Logs:Gift Exchange
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| RL Date: 17 September, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Lythronath |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lythronath has a gift for Roszadyth, and Faryn has breakfast for Farideh. A deal is unwillingly brokered. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Complex, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 11, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Faryn's a dragon whisperer. Just...not a good one. Immediately precedes this log. |
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| Most of the dragons that alight on the ledge of the weyrleader's complex are courteous about the foot traffic. Among those number, Faryn might be the most appreciative of it, even if her M.O. is, as usual, to ignore the unpleasantries of the bronze that caught Roszadyth. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. Early morning sees Faryn mounting the steps exactly as usual, complete with a quick and light breakfast tray whose dome is dappled in rain from the morning drizzle. Gifts, then, for the junior weyrwoman, and to stave off any irritability from hunger. Lythronath is there. How often is he not, these days, unless his own ledge needs to be defended or re-gored? Lythronath is there, and he does not occupy the space in front of Roszadyth's weyr alone. He's crouched, with his forepaws around his own morning offering. Crouched, and waiting, perhaps for Roszadyth to be ready, perhaps, or for the severed head of a herdbeast to be just right. The over-proportioned bronze muzzle, still stained with bits of the rest of that beast, nudges, sometimes leaving prints, and licks, sometimes cleaning them off. It has to be just right. The awkward bow of his neck changes when Faryn comes up, though. Lythronath's head hovers overtop of the token of his affections. He gives a click in his throat, while his back feet twist and shift until talons have purchase on the stone. There's a look for the head. A look for the tray. Back to the head. Faryn isn't squeamish, at least. Her color stays neutral and there seems to be no risk of her horking up whatever light breakfast she's already indulged, but she does appear to be reasonably concerned. Her history means she's done much the same, though possibly without such tender care as Lythronath is displaying in his arrangement, and maybe also with less collateral damage. Even so, she tilts her head at the bronze, her brows lifting for that clicking sound. He isn't Jorrth. She doesn't talk to him the same way, so certainly her murmur of, "I hope Farideh hasn't seen this already, I'll be holding her hair for hours," is not, as such, for Roszadyth's suitor. Lythronath is definitely not Jorrth. His head remains hovering, half proud, half protective, over the trophy that soon won't be his. His mouth opens just enough that the edges of his teeth might be seen. There's another throat click, and then, the slightest shift in the angle of his head. It brings those sharp eyeridges into even better relief, for how he's facing the woman with the tray now. The tray that has his attention, or what can be spared of it. "Just breakfast," Faryn assures, mincing her way around a slow drip of crimson that's leaking down a small grade in the rock. "I'm not going to touch it, just..." It's hard, moving around a dragon like that, with a prize like that, even if you know it's not going to, say, disembowel you. "Farideh's not going to be happy with you." Do you know? Really? Because Lythronath sure does get to his feet, then, those comet-blazed wings spreading, not to their full length, but enough that the sails can be seen, that he looks bigger. He's careful not to step on the severed head, as he goes to block the woman's path. So positioned, his head bobs, up, down, up, down. Click click. Nope, she doesn't know. If she knew, she'd not be hesitating like this, loitering some feet from him. And all that time with animals, reading the body language of things that could break her into pieces if they got it in their head to do so, makes Faryn back away a few steps. Not scared, exactly. Respectful. Perfectly aware. She gives a meaningful look to the head, and takes a very careful step to the side, the direction she intends to go. Testing. The stepping makes him... well, it's not a roar. And it's not a growl, it's not long enough. But it's a guttural vocalisation, and it comes with a bit more of those teeth being shown. Those wings lift a little bit higher. Lythronath's tail swings out behind him, side to side, slowly. "Easy," Faryn tries out of habit, with that gentling tone reserved for calming scared animals. She steps right back where she was, her free hand lifted in a soothing gesture. If she knew exactly what kind of dragon she was dealing with, she'd probably have the sense to leave. "I need to get in there. Where's your rider?" It's not that free hand Lythronath is interested in. Or, for that matter, soothing. This time, it's another click. And this time, it comes with Lythronath stepping forward, muzzle aimed directly for the rain-speckled lid of that tray, sniffing as he goes, those teeth still showing a bit. Where is his rider, indeed. Faryn reserves sighs of this calibre for her biggest annoyances, the ranks of which Lythronath has quickly climbed the ranks. Her movements are deliberate, only cautious enough to make sure she doesn't knock the tray off her hand, and she lifts the lid just enough for a glimpse. Light indeed: some toast, scrambled eggs, a bowl that presumably holds something, though she doesn't lift the lid back far enough to see that. A side of fruit. Not a head, at any rate. Only because Faryn has acquiesced to his demands does that tray not get knocked straight from her hand. No heads, indeed. The toast receives a snort, and if she's quick, maybe there won't even be dragon snot anywhere but on the lid. Lythronath swings his head, back toward the token of his affections. And although it earns a lick, there's little in his posture to suggest Faryn is being allowed to pass. Less so, still, when he looks back to her, to that tray. And then again, to the head. And back. Lucky Faryn. She is (mostly) quick, so maybe she'll throw that toast out when the moment comes, but she's still seriously not amused by her predicament. There's a cut glance the way to Irianke's weyr - and a brusque shake of the head to dismiss that notion immediately. Ma'am, I can't get past a dragon seems a less than fantastic way to start someone else's day. "Farideh's breakfast," she says, gesturing. Then, the head, "Roszadyth's....whatever." And with that, the head is picked up. Picked up, and brought over to be set down. Sort of in Faryn's way, yes, but still where he can protect it should it be required. Lythronath licks his lips when he lifts his eyes to her. And bobs his head. At the tray. "No," Faryn says at once. "No.. You keep that out here, I take this in. If you ask nicely," pah, "maybe I'll come back. For that." Lythronath dips his head to nudge at the head again. And looks at the tray, again. And makes a point of spreading his stance out, in all its weyr-blocking capacity. "What is wrong with you guys." Guys. Dragons. Same thing. Faryn glowers at the bronze. Sucks the back of her teeth in a sound not unlike his odd clicking but definitely of a higher pitch. And, trained by all those one-sided conversations with dragons, she puts the tray on the ground, just in front of her. "You'd better not touch it." Lythronath watches it all. And shifts only a bit. Enough to make the head available, though there's a click of warning. Just in case she's thinking of breaking this deal that he seems to have brokered. Another annoyed puff of breath, and Faryn grimaces down at her clothes. They're nicer than the ones she used to wear, out of necessity. She's scowling when she rolls it a little closer. Scowling more when she hefts it up, a task that takes both arms and leaves her with no choice but to hold it against her front to balance it. Her proclamation is bland, head tilted just so she's not letting her own head touch any part of the severed one. "I hate you." That, apparently, is fine. Lythronath steps aside, in a way that lets him maintain an angle where he can watch the delivery most of the way. There. Perfect. The tray, this time at least, will be untouched upon her return. "Oh, thank you," Faryn says sarcastically as he moves aside, and she trudges past him. It's not the breakfast surprise she'd hoped to deliver, and it's only made slower by the ex-crafter's careful insistence on skirting Farideh's fancy rug, her movements made awkward in trying prevent dripping on anything expensive or important. |
Comments
Alida (21:13, 18 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Oh man; this was TOO GOOD! In Lynner parlance: Hahahahahahahaha!!!
Squishy (21:40, 18 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Faryn's attempts at dragon whispering never fail to amuse me.
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