Logs:The Promise of Home
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| RL Date: 11 November, 2012 |
| Who: Aristath, Hraedyth, I'kris, R'hin, Vrianth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin comes to check in on I'kris. |
| Where: Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 3, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions, M'kar/Mentions, M'kris/Mentions |
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| Far from merely announcing himself, the familiar chill of High Reaches' winter accompanies Leiventh's arrival over High Reaches, the bronze's more felt than heard. Still, one couldn't accuse him of failing to follow protocol, given his low, rumbling greeting to the watchdragon and his high approach above the Weyr. (Leiventh to all dragons) To all dragons, Aristath does not have the innate authority of a flight-won Weyrleader, but he makes his stand nonetheless: « Leiventh. » He's older than the Monacoan bronze, but no doubt he remembers him through his rider. « What do you want with this Weyr? » Others may hear this conversation: he'll make no secrets. Not the watchdragon: low-level energy running, observing, and it's as though he's just tripped a wire. A dragon, watching. (Vrianth to Leiventh) Monacoan bronze? Certainly Leiventh doesn't consider himself such, even if he has to identify otherwise. The faint disgruntlement is brief, however: such things shouldn't concern a dragon overly long. « We visit. Our son, and our son's children. » A pause, as brilliant crimson begins to seep through: « Does High Reaches turn away others? » A question, not an accusation, a sense of infinite patience. (Leiventh to all dragons) To all High Reaches dragons, Hraedhyth is a spot of heat within High Reaches' winter, heatwaves rising behind Aristath. Drums do not interrupt him, but they are close to doing so, letting the (false) Leader have his say. It's one she agrees with, so the young gold will remain quiet. Not silent, not with pounding drums and a low, persistent rumble to let the Monaco bronze know that she is here. There is a wariness in Aristath's authority, and a consciousness of Hraedhyth and her rather superior authority. And yet-- « We will not turn others away, » he affirms, carefully. Not 'you are welcome', but rather 'we cannot stop you if we intend to be polite'. « Perhaps you will meet with them in public, » is intended to be a mid-point between the two. (Aristath to all dragons) To all dragons, Svissath may be a topic of conversation, but he has no conversation of his own to offer. His thoughts are closed in and private; let the others decide what is best. (But oh-- please.) To all dragons, Hraedhyth doesn't directly contradict Aristath, though she speaks to Leiventh now, « All are to announce who they are when they enter our lands. » There, now he knows. « No exceptions. » Not for any dragons, as certain bronzes have found out the hard way. Bristled fur begins to smooth, voice low and still somewhat rough. « You understand. » Doesn't he? It would be difficult to miss the subtext, especially in such a pointedly phrased manner. There's more surprise than anything else in Leiventh's chill tones, left to answer: « High Reaches had changed a great deal. » Slowly, the bronze begins to circle downwards, the winds of his home familiar enough that he does so with ease. « Perhaps we will. » The turn of phrase, echoing Aristath's, is deliberate, and likely as not an offering of his rider's, than his own. Hraedhyth's presence is noticed, of course -- and polite to a fault, the bronze obeys: « We are Leiventh and R'hin. » A beat, then, « Of Monaco. » (Leiventh to all dragons) To all dragons, Aristath is unfazed by Leiventh's remarks. « High Reaches has had no choice. Perhaps you would act differently, were your queen murdered, » but this is how High Reaches reacts. Their High Reaches. « You may land. » Tighter, now, the chill tones of the bronze stretch out. « Mine wishes to buy yours a drink. » (Leiventh to Svissath) To all dragons, Hraedhyth gives a smokey dark huff at the two. Males. « Many thanks. » For Leiventh's complience for their heightened security. The young queen pulls back enough to be polite, but she is still there. A fiery constant. Watching. Something is off in the young brown's mind, for all that he responds quickly enough. « He will be there. » (Svissath to Leiventh) Dressed casually, R'hin's flight jacket and gloves occupy one seat out on the patio, he lounges in a second, leaving two more seats free. On the table, a newly poured pitcher of beer rests, the sides condensed cold. He's not an overly big fan of beer in the cold -- but it seems a deliberate choice, as he pours out a couple of glasses. Pale eyes flicker back and forth, watching passersby, and keen viewers alike with open challenge, his face a mask of something hard and tight. There are, after all, so many watchers: some from the beginning, that first presentiment of cold, some newly woken to the... incident. Most do not speak. Or, at least, do not to all. (Vrianth to all dragons) It takes a surprising amount of time for I'kris to show up, despite Svissath's assurances; when he does make it there, climbing carefully up the stairs, he's pale beneath tawny skin, with dark circles etched deep beneath his eyes. He steps plainly towards the waiting bronzerider, taking a seat in one of the open chairs without hesitation, though his arms drop restlessly towards his lap immediately. "R'hin." To Hraedhyth, Leiventh remains aware of her watching -- as if it could be ignored! -- acknowledging it, and her watchfulness, silently and accepting. He settles comfortably down onto the bowl's floor -- can be heard stretching out, greeting, acknowledging those familiar with the bronze's presence, though himself isn't overly given to chatter. Even R'hin, adept as he is at concealing his expression, finds it hard to conceal the shock of seeing I'kris' much-changed appearance. He's silent for a beat, studying the brownrider with the keenness of the borne observer, merely nudging the mug of cold beer towards his fellow Monacoan at first, as if waiting for him to drink. He lifts his own glass, tipping it in silent cheers to the other rider, taking a drought. Finally, "Your family's worried." Is he? Hard to tell, but his gaze wavers only momentarily from his study I'kris, to scan those nearby, then back. To Leiventh, Hraedhyth is accepting of his acceptance, hints of her hearth's heat offered to the bronze. Not like the warmth of his home, but it's certainly hospitable if, a bit tense. A lot tense. What she lacks in subtly she makes up in strength, guarding the sorce of such focus. Is it only he that she watches with such intensity? The polite, if chill refrain of the bronze's thoughts linger nearby -- as if watchful. Careful. Worried? A mix of them, perhaps, not all his own, though Leiventh does sense that hint of something different, wrong. His query is silent, but it is a query, borne of a wordless thought: can they help? (Leiventh to Svissath) I'kris doesn't seem to register R'hin's shock; he doesn't seem to register much of anything beyond the superficial, and even then... He does accept the beer, and quaffs back most of it in a single gulp, leaving a filmy layer about his mouth. "They won't let me go home to them. I want to go home to them." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and hesitates. "I think they think I did it." No. No. Svissath has nothing to say to the bronze, and nothing to share. He projects a wall - something to protect himself with. He's... shaking? (Svissath to Leiventh) "Did you?" It's a casual enough question, thrown out there -- for purely shock value no doubt, nothing out of the ordinary for R'hin. But I'kris stares: jaw dropped, eyes wide, face pale. He takes him several seconds to get his mouth around words to react with. "Do you think I could?" The warmth brims and fades as it reaches the wintery chill of the bronze's thoughts, though he appreciates the sentiment anyway, no doubt. While she watches, he watches in turn -- whether through old habit or merely in reaction to the mood of the Weyr; either way, there's a growing interest, and respect from Leiventh, at the protective manner in which the queen guards her Weyr. (Leiventh to Hraedhyth) Startlement. Leiventh knows not the cause, and he doesn't, by his very nature, invite confidence. Instead, against that wall, the bronze's presence sits, watchful, silent -- protective. He is here. (Leiventh to Svissath) To Leiventh, Svissath may not be able to let the bronze in, but there's subtle appreciation in him all the same. Leiventh is here. It means something, even if... whatever it is. R'hin stares back a beat, considering. Then: "No." He leans forward to refill the brownrider's mug, setting the pitcher back on the table between them. "We won't abandon you here, you must know that. M'kar and I have been talking--" he pauses to take a gulp of his own drink, pale gaze still on the other rider. "But, you look like shit, my boy. Surely, they can't be treating you that badly." There's an odd note of something strained in his voice -- like it's something he hopes is true. To Leiventh, Hraedhyth does not wish her Weyr's plight on any others (no, she really doesn't!) though it might help him to understand why. His interest has her even more alert, ashen head peeking down from her ledge. Her gaze remains a steady blue until there's a delicate tug to the scruff of her thoughts. Oh, Fine. She'll leave Leiventh to be unwatched, at least by her. For now. They're in public. How much can be said? And yet I'kris' voice raises just slightly as he says, "You don't think I could. You don't think I have it in me. Even if it were necessary. Even if--" He breaks off, and buries his mouth into his drink again: at this rate, he'll finish his mug very quickly indeed. "It's fine. They're fine. They haven't done anything." Beat. "But they're going to. They're going to frame me." There's an edge of hysteria in his voice. There isn't overly much to hold attention, anyway -- physically, the angular bronze remains perfectly still, statuesque enough that it might seem he were sleeping, but for the avid interest as he listens. Though granted, that peek of ashen head does turn his gaze briefly upwards in acknowledgement, accompanied by a faint sense of amusement. When she withdraws, he returns to his watchfulness, different in subtle ways from hers, yet perhaps borne out of the same source. (Leiventh to Hraedhyth) Sharply, with no mind for the boy's state of mind, "I'm not your father, I'kris." It might take a while for that to actually sink in as some kind of reassurance; certainly R'hin's grimaced expression might not help with that. "I haven't the weight of his expectations on your head." It's probably the first time I'kris has heard that note of disparagement for his father, though the bronzerider doesn't linger on it. Instead, he leans towards his jacket, digging into one of the inner pockets, and setting a knitted hat on the table. "Mirinda insisted I bring this for you," he says, with a faint sigh of indulgence. I'kris' gaze shoots to R'hin's face in the wake of those statements; it's only now that he looks as though he's really paying attention to the other man, his words really sinking in. He has nothing to say in the immediate seconds following, but that hat breaks his resolve, as his fingers reaching out to take the hat, and hold it tightly between them. "I'll never get to go home and thank her," he says, voice breaking. "I'm never going to get to go home. Did he send any word?" "Don't be absurd; of course you're coming home." R'hin sounds so certain, it'd be difficult to doubt his belief. He takes another gulp from his mug, watching I'kris take the hat with a tiny, inadvertent smile that he's likely unaware of. As for M'kris? "We haven't had a chance to talk; he's been working to try and pull strings on your behalf." A lie, but the bronzerider's so adept at such things it rolls off the tongue smoothly. Only I'kris' own knowledge of his father might otherwise plant the seeds of doubt. While he talks, his gaze tracks a pair of riders who choose a table not that far from theirs. I'kris holds that hat almost reverently, like a man finally able to touch something important, something tangible. For a moment, his eyes even half close-- but it doesn't last. Instead, he needs to watch the other rider, and consider him carefully. "If they let you visit," he begins, "they ought to let me go home. Please." It's hard to tell whether he believes that lie about his father or not, though there's certainly no softening at the mention of him. "Tell my Father. Tell him... it's all for him." "It wasn't... exactly the most welcome I've ever been." R'hin's gaze drops to his glass: safer, there. He leans forward, as his gaze flickers up again towards the other rider, "Kris. Stay strong. I'll get you home. I promise." It's the latter message that earns a twitch of jaw, and that tightly coiled anger in the bronzerider's expression, brief as it may be. There's a heat to his words, like he's forcing himself to say them with deliberate neutrality, "I'll pass on the message to your father." Not a lie, this time, though the message might become a shade lost in translation. More kindly, now: "Drink up, boy. I'm getting the evil eye, and I think you need to tend to Svissath." There's an earnestness to I'kris' gaze, now-- amidst the desperation. He's desperate to believe in what R'hin has to say, and so, he's willing to do so. "They're afraid. But... I believe you. R'hin. You'll help me get home. Please. I want to be home. Everything will be better." Those words don't really cover up his reaction to the mention of his brown; it's rather as though he's ashamed of what's going on there, given the way it lowers his gaze, and sends him deep into his mug again. "Both of us will be better. It's what we need. We don't... we don't belong here, not anymore." He's afraid, and it is so terribly, terribly obvious. The more that fear grows in the boy's expression, the more cautious, and careful R'hin reacts. Now it's down to soothing words, and light talk of home; of how Mirinda spent a good seven trying to pick out the hat, and R'hin's attempts to dissuade her from a more colorful version. Of how the shipfish were seen off the coast recently, and a few of the riders have been tracking them west. Light, easy topics to pass the time while they imbibe the rest of the beer. And when it's time to go, it's with reassuring clap to I'kris' shoulder, and the offer to walk him back towards Svissath -- an excuse to let the comradely arm linger around the boy's shoulders, and for the quiet words to be shared between them. "I'll get you home." I'kris needs those soothing words; needs to feel the promise of home, of simpler days, of normality. He's quick - perhaps too quick - to drink his share of the beer, and quick to become pink in the cheeks in a way that suggests this beer has not been his first drink of the evening. But it's those final words, as he's seen back towards his drink, that really raise the young brownrider's eyes towards R'hin, and it's in that moment that his desperation truly displays himself: complete and desperate, without pretence. He has no words to offer in reply, but he doesn't need them - what could he say? But he believes, and that can not be debated. |
Comments
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:24:11 GMT.
< Should have stayed up. :(
Nice!
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