Logs:Hook, Line, and Sinker
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| RL Date: 10 November, 2015 |
| Who: Vhaeryth, Zaisavyth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Monaco Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A game. |
| Where: Monaco Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 3, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Kyouri/Mentions, Oriane/Mentions |
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| That bronze is there again. Not hunting Monaco's herdbeasts, not hunting her greens (though that interloper Torith seems cheerful to see him, but then she is so cheerful), evidently only hunting sun: soaking out there in Monaco's waters, dark wings spread wide as the waves rise and fall to buoy him, almost as ruddy as her. Does he not know that Monaco's sun belongs to Zaisavyth? She was hatched to it; raised to it; has risen to it (if not recently). Visitors interest the dark-and-light queen, and she's presently otherwise unengaged... from her grassy clearing she lifts herself, airborne long enough to crest the cliffs and then dive, dive, dive. « Who, » she wants to know, not imperious but nonetheless bright and proud, her words lit with dark fire, « Are you? » Interloper. Other interloper. Is that her shadow, cool where her words flick hot? « Zaisavyth, » he returns to her, with humor, that fire mirrored in metal and glass so it won't get lost in that very sun... of hers, it was supposed to be. He rolls, a long stretch that shows underwing and a glint of more-than-blue eye. « Vhaeryth. » Zaisavyth. Look at you. « Vhaeryth, » repeats the queen, testing the name out upon her mental tongue... and a second time for good measure. The water is cool; she remains hot, a creature of fire and not ice. And, « You are known to us, I think. » Mirinda's memories are hers, hers to flick through as she pleases. That so-bright nose lifts above the water she's dropped herself into, wings flaring for floatation. « What is it you want? » Never mind that she found him. « What is there to want? » Zaisavyth is the expert, surely; Vhaeryth might be wise to listen to her. Is he wise? This land that's hers, these skies that are hers, every talon-prick of coastline: surely she, of anyone, would know. Hers. Yes; yes, they are hers. It might burn, beneath, that Torith-- but no matter. That is not a matter for outsiders, and Vhaeryth assuredly is one of those. « I want nothing, » she assures the bronze, with a diva's certainty. She changes the subject:« You mated my daughter. » She has no recollection of the sea-queen, but thoughts, like smoke, do rise to the surface. « And the other. » Torith. « Is that what brings you here? » « No? » Not even what she has, that sun, that sea that he flicks with a so-careless tail? (Not even what Torith has now, a place where they look first to her?) « Are they for mating? I do not swim with Torith, » but Vhaeryth's tone is complex even so, perhaps even a touch wistful (smoke, mirrored... but then the smoke, his mirror-smoke, is gone). His attention's on Zaisavyth just now, gleaming, playful. « Nor... Evielth. » Nothing. Zaisavyth has... she is. Look at what she is, Vhaeryth, every burnished, radiant part of her, every fiery-rich curve. « Evielth, » she dismisses, with a huff of her own smoke, redolent of spice and incense, and bitter klah. Not that she's bitter, naturally. « Torith. » Bah, Torith. « You swim with me. » And that means he is here for her, of course. Preplanned! Predestined! Not bitter at all. Vhaeryth's perceptibly persuaded to look, a long, strafing look from wings to that pert nose and down, down, down; again; and then to flick water once more, preparatory to roll over in a deep dive. « We swim, » he agrees, curving down... and over and up towards her other side. That-- she's less enthused by that (it might be argued that she is a lazy dragon, all told... but he's here, and she's bored, and so it goes). It draws her out of the water, even, wings grasping at air to gather enough momentum to pull herself free of its grasp, though she only hovers low. « You're playing games with me, » she accuses, though it is a half-hearted thing, truly. « Do you not like games? » Vhaeryth emerges in all his sleekness, rolled nigh to his back with his long throat visible as he looks up at her, gleaming-eyed, « When I play them with you? » « I like them when I win. » She is, at least, honest. « Am I winning your game? » Her wings furl; she hovers, using the fewest possible wing beats to keep herself in the air, and not too far from the bronze's location. That trace water falling from her wings, it drips; Vhaeryth stretches towards where it falls. « I think you might, » he says, and slips once more upright. It might be too soon to tell, predestined or no, yet as he too moves to take to the air, « I think you would make a very good winner, Zaisavyth. » His voice is low, pitched solely for her, yet with a brightness that suggests that when she likes, all the world could know. « Do you now, » declares the queen, with a haughtiness that would, in a human, be a smirk. « Well. » And then she's throwing herself higher still, wings outstretched to catch the breeze (and, perhaps, to show off their brilliant expanse). « Perhaps I might let you find out. One day. » But today? Is not that day. Good bye, Vhaeryth. Does he look? He might. He must. (But if she doesn't see, she'll never know.) Vhaeryth flaunts his own glide, not high but low towards the beach, so as to soak up more of that heat it's saved just for him; « 'A bargain is something you don't need at a price you can't resist.' Good day, » Zaisavyth. Zaisavyth. He'll feel it, Zaisavyth's dismay. She won't ask, and yet... what does that mean?! Hook, line... sinker. |
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