Logs:Anomaly
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| RL Date: 20 February, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, N'rov |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Vhaeryth lands on a ledge that once belonged to him and now doesn't. |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 1, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: snow flurries |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions |
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>---< Niahvth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr(#1130R) >---------------------------<
Turns of inclement weather and use have smoothed out niches here and there
for a current occupant and perhaps a companion, on this slightly downward
impressed ledge. Two poles have been staked into the stone, immovable, and
are about a dragonlength apart. From one, a long piece of twine flaps
about aimlessly with any careless breeze, and perhaps the two poles were
supposed to be joined at one point. Nothing spectacular denotes the ledge
itself, but the view it offers is one of the living caverns entrance a bit
further to the north, as well as a glimpse of blue glimmer on the horizon
of the Weyr lake.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Irianke F 36 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s
N'rov M 30 6'1" lean, dk. brown hair, gray eyes 1m
---------------------------------< Objects >--------------------------------
[Niahvth]
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Inner Weyr Sky
>-----------------------------------------< 22D 1M 37T I10, winter night >---< Cold between. Cold 'Reaches, but better lit, cold lingering in the core of bones. This can't be home, never has and never will, but Vhaeryth's nonchalant about bespeaking the watchdragon; obsidian wings flare wide and then half-vane, darkened against the few flurries of snow, as he marks a figure-eight a spare distance overhead. He doesn't cut the shortest distance to his ('his') ledge upon which he's always landed; he's not above a detour for whatever might catch his interest, bright-gleaming or otherwise. Rare visitor that he now is, he moves with familiarity, as though the Turn and change were rolled back and he'd left only to once more return. There's gleaming to spare in the bowl, Niahvth's buttery golden hide catching all the reflections of light against the new fallen snow. She holds court there, this giant mass of mellow yellow, with bronzes and browns watching her rapt. She's a physical and mentally anomaly in this High Reaches, someone new in the hierarchy of the Weyr's dragons. His ledge looks a litle different, pots and wooden herb pots lining the edges, though nothing grows in this cold. An anomaly. That gets a glint of his attention, mirrored even as he causes his shadow to pass over some of the watchers; it's not so dark a shadow as it might have been in more opportune weather, but it's enough to serve Vhaeryth's humor. So is sniffing over those pots (which have just survived his landing intact); they're also less likely to disturb his rider's set expression than if he were to sniff the foreigner herself. He makes a point of inhaling, all fluttery nostrils and glinting gaze. It slows N'rov for a sideways look: really, the bronze is going to go there? Her dragon might be holding court in the bowl, but that doesn't mean she is unaware of what goes on on her ledge. The gold's rider, thus informed, appears with quick feet slowing as she pushes past the heavy drape that separates inside from outside, and stands there, arms wrapped around her body as ineffectual protection from the cold. Irianke's dark, gray-blue eyes start at Vhaeryth's paws, and rise ever so slowly to the top of his body and then down the crest of his neck to where he sniffs. That crest arches with the muscle that flexes beneath it, more than strictly necessary for the minute motions of inhalation and (what a shame the pots are empty) exhalation. His rider's slower to react but more apparent in it, a half-turn from the greater complex toward the weyr's mouth, to the woman. To the woman... who is not his woman. Sudden, disbelieving warmth can't quite vanish in time; his hand moves for Vhaeryth, finds warm bronze hide. "Excuse me." It's Southern, that drawl, Boll traced with Weyr and a touch of iron too late to thoroughly lock it down. Not his woman, but a woman nonetheless. Irianke stamps her bare feet on the cold, cold stone and rubs her arms up and down again. "You're excused, but that doesn't change the fact you're on our ledge." That pronoun doesn't include him in its plurality, but there's a sudden welcoming smile on her lips. "Come in out of the cold. If Niahvth doesn't mind, I don't. I have a fresh pot of tea and some biscuits my girl brought for me. Come in." She doesn't wait, turning to duck behind that tapestry with a visible and audible shiver, fully expecting the man to follow. He hasn't missed the bare, pale feet; he hasn't missed invitation or instruction for all that he stands tall and silent and grim. "Excuse me," falls finally into the cold air of the ledge. It vanishes before it can echo off stone, the way snow melts off bare skin. N'rov reaches up to pull his hat down and, rather than making his way through the tunnels the way he'd been known to, chooses the colder path for his sins. It's not into her warmth. Not in any way. Inside the weyr, she might be stood up for the first time in any recent memory. In the bowl, the other she's triple lidded eyes narrow, watching the interloper's rider try to sneak off towards the lower caverns. Further attention is unpaid when he disappears, the gold's arced neck and soft beckoning croon reemerging for her admirers and extending to the one that now occupies her ledge. « Come play? » There's not much play going on, but there is a rustle of those fine "feathered" wings. His head turns. They both do; it's just that N'rov's is forcibly brief while Vhaeryth lingers with interest. « What do you play? » He rustles his wings, too, not so much an exact imitation of her movement itself as its sound, its duration and quality. The flurried snow shakes off her wings, more dew-like now than snow itself. Niahvth's body quivers, exciting the brown closest to her enough so he moves and gives her the space so she can rise. A gleaming ball is contained between two paws and is lobbed towards her own ledge. « Catch! » In a manner of speaking. It gives the visiting bronze a shining, uncharacteristic halo when it cracks on his now-upheld forepaws and spatters across talons and chest and neck: a halo, or perhaps a lace ruff, though at least he's not ruffled. « I would send it back, » Vhaeryth admits unabashedly. But, not only is it all spattered, it seems he has to lick it. It is, he shares, appropriately cold. « Would you like more? » In the sky, Niahvth dances, something keeping those suitors in the bowl at bay. She twists about, pretending to dodge the scattered flakes before heading on up the side of a bowl wall, skirting a few ledges quite closely in a maneuver that speaks of a dexterity and practice. Such practice. « No. You may stay there and wait. Watch. Wait. Watch. Wait? » Her mindvoice chirps at this point, liltingly cute. Irianke has moved, this time with shoes, from her weyr into the lower caverns, her empty tea kettle held in one hand while her other reads from a book. People move out of her way, as if they're used to this by now, which saves her from running into them and somehow, she avoids the walls with a walking reader's preternatural sense of where they might be. « I may, » Vhaeryth is agreeable enough to confirm, and moreover, plays at having a lilt of his own; that dexterity sharpens his attention with interest. « Do you? » His tail flicks at the snow that falls where she does not. His rider's slowed by the icy footing, though at least he doesn't have to break trail; he's only just now getting into the lower caverns himself, stamping snow off his boots and brushing it off his shoulders, greeting a trio of aunties by name. It might almost be a different voice, still baritone and Boll-inflected but easygoing, free with the compliments for this one's hair and that one's fur collar. It's been too long, they say. He doesn't demur, but when they ask him in that particular voice how he's doing, he glances past for escape. Different voice, but the same inflection in a sea of predominant Reachians. It stands out enough for the passing Igenite's swift pace to slow down and outright pause to glance down. Holding her kettle close, the book still held up to her nose, her eyes train, instead, on the voice and the man attached to it. Open curiosity sets her blue-grey eyes a'glitter and with one step back into a wall to let a crowd pass by, she becomes less visible. Just another bookworm, reading in a hallway. If any sign shows of him looking, her eyes will drop immediately with just a flutter of lashes. « I wait. Endlessly wait. » Niahvth banks in such a way that has her floating upside for a brief moment, her wings outstretched with a joy for the world and the snow and everything in it. Her wingspan stretches and stretches and stretches, aching to find something, and then she's rolling over, back right side up and aiming for the Starstones. « You don't, » Vhaeryth determines, « look like you're waiting. » No, she must look to him like she's doing, which requires a teasing glint to capture her midair. Frozen. Upside down. Possibly with a wiggle. « Why bother? » Waiting. 'Waiting.' Muscle flexes in his haunches, in the base of his wings, in the backward rock that doesn't like to be staying. No immediate escape for his rider, then, no buttonholing a bookworm even in such extremis, though if that book has a binding it'll get a long moment's examination as though the words alone could be some salvation. Apparently N'rov's not the sort of man to have memorized a glimpse of hair, for he makes no effort to move away from her specifically; neither is his voice, though low in more ways that one, particularly avoidant of eavesdroppers. He manages, he says; it's been over a Turn, he says; that he hopes things are going well for them here, he says that too. He'd heard bandits were caught; that's something. He doesn't bring up High Reaches Hold, with its other dead woman; rather, with them, what's new? Irianke absorbs it all, every word said without seeming like she's eavesdropping at all. It's a long practiced art, much like the kind of flight Niahvth indulges in in the sky. « I wait, » it's sighed out more than mentally uttered. « I wait and wait and wait and wait because I am not ready yet. But when I am, will you be there? » Does she really need to add one more to her list? The crowd in the bowl has thinned without the Igen gold's warm, joyful presence in their minds and her physical glowiness so near them. What's new? New is the Igen rider who's heard to be a little loose, but fun. Pretty, one auntie says while another sniffs and mentions something about a face too angular. New is the clutch that's surely going to be soon given how that foreign gold is acting. New is over there, says another auntie, jerking her chin to the bookreading woman forcing new to find her voice with a, "Hello," and a book that comes down under her chin, finding discomfort in being talked of in front of her own face. Wait and wait and wait. « We do not stay long, » Vhaeryth admits with more true seriousness. Underpinning his reply is an unbidden sense of familiarity, a sense of how these stones have looked and felt and even smelled in different lights, less conscious memory and more the longtime association of being there. « But, » that doesn't mean his stay has to be tedious, nor hers; he can and does release into a leap, playing at heading towards those Starstones too if she isn't already on to something new. He might warn them, even. He could. It's at that leap that N'rov's shoulders finally loosen. He certainly hadn't enticed the aunties into talking further, but neither had he overtly attempted to override them; with an 'Ah' here and a nod there and a backward step in between, he might soon have taken his leave except... it's inevitable; N'rov has to look. N'rov turns his head, slowly, and a beat later he lifts a brow. Wryly, still looking at Irianke (possibly he missed the angular part), "At least it was all good." "Some of it," Irianke allows, venturing a vague smile, the kind that's not quite pleased but not displeased. She still has the kettle in one hand. "Enjoy your visit." There's no visible shame in having been caught eavesdropping, but once made, the goldrider has no purpose to linger. The smile grows warmer as it finds reason to stay even as she's turning to the path towards the kitchens, her nose returning to the book while her dragon frolics above. "And you, yours." N'rov keeps an eye on the eavesdropper's back, long enough to assure that she is keeping on that other way; to the aunties then, with some humor, "That's my cue. Tell you what, I'll drop in again before the clutching," or after, or sometime. "You can verify I'm still breathing." With that, and a tip of an invisible and more tip-pable version of the hat he'd earlier shoved into his pocket, he makes his escape to go talk to men about men things and even gamble a little. He won't stay as long as he might have done, Vhaeryth or no Vhaeryth; there are some stakes he refuses to win or lose. |
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