Difference between revisions of "Logs:Riuscyth is SMRT"

It could be imperceptible, the sense of scanning, /scanning/, not even so much a matter of direct attention as a filtering, a sifting, an orienting. Swinging. Focusing. It isn't particularly feminine, certainly isn't masculine. There, crosshairs. Waiting. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

There is a whole vast lot of nothing at first. An inky black sky that gets thrown up the second the initial scan is felt. It sits there, waiting, though not patiently as the edges about the landscape fray with the 'go on with it' impatience, betrayed in the crimson swirls that are mere glimpses at the most tattered edges of his black out curtain. If she waits with crossshairs, he will, for now at least, wait to see what she does first. (Riuscyth to Vrianth)

So fast! But the curtain doesn't /just/ sit there. It frays. It swirls. It... well, she'll just have to see, but only after a solid, properly dramatic sense of silence. Then: one of the crosshairs wiggles. And another. Antennae. They might even be cheerful: take-me-to-your-leader. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

To Vrianth, Riuscyth's inky mindscape continues to swirl, like a magician's cape might in all its sateen silkiness. But it's the antennae greeting that undoes the bronze and a burst of color radiates in, not just reds, but a veritable rainbow. « You, » the tenor, akin to but far more rough-edged, voice states, « Are strange. » It's unequivocal. He has said so. So it must be true.

Should she be surprised? Bothered? Made stranger? But Vrianth is who she is, and any of her variants might be pleased to take in that raw rainbow energy and play with it, some elements absorbed, others reflected. /Energy/. « You know this much, » she replies easily, for is this not her home, in which she is so at home, and he perhaps stranger still? « Do... you... know so many things? » (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

« I know as much as I need to know, » states the bronze, a little smug as he allows those absorbed bits to turn into coal upon entry into her mindspace. As he allows those reflected elements to pulsate like a strobe light as they attempt to sear through the perceived obsfucation of he mind and the puzzling words she spares him. « I know of blue skies and white sands. I know that we seek those who have been lost. I know that you are not a he. » The last is entirely too triumphant, given that he still does not know who banters with him. (Riuscyth to Vrianth)

Coal-black is one thing, but coal? How... inconducive of it, insulating against energy's free run. Vrianth spits out the bits: ptui! That searing strobe, now, that meets with far more favor: rather than be burned, she'll drink up all that energy and gleam the brighter for it, though hers is less light than electricity itself. More, please. In the meantime, she can circle back to his earlier words. « Not a he, no, » and would Riuscyth like a medal to go with it? She seems to think so, even lets the outline of one glimmer nearly, so nearly within reach. « As much... as you need to know? » And only that? The appeal of blue skies and white sands is clear enough, but the rest... she lets him see her wordless question: what can be so attractive that has been mislaid, that is lost. That does not find its own way home.

A distinct laughter rumbles, akin to a rolling thunder on a dry summer night. The spat out coal is caught in a strong gust of draconic breath that then shapes swiftly into a ominously gray cloud. The coal is cradled in it and carried back into the inky skyscape that is Riuscyth's mind. It's lofted up and again shapeshifts into a twinkling star. « You are not a he. You are not a /she/, » the emphasis of that statement reinforced with a glimmer of a frosted gold melding into sunlight gleaming in winter, that's then overwhelmed by a bonfire's heated gold. She is not one of them. He may not have met them all personally, but he knows them. They are of this Weyr and he would obey. « You, » he begins, the profundity of his thoughts littered with amusement, « Are you. I am Riuscyth. » And while no words accompany what is lost, that little twinkling coal-morphed-star burns ever brighter in the west; the far west, past the Seven Spindles, past the rocky shores of the Reaches, past the shipyards of Tillek. It shines like a beacon that beckons. (Riuscyth to Vrianth)

Those so-ominous clouds receive a fleeting inspection, the better to not only see them for their own sake but to compare them to others, a clutchmate's storms, another's forge fires. That first star might have fixed Vrianth's attention for longer, but then she bristles, bridles: not one of /those/, no. Herself, yes. Still. She does not repeat his name, this time. But then, she also does not leave. From her distance, she observes the star, and then flings electric lights beyond it: pricks of light as fine as pins, constellations' worth and more. There are many, many stars to seek just one. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

And yet, stubbornly, that once-coal starlight burns brighter, the fuel of Riuscyth's persistence lending it the power it needs not to fizzle out again. For him. For V'teri. For both of them, casting their long shadows beneath the star's gleam, there is but one star to follow. Her staying seems almost expected, the arrogance of which isn't quite tangible, but there nonetheless. The notion she might leave a conversation with him just does not exist in the once-Monaco bronze's mind. « The others merely guide us. There is only one to chase. » (Riuscyth to Vrianth)

« Why. » Undercurrents race through the one word, lightless energy, unseen. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

To Vrianth, Riuscyth has no answer to this. Nothing immediately and indeed, he seems more perplexed that she might question what he believes. So, while he dwells on it (read: delves deeper into V'teri's sleeping mind), he returns, « Why not? »

Surprised, gleaming laughter: so /many/ other things, sensations as swift as one wingbeat to the next: the breath of the wind of her home, autumn-dusty leaves and earth and stone; that same vast sky becoming pillars of wave-thinned stone to twist at speed among, her hard turn one he'd never match; through the mineral, boneless soak of water whose currents owe nothing to the moon; over the rumpled, challenging folds of tree-furred and rock-chipped ranges; and with it all the sense of interconnected circuits, those she knows and those she /knows/, an inkling of something else and /someone/ else, her own treasure before she sweeps it all away. « It would need to be... worth it. Riuscyth. » She does not, this time, roll his r. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

To Vrianth, Riuscyth watches politely. Even his conceit will allow this interloper into his thoughts that much courtesy. In the end, however, it does very little to change his mind and there's the surge of emotion that yes, indeed, this is worth it even if he might not understand. That too, is heavyhandedly scattered throughout his thoughts: he /doesn't/ understand. He merely knows that this is desperately important to his rider - the desperation of which tinges fire about his inky mindscape again. « -He- seeks, » not himself, « His history. » From the skies the central star he maintains radiates brighter, but then is augmented by Vrianth's constellations and tinged in blues and clear whites, creating a pattern of a holder's signet.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't... /understand/. He seeks, but not to understand... it's momentarily a closed circuit, closing in something that might have been scorn if Vrianth bothered to spend time with such a thing. There are too many others like the bronze to bother. « His history, » she repeats instead, with a pulse of energy that encourages but does not exactly expect elaboration. After leaving time for such a thing, the rangy green lets him see that the pattern is not uninteresting, and yet, and yet. « Why, Riuscyth, is he not happy with you? »

What an instigator, Riuscyth might think, if he weren't so burned by what Vrianth says. There's no silence this time, no pretty stars upon ink. Instead, the bronze reels in a colorful stream of myriad reds that will do in lieu of invectives. And then there's nothing more from the wounded bronze, other than a shut down that, should it be trespassed against, would teem with sulkiness and a barely withheld anger. (Riuscyth to Vrianth)

Alas that the reds /are/ pretty, in their way. But even they go /a/way, and Vrianth borrows just the last of them to compress into a tiny star-like wad of energy and toss after him. Plink. That was one. But since he shut down anyway, she adds a few more into the face of all that teeming dark, an outline of that signet that he... his rider! ...held so dear. It's decorative. Plink, plink, plink! and then she too is gone. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)