Logs:The Weight of a Name
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| RL Date: 16 March, 2013 |
| Who: C'wlin, D'kan, N'hax |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Some weyrlings share the lunch hour in discussion and mutual tasks. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 4, Month 4, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions |
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| Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr All the furniture here has been pushed to one side of the room to allow a large pathway opposite: room enough to let weyrling dragons pass from the bowl's archway to the cavernous barracks at the back. None of the furniture matches, either: it varies from big cushioned, claw-footed chairs to those of plain wood, while the most seating is at the two stone tables ringed by low and equally hard stone benches. Without the tapestries that decorate many of the Weyr's other interior spaces, the room always echoes with noise, no matter how few are there. What it does have, however, are several colorful murals: on one wall, a detailed diagram of a dragon's anatomy; opposite, next to a creaky wooden door, a number of painted and labeled wing formations. Near the entrance is a large-scale version of the Weyr's badge, while the back wall, by the barracks, features a detailed map of the continent. The latter area's also home to one big, beat-up couch, black or maybe blue -- the thing's so old and filthy it's hard to tell, though it's certainly comfortable.
Routines are a good thing. For instance, see this one: N'hax and Jhorinth move down into the training area a little while after D'kan and Kazavoth. The bronzeling is slowly eating his own sandwich, something method-driven and functional - deliberate - about the motions, while Jhor casts a Look upwards. The guardian-bronze takes a moment to examine his surroundings before heading towards his clutchsib. "I didn't see this coming," is N'hax's sleep-deprived-hoarsened voice, as he plunks down flat on the ground in proximity to the other pair. Other than his sandwich, he also has a skin of something, a paddle, and a bucket of already-chunked meat. Looks like great minds think alike. That look on D'kan's face? Even days later, he's still pretty much shell-shocked. "I, uh... I. Yeah," he agrees in a low murmur, forcing himself to eat another bite of sandwich before he starts sawing off another palm-sized cube of meat for Kazavoth. He must be getting better at figuring out what Kaz will and will not eat, because this one is accepted without question, giving D'kan a chance to get a better look at N'hax and Jhorinth. "Never been sniffed by so much as a firelizard. Watchwher. Anything. Now this." His voice is dull, but it is possibly just from sheer exhaustion, because when he turns back to the dragon in front of him, his tired eyes are joined by a tired smile. "It's cool, but... shells. Now what?" Who isn't brain-fuzzed these days? Don't count N'hax out of it. The young man is just sitting and eating, while Jhorinth stares at him with a stubborn set of chin and a completely still stance: terribly, scarily composed, for such a baby. "I stood in search-lines for more than a decade," Zombie!Hax says, his eyes landing unpeturbed on his lifemate. "Twelve turns, the best I figure." He's too tired to be really ... forceful about this. "When you figure that out," about the last part, "Let me know." The strength of a gust of air, the hint of rippling banners tosses the serenity of the moment into chaos; It is not true wind, but Athimeroth's controlled, aloof emergence from the weyrling barracks. First things first: the high point is assessed and with a clumsy grace, he finds his perch. All before the others are noted beyond a glance. C'wlin is late to the party, rushing from the barracks, still putting on one boot. The rest of his attire is to perfection. "Faranth's shells," he mutters, finding D'kan and N'hax first and maybe-perhaps-might-be ignoring the perched-on-high bronze that surveys the everything. Catching the tail end of D'kan's question and N'hax's answer, the harper looks... adrift is the only word for it. "I have no idea now what. This," finally, glance to the bronze that's so clearly trying to train his rider, "was not in the plans." To nearby dragons, Jhorinth is the warm chuffed exhale of soft-manned bellows, forgefire and coal dimming under a syrup-finished sheen of liquid metal. The basso rasp of his voice - a whetstone against steel - is terribly amused, self-assured, composed as if by the foundational elements of the universe itself. « It is most entertaining, this notion that they seem to have had, of plans. » D'kan cuts off one more small chunk of meat for his 'mate, then drops the larger chunk back into the pail at his feet before giving his hands another only partially successful wipe with the towel. He spears Kazavoth with a look, then looks up at N'hax before turning toward C'wlin. "Plans. Shells," he replies, nudging the pail under his chair so the brown won't be able to help himself. "My plans had included pretty much everything but this." And yet, he reaches out a hand to wipe a dribble of drying blood from Kaz's chin. "It's not so bad, though. Is it?" he asks of the other two weyrlings. The strength of wind batters the pinions of blue-colored flags, hazy at the edges of his mind voice; Swirling, twining through the rough tenor that echoes agreement with Jhorinth. « They presume too much of their former selves. They are ours, forever more. » Blurred greens, soft browns, form the base of his voice; as the wind comes, the earth is beneath. Aether's strong push lends final: « Little should they presume to know what will come next. » He, at least, has plans. (Athimeroth to nearby dragons) N'hax shakes his head. His sandwich is carefully finished, and now he goes about the business of feeding Jhorinth, his actions precise in the way that only the very tired can manage: as if he doesn't follow everything strictly-to-code, he'll not get ANYTHING done. Jhorinth's ridiculous desire of thoroughness is well-satisfied in this regard, and faint orange whirls slow to a peaceful blue-green as he eats, carefully chewing, with a methodical precision of his own. "My plans..." he starts, then stops, because it's useless, and men don't cry in front of other men. It's against the Bro Code. To nearby dragons, Jhorinth allows the force of Athimeroth's battering winds to boister his bellows, banked-coals firing up and the crackle of ozone preceding a lightning-strike clap of hammer against anvil. « Of course not, » the bass notes agree, risp-rasp of file against horn, a farrier's rough regard for that which is dead and should be removed for the best of the body. « They forget what they have never known. Duty. » There's always the whisper of ocean's waves over the Weyr, contrasting with tribal drumbeats that are likewise constant; but just now there's a sharpening of the roar of the tide, the trickle of saltwater, brisk sea breezes and the sparkle of sun on water. Iesaryth's touch is brief and light, nothing of her underwater weight brought to bear on the weyrlings. Her boys. There's no words for now, only the sense of a humid warmth and affection. She's there, when they need her. If they need her. And as quickly as she's present, she fades into the edges of conciousness. (Iesaryth to Athimeroth, Kazavoth, and Jhorith) To nearby dragons, Kazavoth does not disagree with his clutchsiblings, but he also does not chime in right away, except to send a sliver of white gold fanning across Athimeroth's gusts of air like an airfoil. That foil flutters when it hits the heat from the bellows, shoots upwards, and disappears into a scattering of glitter. « It is not wrong of them to plan, » he finally states, his own mindvoice carrying filaments of wine red that hold a hint of blood. His voice lilts ever so slightly, as if he would rather be singing his words. « It is only wrong of them to plan without us. » The Bro Code! C'wlin is very attuned to this himself, lips thinning but further whining not coming forth. Instead, he gets his own bucket of meat whilst Athimeroth stays upon his high perch, tail lashing and burnished shoulders gleaming. Freshly oiled; one of the reasons for the pair's late emergence. "Right?" he tosses to D'kan, glancing to his fellow weyrling with pale brows raised, "I didn't expect..." The thought is left hanging allowing for silent rumination when steps carry him closer to his lifemate, climbing the benches to the bronze's perch (which is no more than the tallest chair/table) and not too far from the other two. "Did you guys," topic is changed in deference to that Code, "manage to sleep that first night?" Fire and Air, Metal and Aether; Different, yet complimentary. Athimeroth further gusts the flames of his brother's forge-fires, enjoying the chaos that comes of fire. « It is wrong of them to plan, » Tenor rises, broken only by the whipping of wind, the chill of the highest levels of atmosphere turning such skeins of air cold, « when it is the wrong plan. » This then is Kazavoth's counter, giving his clutch-brother the floor. And yet, playful gusts of air take that white-gold tin foil and send it through the blurred glimpse of a bird's eye view of some hidden land. Through clouds and blue skies, through rippling banners of bannermen called to play. (Athimeroth to nearby dragons) D'kan is trying to keep his conversation with Kazavoth to himself, but he mouths the word "No" at one point while staring directly at the brown's small head. Oh, but Kaz would like just little more, please. Just a teensy, tiny nibble? It was so good. The brown's tail tip swishes this way and that in a tight arc against the room's floor, and his wings have lifted from his body, quivering slightly. D'kan takes a sharp breath and looks over at the other two, then their respective dragons. "Well... what I do know is this beats returning to the Hold's docks. Who needs a ship when we have these guys. No wonder the boat folk get testy about dragons. I mean, aside from the threat of capsizing." Of course. He looks over at his sandwich, sighs, then picks it up again. He'll just ignore that blood smell that now wafts from it lightly. "Sleep?" he echoes around a bite of sandwich, cheek bulging. Manners can wait (though Kaz seems to disagree, going by his huff). "Don't think I've gotten more than a couple hours at one go since then." To nearby dragons, Kazavoth blows Athimeroth's wind away from himself as if waving at a buzzing insect. « As if they could possibly carry out any plans without us, » he states in a quiet roll while water seeps along, dampening those banners, at least on his end. « It is just one more part of that duty we must teach them. That is all. » "Sleep? What's that? Between him and... the ruckus..." N'hax trails off, avoiding looking at Jhor to better eyeball D'kan's little conversation with Kazavoth-the-poor-malnourished-dragonet. "I'm too tired to think about politics." Except he just did. Meanwhile, he feeds Jhorinth, and Jhorinth enjoys himself for the time being, slow, careful bite at a time. "Hear, hear to that. I'm glad I'm not the only one," C'wlin mutters, commiserating with the others for the lack of sleep. Then he, too, gets down to the business of feeding Athimeroth, who's demand is high. When Kazavoth attempts to dull the winds of aether, Athimeroth gusts harder, humidity coming from the heated light of Rukbat hitting the lower atmosphere to whirl through the aetheric pressure of the bronze. Ozone and oxygen adds a tingle to the senses; only Athimeroth can tell Athimeroth when to stop! Distraction comes as: food! (Athimeroth to nearby dragons) To nearby dragons, Kazavoth was not telling Athimeroth to stop. He was merely stopping Athimeroth in his own mental vicinity. Force field for the win. Kaz may not be shiny and bronze like his two clutchsiblings here, but in the realm of Mind, he's gots skillz. With a push of his mind, he manages to keep Athimeroth at arm's length, figuratively speaking. It helps that he is apparently done eating. Then, still within his bubble, he absorbs some of Jhorinth's voice and starts shaping some of that liquid metal into new shapes. D'kan manages to finish that last bite of sandwich without ralphing, then stares down at his blood-crusted hands. The bags under his eyes only make the look of muted despair a little more pathetic. He pushes himself to his feet so he can put the meat back where he'd found it. There are, after all, twenty-one other dragonets who need to eat in the near future. Kazavoth follows him like a canine at his heels, feet picked up pricelessly so one after another, tail still flicking left to right. He does, however, press his dark wings to his back once more. It's a good thing D'kan seems to know the brown is there, or there might have been a collision. Both return to their previous spots, this time with water, oil, and rags. "I get the whole history of it," he shares with the other weyrlings, "but... so what? Did she light the Weyr on fire? No. Run the tithes into the ground? Nope. Sabotage the hatching? Hardly." Naive? Or just D'kan being Kaed? To Iesaryth, Kazavoth has been contemplating that whisper of ocean, comparing and measuring it. When he replies, the salt and brine have been removed, replaced with a crystal clear, icy mountain trickle, refreshing, but unobtrusive. It is just a quiet sense from him that he has understood. To nearby dragons, Jhorinth controls the fires, now, the bellows fully functional, fires cheerfully crackling away that-which-would-burn - not the world, currently, at least; Midgard be safe for now! The iridescence of high amusement glitters, bridging the gap between that-which-lies-below and that-which-cannot-lower, stone to air, air to stone. He bridges the gap. « Your logic leaves little aspirations for bettering, » is his sardonic, dry-dry-dry quip to Athimeroth. Kazavoth is given more liberal treatment, liquid-metal offered with clear-shining approval for the engineering of his designs. That liquid metal takes on several different shapes, but gradually Kazavoth's mind begins to wander, and the metal is allowed to seep back toward Jhorinth. Specks of light edge his voice, illuminating a small, shared feeling of itch. As he and D'kan turn their focus to cleaning and oiling, Kazavoth's voice fades from that shared with his clutchsiblings. For now. (Kazavoth to nearby dragons) Awww, poor, poor D'kan. If N'hax had any more energy, he'd feel pity for his fellow weyrling, but as it is, it's taking all of his energy to push the bowl away and wait for Jhor to approach, settling his bronzen haunches in such a way to allow N'hax to start the messy job of oiling him. For all that he's tired, he's still a Smith at heart - instead of the standard pot of oil, he has a skin filled with oil instead, and glugs out a few douses of oil at a time, paddling it into soft hide. "But she's a Vijay. They don't... the ones who have been around. They remember the raiding." The shrug of Hax's shoulders seems to indicate he doesn't really care one way or the other, but sees the value of both. D'kan first concentrates on wiping away all traces of dust, grit, grime and meat traces from Kazavoth's dark, speckled hide. It must not have been all that long since the last washing, because the only truly dirty parts seem to be the brow's muzzle and paws, which D'kan leaves for last. "Yeah, I get that," he murmurs in reply to N'hax, though it's a somewhat distracted reply as he works on wiping around each and every neckridge. "She's a Vijay. Sure. But that's not all she is. Any more than you were only a smith, and I was only a dockhand. I mean..." He pauses to exchange the dirty rag for a clean one, which he uses to work in the oil, preferring the rags to paddles. "She didn't have to tell anyone. This is her home. I wouldn't want to have to pretend to be someone else here, either." Okay, a little naive. "I just don't want to lump her in with the others unless she gives me a good reason. Beyond the pretending." Lying. Jhorinth enjoys his oiling, slow-bit at a time. N'hax takes careful attention around the headknobs - the bass rasp of the dragonet's voice can be 'overheard' as a thrum of contentment - and tries not to snort at D'kan's words. "Yes," as gentle as he can be: "But I didn't assume control of the whole weyr, either." Just a /smith/, just a /Vijay/-- but he nods along. "You're right. It is what a person does that defines them. And she deliberately hid the truth. She could have just been Aishani, without the Vijay. Not wanting to be persecuted makes sense, but you can never let someone pull the wool over your eyes for feeling sympathy." D'kan's "mmph" could be agreement just as easily as disagreement. He dips the rag in oil and carefully works along Kazavoth's wing joints while the brown's eyes begin to close, their whirling colors taking on a deep, deep blue. "I was too far away to hear what she said after her name," he says, his tone allowing a point, though not necessarily conceding. "I guess I just want to know her reasons before I condemn her. She's never been anything but nice to me." Eyes of the beholder. "In fact, if not for her, I might have quit candidacy and gone back to... well." He stops and glance at N'hax. "Maybe not the Hold, but gone on to something else." Despite himself, Jhorinth is also beginning to succumb to the careful tending of his lifemate, his lids slowly clicking in place one-after-another. "Seemed like a lot of people were mad," N'hax comments after a moment, shaking his head. "I've never rightly been introduced." He nods, though, his hands slowly... slowing... slower. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind when I do." Because having another everyman around is most excellent. N'hax looks like he's about to fall asleep, though, right here sitting down in the middle of the training room. Ah, the joy of learning how the rider and dragon's states of mind affect each other. "Shells," D'kan says before hiding a jaw-cracking yawn behind a fist. "I think even if I weren't sleepwalking half the time, I could totally just sleep on the chair right now." As Kazavoth slides all the way to the floor, though his chin manages to remain on D'kan's knee, even while some soft, wheezing snores begin. The weyrling rubs at an itchy spot on his own chin and manages to leave a smear of oil. Not that he cares. "Screw it." After some resettling of that dark head, D'kan stretches out right on the ground beside Kaz. After a moment, the brown moves his chin to rest on his rider's arm. You know you're tired when a stone floor feels comfortable. To nearby dragons, Kazavoth is most definitely drifting off, but that doesn't mean his mind has gone quiet yet. There are some last, sporadic images that burst to life, then fade. Meat. The sparkling surface of a water in the sun. The shade of a banner. The haze of heat that melts it all into one... dull... wash of grey. « Do you think they... » All images and scents fade for a long moment before a last, lonely spark travels along, cast off from some unidentified fire and floating in the thermals. The completion of thought is overcome by sleep, and all that is left is a lingering warmth. Kazavoth's sending is all that it takes - N'hax and Jhorinth slide into slumber with the ease of only the bone-weary, napping on cold stone. Forge-bellows send up plumes of heat, the sizzle of the quench sliding lukewarm, until all that remains are the faint snores from N'hax and the ephemeral beauty of bifrost stretching end-to-end over the fanciful stretch of Jhorinth's dreaming. |
Comments
Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 16 Mar 2013 23:48:39 GMT.
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Aw. They're fun. The dragons too. ;)
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 17 Mar 2013 09:58:10 GMT.
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Love the way they have their own opinions, but it doesn't turn into a fight. Awesome. And all of the dragonspeak was wonderful to read. :D
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