Hatching Ledges, High Reaches Weyr
Around the perimeter of the hatching grounds, long ledges hug the walls at irregular intervals, providing a dragon's eye view of the sands. When there's no clutch, it can be a warm and quiet place to soak up the heat radiating from below. During hatchings, though, it's a different story: the walls fairly reverberate with the thrumming hum of watching dragons, as the Weyr's older draconic inhabitants and a smattering of visitors welcome the newly hatched.
Although most of these ledges are only accessible via dragonback, one especially broad ledge juts outward over one side of the galleries, and can be reached by the intrepid via narrow stairs carved into the rock.
As the sun sets beyond the mountains, it's just a change from grey to darker grey as the snow continues to fall and fall. Here, in the dry warmth of the Hatching Cavern, there's even less visible alteration. A not-so-little green dragon has been curled up on one of the ledges for some time now, her blanket-wrapped rider tucked in against her flank and within the curve of one dark-spurred wing. She hasn't been alone for much of this time, but finally the visiting blue dragon takes wing with his rider's wave and flies up into the dimming grey. They let out a quiet breath, as one.
The green pair will have a few moments of togetherness in silence... and then, there is Arekoth. « Handsome clutch, isn't it? » goes to Vrianth even before he has landed, and once he does, his chest is out, his head held high and proud as he settles his wings. It's a temporary rest only; he doesn't settle to his haunches, or even to a full crouch, and H'kon has some drop to manage as he dismounts to the ledge. "Leova," is soft greeting once he's peeked around Arekoth's leg to the woman.
« At least one of them is, » Vrianth says with acerbic pleasantness. « Do you even know which are yours? Arekoth. » Her eyes are darkly brilliant on that long, snaky neck, which she twists to view the brown's arrival and what surely will soon be his departure. Her rider is slower to look over, reluctant perhaps, but then what becomes her smile should appear genuine enough. "H'kon. Surviving, hm."
« Iesaryth's, » Arekoth responds with undiluted pride, « are mine. » The brown's wings sit up on his shoulders, but do not extend to their full yet, for all he does move more toward the edge of the ledge. H'kon moves instinctively around his brown's motions, attention still focused on the greenrider as he goes. He stops once clear, not willing to intrude into the space of the other rider and her lifemate. "My survival has not been a full concern, I do not believe." A glance to the green. "Are you both well?"
« And which would those be? » There seem to be so many, after all. And, is her implication, so mixed up. Vrianth's visual focus, if not entirely her mental one, alters then to watch his rider near them, and something about the folds of her wings relax somewhat as he doesn't get too close. "No?" Leova, for that concern. For the rest, she lifts an again-bandaged hand for him to see, then sets it back beneath her blanket. "For the record, though I can write with my other hand, it pains the reader as well as the writer."
« The handsome ones. » As if it should be obvious. Now, Arekoth does extend his wings, and lets himself fall-glide the short way to the sands, where he lands with exceptional care. "There is food and shelter enough," H'kon says a bit wryly. Linking his hands behind his back, he dips his head toward Leova to dutifully inspect the bandaged hand, so long as it's available. He nods first, and has looked after Arekoth before musing, "Perhaps then best to avoid records," quite deadpan.
H'kon's quip, unless it's Arekoth's departure as Vrianth further settles, brings Leova the ghost of a smile. "Reckon so. And drills, it seems. Meanwhile, you have your food, your shelter. Shared air, hot or otherwise..." She glances from him back up at Vrianth, as though at some unvoiced thought, but it's brief. Then, "And sleep? How's your sleep. Or do you avoid that too. 'Fraid mine's not the best, though I don't seem to be good for much more." Vrianth: « Which are those? They are not even round. »
That first eyebrow arch may have been pointed away - the second, a response to mention of hot air, he points straight at Leova. The corner of his mouth twitches, just once. "We also have drills. And Arekoth has been quite adamant to reminding me we have eggs, as well." If his dragon has looked up to him during that, well. H'kon turns back to the sands, and Arekoth relents, and moves toward one of those eggs that is his favourite. « They are shapely. » "I do not avoid sleep by choice." He leans her way, but doesn't turn. "You might see the healers for something, if it is on account of your hand."
« They have shape, » Vrianth almost-agrees, though she also indulges Arekoth by sharing a vision of him, so proud, with that egg, of which he's so proud. The two of them, together. Meant to be. And if his rider doesn't turn, he won't see her rider's quick, ruddy blush, though a subtly strained, uncomfortably amused quality might reflect in her voice. "I did see the healers. Well. Madilla. She's kind." Then, "I wonder how much they'll look like him. Act like him. The eggs." When they aren't eggs, any longer.
And Arekoth puffs out his chest and sets his wings carefully, just to offer Vrianth a somewhat more striking image to reflect. "She is," is agreed , short and quiet, for the weyrhealer. « They will have more than that. Strength. Courage. » Halfway an answer to Vrianth's rider, as an elaboration to the green herself. "If the Weyr is fortunate," H'kon says only after his dragon has finished, "They will look as he does now, and not as he did when he hatched. And they will act quite differently."
There's the flash of it, that updated, revised look. « Show your rider, make him remember, » is Vrianth's instruction, « More than you do? » her deliberate, even playful misunderstanding. "They're all scrawny and sticky," the dragonhealer says. "It happens." She shifts uncomfortably, stares down at the eggs, but they still haven't done much of anything so she settles back. "Wonder, when you say that, whether you're speaking more to him or to me."
And for once, Arekoth does as he's told without question. It makes H'kon's back tense, and his chin lift. "I say it generally. Truthfully. Too many like Arekoth, and the Weyr may not balance." He pushes out a sigh, though it does little to relax his posture. "Perhaps it will not matter." « They must be at least so good as I am. »
There's a waft of pleased praise for it, too, even if it's followed by, « So Iesaryth's influence makes for an improvement. » Except that Vrianth doesn't actually name the queen, but rather flashes an image-sense of her with her heavy if sunlit waters. "Lot to be said for balance," her rider agrees. "Keeping in mind that the other two are, hm. More fiery yet." Her voice has gotten quiet, a little drifty. "Did you ever imagine it? Him, siring a clutch. His... heritage."
"It is not his fire that concerns me," H'kon dismisses, giving his head one jerk to the right, in place of a proper shake. « They will have all our best parts. » It's an edict, almost. On the sands, Arekoth takes his leave of his favourite, circles for a view of some of the other eggs. "I knew his siring a clutch would be a possibility. In this way..." He takes a small step back from the ledge, and manages to escape his dragon's notice in so doing. "And one would be hard-pressed to not find a common ancestry among the Weyr's dragons."
"No?" « We shall see, » determines Vrianth. If she remembers. « Arekoth. » The green yawns so hugely that her uvula is visible where it dangles over her tongue. Leova catches herself in one, too, more constrained. As for ancestry, "I agree, for the most part. Transfers aside. Though even Iesaryth is descended from Leiventh, who was clutched here. I've seen the Records, of him as a hatchling... have you met the man, yet?"
« You shall see, » Arekoth agrees. « Vrianth. » H'kon turns to look to Leova, and in time, Arekoth looks up to his rider. "I've not." His gaze is only on the greenrider a moment. Soon it wanders toward the benches of the galleries, then up to the sky. Perhaps some agoraphobia has worked its way in through his enforced hermitting. The brownrider isn't looking particularly comfortable.
She has such laughter, does Vrianth: a silent ripple of energy made visible, green as the gleam of her eyes. But then her rider's taken to studying his. When she finally speaks, it's quiet: "What is it."
In silence, even quiet words sound loudly. H'kon's attention is refocused, even as he takes another step back from the edge of the ledge. The greenrider is examined in turn. "Awareness," he decides at last. The word isn't allowed to sit on its own for long. "Will you and Vrianth be here long, or do you plan to move?"
"Hm." Leova's sat there under the scrutiny, patient and mild, as though she had no fire of her own. Or as though it were banked, reflected only in those reflective amber eyes. Now she checks, "This ledge, do you mean?" The faint concern in her voice suggests... alternatives.
That near-specification makes the brownrider's brow drop, makes him swallow hard. He looks briefly back in the direction of the sands, of his still-staring dragon. "Arekoth is content with his clutch," H'kon says, carefully, looking back to the woman. Even, briefly, to her dragon. "I would take my leave, except I'd not disturb him."
"If you'd like a ride down," Leova says, careful in her own right. "If he'd tolerate it. You need but ask." And to make it easier, possibly, "It does seem about time for supper. We may even have missed the worst of the crush." For her part, Vrianth isn't looking at the man, but rather up to the greater darkness of the cavern with an anticipatory eye. It is, surely, not to make it easier.
If H'kon does check with Arekoth, it takes little time, and little enough attention that his face doesn't change. "Then, if you've sat your fill here," and green eyes range from Leova to Vrianth, "I would accompany you down." For the still-staring brown, perhaps, he adds, "Arekoth's place is here."
Leova isn't so damaged that she can't give him a one-shouldered shrug, there at the end. Still, she's more cautious getting up than is her wont, less of that easy strength in evidence. « I choose not to drop him, » rustly-winged Vrianth informs the starer down below. « If that is your concern. » To his rider, hers says with a one-cornered smile, "Almost asking." And then, practicalities, "I'll get up first. Readjust the straps for you, since we hadn't brought the passenger's." The leather's an aid to getting up, that and Vrianth's offer of her foreleg and the lean this way and that to make it all easier. If nothing else, the combination should assure a... more or less peaceful ride.
« If he's so stupid he falls, he deserves it, » Arekoth answers sharply, turning and heading for another clump of eggs. H'kon nods to Leova, and waits until he's quite sure the turn is his. "Thank you," is said softly, and only has he's reaching - but before he has touched - the green's straps.
Vrianth may be silent now where the brown's concerned, but it's a very aware silence, a listening silence, a loud silence if there could be such a thing: presence. Where his rider's concerned, H'kon gets an indulgent whuffle to his shoulder: so he's able to give thanks. Who knew? She approves. Leova, though? After her murmured acknowledgment, after her leaning forward to make it easier for him to sit behind her, after her glancing ruefully back to make sure he's got those straps in hand... well, she's quiet. Settled in to her dragon. It's an easy lean of Vrianth's to tip out over nothingness with wings outspread, to glide above the clutch and its guardians and Arekoth in particular, and then to wing out into the slow-falling snow of the Bowl. Even her landing is light. Were H'kon a Holder visitor, had he a half-filled cup, it would only have been his own lack of nerves that would make him spill that tea.
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