Who

Temyrth, F'in

What

(backscene RP-Tag Round 1) F'in is taking a stroll and finds dragons up to … something?

RP-Tag

When

It is evening of the fourth day of the third month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date 17 Jun 2017 07:00

 

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"What th' devil 're you knuckle'eads up to?"


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Star Stones

The climb up here on foot is steep, narrow stone steps carved high into the sandstone, and from the top the precipice-drop to the jagged-craggy stones far, far below is treacherous. It's a wide sweep of ledge, a dragonlength and a half jutting out from a rough cliff wall. The wind here is ceaseless, dusty-dry during daytimes and biting at night. But for those who brave the climb to this lookout perched high above the Weyr's bowl, the view from these sandy-red rocks is breathtaking. Igen stretches wide-wide-wide around, a vast expanse of deep blue lake and lush green swamp and the myriad rust-rich colours of desert and rock. The real purpose of this spot, though, is highlighted not in its view of what is below but its view of what is above. Three tall rocks stand, one balanced across the tops of the other two, at the focal point of the ledge, perpetually framing one slice of the desert sky beyond.

It is the fourth day of Spring and 67 degrees. It is a clear night.


Night has fallen onto this new day of Spring. 71 eggs harden upon the Sands and the barracks are glutted with Candidates from all over the Igen Protectorate. No horrific Falls have marred the recent few sevens annd the infirmary is only busy with the normal sprains and bruises and a well-timed childbirth or two, no doubt attended by fleets of humming firelizards. Couples walk outside, renewing acquaintances with both each other in the privacy of the dark, and with the outside alcoves and crevices of the Weyr where perhaps a tryst might pass unseen. As well, a rustle among the dragons, and perhaps their riders. This night, both moons cast little light, so that the brilliance of dragon-eyes, sparkling blue and whirling quickly, blink into view with the cascade of glittering-cool air, reminiscent of winter but somehow tasting of Between, washes over the Star Stones. The eyes might well be disembodied, for they seem not accompanied by a dragon in the dim light, but the shadow of wings lashing out, and the momentary obscuration of Timor, suggests otherwise. A lean and lanky Oldtimer brown lands, crouching feral and low, on the stones, with a tiny bronze lizard zipping past his nose. Seems that the dragon even realizes that those eyes betray, for now they slit, even as he holds his muzzle quite near the floor of the stones, peering…Down and over. For all the world, Temyrth appears to be hiding. Two other browns, distinct only in their movement, slide by, with one veering to land a bit lower on the Stones. Several more firelizards accompany them.

F'in and his two shadows crest the steep stairs to the Star Stones. Three shadows, if the lone gold who glides sentinel before them is accounted among them. Warming weather has the Weyrleader is lighter garb and the brisk pace he set to the peak has his breath coming ragged. He tosses a friendly jab at the guardsman more winded of the pair, "Time ta lay off th' bubblies, eh, Voestik?" His pale clothes reflect the scant light. "Dark as th' inside o' my 'elmet up 'ere." He squints, catching that frosty blue glimmer, facets narrowed to a beveled band. He straightens peering… Where's th' watchrider? Fingers press on his arm and F'in only nods. The guards, forcing breath under control, move forward cautiously. F'in squints more to the stones, padding in that direction.

Likely there is a Watchrider, but he's on a stone just a dragonlength away, a bit lower, maybe not so obvious, and even more likely, both the rider and the dragon are watching this odd orchestration. A small green has arrived, now, and lands daintily and with that sublime skill of that color, such that she is clutching the spire just below where the watchrider and his dragon sit, bemused. Temyrth's intense concentration is betrayed by F'in's voice; the brown's wedge head snaps up and toward the Weyrleader, wings rustling up as if to mask this motion with his wing, ebon-clad but for the metallic spots of copper and gold splattered across the sails. The dragon's breath puffs over F'in, over the guards, before inhaling deeply. All three will feel the brisk arctic inquiry brush over the periphery of their minds, followed by a foggy dispersal of the chill, almost an apology for the fleeting invasion. The bronze lizard returns, to perch on Temyrth's head, trill lightly to him. No doubt F'in will hear the rustle of wings whipping nearby, feel the passing of air, even as Temyrth slits his eyes and looks up again toward the pitch of the bowl.

F'in steps back, a hand lifting to protect his face from the brown's sudden movement. He can't see the dragon's margins and isn't sure where he might blunder into a buffeting. The guard, Voestik, a little more distant in his surveying makes a brief exchange with the watchrider. As one the three men bare teeth at the strange touch on their minds. F'in rather more accustomed puts hands on his hips, "What're we doin'? What're you doin'?"

The brown dragon sends another sidelong look at F'in, before rearing up to his full height and splaying his wings with what might be a subsonic vibration. Then he's crouching down again, head snaking to below the depth of his shoulders to bring one eye up to F'in, his garish muzzle extending far beyond the man's frame. Both blue and green war in the glittering whirling displays, and Temyrth's insanely cold mind-touch remains just outside F'in's periphery - likely sensed, as Igen's chill was somewhat warded by thin glass windows, from a cozy cabin. But snow manifests, glittering against a mindscape of shadowed white and greys, just visible: The snow slides into the form of dragons, and a miniature Weyr Bowl, as seen from aloft, with several sets of dragons on seperate sides of the snow bowl. They move, seeming animated by different motivations, and seperate from one another but with the implication that they concentrate on one another. Then a roar from below, muted by rock and airborne bodies, as two more browns and a blue arrow up from the bowl, only to be intercepted - nay, body slammed by the brown who'd landed below. Then silence, with Temyrth turning to watch again, eyes wide now. Should he look, F'in will notice that the green dragon is gone, as is the third original brown. And no other dragons are in evidence.

F'in's eye scrunches shut, however gentle Temyrth's touch, there's only one mind meant for it. The images shared don't bring enlightenment. F'in squints at the two guardsmen and, because it's dark, gives a big shrug. He crouches when the roar sounds and winces at the thud of impact, head whipping around to spot the silhouettes in the sky, darker patches blotting out swathes of starlight as the go. "What th' devil 're you knuckle'eads up to?" The bronzerider pads along next to Temyrth and settles, also peering down downward into the bowl.

It might be that the brown dragon…Laughs? A sound almost with that sense of vibration seems to resound from his chest, even as he makes room at the edge. F'in may become aware of Temyrth's tail coiling up, langidly inserting itself between the Weyrleader and the edge of the Star Stones like some caution. While F'in may see nearly nothing, Temyrth will flash, blink-quick, an image of slightly better refinement; dragon eyes having some advantage. But it's the bronze lizard that comes sweeping back and with a much less formidable touch, he will snapshot a far cleaner image of the bowl: Nothing out of the ordinary. Peace. The watchdragon rustles and rumbles. His rider's glove slides over the oiled hide. And then all hell breaks loose on the far end of the bowl, above the Bazaar. Temyrth's entire frame quivers, the bronze lizard snaps Between, and echoes of visuals are played out just barely, carefully, to F'in, like he stands to the edge of lights throwing shadows on a wall: The two other browns have flushed another green dragon, who launches in dizzying flight unique to that color, while one blue and one brown defender engage Temyrth's brown comrades. At the same time, overlapping images from elsewhere: Just to the edge of the entrance of the hatching ground, the green that had been nearby, once, has settled into a crouch, and the other brown presses himself against rocks below. This image seems third-hand.

F'in scratches at his jaw, not helped by the flicker flash images and firelizard boosting, dizzying all the different perspectives. The bronzerider, in a truly vertiginous perch, closes his mind to the touch of minds draconic and pre-draconic until his equilibrium is his own. "'s it… keepaway? 'r… keepaway?" The golden cord of Rhakanth's mind circles F'in, once, twice, thrice, warding. But beyond that, does not clarify the images for his bonded. Wisdom comes from the Search… so sayeth the Lord of the Labyrinth.

Temyrth snakes his head around on supple neck, to blow dragon-breath across F'in, lightly, even as he checks on the position of the two guards. The bowl has returned to silence once more. Wait for it. Wait for it. And the Watchrider snickers. At least, that sound could be a snicker. Maybe. Then there's another near-implosion of sound, two deafening roars, grand pursuit away from the Hatching Caverns and toward the Star Stones. As several somethings obscure first a narrow strip of stars, then a widening one as they approach, Temyrth curls a wing over F'in and the guards and huffs an audible warning. Something happens, but F'in sure won't be able to see what, until Temyrth's wing retracts again. The brown's head angles toward the south now, near the Weyr entrance. Rigid with tension, he watches, then literally winces, the 60+ frame sending a quiver along its lean length. Roars, victorious, and a shrill call that blends back into resounding silence. Within seconds, the Star Stones is the center of attention of two greens, two blues and four more brown dragons, wings beating, claws biding for purchase and brilliant-swirling eyes switching in silence from one to another.

That wing is entirely too large for F'in to see around, though he makes a game effort. He ducks his head at the boom of the first roars, unexpected, and a grin spreads at the anticipation telegraphed through Temyrth's body. "Lord o' th' Mountain!" The bronzerider bellows his own guess, more a declaration. But… "'s this some kinda Dragon Conclave." He glances at the guards who are just as mystefied as he is. "You should tell me if it's a Dragon Conclave, 'cause I don' need ta be wearin' this knot, if so." Punch. He thumps a meaty jab at the slab of Temyrth's side.

Another rumble from the shadow-clad brown, as he dips his muzzle back over to F'in for a moment. The other dragons pause, though one of the greens continues to flare her wings and appears to be attending, particularly, the attentions of the bigger of the two blues. Some silent communication ensues, before the dragons launch, almost simultaneously, and now they split: One blue, one green and two browns into two groups. Temyrth inhales, seems to hold his breath, then barks out a sharp exhalation, upon which the two pairs of dragons wink *between*.

Rhakanth senses Temyrth touches minds, frigid and cedar-scented, snow-flurries of delight, « The Weyrrrrleaderrr asks. Would you tell him, they are new teams, now. And we begin again!»

Temyrth senses Rhakanth will not. The walls of the Labyrinth are high, stony and smooth, no purchase. Hawthorn hedges are thick with wicked thorns amidst the budding of spring's blooms.

At the barked … command? F'in's attention snaps skyward at the paired crack of dragons disappearing ::Between::. "It's a play! Yer puttin' on a play! It's ah… uh…" He flaps his hand in memory's aid. "Th' First Threadfall. No… no rider. Ahhh…" He hops a bit, "Oh, it's Faranth's Flight! Damn. No gold. Bah." The younger guard, the quiet one, Hathon, pipes up, "They're split into teams." He shakes his head, "Not sure what they're contesting." F'in and Voestik share a look, 'he speaks!' Voestik adds, "Or how." Apart from slamming into one another. F'in turns his regard back to the skies, using his periphery more than the center of his vision, sharper in the darkness.

Once more, it's darkness and stillness. OK. Maybe there's the thready call of a woman, doing…Well. Faranth knows what, with whom, that we'll all ignore. It's spring. And the Weyr needs more babies, right? But the dragons of the Weyr seem, for the moment, still. Temyrth is monitoring again, his tail still curled lazily to provide a barrier between the three humans and the edge, and that bronze lizards is back once more, now joined by a small green. Finally it's the Watchrider that clears his throat, "They do this every now and again, sir. Not always all the same dragons. Sometimes more. But almost always that 'un." The darkness robs the words of any real reference. The quiet of the bowl allows appreciation of the warmer air, the twinkling stars, the slivers that are the moons. Then from nearly above, two browns roar and like breathern teamed draybeasts, catapult out of the sky and veer, last minute, out of sight. The audible sound of bodies colliding echoes in the frame of the lean brown, even as he watches over the edge of the cliff. This, before he crouches down just before a green and accompanying blue zip by, so near that their wingtips whip dust off the surface of the rock.

The mysteries of dragonkind will ever present new facets as rich and varied as their very eyes. F'in and his guardsmen watch the unfolding stragems for as long as they might and, still rather foxed, bid the brown and the watchpair good evening. The weyrleader gives the brown a chuck on the shoulder and makes his way back below, the goal of clearing his head only partly accomplished by what he's witnessed. And Rhakanth is no help. RHAKANTH. « I say again, 'wisdom comes from the search.' » The bronzerider laughs, » Yer a wise arse. « Lord of the Labyrinth, Rhakanth rumbles from sphinx-like repose before winging, himself, to the Star Stones to settle with Temyrth, « That is but the least part of me which is wise, my rider. »

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