Logs:The Storm at Home
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| RL Date: 20 October, 2014 |
| Who: Azaylia, Hraedhyth, A'rist, Lythronath |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After the storm, the Weyr is left reeling. Dragonriders do what they can while their dragons mourn. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 1, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Slightly backdated. |
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| Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake. At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
Lythronath comes to the last queen of High Reaches, but it isn't comfort he seeks. He has no more words, since speaking her name. His mental presence is a hard push to the other minds. His physical presence is a guard, and he tosses his head, and claws at the ground, and roars up at the storm, in time with one of Hraedhyth's keens. A'rist is tossed about on those neckridges. It takes him a moment, some careful timing, to get down and scamper away from his dragon's feet. In tune with Lythronath, it's to Azaylia he moves, expression going from wildly fierce to something set and aware, altogether older and more battle-worn than he is. When that blanketed survivor gets ushered off, he's standing there. Scanning. Waiting. « Lythronath. » A snap of savage jaws, even if only in the mind. He should know better-- and yet she knows that he doesn't. He's scaring those who are vulnerable at this time. In the absence of his consideration, Hraedhyth coddles the others, leaning to nudge and lick the brow of a trembling blue. For all that she protects the minds of those around her, Hraedhyth does not stop Lythronath in his grieving throes. Should he come close enough, the queen reaches out and rests her head against his thrashing frame. « Let it out. » She will not stifle him. Azaylia hands off a steaming cup of klah to a shivering sailor, turning around to catch sight of A'rist and his aged expression. She's quick in her strides, suddenly gathering the bronzerider up in a too-tight embrace, "I'm sorry." As if the senior pair could have somehow saved them, as if she has the power to take it all back. When a green scoots out of his way, Lythronath is within range. That touch from Hraedhyth stops him, muscles all tightly coiled and ready, and frozen in waiting. There are two clicks in his throat, a mental pressure as coiled and ready as the muscle bulking his frame. Both eyes are pinned on the gold, orange and red, and he waits, a dangerous sentry. A'rist doesn't remain still, when Azaylia's arms go around him. Both hands go to the weyrwoman's back. He waits in that position just long enough to gather fistfuls of her jacket, and then pulls, steady, pulls her back and away. But not so much, not so hard, that she'll be out of his grasp. When there's space between them, when he can point that unchanging expression on her: "What do you need." Azaylia doesn't fight him, though she is visibly startled, expression quickly shifting to concern. She stays in his grip, her own hands reaching up to find A'rist's shoulders and squeeze, "The healers need more blankets. Not just for the people from the ships, but a lot of weyrfolk are in shock." Two 'Reachian weyrwomen lost in six turns-- three weyrwomen deaths in what can easily be called a lifetime. "The rescued..." There's a short list of what else those poor souls might need, ignoring her own for the moment. Hraedhyth rolls her brow against Lythronath, head tilted until she can match his furious gaze with her own muted stare. Her growl is a more of a low rasp as she presses her head harder against his shoulder, « Lythronath. » His name is wrapped up in dark smoke, and for him there's an agony to her fire's touch, burning her presence into his mind. Hraedhyth is here, and under his vicious guard, she isn't going anywhere. « Lythronath, » the bronze agrees, in the same tone, with the same smoke wafted back, his voice sounding his own, but feeling and echoing and acnowledging his queen's presence. Lythronath, who pushes his head off Hraedhyth's as he rises to his hind legs. Lythronath, whose wings are spread to shelter the queen, and the little dragons, and anyone, like him, under the gold's influence. A'rist is simply nodding, eyes shifting faintly as each item listed is catalogued. He's still got that grip on the weyrwoman's jacket. "I'll go." Turning to look over in the direction of those wings, whose fieriness is dulled by the rain and the night. "If there's more," looking back to Azaylia, "anything, you can find me." That bronze isn't going anywhere, either. A'rist's touch grounds her, even if the grip is a hard one it helps. "You don't..." Voice falters, selfish urge stifled quickly, "Don't do anything..." No, she can't even scold him. Instead she fights the pull of his hands, once again wrapping the young bronzerider up in a hug. "If there's anything," A soft murmur of defeat, "I'll find you. And... you can find me." No doubt Hraedhyth isn't the only one offering refuge, the Senior's weyr open to those who offer to 'guard' Azaylia. As if lightning could strike inside. If it helps to know that their remaining goldrider is safe, who is she to question it? She'll let him go, taking a step back to press against those curled fingers, patiently waiting for him to pull away rather than break his hold. Lythronath is given a low rumble of encouragement, so slow so as to sound like one of his throat-clicks. Her wings sag, the weight of them resting atop the backs of the dragons who have joined her, echoing the bronze's protective display. There are no more words, but her fires burn with an intense promise for the members of her tribe. Her family. All will be well. |
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