Who

Kczyslawborth, Zeyta, Threvobek

What

Everyone wants a piece of goat, one wants them whole, the other digested.

When

It is the forty-sixth day of Winter and 34 degrees.

Where
OOC Date

 


igenstandingstones.jpg

Standing Stones

It is perhaps a pity that the Standing Stones lie in quiet isolation, half-forgotten in the Weyr's easternmost corner. Or perhaps it is inevitable: the grandiose beauty of these red rocks is ill-suited to Igen's coarse grit, and maybe only their loneliness allows them to survive unmarred. Whatever the reason, it cannot be denied that the Standing Stones, a lonely jumble of ancient boulders, have a glory about them. The tumbled field of pillars and arches has been shaped by eons of wind and water into strange shapes, twisted and rutted. The going is treacherous: only the Weyr's half-feral herd of caprines navigates the terrain with any ease. To the northwest, the lakeshore glimmers; to the east, rough-carved steps lead towards another ancient pile of rocks - though the Star Stones are less haphazardly placed than their Standing cousins.


Wayward winds are visible today, dotted with an emergence of seeds in the shape of lint. They resemble fluffy snowflakes but have no cold touch and among this week-long spectacle is a young man with a Weyrfolk's stripe on his shoulder. He has joined a herd of goats (temporarily. He can't stand their diet) to record their numbers and check any new births or status changes. They really are half feral and fly over these rocky fists. Threvobek is giving them a run for their money, not to harm them but to mimic their sheer freedom of movement. He takes on leaps himself followed, in part, by a small firelizard. A brown, flying through the puffs. He doesn't do leaping.

Beware, for a predator lurks among the field strewn rocks and mountainous terrain. Kczyslawborth strays from the pens to cull the wild caprine population, a favorite delicacy of his removed from the judgmental eye of the Weyr. He slinks along, terrible in his pale, compacted musculature creeping ever towards the tranquil herd. Painful death awaits them; he enjoys playing with his food. In accompaniment, there to survey the impending carnage, Zeyta stands beneath two pillars and an overhanging arch, biding her time until her lifemate satiates his bloodlust and appetite.

One has the feeling Threvobek has done this before. He stumbles, catches himself on a diagonal rampart of rock, and renews the chase, free falling for three feet, overgrown hair frozen a second in place when gravity and momentum cancel each other out. This frenetic pace can be seen in the eddies of cotton-coated air of his wake. When he lands, both boots in a unified 'twunk', he catches his breath as goats and seed hairs swirl around him. The heart in his chest outpaces his inhales, great elated gulps. Fortified with tiny seeds. Commence coughing. Then there's a wolf in the fold: a helluva big brown. Rev isn't close but he powers his voice to call out: "Hold!"

Drat: called to attention, Kczyslawborth hisses in reproach, bristling spines dusted in tans and gleaming in-between where sunlight hits the silver bars striping him. Goats bleat and dart off in an incensed clamber of hooves for higher ground, fleeing their would-be butcher. Bejeweled eyes whirl baleful yellow, a soothing voice calling out to the beast: "Kczyslawborth." The name mangles syllables on her tongue, but comes pronounced in crisp monotone, making the best of so foul a name. "Does not eat people." Zeyta slants her gaze towards Threvobek as she descends from her viewing spot, voice and footsteps carrying at a thrumming volume, crescendo amplified by rocky hollows and force of will as she approaches.

Threvobek's breathing has steadied but the same couldn't be said for his heart still hammering through his ribs. Or up to his throat as the full measure of Kczyslawborth is absorbed. "These aren't for eating, just yet," he explains in a voice trading power for persuasion. He hops to a lower rock to command less arrogance but does not dwell on Kczyslawborth's level— too much self preservation. "They haven't been fully evaluated." Those commanding the stables are late in doing so compared with last turn. "But the pens should serve your bond."

"…" Silence ensues from Zeyta, incredulity sparking in her face as a stablehand presumes to place restrictions on her and her dragon. Kczyslawborth shreds air over an agape maw teeming with teeth, his exhale a heavy, dragged out affair. So many sharp points to push breath over. "They are near wild. I do not think anyone officially owns them. And my Kczyslawborth has dined on them unchecked for nigh on three turns now. I know full well where the pens are." Haughty, she mounts up hands on her hips, and glares.

The firelizard? He skipped ::between:: before Kczyslawborth and Zeyta even showed up. The goats, yes, are scattered, gaining a rendezvous at some of the more treacherous pinnacles. "You're right," baritone an example of neutrality. "They are, and I've seen the bones," look, there's one! Threvobek now looks at the terror-ific brown, grateful for every sharding inch between them. "In fact, he's partly to thank for making them stronger as a whole. Now's the perfect time to round some of them up, maybe you and him can help…" Dot dot dot.

"Help." Zeyta tests the word on her lips, displeased at the idea of enlistment. Drudgery, that; unskilled labor to her, this. She shoots a darting glance over her shoulder to her hungry brown with his hide of pale colors bleeding into another, shifting as he shoulder blades undulate as he crawls forward in a dry rustle of slithering limbs. "You think I'd help after you just tried to deny me what I wanted?"

"What, you wanted one to eat too?" Humor traces the inflections of a native Igenite, an innate sort of habit until he remembers how closely bonded human and dragons are said to be. What one wants… "Pound for pound herdbeasts are more nourishing." Beef: it's what's for dinner. "But ye-ah, we could use the help herding them into the pens." Threvobek does not choke on those words, quite frankly he's a step away from letting the oldtimers eat, insult, entertain, or put red lipstick on and stack the cloven-hooved varmints. That's about as much interaction as he craves. The young man inhales through his nostrils during the deliberation, no seeds to choke on this time.

"We. Kczyslawborth. What he wants." Zeyta speaks on his behalf, desire entwined with his indeed as Threvobek surmises from her speech. "I am a vegetarian," she defends, shoulders lifting in a shrug as he pitches bovine as an alternative. "He's not after nourishment. He wants to hear them scream as he pulls out their innards while they kick and fight for their lives." A graphic picture, but a true one: he's a messy monster, her brown. "And herding them into the pens would detract from the thrill of hunting them in open space. And as I will not stoop to herding and Kczyslawborth thinks it counterproductive to his intentions I do not think either of us shall help you." Just in case that wasn't clear. Letting her arms slack against her sides, she turns to locate the herd of goats once more.

Ew. But reality. Threvobek brushes 'snow' accumulating in patches on his head as movement is once again called for. "Figures." The truth of their unwillingness meets the nowtimer's low expectations. "Can you at least give me the name of— forget it. I'll do it myself." And, as it were, half a dozen men are already ascending to speed the process along, trained firelizards at their behest. None so impressive as a dragon or two, but at least they cooperate!

"What figures." Zeyta demands with droll inflection, boredom carrying through in her roving eyes, appraising the landscape. Kczyslawborth wearies off human company altogether, stalking away in a surge of marbled muscle, lavender belly dragging beneath him. "I am sure I can provide you the names of whomever you are wondering about." Her brows shoot up at the appearance of help, querying gaze seeking out his. "…When did this become a project. They should be left to graze. Wh— is there a shortage of meat?"

Threvobek's put distance and crags between them, hauling his way up the embankments quickly becoming more vertical. This is the fun part. "If you see C'lier or L'jur, they've done this before." Rev turns his head partially to bark out the names as he wrestles with hand grips covered in fresh plant down. Great sense of timing, Ulmaren! At least the goats are eating it like cotton candy. "Dragons and people don't grow on sand and good inten— ," hauling his mass up a slope, "— sions. I'd love to jaw more, dragonlady, but I'm busy here." A hand signal instructs those herders and stablehands on some numbers and Gardou, good guy with a great mustache, takes the lead. Rev cranes a look back to Zeyta, thanking every shell fragment of Faranth's that Kczyslawborth is disinterested.

Zeyta marches after Threvobek with a thundering pound of feet moving over rocky terrain in absolute certainty of self and placement thereon. Her dogged pursuit sends her after him, matching bark with her own authoritative booming, "I don't know them." Not unless they're ranked; she's antisocial for the most part. Hands up she pats herself down, flinging free seeds that cling to her person. "Busy depriving Kczyslawborth of his meal," she complains, loathing breaking up her monotonous droning. She sighs. Kczyslawborth moves along the perimeter of activity, watching.

Head for the hills! Oh wait, they've run out. Inexplicably fast, goats have still not evolved wings or powers of levitation. They run to where people and dragons aren't, guided by a small squadron of border collie firelizards who aren't so encumbered by terrain and seed floss. "Grnnuh!" This is Threvobek exasperating at Zeyta's shallow personal connections. "They're nowtimers, they probably don't like you." Niches in the rock are found by searching fingers, knuckles honed whenever his grip tightens. Zeyta's placed out of his mind until a shelf of refuge is reached where he can mass his composure. "Why are you following me?"

"Then they are probably dimglowed pigs," Zeyta is quick to denounce in equal measure, bounding along until she reaches an altitude that requires more athletic endeavor than heavy footwork. She folds her arms across her chest, and continues to make demands. "Because I want at least two caprines. I am not anticipating having to tell my lifemate he cannot have his favorite meal here." Foot stomp! "So. Best call this off until we're done hunting." We. Me. Kczyslawborth. The pronouns are blending but the goal's the same: goat!

Threvobek hasn't found he's got a phobia of heights just yet but the distance is somewhat dizzying and he's content to face the rock mere inches from his face. So much so, Rev presses his forehead to it. The slight rewarding coolness is a bonus. "At least they're useful dimglowed pigs." C'lier also cheats at poker but he's not supposed to be on trial. "Too late now." A leading edge of about eight goats are halfway down the stones but many have been through this song and dance before and know there's not usually an encore. "Why not head south and let your beast loose on those wild wherry. Get some real adventure." Because clinging to cliff faces is for amateurs. When Threvobek gets moving again there's a dark spot where his head momentarily rested.

"…" Again with the wordless response from Zeyta, mouth fallen open to reply but nothing venturing forth into the realm of vocalization. She groans, and scowls, beginning to trek back down towards less treacherous ground. "I doubt they're useful. And Kczyslawborth wants goat not wherry. In fact, he shall." Soon, there is a peculiar eclipsing shape overhead; Kczyslawborth has become airborne, great ghost-ship sail wings billowing against the current that keeps him aloft. Fierce on ground, he is scarier in air and inescapable. Some goats shall be had! Arguing shall continue. Probably she will offer some form of payment for the two fluff-eating goats she claims. For sure, there will be much arrogance and anger from the teeny-tiny despotic brown rider.

The half dozen men who don't know of Kczyslawborth's company soon do and they take precautions. Threvobek isn't so guarded with his rider, amplifying additional guttural sounds and on par arrogance when he has the breath to give a riposte. It isn't such an easy task juggling Zeyta and goats and gravity.

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