Logs:The Blues...Brothers(?)
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| RL Date: 4 March, 2015 |
| Who: Ilicaeth, Knioth, Qhyluth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: 3 blue dragons meet, greet, and eat. |
| Where: Feeding Pens, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 2, month 3, turn 37, dusk |
| Weather: Cold, foggy. |
| Mentions: A'rist/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions |
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| Ilicaeth> Pale washes of sunlight illuminate the fog as dark shapes thunder through the winter dusk from one end of the pen to the other. Here and there a flash of silver blue can be witnessed in pursuit, grounded instead of swooping in from above. Here Knioth hunts, his wings scattering a spot of fog to leap upon his prey crunching bone as his weight bears down upon the animal. The air seems laced with the muted sounds of marching feet, the Knioth's mind voice touching the area triumphant. It's the loudness of Knioth's pursuit of food that finally pulls Ilicaeth's attention away from some glowy green he's been schmoozing from afar, the burly blue able to focus with ease on the younger dragon from his mid-level home ledge above. The knightly blue's marching feet are greeted with a scour of sand that just might make plate mail grind and squeak in protest, even as 'caeth rumbles a chuckly, wordless greeting to the hunter. Ilicaeth> It's the loudness of Knioth's pursuit of food that finally pulls Ilicaeth's attention away from some glowy green he's been schmoozing from afar, the burly blue able to focus with ease on the younger dragon from his mid-level home ledge above. The knightly blue's marching feet are greeted with a scour of sand that just might make plate mail grind and squeak in protest, even as 'caeth rumbles a chuckly, wordless greeting to the hunter. Ilicaeth> Were it but a little darker and Qhyluth would be invisible. Light merely illuminates the peculiarities of this still-foreign blue in those moments when it pierces through the fog. His approach is slow and sinuous, ponderously serpentine. He oozes his way through the fog and into the pen to seize some beast before it has half a chance to bleat out in protest. He carries it to the fringes to eat, his mental presence deep and fathomless; a dark ocean illuminated by twin moons and wreathed in fog. There is no greeting - merely awareness. Ilicaeth> The hiss of sand and metal greets Ilicaeth's grit, « The lady gives chase soon. » The dark fathomless depths are probed with regimented sounds, the call to battle perhaps or simply a question. « Thou art not familiar to me. » Ilicaeth> Instead of a rumble of greeting for the new blue, Ilicaeth contents himself with a blue-eyed observation of arriving, dark Qhyluth from his perch on high, the gritty male curious and yet cautious to a certain degree. He's got that whole 'guard' thing going, after all. His gaze is nearly-as observant as his rider's, and it takes in the former Fortian's methods and motives even as his facile mind conducts a bit of a conversation with the more known target of Knioth. « Soon... » Ilicaeth agrees casually, his deep and rasping baritone altering from heated sands to a plain of granite beneath Knioth's feet...firm and unyielding. He'll let the knight pose the opener to foreign Qhyluth for now, the former Fortian's serpentine and foggy self now his focus. He's patient...when he wants or needs to be. Ilicaeth> The waters stir, but only barely; the intrusion will be met with coldness, darkness, and something squamous that shifts in the depths that tries to grasp at that probing intruder. Qhyluth settles on his haunches, his kill lifted up to allow him to dine thusly. The posture is peculiar, but plainly comfortable to the darkling blue. Eyes glow a neutral blue, yet still sickly in hue within their sockets. Those eyes are turned to Knioth first, intense and inscrutable, before that attention twists to Ilicaeth - or where he perceives the other blue to be, in any case. There is only silence from him - relative though it may be. The waters murmur and sigh; wordless and distant. Strange. Echoes of Fort are reflected, but dimly so and overlaid with that of the 'Reaches. Ilicaeth> The snap of banners soaring high on the wind meets the shifting depths, those marching footfalls pure reaches through and through. They echo the beat of the war drum that beats at the weyr's heart. « Soon claw and wing will clash for fair lady's heart, but till then brother may their be peace betwixt us. » The blues brassy tones echo to Ilicaeth, uncertain of what to make of the dark intruder in their pen. Ilicaeth> He's not the type to bug a guy while he's eating - at least unless there's decent reason - so Ilicaeth sets about grooming around the base of the coppery claws upon his left forefoot while both Knioth and Qhyluth dine, the older blue remaining mostly silent, except for his ever-present whorls of grit or the steady implications of steady gut-rock. Now and again, there's a hint of his hidden focus - slowly growing - upon the watery blue, while Knioth receives his laconic, « Ain't gonna let Pevrerth win again. » The seemingly perpetually-horny brown with the dubious (to human ears, anyway) name. Rumble-grin. If Knioth is uncertain, Ilicaeth is mostly stable assurance, his eyes unlidding once more and casting their faceted focus down to the pens, to the shadowy blue who now calls 'Reaches home. Finally, his rasping baritone reaches out to Qhyluth with, « Welcome, drippy. » Haw-haw. Ilicaeth> The sounds of Knioth's mind are echoed dully across the water and answered, after a fashion, by a muted splash. Ripples twist the fog into unspeakable shapes that stretch and gape before shuddering away into shapelessness. Qhyluth finishes his kill and settles in to groom his claws and face with gestures that are queerly catlike. There is a thick gurgle of a sound in lieu of a proper rumble - but to what and why will remain without context. Disinterest colors his thoughts at the talk of flights; here, a strange synesthesia might be sensed, if subtly. The colors bear with them tastes - salty and metallic - while those echoed sounds carry sensations that defy description. This twisted collection of senses is turned toward Ilicaeth at that greeting. Rust lingers on the mental tongue; salt insinuates itself into the sinuses. His answer is only the wordless, singular ringing of a distant and massive bell, ancient and bronze and strange. Ilicaeth> Knioth finishing his own meal with much crunching of bone, and plops to his haunches, tilting his head at the not so foreign blue. « Browns. » Disdain is too light a word for what the blue wishes to convey, so instead rotting carrion fills his mental voice, a battlefield in its aftermath. The strange sounds and images, earn a snort from the silver blue who takes to wing, lighting on one of the nearby ledges to put some space between him and that strange mindvoice. Ilicaeth> Always observant, Ilicaeth takes in Qhyluth's attention - his personal way of greeting them - with mellow focus and a quirk of head to dark blue's syrupy gurgle. It makes a little more sense to him - sort of - when those synesthetic blend of senses resolves into what sounds to 'caeth like a harbor bell. « Not the talkative sort... » the outgoing blue notes affably enough to both his brothers in color, then offering a dancing skitter of his mica-infused sands as a chortle to Knioth's comment. He knows another dragon who thinks the same of blues (the poor, dumb sap), but said dragon's name escapes him. The stench of a ripe battlefield gives room for more comment in a snorted, « Shells! Bleach that shit. » Ilicaeth> In reply to Ilicaeth's observation, the moons wink - an easy illusion cast by the flutter of clouds - and the waters recede. In the flesh, Qhyluth, too, makes his way from the pens - but not to claim a ledge. Rather, he lurks at the lake's shore, claws sinking into the sand and his terrible gaze leveled on the water. The bell rings again, the kind of sound that reverberates to the bones. The battlefield offered by Knioth is studied with foggy appendages that probe without shame or revulsion. Those selfsame limbs of indistinct construction reach to snare samples of Ilicaeth's sands. Take. Study. Consume. Interesting. Ilicaeth> Knioth doesn't know what to make of that study, but of bleach, his mindscape once more becomes the regimented place of order it always seems to be. That marching tempo softly echoing beneath everything. <> Broken swords and arrows, weapons of violence sharp but never quite right. Ilicaeth> Illusion of moons...illusion. That gives Ilicaeth some pause, since such realms echo part of those of the bronze who he will not speak to, the elder blue's focus narrowing some, more forthrightly studying Qhyluth's probings and samplings. His granite conducts the sound of the former Fortian's bell deep into his mind, and - despite himself - Ilicaeth shivers a hint, internally. Weird. Perhaps in response, the gritty blue offers up the searing heat of Igen's inner desert - his golden sands scouring at the fog - dessicated granite and sandstone repelling a too-intimate touch of dark waters...the desert swallowing every last drop of that odd ocean. « You don' rank that, yet... » is rumbled with only a little bristling to Qhyluth, the burly blue uncosciously moving his mind shoulder-to-shoulder with Knioth. Backup in a weird situation is always a sound tactic. Which brother? Ilicaeth> Let the waters boil and retreat. Let the fog be devoured. There is ever more where it comes from, spawned from some unspeakable place deeper within. But, for now, those places that are drained of water reveal stranger things - bones of beasts that should not be, half-conceived thoughts drowned long before they were given shape. Some are broken. Most are whole. All carry with them an iridescent sheen that's nauseating to behold if studied for too long. The probing tendrils retreat without a word - and whether because they're satisfied or because of Ilicaeth's words will remain ever a mystery. The water shifts and swirls around those places blasted away by Igen's heat - and in the distance, where the fog remains thick, a scattering of lights wink into being. The bell tolls again and, this time, it's paired with a backwards look from Qhyluth, eyes glowing a sickly blue-green as he seeks out the physical placement of the other blues. Ilicaeth> Knioth thumps his tail, seeking perhaps physical distance before wings launch him into flight setting tendrils of fog to dance and curl even as the light of two moons faintly outlines his figure in the sky. « Luck be with you brother, this one is strange and I fear his mind misshappen. » Taking the better part of valor before soaring up up up and away to the ledge where his rider awaits him. His steady center regained with the rereat of Qhyluth's freakish waters, Ilicaeth is once again on Ilicaeth> His steady center regained with the rereat of Qhyluth's freakish waters, Ilicaeth is once again on the level enough to level his policeman's intensive focus upon those regions his desert boiled away, the other male's oddities treated to his minute scrutiny before they disappear... or he gets a little too queasy oggling them. CSI: Ilicaeth. Knioth's physical retreat leaves Ilicaeth devoid of backup, but at least he's on steady ground again, his head cast smoothly skyward to notice the knight's outline. Rumble. To Knioth only, « Crazy 'r not, he bears watchin'. » Especially since 'caeth's the cop on the beat. « Later. » And for Qhyluth? The tough, paler-shaded blue once more levels his gaze down upon the newbie, his regard unblinkingly steady, determined...and curious, still. Ilicaeth> Such exploration is welcomed - if not encouraged with subtle murmurs and whispers from a fractured, distant source. Yes. Explore. Study. Seek. See. Thus do those thoughts, those notions, remain until Ilicaeth ceases to show an interest. Qhyluth's attentions turn elsewhere, toward ice-rimed mountains that loom in the distance. When the bell tolls again, the waters that remain begin to stir - and are immediately shut down by the emergence of ice. That ice races across the water and seizes it completely, freezing everything in whatever peculiar pattern it was in. « She she she... » is barely audible, moaned by a multitude of breathless sycophants that lurk somewhere in the gloom. The presence of an outsider is made apparent - at least until the waters are loosed just enough to form great walls between Qhyluth's mind and Ilicaeth's. And should that wall be melted? His mental presence will be gone - much like his physical one. To where and why might be a mystery, but only to the ill-trained or poorly observant. He's fed and now he's off to bask in the presence of Her, for so long as She will tolerate him. Ilicaeth> He'd like to be as forward as possible with Qhyluth, but a good cop like Ilicaeth knows to hold back until a more pivotal moment comes, and so - when the once-foreign blue starts freezing him out - the native blue withdraws his own probings. That seriously creepy sycophantic sibilance of three repeated words is cause for the brusque dragon to shiver once more, and then shake his head at this whole encounter before he retreats inside his weyr...for a strangely-needed spot of direct attention from his rider. Freaky...and *still* so curious. |
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