Logs:THE Talk
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| RL Date: 3 August, 2012 |
| Who: Meara, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: It's time for Azaylia to face facts about the nature of her dragon... the discussion proves surprising for both parties involved. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 6, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions |
| Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr Under the tenure of a new master, the changes to the weyrlingmaster's office are marked. A fitted, new door that smells of fresh wood has taken the place of the warped battered one and is a little thicker, a little more insulated in keeping the noises of without out. Instead of an imposing desk with its many drawers and definitive sides, a round one has claimed much of the space in the center of the room with five chairs spaced around its edges. Beneath it is a square rug pieced together with twisted rags, it would seem, that stretches from wall to wall wall to long bookshelves and filing cabinets. The tapestry of the Weyr's badge has been freshly cleaned and carries with it the faint scent of lemon bleach while new decorations have emerged with a freshly potted, and alive plant, as well as a tea cart pushed into the far corner of the room. The new doctor is in. One by one, over the past few weeks, the weyrlings from Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch have been called in to speak to Meara or one of her assistants. It's an expected conversation, and after it, weyrlings seem to show a variety of reactions: some seem calm and unconcerned, others nervous and apprehensive, others even excited at the prospect of what is in their future. It's probably not surprising that the goldriders have been left towards the last-- their lifemates, after all, are unlikely to rise for potentially even turns to come. There's time. This afternoon, however, as the group disperses, Isath's moonlit grasslands seek out Hraedhyth and request, « We'd like to see your rider in the office, when she's got a moment. » As long as that moment is now. Inside the office, Meara - who has been less and less involved in the more active parts of training, of late - sits behind her desk, sipping carefully at a cup of tea. There's a plate of cookies on her desk, and another cup set out carefully in front of the seat across from her. There may be a bit of annoyance adding some strength to those drums, « We are busy... » The thumping stumbles to a startled halt, and when it begins again it is a far more measured sound. « She has a moment. » Long legs and a fear of disappointing Meara does wonders as Azaylia's arrival is prompt though out of breath. "Weyrlingmaster." She greets properly, standing up straight before eyes catch sight of the cookies. "Ooh." It's only until one's already being bitten into that the walking stomach realizes, "Uhm. You wanted to see me, Ma'am?" She stands, all her boldness already spent on snatching that one baked good. If it weren't for Azaylia's intervention, Isath's dulcet tones might have turned more forceful - she's rarely unwilling to remind her charges that whatever their colour, she is in charge of them. But with confirmation that Hraedhyth's rider is coming, the green simply withdraws after adding, « Our thanks, Hraedhyth. » Meara seems amused by the way Azaylia so quickly rushes in on the cookies, but after more than six months of weyrlinghood, it doesn't really seem to surprise her. "I did," she agrees, indicating the seat across the desk from her with a low tip of her head. "Take a seat. Would you like tea to go with that cookie?" Azaylia isn't scarfing the pilfered treat down, at least. It disappears with delicate nibbles, possibly how she thinks a goldrider should eat. "Thank you, I would." At the invitation (and lack of a reprimand) the cookie disappears to make room for another, which is also devoured quickly. "Is there a problem?" The thought strikes her hard enough to stiffen in her seat, words blurted out in her quiet voice. "Did Hraedhyth do something?" Does the word 'again' really need to be said? With a snort of flame, Hraedhyth rakes over the kindling in her hearth with something that resembles royal insult. Well she never! « You always ask that question. » She has been nothing short of Iesaryth-ic today. Except for that. And that. And that. ...but nothing out of the ordinary! (To Azaylia from Hraedhyth) Meara reaches for the teapot, and is part of the way through filling Azaylia's cup when the weyrling's question makes her pause. Dark eyes lift from their task to consider her steadily; then, she shakes her head, the corner of her mouth twisting up into something akin to a smile as she finishes pouring and sets the teapot down again. A tip of her head indicates milk, sugar and lemon, while one hand pushes the plate of cookies closer. "Oh no," she says, reassuringly. "There's no problem, I promise. No - it's time for you and I to have a little talk about mating flights, that's all." Hraedhyth senses that Azaylia is meek in her apology. « Sorry. I just... well you know how you are sometimes. » Affection coats the words, genuine and warm for her dragon's... quirks. It doesn't last long, suddenly tense as she gives Hraedhyth a mental nudge. « Why don't you see what Cadejoth is up to? » Or something. Anything. « Or Iesaryth? » Just don't listen. There's a sag to her shoulders as Azaylia smiles back, "Ohgood." The words are a sigh of the relief she's clearly feeling. She adds quite a bit of sugar and a drop of milk to her cup, bringing it closer while simultaneously scooting herself to the edge of her seat. Her motions don't betray much, plucking up a cookie and dunking it. The weyrling gives Meara a glance that quickly drops back down to her cup, "Hraedhyth is still a baby." Said more often, and each time it's less and less true. "I don't think she even realizes there's a difference between boy and girl dragons." Other than which are more capable in running a weyr. Having discharged her duty insofar as serving tea is concerned, Meara returns her hands to her own cup, lifting it carefully towards her mouth as she considers what Azaylia has to say. "It's true," she agrees, finally, "that it is unlikely Hraedhyth will have any interest in mating for some time, yet - another turn at least, I should think. We could postpone this conversation for some time, and it would likely make no difference whatsoever. But in my experience, it's better to be prepared well in advance - and to have time to become accustomed to the idea. Does her eventual rising concern you, Azaylia?" Azaylia senses that Hraedhyth isn't so easily distracted (this time). Azaylia's nudging does the opposite, investigative snorting and sniffing pushing past the weyrling's weak shield. « What. » The tone is all too familiar, protective and demanding as she senses her lifemate's distress. Meara's words might as well be whispers on the wind, though their meaning is snatched up by the gold. « Why does this upset you? » Confusion cuts through the severity of her tones. « I rise every day. » Her concern flairs at Azaylia's strangled noise. « What. What did I say? » Azaylia realizes almost too late that she's been dunking that cookie for a long time. She lifts it and manages to shove the soggy mess into her face without having it drop onto hovering hand or lap. "Uhmnm..." Her full mouth buys her some time, but she doesn't want to keep Meara waiting. With a swallow, she clears her throat gently, "I... don't know, really." The teacup is turned in it's place, not picking it up just yet. "Not so much now that Ysavaeth has." For obvious reasons. And yet, "I worry. It... seems like such a scary thing. A bunch of men fighting over you and chasing you... Poor Hraedhyth." Hraedhyth senses that Azaylia doesn't push back, giving something of a mental sigh that causes the gold's flames to flicker momentarily. Uncertain. « Fine. Just... don't get any ideas, okay? I-I mean... » Rather than try to confuse her dragon even more, the weyrling gives up. Oh wherryfeathers. Meara's nod, at mention of Ysavaeth, is a firm one, both understanding and showing some sense of relief of her own. "When the time comes," she says, in a tone that is nothing but gentle, "Hraedhyth will want to be chased. She will want to be caught as much as she will fight against it. And so will you. I suppose it is scary, though, yes. Exhilarating, exciting... and scary, too. But this is what dragons do, Azaylia, and for Hraedhyth it will be as natural as breathing. Shall we start at the beginning, and talk our way through it? I hope I can ease some of your fears, at least." "I don't like the thought of all those brutes..." Azaylia's words are quiet but firm, protective even. "They're all angry and, and mean. I don't want them to accidentally hurt her." While some may consider her concern silly, given that this is Hraedhyth that she is talking about, the weyrling is quite serious. Meara's words do manage to soothe her, if only slightly. "I guess at the beginning. I mean, it's not so bad. Right?" Fears that weren't there are now the more they discuss it. "I never thought or it as... too scary, for the rider?" For her. Azaylia senses that Hraedhyth has fallen silent, as much as she can manage with the faint drumroll in the back of their minds. Her weyrling's concern is always welcome, even if it is unnecessary, « As if any male could hurt me. » An unspoken, confident threat: As if they would dare. Without a culprit to attack, with no solution for her to tackle, all the gold is able to do is try and soothe Azaylia. Thankfully, she's grown accustomed to how anxious her lifemate can be over what Hraedhyth sees as nothing. Meara seems genuinely taken aback by the direction Azaylia's thoughts move in, enough so that she sets down her tea cup so as to be able to consider the weyrling longer, and with fewer distractions. "Oh, Azaylia, it's not like that. In a flight... they want to catch her, yes, but it's not an angry thing: they want to make her happy, not hurt her. They're much more likely to hurt each other than Hraedhyth." Her mouth twists again, and then she adds, "Most of the weyrlings I see come through here are much more afraid for themselves than for their dragons. Their dragons were born to this; they weren't. But you're right: it's not so bad." Azaylia brings the tea to her lips, and even after her drink it hovers a bit in front of her face. Possibly trying to hide behind it. "Oh." Embarrassed, she quiets herself with another sip. "Well, I don't want them hurting each other either." But it seems that's the lesser of two evils as far as her dragon is concerned. "I... during Ysavaeth's first flight. I felt it." Her eyes roam, looking everywhere but at the Weyrlingmaster. "I know it's not the same, but... I mean, could you tell me how it's different?" She asks the cookie that has somehow found it's way into her hands, taking a bite before it can respond. Rude. "I think we would all prefer that none of them fight," agrees Meara, reaching for her own cup again. "Many times they don't. Sometimes..." If Azaylia were watching the weyrlingmaster's face, she might be able to discern that Meara suspects Hraedhyth's flights will be of the latter variety - the violent variety. "As for your question... it's more intense. Much more. It's the closest you and Hraedhyth will ever be - as though you are one and the same, feeling her wingbeats, sharing in her desire. It's... a very strange feeling, to be honest. You will want to be caught as much as she does, but you'll want to fight it, too. All the riders will crowd around you, and you'll want to get away. Right up until you don't anymore." "Only sometimes." Azaylia echoes, and it's either optimism or denial that blinds her to Meara's thoughts on the matter. Meara has her attention now, explaining just how different it will be now that she has a gold of her own. The weyrling is still, hands gripping the edge of her tunic though the rest of her seems to remain calm. "It sounds... almost fun, the way you say it." No, not the right word. "Exhilarating." Her gaze bounces between the greenrider and the table, reaching over to trace the edge of her cup. "Dhnmn." She clears her throat after the squeaky attempt, finally mumbling, "Doyouenjoythem?" Meara's silence lasts only a few moments. "I do," she says, simply. "Isath and I have been together more than forty-five turns; I've lost count of how many flights we've had. At first it's... strange, I suppose. But you get used to them. That closeness is something special. In a way, I suppose I look forward to it-- more, perhaps, when I was younger and fitter." And not as stiff and creaky as she seems these days. "Usually, you'll have some warning before she goes up. I imagine you've probably seen proddy dragons and proddy riders?" The longer the silence lasts the more fidgety Azaylia becomes until Meara's answer startles her back into stillness. It may not be the answer the weyrling was expecting, though it is one that has her smiling. Not out of relief, but at the chance to see Meara as something other than a frightening Learninggolem. The lift in her mood has her answering promptly, "I have. I... think. It's a little hard to tell with riders. But I've certainly seen a proddy green before." Meara seems pleased by that smile, and perhaps relieved, too - certainly, it's soothed whatever concerns she has enough that she reaches for a cookie of her own, dunking it thoughtfully into her tea before she says anything else. "It impacts riders differently, of course. Some become hyper-sexual. Some are overwhelmed by all the emotions, and have to fight off headaches. Some can't stand to be touched. It can be difficult to see in yourself, particularly the first time, but you'll know when it is nearly Hraedhyth's time, because she'll begin to glow - it's hard to miss that. Even if you don't see it, others will. We'll make sure you're aware." Rather than worried, Azaylia looks on with curiosity and a hint of good humor, "I wonder what I'll be like." With a dragon like hers. But she does straighten if only to lift a finger, "I know. Proddy doesn't mean crazy." She's quick to soothe any fears Meara might have, hearing that phrase tossed around quite a bit. "I think Hraedhyth would look pretty, all glowing and stuff." Biased as she is, the young woman is even more at ease. "So... so she glows, and we're proddy together. And then she flies up and they chase her? And I... uhm. Am with the rider whose dragon catches?" Oh my, that wall over there is fascinating. "Yes." No pulled punches in this conversation, though at least Meara's aiming to sound soft about it. "But you're missing a step: before she flies, she'll want to blood her kills. And you'll have to make sure she does, because if she doesn't, she won't fly as well, and the clutch will end up smaller. She'll fight you, though, and it's not - I'm told - an easy battle. Generally, all the riders of the dragons chasing will show up at your weyr at some point, though you may choose to use the guest weyr the greenriders use, if you would rather not have them in your personal space. That may confuse them. And then... yes, they'll fly, and eventually, one of them will catch her. And you will have sex with his rider, male or female." The color drains from Azaylia's face, as if she's the one being blooded right then. "B..but," She's desperately trying not to argue with Meara, even if there are concerns. Breathless, appalled, "That's so wasteful! The meat is at least used, after..?" The weyrling nods, reluctant though managing to leave the subject of blooding alone. She's not terribly territorial, unlike her lifemate. "I wouldn't want to confuse them." Says the not-proddy goldrider. There's an attempt for another cookie, managing to pick it up just so it can fall out of her startled hand. "Fe- a woman? A girl?" Her face contorts into something absurdly amused, though not malicious. "Really?" "Yes, of course," Meara assures Azaylia, and not without an encouraging smile of her own. She's on less sure ground in dealing with that last question, rather as though she's not sure of the emotions behind it - as though she can't read Azaylia's opinions. "If Hraedhyth is caught by a brown with a female rider, then yes: you sleep with her. It doesn't happen often: brown catch queens a lot less often than bronzes do, but it is certainly something you ought to be aware of as a possibility." Azaylia has abandoned her treat all together in order to cover her face with her hands, still giggling. "That... makes sense." She manages to get out, peeking between her fingers at Meara with a slightly guilty expression. "S-sorry, I just never even thought about that before. Being with another woman." There's an honest attempt to stifle her juvenile laughter, biting her lower lip and bowing her head. "I understand. I do." She assures, peeking up at the Weyrlingmaster almost bashfully. "I know there are some riders, weyrfolk who are like that. I just never thought of myself... but, if it's how things done." Then she'll just have to grin and bear it. Literally. The giggles draw one of Meara's eyebrows up, but really, she seems relieved all over again. "Well... as long as it doesn't bother you," she says, after a few moments, her head shaking just slightly. "What happens in flights has nothing to do with our standard sexuality. It doesn't mean that you would ordinarily enjoy certain things, though it certainly can. Now, Hraedhyth being a queen means, of course, that there will be eggs. That means that who catches her is important: it can mean who becomes Weyrleader, in some cases. Even in general... flights can become political. You may be able to exert some control over who catches her. You may not. In either case, we would generally prefer she be caught by someone from High Reaches." "So I won't- if I was caught by a woman, it'd be okay?" It's a sobering worry, one that manages to quiet her giggles. The smile is a struggle, but it remains so long as her optimism does as well. "Not like, if a Lord Holder were actually..?" If Meara pays attention to any rumors, and it's only now that Azaylia realizes that could be a stretch. A quiet, "I'd want the flight to be fair." Rather than political, even if she ultimately can't escape that fact. She looks startled for a moment, dissolving into a quiet (and more reasonable) laugh, "Trust me. Hraedhyth would prefer that too." "It would be fine," says Meara, firmly, though a flicker of concern crosses her expression at mention of Lord Holders. "Lord Braeden's as straight as I am, as far as I know. I don't know where those rumours came from, but they're not fair to his reputation. In any case, no: there's no such concern in a Weyr. What happens in your bed only matters when politics come into it." But she reaches for her tea again, taking another careful sip before she adds: It's not often quite as easily controlled as that, unfortunately. It's not a bad thing, to cross bloodlines - it may even be good. It's just politically sensitive, at times. In any case, what happens will happen. Three months later - which means it is not so much longer before Ysavaeth will clutch - there will be eggs." Azaylia senses that Hraedhyth sputters, breaking the silence with snaps and crackles from her flame. « What!? » She understands enough of what they're talking about to voice her opinion. « I will not bare the brood of some... OUTSIDER. » And there are several pounding thuds to make her point. Azaylia flinches as if struck, lips thinning into a patient line before they silently mouth her dragon's name. She manages to regain her composure with a gentle exhale, "It isn't fair." They're in agreement there, though the weyrling won't say anything else on Lord Braeden's behalf. It's certainly for the best. As for a non-Reachian catching her dragon, "I... really don't think that's going to be a problem." Stressing the fact, likely to soothe the gold in question. "Eggs. Eggs are good. I- will Hraedhyth have to stay on the sands the whole time?" Wary at the thought of the dragon tethered. Hraedhyth senses that Azaylia is a cool salve on a burn, « Nobody will catch you unless you want them to. » Thoughts turn to their home, of High Reaches Weyr and the many, many dragons there. Even if foreign dragons were visiting, they'd surely be outnumbered by her- their people. That reaction seems to concern Meara, whose brows furrow in an obvious, intense kind of way. "No," she agrees. "It's not." She's happy enough to leave the possibility of who catches the young queen alone, now, and instead busies herself with a second cookie. In answer, "It depends on Hraedhyth herself. Many queens are uncomfortable leaving the sands, some even refuse to do so. Others are more willing to trust their mates to the care of the eggs, at least for a time. In general, it's unlikely she will leave the Weyr during that time, no. It's five weeks; it's often no especially pleasant, from what I understand." Azaylia listens, though Meara's intense expression may cause her to sink down into her chair just a bit. It seems she's not above playing the part of The Amazing Shrinking Weyrling, even now. "It all sounds so scary and new." She finally says, only after the older woman is done talking. "Five weeks doesn't sound too bad..." She tries, though her empathy on the matter has grown considerably. "I should visit Iolene more, then." It has to get lonely, and as Meara says the eggs will be laid soon. With a little huff, Azaylia lifts the gaze she didn't even notice had dropped, "Anything else?" "That's because it is," allows Meara. "It's allowed to feel that way." She seems to approve of Azaylia's intention to visit Iolene, though she doesn't remark on it. Instead, "Not unless you've any questions. Even after you graduate-- if anything comes up, we're still here. I'm sure Iolene and Lujayn can tell you more about what it feels like as a goldrider, too; things I haven't experienced, because my Isath is green. But if there's nothing else - you're free to go." A glance at her cup reveals that Azaylia has yet to finish, manners compelling her to drain the semi-warm brew. "Not about flights, no." She's slow to get up, dusting any crumbs off her shirt and tights. Stalling. "I might ask them about it. Though you've given me a much better idea, thank you." A gentle smile, albeit slightly nervous. "You and Isath are doing alright?" Not planning on bothering the Weyrlingmaster for too long, she's walking around her chair and pushing it back in place. The question may be a result of Meara's tapering involvement in the more active lessons. Meara, having nodded approvingly for Azaylia's lack of questions, seems taken aback by the not-about-flights question that does, eventually, come out. And then she sighs. "My joints hurt," she explains. "And Isath is not quite as quick as she used to be, or as agile in getting off the ground. I suspect it won't be too many turns before we take our retirement, Azaylia, though I'm afraid you're stuck with us at least a little while longer. No one likes contemplating successors. Not to mention one's own mortality." Clearly not the answer Azaylia is expecting with the surprise and then worry worn openly on her face. "Oh." Her expression shifts into something more considerate, "W-well... I'm glad Ysavaeth's next clutch will get to have you. You're scary sometimes," Honest, embarrassingly so. There's a subconscious grab for one of her pigtail tufts. "But you're fair. And you, uhm, know a lot of stuff." With a soft smile she nods her head, "Thank you, Meara. I should go and comfort Hraedhyth now. She's kind of sulky about Fortian germs." How oddly specific. Oddly specific, and, thankfully, enough that it distracts Meara from anything else she might have said. "Good luck, Azaylia. Thank you," she says, lifting her tea cup to salute the weyrling. |
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