Logs:Blood and Glass and Cold and Comfort
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| RL Date: 25 February, 2013 |
| Who: Jo, Madilla, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After Vrianth's flight, Madilla fixes them up. |
| Where: Guest Weyr, HRW |
| When: Day 3, Month 2, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: A layer of gray clouds hangs oppressively around the spires. The air is humid and cool, but there is no snowfall today. |
| Mentions: Anvori/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Warnings for post-flight damage and angst and pushy dragons. But at least it's not cold comfort. |
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| How much later is it when Vrianth's rider begins to return to herself, to find herself wedged beneath Tacuseth's with only the fur of her rucked-up coat to protect her from stone and glass? Vrianth is flying to her, speeding to her out of sheer will and what energy's left to her by this truncated flight, one wing overlapping the large blue's so closely that on any other night they might crash. The flush of pleasure still paints the greenrider's cheeks. The air smells of sweat and brandy and blood. She shivers. With Tacuseth keeping Vrianth close now that she was his, he's willing to let her lead him wherever she wants to go. If his rider's in pain - and she's likely to be - the nicked and scratched blue seems to be more casual about it - as if this was nothing new, perhaps. That's likely so with her blood mingling with Leova's on the floor along with the brandy and the crushed glass about them. She herself is finding it slower for her to return to herself, the convict rider panting ontop of her wingmate, her naked body a near patchwork of old scars mixed in with fresh ones. Her dark hair is damp with sweat as she brushes a wet kiss to the side of Leova's lips, and when she feels that shudder, it's instinctual that she presses the length of her wiry body against her in the case that she's cold, hands drawing up from between them to idly caress flushed hips as her head dips down into the crook of Leova's neck and settles. Her look of flushed satisfaction, hidden in the move as she gathers her breath. Vrianth's rider shivers again, and keeps shivering. She clutches Tacuseth's rider's warmth to her as unthinkingly as though Jo's skin were more familiar than her own, even as she twists her head away from the kiss she'd taken before, even as she shudders at the glassy bite that cuts deeper into that clutching hand and against the bluerider's already-scarred back. She lets go, with that hand at least. She can't hold on. Vrianth's closer. All she has to do is hold out. When she opens her eyes, her pupils are blown, huge and black within their rings of amber, unfocused. "Jo," she breathes, so close to how as she'd earlier called out something inarticulate that might have started Tacuseth's name, and yet an entire continent away. She doesn't have the plague, now, neither of them ever did. But she's nothing like the stoic woman she'd always passed as being. She's shivery, and beginning to be desperate, and not like she'd been desperate before. She's not even ticklish. "Jo?" With Leova shuddering against her, Jo is trying to use her arms now to gather the older woman closer, not caring how naked they are or how covered they are in sweat and drops of blood. When the other can't hold on, the bluerider is there to do it for her, even while her mind's strong link with Tacuseth starts to loosen. Well, perhaps not all the way since her words are faint and mirroring her dragon's. "I got ya, baby," her words are breathless, the woman keeping to the crook of her neck but turning her head now towards Leova's collarbone to speak. "Yer protected. Yer protected. It's gonna be fine, now. Ya won' fall." Maybe her words don't make much sense, their context seeming to slip in and out between rider and dragon. Maybe it's to both, but she's not in a space to clarify. Her own eyes still remain closed, even to the call of her name, her hands possessive on the greenrider's body as she tries to press them close. She is not about to let her go. Not yet. This brazen ex-con seems to determined to shield her from something. Anything. Everything. With her name called again in askance, this time her eyes open with heavy lids as the haze of lust starts to let rationale through. It's takes her a good moment to register the voice this time before there's a breathy, "Leova...?" "It hurts." Her voice is soft in pitch, rough in timbre, shaky. Pain. Jo could dimly register the pain now that was creeping up her arms, her legs. Leova's words seem to act like a trigger, but it doesn't yet register on her face. "I know, darlin'," she says quietly, her knee shifting just a bit to hit up against something sharp. Glass. There's glass all around them. "I'm not goin' to let it hurt anymore," she says then, not seeming to care about whatever pain was creeping in on herself. Whatever touch Tacuseth was sending, letting it linger in her head. Her priority was the woman in her arms, up against her body with all her curves. Blinking a few times to bring herself back in focus more, she lifts her head now from Leova's neck to really survey the damage. She slowly tries to see what of the greenrider is injured before she asks, "Can...ya move?" At that reassurance, Leova's breath evens somewhat, whether from the voice or the words or just plain that Jo's there. It's still a little too quick, a little too shallow, but better. There's the odd smear across her face, her shoulders, her neck where the other rider had bared it, but otherwise they're more or less intact, that much protected by the hood. Except, of course, for the marks the bluerider herself had left. The greenrider's eyes still aren't quite focused, but there's an odd trust there, intent on Jo's face. Or, possibly, faces. Move. Jo wants her to move. So Leova does, if only to try and straighten her legs, boots scraping against rock and splinters. "My... hand," she remembers hands, "doesn't like to move," she admits in a whisper, like it's a loved child who just doesn't want to obey. (To Madilla) There's inarticulate static, far away and then close and then closest, demanding. (To Vrianth): A moment of panic, first. Then, hesitantly... ? (To Madilla): Yes! « !! » It's almost words. It pulls. (To Vrianth): !! Surprise, and then another question, formulated so very carefully, by someone uncomfortable, but trying. « Where? What? » Jo's there, and she seems to be making sure she remains there. Her legs are still a little entwined with her wingmate's, and when she's looked that with the odd sort of trust there, the bluerider is studying her intently right back. When Leova then shifting, she secures one strong arm about the woman's waist to keep her there against her as she tries to shift them both on their sides instead on her on top of her. She works slowly, careful and aware of the glass and the fact that one ankle was still carrying the whole of her black leather pants. "Just hold onto me," she encourages low, trying to get the greenrider away from the brunt of the broken glass so she could rest and recover on her instead. It's only after that she looks for which hand that's being spoken of, using her free one to reach for it to examine it closer. In the shift, dark eyes do light on those marks she leaves on Leova's body - particularly between her breasts. Leova waits with that same peculiar passivity, letting Jo do what she will do, and so when Jo instructs her to move, she does. Or, she tries. There's a hiss, an outcry escaping her throat. Vrianth hisses, her thoughts ranging ahead of her at once warning and demanding, as she threads the Spindles even more sharply this time and descends straight for the low, low ledge. (To Madilla): Just what Madilla needs to see: a hazy, dimly glowlit vision of someone's foreshortened face, flushed and stringy-haired, peculiarly angled from below and to the side as though the chin... a woman's chin... were the prow of a boat about to run into her. It's somehow more than three-dimensional in its vividness, but there's still that lack of focus: were Madilla to between to it, she'd be eternally lost. And then as the vision shifts, a hiss that's not human at all, and pain. (To Madilla): And then that's when five riders hurry into the infirmary in various states of dishevelment, two from the inner caverns and three from the Bowl, talking all at once about the guest weyr and there's blood and it hurts and no, they don't know what's going on. (To Vrianth): Can Vrianth feel, sense, hear Madilla's abrupt intake of breath? There might be more, but-- people, concrete, and there's no time for anything more than a promise, words so intensely thought it might count as yelling: « I'm coming. » She's coming. She'll even run, all the way there. When Leova hisses, Jo immediately stops all movement between them. "Shit..." she spills, reflexively tightening her hold on her wingmate as she tries to soothe her with words. "It's alright, baby. I'm not gonna move us again. Just...stay here, like this, with me?" with the bluerider holding her close, long fingers reaching up to pin what strands of hair that's there from her face. The gesture is a caress, gentle and unusual from the tough and aggressive younger woman. Tacuseth croons in comfort when his green hisses, keeping close in body and in flight to every move made. His mind is the beacon for her to take strength from, to find comfort as he heads for that same low ledge. To Vrianth, Tacuseth's voice is deep, warm. His confidence never wavering as he sends to her, « She will not hurt her. She will be protected. And you. » He sends the warm, gentle winds of reassurance, the fearlessness of one that is sure of his abilities. And hers. She draws hard on that assurance as though it were his life's blood, and as they land already she crowds back up against him, her tail lashing, shivering. (Vrianth to Tacuseth) (To Madilla): That pressure recedes. Somewhat. Mostly. Hurry-hurry-hurry. She doesn't seem to comprehend issues such as not wanting to fall in the snow. (To Madilla): When Madilla approaches, Vrianth will have just landed, already crowding back up against Tacuseth, her tail lashing, shivering. (To Vrianth): Or the need to not terrify poor healers unused to such mental intr-- interruptions! But all is forgiven. The room is dimy lit, glowlit, the floor reflecting here and there as though fragments of tiny green jewels had been scattered about. It's pretty, really. Of course, there's also the smell of brandy, heavy over the coppery stink of drying blood. And the women on the floor, the bluerider holding her shaky wingmate. That part isn't so pretty. And... there's also about to be a dragon invading, if Vrianth has anything to say about it. Who said healers need room and light to work? With the ledge about to be invaded by one fast-moving blue and green, Jo is there holding the shaking Leova close and intimately still, her words to the woman low and meant for her ears only. She's naked herself save for her black leather pants hanging off one ankle and one boot somewhere far from her foot. Her belt is a ways from them, her set of sheathed knives on it laid bare and laying haphazardly in its haste to be rid of along with everything else. As to her, there's scars that can be seen on her body that's not hidden by Leova, those at least the majority of them look turns older. Like Leova, she has fresh marks too, and broken glass and blood strewn all about them painting quite the scene. "Vrianth," is the first sign of Madilla's approach, her tone as sympathetic as it is chiding. "You'll have to let me in, if you want anything done. Room and light, if you please." Is she giving the green a slightly wary glance as she passes, like she's a little unnerved? Maybe - but that's secondary to dropping towards her knees, careful of the glass, reaching out. She's got a bag of supplies with her, but in the immediate sense, she seems much more interested in getting a hold of Leova's hand and saying, gently, "I've got you. We've got you. It's all fine." She doesn't so much as blink at the state of either rider, nudity and otherwise. That green doesn't object to letting Madilla in, so long as she hurries. It's just that she's coming in right after her, crooning in throaty, awkwardly rumbling tones that abruptly lower in pitch with Leova's yelp, the greenrider trying to pull away but surely making it hurt worse and trembling back against Jo. Bits of glass are embedded in her skin, there. Her wrist has started to swell. (To Madilla): And there's abruptly that pressure again, demanding, pulsing in time with the whirl of Vrianth's eyes. (To Vrianth): STOP IT. They aren't words, per se, but that thought is clear, even if the others aren't: a jumble of emotions that promise to work, fix, help. Promise. Tacuseth is pinned to his green's side as they head on in, and he's watching Madilla closely as she's let in first. His own rumbles are deeper but softer, his eyes whirling while his convict rider lady rides every shudder that her wingmate makes. Jo's only vauely aware that they're no longer alone, and seeing Madilla approach immediately sets her territorial streak in. Her body tenses for only a moment before she comes to herself, back in control as she pants out, "Madilla...shit, she's hurt...I..." stating the obvious, her mind still a bit hazy. She doesn't care about herself and whatever glass was embedded into her skin, the bluerider focusing solely on Leova and lending her the warmth and strength she needs. Madilla's, "Stop. Leova. Just let me help," is gentle, but somehow distracted. She's managed to get a firm grip, at least, while the other hand fumbles into the supplies she's brought, fetching out redwort, numbweed and tweezers, the better for getting this glass clear. "It's fine, Jo. I'll help her. Just hold her still; watch over her. These things happen. Leova-- I'll make it hurt less, I promise. Breath. In and out." At least the numbweed will make the extraction process hurt a little less. (To Madilla): But she hurt her! Vrianth's hissy... but at least she's piped down. Mostly. (To Vrianth): Madilla is not above giving lectures, you know. Distracted, non-fluent ones. But 'mostly' will do for now. Leova's trying to breathe, but it doesn't help that Vrianth's gotten to hissing like a teakettle, staring, every now and again butting her head up against Tacuseth only to stare some more. She's crowding, but at least she hasn't barged in. Yet. This, while her rider's dark, heavy-lidded eyes try to fix on Madilla but look past her, through her, searching for Vrianth. Jo seems to be a comfort, for all that Leova had tensed when the bluerider did as though her nerves were attuned to Jo's, slower to relax. Shivering. The numbweed can't come too soon. Make that two dragons up on the crowding into that small guest weyr, his rumbling mostly going to Vrianth as he tucks his head in towards hers for a moment before his gaze falls back on Jo. "Okay. Yah, okay," Jo is saying in the meantime to Madilla's instructions, her arm about Leova's waist getting firmer. To Leova, then, "See? I toldja it's gonna be fine, darlin'. I ain' gonna go anywhere, alright. Just let me take care of ya. Let her take care of yer hand..." Her words stay low, inviting, a litany that's as much a caress as if it were hands itself. An open rumble from Tacuseth has her suddenly turning her head towards the blue to add, "I'm fine. Ya know I'm fine, Tac." By the marks on her skin, the fresh cuts seem to pale in comparison. And then she dips her head down to that shiver, dropping a kiss right there on her wingmate's shoulder. Numbweed. Tweezers. Redwort to clean. Madilla's hands are cold from the outdoors, but she works fast and efficiently, at least, with nice soft bandages to go on after the final layer of numbweed has been gently laid atop. "I think it's sprained. I'll immobilise it. Leova - you're fine. It's going to be fine. Vrianth, she's fine." She's earnest, determined, unfazed. "Jo, can you help me get her into bed? You should get in with her. Keep her warm. We can worry about everything else later." Okay, maybe the faint hint of a blush as she glances up, as if she's only now registering Jo's state of undress. And those scars. That litany, that tenderness soothe Leova into a low-level tremble, breaking out of it only at Tacuseth's rumble that in turn sets off Vrianth again. But then... then Madilla's numbweed sets in and she goes nerveless, quiescent, eyes open but letting them handle her and do what needs to be done. She'll be a lump under the covers, little more, Vrianth pushing right up when at last the healer's had her competent way with her. Only once, sadly, "'S my good hand."And later, something that might be her weyrmate's name. (To Madilla): That presence eases when the numbweed does, still anxious, but relieved. It's a tense sort of bliss, but spreads over her thoughts like a 'weed that not just numbs but tingles. |
Comments
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Fri, 01 Mar 2013 11:29:14 GMT.
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Vrianth! No terrorizing the Weyrhealer! She's the best (only?) one we got. >:l
This was a fascinating read, and it's so... different, seeing Leova be vulnerable. And Jo be tender. Vrianth and Tacuseth are <3.
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