Post by Ghost of Fire (Fëanáro) on Jul 17, 2011 0:11:02 GMT -8
T’mas blinked. Even now, 55 Turns after coming to the Rainbow Mists, he still woke quickly at the slightest unusual sound. He glanced around smoothly, checking to make sure that everything was as it should be. Brackneth, never having had any cause to fear unusual sounds, remained asleep, though both Nasha and Malik, who still slept under the blankets with T’mas, were awake.
Nasha trilled an inquiry, which T’mas hushed with a raised hand. “Check corridor,” he said, meeting Nasha’s whirling, green-orange eyes. Her weight vanished, and T’mas sent Malik out to check around outside the window. Seconds later, they returned, having seen nothing other than a few Candidates moving around, and within moments, they were asleep once more. Glancing down at them, T’mas smiled, the same smile that he’d often given his sleeping daughter, so many Turns ago when she’d been a small child. He sighed, recalling his vow that he would have a role in the life of his child, but the sigh wasn’t for the vow — he’d kept the vow with shining colors — rather, it was for the reason that he’d made that same vow, back in the days when he’d been a wingleader. After all, he’d only learned who his father was during his sixteenth turn. His thoughts drifting back in time, he gazed at the sword hanging on his wall, the sword that had been his father’s weapon of choice. He’d gotten much better at it over the years, though in his opinion he’d never equaled his father’s skill, but then, R’kent had been rather skilled with the sword.
He was lost in reflection, recalling numerous lessons in sword-work from his father, in the days following his Weyrling graduation. In fact, he was so caught up in remembering the day of his graduation, when R’kent had given him a set of flying leathers, fighting straps, and a belt knife, and asked him to consider it partial repayment for all the Tunrdays missed, that he didn’t notice the footsteps outside his door until it was being eased open.
Without waiting for a signal, Nasha went between to the corridor. Outside the door was a young girl that came many times to talk with Hers. She sent Hers an image of the girl, whom she liked seeing, for the girl would rub her eyeridges.
T’mas smiled. “Hello Talira,” he said without turning around. It was a game he played with the nine turn old, the eldest of his grandchildren, one that was deceptively entertaining, for she hadn’t managed to sneak up on him yet.
“No fair, Grandfather,” she retorted, “You wouldn’t have known who it was if Nasha hadn’t told you.” Her tone, however, far from being a whine, was full of good humor, and despite her best efforts not to, she was grinning. Her green eyes were duplicates of his own, just like her mother’s eyes were.
“Why didn’t you have Moril talk to her to confuse her, then?” T’mas asked, glancing at his granddaughter’s Crimson firelizard, named after R’kent’s Crimson Morillarth.
“Because then she would have shown you him, and you would have still known it was me,” Talira retorted. She waited a second, then, “Can you tell me the story about when you met Great-grandfather?”
T’mas gave a quick laugh. “Only if you help oil Brackneth,” he teased.
“Done,” Talira said.
~T’masMine, where are the other little ones?~ Brackneth asked. He shifted position slightly, then stood in a single fluid motion, which had the desired effect of making Talira cry: “He looks so amazing when he does that!”
-Probably still asleep- T’mas answered. He swung Talira up onto Brackneth’s back, then climbed up himself. They were airborn in seconds, hanging for a moment of perfect stillness, then the swift cold of between and they reemerged over the ocean, trailed by the three firelizards, Moril in the lead, for all that he was tens of turns younger than Nasha and Malik.
Nasha trilled an inquiry, which T’mas hushed with a raised hand. “Check corridor,” he said, meeting Nasha’s whirling, green-orange eyes. Her weight vanished, and T’mas sent Malik out to check around outside the window. Seconds later, they returned, having seen nothing other than a few Candidates moving around, and within moments, they were asleep once more. Glancing down at them, T’mas smiled, the same smile that he’d often given his sleeping daughter, so many Turns ago when she’d been a small child. He sighed, recalling his vow that he would have a role in the life of his child, but the sigh wasn’t for the vow — he’d kept the vow with shining colors — rather, it was for the reason that he’d made that same vow, back in the days when he’d been a wingleader. After all, he’d only learned who his father was during his sixteenth turn. His thoughts drifting back in time, he gazed at the sword hanging on his wall, the sword that had been his father’s weapon of choice. He’d gotten much better at it over the years, though in his opinion he’d never equaled his father’s skill, but then, R’kent had been rather skilled with the sword.
He was lost in reflection, recalling numerous lessons in sword-work from his father, in the days following his Weyrling graduation. In fact, he was so caught up in remembering the day of his graduation, when R’kent had given him a set of flying leathers, fighting straps, and a belt knife, and asked him to consider it partial repayment for all the Tunrdays missed, that he didn’t notice the footsteps outside his door until it was being eased open.
Without waiting for a signal, Nasha went between to the corridor. Outside the door was a young girl that came many times to talk with Hers. She sent Hers an image of the girl, whom she liked seeing, for the girl would rub her eyeridges.
T’mas smiled. “Hello Talira,” he said without turning around. It was a game he played with the nine turn old, the eldest of his grandchildren, one that was deceptively entertaining, for she hadn’t managed to sneak up on him yet.
“No fair, Grandfather,” she retorted, “You wouldn’t have known who it was if Nasha hadn’t told you.” Her tone, however, far from being a whine, was full of good humor, and despite her best efforts not to, she was grinning. Her green eyes were duplicates of his own, just like her mother’s eyes were.
“Why didn’t you have Moril talk to her to confuse her, then?” T’mas asked, glancing at his granddaughter’s Crimson firelizard, named after R’kent’s Crimson Morillarth.
“Because then she would have shown you him, and you would have still known it was me,” Talira retorted. She waited a second, then, “Can you tell me the story about when you met Great-grandfather?”
T’mas gave a quick laugh. “Only if you help oil Brackneth,” he teased.
“Done,” Talira said.
~T’masMine, where are the other little ones?~ Brackneth asked. He shifted position slightly, then stood in a single fluid motion, which had the desired effect of making Talira cry: “He looks so amazing when he does that!”
-Probably still asleep- T’mas answered. He swung Talira up onto Brackneth’s back, then climbed up himself. They were airborn in seconds, hanging for a moment of perfect stillness, then the swift cold of between and they reemerged over the ocean, trailed by the three firelizards, Moril in the lead, for all that he was tens of turns younger than Nasha and Malik.