Logs:Flight Risks: The Fellowship of the Itch
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| RL Date: 8 September, 2015 |
| Who: Alida, Z'kiel, Ilicaeth, Ahtzudaeth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Z'kiel happens upon Alida in the heart of the Igen desert the day of Roszadyth's maiden flight; they're both fleeing the crazy. |
| Where: Small Cave, Remote Inner Igen Desert |
| When: Day 25, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm, sunny, dry. |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, Edyis/Mentions, Jo/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. Also, I don't know why *this* log (as well as a previous one) didn't set up the log field correctly. |
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| Wanting no part of anything to do with another gold going up, Alida and Ilicaeth have fled the autumn of High Reaches...this time, for the near-perpetual 'dry season' of Igen's inner desert. The blonde seems to have planned this little 'adventure' at least somewhat ahead of time, given the various implements of desert survival that are set up all about her and her lounging blue. Settled just beside what looks to be a small, rocky outcropping amidst the softly-hissing sand, the woman is dressed in the gauzy lightness of traditional desert garb from head to toe, her feet shod only in thick-soled sandals, her rear firmly settled into a fold-out, canvas chair the color of the sands all around her. Above her head, a thin canopy tent of undyed fabric preserves her pale skin from the rising of the already blistering sun, while yet more fabric about its sides protects her from the occasional, scouring eddy of sand that skitters up with the light breeze. Lying in the shade of the rocky outcropping, Ilicaeth is curled up, basking upon already-warming sands, his eyes twice inner-lidded, his manner relaxed...much like his rider's. Perhaps it might be construed as odd that there's a bronze out there with no desire to chase a gold; but, for those that know Ahtzudaeth, it's no grand surprise. Odd is his middle name - and his last, since dragons technically lack both. The greater surprise might be his presence in this very desert, winging high overhead and casting only a faint shadow on the ground below. He's fully strapped and burdened with bags; his rider, too, is present, as is only appropriate. Sunlight scatters on his freshly oiled hide, lending brief life to the illusion of a slowly consuming fire that claims his lean form. He banks some distance away, his destination not far - in relative terms, anyway - and with no immediate effort to make contact with the blue that he surely must have seen. Though Ilicaeth is, overall, a lighter-tinted blue, with much of the mineral world about his grey-shaded hide, he still stands out enough against golden sands, even when paired with the natural rock he's currently curled up in the shade of. Keen draconic eyes are able to take in the presence of that bronze high above, especially since the sun is lower on the eastern horizon, still, and not trying to burn anyone's orbs from their sockets for daring to squint skyward. The only obvious token the burly blue sends 'that-a-way' is a passing scour of his own golden, mental sands - parched and gritty - that might easily be mistaken for a natural part of the current environment...if it wasn't for the whole 'sentient life form' signature of it. Motes of light wink and glitter among the grit and sand; mental and otherwise. Ahtzudaeth's mental touch is light and distant - at first. It's only once he's touched down and seems to be settled that he proclaims, « Ah, Ilicaeth! It's an unexpected pleasure to see you here. » In a figurative sense, anyway. The chortle that follows is good-natured, as always. « The weather here is just wonderful this time of year, isn't it? It's not nearly as oppressive as it gets at other times of the year. » That he's touched down some dragonlengths closer than, perhaps, Z'kiel wanted to land is immaterial, in the end. They can see - and be seen - if from afar. Z'kiel dismounts with obvious tension threaded through him and sets about removing the various bags and bits of gear that he's brought with him. Ahtzudaeth helps as best he can by sinking down and unfurling a wing to provide some measure of shade. « Ahtzudaeth... » the blue's genial baritone rumbles more like a small up-thrust of basalt this time, his greeting of who he now recognizes as a fellow 'Reachian even a bit more cordial. « Love it here most times... 'cept around noon ta four. » Because *those* times - especially in the north's summer - are ones where even dragon hide is no match for the burning fury of sun and sand. « Gettin' away from the ordinary? » is inquired out of basic curiosity, though there's enough dark humor mixed with snark in his following, « Or away from another Flight. » Because, sonny, that's why *he's* here, right now...never-mind his own joy in coming to the desert at nearly any time. With the bronze's landing comes a greeting warble, followed by Alida's shading of her eyes to take in the lay of the land out yonder, her blue having laredy informed his human of exactly who it is setting up 'shop' not far beyond them. Perhaps that's why why the often irritable blonde doesn't immediately stand up and start packing her own goods to move on... Or maybe she's just too damned lazy to even want to try. No matter; Alida remains silent, merely observing...and taking a drink from a skin hanging over one arm of her chair. here's another chortle and the bronze starts to lumber closer - which all but forces Z'kiel to shift his grip on the bags and lug them after. The lingering heat doesn't seem to bother him - but, then, he's a native here and not exactly the indoors-y type to start with. « Ah, yes. When Rukbat is at its most wrathful, » he muses with winking sparks of light amidst the smoke-veiled mirrors. « We will survive, no matter what it may throw at us. » In that, he is certain. The questions, however, are met with another mirthful sound and a very physical shake of his head to match the mental one. His maw gapes and he replies « I suppose it's six of one and a half dozen of the other. He's been wanting to get some good, fresh air for a time - and, it would seem, the glowing of Roszadyth was a perfect catalyst. » Amused, but there might be something under the surface there; it's a dark smudge on a mirror, one that's deftly wiped away. « I do hope we're not interrupting you and yours, » is added after a beat; he even stops in his initial approach, much to Z'kiel's visible irritation and dismay. Though neither he nor his rider are Igen natives, Ilicaeth's very personality, self seems to find it just as much 'home' as High Reaches, the blue lolling over to one side so he can wriggles against rasping sands and cure his sudden itch of hide. Peering intently amongst the bronze's smoke-and-mirrors, wondering what he'll find, the blue grunts in agreement, then quickly-enough returning that gape of his own jaws in a grin back at Ahtzudaeth. He's *still* tickled pink that another dragon enjoys using that all-too-typically human expression as much as he does! « I like the mornin's out here - she the evenins - best. » It's pretty much *all* good, if it's Igen, though...even if Alida has to practically submerge her skin in sunscreen to be able to tolerate the intensity of the sun. « It's...clean, here. » No politics, no droves of other people...just thought and existence and near-sterility. Simple. Treasured. Hmm, what's that smudge? He's a 'cop,' so 'smudges' are automatically examined. Hm? « Nah... not me, anyway. Alida's lookin' fer somethin' ta think about besides what she currently is, anyway. » Shrug. Too *much* time for self-reflection, perhaps? After a few moments, the blonde woman finally chimes in with her own alto call over the small distance, "Yer welcome." A throaty sound of amusement ensues and Ahtzudaeth's 'grin' widens further before he eventually shuts his maw. His head tilts in a curiously human way to observe Ilicaeth's rolling - and a light switches on in his head. « Oh! Oh, now that is a clever thing, » he declares brightly. And, as soon as Z'kiel's shed the bags and stripped the bronze of his straps, he'll indulge. Until then: « It's all quite lovely. Rukbat's rays and the sand - it's marvelous. Hot, certainly, but he doesn't mind and I enjoy the thermals considerably. » A beat. An assessment. « Yes, » he finally agrees, « it is clean - in a sense. Not quite clinical or sterile, and yet... » A sweeping glance is taken of the area and he trails that thought off. Another pops up, as if to distract from the ghost of a smear: « Well, I hope mine might be able to help her in that. Perhaps company will be of some assistance? » And, at the other end of the spectrum, there's a grunting Z'kiel, who eventually snaps off a salute to Alida - but only after he's divested of his gear. "Looks like you're pretty comfortable there." Of his current rolling and scratching, Ilicaeth observes, « Helps when they can't be assed ta help us out fer places we can't reach. » The blue doesn't sound upset, though...merely factual. « The sand feels awesome on itches... » the blue further observes as he continues to wiggle around, his own mouth closing to keep granules out of it. Ptooie! « You got itches a lot? » is inquired with a chuff. His own were horrible when he was a weyrling...and he still gets times where the merest touch of anything to his hide can set one off. Like it did just now. Mrph...mhm! « Nice, steady...always upwards. » Igen's thermals and *flying*. « Ista's thermals 're more dangerous... if yer in a certain mood fer 'em. » Because they can give out suddenly. Combine those with tricky downdraft from out of nowhere and wind shifts... All of those require quick reflexes and skill. Another smear? But there's the first one to investigate! Like his 'partner,' Ilicaeth's tough to get off the track when engaged...the blue still 'sniffing' around the bronze's first 'clue.' As for Alida, « Sure... Just don' get 'er too irritated. » Heh. « Yers doesn' seem the type, though. » The 'irritating' type, at least to the bluepair's dual mind. Z'kiel's salute earns him the same response back in kind, and then a lazy, "Fuck that shit, toots. We ain't on duty, an' yer no weyrling, anymore." But is he a true equal to this often picky woman? "Mhm. No Weyr, no proddies...no politics 'r false smiles." Smirk. The process of strap removal is efficiently handled, at least. It's not long at all until the bronze - oiled though he may be - is sprawled out and scooting on his side on the sand. It's completely shameless, every last bit of it, and his thoughts emanate a distinct sense of pleasure that's wrapped up in pipe smoke and the impression of half-lidded eyes. Warmth, all of it. « From time to time, » says he of itches. « Sometimes they last only- oh, seven days. Sometimes, a full month. » Dark days, those; even the mirrors darken at the thought. « It makes it so terribly difficult to think when I itch. Does it do the same to you? » Scoot. Scritch. Rrrrumble. Wash, rinse, repeat. « We shall have to try that sometime. » Ista's thermals, that is. The challenge is thusly filed away, though whether for his sake or his rider's will remain ever a mystery. Much, in fact, like that first smudge - and the ghostly second. There's something there, but it's fleeting; a dark spot in an otherwise bright mind. Thoughtful, really, but with traces of something metallic of all things. Something that clicks. « I'm sure he'll behave himself. He's not typically one to deliberately agitate others, least of all yours. » Salute completed, there's but a grunt for Alida's following words. "Maybe not," Z'kiel grates out by way of reply. "But it's habit." A shoulder rises. Falls. He sifts through his things to pull out a heavy blanket and flops that out on the sands before he sheds his jacket. The shirt beneath is light and thin and left on. "Seems like we had the same idea on all of that." Get away. Just- get away from the madness. Scratching the itches *is* a shameless task, and Ilicaeth continues to go about it with unrestrained pleasure, the blue occasionally grunting, sighing...and mentally chuckling at not only his own, but the bronze's pleasure. « Daaaayum, man. » Days? *Months?!?* Okay; he's got Ilicaeth beat in the itchy department. Plucked from his rider's mind like the sometimes-helpful dragon that he can be, comes a chuffed baritone sand-swirl of, « Alida had ta get a special, thicker oil made fer my hide when I was a kid. » Pause. « I told Hraedhyth about my itchies, an' she got Azaylia ta help point us towards it. » That special oil. There's left-over sadness - quite suddenly, since he'd forgotten, like most dragons tend to - about his deceased dam and her rider, but it's quickly walled away in favor of this more pleasant moment. « Yeah. Gotta get the damned itch cured first before y' c'n think right. » Hmm... smudges? He got a little distracted at another itch....but the blue *was* staring at the particular mirror of Ahtzudeath's, after all. Clicking? Darkness? Oh my; this is now certifiably interesting! Here; let Ilicaeth cautiously nudge and pick at it with the tweezers of his grainy, sandy mind. What have we, here? As for other, more human habits, Alida's nodding her pale head and snerting darkly back to Z'kiel of his salute. "There's some, like me, who don' dance on ceremony. But there's enough *others*..." Who are apparently not highly thought of by the brass-tacks bluerider "...who got formality rammed so far up their nethers that they'd need both hands and a basket uv' glows ta even start to find it." Eyeroll. As Zak flops out, she leans back into the canvas at her back, takes another lazy sip of whatever's in her large skin. "Mhm." Escape the crazies. Ahtzudaeth rolls to his other side after a fashion and starts in on that shortly after. He's nimble for a bronze - and quick, for that - but he's effortlessly, insufferably, good like that. « It isn't terribly often, » he clarifies - and, yet. « But it is dreadful when it happens. Unthinkable, even. » And if he chortles at his atrocious pun, well. It can't be helped. Of course, even the lights of his mind grow dim at the sadness that briefly dawns in Ilicaeth and he winnows his way into it, just so, with a flickering veil of luminescence caught on a backbone of smoke. « Oh? What is that oil like? Where did it come from? » Curious. Probing. Earnest. But then there's that piece, that strange bit of calculation that slithers just out of reach of those tweezers. It scuttles. It slides. It seeks out a crack in the mirror that might - just might - be too far for it to reach. "Didn't take you for the type," is agreement, and yet. Z'kiel leans to hook a skin from one of his bags and take a pull. "It helps with the others." The saluting, that is. "Probably better that we weren't there for Niahvth." Another lopsided shrug - and then he's rolling forward, knees bent up and one arm folded around them. His tone is one of indifference, but just as there's a dark smear in Ahtzudaeth's mind, there's something lurking in his voice, too. All itching is 'not good'(tm) in Ilicaeth's mind, and - for the apparent severity and frequency of Ahtzudeath's own - there's a mental shudder. « Glad I ain't you... » is oh-so-helpfully noted around a granite chortle as they both continue to loll around in the warming sand. If the bronze is insufferably great at certain things - like just being a bronze - Ilicaeth could apparently care less, at least right now. For his effots at examining that hastily-walled-up memory of deep sadness, there's only a microsecond 'glimpse' of a raging fire that consumed everything, the horrifying stench of burning flesh, and the agonized scream of a dragon bereft of the other half of its soul. But *now*, there's, « *Great* oil. Made from a certain kind uv' fish. They render it out an' strain it lots...then add bunches uv' herbs ta it that help with the itch. » Oil for 'sensitive' skin, apparently. « Alida still uses it on my worst spots, sometimes. Smells a little, but the herbs help cover most uv it. » Because, fish oil. And, with the evasion of his 'tweezers' by that scuttling hint of darkness? Ilicaeth back off, not having enough reason to try and dig any deeper...which could trigger a scene, after all. And they're ALL here to relax, aren't they? Alida's doing so as she hangs with Z'kiel, the blonde nodding to his assessment, then chortling wickedly at the bronzerider's tactic with his saluting. "Yeah, gotta admit; salutin' tends ta make those with stick up their asses feel better." Sip. "Now if I could only pull the stick outta' *mine* an' learn ta bend a little, like you." Smirkie. As for him (them) not being involved in either gold flight, Alida finds herself turning her head so she can observe Zak through heavily-lidded eyes, his posture and expressions only adding to what the tone of his voice tells her. Quietly, "Too many stupid bronzers, even some brownies think they want that big knot." Headshake, sip. "From what I've seen so far, it's rarely anything but a burden." Mph. "Guess some folk learn ta like it, if they keep grabbin' the ring often enough." Poor, crazy bastards, her tone might silently speak. That very fire is reflected - but not in one of his memories. Blistered arms. People being carried. Z'kiel, unthinking, rubs his arms. Ahtzudaeth, however, seems untouched by that memory, though there is a deep well of shared sadness to be found. Briefly, at least, until the topic shift is fully engaged and his thoughts sharpen on that. « I shall have him look into that. It might be of some help - we've tried nearly any other combination of oils, to no avail. » Lamentable, really. And of that slippery, clicky, dark thing? It vanishes. But the crack remains - perhaps not for now but a thing to be filed away for later, no doubt. And is that a winking beam of light? Knowing? Surely not. His thoughts settle somewhat, the mirrors suggesting plenty of his thought process - and the shifting scents of smoke implying more. This herb and that, perhaps; this fish, maybe? It's not unlike the muttering of an old man, puttering around his quarters. And of Z'kiel- well. There's a grunted laugh to go with Alida's chortling; a half smile that withers quickly. "Ayuh," is less of a grunt, but only just. Another drink of whatever's in the skin - it's clear, from the little bit that escapes his mouth; water, probably - then: "Hnnnh. That stick seems to serve you well enough." His assessment is made with a sidelong look. "Don't think mine bends far enough." There's a faint snrk of a sound and his gaze cuts away, for the most part. She's kept in his peripheral vision, though; rest assured on that score. "Can't speak to most of them," says he. "Bronze or brown. Some seem fine. Most-" are worthy of a throaty sound. "Wouldn't want to ride 'Lead at a Weyr where stabbing is a flight risk." If there's a joke there, it'll take a bit to dig it out of the deadpan. Perhaps Ilicaeth will share his thoughts of that click, that smudged darkness with his rider - another guard - because, within a few weeks, he certainly will have forgotten it on his own. But, right now, there's nothing but agreement with Ahtzudaeth about that fish oil, the blue smoothly, unobtrusively plucking the proper names of all the herbs and the specific fish (packtail!) from his rider's mind, and offering them to the bronze all in the name of 'The Fellowship of the Itch.' « The dragonhealers, herbalists know. » Know the proper proportions, the blending and brewing. Kind of like witches....but with a wonderful brew. Alida hears, sees some of Z'kiel's reaction, offers him a slightly-sassy wink of one green eye, the woman then streeeetching out deeply in her seach, and re-slumping again with a contented sigh. "When I really need it, yeah." Her 'stick.' Funny, then, how she sounds mixed about her own temperament, maybe a faint hint tired, or sad in some strange way. As far as Zak's bending goes, "Not enough give, ya snap. Too much..." Her skin of whatever-it-is is slowly lifted in one hand, and carefully upended to pour a little of its own, clear, watery contents out upon the sand, which instantly devours all ...even the darkness which might've hinted at moisture. Just as he does, she also keeps him in her peripheral vision. Habit, not necessarily comment. "A few, yeah..." is soon grunted in return, that throaty sound of his making 'lida crack a flash of a dark grin. Which instantly becomes a loud, crass, and very dark laugh at the other's deadpan delivery of his possible joke. When she's done - it takes a double handful of seconds - the woman sniffles a little, shakes her braided head, and gustily sighs out a lengthy, pleased little bit of her body's precious moisture upon dessicated air. "Welcome ta High Reaches...where goldriders go ta die, an' Weyrleaders meet their matches some way 'r another." Eyeroll, sip. Such suggestions and notes are taken in stride, scrawled out somewhere in the bronze's mind. The scent of parchment and ink is distinctive and faintly metallic beneath the swirl of aromatic pipe smoke. The gestures might even be sensed amidst the shift and slide of lights and vapor. « Ah. I'll be sure to have him speak with them upon our return. If it will make the itching more tolerable - and ease his burden of oiling - then it is utterly imperative that we do so. » A sagacious nod - of the mind and in the flesh - confirms this with a certainty that exists only because he remembers it now. The greater question is whether or not Z'kiel will follow through on the information that's passed along. Ahtzudaeth shifts a little and, eventually, settles in a comfortable posture in the sand with his forelimbs crossed at the wrist and neck curved, just so, to rest his chin on one curve of his neck. Comfortable. And, perhaps, soon to doze in the warmth. Z'kiel, meanwhile, isn't precisely relaxed; just in a perpetual state of readiness, even though he's sitting. He watches her; she watches him. It's not quite predatory, but the wariness - no, watchfulness - is a mututal state. There's a snort at her laughter, a chuckle that he's keen to stifle; still, it's amusing to him, if in a spectacularly dark way. "He seems to think we need time," and there is no question that the he in question is the bronze that's presently posed just there. "I think I understand why, now. Need to work on self defense more." His mouth pulls to a side and he lapses into a silence punctuated by another pull of water. Ilicaeth « Can't guarantee it, uv' course, but... » it's worth a try. The rocky blue casually experiences that 'feeling' of Ahtzudaeth's mind as he too finishes rolling about, a nice sand-wallow the crowning achivement of his itching efforts, his eyes remaining inner lidded, though the outermost set are still mostly open. Time to veg out, again, and with such a mental state comes his withdrawl from the bronze's mind, accompanied by the loss of that 'bedrock' feeling. That alertness of manner between humans is nothing odd to Alida, nor to Z'kiel, apparently, the blonde smirking wryly at the young man's need to stifle his impulse towards finding humor in the situation, her pale head bobbing once as she crosses ankles loosely over one another. A flick of green eyes over to their dragons takes in Ahtzudaeth, studies him for some moments, while 'lida's low, yet clear alto responds, "There's other things that need time, likely." Her tone, thoughtful and neutral, is soon touched with desert-dry humor as she chimed back in with, "You askin'?" And there, too, is the fading of Ahtzudaeth's mind as he retreats within mirrored walls and mysterious vapors. He's there but his presence is akin to being behind a mostly shut door - and that is purposeful. He might well doze; he might not. In either case, he's clearly comfortable enough in the blue's presence to relax. At odds with his lifemate is Z'kiel. Tense - if slightly less than normal - and aware. He sucks his teeth thoughtfully, gaze shifted away from Alida and off to the near distance. "Likely," he echoes, if with a bit of a grunt and a faint snort. "He's got his plans, whatever they are." A shoulder rises. Falls. Silence might persist again, but her asking if he's asking is met with a sidelong look and a brief pull of his mouth. "Probably should," he replies evenly. "If you have time. Not too many to really train with. Fewer that know what they're doing." A lift of the chin in her direction follows. "I know you do. Figure Jo does, too." Alida observes Z'kiel from the corner of her eye, a slow pull taken from the skin of cool water at her side in the meantime. Neither of them are in a hurry, and the woman feels no need to hurry any potential conversation, especially not in this sparse environment that lends itself more towards silence than circuitous chatter. At some point is inquired, "You on with those plans?" The way she asks that question leaves many more behind it...though the bluerider deals with more 'critical' things first. "Think I c'n do that." Of training the bronzerider further. "Depends on how much ya wanna' learn...how far yer willin' ta push yerself." Beat. "Ain't gonna be easy...ain't even gonna be 'lots uv effort.' Again...dependin' on how much ya feel y' need to learn. How far ya wanna' take it." Word of Jo earns him a faint arch of brow, and a knowing little smirk-smile. "She does know how ta handle 'erself." There's no pride in those words at her assessment of the other bluie, 'merely' a sure ease and unspoken respect. "You know 'er background?" "They're his," is a matter-of-fact utterance. "Sometimes he tells. Mostly, he doesn't." Z'kiel cuts a glance askance to the bronze in question, a bronze that might just as well be feigning sleep as truly slumbering. "I think he forgets more than he lets on." Shrug. "Mostly, he wants to do better." And this is how he does it, it would seem, all this talk of training. He listens, first. He nods. Then: "Push me until I break." A breath. "Then push harder. I'm not afraid of sweat or blood or broken bones. Never have been." He eyes her askance, from the corner of his vision. "If it's easy, I don't want it. If it's just effort, I don't need it. I mean it." The grim weight of his words is well-matched to his expression. And then there's Jo, though the answer to the question is, simply, "Spoke once - and briefly. Didn't ask. Figure she'll tell me or not. Her business, not mine." But it must have been enough of an impression to bring her up in the first place. Important, that. Again, there's no room for words from Alida, only for listening to Z'kiel as he speaks...especially about his dragon. Nothing but quiet interest and polite attention show on her usually mobile features, the blonde nodding at salient points, her hands left still, poised upon her chair's arms. The sound of her light alto might disturb desert air only a little as it notes softly, "What's his 'better?'" Beat. "What's yours?" As for the intensity of the training she seems to promise, there's a slight thinning of lips, then a measured, "Bustin' ya apart ain't gonna teach ya much uv anything, aside from how ta deal with pain in different ways." Those clear greens flick over and lock with Zak's own eyes, steady and observant. "Not sayin' that there won't be times ya likely wish ya never agreed ta this; there will be." Significantly, her gaze slips to the burn scars along his forearms, then move to her own pale hands, which show much lesser evidence of their battle to save Azaylia...hints of old sadness quickly boxed up in favor of looking back up to the bronzerider. Her nod might be for those scars, or of the upcoming training...or perhaps even for the subject of Jo, but the blonde doesn't explain, instead murmuring, "Mhm. I think all uv' us know we're not the easily-trusting types." The small smile that ights on her mouth is wintry at best. The questions aren't easy to answer - so he leaves them, if for a time, to sit and bake in the heat. Z'kiel tips his head back to study the sky with squinted eyes. "Breaking's part of it," in his experience, anyway. "I'll do what needs to be done." It's an oath, even if the words aren't precisely formal; there's a weight in his voice that says it plainly enough. A thumb passes over the scar tissue again and while Alida boxes up those traces of sadness, he seems to use the ruined skin to remember. To focus. Eventually, "Seems trust is a dangerous thing to have." He snorts once. "Just seems to get people in trouble." He lowers his head and blows out a breath. "Even if he," Ahtzudaeth, that is, "trusts me. Mostly." There's a grunt, then: "His better is to be the best at everything. Not the best, but our best." He's careful about the wording here, as if it's a thing that's been discussed at length - and possibly ad nauseum. "He probably has his eyes on being Weyrleader. Wingleader, for sure. Wingsecond, maybe. Weyrlingmaster or assistant." He considers for a moment. "He wants power. But not at any cost." And his better? There's a slight shake of the head. "Mine's just to become- ah. Invaluable," has to be carefully enunciated. Not his word, but it's better than what he might have used. "Necessary." Most of the questions that are really worth it are. As Zak chooses to ruminate over those, then move on, there's only continued silence from Alida, though something in her eyes speaks of motion purposely suspended. At some point she notes quietly to his words, "Most people can't...don't wanna do the things that gotta be done." As for trust, there's a soft, scoffing sound emerging on impulse from her throat. "In general, yeah. Depends on the time, place, people...the amount uv' time you spend provin' yerself ta those that earn yer interest, an' the time an' effort they take provin' themselves ta *you*." There's a tiny quirk of head for word of Ahtzudaeth's 'mostly' trusting his rider...and then Alida soon enough chuffs to herself, a wry smirk twitching its way over her mouth, while her gaze darkens momentarily. Beyond them, Ilicaeth of the half-drooped eyes chuffs aloud, as well. When Z'kiel again mentions his dragon, greens turn from blue to bronze, study him thoughtfully. "Mhmm... If yer gonna do it, don' do it half-way." Like her fuck up at High Reaches Hold, a few Turns ago? "Could be good...if the drive 'e has is channeled properly, well-disciplined... Ultimately benevolent." As those latter words are spoken, her gaze flicks back to Z'kiel, locking to his own eyes if possible, and appearing as if they're trying to dig up anything he might have to hide. Merciless. Quietly addended: "Power ta make not only *his* and *yer* own destinies, but that uv' the Weyr... An' maybe Pern?" For a moment, in reply to the young man's words of his own 'necessity,' there's a flare of something angry, turbulent, much younger in the woman's eyes, but it's quickly crushed as she levelly notes, "Necessary means ya can't be casually tossed aside, overlooked...like a ship's navigator. Or Captain." Smirkie. "Don't. They don't. They just think they can't." Vehement, if lowly uttered. Z'kiel exhales sharply and draws again from a skin that's starting to lose its shape. Just a little. Hnnnh. "He doesn't trust easily," is his explanation some moments later. "He'll talk easily. Socialize. But." Ilicaeth, at least, has seen the smoke and mirrors; the clicking dark thing that scuttled through the cracks. For his part, the Igenite adds nothing more to that side of things and, instead, passes a callused palm over the top of his bald head. "There is no half-way," he confirms, his naturally rough voice turned into something a little grittier. A little more raw. "Never. We're either in it or not." And that might very well explain why they aren't preparing for the impending goldflight, on some level. Perhaps. But: "He's good. Benevolent," seems right, so he repeats it - but that seems only fitting for the currently unmoving bronze. Z'kiel's features are shadowed in their own way, not malicious - but clouded. "He doesn't want things handed to him. Same as me. He'll work for it. He'll respect those that worked for it. But-" here, he falters a little, brows furrowed as he tries to dig into something. He sucks his teeth. "Start at the Weyr. See how it goes from there. Could be all of Pern. Might just be the 'Reaches." A flicked look might catch that flare; if he does, he doesn't comment. Instead: "Like that. Might take turns. Might not happen." But he'll try. There's no reaction for Zak's personal take on such absolutes, but Alida looks as though she can empathize, from the set of her mouth. As for the bronze, "Talk is just that, most uv the time." Ilicaeth chooses 'now' to offer his rider looks at the smoke and mirrors, those odd flaws in Ahtzudaeth's mind, her gaze shifting back over to their lifemates even as it loses focus for a few seconds. "A smattering uv' sociability likely never hurt most. Comes in handy when ya gotta deal with some obnoxious dipshit 'r uppity fucker." Is she speaking to the dragons, or Z'kiel? Hopefully the man, since her eyes train themselves back upon him soon enough. A bob of pale head comes to that apparent 'all-or-nothing' stance of his, the bluie watching him draw hand over bald head as she quietly inserts, "Sounds like you two got an interestin' bond goin' on. Equal partnership?" That's rather an odd question, given that dragons and their lifemates are 'supposed' to be as right and left sides to the whole. Grunt, sip. "Rarely ever hold dear what's simply handed to ya. At least *some* work's gotta be put in ta make it feel worth it." Blink, peer. "But...?" After quieting to listen, consider the rest of what the bronzer has to say, "One wrench c'n fuck up the whole clockworks." A faint purse of lips trails off into her low, "Has Rasavyth ever spoken at length ta Ahtzudaeth? 'R K'zin ta you?" There is no sidelong look to the dragons; no real need, given givens. Z'kiel grunts, throaty and low, for the talk of, well, talk - agreement issued in that singular sound. Aloud: "Words have power. S'what he says, anyway. I believe it. Greases the wheels; gets things going." There's a slight shake of his head for it. "He's good at that. I'm... working on it." Reluctantly. But, he's still talking, so that's a step in the right direction - or so it seems. The notion of equality elicits a screwing up of his features into unreadability. "Equal when it needs to be," seems to be the only way to answer it, though it takes him a few moments to get there. "He's in his head. I'm in mine. We do what we need to do together. I have to work harder at some things. He usually doesn't." Again, it's that irksome effortlessness. Annoying, that. Things move on and he can only nod at the notion of wrenches and clockworks, though his expression remains somewhat sour for it. That breaks at her last question and he cants a look her way. "He talks a bit with Rasavyth. They get along. I think. I don't talk so much with K'zin." A beat. "He Searched me. Not sure if that means I should talk to him more." Or not. That's unclear. "They can...as much as they're often just hurled around without mind," Alida agrees. "Spout an obvious life often enough, loud enough, people start taking it for the truth." Why does she sound like she knows that all too well? Then there's a sudden blurt of mixed light and dark laughter for Zak's 'working on it,' the bluerider soon shaking her head a little and adding, "Let's just say I ain't one ta much bother workin' on it." A quick look over to Ilicaeth makes her factor in a dry, "Unless *someone* insists." Eyeroll, sip. As for equality of personalities, there's a pondering look awarded to the bronzerider, followed by a quick stretch. "You gotcher' own pieces uv' privacy carved out fer yerselves, then?" For 'effortlessness,' Alida grunts, sighs, notes a little sourly, "*He's*..." a chin jerks towards the somnolent blue out yonder "...a fuckin' master uv' sociability. Bastard c'n chat up a boulder, an' likely get it ta respond." Unlike his testy, distanced rider. The sourness of Zak's expression is matched - in oblique fashion - by the sourness behind Alida's gaze at word of the other bronzepair. "You do what'cha want." Shrug. Hnnnh. It's a thoughtful sound, weightless in its own right. Z'kiel nods a few times, agreement offered if without articulation. The silence is easier to work with. Comfortable. Useful for some things, at least, though its utility comes to an end in due course. "He's insistent," is matched with a look at the bronze, timed to match Alida's eyeroll. Another long swig of water follows; this time, he swishes it around in his mouth before swallowing. "Have to," says he of their private niches. "We see enough in the middle. Don't need to go digging." Or, at least, he doesn't. There's a glance out to the blue when she looks, though he squints a little as if he might just see whatever she's saying of him. Not that it matters. "Ahtzudaeth's the same." Except when he's sleeping, obviously. "Loves his words." Another draw of water finds the skin mostly dry and his sour expression returns. "Probably keep things as they are," is his thought on the matter. Safer that way, perhaps. "Ilicaeth figured out long ago that 'insistin' that I be more social's the fastest way ta sleepin' out on 'is ledge." Seriously? She can boot her dragon out? The snort from the blue dragon might speak otherwise. But, for Z'kiel, "Has its uses, like ya said." Shrug. As for mental digging, "Gotta surprise 'em ta break inside, if ya want to." She has to break past her lifemate's barriers...or he hers? For the two of them - the dragons, that is - comes her dry, "Great. Don' leave 'em t'gether in the same room, unsupervised." Eyeroll. Not long after Zak's water runs out, the woman slings her own, still half full skin towards him. "Has a hint uv' lemon in it." "The weyr's more his than mine," is a snorted admission. Z'kiel doesn't laugh, precisely, but the bark of a sound is close enough. "He'd turn me out on the ledge sooner than I could." Strange, that. Or, perhaps, not so much. He unfolds a little from his seated posture to put the empty skin back in one of his bags. There might be more, but the bluerider's offer is met with a nod. He accepts it, but only to take a relatively small sip and offer it back. "Good," he says. "Different. Thank you." He runs his tongue along his teeth and issues a low, thoughtful sound. "Ah. He has to fight to get in. Most times." There's a pinching of his features at that, though, and he slowly rises to his feet. "Suspect they'll get to talking at some point. Maybe they'll keep each other busy." One can only hope. As the man rises, so does the bronze - if slowly and with some spectacular stretching while he's at it. After listening to the young man, Alida's expression turns a bit wry, her 'advice' a glib, "Enjoy bein' run roughshod over?" Smirkie. Of the water - as she accepts her skin back - there's a nod, and a low, "Makes it more drinkable. Plain water's borin'." Says the woman who likes tea, klah, alcohol. "Welcome." A quirk of that braided head is given once again for the Igenite's admission, the bluie venturing a vaguely cautious, "Bet that makes fer lots'a headaches. Figurative and literal." As for their equally talkative dragons... "Don't give 'em any fucking ideas." Eyeroll, sigh. With that obvious prelude to the others' leavetaking...well, Alida just bobs her fair head in definitive fashion. "No," says he, "But it's easier to deal with than the headache, some days. When he knows he's right, he knows he's right." And, sometimes, the only cure is just to let him be right until it passes, clearly. Z'kiel hefts the straps and, when Ahtzudaeth is close enough, he starts to rig them up on the bronze beast. "Both kinds," he agrees of the headaches. "Not as often now. Less when he's itchy." A terrible thing to be grateful for, that, but there it is. There's a shake of his head for that idea, though, and he's not quick enough to hide the grimace before it manifests in full. He's not about to add more fuel to that fire; instead: "Headed to Honshu. Figured we'd see if there was anything worth hunting out here first." While he's not especially prone to - or good at - smiling, he does so now. It's short-lived, but there's no mistaking it. "Turns out there was. Let me know when you have time to train. I'll be there." "Probably the only time yer likely ta enjoy a spate uv *his* itchiness..." Alida notes dryly around another pull from her skin. Snert. One hand lifts to shade eyes so the woman can more clearly see Z'kiel about the brightening sun, her neutral expression altering to something more...complicated. "We oughta' go huntin' tagether, sometime. Been a few Turns since I stalked somethin' dangerous." The words sound so casual. That rare smile from the bronzer meets with an only slightly-less rare, tooth-baring grin from the bluie. "Ya just never know, do ya?" Of what 'dangerous game' one can happen over. "Likely be able ta start next month. Y'll hear from me, one way 'r another." Her only following farewell is a lazy, two fingered-tap to forehead salute before Alida shifts again in her seat...silently watching the other pair mount up and depart for other climes. "Ayuh." Straps on. Bags on. Everything's tested and secured for a final time. Better safe than sorry, always. "Hear the wild porcine in the South is good hunting." Z'kiel tosses that out as he mounts up - after returning her salute with one of his own. "I'll see what's down there. See if it's worth it." There's a nod for the rest, for all of it - and then they're on their way. Up, up, and gone between in the blink of an eye. |
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