Logs:Qhyluth Is The Worst
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| RL Date: 20 April, 2015 |
| Who: Qhyluth, Roszadyth, Ilicaeth, Neianth, Nykievth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Qhyluth is a creep and now everyone knows it! |
| When: Day 3, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
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| To High Reaches dragons, Qhyluth's thoughts extend, a primordial tide that sends a sluggish, if inquisitive, bioluminescent foam in the direction of the weyrlings in particular. Probing. Testing. All with the click-click-clicking of clawed horrors that dwell just beneath the sand. A creeping decay meets the gentle touch of that primordial tide, bearing the all-consuming red-haze of lichen would engulf the clicking of clawed horrors. Distant is the melancholy call as a shore is created; a shore strewn about with the haunting echoes of man slowly reclaimed by the regrowth of verdant, tenacious tendrils of nature. The elder's presence is met with a deceptive give, invitation to explore the ruins of a midnight mind. (To High Reaches dragons from Nykievth) The ocean stretches and shifts. The veil of eternal night is drawn taut, sealing the distractions of the other voices out. In that sky hang the bloated shapes of the twin moons, crimson-kissed and resting low on the horizon. Watchful. Observant. Aloof. The rays of the twin moons reach without fear; the fog that crawls over his waters explores without shame. He will reach. He will dig. And he will offer the bleached bones of the unspeakable that are strewn over his shores for similar examination. The watery desolation stretches forever, primal and shuddering and resonant with the distant tolling of an ancient, bronze bell. (To Nykievth from Qhyluth) Stilled reflection is interrupted, aggitated by one ripple that becomes many, reaching farther in the pool of untouched minds than he has before. Neianth's mind reaches to curiously touch Qhyluth's with the farthest rippling ring. Once present, more confident images arise as lofty reaches of untouched, sharp mountains beyond heavier mists that are in total obsuring of their bases, their unknown depths. (To High Reaches dragons from Neianth) Sweet and soft, light and gentle-- a tentative presence that isn't quite sure, as much as it is timid. There's a delicacy to Roszadyth's allowance, a restraint that keeps her genuine feelings at bay, rippling just behind the flutter of a lacy curtain. « Oh dear. » She's appalled by those horrors and that foamy tide that undulates too close for prim comfort, and recedes, like a child hiding behind their mother's petticoats, even as she's acknowledged the probing presence with her own sugary-sweet tone. (To High Reaches dragons from Roszadyth) Awakening from a lazy bit of a nap up on the Rim, Ilicaeth's parched and gritty mind swirls like Igen sand over the fringes of various conversations, the outgoing blue enjoying the hobknobbings of others. And once those communications from the 'new kids in town' are sensed, the 'guard-cum-warrior' dragon rumbles in laconic, light baritone congeniality, « Hey, kiddies... » Chuff. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) The others are sealed away behind the veil of night; the twin moons that hang in Qhyluth's mind are fixed. Studying. Inquisitive. But this moment, this exploration, this study - this is for the meeting of two minds alone. Ancient waters stir against the previously untouched pool and threaten intrusion. A twisted reflection is offered in turn - of ice-rimed mountains on the far side of the great ocean of his mind, of the sickly, luminous fog that shudders and writhes over the water. That fog hides little; it's the water, unstirring and strange, that hides all. (To Neianth from Qhyluth) Thoughts are separated. Study is distinct. In this moment, Qhyluth takes his time to focus his psyche entirely on that lightness. That sweetness. The twin moons hang fat and crimson in his mental skies, their rays fixed to study her with an intensity that seems to be uniformly offered. Fog threatens to pry back the lacy curtain; the clattering nightmares struggle to boil to the surface. No words are offered. Perhaps he has none. Rather, it's the sudden manifestation of ice that forces his foggy tendrils to retreat and his terrible, ancient waters to recede. A bronze bell tolls in the distance and hidden sycophants moan, « She, She, She... » (To Roszadyth from Qhyluth) A shore holds firm beneath the kiss of blood-soaked moonlight, but the way opens in the ancient trail that once bore the weight of wagon-wheels in a time across time. Qhyluth's watery desolation, primal in nature, calls to the green's own naturistic essence providing the stygian lake in which the bizarre corpses of the dead float in the noxious, poisoned waters of a red-hued lake, tinged in orange, that sweeps deep within the ruins of man. The watchfulness is met with the playful curl of natron-rich fog, coy and almost sweet were it not for the sting of the caustic inhospitality. All of the elements of the dragon's mindscape call to the eerie, haunted soul that warbles a soft, wail to pull the heartstrings. (To Qhyluth from Nykievth) The waters of the strangeling blue's mind separate and flow. They touch. They reach. They pool again when Ilicaeth's presence is caught. Qhyluth's presence remains there, but distant. Deep water churns just a little, then peels back from the shore to expose strange skeletons - for them? For the elder blue? It is impossible to say. (To High Reaches dragons from Qhyluth) It is not enough. No. The sands of Qhyluth's shore split and allow some wretched shape to heave itself free. It shambles forth to reach those places the light cannot, to follow that troubling trail. It pauses at the lake and probes the surface with appendages that bear no name. It gathers. It picks. It will collect a corpse or two, if it can manage it. It chatters in its nonsense language to itself, while the ocean continues to exist just there, a looming presence in its own right. And, as if in response to that thin wail, there is a distant, fractured moaning in the distance; the voices of sycophants that know only « She, She, She... » (To Nykievth from Qhyluth) Ah, yeah. Qhyluth. The 'creepy', oceanic blue is instantly recognized by Ilicaeth, who swirls parched sands over the pooling when the other recognizes him, the elder blue dragon examining those bizarre skeletons with only small hesitation, though he doesn't outright invite the 'kids' to do so. Could be potentially dangerous, after all, so that falls under their own and Olveraeth's oversight. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) Confusion is succeeded by a confident pressure against the ancient waters. A wind carrying the serene brush of white petals across minds alike turns harsh and tumultuous. Serenity dissolves replaced by the feeling of command. As if an authoritative mind, deep and resolved, is enough to ward off the intrusion and keep at bay the sickly fog that is so unlike his mist. (To Qhyluth from Neianth) The skeletons are there, strange and twisted in their designs. They bear a tainted hue of gray that distorts and twists into something else. Something unspeakable. Qhyluth's waters lick at the ribs of one such creation. They consume another in foam. His attention fixes on the familiar presence of Ilicaeth, however, and as the other explores, more remains are exposed - and others washed away. (To High Reaches dragons from Qhyluth) All is noted. All is seen. The pressure is met with the deeper pressure of the ocean - an ocean that's abruptly seized by ice. That ice groans in protest, the waters straining against outside restraint; there is a sense of command at work - but it is not Neianth that finally forces the ocean to recede. Light glints on a distant spire of ice, a tower highlight by a stray flicker of moonlight, and a fading murmur of « She, She, She » - uttered on the fractured tongues of unseen sycophants - is soon gone. All gone. (To Neianth from Qhyluth) Always careful to watch his back around Qhyluth's 'oddness,' Ilicaeth investigates those twisted skeletons with light, gritty swirls of golden sand and reflective mica, the elder blue both curious and wary as the once-foreign blue's seascapes ebb and flow. Fascinating. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) The wariness is warranted. The investigation invited. Shifting sands are met with rippling waters and Qhyluth remains just there, but only just. It's only when the bell tolls and the sycophants moan a shapeless paean to Her that his presence - and the ocean - fully recedes. Only one skeleton remains - and is pushed, purposefully, toward Ilicaeth before the younger blue sinks out of mental sight. For now. (To High Reaches dragons from Qhyluth) Sand meets water and forms a strange beach head as Ilicaeth investigates whatever's there to see, experience...even those always-creepy waters of Qhyluth's. It's best for now, though, to keep most of the gritty blue's sights on those skeletons as he attempts to further parse the 'who's and 'why's of the strange dragon. As it usually does, however, the curiousity ends with the tolling of that bell, and Ilicaeth pulls back hastily before the epic 'flood'...though with a surprise in his mental hands, this time: that bizarre skeleton. No doubt it will be gone over with a fine-toothed comb by the burly guard of a blue, who sees fit to leave Qhyluth with a parting rumble of affable, if smirky thanks. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) A shifting light, the buttery color of diluted sunshine, meets those twin moons and their intensity, offering a lukewarm counterpart. Roszadyth is still there hiding behind the shifting skirts in her mind, retreating, not pressing, just out of sight, and yet-- curious, mildly. Those boiling-to-the-surface nightmares send her skittering back, a weak glimmer now. « What are you? » Her refined tenor sounds aghast, utterly and completely dismayed, ending in the faintest of shivers. (To Qhyluth from Roszadyth) Ah. There. The pressure of those ancestral waters is a constant - but so, too, is the press of ice from distant shores. Far, far over the water, ice-rimed peaks and a narrow spire might be spotted; power resides there, but of what kind and why is a mystery. The nightmares click and shudder at the fringes, keeping to their side of the divide between minds. They do not intrude, even if their nameless appendages reach with a desperate desire to do just that. There are no words and, it would seem, there is no response at all - save for the echo of her words over the fog-flooded ocean. Her words, punctuated by the distant tolling of a bronze bell. The water stirs. The fog shifts. The hue of his hide is no mystery - the deep blue of the waters is hint enough of that. But for the full shape of the question, there is no one answer - and hundreds that tremble below the surface of the water, if she dares to look. (To Roszadyth from Qhyluth) Quietly, watching, until it's all too much, it's all more than her delicate, nubile mind can comprehend for a few days until a full week. That little shiver turns into a tremble, right before Roszadyth resoundingly slams the door, retreating behind its safe boundaries; within Qhyluth's mind no more. (To Qhyluth from Roszadyth) |
Comments
Alida (21:35, 20 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
DeLIGHTFUL to see somebody else's dragon (beyond Ilicaeth) interacting in a more 'likely' way with creepy Qhyluth! You go, Rosz! And Qhy! (Oh, and 'Caeth!) :D
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