Who Akleteyth, Rhenesath
What Akleteyth and Rhenesath have things to say beyond passing messages to distract a cave-in trapped Thys.
When Winter, Turn 2711
Where Fort Weyr and wherever Akleteyth is. :)

Rhenesath's mind is not in its typical warm, maternal space. She may have returned to the Sands, but her thoughts are conflicted; the desire to watch over her clutch versus the need to assist her rider. That battle of thoughts carries through as she reaches out to Akleteyth, her forge stoked high with conflict so that her flames are especially strong, perhaps even too hot as they lick at the brown's mind. « Mine says not to worry, » she says, words spoken quickly, blurring together. She's not a good liar, and her own thoughts - her own insight into the situation Thys is in - colour her tone. « She says all is fine. » Then, in an aside and in a worried voice all of her own, Rhenesath confides: « I don't believe her. » A picture-book flashes hurt and darkness, fingers with blood on them and a stabbing twinge accompanied by a pained cry, unmistakably her rider's.

In the heat of Rhenesath’s forge, Akleteyth’s return touch is a little unpleasant; there is an acrid note to his usual open fields, sticky-dark and pervasive. It isn’t malicious, or deliberate; after some time it will fade to persistent background, but at the first touch — fwhew. « A’ster says the same, » he sends back, stubborn-strong but still nipped at by his own worry; his rider’s. His flashes come more like snapshots in a road-trip montage meant to convey the passage of time: a series of still images, strongly featuring the feeling of A’ster’s frown. The first few are outside the cave-in, the next — crispy-curl edged with frustration — a series of attempts at message sending first with gravel-brained Idiocy, then with ill-tempered (and too-young) Enmity. Then, faster, landscape shots from above, quick-blinked in and out of; A’ster, talking to a series of unfamiliar people in these unfamiliar places. « He’s usually a better bluffer. »

Rhenesath settles, both mentally and physically. Not by much; she's tense still, her forge remains stoked, but there is a degree of ease upon hearing Akleteyth sharing her concerns, upon knowing all that is being done - all of which is no doubt shared with Thys. She maintains a fiery link with him, a glowing ember in the back of his mind that won't quite go away, and that flares up when she has a reply for him. « Mine is getting hot. The air is thick. She doesn't like to be trapped inside. » That may be obvious, but the way that Rhenesath portrays it is more like panic, like the familiar walls of the barracks closing in… claustrophobia. « She hurts, but the weyrlings hurt more and she looks after them. » Again, there is conflict; of course the gold wants the weyrlings to be well, but her own rider, her Thys, she has concerns for. « Mine is thinking about yours. He's a good distraction. » Again the picture book flicks through images - this time undoubtedly taken straight from Thys's mind, as they're raunchy… and then they lead into her thinking about the baby in her belly. Rhenesath's flames rise at that point, maternal instincts kicking in.

That distinct, almost unpleasant smell hasn’t faded, but it has normalized; it simmers in the presence of Rhenesath’s ember-presence, sweeps in like a hot breeze off of a new-laid street when it flares to active life. « A’ster says, » Akleteyth says, then relays a distinct sensation, sense-linked memory wiping out the previous tang of his mind’s touch and replacing it with another. This isn’t ambient, this is pressed onto the gold with intent; at his rider’s urging, Kle seeks to recreate a measure of the rider-to-rider conduit connection the two dragons created once in much, much more pleasant circumstances. « here, » he keeps relaying, while the memory-message grows stronger, « he’s sorry it smells like fish » The air is still thick; the smelltouchtaste of it is heavy with water rather than dust and cave-in debris; it is cold, not enough to freeze but enough to refresh; it is wide, wide open, laced with the knowledge, the security that even if the wide spread of water off of Breakwater’s shores isn’t visible, the expanse is right there. (Inescapably).

« It helps. » Rhenesath takes a few moments to reply, during which her mind cools - the flames are there, the embers are burning, but they're less hot, more like the cool of the ocean and the water. She's clearly trying not to add to the heat her rider is experiencing. « Mine says thank you. And she can't smell fish at all, though she wouldn't mind it right now if she could. » The sensation Rhenesath shares next is hot, but a more sensual sort of warmth; the heat of an embrace, a kiss, glimmering sparks that signify desire and lust and wanting. « Mine says yours will clear his schedule when she is out. For a sevenday. » A sevenday in the bedroom of her weyr, as the images of Rhenesath's mind show. « Mine wishes for yours and for creamcake. »

Two decades worth of sense-memory builds on itself, doubling down in the moments immediately following the ones when A'ster's attention manages to wander, or Akleteyth gets distracted by what they're actually, physically doing. It's pervasive, it's constant, it's probably only better than the goldrider's actual circumstances by virtue of its difference. It falters in the wake of the gold(rider's) sending, though: heat cuts through the insidious wet-cool, Kle's mindscape stained with the redpink of the blush that spreads across A'ster's cheeks in real-time. Akleteyth's response is a bark of laughter that smells like wide-open green-yellow fields rushing by. « He respectfully requests that your-Ames please not give him a boner while he's trying to find his clutchmate. » The brown's voice-voice fades out, then returns with a correction: « sister. » Same thing, to him.

There's a mirthful response to that - somewhere in the barracks, Thys is laughing, as that is exactly what Rhenesath relays to Akleteyth, along with the sensation of a kiss on the cheek. It's loving and warm, but not to the degree of her earlier conveyance. « Mine says he can sort it out quickly enough if he needs too, so not to worry. She says that thinking of him is helping her… and why doesn't he think something in return to help distract her? » Now she's teasing, echoing Thys' playful voice. But there is also a flicker of curiosity in amongst her heat, which winds its way up to being asked. « Mine is also wondering why yours is looking for his sister. »

The thread of connection is maintained, in all its Breakwater'd bolstering, but the active exchange drops out for longer than it has previously. (There's a vague, vague note of hold-please in the absence, but neither brown nor brownrider seems aware of it.) « Firm lead, » Akleteyth finally relays, satisfied-investigator smug through the connection, but it's still a little bit before he actually explains. « Minecraft sister, » carries with it both A'ster's whoops-duh at having forgotten to include that piece of information, and Kle's aha! of it clicking into place. « Journeying Journeyman Minecraft Sister, » settles in with a wash of Breakwater lakewater, « exact whereabouts unknown and firelizard-messengers exceedingly unhelpful. » This time, along with the sense heavy-wet smell and cool-damp breeze is another set of memory-snapshots; the prevailing theme is flashes of blonde hair longer than A(li)ster's, a cheerful cacophany of brightly-colored outfits the details of which are missing even in A'ster's original memories themselves, features that are sometimes too-sharp, sometimes baby-soft, and a grin and a laugh produced more often than not because of (aimed at) A'ster himself. All accompanied by a tumbledown pebbleslide of worn smooth lakebottom rocks, from pockets from shelves from a bucket dumped over skinny-kid freckeled shoulders— and then miniature memory rockslide is gone in an apologetic lakewater lap against Rhenesath's forge-shores. « Apparently, Minecrafters Help. »

Rhenesath understands, and responds with a fond image of another Fortian brown dragon that is certainly not Akleteyth, plus a blue bearing High Reaches colours. « Rideth and Taffryth are here. » And, indeed, both dragons have been seen near the barracks. « Mine trusts them and the others they bring. She didn't know yours also has Minecraft family. » She curls out warm flames to envelop Akleteyth, a hug from Thys to A'ster in response to the shared images - the skinny kid one gets an especially close squeeze. « Mine is curious. Will their hatchling look like that? Or… » The image is replayed, but instead of a young A'ster, the skinny-kid has dark hair like Thys. « Mine asks what yours thinks about Alisme. »

« A’ster says, » the message relayed isn’t one in words so much as the strong impression of the brownrider’s best (worst) heck-if-he-knows shrug. The skinny kid of Thys’s question edit-undoes back into the bitty!Alisty of the brownrider’s memory, then gets replaced altogether by a slowed-down slideshow, haphazard, of A’ster’s siblings, from oldest brother Cailen on down through the ranks to (not so) baby (anymore) sister bitty Calira. Each sibling has a strong presence, a firm flavor in A’ster’s — and subsequently Akleteyth’s — mind, though it’s a haphazard shuffle of ages for each. There’s an unhelpfully broad range of possiblity: blonde hair, brown hair, blue eyes grey eyes hazel, green, sharper features and slightly snubbed; pale skin with intermittent inclination to freckle or tan and a general impression of height remain the only constants. « We think, » the we is un-Royal; the lifemates have conferred while Akleteyth plays sibling slide projector, « it’s a good name. Better than anything he’s come up with. » A pause, then a slightly puzzled, « …plus t or r if boy? » that’s quickly followed up by, « Ah! Would your-Ames prefer to add a t or an r to the end if it’s a boy, or choose another name altogether? »

There's a returned reflection of Thys' siblings; it's much quicker than the one shared by Akleteyth, and far less diverse: lots of dark hair, brown eyes, lightly tanned but freckled skin. « Mine only hopes that it has yours' dimples. » There's a rush of fond warmth, the sensation of Thys nuzzling gently into A'ster's neck. « And she finds it very sexy that he has been thinking of names, also. » Rhenesath relays a flush of heat, more longing. « She misses yours. Mine also wishes to know what names he has thought of. »

« No, » Akleteyth — abolisher of the nickname Alisty immediately upon his Impression, digs his heels in to decree, « she really doesn’t want. » But since the name of the game is very officially unofficially Keep Thys Distracted From Being Trapped in A Cave, the gouges left by the brown’s refusal to back down are shallower than they might ordinarily be. A’ster is — not the most original of syllable-combiners, it seems: he rattles off a list, relayed through his lifemate, that includes but isn’t limited to such gems as Almethyst, Amethylister, Alistemethyst, Amelister, Ahyst, and Alst. They take on a hint of the apologetic as the rattling peters off, while continuing to be relayed in the deadest of deadpans Akleteyth can muster. When they’re done (Kle and A’ster confer to confirm), enough of the rider’s sheepishness is allowed through over, « It’s only a first draft, » that Akleteyth is mollified. Although he does add, to Rhen and Rhen alone, « Idiocy. Dogbreath. Stumpy. Pukeily. Enmity. He should not be in charge of naming. » Ever.

« Agreed. » Rhenesath may be filtering those names as they make it through to Thys, because what she returns with is unlike any single one of them - more like a combined version. « Mine says Alyst. Or Amyst. Or maybe Sapphire, for a girl. » An image of a tiny tot with dark curls comes into Rhenesath's mind, though it quickly fades. « She likes girl hatchlings. Easier to name. » There is, however, an image of a little boy that follows - with curly blonde hair and a face that is unmistakable for being A'ster's son. « But she likes boys well enough, too. » There's a moment then when Rhenesath pulls away, concentrating herself on matters within the cave-in and allowing only the slightest sensations to come through her link; there's pain again, the feeling of tightness, of being trapped, and a flash of worried panic. « They hurt, » she echoes through to Akleteyth, not giving him her full attention. « Mine requests more numbweed. More fellis. She's getting tired. »

Add a New Comment