Logs:The Rising Black
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| RL Date: 12 November, 2012 |
| Who: Svissath, Visigoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Svissath has a visitor. |
| Where: Svissath's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 3, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, Brieli/Mentions, R'hin/Mentions |
| His rider sticks to home more often than not, these days, venturing out only when he must: to bathe, to eat; Svissath is a near-constant sentinel, a guard, whose silent presence rests upon the ledge day in and day out. He's colour's not quite right, and his thoughts - should anyone intrude on them - seem fractured, but Svissath is quite calm to the glance, with his tail curled into the passage that leads indoors, and his head resting so gently upon the flat planes of the ledge. Some short time after Svissath's rider departs... a big brute of a brown, or so he looks for all that he's more sword than ax, wings by. Circles. And then, with a lazy stretch of his wings, plops himself down on Svissath's ledge. « Going to snow again, » Visigoth observes to the considerably younger brown. He's considerably older, with the Threadscores he's survived to prove it, and yet he's here anyway. No rider. And, oh, Visigoth's his name, though he doesn't have to say so: it's just a knowing, passed along. It's enough to lift his head from the ledge, the arrival of this brown, and Svissath watches him warily as he circles - and then more warily again as he lands. There's room, at least, even enough that there's no need for the younger brown to shift his position (though from the look of him, he wouldn't have done so even if it were required). « Is it? » Svissath's polite disinterest comes accompanied by an impenetrable wall, securing away his inner thoughts. « Did you need something? » The thing is, Visigoth's not gotten around to so much as approaching that wall, much less knocking. Or battering. Or sending a spy around back. Maybe he doesn't see it? « Sunshine, » the larger brown observes with more cheer than suits his morose, wing-slumped demeanor, and rests his head on one-atop-the-other layered paws. He doesn't talk particularly quickly, but neither does he leave long pauses that would startle when they're distrupted. « Benden, it's about done with snowing, got to be. I hear from the others. » Do they gloat? They must, but Visigoth saves the other brown from that. « Sunshine, » repeats Svissath, and even with his thoughts so carefully barricaded away, he can't hide the longing that that thought brings. Sunshine. Sunshine and warmth. He shifts his wings in closer to his body, and drops his head back down towards the icy stone. « It will be warm in Monaco. I will go back there, soon, and I shall rest upon my ledge in the sun. » I, not we. Is that unusual in a dragon? Perhaps it's just Svissath's way. « What do you want from me. Visigoth. No doubt you have a nicer ledge of your own. » Warmth. Visigoth's low exhalation gives away some of the precious stuff, as does the yawn that follows it. « That will be good, » he agrees, not in a kick-Svissath-out way, not even in a disparaging-this-place way, but just: a dragon needs his home. Especially if it is a warm home. But Svissath's got questions, so: « Don't think you have anything you could give me, boyo. » Sorry, man. But it's okay. « It is a nice ledge. Got a view, got a sparkly thing hanging from the ceiling, Ilsabeth next door is pretty sweet and not too loud, I catch her sometimes. Hey... » Is that a rumpus in the feeding pens? Not a flight or anything, but maybe little ones trying to feed? Or getting stuff hunted down for them, could be. Visigoth hasn't been keeping track. Something brightens in Svissath's demeanour as the feeding grounds are pointed out. The little ones may be too young to do the hunting, but they're there: his children. His. « They grow strong, » he says. « They'll come and visit me in Monaco. » It's as though he's clinging to that idea, using it as the one true thing he can hold on to. « If your ledge is so excellent, » he continues, turning his head to give the other brown a side-long glance, « why are you on mine? As you say, I have nothing I could give you. It is just me. » Certainly stronger. Not nearly as wobbly as they were last time Visigoth saw them... when was that? Eh, can't remember. « Sure they will, » he agrees more vocally, just as conversationally. The big brown's still looking out at the herd, and that tasty-looking wherry over there that keeps escaping and really he should go fix that except he can't be bothered, when he senses Svissath looking at him and half-turns. « Good question, » he admits with a not-quite-human shrug of his wings. « Don't know. Maybe 'cause I haven't, and you're going to head off soon. » And not come back. « Maybe 'cause you didn't exactly look busy. » Lonely, yeah, but nobody wants him to say that. Svissath's so carefully constructed wall is leaking things; perhaps it's not so solid, after all. « I am going to head off soon, » he agrees, with quiet fervour. « Home. Do you make a habit of coming to know all visiting dragons? I suppose there may not be many. » These thoughts are disjointed, slightly, and if Svissath is shifting his wings all over again, perhaps that's just because of the wind. He doesn't have an answer as to his lack of business, just an edge of discomfort-- the suggestion of clipped wings, though his seem perfectly intact. Only - « Everything will be better when I am home. » Does he? Visigoth doesn't quite remember that either, so he chews on that for a little while. Could check with his rider, but this way it stays just the two of them. « No, » he decides finally. « Don't think I do. » Why would he? Maybe there's a reason. « Visitors come in and out alla time, but it's not as though they stay. » Or have to stay. He turns his head on that long neck to sniff in the direction of Svissath's wings, more specifically their joints, and snorts. Poor guy. Why do they do that to a dragon, anyway. Isn't right. « At Monaco, » and he's been there before but it's been awhile, « those queens don't make you get the oh-kay to leave, do they? You can just go. Not like this. » This is wrong too. « Not like me. I have been here-- » Svissath doesn't know how long he's been here, and maybe he'd barely even remember his home, except that it is his home, and he misses it. And it lurks so heavily in his rider's thoughts, for all that he's trying not to see his rider's thoughts, and feel those-- well. « Too long, » he concludes. « At Monaco, all can come and go, yes. » This much he knows; he's sure of it. « We fly free. Not like here. They let my sire visit, » but he's gone, now - that was hours ago. They didn't like it, either, and that lurks heavily in Svissath's thoughts, and sends his wings to ruffling again. This is no way to live, is it? Visigoth. Monaco. Sunny come-as-you-are go-as-you-please Monaco. The idea of it, if not the reality, lingers about them in a way so unlike the way this place has become smoke. And tides. And sun-off-snow. And smoke and tides, without any sun at all. But not even smoke-and-tides, no truly one source, never quite knowing when the waters are going to swell and the wind's going to shift. « Good. » That Svissath's sire has visited, has been allowed to visit, that word that chafes. No way to live, Svissath. But... he'll be back soon. Won't he? « I have never betweened without my rider. » Visigoth is almost sure. Svissath has salt, but his is nothing like the salty tides - his cuts sweetness, and, at present, adds to his mental barricades. He can't hide from the smoke and the tides, not in the end, but the promise of Monaco keeps him steady. Ish. It's Visigoth's last that has his head turning once more, to regard the (slightly) larger brown through one set of lowered eyelids. « Nor have I, » he says, not asking the question that lurks amidst those thoughts: why? This is difficult for Visigoth, enough so that he doesn't truly answer right away, audibly arduous in the low creak of leather about cold iron that, in captivity, has developed a thin trace of rust. He and his... but this isn't about them, not about that unhidden tenderness that he must protect: it's about one even more in need. « Perhaps they would let you, » it chafes and chafes and chafes, « go, if they thought it was for a little while. » If so, or if not, « Perhaps your sire would show you the way to the sun. » Let you. Let him. Svissath doesn't live in a world where this could be so-- it's a sudden blackness that overtakes his thoughts at the very possibility, as though if he were to go, there would be no coming back. It's an unintentional introduction into those darker thoughts within; it's followed by a wordless, inaudible terror: no, no, no, no, no. ...No. Visigoth hasn't any experience with this, not from... Svissath. They can't hear. Quick as a blade's swing he moves, reaching (sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry) for the other's mind even as he'd move shoulder to shoulder with the younger brown himself. Only. He stops himself, mentally at least, taking the momentum's bite. He tries not to clamp down like the queens would (have been) but rather shield, only that's not what he's good at (not with anyone else) and it's hard. It might echo in there. At least Visigoth's in there too, the inside of that scabbard, so it can bounce off him too. sorry, sorry, sorry, Svissath? sorry... He is. Svissath shakes and shakes and shakes, and if Visigoth is comforting - if he's anything at all - it's hard to tell, because he pushes away and has no real thoughts to share. But time will have him stilling again, and have those low, empty words: « I wish to be alone. » Because the blackness is lurking, and now amount of shielding can keep him from that. It's arduous to wait Svissath out, even though the younger brown doesn't turn into fire or 'snakes, even as the elder brown controls his own panic: that nerve wasn't supposed to be there, when he terrorizes people it's on purpose. But eventually Svissath stills if not precisely calms, and has that last request. Visigoth can only assent. And so, so slowly, he slides that shield down. It's beginning to smell of sea-salt instead of sweet-salt again. And smoke. « I hope you get to go home, » he says to Svissath finally. « Soon. » When he wings from the ledge it's slowly too, mournful loping wing-strokes. And to top it all off, it is beginning to snow. |
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