Logs:Sex Ed
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| RL Date: 5 August, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A'rist has some questions about dragon reproduction. They lead to certain culpability. |
| Where: Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 5, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Evanthe/Mentions, Lilah/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated, and posted late! |
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| Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr The healers' duty station is a counter on the north side of the room, a checkpoint before the storage rooms behind it that are now shared with the human infirmary, hosting supplies that are as neatly labeled and carefully scrubbed as the rest of the infirmary. The senior dragonhealer has an office there as well, and human-sized double doors have recently been built as a direct route to the human infirmary, while opposite a wide winding tunnel leads to the east bowl. « Healer. » It's Lythronath's most regular call to Vrianth, the usual tinge of blood in the background, although this time, the words are more bored than forced or urgent. Moments later, the bronze appears above the bowl, talons, muzzle, chest, and rider all stained with gore. They don't land; they hover. They wait. « Yes. » The blood sizzles with Vrianth's dark humor. It is not, after all, urgent. He is not urgent. She is not urged. Her serpentine neck might be seen from aloft, her narrow head poised upon it as she looks out from today's chosen ledge. « Well? » « Healer rider, » is more pointed, though Lythronath has spotted her, as evidenced by his quick spiral and drop toward that ledge. There, again, he hovers. There, A'rist leans forward, clearly looking, as expectant as his dragon. « Below, » Vrianth informs, the muscles of her haunches tautening. Her wings rustle, charcoal-sparred silver in the shadows. Large eyes take in the airspace. And, « Lythronath. » « Down, » agrees Lythronath, though he stays in Vrianth's general airspace. His rider has leaned to one side, scanning the bowl - or what he can see of it from his dragon's neck - to plan a landing. « Vrianth, » is a mimicry, edged in the bronze's amusement. Directly: « There. » Not here. Vrianth views him, and yawns. What is he still doing here? Perhaps he does not believe her. Perhaps he is engaging in a competition to see just how long he can stay a-hovering. « Healer, » comes again, just to be sure she knows that he's entirely clear on it. On all of it. The bronze still stays where he is, eyes awhirl with blues and greens. « Vrianth, » again, while his rider runs his tongue over his teeth, and tugs at one of his gloves, eyes halfway closing. No answer, not from Vrianth. She might as well look right through him, and not have ever seen his rider at all. But down below and to one side, a hooded human walks just past the shelter of the overhang. She, Vrianth's rider, cranes a look upward. Lythronath can wait; he's strong. He does, even while A'rist hangs off his side again, peering to the figure below, now. Lythronath hovers, right in the way. Lythronath says, again, « Vrianth. » He can wait. Vrianth is nonchalant about it all. She even rumbles up to a passing blue, a wingmate, but not Lythronath. There's no sense of electricity, not even of static, unless... no, surely not. The human on the ground can wave to the one up above, though. She does. Lythronath answers that something with a click-rumble in his throat. A'rist sees the wave. What might have gone on for many more minutes, for hours, for days, for ever, now is cut short by a subtle shift in the rider's posture, a condemning declaration of, « Boring, » to Vrianth. Lythronath drops, almost like a rock, straining his wings for the final landing, a roar echoing back up from below to fill the void he's just created in the air by the ledge. Of course it is. It's not impossible that Vrianth's radiating amusement has nothing to do with his disappearance. The tumultuous energy of that roar, though, that has provenance. She takes it in. Tastes it. Sharpens her claws on that ledge's stone with the leftovers. Her rider has stepped back beneath the overhang, at least. Leova's hands are over her ears, hood and all, as she looks back out. "What do you need?" She can have it. Lythronath is nothing if not giving, at heart. A'rist dismounts no sooner than his the impact of their landing has been absorbed by knees that, Lythronath is sure, will never, ever quit. A strange sort of look goes to his dragon, tossed over his shoulder as he walks toward Leova. "I wanted to ask you about making dragon babies." Probably, he was ready for that question. Her brows lift, one more than the other. She looks past him, at what she can see of his dragon that isn't cut off by the overhang. "Come on in." Though he didn't ask, "The afternoon's quiet enough." Once they're inside and Leova's brought a pair of stools to the drop-down table, though she doesn't lower it, "Specifics?" A'rist sends a final look back to his lifemate. There's no sense of final commands or wishes spoken; it's just a look, one that makes the dragon click in his throat, just the once. The young rider reaches for one of those stools, pulls it into position. Sits. No table required, it seems. "I guess it makes sense to start with eggs." They surely came first. "They're just like... I mean, they're just in the golds, right?" Slowly nodding, as if this is more to set his own head straight, than to rightly ask a question. "Once they're 'made.'" Leova doesn't immediately sit. She leans a shoulder against the still-up table instead. "You thinking of that one down at Fort?" A shake of his head will have to suffice as answer, though it makes him pause a moment, the thought of that Fortian gold. Who hasn't heard? A'rist shakes his head again, a reboot, or return to the original thought. "How do they get made? I mean, it's... is it before the flight?" Amber eyes regard him, reflective. "If they were," Leova says. "Length of the flight wouldn't make a difference. Nor the sire." A different tone might make that sarcastic. Hers is deliberate. She waits. "So they're made during," A'rist concludes, face pale, tone grim. "Which is why good flights are important for Weyrs. And bad flights..." Say, flights where the winning bronze is downed before he has a chance to do anything... The rider rubs at his face, and shifts on his stool. "Yes." Leova returns to that second stool, nearer, though she doesn't sit. She doesn't so much wait him out as simply wait. Of course, she did tend, "Cadejoth." A'rist simply nods to that name, and carries on scrubbing his face, now less an immediate reaction, and more a slow, processing sort of twitch. Soon, that hand falls to rubbing at the rougher spots along his jaw. And, finally, "Okay." Leova considers him, though not always straight on. She's still in no hurry. Although that twitch... Vrianth's long, elegant tail alludes to that movement as it meanders over the ledge's edge. Lythronath looks up from where he's been waiting. Well, not waiting. Lythronath rarely waits, but whatever it was that had his attention is forgotten. He bobs his head, once, silently. "I guess," after a period of time, after his face has regained its colour and A'rist can look straight at the dragonhealer, "that's mostly what I was wondering." She stretches. She stretches. But then, slowly, she curls her tail back up to rest in a coil upon solid rock. Leova nods to A'rist, once. Silently. Silent, until the dragonhealer follows up at last. "Not," she says. "To declare open season for green flights." A'rist's look is promptly and wholly unamused, to the point of bordering on righteously indignant. "Of course not." He's up off that stool fast enough it tilts onto two legs, then thunks back down to an upright position. It's a fast movement, but not one that moves her. "Done?" Leova's tone is a little more than matter-of-fact. "It's been done for a while now, hasn't it?" A'rist tucks his hands into his pockets, gives one nod, then even tries a smile. "Thanks." It doesn't quite sound like a question. "Mm." If she disagrees, it doesn't make it to words, and the nod of her head releases him. Not that she doesn't have a half-smile in return, but she also doesn't invite, 'Any time.' Leova does say, "Later, A'rist." That's all. |
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