Logs:Grass Eater
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| RL Date: 11 May, 2013 |
| Who: Dal, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dal meets another Fortian bronzerider. Vhaeryth is interested in grass. |
| Where: Meadow, Fort Hold |
| When: Day 1, Month 10, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'muir/Mentions |
| Some people might think that a dragon might have better things to do with his afternoon than to wriggle around in the damp grass with his straps off. Some people might think his rider might have better things to do than to indulgently watch him, period. N'rov's gnawing on a slightly shriveled redfruit and doing just that, though, and now and then calls over to Vhaeryth things like, "Careful, you're starting to look dignified. Better wiggle your tail back and forth some more." Presumably, most holdfolk have better things to do than stop in their tracks to watch such a thing, but as Dal emerges from the darker shade of the orchards, that's nonetheless exactly what he does. Digging grubby hands into the pockets of his worn jacket, the orchard-worker lets his eyebrows lift, and then the corners of his mouth, too, though not so far as to actually result in a smile. Instead, after a moment, he lowers his gaze, sidestepping towards one of those overhanging trees, the packet of his lunch in one hand. But the wind's a canny whisperer, and Vhaeryth lifts his lean neck clear of the grass far enough to snort towards the sky before flopping back again. It's a cue that N'rov must be able to read, for he glances assessingly where the bronze hadn't bothered to look. "Greetings to Fort." It's made the drier for the different Fort knot upon his own shoulder, but he smiles as he says it. Dal doesn't seem terribly bothered at having been caught out, executing a nimble half-turn that allows him to meet N'rov's gaze front-on, all the better for giving that half-bow of respectful greeting. "Hold's duties to Fort Weyr and her queens, Sir," he says, probably with genuine respect, even if it /does/ inadvertently edge towards obsequiousness. "Have yourself a seat, if you want. You won't bother him." N'rov's got the grass, not even a log to sit on, though his straps are coiled up over his knees. With a nod to Dal's packet, "Anything good for lunch? Feel like I should say, this is a windfall I'm eating, I didn't shin up your trees to pick the best." Another person, a different person, might raise his eyebrows at this point, dubious at needing reassurance that sitting in the vicinity of a dragon is acceptable. Not Dal, though - Dal, who nods, carefully, and drops to a cross-legged seating position at the base of one of the trees. "Sandwiches, most like. Would you like one?" And, "Doesn't look like one of our best, anyway. You /could/ have found something better, I'm sure, and no one would have minded." One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand. "Why, yes," says N'rov with alacrity. "Thanks," and he sits forward some with his hands out enough that he might catch the thing, if Dal throws it. "I'd say next time I'd quote you on that, if anyone asks, but that's not a way to repay a man's hospitality." Vhaeryth begins to roll over, his near wing drawing in so he doesn't press too hard on on the dark glassy-sailed spars, N'rov back to watching him as another man might the pouring of wine. Dal does throw it, his aim true: it sails in a neat, careful arc, all the way to N'rov's hands-- an easy catch, presumably. "It wouldn't do to deny one of Fort's own Bronzerider's the fruit of our harvest," is his opinion, said in a careful, quiet tone, as his own dark gaze slides back towards the bronze. He unwraps his sandwich - thick, home-made bread with cured meat and cheese - without looking at it, and adds, wonderingly, "Do all dragons... roll like that?" And an easy catch it is, the bronzerider tipping the other man an appreciative nod. "Can't say as I'll complain," he says, and that's even before he gets a better look at the sandwich. "No, normally not so much when they're older. He knows better, but he's still a little giddy. That's /Vhaeryth/, by the way," as if Dal should actually be expected to know who that is. "Maybe why I'm shooting my mouth off instead of practicing being stern like N'muir." Who isn't, except on demand. The name, 'Vhaeryth', doesn't seem to mean anything to Dal, for all that he nods politely. 'N'muir', thankfully /does/, though aside from a more enthusiastic, acknowledging nod, he doesn't reference the Weyrleader. "Giddy. Well - the grass /is/ nice in these parts. I suppose we all have to make the most of it not being too cold, while we still can." They're polite words, clearly superficial, as though the young man doesn't quite know how else to respond. N'rov had been watching for it, but when Dal just looks polite and all, he gets this smirk that's more aimed at himself than anything, and gets to chewing on the sandwich. "So we do," he says. "It's practically a duty." And by way of explaining, "He's sired Fort's next clutch. So, we'll be spending a lot of time back at the Weyr, helping out," almost like they can't live without him! "instead of flying as many proper sweeps. But don't worry, someone else will be covering the territory." "Of course," is Dal's answer, so very quick. "I would never imagine the Weyr would neglect their sweeps. Is it - I should congratulate you, I think? If he is to have children. It's a fine thing." Certainly, he sounds relatively impressed, though his expression is still so very serious - at least, what can be seen of it around the edges of /his/ sandwich. N'rov squints at Dal with something briefly like suspicion, but once he has another bite of the man's sandwich, all that /goes away/. "It is," he admits, and chews contentedly for a little while. "Thanks for sharing your lunch, man. I appreciate it. Didn't catch your name, though? I'm N'rov, and you already got the fellow playing in the grass." Though currently it's more like Vhaeryth's sniffing at the grass, all set to chew it. Dal's brand and earnest seriousness abates as he concentrates on his lunch, eating his sandwich in quick, efficient bites. Still, he's able to answer N'rov's question promptly, with an air of apology that scrunches his brows and brings a frown to his mouth. "Dal," he answers. "I'm sorry, sir, that was rude of me. It was my pleasure. /Is/ my pleasure." "Well met, Dal," N'rov says, reminded of good behavior. He hesitates, though perhaps that's due to the distraction of chomping sounds, and then finally shuts his mouth again, as though somewhat at a loss. This /could/ be the beginning of a long and awkward silence - although it rather seems like /Dal/ is not bothered by silence, and thus might not be made awkward by it. Abruptly, however, the young man frowns, staring back at Vhaeryth. "Is he... intending to /eat/ the grass?" N'rov's been gazing unfocusedly at the sky, the better to ignore his dragon, but then he checks on Vhaeryth, just in case. "I don't think 'intending' is accurate, any longer." Mostly because Vhaeryth's helped himself to a mouthful, delicately avoiding the roots. "I blame Bijedth, not that he's /his/ sire. Got any riders in your family, Dal? Or kids, for that matter." Or grass. "But..." Though no doubt Dal has an answer to those questions, he is presently a little distracted by the imagery of a dragon eating, of all things, /grass/. "Why? I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't ask, but..." /Why/. He gives N'rov a side-on glance, studying him, and then adds, only slightly belatedly: "No dragonriders, sir, but I have a son." "Don't mind your asking. Was a Holder myself not quite four Turns ago myself, out of Boll. Well, my father was, /is/, but I'm talking more in the general sense." N'rov glances right back at Dal, unbothered. He has the good health of a rider who doesn't get drunk every night, and shows some care toward his appearance with the recent haircut and even more recent shave. "How old's your boy?" And so Dal /will/ ask, putting it very carefully into words: "Can he explain why he wants to eat grass? I /do/ understand that they're intelligent, but I just..." His hands, now emptied of sandwich, lift, palms flat, to give a pretty clear indication of how well he understands (which is to say: not really at all). That he and N'rov are (one can assume he has determined) roughly similar in age doesn't seem to be a problem in his continued answers, commencing with yet another, "Sir. He's three. Just recently so." "He..." N'rov gets that distant look, one he may not actually /need/ for conferring with Vhaeryth but serves to delay his being asked too many questions by people who recognize it, of which Dal may not be one. "He can. Rather, he can express how it feels, but if he keeps that up, I'll be over there nibbling some myself. Can't make him explain if he doesn't want to, though, and right now he doesn't." He shrugs, and then Dal gets another of those thoughtful looks. "Three. Guess I might have had one of those if I'd stayed home, come to think of it." Dal may or may not recognize it (it's hard to tell), but he does hold his tongue until after the bronzerider has finished explaining. "I... see," he says, though it's patently obvious that he doesn't, not really. "You have none yourself, then? The tales always imply that dragonriders are prolific. They're worth it. Jay's a good boy." It's just obvious enough that N'rov recognizes it, though he doesn't yet comment. "None where a woman's told me, at any rate, and /between/ does things to their fecundity. 'Jay.' Good name. Expecting a brother for him anytime soon? Or a sister perhaps, if he'll like his as much as I mostly liked mine." "Ah," begins Dal, even before N'rov has actually finished speaking, which is rude, and something he might apologize for except that his dark face has suddenly gone distinctly pale, and his expression /distinctly/ awkward. "Ah," he says, repeating himself, though it's for something different. "No. No siblings." /Awkward/. "Ah." N'rov's gaze doesn't waver more than a hairsbreadth: evidently it's rude to check for damage when a man's shared his lunch with you. "I'm sorry." Dal uses one hand to wave away the apology, and if the other looks as though it's about to scrub at his face, it ends up not doing so: it runs through his short-cropped hair, instead. "It's fine," he says, quickly, not /smiling/, but certainly making an effort to look and sound more up-beat. "We're fine. He's Jaymin, really. But we called - I call him Jay. My mother cares for him. You've just the one sibling?" It's not as though N'rov leaps to conclusions, so much as saunter in their general direction. "Ah," he says, just as both men had done before. "Like 'journeyman,' almost. No, I have elder brothers and a younger, so no loss in that regard." Vhaeryth stands up on all four paws now, shaking himself off, the flourish of his wings causing a minor wind that the bronze's rider half-closes his eyes against. "A big family," concludes Dal, happier now that they're back on more solid (and less emotional) ground, though he still hasn't so much as cracked a smile. "Mm. Almost like that. Is - oh, he's gotten up." Yes, he's looking at Vhaeryth again, his words cautious but interested. "Not so big, for the area anyway." N'rov's standing up too, and stretching, before brushing bits of grass and such off his leathers. "He won't step on you, if that's what you're wondering, not unless you run into his way or anything." If the bronzerider has jokes about smushed holder being hard to get out from between the toes, he's sparing Dal them today, though the bronze himself swings his head in the only slightly younger man's direction with casual interest and a distinctly sapient gleam in his eyes. Though N'rov begins to head over, straps in tow, he glances back to ask, "How large do they run in your family?" "What? Oh - no, no, certainly not." Though Dal /does/ stand, keeping his attention affixed on the bronze, especially when /he/ looks at /him/. "Hello," he says, without glancing away, hastily brushing dirt off of his knees, and then the seat of his trousers, too. "They're quite large, aren't they? Bronze dragons. I know they wouldn't hurt anyone. Large?" The question is probably intended to answer N'rov's, though he's still not looking directly at the /rider/. "I have three siblings, is that what you meant?" Vhaeryth keeps looking, and looking, something about his presence deepening as though the colors in the meadow were more vibrant, the greens greener and the shadows deeper. "If that's typical," N'rov says. "/He's/ not small as bronzes go, but he's not bulky either, not the way he was as a hatchling. He just," and here the rider holds his hands nearly together only to draw them, slowly, apart, "stretched. Like perhaps your boy's done, if my recollections of my nephew are anything to go by." And then Vhaeryth looks away, and the world's the way it was, and N'rov's climbed up on an offered foreleg to start looping up the straps in a way that's smooth as to be automatic. Dal can't seem to bring himself to glance away, nor answer N'rov, even, right up until that moment Vhaeryth turns his gaze, and he can breathe again. "Exactly like that," he confirms, for all that he's shaking his head, but maybe that's just to get himself thinking straight again. "Kids. And baby dragons too, I suppose. Something they've in common. It was - nice to meet you, Sir. And him. Best of luck with your eggs." Several whispers of leather against hide later, a few snicks of metal buckles closing, and evidently they're set to go. But N'rov steps down first and walks over to Dal, making the two of a merely human height as he offers the clasp of his hand. "He appreciates it. Well met, Dal, and my best to your boy." Dal's hand is calloused, and his grip is firm; he gives N'rov a firm nod in answer. Then, "Thanks. And to you. Fort's Duties." Because that hasn't been said enough already! He steps back, then, all the better a position to be in to watch the bronze pair go. It's a long liquid leap that takes the pair skyward, Vhaeryth's wings expanding in a long reach that sends them higher and higher until the rider is invisible and then the dragon is, just as they meet the grey caul of the clouds. |
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