Difference between revisions of "Logs:Playing With Food"

Change is coming. As swift as winter fled to spring, Athimeroth's alteration from helpless newborn to dragon has come. C'wlin marvels at the span of wing, the flex of leg, the curl of his bronze's neck. The way that the wind meets weathered hide; the way that the predator in him -- some distant gift from his sire, no doubt -- can cut down his meal with only a few fumbles. Getting used to talon and teeth... change is coming, as slow as the seasons, but its there.

Change has come.

Beneath a cloudless summer sky, Rukbat's burning golden light aims to sizzle fair skin to a golden tan as C'wlin, pale hair made blonder by the bright summer day, leans against the fenced area, watching Athimeroth.

"You're not supposed to play with your food." Idle comment from a boy who's lurned when to press against the aether's power and when to meremly provide acerbic comments.

Blistering heat pushes against the boy's mind, banners whipping in the gale-force strength of the wind. « But I like to. » Athimeroth's victory is a war-cry that drives forward the battles upon the blurred green and brown land so far below his mind's eye perspective.

"Carry on, then, but if you get me in trouble for being late," C'wlin threatens, glancing down at his nails while keeping his lifemate in line of sight. He maybe be able to hunt the ones trapped in the special weyrling dragon pens --

-- « I do not need special treatment! » Athimeroth's winds howl, afronted at the mere idea of being given the kiddie lunches.

"You're not," the bronzerider assures, eye-rolling -- though Faranth forbid it be where Athimeroth might see it -- before grasping the top rung of the fence and hauling himself up to stand on the bottom rung. "Hurry up. You're taking all day. If you want them to think you're good at this, then do it right the first time." Simple logic, yet so true.

With a growl, Athimeroth ceases to play with his food; blood runs as the bronze takes down the little one he was toying with. The half-start gashes, and the nicks here and there are the testament to his past time.

C'wlin turns his attention away once his lifemate is properly eating, to stare at the sky. Gliding comes next -- already his dragon is gusting with the excitement of what's to come -- and then after? While thoughts may stray to the silver strand of potential leadership, the bronzerider shakes his head, clearing his mind.

Instead, he glances down at the scrap of hide.

And grits his teeth.

"Aren't you done, yet?" Exasperation colors tone when Athimeroth begins playing with meals-on-wheels number two.

« You cannot hurry perfection. »

"You eat, then. I'm going to go find my own food." Without waiting for his dragon's response -- or really, permission as C'wlin has learned that abrupt leave-taking is the way to go with Athimeroth -- he stalks off towards the living caverns. One last yell tossed over his shoulder: "EAT, Athimeroth!"

Once again, the bronze-with-the-plan has started toying with his food.