Difference between revisions of "Logs:Everybody Hurts"

Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

Directly opposite the sharp spikes of the Reaches' characteristic spires lies the bowl's south rim, from above seeming pinched like a baker's pie crust to form this distinctive lip: a soft curve, several dragonlengths long but only four lengths wide before narrowing into impassable crags. It would have to be an apprentice effort, however, given how even the flatter area is riddled with cracks and hollows, dusted with glittery silicate quartz that is far more gritty than sweet.

Though the view down into the bowl is commanding, the views beyond it can be absolutely breathtaking on clear days: eternally snow-capped mountains descending to high-altitude meadows and the dark brush of evergreens, and greener valleys beyond even those, with only glimpses here and there of human habitation. But the views come with a risk: the wind can blow hard and strong, and whether looking inward or outward, there is no protection from the precipitous chasms that fall away from these heights.

Howling winds test themselves against Hraedhyth's bulk, the massive dragon as unmoving as the stone she's perched upon. Her weight is used at it's advantage, lying heavily on her stomach with front claws curled against the rim facing inwards. There is no Szadath here, the brown possibly spending some time with his lifemate rather than the queen. Leaning against her dragon, Azaylia's arms are wrapped tightly around her knees, sitting against Hraedhyth's stomach and looking out over High Reaches Weyr. Judging from the light dusting of snow on tawny hide, the pair have witnessed Rukbat's descent and the deceptively warm colors falling over their domain. There's a sliver of twilight left, just as the snow has finally stopped.

K'del and Cadejoth have been far and wide, these past days, wandering in and out of the Weyr with enough frequency that anyone paying attention might begin to wonder. Now, the bronze hurtles over the rim, flying low; somehow, he and his rider seem to miss Hraedhyth's presence there until it's simply too late-- they're already moving to land, and to stop now would definitely indicate that they're running away. They're not running away. And so the bronze completes his hand, rumbling a low greeting to the queen as his rider unbuckles himself, though he makes no move to dismount.

Hraedhyth watches them approach with a gaze of plain blue-green, chuffing a timely welcome back at Cadejoth. There's a shake for her head, neck following suit until the rest of her hide is twitching to dislodge some of the cool flakes, not that she makes any move to stand. Drums increase in volume, the only warning that she means to speak, « If yours would like us to leave... » He can bite her glorious golden-- Oh. Apparently it's meant to be an offer to do just that, extended by her rider. The very one who is careful in standing on stiff legs, pulling her cloak tighter around her warm winter dress and leggings. « You have been traveling. » Certainly she's noticed.

« You are not in my way, » says Cadejoth, who is not being disrespectful in announcing that, but is also making clear that this? This is his rim, too. He settles down, supporting himself upon the stone lip with carefully positioned talons: master of his domain, looking down upon the Weyr much as he often did, back when it was his. « We have had places to see, » he confirms, easily, with a chink and rattle. His rider half-turns, watching Azaylia sidelong, though there's no indication that he's avoiding her, or awkward with her presence. He seems... resolute, and with his hair cut short and his good leathers on, formal and official.

The drums pick up in tempo for only a moment, « No. » an audible raise of an eyeridge that is otherwise immobile. « It would be difficult, with so much space. » Hraedhyth is in much the same pose, head turning to resume her content watch over the dragons and folk of 'Reaches. No doubt Iesaryth is doing much the same, but with more finesse. « What places? » The gold asks with genuine curiosity, her wanderlust from before all but forgotten. Why? Their home is best. Azaylia has a hand on her dragon, using the smooth hide as a handhold, comforting rather than practical once she steps beyond Hraedhyth's protection. The weyrwoman isn't subtle as she looks up at K'del, half-sitting on a portion of the gold's tail.

"Did you need something?" K'del's voice isn't cool, though perhaps that's because he needs to raise his voice to be heard over the whip of the wind: there doesn't seem to be much emotion at all. He's definitely not inclined to move, though, not when Cadejoth's hide is warm, and perhaps even because it gives him an even greater height advantage than usual. Cadejoth's answer to Hraedhyth speaks of coal dust and bitter winds, and a frozen river wending through an old hold. Crom, perhaps. « We go many places, » he adds, then. « But we always return home. »

Azaylia looks away suddenly at K'del's question, back to staring out at the Weyr. The fires leap, and somewhere beneath the beating drums sounds a yelp of sorts. It has Hraedhyth's head turning, eyes whorling much faster as they focus between Cadejoth's ridges. The rasp in her tone is a bitten back growl, « It is... » The rumble continues, physical now, « ...good that you come home. » The gold deals in honesty, and she means what she says. She also means to stare. When the young woman moves again, it's to give a quick shake of her head back and forth.

« I always come home, » repeats Cadejoth, unfazed by the leap of those fires and by Hraedhyth's stares. « This has always been my home. » Far longer than it has been Hraedhyth's. « It always will be. » His possessiveness is barely-there, layered beneath the rustle and clank of his voice, but there nonetheless: High Reaches sings within him. Home. His. Home. His. There's something more in K'del's voice, this time, as he regards Azaylia levelly, expression undaunted. "What is it, Azaylia? Say it. You may as well be honest." He will be. Has been. Will continue to be.

Hraedhyth doesn't pull her stare away from K'del, even as muscles are beginning to coil beneath her hide. She isn't so obtuse as to let his possessive nature go without notice, « It is our home. » His. Hers. Iesaryth's. They share it with the rest of their tribe, the dragons of High Reaches. Azaylia's shoulders creep up to her ears, hunching beneath K'del's words as she continues to look away. It might be a sign of rebellion, yanking the hood of her cloak up over her head as she clutches the cape tightly around her. Crimson flecks come and go within an otherwise blue gaze, « She asks if he is well. »

All of theirs, yes. Cadejoth doesn't - won't - deny that, but even so, he won't let it take away from his own sense of ownership and pride, that sense of honour and duty that binds him so closely to the dragons that are, have always been, his pack. « He is well, » he confirms, turning his head so that he can look at the young queen directly for the first time. « He says he is. He hurts. » It's such a simple thing, really, but Cadejoth conveys with it a sense of it: the frustration, the desperation, the deep, aching pain that won't go away no matter how many bottles he throws at the wall. And there's the determination, too, and the love that twines so perfectly with Cadejoth's own sense of duty. K'del looks away, letting out a snorted breath that carries all too well.

There might be a glance for the bronze's turning head, but the queen's intense focus on his rider won't waver much. « He hurts. » Echoing Cadejoth's words, even as Hraedhyth unintentionally does so with K'del's snort. She doesn't brush off the pain as it's shared... and it is shared. Her smokey anger carries with it that same unwavering devotion, along with painful fragments like so many shredded petals drifting on inky black plumes. The source of the gold's ire comes from a fresh cut, a pain to match salty sting and biting cold winds. It's gone in an instant, smoke scattering as if fanned by a gentle hand. The "Fine." is felt, rather than heard, amplified by the gold.

Quietly, « We both hurt. » But Cadejoth cuts off the sharing of emotion, now, wrapping himself - and his rider - up safe in the coils of his chain. « It hurts him that she will not speak to him, » he says, abruptly, though it's sterile: a mere recitation of fact. « But it does not matter. He does what he needs to. We both do. We always will. » His wings furl more tightly around himself now, and K'del? He's reaching for the straps again, ready to buckle himself back in. What's the point in staying?

The growl is pensive now, despite the ring of fire circles to protect the lush, inner plains of Hraedhyth and Hers. Steel and flame territories mirror each other, whether due to family resemblance or as a result of their riders. "What am I supposed to say?" Azaylia asks from beneath the safety of her hood, airy voice struggling to be heard above the wind. "You're..." Her words are whipped away all too easily, chin visible from the tilt to better aim them. "You hate me." Not as dramatic as one might expect from a woman her age. Just fact. She's straining, even beyond the unforgiving weather, her throat tight, "Maybe someone will do you a favor and I'll end up like Iolene!" Theeeere's that youth.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Azaylia." K'del snaps those words out, losing his temper in an instant, as soon as those words escape. "You won't even talk to me - you get your damn dragon to do it, as if the pair of them are the perfect intermediary, better than a real conversation. But I'm the one who hates you. Don't you fucking talk about Iolene like that. Don't you fucking dare. Not you. Not either of you." Maybe he's not talking about Hraedhyth. Maybe that's just wind that has turned his face red, and his eyes watery. Cadejoth has no reaction for the queen - nothing more to add. Just walls of steel. "Grow up."

Azaylia is stunned into silence, and the dark material she's surrounded herself with doesn't reveal much. Hraedhyth's eyes blossom into fiery red, her roar shaking the air above the Weyr with both rage in frustration. To move would risk her rider, if she were even allowed to charge at all. Knuckles are a sickly yellow for how tightly they clutch her cloak, the hood nearly swept away to reveal a watery, wide-eyed expression that matches her silence. "...I never said anything bad about Iolene." Speaking for this moment, and possibly others. "Not even when I should have." Light voice chokes with effort to be heard, at the attempt to put any emphasis to startled, flat words. "You would have stopped anyone from doing this to her. What you're doing." Not the cool regard, not his harsh words. The other thing.

The buckles are secured at K'del's hips, now: he's ready to go, at least physically. Cadejoth thrums beneath him, confusion and anger extending into a net at no small pace. "And maybe I should have, too," he says, bitterness pervading every syllable. "Because then, like now, there is no Weyrwoman. No Weyrleader. Just fools, playing games." There's enough self-loathing in that last remark that it's hard to believe he doesn't include himself in that. "Should've saved my Weyr, then. Didn't. Not going to fail, this time. Brieli did me a favour, when she told me. Made everything so much simpler." He looks at her, just once. "Don't let Taikrin destroy this Weyr," he says, almost too quietly to be heard. "Don't let her run wild. That I'd never be able to forgive." Cadejoth launches, abruptly, wings flared wide against the darkening skies. They're leaving, now.

Azaylia gives a flinch as Cadejoth sends up a flurry of wingbeats and snow, giving in to the urge to curl in on herself. It's only then does her numbness falter. The bronze is already too far for K'del to see her lips move, let alone hear her cry. Told you what? Hraedhyth is no help, either, the dragon beyond communication as she sends the pair off with another furious bellow. And another. It keeps the pair up on the rim for a little while longer as the weyrwoman attempts to soothe her savage queen. Difficult to do, as Azaylia is hardly in a state to calm anyone down. When she manages, they head straight for her weyr without so much as a glance for bronze pair's ledge.