====October 24, 2013
====H'ai, Maosa, Rhavinaeth, Osweith
====Oldtime bluerider meets Nowtime weyrling.

Who H'ai, Maosa, Rhavinaeth, Osweith
What Oldtime bluerider meets Nowtime weyrling.
When There are 0 turns, 10 months and 24 days until the 12th pass.
Where SW - Upper Bowl

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Southern Weyr - Upper Bowl
The graceful sweep of spacious bowl lies scoured clean by an easterly breeze. Detritus is whisked neat to the eastern steppe of the bowl that lies several feet lower than the western plateau. White walls contrast the rough granite of the rivercliffs: the giant maw of the Hatching Cavern lies in the thickest part of the western wall, sheltering the training grounds and weyrling barracks lying nor'west. Directly north lies the leadership courtyard, heavily humid and subtly scented by intrigue.


Heralded by storms, the wolves of the wind have fallen into the whimpers of exhausted puppies that bring cessation to the rains that swept the weyr. Night has fallen into the hushed stillness of the eye of the storm, the ground slick with mud and water. H'ai, at the end of his visit to the weyr, is trudging his way across the bowl. The faint light of the glows dotting the weyr casts his features in stark relief and highlighting the fair color of sandy hair and deepening klah brown eyes. Dressed casually, his intent does not seem to be diplomatic in purpose. Rhavinaeth — a massive old-timer blue — awaits, patience threaded through the lilting music of his lyrical, oceanic cadence.

It is ALMOST CERTAINLY not within regulations for a weyrling pair to be out this far, with the night growing deep. Yet here they are, hovering at the edge of the entrance into the Training Grounds, two dark shadows crouched to the wall. Because that's not suspicious or anything. "Osweith," hisses the taller and narrower blotch of darkness, "we gotta go back." The longer and lower shadow only moves forward, with a smooth grace rare in baby dragons. He's got an objective in mind: Rhavinaeth. And he's so focused on his goal, he's failed to notice what Maosa has: H'ai, approaching. "Osweittttth," hisses the human half. "Someone's coming. We gotta go!" SHENANIGANS: AFOOT.

Contrary to popular belief, Rhavinaeth is sharp for a blue and he is entirely conscientious of the little blue eyeballing him from the shadows. Perhaps not that Osweith is blue — that knowledge only comes when the little dragonet steps forward — but that the eyes he felt on the back of his proverbial hide comes from the shadows. H'ai halts, glancing about. "Who goes there?" In Igen, this would be the cause for the tension that clenches muscles, and balances his weight. But Southern — he only raises his voice, "Might as well show yourself. I've got ears," into what can only be a sardonic, self-important drawl.

Can a shadow look sulky? Because the shadow at the Training Grounds entrance manages to do exactly that, hesitating a reluctant moment before stepping forward. It's a few silent paces before short-haired and uniformed Maosa is halfway visible, braced on the balls of her feet, the better to scurry at a moment's notice. Osweith isn't much noisier: with catlike tread, upon his prey he steals. Except that Rhavinaeth is, you know, aware of his existence. Maosa salutes, reluctant. Osweith just rumbles a little kitten-roar of a rumble, craning his neck and examining the giant Oldtimer blue, eyes whirling with intense interest.

Osweith thinks to you, « I bespoke Rhavinaeth with: Osweith is a sudden intrusion, a monochrome glimpse into an endless maze lit harshly. There's an unrealistically bright glowbasket somewhere in there, up high, a hint of clandestine interrogation. « Excuse me. » At least he's polite about it. « But why are you so big? You're much bigger than any of the blues I've seen yet. I don't understand. Why are they small? Why are you big? » Osweith smells a secret. No — Osweith smells A CONSPIRACY. »

Rhavinaeth suffuses humor into the soulless night, keeping whirling blue eyes trained on the little Osweith while H'ai keeps his trained on Maosa. Somewhat continuing the vein of sardonic, deadpan humor, the bluerider of Igen cannot help but question the waif that exposes herself: "Cat got your tongue, girl?" The salute gets a tsk-tsk sound, yet he still returns it. Somehow making the delivery of it into a sarcastic emote. "You're one of the new weyrlings," he states. "H'ai. Rhavinaeth's, of Igen." Lingering silence gives: and you are?

The ocean's ebb and flow is a lyrical song that whispers through the nooks and crannies of the interrogation room. Seafoam dances to the subtle harmonics at play. « I am as I was born to be. » A simple enough statement, wound in a whisper as faint as the stars. « I am from the past. Where dragons had reached the biggest of their size. » Conspiracy? None here, in the shadowed depths of the ocean. (From Rhavinaeth)

"Maosa," says same, sulky. "That's Osweith." Who is visibly excited by Rhavinaeth's words: look, his itty-bitty baby tail is twitching and everything. The human half of the pair gazes upon this with the resignation of a month's experience. It couldn't be more obvious that they aren't meant to be here, but she tries out an excuse for size, anyway, after an uncomfortably long moment of silent contemplation and wary examination. She's still tensed on her feet, ready to spring into a fight-or-flight response at any moment. "We're just walking." They so aren't.

Osweith thinks to you, « I bespoke Rhavinaeth with: Osweith thinks « That doesn't make sense. » Osweith is a prowling presence in his fluorescent corridors, skittish and jumpy. « Why were dragons bigger back then? Why would we have gotten //smaller? That doesn't make sense at all. That can't be right. Why would dragons just get smaller? » The ocean might be shadowed and deep, but shadows hold secrets. And secrets hold HIDDEN TRUTHS. With a ringing certainty, Osweith declares: « Something — or someone — did something. They had to have. »//

"Riiiiiight," H'ai drawls, kicking back on his heels and tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. He regards the girl — barely glancing to Osweith, leaving that to his dragon's care — pensively, with dark humor infiltrated. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, brows raising, and he gives off a sullen shrug, "No skin off my back what you're doing out and about. I'm not the," po-po, "guard. And this isn't my weyr, so I could care less if you're tripping out the weyr on your own so long's you're not crying out my name." Does he care about rules? Not in the slightest.

Timeless as the tide, the ebb and flow of the ocean's sway cradles the world beneath the shining light of the moon. Seafoam bubbles, foams. « It is truth. » So simple is Rhavinaeth's philosophy. « Dragons get smaller when the people forget Thread. When Thread returns, the dragons get bigger. » Ebb and flow; a thread woven through the crashing waves of his words. « And what would they have done? » Stormy seas toss, now, lyrical music dancing like golden notes across the ocean's waves. Turquoise blue-light fires beneath the waves. (From Rhavinaeth)

"There's no rule against walking," Maosa declares, obviously moderately flustered to be so blatantly caught out, and trying to hide it. She scowls, evidently ungrateful for his helpful disinterest in ratting her out. She eyes the elder rider again (from a bit of a distance — she's only ventured close enough to speak comfortably, and shows no signs of planning to change that), her gaze only reluctantly switching to her little lifemate. Who is sitting on his haunches now, wings faintly flared. Twitch, twitch, twitch goes the tapping tail, before he gives a little butt-wiggle, like some sort of delightful prey is before him.

Osweith thinks to you, « I bespoke Rhavinaeth with: Osweith weighs this information. « But how do our eggs know? » he asks, finally. In the depths of his endless hallways, he paces with silent intensity. There's the faintest acidic tang of coffee and smoke lingering on the edges of his baritone. « That doesn't make sense. An egg can't know. How could it know if Thread was coming or not? » Pace upon pace upon pace, the smokey tinge ever thicker, warring against the oceanic's salty tang. « None of this makes //sense. » A faint hint of anxiety underlies his voice, tinting his excitement. « Don't you think it doesn't make sense? »//

"Then don't act like there is," H'ai prompts, keeping his eyes steadily on the crazed Maosa — well that's what his expression says of his thoughts of her. He's as good as she is in keeping to the silence, speaking only so much as that pointed, acerbic sentence before allowing the silence to well. Shadows shift and move, but the bowl is still empty insofar as they are. The bluerider is just about to blow Osweith's mind, when he tugs something out of his pocket and lights the end. Whatever it is, the orange-red glow tosses his features into eerie, shifting shadows.

The ocean is ever changing, golden notes flowing and dancing along the nebulous shape of the waters that fill and chase the endless hallways. « Do they need to? » Rhavinaeth counters steadily, the lyrical harmonics of his tenor warbling in deep vibrato. « It is the way it's been time over time. Slowly and slowly, we get bigger and bigger. So that we can fight Thread. » The ancient nemesis. « It doesn't have to make sense. It simply //is. » (From Rhavinaeth)//

Maosa has no glib response to that, not that she exactly comes off as a specialist in glib responses to start with. She just has a silent scowl, crossing her arms tight against her chest. But she doesn't move on, either, and the reason is clear: Osweith is having SUCH TIMES right now. The little blue is all but vibrating in place, the faintest attempt to keep it together a thin gloss over Crazy. It's only when H'ai pulls out the FIRE STICK that he goes still, and that's abruptly. Both baby dragon and baby rider stare, equally surprised. Oh, H'ai. You shouldn't play with the crazy :(

Osweith thinks to you, « I bespoke Rhavinaeth with: Osweith thinks « Absolute certainty rings in Osweith's voice, lighting his monochrome hallways in pitch black and blinding white: « No. No. There's a pattern to all this. I //know it. None of this makes sense. It ought to make sense! Things don't happen without a reason. Why are we smaller than the bronzes? Why are the bronzes smaller than the golds? Why are you Oldtimers so big? It doesn't make SENSE. I - » Oh, a pause. Almost plaintive, the little blue makes a simple inquiry: « Why is your rider lighting his face on fire? » //

H'ai plays with crazy all the time, and has since he was a child. When both of them smile, he flicks the little fire-stick down at the ground, using his boot-toe to grind it into the mud and water. "Good night, bluerider." What? Leaving all ready? H'ai really is deep throat, the Igen operative of the night. Here to steal Southern's secrets. Even if those secrets come with dark hair and icy blue eyes. Ahem, anyway. The bluerider is strolling away with little more than a passing courtesy to the weyrling. "Pretend a little better, girl. It'll do you a world of good." As he scales the straps of his massive blue, he gives her a two-fingered salute.

There's a faint, rumbling sound in the darkness, too high to be from a dragon's throat. Did Maosa… did Maosa just growl at H'ai? It's hard to tell, with how she's slinking into the shadows, her wild-eyed little blue reluctantly following in her wake. Hard to tell, yet somehow certain. The faint glint of Maosa's eyes in the shadows, the larger gleam of Osweith's, and the Igenites are able to depart in peace. The weyrlings are returning to the nest, where an AWLM no doubt lies in patient wait for conspicuous curfew breakers.

Osweith thinks to you, « I bespoke Rhavinaeth with: Osweith thinks « No. That's just crazy. » The little blue dismisses the theory out of hand, even as his mind fades — a trifle reluctantly. You have secrets, Rhavinaeth. OSWEITH KNOWS IT. But he knows a waiting game when he sees one, and he'll let you win this round. But someday. Someday he'll know. It's almost absurd, in this context, how dapperly polite his final farewell is. « Good evening, Rhavinaeth. Sleep well. »

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