Logs:Only Red
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| RL Date: 2 June, 2013 |
| Who: N'hax, Sark |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: N'hax receives an unexpected visitor bearing a more-expected missive, and deals with the fact that all actions have repercussions. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, HRW |
| When: Day 12, Month 12, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: 100% chance of rain. |
| Mentions: C'wlin/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, Raum/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Leova/Mentions |
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| N'hax laid in his old bed, on his old couch, fingers laced behind his head and fully-clothed. C'wlin was still asleep two-down, soft snores the only sound to infiltrate the gloom of the cavern. Grey eyes studied the ceiling above, fresh morning's-mind more than vaguely disbelieving the events of yesterday. His mind is grey and drab, playing events as a bad track, over and over, an infomercial from which he couldn't change the channel. His knuckles, bloody. C'wlin's face, stern and bitter-mouthed, his natural hauteur a mantle. The scent of piss and blood and unwashed man, the reek of despair. Guardsmen with hands on swords, the cool look of Lord Devaki -- so very cool. The biting familiarity of Raum's face. Quinlys' white-hot rage. Leova. Fingers around his throat. Poor-man's N'thei. The worst is that he'd done it willingly -- that he'd still do it willingly. The plan had been good. They'd taken precautions. Sully was a Harper, with a face like C'wlin's but different. They had plausible deniability. And then they got caught. The grey fog doesn't rise from his mind, from his inner sight. He couldn't stop turning it over and over in his mind, until Jhorinth's clang and hiss interrupted with the precision-bite of a fresh-minted sword. « Stop. » So much smoke to clear away, even bellows cannot reach the innermost part of N'hax's mind: grey and silver and cold, damp humidity that goes to the bone, to the heart, to the soul. Grey. Only grey, and darkness, and shadows. » Why? It isn't as though it's not atrocious. Do you think things could get any worse? « Famous last words. -- Sark's seamed face brought him through without question, the Telgari colors and official seal stamped on the letter he brought marking him as just another runner from a Hall -- if aged. Such was his lot in life, or so it would seem. The man was old, and once stepped into the cool darkness of the 'barracks, the chill went to his bones, but it wasn't that to cause a shudder through wiry shoulders. So much promise, with sorrow thought, given up for a moment's foolishness. He knew it was more than a moment's foolishness. It was a lifetime's foolishness, but he knew more than anyone that his grandson would see it. His eyes rested upon his grandson's form for only a moment -- it took him not any time to resolve which one was his, after all. "Xhaeon." His greeting is made heavy by the weight of turns in his voice: the lines on his face seem so much deeper than before. N'hax starts, rising from his sprawl with alacrity. Relief spreads over his features -- for a moment, until he notices the unfamiliar colors and official parchment-in-hand. "Sark," he replies, tone half-uncertain, half-questioning. Too many lies makes one question the truth of reality. "Son, I don't know what you thought you were going to accomplish up there, but you're an idiot." For the harsh content of words, his voice isn't unkind; Sark glances over his shoulder before shaking his head. "I can't stay long. I just came to bring you this. I thought you deserved it from someone you knew." Someone with the same blood, though he doesn't state it in as many words. Grey eyes shift down to the hide-in-hand, and behind a rider's tan N'hax's face goes bloodless. "I see," said with great difficulty. He rises - he's taller than his grandfather by a full head, his lineage as Xheldred's son unchallenged by similarity with the towering Starcrafter. "Thank you." He reaches out a hand, expectant. "If you need help, you know where to find it." There's warning in that tone - but even then, it softens. "Son, I know how these things work. This isn't the end of the world. Keep your head down, do your time, cross your t's and dot your i's. Do what you need to do, and don't go looking for it. Let time soften them up. They'll come around when it isn't fresh, when their name isn't at stake for being associated." For all that the letter is obvious, N'hax visibly flinches at the unasked-for advice; his adam's apple wobbles, but he takes the hide while composing himself, face struggling to come back into grips. He stares down at his hands and then back up, and - perhaps unexpectedly - his face goes hard, lips a firm line. "I'm not sure that I can do that, sir." Even. Eyes narrow. "What would High Reaches want from Tillek?" There's steps coming in, and Sark doesn't straighten from his slouch. "Well then, if you need to send a reply, you know the trick of it." Voice is a Telgar sprawl, for all it was a crisp Benden tenor only a moment prior. "Good luck. You're going to need it." He turns and walks away, slope-shouldered and innocuous, just another messenger of Telgar Smithhall. The kitchen-worker is only here to drop them breakfast, her eyes down-set and wide; but she can't help but glance up furtively at N'hax as she leaves his with him. what she sees on his face is enough to make her flee. --- Breakfast didn't taste right. Why would it? Hopes and dreams shatter as glass shards agaisnt stone, crystalline fragments of aspirations sharp enough to bloody any who try to collect the pieces or make something whole. N'hax isn't whole, now, but neither is he broken, a strange commingling of both. There is white, now, a color of alarm, fire-hot and burning the fog, burning the grey, casting unwanted light to all the shadows of his soul. An ending lies in his hands, seated on the edge of the bed; the toast in his mouth tastes like ashes and dust. « You were/will be a Smith, » states Jhorinth, satisfied well with the outlook of things: N'hax is no longer the past-and-present, but past-and-future. Time warps as it will, bifrost wandering. "No, Jhorinth, I'm not." The words ring acidic aloud, strangely ringing in the quiet space. "This proves that." White light threatens to turn to white-hot rage: the type that defies understanding, that threatens the very sanctity of sanity, of humanity. --- The words were so ineffably polite, written with the obvious intent of being read by more than one hand, and an underlying one: they were the courtesy that one gives to a guest, not to one of hearth-and-home. A belated decision, finally come up to Smith council, and wasn't it a shame that Smith couldn't extend an offer of continuing relationship with the bronzerider N'hax? No mention of Xhaeon or his accomplishments, only uniform regret that the situation would resolve in a parting. A rejection, plain and simple, with courteous barbs about the strenous activity of riding and how riding may change a person. --- Jhorinth tries again, saltquench and heavy water, a different element to slide along his selfsame stone -- but there is no reaching N'hax, who now openly burns with fire and grief and loss. There is no reaching N'hax. He sees only loss and a pointless future, scorching his lifemate with such self-hatred that the dragon cannot help but recoil from the dangerous tummult of emotion, quench and forge and bellows shuttering at the onslaught of crimson: blood and fire. There is no reaching N'hax. He sees only red. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Only Red"Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 02 Jun 2013 19:01:48 GMT.
Guess that answers my questions... in a depressing sorta way.
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 02 Jun 2013 21:26:29 GMT.
*grimaces* Oh man, N'hax. D: Poor Jhorinth..! > Is like... exceptionally painful in this vignette in the best way. And sometimes, dragons just can't soothe what hurts their riders. I really like how clearly N'hax's pain and anger came through. Even if his actions caused this, I can't help but feel really bad. Poor guy.
Zian (Zian (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 04 Jun 2013 21:26:59 GMT.
Oh no D:
Ceawlin (Ceawlin (talk)) left a comment on Wed, 05 Jun 2013 01:31:43 GMT.
I know I told you this in person, but this was seriously GOOD. Our poor guys... but SO MUCH FUN.
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