Difference between revisions of "Logs:Answers To Accusations"

Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

Accessed via a narrow staircase from the Weyrleader's Complex, or from the broad, sunny ledge beyond, this weyr was clearly designed to be for one of the weyr's junior queens. Spacious, but not extravagant, it boasts a well-sized outer room, narrowing in front the well-sized dragon couch and ledge beyond. Much of this main room has been turned over to a couch and several chairs, which circle the hearth and the blue rug set down in front of it. There's a low table here, too, set in the middle of that rug. A tack-cupboard stands tidily behind the couch, keeping out of sight a rider's paraphernalia.

Three low steps lead up onto a peculiar little landing, just large enough for the brand new desk and set of shelves that have been placed there. Here, too, there are definite pointers to the lived-in state of the weyr: the desk could in no way be described as tidy.

Behind the desk, a narrow passage leads in an inner set of chambers, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area. A decent-sized bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter. There's a nightstand on either side, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf to hold toiletries.

Unusually, the walls, ceiling and floor of this weyr have all been whitewashed thickly, covering the natural stone. The hearth is brand new, too, as are most of the built-in fittings, as though they have recently needed to be replaced.

Azaylia sighs. She's practically lying on the desk, just enough space cleared off for her to do so. It's only slightly neater than it was when she got it, but when does she have time to reorganize? One arm is tucked up under her head, keeping it propped up enough to see what she's writing. Eyes half-lidded, she looks to be concentrating while simultaneously bored out of her skull. It's certainly not an image to inspire a sense of pride and duty in one's weyrwoman. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't boring hierarchy stuff.

And when the weyrling is bored, Hraedhyth is doubly so. This afternoon she's chosen to lay physical claim on her ledge, lounging in the delightfully warm sun. Boredom, heat... too much energy to really sleep. In a last ditch effort, her thoughts turn towards Azaylia's work to see if by some miracle it's anything interesting. Of course not. Before she can properly dismiss it like she has so many times before, Azaylia's mental recital of the names catches her attention. It jars something, reminding the gold that there are questions that need to be answered...

It's not too pressing at first, which in itself is a surprise given that the touch is unmistakably Hraedhyth's. Fuzzy and unfocused, there's a hide stretched out with words slowly appearing in bubbly, simplistic handwriting. Cataloging bloodlines, riders near and far. Writing, memorizing those who are in power and those who were. Certain names seem to glow, having caught her attention and so she must bring it to his. Hattie. Elaruth. Fort. Elaruth. A curious flame flickers, consuming the hide inside out, burning the names and summoning a wispy, smokey memory. Something important. Something to be answered for. Has the gold ever sounded so small, so young? She does well to try and hide it, striking lightly against her sire with a statement. « We are not thieves. » Not an attempt to convince herself, certainly. (Hraedhyth to Cadejoth)

It's not the intrusion itself that surprises Cadejoth, for he has always enjoyed and encouraged his offspring to bring to him their thoughts. No-- Hraedhyth's mutedness, and the nature of her thoughts: these surprise Cadejoth, and draw the genial clatter of his touch to stillness (though it takes considerable effort; it cannot last for long). « No, » he agrees, in a low, twanging tone, bone rubbing against bone, his determination unmatched. « We are not thieves. » (Cadejoth to Hraedhyth)

Some may leap on the chance to catch the bronze in a lie, or what could be percieved as such. Instead, Hraedhyth offers her confusion with what she thinks to be true. « You do not lie. » There is no question in those thumped words, as confident as her sire's grinding bones. « The Fortian Matriarch said that we have invaded their lands. » It was before her time, feeling a million eons to the young gold. Now her intensity is hinted at, pulsating deep within and trying not to lash out. Restraint is new, rare, and uncomfortable. « That we stole. Claimed. » We. It's as if the blame rests squarely on her shoulders, how strongly she feels tied to her lands, her people. (Hraedhyth to Cadejoth)

The intensity of Cadejoth's reply may be surprising-- it rattles and shakes, rumbling with a thunder that is not usually his. « No. » No. No and no, and no again. « Her rider, » and this can't possibly be Cadejoth's memory - it's K'del's, vivid and sparkling. « offended Boll's Lord. She was rude; she was wrong. We took an opportunity, and helped our people while they disagreed and hated each other. » Much more quieter is his added, « And then they lied to us, to take back the Hold. They betrayed us. » (Cadejoth to Hraedhyth)

To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth falls quiet, small flame flickering out of existence with her surprise. When he calms, when he explains, there's a low snarl of frustration. Her flame returns with a vengeance, drums thundering on with the warning of a draconic migraine. Must it all be so confusing? « Stupid. » That's for all the dragons and riders before, the ones who make a mess of things. Somehow Cadejoth and His are not included in these rebellious, snide thoughts. « Now what? » What form of revenge should they take? War? Please say war. « We do battle? We take it back by force? » There must be something to be done?

To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth's reply beats drums of its own, though his are bone and steel, ratcheting up to intensity before sharpness pulls them back in. His own? His rider's? Impossible to tell. « We don't, » he says, firm again, and not without a note of reluctance. « They see themselves as the victims; they refuse to see their own failings and concentrate only on their hurt. We are better than them... let them think what they will. We know better. »

It's a ferocity that not even the warm summer sun and afternoon boredom can stifle. Hraedhyth surges against her Sire's command, bone clubs striking taut skin, a counter to his metallic blows. She thrashes, lashing out at nothing and refusing to come to terms with what they must do. It isn't FAIR. It isn't right. Thankfully her rampage has no hint of her hue's power, instead offering the snap of drooling jaws and a thunderous growl. « FINE. » Knowing better isn't enough to soothe her injured pride, to smooth away lingering confusion. It's only her ties to their land which keep her grounded. « We are better. » A mantra to help calm her, echoing with the beating of her drums. (Hraedhyth to Cadejoth)

To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth's aim is to be soothing, though it's as much for himself as for the young queen; his pride, too, is injured by the reminder of these past events. « Even without them, » he says, « We got what we needed. We cannot trust them; we won't. But we don't need to. They have proven their perfidy, and that is all that matters. » Hush now, his tone says, without saying it outright. All is well.

Is it a sign of maturity, the way she allows him to soothe her with only a few thrashing attempts to stay furious? Is it just because it's Cadejoth? Hraedhyth is uncomfortable with how easy she finds comfort in his assurance, and yet she doesn't hide it. She does not lie. « I will not trust them. » As if there was any danger of that before. The drums are steady now, warmth of fur and fire offered to her Alpha. For only a moment she's nestling, much smaller pup to much larger sire... done away with hurriedly as she retreats. Footfalls or drums linger long enough, words of wisdom echoing within them though otherwise unspoken: Know your enemies. Study them. (Hraedhyth to Cadejoth)

In reply, Cadejoth has only quiet approval. Good girl. (Cadejoth to Hraedhyth)