Logs:Hunting 101
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| RL Date: 10 August, 2014 |
| Who: Arekoth, H'kon, V'ros, Zmeyth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Zmeyth needs to learn to hunt. Arekoth tries to explain the finer points. |
| Where: Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 6, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air. |
| Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions |
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| Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr Angry bleats rent the peaceful air - a mingling of hoarse and shrill animal sounds, raised in fear. It smells heavily of blood and manure out in the pens, as it always does, but the tension is tangible in the pen off to the side, where old, weak, and unviable livestock have been sent to serve as meals for the fledging dragons. Zmeyth is here, his dark wings outspread as he stalks the perimeter of the corral, trying to single out a slow-witted bovine. He has already trying attacking it a few times, with little luck; every time, some other dim-witted beast gets in the way. His wings aren't helping either. Just as anxious and focus on the potential kill is the weyrling, V'ros. He's standing on the lowest slat of the fence, craning his neck to see over the dust and scurrying animals, with that same nervous expression he always bears. No words of encouragement, his presence is enough. « The trick's to actually go for it, » provides Arekoth, helpful and loud and full of interruption, his broad-winged outline distinctive (for those who know him) as he circles in from above. « Stop thinking so much, » the older brown adds for good measure, his wings changing angle to bank him - and the rider on his back - down toward the pen where Zmeyth is trying, riling up the herd before talons have even touched ground. H'kon stays seated once they've landed, looking first to the dragon, then to his weyrling. And then, simply waiting, watching. The distraction is momentary, a brief look upwards from the brown, who growls low in this throat, his game having now been thrown off as the beasts scatter all over. « I'm not thinking, I'm hunting. » Zmeyth is all rasp and scratch, a warm tone with some heat to back it up. « They won't stay still. That makes it harder. » V'ros frowns at the newly landed brown pair and steps down from the fence, planting his dusty boots solidly on the ground. There are no words - not that H'kon would even be able to hear him over the cries of the desperate animals. « So stop hunting in still and start hunting in movement, » Arekoth counsels, his wings flick-flicking until they settle, at last, along his back. H'kon waits, until his dragon is still, and the landing is truly complete. Then, the short man dismounts, a quick, fluid, practiced motion. He starts a slow circuit, arms coming up to cross over his chest, distance kept from the fence, and, for the first bit at least, from V'ros. Still watching. « You're welcome to try if you think you can do better. » Zmeyth is all brash, showing his youth; challenging a seasoned dragon might not have been the smartest thing, but he sounds smug all the same. « They know it's coming. » He tucks in his wings, rounding the side of the pen closest to the rock wall of the weyrbowl. V'ros is too busy watching H'kon to notice any back-and-forth between their dragons. His own arms cross, defensively so, over his chest as he watches the older man's circuit, annoyance written plain across his face. Arekoth tilts his head off to one side, beaked expression sharply quizzical. « Of course they know. » Then, his wings are up, and he flap-leaps into that pen, the jump timed with, « That makes the hunt better. » H'kon gives his dragon only a sidelong look, one that sticks, and for the moment, provides no more attention to V'ros. Zmeyth is observant - he's got his whirling gaze trained on the other brown, his own progress in the pen slowed to nothing more than a step to align him to Arekoth's direction. « Why is that better? It would be best if they submitted willingly. » There's that untrained logic for you. Arekoth's wings start out, ready for another leap, another flap. It may well be his rider's gaze, always askance, but unmoving, that has the brown almost grudgingly settling his wings back again. « Because there's no thrill in that. » Duh. The older dragon's ground movements are awkward as he sets to running, and soon, that front forelimb is held up entirely. Already panicked beasts panic more. It's when one group starts to herd that the bigger dragon veers, turning well for a three-legged beast, neck reaching to snap up the hindleg of one of those squealing creatures. « Thrill of the chase, see? » As the thing does its best to give the dragon a bloody nose. Zmeyth doesn't seem to 'get' the thrill of the chase, though he watches to the last snap. « I'd rather they come to me, » always so practical, this one. He uses the opportunity - the beasts having been scared away from Arekoth - to chase after some stragglers. His own hunt is, again, fruitless, as they dart out of his reach just as he goes in for a bite. Alas. « It would be easier if I could fly. » Sounds like someone is longing, but rightly go. Those wings were meant for something. Arekoth gives that beast a shake when a hoof lands on the underside of his jaw. There's a snap and another scream. « You have a rider who can give you dead meat, » says the older dragon, even as he lets the crippled creature go; leaves it frantically try drag itself away, while Arekoth settles and resettles his wings. « It's more fun flying. » There's a muscle on H'kon's jaw that twitches, and Arekoth stretches that twisted front limb, idly. « That bluerider, » Zmeyth grumbles « Says we need to do it ourselves. » Undoubtedly, the little brown means Quinlys, though he's clearly not speaking in tones of endearment. He watches Arekoth curiously, skulking closer, hungry eyes feasting upon the wounded creature; sloppy seconds? « Because it's more fun that way, » Arekoth agrees, tone tending toward the somber, though there's something insincere in that formality. « They taste better, too, when you catch them. » That intense stare of his gets pinned on the limping, failing beast - the one that's started hyperventilating, that can't be long for this world from stress alone. « And when they're younger. » H'kon looks away from the dragons, here, and continues his route, coming nearer V'ros. Fun is objective in Zmeyth's eyes. « How? » He wants to know, genuinely, even as he slinks closer, and closer still, with the voracity of a vulture that's desperate for leftovers. Arekoth might enjoy the hunt, but his current company doesn't share that inclination - for now. V'ros is warily eyeing the other brownrider. It may even appear that he wants to bolt, but that would be silly, leaving a strong-willed dragon like Zmeyth to his own devices. Arekoth carries on watching the thing in its death throes, with little interest, it would seem, in stopping Zmeyth's approach. Or otherwise hindering him. « When you figure out how to kill one, » just a little taunting, « you'll understand. » H'kon stops well away from the weyrling by several paces, and takes long enough to look him over that there can be no question of what it is he's doing. Then, he turns his attention to the browns once more. Zmeyth is pleased with himself as he sidles up to the older brown's leftovers, promptly ending the struggles with a well-placed jerk of the neck - and then he has the nerve to drag it off, as if Arekoth might come after it. When he's happy about the distance, he starts ripping meat off the bones in large, shredded chunks. Mm. « When I can fly. » He pauses for effect. « Which should be soon. You'll see. » Because obviously Arekoth cares about Zmeyth's flightlessness. V'ros tries looking anywhere but at H'kon, clearly uncomfortable with the stare, though he's of no confidence to do his own sizing-up. He settles on staring at his feet. Those are interesting. Arekoth watches this dragging, the amusement more a sensation than anything put into words or images. He lets Zmeyth take that prey away. « Sure hope your neck and teeth know what they're doing. Hate to see you sprain something. » H'kon hasn't looked back to V'ros since diverting his gaze, after that inspection. He still does not, though he shifts his feet, and a furrow grows in his brow. « You're worried? About me? » Zmeyth touches with something close to amusement on his own end, but it's far too intense to be simple humor. « That's nice of you. » He is making a mess of blood and gristle, throwing chunks here and there in his greedy attempt at eating - and yet it ends, so quickly. One nudge with his snout and he pushes it away. Indian giver? « Let's talk another time, » he says by way of farewell, already ambling towards the fence, where V'ros looks apprehensive as ever. « When weyrlings fly, » Arekoth agrees, though it's a jovial and amicable enough taunt. The older dragon now extends his wings, taking to the sky easily, moving to the pens with the real fun beasts. And H'kon? H'kon gives one grunt, then murmurs, "All similar but different," before turning and retracing his steps, at the same meditative pace, while his dragon hunts. |
Comments
Roz on 10:06, 11 August 2014 said...
Arekoth's icon is perfect.
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