Logs:Raise Your Hand If You're Sleeping Well
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| RL Date: 10 November, 2012 |
| Who: H'kon, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: H'kon finds Leova when she gets off guard duty. Neither is sleeping well. Leova has to pack. |
| Where: Weyrleaders' Complex, HRW |
| When: Day 18, Month 3, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Anvori/Mentions, Via/Mentions |
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| With sunlight long gone, the temperature has dropped, a wind has picked up, and the humidity on the ground from the day's (mostly melted) snowfall is starting to hit the air. It's not a pleasant night to be outside by any stretch of the imagination; but it's where Arekoth is, hunched up on his ledge, neck pulled as far into his shoulders as he can, wings draped about him, staring out over the bowl. There's still that edge to the brown as he watches what little comings and goings are there to be seen, an edge present in all his responses to other dragons, in his internal conversations with his rider... and notably in the mental prod he gives to Vrianth. « Where's your rider, on a night as cold as this? » is somehow teasing. Of course, it could be that his own rider is on his way out across the bowl even as he speaks. Which gets a staticky zap right back, reflex, before that lurking green realizes: oh. Him. Another one, then, but this one tailored just for that importunate brown: static more of a haze like the crackle of the fire that warms her, wood atop coals. There's a dim impression of arched stone, of light that's yellow as well as green glowlight, of deepness and darkness and that's where her rider should be, surely. Ought to be, even. « Soon. » In fact, she should stretch, she should rouse herself to get her... Leova is stretching, after all, and then arranging her cowl around her neck and her hat lower on her head before she ever pokes her nose out. Vrianth's minded to share a bare glimpse of that, the human perspective of cold nose and probably-slippery stone and an arc of Belior-lit ledge and steps beyond. Is he better-pleased with the world? The zap brings a flush of wry amusement, in place of what usual joviality there might be. « I wonder if it's warmer there, » the brown speaks, with no hint of actual wondering in his voice, and the pressure of focused mental attention held against Vrianth. In the bowl, H'kon himself has pulled that familiar scarf around his neck, wears his gloves, even in temperatures that are comparatively temperate. He slips a bit in the snow, regains his footing with the complete lack of grace that comes to anyone in such a situation, carries on with a huff. Against: « Are you warm? Arekoth. » As though Vrianth suspects, even knows, he's not. « Is this coincidence? » It would be the slip-huff element she forwards him. She's held her flight, just now. Her rider? No more visible than she had been, not from within. « I know ways we could both be warmer, » has a hint of Arekoth's more usual, rounder tones. Frigidity is back with, « And maybe safer, » an underlying frustration throwing a hint of glow that gives no heat into his words, marking that edge out again. An edge that can only be aided by the gust of wind, almost theatrically timed, that has H'kon squinting and ducking his head down into the fur-lined collar of his jacket. It amuses her, light for light, though hers is on the upper end of the spectrum: humans can't see it, but he can. « Maybe so. » It's darker, that, the sense of things she has to protect. Though, inside, the man is packing now: small trunks, two of them, for balance. Personal things that smell like them, even though they have been washed and washed. Vrianth can tell. And the little clothes too, and the slightly-less-little clothes, which somehow seems even more wrong. Safer is good. This time. Maybe. Yes. This time. Leova inhales, a deeper breath, and then relents or is pushed: out into the cold, across the ledge, the more cautious for H'kon's earlier example. "Coming up?" Or is there a reason to walk down. Arekoth's pleasure with himself is far too tangible - to Vrianth, surely, whose mind he's still near, and to H'kon, who can't get the dragon out of his head for all he spent half of weyrlinghood trying. It makes the man stop in the bowl, licking his lips even though he knows full well those chill winds will have them chapping that much faster for it, and looking up to where Leova stands, his expression well difficult to make out for the lack of lighting. He looks longer than the humid chill would encourage most, and then starts up the steps, though with a warning of, "Arekoth may be on his way." Long enough that the greenrider could have stepped a pace back. Instead, she's lifted the cowl above her mouth. It's not as though she'd had a smile for it to hide, nor frown. That was early on, and now she hooks it lower with a thumb, low enough and just long enough to speak: "To swoop you up in some dramatic rescue?" Arekoth gets them both, a snippet: his rider's words and her idea overlaid, the brown stooping with claws out to capture his rider, shrieking defiance of some dastardly opponent who's surely on his way. As for her rider, she steps out only enough to cross the ledge and move back in: not the council chambers, then, but the warm passageway to the sands. It's the sort of shortcut that mischief-filled weyrbrats dream of, but she was never one of those. H'kon gains the ledge, shrugging his jacket on his shoulders more as a tick, restless rather than nervous, than for any proper reason. "I'm quite sure it's not rescuing's been on his mind in these last days." The brownrider spares a glance around the ledge, looking either terribly pensive or terribly near-sighted. He looks back to Leova only when she begins to move. "Nor is that it now," is dry and quiet, possibly lost. H'kon moves after the greenrider, tugging one end of his scarf free a bit before he gets inside that passageway. Arekoth answers Vrianth with an equally-dry, « Oh, he can handle himself, » utterly lacking in images, flights of fancy... even that self-satisfaction from before. "No?" There's something in Leova's tone that suggests that she doesn't quite follow. But, if he's following her movements if nothing else, it will at least get them somewhere, even if that somewhere is simply down a curving tunnel. Not far: only out of the wind, into the warm breath of the sands. If Arekoth is watching, and there's a Vrianth-nudge that suggests it wise, he'll even know if others come. The greenrider mutters, "Feel silly," but then puts out her hand to stop him, and then disappears down the tunnel. Quicker, lighter footsteps will precede her return, assuming the coast is clear. "Hm," is confirmation, but no further information. H'kon reaches to undo his jacket partway, once that warmth is felt, and when stopped... stops. He might have followed her in, impulsively; if his personality were his dragons, surely he would have. But instead, the man rests his back up against the stone of the tunnel, and turns a scowling squint out toward the main ledge, watching for any change - in weather, in current inhabitants of the passageway, in Arekoth. But for the occasional rise of passions from the dragon, stirred up by his riders' circular thoughts (themselves kept away from Vrianth or any others), there's little of any of those things. H'kon removes his glove, pushes his hands into his jacket pockets, and waits. It's not long, though it may seem that way. Those footsteps slow, and Leova emerges with a one-shouldered shrug, muttering, "Didn't expect anyone lurking, all ready to listen in," but what of the rest of it have they expected? Her cowl's down, her hat's tucked back into her belt, but she hasn't loosened her own jacket a notch. "So. What's going on." Her gaze is level, direct, in what little light there is. She's well over a pace away, still. Vrianth's silent, but there's that characteristic sense of energy, moving. H'kon shifts back to a straighter stance when Leova returns, lifting his chin to her by way of slight greeting. Re-greeting. Her question strikes him as strange; it shows on his face, that queer way in which he looks at her, almost incredulous. But the brownrider gets control of those muscles at eyes and mouth soon enough. "Ah." There's a hopeless look directed to that empty ledge, a stand-in for the dragon not near enough to properly receive it. "Do you sleep well these days?" is asked only once he's looking to her again. Her gaze stops on him, offering neither judgment nor enlightenment. Flicks ledge-ward, following, followed by a rueful pull to her mouth. Returns. "No." Go on. She'd stand square, would Leova, but after a moment allows herself a press of her shoulder into the wall. It, at least, won't give. Shouldn't. But she has to count on something. H'kon acknowledges her response with a nod, another, "Hm," playing in his throat. Leova should be close enough to hear that. "I believe there are few that are," comes after a moment's consideration. Arekoth still doesn't change, though even his thoughts have gone quieter, with H'kon's attention directed elsewhere. "I certainly am not." "There are draughts for that," she says, terse. "Don't trust them, myself." H'kon's dismissal of that is also a veiled agreement, a quick snort and slight turn of his head, as if to shake it, though he doesn't follow through. If he has more words at the ready, he holds them, peering at the greenrider in the dark, not so long as he did before making his way up the stairs. "I have become tired of being awake, alone with Arekoth." The explanatory thought remains just that, but it's enough to have the brown shifting into a more readied state. There's fine tension about the greenrider's eyes that the dimness may not illuminate, not until her head tilts with what's on her parted lips, even if it does only prove to be an exhaled breath. « You, » Vrianth's audible instead. « Are not what you were. » Only then, Leova: "I'm sending my family away." « I, » Arekoth answers, faintly mimicking the green's tones, « am all I've ever been. » H'kon's jaw, meanwhile, sets, and he gives Leova a short dip of his head, if not rightly a nod. "You think they're in danger now," is more observation than question, the corner of his mouth pulling a little, hands testing the strength of the bottoms of those pockets. But it comes with a shift of his weight toward his heels. Back. Away. « Which leaves... » Vrianth, untroubled, unfinishing. Not troubled by that. "Don't reckon they'll be killed," says the woman who takes moments longer to reply. "Not on purpose. Don't reckon they're a target. But. Things happen, don't have to mean them, happen anyway." She presses her own mouth together, cuts off what passes for a flow. "Are we so close to chaos?" It's not a question seeking an answer; it comes with a face so stoney it borders on grey, and H'kon heaves a sigh in its wake. This time, when he turns to look to the ledge, it's no passing glance. "I imagine you'll want to be with them, then." And it heralds a step back. "So long as you can, before they've gone." « Don't think it leaves at all, » Arekoth gives back, some of the edge dropping. Not all of it. Not enough. No answer's sought. Yet, "Not a risk I'd take." Leova. Vrianth: a sense of movement, sense-of-Arekoth, sense-of-his-rider, together, apart, illustratively. Leova again, that much more bleakly, "Tomorrow morning. Clear skies." It's trite, that farewell, but it's also civilization. And more, something a rider depends on. Leova waits for him to go. One step if he takes it, another, and then, no. Quick, light, footsteps again, to catch up and walk down towards where Vrianth is winging down. That's civilization too. And maybe distraction, because if she can, Vrianth's going to get there first. "And to you. And yours." It's sincere, serious. The brownrider turns shortly thereafter, clearing himself out of the way. Leova is let pass; Arekoth is not so good to Vrianth, meeting her mental demonstration with physical motion, airborne and crashing down to the ledge. It's hard to say whose influence keeps him from colliding with that green outright. He's less hurried in taking his rider back to their ledge. |
Comments
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Sun, 11 Nov 2012 18:08:34 GMT.
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Ruining everyone's lives. :(
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