Difference between revisions of "Logs:More"

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.

It hasn't been a day since Azaylia's return and already Hraedhyth's hide has warmed to a luminous amber. With her glow comes the not-yet stifling heat of her flames and a hint of spiced incense. It's even on the wind, although that has more to do with the well-sized drum of oil set next to the lounging gold. Both dragon and rider seem oblivious to the light snowfall, Azaylia's motions diligent if notably slow. Lythronath's sudden appearance in the sky prompts Hraedhyth to lift her head, focused gaze mirrored by the sizzling touch of her mindscape. « Lythronath. » As if she's been waiting for him all day.

« Hraedhyth, » made low and warm by the bronze's instant awareness of that glowing queen. Even without his name. If A'rist had plans, they're unplanned. Comet-blazed wings bring the muscled bronze to the shore. He lands, close, head raised, breathing in the scent. « Hraedhyth, » the same, but closer now, and unabashed to be taking up her space like he is.

Azaylia is suddenly made aware of the bronze pair, Lythronath's arrival bringing a hand to her mouth to try and hide her brilliant grin. Hraedhyth allows the young male to take her in, her own head held as high and proud as her broad neck allows. Her voice is a mix of a growl and that deep contralto, « I hope I did not hurt you too badly. » As if she didn't receive her own injuries from their last, intense scuffle. « I will want you to be able to fly. » Azaylia sets the paddle down on the edge of the drum, shielding her eyes from the weak afternoon sun, "A'rist. Having a good day?"

Lythronath makes a click in his throat, bobs his head once, then holds it low. « Scars. » Not his. He's looking at hers. On her legs. From when he was just little. « Haha. » A'rist takes advantage of his dragon's crouched posture to bail. He's got young knees and energy. His dragon lifting his head to show Hraedhyth his teeth just makes the young rider tuck and roll. Out of the way of one of those powerful claws that digs into the ground when the bronze steps forward, sniffing again, huffing warm air back to the queen. "Great." Deadpan.

Hraedhyth answers the bronze's click with a throaty rumble, long and drawn out as she takes the time to stretch one leg, then the other. « Yes. » There's even a roll of shoulders, the queen flexing beneath her new coat of luxurious oil. « You should give me more. » Later. It could be coincidence that Azaylia laughs just then, sudden and breathless. She's still smiling as she walks over to A'rist, looking to dust him off if she can, "I'm sorry." Not sorry.

"Don't be," answers the bronzerider, lifting his head, confident, and waiting until he's been at least slightly dusted before he swings to stand more beside the goldrider. Snow sticks to that not-really-filled-in-yet stubble haphazardly strewn across his cheeks. « More, » agrees Lythronath, a few more steps taken, tail swinging out behind him, as he starts to circle. Even if it puts him nearer the water, or into it.

"Okay!" Well that was easy. Azaylia allows A'rist a moment of comfort before slipping an arm into his, "She might keep him for a while. Help me?" Still a request, despite her light tugging. Hraedhyth turns her head, keeping track of the bronze with that same intense stare, growl rising and falling in a siren's song. She's interrupted when a brown's shadow glides over her, the gold lifting her head to watch him land on his ledge. The Weyrwoman tries to sweeten the deal with, "We can even oil Lythronath, if he'd like?"

"Of course." He allows himself to be tugged, even crooks his arm carefully to keep the weyrwoman's - for as long as she wants, anyway. "Hraedhyth's fine. For now." Lythronath, anyway, is busy, pausing, deadly still in the moment that shadow passes, eyes upward with a killer's intensity. Waiting. The brown's landing elsewhere is a victory. It makes the bronze raise his head, balance on his hind legs, roar a roar that echoes out into the bowl. Lythronath's.

Well! That's one way to regain Hraedhyth's attention, her head swinging back over to Lythronath with a savage snarl of approval. Her flames return in full force, momentarily wrapping Lythronath up with that bewitching heat, « More. » How else is she supposed to ensure that he's the best? The Weyrwoman recovers from that roar with a laugh, "There's an extra paddle there," As if they really were expecting company. "I appreciate it. I don't know if I'll be able to when it gets worse." Or better, judging from the goldrider's bubbling excitement.

A'rist knew the roar was coming; he doesn't flinch so much as square up his shoulders, and then reach for that paddle. Even if it means stepping away from the weyrwoman. "Of course," repeated, but different. Lythronath, he growl-clicks something for Hraedhyth, tearing into the ground with a hindclaw, a gouge marking his claim to the space. « More, » agrees the bronze. « Hraedhyth, » again when he's looking at her straight-on, and snaps his teeth.

"I expect that talk from Lythronath," Azaylia points out, abandoning her paddle moments later to follow A'rist. "But you?" It's an obvious tease, hands reaching for the young bronzerider's shoulders in a kneading squeeze. Voice is a whisper near his ear, "Relax. She isn't going up today." Assuming his speech patterns are due to feeling trapped, that is. Hraedhyth gives a lurch, visibly torn between approaching the bronze and letting the riders finish. Instead her dark smoke twines, curling in a wordless invitation for him to rest against her freshly oiled hide and feel her.

A'rist doesn't whisper so much as he talks quietly, and that, not quite in Azaylia's ear: "Pity." But something in him recognises the confidence and bravado for what it is, and it brings a flush to his cheeks. Lythronath? Lythronath wants to feel. This sort of feeling is awesome. He finds his place carefully, claws the ground a few times more, and drapes. His.

Hraedhyth is doing her Weyr a great disservice, encouraging the bronze like she is. As he drapes she leans, pleased rumble starting up in her chest as the queen inspects Lythronath. Scenting, licking, nudging. « Not yet. » Azaylia's surprise blossoms into another bright smile, hand abandoning A'rist's shoulder to nudge his chin with her thumb, "Cute." Just what every could-be Weyrleader wants to hear. The press of her lips to his brow is meant to ease the sting, a fleeting kiss before she's turning to retrieve her own paddle, "If you're good boys you'll get a prize, after." Probably tea. Hopefully.

« Haha. » Confident. Lythronath nudges back, nudges hard, puts teeth to hide, albeit without tearing or ripping. Hraedhyth! A'rist, he blushes harder, and then, all at once, is composed. The paddle is dipped. His eyes rove over the weyrwoman as she goes. "Good." He might be talking about tea, too. But probably not.

Hraedhyth's muscles twitch beneath those jaws, although she doesn't stop Lythronath in his mouthy exploration. Instead she joins in, oversized teeth paired with her tongue, dragging and nipping to help groom the bronze. It keeps her busy and mostly still beneath their paddles, fresh oil adding an alluring molten quality to the gold. Smalltalk is likely to be slim, with A'rist how he is and the Weyrwoman so easily lost in the tranquil rhythm of her arm. In rare form, Lythronath is a male not so quickly dismissed which means... yes, there will be tea later.