View source for Logs:Practice Makes The Master

{{ Log
| who = N'hax, Quinlys, Jhorinth, Iesaryth, Olveraeth
| where = Eastern Bowl
| what = N'hax and Quinlys chat; Jhorinth learns that he could be quieter.
| when = It is a spring night, 20:59 of day 7, month 4, turn 31 of Interval 10.
| gamedate = 2013.03.17
| quote = It's hard at first - I remember. And I went into it knowing what I wanted. It really does get easier, though.
| weather = A spring flurry brings in a little late snowfall, though there is no accumulation as the flakes spiral to the ground on a dizzying breeze.
| categories = 
| mentions = Iolene, Iesaryth, 
| ooc = 
| icons = quinlys smug.jpeg, quinlys olveraeth stars.jpeg, n'hax dirty.jpg, jhorinth protector.JPG, aishani iesaryth firewater.png
| log = 

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.

----

So much for spring, right? But at least the snow isn't actually accumulating, even if that's less fun for baby dragons. There are a few of them out and about, this afternoon, getting in some exercise before it's time to resume the (endless!) procession of feeding, oiling and bathing. Keeping watch, just in case, is Quinlys, who is half-leaning against the wall near the barracks entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. Olveraeth is here, too, though the blue has co-opted a ledge not too far off the ground: the perfect vantage point to watch little dragons at play.

Six days old, and Jhorinth is tumbling around like a three-month-old puppy, this way and that, carrying his beautiful brawn in barreling maneuvers in an excessively focused tactical assault against the flurrying snowflakes. N'hax is in the middle, the dragonet's charges to-and-fro mapping out a vague circle about the once-Smith. Upon noticing Quinlys, the tall man starts towards the barracks entrance, and Jhorinth executes a broad arching flanking maneuver, his attention obnoxiously obvious and focused upon Quinlys: the Latest Target. A grin creases N'hax's face, and he lifts his hand in greeting, ignoring Jhor's anctics. "Weyrlingmaster."

"I get the feeling I'm being-- stalked? No, not quite the right word. Targetted, maybe," says Quinlys, teasingly, as her gaze slides over N'hax and his flanking bronze. "Should I be afraid? Afternoon, N'hax. Everything going okay?" She straightens, tracking the young dragon's movements with her eyes for several more seconds before she returns blue-eyed attention to N'hax. Above, Olveraeth leans forward, following the blue with ''his'' gaze, and then wondering, star-struck and only faintly nasal, << Are you going to catch her, young Jhorinth? She'll squeal. >>

"He's keeping an eye on you," N'hax intones, deepening the inflection of his voice to approximate the husky rasp of Jhorinth's tone. It's almost ruint by the laughter, so ill-concealed. The bronzelet, for his credit, doesn't seem terribly put-off by his lifemate's souring of his actions, instead mantling his wings to increase the perception of his mass and starting in with a slow, measured stalk. << I'm practicing, >> is returned with a hiss of quenched-metal and faint spark of banked coals; so ''focused''. << N'hax says that practice makes the master. >> Beat. << But he's not. >> Making Master, that is. Thumb-and-forefinger bridge to flex at temples, and wryly N'hax slants a gaze to Quinlys. "Everything's going as well as to be expected... I think. He's growing like a weed."

Triumph spikes victoriously, hair-raising electricity arcing among Olveraeth's stars as heat-lightning, raising the scent of ozone. << I ''told'' him that.>> Such a plaintive baby, Jhorinth, though the foundation is there for More. He seems to take Quinlys' words very seriously, and walks up with less of a stalk, folding his wings back and presenting his wedge head for inspection, somewhere about the level of Quin's midrift. N'hax, meanwhile, has largely ignored Jhor's antics, eyes settled upon the weyrlingmaster with - thought. "He watches ''everything'', already." A wearied hint to his voice. "It's hard to think he'l going to be so ''very'' big, someday." He shakes his head. "Was Olveraeth one to get in trouble, as a baby?"

Dragon> To Iesaryth, Jhorinth is one of those perpetual noises just at the threshold of awareness: the quench is part-and-parcel of the clockwork intricacy of his forge-like presence, the tang of saltwater an inheritence that will always link like-to-like. The sizzle of hot metal is an unconscious spike, the projection of his excited thoughts bubbling over to a natural link that he seems more unwilling to blockade off than others may. Faintly, as if bleedover on a poor telephone line: << ... ''told'' him that! >> His indoor voice isn't ''quite'' perfected, yet.

To the ozone, Olveraeth adds something foreign: tangy and metallic, but nothing like the metal Jhorinth knows already. << Sometimes, it takes them time to understand, >> he says, soothingly. << They over-complicate things. He will understand in time. >> Quinlys' amusement intensifies as Jhorinth approaches so, and she reaches down to rub at his headknobs with quiet affection, rather as she might with a puppy. "Olly wanted to know about everything. How it worked, why it worked. He drove me crazy with the questions, sometimes, and the observations. The watching. It's hard at first - I remember. And I went into it knowing what I wanted. It really does get easier, though."

Dragon> Ever-present over the Weyr, Iesaryth is even more so in the consciousnesses of her progeny now, ocean's warmth and ebb and flow of the tides never far. But she's not overbearing, no; they are hers and she is ''brilliant'', therefore it only stands to reason that they would be the same. Sea breezes thread through the forge's steam, carry it up in amusement, light tenor as bright as any sunny day. << I will remember that. >> Or Shan will, and she'll take it when she needs it. Whatever. (Iesaryth to Jhorinth)

A marvel: Jhorinth absorbs himself with testing this, ''tasting'' this foreign element with a ferocious intensity. His reply is thereby distracted-- << I do think he will. He's smart. Strong. >> Abruptly: << What ''is'' this, Olver-- >> His question is cut-off by Quinlys' attentions, his mindvoice blanking out in surprise and pleased emotion. N'hax's face hitches into a grin. "Sounds similar. He watches everything, and asks questions," pause, "And sometimes shares answers he shouldn't." Wry. "I'm glad to hear it will. He's... incessant. He also says thank-you, very much, and that you," -- there's a pause here, N'hax clears his throat -- "Ah, smell good." That's a HIGH level compliment, there.

Dragon> To Iesaryth, Jhorinth floats buoyant for the moment, as an oil-slick lying atop heavy water, the sharp tang of metal and salt and ash still present. There's wordless surprise: !!!, before an aw-shucks-mom dash of awkward embarassment. He isn't stilted with his words, though; bass thrum as the rasp of steel over stone, blurring the edges not water-worn: << I am very sorry, Iesaryth. I will endeavor to be... >> Hesitation, briefly, << ... quieter. >>

Olveraeth would answer-- no doubt ''will'' answer-- but he's distracted by Jhorinth's pleasure, his thoughts rippling under the mirth he feels. << The stars, young Jhorinth, >> he says. << When you get close... >> Starstuff. How ''accurate'' his sense of it is, well... that scarcely matters, surely. "I ''smell'' good? Well--" Quinlys' mouth twitches. "I'm delighted to hear that. Thank you, Jhorinth. Olly was always pretty good about personal stuff, I guess, but he drove a lot of us mad with his explorations. I'm ''pretty'' sure he helped Ysavaeth work out how to do her queen-thing; he thought it was wonderful fun, whatever it was they were doing." It twists her mouth, ruefully, but only for a moment. "You'll work out a balance. Between you."

Dragon> To Jhorinth, Iesaryth is all sparkly-bright on endless waves, a perfect summer day. She's thrilled, fish-thoughts beneath the waves busily moving, constant. ''She'' doesn't mind, but she can see how he might. << Jhorinth. >> Warm, fond; << Don't be sorry. Just be... quieter. >> But there's no sense that she's serious at all. She just thinks it's funny.

There's a sudden underlying sense of embarassment from the young bronze, sourceless except for an intense spike of self-berating emotion. Unwontedly self-conscious: << It is very interesting, >> the stuff of stars! His head bows and he stalks off a step or two from Quinlys, staring off to those who chase snow-flurries, such an abrupt change of emotion that N'hax stares after him for a moment, then shakes his head with a sudden smile. "Ysavaeth?" is his inquiry, brow furrowed. He doesn't follow - not as though riders have been forthcoming regarding that whole ordeal - but doesn't press. "I have faith," he instead comments, "That we will figure one-another out before ''some'' of the others. Though I'm sure you'd know that better than I would," with light amusement.

Dragon> To Iesaryth, Jhorinth can't help but sidle silver strands of thought towards those quicksilver fish-flickers, but he's still reserved elsewise, that embarassment (and a touch of self-berating spirit) flavoring the smoke rising from his oil-bubble floatation device. << Yes, Iesaryth, >> has all the same cadence of a dutiful son, well-and-truly chided. He isn't timid - Faranth is he never ''that'' - but there is something tentative in how he doesn't sever his connection straightaway, looking for a graceful way to save-face: << I do hope the evening suits you, tonight. >>

Tracking that self-beration, attempting to seek it back to the source with a swirl of blue-gold stars, Olveraeth's question is not precisely verbalised. << It is, >> he says, instead. Quinlys drops her hand, letting it slide to her side, and then back up to her pocket. "Iolene was my clutchmate. We were-- friends, I suppose, but I guess we saw less of each other towards the end. Before she died. She was... good at imposing her will on others, Ysavaeth, I think." If only Quinlys knew exactly ''how'' well. But, alas, she does not. "I imagine if you didn't have faith, the world would be feeling pretty-- hard, right now."

Dragon> There's so many of them, it's really a little... disturbing. Large and small, different colors, flickering just beneath the surface and swimming lower still. Just at the tops of the waves, there's little flickers of his clutchmate, small and brown; her Shan, her thoughts of ''going'', being ''away''; the sense of bigger, wider things that are harder to define, always being considered. Iesaryth is always thinking. Where some queens, some mothers might feel satisfaction at a correction, she's less worried about that; she just wants Jhorinth to be as he is. << The air above the clouds is cold and clear. We could go anywhere. You speak back to me. >> Unlike when he was in the egg. << Tonight is a good night. >> (Iesaryth to Jhorinth)

Despite himself, the problem is laughably apparent, because Jhorinth simply hasn't mastered this whole 'quiet talking' thing; there's a touch of hesitance in the faint overlap from a different conversation: << ... suits you, tonight. >> Oh! ''Olveraeth''! << Sorry, >> tuned-in this time. << I think too loud. >> It's almost frightening, how unmerciful the thought is, self-directed. N'hax shifts his gaze to his lifemate again, smile dying on his face as Quin talks. "Oh." He's not quite awkward, but he's not quite /not/ awkward, either. "I'm sorry," he tentatively offers. An attempt to lighten the mood comes forth with a wry, "Ysavaeth sounds like she took lessons from my mother." The smile is inward-focused, and slight. "It... isn't what I was expecting, that's for sure." The world. Jhorinth. ''This''.

Dragon> It isn't within Jhorinth to craft a net to catch one of those fish-thoughts, or construct anything more than a faint filament of conductive material to be sent beneath the waves on risk of corrosion and being carried away. So that is what he does, touching upon one of those whale-beasts below, a grand idea so wide that he shies away from it nearly immediately upon contact. << I heard you, >> is an answer to a question unasked, a rare-cut gem *plinking* into the ocean, the faintest memory: liquid-minded and foggy, fading even now; the amniotic sense of faintest frustration and maternal love. ''Iesaryth''. << Someday, >> his voice is wistful, << We will fly with you above the clouds, in the clear cold air. >> A sense of finality, a flare of grateful warmth, and he's receding on the forward edge of her tides, drawn back to his own here-and-now. (Jhorinth to Iesaryth)

Dragon> That he ''heard'', that makes her satisfied. It wasn't for nothing. Iesaryth is confident of ''flying'' as well, of going to other places. << You will. >> That's certain, though sympathetic, because she ''knows'' - and she too fades her presence to the distant roar of waves. (Iesaryth to Jhorinth)

Olveraeth's reaction is amused. << It's fine, >> he assures the smaller dragon. << Finesse is difficult, at first. You will learn. You're young, yet. There is time. >> It's ''fine'', in other words. Don't beat yourself up over it. "It's fine," Quinlys reassures, hastily, unconsciously echoing her own dragon. "We weren't ''that'' close, not by the end. These things-- it's just fine." She straightens further, taking a half step away from the wall, though her gaze remains loosely afixed upon the weyrling. "Ysavaeth took lessons from a lot of people. No," she tilts her head to one side. "I bet it isn't. It's not... it just is. I'm sorry."

Ferocious self-disciplining shows a tightening in the spectrum, so to speak, but Jhorinth isn't without ''some'' comprehension of Olveraeth's sympathy. << I will. I know. >> He just wants to be perfect, ''now''! << Iesaryth is so very nice, >> he tacks on, an element of what calms his riled soul the combination of starforged assurance and the warm confidence of the tides. N'hax has no such calming influences, though his eyes drift back every so often to Jhorinth until he seems to have himself back under control. "People grow apart. My cohort back at the hall," he starts, before drifting off and shaking his head. Bad path to go down. A forced smile, then, lopsided. "I'm not... ''sorry''. Not for Jhorinth." A surprising fierceness, given the mellow man; "I wouldn't think it, before. It's just... ''different''."

<< She is, >> confirms the blue, pleased with the idea-- and with the queen in general. << You are lucky to have such a dam. >> Olveraeth has no recollection of his own, only that she is no longer at High Reaches; no longer of importance. No doubt he could find out more, but... he's not young. He has no need for such things. "People do. You'll be close with your fellow weyrlings for a time, but... you'll lose track of some of them, post graduation. It happens. No, I know you're not sorry to have him." Quinlys' smile twists. "I've never known a rider who was. But-- different, yes. It-- ''shards''." There's a squeal from one of the other weyrlings, further out in the bowl: a little green has tripped over her wings. "I gotta run. But - look after yourself, N'hax, okay? And come talk if you need to."

<< I am, >> Jhorinth states, fierce in his loyal support - equally as intense with his next statement. << I'm lucky to have such a weyrlingmaster, too. >> His staunch dedication isn't without a sense of humor: << After all, Isath is ''such'' a wellspring of information, isn't she? >> Ba-dum-ching. He should forge himself a halo. N'hax nods at Quinlys, a look of brief apology on his face; to have kept her, to have voiced his issues? All of the above, perhaps. "Of course. I will!" He casts a glance towards the green; "-- and good luck." A wry smile, before he goes off to collect his own lifemate and head back indoors.

<< You shut up, >> says Olveraeth, but he's heartily amused. His rider would probably be less so, but... she's not listening to ''this'', thankfully. She's busy, hurrying off across the bowl towards the poor green.


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