Difference between revisions of "Logs:Lost Between"

Rosvelth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr

It's not a large ledge, sized to let a small-to-middling dragon land while another is perched, but it's pleasantly situated: about a third a way down the Bowl wall and thus out of the worst of the wind, and moreover, positioned to catch some of the northern sun that slants down towards the craft complex below. It even has an angled view of the greenhouse's roof and, more distantly, a glimpse of the lake. Not that this ledge shades the greenhouse, the angle's wrong, but it does shade a nearby ledge on the other side at certain times of day-- a ledge too far for a human to jump to, but close enough to be tempting. Its only other obvious feature is a deep bowl carved into the raised waist-height rock just at the edge of the overhang, which can catch rain or snow or even hold ice in the summertime to keep drinks cold.

« RAR! » It comes with a roar as Lythronath takes the ledge from above, doing his very best to make these scratches permanent, forever and ever, to be found a billion turns from now as evidence of his existence. Lythronath was here. The landing jars A'rist, who was - is - also here, and he grunts. Lythronath roars again, this time with, « Rosvelth! » and tries to drop at least one good gob of drool into that bowl, although, this time, there's no blood in his mouth, no carcass, no bones, nothing rotten, nothing fermenting, nothing with any smell other than his. A'rist takes advantage of his dragon's disappointment, as he inspects his loogie, to dismount, consternation on his face already. So much for coming in peace.

The very best thing about having a weyr all of one's own is having space that is one's own. Space for things. Space with hooks for those things. Space with-- well. Rosvelth is presently enjoying that space, or was, right up until Lythronath's arrival gives him no choice but to come out and defend his territory with the ferocity of a viking raiding party. He's supposed to raid, not defend, damn it! « Lythronath! Have you brought tribute, or shall I send you away with fire and burning and death? » The brown's head appears through the entrance, followed shortly after by his bulky shoulders. « I'll do it. You know I will. »

« Hahaha! » The bronze may not be heads bigger, but he's still bigger. He spreads his wings to show it. « Tribute, » is with a snort, that might just dislodge a little bit of spit. « Hunt yourself, » next. But that foot stomp is more playful than not. So far. A'rist? He gets well out of the way of both dragons, as out of the way as he can, given the space allotted. But he lifts his head and stands up straight. "Rosvelth, I'm looking for-" barely a hesitation, "Rh'mis. Is he here?"

« Something shiny would have done just as well, » semi-sulks Rosvelth, mantling his wings about himself. He's not bothered about size; Lythronath can show off whatever he likes, and who cares. « It is my ledge, and you shan't have it. You're not so fierce. » Nor is his return foot stomp fierce. For now, rivalvy remains friendly. « I'll have to tell them that I fended you off, of course. Even if I let you stay. It is me letting, mind you. Only that. » The brown could answer for his rider, no doubt, in one for or another, but Rhey - Rhey - forestalls that. Arms crossed, stance defiantly teenage, he appears in the entrance. "What?"

First, he eyes that spit blob. « Shiny. Haha. » Then, Lythronath makes a good show of looking back to those mighty talon scores he's left, even as he slowly, casually really, re-arranges his wings behind along his back. « Words. » Stompstomp. But he this is a settling sort of stomp. "You've got wingsecond this month," A'rist says, with only the required steps to get him right up in front of the brownrider, as preamble.

"I don't want it," answers Rh'mis. He may have been a little more willing to pull his weight of late, since a certain talk with Edyis, but the leopard does not, it seems, change his spots. "You don't need that many wingseconds." « Shiny, » admits Rosvelth. Well. Maybe. Fine. « You left me tribute in the form of decoration, » he decides. « And so I will let you stay. Next time: feathers. I like feathers. I wish my wings were made with feathers. »

"Trying to figure out who all's ready or not for trying between?" A'rist shrugs, though it does little to break the strong stance he's taken. This is still business. "I think the more people I have, the better. Everyone sees different stuff. And for as much sitting on the sidelines as you've done, maybe you'll be less biased." There's some edge in there, sure. But just some. Lythronath does a final stompstomp before he sits. « Sticky first, » he advises. « Then feathers. Ha. »

Rh'mis is too quick to miss that edge, for all that he shows no reaction to it except a tightening of his expression. "What, you don't trust yourself to make good decisions? You and the rest of them, always talking about feelings and... I don't want it." Sucks to be you, Rhey. « Oh, I like the way you think! Yes. There will need to be sticky, and then there can be feathers, and then I will fly higher than anyone. I shall be the greatest there ever was! »

A'rist stares at Rh'mis. Worse, Lythronath looks over to Rh'mis. That might be to blame for the, "Don't be such a dumbass," that comes out of the bronzerider's mouth next. "If it were just about feelings it would be easy. It's about ability." « Gooey, » has a smugness (probably because A'rist called Rh'mis a dumbass), that really takes away from the 'warning' side of it. It's an afterthought, anyway. The bronze is focused more on that other rider, now.

"And you think everyone is so incompetent that all the weyrlingmasters, plus you, plus whoever else is wingsecond, can't pick up on it?" Rhey stands his ground, even with Lythronath joining the staring contest. "You know as well as I do that they just threw me in so that everyone gets their turn," his tone is mocking. "You don't need me. I'm not necessary. So fuck off and leave me out of this." « I may melt, » allows Rosvelth, who is apparently blatantly ignoring the present tensions.

« Gooier. » Lythronath smacks his lips, and sneaks a glance over to his brown brother. "No," A'rist answers. "I just think it's about time you took a turn. Manned up some and stopped being some sulky little girl." He, too, looks over to Rosvelth, and shrugs dismissively when he looks back to Rh'mis, crossing his arms over his chest, though not tightly, staying on the balls of his feet. "Even if it's just first between, so the two of you get out of everyone's way. I think they'd forgive me that, if it's gonna be for the greater good."

Rhey chews on his lip, stops, and then throws up his arms in disgust. "Whatever you want, oh wingleader," he intones, mockingly. "Let me bow down to your superior wisdom. Let me become a model brownrider, just for you." Mmmm, sarcasm. "Just like your model bronze." Rosvelth belches, probably deliberately. Got to break the tension somehow.

"I'm not stupid," A'rist points out, rocking a little, heel back to the ball of his foot. "I know you're not ever going to be a model brownrider. I just think, if you're not going to be an actual rider, you should have guts enough to stop pretending. Lythronath's tough, but that makes us both stronger. Rosvelth's obviously just fucked up your plans and made you take up a perfectly good weyr to cry about it." Lythronath forces his own burp, and it comes out as something like a gagging cough.

"Oh, and what should I do? Quit?" If only it were an option. Rhey's anger is, perhaps, surprising: he's always been quietly bitter, but this show of actual emotion takes him beyond that comfortable norm. "You show me how, and I'll do it. Since that option doesn't presently seem to be open to me, however, why don't you just fuck off and leave me alone?" Rosvelth makes a dismissive sound. « Well, that was anti-climactic. You suck at this game, Lythronath. »

A'rist makes a good show of rolling his eyes, at the anger, at the words coming out of Rh'mis' mouth. "You obviously haven't figured out how to quit or you'd've done it already. I guess," and he 'tsks' his tongue on the roof of his mouth, "you might be able to trick Rosvelth into betweening without you, but that would probably be hard to do. Maybe get him to dive into shallow water, think he'd go for that? If you really don't want to go with him, I mean. Or maybe if you go first and learn how to between, you can go back to Nabol and hide out there somewhere, and suck some of their resources instead." He raises a finger to tap at his chin, thinking, ready to go on if he's not cut off. Lythronath, he gives, « Hahahaha! » for the idea of his brother making a neck-crunching dive into rocks, and then pushes until a fart gets out. It's not loud, but it won't take that rank smell long to waft over.

Rh'mis answers... with his fist. It's aimed for the other teen's face, though there's no guarantee it will connect: Rhey has never excelled at the physical arts. Rosvelth's glee is all but transcendent. « YES! Pow! Bam! Whomp! » No doubt they'll notice the smell soon enough.

A'rist has been doing pretty well in hand to hand. And he was trying for this. It's a quick reaction, from chin-stroking to blocking, in the form of grabbing the brownrider's hand and twisting - twisting his body away, trying to twist Rh'mis' arm too, although the latter will be effective more for A'rist's relative size to Rh'mis than any sort of leverage. If it's effective at all. "Or maybe I could take you out. Spare you the trouble. I'm Lythronath's rider, I bet you I could. Rosvelth would deal with himself." Lythronath is, strangely, not overly worried with the rider's scrap, this time. He just watches, though there is some sense of readiness as he gets his toes under him. Just in case.

Twist his arm, will you? Rh'mis didn't survive in the slums of Nabol without learning something... and evidently that something involves aiming his knee at the bronzerider's genitals. "Get the fuck off my ledge," he yells, as he does so. "Stay the fuck away from me." « Fun, » declares Rosvelth, pleased.

A'rist doubles, but doesn't fall over, doesn't wheeze. It can't have landed straight on, but it's got him off balance. "Get the fuck off the Weyr's ledge," he mimicks, after a moment to gather himself enough to bring one arm up while he steps sideways, for the wall, for a chance to fully regroup. A gasp of air, then, "If you're not going to earn it. Boo hoo, a dragon thought I was so great he had to pick me out of the stands. Boo hoo, my old pretender holder is dead now." He's been trying to brush up on history, that A'rist.

Rh'mis pulls back from the other weyrling, both fists up in a defensive action, now. "You don't know the faintest thing," he says, in a sharp, dangerous whisper. "Not about me, not about my past, not about anything. Take your broken bronze and go home; you're not wanted here."

A'rist gets himself straightened up, one hand going to the wall, to keep himself oriented more than as a leaning device. "I guess that makes three of us, doesn't it. I don't have to know your past to know that." Lythronath might be counting, swinging his head to take in all on the ledge.

"Fuck you," answers Rhey. He's ignoring the way Rosvelth is suddenly attempting to lean in to him, not yet managing to squeeze him out of the entranceway, or into the wall. Which is helpful.

"Why?" Any hysteria that might have got into his voice has drained, and A'rist looks hard, but almost calmly, at Rh'mis. "'Cause I'm right?"

"No," says Rhey, breathing heavily. "Because you have no idea. Or maybe I just want to jump your bones, who can tell." There's an edge of hysteria in his voice. Because, you know, that's always fun.

A'rist rolls his eyes again, this time an unintentional motion, and so, not in the least embellished. "Oh right. I can't be right, if I got you so mad about whatever it is you're not dealing with. Pussy. And you think my dragon is broken."

Rh'mis' fist tightens. It could be he's about to throw it at A'rist again... but no. "You think you're so smart," he says. "You've never experienced anything. Stay out here; I don't care." He is turning himself around and heading inside. « He showed yours! » crows Rosvelth. He's not serious. This is funny.

"Maybe I'm not so smart," A'rist offers back, "but I'm smart enough to know I'm not going to let some pretend rider with as much baggage as you've got try his hand at between. Unless you really do want an out." At which point... well, the bronzerider lifts both hands, palms out; non-interference. Lythronath just snorts.

That does make Rhey stop. It's a good hit, really: a boy with as much interest in getting away as this one is hardly likely to take losing that option sitting down. He turns back on his heel. Really, he hasn't gotten very far. "Give me that out, then," he says. "Let us go, and then you can all feel weird about not missing me when I'm gone. I'll be an... object lesson." His lip curls. At least Rosvelth is still not bothered.

The hesitation is on A'rist's face, but only for a moment. Then, it's iron, strong as Lythronath's will. Rh'mis isn't that far; the bronze weyrling can talk softly. "If you want to kill yourselves, then go now. We won't stop you. No weyrlingmasters to teach you, just right now." He crosses his arms over his chest again. "If not, then no, I have no reason to think you're fit for this." Slightly louder, certainly with more 'maturity' behind it.

"Fine," says Rhey, chin in the air. "Come on." Surely looking at his brown is enough to get the dragon moving. When it doesn't, immediately, he adds something that no one has ever actually heard: "Rosvelth." It's enough: the brown shifts further out from inside the weyr, and the rider aims to start climbing up.

A'rist doesn't make a move to stop them. But his nostrils might flare in time with his dragon's.

Up Rhey goes, then. There's no need to bother with straps-- it's not like they'll be flying for long, right? « Together, » enthuses Rosvelth, drawing out his wings in preparation for flight. « He said my name! And now he's going to show me home. » He takes off.

The one hand in against A'rist's side tightens into a fist. The other hand, laying across the opposite bicep, digs fingers in. But he watches. « Two, » observes Lythronath.

A few wingbeats up and then-- Rosvelth disappears. Just like that.

A'rist stares at the spot where they disappeared. He stares hard, and nods his head in the steady rhythm of his counting. Lythronath... is jealous. « Where? » reaches out as far and wide as he can.

To High Reaches dragons, Lythronath projects « Where? »

To High Reaches dragons, Teisyth projects « Over there!! »

To High Reaches dragons, Rosvelth is... not there.

To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth rouses, with a rattle of chains. « Who? »

To High Reaches dragons, Lythronath ignores Teisyth completely. Hers isn't the mind he's looking for. He ignores Cadejoth, too. « Rosvelth! » It's a summons, not a named name. A frustrated, envious summons.

To High Reaches dragons, Olveraeth is abruptly present, in a way he wasn't before (naps and thoughts are fun, okay?). « Rosvelth? » He pushes, visibly sending out satellites through his night sky, hunting down the brown in question. « Lythronath. Where is Rosvelth? »

To High Reaches dragons, Rosvelth is still not there. Not here, and not there, and not - apparently - anywhere. There's just... empty space.

To Olveraeth, Lythronath projects « Gone. »

Gone? What does he mean gone. Which is, of course, when Olveraeth starts-- oh. That kind of gone. Uh oh. (To Lythronath from Olveraeth)

Five minutes. Ten minutes. And then, out of nowhere? « My rider says to tell yours to suck it. » Whatever that means.

« Lost wingseconds. No good. » Lythronath, thankfully for Rosvelth, is too busy staring into the blue where there is no brown. A'rist has clenched his teeth. "Together," he grunts. He probably just needs to say it out loud. Those arms uncross slowly, stiffly.

A better result would be if Rosvelth appeared in the sky above High Reaches again, with his triumphant rider. But no - wherever they are, it's a long way away. « Between is mine, now. My treasure. I might let you go there at some point. » Who's the wingleader now, huh? Rosvelth got to go first...

Abruptly, out of nowhere, Rosvelth is present again. And positively gleeful: all glitter and salty water. « I AM THE BEST. » Not dead. (To High Reaches dragons from Rosvelth)

Relief. There is only relief where intense, awful worry had begun to set in. (To High Reaches dragons from Teisyth)

High above the Weyr, Olveraeth disappears between. He has a dark cloud of anger lurking around him like a nebula of awful: someone is in trouble. (To High Reaches dragons from Olveraeth)

Lythronath roars. A'rist just moves for his straps, and hauls himself up, barely noticing the stomping or squirming that would normally make it so hard to get to his dragon's neck. "I stand by it," again, needs to be out loud. Ignore the pale look on his face as he urges Lythronath into the air. It will be replaced by determination, soon, to keep his bronze from going on a hunt.

Later, no doubt, the weyrlingmasterly summons will come. But that will be much later: Rosvelth and his rider have a long, long flight home, under escort, first. The reckoning - for both - will just have to wait.