Logs:Belated Turnday
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| RL Date: 9 July, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, Azaylia |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Lythronath has way into the galler- err, candidate. Azaylia has a present. |
| Where: Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 3, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions |
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| Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr Miserable, sleety weather rages on outside and yet Hraedhyth offers no mercy to those seeking shelter. She is well rested from a long, deep sleep, now hunched over her eggs with coiled muscles and bared jaws. It's not only eggs she guards, but her own rider who has managed to find comfort in the galleries. Azaylia is stretched out across the seats, a pillow held against her head as she dozes, surrounded by paperwork, knitting and a rather large paper-wrapped parcel. « This one! » It's Lythronath's announcement of his arrival, more than request for permission, as he wings down for the shelter of the gallery ledges. 'This one' is a trembling girl, though the look about her suggests her shaking is more for the weather than the trip on the dragon. A'rist, knowing the routine now with candidate #3 for his dragon (yes, yes, in a clutch of ten) hurries her off his beast, his beast who turns that narrow muzzle and those piercing eyes to the gold below, fanning his wings, bobbing his head. A'rist's own shoulders are hunched tight; the girl is wearing his jacket, and his sweater leaves much to be desired for wind and sleet protection. Still, he points, and the would-be candidate, in the bronzerider's jacket, starts for Azaylia. It's Lythronath's entrance which startles her awake, which then results in Hraedhyth's furious roar up at the male. Her own dark wings half-cocked, the queen takes a step over her eggs and aims another bellow up at the bronze. « They cannot all be so strong. » She doubts him. Challenges him. Bobs her head at him in return, even. The Weyrwoman sits up and rubs at her eyes, wiping away the hard sleep thats collected there. How long was she out? Azaylia stands, teeters, and straightens up as she smooths the dress back down her legs, moving to meet the candidate halfway. Hraedhyth is not happy, but she's tolerant, if only because of her rider. « This one, » answers Lythronath, his tails winging out behind him, a click sounding in his throat. « Strong. » Maybe, because she barely ducks out of his way as she heads down the stairs. This time, A'rist follows after her, drawn perhaps by the heat more than the willingness to be a part of the search. As the humans make their way down, the dragon moves closer along the ledge to the sands, those talons scraping at the stone, all his muscles ready, and his gaze now moving beyond the queen, toward the mounds. When the girl reaches Azaylia, she's warm enough to take off the jacket and hand it back to A'rist. There's a moment's look between them, before A'rist offers, "Davari. Weyrwoman Azaylia." Though the bronze's presence is troubling, Lythronath is less of a threat to her eggs than the new candidate. That's where Hraedhyth's ruby tinted gaze falls, muzzle curling back to flash her oversized jaws at the girl. Not yet fully awake, Azaylia is alert enough, eyes sliding between A'rist and Davari before she offers a small smile. "If you'd like to accept being a Candidate..." It's a talk the Weyrwoman has given many times, explaining the process and sending Davari to the Headwoman. It's after the candidate is heading off, after Hraedhyth has lurched-and-snapped, that Azaylia slides a sideways gaze toward A'rist. "...hoping she Impresses to a green?" One thing to say for the girl: she seems to know what she wants. She gives A'rist a smile. A'rist gives her a smile. A'rist's smile, it falters a little, at Azaylia's question. "I- Uh. It. I don't think dragons search for. That." A glance down his frame draws his troubled brow away from the weyrwoman for a time, and provides reason enough for him to think to take off that sweater. And to stop talking in the process. Lythronath, he's staring over the edge, onto the sands, at those eggs, head bobbing each time he looks to a different bump in the sand. "Depends." Azaylia is nonchalant in her doubt, eyes trailing up to watch Lythronath. Now that the girl is gone, that's where Hraedhyth's attention settles. Each bob of his head has the gold's wings giving a twitch, prepared to defend her nest should he grow any bolder. Still, "She's pretty." The Weyrwoman's little smile persists as she walks past A'rist, toward the stairs that lead up to the ledges of the gallery. Now, as she nears the bronze, "Three, Lynner? Don't you think you're going a little overboard?" Not quite baby talk, but the same rounded tone one might use for a canine pup. A'rist is not in the least bit comforted by that comment. He tosses the wet sweater to a bench, and pulls his jacket back over his shoulders. He definitely doesn't smell at the collar while looking over the shoulder for fit. Nope. "Some girls are pretty," the bronzerider shrugs, as much to settle the new article of clothing as to simply shrug. Dark eyes are back on the weyrwoman when she addresses Lythronath. Lythronath's eyes aren't. But he clicks, three times, the last deeper, and settles down onto tightly wound haunches, letting his mouth open, letting Hreadhyth see his teeth. Azaylia too, if she wants. They're nice teeth. Sharp ones. "Lythronath..." A note of warning, Azaylia scolding the bronze for his display as she strokes over his hide. "Keep that up and she'll chase you out." His human sacrifice will only buy him so much time. The goldrider gives him one last loving thump to his neck before cooing, "Good job." Never mind that three candidates for a clutch of ten is excessive. After she's said her hello, Azaylia walks back down the stone steps with a glance for A'rist. There's some scrutiny there, but nothing as accusatory since the ship incident. Hraedhyth's gaze shifts between bronze and his rider, not knowing which she'd rather chase out in a blaze of fury. Her clutch and her rider's calm are the only tethers that maintain a hold on her temper. For now. Still all crouched, teeth still showing, the bronze nudges his massive head ever so gently at the goldrider, and makes a noise most closely resembling chortling. But the mouth closes a little after. Excessive is what Lythronaths do, after all. A'rist is waiting for his weyrwoman, as obedient as an old canine asked to stay. He shifts his feet, a bit nervous, but doesn't look away. "She really is probably the best one he's got so far. Maybe... maybe he won't get too many more." The words are uncertain, but the tone they're spoken in, more firm, almost a promise. "You think so?" Surprised, but not really. "I don't remember you smiling so much at the last two." It'll be the last comment of that maternal and possessive nature, Azaylia sitting back down and patting the spot next to her. By way of explanation, "I've got something for you." She was prepared enough to bring it with her to the galleries, proof of how frequently Lythronath makes his rebellious visits. At least he always brings gifts. Bleeding, or otherwise. Human, or otherwise. Lythronath has gone quiet, swaying now and then, but mostly, looking. For as long as he's allowed. There's a fascination with those eggs, there, and it hasn't gone away. A'rist shrugs again, but makes himself look right at Azaylia, makes himself say, almost matter-of-fact, "Maybe I like her more, but that's not why I think she's got a better chance." Sitting, obedient still, "Besides, 'cause of that, nothing will happen. Her and me, not..." He doesn't dare to point or gesture or move in any way toward Hraedhyth's eggs. But he lets his eyes move over that way as indication. "You do?" Azaylia reaches for that large, paper parcel as A'rist speaks, holding it in her lap as she looks over at him. Far less frosty, without the disapproval and all, "I suppose you're right." With a much warmer smile, "And it's not fair to Lynner, questioning his candidates." Hraedhyth is still tense, still unhappy, but there are still eggs to tend to. Her eyes remain locked on Lythronath as she takes careful steps back, muzzle lowered to turn and adjust each egg with a surprisingly gentle nature. "It's been difficult getting it to you." The Weyrwoman hesitates, lips pursed, "It took a while for it to be delivered. And then you two had to go on your little... adventure." Involving a wooden, sea fairing casualty. "But I don't think it'll ever be the 'right time'. So, here." The paper crinkles as she passes it over to A'rist, lips pursed with remaining hesitation. "This is not a reward for your behavior. It's more of a... very late Turnday gift." 'It's not fair to Lynner' has A'rist looking... surprised. Even if he shouldn't, not around Azaylia. "Thank you," is quiet, and maybe even a bit hard to follow, left to hang there after her comment without explanation. His head starts to turn toward his dragon, but stops. His dragon barely moves, but to tilt his head when Hraedhyth nudges the first egg. On the second nudge, Lythronath's muzzle mimicks the motion, even if it hits nothing but air. Fascinated. A'rist's face has twisted itself back into a sort of grimace by the time he's taking the paper. Fingers start for the string, looking to unwrap rather than tear. "I was just trying not to hurt anyone at the Weyr. We didn't- we weren't planning to go out there, at all, it's just... it was going to be him rough in the air, or me rough in the caverns, or go somewhere else, so we just went." Fingers have paused. A third nudge and Hraedhyth lifts her head, jaws parted as a snarl tears through the cavern, « Mine. » Not Lythronath's. Not this time. The gold sways above her clutch, weight shifting back and forth until she's satisfied by her display. Then, back down to tend to the rest of the eggs. Azaylia doesn't flinch at her dragon's aggression, hands folded in her lap now that it's empty. "Is losing a flight so hard on you?" Genuine curiosity, given that her dragon's hue ensures she'll always 'win'. Shaking her head, "Even so, it was a big mistake. It certainly didn't help the Weyr." But then he's already had his chewing out, and the Weyrwoman lets it be. Within the paper are slabs of leather, high in quality and dyed an all too familiar reddish brown hue. "For straps. I figure he must have stopped growing, by now." Lythronath can't argue that. He even stops his mimicking. But he still watches, the same keen eyes of the hunter, but now with no hint of prey drive. And when Hraedhyth is done her display, and goes back to tending, he leans forward a bit more. "It's not about losing," is an immediate response, a sure response. A'rist grits his teeth together a little, and nods. "And I'm not saying it wasn't a mistake. I know that. I'm just... explaining." One strip of leather is lifted, not enough that the whole of it comes out of the box, but that he can feel it for thickness, quality. He does look up to Lythronath, then, and gives a little nod. Still processing, with no real answer for the gift, yet. "I know." Quiet patience is offered after that explanation, Azaylia tilting her back in order to watch Lythronath. "It's your fault, but it can't be helped sometimes." Spoken from experience, memory fresh enough that it tightens her expression. With a soft exhale, she lowers her gaze back down to A'rist. "The color reminded me of him." Of all those times she's seen him smear the edges of his territory. For the bronzerider's silence, "I'm not very good at giving gifts..." Just like she doesn't pay much attention to Turndays, including her own. Lythronath is far too busy watching Hraedhyth to look back, to offer any sort of comment on the straps, on the gifts, on any of the rest. But A'rist? "No, it's-" bringing his face back to look squarely at the weyrwoman, taking on that same sure, calm tone that he'd used for talking about their most recent candidate, "They're perfect. They fit." With a quirk at the edge of his lips, "And the straps will, too. Once I get them done." Azaylia matches A'rist's gaze, giving a soft laugh after a moment, "They are. They do." Once Hraedhyth is happy with where her eggs are, she looks through the stone walls which surround them. With an even wider smile, "Happy late Turnday." A moment later and there's a look of surprise which quickly turns to concern. "Hraedhyth asked Cadejoth to bring her a 'beast." Which itself isn't an issue, so much as Lythronath's presence. There's a pointed glance up at the bronze, and then a look toward A'rist. A'rist carefully tucks the leather back into the package, carefully re-folds the paper. "Thanks, Azaylia." Her title dropped much without thinking. The smile he wears is quiet - and then, gone, at the mention of Cadejoth. The bronzerider stands. "It's good he can, now," is said softly. On the ledge, Lythronath has straightened, and is stretching his wings, his head turned away from Hraedhyth and her sands and eggs, and toward the feeding pens. Maybe he can smell Cadejoth on the air. "We'll see you. And fix what we can. Outside." The Weyr, presumably. With that, he's moving. No surprise if there's a loud roar at Cadejoth as the two make their exit. Lythronath was here. Sigh. The things one must do to keep the peace in the galleries. Azaylia slips an arm around A'rist, a quick hug that results in the light thunk of her brow against his. Without flinching from the impact, "Of course." She stands to see him out, or possibly try and help coax Lythronath away before the clutch sire arrives. "I know you will. Clear skies." Hraedhyth answers Lythronath's roar, even if it isn't meant for her. A challenge, and a farewell. |
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