korim

“Korim,” I call out, rapping on the door to the Drumheights. “Korim!”
A hand drum raps out a welcome, and I pull the heavy door open, ducking as the heavy, sound-muffling tapestry hung on its back flies at me. Korim is standing tall just before the stairs. “Be quiet!” she hisses at me, before I can say a word.
Athletically, she pivots. “Iryleos,” she calls softly down toward the dorms, her harsh alto respectfully muted. “Leos, listen for messages, please. I need to talk to my little sister.”
A tall, ice-pale lad bounces up the stairs. “On duty, Korim.”
She nods regally, and turns to me, motioning me down into the unending racket of the Drummer’s Dorms.
By chance, since my elder sib is blind, she stands full in the slanting afternoon sunlight, looking half-barbaric and all Korim.
Sharp, flimsy features characterize her face: cheekbones like knives, nose deeply convex, chin rigorously serrated. Eyebrow peaks puzzle the dull grey-green of narrowed eyes, and the slash of mouth is straight as a ruler. Wildly spindly without extraordinary height, Korim is scarcely eye-catching, though tanned to the limits of her pale-wood skin. Dust-hued hair, just about dishwater blonde, isn’t even a discontinuity in color, cut in a short cap of no-color strands.
Korim’s garb is as unpretentious as her appearance. A dove-grey floor-length tunic is tied with a slate cord about her waist, the long ‘skirt’ of the tunic slit up the sides to just above her knees. The sleeves are long and fairly tight, and the garment ties at the neck. Soft leather sandals, eminently comfortable, are laced tightly to her feet, their brown thongs continuing up beyond ankles. Small, medium-quality jade squares contrast with her earlobes, and a ‘crystal-shaped’ pendant of the same stone hangs on a black cord around her neck.
I cease gaping and tell her my news. “Korim, you know how I’ve always told you you’d make a fabulous dragonrider?”
The drummer snorts. “Right. ‘Korim the amazing sightless rider! Watch her go *BETWEEN* and never come out!’” She sighs. “Tell me.”
I’m a little hurt, but I should be used to Korim’s sharp tongue by now. “This Weyr, Baeris Kshau, it’s trying to breed weird dragons, and they’re accepting those who aren’t their idea of ‘fit and able’. Oh, Kori, please try!”
With a shrug, she gives in. “I suppose there are plenty of drummers here—they don’t need some freak with an ear for rhythm, a head full of poetry, and a crazy love of dancing. If they accept me, NoWher Hold has lots of other freaks. Like you.” She smiles smugly at me.
Grit-toothed, I nod. Korim is the only one I will ever allow to twit me about my lameness. With more enthusiasm then I feel, I clasp her hand and drag her to the door. “This way!” I pass a sheet of poetry, written in drumbeat-signs, as Korim twirls her way out, feet flying with the grace of long practice.