>~< -- Outside the Weyr

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Date Posted: 19:54:06 02/27/05 Sun
Author: Yima & Yimask; Mikhal & ???
Subject: >~<
In reply to: H'rrison 's message, "~^~" on 22:43:41 02/24/05 Thu

The young whers are beginning to stir by the time H'rrison returns, and as he enters Yima notes what she hadn't the first time he appeared - it's getting close to dusk. No wonder she's so tired, since she's been up for most of her sleeping period. Yimask will be crankier than usual tonight, and she doesn't relish the task she's set for herself tonight. But I don't like being so close to sunlight, and the cave at the other end of the tunnel will be bigger in any case. Once we're down there, I can see if the caves extend any further, too, because I can leave Yimask to guard the tunnel. And educating the children as soon as possible is essential. I wish I'd gotten ahold of them before the eggs were ready to hatch.... Next time, I'm collecting prospective handlers and beginning their education as soon as one of the golds flies. Just because we're in reduced circumstances right now doesn't mean I can't do things properly, she decides stubbornly. Moving the furs out of the way, she sets out the pots of porridge before turning back to the bronzerider. "You can stay," she says shortly, after a long moment of silent examination. "Don't get in the way." It rubs her the long way, just a little, to have a dragonrider just watching - like the watchwhers are some sort of freakshow for his entertainment. Picking up a bit on her handler's irritation, Yimask turns a yellow gaze on H'rrison, a low warning rumble sounding deep in her throat. Automatically but certainly not absently, Yima reaches out and scratches a lumpy eyeridge, earning a soft thrum of pleasure from her watchwher. Aaaach, I'm going to have to get along with them in any case. I'm planning on helping them, once I know the lay of the land better, so I may as well get along with them. There's plenty that dragonriders can do for the whers, but Yima is determined to earn it, not hope for charity. Fortunately, her agile mind is already hard at work on what the wher-handlers can do for the dragonriders. The children will have to be trained first, of course, but surely the Weyrwoman will understand that, if Yima can just get a chance to talk to her.

Mikhal has been half-listening to the conversation between Yima and the dragonrider, but he's still focused, joyful and disbelieving, on the newborn watchwher curled up next to Yimask's tail. Now the baby bronze is stirring slowly, eyelids fluttering over bulging eyes and his toothless mouth gaping in a yawn. Then he comes the rest of the way awake all of a sudden, scrambling to his feet and making a soft, high-pitched whine noise as he looks around. The little creature's hunger is palpable, and Mikhal quickly wraps his arm around the wher's sinewy neck. "Don't worry, I have food," he babbles, remembering the earlier injunction to talk to the hatchlings. "But I'm supposed to blood you first, hang on-" Glancing around, he spies the beltknife sitting on the rock, and releases the watchwher to scramble over and snatch it up. The bronze begins to stumble towards the porridge, scenting the food, and the young man quickly interposes himself between the watchwher and the pot. "Wait!" He hesitates for a moment, looking nervously down at the knife. He's handled plenty of knives in his lifetime, and not just while butchering herdbeasts, but his stomach still churns at the thought of cutting his own hand open. He throws Yima a nervous glance.

There's no sympathy in the woman's posture as she crosses her arms over her chest, her glare unseen in the darkness. "Aaaach, boy, I'm not doing it for you," she says, and there's no sympathy in her voice. "Just cut your thumb." But then she kneels, rummaging in the pack she'd left by the wall when she first entered, and stands again with something indistinguishable in her hand. "I'll wrap it when you're done, though."

Swallowing, Mikhal steels himself and jerks the knife roughly over the pad of his thumb, yelping as a spike of pain shoots up his arm and quickly tossing the knife aside. It clatters back on the broad, flat stone, his throw unintentionally accurate, but he doesn't glance towards the sound as a rough tongue suddenly laps at his hand. He quickly shoves his thumb into the watchwher's mouth, and the little bronze emits a pleased mrrr as he sucks steadily on the young man's finger. Mikhal is surprised at how little it hurts after the first flare of pain, just a dull throbbing ache in his arm that grows stronger as the watchwher hatchling continues to suck on his arm.

"That's enough!" Yima snaps after a long moment, stepping forward to quickly wrap and tie a bandage around the boy's finger as he pulls it out of the bronze's mouth. "He knows you now. Feed him!" Then she turns away, her attention on the next child.

Though he'd known the blood-bond wouldn't cause anything dramatic, Mikhal is a little disappointed to feel no change in his tenuous connection to the watchwher. There's still just the pervading aura of hunger, as if it's drifting freely through the air of the cave. But he continues talking to the bronze as he feeds him, babbling nonsensically as he drifts from subject to subject because he knows that the hatchling doesn't really care what he says, and gradually realizes that while his bronze may not understand a word of it... he's listening. Even as he gobbles down the blood porridge, the hatchling has his head tilted to better hear what Mikhal is saying, following the young man's movements with his oversized eyes and turning his head from side to side to trace the path of Mikhal's voice. He tilts closer, even, when Mikhal quickly fades to a quiet mumble, because Mikhal has never been a big talker and is a bit embarassed to be babbling inanely at the watchwher in front of all these people. He'd mumbled before, when the watchwhers just hatched, as well, but the little wher hadn't shown any interest at all then. Experimentally, he raises his voice again, crooning affectionately at the bronze, and his watchwher abruptly bumps him in the shoulder as if responding to the tone of his voice.

Seeing Mikhal's confusion, Yima chuckles softly. "He's got you imprinted on his senses, now," she explains, actually sounding helpful for once instead of sarcastic or contemptuous. "It makes you important to him, for more than just the food. It's not Impression by a long shot, and you'll still need to put a lot of work into building the bond, but now he's got some vague sense of you belonging to him, and that'll help you deal with him."

"Belonging to him?" Mikhal repeats, then shrugs and offers the bronze another mouthful. The watchwher laps disinterestedly at it, then yawns and begins ambling back to the place he'd been sleeping before. Mikhal pours the last handful of porridge back in the pot and follows, puzzling over the phrasing of that statement.

((Eurgh. That was NOT one of my more impressive posts, more a prime example of "quantity doesn't equal quality", but it's late and I have a bad case of writer's block, so you'll have to deal with the mediocre writing. >_< The important part got through. You can sorta power-play Yima bandaging the fingers, BTW; just sort of mention that she did it, and that's fine.))

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Replies:

((OOC: Oh, and...)) -- LG, 22:29:30 02/27/05 Sun
- ( :rubs head: I'm.. late.. whoops.. ) -- Telomm - [Brown], 19:24:19 03/19/05 Sat
  - Head meets desk -- Manthenre, 16:55:49 03/24/05 Thu