Difference between revisions of "Logs:Wind and Chain"

A hint of a breeze drifts by, a disembodied breeze but one with intent... even if it's a scattered sort of intent, irresolute as the real thing. (To Cadejoth from Solith)

The merest hint of a breeze is all that's needed to set Cadejoth's chains to motion, clanking against each other in a quiet, staccato beat. It's an idle thing, really; if he's curious, he's also patient. Waiting. Watching. (To Solith from Cadejoth)

Clank. Clank-clank. Did she... do that? She winds closer, her attention to one link in particular like a light puff of air. (To Cadejoth from Solith)

She did! Clink goes that link, as it sidles up to one alongside it. Clink-clink. Softer, now: just that one, lonely link. Clink. (To Solith from Cadejoth)

Softer now, this time, the merest breath of a touch. Can she make it sway, and not disturb the others? (To Cadejoth from Solith)

Could a real chain still so quickly, and then resume motion in such a subtle, fragile kind of way? Perhaps not. Cadejoth's can - Cadejoth's do. (To Solith from Cadejoth)

Can he fly with his rider, to places far distant? Familiar with Benden, with Fort and with Crom? Solith can't, she isn't even with her rider at the moment, she has no ledge to call her own. Nor has she interest in 'real' chains just now, this one as real as any, and after a few more gentle, pattering touches, she waits to see what it might do on its own. (To Cadejoth from Solith)

It can dive through the air like a flying trapeze, in fact: it can loop and twine and dart and dance. Indeed, there are other actors upon it, upon all of them, with winds more violent and furious than Solith's exploratory breezes. He's aloft; far from the weyr, and quite alone-- except he isn't, now (thank you, Solith!). But for now, his chains will do what they like. Because he wills them so. (To Solith from Cadejoth)

It's as though the wisp of breeze coalesces into a ribbon of sorts, curved about one of those links as though it were a trapeze to take her just that high. Perhaps she can... see? smell? sense through him likewise... how does he find his way, at night? Can he see in the dark, do the moons suffice? (To Cadejoth from Solith)

To Solith, Cadejoth is king of the night, flying at astronomical heights. He'll share them, too: the light of the moons, the glittering stars in their constellations above and beyond. His chain does a loop-de-loop, far more agile than he-- but perhaps that's enough to share the sensation, and the joy.

In that case... she dares to look at that king, though she won't perch on his throne, and really she's more looking at what he looks at. And Solith outright marvels at it, too, that mystical divinity of unashamed telepathy: moonlight that's soft on her eyes, the stars so bright but also so small, so much closer, surely, than down here. Just how high can he go? Can he touch them, catch them, bring them home? And the joy. (To Cadejoth from Solith)

To Solith, Cadejoths can, and Cadejoths do: he'll hang them for her, those stars, those balls of gas that he dangles from his chains, all the better to dance like fireworks (boom, boom). Flying, fearless, faithful and true; he'll go higher still, and share it all. He's high above the plains, now - can she see? So far, and so fast.

It's amazing. Solith's... half-hesitant to take to the air herself, when she never is, but never has the difference between her flight and could-be flight been so clear. She can feel the difference between her fluttering and his soaring, his speeding, and now she's just not keen to be seen when she's flying like that. And yet, she's a dragon. She can't not. (To Cadejoth from Solith)

Dragons fly. It's what they do: fluttering dragons, soaring dragons, dragons all. Flight, though, that's what matters. That's what he shares, now, in the intricate movements involve in each wingbeat, and the instinctual rise and fall, glide and lift. He's twisting, now, turning back towards homewards, though it's so very distant. (To Solith from Cadejoth)

Hers is a breathy sigh, appreciative of this dramatical, romantical flight over anything more critical or skeptical. She's moreover a mirror in miniature, Solith, twice reflected on the still lake in the otherwise still night until she too turns to land... before the barracks. She must return. She must sleep, even, though not truly until she feels the landing that says he's home. Even adults have to land. (To Cadejoth from Solith)

Sleep, yes, she must do that. But no - not before he's landed on his feet, cock of the walk in those last few wingbeats before, there, safe and sound. Does he even need to say it? Perhaps no, and yet-- « Dream well, Solith. » Dream well. (To Solith from Cadejoth)

Solith will. (She'll try.) (To Cadejoth from Solith)