Logs:Vrianth's Umpteenth Flight (Aftermath)
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| RL Date: 17 October, 2012 |
| Who: H'kon, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: There's fruit (and a visit to U'sot) in the morning. Before that... |
| Where: HRW |
| When: It is a winter night, day 2-3, month 1, Turn 30 of Interval 10. |
| Weather: Wind and snow make for very bad weather today. The visibility is low, making travel dangerous. |
| By rights, the winds should have cleared to an idyllic breeze through a now cloudless, starlit sky. They haven't. The erratic gusts just don't let up on the pair as they limp their way back to the protection of High Reaches' caldera, Vrianth willfully refusing to draft off the larger dragon, refusing further to land upon /her/ lovely ledge with its trees and its view. No, it's Arekoth's she's chosen. Even if it's low and narrow. Even if she does wince, palpably, as she lands and gives Arekoth such a look before moving to twist beneath his neck. Her thoughts are not opaque to him, though neither are they transparent: a darkling sense of current moving, flushed with a certain sense of achievement. And exhaustion. They stay brushed up against him, even as she does. For now. Arekoth's thoughts are seldom opaque to any dragon, least of all to those greens he's caught. Those thoughts are fully satisfied, in large part with himself, though there's no question of his pleasure at having Vrianth on his ledge. If stretching himself along her side, a partial wind barrier, is not wholly altruistic, it might still at least have some hint of chivalry. Or of claim laid, for now at least. Between furs and flight passions, the guest weyr is far more hospitable than a wind-whipped ledge. Even so, even with breathing aiming toward normal and his head finally coming to rest on the bed (the pillow that might have been his, missing), H'kon doesn't back much away. It's not the boast of Arekoth's proximity to Vrianth. It's not much thought out at all. The reach for Leova's arm is idle, the brownrider's face, for the first time since his entrance, fully relaxed. For now. But Vrianth's eyes, they're gleaming. He can feel it, reflecting, even amplifying the satisfaction of Arekoth's mood. Not that she disturbs him otherwise. For now. Her rider, though, all but strewn across his, shifts enough that at least it's the plane of her cheek against his chest and not her sharper jaw. Better? Her hair's every which way, still sun-rusted at the tips where it hadn't yet received its winter's clip. Her arm is solid with muscle. And in that hand, one of the furs is knotted, as though she expcts it to be dislodged even now. She doesn't lift her head, nor her gaze, but neither does she burrow to avoid his. She only breathes, and then the next breath lengthens into something like a curling, leisurely sigh. The greenrider's movement turns the reach into a hold, hardly the strong grip he'd used when the dragons were still airborne, hardly something that couldn't be broken if one were inclined. But the intentions of it ought to be clear enough, especially when H'kon's hand relaxes once Leova seems to have settled. Fingers release, and hold becomes a press of her arm toward his chest, skin-on-skin contact chased quite guiltlessly. If the warmth coming from him weren't indication enough, the bemused, almost detached, "There are far too many furs here," should well indicate the second most pressing matter in the man's consciousness just now. And on the ledge, when a particularly chill wind kicks up, Arekoth simply stretches out his long-ago injured leg and observes, « Some night you picked, pigeon, » with full contentedness rounding out his voice. Languid though she is, satisfied though she's been, still she's Vrianth's. Which means that, as much as the green's rider obliges the brownrider in neither yanking the furs close nor herself away, even going so far as to slide her hand up along his side and gradually, so excruciatingly gradually towards his shoulder... there's a smile there, perceptible where the rise of her cheek nudges into his chest. Perhaps her hand is going to keep going. It seems as though it might. Off his skin, onto his pillow, into the air. If she keeps that up. If he doesn't reach again. "Mm? 'S what you get for being down there. How many do you like," that smile lazy in her voice, hardly rising into actual question. "When you get to choose." Vrianth, who's gotten to licking her own injured paw, leaves off only to poke the brown whose fault it is. At least it's with, not her claws, but her muzzle. Also, a brilliant spark. Ideas. « Arekoth. » She's got ideas. The bark of laughter from H'kon is nearly violent, if still not unsuited to the moment he's so happily living in for the time being. He makes a grab for Leova's hand, for nothing so sappy as intertwining fingers or caressing; it's just another hold, and this one with a wry smile that hasn't left, even if his laugh's died down. "I suppose it depends on the night," has returned more toward contentedness than anything jovial. "Not so much as this." Arekoth leans to watch at that tended paw, and doesn't much alter his invasion of Vrianth's space even when poked. « Oh, I certainly could lick that for you. » What an excellent idea! A hold that gets swayed back and forth with Leova's, back and forth, a playful sort of rocking that's just as lazy as it's been since ever she first spoke. There's something of that quality in the more newfound swing of Vrianth's tail, the dragon arisen half to her haunches but now turned back to eye Arekoth all over again. « Could you. » She is dubious, if more willing to entertain such a suggestion than ordinarily. Wouldn't it hurt? Or, perhaps, he has some very special saliva to make it all better. Leova's turn: "Mm. 'One-fur night.' 'Two-furs night.' We'd have to," and here she hides a yawn in his skin, "...allow for the night itself being colder, or warmer, or whatever... or if it's the weyr with the saggy mattress, maybe." It might not matter to him. Arekoth digs his talons into the ledge, a bit of extra leverage to press his head in toward the smaller dragon's wound, at least something of an easier feat now that she's edging toward upright. « Such a scratch! » is overly concerned, well to the point of giving away his amusement at the ichor he's drawn, and any remnants. « And when I'm done with that one... » Teeth snap down on nothing. "There's no purchase in that weyr," H'kon intones distastefully, tilting his head down until his chin presses the base of his neck when he looks to his bedmate, though his arm is kept relaxed, easily led about. There's something about that tone, that distastefulness: Leova's paused for a moment that doesn't hold her breath, considering the man anew even as great glowing eyes fix on Arekoth, though she still hasn't looked up. Not up, not away, and there's still lassitude all through her. "No... 'purchase.'" Is he playing? This, while it seems Vrianth's too slow to dodge that sniff towards the patchy dried ichor, while she jerks at the snap. Of course, now there are Vrianth's teeth at his throat. Not that she'd bite. Surely. Probably. Though she might try a lick. Arekoth only manages to lift his belly and chest from the ground, legs at angles, but not straight under him. His wings are faster, fanned, but held off from giving the instinctive flap. « And you'll scratch me back, now, will you kitten? » His wings pull back in a bit, but don't lie flat. « I guess I've earned it. » Oh, woe. H'kon shifts one leg - the one not fouled for movement by Leova - out a bit to one side, bending the knee. His eyebrows draw together, but release when he, in turn, gives a tug at her hand, one quick motion to the side before his arm becomes yielding again. His head hits the bed once again, but this time turns to look out across the room. « Perhaps. » Vrianth's tongue could be ticklish, those flick-flick-flicks that don't entirely taste, her own far wing expanded for balance. « If you asked nicely, » only that zinging humor's grounded in the sense that, really. How likely is that? From Arekoth. « Arekoth. » She rolls the rrrr, pops the k. She could do all sorts of things with his name. A longer lick, though, right there on the pulse, and as his rider looks outward she looks inward. A weyr mouth. Fascinating. She eases toward it while her rider, who'd previously consented to slide somewhat sideways if it would take her into the curve of H'kon's arm, now consents to look at him at last. Or, half at him, angled as it is. "What is it," and there's a little pause. "H'kon." She's said it correctly, though there's stll that underlying roughness, too. Another, even more fractional. Fingertips curve inward, knuckles lifting to dust delicately along his jaw. « Perhaps, » repeated with emphasis, and an inner amusement that has him drawing the word out, « I'll let you stay long enough to try. » The shifting of wings, shaking out of his tail, precede the brown's push to his feet. « Perhaps not. » H'kon is roused from whatever thought had led his gaze out, and brings it back to Leova. Something similar to a smile stretches bearded skin against her fingers, and he gives the slightest shake of his head, hardly much motion at all. "Is there something you'd take, come morning?" All this perhaps, when Vrianth's about making it happen: no swift lunge, no stall to see if it's all right, but instead padding three-pawed into his very own weyr. It's not impossible he could intercept her. He has, after all, before. But she's not waiting, her tail curving behind her, flicking at its tip. Flick-flick. Something of that touches Leova's eyes, that dark-fringed amber, intent. "'Take.'" Another slight, slight pause. "A piece of fruit, perhaps. A trophy... do you give out trophies?" There's no pause. "We tend to take the long jump, between. Does that concern you?" The impulse is there: head her off at the pass, or at least bite at her tail as Vrianth goes. It stays an impulse, however, communicated only in the slight jerk when Arekoth's muscles tense, just before he decides to meander on in after that green. The only observation to her invasion: « Best not to tell him you've been. » For as quickly as her various answers were given in succession, H'kon takes his time in considering them. Only when his thoughts are in order does he answer, "There's no room in my life for children. I know all I came with." Then, he does pause. And, finally, gives one nod. "Fruit then." It's the sound of something put on a list, and he settles back once more, and lets his eyes close. « No? » Nor does Vrianth glance back now, but there's a sense of what's very close to full-fledged attention. « Tell me, » though that at least's an invitation, even as she helps herself to his hearth and home. She'll listen. She's careful. She's not, if she has anything to say about it, knocking things over. She'll even press her injured paw to stone when she must. But she is intent on seeing what there is to be seen, dragon eyes so much more able than humans' in the dark, their ability to taste scents keener. What is Arekoth's rider keeping, in his sanctum? Simple leather, or Bluebeard's wives? "Your life's that busy," she says, Vrianth's rider says meanwhile. She's drawn up onto one elbow to look that little bit better, and how much stubble brushes against her knuckles, in any case? "What do you do with yourself, H'kon, when there's not a green's rider keeping you awake." « Where even to start? » But Arekoth's thoughts are not so much on those contents of the weyr: the loft bed that's been convered to storage, the (wider) mattress right on the ground beneath it, the ridier's paraphernalia, a coiled rope like those used on a boat, the usual weyrling grad box, a small table and chair... Nor is he thinking much about the strangely high-vaulted ceiling that makes up for the otherwise rather limited floorplan. What he's thinking about, who, rather, gives Leova one of those stretched smiles that's not rightly authentic. There's marked hesitation before he allows, "Mine is not the life I'd choose to raise children." It's got a finality to it. Eyes that had opened close again. "There's enough to give attention to in the Weyr. And Arekoth." The last at least has a twist of frustration, affection's more clever disguise. « Take your time. » A little time. It's storming outside. The mere thought makes Vrianth give herself a shake, and for all that those dark-sparred wings are almost entirely furled, emphasis alone threatens to shake the chair too before she tightens back up again. There's only a hint, now, of those reflective silvery sails. She uses that rangy body of hers to prowl over to sniff at the not-unfamiliar rope and then the mattress, to rise on her haunches and check out the storage, to rise higher and examine what she can see of the ceiling in a long, elegant stretch. There she can let her wings loosen, if only a little. Are these things clean, do they smell of interesting things, does he tidy? Does he keep oddments? Does Arekoth get to keep, here, anything of his own? The hearth is next, and its mantle. She'd prowl just as much where he's thinking, should the way be ajar. She starts with the chair, or perhaps the chair started with her: a wireframe of energy that followed her along until, now, it clicks. He can see it click in her head. Look. Of course he's seen it before. But: « Look. » She sets out identical copies beside it. Only one chair. It could have others. There could be three, five. There's not. "Mm," her rider half-says, half-murmurs somewhere in there. Her gaze has drifted from that sort-of smile, if only so he won't have to work at it any longer. Drifted, but half-focused still. "I won't say," she says, "that my own Vrianth is not a handful." Her fingers drift up, the better to play with his hair where it springs from his scalp, and she's got such a one-cornered smile of her own. She might never speak again, except, eventually, "It makes me wonder what else you do, now. Beyond the wing. When the sky-rock fell you were there... do I remember? You worked. Yet it isn't Fall." A thread of longing's adrift within her quiet voice. She doesn't snag it back. Does he tidy. Arekoth's rider's weyr is mostly neat, and certainly clean. Arekoth himself knows it already, and simply stays nearer that dragon's couch where he sleeps, where short of a few pillows and an old blanket (surely not for Arekoth) there is nothing. What does he need things for? His couch is experience, fading memories of being curled stretched out with a larger dragon, fresher memories pulled by the scent of a girl on those pillows one night. But memories even don't matter, and they stop. Arekoth shifts his front left paw until ligaments crack, and continues watching Vrianth's investigation. There's still too much triumph to turn into amusement, and keep him from taking offense at her inspection. Or even of growing tired of it, just yet. H'kon is less for returning caresses or touches. One arm has eased into a braver stance, draped across the woman's midsection. It shifts sometimes, but its intent isn't in the movement. "I did. We did," and the 'we' here does not designate the two riders in the guest weyr. "There are always things to do here. I owe the Weyr my life - this one. We spend most of our time here." What goes unsaid, but is clear in tone: it's the right course of action, always, if not always preferred. Vrianth has a distinct appreciation for memories, though also for the little things that spur them. Vrianth has one last inhalation of the room, and then a so-delicate nudge for the chair just because she can, and then with a flick of wingtips strolls over towards Arekoth's couch. To help herself to it, apparently. « One chair, » Vrianth reminds. « Why has he only one? » She has five, with shadow-images clustered around a glowlit table. The faces change sometimes, and who's present varies, but Vrianth accounts for all of them. Leova, though. Leova, who's settled for now, exploring how the other rider's hair drifts more silvery into his beard. "'This one,' you said." She hasn't taken offense at the prop of his arm, nor even grown tired of it. Just yet. Arekoth makes room enough that Vrianth can join him, but not so much that it won't be close quarters. This making of room also gets him neatly between the pillows and the green, by design or chance... He shuffles his wings along his back, gives a low, quick note deep in his throat. « He's just one. Well, » and there's a flash of something, the edge of pink auroral light through the dragon's mind, « mostly. » There's barely a break before the flat, « She's not five. » H'kon's hesitation to answer is longer, and his middle finger presses against Leova's back, thoughtful more than testing. "There are some who are bred to be riders. And others." Even with the woman's inspection, he turns, again, to look out over the weyr. Fingers press, again, and this comes with a slight tensing of his shoulders. Pillow-stealer. If Vrianth wouldn't want those other-smelling pillows anyway, there's no need for Arekoth to know that, not when she can more literally hold it against him: seek to drape her wing over as though she were the larger dragon, even, and he the better-smelling pillow. « 'Mostly.' » Pink. It's intriguing. But then it would be. Nor is there affront for his flatness, yet: Arekoth can't expected to know all these things. « Not all herself, no. But I like her laugh. » With visitors, even, even visitors who sometimes land on her ledge. Vrianth can be hospitable, when she chooses. But, just now, Vrianth is perceptibly thinking. And her rider? Her hand slips, and so does her breath, and only the latter resumes a natural-looking rise and fall. Rather than reply: "What's wrong." If there's someone, out there, they shouldn't see. « Five. » Arekoth doesn't try to flick at her wing, or overpower it with his own. But he does stand to his full height, and lifts his head. « The little dove flies high, » is a break from conversation, his voice singing amusement even when it dips in pitch. H'kon's brows draw together again, he taps at Leova a couple more times, and then draws air in, chest raising as best it can with the greenrider draped on him. "Avalanche drills tomorrow. If the blizzard should let up." He blinks, slowly, and turns his head to look to the woman again. "Fruit in the morning, then." Which means that Vrianth must quickly, quickly draw her wing back and over, or risk its dislocation. Luckily, swiftness isn't a problem. « Does he! » Because she's looking up at him, bright-eyed: look, he's risen. High. Of course, down low, there's also a hint of claws. Look at how they do not scrape the pillows, much less the blanket which doesn't seem to have done anything to hurt anyone. But they could. « Dove. » Arekoth. It's enough that Leova catches herself in a smile, then hides it in something more steady. This time, the released breath really is more natural. "Fruit," she agrees mildly, though still with an uptick in humor. "Reckon you might like to rest more comfortably," and she shifts to slide the rest of the way towards the mattress to help with just that. "Is that all? That you're worried about." « Little chicks can't go quite so high, » the brown decides, looking down at that green. Looking down, and then, with a swat of his tail in the general direction of her rump, settling down on his couch. The dragon's yawn shows off teeth, snapped together when he shuts his mouth and rests his head on one of those pillows. And looks at Vrianth's claws. H'kon slides after Leova, another of those tight smiles pulling at his face. "Our worries aren't limited to the things we can affect. But," and the tilt of his head is a bit more affable, the smile a little less drawn, "I can get you fruit, in the morning." There's laughter in his mind, rather undiminished for the swat that she doesn't at all seek to dodge, unperturbed and definitely not giving way. « Yes, Dove. As you say. » And when is Vrianth ever so obedient? Vrianth, of the pleasantly sharp claws that have a sheen to them still, any unsavory gobbets having been removed through a combination of wind and his ledge's snow and her own tending. Though there is a chink to one of them, where it must have briefly lodged in bone. "Fruit would be nice," says her rider, certainly better than now-frozen herdbeasts. And then she laughs, near-silently. "Almost like ordering off a menu at a waystation, only nicer," all the way across the room on the table as they currently are. She's able to right the top of her bodice with an absent tug, at least, before turning onto her side, turning in. One last look at Vrianth, and Arekoth closes his eyes pointedly. It's a wonder those lids don't click. There are a few twitches of wingtips, tail, that one slightly twisted foot, before he's fully asleep. He's taking his rider with him, H'kon managing to retrieve a pillow, and giving it a solid punch before slamming his shoulder into the bed. After the nest is made, the brownrider is settled neatly on his side as well. He's half-asleep before a leg extends toward his bedmate, a final stolen bit of contact before morning will bring an end of whatever easy release the flight had offered. It's a contact that, drowsily, Leova eases back into: not cuddling, just close, or at least closing the gap where the cool air would crawl in. It's much later, drifting, when there's some movement that implies he might be not quite so asleep and it's half-woken her too, "...Sometimes we can do more than we think." But it's not entirely encouraging. It's uneasy. And not entirely a reminder for him at all. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Vrianth's Umpteenth Flight (Aftermath)"Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Sun, 21 Oct 2012 02:41:03 GMT.
I'm sorry I accidentally cursed you, Leova! I didn't mean it! ;)
This was a fascinating read. My favorite part was following what the dragons were doing. (Because I'm me. ^^)
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