Logs:Lessons On Between
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| RL Date: 9 October, 2014 |
| Who: V'ros, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Standard weyrling lessons on between. |
| Where: Southern, Tillek, and Nerat |
| When: Day 9, Month 12, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm. Snowy. Warm again. |
| Mentions: J'vain/Mentions, Harlie/Mentions |
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| Southern Beach
One weyrling sneezing is enough, two would be a travesty. It's lucky that V'ros is hale and hearty - though brooding and pale. "Too many places." Oh, she was asking for specifics? Well. Sulky weyrling will be sulky when he responds: "Benden. Southern Boll." He remains in his riding jacket, despite the warmer temperatures of the southern continent, and seems content to.. sweat. His face lacks the red flush of someone truly out of sorts, so he must be doing alright, all the same. "Where do.. you.. want to go, ma'am?" is asked, with a frown fixed in place. "Weyr or Hold?" Telavi inquires brightly; maybe she really wants to know, or maybe she's stalling-- but then, does she really need an excuse for the latter? J'vain idly scratches his chin with his remaining hand, quite possibly hiding a smile; the sick weyrling doesn't sneeze this time, but the phlegmy cough really isn't much better. "I want to," Telavi had started to add, but now she swivels to point at the unlucky lad. "You. You're going home." He'll probably like it better that way himself, and of the two weyrlings she'd been teaching, the girl tries a trial cough of her own until Tela gives her a quelling look. Squirmy glances are passes between the two weyrlingmasters. Is this a trick question? Will there be a quiz later? "Uh.. Hold. Both." V'ros jerks back as Telavi swivels and points, dispelling one of their - lucky - ranks to go home. He watches her with unbridled anxiety, as he usually does, but without the usual fire of Zmeyth that burns in the background. Just V'ros. Just pale and anxious. Fear and self-loathing all rolled up into one less-than-thick-skinned brownrider. His eyes fall to the girl feigning a cough, and there's a spark; perhaps he's wondering why he didn't think of it first. Telavi isn't exactly short of looks, nor is the girl, whose narrow-eyed expression threatens to call him out if he starts copying her-- never mind that she copied the other kid first. "Mmhmm," Tela says. After scrutinizing poor V'ros a moment or two, she turns her attention to J'vain, and various expressive looks-if-not-looks pass between them. The paranoid might think they're discussing the weyrlings sitting with them. The paranoid might not be wrong. Finally, the bluerider grunts and levers up to stand. "All right, time to clean up, you. Remember what happened when the bread-wrap got forgotten the other time." By... well, he's kind enough to not name names. Paranoid weyrlings start sending each other meaningful gestures and looks while the weyrlingmasters are having at it themselves. Something akin to: "what the hell", "what do we do?", "I don't know, you say something", "no, you!" and so on. They could go all day, but then, there's the call to clean up their lunch and anything is better than more between practice. Forgetting that they all wanted to have their freedom as soon as possible. Mention of the read wrap earns a cringe or two. But Vros, he's shaking his head, brushing off his pants and standing up with his unhappy expression still in place. Might as well get it over with, eh? "Ma'am," he offers a hand up to Telavi, politely; maybe he'll earn from brownie points and she won't laugh when he pukes. Do Tela's blue-green eyes linger briefly on Vros' hand? They do, but perhaps encouraging politeness counts for more than possible crumbs, for Tela accepts the offer even if she doesn't particularly use his hand all that much when she rises. "Thank you," she even says, and efficiently gets her own things taken care of. Once they part ways with J'vain and the weyrlings she'd been herding before, and once they've made it to High Reaches long enough to see the lucky weyrling off to where he can stop getting them sick... « Where would you like to go, » Solith wonders while they're still airborne in the cold, cold air of their Weyr. « That we have already been? Show me the picture and we can all go! » Which is to say, instead of having the image shown to them for an easy jump, V'ros-- or Zmeyth-- has to come up with it on his own. Where his weyrling is unsure and awkward, Zmeyth is a solid, confident presence. He shuffles through the deck of images he has roiling around in his - and V'ros' - head. « Tillek, » with its verdant hills and shipyards, or « Weaver » complete with a fabric dye yard seen from high above. It's unknown whether V'ros had any say in the picks, more doubtful than anything else. Of all the places between north and south, it's a motley assortment the brown's chosen. « Pick one, » Solith says, a flicker of evanescent flame about the edges of her breeze that is distinctly not the green alone. Choices! Smoke riddled darkness - humorless and rough, « Tillek. » Solith glances backward-- can't she just show him and go? but no; « Show us, » not 'me,' « what it would look like now. » Grass is not good enough. Perhaps green isn't. A flash of temper and frustration, a muddling of the images. « Whatever you want. » Zmeyth is brusque, reworking his image to include the preferred blanket of snow, the icy treetops and pale landscape far below their vantage point. Solith jitters; she doesn't like that, but flame singes her into relative stillness; she hovers. « That is it, almost, » she says with some relief, reaches to adjust the sun's angle-- if only it were as easy to do the real thing!-- and disappears. Zmeyth's arrogance doesn't allow for failure, and Solith's tampering with his sunlight annoys him further. Everything is just fine. « Almost, » rich, rolling, irritated, « isn't the same. » Just before she disappears and he, follows suit, much to V'ros' everylasting horror. Nothing about betweening and flying - to a lesser degree - has gotten less painful for him; invigorating, it isn't. « We've made it without becoming a rock. » To Solith. « You should be proud. » Solith's started to circle around the young brown's path. « You would never become a rock, » she assures Zmeyth now, quite possibly missing the point entirely; it's even possible that she has just that much confidence in him. Telavi, though... well, if she rolls her eyes, the smoky goggles conceal it. With that, the circle becomes an incline as Solith beats her wings more strongly, soon to disappear into the thick cloud cover. « No, » Zmeyth agrees characteristically, puffing out his metaphorical chest as they fly over Tillek's snowy landscape. He falters with the green's new trick, but catches on, with an upward climb of his own that is not nearly as swift. « Snow, » the brown points out, even from their cloud-obscured vantage point, « do you like it? » His rider.. well, he's just focusing on staying in his straps. « There's so much of it, » and Solith's mental sigh, not so far off Telavi's this time, may be audible even should she get so much headway as to disappear within those clouds; will he stay within them, or fly higher still? « I have had enough. It is cold. Do you want more? » Here's hoping V'ros made decent-quality straps, since Telavi doesn't see fit to inspect them anymore. Dark brown wings cut the cloud banks, but without much fanfare, he does take to flying above rather than within the clouds. Always the easier, more reliable route. Even if he does lose Solith in the white barrier. « I don't care. But it makes everything harder to see. » His voice carries the rumblings of frustration, the usual roil of hazy smoke. « I like to see. » He doesn't; she's up there already, coasting in what passes for sunlight even if the air's thinner now. « Do you see through his eyes, much? » Solith wonders, in no particular hurry but starting to rise higher as though from that white and wispy sea. « Even when he's not trying to show you something, do you just... look out through him? It is too bad their eyes aren't better, » like theirs, dragons'. Zmeyth follows the green at much more leisurely pace. « Yes. » His answer is plain, but he starts sifting through images and throwing them at Solith in no certain order. Quinlys and V'ros in her office. A bandaged arm. The overwhelming sense of frustration through a black void. And lastly, hands, pushing a blonde. Does she remember? Does Telavi remember what Zmeyth did? He doesn't sound remorseful. « It's for his own good. » Good being subjective, good being what the brown thinks it is. There are so many blondes. Solith reacts less to any sort of memory than the association of pushing her blonde, a gust of mind-wind pushing it away from her as, physically, she breaks off at a sharp angle. Whatever she might have shared before that sending, or for that matter the frustration that came before it... « Look to your own, » she says. Not everyone else. « Think of a different place to go. » Away. « I always do. » Arrogance. Solith's command swipes away the brown's thoughts of blondes and anger, and in its stead, Zmeyth chooses someplace as innocuous as Nerat Hold. Blue skies, blue waters, and lush green coastline. He doesn't say the words, but the sentiment is there. Away enough? Solith is not herself an arrogant dragon, and yet, « It will do. » She disappears and leaves him to follow. The skies are calmer there, and perhaps so will they be... but if not, there's that much more distance flight to be had. |
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