Logs:The Ps and Qs of Panic
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| RL Date: 12 January, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, G'laer, Leova, Lythronath, Teisyth, Vrianth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: After Teisyth is injured, steps need to be taken to ensure Lythronath does not eat her. |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr and just outside of it |
| When: Day 16, Month 10, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Wingleaders/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Many thanks to A'rist and Leova for indulging me in doing this collaborative vignette. |
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| There's good news and there's bad news. The good news is that upon impact of the full weight of Teisyth's blocky form, the sturdy tree (weakened by tooth and claw) snaps with a sharp crack (not unlike those that had been rattling around in the green's mind) and the top half falls noisily into the rest on the edge of the meadow. So, it's not how Teisyth intended to take the tree down, but she can still call that a win. Well, she can after she deals with the bad news. The bad news is « Whaaaaaa! » Her mental anguish is acute. That tree was proven to be sturdy, and doubtless her side has a mighty bruise that's causing her such pain. She probably even has splinters. And at least, at the moment, she's not trying to get up. In the confines of his weyr, G'laer snaps out of sound sleep and feels pain. Out comes the knife from under his pillow, but there's no assailant and when he seeks, there's no source for the pain. Then he remembers where he is, who he is, and that he has a dragon. « Teisyth. » The name is the embodiment of G'laer's mental reach; it doesn't have far to go. It's not like Teisyth reaching for another mind, it's like G'laer flexing his fingers or wiggling his toes, it takes but a thought and he is with her. She hurts. It takes him moments to find the source because the roadways of Teisyth's mind are jammed by ache. Deep ache. Her side. Her whole side. His presence alone comforted, which is good since there wasn't much more in the way of comfort that G'laer was able to offer; he wasn't wired that way. The pain wasn't the worst part though; it was painful, nothing was broken and there were no funny feelings of numbness or wrongness. It was the fear. It was the chaos. It was not knowing what to do. She looked to G'laer; she always did. « Call Vrianth. Tell her you're hurt and outside the Weyr and I'm on the ledge. Show her where to come. Tell her Lythronath is with you and there isn't time to waste. » He was able to be clear enough for this; panic had a way of cutting through the grog of the light dose of fellis he'd been given so he could sleep away the evening instead of being awake with his own pain from the singe all along his forearm. He grimaced at the limb. The burn was uncomfortable in a way that was foreign to him, but he'd had worse pain. More frustrating was that Teisyth had been the cause. She hadn't meant to, of course, and he had been paying attention, but she-- Well, now wasn't the time. He waited, feeling Teisyth's reach to Vrianth, 'heard' her answer in all its swift-running assurance, that Teisyth would be fine; that she should hush; that they were going to pick G'laer up and come to her. He waited until the olive beast lands and he meets Leova, flight ready. "A'rist isn't there. We'd best get him on our way." But where? Up, Teisyth finally managed to get. Pain still radiated, but she was up, and that probably helped. « Lynner, where's A'rist? » It's grittier than her usual alto, but doesn't bleed quite so much feeling; G'laer is making her rein it in. Lythronath scents the air when the green moves, head high, then low. He shakes out his wings and lays them back. Those massive muscles control his motions, slow, careful - though certainly not out of any mind for Teisyth - as he stalks forward, around her, watching, sniffing. Ichor is sought out as heavy feeling more than word. « A'rist. » Oh. He lifts his head, breathes deep, snorts. « Dusty A'rist. » With a little more mischief, and louder, louder so A'rist, in the records stacks, can hear, « Boring A'rist. » Ichor: the scent is faint, but it's there. Darn those splinters. But Teisyth has the sense to defend her weakness in front of Lythronath, so should that sniffer start to get too close, her nose will bop against his to nudge it away. His interest, however, doesn't go unnoticed by G'laer either and his next look to Leova is urgent. "She's bleeding. A'rist's in the records." That they need to go and now is implied. If Leova's any experience with Lythronath then she probably already knows that. Of course she is. The dragonhealer's nod, it's no longer than it has to be. "Get up." Her low voice stays matter-of-fact where Vrianth's eyes are not, deep swift-whirling shades that add layers upon layers to blue and green. It's on the way towards the weyrleaders' ledge that she'll say, "You'll get him. Unless you can't," a chance for him to break in: just how impaired is he? "I'll clip in another belt." Not wasting time, not with her dragon not yet landed, though the force of Vrianth's expectation is that others in the way will move. Just the facts, the grounding facts. She'll wait for the pair of them to get back, so long as they don't take too long. G'laer can get him. Or thinks he can, at any rate. Sometimes those things turn out to be one and the same. It was like being back with the guard. Like he was doing a training exercise weaving through bodies placed at at random intervals through the obstacle course. But these bodies were warm and moving, and there were no bells to alert to unintended contact. Being not so large as some others as he grew, he'd excelled in this. Only now he's a grown man, no longer wisp thin and as agile, so there were bumps, each of which increased his stress. Once you're trained to become stressed by triggers, it's hard to let go of that. As a result, he looked a little more wild than he might have liked when he found A'rist in the stacks. Wild, for G'laer, of course, means that his eyes are more intense, his jaw is bound up and he doesn't look quite as neat as he ought, jacket having a new tear in the arm from where it caught and ripped along his way. "A'rist. Teisyth's hurt. Lythronath's there." Does he need to say more than that to bring the bronzerider up to speed on the gravity of the situation? Hopefully not, because a single hand indicates the other should come before he's starting back toward the bowl, only... the shortest way is through the council chambers, not back the winding way he came. So much for the averageness of that particular wingleader meeting as the Silver Threader doesn't bother to salute on his sprint through the room. A'rist lifts his face off the hide where it had fallen at his name, the arms that were serving as his pillow finding the edge of the table, and pushing. His chair scrapes back. "Yeah." It sounds dopey, and he looks panicked, but he has a plan even when he stands. "Can smell it." And they're off, whatever it was he was studying left alone, on the table, with that little bit of drool smudging the writing. They are off. Straps for everyone: Leova's not trusting the weyrlings to anything less than her own well-kept leather, especially when a wingbeat off the ground, they're gone. Vrianth's taking a shortcut. At least she comes out of between higher, though the view may well be lost to speed. The green lands some distance from the pair of younger dragons: distant enough to keep the prospect of ichor away from her own sleek hide, close enough that the weyrling riders don't have too far to run. The dragonhealer's slower to dismount with her to-go bag, giving them space... and giving her, and Vrianth, a chance to assess.
A long, broad valley sandwiched between taller mountain peaks, its lush grasses stand at waist height in the summertime and sway gently in the constant breeze, dying back only in early winter. In spring, the meadow comes alive, turning the ocean of green into a sea of reds, blues, yellows and oranges as tiny flowers burst into bloom. At dawn and dusk, small herds of wild herbivores might be seen at the end of the valley as shadowy shapes who keep well away from visitors. Winding along the edge of the mountain base as it follows a downward slope, a small stream provides clear, fresh water from the snow-capped peaks.
It's more or less like how she was treated before, only now she's bigger: the numbweed spray, the cleaning, the tweezing, the numbweed slathering, and the advice. Snow is good, hot springs bad, though alternating starting the next day is good. Some exercise is good, overdoing is bad. The description doesn't take nearly as long as the actual work, but finally Leova gets to stand back and rinse her hands from the waterskin and then... home. Until the next time. |
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