Lineage {Vig}

Xanadu Weyr - Candidate and Weyrling Barracks
Xanadu's barracks are a massive, L-shaped amalgamation of caverns and construction, squared on one end, rough-hewn and oblong on the other, with weyrlings and candidates separated from one another by a large communal area. Wood and stone floors meet in a clever spiral pattern that interlaces and spreads, creating harmony in a space meant for completion of chores, classes, and storage of both dragon supplies and bedding for humans. A singular wooden door leads into an office for the weyrlingstaff.
Windows stretch the length of the candidate barracks, a long, low-ceilinged room that opens off the training grounds. One wall is slightly curved, set against the outer wall of the hatching arena, with a locked door closing off a tunnel that leads onto the sands. Cots are set in two rows along the length of the room, each with its own small press at the foot for personal belongings. It's always warm here when there are eggs on the sands; candidates seldom need more than a light blanket, but a diminutive hearth is available for the warming of beverages or the occasional firelizard-surprise.
The weyrling half of the barracks have been burrowed back into stone. Close and dark when shutters to the outside world are drawn, the ample paths between dragon couches have been lit with dim strips of light. Smaller couches are obviously intended for the very young weyrlings, while the largest ones at the back are for those close to graduation. A second small hearth abuts a massive cavern opening that slopes gently down to the training grounds outside.

"Every Scar Is A Lesson" - Fearless Soul

She stared at the small stack of boxes as she had for nearly a sevenday now.

Ligeia wasn't sure what to make of it, really.

There was a card stuck between the bottom box and the one above it, perhaps to make sure it didn't flutter away. She sighed and finally undid the twine, carefully rolling it into a small ball and tossing it to Newt. The firelizard caught it and rolled around, rabbit-kicking at it until it unraveled.

She didn't watch.

Her fingers went to the card, first, rather than unwrapping the stack from the top; her grandmother had taught her that much, at least. Read the card, then open the gifts.

As it had been since her childhood, the card was signed by all four; her mother, her father, her grandparents on her mother's side. Her father's parents had passed some turns ago, long before she came into the picture, and she wondered what they would think. They weren't riders, or so she remembered; the intersection of rider and non-rider was always one that she puzzled over.

She never spoke to her mother about why she'd chosen a non-rider, nor why the relationship didn't seem to last. Maybe it was just that friction between lives; maybe it was nothing at all.

All she knew was that she was set to live with her father in the hopes that he'd protect her from any thoughts of one day being a rider. She shouldn't have known that, but a sneaky Ligeia in her youth found some notes that were only partially burned in a hearthfire, notes that she wasn't meant to read.

At the time, she finished burning them after committing the words to memory.

Happy turnday, Ligeia!

We love you very much. When the eggs hatch, we'll be there - as we always have been.

All the love,

Aglaia, Gierlan, M'gaal, Galina

Her uncle Malaakh had already sent his gift well in advance - some inks he'd picked up at Ierne that he thought she'd like - and she coveted it dearly.

The first package was a small first aid kit that made her laugh softly and shake her head at the irony.

The second was a small collection of spices to make the food taste more like Igen's.

The third was a beautiful new notebook, leatherbound in bronze because Zaqalekhth had to have his say.

The fourth-

Her hands hesitated. The order always mattered, just like reading the card first mattered. Her mother, her father, her grandfather- so what did her grandmother have for her?

It was a robe. A robe with the faintest traces of embroidery at the hem and along the side-seams. Impossible to see from any distance, but they were there. Pinned inside was a note scripted in Galina's spidery script:

Remember that you are more than your knot, Ligeia. You are more than this robe. If you outgrow either, always remember that you are capable of great things.

It is in your blood.

Tears burned in her eyes and filled her throat and it wouldn't be until much later that the ache in her chest would subside enough to allow her to write them each a small 'thank you'.

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