Logs:The Impudent Son Returns
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| RL Date: 24 February, 2015 |
| Who: Lythronath, Niahvth |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lythronath comes home and stakes his claim. Niahvth doesn't know how to take him. |
| Where: Hatching Grounds, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 2, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
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| Hatching Ledges, High Reaches Weyr It's waaay too early for her to be clutching yet, but that hasn't stopped Niahvth from haunting the hatching cavern. Gossip attests that she hasn't ventured onto the sands themselves yet, but she has, and is currently, spending quite a lot of time on different ledges at varied angles and heights from the sands themselves, studying. Eyeing. Watching. What she's looking for is uncertain, but there she is this evening, spread in a lackadaisical manner on one ledge, whilst keeping her sparkling, lit rainbow eyes intently fixed onto one spot on the sands. « Home. » It's roared out in time with the happy, irrepressible mental shout when the fire-streaked bronze rips in from between, putting an end to his long absence. For a moment, while he descends to the bowl to leave his rider, his focus is spread out, to the steady barrage of drums, the rattle of chains, even a monosyllabic greeting or calls of his name throughout the Weyr. But soon, it focuses in, finds the new. Soon, he's airborne again, streaking up, to the hatching grounds, and plummeting - not for the ledges, no, but toward the sands themselves, all the weight of his mind pressing to that new gold, heavy intention manifesting into the most important thing she needs to know: « Lythronath. » Her vision suddenly impeded, Niahvth snarls the irritated snarl of a pregnant dragon. She's not really lumpy yet, but not feeling herself. She's achey. She does not feel pretty anymore. Then this interloper messes up her picturesque view of her home for the next several months. « Lythronath. » The name is repeated once, twice, thrice, and by the third time some of her frustration has melted in lieu of something warmer, a little more mellow. She's in control again. Deep breaths, baby. Deep breaths. He's sitting on her sands, so, of course, the logical thing to do would be to glide down and finally set one set of talons and then, gingerly, a second set of talons to the sandy floor. « Where have you been? » Unspoken, I don't know you. Lythronath is not ginger in his movements; he takes up the centre of the hatching sands, scoring them with his talons, bobbing his head with each repetition of his name, though only two clicks issue from his throat: the first, when the foreign queen takes off from her perch, and the second, when her second foot is lowered to the sands. Lythronaths wings his head low, and sways, tail whipping out in either direction behind him. And then is still. « Some home. » Not his. This is his home. That she is in. « Niahvth. » In time with a sharp lift of his head, the slightest flare of his wings, and an intense stare. Silence. A heavy eyeridge lifts. Then, oh then, a merry trill shared on both the mental and physical planes, though the voiced one is definitely more rumble-like, evokes the images of fields of marigolds and daisies, of bright summer days. How he behaves, what little he says amuses her. « Then you were not here, » she articulates, « Gone. Gone. Nowhere near me when I claimed these skies as my own and now these sands, » a talon rakes an idle arc to partially enclose him with one quarter circle, « Much has changed, Lyth-ro-nath. » Melodic and joyful in its tease now that she has compartmentalized this bronze into one of her many little buckets. Now that she thinks she understands, all is well. Lythronath keeps his head raised, his wings out as they are, no more, no less. He scents at the air, barely moving his muzzle from side to side, whirling eyes still on Niahvth, mostly green, toward a faded yellow, though no more than when he'd first arrived. « No, » decided after his inspection. His tail swings to one side, to the other, stops. « Gone, » is a promise, « Niahvth. » Then the roar, the roar that echoes through the cavern, that again is paired with a solid and definite, « Home. » « Home. » Niahvth's response is still warm, though reinforced with a firmness inherent in her color. Her home too. For now. But the differences of for now and for later aren't concepts that sit long in her draconic head. Not quite lumpy, not quite pudgy, but certainly not slim, Niahvth rises to her full length and height and begins to stalk a slow, lazy circle around this young bronze in her domain. The one talon that started the quarter circle before continues now, dragging itself in a slight delayed fashion behind the gold's footfalls. Her, « You may go, » is a request made half-way to entrapping him in this deadly circle. For now. The differences of local and foreign sit in Lythronath's head at least, as he watches the gold make her circles, head turning liberally now, each quarter of the way around him marked by a click in his throat. Air is drawn in again, the smells and warmth of the sands, and he flexes his front talons. « No babies. » Disappointment, taunt as well. The young bronze makes no move to leave his chosen standing point. It would depend on the definition of babies, for certainly, there are eggs present, somewhere inside of Niahvth. Growing, cuddly, squishy babies all in their little enclosures. She could share what she feels inside of her, images of what she imagines her insides to look like. She could, and the desire to do so churns the space between them with this impish desire to make mischief. Something reigns her in. « There will be, » she opts to say instead. « There will be many of them, some of which will remain here and call here their home. » This time, Lythronath makes a show of it, lowering his head, if only a little, sniffing the sands, even clawing at one spot, lest he churn up something new. But, « No babies. » A final bob of his head, which might at least seem to underline this declaration. « Some home, » is finished off with another click, and a little flick of his wingtips. The dragon confuses her. She thinks she's figured him out and then confusion bursts her flowery bubble. So, being the dragon of someone as frank as Irianke, Niahvth just states it, « You are confusing. » And that's ok! She's totally fine with it, overprotesting, clouded emotions swirling about them and all. To that, Lythronath snorts. The languid stretch that follows is a show, as is the settling in, into the warmth of the sands, haunches down first, then his chest. A deep breath, a deep sigh, as he adjusts his wings, his tail, getting himself comfortable. « Home. » Home she understands. « Home. » She can even parrot it too, like she understands everything, but she completely doesn't. Some of her warm marigold light is diminished in this confusion. Niahvth's wings unfurl, the tips of which graze the sands to create crescents before them, thus marring the circle she's placed Lythronath in. The broad bulk of her hunkers down, watchful of the bronze who gets all too comfortable on her sands. The rainbow of her facets is now gradients of orange, the stress of deciphering and understanding and trying so hard to understand revealing themselves in those depths. Lythronath's eyes, just before the innermost lids close, are blue, content. There's a yawn before his chin is lowered to rest just beyond those short front limbs of his. His tail tucks in along his left side. Home. Niahvth won't sleep for as long as Lythronath is there, but for now, she leaves the bronze be. She can share, briefly. Reisoth might not. That's a bridge to cross later. |
Comments
Edyis (02:43, 25 February 2015 (EST)) said...
Poor Niahvth. This was fun to read though.
K'zin (15:02, 25 February 2015 (EST)) said...
<3
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