Logs:Bother
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| RL Date: 17 July, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, N'rov |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Vhaeryth is bored. Let's see how Hraedhyth likes a taste of her own, bothersome medicine. |
| Where: The Minds of Dragons, High Reaches Weyr/Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 4, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
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| Bored bored bored bored /bored/ bored bored Vhaeryth means life has to be made more interesting. He's already gone flying until the clouds rolled in, hassled his neighbors, snorted at the increasing piles of dust littering his floor to make miniature dust-storms, hassled his clutchmates, gotten a couple itchy spots tended to, hassled his wingmates, wandered over to the lake and gulped half of it down, hassled his... well, now he doesn't bespeak Hraedhyth directly. That would be too easy. Instead, it's as though he's talking past her and just happens to become audible, complete with a briefly recognizable image coming in and out of focus before he wanders on as though to other topics. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) A day of of discovery and roughhousing may tire her body, but Hraedhyth's mental guard is not so easily worn down. Though the drums are present, they sound almost peaceful, rhythm matching a dragon's dozing breath. It's almost as if he's welcome to pass without disturbing her. Almost. Fangs snap shut on his presence, scruffing without pain though there is the threat of such if he doesn't answer that thunderous growl. « WHO. » If he's given a little shake, it's from her attempt to rouse further and deal with this vaguely familiar soul. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) Much better! « ME, » announces Vhaeryth in a great booming basso... and promptly wriggles his way along her tongue once the shaking starts, becoming smaller and smaller and threatening to disappear down her gullet and see what she buries /there/. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) Vhaeryth is spat out once recognized, not for his sake but for Hraedhyth's own. Ugh. Fortian. Her distaste manages to taint her tone, « You. » Time to regroup, collecting herself and preparing to do battle with the likes of him, even if it may not come to that. The drums are stronger now that she's fully awake, pounding with restored Reachian pride, something metallic rustling in the background. « What do you want? » (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) Is that /goo/ she spat him out with? He ignores any propensity for those drums to become battle-ready in favor of preening himself like a feline, one dark copper-shot wing lifted so he can tidy beneath it with quick, short licks. Maybe what he wants is to be clean. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth grows no great love for the bronze as he imitates a feline, of all things. Not that she's every seen one, but there's an instinctual dislike. If she's even more hostile than before... well, she had been asleep. That, as well as stormy sky and sense of grey that aren't her own weighing heavily on the dragonet's mind. Ferocity is her flame, sudden and bright as she turns accusing eyes onto the foreigner. « What have you done to my Sister. » Calm, though she strains against that unintended restraint, eager for a chance to lash out at him. That flame lights the sudden lift of Vhaeryth's head, innermost lids dropping against its brightness in a way that could hide genuine concern... if he were trying to hide in the least. He doesn't. « I have not stolen her. » What's become of her, the little one? (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) All the distrust and suspicion Hraedhyth has for him can't blind her to the other's concern. Her hackles lower, fangs sheathed, almost disappointed. Now she sulks to match the bleak weather in her mindscape, carrying the salty tang of Iesaryth. With Vhaeryth innocent, there is only one other possibility. « She grows impatient. So smart. She knows. » How to fly, how to do the things even the older gold does. She doesn't voice her worry for the other half, for her Sister's physical capabilities. But the concern is obviously there. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) « She does not like to wait. She should not have to wait. » Throw off the chains, the straps, the fetters! Vhaeryth's mind does not hold worlds the way hers does, but he can add to the sea-salt wind a wistful drift of sparkle. And sulking, sulking is something surely he understands. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth growls at him, still. « In some things. » A disagreement, what a surprise. « We all had to wait. » Not just she, but the young stamping of dragonet feet, and then the exhile-heavy class. So on and so forth until the ground is thundering with the many numbers of her lands. A reminder, should he think to forget their strength. « Mine is helping. » The marching dies down, waiting for his response. What has he been doing to help, exactly? Yes, yes, yes. The thing is, her footsteps die down, the marching continues: reiterated, reverberated, the better to make her feel the hordes. (Zombie hordes, perhaps, like hers and yet not of her volition. Not this time.) Low, masculine, somehow more relaxed now than he'd been: « Was that a question? » Should he tell her? Has Iesaryth not told her? ... Is it a secret? Perhaps it is. Perhaps he should keep Iesaryth's secrets from more than whom he'd thought. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) With each moment, Hraedhyth doesn't feel the pull of sleep as strongly. Aggrivated though she may be at his presence, it lessens as she manages to shake off the shackles of sleep. As for his twisted, turned hordes... well, if they are not of her numbers then they will be food. Bones. Yum. « Should it be? » He is not evil, no. He is not her enemy, no. But he is still a stranger, and there's a boisterous thump of her pride. « What would my Sister tell you that she would not tell me? » Confident though she may be, yes. It's a question. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) She may have the bones, splintery bones, and even some hisses and tinny shrieks if she chooses to feed. (Of course, it also comes with praise that might sting more, a wordless /Much better/... that at least doesn't linger.) « Perhaps nothing, » Vhaeryth answers, pleased to layer his voice with a warmer echo of her growl. « Perhaps it did not matter to her, perhaps it was not important enough to share with you, Hraedhyth. » Although there's that sense of /leaning/, of warm, indulgent playfulness... but perhaps Hraedhyth wouldn't care for such as that. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) Any and all improvements in her mood will still have a subtle growl for him, though even that is less vicious and more... stubborn. « Then it is nothing. » She'll dismiss the possibilities as easily as she deals with his rotted specters. Hopefully with less teeth. « She would tell me. » The leaning earns him a silence that borders on ominous, if not confused. Hraedhyth will never retreat, but like any youth she mirrors her aggravator's presence in order to keep the same distance between them. « I do not understand her fondness for you. » Plenty warm, still tangled in a fresh set of her sire's chains, thank you. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) Now, /that's/ distracting. Just what Vhaeryth needed. « What are these, » he says more than asks, a paw stretching out to catch links in his talons if he can, to make them plink. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth will not stay silent for long if he is truly intent on touching the metal links that she wears with pride. They're warm with paternal affection, he'll feel that much before she's bellowing. « MINE. DO NOT TOUCH. MINE. » Snatched away, she'll inspect the stolen bits with a tenderness she's otherwise thought incapable of. A glimpse of what Iesaryth sees, perhaps. Flames roar to life, crackling in warning as she tucks the memory of the day away from prying Fortians. « They are of Cadejoth. » Drums roll at the mention of him, echoing with his other titles. Sire. Alpha. Vhaeryth can sound awfully adolescent with his, « Fine. » Fiiiiiiine. He observes her, the way she is with those links, and he stays well on the far side of those fires. When he replies, though, it's not in answer to that softness she'd perhaps rather not have him see, though perhaps it is in /response/, somehow. « You keep bits and pieces of him? » Toys? What /are/ they? (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth feels safe with the flames spilling from her hearth, forming a semicircle between their minds. As if the physical distance between them isn't enough. « Trophies. » She explains with a reluctant grunt. « They help to remind me. » Dragon memories being what they are. In fact, the fire will lower just enough for her to toss up a cloud of iron filings, letting the silvery powder fall into the blaze. It may feel all too familiar to Vhaeryth, though she is not offering to return it. Hers now. Hmmmmm. How useful. Not that Vhaeryth /says/ that, but perhaps she can feel it, that moment's intrigued avidity. But those filings she's set on flame? They don't like being sacrificed, even for such a dramatic display. Bilious, greasy smoke rises, and by the time it dissipates, the bronze himself is gone. (Although some of what's left may still await a careless step, lying molten at the blaze's feet.) (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) Such dramatics may be appreciated if it were anyone else. Instead, Hraedhyth is left lashing out at the blinding smoke, furious at his attempt of what must be a surprise attack. Filthy, artificial, so unlike the black plumes which are naturally produced by her fire. And just like that, he's gone. Good riddance. Hraedhyth is not so naive to think of it the last time, but for now she will make a second attempt at sleep. Sweet, Vhaerythless slumber. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) |
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