Difference between revisions of "Logs:Woeful Woes"

Teisyth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr

A broad and welcoming ledge, wide enough to accommodate two medium-sized dragons slants slightly towards the Bowl, turns of landings on its edge having worn the stone down to a smooth finish. Along one side of the ledge a rocky outcropping hugs the outward curve of the ledge, providing some shelter against wind and rain for a tiny terraced garden. Currently, the beds contain a variety of herbs, sturdy plants that in the right season give off the heady scents of sage, rosemary and thyme. The wide maw of the weyr opens up onto a fairly standard couch-space, with hooks in the walls and a storage container for dragon-care equipment. A sturdy woolen curtain separates couch from weyr to keep out the elements.

Bookworm's Paradise Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

In clear weather, sun dapples the floor of the southward-facing weyr and reflects prisms of light from the fine glass that fronts wall after wall of neatly carved bookshelves. Empty now, but for a few volumes tucked up on a shelf, clearly this weyr is a bookworm's delight, all ready to welcome someone's collection of scrolls and finely bound volumes. The living space here has been sacrificed somewhat, cozy rather than spacious. There's enough room for a table and chairs in front of a hearth overhung with a precious maple-stained skybroom mantle, but the sleeping area is another nook carved into the wall, neatly laid with a comfortable double mattress. The linens are presumably stored in the lovely trunk set just to the side of the nook, a match in stain and wood-type to the mantle. Niches for glows are well-spaced along the tops of every shelf, the glow-holders made of interlacing strips of copper set with mica to give the light a mellow cast.

All in all the space invites one to come in, curl up with a favorite drink and a book to read.

They were called. They come. Lythronath hits the ledge hard, a roar announcing his presence to his clutchmate - and half of the Weyr as well, no doubt. The bronze stretches his wings, stretches his back legs. Even A'rist takes a moment to urge a crack out of his neck before he unbuckles dry-blood-coloured straps, and slides down his lifemate's shoulder. Thud. "G'laer?"

They're expected. Teisyth is the first to greet them with a muffled bugle-honk as she galumphs out onto the ledge from her couch, her (ugly, drooly, gross) favorite pillow hanging forgotten in her maw in light of this new excitement. G'laer arrives some moments later. "A'rist. Thank you for coming." Manners. "Drink?" He offers with a gesture toward the inner weyr, which has changed somewhat since their last visit, now that two humans occupy this space. Possibly new or not-remembered smells for Lythronath; even Teisyth smells different, her oiled hide having hints sandalwood.

Teisyth is Teisyth. Teisyth is always Teisyth, always has been, so far as Lynner's concerned. What's interesting to him is that pillow. Eyes lock onto it, and A'rist has barely managed a, "Sure," that seems to stand as both acknowledgement of the thanks, and agreement to the offer, before that big bronze head is swinging forward, jaws snapping for that prize of hers. In the weyr, any evidence of that other person has the young bronzerider quickly looking away, looking somewhere familiar. The floor, for a moment. And then, more boldly, the greenrider. "How's things?"

Not her pillow! Teisyth has known Lynner long enough to realizes (as soon as she remembers her pillow is in her mouth) that that's what's in peril here. Is she too late when she darts backward to try to save if from the sharp pointy teeth that gnash?! In the weyr, there is evidence of that other person. No longer are the walls bare, but instead there's a tapestry of Healer Hall over the mantel and a pair of hand-drawn posters illustrating different herbs framed on either side, and more, simpler tapestries hanging down the ends of the bookshelf rows. Not to mention the over-stuffed armchair by the hearth. "Beer, wine, or tea?" G'laer offers; presumably there's water as well. "Things are pretty terrible." It's said without much emotion to color the words. The greenrider has never really been one to avoid a topic. "I want to know how you like Iceberg, as a wing." He moves a hand to invite A'rist to one of the familiar chairs at the equally familiar old table.

The pillow. Lythronath doesn't get it all, but he gets enough of a corner that there's one of those doomed, tearing sounds. And not a half-second later, feathers. Inside, A'rist's beginning of, "Is it-" gets cut off by, "shells, I'll get you another." On the second attempt, "Is the beer cold or warm?" Presumably, the young bronzerider is finished anything of importance for the day. And is yet alert enough to stiffen up at the mention of his wing, and narrow his eyes. His steps to the chair he tends to favour are slow, on the balls of his feet. "Why do you want to know about Iceberg?"

Nooooooooooooooo! The depth of that reaction is best seen in G'laer as he jerks abruptly to look at the ledge right as A'rist is offering him a replacement. He even has to close his eye, because a hand has to rise up to flick moisture away from their edges. Teisyth is thinking fast today, though, so the remainder of the pillow (the special, irreplaceable pillow) is thrown to the ground and sat upon by the green. Once G'laer has a handle on the Teisyth emotions that just flapped his usual unflappable self, he grunts. "Just new feathers. That's her favorite. Had it since she was shelled. As long as there's any of it left, I'll have to re-stuff it and sew it up." He turns to the shelf and snags up two bottles. "Room temperature." He offers a bottle over to the bronzerider. "Because I want to transfer wings." Again, direct, even if he seems a little distracted now. There's probably a panicking and mournful green in his head; don't mind him.

That was not what the bronze was expecting. His « Haha- » is cut short, leaving Lythronath with his nose pressed up to Teisyth's behind (where it had followed the pillow), eyes whirling at her. « Pillow, » he informs her, flatly. But that nose, this time at least, doesn't push to sink massive teeth into the thing once more. It just sits there, steaming up Teisyth's rump. A'rist has recovered from G'laer's reaction by then, enough that he can give a deadpan, "Maybe there are still some floating around the barracks." Whatever bit of humour quirks his mouth at the end of it doesn't quite hit the young man's eyes. He's taking the beer now, working to pop the top. "Oh." Sip. A moment to consider the taste. "I don't know if I'm really the one you should be asking about it. What Lythronath needs..." Well, G'laer knows the rest, about how different that bronze out there is.

« Mine! » is the very colorful (literally, there's a burst of red and orange in her head along with it tinting her swiftly whirling eyes) response. Teisyth doesn't budge, for all the peril that puts her behind in. It's probably because Teisyth has forcibly raised his emotions close to the surface that G'laer's lips pull into a smirk at A'rist's suggestion. "She still keeps some of those. Rosvelth told her once that they were treasure... and then what treasure is." Because otherwise, she might never have known and been feather-poor. "Try not to let him bite her. I don't feel like changing bandages on her butt." He adds as he settles into his usual chair. "You think I should ask Rh'mis instead?" The greenrider says it deadpan but a brow quirks, so there's probably humor behind it. "You can at least tell me if it sucks or not. The people, or the drills. Even if they're not what he needs." His eyes flick briefly toward the ledge, expression momentarily thoughtful. "The extra stuff you doing... has it helped?"

"He's not gonna bite her," A'rist dismisses with a shrug. "More likely to if I 'try not to let him'." A lazy sort of look is thrown over his shoulder, toward the ledge. "I don't think Rhey's much happier." When it was he started using the non-rider name, A'rist probably doesn't even remember. Maybe it was an attempted show of solidarity, once, that bloomed into habit. "I don't know. Honestly, it's sort of whatever is made of it. H'vier isn't really... strict." It makes him grimace. "Or anything. Fayla's pregnant. And the extra stuff I've been doing, it's not through the wing." And the sip of beer to follow is long, more stubborn than moody. Proof he's said the last he means to. Lythronath keeps breathing on Teisyth. There might even be some snot there, now, pooling between hides. « Shoulder. » He's willing to compromise, maybe.

G'laer nods to the first. "I think talking to Rhey would involve knives and get ugly." It's stated matter-of-factly. "So better you than he." And it's not like the greenrider is especially gifted at making other friends to ask. If, that is, either A'rist or Rh'mis could truly be called a 'friend.' Even so, G'laer doesn't press for details about what the bronzerider's said, though he does ask, "Does having a dragon that's not quite like the rest work out in that wing or are they..." He pauses to select the right word, "Unthrilled by his being him?" This question isn't really about Lythronath, of course. It's about how G'laer can extrapolate for Teisyth. Teisyth who is, fortunately, not grossed out by things like snot. Her rider may be less appreciative. She doesn't budge. She has to think about this proposition; it could be a trick. Very, very, very carefully she starts to shift, dragging the fabric of the pillow under her as she goes. « ... Okay. » She finally agrees once she can crane her neck around to look at him.

The idea of Lythronath's being Lythronath affecting the wing seems almost to catch A'rist off-guard. His nose wrinkles. "I really don't know how much it bothers them. I mean, for wing stuff, it's not... so big a problem. It's not like we're living in barracks. And you remember weyrlinghood. We can do all the basics just fine. It's just that basics aren't enough for him." The young man seems ready to go on with that, but he holds back any further comment, hiding it again behind his beer. Lythronath can't be said to take full attention from that pillow... but while Teisyth butt-slides, all he does is watch. « Shoulder, » is repeated, insistent.

"Hmm." It's a low, thrumming sound of consideration vibrating in G'laer's throat in answer to that explanation. "Teisyth can't." Do the basics. Simple admission. The greenrider lifts his beer to his lips and then regards the younger man. He seemed ready to go on? Then G'laer waits. He has a beer to drink. Once Teisyth has slid enough to reach said shoulders and keep the flattened, torn, drooled upon pillow 'safe' from the bronze's attention, the green reaches out her nose and starts moving through the familiar motions. It won't be long until she's unfortunately distracted enough to forget that she was protecting the pillow with her rump, lifting up to reach and move to massage the bronze properly.

Aww yeah. Aww yeah, right there. Wait, no, no, right... there. Lythronath stretches, makes a heavy groaning noise, wriggles, sighs. He hasn't forgotten the pillow, oh no. But he's not about to upset the massage, either. And when a corner of it shows, he stretches out, stretches his strong neck, stretches his massive head, and, smack, lands his chin squarely on the expose bit. Oh yeah. Right there. Perfect. A'rist puts his beer down, eventually, a belch bubbling up, and excused only by a slight clearing of his throat. "I don't know, then. I mean, if you like just basic stuff, just getting by... We don't do much. I guess it's sort of slack. For wing stuff." Maybe it's more than Lynner's needs not being met. "What do you want, for you and Teisyth?"

There's the smallest chance that Teisyth is so engrossed in the massage that she won't notice a subtle move toward the pillow. But the smack has her attention, nose pulling up and then gasp! She skitters back dramatically, wings fanning. Of course, this does nothing to protect her poor pillow from the would-be ravaging of the bronze, given that it's now all exposed and vulnerable. « Give it back! » The burp doesn't faze G'laer, but then, being a guard in a barracks, he must have known that and worse. "I want her to be appreciated. Failing that, I'd like her to be somewhere that doesn't think ill of her. She always tries her best." Even if that doesn't mean success. "I wanted to be an assistant with the weyrlings, but that's not going well, so I'm exploring other options." He shrugs as if it doesn't matter to him, but thanks to Teisyth and her renewed upset, it's plain on his face that it troubles him.

Lythronath does not give it back. Lythronath shifts his head so that his full lower jaw is covering that pillow. « Soft, » he reports back. And closes his eyes. Purposefully. "Yeah, heard about you trying with the weyrlings." Probably saw it, too, at the hatching, though A'rist doesn't go into details. He does lift a finger to scratch along the bridge of his nose. "I don't know about appreciated. I don't know if we really get into that at all. I mean, we go for drinks and stuff, but..." he shrugs. "I don't' know, it's not like people tell me that me and Lynner are doing great or good or anything. Just... I know we're doing the drills and the sweeps and stuff, so there you go." Teisyth's upset, its reflection in G'laer, all that just makes him shift a little, uncomfortable.

« Why you big bronze bamboozler! » Teisyth accuses before pressing the top of her head to the side of his in an attempt to budge the bronze. A'rist doesn't have to wait long to be at ease again; the greenrider is swift at scrubbing evidence of emotion from his expression. "I've had better ideas." G'laer comments of trying with the weyrlings. "And worse ones. Could've gone worse. One was a guard trainee at Crom when I was there. That alone could've gotten messy." There's no doubt left from his tone that G'laer dislikes messy. He takes a swig from the bottle before saying, "I sincerely hope I don't strike you as the type looking for 'attaboys.'" The word sounds unnatural coming out of his lips. "I just mean I'd like somewhere where the things she does very well are looked at more than the things she finds challenging. She's... soft. I'm not even sure a lifetime haunting my head will toughen her up that way."

A'rist's raising of an eyebrow is one of a man entirely missing a reference, but still, he nods. And doesn't press, on the Crom issue. But Iceberg, that he knows enough about, enough that he can raise his shoulders in a helpless shrug. Well. "I don't know. Like I said, me and Lythronath, we do the basics and what they ask us well enough. We don't really hear much either way. What he doesn't do well doesn't really fall under the wing, much." And with an almost reproachful laugh, "And he's not soft at all." That big hard head stays firmly pressed into the pillow. The snorting sound made might be a dragon's mimicry of a snore. If only the tip of Lythronath's tail weren't twitching so excitedly.

The way Teisyth startles might be attributed to the noise, although that's more likely the direct cause of the annoyance and frustration that radiates towards him with the smoking, choking smell of breaking machinery. No, the startle is probably because she's been given an idea. She pulls away from the bronze and hurries to the ledge, stopping just where she can crouch and stick her head over the side. « Oooooh. » She imparts, as though thoroughly impressed by something. She sends thoughts of blood and beasts. Yum. Of course, this is Teisyth, so the diversion is overplayed, but she's very committed to it. "Of course he's not." As if it wasn't ever a question from the moment Lythronath was shelled; soft, ha. G'laer considers the young man's words about his experiences with his wing and then nods. "Thank you. That's pretty much what I wanted to know." Which rather concludes his official business. Maybe it's because he spends a lot of his off time here with Oliwer now so social graces are sometimes needed in a way they weren't when he lived here alone, but he asks, "How's life?" And takes another sip of his beer. They're hardly done the beers, and the dragons are still conducting their official business on the ledge, so might as well ask.

Lythronath carries on snoring. For a few moments. And then he does get up to look. Gets up, taking the pillow full into his slobbery jaws in the process. A few feathers fall as he rises. A few more fall when he peers over the edge, fall, and flutter down into the bowl. Inside, A'rist shrugs, and raises his beer, though it never reaches his lips. "Fine I guess. Trying to keep busy and be part of things, but you know." An awkward shrug.

Teisyth's worry can be felt despite her clumsy attempt at deception. What if he doesn't fall for it? She's relieved when Lythronath joins her, a hopeful glance meeting with disappointment as - woe! - she sees he's been clever enough to bring his prize with him. Dangnabit! She hunches there a moment and then turns to hurry back to her wallow to look for something, her nose nudging different colorful pillows aside urgently. There's a grunt from G'laer to acknowledge the younger man's words. "Separate. Always separate." There's his own experience just touching his tone. "Even when you're doing everything you can or could to do things right." That might be less about them and more about him as he sounds vaguely annoyed and he doesn't much do emotions on anyone else's behalf.

Lythronath watches the rifling, holding onto that pillow, and surely drooling all over it in the process. "Separate's not good for us, I don't think," says A'rist after a pause, during which he's, still, neither lowered his beer, nor sipped from it. "They think it's safer..." He squints at nothing, and shakes his head. "Anyway. Eggs on the sands. Waiting to see how many he tries search this time..." The tone is light, not bored, per se, but certainly not substantial. A'rist shrugs again. And finally drinks.

"No, you're right. Far better if we," we, "were part of it all." G'laer drinks, eyes flicking toward where Teisyth has found her prize, pulling out a well stuffed crimson pillow from the bottom up and holding it in her teeth. She turns to face Lythronath, letting her head swing just a little. Maybe they're going for hypnosis! "Will he try the same methods with Iesaryth as he did with Hraedhyth?" He asks, before volunteering, "Teisyth lacks, I think, a basic understanding of what makes a person Searchable. Perhaps that's my fault for coming to her so old."

A'rist shrugs, and tilts that beer up. This time, it's several swallows before the bottle is lowered, nearly empty. "He doesn't really think ahead like that. I don't know. I guess we'll see. But so far I don't think Iesaryth's been like Hraedhyth on the sands, so." Another shrug, this one smaller than that which preceded it. "If it's in his guts, he will, I guess. That's mostly where Lythronath is, you know? Just how he is." It's a pity A'rist doesn't know the expression 'lizard brain', 'cause really. On the ledge. Lythronath looks at the pillow Teisyth's brought out, and drools on the one in his mouth. The one that shows no sign of leaving anytime soon, but, at least, whose feathers are being stuck together by dragon spit.

The way G'laer says, "No, he wouldn't, would he," to the matter of thinking ahead is sort of rueful, but not a question. "Everyday an adventure," bears no hints of the usual enthusiastic use of the phrase but there are hints of a darker sort of humor. "Iesaryth didn't mind us in the galleries when they were in the shell, as I recall." He sips his beer, gaze flicking ledge-wards again. Teisyth stands there with the pillow for a moment, staring at her favorite in his mouth. Then all at once, she settles down to start chewing and nuzzling and drooling on the clearly superior crimson one. If it weren't for the way she tracks the bronze when he moves even a little, she might be half-convincing about it.

"He's actually pretty predictable, in his own way," offers A'rist. The last of that beer is lifted and drained, while his eyes track out toward the ledge. The ledge, where Lythronath flops down, also. The ledge, where the bronze's grip is slackened for a mere millisecond - and then, chomp down on that pillow in his mouth. « Tasty. » CHOMP. "Anyway." The empty bottle is tendered hesitantly. "I dunno if that helped any or what." Presumably, he means the earlier part of the conversation.

If only dragons had lips with which to wobble, or eyes that could go wide with horror. Teisyth will have to settle for eyes that whirl swiftly in distress and the crimson pillow is completely forgotten. The greenrider seems to have mastered himself for the moment, possibly the first waves of feeling simply caught him by surprise. He accepts the bottle, setting it aside though a second is not offered. Likely, G'laer assumes A'rist would ask if he wished a second since there are enough on the shelf the first was fetched from. "It did. It's hardly the worst review I've heard. Thank you for taking the time." These words, though probably felt are expressed without inflection. Perhaps the only defense for Teisyth's intense feeling is to shut it all off within. "Any chance he'll leave the pillow?"

A'rist doesn't ask for a bottle, no. He also stands. "Guess it depends what you're looking for," is the last he'll say on his wing. G'laer's question on the pillow, that warrants a glimmer of annoyance on the young man's face, and a short, quick wave of his hand. He doesn't answer that, but when he steps out onto the ledge there's a wry, "What, you gonna decorate your ledge with that?" to his dragon. When they lift off, the pillow falls back to Teisyth's ledge, halfway-on, halfway-off, chewed, slobbered, falling apart, with very little stuffing. But it stays.

There's a nod of agreement to the first and no formal farewell. G'laer only follows as far as the green's wallow, arms folding over his chest in an uncharacteristic move as he observes the proceedings. Teisyth is quick to seize her poor, poor pillow as soon as Lythronath's through with it, turning immediately to bring it to her waiting greenrider with all the care one might afford an injured friend. The greenrider is frowning, but whether at his dragon or the one who was the architect of his current misfortune, the world may never know.