Logs:Kind Of The Same
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| RL Date: 19 January, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, Azaylia |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Dragon similarities drives A'rist to seek Azaylia out for advice. They talk while their dragons roughhouse. |
| Where: Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 10, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: L'sha/Mentions, H'kon/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated! |
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| Hraedhyth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr Turns of inclement weather and use have smoothed out niches here and there for a current occupant and perhaps a companion, on this slightly downward impressed ledge. It's otherwise unremarkable: large, of course, and low to the ground, though not so low as to provide ground access from here. Being so low, the view is not especially spectacular, though it does make an excellent point from which to keep a steady eye on goings on in the bowl, from the living caverns entrance to the north, and as far as glimpses of glimmering blue on the horizon from the weyr lake. In the dark of night, Lythronath attacks. He attacks from below, almost making the ledge at a leap from the bowl, where he'd crouched, prowled, waited. He leaps up, wings out and talons digging into the stone, and roars at the weyr. Lythronath is here. Lythronath is now. Lythronath is in your space. And A'rist is wincing at the echoes of his dragon's voice, hunched on the bronze 'ridges, a hand at his belt, where it attaches to the straps. Hraedhyth was dozing. Lythronath is in luck, as the queen is curled up in her own couch rather than out hunting her sleep-mate for the evening. Before her lids even lift, her head jerks up and she answers the bronze with a savage bellow of her own. The sound fades into a steady growl once she opens her eyes and stares at the intruder, facets flecked with pulsating orange. Hraedhyth's low rumble ends in a snort when she recognizes the culprit, heat from her flames stretching out to envelope not just the bronze, but the Weyr beyond. Technically, he is always in her space. And she'd better not forget it! Lythronath starts up a second roar, that turns into a growl, mimicking Hraedhyth's. The bronze sways his hips, tail lashing to either side, and ducks his head low. It's like a wiggle, except Lythronaths just. don't. wiggle. But there's an unchecked arc of glee at all her space, and A'rist barely manages to dismount and duck his dragon's swinging tail, on his way for the wall and the personal weyr,l before the bronze has turned and roared out into Weyr. Lythronath is there, too. A back talon scores at the queen's ledge as he looks over to her again. And chuffs. Lythronath's motions have Hraedhyth's muscles twitching beneath her tawny hide, playful nature combating her desire to sleep. It's only after A'rist dismounts that the queen scrambles to her feet with a sudden bellow-- startling a stocky brown firelizard from her back and into the air. He gives the two a piece of his mind with several clicking growls before disappearing between. Buncha mooks! Rather than knock the bronze off her ledge, Hraedhyth skids to a stop and shakes her bared jaws at him, not quite biting the air near his head. The sudden excitement is what draws Azaylia out, causing her to nearly run into the weyrling on his way toward the personal weyr. Surprised, but pleasantly so, "Lythronath's." It only takes her a moment longer to find his actual name, "A'rist, hello." More bellowing! More roaring! Lythronath answers her again, pivots so his body faces Hraedhyth, too. He meets her charge dead on, and every time she 'bites' his head, he makes little half-growls and grunts and noises of sad! and woe! and oh I'm dying! Right up until he turns the tables and comes up, open-mouthed, for her throat. He might not be as accurate. Somewhere in this, teeth might hit hide, but if they do, the moment they've touched, he pulls back. Even that, of course, won't interrupt the stomping throughout. "Weyrwoman Azay-" and A'rist is looking behind him with a sort of strange wonder, the, "-lia," all but ghosted. "I hope we're not..." Blink at the dragons. "Bothering you?" Hraedhyth doesn't balk at having the bronze's jaws at her throat, as this isn't the first time it's happened. Even now, her dark gold hide is marked by past opponents who were not being as gentle as they thought. Yet here she is, snarling her enthusiasm and throwing her weight at the stomping Lythronath-- not quite attempting to knock him off. "Hm?" Azaylia's gentle gaze lifts from A'rist to the dragons behind him, smile growing with her amusement. "Don't worry, Hraedhyth won't hurt him." As if that's the weyrling's concern. "She'll keep him busy for a while... I hope you're not in a hurry to leave?" The Weyrwoman invites him deeper into her weyr, turning and motioning with a hand, "You're not bothering me. Would you like some klah? Tea?" While A'rist may not be an expected guest, those who drop by Azaylia's weyr rarely are. "Oh, I don't think he's going to get hurt." Lythronath throws his weight back against Hraedhyth, talons scrabbling, force rather than agility, mass rather than cleverness, in this first attempt. This time, he bites at her shoulder. "It's just... no one ever plays with him. Can play with him." He wrinkles his nose, and bites at his lip, and then he's moving after Azaylia, giving his own chuff while Lythronath play-gnaws. "Maybe... maybe tea?" "Good." Hraedhyth stands her ground, her own dark claws fighting to find purchase on the stone beneath her. Her shoulder muscles twitch within Lythronath's jaws, instinct forcing them to tense though the rest of her body is dedicated to making their 'game' last. The queen mouths at what's closest, which happens to be the top of the bronze's neck. While her hide is marked by carelessness, the queen's own restraint never wavers. "Oh. That's kind of sad." Azaylia aims one last glance at the pair over her shoulder before walking into the morbid, yet cozy, weyr. Nudging a large femur out of the way with her foot, "I have several kinds. Would you maybe like something fruity? My favorite is a tea made of sweet spices." The goldrider is already stoking the fire and putting a kettle on, motioning with one hand at the couch, "Make yourself comfortable." Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Accessed via a narrow staircase from the Weyrleader's Complex, or from the broad, sunny ledge beyond, this weyr was clearly designed to be for one of the weyr's junior queens. Spacious, but not extravagant, it boasts a well-sized outer room, narrowing in front the well-sized dragon couch and ledge beyond. Much of this main room has been turned over to a couch and several chairs, which circle the hearth and the blue rug set down in front of it. There's a low table here, too, set in the middle of that rug. A tack-cupboard stands tidily behind the couch, keeping out of sight a rider's paraphernalia. Three low steps lead up onto a peculiar little landing, just large enough for the brand new desk and set of shelves that have been placed there. Here, too, there are definite pointers to the lived-in state of the weyr: the desk could in no way be described as tidy. Behind the desk, a narrow passage leads in an inner set of chambers, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area. A decent-sized bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter. There's a nightstand on either side, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf to hold toiletries. Unusually, the walls, ceiling and floor of this weyr have all been whitewashed thickly, covering the natural stone. The hearth is brand new, too, as are most of the built-in fittings, as though they have recently needed to be replaced. "It's not sad so much," A'rist muses, "just that... he's too big and rough. He sort of hurts peo- dragons." It makes A'rist grimace, that. That, and not the fact that Lythronath is grunting and roaring and trying to swing his hips around and hit Hraedhyth with his tail. Bite his neck, will she? RAR. "The spice one sounds good," is already showing hints of relaxation, though far be it from the young bronzerider not to remember, "Please," as he makes his way to the couch. And also, "Thank you," once he's sitting, and wriggling his bum into a comfortable place. Where as some might be worried for their lifemates, "It takes a lot to hurt Hraedhyth. If it happens, it wouldn't be the first time." Which is meant to be reassuring. Hraedhyth gives a snarling grunt as his tail thumps mightily against her side, releasing his neck and taking a few steps to shake out the sting. As soon as it fades she's back, using her size to bully him towards the edge of her ledge where he will surely fall to his doom! Or would, were it not a queen's weyr. It's not so late in the evening that Azaylia has undressed for the day, although her long hair reaches towards her waist and her dress is not as pressed and neat as it was this morning. She poaches a pair of cups from her expansive tea set, along with some sweetener and a pair of bags with the spiced brew. "You're very welcome." She smiles brightly as she sets things down, finding her own seat on the other side of the couch as they wait for the water to boil. There's no rush to coax out whatever is on A'rist's mind, the Weyrwoman simply crossing her legs and resting her hands in her lap as she smiles at him. Lythronath is free. And learning. This time, when Hraedhyth approaches, teeth are ready to meet her, and he takes one great big step forward and digs his talons in, pushing his weight to that msot forward of his rear feet, and lifting his front - just long enough to posture. They're back down when that gold hits him, and when he starts sliding back. But not without biting. Play biting, mostly. A'rist, still young enough that this sort of thing is of interest, has turned once the waiting time has begun, and is looking out toward the ledge, wearing that telltale expression of a rider with his dragon. There's a quirk at the corner of his mouth by the time he thinks to look back to Azaylia. "They're kind of the same, aren't they? They really are, not just like... not just like a 'people say' they are." Hraedhyth doesn't stop pushing against the bronze, even if the increasing pressure has his jaws sinking deeper into her hide. Just before they puncture, she eases back and knocks her brow against his, pale gold thudding against dark striations. Her drums thunder on, flames popping and crackling with amusement that she shares with Lythronath. It's been some time since she's had a bronze as a wrestling partner. While A'rist looks toward the dragons, Azaylia studies him with gentle curiosity. She's happy to agree, "It certainly seems like it. It's not often that a dragon understands what Hraedhyth means without her having to say so." There's a testing growl when Hraedhyth pushes, but the bronze's powerful jaws don't pull back, not this time. Head to head, « Haha, » answers those drums. Lythronath pushes just enough to hold that contact, and then pushes harder, and angles himself to try and slip past, to somewhere more comfortable, and less on the edge. A'rist sits forward to give a little bit of a tug to his shirt, and, unthinking, pulls a leg, boot and all, up under him, onto the couch. "Most don't even get Lythronath when he does say things." Hraedhyth's contralto echoes her own laughter across her mental plains, barely heard above that steady rhythm. Her smooth eye ridges drag against his hide as Lythronath slides on past, the queen scrambling to catch herself before she really does fall off the edge. The wily young bronze earns a savage snarl for his escape before she turns try and advance on him again. "Well," Azaylia takes a moment to confirm, "Right now, I'd say he's having fun." There's no scolding for A'rist making himself comfortable, as she's had far worse on her couch in the past. She stands to pluck the now-clattering kettle off of the fire, "I'm glad you stopped by. I don't get to spend as much time with the weyrlings as I'd like to... I hope things are going alright?" The wily young bronze throws his tail at the gold again, and presses his advantage, sidestepping at her, jaws open again, the growl coming out almost as a purr. "He is," is abrupt from A'rist, who quickly folds his hands in his lap, and tries to tuck that leg in closer. "Things are okay. Mostly." Blink. Blink. Was that really the kettle whistling? Or maybe just the mounting pressure required to get A'rist to say, directly to Azaylia's backside. "But everyone's talking about flights now and I think that might get really fucked up." The weyrwoman doesn't know him; maybe the curse won't catch her attention, even if it's a rarity for the young man. Thump. Hraedhyth chooses to stand and take the blow to her shoulder, lifting her head to avoid a tail across her muzzle. Once again she shakes out the sting of it, dropping down on her forelimbs to aim her oversized jaws up at Lythronath's tender throat and underbelly. Snap snap! She must have terrible aim. For the bronze's enjoyment, "Good." Using a cloth to protect her hands from the heat, Azaylia turns to pour the steaming water into each of their cups. It seems the oath is enough of a contrast to their pleasant conversation to have the Weyrwoman's eyes leap up to find his. "Oh?" She sounds startled, "Is it because Lythronath isn't showing any interest yet?" A common enough worry among weyrlings. Lythronath still backs up. He's not going to give terrible aim a chance to miss. It also has the effect of leaving a nice, open, half-a-bronze sized space for Hraedhyth to occupy. Even as he ducks his head. And shifts his momentum. And lunges forward, butting head first. And A'rist actually laughs, and shakes his head. "No, he's got signs." 'Plenty' goes unsaid. "And they all point to blood and force." That part has his voice cracking. "Is Hraedhyth like that?" is blunt and scratchy. As Lythronath backs up, Hraedhyth continues to advance, meeting him halfway for that solid butting of heads. She doesn't recoil, but now it's the queen who must dig her claws into stone to keep from being pushed off. It's not that she's holding back, the larger dragon is simply doing her best to match his strength and effort. Another gentle, "Oh?" before understanding sets in with a deeper, "Oh." Azaylia is quick to leave the tea bags to steep, joining A'rist back on the couch. "She can be. Usually, she's enjoying herself too much to be violent. Unless something upsets her." Like, say, her suitors being knocked out of the sky. "When she's caught..." It takes a moment to sort through hazy memories, lips gaining a subtle curl, "Well, we've had to visit the infirmaries, after." Done reminiscing, Azaylia reaches to touch the top of A'rist's folded hands, "You're afraid he'll hurt someone during a flight?" A'rist's hands twitch when they're touched, as if he hadn't watched her come all the way back and sit down and reach. They twitch, and then stay where they are. He scrunches up his forehead a little, and nods, paying very serious attention to the weyrwoman's words. Lythronath has time to scrabble against the stone, and make awful screeching noises with his talons, before he starts to give way to the bigger dragon's efforts. « Hahaha! » From his head to hers, again. Lythronath has time for all that, before A'rist shrugs a little. "Him. Me." He cants his head. "Same difference, right? And we're not girls." Said ominously. There's a glance of concern at A'rist's twitch, her hand squeezing his warmly before she removes it-- not wanting to make him uncomfortable. Still, Azaylia eases closer, her need to soothe his worries bringing an arm across the back of the couch, not quite resting on his shoulders in a one-armed hug. "Flights are unpredictable. You wouldn't be the first rider to get a little, or a lot, rough." The gold rider not only speaks from experience, the very reason he sought her out, but with a rather casual air, "Some like it that way, even when dragons aren't involved." Tilting her head, she tries to catch his gaze, "That doesn't mean you shouldn't try to keep him under control. What's important is, you don't seem to want to hurt anyone." Hraedhyth pushes harder, grinding the top of her head in against Lythronath's, almost like a violent nuzzle. Knowing the queen, it's probably just that. "Of course I'm going to try," A'rist answers, almost defensive. It's not long before he's pulled both legs up, heels balancing on the edge of the couch, hands gone to grip his shins, so he can glare through them at... well, nothing in particular. "And I don't want to. Not up here." All that has to shift over when the bronzerider thumps an open palm to his chest. "But he..." Azaylia gets a hazarded look. "Doesn't she change things for you at all?" Lythronath rubs his head back against Hraedhyth's... and then, without warning, darts back. Eyes are a bright blue when he lies down, just as quick. Azaylia's legs uncross so that she can lean into A'rist comfortably, unable to help but curl that arm protectively against his shoulders as the weyrling tucks into himself. "She... does. She used to. It's hard to describe," She sounds apologetic, "Most of the time we don't feel... separate. Especially when she's proddy." There's a long moment where she aims a pensive stare at the tops of A'rist's knees. Finally, her lips move in a murmur, "She used to make me angry. All the time. I..." A swallow. "I hit someone in the face, once." Her thumb rubs at his furthest shoulder, a comfort for the weyrling as well as herself, "I guess she still does make me angry, but it's how I've learned to handle it that's changed. I've also come to love how passionate she is." Hraedhyth stumbles forward, slamming her head into the stone in front of her as Lythronath suddenly retreats. It's a comical sight, the queen resting her eye ridges on the ledge for a moment, possibly in shock. When she does tilt her head up, it's with an amused-but-not snort for the bronze. « Ha. Ha. » A'rist stares straight forward as long as he can, but when Azaylia hits on 'angry' he's right back to her. "That's weird," only once she seems to have finished. "I think he made me calmer. Mostly. Like... I dunno, steadier. Except harder too." Then, he's knocking his forehead into his arm, just quickly. "Not like that, just... tougher or something. I don't always - insensitive sometimes, I guess?" He shrugs, and shifts a little, beneath that arm, which he doesn't try to dislodge at least. "'Cause I had to keep control of him. But it was always just one way, you know?" Maybe she doesn't. Maybe what's important is what little glimmer of understanding he's got so far. A'rist manages at least to hold his tongue long enough to lift his chin, ready for an answer. « Ha! » Lythronath answers, staying flat against the stone floor of the ledge, but for the tip of his tail, which twitches back and forth, once in each direction. There's no comment for A'rist being 'harder', although he'll be able to hear Azaylia stifle a breathless laugh as he corrects himself. With a comforting squeeze to his shoulders, "I wouldn't be as strong as I am now without Hraedhyth. But, do you think he makes you stronger? Or... is it you don't like how he's changing you?" Her dark gaze is gentle as she considers him, "You don't want to hurt people. It might still happen. You'll have to try to be okay with accidents while you learn to control both of yourselves, instead of just him." Hraedhyth picks herself back up, collecting what savage dignity she has left. With a few pointed stomps towards the bronze, she turns her head and focuses one blue eye upon him. Whump. She'll flop on top of Lythronath if he doesn't move, splaying across, careful not to use her full weight. It's only then that Azaylia thinks to add, "And hope that the people you might hurt understand that you, who you really are, don't mean to." Lythronath says 'mph', so much as a dragon can. Really, it's a sort of grunting growl. But he doesn't move. And after a few moments of Hraedhyth being on top of him, he even closes his eyes. It's enough to earn a quick head-motion toward the ledge, though A'rist doesn't get all the way to looking before he finds Azaylia again. "Right. And just... be okay with maybe some people always thinking I'm just as much of a monster as that dragon out there." He jerks his head, offers a smile about as wry as those words, but still looks slightly better for the rest of it. And yes, he almost certainly means Lythronath, and not Hraedhyth. Hmm. Hraedhyth should have her snuggle buddies delivered more often. Once it's obvious her position doesn't bother Lythronath, the queen shifts until she's more comfortable, sliding some of her weight back down onto the ledge. Resting her head on the back of his neck, she noses and grooms his head knobs before settling into a contented stillness. Azaylia's honesty may be blunt, though she manages to soften it with genuine compassion, "It's bound to happen. You can't make everyone happy... I'm sure there are still people who think I can't control my dragon because I won't crush her spirit." It's only now that the gold rider remembers their tea, releasing A'rist in order to lean forward and fish both bags out. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're a monster. Lythronath, either. He's just... different." Even if dangerously so. Lythronath is no stranger to being groomed, nuzzled, or otherwise having attention paid him. He settles happily (literally) beneath the queen's apparent affections. There are a few clicks in the back of his throat. His mind is just a slowing buzz, really. Except for the afterthought of, « Your ledge. » "You were right, before," A'rist says as he holds his hands out for the mug. "He does make me stronger." That question he didn't quite answer. "But I know what he is, too. A dragon without feelings... without empathy." He must've thought this one over already once or twice, to have that word ready. "It doesn't mean he's not mine, it's just, I guess there's no point in lying about it? To me or anyone else. He's my dragon." Hraedhyth's affections may be a bit rougher than others, using her frontmost teeth to groom and scrape over his hide. The bronze's clicks are answered by a throaty growl, mind voice gruff in agreement, « Mine. » but, « Our Weyr. » Still hers, but one she shares with her people. Azaylia endures the burn to her fingertips so that A'rist doesn't have to, offering him a cup with the handle pointed at him. "There's sweetener here," She demonstrates, putting quite a generous amount in her own spiced brew. "When you put it like that, they're actually very different." And yet not, "Hraedhyth feels too much." Balancing the cup on her thigh, she gives the bronzerider a bright smile of encouragement, "That's very grown up of you, being so honest with yourself and others. I think Lythronath made a good choice." A'rist takes that offered handle promptly, nodding alongside his, "Thanks," as he brings it up to smell at the teas. At first, his smile is proud, for being told he's grown up - and then, not. Only kids get told that, don't they? "Well he doesn't do well with lying. And I guess - I guess it's not he doesn't feel things, he just doesn't feel in a way that makes him act nice to anyone. Or - this isn't coming out right." Maybe his bronze lifting his head to help scrape up against those teeth, and making some sort of purring noise, is part of what brings in that restatement. "He feels like an animal, maybe. Like how runners don't really love you, but they need the safety of stables, and reliable food, and they like running so why not have someone to do it with? Does that make sense?" It's not that Azaylia doesn't believe A'rist, but when his dragon's niceness is questioned she can't help but aim a little smile over her shoulder and out towards the ledge. Mhmm. Hraedhyth appreciates Lythronath's help, her fire warm and welcoming as those drums slow to a primitive lullaby. He may have remembered it, if dragons had the gift of long-term memory. "Hey now," the gold rider objects, although playfully, "I've had runners who would only let the people they liked near them. They're smarter than you think." So says the once-herder. "But, I understand what you're trying to say." After a thoughtful sip, "Have you tried to ask, in a way that he'll understand, if he actually cares about you?" "Didn't have to." No hesitation before that answer. "There was this time that I stepped up in front of him, to keep him from killing - or, probably maiming - his clutchmate, and he got me down the leg. The leg in question drops to the floor, though A'rist doesn't go so far as to try and pull up his pantleg. "He didn't want anyone touching me. Nearly took a bite out of another weyrling, till he backed down." The weyrling, presumably. "I know he cares about me. 'Cause he won't eat me." That makes him laugh, and try some of his tea, only then going for the sweetner. Lythronath is having a hard time keeping his head up, now. "I heard about that." Azaylia's eyes drop with his leg, lingering as if to see the remnants of his wound. They brighten, suddenly, "Oh!" Placing her cup of tea onto the coffee table, the Weyrwoman unfastens three buttons just above where the tunic of her dress becomes a wall of skirt. She parts the fabric to reveal her navel as well as the dark, shiny flesh of her own battle scars, "Hraedhyth, after she hatched. She was sorry after, of course." She points them out with a finger, as if the slashes are hard to miss. "She felt like an animal, then. When she was young. He might grow up." Not offered as hope, but a possibility, as she slides each button back where they belong. A'rist's eyes start to go saucer-sized when the weyrwoman goes about undoing her clothes. He shifts a little on the couch, back toward his end of it, and grips that mug with exceptional attention. "Wow, yeah, that's... a scar." He looks at his tea mug, next. And focuses. "When Lythronath opened up my leg, he wasn't sorry. He's not sorry, for anything he does, to anyone. Even to me. That's just part of him, I guess." After a while, after watching steam curl off the surface of that liquid, he tries another sip - this one clearly more to his liking. "He doesn't let me back down. It's not even because he cares or anything. It's just... I'm his and he's mine and I guess that's how it is." He still hasn't hazarded a look up to see what's become of that exposed flesh. Nope. It's just like the goldrider not to realize that bare skin might make anyone, especially A'rist, uncomfortable-- as tame as it is. Thankfully, it doesn't look as though she intends to continue their conversation in such a state, finishing up with her buttons and reaching for her tea. "It sounds like you know who he is. How he is." Azaylia certainly seems pleased about that, sinking into the couch with a curious curl to her lips, "I thought you came here looking for advice, but..." She doesn't sound disappointed by that fact, giving a shrug of amusement. "I'm always here to listen, if that's what you need. When work lets me." Hraedhyth weighs Lythronath's head down with her own, encouraging the bronze to be lulled by her rolling drums. "Well I guess I did," A'rist answers, a bit bemused. He lifts that cup again, takes more of the tea, and shifts into a less-pushed-away, and more comfortable, position. "Anyway," rippling the surface of the tea he still holds in front of him, "you sort of gave me some, didn't you?" When that mug gets lowered down, the young rider shrugs. "This was nice, though. And thanks... for the tea and everything." With a wry look toward the ledge, where Lythronath is so lulled, "At least your weyr's got stairs." "I'd like to think so." Azaylia sounds fairly confident, smiling from behind the rim of her cup as she wriggles deeper into a corner of the couch. "Feel free to visit whenever you'd like. Both of you." Hraedhyth has no objections, wriggling one last time before she settles in with a satisfied chuff. "You're very welcome, A'rist." The Weyrwoman doesn't rise to chase the weyrling out, or escort him, far too comfortable and content to finish her tea. When he finally decides to leave via those convenient stairs, his send off will be as warm as his welcome was. |
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