Difference between revisions of "Logs:Ichor Over Tea"

Feeding Pens, High Reaches Weyr

Wedged between the lake and the rest of the vast bowl are the dustyfeeding 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.

Lythronath has been thinking about this place for hours. It's hunger now, real hunger, not just hunger for blood, that drives his flight, with his instincts at their peak, advertised in the roar as he takes wing. Meat. Blood. Kill. Any can read them off him, can smell and feel and taste the anticipation of all these things. The bronze lands in the feeding pens as a blue hurriedly finishes. He scents at the air. He doesn't wait, but he calculates in that simple, instinctual way of a hunter. No. No. Yes. There. That one.

Lythronath's roar echoes in the bowl, his hunger washing over Hraedhyth and pushing her own savage needs over the edge. She accepts the invitation, bulky gold dropping from a 'shared' ledge from on high to descend on a particularly tempting 'beast. Hraedhyth doesn't mean to land on Lythronath's choice, but the coincidence happens anyway and the queen looks to gorge on her severly sudden kill. It urges Azaylia to reach for another sandwich, in the warmth of her weyr, a generous spread of snacks and tea set in front of her and her guest. "I can't imagine all of the bandits have been caught..." The Weyrwoman's smile shifts to something far more guilty, "Or maybe I'm looking for excuses to still join riders for sweeps."

Squish?! Lythronath roars again, roars at Hraedhyth, roars with a lunge that brings that open maw so very near the queen. « Mine! » A'rist is holding his tea, between both hands, and letting the steam warm his face. These humid days, they can go between. That might dry them out. "Don't blame you." Says the bronzerider who's been quite cautious with flying sweeps over Nabol, ever since he caught and beat the snot out of some farmer's boy, whose identity he'd mistaken.

Less 'squish' and more 'snap crackle pop'. Hraedhyth is the unending empathy to Lythronath's ruthless violence, killing swiftly so as to avoid unecessary suffering. It's only after the crimson subsides from her gaze that she hears the bronze, bloodied maw swinging to face him. « Mine. » Very obviously hers, and the queen backs her claim with a vicious bellow. With her own oversized jaws on display, she looks to push Lythronath away. With her mouth. "I think I might keep at it, you know?" Azaylia makes quick work of the sandwich, dusting her fingers of crumbs before reaching down to shoo Warg. The canine is on the quest for crumbs, and since there are none around the goldrider, he snorts his way over to A'rist's boots. When that proves fruitless, the wrinkly pup will do his best to try and leap onto his lap.

NO. It was HIS. Teeth meet teeth. Clunk. Frustration piles into Hraedhyth with more force, pounding away for the challenge, for the betrayal. For the snapping. "Flying sweeps," repeats A'rist, a bit of a frown trying to get at his lips. He twitches at it. "I heard you were Glacier, once. But that was when there was more than one gold." He reaches to scoop at Warg, his hand still warm from the tea, but he's only halfway paying attention to the canine. If even half.

Hraedhyth was startled at first, but it quickly fell away to reveal her own bubbling fury at being challenged. She shoves back, mentally and physically, looking to muscle a shoulder against Lythronath and shove him out. No, you don't get to eat today! Azaylia gives a start, turning to aim pursed lips at a wall-- rather, what's going on behind it. With a dismissive sigh, she turns back to A'rist, "I was. And not just more than one, back when I was a junior and there was no hope that I'd become anything else." Airy tone suggests she knows how silly that must sound, now. Warg is grateful for the assist, considering his chubby legs and non-existant vertical leap. He huffs, claiming A'rist's lap in the name of wrinkles and folds. "It was good for Hraedhyth. She's been enjoying them, when we can manage the time."

It's subtle, but as Lythronath digs his talons into the ground and shoves back, the reason for this fight soon becoming lost while he pushes against the bigger dragon, snapping his teeth (at air very near golden hide) and roaring and growling, A'rist stiffens just a little, in the shoulders, through the core. He pets Warg. He forces a quick smile as reply for Azyalia's look. He tries, "I can't imagine what Lynner'd be like without sweeps. Even those don't really do it for him, you know, but... it's something." The hand holding the teacup lifts to bring it to his lips. A'rist doesn't mean to have his pinky out, it's just the handle is so small... And a talon risks grazing Hraedhyth's foot.

Another sandwich is plucked up, and Azaylia bites a little harder than necessary, teeth clicking from the force. Hraedhyth snaps at the air, close enough for Lythronath to feel a rush of hot breath near his wings, the queen nearly thrashing against his body. Talon sinks into hide and tugs, leaving a trail of ichor behind as Hraedhyth bellows her pain. Open maw is smashed toward Lythronath's shoulder, not quite a bite even if some teeth are likely to drag. Bare foot is tugged up onto the couch with Azaylia, idly scratching the top of it, "He seems like he'd be good at fighting Thread?" Certainly not a wish for it to come back, no. "It makes sense, to have dragons like that crop up every now and again. It'd be awful if the... instincts were bred out of them, somehow."

Lythronath clicks and chomps and, finally, swings that big tail around and thwacks. He's hungry. He's riled. Teeth leave scratch marks - not deep - on his shoulder, and it brings a deep, throaty rumble. "He would be," A'rist confirms, certainty in that. "I've thought about it, actually." Lythronath ducks his head low, slaps it upward at the gold's. A'rist leans forward to put his tea on a table, and picks Warg up, moving him back down toward the floor.

Hunger burns hot in the queen's belly, the heat felt in her mind's fire, carried in crimson eyes. The impact of his tail sends a stinging ripple throughout that tawny hide, and Hraedhyth pushes harder against him, either to shove him out of the pen or onto his side. The entire time, those beasts cower at the furthest edge of the fence, trembling and frothing. It's finally with a gusty sigh that Azaylia's legs unfold from beneath her, touching the ground but not yet committing. "We should break them up, shouldn't we?" Because things are only escalating. Still, curiosity prompts her to ask, "Have you? Thought about it?"

Lythronath scrabbles at the ground, leaning, leaning hard, suddenly low to not be pushed over, with all his weight against Hraedyth. And her legs. He emits a few determined clicks. A'rist... reaches for a sandwich, and holds it neatly in his lap. "Probably, yeah." There's a wary nod, after, to Thread, a distracted, "If we had to," but he's not really focusing on the conversation just now. His expression is obvious to anyone who knows dragonriders...

Now there's a danger of the gold toppling, but if she has to go down it'll be on top of Lythronath. Hraedhyth stumbles, one foreleg crumpling as the other presses forward, claws biting into his meaty haunch as she attempts to push him away. The blazing heat of her primal fury is suddenly invaded by floral incense, thick and dizzying enough to pull her attention away from Lythronath. That's all that's needed for Hraedhyth to stumble back, stubbornly snarling at the bronze before settling down with a low rumble. Only then does Azaylia's eyes focus, looking at A'rist with a casual murmur, "I think about it, too." As if there was no interruption. "A flame thrower doesn't sound nearly as satisfying as riding a fighting dragon. But," She shakes her head, reaching for the cooled cup of tea in front of her, "It's not ever going to be a threat, not now."

"No," agrees A'rist, his eyes still unfocused. Lythronath roars in the moment of reprieve; roars and lunges for Hraedhyth's kill. Not to eat it, just to step in it on his way to that huddling, terrified group of herdbeasts in the corner of the pens. A'rist looks down. At his sandwich. "Not now."

A flare of renewed anger before it's smothered beneath a blanket of false calm. Hraedhyth turns, and if she makes Lythronath's hunting that much more difficult... well, good. But accidents won't repeat themselves, and both will end up with their own kills. Azaylia lets out another sigh, gusty and tolerant, "I'll get the numbweed ready." For when after their lifemates are sated.

"It's good," decides A'rist, the words an abrupt eruption, "that they do this," heated when Lythronath goes for a good, swift kill, mostly because he's hungry and nothing to do with mercy. "That they can at least get an outlet. Or, he can... Maybe Hraedhyth doesn't need one."

"I don't know if she does." Azaylia answers after a pensive minute, comparing the savage exchange to her much gentler play with the smaller dragons. "But if so, it's because Lythronath needs it more." In order to maintain balance, whether the gold realizes it or not. "It is good," She agrees with a soft smile, at least somewhat reassuring that there's no ill will, despite the new scars bound to form on her dragon's hide.

"Hm." Says A'rist. He leans carefully forward to secure his tea, sandwich still just waiting. He sips. Lythronath gorges on blood, and guts, and probably some bone as well. And is enjoying it thoroughly.

Hraedhyth has dragged her new, un-flattened kill closer to Lythronath, and it's with an almost insistant pressure that she leans against him as she feasts. Warg noisily licks his chops at A'rist's still untouched sandwich, and Azaylia stands to collect the batch of numbweed. On her way, she stops to press her lips to the top of his head, "Eat your sandwich." A reminder, rather than a command. As hunger is sated, so are the violent urges that fueled her moments earlier, until Hraedhyth's drums have eased into a companionable rhythm. « Lythronath. » A fond rumble.

Right. Sandwich. The tea goes to rest on his knee, and A'rist picks up that sandiwch. And checks over his shoulder to see where Azaylia's at. And eyeballs Warg. « Hraedhyth, » answers Lythronath, in blood and satisfaction. Which may have as much to do with the scrapes on his hide as the first beast that he's finishing.

Azaylia goes up the steps and turns the corner, keeping the salve with many other care items-- the majority of which are luxuries rather than necessities. Warg watches his owner go, turning back to stare at A'rist as the bronzerider does the same. He knows that look, and fidgets accordingly, chuffing his want. Scraps now please! « Ouch. » A statement and a question, feeling for the extent of his injuries.

« Haha! » Not a care in response. It might be trust, that Hreadhyth is still there, and therefore, fine. He might not even be considering the queen just now. But the bronze is looking over to those herdbeasts once more; hungry still. Just like Warg. Warg, for whom A'rist carefully rips off a corner of crust (holding the sandwich down with his elbow), Warg, to whom he tosses it, sloshing his tea. "Scorch it."

Grunt. Shove! But nothing nearly as vicious as their previous battle, and almost encouraging Lythronath toward the beasts. Hraedhyth will try to make due with the squished carcass from before, refusing to let its death be a waste. Snortgobblegobble and A'rist's oath are enough for Azaylia to peek her head from around the corner, "A'rist!" Whether for the scraps or the tea, that's a scoldin'. "You're just as bad as Bones, I swear." It's said with a laugh as she carries the large, sealed bucket out to the main cavern.

"I knew him when he was still Squish," A'rist says by way of his defense, though it sounds fairly sheepish. The topic of Bones makes him look up, though, even as he leans to put his tea, mostly lukewarm now, back on the table, and brushes at the droplets on his pants. "Where is he, anyway?" Called after her. Fairly loudly. Lythronath clicks a few warnings, stalks just enough to panic everyone, and then leaps. Blood.

"He was never Squish, A'rist!" Another laugh as she passes through, on her way to the ledge just to have it close for when their beasts return. Her soft voice manages to be heard as she calls back, "Garden, of course." Walking back in, she dusts her hands, "Something about some new flowers being particularly delicate and needing a lot of his attention. He'll be home late." It's a guess, one that doesn't seem to bother her in the least.

"He'll always be Squish, Azaylia," answers A'rist. The rest of that tea is downed, less ceremoniously (though his pinky finger still sticks out). "So... should Lythronath come back here, when he's done?" The bronze, of course, is crunching away, finishing this second kill. This not-squished kill. « Haha! Squish. »

"He will be if he gets fat from you and Bones overfeeding him." Hands on her hips, Azaylia takes a moment to loom over the seated bronzerider. Mention of his dragon is a good way to deflate the puffed up Weyrwoman. "Absolutely. I can't have him running around with those scratches. They might get infected." Never mind that he has his own rider to tend to him. A rider who's getting more sandwiches pushed onto him, at least until injured dragons arrive to steal their attention away from the tea party.