Difference between revisions of "Logs:Mud, Trophies And Dust"

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 dirt at High Reaches isn't normally red. Not red like this, and certainly not with that thick, sweet smell. But today, the dirt is red, as is some of the sand nearer the water's edge, where it's been mixed in by massive claws and equally massive enthusiasm. It was a flurry of activity for a while, of bleeding carcass and flailing limbs, of roars and rumbles. It might have even been enough to get some good attention, but that's all died down. Lythronath's only making contented little whuff sounds now, as he squishes and nuzzles the pile of blood-mud up against his back higher with each settling motion. Each slowing motion. Each, blink, blink, click, stretch, motion. Mmm. Contentment isn't an emotion strong enough to pull an actual word from his mind, but it's tangible on the mental wavelengths, at least.

Few things escape Hraedhyth's intense focus when it comes to the Weyr, especially when Lythronath is involved. Favoritism has little to do with the gold's attention, although she has been known to enjoy his unique brand of company. The truth is-- Lythronath's boisterous and violent nature makes him impossible to ignore at times. Like today. It's the flurry of roaring, squishing, and mixing which brings the tawny gold closer, dropping onto her stomach a few feet away to watch in comfortable, if focused, silence.

Lythronath's almost - almost - found just about the perfect spot. One more wrig- and the bronze is up, front talons digging hard for purchase in ground that he's made too soft. He contorts, wings flapping, tail lashing, for balance. He digs his snout into the ground. He comes back out with a freshly splintered bone, just where his shoulder had been. He crunches it. It's got « Crunch! » enough to get shared, one eye locking in on Hraedhyth even while that powerful jaw is working. And then he has to start settling in all. over. Again.

It's just as Hraedhyth begins to lower her head onto her front limbs that Lythronath stands, his sudden movement causing her to jerk back up. Those dark wings snap and rustle at him, paired with a huff from her snout. Despite the posturing, her steady drums and fiery thoughts are far from bothered, flame's tongue reaching out to snatch up his shared « Crunch! ». The satisfying snap of bone sparks something in the gold as she lurches to her feet and begins to scent the ground. She's not as frantic as a canine, but clearly she's on the hunt for something.

Lythronath makes no move to stop the gold. Well, not to go to her and headbutt her into submission, anyway, although he stretches one wing as far as it will go, and does the same with his limbs, his tail - except for the twitching tip. That sigh is far too happy to be about contentment, or even relaxation. Muscles are halfway tensed beneath his hide, even when he closes his eyes. « Sleep, » is a lie.

Hreadhyth continues her slow hunt, occasionally stopping to nose and scratch at the dirt. Lythronath's stretching does catch her attention, one eye kept on the bronze as she continues her own peculiar behavior. His lie earns another snort that sends up a cloud of loose dust, the queen turning her head to chuff at the bronze, « Trophies. » is not a lie.

« Mine, » answers Lythronath, not so much a claim as a reminder. The blood-mud squelches when he slides one hind leg back. He manages to last a moment more before opening an eye. The press of awareness is heavier on Hraedhyth than the bad angle of vision. It's a press that comes with the smell of blood, almost separated out from that of dirt, the recent memory of a beating heart panicking, then slowly draining. His trophies. His hunt. Lythronath is made of win.

Both eyes on him at that claim, Hreadhyth makes her usual threat of oversized jaws and a low growl. The rumble continues even as she turns back around, walking further from the lake and..! Her entire body goes stiff save for those flaring nostrils, nosing at a patch of loose soil with a surprising amount of care. WHUMP. The gold slams back down, forelegs bordering her find as she lifts her head, smoke carrying inky black satisfaction. She's smug, « Mine. »

« Left, » as in behind, as in over. Lythronath shifts and rolls, and cranes his neck around until he can get a good view of the gold. The gold, and the sloppy seconds she's come up with. A front paw digs idly at the ground, as if scratching a lazy itch, if one that's not actually on his hide. « Have. » Permission given, and he closes his eyes and eases back into his wallow.

Hraedhyth's flames dance in mild amusement, or would if any emotion from the gold were capable of being mild. Churning black smoke builds up in rolling plumes, doing what her faceted eyes are unable to at his "generosity". « It is older than you are. » Or so she claims. Even if this trophy isn't, no doubt there are pockets all around the bowl which are. Her head turns, watching as the patch of shimmering gold comes closer, eventually revealing dark tan limbs and a bright smile. The Weyrwoman doesn't rush, but there is a happy bounce to her long stride as she approaches with bucket and shovel on hand.

« Old, » comes with a snort that, if not for the fact that everything has been moistened by blood (and maybe also some lakewater), would've stirred up some dust. « Dust, » is a guess, one that is disinterested as he closes his eyes again. « Sleep, » is still a lie. That tip of his tail hasn't stopped giving the occasional twitch.

Azaylia's sundress is far too pretty for the work she's about to do, pausing once she reaches her lifemate's legs. Hreadhyth lowers her muzzle for a pat, rumbling affectionately as the Weyrwoman dusts off a clump of clinging dirt. The golden pair are several feet away from Lythronath, who has slaved away in order to make a bloody, muddy wallow for himself near the lake. The bronze is given a thump of Hreadhyth's drums, « Mine wishes you well. » as the goldrider is grinning and waving at Lythronath, shouldering her shovel with the other hand.

Rillaeth backwings to a landing and proffers a leg so that L'sha can dismount. She looks much less glowy than she has in the past sevenday, her hide returned to its normal near-black green and paler stripe. She rumbles a greeting to the dragons gathered as L'sha looks around.

Lythronath doesn't give Rillaeth much at all in the way of greeting; in fact, that twitch of his tail might still be for Hraedhyth. « Azaylia. » It's one of the few people-names he knows, and it has all the sweetness to it that memory of scritches and treats can offer. « Dust, » is meant for the weyrwoman, warning, even if it goes more to Hraedhyth - and anyone else nearby. He does lift his head just enough, in his wallow, to try and spot the woman. Maybe she'll come scritch him more.

L'sha spies Azaylia her her lifemate and waves to them, grinning. He heads over to them while Rillaeth picks out a spot for herself, giving Lythronath an especially wide berth. Her interstellar blackness provides a suitable backdrop for their conversation. « Greetings, Hraedyth, Lythronath. » L'sha peers at the Weyrwoman as he approaches. "Hi, Azaylia. Er, what's with the shovel?"

The roll of Hreadhyth's drums is steady, a flat groan for the antics of the young bronze. The gold isn't shy about sharing her impression of Lythronath, flames conjuring not-memories of a bronze, tail-biting pup. « Mine. » She repeats, this time laying claim on Azaylia. "Mm? Oh, hello L'sha." Reminder of the shovel has the goldrider sinking its head into the ground with purpose. Despite the pretty dress, she's wearing thick work boots that help push the metal deeper into the ground. "Hraedhyth found one of her old trophies." As if that explains everything. The queen snarls her own greeting, « Rillaeth. »

« Green, » Lythronath greets Rillaeth, rolling up, so that both shoulders are off the ground, and his forepaws are planted in a wider stance. Only a moment passes before he gets to all fours, rearing then to his hind legs to jump over the ridge against which he was resting. « Boring, » he says of Hraedhyth's treasures. « Better, » he adds as he spreads his wings, though what exactly is better will remain to be seen. The bronze certainly offers no further explanation.

Rillaeth rumbles again to Lythronath and curiously wanders over to where Azaylia is digging, gazing down to see what's so interesting in the dirt. "Trophies?" L'sha wonders aloud, "What sort of trophy would a dragon bury in the mud by the lake?"

Oh man, Lythronath would be so possessive of Azaylia right now (especially if it were likely to annoy Hraedhyth)... except he's already taken off in search of whatever it is he has in mind.

Azaylia pauses in her digging when Lythronath makes his leap, her focus as well as Hraedhyth's lingering on the bronze. While the Weyrwoman turns back to her work, the gold gives a low rumble, « Running away. » Well, flying. It's a toss of harmless sparks, only likely to scorch if he allows them to. Rillaeth earns the queen's attention as she approaches, forelimbs posessively closing in on where the Weyrwoman is digging. "Oh, she has them everywhere." Azaylia answers, "She forgets where they're buried sometimes." All the time, given draconic memory. The more dirt is displaced, the more of that massive bovine skull is revealed.

L'sha's eyebrows shoot up as he sees what Azaylia's digging up. "I see. So, uh, why are you digging it back up?" Rillaeth's view is blocked by Hraedyth's forearms and she snorts at the huge gold. « I'm not trying to steal it! » She cranes her long neck up to get a better view.

Hraedhyth snorts right back, looming over the green with some lingering intensity from socializing with Lythronath. Still, she'll slowly begin to relax as more of the skull is revealed, turning her muzzle down to watch. "Well, after all the bugs pick it mostly clean..." Azaylia huffs with effort, careful not to strike the remains with her shovel, "...I boil it, and then Hraedhyth decides if it's nice enough to go in our weyr. Sometimes I paint them." The explanation is simple, as if she were explaining a recipe.

Rillaeth's eyes widen excitedly as Azaylia mentions painting the skull. « Paint? What color? » L'sha is less impressed. "Oh. That's...nice." He smirks at his lifemate. "Rillaeth loves color, she's always trying to get me to start painting. I keep telling her I don't have any talent for it."

« The colors of Home. » Inky black smoke mostly keeps its hue, the edges of which start fading into the dark blue of High Reaches. The flames below throw golden sparks up into the plumes, gilded stars to complete her preferred color scheme: blue, black and gold. "If I'm any good at it, it's only because I've practiced since weyrlinghood." Azaylia admits with a little smile, reaching down to test how loose the skull is. The dirt shifts, and with some effort that has broad shoulders flexing, the Weyrwoman is able to yank the horned skull free. "I've developed a steady hand, at least." Not that Hreadhyth likely cares about such details.

L'sha steps toward the weyrwoman as she reaches for the skull. "Here, let me h..." But she's got it out already. "Nevermind. Hmm, maybe I should start painting. I suppose even I'd get good at it if I practiced long enough." Rillaeth is too enthralled by Hraedyth's display to notice her rider. « I like that combination. »

Into the large bucket the skull goes, Azaylia's arm flexing with the weight of it as she picks up the handle. L'sha's words have her smiling brightly, "That's the spirit. You aren't going to get any better by not practicing." Her lips gain an apologetic slant, "I do have to get back to work, though. I only stopped for this," The bucket is hefted, "Before she forgot where it was." Again. Hraedhyth doesn't look as though she's planning on going anywhere now that her trophy is in trusted hands. The goldrider does fill up the hole before collecting her things, "Clear skies, L'sha."