Sunset Across the Lake Ledge
Broad and flat, this large ledge could likely hold a bronze dragon and a visitor comfortably, if with little room to spare. Slanting slightly downward so that any rain may spill over the unsheltered outcropping, the bumpy ledge has smooth grooves that travel like wagon wheel tracks from where the weyr entrance begins to the very edge, paths worn smooth by turns of wind and running water.
Framing the weyr entrance, plus a smaller opening off to the side, are three retaining walls recently fashioned of smooth river rocks. About the right height for a tall man to sit comfortably atop and admire the ledge's sunset views, their smooth arcs contain the dirt and roots of the young apple and plum trees that are espaliered against the cliff.
There's a humid warmth to the air, afternoon light filtered by the light rainfall that drifts down and vanishes and mists again. It sets the leaves of Vrianth's trees to glistening, as well as the green herself, and those trees' fruit that hang, heavy and round. The curtain is pulled back, the three windows open wide beneath their overhang, and the green's rider lounges on the old, battered couch that's placed to take advantage of the view. Vrianth lounges. Leova lounges. Vrianth dozes, now and again. Leova dozes, a little more. Only one of them has been pretending to work on straps.
Arekoth really can fly almost dozily, sometimes; broad wings and intuition for thermals make that second nature to the brown, when he wants. So it's not so much the fact of movement that contrasts with the lounging atmosphere, as it is the purpose behind it. Wingstrokes are efficient and cut short, H'kon's influence, in one of those rare times, actually managing to display itself in his dragon as they make their way, an arrow across the lake to make a swift and not-exactly-cleared descent to the edge of the ledge. Vrianth will only get a last-minute, « Surprise, lovely, » that's a bit more dry than Arekoth's norm as warning, just as he backwings.
She's all wings and tail, a flurry of startlement that jolts, electric. Leova would be little better if she weren't wing-impaired, and as it is, she picks up the fallen straps with her shoulders still shaking, adrenaline and laughter at the reproachful stare Vrianth gives the brown. "What time is... oh, afternoon," the greenrider looks up long enough to greet H'kon, before she's back to hunting about her surroundings. "File. See the file? Thought I heard it fall," but hasn't found it yet. At least it's a big ledge: just one of Wyaeth's legacies.
A stare in which Arekoth revels, making quite the show of settling, and resettling his wings on his back once his rider has slid from his neck, a rucksack cradled under an arm rather than tossed over his shoulder, as might be the norm. "Afternoon," is confirmation only on the last syllables, otherwise a frank answer to what might have been more of a rhetorical question. "File," is straight out repetition, and he pauses in his own path (giving Vrianth respectful space of course) on his way toward her rider. And green eyes are on the ledge floor, then, searching.
For which she hisses at Arekoth, a breathy sound that plays with rancor, and makes a great show at licking water off her flank. Even if the drizzle does get it wet again. « What have you brought us, » and baleful eyes turn only to watch his rider. Space. Space is good, and it might be even more convincing if her tail didn't steal out and twine past the man and about her rider's ankle. There's a sound of metal, moving. "Vri-anth," comes with open affection, and Leova awkwardly lifts her foot, taking the tail with it. "Now can you see?" And, "How are you? Arekoth. Other than self-gratified." The way she says it, it isn't so much a bad thing.
H'kon shoots a quick glance back to that green before he drops to a squat, a more or less nimble motion, albeit accompanied by a crack of one knee as the joint makes so sudden a change of position. Arekoth gives Vrianth a quick glance, and then turns quite busily to preening at one wing, very distracted by what must surely be a terribly important and itchy something on that spar right there. « Oh, it's only a little for you. Well, for her. » "Unapologetic as well," H'kon offers as he tilts his head, and even reaches, testily, after a moment. "Him." As if that distinction had to be made.
Well. « Do you have bugs, » is Vrianth's next inquiry of the brown, because yes, she was peeking. And he's scratching, or close enough. She shudders, eloquently. Water runnels off. Metal noises, again. "So it seems. Is' he ever apologetic, any time at all? ... Think you've got it." Doesn't he? It's just a slender piece of metal, cross-hatched over its otherwise flat end. Leova rests her bare heel-and-tail on the leather of the couch, surreptitiously poking her toes at Vrianth: yes, yes, you can let go already. Let the man sit down.
Lest it's something she's taken, lest he should come in contact with green hide, lest anything untoward might come of the grab, H'kon's fingers only move for that file once he's given Vrianth a twisted, 'by your leave' sort of smile-attempt. "Apology would require recognition of having been in the wrong," comes only as the brownrider straightens. "Which is not to say he isn't wrong. Frequently." Eyes narrow. « It's only green dragons I ever let bug me, » Arekoth answers almost primly, but for the depth of tone in his voice. Opportunity is taken to stretch out his wing, show it. « Or golds. When I have the time. » And so H'kon now makes his way up to the couch with two offerings for Leova. Vrianth permitting, of course.
"I won't argue your point," Leova assures him and Arekoth both, this amid Vrianth's near-soundless laughter. "One way or another." « He is very polite, » the green mentions, and yes, she has disentangled herself enough that he may sit. She supposes. She stalks further out onto the ledge, spreading her wings mightily. The green's poor rider has to drag her attention back from such a display, and look to H'kon with a lift of brows, for once more inquisitive than simply inquiring.
That file is offered promptly, almost as one tendering payment for a seat. Only then does H'kon actually get to sitting, a curt nod going to the green. « He's got all sorts of other things wrong with him too, » is said almost as a groan, Arekoth all the while sitting back on his haunces, making himself large as he can in answer to Vrianth. « Nice wings, » is blunt. Pity dragons don't have eyebrows, or they surely would've arched up with the comment. "Ah," answers Leova's look, and H'kon holds the bag before him, ready, but uncommitted. "If I'm not interrupting."
"Unless that bag has some of Arekoth's crawlies... sit." There shouldn't be anything sharp to sit on, by now, with Leova having stashed that payment away, unhurried but easy before she gets to coiling up the straps that remain. Vrianth meanwhile flaunts those wings for moments more, then lapses into a long stretch and then a twist that leaves her facing for once inward rather than out-, her tail curling off the ledge's edge. « Aren't they? I do believe I will keep them. » Those wings. « You will not mind if Ishawith joins us, will you? » Even with his rider's all-sorts-of-other-things. « You might preen for her. She'd like that. »
« Sounds cozy, » has that undercurrent of humour more often than not in the brown's voice. Arekoth is feeling wonderful, thanks. And, "He does not really have... crawlies." It's out of the corner of his mouth, and a bit delayed, H'kon uncertain of the comment, of his own answer. From the bag, although wrapped in a cloth, comes what is clearly a bottle. Next, two glasses, also wrapped. Even if it's only the afternoon. Explanation: "There is a question I would ask you, then." Hence, more payment. And so one glass is dutifully unwrapped, and held out.
« Good! » It will be cozy, now-landing Ishawith having filled out from youthful lankiness and Vrianth still rangy, sisters that they are. Not that it wouldn't be less cozy if the dragons would only observe each other's personal space. But no! There are wings here and there, bodies stretched out, the clutchmates conversing in tones that slide just on the verge of intelligibility. He might pick up words here and there, even, if nothing too outright. "Good," her rider replies simultaneously, only her brows haven't quite settled, the greenrider curving back into the hollow of where the couch's back meets the armrest. It's a place of old comfort, and from it, she accepts the glass. Delicately. And if she checks to make sure it isn't dusty, it's unobtrustively done.
Oh no - the wrap of cloth was to ensure a lack of dust. H'kon's own glass is unwrapped next, and he's most of the way through unwrapping the bottle when the neatly-blocked (and not as cozy as he thought he might be) brown's irritated flick of his wingtips earns a look from his rider. "She's clever," the man does allow for Leova. Bottle opened, a caramel-liquor smell in the air, he holds it out in silent request for Leova to hold out her glass. A moment's brace, and then a decided, "You have known this Weyr longer than I have," to lead in.
What? Is poor little Arekoth feeling all left out? Ishawith gives him a soulful look and a comfy-llama-fur sense of warmth to go with it. Her eyes are more side-set than Vrianth's, and less intense perhaps, but with their own gleam. Vrianth's certainly are. Gleaming. "She... appreciates your saying so," Leova translates before getting back to the man's focus with glass extended, holding her next breath with the scent of the liquor upon it. She waits. She lets him pour. If he can read expression at all, read her expressions at all: it's an attentive one, for all that she doesn't ask.
The pause in his speech to pour is simply that; H'kon's attention to the bottle is intense, but once Leova's glass, then his, are each given a decent, but hardly eccentric, amount, and the bottle closed again, he carries on where he left off with only the quickest glance up to the greenrider. "I would know if after all these things - Tiriana, Iolene... the rest," that he does not spell out, "- you see your Weyr." It's asked seriously, but without too much emotional inflection. H'kon doesn't lift his drink yet. And Arekoth hunches up and tries to look strong, gaze piercing at a nothing between the two other dragons.
Clearly Leova is not frightened of poisoning attempts: she drinks, though really it's more of a sip, thoughtful and savored. And if she could reply immediately... she doesn't. She waits. Waits through the puff of breath that Vrianth aims toward the poor brown's neck, just to see what he'll do. Ishawith? Glances over to where he's looking, and then to Vrianth, and then she surreptitiously eases her tail up, out and around so maybe she can poke him with it and blame it on the other green. Worst of all, they're still talking. Finally: "My Weyr has never been about the goldriders." Only then her mouth pulls to the side. "Well. after Satiet. But that was different." There's a wistfulness to it, an odd quality in her voice that she may not herself be aware of. But Vrianth is, looking.
Arekoth ever-so-slightly turns his head, eyes whorling to focus on Vrianth. And that tail-thwip, for all it doesn't get any recognition of its true source, does bring, « Cozy, » a little too wryly. If they'll even hear it amidst that talking... "No, but it has them. And leaders, and riders, and administrators and caverns workers." Each named part is named patiently. When H'kon stops, and does take a sip of his own glass, it's abrupt, but without any overt abrasiveness. "Do you miss my point, or do you simply not wish to discuss it?"
It takes Vrianth a moment to look back, single-lidded, mist-or-is-it-rain flowing in liquid tendrils down from her headknobs, her neckridges, the raised bones of her wings. « Hm? » And then, perhaps only the greens know how much of a part Ishawith has to play in it, but the greens flow themselves with the ease of long familiarity, amused enough to slink to either of Arekoth's sides for the moment. « There. Do that pose again, » and Vrianth shows him himself from memory, only less with the hunched and more with the strong! so very strong! master of all he surveys, the two of them coiled at his feet. Call it a gift. It mightn't last long. It curves a hint of smile where a less-comfortable pull had been, and then Leova says, "It isn't that I don't want to talk about it. It's that... I wasn't certain of your point, didn't want to assume it. And most people, they only ever talk about who's the most in charge, when they're talking about the Reaches and not what's going on just, seeming-just with them."
Arekoth curves one way to eye up one green, flexes the other to see the other. Looks down, looks impressive, does not do exactly that pose. « Is that a request? » H'kon's only reaction to his dragon, if it is such at all, is to take a more firm grip on his glass. "In the end, those most in charge are those with most influence." Delayed just enough to be out of rhythm is an uncertain addition of, "Used or abandoned." And he has another sip before reminding, "I would hear your answer."
Oh, close enough. Ishawith's the more shameless about crooning about the curving-and-flexing, though. Vrianth, half repressive, somehow more than half humorous: « If you do not, it is your loss. » She sprawls. Her rider sips. And then she sighs out a breath. "It's not the same. If what's what you're asking, if I have that much right. It does not feel as my home feels... it's uncertain, and it's shaky, and we've been wounded in a way that I hope, I hope won't lead to too many more abscesses. I don't know how much of that is Vrianth: she likes her freedom, breathing more easily, but do you feel it? Do you miss it? That tie, through and through? Is that what you mean?"
Greens curled around him is some sort of balm for those beginnings of a subverted, if not wounded, ego. Or perhaps Arekoth is just not so complex as to be able to stoically not enjoy this sort of thing. H'kon, meanwhile... well, meanwhile, is staring pensively into his glass as Leova speaks. And he doesn't respond for a while, short of steadily adding creases to his brow, the lines at the sides of his mouth, as his frown deepends. Finally, "Arekoth would have it that if this were not the same Weyr, we would be lost between when we would try to return." A vague glance to Leova. "It makes one wonder if K'vas ever knew he was lost on his way home." And with that, the liquor is finished in one shot, and H'kon finds his feet.
She starts to reply, does Leova, and then stops. Is stopped. Her glass is nowhere near empty, but she's flushed. Nor does she have an answer for it, her gaze downturned. "I've..." but she stops, yet again. "It's an interesting outlook. Arekoth's. One who found it so... might never think there was aught to be done, to do about it." Does H'kon? She looks up at him, as though she might see K'vas, instead. More practically, since he's rising anyway, and quieter: "I can return you the glass, clean. Or," down it? Vrianth, in coiled and attention-getting repose, does not see fit to move.
H'kon doesn't answer Leova's musings, not verbally; but that look that gets away from him is hardly anything content or settled. He does give more for that glass, gathering up the bottle, and giving a faint wave with it before he slips it into the bag. "When you've the time. I seldom need both glasses, it's not pressing." Of course, the exit won't be the quick disappearance into the sunset - or, late afternoon - that it might have been. Arekoth, if anything, will be slow to disentangle himself from the two greens. Even if they are a bit talky together.
"Fair enough." And, "Try an apple. They're good." The greenrider lapses into couch and silence, then, not seeking to rush any of the three visitors on their way. Though she might wish good speed for another, when at last she does rise: several steps to the near edge of the ledge, where she can dip her fingertips into the several sips that remain, and sprinkle the barest touch of the spirit where the soft wet wind might catch it and take it away. K'vas, she whispers. Tethueth. Good speed and, somewhere, safe homecoming.
H'kon's own glass is hurriedly wrapped and stowed, not the same care he'd surely shown in preparing the things in his own weyr. He slows to watch Leova's dedication, libation, dipping his head, turning his eyes down... and when they come back up, it's on Arekoth. And then, softly to the woman: "I will try not to be too much a bother until such time as we leave." Like a request for permission to stay. Certainly a promise to keep talk to a minimum, to brood in silence - though the proximity, at least, might speak of a certain strained comfort.
Vrianth's whisper of a rumble serves for her rider's nod, scarcely audible at all and not beyond the five of them. No rush. And then there's silence once more, beyond the occasional dragon-nudges, and the mist that darkens hair and leather and dragonhide. Silence, and the slow descent of the sun.
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