Logs:Stranger In The Night
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| RL Date: 30 June, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, N'rov |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Hraedhyth plays a little too rough with an 'invading' Fort dragon. Only after making sure he's no threat to her Weyr and family, that is. |
| Where: Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr / The Minds of Dragons |
| When: Day 11, Month 2, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions |
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| Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room. For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here. Hraedhyth is surprisingly calm this evening, draped across her couch and basking in Azaylia's mental warmth. The trials of that day have passed, and though still considered volatile the pair have made some improvements; physically strenuous activities for both have certainly helped. And now, the gold weyrling is halfheartedly glancing over various notes, though her attention is mostly on the chocolatey, creamy drink she has brought back from Snowasis. The taste itself is pleasant, but Hraedhyth is enjoying the heat that warms her bond's mind and body. This? This is nice. The echoes of some sweeping /sigh/ seem enough to sway some sort of interest towards the brawny youngling: « You, » the not so much older dragon says after a moment. « I remember you, » though the memory's a fleeting one, ridden with the smell of salt as though she'd flown to the sea. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) Her thrums of pleasure are interrupted, suddenly and unexpectedly. The gold's first instinct is to shield Azaylia from the mental trespass. Despite the tense flinch of her shoulder muscle, Hraedhyth gives no outward appearance to the impromptu conversation and the stranger from yet unexplored lands. Drumming is but an echo, left to taper off into a shocked silence at the unexpected intrusion. The element of surprise may put him at an advantage, and if he does not take it then he will be met with a sudden snarl. « Who. » The demand is forced through her steady growls, drums thundering back to life as she arms herself against this stranger, this intruder upon her mental territory. He may remember her, but Hraedhyth does not share his sentiments. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) Oh, he takes advantage, a fine sheet of metal that slides into her silence, upon which she may thunder all she likes: it'll only make a more enormous racket. But on it, dimpled with every strike, the memory's brightened and expanded: the browny dragonet gliding, and then an idealized Iesaryth watching with huge, wistful eyes. « Are you not she? » There's sly humor there, and behind it, the barest taste of cold winds and darkness and flight. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth does well with noise, revels in it, certainly not deterred by the amplified booms. The image of Iesaryth is instantly recognized and her hesitance to strike against the memory is obvious, idealized caricature or no. Drumbeats are pensive now, steady and still strong, a consistent warning for this outsider. « I am. » Rough tone is easier to understand with tempered snarl, boyish crackling persists throughout the queen's growth. It will smooth in time, but for now it belies her youth. « You know of my Sister? » Possessive, protective, but not completely unwilling to sample the foreigner's thoughts. Suspiciously. Those thoughts aren't tainted, except maybe by more of that humor, that metal reverberating and bending and reechoing in and out of rhythm. Vhaeryth speaks no one's name, not even Iesaryth's, but the glimpse of the youngest dragon shifts to sailing towards them upon the ice, rumbling with wordless welcome. « Ask, if you like, » he says lightly, less audible over the drumming (because what could withstand that?) than slipped into another frequency entirely. He can wait. For a little while. Perhaps. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth doesn't look over his words carefully, instead rooting through them for some hidden meaning with rough claws and impatient snarls. Scavenging. There's heat there now, smoke curling ominously though there are no flames- yet. « She is mine. » That overrides any curiosity, any confusion that may send the impatient gold into a frenzy. « Ours. » Tattered ebon and azure flags litter her plains, Reachian marked and still primed for battle. For war, should it come to that. That question that is not a question is expanded upon, « Who are you. » He proves to be a touch fussy about that, letting her search and scavenge for some moments... but then yanking those concepts back, shaking them out as though to clear them of rumples and snags. « Careful, » for isn't she breakable? Delicate, fragile, more than both of /them/? He doesn't argue possession, acknowledging it and moving on: « I am Vhaeryth, » his own banner a glorious thing, given a hill just so it can be silhouetted red in the sunset with its tails flapping. « And you... » has Iesaryth mentioned her by name? Does it matter? « You are strong, » certainly. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) There is no tug of war, though Hraedhyth's low growls may hint at the impulse. Perhaps his concern for that delicate thought of Iesaryth is heeded, but there is not hint that it's what stops her. He won't be gifted that sort of satisfaction, not from this gold. His name is snapped up by greedy jaws, bringing with it a sudden BOOM from those wardrums, « Yours is Brieli's Fortian! » Rumbling is far more curious now, and while she is still not overly gracious there may be a slight ebb in her suspicions. « I am Hraedhyth. And you are smart. For a bronze. » He's granted that much, pride and power swelling with her introduction. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) BOOM! It's enough in its unexpectedness to rattle even Vhaeryth into a headache, particularly with his own metal reverberating before he can take it back. Perhaps it's the moment's would-be bemusement (his rider? really?) that distracts him into some ruefulness: « I am headachey, is what I am, Hraedhyth. » So mighty is she! (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth doesn't hide her amusement, and loud though they are the laughing drums are nowhere near as loud as that boom. « Even my Sister doesn't complain of headaches. » And she's younger than them both. Some sympathy is offered within her flames, though they singe with a hint of boisterous insult. « You need to toughen up. » Where growls were once threatening and serious, her nipping at his heels is more playful, if a bit more aggressive. « This 'toughening up' may take some practice, » Vhaeryth announces, even as he exaggerates his so-ancient aches and pains for her entertainment, all creaky and shuffling and keeping just out of reach... except for the once in a while that her nips catch him, when he gives way to a gratifying yelp. « Perhaps you are gentler with your sister, » the bronze points out, stealing an old human uncle's cane to whack at her with, trusting her to duck. Or to take it. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) To Vhaeryth, Hraedhyth loses herself in amusement, eerily high cackles just loud enough to be heard at his feigned weakness. It's funny because he isn't ancient at all! His yelps are but blood in the water, those few satisfying nips increasing her efforts to wound him in play. Overzealous in her youth, she isn't expecting the bronze to retaliate and the dragonet is struck dumb. No fury, no hurt, just the silence of surprise before she shakes it off, otherwise unfazed. « It is hard not to be. » Growls continue, snapping at him though she is no longer trying to get at him, « You are welcome in my lands. We will fight for real! » Wrestle is more like it. « Sister will be gliding soon. » Bait for her prey, though one (not Hraedhyth) must wonder how Iesaryth would feel, being used as such. She's still a little thing as yet, for all that she's brawny, but Vhaeryth accepts Hraedhyth's welcome with due appreciation: « We will remember. » Won't they? « Surely soon she will glide, and you will fly, » proper flight, not slowing one's leaps from becoming falls. And in the meantime... But then there's a sudden sharp pang out of nothingness, out of elsewhere, a cramp in the gut that is its own blow. « Hraedhyth, » Vhaeryth says as his only leavetaking, and then he's vanished seemingly without a trace... though, eventually, a few iron filings may be found skittering in his wake. (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth) If the young gold has any excitement for her own flight, it's level with her anticipation at seeing Iesaryth finally taste the air. Contented rumbling joins the steady drumroll, and before she can voice such feelings he is retreating. There's a flare within flame's hearth, a child's anger at having her new toy taken away so suddenly. The iron filings are snatched up as payment for her perceived slight, though the warrior gold remembers to mind herself as a young queen. Reluctantly, « Vhaeryth. » Even that is a distracted farewell as she looks over her new, shiny treasures. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth) Hraedhyth gives a low, contented rumble as her tawny hide grows tight over stretching limbs, relaxing with a satisfied whuff. Azaylia has long since reached the bottom of her drink and now looks for a new distraction from her notes, and the dragonet's smugness is hard to miss. "What's got you so happy?" She all but coos at her lifemate, playfully suspicious. "You haven't broken anything in a whole two days." There's no hesitance in her answer, nothing hidden as the gold dusts Azaylia's mind with that stolen silvery powder. It leads to further questions, a draconic explanation and one amused (and mildly confused) weyrling. |
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