Difference between revisions of "Logs:Sad Dragon is Sad"

Solith's a drifting, midnight thought, barely more than that, but still: she's not asleep, and it's late, and it's raining, and... something, somehow, reminds her of Arekoth. So there she is, on the outskirts, visiting. (To Arekoth from Solith)

To Solith, Arekoth has not been getting sleep for entirely different reasons. Reasons, it would seem, which have him in a jovial enough mood that a shimmer of yellow-white flashes up, not to illuminate the outskirts that Solith inhabits, but to dance even beyond that, getting her in between the aurora, and Arekoth himself. Well hello there, little green.

Solith, little Solith, shy-tonight Solith, doesn't even seem to know where to look: the bright shimmer? Arekoth himself? Perhaps it doesn't work that way, but a hint of breeze floats from outside in, as though it could waft the light back towards them and make it easier. Or simpler, at the very least . (To Arekoth from Solith)

On his ledge, Arekoth's head lifts, even if his wings remain quite unruffled by that breeze from Solith. Those lights stay put, and dance away, dance down, dance into waiting. He's busy sniffing the breeze, now, and eventually winter cool even sends it back, with a hint of play. (To Solith from Arekoth)

Fine. Solith can take it back, especially when the lights dance like that, but: brr. It's cold now. That might be a hint, more than a hint, of reproach along with the vague sense of having settled under some overhang or other, not hers, nothing that much matters. (To Arekoth from Solith)

« The little green's gone cold tonight. » There's no actual 'tsk' noise from the brown, and any disappointment is tempered by a certain well-intentioned mockery, withheld chuckles making Arekoth's words roll just a little. (To Solith from Arekoth)

« It is not warm. » If Solith had feathers, she would fluff them; as it is, she may be felt to pull her neck back on itself and widen the bases of her wings, leaving their tips tucked into her sides. That done, she tugs for the lights: bring them back, do. (To Arekoth from Solith)

To Solith, Arekoth stretches his wings out, stretches his mental presence a bit nearer, too. « You must be in the wrong place, little green. » Those lights don't come, not this time at least, with the reflection of a very particular heat, that might almost be close, intimate, if it were being felt first hand. « It's plenty warm where I'm at, » rolls just the same as everything else he's spoken.

Solith, she's uncertain, as though that heat should be something she should recognize-- but, « Are you in the hatching grounds? » she asks ingenuously, quite as though she hadn't felt that hint of his ledge before. Perhaps she's confused. (To Arekoth from Solith)

« Hah! » The lights are back quite unbidden, staggered flashes of green against the night sky, all around, this time. « Give it time. » It's not exactly warmth, the self-satisfaction that comes with that, but it's certainly shared. (To Solith from Arekoth)

There are the lights. Good lights! Sharing is good, too. « I will go right now, » Solith decides, and indeed, there's the sensation of pushing off and-- isn't she good, too? sharing! --brr-cold-wet because rain and brr but she knows it's up ahead, warmth and dryness, it's coming. (To Arekoth from Solith)

« Silly little greens, » is all mocked chiding once more, even as Arekoth shifts to make some room on that narrower, more sheltered part of his ledge - rain, brr, indeed - « taking so long to come out of the cold. » (To Solith from Arekoth)

She should take it in good fun, surely, but tonight Solith can't help but take it too much to heart; but then, or at least now, she's veering to the warmth and silence and dimness of the caverns in question, and not to any old ledge. This time, it's less reproachful than quietly pained. (To Arekoth from Solith)

To Solith, Arekoth sees no green, and after a couple moments, puts two and two together. He huffs his wings up higher on his shoulders, prepping. He nudges lightly at the little green's mind. His colours fade, his wintry chill is put on hold, and up and out he goes, finally, to join her with a greeting of, « Chilly little greens. »

The nudge has her peeking back, and of course Solith would greet him with pleasure from the sands-overlooking ledge she's chosen, even if it's as yet a muted sort of pleasure. « Brr, » she agrees, using the word instead of the sensation this time. « Are you? » Chilly, presumably. Not green. Perhaps. (To Arekoth from Solith)

To Solith, Arekoth brakes his swoop, and his talons bite the ledge. There's a little shimmy of his wings, to shed cold, to shed wet, or maybe just to try and shed some of that gloom accompanying Solith. « Do I seem chilly? »

Or to shed some of that wet onto Solith? Still, she doesn't look betrayed even when she skitters out of the way, altogether too pleased that he came. « Freezing. Frozen! » Does he not see those icicles hanging from his wings? She imagines them for him, like an extra set of big sharp fangs. (To Arekoth from Solith)

To Solith, Arekoth's head tilts, his look sharpened by that snout of his. But the spreading of icicled wings is friendly enough, the little flap to rattle those frosty fangs, the more so. Silly green.

Her eyes are that much brighter for it, too, not only green but unlidded in the dim cavern; of course now she has to swing up to her haunches and bat at one of the imaginary icicles, the better to see if she can knock it off like one of the real ones. (To Arekoth from Solith)

To Solith, Arekoth twitches his wings, enough to set the icicles jingling, though there's little more attention that he puts into the imagery. So exhausting. « Little green just needed to move around to warm up. »

Jingle, jingle, that's enough to satisfy Solith; « Move around into somewhere warm, » she reminds, but look: she can stop moving and settle, too. (To Arekoth from Solith)