Logs:Unexpected Introduction
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| RL Date: 20 June, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, E'gin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Vysravth checks in on one of the young queens. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl and The Minds of Dragons, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 1, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions |
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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. Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor. Azaylia isn't able to shelter Hraedhyth forever, and with only the slightest bit of reluctance does she escort her gold out into the snow. There's no blizzard, but the steady snowfall is something of a nuisance, flakes falling on her lashes and dusting her twin buns with a light coating of white powder. Their trip to the stores a week or so ago did nothing to rid the weyrling of that musty old coat, brown fur clinging to the snow as greedily as her tightly wound hair. She watches her not-so little lifemate attempt to stalk various weyrfolk on their way across the bowl, often scaring them once they realize they're being hunted. Thankfully, Hraedhyth only saves her pouncing for the mounds Azaylia's mittened hands build for her and the dunes that have formed naturally. The young queen halts, head tilting towards the sky though she's not looking at anything in particular. It lasts only a split second, too quick for the weyrling to catch. As Hraedhyth is quite happy, there's no extra attention paid when the gold seems distracted, even during play. To Hraedhyth, Vysravth comes with sudden silence. A heaviness in the air, and all that surrounds his voice unseen, darkness falls. A single beam of light cuts through the night sky of his mind, casting eerie shadows against the now visible fog. An abandoned Weyr. Vines creeping up the ruins - wildness overtaking what was once civilized. His voice low and rumbling, echoing off the hidden walls of his mind. « Hraedhtyh. » Silence again, for a moment, before the voice quakes through again. « I am Vysravth. How are you enjoying life so far? » There is only a hesitance that comes with inexperience at this new voice, not yet friend or foe. Hraedhyth's mind is never quiet for long and she thrums with a low growl of warning, echoing within his enigmatic acoustics. The rumbling plays a duet with the drums that thump with a steady beat, voice still carrying that youthful crack as it still deepens towards something richer. « Vysravth. » Snow attempts to infiltrate her plains in that second bout of short-lived silence. « Life is as it should be. Good. » Growl is still suspicious, but there's curiosity as well. « What is it to you? » A testing pressure, childish shove for the brown. (Hraedhyth to Vysravth) To Hraedhyth, Vysravth allows the drums beat steadily in the quiet for a moment. Their untambed beat reverberating off the ancient walls of his mind, perhaps not use to a mind that compliments his there is a contentment in his silence. The question, once asked, is not responded to immediately - deep beneath, somewhere below, in the darkness a machine groans to life, slowly, as if it has been a sleep for centuries. « I care for the weyr. » A pause, « And you, and the other weyrlings, are part of the weyr. Has no one else checked on you? » To Vysravth, Hraedhyth is not quiet about her own pleasure, the deep mechanical yawn answered with a snarl of excitement for the older dragon's secrets. Her own rumbling is purely primal, felt in the ground and carried by the smoke of her curious flames as she dares to probe further. « Queens protect the weyr. » Though she doesn't sound particularly protective over that role, drumsbeats slowing as she grows pensive. His role is accepted, Vysravth's name and title smeared on those ancient walls with warpaint, crude and childish. « My sire. » She offers the information freely, drums discordant and metallic as she borrows Cadejoth's chains in which to strike them. « Iesaryth's Brieli was checked on by outsiders. » Fortian flags flicker, tattered and dismissed in her plains. To Hraedhyth, Vysravth's pleasure can only be noted by the mechanical drumming of unseen mechanism below. Clogs catching, gears turning, slowly. So slowly. The flames flicker, in a fireplace now, on the floor of the abandoned weyr. The single beam of light, unmistakable now -Rielsath's -sheds light on the mantle. A single clock rests on top, ticking in time. Foreign, perhaps, yet strangely comfortable. « Yes. They do. » An invasion. The half-broke weyr of the brown's mind. Only his queen allowed to leave her mark here. Only partially tamed. « It does not matter where we come from. Only where our loyality lies. » His rumble one of belonging for the younger queen. « She is Reachen' now. So is Brieli. So are you. So is E'gin. » A possessive tone for his rider. They belong here. To Vysravth, Hraedhyth takes no care or warning in the brown's boundaries, though it's not a malicious invasion. Her flames grow, testing the strength of that hearth for now, though there's no harm meant. Yet. Keeping on the alert, smoke curls up towards the shaft of light, a cracklepop of warm familiarity. She knows Rielsath, although barely. « My Sister. » That same possessive tone of his is stolen, horded, kept to frame and protect the image of Iesaryth. She has long since been accepted. E'gin catches her attention. Drums explode in recognition, « Azaylia has seen that one. » The memory of embarrassment and misunderstanding flickers for only a moment within the fire, a glimpse. To Hraedhyth, Vysravth is unconcerned with the little queen's invasion, and with her inquisitive flames. What is there to burn in ruins? Nothing that isn't hidden away. The older gold's clock has vanished, though soft ticking can be heard between the clanking below. Instead the brown encourages the wildness of the gold, an old dusty piece of parchment flutters down into the fire, flames engulf it, devour it. Ashes fall to the dirty ground below. « Yes. Your sister. » The flicker of memory quiets the large brown for a moment. « Yes, E'gin knows Azaylia. He does not think she should be embarrassed. » The brown, having pushed his rider for information, relays. « We must go fly sweeps. » The fire disappears suddenly, then the noise. There is only silence before Vysravth is gone. |
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