All Good Things...
Location: Outside of the Weyrling Barracks
Time: backdated to Very Late Night on Day 20, Month 7, Turn 2
Players: Ruvoth and Tialith
Scene: Can dragons maintain a friendship when their riders are so at odds?
The entrance is, to put it simply, not open. Inaccessible. Closed. Closed, specifically, by a wide, smooth plane of bronze hide. A familiar, warm, slowly heaving hide, moving up and down with the gentle tide of dragon's breath. His wing must be raised up against the wall so his side can seal off the way into the training complex. The weyrlings are trapped. Secure, safe, kept literally behind dragon guard. But trapped, until dawn. Or until something sways Ruvoth's determination.
It is a convenient thing, then, that what the newest Reachian gold is seeking is not what's behind that barrier of bronze, but the barrier himself. She has glided gracefully from ledge to bowl and walked the way from weyr to weyrling barracks. Glowing eyes rest, for a moment, on the bulk, and she announces herself with her thoughts, rather than anything more physical. You make a fine wall. Her wings press close to her sides and the spade of the queen's tail tip twitches once.
He does not answer. But his movement is probably answer enough. The expanse of bronze that closes that entrance shifts, sliding like a tunnelsnake of enormous proportion in a snake den built to size. Ruvoth's side curves inward as he bends, letting his wing droop and fall into the line of Tialith's sight, blocking in a new way the interior. Step after step, tail sliding audibly on the soft sands of the training cavern, wing dipping into view and rising back out of it. He moves. It is not a speedy process because at no time may a width greater than a child's body be gapped between the bronze and the rock.
Eventually, however, Ruvoth's head comes into view and he nudges forward into the entrance until his foreshoulders jam it shut. A wall, now, with a face. And the face exhales a warm, hopeful breath. His eyes swirl, and reflect a thousand Tialiths. And he bows, like a man would, chin going low to the ground.
Oh, formality. What a bother. Tialiths, all of the ones reflected in his eyes, lower their muzzles so that the actual Tialith might move hers forward to briefly touch the bronze's. It lingers, that touch, a little longer than it might, because they haven't touched in some time and she did have to wait quite a while for him to turn. As he offers no words, she gives none in return. Just the touch and the gentle weight of her open link. Then, head and neck lifting again she settles, sphinx-like, in front of him.
You are Reaches' now. It is congratulation and observation, measured and intense. It has all of the weight he can give a thought like this, all of the restraint he's been forced to learn, all of the separation of him-- and his. His nose twitches, after hers has drawn away, and he raises his head. His regard of her becomes keener, sharper, the Tialiths pulling into fine focus. And we are yours. But not all hers. Ruvoth holds back. He watches her. He waits. But he holds back, the curiosity of a mental question mark thick in the midnight between them.
The queen's head cants a little to the side at these two pronouncements. We are Reaches now, she agrees, the whirling of her eyes slowing at the thought. But you are not. Yours is not, and you follow him. There is nothing of unhappiness behind the comment. It is a fact. And her barriers are stronger than his, whatever else the golden Tialith might feel has been tucked away in the curves and folds of her weighted musings. Then, simply, What?
We are Reaches'! Ruvoth hunkers down, as if he were going to come through the cavern entrance, wings sleeked down and shoulders neat. A queen fits through this passageway without struggle; if he let out his breath and got down onto bent legs as he normally does, the bronze would have no problem. But he's still, partly, a wall. Even if an indignant one. And he pauses partway through into the bowl, then draws up his tail to plug the gap between his side and the rock on the left, leaning right to close up the space over there, wings lifting to refuse access to those rare humans that levitate. Just in case. We have been Reaches' since before I hatched. And Reaches is ours. /That/ is almost a challenge. But he follows it with a confession, perhaps in trade, and bows his head, looking away down the wall of the bowl. He wishes me to talk to you.
Blue and green dim and brighten as that third translucent eyelid slides over and away. Blink. Her head moves, tipping to one side and then to the other, like a puppy who has heard an unknown noise. Her rider has this habit too, and one might wonder who gave it to whom. We are Reaches now. I will clutch here and my hatchlings will fight thread here. Some will die in the skies here. Some I will help as Roa mends their wounds here. Reaches is your home. Now it is mine as well. Did you not want that once? It is more words than Tialith usually shares at single time, and there is an awareness of that. A slight withdrawal and a thickening of the wall between their thoughts, which shifts and changes less than the wall Ruvoth creates with his body. What does he wish you to say?
And we will train them, whispers Ruvoth, almost gentle, almost adoring, almost himself. It almost answers that question: did he not want that, once. He did. He does. But the softness he feels, can't seem to stop himself feeling, for the young queen brings with it a sadness, too, and the big bronze opens and closes his jaw a few times, teeth gnashing like his rider's, but slower. Nothing, he sighs, as answer to the second question. Nothing specific. He wants to know he can trust her. But I think you can't give me that. Only she can. His nose points toward the ground again, no bow this time. Droop. Failure.
Drooping Ruvoths are unacceptable. Tialith's own muzzle dips down to settle under his chin and lift, raising his head back up into some impersonation of a proud lift. He sent her away, and she will not come to him now unless he asks. She is proud and she is busy and she is tired. The gold and silvery head moves away, ready to catch the bronze's should it lower again. He can trust her. She did not lie.
Ruvoth trembles with a suppressed laugh, unable to take seriously the fact that she is, bodily, propping up his chin. And because it does not become her, his young queen, to do so for the likes of him, he lifts his head himself and cants it a little bit toward her, the one eye watching her wry with deep blue. Lying is not the only way to do wrong, he sighs after a time, when the laughter has left him. And there are many kinds of truth that can happen between the teller and the one who hears it. His chin comes down a little, but not quite into a full droop. He just regards, instead of Tialith, the ground before their paws. What did she think he would hear? What did she let him hear? She gave him truth - but He wants trust. A pause. So do I.
A small exhalation is breathed out *chuff* at the bronze's bemusement. Tialith does not fancy being smirked at or thought comical, but she is fond of this one, and she endures it with long-suffering patience. Well. For her. she thought he would hear the place. She thought he would refuse. The queen's own head lowers onto the ground as if she has suddenly become interested in a nap. She does not understand why he wanted it then, and does not want it now.
He should have refused. Ruvoth looks away. Let her nap. He has never wanted it. Never wanted for the child to go away. Everyone goes away. He did not want to be alone. But he does not want her to be-- A pause. The Lady Sian is there, shimmering as an image in the bronze's mind, and then Yevide, too. They share very little in common, these two women. They might share, really, only one thing of significance where Ruvoth is concerned. He turns his head back toward himself, neck snaking back against itself in a tight and sinuous curve. Self-comforting, he tucks his muzzle beneath the arch of one wing. He thought she would be safer, so sent her away. Now he thinks neither of them is safe, and Reaches, neither. The killers will come back. They will make him bring them.
He did not refuse, is the queen's logical rejoinder. She cannot act on what he should have done. Only what he has done. Lids slide closed, one by one by one. Better to think this through in the warm dark of her eyelids. She is coming back. Puzzlement. Did Ruvoth think otherwise? They are not killers. And here is a misunderstanding, because the quick images sent are, one two, Ashwin, Jensen. That is why they had to leave.
The bronze is-- not old, precisely-- but he has more to give than that. And he gives it, sudden, in a rush. A young man, R'vain was then. Hotheaded-- nothing new-- rash-- fiery-tempered. But proud, and slender, and reckless and insane. Crack fliers. And they were destined for great things, they and their new, daring ideas-- until the Rebellion began to crack. Ruvoth has no words for those times. Just images and sensation. Going from most trusted to least. From being in a position to steal Vasyath's embrace and win his rider the Weyr, to training the Weyr's least-ranking riders. From ingenuity to teaching by the book. Musty hides and compressed spaces. Times had changed. All of them, groans Ruvoth, and starts backing up in the passageway, not that Tialith will see it. All of them that were sent away. The offspring, the guard-men, the killers too. His nostrils flare wide and he pauses, unsettled enough that there might be room around him for a man to slip through into his protected domain. I don't know. I don't know what they will do. But they have his offspring, and Roa gave her to them. He does not like that.
Oh. Them. There is sent, in return, flickers of memories. Interestingly, they are crisp and clear. The thoughts Tialith pull must be for events nearly twelve turns old, but they are as vivid as any recent recollections. A quick collage of men and women standing in Fort hold before a tribunal, one at a time. Then the images are shuffled up and tucked away again. She lives there. This next image is of Diya. Nenuith will clutch there. Her hatchlings will grow there. But he is mad at Roa? His is safe, or she would not have sent her.
R'vain was not privy to the trials. He was indentured to weyrling dragons and muckpits at the time. But Tialith's image is accepted as truth, and to it Ruvoth manages a little nod, his muzzle stroking his own hide with the motion. With all of /them/ there, the killers and more, how does she know the offspring, or the guard-men, or the Weyrwoman, or anyone is safe? If these monikers are telling, well. Ruvoth is not much for subtle. Things /are/ as they are.
Because the riders fly fall and children are there and Nenuith clutches. And they, again the quick two images in the same order: Ashwin, Jensen, are strong and will die before she a little red-haired bundle is hurt. She did what she must, and on top of that she did what yours asked. The only outward sign that Tialith is awake is the slow, methodical twitch of her tail tip.
He knows she did what he asked. Ruvoth lets out a heavy sigh and untucks his head from beneath his wing to regard Tialith with slow-whirling, sorrowful eyes of ocean depth. But he cannot know they are safe, any of them. Two guard-men against however many of /them/ remain. It is hard to believe, Tialith. He made a mistake. Drooping again, since she's not watching. His muzzle slumps onto the soil. He does not blame her for his agreement. But he is angry with her, that she asked. That she let him think what he thought. He cannot trust that. No more than he trusts the killers.
They are not, you know. Killers. These thoughts are shared without anger or annoyance. Just the languid passing on of a fact. Just people with mistakes. Most of them, anyhow. She thinks they will be safer there than with those who wish to hurt them here. The queen's sides rise and fall in a hefty sigh. If he cannot trust her, then he cannot. The rest of the implication is, for now, left unsaid.
The bronze has rarely displayed anything that could be called a temper. It is his rider's rage that is legendary; Ruvoth's irritations are rare. But if his temper were better-known, it might be of some note itself. She has nursed him. He is grateful. I AM GRATEFUL. He doesn't sound it. His eyes pick up speed, and color, too, flashing shades around the rims that rarely come to life there. But he has had nurses. A Weyrwoman... would not have done this. He will worry as long as she's gone, and when she comes back, worry all over again that he owes /them/ for her life. Bronze nostrils flare wide and Ruvoth lets out a heated chuff of air. He cannot. I am sorry. He withdraws, then, from the opening, and begins laboriously to turn as he was turned before. A wall.
It is at the first touch of those tumultuous thoughts that Tialith's eyes unlid and come fully open. Her head lifts and though she watches Ruvoth with a sort of strange intensity, she remains calm. Her own eyes shine blue and green. If that is all he sees, then he is in darkness. As Ruvoth turns, so does the queen, gliding upwards so she is standing. So it is. If the words themselves are not final, the weight of them is. The pressure in the bronze's mind intensifies, focusing in on the bridge, the open link, until the force becomes too great. And it snaps. If there is a soft and unhappy croon from the gold in the doing of it, it is still done. Four feet move, turning her as the wall loses its face, and leading her back towards her weyr. Her wings hang a little lower, tail tip dragging on the ground. Her head, of course, remains high.
Ruvoth, of course, never had a choice. She is a junior, a new one, an invading force but a tiny one. His rider is-- well. As it has ever been. His head is hidden behind the stone by the time that snap forces shut all three sets of eyelids, and if the smooth expanse of breath-swollen hide that now closes off the training cavern is shuddering from the pain of that final slap, well. He will, at one with his R'vain, come eventually to sleep through it.
Time: backdated to Very Late Night on Day 20, Month 7, Turn 2
Players: Ruvoth and Tialith
Scene: Can dragons maintain a friendship when their riders are so at odds?
The entrance is, to put it simply, not open. Inaccessible. Closed. Closed, specifically, by a wide, smooth plane of bronze hide. A familiar, warm, slowly heaving hide, moving up and down with the gentle tide of dragon's breath. His wing must be raised up against the wall so his side can seal off the way into the training complex. The weyrlings are trapped. Secure, safe, kept literally behind dragon guard. But trapped, until dawn. Or until something sways Ruvoth's determination.
It is a convenient thing, then, that what the newest Reachian gold is seeking is not what's behind that barrier of bronze, but the barrier himself. She has glided gracefully from ledge to bowl and walked the way from weyr to weyrling barracks. Glowing eyes rest, for a moment, on the bulk, and she announces herself with her thoughts, rather than anything more physical. You make a fine wall. Her wings press close to her sides and the spade of the queen's tail tip twitches once.
He does not answer. But his movement is probably answer enough. The expanse of bronze that closes that entrance shifts, sliding like a tunnelsnake of enormous proportion in a snake den built to size. Ruvoth's side curves inward as he bends, letting his wing droop and fall into the line of Tialith's sight, blocking in a new way the interior. Step after step, tail sliding audibly on the soft sands of the training cavern, wing dipping into view and rising back out of it. He moves. It is not a speedy process because at no time may a width greater than a child's body be gapped between the bronze and the rock.
Eventually, however, Ruvoth's head comes into view and he nudges forward into the entrance until his foreshoulders jam it shut. A wall, now, with a face. And the face exhales a warm, hopeful breath. His eyes swirl, and reflect a thousand Tialiths. And he bows, like a man would, chin going low to the ground.
Oh, formality. What a bother. Tialiths, all of the ones reflected in his eyes, lower their muzzles so that the actual Tialith might move hers forward to briefly touch the bronze's. It lingers, that touch, a little longer than it might, because they haven't touched in some time and she did have to wait quite a while for him to turn. As he offers no words, she gives none in return. Just the touch and the gentle weight of her open link. Then, head and neck lifting again she settles, sphinx-like, in front of him.
You are Reaches' now. It is congratulation and observation, measured and intense. It has all of the weight he can give a thought like this, all of the restraint he's been forced to learn, all of the separation of him-- and his. His nose twitches, after hers has drawn away, and he raises his head. His regard of her becomes keener, sharper, the Tialiths pulling into fine focus. And we are yours. But not all hers. Ruvoth holds back. He watches her. He waits. But he holds back, the curiosity of a mental question mark thick in the midnight between them.
The queen's head cants a little to the side at these two pronouncements. We are Reaches now, she agrees, the whirling of her eyes slowing at the thought. But you are not. Yours is not, and you follow him. There is nothing of unhappiness behind the comment. It is a fact. And her barriers are stronger than his, whatever else the golden Tialith might feel has been tucked away in the curves and folds of her weighted musings. Then, simply, What?
We are Reaches'! Ruvoth hunkers down, as if he were going to come through the cavern entrance, wings sleeked down and shoulders neat. A queen fits through this passageway without struggle; if he let out his breath and got down onto bent legs as he normally does, the bronze would have no problem. But he's still, partly, a wall. Even if an indignant one. And he pauses partway through into the bowl, then draws up his tail to plug the gap between his side and the rock on the left, leaning right to close up the space over there, wings lifting to refuse access to those rare humans that levitate. Just in case. We have been Reaches' since before I hatched. And Reaches is ours. /That/ is almost a challenge. But he follows it with a confession, perhaps in trade, and bows his head, looking away down the wall of the bowl. He wishes me to talk to you.
Blue and green dim and brighten as that third translucent eyelid slides over and away. Blink. Her head moves, tipping to one side and then to the other, like a puppy who has heard an unknown noise. Her rider has this habit too, and one might wonder who gave it to whom. We are Reaches now. I will clutch here and my hatchlings will fight thread here. Some will die in the skies here. Some I will help as Roa mends their wounds here. Reaches is your home. Now it is mine as well. Did you not want that once? It is more words than Tialith usually shares at single time, and there is an awareness of that. A slight withdrawal and a thickening of the wall between their thoughts, which shifts and changes less than the wall Ruvoth creates with his body. What does he wish you to say?
And we will train them, whispers Ruvoth, almost gentle, almost adoring, almost himself. It almost answers that question: did he not want that, once. He did. He does. But the softness he feels, can't seem to stop himself feeling, for the young queen brings with it a sadness, too, and the big bronze opens and closes his jaw a few times, teeth gnashing like his rider's, but slower. Nothing, he sighs, as answer to the second question. Nothing specific. He wants to know he can trust her. But I think you can't give me that. Only she can. His nose points toward the ground again, no bow this time. Droop. Failure.
Drooping Ruvoths are unacceptable. Tialith's own muzzle dips down to settle under his chin and lift, raising his head back up into some impersonation of a proud lift. He sent her away, and she will not come to him now unless he asks. She is proud and she is busy and she is tired. The gold and silvery head moves away, ready to catch the bronze's should it lower again. He can trust her. She did not lie.
Ruvoth trembles with a suppressed laugh, unable to take seriously the fact that she is, bodily, propping up his chin. And because it does not become her, his young queen, to do so for the likes of him, he lifts his head himself and cants it a little bit toward her, the one eye watching her wry with deep blue. Lying is not the only way to do wrong, he sighs after a time, when the laughter has left him. And there are many kinds of truth that can happen between the teller and the one who hears it. His chin comes down a little, but not quite into a full droop. He just regards, instead of Tialith, the ground before their paws. What did she think he would hear? What did she let him hear? She gave him truth - but He wants trust. A pause. So do I.
A small exhalation is breathed out *chuff* at the bronze's bemusement. Tialith does not fancy being smirked at or thought comical, but she is fond of this one, and she endures it with long-suffering patience. Well. For her. she thought he would hear the place. She thought he would refuse. The queen's own head lowers onto the ground as if she has suddenly become interested in a nap. She does not understand why he wanted it then, and does not want it now.
He should have refused. Ruvoth looks away. Let her nap. He has never wanted it. Never wanted for the child to go away. Everyone goes away. He did not want to be alone. But he does not want her to be-- A pause. The Lady Sian is there, shimmering as an image in the bronze's mind, and then Yevide, too. They share very little in common, these two women. They might share, really, only one thing of significance where Ruvoth is concerned. He turns his head back toward himself, neck snaking back against itself in a tight and sinuous curve. Self-comforting, he tucks his muzzle beneath the arch of one wing. He thought she would be safer, so sent her away. Now he thinks neither of them is safe, and Reaches, neither. The killers will come back. They will make him bring them.
He did not refuse, is the queen's logical rejoinder. She cannot act on what he should have done. Only what he has done. Lids slide closed, one by one by one. Better to think this through in the warm dark of her eyelids. She is coming back. Puzzlement. Did Ruvoth think otherwise? They are not killers. And here is a misunderstanding, because the quick images sent are, one two, Ashwin, Jensen. That is why they had to leave.
The bronze is-- not old, precisely-- but he has more to give than that. And he gives it, sudden, in a rush. A young man, R'vain was then. Hotheaded-- nothing new-- rash-- fiery-tempered. But proud, and slender, and reckless and insane. Crack fliers. And they were destined for great things, they and their new, daring ideas-- until the Rebellion began to crack. Ruvoth has no words for those times. Just images and sensation. Going from most trusted to least. From being in a position to steal Vasyath's embrace and win his rider the Weyr, to training the Weyr's least-ranking riders. From ingenuity to teaching by the book. Musty hides and compressed spaces. Times had changed. All of them, groans Ruvoth, and starts backing up in the passageway, not that Tialith will see it. All of them that were sent away. The offspring, the guard-men, the killers too. His nostrils flare wide and he pauses, unsettled enough that there might be room around him for a man to slip through into his protected domain. I don't know. I don't know what they will do. But they have his offspring, and Roa gave her to them. He does not like that.
Oh. Them. There is sent, in return, flickers of memories. Interestingly, they are crisp and clear. The thoughts Tialith pull must be for events nearly twelve turns old, but they are as vivid as any recent recollections. A quick collage of men and women standing in Fort hold before a tribunal, one at a time. Then the images are shuffled up and tucked away again. She lives there. This next image is of Diya. Nenuith will clutch there. Her hatchlings will grow there. But he is mad at Roa? His is safe, or she would not have sent her.
R'vain was not privy to the trials. He was indentured to weyrling dragons and muckpits at the time. But Tialith's image is accepted as truth, and to it Ruvoth manages a little nod, his muzzle stroking his own hide with the motion. With all of /them/ there, the killers and more, how does she know the offspring, or the guard-men, or the Weyrwoman, or anyone is safe? If these monikers are telling, well. Ruvoth is not much for subtle. Things /are/ as they are.
Because the riders fly fall and children are there and Nenuith clutches. And they, again the quick two images in the same order: Ashwin, Jensen, are strong and will die before she a little red-haired bundle is hurt. She did what she must, and on top of that she did what yours asked. The only outward sign that Tialith is awake is the slow, methodical twitch of her tail tip.
He knows she did what he asked. Ruvoth lets out a heavy sigh and untucks his head from beneath his wing to regard Tialith with slow-whirling, sorrowful eyes of ocean depth. But he cannot know they are safe, any of them. Two guard-men against however many of /them/ remain. It is hard to believe, Tialith. He made a mistake. Drooping again, since she's not watching. His muzzle slumps onto the soil. He does not blame her for his agreement. But he is angry with her, that she asked. That she let him think what he thought. He cannot trust that. No more than he trusts the killers.
They are not, you know. Killers. These thoughts are shared without anger or annoyance. Just the languid passing on of a fact. Just people with mistakes. Most of them, anyhow. She thinks they will be safer there than with those who wish to hurt them here. The queen's sides rise and fall in a hefty sigh. If he cannot trust her, then he cannot. The rest of the implication is, for now, left unsaid.
The bronze has rarely displayed anything that could be called a temper. It is his rider's rage that is legendary; Ruvoth's irritations are rare. But if his temper were better-known, it might be of some note itself. She has nursed him. He is grateful. I AM GRATEFUL. He doesn't sound it. His eyes pick up speed, and color, too, flashing shades around the rims that rarely come to life there. But he has had nurses. A Weyrwoman... would not have done this. He will worry as long as she's gone, and when she comes back, worry all over again that he owes /them/ for her life. Bronze nostrils flare wide and Ruvoth lets out a heated chuff of air. He cannot. I am sorry. He withdraws, then, from the opening, and begins laboriously to turn as he was turned before. A wall.
It is at the first touch of those tumultuous thoughts that Tialith's eyes unlid and come fully open. Her head lifts and though she watches Ruvoth with a sort of strange intensity, she remains calm. Her own eyes shine blue and green. If that is all he sees, then he is in darkness. As Ruvoth turns, so does the queen, gliding upwards so she is standing. So it is. If the words themselves are not final, the weight of them is. The pressure in the bronze's mind intensifies, focusing in on the bridge, the open link, until the force becomes too great. And it snaps. If there is a soft and unhappy croon from the gold in the doing of it, it is still done. Four feet move, turning her as the wall loses its face, and leading her back towards her weyr. Her wings hang a little lower, tail tip dragging on the ground. Her head, of course, remains high.
Ruvoth, of course, never had a choice. She is a junior, a new one, an invading force but a tiny one. His rider is-- well. As it has ever been. His head is hidden behind the stone by the time that snap forces shut all three sets of eyelids, and if the smooth expanse of breath-swollen hide that now closes off the training cavern is shuddering from the pain of that final slap, well. He will, at one with his R'vain, come eventually to sleep through it.