Difference between revisions of "Logs:Foreign Waters"

Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.
A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.

The curiously congealed darkness that is Qhyluth manifests in the skies above High Reaches Weyr with nary a proclamation. Or, rather, there is no verbal declaration of his presence; rather, the blue sends an introductory surge of water to the watchdragons - a surge that reflects the image of his Weyr of origin and some whispered fragment of his name. There is no waiting for a reply, however. Instead, he descends to the ground - obviously angling toward the lake because that, after all, is where he belongs more than anything. His rider is little more than a leather-wrapped bundle affixed to the straps, with helmet, goggles, and all on her person. It's only when he lands that she practically falls from the restraints, hurling herself at the ground and tearing away both helmet and goggles in her haste. Clearly, none of this is settling well at all with the girl's guts. Clearly.

SCRAMBLE! Whatever it was he had been doing, A'rist is barely able to put it down, to get out to the ledge, to grab hold of his dragon's neckridges, before they're on their way to the lake. It's a flightpath that almost takes out a green on her way up from the bowl floor. It's an urgency that raises heads over the feeding grounds. And it is one heck of a hard landing, that practically jars the young bronzerider off his dragon, barely seated as he was. A'rist stares about, face flushed with adrenaline, hands held out with fingers splayed, while Lythronath turns, looks up, and then leaps to counter the blue's landing. So that he's neatly between Qhyluth and the water. « Hahaha! »

While Ulyana relieves herself of whatever her most recent meal was - and rather violently at that - Qhyluth stands to her side with one wing dropped to curl around her in a protective embrace of sorts. There is a shifting of his mental tides, sickly moonlight fracturing across the waters that slowly start to suck inward toward an unseen shore. Something terrible is stirring in those depths - and, for the moment, there is nothing to stop it. Shattered voices whisper, « She, She, She », barely audible over the hissing roar of retreating water. His other wing fans out and he crouches down just a little, tail snaking behind him in dreadful undulations and head lowered 'til his chin very nearly touches the ground.

A'rist is gathering himself. Lythronath's communique was not so clear, and the lake, and this weyrling pair, are not quite what he'd had in mind. What was adrenaline becomes something self-conscious, even as he's tilting at the trunk to peer toward the sounds coming from under that wing. Lythronath's voice is neither shattered, nor whispered, as he keeps himself neatly in place, shielding off those real waters from the blue. « Mine. » And his tail swings, and his head bobs.

Fortunately, the shield Qhyluth provides is complete; there isn't much to see of what's transpiring behind that shadowy wing. The sounds stop eventually and a gloved hand pokes out to fumble at the straps, only to free a smallish satchel. Ulyana retreats with her precious cargo until she's a safe distance behind the blue and his swaying tail. Bleary, reddened eyes take in the sight laid out before her and she manages a salute that tries to be crisp - but ends up weak and a bit listless instead. Her retreat allows the blue to shift the angle of his other wing and he approaches slowly, body sliding forward with serpentine movements. Denial of that assertion is a groan of water withheld - and the splash of something tremendous in the back of his mind. His back arches. His wings spread. And he is still. Watchful. Waiting.

A'rist takes a few steps out of the way of those two dragons, not with any particular air of concern about him, but rather, a sense of curiosity. That salute - or, what he catches of it - just gets a sort of strange look from him, an afterthought of a response as he moves in a wide circle (making ample room for that blue tail) to get nearer the girl. Brow furrows in what might be concern... or might just be something quizzical. "You doing okay?" Lythronath bobs his head, and makes two warning clicks deep in his throat. His.

"I will live." The tone is flat; the words are cracked. Ulyana pulls a canteen out of the satchel and takes a swig, only to swish it around in her mouth a few times before swallowing with a ghost of a grimace. "The Healers have determined there is no remedy for it." One shoulder rises and falls in the ultimate expression of helplessness. "I trust you and yours are faring better." She lapses into silence while she, too, watches the dragons at their play - or whatever one might call it. Qhyluth issues a thick gurgle of challenge, his stance shifting just slightly at that warning sound. He surges forward like some tremendous snake, wings flattening to his sides to streamline his quasi-strike; it's not to make contact with the bronze, but the feint - complete with snapping jaws - will be easy to recognize for what it is.

Lythronath answers with his own teeth shown, spread wide, and a roar issuing out from between them, a roar to buffet the blue the way his jaws and talons, currently, don't. « Mine. » Taunting. A'rist doesn't yet feel the need to look over to the dragons. The grimace that echoed hers, some sort of sympathy, has stayed through the roar, frozen. It disappears now, when he says, "For getting flightsick?" And then, the shrug. "We weren't bad before."

The blue's roar is thicker, more viscous - but it's there and rising to meet the bronze's own. Despite the disparity of size, the darkling beast seems to have no sense of fear - not for this. He recoils, but only to settle back on his haunches, wings spread once again to make him seem much larger than he is. His head is lowered, his paws resting on his knees - and his tail continues to shudder and undulate behind him. Back to watching. Waiting. Mental waters tremble with anticipation - and the voices are silent. "It is worse than that," Ulyana intones after another quick drink of water - and once the roaring has subsided somewhat. She's silent for a moment. Two. Then: "I meant in relative terms. Unless you, too, suffer from the same sickness." Another beat of silence is followed with a flat, "Is he like that with other dragons?"

Lythronath is not so readily fooled nor distracted by wings. He keeps his gaze focused squarely on the centre of that little, much littler, dragon. He lets his jaws settle, but not close. Those teeth are still shown. He waits. "How's it worse?" The interest is genuine, perhaps a bit more intense than it should be, for a conversation that seems to be about nausea. Dark eyes are hard on the bluerider. Lythronath still waits. "He's like that." Period.

The little blue might well be disappointed if the bigger bronze were so easily distracted. Qhyluth continues to wait, his tail twisting out blasphemous patterns in the sand and soil. His maw is shut, his head tilted downward to ensure mere crescents of his eyes - luminous with their sickly hues of yellow and green - are plainly visible. "They can only speculate," is Ulyana's reply. Dark eyes are met easily by cool gray; intensity matched. "It is-" and she pauses, considering her words "-a combination of vertigo, fear, and a weak stomach." The recitation is stiffly made. There is, for the last, only an understanding nod that comes perhaps a moment too late; Qhyluth abruptly pushes skyward with a powerful one-two beat of his wings.

It's the middle word in that list that makes A'rist's mouth twitch. "What are you-" is how far he gets before Lythronath has reared up, those back legs shoving him skyward, throttling toward that little blue. « Mine, » is almost, strangely, calm, considering the imminent collision. A'rist's teeth have snapped shut. A'rist has turned to look.

There is no answer this time. Ulyana's attention swivels skyward with a mechanical motion, her expression as blank and pitiless as Rukbat itself. Her shoulders tighten and she steps back - just so - before uttering a dull, "Enough." It's gone on long enough, if only by her assessment - but not to Qhyluth. In a rare moment of utter defiance, the blue presses even higher, twisting as necessary to narrowly avoid any such collision. It doesn't bring him any nearer to the alien waters - none of this does - and, yet- yet, he must try. One more time. A little higher. Just a little more. And, in the meantime, Ulyana's jaw tightens grimly. She watches - and waits.

A'rist's teeth stay shut, there for anyone who cares to see, as his lips remain slightly parted. One hand has reached toward the weyrling, certainly not in comfort, and seemingly not in aggression. Just reached, palm showing and fingers extended. Lythronath flies higher also, stronger, and bigger, and in the way. His lack of agility, that narrow miss, it doesn't bother him. « Mine. »

The extended hand is noted in a peripheral sense, but it is not taken by one of her own. If anything, a flicker of confusion registers on Ulyana's face before she abandons further examination of the offered appendage for the sake of focus. Qhyluth tries to gain more altitude with a few more calculated wingbeats - only for reality to rear its head. With an irritated gurgling that rattles in his chest and throat, the blue clamps his wings down and twists downward, plummeting toward the ground with the intention of trying to sneak under the larger dragon, somehow. Such is the plan until another strained "Enough," is intoned and he utters a distressed squawk that sends him spiraling to the ground instead.

Lythronath drops also; Lythronath, like a rock. With teeth. Straight down, to land and pace and watch and wait more. « Mine. » Called to the blue. « Say. » Clawing the ground, with water rising from the rear scrapes. « Lythronath's. » A'rist's hand stays there, steady, where it was before. He looks past it, over to Ulyana. Quizzical. Quiet.

Restraint in Qhyluth is a strange thing. The blue stalks stiffly along the shore, mirroring the bronze's pacing. His wings are pressed to his back, the whole of his body tense and tight and terrible. There are no words, however; no words at all. Just a slow and steady return of water rather than the tsunami that threatened earlier. The great thing of the depths has gone still again and the blue's mind is little more than a strange sea that murmurs and sighs without a word to be found. Not for the bronze. No. Ulyana's jaw remains tight. Her throat works hard, violently even, to force something back down. The hand again. It's worthy of a sidelong look that verges on bewilderment. Brows draw together and her gaze lifts to seek out A'rist's own as if some answer might be there, instead.

A'rist may have forgotten that hand there; it may hover, forever, by force of its own inertia, even after both pairs here are long gone. "What?" comes with the sound of repetition. "That you're scared of?" only a moment after. Lythronath will no more give in than the blue. This lake is his. Inertia.

"I do not understand why you have extended your hand." The matter-of-factness is marred by the residual strain in her voice. Ulyana reaches, but only to tap that hand with one of her gloved own. Better, then, that she focus on the minor peculiarity than the question he poses. Better still to pretend not to hear - and maybe she doesn't. Her cool gaze cuts toward the blue beast and, this time, there is no struggle of wills; Qhyluth complies and all but slithers further up the shore to claim a place to sit as he did before - on his haunches, hands on knees, and tail twisting obscenely behind him. A concession is made. For now.

That hand doesn't move, at first, but for the simple slight rebound in answer to that touch. A'rist's eyes track down to it. Slowly, the fingers bend. Yes, it is his. One finger curls, then another, then another, until the hand is a loose fist, and it's that which swings to his side, hitting his hip lightly. A'rist looks back up to Ulyana, with no explanation either in words or in his expression. Lythronath stops pacing, and turns once more to face the blue. "So, what?"

There's that confusion again, sketching out faint cracks in her normally expressionless mien. Ulyana watches his hand with a sudden intensity - and it's only when that loose fist bounces against the bronzerider's hip that she reaches out with one of her hands to try to catch it before it can make contact again. If she can manage that much, she'll try to spread his fingers out, as if that might resolve the half-question. His full question is met with a silence that hangs for two heartbeats longer than is entirely necessary - long enough for Qhyluth's form to fully settle into his posture and grow relaxed. Comfortable. Only then: "I do not know."

A'rist's fist bounces; A'rist's fist is caught. A'rist... doesn't offer much in the way of resistance as that weyrling starts un-fisting his hand. It does get his eyes off of her and onto somebody's fingers, though. Maybe both their fingers. Once spread, those fingers stay. "You're just... afraid?" The hand, barring any renewed external force, stays where it is, where it was caught, whether she'll keep hold of it or not.

The focus on fingers suffices to spare him from the sharpness of her gaze. Ulyana removes her gloves after a moment - and if his are gloved, they won't be for long. Regardless, there is a curious, clinical sort of study at work; her hands are cool and dry and not just by virtue of the weather. Her touch is firm and unafraid and exploratory. She sucks her teeth. She's silent. But the silence is a poor answer - and that is unsatisfactory. "No." Her mouth twists and a shiver claws down her spine. "They still terrify me."

A'rist's hands aren't gloved; there was no time. Once, a touch makes his muscles twitch. It brings a bit of a surprised little tug to his lips. But he's focusing. He even makes himself look up from all those fingers, and over to that bluerider. If she were to look up, she certainly wouldn't see understanding, or even a sense of certainty, displayed on his face. But he picks up one point, and asks, "Still?"

Tracing the lines gives her something to latch onto, however tenuous it may be. The twitch elicits a deeper furrowing of her brows. Replication is attempted - and, regardless of success or failure, she's ultimately compelled to look up again. The tilt of her head ensures that he resides within her peripheral vision, caught in the curve of cool gray. "Yes," is without hesitation. Before her fingers have a chance to tighten, she releases his hand instead. "There are moments when he does not. But, those are rare."

A'rist's hand is ready for it this time. There is no twitch. There is the slightest bit of a breath on his part, bracing. "Just him?" His eyes dart, but his head doesn't turn. Eventually, he winds up checking back, back to her fingers, back to that strange little experiment going on over there. He runs his tongue along the edges of his teeth.

The experiment starts again - but only once she's sure of herself. This time, the test continues further, with the press of fingers at his wrist and a little further up. Slight pressure. This time, Ulyana turns her head just enough to properly look at him - to catch him when he checks back. "All of them," is a given. "He is the only one I can be said to know." Her mouth twists hard to one side. She admits, "But no one can know the ocean."

A'rist's look borders on contentious when she speaks those last words, but he holds his own. Instead, he grits his teeth, and looks to the fingers on his wrist. It's enough to prompt a slight rotation of his lower arm, just enough to bring his forearm to face upward. Just to see what would happen. "I'm not scared. I haven't been, since him, not really. Especially since I got to know him."

The twisting of his forearm elicits a temporary loosening of Ulyana's hands. Her fingertips ghost over his forearm until it seems the appendage has ceased moving. Only then do they press, just so, at the tendons - and then they stroke. Just once, toward the palm. "I do not know the minds of the others," is her explanation. "Nor will I presume to think I ever will." Her gaze lingers on him, inscrutable and cool. The questions come, clinical and with calculated pacing. "Were you afraid of them before? Of him? Were you ever sick after flying?"

It's more that non-touch than anything else that has A'rist pushing air back out, as if a finish to that bracing breath, though surely there's been a few exchanges in between that initial intake. "Not really of them. A little of him. Not of him, of what he could." He seems undecided between watching her fingers, and looking away, grazing the general vicinity of his arm a few times with his gaze, never resting, not now. "Felt kind of strange after his first chase. But not just flying. No."

"I see," says she, and her fingers sweep back up his forearm to draw the skin temporarily taut. Ulyana's attention is reptilian in a sense; slow to move once settled. Not sluggish, precisely; deliberate, definitely. "That is a better way to describe it," she muses. "Afraid of what he can do." A beat. "What he has done. Will it pass?" A sidelong look is angled to the blue-turned-statue. "I see," says she one more time, and, this time, he'll be spared her further experimentation. Her hands pull away and drop, hanging limp at her sides for the moment.

A'rist flexes that arm, maybe so that the skin has a chance to counter her experiment. Maybe to help that experiment along. Maybe, just to show off. The question seems to catch the bronzerider quite flat-footed; that arm slowly droops down, from where it's been abandoned by her fingers. Slowly. "If it does, maybe it's not good," is said with far too much familiarity. Now, he looks away, looks toward the shore, to where Lythronath still waits, guards. And then, looks to Qhyluth. "You guys just betweening on your own, now?"

"Perhaps." Ulyana's bare fingers wriggle once, then fall slack along her thighs. "Perhaps not." Her attention cuts fully away from the bronzerider this time, the weight of her regard levied in full upon the unmoving blue. Her thoughts on the matter are thusly shelved, allowing her to answer the latest question with a dull, "Yes. We are permitted to go anywhere that we can get a clear image. He wanted to see water in other places - and I do not care where we go." Shoulders rise and fall. Low-murmured: "Anywhere but there."

A'rist's hand hits his side, this time without bounce-back. He nods, eyes still on the Fortian dragon. "You gone down South yet? It's clear there. Warm." Lythronath is given a wary glance, the stand-off maintained, for the time being. After a moment, both hands go to his belt, where his thumbs hook. "Pretty nice, really."

A singular shake of her head is the initial response. Seconds later, Ulyana intones, "It is on the list, but we have not had an opportunity to go there." Her mouth twists slightly, rendering the set of it unreadable; it's only the pinching of her brows that lend a sense of her inner conflict. "Elise is there. I should speak with her." Silence, then, while her study of the blue - still and quiet and strange - continues. Eventually: "Do you go there often?"

"Sometimes." It seems to be that answer, or the consideration leading up to it, that draws A'rist's attention back to the bluerider herself. "Try to go different places, more. Kind of change it up, you know? It helps." There's a slow nod, and he shuffles his feet in the rocks, though resists the urge to look down to them. "Don't usually go just looking for water, though."

Her attention remains on the stiff, curiously seated creature not far away. Qhyluth's webbed digits flex just a little and then he's settled again. Only after that does Ulyana look away - just enough to bring A'rist into her peripheral vision. Much like the beast that chose her, the girl is otherwise still. "That is our intention. Fort Weyr's lake is not large enough for him. He insists on exploring the world through its water. I am certain we will go anywhere that others have gone before." A beat. Two. Then: "What do you usually look for?"

A'rist sucks in a breath through his teeth, his shoulders pushing back, his chest out. There's a considering nod toward Lythronath. "Prey." Another little nod. "Rough terrain. Strange wind patterns. Anything that's a challenge." Now, brown eyes are back on the bluerider. "Anything a little different from our usual sweeps and stuff. Anything draining." There's a step taken, but only to widen his stance. "We could give you that point. The clear water. If you want."

"I see." Ulyana's gaze slides away from the bronzerider, only to fall on the bronze and the water beyond. Her posture remains stiff despite the limpness of her arms; unmoving. "There is more that he seeks, but it is mostly the water he wants. He does not enjoy flying." It's a strange thought, perhaps. Curious. Not to her - but the 'why' is no mystery. "I am not sure how we will handle sweeps." It's a divergent thought, allowed to fall away without further consideration. It's the last that finally draws her attention back. "He would like that."

"He finds sweeps boring. If that's all we do..." There's something dubious in the shake of the bronzerider's head. His eyes move from the girl, back to her dragon. And then back. "You wouldn't? Like that?" It's a hazarded guess, and one that has his eyes narrowing as he considers her. Lythronath still remains where he is, satisfied enough, it seems, to have that blue doing the same.

"It is understandable." There might be a smile there, somewhere, but it's well-hidden. "I have other concerns. But," Ulyana remarks, "I will live." She lapses into a lengthy silence that crosses over his doubled questions and well into the territory her answer should have been in. After another second or two, she replies, "That is not what you were asking." A sidelong look is angled to him again. "I enjoy any opportunity to be violently sick in foreign lands." Such is issued with a deadpan delivery and a single, slow blink. When her eyes open, they tilt away again. Studying the dragons. "I would enjoy it. Everywhere else has much better air."

This time, A'rist's step moves him forward, just a bit. A bit closer, so he can peer at her face, whether Ulyana is looking to him or not. "Even that's got to be better than just staying in the same place all the time, though, isn't it?" His fingers flex against his belt, though his thumbs stay hooked. "Wouldn't you get bored?"

Her face betrays little; it's a well-sculpted mask of relative indifference that shifts periodically to hint at her humanity. Ulyana doesn't move even as he approaches and her sight is leveled on the dragons and their peculiar stand-off. "I would rather retain the contents of my stomach," is her dull response. "I do not fear the boredom. My childhood-" is the start of it, but she shakes her head - left, right, center - before starting over with: "I have my thoughts - and his. I am not easily bored." If at all, truly.

So close, A'rist carries on watching her, breathing in and out carefully, slowly. Slowly, ever so slowly, tilting his head. Finally, one of his hands - the one she'll know better, now - comes off his belt, index finger extending out, levelling toward her stomach, and not quite touching. "His thoughts must be interesting." Lythronath, after being still for so long, gives his wings a little bit of a flick. His stare hasn't broken.

She is aware of the potential poke of her stomach. She does not care. Ulyana does not look to follow the progress of that digit; rather, her attention flicks askance to the bronzerider. Just so. The dragons still dominate the view for her, but he's there again. "I suspect his are more articulate." Lythronath's, that is. Elaboration is not immediate - and when it comes, it's not likely to be helpful. "Qhyluth does not speak as we are now - with words. It is unpleasant, sometimes. Strange." Unsettling.

A'rist shakes his head. The tip of his finger makes contact, but only to fold into the rest of his hand, leaving the backs of his fingers there. Lightly. For so long as she'll stay in that same spot. "Wouldn't call it that," A'rist shakes his head. There's an upward tug at the edge of his mouth, his attention going back toward the bronze. "He'll feel just one thing and it'll pop into a word or two. It's more about... I don't know, intention maybe."

"Concrete rather than abstract." Ulyana remains where she is, even with his fingers resting against her stomach. She's still wearing her jacket, of course; making contact with more than just that will take more pressure. "And still more articulate. He uses words," is noted of the bronze with a lift of her chin in his direction for clarity. As for the blue, something is finally stirring within his thoughts, but it has nothing to do with the bronze or the lake. His head tilts and the shared reflection of riders is caught in the curve of his eye. A thick sound is issued - warning and wary all at once. Ulyana ignores it. "It seems that would be much easier to make sense of. Easier to process."

"Maybe not even intentions," risks being spoken overtop of Ulyana. "Focus?" And then, with a bit of of what almost might be called a relenting smile, "But yeah, words." Lythronath hasn't stopped watching the blue; and when he moves, so does Lythronath, dropping his head a bit lower. Swinging his tail. Tensing those big muscles in his hind legs. "It makes you just... want to act on it, right away. The way he is. It's hard," he presses a bit more firmly, not missing a beat, "not to."

"Commands. Demands. Imperatives." Synonyms are rattled off in order, even while the girl tenses under the palpable increase of pressure at her midsection. Her arms come to life - if only to start disconnecting the buckles of her jacket. The sweater beneath is gray and plain. It's at A'rist's last words that she reiterates, "Imperatives." It satisfies her at least. "His thoughts are intense. Demanding. I imagine it is not much different." Except for words - or the lack thereof. Qhyluth's statuesque stance slowly unravels, one forepaw dropping to the sand before the other joins it. He uncoils and starts to slink closer, both riders still trapped within his range of sight. The bronze is there, too, in the other eye; he's still watching. Mindful.

The last word brings a wicked smile onto that bronzerider's face. "Imperatives," he agrees when she says it again, his hand withdrawing only enough that the buckles can be undone, that it can stretch out again, this time with fingertips, to test at that sweater. "Not that different." A partial closing of that hand draws fingertips over the textures of wool. "Except how you handle him. How I handle him. Lythronath. Who gives one warning click when the blue's foot moves. He's 'mindful' too.

The beast, it seems, is not intent on venturing too close to the bronze. Rather, his path shifts and his sinuous stride carries him inexorably closer to his rider and the other standing with her. A damp rattling sound resonates in his chest. Again, Ulyana ignores it. Rather, the bronzerider's testing touch of her sweater commands her attention - more accurately, his face is a point of fixation, rather than the exploration of the well-worn wool garment. It's clean. Plain. Boring. Not much different than the girl wearing it. "The chains are necessary," she explains. "The walls. The ice. He cannot control his moods, so he must be taught." Still. Still- "What do you do with his imperatives? Do you comply - or deny?"

The second click out of the bronze promises it's not his direction he is now taking issue with. Lythronath takes a step, mirroring the blue's movement as best he can, relative to both the riders, and the edge of the lake's waters. "Chains," muses A'rist, proceeding slowly into what (to him at least) is metaphor, "only make him pull harder." Fingertips are reset, and brush again, this time with some motion from his arm, to keep the contact a big longer. A bit farther. "It works better," still slow, contemplative, "to have the same imperatives. Make his mine and mine his."

Satisfaction from Qhyluth is not to be found. His approach is measured, only to end with him looming over his rider before adopting that odd posture of his once more. His shadow falls heavily, despite his size, and the girl briefly tilts her head to one side to catch the beast in the corner of her eye. Nothing is said; the look seems to be enough, if only for the here and now. The slight motion also threatens to pull her just out of range of A'rist's fingertips. Testing. "I see," is mostly mused. "What imperatives of his would you hesitate to take as your own?"

A'rist shifts after her, maybe too much. "Depends on the situation." Maybe enough to bring his full palm to her stomach. He doesn't spare a look over to that blue. Lythronath is looking at him plenty, taking one step closer before he's willing to settle. Though his weight stays balanced on those hind legs, ready. "He doesn't think ahead. Not like that. He's fierce." A'rist looks down to that sweater. And back up to the girl. "There's some places it's good. Others..."

It is too much - if only from the blue's perspective. A thin rumble reverberates in his chest and he leans slightly forward, wings partially unfurled. And maybe it is too much, all in all. The press of palm on Ulyana's belly is enough to give her a moment's pause. She feels every bit as tiny as she looks; barely there in the flesh, even through the woolen sweater. "Of course." And there's the step back, a step that pulls her deeper into the shadows and farther from A'rist's reach. "That is the difference," she decides. "He," Lythronath, noted with a tip of her head, "doesn't think ahead. And he," her head tilts back briefly, "can only think of what is next." But, she concedes, "Good and bad. Equally fierce in their respective ways." Perhaps.

This time, A'rist doesn't follow. He closes his hand in the air where it was left, brow knitting at whatever it is he's discovered. "Maybe," is as near agreement as the bronzerider comes. "Dangerous," doesn't quite have the ring of a question, though the bronzerider is looking up to that shadow-casting blue, curious, not wary as perhaps he even ought to be. One quick look goes over to Lythronath, then, an instantaneous sort of motion.

"Yes." There is no defense for it. No denial. "Possessive," too. And this is easily felt in the place where minds meet. Alien heartbeats thunder beneath ocean-deep waters, while sycophants moan at nearly losing Her to the grip of the Interloper. The words are inaudible, but the sensation is undeniable. Qhyluth cares not for the bronze, not now; it's the rider that holds the sum of the beast's attention. The girl remains precisely where she is, just that one step back and no more. Cracks exist in the mask; cracks that might just be a trick of the light. A slight downward curve of her mouth; a creasing of her brow. The tip of her tongue pokes out to wet her lips before retreating. "He is troubled." Apologetic.

The Interloper just nods, bringing his hand in back to his own belly, where it rests, still closed. He looks back to the blue, still more with interest than anything else. "Guess he is," comes to that, all of that, another nod coming, this one going to the dragon. Acknowledgement, but certainly not apology of his own, nor, even, agreement on any boundaries. Just having seen him. Gaze tracks back down to the girl, again. Lythronath is left to his own, left to draw himself up, the faintest flicker of something smug in the air between himself and that blue.

That look is returned as best as can be done. Sickly hues of yellow and orange weave themselves into those deeply set eyes and the blue issues another of those odd rumbles of his. The very tips of his teeth are bared, perhaps a response to that smugness or to the nod or, perhaps, for no other reason than because that is how it should be. But even he knows better than to cage her with a wing, even if a wing trembles with the very desire to do so. Instead: "It will pass." She thinks. She hopes. She is not sure. Her hands fold over her stomach and she continues, voice pitched low: "You are one of a rare few who will talk to me. Why?"

A'rist can't help but notice where her hands fold. It brings a satisfied sort of twitch to his mouth. « Touch, » Lythronath presses, remembers, taunts, though his voice is quiet. Sneaky. "'Cause... you're interesting." It's a response from the guts, straight and sincere. The shrug that follows suggests that's really the most he's thought about it. Decisions can happen without deliberation.

It's an answer that pinches her eyebrows together and purses her lips. Satisfactory? Unsatisfactory? Impossible to tell. Ulyana nods once - up, down, center - and if her hands tighten a little more over her stomach, so be it. Finally: "Thank you." Silence is allowed to spin out from there on her part - a comfortable, familiar thing, that. It might be just as comfortable for the blue, for that matter, for he issues no more vocalizations. His response to Lythronath is something that digs into the guts - a sense of wrongness, laced with reverence and that twisted sense of possessiveness. It is not his place. Not his.

A'rist isn't sure what to make of that thanks; he twists out a smile, and offers a rushed, "Well, it's true." Lythronath's head tilts at that blue - that blue - and he swings his tail from one side, to the other. « Not yours. » Slammed forward, this time, not loud, but forceful. It brings A'rist's attention back to his bronze. And makes his jaw set a little, though it hardly seems he's spoiling for a fight. This is determination.

And, yet, there is nothing. The forceful articulation meets primordial waters that stir with confusion. The voices grow hushed - and a distant bell begins to toll. Fog rolls in, a further expression of his inability to understand; all other thought runs deep, sliding in the dark places of the ocean where the light of perpetually full moons will never reach. Qhyluth uncoils from his posture and proceeds back to where Ulyana left her helmet and goggles and gloves, while no other looks are spared for bronze or rider. She will follow - but not immediately. The detour is brief, but purposeful, with her intention being to draw close enough to A'rist to flatten a hand over his stomach before she retreats. "He needs to go." A breath is drawn and held and released slowly. "I hope we will speak again," is paired with a smile that fits poorly on a mouth that doesn't typically carry one.

A'rist drops his own hand, that his stomach might be available. It brings a grin to his face, one much more accustomed to such things. "You know where we are, now," comes with a vague nod up toward the rim, the spires, those familiar between points. "And we know where to find you." Lythronath's teeth touch closed within his mouth on that, and the blue is given a hard look to bring his own meaning to his rider's words. A'rist seems not to notice. A'rist just steps back, and gives them space to leave, space even that bronze won't infringe upon.

It's only once she's nearly ready for flight - in the moments before the goggles are pulled down and the jacket's collar is pulled up - that she calls, "Perhaps, next time, we should meet where there are neutral waters." Ulyana issues a salute in lieu of a smile. Better. The blue beast doesn't wait for a response; he's on the wing and pushing hard for altitude a scant handful of seconds later - and *between* a breath or three after that.

"Clear waters," A'rist calls after her. It could be lost in the wind of takeoff. He doesn't care.