Log: A Break at Nabol
RL: May 14, 2008.
VR: Day 16, month 5, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a spring morning.
Mecaith and Vrianth talk. E'dre and Leova talk. Subjects include Crom, Teonath, Wyaeth, flowers, duties, Searching, plans, and what S'mron said.
From over the distance and a soft rustlng of sandgrains announces a gentle mental touch carrying with it the scent of water and flowers, sun on grass. Next come images if her mind is open to them, T'rev sitting with another young man playing cards, a view of the Smithcrafthall at dawn, the rosy pink edges of the sky streaked with golden clouds just before the sun bursts over the horizon. (Mecaith to Vrianth)
It's so very gradually that she begins to listen, gradual as the progression of the senses that he's sent. Sun on grass. And yet, the sun not yet risen. Which is memory and which is now? She reaches back, the better to riffle through them like so many cards while not, quite, touching. In case they break. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses that Mecaith puts the sun in the sky, morning still, but later than it is where she is. << It is well into morning here. We have already finished our morning duty. Sweeps at dawn. >> He explains the differential precisely and sands rustle again, reforming around a thought. << It is earlier for you, is it not? There is something about that in my rider's mind. >>
She eases with the explanation, understanding coming quick as a click. And for him she returns an image of early morning shadows transparent over their lake, rippled where the wind touches it, an occasional speck darting through it that might be a firelizard or something else unimportant. << Early enough. We run our errands later. >> There's a sense of flying hither and yon, others' tasks but /their/ work that could just as well be play. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses that Mecaith traces out vague lines of what will be: dragons moving in formation, some drawn more vividly than others, a brown and a green in particular, very detailed. It's the patterns of their movements though, all of them as they shift and change that seems to occupy most of his focus. << Later, T'rev will lead drills with the wingleader. When the sun is like so. >> Another image of the sun past its zenith about an hour, bathing Telgar in spring's warmth and brighter light, gleaming off of the multiple colors of hide in his wing. << Where will you go today, Vrianth? >> Asked politely, but sincerely curious.
Mecaith senses that Vrianth, in viewing his image, fixes on a different sort of pattern: that brown, that green, singled out so. Just them: why? Her places, she names rather than images, although they're underlaid by textural associations like some contour map: << Nabol. And Crom. >> Her gravelly voice, his finer-grained sand: << You do know them, Mecaith? >>
He has names to put to those dragons: Xoneth. Suraveth. << He is my brother and my friend. She is my wingleader's. >> It's a vaguer impression but he can bring up Crom, a slide show of impressions, some memories drawn from his rider. << He caught thieves there with Kevruth's. There were other complicated things about *Crom*. >> Some of the subtleties of the situation have slipped from Mecaith's mind, but yes, he remembers Crom. << This one I do not know so well, but perhaps we can come there sometime and explore it. >> Of Nabol. (Mecaith to Vrianth)
For that she names, with an impression of desert wind for desert sand, << Jaireth. >> Hers. He leads her wing. << These thieves, what are they? And this... Kevruth. Perhaps you should. >> No urgency there: Nabol was there before she remembered it, will be there when she is gone. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses that Mecaith is precise again: << Your weyrleader, Ista's. And Kevruth leads here now. He too is my clutchbrother. >> Again each word is supported by a visual, impressions of faces from T'rev and his own. N'thei. A'son. A'zan. A sense of running down tight corridors must be from T'rev, the adrenaline rush of catching his quarry and pinning him to the wall. Then disappointment to figure it all out, confusion over wrong and right, balanced out by Mecaith's own certainty: stealing is wrong.
So many leaders of Weyrs, there. Curious. But what Vrianth's fascinated by is the immediacy of those further impressions, faces and running and /catching/, much more than later confusion. She fixes on those, quietly electric, enough to keep a copy for her own use. After a little while, << Wyaeth's is mine. I caught him. >> Never mind that he now walks free. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses Mecaith draws up more information from T'rev, a sense of the rider being more 'present' behind the dragon leaking through. << They were not so, then. Leaders. We had yet to be tapped. >> That spark of hers leads his thoughts to re-form, return to those feelings, that memory. << You caught Wyaeth's? >> A hint of confusion underlies the question.
<< So young. >> Not so low-lying pride there, for /her/ having had a wing all this time. And the rest, the rest she shouldn't by rights remember but that particular gravelly bit is polished by purposeful handling. She doesn't give him details, just an impression of the dark room (whose tables are for once present though transparent in her mind's eye), the hulking man, his lunging for /her rider/. Aggression. Defense. Impact. Like that. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
This Mecaith latches onto, his regard intent, focused, deep. There's another memory to share, Wyaeth's saying dark things in the middle of what was likely a Gather. T'rev's fear underneath a mask of pleasantry. Kevruth's rider again, younger than he is now but recognizable being smooth. << Wyaeth's seems to be a very complicated man. >> Such is Mecaith's opinion. << But I will not let him hurt T'rev just as you did not let him hurt yours. >> (Mecaith to Vrianth)
Mecaith senses Vrianth finds that familiar, very familiar. << Good, >> she says flatly. << He likes to hurt, we think. >> And then, << He and Wyaeth are not... close. >> Not as they are, her and hers.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith sounds very definite as he replies. << I have only seen that to be true of him myself. >> Another memory, this one a little more vivid a little more recent, tinged with overtones of violet and red, the colors not quite true, but the details sharp: N'thei popping A'zan in the face unprovoked, T'rev's loud holler as he tackled the bigger man from behind. << Teonath rose while we were there. She has ... the most fascinating mind. >> There's the faintest hint of longing still laced within the desert bronze's sands, an ache for like to like, the desert of Teonath's own thoughts still a distant siren's call after all that time. << We ... are close but not close. Some are like this. >> He imagines an intricate set of endless lines fully entwined. << T'rev prefers this. >> And there's join points but the lines more separate. << I would prefer the former, but I respect his choice. I do not need to be that close all the time. >>
Mecaith senses Vrianth observes this, and she says merely, << She fascinates many. >> A little while later, << What has she, for you? >> Though shown the twining of lines, she takes the latter image and, rather than entwine them further like the first, moves the lines closer to each other, some of them parallel: so although they do not touch, they are in tandem. Perhaps that might serve him.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith has a simple answer for that and it's sand, lots of sand, stretching out and how it moves within Teonath's mind and his. He only had a taste, but there's burning curiousity in him still for how /she/ moves the desert of her mind. Same or different? Where are the differences? He tucks this restlessness away though, well away, after a moment, burying it deep in dunes. << Yes. It is often like that. >>
Noting this, Vrianth fines her gravel down to sand, then lets it grow to massive boulders. And then puts it back. Later. She can experiment later. Through this grows a sensation of flight, travel and messages and the detritus of such things, and at the last, heights. Stone. Rukbat, a friend blanketing her wings in its warm glow. Distant shade. Apple blossoms. No sand dunes, not here. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Orchard Clearing
This open grassy field lies as a buffer between the orchards and the road. A path leads from the road deeper into the orchards. The grass here is kept short by the Hold's ovines and runnerbeasts, who are frequently brought here to graze.
The warm overtones of summer color the Hold and its surroundings with rich earthy tones and deep shaded greens. Far off in the distance the white dots of ovines can be made out against the mountainsides, even the distant bleats can be heard. Closer in, the rustling of the huge stands of apple trees in Nabol's orchard fill the air with a gentle restfulness. The same aura seems to extend outwards to the Hold, its residents sleepily going about their tasks in the midday heat, or more briskly come dawn and dusk as it cools.
Some errand days are easier than others, and for the moment at least, this is one of the easiest: rather than wait impatiently in the courtyard, Vrianth gets to sun on the fireheights while her rider enjoys the shade beneath one of the many apple trees in blossom. That, and the sensation of sun on her face without the burn, and on wings she doesn't have.
E'dre happens to be at Nabol at the same time as his clutchsib - though his is a visit of spontaneity. Wroth wings up to the fireheights once he notices the green, warbling a greeting to her and the others that are haphazardly strewn out along the heights. E'dre is walking through the orchard, talking quietly with a sweet-faced girl. He gets her to laugh before he notices Leova. "I'll see you in for lunch then?" he asks of the girl, getting a nod and a flashed smile in answer before she heads back towards the Hold. E'dre moves forward, standing in front of Leova. "My, my, my. I didn't think I'd run into you outside the Weyr. How're you?"
Vrianth senses that Mecaith observes this transformation with a sense of keen fascination and bated breath as she turns gravel to desert and back again. << That was beautiful, >> he compliments solemnly. << The blossoms ... what are they like? >> The longing for distant landscapes infiltrates his mind now and he's reaching, reaching for what she shares that vista, the sky, the sun on wings and back.
It's his voice that disturbed her, though she only opened her eyes a fraction. "Comfortable," she says now, opening them a trifle further, smiling up at the Avalanche rider. Though she does also shift a little as well: where her arms had been crooked back as a rest for her head, now her hands are linked over her stomach. "See you changed your mind," she says. "'Bout keeping to yourself."
E'dre folds his arms in front of him, legs moving into that V-stance he's often seen in. A grin, if crooked, pushes forward, "I did, I did. Figured I'd take my restday and come out here for a bit of warmth and fine company." He looks down at her, head tilting ever-so-slightly. "Are you here for the same?"
Mecaith senses that Vrianth acknowledges his reaction, his observation even more than the words, with a spark amidst the gravel. Still, she doesn't now repeat the process, instead layering a sight of white flowers blushed by pink, so very many of them, enough to cloak a dragon in. And the heat, the heat she gives him too: not desert heat, but warm enough to the mountain green for all that. Sun that shines through her innermost lids, and the next layer, and nearly the next. Stone. An arrival, one she identifies as /Wroth/. And the distinct way the humans talk, down below.
"Good on you. Me?" Leova's laugh is low. "No. Taking it easy while waiting for a package to bring back. Figure it's a payback after yesterday." For all that it's no hardship on her neck as is, she adds after a moment, "Sit if you want."
Vrianth senses that Mecaith is quiet while he observes further, the spark attracting notice, sands shifting to follow it and he sinks into the sensation of that sun, that heat, the flowers. What it might be like to be cloaked in petals. << Perhaps we might visit sometime? I would like to see what you see. >>
<< You may, >> Vrianth returns pleasantly, quiet enough not to disturb him from such submersion. << But we will not always be here. >> Though then, there will be different sights to be seen. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
E'dre takes the seat, legs kicking out in front of him to be crossed at the ankle. He leans back on his hands, head tilting upwards to catch a small sun ray that's broken through the foilage. "Mm. Payback for yesterday? What happened?" Curious, he looks sideways at her.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith rustles a hint of dry amusement as he surfaces from sensation. << Of course not. But there will always be something to share. I enjoy speaking with you, Vrianth. >>
Leova flicks a few of her fingers, though the others remain linked. "To and fro, I forgot this, what about that, would you mind going back, don't worry I'm used to dragons, could you go faster, could you go slower," and now she frees one hand for the talky-talky sign. "Not like we're a wagon, you know? And that's not even counting the shrieking." Maybe a little mischief is curving up her mouth. But just a little."
<< There may, >> she agrees. But she's also not above borrowing (not stealing, not that) a little of his amusement. << Tell me why, Mecaith? >> (Vrianth to Mecaith)
"See, you ferry people around more than I do. Wroth's against it, so I tend not to take people - marks or no - to where they want to go," E'dre's answer is lit with humor, as he shrugs, "Not that I mind. I'd rather not have some scared Holder grabbin' on to my waist and screaming in my ear at take-off. And knowing Wroth, he'd make it scary on purpose."
Vrianth senses that Mecaith has a very simple response for that. << Because you share back and your mind moves in interesting ways, interesting patterns. Your way of thinking isn't set in stone. >> Beat. << Some are. >>
"Not like Vrianth's so thrilled by it," Leova points out, but her smile deepens, there before she yawns. "Can just see him doing it, too. Poor holders. Which," and then she stops, eyes narrowing. "That reminds me. Something S'mron said. He ever talk to anyone, other than you?"
<< Thank you, >> is what she replies in the end. << For explaining. >> A beat, like his. << Some don't. >> (Vrianth to Mecaith)
E'dre blinks, twisting his body to better face her. "No, not that I'm aware of. He doesn't care overly much for others, let alone me." A tiny frown forms between his brows, lips turning down to mime. "What's S'mron talking about him for, anyway?" And after a pause, he adds, "Does Vrianth?"
"Wonder if he gets that from Wyaeth," Leova says absently. "No, no, S'mron wasn't talking about Wroth any. Just," and here she looks back over at him, "Apparently when they were weyrlings, they got taught to speak to other humans for if they had to. For emergencies. Vrianth's none too keen on the idea, mind."
E'dre lifts a brow, "Really? In case of emergencies? Isn't that what... other dragons are for?" He shakes his head, trying to place that idea into his mind. "Surprising, really. But I guess everyone has different ideas for things. What's your take on it?"
"Case they aren't around," Leova supposes. Her eyes close. "She was... quite confident that if she ever had to, she would. And that would be that. And. Well. You know how she never has been much for keeping emotions to herself. Just as well if she stays out of their heads."
E'dre snorts, "Could you imagine Wroth booming into some poor lad's head? 'YOU!'," an attempt at the deep-throated, baritone, that is Wroth's mind-voice falls short, but it is still -loud-. "'Wake up! I am in need of you!'" He laughs, shaking his head. "No, no. Not my idea of fun at all."
All of a sudden Leova grins, big and wide. Not that she opens her eyes. But she's grinning. "/Search/. Just you wait."
E'dre taps his fingers on his thigh, looking at her with a half-smile. "I don't know if Wroth has it in him for Search. Even if he knows a candidate might be good, just to be spiteful, he might pass over them. Tell Vrianth of it, likely. He seems to think a lot about 'what to tell Vrianth' of late."
Leova says, unfussed, "As long as he doesn't mind if she doesn't actually get the poor boy. Or girl." Now she does look over at him again, shifting onto her side with her arm for a pillow. "How's your head been?"
"Head's been fine of late," E'dre answers, leaning back further on his hands. He recrosses his ankles and smothers a yawn into his shoulder. "He's calmed down a bit. I don't know why, exactly. I'm kinda frightened by it."
"No, no, no yawning," Leova says quickly. "Not allowed." She'd nod firmly if she were lying down. "Frighten you enough to want him to start back up again?"
E'dre chuckles, "No, that'd be awful. I'll take my breaks when I get them. There was a point there where I had a pounding headache every day that not even alcohol could soothe." He looks at her, curious, "Does Vrianth ever do things to bother you? Or are you two just an agreeable pair?"
Leova's eyes turn troubled. "Sometimes," she says quietly, "Wonder if other places, other Weyrs. If people drink so much. Maybe," but she leaves it at that. "Vrianth? She doesn't do things just to bother me. She... may do things that disturb me. But there's always a purpose. She always has a plan."
"Think we drink too much in Reaches?" E'dre asks, tone light though his gaze is closer to serious. "I think it just helps warm our bones up, y'know." He nods, listening to her on Vrianth. "At least she has a plan, eh?"
"Sometimes." Leova says, as quietly as before. "Some of us. Don't know yet. Hope that's all there is. And... Of course. Package's ready." Her tone has changed, but she stands without complaint, scans the ground to make sure she hasn't missed anything of hers. "Have yourself a good lunch, E'dre." And off she goes, head lowered, but moving at a good clip anyway.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith collects his thoughts after a little while to return an answer. << You're welcome. I like being able to explain. To be understood and to understand new things. >> Very cerebral this one, yep. << This is true. We're all different. Just like our riders. >>
Mecaith senses Vrianth's in transit again by that time, moving quickly, but she still has time for a bright-sparked, << Yes! >> And then /between/ takes her.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith lets a warm desert breeze carry off a few grains of sand to send after her, warmth in the dark and cold. << Farewell. >>
VR: Day 16, month 5, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a spring morning.
Mecaith and Vrianth talk. E'dre and Leova talk. Subjects include Crom, Teonath, Wyaeth, flowers, duties, Searching, plans, and what S'mron said.
From over the distance and a soft rustlng of sandgrains announces a gentle mental touch carrying with it the scent of water and flowers, sun on grass. Next come images if her mind is open to them, T'rev sitting with another young man playing cards, a view of the Smithcrafthall at dawn, the rosy pink edges of the sky streaked with golden clouds just before the sun bursts over the horizon. (Mecaith to Vrianth)
It's so very gradually that she begins to listen, gradual as the progression of the senses that he's sent. Sun on grass. And yet, the sun not yet risen. Which is memory and which is now? She reaches back, the better to riffle through them like so many cards while not, quite, touching. In case they break. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses that Mecaith puts the sun in the sky, morning still, but later than it is where she is. << It is well into morning here. We have already finished our morning duty. Sweeps at dawn. >> He explains the differential precisely and sands rustle again, reforming around a thought. << It is earlier for you, is it not? There is something about that in my rider's mind. >>
She eases with the explanation, understanding coming quick as a click. And for him she returns an image of early morning shadows transparent over their lake, rippled where the wind touches it, an occasional speck darting through it that might be a firelizard or something else unimportant. << Early enough. We run our errands later. >> There's a sense of flying hither and yon, others' tasks but /their/ work that could just as well be play. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses that Mecaith traces out vague lines of what will be: dragons moving in formation, some drawn more vividly than others, a brown and a green in particular, very detailed. It's the patterns of their movements though, all of them as they shift and change that seems to occupy most of his focus. << Later, T'rev will lead drills with the wingleader. When the sun is like so. >> Another image of the sun past its zenith about an hour, bathing Telgar in spring's warmth and brighter light, gleaming off of the multiple colors of hide in his wing. << Where will you go today, Vrianth? >> Asked politely, but sincerely curious.
Mecaith senses that Vrianth, in viewing his image, fixes on a different sort of pattern: that brown, that green, singled out so. Just them: why? Her places, she names rather than images, although they're underlaid by textural associations like some contour map: << Nabol. And Crom. >> Her gravelly voice, his finer-grained sand: << You do know them, Mecaith? >>
He has names to put to those dragons: Xoneth. Suraveth. << He is my brother and my friend. She is my wingleader's. >> It's a vaguer impression but he can bring up Crom, a slide show of impressions, some memories drawn from his rider. << He caught thieves there with Kevruth's. There were other complicated things about *Crom*. >> Some of the subtleties of the situation have slipped from Mecaith's mind, but yes, he remembers Crom. << This one I do not know so well, but perhaps we can come there sometime and explore it. >> Of Nabol. (Mecaith to Vrianth)
For that she names, with an impression of desert wind for desert sand, << Jaireth. >> Hers. He leads her wing. << These thieves, what are they? And this... Kevruth. Perhaps you should. >> No urgency there: Nabol was there before she remembered it, will be there when she is gone. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses that Mecaith is precise again: << Your weyrleader, Ista's. And Kevruth leads here now. He too is my clutchbrother. >> Again each word is supported by a visual, impressions of faces from T'rev and his own. N'thei. A'son. A'zan. A sense of running down tight corridors must be from T'rev, the adrenaline rush of catching his quarry and pinning him to the wall. Then disappointment to figure it all out, confusion over wrong and right, balanced out by Mecaith's own certainty: stealing is wrong.
So many leaders of Weyrs, there. Curious. But what Vrianth's fascinated by is the immediacy of those further impressions, faces and running and /catching/, much more than later confusion. She fixes on those, quietly electric, enough to keep a copy for her own use. After a little while, << Wyaeth's is mine. I caught him. >> Never mind that he now walks free. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Vrianth senses Mecaith draws up more information from T'rev, a sense of the rider being more 'present' behind the dragon leaking through. << They were not so, then. Leaders. We had yet to be tapped. >> That spark of hers leads his thoughts to re-form, return to those feelings, that memory. << You caught Wyaeth's? >> A hint of confusion underlies the question.
<< So young. >> Not so low-lying pride there, for /her/ having had a wing all this time. And the rest, the rest she shouldn't by rights remember but that particular gravelly bit is polished by purposeful handling. She doesn't give him details, just an impression of the dark room (whose tables are for once present though transparent in her mind's eye), the hulking man, his lunging for /her rider/. Aggression. Defense. Impact. Like that. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
This Mecaith latches onto, his regard intent, focused, deep. There's another memory to share, Wyaeth's saying dark things in the middle of what was likely a Gather. T'rev's fear underneath a mask of pleasantry. Kevruth's rider again, younger than he is now but recognizable being smooth. << Wyaeth's seems to be a very complicated man. >> Such is Mecaith's opinion. << But I will not let him hurt T'rev just as you did not let him hurt yours. >> (Mecaith to Vrianth)
Mecaith senses Vrianth finds that familiar, very familiar. << Good, >> she says flatly. << He likes to hurt, we think. >> And then, << He and Wyaeth are not... close. >> Not as they are, her and hers.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith sounds very definite as he replies. << I have only seen that to be true of him myself. >> Another memory, this one a little more vivid a little more recent, tinged with overtones of violet and red, the colors not quite true, but the details sharp: N'thei popping A'zan in the face unprovoked, T'rev's loud holler as he tackled the bigger man from behind. << Teonath rose while we were there. She has ... the most fascinating mind. >> There's the faintest hint of longing still laced within the desert bronze's sands, an ache for like to like, the desert of Teonath's own thoughts still a distant siren's call after all that time. << We ... are close but not close. Some are like this. >> He imagines an intricate set of endless lines fully entwined. << T'rev prefers this. >> And there's join points but the lines more separate. << I would prefer the former, but I respect his choice. I do not need to be that close all the time. >>
Mecaith senses Vrianth observes this, and she says merely, << She fascinates many. >> A little while later, << What has she, for you? >> Though shown the twining of lines, she takes the latter image and, rather than entwine them further like the first, moves the lines closer to each other, some of them parallel: so although they do not touch, they are in tandem. Perhaps that might serve him.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith has a simple answer for that and it's sand, lots of sand, stretching out and how it moves within Teonath's mind and his. He only had a taste, but there's burning curiousity in him still for how /she/ moves the desert of her mind. Same or different? Where are the differences? He tucks this restlessness away though, well away, after a moment, burying it deep in dunes. << Yes. It is often like that. >>
Noting this, Vrianth fines her gravel down to sand, then lets it grow to massive boulders. And then puts it back. Later. She can experiment later. Through this grows a sensation of flight, travel and messages and the detritus of such things, and at the last, heights. Stone. Rukbat, a friend blanketing her wings in its warm glow. Distant shade. Apple blossoms. No sand dunes, not here. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
Orchard Clearing
This open grassy field lies as a buffer between the orchards and the road. A path leads from the road deeper into the orchards. The grass here is kept short by the Hold's ovines and runnerbeasts, who are frequently brought here to graze.
The warm overtones of summer color the Hold and its surroundings with rich earthy tones and deep shaded greens. Far off in the distance the white dots of ovines can be made out against the mountainsides, even the distant bleats can be heard. Closer in, the rustling of the huge stands of apple trees in Nabol's orchard fill the air with a gentle restfulness. The same aura seems to extend outwards to the Hold, its residents sleepily going about their tasks in the midday heat, or more briskly come dawn and dusk as it cools.
Some errand days are easier than others, and for the moment at least, this is one of the easiest: rather than wait impatiently in the courtyard, Vrianth gets to sun on the fireheights while her rider enjoys the shade beneath one of the many apple trees in blossom. That, and the sensation of sun on her face without the burn, and on wings she doesn't have.
E'dre happens to be at Nabol at the same time as his clutchsib - though his is a visit of spontaneity. Wroth wings up to the fireheights once he notices the green, warbling a greeting to her and the others that are haphazardly strewn out along the heights. E'dre is walking through the orchard, talking quietly with a sweet-faced girl. He gets her to laugh before he notices Leova. "I'll see you in for lunch then?" he asks of the girl, getting a nod and a flashed smile in answer before she heads back towards the Hold. E'dre moves forward, standing in front of Leova. "My, my, my. I didn't think I'd run into you outside the Weyr. How're you?"
Vrianth senses that Mecaith observes this transformation with a sense of keen fascination and bated breath as she turns gravel to desert and back again. << That was beautiful, >> he compliments solemnly. << The blossoms ... what are they like? >> The longing for distant landscapes infiltrates his mind now and he's reaching, reaching for what she shares that vista, the sky, the sun on wings and back.
It's his voice that disturbed her, though she only opened her eyes a fraction. "Comfortable," she says now, opening them a trifle further, smiling up at the Avalanche rider. Though she does also shift a little as well: where her arms had been crooked back as a rest for her head, now her hands are linked over her stomach. "See you changed your mind," she says. "'Bout keeping to yourself."
E'dre folds his arms in front of him, legs moving into that V-stance he's often seen in. A grin, if crooked, pushes forward, "I did, I did. Figured I'd take my restday and come out here for a bit of warmth and fine company." He looks down at her, head tilting ever-so-slightly. "Are you here for the same?"
Mecaith senses that Vrianth acknowledges his reaction, his observation even more than the words, with a spark amidst the gravel. Still, she doesn't now repeat the process, instead layering a sight of white flowers blushed by pink, so very many of them, enough to cloak a dragon in. And the heat, the heat she gives him too: not desert heat, but warm enough to the mountain green for all that. Sun that shines through her innermost lids, and the next layer, and nearly the next. Stone. An arrival, one she identifies as /Wroth/. And the distinct way the humans talk, down below.
"Good on you. Me?" Leova's laugh is low. "No. Taking it easy while waiting for a package to bring back. Figure it's a payback after yesterday." For all that it's no hardship on her neck as is, she adds after a moment, "Sit if you want."
Vrianth senses that Mecaith is quiet while he observes further, the spark attracting notice, sands shifting to follow it and he sinks into the sensation of that sun, that heat, the flowers. What it might be like to be cloaked in petals. << Perhaps we might visit sometime? I would like to see what you see. >>
<< You may, >> Vrianth returns pleasantly, quiet enough not to disturb him from such submersion. << But we will not always be here. >> Though then, there will be different sights to be seen. (Vrianth to Mecaith)
E'dre takes the seat, legs kicking out in front of him to be crossed at the ankle. He leans back on his hands, head tilting upwards to catch a small sun ray that's broken through the foilage. "Mm. Payback for yesterday? What happened?" Curious, he looks sideways at her.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith rustles a hint of dry amusement as he surfaces from sensation. << Of course not. But there will always be something to share. I enjoy speaking with you, Vrianth. >>
Leova flicks a few of her fingers, though the others remain linked. "To and fro, I forgot this, what about that, would you mind going back, don't worry I'm used to dragons, could you go faster, could you go slower," and now she frees one hand for the talky-talky sign. "Not like we're a wagon, you know? And that's not even counting the shrieking." Maybe a little mischief is curving up her mouth. But just a little."
<< There may, >> she agrees. But she's also not above borrowing (not stealing, not that) a little of his amusement. << Tell me why, Mecaith? >> (Vrianth to Mecaith)
"See, you ferry people around more than I do. Wroth's against it, so I tend not to take people - marks or no - to where they want to go," E'dre's answer is lit with humor, as he shrugs, "Not that I mind. I'd rather not have some scared Holder grabbin' on to my waist and screaming in my ear at take-off. And knowing Wroth, he'd make it scary on purpose."
Vrianth senses that Mecaith has a very simple response for that. << Because you share back and your mind moves in interesting ways, interesting patterns. Your way of thinking isn't set in stone. >> Beat. << Some are. >>
"Not like Vrianth's so thrilled by it," Leova points out, but her smile deepens, there before she yawns. "Can just see him doing it, too. Poor holders. Which," and then she stops, eyes narrowing. "That reminds me. Something S'mron said. He ever talk to anyone, other than you?"
<< Thank you, >> is what she replies in the end. << For explaining. >> A beat, like his. << Some don't. >> (Vrianth to Mecaith)
E'dre blinks, twisting his body to better face her. "No, not that I'm aware of. He doesn't care overly much for others, let alone me." A tiny frown forms between his brows, lips turning down to mime. "What's S'mron talking about him for, anyway?" And after a pause, he adds, "Does Vrianth?"
"Wonder if he gets that from Wyaeth," Leova says absently. "No, no, S'mron wasn't talking about Wroth any. Just," and here she looks back over at him, "Apparently when they were weyrlings, they got taught to speak to other humans for if they had to. For emergencies. Vrianth's none too keen on the idea, mind."
E'dre lifts a brow, "Really? In case of emergencies? Isn't that what... other dragons are for?" He shakes his head, trying to place that idea into his mind. "Surprising, really. But I guess everyone has different ideas for things. What's your take on it?"
"Case they aren't around," Leova supposes. Her eyes close. "She was... quite confident that if she ever had to, she would. And that would be that. And. Well. You know how she never has been much for keeping emotions to herself. Just as well if she stays out of their heads."
E'dre snorts, "Could you imagine Wroth booming into some poor lad's head? 'YOU!'," an attempt at the deep-throated, baritone, that is Wroth's mind-voice falls short, but it is still -loud-. "'Wake up! I am in need of you!'" He laughs, shaking his head. "No, no. Not my idea of fun at all."
All of a sudden Leova grins, big and wide. Not that she opens her eyes. But she's grinning. "/Search/. Just you wait."
E'dre taps his fingers on his thigh, looking at her with a half-smile. "I don't know if Wroth has it in him for Search. Even if he knows a candidate might be good, just to be spiteful, he might pass over them. Tell Vrianth of it, likely. He seems to think a lot about 'what to tell Vrianth' of late."
Leova says, unfussed, "As long as he doesn't mind if she doesn't actually get the poor boy. Or girl." Now she does look over at him again, shifting onto her side with her arm for a pillow. "How's your head been?"
"Head's been fine of late," E'dre answers, leaning back further on his hands. He recrosses his ankles and smothers a yawn into his shoulder. "He's calmed down a bit. I don't know why, exactly. I'm kinda frightened by it."
"No, no, no yawning," Leova says quickly. "Not allowed." She'd nod firmly if she were lying down. "Frighten you enough to want him to start back up again?"
E'dre chuckles, "No, that'd be awful. I'll take my breaks when I get them. There was a point there where I had a pounding headache every day that not even alcohol could soothe." He looks at her, curious, "Does Vrianth ever do things to bother you? Or are you two just an agreeable pair?"
Leova's eyes turn troubled. "Sometimes," she says quietly, "Wonder if other places, other Weyrs. If people drink so much. Maybe," but she leaves it at that. "Vrianth? She doesn't do things just to bother me. She... may do things that disturb me. But there's always a purpose. She always has a plan."
"Think we drink too much in Reaches?" E'dre asks, tone light though his gaze is closer to serious. "I think it just helps warm our bones up, y'know." He nods, listening to her on Vrianth. "At least she has a plan, eh?"
"Sometimes." Leova says, as quietly as before. "Some of us. Don't know yet. Hope that's all there is. And... Of course. Package's ready." Her tone has changed, but she stands without complaint, scans the ground to make sure she hasn't missed anything of hers. "Have yourself a good lunch, E'dre." And off she goes, head lowered, but moving at a good clip anyway.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith collects his thoughts after a little while to return an answer. << You're welcome. I like being able to explain. To be understood and to understand new things. >> Very cerebral this one, yep. << This is true. We're all different. Just like our riders. >>
Mecaith senses Vrianth's in transit again by that time, moving quickly, but she still has time for a bright-sparked, << Yes! >> And then /between/ takes her.
Vrianth senses that Mecaith lets a warm desert breeze carry off a few grains of sand to send after her, warmth in the dark and cold. << Farewell. >>