Difference between revisions of "Logs:Blood and Tentacles"

Qhyluth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
This low, narrow ledge is barely a hop up from the bowl floor for a dragon, so close to being an actual ground weyr that it's almost unfair - if only someone had thought to build some steps! Actually, someone has tried the next best thing, bolting in a now-fraying rope-ladder that /does/ offer access to the ground... if one is willing to chance the aged material. As close as it is to the ground, the daily hustle and bustle of bowl activity sweeps all the way across this ledge, and even indoors: it rarely dims below a loud buzz during the day, and even at night sounds can carry. The view's good, though: the perfect spot to survey goings on around it.

There's no request for permission. There's barely time for a decision. They're going past, the way they do, and then suddenly they're not. Suddenly, Lythronath drops out of the sky, not with wings flared to catch his weight, just with big strong hind legs to land on, and a roar because it's funny. « Hahahaha! » funny. If there is a glass of water somewhere within the weyr, it ripples when he pounds down onto the ground. « Blue. » As greeting as it could be. A'rist is as unapologetic in his dismount, feet claiming stone only moments after his bronze's have done the same.

Though it's unclear if there is any water in the weyr to be set a-rippling, the abrupt appearance and jarring descent of Lythronath is enough to set the fog-shrouded waters of Qhyluth's mind into a frothy state of agitation. Such will suffice as greeting as well. The flick of foam, the lap of water, the deep and shapeless groaning of the unspeakable. The blue is coiled not inside the weyr but, rather, in the entranceway, with the canvas tucked behind him as if to seal the weyr fully shut. It's only when A'rist dismounts that the blue begins to uncoil, wings mantling and body curved, just so, to permit entry - but only for the human half. Only for that. The bronze will just have to bear the brunt of the blue's ochre-hued stare.

A'rist lifts his chin a little, ego fully conscious of that bit of space, that special status. The bottom of his jacket earns a little tug. He looks to Qhyluth long and hard as he goes past him, careful not to step on him, to brush him. A'rist doesn't need that invasiveness. Lythronath, well. He's balancing back on his hind legs as his reader goes, tail swinging out over the bowl once, twice... and then that massive head lowers, and some teeth show. « Mine mine mine. » Mockery.

As soon as A'rist has passed into the weyr, Qhyluth shifts his weight as if to seal the entry again. It's only at Lythronath's words that something catches. The fog thickens in the span of his mind and there is no echo across dark water. The blue's lunge forward is forcibly truncated by the abrupt yanking of unseen chains that rattle loudly in that domain. In the end, he only hops forward, claws sinking into the stone and wings flared, while She She She reins him in. Within the weyr, A'rist will be greeted to the sight of a place that barely looks lived in. The walls are marked with great claw marks and gouges, with painted patterns - arcane whorls and curious designs in jarring colors - at the lower level. There is no immediate sign of Ulyana, but light filtering in from a cavern at the back suggests that she is, indeed, present.

Lythronath answers in a nascent roar, teeth showing more now, and that hop answered with a forward step. A'rist? If he's there, his presence doesn't come through in the heavy press of the bronze's mind. That head keeps bobbing. Fire-streaked wings lift slightly from his back. But there's no lunge, just a forward step, little one, to answer that hop. So close now. Can that blue feel his breath? In the weyr, A'rist pushes his coat open a bit, back a bit on his shoulders, and looks more at the gouges than the paint. He's in no hurry now he's inside. It's slow progress toward the light. Snooping progress. Sniffing progress. Listening progress.

There's little to hear. Some rustling - but the latent acoustics make it difficult to tell if it's inside the weyr, or the canvas barrier. Examination of the gouges will reveal that it's all Qhyluth's work; there is a pattern to it, surely, but it's difficult to make sense of. Strange curves and lines; roughly wrought patterns hewn with an air of frustration. The paint below seems to merely echo what's above, if in lurid hues that ought not be. "It is safe," is the bland decree from the small cavern in the back. "I am just finishing something up." Outside, Qhyluth maintains a steady, unmoving posture - but his eyes are blazing in odd, off-color hues of red and orange that are a far cry from the typical range. Wings flared, chest puffed out - and, yes. The breath. Surely the bronze feels the blue's breath as keenly as the blue feels the other's. Territorial. Pressing. The chains are taut and groaning.

"Oh yeah?" asks A'rist, still moseying along, thumbs eventually finding his belt, which just brings more of a swing into his gait. "You d-" But the beginning of a question is cut off, and he makes a face at nothing in particular, and swings a glance back out toward the ledge. Instead comes, as he finally progresses far enough to reach that light source, "Lythronath uses his kills to decorate." Lythronath, who grins on, sharp teeth and attitude both, who emits clicks in his throat, right. at. Qhyluth.

"I had to move Qhyluth's skulls inside," Ulyana replies. "He did not want to see them damaged by the ice and snow." Once A'rist has passed into the living area, the skulls are on full display - though ill-lit by the light that comes from the much smaller cavern off of it. They litter the shelves and are piled on the lone chair in the middle of the room. Hundreds, perhaps. This room, at least, has no sign of claw marks or paint; but, the paints and brushes are stored here, tucked away in a corner. The source of the light is the smaller cavern off of that, scarcely large enough for the bed in there. Ulyana's seated on that bed with a book in her lap - a closed book with a peculiar, patchwork leather cover - while the curtain leading to the room is open. A lantern hangs from the ceiling of the room, serving as the sole source of light. "The carvings calm him," she continues. "But not today." A beat. "Why are you here?" Outside, the blue gapes his jaw just enough to emit a throaty gurgling sound in reply to that click, a not-quite-roar that's too deep and too wet to sound at all natural.

"He likes the blood more than bones. Guts. Bile." A'rist shrugs. "If we do get bones, well... always know where to get more." It's almost academic, the distracted details as the bronzerider considers Qhyluth's collection. And then sweeps the same gaze over Ulyana and it all, the lantern, book, bed. "'Cause," he answers after only the faintest pause, "we're not going to be for much longer." That bronze on the ledge has clicks to spare, a series that starts slow, but begins to move at a faster rate, never moving quickly',, but certainly suggesting some building intensity. "Bothering you?"

The book is set aside and Ulyana pushes to her feet. "Those are too fleeting, or so he has told me. It is always the bones that remain." One corner of her mouth distorts into unreadability - and then there's a subtle shift in the whole of her expression, one that gently pulls her features into a furrowed state. "Qhyluth is more disturbed by visitors than I am," is finally said, as if the weight of the situation was still be processed. Then, after a breath and a slow blink: "Where are you going?" The blue's throaty responses grow deeper and more resonant, practically vibrating through his bones. Coiled and tight and just waiting - waiting - for something. Anything.

"Most of the fun's the doing it," A'rist points out. "Rest is just pride," is more thoughtful, as much to himself as to Ulyana, and bringing a bit of a wrinkle to his nose. Huh. The standoff continues outside. The clicking, too, slowing, speeding, the only that to change, to tease and suggest and result in nothing, not yet. "Ierne, I guess." Those arms come up now to cross over his chest. "Not forever. We'll be back before Roszadyth flies. Latest." An oath, pointed.

To which there's only silence and a shallow, mechanical nod of the up-down-center variety. Ulyana's head is tipped up by necessity, but the weight of her gaze is as intense as ever. That silence continues to coil after his words, even while the noises on the ledge persist in their fluid state; more rumbling and gurgling - loud and then quiet, a damp-sounding hiss interspersed with the other audible emissions. Finally: "Of course." Another stiff nod follows, along with another of those difficult to read contortions of her mouth. "We will visit." As good as an oath, that.

Gaze is held, though not without a sort of confirming fidget, a quick, sharp nod. It's that promise that has him cocking an eyebrow and turning back toward the ledge, pausing a moment to listen, feel, and then looking back. "Good." And with that, he resumes walking, and invites himself to sit on the corner of that bed, the decision coming only with another quick, sharp nod. Good.

"Good." Echoed. Purposeful. There is no effort to stop him when he moves. Ulyana tilts her head just a little to track his progress and it's only when he's seated that she sits again. Her hands lace in her lap and she half-turns just enough to look at him. There's a long moment, a very long moment in which she, too, tunes into what's happening elsewhere, then: "Why Ierne?" It's worth a slight creasing of her brow all over again. That question is followed a second or two later with, "Why must you go?"

Some bit of a breath is exhaled - but not all of it - when she sits, too. His arms have come down from their spot over his chest, and instead, both hands rest on either side of him, gripping the edge of the bed, but not hard. "K'del knows one of their weyrwomen." A nod, then. "Be good, a strong weyrwoman," comes after her question. "Find a place," is also part of the answer. Softer, and only after a few breaths, "Need a place."

Something plays out behind the slightly cracked mask and Ulyana shifts just a little closer. When A'rist's hands drop to the bed, she reaches with one of hers to rest it on the back of his. Touching. Testing. Stroking. "Good," is yet another echo from before. Her lower lip is drawn in and worried over for just a few seconds by her teeth before a low-murmured, "You will find a place." She tries a smile, but it's as ill-fitted as all of her smiles seem to be. "I will hope - we will hope - that you will find what you are looking for."

A'rist's gaze is drawn down; his head turns with it, so he's staring, full-faced, at her hand. His own fingers flex, pulling up, tips and palm still against the bed, to make the tendons stand out. Texture. "Eventually," is a sober estimate. A couple breaths, varying in length in time with the clicks still issuing from the ledge. More earnest: "I don't know."

Her fingertips slide along knuckles and trace out the lines of tendons as they're flexed into ridges. Following along. Cutting across. Ulyana's hands remain smooth; calluses no doubt scrubbed away or remedied with oils of some sort. Fingers drop down and the pads of her fingertips are drawn over his nails. Thoughtful. "No one knows," she finally says. "But," and, here, she lifts her gaze just a little from studying the play of one hand over the other, "you will not find out unless you try." The gurgling is starting to calm. The beast of the deeps is not retreating, precisely, but shoring up his defenses. Locking down.

Lythronath's clicks slow in response, slow, but don't disappear. The mental pressure lessens, as some other impulse calls his attention. The teeth stay right where they are, right in plain view. Something is changing. A'rist runs his tongue over his upper row of teeth. One of those nails is cracked; the skin surrounding all the nails is dry, but, at this point, not home to blood or gore or even overmuch dirt. "Only Weyrs'll take on a dragon's feeding," he remarks dryly. And then that hand flips over, and a grab is made - not to take her full hand, so much as to catch at a couple fingers, and, if that works, draw them up to peer at them.

The cracked nail earns a thoughtful press of fingertip. Feeling. The dryness is noted; contrasted sharply by the relative health of her skin. "Not all the world is occupied by Hold, Hall, and Weyr," Ulyana replies blandly in those moments before the move is made. Her hand is easily caught in whatever form he seeks to take it; when it proves to be just fingers, the rest of her hand goes somewhat limp to make the process of lifting easier. Her hand looks smooth. Clean. Meticulously kept. Short nails. Thin digits attached to a slender hand and a bony wrist that says plenty about her naturally diminutive build.

A'rist looks it all over, turns her hand and wrist a bit this way, a bit that, all by that hold on her fingers. He stretches out a thumb, shifts the angle of his elbow and arm, so that he can prod at the foremost bone of that wrist. He brings his face closer, and agrees, "No." He taps the edges of his teeth with his tongue. "But a place without people... and then you aren't one anymore."

"We are only three heartbeats away from other people." Matter-of-fact. Ulyana's wrist and hand turn easily at his explorations, the twistings and turnings pulling out the play of whipcord muscle and tendon under the pale skin of her forearm. Her skin is cool, her pulse barely perceptible at her wrist should his thumb touch there. Her head tilts slightly to one side, a queer and birdlike gesture accompanied by thoughtful silence and the stirring of her free hand. That hand uncoils in an attempt to brush fingers in a featherlight touch along his jaw - moving from the back of his jawline to his chin.

Cool skin to a warm touch; not sweaty, not yet, though it seems it would be an easy enough transition for that skin. A'rist's jaw tenses a little at the touch; then relaxes. Then tenses again, this time consciously, a hint of amusement showing at the corners of his mouth. He keeps the hand he's captured as is, where is. Finally, "That's why it gets dangerous, I think." Click, click, click.

Once it seems his explorations have ceased, Ulyana begins to test; flexing fingers just so, subtly adjusting her wrist. Her other hand glides back to the bunching of jaw muscle and feels out the shape of it with barely there fingertips, though her thumb remains anchored somewhere near his mouth. It's a spidery spread of digits, coupled with a brief and utterly intense expression that shifts abruptly when he speaks again. "Perhaps." Ambivalence is a singular roll of one shoulder. "But it does not have to be." Shift and flow; gurgle and hiss.

A'rist's expression shifts, troubled at that suggestion, almost sad. His thumb presses against that jut of bone now, not too hard, but not gently, nor lightly, response to the movement. "Not everyone can keep it tethered. It's not so clear." The last is almost a question, murmured as he turns toward that anchor point, like as if to rest his teeth on that thumb, while his free hand remains immobilised against the edge of the bed. Click.

"We will visit," is soft - but firm. As unyielding as the bone that his thumb presses to. Fingers twitch in response only to settle into a comfortable curl. Ulyana's other hand remains where it is, while she watches his head turn. For a moment, her thumb moves with his head - but then it lifts, just so, to glide across skin and come to rest just there. The pad of her thumb is laid bare, her fingers lifting and hovering just above the skin. Still and steady, despite the deeper shift in fathomless water.

A'rist lets off some of that pressure on her wrist. He doesn't pursue her thumb any further, rather, looks past it, looks to Ulyana herself. That other hand at last stirs, crossing his body, fingertips reaching out toward the tip of her knee. "Good."

The boniness extends to that skirt-clad knee; initial contact elicits a slight jerk, with stillness sinking in a heartbeat later. Ulyana's thumb taps gently against his teeth, his lips, and then retreats to the relative safety of his chin while the rest of her fingers settle like a spinner's web along his jaw and cheek. No words now; no need for an echo. Just a nod, stiff and singular, while her eyes remain locked on his. Breathing remains slow and steady; deliberately measured.

Relative safety, but it remains safe for now. A'rist flexes his fingers now, recoiled at that first jerk, left poised and hovering. He doesn't look away from her; he waits until he can feel that stillness, jaw working faintly, but mouth not closing fully, before he drops that hand again. Lythronath's clicks have slowed to a point they might be missed across that wide interval. But his muscles are coiling, and the tip of his tail twitches.

Observation precedes further exploration. The resting of his hand, the closure of his mouth, all of it is noted. When his lips shut, her thumb creeps up again to press against them. Testing. Experimenting. And if she can manage it, she'll free her other hand - but only to mirror the motions of the one already resting on his face. If, if, if. And, all the while, that steady watching; eyes on eyes. On the ledge, coiled tension is a mutual state. Qhyluth settles on his haunches, wings tight to his back, forepaws resting on his knees, and tail stiffly tapping against the stone behind him. The gurgling is barely perceptible, a bone-deep resonance that doesn't quite reach to the stone.

The wrist is let go, though not without the friction of callused fingertips on soft skin. A'rist re-purposes the first hand, a roll of his shoulder bringing it as a half-fist to press into the bed behind him, support. The second hand eventually comes from a simple touch to a solid press, settled on that bony knee. Lips push on that thumb, thumbs. His turn to test now, a slight forward crane of his neck, checking for solidity. Or resistance. Talons lift and click down on the stone outside as Lythronath's weight shifts.

Both hands cup the sides of A'rist's face, both thumbs in place to press back against his equally pressing lips. Positions shift slightly out of necessity; he gains support from both bed and knee and Ulyana's forced to abandon her examinations of his jaw and lips for the sake of finding a handhold. Palms pass with a whisper down his jaw and neck until her fingers lace behind at the nape; he'll find solidity and a hint of tension, but only until her grip is secure. Claws scrape on stone and wings whisper as security is sought. Silence, now, from the blue - but his eyes are off again, a dreadful ochre-yellow shadowed by his eyeridges.

It's more a shift up than away that follows, and a shift to accommodate; A'rist puts more of his weight on that back arm than on her knee, slides his hip to be a bit more under him. It needs to be a grip rather than a pressure at her knee, to keep from leaving it. And it lets him raise his shoulders and neck, test the grip Ulyana's found. Lips press together, and up a bit, a thin smile that's not quite a nascent smirk. To Qhyluth, Lythronath suggests, with one intensely motivated word, « More. »

Fingers tighten; nails threaten to dig and tease. No warning to be found here; rather, Ulyana's expression skews inquisitive, with a faint furrow of her brow and a parting of lips as questions bubble up and dissipate before they find articulation. A slight pull of the mouth to one side is matched with a subtle narrowing of gray eyes. Studying. Intense. As he moves, she moves, intent on coordinating for some mutual sense of balance - for him, for her. It does nothing for the blue outside, who seems to be sinking deeper and deeper into his posture. In the space of minds, Lythronath's words are consumed by a thickening layer of fog - a fog that mutes all sound that touches it. Only the faintly visible lapping of water at the shore suggests what might be happening within.

« More, » comes again, directly at Qhyluth, Lythronath's tail flicking out fast to one side, fast to the other, while A'rist barely gives that new balance time to steady before risking upsetting it again, leaning forward, the wiry strength in that arm taut now to keep the whole affair from toppling too soon. The other hand is no help; it's released its grip, only to slip forward, aiming for mid thigh. He's still watching her. It's probably that, more than anything, to be blamed for the quickening of his breath, in absence of his dragon's clicking.

The fog thickens. The moons narrow to mere crescents, shadowed by burgeoning clouds within that perpetual night. Qhyluth is unmoving, save for the rapid whirl of eyes that betrays something - but what? The waters say nothing. There are no sycophants moaning in the distance. That word is allowed to fall into the void - and be torn apart by the fingers of fog. Ulyana's lips remain parted, poised to speak - but the slight shift in her respiration seems to make that improbable, if not impossible. Her thigh is lean and corded with muscle; it tenses under the initial touch of fingers, but relaxes - if slightly - once that grip is secure. Her fingers slip slightly down his neck, closer to the shoulders, while his forward press will find her yielding - after a fashion. Unblinking and watchful, all the while.

A'rist tests at that muscle, follows the shape of it, up a ways, then back down. It's not words; it's a heavy push of air to go with the continued press. And then it's just his neck, craning, to bring his head to hers - not lips to lips, not yet. He goes in forehead first, to push, to test again, to incite response. Lythronath's tail lashes once more, and he gives one, solid click that tries to break that fog and force apart the water.

Being a rider has done some good for her; she has some muscle of the leanest kind, which gives her some solidity that wasn't there even a turn ago. Follow it, feel it out - but there are still places where bone dominates. Her hip, if his hand strays so far; her knee, as he already knows. Forehead meets forehead and it's there that her breath is held - a heartbeat, two, then it's released in a slow hiss that's barely audible. She starts to push back - and then it all falls apart. Outside, Qhyluth finally snaps. Dragon on dragon violence is all but unheard of in flights - but here, now, he's pushed far enough to test those traditional boundaries. It's not the clicking that does it; something else, something deeper has finally forced its way through. At once, the waters and fog burst wide open with a howling mass of unspeakable nightmares and squamous tentacles; at once, the blue uncoils and lunges forward, jaws wide in a brassy bellow the likes of which have never been heard by the bronze - not from this dragon, in any case. Ochre skews to a bloody terracotta hue, eyes spinning with fury. And, back inside, Ulyana tightens and turns her head away, jaw clenched and body seized with the force of something Other. And if that all but forces A'rist closer to her as her arms pull, so be it.

It is not often that Lythronath is startled. But now, the bronze's wings flare, and his jaw opens wide, teeth to meet the blue's lunge as the bronze steps back out of necessity, a brassy roar to answer the monster against which the full force of Lythronath's mind shoves, defensively. A'rist is pulled, and grabs in response, every muscle tight now. His fingers have dug into her thigh, hard. His neck presses to push his head, against- her temple? Whatever is left him. He pushes at her harder. Down. And he growls.

One moment, there's nothing. In the next, a full assault comes; more mental than physical, perhaps owing only to some subconscious awareness of size. The ocean is disgorged, a raw tide of emotion that has no name and swarms with things that have no place under Rukbat. The moons are gone and the only illumination is from the eyes of That Which Dwells Beneath - the very thing that's pulling itself to the shore with limbs that bear no earthly analog. Those defenses will be tested against the weight of it all - against everything. The blue's physical posture is up on his hind feet, wings flared and chest flooded with air that's emitted in another bellow. Ulyana's temple is thusly pressed against and she bares her teeth with a barely audible hiss. Her nails dig in this time, short and sharp as they are; all of A'rist's pressing and pushing will be met with claws and - if he's not careful - teeth. No pushing back, not precisely, but there's definitely something there that's filled with fight.

A beat and Lythronath has his bearings. He roars again, and he shoves, first at each tentacle, then at the centre of it all. Wings flared, tail lashing, balanced on his toes, teeth at the ready, he bellows. And taunts. « Come! » Lythronath is ready. A'rist doesn't back down, isn't warned off. He likes the fight. The hand leaves her thigh now and makes a hurried shift for her hip, or abdomen, while a leg is ready to try subdue any flailing. "Your chain broke," is hissed of his own, up near her ear, almost exultant. Even if it means he might lose an ear himself.

Howl and shove; snarl and pull. If those tentacles can gain any purchase on Lythronath, they will yank and tear and haul with all of their collective might. Those appendages can be severed or damaged - but it only seems to fuel the beast even more. Pain doubles the rage - whether in the mind or in the flesh. Qhyluth charges, heedless of his size - or relative lack thereof - intent on placing a low body blow on the bigger dragon. And so it goes. Ulyana is a tightly wound beast in her own right, but it's a different kind of beast. Better, maybe; or worse. "Or I let it slip." Ominously whispered, that. He'll come close to losing that ear; teeth catch and hold for only a moment until a far more tempting target - that place where neck and shoulder meet - comes into view. No flailing from her; she just seeks to latch on and make him fight back. His hand will find hip or belly as he sees fit; in either case, hard bone or taut muscle will meet his fingers.

It lands; against the head he's lowered, but nonetheless. It will leave a bruise. A scar, if talons have managed to reach him anywhere. Lythronath shoves back, mentally and physically at once, using his weight and size to try move Qhylyth. Move him toward the ledge's edge. Claim what is his. Those words are enough to prompt A'rist to try the same. "'"Good," is hissed, not at once, but when her teeth meet that skin near his shoulder. The hand finds her hip, presses while he tries to disentangle himself - or draw her along with him - enough that he can find his feet.

No talons. Not yet. It's all about slamming into the bronze with all the force the blue can muster. The bruising is mutual. But the maneuver leaves him open to the counter-push of the bigger dragon. Though Qhyluth's mind pushes with all the terrible force that an ocean of unbridled and terrible emotion can muster, his body is left scrabbling for purchase on the narrow ledge, with claws sinking into the stone as best they can as he's pushed along. It's only when he reaches the edge that the blue is able to get low and try to force his way under the bigger dragon. No claiming. Not now. Not yet. No. Ulyana's teeth are sharp and her jaw is strong; once she's latched on, she's on good and dislodging her will be difficult. But, the rest of her is easily moved however he seeks to move her, so fixated is she on that one thing for the moment. An inarticulate snarl comes in response to his "good", strange and bestial and filled with something akin to emotion.

« Blues! » Slippery little buggers that chase him with all these Things from the Water. Lythronath roars, a pitch of hysteria in it as he snaps at tentacles that aren't there, and scrabbles to turn and land a hard tail thwack on the smaller dragon. A'rist's attempt at leverage is somewhat foiled, hunched and awkward, with those teeth still in his flesh. A futile attempt to pull free - is there blood? - has him changing tack, not without a wordless noise in answer. The hand at her hips pushes, now, up, further onto the bed. The other one, if it can get free, means to join. A'rist will go to, awkward and half crawling. If, if, if.

Across the water, an ancient bell begins to toll - and, with it, the cries of sycophants begin to rise. « Ia, Ia! » The chant is followed with garbled sounds that should be words - yet aren't. Something is wrong with them, obscene and distorted, just like the shapes and horrors that boil from the broken sea. The tentacles persist and multiply, severed appendages spurting black ichor laced with phosphorescent greens that glow. The Things That Dwell In Deepest Water continue to rise like so much bile, froth-laced and wrong. Qhyluth himself is hit and hit hard, which sends him to the ground with a furious scrabbling of claws and splaying of wings. He bellows and his mind continues the assault, while he physically struggles to regain his footing. And there is blood - perhaps - of the human variety. When A'rist pulls free, there's a hiss of mild displeasure from Ulyana. She's light enough to move, to shove, to force - but not a lot of force is needed. She sucks her teeth and sets her strange, too-bright gaze on him once again. She'll goad that crawling along with nails that are still locked into the flesh of his shoulders; she'll even pull for what little that might do.

Lythronath raors at them again, turns and snaps, swings his tail and claws at the ledge. Qhyluth himself, Qhyluth the physical presence, is given time to right himself in this panic. The bronze finally shakes his head, spreads his wings, and flap-jumps back to the edge of the ledge. It's regrouping, only, to focus on that « Blue! » For a fleeting moment, there's a mental press from him again, a firm and denying wall. He doesn't lunge forward. Lythronath is on the defensive. A'rist isn't. He stops when he's on all fours now, shoulders drawn and tense, coughing out a, "Ha!" that isn't victory so much as answer to a challenge. It might overbalance him, but he lifts one of those hands, and reaches down, for her skirt, even if his eyes have shifted to that same neck-shoulder place on her that now bears her mark on him.

There is no more bellowing from the blue. The sound in his mind is terrible and overwhelming; the rising voices and thunderous bell working in concert, but not quite loud enough to drown out the howling moans of Those That Grasp With Slimy Appendages. « Ia! » Qhyluth manages to find his feet again, all four at first - and then up to two, rearing up once more with his chest puffed out and wings spread. He does not pursue. No. His mind may threaten to crush, but his body is still again in a terrible contrast to the even more terrible imageries that boil at the forefront of minds. The wall will hold the worst of it at bay, however; but Lythronath will need to bolster it lest the Lesser Things find some way around it. « Ia, Ia! » Ulyana's mouth pulls sharply to one side at that "ha!" and the tip of her tongue snakes out to feel out the line of her teeth; the lower curve of her lip. Her nails release their hold on his shoulders, but only to allow her to push herself to a better position beneath him. While he reaches down for the skirt that has, by now, bunched itself up between her thighs, she's reaching to get a hand under his shirt, nails primed to rake along his back. And does she notice his attention? She must - why else would she tilt her head just so to lay that stretch of pale skin bare? Or is it a trap?

Lythronath bobs his head, though it threatens to turn into a sway, back and forth, eyes whirling wild, red and orange and fast. He resists. He tries to smother. He throws the full chaos of his mind, imageless, wordless, against them, over them, at them. A'rist shudders and flexes the muscles of his back against the rake of nails, as if it could provide some armour to rebuff them - or give them better purchase. He grins hard, teeth clenched. And he gets grips hard on a thigh, and shoves and tugs at that skirt, at anything in the way of getting his hand between her legs, neither gentle nor patient. Only then will he lunge for that bared skin, teeth to match. Trap or not.

Qhyluth-the-statue remains still. Cool. Frozen - save for the nightmare hue of his eyes, a wretched and bloody-looking affair that's just wrong, wrong, wrong against the shade of his hide. Minds clash hard and fierce - a far better battlefield than the narrow ledge that their bodies occupy. Let the bellowing nightmare play itself out there, where shapeless chaos meets nameless shapes; wordless madness collides with the maddening chants of the unseen. Ulyana's nails sink into A'rist's back as deeply as they can - and then she pulls. She bites her lower lip in anticipation and, when his teeth find that tender flesh, her teeth sink harder into her lip. It's barely enough to throttle a moan; it's when his hand finds what it seeks that she gives up on silencing herself. That contact, that bite, all of it just doubles her efforts at flaying his back with her nails.

« Ha! » Now, Lythronath has something, enough for sound first. « Ha! Haha! » beats against all those shapes and things, bludgeons. A'rist bites once and hard in that spot, and then isn't thinking to check that he's left his mark. His attention is on the fight against her nails and her grip. He answers her moan with a roar - like Lythronath's, but from his throat - and then the growl that accompanies the balancing act of working at his own belt. « Hahaha! » Lythronath throws those feelings back against those monsters. « Not yours! » And he swings that big head forward.

« Ia! » for each Ha!, the voices splintering and strange. Something else is breaking in the blue, something terrible - and the hues of desperation begin to bleed into everything. The mark will be there if he does check; pale skin will bear the mark brightly for some time - and she, like as not, will bear it proudly. His release, however, might be his undoing; as his attention shifts to fumbling for his belt, hers switches to the shoulder she hasn't bitten. Her fingers rake down his back to his waist - and once his belt is loosened, those hands will be quick to help in shedding the errant garment. Her teeth are the thing to fear, because it's another hungry bite that she seeks to land on his flesh, sharp-toothed and relentless and filled with throaty sound that's oddly echoed in the blue outside. The feelings that are flung at him are magnified in those terrible waters, only to be shoved back in a dangerous wave. The bronze's head swings - and the blue is braced, forepaws raised in an effort to shove that head away.

A'rist gives a second of those copied roars, when he feels those teeth, familiar now. And then again, when he kicks free of belt and all, and reaches back down, to bunch the skirt, to clear his way. He doesn't fight to be free of her teeth or nails this time. Not so long as he can get himself between her legs and thrust in. That's the third roar. That's the one that his dragon sends back to him, even as he recoils, muzzle bearing the traces of talons, ichor dotting the gashes. « Ours! » Lythronath sings out, nonetheless. His. His and A'rist's.

Teeth bite harder. There's a muffled sound, something between a snarl and a hiss. A bloody revelation will be had; the white coverlet ruined in that moment. Ulyana trembles in the wake of that initial shock and, once that thrust has been made, she finally releases his shoulder in search of something else. She shifts her weight beneath him, knees digging into his side as best they can, nails all but buried in the meat of his back. Spurring. Urging despite the pain. Because of the pain. Qhyluth's talons are marred with traces of ichor, but the onslaught eases - just a little. Regrouping. Pulling back. His pain is one thing; Her pain is another. Bloodied ochre eyes shift to a sickly yellow of distress and the blue, for the first time, is completely lost. The words hold no meaning, not now; they fall like so many coins into water that's gone abruptly, ominously, still. Not quite concession, not yet, but something is shaken. Stirred. Askew.

When released, that shoulder rolls, then shifts, giving the bulk of his weight to the other arm, ready again. Respite, but A'rist isn't one to slow, less so with that urging that no doubt is coaxing blood from his back, scratches to match his dragons, the same and different all at once. He matches her again, a duck of his head for that same mirrored spot, in time to a thrust. On the ledge, Lythronath doesn't press on; he could, should, but it's enough for now that the voices and creatures have ceased their torment. Enough for a temporary truce, waited out back on the edge of the ledge, with something less barbed in the last, repeated, « Ours. »

Matched markings, all around. Ulyana pushes herself up to make it that much easier to lay claim to her shoulder once more; he might even feel the guttural sound that escapes her. Once she's found her purchase on his back, she keeps it, her body shifting under his in ways more instinctual than knowledgeable. Feral. Inhuman, in some ways; oblivious to all except the moment itself. She quivers and shakes just a little throughout it all, anxious energies seeking some kind of outlet and not yet finding it. On the ledge, there is silence, sullen and strange - even for Qhyluth. The moons remain shrouded and dark; the waters fogged over again. No more bells. No more cries. Yet, even now, there is no concession. No yielding.

Lythronath waits and watches, still, still in recovery also, enjoying the silence. This time, the marks are seen when A'rist pulls back. Both of them. He shows his teeth to her, a wild grin, rhythm accelerating. The moment promises to be strange, if he can catch her eyes, his own stare intense, demanding, as is the hand that goes once more to hold at her hip, hold her where he needs her. Sweat meets those trails on his back, the wounds on his shoulders. He doesn't finish with a roar, but a groan.

Placid waters - or seemingly so - remain in stark contrast to the human half. Ulyana tips her head back and presses her hips up when A'rist finally releases her shoulder. His teeth-baring grin is met with a savage one of her own, a rare smile that fits - fierce and dangerous in its own right. Stranger things have happened, surely; but this moment threatens to trump all but the most odd. Eyes meet eyes, intensity mirrored - reflected, doubled upon itself. The flaying of his back slows and eventually stops when the end comes, though it takes her a few moments to really realize just what's transpired. The groan is enough to draw her head up and press forehead to forehead, a kiss temptingly close and, yet, so far away.

Both hands are down again, bracing his weight. A'rist needs no moment of realisation, cognisant for the whole of it. The wiry muscle through his shoulders and chest flex and move, using much of his weight to press back against her forehead. That hinted kiss doesn't come, of course. When he pulls back, and out, poised only long enough in the calm to study those marks on her again before shifting off to the side, with a heave of breath to mark the change. Lythronath bobs his head. Just once.

There's a slight tightening of her features in the aftermath and Ulyana squirms just a little to gather her skirts, just so. At least those are dark; the coverlet is a lost cause. She remains on her back when he slides over, her hands lacing over her midsection and eyes fixed on the ceiling and the lantern that burns there. Silence is kept at bay only by the sound of unsteady respiration and the shift of fabric and skin as a comfortable position is sought - and ultimately found. Qhyluth moves, but only to take his original stance at the entrance of the weyr; guardian again, solid and stalwart - even if the weight of his wings seems to be too much. His gaze remains level on Lythronath, though, and the bobbing of the bronze's head is met with a brief exposure of teeth.

He might have rolled onto his back - was starting to - but her nails are remembered. Felt, still. A'rist stays on his side, and in time, when his breathing is more regular, props himself up. It's a grab for Ulyana's hand, then - once again, to study, searching for trace of it all in those nails. It's not an intense study, though, interrupted soon enough with a look to her face, with something like the preamble that goes before concern on his own.

It takes little time for her breathing to return to its normal rate; a little longer for her pulse to even out. In that time, she remains utterly still, gaze fixed and body gone from tense to relaxed. It's only when A'rist moves that she blinks and cuts a look askance to him. Her hand is easily caught, bits of blood and skin caught beneath some nails. Hints of what had transpired; easily scrubbed away. Fingers twitch a little under his fleeting scrutiny; perhaps inspired by his shift in attention. She draws a breath and looks from her hand to his face in turn before she intones, "I hope I did not hurt you." Concern? It's there.

Laughter. Maybe it shouldn't be his first response, but there it is. He sets her hand back down, carefully now, in this moment at least. A'rist sits up, long enough to squirm out of his sweat-damp shirt, which is used, instead of the coverlet, to see to any quick wiping required, and then discarded. He'll surely find it later. "Redwort," comes just before he turns back to look at her, softly enough. "For both of us, probably. Do you have any?"

That hand joins the other on her midsection and Ulyana's mouth twists a little to one side. Amused? Maybe. It's only when A'rist starts to get up that she moves, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and giving a bit of a stretch. "My supplies are in the other room. I will get them." A motion is made to forestall any effort he might make toward getting up. Nor will she be gone long - a little longer than expected, maybe, but only long enough for a quick change of undergarments and skirt. Her return is with a small tray of jars - numbweed, oil, and redwort - with a pair of neatly folded towels.

Where normally he might have tracked down his pants, there's something in that motion... and A'rist is where she left him upon her return, only with a corner of that (ruined) coverlet turned up to offer some bit of cover while he waits. Expectant. "Here," beckons with a held out hand, for some of those supplies. "I'll get yours." Lythronath is watching Qhyluth intently again, but still does not offer any overt aggression. Watches, yes. Waits, yes. And clicks occasionally, for show.

The tray is set on the bed, with just the faintest ghost of a raised eyebrow for his covered state. It's to A'rist's words that Ulyana responds in her customary, calculated way. "Of course. They do not feel too bad," but, lacking mirrors, she can't actually see the damage. She sits and pulls her braids and stray hair out of the way with a hand, leaving him plenty of clearance to do what must be done. Qhyluth continues his study in kind, intense as ever; the watching, the waiting, these are things they're both good at. Clicking isn't his style, but low gurgling is - and that's offered in due course, a watery echo for those clicks.

It's a strange sense of exposure, and it might be what has him chewing at the inside of his lower lip while he opens that first jar, rises to a kneel, and still pulls that coverlet along with him. The ministrations are careful, and practiced. A week without superficial injury is a week without sunshine, with a dragon like his. He takes his time. He holds his tongue. The two questions posed come together, one, non-verbal, when he holds out the jar to her, and rocks back into a sit. The other is simple words: "You still going to come visit?"

To her credit, she does not flinch - neither in anticipation, nor during the deed. Ulyana remains still, save to move as necessary to make the job easier. And, when he's done, there's a slight nod of her head in appreciation, coupled as it is with a fleeting smile. At the inarticulate query, she simply takes the offered jar and motions for him to turn; back first, then shoulders. And as she settles into the deed of cleaning his wounds, she eventually answers his spoken question with a matter-of-fact: "Of course."