Logs:Ours
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 25 June, 2012 |
| Who: K'del, Iolene |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Cadejoth and Ysavaeth share a moment. |
| Where: Dragons minds. |
| When: Day 24, Month 1, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| To Cadejoth, Ysavaeth shares what she sees: A vista of a grey skyline, the clouds hanging low. It meets a dark gray-blue sea that roils in the far distance, threatening to come ashore. She sees the dark golden hair of her rider, whipping about in a potential winter storm's winds and the lanky figure sitting, with bare legs dangling off an empty Tillekian dock. A certain heat pervades throughout her thoughts, careful blend of desires, wants, needs. Heat. That heat shimmers off the metallic curves of Cadejoth's mental landscape, the coils of chain that shiver in greeting. He has no heat of his own: there is none at High Reaches, not even in the sun that still hangs high above the -- his -- weyr. « Ysavaeth, » he says, tasting her name with pure joy. Ysavaeth. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth) She'll be his heat. She'll be his sun in the winter months and beyond. She'll be the radiant beacon that beckons him to her side. « Ca-de-joth. » Each syllable is dropped with a sensuality that belies the fact that she just rose mere months ago. Each sound is savored and covered in affection; like a chocolate dipped strawberry - luscious and sweet. She agrees with the unspoken possession, illuminating the metallic shimmers of his coiled chains and bringing them into the landscape she shares with him, draping an illusory version of them over herself. Claimed? (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth claims her, too, oh yes: those chains shimmer and tinkle as he adjusts their position, winding silvery-pale strands around her in a gesture of breathless delight. Her sensuality warms him further, setting sparks to dance about him, turning that metallic clang to something softer and more liquid. She's is, she's part of the whole; it all belongs, part of some greater chain-- it is. She'll offer him something, her mellifluous tone turning soft, coaxing. « If you would like, it could remain yours? » It's set to the tune of a question; testing to see how he might feel, how he might react, how he might interpret her offer. The storm remains on the far horizon, a slash of lightning cutting through the distant sky. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth is, forgive him, not the /quickest/ of dragons. It takes him time to register her question, to plumb those depths and take some meaning from them. « How? » he wants to know, his eagerness displayed without masks: he is as he appears. He always has been. The landscape remains as it is, a simple share of what she sees, with the added bits of chains that irrevocably tie her to Cadejoth as part of his greater whole. But rather than the roll of thunder that would pace just how far that storm is, there's a dancing melody that lifts, a gentle peal of bells that hints of delicious secrets and a promise. « I'll make it happen, even if it is to let you chase another. » But it won't come to that. Not if her delight speaks of any thing at all. She wouldn't be so delighted and delightful if that was even a remote possibility. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) It hasn't even occurred to Cadejoth that he might chase another, and there's a flurry of uneasy sparks, now, at even the mention of it. He's not even looked at a green, since her; he certainly won't be looking at any queens. But her assurances set his chains to twanging against each other, and undercurrent of pleasure and possession etching itself into his touch. « I believe you, » he says, so sure. « We will make it so. You will. » (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth) To Cadejoth, Ysavaeth is gracious in her acceptance of his trust. The melody turns benevolent and loving and the landscape shifts with the golden-haired rider drifting closer, turning more smudge-like the closer she gets. Like a crayon image. There are certain aspects of her that are very clear though: the way the overly large sweater slips off her shoulders and the view of her slender, bare feet. And then there's the gray-gray sky and all that lies in between a quickened straight flight from Tillek to the Weyr. « If he's not too busy tonight... » is the beginning of her inquiry that never quite concludes. It doesn't matter what the riders end up doing, she'll make sure there's a spot on her ledge for her mate' in his Weyr tonight. To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth stays with her, watching through her thoughts, all the way home. It doesn't matter what their riders do, no (though there's a good chance K'del will make himself free for that golden-haired girl): he's got what he wants. Theirs. « Ours. » The Weyr? Something else? Does it even matter? « Ours. » Later, when she's settled, her wings pressed into her sides and her bulk warmed and warming him, she'll look out upon the Weyr and agree: « Ours. » Their riders may be inside, sharing in their days events, delighting in the gentle rounding of the golden-haired girl's abdomen. They might indulge each other in intimate, if not sensual company. But outside? Ysavaeth locks tails with her mate, both claimed and claimant. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth) And Cadejoth twines his neck with hers and settles, for once able to be quite still. For now? All is as it should be. All is well. For now. |
Leave A Comment