Difference between revisions of "Logs:The More Things Change"

Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.
A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.

How many risks has Laurienth taken in her short life? How many times has she followed instinct instead of reason? Too many times already, so it seems and so it is. There's no hiding the figure of the dark young green in the snow that coats the shore of the lake, her paw prints in the white blanketed and filled by fresh snowflakes mere minutes after she makes them. Enthusiasm dulled none by her latest misadventure, she ambles along the shore with her nose to the ground, the plough of her shoulders casting up a minor storm in her wake, whilst her rider... ignores her. Sat on an icy rock, Ebeny stares out at the frozen lake, not the tiniest bit of attention given her lifemate. Can one wish a dragon into nonexistence if they try hard enough? For once, her smile is gone. She is alone, or would wish herself to be.

As often has Arekoth followed his own will rather than anyone else's instruction. As often has he been where he's not meant, in nook or cranny, or wide open space, at the best time to bring destruction and mischief and trouble all down upon himself... and his rider. The weyrlingmaster's scoldings slide past him like a worn sole on a patch of ice; the little brown rushes into the snow at full speed, carrying the smell of adventure on his hide, ready to be shared in full narration. H'kon follows with the weight of yet another rebuke making his head hang, the young man's gaze moodily kept on the lake, and not the dragon, through his approach, and when he comes up near Ebeny's rock, and still even when he comes to a stop and crosses his arms tight over his chest.

Another month, then another. Snow doesn't fall, but melts, refreezes and sticks around longer than it's cared for. At least by /some/. Laurienth shrieks with glee as she goes skidding along the shore, paws scrabbling for purchase against the horrible mixture of mud and sand and icy-sharp snow. She doesn't try /that/ hard, her wheeling, sliding journey sending her straight for the frozen lake. « Arekooooooth! » He has to try this. As for Ben, her choice of rock is one that is flatter, smoother this time. Room for two to sit. Her clothes bear the hallmarks of destruction, her trousers patched and a hole (a tooth-shaped hole) in her sweater that would be embarrassing, were she not to wear a vest beneath. Laurienth's delight is not shared, the green the recipient of a tight, closed look beneath dipped brows. "Getting worse," is shared with the thin air. Or are those words meant for H'kon, her gaze sliding momentarily to where he might stand or sit or lurk.

Unimpeded, or so he'd have all believe, by his recently injured left forelimb, Arekoth runs three-legged, wings out for balance. The speed he gains sends him into a tailspin no sooner than he locks all limbs for the slide. And sure, he might be limp-hopping away from the crusted snowbank that's brought him to a stop, but he holds his head high to boast, « Flying's still better. » Right H'kon? You were there. The brownrider, from where he stands with the backs of his calves touch Ebeny's rock, does not return the look given by his dragon. His wince won't leave his face, and he rubs the gloved fingers of his right hand over his left wrist, even though he has attained no injury, but to his pride. "How can it," is nothing but melancholy. And even so close, he doesn't sit.

Snow melts, but the chill clings as ever it does. Out over the lake, a half-grown Laurienth flies low across the water, snapping at shadows and monsters of her own making. Her off-key, shrieky utterances echo through the bowl, the sounds drawing by the tiniest twitch from Ben, the weyrling greenrider left abandoned on the golden sand. Is it abandonment if it's by choice? Splashes and smudges of paint now join the patches and tears, splodges of pastel shades and brighter, not so tasteful colours, even in the tangles of Ben's wavy hair, unnoticed or ignored. She sits in the sand, leaning back against an awkward, sharp-edged rock, patiently stitching a stuffed canine toy back together little by little. At least it needs her. "What's your weyr like?" she murmurs, head tilted down to her work.

« Missed one, » Arekoth offers with laughter behind his voice, still stretched out on the shore where the sun once was, but eyes now open and gaze sharp, alert. "Small." H'kon has moved into a crouch near the greenrider, one hand on the edge of that big rock, either for balance or something to hold, watching her work. "High." His other hand hangs off the edge of one of his knees, where he brushes his thumb over callused fingertips. The movement would be anxious if it weren't so methodical. With a sigh, "No quieter." « Maybe you should dive for that one. »

There's a glass sat on the rock, filled a third of the way with a burnt caramel coloured liquid inside. Its twin has found its home in Ebeny's hand, slow sips being taken by the pale, shadow-eyed figure of the weyrling greenrider. She stands, determinedly not looking /up/ to where her green weaves and loops recklessly through the spires. « Bet you can't do this, » Laurienth taunts, her mind reaching for Arekoth's to treat him to snapshots every few seconds, overbearingly intrusive, as usual. Her rider digs her heels all the more into the sand, then tips her head riiiight back to down what remains of her drink. "This was a mistake." There have been so many.

Arekoth bounces his shrieking cry off one of the spires as he goes, weaving, darting, doing his best, where Laurienth intrudes mentally, to get up in her face physically. « Because I'm doing better! » H'kon's fingers hover just above that second glass, where they have for some time now. His face is turned right up, his eyes only on the brown ducking and dodging overhead. No emotion seems able to break the hard, determined expression that follows Koth's broad wings. When Ben speaks, rather than answer her, H'kon simply reaches for his glass, and takes a sip.

Time passes and knots change... at least they do in some cases. Who in their right mind gave Ben a wingsecond knot? Shadows continue to collect beneath her muddy-green eyes, her hair a wilder affair than usual. The light of the sun fades from the sky all the more when nobody's looking, the day's work done and drills over. Except, as usual, there's at least one soul who isn't ready for the day to be over, Laurienth still buzzing with energy that lends a sting to the usual not right thrum of her thoughts. « Fly. » Hey, Arekoth. « Fly. » Are you there? « Fly. » And if he wasn't sure: « With me. » Still clad in her riding gear, straps hanging from her right shoulder, Ben turns from the sight of many a happy bather in the shallows of the lake. "I know somewhere quieter." It's an offer; an invitation, so it would seem, to tire lifemates out with new surrounds as much as anything.

« With you? » He's there. « Can't turn that down. » Flying. H'kon looks up from the note he reads over on the rock he's taken, at the edge of the shore, as far away as he can manage from most of the splashing and talking and merrymaking. Surprise at the very thought of moving, if not the offer, smooths the lines that were creasing his forehead. The young man folds the note studiously and tucks it into a pocket of his riding jacket. His acceptance isn't word or overt gesture; leaving the lakeshore is no grand ceremony. It's just the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth, straight back, as he stands.

The tiny flakes of flurried snow don't stay unmelted long enough to downplay the grey that has found its way into H'kon's beard. The chill in the air is not so cold that his forehead, now bearing much deeper lines, need be hidden away from the swirling winds. But the late hint of snow has been enough to keep the lakeshore a bit more quiet than it's been the last few days, and has left H'kon undisturbed as he settles onto a low, flat rock, propping one boot before him and wrapping his arms around his knee. Arekoth is in the air, but not for long, the shape of him growing larger and gaining definition until all four legs have touched down into the frigid lake. Even the twisted forelimb. « How cold is it? » reaches out playfully, reaches way back. Makes H'kon's chin lift slightly.

It's not so long before an answer is delivered in person, the shadow of a strapless Laurienth darkening the walls of High Reaches' bowl as she swoops down towards the lake, her wings lifted high to create as large a splash as she can when she hits the water with a shriek of joy. « Not as cold as here, » is shared with a sense of pleasure at being home, though memory cannot supply it as such. Then footsteps, so much quieter than the green's shrieking, the jingle of buckles on straps and the soft clink of glass against glass. Straps might come into view first, abandoned at the foot of that rock, then a hand proffers a glass with the usual third of amber liquid. "Hey." And with that, Ben sits down in the sand beside her straps to gaze out across the lake in silence. Turns pass and some things? Don't change.