Logs:Drunk on Lythronath
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| RL Date: 21 February, 2015 |
| Who: Azaylia, Hraedhyth, A'rist, Lythronath |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: During Niahvth's flight, Lythronath convinces Hraedhyth to visit and vents his frustrations out on her. Their riders follow suit. |
| Where: Ista/Keroon Hold |
| When: Day 27, Month 1, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Alida/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: NSFWish |
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| Forced to relinquish her Weyr, her dragons, her skies, and with Cadejoth visiting K'del's pack in Southern, Hraedhyth's heat is a frustrated simmer. It's too sudden, too rough the way she is suddenly there, reaching out to Lythronath with a hot iron grip. It's what she wants, not what she commands, not a hint of the gold's power in her words, « You are not Home. » Home, even while Niahvth claims the skies. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) The dragon who isn't there, who hasn't been, between watchriding with Unehrbrath, and then being suddenly gone, as if disappeared, for reasons shared with Cadejoth and Isplonath and no others, except by those two - that dragon greets the mental hit from home with a heavy push back, with a red hot frustration slamming his mind up against Hraedhyth's in response. « Some home, » is part annoyance, part distaste, part boredom, part... liberation? (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath) Hraedhyth soaks up that frustration, flame tongues lapping at Lythronath's mind, as if only just realizing that she has missed him. There have been fleeting moments of contact up until now, checking up on him as he ventures well beyond her territory. There's a harsh push against his thoughts, playful and rough, « We are here. » Her touch grows hotter with the Istan sun, a handful of black sand tossed into her fire where it crackles and pops. « It is not Home, but it is nice. » And boring. At least for the queen. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) To Hraedhyth, Lythronath answers the push with a shove of « Not us, » all force, the play still buried somewhere, still locked away. Secret. « You. » Hraedhyth insists, tendrils of black smoke curling at the very edge of his thoughts-- dangling his half of the tug-a-rope. As if Lythronath would come without A'rist. Another shove, still playful and promising more, « Ilicaeth made a new scar. » She might not remember when but it's recent enough for her to lob at him. It's far too forcefull to be clever, the queen hardly master manipulator. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) To Hraedhyth, Lythronath projects « Blues. » Hraedhyth's dancing drums echo that word: blues, blues blues! « Have you fought well? » Or at all? She has. She would, except that she's alone. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) To Hraedhyth, Lythronath's answer is sharp, piercing, a hard bite of a mental slam. It catches her by surprise, when it really shouldn't have. Once shock has worn off, Hraedhyth pushes back-- a far too calm nudge compared to his sudden bite. Smug. You wanna go, bro-nze? (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) « Not done. » It might even be a sulk, low and grumbly. (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath) Despite all of her prodding, when it comes to matters of duty of a mysterious nature, Hraedhyth sulks alongside him. Grunt. « Done soon? » Her fire gives a hopeful flicker, and despite her boredom even she knows they won't be returning Home until maybe the next day. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) To Hraedhyth, Lythronath's groan might almost be audible, all the way across that long distance that separates them. There's silence, waiting, deliberation, before, « Should come. » It's invitation. And mischief. Hraedhyth is so much easier to tempt, or so it would seem, as the weight of their options hangs in their mental link. « Mine has drinks. » Not has had, but is still currently having. There's a tickle of floral incense as her rider is now made aware of the invitation, « We could come. » Reluctant, or possibly cautious. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) «Should come. » He doesn't try, maybe can't, hide what he's up to. « Here. » A flash of image, beasts (and their smells and presumed flavours) and fields, an empty gather grounds... (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath) Hraedhyth doesn't retreat from the warm conversation she's carved at the borders of Lythronath's mind, lingering until her drums and fire are suddenly cut off. It might be startling, bordering on concerning on that second 'cough' before the tawny gold appears above the empty gather grounds. Just like that, she comes rushing back to fill the bronze with her heat again, « This is home. » But not Home. There are packs attatched to her straps, a heavy quilt rolled up and likely still carrying traces of Ista's black sand. There's no saying that Azaylia and she can't head back, after a quick little visit. The 'Reachian queen looks to land as close to Lythronath as possible, drums thundering the song of their joyous reuinon. She did miss him! That moment of silence is broken by, « A'rist. » And then, only once the gold has appeared in the skies of Keroon, « Hraedhyth! », explanation as well as greeting, emotions lashing wild. And though the majority is reunion and relief, there is also something... vicious. Lythronath takes to the wing, talons leaving a fresh set of scars in among the others that show his comings and goings. He is solo, without straps, and aiming straight for the gold in his initial trajectory. The gold, and « Azaylia! » Raspy contralto harmonizes with sweet soprano, « Lythronath! » Hraedhyth lands heavily on the ground, but doesn't settle. Instead she bounds in place, an anxious dance as she is barely restrained by her rider's need to dismount. And not puke. Azaylia is jostled about, her helmeted head bobbling before she manages to calm her lifemate. There'll be time to play, after. The ground covered is short before he's back on it, landing, gouging again, and headbutting Hraedhyth hard. Bonk. « Some home, » is reiterated, an echo almost precise to those same words, earlier. His tail lashes. His wings twitch. One big eye gets brought up ridiculously close to the gold's rider. « That way, » carries a hint of triumph. Hraedhyth returns that headbutt in full, which isn't anymore easy on her poor, jostled rider. Bonk! That big eye will be able to see Azaylia's smile, tilting her head back with a laugh that's easily stolen by the breeze from on high. Her gloved hands reach and give Lythronath a hearty smack on the top of his eyeridge before she yanks it back, closing her half-open riding jacket and shivering. « That way. » The queen husks, a sense of urgency born from her own impatience and Azaylia's chill. Hraedhyth takes off ahead, as if she already knows the way, 'letting' Lythronath gain in order to show the way to some-home. It isn't far, not on the wing. A small cottage off the grounds, near the hold, nearer, still, the hold's livestock. Lythronath shoots the latter a half-mournful, half-threatening look when he lands, in a place that, again, bears the marks of regular landings. A'rist, by this point, is waiting outside the door, his jacket the only thing (other than that big bronze dragon) to show his affiliation with the Weyr, left open, as he's only just come out into the cold. The young man wears a closed look, cautious. Even when Lythronath declares, « Here, » well after the fact of everyone setting down. Azaylia coaxes a bit of cooperation from her excited lifemate, Hraedhyth angling her body at the cottage while keeping her eyes on her prey. Lythronath. The Weyrwoman manages to dismount and unload her dragon, straps falling to the ground as Hraedhyth tears off toward her bronze playmate. The full-body impact is audible and has her rider wincing, "Oof." Then she's rounding on A'rist, looking to tug him into a forceful embrace. "So this is where you've been hiding." It's an affectionate squeeze with nefarious purpose in mind as she shamelessly leeches warmth from the bronzerider. It's her own fault, having thrown on only a riding jacket before leaving Ista's warmth. "I won't upset the missus, will I?" She teases. Lythronath's roar is play and challenge and slightly unhinged as he scrambles back from the impact, flitting his wings up and shoving off the footholds he's just created in the ground to rocket back at Hraedhyth with a full-bodied slam. A'rist, meanwhile, gets all the cold of Keroon air and between pressed into his chest, which, thanks to that open jacket, is only covered by the one shirt. But he hugs Azaylia back nonetheless, even going so far as to rest his chin on her shoulder for a second before withdrawing, and trying on an awkward half-smirk that doesn't quite work. "Don't have one of those left in there. You're good." Azaylia pays little mind to the familiar chaos behind her, pulling back enough to gently tap her temple against his. "Good. I'm not dressed for holders." Not from Keroon, at least. The sturdier cargo is left outside, guarded by the two dragons who are trying to break themselves on each other. The goldrider slips past, giving a little shiver as she seeks out the hearth-- stoking the fire if it's not to her liking. "I expected you to be at the Hold, or..." Looking around, it's obvious she can't see a reason why he couldn't come to Ista. A'rist winds up following Azaylia into that little cottage of a place, lifting his hand to rub fingers idly at the hair just behind his ear while dragons thwack and roar and rumble. The drawing of ichor can't be that far away. And Lythronath is at least partially aiming to mess up this idyllic little scene as much as to roughhouse with Hraedhyth, so. Maybe some fence crashing too. "The hall, a little. And some stuff in the hold. Just around here. Igen's been feeding us when Lythronath needs." He shrugs, and leaves Azaylia to her fire tending, swinging rather subtly around to stand in front of the door to the bedroom, where an assortment of things have been laid out on the bed and simple dresser. Nothing to see here. "Whose house is this, though?" Azaylia asks, still looking all around even as she blindly prods at the fire. A log crackles and splits, the fire growing enough that she can comfortably shed her jacket. It's a wonder she's chilled with so much skin on display, strings of jewel-bright turquoise hinting at some modesty, even from behind. She keeps her pants on, still crouched in front of the hearth and rubbing at her upper arms. With a soft sigh, "Much better." Turning back to A'rist, her gaze flicks over his shoulder and back down to his face. There's a familiar flicker of concern, "You aren't... you're welcome here, aren't you?" Did A'rist steal a cottage?! A shrug answers the question, and a drawled, "Guess it's really beastcraft's, once it's cleared out." All by himself on the plains of Keroon, is it any wonder that his eyes land, and stay, on that exposed skin when Azaylia loses the jacket? Even with the crack of splintering wood outside. « Hahahaha! » Wreck up the place! "Was asked here. Don't worry." He tilts his head, finally turning away, toward the main door. "Ista, huh?" There is more heat, and it has him sliding his arms free of his own jacket. "You want a drink or something?" is an afterthought, the offer a bit halting, mostly earnest. "I would love a drink." Azaylia sounds far too desperate to be completely sober as she begins to inspect the decor. Or lack thereof. The sound of splintering wood draws her eyes to the closed door, the destroyed fence not even slowing Hraedhyth down. It's not like anyone got hurt. Talk of Ista has her giving a longing sigh, "Mmhm. Niahvth is finally rising today." There's a confused glance for A'rist, for his being here. "Though I get the feeling I'll have to visit my family, since I'm in Keroon." And Faranth help her if word gets back to her mother, if they don't stop to say hello. She'll look for a couch or a cushiony chair, something comfortable that she can lounge in. Lythronath hasn't set any beasties free, even though every now and again he'll try shove their 'play' towards them. The ones from which he's been forbidden for so long now. "Drink drink," A'rist is able to infer from that tone. The news from back home has him grimacing, even as the little cupboard near the table is opened for a half-emptied bottle of... something. Something that will prove fierce and strong and far too much like Lythronath in the form of alcohol. "Guess we won't be chasing, then." The next blow to Hreadhyth comes harder, an attempt to give himself enough room that Lythronath can get airborne. The bottle is held to Azaylia with a slosh of its contents against its walls. "Pillows on the rug are nicest." For sitting. "Warmest." The look then goes to her midriff. As far as the beasts are concerned, Hraedhyth is much to soft for Lythronath's liking, refusing to add to the trauma of two dragons being so near. When the bronze takes to the skies, there's a frustrated huff as the tawny gold gives chase, the opposite of what is likely going on at 'Reaches. "It's probably for the best," Azaylia tries to comfort the hermit-bronzerider, even as she goes hunting for pillows. "Hraedhyth can handle Lythronath chasing. We don't need him really hurting Niahvth. She's... soft." It's accurate as well as kind. The Weyrwoman is far too involved in making a nest in front of the fire to notice the offered bottle, at first. When she does, one hand moves to accept it as the other catches A'rist's wrist, trying to yank him down into the pillows. She's rough, spurned on by Hraedhyth as she yanks him into a one-armed hug against her side as she inspects the liquor. "What's this?" Lythronath pushes hard for altitude, up, up, all his strength shoved to his wings, talons clawing at the sky as if they could find purchase and assist his climb. "Maybe he'd catch her easy. Quick." He still hasn't stopped watching the goldrider's midriff, even with Azaylia rooting around for pillows. "Maybe this was the one that would've been best for all the other chasers." Azaylia catches him no problem; but he doesn't drop without establishing a firm grip back on her arm. At least it brings his eyes up to her. And then, to the bottle. "It's... effective. I dunno, it came with the place." Hraedhyth has no experience at chasing, only being chased, but she does her best to keep up with the slightly smaller dragon. She's earnest but not as crazed as Lythronath, falling a bit behind. "Maybe." Azaylia doesn't sound convinced, casual in her forceful cuddling. She pops open the bottle and gives a sniff, the sharp bite coaxing goosebumps to her flesh, "Oooh. Mean." No need for a glass, the goldrider sufficiently lubed up by earlier mixed drinks. After a mouthful, she offers it to him, "You two could always try to get there before she goes up? I could hold down the... this place." Lythronath is high up, at the height of his climb, as it happens. Because wings and tail shift and brake, and then fold. Being chased is boring. He couldn't say why all those females do it. But he roars as he plummets back towards Hraedhyth, talons outstretched. « Hahaha! » "Lynner in a bottle," A'rist offers, the edge in his voice and his smile surely not far off from that in the liquor. He takes the bottle, jaw setting for that suggestion, fingers digging into glass and goldrider's arm, each hand in unison. His consideration of the offer is signalled by a grunt, the slide of fabric against fabric as one leg shifts until its foot is flat on the floor, knee bent, but ready. Betrayl! Tease! Hraedhyth roars her outrage as Lythronath suddenly dives, rolling underneath him just in time to try and catch those talons with her own. They might miss, and both are likely to get scratched bellies-- but it's better than torn wings. "It is." Azaylia is far too pleased by the description, "I want more of that. You know I love Lythronath." There's a sudden tension in her shoulders as she aims a look up past the roof. "...Even when he tries to cripple my dragon." It's somewhat tense, her concern all her own as Hraedhyth continues to enjoy herself. A'rist's grip on her arm draws her back, and she leans in to lightly thump her brow against his. "She won't be happy, but we won't keep you." If that's what he wants. Who's moving fastest? Who can hold strongest, when talons grip at limbs and bellies and manage even to grab hold of each other? Who will survive that spin, or foil it? A'rist pivots, twists to get both feet up under him, and adjusts his grip quickly, as if tossing Azaylia's arm to try catch it again, higher up while getting himself freed to face her. "Have more." Heads thump. The bronzerider closes his eyes. "He's got wild. Being away so long." It's said through gritted teeth. Azaylia doesn't need much convincing, wrapping her lips around the bottle again and taking a deeper pull of 'Lythronath'. She doesn't try to keep A'rist, slow to realize that he isn't pulling away until her arm is sliding back around him. Her eyes flick down to those gritted teeth, concerned brows pinching together as she draws him in tighter. "Just him?" Her quiet murmur fills the small space between, her forehead still pressed to his. "It's alright. He'll get it all out with Hraedhyth." A husky promise as she pushes the drink against his chest. The warrior queen is more grounded of the two dragons, and while she participates whole-heartedly, she doesn't try to cause any serious damage-- or allow Lythronath to do so. As they plummet toward the ground it's Hraedhyth who breaks away first, straightening out in time to land with a heavy thump-skid. The result is less fence and more fence-splinters. "Not just him." A'rist, too, takes a deep breath and deep pull of Lythronath -- the real Lythronath, the beast playing chicken with the ground so much as the gold whose talons he clenches. He doesn't keep her from pulling away, but there will be scratches left overtop those he'd caused as a dragonet. He barely cushions his own thud into the ground, strong hind legs flexing, forelegs helping in pushing himself back up, wings open for the follow-up spring, right back at the queen. "I don't think," the bronzerider grunts, "it's something you can get out of him." And the bronzerider leans forward, leans hard, pressing with his shoulders, with the leverage from those legs drawn up under him. There's a quiet hum for A'rist's words, thoughtful rather than smug. It's familiar to Azaylia, losing herself in Hraedhyth, though she does so willingly. Closing her eyes, she focuses on those massive, straining muscles. The pinpricks of pain left by Lythronath's talons. While Hraedhyth plays, for it is a game to her still, it's the rider who assesses for damage. Nothing severe, nothing that would keep her from A'rist as he pushes. There's a noise of surprise that leaves her throat, a squeak that can't pass through closed lips as she instinctively pushes back. "Maybe not." Azaylia's head rolls off to the side, pushing chest and shoulders against his own. Another game. "It might help. Until you come back home." She's certain, just as Hraedhyth is certain her skull can survive the incoming slam. It's a wonder the livestock haven't all had heart attacks and died, though now Lythronath's attack vector pushes away from them, slamming with his head, shoving, rolling. A'rist answers that idea of coming back home only with another grunt - no, more a growl - and this time, his hands get behind that shove, grabbing for her upper arms. This time, it's meant to topple. Here's hoping 'Lythronath' doesn't get spilled all over the rug. The impact can be felt throughout Hraedhyth's more than sturdy frame, aftershocks causing Azaylia to give a start. She isn't given time to check, the queen's roar echoing in her ears as A'rist shoves again. Even as she falls back, "Is he alright?" The waves of pain are already starting to lessen for the gold, enough reassurance that their concern shifts to the bronze pair. 'Lythronath' spills, a splash staining the pillow it lands on, tilted just enough to save what's left. « No more. » Hraedhyth drops to her belly, blinking all her eyelids to banish the speckles of worried yellow. It's not a surrender, just... a time out. That young bronze out there shows no signs of tiring - not now, not while he's in full swing. Fatigue waits. A'rist comes down on top, braced, excited. The question makes his face twist, barely understood. "What?" All but a demand. Poor 'Lythronath' goes unmourned by the young rider. And Lythronath, he gnashes his teeth and bobs his head and digs his talons into the ground, swaying on his hind legs just before letting out a loud roar, all feet finding the ground again. Hraedhyth watches Lythronath from where she settles in the talon-ruined dirt, unbothered by his displays. « Lythronath. » A low growl, patient and yet not, « Ouch. » Not for sympathy, not from this bronze. « Come here. » So she can see his ouches, even if he doesn't feel it. Even if excited A'rist doesn't care, right now. Azaylia's soft gaze searches that twisted face, "Lythronath. I was worried..." The only one here, it would seem. She's cautious, hesitant, hand lifting to run fingers through his hair, soaking him up through touch. Assessing. "Not just him." A whispered echo from before. « Lythronath. » It's a reminder, pointed, still pounding with adrenaline and pride, rhythm unchecked. He doesn't move toward the gold. But he does ease his swaying, and gives only a few clicks in his throat, the motion that's stopped on the outside transferred to that point. Her fingers in his hair make A'rist's upper lip jump, quick, fleeting. He tests his arms, leaning more of his weight forward (still pressing the goldrider), then easing back slightly. That motion repeats again, but this time, in that forward lean, he manages to find, "You always worry." Azaylia's eyes narrow at that upper lip, only proving A'rist right. She'll relax, slowly, muscles giving way to those heavy palms, "I don't like hurting people." Nothing deep. Nothing that lingers-- just like Hraedhyth. This time her fingers curl in his hair, just beyond tight enough to test, much like his leaning. She's subtle in the way she shifts beneath him, maddening when her fingers don't press where they're supposed to. With a little smile, "I like to help." If he leans again, he'll find her pressing back, sudden and ard. Hraedhyth huffs her annoyance as he disobeys, at his being Lythronath. Even then, there's a fondness in the warmth of her flames, « Lythronath. » Yes, she hears him. "We don't hurt easy." It has some of that same pride that radiates off his dragon. Some of that same disregard that's been colouring all that dragon's done today, these last days. He does press again, fingers splaying this time on the hand left to bear his weight, no longer a guarded grip, while the other jumps to some of that exposed skin - whatever he can reach, the way they are, and grabs. A'rist watches her, hard. Lythronath doesn't hurt. But he still waits. "That's good..." The words are carried on a heated sigh, lingering between them. What little doubt remains is soothed by dragon-tainted pride, nails raking down to his neck where she squeezes, holding him there as she presses up even harder. She won't give, and certainly won't break, not with muscles coiling beneath bronze skin, eager to match the ferocity to come. Azaylia leaves the watching to A'rist, having had her fill. Now she wants to feel, rough hands taking in what dragonriding has forged in the bronzerider. When she reaches for his pants it isn't urgent, but it's with a purposeful yank. And Lythronath will continue to wai, Hraedhyth still recovering, pleasantly distracted by the crackling heat that thrums through her bond. There's plenty to be felt, as more of that wiry strength gets behind A'rist's answers to those nails, and from there, more of the fierce recklessness that his dragon urges, that A'rist grows in turn. Lythronath's is not distraction, waiting outside that little cottage that he's been tied to for so long now. He moves, slow stalking around the queen, and it's quite like that he'll have his teeth on her, between growls and clicks and shoulder to shoulder presses, gnawing at that heat, so much as he's allowed. She is still his queen. And there's at least some release he can share in. Even if the flock survives. It's the dragon's turn to be lost in her rider, occasionally interrupted by Lythronath's jaws, in the way he presses at her. The bronze is welcome to sample the shared bliss as Hraedhyth savors it, turns it over her flames as one would swirl brandy. Azaylia is generous at first, wanting to help, until she's caught up in her own selfish need. By the end she's given just as much as she's taken, now overly warmed by the fire, the drink, and A'rist. There'll be time to lick her wounds later, her hold on the bronzerider still rough despite her sweaty discomfort. Her breath hasn't even slowed before, "You are planning on coming back?" No disgust, no fleeing, no regrets. "Aren't you?" A'rist, as it turns out, might be near as difficult to help as he claims to be to hurt. It's not helping he wanted, nor took. That moment of mental quiet, and thudding heart, and calming blood, and possibility of peace, that's not fully realised when he tries to focus in on the question. With it comes an attempt to sit up, even in Azaylia's grasp, with only a frown when the pillow that'd soaked most of the bottled 'Lythronath' when it was well and truly spilled comes up against one of the new scratches he now boasts. "Yeah, this time." Said plainly. Azaylia's sigh of relief is twofold with his answer and the familiar aches that envelope her. She'll let him sit up, arms stretching as she voices a groan of protest that's felt, lilting into satisfaction at the end, "Good." The goldrider rolls onto her stomach, hugging one of the pillows under her chin as she lounges. "I won't stay?" Unless he wants her to. She'll have to wait out the tell-tale flush and languid limbs before visiting her family, anyway. Azaylia only had to make that mistake once. Upright, A'rist scratches at the back of his head, prods idly at a muscle in his arm, and then, at last, thinks to look back to that goldrider, his eyes narrowing. "Did you want to? For a bit. There's nowhere good to sleep here, other than..." a vague gesture to his dead dad's pillows, that they've come to know so well. "But a bit." Now that his dragon is finally settling, stretching for a nice, talon-churned spot of earth. "You don't have to." "This is nice." Azaylia wriggles her belly against his dead dad's pillows, oblivious as she truly gets good and comfortable. The roll onto her side is slow, hand beckoning him back down, with her. Her demand is a sweet, "Come here." Now that she knows she won't be chased from the mystery cottage, she's confident in her right to snuggle. Sweaty, too-warm snuggles, but it'll give her a chance to inspect the damage done up close. Her lips brush over the worst of those marks as Hraedhyth leans heavily against Lythronath, outside. When they leave it's after Hraedhyth's scratches have been tended to, a quick scrub and with Azaylia wearing a pretty if modest dress beneath her riding jacket. « Soon. » Hraedhyth insists on their return before blinking between, reappearing over home, but not Home. |
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