Return.
The scoop: While Ginny and Aneleth are sands-sitting at Benden, T’ral has, finally, broken his self-exaggerated, if not entirely self-imposed exile, and gone to visit her there. This is his second visit, or more specifically, his exit.
I know. It's a vignette that doesn't relate to a single prompt. I am outta control, make way!
Even in a weyr full of fighting fit riders, T’ral’s silhouette is hard to mistake. There’s a little light shining down the tunnel from the junior weyrwoman’s weyr to the hatching grounds, although the hatching cavern itself is in darkness.
He’s visible as a long shadow, made even larger than his already tall 6’4, as he appears at that dimly lit entrance, turning his head unerringly to look through the darkness to where Darageth waits. Below, the Bendenite queen is asleep on the sands, curled around the mound that contains her pride and joy; her gold egg. The long, lean, shadowy brown still waits up the back, on a viewing ledge, his eyes a glimmer of starlight in the darkness as the facets pick up a hint of the light from the tunnel.
There’s some quiet swearing as T’ral makes his way along the benches, banging his shins more than once. It’s hot inside the cavern, and his flying jacket still hangs from one hand, his shirt untucked. Darageth waits patiently, and in time, his rider comes up alongside him.
The big brownrider doesn’t mount up, or pull on his jacket. Instead, he leans into his dragon’s shoulder, turning his head to rest his cheek against warm hide. The dragon turns his head slowly, then curves his long neck so that his dark, burnished brown hide ripples under T’ral, and he can angle his head to breathe slowly on his rider.
“Augh, that’s horrible,” comes a muttered response, as the man turns his head the other way, trying to avoid the wash of hot breath. “Get a toothpick, man.” The dragon breathes again, so that his rider lifts one arm, and burrows his face into his elbow for safety. They remain so for a little time, a still tableau, almost invisible in the darkness.
The brown, who ventures perhaps a mere half dozen words on a good day, speaks. We could stay.
T’ral doesn’t answer for a time, face hidden, curly hair sticking out of the cradle made by the crook of his arm. “Not really,” he murmurs. “They’ll all come by in the morning. We weren’t invited back.”
We are wanted back, Darageth points out, his low cello of a voice only just above a whisper.
T’ral lifts his head, to look back towards where Aneleth would be visible, save for the darkness. “I know,” he murmurs, pained.
Not only - Darageth prefers fragmented sentences; he doesn’t need the rest of the words to convey what he meant, so they are allowed to hide in the darkness.
“I know that, too. I left it too long, I made it hard for us. If we stay now, it looks like we snuck in late at night. I’m not sneaking in here with my tail between my legs.’
Why would a creature put its tail -
“Figure of speech, man. Like a canine does, when it’s cowed.”
Cowed?
“Scared. Not like a cow. Cows don’t put their tails between their legs.”
Then why say?
“Because people are idiots, I don’t know. I think we’ve established I’m an idiot.”
No.
“Good of you to say. Have you said goodbye to Aneleth?”
Retreating to his customary, preferred silence, the brown answers with a general indication of the affirmative, rather than a particular word. And then, added in the sepia tones that usually accompany his low voice, his shadowed mind, his silence, a pale image of the man who has recently occupied his rider’s thoughts. Bearded, big; if he is big in Darageth’s mental image, then he is nearly of a size with T’ral, beside whom most seem small to the dragon.
“You talked to her about him?” T’ral’s tone indicates faint surprise, and as he speaks, he begins to pull on his jacket. “What did she think?”
Darageth mulls over that, looking for a reply. In the end, he has none, allowing Aneleth’s nonplussed response to echo through his mind. “I know,” T’ral agrees, giving the straps a habitual, experimental tug. All safe. “I think I’m working it out, though. Answer’s the same, whether he’s sounding me out, or just thinks I’m safe to talk to because I’m heading back here. Listen, try not to get my head knocked off. And, if I want to serve him, try and actually answer him, I guess.”
The brown’s question is unspoken, and causes his rider to flash a grin in the dark as he clambers up his straps. “Yeah man, I know. He didn’t punch me though, did he? I’ll get it right next time, watch. I won’t be so damn surprised. I should speak to D’ven about it.”
Another, silent observation on D’ven, and on the brown’s brother, D’ven’s bronze. Words are not needed, to convey this one.
“Huh, Trellazoth think so too?”
Affirmative.
“Right, I’ll go and see him tomorrow, then. We can sort out some time off. You’re right, he’ll kill himself trying, big idiot.”
The brown launches himself from the viewing ledges, and peels away to glide on the warm air from the sands, while his rider turns his head to look back at the dimly lit tunnel that led to the weyr they leave behind, and the woman sleeping there.
A minute later, they farewell the watchrider, an old clutchmate, and wink between.
I know. It's a vignette that doesn't relate to a single prompt. I am outta control, make way!
Even in a weyr full of fighting fit riders, T’ral’s silhouette is hard to mistake. There’s a little light shining down the tunnel from the junior weyrwoman’s weyr to the hatching grounds, although the hatching cavern itself is in darkness.
He’s visible as a long shadow, made even larger than his already tall 6’4, as he appears at that dimly lit entrance, turning his head unerringly to look through the darkness to where Darageth waits. Below, the Bendenite queen is asleep on the sands, curled around the mound that contains her pride and joy; her gold egg. The long, lean, shadowy brown still waits up the back, on a viewing ledge, his eyes a glimmer of starlight in the darkness as the facets pick up a hint of the light from the tunnel.
There’s some quiet swearing as T’ral makes his way along the benches, banging his shins more than once. It’s hot inside the cavern, and his flying jacket still hangs from one hand, his shirt untucked. Darageth waits patiently, and in time, his rider comes up alongside him.
The big brownrider doesn’t mount up, or pull on his jacket. Instead, he leans into his dragon’s shoulder, turning his head to rest his cheek against warm hide. The dragon turns his head slowly, then curves his long neck so that his dark, burnished brown hide ripples under T’ral, and he can angle his head to breathe slowly on his rider.
“Augh, that’s horrible,” comes a muttered response, as the man turns his head the other way, trying to avoid the wash of hot breath. “Get a toothpick, man.” The dragon breathes again, so that his rider lifts one arm, and burrows his face into his elbow for safety. They remain so for a little time, a still tableau, almost invisible in the darkness.
The brown, who ventures perhaps a mere half dozen words on a good day, speaks. We could stay.
T’ral doesn’t answer for a time, face hidden, curly hair sticking out of the cradle made by the crook of his arm. “Not really,” he murmurs. “They’ll all come by in the morning. We weren’t invited back.”
We are wanted back, Darageth points out, his low cello of a voice only just above a whisper.
T’ral lifts his head, to look back towards where Aneleth would be visible, save for the darkness. “I know,” he murmurs, pained.
Not only - Darageth prefers fragmented sentences; he doesn’t need the rest of the words to convey what he meant, so they are allowed to hide in the darkness.
“I know that, too. I left it too long, I made it hard for us. If we stay now, it looks like we snuck in late at night. I’m not sneaking in here with my tail between my legs.’
Why would a creature put its tail -
“Figure of speech, man. Like a canine does, when it’s cowed.”
Cowed?
“Scared. Not like a cow. Cows don’t put their tails between their legs.”
Then why say?
“Because people are idiots, I don’t know. I think we’ve established I’m an idiot.”
No.
“Good of you to say. Have you said goodbye to Aneleth?”
Retreating to his customary, preferred silence, the brown answers with a general indication of the affirmative, rather than a particular word. And then, added in the sepia tones that usually accompany his low voice, his shadowed mind, his silence, a pale image of the man who has recently occupied his rider’s thoughts. Bearded, big; if he is big in Darageth’s mental image, then he is nearly of a size with T’ral, beside whom most seem small to the dragon.
“You talked to her about him?” T’ral’s tone indicates faint surprise, and as he speaks, he begins to pull on his jacket. “What did she think?”
Darageth mulls over that, looking for a reply. In the end, he has none, allowing Aneleth’s nonplussed response to echo through his mind. “I know,” T’ral agrees, giving the straps a habitual, experimental tug. All safe. “I think I’m working it out, though. Answer’s the same, whether he’s sounding me out, or just thinks I’m safe to talk to because I’m heading back here. Listen, try not to get my head knocked off. And, if I want to serve him, try and actually answer him, I guess.”
The brown’s question is unspoken, and causes his rider to flash a grin in the dark as he clambers up his straps. “Yeah man, I know. He didn’t punch me though, did he? I’ll get it right next time, watch. I won’t be so damn surprised. I should speak to D’ven about it.”
Another, silent observation on D’ven, and on the brown’s brother, D’ven’s bronze. Words are not needed, to convey this one.
“Huh, Trellazoth think so too?”
Affirmative.
“Right, I’ll go and see him tomorrow, then. We can sort out some time off. You’re right, he’ll kill himself trying, big idiot.”
The brown launches himself from the viewing ledges, and peels away to glide on the warm air from the sands, while his rider turns his head to look back at the dimly lit tunnel that led to the weyr they leave behind, and the woman sleeping there.
A minute later, they farewell the watchrider, an old clutchmate, and wink between.