragon’s wings only to reappear again further away. Soon the whole of the weyr was laid out beneath them like a children’s model. The bowl tinged in blue dusklight and glittering with tiny glows like distant stars, the shadows of other wings darting and winking through the sky as other dragons betweened in and out.

They landed by the starstones. Taalo had brought a pair of waterskins and some sweetrolls, nicked hot and fresh from the kitchens. They ate in comfortable silence, leaned up against the dragon’s warm flank. At last, Quidelan was the first to speak. “Is there a way up here on foot? Or do you need a dragon?”

Taalo smiled, nodded. “There’s a path. You just head past –“

He shook his head, lifted a hand, and she fell silent with an expectant look. “All I needed to know. More satisfying if I find it on my own.” It would give him an excuse to explore the weyr a little more, learn his way around the place. “But I’ll find you up here, someday soon.”