Logs:Networking
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| RL Date: 23 April, 2016 |
| Who: Aidavanth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Vhaeryth's visiting and gets to know the newest occupant of a too-familiar ledge. |
| Where: Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 8, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ellerey/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Jaine/Mentions, Lys/Mentions, Mirinda/Mentions |
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| He makes the most of the sun, does Vhaeryth, when he spirals down into High Reaches' airspace proper: from the thin heights with the Weyr but a small broken bubble within the mountain range, all the way past the watch dragon (though there's an inkling of a greeting to Niahvth too) and down, down, the caldera growing about him and those long wings always oriented to the sun. Down past the upper ledges. Over, along, the lake. Down, and down, past a ledge that is Aidavanth's now but wasn't always, as though he might land despite her sunning presence... and then low and lower and just past, not landing after all, not there. Not there, but there's a breath of too-aware acknowledgement that isn't words. She isn't unaware of visitors - of this particular visitor, Aidavanth, while shifting to adjust where the sun hits the space between burnished wings and shoulders. Certainly, there's a moment of surprise when it seems he might - but no, he doesn't land, he passes by, and that too-aware breath is met with a pleasant warmth, a polite not-quite question floating along with her hello as slowly spinning eyes follow Vhaeryth's progress. So polite. It gains, mirrored back to her with a hint of wry amusement, a not-quite-worded hello back as he skims past those lowest ledges for a landing space outside the Snowasis. Not close, nothing that won't mean his rider won't have to walk a few Vhaeryth-lengths towards the bar, his fine-gauge cap tucked into a jacket pocket and his arms stretched boyishly to sun and freedom. Off comes the jacket, then, tucked over his elbow; off he walks; Vhaeryth, too, stretches those dark copper-etched wings. In that stretch, words at last for her warmth: « Yes? » Their warmth has, also, humor. So polite, indeed. « If it's Jocelyn your rider seeks, I can tell her to head that way. » Why else, to her knowledge, would he make to land at her proverbial doorstep and then not? Aidavanth, satisfied with her basking, stretches more fully before sitting up, folding her wings neatly. There's a keenness to her awareness, and although it's more curious than sharp, certainly no less intent. « Or is there something I can help you with? » There's perceptible consideration for the young queen's offer, that humor heightened as he gives it its full weight; Vhaeryth hides none of that from her, though he hasn't yet answered when she continues. « Possibly, » the dragon says then, speculatively, stretching anew on his hindpaws with his wings swept back. The eye tilted her way is blue, all too blue as it whirls. « What are you good at? » What is her sphere of influence? It comes with, a breath later, « Aidavanth. » He's Vhaeryth, by the by. His humor, her amusement; while they meet, Aidavanth studies what she can sense of him, not unlike the way her rider might regard his were they in the same room. « Words. What are you good at? » There's a thoughtfulness that twines about the syllables of his name; certainly, he has her attention now if he didn't before. « Vhaeryth. » « A whole lotta things, » drawled like a quote, Vhaeryth sprawled out for her study (but there are those layers upon layers, glass upon etched glass). What he decides to share with her has to do with connections, the network of his dragons' minds and more, a long moment of movement. He knows them, moves within them, and they know him in return. « Oh? » Polite, that one word inquiry, but Aidavanth takes in the size of that network with silverfish-quick agility. For a moment, there's a glimpse of her own connections; she is connected to those who look to her, too, in ripples and warmth and sound. « So we have something in common. » « Something, » the Fortian agrees, and if obscure wistfulness laps in one ripple and out two more, in its passing he's still quicksilver to her silverfish-quick. « I could come up with something for you to help me with, » Vhaeryth remarks, his rider by now lounging on the patio, talking, making himself once more at home. « Would you like that? Do you, » that humor gleams as he shares it, « not have enough to do? » There's the world, displayed before her as from the heights he'd betweened into, High Reaches a wrinkle at one corner. That wistfulness is observed before it floats on past, on a ripple that isn't at all like salt-crusted tides. It's contained, much like Aidavanth's own humor as she conveys the sense of a smile, a sweep of hazel briefly embracing that image of the world. There's a brief diversion of her consciousness, some internal conference ending with an answer that sort-of isn't: « I'm pleased to be of assistance to High Reaches' visitors. » « Mmm. » This time, when he stretches, Vhaeryth takes wing: towards her ledge, purposefully, but at the end upending gravity to the heights of the Spindles, there to roost. « What assistance do you generally give, Aidavanth? » Beat. « Directions? » Orange-gold wings unfurl before she pushes up into an easy glide moments after he passes her ledge again, letting the currents she knows so well carry her up in gradual circles to soar near the tops of the spindles without stopping, effortlessly starting a circuit about the caldera. « Do you need directions, Vhaeryth? To places other than my ledge, perhaps? » Far below, Aidavanth's rider strides across the western half of the bowl, deep in conversation with Jaine as they head toward the weyrleader complex. There's a glance up to her dragon's empty ledge, then higher still that ends in a shrug before the two women resume their exchange. Does he? For now, Vhaeryth wraps himself dramatically about the tallest spindle's tip, wings flagrantly silhouetted from the perspective of the bowl if not those who might fly above. « Perhaps, » the bronze allows. « This one's not bad, » is palpably good, in effortless contrast to his words, « but do you have better? » It's possible that Aidavanth does. Vhaeryth does not rule it out. « Looks comfortable, » says Aidavanth dryly as she continues her circle, curved nose tipping down so she can peer toward the lake as she passes over the eastern half of the bowl. « The water and the lakeshore might feel nicer if the breezes there and the smell of damp soil appeals. » It's more suggestion than anything else, but her eyes spin a pleasant blue-green-blue as her path brings her back toward the Fortian bronze, the sense that she certainly enjoys those things floating by. « It is, » assures her all too agreeable guest, though Vhaeryth also shares the sensation of the way the top is just pointy enough to poke into his chin when he rests it there that way. Which doesn't stop him. Neither does her approach, his nostrils flaring as he tastes the breeze here and the smell of talons-sliced lichen and stone. « What do you like when you visit my Weyr? » His Weyr, and with it, a whiff of his possibly even more dramatic (can it be?) Zaisavyth. That particular spindle point pokes even more uncomfortably into Aidavanth's chin, so it isn't one that she frequents. No, the lake is preferable on that count, too. « It doesn't feel completely dissimilar to home, » she answers at some length regarding Fort, « although the places that do are certainly interesting. Your lake also looks comfortable and refreshing. » And perhaps some time, she'll get to discover how much it is. That tangle of concepts, which includes Zaisavyth, garners a considering almost-touch, a shift as of late afternoon sunlight. « We enjoyed meeting Zaisavyth and her Mirinda. » That's a statement that requires no efforts to be diplomatic; it's genuine, matter-of-fact. Layered, too, but no less authentic for it. « There's the waterfall, » Vhaeryth agrees to her 'refreshing,' complete to its splash and plash; this Weyr hasn't that. But then the glimpse of Fort's is underlaid by Ista's vaster tumult, just for a moment. Just before the latter's gone. The bronze leans, curving his neck to facilitate the idle scratch of his jaw against the stone, less pointy than pleasurable. She likes his queen, or the meeting of her; for all that Vhaeryth likes layers, that authenticity's clearly appreciated. It warms his decision to continue: « We have trees, also. » Flocks of them. « But they're far too small. » Too close. The smallest dragons might roam among them, but such as he, and she? Not so much. « Waterfalls, » Aidavanth likewise concurs, as pleased with the glimpse of Fort's as the vaster ones available in Ista while she continues on another lap. « Not too small for my sisters, » she says of those trees; Evyth and Virisceth would surely make it through those copses more easily than either of them. « But they're not too small to get a good view from the air, are they? » For that, he layers other waterfalls, other Weyrs' but better, the wilder ones: taller, stronger, splashier in their thunder. But, bemused, « Not if you like viewing trees. » Does she? There are so many of them, Vhaeryth knows, some with branches that hang and weep, others that reach, still others who keep their leaves even in the not-now of cold; there are ranges and ranges upon ranges of these. « Not if you, » dare, « fly close. » Tall, strong, thundering; these waterfalls, too, appeal. « I do like them. » Trees. « Do you have favorites? » Aidavanth takes in those varying types of branches and structures with interest, alighting at a free space on the rim not far from where he clings to his spindle. « We both have mountains, » she muses almost absently, « but do you have many of these? » What are 'these?' Llamas. And after a moment, tinged with amusement: an after-llama, or a sweater knitted with a traditional High Reaches pattern. Where he surmounts the stone. There's a difference! Not so much, however, that Vhaeryth doesn't consider this not-unfamiliar concept of favorites as less-familiarly applied to trees; « At times, » he allows, though llamas might pique a different sort of interest; « Those that do not splinter when I rub up where I choose; or those that tangle their limbs just so, » there's a N'rov, climbing into a tree, laughing, « but not those that shed upon my ledge. » The peril of those ledges who lie low. « And you? When you are not eating your, » sweaters, « tasty llamas. » Vhaeryth sees them; he, as a good predator should, knows them for food. Although his humorous image of her, next, has tufts of that patterned wool between her teeth. Aidavanth doesn't have a similar image of Jocelyn to offer, not when it comes to climbing trees. But there's a moment she can offer in its place of the redhead walking in the snow looking content - from a vantage point below the goldrider. « Nicer than rubbing against stone, » she acknowledges, and silently admits to enjoying the smell of those llamas even if there are more appropriate choices for nourishment while they're producing wool. There, a ripple of amusement for the image of her with patterned wool stuck between her teeth. « Sometimes, » she confides, « I wonder what it's like to try to catch the sun. » Not that one can, of course, but - to try? That must be fun. And surely flying as high as one can, as far as one can - that, too, must be fun. A concept for later exploration, perhaps, as she soon launches from her perch again to soar down toward her ledge. « I enjoy flying, getting different points of view. It's helpful. » And relaxing. The smell. Vhaeryth breathes in an intrigued breath; if he ever goes huffing a poor ruminant, Aidavanth will surely get the credit (or the blame) right before he eats it. Not that he inquires just now, nor of the snow-walker seen from, or on the, down low; « Try, » he encourages instead. With more of that amusement, « When you aren't landing. » For whatever reasons she must have. Vhaeryth himself will continue to spindle-dwell, though he might try another as a change of pace, until he or his rider is moved to go. |
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