Wyaeth and Malsaeth ruminate on the fairer sex.
RL Date: 5/26/08
IC Date: 7/6/16
Dragon> Like a dust-wraith, a scattering of grit that leaves a pebbled imprint-- << You there? >> (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth's thoughts rain down on that grit, seemingly washing it away. << I'd say I am. Why? >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth's desert-dry mind is insatiable with water, wicks it away like so much parched earth, cracks in his mental landscape widening at the height of noon. << You thinkin' about chasin' greens when it comes to it? For sport? >>
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth seeks to water that earth, clouds appearing to drown it. << Does it matter? I'll take what I can get. Chase what there is to be chased. Green or gold. >>
Dragon> Ciath-- youth and passion and summer-storm captivation, fierce but forgotten. Teonath-- gleaming cold perfection, the crystallized blue-flame of his endless devotion. << Take what you can get then. Guess beggars really can't be choosers. >> (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers those older golds briefly before finally resting on Teonath's image. << Ain't sayin' I'm a beggar, am I? Not saying I don't have my favourites. >> A clean cut image of Rielsath, that warm campfire blazing in the background appears. Zelieth, the flighty older spotlight-starved green. Then finally another remark to the older bronze. << Is it so wrong to chase the greens? >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth flares protective jealousy, a puff of whiskey-scent and gunsmoke-danger, at the thought of Rielsath, still his daughter, unmatured in a sire's mind. But, man-to-man, maybe there's a glimmer of understanding there as well. << Ain't wrong. Ain't the same. >> By comparison to the strength of his ardor for his queens, Vrianth's imprint is a momentary transgression shared with the younger bronze. << Do what you wanna, s'pose, just don't say you ain't been warned. >>
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth's thoughts continue to rain down like an Istan storm, lightning crackling, echoing that gunsmoke danger. << Mine has thoughts too. Who he'd like me to chase. Can't say I'd indulge him with every request. >> The latter is spoken in amusement, but the bronze quickly makes the amusement dissipate into vapour, sending it back into the clouds above that dusty place of Wyaeth's mind. << Warned about green's, or warned about chasin' in general? >>
Dragon> Pfft. That's the distilled version of Wyaeth's thoughts on indulging riders with particular requests. << 'bout greens, just greens. Reckon you got, what? Two-hundred 'n fifty of 'em just at Ista? Imagine chasing one every other day! >> The image is an exhausted Malsaeth, blurry in the mind's eye, not sure on the details of his conversant's physical appearance. (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth provides a clearer picture of himself, as seen through other eyes, likely X'lar's. Brilliant crimson-chased bronze hide, dark, malicious charred black talons. << Never said I'd chase them all. Wouldn't want to do that to X'lar. >> Amusement follows. << There're other dragons. In other weyrs, too. Can't help but go weyr to weyr, see what treats are given, yeah? >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth still blurs the image, even provided a clean one, the haziness reminiscent of the watery feel of dirt in the eyes. << Don't worry so damn much about X'lar, kid'll either learn to cope or-- >> Intangible, feelings of resentment and frustration and the breaking-point. << Go weyr-to-weyr, see if /that/ makes your X'lar happy. >> Snort.
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers that dirt, but doesn't seem to water it. Not now anyways. Anyways, that growl of his voice just gets hoarse, as if the dust had somehow got caught in it. << You and yours never went weyr-to-weyr? What do they call it? Sowing? >> Another pause and then adds << How then should one react? Stick to one gold, like you to Teonath? >>
Dragon> Aleith-- Telgar-- forgotten, or nearly so. Ciath-- Fort-- remembered like a boyhood sweetheart. << Ain't saying we never stepped foot outta the 'Reaches but... >> Clinging to the memory of Ciath is another memory, an external sense of discomfort and unhappiness and weariness and dislike, dislike for Fort Weyr. << Teonath's my queen, my mate, you find one like that? Sure. Be faithful as you can be. Just gotta learn that you chase when /you/ wanna, not when they want you to. >> /They./ Females. X'lar. (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth studies each and every gold mentioned. << Nalaieth. >> There's a brief pause as lightning illuminates that other gold, seemingly testing this theory. << They're all golds, the ones you talk about... Greens not worth the trouble then? >> Another image, Vrianth, replaces the one of Nalaieth. << She's worth it. Worth more than most. >> Another pause and then adds another curious question to the older bronze, << What's so wrong with Ciath, with Fort, that weyr? >>
Dragon> Wyaeth bespoke Malsaeth with << Vrianth. >> Worth it? She glows dimly in the pantheon of his paramours, but she's there, token green. << Greens're sport, and if sport's what you're after, then they're for you. >> Not for him. Then, brusquely-- << Ain't nothing wrong with Ciath. N'thei just hated it there-- keep it in mind if you go chasin' outside Ista. >> Derisive; << Much as you worry about X'lar 'n all. >>
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers the concept of sport before finally thunder booms and his thoughts shift. << I'm younger than you. >> Perhaps this is an excuse. Or an explanation. It's not determined as the rain continues to fall, giving him a proper cover as he considers the bronze's words again. << I'd keep to Reaches and Ista, maybe Telgar. Fort an' Igen not places I'd like. Too dry. Too sandy. >> A snort, decidedly almost like his lifemate's. << And you don't worry about N'thei? >>
Dragon> The image of a steel trap, cold and gleaming and sharp and inalienable, menacing and unforgiving. << N'thei'll take care of himself. X'lar won't? >> Ista, Telgar, Fort, Igen-- this is a Weyrleader's dragon, and his thoughts stay close to home, fondness for none but the Reaches, even then little but the cold-blue-flame ardor of Teonath. (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers again. << We are young. Can we not discover on our own? You've got experience. >> Another pause and the images of those golds from earlier seem to erupt into being with the flash of lighntning providing more illumination. << Apparently lots. >> The last is said in amusement. << X'lar takes care of himself most of the time. Can't help but keep watch. Hope he doesn't piss off the wrong people. He's going to lead. >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth's voice, presence, aura smirks, the slow smirk after a long drink. << Is he now. >> Gradually, the sense of him begins to fade, like the sun slipping beneath the horizon, the desert colors drained into twilight and darkness. << Good for him. >> Pat-on-the-head there, sonny, while the big boys go off their own way.
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth makes the heavens shudder with more thunder and lightning, providing a darker backdrop. << We remember. We shall show them and you. >> Whoever them might be, he doesn't explain. Instead, as he feels that presence ease away, so does the meteorological phenomenon, more harsh is his departure than perhaps the other bronze's.
IC Date: 7/6/16
Dragon> Like a dust-wraith, a scattering of grit that leaves a pebbled imprint-- << You there? >> (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth's thoughts rain down on that grit, seemingly washing it away. << I'd say I am. Why? >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth's desert-dry mind is insatiable with water, wicks it away like so much parched earth, cracks in his mental landscape widening at the height of noon. << You thinkin' about chasin' greens when it comes to it? For sport? >>
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth seeks to water that earth, clouds appearing to drown it. << Does it matter? I'll take what I can get. Chase what there is to be chased. Green or gold. >>
Dragon> Ciath-- youth and passion and summer-storm captivation, fierce but forgotten. Teonath-- gleaming cold perfection, the crystallized blue-flame of his endless devotion. << Take what you can get then. Guess beggars really can't be choosers. >> (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers those older golds briefly before finally resting on Teonath's image. << Ain't sayin' I'm a beggar, am I? Not saying I don't have my favourites. >> A clean cut image of Rielsath, that warm campfire blazing in the background appears. Zelieth, the flighty older spotlight-starved green. Then finally another remark to the older bronze. << Is it so wrong to chase the greens? >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth flares protective jealousy, a puff of whiskey-scent and gunsmoke-danger, at the thought of Rielsath, still his daughter, unmatured in a sire's mind. But, man-to-man, maybe there's a glimmer of understanding there as well. << Ain't wrong. Ain't the same. >> By comparison to the strength of his ardor for his queens, Vrianth's imprint is a momentary transgression shared with the younger bronze. << Do what you wanna, s'pose, just don't say you ain't been warned. >>
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth's thoughts continue to rain down like an Istan storm, lightning crackling, echoing that gunsmoke danger. << Mine has thoughts too. Who he'd like me to chase. Can't say I'd indulge him with every request. >> The latter is spoken in amusement, but the bronze quickly makes the amusement dissipate into vapour, sending it back into the clouds above that dusty place of Wyaeth's mind. << Warned about green's, or warned about chasin' in general? >>
Dragon> Pfft. That's the distilled version of Wyaeth's thoughts on indulging riders with particular requests. << 'bout greens, just greens. Reckon you got, what? Two-hundred 'n fifty of 'em just at Ista? Imagine chasing one every other day! >> The image is an exhausted Malsaeth, blurry in the mind's eye, not sure on the details of his conversant's physical appearance. (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth provides a clearer picture of himself, as seen through other eyes, likely X'lar's. Brilliant crimson-chased bronze hide, dark, malicious charred black talons. << Never said I'd chase them all. Wouldn't want to do that to X'lar. >> Amusement follows. << There're other dragons. In other weyrs, too. Can't help but go weyr to weyr, see what treats are given, yeah? >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth still blurs the image, even provided a clean one, the haziness reminiscent of the watery feel of dirt in the eyes. << Don't worry so damn much about X'lar, kid'll either learn to cope or-- >> Intangible, feelings of resentment and frustration and the breaking-point. << Go weyr-to-weyr, see if /that/ makes your X'lar happy. >> Snort.
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers that dirt, but doesn't seem to water it. Not now anyways. Anyways, that growl of his voice just gets hoarse, as if the dust had somehow got caught in it. << You and yours never went weyr-to-weyr? What do they call it? Sowing? >> Another pause and then adds << How then should one react? Stick to one gold, like you to Teonath? >>
Dragon> Aleith-- Telgar-- forgotten, or nearly so. Ciath-- Fort-- remembered like a boyhood sweetheart. << Ain't saying we never stepped foot outta the 'Reaches but... >> Clinging to the memory of Ciath is another memory, an external sense of discomfort and unhappiness and weariness and dislike, dislike for Fort Weyr. << Teonath's my queen, my mate, you find one like that? Sure. Be faithful as you can be. Just gotta learn that you chase when /you/ wanna, not when they want you to. >> /They./ Females. X'lar. (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth studies each and every gold mentioned. << Nalaieth. >> There's a brief pause as lightning illuminates that other gold, seemingly testing this theory. << They're all golds, the ones you talk about... Greens not worth the trouble then? >> Another image, Vrianth, replaces the one of Nalaieth. << She's worth it. Worth more than most. >> Another pause and then adds another curious question to the older bronze, << What's so wrong with Ciath, with Fort, that weyr? >>
Dragon> Wyaeth bespoke Malsaeth with << Vrianth. >> Worth it? She glows dimly in the pantheon of his paramours, but she's there, token green. << Greens're sport, and if sport's what you're after, then they're for you. >> Not for him. Then, brusquely-- << Ain't nothing wrong with Ciath. N'thei just hated it there-- keep it in mind if you go chasin' outside Ista. >> Derisive; << Much as you worry about X'lar 'n all. >>
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers the concept of sport before finally thunder booms and his thoughts shift. << I'm younger than you. >> Perhaps this is an excuse. Or an explanation. It's not determined as the rain continues to fall, giving him a proper cover as he considers the bronze's words again. << I'd keep to Reaches and Ista, maybe Telgar. Fort an' Igen not places I'd like. Too dry. Too sandy. >> A snort, decidedly almost like his lifemate's. << And you don't worry about N'thei? >>
Dragon> The image of a steel trap, cold and gleaming and sharp and inalienable, menacing and unforgiving. << N'thei'll take care of himself. X'lar won't? >> Ista, Telgar, Fort, Igen-- this is a Weyrleader's dragon, and his thoughts stay close to home, fondness for none but the Reaches, even then little but the cold-blue-flame ardor of Teonath. (Wyaeth to Malsaeth)
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth considers again. << We are young. Can we not discover on our own? You've got experience. >> Another pause and the images of those golds from earlier seem to erupt into being with the flash of lighntning providing more illumination. << Apparently lots. >> The last is said in amusement. << X'lar takes care of himself most of the time. Can't help but keep watch. Hope he doesn't piss off the wrong people. He's going to lead. >>
Dragon> Malsaeth senses that Wyaeth's voice, presence, aura smirks, the slow smirk after a long drink. << Is he now. >> Gradually, the sense of him begins to fade, like the sun slipping beneath the horizon, the desert colors drained into twilight and darkness. << Good for him. >> Pat-on-the-head there, sonny, while the big boys go off their own way.
Malsaeth> Wyaeth senses that Malsaeth makes the heavens shudder with more thunder and lightning, providing a darker backdrop. << We remember. We shall show them and you. >> Whoever them might be, he doesn't explain. Instead, as he feels that presence ease away, so does the meteorological phenomenon, more harsh is his departure than perhaps the other bronze's.