Logs:Beautiful and Terrible
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| RL Date: 24 June, 2015 |
| Who: Yesia, Ysaera, Aeaeth, Nykievth |
| Type: Log |
| What: While on sweeps over Tillek, two fledgling greenriders find the time to chat -- as do their dragons. |
| Where: Beach, Tillek Hold |
| When: Day 2, Month 2, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Cold & damp. |
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>---< Beach, Tillek Hold >---------------------------------------------------<
A narrow expanse of shale beach, hardly an ideal vacation locale, sits off
between the docks and the Seacraft beyond. It can be cold and windy, here,
but it's also peaceful, in a way.
Although there are a few clear, sunny, windy days along the Tillekian
coastline, the usual weather is damp and wet. Rain is the most common
winter weather, with hard storms blowing in a couple of times a month. Once again, Ysaera has faded into the background of her weyrling class; neither does she stand out as exceptional or as terrible. Her performance is settled purely into the average, though her lifemate is a little strange at times. Eerily darker of mind than Ysaera seems to present, so there is an undercurrent of struggle between the pair, hinted at only here and there while plodding through Weyrlinghood at a good pace. Sweeps are a tradition that can be incredibly boring or extremely exciting depending on what's found and what the weather is like. Today is a day of damp, wet drizzle with the sun peeking through the overcast sky like bars of buttered yellow light shattered across the bowl of the earth below. Ysaera and Nykievth stay a pace with the rest of those on sweeps, their eyes trained to the ground below. Back to being a wingrider again -- thank Faranth -- Yesia is less enthusiastic about sweeps. Not, to say, that she was particularly enthusiastic about them in the first place, even when she was busy doling them out to people while she spent as much of her time as possible in the weyr stores, finding decor for her weyr. Her shirking of responsibilities is no secret, which is maybe why she's in position over damp and cold Tillek a'dragonback, nestled between Aeaeth's neckridges as their sweep leader gestures them down for a landing over the beach. It is possible that there is nothing here, but the bluerider in charge is fastidious in his checks, and so as she dismounts Yesia rolls her eyes at him. "There's nothing here," she mutters at Aeaeth's hide as she adjusts the straps. "Why'd we have to stop?" Ysaera guides Nykievth in for a landing not too long after Aeaeth has come to a stop, and it is with the tiniest of groans that the greenrider slips from Nyki's back and checks her straps as well. "Because he's pedantic about sweeps," Ysaera murmurs, shooting a glance at Yesia with the smallest of smiles. Her face is angled in such a way that their sweep leader cannot see her expression, which leaves her free to wrinkle her nose in commiseration at her fellow weyrling. "It is cold and dreary here," she murmurs and gives a pat to Nykievth's side before turning her attention to the beach. "Is it bad to hope for something exciting?" Yesia's eyes sliiiide to Ysaera -- like she's never seen the girl before. It's equal parts Yesia's lack of interest in anyone who can't do something for her, and Ysaera's ability to fly under the radar, but the result is the same. The red-head studies her curiously, throws the longest of the straps up to Aeaeth's back, and steps away to pull her gloves off. "I don't think there will be, unless there are pirates hiding in the cove. He's so stupid." Her verdict is vehement as she scans the area. "We should go this way," she points, before roles are actually assigned. "We're going this way," to the bluerider, who doesn't get a word before Yesia turns to meander that direction, with an expectant look at Ysaera to follow. To Nykievth, Aeaeth's mind is discordant and trilling, but curious of her sister. She's acutely aware of her sibling, but not familiar in the way she is with the others. It seems to be a new dawning, if her childlike consideration is anything to go by. A slow tendril of twined colors and bells extends itself to that foreign mind, sweet and pleasant in its tentative, wordless greeting. Ysaera is good at not getting noticed, and if the slight smile that edges up the corners of her lips is any indication, she's not at all offended by Yesia's realization that she exists. "Pity. Pirates in the cove could have been something to write home about," the quip is given lightly, but she turns to angle in the way Yesia directs, content to let the other girl give directions to the bluerider. Ysaera merely bobs her head to the man who's already moving on. "The last time I saw Tillek, I saw it from a sailing vessel and all I could see was the rocky coast line. We didn't linger for long." Conversationally light, for now. Curiosity manifests in the slow tendril of creeping fog that follows the lines of brilliant undergrowth set against the dull, gunmetal grey of an ancient, crumbling ruin. Nature has reclaimed and is seemingly harsh for the destruction left in her wake; Nykievth is nature embodied with both youthful exploration and the gritty undertones of death and decay that comes to meet this curious sister of hers. Likewise, the green knows of her sister in ways that all siblings do, but nothing beyond the surface of understanding. Creeping lichen coats the shores of a toxic lake, potentially giving a little bit of a sting to the tentative touch between sisters. (To Aeaeth from Nykievth) Yesia looks amused, her expression relaxing and her eyebrows lowering when it's clear Ysaera is coming, at least for now. "There are pirates at the weyr all the time," Yesia imparts, like she's surprised that the other girl doesn't know this, already. She's so lucky Yesia's here to help. "Farideh is - was? I heard they had a fight. Farideh's boyfriend is or was a dirty pirate. He was less impressive than you might think." A shrug of disappointment as she steps over a piling of rocks, careful not to slip. "It's not --" she grunts through exertion, "a pretty place, Tillek. At least not here. I don't even know what he thinks we're looking for. I should have Aeaeth...mmm. It's not important." She looks out at the water, wondering, "How did you end up at the weyr, then?" Fascinated, Aeaeth is, by the illumination her colors cause beneath and through the deserted, overtaken ruins. She lets her consciousness weave through, exploring but never rude, always sounding like someone is playing the wrong bell in harmony with their neighbor. She revels in the way she canbacklight the ruin from grey to cerulean with a thought of her own, and mimics the colors of the landscape in contrasts: bright greens where the foliage is not quite right, and undercurrents of crystalline blues when she touches the water. Or, well, that's her intent. It's the shores that get her, and when there is a sudden bite of pain her alarm explodes in small pops of white light. « Why is that there? Water does not hurt. » (To Nykievth from Aeaeth) Ysaera is content to let Yesia talk to fill the silence, though the girl's eyebrows do shoot up at the mention of Farideh and her boyfriend's connection to pirates. Her eyes narrow slightly, but soon enough her brow smoothes out. "I didn't know that," she murmurs, rueful. "I suppose I should pay better attention," a touch self-depreciative for her lack of engagement in the pasts of others. "I was an apprentice in the sea craft and we set port in High Reaches that lasted longer than the standard day. I was Searched and on a whim, I agreed. Now," her tone casts a net into the thoughtful musing, "that life seems so far disconnected from this one." In her own way, Nykievth is playful with her sister, but it is a strange frivolity that allows the dark bird to fall from the sky, touching where Aeaeth touches, exposing the bones of something churned up from the muddy ground saturated in the oily refuge of a different age that has since been reclaimed in ruin. « Doesn't it? » Nykievth's voice is a disjointed collection of sounds: the burble of the still-watered lake that stretches across the shores of an unnaturally red forest, with the sweep of the eerie echo of the wind through the white-trunked trees that creak like an old screen door and the haunting melody of distant voices that fell beneath the machine of time, churned to dust long ago. « Or does it? It is my nature to be so. » It is not exactly an answer, but the zing is tempered when the cool waters once again brush through the link. Muted to the feeling of salt in a mostly healed wound. Strange, weird feeling but without pain. « Is it not the same as the weft and weave of color? » In reflection, the lake's mirrored surface seeks to re-create Aeaeth's particular use of color and light. (To Aeaeth from Nykievth) "Oh, yes. She's got pretty terrible taste in men. If they broke up, it's probably for the best. A weyrwoman shouldn't have ...unsavory companions like that. What if he stole from the weyr or --?" She shakes her head, waving a hand and then turning to scale up an incline that leads around a small cove. "Lucky then," is Yesia's assessment of Ysaera's past, because what else could it be? "To be stuck on a boat the rest of your life, just fishing and -- the storms and cold and always wet?" As an afterthought, now that she's doled out her opinion, she does have the grace to wonder, "Did you like it terribly much?" To Nykievth, Aeaeth projects « « It is not, » Aeaeth says, and they're both lucky she doesn't see those odd bones or that strange bird. In direct response to the discordia that is Nykievth's voice, Aeaeth's bells vanish and sweet harmonies swell. It is apparently too much. « Colors do not sting. » She trails off, watching the mimic of her own voice in the waters, unwilling to try and recreate the sensation of her sister's mind, but willing to help nudge things into place when they're not quite right. « Water is beautiful and calm and soothing. It is the best thing in the world, and yours was... » An impression, sharp and quick. Displeasure. » Something about Yesia makes Ysaera smile, finding humor in the things the other greenrider says. "You don't choose who you love," is what she murmurs, but she doesn't sound particularly attached to that statement. "At the time, it was all I wanted. Now all I want is to be with Nykievth. Isn't it strange how our entire world of desire changes in a single moment?" That slip of deep thought causes Ysaera to pause and she uses that time to considers Yesia's question. "I loved it," she admits quietly, "I could have easily lived my entire life on the sea." Giving a little shake of her head, the still-short dark hair fanning around her cheeks, she asks, "What about you? Do you miss your old life?" Humor sparkles in her dark eyes when she teases, "I take it you weren't a pirate." « Colors can. » Nykievth's rebuttal is soft, gentle. A flash of bright light fills the entirety of her mindscape; an explosion that fills her space with nothing but white, white, stingingly bright light before all is dark. « Or I suppose, light can. » She amends, conceding Aeaeth's point with grace. Hers is not a particularly comfortable mental tableau of experiences, but yet they are all woven together in such a way that they exist in a discordant harmony of nature. Where the ruins of man were once a blight upon the land, nature has consumed in the brilliance of her verdant green, tinged by the toxic ichor of polluted civilization. « My apologies. » Sincerity rings true in her strange voice. « It is my nature to be so. » Despite the sting, the sunlight-on-water that sparkles across the lake's placid surface holds its own beauty. (To Aeaeth from Nykievth) Yesia scoffs at that. finally mounting the small hill she'd chosen to take, putting her hands on her hips and looking out at the water, then up and down the beach for anything of particular interest. There is, as predicted, nothing. Not even pirates. "No," suffices as Yesia's blanket answer, to everything Ysaera's said, apparently. "I lived with my family," she eventually says, obliquely, with no comment on how much her life may have changed. "I love Aeaeth. I wish I could take her back with me, but not because I miss it there. More because I don't like it here. I - should have gone to Igen," she laments quietly, and craning her neck, spots the bluerider in charge of their wing, very far up the beach. When Aeaeth announces nothing to her, least of all a mount up, Yesia gives up on their silly, pointless sweep and sets down on the ground with her chin on her knees. To Nykievth, Aeaeth shields herself with sound -- crescendo banging and drums that approximate a person turning their back singing 'lalalala' with their fingers in their ears. The white light is muted then, and pushed back with an red of displeasure that spins and grows. « To be very difficult? » asks Aeaeth, sounding sad. « You could be bright and happy -- » a flash of greens, the best colors: her pale hide, Nykievth's hide, their other sisters', the green of underwater algae, the green of skies before the worst storms, foliage that by ritual should be burned away, and more, « instead of, » gunmetal, bones, ash. Ysaera huffs a bit as they go over the hill, slipping a little on the rocks which causes her arms to windmill outward. "If you hate it here," she asks quietly, "Why did you agree to stand?" Curiosity is hinted to in the inquiry, a quick glance given to Yesia then. "Would you really like Igen better?" Ysaera wrinkles her nose a little, "It's hot and a desert. With no quick access to water." Despite Ysaera's proclamations of settling into weyrlife, this lingering desire for an ocean seems to be a part of her very makeup. « If we were all the same, » Nykievth's tone holds a confidence that comes from knowing and accepting of her nature as well as Aeaeth's, « Then the world would not be filled with the differences that make it interesting to explore. » Verdant green lichen grows upon a shattered rock, where an overhang of a tree that twisted in turns gone by is flung out over the chilly, placid waters of a tainted lake. Beneath that calm shell lies the bones of a different world but that isn't for today. Today, the wind ripples the water causing sunlight to dance playfully and hopefully to inspire joy in her sister's heart. « Our world is beautiful and terrible, but it's ours so we must keep it. Yes? » (To Aeaeth from Nykievth) "That made a difference, the water," Yesia allows, her chin on her knees. It's cold up here, now they are atop the hillock that was shielding them from most of the gusting. "I didn't know I would hate it here, obviously," she says, short of patience. "I thought it would be better. I thought it would be amazing to be here, to be a dragonrider, all of it. And it maybe would be, if everyone here wasn't so..." she fishes for the word, and finds nothing to adequately describe them. "We have dragons, though. Aeaeth will be able to go between soon, like everyone else, and I think I should have gone because once we know how to get to Ista, or to Southern, or anywhere. There's water. I think I thought it would get better, but it keeps getting worse." There is a vibrating hum while Aeaeth thinks about this, and she's not the smartest of her clutchsiblings, so it's a very very long think as she really parses through it. « Oh, » she concludes, « I suppose you're right. » Her imitations of other minds are imperfect as someone mimicking accents, but there's Neianth's still water, Roszadyth's swish of soft fabric, Jorrth's absolute wonder. « We are part of it, so we must make it beautiful. You are just so secret. » Like she doesn't have her own secrets, hidden behind noise and color. Aeaeth withdraws slowly, adding to the rippling water her own whorls of deep color that don't match the landscape, but leave afterimage impressions. Her retreat is half because she doesn't like secrets she is not being told, and half because there is another impression between their minds: a commanding note to gather up, unless something has been found. (To Nykievth from Aeaeth) Ysaera is a quiet presence next to Yesia as she absorbs all that her fellow weyrling has said in the last little bit. A frown has pulled her brows together, and she turns a concerned look to the other greenrider and asks, "What makes it worse?" But that question will have to be answered another day, it seems, as they are called back. A huff of frustration is let out as Ysaera rubs the chill from her arms and makes a face. "Guess we'd better get back." It is inevitable, but still she hesitates long enough to say, "I'm glad we got paired up today." For once, the former sea crafter has emerged from her shell long enough to really get a look at one of her fellows. Then it's time to go. Secrets are woven through the shadows of Nykievth's mind in strange patterns that probably only make sense to the owner. The rustling of leaves that have overtaken old cobbled stones tickle the senses, the haunting rise of the melody of the fallen a soft susurration of sound that form the words to drift toward her sister as she retreats. « And you are so light and free. » As the other green retreats, so does Nykievth, to get ready to leave this cold and lonely rock with its misty rains and chilly winds. As harsh, in its own way, as her own mental mindscape. (To Aeaeth from Nykievth) It doesn't have to wait. Yesia stands and brushes off the seat of her pants from snow and dirt, but before she starts picking her way back down the hill she says, "They do," with a broad gesture for the rest of the group. "You," she starts, stopping to examine the former seacrafter, "snuck under my radar." What will have to wait is the examination of exactly why, and exactly how she managed to do that, what with how often Yesia lashes out at her peers. "Maybe we can do it more. I think I'd like that." It's desperation, maybe, that has her putting an olive branch out there, or maybe it's just the lack of familiarity that makes Ysaera safer than the others. Regardless, Yesia is mostly silent the rest of the walk back to their dragons to mount up. "I'd like that too," Ysaera's quiet, easy words are delivered with a smile, but she can respect a time of quiet. So on the walk back, she says nothing but walks in easy camaraderie, lost in her own thoughts. A few rocks here and there catch her eye and they'll disappear into her pockets, but by the time they reach their lifemates, it is time to focus on the task at hand: getting through the rest of sweeps. The eerie whisper of the wind is all that's left to echo on their secluded little hillock. |
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