Logs:Boys Will Be Boys
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| RL Date: 28 December, 2011 |
| Who: K'del, Val |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Val has a black eye. K'del has some free time. Destruction is required. |
| Where: K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr / Mountains above High Reaches |
| When: Day 16, Month 8, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
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| There's a glint of metal, flashing between smudges that might be his rider's fingerprints: « Hey. » Cadejoth. About? Home? Maybe Visigoth doesn't need much in the way of words by now. In return? A jangle; a rattle. An image of the weyr as from Cadejoth's ledge, and his rider, inside. Alone, and not, from the looks of it, hard at work at anything. That's his answer, but even so, he adds to it: « Come visit. » Entertain him. Please? Pretty please? Light, delight, /which/ him: that might be Val inflecting her dragon again: « All right. » Riiight. It's a lazy drawl of a word as Visigoth sweeps down towards that low ledge. He's probably said the same, « Not bad, » of the bronze's ledge another time, months ago, and months beyond that, after each wave of forgetfulness has drowned the one before. He lands, and Val slides down in a short ruffled skirt and flats whose heels clack on the stone. Also, a black eye. "K'del? K'-del-el!" She's already dancing in. One him, the other, both. Cadejoth doesn't clarify, and instead agrees, « It will do. » Perhaps he's largely forgotten the other ledge, the one that was his for so long, but not-at-the-moment-or-maybe-ever-now. K'del's on his feet, abandoning his whisky to the sidetable, as Val dances in; his appraisal of her attire is muted, but concludes with a smile. "Val." Beat. "Been wrestling with Glacier again?" "No-o." She might have been drinking already, but if so it's just a gloss, a brightness in her black eyes. Even the blackened one. "No, this was Belli. I'm surprised you couldn't hear from here. Yesterday? Morning?" The brownrider patters her way along his weyr with light feet, a little rhythm to it that's complicated by light fingers that explore the odd fingerpainting, the odd knickknack. Is the paint dry? She looks from it to him. "Cadejoth says you're not doing anything... important." « Val says, » Visigoth says, « He looks tired. » He sniffs at the bronze and the air, as though he'd find firestone there, only on him it's hopeful. K'del scoots up against the back of the sofa, leaning against it supported by both hands. His eyes follow the brownrider, amused by her explorations. Dry paint, at least, but recent clutter: a comfortable mess. "Belli. Of course." Enough said, except that, of course, he adds, "Hope she looks worse than you do, at least. Not that-- I am, of course, saying such things only entirely unofficially." The shake of his head answers her latter remark, along with, "Nothing that can't wait. Big ideas, Val? Or just small ones?" « K'del says she looks shiny. » Alas, there's no scent but oil; the bronze, too, is shiny. She has a sideways smirk for him and his /unofficially/, one that turns back to the painting and turning it around and around, as though she were lost as to which way is up. Maybe she is. "You just can't see hers," Val proclaims to the painting, as though all of /hers/ were as visible as her own dark eye. For Cadejoth's mention of shine, he gets a shiny-and-dull dusting of what might have been broken china, sharper and harder and more fragile than eggshell. Visigoth might easily be overlooked by his rider in doing so, the way he's just casual about scratching that big jaw against a taloned paw, though there's also a suggestion there that he's not trying too hard. "When was the last time you went dancing? Or flamed something." Six of one... K'del makes an inarticulate noise that might, just possibly, be akin to a laugh - the bastard step-child of one, perhaps. Cadejoth's registration of what has been shared must be shared with his rider, because K'del's got a thoughtful glance for the brownrider in the seconds that follows, though he doesn't say anything until he admits, "Been a while on both counts. Least I won't leave you with a black eye after either, right?" He reaches down for his abandoned drink, sipping, eyes still on Val. « He'll protect her. » Which seems to amuse the bronze. « I think he's joking, though. About that. » « Do you really think he could, » and the big brown's doubt fairly drips off him like so much exaggerated solder. Exaggerated, and entertained. It would be a sight. Would Cadejoth's rider put his dukes up, if that's what the kids are calling it these days? "If you did it on the first eye," Val says like it's a real consideration, "It wouldn't show so much, yeah? But come on, come on, pick something. If it's dancing, I have to put on makeup. If it's /flaming/..." that should require preparation too, shouldn't it? But she seems less concerned about that. Instead, she cocks her head over her shoulder. "Or, are you just wanting to not have to decide something, these days." It's light, like the rest of it was light. It's not... /official/. Cadejoth shares the image - K'del, who did, after all, do those self-defence classes... the better part of a decade ago. No, it's not a confidence-inspiring image. « He'd try, » allows the bronze; he's amused. "If I did it on the other, at least you'd match. It'd look... stylistic, or something." He's regarding her, decision-making face on. Except... "I decide everything else around here. I'd like to be feted for once. You know, swept up on a mystery tour, my leisure activities pre-arranged and well prepared according to my preferences." Beat. He's teasing. "Your pick. I'll get my shoes on." She's buying it, she's actually buying it, only then she wrinkles her nose and laughs, all at once. "Just you wait," Val tells K'del, and advises on top of that, "Bring your furs. Your warmest, sweatiest winter gear. I'd say, meet you in the air, only I don't trust someone to barge in here and take you on /their/ idea of a mystery tour." She makes it into a huckster's rolling proclamation, too, /Mystery! Tour!/ "We have to keep the boys happy, the way I figure, and then..." Boys! Visigoth all but slavers at the idea of it, though he's still got his rider's laughter in his head, poor trying K'del and all; still, it's quickly buried beneath the dusty sacks just waiting on his ledge. Just /waiting/, while his rider shimmies into the leathers she's moved back to the brown's bags to steal. Could that be B'sil, starting to mount the stairs? She winks at him, irrepressible, black eye and all. And points in K'del's weyr's direction. Maybe he did it! K'del? With those big, innocent baby-blues? Surely that's all but impossible to believe - however irrepressible certain black-eyed brownriders are. At least he knows how to follow instructions: as Val shimmies, he disappears further into his weyr, sweltering in the High Reachian summer warmth for the good, decent cause of distracting brownriders-- or whatever this is. Cadejoth, too, is pleased at the prospect, all but prancing back and forth, his tail twitching. Beating. Dancing. "Will I owe you a drink or two afterwards?" wonders K'del, still inside, still dressing. It takes a lot to make B'sil run; the wingleader doesn't now, although he does pick a different route with a gait that's even more stiff-legged than usual, after Val's licked her lips at him in a way that /could/ be invitation if it weren't for her reputation. Now the brownrider bites the lower of those lips, and turns back, mounting. "And a run on the beach," she calls down from the height of Visigoth's neck, forcing volume into it. « Splash, » the big brown opines to the bronze. « But this time, snow. Don't tell him yet, » as though such innocence must be preserved. « Just tell him to hurry up already. He will, won't he? » He won't make the dragons wait forever? Because Visigoth, he's impatient too. Poor B'sil. K'del is oblivious to the discomfort of that particular Wingleader, still inside, even if his lifemate is not. His lifemate, who is reassuring Visigoth, « He'll be out in a moment. He's slow, but now too slow, mostly. I won't tell him anything. » It's a secret, and there's something buzzing and gleeful at that particular possibility. He twists; he stretches; he lets out a pleased, relieved rumble as his rider finally appears back on the ledge, straps in hand. "And a run on the beach," he's repeating, as he strides purposefully towards his bronze. "It's a deal. What's Cadejoth laughing about? He won't say." « It's a long moment, » Visigoth points out, and never mind that he thinks too much of himself to whine. Generally. Cadejoth's a friend, after all. And it's fun, too. Mostly. "Because you're slow and have a funny nose," his rider claims to K'del. "He wants to spare your fee-eelings." Only then she's laughing, and waving, and Visigoth's flying, and look, he's gone up and caught the sacks of 'stone in his talons and there's the vision of cold, colder, not-quite-coldest. It's white, though, and bright, the Reaches' windy peaks. And with a little maneuvering, one of those heavy sacks, it's all set to be flung Cadejoth's way... right after he's out of /between/. « Some moments are supposed to be long, » is Cadejoth's arch remark, glinting and rattling merrily as he's strapped up and made ready to go. He gets a slap on the shoulder, and a teasing, "His nose is funnier. Funny looking Cadejoth." At least he's quick to get the straps on, quicker still to mount up and follow, bronze and rider hurtling off into the sky and then Between-- up, up and away. Conveniently, for all Cadejoth's complaints about boredom, they're not out of practice: the bag gets caught, the bronze levelling out his flight and stretching his wings: « YES. » Bliss. Never mind that the brown, too, must be feeling that sensation of cold wind beneath wings: he shares it, exhilarating in it. /This/. Clearly Visigoth hasn't any idea of what /that's/ supposed to mean, registering in a waggle of light off metal like a blade more bobbled than brandished, in a low mutter that... he's chewing. That's why. Right. But Cadejoth's joy is quick to tease him out of it, as is his rider's renewed laughter as she reserves one arm's worth, and his own upward flapping. Snow! Wind! More wind! Unbroken wind! And, a few lengths later, by the /second/ bag falling towards K'del: take that one, too! Cadejoth and K'del, packhorses. But the second bag gets caught, too, and then the bronze has things to chew, and they distract him, too-- but not, never, ever, from the pure glee of flight. K'del doesn't laugh, but he grins, urging Cadejoth on (as if he needs it). « What will we flame? Or doesn't it need to be anything in particular? This. This, Visigoth. This is what we were hatched for. » "Avalanche!" Val calls down as answer, only it's underlaid with Visigoth's sense of future-now, of the hard blast of flame not dissipated purely into air but /directed/ just so: over there, where the white cliffs jut just so, or there, just below where the wind-exposed rock is veined and carved, or elsewhere yet, a white expanse lengths and lengths and lengths above the rumpled gray-green rug of trees. « Choose, » the brown tells the bronze: he is senior, Visigoth gives him first strike. It's agreement and yet not, a thin slick of oil on blade: not quite remembered, not quite /not/, the sense that there is somewhere or somewhen something /more/. Boom. Crash. Those are Cadejoth's helpfully supplied sound effects, no matter how inappropriate; he's tickled. "Perfect!" yells K'del in return, urging Cadejoth on, the bronze having apparently made his own mind up almost instantly. Those cliffs-- that's what he's aiming for, shooting forth a sharp burst of flame - not quite as even as perhaps he would like, out of practice, but oh-so-enjoyable, nonetheless. His glee sends his chains into a jangling dance of merriment, as he banks out of the way just so: let Visigoth take his turn. « I would do this more often, » is his softer admission; quiet. « It is what we do. What we should do. » Then that makes two of them, because Visigoth's trumpeting as though Cadejoth's in a tourney and about to vanquish the mighty ogre... and then he /does/, because maybe that flame's not so even but this is nothing that calls for precision. It's a mighty big ogre, and unlike K'del's maligned appendage, /its/ jutting nose just fell off and is going tumbling down the mountainside, collecting layer after layer of snow along its way. But there's more ice, trembling but not yet fallen, and Visigoth can add his own flame to the bronze's. His own reply, too: « Yes, » and it's pure assent, his This-and-more only a layer upon that essential truth. He thrusts himself into it, muscles working hard against the frigidity of thin atmosphere, powering closer and closer until he can /see/ the next chunk fall. Down, down, down-- the image of that falling nose echoes in Cadejoth's mind long after it has disappeared from sight, and long after the next layer is in his sights and being worked upon, spout after spout of flame at his disposal. It's hard work to hover like this, particularly given the atmosphere, but Cadejoth? He is up to the task - and enjoying every moment. So too is his rider: a whoop of pleasure, a childlike yell of glee. He'll glance to Val, too, to see - to confirm his enjoyment is matched and shared - but the next piece of beleaguered stone saves his gaze from lingering: it must fall. All must fall. « It flies, » Cadejoth reports, amused, and faintly smug. « But not like we do. » Distantly, there's a reverberating thud, Cadejoth's first kill having found its final resting place: enough to shake that low part of the mountain and send ice cracking far beneath them. Far beneath them. Far, far, far down, down, down. Visigoth twists to attack the heights again, a formation of two, but his rider's not answering K'del's glance; she's forward on Visigoth's neck instead, riding high in the straps like a jockey, her scarred for-once-unpretty leathers blending in with the brown's hide. She's also howling a battle-cry, the way she might have done back when others her age were children and Thread still flew. The wind takes it and Visigoth's trumpet, flings it back at them, and still they challenge the mountainside. « Not like we do, » the brown echoes, but momentarily it's as though this is the past and that is now, an upswell of challenge and pride in the fighter that's his, in the battle, in the charred Fall and distant lives. For Val's battle-cry, for her reactions? K'del can only grin: grin, and grin, and grin some more. But he's got work to do, too: enthusing on his Cadejoth (as if the bronze needed it!), and waiting for the next hurtling mass to be torn free to descend into the depths. This? It's better than dancing-- better than booze. And definitely better than ex-girlfriends who leave behind blackened eyes. |
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