Logs:Blow By Blow
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| RL Date: 7 June, 2015 |
| Who: T'mic, Z'kiel, Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Weyrlings do some PT/stress relief. Dragons hunt with TEAMWORK. |
| Where: Workout Room, High Reaches Weyr; Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 13, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Laine/Mentions, Kasdeja/Mentions, Keysi/Mentions, Yesia/Mentions |
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| It's still technically morning, an hour before lunch, and Z'kiel's doing what he tends to do when he's frustrated by something or another: he's working out. With lessons done and Ahtzudaeth freshly oiled to stave off the worst of his rekindled itching, the Igenite is busy laying his wrapped knuckles into a punching bag. Shirtless and wearing only shorts, the true horror of his scarred skin is laid out on display - and that's not really including the burn scars that linger on his forearms. He's seen some shit in his day - and it might look for all the world like he's taking it out on the bags. He's soaked in sweat, with a towel and skin of water somewhere nearby for him to take up if he needs it. He's been here a while, it seems - with no immediate end in sight. T'mic isn't exactly a stranger to this room. He's come to like the physical training, the feel of making those muscles that bulk up his frame work, the after-effects that somehow seem to make his mind the more clear, and make the things he's been struggling with easier. But he and Jorrth have also always been aware of their clutch as a unit, and it's entirely possible he has noticed something, and this is why he's come, now that he's done with the wingleader's meeting. And why he goes over to Z'kiel's punching bag, once he's stripped to shorts, up on the balls of his feet, starting to time the blows being dealt by their new wingleader, and suggesting, "I'll hold that for you." Those blows are steady. Mechanical. Less an exercise in pushing himself and more a form of meditation - thoug Z'kiel would be the last one to even consider it that way. He's peripherally aware of T'mic's arrival, a sidelong look flicked that way before he's right back into placing his well-timed blows. Thump. Thump. Thump. The strikes slow, but only when T'mic approaches; they stop entirely when the question is asked. "Everything else done?" One fist rests against the bag, while his gaze levels itself on T'mic properly. Assessing. Calculating. Intense - but in a way that, one hopes, doesn't quite come across as homocidal. It's entirely too early in Ahtzudaeth's itching phase for that. "I'm not going to get everything done before lunch," T'mic says, without any over-the-top attitude, though there's certainly a shrug and tired smile that accompanies it. "Jorrth's going hunting. I figured I'd come do this now, and then it's done, too." In the time that Z'kiel's stopped with the bag, T'mic has started to circle it, to get on the other side of it, though not reaching. Yet. "Got a list after that, but... we're doing okay." There's a bit of insistence in this; it's no secret in the barracks that T'mic has been working hard to keep on top of everything on his plate, certainly. To which there's a grunt, one of the oddly musical kind that's halfway between a grunt and a hum. Thoughtful. Apparently, the explanation and all seems sufficient; nothing further is said or probed into. Z'kiel shakes his head when T'mic moves into position behind the bag. "Get the pads. You know how to hold them?" It's not as much of a question as it seems. "We can switch if you want to take a few swings at me." Deadpan, that. He sucks his teeth and studies the bag for just a moment before his gaze cuts right back to his fellow weyrling. "Still having trouble with the straps?" To Ahtzudaeth, Jorrth projects « Are you hungry like me? » To Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth's thoughts emerge slowly, bubbling up beyond the veil of slumbering fog. « I could eat, brother-mine. » Good-natured, as always, with scintillating sparks of amusement that wink and glitter. "Sure." The news day would be that when T'mic is not agreeable; he goes to the storage along the side wall, the pads he finds beaten and repaired more than a time or two, but sturdy. Big hands promptly look bigger, comical even, when the bluerider is setting himself up at a right angle to the punching bag, and doesn't have his arms up and at the ready yet. "Whenever you're done, maybe." He sets himself, with a glance back behind him to make sure he's ready, make sure his footing is stable, sturdy. Those pads lift. "Letting out this pair when Jorrth's done. Want him to measure. Gonna need another set, but at least these ones should hold him a few more days..." To Ahtzudaeth, Jorrth projects « Good. » And by all impressions, it is good, the sun-warmed fur smell more present. « Hunting is better with two. Maybe we can even get three. » "Good." The word seems to encompass everything. Or enough of everything that clarification isn't immediately offered. "Just a few rounds," he says. "We'll switch after that." Z'kiel waits until T'mic's braced and ready before he starts laying into the pads. He doesn't hold back; everything is poured into each strike for the span of a dozen before he stops again. Water and a towel are both applied judiciously. "Could see if some old sets from the bigger dragons can be adjusted, too." It's a possibility. "How's the rest of your list looking?" To Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth's satisfaction is a brilliant thing. « Perhaps! The more, the merrier, as they say. » "Right." T'mic isn't expecting so much, not on the first; after that, all the strength they've been training these past months is into it, and it goes better. "Thing with Jorrth," comes only in that break, while he lets his hands drop down, giving them a little shake, pads and all, "is that he's getting those shoulders. Not lots of dragons who have them. Other straps don't fit him right." It's said the way one would talk about a puzzling riddle; T'mic's lips purse, but he's not upset, just... well. "Wingleader's meeting was today already." The pads are tapped together, and in time, he steps back into position, and raises them up. "Got my notes in. Sisha and I are going to talk later. It's sort of a meeting, but also in the Snowasis?" He shrugs. "Oiling, too. You get that, right?" To Ahtzudaeth, Jorrth has proceeded to the pens. « Roszadyth wishes us the best of luck. She's eaten, though. » Disappointment. « And Aeaeth is 'busy', she said. » Hnnnh. Then: "Should be more of a way to adjust them. Seems a waste to have to make them that often." It's something that's getting his head going, gauging by the furrowing of his brow. Z'kiel resists the urge to spit off to a side, settling on a headshake and a quick suck of teeth. "Have to find someone smarter than me to help figure it out," is his final assessment. Then the pads are coming up again. Before he launches into another dozen of those hard, full-strength blows, he supposes, "Sure it'll go well. The meeting. They seem to like that place for everything." Then his mouth twitches at the mention of oiling - and all he has for that is a guttural grunt before he starts swinging. Jorrth> « Ah, a pity, that, » Ahtzudaeth replies, but if there's disappointment, it's overwhelmed by the situation as it stands. « Well! We'll just dine together and take our pick first for once, eh? » Pleased, that. And once the bronze is in the pens as well, he'll even go so far as to offer a bump of his nose in greeting. A well-oiled nose, but the gesture is well-meaning! "Problem is," T'mic nods," his whole shape keeps changing. I dunno. I might talk to some of the crafters about how many different ways they can stretch without like... making it not work right. But I need them to grow long and out and just... big. He used to be so little." There's only a little nod for Z'kiel's seeming reassurance about this next meeting; T'mic focuses on those pads, and sets his jaw, and bends his knees a bit more. Thock, thock, thock... And when the bronzerider is done: "What about you? Gotta be getting ready for tomorrow, right?" More water. More toweling. Z'kiel shakes it all out and bounces a little on his feet. "They all were. He's just growing differently." A shoulder rises. Falls. "Maybe it'll even out when he's a little older." Scant reassurance, that - and he knows it. His attention turns with a vague, throaty noise, to the latter. "Always working on that. Up here," he taps a callused knuckle to the side of his head. "Easier than writing it out." Another one-shouldered shrug follows. "Get up early. Herd. Exercise. Line check. Breakfast. Lectures. Lunch. Ground drills. Strap check. Aerial drills. Strap check. Meetings. More meetings." He starts to unwind the wrappings. "And everything else. Plenty of hours at night for a lot of stuff." Sleep? Not for him. T'mic nods, idly taking one of those pads off, and rubbing the palm of that left hand against his hip. It doesn't pull down his shorts, it's okay. "So does Quinlys give you the stuff to do for the drills, or do you kinda figure it out yourself, or is it like a little bit of both?" What seemed to be attempts at massage via his hope bone becomes trying to get sweat off, becomes waving that hand, flip flop, in the air a bit before T'mic gets it back into that pad. "Ahtzudaeth, he like it?" Thought of next, because, well. Jorrth is probably keeping him posted on their hunting efforts. To Ahtzudaeth, Jorrth returns that nose-bump, and then drops his chin for the headbutt. Headpush. Something. Whatever Ahtzudaeth will answer back, it seems. « Oh yes! » Even while testing the boundaries of bronze and oiled friction. « Two can work fine. » To Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth returns that headbutt readily enough, with a low chortle of pleasure at the game. It seems the oil wins out, though; his head is forced to a side and he chuffs just a bit. His maw gapes in a grin. « You win that round, it seems! » And then it's onto the meat of their meeting in short order: « What do you make of that beast there? The old one with the limp? » To ever action, an equal and opposite. Jorrth is not without sliding to another side, though his dainty little feet manage something of a recovery. « Do you think? » comes as he's shaking his head, and then, more importantly, those wings of his, satisfied nonetheless. RMeat. Right. « No. Not the old one. He would be the easiest. » And today, that isn't what the blue wants. « What about her? » A young female, who, like so many of the beasts, is warily watching those dragons. (To Ahtzudaeth from Jorrth) The other hand is unwound and he flexes his fingers a bit to get the life back into them, as it were. "You get the files for everyone. Mostly. The list of exercises. A letter. All that. It's just on you to do the work - and make sure everyone else is, too. There's some room in there to add on or change things. Some of it, you have to figure out." All of that hand-flopping and the like is regarded askance and, after a beat, he offers the towel - just in case. "You're up when you're ready. I'll take the pads." And as for the bronze? There's a wry pull to one corner of his mouth. "I disappointed him by not getting a silver thread. Trying to make up for that now." That's probably telling enough. Consideration is made, with the very distinct impression of someone stroking their beard - there is no image of it, just the oddly specific sensation that tingles a bit at the edges. Ahtzudaeth muses, « Well, if it's proper game we're after, she would do nicely. As would that brutish looking male toward the back, if she's not enough. » The brindled bronze cocks his head to a side slightly, as if to look at Jorrth askance with conspiratorial delight. (To Jorrth from Ahtzudaeth) That bluerider nods a little, the motion over before his eyes have stopped darting as he considers all this, before his mouth has unwound its little almost-frown of thoughtfulness. "Hm," is declared at last, but there's something that's been worked out; it's in his tone. Those pad paws of his are then turned over so that he can consider the scarred leather of them, and then thumped together, just once, for an obnoxiously loud thw-clap. T'mic pulls his head back, grins a little. "Sure." One comes off. The other comes off. They're stacked, handed over. "If you ever want, I can show you my rough notes. From the meetings and stuff. They're not as good as I give to K'del, but if you can read 'em..." There's a low hnnnh again, but the thoughtful sound fades without being connected to anything. The loud clap is worth a slight scrunching of Z'kiel's features, but it passes quickly - and, when the pads are handed over, he takes them and pulls them on. Then it's his turn to clap them, though the contact isn't quite as hard and the resulting noise not as loud. "Won't know until I try to read them," he replies. There's a nod, little more than a shallow dip of his chin, and a grunted, "I'd like to see them. Thank you. I can give you some of mine, if you want. Not much there, but might be useful. Kasdeja said my writing's getting better," but he sounds dubious of it, for some reason or another. "Man," says T'mic, who's moving now for the wraps, idly inspecting his knuckles as he goes, "that's something about all the work. It's getting way easier. The writing part. Except I tried to write something to my sister, and all I wanted to do was use rider words. I don't know if she'll get it or not, but I figured, at least it's something, right?" He starts winding those strips around his hand, testing with flexes, being sure to do at least a decent job of things. And he wiggles his fingers as much as he can, once wrapped up, looking thoughtfully at Z'kiel. "Maybe Irianke or Farideh can teach you about dancing too. Or Keysi or Laine." Fists are raised, and eyebrows lifted. Ready? « Okay. The female, then. And we can keep him as a backup. Or a second one. It's good, having more than one plan. Things don't go the way you think they will. » Those wings get stretched again, and then sweep downwards as he jumps up. « Flying hunting is way better, » is nothing but enthusiasm. (To Ahtzudaeth from Jorrth) "Ayuh." Z'kiel even cracks part of a smile at that - part of a proper smile, even - only for it to wither to dust. "New words. New tools. Ahtzudaeth uses words I'd never thought before, sometimes. Makes me realize how many more I have to learn." There's a slight shake of his head, then: "I'm sure your sister will get it. And if she doesn't," he concludes, "then you'll just have to keep writing to her." Which makes sense to him, anyway. It's more practice - and practice is a good thing. While T'mic winds up the straps, he picks his position and takes up a loose version of his ready stance. The pads remain down, at least until that last - this time, T'mic earns himself a tip-tilted grin from the bronze weyrling. "I dance better than they do already." And then the pads are up and it's go time - at least as far as he's concerned. And Rukbat forbid if he catches wind that T'mic is holding back! T'mic isn't holding back. Well, not really. Those first hits are strong, with some space between them, and after a while they even get a bit more technically precise - he was paying attention in their self defense lessons, and he's good at this sort of stuff - but there's not a killer heart in the bluerider. It's training, this. Thock, thock thock. A little faster. And then, after somewhere around twelve, maybe a few less, a pause, to roll his shoulders. "She gets lots of stuff, this sister. Think she's the smartest one." « An excellent plan! » Ahtzudaeth waits until Jorrth has gained his wings and then he's winging up there, going just a little bit higher to play look-out. « Or plans, I should say. Being flexible is important, » and that word is reinforced with a bracing gust of luminescent wind. « Ah! And it is different, » he muses. « Though there are times when striking from the ground seems to be better. » It's that flexibility thing again. All the same, everything is wrapped up in a warm, good-natured bundle of encouragement. (To Jorrth from Ahtzudaeth) And then there's Z'kiel, bracing for every impact of fist on leather. His expression shifts only slightly while the blows land; satisfaction dissolves into something else, resolving itself in a knotting of his brows. That crease persists even after T'mic pauses; he's a little slower to straighten up and shake things out again. "You're close to your family? Or just your sister?" Curious, that, if in an oblique sort of way. Once he's loosened up and ready again, he'll get into position - but the pads won't come up until T'mic looks ready to go again. Only then will he grunt out: "You can't hurt me. Hit hard - then hit sure." To Ahtzudaeth, Jorrth, airborne, circles around, and looks back to mark Ahtzudaeth's position. « The little ones are easier to knock over from the ground, » he allows. « But this... flying feels so good. » The herd, of course, is starting to run, and Jorrth's sidenotes die off. He's focusing now, and starting to follow the path of that one herdbeast in question, studious. To Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth is there, as he should be - just a little higher and behind. Ready to pick up the chase if Jorrth somehow misses the kill on the first go. « It does feel glorious, » the bronze agrees brightly enough. « Splendid, even, to be where we belong. » And, oh, the tingle of possibilities and anticipation! He manages to tamp it all down, lest it become a distraction, but his sense of satisfaction is not a thing to be easily hidden away. T'mic gives his arms a little shake, reminiscent of Jorrth's wings, but also different, slower. "Close to everyone, really. My sister more, I guess, now. Just before I left, especially. I haven't seen any of them in so long, but it's so busy. But when we learn how to go between? We're going to Benden for sure." There's a strong nod, and those hands come up again. "Thought I was hitting hard?" The next hit has more of a swing, with something to prove, but still not aggressive 'oomph'. He does have that chest and those shoulders behind it, though. "Good. Good to have family to go back to." Z'kiel lifts the pads again and readies himself. "Shouldn't be long before you can go," is, really, a matter-of-fact. It's inevitable - but time flies when one's busy. Then the next hit lands and he grunts. "Hard probably isn't the word for it," he says after that, though his features screw up a little with the effort to find it. "Hit with purpose," is a start, but he cuts himself off, with just a tinge of dragon-fog to suggest his arguably better half is offering suggestions. He settles on, "Be assertive. Aggressive." To Ahtzudaeth, Jorrth is all business, now. « We need to cut her out. I'll take the inside. » Of the herd, presumably. « She keeps running between those two, and those three. » Images to supplement. "You gonna go to Igen first?" There isn't judgement in that question, not from T'mic. But he watches, carefully, all the while rolling that shoulder back. "Assertive," is repeated next, and the big man's up on the balls of his feet again. There's another swing, strong and steady like before, except that this time, there was a little hop before it. T'mic's brow has knit. To Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth slides to a side with a barely there twitch of wings. « Of course, » is his reply. The images are taken and marked up just a little - his game plan overlaid with Jorrth's words. « Like so. » And though there's time to adjust if necessary, the bronze is already into position and ready to move when the blue starts to go for it. Teamwork! "Not sure." The words fall heavily, like metal coins, and Z'kiel's not about to elaborate on that situation. Besides, he's busy; busy getting those pads ready, busy getting himself situated. Busy taking that next hit - and offering up, "Good. Better. Again." Praise. More praise. Imperative-bordering-on-demand. His jaw is tight and his brow is furrowed; his gaze intense as he watches his fellow weyrling. T'mic's face stays all scrunched up. He steps back, and this time, steps into that swing. Thwock. And then waits. There is no 'go'. There is no 'now'. There are no words, just that sense that it's starting. Jorrth cuts in and down. (To Ahtzudaeth from Jorrth) It's better. Z'kiel grunts once and, when T'mic pauses after that blow, he intones. "Just like that. Very good. Next time, we do self-defense." It's a question flattened out a little, transmuted into a suggestion that can be dismissed or taken for what it is. In either case, he's still there with the pads - and it's clear enough that if T'mic wanted to keep swinging, he'd stick with it. To Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth was anticipating much the same, fortunately. Jorrth moves and Ahtzudaeth does likewise, taking the outside to help shear the rest of the herd away for the sake of flushing out the prey. T'mic does keep swinging. Well, T'mic does one more swing, with his other hand this time, and it makes him grin when it hits. Even if he's shaking his hand out a little. "Yeah," agreed, the bluerider's breathing a bit hard. "Next time." To Ahtzudaeth, Jorrth does more to cut a line than actually chase the rest of the herd away. « Ready to drop on her, » comes called out, and it's a hard check delivered to knock that herdbeast on her side, sprawling. He's ready, but trusts Ahtzudaeth for the final blow. Satisfied, Z'kiel strips the pads off and, for the moment, tucks them under an elbow. His other hand is curled into a fist and, unless T'mic moves, that fist is going to land companionably at his shoulder. Not a hard blow, either, in contrast to before; just a tap and then he's moving on to start cleaning things up and putting things away. "Lunch time," is observed in an odd moment of synergy. To Jorrth, Ahtzudaeth sends the rest of the animals scattering while Jorrth does the real work of cutting the herdbeast out and sending her to the ground. And, in that moment, Ahtzudaeth is ready; he descends neatly and does, indeed, make the drop; with claws set to puncture her throat and another set to dig into her ribs. It's messy - but effective. « Well done. » "Good," says T'mic to that declaration. And he means it. And they all eat. |
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