Logs:A Gift for Hraedhyth
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| RL Date: 23 August, 2012 |
| Who: Brieli, N'rov, Azaylia |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Vhaeryth goes hunting, but not in the way he expected. Even so, he claims a trophy for Hraedhyth to drop off on the way to Iesaryth's ledge - does he win her over? Then, N'rov steals Bri/Shani's bath. |
| Where: Minds of Dragons, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions, E'dre/Mentions |
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| Vhaeryth reaches out to curl what he can reach of her thoughts into his, that distant vibrating excitement turned into displeasure as keen as a cymbal, though what she receives is muffled. His words aren't: « It is wrong. Wrong, wrong, /wrong/. » Even Wroth agrees, the wingsecond whose presence might have tinged Vhaeryth's before, with his stormy irritation. « And He says I must be patient. » (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) To Vhaeryth, Iesaryth's tide bubbles out in a foamy wash, drifting sea-salt's sharp winds out towards him, around him, despite the noise. Perhaps because it /is/ muffled. She won't let stormy irritation darken her bright waters, though she can appreciate it and the words both. « What is wrong? Being patient? » Iesaryth won't disagree with that; she has little time for forbearance. But he's not giving her much to go on here. « That too, » and Vhaeryth's grumble is the gritty slide of metal on metal, another's even gloomier drip-drip of rain in the background. « /They/ get to hunt. We do not. We have to sit. And wait. It is not right. All they have are sharp sticks. They must hide until that thing comes to eat them. » He pops a bubble, then thinks better of it and reincarnates it in one that's even more glittering, for all that it does carry a reddish-orange speck or two. Or three. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) To Vhaeryth, Iesaryth's thought might as well be her Aishani's, so similar it is in inflection, cadence: « Are they crazy? » It's quite possible her rider is wondering that just now, if she's passed it along. And really, how could she not? The idea is quite absurd. Her waves lap up high enough to catch the drip of water; they do not rush over his reinvented bubble. « Why do they hunt when they are so poorly suited to do so? » She knows some humans /must/ but why if you have /dragons/. Totally without logic. « Do they want to get eaten? » The bronze's reply is lugubrious: « Perhaps. It was a surprise. It is not the good kind of surprise. There are many good surprises, but not that. » On second thought: « Perhaps the man wants them to get eaten, » and he encloses an image of one Tyralius, Feline Hunter: if something does happen, Iesaryth can track him down too. Or, rather, her rider can. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) Finally recovering from her total confusion with the situation, Iesaryth offers all due sympathy for the situation he finds himself in, the sound of her oceans constant and soothing. Poor Vhaeryth. And everyone else too, but mostly him. « No, I would be quite disappointed. That seems almost cruel. » And stupid, but they've been over that. She'll pass on that image before she forgets, if only to reassure him, just in case. « Someone made a mistake if he does. » Amused. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth) He doesn't exactly /settle/, but he settles into prowling with a low huff... and a certain appreciation, underlying it all, for her patience with him. With them, maybe. « Good. » And with that, he subsides into waiting. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) It takes patience for her adopted sister; it takes little for him. She has her own reasons for appreciating him, for appreciating them both. Helpfully, though she knows it doesn't help much, « They will be very bad at it. It will not take long. » And while he waits, if he's interested, she'll drift images across the waves - the places she's been, the places she's learning. Places they can go when he's done. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth) « Wouldn't it not take long if they were good at it? » Vhaeryth asks, and attempts to mollify himself with the distractions she's taken time to offer. They /are/ interesting, but unlike his own brother, he hasn't the singleminded concentration for this, at least: there's still, beneath, the sense of humid jungle and /waiting/, hours of it now, before at /last/ the half-seen glimpse of felines snarling their way towards the bait, at /last/ the twinge of excited, nervous anticipation. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) To Vhaeryth, Iesaryth has to consider that for a little while. Which /would/ take less time? Failing or succeeding? Thankfully, she doesn't go down that thread for too long, but: « Very good or very bad, I suppose. » And there's interesting places, but many that have been seen before and nowhere she's terribly excited about yet. But that excitement after hours and hours can spark and catch, for all that she hasn't been there waiting herself - she's invested now. And certainly her rider has more than a passing interest in the result. The fits and starts of adrenaline-fueled excitement spike suddenly as she can feel /Vhaeryth's/ leap, and another and another, splashing, until finally his gripping jaws shake the beast's neck and exultation hits: his kill, his. /Much/ better. They hadn't had to wait entirely, after all. (Of course, now comes the boring part, through the rest of the evening: even more waiting while the skinning's done, though at least he eventually gets a carcass to tide him over.) (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) Though it's not quite being there, not really the same as doing it herself, Iesaryth can try to live in it as best she can, enjoy those leaps, that eventual moment of victory over the beast. His, as it should be. Where humans get their ideas, she will never know. And perhaps, yes, there is a more boring part, but she feels there must be a certain satisfaction in being /right/ as well. She loves being right. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth) Late, late at night, Vhaeryth may announce himself relatively quietly in the skies high above, but he radiates self-satisfaction even as he descends, and there's the reek of some foreign creature's blood on him. Feline blood. Iesaryth may feel his passage through /between/, but he doesn't announce himself to Hraedhyth except for ill-stifled elation as he aims to land on /her/ ledge instead. Special delivery! Wrapped delicately in his talons, it's a skinned, gory, massive feline head. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth and Hraedhyth) To Hraedhyth and Vhaeryth, Iesaryth's tide washes out to greet Vhaeryth, as warm and bright as ever, as if to ward off both the chill of /between/ and the lack of welcome. /She/ is happy to see him, even bloodied as he is and with... well. Her sister will appreciate it, and that fact /alone/ delights her. Pleased, « Look, Hraedhyth! » More for her weyr! A weird one! The waves /sparkle/. She's warmly appreciative, if more so because it's for her grouchy neighbor. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth) To Vhaeryth and Iesaryth, Hraedhyth is not on her ledge, which is no surprise to those who know her. It does not mean she is unaware of Vhaeryth's presence in her skies, mirth met with a low growl. Rumbled warnings become so much more when he touches down on her rocky territory, drums loud and likely to blow the foreign bronze's cover. If he hasn't done so already. Suddenly she's there, snarling, looming and none too happy about abandoning her snugglebuddy for the night. And yet, « ...Why. » Rhythm is less erratic, slower, trying to disguise pleasure with less potent confusion. Stubborn. He reflects that sparkle again and again and again, pleased for her pleasure (and if there are ivory teeth and claws showing up in the mirrors now and again, that can't seem to be helped). And after a nudge by his rider, « I am to tell you that I am to wash before staying with you, as it may itch when He is asleep, and also He thinks you would like the smell less. » The smell, the stickiness... /Vhaeryth/ may enjoy the former if not the latter, but he supposes he can understand why she might not. It is not, after all, her so-mighty kill. This time. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) That Fortian bronze lifts his head from his prize with youthful pride, arching his neck so his pale-tipped ridges spike out, the message overlaid with images of their fierceness, scattering out of the jungle, the dragons' hunt. (And, beneath, images of shadowy jungle and human spears... but that isn't where /this/ beast, old and canny and scarred, comes from.) « For you. » To play with? (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth and Hraedhyth) Fascinated. Fascinated by the teeth and the claws more than the sparkle, truth be told, but who can blame her. Excitement sparked by the glimpses of the jungle, « Soon, we will go to where I was hatched. There will be the same sort of beast there. » And as for the rest; « I would perhaps survive the smell. » After all, look what he brought to her sister. But she would like it less if he were uncomfortable... and if she were woken, to be honest. Iesaryth does like to sleep. « Yours is thoughtful. » But she's a fan. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth) To Vhaeryth and Hraedhyth, Iesaryth's ocean waves crash onto Hraedhyth's beaches - studded with firepits - as eternal and calming as ever. Looking over from her ledge, trying not to let the sun shine too brightly off the warm water, she suggests helpfully, « Like a gift. » Perhaps her sister can accept it? She doesn't expect thanks, that's too much to ask, but. It's a very nice skull. « Now you will not have to, » Vhaeryth assures grandly, and imagines Iesaryth adorned with souvenirs from her very own kill: a tassel of teeth dangling from her straps, perhaps, or a well-tanned hide serving as a cloak for her rider (herself an adornment) to sweep behind her as a pennon as she flies. And then there's a sense of rather more boyish appreciation of her noticing, as he's a fan of his rider, too. (Especially when he no longer has to /wait/.) (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) Is it to gloat? Hraedhyth expects so, which is why she gives a mental thump of surprise when the bronze makes his intentions clear. The fires along Iesaryth's shore crackle, pop, and stutter in attempts to incinerate any delight she may have at this gesture. Her efforts are in vain, it is not her way to stifle or hide. To lie. There's a roar of celebration, heat washing over both Sister and bronze visitor as her head lowers to inspect the gory gift. When ashen crown does rise, it's to smash and rub temples with Vhaeryth. Not an attack, but affection, which may be as emotionally jarring as it is physically. And then, back down to sniff and drag tongue along hideless flesh. « It is good. » Nothing to see here. (Hraedhyth to Vhaeryth and Iesaryth) Both man and dragon get to be surprised, though the former's more unnerved than the latter, who (after rumbling smugly back at Hraedhyth, mental metal funneled to amplify their collective volume), scrapes the side of his head along hers and adds a heavy nudge before settling to his haunches. « Good, » he replies, wriggles his haunches, and then makes the minor hop to Iesaryth's ledge where he can let off his rider, get his straps removed... and then fly off to enjoy their lake. Need it be said that he lands with a splash? (Vhaeryth to Hraedhyth and Iesaryth) She does like the idea of having all these trophies, perhaps not as horrifying as Hraedhyth's, but interesting in their own way - and what good is her rider if she cannot be dressed appropriately from time to time? Iesaryth considers other ideas: perhaps a claw or two, whatever else that she might find. And she notices many things, particularly when it comes to what might be suitable for her rider. Though she'll agree that waiting seems to be an affliction that there's no getting rid of, these /people/. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth) The man himself treads lightly into the weyr, recognizing Iesaryth (who must wait, but at least may sleep) with a quick, tired smile along the way. It's just far enough to get to the bath, divest himself of the ripped-at boot and the intact one, and after a moment remove his socks too before washing his feet. Just that much, and he pads barefoot further in, as silently as he can, just to see if she's awake or asleep. And to see, just maybe, just in case, that she's alone. To Vhaeryth and Hraedhyth, Iesaryth is all sunny pleasure and bright turquoise water for all that she won't say or do anything to ruin any of this - nor will she shine so brightly that Cadejoth might notice. No, she just settles back onto her ledge after all of that, bumping noses with Vhaeryth briefly before he's off into the lake with the aforementioned splash. Claws are good, Vhaeryth opines, envisioning them dangling from ears or neck or nose... no, not nose. But the rest! And then it's all cool freshwater and, despite his earlier assurances at being at home with that well-earned blood, great pleasure in getting /clean/. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) To Vhaeryth and Iesaryth, Hraedhyth continues to ignore the little man strapped to the bronze's back, attention pooling pleased heat onto the feline head. If it's an elaborate plot to distract the gold, it's working, not so much a snort given as he leaps onto her Sister's ledge. There will be hooting and holloring close to Iesaryth's waves as those firepits cast exaggerated shadows of her gift. Details that she is eager to share. It's big. It's different from her others. The bloody mass is taken carefully into her jaws, tawny gold winging down to where the soil is receptive and she can bury the skull. Even then, and some time after, drums echo faintly with praise. Iesaryth has just a quiet whuff of greeting for N'rov as he passes, but she'll nose at him briefly just after, perhaps curious, perhaps checking on him for her rider before he enters the weyr proper. She might have been asleep before, or maybe just lying in bed -- but there's nothing to light the beads in Aishani's bedroom doorway, nothing to really indicate if she's there at all or with someone else. Until they move suddenly, tinkling together as she steps out, tousled and perhaps a bit tired, wrapping a scarlet robe about herself - because walking out naked is likely a bad plan. With a sleepy smile, "In one piece?" That's enough for him, and N'rov meets her with a relieved, gratified smile of his own... though not with his embrace, for once, having stopped right where he is. "So far," he whispers back, because it's late and it's dark. "Go back to bed, all right? I'm messy. I'll wash up." Aishani doesn't like that distance between them, the lack of embrace, by the expression on her face - mildly petulant. And though it's late, though she's trying to comb out her curls with her fingers to little success, she can still arch fine brows, whisper back, "Come to steal my bath and sneak into bed?" A pause, as she ties the sash on her robe, then, "I'm up already. I'll come with you... if you want." N'rov's smile is as rueful as his, "Yes..." which becomes a rather more decided, "/Oh/, yes," as he holds out his hand (a little bruised, as it happens, though that will pass) for Aishani to take. If only, surely, to get his back truly clean! With her own smile, one that's shaded a bit wicked for that emphatic agreement, Shani takes his hand, leading him back out and into the bath. She'll be sympathetic over that bruised hand and any other injuries in the dark of night, regardless of what she might privately think of their origin, or might /say/ in the light of day. And if N'rov should have intentions beyond getting his back clean, well... she does too, so it all works out in the end. |
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