Logs:The Tale of the Sulkdragon
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| RL Date: 26 September, 2014 |
| Who: C'stian, Telavi |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Liesanth tells Solith about his injury and she brings him a present. |
| Where: Fort Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: D'medor/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Lilah/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
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| Another late evening, another green dragon with too much time on her nimble paws, another greeting-- light, by now, no real concern about disturbing him-- « Li-ii-iesanth! » Hi. (To Liesanth from Solith) The winds of Liesanth's mental voice are hardly a zephyr this time, more like the sluggish, hot winds of summer. Heavy with a sort of lingering resentment. Still, he perks up slightly at the green's touch. « Solith. How are the little ones? » (To Solith from Liesanth) Solith all but hovers when she runs into that sluggishness, stalled; more tentatively, « They are fine. They sleep, mostly-- or did you mean the little ones that are not so little? They do not live here anymore. » Despite the difference in his demeanor, she doesn't ask in so many words, not yet. (To Liesanth from Solith) « Soon we will have little ones again, » Liesanth replies, and there's a touch of interest at the prospect; he's never had younger dragons around the weyr to influence. He's met littler ones before, of course -- Solith has been there -- but none of them were Fort's. Still, his overall tone is still sullen, sulking. (To Solith from Liesanth) Solith may be pleased at the prospect, if less out-and-out sparkly than she might have been were her own set-- sets-- further in her past; « Will you help them be Fast? » she wonders, still a touch tentative. This won't be something that Liesanth will keep to himself, or will it? (To Liesanth from Solith) « Yes. » A pause, those winds stirring slowly, and then Liesanth admits, « When I can be fast again, too. When I can fly again. » (To Solith from Liesanth) Shock! Dismay! « You... cannot fly?! » Solith breathes. (To Liesanth from Solith) A sense of injury, a streak of pain along the back near a wing-joint. A sense of bandage, of restraint, of being stuck. Trapped. « I cannot fly. I cannot go to my own weyr. I am a lump, like a stupid wherry or a herdbeast, and it is all his fault. » (To Solith from Liesanth) This is awful, a queasy stench on the wind, though Solith doesn't interrupt in words. It's after she's sure he won't say more that she lets it escape. « Why not? What happened? » It wasn't his rider... was it?! (To Liesanth from Solith) « My clutch-brother. » A sense of lightning, of flames, of anger. « He never chased before. He saw I was going to win, and he was angry, because he knew I was Faster and Stronger, so he attacked me. » A pause, and he adds, « My rider says it was an accident. » Maybe Liesanth is less convinced. (To Solith from Liesanth) « That is a mean thing to do. » That is not okay. It shivers as she does, that lightning lingering as an aftershock, the anger even worse. She's not one to disbelieve her own rider, and so there's much more hesitation when she asks, « Is he not right? » (To Liesanth from Solith) There's a surge of anger in those winds, as if they carry the heat of a distant wildfire. But then it dies down slightly, and Liesanth -- perhaps under the influence of his rider's earlier ministrations -- admits, « I don't know. He is mean, but I think he is also lonely, and maybe that is why. I do not understand him. » (To Solith from Liesanth) She retreats, a bit, from that surge; she sidles a touch nearer again after, though not quite as close. She's also... confused, not like it's so difficult to do so; « Your clutchmate? » Just to make sure. (To Liesanth from Solith) « Yes. Thrakth. » Liesanth clarifies. « Another bronze. My rider thinks we should try to get along. That maybe Thrakth will be less mean if he is less lonely. » (To Solith from Liesanth) « I like your name better, » Solith decides, though it's not as though she's shown preference for names in the past. But for the rest, « I do not understand. How can he be lonely? » The breeze shapes the many others in its absence: his clutch, what she imagines of it, his Weyr likewise. (To Liesanth from Solith) « Because he is... angry. Mean. No one wants to be near him. Jynth doesn't like him, I don't like him. » Liesanth trails off, and preens slightly under Solith's compliment. Of course his name is better! « I like your name, as well. » (To Solith from Liesanth) « Thank you, » the green genuinely gladdened to hear it, though that pleasure frays at the edges. Because, « If he is mean, it is no wonder that no one wants to be near him. No one should have to be near him. But he should not be on his own, » so complicated! (To Liesanth from Solith) Liesanth's mental touch fidgets now; like leaves being carried by the wind, rather than the wind itself. He's not happy sitting in the dragon infirmary. He wants his own wallow, he wants to be able to fly again. He wants the wind and the clouds and the sky. « My rider wants us to try being friends, » he notes, his tone still somewhat sulky. It's Thrakth who stole those skies and winds from him, after all. (To Solith from Liesanth) He wants, he wants, he wants. His rider wants. Mean Thrakth. It is Not Right. « Is your rider friends with his? » she wonders. Friends with, associated with, close in any way at all? (To Liesanth from Solith) « No. But my rider was a Healer. He was angry at first -- as angry as me -- but now he thinks things can be fixed. Be healed. » Liesanth sounds less certain; he loves his rider, he trusts him, but he's also got a deep and abiding resentment towards Thrakth right now. (To Solith from Liesanth) Such conviction readily sways Solith, at least for now; « It will not take long for you to be healed, will it? » His poor back! Really, Thrakth did not do right by Liesanth at all. (To Liesanth from Solith) « They say I will fly again soon.» Now Liesanth's voice is more triumphant. « And next time I chase, I will win. » Sure he will. Because so far, he's at zero victories out of eight flights. (To Solith from Liesanth) « Of course you will. » Solith is confident in this! Of course, her mind's eye portrays a vision of stone and sky with Tooth Crag on one end and High Reaches' Spindles on the other, a vision that one might hope she does not use for the weyrlings' betweening practice; behind the Spindles is a gigantic and completely un-glowing flag, all set to be swept down when a racer gets there first. (To Liesanth from Solith) Despite Liesanth's sulky mood, the mental winds pick up their pace somewhat; a space laid out specifically for racing is something that definitely draws the bronze's interest. « When I am healed, I will come and race there! » (To Solith from Liesanth) « Do! » It can't matter that this place doesn't really exist, can it? Or, maybe, it's a metaphor for racing from Fort to High Reaches and back. In the snow. Against the wind both ways. Not to bring Liesanth back to sulkiness or anything, not on purpose anyway, Solith asks, « What do you do now, while you wait? » Her mind's eye has him lounging while his rider oils and oils him, tending to every little bit that so much as dreamed of being scratchy. (To Liesanth from Solith) The answer, instead, is an image of sitting in the dragon infirmary, boredom hanging over everything like a cloud. It's a very melodramatic image, but after a moment, Liesanth does add two other elements -- his rider, tending to him between what appear to be other duties in the infirmary -- and another rider, Thrakth's, coming to apologize and offer gifts. So perhaps he's not suffering quite so much as he might like everyone to believe. (To Solith from Liesanth) Such a lugubrious image. It weighs Solith down, too... until the green brightens. Presents. « Which presents does he like? » His rider. Hers likes presents, too, is her tangential thought. More importantly in the moment, « Which presents do you like? » His choices: a large, slow wherry or a small-- maybe bony-- fast one. (To Liesanth from Solith) The smaller, faster one; is there any doubt that Liesanth likes a challenge? « But the slow one would taste better, » the bronze admits grudgingly. The image of D'medor's apology basket apparently contains food. It's not detailed in Liesanth's mental sending, as it was rider food -- small portions, things like cheese and fresh bread, little pastries and such. Someone apparently raided the kitchens for their apology efforts. (To Solith from Liesanth) Solith might be persuaded, she supposes, to gather one of each... but then, that might be considered overkill. So to speak. She tucks the thought away, briefly skimming the rider-food-- but then, « No berries, » the green returns regretfully. « Perhaps he might forgive him more if there were berries. » There's a slight distance to the word, supported by imagery and significance but not by smell or savor. (To Liesanth from Solith) « Do you like berries? » Liesanth's tone is curious; it evidently isn't something he's tried eating; they're so small, a dragon would have to eat a great many of them to feel at all full! Not like a wherry, at all. « I think my rider is forgiving him, so perhaps there were berries and I did not see them. » (To Solith from Liesanth) Light flares, surprise, though it sparkles around the edges; « Me? No, no no no. My rider does, though. Sometimes she gets them as what she calls 'peace offerings,' and sometimes she just gets them for fun. » Riders. Though really, it's just as well that she doesn't seek to share Solith's kill. But moving on, « It could be that you did not. They're tiny! Or perhaps in 'jam'? They like jam also, even if it is not as good as fresh. » Which makes perfect sense to her; she doesn't like preserved meat either. Little pastries, possibly jam-filled for all she knows, float around her mind's eye; the slight sense of motion that accompanies them could as well be physical. (To Liesanth from Solith) « Perhaps I will make my rider bring berries to yours, when I fly again. » Because that's what riders are supposed to do, right? They bring things to other dragons' riders. « Or a painting. He is decorating the weyr for me! » An image of a rock wall in Liesanth's weyr, still in the early stages, painted with an image of dragons rising up over Fort in flight. The one flying highest and fastest is, of course, a familiar looking bronze, at least in Liesanth's mental image. (To Solith from Liesanth) « Do tha-- » Solith begins, only to interrupt herself with a delighted, « He made that? » The other dragons might still be blobs of color, but Liesanth sure looks good, the way the bronze displays it. « What else will be there? Rasavyth's rider paints walls also, and stars to climb on. For humans to climb on, that is, » because dragons can fly. (To Liesanth from Solith) « My weyr will be the Most Impressive and the Most Magnificent, » Liesanth replies, with no small touch of pride. Because, after all, it is in some way his doing that his rider is skilled with a paintbrush or charcoal. « It will be the weyr, with all of Hematite Wing in flight. » And some other dragons too, maybe, if there's space. Maybe Liesanth's favorite sister, Eliyaveith, for instance. (To Solith from Liesanth) He did pick him, after all! Though, « 'Hematite'? » Clearly she hasn't yet been indoctrinated into the Ways of Wings. His, anyway. (To Liesanth from Solith) A mental image of dragons--the best and most skilled--rising above the weyr. « Hematite Wing. Our wingleader is the weyrleader. » The fact that the older Hematite riders are sometimes reputed to have egos of their own is, of course, not mentioned; in Liesanth's mind, of course Hematite are the best. (To Solith from Liesanth) « Like Cadejoth, » Solith says admiringly. « How could I tell which one is him? » Does he have a sign? « It must be sad for him, that he is not as Fast as you. » (To Liesanth from Solith) Liesanth remains silent on the topic of whether or not his sire is presently faster than him; they've never really raced, perhaps, except when Elaruth rose. And, well, of course Bijedth was going to catch her. And, after all, he does respect his sire and wingleader. So instead of answering Solith's observation, instead he gives a mental image, of a large, well-built bronze with patterning like lightning on his wings. (To Solith from Liesanth) Luckily for him, Solith just doesn't appear to notice, much less the possible ramifications. Not that she's not attentive, interested as she is in all these things; she studies the image he gives her, and possibly she'll even remember. It could happen. Especially if she hands it over to her rider, but... then, all at once, there's a swoop and the taste of hot ichor and did that leak through? Oops. (To Liesanth from Solith) The winds of Liesanth's thoughts turn to hot summer gusts once more, filled with the heat of jealousy; that swoop, that dive, means that Solith is flying. He stretches his own wings once, testing the pull against his healing wound. Is he ready to return to the skies, yet? Apparently not, for Solith can feel Liesanth's momentary twinge of pain there. (To Solith from Liesanth) She is, so very much yes she is; then she does, reflexively compensating for that relayed twinge by coasting what would have been a few wingbeats more. « Are you all right, Liesanth? » Concern radiates from Solith, as though the other dragon might bleed and bleed and be bravely masking his pain even as her wingbeats return and strengthen. (To Liesanth from Solith) Sullen resignation sits like lead on Liesanth's thoughts. « I am fine. But the dragonhealers--including my rider--say another few days yet, before I can fly again. » He was hoping to prove them wrong. Because he is Strong and should heal Fast. (To Solith from Liesanth) Solith's a little relieved, but not by a whole lot; it's as though he's back to the beginning. And a few days-- uncertainly, « Must you truly wait? So long? » Forever. (To Liesanth from Solith) « My rider says I must. » And while Liesanth is not always obedient, he apparently accepts C'stian's judgment when it comes to dragonhealing. (To Solith from Liesanth) Brr. Not him, though; between. Then Solith can answer, and with a sigh, even before she makes it back to comparative warmth. The green's all too obedient, generally, but sometimes she's rewarded with escapades, such as... « Where is your infirmary, would you show me? This is leaking, » she adds apologetically. Hopefully no one down there will mind an ichorous splatter or seven. (To Liesanth from Solith) « You are here? » But despite his surprise, Liesanth readily offers a mental map of Fort, showing how to reach the dragon infirmary from the Bowl; conveniently, it's envisioned from overhead. His favorite viewpoint, after all. So convenient! « Thank you, » Solith says dulcetly, with no small pride; soon enough, she's landing and then there's a warble from without. A quiet warble: mustn't disturb, quite as if perfectly capable adult dragons would flock towards her not-quite-kill instead of getting their own. « May you walk? » Can he come get it? This while Telavi's sitting still, very patient, affecting a casual air as though this sort of thing happens all the time. « I can, » Liesanth confirms, with a sense of stretching. Of working the kinks out. Indeed, there's the sound of someone shifting inside the infirmary cavern, and shortly thereafter the bronze emerges. He's still got a bandage packed against his back right at the base of one wing, but it looks as though he's mostly--if, apparently, not entirely--healed from his misadventure. Solith does peek at those bandages, she can't not, but it's after the extension of her neck and nose for a greeting sniff; her eyes are turquoise, sparkling behind their thin innermost lids as she unceremoniously spreads her jaws and lets the wherry down with a thud. It gurgles weakly, twitching a wing; Telavi's got one hand over her mouth, and anyone listening closely might hear something about its misery, Solith, come on. Present! Liesanth bumps his head against Solith's in thanks, turning his attention to the wherry. Freshly killed meat; always a joy when you're convalescing! Shortly after his arrival, one of the dragonhealers--C'stian, Liesanth's rider--emerges from the cavern, and covers his face with one hand in a sort of bemused horror. "Did you manage to convince someone to bring you a meal, then?" Despite his slight bewilderment at this turn of events, he looks up at Solith, and Telavi, and offers a warm, "Thank you." "You're welcome," Telavi says, brightly, with a little lift-and-fall of her shoulders because what can one do, really. "Hope he heals well!" With that, she's poking Solith who otherwise might be tempted to stay for the crunching and gulping, and a twist-and-leap later, they're high enough to safely disappear. « Heal Fast! » Solith reminds, and if he can heal as fast as they think he can fly... it'll be just fine. |
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