Logs:Snow, Then Klah
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 5 October, 2014 |
| Who: H'kon, K'del |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Arekoth and Cadejoth chase beasts. H'kon and K'del talk. A little. |
| Where: Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr / Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 2, Month 13, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
  |
| It seemed like a break in the bad weather, just a few minutes ago. It seemed like a chance for a ravenous brown Arekoth to sate his hunger, which was already nearly unbearable when they'd returned yesterday from a brief amount of time spent out in the field (as it were). But now, the winds are starting to stir up snow again, and the few herdbeasts pushed out by grudging hands are desperately seeking cover as well as protection. It might be that such weather makes his leg throb, too, or that the hunger is too immediate for him to want to chance it. Cadejoth is plucked from his rider's mind as much as the brown's own familiarity with the weyrleader's bronze. « Those herdbeasts, » he tells Cadejoth. « They need some chasing. Quick. Short. » Cadejoth has spent much of the day up on the rim, enjoying the weather with the contented singlemindedness; there are flurries and winds and everything is delightful. Of course, Arekoth's comment draws his attention, too, and so it is that the bronze - abruptly eager - takes off from his perch to battle his way down towards the pens, just to see. « I, » he answers, « Can chase things. I'm good at that. You can eat them. I, » this is important, « Ate yesterday. » But who doesn't like a good chase? « Good, » says Arekoth with a knife-sharp cut of yellow as backdrop to his thoughts. Hunger-sharp, too. Down in the pens, down where the herdbeasts struggle and snowbanks slowly change shape, melding one into another, the brown has taken up a piece of ground to wait out Cadejoth's arrival. « Careful, » he adds, almost an afterthought to the bronze, but also not, also the most important warning he can issue. « He's down here. » Him, H'kon, bundled to the point of being recognisable only by his height and general proximity to the beaked brown dragon. « I won't sit on him. » In truth, Cadejoth has no intention of sitting on anyone-- or even getting close. Now, he'll try and use his bulk to battle against the wind, shovelling snow out of his way with those (admittedly scrawny) limbs of his. Some of it lands in new clumps, but none of it, thankfully, ends up on top of H'kon's head. Or, at least... not right on top. « What's he doing out in this? He should be inside. K'del is. » For now. « Wouldn't be very comfortable anyway. Not big or fluffy enough. » Arekoth's eyes are on those few herdbeasts again, his head swivelling from one, to the other, to the third. Planning. The answer is, thus, appropriately, and this time truly, detached. « He's with me. » « Brr, » is Cadejoth's answer, and yet it gets followed relatively quickly by a silence that suggests his attention is elsewhere... even if he's still angling his way above the pens the best he can, attempting - with varyings amounts of success - to force the beasts into action. For some of them, death-by-dragon is apparently preferable to death-by-moving-in-this-weather. Go figure. It's not a hunt that needs to be orchestrated. Arekoth anticipates the movements, Cadejoth's and the beasts' both, and soon takes to the wing himself. The actual chase, as promised, is quick, short. And today, so is the death blow. Arekoth is hungry. But not for long. The bundled-up brownrider hunches his shoulders, leaning forward, faintly, at the fence. Cadejoth's enthusiasm increases the moment there's blood on the snow; by now, perhaps the whole weyr is aware of just how pleased he is. Certainly, K'del must be: there, in the distance, barely visible, is a tall figure jogging towards them. « You got it! Eat, eat, eat, » enthuses the bronze. « We're a good team, you and me. » Arekoth needs little to no encouragement. Chunks of flesh are ripped up, tossed, swallowed mostly without chewing, the brown's wings mantling as a matter of course, even as Cadejoth receives a friendly, « Unstoppable. » Another chunk, swallowed, a quick look to assess the situation unfolding about them (and being enfolded as quickly in snow). « We should get another. » H'kon, he turns that hooded and scarfed head over in the direction of the runner... and the gust of wind that kicks snowflakes into his face. « Maybe we should just get them all. They're miserable anyway. » Cadejoth knows this isn't sensible, but watching someone eat is much less fun than terrorising poor creatures. He launches upwards, shaking snow off of his wings as he goes, then banks back around. K'del's more visible, now, padding through the snow, his state of dress suggesting he came out here in a hurry: his coat is unbottoned, his hat very nearly falling off. "'"Cadejoth." « Sad. » H'kon shakes his head, and then shrugs and re-shrugs his shoulders, until his jacket and hood are adjusted in some way of which he is, at least, less disapproving. If his face weren't covered up by fabric, one might almost see a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. As is, it's just a long look through blowing snow. « Warmer on the inside than the outside, » Arekoth interprets, down to the bones of that first beast, now. « Mmm, » is Cadejoth's answer to that. His rider may be approaching, but he's not stopped flying. "H'kon," greets K'del, breathing heavily, once he's close enough to do so. "Heard--" that their dragons were up to something? That he might need to intervene? But if H'kon is here... the wingsecond gets a lengthy glance. A look, even. H'kon's head lifts to acknowledge his name. Shortly after it comes a hand, up to face level, where that scarf, so carefully wrapped before he'd left the shelter of his weyr, is tugged down. "K'del," comes borne on a cloud of breath, escaping just between the last gust and- and now it's gone. The wingsecond looks right back, but it's not a look on his part. It might even be something like curiosity. Arekoth is airborne again. Cadejoth may - certainly, definitely, without question - feel his rider's disapproval, but Arekoth is in the air, and the beasts are in motion, and, and, and-- what dragon could resist, really? I mean, really? He throws himself into his task, quite as if he's got to make sure he gets it done before his rider can react; it's the work of moments to send a beast toward the other dragon, and then - alas! - the work of a few more to reluctantly drop back to the ground. Fine. Fine. "Fucking dragons," mutters K'del, just loud enough to be audible, though not so loud that it's necessarily an invitation to conversation. And Arekoth? Arekoth throws himself at that herdbeast, with less desperation, now the edge has been taken off his hunger, but that desperation has been replaced by the excitement of the team hunt. It's dead quickly, and Arekoth is landed, mantling against the cold. H'kon takes K'del's words as cue to look toward his dragon, which earns a nod. "He's settled," and ripping flesh. Short legs start tromping through the snow. A second nod, this one specifically to K'del, could well be taken as invitation to join him on his trek toward somewhere indoors. Or farewell. It's all in the interpretation. If Arekoth is settled, then, K'del's logic probably goes, Cadejoth is less likely to do more beast terrorisation. Thus, he turns upon his heel, glancing back at the now-departing H'kon. Invitation or no, it's the work of a moment to send him on his way, longer stride kept deliberately short to keep him alongside the brownrider. Even so, it won't be until they're indoors, heading down through the corridors towards the Nighthearth, that he says, "Can never tell if my dragon eggs on yours, or the other way around." H'kon's steps may be short, but they're quick at least. It could be cold, or consideration for his weyrleader. Once inside, the hood comes down, the scarf, already loosened, is unwrapped until it hangs down either shoulder, a straight line, the gloves come off. Pink-cheeked, he turns to consider the bronzerider when K'del breaks the silence. After a few steps: "Carried away. Whosoever starts it." It's klah he wants, and it's to klah he goes. "Yes," agrees K'del, trailing after H'kon, this time: he's also after the klah. His gloves are shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the jacket itself remaining on despite the cozy warmth of the hearth area. "That tends to be their thing. Not too much mayhem this time, at least. You're well, I hope." It's only a little stiff, really. Small-talk, man. H'kon pulls a first mug toward him on the table and fills it. The klah is fresh. And hot. His fingers, still chilled from the cold, twitch away when first he goes to grasp the mug. The second attempt is more prepared, and that mug is handed off to K'del, with barely a sidelook. "Arekoth was too hungry for as much. This time." From there, a nod. "We are. And you?" And a second mug. K'del accepts the mug with a somewhat solemn nod of gratitude, his own hands wary as they wrap around the ceramic; he makes a few adjustments before he seems happy enough with the mug's placement, at which point he can turn his attention back to answering the brownrider. "Well enough, yes. Glad to have the tithes in; always better when things are bedded down for the winter. Quieter. More time to escape south and see my family." "Mm," is a sort of agreement. H'kon's own mug is lifted without surprise or (obvious) discomfort. "Better than last winter." He turns, with another of those brownrider nods given to K'del, a table his clear endpoint. "At least," comes about three steps in, an addition to his previous (few) words. "And by next," K'del continues, gingerly carrying his mug after H'kon, finally settling in at the table opposite the other rider, "Hopefully we'll be back up to full tithes from everyone." Beat. "Proper full tithes, even, and not the-- well. Shouldn't complain, right? We'll all eat, this winter." H'kon has set his own mug down, and busied himself with hanging certain choice items over the back of the chair that will be his. Once the scarf is down, and he's sitting: "The relationship with Tillek has always been rocky, in my memory." He reaches forward for the mug, eyebrows lifting faintly. "And saltfish tastes of home." "Edeline was supportive of us, once," remembers K'del, with a sigh. "Back when we supported her claim to Tillek. But," he makes a vague gesture with one hand, "that was a long time ago. It's not like she's not had reason to be frustrated with us, at times." Still, the bronzerider glances down at his mug and sighs for a second time. "Saltfish is less reminiscent of home, for me. Pickles, in general. Glad that you, at least, won't mind the monotony of it." "No need for rationing, at least," counters the brownrider, any sparkle of amusement neatly shut down and hidden when those eyebrows drop. Bam. He lifts his mug, and sips, settling back in his chair. For that, K'del gives H'kon a look. Was that... it was, wasn't it? A joke? The bronzerider seems mildly perturbed; it takes him a couple of moments to come up with, "Yes, well. That's true enough. How are things going out in Nabol? Aside from the obvious." "The tithe is fairly representative, I should think," gives H'kon, as he lowers his mug back to the table, brows still set low, and the lag seemingly unnoticed. "There is still some... uncertainty, regarding the settling of their leadership. But better prosperity is a comfort, at least." "People," K'del supposes, after a few moments, "are generally happier when their bellies are full. At least until they forget what it was like, and start finding other things to complain about. Like," this time, he grins, "Pickled cucumbers. Still." "Hm!" This time, it's a laugh, albeit a short, monosyllabic one. But it makes his shoulders shake (once), and even brings the faintest bit of an awkward smile to his lips. "We've been monitoring Nabol's supply lines. Into the Hold. Y'rel should have told you." Lift. Sip. "It came up," K'del agrees. "At yesterday's wing meeting." And probably wing meetings prior, too. Yesterday's, though, was the one that concluded with Iceberg's new wingleader being appointed. "Seems like things are stable, at least. Good to know that some of our holds are." Most of them, really, if he's being honest; honesty is boring. H'kon simply nods to that. He's having to tilt that mug more steeply for klah, now. But he can drink more. It's cooling. "The next round of tithes will prove it more, I should think. Following a winter." K'del's nod answers that; for a time, he doesn't seem to have anything else to add to it - though perhaps it's just because he's busy drinking, both hands wrapped around his mug for all that he must be warming up, now, in the warmth of this room. "And things with Tillek will improve, too. With luck." It sounds wry, that last statement: well, it's not as though High Reaches has been known for good luck. Still hovering over the top of his mug, those eyebrows twitch. The mug is lowered, enough that it won't obscure speech. "If you've need of any extra help in Tillek... Alpine would do well to branch out in its focus. It may be worth approaching Y'rel." A moment, and H'kon amends, "Asking him." "You mean," says K'del, after a moment's thoughtful pause, "I shouldn't let Alpine become just the Nabol wing. No, that's not a bad idea. I'll give it some thought. Talk with Y'rel." Not a promise, but it does seem to have given K'del something to think about. "The weyrlings - Hraedhyth's clutch - will be seniors soon. Given any of them any thought?" "The wingriders must be a part of the Weyr as well as the wing," the brownrider offers, almost philosophically. H'kon, federalist. "Azhanoth and Loriel," comes promptly in answer to that next question. H'kon even leans forward. "I'd very much like them. Else, there are some who seem promising enough." K'del repeats the names thoughtfully, without giving any particular indication that he's especially familiar with them: "Azhanoth and Loriel. Right. Something to keep in mind. They've a few months left, of course, but... it's good to get to know them in advance." His mug is empty; he peers inside, just to make sure. "Arekoth has always enjoyed being around the younger generation." It's H'kon's turn to try on that wry tone, though surely anyone who's known him (and Arekoth) for so long could detect some hint of affection in there, somewhere. Deep down. Behind the eyebrows and stubble. It amuses K'del, somehow, though it's obvious only in the line of his brows, and the corners of his mouth. "Cadejoth, too. Especially when they're his." It leaves him without anything further to say; he hesitates, turns his mug, and then, finally, begins to stand. "Ought to get back to it, I suppose." "He did take especial pride in his own," has a certain nostalgia that even those who don't know the brownrider might be able to pick up. Those eyebrows even go so far as to slacken their grip for a moment. "Hm," is a clearing of his throat, is a refocusing. Is a furrowing. "I'm certain you've much to do." The wingsecond himself makes no move to leave the table, but he does raise the mug in farewell. "As he ought," is K'del's reply to that, simple and approving. He gives the brownrider a form nod, and then takes his leave; he even manages not to forget the glove that's already fallen from his pocket. Phew. |
Leave A Comment