Logs:Ambassador
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| RL Date: 4 October, 2012 |
| Who: H'kon, I'kris |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two brownriders meet each other in the snow. |
| Where: Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 12, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor. |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions |
| Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr Directly opposite the sharp spikes of the Reaches' characteristic spires lies the bowl's south rim, from above seeming pinched like a baker's pie crust to form this distinctive lip: a soft curve, several dragonlengths long but only four lengths wide before narrowing into impassable crags. It would have to be an apprentice effort, however, given how even the flatter area is riddled with cracks and hollows, dusted with glittery silicate quartz that is far more gritty than sweet. Though the view down into the bowl is commanding, the views beyond it can be absolutely breathtaking on clear days: eternally snow-capped mountains descending to high-altitude meadows and the dark brush of evergreens, and greener valleys beyond even those, with only glimpses here and there of human habitation. But the views come with a risk: the wind can blow hard and strong, and whether looking inward or outward, there is no protection from the precipitous chasms that fall away from these heights. It's a certain kind of miserable outside today, with all that snow piling up on top of the older, less clean remains of yesterday's and the day before's. Svissath and his rider have been up on the otherwise-empty rim for long enough that the brown is snow-draped, although given the pattern of the dunes around them, they've not been alone for long. No: I'kris stands more or less at attention, huddled into his coat, saluting a bronze pair high in the sky now disappearing between. It's only once they've gone that he lets his shoulders slump, exhaling a frosty breath. At least the snow is beginning to taper off, now, although the sky remains menacingly dark. Arekoth starts out as a barely-visible silhouette, fuzzed and faded by the snow, blinking in from between, high up and toward the mountains, just before that bronze blinks out. But his outline grows sharper, bigger, and soon the lighter coloured underside might almost be clear. Arekoth backwings, lands on the other side of snowbank from Svissath, gives a shake of his head that rattles the rider atop his shoulders. « Snowblur, » serves as greeting to that other brown while H'kon dismounts, well frosted. Svissath, for whom snow is a new and peculiar thing, turns his head to regard Arekoth levelly, eyes whirling only faintly. « Snowblur? » he replies, trying the word on for size, rather as though he's tasting it on his (mental) tongue. Something has shifted in I'kris' stance, something that began as soon as it became obvious where the other brown pair were headed. Now, he echoes his dragon's movement, probably unconsciously, turning his attention onto the other rider. "Is it... normal for people here to spend time out of doors when they don't need to?" he wonders, managing (just barely) not to stare. « Snow, » Arekoth repeats slowly, his tail flipping out a fan shape in the snowcover behind him. « Blur, » and he looks sharply out over the bowl. H'kon, meanwhile, is scrubbing at some frost on his glasses, and, pulling a scarf that's knitted quite imperfectly, under his nose. Then, it's fording the snowbank, an easier task for a bigger man, surely, with his chin up toward I'kris as the other rider talks. "You caught Rielsath," is a different greeting, and hardly an answer. But the look he's giving the other man relents in time, and he joins his dragon in gazing over the bowl. "Snow quiets things." Which is like 'no'. « I see, » says Svissath, sounding rather as though he doesn't, but equally as though he's electing not to push the issue. "I see," says I'kris, in yet another unconscious echo of his dragon, chin lifted high as he continues to watch the other brownrider. His hands seek out the relative warmth of his pockets, leaving his elbows crooked and held close to his sides. "Yes, Svissath caught Rielsath. Were you there? I don't remember an awful lot about it, really. He hasn't chased very often. A blur, really." Arekoth, whose dragons' memory had surely let go of the flight, all at once gets ruffled, shuffling his wings, ducking his head down, and puffing clouds of condensation out in quick succession. The tail stops its snow art, and wraps in about his legs, tip touching his front left ankle. It's only once he's properly puffed up (they hate that), that he looks back to the other brown. Now his rival. Again. H'kon sends just one look to his dragon before going back to the bowl. "We were." It bothers Svissath, this sudden return to rivalry; he sidles back, just barely, and then resettles himself down upon the frozen ground: not a threat. Really, really not a threat. « It is done with, » he reminds Arekoth, in that even, unbothered tone of his. Actually, if anything, he sounds slightly world weary. « It was an accident. I shan't take any other females from you. » It's hard to tell what I'kris thinks of this shift in the dragons, except that he shakes his head, and exhales once more. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't expect it to go that way. And then it was supposed to make my father proud of me, but-- well. I'm trying. To do my duty." « You'd do well not to, » Arekoth says, rising up some on his haunches, tilting his head down, looking properly imperious. A look from H'kon, and Arekoth... sort of settles. He still looks imperious, but does so on four legs. "Complications have a way of arising," H'kon offers with a shrug, the twist of a bemused expression pointed at the bowl, and not at I'kris. He's quiet a moment, long enough for Arekoth to heave a cloud of sigh and turn his attention away from Svissath. "Monaco, then," breaks his moment's silence. Quite calm, Svissath confirms: « Noted. » He doesn't seem to mind whether Arekoth is on four legs or two, or how he looks at all; he shuffles his wings slightly, shaking away some of the settled snow, then furls them around himself again. "They do," is I'kris' reply, heartfelt and meaningful, but not, at least, bitter. "One simply needs to... make the best of them. That's what's important, right? Remembering that. Monaco? I'm from Monaco, yes. Born and bred, as many generations back as anyone can remember. Mostly bronzeriders." His glance towards Svissath is, at least, affectionate. "And you?" As I'kris goes on about his heritage, H'kon dares a look back toward him. To his dragon. The mention of bronzeriders brings a bit of a snort, a twisted little smile that has him shaking his head. He looks back to the bowl before answering, "Here," with a nod. "Well, Tillek. Certainly not Monaco." A beat. "Certainly not bronzeriders." But a thing occurs to him that has him looking back, bringing his arms over his chest and eyeing the newcome rider once again. "Why would you be here?" And he kicks at the snow. "Tillek," repeats I'kris, sounding thoughtful. "Fish or grapes? Or boats, I suppose." Maybe his shoulders have dropped just slightly - with relief? with something else? - in the wake of that twisted little smile, but they shift again, this time more sharply, at that last question. "Here? Here as in High Reaches? Or here as in... outside in the ice and snow on a day like this one? I won't deny it, neither seem especially appealing in comparison to Monaco's summer." H'kon's eyes narrow, but he gives I'kris an even enough, "Fish." Arekoth takes the occasion to start smacking his lips, as best a dragon can do it. The shorter brownrider rolls his eyes for that. "I imagine you're here on account of Rielsath." (The lip smacking stops.) "Though what brought you here for that, I don't pretend at knowing." For all his eyes aren't slits anymore, H'kon is watching I'kris carefully once again. "But you're coping well enough with the snow, to be out here." Svissath lifts his eyelids to regard Arekoth again, gives him a meaningful glance, and then closes again. Whatever amuses him... "Fish," says I'kris, with a nod; his expression is even, if perhaps a little wide-eyed, as though he finds the other rider's scrutiny surprising and a little bit awkward. "My Weyrleaders thought it silly to have me put in a wing only to end up here so quickly; there was never any question that we'd spend time here once the eggs were on the sands. It's a cultural exchange, or something." More rueful, his hands tugged deeper into the warmth of his pockets, he adds, "and my Father came to visit, and refused to step foot into the weyr I've been assigned. Up here was... private. Out of the way. I'm trying not to impose. I'm trying to adapt." "Adapt," H'kon repeats, and some of the intensity drops from the older man's stare. "That doesn't answer why you were here before the flight." He cants his head, offers, "Someone you knew in the clutch, perhaps?" in a tone meant to be helpful, but not fully achieving it. Arekoth looks back to Svissath a bit belatedly, and lifts a front leg from the snow to roll the ankle carefully. The ligaments crack, and there's a contented ruffle of wings from the 'Reachian brown. I'kris' "Oh," is short and sharp - neither embarrassed nor awkward. "We were invited. All the weyrs were, but it seemed especially important for us. My sister is Mirinda. It was her gold's clutch that Brieli and I Impressed in. We came to support Brieli, because it seemed like the right thing to do." And, hastily, "We had no idea Rielsath would go up. We're taught it's bad form to drop in on other people's goldflights, even when they're not senior flights. Which makes my position especially awkward, doesn't it? I'd rather have kept my head down." Svissath gives Arekoth another glance, without moving more than his eyelids. "All the Weyrs were invited," H'kon agrees. "Not all the Weyrs came." The very idea of that brings a snort of a laugh, and that look drops away from I'kris, and toward the snow at his feet. H'kon steps forward, presses hard, and removes his foot to inspect the impression, all the while giving an almost good-natured murmur of, "Complications have a way or arising." There's another smile, but it stays more or less directed to his bootprint. "So will you be training with one of our wings, then? Or simply sitting out in the snow?" "Monaco-- is proud of your Junior. She's my clutchmate, even if she belongs here now." I'kris' gaze lowers towards that bootprint H'kon is making, studying it while in a stance that includes shoulders that have dropped again, elbows that are stretching away from his body. "And-- our Father said it was a good idea to come." The corner of his mouth turns up, however, as he agrees: "Complications. Yes. I'll be flying with Iceberg. I hope I can learn something from B'sil. I mean - I am certain I can, of course. It will be a good experience. I'm not really the kind of person one would pick to be an ambassador, but-- I'm doing my best." H'kon dips his head to acknowledge the young rider's statement on behalf of his Weyr. He turns a slight frown to I'kris, but at least waits his turn, passing off, "Iceberg is a fine wing," although his use of the adjective is more non-committal than complimentary. "And you seem a fine ambassador." The same adjective, the same way. But H'kon's features sharpen, as does his voice, with the careful repetition of, "Our father." And an eyebrow raises. "Mirinda's and mine. We were supposed to stick together." And instead, Monaco's young goldrider had to flee through the storm; I'kris looks regretful for it, even repentent. And then he sighs. "I feel like I keep putting a foot wrong. Both feet, sometimes. I haven't even introduced myself properly to you--" Now, he withdraws one hand from his pocket, and steps forward, offering it to H'kon. "I'm I'kris. And frankly, if you have any advice for me, I'd very much appreciate it. Am I trying too hard?" H'kon nods for the answer, and pulls off a glove to offer his own hand back. "H'kon," comes with it. "Arekoth's," is an addition for which the brown looks far too pleased, setting to preening a little at one wing, melting the snow on it with breath. He considers the younger brownrider seriously, keeping his hand clasped a bit longer than the usual before withdrawing, and pulling that glove back into place. "It's impossible to live a good life without trying," he gives finally. "But perhaps better advice to you for now would be to find some gloves. I'm sure our stores have," has a sense of invitation, accented by that bearded chin nodding down into the bowl. "It's nice to meet you, H'kon," replies I'kris, apparently entirely genuine about it. "And you too, Arekoth. Svissath, of course, is my brown." The suggestion of gloves makes him laugh, twisting his expression wryly as his hands slide back to the warmth of his pockets. "Gloves. I-- that sounds like a wise plan. Thank you." This advice, however practical - solid rather then ephemeral and behaviour-focused - seems enough to let him give the other brownrider a warmer smile. It'll no doubt be warmer still once he's got gloves, heavier socks, and all the other accoutrements a boy from Monaco can't possibly know about to require. |
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