Xanadu Weyr - Forest
The trees grow thickly here, avians nesting in their branches and flitting about after insects. Flowers sprout up and speckle the ground between, the green of small plants and their blooms of bright saffron and cheeky rose that creep all the way up to the bases of the trees and adorn the fallen leaves and mulch of the forest floor. Those trees rise upward in their aged magnificence, gargantuan limbs casting often welcome shade, the general atmosphere and scent of the path is one of freshness and wild abandon.
A path winds its leisurely way through the trees, wide enough for wagons to pass. As it goes through into the forest, a number of other trails branch away, both more and less traveled. Many of them lead to private weyrs, but there's a few more trodden paths - notable among them a road to the feeding grounds, set against the western slopes.
The forest grows wilder the further north one goes, deep growth and ancient places, and the road splits in two against it. One branch leads to a clearing with a large stone building finished with wooden cladding, while the other turns back toward the meadow. Just before it emerges, a trail veers off to the Firelizard Theatre.
Ahh, summer~ What a wonderful time to be alive in the lush greenery that is the forest of Xanadu. Here where the canopy of trees is dense enough to shelter the leisurely winding path that passes from one major area of the weyr to several others, the temperature is delightfully only warm and not hot-hot-hot. It means the main part of the path is frequently traveled, or lingered in, by those on their way to the Firelizard Theatre, the Feeding Grounds or elsewhere. That's the common foot traffic, though, and the large man making not nearly enough noise as he exits onto that main path from some— well, non-path, honestly, from the deeper part of the forest, with a comically small backpack planted between his shoulder blades, a canteen strapped to its side is not on his way to the common places just now. The boots have collected mud and other underbrush in evidence of some time spent elsewhere in the forest today and there's lines enough on his forehead in bits of accumulated grime to imply a long venture, even with the breakfast hour in the faraway living cavern still going on for the later risers. No knot adorns F'yr's shoulder, but he moves as one who belongs, and really, if he were some kind of shifty-eyed foe-villain come to invade Xanadu and steal off the unsuspecting, he probably wouldn't have a backpack only twice the size of his arguably sizable fist.
Late morning finds a player:logain marching through the forest at a leisurley pace, enough to actually enjoy the feel of life around him. Since the end of the young hunter's semi-mandatory banishment from the forest, he's been trying to spend as much time under the trees as he can. He pauses as the young, blue firelizard on his shoulder suddenly zips off into the undergrowth without warning. Lowering his eyebrows into a slight frown, he gazes aftr his disappeared 'lizard, thoughts of the last one's recent death creeping into his mind. Not even thinking about it, he untangles himself from his bow, snatches an arrow from his half-full quiver, and nocks it to the bowstring, carefully stalking into the brush. Before he can doany damage however, Slate quickly reappears, wiht a dead tunnelsnake dangling from his mouth; he's obviously proud of himself. Logain chuckles quietly, and says, "Go ahead. Enjoy yourself." At least one of them caught something this morning. Replacing the bow and arrow in their places, he notices the tall wing assistant emerging from the trees. Lifting an arm in greeting, he calls out to the approaching rider, "Greetings!" Slate lands at Logain's feet and barely spares the approaching rider a second glace before tearing into his prey.
Probably, what should happen next is that F'yr offers some unexceptionable hello, and perhaps one thing leads to another in the way of small talk, nothing too exciting that would disturb Slate's well-earned meal, nor Logain's efforts to come away from his trip in the these shallow parts of Xanadu's forest with something to show for it. It might have been what happened, too, except that as F'yr lifts a hand, and opens his mouth, a BOOMING VOICE comes from LITERALLY NOWHERE. It REVERBERATES WITH ALL THE HEROIC RESONANCE THAT THE MOST HEROIC OF ALL HEROIC HEROES CAN MUSTER (because it's Glorioth). Has Logain met one of Xanadu's notoriously loud and undiscriminating dragons yet? If not, this might be a crash course. The bronze is nowhere in sight, but the, « AHAHAHAHA! ONWaaaaAAAaAAaaaaRD!! » that warbles only in the minds of anyone unfortunate enough to be on the forest path today (possibly also at the nearby playground - who can say~) in incredibly out-of-tune lilting call. « GO, F'YRLESS ONE, FETCH ME THAT STRAPPING FELLOW THAT HE MAY PROVE HIS VALOR. MY BUNGLESOME QUEEN HAS DEMANDED TRIBUTE AND I, THE MOST BOLD OF HER BOLD BRONZES WILL BE THE ONE TO BRING HER ONLY THE BEST. THERE IS NO TIME TO WASTE! » So says the abrupt crescendo of accompanying (also off-key) theme music in the form of drum and bugled fanfare. That F'yr's mouth only hangs open a half moment before closing lest a VTOL mistake it for a cozy home and that he doesn't flinch at the sheer, potentially mind-buffeting MUCH TOO BIG EGO SHOVED INTO ALL OF THOSE DAUNTLESS DEMANDS that comes with the smell of battlefield smoke and something deeper, muskier, all around dragonly is evidence of just how numb accustomed he's become to his lifemate's bizarre spectacular nature. He doesn't exactly make haste, honestly, but he does turn his feet toward the young man with the bow as the most obvious target for this demand. His lips pull into a wan sort of smile, worrying sympathy knit with a not fully formed apology (this is his every day, after all, maybe minus these particular demands). "Morning," is probably far too casual for what's just happened, that F'yr is behaving perhaps didn't happen at all, except that he does go on with, "I'm F'yr. Have time for a walk to the Meadow?"
The sudden BLAST of power reverberating through his mind leaves Logain reeling slightly. Slate snatches his snack and quickly relocates himself to a position where he's less likely to get stepped on, glaring slightly at his master out of his peripheral. Regaining his composure slightly, Logain glances down at his firelizard appologetically, before glacing back to F'yr. "Uh… Sure," he mumbles in answer to the invitation, still somewhat disoriented. He searches the area for source of the thundering mindvoice, and half-whispers, "What was that?"
F'yr's, "Hmm?" is entirely blase. Who said what? The words aren't said aloud but the uptick of blond brows belie the understanding in his eyes. At least he's not the kind of man to leave the not quite teen in the dark for too long. Only long enough to gesture in the direction of the meadow and turn to saunter slowly that way - giving the teen enough time to keep up with his naturally long-legged stride. "That would be Glorioth, whom you'll meet when we get there." And if Logain was afraid (AND/OR, UNDERSTANDABLY, HOPEFUL) that it was all a hallucination, the BOOMBOOMBOOMING LAUGHTER IS BACK AGAIN, still just too darn loud. « AHAHHAHAHA. WHAT A GIFT FOR UNDERSTATEMENT YOU HAVE, MY F'YROCIOUSLY MODEST MATE. » Because, apparently, since F'yr, the mild-mannered not-quite-giant who continues to stroll with such a harmless look about him for all the absurdity going on in the general mindspace that extends far beyond just the two individuals heading for the source of all this noise and nonsense, didn't do it right, the dragon takes it upon himself. « I AM GLORIOTH. SURELY, THE LEGENDARY LEGEND OF MY VALOROUS VALOR, RADIANT IN ITS RADIANCE, HAS ALREADY REACHED YOUR EARS AND YOU ARE PREPARED TO OFFER SUCH SONGS OF TRIBUTE AS IS MY MOST REASONABLE DUE. » This much ego packed into one, arguably large (if technically tiny for his color) body might be an amazing thing, especially since every line seems without a shade of doubt or a single daunt anywhere in earshot— or is that mindshot? In any case, F'yr's not laughing, even if his lips are set in a line that pulls a little upward at the edges. "It sounds like he's interested in getting a look at you for Leirith's eggs," the words are soft, if only by comparison to the possibly-this-could-be-interpreted-as-"assault" on the bulwarks of the mind. "How old are you…?" The trailing edge invites a name, the bronzerider canting his head to take Logain in with more than just his peripheral vision.
Logain launches into a quick trot to close the distance between him and F'yr. Slate glances up at his retreating person, and gazes longly at his half-eaten tunnelsnake. After a moment of indesicion, he tears off one last piece of flesh, and quickly reclaims his perch on logain's shoulder. Catching up to the long-legged bronzerider, Logain inclines his headin recognition of the dragon's name (a mindvoice like that is bound to generate some recognition). He's about to open his mouth to ask F'yr a question, when the THUNDERING blast tears through his mind again, causing him to lean against a tree to maintain his balance. Once the mental ringing in his skull subsides, he trots to cath up with the bronzerider, and answers, "Logain. I'm two sevendays form turning thirteen." He suddenly stops in his tracks, stunned, and asks in disbelief, "Wait a minute… He wants to Search me?"
The number off of Logain's lips briefly makes the set of F'yr's lips pull into a thin line. And yet, even with that reaction, whatever it is and visceral as it seems to be motivated, it doesn't stop him from saying, "Seems so. Or likely. Have you thought of standing, Logain?" There's a brief beat before he pauses in his step to give the younger man a chance to catch up… which he doesn't, prompting a turn back toward the nearly, nearly teen. "I've heard it can be…" There's a slow control of his breath as he trails off and presses his lips together, in search of the right words, "Complex," he settles on, "for those who choose to stand while young. You have turns ahead, and could always stand later." There's almost a wistful suggestion there. "If you do decide to take him up on it," the boom and bluster voice that is, at least for the moment, blessedly silent, "I'd recommend you seek out Wingsecond K'vir for a conversation about what it's like, to impress on the early end of the range of those who are searchable. His experiences might be of value to you." Then again, maybe not. Now the large man falls silent, waiting, blue eyes sliding to the side to briefly search the younger man's face for… what? It's anyone's guess, but he's searching all the same.
Coming out of his shock, Logain realizes F'yr is waiting on him, so, with yet another short trot, he comes to satnd beside the older man. "I hadn't really consiedered it…" he responds. "I mean, I'm only a hunter. And in training too! What potential could I possibly have?" He stares blankly up at the bronzerider as F'yr suggests waiting, and says, "I'll do that." Talk to K'vir that is. Thoughts of the slightly awkward looks his father sometimes got when talking about his weyrlinghood appear in the younglings mind. He'll definetly be talking to K'vir!
The older man's lips press again, together, except this time there's a bemused quality as well as a sympathetic one to the look. "In truth, Logain, that is a question not even eggs or a dragon will answer for you. Comes from in here." He touches a hand briefly to his heart, then to his temple, "And here." He turns to continue the way toward the meadow. "What candidacy offers is a lot of opportunities to be in situations you've never encountered before. It brings chances and it's up to you to decide which of them is right for you. Sometimes you don't learn until after the fact that it wasn't." There's a slight grimace at some long-ago memory not given breath to be shared. "Dragons are, in their way, the biggest question and greatest answer a person faces, I think. Just touching the eggs might give you some insight into that, but it's not a thing a person can really grasp until it's upon them, in my experience," singular though it surely is since a man can only impress the once, to whatever jokes of fate has in store for them, if anything at all. "But before all that, I'd focus on just getting through this-" HOPEFULLY BRIEF FOR THE SANITY OF ALL INVOLVED, "-interview with Glori." There's a touch of affection in the use of the name, but lightly touching the obvious nickname. Then the older man is inclined to fall silent for the distance that remains (unless prompted) to the meadow where the bronze with the tracery of helm upon his shiny head and sword tracing down the line of his spine awaits, the very picture of the most heroic bronze, wings flared just so, showing them to best, most OBVIOUSLY VALOROUS EXAMPLE. (Can where a dragon puts his wings even indicate an inner quality like that??? WELL, GLORIOTH DOES. Or tries to. Whichever.)
Logain takes the bronzerider's words to heart, and falls into a contemplative silence for the rest of the walk.
Distraction comes in all forms. In this case, it's that just as they're verging on where the trees thin and Glorioth's mighty magnificence can be seen, the dragon's attention jerks away from the oncoming pair, something, somewhere has (miraculously?) pulled the bronze's attention from whatever test of valor he'd planned to put to the youth in exchange for the white knot that comes with being searched. For the first time, the bronzerider's eyes flare slightly in a real reaction. Something probably not terribly appropriate for not-quite-teen ears is muttered under his breath and he lurches a long step forward as Glorioth turns and begins to run at full tilt across the meadow, away from the pair. The Quasar rider hesitates long enough to turn back toward Logain, "Sorry. See the Headwoman or one of her assistants," is the most he can manage, one hand blindly fishing into a side pocket and shoving at the young man one of those white knots that will get his name on those lists, should he accept and show up to get trotted down to the candidate barracks or at least given the rundown of the rules and all the standard forms. Then F'yr is twisting and springing into a sprint in the same motion to take off at his meager, doomed top speed after the dragon to rescue the Weyr from whatever mayhem that great idiot hero has suddenly taken into his head. Duty calls, apparently.