Logs:People Like You
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| RL Date: 20 September, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, Rh'mis |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dragons are bathed. Words are said. But it might not really count as 'talking.' |
| Where: Hot Springs, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 11, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Chilly, with scattered hot springs. |
| Mentions: H'vier/Mentions |
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| It's a cool, damp autumn afternoon, and while the water in the springs is as comfortably warm as ever, the coolness of the air has sent most people further afield for dragon washing. That, of course, makes it an ideal time for Rhey to retreat here, to scrub his dragon with the bare minimum of attention the duty requires; it's a good thing Rosvelth is not the kind to mourn the dragon-rider relationship that might have been. Stripped down to old trousers, his bare chest goose-bumped now that he's out of the water itself, Rhey perches upon the brown's forelimb, scrubbing idly. It's quiet; they're quiet. Lythronath is never quite. Even when he is. Even when the approach is that of a hunter, stalking, even when there's nothing but a mental push to announce his presence, it's a Presence. It's the smell of blood and guts and gore, it's the warmth of muscles still coursing with ichor, of a full belly, of victory. It's all there when Lythronath comes in, straight in, no pausing between dry land and the hot spring, entering the water almost gracefully, taking up however much room he needs, Rosvelth or no. A'rist isn't far behind. A'rist is quiet, but differently so. He raises his head faintly, gives Rh'mis that sort of a nod. A wave washes over Rosvelth, dampening those bits of wing and hide resting above (what was) the waterline; it covers Rhey, too, who splutters, and gives A'rist a Rhey-like look, which means it's less venomous and rather more akin to an eye-roll. They must have known the other pair was coming, though, given... well, Lythronath. Rosvelth, re-mantling his wings carefully, is curious; « Was it an excellent hunt, Lythronath? A glorious one? Did you defeat the wily wherry, the hunted herdbeast? » His rider is characteristically silent. « Blood, » as ever, says it all. Lythronath is pleased. Lythronath flexes his submerged talons, and a little bit of flesh floats up from one paw. Lythronath bites the surface next, and some gut-filling floats away in the warm water. A'rist... has grown immune to the Rhey-look, perhaps, or simply isn't in the mood. His expression hardens, just a little, and he sets to stripping. Quickly, in that chilly air. Soon, the bronze's rider is in the water. « Blood, » agrees Rosvelth, contentedly. « Blood, blood, blood. I do enjoy the way it tastes. And feels. Feasting is important. » It doesn't bother him, that his brother is so much less voluble; that's clearly not the point, not now. Anyway; now is for bathing, and this is also an excellent thing. "I'm surprised you're not off drinking with the wing." Rhey's voice is scratchy, as though it hasn't been used in a while; he sounds uncertain, too. "Or fucking. Or fighting." « Blood, » concurs Lythronath. He could talk about this all day. Monosyllabically. The bronze slowly bobs back and forth, side to side, washing the waters up over his hide, and, by force of physics, toward Rosvelth as well, and Rh'mis. And A'rist. Who gives a harsh look toward Rh'mis, but holds the words associated with it back. Instead, when he turns his focus to his dragon, speaking out the corner of his mouth, with his head barely aimed in Rhey's direction, "Today was about Lythronath. We need... structured days." It's an afterthought, grudging, when he adds, "I don't fuck lots. Or fight." Rosvelth, bemused by his rider's sudden conversation, breaks off from his existing tete-a-tete (such as it is) to consider the teen with slowly whirling eyes. « Interesting, » he says, making a general comment audible to both Rhey and Lythronath. Apparently, however, Rhey is done; he grunts, rather than answers, and ducks his head back to his dragon, and to the scrubbing that is abruptly more interesting-- and requires (allegedly) rather more of his attention. Rh'mis' brown is not the only one who finds that interesting. A'rist, after rubbing a clean patch into Lythronath's shoulder (and ruddying up the waters around the bronze's limb), sends a slow look back to his clutchmate. His wingmate. "He had to eat, after that. We worked hard. We weren't following you or anything." And then he's edging on around the front of his dragon's chest. Again, Rhey grunts. He keeps his gaze firmly - squarely - planted elsewhere, on a Rosvelth who is possibly unnerved by the attention. "Whatever," he says, with that characteristic teenage... whateverness. "I don't care. You can do whatever you fucking like, A'rist. Honestly. I don't give a flying fuck what you or anyone else does." « Temper, » says Rosvelth, with a sigh, only it's very nearly a contented sigh. "Well good thing you keep talking about it then," comes back, a bit sharp, but not really a flare of temper. Not with the temper that A'rist has, or has access to. Lythronath is still thinking about blood. It's flavouring his thoughts as he waits through, perhaps even enjoys, the bath. It's shared with Rosvelth, not so much an answer as a vague awareness that the brown had said something. "Whatever," says Rhey, for the second time, accompanied by a huff of disgruntlement, and a roll of his eyes. Blood is more interesting than temper; Rosvelth lets it run over him, like the water does, all warm and thick and sticky, and so very delicious. « Mmm, » he says, cheerfully. « Exactly so. » The look A'rist levels on the brownrider is a bit too much at a loss for it to be a glare. Lythronath ducks down, and swishes his tail, and bites at the water, and lets it run through his teeth and down his mouth. « Ledge is ready, » he offers up to Rosvelth, even as A'rist is tugging at that big bronze head of his, trying to get it down so that he can get the bits of blood along his eyeridges. The bits of blood that are making the young rider smirk, after a moment of bewilderment. « Ledge? » Rosvelth's scrubbing must be nearly finished, except that Rhey is still working away; harder, harder still. Perhaps he's failed to realise? He's definitely not paying attention to A'rist and any looks he's getting; he's not paying all that much attention to his dragon, either, if we're being honest. Until, finally: "If you... you shouldn't talk to me. For your own good. I won't talk to you, either. It'll be better. With Iceberg." That is when he starts climbing down, making his way away. It's... almost touching? « Mine. » It's as much proud declaration as it is warning. "Iceberg." The repetition is surprised, but it's not a question, not really. It is reason for A'rist to look, look and be ignored if that's what it takes. Lythronath closes a few lids, and dunks his head fully. "Why." More a question. Also a hint of demand. Rosvelth blows bubbles in the water. « I don't want your ledge. I have my own. » Those wings mantle about him like a cape or a cloak; he half-rises out of the water, one whirling eye upon his rider, who has stopped moving again. "Why what?" "Why better with Iceberg?" Lythronath lifts his head from the water, streaming, then rivulets, then drops tracing the sharp lines of his face. "What's it got to do with the wing?" « Not red, » is proud again, even taunting. "They don't like me." Rhey is not, has never been, a person who belongs; a person who participates. Nor does he seem to court being liked... ever. And yet... and yet. "Especially now." He takes another few steps, though if he's attempting to walk away for good, he'll need his dragon to move... and his dragon is not moving. « Red, » says Rosvelth, dismissive. The challenge is fading out of A'rist. It's curiosity that has him eyeballing his clutchmate now. "Did you do something, now?" « Blood, » explains Lythronath. « Fresh, » almost has hunger in it. Or perhaps that's more a simple bloodlust; surely the bronze can't really be hungry, still. Rh'mis' shrug is diffident, and not really much of an answer. "Go cozy up to H'vier," he instructs. "Or one of his. I quit." The wing? Life? Talking to A'rist? His bare feet slosh on the muddy banks. « You can't possibly be hungry, » decides Rosvelth. « Now you're just being greedy. I suppose I should follow him. » This time, his rider gets what might be a baleful glance, if Rosvelth's face were expressive enough to allow it. « Done already. » Lythronath is fast losing interest in this conversation. Lythronath swishes his tail and bobs his head, his chin splat-splashing on the water. A'rist's eyes narrow, that curiosity gone, and ignores the water that hits him in the cheek. "What do I want to go cozy up to H'vier for?" "It'd be the politic thing," insists Rhey, but he's still not looking back. "But whatever. I don't care." If he says it often enough, maybe it'll be true. "About any of it. I don't care who is wingleader, or who isn't, or whose dragon catches whose, and most of all, I don't fucking care about-- either you get out of the water, now, or I'm walking back." Presumably, that last wasn't for A'rist. Rosvelth says nothing; not to Lythronath, and not to his rider, who is angrily throwing his arms through his shirt sleeves. A'rist screws up his face some, undecided for a moment, frowny. It's only when Rh'mis starts flailing that he gives an uncertain, frustrated, "Just 'cause you want to fit into this wing doesn't mean we need it. Keep your issues pinned to yourself." Now, he wipes those Lythronath-induced droplets from his face, doing more harm than good with his wet hand. "I don't," insists Rhey, just short of venomous. "I don't care about any of it." It's cold out of the water, and he's shivering, violently, but that won't stop him from scooping up his boots with an angry thrust and beginning to walk, again. "Wings are stupid. But stupid people like you always want to belong." "Just because stupid people like me want to belong doesn't mean we do. Just 'cause they're good to drink with doesn't make it a good fit. And just 'cause..." A'rist's at a loss here, and he winds up smacking some water with the palm of his hand (which makes Lythronath snort), "Just 'cause you don't belong doesn't mean everyone else does." And to Rh'mis' departing back, and to his dragon, A'rist hisses, "Sharding waste of a dragonrider." Whatever he gets back from Lythronath, though surely not sympathy, certainly seems to be distracting enough that they can at least finish the bathing without further outburst. Rhey has no answer to any of that; he doesn't even try. Eventually, his dragon lets out a snort, long-suffering, and launches himself off into the sky. Perhaps they'll meet up part of the way back to the Weyr; perhaps Rhey will walk (stomp) the whole way. Who can say. |
Comments
Edyis (13:06, 21 September 2014 (EDT)) said...
- resists urge to hug* Poor guys. They've actually come a long way since that moment between in weyrlinghood. Well maybe not so long.
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