Logs:The Letter H
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| RL Date: 25 April, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, T'mic, Lythronath |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: T'mic and Jorrth are enjoying some alone time, then Farideh and Roszadyth interupt, and all of their cute babiness conjures Lythronath. |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions |
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| Sleeping has gotten marginally better, and just in the seven or so. Although still undeniably enamoured with his little blue, the big lunk of a weyrling's been less easily distracted, more attentive in lectures, more aware of others. Which might be why today, early in the morning, he and Jorrth have sought out a quieter place to eat, away from the bustle and necessities of the barracks. Buckets hanging from either of the bluelings arms are set down once they've found a little spot, mostly out of the way (though still within view of that bronze who's watching them and making weird clucking noises from the rim). Jorrth, still littler than the other blues, though less little by his own standards, wraps his tail about his rider's legs as he joins him. Oh yes. Breakfast. When T'mic drops down into a cross-legged sit, the hide in his back pocket doesn't quite pop out. <OOC> T'mic says, "( « Babies, A'rist! » )" Over the last month, while on the surface High Reaches' weyrling gold pair have seemed to be getting along well, it's the brunette, with her world-wear expression that shows some fraying under the burden of responsibility and new roles. It's no different this morning when Roszadyth precedes her lifemate into the bowl, stretching her antiqued-gold wings out to luxuriate in the warmth of Rukbat's glow. Farideh pauses outside the entrance of the barracks and stretches, herself, arms high, up on her tippy toes, and then down, touching the toes of her shoes. She's extending her arms left and right, priming those muscles, as she walks forward; it's only when she spots Jorrth, and then Tomic, that she comes to a complete halt, her mouth flattening out and her forehead creasing with unfathomable thought. "T'mic," she greets, simply, quietly. Jorrth's nuzzles are met with scritches to his nose and head, and then, next, a big old hunk of meat. There are still some splatters along T'mic's big ol' forearms from the morning chopping session. The little blue takes the first chunk, dropping it to eat it from the ground. More minerals, that way. His name - his new name - makes T'mic look up from his focal point on Jorrth's rear end. "Farideh," he answers, his voice unconsciously mimicking her tones. « Sister Roszadyth! » is Jorrth's happy squeak of greeting. Roszadyth steps lightly towards the blue and his soon-to-be-rider, keeping enough distance as not to intrude, but watching with curious, whirling eyes. « Jorrth. » Her mind touch is like a loving caress to that blue head, a light laugh of adoration. « Do you find yourself well? » Always prim, always polite. In her wake, Farideh follows, folding her hands behind her back and assuming at least a semi-interest in someone else, for once since the hatching; it's somewhat spoiled by the creases still marring her otherwise smooth forehead. "Do you always come out here in the mornings? Instead of feeding in the barracks?" How does he find himself? The blue's chewing stops, and he considers, with little motions from head to toe, wings to tail. « Yes, » he decides afterwards. « Just hungry. » The chewing resumes. His mouthful is swallowed. T'mic has almost unconsciously reached for another chunk of meat from the bucket. He holds it out, while Jorrth looks over at his golden sister with contentedly green eyes. « How do you find yourself? » Honest curiosity. "No," T'mic admits with a little shake of his head, and even a little bit of a blush. "Not usually." (That bronze up above is clucking at both the little baby dragons now.) The little gold is patient, maternal even at such a young age, and comes off in her quietly borne demeanor, the way she arranges her bulk, wings tucked in, to await the littler blue's pleasure. « Quite well indeed. I am not predisposed to like the mornings, but I forget how lovely the sun shines at this time. » Farideh keeps walking closer, until she's at such a distance with her dragon, still with her hands folded behind her back. "Is everything alright?" is asked quietly, gently, with those green-brown eyes, more mossy today against the blue-green of her tunic, studying him intently. To Roszadyth and Jorrth, Lythronath projects « Little babies. Eat, eat, eat. » Dappled sunshine and the whisper of fabric give away the young gold's curiosity, in her gentle probing of the bronze's mind, assessing what lies there; who is he? (To Lythronath from Roszadyth) « I like mornings, » Jorrth tells Roszadyth, certainty in that high-pitched little voice of his. « I like watching everything start. » He goes to take the next chunk of meat from T'mic, now, and chews. Always chews, carefully, as if reminded. It's more the source of those words than the words themselves that make the big young man pause, tilting his head a little, while idly rubbing the juice from Jorrth's most recent cut of meat between his fingertips. "I just... wanted to try and think, I guess." It's cautious. "About everything." It's uncertain. And the, "You know?" he tags at the end is so very hopeful of finding someone sympathetic. The mind there is unfiltered, readily volatile, harsh in its unmasked interest. But today, this morning, that interest is in babies, and so today, this morning, there's nothing threatening or strange. « Roszadyth. » (To Roszadyth from Lythronath) « Would you mind sharing with me your favorite part? » Roszadyth inquires, seemingly as interested in the blue as he is in his food, and not that bronze on the rim clucking at them. After a considering glance at her dragon, Farideh bends down, hands guiding her in sitting down on the bowl floor, cross-legged and angled in T'mic's direction. "I can understand. It is a lot to take in-- not just them, but everything that comes after. Nothing is the same now, it can't be. Ever again." There's finality to those words, but she tries on a weary sigh, just for the other weyrling. "I'm sure we'll make it through eventually." The light dulls as Roszadyth begins to pull back, to shrink from that volatile presence, but her name, coming from him, keeps her for now, with the faintest sound of a working clock-- tick, tick, tick. « Lythronath, » is marveled, quietly. (To Lythronath from Roszadyth) T'mic sits up a little bit straighter when Farideh sits across from him, and even shifts one of those buckets off to the side, to make sure it's not in their way. He can only hold her gaze for so long, before he has to look down, to think. « Favourite? » The idea of picking a thing, one thing, is overwhelming, enough that Jorrth's voice squeaks even more than its usual. He starts to look all about him, about the bowl, to the bronze on the rim, to the sun and the fading moon, to the rocks again... "I know we'll make it through." It's said as reassurance, almost. "Of course we will." Now he's glancing to his speculative little dragon. "But... then we're dragonriders I guess? Or now." « Did you notice that one of the moons disappeared? Or that Rukbat always comes up over there? Or that the the bugs walk more in the mornings than during the day? » Each new example has him talking faster. There's movement up on the rim, as the bronze's head dips down a bit so that he can really stare at the little gold. His wings lift a bit on his shoulders. His tail swings behind him. « Hungry? » He could help. (To Roszadyth from Lythronath) "We are and will be until we die, which, let's hope is later rather than sooner," has dryness to it, though Farideh's head tilts to the side while she regards T'mic after. "Does that make you upset? That we are riders now? That we aren't what we were before? A nanny and a laundress? Just Tomic and Farideh? I'll admit to being frustrated by the whole thing, but not likely for the same reasons you are." She winces and shrugs, drawing her hands up under her knees. « Do they? Disappear? I had not noticed, Jorrth, or that Rukbat has such devoted a direction. Nor that the bugs get tired over the passage of a day. What an intellectual you are, Jorrth. » Admiration, praise, sunny skies, is Roszadyth. Tick, tick-- silence, and then a faint flicker of a breeze, in the wooshing sound, that almost sounds like a held breath released. It's all soft and sweet, gentle. « Perhaps a little. It is early yet. » (To Lythronath from Roszadyth) That dry comment has T'mic biting his lip. His thoughts on that are held off, at least for a moment. "Because I'm just another dragonrider," he says softly, "and you're going to be a weyrwoman." As Jorrth finishes his mouthful, and T'mic is reaching for more, holding it out to the side this time. "I knew it could happen. Might. When I decided to stay, you know?" « I just like watching things. » That sun-warm-fur musk of his is there, with his pride, with his explanation. « And the bugs come back again in the evenings, too. » "You know we're not going to let anything bad happen to you, right? You or her?" T'mic is looking over at Roszadyth, now. To Roszadyth, Lythronath projects « Eat, » encourages Lythronath. He stretches out his wings, there on the rim. « Grow. Big. » A sigh is all Farideh gives at first, and it's followed by a rueful look at T'mic. "What are you going to do now? You can't have it back, and, would you? Want to? Will you embrace life as a rider, now? I don't know how they choose wings, but I can't imagine you'd get put somewhere you didn't excel at." She glances away, then, while Roszadyth continues to follow the little blue's eating habits, and internally, his words. « You do yourself a great disservice in denying your strengths, Jorrth. I daresay you will make a great watch dragon. » More praise, which might be otherwise seen as insincere, but from her, it's warmed by that touch of sunshine, paired with the heady, sweet scent of flowers and linen. "No. Don't try to promise that. You can't." Farideh is suddenly so serious. "No one could predict that exile woman being poisoned, or those candidates starting that fire. I wouldn't put that kind of responsibility on anyone." Lythronath's insistence is met with quiet reserve, but her words, once spoken, are stirred by a feathering touch, a graze, and then, nothing. « In time. » (To Lythronath from Roszadyth) "No, of course not," and the distaste for the thought, even, is evident in T'mic's voice, T'mic, who is suddenly speaking with conviction. "That's not what I mean at all." And because he can, he even reaches out to pat Jorrth's rump. "Some things aren't about letting or not. But we're going to watch out for you." It's said with an authority that he's only sometimes had to use in the nursery, when things are really getting out of hand. It's a quick turn, strangely quick for Tomic, to then ask, "Is it weird, to spell Jorrth with two r's instead of just one?" « Maybe, » Jorrth is happy enough to agree, considering it as a thing not considered before. The bronze on the rim is suddenly not on the rim, comet-blazed wings spread wide and catching the sun as he drops down. He is oddly careful in landing, giving the babies and their riders plenty of space. Those big back legs propel him forward then, toward them, and he lowers his head and snuffles, hindquarters and tail up in the air, wings flat against his back. « Little babies. » "You should watch out for yourself. This place is--" Suddenly so much more complicated, so much more in general; that conviction, that passion, that colorful history, all of it. "Hm? With two 'r's? No, I suppose not. Not anymore different than spelling a name with a silent 'h', I think," except Farideh doesn't look completely sure about that. Then, there's another dragon joining them, and she's giving Lythronath a full-on frown. It's Roszadyth who gaps the space, mentally, extending her greeting to the bronze to both, with a fluttering of lacy curtains. « Lythronath. You have come. » Nearer? There? Who knows. She, despite her politeness, is eyeing him warily from where she sits on the bowl floor, tail curled reflexively against her legs, wings flat. "Because he's Jorrth," T'mic puts a slight roll on that r, "not just Jorth." Flat. The little blue is not interested in another piece of meat. There is a big bronze here, and Jorrth follows Roszadyth's lead, mentally, repeating the name, « Lythronath, » and staring at that massive dragon through big, adorable eyes. There and then, he moves up beside his clutchsister, shaking out his shaggy wings, and blink-blinking. "This place is our home, now," T'mic muses shifting to get one knee on the ground, ready to get up, his voice distracted now that there's another dragon here. Lythronath sniffsniffs, and swings his tail, and keeps on approaching, slow and steady. « Here, » he agrees. And then closer still, until those powerful jaws are within a few inches of the babies' hides. His lips draw back, showing off sharp teeth. Teeth stay together. It's the fronts of them, not the points, that he reaches to brush up against the little gold's shoulder. "It's a nice name," Farideh says, clearly looking puzzled, but she doesn't have time to look bewildered long, not when there's pointy teeth so close to her dragon. She jerks her hands out, palms out, towards Lythronath, like that could stop him. "Oh-- oh-- no." It's a reaction that doesn't register in Roszadyth, who is outwardly calm, taking the bronze's attention with the tolerance of a kitten getting groomed by its mother. Her head, with those wide-innocent eyes, turns towards Jorrth, and her wings twitch. « Mine is worried you will hurt one of us, » is soft, polite, to the bronze, « but you would not, would you? » Such a sophisticated question, but obviously meant to assure-- everyone? "Dragons don't... do that." Tomic is almost certain of it. More so when Jorrth's curiosity starts to show through, and he ducks down to get a good look at the underside of the big bronze's jaw. And then stepping forward to view those teeny little front legs of his. "Where," still sounding distracted, because even if dragons don't do that, he's still watching that big one, "would you put the 'h'?" Lythronath runs those teeth rather gently over the little gold's hide. « Babies, » is his answer to Roszadyth's question. The grooming, or whatever it is he's doing, heads toward the ridges along her back. Bumpbumpbump. « Just little. » He's not even concerned about the blue. (Yet.) "Are you sure? I've never seen done do that either, not even Niahvth, or Reisoth, or--" Farideh gets up on her knees and from there, pushes up to a crouch, where she's actively ready, just in case. She flicks glances between the little dragons and the bronze, her displeasure at the turn of events palpable. "Put an 'h'? Where? In Jorrth's name? Maybe after the J?" That's enough to have her gaze lifting to T'mic, eyes squinting, nose wrinkling. Roszadyth is still letting Lythronath bump along her hide in that tolerable, immovable type of way, only making a tiny sound of interest while her brother examines the bronze's other attributes. « We will grow. Every day. One day, maybe we will be as big as you. » "I don't know anything about dragons," breathes Tomic, one hand and all its meat juice in the dust as he pushes off. "That's what I mean. What now? Now that we have them?" He's whispering, now. In case he might draw unwanted attention. Even if dragons don't do that. "And you said a silent 'h'. Where were you going to put it?" Just as Jorrth decides to headbutt the big bronze's ankle. Bumpbumpbump. And then back to do it again. Bumpbumpbump. Roszadyth's wings get a quick steam treatment, though he doesn't touch his teeth to them, yet. Her words bring a harsh and loud, « Hahahaha! » Because, « Little babies. » It's impossible to imagine them being bigger. Even that gold one. Who suddenly doesn't have his attention, because he's twisting to nudge the little blue at his ankles. [Monitor] Ysaera has connected. "Now that we--" Farideh is frowning again. "We train. We learn. We have a turn left of classes with Quinlys. I'm sure-- hopefully-- we'll learn what we need to. Isn't that enough?" She's back to sounding puzzled, more so when he repeats the question. "What are you talking about, T'mic? It was rhetorical. I'm not--" Disgruntled, she stands, raking back the sides of her hair until she can tuck the strands behind her ears. Her eyes fall on Roszadyth, who is still demurely sitting, allowing Lythronath's ministrations; at least, up to the point where he refocuses on Jorrth. "We should go-- we've got-- stuff to do," is the brunette lame excuse, while Roszadyth's approval is felt in the extension of her sunny skies and the reflection of that light off glass. "That part," says T'mic, "is easy. But what about after?" It makes him shake his head. "It's just I always figured I knew more or less what we'd be." He catcehs it, that slip, and it makes him squint. "I'd be." He's looking to Jorrth now, pensive. Farideh excusing herself gets only a little nod from him. Okay. Bye. Jorrth headbutts the bronze's nose, and then starts to run. In a wide circle. A game, a game! His sister's departure will be noted, but only briefly as she goes. « Roszadyth. » Somewhere in that name, the promise that this won't be a one-time thing. And then, Lythronath's trying to trip the baby blue. Hahaha! |
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Comments
Alida (23:12, 25 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Love it! I wonder if Lynner will think kindly of Jorrth once he's bigger? ;D
Edyis (00:38, 26 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
dawwwww!
A'rist (22:40, 26 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Nope. There's going to be a day when Jorrth is too big to be in Lynner's 'baby' category, which means he'll get shunted into the 'blue' category. It will be a sad day, for poor Jorrth.
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