Logs:It's A Start
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| RL Date: 18 July, 2012 |
| Who: Brieli, Hattie |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iesaryth seeks out Elaruth for her leave to visit Fort, and perhaps some diplomacy? Whose idea would that be? |
| Where: Minds of Dragons |
| When: Day 9, Month 4, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions |
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| There might be the roar first; the constant crash of ocean's waves that's oddly soothing, despite the destruction they can wreak. Then comes the tide, creeping, tentative and foamy, seeking the water she's heard of that's like hers but different in some way. Iesaryth's skies are hazy, but not so much that sunlight can't sparkle off the waves as she douses for Elaruth's water, following her nose, trying to be polite, but so curious about Fort's senior queen. Perhaps borrowing from her rider's manners, tenor uncertain, « Ma'am? » (Iesaryth to Elaruth) Perhaps the motion that unsettles shallow water is literal; perhaps Elaruth gives the tiniest shake of her head to try and filter out what she must of that roar to make it manageable. Stillness soon falls over the marshes once more, even the tall reeds motionless, until a cool breeze rushes towards the tide and brings a curl of mist and the glimmer of dawn's light with it. She must know the name. She must have been told. And yet, only a murmured, « Yes? » (Elaruth to Iesaryth) The sound grows more far-off as Iesaryth notices the slight disturbance; a quiet whisper in the background, back and forth. But the salt air will drift over the marshes in return, bringing brine and bird and wet, burnt wood, as mist floats out, dawn's light illuminates the blue waters. Easier now that there's a response, fascinated with how breezes move the reeds, once motionless; « I have seen your home. » She'll show Elaruth, even: a recent image of the Fortian bowl, all sunny springtime. « I would visit, when I can. I would have your leave. » It's a little way off, but it's a good excuse, perhaps. (Iesaryth to Elaruth) « My home. » Is that a hint of weight given to that possessive pronoun? « Why? » Louder and it might be a demand, but Elaruth's voice remains on the cusp of whisper to murmur, mist sinking lower and gathering closer to the rippled surface of slow-moving water, protective. « Yours are only ever here to chase and claim. They have never asked. Why would you? » (Elaruth to Iesaryth) « Your home. » Who else's home could it be? As long as there has been an Iesaryth, Fort has been Elaruth's; granted, there has not been an Iesaryth for long, but... The ocean's rhythm remains the same, never changing or ending, constant and calming. The younger gold's thoughts move quickly beneath the waves, darting fish. To understand chase and claim, there's thoughts she has to steal; they drip with derision. Why? « Brieli says it's polite. I think it's polite. » Not to say anything against any others - on that subject, she remains tactfully silent. (Iesaryth to Elaruth) « And Hattie says that yours are not to be trusted. » The tang of salt turns shallow marshes brackish, shadows creeping and cracking their way up the stems of reeds. « They will bring you here when they teach about other places. Will that not be enough? » One brittle stem begins to crack. « Yours have broken their word. That is not polite. That is not pleasant. » But. « You are not the exile's daughter? » (Elaruth to Iesaryth) Perhaps a little taken aback by hostility, Iesaryth nonetheless seems prepared for it, for all it darkens sea skies to metal grey. Sadly, « Because we are all from one place. Everyone is so... » She trails off, maybe aware she's about to go on pointlessly, though the shadows creeping and cracking so warrant her interest. The idea of 'enough' is bypassed in favor of; « No. I do not understand this deceit. But I will share this: Brieli has no love for the Weyrleader, but still believes he did not know. » There's the weight of truth to that, and more, more she's trying to sort out, but she cannot offer those things. And. « I am Leiventh and Zaisavyth's. » (Iesaryth to Elaruth) The gentle nudge that ripples out from the focal point of a collapsed reed is almost motherly, though it lacks any hint of an apology. « Things are as they are. » Whether Elaruth is comfortable with them or not; whether or not she believes what she is bade to repeat. « She pities him. » Her Hattie. « He seems so earnest in his falsehoods. » Thoughts of riders are pushed away, sunk low beneath the mist. They are, after all, what have made things so complicated. « And why do you wish to visit? » Not a challenge, mere curiosity, the light of distant stars dancing over water. (Elaruth to Iesaryth) To Elaruth, Iesaryth agrees with that: « It is what it is. » What can water do but flow? The little gold may actually believe that; her ocean's waves may be constant, but it's a constant remaking, different every moment. The Iesaryth you step in is not the Iesaryth you stand in. « She tries not to. She doesn't like feeling bad for him. » There's the sense of it dampening the heat of anger, but that passes as thoughts sink beneath Elaruth's mist. Curiosity, she can understand. « Vhaeryth has visited me. I feel I should return the favor. And... I want to go. Somewhere. » She's full of longing to fly longer, further - do the same as the others. More than the others, even. « And then? » Elaruth's quiet water may be more leisurely in its pace, yet it always journeys to exactly where it means to go. In the meantime, she has her nest in the reeds, her flock, her family to protect along the way. « Once you have been here, where will you go? » An innocent enquiry on the surface, encouragement even: where is next on the list? What would she see? What would she do? And it's always good to know where travellers passing through will go, once they have noted the nest. (Elaruth to Iesaryth) Always interested, Iesaryth pays attention all this; Elaruth's nest, what she gathers around her. And for that, she will show the Fortian queen a place she may have been - green jungle, bright flowers and birds, close heat. The memories are all borrowed, some fuzzier than others: Monaco. « I would see my clutchmates. It has been some time. My sire and dam. » She does not seem overly sad to be missing them, but there's something missing there, being apart; an odd echo. « Do you travel often? Or do you stay close to your home? » (Iesaryth to Elaruth) To Iesaryth, Elaruth might bask in that heat, though she restrains herself and instead shares a lick of the Reaches' remembered chill in silent contrast, her question wordless too. Is she comfortable? Hatched at one, growing in another. « They will not have forgotten you, » breezes over the ocean, confident - perhaps needless - reassurance. « There is much to be done. Perhaps we travelled more often once. ...Perhaps it was all easier then. » Literally and not so literally, a dull recollection of pain with the reason too hazy to capture, then a heavy weight on one shoulder, though surely that must be metaphorical. There is the sense of cold in winter - but enjoyment of snow, of dive-bombing drifts of the stuff into other dragons, perhaps one molten bronze. But. The relief of the rain, despite the mud - relief doubled by her rider's. And grateful, « Thank you. » Iesaryth does not worry overmuch, but there is some worry in every child, gone so long. She'll be so big, when she can finally go. The pain is rounded gingerly; she is sorry for it - though she'll try on that weight for a moment or two. « She tells me that she will have much to do, at some point. That I will need to find things to do without her. » Elaruth's words and weight seem to confirm that for her. « I hope that things will be easier again, sometime. » (Iesaryth to Elaruth) Another wordless nudge, though just as gentle as the first, ripples out for hopes expressed, this time laced with a hint of the affection Elaruth usually has so readily to hand. « You could fly, » she suggests, drawing together a collection of her glittering, distant stars to become the figure of a rose-hued queen sent circling through the pale mist. « Isyath, » her daughter, « often does. And races are fun. Though sometimes, » sometimes, « your Brieli will need your help with all she must do. » (Elaruth to Iesaryth) Those ripples circle out into the tide, now only darkened by the stars pulled together above. The image Elaruth shows her tweaks something in Iesaryth's mind; a letter, more memories she can pluck out of her rider's head, so quick, « I remember now. Isyath flies; sometimes you will play with the little ones, if there is time. » She'll take the night sky and shift it to the spires; put a antiqued, sunburst gold in the sky (much smaller than her daughter, for now). Smugly, « I can already help. She says I am smart. » But pleasure dissolves as the tide feels a pull; reluctant: « It is time for drills. Thank you for your time, Elaruth. » A pause. « I hope we can talk again. » And maybe no total High Reaches hate? No? Well, it's a start. (Iesaryth to Elaruth) « I am sure she is right. » In saying that Iesaryth is smart, Elaruth's words not the least bit patronising; no sense of her merely humouring the younger queen. « Work hard, Iesaryth. You are welcome, » is woven through the mist that finally begins to lift and dissipate, tendrils drifting into the amber and gold washed sky. Maybe there's a double meaning to that last statement, not so difficult to find. Iesaryth is welcome; welcome to come and investigate the nest, but the others? Well, it's indeed a start. (Elaruth to Iesaryth) |
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