Logs:Weyrling Baiting
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 21 April, 2015 |
| Who: A'rist, Ulyana |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lythronath and Qhyluth try to lure the babies out. Ulyana tries to offer support to a still-grieving A'rist. |
| Where: Weyrling Area, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
  |
| Just beyond the entryway off the weyrling cavern sits a monster. A big, fire-blazed monster, with pointy teeth, and tearing claws, and a threatening demeanour. But here, waiting for baby dragons, he doesn't bob his head. He doesn't even swing his tail, though its tip does twitch in anticipation. Lythronath scents at the air, and digs his talons into the carcass of wherry he's brought with him, lest the smell of it manage to waft into the cavern (though the wind is against his plans today). And A'rist sits cross-legged, very near that dead meat, and eats a sandwich, occasionally pausing to clean up the crumbs that are falling into his lap. It's afternoon. And they wait. Though there are surely weyrlings to be found in the cavern and barracks beyond, it is not a weyrling that comes to join the fiery beast with his kill. Rather, it's a still-dripping monster from the deeps, the watery nightmare that's been haunting at least a few of the weyrlings in the past sevenday or so. Qhyluth all but undulates toward the cavern, hesitating only to see if one of the young ones is due to emerge in short order. And then there's Ulyana. She's dressed in her typically practical way, with a long-sleeved linen blouse and dark trousers out of necessity rather than desire. With her is her satchel, slung cross-wise over her person, and a small parcel of something that's neatly sealed in one hand. The bronze is noted first, the rider second - and the latter is the one that earns a shallow, singular up-down-center nod of wordless greeting. Lythronath turns at the arrival of that other dragon, inspects him quickly, and then turns away once more. Those wings adjust about his shoulders. The tip of his tail twitches, a bit faster, a bit more abruptly. « Too big, » Qhyluth is dismissed. Also, « Blue. » Two strikes against him. The bronze cold-shoulders, and waits for the babies. A'rist leans forward to peer around his beast's leg, his beast's latest hunt. Recognition of Ulyana comes with a flat press of his lips against one another, though he does raise his sandwich hand to her, in reply. Two strikes. Perhaps a third will be added when Qhyluth opens his maw to drop a broken fish to the ground. Unchewed. Back broken. Small for a grown dragon - but enough for a weyrling. Possibly two. Definitely at least one baby dragon - if any would come to feed. There's a throaty gurgle angled toward the older bronze, but the blue is otherwise indifferent to the lackluster response to his presence. He settles on his hauches, neck curved so and wings partially mantled for the sake of appearances - and, perhaps, balance. Ulyana lifts a shoulder wordlessly, a lopsided and helpless shrug that resolves itself with her looking over to the two older dragons thoughtfully. That unblinking regard descends to their respective kills. She unwraps the small bundle in her hands and pulls out a glittering thing of some sort and pops it into her mouth for a slow, thoughtful bout of chewing. Candied something, then. The package is offered to A'rist, though he'll have to risk an approach to Qhyluth if he's interested in taking any. Or, possibly worse, he'll have to say something instead to call her closer. Lythronath regards Qhyluth's catch out of the corner of one eye, tilting his head, and snorting heavily. The dead wherry is pushed forward, so that it can leave a trail of tasty, tasty blood in the dirt. « Too small, » said of the catch. « No blood. » He remains unimpressed. And his tail keeps up that erratic, annoyed twitching. It's enough to push a click up from his throat. A'rist looks from the bloodied ground to whatever it is Ulyana has. He licks his lips, but it's as likely to be because he got a little bit of something from the sandwich stuck at the corner of his mouth a moment ago. There's a moment, hesitating. And then the bronzerider gets to his feet. No blood. A fine protest - or so the mental washing of primordial waters suggests. Qhyluth drops a forepaw and hooks a talon through the belly of the fish, just below the jaw. His regard remains on the bronze while he wiggles that talon - setting the fish to flop all over again, as if it were merely out of the water and suffocating. Flip. Flop. Twist. The talon-hooked fish flashes and shudders, until the blue is satisfied. No babies are coming. Disappointment is a bubbling of sickly green froth in the mind. The fish trembles and flops a final time. Ulyana will spare A'rist from closing the entire distance. She pushes away from her stance near the beast of a blue and takes a few steps closer - but not too many. Not enough to make the contents of the packet clear enough. That big bronze head swings toward the blue's catch (though one strong forepaw remains, always, on his wherry prize), powerful jaws opening just a little bit, and he sniffs. « Smells bad, » he tells Qhyluth. Worst offering ever. It doesn't explain why he's looking at it, of course. A'rist, he has a sense. Sense to take a few steps farther away, where he opens goes for another bite of sandwich, and looks at that packet. "Fish eyes?" It's a guess. His voice might sound a little too much like his dragon's. He grimaces at it. Of course the beastly blue makes a show of sniffing the fish - namely, by lifting it to his muzzle to take a deep whiff of it. Satisfaction is a damp rumbling sound. Qhyluth extends the fish dangling from his talon toward Lythronath and makes it spasm again. In the air. Because fish do that sometimes, apparently. Ulyana, for her part, takes care to gain some distance. Something troubles her enough to crease her brow and it lingers, even after she intones a bland, "The texture of fish eyes is not wholly unpleasant." There's a long pause, then: "He likes to share sensations." It takes her a moment to connect the other dots before: "Candied fruit and ginger. One of the cooks was kind enough to make them." Of course, his grimacing is noted - but not commented on. Perhaps the similarity in voices is not noticed. Except that when it's dangling there, and spasming there, like they do, Lythronath lunges, fast, for a dragon his size, jaws snapping. He means to get that fish. If he gets Qhyluth's toes, too, well. So be it. A'rist is saying, "Oh," right around the same time, and then turning to check on the dragons, his sandwich nearly flying from his grip in the process. The ginger, it seems, can wait. The fish is flicked in the air at the last second, freeing it up for Lythronath to catch - or not - as he sees fit. Qhyluth retreats in the same motion, coiling tightly and dropping down, making of himself a smaller target. If he's trampled in the process, so be it; at least he'll not be caught by those flashing teeth. Ulyana, at nearly the same moment as A'rist's sandwich is almost airborne, is quick to duck and curl in a mirrored motion of the blue. The treats are safe, though; those are clutched to her chest with an almost desperate air. Lythronath eats only the fish; eats it with one bite and one swallow, and it's gone. « Boring, » he decides of it. And goes back to waiting with his wherry. And marking the carcass and the ground near it with a flex of all those talons, as warning. This is not a trade of quarries. A'rist eventually takes a breath, and offers a little, weak chuckle toward Ulyana. And then, holds out his mostly-eaten, "Sandwich?" Boring for the bronze - but the flicker of terrible lights in Qhyluth's mental sky suggests otherwise. For him, anyway. His interest in the wherry is brief, just long enough to note the state of the carcass. In his mind's eye, a wherry skeleton washes up onto mental shores, the bones sickly and gray. Interpretation is left open. He settles on his haunches again, slowly whirling eyes fixed on the entrance. Waiting. Watchful. Ulyana, for her part, is just a little shaken by the whole thing. She coughs a couple of times and, once her breath is caught, weakly explains, "I swallowed wrong." The offer of a sandwich is answered, initially, with another cough and a dubious, "What kind is it?" Regardless, the fruit - which has been spared from her coughing - is offered up for him to pick through, if he's so inclined. « NO. » It's forceful, at the sight of those bones. It comes with a roar, and makes A'rist clench a fist around the sandwich. There's another weak chuckle once he's had time to calm down, to tilt his head to one side until his neck gives out a crack. "Squished," he answers. More accurately, "Squished leftover roast bits. And radish." But he will take one of those fruits, at random. What looks like a thing that once was a redfruit. For that instant, both hands are forward, waiting. A low gurgling sounds. The wherry bones on the shore are reduced to a fine ash that's blown away on the back of an unnatural breeze. The protest changes nothing. Qhyluth gurgles again and there is a distinct sense that he's watching the bronze from the corner of one slow-whirling eye. The waters stir threateningly. Something flashes just off the shore. A fish? Another skeleton? Something more? Ulyana studies the smashed sandwich and analyzes A'rist's words. Ultimately, she intones, "That is one of my favorite sandwiches. Roast is, anyway." One corner of her mouth distorts, an attempt at a smile is given and abandoned all at once. "Squishing is optional." Thus is the offering accepted. "Thank you," isn't an afterthought; it's just a little delayed. There's something fitting in the ash, and Lythronath relents. Relents, and, when the blue offers up more, hisses, out loud, and also with, « SHHHH. » Blues. The bronze, through his rider or through himself, redirects his attention to the weyrling cavern. A'rist waits until the squished roast sandwich has left his hand, before he raises the redfruit and pops it into his mouth. "Thanks," said back to Ulyana, around that mouthful. And he shifts his boots on the floor of the bowl. The waters calm. The fog settles. The vigil begins in earnest. Qhyluth's narrow visage recenters itself and his attention, all of it, is trained on the cavern. Patient. Unmoving. Much like his rider, at least until she takes a small bite of the sandwich. The process of mastication gives plenty of reason for her much more delayed, "I hope you are doing well." It's a clumsy articulation, deadpan as it is. It's well-meaning, certainly, but awkward. Appropriately awkward. She shifts her weight slightly, even if there's very little to shift. A standoff of ignoring each other is much better than fights over... anything. The dragons can wait. A'rist considers Ulyana for a moment, more closely now that no one's trying to eat anyone else. Or, thinking about it, even. "It's good," he decides at length, "that there's a hatched clutch here." He doesn't elaborate. He does halfway reach for that bag of fruit, and raise an eyebrow in silent request. "It is," she agrees. "From what I understand, they are a strong group - dragons and riders alike. A very healthy group." Ulyana's features distort, some memory or another threatening to break through. It passes. The extension of his hand is met with a similar extension of hers; the bag is poised just below his fingers and her chin dips in reply to that unspoken query. Aloud, she asks, "Do you know any of them?" A'rist's hand dips; it returns with one of those ginger pieces. Ooh. He's partway through shaking his head and pursing his lips when he pauses, thinks. "Well, one. Edyis. But not really anyone else. Not to know them. Lythronath and I didn't even search, this time." It's more pensive than it should be, that last bit. He puts the ginger in his mouth and chews, quiet, brow furrowed. A moment's thought. Then three. Finally: "I think she is the only one I have met." Ulyana takes another small bite of sandwich. Thorough chewing ensues. "He has spoken to a few of them, if you could call it that." Her brow furrows. "But that is all. I am not sure if he had an interest in searching or not." Uncertainty yields silence of another sort, her attention shifting from A'rist and twisting inward. A'rist chews that bit in his mouth slowly, and gives a faint nod for her words. Then, he's considering, considering her, considering other things too, surely. His chest rises and falls a bit more quickly. He makes a bit of a grunting growl before he finally lets out, "He liked searching for Hraedhyth's. Just to get on her sands." There isn't enough sandwich to occupy her long enough to wait out the span of those words. Ulyana's features tighten a little and her chin drops. Her voice grows purposefully quiet, with a flicked look angled sidelong to ensure the blue hears nothing. "Maybe he will search again for the new one." Her mouth pulls strangely to a side. Something else lingers, unspoken. Clumsy. It's there in the shifting of her features, and yet. The blue behind her stirs and her silence persists, breath held until he settles. A'rist wipes his fingers quickly on his pantleg, and then raises that hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes a moment, and turning to Lythronath. Even if he doesn't look at his bronze. A deep breath is taken, shoulders falling with his chest when he turns back to Ulyana, hand dropping to his side. "That's still a couple turns away." "The time will pass quickly." A meaningful look is angled toward the weyrling cavern. Ulyana's shoulders rise and fall in a boneless shrug. "And not quickly enough, by the same token." Her free fingers clench and release slowly at her side before, after what must be a tremendous internal struggle, she reaches to try to press her fingers at his shoulder. To touch. Words fail and she'll let them continue to fail, if only for the time being. A'rist doesn't try to block her. He does watch her hand until it lands, and then his eyes follow Ulyana's arm back up until he finds her face again. "Yeah. Depends," is said for time. He's looking up and away, then, to the rim, around the bowl, while he presses his lips together once more. The fingers linger with only faint pressure, not quite a grip, but not a featherlight touch, either. Ulyana's regard remains unblinking and steady when he looks at her. Perhaps eyes meet and hold, if only for a heartbeat before his attention moves on. Hers follows a beat later, tracking after and landing on the bowl's rim. There. Then there. Seeking what he sees - but, like as not, failing to find it. Eventually, "If you ever want our company," and that our is definitely peculiar, "our weyr is open to you." There's a long pause, then a deadpan: "Just be wary of the skulls. They are poorly placed." It's on that deadpan talk of skulls that A'rist's eyes narrow, faintly, finding the bluerider once more. He reaches, carefully, slowly, up toward the elbow of her outstretched arm. And he looks toward Qhyluth as he does so. Lythronath... Lythronath is still just waiting for babies. There is only a slight pinch to Ulyana's brow for all of that. Her gaze follows his arm as best as it can. Curious. Wary. Watchful. Her arm remains still, uplifted though it must be in order to bridge the gap between their respective heights. The blue, fixed as he is on his vigil, is in a rare state of obliviousness - or near-obliviousness. The waters of his mind are calm enough. His posture still enough. And yet, the twitch of his tail - barely there as it is - might speak otherwise. A'rist brings his fingers to wrap, loosely, around her elbow, almost cushioning it in his hand. There's the slightest press as some of his hand's weight is allowed to hang on her arm. Then, it's gone. "Lythronath paints," he says. "With the blood. Our ledge." A beat. "We have bones there now, too." That weight can hang as long as it likes. But, when it falls, her arm slowly drops to hang at her side. Ulyana intones, "He carves into the walls. The blood is imperfect for his purposes." But attempted. A singular nod follows. The rest of his words are processed. That pinch between her brows returns again as she observes, "But not before." A'rist nods, faintly, and brings his hand, awkwardly, to grip at his belt, at rest. Lythronath has turned his gaze to the two riders, shifted his weight along with his attentions. "Took them," A'rist fills in. "I see," says she. Ulyana's arms fold around her midsection in a clumsy attempt at a self-hug-that-isn't-but-might-be. "Understandable." A beat. "Fitting." Now, too, the blue's attention swings around - even if his eyes remain forward and fixed. There's just a sense of his awareness, caught in the shifting of his weight and flexing of a wing. The tips of his tail curve and threaten to catch around Ulyana's leg. A'rist shrugs to those descriptors, tapping his fingertips against his belt, and looking over at her arms, He licks his lips a little, when the blue's movement catches his eye. "Um." And then his hands are off his belt, to scrub at his face, hide it, even, temporarily. Her gray gaze cuts askance briefly at that um. Ulyana's regard lands heavily on the blue that's tilted his head just a touch. He's still looking at the cavern. Truly. Yet, the creep of his tail ceases - for now, anyway. A slow blink precedes a return of her attention to A'rist. Her arms tighten just a little around her middle. The face-scrubbing inspires a dull - but concerned - "Is something wrong?" A'rist chews a little at the inside of his cheek, once his hands drop back down. There's a little shrug, a wan little half-smile. "He doesn't much like sharing you, does he." Lythronath digs his talons into the ground, and his attention wavers. Confusion registers plainly in the set of her features. "No one has ever tried." Yet, despite the dullness of her tone, there's still a clear note of: but why would they? Ulyana rolls a shoulder. "He has little interest in greens. Less in chasing them. He feels guilt when he does." As if that might explain. It might. It might not. Regardless: "He is better about it now. Better than last time." That his tail remains still is a testament to that. Ostensibly. A'rist looks again from Ulyana to her blue, and back. "Guilt," he repeats, and tests his grip on his belt. "That's something..." whatever adjective it was he had in mind, it's replaced instead with a glib, "yeah." A'rist is grimacing again, seemingly unawares. "Last time was different." A slow step forward carries her out of the possessive curve of that blue tail and closer to A'rist. Tension threads visibly through Qhyluth, but he remains still - save for the sinking of talons into the ground. "Guilt," is confirmation. Flat. Matter-of-fact. The glibness is met with a slow blink and a slight pull of her mouth to one side. It is not addressed. The last part is. "How?" A'rist runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth, and rolls his shoulders back. Then, a purposeful smile, a little half-toss of his head. "We were better. Than now." A breath is drawn. Held. Released. "Of course," Ulyana intones. She half-turns on a heel, her new positioning allowing her to look from rider and bronze to blue with only a slight shifting of her eyes. "We will still be here when things are better." If they get better. "I didn't mean-" comes rushed, but he lands flatly on, "that." His mouth quirks off to one side, and A'rist turns, so that his side is more to her, now, so that he can look toward the weyrling cavern. "I want him to meet the babies. It makes here home." A beat. "It's always about home, these days." Those words aren't the invitation. A'rist's gesture to where he'd been sitting before might be more of one. Errors in interpretation translate into the story of Ulyana's life. It resolves itself into a creasing of her forehead that smoothes out after the explanation. "They will come when they are ready. They might be sleeping." Pale eyes flick from the cavern to A'rist. "He is here. They are here. And here is home. He cannot see them if he is not here." Obvious statements, all. Logic laid out. The gesture is met with a slow lift of one brow and the shallow dip of her chin. But unless - until? - he moves, she will not. A'rist tilts his head for all that logic, and says only, "Maybe." He doesn't explain. He does start heading back, toward where he'd been before, reaching out nearly at the last possible second to try and give a tug to Ulyana's shirt as he goes. That attempt lands neatly enough and Ulyana is tugged along, more or less. There's just a slight hitch in her step before she adjusts to match his pace, though she makes no effort to loosen his fingers or pull free. She's silent again, but her gaze is intense and keenly focused on A'rist. Curious. A'rist isn't like to offer up much more explanation; any attempts he does make risk his voice cracking, or wavering. He's also not like to let go of that shirt, provided that when he sits, she does also. Provided Qhyluth allows it. Provided provideds. At least until there's a baby weyrling for Lythronath to play with. Nor does she ask for anything more. Ulyana sits when he sits, her shirt left in his grip without complaint. One of her hands lifts to rest over his and she'll lean, just a little, into him. Quiet. Patient. There. Qhyluth turns his head to observe - but, where tension coiled before, there is something else. Something different. He waits now with Lythronath - at least until one weyrling or another provides a distraction. |
Comments
Alida (00:59, 26 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
So many delightful RPs, lately! I like seeing more sides of both these two riders AND their dragons! :D
Leave A Comment