Who

Ulrik

What

Vignette: Threads of sanity unravel

Dark with thoughts of suicide.

When

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

Where

Southern Weyr, Abandoned Eerie Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Abandoned Eerie Weyr

One of the highest, loneliest weyrs over the hatching caverns, far removed from the rest, an oubliette where the winds cry in strangely discordant wailing harmonics.


Nickelback - Lullaby


Minutes passed into hours and hours into first one day and then another of stark isolation with only the moaning wind and the hulking presence of a dragon guarding the downward exit, as company. At first, like a caged beast, Ulrik had paced but it served about as much purpose as an outlet for the blackness eating at him as standing on his head would. So many strides that way and so many in the other direction with an estimation made for where his path aborts a fair few short of the winged beast on the ledge.

Wary, would be the word to describe the way the convict views the creature. Never before has he had close contact with one and now here he is with one as a jailer. At first it had been the instinct of smaller prey that had had him keeping the dragon in his sights at all times but slowly a dead-man-walking’s fascination had grown.

How many bites would it take for the beast to consume him?
Would the first of those razor sharp teeth sinking into his flesh be the killing blow or would wicked talons tear him apart first?
If he threw himself from the ledge as he’d already tried to do, would it snap him up in its jaws, breaking his body and drop him back in the cave again where he’d bleed out in a dark puddle of his life’s blood?

Morbid these thoughts that had had held at the forefront of his mind for they built a thick wall about others that threatened to consume if so much as a candle’s light were to be shed on them. Already he treads the wavering line of sanity.

It’s dark out, the black clouds scudding across the night sky a mirror of that which sifts and writhes beneath his skin. Vision is limited, almost non-existent were it not for eyes grown used to navigating inky blackness. With his back leaned against the wall and heavily stubbled chin tipped to his chest, the convict stares down at the small item in his hand. Once a spoon meant for pudding, soon to be the instrument of his salvation with the end of the handle laboriously scraped into a killing point.

With his hand balled into a fist, the shard edge scores lightly down his wrist, nestling its point in the soft flesh between tendons. A testing line that lifts only a track of tiny beads of red.

"But… the Weyrwoman isn't dead."

She may as well be for all the trouble he’d caused her. If not for him and the fucked up notion that maybe, just maybe he might have a shot at a real life…

"You'd know if she died. The dragons. They'd… wail."

Dull green eyes lift to the one on the ledge, its faceted eyes glowing like menacing jewels in the dark. Vaguely he wonders what its reaction would be when he draws his last shallow breath.

More pressure is set against the bowled end of the tiny spoon, dark pleasure wrought from the stinging pain of its press, relief waiting to be exhaled.

It was time.

And then….

Dhiammarath thinks to you, « I bespoke Ulrik with « You sense: In the fading light of many sleeps, a desire is born and blown on a jade sea sweetened by the brush of sweetgrass and hinted with the stinging citrus of lemon. Weak, so weak, is the light that bears this small touch and so reluctant is the queen to allow it when it saps the last of the energy needed to fight and heal. It is an echo of promise that barely touches the mind; gone before it can be really felt. It is the gentle embrace of a promise woven through the soul, an echoing feeling evoked: //wait. » »

The spoon falls from nerveless fingers, clattering to the rock and a deep groan rises up and fills the weyr ending on a roar born of the turmoil within.

She truly lives!

But after the air has once again grown still and the dragon has resettled wings snapped open in alarm, the little spoon is retrieved and the convict stands with it curled in his fist. Toward the ledge he stalks with the powerful grace of a predator. Closer and closer still to the dragon he draws with ironclad determination etched in those pale green eyes. Across the hard cut of his shoulders, muscle ripples when he lifts his arm high in the air.

The dragon sensing a threat immediately goes on the defensive, its lips drawing back in a snarl and foul breath hissing in a stench of rotten meat and the leftover residue of firestone that provides a lick of flame. Talons scrape and dig into the rock, its long sinuous tail swiping from side to side.

Ulrik ignores it. With a forward flick of wrist, his fist opens and released upon the velvet air of night, a weapon cart-wheels through the air, the dim light from clouded moons glinting silver off of it, to stab harmlessly into the sands of the hatching cavern far, far below.

She lives!!

And so shall he.

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