Difference between revisions of "Logs:Actions And Words"

Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr

Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room. For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here.

A winter weyrlinghood comes with several downfalls, including the postponement of drills, along with any other outside activity. Including exercise, unless she wants to run laps around a crowded training cavern. Azaylia fidgets in bed, lying on her stomach and attempting to put a dent in that extra hidework of hers. She's not the only one who's antsy, Hraedhyth doing her best to get comfortable on her couch. Flop. Turn. Flop. Stretch. Curl into a ball. "I know, I know." The weyrling's voice is quiet though understanding, commiserating with her dragonet. A few more marks are made across the hide, before Azaylia is turning her head with a thought. "Why don't you see if there's anyone to talk to?" Dragons, that is.

Hraedhyth turns her head to catch the young woman's eyes, considering the suggestion without immediately brushing it off. With a whuff, she all but collapses back onto her couch and considers her (short) list of contacts. Oh, but she has been wondering...

Familiar yet foreign, Hraedhyth treads the old, faded trail towards Vysravth's mental weyr, if it's still there. Not yet a skilled scout, she may have some difficulty in this. If so, she will blunder and crash at the back of his mind, a tickle quickly turning into something heated and obnoxious. « Vysravth. » Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Each strike of the drum echoes the brown's name in that youthful urgency, gradually becoming louder if he isn't prompt in his answer. (Hraedhyth to Vysravth)

The response is not verbal, at least not at first, but the darkness is familiar, the faded walls of stone and tattered tapestries fluttering in a growing wind. Drums steadily escalating in volume. This continues for a moment before his thundering voice is heard. « Hraedhyth. » As deep within the darkness the machine groans to life. « How are you? » (Vysravth to Hraedhyth)

Delight flares bright in the hearth, a triumphant rumble echoing on those tattered, tapestry covered walls. « Well! » She bellows, his acoustics oh-so appreciated by the young queen. But, Hraedhyth is on a mission, determination clear in the way she lowers her own volume in order to be heard. « Does Yours know of one called Sodomy? » An echo from her weyr-wide outburst a few days ago, still intent on hunting down this person whose mere name upsets Hers so. (Hraedhyth to Vysravth)

The game over for now, Vysravth considers the question, metallic clanking rings through his thoughts. He slips away for a moment, leaving darkness, the only sound - the groans of gears as the machine turns - unseen. Somewhere far away, the faintest sound of an arguement. Slips of it can be heard as it carries on for a few moments. Then the thunder of the brown is back, restrained anger crackles through his voice. « I do not know. E'gin says he will only tell us if Azaylia says it is okay. We are at our weyr if you want to visit. » (Vysravth to Hraedhyth)

To Vysravth, Hraedhyth waits, though she doesn't do so patiently. Once the brown is busy with his rider, she'll go exploring! Until everything falls dark, but is that really expected to stop her? Flames flickering, she'll crash about in Vysravth's darkness, only half-aware of the argument. His anger has her curiosity flaring bright, licking at the dragon's restraint, an unfamiliar concept in itself. « Azaylia is thinking too hard. » Studying. Disgust rumbles low, for the act, not for her weyrling. « It is all she does now. » The answer is not acceptable, and the gold lets that be known with further snarls, bristling. « You are supposed to care for the weyr! » 'You' being plural, non-helpful brownrider!

There are, what might be considered to some, treasures to be found in the corners of the weyr, hidden away and dusty, artifacts of another lifetime. « Thinking is good. The greatest fighters always know their enemies. Study them. That way they can always be one step ahead of them. We study too. » In addition to the training they have already be caught doing. The question of loyalty is largely ignore for the moment, though the rumbling of the weyr walls may give away to his restraint. « E'gin says it is not a person, just a word. One which he is not comfortable defining without Azaylia's permission. » (Vysravth to Hraedhyth)

To Vysravth, Hraedhyth will have to remember those treasures, for when she isn't so driven in her manhunt. « Running is better. » Bitter soot is blown about, hinting that both woman and dragonet are not so keen on being cooped up. Though she sulks, his words aren't completely lost and the warrior queen will give a guttural, pleased sound. « Study and know our enemies. » She will have to do that. The brown's restraint is overlooked for what he does tell her, a single thump of a drum announcing her surprise. « Oh. » Smoke carries what she does not voice; how can a word upset anyone? « She will not tell me. » Or give permission, honesty offered freely where others may have lied.

« Flying is best. » Vysravth agrees with the queen on some level. « E'gin will help Azaylia study, in the Snowasis, if she would like. The weather is too bad for flying today, and he should get out of our weyr. » See, they would helping the brownrider, not the other way around. A blizzard blows through the darkness of the abandoned weyr, covering dust and ruin in white. « Words can be hurtful, painful. » He pauses, « Has anyone said anything that caused you - » A pause as he mulls over the words. « - To become upset? » (Vysravth to Hraedhyth)

Azaylia gives a little jump, so focused on her work that the conveyed invitation actually startles her. "Oh." A squeak, though it leaves her slowly, thoughtfully. "I'd like that, actually." Pushing herself up and off of the bed, she'll at least check to see if she's presentable before gathering up her notes and assignments. Help is not only welcome, but while in the Snowasis she can order one of those hot, chocolatey drinks that she loves so much.

The brown's opinion is considered, slowly roasted over her flames and then tested. « Flying is good. » But not best if only, « I fly alone. I run with my pack. » A pack of two, she and Azaylia. Hraedhyth is never quiet, and even as she relays the message, snippets of it echo within the abandoned weyr. None of it sounds unpleasant, at least. « She would like that. » Though she's distracted by the snow he brings in, quick to scorch the offending powder into water. Too much cold, she's been born into it! « Words do nothing. » That the dragonet can recall, limited memory and all. Though there is an ominous rumble, carrying with it crimson memories, « It is action that matters. » (Hraedhyth to Vysravth)

« Someday soon you will fly with your pack. » The snow meets Hraedhyth's flame and melts on contact. « Ah. Actions are most important, but words are not useless. » A dim glow spreads over the floor his weyr, a male the rough size of E'gin with shaggy hair sits a desk, the fireplace which contains the senior gold's light is settled not far away, surrounded otherwise by darkness the boy pours over a stack of hides. « Words help us know. » The 'know' is ominous, and left undefined. « They cannot make us ready, but they can help be us be more ready. » The scene disappears, « Words are actions of a sort, but I agree, little queen, doing is more important. » (Vysravth to Hraedhyth)

Azaylia is not slow about bundling herself up against the absolutely horrid weather, her studies all shoved into a bag meant to protect them. "You be good now." She'll offer with a soft laugh to Hraedhyth, who will only rumble affectionately after the weyrling. Though, as her whirling eyes follow, she'll catch a bit of growing tension between a blue and green clutchmate. Interesting...

To Vysravth, Hraedhyth is stubborn, this should come as no surprise. And there is no telling what she may bend on, fickle as her own flames. Flying is good, but words are just noise. Her surging argument, felt rather than said, is cut off suddenly in order to mention, « She goes. » To the Snowasis, which pleases the gold, a phantom warmth shared with the older dragon. Not fire or fur, but the drink that Azaylia will no doubt order. And suddenly there is a touch of Hraedhyth's own heat, joyful, threatening to overwhelm at the familiar nickname. Mine! « You agree. » That's what's important. There's a snap of something within her own territory, distracting enough to have her retreat with but a gleeful cackle to echo throughout Vysravth's weyr, « There is a fight! » Play or serious, she wants in on that action- and so she too, goes.