Log: Grassy Afternoon
RL: May 17, 2008.
VR: Day 31, month 5, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a spring afternoon.
Two days after Jasvie and Sven's wedding, wingmates Niena and Leova grab an afternoon to relax. And Vrianth and Malsaeth go over grass.
Festival Clearing, High Reaches Weyr
At this point partway up the mountainside, the ground levels out in a grassy expanse. The soft green of the mountainside is liberally sprinkled with other colors: blues and purples, reds and pinks, bright yellows and pale whites. The late summer mountain is covered with the delicate blooms of wildflowers. While most, like the tiny sungazers, rest ankle high in small patches, bolder cardinalflowers and Dragontails teeter on thin, waist-high stalks, waving their blooms in the breeze.
Afternoon. A spring afternoon, no less, just on the threshold of summer. After a morning spent working at Nabol, and a lunch spent by the lake while their dragons swam, it's time for wingmates to get a good old-fashioned nap. Or something. Leova yawns. "Your idea worked," she tells Niena. "She handled the kids about as well as I could have expected, made it through at least half an hour."
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth stretches amongst the clouds above Ista, literal rain falling. The image is clear, yet simple. No real message is sent toward the olive green, just the concept of flying above the weyr.
Niena smiles lazily. "That's good. How did the wedding go?" She idly picks one of the prettier flowers and puts it behind her ear.
"Good." Leova stares upward. Blue sky. Endless blue sky. Just that one cloud in her field of vision, no, two. She watches them float. "Sven couldn't have been prouder. And Jasvie, she was radiant just like they say. At least, as long as we kept her in dry crackers so's she didn't turn into the bride beast. Really liked the flowers, too. She's due in... five months, I want to say?"
For that she lets him see, quite close up and at an unusual angle that makes them seem gigantic, tall grasses that rustle when the wind reemerges from otherwise still air. There are a few flowers in clumps, too: blues and purples, reds and creamy whites. The air is warm, at least for her, and heavy. A good rest. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth studies every blade of grass, in every bit of detail as possible, not taking such an image for granted as Vrianth shares with him. The flowers aren't all that important to him, but that heavy, warm air itself is relished by the younger dragon. Another image, this of formations, all etched in black sand. Hundreds of them, possibly, layered one upon the other, the eyes that see it, not his own, only part of him.
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth, as he looks at details, focuses in further: some spike to perfect points, others are brown-edged where they had broken off. No sand there, black or otherwise. Not even the dirt can be seen, for between the taller stalks there are shorter blades, each struggling for its own bit of light. So alive. Nor are there waves, waves that might wash up onto black sand and, if the marks are deep enough, fill them with sky-mirroring water as they recede.
Niena nods happily at mention of the pregnancy. "That's a good sign." THen she stretches. "What color was the dress?"
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth's thoughts converge on those further details. There seems to be no limit to the detail he'll go now. His thoughts then shower over the brown-edged points, perhaps watering them as he studies them. There is something so appealing to him about that futile fight against death that all living things seem to have, be it a blade of grass or.. another image, a beating heart. As much as he may fly in the rain, his attention is divided, as if researching something on the side. His clouds disperse, but barely, enough to let more light in, so that those blades of grass may live that much longer. As appealing as death might be, so is the vibrant life.
Leova agrees lazily, "He's the only son, so it was pretty important to his family. Guess that's one thing we got to get out of, hm? Breeding as worthiness? Though I guess you did anyway since you were here... And it was all reds, real traditional." Vrianth stretches a little after Masoth's rider does, reorienting her wings to adjust to the changed angle of sunlight, and her yawn is even huger than her Leova's.
(And then the wingmates drift in and out of more chatting and a nap as Niena's player has to go.)
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth might shelter the grass, might keep it safe away from him so that it doesn't get washed away, but instead she doesn't. She sees what he does. Including letting the light in, even just a little. She shows him, even closer, their fibrous nature: glossy on one side, duller on the other, glowing as the sun backlights them.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth watches those further details as they're given to him from the green. A grand contradiction: simple blades of grass, yet, when seen in detail, such magnificent design. He lets more light though, barely, but enough to be perceived, seeking out each and every difference of their fibrous nature, celebrating them.
Closer, closer. Eventually she must choose where to focus: for the moment it's the duller side. When examined as closely as sight allows, it yields narrow ridges and wider valleys, the ridges more opaque, the valleys lighter and yellow as the sun comes through that much more. Beyond all that? Blurriness. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth is all the more happy to examine as close as he can, as much as she's willing to share. Those narrow ridges and wider valleys are celebrated too. Every bit of what makes them... them. The duller side receives just as much attention as the brighter side did before. And beyond? That blurriness? This is where Malsaeth revels. All blurs, no matter what the juxtaposition held, fascinate the bronze. If anything, he surges forth into that unknown, if only briefly, before finally drawing back.
That brief taste of blurriness yields nothing sharper or clearer: just more of the same, and who knows, maybe that's why he withdrew so quickly. If it changed at all, it got darker, with less of the surrounding light available to it. But that's it. That's all. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth is perhaps swayed by the nothingness, perhaps that is why he withdrew. So many possibilities. Instead, a growl. << Mine says there is more to the world than just Ista. >> It's almost revealed in a hoarse whisper, as if he had not used that growling bass voice for turns. << Every day we explore more, and more and more. >>
Of course there is. Her reply is less dramatic, pebbles in a slow slide, << But does he want to see it. >> And as they fall, the pebbles strike a spark against each other, << It changes, and then there is that to see. And when it changes again. >> Atop the meadow-memory she layers hummocks of brownish green amid mud and the old grayed rime of ice. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth puzzles over the initial statement of the green's. << Before, no. There is so much more that he appreciates now. >> As the spark appears, so does thunder. << Autmnal, mine calls it. The changing of the leaves. He likes it. I like it more. >> Again, as the image of the layers, and the ice, he relishes what's shown to him.
The spark lingers and, though it doesn't grow, it stays glowing there for a moment. Because Malsaeth might, just might have had something to do with his rider's seeing so very much more. << Do you recognize this? >> The first bud opening, very slowly, then speeding up until it is full bloom. There might be a trick there, or somewhere. Or not. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth studies the bud opening, its progress as Vrianth shares with him the growth of the bud to finally its full bloom. << Is that mine? >> he asks curiously. << He grows, Vrianth, like anything that is living. >>
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth lets it keep flowering, begin to lose its petals, finally have its base harden into a pod. << It is the day, >> she explains. << Not even spring, though it is like spring. >> And then she shows one of the oldest riders she knows, with his shadow-self tall and strong instead of hunching over the way he does. There is growing, and then there is growing.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth watches in fascination as the green lets it wilt and return back to a pod. The cycle of life, possibly even death. Once more, the bronze celebrates the shared information from the green. This is his element, after all. << The day leads to night. And night to day again. >> He shows the sun rise, fall, as the moons chase it at night, only giving way back to the sun again.
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth's night is different, perhaps: warm, living, alive. There is no rush of waves, as regular and erratic as breathing, but she remembers stars and near-silence, sometimes voices. She moves easily within the night, or her memory of it, regardless of moons. Then. << Are you allowed to fly when it is dark, Malsaeth? >> Not just fly, but that shudder's worth of cold nothingness. Not just dark, but pitch black.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth studies the darkness before revelling in it. << Yes. Mine sits with a glow at the Star Stones, studying. And I...>> The bronze uses images rather than words now, showing a distinct shape flying over and around the bowl, revolving around the centre of the weyr. << We are allowed, yes. >> The darkness in Ista seems palpable. The jungle below alive with sounds, the waves crashing in the distance. But far above is the darkness of night, perhaps even past curfew for the weyrling dragon.
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth shows him, then, places like he might have seen in the daylight. That now, though it would be much trickier, may be jumped to at night, and when dawn nears jumped from, so that Malsaeth need never see day at all.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth explores every place. There's a moment where he's distracted again, perhaps conferring with his lifemate. << This thought appeals to me. I have told mine so that when our freedom is larger, we will do this. >> A pause in his growled speech, the darkness of his mind stirring as rain falls. << Thank you, Vrianth. >>
She listens to his report of telling his lifemate what they will do, and she does not laugh. Just listens, and gives him one last thing: << You are welcome. Malsaeth. >> And then she is gone. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth pauses, and retreats, the clouds growing until his presence is removed as well.
VR: Day 31, month 5, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a spring afternoon.
Two days after Jasvie and Sven's wedding, wingmates Niena and Leova grab an afternoon to relax. And Vrianth and Malsaeth go over grass.
Festival Clearing, High Reaches Weyr
At this point partway up the mountainside, the ground levels out in a grassy expanse. The soft green of the mountainside is liberally sprinkled with other colors: blues and purples, reds and pinks, bright yellows and pale whites. The late summer mountain is covered with the delicate blooms of wildflowers. While most, like the tiny sungazers, rest ankle high in small patches, bolder cardinalflowers and Dragontails teeter on thin, waist-high stalks, waving their blooms in the breeze.
Afternoon. A spring afternoon, no less, just on the threshold of summer. After a morning spent working at Nabol, and a lunch spent by the lake while their dragons swam, it's time for wingmates to get a good old-fashioned nap. Or something. Leova yawns. "Your idea worked," she tells Niena. "She handled the kids about as well as I could have expected, made it through at least half an hour."
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth stretches amongst the clouds above Ista, literal rain falling. The image is clear, yet simple. No real message is sent toward the olive green, just the concept of flying above the weyr.
Niena smiles lazily. "That's good. How did the wedding go?" She idly picks one of the prettier flowers and puts it behind her ear.
"Good." Leova stares upward. Blue sky. Endless blue sky. Just that one cloud in her field of vision, no, two. She watches them float. "Sven couldn't have been prouder. And Jasvie, she was radiant just like they say. At least, as long as we kept her in dry crackers so's she didn't turn into the bride beast. Really liked the flowers, too. She's due in... five months, I want to say?"
For that she lets him see, quite close up and at an unusual angle that makes them seem gigantic, tall grasses that rustle when the wind reemerges from otherwise still air. There are a few flowers in clumps, too: blues and purples, reds and creamy whites. The air is warm, at least for her, and heavy. A good rest. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth studies every blade of grass, in every bit of detail as possible, not taking such an image for granted as Vrianth shares with him. The flowers aren't all that important to him, but that heavy, warm air itself is relished by the younger dragon. Another image, this of formations, all etched in black sand. Hundreds of them, possibly, layered one upon the other, the eyes that see it, not his own, only part of him.
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth, as he looks at details, focuses in further: some spike to perfect points, others are brown-edged where they had broken off. No sand there, black or otherwise. Not even the dirt can be seen, for between the taller stalks there are shorter blades, each struggling for its own bit of light. So alive. Nor are there waves, waves that might wash up onto black sand and, if the marks are deep enough, fill them with sky-mirroring water as they recede.
Niena nods happily at mention of the pregnancy. "That's a good sign." THen she stretches. "What color was the dress?"
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth's thoughts converge on those further details. There seems to be no limit to the detail he'll go now. His thoughts then shower over the brown-edged points, perhaps watering them as he studies them. There is something so appealing to him about that futile fight against death that all living things seem to have, be it a blade of grass or.. another image, a beating heart. As much as he may fly in the rain, his attention is divided, as if researching something on the side. His clouds disperse, but barely, enough to let more light in, so that those blades of grass may live that much longer. As appealing as death might be, so is the vibrant life.
Leova agrees lazily, "He's the only son, so it was pretty important to his family. Guess that's one thing we got to get out of, hm? Breeding as worthiness? Though I guess you did anyway since you were here... And it was all reds, real traditional." Vrianth stretches a little after Masoth's rider does, reorienting her wings to adjust to the changed angle of sunlight, and her yawn is even huger than her Leova's.
(And then the wingmates drift in and out of more chatting and a nap as Niena's player has to go.)
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth might shelter the grass, might keep it safe away from him so that it doesn't get washed away, but instead she doesn't. She sees what he does. Including letting the light in, even just a little. She shows him, even closer, their fibrous nature: glossy on one side, duller on the other, glowing as the sun backlights them.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth watches those further details as they're given to him from the green. A grand contradiction: simple blades of grass, yet, when seen in detail, such magnificent design. He lets more light though, barely, but enough to be perceived, seeking out each and every difference of their fibrous nature, celebrating them.
Closer, closer. Eventually she must choose where to focus: for the moment it's the duller side. When examined as closely as sight allows, it yields narrow ridges and wider valleys, the ridges more opaque, the valleys lighter and yellow as the sun comes through that much more. Beyond all that? Blurriness. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth is all the more happy to examine as close as he can, as much as she's willing to share. Those narrow ridges and wider valleys are celebrated too. Every bit of what makes them... them. The duller side receives just as much attention as the brighter side did before. And beyond? That blurriness? This is where Malsaeth revels. All blurs, no matter what the juxtaposition held, fascinate the bronze. If anything, he surges forth into that unknown, if only briefly, before finally drawing back.
That brief taste of blurriness yields nothing sharper or clearer: just more of the same, and who knows, maybe that's why he withdrew so quickly. If it changed at all, it got darker, with less of the surrounding light available to it. But that's it. That's all. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth is perhaps swayed by the nothingness, perhaps that is why he withdrew. So many possibilities. Instead, a growl. << Mine says there is more to the world than just Ista. >> It's almost revealed in a hoarse whisper, as if he had not used that growling bass voice for turns. << Every day we explore more, and more and more. >>
Of course there is. Her reply is less dramatic, pebbles in a slow slide, << But does he want to see it. >> And as they fall, the pebbles strike a spark against each other, << It changes, and then there is that to see. And when it changes again. >> Atop the meadow-memory she layers hummocks of brownish green amid mud and the old grayed rime of ice. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth puzzles over the initial statement of the green's. << Before, no. There is so much more that he appreciates now. >> As the spark appears, so does thunder. << Autmnal, mine calls it. The changing of the leaves. He likes it. I like it more. >> Again, as the image of the layers, and the ice, he relishes what's shown to him.
The spark lingers and, though it doesn't grow, it stays glowing there for a moment. Because Malsaeth might, just might have had something to do with his rider's seeing so very much more. << Do you recognize this? >> The first bud opening, very slowly, then speeding up until it is full bloom. There might be a trick there, or somewhere. Or not. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth studies the bud opening, its progress as Vrianth shares with him the growth of the bud to finally its full bloom. << Is that mine? >> he asks curiously. << He grows, Vrianth, like anything that is living. >>
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth lets it keep flowering, begin to lose its petals, finally have its base harden into a pod. << It is the day, >> she explains. << Not even spring, though it is like spring. >> And then she shows one of the oldest riders she knows, with his shadow-self tall and strong instead of hunching over the way he does. There is growing, and then there is growing.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth watches in fascination as the green lets it wilt and return back to a pod. The cycle of life, possibly even death. Once more, the bronze celebrates the shared information from the green. This is his element, after all. << The day leads to night. And night to day again. >> He shows the sun rise, fall, as the moons chase it at night, only giving way back to the sun again.
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth's night is different, perhaps: warm, living, alive. There is no rush of waves, as regular and erratic as breathing, but she remembers stars and near-silence, sometimes voices. She moves easily within the night, or her memory of it, regardless of moons. Then. << Are you allowed to fly when it is dark, Malsaeth? >> Not just fly, but that shudder's worth of cold nothingness. Not just dark, but pitch black.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth studies the darkness before revelling in it. << Yes. Mine sits with a glow at the Star Stones, studying. And I...>> The bronze uses images rather than words now, showing a distinct shape flying over and around the bowl, revolving around the centre of the weyr. << We are allowed, yes. >> The darkness in Ista seems palpable. The jungle below alive with sounds, the waves crashing in the distance. But far above is the darkness of night, perhaps even past curfew for the weyrling dragon.
Malsaeth senses that Vrianth shows him, then, places like he might have seen in the daylight. That now, though it would be much trickier, may be jumped to at night, and when dawn nears jumped from, so that Malsaeth need never see day at all.
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth explores every place. There's a moment where he's distracted again, perhaps conferring with his lifemate. << This thought appeals to me. I have told mine so that when our freedom is larger, we will do this. >> A pause in his growled speech, the darkness of his mind stirring as rain falls. << Thank you, Vrianth. >>
She listens to his report of telling his lifemate what they will do, and she does not laugh. Just listens, and gives him one last thing: << You are welcome. Malsaeth. >> And then she is gone. (Vrianth to Malsaeth)
Vrianth senses that Malsaeth pauses, and retreats, the clouds growing until his presence is removed as well.