Logs:Tela's Turnday: The Next Turn
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 11 October, 2013 |
| Who: Annabet, G'then, K'zin, Moirah, Sasha, Sh'mel, Telavi, Th'vin, Zakamor, Zakari |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: Telavi has another Turnday: sweeps, family, going out, going back in. She's not the one who discovers what K'zin has left. |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, etc. |
| When: Day 13, Month 13, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Babetta/Mentions, Sidonie/Mentions, T'volt/Mentions, Z'ian/Mentions, Zinarius/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Turnday = angst. Mostly varying-POV vignettes (including Solith's!) with a little bit of Telavi and K'zin scene. Backdated. |
    |
| Not that it's as hard to have dawn sweeps this time of Turn, what with the nights being as long as they are, but there's still no joy when Telavi wakes herself up and then wakes Solith up and there are no berries or berry-bearers anywhere in sight. At least, though there had been the traditional 'first drink after midnight' toast, she'd thought ahead enough not to bring anyone home that she'd have to kick out-- because Faranth forfend she let someone stay in her comfy warm bed when she wasn't going to get to, on her Turnday-- and it's not as though they would be difficult sweeps: no Nabol, not even Crom where Z'ian had been attacked, just plain old Tillek. The worst that would happen would be if the tide were low enough that she'd have to smell it all day, never mind that they were scheduled to work inland enough that it would all be in her head anyway. She'd thought she'd been doing fine, she had been doing fine, surely, but this morning is turning out to have too much time to think and too much cause to think, and both at the same time make her not want to. Think. Or much else, really.
K'zin unloads his supplies and enlists Sh'mel to help tote them inside, though he takes care to make sure they both leave their snowy boots on the ledge. Leave No Trace is the motto of the morning. Well, except for the trace that K'zin is here to intentionally leave. Rasavyth didn't like it but that's why Rasavyth isn't here. He can grumble all he likes in K'zin's head. This is Telavi's turnday, and K'zin couldn't just let it pass, even if he knows he should. Before the pair arrive back, the work is done, the bed has been rearranged into its original state, the floor around it has been swept clean of the debris caused by nails driving into the stony ceiling above. There's no trace K'zin and Sh'mel were there, not that Sh'mel stayed for the work to be done, he just waited to bear K'zin to the ground again. The turnday surprise left to lie in wait for Telavi to discover on her own whenever the light is just right.
It's hard, because on the one hand, she'd been doing fine, she was convinced, but on the other hand... Turndays for her, anyway, cycle around and while Tela's lived longer than these past couple of Turns, somehow even she can admit that they've been different with Solith. And last Turn's was, well.... Her plans in many ways are still the same: see her uncle, earlier in the day this time; go out with friends. She's still debating the dress, which still fits delectably, thank you Babs and when will you stop journeying, anyway? or at least pause? because writing is one thing and then there are other things. Indeed, Tela debates it all the way from one cothold (snowed in) to another (ditto) to eight more, only one of which has the flag out to signal for aid-- and even that turns out to be just a false alarm, because they forgot to bring in the flag the day before when whatever-it-was cleared up. Not that Tela isn't glad to not have to deal with whatever-it-was, and not that they weren't appropriately apologetic and pressed a warm stirrup cup upon her for the trouble, but ugh. By then she's thinking more about the cold, fur-lined leathers and tugged-back-down face mask or no, letting herself be irritated about going out of her way and then getting warm only have to get cold again... well, it's her Turnday. She can be irritated if she wants to. It's better than... well, never mind any of that. It's only when she's back at her weyr and getting ready to see her uncle that she has to put it away, and by then she's tired of it anyway: time to put on different clothes, a different mood, her hair just the same last Turn's. It's even scented the same, with the last from the special vial that she'd saved just for this. She tries out her smile in the mirror. It passes, and on her way to see her uncle, she pets Solith's slender neck and feels the strong muscles that flex and shift beneath it. Dinner is quiet. The couch he'd given her was her present, but he surprises her anyway, and not just by-- she's pretty sure-- having instructed his weyrmate before she showed up not to ask certain questions. There's a necklace, a scent locket really, but also an actual song, one that reticent G'then performs: that ditty she'd come up with when she was five, that he'd sing when he wanted to get other songs out of his head, and he'd made it the refrain about which he'd added verses about her, about them-- Toraveth included, and then Solith-- which is to say that dinner started out quiet and then she's crying but she's happy. She hasn't looked at any of the pictures on the mantel, just in case. G'then gets a tight, tight hug that evening, and she and Th'vin actually clasp each other's wrists all politely and everything, and then her uncle gets another hug that's just her laying her head on his shoulder and his strong arms about her as she rests. He's as strong as he was when she was less than five, she's pretty sure. She's grateful. For once, it's hard to leave. But they do leave, and back at High Reaches, it's not even dinnertime. She changes early anyway, into a flowing coral tunic, its wrapped neckline too loose to wear in even semi-polite company if it weren't for the finely knit top that she wears beneath. It's a shade darker than the coral, while her equally close-cut leggings are considerably darker yet, closer to a warm brownish-black. Except. Before she has dinner, with the friends who've dropped by to eat picnic-style, she walks out into the larger weyr. Solith's been napping in the warmth, staying close today instead of visiting her own friends or the even warmer hatching cavern. The green unlids her eyes, mostly anyway because they still get sensitive, and then unlids them the rest of the way because Telavi's stopping there. She's got a moderately-sized journey-marked jar in both hands, and now she unlids it, murmuring about how it's her own Turnday but that doesn't mean she won't share. She spreads the salve-- it's softer than usual once it's had a chance to warm up in her hands, unscented except for a faint freshness from the herbs used to make it-- across her palms and when it's ready, across Solith's face and throat: taking her time, careful about the green's eyes, her nostrils, but smoothing over the fine skin of her muzzle and between those eyes and her just as delicate headknobs. She gives her dragon touchups elsewhere, too, not so much where Solith itches but where she will itch, given time. She takes her time. She might consider the particular color of Solith's hide once or twice, but not for long; she's just as content this way. It's a rest for both of them. It makes it easy to greet her guests with a softer smile than is her wont, but she doesn't keep them. She cleans up after they've gone. It may be her Turnday but if she doesn't do it now then she'll just have to do it later. She slides a look towards her bed, with its cushions and furs-- slides a step closer, even-- but it's not more than a glancing look because all at once she's turning, back to the armoire with new resolution. Even were Solith privy to her every thought, she wouldn't pick up much. Tela changes. She employs, unnecessarily, a soft damp cloth; she steps into that dress and brings it up about her like the chrysalis she's returning to; she adds gold to her ears. But she also arranges her hair into an intricate upsweep that doesn't dare move when she shakes her head, and the footwear she's chosen match but are boots all the same, and she keeps her favorite hairstick in its place which is, tonight, not in her hair at all. By the time Solith lets her step, delicately, from her neck onto the snow-cleared patio ledge itself, it's not long before the shift change at the Snowasis: just the way she would want it, if only she weren't keeping from thinking much at all. She can do this if she simply walks in her footsteps: her cloak on its hook, the smiles-and-small-talk as she makes her way through the crowd, the stealing of a stool at the bar when one opens up as though it were by chance instead of spotting the familiar patterns and fitting herself into them. But tonight she leans back on the stool rather than making it her own, and tonight she asks the bartender-- not the bartender she might have hoped to see, but she smiles at him all the same-- not for white wine but 'something fun.' Tonight Tela doesn't play with her hair except for how, once, she touches a tendril at her temple. Tonight Tela scans the cavern, not all at once but portions here and there, not wholly indiscreetly but not so subtly all the same: for now, she must not mind being seen to look-- or to not find what she might be looking for. For now, she takes her time.
Most of the changes in Taiga since K'del's change of knot have been subtle. K'del still shows up to attend drills, but not everyday. He acts like a wingsecond to F'manis, for now, and F'manis hasn't complained, even if there's a marked increase in the quiet (or in some cases not-so-quiet) jockeying for the wingsecond position people are convinced will come, sooner rather than later. K'zin isn't jockeying, but he isn't unattentive to the changes, or lack there of. Rasavyth listens to everything, intrigued especially when the others talk of confused loyalties and bizarrities that these actions breed in the chain of command. But, at least, in drills, there was distraction. K'zin had gotten better at throwing himself into his work. Not so much the actual 'with his wing' work, but his extracurricular activities skulking about Nabol, lending his hand where they were needed, and the other productive ways he'd started to sort out for himself. It was necessary, really. There was too much bad to think of otherwise. He could never decide if the situation with Telavi or the hours spent outside his family's door at MineCraft waiting for a summons that never came were more troubling to him. He'd talked things over, at length, with Rasavyth. It was true that they still couldn't talk about Telavi without things getting heated, but his father was another matter. They'd decided K'zin should seek Zakari out again, have a talk. A talk that they should have had the night Zak came to see him and K'zin just couldn't handle anymore. After that, they started going to Minecraft. The hours spent there were hard. Rasavyth admitted he liked them a little, but only because it gave him hours of time with K'zin's attention to distract. K'zin was getting better at three-level dragon-chess. He kept himself distracted for all this time; all this time in which the drinking and the fighting and even the bedding of whichever women were willing were all reined in to non-toxic levels. Today was the hardest thing to distract from though. Last turn on this day, he knew exactly where Telavi was because he was the architect of her Perfect Turnday, and deep down part of him ached for not providing her something better this turn. For Rasavyth, it was dangerous that K'zin was feeling this way. It meant despite all his efforts, his human lifemate was all too human and all too susceptible to the weaknesses of the heart. For such a useful organ, when it came to manipulation or murder, it certainly is peskily problematic. So Rasavyth tried, talking endlessly of their plans with Nabol, developing stratagem, even talking poker tactics. Anything to distract K'zin from his half-formed notion to track Telavi down right now and make her have the most amazing turnday ever. For dinner, he suggested they go to Tillek. Join Zakari and his wife and son for fresh fish. K'zin agreed, but only because he was desperate for the distraction, and the fresh-caught fish. As much as he hated to admit it, after months of not so subtly trying to drive the point home about them being broken up, K'zin knew he couldn't afford a moment of weakness today. He might not survive it. Dinner was delicious. Zakari was serious. Waki was funny. Both together made Moirah smile. She'd married in and had never seen the point of Zianarius ex-communication of one of his middle sons. She'd never turned her back on him, but then she'd never known him well, either, only the him of Zakari's remembrances. K'zin privately thought that Zakamor was far too serious, but that's what happens when you're raised by The Serious One and The Quiet One with Sweet Smiles. It was after dinner as they were taking wing that K'zin had an impulse. T'volt had helped keep him distracted when he needed it before, maybe he would again now. Only he wouldn't now. Rasavyth didn't have details to offer, but he sounded apologetic, even if Nicaith wasn't much about T'volt's lack of availability. Rasavyth would've preferred to whisk K'zin off to a guaranteed good distraction that lacked emotional strings. But the easy option was now out. So Rasavyth suggested K'zin make a trip to a bar. He offered bars far from home first, but K'zin wasn't feeling like being on his best behavior, and wasn't looking to go home with anyone from a bar outside of the Weyr where his best behavior wasn't needed; he's picky like that. So Snowasis it was. He washed up and changed before going. Briefly, he contemplated wearing something nicer than the usual fare, but Rasavyth beat his own brain to the punch in saying how ridiculous that was since he wasn't celebrating with her. And she was probably off doing just that anyway. Arriving in Snowasis, his attention is immediately claimed by a wingmate who was just inside the door. Older than he by enough turns to be scandalous to some and attractive and likely, he and Rasavyth suspected, interested, but that mixed business and pleasure. Rasavyth only encouraged that when there was a specific goal in mind, otherwise it wasn't worth the mess. Still, K'zin enjoys her company and the harmless flirtations that comes with it. She passes him a drink she must've either rejected or gotten from another suitor, though he doesn't join her at her table. Instead, with his laughing thanks, he turns to sweep the bar for likely distractions. The drink is halfway to his smiling lips when he suddenly feels like he got punched in the gut. Not only is Telavi here, but she's in that dress. His dress. Her dress. Rasavyth corrects for him without his notice. The dress he got her for her turnday. And she looks stunning. His hand shakes, he knows without having to reach to find out that his eyes are threatening tears. Tears aren't attractive. He's frozen, except for the smile that vanishes, for one... two... three heartbeats. Then he looks ill, the glass dropping away from his mouth but managing to stay in his hand. Pale despite his natural dusky tone. He stares and can't look away. It only takes one. She looks; she lights. Only then he pales, and she flushes, cheeks red as singed roses. She's not frozen but stilled, a blink of time where she doesn't blink. Won't. What she does do is slide down from the stool onto those heeled soles, and never mind that there's still some scarlet within her glass, diluting as the ice continues to melt. Tela leaves it, and she leaves the stool to be stolen in its turn-- as always happens in this place-- and she starts that way. She doesn't look away for long. Rasavyth's suddenly suffocating ooze forces K'zin's mind back into action. It's like the ooze is forcing its way into his veins to stimulate muscles to action. Rasavyth, his life's blood, in this moment (and in so many others). « Go. » It's a whisper in his mind, only K'zin can't be sure if it's his own urging or Rasavyth giving him permission to be weak and run in this moment, or some strange melding of both together. From a deeper place than even the pain that makes it hard to breath comes something else: resolve. In the slow pull of a breath, K'zin steels himself, his expression shifting to one of detachment and the glass comes back up to his lips. Perhaps it's telling that he downs the whole thing in a pair of gulps, and twists to set it back on the table's edge, finally breaking eye contact with Telavi as he does so. Hello, world. Whether they're watching or not-- and someone just about always is, though they don't as often tend to care-- Tela continues to walk, one foot in front of the other as though walking on some high wire. By the time she reaches that table, her hands have folded before her, and she rests them on its edge like a glass. But it's for a moment, because she's not staying. "Miss you," she murmurs to him, if and when he does look up, and then moves to walk past. He's resolved himself to interacting with her; it has to be done. It's important that she know nothing's changed, not even because of the gift that surely she found, or she wouldn't've said anything. Brown eyes meet her blueish gaze, steady. "Nothing's changed." K'zin's lips form the words and his baritone manages to show no signs of all of the things screaming to get out instead. It's important he tell her this. She needs to know the turnday gift that was so important to him to give her doesn't mean anything. Doesn't mean he feels for her. Doesn't mean they can be together. He even swallows down the words 'happy turnday;' better to pretend he didn't even mark the date, even though she must know he did. Those eyes stay with his for those three syllables, but no, nothing's changed; she still walks past, she still walks out, her newly reclaimed cloak sweeping about her shoulders before she clasps it. She might have asked the time, if he'd had time to give, that one wingmate close enough to overhear but no more; she doesn't look back, she doesn't turn into salt. She doesn't think; she's as painstaking about that as about the rest. But when Solith's brought her back to her weyr, when she changes back to coral, it's a wonder that the mirror doesn't reveal the hard lump in her gut. K'zin doesn't watch her go. He can't watch her walking away from him again. Walking away because he makes her walk away. Even now, he's certain that if he'd caught her hand, reached for her, or just said the right words, she would have stayed. Not just in Snowasis, but with him. They could have cobbled together something that makes sense in this world where so little seems to anymore. But, no. That's a fantasy. A fantasy he can't indulge in. It hurts too much. He thinks about another drink, but one is enough. He can't stay, though, so he gives his apologies to the wingmate, and his thanks for the drink and exits, body stiff, muscles barely seeming to work properly. He starts to wander the tunnels, aimless. Lost. Unbidden, the thought comes. He wishes Mave were here. To run into, to talk to, to make no sense with and yet all the sense in the world. But she's not here, not right now. And no matter how many corners he turns, he doesn't bump into her. Rasavyth struggles. They've come so far now, patched up so many things, but this is the aching rift between him: these feelings he just can't stomach. Still, his K'zin is in pain, and he doesn't like that. Part of it is difficult because Rasavyth can't understand it, and K'zin can never seem to explain it. Rasavyth's spent many a wakeful night seeking answers in K'zin's sleeping mind, only to come out without any and leaving a hangover-worthy headache for the bronzerider to cope with. K'zin needs distraction; they decide it together. But what? He doesn't want a crowd and whether brothel or bar, hooking up requires facing one. He doesn't want more drink; that will only make him want to go to her more. Fighting? There's no use in trying to fight today, not when his knees feel so weak as to have him knocked to the ground with a single well-placed breath. So he wanders, until an answer comes to him. It's not of his own making, but by way of Rasavyth, and not even his for the claiming. T'volt's evening has freed up. K'zin wastes no time in finding himself enough to make it to the bowl. By then, Solith and Telavi are long-- safely?-- gone: gone to Benden, then gone beyond, a bevy of riders and weyrfolk and the odd crafter stolen for the ride. There's drinking and laughter, laughter that's pointed and laughter that's light, Annabet the designated envisioner once they get far enough along for that; there's drinking and laughter and dancing, always dancing, shaking off the winter, exiling the cold.
The voices from the inner chamber are quiet just now, closer to murmurs; Solith can't see them, though she could if she felt like getting up and... invading, it would be. Better, she can feel-- not clearly, but as though through a fine cloud-soft haze-- her rider's finer-drawn nerves, worn terribly thin but made bearable now with time and those sweetly burning drinks she likes, with the exertion of dancing and more. She's tempted to blow that veil aside: she can, sometimes, particularly at times like these, but it's so bright on the other side, she's not used to it. And, really, why disturb her rider when she's enjoying this? They overlap as leaves do, Solith aware of her rider's gossamer awareness of her; she stretches out first one paw and then the other, can feel fingers curling into the sheets as her talons do along stone. She doesn't press far, now as intangible as she can be-- not leaves, not even a breeze, but opening herself to be the air Telavi breathes-- and gets a sense of the too-faint clean smell of linens beneath her nose, of strange flat part-colored vision from what must be one open eye, of the pressure of cushiony softness beneath her and the slow scratch between her shoulderblades that's gradually progressing lower from where her wings should be. For a moment she feels bright and fizzy-- her rider, with wings!-- and can feel Telavi feeling it, and a moment later surprise, and then in the next breath she tries for air, air, air. 'Tries' is too tense, even, for what she needs; she has to let herself go. She tries. No, she... does. No, she... drifts. In time she's rewarded-- and tries not to feel rewarded-- by the returning sense, this time, of lingering pleasure and a tinge of what she doesn't recognize as guilt but doesn't like, overridden by a tracery of defiance; there's the habitual knot of worry and more that she has even less of a name for, but drowsiness veils it all, and the low sound of the other rider's voice and the way it's familiar, deeply so, just not to Solith herself. There's a question, according to the lift of the voice, and Solith tunes into words in time for what proves to be wordless, answering ambivalence from her rider that the other one appears to interpret well enough. Or, at least, her rider doesn't complain when the light brightens somewhat, only blinks a few times and murmurs, "...Stop there." But it gets brighter yet, lowering only after a displeased noise from her rider as though her own eyes were like Solith's, a sound that makes the other woman laugh and rumple Telavi's hair proprietarily around her hand. "It's so dark here, that's all. But I like what you've done with it." Her voice is warm, charming and-- Solith senses-- designed to charm. Her rider-- this is something Solith also senses-- may notice, but not only does she let it work on her all the same, she has an inward, secret smile. "Tell me more, Sasha." It's phrased as a request, an invitation. "Let me think." It's a delaying tactic, an excuse to pet Telavi's hair, her shoulder, her spine yet again. It comes with that name, Ella, that Solith refuses to put into words herself. "It's been a long time." Solith can feel the tension returning to her rider, feel it as though it were her own, and maybe the woman can feel it too for she adds, "I know, I know. But it's cozy, isn't it? With the angles, it reminds me of Sidonie's place, you know, before she threw it all over and got all spartan," this with a delicate shudder. That has Telavi laughing into the forearm she's using as an added pillow. "'More,'" has her 'r' rolling for a full three beats, drawing the brownrider's accent out even further than it ordinarily goes; it's fondly done, the sort of thing she'd pull to Sidonie's face, though the word itself is for the woman with her now. It's a directive that that woman goes along with, though not without a knowing tickle along Tela's side, enough that the greenrider draws up on her elbows just enough to glare at her. Or possibly mock-glare. It's hard for anyone, especially Solith, to tell. But it's enough to satisfy the dark-haired woman, who starts to recount about the embroidery Telavi's added to the familiar coverlet, the pillows ("They should look nice," says Tela, "I've had practice"), this and that that seems to please-- and charm-- her rider but just has Solith starting to drift again until... A fuzzy tug draws her back. Something about... "Not just 'stars in my eyes'?" Telavi asks, perplexed. "Because I'm over that--" "I seem to recall someone seeing them earlier, but no." There's a quality to the other woman's voice that Solith associates with not only humor but something like winning. It's intermixed with all the other emotions that Vespenth wouldn't like her to delve into, she's pretty sure, but when the woman tosses them out like that... it's hardly her fault, a breeze can't not pick them up. "Was it easier, making up your own constellations?" Vision blinks in and out, and Solith would really rather Telavi just shut her eye, make that eyes now, than do that. When it stops, she gets a better view of the woman's face than she really needs, which has eyes and nostrils and so forth as they generally do, along with short, disheveled dark hair. Her teeth are pale and possibly sharp, Solith can't tell, because her lips are just about closed as she smiles. "My constellations," and that's Telavi's voice, but it's quiet, tinged with something Solith can't quite place. The woman looks at her, at them, and there's something about it that Solith can place but can't name: it's something that's shown up enough times that she remembers even when she doesn't particularly want to. She's still smiling when she tips her hand and points a slender finger silently upward. Telavi looks, and Solith looks with her.
Then there's more blinking for Solith to suffer through, perspective shifting enough that she's all too tempted to get up after all and stick her head through the entrance; the only thing is, she's pretty sure it would startle everyone and... it's interesting too, this way. Especially after Telavi's finally stabilized that perspective, more or less, sitting up against the slanted headboard where she can look up, the comforter pulled up enough that she shouldn't shiver more than she's started to already. Except she does, and Solith's a little concerned that she might be trying to eat her hands, because they're knotted up together and pressed right up to her mouth. "I don't understand," she says finally, in a small voice. Neither does Solith, so there's that. The woman will fill the breach, at least partway, with those discerning eyes of hers. One hand curves over Telavi's, whether to pat or pet or possess; it doesn't feel especially comforting to Solith, anyway, but then she's just inhabiting Telavi, it's not the same. Telavi does take a deeper breath, Solith does notice. While the woman starts to talk, Solith sneaks a peek at her ceiling, but it's star-free. She sighs, too, and tunes back in for, "...and Solith." Her. Really? Them! Solith likes it. Telavi's busy; she's stopped not-quite-eating her hands but also freed them from the other woman, who looks as fondly amused as though this were all her doing, the better to gesture as she talks. "...are waves, and that's a spool..." There's something about all of it that's tugging at Solith, something that's... familiar, somehow, just maybe. She can't place it either, yet, but she tucks it away with the others, and perhaps she will someday. There's a Solith and waves and a wherry and unlike Telavi, she doesn't try to pick everything out at once; she's happy seeing what she's seeing, and if she tunes out what Telavi's continuing to go on about, she'll get surprises later too. Only she can't do that forever, and by that point all Solith can see through Telavi's eyes is that woman, again, and really she'd rather look at the designs, but no, Telavi keeps looking at her. "Did you...?" and Solith can sense the way she's teetering on the verge, trying not to jump to conclusions one way or another. She waits. And Sasha makes her wait, until there's a flare of exasperation that Solith can sense and maybe that woman can see, one that-- is she taken aback, that woman? Solith isn't sure, it's too fast and she wasn't wanting to look, and afterwards she does get the sense that that woman meant to get such a reaction all along... only there's something that niggles at her-- something familiar-- that whispers that maybe that's what she means for Solith to feel. Or, rather, not Solith. The woman smiles, a striking smile; her voice is the gentler for it. "It's sweet, isn't it? Someone knows you like to sew," that trait that would be hard for anyone to miss, "and your names up there like that... it really is sweet. But you know my writing wouldn't look like that, and especially not if I were creating a special gift for someone. How permanent is that, do you think?" as though Telavi might like to remove it... oh, sometime. There's a lurch that might be relief, definitely is other things too, and Solith just doesn't have time to figure all this out; the other woman's words have drawn Telavi's attention to the writing as writing and not just their names, and that means something-- or it might, it's harder to tell when the letters are dot-to-dot and she can feel Telavi concentrating-- because Solith gets a flash of stone and scribing, no, studying and a gust of even less-identifiable emotion... and then Telavi's circumscribing herself again, confining fire with invisible walls that lie beneath, not beyond, her skin. For all that Solith isn't sure about the woman, she misses that about her rider, wishes those walls would disappear again. Solith feels confined too, though not confined with her. It's harder to sense what's happening now, and it would be so easy to give in-- give up-- for now, to let herself be drawn to her own body, her own thoughts alone. She misses her wings, her claws; they remind her of who she is, someone who doesn't belong here. It's hard, it's really hard, but she lets even that go and breathes in, breathes out, and then she's drifting once again. It's harder yet when she realizes what she's drifting into, this tangle of frustration that, walled away from fuel or freedom, can only singe itself. But something's better than nothing, she's almost sure. At first she thinks she hasn't gotten far enough in, because it's dark, and then she realizes that her rider's eyes are shut as she half-curls on one elbow, all bundled up against the cold. She's not kicking walls. There's a weight on her shoulder and a horrible yearning that Solith doesn't want to get too near, like somehow it'll suck her in too; that and something like a flinch that just won't go, the two frozen together like counterweights. It's sound that's perceptible next, the murmurous voice that pets her rider with needlethorns while the... hand, that's what it is, stays still. Can that woman not feel the tension, is she so blind? Or does she know better than Solith herself does? She might. Solith can feel herself sinking back, and she doesn't stop herself, she's back in herself and her own wings and her own tail and her own couch and her own weyr. Human senses are duller than dragons', she knows; if Telavi were with her, she wouldn't be able to hear the sudden rustle, the hiss from bare feet landing on stone, the way they patter anyway, the too-light chatter. Of course, if Telavi were with her, Solith wouldn't... Solith curls up, tucks her wonderfully oiled nose under her wing, and tries to sleep. |
Leave A Comment