Difference between revisions of "Logs:Needs"

Hraedhyth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr

Turns of inclement weather and use have smoothed out niches here and there for a current occupant and perhaps a companion, on this slightly downward impressed ledge. It's otherwise unremarkable: large, of course, and low to the ground, though not so low as to provide ground access from here. Being so low, the view is not especially spectacular, though it does make an excellent point from which to keep a steady eye on goings on in the bowl, from the living caverns entrance to the north, and as far as glimpses of glimmering blue on the horizon from the weyr lake.

Hraedhyth's heat is not yet stifling, but it is difficult to ignore, much like the rich, amber glow of her hide. Her drums carry on in their steady, sure rhythm, each strike sending out weak pulses of pleasure-- or the promise of it. Then again, it could all be in the minds of those tense, watchful bronze and browns. All too suddenly she is there, intensity spiking with a skipped beat before she eases into a more manageable presence. Kaz. A. Voth. Her drums chant his name... for now. « You and yours are not here? » It's not quite an accusation. (To Kazavoth from Hraedhyth)

That heat is met by a countering chill, though it is only the reflection of Kazavoth's location, a natural coolness that sucks all the heat from the atmosphere but is easily heated by the sun. In this case, Hraedhyth. « My dear, » the brown drawls in his raspy voice, « where is it we were meant to be, if not here? » An image is shared briefly. The many snowcapped peaks of the northern mountain range, where spring's warmth has not so much as dented the winter's cold. Aromas soon join the image as Kazavoth shares the experience with her, and the sheer joy of flight. That cold, crisp air that simultaneous holds the stale twinge of permafrost, while the brilliant colors of tundra dance and twirl before the image fades. « We are needed? » (To Hraedhyth from Kazavoth)

As the link between their minds strengthens, Hraedhyth herself intensifies. Sight and sound are offered freely, scent even more so. Her dark smoke carries a potent incense, spiced musk overpowering that faintest trace of something sweet. Need? « I have need of you. » The gold rumbles, that same smoke carried on the frigid winds beneath his wings, dark tendrils that don't trap, but curl invitingly. « We are not to leave our Home. » Not that she's complaining, content to lounge on her ledge for all to see as of late. « I itch. The Hall of Healers has my oil. » He's a clever brown. He'll figure it out. (To Kazavoth from Hraedhyth)

There's clever, then there's clever, and Kazavoth was clever enough to find himself a clever rider. So it might take a while for the brown to reply, but when he does, the accompanying "image" is definitely not of that mountain range, but something very difference, and far warmer. There is hope. « Itches are such inconsiderate things, » the brown commiserates, though he cannot entirely keep the sheer pleasure out of his tone. Pleasure at being needed. Being useful. Several more moments pass, then out of nowhere, and carrying with it the almost stinging cold of Between, « We come. » (To Hraedhyth from Kazavoth)

Far above, in the blissfully rainless sky, the distinct form of Kazavoth appears, immediately followed by his steady, spiraling descent. The over-long tail, the wide, red-tinted wings... And Kazavoth comes bearing gifts, by way of Rider. Greetings are sent to the watchdragon on duty, to a few sitting on the rim, to another over near the Star Stones, to a couple down in the bowl, but all those greetings are secondary to the thrumming salutation he sends toward Hraedhyth. There might be a bit of a heel kick toward the dark brown hide as D'kan unclips from the straps and makes his own descent before quickly shedding some of the now unnecessary gear, considering where they'd started just earlier today.

Despite the oh-so obvious shift in Hraedhyth's mood, she's still honest in her celebration of Kazavoth and his rider. Mostly Kazavoth, of course. Her agreement comes in a guttural hum, « And there are many ways to itch. » So open, so available, she shares the flicker of frustration at the heart of her flames. It'll grow, over time. For now it's more of a tickle, one she just might be enjoying. Her full attention is his reward, banishing the chill of Between with a sizzle, « Do you itch? » She doesn't ask in which way. (To Kazavoth from Hraedhyth)

Kazavoth is all too happy to bask in Hraedhyth's full attention for a little while, as he preens, nearly making it impossible for his rider to successfully grab the barrel that's been attached to the brown's straps. Luckily, the cask is soon safely in the rider's possession, leaving the brown to return his own full attention to Hraedhyth. « I itch for many things, » the dragon shares in a soft tone that borders conspiratorial, « though it would seem yours is... distinct? » Meanwhile, D'kan has inched the barrel safely away from the ledge until he can begin to roll it toward the weyr, where he meets the juice-bearing Azaylia. "We were already out and about," he replies, straightening to take the offered glass before he nods his thanks. "The biggest confusion was why we were picking it up, but you know how Kaz can be... uh. Convincing," is one word for it.

« It is. » Hraedhyth gives a little shake, muscles flexing beneath her flushed hide completely by accident. « It is one that you cannot scratch. » Yet. There's a curious husk to her contralto, « What is it you desire, Kazavoth? » This time that primal urge falls away, inquiry downright innocent by comparison to her earlier coaxing. A bare foot lifts to rest on the barrel, as if D'kan isn't going to stop on his own to accept the glass. Azaylia's answer is simple, "Hraedhyth likes Kazavoth." As well as many of the other male dragons, says the impish curl of the goldrider's lips. "I hope we didn't interrupt anything too important?" Bending at the waist, she hoists the oil right side up with some effort, more than capable. After glancing at the two dragons, and perhaps far too much cheer, "You might want to relax, this could take a while."

D'kan takes a first sip of the juice, dark eyes twinkling softly as his grin hides behind the glass. There's a glance back toward the dragons, where Kazavoth has taken up a relaxed lounging position near Hraedhyth. "She's one of the few, then," the rider teases, which is followed almost instantly by a snort from Kaz, though the brown soon turns his attention fully toward the gold again, mentally blocking out his own rider. « Simple things,» Kazavoth replies, though the ideas attached to it are not so simple. They are lush and comfortable, fine and elegant, powerful and precise. « But we are still young. There is time yet. To rush would be to plot ruin. » D'kan shakes his head slightly, in reply to being shut out of his own lifemate's mind, or to Azaylia's last comment, it's hard to say. "Relax? That I could do. And we were already done," he adds, answering the previous question. "Went to Telgar, then figured we'd check out the mountains." Slight emphasis on "the". "Nothing quite like them." He looks to the dragons one last time, slowly lifting the glass toward his lips again, though he pauses and turns back to Azaylia. "Is she... uh..." To finish, he just points a thumb back toward her, because surely he doesn't need to say all of it, does he? Then he takes another drink.

After Kazavoth finishes that descriptive string, « Then you must desire me. » Well, that lapse didn't last long. Hraedhyth isn't attempting to convince him of such desires, merely stating a fact. Thick neck achieves what arch it can, a growl slipping passed those oversized jaws, flames leaping with her demand, « Closer. » He's so far away. Azaylia turns back towards the weyr, aiming her words over a bare shoulder, "I think we've had enough traveling to last us a while. The mountains are impressive." It's a purposeful speed that has her returning with a pry bar and oil paddle in one arm, the other tense with the weight of the chair she sets down near D'kan. With hands busy, she's sputtering against hair that's pushed into her face by a breeze, the lazy curls left to fall near her waist. "Can't you tell?" She doesn't mean to tease, but there's some amusement when she glances over at the brownrider. "Or do I have to prove it?" Impish turns downright devious for all of a second, and she's turning away to pry open the top of the barrel.

"Well, I wasn't here the last time she did, so..." It's only a mildly defensive D'kan who sits in the provided chair, though he's on the edge of it at first, on the verge of asking whether Azaylia wants help with the barrel. He is thankfully distracted by Hraedhyth's growl, and while Kazavoth continues to shut him out, he can tell the brown has turned somewhat... hesitant. He raises his head while his long tail lashes over the ledge's brim, his own neck oddly tense. To Hraedhyth, at least, he is not silent. « I desire you? » he questions, still in that soft rasp. A tiny ripple of confusion contorts the mindlink briefly, and... it's not distrust. Not exactly. Apprehension. Like a certain FBI agent approaching the monster's cage for the first time. He does eventually wiggle Closer. By an inch. Another. It's about this time that D'kan nearly chokes on a sip of juice. "Prove?" he asks, mirroring his dragon's apprehension, mindlink or no. "Uh, no. That's... do you need...?" He'll just point wordlessly toward the oil barrel.

"I know," Azaylia tosses over her shoulder, pry bar shoved into a convenient groove, "It's just... I guess she really does need an oiling. Then you'll be able to tell." Grunt. Strain. Hraedhyth's drums mark her impatience with a quicked beat, like so many fingers rapping on a table. After a day of goading older dragons, Kazavoth's inexperience is far from endearing. His question earns a smokey exhale, still tainted with that earlier growl, « Yes. » Of course he does. « I am, » And she shares his simply complex desires from moments ago; lush and comfortable, powerful and precise. Perhaps not elegant, but she does have a savage grace. His confusion is answered by a pulse of pleasure when he's within reach, pale head easing in against his for a gentle variation on her usual headbutts. Azaylia's attempts begin to slow, head giving a thoughtful tilt before her eyes slide to peek at D'kan in her peripheral. With a huff that hints at frustration, "You could give it a try?" Airy voice rises to an encouraging lilt, hands sliding behind her back as she steps to the side.

Kazavoth is savvy enough to realize he's misstepped with the drumming gold and tries to make up for it by getting an inch closer. When she leans her head toward his, though, there's a quiet, « Ohhhh, » of understanding. The most polished gems started out as lumps of rock. Give him time. Or a learning curve? This is not like the greens at all. This is new. This is different. This is... still confusing. But he plays along, leaning his own head right back. Apt pupil? D'kan watches the dragons for a moment of pensive thought, but then he is given something to do, and immediately stands, placing the glass of juice on the chair. "Gladly!" the rider replies, almost too cheerful. "Though at the Hold, we mostly just moved these. Didn't open them." He reaches for the pry bar, then hesitates. "You wouldn't rather tap that, would you?" he asks, truly innocent of innuendo. "Like with ale or something?"

Alright, perhaps Kazavoth's inexperience is a little endearing. Hraedhyth rasps her amusement, undescernable from the cracklepop of her too-hot flames as she continues to caress his muzzle with her own. Once again her dark smoke curls in an attempt to beckon him closer, up against the rest of her. Even if that might make oiling rather difficult, should the riders ever get that drum open. Azaylia's smile brightens at D'kan's enthusiasm, keeping well out of his way as he approaches the troublesome container. The one she was able to turn right-side up without much difficulty, before. "Hmm?" The weyrwoman is suddenly there, tucking herself under that reaching arm, "Tap... what?" Playful disbelief at his phrasing, she's all too eager to take advantage. If her hands find purchase, they'll simply touch, soaking up the contact with slow, obvious enjoyment. "I have whiskey and rum in my weyr." He mentioned ale, right?

Once again, Kazavoth scoots closer, but apprehension has been messing with his spatial awareness, and one rear paw scrapes suddenly at the ledge rim. Smooth, buddy. Smooth. Disaster is easily averted, even if it ruffles his cool a little (more). « Is this... » Oh, there's more caressing. The dark smoke curls are shattered by a mental cough. « The itch. This helps? » he asks, wonder and worry going hand in hand. His question is punctuated by the clang of a falling pry bar, which D'kan manages to stop with his foot before it can create any more noisome clamor. Translation? The touch made purchase. He steps away! The better to... pick up the pry bar. Which seems difficult suddenly. Must be the sweat that has started making his palms useless. "Oh! Uh..." He stops a good pace away from the barrel and Azaylia both, then motions with the pry bar (nearly dropping it again), then his hand, toward the barrel. "The... uh. Rum? No. I..." He'll just hold onto the pry bar for a moment. "You, uh, probably don't need help. Anymore. The oil." He knows words good sometimes, yeah?

Hraedhyth's smoke dissipates with Kazavoth's oh so smooth inquiry, what little remains banished by a long-suffering exhale from the gold. « Sometimes. » The echo of her drumstrikes are more pointed: sometimes, but not right now. There's a dual throb of frustration shared with the brown, though one pulse is larger than the other which almost seems... playful. Laughing under her breath, Azaylia takes a step towards D'kan with those problematic hands behind her back once more. See? She's not so scary. His stellar articulation has her biting back another laugh, teeth sinking into her lower lip as she continues to stalk-- walk towards the brownrider. "What's wrong?"

Kazavoth's unfamiliarity with these particular waters is expressed by shadowy ripples that buffet against the mindlink, but not all the way across the threshold. The past few steps are being examined within the privacy of his little mental island. It's just as well he hasn't been sharing with D'kan, because the rider has his own worries right now. "Wrong?" he repeats, round-cheeked smile not even coming close to changing anxious eyes. Nor does the nervous laugh that follows. "I, uh. You're... you." Such helpful clarification. His gaze drops to Azaylia's shoulder. Maybe gesticulating at a knot would help. But, oh, those shoulders are so bare. And she's getting closer. And he's on a ledge. Can't really step too far away, now can he? "I'm just a guy." Which should explain everything. Meanwhile, Kazavoth has put aside his bantering ways and asks with blunt curiosity, « You do not just go? Fly? » He would share memories of his only flight experience so far, but all he can bring to mind is a vague image of some nondescript green flitting through the distant air. « I do not know this new level of... this. You are not like a green. »

"I'm me." Azaylia echoes sweetly. It's genuine enough, but paired with that smile and her slow steps, the weyrwoman's tone may not be all that reassuring. Hraedhyth's head turns to watch as D'kan begins to back into her space, though the queen doesn't seem to mind. For now. Despite the fun she's having, it's concern that has the goldrider reaching out to snag his sleeve, giving a firm tug back towards her. Her intentions are good, taking a step back to maintain the distance between them-- so long as she's able to lead him away from the edge. "You're not just anything..." She sounds more like herself, if still amused. "You don't have to jump off a ledge to get away, D'kan." She may not even realize how her voice dips at his name, "A simple 'no' works." Sometimes. Hraedhyth's flames quiver with pleasure as she takes a long, luxurious stretch that has nothing to do with the low flying bronze nearby. « I will when it is time. No sooner. » It is the way of things, judging from her easy response. Comparison to a green isn't taken as insult, frustration fading as she shares in her lifemate's mirth, « I can show you. » New levels indeed.

There is a confused, helpless frown from D'kan when Azaylia mentions saying "no". The tug is both necessary and appreciated. Especially since it allows him to set the pry bar on the barrel. Better than fumbling with it, right? This is followed by surreptitiously trying to wipe sweaty palms on the sides of his trousers. "It's not... like that... exactly," he blunders. Apparently it's hard to stay cool and detached forever when she's... bare-shouldered. And nearby. And occasionally touching the poor little holdbred doofus. By Faranth, he's human after all. "It's that you're... you're like... the Lady Holder of the Weyr." Again with the helpful explanations? Kazavoth seems to be having a slightly easier time of it, at least. Or so he thinks. « Oooooh, » comes the softly crooned interest following Hraedhyth's last comment. The tip of his long tail flicks against the ledge as he turns his dark, slightly speckled head to regard the gold. « If you could, that would be grand. » And Doofuth.

Azaylia reluctantly releases D'kan's sleeve once he's far enough from the edge, trying to give him as little reason as possible to bolt. "You don't find Lady Holders attractive?" She knows that's not what he means, brown eyes twinkling as she continues, "A lot of men enjoy women in power." Her almost-step forward is caught, momentum used in a little twirl that has her facing the barrel. The pry bar is plucked up and jammed into a groove, the flat lid giving away with a pop that's followed by a rich, spiced scent. Kazavoth's croon only encourages the queen to relax the covetous grip she has on her need. For her, it's not as overwhelming as it can, and will be. For Kazavoth? Heat. Pleasure that's interrupted by the faintest spikes of intrigue-- not pain, but something. He's fed a steady supply of it, and though her flames writhe in it, she's careful. Such consideration will be all but nonexistent in the coming days.

"Attractive's got nothing to do with it!" D'kan answers, a little more exuberant than the statement would normally rate, due purely to nerves. "It's just... just..." Exuberance slowly ebbs. He looks away. Oh look, dragons. Shut out or not, looking at Kazavoth seems to settle D'kan, at least a little bit. "Ladies and Lords. Weyrwomen and weyr--... well. Bronzeriders, at least." He looks back at Azaylia, then down at the now-opened cask of oil. A second or two later, he makes a low "huh" sort of sound. Kazavoth turns away from Hraedhyth when the barrel's lid pops free, and he leans his head toward the humans briefly, suddenly distracted from Hraedhyth's patient... teaching. « Ooooooh, » he says again. « What is that? That is so much better than the slimy ooze D'kan uses on me. » As for that heat? Well, he'll just use it to boost that scent, as he absorbs it into his arsenal of mindvoice layers and details. « That is so nice. » Then, roping his rider back into the conversation, « D'kan, forget your silly shirts. We should have this. »

Startled by that exuberance, Azaylia nearly drops the metal bar into the oil drum, though her side-eyed glance at D'kan is far from alarmed. "That's good to know." That he doesn't find her repulsive. A finger drags through the oil, testing it against her thumb before taking a small sniff. Distracted, or simply enjoying the exotic scent, she murmurs, "I'm not interested in bronzeriders." It sounds bad, but she is in no hurry to explain herself as she dries the tip of her digit by dabbing behind her ears. "I like people. You don't look like a talking wher to me." Hraedhyth gives up. Not exactly, but if he's so easily distracted she'll keep her toys to herself-- once again gathering up that pulsating warmth and holding it close. Still, Kazavoth at least has taste. « It is made by an Igen Healer. He is in the Hall of Healing, where he is able to make much of it. » Enough to, say, last a temporarily decadent gold until her proddiness passes?

"I didn't know it came like that," D'kan says out loud while staring at the oil, either in answer to Kazavoth, or comment to Azaylia. The brown snorts in reply, then turns a puzzled look on Hraedhyth, perhaps wondering where all the lovely warmth went. So young. So silly. D'kan shakes his head quickly before looking up at the other rider again. "But it's supposed to be like that. Isn't it? I mean, there are so many stories..." Clearly, he's not talking about oil stories, though he does lean forward for a slightly better sniff, though not so forward that he risks getting too close to the now scented and bare-shouldered weyrwoman. For Kazavoth, a scented rider just makes things more interesting, though at least most of his attention is now back on Hraedhyth. « It does suit you, my dear, » he compliments in soft and borderline unctuous tones. « I must lean on D'kan. He must procure more of this delight. »

"Probably because of how much it costs to make. But, Hraedhyth wanted it." Whether his comment is meant for Azaylia or not, she answers. There's a long sigh, soprano drifting along with a gentle, "Oh, D'kan." If might sound condescending, but given the source it probably isn't meant to be. "Maybe I am only supposed to let bronzeriders into my bed... but, I don't." Cheerful as well as nonchalant, she continues while dragging the paddle across the surface of that scented oil. "So what are you supposed to do when your Weyrwoman," Acting, "isn't like one from a story?" And instead is a weyrwoman who tries to lure younger brownriders out of their Holdbred comfort zone. « If you stay, I could convince Mine to share. » Oil two large dragons? Azaylia just might have the energy for it, given D'kan's pesky and persistent qualms. « Or, » Her incense is tainted by a floral perfume, influence obvious as she suggests, « Yours is welcome to use some on you. But Mine says he must do so without a shirt. » Why? The gold isn't entirely sure. It's not as D'kan is a brown or bronze.

No longer having a pry bar to hold onto means D'kan's hands are fidgeting, so he stuffs them in his pockets instead. He has no answer to Azaylia's question, just more anxious frowns, though toward the end his eyes grow a little wider. He stares over at the dragons for a moment, then frowns more intensely at Azaylia. Cogs turn laboriously before he finally states, "Kaz doesn't need oiling. And I should..." As he side steps toward his lifemate. "We should be going. Gotta... take care of some other stuff. Today." Not that Kazavoth seems like he's going to budge just yet. « D'kan, she wants to share, » he informs his rider, infusing his mindvoice with an odd mixture of aromas from both the scented oil and the floral perfume. Some quieter exchange seems to follow that, though, because the brown does indeed begin to gather himself to stand, if reluctantly.

"Mmm." Azaylia doesn't sound very convinced, gathering up a generous amount of oil while wearing a knowing smile. "I won't get in the way of your stuff." She moves past him with a full paddle, close enough that there's a brush of skin and a tug of his clothes as she approaches Hraedhyth. Starting on the gold's muscular haunch, she peeks over her shoulder, "And I bet you also have some important things, too." She turns back to her task with a wide smile, breathless laugh followed by a light, "Clear skies." Hraedhyth's focus shifts from Kazavoth to the oil being smoothed along her hide, decadence rippling through their weakening link. The gold lowers her head with a long, satisfied huff, one lid closing after the other. Her farewell is a drag of flame's tongue, a sensual little lick that's over as quickly as it begins. She's done with him, now.

D'kan and Kazavoth are suddenly of one mind: let us leave while the leaving's good. The brownrider shudders slightly at that brush, and the dragon seems both confused and uncomfortable by that last flame's tongue. Now that the oil barrel has been delivered, there is little hampering the brown pair's retreat. In fact, D'kan doesn't even bother buckling in before Kazavoth dives from the ledge, gliding across space toward their own for some much-needed recovery time.