Difference between revisions of "Logs:Rescue Ranger"

The wind is picking up as the storm blows closer and closer, looming on the horizon. The rain hasn't begun to fall but it's only a matter of time as the sky closes itself off, a grey curtain drawn over a weak sun. Riorde perches on the roof of her family's hut like some erstwhile spinner with her spidery arms and legs and now, as a gust blows her hair free of its tie, dark hair streaming into her face.

Nobody said Taikrin couldn't be here, nor that Szadath couldn't lurk just beside the beginning of the fields. Honest! It could be that furtive and skulking is just her normal mode of operations. Either way, she certainly doesn't look like she belongs as she walks amongst the buildings of the mostly-empty settlement. The brownrider cautiously pokes her head into an emtpy hut, shrugs, then moves on; a watchful eye will note she's moving in a perimeter search pattern despite the casual front she puts onto her meanderings.

A low muttered curse leaves Riorde, something about the sea. She's trying to patch a weak spot in the roof before final evacuations, daubing fast-drying mud from a bucket at her side into fracturing cracks and weak points. She smudges mud across her face in an attempt to push back her hair, which stubbornly won't stay behind her ears. Seeing Taikrin and immediately knowing her as not one of the island's own, Riorde leans forward on the roof for a better view - and knocks off her bucket, which goes flying, splattering mud out like a child's gleeful fingerpainting.

Except that everything's brown and ugly.

Taikrin lets out a startled curse - though hopefully it's one the exiles won't recognize as being quite as foul as it is - as the mud splashes across her path; not even her quick jump backwards can save her boots from being splattered. "The shells you think you're doin'?" she demands, irate, as she catches sight of the girl on the roof. Her accent is one that Riorde's ancestors would recognize as hillbilly minehold -- and that Riorde herself might just have trouble parsing through th slurred consonants. "Watch out! Ain't you got somewhere better you oughta be?"

"The sea /you/ think I'm doing," Riorde answers back, just as rude, after a pause to adjust to the rhythms of Taikrin's speech. The skinny young woman is scowling her annoyance, annoyance that finds outlet in Taikrin. "/Course/ I got somewhere better to be, but someone's gotta do it." But Riorde doesn't have to be happy about it.

"Do what, make your mudhut muddier?" Taikrin scowls, dismissal in her voice. "Like that's gonna do any good. Reckon you ought to be packed up an' on the beach like a good girl, yeah? Faster you get off your rock, faster the likes of /us/ can get back to doin' important things." My, but she does pull off arrogant dragonrider to a tee - smirk, cocky stance and all.

"Patch it." Riorde's mood is going as foul as the weather. She speaks to Taikrin like she would a stupid child, hiding her anxieties behind a different sort of hubris. "So when you dump us all back here, we've got somewhere to go besides the caves. Was it you who called us savages?" The comment has made the rounds, through Riorde doesn't know which rider said it. "Mud should've hit you," she mutters quieter and starts to slide off the roof, dirty and getting dirtier.

"Nah, Z'yi. He's got a way with words, him." Taikrin pauses, hands shoving into the pockets of her jacket as she tilts her head to eye Riorde from a different angle. "You ain't one of them people screamin' that we gotta take you back so's you can do whatever it is you were screamin' about doin'? Thought all of you were piss-- er, dyin' for us to take you back to real folks." From the field, Szadath turns the full weight of his attention towards his rider, then rumbles insistently. "You done? Wingleader's gettin' restless."

Given the way Taikrin phrases it, Riorde keeps her lips shut and represses the urge to admit that she is, indeed, one of the people pissing themselves to get off the rock. "Yeah, I'm done," she says, more subdued in her awareness that she's a mess, and even in the best of times still would look scrawny and underfed when put next to Taikrin. Carefully, Riorde asks, "Will you take us?"

A flash of disappointment, of all things, crosses Taikrin's face. "Yeah, I guess we are. We was just doin' a check, see who all's still lurkin' or packin' or doin' whatever it is what ain't gettin' ready to go." The brownrider glances around the little hut village, then lets out a sigh. "What's your name, kid, so's I can have them mark you off the list? You got family still kickin' around here?"

"Riorde." The e makes a faint syllable of its own, a schwa. "Some of them already went." Her family. "My father's down at the beach, I think." Which means he'll get out on his own steam; Riorde evinces no need to run looking for him. "I got a bag inside, just a minute --" She ducks into the hut as quick as can be, perhaps worried that Taikrin will take back her agreement.

"Riorde," the brownrider repeats thoughtfully. "Sure, sure." Taikrin actually moves to follow, though she doesn't do much more than linger in the doorway and look interested. "You guys got a lot of stuff here? Heard tell a coupl'a people didn't want to leave things behind on account of them being valuable." It's said casually, as if Taikrin really couldn't care one way or the other.

"Oh yeah, loads." Riorde's heard the line about riders after treasure and, just to be spiteful about how they want that more than they want them, lies. The interior of her hut muffles the sarcasm. She reappears with a small, worn hemp bag dangling from one hand. "Buried some of it up there," she invents a detail, pointing towards the cliffs. From here, the cairn can't really be seen. "There's a ritual, when someone dies, you bury their most valuable thing with them."

/That/ news certainly sparks some interest, though Taikrin affects a pose of complete nonchalance as she leans against the doorway. "Huh. Interesting." But her gaze is marking the place where Riorde gestures with no small amount of intensity. "Well." She gives herself a shake and pushes off from the wall. "That all you got?" A critical eye turns to the small sack. "Szad don't mind carrying a /little/ more."

"For now," Riorde says, mild and dissembling, trying to conceal the fact that her sack contains nearly all her worldly possessions. She shifts the sack to her bony shoulder and looks at Taikrin a long moment, wary but invariably curious. "Szad..?"

"Szadath," Taikrin clarifies oh-so-helpfully as she gestures for Riorde to follow. "Big, brown, sometimes got a thing for kidnappin' little girls--" The brownrider's smirk is twitching towards /huge/, despite her efforts at keeping a straight face. "Reckon you already seen him." The brown has certainly seen them: he lurks at the edge of the field, rainbow-hued gaze fixed on the two women. "This good lookin' guy here."

Riorde mouths the name but can't get her tongue around the syllables, especially as they spill out with Taikrin's hard-to-follow accent. She's seen the brown from her roof, yes, but approaching him now is an entirely different thing. The islander goes quiet, eyes narrowing in an effort not to look over-awed. "I'm not a little girl," she mutters too, skulking along in Taikrin's wake. "Kinda looks like mud," she opines, since she's never seen a tree.

"Where we come from, fourteen turns is still a little girl." Taikrin glances back over at Riorde, raking a critical eye up and down her thin frame. The brown himself lets out a particularly loud rumble upon being compared to mud, and rather than wait for them to cross the last length of distance, he takes a couple massive strides to close the gap. "Don't know as anyone's ever called you mud, Szad. You ain't gonna take offense, are you? Wingleader said we weren't to lose any of 'em." The note of worry in her voice is almost completely overshadowed by her shit-eating grin-- but at least she's trying.

Riorde stiffens, unused to being eyeballed and especially so critically. "Twenty," she corrects just as stiffly as her posture, and then witheringly, "We do learn how to count." It's all she can do not to step back as the brown moves towards them, tense and unmoving as she listens to the rider address her dragon. The words don't affect her but the dragon himself is a sight to take in, and Riorde is wide-eyed and staring, trying very much not to look like the scared little girl Taikrin suggested she was.

"You shittin' me? You got /twenty/ turns?" That does get Taikrin's attention, jolting her out of teasing and into flat-out disbelief. "Shells girl, I wouldn't give you a day over fifteen." By this point Szadath has drawn to a halt, crouching down for all the world like a giant feline - complete with twitching tail. "Well, scorch me but ain't that a thing. Here." A frown draws her eyebrows together as she continues to stare at Riorde. "Hey, I was just givin' you a hard time, like. You ain't gonna mess all over Szad or scream or nothin', are you? Swear on his shell, Szad ain't never actually hurt nobody on purpose."

Riorde swallows hard, unable to take her gaze off Szadath for more than the second it takes to confirm, "Yeah. Most people my age have babies already." One has to wonder how they manage it if Riorde is any example of island-living, narrow-hipped and slight as she is. Working herself up to bluff greater confidence than she feels, the girl tries to be similarly uncivil. "Why, how old are /you/?" Steeling herself, she inches forward a step. It doesn't look like much, but she's struggling against that instant, instinctual fear that wells up even as Taikrin says she won't be hurt (purposely). Quietly, as much to herself as to the rider, she answers, "No. I won't scream."

Taikrin clouts Szadath in the jaw as the brown swings his head around in an attempt to get a better look at Riorde, complete with a sharp, "Oi!" To Riorde, she shoots back, "Older'n you, sure enough. Here." She reaches a hand out for the girl's bag. "Gimme your sack and I'll go up first. Then I'll haul you up after. Okay?" Beat. "/Please/ don't mess yourself."

Riorde flinches as Szadath turns to look at her and immediately hates herself for it, scowling her embarrassment. She passes over the bag without comment and nods to the directions, though looks skeptical about however it is that anyone gets up on a dragon that size. She summons a glare at Taikrin for the last comment and only after she's certain she won't be heard and abandoned, mutters, "Wouldn't even see it if I did, dragon that colour."

Taikrin, for once, holds her tongue instead of laying into Riorde about her obvious discomfort. Instead, she swings the bag over her shoulder and proceeds to climb, monkey-like, up the riding straps. Once at the top she hooks in, then leans back over to offer a hand down. "Go ahead and climb up-- or Szad can help you, if it's too high. We won't let you fall, promise."

There's a long, edgy pause between Taikrin climbing aboard and Riorde finally nodding. She tentatively stretches up for the rider's hand before she brings herself to touch the dragon, looking round nervously for where his head - and teeth - might be. Though it takes some doing, the girl's not a weakling for all that she looks like a strong wind might snap her, and somehow, somehow, Riorde manages to make it to the top.

Taikrin's grasp is strong, and her strength something else again as she hauls Riorde up the rest of the way with just one arm. "There you go, here-- just in front of me now. Y'ain't gonna hurt him none. Here's a belt--" She's not getting fresh, really, she's just seeking to pass a loop of leather around Riorde's waist. "So's you don't fall off. We ain't gonna be flying far, but it'll make you feel better, yeah?" There's a note of anxiety in Taikrin's voice now.

Up in front of Taikrin as she settles into place, the exile is very still, staring at the dragon beneath her and then twisting around a little to stare at Taikrin, too. "Um. Okay." For a girl who was demonstrably mouthy while still on the comfort of her own roof, Riorde is now suspiciously quiet and compliant.

There's even a little bit of concern on Taikrin's face when Riorde turns around. "Gonna be a hard push, then he'll be up. Won't fly long, then we go between. You know what that is?" She pauses a beat, then continues on as if realizing the inanity of the question. "Gonna go /real/ black and cold, but it'll be okay. Won't last long. Then we'll be there. Okay?" Already Szadath's muscles are bunching beneath him as he deepens the crouch, and Taikrin's arms seek to wrap around Riorde's waist. For the girl's own good, really!

Riorde, still stubbornly trying not to look completely and utterly terrified, gives a short, jerky nod to indicate that she understands even though she doesn't say a word. With Szadath shifting beneath her, Riorde doesn't voice a single complaint when the dragonrider puts her arms around her, even leaning back a little as she tries to trust that she's not going to, well, die.

Szadath doesn't wait for much more than Taikrin to transmit Riorde's nod before he pushes off the ground with all the strength that his great bulk implies. One, two, three wingbeats, and then he's steadily lifting off the ground and up into the angry-looking sky. The winds are more severe up here, and even his great sails can't smooth out the dips and jerks of a turbulent sky. With the advantage of being right next to Riorde's ear, Taikrin shouts, "Hang on, he's gonna go between in just a sec. Don't flip out!"

Riorde's first reaction is to squeeze her eyes shut as Szadath pushes away and gains altitude, but she cautiously opens them up again even though it feels like being flung about insecurely, skies a substitute in for tumultuous seas but with a much longer drop. No nods this time; she's hanging on for dear life. But at least her eyes are open, and she even tries to turn round to get one last glimpse of the island, all she's ever known, before it vanishes into black.

» Szadath disappears into *between*. Between There is nothing but darkness and bone-numbing cold here. Black... Blacker... Blackest...

Upper Sky, High Reaches Weyr Set within the mountain range like a cupped hand with seven bony fingers, High Reaches Weyr rests in the jagged shadow of its spindles. The inner edges of its cliffs are roughened by a liberal scattering of dragon ledges, surrounding a wide bowl with a lake at its eastern end, the clear water reduced to puddle-sized by the altitude. With the many landmarks on the ground indistinguishable, those higher up stand out, such as the huge aerial entrance to the hatching grounds: located in the western face of the bowl, it's big enough for several dragons to fly through at once. Higher yet, the very rim of the bowl offers several vantage points upon which to land and take in the dramatic views over the High Reaches area; chief among those are the recently rebuilt Star Stones that rise up to the east, standing guard until they can (hopefully) again predict the next invasion of Thread. Brilliant light plays off of the dunes of snow as a cloudless winter day brings with it extreme cold. Obvious exits: Weyrs Hatching Ledges Star Stones Southern Rim [Up] [Down] [flights] [Sands] » Szadath arrives from *between*.

At least the air at the Weyr is quieter, and Szadath's flight levels out once he's in familiar airspace. That said, there's something disconcerting about the tight spiral the brown makes towards the bowl. "Welcome to High Reaches!" Taikrin shouts, gesturing with one arm at the bowl that's a little too visible over Szadath's right side. "Hang on--" That bowl. It is coming up /fast/.

As promised, Riorde didn't scream. She didn't make a sound. Nor does she make one now. Later, she'll remember every detail, but right now all she can do is stare, white-knuckled and pale, all the colour drained right out of her.

You land down in the western bowl. Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#250RJs) The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north. Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries. Brilliant light plays off of the dunes of snow as a cloudless winter day brings with it extreme cold. Obvious exits: Living Cavern Inner Caverns Garden Patio Ledge [Sky] Galleries Weyrleader Complex East Bowl Weyr Entrance

The landing isn't quite as backbreaking as it seems like it should be from the rate of descent, but it's not actually /pleasant/, either. Still, no sooner has the brown touched down than Taikrin is undoing buckles with the ease of long practice. "You alive up there? Y'all're stayin' in the candidate barracks, just over here. Reckon they got food and stuff for you, so-- hang on to my arm, like, and Szad'll catch you just on the side, see?" Sure enough, the brown has his forearm primed and ready for use as a step.

"Over...?" Riorde finds her voice but doesn't make a full sentence. She watches rather numbly as Taikrin undoes the buckles, not knowing where to begin to get them off herself, and avails herself of the brownrider's help to get down. Her descent to the ground is a whole lot shakier than her initial climbing up. Once her feet hit the earth, she steps away so Taikrin can come down after, staring around at the utterly unfamiliar scene before her. Then, looking back, she turns her unsettled and unsettling stare on Taikrin. "Just like that?"

Taikrin slides down right after, Riorde's pack still slung over her shoulder. "Just like that," she confirms. "Just gotta take you, uh... huh. Not sure if you're supposed t'be checkin' in or nothing. So..." With a shruh and a somewhat weak attempt at a crooked grin, Taikrin reaches out to take Riorde's elbow and lead her on towards the barracks. "Reckon your family's already here, like, so's you can just get settled in. No big fuss."

Riorde swallows hard, but as exiles go she could be a lot worse. Surely at least one ran off screaming into the Bowl. "Right. No big fuss." She recovers enough to sound wry, but sticks close to Taikrin in an uncharacteristic loss of self-sufficiency, letting herself be steered in the right direction. But, right before she goes in for what is surely a rather hysterical reunion with the other islanders crammed into the candidate barracks, she pauses and looks anxiously at Taikrin to ask, "Am I going to see you again?"

That throws Taikrin for a loop. "Uh." She scrubs a hand through the short hair captured under her helmet, then shrugs. "Probably. It ain't that big a Weyr, you know?" Suddenly uncomfortable, she offers another not-quite-right smile, and begins to back off. "Reckon I ought to go back for my next load, but. Uh. Ask for Taikrin if you need anything?"

"Okay." This seems to satisfy Riorde, who manages to give a shaky smile. "Thanks. And thank, um, Ssa -- um, your dragon." Shouldering her pack, the young woman goes on in to learn all about the wonders of hot baths and new clothes and food that isn't fish.