Lythronath's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
This ledge must have been damaged somehow, many turns ago, for there are definite signs of rebuilding across the ledge - not to mention deep pock-marks in the stone that must, surely, have been made by something harder than draconic talons. Long and wide, it's well sized, with plenty of room for a bronze and some company, with a pretty enough view out over the bowl, and a decent amount of afternoon sun. The entrance into the inner Weyr has been partially bricked up, suggesting that it must, once upon a time, have been much wider: as it is, there's still room for a bronze to reach the stone couch indoors, and the brickwork renovations have allowed for a better angling of the passage, keeping the weyr inside protected from the elements. Jagged stones sit on either side of the entrance, looking rather as though they were once part of the walls.
All it takes is a casual glance skyward for Weyrwoman Azaylia to notice the once-empty ledge has been claimed. Whatever upset it may have caused was cast away in an instant, and rightfully so. Hraedhyth, however, was not so quick to forgive now that she had been reminded of her mate. That spark of annoyance had planted the seed, but it's the faint flicker of hope for Z'ian to return that has the queen lurching skyward. She lands on Tsanth's ledge with a heavy thump and a low growl, intent on finding the trespasser and chasing him off. Should the scavanger be missing, than Hraedhyth takes it upon herself to reclaim the stone landing with a high head and half-flared wings.
But the ledge isn't empty, not anymore. Hraedhyth's growl is answered the instant she lands on the now-bloodstained ledge, low and menacing, accented by harsh scrapings of his talons against the stone. It's orange eyes, it's white teeth, it's bronze Lythronath emerging, up on his hind legs as soon as he's clear of his couch's shelter, wings spreading, tail thrashing, and that growl growing into a roar. « MINE. » Who dares.
Oh how the neighbors will talk. Hraedhyth snorts in just enough air to throw out her own draconic bellow, oversized jaws bared and dripping. Lythronath is no longer the tenacious pup from yesterday, but a thief. The tawny queen squares her shoulders and lifts her head higher, burnt orange gaze pointed up at the balanced bronze. Though that inferno is not unleashed on the younger dragon it is certainly there, fueling the queen to act on behalf of not quite forgotten salt and sand. Hraedhyth dares.
The sand Lythronath knows is that he's drenched with blood; the salt he remembers comes from panicked prey. It's that ferocity that goes into the next roar, louder, longer, with teeth glinting again. The bronze swivels his head, scratches his hind legs against the stone again, balance almost compromised - but not yet. « MINE, » repeated and he takes a step forward, roars a third time, head swivelling in the opposite direction, within striking distance of the queen, and surely stopped only by some deeply instinctual understanding of her place. This intruder is gold. Gold intruder.
The queen stands her ground. Not because of the color of her hide, but because she is Hraedhyth. That same instinct drives her to step forward on all fours, muzzle twitching with the effort of keeping her teeth bared for so long. Now the warm, nurturing sand is overshadowed by her heat, the talkative, salty grains ignored for her pointed silence. No longer defending her mate's territory, Hraedhyth takes it upon herself to solidify her rank in the eyes of this young upstart. She doesn't swing her pale head, but inches it closer to Lythronath's, until he either backs up or their brows are pressed together-- eye contact maintained throughout.
Would he, could he, in the sky, at the lake, in the bowl? But this is Lythronath's ledge. « Lythronath. » Whose jagged eyeridges press right against the gold's, his balanced stance forcing much of his weight onto her when he puts up his resistence, supported through thickly muscled neck. Wings flap. Eyes glow. « Mine. » Claws brace against the ruddy stone.
It's when contact is made that Hraedhyth's mental heat washes over Lythronath, a contained power that is a warning as much as it is her very essence. Her drums continue their ominous thunder as the queen probes and finds what he so readily offers: Lythronath. Mine. Nostrils flare as she snorts her contention, bone bleached 'ridges and bullish neck supporting his weight. The standoff has potential, and it will be an embarrassingly long time before the faint scent of floral incense permeates the gold's dark smoke. Oh. Rather than a full retreat, Hraedhyth ups the ante with a flash of The Weyr within her flames. The ledge may be « Yours. » but the Weyr is « Mine. »
Even under that heat, Lythronath's mind is the feel of drawn muscle, the orange he sees in Hraedhyth's eyes and reflects in his own, the smell of the queen's hide, and eventually, that incense, and then, dried blood. « Blood. » That marks off his couch, his ledge, from the rest; she might have seen it so set apart on her approach. But on the mental link, it's just that. The smell of dried blood, the one word that brings it to the forefront. The physical pressure of his lean.
Blood. Though she's fed there's a rush of primal hunger to be met with the scent, another offering that Hraedhyth snatches from the bronze. The pressure doesn't increase on her end, a steady wall of flame and drums, both of which are beginning to settle. « Blood. » Another huff, and she gives his head a sudden nudge backward before easing back herself. Her dark wings drape lazily across her back as Hraedhyth lowers onto her belly with a stubborn whump. While it may be Lythronath's ledge, and she recognizes that now, ownership has never stopped the gold from dropping by uninvited. That dried blood is taken and smoked over her open flame, an invitation of comfort as there's enough room on his ledge for both of them. Whether he accepts or not, she's not ready to leave just yet.
Lythronath's wings flap for balance with that nudge, not quite ready to let his front legs drop until he is sure of the change in Hraedhyth's posture. He may have his own ledge now, but the barracks are a close enough memory to know that not all dragons do what they seem about to. But with the queen's easing comes his own - not yet relaxed, not with this new creature on his ledge, but no longer aggressive. He takes a careful step, scars that ledge once more, this time with a front talon, and then settles to his haunches. « Smoke, » comes a bit after all that.
Hreadhyth doesn't watch him, instead taking the time to stretch muscles that were so tense only moments earlier. A mighty yawn ends with a snap of those stained jaws, several resting outside of her muzzle, even when it's closed. With her eyes a refreshed blue, she gazes down at the bowl before answering with her husky contralto, « Warm. » When her head finally swings over, it does so with a lazy arc, huffing at him in a playful manner. Clearly he's forgotten how to walk like a dragon instead of like a peoples.
The bronze still lags behind Hraedhyth. He doesn't yawn. He doesn't stretch. But he does, eventually, sink down to his belly, after a toss of his head to the gold. At long last, a long, meat-scented sigh. « Big ledge. » Which is probably as close to direct permission as she'll get to stay in his territory. For the time being.
For all of their posturing and (literally) butting heads, Hraedhyth doesn't have too much trouble finding A'rist's location through Lythronath. It's ultimately for Azaylia, who has since finished her meeting and is navigating through the lower caverns. Having her own private bath gives her little reason to venture into the public one, which may be why the fully clothed Weyrwoman is met with mild surprise. Carrying her slippers by two fingers, her greetings are casual as she makes her way into the steam with little sign that she's going to remove her sundress. Instead, "A'rist? Oh no, you're not-- do you know which one he's in?" Though gentle, there is a sense of urgency in her tone.
The bronze weyrling is identified by a point of a finger, and (once the weyrwoman has moved on) some sort of a crude comment regarding just how quickly the boy's hands are moving. A'rist is in one of the middle pools, eyes open but unfocused, face set in a peculiar expression, as hands scrub (we hope) at high velocity. He's been impressed long enough to know when Lythronath's gone head to head with someone. Finishing up has become a greater priority than it was even when he began.
The owner of that finger is given her thanks, and Azaylia picks her way toward the middle pool-- trying to avoid the cooled puddles that offer an uncomfortable jolt. It's unlikely that she caught wind of that crude comment, but as she approaches A'rist from behind she begins to slow. She stands there with a curiously cocked head, considers her options, and decides to find the nearest seat and wait for the weyrling to finish his daily (hourly) ritual. Quite merciful of the Weyrwoman, if not for the fact that she's obviously waiting on him, polite smile and easy gaze settled on A'rist. By the time he turns around, she'll be sitting cross-legged on the bench, elbows on knees with hands supporting her jaw.
His legs are moving. That's got to mean he's scrubbing and not... right? And then when he's done that he cups water in his hands and scoops it to his face, and over his hair (which he scratches into unintentional half-spikes). And then, finally, the bronzerider is done, turning around, grabbing the edge of the pool, heaving himself halfway out of the water and right into the face of - cross-legged, watching, weyrwoman. And A'rist goes from up on the edge of the pool to back down until his feet are touching its bottom, his face becoming a study of horizontal lines. Uh.
Certainly there is no judgement in the soft curl of Azaylia's lips, not even a hint of curiosity to be found in her half-focused gaze. It's no wonder that A'rist takes her by surprise when he tries to leave, the goldrider snapping out of her thoughts and sitting up with a sudden squeak. A soft laugh for her own surprise, "A'rist. Hello." And yet all too quickly, her cheer shifts into embarrassment, "O-oh, right. I came because... Ah. I'm sorry if..." As if there is any doubt, "I'm sorry that Hraedhyth upset Lythronath. I didn't realize she'd take it so badly, and I was in a meeting and didn't catch her... ah." Catching her excuses, the Weyrwoman gives a little shake of her head, "Again, I'm sorry."
A'rist is naked. In front of the weyrwoman. This is his primary focus, and those words will take a while to sink in. After a bit of flat-faced staring: "Oh." Blink. "It..." Flat and red face, now. "Lythronath gets like that pretty much every day." Redder. "It's fine, weyrwoman." As he tries to stand up a little taller, if not to exit again. Not with Azaylia right there. In time, there's a change in expression, a quick study of the woman before him, and then some attempt at maturity. "I'm glad he didn't do anything foolish."
The staring does not bode well, but at least Azaylia doesn't wilt beneath A'rist's harsh, flat features. If there's anger to come she certainly seems prepared to face it, all of her focus settled on the weyrling in front of her. It seems she's prepared for his excuses as well, the Weyrwoman sitting straighter and lifting a finger, "Still, she was wrong to upset him. It's your ledge, now." The small smile could be for A'rist's attempt, "Hraedhyth wouldn't have let him. He's a good boy, just a little..." Polite words fail her. Instead, "Are you sure you're not upset about it?" There's a faint pinch to her brow as she probes further, "I hope you're not just saying it's okay because of my knot?"
"Lythronath?" A'rist attempts to supply the missing word, the smile it brings to him a bit wry. "I mean it honestly, weyrwoman." And he nods formally, and squares his shoulders back, only semi-consciously. "It doesn't really get me upset when he gets upset," comes with a slight renewal of that blush. "It... it didn't work, really. When I'd get that way. Before. It's hard to understand," he decides at last.
A'rist's explanation is met with a sudden hum, the Weyrwoman's interest quite genuine. Her smile takes on an almost playful twist, "If only I could manage that with Hraedhyth. We feel too strongly." But High Reaches has yet to burn down. "Whatever works for you," Azaylia decides with a gentle nod, beginning to relax once more. A whispery huff is the only hint that she's had an epiphany, quickly followed by a cheerful, "I'd bet you'd like to get out of the bath now. Hm?" She'll wait for his response, just in case she's mistaken, before collecting her shoes and getting out of his way.
"Oh, it's not that he doesn't feel- it's just that it's a different kind of-" The weyrling closes his mouth, and nods. "We're finding our way, weyrwoman." And with that same formality comes a solemn nod of his head. Yes, A'rist would like to get out of the bath now, please. "I appreciate you finding me, though." He can't quite stop a glance down at himself. Naked, in the baths. In front of the weyrwoman. Right.
"I meant it more as we feel..." But just as he does, Azaylia stops trying to explain the bond she shares with her own difficult dragon. She stands up and out of his way, but doesn't look as though she'll be averting her eyes. This is a public bath, after all. "You seem to be handling weyrlinghood better than we did." It's offered cheerfully, despite past difficulties. Still oblivious to A'rist's discomfort, "I try to catch everyone, at first." The key word is try, "But now you've got fair warning." And she does have a Weyr to manage, let alone Hraedhyth's antics.
Maybe later, A'rist will reflect on how, had the weyrwoman simply been walking by as he was exiting, it'd be no problem. As is, for the time being, there's an element of forced discipline etched onto his features as he gets up out of the pool. "I don't know. Lythronath broke a lot of furniture in the barracks." He probably has it carefully controlled that he doesn't make a quick dash for a towel, but rather, walks to get it. Even under Azaylia's possible attention. "It's still sort of... anyway, at least he's not trying to eat anyone," the bronzerider sums up, that scar on his leg in plain view even with towel around his waist. "He got wound up with Hraedhyth, but he's been worse." Shrug.
Oh, Azaylia knows this game well and she's all too eager to play. Who has the most deranged dragon? "Hreadhyth desperately wanted to maul our Weyrlingmaster for cutting my hair." Those deceptively long locks that are doing their best to fight the steam of the baths. Time has made the words playful and light, though they ring true. The Weyrwoman will likely catch the scar on his leg, as well as other features, with all earning the same casual interest as she begins to follow him. "I-- oh. This was supposed to be a short visit. I hope you don't mind if I apologize and run?" She asks, smile bright and head tilted some.
A'rist must have clothes somewhere; that's probably where he's heading. It's much easier to turn a look onto the weyrwoman now, though. "He came near-" It starts as story swapping, a casual tone and everything, but ends promptly enough, as the boy remembers his position, and his hers, and... all the rest. "Of course, weyrwoman." And whatever impulse it is that has him firing off a salute is equally to blame for feeling all sorts of awkward once it's accomplished. So he'll just look at his toes afterwards. Maybe till she's gone.
"Please, call me Azaylia." It'll have to do as a farewell, as the Weyrwoman is already turning and dodging cold puddles. Now it's the tall woman's turn to look awkward, hopping about with her shoes in one hand, occassionally greeting a familiar (naked) face on her way out.
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