The Smallest and the Far-Away-Est.
RL Date: 4/24/09
IC Date: Matters?
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth streeeetches, reaches, tickles an unfamiliar mind with sunshine and birdsong, la la la. << Hi! >>
Dragon> This is not a mind for sunshine and birdsong, kiddo. This here's all gravel and gunsmoke. Still, friendly enough drawl, << Howdy. >> And, yeah, Wyaeth's puzzled; he lets the greens alone, they tend to let him alone. (Wyaeth to Chielyth)
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth isn't old enough to know about let-alone; she rattles the gravel cheerfully, blows poofs at the gunsmoke and offers her own smell-of-damp-moss in return. << Hi! >> she says again. << I'm Chielyth! Who are you? Imoth said we should look for far-away dragons and you are the far-away-est I could find! >> She'd say more, /could/ say more, but oh yeah, remember to let the other dragon answer.
Dragon> To Chielyth, Wyaeth amends, << Howdy, Chielyth, >> then. He doesn't try and pretend he ain't puzzled, kinda lets the scratchy-surface of his thoughts speak for themselves. How'd his name get pulled outta her hat? << Where ya at, littl'un? >> He's not so much good at making images clear, but-- desert Igen? Cold Telgar? Green Southern? Rocky Fort? Humid Ista? It's a free geography lesson.
Dragon> Where? Where? Chielyth puzzles over that for maybe a minute, pouncing delightedly at the images. Pictures, yay! << I am here! >> she offers finally, providing her own crayon-scribbly version of 'here' - and bad as the bronze's offerings are, hers is worse. Perhaps he'll be able to identify Fort's walls in there, maybe not. But it's almost certainly not Igen and definitely not Southern. << Where are you? >> (Chielyth to Wyaeth)
Dragon> Yeah, not so much help there. Wyaeth... gives up, don't matter so much anyways. << Would ya recognize it even if I showed ya? >> The spires, the high-dark-places that shadow the high noon landscape of his thoughts. << Long ways from... >> Er. Wherever she is. (Wyaeth to Chielyth)
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth doesn't fuss about 'here' versus 'there', but snuggles right up against her new friend. << I don't know, >> she says about would-she-recognize. << I don't think so. But maybe you could show Imoth where you are? >> Imoth knows everything. << What's your name? >> And wouldn't this gravel look better with some sunshine on it?
Dragon> Whoa whoa whoa there. There's friendly and then there's snuggling, and Wyaeth prefers not to go gettin' all cozy, 'specially not with little bitty greens off somewhere in the ether. It's a mental backstep, creak of leather, scrape of sand, no less warmth in the dry drawl, << Wyaeth. >> Like dry wind in the eyes, blurred and sandy, he glances a thought of Fort Weyr? << You're just a little thing, >> he deduces-- Imoth's a giveaway. (Wyaeth to Chielyth)
Dragon> Oooh, a new game! Wyaeth backs off, she moves forward... but that's only fun for a few repetitions before she settles down politely -out- of snuggling range, and creak-creak-creaks the leather sound again. << I am the smallest! >> she agrees - Wyaeth's so clever! - and offers a darkness, a coziness, the mumble and hubbub of an echoing chamber filled with other dragons, other people. << I like you, Wyaeth, >> she decides with the bluntness of youth, but refrains from flinging herself about his neck. (Chielyth to Wyaeth)
Dragon> To Chielyth, Wyaeth aw-shucks, the equivalent of a little knuckle-bump for her chin. Ain't she cute. << Idn'that something, >> he answers to The Smallest, entertained in a pat-on-the-head way. << Don't you got nobody nearby as'll talk to you? >> Not that he's /complaining/, just that neither small-talk nor small-dragons are his forte.
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth wriggles happily. << Oh yes! There's Imoth, and Mecaith, and Peirith and Gedroth and Agrith and everybody else! But you are the far-away-est. >> << Not Dasarth, >> she adds after a second, scribbles redly all over the feel of stamping feet and mayhem. << ...Imoth says we are going to fly now so I am going to go fly, >> Yay! << but I will talk to you later, Wyaeth. I like you. >> She said that already, but some things need to be repeated, especially to grumpy-ass bronzes.
Dragon> To Chielyth, Wyaeth's not grumpy! He's the charm in his particular duo. Believe it or not. << Good luck with the flying, sugar. Try'n keep it-- >> Seesaw, seesaw, seesaw... steady, the very slight teetering thought of wings-- little wings, small small wings-- resolved into an arrow-straight path. There's a distinct go-west-young-man quality to the severing of thoughts, off into the sunset'n all.
IC Date: Matters?
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth streeeetches, reaches, tickles an unfamiliar mind with sunshine and birdsong, la la la. << Hi! >>
Dragon> This is not a mind for sunshine and birdsong, kiddo. This here's all gravel and gunsmoke. Still, friendly enough drawl, << Howdy. >> And, yeah, Wyaeth's puzzled; he lets the greens alone, they tend to let him alone. (Wyaeth to Chielyth)
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth isn't old enough to know about let-alone; she rattles the gravel cheerfully, blows poofs at the gunsmoke and offers her own smell-of-damp-moss in return. << Hi! >> she says again. << I'm Chielyth! Who are you? Imoth said we should look for far-away dragons and you are the far-away-est I could find! >> She'd say more, /could/ say more, but oh yeah, remember to let the other dragon answer.
Dragon> To Chielyth, Wyaeth amends, << Howdy, Chielyth, >> then. He doesn't try and pretend he ain't puzzled, kinda lets the scratchy-surface of his thoughts speak for themselves. How'd his name get pulled outta her hat? << Where ya at, littl'un? >> He's not so much good at making images clear, but-- desert Igen? Cold Telgar? Green Southern? Rocky Fort? Humid Ista? It's a free geography lesson.
Dragon> Where? Where? Chielyth puzzles over that for maybe a minute, pouncing delightedly at the images. Pictures, yay! << I am here! >> she offers finally, providing her own crayon-scribbly version of 'here' - and bad as the bronze's offerings are, hers is worse. Perhaps he'll be able to identify Fort's walls in there, maybe not. But it's almost certainly not Igen and definitely not Southern. << Where are you? >> (Chielyth to Wyaeth)
Dragon> Yeah, not so much help there. Wyaeth... gives up, don't matter so much anyways. << Would ya recognize it even if I showed ya? >> The spires, the high-dark-places that shadow the high noon landscape of his thoughts. << Long ways from... >> Er. Wherever she is. (Wyaeth to Chielyth)
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth doesn't fuss about 'here' versus 'there', but snuggles right up against her new friend. << I don't know, >> she says about would-she-recognize. << I don't think so. But maybe you could show Imoth where you are? >> Imoth knows everything. << What's your name? >> And wouldn't this gravel look better with some sunshine on it?
Dragon> Whoa whoa whoa there. There's friendly and then there's snuggling, and Wyaeth prefers not to go gettin' all cozy, 'specially not with little bitty greens off somewhere in the ether. It's a mental backstep, creak of leather, scrape of sand, no less warmth in the dry drawl, << Wyaeth. >> Like dry wind in the eyes, blurred and sandy, he glances a thought of Fort Weyr? << You're just a little thing, >> he deduces-- Imoth's a giveaway. (Wyaeth to Chielyth)
Dragon> Oooh, a new game! Wyaeth backs off, she moves forward... but that's only fun for a few repetitions before she settles down politely -out- of snuggling range, and creak-creak-creaks the leather sound again. << I am the smallest! >> she agrees - Wyaeth's so clever! - and offers a darkness, a coziness, the mumble and hubbub of an echoing chamber filled with other dragons, other people. << I like you, Wyaeth, >> she decides with the bluntness of youth, but refrains from flinging herself about his neck. (Chielyth to Wyaeth)
Dragon> To Chielyth, Wyaeth aw-shucks, the equivalent of a little knuckle-bump for her chin. Ain't she cute. << Idn'that something, >> he answers to The Smallest, entertained in a pat-on-the-head way. << Don't you got nobody nearby as'll talk to you? >> Not that he's /complaining/, just that neither small-talk nor small-dragons are his forte.
Dragon> To Wyaeth, Chielyth wriggles happily. << Oh yes! There's Imoth, and Mecaith, and Peirith and Gedroth and Agrith and everybody else! But you are the far-away-est. >> << Not Dasarth, >> she adds after a second, scribbles redly all over the feel of stamping feet and mayhem. << ...Imoth says we are going to fly now so I am going to go fly, >> Yay! << but I will talk to you later, Wyaeth. I like you. >> She said that already, but some things need to be repeated, especially to grumpy-ass bronzes.
Dragon> To Chielyth, Wyaeth's not grumpy! He's the charm in his particular duo. Believe it or not. << Good luck with the flying, sugar. Try'n keep it-- >> Seesaw, seesaw, seesaw... steady, the very slight teetering thought of wings-- little wings, small small wings-- resolved into an arrow-straight path. There's a distinct go-west-young-man quality to the severing of thoughts, off into the sunset'n all.