Difference between revisions of "Logs:Sorry"

Gold and orange streak the deepening sky, as the day begins to transform into night, but there is no rest for the weary. More than a few of the weyrlings are making laps of the bowl, jogging off restless energy or purely for the love of a good run. Almost comically, Farideh's off of the side of the well-worn track on the outskirts of the bowl, having simply laid down after her turns, back in the dirt, one arm flung over her eyes. Maybe the Weyr is in luck! Maybe she's dead! Except her chest rises and falls in a steady, if rapid, rhythm, that clearly denotes her as a breathing; alas. Farther away, and looking less exhausted than her human half, Roszadyth is stalking a wherry that's hobbling its way across the bowl floor, though she stays at a reputable distance, of course. Her eyes are whirling the color of content, with her wings tucked in, and her tail lashing out behind her as she moves with much more fluid grace, having found her legs in these past two months of weyrlinghood.

Among the jogging weyrlings is a newly bald - within the past sevenday or so, but still - Z'kiel, who seems to be keeping pace easily enough. He's been at it for a while, but this sort of thing is well within his element. And, it's probably a better way for him to tend to whatever moods have been taking him of late since the removal of his braid; far better than whatever the source of his split and bruised knuckles is, at any rate. As for Ahtzudaeth, the long-limbed bronze is comfortably settled where he can watch Roszadyth; he's claimed a dignified posture, right down to the crossing of his forelegs and the curl of his neck. No words, of course, just a general mental presence of good humor while he watches her and the hobbling wherry.

Vadevjiath, meanwhile, has contented himself to watch his rider, focused on the weyrling's progress around the bowl more than he is on his siblings or even potential dinners like Roszadyth. R'van was never entirely out of shape, fortunately but this really isn't his gig all the same: it's stubbornness as much as anything that's helped him keep up while his body adjusts to an entirely different exercise regime. When he's done, he winds up near Farideh, intentionally or otherwise; but he keeps a wider berth from her even if he keeps sneaking looks over. Is she dead? One could never be so lucky, says that look.

The wherry definitely looks injured, hobbling and scurrying as it is through the dirt, mindless of anything that crosses its path or the large golden thing following in predator-like slowness behind; that suits Roszayth just fine. Her contentedness radiates out to those dragons around her, like it always does, in the soft sway of fabric and the mellow warmth of dappled sunshine. Something drags Farideh from her exhausted stupor, and has her head lifting, eyes cutting towards where the pale gold is walking with purpose. Rather than get up and interfere, her eyes cut to the weyrlings jogging, possibly noting the newly bald Z'kiel, and with no little wariness, finally slant to R'van-the-near. "What?" she accuses, just before she pulls herself up to sit with her knees bent and her hair mused in the back.

Another lap is started. Pay no mind at all to the Igenite who, for the time being, seems far more focused on the running than on whether or not Farideh has suffered some terrible fate. Not his business - or, more likely, Ahtzudaeth knows better and is keeping him regularly apprised of the situation with his usual sense of mirth. In that, the bronze is certainly a more distinct presence for the time being - mentally and otherwise. That radiant contentedness is reflected in the mirage-mirrors of the bronze's mind, set to shimmer with a brilliance that promises possibilities. Her continued predatory prowl is observed, of course, though Ahtzudaeth's thoughts extend companionably to Vadevjiath with a mild, « How are you and yours faring, brother-mine? »

A shrug denies that he was ever up to anything; R'van won't own to watching her, not in the least. "Hm?" he says aloud, just enough to carry over. "Did you need something?" His tone's polite, more than anything. Vadevjiath, meanwhile, continues to eye R'van and now Farideh too, his mental reply distracted waves washing up against Ahtzudaeth. « We are well, » he tells the other dragon, just as politely as R'van speaks up. « And yours? »

Denial gets R'van nothing but narrow-eyed glares and little threatening movements with her mouth; luckily they aren't sitting close enough for the smith-turned-weyrling to actually hear any of the uncomplimentary things she mumbles under her breath. Less politely, more falsely sweet, Farideh inclines her head at him. "I would love a glass of wine and a neck massage. What do you think? Could you be quiet long enough to do either?" Her voice is mildly challenging, but at least it isn't hostile like days before. Roszadyth meanwhile is delighted when the wherry comes to a distracted halt, hops, and wheels around, shrieking in protest; her light is that much more warm, her mind touch intensified by her excitement. « How do you catch it? »

« We are quite well, despite his... » and, here, there's the distinct sense of pages being flipped through until: « stubbornness. He is learning. » Jovial, that. Ahtzudaeth chortles both mentally and physically, only to finally push himself to his feet in a single, fluid movement. The mirrors turn to Roszadyth again, catching her mind in reflections. « With your teeth, preferably, » he points out with good-natured humor. « Or your teeth. I saw an elder descend on them from above with claws, but we're not there, yet. » A beat. Then: « So, leap. And if you miss, try again. »

"Me?" says R'van. "I think you intiated this conversation, actually." He is not, notably, going to fetch her a glass or offer up a massage, though he does take the opportunity to move closer toward her. This is mostly because he's getting out of Vadevjiath's way, edging further from the bronze as the young dragon turns his attention to the injured wherry, . His gleaming dark eyes track it, much as that dark sea spreads out toward Roszadyth's and Ahtzudaeth's minds. « Drive it this way, » he tells the gold--demands, really. Vadevjiath doesn't say 'please'.

"You asked if I needed something," Farideh points out, less than helpfully. "I replied. Wine and a neck massage. I wouldn't mind a bubble bath and perfume, or alternatively to go to a gather, but I doubt you have the nerve needed to convince Quinlys of the need." She slants him a smug, knowing glance, and then turns so she can watch what their dragons are getting into; she might look a bit sympathetic towards that wherry. In her gentle fashion, Roszadyth is hesitant, but ultimately bends to the more aggressive bronze's dictation. Florals and linens whirl together, « With my teeth? I am not sure, Ahtzudaeth. » And Vadevjiath is so ready to do the deed as is. She takes a few needed steps towards the wherry, trying to herd it towards Vadevjiath, which it, ultimately, after a little wobbling this and that way, turns.

« Be patient, brother-mine. This is her lesson to learn, » Ahtzudaeth muses - but what their sister does is her choice. He remains an observational distance away, unmoving and watchful for the duration. When she concedes to the other bronze's whims, however, his focus shifts slightly. There is, for what it's worth, no disappointment in his mental presence, rather: « It is no different than tearing into a carcass - save that the living tend to move if you hesitate. » Z'kiel, for his part, finally starts to slow, but not out of any distinct desire to do so on his part. A glance is angled to where R'van and Farideh speak and he shifts his course to head toward them. His pace is slowed to a walk, which gives him time enough to peel off his sweat-soaked shirt and wring it out a reasonably polite distance away.

R'van lifts his brows. "I was mostly being polite," he informs Farideh, "and less interested in becoming a sexless substitute for your missing sailor." He still sounds so reasonable about it, too, even as he seats himself nearby: the dragons are apparently going to put on a show with that wherry, and he turns to watch. When Roszadyth makes the wherry turn, Vadevjiath is following it with bright eyes, ignoring Ahtzudaeth's cautions. He's entirely focused on the beast, trying vainly to avoid the dragon at its heels, the two strewn across its escape--and then, when it's at its most distracted and desperate, Vadevjiath strikes, lashing out with one clawed paw to slap the creature down. It's not dead, but bleeding and dazed, more injured that it started. It's not running away anywhere now.

Roszadyth's amusement comes in the tinkling of piano keys, as a hand straying over in casual play, and an errant string of muffled giggling. « Should it be? I cannot stop looking at its eyes. » She is at the core a dragon, with a dragon's hunger and predatoriness, and it's when Vadevjiath has the wherry knocked down and bleeding that she nudges the pitiful thing with her snout, coming away with a smear of blood. It's Farideh's gasp of outrage that shatters the peaceful conversation -- as peaceful as those two get anyway -- as she turns to glower at R'van. "'Don't," she says warningly, her mouth tightening, and her eyes bright with anger. Z'kiel is spared a likewise angry greeting from the brunette, but it's not hard to tell where their discussion is about to lead, with her tense posture and the rage that seems to exude from her.

« It's a lesson that will have to be learned, » Ahtzudaeth observes mildly. « Now or later. » As for him, there is no twinge of hunger; he'll leave them to dispatch of the miserable beast as they see fit. There might be more to say - and, certainly, there's a sense that words lurk just at the fringes - but his eyes blip to a strange hue of yellow and his head swings in Z'kiel's direction. As for the Igenite, he's clsoe enough to hear that don't of Farideh's and his brows lift just slightly. A low grunt escapes him and his attention cuts to R'van, with connections being made. "Don't," is just an echo, bearing a certain expectant weight - angled, half-questioningly, to Farideh. Arms cross over his scarred chest and he asks flatly, "Is something wrong here?" Also, pay no attention to the fact that the fingernails of one hand are starting to dig a bit into his bicep. That's probably unrelated. Hopefully.

« Finish it, » Vadevjiath tells Roszadyth, his voice intense, the notes it strikes discordant things: an off-key mockery of the tinkling she projects. He's staring intently at the beast himself, with his desire to kill it clear, when before he seemed entirely unhungry. R'van's expression is at odds with his dragon's. For one brief instant, contrition shows itself--he knows when he's gone too far--and his mouth opens to reply thus. But then Z'kiel speaks up, and R'van lets the moment flee. Instead, he offers a bland smile at both. "No."

The two bronzes, with their radically different personas, are regarded quietly, hesitantly; decisions shouldn't be made rashly after all. With a ladylike sigh that echoes to each, that nearly speaks how tedious being a bloodthirsty monster is, Roszadyth ends the wherry's suffering with a sickening crunch. "No," Farideh bites out after R'van's already denied his role, and manages an unkind smile between the two weyrlings. "Just a stupid little boy saying stupid little things that he knows absolutely nothing about." Her cheeks are flushed with irritation, her shoulders still tense.

At that crunch, Ahtzudaeth's satisfaction is akin to the sensation of a hand on the shoulder for Roszadyth. « Well done. Both of you. » A twitch claims one of his forelegs and he retreats, limping just a little at whatever strange ailment has seized him so. Yet, even now, he's patient and calm about it. No need to fret or rush, after all. There's a muted click of tongue against teeth and a heavy silence on Z'kiel's part as one, then the other, responds. Hnnnh. "Learn to walk away, Farideh." Attention shifts from weyrling goldrider to his fellow bronzerider. "Or end it. Life is too short for this shit. Whatever it is." Unasked for, maybe - but some blame can be shifted to the not-so-small bronze that's now demanding the whole of his attention. There is no waiting for a reply to observation-slash-advice; he's compelled to turn away at about the same time his fingers start leaving red welts on the skin.

As soon as Roszadyth's done her part, Vadevjiath snakes his own maw into the mix, to grab hold of one wing and pull. This is his share, for his part in their meal. And while the violence plays out behind them, R'van keeps his own expression as blank as possible; his eyes cut toward Z'kiel for a moment, but he's watching Farideh throughout. For once, he keeps his mouth shut.

Z'kiel's unsolicited advice is met with a shuttered expression and firmly pressed lips; none of that tension leaves when he does, though her eyes follow his departure from their company. Instead, Farideh half-turns her face, after she's watched the Igenite as long as can, to study R'van with a pensive moue. "He's right. If you're going to act like that-- if you're going to be senselessly hateful, about your friends too-- then I'm just going to walk away from now on. That was too much even for you." Somehow, her lifemate's mood isn't affecting the gold's ravenous appetite, or her ripping into her evening snack. She is appreciative of Vadevjiath help, showing as much with a feather light grazing of her mind in his, a soft if figurative well done.

Vadevjiath wolfs his own half of the wherry in quick work; the longer it's not in his stomach, the longer someone else has to try to take it. He won't risk it. R'van stays silent longer still, his lips pursing until he finally glances away. "I'm sorry," he says. He sounds like he means it.

Ladies certainly don't put their noses in the dirt, trying to snuff out more of the good stuff, but what can you do when you're a carnivore? Still, Roszadyth has a dainty huff for the spot where the wherry was, alive and scared, minutes before, and then she's moving away, to find something else to chase. "Is it so very hard to be nice? Or are you having a hard time?" Farideh is blunt, settling her chin on her upraised knees and canting her head so she can watch him quietly, in waiting for his answer; she doesn't explicitly says she accepts the apology, it's likely implied.

His own bloodlust satiated for the time, Vadevjiath is content to rest where he is, on dirt stained by blood and sticking to his bronze hide now. He'll need a bath, but no matter. "A hard time?" R'van asks, his brows lifting when he looks back to Farideh then, skeptical. "With what? This? Him?" Vadevjiath, looming behind over the few feathers that remain.

King of the feathers has no competition from the chubby queen, who is now engaged by the herdbeasts milling around in the feeding pens and a pair of blues who have descended for a feed; forward she goes! "Who else?" Farideh's tone is wry, and she sighs softly. "All of this. Are you having a hard time? Is it difficult?"

While she sounds wry, R'van musters up his wry old smirk again for her. "Of course not. Aren't you enjoying every day of your new responsibility, weyrwoman?" he answers dryly.

"My responsibility is not the same as yours, and Roszadyth isn't so-" Farideh is looking at Vadevjiath, her eyebrows drawn together while she fumbles for a word. She can't seem to grasp one, and instead returns her gaze to R'van, her brow smoothed again. "You're closed off," is just stating the obvious, really. "Worse now than before."

"So what," R'van prompts Farideh to finish that sentence calmly, but there's a dangerous sort of edge to the words; and she has Vadevjiath's attention too, bloody muzzle swinging toward her from his vantage point. The latter, he leaves alone for now. It's obvious.

Either Farideh is foolhardy or oblivious, but her eyes narrow the slightest before she says, thoroughly drawing out each syllable, "Intense. Difficult. Volatile." She isn't paying attention to Vadevjiath just now, and remains focused on his rider.

"Focused," R'van supplies his own word then, though he's still studying Farideh with that intensity in his own bright blue eyes. They really are a matched set. "If we seem closed off, perhaps it's because we have some larger purpose to attend to."

"I shudder to think," Farideh says, a bit drolly. "Here, I thought I was the one who was supposed to be thinking about that." She uses her palms to push up, getting to her feet before she dusts the dirt off her hands. "If you'll excuse me, R'van, I have things to do that don't involve playing your stupid cat and mouse games." There's no fanfare, not even a goodbye, and she's ambling towards the barracks, presumably to find something else to do that doesn't involve sarcastic, emotionally unavailable bronzeriders.