Difference between revisions of "Logs:Short Hunts"

River, Crom Hold
Only a short distance from the main hold, the river weaves slowly and steadily on towards the far distant ocean, with mountains rising up on one side, and more open land upon the other. Near the hold, it's relatively narrow for the most part, with a few wider expanses shaped almost like small lakes.
Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.

The turn of the new month sees a warm summer day, making mid-afternoon sweeps both more enjoyable -- for the fresh, warm air -- and less so -- for the lack of being able to laze about in it. Another half hour will see their duty to Iceberg done and dusted, and the sweep takes them across Crom's lands, loosely following along the river's path. Almost immediately as the pair arrive at a new between destination they notice the plume of white smoke rising into the air. It looks like someone's set up some sort of camp just back from the river, where the trees are thinned out enough that a bronze could safely land to investigate further.

Lythronath has been waiting, dying, for this, for anything. Hunting nothing. Boring. Now something. Trees be damned, he'd drop in there anyway, A'rist crouched forward and focused on his neck, reining the dragon in enough that no littler trees are (purposefully) snapped in their descent. Lythronath, he gets it. Quiet. Hunting. (Something.) The bronze crouches, talons digging into the ground, powerful legs and tail keeping a perfect balance. A'rist is lower over his dragon's 'ridges. He looks, uses Lythronath's eyes to look, before he dismounts.

The smoke is light, though it carries with it the scent of cooked meat. While the area immediately around the makeshift campfire is too dense for a dragon to approach directly, from his height atop the bronze he can see a couple of bedrolls, a pot across the earlier detected campfire, and a figure -- stretched out next to it, a hat tilted down to keep the sun from eyes. Whoever he is, he looks unaware of the pair's arrival nearby.

They're stalking prey, so the bronze remains quiet. A'rist's jaw sets, and he looks older than his sixteen turns in that moment of restraint and observation. When he sees what he can see, after he waits a moment to be sure he's not been seen, his dismount is smooth, controlled; quiet. Lythronath bobs his head soundlessly in the air, and squeezes at the dirt with his talons, not daring to stomp or swing his tail. His rider approaches, slowly, carefully, and circling, instinctively, to be sure he gets upwind.

A chill breeze stirs through the heat of the afternoon, coiling briefly around Lythronath. It carries with it a distant sense of amusement, of haughtiness and restraint. It's familiar, in the way that all dragons are instantly familiar with one another: Leiventh does not put to voice the thoughts in his head, however. He waits, watches with infinite-seeming patience for this to play out. The man stretched out by the fire hasn't moved; the meat still roasts slowly, smoke drifting lazily this way and that in the breeze as A'rist stealthily approaches.

Lythronath's response is immediate and frustrated, a stomp to the ground, a defiant roar against that amusement, with a mental push behind it. A'rist, without thinking has gone from creeping to a few sprinting steps, steps that find him right next to that man, hands out to his sides with fingers splayed, ready.

Ready for... for that yawn that splits the man's features as he squints and tugs his hat up? "You wanted some of the meat that badly, you only had to ask," R'hin's voice holds the same note of distant amusement as Leiventh's, one a reflection of the other. A'rist's hands earn a bemused sort of look. "What were you planning to do, kid? Attack some stranger on Crom's land?" A beat, then, "You seen a pair of bowls about here?" The roar of the younger bronze is swallowed by the twisting wind, fading away as the older bronze dutifully retreats somewhat, giving the younger space.

All the muscle that weyrlinghood, and then riderhood, has put into the teenager's neck? That all tightens up, while his face gets a bit red. A'rist makes a point of crossing his arms over his chest. "No," sounds almost petulant. The little shiver that attempts to shake his dragon's influence can't be helped, and also probably doesn't. He's not got anyone's adrenaline under enough control to look away from R'hin, not yet. "Didn't." Lythronath throws a forceful, « Boring! » at Leiventh. Only then does he take that extra space to stretch out, a mental search - the type that would knock over tables or fling clothes everywhere, if it weren't mental - for other dragons nearby.

"Mm," it's not a disbelieving note, per se, but perhaps not convinced one from R'hin as he -- with a groan of an old man standing -- pushes upright and casts about. "Ahh, here," he finds a couple of metal plates, stacked up next to one of the bedrolls, then gestures to a spot on the other side of the fire. "Might as well stay, have a meal. Your sweep's almost up." Which might well suggest this wasn't exactly an accidental meeting. He would, after all, know precisely where all the between sweep points are. Crouching, he starts to spoon some of that cooking meat into the bowl with the ladel. "So, how's life in Iceberg?" is asked casually. Leiventh retreats further, a whisper of a breeze on the wind, better heard in stillness than thrashing about. Apart from the vague, teasing hints of his own presence, they seem to be alone but for the far-distant feel of Crom's watch dragon.

"Almost up," A'rist repeats, slowly standing down. It starts in the easing of his shoulders and neck, follows down into his arms. He's more at ease when he looks back through the trees to his dragon. And even more relaxed, when he turns his attention back to the man, the fire, he doesn't move to sit. "It's... not like weyrlinghood." It's not satisfaction in that, not quite, but there's certainly no disappointment, in his tone or on his face. « Boring, » Lythronath repeats once he's satisfied himself, and slowly, slowly starts lowering his belly toward the ground.

The casual shrug of the Wingleader's shoulder throws off that dereliction of duty as if it were nothing. "You need a distraction." And by extent, and perhaps more significantly, his dragon, though R'hin doesn't voice that aloud. He sets one of those metal plates closer to A'rist, then settles down, cross-legged, using his fingers as an eating utensil. "A wing like Iceberg won't suit you for long. How does he feel about younger dragons?" The older rider's tone is a mixture of matter-of-fact and genuine curiosity, neither of which come across as particularly threatening.

"No," A'rist answers, "we need a focus." Uncertainty starts out wavering, but the younger rider manages to firm up his words with some sort of confidence, real or pretended. He can't stay looking at R'hin once that plate is there; gaze drops, and a short time thereafter, A'rist swallows. The shake of his head is not a second negation, so much as an affirming negative. But he doesn't put words to it. "Lythronath?" is distraction from all those things.

There's a nod of acknowledgement (or is that agreement?) from the older bronzerider at the word focus. R'hin chews silently, though pale gaze stays on A'rist, thoughtfully. "A weyrling dragon's mind is... it reels and twists and pulls and wonders. Leiventh says his is like that. Raw and..." he goes silent, frowning. "Older dragons are more steady; he'll find them dull, I suspect. Weyrling dragons minds are fascinating, however. New, and unpredictable. There's a purpose, in shaping minds of the future of the Weyr."

"Sounds right," A'rist agrees, though there's a hint of unease at the subject. Maybe it's that unease that allows his knees, finally, to bend, and the young rider squats down. He doesn't sit, ready to get up, ready to finish his task. But he's down. "We were at Fort, a while ago. He was thinking about how the little dragons would squish real easy." The contents of that plate are watched pensively.

"They're surprisingly tough, -- it's more the lack of a sense of fear that makes it dangerous for them," R'hin says, after swallowing another mouthful of food. "It would be interesting to see his measure of High Reaches' next clutch. Perhaps you should talk to Telavi." Not Quinlys, interestingly, but his wingrider. "She could teach you a few things, even if you don't end up riding with Flurry."

Now, the younger rider reaches for that plate. "I think it could be different. If it's, like, his, instead of theirs... sometimes it matters." Perhaps it's those other times that make him grimace, and then hide that grimace behind the bit of meat he's picked up. A'rist chews, barely getting into the brood he's capable of. Then, around half-chewed flesh: "Is that really all that's left to do?"

"No," his last question is answered first, definitively. "It's a place to start. There's plenty to do." R'hin sounds certain, and deliberately worldly in that moment, looking thoughtful rather than smug. "The start is figuring out what he can and can't do, and what you can and can't do. Then there are possibilities. Tell me, A'rist, what interests you?"

A'rist chews, an excuse now to gather his thoughts, piled one on another. When he swallows, that meat has got to have been reduced to mush. "We need... a fight or something. A goal, I don't know. More than just sweeps." No further information - indeed, no real answer - is put forward. A'rist takes another piece of meat, while Lythronath lies belly-down, scratching intermittently at the ground, and staring at a boring tree.

"You have a rest day two days from now." That R'hin knows this might be a surprise, how he knows might require more musing. "Savannah will be going on a celebration tour of the High Reaches area bars. Come with us. You're bound to find one... or the other. And don't," he lifts a finger, "Dress like a rider. No one likes a rider in their business. Besides, it ruins the fights." He grins, as he sets aside his empty plate. "Then, after you recover from your hangover, talk to Telavi. Have her take you out to meet Rosavia. I bet you'll like her. She's got trouble written all over her and her da can't always keep an eye on her. Be good to have another looking out for her."

A'rist stares straight at R'hin, that bit of meat still held between thumb and fingers, almost delicately, unmoving. Brown eyes twitch a little at the names, the first, recognition, the second, logging away. And at the end, still with that dangling bit of meat, A'rist asks, bluntly, "What about Lynner?"

Readjusting his hat to pull the brim further down to block out the slowly sinking afternoon sun, R'hin answers easily, "The dragons will keep each other entertained. Leiventh not so much, but the others are much more open. There's some good hunting places out near Tillek and Crom, too," he gestures towards the pot on the fire as if that's evidence itself. "I'm sure they'll find something to do." He grins.

A'rist's frown is that of the unsatisfied teenager again. He pops the morsel into his mouth, chews hard, but not long, before it's swallowed. "Short hunts," he decides at the end, as monosyllabic and brief as might befit his dragon. His dragon, who, if only he had firestone in his belly, would light up this little group of trees. Bored.

"Short hunts," R'hin agrees. He stands, dusts off his pants, and begins deliberately moving to pack everything up -- starting with the pot near the fire, before kicking dirt over the fire itself. A shadow passes briefly overhead -- that of Leiventh, setting down on the other side of the grove from Lythronath.

Either to keep clear of any fly-away dirt, or just because his legs are getting tired of the squat, A'rist stands, plate still in hand. He doesn't offer the other rider assistance in the striking of camp. Too busy wondering, "Do you guys only do those? Or do you get more?"

R'hin doesn't seem to expect assistance, since there isn't that much to clean up. He crouches to expertly roll up the bedroll, glancing up briefly at the other bronzerider. "What I get doesn't matter. I'm leaving in a matter of sevens." A beat, then, "What you can do -- choose to do -- is a way of helping the Weyr, not so much by keeping its Traditions, but moving away from them and focusing on the problems of now. Nabol is a stark example of how the Holds affect us and how we affect the Holds, and that relationship should never be forgotten, nor left to its own devices." He moves to the second bedroll to carefully fold that, too, as he talks.

"And... to do that you go out, and disguise yourself, and hide, and watch?" All the incredulity of teenage idealism, summed up in a wrinkling of his nose. "While your dragon hunts in nearby fields." Lythronath, of course, has lifted his head, as much to inspect Leiventh as for the idea of hunting.

The older bronzerider doesn't answer the first question directly, perhaps due to the tone in which it's asked. Instead, as he stands with the bedrolls tucked under his arm, R'hin says, "Leiventh does not need to hunt to keep himself occupied or to express his mood." He crouches to collect pot and plate, and stretches his hand out for the one A'rist still holds. "Perhaps you need to find an outlet for him that is more... subtle." While it is aimed to be suggestion and not criticism, it might well be hard to take it as anything but.

A'rist hands the plate over to R'hin, much without thinking. "That's not why Lythronath hunts. And that's not the dragon he is." A'rist has found some steel there to brace the words; it's not a sign of relent so much as a simple change of focus, when he adds, "I don't mean I won't come, I just... just..." The sigh might sound dramatic, but it's earnest. "We should finish our sweeps."

"No?" R'hin, at least, sounds oddly pleased by the steel that accompanies the words, at any rate. "Then we'll see you in two days." It's statement, not question, and he's already turning away to head to where Leiventh has landed, seemingly taking A'rist's final words as a substitution for farewell.

A'rist answers that statement only with a quick nod. He gives R'hin time to get to his dragon, though his stare moves to Lythronath rather than staying on the older bronzerider. The young bronze dragon is not so cautious, getting to his feet as R'hin nears, bobbing his head, letting his tail swing slightly as he tests his muscles. Leiventh doesn't get any parting words, either; just a mental bump to prove that Lythronath was there.

R'hin's quick to pack away the things into his dragon's bags, quickly settling into place on his neckridges. While there's no words from Leiventh, he can be felt, in the sweep of chill wind that winds briefly around the younger bronze before fading a moment before the Savannah pair surges between.