Difference between revisions of "Logs:Things To Figure Out"

Fog drifts within the Bowl, white and clammy and quiet, but up high on this autumn afternoon, the breeze won't let it stay. Up high, up here, clear warm sunshine pours down unfettered, and glistens off the rangy dragon's side where she's already seen oil: Vrianth, half-curled to better supervise her tending, her rider kneeling on her riding jacket to spare bare knees in tending one sleek and sharp-clawed paw.

Cadejoth and his rider take a fairly leisurely flight up from the lower, fog-covered reaches of the bowl, though as they push through into the sunshine, the bronze has a trumpet of pure delight, his tail wriggling in delight, even in flight, even as he soars towards the rim. That they're not the only pair to seek out this particular point does not go unseen: the bronze extends his trumpet towards the green, slinging his weight down a respectful distance away, as his rider swings for the ground.

Vrianth's head turns for the sake of that so-audible joy, just as well for her rider's ears given how she lifts an easy, gravelly warble in reply. Electric thought echoes it: « Will you also be oiled, Cadejoth? » What else would, could keep him from the sky? Her wings may flare wide with the thought of it, but at least her paws stay put. For now. Especially since her rider's working between her toes, paused only long enough to wave.

« I will! » The twanging of bone and metal against bone and metal marks Cadejoth's continued delight through this response. « And then we may fly some more, but not too far. » Eggs, Iovniath; these linger at the back of his thoughts, all proud fondness, and an aching /something/, not quite fulfilled. K'del returns the wave, remarking in a voice intended to carry the distance, despite the breeze, "Autumn in the reaches, huh? Barely see a thing down there." He rummages, setting out his oiling supplies upon the cool stone, then slipping arms free of his jacket, which ends up draped on the ground nearby.

« Why not far? » comes the rangy green's question: eggs, queen, aren't they but a hop, skip and a jump /between/? « We could go /anywhere/. » Could, should, with her own underlying images lending a sense of anywhere-that's-/interesting/: palisades where the sultry air's made tolerable by speed of flight, a vast river like a frayed silken ribbon in a valley far below, a close-up vision of wherries harried into the hunt. And snow, ice, reflecting sun rather than night. "Pretty much," her rider's meanwhile agreeing, and after sliding a rag between conveniently held-up toes, ducks under Vrianth's neck to tend to her other side. Which happens to be between the green and Cadejoth, conveniently enough. "Least we get to fly up here. Hate to have to stay down below, just have all the grayness over everything."

Cadejoth can't explain it, not in words, and not, entirely, in the senses he conveys, except: it's /right/ for him to stay close. When Iovniath is stuck on the sands, and can't go anywhere. Why should he? Not that this stops the longing, the way he /leans/ into those ideas of hers, mind wrapping about them. Oh, palisades, oh rivers, oh wherries, oh snow and ice. /Oh/. "Right," agrees his rider, beginning to spread oil over green-washed bronze hide, rubbing it in with a firm hand. "Nice to know it doesn't go on forever. That we can get up here, see beyond it. Was /hoping/ it'd be nice up here. How are you, Leova?"

In Vrianth's vision, there begins to gleam a glint of pale bronze, dashing through all these sights and scenes, finding /treasures/ perhaps to bring back for the one that needs to stay. Her eyes gleam the more brightly, too, a particularly deep shade of entertained blue-green. But then, that might have something to do with her rider adding a new palmful of oil, letting it trickle ticklishly down her leg before rubbing it too in. And before glancing not down into the Weyr, but out and away over the white-capped mountains and the hills that roll down beyond. "She's five Turns today, as it happens. So. Good." Her glance slips over to his way. "The Tillek thing, is all. Though talking shop, mightn't fit with your wanting to get away from it all."

Treasures! It's an idea that appeals very much, as though all that yearning needed was a reason to go, before it would completely take flight. « I could bring her wonders! And then she won't miss not being able to go herself. And then, maybe she'd like me. » Or... /tolerate/ him. Small steps. His tail begins to wiggle again, wings shifting until K'del places a hand on one, a reminder, and he stills again. For a time. "Happy Impression anniversary," is K'del's prompt reply to that news. "And happy turnday, Vrianth. /Tillek/." The emphasis marks his displeasure, as does his face, which turns about so he can glance at the greenrider. "No, talking shop is fine. At least we're not stuck on the ground. I like it up here. Tillek. Can't believe they got the /Tillek/ train. Travelled here with that, two turns back. Shells."

He gets a long look from Vrianth, as though the green were checking for some reason why that other dragon shouldn't care for his company, and coming up short. « How could she not miss going herself? But surely it would be /better/. » She eyes his rider, now, though hers stays silent for a time, listening. Then, "All right. And thanks. 'Course, in her mind, before-Vrianth time was... well." She gives a wry one-shouldered shrug, gets a snort in her ear that has her laughing despite herself. But, sobering: "Close to home for me too. People've been looking into it? Don't know what's just rumor, right now."

« /Better/, » agrees Cadejoth. « I would watch the eggs for her, so she could go, but I don't think she would be willing to do that. But... it isn't /so/ long before they hatch. » And then, and then, and then: flying, and freedom. K'del spreads oil with his rag, and then, with his fingers, working it in to supple hide with obvious dedication and devotion. "Of course," he agrees, turning his head back, laughing wryly. Her last sobers him, too, and he nods. "Been liaising with Tillek on it. Sending out groups to look for suspicious activity. Least Lady Edeline and Lord Potipher are... not unsupportive."

Has it not been forever already? But the sire should know, and so Vrianth doesn't put it into words, only a deflected sense of dubiousness. « Find me, when there is time after, and we will fly. » And with that, she flicks her tail around herself, and sprawls a little further so that her rider can rub along her neck without having to reach quite so high. "Not unsupportive. What does that even mean?" And: "E'dre mentioned having some of his bolts of fabric, that he ordered, on that train. Might be unusual enough that it's memorable? If it's not muslin, or something."

It has been forever, and Cadejoth's only real marker of time is projected thus: the sense of reassurance from K'del, that it's not-so-very-much-longer-and-then-they'll-be-dragons. But, « I should like that. I will. We will. » And there they are, hurtling through the sky in his mind. K'del hoists himself onto a forelimb to get in a better position for the higher points of his dragon's hide. "Means... Don't know. Still working it all out. Get the impression they might consider it more our problem than theirs, but maybe-- could be me, not being sure enough. Bolts?" He sounds thoughtful as he repeats this, pausing to shift around properly, braced by a neckridge in one hand. "Have to ask. Thanks, could be useful. People keep telling me that this kind of thing happens, you know? But not from Tillek."

To Wroth, Cadejoth's mental touch comes out of nowhere, marked with a ringing of chains and bones, merry and excited, though he struggles to constrain them. « Vrianth's said your rider had *fabric* on the tithe train. Was it special? Would it /stand out/? If it were to show up somewhere. K'del thinks it could be useful! »

To Cadejoth, Wroth is surprised by the excitement and answers it with a dry, somber, tone. « He did. I don't know if it would stand out. I am not /interested/ in fabric. » He draws down his rumbling storms and proceeds to play with clouds and lightening. « If he did. Why should I tell /you/? »

To Wroth, Cadejoth tones his touch down, in the wake of that response, though he can't completely release the faint tinkle of metal upon metal, a twang that lingers through his words. « You should tell me because you're part of my pack! » It's a nebulous concept, but all of them are: his weyr, his dragons, cared for with dedication and loyalty. « But perhaps, you could simply mention it to your rider, and he could come and see mine, if he thinks it might be useful? So then I wouldn't have to bother you too much. »

Vrianth shifts, the momentary sensation of /static/ earning a sharp look from her lifemate before she shifts it into something lighter, a sense of agreement followed by a fleeting thought of just a /little/ flying before then. Above their Weyr. Not /too/ far. This very sky. Leova says after a moment, her lips no longer compressed, "Thought it wasn't officially ours until it got here, but might not be current. New Lord, after all." New Lady. New 'leaders. "Even so... Anyhow." She stops working just long enough to dunk the rag in the oil again, squeezes it out and runs along the length of muscle that curves beneath her hand. "L'vae's family had some stolen. Ale. Back when. A bunch of us, we went by the Gathers, did a little tasting to try and figure it out. /Rough/ work, hm?" and she can laugh at herself, now.

To Cadejoth, Wroth projects, « I do not approve of his playing with the fabric. If it was stolen, it should stay stolen. » So much for a helping pack-member, the brown is all thunder and wind. That metal? He sends it a zap of lightening just to watch it flare up in bluish light. « If you give me a reason that is beneficial to me, I will ask him now if he can describe it to me. »

Cadejoth leans into this concept, too, this more immediate fulfillment of what he wants: yes, oh yes. There's no question of his agreement, not with his wings shifting instantly as though already reaching for flight, though he stays firmly where he is, letting his rider clamber over him further, to wipe down another patch of hide. "Could be a bone of contention. That's the problem. Too many new leaders. Too many ways to take advantage." The idea obviously concerns him, his expression set darkly, as though he's been brooding heavily over this. "Hah, yes, I can see that. The things one does, for the sake of righteousness, right? Find it, in the end?"

Sparks! They dance and sing off of Cadejoth's metal, zinging merrily until time fades them away to nothing. « If it makes him happy, » he suggests. « I think that's a good thing. A fine thing, to let your rider be happy. » There's a pause, and the sense of conferral, presumably with his rider. « If we caught them, the ones that stole everything, because of your help, we'd make sure everyone knew that you helped. You and your rider would earn respect. And you'd have mine, too. » (Cadejoth to Wroth)

To Cadejoth, Wroth all of this is taken into consideration. His reply is a long time coming, though the zinging metal only draws more lightening. It /is/ an interesting sound. And the metallic taste it leaves in the air is intoxicating. There is a sense of the brown passing this information on, gathering his own, and then he replies: « I do not care if he is happy. I am the one that needs to be happy. » That aside, he continues business-like, « One was uniquely dyed. A purple that is found in a specific plant that Weavers use in Tillek. » He shares this image: of a dark, rich, purple clearly lush in its color and in the density of the fabric. Good for keeping warm. « The other was a silver, with little bits of metal. » This fabric hints more of warmer weather - of the styles more prominent in the dessert. A veil-like quality to the fabric, see-through, with bits of jingling metal on its edges.

"Things to figure out. Set the path for the future." No more static from Vrianth just now, not even the ghost of it: just a tighter coil about her rider that could sweep the woman off her feet. And then does, like she'd fly off with her right now, until there's some muttered comment that has the green relenting, for now, but not without a bright eye tilted Cadejoth's way. Play. "Found it through the people. Vijays, as it turned out. Hope the other trains get watched better, don't want this to happen again... It's true, nobody saw them? Or admits to it."

"Right," agrees K'del. "Forge our relationships the way we want them to be. Even with Crom. Maybe especially with Crom." Which has him looking thoughtful again. Cadejoth's neck extends long as Vrianth shifts so, amusement writ in the rapid whirl of his eyes and the bleat he releases. His own shuffle nearly unseats his rider, who gives him a playful swat over one flank, noting low, "Can't oil, if you fly." So: still again. Or, as still as it goes, tail still wriggling, bulk still shifting from one moment to the next. "Vijays," repeats K'del, with a tip of the head. "Right. No, no one saw anything, so far as they're saying. Must've been a lot of them. Male and female. Happens again, swear I'll insist we carry it all ourselves."

To Wroth, Cadejoth, as an aside, notes, « It is your turnday. Vrianth's said so. K'del said I should wish you a happy one! » But despite his enthusiasm for that topic, he keeps himself as reigned in as he ever can, focusing his attention upon what the brown has to offer. « That will be useful, » he approves. « How pretty! » Pause. « Your rider makes pretty clothes for *Milani*. K'del likes that. Approves. » So Wroth should, too!

To Cadejoth, Wroth projects, « It is an appalling trade. The only thing /I/ like is that it makes marks. » All his ill-tempered mood is abated, momentarily, at the wish of a happy turnday. He lifts his clouds and perks at that, though they return as he realizes /he/ is the one with Vrianth. « Is that all? I wish to nap. » »

To Wroth, Cadejoth is outright confused by this attitude to pretty things, but lets it go with the indulgent contentment that is uniquely his. It's enough that the shift in mood draws little response. Instead, with a final twang of metal, he agrees, « That is all. Thank you, Wroth! We're very grateful. »

"Crom." Leova lets that repetition hang in the air as she climbs back down, as she ducks under a wingsail and convinces Vrianth to furl it enough to let her get the underside. That, and the quick, quiet chuckle for Cadejoth's noise and motion and all. Then, though: "If you do? Should get something for it, because it's their job. Shouldn't be that easy to get off, even if they can't replace the whole thing." She takes a deeper breath then, places her forehead against Vrianth for a moment. Finally, more slowly, "Would be /interested/ in knowing if what they did hear, if it sounded local. Though it's easier to blame someone who mightn't be a neighbor, hm?"

K'del clarifies, in a tone that suggests reluctance, "Crom has made overtures. It could be an olive branch, or it could be a trap. Hard to know. But I hope." He slings himself down to the ground again, encouraging Cadejoth, with a hand on the underside of his belly that he can actually reach, to draw himself up enough to let the rider get further below. "Absolutely. And... mm. Right. That's the theory. Have to work at it." The hand holding his rag stills, suddenly hesitant, with her last comment. "Hadn't thought of that. Thanks, Leova. Will chase that up." Cadejoth shifts again, though carefully: squashing one's rider would probably be a bad thing.

"Crom, who put our men behind bars." Leova goes quiet again, until, "But I hope too." She looks up into the sky, sunny and blue as it is, the fog lying still below them. Past them, just maybe. A shiver along one of those silvery wingsails brings her back, and her eyes stay down this time. As her you're-welcome: "Might also see if anyone came into funds, or went and moved away all of a sudden." And: "Haven't been sure how much asking around's all right to do, either. Unofficial-like."

K'del's head tips, though it may be harder to see from his current position, so low to the ground. /That/ Crom. "We'll be checking it out. The offer. Looking for every loophole, using a harper to certify any agreement. So. Maybe. It would be /nice/, to trust, even a little, again." His rag goes back to the oil, dipped and wrung out, then returns to pale hide. Another tip of his head marks agreement to what she says, and, "Please do. Ask around, I mean. Figure it's not going to hurt any, to keep ears and eyes open, see what comes up. Unofficially. Helps."

"Not Gisele." The greenrider's voice trembles on a laugh. She too nods, doesn't look to see whether he's looking out to see it, or whether Cadejoth is. Just, "Will do." And, her low voice just shy of neutral, "'Specially since it's sounding like they mightn't have to make it good. And are the ones looking into it. And all." Finished there, she adds another glop of oil onto a particular spot on the other, already-tended wing and rubs it in with the heel of her hand. Scoops some onto another. Rubs that too. Vrianth's quiet.

Laughter, albeit restrained. "No, not Gisele," agrees K'del. "Not sure dancing with Crom would particularly solve anything." Working methodically, he's silent as she continues, his attention focused upon Cadejoth - so still, so very still, at least as much as he ever is - except to flick up, every so often, and then back. "Right. Got to take control, ourselves. In case. Cadejoth talked to Wroth, by the way. Just then. So that's something we can work with."

Then she does chuckle, and survey her dragon, who's about done... except for the few spots that Vrianth would clearly like to have re-addressed, given the way she twists to present the top of her head just right. Behind the headknobs there, "Did he? Glad." And while Leova's at it, "Don't recall seeing Wyaeth on the sands, by the way. So there's that." And now she does give the pair a sidelong look.

K'del picks up his oil to move it around, closer to Cadejoth's hindquarters and tail, still entirely unoiled. The bronze slinks back to the ground, repositioning himself and holding ever so tightly to that tail, which flicks only occasionally, only when it really can't be held in any longer. With a tip of the head for Wroth-and-E'dre, K'del slides past that to consider the other, looking - relieved. "No? Good. Malsaeth did, but he... seemed to be like that. Know Cadejoth wasn't Iovniath's choice; probably can't blame her. Still. Thanks."

A tip of /her/ head: "Whole lot different, Lu and him, and their dragons lining up the same way. And without... everything else going on. Lucky, really. And still he wound up flitting off to Honshu." Leova can chuckle again, if briefly. Work in a little more. And slant a look over, then, to see much K'del's got left in his bucket, only the angle's not right: "Got enough oil? Can leave the rest of this, if you don't." Vrianth's humming softly, with the anticipation of flight even before her rider reaches for the single token strap.

"Granted," allows K'del, and though his expression is mostly unreadable, there's a twist of something as he adds, "Guess these things happen. Relationships, not working out." There's not so much left in his bucket, a fact he makes clear a moment later as he says, "If you would. Thanks. Might have enough, but - might as well get it done right, right?" Cadejoth strains, Vrianth's hum enough to jolt him into wishful action, himself, except for K'del's restraining hand, a reminder of all the oil left to apply.

"Sooner or later, someone dies," is Leova's oddly cheerful agreement. She pauses to let Vrianth sniff the bucket once she's picked it up, only to sigh audibly at her. Dunk her hand. And let one last helping trail across the olive hide from shoulder to flank, whether it needs it or not. Which it doesn't. "Pretty much." And there, she sets it down with a clink: not a /whole/ lot left there either, but put together, it should add up. "Anyhow. Nice to see Millie glad to be seeing you, the way she is. Particularly after winding up in the infirmary like that." He gets a clear, calm amber glance, and a half-smile before she starts to turn back.

That first comment gets a pause, a tilted head, and then a shake of it, almost-laughter colouring his expression, if not making it out audibly. "Something like that," he agrees, his head turned in such a way that he can watch as she lays on that last bit of oil, his smile knowing, head nodding just barely. Mention of Milani draws his lips in, rueful, this time with a firmer nod. "Particularly after that. Yes. I'm-- so long as she's happy, you know? That's what matters." He meets her gaze, squarely, just for a moment, before his head ducks back towards the oiling.

"Mm. And if that's what makes you happy." Leova will leave it at that, just that, over her shoulder to punctuate the next few steps. "Good seeing you, K'del. Cadejoth. Should note that when we get down there, I'm going to take that strap off her, and something tells me," /someone/ tells her, gleaming eyes and all, a rumble for his dragon that's promising, promising, "That someone's going to go for a run. Just saying." She could laugh. She almost does. Now she's mounted. Now she's buckled in. And it won't be long before Vrianth leaps aloft, and descends only to fly high, to take advantage of those skies while they're still blue and bright.

K'del's nod is his only answer to that comment; what he says, instead is, "You, too. Leova. Vrianth." There's one more tip of his head for her last comment, amused, and then he turns away again, back to work, with no time to watch the greenrider mount up and fly away. But Cadejoth? He watches. Yearns. /Soon/.