Majel, Yukie; Dyxath, Inayalinaeth


A little snippet in time of the first moments after the Hatching. Inayalinaeth and Dyxath flex their mental wings a bit.


It is late night of the twenty-fifth day of the fifth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Weyrling Barracks, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


k-ane_default.jpg majel_default.jpg yukie_12.jpg dyxath.jpg inaya1.jpg


Weyrling Barracks

A cluster of small buildings punch out from the facade here, each just spacious enough to admit growing weyrlings and little else beside. Each has its own sturdy little hide covering their openings to provide a modicum of privacy to their occupants and a stone basin meant for both meat and water squats ready before each door. To one side, the Weyrlingmaster's office sits, the one large building in the space. Here, the pale salted walls are covered with various charts, maps, and informational diagrams. In the small yard before these buildings, a table and chairs is set, a small hearth against the opposite wall holds a cavernous kettle kept a-boil with various meals, while a smaller hangs from an iron tripod for klah.

Timor: 1_m12.jpg
Belior: 1_m5.jpg

-- On Pern --
It is 10:49 PM where you are.
It is late night of the twenty-fifth day of the fifth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the fifty-fifth day of Spring and 84 degrees. It is a clear night.
In Southern:
It is the fifty-fifth day of Autumn and 73 degrees. It is partly cloudy with barely any stars visible.

<Local> Inayalinaeth senses that: A hush descends; a breath taken, held. Darkness surrounds, lit only by the silver'd light of faint moonlight to cascade upon a frozen forest of ill-portent. Darkness falls to a faint half-light, the strange were-light broken only the tremulous sound of an audacious cricket. Chirrup. A single sound that releases this suspension to allow airflow and that brush of intent felt more than heard. « Hunger is eternal, never to be sated, but fullness comes from indulgence of darkest reach of our understanding. » Were-light fades in a nod to the monochromatic expansiveness before darkness devours once more. (Inayalinaeth)

With the frenzy of that first, all-important feeding dying down, the hierarchy of draconic needs can inevitably advance. Bonded for life, check. Food, check. And with many of the others who are keen on getting back to sleep, Majel and dark Dyxath investigate the immediate interior of the weyrling barracks, choosing a suitable area to call theirs for the duration of their training. To be sure, the little blue trips tail-over-paws and goes sprawling before he's quite reached the nook he most wants to examine, but they otherwise make it there without incident. The couch looks to fit something between a green and a brown, to which Majel approves, "A logical choice."

K'ane is settled right in the thick of things, seated indian-style on the ground and directing the dragonets that occasionally come up to mill around him at eye-level off gently. This one towards the oil, that to the meat, the other back to his rider. His blue eyes shift over to Majel and her blue, a half-grin on his face; but he doesn't move to rise from where he sits.

Yukie — not as unaffected as she normally is — presses her hands in abject horror as Inayalinaeth clumsily winds her way through the barracks to the bucket of meat provided. In this process, another bucket nearly gets knocked over and an oiling paddle skitters across the stone floor. "I…" Her horror is clearly at the sight of that beautiful, seafoam-glassy hide getting dragged across the ground. As if the greatest of paintings were… "Wait. Wait — did you." The smear of green is almost like the paint scrap of a passing vehicle cut too close to the corner. Nay, it is fresh, glistening ichor. "Wait, wait. Yes, I realize the hunger eclipses everything, but…" Broken words that come with the quick press of clean cloth to the pierced perfection of her hide. She sends Majel a harried look. "They are clumsier than I expected. Does yours bleed?" Lifting away the white-cloth, dark-dark ichor is stained. Meanwhile, Inayalinaeth waits in utter, and still impatience.

« I survive without ichor, of course, » Dyxath answers dryly for himself, muzzle questing hither and thither before he decides that yes, this spot will suit him just fine. Up goes Majel's eyebrow, followed by a small grimace for Yukie. "It would only make sense for him to bleed like everyone else, " she says sensibly, "although I do hope I won't be finding that out for certain for at least a few hours. Or days." There's an openly happy grin for K'ane somewhere in there, right before the woman's frame gives a nearly imperceptible twitch; she frowns, absently reaching around to scratch at her lower back. Twitch, goes Dyxath's tail, before he emerges into full view again with another puzzled tail-flick. He can't reach that funny, prickling sensation between his wings.

K'ane furrows his brows at Inayalinaeth's BLEEDING, hefting himself belatedly to his feet to wade past a few greens — what do you call them, when they are all together like that? A frolic? — to grab a kit and a bucket of meat, heading towards the greenling to hand over both. FOOD and MEDICINE here have some. Before he can say anything to her, or do more than return that grin to Majel, though, he's being pulled off by a brown weyrling with a panicked look in his eye.

"I mean easily," Yukie's concern is settled into the concise patterns of the healer. K'ane's assistance is taken with a grateful look but as the bronzerider is pulled away she turns to frown at the green. Something in the shared expression shivers a deeper darkness, leashed from devouring the world. "The skin of," Inayalinaeth patiently provides, "Dyxath's hide isn't… thin?" Already she's learning that this is something different. Once the flow of ichor is stemmed, Yukie feeds the green in little bits.

<Local> Inayalinaeth senses that: The first brush of darkness, youthful mind embodied in the were-light portrayed in the fog-enshrouded forest. The trembling chirrup of the lone cricket that lurks within the protective shadows of a frozen-in-held-breath leaf warbles a soft, tremulous sound. The light soprano dances through the shadows, lit only by the kiss of moon's light. « Ichor is life's blood. Blood is the memory's river. Loss of Ichor is loss of memory. » Discord sewn, the darkness relinquishes it's grip upon the barracks; Inayalinaeth retreats. (Inayalinaeth)

"I don't know about thin, " Majel concludes after a few moments, "but it's definitely dry. Itchy. Definitely itchy." And Dyxath twitches again, as if to offer up concrete evidence as he fumbles his way toward the nearest supply of oil, his weyrling trailing in his wake. Once they're settled on the floor, she begins a liberal application, first to that spot between his wings, then up and down the rest of his back, methodically using fingers to massage where a paddle might be too blunt for soothing. His gradual relief eases the little frown in her brow, too.

Inayalinaeth's head slowly turns to regard Dyxath as if finally seeing the blue for the first time, a subtle play of darkness whirling in the blue-green serenity of her eyes that match the beauty of jade. "I think it is just her," Yukie concludes quietly, perplexed as she does a very non-healery thing and presses her fingertip gently into the the soft tissues of Inayalinaeth's hide. "I will ask the weyrlingmasters about it later, for now there's hunger to be fed." Despite the intensity of a gaze that lingers, the baby green is more than willing to be fed chunks of dripping meat, uncaring if rivulets of blood splash her muzzle in gore. Inherent beauty flows, a masterwork of long, serpentine curves. "Dyxath? How are you," she grunts when insistently pushed for more food, "holding up?"

<Local> Inayalinaeth senses that: Dyxath also emanates darkness and fog, but keen lights are just visible through the haze. There's an ease that filters in from having his itches soothed by oil, a baritone series of hums just audible beneath a gentle series of crackles. « Loss of blood usually just means there's trouble a'foot. » How very like something Majel would say, save that it's delivered in a deep drawl, a thick accent that might better fit in somewhere farther north than the deserts of Igen.

<Local> Inayalinaeth senses that: The lone cricket chirrups, daring to break the held-fast silence of eery, fog-shrouded forest. « I suppose you could envision it that way. » The light soprano is the sound of the wind that stirs, silencing the cricket until he finds a better place. Forever to natter. Forever to harry. Forever to be a nuisance no matter how Inayalinaeth would swat him to silence for breaking her zen. « If one were so unenlightened. » Amused scorn whispers through the shadows of faint-lit leaves, clings to darkness as something deeper wells beneath the veneer of civility. A vastness, an echoing darkness chained only by incredible will. This brief glimpse is gone; the green's essence swatting it back in the same way one would swat an irritating fly. Excuse her. No one saw that. (Inayalinaeth)

Oh, hunger. Dyxath has more of that, too. As one need is satisfied, another takes its place, leaving Majel to retrieve a bucket of meat and tug it close to where they're seated so that she can feed with one hand and oil with the other. "Dyxath, " she confirms for Yukie at length, expression pleased. As for how she's holding up? "I don't really know yet. All of his needs are so immediate." There's a yawn between movements, however. "If anything, I'm still tired." Or maybe that's the dark blue's eyes starting to lid as his feeding slows again, bit by bit.

<Local> Inayalinaeth senses that: Dyxath observes all of these things with the air of a lazy, narrow glance. A puff of earthy cigar-smoke emphasizes his droll, « I'm just sayin'. Facts are facts. Blood that's spilled could mean any good number of things. » He obfuscates well for one so young - but he does file away that darkness in his sister for future reference.

"It — They are." Yukie's quiet voice exudes a growing thoughtfulness that yields these first awkward steps into her new life with Inayalinaeth. "I am exhausted," she finally admits to her fellow weyrling, feeding the last of the meat bits to the young green before she must clean the blood off. Yet for that instant between the final morsel and the removal of blood, the essence of Eternity rests in the cold gaze. Life, death and everything in between is hung on a moment before time resumes. "Majel — you're still Majel, right? I am grateful my name is still my own." Yukie is still Yukie, see. No crazy changes there. But her own eyes are drooping and the tiredness is straining the lines of her posture. "I think we pick our own couch…" Never is the healer this flustered. Inayalinaeth is already choosing… and Yukie has little to do but follow. "Good-night," she whispers back with a tired smile, gentle at its edges.

<Local> Inayalinaeth senses that: « Mmm. Of course. » Inayalinaeth's fog stirs before all settles, hung like a droplet on the edge of time. The cricket chirps, interrupting the moment as the green withdraws with little fanfare than choosing to not exist within the mind link. As quickly as that, the link is broken. (Inayalinaeth)

"I would have no other name, " Majel says decisively, but there's a little smile for the healer and her green as they find a place to rest. Soon thereafter, she and Dyxath follow suit, curled up within a hand's reach of one another. She'll no doubt awaken later that morning with hands and robe still sticky and pressed with sand, but those are all secondary concerns. For now, they dream.
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