Logs:Getting Along
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| RL Date: 20 April, 2015 |
| Who: Laine, Keysi, Rook, R'van, Z'kiel, Farideh |
| Type: Log |
| What: It's been a long week, but the weyrlings make time for play after work. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
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| It's just under a week, now, since the hatching, (only?) nearly six days passed. And between oiling, feeding, sleeping, mucking, oiling, feeding, and more oiling (and more mucking) it's anyone's guess how the weyrlingmasters have managed to get those sleep-deprived new weyrlings to smush anything into those mushy brains of theirs. But lessons they must have: today's, separation, that crucial element that distinguishes the dragonet's hunger from the weyrling's. Whether or not the lesson's been absorbed is questionable, but class has let out for the day. Next up: "free time". As if such a thing existed. But the weyrlings are left to tend to their needs, and their dragons--some making a beeline for their cots and couches, others working on homework passed down from the weyrlingmasters. Lifreyth? He's not doing any of that. He's skidding up and down the length of the training cavern, clumsily tumbling over his paws, sinuous tail lashing, while Laine watches on, laughing helplessly, breathlessly. Separation. Not that difficult a thing for Ahtzudaeth and Z'kiel, as it turns out; whether that's because the bronze is canny or the human-half is that distant is difficult to say with any certainty. The bronze is fairly glistening with oil and his stride is curiously sedate as he pads alongside his rider. It's a funny thing, truly; from time to time, one or the other will nod and make some noise as if in response to something said. After a time, the Igenite slows to a stop and sucks his teeth, his initially inward focus being forced outward at the sound of a weyrling dragon skidding along. His forehead furrows. Ahtzudaeth chortles. Somehow. This particular weyrling lesson was a hard one on Keysi and her tiny dark brown. As opposed to Z'kiel and his lifemate, separation feels near impossible for her and Neianth. The stern-eyed, intense girl seemed utterly reluctant to hear any of it, her arms crossed throughout the lecture. Not a single question asked from her corner, not a single motion of acknowledgement. The first few days with Neianth had been difficult, some may have noticed, with concern etched on Keysi as it never had been before. Now, with some time together it's as if the pair have merged into an understanding and it's almost before they're released that she's already standing and the nigh-blackened brown is shadowing at her feet. Both appear aggitated. Both, as reflections of each other. Clearly, not a word of the lesson sunk in. Only when Neianth sees Lifreyth running does the predatory diminuitive dragonet pause, curious, intent on his clutchbrother. But silent. Waiting. Separation? That's a thing? The bewildered look that seems more present than not on poor forlorn Rook's face is just amping up at skidding. Rhiviyth thinks this is a GRAND idea, and well why didn't she come up with it?, but that doesn't matter because she can rectify her lack of involvement in this spectacularly ideal recreational activity by willfully pushing past her dumbstruck lifemate to trumpet imperiously at Lifreyth. YOU. Teach me the magic of your WAYS. "Rhiviyth!" comes the scratchy squeak from Rook, who hurries after the sweeping green, flushing florid. The idea of separation is both a simple and complex issue for Farideh and Roszadyth. They are as one, but each seeking the best for the other; their first week has been less taxing, filled more so with adoring looks and silently taking each other in. At the end of another busy day, of chores and ministrations, Farideh's seated at one of the tables in the room, one leg bent and the other dangling. She's been mulling over a sheaf of parchment for a while now, chewing idly on the end of her writing utensil, and as yet, no words have been written, while Rosazadyth, graceful and poised, is quietly watching her clutch siblings from her dignified place nearby her lifemate. All of the commotion makes the once-laundress lift her eyes from her task, squinting in Laine's direction. It takes a few more gasping breaths before Laine finds some sort of composure, collecting herself from the doorway and spreading her fingers in front of Lifreyth as he careens toward her. The brown is scrabbling for purchase as he braces himself with forepaws, sliding to a stop at her feet. But then there's Rhiviyth and she's calling out and Lifreyth drops, his butt high in the air, wriggling, anticipating--then dashes off again, in the opposite direction. Laine watches him go. There's nothing else she can do but lift her hands, palm up, then drop them again to her sides. "It's time to run," she announces to the weyrlings still in the training cavern with a shrug. Who's she to say contrariwise? As the other weyrlings arrive or otherwise make themselves known, Ahtzudaeth looks to them - one and all - to issue a welcoming rumble. Sure, they just finished a lesson together, but there's no reason he can't re-greet everyone. « Lift your paws more, » is issued with an earnest sense of being helpful. As for the lanky bronze, he'll just sit here and flex his wings. "So it would appear," is Z'kiel's response to Laine, though his attention is quick to slide to each of the weyrlings in turn, taking their measure, their actions - their reactions. He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. There's a slight knitting of his brow at the sight of Farideh and it's to her that he partially turns, a wordless inquiry writ on his face as he lifts his chin to indicate the parchment. YAY CHASE PREY GO. You can legit see the thought-bubble over Rhiviyth's head when Lifreyth wriggle-dashes away, and after flinging her forequarters down like a wolf-puppy at play, she romps after the brown with a keen sense of merry violence about her way. Rook? Rook just cringes, then shrugs her narrow shoulders at Laine's philosophical statement. "I guess so," the awkward little bumpkin says, her voice thick with the accent of those who live far to the north. "I'm sorry," she feels pressed to day, her hazel eyes momentarily very large as Rhiv turn-turn-turn paw-flail rump-skid rump-skid rump-skid FISHTAIL ALERTs around a sudden obstacle. (Pro tip: it's a dragonet. Pro tip 2: it's Ahtzudaeth.) Neianth is not overtly playful as Lifreyth, but his stark white talons click click click upon the stone floor as he approaches Lifreyth- no, stalks- with better but certainly not perfected coordination. There's an exchange that switches Keysi's path to follow him. "I don't believe they're racing." A beat. "No, playing." She corrects some private thought shared between them. Nei pauses as if this is news to him, his dark wings ticking once above him, perhaps annoyed by that. Fine. The girl herself remains non-interactive for the moment, standing near the middle of the room, somewhere not really 'out of the way' of the play-zone. From where she sits, still with one leg dangling and her left wrist resting on her knee, Farideh has quite the vantage of the various dragons romping around the training cavern. Her eyes sweep from Laine and Rook, to Keysi and Z'kiel. She only stops chewing on the top of her pen when the later weyrling jerks his chin at her paper, and her gaze drops to it too. "I was trying to think of something to write to my parents. They don't-- or maybe they do-- know. By now." There's an emotionally-weary sigh, and she sets her pen down too, to stretch her arms over her head and give a yawn. "It's harder than I thought, to put the words down," is on the tail-end of said yawn. There's no romping from Vadevjiath, though the bronze is still watching them when he settles to one side, tail curled over his sharp talons: content to watch, apparently. R'van trails after him, rubbing at his jaw; he's looking a little worn around the edges but not so much as some. Fortunately, Vadevjiath has been quick to take to schedules and orders, minimizing disruptions to life as much as possible. "Is it?" he wonders idly, on the heels of Farideh's admission. Lifreyth, if he hears Ahtzudaeth's directive, doesn't pay it much mind--and when he executes a tight circle around Neianth, there's something to the pinstripe brown's movement that suggests a purposeful agility. He even flicks his narrow tail-tip in passing so it neatly grazes his clutchbrother's nose. Tag! You're it. And the brown is off, winding and wending his way around tablelegs and chairs, somehow--despite those scurrying paws and that slender, writhing torso--avoiding knocking anything over. Laine leans one shoulder against the doorway into the barracks. She's only got eyes for that brown of hers, although she flicks an inquiring look to Farideh as she speaks. "Want me to write it?" She might be joking. She must be joking: "Dear ma and pa," she sticks a tongue between her lips and mimes writing, "So I fell onto the hatchings sands the other day..." Rook's words catch Z'kiel's ear and he glances in her direction. "Don't apologize." His accent is heavy; the weight of his words is heavier still. The Igenite will seek to fix the poor young woman with a steady look that edges perilously close to a stare, but the weight of his regard will be a brief thing to endure. He removes himself from any risk of draconic chaos, which pulls him inexorably closer to Farideh for now. He doesn't sit next to her, but he'll stand there, at a safe distance, whatever that may be. "They can be difficult. Words." His mouth twists - and Laine's contribution earns a double-click of his tongue. Amused? Thoughtful? "I have struggled with my own letter. Perhaps," and this might be a joke, deadpan as it is, "we should write each other's letter." As for Ahtzudaeth, he's no slouch; his wings snap shut the moment Rhiviyth seems to be careening wildly in his direction. He tightens down, makes himself smaller, and waits until the green has clumsily fishtailed her way away. Only then does he rise to his feet, his movements fluid. With a snap and shake of wings to settle them, the long-limbed bronze gives in to the game - though with less sprinting and more calculating observation. Neianth, seated back on his black-brown hewn haunches mantles his wings that dwarf his tiny form as he's circled by Lifreyth. Up. Bigger, broader. Attempting to be intimidating despite being almost a foot smaller than his clutch brother of the same color. There's a little hiss, a little show of teeth. Taunting, maybe. But when that tail-tip touches his little nigh-tanned nose, the explosive youngester is on up on his dark paws. Intense and intent as he's off to give pursuit! Significantly less playful, however, as he's in it for the challenge alone. Keysi's unmoved by this, folding her arms, apparently finding it now to be a regular occurance. He turns down no challenge just the same as she. She must be prodded by some unspoken suggestion as she finally does move, angling towards the small group collected around Farideh. But with the conversation on letters, she has no words and simply finds herself taking a seat on a debilitated old chair nearby. Breathless even in his mind, Lifreyth's touch filters through glass panes stained and aged with time, sunbeams with motes of dust drifting sideways. He's all awhirl. A great mobile brass sculpture, perhaps recognizable (to some) as a model of the sun and planets surrounding it, spins and spins and spins. The model has tarnished somewhat with age, but moves gracefully. (To Flurry dragons from Lifreyth) Rhiviyth, having successfully completed the slalom of bronze as she does, has utterly lost Lifreyth and skids to a stop, lifting her head high. She's ended up more-or-less in the area of those surrounding Farideh. Then she's poking her pointy nose with little care to things such as personal space right up over R'van's shoulder. Hi there. Whatcha doin'? Rook blushes again under first Z'kiel's statement and then the utter unmannerliness of her green, and then she's stepping forwards with a farmgirl's lack of grace. "Rhiviyth!" she hisses, grabbing at the incalcitrant green. But she doesn't apologize to R'van. 'Cause Z'kiel said. But maybe her eyes do turn forlornly towards Farideh and Keysi. They look so calm. Sunbeams refract and bend through water, casting silver gold lines to dance and play across that brassy structure, a sea wind testing at those shapes perhaps seeing if they are capible of movement. (To Flurry dragons from Akluseth) "Have you tried?" is accused of R'van, with no small amount of frustration, but it's followed by a bemused look at Laine. "First, I would never call my mother ma nor my father pa. They would surely guess it wasn't me, and the circumstances wouldn't really matter." Farideh scrubs at her face, focusing on her cheeks until they're quite pink from blood flow. She wears a thoughtful expression after, brows drawing inevitably together, as she turns her head to the side, to eye Z'kiel askance. "I appreciate the offer, but-- it must be done in my own words, in my own time. It's the least-- most appropriate--" Is that a guilty glance at R'van? It could be, but her eyes flick quickly towards the green at his elbow, then to Roszadyth, who is still sedately lying and watching with ladylike restraint, and finally to Keysi, a question lingering in her eyes for the latter. "Alright?" Suddenly there's a green nose under his arm, and R'van hardly has time to shift out of the way before Vadevjiath reacts. Outwardly, the bronze is suddenly sitting up a little straighter, his shoulders hunched, a hiss escaping him. His matching mental pushback isn't so targeted as to only Rhiviyth at this young age; it spills outward toward the other weyrling dragons, too: fierce territorialness, shy of words but clear nonetheless. His. R'van clearly feels it too, because he's deliberate in putting distance between himself and Rhiviyth too then, edging against his bronze. Point made, Vadevjiath settles somewhat, wings ruffling particularly, and Rafe admits to Farideh like the entire scene is perfectly normal: "Well, no." Point to her. Slowly the soft refrains of tinkling piano keys rise from Roszadyth's silence, paired with a saccharine chorus of girlish laughter and the warmth of undiluted sunshine. It's felt, insinuated, the gold's contentedness, her delight at simply being present and watching everyone else play. She's not far, just not particularly close, her musical notes and gentle mind touch much more a periphery feeling than a true commandeering presence. (To Flurry dragons from Roszadyth) "No," Rook scolds Rhiviyth, as if she were a barn-cat or a hound, and not a bloodthirsty dragon-to-be. Rhiviyth doesn't seem to much mind -- her lifemate or Vadevjiath's territorial claim over his rightful turf -- even as the green gets scooped right up off the ground. BYE GUYS, IT WAS FUN. She drapes her head over Rook's shoulder as the farmgirl stomps back towards the barracks, whirling eyes happily watching the scene she's being forcibly carted away from. Rook, meanwhile, looks near close to tears. BRB, gotta go figure out the meaning of life and what wretched god she pissed off recently. Lifreyth leads Neianth in a merry chase for as long as his dark-hued brother will follow, keeping a pace or two ahead unless Neianth manages some burst of speed--until, unceremoniously, the larger brown will flop down onto the ground, not far from Laine, panting but otherwise still. Only his tail, twitching enticingly, is in motion, weaving across the floor. Seeing Lifreyth so exhausted, Laine, too, moves closer to the small group of weyrlings, and where Z'kiel doesn't seat him, Laine does. She hooks her heels into the stool and observes that dragonet drama with brows lifted in faint surprise--but by now, surely, there's been a similar tiff or two. The tanner watches Rook go, with a little cringe that might be apology for winding up the green, then turns back to the other weyrlings. To Farideh, there's only a single, melodic hum-grunt from Z'kiel. Assent, probably. A dip of his chin concedes her point and he moves slightly away, granting her more space - more room to breathe. Keysi is regarded from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable - and then there's Rook again, inexplicably finding her way to the center of his focus. Of course, it might be because Ahtzudaeth is sneaking toward Rhiviyth in an attempt to reach out a long limb and tag her with a single, lengthy digit. He's quick enough to dart out of the way if there's a risk of collision between himself and the green's rider - but that will only happen if the risk is great enough. Of course, even the best laid plans can fall to bits in the blink of an eye and the abrupt departure of green and rider is enough to leave the bronze blinking in their wake. With a chuff, he turns away - and, to his credit, he endures his brother's territorial outburst with a soothing swell of patience and understanding - and makes his way to the furniture that's been piled against one wall. Let the studying commence. And the climbing. That, too. "I've no burden similiar." Is Keysi's reply at its simplest to Farideh, said light enough to be dismissive but not dismissive of the importance of her letter. She's otherwise unreadable, quiet, intense but not overly focused on anything. Tired, perhaps as they all are, perhaps maybe a touch more as she's always up before the morning bell is rung. Neianth's is unperturbed by the bronze-territorialness as it's not in his immediate area of interest. He's not fast enough and this aggravates him enough that it spills over into a physical and mindtouch manifestation. As Lifreyth flops to a halt. Neianth slows to a striding pace, and then circles his brother, low and haunched as if circling 'prey' before eventually stopping in his tracks with a low rumbling. The irritation lingers but is much faded, only shown as an occassional tail-flick. It speaks only of- Again? The departure of Rook and her green is followed by Farideh's green-brown eyes, her face set in an unhappy expression. It's after they've disappeared into the barracks that she breaks her stare. "Don't you have anyone to write? I thought you had parents, in Nabol," is strictly for R'van, with uplifted brows, a mark of puzzlement that shifts onto Laine. "And you?" Not of letters, but it seems to be more in tune with what she's asked Keysi, to whom she flicks another, puzzled frown. "Has no one written a letter to anyone in this past sevenday? Shouldn't that be-- a requisite? Do you lot not know how to write?" Some of that fire is back, in lieu of the overwhelming calm she's been exhibiting now that her mind is linked to Roszadyth's demure one. Though Vadevjiath's visible irritation fades quickly, he's still watching after Rhiviyth intently, and Rafe has his fingers pressed white against the bronze's jagged neckridges. Carrying on a conversation internally is difficult enough with experience, and R'van doesn't have that yet. It slows his response to Farideh somewhat, distraction evident. "Yes," he confirms where his family's concerned. "But we're not close. I have more duty to my craft," the present tense of which makes his mouth twist wryly, "and they, of course, are already aware I won't be returning as they wished." Revolving his head around on his short neck, Lifreyth tracks Neianth's pacing and circling with cheery, blue-whirling eyes and the sentiment, echoed: again. It's somewhat more self-satisfied, although it lacks any hint of arrogance. The brown yawns a wide yawn, then, and slides his forepaws out before him, stretching out that long torso of his as he settles, splayed, on the cool stone floor. His eyes, half-lidded, are nevertheless alert, bright and watchful. Laine yawns, too, in tandem with her brown, and barely bothers to conceal it in the crook of her elbow, acknowledging Farideh over her sleeve with lifted brows. Once she's done yawning, the brown-riding weyrling just shrugs. "I will." She'd sound defensive if she didn't look so unconcerned. Laine leans forward and props her elbwos on the table. "Just-- haven't found the time. You're only doing yours now," she points out in light of Farideh's accusations. Ahtzudaeth eventually clambers back down from his precarious perch, spurred by some urge or another that goes unvoiced. Soundlessly, the bronze makes his way back to the barracks, with Z'kiel eventually following suit in his instinctively silent way. No further words from the Igenite. No need. A subtle shift in Roszadyth's posture could be construed as just settling, but it's nocuous enough that it brings Farideh's distracted gaze on the gold, which eventually flicks past, to Vadevjiath. "Have you settled it in your mind to make High Reaches your home, then?" is posed to his eventual-rider, her focus lifting there briefly and is moving onto Laine next. "It's more complicated than that. I am sure by now, if they know-- and how could they not know-- that my mother has had my name stricken from the records. I am orphaned." Farideh looks amused, with only a slightly sad smile curling her lips up, while she leans to prop her elbows on the stone-topped table and her chin on her interlinked fingers. "How do you," to Laine, though it's more an extension of her question to R'van, "feel about it? Is High Reaches your family now? Us?" "Shall we go back the Smith Hall by fire and force instead?" wonders R'van dryly, though Vadevjiath certainly looks curious. Maybe sarcasm is lost on the serious bronze still. Rafe, for his part, sounds more philosophical than anything else, and when it seems apparent that his dragon is done marking his territory, the former smith releases him, settling down to a seat on the floor with his back against Vadevjiath's side. "Is impressing side by side all it takes to make family?" That's a more rhetorical question, or if not, at least it's one that R'van doesn't seem to have an answer to. "Though I should think this would be enough to get you back on any records. Not everyone gets a weyrwoman into the line, after all." "Stricken orphan, huh?" Laine cradles her chin in her hands, looking decidedly unimpressed (for the family, not the girl herself) across the table at Farideh. After a moment of consideration she decrees, "We'll adopt you." Well. The Weyr will. "Not like they've got much choice." Two fingers flick at Roszadyth: gold. "They'd rather disown you than have a weyrwo--" Laine abruptly trails off as Lifreyth starts to his feet and peals a short, urgent noise. Her head swivels instantly around. There's silent communion between the two and Laine, without a word (they'll understand), lurches away from the table to attend to her dragon. "I think it's more than that," Farideh notes to R'van. "Living through a cave in, the death of the Weyrwoman, installation of a new Weyrwoman, candidacy, and then surviving a hatching together--and Roszadyth tells me they're all lifelong clutch siblings." Because that matters, that lineage and blood. "I--" Her sentence is cut premature as Laine gets up and follows her dragon out, leaving Farideh to turn her unimpressed expression on R'van once more. "I think my mother would as soon see me marry a cotholder than become a rider, gold or not." Her frown deepens, and before she stands, Roszadyth's chubby form lifts from the ground, stretches, and starts to move towards the barracks in Lifreyth's wake. "Sorry. I should--" There's an apologetic smile for the former smith, but she's quick to collect her things on the table and silently traipse after her dragon. "A goldrider, at least," answers R'van with typical practicality, "is useful." His lips are curving into a smirk, though there's nothing mocking behind it at least where she's concerned. No need to explain why they're suddenly disappearing: even after not even a week, it's hardly unexpected at certain points. Rafe waves her off with a gesture; he and Vadevjiath are staying put for the time being. |
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