Logs:Mirroring Mom
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| RL Date: 18 March, 2013 |
| Who: Hraedhyth, Rasavyth |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Rasavyth tries his hand at fire and drums. |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Szadath/Mentions |
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| Ratta-tat ratta-tat ratta-tatta tat tat. The sound reaches towards Hraedhyth's mind, touch curious. After a moment the hollow sound snare drum is replace by the thum-thum-thump ba-ba-boom of deeper, more resonant drums. It's an attempt at mimicry, not the best. But who can blame the dragon who's only heard those drums at bedtime? (Rasavyth to Hraedhyth) To Rasavyth, Hraedhyth's fire crackles along with that sharp little snare, distant heat rolling over the bronze's young mind. Hot, don't touch. Though the flames will leap and twist for him, following the beat of those off-sounding drums. Her own soon swell, a better reference for the thumping affection, the pride for Rasavyth simply being. And still, dam's full intensity is carefully kept at bay. Ah-ha! Now here is something he can properly reflect. His clever mind catches aflame, like a match set to a trail of oil, it pops and then races along before fizzling out. A second try has it catching in his touch and the heat reflects back to the gold, homogenizing the temperature of their touches, or mostly. He struggles to keep up the heat for long. Tha-thump! His drum is guided by hers, following her rhythm step by step. It's a little like watching a feline follow a mouse, trying to reach beyond his current ability, to become better. (Rasavyth to Hraedhyth) There is no surprise from Hraedhyth for his cunning, but the attempt made has an amused snort of soot blowing his way. Very good. There's no attempt made to snuff his fire, to warn the pup that he might strain himself. The queen's touch might seem distant if not for the warmth that blankets not only Rasavyth's mind, but those of his siblings. She is constant, she is there, but she does not smother. That rhythm suddenly picks up, not terribly complex but quick enough to be a challenge-- repeating it only once more before her beats return to their usual tempo. Now what will he do? (Hraedhyth to Rasavyth) A challenge! How very exciting! Rasavyth's fires wane to smoldering coals as he focuses his efforts on the changing rhythm. His drums echo hers, combine with hers, to make a different sound than her music alone. He has to cheat to catch up a few times, occasionally getting too bogged down in the details to project the grander picture. Eventually, when he's got the hang of it fairly well, he starts to experiment with his own rhythms. Just an added beat here and there, one or two measures of music different than the rest. The flames have been forgotten entirely as he immerses himself in drumbeats. (Rasavyth to Hraedhyth) To Rasavyth, Hraedhyth, again, merely watches. Listens. There's a savage sound beneath those drums, a steady heartbeat, the march of gruesome soldiers, the pounding of dancing feet. There are layers to his dam, glimpses that she offers as a possible reward for the bronze's ambitious nature. Even still, those aspects of her are muted to protect Rasavyth's admittedly quick, but still so young, mind. The queen growls in approval for such variation on her initial challenge, joyous beats beginning to blend overwhelming emotion with his own cerebral efforts. Much as Rasavyth's mind is willing, his youth betrays him. While it's easy to sense that there is little young about this mind, his physical limitations are that of any other dragonet. The drum beats falter and then slow to an even thu-thump, thu-thump, that goes from sounding like a drum to sounding like a slow and even heartbeat. The reflection of her own way of being fades into the sweet and charming ooze that is Ras' personal touch. It's transparent over a dark void, glittering with faint humor at its edges. This was fun. He enjoyed it, and that feeling is warm and is offered towards the gold by way of thanks for the exercise. (Rasavyth to Hraedhyth) To Rasavyth, Hraedhyth does not immediately stop to coddle him, carrying on for as long as he is able as she brushes over his thoughts with tendrils of black smoke. He doesn't need to be babied, does he? A realization. For a moment, it'll sound of two heart beats, one much larger given her heavier strikes to drumskin. Growls rasp into a chuckle, tongue of flame swiping over Rasavyth once, twice. It's not that she's trying to annoy him, for all that she pulsates with that same pride and joy. His thanks is snatched up, stolen away as a trophy for as long as draconic memory allows: mom pinning up a drawing. For all that she doesn't smother, she's still' his dam. To Hraedhyth, Rasavyth, a baby? Having needs to be babied? The very idea affronts the bronze baby. He is too tired to stretch his mind too far, but he makes the effort to snatch a small tendril of her flame and claim it for his own, mimicking the birth of a dragon from an egg of flame. Then the flame grows, bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until he's all but completely spent, and then it extinguishes. No babying needed. He is strong! (Or so he supposes.) And clever! And a force to be reckoned with. These feelings temper back into the transparent ooze of charm. She can think of him as her son, for now. But one day, in not so many turns, he will prove himself worthy of being seen differently. Not as son. But as bronze. To Rasavyth, Hraedhyth does not patronize with her attention, the sizzling focus all too genuine as he steals from her hearth. It is not with anger, but curiosity as flame's egg cracks and grows into a fiery, ideal beast. Humid exhale blows away the ashes of his efforts, grooming him while the gold can only agree. He is of Her. He is of Szadath. He can only be strong. Her throat rasps with a hum of understanding, contralto born from the growl so that she may impart a bit of wisdom, « You are of our tribe. » Of High Reaches. « You are already worthy. » In this moment, he is seen as both bronze and son, though not bronze as he means it. To Hraedhyth, Rasavyth might think to reply, but his physical limit is met, and exhaustedly his mind gives in. Her words of affirmation ensnare his young mind like a hug he didn't know he wanted, and that, more so even than the drums and her persistent blanket of warmth lull him into sleep. Unguarded dreams begin to zip rapidly across the deteriorating connection between the two dragons: flight, growth, golds, and dragonchess pieces in a complex dance. Then the connection fizzles out and if reached for, the bronze's mind is drowsy mask of sleep once more. To Rasavyth, Hraedhyth's lullaby follows him to slumber, a constant promise that she is there. That his dreams, those cunning ambitions, will be watched over in the inevitable vulnerability that sleep brings. Only when that connection begins to dissipate does the gold smooth over his thoughts one last time with a tenderness thought impossible of the brash warrior. If not for that continuous soothing rhythm, her retreat would be a quiet one.
CommentsAlida (Alida (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 19 Mar 2013 06:05:32 GMT. <
I love that so much of it is without words...just complex feelings and images. Hrae is a dragon after part of my own heart, and as for Ras... Just *wow*. So complex!
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Comments
Alida (Alida (talk)) left a comment on Tue, 19 Mar 2013 06:05:32 GMT.
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I love that so much of it is without words...just complex feelings and images. Hrae is a dragon after part of my own heart, and as for Ras... Just *wow*. So complex!
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