Logs:Worth Talking To
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| RL Date: 19 September, 2011 |
| Who: E'dre, Iolene |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Iolene is studying when E'dre sits close by and the two of them talk while Ysavaeth learns more about the rest of the world from Wroth. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, Jaques/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| There's the pleasant thrum of activity in the weyrling training caverns, as both toddler dragons and their not-so-new-but-still-new riders alike work out what to do with the rest of their day. Some weyrlings are cramming in for their afternoon lectures, others are daydreaming and everything in between. Where Iolene falls is an odd mixture of both as the lanky blonde's claimed one of Ysavaeth's lean hind limbs to settle herself into, her back curled into the gold's flank, seeming to daydream but for the sheaf of hides in her hands. Every once in a while, the thin face lifts and those dark eyes blink, as if to relieve the strain of her intense study. Nearly two times her height now, the refined planes of Ysavaeth's body lift in regal regard of the rest of the training caverns. Some of the weyrlings are still adjusting to the presence of the older brown pair. Stares and whispers follow E'dre as he and Wroth meander through the training caverns, having little to no concern for studying lecture or anything else. Wroth isn't as ill-pleased as his rider, but his tail is lashing behind him. The pair finally stop near Iolene and Ysavaeth. Wroth settles down into a lounge, blue gaze moving from his rider to the gold. « You look as if all the others are beneath you. It's fitting » Wroth's comment is a flurry of wind, followed by a dry-scratching sound of a rumble. E'dre doesn't do more than glance at Iolene before he lounges against Wroth's side. « I'm so glad you agree. » There's a dry humor in Ysavaeth's touch at Wroth's words, the smooth honeyed essence of it more polished now than just even a few weeks prior. It's a humor that she likely hasn't picked up from Iolene herself, as the still too thin blonde rider tucked into her side, turns up those dark eyes once more to clear the words from them with a succession of open-souled blinks. Her guilelessly expressive gaze shifts at once to startled as those dark blue eyes find E'dre in her immediate line of sight, and a quick glance around seems to try and ascertain that she wasn't imagining an open space there just moments prior. "Um, hi?" Io's smile is close on heel of that rather succinct, uncertain greeting, the curves of which hesitate about the apples of her cheek, watchful first to see how E'dre might act before possibly blossoming completely. E'dre glances to the left, where Iolene is tucked against her gold's side. Her smile is met with a twitch of the lips, though the answering grin that was likely to surface is held back. His tone is flat, even unfriendly. "Hello," he replies, offering a flippant salute. "No studying for you huh? Got it all memorized?" The brownrider's shoulders twitch and then his arms fold in front of him. /Grumpy/! Wroth's head lifts as he turns to gaze out at the other young dragons. Their antics usually amuse him, but his size against there's is only amplified in the space they're occupying. His tail-tip flicks and he looks back to Ysavaeth. « They are all rather boring today, though. » Ysavaeth, being only half Wroth's size, still must look up upon the brown in order to look him levelly in the eye. Luckily, the dragon way of communication doesn't require the pale, regal queen to abase herself in such ways physically. The pretentions of a gold much older, much wiser is a mantle she wears, like a child donning on her mother's favorite pair of high heels; don't tell Iovniath. « Perhaps, » remarks the young queen, her honey set to life by the melodic chiming of bells in the distance, « You could unbore me. » She takes on Wroth's boring as her own, entreating amusement of the brown in a way that may very well be akin to command; except that it's layered so politely, with the sweet niceties of flattery for the brown's age and size. « Tell me about yourself and yours. » Her own tail tip chimes in with his, reaching in its flicked state, to brush oh so casually against the ruddered tail. Unsettled by the salute, Iolene suddenly remembers the formalities of being a weyrling and offers a very haphazard one of her own. Her other hand lifts the hides that were previously hidden by Ysavaeth's bulk with weary resignation. "I'm trying to study. I don't enjoy it much, but /everyone/ tells me it's what I'm supposed to do." There's a 'trying to make the best of it' smile quirked to E'dre, a continuation of the hesitant one initially. "You're not one of us," is said astutely. "I'm sorry." It is not often that Wroth holds conversations with golds, of any age. Queens he leaves to other, more flirtatious browns and the bronzes he so easily despises. Her honeyed bells are met with a rolling wave of gray-cloud cover and the distant echo of thunder in a mountain side. « I do not know what to tell you. He upset the Weyrleader and so I am stuck here, playing at being a weyrling. It is meant as punishment to him, yet I am the one being laughed at by the greens. » He resettles his bulk, heaving a sigh. « I would much rather be somewhere /warm/. » And so as compromise to 'unbore her' he starts a casual flip of images. The blackened sands, warm against the hide, sun high above in a blue sky with aqua-clear water lapping at the beach. The wave of heat off the sands of a desert, thermals lifting one easily higher and higher without even a flap of wing. E'dre rubs at the bridge of his nose, eying the hides and then the girl. "You've got it worse than the others, I imagine. More lessons to learn. More responsibility." His tone is more civil now, though there is no smile surfacing. "No, I'm not one of you. And not much an apology is going to change it." "No," and in that denial is sadness. "The Weyrwoman doesn't see me fit enough to train and I don't-," a beat passes before a rush of teenage petulance floods forward, "I don't want to be a weyrwoman anyway. I never wanted /this/." But a glance up at Ysavaeth, apology and love both shining in those dark eyes, finds forgiveness in the drop of the gold's chin to ruffle her rider's hair with a soft, probably wherry-scented breath. She understands at least. Ysavaeth listens quite intently, a mental brow tangibly climbing at the thoughts he shares until her own conclusion, a sly, almost wickedly humored one, spares a « I do not see why they laugh when now you can be in my company daily. » In kind, as he's acquiesced to her wishes so nicely, she cascades images of what /she/ knows, and by she, memories from her rider, that replace blackened sands and sun-warmed hides with rocky shores and bone-chilling colds. In spite of the bleakness of many of the images, there is a happiness, a wistfulness that lines each thought, and every so often, there's the brilliance of a clear cloud-free day and the expansive vista of the western waters so few get to see. There's also the awe-inspiring storms, with their thick gray clouds that remind everyone that the sea and the weather are masters of fate. At the end, Ysavaeth opines, « I would see these sands of yours. These waters that are so different from Iolene's experiences. » "Well," E'dre begins, stops, considers Iolene and then looks up towards Wroth. A shoulder lifts in a shrug and he replies, "Then it's just as well. Tiriana is not known for her... easy attitude. It will all change in time, you realize, because you can't /not/ be trained to be weyrwoman. You ride gold." His fingers splay out in front of him. "It's a 'so it is' thing, y'know?" Wroth settles his head down on his crossed forelimbs, content for the moment to allow the shared experiences to drift through his mind. He has seen the place described before, and he adds in his own nuances to the sights and smells of when he and his rider evacuated the people. The storm is of interest to him, and it is this that he holds draped over them. « Yes, there is much beauty to be seen. If you go down Southern way, you may even hunt felines. » This is a flash of image: tawny fur against brown rocks, the feel of thrill for chasing one down, more intense than the rendering of a herdbeast. « Plenty to look forward to when you are done /here/. » He hasn't asked, but Iolene's response carries all her wistful desires; that yearning for something other than the situation she's gotten herself in to. Five months later, and apparently the girl still has trouble distinguishing between her dragon and herself, and unaware her words are reflection of what the gold shares with Wroth, she confides, in that low rich voice of hers, "I just wanted to be able to leave the Weyr. To see my home again. To see more. I've only gone out of the Weyr once since we came to the Hold for the festival and-, I miss the ocean and how the air smells all salty when there's a breeze. I even miss storms." Her legs drop off Ysavaeth's side to find the ground so she might take a few steps forward. "I'm Iolene." There's a certain measure of comfort Ysavaeth reflexively finds in the storm's draping over the pair of their minds. It eases her regal nature and draws her physical neck up, as if seeking as much as her rider must be, for something other than what they're being told is them. She follows further along this thoughtline, where dragons chase felines and plucks from the depths of the brown's mind a guttural purr that stirs the most base instincts from the queen's mind. « You will show me how to do this. These animals. These sports. Where you go. » There's the silence from words for a long, tableau-esque breath, where only the sounds of a roiling ocean in the distance and the buzz of insects within a humid southern jungle are reminders that their minds are linked. Then, the silence is broken by a retreat into the cool mountains of Telgar, a different chill from before; as frosted as the dragon and riderpair she speaks of. « What are Tiriana and Iovniath known for? » "You may already know my name, seeing as how I stand out here," E'dre quips, not rising from his seat beside the brown but he does offer forth a hand to shake. His grip will be warm and firm, and /just/ barely peeking out of his irritated demeanor may be a small smile. "I know many of you wanted out long before the eggs were on the sands. You'll get there in time. Once you graduate, no one can stop you where you go." That draws his brows down into a scowl and he snorts out a 'hmph', "Unless you've caught the Weyrleader on a bad day." Wroth finds that the shared experiences, the hot to cold of it, the rumbling roar of felines in the distance and the buzzing of the insects is enthralling. Far more interesting than those lingering around them, even the conversation of riders is forgotten for the moment as he shares the feel of lush fur between claws. « I will show you, certainly. If and when I am permitted. » To the last comment, he drops into a blackened pool « They are known for being unkind. » She does. "E'dre. What were you known as before?" is her next question, perhaps having found courage in that /barely/ peeking out smile. In his firm grip, her fingers are cool, and in her palms, the ridges of fingernails having been dug into their calloused heel often enough to leave imprints. "Oh. I hope so. Quinlys says much like you did. That must be trained, but wouldn't it be more exciting to find a storm and race on its leading edge? Far away, just so the rain might be to our backs and then once we're far enough away, turn to laugh?" Entranced by this thought, the shake Iolene initially offered turns more into a clasp, where the paper she carries falls to the ground, so both hands might press into his, excited. « Why? » And realizing that this might need further explanation, the gold's genteel touch distances itself, as if drawn into the ice cave she lingers outside, the touch echoing cajoling in a 'come follow' sort of tease. « Why must yours listen to my sire and be here? » "Aleudre was my name before Wroth picked me out on the sands. I was tailor-trained, though never officially knotted into a craft," E'dre answers, not bothered by the question or the sharing. "I'm originally from Boll, spent turns in Igen, and then I came here on a whim. That whim has lasted... a while now," there's that grin finally winning over his mood. Her statement on storms draws a confused brow, but he looks to the dragons, then to her. "Some dragons really love the storm chasing and fleeing, yes. I've done it a few times." Wroth does not know what to say to the 'why', that not being a question he is opt in the mood to unravel with an answer. Instead, he adds: « We are all forced to listen to your sire and dam. It is the way of it. » \\There's another of Ysavaeth's poignant pauses, as the ice in the cave she's tucked herself into melts, dripping to the ground one drop at a time, the sound of which echoes. It's as if she's both considering what Wroth states while dismissing it all in the same thought, but without the words or any tangible feelings or thoughts to accompany them. There's just this silence. Drip. Drop. Drip. Then, the heat of her pale hide, where moonbeams dance along all her refined plans radiates forth, causing the ice cave to melt in a flood of water about her and leaving the still small queen visible for Wroth's mental view. She can't quite fly so high yet, not really, but in dreams, anything is possible, and those pale wings dip down into the waters, casting their sparkling drops at the brown before she's up in the air, a girlish laughter left in her wake. « Well then, I hope I am never known for being unkind. » Iolene releases his hand, albeit reluctantly, as his voice draws her back to the realities of her life, at once apologetic. "I'm sorry. Sometimes, I forget people don't like being touched here. Aleudre. It's a nice name. I like it. Does anyone still call you that?" "I've been Impressed to Wroth 12 turns now," E'dre answers, hands lifting to tuck behind his head as he uses Wroth as a better pillow. Booted feet are kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. "No one thinks to call me Aleudre anymore. I never visit my sister - my only family - so, no, I'm E'dre now." Wroth allows all her imagery and delight to flow over him, the dissolving of the ice met with a twist into a flowing stream. He then adds the darkness of clouds above, the flash of lightening, the thrill of the static in the air as one plummets down through the depts of gray and out on the other side. « I do think that most golds are set apart from the others and know it. I do not mind. I don't often speak to gold, actually. » Here his storms rumble with the sound of thunder echoing in a mountain chain. « You, however, are interesting. Worth talking to. » "I have a friend." Iolene's gaze casts about, but is impeded by the buffet of gold and brown dragons from seeing the entire room very well. "I have a friend who Impressed, but he hasn't changed his name yet. We all still call him Jaques. I don't think he wants to." A glance goes down and suddenly, Iolene notices the mess of papers at her feet and crouches to start piling them up again. It's a lot of leadership-based notes that causes Iolene to flush and mumble, "Some people think Tiriana's wrong to not train me so they're trying to help. But it's... hard." It's not the helpless frustration of a girl who'd rather be playing or shirking, but the enormity of what must be done. « Thank you, » her gratitude is gracious, there's no modesty there. /She/ knows she's interesting and worth talking to and that Wroth recognizes it is merely a sign of his merits rather than hers. Yes, she knows it. As if to bolster that agreement, she sends a plume of smoke up from the ground where the flash of lightning hits, rising into the clouds until it's hard to tell where smoke ends and clouds begin. « Tell me of fishing. » Of the troubles that got him here. "See? It's going to come for you no matter how you try," E'dre comments, helping her by reaching for a paper or two to pass up towards her hands. "And Jaques may well let you all call him by his name, it's short enough. But back when Threadfall was real, there was no time for lengthy names. Thus, the shortening." He shrugs, "To each their own, really." Wroth likes the smoke and clouds. He adds more of it. « Fishing? Oh. He wanted to stop and rest. I let him, because usually when he does these things he gets in trouble. I didn't realize the trouble would be /here/. He is not happy lately. » No real concern on the brown's part, which may surprise some other dragons who are closer to their riders. With her papers gathered, Iolene sinks back onto her heel for a second before rising slowly. "Thank you." For his help and the talk. She begins with, "You're nicer than you seem," before realizing that that might be considered a backhanded compliment and starts a protest even before the words are actually completely formed in the air between them. "I meant. You're really nice and I liked talking to you." The thin blonde ventures a smile and then more Io-like, reaches forward with an impulsive hug; gathered papers and all. "I have to go to my history class." A remedial one no doubt. "But thank you!" Ysavaeth listens again, intent upon Wroth's words. « Mine is not either. Happy. But she tries. » And sometimes succeeds. « We shall talk again. » It's a certainty, not a request. "Oh, er, okay," E'dre responds, rather taken aback by the hug but he offers a half-hearted pat to the girl's back and watches her go. He probably has some sort of class he's supposed to attend, but he isn't moving. Wroth agrees: « Yes, we'll talk. » |
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