Logs:Darkness and Ice
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| RL Date: 29 June, 2015 |
| Who: Ka'ge, Zymadiath, X'vin, Besmernyth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Besmernyth lures a weyrling dragon out for company; X'vin and Ka'ge meet briefly. |
| Where: Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 2, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Dee/Mentions |
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>---< Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr(#675RJLs$) >----------------------------------<
This end of the Bowl is grassy and serene, the sparkling blue beyond the
Lake Shore a draw for residents, riders, and dragons alike. An earthslide
has revealed a dramatic view of the mountain slopes beyond the circle of
the Weyr, past the lake, where a faint misty haze often shimmers above the
small Bowl Falls. The Feeding Grounds are fenced off to on the
northeastern end of the lake, just a short walk from the weyrling
barracks, the hot springs, and infirmary.
Clear as a bell, the sun shines in pale winter skies, though an occasional
sharp breeze blows. Most of the day has been without snowfall, though it's still cold. The winds are brisk, though, and they cut through the bowl in just such a way that some places -- where Besmernyth has chosen to lie near the weyrling complex, for example -- get the worst of it. Even so, the foreign bronze does not appear overly affected by the chill; indeed, he takes the wind and the puffs of snow onto his dark hide without much interest in either, his eyes roving. He's chosen this place for a reason, and his eyes are on the door leading into the barracks. It's as frigid here as it is outside -- more, maybe, as ice clings to the digits that reach out to gently brush at Fort's newest additions, so long as they leave openings for him. There is power hinted behind the soft breath of him, all the suggestion of a blizzard withheld, but for now it waits: there is already snow, untouched, and it is image Besmernyth shares, tantalizing. « You are too warm in there. Come out, come see. I would see you. » (To Zymadiath from Besmernyth) It's a minute or two that pass before someone emerges from the weyrling complex, but it isn't the dragonet who does. Ka'ge, a tall boy of late teens that likely looks older than he really is, is clothed in dark, drab material from head to toe, with a hood pulled over his head to make no expression of whatever has pulled him from the inside has evoked from him. Beneath that long-sleeved attired, there's a clear lump over his chest- a large bandage beneath. But when comes out to see an adult bronze laying there, he stops. Head tilts up enough that his self-made shadows give way enough that blue-green eyes can assess Besmernyth. It's unspoken, whatever occurs next, but his head tilts down not quite looking all the way over his shoulder. It preceeds the arrival of the darkling bronze, who stops just shy of the layer of snow claiming the ground. Not for sake of fear, mind, but for the darker interior's stark definition from the much more lighted outside. It's not a pleasant thing, that which comes to meet Besmernyth's mind. Shadowy figments, indiscernable in shape be they words, beings, or even thoughts, writhe at first at a distance at the foreign mind. Not one of his clutch. Not his dam. The figures twist and curl, then reach like tendrils of darkness to touch at the other bronze's conciousness. With his full presence, there is power tucked but unhidden in the gravelly, rough mindvoice that comes from the night « And you are? » The curiosity of him is bold, arrogant even. (To Besmernyth from Zymadiath) Besmernyth's head lifts at once, slender and regal, attentive to the movement in the threshold. His eyes whirl with calm curiosity, then fleck with red at who comes: not the whelp, but a human child. He huffs his displeasure, craning his long neck up high to see further in, and relaxes only when the younger bronze does come. And from the north comes another to this congregation: X'vin's smiling, of course he is, with a helmet hung from his belt and his jacket undone in the front, displaying the fleece lining and the cream of his knit sweater beneath. His path is direct for his lifemate, halted only when he notices the weyrling pair. "Come to see the world, already?" he asks, amicably. And Besmernyth rumbles. « Life, » says the older dragon, mercurial. The winds gust again against that mind: he puts snow in it, ice, snowflakes that are identical. « I would see you, » he repeats, unphased, « out of the darkness. » It is not until Zymadiath appears, really, that there is the impression of a grinning skull, of hollow cheeks and eyes, the spread of white hair around empty features, « Ah. Yes, » his approval, too, is hollow, cold and slow with creeping frost, but the weyrling gets his reward in, « I am Besmernyth. And you are -- » he disappears, leaving a void, then returns with second-hand knowledge, « Zymadiath. I hope you are healing well. » (To Zymadiath from Besmernyth) Zymadiath tilts his shadow-wrapped head, assessing the layer of snow. The feelings of ice and snowflakes from both the older dragon and his chosen gave him enough indication of what this is, but as he reaches one dark paw to it and allows it to sink beneath, his night-dappled heavy wings snap open as fast as their oversized length allows. But it doesn't take much. Shortly all four paws are in the snow, his gait exaggerated from his more typical stalking-scuttle to be not all unlike a cat suddenly dropped into something very wet. Ka'ge isn't unaware of the bronze's red facets, but he nor his dragonet seem to have any sort of reflex reaction to it. The teen levels his gaze on Besmernyth again wordlessly, until words come from the northern direction. Studious gaze, intense at first gives way to a grin that adds lines to his stubble-lined jaw. "Aye. I'm guessing he's yours." A gloved hand raises slightly to indicated Bes. "Zymadiath decided to come see him." The wording particularly spun, that, "We've not done much but sit around inside." Comes sarcasm, enlightened with a light shrug. Darkness is heavy, impenetrable and to the unfamiliar mind it continues in that writhing, ghostly and phantasmic but of no change in the nightmarish tempo. When the older dragon requests him to come from the darkness, the arrogrance grows in shadowy amusement. The figments shudder as if in a chuckle, before the coarse, low tones continue, « Besmernyth. » They aren't unfriendly, these shadows. « We are strong. You were there? » Curious and curious still, « Why did you come to see us? » (To Besmernyth from Zymadiath) It's X'vin who watches Zymadiath pussy-foot through the snow and eventually finds it amuzing, laughing brightly for the spectacle. "I forget everything is new for them," the bronzerider says, eyes glazing briefly. Besmernyth, after, rises to stalk closer with long strides, his claws digging into the snow so deeply that it reveals the black of the earth beneath, in punctures. "Ah," he says for the explanation. "He likes to see them. We missed your Impression." He sounds apologetic, though he doesn't really say it. "Congratulations, I think, are in order. He's a good looking dragon. Strong." Not like his lean compatriot, who stops closer to Zymadiath and lowers his muzzle at him, turns his head so one faceted eye can fully regard the shadowed baby. "I'd heard, though; word travels fast. What was it, he named you?" To Zymadiath, Besmernyth watches those shadows with increasing interest, as though he might pry back the darkest points with skeletal fingers and strong grip, to tear them away and see behind, and indeed he coils -- but relents before there is a severing. « You are strong, » he agrees as gently as he can; it is not very, « but no. I was not there. We came after you as we also came before. » Circles, circles; you could get lost at the beginning, or is that the end? « We wanted to see you. You cannot be hidden away from us for long. » Zymadiath relents to the cold, letting his darkened belly sink into the snow a bit as he finds his paws under him more steadily. This would ruin the bandage that protects a portion of his chest, though, something his rider would be sure to hear about later when he's to get it changed. When the adult bronze approaches him- had he seen an adult besides his dam be so large?- he pauses. Bold, though, he reaches that night-masked muzzle out towards the one offered him even if he'd not go so far as to touch noses. Expressive facets, eerily lit against shaded background, keep their blue and green hues, even if the slightly faster whirling betrays him in this new experience. "He gave me Ka'ge." The teen's arms fold over his chest, and by the timing of it, seems paired with when Zym allows his wound to sink into the cold, "Thanks," a best, "sir." The grin is still there, a wryness to it at the tailend of it. "You're new to Fort? Or have I just missed you around." Tearing away shadows, should those skeletal fingers grasp one of those ethereal things, would find more shadows. Looking farther and farther into blackest night, fading and darkening over and over again at their edges where they touch Besmernyth's conciousness, steady, unperturbed. « Then you seek me for a reason. » The little bronze's mind churns somewhere within that darkness, hidden in those depths, « You can't do both. » There's a question in it- he seeks answers. (To Besmernyth from Zymadiath) X'vin's lower jaw drops, gaping maw with very sharp teeth. It's a mimicry of a smile, but it suits: he looks sly, like he's just told the punch line of a joke. Then he snaps it closed -- awfully near, and withdraws as the younger dragon sinks into the the snow. He does the same, though with less caution, and rests his head on his paws. "Right in one. X'vin, and that's Besmernyth. We arrived from Benden a few days ago. I'm still trying not to say, 'Benden's duties' at every turn." He laughs at himself, and seems to be barely lamenting his plight as he moves back over to his now stationary dragon, so he can reach for a bag that hangs low from Bes's straps. "I'm sorry if he disturbed you. He can be..." hesitation, a considering tilt of the head as Ka'ge protects his chest. "Curious." Not the most accurate word, maybe, but it will do. He pulls the bag down and puts it in the snow, begins digging through it while speaks. « Of course I can. And I am. » He sounds disappointed to have to explain -- like he'd expected better -- but he does so with the great, lumbering slowness of glaciers. « I shelled before your dam, and long before you, » he says, « and I arrived here, in the weyr, after you, little one. » The observation, or maybe accusation, earns a welting cut of frigid wind, and « I seek you because I can, » he says, then betrays, « and because your golden sister sleeps. » And you are second fiddle. (To Zymadiath from Besmernyth) The few day old bronze mantles those night-touched wings, raising his head in the face of the maw that could easily consume him all at once. And as it snaps shut, Zymadiath's facets touch red, the licks of the hue becoming more and more vibrant. He is motionless, posturing against the older bronze as if he is that big, if not bigger. Of course he is. The makings of a growl come up short in his throat, seated as only a low rumble. Ka'ge's not experienced enough to be unphased by the feelings passed from his dragonet to him, and there's a moment between the weyrling's and the wingleader's conversation that glazed draconic distraction predominates. When he's back, his gaze is slow to trail back to X'vin after flicking briefly between older and young bronzes. "...What brings you?" He finally says after a moment, missing the formality of greeting entirely, though that could be chalked up to the exchange of before, "A transfer, other business?" He speaks casually, almost offhandedly, but what seems like interest is there. He'd not missed the man's knot. There a shake of his head, another lazy shrug and a hand lifts to touch thumb and forefinger to the peak of his hood, "Nah, he didn't disturb us. I'd rather be out." Despite the weather. "We're fine, but we're behind everyone because of it, which bothers him." The shadows are patient as they create and dissolve, and create again. Night does not head to anything, anyone and the first does not seem to goad him. The second, however, « What business do you have with Taeliyth? » The course, gravelly tones of his projection are crafted in arrogance, the power behind them larger than the four foot dragonet that thinks them. Protectiveness is exuded with it. Not offense, no. He doesn't need others to agree with his worth. (To Besmernyth from Zymadiath) Besmernyth remains still only long enough for X'vin to get that bag, enough for Zymadiath to challenge him, a thing he takes with outward patience until the bag is gone. Then he stands again, uncurling spindly limbs and mantling his own lengthy wings -- the silver within sparking off the clear winter sunlight. "Family," X'vin says, finding a stack of books he was digging for and setting them down neatly at his feet. "Duty," is a second answer. "All business, as you say." The drawstring is pulled tightly, and he stands to replace it, except Besmernyth is not low anymore, so he holds it at his side while he waits for the dragon's attention. "You might find yourself hoping for rest, soon enough. The first week feels claustrophobic, and you spend the rest of your time hoping for a moment's rest." The growl is what sets the Benden dragon moving: rearing back on his hind legs to deliver a powerful sweep of his wings. It blows up snow around them in huge, cold, but ultimately harmless puffs. There comes from the edges of his mind the whisper of feathers, the jarring impression of being laughed at, mocked by a crowd without eyes. « She is a queen. » (To Zymadiath from Besmernyth) Zymadiath's jaws open to reveal those tiny teeth. His heavy wings, too big for him, spread wider as if in mirror of the adult bronze, but the blowing of snow is something he can't do, and the buffetting of it recollects those pinions back at his side. He turns his head, eyes lidding, he crouching crawl becoming deeper. Something about X'vin's reply is funny. Something about it evokes a chuckle, and the hand that had just adjusted his hood rubs the back of his head idly. "I'll keep that in mind." Ka'ge's sarcasm is an obvious thing, the grin quite a bit broader now as if there's a whole lot to that story the wingleader isn't privy to. There's a twinge in his expression that takes half of that near-smirk off of his smug face. And simply the extra snow storm the bronze offered them didn't cause it. The hooded boy turns the small distance required to be at Zym's side, though he would neither be allowed or able to pick him up. He lays a hand on the bronze's head, a step back towards the complex with intention to insist he return inside, "We need to get back." No excuse, no reasons. His other hand raises in something between a salute and a wave, "I'd like to talk more soon." Becomes their farewell. Writhing, twisting, figments of darkness dance amidst nightmares. Night comes, consuming, the blackness taking over as a blanket erasing anything definable, if there ever was. The darkling dragonet offers no projected words, but there's something threatening and hostile beneath those depths. Unpleasant he was already, now unfriendly too. (To Besmernyth from Zymadiath) X'vin is beleaguered, shielding his face from the wind and snow that's driven towards them in those powerful wingbeats, and when Besmernyth stops to settle back his haunches, he gives the bronze a look that is unreadable. Bes turns his head to look at the source of whatever thought has struck him, from X'vin, but again his mouth drops open in amusement. His forepaws drop to the ground, claws flexing into the frozen earth. The bronzerider's eyebrows go up in curiosity; he begs no question, instead going to the dragon's side to reattach the bag, retrieving his logs from the snow. "Of course," he says, for the farewell, for the request. "I won't be going anywhere any time soon." There is no apology for Besmernyth's actions; they would get tiring, and become constant. "Take care, Ka'ge." He turns the other way, back to the north from whence he came with books in hand, while Zymadiath settles again, staring intently after them even after they've disappeared inside. He's likely probing more minds. Test, test. Clicking beaks and mocking cackles. So many non-eyes. Besmernyth's laughter would be hair-raising, if heard by creatures with hair. « You are strong, » he says, frosty mockery in the face of that unkindness. « Be well, Zymadiath. » |
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