Logs:After Daehyeth's Flight
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| RL Date: 3 April, 2013 |
| Who: Lia, N'rov |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After flight induced sleep whatever. (How does that work anyway?) |
| Where: Guest Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 5, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
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| Flight-induced narcolepsy seems inescapable, and as Daehyeth stirs a few hours later, the veil that shrouded Pern's moons have shifted, revealing both in their waning and waxing light. A possessive little curl of her tail hooks over and around Vhaeryth's. And as her dragon stirs, Lia shifts on the stone floor, curling a little more closely into the warmth of N'rov's body as the spring night's chill permeates the guest weyr. Where are they? On her ledge, someone else's ledge, the Rim, at the bottom of the lake? Does it matter? Vhaeryth's quite frankly thrilled, careful about that enticingly long tail of Daehyeth's, warm (warmer than any of those other ones would ever be) and a strong bulwark to the wind with his wing draped about her. At least, when she reminds him to tilt his fingersails this way or that to minimize the draft. That was excellent. His rider's not as great with the coverage, given a lesser disparity of height and with a flight jacket that would better serve as a blanket-sail if only it had flowing sleeves... but he's tucked about the greenrider with his arm possessively draped over her, his hand intimately cupping the curves he'd earlier freed. Eventually his breathing alters somewhat, and drowsily he adjusts the jacket's folds, using his teeth to guide it and its fur lining back over her bare shoulder. If it weren't for the stone... It never matters. Not where Daehyeth is concerned, her thoughts, even in these moments post-slumber where many might be drowsy still, suddenly bright, vivid, almost childlike in its curiosity. Her thoughts spill forth in a tumble of flowers, mostly a variety of yellow ones; her needs satiated for now. Fly? Her wing tips tremble and her body vibrates beside his warmth. Dragons were meant to fly. "Too early," mumbles Lia, her face burrowing itself into that protective arm(pit). "Not even morning yet. Too early. Shutup Dae. Cold." It's a string of random enough seeming comments ending in a mumble of discomfort. Fly. They could do that. Vhaeryth's far too inclined to nuzzle along the chevrons of Daehyeth's neck, to touch and touch with her feeling him and him feeling her... but he's indulgent, he can be stirred to other things. He stretches that lean neck of his, plays at nudging the tips of her wings, and then stretches his out all the way to his wingtalons. « Fly. » For a moment, above those yellow flowers, glimmers a different constellation of stars. « Go. » They can play, all that teasing and luxuriating she didn't quite get to before. And if ordinarily he'd leap in the air to beat her, now he wants to watch her and her flowers launch. N'rov, for his part, has rather more of the lassitude but just about all of the satisfaction, dropping his head to take a deep breath of her hair. A breath that might just be a touch ticklish on its way out. "Much too much too early." Not Daehyeth. It's a baritone voice, a Boll-accented voice, a male voice. And, again, a satisfied voice. Never mind the wince right at the end there. In short: an unfamiliar voice. But she's ridden for just enough time that this isn't her first time around the flight block (fourth), and there's no discomfort as the breath of him across her hair against her skin evokes a languid smile on Lia's lips. That interlude between asleep and aware is always most content. With her eyes still closed, the green's rider plays her fingers against N'rov's chest. "Thought I had gotten her timing down. Kept waiting and waiting and waiting and-, mmmm," a guttural sound emerges as she does a stretch in place, with only her back arching somewhat. Fly! and yet he makes staying seem so tempting, and easily distracted as Daehyeth can be, she moves into those nuzzles and touches, she's drawn back into the sensation of him by her. But then there's his directives and a joyous sound echoes as an effortless prance lifts her into the air above her ledge. There, she hovers, preening, prancing on air, watching -- careful to make sure he's always watching her. At least for now. At least until some other flight of fancy takes over the small portion of true thought in her head. The bronzerider doesn't reply immediately, his breath catching at that stretch of hers that has his arm tighten about her (ane likely also at what hasn't wholly registered yet). "Waiting for us," he plays, just playful enough that it just might be a joke between them, just playful enough just maybe he can pass it off as that and not Vhaeryth's all-is-right-with-the-world meaning it. Vhaeryth, who watches upward, who gives the sensation of her as seen by him, before leaping into the air and seeking to draw her (let her draw him) into that lighter flight. Not far, mind: he has to stay close, possessive as well as playful, at least for now: a brush of wingtip, a stronger wingbeat that shapes the air into a breeze to touch her, the better to get a sense of just how this Daehyeth moves. In air, gravity becomes suspended theory, and with a stronger wingbeat, Daehyeth releases her mass, both tensing her wings and relaxing her body, so that it will drift her briefly. Then, she reanimates, playfully snapping at the bronze's nuzzle or that wing tip that might get close in between her fanciful flutterings. But really, the snapping is an excuse to drift the side of her maw along his spars. "Always the best part," murmurs Lia, the smile she has on her face felt against his skin, rather than seen. "Fortian?" is her next question, as what Daehyeth knows and what she gleans, starts catching up to her. It's a technique that Vhaeryth experiments with, though somehow he can't seem to relax that much, even as a game; it wasn't the longest of chases, and he still has so much of the energy of a flight won instead of lost, so it comes out more like a shipfish's arching-and-diving undulation that can't help but rise again. Like so? And should he watch out for his spars? He can play at drawing them back, but really he's heedless, all too trusting of her good intentions. His rider might be too, at least at first with his rueful, "Most days." He steals a hand back, if with a caress to her shoulder in apology that lingers on the muscle there, and then there are the slight movements of him gingerly touching the orbit of one eye followed by the slighter hiss of a wince. With some humor, "Do people usually throw punches when she goes up, or is tonight just that special?" That pauses Lia enough that she rolls away from the warmth of his chest. There's a sudden flinch as her naked back finds cold stone and then a discomforted shift as she pats around looking for something: clothes, furs, blankets, something to get more comfortable with. She's got nothing. There clothes must be somewhere else after the happenings. "Punch?" Punch? Seated now, her arms draped over her knees, she glances back at the flight's winner. Another pause. Another silent beat passes. Then, there's a very, very, very quiet: "Who punched you?" Daehyeth flits and flounces, flutters in all the ways a small green can. She might even chase her own tail for a little bit as she tries to flitter circles and ovals and rounds about the much larger dragon. Her tinkling little laughter, touched just with a hint of her dam's bells, both mocks and pets him. Like so. (But not really.) Come! It's a feeling that drives her suddenly up in to the sky to expend more of that felled beast's blood, given her all too short stint in the sky earlier. Well, then. Up, up and away! Vhaeryth at once bemused and delighted by her animated vivaciousness, her agile prowess: for its own sake but also, yes, because he caught her. He caught her. He rises, buoyant, long wingsweeps that attempt a flutter at their tips and leave his rider far behind, there on the cold, greenrider-free stone. At least N'rov still has his pants on, mostly, and an awkward tug-and-jerk lets him pull them the rest of the way up, or at least enough to sit on. "A tall fellow," he says, peering back at her with his good eye as though the one hand that's back over the other were a rakish patch. And this mightn't be the slant he'd take under other circumstances, but here, like he'd like to reassure, "It happens. I'll live." Don't worry. How much of her protests does he remember? How much can he piece together? Either he's a fantastic actor or, just now, it's still not much. As her awareness level rises, and the draconic part of her fades, Lia's quiet becomes more matter of fact. How her clothes flew off and his pants are still on is... well a testament to something, and she's getting up slowly, making an easy amble towards where her underwear is (closest), shirt, pants, and finally boots. They're gathered into her arms and then put into a big pile on the cot by N'rov. "K'del," she finally notes. "It was K'del. The tall fellow. And you're-," the memory of the flight just hours before trickles into her head and those warm brown eyes are suddenly a little flat, though her voice remains even, with just a touch of quizzical wondering, "Fortian. The Vijay's Fortian boy toy." The underpants are on at least now. Catch! spells out the twisting cyclone of flower petals as they whirl about Vhaeryth. The sprightly green races up into the skies, and lets out one joyous call to those moons, her neck thrown back, her back arched, and that tail practically grazing the tip of her head. Chase. Come. Follow. She is kind enough, in her comparative, very smallness, to give him time to catch up, pausing every so often in her speed along way. Vhaeryth veers this way and that, slaloming as though he'd indeed catch those petals on his wings like snowflakes on a tongue. « On it. » He tries it again, more voiceless, more the rush of wind and motion: On it. The bronze would surely catch up if only Daehyeth would keep flying at a consistent angle, but he doesn't ask her to, doesn't so much as hint: the pause-and-race is good. While he's busy, N'rov's left with a mutter under his breath that's not really surprise, K'del. Of course it would be K'del. His head lifts as she goes on, knuckles rubbing at the sandpaper-stubble of his jaw, and he doesn't look away as she gets that little bit more dressed. This time the lightness is less natural, but there all the same. "I have a name, most days. 'N'rov'. He's Vhaeryth. And you're...? She's pretty amazing, your girl." He's frank. Just not Frank. The pants go on before her bra does, Lia's dark hair shrouding her face momentarily as she leans forward to button them up and finds several buttons missing. "Wonderful." There's a sigh, much too heavy for the lack of just buttons, and the greenrider's back to getting dressed. But she does take a long enough pause, not so coincidentally as one of Daehyeth's air-lingerings stretches out to let Vhaeryth get very close, to look levelly at N'rov. "The girl who just had sex with you." Bra, then an unbuttoned shirt thrown on, later leads to: "Lia. And she's mine." Possessive, but not in that 'you're going to take my toy' way. No. Possessive in the way of complete pride. "Mine. And I'm hers. And you are... hers." There's unsubtle emphasis on that. "Does it hurt?" The bronze's rider watches like he's eavesdropping, like he's forgotten to look away, not nearly concealed enough to be spying. "Yes, that." And now he knows what kind of bra this 'Lia' wears, or at least what kind she wears for a flight, though his gray eyes linger primarily on her chin. Maybe he should be self-conscious about how he sits, cross-legged with his forearms on his knees, like he's not nearly as cold as the goosebumps on those arms reveal. Instead, while Vhaeryth plays with Daehyeth (so much simpler for dragons, so often so much more fun), "She's my girl," he accedes. And without particular weight, "Don't worry. It'll hurt more later. Are you glad?" Sad? Mad? Her bra matches her fairly fashionable attire, which today is a sea-green affair that reflects in the dye of her pants and that ribbon that was once in her hair now across the room on the floor. "It's not your fault you're with someone like her." Such magnanimous kindness. The flaps of her shirt fly to the sides as she moves to start stripping the unused cot, stepping around N'rov. "And I'm not here to convince you otherwise. You're a grown up. You can tell what's right from wrong, I'm sure. And-," her arms stop gathering, gathering, gathering to merely holding all the sheets in a bundle. She turns and drops to a crouch to study N'rov's face. One hand frees so her fingers can come out to catch the bronzerider's chin to try and angle him to her liking. "Pretty face." Not handsome. "It's a pity K'del marred it. Do you need some ice?" Daehyeth swoops to fly just under Vhaeryth, shadowed by his larger frame, daring, daring, to glide upwards every so often to bump gently. There's no attempt to steer him off course. Her flower confetti seems never ending and is a constant font of play with me. So of course Vhaeryth has to float 'accidentally' downward every now and again to bump that daring Daehyeth back, run away, run away, he's going to squish her! ...except not, though in the teasing thought he shares, he might as well be flying over and into a sea of those flower petals. Much prettier, if not handsomer, than the actual lake. None of N'rov's subtle bristling for him, no refraining from playing with Daehyeth the way the bronzerider refuses to catch at the slender ankles that wander by. "And here I thought I had something to do with it," N'rov says instead, quietly sardonic. "You know, I missed the part where she tied me up and starved me until I begged to nibble the morsels dropped from her plate, but it's all coming back to me now." Though he will somewhat stiffly go along with her turning his head, at least in the literal sense, one gray eye warily watching for her intent. The other one's puffing up, red and already somewhat swollen, though the bruising hasn't achieved the depth that it will in not too much longer. "I would like some, yes. Do you like to think that she won't exactly be thrilled, with either of us?" "I doubt she's thrilled with me irrelevant to this. You? How much of the last hour being you or the dragon reflects on the likelihood she'll probably forgive you wholesale for sleeping with one of her enemies. Accidentally of course." Lia releases the chin, only to lift the hand so her thumb might gently press testingly about the edges of the black eye. "I'll go let one of the lower caverns women know to bring you some ice. To her weyr?" The last comes a little quickly, carrying in it a flash of Daehyeth's wants. Please don't go back so quickly. One bump too many (From him? From her?) has the green twisting away, lashing her tail out in her wake to catch against his muzzle should he be caught unawares in a teasing come hither ploy that's less vampy and more playful. She leads the charge up to the Starstones, racing ahead of him and landing just atop one. Not really atop one. Just perched, very delicately, with her wings held wide so it's mostly hover with just her talon tips touching stone. The rueful twist to N'rov's mouth, constrained by the unwillingness to move his face muscles around too much, recognizes her point. Still, "That might depend on whether she'd," bother to, "see you as an enemy. Never mind that," only then he hisses in a greater breath, gently or no. "Yes, that's sore." Is she paying 'the Vijay' back on his body? "I was going to visit the healer, actually, just in case. And... I probably still smell of you." His voice has lowered, unwilling to be abashed, or to admit to it. Vhaeryth? Oh, Daehyeth can catch at his muzzle, but not despite of being caught unawares, because of it. He can take it. And he can draw to a hover too, more or less, only now it's less to mimic Daehyeth in her delicacy than to see whether, with wings' wind alone, he can bowl her over. But does she want to be swept off her paws? For that last, Lia can't catch the smile before it escapes to lighten the solemn calm of her face, and once there, out in public like that, she'll let it stay a while. "I smell nice." There's no question or doubt there. "You do that then. I'll make sure the ice gets sent to the infirmary. You can clean up in our baths before you go see her. If that's what you think is best." The thumb still considers the very edges outside the blackening eye, and she'll dare, this oddly opinionated, if quiet, greenrider, to lean in and replace her thumb with a chaste kiss. "My mama always said kisses make things heal faster. Goodbye, N'rov." It's not unfriendly, but certainly, carries in its tone the implication of finality or else. But Daehyeth? She has no inhibitions and is unfettered by such people things as revenge, dislikes, hates. If dragons could giggle, she surely would be giggling at the wind storm headed her way that aims to dislodge her off that perch, and eventually -- too quickly eventually her much smaller mass falls and flies backwards, caught in that gust and then she's falling again in a mimic of her flight with what could only be considered the draconic version of a girlish squeal. There's no question or doubt that a well-behaved N'rov shouldn't comment, whether to argue (her thumb is, after all, very near his eye) or agree. This one at least doesn't use words, but he does let himself give way to a by-necessity crook of a smile. "Thank you," he even says. "Lia." He doesn't grab onto her wrist, doesn't catch at her ankle, very carefully doesn't do anything but let her go. It'll be a little while before he's sure she's gone, before he stands up, buttons up, ends up gathering his own things (and with them a thin ribbon, caught on his laces) and going. Not far. There might still be others in the infirmary, even. He has some cleaning up to do. His Vhaeryth has had, continues to have, a far better time of it, delighted by Daehyeth's evident enjoyment and, let's face it, these added chances to share his own prowess. If he can knock her down, or at least let her pretend as such, perhaps he can now flap his wings that much more to buoy her up... even if it looks far too much like a demented hummingbird along the way. At least she's brought the flowers! She's gone. With her boots held by their laces, her riding jacket tossed over her shoulder and her shirt unbuttoned. Whatever. She's gone. And there is ice waiting for him when he does show up at the infirmary. But if it's later, there's no guarantee the ice is still ice. Daehyeth continues to cavort and make merry fun with her new playmate way up in the sky, finding new tricks that a dragon, that's so much larger than the type who usually catches her, is capable of. Tonight, until he has to leave, it's all fun and games. By tomorrow, she'll have forgotten him. |
Comments
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Wed, 03 Apr 2013 21:28:10 GMT.
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Kudos to both for acting like adults. *laughs* This was a much less punchy scene than I had anticipated. And the dragons were so freakin' cute. Daehyeth especially. She's fun!
Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Thu, 04 Apr 2013 01:36:02 GMT.
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No punching is generally good. Though not thrilled with Lia before and regardless? So much yes.
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