Log: Nighttime, Storytime
RL: April 27, 2008.
VR: Day 1, month 3, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a spring evening.
Leova, Niena, and their dragons spend mostly quiet time atop the diving cliff. Naijath tells Vrianth a story.
Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr
Soft, resolute, and dreamlike, the day's ending sunlight provides for an eerie gaze across the Weyr, not to the worn, stone steps that disappear into this flat area resting high above the waters below. Huddled families of rocks, boulders and pebbles lay strewn around the edges of the clifftop. The sandy center of the half-plateau seems to have been cleared of any debris and the area provides enough room, sitting or standing, for many people. A small journey to the edge of the precipice reveals the true use of this place. The deep, midnight-blue waters of the lake shimmer below in the dimming light, and the shorn patch of rock near the edge proves that many a person has felt the thrill of a swift flight from this clifftop, only to be enveloped by the chilly waters of the Weyr lake.
The evening is clear, not a cloud to be seen, giving you a perfect view of the stars. while Timor is a nearly full waxing gibbous though the smaller Belior closes its eye to dream. A definite wind can be felt and the spring air is cold.
It's been so long since that night at Ista, that beach with the High Reaches weyrlings all about, but the night is clear and Timor's nearly full: a good time for remembering. And, for Vrianth, reaching out to see whether the older green is awake and what she, too, might see. (Vrianth to Naijath)
Masoth senses Vrianth reaches out to Masoth's familiar thoughts, and suddenly there's a click: a nearly as familiar image of their high cliff above the lake, not quite as high as the Star Stones but the more sheltered for it, and the sense of Vrianth. Right there.
Vrianth senses that Naijath reaches back when she feels the younger green mentally approach. << Yes. I am here. >> An image of her sandy ledge-- black, istan sand, still warm from the day's sun upon it-- and feelings of that jungle warmth, and the sleepiness it lends itself to.
Naijath senses Vrianth pulls that warmth to her, black sand and green jungle smells and almost the sleepiness, too, before she snaps herself back out of it. << Is it sticky-warm, Naijath? >> Or just warm?
It hasn't been nighttime so very long, and perhaps that's why Vrianth's still here instead of on her own ledge with its similar view. She greets Masoth with a warble that's low and rich enough to have rumbly echoes, and only then does Leova realize. Stand. Wave. "Niena, you with him? Down here!"
Niena slides down and waves, albeit not very visibly. "Hello, Leova. How are you and Vrianth liking riderhood?" Masoth warbles happily to his sister.
"Good. Although I could do without twitching every time a wingleader walks by," Leova says. "Or a wingsecond. Not tapped yet, are you? Heard something about their taking their time, maybe letting us get used to it." Vrianth resettles now, a warm length of dragon with her paws just over the edge of the cliff. Just enough room for company.
Vrianth senses that Naijath considers, then answers, << It was sticky-warm earlier. >> A vivid memory of such. << Now it is heavy-warm. >> And she elaborates by sending another example, heat oppressive-feeling enough to weigh on her delicate self. Sleepiness-inducing, indeed. << What is it like where you are? >>
Naijath senses Vrianth shakes herself mentally, resettles with those sticky-oppressive-unhappy warmth gone in favor of cold, clear night and a light wind. The scent of water, clear rather than salty. An only slightly longer but broader masculine presence, newly arrived, and the sound of riders' voices. Others, more distant and echoing off the lake. << So. >>
Vrianth senses that Naijath takes in those feelings of coolness, allowing the mental sending to help cool her in the jungle evening. << That seems lovely, >> she says, her melodic voice sounding invigorated by the reprieve of weather. << Different from here. >> And she adds details to her image, although leaving out the heat: male and female voices inside, soft, staccato interruptions by a young child, and another male presence-- hers familiar, constant.
Masoth takes the tacit invitation, also draping his front feet over the edge. Niena nods, then realizes it can't be seen, and says "I've not been tapped yet either. I guess the only one who really has no worries that way is Lujayn."
Leova glances past Vrianth to Masoth, looking at what the moonlight shows her of him, then leans comfortably back against her dragon's side. "Guess so. Who do you want? Or don't want, if that's easier?"
Naijath senses Vrianth's thoughts spark with a moment's humor: Vrianth having borrowed warmth, Naijath borrowing coolness, both made more comfortable because of it. Her voice is far less melodic than Naijath, with a gravelly roughness to it. << Very. >> The sense of a child Vrianth gives wide berth, that of Naijath's companion less so, a sudden brighter spark marking surprise. << Oh! Talurith. Does he tell you stories always? >>
Niena sits beside Leova and says "I'm not really sure I have a preference. I never really gave wings a thought, either before we impressed or while I was a Weyrling."
Leova glances down at her, even with the bluerider sitting in the shadows. Habit. "Now you can. Though maybe it doesn't matter, if they're decided already. Maybe I should ask, do you know what sort of wing you want?"
Niena says "If I weren't too lazy to look it up, the one with the least injuries, I guess. Not including the queen's, of course, since that requires me to be pregnant."
Leova's grimace is audible in her voice. "Don't remind Persie of that one. But what, don't you want to be practicing that dragonhealing on your wingmates? Just think, the longer until you get tapped, the more you have to learn." Vrianth turns her head on that sleek neck of hers, surveying Masoth, his rider. Hers.
Vrianth senses that Naijath seems amused by the other green's surprise at the presence of the bronze dragon. << Oh yes. Always. >> A beat, and she amends, << Unless it is I that is telling the story. >> Slight smugness to that. << You know Talurith? >>
Naijath senses Vrianth sends agreement, a flash of purple-striped felines, but it's quickly overridden by so very many tiny bright sparks like a delighted, electric purr. << Naijath, would you tell /me/ a story? >>
Niena's voice holds a similar grimace. "To be honest, I'd rather practice it on total strangers -- not people, or dragons, I care about. I'm really afraid of Masoth getting scored." She admits.
"Can imagine." Leova glances up, shakes her head at Vrianth. Looks back down. "Fewer and fewer strangers around here, seems like. People you know to talk to, I mean, not just people you maybe recognize. Not counting the traders."
Vrianth senses that Naijath pauses only briefly before answering, << Yes. >> Another pause as she searches for a good beginning. << Once upon a time... >> Well, what better beginning than that? And she paints the opening scene: a pastoral field with runners and bovines, and two young girls running through it, faces and dresses smudged with dirt.
Niena nods, then her voice reflects some small humor. "I guess the solution would be to practice dragonhealing only at other Weyrs."
Naijath senses Vrianth rewards the other green with those sparks turned blue and green and altogether bright, before hastily whisking them away and becoming, for her, unusually quiet. Listening. Watching. Until, almost a whisper, << They are not clean. >>
Leova has to chuckle. "And invite some of theirs, over here?" She slides her bare hand over Vrianth's hide in what becomes a repetitive gesture. Starts to say something, then lets the question rest.
Niena says "That would probably work out quite well. Then they could be not emotionally involved -- though I'd worry about Telgar dragonhealers."
Vrianth senses that Naijath laughs in her own way, a sparkling, rippling wave of color. << No, they are not. >> They race each other through the field in Naijath's mind. And then a blue dragon appears on the scene, in the air, sudden as an apparition from *between*, which is likely what it's meant to be. As she sends the image, she allows some details to remain blurrier than others, as if encouraging the other dragon to help to fill them in.
"Because of," Leova stops. Her hand on Vrianth doesn't, though the near-circles she strokes are smaller now. "Crom, you think. Really?"
Niena replies softly "Old habits die hard. Although I'm a lot less angry since discussing it with Shanlee."
"Why?" Leova's question is quiet.
Naijath senses Vrianth at first lets the scene play out without her, but then the temptation Naijath lets her touch is just too much: the girls get a little more dirt and in top-knotted hair this time, the runners vanish and bovines reappear in their places the way the blue dragon had. And maybe the blue dragon's claws are showing that much more, but otherwise he's untouched.
Niena says "Shanlee reminded me that it was the Lord Holder who was really the o
ne to be blamed. They just had a bad situation dumped in their laps."
Leova teases, "Now, but was she that straightforward about it?"
Niena considers. "Pretty much."
Leova asks, "Is she usually? Straightforward. For you."
Niena says "She was when she mentored me. She asked a lot of questions, but she also clarified for me when I had questions for her."
"Did she? Hm." Leova leans a little more heavily against her dragon. Vrianth can take it. And, again, Leova looks down into the shadows where Niena should be.
Niena has scooted over toward Masoth and nods at Leova's question, not remembering this time that it can't be seen.
There's the sound associated with scooting, but then Leova asks, "Niena?"
Niena says "Yes?"
"Just was quiet," Leova says. "That's all." And then she lets it be quiet again.
Niena giggles. "Oh, that's right. Hard to see a nod or a head shake right now."
Vrianth senses that Naijath seems immensely pleased with the additions, continuing on the story. << And then... >> And then the dragon lands, and his rider dismounts. A strapping young man with a Fort Weyr knot, but otherwise, details unspecified. She experiments, giving him bushy eyebrows, a porcine nose and tail, wildly oversized ears... each time letting it flicker upon the image as if questioning the other green which ones should be chosen, then disappearing again.
"It is that." Leova's chuckle is soft, and then falls silent. They don't always have to talk.
And that pleasure of Naijath's is that much more incentive for Vrianth to keep going. With the tail, especially. The others don't seem to matter, she doesn't linger on them, but the tail! She toys with the girls getting their own, after a moment thinking to try this flicker-question technique too. (Vrianth to Naijath)
Vrianth senses that Naijath likes the idea, sending back the image with all three given pink, curly tails. More questioning: long floppy rabbit ears for the girls? With bows? Talurith's influence is clearly present here; only he could have taught her to tell such tall tales. The story still moves forward, little by little, as the two girls rush up to the rider excitedly, curly tails twirling.
Niena lapses into companionable silence, then. Masoth rustles his wings once or twice, but is otherwise quiet.
Naijath senses Vrianth can handle the bows, particularly if they are long waving bows the exact color of the dragon, and how about bows on their tails too? It takes her a moment to realize the story's moving forward, and then she skips to catch up with it, adding another for the bluerider as a bandana. Expectation hangs brightly in the air: what will Naijath come up with next?
Masoth senses Vrianth need not be quiet as her rider, quite. She shares a sense of satiny blue sliding through her mind like some sort of ribbon, or perhaps it's a particularly slow river.
The breeze picks up slightly, threading along dragon wings, into Leova's hair. As the night deepens, Timor rises higher. Brighter.
Vrianth senses that Masoth replies in kind with velvety green -- or perhaps a growing verdant vine.
Masoth senses Vrianth's thoughts might as well be velvet, so fine are their gravelly particles, except for that slight rough edge. << Quiet tonight, Masoth. >>
Masoth bespoke Vrianth with << Quiet is good. My rider likes it. >>
Masoth senses Vrianth wonders now, less arch than charming and the least bit sly, << Do you like it for yourself? Masoth? >> Riders can be quiet. Look at them. Or don't. That's fine too.
Vrianth senses that Naijath excitedly continues to embellish the image, making all that blue just a little bluer, more vibrant. In this next part of the story, the blue dragon lowers his head towards the two girls, touching his snout to each of their noses. She freezes the image, investigating nose possibilities. The one she likes best is long and trunk-like, only bright orange.
Masoth bespoke Vrianth with << I do. It gives time to dream. >>
Masoth senses Vrianth accepts that. But also she might seek to listen to his dreams, just a little, as the night deepens around them.
Naijath senses Vrianth's gone a little quieter now, observing: the change in noses doesn't meet with favor, but it is Naijath's story and she doesn't fuss with it. She just doesn't look. Just waits. Just a little longer, before she reaches out to prod the story back into action.
Vrianth senses that Masoth dreams today of a sunset he and his rider saw recently. The ski is filled with pink and purple and peachy orange and fiery red and pale yelllow, yet they all seem to blend together.
Masoth senses Vrianth remains quiet for once, though the current of her attention quickens. She watches the sunset: sees whether it will stay the same, whether it will shift and move. The winds move so much: perhaps this too.
Vrianth senses that Naijath senses the lack of enthusiasm, and so the noses flicker back-- plain, human noses again. The story resumes. << They are Searched, >> she explains, and the scene changes: it is Fort Weyr, and yet /not/ Fort Weyr. The bowl seems made from a sugary sweetener, and pastries line the arched openings into caverns and weyrs. Around the Hatching Sands, the dragons on ledges watching over about-to-hatch eggs are alternately real and not-real, instead made of spun sweetener, a Pernese marzipan of Naijath's imagination. Everything is candy.
Naijath senses Vrianth knows this, remembers this, << The way Talurith took one of ours. >> Still she isn't entirely reconciled but more resigned, regardless that she had seen him with his Xorvith not so very long ago. But. Enough about him. Into the bowl's sky she shapes a sunset, orange and fiery red and pale yellow, its bright colors reflecting over the sweetener into dusty pastels. Like so.
Vrianth senses that Naijath gives a mental nod, adding, << Like ours were, once. >> Then the hatching! Brilliant, luminescent eggs upon the sands crack open. She toys with something other than dragons emerging-- inventive, imaginary avians? Slender, elegant runners unlike any that actually exist, in bright purples and reds? But no, in the end, they are dragons, although the same sugary marzipan. << Hatched like us, >> she adds. And the two girls, long-eared and blue-bowed, find lifemates, two little greens. << Like us. >> Sort of.
Vrianth senses that Masoth is quiet mentally as the colors fade and merge and fade more, until finally there is a starry blue-black sky.
Naijath senses Vrianth had been moving along with this just fine, lingering with the avians and even not making the runners disappear, this time, until Naijath does it herself. But then. Then. << There is no one like me, >> she explains to Naijath very gently, as though the older green should be expected to understand. Perhaps the other girl, the other green, are somehow Naijath's other sister?
Masoth senses Vrianth looks at those stars, and then their stars, and though she can be dreamy she's also comparing. The same? Different? Different how, and when?
Vrianth senses that Masoth's stars are the same as can be seen tonight, though the moons are slightly different.
Masoth senses Vrianth reaches immediately out for those moons, to move them, shape them. But then. A moment later, she puts them back, nearly right where she found them. Now it can be quiet again.
Vrianth senses that Naijath is quick to clarify, understanding very well. << Only in color. >> But no exactly, either, see? Because the shades of the two greens are quite different from either Naijath or Vrianth's own personal takes on the color green. The two long-eared girls head off the sands with their lifemates, beginning to stuff them full with meat pies and baked sweets, instead of the usual cut herdbeast.
At that, Vrianth near-immediately relaxes, opens herself up just a little more to the other green's thoughts: Naijath understands. Now she can watch, and admire, and even add a cheese tart for each young not-them green. One gets savory, the other sweet. (Vrianth to Naijath)
He would, wouldn't he? Vrianth sends sparks into the waves, as tiny and particulate as grains of sand. (Vrianth to Masoth)
Vrianth senses that Naijath, liking the cheese tart, adds a few more inventive sweets to the pile, including bubbly pies in several flavors. She seems to be about to add something else, and there's a pause in the mind-to-mind sending until finally, drawing a blank of anything more to add, she says, << And they lived happily ever after. >> Because that's how all good stories end.
Naijath senses Vrianth thinks this over, and then wraps it up with more of the blue satin ribbons until it is quite a neat and tidy bow. Quite seriously, << Thank you, Naijath. >> And there's an extra ribbon, just for Naijath, just for Naijath to keep.
And then Vrianth shifts, her wings stretching even as her rider yawns and stretches out her arms into the night, too. "Better catch some sleep, I think. Night, you two," and good thing it's such a short trip up and over to their home sweet ledge.
Vrianth senses that Masoth leaves the sparks, letting them glow in the aqua ripples, shingin like a different kind of star.
Vrianth senses that Naijath takes the ribbon with gratitude, letting it wind around her thoughts and then tying it into a bow. << You are very welcome. I hope you liked it? I am not quite as good as Talurith. >>
Naijath senses Vrianth did, she very much did, made the brighter for it. << Very much. And now we sleep, Naijath, >> and perhaps she and hers will also sleep well.
Masoth senses Vrianth leaves him with those sparks, that star, to remember her by. The sparks pulse warmly, just for a moment, and then she's gone.
Naijath senses Vrianth sends a last warm whisper. << We will. >> If she remembers. But surely she will.
VR: Day 1, month 3, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a spring evening.
Leova, Niena, and their dragons spend mostly quiet time atop the diving cliff. Naijath tells Vrianth a story.
Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr
Soft, resolute, and dreamlike, the day's ending sunlight provides for an eerie gaze across the Weyr, not to the worn, stone steps that disappear into this flat area resting high above the waters below. Huddled families of rocks, boulders and pebbles lay strewn around the edges of the clifftop. The sandy center of the half-plateau seems to have been cleared of any debris and the area provides enough room, sitting or standing, for many people. A small journey to the edge of the precipice reveals the true use of this place. The deep, midnight-blue waters of the lake shimmer below in the dimming light, and the shorn patch of rock near the edge proves that many a person has felt the thrill of a swift flight from this clifftop, only to be enveloped by the chilly waters of the Weyr lake.
The evening is clear, not a cloud to be seen, giving you a perfect view of the stars. while Timor is a nearly full waxing gibbous though the smaller Belior closes its eye to dream. A definite wind can be felt and the spring air is cold.
It's been so long since that night at Ista, that beach with the High Reaches weyrlings all about, but the night is clear and Timor's nearly full: a good time for remembering. And, for Vrianth, reaching out to see whether the older green is awake and what she, too, might see. (Vrianth to Naijath)
Masoth senses Vrianth reaches out to Masoth's familiar thoughts, and suddenly there's a click: a nearly as familiar image of their high cliff above the lake, not quite as high as the Star Stones but the more sheltered for it, and the sense of Vrianth. Right there.
Vrianth senses that Naijath reaches back when she feels the younger green mentally approach. << Yes. I am here. >> An image of her sandy ledge-- black, istan sand, still warm from the day's sun upon it-- and feelings of that jungle warmth, and the sleepiness it lends itself to.
Naijath senses Vrianth pulls that warmth to her, black sand and green jungle smells and almost the sleepiness, too, before she snaps herself back out of it. << Is it sticky-warm, Naijath? >> Or just warm?
It hasn't been nighttime so very long, and perhaps that's why Vrianth's still here instead of on her own ledge with its similar view. She greets Masoth with a warble that's low and rich enough to have rumbly echoes, and only then does Leova realize. Stand. Wave. "Niena, you with him? Down here!"
Niena slides down and waves, albeit not very visibly. "Hello, Leova. How are you and Vrianth liking riderhood?" Masoth warbles happily to his sister.
"Good. Although I could do without twitching every time a wingleader walks by," Leova says. "Or a wingsecond. Not tapped yet, are you? Heard something about their taking their time, maybe letting us get used to it." Vrianth resettles now, a warm length of dragon with her paws just over the edge of the cliff. Just enough room for company.
Vrianth senses that Naijath considers, then answers, << It was sticky-warm earlier. >> A vivid memory of such. << Now it is heavy-warm. >> And she elaborates by sending another example, heat oppressive-feeling enough to weigh on her delicate self. Sleepiness-inducing, indeed. << What is it like where you are? >>
Naijath senses Vrianth shakes herself mentally, resettles with those sticky-oppressive-unhappy warmth gone in favor of cold, clear night and a light wind. The scent of water, clear rather than salty. An only slightly longer but broader masculine presence, newly arrived, and the sound of riders' voices. Others, more distant and echoing off the lake. << So. >>
Vrianth senses that Naijath takes in those feelings of coolness, allowing the mental sending to help cool her in the jungle evening. << That seems lovely, >> she says, her melodic voice sounding invigorated by the reprieve of weather. << Different from here. >> And she adds details to her image, although leaving out the heat: male and female voices inside, soft, staccato interruptions by a young child, and another male presence-- hers familiar, constant.
Masoth takes the tacit invitation, also draping his front feet over the edge. Niena nods, then realizes it can't be seen, and says "I've not been tapped yet either. I guess the only one who really has no worries that way is Lujayn."
Leova glances past Vrianth to Masoth, looking at what the moonlight shows her of him, then leans comfortably back against her dragon's side. "Guess so. Who do you want? Or don't want, if that's easier?"
Naijath senses Vrianth's thoughts spark with a moment's humor: Vrianth having borrowed warmth, Naijath borrowing coolness, both made more comfortable because of it. Her voice is far less melodic than Naijath, with a gravelly roughness to it. << Very. >> The sense of a child Vrianth gives wide berth, that of Naijath's companion less so, a sudden brighter spark marking surprise. << Oh! Talurith. Does he tell you stories always? >>
Niena sits beside Leova and says "I'm not really sure I have a preference. I never really gave wings a thought, either before we impressed or while I was a Weyrling."
Leova glances down at her, even with the bluerider sitting in the shadows. Habit. "Now you can. Though maybe it doesn't matter, if they're decided already. Maybe I should ask, do you know what sort of wing you want?"
Niena says "If I weren't too lazy to look it up, the one with the least injuries, I guess. Not including the queen's, of course, since that requires me to be pregnant."
Leova's grimace is audible in her voice. "Don't remind Persie of that one. But what, don't you want to be practicing that dragonhealing on your wingmates? Just think, the longer until you get tapped, the more you have to learn." Vrianth turns her head on that sleek neck of hers, surveying Masoth, his rider. Hers.
Vrianth senses that Naijath seems amused by the other green's surprise at the presence of the bronze dragon. << Oh yes. Always. >> A beat, and she amends, << Unless it is I that is telling the story. >> Slight smugness to that. << You know Talurith? >>
Naijath senses Vrianth sends agreement, a flash of purple-striped felines, but it's quickly overridden by so very many tiny bright sparks like a delighted, electric purr. << Naijath, would you tell /me/ a story? >>
Niena's voice holds a similar grimace. "To be honest, I'd rather practice it on total strangers -- not people, or dragons, I care about. I'm really afraid of Masoth getting scored." She admits.
"Can imagine." Leova glances up, shakes her head at Vrianth. Looks back down. "Fewer and fewer strangers around here, seems like. People you know to talk to, I mean, not just people you maybe recognize. Not counting the traders."
Vrianth senses that Naijath pauses only briefly before answering, << Yes. >> Another pause as she searches for a good beginning. << Once upon a time... >> Well, what better beginning than that? And she paints the opening scene: a pastoral field with runners and bovines, and two young girls running through it, faces and dresses smudged with dirt.
Niena nods, then her voice reflects some small humor. "I guess the solution would be to practice dragonhealing only at other Weyrs."
Naijath senses Vrianth rewards the other green with those sparks turned blue and green and altogether bright, before hastily whisking them away and becoming, for her, unusually quiet. Listening. Watching. Until, almost a whisper, << They are not clean. >>
Leova has to chuckle. "And invite some of theirs, over here?" She slides her bare hand over Vrianth's hide in what becomes a repetitive gesture. Starts to say something, then lets the question rest.
Niena says "That would probably work out quite well. Then they could be not emotionally involved -- though I'd worry about Telgar dragonhealers."
Vrianth senses that Naijath laughs in her own way, a sparkling, rippling wave of color. << No, they are not. >> They race each other through the field in Naijath's mind. And then a blue dragon appears on the scene, in the air, sudden as an apparition from *between*, which is likely what it's meant to be. As she sends the image, she allows some details to remain blurrier than others, as if encouraging the other dragon to help to fill them in.
"Because of," Leova stops. Her hand on Vrianth doesn't, though the near-circles she strokes are smaller now. "Crom, you think. Really?"
Niena replies softly "Old habits die hard. Although I'm a lot less angry since discussing it with Shanlee."
"Why?" Leova's question is quiet.
Naijath senses Vrianth at first lets the scene play out without her, but then the temptation Naijath lets her touch is just too much: the girls get a little more dirt and in top-knotted hair this time, the runners vanish and bovines reappear in their places the way the blue dragon had. And maybe the blue dragon's claws are showing that much more, but otherwise he's untouched.
Niena says "Shanlee reminded me that it was the Lord Holder who was really the o
ne to be blamed. They just had a bad situation dumped in their laps."
Leova teases, "Now, but was she that straightforward about it?"
Niena considers. "Pretty much."
Leova asks, "Is she usually? Straightforward. For you."
Niena says "She was when she mentored me. She asked a lot of questions, but she also clarified for me when I had questions for her."
"Did she? Hm." Leova leans a little more heavily against her dragon. Vrianth can take it. And, again, Leova looks down into the shadows where Niena should be.
Niena has scooted over toward Masoth and nods at Leova's question, not remembering this time that it can't be seen.
There's the sound associated with scooting, but then Leova asks, "Niena?"
Niena says "Yes?"
"Just was quiet," Leova says. "That's all." And then she lets it be quiet again.
Niena giggles. "Oh, that's right. Hard to see a nod or a head shake right now."
Vrianth senses that Naijath seems immensely pleased with the additions, continuing on the story. << And then... >> And then the dragon lands, and his rider dismounts. A strapping young man with a Fort Weyr knot, but otherwise, details unspecified. She experiments, giving him bushy eyebrows, a porcine nose and tail, wildly oversized ears... each time letting it flicker upon the image as if questioning the other green which ones should be chosen, then disappearing again.
"It is that." Leova's chuckle is soft, and then falls silent. They don't always have to talk.
And that pleasure of Naijath's is that much more incentive for Vrianth to keep going. With the tail, especially. The others don't seem to matter, she doesn't linger on them, but the tail! She toys with the girls getting their own, after a moment thinking to try this flicker-question technique too. (Vrianth to Naijath)
Vrianth senses that Naijath likes the idea, sending back the image with all three given pink, curly tails. More questioning: long floppy rabbit ears for the girls? With bows? Talurith's influence is clearly present here; only he could have taught her to tell such tall tales. The story still moves forward, little by little, as the two girls rush up to the rider excitedly, curly tails twirling.
Niena lapses into companionable silence, then. Masoth rustles his wings once or twice, but is otherwise quiet.
Naijath senses Vrianth can handle the bows, particularly if they are long waving bows the exact color of the dragon, and how about bows on their tails too? It takes her a moment to realize the story's moving forward, and then she skips to catch up with it, adding another for the bluerider as a bandana. Expectation hangs brightly in the air: what will Naijath come up with next?
Masoth senses Vrianth need not be quiet as her rider, quite. She shares a sense of satiny blue sliding through her mind like some sort of ribbon, or perhaps it's a particularly slow river.
The breeze picks up slightly, threading along dragon wings, into Leova's hair. As the night deepens, Timor rises higher. Brighter.
Vrianth senses that Masoth replies in kind with velvety green -- or perhaps a growing verdant vine.
Masoth senses Vrianth's thoughts might as well be velvet, so fine are their gravelly particles, except for that slight rough edge. << Quiet tonight, Masoth. >>
Masoth bespoke Vrianth with << Quiet is good. My rider likes it. >>
Masoth senses Vrianth wonders now, less arch than charming and the least bit sly, << Do you like it for yourself? Masoth? >> Riders can be quiet. Look at them. Or don't. That's fine too.
Vrianth senses that Naijath excitedly continues to embellish the image, making all that blue just a little bluer, more vibrant. In this next part of the story, the blue dragon lowers his head towards the two girls, touching his snout to each of their noses. She freezes the image, investigating nose possibilities. The one she likes best is long and trunk-like, only bright orange.
Masoth bespoke Vrianth with << I do. It gives time to dream. >>
Masoth senses Vrianth accepts that. But also she might seek to listen to his dreams, just a little, as the night deepens around them.
Naijath senses Vrianth's gone a little quieter now, observing: the change in noses doesn't meet with favor, but it is Naijath's story and she doesn't fuss with it. She just doesn't look. Just waits. Just a little longer, before she reaches out to prod the story back into action.
Vrianth senses that Masoth dreams today of a sunset he and his rider saw recently. The ski is filled with pink and purple and peachy orange and fiery red and pale yelllow, yet they all seem to blend together.
Masoth senses Vrianth remains quiet for once, though the current of her attention quickens. She watches the sunset: sees whether it will stay the same, whether it will shift and move. The winds move so much: perhaps this too.
Vrianth senses that Naijath senses the lack of enthusiasm, and so the noses flicker back-- plain, human noses again. The story resumes. << They are Searched, >> she explains, and the scene changes: it is Fort Weyr, and yet /not/ Fort Weyr. The bowl seems made from a sugary sweetener, and pastries line the arched openings into caverns and weyrs. Around the Hatching Sands, the dragons on ledges watching over about-to-hatch eggs are alternately real and not-real, instead made of spun sweetener, a Pernese marzipan of Naijath's imagination. Everything is candy.
Naijath senses Vrianth knows this, remembers this, << The way Talurith took one of ours. >> Still she isn't entirely reconciled but more resigned, regardless that she had seen him with his Xorvith not so very long ago. But. Enough about him. Into the bowl's sky she shapes a sunset, orange and fiery red and pale yellow, its bright colors reflecting over the sweetener into dusty pastels. Like so.
Vrianth senses that Naijath gives a mental nod, adding, << Like ours were, once. >> Then the hatching! Brilliant, luminescent eggs upon the sands crack open. She toys with something other than dragons emerging-- inventive, imaginary avians? Slender, elegant runners unlike any that actually exist, in bright purples and reds? But no, in the end, they are dragons, although the same sugary marzipan. << Hatched like us, >> she adds. And the two girls, long-eared and blue-bowed, find lifemates, two little greens. << Like us. >> Sort of.
Vrianth senses that Masoth is quiet mentally as the colors fade and merge and fade more, until finally there is a starry blue-black sky.
Naijath senses Vrianth had been moving along with this just fine, lingering with the avians and even not making the runners disappear, this time, until Naijath does it herself. But then. Then. << There is no one like me, >> she explains to Naijath very gently, as though the older green should be expected to understand. Perhaps the other girl, the other green, are somehow Naijath's other sister?
Masoth senses Vrianth looks at those stars, and then their stars, and though she can be dreamy she's also comparing. The same? Different? Different how, and when?
Vrianth senses that Masoth's stars are the same as can be seen tonight, though the moons are slightly different.
Masoth senses Vrianth reaches immediately out for those moons, to move them, shape them. But then. A moment later, she puts them back, nearly right where she found them. Now it can be quiet again.
Vrianth senses that Naijath is quick to clarify, understanding very well. << Only in color. >> But no exactly, either, see? Because the shades of the two greens are quite different from either Naijath or Vrianth's own personal takes on the color green. The two long-eared girls head off the sands with their lifemates, beginning to stuff them full with meat pies and baked sweets, instead of the usual cut herdbeast.
At that, Vrianth near-immediately relaxes, opens herself up just a little more to the other green's thoughts: Naijath understands. Now she can watch, and admire, and even add a cheese tart for each young not-them green. One gets savory, the other sweet. (Vrianth to Naijath)
He would, wouldn't he? Vrianth sends sparks into the waves, as tiny and particulate as grains of sand. (Vrianth to Masoth)
Vrianth senses that Naijath, liking the cheese tart, adds a few more inventive sweets to the pile, including bubbly pies in several flavors. She seems to be about to add something else, and there's a pause in the mind-to-mind sending until finally, drawing a blank of anything more to add, she says, << And they lived happily ever after. >> Because that's how all good stories end.
Naijath senses Vrianth thinks this over, and then wraps it up with more of the blue satin ribbons until it is quite a neat and tidy bow. Quite seriously, << Thank you, Naijath. >> And there's an extra ribbon, just for Naijath, just for Naijath to keep.
And then Vrianth shifts, her wings stretching even as her rider yawns and stretches out her arms into the night, too. "Better catch some sleep, I think. Night, you two," and good thing it's such a short trip up and over to their home sweet ledge.
Vrianth senses that Masoth leaves the sparks, letting them glow in the aqua ripples, shingin like a different kind of star.
Vrianth senses that Naijath takes the ribbon with gratitude, letting it wind around her thoughts and then tying it into a bow. << You are very welcome. I hope you liked it? I am not quite as good as Talurith. >>
Naijath senses Vrianth did, she very much did, made the brighter for it. << Very much. And now we sleep, Naijath, >> and perhaps she and hers will also sleep well.
Masoth senses Vrianth leaves him with those sparks, that star, to remember her by. The sparks pulse warmly, just for a moment, and then she's gone.
Naijath senses Vrianth sends a last warm whisper. << We will. >> If she remembers. But surely she will.