Logs:Not Bonding
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| RL Date: 2 November, 2015 |
| Who: Ka'ge, N'dalis |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A discussion of wings and belonging. |
| Where: Bowl Falls, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 3, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'rov/Mentions, X'vin/Mentions |
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| Later afternoon finds the early spring afternoon fairly decent in temperature, shaded from above by a recent denser cloudbank. A young bronze bathes just at the foot of the falls, skirting the edges of the tumbling waters provided by waterfall channeled into the lake from the bowl wall. Heavy, large and darkly shaded wings stretch in turn, flinging water here and there inbetween dunking his even darker-hewn face beneath the surface. One such moment sees the bronze lift his head, shaking off the water canine-like with the rest of himself submerged below his spine-ridged neck, his back-lit appearing eerie eyes angled upwards at the stairs giving away the location of the rider who fails to swim with him. Ka'ge sits on the stairs closer to the bowl landing than anything higher, legs off the edge, elbows on knees and hood drawn to shade his expression. A slow, lazy shake of his head declines some sort of offer from the dragon below. Cool, clear waters are found in Suraieth's thoughts, too, as the green circles down from above with a flurry of wing beats; she shares without hesitation, that clarity if thought emphasised in some ritual logic of her own, wings furling as she descends into the lake itself. Her rider? He comes by foot and rather more slowly, those long legs put to less elongated movements, and instead carrying him in a meandering way around the lake, and towards the steps. Not a man who's ever stood out much, N'dalis; just another rider. The bronze is sooner to extend a greeting than his rider, though both seem to shift their focus around the same time. Darkness on darkness, the sensation of shadows moving, shifting in the distance reaches to Suraieth, not unwelcoming but observant, watchful from the mind's horizon. They carry with them no formed words, but the dragon himself redirects his quiet attention to her. The young man on the steps, having turned his head in the semblance of watching N'dalis' arrival shifts to sit a little straighter. His fingers pick once, twice more at the slightly frayed edges of his gloves in the meantime of the man's meandering and when he's closer to the steps, "G'day." Sounds tired, or more likely just lazily slurred, once he's within easy speaking distance. There are no shadows in Suraieth's thoughts, only reflections of light off gently dappled waves; radiant and rich. She doesn't need words, either, and she's equally watchful, although hers holds within it assurance and contentment. "Afternoon," returns the rider, his words rather more quietly precise. "You're one of the new graduates." Not a question, but a friendly enough statement, even if the rider makes no attempt to smile. And, because it's polite: "That's Suraieth. I'm Dal." The scuffing of fabric and boots on stone comes with the young bronzerider sliding back on the step and rising. Gloved hands dust off the sides of his pants as he looks away briefly, watching the dragons below. There's a slight grin on that expression of his, lightened with it and not as broody as the dark-clothed hooded young man on the stairs likely appeared from a distance. The tilt of his head and shrug of one shoulder is kind of an amused dismissive one, but comes with an agreement to the greenrider's assessment, "Fortunately," Unfortunately? "Aye. We fly with Flint now. Ka'ge," He offers in return, and with a nod downards to the lake, "And Zymadiath." He shoves his hands in his pockets, "A little bit different of a routine." His dry sarcasm is more evident in this tacked on detail. "I remember," is Dal's easy reply, still made without a smile though he's equally not actually frowning; this seems to be his default expression. "We flew for Malachite, at first, but then for Jasper. It was a better fit." Whatever the reasons for this, the greenrider doesn't specify, and instead folds his hands to his sides, fingers loosely bunched together. "In a few months, it will probably feel like weyrlinghood was a lifetime ago. And spring," is that, now, a hint of a smile? "is here." "Did you think the shadowing in weyrlinghood helped?" Ka'ge asks first with enough lack of laziness that it seems earnest by some degrees, "Or trial and error?" He lingers on the edge of that step for the length of the question, and then makes the slow effort of stepping down to come a little closer to the bowl landing. "It already feels like forever ago, and it's been-" He falters, curiously amused as he attempts a mental count, "I suppose not even a month." A chuckle accompanies that, soft half-hearted and under his breath. A month. The corners of Dal's mouth twist, ever so slightly. But that question, those questions? He acknowledges them with a deeper inclination of his head. "I don't think anything is a proper substitute for actual, in-the-wing experience," he says, after a moment's consideration. "It helped, I think, to get a feel for what the wings do, but... you're only ever an outsider, when you shadow. But, then, some wings are closer and more bonded than others. Sometimes, to their detriment." "I guess." Is Ka'ge's agreement that's more agreeing than the words themselves provide. "It didn't really seem like any fit." He uses Dal's word, though it's not the first he'd hear it. "Flint," There's another shrug with that, "Doesn't seem to mind me." The grin broadens briefly, a hand rising to stifle a cough that clears his throat, "How long were you in Malachite? Heard Jasper is not so easy on-" He trails off but gestures vaguely with his now-freed hand, seeming to indicate himself- new graduates in general. There's something in Dal's expression that suggests he understands all too well what Ka'ge means by lack of fit; he does not, however, comment on that in words. "Eight months," is his answer to the other. "Jasper... it took some time. To find any kind of fit. But we don't really... socialize, outside of wing duties." Or perhaps it's simply that N'dalis doesn't socialize; it may well be different for others within the wing. "I don't know all that much about Flint. I imagine it has changed, since I was a weyrling. New wingleader." "It's changed quite a bit." Ka'ge says after considering Dal's explaination for an almost too-long pause. "Although I can't really say I was in it before." Amused, odd edge to that, a brow raised slightly at a thought of his own, "They don't drill nearly like Jasper does, as far as I've seen. And socializing?" Maybe they do, but he states the rhetorical question in light of an understanding of N'dalis' comment, not including himself with it. "There's time for it." He gives at that as his conclusion, the non-tradionalist 'extra time' that the wing maintains. "Haven't gotten to know 'em yet." The others in the wing, he means, but he also doesn't sound to be in much of a rush to do so. N'dalis' lips press together tightly for a moment, and his hands, too, tighten at his sides. Finally, carefully, "N'rov has never understood that, for me, it simply has never been important to bond with my wing. That-- duty does not necessarily require that greater level." Perhaps he's attempting, in a round-about kind of way, that it doesn't matter. That it doesn't need to matter. "I find one can be friendly with others without them needing to fly for the same wing." A pause. "Or even fly at all, as such things go." Ka'ge is quiet, his grin lingering just faint enough to still be there. He continues to move down the steps, slow, meandering with an arrogance to his stride. A hand adjusts his hood, tugging the peak downwards. "Fair enough." He offers as far as vague reply. "It's a lot of extra work, anyway." Bonding, that is. "It doesn't really matter." To him, he implies in voicing maybe what Dal had intended, "Plenty of time to see whatever happens." His tone sounds bored at the surface but has that odd edge as if some sort of joke but never quites gets there. Zymadiath has managed to wade to shore, the shadows of his heavy, broad wings mostly spread above him, drip-drying of the water in his statue-like poise. The night at the edge of the green's mind continues to writhe in its presence, creating and re-creating its figments and then slowly withdrawing like some ghostly shadow at the end of an abandoned tunnel. "Thanks." Angled in his path to eventually meet the bronze at the lake's edge, he adds that simple word over his shoulder a little delayed. "I'll keep all that in mind." Suraieth freezes the night with a wave of her own thought; beneath it, perhaps the darkness might roam free, but then again... perhaps not. Dal's nod is about all the answer he offers; "Sure," he says, passing by on his own way up those stairs. |
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