Logs:The Morning After
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| RL Date: 13 August, 2011 |
| Who: E'gin, Kh'ry, Lina, Rhaelyn, Riorde, Iolene |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The morning after is a doozy and Iolene does not do well as a weyrling on her first bright and shiny day. It doesn't help she didn't sleep at all the night before likely cause of stupid Jaques. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 6, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
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| Rhaelyn covers her head with her pillow, "Go. Back to sleep." Comes the muffled sound from under the pillow. The pillow doesn't cut out the muzzle-bump-bump-bumping against the pillow though. Iolene is awake. Ysavaeth is not. The thin girl sits at the edge of the couch and cot pairing and just stares around the barracks, all big-eyed and tired, her study skipping across the thirteen other pairs about the barracks and finally coming to a rest on a pillow-covered Rhaelyn and the dragon that keeps butting. She can't help herself. There's a giggle that echoes in the early morning hours, that's then quickly stifled by a very apologetic hand. Meep. E'gin, too, is awake, and has been for some time. Hacking away barbarically at a piece of meat while his new lifemate inspects the job, micromanages the butchering of his breakfast. The boy's are engulfed by dark circles. Clearly no sleep was had here, barely awake enough to be wielding his weapon of choice. Eyes flicker up to the tossing Rhaelyn, and then to Io, who he seems to have noticed for the first time. "Morning." is grunted more than said. Amareth lifts her fine little head from muzzle-bumping the complaining Rhae and warbles softly to Iolene. With the nudging stopped, the weyrling relaxes and grumbles, "Yes....Ysavaeth's.....go back to /sleep/. Please!" But it's the meat-cutting that E'gin is doing that ends it. With a little sniff, the green grabs the pillow in her sharp little jaws. A couple head-shakes and a rip and...pillow no longer. Instead stuffing and feathers all over Rhae's face. Kh'ry is not only asleep, he is SNORING, great big buzzsaws of sound that are entirely disproportionate to his lanky size. Temrianth, however, is not asleep: bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the curious dragonet is currently pawing close to E'gin, seemingly fascinated by the savage chop of knife into meat. What is he /doing/? BLOOD. Sforzath wasn't awake, and then all of a sudden, he was. He's up with a bound, somehow managing not to foul himself up in wings and tail and whatever else there is, and going full-tilt at E'gin and Vysravth. Or rather, the meat. Which he intends to eat before Vysravth can have a chance. Riorde is slow to follow, mostly because she's gagging and trying to keep the contents of her stomach down. The stifled giggle erupts once more when a pillow explodes in Rhaelyn's face. It's a very tired, near hysterical thing; and from this, it becomes exceedingly clear that Iolene has probably slept about as much as E'gin has, which is to say none at all. Again, the hand flies to her mouth, but it won't stop the unending giggles. Her, "Morning," in return to E'gin is hard to make out. E'gin seems unaware of all the hungry dragons staring, stalking, creepin on him. The swings of his arms are wild, barely controled, half from sleep deprivation and half from the manic voice in his head. The savagery weyr was so afraid the exiles were capable of. This victim was already dead. Heavy blows starting from above his head fall upon the carcass. Vysravth is not so unaware of surroundings, it is a vicious turn on Sforzath a warning hiss, and a lashing of claws - not really much of a warning at all. Rhaelyn coughs and spits feathers as she sits up, sputtering, "Oh for the love of...." She blinks around her, stuffing and fuzz all in her hair. "It's not funny." To the dragon, not to Io. "No, don't look at her." She gives the green a poke and climbs off the couch. "Morning." To the others, as prim and haughty as she can manage. Amareth half slides, half falls off her couch without so much as a grunt of pain, just the wince from Rhae to indicate that it might not have been that 'safe'. "Ow..." The girl rubs at her elbow. Kh'ry mantles his wings in a rather bristly fashion at the incoming Sforzath, a startled reflex that he wasn't even aware that he /had/: the action probably startles Temrianth more than the other, causing him to trip head over teakettle backwards with a startled SQUAWK! of sound that disrupts Kh'ry's buzzsaw snores for all of -- one snore. He could sleep through a hurricane, obviously; just because it's a mental one doesn't mean *anything*. Temrianth mantles his wings in a rather bristly fashion at the incoming Sforzath, a startled reflex that he wasn't even aware that he /had/: the action probably startles Temrianth more than the other, causing him to trip head over teakettle backwards with a startled SQUAWK! of sound that disrupts Kh'ry's buzzsaw snores for all of -- one snore. He could sleep through a hurricane, obviously; just because it's a mental one doesn't mean *anything*. Sforzath doesn't stalk -- he dives, without a care for Vysravth's claws, almost as if he doesn't really understand yet what they are (though he will when he gets bloody). He tries to swipe Vysravth back, movement made purely out of instinct, one forepaw suddenly striking out at the other brown without restraint. Riorde still doesn't know what's going, still trying to deal with the sudden scent and taste of blood in her mouth, odd enough for a girl who never had meat until recently and certainly never had it bloody, but she's figuring it out quickly. But, for the moment, she's too overwhelmed with Sforzath's fierce pleasure of fighting to do anything about the dragon. Throughout this, Ysavaeth appears to be blissfully asleep, that is until one very irritated eyelid opens, followed by the flutter of the other sets of lids that protect her baby dragon eyes. Her « /Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh/, » is the final word she's going to have on this subject of cavorting and hissing and feathers and food- wait food? Languidly, the little gold eases up her curled limbs, stretching them backwards and then forwards before a flick of her tail indicates she's awake. A tail flick that catches Iolene unaware across her arm. "Wha?" Bloodshot eyes that must've been crying at some point in the night turn to find the dragonet. "Hungry? She's hungry," is Iolene's announcement. Tell her what to do. Silken words and honeyed images slip past Io's defenses to push to the heart of the issue in the most obvious sort of way. « Your eyes are wet. You've been crying. » In all of one day, Ysavaeth's learned what crying is. Iolene just does way too much of it. (Ysavaeth to Iolene) Vysravth is suddenly aware of but his massive bulk is for. Everything is a blaze, flash of massive paws wielded like E'gin's butchering knife. Perhaps it is not the best strategy for a dragon to hack at another like a pile of raw meat, but he's young - and he's ruthless. Using his box like power in an attempt to push the other brown away from the food. His food. The groggy boy is overloaded with sensation. His own merciless cutting, the anger his lifemate feels, the pain - his grip releases the knife still held above his head midswing, it tumbles to the ground. It is the unsettling clanking of the knife on the stone ground that rouses him. "Vys! No!" Is he scolding a dog? « I don't think we should be -fighting-.» Amareth notes as she drags her wing along for a step before tossing it atop her back to stop the rubbing. She's watching her clutchmates though, interested, even weaving back and forth at the various moves from the combatants. Not that she's going to get in the way, but she'll still come closer to get a better view. "Maybe /someone/ needs to feed their dragon." Rhaelyn notes with a dark look over at Ri. Maybe they go cannibal without food. Not taking any chances, she draws her sleeves up and gets to work cutting up her own bowl of nastiness. Kh'ry shoots upright, suddenly, hair akimbo and eyes too wide. "STOP." This is more likely to his own dragon than to the others, though his surprisingly powerful holler likely directs the way towards both. Bare feet slap cool stone and then he's stumbling towards where Temrianth is still attempting to right himself, likely skinning his own knees in his rushed leap down to assess the copper bronze, clueless about the fighting happening over to a side. What? He's kind of a horse with blinkers. From where she sits, Ysavaeth is ready to eat, if only her rider knew what to do. But Io has a survivor's mentality and learning on the fly, from what other people are doing, is what keeps her alive. Most of the time, and so if Rhaelyn can dig into bloody raw meats and hack them apart, then surely so can Io. The girl traipses after Rhaelyn while her dragon waits patiently on her couch. « Oh, I want to see who's better, » says the musical honeyed tones of the young gold. « It's interesting, don't you think, Amareth? What will Sforzath do now. » Indolent in her expectant tone, sweet in her supposed curiosity, Ysavaeth flashes a flicker of flame to the slashed brown, but is it to be a balm for his wounded soul and hide or to egg him on? Sforzath's smaller than Vysravth but already learning how to strike like a snake, food forgotten as instead he tries to come at the other brown from the side and perhaps find and unprotected flank. All that stops, however, as the other brown's talon's dig in. Sforzath releases a sharp sound of pain, stunned as he learns what it feels like, then races off in a headlong tumble towards Riorde to go hide behind her knees. Riorde, still trying not to gag, snaps automatically at Rhaelyn, "Shut up," then takes up her dragon's attack by marching up to Elgin with every intention of slugging him hard. "You hurt my dragon." Vysravth doesn't seem alarmed by the harm he has caused, which should be more terrifying to E'gin than it appears to be. He's looking over the browns hide as soon as Sforzath retreats, most of Vys wounds seem superficial and so he turns to straighten up, but there then there is Riorde and a fist in his face. The boy staggers back a couple of steps. "Control your fucking dragon, Riorde." Is his response to accusation, before he lifts a hand to his nose. No blood, but the dark circles under his eyes may take more than a few nights of sleep to disappear now. To Ysavaeth, Sforzath's surprise hit him as a shock-wave. As it recedes now, he reaches out - not meekly though. The fight's not gone out of him, billowing out in great gusts of sharp, spicy incense and the more acrid stink of smoke. « I'm better! » he insists, fierce and proud, even though he was the one to run away. « I think, » Amareth says as an aside to Ysavaeth as she flickers that strange tail of hers until it coils around a narrow haunch, « The meat-cutty-thing is going to hurt if Vysravth's uses it just right. » A flash of an image, the blade + Riorde's face. Huh. That'd be bad right? But the dragonfight itself is over. Rhae actually goes a bit pale at the image her dragon is sending, "Riorde! Don't be an idiot." Blood oozes down her hands and arms as she cuts into the meat, making room for Io to get in too. Can't be harder than fish-gutting. To Sforzath, Ysavaeth will reserve her final judgment for later. There's a distinct dubious quality layered in soured honey in just the mental touch she retains with her littlest brown brother, but also a gentle petting -- patronizing in the most childlike of ways. « You will be better. Some day. » But that day isn't today. « Come sit with me. We can share the food Iolene will cut for both of us. » She'll even scoot over on her little floor wallow filled with sweet straw. Riorde isn't exactly known for her control. She steps back, shaking out her fist and inspecting her handiwork on E'gin's face with a grim smile. "Don't hurt my dragon," she repeats and moves away at an angle, not about to turn her back on E'gin in case he comes after her. Sforzath, meanwhile, heads for Ysavaeth with the expectation that the little queen will make everything all better. Riorde's following in order to make sure that he's not actually that hurt. Iolene's hands seem to like covering her mouth today, as they fly again in horror when there's dragon-on-dragon violence followed quickly by rider-on-rider pounding. "/RI/," is her instant reproach, tear-stained cheeks turning even ruddier for her shock and perhaps even a little anger. The Weyr clearly did not think this through: Give a bunch of super disgruntled people large puppies with claws and teeth and anger management issues. Yes. « Oh. It was over so fast. » Dare I say it? Ysavaeth sounds a little disappointed. « I imagine it would hurt quite a bit. » But when Ri goes and E'gin doesn't hit back, the young teenager breathes a little easier and sidles in next to Rhaelyn. Quietly, across the way, she asks, "Are you ok, Elg? Do you need some ice?" Rhaelyn has disconnected. Kh'ry finally seems to come to himself, Temrianth taken care of; the sulky kid stares over at the commotion, a brow furrowed -- he's just caught the end of both elements of the fight, and he just stares around at all parties. "Yeah," he mutters to Temrianth, "Yeah, that's right. That's what we are. A buncha savages." He pitches it LOUD, too, suiting a look of disgust to both Riorde and Elgin. His head shakes as he turns his dragonet to the oilpot, sinking down. Temrianth leans over towards the others, though, his supposedly self-directed question overspilling. « What has happened? Why did they do that? There's enough meat for everyone! » He seems rather astonished that anything could have spiraled down into violence, and it reflects in the reckless storm of his mindvoice. Liquid, golden honey spills itself into Temrianth's mind, slipping into whatever cracks there might be in his mental defenses and oozes all around the baby bronze's mind. Is it reassurance? Is she just keeping tabs? Whatever the case, Ysavaeth's wordless intrusion is affable. Warm. (Ysavaeth to Temrianth) E'gin collects the knife off of the ground, though he seems satisfied enough with his tortured pile of meat to start feeding Vysravth. He turns to the bronzerider in anger but manages to find enough control still left to turn back to the female islanders gathering on the otherside of the barracks. "Maybe you haven't figured this out yet, Riorde, but /you/ have to control him. Don't come hit me cause you go in over your head." Iolene gets a soft smile, "No..." A hand tenderly touches his nose again, "I think it will be okay. We'll see." He pauses quietly for a moment, picking up another piece of meat and feeding it to the bulky brown, before turning back to Ri, "Woman, you got a wicked right punch." His normal grin reappears, directed at the exile-brownrider. To Ysavaeth, Temrianth is as innocent as a child, with all of his 'whys' and 'hows'; but his stormridden mindscape is no place for golden light, no matter how sweet and rich. The incessant storm ravages away any warmth, ripping mindless whatever sweet-- or not so sweet-- reassurance she may offer. An internal anxiety is obvious; what is also quite obvious is that he hasn't quite noticed she's even reached out to him mentally. "Okay. But if you need anything," Iolene's voice drifts off in the way she's good at doing when she doesn't really want to complete an obvious thought. Then, E'gin lets it go and even grins to boot which further relieves the young blonde. Now, it's time to get working, particularly as Ysavaeth makes two rather clear outward manifestations of her expectations in a succession of toots, to which Io just looks at the dragon funny but acquiesces: two orders of bloody meat, coming up. "Khorde," she is so not looking at the other new made exile dragonrider as she hacks at the meat. "Are you wearing pants? If you aren't, can you please put pants on?" Riorde, never an official candidate but forced to go to candidate classes anyway, knows the idea of control in theory, but practice is much, much different. Especially when she's not prone to self-restraint heself. « It hurt, » Sforzath confirms solemnly as he bounds over and settles in next to Ysavaeth. « But she made him hurt too. » He's rather gleeful about that, the hurting-E'gin-back that Riorde carried out on his behalf. "Speak for yourself," Riorde yells across at Kh'ry, unconcerned about disturbing the other weyrlings that weren't a part of the miniature mayhem. Io's reproach might give her pause at a different time, but there's too much going on in her head to spare a thought for guilt. Instead, she crouches down next to Sforzath to have a look at the cut the brown's gained on his chest. "Crap," she says under her breath, because she has no idea what to do about it. Having ignored E'gin thus far, taking his remarks as a lecture she's not about to pay attention to - not him, a younger boy; not now, when Sforzath's hurt is insistently beating in her brain - she does look up for his compliment. She looks slightly startled. In another moment she'd grin, but there's too much else to deal with. Instead, E'gin gets her gruff and wary, "Thanks." Somewhere in the barracks, a brown seems to have gotten the hopping disease and can't seem to stop if he wants to go anywhere. The barracks have become an odd division of exiles and non, and some of the ones who have grown up with all this just side eye the entire spectacle. There's talk of /heathens/ or /stupids/ from some corners. « Of course it did. It can't do anything else but hurt, » Ysavaeth agrees, affirms, and condescends all in the same breath someone, this bell tinkly, honey-coated intonation that's meant to warm minds, despite a different storm's attempt to ravage it apart. « And I saw. » Gravely, because Ysa is somehow learning mannerisms in a very rapid manner, « I wonder if you could win next time... » Cause she's so sure there will be a next time, especially as her own mental touch trails off enticingly. Wouldn't /that/ be fun. To Temrianth, Ysavaeth is outclassed as, at this moment, with her mental touch in too many little sibling pots, thinned out honey cannot beat a ravaging storm. So she retreats to the very edges of the bronze's mind, lurking and watchful for a moment to try and ease the storm. "Look," Kh'ry, defensive: "It wasn't my fault. Okay? Wasn't my fault. It was Eva's damned dragon, not my fault." Sulk: "I'm wearing pants, okay? Does this look like a robe to you?" It's definitely old and worn and ill-fitting, but it's full-coverage clothes. Well, full-coverage where it counts, anyhow. He /bristles/ at Riorde, though: "You're th' one who went off and slugged him for your own damn dragon's fault!" Lack of sleep makes sulky Khorde a pissy Kh'ry, evidently. Temrianth is more and more anxious all the time, though, butting closer to his lifemate and the oil. "Sorry, sorry," he repents to the bronze, a totally different look overtaking his features for the dragonet. "They did it 'cause they're stupid," Kh'ry can probably be overheard. "Stupid little kids." Who are probably going to beat Kh'ry up next. E'gin seems to accept Riorde's 'thanks' as a response to his peace offering. His gaze flickers up to Kh'ry for just a moment, still anger boils that he is being unfairly accused of stupidity. Eyes closing slightly for a moment before speaking to no one imparticular but clearly so that the whispers in the corners can hear, "Ah yes, so stupid, that's what we are. Never saw a dragon until less than a year ago but how many of us are their in ratio to the weyr-bred?" Eyes quirk as he scans the dark corners locking eyes with any who will look at him, "Are then we suggesting, and I quite agree with you," Sarcasm racks his voice, "That the clutchparents bred /stupid/ dragons who made /stupid/ choices?" Vysravth, for his part, stretches to his full size, massive wings held by bulging shoulders spread to full span, before he settles down for more food. "Is that some form of mutiny? I mean, if you really feel that way maybe you should go tell K'del..." The challenge hangs in the air. It's only after Khorde's ascertained he does have proper covering on that Iolene looks up, then smiles. "Oh, so you are. I don't think I've seen you like that in a long time. I thought all your parts grew up with you guys." Io shrugs a little shrug and makes a little face: oh well, apparently not! But there's a secret little smile that flashes, full, in its very tininess, with an impish delight at odds with her entire very tired face. Which then all gets smashed to pieces with E'gin. Ysavaeth, on the other hand, tilts her head speculatively to the ranting brownrider and the casts a sidelong look to Vysravth. « I could, » Sforzath asserts, straight-forward assurance mixed with the first inklings of careful thought. « I could, » he says again; the next step is just to figure out /how./ He holds still as Riorde stares at him. "Why is his blood green?" she asks of the barracks at large, completely baffled. "His blood is green." She ponders that while going to look for something, anything, to try to bind up Sforzath's wound with. It ends up being her candidate robe, which she rips into one long piece of cloth so she can try to bandage her dragon. The 'why is blood green?' thing prohibits Riorde from responding to Kh'ry, too. Except for: "shut up, Khorde. You're a stupid little /boy./" So there. "Stupid little kids," Kh'ry, again, louder this time, "Don't have any sense." None at all. "Sure, E'gin. Call K'del. C'mon. Call him. I'm sure he'd love to hear all about your little love-fest fist-fight with Riorde." Seems like Impression has knocked /all/ sense out of his head -- though really, he's never been known for it before, right? He's TIRED, and his BUTT HURTS, and everyone keeps making jokes about his PENIS, and Riorde was so busy snogging Taikrin that she never paid attention to the fact that ichor is GREEN, and Tem--"Would you stop that? I don't know! I don't know!" That's right. Insanity is SETTING IN. He eventually just leans his forehead against the blocky little bronze's shoulder, like he's about to cry. Well.. it could happen. This *is* Khorde, after all. "I didn't hit..." Elgin stops cold as the bronzerider breaks down in front of him. There is a heavy sigh, this is their chance? This is the boy on whom everything relies? The brownrider frowns slightly. "I...Look is Temrianth hungry? I have more than enough meat ready to go." Exhibit A - slaughtered and prepared chunks of flesh for your taking. "I am sure this is normal before we learn to control them better." The war machine that is Vysravth's mind springs to life. The great metallic crunch of gears groaning to turn their load, his deep echoing voice carries a hatred for the word he utters, and a challenge in the question. « Controlled? » Iolene is somehow managing to be completely oblivious. It's a very forced state of mind. She'll just hack at her meat and then bring it in two lugged buckets to Ysavaeth's side. The dragon gives a little nod, « This is acceptable, » and then fills the mental space about her with bell-like peal of a girlish giggle. « Eat. Eat! » said to Sforzath, but expands to include others though there is not possibly enough meat in those two buckets for more than two dragons. As for her rider? She swipes her bloodied hands across the robe she still wears. She is that lazy or that tired to bother changing and there are so many other pressing matters to tend to. So many things that are assaulting both her palate with the all the dragon sharing she can't seem to turn off, and her mental ones as she spies Khorde. Khorde? Crying? Is he really? The world will end. Hesitantly, "Khorde?" Are you alive? Are you going to slice our heads open and eat our brains? Are you... An entreating look shoots to E'gin as he also takes note. Hope! Maybe he'll fix things. "Whatever," Riorde says, dismissing Kh'ry and letting him rant at E'gin without her involvement. She surveys her dragon's makeshift bandage dubiously, noting, "That's not going to stay on," as Iolene comes up with the buckets. She's mellowed out enough to smile at the other girl. "Thanks." Sforzath needs little encouragement from Ysavaeth and dives right in, eating lustily and trying to get it all in before any of Ysavaeth's invited guests come up to steal /his/ food. Riorde just watches, trying not to turn green again, and in her effort to think about anything else, she glances at Khorde again and realises he's about to break down. Contemptuous, she declares, "/Such/ a little boy. To think Shimana wanted /me/ and /you/..." "What?" Khorde looks up, his forehead shiny with oil -- yeah, THAT'S going to break out -- and looks confused around about him, first at E'gin being nice, and Iolene's question, and Riorde's statement-- "What?" He looks defensive. "I just was trying to figure out how to oil his toes!" Yup, only Khorde could get sympathy and not realize it, just 'cause he's a skinny dumb lout. "But -- I -- thanks, E'gin," he scrambles to Do What Madilla Would Want Him To Do (tm), "I appreciate it, but he just ate." Before Khorde went to sleep. Temrianth's stomach rumbles painfully loud, and dark eyes focus on his lifemate who looks completely not worried about it. « I am kind of peckish. And he cuts his differently than you cut yours. I would hate to offend Vysravth, though. Do you think it would offend him? It looks so good... » Temrianth moves forwards past Khorde, despite the fact that he's not finished oiling the bronze. "We all know Shimana's crazy," is his final statement to Riorde, as he scrambles after his lifemate. He mutters under his breath, "Maybe she's your grandmother. Would explain a whole lot... Temrianth, wait, no, come back here, /Temri--/." Life sucks. Ysavaeth eats daintily. She sleeps daintily and when she falls asleep, Iolene can't seem to help herself from falling asleep too. Wherever she's standing. It's like a narcoleptic thing that kind of only makes sense cause she didn't sleep all day and all night cause of stupid Jaques making her cry. So much for the field trip outside; Lina and Aryeth had been supervising three of the (weyrbred) weyrlings in a first venture out into the day's heat. So there's a moment's delay between when Aryeth barrels into the barracks, rumbling deep enough that it's nearly a growl, and when Lina shuffles in, since the greenrider has to herd the three weyrling dragons back to safety. "WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE," she roars in a voice that's still not exhausted, despite all the parade-yelling going on yesterday in the barracks. She plants herself by the meat bucket and /glares/. "She is /not/ my grandmother." Riorde normally doesn't rise to the bait like this, but she's tired and confused and overwhelmed, and it's easier to fight in an effort to block out all the rest of that than not. She goes very still, however, when the full-grown green comes roaring in, rider not far behind. Riorde's instinct is to just not say anything. « It'sallgood. » The machine turns slowly in Vysravth's mind, a heavy thud each time a tooth enters a slot, but what does the machine do? E'gin nods over at the bronzer. "It is fine." Is said as he begins to alternate his feeding of the two male dragons. He's about to try and calm down the two arguing exiles but then Lina bursts in, with her green taking the lead. Silence, for now. Kh'ry slides over to E'gin, to feed his dragon -- he's not going to ply on E'gin's momentary good nature that hard. Plus, hello lazy, right? He's in the middle of feeding Temrianth a large chunk, which looks more like a tug-of-war with raw meat than anything else: the dragonet just doesn't understand why he should eat /slow/. So instead of anything, he points at Riorde. Singularly. She did it. Her. RIGHT THERE. Temrianth freezes mid-tug at Aryeth's bellow, and his words flow like a river of tears downstream, except far more enthusiastically: « How did you do that? That sound. It made me shiver. You should do it again! » Enthralled, half a chunk of herdbeast still hanging out of his mouth, he sidles closer to the relatively humongous green. Though Aryeth might be a green, she's a /full grown/ green, and one familiar with the ways of the newly-hatched. She doesn't have the mental presence of a gold, but in comparison to the babies? She might as well. Zeroing in on Sforzath and Vysravth, she applies /pressure/, the draconic version of a mother cat picking up a kitten by the scruff to force it to submit. « Which if you is hurt? What has happened here? » As Temrianth comes closer, she extends the sensation to include the bronze, though not unkindly. Lina, meanwhile, follows the extension of Kh'ry's finger to glower at Riorde. She limps over, arms folding across her chest, and demands, "What happened here?" |
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