Giving Report

It is evening sweeps time, Xanadu. Somewhere deep in the Southern Xanadu coverage area two undercover spies, planted jointly by Fort's and Xanadu's Weyrleaders gather information on some of Laris' supply and training camps after having been 'recruited' by one of Laris' men, Biran. Brownriders Jaye of Fort and Ers'lan of Xanadu have left their dragons behind but keep in contact through them…

Seryth senses that Zhaoth graces a nudge into Seryth's mind, soft liquid silvers babbling as the brown stirs, « Mine has made contact and wishes for me to pass on his knowledge. » The intensity of the dragon is certainly not expressed in his mental voice as it cascades a little further and mixes with soft golds, although strained perhaps compared to most times due to the distance and the time apart from his lifemate.

Zhaoth senses that Seryth is awake and alert, perched on the starstones and keeping a vigil of sorts as the dusk deepens. It's the sharp scent of pine and fresh mountain snow that eddies back to him with, « Yours is well? » That is her primary focus since she has kept in light, supportive contact with the brown and Thea with his lifemate's family to assure the strain does not tax the dragon too severely. Then, gentle rains, warm, scented of spring's new growth and melting snows patter upon the silvers and gold Zhaoth sends, both soothing and concerned at the same time for the faithful brown. « What has he found? »

Seryth senses that Zhaoth manipulates the silver and gold silk like flows to twist together, rippling underneath the snow pattering against it, a chime gently floating eerily in the distance as the connection wanes as listens and holds to his lifemate. There's a fluttering rush of silk like material as his attention returns, starting to pace inside and out of their personal weyr, « Hungry. He feels hungry. There is not enough good food, they feed them poor meals. Not enough meat. » There is a slight scrape of metal that slices through the silk, a stubborn desire to want to fix it but frustration with his limitations, « He's also tired. They work them in the camps he says. Hard labor. They build and prepare for something big. They are accepted as one of them but he has not acquired the target yet. They believe they are getting close.» This of course is a time frame shortly after the long journey to get to the camp.

Zhaoth senses that Seryth's rains fade to a mist, receding while she speaks with her own, reaching to the office where she works through the dinner hour, the connection is shared, though somewhat indistinct and dimly-seen as a dark-haired form working at a desk, weighed with the well-being and safety of the Weyr. The head snaps up to listen, then the form paces to a window as a brisk breeze flaps and curls the silk. « He is not ill or weak? And they do not suspect? » This carries the distinct alto tones of the Weyrwoman, although wrapped in the queen's cool mists swirling in that quickening current. « She worries, » is shared on a narrow and very private band kept from her lifemate. « The hunting is not good then? » The last query passed along from her lifemate.

Seryth senses that Zhaoth displays the lazy pooling of silver and gold, melting together in a fine layer of silk that softly converges over his thoughts, the image of Ers'lan coming to his mind, a brief flickering instance, the man curled up underneath a flimsy blanket set in a roughhewn tent, his attention distant in the darkness of dusk light, alert to the noises of the sleeping men around him. « He is not sick. He is not weak either. He endures but it is hard after being accustomed to so much food prior. » The hint of hunger comes through the bond and settles at the recesses of his touch, the thoughts linked back to the man who closes his eyes to ensure no one notices his gaze, « He says they are very close to finding out what bait is used to hunt. He says its a camp designed to prepare for some sort of attack. The men practice fighting and are sent to … hunt. » There is some confusion for subject matter, with a grind of metal to emphasize it, « Instincts tell him to remain for a while longer. Too close to leave now. »

Zhaoth senses that Seryth is fiercely satisfied that Laris' men suffer so, although she is concerned that Zhaoth's endures it also. There is a span of time where she once again recedes like an ebb tide though contact is never fully severed while she consults with her lifemate. Waves lap Zhaoth's shore once more as she says, « Mine believes they do not hunt game but men. Is this possible? » And on the heels of that she adds, « She wants to make a supply drop. A packet of jerky sent with Shep. He is a little brother brown. » The mist wavers and swirls, carrying her pride in the tiny, faithful creature. « She also wants to know, what of the woman with you? »

Seryth senses that Zhaoth seems unnerved by the camp, vibrations in the rippling liquid silver expressing his and perhaps mostly important, his lifemate's unsettling thoughts. « Mine means to find out what their intentions are but it is not good for us. » There's flickers of men battling in unarmed combat, flipping one another, practicing how to strike from behind, kicks and punches, « It is possible. They prepare for a big hunt. » The confident faithful workhorse of a brown is never unwavering in his mission when he has one, but there is prickling in the undercurrents of his mindvoice that suggests the brown is anxious, a build up of energy and fear. The touch between brown and gold fades, enough so that the man can strengthen his brown against those nagging fears. Zhaoth fully resurfaces with ribbons of silk again tightening around Seryth's mind, « Mine says not to risk it. Eyes are everywhere. They watch but do not suspect. He does not wish to give them cause to. » Caution in his expressions, rang with a small chime or two, drifting into images of his lifemate with the woman, under the blankets, of them briefly running into one another during the day as the woman cooks or chops wood and the man comes back muddy with his efforts. « She is well. She spends her nights with mine when it does not look too suspicious and they seem just a pair. »

Zhaoth senses that Seryth allows the retreat, not pressing or invading as the brown seeks the strength from his lifemate. She is there to support when he returns, however the sharp tang of icy cedar braces those ribbons at a distance without breaking their attempt to inhibit hers, though the message from Zhaoth’s lifemate is smartly passed on to hers. Her reply to that carries the Weyrwoman's alto. Firmly, « It is done already. The brown is on the way. He flies south and will *Between* as soon as you and he share coordinates with us. Choose a place it will not likely be found and he will leave it in the forest under cover of night where you can go to relieve yourself. If yours does not feel retrieving it is safe, then do not. The wild animals will consume it. She says she is not going to sit here and let you starve. » The queen's currents warm then, whispering of sunshine and the scent of the sea beside Xanadu, « Mine says to tell yours he is doing well and his sacrifice is appreciated. » Her tone changes, water bubbling over rock that is as close to laughter as she can get in this solemn time, « She says she does not //think the lovers cover will distract you, and is confident that you will continue caution. »// A subtle reminder perhaps.

Seryth senses that Zhaoth retracts some of his crushing intent, ribbons fluttering away harmlessly and keeping distance at a mutal place, returning with a tone more his lifemate than him, begrudgingly carrying the message of the coordinates so that the firelizard can make his drop. Once that has been accomplished there is a slight whisper in amongst the ribbons of silk, fabric glistening from the sunshine prompted by Seryth, « He conveys a reassurance that duty is why he is out there but she makes for a warm reminder of home. » And that's probably a little more than Thea ever had to know but the brown seems to hum now, a tinkering of metal chimes adding some mirth, « Mine says he must sleep before he is stirred awake by those he hopes will take him closer to his target. »

Zhaoth senses that Seryth does not pass on to her lifemate some things, exposing vulnerabilities is one of them. « She invents enough of them on her own, fretting enough to keep her awake when she should sleep. » is given in a very narrow band so Thea won't hear. Her next comment carries both her rains and the Weyrwoman's vocal pitch blended in the currents that fluff the fluttering ribbons, « We - and the Weyr - salute you and yours for that dedication to duty and will be easier when you have returned. Sleep, rest. We will wait to hear from you on the morrow. Be well! »

Seryth senses that Zhaoth rumbles with amusement and then withdraws… it's a slow sliding retreat, the metallic ribbons unwrapping and the liquid silver tumbling back in reverse as if someone were to view a spring run off in rewind. « Be steady and do not worry about our sails. » That more from Lan than the dragon, the influence of his seafarring life plain. The brown retreats fully with a last hiss of departing appreciation, « Fair well. »

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