Logs:Welcoming Committee of One
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| RL Date: 4 October, 2013 |
| Who: K'zin, Rasavyth, N'dalis, Suraieth, N'rov, Vhaeryth |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: N'dalis and Suraieth come to visit Suraieth's sort-of-sibling-eggs. K'zin and Rasavyth are the welcoming committee. N'rov and Vhaeryth play cavalry. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Ebeny/Mentions, E'dre/Mentions, E'ten/Mentions, Telavi/Mentions |
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| To local dragons, Suraieth bursts from between, identifying herself to the watchdragon with a wash of cool blue water; she circles once, then dips lower over the bowl, coming down to a landing not far from the hatching grounds. She's obviously pleased to be here, if in a restrained, logical way: genuine curiosity radiates from those otherwise-still waters of hers, sending little ripples here and there. Somewhere, among the collected consciousness that are the dragon minds within reach, there's an interested shimmer against an apparent nothingness of empty space. From the shimmer comes a tenor purr of welcome, the words covered in oozy charm. Apparently Fortian greens are welcome, while Fortian bronzes... Well, would anyone really blame Rasavyth for preferring visitors of Suraieth's color? (To local dragons from Rasavyth) Well, it's only logical to prefer visitors of Suraieth's color, really; perhaps it's even only logical to prefer Suraieth, though that's not a point she will presently argue. If she's pleased by Rasavyth's welcome, it's hidden in deep shadows far beneath the smooth surface of her thoughts - for now, she attends, instead, to seeing to the safe dismount of her passengers, and the short flight up to the hatching ledges. (To local dragons from Suraieth)
Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black. The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat. The ooze drifts nearer, drawn to the logical mind. Curiosity extends in tendrils, the tendrils all but invisible with their tiny sparkles here and there. Rasavyth observes a moment longer before he lets the sensation of flight briefly be shared along with physical nearness, as the slender bronze wings away from his ledge and down to those dotting the hatching cavern, angling for the one nearest where the Fortian green has taken up temporary residence. « Egg gazing, or merely waiting? » He queries once he's settled and hidden the brilliance of his underwings in a wrap that shows only the dull top-sides, curled about him like a cloak. (To local dragons from Rasavyth) There's an interloper in the galleries! Granted, Dal's not an especially interloper-y one, not with his green having so broadly introduced herself, and his four-turn-old son now making his presence known as, squealing contentedly, he hurries towards the frontmost rows. The greenrider - the weyrling, still, if we're being truthful - is a little more restrained, though his footsteps hasten rather deliberately when the boy starts making so much noise. "Jay. Come back." « Can it not be both? » returns Suraieth, folding her wings tidily back behind her as she settles upon the ledge. There's almost no sign of the scar tissue that once kept her from the air, now: just some paler marks upon those green sails, easily missed. « They are kin to me and mine, » she adds, « and so I am curious. » (To Rasavyth from Suraieth) Just once K'zin would like to walk into the galleries in his home and not find interlopers. Maybe, he'd hoped this would be the lucky time, and that small smile he gets upon inspecting the galleries might just be because N'rov is not apparent. His eyes are, however, scanning for a foreign knot and it takes N'dalis and the tot. The bronzerider's approach is casual, thumbs tucked into pockets as he follows the taller of the pair at a polite distance. N'dalis catches up with the child before anything especially untoward happens (no 'child running amuck on the sands breaking eggs'; that really would be bad for inter-Weyr relations), scooping him up into his arms, and from there, up to his shoulders. "Stay with daddy," murmurs the weyrling, who turns - and catches sight of K'zin as a result. He doesn't smile, though his nod is polite enough, and nor does he seem to see the bronzerider as anything but someone to pass on his way to an empty row of seats. « It can. » Rasavyth allows without having to give it any thought. Which is good, since his mind is engaged now by the other thing she said. Related to these eggs. « Are they? Are you of Vhaeryth's line? Did I watch you hatch? » Most dragons would have long since lost the memories of the long-ago Fort hatching, but after a moment, the bronze conjures brief flashes of vivid images of this green finding her mate, and that one. One is, in fact, Suraieth and N'dalis, because Rasavyth was there and watching. (To Suraieth from Rasavyth) To Rasavyth, Suraieth does not know, for herself, whether Rasavyth saw her hatch or not, but she accepts the images he conjures with interest, a low wave dancing about her thoughts as it rolls in towards the shore. « And so you must have, » she confirms. « I do not remember it, myself. I have always had my N'dalis. He has not always had me, but we have remedied that, at least. » "You could let him run. I'm sure Iesaryth and Vhaeryth would be very understanding about a little on the sands." K'zin offers to the weyrling with a congenial smile before his eyes move past the older man to the eggs. "He like the eggs?" He asks of the youngster. "Yours is the green?" He adds after another brief moment of looking at the eggs, his eyes flick back to the Fortian. « And well for it. » The remedy. « It is tragic they have to spend so many turns without us. » The tenor purrs conversationally, the oozy charm the dominant feel of his mind, though on the very edge there's a constant current of amusement and just a little hint that something is not right. Rasavyth shifts nearer, hopping from his ledge down to the unoccupied expanse of hers, whirling gaze measuring her. She doesn't look defective. But she is Vhaeryth's daughter... He looks closer. (To Suraieth from Rasavyth) "I get this feeling that you're not being wholly serious with that remark," replies Dal, turning his head to regard K'zin with more consideration, this time, as he scoops the child down from his shoulders and sets him - bodily - onto a nearby seat. The child wiggles, but doesn't yet make any attempt to escape. "He does. I'm not sure he's happy with the idea of eggs turning in to dragons, but he's seen it before, so- well. Yes; that's my Suraieth. And yours, I assume is the bronze she's talking to." To Rasavyth, Suraieth does not feel defective. It doesn't seem to bother her, though: being studied. She fastens a consideration glance on the bronze, and then stills - he would have to know her an awful lot better to be able to decipher the low, faint twitch of her tail. « It turns them in to who they must be, » she answers. « If he had not been without me, he would not be himself. He would not have been my N'dalis. Why do you look at me so? » K'zin grins, "Yeah?" Amusement plays on his face, "Alright, you've caught me. I confess it. I might be exaggerating. Still, I think a few sandholds could improve the place, and who better than a little?" His smile becomes more genuine at that, looking to the child. "I'd think the dragons coming out of the eggs would be more exciting than the eggs themselves. That's the part I always liked, not that I saw them when I was as young as he is." Even approximating. "K'zin," He offers, "'Reaches duties to Fort. And yes, that's Rasavyth." N'dalis doesn't smile - really, it doesn't seem like he ever smiles - but there's nonetheless some sense that he's amused by K'zin: some hint about the corners of his mouth; some lightness in his gaze. He sits, extending one hand for his son to play with, though the child seems more interested in squirming higher to get a better view of the clutch. "I think so, too," he agrees. "Although I've only seen the one hatching, and I was on the sands for that; I suspect that's different. N'dalis - Dal. Fort's duties to High Reaches. And this is Jay." Feelings can be deceptive. Rasavyth isn't making any attempt to hide his scrutiny. His ooze reflects briefly a wave, a replica of the one that danced and rolled toward the shore in her mind. « I'm gathering information. Perhaps Vhaeryth's seed will not poison good 'Reaches dragons. » The eggs. « And you are nice to look at. » Maybe he should have led with that, but no one's yet called Rasavyth a Romeo even if he can sometimes be a charmer. The later is a perk of his investigation. « Also, intelligent. It is not every green I've spoken with who would deduce such a thing. We bring them to their true selves. » He agrees. (To Suraieth from Rasavyth) If only Suraieth paid more attention to lineages, she might have a counter argument to make regarding Vhaeryth's seed (and perhaps Iesaryth's, too) - alas. « I do not see how I look as being particularly relevant, » she answers, not coolly, but without any especial warmth. « You imply that greens are not, generally, as intelligent as others. » There are lurking shadows in her thoughts, now. (To Rasavyth from Suraieth) If the bronzerider is bothered by the lack of smile, it doesn't show in his expression. He slides into a seat across the aisle but at a level with the Fortians so he can continue to make conversation. K'zin's hands clasp between his knees and elbows lean mid-thigh. "It is different to be down there. It's still exciting to watch from the sands, but the action's so much more real when you're face to face with breaking eggs and Impressions happening all around. Though, I'm glad it's the kind of thing you only do once, if you're lucky. My heart was pounding the day the eggs hatched." He glances toward man and boy, "Maybe you'll have a chance to come back for the hatching. Perk of dragons, you can get yourself where you like to be and be in a position to hear about things like that in the first place." « It isn't particularly relevant, » Rasavyth responds with a little wave of amusement, once again mimicking the sensations he's discovered so far in her touch. « It is, however, more pleasant to be surrounded by things that are nice to look at, and if I can enjoy the way you look while gathering information, that's better than finding you repugnant and looking anyway, is it not? It's nicer to enjoy one's work. » Apparently, this is somehow his job. « There is no implication of the kind. Simply the fact that I know a green who is sweet, but simple-minded. She lacks the same insight you have. Surely, you would not argue that dragons are not as unique to one another as each human to its kind? » (To Suraieth from Rasavyth) "Mine, too. It was - intense. I don't know that I expected to Impress at all, really, and then Su was there and... that was it, really." N'dalis does smile, this time, in a faraway kind of way that suggests his thoughts are with his dragon and not his conversational partner. "I'd like that. We'd like that, I'm sure. Besides, these dragons are half-siblings to my Su. It seems only right to support Fortian eggs." He doesn't seem to be aware of the potential minefield he's stepping into with that remark; his tone edges towards being utterly calm. « Of course they are, » confirms Suraieth, cool and dark and not untroubled. « But I should imagine that referring to my intelligence in relation to my color implies a certain something. I imagine you know many greens, and we are all different - just as I know many bronzes. » And browns. And blues. And probably golds, too. « I am myself. My color is merely one small part of me. A descriptor, not a definition. » (To Rasavyth from Suraieth) Bonding over bonding is brought to an abrupt pause as K'zin tilts his head and he examines the weyrling in much the same way that his lifemate is still eyeing up the green above. He sits on the same level as the Fortian man and his son, but across the aisle. "They're eggs laid by a 'Reaches queen. If they were Fortian eggs, they'd be on Fortian soil. I thought Fortians, with their hard history of eggs were very conscious of what was theirs and what isn't when it comes to eggs. These are Iesaryth's." Who is only 'Reaches by trade anyway, but who's keeping track? Naturally N'rov doesn't show up in time to help anything, but well after N'dalis' monster is secured, the bronzerider shows up in one of those tunnels that exit onto the sands; he pauses just long enough to hang up his long coat and he's making his way across the sands towards the galleries. Not quickly: that way lies falling on his face, which just won't do. Vhaeryth and Iesaryth get side comments on the way that hold a tinge of humor, and one egg, a familiar pat as he passes by. Stiffening, as he listens to K'zin's reply, N'dalis' expression turns sharper and cooler, though not altogether unfriendly. He turns his head, checking on the boy beside him, and in doing so catches sight of N'rov on his way in. Without turning his gaze back towards K'zin, the greenrider says, "They're half-Fortian, I should think. I don't mean to claim them for Fort, only to acknowledge their lineage. I assure you, there's nothing wrong with Vhaeryth's lineage, part-High Reachian as it is." To Suraieth, Rasavyth's ooze shimmers and his sigh is more of a feeling than a sound. « The fact that you fixate on the fact that I used 'greens' rather than 'dragons' suggests that you have a predisposition to feeling sub-standard as a dragon. Are all of your clutchmates so insecure as you? I used green as a descriptor for a smaller segment of a population, not as a judgment. Not all bronzes would have observed the same, nor brown, nor blue, nor even gold. » Though the last, perhaps he feels less sure of placing on the same level as all the other colors, but that might just be the instinctive nature of dragon hierarchy playing in. « Would it have pleased you better if I had said dragons instead of greens? » He finds this a tiresome argument, the weary feeling laced with a sensation that he's had this unfortunate discussion before. To Rasavyth and Vhaeryth, Suraieth, her still-waters so disturbed, her disapproval veritably humming in her thoughts, seeks out Vhaeryth, now, to include him in this conversation. « Rasavyth, » she tells her sire, « seems to believe I feel sub-standard, because I am green. » And what else would she be? Purple? « It is illogical. I am Suraieth, not 'a green', and not 'a dragon'. Do you not agree, Vhaeryth? » Perhaps their line really is superior. It's certainly less inbred. "Can you? So glad that a weyrling who's attended one hatching in his life can assure me of that." K'zin answers, baritone now unkind. It only takes the one glance toward the sands that takes in N'rov's approach to have the 'Reaches rider pulling onto his feet. "They're 'Reaches eggs, no matter where the sire was shelled. He's our guest here, and right now, so are you. I'd mark your Weyrlingmaster's lessons on manners when visiting other Weyrs better, if I were you." At least, this time when he moves past N'rov to the exit, he offers politely, "Bronzerider." To Vhaeryth and Suraieth, Rasavyth is suddenly so genuinely contrite. « Oh, I am sorry, Suraieth, if I left you with the impression that you feeling sub-standard was a result of the color issue you're so fixated on. I thought it was clear. You feel sub-standard because he is your sire. It's unfortunate that you have such daddy issues as well. » Poor thing. He's slipped right off the ledge and taken wing, his mind abruptly and solidly walled to further words or attempts to communicate. Whatever N'rov might have heard, and it can't be all that much unless Vhaeryth had a hand in things, his would-be grin of greeting for the Fortian pair that even would include K'zin on its fringes turns to... a questioning look tilted the latter's way, and a single, lifted brow. "Evening, rider," he returns, watching him for a moment before returning to N'dalis and his offspring. He waits until K'zin's further along before both brows go up in a question for the remaining rider, though for the boy's sake, it doesn't make it into his drawl: "Welcome to, ah. High Reaches." N'dalis's mouth opens with a snap, but words fail to follow: he's left to simply stare after K'zin, so bewildered it's likely he can't even find it within himself to be frustrated, annoyed or angry. His son's hand grabbing, suddenly more active, and the addition of N'rov's greeting bring him back to himself; Jay gets hoisted up onto his knees, and for N'rov there's a: "I seem to have offended him. He implied that I've forgotten my manners." There's a question in his expression, too: is High Reaches always like this? « Of course you are Suraieth, » Vhaeryth's already begun to reply, warmth there for the younger dragon, even if it's more complacent given how his eggs and his queen are in attendance... not to mention the lingering aftereffects of his nap. But with the younger bronze's reply, his departure, there's a sudden shift of glass-against-metal that's another beast entirely. (To Suraieth and Rasavyth from Vhaeryth) In privacy, it's simple: « What? » (To Suraieth from Vhaeryth) Rasavyth's parting lob results in something akin to a hurricane in the usually so-placid waterscape of her thoughts, that calm and composure lost altogether as righteous fury takes flight. But Vhaeryth's warm, and he is staying and... she can block Rasavyth as easily as he can block her. So there. (To Vhaeryth and Rasavyth from Suraieth) To Vhaeryth, Suraieth attempts, not with a great deal of success, to curb her sudden emotions. « He implied that I was intelligent for a green. » She took affront, clearly. « And now he insults you, and my lineage, and those eggs. He's rude. » "What the shell...s on the sands, sitting there calmly?" N'rov drags his gaze from where it had jerked down to the boy, back to the boy's father; he rocks his jaw forward and then back into place. "I don't know what went down," he says more tersely. "He doesn't talk to me much, for what that's worth. But you," his expression is wry. "Can't imagine you being all offensive anywhere." He doesn't take offense when it comes to those emotions of hers; they can roll right through that glass and back again if she chooses, or even if she doesn't. But he does inquire, a little too teasingly to be truly deadpan, « But is he rude for a bronze? » (To Suraieth from Vhaeryth) Jay, at least, seems to be well occupied staring at the eggs... but not, for the moment, making any further attempts at escape or potential egg-mutilation. "I implied that the eggs were part Fortian," admits the boy's father, apologetic for it. "Which they are... but perhaps it wasn't entirely politic? I suppose it must be difficult, for some of them, to see their bronzes and browns outflown by an outsider, though I'm not sure I should care, especially, were it our Isyath. Jay - sit still, please?" Huffing - because she doesn't see much to tease about, in this, though she's certainly identified the tease - Suraieth says, « Rude for a dragon. » Her tides are calming, now, though, wind leaving nothing but ripples upon the water's surface, hiding away those emotions. « What is it like, here? Is it like home? » (To Vhaeryth from Suraieth) Fine, fine. « Is he more rude than Wroth? » Vhaeryth wants to know. « Is he more rude than... Adiulth? » That one, at least, should be easy! « It is not like home. But it is not so bad; many come to see us, » as she does, and there's that deep, easy warmth again. « 'The best way to give credit is to give it away.' » (To Suraieth from Vhaeryth) « Wroth is different. » Adiulth, in this context, does not need further mention; the answer is obvious. Still, she's fond of Vhaeryth's mysticism - it is, after all, a trait she has inherited to some degree - and it, too, provides further succour to her discontent; all is well. « That is so, » she agrees. « And all journeys end. In time, you will come home to us. » (To Vhaeryth from Suraieth) "They are," N'rov agrees. "I mean, it's not like we're going to chop out half of each one, or even half of all of them, and bring any of them home. Not even 'Your left wing is Fortian,'" though the bronzerider does look tempted by the thought. He settles in a seat below the two of them and mentions with a nod to the boy, "I've got some water and a couple of things for him to eat, if you want." Probably other drinks that aren't so kid-friendly, too, but those aren't on offer. "Just as well you don't care; won't say it wouldn't chap my hide. But if anyone gives you flak, tell them that Vhaeryth's sire is from High Reaches, not that he ever visited, not that you have to tell them that last part. They might have to actually think a minute." « He is 'different,' » Vhaeryth agrees, in his wingmate's absence good-humored about him. Or, at least, good-humored about poking fun at him. « We will come home, » he even agrees there too, though there's a ghostly image of Iesaryth occupying his ledge as he does so. Also, eggs, nestled right there on top. « Will you greet us, when we return? » Will there be fanfares? There should. There really should. (To Suraieth from Vhaeryth) "Perhaps they'll all feel a sudden urge to be at Fort, one day, and flock home," muses N'dalis, in as close to a joke as he ever gets, as if dragons were geese or swans or some other kind of flocking bird. He turns down the offer of refreshments with a quick shake of his head, however grateful, and explains, "It'll be nap time, soon. Have to get him home, sooner rather than later. I - " A pause. "Did mention that Vhaeryth was half-High Reachian. He mocked me for pretending I knew anything, being only a weyrling who has attended a single hatching in his life. Next time, I think I'll keep my mouth closed. I hope Jay never turns into a mouthy teen, like that." To Vhaeryth, Suraieth, here, finds one of those ways in which she and her sire are different, quite in contrast to that earlier similarity. « That would be silly, » she tells him. « I will greet you when I see you, if I see you, but I shall not make a scene of it. You ought to be at home. It will only be a return to things as thy ought to be. » N'rov has to grin at that, suddenly boyish, if only for his dragon's dragons' sake. "Wouldn't that be a sight? Maybe they will... if only for betweening practice," he adds with a touch of regret, as though that homing instinct were still the image he'd like to keep. "Wouldn't want to get in the way of that nap, lest he turn mouthy sooner over later. Were you never mouthy? Hard to believe any boy wasn't." He glances towards the Bowl, and says more quietly, "No idea how old he is, except I figure we're both older by a few, but that's got to be awkward. Might not have much to do with you, though." « What about when I visit? » Vhaeryth immediately asks. « Does that count? » Something about laundry. (To Suraieth from Vhaeryth) Jay is getting tired - must be, the way he's squirming into his father's chest, now, leaving Dal to try and adjust him, and give N'rov an apologetic glance. "I went off and married the wrong girl," admits the weyrling, looking back down at the product of that marriage, fondness too obvious in his expression to suggest he regrets that decision. "It does seem like his problem is with you, yes. I - hope it isn't too difficult. I should take him." Jay, presumably, and not K'zin: standing, his arms full of small child, is unlikely to do much good in knocking sense into teens. « No. » Of that, Suraieth is certain. « It does not. » She's rising, now, wings rustling and drawing themselves ready for flight. « It was good to see your clutch, Vhaeryth. You are not a rude dragon. » For the moment. (To Vhaeryth from Suraieth) For the moment. « Remember, Suraieth, » Vhaeryth informs his direct descendant. « 'A great pleasure in life is doing what others say you can't.' » He pauses significantly, even as he rises likewise, though his wings' rustle is not for flight. « Return when you can. » Fine lines connect her with the web of eggs for a moment, paralleling a line that stretches from Jay into... nowhere, not yet, not that Vhaeryth knows. (To Suraieth from Vhaeryth) N'rov rises when his dragon does, and not without a half-smirk for Dal's youthful impetuousness; that fate, at least, he may be said by most to have escaped. "I was going to say, actually, it might have to do with a case of thicktail. Or his mother's sick, or his leathers itch. Or," he shrugs grandly. "Maybe it's me. I can take some credit. Sorry it didn't go well for you, Dal, but glad you both stopped by. Shani will be sorry she missed you." He glances towards where the pair had sat, checking for any forgotten jacket or child-sized shoe or whatever, preparatory to walking them out. And with Suraieth still so young, Vhaeryth will keep tabs until she's betweened safely back into Laurienth's care. To Vhaeryth, Suraieth is pleased by this wisdom; pleased by what it encourages. « I will, » she promises, as she adds her own connecting line between herself and her N'dalis, to complement that which extends to Jay. She will never - no matter how hard she tries - carry on Vhaeryth's line, but through Jay, oh yes. He is part of her tapestry. With that, she draws back: Suraieth and her boys? They're homeward bound. |
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