Logs:The Definition of Reckless
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| RL Date: 4 May, 2015 |
| Who: Jynth, Ryerith, Nala, Aislara |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ryerith reaches out to Jynth at the beginning of the storm. |
| When: Day 5, Month 9, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Violent storm. |
| Mentions: Hattie/Mentions, Lilah/Mentions |
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| The Weyr is frantic with activity as the storm rages around them. People are milling around inside and those that have sought shelter with those they don't know well only seem to add to the buzz of stress and uncertainty. Aislara paces the barracks, wringing her hands in front of her in an unconscious release of the tension that has settled onto her small frame. Ryerith is huddled in a wallow meant for a far younger (and smaller) dragon. Her eyes are a whirl of the anxiety and worry her rider is sharing with her. Her thoughts sharpen and she reaches - and reaches - and seems to have to keep reaching to locate the mind of Jynth. She's wrapped in a blanket of fog and her mind is fuzzy as she asks, « Where are you? » From Jynth, initially there's nothing but a sense of his presence, laced as it is with white-hot heat and the crackle of unnatural energy: fear uncontained. The flicker of acknowledgement of Ryerith's presence is just that, a flicker, for he can't give any more of his focus over to her for the moment. For several moments, the high winds and the darkness and the lightning overwhelm his touch, world a whirl of motion and pain that spills in and eliminates control and any chance of keeping it back from any who reach for his mind. And then nothing. Whether it's Between or that he cannot manage to maintain a connection, there's nothing but blackness. He's still there. He still exists. That's all there is. That white-hot heat touches Ryerith's fog and sets it ablaze as her own fear is amplified by the flickering shared. It's the nothing that draws the green forward, her voice rising against the feel of darkness that is threatening to overwhelm her. « Where are you!? » There is nothing she can do. She is trapped. They are trapped. Should they go and find them? Are they not here? Ryerith begins to head towards the exit but Aislara stops her, holding on to a green shoulder as she tries to soothe their shared worries by breathing. Breathing helps. « Jynth! We need to know! » Time elapses. It's not by deliberate design that there is no response, but, for a long while, there is little to nothing but only the fact that there is no keening and no sudden severing of the blue's mental presence from the Weyr's collective. When something more like an intelligent consciousness and less like a ball of fear and panic surfaces again, the aching is the first thing to seep through the thin thread of connection Jynth is able to create. Then it's the feel of soft earth beneath paws, the crackling of fires lit not so far off, and the quiet murmurings of voices; a child's laughter. He only lies stationary wherever he is, taking his turn to breathe. « We're alive, » he shares, a little ragged around the edges from shock. Time. It's too much time. Spent worrying. And not knowing. Aislara's gone to help the others but Ryerith is still there when Jynth reconnects. She's been waiting. That thread is enhanced as the green lends her mental strength to it. That child. « Who? » It's too hard to want to ask more. She waits. The views that she shares with him are of the barracks. She doesn't want to go out. It's too much out there. « We used to belong with them. » The child specifically, or the others? Jynth is too exhausted to make the distinction; even the distinction between himself and Nala. It's easier to just let the whole world flood in, so he does so, letting those sights and sounds slip down his mental connection with Ryerith. He shares no recognition of the people milling about, if any of their names are known, motion all that draws his focus their way. No buildings, just open space, the wheel of a wagon at the periphery of his vision. "Faye! For Faranth's sake, stop squirming, or this'll scar." It's a male voice. Before sleep claims the blue, he reaches to envelope Ryerith in warmth - no longer that white-hot heat - affection breaking through exhaustion for a moment. When he wakes... well, he'll try being better at communicating. Ryerith does not know what to make of those things shared with her. It's too open for her liking there and her concern is swirled away in the thundering of the rain from outside. Or is that still memory reminding her of those sounds? She's too tired to know and doesn't bother to clarify to him. Sleep claims Jynth as it does her, her worry abated enough in the knowledge that they live. That they are with others and safe. When he wakes, he'll find Ryerith's ribbon there at the edge of his awareness, tickling at him and waiting for a report. « Where are you? We may brave the weather and come to you. There are many out there needing help. » When he wakes, Jynth is still in the process of realising and acknowledging the pain that's settled into his muscles, tentative flexes of limbs and tail given as he finds his way back to consciousness. He's in that same place, wherever it is, the weather fair, but not exactly warm. « East, » he groggily hazards, unsure. Does he - or Nala? - mean to be manipulative when he deliberately shares the extent of what presently hurts? « No, » he insists. « It's too difficult to get through. If you try, you could be hurt. Or worse. It was difficult even to see. » Such manipulations only aid in Ryerith's distress and desire to go. « We could manage. We will manage » she clarifies, leaning in against Jynthi mentally. His hurts can be her hurts, her mind blankets his in warmth and attempts to soothe his aches. « Some are ready to go now. We could join them. » The weather is what it is. She can face the storm and from the background feel of Aislara, she too is anxious to chance it. « And if you try and don't survive, what do we do then? » Jynth puts to her, leaning in turn against Ryerith's presence, accepting her warmth, but not her line of argument, metal cool against her seemingly more heated insistence. « You would leave us behind. » In a rather final way. « There're places we can go. People to see. You're safer there, with everyone else. When it eases, we'll come back. » Not that, given those aches, he sounds like he really wants to go anywhere quickly right now. Ryerith is not so sure about his answer and her tension radiates in the rumble that hums along the ribbon that's wrapped it's way around his metal coolness. « Something may happen if we are not there. You are not safe outside the Weyr. » Whether this is Aislara's fears or the green's is indistinguishable. « I am not so weak that the storm would give us a final end. » There's a pause as she fades away from him and is drawn into a conversation with her rider. Her return is a slow creep of her awareness trickling back towards him. « Some of Hematite are willing to go with us. » Her ribbon tightens and slowly begins to show fraying edges as she continues « Is this not enough proof we are not being reckless? » The usual warmth to Jynth's voice leeches away, the cooler edge to his rider's tones creeping in as he declares, « Hematite are the definition of reckless, » with only his quiet doubts on that front, suppressed and cast aside by another mind, to provide any argument. With that hold there, it's Nala who continues to have control, and who uses her blue to channel her weary, strung-out threat. « If you try, we will tell Elaruth or Eliyaveith and they will stop you. You will not be hurt for us. You will have a class to teach soon. They will need you. » And they are only one (two) people. Ryerith is not the sort of dragon to put up much of an argument. She balks at that cooler tone and quiets as the threat is made. Her ribbon continues to fray into tiny wisps as her touch is slowly worn away by Aislara's growing agitation. For a time the only thing imparted to Jynth is Ryerith's quiet acceptance and Aislara's growing defiance. It is possible her conversation with the nameless Hematite riders are adding to this. Finally, with the final snap destroying that ribbon, Ryerith passes on: « The slightest break in weather and we come. » Threat for threat. « ....If... » there is one? Jynth doesn't manage any more than that, exhaustion already casting shadows at the edges of his mind once again. A scrabble of boots sounds, then a solid weight rests against his chest, his rider's leathers creaking a little as she settles heavily down. "Faye? Drink this." Then quiet from both, that unknown voice the last information telegraphed to Ryerith's distant presence. |
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