Difference between revisions of "Logs:Bros At Odds"

The strains have had time to heal, and any new scratches don't seem likely to scar, not so deep as some of those others that are flaunted on the fiery-winged bronze's hide. Lythronath is back more or less to his normal self, which, these days, means loud, and abrasive, and testing, always testing. He arrives at the pens hungry, with that undercurrent of frustration that's been following both him and his rider around since... so long now it's hard to remember. A not-so-little weyrling blue finishing the meal he's recently body-checked over warrants an annoyed, « Blues, » of farewell. The babies have not been babies for months now. Just one more thing to make home not really be home. A'rist swings down from his lifemate's neck, and leaves the bronze to go on his hunt. Penned hunt. Boring hunt. Bored.

New babies, new dragons have never been an interest of Zmeyth's, and as such he doesn't pay the little blue - or Lythronath for that matter - much mind as he swoops down from on high to pierce a plump beast with his talons. Those scores from the Fort goldflight have begun to heal, but they're still visible along his left flank; a reminder of aggression past. Hunger, of the brown's, still affects his rider somewhat, in the tension set of shoulders and acidic expression, even now. It's with a sideways glance to A'rist that pale-faced rider steps up to the fence, lifting his boot to the last slat, his hands sunk deep into the confines of his leather jacket. "Hey," he offers, lamely.

A'rist took Lythronath back home immediately after the incident, screw the recommendations of the dragonhealers. He's not done much to seek out his friend, his friend at whom his dragon's aggressions were directed, since then. So maybe he should do more than look sidelone to V'ros, and then look back out to the bronze. "Hey," is offered back, offered forward more than to his bro. He takes up a lean on the fence. Lythronath has since grabbed a tasty cow out of the herd, but hasn't stopped harrassing them, chasing them with their flailing counterpart. Trying to chase them toward Zmeyth, although they don't want to go there, either, thanks.

The shift of the herd strikes the brown's attention, and he lifts his dark head from his eviscerated prey, blood smeared over his jaw. He watches the bronze's efforts, but is otherwise a silent sentinel; he has nothing to say. Fortunately, V'ros, as he slouches into his position against the fence, jerks his head up. "Got checked out by the healers. Said they would heal up fast. Seems to be.. glad of that but.. it was a shitty idea." His shoulders lift and fall, his expression still edging on anxious, if sharp, as his dark eyes flick to his lifemate.

"It's always a shitty idea," says A'rist, still not turning his attention away from his dragon, from the herd's terror, from the blood that's started trailing out over the feeding grounds and marking Lythronath's path in gore, the tighter he squeezes his dying prize, "chasing a foreign gold in a foreign Weyr." He runs his tongue over his teeth, sniffs a little. "It's bad enough doing it at home, most times."

"I.. don't have a choice." V'ros frowns for real this time. "Never have been able to.. deny Zmeyth something he wants that.. bad. And he wanted her." His face is immovable, then, as he considers the bulk of the reptilian-patterned brown. "..was bad enough when he wanted Niahvth, but.. that one too," with a wince. "Wasn't expecting that. Didn't no. Glad it was one of them that won."

"Maybe it's better," suggests A'rist, "not to be able to choose." It's not really said charitably. It comes with a shove to the fence that sets him upright, and pacing, around the same time as Lythronath seems to grow tired of his herd harrassment, and settles right in their midst (scatter!) to eat what's left of his first catch of the day.

It would be hard to miss the shove-and-pace. "What?" V'ros asks, irritably, only turning his head to watch the bronzerider's movements.

"What?" It's, at least, not quite a mimicry, not quite that immature, but A'rist is still scowling at his friend, and has stopped his pacing. "I'm just saying, that's all."

"What's that mean?" Now, V'ros turns away from the fence, his boots planted firmly in the bowl floor. He stares at A'rist with a mixture of annoyance and confusion, while Zmeyth tackles a second herdbeast, seemingly unaffected.

"I don't know," A'rist says, not entirely convincingly. Especially as he goes right on ahead after saying that, with, "That it's better at least than maybe being able to do something about it but not really caring to or wanting to, I don't know. Or that at least you've got a reason if you can't control him. I'm just saying, that's all." If V'ros has turned away from the fence, well, A'rist is going right back to it. Lythronath, meanwhile, is as much eating as making a bloody mucky mess. It's something to do.

"You mean.." V'ros' frown deepens. "You could've.. stopped him from.. at the flight?" He eyes flick between the bloody mess and A'rist, before settling firmly on his friend, doggedly.

And now, A'rist gape-stares at his best friend. "Faranth, V'ros. It's not like I'm just talking about the flight." And more importantly, and with a scrub to his hair, "And I don't know. Used to be, it I could. Dunno."

"Fuck, A'rist," V'ros says, and draws in a loud breath. "He could have killed them both. He could've.. taken out one of the Fort dragons, or.. Faranth forbid, the queen." He doesn't seem to be able to get over the flight, just yet, and focus on the all the time part. One hand rakes forcefully through his short-cropped hair. "Why?"

"Fuck, V'ros," and this time, there is mimicry there, "if you knew how often we could hurt or kill folk, you'd probably stop hanging out with us so damned much. He's not like other dragons, and I'm not like other riders, and I said we should leave, anyway, and you're the one who wanted to fuckin' stay." And in all this, A'rist, for once, doesn't move or pace or even stop glaring at his friend. Lythronath, meanwhile, looks up. Looks at Zmeyth. Says, « Scars. » And, « Hahaha. »

"Don't fucking.. put it all on me. You could've left.." V'ros is growing more agitated and Zmeyth, in turn, becomes less active, slowing his feeding to perch unmoving on the edge of the pens. "I didn't think you.. wanted to.. what he did.. and we're.. fuck." There's a lot of that word being thrown around, but the brownrider looks positively unnerved, his eyes warily taking in A'rist; a switch, a subtle one. "You could've.." His fists tighte, and his jaw clenches. Zmeyth doesn't engage, though his shadow-y, smoke-y presence is there, on the fringes, not quite as unaffected as his stoic physical presence would indicate.

"Oh right, so now I'm awful 'cause I didn't want to leave you to freak out like you always do in flights." A'rist moves now; he waves a hand, waves his friend off. "You guys weren't hurt that bad. And not anyone at Fort was even touched. So lay the fuck off." And he's leaving. Stomping, the way a real mature adult does, toward the bowl. Lythronath, he's airborne again, and going for another beast. Priorities.

V'ros stares at A'rist while he speaks, and even after, but as the other rider walks away, his hands flex out and his formerly stiff shoulders relax. He shakes his head sadly and glances to Zmeyth, just as the brown launches from the pens and takes to air, to glide upwards back to his ledge. "Well, fuck," is the brownrider's parting remark, before he's stalking towards the caverns.