Who

T'ral, Jedi, Mi'lo, Rocio

What

After months of flying the wastes, Lynx riders finally find something.

When

It is afternoon of the seventh day of the sixth month of the sixth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Northern Wastes

OOC Date 22 Nov 2015 08:00

 

t-ral_default.jpg, jedi_default.jpg, mi-lo_default.jpg, rocio_default.jpg

"Well, lookit that."


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Upper Alpine Meadow

A vast alpine meadow stretches to the foot a glacier, flanked by the flat reach of a dozen more peaks; this far north, snow crusts the ground in all seasons, but summer's peak brings a glimpse of earth, streams, and a profusion of wildflower spreading over a base of springy green turf. A small stream runs off to the south, running cool and clear from out of the nearby blue-toned glacier.

It is the seventh day of Summer and 27 degrees. It's really damn cold out.


Winds whip and howl across the teeth of jagged stone revealed by the grudging retreat of snow and ice under the brighter bite of the northern summer's sun and warm air blown up from the south. Candle upon candle they'd spent scouring these bitter snowy expanses. Dodging the sharp eyes and minds of sweepriders. Laying low. Laying off. Seven upon seven of enigmatic answers to questions by curious Smiths about the extra stress on some Lynx riders' straps and hardware. 'Maneuvers' he'd cited. True. 'Rescue Drills' had been one the Smiths and others swallowed particularly well. Dragons in the air fighting Thread. Dragons on the ground saving lives. Sometimes it was even true. Month upon month, they flew, mapping. Marking. Noting. Until today. Today, a stony outcropping they'd flown over months before looked… different. Ordered. Deliberate. The dragons land in short order, the riders breaking out climbing gear to scour the area. 'You'll see it when you see it,' K'ane said. And then they had.

Since the Porcine Incident, as it has come to be called by the gossips of the Weyr, there have also been a few odd looks. But those in the know have remained tight-lipped about the matter, perhaps achieving one of the ultiriour motives about the whole escapade. Or was it? Whatever the case, Jedi has herself found herself among those flying today, and it's a pleasant surprise to her when finally something is different. Finally something has changed. Only after landing does the wingsecond allow herself a brief grin of glee, even as she resituates her gear. All too familiar with this particular nook of High Reaches, she doesn't strip as thoroughly as some of the others. Yes, it's summer — but they're also in the Alpine Meadows. She grabs a shovel from Llioramasith's straps just in case, and tucks the long handle under one of her arms. "Well, finally."

And then there is M'ilo. Creaking leather, creaking tendons, the tinkling ring of metal upon metal, and the rush of collapsing dragon wings brings a most soldiery Akeniath upon sun-warmed earth. His talons flex and dig, scratch soil and rock both. He grunts. Well, both dragon and rider. Articulate as ever. Another huff has rider setting booted feet to earth, catching a step on the down-slip. Goggles go into the rough of his air, and he goes squinty-eyed. Squint. A hand comes back up, touching on a riding strap, sliding gloved fingers between hide and leather. Tug. Release. Squint. "So, we're here." So is Mr. Obvious.

Consider Rocio lucky that she didn't have to fly over this strip of land more than once. Being a new transfer to Lynx, she has been brought into this moment without much background of what it is that they're looking for. Niamyth lands with precision not far from her wingmates, her small paws bracing and legs bending so that the huntress can dismount with ease. And with a faint thud of her boots, Rocio peels off her riding gloves and looks around without saying anything. This is new territory. There are sights and sounds to observe and take in first.

The Lynx riders stand in a semi-circle of tall stones. Rough and natural, there's something strange about these stones. Esanth's feet crunch deep into rocky ice. His landing sends gyres of ice crystals skittering over the ground alternately rocky earth and crust of snow. Their fifth member is staying aloft for on sentry duty in case riders from the 'Reaches sweep past. The bluerider, on the ground in a trice, affixes his harness and passes a rope through rings before handing it forward to Jedi, she'll take the lead and behind him to Mi'lo and Rocio. He's traded his machete for ice axes, a pair of them. His voice is hopeful, but measured in reply, "Maybe," an answer to Jedi and Mi'lo both. "Eyes sharp everyone. Rocio, have that bow handy. We've seen ursines up here before." From above, granted. And not nearby. And the dragons don't smell anything amiss, but, "Can't be too careful." Clipped in, he's ready to go. A-glacier-walking we go!

"Make sure you give yourself some good spacing on the rope from the others," Jedi warns Mi'lo and Rocio as she passes the rope along to them, after threading it thrown her own rings. "If there are any hidden ravines, you'd pull us right in." There's a quick, wicked grin on Jedi's lips that probably looks quite out of place. She grew up in this place, after all — granted, several hundred years ago…but well. She'll make sure they've got things sorted out, before heading onward after T'ral. That shovel gets adjusted to her shoulder as she walks.

Mi'lo takes a firm hold of Akeniath's athward riding strap once more, using it as balancing leverage at the teen stomps into a different set of boots, more suited for traversing than riding. He releases and drops a gloved hand, tugging his layers of clothing back to rights. Those same gloved fingers brush over a larger ring of carbiners at his waist, sending the metal jingling and gangling. "Make sure you've each got your crampons -the flexible ones," he nags in a voice that is more informative than truly 'Mom on your case'. Retractable trekking stick goes *schtick-shteck*, set away for poking things or aiding in carrying the burdeon of his weight. "And that is why you should also have the sticks. To poke things before you step on them… should we be moving horizontal more than verticle."

Rocio can walk on ice and snow and all kinds of rugged terrain without the use of a rope and hooks, which feels constricting to the normally free ranged huntress. It's difficult to manage a bow and multiple arrows how she's accustomed to — three loose arrows held within the nimble fingers of her right hand while the bow is normally held in her left. But, not today. She's got the bow slung over one shoulder and a quiver over her other so she can save herself should someone trip, slide, and take the whole lot of them down at once. Light colored eyes lift toward T'ral when he tells her to be on guard, which she has been since she landed with Niamyth. She's still taking in her surroundings when Jedi speaks and then steps onward with poise when everyone begins to move. Apparently she's the caboose.

The words are redundant, a ritual of safety, spoken every time they land to clamber across icy turf: 'eyes sharp,' 'crampons,' and 'space the ropes.' What will Rocio's mantra be? Lynx can all hope it's not 'hey, look out!' The bluerider looks towards Esanth with head tossed in silent farewell, the blue settles into the turf, doing his best to blend with the stones. T'ral's eyes track across the terrain ahead, behind them a flurry of flowers in cheery profusion, around them, uncertain footing and tall stones, ahead the glacier. Six of them, not much to see from the air, but from the ground they are hulking things. Not as big as star stones, but… something strange about them. "What did you see?" T'ral calls to Jedi over his shoulder. Ice axes double as sticks, T'ral tests the ground for stability before settling weight and moving ahead, securing the rope as he goes.

Safety is key in an environment like this; something that many of Lynx has grown to know all too well in the many months of surveying this landscape. It's almost a monotonous environment, if one is easily bored and oblivious to the changes. Fortunately, most of these 'riders are not. But the mantras are redundant, even despite their necessity. Jedi's breath catches as she looks around as they resettle. Jedi's mantra has been redundant as well, until finally she calls, "Got a cave, over here!" She gestures with the head of the shovel emphatically.

Mi'lo is just a link in the chain. He rattles with the best of them. The teen moves along with the others, stepping only where those before him have trod. Never-idle fingers play with the metal at his waist, checking for smoothness, soundness, sturdiness -as if it wasn't already accomplished a time or twenty before. "Before next time -if there is a next time- I will have to consider a change to the harness, possibly adding another point, and a more fitted belt as opposted to adjustable. Adjustable adds more possible weak points. Single-piece fitted would eliminate possible stress points where faults in stitching or re-stitching may strain." It is a running commentary, possibly for all, possibly for is own ears, the words intermixing with the sounds of passage. Mental notes are relayed to the bronze well away, for all the hulking critter doesn't give a damn. "That tone makes it sound as though you plan on investigating it. Didn't someone mention ursines?" Just sayin.'

The period of adjustment has been interesting for Rocio since joining Lynx. There's a different type of team work here, one that threads tightly amongst wingmates that she sees from her outside vantage point. They talk too much. Mantras? It's one of the first observations she's made since being reassigned from Ocelot. And I don't trust them. Yet. They haven't proven their capabilities to her, nor has she proven herself to them. One could argue that it's dangerous for her to even be on this mission being green to the ways of Lynx. As they all trek forward, Rocio keeps her eyes out ahead of her until she overhears Mi'lo's comment. "Yes. I won't let them eat you."

T'ral's head swings up from securing their line and looks to where Jedi points. "Well, lookit that." He turns and looks at the stones, the cave entrance, the stones. "Rocio. Unhook and take a look at these stones. There's something fishy about them." He squints at the rocks. Squint. "Rest of you, let's check out this cave." Between the fishy rocks and the cave, this definitely has the feel of 'you'll see it when you see it.'


Glacial Cave
Glittering rainbow shades are enfused with the filtration of light from crevices in the high ceiling, refracting off the myrriad of ice cicles that are this cavern. Water drips eternally somewhere in the depths of the cave, tiny trickles of melting ice that join to meet the stream, a burbling ribbon of icy water that flows from an underground source. Slippery ice covered stones litter the small patches of dry flooring, and breath freezes upon exhalation in this forever frozen world.


"I love a good cave," Jedi answers Mi'lo conversationally. "I probably should have been a Miner rather than a Smith - but I loved the smith aspects too much." It's hard to tell, with that grin, whether or not Jedi is serious or not. Rocio may have her doubts about the wing she's assigned to, but it's probably because she's new that they've brought her along with them - an ultimate test of trustworthiness. "Right then!" Jedi agrees with a quick grin. "Be careful, Rocio." A needless reminder, perhaps, but one the wingsecond is going to offer all the same. "He ever say anything more to you about it?" Jedi murmurs to T'ral, eyebrows raised. But since it's been decided that they'll go into the caves, well — Jedi is all for this.

Mi'lo looks over his shoulder to the arse end of the line, Rocio. The look he gives her is a mixture of puzzlement and disbelief. With those lines creeping between his eyes and the dark draw of his eyebrows to overshadow eyes as pale as the ice about. "I believe you, but do the ursines?" Which is actually rather the crux of the matter. His attention is drug back to the whatnot before him, most insistent is the tug on the lines that bind. Traversing stick leds the way. He shoots a look Jedi-wards, skepticism written upon his countenance. "Use your handlights should it get dark."

Thank Faranth. As soon as Rocio gets word, she unclips from the line and reaches round for arrows that are resting inside the quiver. "Yessir." The bow is collected and once three arrows are positioned between her fingers, the huntress returns a similar look to Mi'lo. "They will when they get an arrow shot into their skull." Again, her wingmates have no trust. No faith. It's a blessing that she can go off and scout on her own. With little fanfare, Rocio is trotting toward the strange rocks that T'ral seems concerned about.

T'ral shakes his head. "Not me." He neither loves caves, nor mines. Weyrs are a totally different thing. Illumination comes in the form of light filtered in through ice above, it's dim, and a lantern wouldn't go amiss. "Believe me. She'd put all three of those," T'ral grunts, hammering a piton into the ice, he gestures with a toss of his head to the arrows in ready quiver. "In its eye before it took two," grunt, "lumbering steps." It's a toss up which rider is the better marksman, H'ris or Rocio. Maybe there should be some sort of archery contest? Buuuuuuut, there she goes, off to scout T'ral et al are on their own again. The entrance to the cave is narrow and T'ral has to turn sideways to press through, leading into the luminous gloom with the spike end of his axe pointed forward. Please no ursines. Please no ursines. It's summer they're not hibernating, right? Is that good or bad? Mi'lo's suggestion is a good one, it's bright enough to see, but still dim, "Jedi, break out a light for me." T'ral is making his way, grunting, through a narrow maw of stone and ice. At the last narrow he is stuck, trying to ease through. Wedged, he presses, carefully. At last he slips through! Fast. The line goes taut and from ahead the others hear, "Whoa."

Jedi raises her eyebrows at Rocio's quick retreat, but doesn't question it. The woman is still getting used to the wing - and the wing to her. And Jedi knows the woman will be fine on her own — if only because she's heard from T'ral and others about her. "Don't worry, Mi'lo," Jedi says with a quick, roguish grin. "I'm sure the ursines won't come to nibble on anyone just yet." She hopes. But even as she talks, she's pulling out her pouch with the handlights. "Everything alright, T'ral?" Jedi calls questioningly, not about to move from her spot just yet. After a moment, however, she closes the distance carefully. "Whoa," she echoes, surprise evident in her voice. "Whoa is right."

Mi'lo doesn't much mind close places. He's been known to squirm into a cranny or three should the need arise. It is the ursines though that have him considering. The teen turns a squinty eye to the various folds in the ice and rock. "It is no so much the nibbling as the rending and chomping that I have issue with." This sends his mind working toward various implements which could be fabricated to deal with such a large and furry threat. His attention is tugged along with the rope once more. Squeezing ensues - and then he hears a noise from behind. Maybe it was an echoed drip. Or maybe… OH SHARDSNSHELLSNCRACKDUSTNWHATEVER. Is that an ursine?! The teen pushes through a bit faster, popping out like a cork to possible bungle into the others. "Oooof. Sorry. Huh."

That's no ursine…

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