Logs:Circles
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 18 November, 2015 |
| Who: Mirinda, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Mirinda is lost. Also, proddy. |
| Where: Sanctuary, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 4, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
    |
| It's barely dawn, the first hints of pink just beginning to show in the rain-filled sky, when Zaisavyth arrives. She's not afraid of letting people know, either: she's here and this is hers. « Mine, » she tells the Weyr, radiating her lust and her presence, extending herself towards every reach of this Weyr to which she now belongs (this Weyr that now belongs to her). With the green that appears alongside her, she circles to the ground, those great wings furled towards a gracious landing; the queen in her court. One by one, she hunts through her potential mates; one by one, she dismisses one bronze or another (and all the browns), though there's a thrum of contentment as she acknowledges Vhaeryth-- he may be permitted to keep her company throughout this long, long day. Mirinda has no baggage, and nowhere in particular to go; dressed for a Monacoan autumn, she wanders, feet carrying her through this unfamiliar landscape without course or aim. By mid-morning, the sun has begun to come out, and Mirinda finds herself-- quite by accident-- ascending the steps to the Solarium, one foot in front of the other. Partway, she has to stop and lean up against the wall, blinking airily the rest of the way up. So far. So far they have come, to this land of stone and loss; whatever riders have agreed, she hasn't made it her own yet, even in the absence of Fort's born queens. Instinct may incline surviving bronzes and even browns her way, but the blues, the greens? So many more are uncertain, confused. Vhaeryth's ringing trumpet greets Zaisavyth nonetheless, for who she is now rather than who she will be. He doesn't seek to summon her to the Rim whereupon he sits, not through the hunting and not through the dismissing; neither does he disinvite her from that high perch, nor from another of the many still-wet sunning spots. She's welcome, and if there isn't room, he'll make it. They? They will become certain. They will come to know Zaisavyth, and they will come to see her as theirs. Her presence invades them all, now: not just her potential mates, but anyone who might come within her sphere of influence, a sphere that grows and grows as she makes herself at home. It's for the best that he does not summon, for she has no interest in obeying the whims of others. Still, in her own time she will come to join him, extending those broad wings and testing out these foreign-- unfamiliar, but still hers-- skies on her way back up. « Where is the green? » she wants to know, splashing emotional colours across her mental skies. Her presence is like a mental itch; impossible to scratch, impossible to escape. Still, at least the world smells clean. « Which green? » is the bronze's not-quite-lazy reply. HIs spine moves, neck cresting, muscle flexing and releasing down to his tail: to assuage that itch, if only for the moment, never to make it go away. So far, so high, before breaking out from the ever-winding ever-upward tunnel of stone into that round room with its high-etched tree and warm, filtered light. All the time she's climbed, the sun's ventured with her, and now the ceiling glows. It's a quiet place. An open place, if not truly an empty place. The rain might have pattered on its roof, if it still fell; it hasn't the feel of disuse, just openness, without people, masked or otherwise. Or, almost. There's a man standing there, his back to the entrance, silhouetted to the shoulders by light. Not that kind of green, Vhaeryth... and Zaisavyth is quietly offended, or might be, if her attention weren't so prone to wander. She does, at least, manage to share what she means: the rolling meadows, the grassy savannahs. That kind of green. « I shall have to fix it. » Were Mirinda in a better state, she might have remembered her mask; she'll regret that, later. For now, it's enough that those wandering feet have carried her this far, the flush upon her cheeks echoed across her bare shoulders and down towards the slender line of her cleavage, too. Her, "Ah!" is a sigh of contentment, as fingertips trail across the nearest available surface, taking some kind of sensual pleasure in it. "Such a place," she approves, that quiet, lilting voice lifted to carry, carrying with it a giggle of pleasure. "What will I find here?" His head lifts; he doesn't turn, though there's some kind of weary amusement in his voice. It's a baritone voice, a Bollian voice. "What are you looking for?" Greenness. « Look to the outside, » Vhaeryth suggests, with its sharp slopes of conifers; he shares that image, surely not with the green she brought with her flitting through them, lurking. Others stand by the lake, in particular, their leaves in silvery bud; what they call the herb garden, too, more regimented. In closer focus, the yellow-green that grows within stone and breaks it apart by the roots. « What would you do to them? » "Everything." Mirinda's voice takes on a note of musicality; she's not singing, but she could be. "Nothing. I don't even know anymore. But at least there is colour, here. I like that." Those fingers continue to trail across every surface that she comes across, as she, in turn, begins to walk towards the owner of that voice." Perhaps she'll run her fingers across him, too. « I would grow them, » declares Zaisavyth, planting mental flowers and grassy meadows across the bowl-- across everything. What he shows, what the Weyr has... it's not enough. Her wings, already, begin to rustle and twitch, ready to carry her aloft again-- but no. Another wave of fire and flame carries itself through her thoughts, burning away that greenery and leaving the Weyr stark and dead. « Mine, » she says. « I will take it all. » He doesn't look to see; maybe it's better so, not knowing what's coming. There aren't any of Zaisavyth's flowers on his shirt, deep indigo beneath the darkly fitted waistcoat. His near-black hair curls only at the back of his neck, like waves out of reach of his collar. "The Sanctuary is closed," he says. "For the day." For longer? « Would you. » Then, « Will you. » In the mirror-image of his thoughts, the embers are still there; the embers glow. Mirinda's fingers reach up to tangle in the curls at the base of N'rov's neck, not pulling but twisting, curling, touching. "Pity," she says, extending the vowel sound. "Such a pity." Her breath exhales in a whoosh of air, almost a laugh. "Is that where I am? I don't even know anywhere. In circles. I walk," firmer, this time, "in circles." Or is it squares? Triangles? Octagons? The embers seek to burn again; to burn it out, to burn it all. « I do what I please, » she says. « All this? It belongs to me, now. » Does Fort have other queens? She cares not for them, only for there here and now, only for what is hers. His breath sharpens, audible for the first time, indrawn rather than exhaled like hers; "Do you like," and N'rov turns, to look down on the girl at last, "Circles?" Octagons, duodecagons? She may burn, and yet it's a different sort of glow from the mouths of those weyrs, here and there, up in the heights. « Take care of it, » he says. « If it is yours. » "I like--" Mirinda falters, her brow furrowing and her eyes, abruptly, turning confused. "I don't know." It's as if she has shrunk: a lost little girl, alone in a big, bad Weyr. « If it is mine, » repeats Zaisavyth, with a hint of sharpness, now, as once again she extends her range across the Weyr, interrupting the rest-- and not-so-rest-- of those dragons within it. « Why would it not be? » He recognizes her, if not recognizes her, this girl different than the composed woman of before. There's something weary about the pull of his mouth, more so even than the exhaustion that haunts his features, and yet disarmed; "We have circles. Possibly even crumbs." If Elaruth or Taeliyth were to return... but she extends her range, and Vhaeryth extends his wings, a long and supple stretch that accentuates the fiery copper chasing along their dark span. « Is it, already? Have you marked it? I would remember your marking it, Zaisavyth. » He twists his neck and gleams a glance at her. It would be memorable, from Zaisavyth. « It won't be easy. » His claws flex, as though they would scratch stone; perhaps that is how she will mark it. Perhaps she will rub up against Tooth Crag itself, and scorch it with her scent. Perhaps she will find another way. Anticipation suggests that she show him, if not necessarily yet; surely she can make it worth it, worth it to take his time. Mirinda tries, tries to smile. Tries and ultimately fails, the corners of her mouth lifting and then falling as she stares upwards at N'rov, all bewildered and abandoned, so very, very lost. "I don't know where I should be," she admits. "If anywhere. There's no one to tell me, is there?" « Mine, » carries with a note of irritated warning. Zaisavyth's wings extend further-- further than Vhaeryth's, as if this is a competition. « It is mine. » Her pique enhances those flames, sending them hurtling this way and that; a temper tantrum lit with solar flares, their weaponised lengths hurtled this way and that. Now, abruptly, she launches herself from that perch, soaring upwards and then down again, a very clear 'not talking to you anymore' that... let's face it, she'll probably be easily drawn back from. Those wingtips tip even before she takes off, as though they might somehow grow. « 'Be on the lookout for coming events; they cast their shadows beforehand,' » is Vhaeryth's parting quote. He doesn't seek to talk her down, far from it; not yet, though she might get amused, drawn gleams from him throughout the day, more so should she seem discomforted. He's not unaware. He'll see what she'll do. (And wait. Fort is old; Fort is proud. Perhaps her born-queens may yet return, and stake their claim over even such a chaseable interloper.) "I could," N'rov says, head tipped down as though to bridge some of the distance, leaning back against the sofa's back to equalize the rest. "I don't think you have to be anywhere. You're good where you are." His voice is low despite his tiredness, pitched to reassure. She's good here. She'd be good elsewhere, too. She is discomforted. She disapproves. She... burns, inside and out. But she'll have her way; she'll have her Weyr. Mirinda's, "Oh," comes on an exhale. "I'm good where I am. She--" It furrows her brow, though she shakes it away with a determined motion of her head; no, no, whatever it is, no. "But I should..." she backs away, backs away towards the exit and the stairs. The bravado of earlier is gone, and now there's only uncertainty, a little girl lost. The stairs are steep. "I'll light your way," N'rov says, quiet and simple. "I know the way. We'll find your people." He'll take his jacket; escort her, but not chase her. Not now, not even at his wingleader's admonition. Surely there will be someone here, perhaps that single greenrider, to protect her interests and not so many others' interest in her. The solarium will still glow with no one there to see it. "Thank you," is very quiet, that not-so-little-girl glancing up to meet N'rov's gaze, just for a moment, before she'll let him show her the way: back to the bowl, back to, yes, her 'people.' As first impressions of the new Weyrwoman go... but no, that's not the point right now. Perhaps later, after her queen has rested and roused, risen and rejoiced. Later. |
Leave A Comment