Logs:Hot
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| RL Date: 22 January, 2013 |
| Who: Hraedhyth, Szadath |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A proddy Hraedhyth toys with one of her wingmates. |
| Where: Minds of Dragons, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 17, Month 11, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Brieli/Mentions |
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| To Szadath, Hraedhyth simply is. The gold's inferno spreads far and wide, influence seeping deep into the core of High Reaches Weyr. Her drums are their heartbeat, each pounding thump a reminder of what is to come. Stifling, certainly meant to distract, a tendril of black smoke curls Szadath's way. « You. » Validation and demand-question, certainly interested in how he is doing, like the rest of her males. But he's special, isn't he? Just like the last three were. To Hraedhyth, Szadath pulses in time with that resonate beat, unconscious and conscious both. The whirls of acrid smoke twine in time with it and with hers, but there's also a cadence to his voice that he can't possibly have control over. « Me. » Self-assurance rolls off of him, coupled with an intense focus. « You are hot. » Poetry, for Szadath. To Szadath, Hraedhyth allows his bitter puff to twine about her own, blending but still separate. Doesn't that sound nice? Fire courses through her veins, sharing a flash of what could be even though the young queen has no reference for such things. Yet. « I know. » While her body has stilled over the past few days, her mind has not, and she hasn't lost that blunt nature. « And you are... » Worthy? Comes the sparksizzle, a whisper to goad his nature. Cold. Szadath is burningly cold, hard as ice. And where they touch? Where her mind brushes against his? Explosive bursts of that acrid smoke. « Ready. » A ghost of a feeling, a not-memory: fly-push-burn-cold-GLORY. « We are ready. » To be tried, to be found, to be deemed worthy. His attention is there, ever-fixed, waiting and watching-- except for the threads of focus that squirm away to keep tabs on her nearly-sister. (Szadath to Hraedhyth) Ice can burn just as badly as her flames. Hraedhyth likes. The young queen certainly believes in his determination, and yet... she has no doubt heard similar things from plenty of others. There's a snap of something, her sensual composure crumbling within the fire as she catches a hint of rebellion. Ice can also be smashed. Melted. Evaporated. Her influence borders on the physical, smoke carrying spiced incense to cloud his focus, drums viciously pounding her name. Hrae. Dyth. She is actually here. (Hraedhyth to Szadath) The immediacy of her presence drags him back in, tendrils of focus evaporating despite his brief struggle. And then it's not capitulation, no, but a weighted deliberateness that echoes through his booming voice. « Today? » It's verbal and not; words are present, but accompanied by an instinctual seeking, a tasting of her smoke. Today? Tomorrow? Later, never? « We are always ready. » He seeks not to pacify, or to woo-- it's not in his nature. Instead, he displays only himself, hard and implacable and determined. (Szadath to Hraedhyth) All too quickly, Hraedhyth eases back into that leisurely heat once she's the sole focus of his attention. As far as queens go, that is. The shift in mood might unsettle if she weren't so generous with just how ready she is. He can judge for himself: fire dancing in agony that's almost as sweet as that incense. But, « No. » She husks out with no regret. « Not yet. » Soon. Maybe. He'll certainly know when, make no mistake of that. « I wonder, » Contralto does so out loud, hypocrisy lost on the gold, « Brown or Bronze? » It's possibly a mystery, even to her. (Hraedhyth to Szadath) This, surely, is no question for one such as he. He does not dignify it with a direct response. Instead, there is only: « Me. » Promise, assurance, cockiness. « Only me. » Szadath spikes colder yet: of artic chill, of the highest of altitudes in the highest of mountains, but only a puff against the power of her flames. And yet, and yet. It is there. « I am the greatest. » (Szadath to Hraedhyth) Him. Hraedhyth has had worse attempts so far, a fact that she's willing to share with a sooty snort. But Szadath? There's a rough stroke for his ego, quickly followed by a more sensual lick of fire. The gold has certainly been building them up, Szadath included, and most will be knocked down. Despite this, there's a note of genuine pleasure at the brown's confidence, his harsh chill rather refreshing. « I am sure you think that. » She would agree, could agree, but it has yet to be seen. Even proddy, Hraedhyth only deals in truths. (Hraedhyth to Szadath) There's no subtlety to Szadath, no secret plans. His desires are there, written on his heart and his sleeve and his mind for her to peruse at her leisure: to win, to fly highest and be strongest and be the best. « We are the greatest, » he repeats, implacable. « We will protect you. We will. » His winds howl, amplifying his voice into queerly booming echoes of his determination: win, win, win. His truth, the truth of his very being. « You will see. » (Szadath to Hraedhyth) To Szadath, Hraedhyth just might choke him with that invasive smoke, even as she takes in all he is offering. It would be a sweet death. Drums match Szadath's determination, though they carry a faint note of inquiry: Win? Win? Win? Just when her focus might burn too hot, the queen eases off, reclining back into her own thoughts without warning. Tease. There's one last stretch towards the brown, mental touch flexing just as her muscles do beneath glowing hide. Szadath. After, he will have to share her with the rest of the Weyr once again. Szadath absorbs her touch, consuming the pleasure/pain that comes from her overwhelming attention. When she leaves, his cold burns all the more for the contact. And yet, when her attention drifts elsewhere, so do those tendrils tracking Iesaryth return; Szadath is no more willing to place all of his potential eggs in one basket than she is to commit before the chase has even begun. (Szadath to Hraedhyth) |
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