Logs:Orchestrations
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| RL Date: 13 July, 2012 |
| Who: Iolene, K'del |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: While on a rest day, getting away from their month of grief and all of the political machines that being at High Reaches brings with it, Ysavaeth rises. Or something. |
| Where: deserted southern beach |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Braeden/Mentions, Aughan/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| Tomorrow has become today and the night's been, possibly, the first night of restful sleep for Iolene since she lost their baby. She's awake before the sun comes up, only to roll out of bed as Rukbat rises. It's an orchestrated affair, no coincidence she asked to get away yesterday, when a drudge delivers a picnic basket that Io goes through, checking off things on her mental list that she's requested and fussing with the wine carafe before settling it back into its place. She then washes, taking her time in K'del's bath tub, pausing as she scrubs against her abdomen and halting a sob before it finds air and should her eyes water, it's only the mix of steam and soap that's causing it. Really. From cleaning, when he's likely awake now, to dressed in something warm for Reaches with something more provocative underneath for the southern beach they're going to, she also makes sure certain items are present in her personal bag and presents herself with a kiss and smile for the Weyrleader. The apple pie? It never got eaten, but surely /surely/, some drudge will clear it while they're gone for the day. And then they're off, the basket loaded onto Cadejoth, and the riders on their respective dragons with Ysavaeth taking the tacit lead, sharing an image with her mate and disappearing from the winter-to-spring sky into between and reemerging on a deserted stretch of southern beach: white sands, clear waters and the jungle with all its wild, large tropical blossoms visible just into the shade. There are animals lurking in there as well, predators that wouldn't dare to pick fights against one dragon, let alone two. It's here, with the bright, southern summer-to-autumn sun that Ysavaeth's hide gleams; Ysavaeth, summer's queen to Iovniath and Rielsath's winter. It's not often that K'del lays about in bed after he wakes up, not when there's work to be done - a weyr to keep running. But today has been designated as a day of rest, after all, and what better way to start it than to roll back over into the warm spot Iolene has left behind, and snooze. He's all smiles for the goldrider once he does drag himself out of bed; he bathes quickly, pausing only to make the idle remark that his hair needs trimming, remind him, and then it's time to dress and get ready, and bid High Reaches a silent, if fond, farewell for the day. Cadejoth thrums his enthusiasm as they circle down towards the beach, sending only a little sand flying when he makes his landing. K'del's shoes hit the sand before the rest of him does - a jump, nothing more dignified than that, to drop him to the ground. "She looks so much better," he remarks, indicating Ysavaeth with a tip of his head. "And so do you, Io. You want to swim or something, first?" Iolene drops off of Ysavaeth's side, her boots the first things to fly off. It's quickly followed by her jacket, the sweater beneath, the shirt, and then her dress in a trail towards the water. There's something to be said about being just covered enough in all the important parts compared to being just naked, that perhaps she's banking on in a bikini of a bright turquoise shade. She's knee deep in water before she's looking back at K'del with a toss of her dark blonde hair and come-hither smile. "You coming?" In her hand, probably plucked out of her jacket before it got tossed in a path of clothes to the ocean, is a silver flask that she waves around. So what if it's not even breakfast time where they're from. It's late enough in this spot of the south she's picked to start drinking. Once clothes start flying off, K'del's quick to follow - so what if he only just got dressed in the first place? His swim shorts are less fabulous than her bikini, and his bare chest is winter-pale, but these things don't seem to concern him as he splashes out to join the goldrider. "Sure," he agrees, reaching for the flask. Why not? This is a vacation. His other hand? That one'll reach for Iolene herself, aiming to draw her up against him despite that talk of a 'swim'. Is he reaching for her hand or for her? She makes the decision for him by taking his hand and drawing it about her waist so she can give a tiny little jump, water kicked up by her feet, and fling her arms about his shoulders. If they fall, they fall, but she's not really attempting to jump into his arms; just catch him a little off-guard. "It's easy to feel better when you're in paradise. If only we'd been exiled to an island like this, I can't imagine there'd be much hardship. Which-," the descendant of exiles concedes with a small, unamused, smile, "Might have been the point." The flask is forgotten - it's harder for it to catch the sun, now - as Iolene flings her arms around K'del and yes, they do, indeed fall, landing in the water with a splash and a peal of laughter. This time, he gets his arm properly, snugly, around her back as he attempts to stand back up again, and agrees: "Probably. It's a shame, though. I can imagine you growing up on a tropical island, flowers in your hair. Though," he realises, a moment later, "I guess there might not be flowers, either. After thread. Anyway," and this last is more serious, in a fond, contented kind of way, "You look beautiful." There's laughter from her as well, a bright cheery sound. It's an Iolene sound and from her spot on the shore, Ysavaeth lets off an indulgent, happy whuff that sends a spray of sand towards the pair. He can try to get to his feet, but she'll keep him down, pinned while he speaks and punctuating his sentences with kisses mashed against his lips; alcoholic little kisses as sometime in all this she's managed to take a swig to share. But then he flatters her and she flushes prettily and counters with, "And you're quite pale. We should fix that today." Disentangling herself from his snug arm, Io gets to her feet and splashes further into the water. It's a promising start to their day of rest. It's a sound that K'del can't help but beam at, after these recent weeks, one that means he's more than happy to be pinned, and happy to indulge in those alcoholic kisses-- they only make him laugh more. Out on the beach, Cadejoth draws himself alongside the queen, seeking to twine his tail with hers: he, too, is watching the cavorting riders, though despite his enthusiasm he's doing a decent job of not moving too much. Abandoned, K'del watches Iolene for a moment, still grinning, before he pulls himself back to his feet to chase after her, saying, "Got to be ready for spring, tanned and relaxed, right? C'mere. Don't you run away from me." He'll try and catch her - try and send them splashing downwards again. She's willingly caught, a girlish shriek let loose into the deserted sky, and instinct has her swinging into his broader frame to support her as she falls, aiming to bring him atop her in the still shallow waters. Her loose hair fans in the water, darkening for the dampness. "It would be better for you, until- until you know, Rielsath rises. To be able to deal with the Holds I mean. Braeden. Aughan." Pause. "Devaki? No, don't answer that." Never mind it's not much of a question, just the smallest quizzical lilt. "Here." Iolene presses the flask up at K'del while using her one free hand to curl up into those long curls. "I could cut your hair for you." If K'del's expression flickers at mention of Devaki's name, it's only for a moment: he's the one who is here, now, with the goldrider, and faraway concerns are - for now - just that: far away. Instead, he's crawling over the goldrider, leaning down to plant a kiss on her lips as one hand reaches for the flask. "I don't want to talk about business today," he admits, position wavering for a moment before he draws himself back up into a seated position again, just a little too far for Iolene's hands to keep reaching his hair. "You want to? Cut my hair." "I could. I mean, it won't be very nice, but maybe you could try going bald." Iolene almost sounds serious too, until an incoming low tide washes over her body and accidentally pours some salt watery goodness into her mouth and chokes her. But also makes her laugh. "No work today. I promise. No business. Just us, the sun, us... the healers said...," she flushes and rises on her elbows to get as close as possible, as usual, "We could try again for- I mean... if you want to." "Bald," repeats K'del-- and then there's the water coming in, and he's laughing, too, and reaching to try and pull her closer still. Into his lap, if he can, though he takes another long swig from the flask as he does so. "Tried that once, as a weyrling. not a good look on me. I-- Io. Do you... want to? Do you want to?" One hand circles around her neck, fingers twisting into her hair and across her skin; he's quiet, and very serious. "Are you ready? I don't mean physically." His other hand offers her the flask, as if he's concerned she'll need the dutch courage to answer. Or to follow through. Getting drunk once put her life into a tailspin, but it's been so long since that lesson that Iolene, now in his lap, has no problem taking the flask to take a long shot of the fruit infused vodka. "No. I don't think so. Not yet. I-," she wasn't supposed to know and she's not going to cry, she's not. At least, that's what the sudden tight control of her features might indicate. "I gave her a name. I heard them talking, while they thought I was sleeping. My great grandmother was named Ioni. I call her that in my head when I think about her. But-," brave smile time, and another, liquored up kiss, concludes that. "Not today. Let's not think about anything today other than how many different ways we can spoil this piece of beach." K'del's expresson stiffens, his brows knitting, as she talks; his arms tighten around her, lingering in that way even after she's pushed the conversation on to other things. This, too, is a topic that he's not unwilling to abandon for the duration of this beautiful day, and so instead of answering in words, he answers the kiss. Afterwards, reclaiming the flask, he agrees: "I'm all for that. Today... we can be anyone we want. Nothing else applies. And--" And the back of her bikini top is proving too tempting a lure, his fingers disengaging from her hair in order to start work on the knot. "Hey, hey!" Iolene shies away from his attempts, scooting away on all fours and turning around, crab-walk like, to eye him. "Time enough for that later." A swinging arm sends a splash towards K'del and suddenly she's scrambling up to try and run further into the water, diving beneath an incoming wave and reemerging not so far away. "Drink up and let's play." Does he agree? Does it matter? Will he do anything against her wishes today anyway? So they'll play coy for a little while, those dark blue eyes lighter for the light reflected off the water and her blonde hair matted, wet against her head, neck and back. She's not above teasing with glimpses of a top that might need to be adjusted now and again or skirting just out of his reach. There'll be food, something to break their morning fast sooner rather than later: crusty bread, soft smearable cheeses and grapes. There's wine for him and more of that fruity vodka for her. "I don't like wine." Not since that time with that person who will not be named anymore. And throughout this 'fun', Ysavaeth suns, her somnolent thoughts slowly crescendoing towards something ... more. Mock disappointment and mimed tears don't last long, and then K'del is hurtling after Iolene through the waves. It doesn't take long before he's tipsy and sun-drunk, and her teases are only fuel for more games. No, there'll be nothing against Iolene's wishes today; like last night, he's here for her, and it's not exactly a hardship. Vinehold raised, wine is not his favourite, either, but he drinks it without question or argument-- today is not a day for complaints, either. "To us," he says, in toast, lazing back on the warm sand with a contented expression. "And to more days like this, just the two of us." Beat. "Four of us." Beat. "Something." There's a drowsiness to his tone, despite the early hour of the day, one that's not shared by his dragon, whose chains jangle and gleam, and whose length continues to lean in against Ysavaeth's sun-warmed form. "To us." She'll drink to that with her fruity concoction. Ysavaeth sets her thoughts pulsating, a rhythmic beat borrowing from her daughter rather than her bells or his chains. Its basso reverberates in the physical world as well, as a low thrum emanates from deep within her throat. There's a ripple that starts with a twitch at her nose and seems to cascade down her body and ultimately shakes her wings and twitches her tail and she's /awake/ and /hunger/, if she ever was asleep, and that magnificent, fearsome brain of hers scans the vicinity for something to blood. "K'del?" In the middle of feeding him another smear of cheese on bread and refilling his wine, Iolene pauses, suddenly uncertain, hesitating as she looks at nothing but the bronzerider by her side. [Iolene] Is the sun unfocusing? It must be the heat. The liquor. The headiness of constantly being teased and held at more-or-less arm's length, though that minxy hand of hers seems to always somehow know how to fluff in just the right way. But really, the treeline seems to blur occasionally, but not enough to worry. Not yet, at least. (to K'del) "Mmm?" K'del blinks a couple of times, rolling over onto his side so as better to see Iolene, one hand lifted to shade his eyes from the sun. It takes him a few seconds more to properly register that something is amiss, and even then, it's a slow, not-quite-there kind of understanding. "What's-- she doing? Io." His body doesn't seem to be reacting quite as quickly as it ought to, and though he manages to try and pull himself up towards a seated position, he's a little wobbly in the process. "Ysavaeth." That's confusion in his voice, still, and confusion that's echoed in his dragon's abrupt movements. Cadejoth doesn't ask, doesn't speak at all, really, but his muscles tense and clench, and a probing length of chain begins to seek out the hungry queen. There. There in the shadows, there's a beast that watches, unaware that in the next thirty seconds his life will end. Ysavaeth doesn't even have to fly or swoop into the dense foliage that might give away her presence. She just saunters and reaches in with her tail and swats the feline and brings him out onto the sands to snack on. It's too deliberate. It's too contrived. It's not possible, is it? The dragonhealer books need to be rewritten for this one and as Ysavaeth pulses her lust, her desire, her needs, she slices through the beast and tosses half of it to her mate and bloods. "Ysavaeth," Iolene repeats, the quality of her voice saying it all. It's an apology, it's longing, it's- capitulation and relief. "Sir." He might have been reaching for her all morning, but now, she's the one reaching, bracing him, holding wobbly K'del up. And then? Then, Ysavaeth is up in the sky, wings stretched and soaring towards that sun her hide mirrors off of. It's much easier to focus her mental energy on one dragon than many, though a certain smugness compels High Reaches' new senior queen to toss out a calculating burst of emotion to the Weyr she was shelled at. Far, far away. Very far far away, there's a flash of lusty golden light, its muted radiance washing over the Weyr and all Reaches dragons. (Ysavaeth to all High Reaches dragons) Cadejoth's easily lost in all that projected lust, and it sends his ichor to racing in reply; Ysavaeth's power over him is absolute. He bloods, following his queen's lead, and then takes to the air in hot pursuit, the green-washed bronze of his hide dappled in the sun as he puts his energy into the chase. His lust may have been deliberately manufactured in him, but he owns it, now, those heated chains rattling in a cacophony of deep-seated desire. Below, K'del's eyes have gone wide, and if his drink has been as spiked as Cadejoth's emotions, well, that's secondary to the reflection of lust that is gripping him even now. "Io," he gets out, grabbing hold of the goldrider gratefully: this is harder than it should be. "Iolene." How does it all play out? How can it go any other way than how Ysavaeth envisions it, whether creating illusions in a drugged K'del-Cadejoth mind or orchestrating the perfect flight? What happens when the parts that need to come out to make babies don't quite work? It's banking on a lot of what ifs and hopefuls for someone who is far too clever to just leave things to chance. But Cadejoth is hers and whether the dragons actual consummate matters less than Ysavaeth convincing him it happened. Him and K'del. But K'del is in Iolene's hands. A suddenly grateful K'del whose very appreciation suddenly floods mixed emotions of color onto Iolene's cheeks. But it's too late to change anything and if she's played her part well this morning, K'del, drunk, drugged, or otherwise addled, should be ready to perform. Io's hands fumble with his swim shorts, the foregone conclusion of who will 'win' Ysavaeth's flight making it too easy to start early. If K'del flops backwards onto the sands, at least he'll try and drag Iolene down with him - where 'try' really means 'hope she'll follow his flailing hands'. On the plus side, her earlier fluffing has made sure that even if his brain is not quite with it, his second brain is: ready for action. Above, that oh-so-potent combination of lust and druggedness, and Ysavaeth's influence, makes it easy enough - too easy, really, if one were to reflect back on free will and rational sense - for Cadejoth to be convinced. It's not a long flight, not by most standards; and if the mechanisms don't work, when he grabs hold of her, twining tails, he doesn't seem to notice. Nor does K'del, whose memories of all of this are likely to be fuzzy, which will probably do wonders for his dignity. There it is. The downward fall of two dragons, entwined by tail, neck, and grasping each other with limbs and wings. That's all it takes. That and a healthy pour of fellis-laced wine; the grapes better masking the taste than other clear liquors might. There it is, something for the four of them to share and bring back to High Reaches after resting and indulging further. Ysavaeth tending to her mate with an affection nuzzle to his lengthy side, an unintentional mirror of how Iolene strokes her addled lover. "K'del," is her soft, testing murmur. Is he awake? Whatever the case, she does manage to say a quieter, repentant, "I'm sorry." She's sorry he's Weyrleader again, right? Struggling to keep his eyes open, and battling to keep his consciousness, it's likely that K'del can hear Iolene's apology, but harder to know whether he properly registers it. He loses that battle of his moments later, and is lost into drug-induced sleep: he snores, lying flat on his back, a dead weight. Did he hear her? For now, there's no way of knowing. By the time he wakes, all of this will be a hazy memory-- but one that sits confidently in the realm of reality. « Ours, » says Cadejoth, sharing an image of High Reaches to his queen, his senior queen, before he, too, drifts off into slumber. « Ours, » Ysavaeth agrees, pleased and holding her slender neck high. Adrenaline in both dragon and rider makes it hard for them to fall asleep. The senior queen watches her mate, fluttering her wings atop him like a blanket. The new Weyrwoman watches the Weyrleader, her expression pensive. Trusting the drugs she so recently abused, she runs a finger down his jaw and traces all the lines of his face. She has the time. Said allowed, "It's for the best," makes it unclear whether she's telling this man by her or convincing herself that this was the only way it could ever play out: orchestrated. And then... stretches of time later. It's done and there's the replete satisfaction that radiates from a pair of dragons, leaving in the minds of all Reachian dragons one fact in all its glittering brilliance: there's a new senior queen. (Ysavaeth to all High Reaches dragons) It's not long after the (re-)confirmed Weyrleaders return to High Reaches that Iolene sends out missives to the following people: bluerider A'stel, greenrider Leova, brownrider E'gin, and bronzerider St'run. It's a few lines requesting a meeting with them at their earliest convenience in the following sevenday. The messengers who pass on the notes haven't kept very quiet about who has received one from the new Weyrwoman, nor have they kept quiet about how quickly Iolene and Ysavaeth were ready to move into Tiriana's vacant weyr, not that she's actually living there. Her things are there, but she seems to be pretty firmly entrenched in the Weyrleader's weyr. Among other immediate changes have been the firing of the Headwoman and her entire staff and a notice saying that Iolene will be conducting interviews though word has gotten out that her 'short list' includes many former exiles, some of whom have departed the Weyr including Evie, brownrider Jaques' former wife. It begs the question. Was this a surprise to everyone other than Iolene? |
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