Logs:Poop
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| RL Date: 15 August, 2011 |
| Who: Riorde, Iolene |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Riorde and Iolene chat while oiling up Sfozarth. An incredibly possessive and testy Ysavaeth displays the consequences of Iolene's unshielded thoughts. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 7, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions |
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| For what seems like the thousandth time thus far but is actually only the second time today, Riorde's seated on the ground with Sforzath sprawled out over her lap and a big pot of oil beside her. She immerses her hand, oil pooling in her palm, then tips that palmful all over her dragon, liberally dripping oil along the way. A stiff-bristled horsehair brush, the sort of thing one would normally use for this sort of thing, is forgotten on the floor. Sforzath radiates pleasure with a steady pulse like a purr except deeper, not contained to just Riorde, who slightly sways side to side with the force of it, petting oil all over the newborn's hide. The physical labor part hasn't slowed Iolene down much in the last week since Impression. She shovels by rote and walks what'll end up as a delightful manure for the greenhouse to large bins set up at the far wall. The blonde doesn't even choke or wrinkle her nose, but then again, perhaps the entire barracks smells about the same to her right now between the assault of scented oils, baby dragon poop on the floor (and in those bins), and the unwashed - those weyrlings who just can't seem to catch a break and become human once more. It's on her way back that she stops by Riorde and Sforzath's area, leaving Ysavaeth to nose with much disdain at her still soiled wallow. "Do you think we could teach them to go over there instead?" is her verbal interruption of Sforzath's oiled up pleasure time. When Iolene addresses her, Riorde makes an effort to sit up straighter, swiping back hair from her forehead and leaving an oily smear. "Sure, if you can catch it. Sforzath's so quick, catches me unaware -- pbbt, and he's pooed." Sforzath makes a noise of protest, rolling halfway onto his side so he can look at Riorde reproachfully. She instantly feels bad. "Sorry, sorry," she excuses that miniscule break in the oiling, instantly caving to the dragon, and rubs her fingers in small circles over the creases in his shoulder joints. "They say dragons go poopie in between when they learn how to. I don't think between must be a pleasant place." Iolene muses aloud. "Poop. Dead dragons and people. We're never going to go between. Maybe, she can to go potty, but I'm not going there again." This decided with a very definitive nod, Io crouches, with her butt sagging between her bent legs and looks to Sforzath. Heedless of propriety, the lessons Vrianth's teeth instilled in her long forgotten in sweat, tired, and more tired, she reaches out to scoop oil onto her fingers and then attempts to smear it against the brown's other side, watching and then mimicking the small circles Riorde does into his opposite shoulder joints. Not so far away, Ysavaeth noses her browned up rushes again and recoils this time, so much so that she's trotting /thisaway/ on all fours. Backwards, tail lashing and a hiss coming up to her throat. Riorde wrinkles her nose at Io's description of between. The grossed-out grimace stays in place as she confesses, "I don't like it either. It's so close, it presses in on you." She gives her shoulders a sudden jolt to shake herself out of claustraphobia. That sharp shake, and not Iolene's added help, startles Sforzath too with a scrabbling of his talons against the stone, and since she doesn't care that Iolene's pitched in, he doesn't either. Sforzath relaxes back down under both their hands, though not all the lids descend on one eye as he keeps a curious eye on his hissing sister. "Is she angry?" Riorde can't interpret for other people's dragons. It's so hard to startle Iolene after over a week with her own baby to deal with and Sforzath's scrabbling talons against stone merely receive a passing glance, particularly as he settles down. The subject change, however, relaxes her muscles and her oil massaging is far less intent now than when she first started, never mind a minute? Possibly even thirty seconds at most have past. "Oh," starts Io, with the long suffering sound of a mother of five, "She just does that. Every morning. It's like she forgets what the brown stuff is and that I will, eventually, clean it. Even if she can't seem to forget other things I wish she'd forget." Ysavaeth eyes her wallow and its uncleanliness with suspicion, but there's enough distance now that she can pretend to forget about it. So the hissing halts in her turn about to faze Sforzath and a long, long moment is granted the brown in a very scrutinizing study. « That's my rider, » is her overly mild accusation. Riorde's question follows logically, though there is something in her voice suggesting that she doesn't want to ask it. "What do you want her to forget?" She doesn't allow much time for a response, with Iolene's remark awakening her own mostly repressed desires to forget; Riorde speaks again before the moment passes, like if she allows it to, she'll never get it out. "Io, do you think Dev's dead?" Sforzath opens the under eye Ysavaeth's regard and his oh-oh-oh-thisfeelsgood-moreoilplease gives way, reluctantly, to caution. « I didn't take her, » he instantly defends himself. « You can have her back. » « She's mine, » Ysavaeth asserts, the typical chiming bells of her mindvoice clanging in a sound reminiscent of her sire's touch. « You can't have her. » Perhaps some of that clanging is invading Iolene's mind as the blonde head ducks, eyes squished shut, as the teenager attempts to regain her bearings. The hand to Sforzath's shoulder joint falls lax, as does the shovel still being balanced in her other hand and it clangs to the ground as well, startling nine day old Ysavaeth out of her possessive staring contest and sends her skittering beneath one of Io's, now, free arms. Petting absently, Io can't quite look up at Riorde when she speaks, "Jaques hopes he is." « I don't want her, » Sforzath insists, for all the good it does him. He startles too when the shovel falls, and this time his back claws catch Riorde's leg. The heavy trousers she's been fitted with mean the scratch doesn't penetrate, but it will raise a red weal. Wincing, Riorde gently shoves Sforzath off her lap. "You're done," she tells him before picking up the thread of her conversation with Iolene. "It he isn't dead, I'm going to kill him." "He might be." The blonde's eyes remain fixed to one point on the ground and the hand that soothes Ysavaeth falls limp again. "Really, I need to be able to think sometimes. I mean, I know I don't seem to do it very often, but please, Ysa. Stop." Pleading with her dragon makes something happen and tentatively, Io lifts her head and looks around expectantly. Blessed, clang-free brain. So she can repeat her lie, "He might be dead." Matter-of-fact now and lacking in sadness, the too skinny blonde girl gets to her feet somehow, despite the entanglement of gold limbs and tail about her legs. "I made a mistake," she then says, of a conversation not so long lost, "I don't know how to stop her from looking into my brain or me from feeling what she feels. I can't think without her in there." Ysavaeth eyes Sforzath with whirls of red-tinged blue and into his head she sends a silver thread sliver to taunt and pulls it back just as quick, tucking it deep within the recesses of her mind to smother to death. « That's mine too. » As if he might actually want the already tattered piece of mental fabric. Sforzath's instinct is to go pouncing after Ysavaeth's silver thread and snatch at it with his teeth and claws with an explosiveness that's nearly physical and would send him scrambling towards her. However, her statement acts as an injunction. Sforzath doesn't get far before backing off with sulky pride. « Don't want it anyway. » Sforzath swirls restively around Riorde's legs as she gets to her feet, nearly knocking her off balance. "Can you just -- hold /on/." Riorde, sleep-deprived and awash with foreign sensation, has a short fuse, but when Sforzath stops and looks up at her with those big betrayed eyes she has such, such guilt. "I'm sorry," she says, back down to her knees more quickly than she rose and wrapping her arms around the brown in a hug. She looks up at Iolene from there. "I can't do it either. I can't. I'm just not thinking anymore. I'm too tired to think." Her emotions are dimmed too under an exhaustion that makes her almost numb when she says, "But I'll kill him. He didn't say goodbye. He better be dead and Raum too." A wash of guilt suddenly colors Io's face and the blonde girl turns away, but not quickly enough for the change to be self-evident to any who might be looking her way. Ysavaeth cozies up to Iolene, smug now. She has Io. She has the tattered silver thread that she now bats about in her little baby dragon brain on a band large enough so that all nearby dragons might see. Bat bat bat. "Would you really kill him?" is asked in a poor attempt to mask her sudden nervous fidgeting; heels of her feet coming up in a nervous rhythm and her hands anxiously fluttering by her side. "Or are you just saying that cause you're mad?" Riorde doesn't understand the guilt she sees, and her still expression admits confusion. Sforzath shivers and trembles in Riorde's arms, half-caged and clearly wanting to snap up Ysavaeth's string and bristling against her decree. "I'm mad, Io. Do you really think I could kill someone?" This line of questioning brings another death to mind, a real one, and Riorde blanches in the fear that Sforzath will pick it out of her head. Fortunately he's distracted by Ysavaeth's taunting and only looks up at his weyrling when she makes a hasty effort to make herself repress those unwelcome thoughts and hurries to her feet. She picks up the oil and brush with the intention to tidy them away and directs Sforzath, "Outside, we're going outside." He needs distracting, too. Ysavaeth, now that Iolene is, if not paying attention to her, at least not lavishing Sforzath in attention, can be gracious too. Sometimes. The tattered silver thread is extended to the brown just as he's about to leave, and whether he takes it or not, the little gold leaves a piece of it in her brother's mind. Her tail will now even swish affably, sweeping at the dust on the floor by Iolene's feet. Looking pained as she can't repress her memories in the way Riorde can, and the mention of killing someone slams Io's eyes closed again. But then Riorde is moving and the rustle and noise of buckets and brush being picked up opens them suddenly. "Let's have dinner later tonight. When they're sleeping. I want to ask you something." Sforzath starts rushing for the exit upon Riorde's direction; the girl's forehead is furrowed and she looks like she's thinking so hard that she might give herself a headache. The brown swirls back around, tail thudding along behind him, to hungrily snap up the piece of silver thread he's given. In return, he expels a burst of swirly smoke, musky and sharp on the nostrils, for his bigger sister. "Sure, dinner," Riorde agrees a little hollowly, and hurries Sforzath out. |
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