Difference between revisions of "Logs:Mirrors and Wagers"

Early on a winter morning, High Reaches' bowl doesn't look to be the most welcoming in the world; the clouds above are dark and heavy, the snow below is deep and cold, with tracks worn through where weyrfolk and dragons most commonly travel. Near the weyrling barracks, there's a small group of dragons and weyrlings working through their morning exercises, some a little more quickly than others, hoping to beat whatever's about to come down from above. And not far from that, in cover of the barracks tunnel, is Brieli and currently-tiny Iesaryth, the younger dragon watching the older ones with some fascination - or at least, it seems that way. As for her rider? Leaning against the wall, mostly staring in that exhausted 'I'm looking at nothing' way.

Speaking of whatever might come down from above: high overhead, a foreign dragon appears out of nothingness... but his downward spiral's cut short, man and dragon staring in unison at the skies about them, Vhaeryth's greeting to the watchdragon abbreviated to the point of being terse. So are his wingbeats, crisp and sharp, never stretching to full extension, but eventually after a few level circles he does descend after all. Towards the weyrling barracks, even, rather than the more predictable Snowasis. Towards.. well, no landing right by the little ones: they're so breakable. Surely he was never that small.

There's a little excitement in the ranks as Vhaeryth approaches and lands; after all he's big and not from here and nearby, and that's all unusual and fascinating - but the weyrlingmasters, one younger redhead and an older dark-haired woman, are quick enough to put them back to order. Iesaryth doesn't have anything to do but look over at the larger dragon, however - and reach out with warm salt-spray and rolling white-topped ocean waves, breaking on the edge of the bronze's mindspace. Both greeting and apology for the weather. Brieli snaps out of her reverie, narrowing dark eyes the large dragon's way with interest.

Vhaeryth might even smell a little different to the perceptive nose: something about the Fort air, or perhaps the slightly different composition of oil, another Weyr's default choice of recipe. The dragon sends them a sense of distracting-bright interest combined with cold, and if he watches to see who pays attention even after the weyrlingmasters have seen to them, N'rov is more circumspect as he waves and, afterwards, dismounts. He scans the crop of weyrlings, but it's Iesaryth's greeting that catches at Vhaeryth's attention and thus his own, shadowed as they are despite the tunnel's mouth: the Monaco-born hatchling gets a curious look from the man, and from the dragon, a sense of glass or metal, metal or glass, that the waves might roll across and fall back from, any left-behind droplets runnelling more slowly down. N'rov walks closer. Vhaeryth doesn't, yet. "Brieli," N'rov greets with a smile that's far quicker than his footsteps. "Ie-sahr-ith? Ie-say-rith? I've only seen it spelled, or said a handful of ways."

There's probably a little burble of voices from the group, likewise bright and curious all (though perhaps less cold, thicker hide here) - but it's still hard to concentrate on moving at the same time as everything else. Iesaryth is polite enough to come out into the light so she can be seen as she sees; Brieli - unsurprisingly? - is content to lurk in the shadows. As small paws make tracks in snow, there's fascination with the droplets running down metal, the steady beat of the waves constant in the background. Her tenor similar to the cadence of the ocean, « Is it very cold for you? I sometimes feel I am not used to it, but I don't know how I could have been used to anything else. » As N'rov approaches, Brieli has enough vanity that she'l try to comb tangled hair with her fingers, tuck it behind her ears. "The first," she replies easily, "Though she's not offended if anyone says it wrong. I think it takes a lot to offend her." Giving the clouds a glance, "I hope your business here is quick - the weather's like to turn bad."

"Does it? Then she is unusual," N'rov has to suppose, leaning over to peer at the little one since she actually comes to him rather than the other way around, or maybe it's not him but Vhaeryth: Vhaeryth, whose mental metal shades into a mirror, droplets behind droplets, and then her waves visible in reflection as though they continued eternally beyond. « Oh? The wind is stronger, here, » and the mirror-world extends upward, past the waves to what she hasn't shown: truly blue skies, without clouds to clutter the clear sun. He suggests then, « Perhaps you are more used to inside, » where it is enclosed and perhaps warm, or warmer, though sadly sky-less, he must admit: say it isn't so. As for N'rov, once he gets closer, and has had a chance to openly eye Brieli and her hair and how different she may look to that other night, "As for quick: what a warm welcome. Perhaps you're right, I should turn and run." He says it so gravely, too.

Iesaryth will give N'rov a good once-over while he's leaning down, with the air of an inspection. Once she's done, the little gold looks back at Brieli briefly, with no indication of her judgement, then back to Vhaeryth, who's more interesting, all things considered. Especially given she can now see her own eternity and depths in his reflection; after duly considering that with questions as quick as water spilled flowing through her mind, she is wistful for that glimpse of blue sky. « It is stronger than where I was hatched. And I wish I were not used to inside! I flew when they brought us here, even if it was not me! » She images it rather more grandly than it probably was; a little gold and her rider on a throne borne by browns and bronzes. Over in the shadows, Brieli's ability to completely ignore any study is likely serving her well right now; she doesn't so much as waver or blush under N'rov's gaze, though it must be said - it's pretty much from looking one's best to looking like death warmed over. Maybe attractive death, but still. With a little roll of her eyes, a slight smile, "She said something about the cold. I'd hate for you to be hailed on or worse. Snowed in. Trapped." That last is dramatic, fine brows raised for emphasis.

"They'd have to stow me in the barracks," N'rov agrees, never mind that Weyrs generally have guest weyrs. "And because our barracks were completely free of snores, yours would make me go crazy and start clawing the walls. In the middle of the night, and my Vhaeryth would accidentally eat someone as a midnight snack. Any of your clutchmates you could live without?" This, while Vhaeryth's sprawled himself out large enough to make a throne for practically a wingful of dragonets her size, as though to underline just how large and (nearly) adult he is and never mind the wind. As the blue sky gets unnaturally bluer, « He said you came from elsewhere. Did you sleep? » Does she remember? And speaking of all that: "Hold out your hands and shut your eyes."

Looking skeptical, Brieli echoes, "Completely free of snores. Are there four of you? And are you implying that I snore? Because I haven't heard that yet." However, the latter part of N'rov going insane has some merit, and has her looking over at her barracks-mates contemplatively. "Hm... There's a few options. Can he restrain himself from eating the people I like?" Iesaryth huffs as Vhaeryth sprawls out, both impressed and irritated - someone's in a hurry to be gigantic already. She shifts her ocean waves to breaking on a beach, sandy-white; the ocean turquoise and warm. « It was warmer there. I slept more there. I sleep often, still. » A little regretful. An image, an experience plucked from Brieli's head - exhaustion, humidity, a slightly smaller Iesaryth passed out on a couch somewhere else. As for N'rov's request... That might arch Brieli's brow, but she does so - a bit reluctantly and hesitantly. This is not a girl who likes closing her eyes on anyone.

"Hard to tell if you're asleep," N'rov points out, that grin breaking free for just a moment. "Ask a friend and report back. And there were at least two of us, but she'll have to ask him." He glances for a moment at the little queen who, as Vhaeryth points out with a nudge, has not been given the injunction not to look... and then there's the rustle of him digging into his pocket followed by the soft click of small mark-sized objects being pressed into her hand by wind-chilled fingers. One. Two. Three. And four, but that will prove to be a fraction. "Your cut of the winnings," N'rov says, altogether too pleased. As is Vhaeryth, the mirror-sand whiter and brighter but the waves just the same. « Sleeping means growing, » he mentions. « And in the sun, you grow faster... »

With her own slow grin, "How do you know I even have to ask?" Brieli doesn't look, and neither does Iesaryth, even though it seems to be driving the younger weyrling a little insane, by the way she bounces lightly on her toes where she's normally so still. Blinking as she opens her eyes at that last mark piece, as N'rov finally speaks, she stares at the money in hand for a moment before she'll look up, dark gaze meeting grey. "You bet. On me." She's oddly touched by that. "And we'd only just met." Though the little gold might not love Vhaeryth's logic, she has to accept it. « Yes. When we can fly, we will go back. You can come if you like, » she offers, magnanimous.

N'rov's just laughing under his breath, maybe at her retort, probably at the bouncing, though it fades when she speaks. He shrugs, a little awkwardly. "I liked the odds." And there goes his smile again, still looking back at her: "You can write me a thank you note, if you want. N-apostrophe-r-o-v. Brieli." « So kind. » So good-humored is Vhaeryth. « You will remind me, or else I will not know. Perhaps it will be tomorrow, or nearly as soon, » and a mirror-wave pulls itself up from the rest of its water to develop tendrils that wave at her as a plant or a human might, because, "We'd better go now, though. You know, so the weather doesn't get us."

Brieli closes her hand around the marks in a loose fist, dropping her hand by her side. Awkward is how she looks, momentarily - unsure how to respond to N'rov until he moves on. With her own slight smile, "Maybe I will. It's polite." Clearly, that's the only reason. Iesaryth is likewise good-humored, amused by herself and the bronze both, the bright sun glinting off ocean waves. « I will remind you. It will be soon. » She is determined that it will be, sea-breezes wafting over in their own farewell, perhaps clinging to metal (but not rusting). With a sigh, a look at sky and weyrlings in that order, "Right. They'll have me back to work anyway, soon. I'll... We'll see you another time, I suppose. Until we're free..." A gesture his way - it's up to him.

Clearly. "Maybe I'll have to keep an eye on the sky," N'rov says back to her, adding more teasingly, "Because it's good practice, for Thread and all." Because Weyrs are going to start sweeping all sorts of areas that don't belong for them. He walks backward a few steps, waves, and walks a few more before looking back again and then reaching his dragon. Who, since he isn't yet rusting or anything, makes a grand show of straightening up to flex his wings so grandiosely as to perhaps attract all sorts of weyrlings' attention, and once N'rov's astride, disappears daringly close to the ground. As to those water droplets? This way they'll get a renewed glimpse of Southern skies before they burn off in the heat.