Logs:Quinlys, the Dragon Whisperer
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| RL Date: 22 March, 2013 |
| Who: Athimeroth, C'wlin, D'kan, Kazavoth, Olveraeth, Quinlys |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Actions, meet Consequences. Now shake hands and be good. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Arekoth/Mentions, H'kon/Mentions, Leova/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: D'kan-player may or may not have been letting Kazavoth imitate a certain dopey-sleepy golden retriever during this scene. Just sharing. Also, there are several cameos linked to the concurrent flight scene! The dragon pro directly related to this scene has been set in bold. |
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| The afternoon sunshine has long since disappeared, leaving only the humid chill of a 'Reaches spring. It seeps into the caverns and fights to overcome the hearths scattered throughout the barracks, but here in the training cavern it lies heaviest. D'kan is seated on one of the mismatched ladder-back chairs, which he's drawn to a spot against the wall where he can watch the comings and goings. Kazavoth has relocated from his couch and is now snoozing at the weyrling's feet. With his dark head resting on his forepaws, the newly earned wound can't really be seen yet, but the smell of redwort and the fainter underlying aroma of dried ichor might be telltale signs that stuff went down today. Plus, D'kan has an old pillowcase in his hands that just might hold the bloody feathers that earlier coated his lifemate. Quinlys did the rounds, earlier, checking in with weyrlings here and there as she went, though she's been secreted in the office ever since, even through the dinner hour, with a slow parade of weyrlings and assistants to keep her company at various points. Now, she and N'gan depart the office in tandem, the young Tillekian man heading straight back towards the barracks, the co-Weyrlingmaster's blue-eyed gaze following him squarely. It's only once he's well on his way that she turns, and only then that her gaze catches upon D'kan, and (it seems likely) catches a whiff of that smell. "What--?" As night falls, C'wlin leads -- Athimeroth leads -- his bronze back inside from what appears to have been an activity in bathing and oiling. The darkly weathered bronze gleams, the burnished shoulders glittering like metal-polished fire. The weyrling pair pauses, just at the moment that Quinlys and N'gan depart the office; momentarily, bronze riding weyrling watches the Tillekian for a moment before attention is arrested upon D'kan. He tilts his head to the side as Athimeroth seeks to find the highest ground possible, rustling oil-wet wings at his clutch brother. "D'kan?" C'wlin queries, also confused, moreso by the bag of bloody feathers. Kazavoth, who is really only lightly dozing at this point, shifts his head to the side so it's lying more on his right foreleg. It's hard to see details against his dark hide, but what is easy to see is the odd gash that shouldn't be there, especially now that it's been doused with redwort. D'kan gets to his feet, the pillowcase held tightly closed in one hand. "Ma'am," he offers hesitantly, glancing down at the brown before looking over at C'wlin and Athimeroth before turning back to Quinlys. "We had an accident today. With a wherry. I wanted to bring it to you after I finished cleaning, and... uh." He gestures slightly with the case. Quinlys' brow furrows, and it's obvious that her mind is working overtime behind those bright eyes: jumping from one piece of information to the next, all the way to... "What the shells were you trying to do? With a live wherry? They're far too young to be hunt-- he's hurt. How badly?" She crosses closer, dropping to her knees so that she can lean in and get a better look at that gash. It's not that she's ignoring C'wlin and Athimeroth, though as yet neither has received more than a passing glance: she's simply far more focused on the current potential disaster. "Throw the damn thing away; why would I want it? Tell me what the shell you think you were doing." "And..." C'wlin starts to prompt, watching D'kan from the corner of his eye as Quinlys' attention settles firmly upon his brownrider clutchmate. For the first time since hatching, Athimeroth abandons the high ground to skulk closer to Kazavoth eyes whirling a blue-yellow mixture as the other dragonet notes his brother's ill-fated slice. Lips thin, compressing the desire to ask further questions when the Weyrlingmaster speaks, though the once-harper moves to stand closer to the brownrider. Solidarity, bro? A rush of wind, gusty hot, envelopes, pushes; curiosity peaks, like the rising skeins of air pushes to the upper atmosphere. « Hunting. » Rough tenor states, satisfaction curling like the icy touch of true aether; that airless substance that encircles the world in diamond-studded darkness. Banners whip and crack in the force of such a mindscape, brilliant reds and blues. Whip-whip-whip. Approval, excitement, enjoyment: these are all of the emotions that his bronze brother feels so keenly. (Athimeroth to Kazavoth) D'kan looks baffled when he's ordered to throw it away. Then his eyes go to the pillowcase in his hands, and he quickly sets it on the chair he'd been in a moment before. "No, I meant... bring... the situation," he amends too late, shooting a worried look over at C'wlin. Kazavoth has stirred and slowly raises his head before cracking a wide-mouthed yawn, front paws reaching forward, spreading, then softly scraping talons back along the floor. At some coaxing from D'kan, the brown pushes to his feet until he's sitting on his back haunches and staring at Athimeroth with heavy blinks. "I'd dozed off. The night... and the sun." And D'kan has that baggy-eyed look like he could sleep on his feet right now. "Arekoth brought him a live wherry for some reason, and by the time H'kon and I got there..." He trails off and motions to the gash on Kazavoth's lower neck. Only the faintest wisps of fog roll along the link to tease at the edges of Athimeroth's. Kazavoth has had such a day. If only he were awake enough to share it. There was something... something good. Hazy images drift by, as helpful as cloud animals. « Hunting? » One of the cloud images coalesces into something wherry-shaped. « Oh yes. Hunting. » (Kazavoth to Athimeroth) Quinlys glances, just for a moment, at C'wlin, as if to measure him up under her gaze, though if that's so, theres no indication of what conclusion she reaches. Comprehension dawns in her expression when D'kan speaks again, though that is rather rapidly replaced with dismay, and then horror, culminating in outright anger - and that is new for the usually bubbly bluerider. "Arekoth," she says, imbuing the name's recitation with a whole host of emotions, none of them positive. "What the shells-- I want you to take him to see the dragonhealers, first thing tomorrow. I'll report what that menace of a brown is doing to the Weyrwomen. In the meantime: don't let him wander. Warn your clutchmates, too. Both of you. Stay away from that brown. It... doesn't look too deep, at least." Chaos, is Daehyeth's sudden, gleeful late night interjection into the thoughts of any awake Reachian dragon, a tornado tizzy of whirling spring flowers illustrating that non-verbalized word/emotion. (Daehyeth to all High Reaches dragons) In return, there's the abrupt sense of a fine, metallic mesh: the kind that sweeps over everything, encapsulating everyone. Cadejoth's mesh. Cadejoth's order. It's a warning; a challenge. A promise, maybe. (Cadejoth to all High Reaches dragons) Sudden rush of dry, hot wind flurries up from the distraction of the chaos blooming on his own front to touch upon the voice of someone new. The baby bronze's anarchist soul rushes to the forefront with encouragement, excitement; he gets drunk off of the dual fronts of battling the establishment. Banners snap crazily in the wind, raging dark blue with blood-red stripes while far below, hazy figures assemble on the blurred smear of green and blue; a world below. Cadejoth's order is rejected, denied. Until something else snaps the baby dragon's mind from the masses to something else. Hunting. (Athimeroth to all High Reaches dragons) To all High Reaches dragons, Hraedhyth's flames leap, drums skip a beat, surprise fading away as the rhythm returns to normal. Her inquiry is an easy one, bellowed across her plains with good humor, one member of a tribe to another. Ho there? Cadejoth's mesh is seen, acknowledged, fire glinting off the fine metal with unbothered amusement. Oh. To all High Reaches dragons, Tsanth cares not for any mesh. Sand, pebbles and little rocks. They slip past that warning. But don't worry, he's too sleepy to get up tonight to bother real hard. C'wlin's eyes widen ever-so-slightly when D'kan explains his predicament, attention shifting from clutch mate to the little brown -- they're both so little still! -- and then to Quinlys. Again, tongue is held but something deeper glitters in C'wlin's cold blue eyes. Something that perhaps reflects what Athimeroth might be conveying to Kazavoth as that moment the little bronze is (gently) nosing his brother's un-hurt haunch. As bronze weyrling looks to D'kan, come communication seems to be trying to be conveyed via expression, which might look a touch sly to Quinlys. Otherwise, vocal communication -- for the sake of his own skin! -- remains at a minimum, until: "Chaos." Accidentally echoing the gossiping dragons. Unbridled chaos revels in the sleepy fog of Kazavoth's touch; hot, gusty winds blowing it around as the bronze revels in the anarchy of such a thing. It's new, this swelling of feeling at the thought of saying no and doing your own thing. « If only I were there... » Mournful echoes roll across the plains, carried by strong, mental gusts. (Athimeroth to Kazavoth) To all High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth is abruptly silent again, but something of him lingers: a sense of claiming. Cadejoth has not abandoned High Reaches Weyr. Little Solith's less audible than movement, a skittering, netted and trying to get through... only to burst through all but what lingers as soon as the confines are released, momentum sending her tumbling out of the picture. (Solith to all High Reaches dragons) D'kan takes in a deep breath which... is probably just a little shaky at the end. It's been a long day. He lets it out and nods to Quinlys in acknowledgement to each command. "I will ma'am. Thank you." Relief is there, but when he looks to Kazavoth, there's still the lingering shadow of doubt. Kazavoth lifts his head and sniffs the air, then turns eyes of slowly whirling sky blue toward Quinlys. "I'm just so sorry," D'kan murmurs, reaching to touch Kaz's outstretched head. The apology could be to any in the room, but it's the brown D'kan is focused on. Then frowning at. Then, "What in Faranth's name is going on?" Did he catch C'wlin's look? Hard to say just yet. Twitch. Flick. Ah, youth. Hraedhyth is roused, protective jaws reaching for multiple scruffs, catching those dragonets who may be too interested. Warm, coarse fur curls around those innocent minds, hold easy but firm. None of that for you, pups. (Hraedhyth to all High Reaches dragons) Dervishes of Daehyeth's flower petals whirl intermittently throughout Reachian dragon minds. Chaos bubbles over, undampened by the non-Weyrleader's bronze and his order. Instead, it dances past Hraedhyth's flames and drums, some getting singed about the edges, floats over a baby bronze's rejection, and ultimately pays court in all its colorful rainbow hues to her somnolent wingleader's dragon, petering out only as sleep claims her. Even then, an ill-timed snore or sleeping sigh sends flowers everywhere. (Daehyeth to all High Reaches dragons) To Athimeroth, Kazavoth is overwhelmed by the voices cascading around them, it would seem, because when Athimeroth cuts through the din, Kazavoth's fog is swept away without a fight. What is left, however, is a colorless expanse, like the windswept bowl of an abandoned Weyr. « It was glorious, » he shares, so very softly, more so because of all the other voices in the air tonight, « but it hurt. » "How're you feeling, Kazavoth?" says Quinlys, directing her question to the brown himself, tone aiming for light, now. She won't let her gaze linger there for long, though, not when she can lift her chin to regard D'kan again, nodding once. "I'm sorry I doubted you," she says, quietly. "It looks like you did the best you could, in the situation. I--" She frowns, glancing from one weyrling to the other. Her head shakes. "Posturing, sounds like. Fools, the lot of them. As if this Weyr needs anything else to destabilise it. Chaos, indeed." To all High Reaches dragons, Cailluneth's curious moonlight reaches out, tendrils of quicksilver colour curling towards her clutchmates, her dam, vaporous towards those dragons yet unknown. A trail connects them, dusky purple and diaphanous, tracking the course of the conversation, analysing it in a cloud of isolating white, but finding no answers to solidify the cloud of her thought - though Daehyeth's bright colours entice her to peep beyond the protective fur swaddling her. "Mmmm," C'wlin makes noises of comment, though nothing fully concrete escapes whilst looking to D'kan, then to the brown. Sneaking a glance at Quinlys, the once-harper nods, "Posturing, it would seem." Something in his voice brings the hint of frown, though expression does not mirror what might linger in clear, tenor tones. Athimeroth rustles his wings, agitated by the chatter; a hint of a single touch of red color in glittering eyes might give hint at how much. Aether's wind does not rough trod his clutchbrother's open mindscape; rather the bronze merely shares in the brown's words, rolling them through the riotous paths of air in joyful, playful harmony. Plans formulate, then fall apart, only to formulate again. « But you will heal. And we will do it again. » Restraint is only barely there. (Athimeroth to Kazavoth) The force of the wind, the chill of the aether, and the humid heat where upper atmosphere meets lower atmosphere rolls around in that furry grip of Hraedyth's. A baby struggling against parent, there's no hope of escape, though glimpses through the gusts of forceful air give hint of whipping winds of plans. For this? No, perhaps not, but of other things? Yes-yes. Those hot, dry winds spread out once to touch clutchmates before collapsing in and drawing higher, higher, gone. (Athimeroth to all High Reaches dragons) Kazavoth still isn't entirely awake, acting more like a sleepy puppy than a three-sevens-old dragon. It's probably just as well, as the other dragons' posturing goes right over his tiny head. He peers directly up at Quinlys when she asks her question, then turns to his rider, who answers her. "It stung a lot at first. Flushed it out. Put redwort all over. I wasn't sure if I should oil it, or numbweed it, or... or what." D'kan shifts his feet awkwardly and looks over at Quinlys with half a grimace on his face. "It doesn't seem to bug him too much, but if he's like me, it's going to start itching." He rubs the back of his neck with harsh fingers that still bear the stains of inexpertly applying the redwort. "He, uh... did enjoy the wherry, at least." For Athimeroth, Olveraeth offers a sudden and abrupt wave of cooling blue: star-spangled and gentle. A moment later, he extends that towards Kazavoth, too, infusing it for both with thoughts of content and rest. "Numbweed is fine," says the bluerider, promptly. "And oil, too. If it itches. The dragonhealers'll tell you what to do, properly. Leova." If she doesn't sound like that particular greenrider's greatest fan, well, maybe that's just distraction! "Of course he did. They all do. But... not again, not til we're all doing it, properly supervised. I suppose it's something, anyway. C'wlin, is Athimeroth all right?" Youth, no matter how intelligent nor how canny it might be, is easily put to rest by the presence of an elder; Athimeroth might hold himself rigid, in one part confused, one part mollified by Olveraeth's cooling blue mist, but eventually he settles down. Wings fan out and then settle back again, against his back. "Yeah," C'wlin says slowly, brows drawing inward to frown. "Yeah, he is." Finally, more proper attention is settled on the Weyrlingmaster and then his clutchmate, "Yes, ma'am. He just got carried up in..." he waves a hand, indicating the air, "... all that, but I think it's all done with now." To D'kan, weyrling voices: "I'm glad he's okay." Perhaps a touch of what-might-be-envy alights on sharp, entitled features. "Leova, of course," D'kan repeats quietly, closing his eyes for a second. He might just be adding the mental note, or he might be kicking himself for not remembering sooner. "I will, ma'am. Thank you again." He gives C'wlin an emphatic nod of thanks, then finally manages a smile and a quiet word of thanks. "I think maybe I'll put on some of the numbweed, then walk around the bowl a little bit with Kaz before we head to bed. If that sounds good," he finishes with a look back to Quinlys. Most likely, Kazavoth needs to get the wherry moving. Which may or may not be a euphemism, Pern-style. Maybe it should be. In any case, the brown has risen to all four feet, dumbly looking toward the bowl as his head, tail and wings all droop. A brush of cool, clean air ripples along the link, too soft to be intruding, too cool to be an accident. « Fresh air? » he asks his clutchmate in tones that might convey the yawn he hasn't quite managed physically yet. It is an invitation. Kazavoth knows who holds the leash in Athimeroth's bond, yes? (Kazavoth to Athimeroth) Quinlys', "Ah," is full of layers of meaning: understanding, thoughtfulness, and probably all kinds of other stuff. "Well, as long as he's-- good. They're a bit much, sometimes. It's so strange, realising how much you were missing about what was going on in the Weyr, before-- anyway." The bluerider seems to have recognised that she's rambling, and, also, that D'kan is attempting to take his leave. Her nod, to him, is quick. "That sounds like a good idea," she says. "If it starts hurting in the night, you'll come find someone?" "I'll walk with you, D'kan," C'wlin comments, abruptly as if it were his own idea, after all, and not a push from the little bronze weathered beast that suddenly finds a measure of his heart's desire must be outside. That or someone's insatiably curious about the chaos that's ensuing with the Big Boys. "Ma'am," weyrling has not forgotten his harper lessons, Ceawlin surging to the forefront in perfection of formality of enunciation. For a single instant, the boy seems a hair off-kilter, as if something's missing before all is settled and right in his demeanor once again. Then, he's looking to D'kan. Pleasure ripples through the strength of his gale-force winds, like small eddies of calm, chilly cold aether, reached from far, far above the cobalt blue skies. « Yes. » Layers of meaning are woven of strands of air -- agreement, understanding, and recognition of Kazavoth's perception of what is correct -- twined in starlight as night progresses from his high-point vantage. Banner-flags whip less chaotically, drawn in soft, cooling blues, not unlike an echo of Olveraeth mists. « Tell me brother... » the young bronze's tenor is rough, yet carrying the calming hints of what might be a breeze instead of hurricane, « .. what it was like. » (Athimeroth to Kazavoth) "Absolutely," D'kan assures Quinlys, this time his smile coming a little more easily. To C'wlin, he hooks a thumb toward the bowl, mirroring Kazavoth's own invitation to Athmieroth just a moment before, and C'wlin's already there with the answer. Daww, pack walk. With a nudge from D'kan, Kazavoth starts moving toward the exit, and after a brief detour to get a jar of numbweed, they head out for a nice walk around the bowl to end the turbulent evening with a good dose of calm.
CommentsComments on "Logs:Quinlys, the Dragon Whisperer"H'kon (H'kon (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 15:02:33 GMT.
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 24 Mar 2013 22:00:12 GMT.
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Comments
Comments on "Logs:Quinlys, the Dragon Whisperer"H'kon (H'kon (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 15:02:33 GMT.
I don't know if being a 'good' father can be called being a 'menace'...
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 24 Mar 2013 22:00:12 GMT.
Ha! I liked seeing Quinlys angry. And sh'up, H'kon, Arekoth IS a menace! >:O D'kan is so responsible, and I like that Athimeroth so obviously wears the pants in that relationship.
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