Father and Son

Xanadu Weyr - Dragons' Pool
Light filters in through a jagged crack in the wall, but while it's dark in here, it's certainly not cold. Water seeps through the walls, forming trickles and rivulets that run down to an enormous pool only to rise again as steam. There's enough room for a full-grown gold dragon - though she'd be curled nose over tail and likely displace half the water. Smaller dragons will find ample chance to bathe and play - which may splash just as much, all things considered. Glowbaskets hang from hooks drilled into the rock, casting their dim phosphorescence over stone shattered and blackened by smoke.

Ten days, for anyone who's counting. F'yr isn't. What even are numbers? Did he ever know mythical constructs like that? Letters? Pah. WORDS are becoming a challenge, even just the spoken kind. But just this moment, F'yr is not the most tired being in the surprisingly empty dragon pool. It's early morning, so maybe that's why it's just F'yr and the big bronze, the size of a large wagon, are alone here. It might also why F'yr is fighting with a mostly asleep head, braced on one of his broad shoulders, arms hugging either side of it, as he staggers under the not insignificant but possibly not normally problematic weight. He's trying to move it to the nearest ledge, so thank goodness for his strong muscles now, huh? Even in the water he wears that tight-tight-tight-tied bandage that tries to protect his ribs from— OH, EXERTIONS JUST LIKE THIS ONE. It's no wonder he's making that face like he's breaking on the inside. (It just might be more than just physically. LOOK AT THEM BLACK BRUISES UNDER HIS EYES FROM SLEEP DEPRIVATION, Y'ALL. SERIOUSLY. THEY'RE INSANE.)

Time is a meaningless construct for lesser beings, to be fair - lesser beings like R'hyn and Xermiltoth, for whom time away from the weyr, time spent up close and curled in with new family, passed just as quickly as it did for the weyrling pair… and with seemingly just as much sleep involved. The weyrleader has certainly looked better, has been more presentably attired than a loose, slouchy sweater and soft, close-cut pants, fringes left to swoop low over tired eyes, but let's be real: if he looked like a fresh-cut daisy, this would hardly be a fair scene. R'hyn's only real advantages are his dragon and his ribs, the former of which bolsters F'yr's efforts with hot radiance and the will to go on, and the latter of which - unbound - affords him the chance to assist the newly-minted bronzeling in his attempts to pull his dragon's head to safety. "They really will sleep anywhere," he comments in low, wry tones as he hauls his shirt off over his head, shoes shucked and all chucked to one side as he slides into the water with clear intent to take over the job. Xermiltoth's laughter is soft, muted, as though he's placed his normal mindvoice at a literal distance as he rests his chin on the lip of the pool, the rest of him spilling out into the weyrling yard beyond. « Growing is difficult, and the water is warm. » PERFECT SLEEP CONDITIONS IF YOU DON'T MUCH MIND THE DROWNING.

"R'hyn," is an exhale of a breath that holds so much in that one word that if it weren't for the fact that there was sleeping baby head to be managed and pain to be felt and all the other practical things in life to get on with, it might be a stumbling point in the conversation from the very start. As it is, it's not even a thought to linger on whatever emotions might have been tied up in that moment, in that word, because there is the here and the now and in the here and now there is help and that's the most important thing right now. "Thank yo-" F'yr starts to breathe, just in time for Glorioth to jerk his head out of the just transferred grasp of the Weyrleader. « I TOLD YOU, I AM NOT THE LEAST TIRED, MY F'YRFUL FUSSPOT. » And, of course, on the heels of this totally true now statement, the baby bronze jerks to attention. « WHAT HO, F'YRSOME ALLY. INVADERS? ARE THEY FRIENDS OR SHIFTY-EYED FOES? » Yes, of course, their eyes are duly examined - Xermiltoth's first because he's the biggest threat even if R'hyn is closer. The Weyrleader is treated to a face full of baby bronze helm right up in his business. « STATE YOUR PURPOSE, LEGERDEMAIN OF LIQUID. » That's to R'hyn, booming, colored by the particularly intimidating and heroic clash of weapons and the hiss, sizzle and pop of flames. It's not intentionally threatening, of course, he's just that dragonly, he can't help it if R'hyn shakes in his skin as a result. « AND YOU, VAST VOYEUR. » That's dear ol' dad. « WHY DO YOU LINGER WITHOUT ENJOYING THE CLEAR WATERS OF CLEANSING? » It's weird, okay? All of this really leaves F'yr… laughing. First he was speechless as his lifemate steamrolled right over any regular introductions they might have had, but then he just laughed, expression a hilarious flip-flop between incandescent joy and good humor and extreme pain with wheezes to prove how much this kind of laughter hurts when your ribs are cracked. At least there's R'hyn's shoulder to lean on with one hand so that the laughter which is threatening to buckle F'yr at the knees now that the weight from above is removed doesn't claim the bronze weyrling with the drowning death his lifemate just avoided.

"Ste— mm. F'yr." Well, it was almost a play on the weyrling's tone, but changes trip him up, find him flashing a crooked grin F'yr's way, one part apology, one part promise to do better on the next attempt. His smile tightens, as though emotions were cause for concern, lips parting to perhaps issue inquiry, or to simply say 'you're welcome' when SUDDENLY, GLORIOTH. Xermiltoth's eyes whirl fast through blues and greens, warmth of his mind amplifying tenfold as he meets him eyefacet for eyefacet, leaving R'hyn with the fine-fine task of being the shifty-eye-er designate as he cants F'yr an amused look before responding to a faceful of baby-sized demands. "The weyrlingstaff said you were quiet. We came to check on you," is perhaps as much teasing as it is truth, blue-greys sparkling as hands come up to offer chin-scritches with blunted nails. Xermiltoth invades mind-noises, becoming the sparks that create the fiery crackles, forming the shield against which swords might pummel and clang. « Voyeur? That is what Teimyrth's mine calls my R'hyn. » TMI ALERT. Luckily he cruises right on past that with an audible growl that constitutes draconic laughter, « I linger because it is easier to do this from here. » This being filling his maw with water and crushing it around a u-shaped tongue, sending a jetting splash right towards the tiny bronzelet. R'hyn lifts one hand to stave off the worst of it, issuing a laughing, "Xermi," of admonition even as he tucks one arm around F'yr's side, more than willing to keep him aloft as broken ribs spasm and seize. "Leave the child's play for the children," is scathing only in jest, the blackened bronze's mind shattering diamond-laughter as he dips his chin into the water to do it again.

Glorioth is a creature primed for action. It is rare that he freezes. Suspicion fills his mindtouch as he stays transfixed by the further enchantment that is that oh-so-pleasant scratching just there, where he has an itch. It isn't that Glorioth objects to being touched by people, by dragons, by his rider, it's just that… with the exception of his rider, others don't touch him very often. It must be that they are terrified they will be smited by the radiance of his valor if they dare to get close enough to touch a beast of legend such as he. If he thought this hard about anything, he probably couldn't even find fault with their very sensible fears, but he's just not that deep to have any such thoughts, so the most he gets is: « THAT SOUNDS EXCEPTIONALLY UNLIKELY. » Because when is Glorioth ever quiet? It's a wonder F'yr isn't deaf yet, mentally or otherwise. Or maybe he's just brain-dead between the noise and lack of sleep because he's still laugh-ow-ing his way though life and can't seem to quite get it under control yet. He is casting a helpless look up at R'hyn, a silent query there- does he get the joke? Does he see how funny being lifemate to Glorioth must be? « PERHAPS THE WEYRLINGSTAFF HAS CONTRACTED A PLAGUE OF THE BRAIN FOR WHICH WE CAN QUEST FOR A CURE. OR PERHAPS AN EVIL DOER LED YOU ASTRAY. THERE IS THE SHIFTY-EYE ONE TO CONSIDER. » That one the jury is still out on, by the way. It's possible Glorioth can't track from day to day whether he's assigned Ila'den the role of VILLAIN or FRIEND, or maybe just PURVEYOR OF MY LATEST GREATEST DECONSTRUCTED ITEM. Xermiltoth does not help poor F'yr and F'yr's broken ribs - and there are tears down his cheeks now because shells it hurts and he just can't stop laughing, which shakes those ribs, which radiates the pain, which makes the ow, but one look at any of them has F'yr losing it all over again. It's to such an extent that Glorioth deigns to notice, staring at his rider. « Have you contracted a plague of the brain, my F'yrfully dull-witted companion? » To Xermiltoth and R'hyn (though surely his lifemate can hear it too, and it's the reason for the latest howl of laughter), « It would be difficult to tell. Perhaps there is a test that can be done. » The wee bronze is just considering such a matter with great seriousness when that water jet hits R'hyn's arm and the small bronze goes totally still, staring this time at the big bronze. « WHAT… WHAT IS THIS WEAPON OF THE BODY THAT YOU WIELD WITH SUCH ACCURACY AND GRACE. I HAVE NEVER SEEN ITS LIKE. YOU MUST TEACH ME! » It's not a question. In fact, Glorioth is going to learn (he knows he can, you see, he's sure) whether Xermiltoth consents to teach him this very moment or not. That's when sploosh goes the baby bronze's head into the water to catch up a mouthful and lift his head right back out to — Yes, yes, it's the trouble with chewing all over again. Water streams out through teeth as easily as it would through a slotted spoon. And given the proximity, there's a very real chance that that baby mouthful (which is still quite a lot) is going to be showered down upon F'yr and R'hyn. So it's not what he was going for, but still effective. He knew he could do it! At least it makes F'yr finally stop laughing long enough to splutter.

R'hyn is fearless, or at the very least, has probably dealt with these exact same trials and tribulations himself, and is no longer afraid to meet them head on. And so he scritches the unscritchable, stays in that one spot that inspired transfixation, and laughs as he leans that much closer into Glorioth's proximity. "That's the joke." That for a minute he fell asleep, and was so quiet that someone had the thought to make sure he was okay. The idea that the weyrlingstaff - his weyrmate included - have contracted a brain-plague seems to vastly amuse the bronzerider, whose own chuckles run a quiet counterpart to F'yr's helpless howls. "Confirmed. The one-eyed man's case is particularly dire. You should ask him for permission to seek a cure forthright." TROUBLE TROUBLE. HERE IS R'HYN, MAKING TROUBLE, but he can't seem to help himself, his own body quaking with ill-suppressed laughter as Stefyr just keeps going. "Faranth, man, you're going to break them all over again," said as he does his best to at least keep the bronzeling upright even as Xermiltoth tilts his head and gushes a splash of water at Glorioth this time. « IT IS CALLED A TONGUE, » comes on booming laughter, the bronze's voice finally losing some of its distance, excitement for the play catching. « I HAVE BEEN ASSURED IT HAS A GREAT MANY USES, BUT I LIKE IT FOR TASTING AND FOR MISCHIEF THE MOST. » The bronze, whose jaw has just sunken into the water to fill again, goes still for Glorioth's initial attempt, the diamonds in his mind fracturing into hiss-spitting showers one by one on his laughter. « A VALIANT FIRST ATTEMPT, » blared as R'hyn shrieks through amusement, hand lifting as though trying to push Glori's WATERFALL FACE out from over them, « BUT YOU MUST HOLD THE WATER ON YOUR TONGUE, IT WILL ONLY STAY BUT A FEW SECONDS. YOU MUST BE FAST. » SEE. Tongue-curl at the edges. Maw lift. JETTISON.

If they had waited long enough, R'hyn probably could have earned his first « … You've lost me, » from Glorioth, but that particular first (of many, of so many) will have to wait because there are far more important things immediately to hand, or rather, to mouth. RAIN goes the sieve of Glorioth's teeth and R'hyn can push all he wants, Glorioth isn't to be moved because he doesn't notice the plight of those puny pink things one of whom happens to be his maybe deep down cherished lifemate. « THEY CAN STAND TO SUFFER A SPELL, STILL, TRIVIAL TRICKSTER. » (That's you, R'hyn. And don't imagine Glorioth's actually on to you and your tricks, nono, that's all in reference to your magical abilities like small dragon enthrallment and appearing unnoticed in the midst of the dragon pool.) Brain plague cures are not at the top of today's quest queue anymore. The small bronze is completely unfazed by the gout of water that smacks him square in the face. He has lids to protect what's important, you see, and he's focused. You have not seen ferocious focus until you see Glorioth intensely and earnestly engaged as he is now. « I HAVE HEARD OF THIS TONGUE. I HAVE ONE, YOU SEE. » And THERE GOES THE REST OF THE WATER IN A GUSH right onto R'hyn and spluttering F'yr who is now clutching onto R'hyn's arm, his forehead on the other big man's shoulder all in his effort to stay upright though all of this ludicrous, glorious nonsense. He chokes, he coughs, he probably could use a back slap, but then there are those ribs to consider. Maybe best to just let him dry drown, R'hyn. It might hurt less in the long run. AND LEST THE BRONZERIDERS THINK THAT'S ALL NOW THAT GLORIOTH'S MOUTH IS EMPTY, he immediately sets to re-filling his mouth to try this curled-tongue-swish-and-flick technique of Xermi's. Except, obviously, the first try sees only one side of his tongue curling once his head is (PREDICTABLY) right over top of the two men, and GUSSSSSH goes the whole load at once.

WELP. You know what they say. When the going gets wet, the wet get going! The question is, can R'hyn move them fast enough? « ONE SHOULD HOPE YOU DO. IF YOU DIDN'T, I WOULD HAVE A SERIES OF VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS, » Xermiltoth laughs, mindvoice veritably scintillating, such is his mirth. « NAMELY, HOW DO YOU KEEP THE FOOD FROM GUSHING RIGHT BACK OUT OF YOUR FACE? » Ah. Hit that nail on the head perhaps a little hard, eh, Xermiltoth? Listen. His live-in brainfreeze in dragon form is up in their business almost every day. Maybe he's heard things. He doesn't linger on the subject, at any rate, instead issuing a diamond-studded guffaw as another small truckload of water gushes down on their rider and rider-to-be. "GACK," says R'hyn as he fails in his attempt to haul them to safety in time, and « NAILED IT, » says Xermiltoth, nose pushing forward for a victorious boop. « REFINE YOUR TECHNIQUE AND YOU WILL BE TORMENTING YOUR SIBLINGS IN NO TIME. » Terrible. Truly awful. « JUST BE CAREFUL. IF YOU DO THIS IN THE OCEAN WATERS, SOMETIMES THINGS BITE BACK. » A mental image rendered in gold tones depicts a series of misadventures, possibly purloined from R'hyn's memory, given how small the harlequinned bronze is with Pernese crustaceans, saw-toothed carnivorous fish, and a very determined starfish clinging to his tongue. It's R'hyn's turn to stagger on the gales of his laughter, a fond look aimed back at his lifemate as he finally reaches the side of the pool and aims a gentle pat-pat for the back of the head being pressed to one tattooed shoulder. "Gonna make it?," is rendered in teasing tones, followed swiftly by, "Do we need more surgery?"

It's for the best, ultimately, that Xermiltoth doesn't linger on the possibility of questions and what those are because … Glorioth Does Not Care. He stopped listening. That part isn't relevant to the quest at hand. There is more coughing-laughing-coughing from the newly soaked F'yr, set off all over again by R'hyn's laughter and just what prompted it. Glorioth is glowing with his pride at having plainly done the thing. Okayokayokay, so it wasn't exactly the way the big bronze did it, but it was effective, wasn't it? He's delighted with the results. And now that his mouth is empty, he can try again. Obviously this time he gets it. It's important that he gets it because the men are now over there, and this is the only way without very obvious maneuvering (which really, let's be honest, is not beneath him if it proves necessary) that he can still soak the gigglers from where he's at. SQUIIIIIRT goes the next stream of water. And F'yr flinches right into R'hyn, laughing and ow-ing and laughing and crying. HAS ANYONE EVER GONE MAD FROM IMPRESSION? HOW ABOUT MAD FROM IMPRESSION AT XANADU? NO? GOOD, F'YR'S NAME WILL GO DOWN IN HISTORY. But really, eventually, as Glorioth dips his mouth back into the water to make a second try (this time aimed at dear old Dad because he's farther and that makes him a worthier target, for now), F'yr manages to stop laughing and even lift his head off the Weyrleader's shoulders, straightening with pained movements. He'd wipe all the water from his face but moving hurts, everything hurts in this moment but he manages to clear his throat, to shift to lean against the wall and sink sore ribs under the warm water. "Unless you're going to try a brain replacement, or have the right kind of glue for cracked ribs, I think I'll pass," the newest bronzerider tells the far more experienced one with a lop-sided smile. There's still residual pain in his face because there is no chance it's not still radiating and rebounding from all that laughter, but maybe, just maybe, it was worth it for the release of tension, of exhaustion, of everything to get to laugh that hard. "You're well? How's things? The office? The baby?" Tell him everything! Ten days (if he even knows it's been that long) with little contact with the OUTSIDE WORLD. He's starved for news. Take pity on him, R'hyn! Plaintive puppy face needs the deets. Meanwhile, the question must be asked. « WHAT IN VALOR'S NAME IS THAT? AND THAT? AND THAT? » All of those things that might bite back look awfully shifty eyed and EVIL to this particular bronze. TELL HIM OF THESE FOE VILLAINS, DADDY.

R'hyn considers this with the utmost seriousness, fingers coming up to frame his chin in classic thinking posture before he decides, "We should just remove the whole—" SPLASH. DRIP. A SARCASTIC FALL OF HIS FEATURES INTO A STRAIGHT LINE, amusement belied by the repeating twitching quirk of lips as they threaten to form a smile. Definitely not funny. Definitely not funny. Definitely not funny. "Pfft," accompanies a brush of hair back out of his face before he continues with a droll, "The whole torso. Just. Fwp. Gone. Can't laugh if you don't have lungs, yeah?" Also can't live, but listen. Logic. Who needs it? Certainly not R'hyn, who sinks down to the younger bronzer's level to fix him with a 'don't you have bigger, louder things to worry about' look that takes a turn for the 'yeah, alright,' because, well… He's been there, too. "Well," is agreed upon, "exhausted," evident by tunnelcat rings that might not be as dramatic as F'yr's, but are getting close. "The twins are on opposite sleep schedules and Little Kit is… noisy. But." But he's happy. But he's enjoyed the time away. But that's a stupidly dopey expression on his face when he says, "I'm excited for you to get to get to meet her someday." Now it's his turn to clear his throat, to answer some of those other questions before on-the-surface emotions spill over. "Cita's recovering well. Risali is-" A beat. He doesn't know what F'yr knows. "-herself," is adequate enough in his sarcastic expressiveness anyways, "and we're going to struggle without you and Rhody. We both walked into that office and just…" Well. It wasn't the same. But he covers the half-beat stop with a jesting, "Cried because we remembered the filing system is there is no filing system and I'm scared to find how many surprises you've hid in those drawers." J'ACCUSE. The playful look lingers on Stefyr's face before it flicks over to where Xermiltoth's nose is extending, as though leaning closer to impart is crustaceous secrets. It softens with a quiet, "Is it what you expected?" ALL OF THIS. Xermi, meanwhile, imparts his secrets, divulging names as well as notes on edibility. « THE SPIDERCLAW HAD A NICE CRUNCH. LIKE THE BONES OF HERDBEASTS, BUT SMALLER. R'HYNMINE SAYS ITS SHELL GOT STUCK IN MY TEETH AND IT TOOK A DRAGONHEALER TO GET IT OUT, BUT I DON'T REMEMBER THAT PART. » Convenient. « THE FISH WAS DELICIOUS. I BIT IT LIKE IT BIT ME AND IT DID NOT LIKE THAT MUCH. BUT THE STAR CREATURE… » Black diamonds dominate his mind. « IT WOULD NOT COME UNSTUCK NO MATTER HOW I LICKED AND SPAT AND R'HYN WOULD NOT HELP ME. HE LAUGHED AS YOURS LAUGHED JUST NOW. IT WAS VERY RUDE. DO NOT LICK THOSE. » Learn from his mistakes, son!

C O R R E C T I O N. F'yr was pulling himself together. HE REALLY WAS TRYING. The splash would have worked to stop it had it happened in a different order, but now F'yr is busting out laughing because…. XERMI!!! DID YOU SEE THAT FACE R'HYN PULLED? If only F'yr could swear to remember things forever from this phase of weyrlinghood with any certainty of actually remembering it vividly. R'hyn's done it again. This time not with his laughter but with that face. Will F'yr ever get to breathe again? Not with the Weyrleader here, apparently. It's a good thing he doesn't have this effect on everyone or no one would be able to take him seriously. F'yr gasps for breath. Maybe those lungs are failing even as R'hyn proposes to get rid of them. He wheezes, but that's probably not because of the suggestion, right? (Okay, it's both the suggestion and the difficulty breathing and the pain.) His hand has to come up again to brush yet more tears away. At least he doesn't seem abashed by the natural consequence of so much pain. He manages to get a few real breaths (even if they shudder a little from the residual radiating pain of the ribs) while he trains blue eyes on R'hyn's face, taking in everything he's telling him about the life outside. Who knows when he'll get news again? "I want to meet her," the baby. He would want to meet any baby. "I'm sure she's amazing." Don't mind the starry fanboy eyes. That's not for R'hyn this time, just babies. "And you're going to have twins again," he is sure he's not spoiling this news for R'hyn but seeing as how he only recently received it himself, it's worth mentioning, and there's a hand coming up to touch the shoulder his head has so recently vacated in silent commendation. "Risa visited us," he adds, just in case R'hyn needs to know how he knows. "I'm glad Cita's recovery is going well." That's real relief in his face. "I'm excited for Glori to meet them. Cita and Ilyscaeth." There's some silent communication between man and dragon because Glorioth stops just after loosing that latest SQUIRT in Dad's direction, « I SHALL BEAR IN MIND THESE VICIOUS FOES SHOULD I SEE ANY. I WILL SQUISH THE STAR THING UNDER MY PAW WITH EXTREME HONOR. MY TONGUE SHALL BE PUT TO BETTER USES. NOW, WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE MY F'YRFULLY MISTAKEN MATE IS TELLING ME ABOUT YOU BEING MY FATHER? SURELY THAT CANNOT BE SO. » But… why can't it, Glori? Obviously he stops short of telling the inquiring minds that want to know. And while the little bronze is puzzling that one out, F'yr's face is softening as he looks down at the water briefly then back up to R'hyn. It's probably not everyone that is treated to this unvarnished look of raw emotions that are so many good mixed up with so much challenge and the burning desire to meet it, but there it is. R'hyn's seen worse in this face, but possibly not better with the way his face shifts as he contemplates response to something radiant with emotions more complex and better than just love. Could love even really begin to sum it all up? "I understand why you couldn't explain, now. I understand what I was missing. Here," a touch to his temple, and then the hand goes to his heart, "and here." He glances to Glorioth and that smile… it could take a person's breath away if it were the right person, but it's not for any person, it just is and that's part of what makes it wonderful. "It's not…what I expected. I don't even think I could have gathered enough stories that could have made me expect this, him or what it all means. I think even if we'd had weyrlings to follow around for a few days, nothing would really have clued me in. It's not something you can prepare for that way, even with everything that we did in candidacy that is helpful to us now." Like all that practice washing and oiling other peoples' dragons. "But everything you said, everything K'vir said, everything Ila said, everything Risa said, everything N'on said, everything — well, that anyone took time to share with me has helped me." And he is grateful, so grateful that the quiet, "Thank you," is understated, but so poignant, "for taking me seriously when I asked. About dragonriding." PROBABLY OTHER THINGS TOO, BUT HE DIDN'T ACTUALLY MEAN TO MAKE IT SOUND LIKE THAT. Since he's not blushing, he might not even realize how that might be taken, even though he probably remains grateful for that too.

Fret not, dearest F'yr - surely with a pair of bronzes like this, such a face is sure to come again! … And again… And again. And so R'hyn lets it fade slowly but fade nevertheless, tongue moving behind lips, teeth sucked in an unamused squelch as a rivulet of water sheds droplets down his nose. He pushes his hand over his face again before finally releasing a series of pent-up huffs of laughter, eyes bright when they switch back to fix F'yr with a droll look. "The situation is clearly more dire than I previously thought. You might need professional help. I'll bring Yzi around as soon as possible - she's developed a distinct knack for playing healer. She replaced my whole head the other day." Eyes playfully widen. "I wish it could say it helped improve brain function, but… maybe that has always been a hopeless cause." The sarcastic edge to his mirth dulls, head tilting just-so to give the bronzeling a look - one filled with understanding and mutual appreciation for all things tiny and adorable - lips twitching up at their very corners before he says, "Alright. Next time you get a spot of breathing room, we'll come around. Who knows. Maybe by then I'll need to hitch a wagon to Xerm just to cart them all with," comes maybe a little strained because yes, more twins. At the same time. He's not getting a little worried about it, you're getting a little more worried about it. And yet… "We're wondering what they're going to be. It's too early to really tell, but the healer is guessing girls." A beat. "Is it bad I want another little boy?" This comes soft, wistful, as though - nine children in - it still contains more than a little magic for him. The question hangs for a too-long, too-telling moment, one hand coming up to rest atop F'yr's, taking the gesture for what it is before he presses on. "They'll get on famously, I'm sure. Ilyscaeth destroyed… well. We stopped keeping track. But she did her fair share of rabble-rousing in her youth. And Cita, well." Squint. Squintier. Squintiest. "Actually maybe don't let her too close. She likes encouraging bad behaviors." « A LITTLE EGO NEVER HURT ANYONE, » Xermiltoth notes for the conversation, tones as bright as his mind as he shifts his attention to beam down on bitty Glorioth. « YOU SOUND SURPRISED, » the bronze notes, diamonds shattering in succession, leaving charred question marks in their wake. Yes, Glori, why can't it? While the blackened bronze tilts his head towards progeny in wait for an answer, R'hyn's expression softens, whatever attempt he made at keeping his surface-deep emotions under control suddenly lost because he gets it. Blue-greys flicker away only when F'yr's do, marking the bright, metallic lines Glorioth's form cuts despite the dim-lit atmosphere, lingering before words draw him back. "I'm sorry I couldn't have explained more. I wish there were adequate words, but if there are, I've yet to find them in all my searching. It's deeper than 'home' and bigger than 'love' and there's just…" Well. He's said it already. There was no way to quantify it any better for those that simply cannot understand. He gives up the sentence with a helpless shrug, eyes scrunching about their edges along with a gentle smile for given thanks. "I'm glad we were able to help… and that it didn't scare you off." Twinkle. "It's… a lot. And it will continue to be a lot. It sounds like you have a lot of support, but if new questions come up…" A glance over at Xermiltoth. "We'll always have time for you."

This time, THIS TIME, F'yr manages to keep his shit together. Barely. "Maybe Yzi just grabbed the wrong replacement. Goober instead of genius." Obviously them's fighting words, but let's all take a moment to remember we're trying to keep poor F'yr of the cracked ribs from drowning, not assisting him into a watery grave. At least the younger bronzerider is grinning at the elder when he delivers this pearl of respect for his Weyrleader. R'hyn has only himself (and Risali to blame when F'yr makes the painful effort to straighten himself after all that laughter, ignoring the still radiating pain sparking through his chest in order to knock heads lightly in a brief version of the characteristic forehead-press that gets passed around with frequency in the office they all call(ed) home. "Hay wagon," the former farmer suggests the variety with the weight of experience behind his words. "That's how my da got all of us to the gatherings for all the neighbors when they weren't at our place." Since there are more in F'yr's family than in the one R'hyn can boast (so far), it's probably a suggestion worthy of consideration (if they were at all serious to begin with). Where they would procure that much hay ''inside'' the bounds of the Weyr in winter is not F'yr's problem since he's not R'hyn's assistant anymore. "They're going to be amazing." F'yr's pre-assessment of the twins is low, but so sure, and probably meant to help build up the barricades that stave off all that freaking out the future father definitely is not doing. "You can wish for whatever you want, so long as you're not disappointed by whatever comes," the younger man's permission for these thoughts is unusually somber given the previous tone of the conversation. His expression is briefly distant (but not dragon-distant) and the soft, "They're all gifts," might not even be for R'hyn. This mood doesn't bear lingering on though; he can use Ilyscaeth as a distraction. "If I'm lucky, Cita will resist recalling some of the biggest destructions in Glori's hearing. He seems… well, a little concerned about Ila in particular." There's a hint of worry around the eyes for that, maybe even a ghost of an apology, but even now F'yr knows better than to start apologizing for Glorioth's Glori (if he starts, there will never come a time to stop). He might have the whim for more than a ghost of apology when he chokes as his bronze replies to his sire. « IT SIMPLY CANNOT BE. » Glorioth is certain. He's never known a doubt in all his life. « MY NOBLE FATHER PERISHED IN HIS TRAGIC TREK TO SEAR THE RED STAR FROM THE SKY. » OH WOE, OH CALAMITY. See how keenly Glorioth feels the loss? FEEL HIS PAIN? It's all over everywhere now, with the putrid sulfur of choking smoke and the deep tang of blood. Don't worry, he doesn't let it linger. Instead it transforms into burning ambition that comes with a crescendo of the quiet (but not gone) theme music to bolster all brave champions like Glorioth (does it matter that he's the one cheering himself on? WHO BETTER). « I AM ALREADY AS HEROICALLY HEROIC AS MY FATHER BEFORE ME, » not, of course, the father who is physically before him, « AND SHALL SOON SURPASS THE RADIANCE OF HIS GLORY, IF I HAVE NOT ALREADY, » obviously, and let's face it, he probably has. « BUT I SHALL FOREVER HONOR HIS MEMORY, » forever until he forgets, like, tomorrow or three days from now. Glorioth might shed a tear, if he could. But just one. BRAVELY. The dragon leaves his rider looking up at him in bewilderment and on the verge of being lost to all that helpless laughter all over again. The only thing that saves him is a look to R'hyn and a reminder that there's that other more serious topic to hand. "You did the best anyone could've done, I think. Better than I think I could've done in your place." The words are plainly off the cuff, which might just reinforce his gratitude for all that R'hyn has done for him. It's probably what leads into the same simple delivery of the stream of consciousness response to the last, "I value your friendship, R'hyn." As for Xermi's time and support.. Well, who can say how a daddy dragon is going to take finding out that he's deceased?

R'hyn ain't even going to fight him, though. Fingers snap in an 'ah ha' motion, pointer bouncing in its wake as he says, "You know, I think you're on to something. It certainly explains a lot." Respect, reshmect. He's far too busy meeting forehead with forehead, hands coming up to ruffle through damp golden hair before surrendering F'yr back into the wild. "Mmm. Maybe just one of those footcarts like they have in Igen. Think Ila will haul us all around if I bribe him right?" Blue-grey eyes go playfully distant, as though picturing it, or perhaps imagining just what he'd have to offer up to seal the deal. Whatever it is, it's less important than the topic of children, lips only too happy to quirk up at their edges, the space beneath his eyes softening as he issues a soft, "They will," of agreeance, followed swiftly by, "and I've never been disappointed yet." Spoken like a true sap, a man so in love with his children - his family - that maybe some of it can spill over into F'yr by sheer osmosis. He certainly tries, closing that narrow gap between them again with a tap of foreheads. It demands nothing, but says as much as is needed: if it's a topic the bronzeling wishes to broach, he's here for it. If not, he's more than welcome to let Xermiltoth's booming laughter distract them both, the force of the harlequinned beast's amusement becoming a physical thing, pitched, rolling growls underlining the sunbright golden gonging of his mind. « PERISHED. DID YOU HEAR THAT, R'HYN-MINE. I AM PERISHED, AND YOU ARE A DRAGONLESS MAN. » Make no mistake - Xermi's not poking fun, he loves it. « WHAT A BRAVE DRAGON AM I. AND WHAT A BRAVE DRAGON ARE YOU, MY SON. LET NOT MY REAPPEARANCE BEFORE YOU STEER YOU FROM YOUR HONORABLE COURSE. » Oh Faranth. « REMEMBER ME AS I ONCE WAS. » Ah, well, yes. There's Xermiltoth, rendered in nouveau-Renaissance style, too fabulous by far. « REMEMBER… » Is he echoing the word with a Mufasa-like quality as he jets a last mouth full of water at his progeny, slowly backing away, chin dragging along the floor with mysterious, sinister affect? He is. Because he's the worst. The entirety of R'hyn's face says so, flat expression broken up by a great big roll of his eyes as they focus back on F'yr. "I think that's my cue." But lest you think he forgot, "And likewise. You did the best with what you had to work with. You always do. Keep 'hold of that - you're likely to need it." If only he knew. "And… thank you. I can honestly say the same. Take care of yourself, okay?" No more half-drowning in bathing pools, alright? So says the look the bronzer cants him as he hauls himself up onto the ledge, stooping to wring just enough water out of his pants that they won't be a chore before fetching up his abandoned clothes, « REMEMBER » echoing dimly as he makes his retreat.

Even if F'yr did want to say something in reply to anything beyond the returned gestures of forehead to forehead and welcoming the infectious adoration of family— R'hyn's family in particular maybe, even, he can't because Xermiltoth. Because he stares at the enormous bronze, head ducking (perhaps unnecessarily) as the splat of what nails the flabbergasted offspring in the face. There's not even a shake of Glorioth's head to clear the water; he just drips while he stares after the retreating bronze. There's a great silence. An ominous silence. Did Xermiltoth just break Glorioth? F'YR NOT, GLORIOTH JUST TOOK HIS SWEET TIME TO ABSORB THAT. « WHAT A JOYOUS DAY, F'YR. SING MY PRAISES, » not Xermiltoth's, that would make it about the wrong bronze, « THE MIGHT OF MY FATHER'S LOVE FOR ME HAS BORN HIM THROUGH THE BLACKEST BLACK, THE BLEAKEST BLEAK, THE BADDEST BAD TO RETURN TO ME. HU-ZZAH!! » And there go the trumpets in announcement that probably ranges all the way back to the barracks where any babies who were sleeping are surely not anymore. « OUR FATHER LIVES! REJOICE FOR I AM THE CAUSE. » Obviously. There is not, notably, the sound of F'yr's song to see the mysterious, sinister (RIDICULOUS) bronze pair out of the cavern, but there is— yep, you guessed it, his wheezing laughter. (Possibly a little water choking. It's fine; it's probably fine. JUST GO.)

Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 License