Logs:(No) Reckless Concern
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| RL Date: 13 November, 2015 |
| Who: Taeliyth, Zymadiath |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Taeliyth tells Zymadiath of Dee's illness while he's away. |
| Where: Dragon mindspace |
| When: Day 8, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
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| There's a strangeness to the gold's mindtouch that makes it a foreign thing. The vines of the Wood are strangling, writhing and then suddenly and perfectly still as the whole forest petrifies. Something is wrong. (To Zymadiath from Taeliyth) To Taeliyth, Zymadiath feels far away when the touch of the Wood reaches out to the blackness of his night, most certainly not within the Weyr. Though where is not something public, not something he yet shares. The bronze himself was distracted, the shadows writhing into a more prominent presence from smoke-like fumes of existance that just barely touched on the collective of the dragon consciousness. As the nightmarish figures dance in their slow, deliberate dance upwards, towards, the petrified forest- it's curious. Intently, abruptly curious as shadows drip over the Wood, not quite engulfing like Night could, but searching, searching as an oversized shadow moving between immobile branches. What it asks without words, where does he need to be? « Taeliyth? » As if all the shadow's urging wasn't enough, he presses her name as well. She finds voice. It still feels lost even as she speaks. « Dee won't wake, Zymadiath. » Taeliyth might be feeling as choked by emotion as those vines swelling to fill the space between her trees, seeking to drive the shadows out. There is something too personal happening in the Wood. « She fainted. The rash is on her back. The healers are with her. » Each phrase is delivered as something that was told to her and she is merely repeating. It's hard for her to wrap her mind around. (To Zymadiath from Taeliyth) The fingers of the shadows touch at the vines and then withdraw, creeping like shadow-creatures amidst her branches pushed back, but willingly so. All the figments gain eyes, white eyeless sockets that blink, that watch. Some tilt heads, others just watch. Listen. Wait. The backdrop is all of his night, his massive presence that sits like the depth of twilight paused but coiled to take over. « She cannot be ill. » Zymadiath's gravely mindvoice has the heaviness of knowing too well what it could mean, and thus little in the way of comforting things to be said. There is a hesitance, and then « Ka'ge will come if I tell him this. I will come if you require- » Company, he implies, though the drop off of that projection spirals from his emotional-comforting shortcomings. (To Taeliyth from Zymadiath) There's a cracking sound of branch sundered from tree, unwillingly. « I require her to be well! » An impossible requirement since Dee is ill. « It won't do him any good to come now. She won't wake. The fever is high. Too high. They're trying to bring it down. » There's a pause. « He shouldn't come. He shouldn't be there. She wouldn't want him to become sick because of her, and we both know it. » There isn't even a question. (To Zymadiath from Taeliyth) « That matters not. He would be by her side. » Zymadiath replies on the note of not waking, all of his darkness and shadows and night stopped right where they are, not willing to leave all the way. But her persistence is listened to, there's a faint understanding from the figments that she speaks the truth. « But I can come. He does not need me right now, and it would be best for him not to know. Would you have me? » There's a sensation of the darkling bronze on some rocky ledge, prepared to be airborne. (To Taeliyth from Zymadiath) « If he loves her, as he says he does, he will keep himself well. If she survives and he dies, it might kill her. » Perhaps Taeliyth is being dramatic, but perhaps she's just being careless in this unguarded moment. « You should stay with Ka'ge, Zymadiath. I will have your company, but not just now. Not while he is out there. » Away from the Weyr. The Weyr that is no longer safe, but is still hers. « Come see me when you return, but not before he is ready. » There's a pause. « She is not going anywhere. » There's a slight waver. She can't really be sure, but she hopes, in a fragile way. (To Zymadiath from Taeliyth) « If she dies. » Zymadiath presses in return, his shadows growing larger, ever more overbearing in sensation of size yet all just barely restrained on that horizon, that ledge he keeps to. The bronze, usually such an undisturbed rock of a presence, is clearly agitated by the news and, perhaps moreso, the inability of pursuing immediate action. « He is away until morning. » It's as if that can't change, even if the news were delivered. He fades slightly from their connection, then returns- from greyed-out shadows to black once more, « Be safe, be strong as you are, Taeliyth. I will return to our Weyr soon. » It's possessive- though over the gold, or over the Weyr- is indiscernible. (To Taeliyth from Zymadiath) « If she dies, I'll be the first to know, » is snapped, hard and unforgiving. Taeliyth's grief will go unequaled if that should be the case. « She will not die. Cannot die. » Her resolve wavers but she doesn't dwell. « All we can do is wait. » Then stiffly, « But I thought he should know. Do not tell him until after you return. If you misjump... » Well, Taeliyth might just jump after them and drag them back from wherever they vanish to. (To Zymadiath from Taeliyth) Zymadiath is quiet, but his figments reach for her vines and brambles as if to touch them, but never quite make it. The creatures of shadow that were close to invasive before sit vigilant among- or just above- the petrified branches. The layers of darkness feel more transparent, the depths perhaps not so deep in this delicate moment, the night not quite so impenetrable. But there's the sensation of a sigh, swaying the smog-like edges of his shadows, « I will not. » He agrees, « But we will always find our way back. » Hopefully, the night gives farther within its expanse, with something of value garnered from this venture. (To Taeliyth from Zymadiath) « Good, » is all there is for him now. There's stress and strain in the trees and now Taelityh retreats beneath her own canopy to fight her fears and the consuming darkness there during the wait that feels endless. (To Zymadiath from Taeliyth) |
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