Logs:Not Proper
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| RL Date: 13 September, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, H'kon |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Arekoth exacts his revenge for past ledge-stealing by Hraedhyth. H'kon does not approve, and accidentally spooks Azaylia. Eep! |
| Where: Hraedhyth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 10, 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. Though this night is cool and clear, it's nearing a time when even the hardest workers begin to settle for the evening. Instead, Azaylia is huffing and puffing with relished effort and has been for a while now. Oiling a still growing queen is no small task. By the time she reaches the tip of Hraedhyth's tail, most of the lounging queen is near to drying. Dark smoke curls from the dragon's content flames, steady drums accompanied by the pleased growls which are carried by hearty exhales. "Mmm." Azaylia hums right back, beaming with pride as she wipes shiny hands on clothes that are meant to be worked in. Have been, since her lifemate hatched. "Does that mean you aren't going to go and bother anyone tonight?" Hraedhyth doesn't dignify the almost smug question with a response, lids at half mast. « Aren't we looking lovely, » carries a smugness to it as well, intonation largely vocal, a mindvoice rather lacking in images, as per usual. The greeting heralds Arekoth even before he extends his talons for the young queen's ledge and brakes his speed, backwinging hard. The brown touches his hooked snout to the outer edge of his wingsail, almost a preen, then folds those wings carefully on his back. There is much rustling. Steps up to Hraedyth are unapologetic, not rightly graceful, but certainly suited to him. And he plomps down right next to her, with only a strange sort of chirp to her rider. Tit for tat, for those visits to -his- weyr in the past. « Lovely. » Hraedhyth's contralto echoes, drums striking that one-two required for such a word. « You think highly of yourself. » See? He's the lovely one. She knows, because there are several words that have been used to describe her by many people, and that is not one of them. Azaylia is understandably startled by Arekoth's arrival, hand rising to her chest, paired with a sharp little 'squeak'. Only now does the gold lift her head, tense in watching the invader so boldly stake a claim next to her freshly oiled self. The tension ends only when her rider gives a soft laugh, "Are you having them delivered, now?" Hraedhyth gives a growl that sounds somewhat pleased by the idea, heavy head landing with an unapologetic 'thump' across the brown's shoulder. Oh no, what cruel revenge is this? No, please, have mercy. « I'm more the dashing one, wouldn't you say? » He shits his wings carefully, keeping them well out of the way, and himself ready to receive the gold's head. A churred noise answers Azaylia's joke, and he curls his tail slowly in about his talons, the tip flopping against his torqued front left ankle, force of habit that the brown himself probably doesn't notice. Hraedhyth doesn't say. She can't have possibly fallen asleep so quickly, so the silence can be seen as being deliberate. « You are brave. » She'll give him that much. « Or very foolish. » And lucky. Azaylia leaves the sizeable tub of oil where it is, walking around the great expanse caused by two dragons snuggling. "You don't look familiar." « Arekoth. » Drums carry an unnamed title, though she doesn't hide it from the brown: The Always Injured. It is not a handicap, it simply is. Why be delicate about it? "You don't expect me to oil you too?" Gentle voice prods at the brown, though her curious gaze has fallen to his tail and the ankle beneath it. Arekoth answers that title of his by pushing up on his front legs at the risk of jarring Hraedyth's chin. That bum ankle gets a whole lot of weight on it, talons spread and pressed into a supporting claw. The demonstration is for Azaylia, and his focus is held on her for a moment. « And you, my fearsome pet, look lovely. » The laughter isn't quite hidden at the end of the return, and he settles off the ankle, and closes his inner lids, stare off the young goldrider, once it's been spoken. « Oh, here he is, » comes with a flick of his tail against his own foot. Seeing as the brownrider who's just booted it up to the weyr's entrance hasn't figured out a way of introducing himself yet. There's that word again. Hraedhyth snatches it up, inspecting for any hidden insult or meaning other than what it is. Lovely. She rumbles in annoyance at having her head disturbed, turning it so that she's still able to rest most of her cheek against him. Arekoth has to lay back down some time. Azaylia utters soft apologies and reassurances, he really doesn't have to- oh well if he's alright with showing her... "Poor darling." She isn't as quick as to dismiss the clearly old injury, bent at the waist. It's unnecessary, as the brown is hardly a small calf, for all that she's cooing at him like one. Hraedhyth's jaws find his headknobs for a sharp nip. Stay still. "Hrae, be nice-" The junior straightens, hands still clasped in front of her as she turns to stare into the depths of their weyr. "Hello?" His display of strength having apparently failed to assuage any concern, Arekoth gives a resigned rumble, lower than his usual vocal intonations, and leaves the limb half-acessible for inspection. The nip is answered with a smack of hooked snout toward the gold's nearest limb, though his teeth stay sheathed in his closed mouth. Azaylia won't be able to see the firm press of lips, and disgruntled swallow, both of which occur in the lag between her call and H'kon's answer, a curt and grim, "Hello." The drums stop. It may be for only a second, but they do. « I will throw you off my ledge. » Low register is growled out through flames which warm her tone, keeping it playful. And yet, fire is fire. The threat is not an idle one. A broad shoulder gives the brown a forceful nudge, Hraedhyth just trying to get comfortable, surely. Azaylia is torn between supervising and playing the part of good hostess. "Are... ah..." Faltering, her steps bring her just a bit more inside the main part of her weyr. "If you're Arekoth's, we're all out here. If you'd like to join us." H'kon's tone isn't lost on her, and even as she's retreating back to the company of dragons, "I apologize, if we're keeping him?" Or maybe she's assumed wrong and he's just an unrelated visitor Hesitation is non-existant after the invite; it's with hard-hitting bootheels that H'kon marches through another rider's weyr, gaze sweeping only so much as is required to find what he's looking for. The ledge. The brown. "Please forgive the intrusion, I'm certain he'll be out of your way shortly," comes in tensed and impatient tone, for all the propriety of the words. Green eyes are blazing at that dragon of his, and he's barely looked to Azaylia. Arekoth just leans at Hraedyth. Hard, as if to see if he can manage to move her by consistent force. After such a long oiling, it's rather difficult to rile Hraedhyth up to her usual intensity. Difficult, but not impossible. The gold visibly shifts, tawny bulk sliding into Arekoth's hide in order to push him back. It could be that she's been properly exercised, a factor that may keep her from using full strength right away. Azaylia wipes her hands nervously on the edge of her splattered tunic, "What? No. I mean, he's not intruding..." Confusion worn openly, it's curbed only after she catches sight of the look H'kon's giving his dragon. "Arekoth has been nothing but a gentleman." She stresses weakly, perhaps a touch defensive. "Why, he was just commenting on how lovely Hraedhyth looks tonight." The dragon in question turns her head to stare with blandly whirling eyes: Et tu, Azaylia? H'kon's attention is drawn now over to Azaylia. Away from the brown who shifts a back leg to get better leverage, and pushes harder, all while twisting his head in an attempt at a fawning look. Eyes narrow slightly, and the whole lower part of his face manages to hardly move for expression or speech. There's a beat, and the slightest crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and then he gives a monotone, "I'm certain he has." Fingers flutter, taking their turn at touching the thumb, until he clamps either hand against his sides. "I'll see to it he does not invite himself too readily in future-" a moment, and he settles on the title of, "goldrider." Azaylia isn't sure how she feels about having the man's attention, but it certainly isn't relief. The unease keeps the gold's eyes on both of them now, even as she counters the brown's increasing pressure. "Oh?" Voice light, somewhat strained, she attempts to build on what few words he has uttered. "He does this, ah, often?" Fingers have twisted into each other, heels of her palms pressing into the tops of her thighs, clearly nervous. "Azaylia." A demure blurt, but there it is. The queen's muscles twitch with anxiety that is not her own, « I will throw Yours off my ledge. » The threat is carried in an audible rumble, gaze having migrated from her rider to H'kon. "Hraedhyth." A whispered scold tossed in her dragon's direction. « You say that, » Arekoth starts, turning that look from fawning to simple observation as he swings his head to point at his rider, « but he's quicker than he looks. » The returned introdcuction of, "H'kon," comes with a dip of his head, faintly apologetic for having forgotten introductions in the rush to clear Arekoth away. When he brings his head back up, it's to send a careful look to his own dragon. "Not regularly. Just," green eyes don't rest on Hraeydth, though she's certainly looked at in passing, "recently. As I said, I'll be certain he doesn't make a habit of it." That sounds like a challenge, and one worthy of rousing Hraedhyth to her feet. "Hraedhyth." Repeated, eyes glancing to gold then back to H'kon. Azaylia doesn't want to appear rude, but that is a lot of dragon that is now all too fixated on the brownrider. "H'kon." Less tense, she says his name deliberately, as if trying to commit it to memory. She likely is. "W-well, she doesn't mind. In fact, Hraedhyth was enjoying his company." Was. Now she's resting on her haunches and towering over them. Alert. "If I understand it, she's borrowed his wallow before this?" So do dragons of all colors suffer their young queen's affections. "It's only fair." She attempts a smile, a touch more successful than her weak laugh. "But perhaps not proper," is carefully weighted, and H'kon attempts to soften it with a wan smile. "We'll be on our way, then," is much firmer, though his eyes stray from Azaylia only at the very end. They hold Arekoth thereafter, until the brown gets up with a rustling of wings, and a toss of his head once he's standing between Hraedyth and his rider. With rank not fully clear, H'kon offers simply a dip of his head in place of a salute before stepping to his dragon's side. "Ah..?" It's all Azaylia can really manage at H'kon's curt argument. It's Hraedhyth who reminds her to close her mouth, though head remains tilted. "Not proper? They aren't... doing anything." Even the almost-not-a-weyrling knows that. « Strange. » That's strange, what he's doing there. Hraedhyth makes no move to evade Arekoth's strategic placement, instead craning stocky neck forward to thunk her crown against his. Less of a nuzzle, and more of a headbutt. "If you're sure..?" The junior takes a step back despite not at all being in H'kon's way as he approaches his dragon. "Good night, then." Even more bewildered than usual. Arekoth crouches, pushing a little extra weight forward, once again showing the stability of that funny-looking ankle of his. "Good night, goldrider," almost takes on a sense of relief, preceding the climb to Arekoth's neck as it does. « Good night, Hraedhyth, » is called far more jovially once Arekoth takes off. « See you soon. » |
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