Logs:Veil Strengths
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 7 July, 2015 |
| Who: T'mic, Z'kiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two weyrlings talk inter-dimensional metaphysics. Two dragons soak up the attention. And oil. |
| Where: Ahtzudaeth's Ledge; Oversized Chessboard Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Shit. |
  |
| The weather, in a word, is shit. It's cold, wet, and full of sleet - which doesn't do Ahtzudaeth's hide any favors. So, it's immediately after another lesson on details and image memorization and all those other nitty gritty things that will keep them from dying in the nothing of Between that the bronze declares to all and sundry, « There is plenty of space in our weyr should anyone else be in dire need of oiling. » The offer is made - as it often is - without the weight of expectation. The others are usually too busy; others don't generally need the intense level of oiling that he does. But, the offer stands, lingering in the space of minds while Z'kiel gets his things together and tries to weatherproof them the best he can. The flight might not be a long one, exactly, but water is pretty quick to destroy anything it gets into. He's silent all the while, his expression set a bit more grimly than usual. He lingers as long as he can, leaving Ahtzudaeth's mental presence to get subtly more anxious - oil awaits! - while he waits to see who else among the weyrlings is likely to take the bronze up on his invitation. Jorrth is hunkered down where he waits - where he insists upon waiting, even in weather like this, for such important lessons - in the bowl; fully hunkered, as if he could get the whole of himself beneath the expanse of his burly blue shoulders. Eyes were closed, but they open a lid or two at the request, and peer from beneath his broad forehead. His response doesn't take long. « Oiling. » It comes with the thought of warmth and a massage for cold-tired muscles. T'mic is rubbing from the bridge of his nose, up and across his forehead, and right to the hairline when the invitation is issued. But once it seems settled, at least in Jorrth's mind, he focuses on Z'kiel and gives an easy smile and shrug. "You don't mind?" comes amidst the bustle of Leaving People. "His weyr more than mine," comes the reply with a one-shouldered shrug. "You'll see." Z'kiel cants a look up at the strap-laced bronze and there's a moment there wherein both man and dragon grunt, as if their conversation had transcended words. Then: "Looks like you're the only one to take him up on it, so." He jerks his head in the general direction of the ledge in question. No time is wasted; he's soon mounted up and his lifemate is in the sky as soon as it's feasible. It's soon clear why Ahtzudaeth has no qualms against offering his dominion up for others - the ledge is large enough for two of him, at least, and the weyr beyond promises to be even larger. He'll wait on the ledge for Jorrth's sake, shoulders hunched a bit in an echo of his rider's posture. « Almost there! Ah! And how could I forget? There are places where you can rub the itchy spots, if you so desire. It is a wonderful place. » On the upside, the ledge is clean, though it has yet to be re-stained; the chess pieces have been moved inside, if just to the sides of the weyr's entrance. Still visible, if just barely.
It's probably the best weather ever. That's why Z'kiel looks increasingly more agitated the longer they wait - even if that wait is a very, very short one. He dismounts quickly and heads inside without another word. That silence seems to serve as a buffer - healthy or unhealthy, he's employing it with some significant purpose. Ahtzudaeth motions with a bob of his head for Jorrth and T'mic to go in after - he'll trail in after, claws clicking and with the inevitable dripping of water. Inside, Z'kiel cocks a thumb to the odd chess pieces. "Should be able to hang straps on those. Need to get more hooks in here." Then he's gone - sort of. Retrieving things, like oil and things to apply oil with and towels and probably more towels. "Need anything?" is called at some point while he's in the area vaguely designated as The Back. In the interim, Ahtzudaeth points out the particulars of the recently cleaned (if yet to be fully furnished) weyr, all of which are obvious - save for the outcroppings for scratching, which are along the wall behind the pair of wallows.
« Ah! I thank you, » the words fairly sparkle with satisfaction and Ahtzudaeth even goes so far as to try to touch his nose to Jorrth's when the blue lays temporary (one hopes!) claim to the couch and its fine scratching spot. « He was not as easy to convince, but there is such potential here. » His thoughts spiral outward, those possibilities laid out in glittering array. Z'kiel returns from that tucked back area, having shed his shirt at some point. A pair of large oil buckets, complete with paddles, are hauled up the short flight of stairs; the towels are draped over his shoulders for ease of carrying. "There. Should be enough for both of them," he thinks. He hopes, even. The towels are heaped on a ledge. The bronze ambles to the other couch, sprawling out somewhat for the soon-to-be-given attention. "Told you," he says after a beat, "it's more his weyr than mine." Is that a wry half-smile? Never. Temporary. Always temporary. Jorrth has his own weyr, his and T'mic's, and he is fully into the 'visitor' role here. "Jorrth got a good oiling a couple days ago, anyway. He's not like Ahtzudaeth." One does not live in barracks with fewer than twenty people without learning a thing or two about their lifemates. "We'll go easy. Mostly, I think he wants the massage." The blue has nothing to say to contradict this. He does, however, roll his shoulders and stretch his legs, testing where the best starting place would be. "Ours, you can't even tell if there are separate parts in it. I don't think there's supposed to be? Except the fireplace, but that's just thumbs being a better idea than firestone." It's said with the certainty of an idea that's been explored, if not tested. T'mic goes for a bucket and towel. "Fits us, anyway." "He's just past his last Big Itch," words said with all the weight due for a Serious Event. And it is. Several weeks to a month of frustration? No description does it justice. Z'kiel glances over at T'mic and Jorrth, then nods once before he starts working the oil onto Ahtzudaeth's hide. "He's too big for much of a massage," is admitted with a slight furrow of his brow. There's a shake of his head and, at the description of the weyr, there's a low and thoughtful hnnnh. "Could try hanging curtains to separate." A beat. "If you're looking for some kind of separation." The flicked look to Ahtzudaeth does plenty to elaborate just where that idea came from. "A fireplace, though- sounds like a decent set up. Especially here." And there's a faint bit of curiosity, but whether its his or on behalf of the bronze is another matter entirely. Silence ensues on his part, that awkward kind that's heavy with things that defy immediate articulation. T'mic just shrugs, and casts a considering look over Jorrth. "It's something we've been doing since their wing exercises. It works for what it's supposed to." He steps to Jorrth's shoulder, dips a rag (also grabbed before, no really), and starts to work it into his hide. One thing at a time. "You guys could come check it out, if you want. There were hooks that we're pretty sure were for curtains, but I dunno. I don't mind it. It's like a big barracks couch, but ours. And, fireplace. And it's got a rock." There's no explanation for that, as he falls back to the work at hand. "We will," is as good as a promise. There's a nod and Z'kiel looks over again. The further description exacerbates the slight bit of forehead furrowing that's already at work. It's the last that elicits, after a beat - and some oiling - "... a rock." It's supposed to be a question, really, but the faint note of incredulity flattens it out. He doesn't stop what he's doing, though; there's a particularly troublesome spot just there and he has to stretch and dig in to really get it with that cloth. "Came with the place," says T'mic offhandedly, as if that would make everything so much more clear. He pauses to readjust the rag, draping it over his fist, gripping its corners to keep it more or less there, and starts to lean heavily on his knuckles, right into Jorrth's superficial muscle. Jorrth's contentedness, at the contact as much as the rest, is pretty public domain. Warm and sunny and furry and musky. "These lessons are weird," T'mic comes out with, once he's well settled into the massaging rhythm. Open mouth. Close mouth. Shake head. Z'kiel's response to the not-so-clarified-anything is, if nothing else, straightforward. Hnnnh. He doesn't dig deeper into the matter of the rock; he's either distracted from it - or forcing himself to not think about it. Thus, he's caught a little off-guard at T'mic's next words and his usual, taciturn demeanor is cracked. "They're necessary." A beat. "All that visualization. It's like relying on a thin veil to prevent you from falling." His mouth twists to a side. "A veil you can't even see or feel until it's too late." Or not. As for Ahtzu? He's pretty comfortable himself, all warmth and smoke and satisfaction. "Of course they're necessary," says T'mic, though it's not combative. It's solemn, sober, serious. He stretches his arm out fully, and then drops it back to a ninety degree angle, and leans some more, like doing a one-armed push-up off his dragon. Only with shoulder rotations. Soon enough, his second hand grips the first's wrist. "I don't get how it's a veil," the bluerider admits, voice tight because his jaw is tight, because he's exerting himself a bit here. There's a low grunt and Z'kiel's soon pulling himself up onto a de-strapped (which happened at some point pre-oiling, really) Ahtzudaeth. "Some of the dancers I knew," he explains, "danced with veils. I never got the knack of it." He sucks his teeth. "They're thin. Delicate. Easy to tear. Some are stronger than others, used for different things. Visualizations seem a lot like that, sometimes. You just don't know if you have a strong one, the right one - until you do. Or don't." T'mic stays a little bit behind the conversation, dwelling too long on dancers with veils, and then having to put away a smile and refocus. Jorrth turns that big head to look toward his rider, but that sun-warmth hasn't left his mental space. "Then you get too strong of one, it can like... strangle you or something?" comes after he's caught up, and with a scrunching up of his forehead. Both arms are used to push himself to his feet, and warms drop down to his sides before he bends to seek more oil. "No," is his immediate answer, but Z'kiel pauses before adding, "Ah. They can be used for that. Have." Probably spoken from experience, that. "But, not for... this." Confused yet? He shakes his head and clarifies, "I don't think we can have images that are too strong. Just strong enough. Or not at all." But, on that first point, he seems a little uncertain and, after a glance down at the dragon he's astride, he looks to T'mic with a low, "Or do you think we can have too strong of an image?" The next spot on Jorrth to be oiled is just down from the first. T'mic applies this with his other hand now, letting the first one rest. The strangling thing is wholly missed. T'mic is a terrible dragonrider. "Well, just... how can every detail be perfect if places change all the time? It's easy to get details from pictures 'cause they don't change." Rub, rub, rub. "Unless someone's got a pen, I guess. What happens then?" Hnnnh. Z'kiel scoots down Ahtzudaeth's spine, which mostly involves crawling alongside his 'ridges with the oil-soaked cloth. "I think..." he begins, then trails off while he composes his thoughts more fully. "No. I don't know." That admission is both horrifying and oddly freeing in its own right. "I think they need something that's good enough to get them there. That it doesn't have to include every person passing below or every avian in the skies. But it has to have the big details. The important pieces." All that talk about pictures and pens? Nope. Too much. "Maybe nothing," he figures. "Maybe everything. Depends on how good the pen is - or how bad the picture is." T'mic nods a little to Z'kiel's elaboration. Or oncoming confusion. The tip of his tongue also sticks out of the corner of his mouth for a moment, while he works away at Jorrth. It's the same double-handed position, when the massage begins, but reversed. "I think dragons just know stuff we don't." The metaphor stays where Z'kiel left it, at least for now. T'mic's having enough trouble mulling this over. His feet slide back a bit, and he has to readjust, as he pushes. "Only thing that makes sense, right?" And that he's been working on, all month, which is why it comes so fast now. Confusion is understandable. It's just as likely that Z'kiel's pulling too heavily from Ahtzudaeth's thoughts - even for himself. He slides down the bronze's haunch to retrieve the oil bucket and re-soak his cloth. It's only after he mounts back up - again - that he utters a response of some sort that isn't just a thoughtful, if vague, sound. "They do." Matter-of-fact. "So, it makes sense. Nothing else does." His mouth pulls to a side. "Like how they know where each other is. Without really thinking about it. Or needing to." It's baffling, this dragon stuff. "Yeah," agrees T'mic. "But between, they can do without even like... without even there being other dragons there. But then," and here he even stops the massage to dab at Jorrth, as if marking out a point. "they can't go without us." The rag tap-taps at Jorrth's hide, and then, the massaging resumes. "It must work out okay in the end though. Usually. How we're going about it." "If it didn't," Z'kiel reasons, "they wouldn't be here to teach us." Sobering, that. He works back up the other side and ends up in a position to work oil behind Ahtzudaeth's headknobs. "So, it must work." A beat. "Unless dragons can do it like firelizards and they just aren't telling us." Dubious? If he is, it's hard to tell. The rubbing continues, slow and methodical. "If Jorrth could do it without telling me," says T'mic, "he'd know by now. And then I would, too." There's a bit of pleasure in that credit given to him; Jorrth carries on basking in it all, slightly warmer for a short while. Yes. Yes, he would know. They would know. T'mic is quite for a while, until it's time to get more oil, and then move around to the other side of his dragon. From there, muffled a bit by the blue in the way, is, "You worried?" "At least he'd tell you." It's another of those matter-of-fact statements, stripped clean of anything accusatory. Ahtzudaeth is a dragon of many things - but secrets comprise most of those things. His siblings might not be as aware of it, but the mirrors that he displays for their benefit are purposeful. "Can't worry," Z'kiel says after a moment. "What good would worrying do? It won't change what is - or isn't. Either the image is good and we live, or it's bad and we die." If they're lucky. But he won't touch that. "Better to focus on being good at it." Pause. "Are you worried?" "I... don't think worried is the way to say it," T'mic muses. What it is, he needs to dwell on, consider, chew over. His jaw works when he starts massaging, back to the original hand order. "It's me and Jorrth, It's like," and he doesn't say what it's like, but rather pauses and reaches one hand up (can Z'kiel see it?) with fingers splayed, and stares, hard and intense, at the point just beyond his fingers. For a few beats, Z'kiel's eyes gloss over - only to clear a few heartbeats later. "Concerned? Troubled? Thoughtful? Uncertain?" The words are listed slowly, in that order, with a chuff or chortle from Ahtzudaeth as punctuation. The human half leans a bit and is able to see T'mic from his vantage point, precarious though it may be. His brow knits a bit, then more, at the curious gesture and even more curious staring. He says nothing, though his curiosity is plenty obvious; he's just not willing to risk breaking whatever odd concentration is at work. Whatever concentration is on display breaks itself rather shortly. T'mic blinks, and looks back at Z'kiel. And shrugs. "Like that." Jorrth, unquestionably, gets it. He also wants the massage to continue, and so it does. To which there's a hnnnh and a nod, as if he gets it, but the chortling from Ahtzudaeth implies otherwise. Thus does the oiling continue, with Z'kiel lapsing once more into silence. There is no rush; let the oiling and massaging go on until is done as it should be - and not a moment too soon. |
Leave A Comment