Quaverilth, Zymuraith


Southern's youngest queen visits with a brown she rather likes, even if their riders are hardly on speaking terms.


It is noon of the thirteenth day of the first month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.


Rocky Outcropping, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 22 Jan 2018 07:00


quaverilth_default.jpg zymuraith_default.jpg

« One performance is hardly a measure of potential. »


Rocky Outcropping

This place has been roughly cleared, a highland area stretching from the rocky cove to the south to curve seamlessly upwards into the foothills of the Barrier Range to the west. Those who explore the eastern ridge may note evidence of hidden pools and dangerous miniature cliffs, a break in the ridge that proves treacherous to traverse. North is lost to the curve of jungle dissecting this place from the outer edge of the weyrwall, a formidable denseness of foliage that deters those who would otherwise brave the tiny trail snaking northwards.

Midday at Southern and the heat is on. A certain brown with star-dusted wingsails is just landing, looking for a quiet place to contemplate while his rider is busy with lunch after a morning of hauling firestone. Once aground, he snaps his cloak-like wings onto his back and circles for a moment before settling himself down with a sigh, forepaws crossed, brown head resting on them, blue faceted eyes not really focused on anything as he tries to relax his mind from the tension of having to keep his rider in check.

There is a rather prominent presence at the cove far below the outcrop of the highlands this afternoon - Zymuraith, glinting brass and rose gold and iridescence in the summer sunlight as she wades through the crystalline water. She keeps a careful eye on Amani, who is out practicing swimming in the now mostly clear sea…though she senses Quaverilth's arrival somewhere nearby and looks up to spot him. The strange monochromatic bonfire that dominates her mindscape warms with gold and orange at the edges as she brushes a greeting against his mind, the melange of caramel, spiced cider, and autumn leaves wafting through as subtly as the welcoming crackle of her flames. Amani presently moves to the sure, assuring Zymuraith that that's where she'll remain for now and freeing her lifemate to wing up to where the brown is resting. « Quaverilth, » her low soprano intones as she settles onto her haunches beside him.

Quaverilth's mind-lake is currently covered with a thick dense fog, just a wall of white with only the small hint of water lapping at the shore nearby. When a familiar bonfire warms into his mind, the fog parts to reveal a somewhat calm lake on a cold, grey day, just a hint of mist hanging around. Looking up just in time to see the junior queen land besides him, he lifts his head off his large paws in a little dip of his head, looking almost embaressed by her presense, « Zymuraith. I hope you and yours are well. » He shuffles a little bit nervously, his tone polite with a just a hint of trepidation.

« We are, though mine has much on her mind and does not always know how to lay it aside. » With a sigh, Zymuraith settles onto her stomach, her reclined posture nearly matching Quaverilth's. There is a gusty quality to the chill-edged fall breeze that keeps things in subtle motion in throughout the myriad circus tents of her mind, something that fusses with the edges of entry flaps and bits of popcorn and paper that dance over the black and white grounds underfoot - exasperation, perhaps. « She worries. And apologizes. » The gold blinks slowly at Quaverilth and utters a low rumble at the brown, gently touching her shining nose to his shoulder. « We are not upset with you, » she tries to assure him, sensing that he isn't entirely comfortable with her being there.

« I apologize for mine adding to yours' worries. He… » Quaverilth trails off for a moment. « …doesn't always think before he acts. I am working on that. » a rumble of disapproval that sends the mists in his mind swirling wildly. When he feels her nose touch his shoulder, a small ray of sunlight seems to break trough the clouds that keep his mindscape dull, but he does not move, unsure of what's expected here, maybe if he's really still he won't mess it up. It's a good thing that dragons don't blush, because when she states that they aren't mad at him, he cranes his neck to look at her and in the process bumps his nose into her cheek. Quicky he pulls back, looking bashful. « Sorry. »

Outwardly, Zymuraith gives a little snort and a huff at that bump from Quaverilth. Inwardly, there is a ripple of chuckling, a tightrope walker seeming to fall and catching himself on the wire with his feet at the last moment, miming feigned surprise as he hangs upside down. « It's alright. » The brisk breeze blows gently at his mists, though not insistently. His frustration is warranted, after all. « Mine…hopes your will change. She sees him as without honor, and takes his words and actions more personally than she should. » So goes the queen's opinion, at least. « But she hopes, even if it is hard to. » There is a beat of quiet, a glimpse of a great oak with candles held aloft in its branches given through the flaps of one of her most massive tents, then hidden from view. « If it were not for how she would react, she would not have wished you held apart from me later. I think it foolish…but I would not have her so distressed. » In the end, the importance of that is undeniable.

With a soft snort of his own, Quaverilth shakes his head sadly, « Mine still has a lot to make up for, but, he's stopped blaming others for his actions. So that's some progress. » A heavy sigh and his mind-lake calms again, to a smooth glassy surface. When Zymuraith mentions later, the brown can't help but hide his face under his paws, « It's not like I'd even be able to catch you. » he says in a most pathetically self-deprecating way. The goldflight at Igen was over two sevens ago, but his loss still stung him deeply, the mists of his minds beginning to coalesce and thicken, to create a place he can hide.

And that is something at least. There's a glimpse now of a bare patch of ground near the periphery of her circus, devoid even of the bi-colored soil that marks the rest of the grounds. Yet the white firelight touches it meaningfully - a spot for something new to be built, eventually. Quaverilth's last, however, earns a perplexed rumble. « How do you know? One performance is hardly a measure of potential, » she states practically.

Another heavy sigh as Quaverilth peeks his wizened visage out from under his paws, « I suppose you are right. » He concedes as the mists receed slightly. « Unfortunately because of mine's actions, I am not allowed to chase in any flight. So no chance of improving myself there for the time being. » Dipping his nose a little bit, whiplike tail twitching idly. « You deserve a worthy dragon to catch you. » He says, crooning softly, a forlorn sounding note.

« I will decide who is worthy, » Zymuraith states decisively, and comes to her feet, the sinuous length of her tail undulating purposefully. « And there is always opportunity to improve oneself, if you are creative. Come! » She gives that twitching tail-tip of his a prim nip and then drops from the edge of the cliff, gaining speed, the subtle iridescence of her great wings shimmering brightly as she unfurls them with a snap and pulls herself out over the azure waters below. « See if you might catch me now! »

As Zymuraith gets to feet, Quaverilth is thoroughly confused for a moment as he watches her drop off the cliff, a rumble of amusement as his mists swirl to follow her, pulling him to his feet in an instant when she offers her challenge. As he too lets himself fall off the rocky outcropping, he smartly unfurls his cloak-like wings, patterned in swirls of indigo and black, splattered with pinpoints of white to give him a stardusted feel. A jaunty bugle is called after her as his picks up his wingbeats to make up for his smaller stature, until he is only a dragonlength behind her.

There is likely a good deal of questioning going on from the cove down below as Zymuraith and Quaverilth soar overhead, given glance in that direction from the gold as she makes a ringing contralto reply to the brown behind her. Considering she doesn't stop, it's clear there's no harm in it…or else she's argued and won. Either way, she climbs as she pushes her powerful wings to the limit, abruptly pinning them again to dive and giving Quaverilth a challenging warble as she drops past him. She strives to go faster on her descent, stroking the air more vigorously, banking widely back toward land and looking back to see where her pursuer is now.

His spirits lifted, Quaverilth delights in the flight for a long moment, the air rushing over his wingsails, the feeling of complete freedom. He's so engrossed he almost misses her climbing and has to scramble up after her, turning his lithe, for a brown at least, body in the air to follow after her, space dusted wings working overtime to gain height, wing joints pumping with effort. Effort that is quickly negated by the fact that she is diving back down now and past him. With a surprised warble, he wastes no time and flips himself nose to tail and pushes off after her, much closer now. When he sees her banking, he decides to tighten his own turn, to try to use his smaller size and agility to make up some of the distance between them.

Seeing Quaverilth closer now has Zymuraith uttering a pleased bugle as she soars back toward the highlands, a flare of brilliant white sparks washing across into his mists. « You see? Don't doubt yourself so, Quaverilth. And find a good race when you can. » Therefore staying in practice of a sort. The young queen isn't finished, however - oh no! She'll turn them back out over the water, testing the brown and herself for a little while longer, enjoying the simple challenge alongside a companion she finds most agreeable. Even if nothing else goes well on the ground…the dragons can at least have this in the air. And that is something.

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