Post by Traitor on Feb 27, 2010 19:16:43 GMT -8
Though who might be awake at this time could see for a moment shadows against the darkened sky, they were blots on the curtain of inky-gray, difficult to see e’en had the skies been full of stars. During a night, late into the winter with spring yet four sevendays away, these shapes were yet more difficult to see. For a moment appearing in the circle of the Weyrbowl’s aerial entrance; this still the only way into Crashing Seas save for hidden, protected entrances on the ground. Yet the observant, the keen-eyed long used to staring into the bleakness might see them. Specks of whitish powder were the watch more likely to see, the mid-winter's snow falling still, steadily for the past sevenday.
These shapes dipped downward, disappearing into the further gloom of the Weyrbowl. No alarm sounded, no watchful Wher called out against intruders. If any where awake, guarding, pacing, with the light of the glows and torches at their bakes, they might see the deep heavy shapes as they descended on to the Weyrbowl’s ground. Now t’was with more likelihood whispered voices could be heard, speaking in tones hushed, meant not to alert any.
Yet not so quiet were these voices that those who wanted to hear them, might. They spoke of barrels and crates, things too heavy to lift alone; they spoke of sacks and bags. Perhaps a glimpse of brown or dark black, dragon hides of brown or bronze, but nothing definite, no person standing with distinction against the rest. How many, difficult to count - three, two, five? Noises could be heard for those who listened, those of keen-ears, those not occupied with their own doings, not asleep in this darkest part of the night, the snow tumbling to coat the Weyrbowl.
Grunts echoed through the night and the voices continued for a full candlemark, then they faded. The creaking and shifting of things moving around, boots crunching on frozen grass and snow, ceased. Two great shapes detached themselves from the Weyrbowl’s floor and now upward sailed, their last sighting giving suggestion they took rest within the walls of one dragon weyr or another...
In the morning all trace of them was obliterated by a fresh coat of snow, the ground glistening in the whiteness of the new morning.
These shapes dipped downward, disappearing into the further gloom of the Weyrbowl. No alarm sounded, no watchful Wher called out against intruders. If any where awake, guarding, pacing, with the light of the glows and torches at their bakes, they might see the deep heavy shapes as they descended on to the Weyrbowl’s ground. Now t’was with more likelihood whispered voices could be heard, speaking in tones hushed, meant not to alert any.
Yet not so quiet were these voices that those who wanted to hear them, might. They spoke of barrels and crates, things too heavy to lift alone; they spoke of sacks and bags. Perhaps a glimpse of brown or dark black, dragon hides of brown or bronze, but nothing definite, no person standing with distinction against the rest. How many, difficult to count - three, two, five? Noises could be heard for those who listened, those of keen-ears, those not occupied with their own doings, not asleep in this darkest part of the night, the snow tumbling to coat the Weyrbowl.
Grunts echoed through the night and the voices continued for a full candlemark, then they faded. The creaking and shifting of things moving around, boots crunching on frozen grass and snow, ceased. Two great shapes detached themselves from the Weyrbowl’s floor and now upward sailed, their last sighting giving suggestion they took rest within the walls of one dragon weyr or another...
In the morning all trace of them was obliterated by a fresh coat of snow, the ground glistening in the whiteness of the new morning.
