Logs:Savvy?
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 24 May, 2013 |
| Who: Rasavyth, Solith |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Telavi and Solith fought pirates! Solith gives Rasavyth the scoop, savvy? |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr and Hold |
| When: Day 18, Month 11, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, Aishani/Mentions, N'hax/Mentions, Sabella/Mentions, Sh'mel/Mentions, D'kan/Mentions, Alida/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Part 5 in a series of month 11 snippets between K'zin and Telavi. Preceded by Logs: Party Crasher. |
  |
| The Weyr hadn't been quiet, even with what could seem like a miniature horde of weyrlings gone, and that was before their draconic chatter shifted from simple flight to festival! and crowds! and, from some, admirers!. Such concepts as 'Lords!' and the changing thereof were harder to comprehend, often relayed in fragments of human sight, human hearing that, for those tuning in real-time, could wind up a dizzying mishmash. Older dragons weighed in, sometimes with questions, sometimes making connections. The queens were absent but increasingly perceptible: drum beats, darkened skies, the rush of receded tide. The renewed pounding of surf. Smoke. Someone in trouble, someone they can help... a ship-ful, only then there's a glimpse of two, can it be? Olveraeth. Olveraeth, calling for backup, with firestone, amid the grapple of hooks, the roll of waves, the fear that is not his own. Roaring. Explosions. Glacier, flaming sails... unless the flames were Hraedhyth's. A ship, sinking... but beneath Iesaryth's waves? Humans in the water, unless they're only small legged fish. Rescues, attempted at least. A ship sunk. More humans, some caught on lines like fish without hooks, wet and smelling of the sea. Pride at prowess, something like success. Flight, travel, deliveries as Glacier handles the rest. They'll feel sore muscles later, those who don't now. Some fly home. Some stay where they are, wherever that is, collapsed or the next thing to it. The job's done. This job's done. In the midst of all that, Solith's difficult to find even for those who know her, so in the moment is she. But once found, she's easy to track even in her transparency, the joy of the hunt and the challenge of figuring out and the breathless wait for permission and the exhilaration of finally getting it and going, working in tandem with Ghislaith before Jhorinth sinks the thing beneath them, the last breathless rescue and then flying and flying without straps for her passengers and then finally... they're there. Finally, she can stop. It's all dark then, and she goes dark too, and it's considerably later before her newly-reawakened mind thinks to turn to Rasavyth. He wasn't there. As wingsecond, K'zin had opted to stay behind, that Sh'mel might go. In case the wing needed anything. There was a deeper reason, of course. K'zin was tired- no, exhausted. He had sweats when he did not exercise, and chill where Rasavyth had never known him to be cold before, not ever. But then, he was born in spring and the seasons were turning, were they not? And being wingsecond to Sh'mel was a challenge, he could easily admit that to himself. He does not want to see it: that something is wrong. So he puts up a good front. He wasn't there. In body. Mind is a different story. It could be that Rasavyth kept a light link with Tayabeth toward whom he had so thoroughly ingratiated himself. Maybe that's why he wasn't surprised when Solith turned her thoughts to him. Maybe there's another reason. Either way, the touch that meets her mind in the considerably later moment is one that is titillated but also calm. « My dear Solith, are you and your Telavi quite alright? What happened? » When seeking information, it is often wise to cast a wide net. He usually sticks to asking only one question at a time, as it has previously been a problem of distraction to ask the green more than one in a single contact, but now he tries two. They're not a difficult two, to him, anyway. It's not that she's wholly back to her usual self, but along with the lingering soreness of those muscles not only used but abused is an even deeper satisfaction. « Yes, yes, » they're all right, but there's a hazy stretch of an extension that says that's not what's important. « Oh, Rasavayth. You missed it. » Such excitement! « It was like one of Kazavoth's stories, even, only we were there, » and it's as though her yawn could topple mountains, although at least it rolls out away from him, the same habit that would protect from accidental flame. They did things. Beneath it all, all but subconscious: they did things. Together, even, so much together. But the exciting part! That's what Solith's focused on, that's what matters, ships and flame and rescues and the rush and wrack of the tide swallowing all that they'd left to steal. Does he see? Seeing's not stealing, not when it's a gift. A gentle warmth, like sunlight pressing lightly on oil-swathed hide, extends with pleasure and pride for the subtle undertones of the green pair's togetherness. It doesn't get brought to the forefront of his touch, but it lingers there in the background. He encourages the excitement, reflecting it back at her. He follows her mind through the series of events that she offers up, making a copy of each as his ooze snakes across them, to be filed away for later reflection. « You were brave. » He compliments, admiration in his tone. « Will you return today? My K'zin wishes to see for himself that you and your Telavi are safe and unharmed. » It is not said, but the faint echo of orange-peel and leather carries worry from the rider's mind through Rasavyth to the green. Such gentleness she may not notice consciously, but she flourishes that much more nonetheless, less leaves tilting toward sunlight than how warmth buoys air to rise and stretch and yawn once more. Was she brave? She might not have noticed that either, or not know what to do with it, as though it's somehow... irrelevant. Will she return? « Tomorrow, » warmly said in turn, with the vague sense of in the light rather than told by any hours humans may count. Glacier has come and gone without the sailor-men they had brought, Ilicaeth is still here, solid enough to lean on, though she seems to remember he once hadn't been so willing to stay. Olveraeth made it happen, though, they were deemed too small still for the long beat back. But let her see what she can do: it's dark but her eyes are sensitive even for dragonkind, and Solith brings up a vision of her rider disturbed from borrowed furs, peering up at the dragon in what starts out as languid blinks that become a furrowed brow... only to clear yet again, the girl taking a deeper breath as though she could scent the leather and more herself. More rustling, and Telavi's dutifully digging her hands out from beneath the furs to show Solith, see, ten fingers. There's a dark diagonal mark on one hand, but it's not impossible that that's just dirt and even Tela's too tired to be picky. The dragon's head must swing, because certainly the vision does in a way that could be dizzying, but all that's revealed is a sort of furry lump against stone against stars. No, two lumps, moving. Either they're really active mountains, or they're feet. « Better? » Solith, pleased with herself. « She does not want to take her socks off to prove toes. He must assume. » There is amusement from Rasavyth and also apology. « We did not mean to have you wake her. I did not know she was at rest. » And why should he, really, but he sounds apologetic all the same. « Thank you. » The gratitude swells lest Solith think she's performed ill, and it's mingled transparent ooze with the reflected scent of a fresh spring wind, though tonight entwined with tangy ocean brine, and the orange zest, leather and smoke of K'zin. « We are glad to see the proof. He will assume the toes until he has time to check her thoroughly himself. » Then his ooze starts to settle itself against her touch like a comforting blanket. Comforting except for that little creep factor at the edge of his touch that is just always there. « You should sleep, my dear, dear Solith. More excitement doubtlessly waits for you in dreams. » There's a soft offer there that isn't said: he offers to make them exciting, for a time anyway, if she wishes. The green's untroubled, but not displeased to be thanked, her swirl of breeze unhurried as she reflects it all in return... but filtered, further distinguishing the individual elements before she lets them rejoin. It's a game of sorts: brine for Iesaryth, not far off from the fishier scents she can discern on the wind that sweeps over her fireheights? And his smoke, is it sooty from Hraedhyth as well? Both were here. She hasn't checked, and why should she bother, to inquire if they're still here now. Even the ooze has its place, although Solith toys with the idea of it, is it like the promise of snow? No, but she hasn't found its equal yet. There is no hurry. All the toes are there, no toes need hunting, the vision gradually dissolved with that thoroughly. Rasavyth is right, and even though that blanket now and again has that odd itch, at least it's familiarly so. She should sleep. She will sleep. But, comes her wordless thought in all its sleepy mirth, surely those dreams of hers will be exciting enough already... and not even pretend. |
Leave A Comment