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K'del: Created page with "{{ Log | who = C'wlin, Meara | where = Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr | what = Athimeroth wants to fly. Meara and Isath step in. | when = Day 23, Month 6, Turn 31 | gamed..."

2013-04-10T23:13:13Z

Created page with "{{ Log | who = C'wlin, Meara | where = Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr | what = Athimeroth wants to fly. Meara and Isath step in. | when = Day 23, Month 6, Turn 31 | gamed..."

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{{ Log
| who = C'wlin, Meara
| where = Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Athimeroth wants to fly. Meara and Isath step in.
| when = Day 23, Month 6, Turn 31
| gamedate = 2013.04.10
| quote = "It's come to my attention that not everyone is being forthcoming with their concerns, and I'd like to rectify that."
| weather = The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day.
| categories = General
| mentions = H'kon, Quinlys
| ooc =
| icons = c'wlin athimeroth aether.jpg, c'wlin.jpg, meara.jpg
| log = Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr

----

Wedged between the lake and the rest of the vast bowl are the dusty feeding grounds. Here, the well-trampled ground is contained by a sturdy wooden fence, cutting right through one end of the lake to section it off into a muddy watering hole for the animals. Several gates allow people in and out, while at the back, large overhangs of rock provide the herd -- a mixed bag of herdbeasts, wing-clipped wherries, and fat porcines -- shelter from storms or the hot sun. What grass survives is usually bloodstained, but feeding troughs are stationed around the edges of the pen.

----

Sky's blue. The stones are warm from Rukbat's golden summer afternoon light. Athimeroth's dark form is standing just outside the fence that houses the 'slow-dinner' or 'baby-food' for the just-learning-to-hunt baby dragonets. "Look, if you want -- no -- listen." C'wlin is busy examining the length of a very ansty bronze dragon's wing. The very same bronze dragon who seems to be ''arguing'' with the rider on the value of just standing there. "Listen you, if you want to glide, then your wing needs to be checked out." Argue, argue, argue. Athimeroth wants to buck the rules!

Meara, Quinlys, and their assistants don't supervise every trip to the feeding grounds, especially now that it's been a couple of weeks, but they're often on hand. Today, Meara's approach is slow, her shuffling gait aided by the ever-present walking stick her hand curves around. She arrives near the fence just in time to hear C'wlin's arguments, and it has her head tilting thoughtfully to the side, her free hand drawing to the other, to rest atop it, atop that cane. "Does he... not want to glide at all, C'wlin? I wonder." Hello.

"No," C'wlin looks up, cold blue gaze resting on Meara, briefly down to her cane before settling at eye contact, respect sending a quick salute the woman's way. "He ''does'', but he does not want to wait until he's ''ready'' to." Being the Harper he is, the bronzerider is going through all the checks and balances, crossing the i's and dotting the t's before he's allowing his dragon to do such a simple task. "I want to make sure that he is content to ''glide'' and to not try to ''fly'' as I feel is his real agenda." Yes, that's C'wlin casting a shifty-eyed look Ath'wards.

"Ah," says Meara, letting the word hang in the air on its own for several seconds before she does anything else at all. Finally, she turns her dark gaze onto the bronze himself, regarding him with all the presence of a woman who is more or less an institution around here. "Do you know what happens to young dragons who try to fly before they can glide, young Athimeroth? I promise you, you won't much like the result. It would be such a shame to ''never'' be able to fly, wouldn't it? We're watching you." That would be Isath, too, though the green is nowhere in sight. "And how are you getting on, C'wlin?"

"''See''," C'wlin mutters, giving his bronze a ''significant'' look. "Listen to the woman," the command only causes the young dragon to shuffle restlessly, not unlike the summer breeze sweeping across the bowl. Tail lashes. Agitation causes eyes to whirl faster. "I am," the boy takes a second to consider, coming up with, "better. Not that I was bad, but, it's finally settling in." Thin-lipped smile adds sharpness to entitled features for all it's a sincere smile. "Life isn't so off-kilter as it was in the beginning. It's... cementing." For a harper, the lack of proper descriptive words indicate much. "Tell him what would happen if he were to try to fly before he's ready," the weyrling suddenly asks, not without some demand woven through exasperated tones, though it's born of true worry that his lifemate ''understand''. "I've told him plenty, but he feels like sometimes he must buck the system. Some things... are a requirement for a ''reason''." It is a good testament to the level of control C'wlin has that Athimeroth isn't in the 'skies', at least!

<< Patience, >> advises Isath, out of nowhere: moonlight and waving grasses. << Or I will call in the queens to hold you down, and you won't even ''glide'' with the others. >> "Good," says Meara, approvingly, giving C'wlin a sharp nod. Evidently, she's pleased by his answer. "His own sire attempted to do things before he was ready. Arekoth's injury never healed properly. He will bear the marks of his impetuousness for the rest of his days, and it could so easily have been worse. Torn wingsails that never heal, broken pinions. Panic, intense enough that instinct takes over and sends a young dragon ''Between'', never to return."

<< Patience. >> Athimeroth echoes, banners snapping in the hot, blustery gale-force winds that drive up from the ground so far, far below in his mindscape. Muted greens, earthy browns, and the vast blue sky add the impression of a vast world, as seen from above. << ''I'' only intend to glide. >> Only the smallest amount of grudging to the rough tenor belies the lie for what it is, but for now, anyway the bronze has ''acquiesed''. "Thank you," C'wlin murmurs, letting Athimeroth fold his wing back, which causes the dragon to flick them up and then settle them back down. "Arekoth flew too early?" he asks, curiousity adding a degree of warmth to cold blue eyes.

"Arekoth," says Meara, with a sigh of recollection, "did not know how to ''land'', when he first attempted to fly." It's a round-about way of saying 'yes', presumably-- though only her short nod actually confirms that. "Of course. You know we're here to help, if you're having difficulties? It's come to my attention that not everyone is being forthcoming with their concerns, and I'd like to rectify that." << Of course you do, >> says Isath, allowing the lie, though she's still keeping a close eye on the bronze (at least mentally). << The time for flying will come, soon enough. >>

"When it is time to fly," C'wlin says pointedly -- for his lifemate, not Meara -- "Athimeroth will be ready, but not before then." ''He'' will not allow his lifemate to such a thing so early. Athimeroth snorts, but ambles off to gaze at the food penned in for them, though doesn't make a move to go for them. "Difficulties?" queries the bronzerider, pale brows rising. "I can't say I'm having any more troubles than I'd think the average rider would have just... adjusting? I'm not ''struggling'' with Athimeroth. I ''think''", quick glance to the bronze, "we are getting along fairly well." Pause. "As well as we should be anyway. He's got his foibles, I've got mine." Back to the topic at hand, "But if a problem arises that I can't see my way out of, I am not shy, nor too proud to better excel at what I intend to do. I'll ask for help." More like demand, but he is -- ''was'' -- a harper! << Good! >> Sometimes, just the allowance of the lie is enough to turn one away from forbidden subjects. The last gust of blustery wind brings up the chill of the deepest aether before attention is side-tracked, and onto something ''else''.

Meara lifts her hand from atop her other hand, and shuffles closer to the fence, now; it lets her lean up against it, looking fragile and yet also ''not''. "Mm," she says. "I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate to think that anyone was not willing to come forward with an issue; that's not the atmosphere I'd like to encourage in ''my'' barracks." The possessiveness of that statement may speak to the older Weyrlingmaster's relationship with Quinlys, or perhaps it's simply a remnant of earlier turns, when the barracks were hers alone. "You want to excel. That's good."

"Of course I want to excel," to C'wlin this concept is as much a fore-gone conclusion as the sun rising daily is. "I should hope no one would be dumb enough not to vocalize a ''real'' problem." He side-glances at Meara, considering the older woman's words, and the strength behind them. Considering some internal conclusion allows for a deeper silence to fall whilst he dusts his hands off. "If I hear of anyone..." Dot, dot, dot. He leaves the comment hanging, before excusing himself with, "I need to get Ath's oil and stuff ready. ''Bath''time is coming soon." What? Nooooooo. Athimeroth is off like a shot, wings a fluttering though feet stay firmly planted on the ground. To high ground he goes! Cue C'wlin's eyeroll. "Sorry, ma'am, but if you'll excuse me?" With a further salute, the weyrling is off, chasing after his lifemate. Who ''usually'' wears the pants.

Meara's mouth twitches with barely restrained laughter. "Good luck," she calls after C'wlin. Soon after, she'll turn to head off in the other direction, limping towards the caverns. Getting old? ''Sucks''.

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 | what = Athimeroth wants to fly. Meara and Isath step in.
 | when = Day 23, Month 6, Turn 31
 | gamedate = 2013.04.10
 | quote = "It's come to my attention that not everyone is being forthcoming with their concerns, and I'd like to rectify that."

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K'del: Created page with "{{ Log | who = C'wlin, Meara | where = Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr | what = Athimeroth wants to fly. Meara and Isath step in. | when = Day 23, Month 6, Turn 31 | gamed..."