Logs:Gently Used
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| RL Date: 8 April, 2013 |
| Who: D'kan, Kazavoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: D'kan stops by the storerooms to pick up his new digs. Kazavoth digs into their worth. |
| Where: Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 6, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air. |
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| After the warmth of the early afternoon, the chill of the storerooms made D'kan shiver slightly. He had been waiting for several minutes now while one of the clerks ran off to find the items for his requisition. Fidgety, he paced slowly back and forth along the main cavern while tossing an old battered beanbag from hand to hand. Just off the main path, he nodded now and then to passing weyrfolk and the occasional rider, but for the most part, he was left to himself. Out in the bowl, Kazavoth was blithely chatting with one of the other young browns from his clutch. Regardless of how much the other was enjoying the conversation, and regardless of how his own rider felt, Kaz just went on with his story while strutting around the bowl. It didn't even seem to bother him when two of the other dragons, who'd previously been enjoying the last of the afternoon's sun that managed to reach the bowl, stalked away to find quieter corners of the Weyr. It bothered D'kan, though. Then again, a lot of stuff bothered him lately. He gripped the little beanbag hard enough to make his knuckles show white, though the durable little ball of beans held up just fine. Originally a fabric-encased kid's toy, it now held its own coat of leftover leather. Much like D'kan would very soon now. The clerk from earlier returned carrying a battered wooden crate, which he set on the floor. He was going to go through the crate's contents, but D'kan waved him off, mumbling something about going through it on his own. Soon enough, he was alone again and dropped the beanbag to the floor as he crouched down to peer into the crate. On top of the pile was a battered leather jacket, though the patches looked new. D'kan reached down to brush his fingers across it briefly before he picked it up by the collar and stood. There was nothing special about the jacket, really, but it brought a small, relaxed, genuine smile to his face. He shook it out and slipped it on. The jacket hadn't been tailored for him, but it fit well enough. It was maybe just a little big, but that was okay; neither D'kan nor Kazavoth were entirely done growing just yet, and it left room for layers. Apparently it got cold when dragons jumped Between. D'kan found more gear inside the crate. Helmet. Goggles. Even some bulky, lined trousers that could be worn over his usual ones. Too heavy for now, or even for between by the sound of it. It paid to be prepared, though. The gloves were the only item he'd paid for himself, rather than just requesting them from the public stores. D'kan hadn't needed a mentor to tell him that good gloves were important. They'd been a lifeline since he was a young teen. A loose glove at the wrong moment, and you're missing a finger. Too tight, and you won't be able to grip tightly enough. D'kan slipped out of his new-to-him jacket and tugged on the brand new gloves. The leather was just a little stiff, but it wouldn't take long before it was good and supple, with just enough give that he could make a full fist. Reinforcing suede lined the outside of the palm and fingers, providing both grip and longer life. They apparently passed muster, because they were soon added to the pile outside the crate with the other gear. The rest of the contents were boring in comparison. Some extra trousers, smallclothes, and shirts, both short-sleeved and long. All had the look of hand-me-downs, the sorts of things he could wear to death, and no one would miss them too much. He didn't bother looking through the rest, just went to work bundling it inside the jacket. The gloves were stuffed into the back pocket of his trousers. D'kan tucked the bundle under an arm, then waved to the clerk. "Thanks, Trefan," the weyrling called out before heading back to the Weyr's entrance, then the far warmer bowl where Kazavoth waited. The young brown quickly strutted across the bowl to join his rider as they turned toward the weyrling area. His wings were held a few inches off his back, forward slightly until only the forestay tip of his wings touched his body, and his tail was held languidly above the ground just a couple inches. Sun-warmed tendrils of thought peeked over the walls at the borders of his consciousness. « These are the new things? » Kazavoth asked with interest, the glitter of silver just visible at the far corners of mental vision. (Kazavoth to D'kan) The brown's face drew level with the bundle in D'kan's arms, but the weyrling didn't show him more of it. His pace picked up slightly, as if fighting the shadows that were growing deeper, crawling up the eastern end of the bowl. Still working at mastering mental communication with his dragon, D'kan's own mindvoice was almost sterile by comparison, though elements of emotion filtered through. Hunger was the easiest to pick out, while darker ones trembled just beneath the surface. « Not exactly new, but they'll do for now. » (D'kan to Kazavoth) Whereas Kazavoth is a master of that link. Elements and shades were picked up, examined, enhanced, questioned. Thoughts without words bombarded his rider's consciousness, probing for truth without bothering to ask. Hunger was easily dismissed, but the rest was held near the surface, secured for later study. A distinct humming made its way through the jumble. He was getting better at holding actual tunes now, either taken from D'kan's mind or snippets picked up elsewhere. This was new, though. His own composition. It was low and melodic, bolstering the study and thought. (Kazavoth to D'kan) D'kan turned sharply to look at Kazavoth's mahogany-dark head. The brown's mental examination happened as quickly as one footstep to the next, but just as quickly, the weyrling rider lodged the wall back in place. "Don't do that, all right?" he said in a low voice, angling toward the barracks. "Asked you before. Your own good." They passed into the training room, and while Kazavoth sent calm greetings to the other dragons present, D'kan barely looked left or right, aiming for the sleeping chamber where their couch was located. « My own good? » Kazavoth asked, tone thin, colors darkening to that of old, seasoned wood. « That means nothing but ash to me, » sent with enough realistic ash across the link to make his rider's nose wrinkle. « You put up your walls, D'kan, see what good it will do. » (Kazavoth to D'kan) D'kan rubbed his forearm over his face and shot a look at Kazavoth before dropping his bundle of gear and clothing onto his cot. « You know that's not it, » he protested before shooting glances at any others currently in the barracks. He began sorting through the normal clothing so he could place the new items in his clothespress. He did move to the side slightly so the brown could come near and peer at the items before they were tucked away. A long-sleeved, dark blue shirt was accompanied by a scathing comment, « I can still smell runner muck on that, » despite its just-been-laundered overlying scent. The other long-sleeved shirt, this one a pale green, was sniffed at hard enough to make D'kan fold it again. « That stain on the sleeve looks like my dung. » The next three short-sleeved shirts, while practically new, all prompted further comments from Kazavoth, though they all summed up the same thought. "Nothing used is good enough for you, is it?" D'kan asked as he threw a couple pairs of socks into the press so hard the lid closed on him. He pushed it open again and went back to folding the smallclothes and putting them inside. Kazavoth retreated a few steps and sat. Smallclothes were boring, anyway. His wings drooped for a moment until he folded them smartly against his back, and the very tip of his tail twitched once. Eddies of cool mist seeped over the edge of the rider's mental wall, dark as ink, slow as molasses. They encircled the periphery, then struck slowly toward the core. « That is not true, D'kan. You were used, and you are good enough. » (Kazavoth to D'kan) D'kan stopped with his hands on the edge of the clothespress, his eyes closed. Then he placed the helmet and goggles to one side of the press, his jacket to the other, until all that was left was the pair of gloves in his back pocket. These he presented for his critical lifemate, almost as if he were contemplating a duel. In the end, though, he just stuck them in his pocket again and got to his feet. Kazavoth sniffed the air, his eyes whirling in shades of deep, forest green speckled now and then with fragments of orange-tinted yellow. « Ah, herdbeast, » he commented, mindvoice as simple as his words. « That reminds me, I am hungry. Can I try a heardbeast today, D'kan? » Whatever the struggle from moments before, it was already forgotten, washed away, walls and all, and for that D'kan was thankful. "Not yet," he said out loud as he moved away from the dragon's couch, "they still outweigh you. Never kill what you can't eat." Kazavoth walked quietly beside his rider, for once not bombarding the entire barracks population with thought, word, or song. His mindvoice had gone as still as a glacier, still moving, but imperceptibly. Then the snapshot was over, and he began a new tune, this one joyously narrating the futile flight of a wounded wherry, the soundtrack for their afternoon. |
Comments
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Wed, 10 Apr 2013 19:41:58 GMT.
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Oh D'kan. <3 I think I could honestly just follow him around all day, and watch his interactions with Kazavoth. Nothing end-of-the-world, but not flawlessly smooth. <3 I love how real this all feels. Love!
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