Logs:Merely a Flesh Wound
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| RL Date: 22 March, 2013 |
| Who: Arekoth, D'kan, H'kon, Kazavoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Arekoth decides it's time for one of his to earn his first kill. Ichor makes a cameo appearance. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 22, Month 4, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Clear, cool, and damp. |
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| Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake. At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space. « This will go better if you're hungry, » is borne on wintry air, a sudden chill with sudden words, the leftovers of the conversation Arekoth may well have been having with himself and a made-up version of his brown offspring. « Your heart will pump harder when there's some bite behind it. » This time, the gift in his talons - that squawking, flailing wherry - is kept out of the mental link. Of course, anyone nearby won't be hard-pressed to hear the thing. (Arekoth to Kazavoth) Kazavoth and his lifemate are already in the vicinity, but it's quite likely the latter of the pair can't hear the wherry, as D'kan is currently slumped to the side, a length of what might be leather gripped loosely in his hands. Don't worry, he's merely resting, and Kazavoth seems eager to keep it that way. The moment he picks up on the sudden message from Arekoth, he slaps a shield down so fast, there might have been a clang, and it been something material. He is unable to do anything about the squawking, but he can move quickly to meet the older, larger brown, soon leaving his rider behind. « Ooooh. » It's low, almost whispered, but Kazavoth is unable to keep a downright electric excitement out of it. It crackles along the edges, leaping from thought to thought in arcs of anticipation. « I can learn to bite. » Clear footprints are left behind from Arekoth's landing when the big brown makes a wing-assisted hop forward, toward Kazavoth as that little dragon approaches. It's from this new stance that the wherry is released, its first few attempts at flapping broken wings accomplishing little but more squawking. « Better learn quickly, » has lost some of the winter from it, words left to stand alone as so often they are. A quick lunge forward is an attempt to direct the flailing (and failing) birdthing toward the tiny dragon. « She really didn't travel well, » is almost jubilant. With eyes whirling at top speed, filaments of blue now outshone by golden oranges and sparks of red, Kazavoth quickly hunches down, belly almost scraping the ground, wings held straight up from his back, sails folded but muscles taut. Nostrils flare as he takes in the wherry's scent, eyes fascinated by the heat coming from the panicked thing. « Best to end the misery of her failure then, yes? » There is a strange vacancy of sympathy for one so young. Then again, some of his first waking thoughts were of meat. This wherry is meat, and it is for him. For a couple seconds, the dark, speckled brown stands crouched on all fours, his tail held rigidly behind him, only its forked tip swishing this way, then that, more canine than feline. Claws dig against the stone of the bowl's floor, wings rise higher, spread for balance... then he leaps! Front claws scrabble toward the broken thing, bringing her flailing head close to his snapping jaw. Wherry feathers fly, and the squawking becomes a scream while pinions thrash. The second snap silences it all, and slowly the echoes recede from the bowl's walls, replaced by excited, heavy breathing from the little dragon. « And she was the second try. First one died right off. » But when the little brown gets ready for action, the bigger one is quite content to sit back, wings not quite settled, shifting occasionally, intense stare on Kazavoth and his prey. The wherry's final attempt at preserving her own life is fuelled by desperation; she is all talons and beak for a moment, right before the end, and it makes Arekoth laugh, a flaring ribbon of pink, gone so soon as it had come. « Fearsome little hunter! Taste her now! » (It would be about this time that H'kon has started running for the bowl.) In that first moment of triumph, sheer joy of victory almost erupts from Kazavoth's mind to any and all listening nearby. It flows in a wash of deeply golden sunlight stained at its edges with the taste, the color, the feeling of blood. His blood, the wherry's blood, the thrill as his heart races and hers comes to an almost delicate standstill, fluttering just one last time before her neck breaks. « Oh, sweet success! Succulent meat! Savory blood! » D'kan has roused now with a lurching start, his equilibrium spoiled by bone deep grogginess. While Kazavoth is mentally dancing with his trophy held high, his rider is pushing himself to his feet to begin staggering toward the brown. Kazavoth may be thrilling in the thump of his heart and the taste of his first kill, but D'kan can sense the ichor leaking from the little brown's neck. Arekoth is well pleased with his offspring's kill. He may even be pleased to see the littlest brown's first battle scar, once he gets round to noticing it. That hooked muzzle dips as he cants his head, pushing onto all four feet. It's a short stride to come up beside little Kazavoth. « There! All her strength is yours now. » There's a mental pat on the back in that. The scowl on H'kon's face as the brownrider arrives (he was not far, clearly) only serves as a secondary outlet for all that paternal pride. « See how well he did? » There are no words coming from the biped just yet as he reaches Kazavoth and skids to a stop, possibly wearing a hole in one of the knees as it scrapes along the ground. D'kan hasn't even noticed H'kon yet, and he's only spared the briefest of glances for the brown that dwarfs them both. He tries to push the dead wherry out of the way, but Kazavoth clings to it. « No, it's mine! » Vivid purple streaks through the words, entwining and bolstering them. « I killed it, D'kan, me! » The brown reflects only momentarily on the stinging pain from his neck, but all it makes him do is peer up at Arekoth as his mindvoice switches to proud, swelling gusts of sun-kissed snow powder dancing along the link. « You killed it, » Arekoth agrees, some of Kazavoth's excitement bleeding over, sparkling into an odd would-be aurora that is just a little too particulate. The big dragon has looked away from his rider's angry glare, has blocked most of his rider's mental ranting. « And getting knocked around's good. Next time, you'll just have to kill it on the first stroke. » It's toward Kazavoth that H'kon, too, turns in the end - Kazavoth and D'kan. Short legs bring him in at a jog, more controlled now, careful of that wherry carcass. "How deep is it?" Grim. Flat. It's when Kazavoth leans in to get his first real bite that he truly notices his wound. « Ooh, that smarts. » Surprise is there, but at least a shade of his pride remains. It is not machismo. It's closer to admiring a trophy earned by doing something great! Unable to actually see the wound except through his rider's eyes, however, Kaz turns toward D'kan, whose wide-eyed look is avoiding appearing panicked only by including some strongly muffled rage that keeps threatening to bubble to the surface, both in his expression and in his link with the brown. « It is nothing, » Kazavoth assures all listening as his wings flex slightly as if to say, See? These are still fine. D'kan is now kneeling between Kaz and his kill just enough to get a hand to the green-stained neck, the ichor appearing like ink on the brown's dark hide. "It's," he begins, jaw tight. Eyes close as he presses his hand to Kaz's neck. "What the hell, man?" the weyrling says a second later. His glare up up at H'kon would be more effective without that sick accompanying look of guilt that pulls his lips into a grimace and worries his eyes. Arekoth flexes his wings in echo. Yup. Kid's fine. « It's a badge, » says the brown with the twisted forelimb. « First in your clutch to make a kill. » That pride is back, worry, absent. But not so from H'kon, whose forehead has found its familiar lines. "See to your dragon first," is metered command. "You may come after me second." Green eyes are on green that stains the littler brown's neck. The clench of his jaw makes the repetition of, "How deep is it?" tighter. A prod from D'kan causes a surprised jump from the brown, but relief begins to wash away the weyrling's guilt a tiny bit, though it is not helped by a quiet « I told you so » from Kazavoth. For a moment, the new rider and new dragon peer at each other, conversation finally reigned in for something more private. When D'kan stands, Kazavoth bends toward his kill, now right back to almost gleeful thoughts shared with his sire, an almost sing-song version of, « Would you like a taste? » D'kan straightens as he wipes his stained hands on his trousers. Sure enough, there's a knee that will need patching next. He squares himself to H'kon, possibly enjoying the height difference just a little bit. There is still anger there, but he's working hard to keep it in check. "It's not as bad as it looked," he answers the older brownrider in a tight voice. "Need to clean it." Height difference is a thing to which the smaller brownrider is accustomed. Even as the bigger dragon gives a strangely gracious, « Enjoy your kill while it's fresh, » and settles to wait, H'kon looks up at the weyrling. "Yes. Be thorough, even if it stings him once this," and he makes a vague gesture toward the wherry, the triumph, "has worn off. It would do no harm to have one of your weyrlingmasters look it over before the day's end." Weyrlingmasters. Right. D'kan closes his eyes again as his hands, still tacky with the ichor he couldn't wipe away, clench against his thighs. As for Kazavoth, aside from an occasional glimpse of contemplation given the new wound, he has settled in to enjoy that kill. « Oh, this is wonderful, Arekoth! » he exclaims with relish, though it isn't until he adds, « D'kan, you must try this, » does the weyrling open his eyes again. It's no wonder some weyrlings go vegetarian sometimes, is it. « First kill. First injury. This day has become quite exciting. » « It's a good day, » Arekoth agrees. He looks to H'kon, but H'kon is still watching the younger brown pair. When D'kan's eyes are open again, he offers, still grim and flat, "I will assist you as you need." His mouth works into a heavy frown, eyebrows drawing together in what is nearer a wince. "You were not wrong to think I should have been aware of this," is just as heavy. And D'kan should have been awake. He knows it, and he has no poker face right now that can cover up that particular spot of guilt, but the anger is still stronger, trying its hardest to seep out of the corner where he tries to keep his emotions tucked away. Luckily, Kazavoth is far too intent on his meal to notice. "I don't need your help," D'kan says in a low murmur, turning away from H'kon and his wince to watch his lifemate eat his prize. "As you will." The older brownrider takes one step back, looking from D'kan to Kazavoth. And then, finally, to Arekoth, and that leg of his. "You know how we may be reached," sounds less an offer of help as further admission of accountability. He starts back along the path by which he'd arrived. And Arekoth... Arekoth waits until H'kon has agreed to move on without him, and offers, helpful, to his boy, « Be sure your rider knows how lucky he is, to have a dragon who is so far ahead. » D'kan watches H'kon turn to leave, apparently set to keep the rest of his thoughts to himself. Kazavoth looks up at Arekoth, whirling eyes full of red-tinged blues and forest greens, his wings unconsciously mimicking the mantling he learned before. « I will try, but he is so thick sometimes, » the little brown laments, though his voice lacks any hint of ire. It's when Kaz turns back to the wherry--its carcass resembling a feather-coated slick more than what was a living, breathing body just minutes earlier--that a stinging twinge of pain echoes along that draconic link, pushing thoughts into words like some foul, sulfurous magma. "Maybe if you got your head out of your ass." It's followed by a half beat of silence that is likely covering for the thought of, crap, that was out loud, wasn't it. Arekoth answers that sulphur sting with numbing chill, if no words of protection. D'kan and his speaking earn a hawkish look from that big brown. Sympathy comes only in regards to the mantling dragonet's lifemate: « You'll find they never really come around. » Kazavoth's eating has been slowing, and his little belly has taken on a distinctly rotund look that probably means D'kan will be dealing with more than a wherry cut later on. The weyrling has turned away from the retreating brownrider by now to give Kaz the Rotund a glance, with a longer one aimed at Arekoth the Beaked. « Well, it gives us something to do, eh? » Kazavoth replies, his voice growing quieter as hunger disappears and excitement begins to ebb. For a couple seconds, it seems D'kan might try to address the larger brown himself, but his outburst just previous seems to have relieved that particular pressure enough that he can kneel beside Kazavoth again to lay a hand on his shoulder, saying quietly, "Let's get you cleaned up." The brown's reply is a simple, stately, « As you wish, D'kan, » adding a moment later to his sire, « I must go, but thank you ever so much for the meal. » The weariness that still follows a young dragon's meals is setting in with growing rapidity. Perhaps Arekoth can forgive the pair as they leave the bloody mess of feathers in the bowl. Except for the ones sticking to Kaz's hide, of course. |
Comments
K'del (K'del (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 00:30:43 GMT.
< I just...
Oh, Arekoth. *headdesk*
(This was so much fun to read. <3!)
Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 00:32:34 GMT.
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Now they'll all want one.
D'kan (D'kan (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 01:00:12 GMT.
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Call Arekoth. He delivers.
Nicky (Nicky (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 02:27:22 GMT.
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- holds back jealous little Cailluneth*
This is so awesome. :D
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 23 Mar 2013 03:33:11 GMT.
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Aw haw. Kaz the Rotund. <3 And of course Arekoth is going to bring a live wherry to a barely-month-old dragonet. Of course.
You guys are gonna get me hooked on Arekoth/Kazavoth scenes, man. XD
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