Logs:Welcome Back
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| RL Date: 31 August, 2011 |
| Who: Iolene, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iolene and Ysavaeth are not in their beds. Leova waits for them to show up. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 8, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| She's missed wake up call, breakfast, and morning calisthenics. It's eventually Ysavaeth's hunger that wakes Iolene up from wherever she spent the night and propels the pair of them across the long trek across the bowl. Well, long for Ysa. There might have been some assistance along the way. If only the dragon's neck wasn't more fragile than it looks and Io can't drag the gold along like a large herdbeats clubbed over the head. It wouldn't be ladylike or elegant though, even if the neck weren't needed for things such as breathing. And this goes on until they're just outside in the training area, catching glances from other, more diligent weyrlings. She'll likely miss all her remedial history classes today as well. Oh well, such a loss. Some other lucky weyrlingmaster-assistant is getting to guide calisthenics, all hup-hup-HUP! and stretch-it-OUT! and so on and sweaty so forth. It's enough to make poor Vrianth retreat from her chosen weyrling-watching ledge, or rather her be-near-her-Leova ledge, in favor of huddling up with Ishawith and another, older green. Neither is the assistant particularly happy, but it's mid-round, so Iolene gets waved into the barracks without further comment. The barracks, which are mostly empty. The barracks, which has her unused bed occupied: by a fully clothed greenrider sitting there cross-legged, polishing a bit of metal in her lap. The smell of polish lingers in the air, cleaner but more acrid than those of young weyrlings and their messes. Iolene looks tired as she goes past the exercising weyrlings on her walk of shame home, with sadly, no actual shame to speak of. It's much more delightful when something wicked went down. Ysavaeth paws after her, her belly trailing along the ground, as if she's given up caring about whether to be a lady or not just now. She's too hungry you see and that belly makes quite a lot of noise to emphasize whatever point the dragon is making in Io's head. A snappish retort is on the would-be rider's lips, it really is. It's visible in the way her eyes flare and the head jerks back to turn her tired attention onto Ysavaeth, but upon catching sight of her pathetic not-so-little dragon, who is apparently dying of hunger after a long night out, Io's petulance disappears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." The greenrider claiming her bed is unnoticed by the girl, though the sudden alert whirl in Ysavaeth's eyes indicates the dragon is a whole other story. The rushes are neatened, too, the blue blanket smoothed atop them. Leova keeps working, not looking up beyond a brief lift of those amber eyes, a nod to the hungry belly on legs. The hungry belly, with eyes to see. Then, still working, "Eaten yet?" And: "Couple cheese rolls, that napkin there. 'Fore you get your hands bloody." There, off to the side, atop that small clothespress. "I'm sorr-," her litany of apologies to the gold trails off as a voice interrupts and the thin blonde whirls to eye the voice and the voice attached to a body that has claimed her cot. The stillness in Iolene's body is but momentary, before a series of small motions breaks it. She smooths down her wrinkled day-before clothing and reaches up to pat at her rumpled hair. A glance steals back to Ysavaeth, who is now traipsing forward to fall into a heap into her rushes, head cradled into that blanket. Then finally back to Leova with another apology finally on her lips. "I'm... I'm sorry." This time the rusty-haired woman does look up, for longer. "Mm," she says. "Welcome back." She checks on Ysavaeth, checks whether there's a handy body part that looks as though it might want to be rubbed by a spare knuckle, or toe. Checks for other things, too: bruises that might show green through the golden hide, dullness, whatever these is to be seen. Iolene gets a looking-over that's much the same, minus a would-be touch. "Don't know what happened. But. Eat something? And we'll get her seen to." This time the rusty-haired woman does look up, for longer. "Mm," she says. "Welcome back." She checks on Ysavaeth, checks whether there's a handy body part that looks as though it might want to be rubbed by a spare knuckle, or toe. Checks for other things, too: bruises that might show green through the golden hide, dullness, whatever there is to be seen. Iolene gets a looking-over that's much the same, minus a would-be touch. "Don't know what happened. But. Eat something? And we'll get her seen to." Relief for not being asked what happened or where she was does more for Iolene than kind words might have. In truth, the idea that something would have been wrong with Ysavaeth doesn't even occur to her until Leova's looking to the golden hide and reaching out to touch an all too complacent baby queen. /She/, unlike her rider, is used to such attention, even if it might be due to an errant night out. With apologies out of the way and someone else tending to Ysavaeth, for now, Iolene reaches for the rolls, wolfing them down in a messy display of her own famished state. "Is she ok?" Other than some soreness in those limbs and the ever present hunger that now is a tangible mental pulsation among those in her vicinity, Ysavaeth seems to be just fine. "Did I hurt her? Will she live?" is what she probably means to say, much of it still somewhat discernible around a full mouth. "She's half making /me/ feel hungry," says Leova dryly, half-exaggeration, half-muffled by the way she's now bent over to see to Ysavaeth. And if her knowing fingers check for hidden roughness between longer strokes, particularly behind headknobs and between neckridges, at least her touch is sure and calm, as though she might influence the little queen as well as the other way around. "Seems fine. So far. Could use some more oil... here," though she doesn't bother to point it out to Iolene so much as trust that Ysavaeth will have it seen too. "Didn't grow more'n a couple lengths, overnight." This time, when she glances back, her mouth's /this/ close to a curve. A moment after /that/, her touch hesitates, but only for a moment more. "Oh." The last of the cheese rolls has been swallowed down, possibly whole, given the gulp Iolene releases, leaving only a few crumbs about her mouth. "We won't do that again." If only to save her neck from awkward sleepings, as her hand creeps up to massage the base of it. "Did you wait long for us?" The hesitation is caught with sharper eyes than it would seem Io is capable of. "Are you-," the thin girl wavers on her feet, shifting her attention from Leova to oil (and food) needing Ysavaeth. "Are you going to punish me for not being a good... goldrider?" "Didn't need to," says Leova, amiably, and gives Ysavaeth a last long caress before she straightens up to her feet, stuffing the metal-and-polish-rag into a pocket with her free hand. Baby hide! It won't feel quite the same, when they're older. But there's still Iolene: "Hm? You're my weyrling. And," more practically, "don't reckon you'd have stayed out without reason, not like some. Come on." Blood time. Again, there's relief. Two down, one more to go. Iolene, now fed, looks to Ysavaeth and then to Leova. The gold feigns disinterest in her rider as she trots after Leova - or more correctly, trots after where the food usually is, which is where she assumes Leova is going. « Food first, » is the directive she shares with Iolene, who looks a little discomfited at the thought but follows along, but not before she snags a shovel along the way. Maybe it's more like two down, two more to go. After a moment's thought, where she might just let Leova's conclusion go, she inquires, "Why do you think that? That... I had a reason to stay out?" Indeed, Leova is going to where the food usually is, though as usual, it takes a while: making their way between others' couches and into the outer cavern and only /then/ outside and around where the cliff curves. It's not /the/ most direct route, for while she doesn't actually straighten the barracks any, there are points where she bends without stopping to pick up an errant scrap of hide, or kicks a boot neatly out of the aisle. There: its owner can find it later at the base of the nearby cot. Any resemblance to a live, twitching animal is completely coincidental. At Iolene's question, she does glance over her shoulder, brief humor in those dark-fringed eyes. "Suppose you could've been star-watching, though the moons came out. Maybe moons-watching, then." /Brief/ humor. She's moved on. "Ysa didn't seem... what we got from Ysavaeth didn't seem like you were getting up to no good. Though not 'xactly happy, neither." Meanwhile: it turns out that that food is going to be fresh, because Vrianth's had enough of sitting around. The shovel hangs from Iolene's hand a little limp so the metal scraps against the stone floor causing a ruckus in the wake of their movements. Luckily, with an empty barracks, no one is around to be bothered by such antics and it doesn't appear to faze either Io or her dragon. A dragon who is far too eager to get started on the eating part. "Oh?" Dark eyes fly quick to Ysavaeth's bobbling head, the gold's belly no longer dragging along as food seems to be on the near horizon. "/Oh/." An exhalation hangs heavy in that singular utterance. Realization. It leads to: "Do you think I'm a fluke?" No one except Leova, whose generally-unruffled demeanor starts to get tight around the shoulders, though she doesn't choose to stop the girl. This time. "Fluke?" Her face draws up all funny, and Iolene gets a quick stare back before: "Wait." Relieved already. Maybe. The shoulders are still tight. "/Not/ talking about the flukes like worms, are we." Are they? She makes it a smile, a question, a joke. /Vrianth/ makes hopefully-fluke-free intestines steam. Hope Ysavaeth doesn't mind wherryfeathers between her teeth. The stare draws Iolene short, the girl's steps halting. "No. I meant. Should Quinlys have Impressed Ysavaeth?" /This/ statement draws a derisive snort from the toddler dragon as she continues to wend her way towards Vrianth and what the larger dragon is bringing home for dinner. There's /excitement/ in the little hops that take her closer and closer to not just food, but something that was /just/ alive. "Am I a fluke? Was it wrong? Are they ever wrong?" Lucky Ysavaeth! See that now-barely-there squirt? That's /fresh/ /arterial/ /ichor/. But it's fading, the abdominal cavity ripped open beneath Vrianth's gleaming fangs, the green dragon indulging in a last long drink. Still, there's room enough for a little one to feed from her kill. It's not as though Vrianth's /hungry/. In fact: /There/, she directs without words. The liver. Tasty. This, while her rider swallows once and reaches, not so much for Iolene but to gesture her a little away from the dragons, where she won't have to watch. Or be watched. Softly, strongly: "What?" And: "Should she? No. Olveraeth wanted her, you know that. Don't think queens should get first dibs on that /too/." The greenrider swallows again, then. Vrianth bites into the wherry's haunch, her muzzle lifting, wet. When Leova continues, her tone has changed. "But. I think, /know/, Ysavaeth wanted you. Probably wanted you all along. /You/, Iolene. And it's not wrong. There are... U'sot says sometimes, there are pairs what don't do right by each other, but look at you. You're close. You /click/." Big-eyed. Bug-eyed. Ysavaeth stares before a succession of unintended waddles brings her closer and closer to that half-drained carcass. A dubious look is cast upwards at Vrianth's suggestion of the liver, a darker headknob crooking oddly and that mouth line of hers quirking to one side in a long consideration: watchful, waiting to see if the green is shitting her. The hunger, however, overwhelms all such good senses and caution, and a long neck snakes forward so she might nose at the innards, testing first with her tongue what fresh, warm lifeblood might taste like, followed quickly by white teeth that turn crimson so suddenly as they sink into the liver. Squish. "But Tiriana-," the name slips before she can not allow it to and Iolene's hand, shovel and all comes up to cover her mouth. Bad mouth. There's misery in those dark blue eyes as the lashes sweep down to shield them from Leova's gaze. "She said some people are born to become weyrwomen. Like her. Cause she has the bloodlines and her parents were Weyrleaders and- and mine-..." While sometimes, she might hold up her lineage with pride; her Blooded status, right now, when everything is laid out naked and vulnerable, the realization that there's no proof causes her voice to trail off. Misery encompasses the teenager's shoulders, draining her of any semblance of young self-confidence. The weyrlings had been scheduled for anatomy lessons, but probably not like this. Vrianth keeps a watchful eye on things all the same, and when Ysavaeth comes up for air, she gets a distinct, if Vrianth-flavored, sensation of how the insides can be licked up. Of how there, over there, is the heart. But it is chewy. She might like it. It might be too much. There's another leg over there, and a thigh bone that can be cracked to the marrow. Meanwhile, /Leova's/ eyes have gone wide, but not because of the dragon humming happily in her head, and the shards-and-/shells/ is a low mutter in the back of her throat. "Well," she says somewhere in there, more intelligibly, and reaches out to try and put her arm about those same shoulders. "Io. I'm so /sorry/." Vrianth sinks back to her haunches, still attending to the feast, but it's been eviscerated now. Information flows, down deep, beyond the weyrling's reach. Sorry, but not refuting anything the Weyrwoman said, which Iolene, however oblivious she might seem notices all too keenly. The would-be hug, that arm about her shoulders is shrugged away from and the shovel she's dragged with her thus far falls again to the ground in a clank, though she's still holding onto that handle like it might be a lifeline. "It's ok. I'm fine," which, as rote as it sounds, might be her answer to everything. "Really." Her lips part in a potential smile that deepens none of the laugh lines of Iolene's face; laugh lines that, sadly, don't get too much practice anymore. "I should... after she eats, I need to go- she-," it's less stammering and more an uncertainty of how to explain this last situation, the fourth thing that requires relief. "She couldn't hold it in," is how it concludes though, with the shovel's clank punctuating the statement. That slender neck does come up, the golden jawline painted in the blood of the wherry, with a thoughtful chew claiming the entirety of Ysavaeth's expression. If she's concerned about her rider, it doesn't seem to take any precedence over discovering /warm/, /freshly-killed/ food. If she's worried at all about Iolene confessing her booboo, well, she had to /go/. What more is there to discuss? Everyone poos. It's just in this instance, her toilet was K'del's blood-stained floor. She chews and chews and chews, tongue poking out in the end to run it against the sharp lines of her muzzle and clean it daintily. She totally misses the red that's outlined a circle just beneath her eyes in a mimicry of warpaint of a past so long gone and a time so long past that no right-minded Pernese would understand. War? Teenagers. So awkward! Leova retreats a half-step, heel pressing hard into the dirt, not quite balanced but not going, either. "Not so fine," she says. And: "/Hope/ it's not worse." But, not waiting for an answer: "You'll clean up. After. But we got to clean this up." The greenrider doesn't spare the time for the long breath she might like. Instead, while Ysavaeth chews and Vrianth seems to treat that circle of hers like completely unusual decoration, "So. Io. One of the things, one of the pretty amazing things, about dragons... don't have to have anyone special be your parents, for a dragon to find you right. Did you hear that song, Lessa's Ride? She was a Holder. A special Holder. This other Holder killed her family and took over, and she was the only one left but she survived and Ramoth found her and she saved Pern. I never met her, she died a long time ago, but our Satiet, as was our Weyrwoman before Tiriana, she was a fishergirl. And she held the Weyr together through the end of the freak Falls, through Crom, she..." Leova knuckles at her jaw. Vrianth licks at her paw, short, quick movements. "Anyhow. What you make of that?" Iolene listens half-heartedly; the names making their impression as recognizable, but not so familiar she knows their stories. Now that she's fine, or pretending that's the case, she's more easily distracted by the acridity of iron on her tastebuds and a flinch contorts her face. She struggles to regain her sense of self, eyes slamming shut and the fingers about the shovel in particular, tightening. All she manages, in between a succession of distasteful swallows, is, "I fish." One might conclude, from Ysavaeth's nonchalance with her eating, that she's figured out the split dynamic a lot more quicky than her rider has and this time, with Vrianth, the wherry felling warrior, watching, encouraging, /breathing/ so close, she noses down to investigate the heart; this chewy, pumping muscle and snips it up in the very end of her mouth so it dangles for just a second as she considers its heft before it is slid back with a deft motion of her tongue. Iolene is slightly green by this point, but some walls have come up. Flimsy, easily crushed ones that might not withstand the assault of Ysavaeth's steadfast crunching. "But those- those queens, they got first pick?" /First pick/... and now Leova's got that puzzled look again, only then her mouth pulls to the side some. "Io. Listen. Ys wanted, wants, /you/. And," how to put this next part, when you aren't sure? With certainty: "Don't reckon they hatched first, no, and that's the sort of thing they put in a song when they can, even if it /ain't/ true." The sun is hot on her shoulders. Vrianth's leaning. "Weyrleaders, Weyrwomen, lots of 'em have kids. You don't see most of them Impressing, even, much less t'bronzes and golds. It's a mix. It's /good/ that it's a mix. And it's good that she has you. You got something that matches her. The thing is, Tiriana, she..." Leova hesitates. "She ain't, she's not real good with people. And she likes to go after their soft spots. She's better'n she was. But it's something you should know." Ysavaeth has the wherry's heart. Vrianth has: « Ysavaeth. » It's gravelly-rough, not fine grit this time, but neither it is harsh. « Calm her. Show her, please. » It's a sense of worry, of good intentions and protectiveness and worry for the teenaged rider, a wanting-her-to-be-safe-but-better. Better-than-fine. Laughing. Which no one is, just now. Worry, but not doubt. There's a long moment of silence from both rider and dragon: one struggling to keep up those walls while the other chews her way through her second piece of offal. When they choose to speak, it is likely for separate reasons and in Iolene's case, her, "I see," is quiet and not all too indicative of just what she actually sees. Ysavaeth swallows, the small bundle of heart visible in its downward trek down her suddenly straightened neck and the young queen climbs her gaze upwards to study Vrianth with a keenness in the arc of her brows and leveled gaze that is most unchildlike. « Vrianth, » is in a sweet voice, with maturation still left to go, of cool silk against skin. That's all. A name, so simply spoken. It chides without anymore actually spoken. A diversion of soap bubbles of a childish laughter float into the green's head popping in tiny little explosions, before the young dragon leans forward to investigate more of the insides of this wherry. "What," Leova says, "do you see." She's got a hand on her hip, thumbing at the metal in the pocket beneath, the other curled at her side. And then, so they'll both know, "We also asked Ysavaeth to show you something. A feeling. Did she?" Can she be trusted? Poor little bubbles, to have popped untimely, on the veriest outskirts of Vrianth's shields. « Ysa-va. » She plays with the name. Her paw, by now, is quite clean. Quietly sad, "That you're just trying to make me feel better about being a fluke." Iolene can't quite meet Leova's eye, turning to the gold that's now approaching, head held aloof. Done now. Done with the carcass that holds no more interest. Not with these questions in her head or the tauntings from a /green/. Blood-streaked face and all, warpainted Ysavaeth slips her large head beneath Io's free hand, walking away from the weyrlingmaster pair, to which Io can only follow. "Thank you for trying, but really, it's fine. I should go see to cleaning the Weyrleader's weyr before he sees." Or smells the rotting smells in the continually rising summer heat. "And wash the blood off her face." As she passes, tension in her hand atop Ysa's head halts their progress for just a moment and she deliberately grazes Leova with her shoulder - a light touch - then lifts her chin to flash Leova a smile, another of those false expressions that can't quite mask a teenager's low self-esteem glistening in dark eyes. "I'll be fine. Don't worry." "Then she didn't show you all of it. Think about /that/." Leova's hands are gripping the curves of her pockets now, her mouth pulled again to the side. They, both of them, watch the younger pair. And softer, for the soft touch, "You aren't a fluke. You're going to find out who you are, but... it's not that." Vrianth's long neck has a tight arch to it, one that emphasizes its ridges. Her thoughts, after them, are the merest gauze of energy. They watch, though soon enough Leova will have Meara to find, and Vrianth, higher, brighter sun away from that low stink. It /is/ getting hotter. And as it happens, if Io does get to K'del's old weyr, she'll find a pleasant-enough girl her own age to help her work. Not do it for her. But so she won't be alone. |
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