Logs:Vrianth's Visit
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| RL Date: 3 September, 2015 |
| Who: K'del, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Southern Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Cadejoth gets visitors, too. |
| Where: Southern Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
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| Vrianth's there, southern-skied-there. Southern is hot. High Reaches is not. Small dark speck sky-high. Falling, falling, cool trumpet electric-light zap she's here. There. Here. Sparks flood Cadejoth's chains, a zing that wakes him from the snooze that took him; the one he chose to take next to the rider that is now allowed to doze in the shade of his dragon's bulk. Abruptly awake; « Vrianth! » He's down here. She's here. Here, here, here. Here. Spark-flow-spark-spark-spark, pleased, now. Her rider, she has. She will bring her, will Vrianth, is bringing her. Down, lean, leaning. Wings-flare. She casts shade, does not throw it, falls-lands-light. She has bright-brilliant eyes. She has, her rider has, silence and a book and sitting. She will not bother them. His rider has a smile, self-effacing, but no chatter. It's nice to be out in the sun; nice to be not in bed, and that's true for them both. Cadejoth has wings, wings that aren't bound and held like his rider's wounds, but not wings for flying (not yet, not now, not right now). Sparks fly. It makes his rider smile more. No chatter, not hardly. Her rider sits, sits lower, sits on grass. Grass at a Weyr. She pets it. Vrianth noses her. Vrianth tosses her head then, eyes Cadejoth: no wings? Not right now? Right now! She has wings that beat, beat-beat-beat, and she leaps. She leaves shadow-wings behind. Southern is all wrong, so unlike home. The skies are unlike home, too, but that doesn't make them unwelcome or less worthy to fly within. Vrianth's leap is followed, lickety-split, by Cadejoth's, the bronze throwing himself after the green. His rider, he closes his eyes against the glare, the sun that's no longer blocked by his dragon's bulk. He smiles. Spit 'gainst the sun's eye. Vrianth flicks her wings out, draws them in, up and up and up where there is more sky and less ground and more, more, more. She darts in close, a fingersail's fingertip for a chain and out and up. The book stays closed. There's no need, with a smile, to even read. The skies go on forever, here, stretching out as far as the eye can see and further; blue to infinity. Cadejoth's not got Vrianth's agility, but that's no reason not to try, even here where there are no Spindles to wind, no rim to dart past (to rest upon, later; that is the saddest of all). An abandoned set of dice are nudged, rolling deliberate double-ones. Snake eyes. Winning. Always try. Pare the sun, fingersail's fingertip's fingernail. Vrianth could fly the longest time, could, would, will. She flies, they fly. When they are gone and the book is left she will go to the rim, she will sit on the rim, she will tell the rim that he is waiting, he will come. She will sit on the rim and it will wait, it will wait for him. Cadejoth's howl, as if to the moon, is mental and not physical, and not even verbal; it simply exists, hanging there as acknowledgement, both gratitude and reassurance. It will wait; and for now, there is simply the sun, the endless sky, the lazy afternoon... and the sunburn that may or may not follow. |
Comments
Alida (00:02, 4 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Just... DELIGHTFUL! Not a word needed to be spoken, yet it was so clear. :)
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