View source for Logs:'Life to you is a bold and dashing responsibility.'

{{Log
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|type=Log
| who = A'rist, N'rov
| where = Some ground weyr, Fort Weyr
| what = The day after the flight, N'rov pays A'rist a visit.
| when = Day 17, Month 11, Turn 33
|day=17
|month=11
|turn=33
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
| gamedate = 2014.02.04
| quote = 
| weather = 
| categories = 
| mentions = 
| ooc = Baaackdated.
| icons = a'rist.jpg, a'rist lythronap.jpg, n'rov.png
| log = That the young 'Reachian bronze is asleep so early in the morning, in a strange weyr, with strange dragons circulating outside in the bowl, speaks rather loudly to the healing process. It leaves A'rist some time, some peace. He's moved the bones left from Lythronath's breakfast off to the side, and now, crouches at the entrance of the modest dragon couch, slowly and carefully using one piece of flesh, left over quite on purpose, to spread blood and gore around the edges of the weyr. His eyes are not on his work, though. He's taking in this new temporary home of theirs, the walls, the ceiling, the floor beyond his gruesome work.

"Quite the decorating you have going on." That would be courtesy of the boots that stop, indeed, beyond where A'rist works: low, baritone, Boll-inflected, amused. Early as it is, N'rov's not shabbily clad, armored instead for the day; part of that is the two steaming mugs he holds, though the smell of klah may not necessarily carry beyond that of blood.

If there's a start, it comes in the form of stillness. When A'rist turns his head from his inspection of the weyr to the sound of the voice, it's slow, controlled. He recognises that older bronzerider, and his eyebrows and nose twitch. The beast bit that serves as his paintbrush completes a few more strokes, then is left aside. The younger rider stands, slowly, the way that lets him feel every muscle as it works. His arms are slightly out from his sides, hands ready. He lifts his chin a little bit. "It... it works better, when he's got a place that's ''his.''"

N'rov would be leaning against the entryway's upright if he bothered to let sleeve touch stone. As it is, he has a swallow from the one mug and then says, "Nice to have found a mechanism that works. Holding up?" Rider, dragon; this rider doesn't specify.

A'rist still isn't ''sure''. He takes a breath, lifting his head a bit more, letting it settle to the level, and then, dip into more of a nod. Now, that weyrling is eyeing up that second cup of klah. Maybe it's even more appealing to him, mixed with the smells of gore. "I don't think found's the right word. Nothing's real hidden with him." Holding up? That just gets another nod, and a shrug that brings some relaxation into his stance when it's allowed to fall away.

With him eyeing the second cup, N'rov rotates it so the handle is exposed, and holds it up more than out: A'rist can come and get it, if he wants. If he'll take food from his hand. 

Whatever cautious thoughts were going on seem to have amounted to some course of action. A'rist doesn't hesitate when the mug is turned, and closes the distance between himself and the older bronzerider, wiping his hands absently on his shirt. He takes the drink, completely incautious of heat. At least it's not scalding. "Thanks." Earnest. A beat later, "I mean, the Weyr and everything, has been... good. To us. Especially considering."

"Fort? That's good." There's N'rov's own beat, his own drink. As long as A'rist isn't wiping his hands on ''his'' shirt, it's all fine. "That Maldoranth, he's a pisser. I mean, it doesn't sound like you're taking it personally anyway, but there it is." The older bronzerider considers the younger one. He might have asked the dragonhealers directly already, but, "Did they say how long you'll be here?"

A'rist's eyes shift from mug to N'rov, serious, intent. "Lythronath's not much better." His teeth touch, and he stares through the other bronzerider a moment - not the look of a dragonrider in talks with his dragon, just that of a young man thinking carefully. "He didn't hurt anyone else too bad, I guess." He's back, then, another drink, another nod. "Few days. He got his shoulder ripped pretty good. Not the sort of thing you send between I guess."

"Would he rather take out another bronze than take on a green?" His question turns out serious too. Though N'rov had a nod for not-''between'', he avoids treading on a possible reply. He just drinks, then shifts his mug to his other hand to warm that one as well.

A'rist's jaw shifts. He's slipped his tongue between his teeth and is biting down on it, thoughtful, though how much of that is conveyed through closed lips... After a moment, he shakes his head. "Not more, I don't think... He'd never chased before. I tried to get him back after the green, but I think it was too late." The shift in his stance, pushing of his chest, adds a bit of defiance - or maybe that's preparedness - to what otherwise might otherwise be construed as his own greenness. Or an admission of guilt. (He's made plenty of those already.)

N'rov's nodding to that, normalizing: it happens. Gray eyes ''do'' develop a certain glint at that shift; he doesn't bother altering his. "You've probably heard, 'It'll be easier next time.' And hey," since he survived and all, "you'll have a great story to tell a batch of weyrlings when you're old and gray and reliving your salad days."

"I've heard more 'don't let him kill anyone next time', so far," A'rist states, not intending humour with it, for as bluntly as it comes. There's more of a smile when he adds, "And I don't think anything with Lythronath can be called 'salad'." That stance he'd assumed falls away a bit, and he drinks more of that klah.

He may not intend it, but he gets a quick half-smile from N'rov anyway. "Well, chalk this one up for the other side. You can keep track if you want, like a competition." His gaze tracks towards the young bronze, thoughtful. After a short time, "I've heard about some people actually giving ''baked goods'' to their dragons. Don't understand it, myself. You haven't seen it, have you?"

Lythronath carries on sleeping, dead to the world. A'rist, he just stares and slowly, slowly lowers his klah back to waist level. "What's even the point?"

"Fuck if I know," N'rov says with a shrug. "Some people just get-- like dragons are just like humans, or something. They like pastries or whatever, so their dragon would too."

"Lythronath's not human," A'rist says, straight away, and grimly serious. Only now does he turn to look over his shoulder, to that drowsing beast. When he looks back to the older bronzerider: "Is that other bronze... is it always like that? Maldoranth? Never gets better?"

"That one? Hasn't gotten better so far as I know, but it's not like I keep track. He isn't one of Vhaeryth's. I also don't know," that last N'rov mentions with less casualness, "how much his rider really does to try and rein him in. Or distract him, or whatever it is he'd have to do."

A'rist takes his time in chewing that over, draining more - most - from the cup as he does so. "I don't usually try distract him," comes at the end of his mulling, bordering on petulant. "And that wasn't even what it was. In the flight."

"No?" It's on the dry side, not so much demanding elaboration as toeing the door open. N'rov shifts his balance, subtly more on the balls of his feet, but with a countering twist of his free arm to scratch the back of his neck.

... A'rist waits a moment, and then confirms, "No." The rest of what's in that mug gets swallowed, and the mug itself, empty though it is, lowers to where it is cradled by both the young man's hands. And suddenly, whatever was coming is silenced, and it leaves A'rist casting his eyes to the floor and looking awkward. Lythronath sleeps on.

"If you want to speak on," N'rov says after two, three, four beats of not-so-idle silence. "Have at. It's not as though I'm your weyrlingmaster. If not, I'll leave you in..." he surveys even the ceiling of the room before deciding upon, "Peace." Or possibly 'piece.'

A'rist finds himself looking up at the ceiling, too, around at the walls, everywhere but back behind him, everywhere but to where he's spread the gore that signifies Lythronath, Lythronath's space. "I don't... I don't think it matters, really. I guess it's just that I want to do better. That we will. Do better." When he's done talking, his mouth closes, and A'rist does his best to look mature, to look dedicated. He succeeds at one, at least.

N'rov doesn't make it so easy on him as to reply right away; again there's a deliberate pause, if only for two of those beats this time. "I think you will," he says. "'Heard and witnessed,' eh?" The rider glances back over his own shoulder, then, at some unseen call. When he looks back, "And I'm guessing you'll have plenty more opportunities to practice." His smile shows his eyeteeth for a moment. "Maybe you'll come back. Let me know how it goes." For now, he'll go.

"Hmf," is a bit of a laugh - the most a teenaged bronzerider can manager, it seems, when in this situation specifically. A'rist does at least get a halfway smile pushing at his face as well. "Yeah, I guess so. Maybe we will." The steady breathing from behind him is suddenly not as steady, changing. A'rist looks over his shoulder, adding, "Lythronath is gonna need to actually hunt some of the beasts here sometime anyway, so." Done.





}}