Logs:Arcane Ritual
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| RL Date: 8 October, 2014 |
| Who: N'dalis, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Suraieth rises. It's a first for both Dal and N'rov. |
| Where: Flight Cave, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 13, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Forward-dated just slightly. The moons, they wanted it so. |
| Suraieth is a tidal creature; she lives by the moons, caught up in their rotations just as the oceans - so present in her thoughts - are. It's no wonder, then, that those moons have been present for each of her flights; though her cycles have been uneven, difficult to predict, there /is/ a pattern there, for anyone who cares to look close enough. Timor is waning from full, in the days before her flight - and Suraieth, her hide gleaming, bathes in the light of it, staying out (and up) until late in the evening, her smugly self-satisfied thoughts reaching out through Fort's dragons. Who's there? Is /Vhaeryth/ there? She'll have him. Let him be swept away in her oceans; there is nothing to fear, not from her. For months and months, Vhaeryth's associated himself closely with very different oceans, only one of them Southern; of late, though, he's been branching out. Does he want to be drowned in Suraieth's? Certainly it entertains him to bring a /present/ one of those first nights: a freshly-slain wherry from the wilds, whose ichor he's conveniently drunk so it won't bleed all over her ledge. As much. Those months and months of foreign association - perhaps they make Vhaeryth, by extensions, foreign; it's certainly true that Suraieth has yet to be caught by a local dragon. Is that what makes it so important for him to be here, this time? His present, however, is not acceptable. « No, » she says, with a touch of ice lurking about the moonlit seas. « Wrong. No. Not like that. No. /No/. » Take it away, Vhaeryth. Take it away, before it defiles everything it touches; Suraieth, her ledge, the Weyr itself. « No? » Vhaeryth flicks flame right back at her, and dangles the herdbeast /teasingly/ from the cage of his talons. It's not touching, yet. But he could drop it. Right there. Ice, ice baby. Suraieth's oceans freeze, ice spreading as far as the eye can see. It's all wrong; it defiles. It /defiles/, Vhaeryth. « No. » Can she freeze his flame? Perhaps, perhaps not. She'll certainly try. For a moment there, it's as if Vhaeryth will dance his fire across that wide expanse of ice in pattern after pattern. Perhaps Suraieth does freeze him in a different sort of sense, or perhaps it's the late arrival of /good/ sense; « Yes, » he says, « ...Suraieth. » Off he goes, swirling up into the evening, and maybe he'll find some ancient toothless type who'll be glad for the repast. Better. It is as it should be - or, at least, it /will/ be. Suraieth draws herself up to stare out into the evening, after Vhaeryth, who may get /partial/ credit for the attempt... even if it was all wrong, and a terribly bad omen. « You will know, » she tells him. « When it is right. Know it within you; feel it, Vhaeryth. Be one with yourself. » To that, Vhaeryth snorts, waggling his wings to each portentous phrase. « I already am myself, » he also notes, though some other humor is already welling up within him, some /secret/. It's the next day, and a few hours later, that he returns with quite the plump herdbeast; moreover, it's still alive, albeit lowing weakly as he lugs it over in Suraieth's direction. At least the beast wasn't stolen out of /Fort's/ territory... The ice returns. Honestly, Vhaeryth. Really, this just won't do. Do you want Suraieth's favor, or not? « No. » There's a low-banked silence, during which Vhaeryth might well be leaning towards /no/. He hasn't quite committed when he replies, « Why not? » « You know nothing. » Jon Snow. « I will not touch it, if it has known fear. I will not touch it, if it has shed blood. I will not sup of the unclean; the unknowable mysteries forbid it, Vhaeryth. Will you seek our favor? There are such things you might know. » /We/ might know is, perhaps, the subtext here. Together. Her ichor, after all, is running hot. All these /requirements/. Vhaeryth /sighs/, dragon-low and rumbly. At least he can talk mentally with his mouth full, which (a few crunches later) it proceeds to be. « Then how? » « Crush it. » Actually, that's surprisingly straight-forward, given Suraieth's present mood. It's also somewhat long-suffering; isn't that the logical answer? How can Vhaeryth fail so hard at the logical test? Goodness me. Crush it, she says. Vhaeryth could discourse (at least, if a graphic portrayal counts) how crushing generally makes bones poke and blood leak, but why argue? He rumbles and, after a while, leaps off to do Something Else. It's N'rov who says, having turned up behind Dal in the lunch line, "So she likes pancakes, huh." At least he sounds amused. The deep lines set in Dal's brow deepen; he sighs. "Pancakes," he confirms. "This time. She's..." He's having difficulty finishing his sentences, and waves - vague and not quite with it - a gesture that is apparently intended to cover it all off. "She wants him there. She says he must be." 'Sorry' isn't said, but it hovers in his words nonetheless. /This time/ registers with a slow nod. As the other man talks, as he doesn't finish, N'rov rubs the back of his own neck. He doesn't say, 'It's okay,' and likely there's nothing that coherent there to hover; what he does do is keep an eye on N'dalis as they go through the line, interceding when others might bump into him or snag the last spoonful of that really great noodle dish. But once he's seen to it that Dal has a seat where he won't be bothered by anyone under the age of seventy, he's gone. Vhaeryth will show up again before he will. Vhaeryth, and her pancake. The pancake is inspected with all the reverence of a priestess at a druidic ceremony, though it is - finally - found acceptable, and thus accepted. Suraieth is pleased; and, high above Fort, she glows in the light of the moons. Belior waxes, growing, and on the third day of Suraieth's proddiness, it promises to be nearly full - it and Timor both. By now, Dal is mostly non-verbal, keeping to himself; in contrast, Suraieth carries herself like a queen, waiting. Waiting... and watching. « I see you, Vhaeryth. » (She knows when you've been sleeping... she knows when you're awake. And she definitely knows if you've noticed any /other/ greens.) Who wouldn't notice that icy green turned blazing hot? Vhaeryth's gaze tracks the young dragon as she bloods below him, his own dark wings expanding in the sunlight. « /Do/ you, Suraieth? » His claws curl around rock. He flexes his hind legs, tantalizingly; he /could/ leap. Suraieth, too, can be icy; /her/ oceans can freeze at a moment's notice, crystalline and beautiful despite their disapproval. « You would do well to remember yourself, » is all she says, however. « /I/ am going to take a nap. » The icy green is too noisy; Suraieth's zen requires the still and the silence. The great mysteries await... by only for those with patience. « You do that. 'All your sorrows will vanish.' » Meanwhile he will leap, and quickly. Feel that, the way he spirals, the remembered taste of blood to go with the scent that increasingly fills the air? The very physical sense, at last, of his landing? Vhaeryth's landing... on the ledge to one side and somewhat above Suraieth's. It's an echo, not soft enough to be a whisper. /« I see /you/. »/ « I am here to be seen. » Suraieth is still in her answer; such an eerie calm, like the final moments before a storm. /Her/ storm will break as the moons begin to rise; Belior and Timor casting their silvery glow upon the Weyr, so like Suraieth's own. She reaches for Vhaeryth, now, but not only him; she reaches for the /Weyr/, as she reaches for the sky, launching herself. Below, far below, Dal shudders, and turns his path. In motion, at last. Vhaeryth's not known for his patience, not when he has alternatives, and he is /very good/ at finding alternatives; here and now it pleases him to soar after her with a powerful surge of his haunches, to send his rider stumbling over his own tongue. N'rov sets down his drink, hard; the glass would crack if it weren't that thick mug. He gets on with it, he doesn't excuse himself, there's no excuse for this. He goes where he's led. Sometimes, Suraieth bloods; sometimes, the tides already sing deep within her, and no feasting is required. Tonight is one of those latter occasions, heralding a flight that is likely short and sweet, but no less a religious rite for the lack of libation. She climbs, wordless, now, seeking air and space from the group who seek to unravel her mysteries. Dal's conscious only of her... Right until he runs into the wall of the flight cave. There's no blood here, either, except for the way his eyes are shot with it; sleep, it seems, has been scant. Vhaeryth goes where he's /inspired/; that isn't so much in the intangible footsteps of that priestess as where the moons whisper to him to meet her: sometimes beating his wings hard to give his greater mass more velocity, sometimes coasting on the wind because he can. He too is silent, but there are impulses, impressions of presence: what he feels, what he scents and /senses/ of her, what (who) he'll abandon in his wake. His rider's as oddly aimless as she is wordless; this is no fight, no clash of claws and calls against those others he doesn't even recognize. They're only acolytes. He's not animated, not arguing, but in the end there /is/ something he can do... and do fast: step up to the greenrider, reach around for his forehead, confirm that lack of blood and seek to guide him away from what's standing in his way. Right now it's stone. It won't just be stone always. Deep down, beneath the trappings of this ritual, Suraieth is likely grateful for Vhaeryth's rider's assistance; certainly, Dal'e eyes focus long enough to register N'rov, as one dark hand lifts as if to touch his cheek. The impulse is gone as quickly as it came, though, and Dal pulls away, taking a few vague steps towards the waiting bed. Above, Suraieth is open to Vhaeryth's impulses; she listens, radiating them back, magnified, but for his thoughts alone. In the end, outlined against Timor, the others are nothing more than a participative audience; Suraieth's year-king, the chosen one, alone has the steps to complete the ritual. She calls - instructs - and Vhaeryth... the sacred mysteries are his alone. His priestess calls, and Vhaeryth comes. Vhaeryth parts those veils, claims her and takes her, his right and his duty and their glory; strong wings surge to keep them in flight as long as possible beneath the moons' sight, and mere human fumbling's lost to the night when his man bends hers over the bed that need wait no more. He takes him, too, in Suraieth's name. The rite is completed beneath the moons, witnessed by their light; Suraieth, having completed her predestined role, submits to her lover's embrace, letting him carry them safely down - not to his ledge, or to hers, but further afield. Dal's a willing vessel, lost in his priestess; /their/ union ends, finally, with the greenrider still largely, if incompletely, clothed (/Suraieth/ doesn't wear them; and he's her more than himself), but at least safely atop the bed, face buried in the pillows. It takes time for awareness to return, time in which he snuggles back into N'rov's warmth, and the blanket that more-or-less covers them both. Suraieth's smugness, is, for a time, Dal's own, before those dark eyes begin to flicker open, and that boneless, sated rest stiffens; he sucks in a breath, then bites it back. It's to that stiffening that sleepy (sleeping?) N'rov reacts; his arm tightens about the half-beneath-him greenrider's shoulder, possessive. The dragons share that smugness, that pleasure in each other and themselves, where they rest beneath that overhang river-carved beneath a cliff. For the moment, so does he. There's something very attractive about letting that smugness take hold and win; Dal may have stirred, but wouldn't it be easier if he hadn't, if he could just go back to glowing in the aftermath? N'rov is warm, and while it's not - everywhere - a skin-to-skin connection, it's not far off. But Dal's eyes have actually opened, now, and though they're staring into the down-stuffed pillow, it's the work of a moment to change that, his head turning to look to the side - away from N'rov. Quietly, and very deliberately, he clears his throat. At first it doesn't seem to register, but then sleepy N'rov might still be sleepy Vhaeryth's rider, sprawled protectively on and about his mate. But several moments later... "No," he says quite distinctly and quite matter-of-factly; it's as if the single word were part of an ongoing conversation. Into his greenrider's shoulder. Only then Dal isn't the only one to stiffen. As close as they are, one half on top of the other, Dal can certainly feel that moment of stiffening, and it catches any words he might've been about to offer in his throat. The sound he makes is not much of an answer; it's not much of anything, except that it's audible, and real, and that certainly makes /him/ real, and very much, well, /male/. "I--" But what? The bronzerider's regular breathing abruptly changes as he pulls in a quicker, deeper breath. Perhaps he's holding it, with how still he is. His greenrider's voice, even just that one syllable, hadn't actually been feminine itself. Then, "Hello?" Sort of like a polite greeting, except roughened by the sounds of what they'd done together... and enriched by a replete sort of pleasure that still hasn't made it to the civilized world. "N'rov." It could be identification, except that Dal is - has been - Suraieth, and has known exactly what he/she/they wanted; Dal knows already. His own voice is huskily low, except for the faint edge of tension that wavers about the edges. "We-- /she/ wanted him very much," could be something akin to an apology, through his tone strives, valiantly, for neutrality. His nod might be felt, or perhaps also heard, where his head tips against the pillow and brushes the edge of Dal's short hair. "He wanted her," he says eventually. "Very much." It's not a flat repetition, it doesn't have quite the same inflection, it's like a charm that they both have to say. Out loud. In words. Should he apologize? Maybe he should. He got her. He got him. He's right there still. "This... is new." The noise Dal makes is non-verbal, though it's quickly followed by an inhale, and then, "For me, too." He doesn't move; perhaps it's simply safer, here, with his gaze turned away from the bronzerider. Eye-contact is dangerous - dangerous and awkward. On the other hand, this physical contact thing is also awkward. "She, uh, probably won't want him again. She likes new experiences." Again there's that nod. "He thinks," feels, /knows/, "...he'll keep her forever." It's a little rueful, above that lingering satisfaction and tinge of human uncertainty. Vhaeryth has not been known to never be wrong. It's an admission: "I... still feel him." Dal's, "She wants him forever," is immediate, blurted out with cheeks that have begun flushing red beneath the natural warmth of his skin. "She's under my skin. Or I'm in hers, still. She's... everywhere." She's a lure, drawing him in with her logic; doesn't it feel better to stay like this? Didn't they do well? There's nothing wrong here. Again N'rov's arm tightens about him, involuntarily, not that it had ever been /loose/. Suraieth has her logic, and Vhaeryth... feeling, knowing, whatever it is, it amounts to the same thing as hers in the end. "He," no, "This," no. The bronzerider's rarely at a loss for words. Either he's lost them now, or he has too many. "Dal." His name, baritone, rough and deep. His back is facing the other rider, but it's still just barely possible for Dal to turn his head - awkwardly, but still - enough for it to face N'rov, and all without dislodging that arm. His mouth is just barely open; just enough, in the end, for his tongue to moisten dry lips, lips that then press together. He swallows, and says, quietly, meeting - attempting to meet - his gaze, "N'rov." Though he might as well be saying 'Vhaeryth'-- or better yet, « Vhaeryth. » « Suraieth. » He rubs his jaw against her, along the line of her neck, marking her luxuriantly with his scent. /His/ jaw is rough with stubble; he doesn't look at him right away, but then gray eyes turn from whatever they'd seen. They meet. N'rov says again, "Dal." His hand moves, his broad hand, flattening down the muscles of the other man's arm. It's slow, so slow. It's certain and it's uncertain. It's not tentative, but it is a trial. "Does Suraieth," and this is not a question, "want to be touched." Like this. Suraieth. Does Suraieth want to be touched? Yes, yes, yes; Suraieth's waters shudder with exhilaration, roused and rousing. The hairs on Dal's arm rise, too, and the greenrider swallows. Swallows, and then inhales, tongue moistening his lips again, dark eyes widening ever so slightly. Suraieth stretches, lengthening herself against her so-much-larger mate, and in turn, Dal's body presses, half-unconsciously, against N'rov's, though they are much more of a size. The tangle of emotions in his gaze is obvious, if not easily categorised; certainly, he wants as she wants, and yet... "You don't--" have to. But /please/. Roused, and rousing. She is, and they are, so close to their dragons they are. N'rov doesn't have to, he really doesn't, except for the part where he does; Vhaeryth's pressing back against his green in return, his deep rumble distinctly approval, admiration, appreciation. Vhaeryth's rider... touches his greenrider, his eyes reopening where they'd shut for that pressing touch, darkening as his pupils grow. His eyes are open, then, when his hand wraps around Dal's wrist; when he lowers his head with eyes still upraised to press his teeth against Dal's shoulder, firmer than a taste. He watches Dal watch him do it. Suraieth. Dal's breath catches, hard and sharp, as his wrist is captured; and at the touch of those teeth, too, though that comes with a physical jolt, his own gaze darker still. The fingers of his free hand grasp at the bedding, finding purchase there, though for no apparent purpose beyond that. Suraieth's urging is for both her mates, the mind and the body; /she/ can preside over these rituals only once, with her own body, but that does not necessitate an end. That hand amidst the bedding unclenches as quickly as it clenched, reaching now behind his own body, and in search of N'rov's; that leg, there, that fingertips can so easily trace out. Like that, Suraieth approves. More. More. N'rov's grin is fierce and glad; their dragons are more potent than any alcohol and more true. He exhales, hard, when Dal touches him. His muscles shiver. He doesn't so much release his hold as extend it, briefly pressing tongue to salty skin before he groans instead into the other man's neck. The scruff might scratch. It's another form of touch. His hand... he can't know the other man's body, but he knows his own, and by now he's starting to know his greenrider's voice. It's slower than when the priestess presided, without those rites' glory but with very human reinvention. It's different, this second time around; dragon-encouraged, dragon-inspired even, but not dragon-fuelled. There's not much by way of talking, afterwards; just a drink, a towel, and then, despite Dal's efforts to stay awake and /think/, companionable sleep. Pern has risen past the moons by the time the greenrider wakes again, Rukbat's light marking a formal end to Suraieth's ritual priesthood. It's a slow waking, but not, this time, one that is immediately characterised by tension; Dal's placidly thoughtful as he opens his eyes, clearly conscious of where he is, and why. The flight cave is chilly, though, and the bed is warm. N'rov is likely warmer still, but Dal resists cuddling closer, for all that their limbs still touch. Tension again. Less than a breath later, muscles flex and the warm arm draped over him (lower this time, about his ribcage) shifts: not involuntarily, not tightening, just enough to press into his chest and then retreat as far as his hip instead. There's more breathing room, this way. "Awake, huh?" The bronzerider's accent is thicker just now, and moreover, touched (barely audibly, but there) with Southern as well as Southern Boll. With Southern, but not with sleep, for all of the three syllables' lazy rhythm. Dal doesn't pull away, though nor does he snuggle closer against the warm body beside him. "Awake," he agrees, /his/ voice heavy with recent sleep, but still holding an uncharacteristic contented langour, though it fades away towards the end, like an unspoken word hanging in the air. Metaphor, though, and not reality, because the greenrider exhales, after that, long legs stretching just slightly. "Su's not, but that's... normal enough." From this angle, N'rov won't - surely - be able to see the way Dal considers the wall so intently, serious but not solemn. Perhaps it's a little audible in his voice, though. "Good to know," N'rov offers after a moment. He doesn't stretch, against the other man or otherwise; he stays put, though he accommodates the movements Dal makes. If he's got thoughts of his own, or a careful lack thereof, it may be just as well that Dal can't see his expression either; then, abruptly, he chuckles. "What else is normal for her?" This could be weird - could be awkward - but it's not, not in the active sense; Dal's exhale is comfortable enough, and when he speaks, his smile is audible there. "She goes back to being logical, afterwards. Less..." He doesn't have the words. "She'll remember, though, as long as she can, as long as he doesn't bother her. But she's never been caught by the same dragon twice. Like her dam, I suppose." One of his hands lifts, escaping from the blankets... but only so that it might rub at his nose. "What about him?" It may well get weird, surely will get awkward when the bronzerider's out in the world with his wingmates, if not before. But right now, "/Logical?/" feigns dismay before N'rov's short laugh for her dam. "Nice to not have a Weyr riding on it," he says before he turns to her sire. "He'll, yeah, probably want to stick around her for a while." That sire's rider shifts irresolutely, starting to sit up, winding up just braced on his elbow. "I mean, she's pleased, he's pleased," all too pleased, but the thought just ends there when he finally sits up the rest of the way. He starts to rub his hands over his face, too, then grimaces and gives them a token scrub on a not particularly dirty patch of sheets before rubbing his forehead. "I can't imagine what it would be like, with a queen," agrees Dal, fervent but also musing, words that hold his attention as N'rov begins to move. It's as the bronzerider sits that the greenrider rolls to look at him, that thoughtfulness now visibly present. "They're pleased. I'm glad of it. And we're... fine." The blankets stir about him, but fall no further than his waist; one of his hands falls to rest atop it. "I'd worried, but..." He gives a quick, firm nod. The bronzerider keeps pressing his thumbs along his brows, press and slide, press and slide. It smooths them out, some, purposeful if a whole lot further from /thoughtful/ than the other man. His glance slides toward Dal at the stirring, too; he doesn't look long. "Why," he starts instead. Then he changes it. "You aren't screaming how it hurts. I'm not..." He stops again. "It didn't." Though, the way Dal is moving now, so tentative, could have as much to do with soreness as a certain amount of cautiousness over where they are, and their state of (now complete) undress. "And you're not." Not something. Not whatever. Then, more forcefully, "So everything is fine. We should-- it's time for breakfast." Time, too, to sneak a glance at the other man, and then away, gaze sweeping out over the room in search of his clothes. They're not so far away. That gets a quick look from N'rov, those first two words do, his expression less unreadable as such and more caught between conflicted and confused: is that even possible? (Maybe Dal has a Magic Ass, and /he/ got a non-freaking Magic from exposure. Best not think about that either.) He'd been the forceful one before, no question; now he... questions. "Breakfast, good idea." Or not so much with the questioning. He glances over. Dal can go ahead, do what he needs to do. He'll just... sit there. Are Dal's cheeks pink, ever so slightly? It could be in answer to N'rov's look; he doesn't meet the other rider's gaze for it, certainly. He's not shy about getting up off the bed, at least, even if it means showing his bare ass (but then, N'rov's already /seen/ that) for as long as it takes to reclaim his pants. It's as he does up his belt that he does manage to glance back, to give the bronzerider a tentative look. Not a smile; but then, how often does Dal smile? "Are you... is everything all right?" /He's/ thoughtful, but there's wariness now, too. N'rov /had/ been looking in that general direction, whether at Dal or past him or through him; gray eyes refocus on the greenrider (his greenrider? his /friend/) now, and he brings out a smile for the other man as though he'd had it in his (invisible) pocket for that very purpose. "Yeah. Tell you what, save me a seat? I'll be a few more minutes, that's all." Uncertainty twists into an - apparently genuine - smile in answer to N'rov's; Dal's not known for his, but it doesn't mean he can't, won't, or doesn't, when the occasion calls for it. He leans down to pick up his shirt, jamming feet into boots as he does so. "Sure. I'll see you there." He's ready, more or less, and though he shoots the bronzerider another thoughtful glance, it's only for a moment; perhaps his thoughtful glances are better served sent outwards, out into the chilly morning, or kept for later, when he's alone with his thoughts (and his green). N'rov will be there, those few more minutes or a couple more. It's just that he has to, once he's made use of the flight weyr's other hospitality, quickly strip the bed and wad up the sheets.... and then, undoing whatever small goodwill he might have earned with the cavern's cleaners, promptly throw up in the washbasin. At least his breath will be clean again by the time he shows up for breakfast, and the rest of him in good order when next he sees his girl. |
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