(OOC> Just to get something started before I go overseas again. This takes place a few days before the arrival of the Masque caraven in Sinthera and is, for information, a pretty important juncture in T'or's life
The thread is open to all - let the fun begin!)T'or and Guiyath
The slow rain warmed to a gentle drizzle, falling off the tips of fine gray clouds as thin as mist. It dribbled onto a land shrouded in afternoon slumber, the soft earth browns of soil melding into the dark cream shore of the lake, framed by thin blue waters that lapped it with flurries of white froth. Suspended between the cool gray sky and the sleeping land was a great bronze shape. Langourous wingbeats carried it forward with great, pondorous motions, each flickering copper with the gentle veils of rain sweeping over it. Where the sun emerged in brief snatches, warm hues of umber and gold flashed over the points of the prominent neckspurs and headknobs. Perched over the wide, powerful withers, at the very point where the arching neck met the shoulders, a small figure could be seen, all hooded in gray. But the rider had no thoughts for how he might appear - a huddled lump of soaking cloak and gear. His eyes were on the ground below, and his attention on the sweeping arcs of waves passing beneath the pair. T'or, this is a most...efficient way to spend an afternoon. We could really enjoy it.
T'or sighed at heavy sarcasm in his dragon's tone. A blast of cold autumn wind threw back his hood briefly, revealing strands of chestnut hair slicked wet with rain. He reached up and pulled it back again. It's not my fault that T'min took ill today again, and L'chen got sent on that errand to Artorie. If the autumn rains hadn't come so sudden and often we'd still have half a working Wing, and enough riders to do sweeps.Yes, and so faithful T'or must take the brunt of duties when his riders have all feigned ills. Must I remind you again - I am not a brown dragon, and you are not a brownrider.
T'or winced. It was a careless remark another rider had let slip: one which had cut into him and which Guiyath had never let up on. A blackrider, perhaps a little the worse for drink, had loosened enough to comment to T'or's face that he was no better than a brownrider - steady, calm and dependable. That there wasn't all that much leadership in him at all, and he led only by example, by dutifulness. Not a completely untrue statement, perhaps, but it had made Guiyath prone to fits of outrage over the week that followed, particularly when a certain blackrider or her dragon were about. The rider herself, apparently embarressed by what she inadvertantly said, had not pursued the matter, and neither did T'or. Though he had, on occasion, considered asking her to join his Wing for practice. No rider of Midnight Fire would ever say that T'or was nonchalent. He drove his riders, of that there was no doubt, but only to what he could see were the limits of their abilities, never further. Though maybe he misjudged too, sometimes, but if ever they came down with sprained wings or ankles he took care to go see them at the infirmary, or send Shadow with a message if he were busy. Rider ties were the key to his success with this Wing, with any Wing for that matter - it was another of those things that Guiyath would never let up with. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he felt through his link to the bronze's mind. For one, they were not feigning ills. For another, sweeps are good exercise. Yes yes, good exercise in a rain that might land you in bed with chills, such as Jo'riat has. Though mind you, Jo'riat never feigns ills.
T'or sighed. It was the rain, he decided. Guiyath was just being disagreeable. Though he had a point about J'oriat - the blackrider did occassionally pretend when he wanted to escape certain things. But not always, only sometimes with major things. So had he, he reflected wryly, before he Impressed. Guiyath's snort of derision rumbled through legs, shaking the shoulder muscles beneath his thighs. The big bronze had picked up his thoughts and disagreed. With a chuckle the bronzerider reached out to rub one hand along the rain-slicked neck, rubbery with wet. You and I, we make quite a pair, aye?
The bronze dragon rumbled again, though there was an edge of thoughtfulness to it now. Guiyath's attention was elsewhere, and with smooth precision born of long association T'or picked the thread of his thoughts at once. There was something out there, something on the ground. Stalling with an upward thrust of wings, the big bronze swept his sails vertically once...twice, then broken from his hovering to glide again on a downward slant towards the shore. T'or, there is someone there.
Crouching low around his dragon's neckspurs, he could just make out the faint outline of a person, a human, between two large boulders beside the sweep of the lapping lake. A fine drift of cloud drifted in-between, obscuring his vision. Guiyath descended through it it a flury of wings and mist, and then he saw again clearly the human lying on the ground between the rocks. The big bronze blew out through his nostrils. I think he is in trouble. He looks it,
he was close enough now to see the torn clothing, the motionless state of the stranger, Scan the surroundings before you land. There is nothing, no bandits lay in ambush. And I will scare off anyone who dares.Fine,
T'or steadied himself as the dragon swept in on light wingsails in the heavy, humid air, and then dropped neatly into a crrouch beside the leftmost boulder. Unclipping his harness, he slid off the broad shoulders down a slither of rain-soaked hide and landed with a small splash of mud. A more finicky rider might have made a fuss, but T'or was a worker by nature, and like a worker he hardly noticed the muck. Taking the few steps to the boulder with quick, long strides, he paused a moment to take measure of the narrow gap between the two rocks. It was small - too small for a wher to get in, though large enough to fit a man comfortably. A good place to camp if the weather were good; or to hide in if you were ill and ailing and had no other choice. Turning his attention to the man himself, he curled into a crouch as he took in the stranger.
He was thinly dressed for the weather - a threadbare nut-brown tunic and gray leggings, barely enough to keep out the rain. His hair, a strident black, was streaked brown with mud and dirt. He was tall and thin, his features worn and pale - he looked to be in his fiftieth turn, though his rich-hued hair would belie that thought. And his breathing was faint - T'or could just hear it laboured gasps within the confines of the gap. Frowning, he straighted back into a standing position and glanced at Guiyath behind him. He's alive, but barely. I think he'll die if we leave him here. Call for help. Anyone from Midnight Fire, or any available dragon. Ask them to send a healer and supplies if they can.
Guiyath did not seem to be paying attention. His eyes, an annoyed pale orange slowly turning a deeper shade of amber, were on the man. T'or, that is...
He shook out his neck abruptly, his eyes flicking into pale orange once more, That is just a strange old vagabond from the wilds. Why should we turn out the entire Weyr just to help him when he cannot help himself?My migh...Guiyath!
he raised a brow at his dragon, Why...what makes you say that? He's in need, and it's against our creed as dragonriders to just leave him! You needn't turn out the whole Weyr, just call a dragon or two from the Wing.
With a snort, the dragon reared back a step, eyes flashing orange annoyance, Fine.
Projecting his thoughts out and away towards Sinthera, he nonetheless sent an open broadcast to nearly every dragon in Sinthera. Might as well go the whole way. Attention. T'or and I have found an ill man by the lake. We need one rider with a healer and supplies. Be fast.