Logs:Shortcuts
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 18 September, 2015 |
| Who: Roszadyth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Roszadyth and Vhaeryth renew their acquaintance. |
| When: Day 20, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions |
  |
| The sound that heralds the High Reachian queen is soft, much like the sound of a musicbox; slowly paced and haunting. Her accompanying light is shifting spots of brilliant sun, and the whisper-fine noise of gliding fabric. « Vhaeryth, » amused, intrigued. Splendid. « Look at you, » Vhaeryth returns; an errant glass-reflection teases at a corner of that fabric, would move it if only light could. It's after moments' consideration that he gets around to, « What's the occasion? » Roszadyth is happy -- that's a given -- and her continued intrusion colored by amusement, as much as her light shifts and music is replaced by her gentle, cultured tones. « I thought to find out how you are. » Him. « How have you been, Vhaeryth? » « Did you, now. » For her, Vhaeryth sends a light-and-shadows silhouette of flying and flying and restlessness, behind the words as though behind glass but there. « 'There are no shortcuts to a place worth going.' Do you believe that, Roszadyth? » Gilded, sugared words: « I did. » Softly filtered light and floral bouquets, all wrapped up with Roszadyth's lilting, cultured tones; gentle, demure, guileless. « I am not sure what you mean, Vhaeryth, » she returns, her sun a little less from her confusion. « Shortcuts? To go where? » She did, and here they are, with light even if there's less. « They are not clear, » Vhaeryth shares, her issue most certainly his as well. « 'Places,' they say. 'Process,' they say, » an obscure overlay of dragons or humans or perhaps the other way around. « If they should be believed, we might only walk, not fly, not between. » Which is anathema. The bubble of laughter, gay and bright, from Roszadyth is only after considerable silence; contemplative, weighty silence. « What a horrid way to go about things. Walk, not fly? » Aghast! « Would you walk all the way here, Vhaeryth? » Here, where there's snow-capped mountains, dark , finger-like spires, and two Igen-blood queens. Vhaeryth, pleased. Vhaeryth, distracted from all those weighty shadows behind the silence. She agrees! « Terrible, » he agrees. « I would not walk so far, » he further assures this particular queen. « Nor would I swim to Ista. » (Nor could he entirely, what with that ground before the water, but... details.) That is what wings are for! « How far would you walk, Roszadyth? » From one side of her weyr, or Weyr, to the other? « No. » What a terrible injustice! Walking, not flying, or swimming, to wings! « I would not walk so far as that, Vhaeryth. I shall consider walking to get to wherever Farideh is, but I would most unquestionably not like it. » Roszadyth's mind is aflutter with skies, and long, rocky trails, and brunette curls and a certain laugh; no, she would not like it, not at all. « What silliness. » Now Vhaeryth must imagine brunette curls waving all on their own, in those skies, bodiless; « She does not walk far from you, does she? I shall hope that she does not. And certainly not travel to the ledges that are too small, » for them to get to even when they're being clever about it. « There is such a one at Fort, » the bronze relates starkly, accompanied only by the shadow-rattle of dice and riffle of cards. Dice and cards? Roszadyth counters with the brilliance of the Istan jungle and the crystalline waters lapping the shores; a particular ship in the foliage. « We both know how waywardly she wanders. » Don't they? Now that she mentions it... recognition leaps; « She is yours? » That particular ship; that particular laugh. Surprise? Roszadyth is a lady, and ladies don't revel in the disbelief of others. « I was not there, Vhaeryth, but I hear-- I heard-- many splendid things » Not even a little revelling? Not even a tiny bit? Not even when a certain bronze is taken aback... no doubt he'd like to think it's a tiny bit? « Roszadyth. » Roszadyth needs a lace fan and a lemonade, about now. « Vhaeryth, » is the queen's humor-filled response. « Should I have introduced myself as such? We did not know, until after the flight. » Vhaeryth is not so equipped. Perhaps his rider... no, N'rov neither. « He enjoyed it, » the bronze says briefly. « I suppose I should tell him. » Since her rider knows, it seems. Unless... « That would be kind. » Is he kind? Roszadyth's sunshine-y warmth recedes and returns, in an amused cycle that complements her sleepily-fading voice. « I would very much -- we would very much enjoy seeing you again. Soon. » Soon, but not now. There's naps to be had. Is he kind? « It might be fair. » Is he fair? But she's sleepy, and somehow, naps now sound appealing. « We shall see, » is Vhaeryth's clear agreement; the words could stall, but his tone does not: they shall see, see each other. And now he's amused, too. « Rest well, Roszadyth. » The gold's light wavers away, but with his name as a last utterance, in amused, music-esque notes. « Vhaeryth. » |
Leave A Comment