Difference between revisions of "Logs:First Ichor"

Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake.

At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.

Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor.

Snow dunes are for stompin'. So says the tracks that lead from the weyrling area out to the main bowl, a series of half-formed back foot prints and tail slides that end with a young bronze doing his very super best to stay upright on his hind legs and stare at the boy before him. Anyone who attended the hatching might recognise this pose from his impression. It would seem to be Lythronath's preferred method of A'rist-watching.

Errands have taken Quinlys away from the barracks for the most recent part of the day (though Olveraeth has kept up a more watchful pose here in the bowl), but now the bluerider is on her way back. There's snow in her hair from a recent flurry, and her cheeks are already nearly as red as her hair, but she seems to enjoy the dunes as much as Lythronath-- and it's the bronze she glances at, as she passes, though his rider also gets a moment's attention. "Have you turned into stone, yet?" she wonders, airily.

It takes a couple of minutes, but who should wing his way over from the feeding pens but Ilicaeth, the gritty blue gliding low over the Bowl, set against the dark, snowy sky. After a perusal of what's below, he spins about on a wingtip, and backwings to a landing not too far from the WEyrlingmaster and her charge...twin whorls of snow called into temporary being by the motion of wingtips. Hmm...there's no Alida anywhere near or on him, though the blue paces closer, closer. If one stares some, they'll likely make out the leftover gobbets of flesh, sinew, intestines, etc. depending from his closed and bloody muzzle, mouth.

"I'll turn to ice first," says A'rist, wincing an eye closed when Lythronath leans preacariously forward to muzzle-tap- well, whatever he was going for, it's the weyrling's ear he gets. A'rist steps back, practiced as someone who's been putting up with this for a month, and then to the side. "He wanted to stomp things," he explains to his weyrlingmaster. Lythronath has fallen forward, but recovers enough footing to lift his nose and sniff. « Blood! » It's more a thought than a word.

« You need a wash, » Olveraeth declares, his head rising up from where it had been sitting upon his folded forelimbs so that he can greet Ilicaeth with a whuff of warm air that dissipates long before it reaches the other blue. « Be careful with your rider, Lythronath. They break. » "Brr," agrees Quinlys. "Get him to breath on you instead of just tapping. It smells nasty, but at least it's warm air." Her hands get shoved deeper into her pockets, her head turning so that she, too, can glance at Ilicaeth, though his presence clearly doesn't bother her.

If he heard the bronze 'kid' down there mention blood, Ilicaeth plays schtum, the blue's sedate pace finally bringing him within about twelve feet of Ollie and Co., his limbs finally ceasing motion...though that tail tip of his takes up the occasional twitch. Azure eyes whirl in mellow fashion as he observes the goings-on, and when Olveraeth comments on the lighter blue's appearance, a soft chuff and a sudden, meaty draconic belch of large proportions follows. From the sound of it, it might've come from the bowels of Tarterus. Those meaty gobbets fall from the messy blue's temporarily opened jaws in that moment, splatting softly into pristine snow, turning it a dark pink. Oh my. « Do I offend? » is inquired in scouring, mellow fashion of both Ollie and Lythronath, even as the somewhat smaller blue starts rubbing his muzzle in harsh, broad strokes against the snow beneath them.

A'rist grimaces a little. "I get lots of his breath in his- well, a lot of times. In a day. And a night." He shakes his head, and steps out of the way, again, as Lythronath goes stomping through a dune, making straight for Illicaeth. « Blood! » Pounding through his thoughts, possibly an answer to Olveraeth. With his nose down and sniffing as he goes, his smaller front legs start to scratch. He doesn't seem all that aware that his talons are baby-sharp and getting awful near that big blue muzzle being rubbed in the snow. Blood, blood, blood. He smells it.

Sympathetically; "They're like that, at this age. You're doing okay?" Quinlys takes those hands out of her pockets all over again, but mostly so that she can tuck them into her armpits, as if this heat might do better for her - even deep within her fur-lined gloves. She's too busy talking to the weyrling to pay much mind to the dragons, but Olveraeth has it well in hand. « Mind, young Lythronath. You don't offend me, Ilicaeth, though you seem to have excited the little one. He goes in for the kill! »

Ilicaeth keeps a subtle eye on the little bronzling while he 'washes' his muzzle in snow, one of the blue's wings partially extending and sweeping more of the white stuff forward towards his face to keep him decently supplied. Another, if much smaller belch emerges from the paler blue, who soon rumbles a baritone, « Yup... » to his own former Weyrlingmaster's caution as Lythronath moves in for the 'kill' on one of those very-nearby gobbets of former-herdbeast on the ground. Casually inquired of said baby bronze, « Hey kid; ever gas out yer clutchmates? » He's sent some vague and sandy images of farting on his nebulous barracks-mates as they sleep.

Lythronath lunges his great big head forward and bites. And then opens his mouth! And then closes it! See food? « Cold! » It's still more thoughts than words with this one, but they're solid, weighty, and so very present at the front of his mind. « Blood! » Somewhere, under all that snow. "Sure," A'rist nods, tugging at the jacket that has become too short in the arms, despite having just fine after the hatching. "Him too," the weyrling adds, making his voice carry confidence. The bronze's first bite is gone. He scratches the area around it, « leaves marks! » before moving to find another chunk.

Olveraeth is very, very dry when he remarks, to Ilicaeth, « He's not much for complex thought just yet. » He finds it amusing, albeit in a very... the-naturalist-observes-the-peculiar-creature kind of way. And: « Are you going to try and teach my charges bad habits, Ilicaeth? » "He seems happy enough," agrees the Weyrlingmaster, glancing back at the dragons for the first time in a few minutes. "Olly thinks he's fascinating, but Olly tends to think that of most of them, especially early on. I bet he's enjoying getting to eat the meat off the bone, now. And no more chopping for you." It's a new development; very exciting. "Better get a new jacket from stores, when you've the chance."

« Uh... Yeah, great. That's two words in a row... » is noted almost as dryly to both Ollie and the bronzling. Two words that have nothing to do with his casual question. Ilicaeth's baritone sounds a little dubious, his golden sands scouring just a hint before he withdraws from Lythronath's mind, even as he finishes up cleaning his muzzle near-completely of blood. There is, however, a smaller string of raw meat still depending from near the back of his mouth, and even the most animated and exacting flicks of the dragon's tongue can't seem to budge it from its trap between his teeth. « Mnuh? » Is noted a little distractedly to Olveraeth's inquiry as he continues to try and dislodge that trailing hank of bloody flesh, one coppery claw trying to carefully hook into an end of the meat... and failing....over and over.

A'rist nods acknowledgement for the clothing instructions. His confident tone seems to have faltered when he says, "He wanted to eat the bone. Until he figured out how much fun ripping is." He tries to pull his mittens farther up his wrists. "He got chunks on G'laer the other day." His sigh is warm enough that his breath condenses. « Words, » says the little bronze in time with a snort through surface snow. Ooh, more blood! More cold! More scratching, right next to a blue toe that's still on the ground.

Quinlys can't help it: her mouth twitches with unsuppressed mirth. "Sorry," she apologises, a moment later. "I shouldn't laugh. I can't imagine G'laer did. He'll get better at it." Blue eyes drop back towards A'rist's wrists, but she refrains from making further comment on his clothes. « More of a... dooer than a thinker, I think, » continues Olveraeth, narrating quite as if Lythronath can't hear, though he's certainly not keeping his words from the little bronze. « See how he goes in to scratch. He likes it: the cold, the blood, the snow. Will he find that toe? »

After what seems like the fifteenth try to tug that strip of meat from between rear teeth comes a baritone swirl directed utterly towards the wee bronze: « Hey kid; c'mere an' get this meat outta my teeth, why doncha'? » Slowly and carefully, so as to not accidentally injure the scratching squirt, the blue ceases his efforts, and lowers his head to the snowy ground, his eyes whirling more quickly as they focus upon Lythronath. A low croon emerges from the gritty blue's maw as it opens quite slowly, his lower lip trying to curl away to show where the inner end of that meat is lodged between knife-like teeth. Aside to Ollie, « 'ooin'sh gooh'. » He *does* sound like his mouth is open, tongue roaming around. « 'or lih' 'il 'ee 'inh 'ish 'EAT... » Breathe-siiiigh.

« Toe! » More likely than his listening is that Lythronath has just latched onto that blue foot as a way to pull himself up and push himself back onto his hind legs - though how far he'll get with that is really up to Illicaeth and his tolerance of talons on his hide. And what is that wonderful smell wafting on blue dragon breath? "Don't bite him," escapes A'rist's mouth, with far too much concern for it to have been intentionally out loud.

« Ah. The little bronze has scented the-- » That Olveraeth breaks off from his commentary likely has more to do with the fact that Quinlys is watching all the more intently, and that is very definitely the result of A'rist's warning. « Lythronath. Be mindful. » "Ilicaeth won't let him hurt him," reassures Quinlys. "Unless he goes chomping at wings or something, he'll be fine. Is he hungry? Or is this just... play?"

« ... 'uh 'uck? » the slightly distracted Ilicaeth notes in sudden surprise as the bronzling latches onto one of his toes, the blue showing considerable self-control and good sense when none of his sharp claws come out for business as the squirt tries to summit Mount Ilicaeth's lowest slopes. « 'ahn iht, kih'; 'ih 'EEH, 'ah 'ih 'ooh! » the gritty dragon tries to redirect the weyrling, all while his hide ripples in places, and he squints and vaguely winces at the touch of those little, yet still pointy claws. It's rather like watching a cat knead a human's leg.

"No, he's-" Sniff, sniff. Sniff. "Just after blood." Or, « Meat. » "Not that blue's." A'rist sounds certain, even reassuring, but he's watching his dragon oh so closely. Lythronath remembers he has a tail, and has got pretty decent at balancing on that and his hind legs (until the next growth spurt anyway), so Illicaeth's foot is released. But not cleanly. Not without a scrape of talons across it. The bronze isn't even paying attention to that. « Teeth. » He cranes his head forward while trying not to overbalance.

"Mm," says Quinlys, who is also keeping a relatively close eye on the bronze's efforts, though she doesn't seem outright concerned - yet. "Well, that would be ichor. If he were after Ilicaeth's, I mean. But I take your point. As long as Ilicaeth doesn't object too much--" Olveraeth lets out another huff of air. « Perhaps he's not sure what the difference is, yet. » And, « Can you really not talk properly with your mouth open? A peculiar affectation! »

« Yeah...'eeh » Ilicaeth assures the bronzling, and Olveraeth by proxy, the gritty blue then wincing a little more as those little talons scrape a few white, then not-quite-green marks down his toe as the weyrling releases his toe. Again, even with the small pain, there's barely a movement from the dragon, though he seems relieved when that sensation goes away...Ilicaeth then carefully angling his head and mouth so that that meat-bearing tooth and open jaw press heavily into snowy granite. « 'h'on, 'ih. Ih' 'ahin' ih' eehee'... » A sandy visualization is given to the bronze, showing him tugging the meat free with his own teeth, or claws... or *something*. For Ollie, a long-suffering, « 'Eh'er' 'ough uh ih'... »

Claws, did you say? Or, picture? Lythronath, he has those. And with an awkward step on hind legs, and a lunge, those claws are put to good use. Oh, that meat comes out. And quite possibly some part of the blue's gums, too. The bronze doesn't much seem to care about the latter; he drops down to pick up his prize, and hurriedly turns and heads back for A'rist, with only the natural amount of baby dragon clumsy. While still holding that chunk of drooly meat in his mouth, Lythronath aims a very pointed, « Words, » right at Illicaeth. Olveraeth is awarded the spectacle of those massive baby jaws chomping away the feast. See, food.

« The little bronze, having successfully stolen the meat-scraps from the teeth of the blue, settles down to enjoy his feast. » Olveraeth rises, now, shaking snow off of his shoulders and flanks as he pads closer to the others. The nasal timbre of his voice is pleased, stars twinkling in their inky backdrop. "Gross," says Quinlys, but at least she's grinning as she says it. "You're okay, Ilicaeth?" It's a little belated, as if she's only just remembered that the blue's just seen some action. Of a sort.

« Owh! » the usually stolid blue notes in small surprise as Lythronath scuffs his gum with those baby talons, Ilicaeth wincing more noticably as the bronze pushes away and down to feast on that fresh and slightly salivated-on strip of meat. The irritation of a chunk of food wedged between teeth has been traded for the irritation of a silghtly bloody gum, which shows a small trace of ichor before the blue shuts his yap. A 'look' at the weyrling dragon is followed by a deep draw for breath that expands his ribcage, then a gusty siiiigh which sends exposed hair, snow, and whatever-else fluttering and flying for a moment. « Thanks a *lot*, Ollie... » is muttered to the 'explaining' Weyrlingmaster dragon, while Quinlys gets a low croon, and the babe an only slightly sour, « Use 'em both, kid: images *and* words. » Huff. « Thanks. » Grump. Ow.

Lythronath pushes his snout into the snow once he's done, huffing at it, and only then twists his neck to try and look back at Illicaeth. That big mouth opens. His tongue lashes at his teeth. And at that same time: « Words. » And then, speech is abandoned, and it's another weighty thought of, « Snow! », where he's charging next. Snow, back toward the weyrling area. A'rist gives the sandy blue an uncomfortable smile. And just as his bronze is rearing up to stomp an as-of-yet-unstomped bank of snow: "I think... it's just that he likes proving he's been there." He shrugs first, salutes second, and steps after the bronze just once before looking back to Quinlys for dismissal.

Quinlys' laugh is low and warm, affectionate even as much as amused. "Baby dragons. They're all weird and wonderful, in their own little way. See you later, A'rist." She returns the salute, though her hands quickly return to the warmer confines of her underarms, a nod following the weyrling - before it gets turned back towards the two adult blues. « What? » asks Olveraeth, all innocence. And then, « Rest well, Lythronath. Or play well. Whichever it will be. You did invite him, you know, Ilicaeth. It's not my fault. »

Ilicaeth just...stares after the little bronze as he tongues his own teeth, then 'utters' that. « Uh...yeah... » is all the gritty blue can call up before Lythronath is off on his newest adventure in the snow, though the dragon *does* rumble a muted goodbye to A'rist when the human tries for a smile. Oh wait! For just a second, 'caeth uses his patented 'Alida grin' on the poor kid, which consists of bared fangs. It looks murderous...except for those mellowly whirling blue eyes, which are soon turned upon Olveraeth again. « No need ta rub it in. » If he could eyeroll, like his rider, he would. Still... he'll be touching tongue to that scuffed gum all day tomorrow.