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.
The winds have never been so sympathetic as to cease when a man and his dragon choose the rim of the Weyr on a winter's day; now, even, they may be vengeful, gusting that much harder in an attempt to dislodge the pair. Arekoth is hunkered down, wings held about him, head ducked in, his twisted forelimb raised (though seemingly to no detriment to his balance). H'kon looks not dissimilar, shoulders hunched, body and face wrapped up in winter gear so only his eyes peek out between toque and scarf. What they're watching for isn't clear. Neither turn their heads, nor seem distracted by comings and goings in the bowl. They just... stare.
How about when two dragons and their riders choose the rim of the Weyr on a winter's day? No, not even then? Definitely the cruelest season of the turn. Tsanth lands on the other side of H'kon, allowing Z'ian to drop down off the bronze's side and land with both feet on the narrow strip of space. And while they're just staring, the newcomers settle into the space next to them and get used to chill, fridged winds that sweep through the air. At least the view is nice.
H'kon could probably stare off the edge of the Weyr for ever and ever, no matter how many people should land beside him, provided he's not engaged. He continues to do so, only the faintest shift of his shoulders sign of awareness, even of Z'ian's arrival. Or maybe that was for that last wind gust. But that's H'kon. « Him, I knew. » No colours or sensations, just a dry, deep tone. « But yours up and lost it too? » Arekoth's wings shift up on his back. Brr.
Tsanth is more mild than some of the other more colorful residents of the Weyr. « Hm. » He starts, thoughful and slow. « He up and lost it awhile ago, I think. » There's a faint shift as the bronze regards H'kon, idle curiosity in his gaze. Z'ian meanwhile adjusts his jacket to wrap himself up more tightly, trying in vain to keep out the frozen air. "Hello." He greets or states, depends on how you view it as the man settles in.
As the bronze looks at his rider, Arekoth scopes out Z'ian. There's a glimmer of something playful behind an otherwise almost scientifically speculative tone of voice in, « Not going to jump, is he? » H'kon does not look at Z'ian, nor does he return Tsanth's gaze. He does wriggle his head until his mouth is free to offer, "Z'ian," in returned... greetment.
« I hope not. » Tsanth replies placidly but with a faint hint of humor, readjusting his wings until they're comfortable. « Will he? » The bronzerider adjusts his scarf so that it's still covering the lower half of his face but not preventing speech from happening. "Looks like it's about to begin working itself out." Z'ian notes simply as he folds his arms across his chest.
« If he does, » comes with the same scientific detachment, « get him to open his jacket first. » The gust of wind couldn't have been planned, but the brown is happy for its dramatic effect, and lets it finish before carrying on. « He might be able to fly if he holds it right. » H'kon just squints against that most recent gust. The slight turn of his head is probably for better conveying his words. His eyes are still locked on that space just in front of his toes. "New winds will take the place of these."
Tsanth's reaction is a loud draconic snort that rumbles deep in his chest. « Or at least coast to the ground. » Z'ian merely hmms quietly in response H'kon's comment. The silence fills up between them, not unusual. "I'm thinking I could build a bungalow on the Southern Continent. No one would ever realize I was even there and if I was careful, no one would notice that I'd gone missing. You can come visit me. Just don't tell anyone."
H'kon still doesn't look at Z'ian, but this doesn't stop the lines in his face (presumably the ones covered as well as those exposed to the weather) from going hard when he frowns. The bits of quiet unsettled by Z'ian's statement are allowed to at least drift back toward their original positions (by H'kon, if not the wind) before he comes out with, "The winds and cold are a part of this place. They raised our dragons as much as the weyrlingmasters, as much as us."
It's difficult to make out Z'ian's face underneath the wrapping, but then H'kon isn't looking at him anyway. And it could seem to the frustrated outsider as if they're having two much different conversations at the same time. "I wouldn't mind getting a tan, not having to wear a jacket. I'd let Tsanth stick around too." But there's a hint of a sigh tagged on at the end. As if he recognizes the chances of him building a bungalow are not about to happen, as if he would even go.
Arekoth's sigh follows Z'ian's, a much larger cloud, even with the wind there to dissipate it. H'kon does not sigh. He does duck his head down to cover his nose, at least minimally, with his scarf. It's not so neat a wrap as he'd had before. If he stays there long enough, he's like to start frosting his eyebrows with his breath. And he seems settling in to stay.
Well, if H'kon isn't going to leave the rim of the bowl on this bitter freezing day then it seems Z'ian isn't going to either. At least not at this particular point in time. He's about as comfortable as he's ever going to get here and so he doesn't move now, no further adjusments needed. He's not yet began to develop frost on his face, but there's no time like the present.
H'kon, of course, seems almost comfortable, but for the hunch of his shoulders and tuck of his face into that scarf. Frost does start to form on his eyebrows, and, seemingly, eyelashes, for how hard he blinks now and again. Arekoth gets bored far more easily. « Maybe if we pushed them. We could see which one goes farthest. »
« You go first. Yours is smaller, he'd need the headstart. » Tsanth cants his large head, considering the distance below. « I'll push mine shortly after. Promise. » Z'ian seems oblivious to the conversation going on between bronze and brown. He breathes out puffs of warm air into the cold, turning into little bits of mist-clouds or what-have-you.
« You might push harder, after you see how far he goes. Then it wouldn't be fair. » The brown lifts his head, just a bit, even if it means getting caught under the chin by a particularly icy swirl of wind. H'kon reaches up to rub gloved fingers over his face, and then sticks that gloved hand back into his jacket pocket. « Maybe on the count of three. If we screw up, we both have the same chance. »
« I wouldn't cheat. » Not that he sounds terribly upset about the insinuation. « Maybe we should just act as if we're going to push them. I think seeing which one jumps off on their own might be more entertaining. » Z'ian uncrosses his arms and pulls his knit hat down closer on his head, careful to make sure that his ears are tucked up underneath.
Arekoth chuffs in his throat, and rustles his wings a bit. Some of the creakiness in the feel of them might even be felt by Tsanth. He has, apparently, been up here some time. « I would, » is so flat it must be laid on a good foundation of assumed pride. H'kon finally moves his head, this time to glance back at his dragon.
« I bet. » Tsanth's reply is neutrally worded, even as the waves of amusement are evident from him. He likely does think spooking the pair of them would be endlessly entertaining. "Just plotting our possible deaths." Z'ian comments. He'd wave his hand in dimisal of their plan, if his hands weren't bundled up and jammed in his pockets.
"That happens often enough," H'kon's voice sounds flat, unconcerned. "The cold," is the most explanation shard with the bronzerider - if Z'ian can, that is, pick it out, with H'kon looking away from him and mumbling in the wind. A few moments, and the brownrider is testing his own knees, lifting and bending one foot back, then the next. Krick.
Just another day, really. "It is cold." Z'ian shoots back over the muffling of his scarf, shifting on the hard rock. Tsanth doesn't seem affected by the temperature yet, neither does his rider. But he does glance over to observe the others as they adjust to their prolonged exposure to the cold.
No matter that he's the first one here, that he's clearly been here longer - too long, even, by the look of his dragon and the slowness in his legs - H'kon turns to Z'ian, and asks him, "Why have you chosen this place?"
"I like it here." That's simple enough. Z'ian is able to answer it quickly without too much thought and with only needing to shoot H'kon the quickest of glimpses out of the corner of his eyes. "You seemed like good company too. Why are you here?"
His disbelief goes unvoiced, although it does flicker over H'kon's face, plain enough to see now that he's actually looking at the bronzerider. He's turned back to look out over the Weyr again, while Arekoth slowly tries to move every last bone and muscle in his wings without dislodging them from their protective space. "Better to see it."
"Is this giving you perspective?" Z'ian for his part doesn't appear to be worried about H'kon's disbelief. He's just looking ahead now and taking in the fridgid view of the Weyr and landscape beyond it.
H'kon once again looks toward Z'ian, possibly a record having just been set for their conversations. There's a twist of his face, a bit of time, and then he's willing to share, "Only for the viewing." Shuffling his feet a bit, H'kon looks back out across the Weyr. Arekoth flexes his feet, one at a time, and lets his tail twist this way, that. "The sort you mean, it seems to me, is seldom a matter of physical place."
H'kon might even be able to identify him later on, he's seen so much of Z'ian for this one encounter. "Seldom." That's confirmation for the brownrider's assumption in regards to his question. He falls silent again, looking out over the Weyr before taking in a deep breath and getting to his feet. Seems the other man will continue to reign on in his position on the rim.
And indeed, H'kon reigns on.
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