Logs:Lukewarm Welcome
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 21 August, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, L'hai |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The new bronze transfer can only escape the young queen's scrutiny for so long. |
| Where: Hraedhyth's Ledge/Minds of Dragons, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 7, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
 |
| Hraedhyth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr Turns of inclement weather and use have smoothed out niches here and there for a current occupant and perhaps a companion, on this slightly downward impressed ledge. It's otherwise unremarkable: large, of course, and low to the ground, though not so low as to provide ground access from here. Being so low, the view is not especially spectacular, though it does make an excellent point from which to keep a steady eye on goings on in the bowl, from the living caverns entrance to the north, and as far as glimpses of glimmering blue on the horizon from the weyr lake. Azaylia is one soul who is very much relieved at how short the typical dragon's memory is. It has been several days past a seven since Ysavaeth's cry in the night, and Hraedhyth's sympathetic depression. Today, the young queen is nearly herself. The reason behind any lingering edge to her mood has less to do with the lost clutch, and more to do with a new addition to the weyr. To her weyr. The weyrling has done what she can to curb her dragon's territorial nature, and the fact that Cadejoth has allowed the new bronze entry certainly helps matters. "Don't you go making trouble." Azaylia's words are affectionate yet stern as she scrubs residual flesh off of a wherry skull. The tools she has come to use for such a chore are spread out in front of her as she sits on the ledge. Hraedhyth is curled around the woman protectively, head turned in order to oversee the work being done. Her low rumble earns a soft laugh, "I'm not saying don't introduce yourself. That would be just as rude." The goldrider can already feel her dragon's attention splitting, a darting scout to hunt down the unfamiliar bronze. A moment's hesitation, "He's an official transfer. He's just as much a Reachian as anyone else, now...." Hraedhyth will just see about that. A familiar presence returns, easy to identify as the low, rumbling pressure felt upon his arrival. Only this time, there's no chance of it retreating. The growl builds in intensity and volume, soon joined by the rhythmic pounding of Hraedhyth's drums. They are not for war, they are not in celebration, they simply are. No words, no need for them yet, the strike of bone club against taut skin carrying her messages across plains and his (still) foreign mindscape. What? Who? And most importantly, WHY? (Hraedhyth to Kolniveth) Drums drowned in the cacophony of that 'scape, that construction site, a clamber of clearer clarions, methodic hammering, and the buzzing and sawing that layers already over that duller presence of constant traffic below. Who could pick out a few drums? Evidently, there's multi-tasking, as the flashing red light of Hraedhyth's waiting message is eventually consulted in, not a raising of voices, but an outpour of smog and the smell of freshly worked wood chippings. « Use your words. » (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth) To Kolniveth, Hraedhyth is not so easily outdone. The drums pound louder now, harder, expensive walls only able to muffle so much when there is a persistent and inconsiderate neighbor. And they are neighbors now, are they not? What with his trespass into her lands, whether sanctioned by the Alpha or not. His command is taken to heart, perhaps too much so. With a faint golden push, she's right in his ear and bellowing with that low, husky register. Possibly female, making no attempt to highlight this fact, rich voice rising to a roar. « WHO ARE YOU. » The tail end of her demand might be lost to his 'scape, but echoes are plucked here and there: What? Why? Smog curls, as if blown; blasted by the golden voice, then resettled as his mental reach fans that affected ear. Jesus, was that really necessary. Drums, now that knock-knock-knocking on his door are folded into the productivity, doing nothing to slow its own tremor. Neighbor, meet building codes. Like the lick of freshly inked paper and the crisp rubber of a stamp: baby, read the news, it's his land now, too. Isn't progress great. « Kid, I hope you pay more attention elsewhere. It was all in the packet. » That prompt, crisp intro dropped on their individual doorsteps as soon as he appeared above the Reaches watch. (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth) Yes. Yes it was necessary. How else will he learn? Hraedhyth's temper has yet to truly flair despite his perceived insolence, far too intrigued by the noise. It's no secret, no need to hide her sightseeing in a 'scape so unlike her own primitive, tribal thoughts. It's LOUD, pleasantly so. Building codes are for those who give in to such urban laws, unopened paper tossed carelessly into the fire she's brought with her. Diplomatic immunity. A low snarl is carried through the busy, noisy air of his alien tones, « Istan. » Spat out of the crackling flames. « You think yourself strong enough. » Wild cackling beneath the thrum of progress, with a subtle curiosity below even that. (Hraedhyth to Kolniveth) « Yeah... no. » Not Istan, actually; but as it's the third strike, he tosses the words out and moves on. Longer spent in the well lived-in, crowded din carries with it a fade from foreground to a usual thrum; it's all willing to incorporate drums - snarls, etc, etc - providing they prove of use. Fire is a fair warning to building, lapping at the fresh carvings. Yet Kolniveth stays unalarmed; beneath his veneer of smog and smoky scents, is a blithe familiarity. He lights a cigar off the crackle. A brisk turn of phrase, slick as patronizing, but not condescending enough to be. « Well, I'm here. So. Sure. Let's say I am and call it a day. » (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth) To Kolniveth, Hraedhyth has yet to master the art of the subtle threat. Or, subtle anything, really. Her ominous pressure increases as she keeps her guard up with this not-foreigner. There's the very real fact that, while her fire is fine to remain in an unfamiliar hearth, there is an eager flicker to the untamed flames. So much to burn. So much to bring to rubble should she feel the need, the want. Thankfully, there is nothing truly malicious to the gold's boisterous interrogation. A snort for his words, possibly not quite understanding them. Not that she would ever admit it. He has yet to answer her other question, « Why. » Sheer efficiency in Kolniveth's mind challenges the conception of a fire that could so reduce. But it's not an open challenge; just a sensation, threaded in with so many others, and an underground rumble: the hint that things run deeper than merely street level - and higher, too. Sights for miles. Much more to see of the bronze's workings than what he's allowed the gold to tour, though that, itself, seems constant and crowded; how could it possibly expand. « Cause we decided to. » Not patient, but a strain more indulgent. « It was time to trade up. » (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth) To Kolniveth, Hraedhyth will not admit to discomfort, but unfamiliarity within his mindscape has her defensive. His words, his unspoken challenge is snatched up and inspected, torn apart for any secret meanings. Any unsavory intentions. Lies. Growls of frustration last only as long as her search, too busy, too crowded to be terribly successful with delving deep into the drone of industry. Resurfacing, she shakes herself off and huddles close to her flames, partially disgusted. Nice enough to visit, but how could any live in such an environment? « You were not banished? » Forgive the surprise in her tone. Or, don't. Either way. « You have chosen wisely. » Smug growl puffs sooty, naturally black smoke at him, so unlike his smog and yet not. Lies make unnecessary complications; muck up the works; they're just a nuisance. Kolniveth runs a clean fucking shop, amidst the trampling of feet, deposits of food, and puffs of exhaust. That light smacking of lips is secondary to the reigniting of the rich cigar, just a few decisive victory exhales to close the deal; her tone is of no consequence, and neither indulged. Like the noise, her smoke integrates into the cityscape, promptly repurposed and then huffed back to her in a conclusive cloud: the product of some machine; the butt-end. Duh. Kid. (Kolniveth to Hraedhyth) His strange ways remain as such to the young queen, and she feels no great need to understand the bronze at his core. No lies. That's something which bridges between both plains, from tribal to urban. Hraedhyth's annoyance is palpable, drums mingling with a growl for no reason other than he is clever. This much is shared. She knows another clever bronze that is not of her lands, unlike Kolniveth and his strange ways of speaking. « You will be watched. » Yet he is welcome at the very least. There will be a trial, a quest, an act in which he can prove his manhood, prove that he truly is a member of her tribe. For now, he will be left to his devices. (Hraedhyth to Kolniveth) |
Comments
K'del (K'del) left a comment on Wed, 22 Aug 2012 01:00:10 GMT.
<3 Hraedhyth
Leave A Comment