Difference between revisions of "Logs:Trades"

It is possibly the most atypical day of Iolene's life and she's had quite a few of them in her short seventeen years. Six months ago, there'd have been no dreaming that she'd be sitting in a Weyr on the mainland watching a gallivanting ball of golden energy run herself ragged. That she's alone seems to be on purpose as everything in their small section of the bowl seems to fascinate Ysavaeth to the point of distraction. Oh look, there's a flower there, no wait, there's light spilling on the grassy knoll that looks different than the light spilling on this grassy knoll. No, it's not different after all, and momentary dejection sinks in. And then it starts all over again. "Don't-...," Iolene starts and stops. "I guess you know best." But the dark eyed weyrling keeps a closer than usual eye on her cavorting dragon, uncertain if... fond.

Ysavaeth is not the only one gallivanting - that description could also be used for Olveraeth, though his interest seems somehow more scientific; more thoughtful. The blue has his head tipped way, way back, eyeing the blue sky and those few and far between clouds, entranced to the point where he's clearly not looking where he's going. It's a good thing Quinlys is keeping up with him, nudging him with a fond elbow long before he gets anywhere near Ysavaeth and Iolene. "Watch out, Olly. You've got to keep an eye out on the ground too, you know." The glance she aims at Iolene is friendly enough, amused and fond all at once.

Ysavaeth, unwieldly of her limbs in her days old state, gallumps from one flower to the next, enchanted by this ones pinkness or that one's blue stripes and then there's the possibility of smells that causes a neck, that will one day be regal, to swoop down to try and sniff. She hasn't quite got the whole concept of spacial differentiation down yet and the flowers get crushed. "Oh, Ysa," Iolene's sigh is body encompassing and she clambors up from her seat, dusting her bottom off of dirt and makes her way over. "Flowers are... well. If you keep walking on them, they'll die." It's during this speech that she overhears Quinlys and turns to espy the blue and his new her, along with the glance aimed her way. A quick smile emerges and a hand lifts, fingers wiggling. "Hi," is her uncharacteristically shy greeting.

« You shouldn't hurt them like that. They need to grow towards the sun, » says Olveraeth, not chiding, but rather-- excitable and pleased. And sort of... kermit-the-frogish, for all that that's a reference no one on Pern would ever get. He shuffles on towards Ysavaeth, now, giving her a cheerful up-and-down glance before he drops into a squatted position, head tipped up all over again. Quinlys, taking Iolene's finger waggling as an invitation, crosses towards the other weyrling. "They always tell you, that everything is new for them, and exciting, and whatever, but I don't think even I realised how /much/ so. How are you, Iolene?"

Ysavaeth watches Olveraeth draw up, suspicion clouding the jewels of her eyes. A quick look is thrown behind her to where Iolene is drawing closer, questioning, and then returns to Olly. « How do you know this? » is asked, even as her eyes remain on the flowers and his goes all tipped up. "It's tiring," responds Iolene, the smile flourishing for the friendly conversation and commiserations. "But I try to understand. It was all new to me just a few months ago." It's very hard not to gap at Quinlys in a very /she knows my name/ sort of fashion, which isn't so weird since Iolene has clearly heard of Quinlys, and thus a momentary hiccup where awkward shifts dig her toe into the dirt. "Oh. I'm... I'm fine. I didn't get to sleep much last night though and then this morning. I mean. How are you? Is-," she shoots the blue a look and frowns. "I'm sorry."

Olveraeth ignores suspicion, and seems honestly, genuinely, excited to be able to explain himself. « I asked, » he says, promptly. « That's how you find things out. Quinlys knows all kinds of things, and she lets me pick them out of her head so that I know them, too. She says her brother will tell me all about the stars; can you imagine? They're beautiful. » "Yeah," says Quinlys, easily, sticking her thumbs into the pockets of her lowslung trousers. "It really is." She's got enough of her attention on the other weyrling that there's no way she misses the awkward toe-digging, and then there's the apology-- "What? Sorry? For what?" Beat. "Uh. Okay. Look, the always have favourites. It doesn't really /mean/ anything."

« Oh. I see. Iolene lets me see into her head too. » In reality, Iolene doesn't know how to /stop/ Ysavaeth from looking into her head. « She has a brother she really likes and all these friends she misses even though they all still live here. But she doesn't know anything about flowers. » Except she totally did explain flowers to the dragon just minute ago. « Tell me more. » It could almost be a command, except, no, not really. Not yet. "Do you-," Iolene darts a look to Ysavaeth, the affection and yearning so transparent on her young features. It's clear this next question is killing her and she can't even stand by what she's about to offer, "Do you want to trade?" The gold dragonet isn't so entranced by her flowers and Olveraeth's company to not give the draconic version of a brow raising glance at her rider, where the pinpricked stars that dot the landscape of her head and neck all shift down one space in utter askance.

It hasn't really been long enough for Olveraeth to get the full skinny on this flower thing, but he does /try/. « They grow out of the /ground/, » he tells her, as if this isn't obvious. « Out of... seeds. Which are like eggs, but not really. They die if you stomp on them, or cut them with a knife. But they'll die anyway, so maybe it doesn't really matter. » Probably, he'd go on for longer, but he's as surprised by Iolene's offer as the rest of them - he goes silent. "What?" says Quinlys, seeming genuinely confused. "Oh, Io." Since when does she get to use a nickname? "It doesn't work like that, and anyway, /no/. Olly's mine. Ysavaeth's yours. That's how it works. Don't be silly."

« Don't mind her. She's like that, » is Ysavaeth's very private dismissal of her rider's innocence, though even this is laced with an otherworldly sort of care that transcends simple love, « She'd share the world with someone if they asked. » So while Iolene hasn't learned how to not share all her thoughts and memories, Ysavaeth can clearly carry on a private conversation without Io's knowledge. On a broader band that gives Io the buzz of contact that lets her know Ysavaeth's talking to another dragon, if not the actual words, « Well. Don't we all die eventually? » The relief in Io's bright eyes is palpable as they suddenly shine with absolute happiness for Quinlys' rejection of her offer, never mind it doesn't work like that. "Oh, I am being silly, aren't I? I am. I'm glad. I'm sorry, but I'm really glad. I didn't think so, but they- they don't really tell us how this all works. They just say that... you Impress a dragon, but can't explain what it's like. Then again," the blonde teenager sinks her hands into the pockets of her too large trousers and muses aloud, "I don't know that I could explain it either."

« We all share the world, » says Olveraeth, with the breathless enthusiasm of one who is simply overawed by everything. « But I take your meaning. » Beat. « I suppose we do all die, yes. Eventually. It's-- a pattern. Part of life. I wonder why we don't become part of the earth again, when we die. Wouldn't that be better? Or the sky. » Quinlys looks genuinely amused for Iolene's relief, quirking her smile cheerfully as she agrees, "I don't think any of us could. I've been here all my life, and most of my family Ride, but - it's different, when it's you. I guess it'll be pretty hard for you. I mean... everyone's going to be watching you, right?"

"They are?" Iolene looks, startled with those big doe eyes, to the bluerider. "Why would they be watching me?" Her shoved hands fidget and then pull out so she can play with a stray strand of her blonde hair. "It must be nice having a family." It almost sounds like her voice is trailing off, but it just ends there, with that statement. « We don't? » Unlike Olveraeth, Ysavaeth can't draw on this knowledge of draconic dying habits and the graveyard that is between. « What happens to us then, Olveraeth? » is asked very gravely, for this is the most solemn of subjects. She'll even stop batting at a pink and yellow starburst flower in order to give the smaller dragon her undivided attention.

Silence, from the bluerider. Long, eyebrow-raised silence. "She's gold, Iolene." Like that should explain everything. And just in case it doesn't, she adds, "You're going to be a weyrwoman. You're going to learn how to run this Weyr. You could end up replacing Tiriana, one day." Normally, she'd probably add something on about family, but she's clearly a little - well, dumbfounded. « We go Between, » explains Olveraeth, reverently. « I don't know what happens, then. No one does. Quinlys couldn't explain, because she doesn't know. But we're gone. I hope, when I go, I can take Quinlys with me. » He's got his head directed towards the gold, now, eyes whirling slowly.

"But what if I don't /want/ to be like Tiriana?" is Iolene's sudden return, unthinking, the first thing off the top of her head. « Between? » The pale, refined little gold recoils at the thought, so much so that her thoughts aren't completely shielded from Io. « Do we just float along in Between forever? » And because those thoughts aren't filtered for her rider, the younger girl's first question is suddenly overriden by a second, more alarmed set, "Dragons stay in Between when they die? What if a dragon dies before they can go into Between?"

Too many questions. And not, if Quinlys' expression can be judged effectively, exactly the kind of questions the blue weyrling expected to be fielding. She swallows before answering, but at least her words are confident. "Dragons go Between, yes. If you die, she'll go. Or they can go together, with their riders. Dragons can go Between pretty much immediately, I think. If they need to." Beat. The bluerider runs her fingers through short-cropped dark red hair. "You don't have to be like Tiriana, Iolene. But you're going to be a Weyrwoman. That's what Impressing her /means/." « I don't know. » Olveraeth sounds - uncertain, actually. « No one has come back to tell us. »

Ysavaerth, sensing something even in her youth, suddenly takes short mincing steps from Olveraeth, sidling up close to Iolene and pressing the side of her muzzle into the girl's hip. « Maybe I'll come back one day to tell you how it is. We'll make a pact about it. » It's a throw away comment for this overly studious little blue as her attention turns back to her rider completely. The trailing edge of a reassuring wave of sweet, viscuous honey is left in Olveraeth's mind in the gold's sudden shift. Reflexively, Iolene's hand drops to trail fingers along those dark headknobs. "But I didn't ask for that. I-," Io looks utterly horrified. She's not much of a student and apparently did not retain much of anything from her required classes. "You have to help me."

To Ysavaeth, Iolene, fervently, » Don't leave me. Don't go Between. « Even if she might not understand this whole dragonriding thing completely, this thing she knows for certain. She can't live without her dragon and that thought is both reassuring but terrifying at the same time.

To Iolene, Ysavaeth sends wave after wave of comfort and love in all her honeyed sweetness. She doesn't need words right now to pet her rider, and in fact, words would probably ruin the reassurances.

Olveraeth is curious by this sudden shift, and looks for a moment as though he's about to launch back to his own feet and follow. Maybe it's Quinlys' suddenly frozen expression that stops him from doing so - that stops him from doing anything but bouncing a starswept sky towards the young queen. "Io," begins his rider, in a way that might be followed by 'sweetheart', but isn't. "It's going to be fine. Tiriana and the other weyrwomen will teach you everything you need to know. I bet Ysavaeth will help, too. You don't have to worry about it, truly. Not yet, anyway."

"Tiriana is going to kill me." Iolene says this with utmost certainty. "She might've killed Seani too."

Quinlys's expression is-- dubious. "She's not going to /kill/ you," she says, dismissively. "Though I'm not sure how you ended up on the sands in the first place. Aren't you one of the ones who hurt that egg?" Of Seani she's less certain, pausing to work it out before: "Was that her name? The girl who was murdered. I doubt Tiriana did it. I mean, she's not--" Something. But: "I don't think she'd do something like that. My mother heard that she tried to steal the Weyrleader's son. Seani, I mean."

Iolene's mouth drops. She wants to speak. It's telltale and it's something that happens so often with her. It's not that she rethinks what she wants to say, it's just that another thought flies in too fast for her to realize what's happening. And this is one of those situatiosn where the subject shifts from Tiriana killing her (or not), to what kind of person Seani is and that latter subject bristles Io. Never mind she was just asking Quinlys for her help moments before. "Seani would NEVER do that. NEVER. NEVER." Ysavaeth startles and hops away from an ill-timed foot stomp. "She loved living here. She wasn't even with us anymore, but she's still my friend."

The strength of that reaction startles Quinlys, who takes an involuntary step backwards, her hands raising protectively. "I didn't say that I /believe/ it, Iolene," she points out, hastily. "Only that it's what was going around. A rumour. I don't know; I never met her. I believe you. I'm sure something-- else must have happened."

Ysavaeth considers the two riders with an upward tilt of her head. « She believes in Seani's goodness. » And Ysavaeth believes in her rider's beliefs. « She is troubled. Troubled that her friend was not given her proper burial at sea. » With no further outbursts on the horizon, the small gold returns to Iolene's side, this time not in an offer of comfort but to butt her most gently at the knee. Urging. Encouraging. "I'm sorry," Io takes a step back, a hand to her eyes to wipe away the tears that spill too well. "I just meant. Seani was the best, most gentle woman on the island. I know she'd never do that. Like I know Tiriana didn't really kill Seani. I'm..." The butting at her thighs is all the more insistent. "Ysavaeth thinks I should go lie down. I think she's right. I'm sorry, Quinlys. You'll still help me, yes? Yes? Please?"