Logs:Fog, Wind And Fire
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| RL Date: 5 June, 2013 |
| Who: C'wlin, Athimeroth, Azaylia, Hraedhyth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia and Hraedhyth check on upset weyrlings. C'wlin and the weyrwoman talk about mistakes, punishments, and what's permanent. |
| Where: Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 12, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: A blanket of cold, dense fog fills the bowl with its oppressive presence and obscures vision. |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, N'hax/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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| Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that: two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond. Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall off. An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl. Winter's bones rattle in cold, foggy chains as the temperature takes a nosedive at the close of the day. Sitting, alone, in the foggy night air, C'wlin rolls a glass around with clear liquid inside. Given the lack of stinging odor, the rations they're on, and the dark mood that hovers around the weyrling, it's not hard to guess that mere water graces the bottom of the tumbler like fine, hard liquor. Athimeroth crouches high above the weyr, unconsolable from the equally red-hazed mood the bronze endures as fog settles eerily over the weyr. From the clarity of the Snowasis and into the fog, Azaylia pulls her cloak closer as she finds the weyrling sitting alone. If the weyrwoman was drinking, she's left it back in the Snowasis in her search for C'wlin, specifically. Hood lowered, her whispery soprano might be familiar as she stops near his table, "Athimeroth's upset." Has been for days, and it's a wonder that it's taken her this long to ask after the bronze and his weyrling. Duties often put such things on hold. Reaching out, she rests a hand on his table and dips her head to find C'wlin's face, "Mind if I sit?" The eddies of air flow make the fog imperfect across the patio, so that streamers of thick, white fog float by but with limited obstruction from objects close by, adding only a faint haze to the shapes and shadows of the night. "I don't," C'wlin says, tenor low and raspy. Maybe he'll get his wish and burn out his voice, though doubtful. "Athimeroth is upset, but it is our own fault." It's stated without question as though the weyrling's been practicing this line from some pivotal moment. He gestures, "Please." This is added more congenially, struggling to maintain the correct amount of polite respect. Being a teen boy, he's certainly enjoying a bit of the wallow in emo. That or he's plotting. Bold enough to ask to join him, Azaylia still hesitates at his answer until finally sliding into the seat across from C'wlin. "We're worried." Her and Hraedhyth. She doesn't argue with him on the matter of fault, agreement not voiced though silence can be just as enlightening. Crossing her arms and resting them on the table, her brown eyes drop to the glass without suspicion before finding his face once again. "Is it that you think the punishment is unfair?" She's gentle in her probing, watchful, spurned on by the gold pair's shared concern. "Or is it something else?" "So much..." C'wlin murmurs, voicing a thought that surfaces without any connection to the current conversation. As the goldrider takes her seat, his eyes involuntarily drift off to the fog that cloak's the night as if to place Hraedhyth's location. "The punishment? The rations, the grounding, the barracks, that's all doable. I can do the time, I certainly did the crime." He considers his glass, watching the water swish around in the tumbler, responsive to the twirl of his fingers. "I'm to lose all ties to my craft. Not even allowed to go to gathers." Icy blue eyes glances at Azaylia through the corner of his eye. /That's/ the big one! The big one! Athimeroth vanes his wings, claws digging into the rock that forms one of High Reaches' seven spires. Azaylia nods her head along with the list brought on by Quinlys' righteous wrath. It's difficult to juggle deeply felt disappointment and acceptance of their mistakes, the weyrwoman managing with quiet resolve. It's what helps her stifle that surprise into a blink, the faint rise of both brows as she looks to him. "Oh, C'wlin." A sigh, it's a paltry attempt to soften the reality of it all. "That must feel..." Sympathy is obvious, genuine, and yet, "You had to... You knew what was at stake when you snuck into the Hold." Didn't he? To Athimeroth, Hraedhyth is dark smoke brought in by tumultuous winds, a heat that has been flickering on the edge of the young bronze's thoughts. It's now with her constant intensity that the blaze reaches out, presence announced by the swell of rhythmic pounding. « This is what angers you? Yours losing his craft? » Curiosity burns bright. "I knew. I'd do it again, ma'am," C'wlin is harper trained, it's ingrained in him. So much so that even the anger of it all doesn't cause him to publicly slip his ways. "Knowing in abstract is different than knowing in experience. If it's all the same to anyone, some things can only be felt before they can be ... pushed away." Almost a distracted rambling, the boy lets slip this thought before he's back to being the perfect little harper. "If I'd known then what I do now, I'd've picked a different path, but I still would have done it. Better, hopefully. Without the whole getting caught part, but..." He shrugs. And glances down at the glass and wishes it were alcohol. Little violins might just play for poor sad C'wlin. Blustering winds meet Hraedhyth's flickering heat, whipping black banners that fly ragged on battlefield ablaze so far down below in the murky blur of green and brown with touches of blue. The topography of an envision land, seen from so, so high above the aether. Bone chilling cold twines with the heat. « No. » Simple. « He's a whiner. He needs to quit it. » Pause, where winds whip and beat in time to the queen's drums. « Now. » At an impasse it'd seem, between bronze and rider. (To Hraedhyth from Athimeroth) It's here that understanding begins to wane, "Why?" Azaylia's words lack heat that would be well placed, instead only insistant. "I don't understand why you and N'hax are so sure that something is wrong." The weyrwoman catches herself, lifting a hand, "You've lost your craft." It's said delicately, though the rest isn't. "You've hurt the tithe, you've made your Weyrlingmaster's look bad-- the entire Weyr..." She doesn't go on, the once-harper more than capable of understanding what he's done. "C'wlin, what is so important about all of this that you would do this to your home? To the people you share it with?" She needs to know, brows pinched with concern. Surprised flames flicker in his windy reveal, « Oh. » Though she's hunted down the source, it doesn't satisfy Hraedhyth's hunger. Steam joins her smoke where heat and cold mingle, good nature allowing her fire to be jostled about by his mood-- with little danger of ever going out. « It is a difficult thing for him. It would be better if he had your support. » Uh oh. That sounded suspiciously like authority offering a suggestion. (To Athimeroth from Hraedhyth) "I would hope that the second time would not result in that, ma'am," C'wlin's tone is tired, as if he's gone over and over what they've done and seen the flaws at each step. "It's not that I would do that to our home, but I would do that for our home. Something is..." He trails off, attention caught by the water in the glass once more, "Something isn't right." Lips press together, though, before anything else can be said. Though he does cant a side-long look to the goldrider that holds a sardonic, dry sort of dark humor. "We weren't supposed to get caught." Such a simple statement that shows, more than anything else, how young the young former-banned-harper is. Exasperation sends air whooshing this way and that. « It's just a craft. » As if this simple statement explains everything. « I am most important and I am not lost. I am still here. Am I not as important? » Annoyed hauteur echoes in this rhetorical statement that roars in time with the winds that play with her fires, desire to make them rise higher, burn hotter, almost tangible. Yet, a playfulness exists. Athimeroth does not bother pining for what's already been done. He's got plans -- wait, plans? No plans here! Whip, whip, whip; playful little good bronze. (To Hraedhyth from Athimeroth) Now there's some heat, "You shouldn't have done it in the first place." Azaylia's anger is all encompassing, not solely on the fact that they were caught. "Something isn't right." She repeats, not enough to be in agreement but certainly acknowledging what he's said. "It wasn't, isn't, Weyr business. And if it is? Then I'd rather wait and be certain, without the spying." She gives a soft sigh, putting out the small flame of frustration before trying again. "I know it's not ideal. Some people would call it stupid, to sit and wait." C'wlin might be one of them, and the weyrwoman places no blame on such opinions. "But pretend second chances aren't going to change what's actually happened." A glance to his water, perhaps pointed. "I'd like you to learn from this mistake. Not that you got caught, but what you did." Through all of what Athimeroth has to say, Hraedhyth offers no argument. It is just a craft. And of course the bronze is the most important thing as far as C'wlin is concerned. Rhetorical though they may be, they're fuel for her flames that rise and whip about, sparks carried on his winds, dancing to those ever-beating drums. « Sometimes they need time to see what is there. » Humans can be blind; a sentiment shared not with disgust, but with learned understanding. « Yours will see. » Confident in the bond between bronze and rider... or realistically, in Athimeroth's ability to wear C'wlin down. (To Athimeroth from Hraedhyth) C'wlin holds his silence, perhaps chastised, perhaps not. "Of course, ma'am," softly said, quietly said. "I have learned a lot." Which could include the whole not getting caught part. Or not. His eyes are drawn up to the night sky in the direction of Athimeroth. A sigh is heaved, "I have paid a hefty price for my actions. Nothing I can't say is entirely unfair." Except maybe the gathers. How's he going to take girls to dances? All the more reason to get one with his pole! Something the queen says or implies sparks Athimeroth's very boisterously windy curiosity. « Does it work? » he queries, rough tenor come from afar, from above, from where he can view everything at hand. « Waiting for them to see what's right in front of their faces? » The young bronze is confident that he can wear his rider down. Seriously, the boy's drowning in his own emo-ness. Won't be hard! (To Hraedhyth from Athimeroth) Azaylia takes his silence as intended, or is fooled into thinking it's a regretful pause. Either way, the weyrwoman settles back into her gentle tones from before, "I am sorry you lost your craft, C'wlin." It's now that she'll reach out, looking to rest a hand on his nearest arm. She won't linger if he shows any discomfort, "You still have Athimeroth?" Perhaps Hraedhyth has been sharing, though it's an easy comfort to offer, "No one can take him away from you." The bronze is welcome to his heights. Hraedhyth is steady in spirit and rumbling with the moving ground as well as her pounding drums, « Sometimes. » Her contralto growls from below, « It works best if they feel as though you are with them. » Not against them, oh blustery bronze. Her concern has faded but is still there, mostly replaced by the warm crackle of amusement at such a pair. (To Athimeroth from Hraedhyth) Perhaps C'wlin didn't quite expect to lose his whole craft; the hand she puts to his arm isn't regarded in any sort of discomfort but nor does he seek comfort neither. Though he does touch upon a rueful smile before he answers her not-so-subtle question. "Yes, I do. No one can take him away. He's," twirl, twirl, goes the glass, "permanent." The boy frowns, as if permanence has become a question for everything in his life. "Will the weyr be stripped from us too?" The question is quiet, and the us is ambiguous; he could be asking for himself and Athimeroth or himself and N'hax. « Of course I am with him! » Athimeroth's tone is surprised, for once the blustering winds coming to a halt and ceasing their playful antics with the queen's fires. « He's just not seen it yet. He will. And then we will once again be on the right path. » Given the young bronze's anarchist ways, that might not be the best thing ever. Given in confidence, amusement touching upon the rough tenor: « He's sometimes a slow learner. » Or Athimeroth is too impatient! (To Hraedhyth from Athimeroth) C'wlin's frown has her hand leaving, if only to straighten up as Azaylia considers his question. Just as softly, "As many mistakes as you make, you're still a part of High Reaches. I won't turn on our riders." Soon-to-be riders, unless their Weyrlingmaster is feeling extra vindictive. "But not unless you show remorse and mean it. If you keep doing things like this?" It takes her a moment to find the words, warm brown gaze locking onto icy blue, "I can't promise you anything if you insist on hurting yourself and others. The Weyr is your home, but it comes first." Purely hypothetical, but absolutely honest. Without his winds, Hraedhyth's flames are fall to their usual, steady movements. For the weyrling's inability to see, as well as his learning disability, « You could show him. » And not by sulking on high, worrying queens and their riders, among the others of the weyr who are sensitive to such upset. Anarchist or no, it doesn't do any good to have such an impasse between dragon and rider. (To Athimeroth from Hraedhyth) "Hurting others..." C'wlin is, for a moment, truly blanked into what would be (for him) shock. Pulled from his funk enough to realize that perhaps the chasm between him and Athimeroth is what sparked the comment has him dipping his head. In deference? Remorse? It's hard to tell, but it is acknowledgement. "I'll try harder." To be better? To be perfect? To not fail? To control Athimeroth? These questions writhe like eddies in the tone of such a simple sentence, not unlike the fog that drifts around him. Perhaps he's just a boy, talking to a girl, afraid to lose -- truly lose - everything. « Brilliant! » Athimeroth's plans are many and varied, but always the straightest point from 'A' to 'B' without thinking of the pathway being curvy. Smugness stirs up the winds again; the winds that play with her fires once more as the inconsolable ire ebbs away in the surety that surely C'wlin will be malleable now. « I have a plan. » Oh dear. (To Hraedhyth from Athimeroth) "Lord Devaki threatened to withhold two thirds of the next tithe. If he does, the rest of the Weyr is going to be eating like you are now." Azaylia's gaze drops to search for his, straightening when C'wlin keeps his head bowed. "And they didn't do anything to deserve that." Truly the reason she's so frustrated with all of it, though it's kept at bay by what could be remorse. It's enough for her, "Thank you." Of all things, her next words are apologetic, "I wasn't looking to scold you, C'wlin. I wanted to see what had you both so upset. See if I could help." Without relaxing his punishment, or encouraging further chaos. It's unclear if she's managed that much, slowly standing and readjusting the cloak around her. "You're still allowed to play music, aren't you?" Silver linings. To Athimeroth, Hraedhyth is once against startled into a heated flicker at the bronze's exclamation. Athimeroth is welcome to toy with her flames, a game where she threatens to scorch his winds, baring such abilities like fangs. All in play, of course. Once ire is replaced by surety, the queen's confidence wavers in a missed beat, « Oh dear. » Warm amusement, tolerance, and perhaps a bit of an authoritative eye kept on the bronze. At least until she leaves his thoughts. His scheming, scheming thoughts. "Never our intention..." Which is part of the problem. C'wlin and N'hax didn't think of the long term repercussions of their actions. Oh, but they are thinking of them now. The bronzerider stands, leaving behind his glass of useless water, more prop than anything else. "With what? I sold what I had thinking I would get something better to pay for the gifts I gave the weyrlings." Sardonic, ironic, the boy's smile is nothing pleasant to look upon. Many things reflect in C'wlin's expression -- regret, frustration, anger, self-recrimination for getting caught -- but never self-pity. "I thank you for the company," sharp but polite, the words are nonetheless sincere. Even a thin, sharp, haughty smile -- but that's just his nature -- comes to play. "Thank you. If I may be excused?" He has a dragon to attend to. Athimeroth is content to play with the flames, watching them dance, until she leaves his thoughts. Still lurking high above the weyr, the bronze's attention is no longer on what cannot be attained but what will come next. Which is surely his rider coming to the right path and realizing that the world is fine so long as he has Athimeroth, not that stinky craft. (To Hraedhyth from Athimeroth) The fate of his instruments weighs on Azaylia's expression, a sad frown to go with his uncomfortable smile. It's not pity, though he's welcome to see it as such. To hear, "I'm sorry." as anything but sympathy. With a nod, and lips that attempt a smile, "Of course. I hope you have a good evening." Unlikely, but it isn't the first time she's showed that optimistic nature this evening. Walking back into the Snowasis, if she's unable to reclaim her drink she'll go looking for another. And into the foggy night, C'wlin will disappear to spend some time alone with his thoughts, and to be badgered by Athimeroth -- who, at last, slowly shows signs of his distress fading. Back to the barracks where, with some coconuts, the boys might be singing about how nobody knows the troubles they've seen, nor how anyone could possibly know their sorrows! Or maybe they're plotting; either way, night falls uneventfully for the WeyrlingsForLife. To Athimeroth, Hraedhyth won't squash that dastardly ambition of his, even if she's practically been handed a warning. She leaves Athimeroth with his notably improved mood, no matter what it might cost in acts of future anarchy. |
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