Logs:Sleep-Talking
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| RL Date: 25 October, 2013 |
| Who: Rasavyth, Solith |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two dragons, a warm cavern, demented dragons... just another night of egg watching. |
| Where: Hatching Ledges, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 2, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, I'zech/Mentions, Jo/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, Oisa/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Z'ian/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated, played via gdocs. |
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| It's not even dinnertime for humans, but it's already dark, and the slow, constant fall of snow veils even the moons. The galleries are occupied; the sands certainly are; and even the ledges have their visitors. Solith's chosen a high ledge that just now she has to herself, close enough for warmth and distant enough for relative quiet; she's curled there, a paw tucked over her nose, each quick breath separated by considerable silence from the next. Now and again her irregularly-spaced neckridges twitch, as though she's dreaming. It's the trickle of ooze that drips down from the nearby ledge and drip-drip-drips onto snuggled Solith that presents the first evidence of Rasavyth's presence. One nice thing about being so small a bronze is that in the darkness, he's just another form and could be so many dragons - browns, bronzes, tucked just as comfortably as Solith is on the slightly lower ledge. He's not other dragons though, he's Rasavyth, and Solith's presence there is, after a time, enough to draw him out, his intrusion against her serenity and apparent somnolence gentle but definite. The snoozing dragon doesn't react to that metaphysical dripping at first, but after a while, those quick breaths start coming slightly closer together. After a while longer, her headknobs take up the twitching too, tilting this way and that... until the tip of her tail thwaps against her own flank as though to flatten some ichor-thirsty insect, and with that she's awake. Sort of awake: two lids still cover Solith's opalescent eyes, and in that lingering disorientation, her thin wingspars whisper partly-open and closed and open again as finally she peeks out at the world. What? What just happened? She's so confused. « You were dreaming. » Rasavyth's tenor purrs. The oozy touch comes with the tickle of a warm breeze, that smells of sunshine and spring rain, something that might be completely comforting, were it not for that ever-present edge of 'wrongness', a certain something rancid just in the last whiff of that breeze, though quickly enough replaced by a fresh gentle gust. « Was it a good dream? » He wonders curiously, his nose appearing just over the edge of the ledge, head tipping so whirling eyes can regard her. She was dreaming, wasn't she. Perhaps she's dreaming now, given that out-of-season rain, the sun that's nothing like the dark shadows here. Even that 'wrongness' is familiar, too, passed over with only half-conscious notice. « It was... » What was she dreaming about? Has it already slipped her mind? It's the scrape against rock that reminds Solith that she has talons; she glances down at them before twisting her long neck so she can look 'upwind'-- up at him. Perhaps she should be careful; Telavi keeps reminding her to be careful, but instead her eyes reflect half-polished turquoise, pleased. « It was, » the green agrees, and stretches away all the invisible spinnerwebs that could even dream of binding her wings. « Did you dream, Rasavyth? » « I am always dreaming. » Rasavyth's purr is enigmatic, but still infused with comfort, softness, and now, too, the idea of a particularly comfy couch, with just enough sunlight and breeze on a particularly cozy, lazy day. « What were you dreaming of, my dear Solith? » Often, 'my dear NAME' indicates a particular brand of amusement for the bronze, but here there's sincerity, even if that edge of private mirth is partnerned with his familiar wrongness, both qualities that are just part of his oozy mind touch. « Are you being careful? » There's curiosity; it's hard to tell how much of her sleepy surface thoughts he caught, and the inquiry is gentle, still promoting the sleepy mindset that is just so comfortable. All this easy, breezy coziness seems to lull Solith, the young dragon finishing her stretch only to resettle right where she is, beginning to rub her muzzle along her forelegs as though they were some comfortable pillow she just has to adjust a little. « Are you? » Solith wonders drowsily. « How do you land? » for evidently that's more difficult than flying. She hasn't much to offer the bronze for what she had been dreaming of, though she tries: the fading sense of some burrowing thing, large and whiskered and furred; of tunnels that she could fit into but would take her away from the open air, down into the earth. She'd still been deciding, or at least hadn't yet decided not to, when it began to rain and then the little biting insects came and then she was glad to wake. Though, « There might have been... treasure? there, » the concept a borrowed one. And as for careful, Solith muses more daringly, « I do not think I am, not right now. » She might toss her head against her rider's restraints, if it weren't for how she might rather... snooze. The question prompts a wry return that has more solid tenor than purr, « With grace. » Well, sometimes. Sometimes it's that he lands gracefully, other times that he manages to land without injury is enough, but that doesn't play as well in the joke. He makes no secret of his continued shortcoming, even if it's overlayed with the sensation that he does try to learn to do better. It's just difficult. « Treasure would have been exciting. » Rasavyth's whirling eyes shift to the sands below, distracted momentarily. 'Treasure.' That word means something in the extensive filing system he's set up in K'zin's mismanaged grey-matter. His attention to it is fleeting though, as the memory as it has his personal flag for superfluous. « Why should you be? » The question about her lack of caution is not rhetorical, but probing, though gently so. Spangles of light for that solidity, and for trying-against-difficulty, even more than the answer itself; they linger, glimmering, for treasure. Solith, however, cannot be thinking of eggs or more golden things, but then she really isn't thinking long of treasure at all. It's so comfortable... but eventually, asked like that, she drifts back towards words. It's Rasavyth, after all. And he wants to know. Why... « She wants me to, » Solith confides of her Telavi, that ripple and flicker of fire-- and if some part of her knows that this too comes under her rider's moratorium, she doesn't always have to do what her rider wishes, now does she. The green's even a little apologetic, if dreamily so. « There are all sorts of ways to be careful. But she thinks you do not wish us near you and yours. She minds. » Rasavyth doesn't seem to take offense, if anything the reflections and ooze of his mind becomes more snuggly and inviting. « She is half right. » The bronze offers gently. « I quite like you and enjoy being near you, especially at certain times. » Certain times that, by his reckoning, should've come upon the ethereal green again, and he's been keeping tabs. Then there's hesitation, its a flutter of uncertainty in the breeze. Should he trouble her with his concerns? His worries? « I do not wish for your Telavi to be hurt. » And he worries. He starts softly, letting the earnestness of his comment sink in. The far edge of humor and wrongness is there. Like it always is, although... maybe, is it a little stronger? A little more definable? It's hard to say. Of course she is. Half, anyway. Solith sighs, a breathy exhalation as though she'd send some little ghost to fade into the cavern's oppressive heat, only to begin to lighten moments later, gradually but there. « Which times? » she wonders guilelessly. Worries? It takes her moments more, though at least his words are easier to reply to. « I do not wish for her to be hurt either, » she agrees, of course, though there's a fine, near-imperceptible sense of not much. Not often. One might need to be looking, to detect that. She isn't looking, doesn't seem to perceive any added strength to the edge, but then he's encouraged her into such a dreamy state. There's a brief pause while the catalogue is consulted to pull the correct 'green flight loss' memory to share. It's his memory of Solith; Solith with wind lifting her higher in the sky, her form glowing against backdrop of High Reaches skies. Those times. Has she felt like flying far and free lately? He'd like it, surely, if she did. Rasavyth's mind then focuses to his worries. « It is inevitable that she will be hurt deeply by being attached to my K'zin. He is not right for her. Don't you see it? It's your place to protect her from such deep hurts, when you can, is it not? » He wonders, truly, if she agrees with him on this. At first she doesn't even seem to recognize this vision of herself, might only do so because of his association, a ghostly afterimage touched with bemusement or even wonderment: that? That was her? That glow rouses uncertainty if anything, but the sense of far-and-free.... that, that she can understand. Though she's been staying close at hand lately, has Solith. Still... maybe. Or maybe not. Or maybe it doesn't matter; he's moved on, after all, and the uncertainty returns, deepening. « Is he that awful? » How could he be, paired with Rasavyth? The idea of Solith protecting Tela may not even compute. That was her. Rasavyth's memory is certain, but he doesn't dwell on it. There's explaining to be done and he shares with her the sensation of his weaving oozy webs as the little mechnanized bugs that create the complexities of his mind search out a good way of bringing sense to what he has to say next. « It is not that my K'zin is awful. » No, his K'zin is not awful. « Perhaps I can explain it this way: you were meant to be with your Telavi. And I with my K'zin. If you had bonded to my K'zin, it would not have been right. » Nevermind that if she had bonded to K'zin, obviously it would have been right. « Or stranger still, me, to your Telavi. » Stranger, because he's a bronze, and that's just bizarre to contemplate. Bronze paired with a woman. « So it is not that either my K'zin or your Telavi is awful, just that they are not right paired together and as a result, she will get hurt by the wrongness. Am I making sense to you? » « Oh, good! » She hadn't thought he was awful-- but-- « Yes...? » In another it might be sibilant, but with her there's just space. « Good. » Rasavyth seems relieved. « I just don't want your Telavi to hurt if it is unnecessary. The pain of being parted from him now is far less severe than what will surely come if they persist. It is better to find one's mistakes sooner than later, is it not? » Perhaps Solith's so slow because she's so sleepy. But, « It is? » Her fingersails furl and unfurl, whispery. « I like it better when she is not, not... » whatever Telavi is, Solith doesn't have exact words for it, but she doesn't like it, this balled-up amalgam of not-happy. His word will do, though, and she latches onto it gratefully. « I do not like this 'pain.' Can she not just get bored and wander off instead? It is not as though they are as we are, » for all he speaks of bonding. « I find it to be so. Do you find it otherwise? Do you prefer to find your mistakes later? Once they have gone from being quite small to quite vast? » Rasavyth offers examples of what he means: finding out one needs to work on their landings from scraping a knee versus careening off a cliff into a chasm too rocky to fly in; finding out one has a problem with their visualization by ending up a little to the east of where they should have come out instead of halfway into a rock; finding out one needs to practice their flaming more by accidentally scorching herself rather than setting her lifemate aflame. It might be telling that all his examples end in severe injury or death when the mistake is not caught early, but maybe those are just the examples he happens to think of first; they certainly seem off the cuff. « I imagine she could get bored and wander off, although it may be different for her, or it might take more time. If only there were a way that you could help her to find other things or other people more interesting. Perhaps then... » Then, apparently perplexed he looks to Solith for a solution, « Is there a way you could help her, do you think? You are her lifemate, after all. » What had started out as yet another flavor of uncertainty, this one minor-- many mistakes just fade away, in Solith's (in)experience-- led to that first careening seeming so foreign as to be for her entertainment, an escape from the chasm surely to be found in the next wingbeat before the transition yanks her point of view away; the second vision, the vision-of-envisioning, seems closer to home by comparison, the end certain and not happy at all; the third... the third may not be something Solith entirely remembers on her own, but her rider does, not-at-all-happy dreams escape her sometimes, and perhaps there's some sort of scarring that isn't on smooth-again hide but rather related to the nerves that twitch the muscle that lies beneath. Nerves. It derails her, pulls her up into a flighty handful that wavers on the ledge's edge. Wherever her rider may be, even Telavi may begin to sense Solith's distress, and likely more if the green isn't distracted soon. Oopsie-daisy. Too near the mark. Rasavyth adjusts his approach, silently, secretly. He's swift to move, slithering down from his ledge like his mental ooze before him and dripping himself over the edge until he's down next to Solith. Step one: provide a physical distraction. He croons a soft, deep sound to the green to try to draw her attention from introspection to the outside world; the physical. Meanwhile, the ooze of his mind becomes a salve for her discomfort, small traces of apology for distressing her. He's not often the one to initiate contact, but now he settles beside her, near enough to tentatively touch his side to hers and his nose moves to her neck, skating along it until he can point his nose toward the sands and the eggs below, a silent "Look!" trying to direct her eyes down to the eggs which now have a superimposed luminescence in neon colors (though the nice ones, like purple and pink, green, and blue, not the lurid orange or red that indicate danger or anger). The eggs themselves stay still, of course, but Rasavyth's faux eggs start to shiver as if ready to crack at any moment. « Who should be first? » He asks, his eyes sweeping across the eggs. He's a literal jump-- or slither-- ahead of her, and if it weren't for that ooze it might have astonished her into an equally literal leap; as it is, though Solith's fine wings cup the air, she spills it again in the next anxious breath. The croon must help; the salve likewise, but there's a little startled twitch at the touch... that she all but dives into. No, she won't look, or at least not immediately; what she will do is seek to twist her head back and burrow it beneath his nearest wing. Eventually the colors might seep in even so, the colors she needn't see with her physical eyes to see, lingering in the cooler shades of the spectrum: the purple, the blue, the green. Being physically comforting is fairly foreign to Rasavyth so he's a little awkward, though that doesn't translate to his mental prowess at creating comfort in his mind. However, Hraedhyth's undeniable cuddles and physical exchanges have given him something to go on with this. He gentles them, because his nature is not so fierce as his dam's. He shifts so his wing is drawn up a bit, so her head can be snuggled, but more comfortably. He's patient, though; patience is one of his essential traits so there is no rush for Solith to acknowledge the colors or the show he's holding ready for her. He lets them seep, if she leaves way for them to seep, to where she can be lulled or beckoned by them, but he's in no rush. As long as this is working to calm and comfort her, that is what matters. He even lets his muzzle stroke her neck gently, rhythmically, stopping only if she seems not to prefer that kind of touch. That shift of his wing makes it easier for her to breathe, at least; she's grown still, more or less, though not exactly relaxed, and after a while she breathes out in a low huff and readjusts the ill-wedged angle of one headknob. Then she can relax, a little at least, in the shelter with the quiet workings of his heart and lungs. Purple. Or maybe it's dark blue, with just a tinge of a different sort of warmth. If there's digestion to hear, she doesn't seem to mind, much as she doesn't seem to mind the way he strokes her neck. This time, when she exhales, it's more of a sigh. « 'Others,' » she says finally, some half-heard remnant from what seems like long ago. It's much as it was before with Ras. His patience seems to have no ending, like he could stay just here, just so forevermore if that's what she needed. He has a way of seeming so stable and dependable. His curiosity rises, but he keeps it mild instead of pointed. « Others? » He asks softly. Is she answering his question about the eggs or is this something else? Lightly, his ooze nudges against the might be her usually so incorporeal thoughts, or maybe it's just against the idea of her thoughts that he makes real since she often does not - a gentle inspection and request for clarity. « Before. Before, you said... » what had he said? Can Solith piece together what's half-heard in distress? So he doesn't have to wait too long, for the moment she settles for, « Other somethings, » and perhaps that way she also won't have to go back to look more carefully, to feel what she doesn't want to feel. Not that she doesn't partly unlid one eye to glance down towards those eggs anyway-- his version of the eggs, his wing being in the way of more mundane vision-- just in case. « Ahh. » Rasavyth's understanding comes in a soft purr. His mind is swift enough that she doesn't need to reach too far or feel too much. « Other things to distract your Telavi? » He questions softly, just to make sure he's thinking of the right thing. In the meantime, there's those eggs that glow, and are available to her sight even if she wants to have her eyes lidded, that much he can do for her, if she likes. « Things she would like, » Solith agrees with relief: things that would please them both, no, all three of them, in other words; wouldn't that be wonderful? Glowing eggs are good; apparently they're even more special than the real ones. And if she can shut her eyes all the way again... why, so much the better! « Can you help her find things she likes? People she likes? » Rasavyth wonders gently, not unaware of the sometimes not-so-close relationship Solith has shared with her rider in the past. The glowing eggs rock slowly, rhythmically, in a way that real eggs generally don't, but that has a soothing quality to it. Increasingly hopeful, « I can try! » Solith even manages to put an exclamation to it, though it takes enough energy that when she resumes, her voice is quieter and that rocking comes as a different sort of relief as her attention drifts. Back and forth, back and forth... « It is hard because the other things, they are not the same. But then everything is different, I suppose, » though that's a touch uncertain, because what about dust? Jars of oil, at least the ones that haven't been used? Even herdbeasts sometimes wind up looking alike. « What kinds of things? More sewing? and people? Which people? » She silhouettes a considerable group of them, trailing across her mental stage, almost all-- this is Solith's point of view, after all-- paired with dragons and identified by them, too. Among them are Tacuseth and his rider, Olveraeth likewise, even Rojeth's. « I am not certain. You know her better than I. Perhaps if you felt like flying and flying and didn't wind up with your neck twined with mine, » Which is obviously the most preferable outcome, « Your Telavi might meet someone new. Find someone who strikes her fancy. Perhaps more sewing, but I always find people and dragons to be the most engaging thing for my attentions. » Rasavyth muses softly, perhaps the rocking is having a calming effect on him, too. Dosed by his own medicine. « Oh. But that could... I want to do something now. » Well, not now-now when now might really mean nap, but what Rasavyth describes is still distant from Solith; it could be forever. « If you think of someone, let me know. Perhaps she only doesn't see them right. » Solith, too, must think dragons and people to be more engaging than sewing, but... oh, no; that softness, that rocking, she yawns a little wing-muffled yawn. « I will think on it. » Rasavyth agrees, and indeed, for a moment the depth and complexity of his oozy-webbed throughts are sucking Solith's breeze down, down, down the rabbit hole, only to have them vanish abruptly and leave her tumbling among the shivering, colorful glow of his faux-eggs. « I wish for her permanent happiness. But in the meantime, I'm sure there are other people and other things to distract her. Perhaps these new dragons, defective though they may prove to be, will provide some level of distraction for us all. » He can't know that Quinlys has asked Telavi to be an assistant for the dragons, can he? After all, Solith didn't tell him... Maybe it's a lucky guess. But maybe... The maybes in themselves might have a soothing rhythm, for there are so many and without answer. Coming to her mental feet-- which for once exist and, for the moment, look just like her physical feet-- Solith stays low in uncertainty, her wings out just a bit to either side for balance; she shivers too, as though it were cold and not hot and not 'hatching.' She'd just been about to nap-- but maybe this is the nap, and not daydream at all. Telavi is not here. She doesn't jump away, though, doesn't demand to disappear. « Perhaps, » she says, to agree. « Although I like the others, too. » And then again, Olveraeth and Rojeth will be about. Hesitatingly, « We might. I don't know yet, neither does she. » She's eased enough to look at the nearest 'egg' a little more closely, though not so much that it occludes her awareness of the others. And since he'd said 'all,' « How... will they distract you? » Maybe this is the nap, is the dream. Maybe there's a white rabbit for Solith to chase. Only, no, there are just glowing eggs. Although, one of those eggs, edged in blue develops cracks and spills out a green-edged dragon with two heads. « The others are likable. » Perhaps Olveraeth more than Rojeth, but he doesn't seem to have anything particular against the other bronze, just that Olveraeth's stars are a little more settling than Rojeth's fog. « You might what? » Rasavyth asks gently, « Be distracted by the new dragons? » He lets there be space for answer before offering. « New dragons are always interesting. In this case, especially interesting because of Iesaryth's choice to be with Vhaeryth. » Does it suddenly smell like rotten eggs? ...Two heads. Solith doesn't think to check whether they talk to each other, whether they bite each other, what, but she's somewhere between horrified and curious and is certainly sitting still long enough to see. Well, almost still: she does edge back a bit. « We might help, » and though there is a tinge of fog, it can't be allowed to cloud the stars, stars, stars. « I don't mind. » She sneezes all of a sudden but manages, valiantly, « Especially? How? » They do seem to be talking. Only the words don't come in anything more than unintelligible mental murmurs that are unmistakably oozy. Then one does bite at the other, latching onto a headknob, though it doesn't seem a cruel attack, more the way two siblings would fight and play anyway as they wobble about on the sands. « Oh? With Olveraeth and Rojeth? » He puts together the two thoughts as easily as a seamstress joins two parts of a tear and contemplates. « Would you enjoy it? » The rotting egg smell goes away, but only because they're not talking about Vhaeryth now. « I will enjoy imagining the offspring Iesaryth might have had if she had chosen me as a mate. » Solith doesn't understand. She cocks her head as though that angle might help, her headknobs tilting forward, only to back away another step or two as that other headknob comes under attack, playful or otherwise. And then she cocks her head the other way. Still no luck! But, at least it makes it easier to hear Rasavyth, and she crouches behind a different egg, keeping it between her and the two-headed creation. She's smaller here than in the real world, a little more than half again as large as the hatchling. There's warmth to the air that's her agreement, then, « I think so? Although Tsanth will not be there, » the tie still there to her wingleader and Weyrleader, though it's faded now, nearly bloodless. It says something that she remembers, more even than the residual sorrow: he's not here either. « Will you show me them? » Surely very different than, well, that. The egg Solith couches behind splits, the shell spilling in green fragments to the ground, revealing the outline of a person, but without distinct digits. So more like a person with mittens and boots, and no face, no real body at all, just the outline, which as it rights itself from the shattered egg, seems to include the outline of a draconic tail. « No. Tsanth is where he belongs, with his Z'ian. » This is resolute, but gentle. Not that the Weyrleader doesn't belong at his Weyr, but now they look to Cadejoth. It's a gentle reminder, even though it goes against the grain for that which is instinctive after the senior gold has taken a mate. Even for Rasavyth. « When I imagine them. I will show you. Perhaps I will sire the next clutch. And then we will not have to imagine. Then we can see. » He would like that, there's relish for the idea. His very own eggs. Very own offspring. Very own minions? Solith jumps, scattering back, her narrow head lifting as she looks for Rasavyth: this thing, it isn't right. « Yes, » comes with a wistful note through that distraction: can't they both be here? Not that she voices objection to Cadejoth, only has that wordless affiliation that he has the power to sense: she is of Boreal and Tsanth is-- was?-- theirs. In the intervening moments she's looked back to the creature, still unnerved by its irregular outline. « I would like that. » She thinks. No, no, it's not right. Is it. Rasavyth lets the scene dissipate the not right thing waving a mitten-shaped hand at Solith before it evaporates into nothing, leaving only real sands and eggs in its wake. The rest are gone too. The game is over. For now. « It would be nice if they were. » The bronze sounds perfectly sincere about it, mimicking Solith's wish and longing as his own oozified thing. « But Selereth and her Oisa take good care of Boreal in the meantime, do they not? » Solith's expression of liking that is awarded by a beaming approval. « As would I. We will wait and see. » That's might be all they can do. But, no, he can do more! « In the meantime, I shall practice. I shall learn to fly better. Learn to catch and satisfy. » There are sexual overtones here, though conjured from what should probably be forgotten memories. She's still staring at where the thing had been, seconds after it's gone as though it might somehow come back, then gives a full-body shudder and huddles up. « She can be cranky sometimes, » and it's a whisper, something like a secret, perhaps less that Selereth-or-is-it-Oisa can be that way than that Solith thinks so. Such overtones have the green shifting uneasily, never mind that her cycle's been irregular enough that she's well overdue according to how humans-- including hers-- like to regulate such things by calendars. « Good, » she offers, barely not a question. Rasavyth shifts to be a little more against her. All the overtones are gone, all the talk of Wingleaders and Weyrleaders. All gone. No more distorted dragons. « What is your favorite thing to think about when you're going to sleep? » Since he assumes she might like to nap some more. « I can make up a story for you, if you like. And stay. You will be safe here for a nice nap. I might even nap, too. » The cavern is so warm, and there's that sense of inner warmth and comfort exuding from the bronze like a blanket again. All gone. All... gone. The air begins to move just a little more freely even as Solith stays still, though it isn't an outright breeze that picks up, rather a few every-which-way wafts. « I don't... » Has she ever thought of this before, in so many words? Tentatively, « We fly together, » the image coming only after and more of a silhouette, really, girl and dragon with the scenery changing behind them. Trees. Mountains. A river. The ocean, once. A waterfall. Islands. More mountains. A sky that's vivid, almost iridescent blue. « Or she tends me. » Perhaps even sleeps with her, leaning against Solith in a bundle of furs, instead of on that very human bed. « I would like that, Rasavyth. Thank you. » Solith's shy, saying that, though she almost never is. She rests the side of her head against him again and with that warmth, that comfort, gradually closes her eyes. Some dragons might take the opportunity to mock Solith of her simple likes that ... all involve her rider. But not Rasavyth. No, this seems quite reasonable to him, and he's gently appreciative of the things she shares. The sense comes that sometimes, these are the things he likes to think about too (but with his K'zin, of course), as he drifts off to sleep. A story begins to weave itself through their shared touch. It's got ooze edging it, but it's interactive in a way that human stories can't be, taking the surface thoughts and wants and wonderings of the green and incorporating them immediately into the story, as if it were going that way all along. He knits together a tale with images, smells, feelings, though none so strong as to cause wakefulness, of Solith and Telavi's Perfect Day. There's flying, and tending, and eventually shared sleep. Not just for Telavi and Solith of the story, but for Solith and Rasavyth, tucked comfortably against one another in the relative quiet and warmth of the hatching ground ledges. |
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