Logs:Oh, Iolene.
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| RL Date: 6 September, 2011 |
| Who: Kh'ry, Iolene |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iolene realizes what she's done and kind of scares Kh'ry along the way. Then they sleep (platonically) together in the same bed with nothing bad happening. /Really/! In the mean time, Ysavaeth shows Temrianth just how she copes with Io's chaotic mind. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 9, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Riorde/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions |
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| It's just before dinner when Iolene and Ysavaeth resurface, though where you can hide a growing baby dragon is another story. Io? She's still covered in mud and some oil with bruises just starting to turn faintly purple on her bare arms. Oh, just another day of being a weyrling. Ysavaeth, on the other hand, looks /pristine/, so wherever they ended up, the dragon at least got a bath and oiled up. So trudge, trudge, they pad into the barracks, but instead of their own little spot in the room, they plop into the first clear one they come across that's empty with the weariness of someone three times their age. That it happens to be Temrianth and Kh'ry's is just coincidence, truly. "Y'know, I'm pretty sure this has been my couch for s'long as I can remember," Kh'ry points out, his sulk turning sarcasm for a mild moment. Temrianth bounces - so much as a dragonet of his bulk *can* bounce (it's kind of scary!) - from one side to the other, checking out how the so-shiny Ysavaeth fits into *his* little hollow. Interest -- and questions doubtless -- brim at the edges of his speedily-whirling eyes, and only a hand scrabbling at bare hide has him restrained from trying to slip past the goldlet to get to the /back/ of his couch. Kh'ry seems to only then figure out what he's looking at, and squint at Iolene with wary caution: "Hey, are you okay?" Beat. "Where've you /been/?" Temrianth and Kh'ry, by the by? Both absolutely filthy. Without even looking up, Iolene says, "Want to trade?" There's a tired note in her voice, a vocal slump that manifests physically with her shoulders curling over so she might lean against that oil-slick golden hide. Ysavaeth preens visibly in the ripples of her hide as she settles all too comfortably into Temrianth's couch. She enjoys the attention. She /thrives/ on it, but it wouldn't do to be /too/ obvious now, would it? So while her muddied rider is exhausted, Ysa is coy, a look thrown over her blanketed wings as one of her bronze siblings, the cute one, tries to maneuver himself to the back. « Do you mind sharing for a bit? » It's a strange role reversal with the dragon having to pause for a rider's tiredness, and one Ysa intends to milk every last moment out of. "I punched a rider. I punched- I /punched/ a dragonrider." Horror, but mostly pride, but some horror, exhales in that statement. "Do you think they're gonna exile me, Khorde? Do you?" Big eyes, sad and uncertain climb slowly up the feet before her to seek out Kh'ry's face. Ohholyfu...dgesicles. "You did *what*?!" Khorde's voice may squeak there, at that last, staring down at Iolene with a surprise so shockingly obvious that it's almost physically tangible as heat radiating from his body. Temrianth seems less inclined to worry about if Iolene and her lifemate are going to be locked away forever, instead squeezing himself past Ysavaeth -- weight watchers, woman! -- to curl at the back of his couch, somewhat possessively, even if he's totally playing second-fiddle to her grand-master center stage. « By all means, » the merry frolic of wind-beaten water foams spindrift tops and dances among the wild currents of his perpetual storm, gravid and dynamic in surrealist reality. « Ysavaeth, » the tsunami of his mindscape starts churning, churning, thoughts as well as water: « Why is yours turning different colors? » The bruising, see: Kh'ry isn't a skin-type to bruise terribly easy. "I punched that /bitch/." In the last word is a sudden shot of energy, Iolene finding some hateful little spot in her usually very goodiegoodie insides and hurls it at Taikrin, wherever she might be. "She said I didn't know Riorde as well as /she did/ just cause /she's/ slept with her. Well, it's not like if we slept together we'd know each other any better than we did before, right?" Did Kh'ry know Riorde's now a lesbian? Or bisexual? No? Well, there we go! But rant said, she's all tired again and two impulsive arms stretch out to hug at Kh'ry's knees. "Don't let them send me away, ok? I don't want to go away, not yet. Ysavaeth can't survive outside of the Weyr. Yet. Please? Pleaseplease? Please? Please?" Maybe the more pleases she tacks on the less inclined Khorde will be to turn he in for... delinquent behavior. « She's growing, » is Ysavaeth's sage, serene response. « That's what happens when people grow apparently. » That's likely the excuse Iolene gave to her quizzical dragon. « I can move over a little bit if you'd like? It is, » she allows magnanimously, after scooting over a half inch in gesture, « Your couch after all. » "Wh--" Iolene has now scarred Kh'ry's *soul* by spitting that word with such venom. His lost faith in humanity is easily seen in his sudden alarm-confusion-wtfery, which turns out about as well as a souffle baking in the middle of a rock concert: that is to say, quite deflated. "Wait. I-- wa-- Io." Why is she hugging his knees? Why did she hit a rider? Why is Ysavaeth so shiny? WHY IS THE SKY FALLING?! "I'm not letting them send you /anywhere/," comes a statement perhaps more vehement than Kh'ry initally imagined it to be, fueled by the alarm he's very obviously feeling. "They wouldn't," uncertainty in dark eyes; "Not-- no. They /couldn't/." Why does an inkling of doubt seem to worm through his tone? Temrianth seems less inclined to believe that it's the end of the world. It's not 2012 yet, duh. « If that's true, why haven't we hit one another? Or why hasn't Kh'ry hit someone? Is that why Sa'zl is so big? I bet he's hit LOTS of things! » He's so damnably enthusiastic. The world is about to end. Iolene swearing and being mean and hateful and /meaning/ it to boot. "I'm glad. I don't think they would either, but..." Misery clouds Io's thin face and she looks up at Khorde hopefully -- hoping, perhaps a little desperately, that he might understand. "I don't have anyone to talk to about it. Ysavaeth tells me I'll learn in time and that Tiriana's an idiot. Do you think- do you think that our Impressions were flukes? That we shouldn't have been there? I mean, do you think it's possible this is all wrong?" Except, Ysavaeth is there, as is Temrianth, and Ysa, at least, doesn't believe there's anything wrong in the slightest. Not with her. Not with Io. Not with her and Io and certainly not with Temrianth cozying in by her side. « I bet that's what happen. He got hit a lot, and he got purple all over and then just /grew/. » Tall tale? « I'm glad we don't have to hit each other to grow. » She'll lift her draped wings so the bronze might share in his own couch all the better. « She's quite exciteable. You should probably let your rider know not to listen to /everything/ she says. » See? Ysa? She shares with him this little brick wall she builds when Iolene's tendency towards teenage emo-ness gets to be too much. That's how she copes. Well, this ain't exactly going to work the way that it's going right now - so Kh'ry slumps down to the rushes next to Iolene, still looking a little dazed and confused. He doesn't even have time to sulk! It really *is* the end of the world. "I dunno about calling the weyrwoman an idiot," he dubiously states, with all the subliminal fear a relatively young boy has for the penultimate local example of a fertile matriarch backing said statement. "I don't think we could've been flukes. I mean --" His gaze darts back to Temrianth almost unconsciously. "I think I would have dropped dead. If I hadn't been there." Because WHO KNOWS, really? "Temrianth says we have to be here for some kinda reason, and it's our job to figure out what that reason is." Belated, almost hesitant: "Erm... Io?" Plaintive. "/Who/ did you hit, again?" The ambiguous feminine pronoun only limited it to half the population, given that Kh'ry isn't observant enough to link the Riorde commentary with Taikrin. The less-dumbass of this particular lifemate pairing seems somewhat pleased, and therefore absentminded, due to his lifemate's conversation; Temri's mental storm seems to lessen, at least, to a dull winter gale. « I'm going to have to do research, I do believe, on exactly what causes the people to grow. » He's without guile, and doesn't seem to expect it in Ysavaeth, so he shares hidespace with her easily enough, stretching his bulk out next to her with a cozy sigh of a dragon at-one-with-his-proverbial-pack. « Kh'ry knows not to listen to *everything*. » A ripple of self-consciousness rings forth with that, an uneasy color of purpled grey, shifting over water and wind alike to taint the rocky shores a dull plum. "Huh?" It only occurs to Iolene now that Khorde is asking questions that her life? It might not be an open book for just about everyone and somehow, this knowledge that there are some things in her life not on full display for the Weyr at large, brings her peace, enough for her to sink into the cot a little more and lean the opposite way to muddify Kh'ry's pillows. "Taikrin. The brownrider Riorde's been seeing." Kissing, seeing, sexing, same difference. "She made me mad. So I punched her and then she grabbed me and then I kicked her. And then we fell into the mud and... then I punched her again. Then Ysavaeth got fed up with it all and made me leave. I could've beat her up good. I know I could have. Better than I ever beat up Xoami." Ysavaeth is agreeable to this and does share, « Iolene told me this. » And from the sudden dubious note, particularly in light of her warning to her brother, it's clear that she's not so certain of this information. « You'll share with me if you find out otherwise? I am now curious. » "Oh." That explains things, as evidenced by the dawning understanding on Kh'ry's face: one can almost hear the *click* as the piece falls exactly into place in his brain. And then further dawning realization-- Riorde, /really/? Classically clueless. "I don't think you're supposed to go around hitting people that make you angry, Io." Dubious, again. Does he start to inch away from her, a little, a bit of paranoia showing about the expression upon his face? Why yes, he does, and yes, it is. "I don't think the elders would be very happy with that kinda--" he hesitates, looking for a word, seeking one out; "--behavior." Edge away. Edge away. « I don't see how we'll ever find out the truth, if /you/ don't even know, » Temrianth with a rare moment of practicality. « Maybe the healers need to look at her. Kh'ry thinks they would be able to tell if she shows signs of aggressive or defensive injuries. » He plucks that wholesale from his lifemate's brain, as evidenced by the sudden absolute flattening of his own mindscape, the sudden stillness of a bright, sunny day with nary a cloud in the sky. It's entirely unnerving, or maybe just a little creepy. Is that insight into Kh'ry's mind? Ysavaeth's initial peek is tentative and then grows exponentially in its curiosity as she notices the bright sunny day. She drinks in the absolute stillness and then radiates her own brand of sunshine into Temrianth's mind; it's a warm, blinding sunlight that bounces off all the stillness and just /takes over/. « He has a beautiful mind. » Trust Ysavaeth not to be creeped out by the creepy. In kind, she shares what life she has ahead of her: a jumble of words that float in an empty space of worried blues, numbers colliding with each other and a lot of question marks. Iolene's mind is a messy jumble of constant thinking, churning, crunching, dizzying. « She'll be fine. » In this, Ysa trusts. She'd know otherwise. "I know. I don't usually. I know, but... so many people are telling me what I should and shouldn't do. And how I should be this and do that. And how I don't belong here and Ysavaeth isn't really mine and..." Her words halt as if her throat's closed up. "It's ... frustrating. Khorde?" That last is suddenly quiet, the wind taken out of her verbal diarrhea again. "Will you sleep with me?" Oh, hey, shiny. As soon as Temrianth focuses on something which isn't the crystalline calm of his lifemate's mind, the storms are back and in force: the singular chaotic nature of his very being seems quite happy to disintegrate that pretty, creepy, take-over sunshine into individual sundrops of liquid gold, should she not immediately withdraw; his curiosity about that sensation seems to only further fuel his water-sotted winds. « I don't know about /beautiful/, » he borrows a moment of dubiosity from his lifemate. Iolene's mind seems to upgrade his mental force to a cat-five, though, winds whipping about in sudden, fierce alarm, as if threatened by all those damned question marks. Kh'ry /was/ going to say something entirely not-helpful-but-meant-well, after his definite, "They're stormin' idiots if they think they're about to take Ysavaeth *away* from you," -- but it seems to die a sudden, short-lived death at that last question. Something must be strangulating him, given the fact that he's not saying anything, appearing to breath, AND a sudden hot flush invades from his collar upwards. Was that a whimper? No, a whimper requires a breath, right? He's still holding his. Plaintive, as if expecting Khorde to just run off and hide or run away. Or be mean. Or laugh in her face. "Please? I don't.. I don't want to sleep alone tonight and I can't face Riorde when she comes back." See, Khorde will protect her cause Riorde would /never/ NEVER suspect she'd be sleeping in Khorde's bed with him. "I promise to be really still. Rilka used to always curl up in my arms late at night and we wouldn't move at all." She won't bother him /at all/. Ysavaeth doesn't recoil at the sudden change in temperature, nor does the sudden climb of winds howling through her sibling's head faze her. Instead, with the sun's golden heat radiating from her mind, though lacking in light itself, she traipses onward into the storm of Temrianth's mind, buffeting her mind against any onslaughts with those golden brick walls she's gotten so good at building. WHOOSH: all the air goes out of him and Kh'ry sags, a clear look of relief plastered picture-perfect over his features for all to see. What? What? She said something? Oh. "Oh, Iolene, I don't care. If you want." Since that was so not the connotation he originally took it as, right? Hormonal boys. Dumb testosterone. A brief flash of that familiar friend of his, paranoia-- "If you don't kick me." That's the WORST, right? "And you take a bath." Like he's one to talk, with his muddy self still drying. Temrianth seems oblivious to his rider's near-brush-of-mental-death, instead sending little gusts of mini-tornados up against those golden brick walls as if absolutely fascinated. How can something be so /solid/? He's so easily amused. "I promise. I don't kick." If she ever did, years of sleeping with Rilka probably cured her of that. Iolene is too tired to take a bath _just yet_ so she'll just lie here and curl up with Khorde's muddy pillow companionably until later -- later when she wants to deal with the whole bathing bit. Ysavaeth takes her cues from Io and curls a possessive tail about Temrianth. Hers. He's part of her pack like all the other dragons paired to exiles, and since it amuses him so, those brick walls steadily climb, then dissolve in a snap of soap bubbles that glisten, all rainbow like in Ysavaeth's head before reforming brick by brick. Even though he put limitations on it, Kh'ry isn't likely to actually make any show of trying to enforce said regulations. Instead, he's kicking off his boots to crawl on the other side of her and flop down, evidently upon the realization that she's already made laundry day come earlier for him than normal. So be it. His own exhaustion has him leaving Temrianth dirtier than usual -- a horrible crime, perhaps, except Temrianth really doesn't seem to care. The bronze is easily-enough entranced by his golden sister for the time being, without a terrible amount of questions. That in itself should show how long of a day it's been, truly. Sometime within the near future, his mini-tornados will die down to fluting whimsy of hardly a stiff breeze, and then return into the unconscious chaos of his seamonster mindscape as sleep claims his brassy-copper bulk. Kh'ry can even be coaxed, on some guilty mental level, to fling an arm over Iolene in a protective kind of way, should the Big Bad Riorde come stomping up to his couch, since obviously his scrawny arm is an adequate defense against the rage of such. In the end, exhaustion proves the best comfort: Kh'ry's snoring softly away not long after his lifemate defaults to slumber. Life, as they say, goes on. |
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