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 Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 6:02 pm
He had hoped to escape to his room. The dark haired man had thought that the mass exodus from the Hatching Grounds would have spared him from facing his family so soon. He should have gotten lost in the sea of white robes and dragon riders; he should have disappeared, recomposed himself and his terribly wounded pride, and returned stoned-faced as ever.
That was how things should have happened. But for the dark haired man it seemed his luck had long since worn out. With Liu still trembling next to his neck, the little green's coat much more gray in colour than he remembered, the man made a decisive walk towards the alcove. Sliding between the crowd, a hand and voice fell hard on his shoulder causing Liu to warble her surprise.
"Darcir!"
Shaffit all. . . . !
The young man stiffened considerably, doing his best not to lurch away. He knew who was there, he knew who he had to face but he was quite unprepared. His gut was twisting and churning already, hidden anxiety causing his jaw to go taught. All right, all right. . . . This had to happen sooner or later, might as well get it out of the way now.
Turning to face his father, Darcir witnessed the taller man cooly. Anyone could tell father and son were related. Scowl met scowl, and though Darcir harbored some of his mothers grace and more pixie-features, it was his father's personality and endless scowl rivaled his own. Darvim was an imposing man, with a larger build and more muscle than his son. His hair was long and neatly tied back, while a neatly trimmed goatee and beared lined his features. His hair was just beginning to silver, and he held a very serious and domineering air.
If anyone caught sight of Darvim with Darcir, perhaps things might make a bit more sense. You didn't mess with Darvim, you didn't joke or tease. With the tall man you worked and that was all one needed to know. Unspoken tension crackled between father and son, a tension that caused Liu's eyes to whirl grey with hints of red and yellow.
Well. . . wasn't this fun.
Darcir noticed that his mother, along with two of his sisters, were present. They said nothing, each a picture of beauty in their own rights. Ah, but despite the intrigue of his sisters, he could see his mother had already cast her judgment. She looked disgusted and distraught, her mouth formed in to a pout with brows ever so slightly knit. She didn't speak - wouldn't, he knew as she was a very well-trained wife - but she didn't have to. Her body language, subtle as it was, rang loud and clear for her son.
She wanted to leave. . . . And they had best leave soon.
Oh bother. . . .
His father looked emotionless to the grief that now hung heavy over the Weyr. It didn't surprise Darcir- his father wasn't one to take time to feel much of anything. Secret as it was, his father was too cold to even keep a fire-lizard attached. . . the one he had been gifted turns ago had disappeared one day and refused to return. "Well then." No comfort, there was no time nor no need for such a thing. "If that wasn't a grand waste of time, time that we cannot recapture nor make up." His voice was accusatory, as if Darcir had known all along that he would not Impress and had done nothing but waste time and money on Search. . . .
"A frightening thing, to be sure, but no need for the place to carry on such dramatics." Darvim gave a grunt, crossing his arms, his scathing look burning in to the surrounding of Ista.
Darcir bit back a scathing reply. No. . . .no need to be rude. He didn't agree with his father but he wasn't going to start a scene.
((AND TOTALLY NOT FINISHED! Being dragged out for ice cream/art store. .. will finish LATERZ! 8D ))
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Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 9:10 pm
Dramatics. As if the blue disappearing had been some sort of act or show; as if the grief the dragons and riders and hatchlings displayed was entertainment for the holders and families. Yes, Darcir thought sarcastically, let's spice things up this hatching and send a baby between .
Yes, Darcir respected and rightfully feared his father as was appropriate; but there were times when even Darvim could set him on edge and provoke his disapproval.
Father and son locked eyes again while moments passed; Darcir was unable to find words, to speak, to talk. Highly aggravated and full of humiliation at failing his first hatching, the boy felt ridiculous standing in his white robe. There was no pride to feel, outside of the bittersweet joy for those whom HAD found their lifemates and partners. Honestly, Darcir wanted nothing more than to slip in to formal clothing and pretend he was nothing more than a guest. . . .which, in a sense, was all he really was. So what if he'd been on the scorching sands, so what if he had a front row view of all the chaos. . .
"Go grab your things, boy; we'll get you properly fed at home. Faranth only knows you could use some grooming. For being my son, you've certainly let yourself go. . " A grunt of disapproval, as if he'd had a choice in the white garment and lack of shoes.
Thankfully, Darcir finally found words.
They surprised him, as he so typically honored what his family wished. They wanted him to return home, to chalk the hatching up as a loss, an unmentionable failure. . . . "Actually, Sir, I wish to stay." He corrected firmly, bracing himself for the fight that was sure to come.
Silence.
A look past his father showed his mother gaping, and his two sisters (whom had previously kept their gaze averted to the ground) looked appalled. "Darcir, you - - -" His sister was silenced by a raised hand from Darvim.
Oh shards. . . Hazel eyes met the scowl of his father, and Darcir was glad they were in public. It meant his father couldn't cause a scene else mar the family name with so many witnesses.
"I don't know what they've taught you here but you forget your place. You're expected to meet Wenisa." His father grunted, stiffening and straightening his composure. "I understand this ordeal might affect you but be done with it. You are to return to where you belong." The man's nostrils flared and his brow was knit. The deep tone in which he spoke gave warning that there was no other option. . .
But Darcir could be stubborn and just as proud. His own scowl deepened and he gave a shake of his head. "I refuse. There will be hatching's to come and I believe it in both the Weyr and our family's best interest that I stay; at least until I am unable to stand any longer." How to argue, how to fight his father.
Logic and business, of course.
"You think this place is a waste of time. I see it as opportunity to get to know the defenders of our planet. An ambassador to your Hold, to your name. If I don't Impress, at the very least by then I will have formed acquaintances with other riders and possible ranking ones at that. Such alliances can't suffer our family, after all." That, and Darcir desperately wanted to stay, to try again. But personal wants went unnoticed by his father; business, on the other hand, was better well received.
"If by then I have yet to Impress, or the Weyr turns me away, I will then and only then return home. Wenisa can either wait for such a time or move on but I will not tolerate it any other way."
His heart was pounding and his face was flushed; he could feel his ears burning and felt his tongue stick to the top of his mouth. He'd never deferred against his father's wishes, and though Darvim was unamused and did not appear particularly happy, the cogs were ticking as he weighed his options.
There were some advantages to having a son within the Weyr, and the alliances that might form. But at the same rate, Ista was a dump; its morals were lacking, its propriety extinct, and most all the riders were corrupted. Ista was beneath his son and his family as a whole; a bunch of lazy riders with useless dragons that did nothing but eat the resources of the hard working Holds.
Thread was jibberish. . . . There would be no more, even with rumors circling. It was just an excuse to keep the Holders sending their best children and food to the lazy bums that thought they ran the planet. Hmph.
But on the other hand, it was good to see his son standing up on his own. Still . . . "I see no reason to associate with such a lower class of people. They serve none but themselves - take a look around you, Darcir, look at all of them. Overcrowded, stinking, and without morals! It is not where you need to be."
Darcir frowned.
"Regardless of the Weyrs current state, I will stay as is my right as a candidate. This you cannot refuse." And that was truth. It was every person's choice to return to the Weyr once Searched. Not the parents, not their friends, it was solely the Searched.
Thankfully though, he was already at the Weyr so short of a dragon plucking him up from the air and popping *between*, there was a great chance he wouldn't go anywhere.
Darvim wanted to snarl, to yell, to fight. That much was obvious, with his face stained red and all but a vein throbbing form his forehead. But he couldn't lose his place, couldn't lose his composure in such a public setting.
"Please send my kindest regards to my sisters and brother whom were not in attendance. I shall continue to send word of my situation from time to time, and of course, you all will be invited to the next Hatching." So formal, so cold but that was all he and his family understood.
Darvim glared. Darcir stared. Though there was no yelling, no shouting, no public humiliation the tension spoke wonders. He had crossed a line his father hadn't expected. . . but it would harbor consequence. The good favor he had once been in was knocked down a few pegs, and there was a shot Darvim would focus on his younger brother.
"Hmph. If we've the time to spare we'll see you then. Some of us actually have places of importance to be instead of playing in sand and with dragons." Dipping his head slightly at his son, the man turned on his heel and gestured his wife and two daughters to escort him.
There would be no more socializing, they would find the nearest brown or bronze rider to take them home immediately. (Heaven forbid they be assigned to a blue or green!)
Darcir watched numbly as his family disappeared amidst the crowd.
Just one more thing to worry about, one more thing to regret. This day was perhaps the worst day of his entire existance. Yes, he had stayed and made his intentions clear but . . . was this worth it? Were these strangers, these riders, these people worth everything he was giving up?
Shaffit all. . . . There would be no feast if he could help it. If he were lucky he'd just curl up in a secluded corner or dive in to some sort of work or drudgery. Anything to tame his thoughts and emotions. . anything to go numb once again.
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