Difference between revisions of "Logs:Solith Flies Again"

That egg didn't move, it couldn't have. But Lythronath is up from his haunch sit once more, tail extending behind him on the ledge he's taken as his own, and entire back end wiggling with delight while he balances lower on his front legs, and huffs at the evening air. Babies! A'rist has only just dismounted, and ducks a twitching wing, any sternness on his face fading into curiosity, as his bronze remains insistent. The curiosity has him edging nearer the edge of that ledge, and peering down to the sands also, while the heat threatens to steam him in the rain-soaked riding leathers he's yet to even open up, let alone take off, since landing.

And, behold, a damp and darkling blue that descends to claim his own section of ledge. Familiarity with the process has him helping his rider down quickly; fortunately, the flight was brief and all that can be heard of Ulyana's discomfort is heavy breathing. Still, he shields her from view until she's presumably prepared for viewing. Only then does he slink toward the edge of the ledge to drop his head down, eyes whirling a lucid and, yet, sickly hue of blue-green. Ulyana remains tucked away, pressed to his side and behind a foreleg, her eyes shut and body knotted up in a crouch made all the more uncomfortable for the soaked leathers she still wears. At least she's on the side nearest Lythronath, rather than the far side of the blue beast. No greeting is issued by the rider; that duty falls to Qhyluth, whose mind expands slowly with a whisper of water. For Lythronath. For the eggs. For all of it.

« Babies! » It's not quite a shout, not now. They've been here a while, and probably some of them are sleeping. But still, « Babies, » is worth repeating. This time, the bob of his head is incidental as he lifts it to examine this blue; this blue that he's become used to in his Weyr, even if he's not fully accepted it as theirs yet. There is no challenge, although Lythronath takes his fill of staring at the other dragon. A'rist takes a moment to finish his own inspection of the sands before he sends his eyes sidewards, bluewards, scanning.

The beast echoes the call in the only way he can - Lythronath's word in Lythronath's voice shudders across the waters like a skipped stone. It sinks and the waters recede slightly, exposing simulacra of the eggs residing on the water-logged shore of his psyche. Each egg has clearly been the object of obsessive observation; they are replicated perfectly in that queer mental space, with luminous scribbles and arcane notations in the sand beneath each one. Qhyluth's physical self shifts only slightly. There is the impression of a sidelong look angled to the bronze, of weighty consideration being given, but the eggs - the EGGS - those are his primary concern and point of curiosity. His claws sink into the stone and Ulyana blows out a breath, finally daring to crack open an eye.

Ideas that become voices that skip over water make the bronze open his mouth, and then clap it shut. There's a click in his throat, but he turns away from that blue over there. And wriggles his rear end down into a satisfied position for looking at those babies. Even if they're still hidden under shells. A'rist's ears, were they more mobile, would surely perk at the sound of talons on stone, familiar, and yet not, this time. It makes his back stiffen, his shoulders flex testily against his jacket, his hands ball into fists... and then relax, purposefully.

Once settled, Qhyluth is like a statue. Talons in stone, body poised. Prepared. Somewhere in the distant reaches of his mind, a brass bell sounds - resonant and compelling, a wordless plea sent across the waters and toward the sand. Imploring. Begging. Summoning. To no avail, of course, but he'll not hear protests otherwise. Ulyana finally pushes to her feet and starts to peel the layers off, only to methodically hang them on the straps - all in their rightful place. It's only now that she looks beyond the narrow world that is the ledge and lifts her head to consider other figures in other places. Familiarity insists that she lift a hand in a stiff salute of greeting to A'rist - and, so, she does.

Familiarity is what makes A'rist's mouth twist into a strange little curl when he sees that salute, having turned his head to catch the full of it, when the initial motion of leathers was in his periphery. He can't help but offer it back, though it's in a sort of sardonic way. His face is growing red, likely due to the heat, but it's only after this sort of a greeting's been exchanged that he even bothers to open his jacket. "He likes babies too, huh."

Once she's stripped down to her usual clothing - today is a day consisting of an austere white blouse and black trousers - does Ulyana seem to relax. If, in fact, relaxation is a word in her vocabulary. She leans in against Qhyluth's side for physical support, arms folded across her midsection. Her response is a bland, "He is fascinated by their possibilities. I am not certain if it is a matter of liking the eggs and hatchlings themselves, but, rather, what they might become later." There's a strange, damp sound from Qhyluth at that - agreement, perhaps - then nothing at all. Query: "Why does he like them?"

"Huh," says A'rist, with a little lift of his head. His jacket is not hung with such care, or at all. Rather, it's tossed onto one of Lythronath's feet, amusement pulling at the bronzerider's eyes when his dragon doesn't react in the least. "Lynner, he knows all he has to know about them: they're going to hatch adorable little things soon. He'll probably start caring less about the time the weyrlings start flying... except maybe with the Igen thing, I don't know... Anyway." Shrug. "Babies."

"I see," says she and Ulyana is silent for a long span of time. Eventually: "I am not sure how he will feel about them after they have hatched and begun to grow. I wonder if he will remain fascinated, or grow bored when they cease to develop as he anticipates they will." She angles a look down the lean line of the blue's neck, but he - much like the bronze - is unmoving. Her features distort for but a moment - easily missed if one blinks. Then: "How have you been?" Let the dragons have their strange, shared study of the eggs.

"Once dragons get big," A'rist goes on, though his has the sound of agreement, "then it depends on his gut. I don't know where the line is... one day they're babies, next it's gut. Mostly, he's guts. Maybe liking babies is part of that." It's a lot of words all at once, but the red of his face might still be blamed on the heat of the cavern. Lythronath's tail has twitched at every use of the word 'babies'. He lowers his head and stares hard at one of the eggs, still ignoring that blue. "Don't know. Kind of away, I guess." He looks over to Qhyluth, now. "You're here, though?" Which is like asking the question in return, almost.

It's been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. At least, weather-wise; for a certain greenrider camped out in the guest weyr-- her guest weyr!-- it hasn't been bad at all, what with the fire and the furs and general hanging out... without the worry of some other flight barging in, the way it had been when all those greens were rising some seens ago. Telavi wiggles her toes in front of the fireplace. Solith, up by the Star Stones, stretches with a flutter of gilt-green wings as the rain falls and falls and falls. At least it isn't muddy up there?

This time, there is no vocalized agreement. Ulyana nods once - up, down, center - to signify understanding, or, at least, that she heard A'rist. Her attention is fixed on the rider-half of the opposing equation; the blue's behaviors or seeming lack thereof are not worthy of her observation. For what it might be worth to others, however, Qhyluth has slithered just a little farther forward, soundless and slow, to better regard that other egg. Not the one Lythronath is clearly peering at. That other one entirely. In the realm of minds, the simulated egg is highlighted in sickly luminescence - and possibilities begin to spin in dizzying array upon the shell. Not all possibilites are draconic. In the world of flesh, Ulyana intones flatly, "You are here now. We are, as well. I have been worse." Telling enough, that. "I am trying to get more shelves in the weyr."

Etrevth hasn't been here long; long enough, surely, to catch sight of Solith with a keen interest. Long enough to have rolled himself around, so handsomely and attractively, in a patch of soft mud in the bowl until it dulls his golden-brown hide. It's in this patch of mud that he lies at the moment, as still as a statue and plastered lowly against the ground as he watches the Star Stones far above him. Why his rider is here is certainly a question to be asked. Where he is is probably not surprising, as he sips at a glass of something clear out on the patio ledge of Snowasis, watching his dragon with exasperation. His gaze goes, sometimes as he nurses his drink, to another weyr along the ground, but it isn't Telavi's claimed guest weyr, yet.

Through the falling rain, a breeze wanders by-- a warm breeze, a curious breeze-- pausing here and there to investigate. Only, where it lingers, there's the first drifting cramp of... hunger. (To local dragons from Solith)

To nearby dragons, Etrevth already has an edge of hunger in his mind, intoxicating smoke always paired with a faint need to consume. That same smoke dissipates and reconsolidates in the wake of that breeze, curling and uncurling even as Etrevth's wings do in preparation. Then, in a moment, he is launching himself upwards from his self-made wallow with a spectacular shower of mud around himself.

Hunger pang? Say it's not so, little Solith! Ilicaeth helpfully offers his clutchsibling an image of a place over the Southern continent where wild wherries and herdbeasts frequent. « S'where I ate, last. » Good. Yum! And a nice, tasty change from the slightly bland Weyr offerings. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth)

"Yeah. Now," A'rist agrees, turning away from the blue, away from the blue's rider, to consider Lythronath. Lythronath, in all his glory, staring still at that same egg. "Been here a while," A'rist ackowledges, shows that he's known, even if he's not made a point of being in her presence all that much. "Thinking of staying, then?" It's just as the young bronzerider turns back toward Ulyana that Lythronath's focus falters, and he raises his snout, only slightly, to sniff at the wind. A low click issues now, with another slight turn of that great head, this one, toward the blue. That blue.

Liesanth, too, has been watching Solith with obvious interest from where he rests in a muddy hollow just out of the edge of the rain. Her warm and questioning breeze is met with the bronze's usual mental zephyr -- the winds driving /upwards/, an urge to go /high/, to finally prove himself. Spreading his wings and shaking them once in a shower of water droplets, the bronze takes flight towards the herdbeast pens. His rider, having been relaxing somewhere /indoors/ and out of the wet with a mug of klah, is nowhere to be seen yet.

"The weather is more agreeable," Ulyana intones blandly. "Whether the Healers are correct in their hypotheses remains to be seen." One shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. "We will remain unless they are proved incorrect." The waters of Qhyluth's mind abruptly shift, matching some stirring of a breeze. A violent tide crashes in and buries the carefully constructed eggs in his mind, leaving the shattered bodies of his horrid concepts to wash upon the foam. With that dangerous shift in mood comes an equally dangerous shift in stance; the blue rises fluidly to his feet without warning, sending Ulyana staggering a few steps away. Revelation has yet to come; confusion shudders across her features and crawls down her spine. Trembling hands work quickly to remove her gear from his straps, with no words shared between rider and monster. As for the blue, his terrible visage swings sharply toward Lythronath, nostrils flared to drink in some scent or another before he issues a thick gurgle of a sound in response. No words; just the low, distant hiss of an ocean that's starting to boil.

There's a sneeze of all things from Solith, a little hiccupy sound, whether it's from Etrevth's smoke or... is that perfume, more hearkening of Niahvth than the green herself? Or perhaps it's the thought of down South; the queen's illusory flower petals float about her, from her, like so many droplets as she glides and glides and glides. There are beasts here. She could have one. Or many. Oh, she's hungry. (To local dragons from Solith)

Oh... wait. Snoozy Ilicaeth manages to open one eye enough at Solith's hunger to realize that she's rather glowy. And, for a long moment, the blue considers simply staying on his warm, dry wallow and not responding to the green's siren call. Fuck it. Lurching up and shaking the last dregs of somnolescence from his mind, the craggy blue stalks out to his wet ledge, spreads his huge wings...and waits for her, red-eyed. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth)

As soon as his dragon has flung himself up, with a protective hand going over his clear glass, that is when R'oan finally eases himself up from the ledge he occupies. The last of the liquor is downed, the glass left abandoned on the table there before he's off striding in the direction of the guest weyr that he's too familiar with, by now. Etrevth is the first to fling himself down on a herdbeast, killing it instantly with a hint of competition in the way his gaze slides to the other Fortian dragon there even before lowering his muzzle to the exposed neck. Yet, his gaze snaps back up at those petals that somehow accompany Solith, a rumble growing in the brown's chest at that, for some reason, before he bites down violently on his herdbeast to spill blood.

Solith descends; mud flies; droplets fall; Telavi, in the guest weyr, tosses down a card with a cry of triumph-- only to stare at the bluerider who's been keeping her company. "You let me win," she accuses. Solith doesn't accuse; she doesn't mind at all, her gaze swinging with pleasure among her visitors, even the muddy one... right before she darts to try and steal a wherry right out from under a larger dragon's nose.

"And he-" but A'rist has made sense of it all before he can finish that sentence, probe further. He's already darted to save his jacket from Lythronath's claws as the bronze plants his talons and issues another warning click, this one accompanied by a headbob. "Solith." He has hold of the straps. The look he sends to Ulyana is sharp. "We're going." « Blue, » is Lythronath's farewell, that and the sound of his talons raking the ledge as he springs to the air. Stay here. Stay safe. Blue.

Did she hear that? Is that her, that echo on the wind, the very considering, « Blue....» ? (To Lythronath from Solith)

Etrevth's blatant challenge can't go unmet; Liesanth's pride is stung. The Fortian bronze drops from his glide onto a herdbeast, crushing it to the ground and snapping its neck instantly. See? He can make the Quickest and the Cleanest kills, if he chooses! He can kill the Most! There's a clear edge of defiance in the glance he turns to his fellow Fortian, before lowering his head once again to tear into the carcass.

Maybe being an asshole (not that he'd call it that) at the clutching feast and all this hubbub with Igen has done Rasavyth some good. Arguably, some might've preferred it not do what it's done: inspire him to act more like his old self. He's been watching Solith, and he's ready, only, he happens to be distracted when she goes to the feeding grounds. It's only K'zin's notice as he exits the weyrling training cavern that has him arriving late, and annoyed while K'zin sprints for the guest weyr.

"No." It's a denial of everything. Reality does not shift to match that denial. Ulyana's lost any color she might have had and finds herself mirroring A'rist - just as Qhyluth mirrors Lythronath in his peculiar way. Those warning clicks are echoed in the blue's gurgling voice; that blue is countered with a fractured whisper of « She, She, She » in those sickly, sycophantic voices that can barely be heard over the roar of the ocean. And then he's on the wing as well, body moving with a singularly serpentine undulation and with a grace that's obscene. Stay here; no. Stay safe; no. Blue; yes.

To Solith, Lythronath projects «