====October 24th, 2013
====Hannah, E'don, Qianvaelth, Dhiammarath
====E'don and Hannah have a meeting of minds while mother and son meet.

Who Hannah, E'don, Qianvaelth, Dhiammarath
What E'don and Hannah have a meeting of minds while mother and son meet.
When There are 0 turns, 10 months and 24 days until the 12th pass.
Where Training Grounds, Southern Weyr



Training Grounds
A broad and sheltered swoop of bowl lies bare for the talons and tread of countless weyrlings that-will-be, encased by stone scoured and scarred by those-that-were. Dirt lies as neatly as dirt can lie, swept and raked daily, at the mouth of the caverns that must indubitably be the weyrling barracks. Devoid of decoration, the place stands strangely absent of pressence when empty, the everpresent wind of Southern giving strange acoustics to those under the shelter of the towering bowl-wall.
Obvious exits:
Weyrling Barracks Training Pens Upper Bowl

With the second day of summer storms in full swing, it would be surprising to most to find anyone out in the thick of the downpour. With a warm wind moving off Azov’s coast, the rain today isn’t as brutal as the day before; sideways rain sheets have given way to something more… pleasant perhaps? Rain still falls in buckets, but with warm, big raindrops, pooling in puddles across the dents and drifts of the training grounds. It’d be no surprise then, given his predisposition that Qianvaelth is out in the thick of things, plodding oversized paws from puddle to puddle. The little bronze pauses before a pool of muddy water, splaying unsteady wings out to each side before plopping himself down, spynx style into the middle of it, homely muzzle pointed towards the charcoal clouds above. E’don is never very far behind, arms crossed across rain drenched tunic, squinting as he follows his dragonet from puddle to puddle, silent.

Cue a junior weyrwoman dashing across the training grounds, using a few hides held over her head to shield her from the drenching rain. Hannah's attention is arrested, however, by the little bronze's antics, though she's more intent on getting to the overhang of rock that can provide some relief from the rain. Whatever her intent is — to see Ja'kai or check on Dhiammarath's babies — she does pause, calling out: "Donn— E'don. Don't get yourself sick." Humor twines with the strained yell that's thrown, given the distance. Perhaps, she teases. Dhiammarath, pale as she is, is a starlight sentinel who's presence can be felt more than seen; crouched in an area high above the training grounds, maternal amusement filters into the serenity-infused jade that touches, so lightly, the minds of her children.

<Local>Dhiammarath senses Qianvaelth is a single sapling in a scarcely populated grove, new leaves on his spindly boughs reaching towards the sky. The melodic rustling of leaves wind milling across the detritus of underbrush is middling at first, a soft scraping that soon builds with a crisp crescendo. «It rains, Mother.» His voice is a light echo within the hallow of abandon tree husks. «Isn’t it wonderful.»

E’don is never one to miss an opportunity to excise himself from situations he dislikes. Rain—standing in the rain for two days in a row—is not his definition of fun, and when he hears Hannah’s order, he’s going to listen, if only for prudence sake. “He insists I stand out here with him,” the weyrling gripes back, but he’s wheeling his way in the overhang the junior weyrwoman is heading towards and when he finally makes it, he shakes out like a dog. “I really hope it stops raining tomorrow. Because I don’t want to stand out here and watch him.” Damp tunic is smoothed down, and it’s only then, finally, that he offers Hannah a sloppy salute. “Ma’am—“ an afterthought, “If I don’t stand here, he’ll wander away without me.”

It's a good thing Hannah opted not to wear white today, or any other light color, given that the hides did little to really protect her from the rain that's falling. Pale hair has turned the color of cream, plastered to her skull to hang in strings from where it escapes the braid. Dark pants are paired with a dark green, sleeveless tunic that shows a fair amount of collarbone. "Don't stand out there so much you get a cold." She glances to the skies, blinking away the stray raindrops that splatter from where the sheets hit the overhang, commenting, "It's getting close to autumn." The rainy season. "So, it might be gone tomorrow." But mostly likely won't, says her tone. When E'don salutes, caught from the corner of her eye, the junior's smile widens. Finally, a weyrling who's been paying attention. "Will he?" The question given is designed to provoke thought, "Or is he just testing your ability to control?"

<Local> Qianvaelth senses that Dhiammarath is a gentle presence; the jade-touched hush to the leaves that stir within Qianvaelth's mental wind, the flicker of candlelight that comes and goes, highlighting the brilliant orange and fire-touched gold of autumn leaves. The creaking is given the depth of tranquility that exudes from Dhiammarath's mind, though the touch is kept simple enough for a young, growing mind to handle. « It is. Watch the sky, son. And see how it flashes. »

Thank Faranth for rain showers, at least for this teenager—E’don’s salute is followed up with a very long, lingering side glance across Hannah’s chest, one of those roving gazes that he makes look purposeful—totally not looking at your wet shirt. Nope. “Testing my ability?” Oh, he hasn’t thought about that, and the befuddled look that crosses his face belies a deeper confrontation going on in his head. He might even be checking with his dragon for a confirmation. “He got stuck behind the oil vat the other day. I was napping—we were suppose to be napping—and he didn’t even wake me up for help.” Arms cross and re-cross against his chest, and he emits the smallest of huffs, gaze locked on his dragon, who is still soaking himself in the mud puddle. “He asked one of the Weyrlingmasters instead.” The weyrling’s tone is indignant, hurt even. Definitely hurt. “This is hard. Harder it seems, than for others.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Hannah can probably infer.

<Local> Dhiammarath senses Qianvaelth is reaching towards Dhimmarath’s gentle tranquility, the whipcord snap of sapling strength placated for a gentler creaking, the crackle of autumnal leaves softening to just the quietest of whispers. The dapple of autumnal sun glittering across the leaves of Qianvaelth’s mind. «It is beautiful. The sky. The flashes—what is it, my mother?»

E'don hovers on that line between Dhiammarath's maternal drive towards Qianvaelth's still youthful form and being of the group that will one day become a pain in the ass the next time her gold flies in the next couple of turns. So it's no wonder that Hannah's look towards E'don is considering, not entirely friendly for his perusal of the wet material that clings far more than it did in the morning. Neither does she dignify the child's perusal with anything more than that flat, feral look of green eyes, tilted up to the teenager's. "Should he have to wake you up for help, E'don?" she parries back to the fledgling bronzerider. "Or would you rather he be self-sufficient and get himself out of situations when he can? When he has the capacity to?" Pale brows lift, Hannah's hands lifting to push wet hair off her forehead as water clings to the rounded curves of her features. Even her lashes clump together. "How is it harder?" Perhaps the junior of a sevenday ago would have let inference sit, but for her own reasons, the question is posed to get E'don talking.

<Local> Qianvaelth senses that Dhiammarath thinks « It is called lightning. » Dhiammarath sprinkles jewel-crushed sands throughout the base of the creaking trees. She shares his mindspace than letting too much of her own seep in. Not yet, not yet, anyway. A promise dances on candlelight, flickering yellow-orange against the autumnal leaves that sway to the creaking song of Qianvaelth's voice. « And it often comes with storms. Listen, son. Listen to the rumble of thunder that follows. »

<Local> Dhiammarath senses Qianvaelth is all too happy to open up young forests to his dam, seedling reaching for the larger boughs of a great oak tree; clear allegories of mother and son, the latter a spindly replica of the giant oak’s gravitas. Leaves of red and orange dance across the jeweled grains, a pleasant welcome to Dhiammarath’s presence under his branches, however small they be: «I enjoy the storms. I enjoy the thunder. And the lightening. » There is a pause, a soft lull in the breeze of Qianvaelth’s mind. «It is a comfort as it was in the comfort of your egg.»

“I just want him to be able to do things on his own, but aren’t I most important? Shouldn’t he want to rely on me?” E’don whinges back Hannah’s way, Bollian tenor laced with the continuing traces of his emotional snubbing. He meets the weyrwoman’s gaze with a startled raise of eyebrows, his entire head jerking away as if he’d been burnt; ears burn with embarrassment, even on damp skin, his blush is obvious. It’s as if a schoolboy’s teacher had just caught him sneaking a peek down her blouse, mouth tightening with the strain of mortification. “Our connection—it’s there. I feel him in my head, but he’s… eh,” fingers come up to rub the bridge of his nose with frustration, “aloof. He’s so distant sometimes. I look at everyone else and it seems they’re displaying this demonstrative love out in the open.” E’don squints, watching his dragon rise up out of the puddle he’s in and plod on to the next one. “Qian isn’t like that. He’s quiet. And he’s always present. But my thoughts don’t concern him all that much.” It’s finally then that the teen turns to look at Hannah again, mouth askance with confusion. “He finds them trivial. Doesn’t sound much like a baby dragon, does he?”

E'don's reaction settles him firmly on the side of the line best suited to his health: the maternal side. Tone gentled, Hannah reminds, "Of course you are most important, but self-sufficiency doesn't preclude importance, E'don." As important as that is, what the bronzerider goes on to describe has the junior falling into a pensive quiet. "Some mindlinks are closer than others. Dhiammarath's own is quiet and her affection for me can be felt rather than seen. Vossuth's closeness to Th'seus could be debated, so I don't think it is so much that Qianvaelth is less," because that does sound like part of E'don's concern, "but that he inherited some traits from his parents more." A slight smile offered, part concilatory and part encouraging, "He's there. Like the — trees, is it? An old soul in a youthful body. Dhiammarath was much the same." Still, his concerns are taken not-lightly, prompting Hannah to remind, "Talk to the Weyrlingmaster staff. They are suited to helping in this."

<Local> Qianvaelth senses that Dhiammarath lightly touches the youthful branches of the sapling-Qianvaelth, kissing them with the subtle play of soothing-jade as a mother would shield a child. « Good. The world is meant to be enjoyed. » Playfully, she kicks up the fallen leaves into a whirlwind of orange and red colors, touched in russet brown. « When you are older, the great forests of the north be worth exploring. » A whispering not yet, not yet touches the flicker-sense of jade, co-mingling with sweetgrass and lemon. Green tea cleanses the palate.

“Oh.” E’don listens with a tilted head, the furrow of his forehead lessening just slightly as Hannah explains. “I guess, I mean, I suppose it makes sense.” There’s a tad bit of skepticism laced in the dip of E’don’s speech, a middling worry still evident despite Hannah’s words. The bronze weyrling falls silent, taking a moment to listen to the pattern of rain, watching Qianvaelth who takes his last spill into a puddle, this time doing a dog-like roll into the muddy shallow. “Ug.” E’don grunts with reflective annoyance, but the pull of his lips show that he’s still amused, if not just a little bit. “The dragonets don’t make a mistake, do they? With the person.” There’s the final rub, a raw question that he doesn't want answered. That is, if the answer is yes. The bronze dragonet for his part, is suddenly jerking to his feet, letting loose creaking response, sparks clacking together as he plods towards the pair. “Ah, he’s hungry—aren’t you Qian?”

<Local> Dhiammarath senses Qianvaelth basks in the warm scent of Dhiammarath’s jade, sapling stretching with audible creaks and snaps towards her presence. «We will go there one day.» He doesn’t denote whom, be it his rider and him, or mother and son, but the implication is laid ambiguous, wisked away in the jingling whisper of sienna orange leaves.

"Never." The whispering hiss of the word comes as Hannah places a reassuring hand on the boy's upper arm, leaning in just enough to emphasize the words. Assuming, E'don doesn't jump out of the way, that is. "They never make a mistake. He is yours as he is meant to be." Encouragement colors the husky voice that raises from the hissing whisper at the last clarification and plays at the smile that now graces the junior's lips. "Now, get him fed and get yourself out of the rain." Is that an order? It comes with just a hint of humor for the teenaged boy as she backs away to head into the barracks. Pausing, she looks over her shoulder back to E'don, "And talk to them. The weyrlingmaster staff or find a dragonhealer — they can help, too." In understanding the mindlink. "Ask for G'deon." This comes from a soft tone, pensive. One last searching look is given to Qianvaelth himself, provoking a maternal sense from the goldrider. "You're doing well with him." Final praise given, the woman ducks into the barracks.

<Local> Qianvaelth senses that Dhiammarath tickles the little sapling's leaves, a lasting maternal caress as laughter echoes through the gentle breezes that tumble through the colorful forest of Qianvaelth's mind. A trickle of jewel-crusted sands sprinkle across the burnished brass of fall-laden leaves. « Good. » Approval, praise; they both flow through the single word, carrying the maternal remembrances of love. Only time is slipping away, ever finite as the day will come when memories are nothing more than the leaves left behind and the strength of association between dam and child will be less than it is now. For now, Dhiammarath's presence is strong, her approval touched in jade and edged in green tea. « Now off with you. Take care of yours. » As her influence draws away, the heartbeat of affection flickers in the candlelight that lights the darkness. Until she has withdrawn from the link, leaving tranquility in her wake.

"Right, stupid question." E'don responds meekly, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. "Thanks Hannah, for listening," he calls out as the weyrwoman leaves, and the weyrling is turn attention back to his dragonet. "Common' you filthy lug. Let's go eat." Qianvaelth is quick to turn, and the pair is trudging back out into the rain and towards the barracks.
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