Logs:First or Worst
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| RL Date: 19 September, 2015 |
| Who: Ulyana, Telavi, Qhyluth, Solith |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Solith rises. Qhyluth catches. Then it just gets awkward. |
| Where: Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 11, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Stormy. |
| OOC Notes: Feel free to change as desired. |
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>---< Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#466RJs) >-------------------------------<
This broad ledge is dappled with bright light in the morning and commands
a lovely view of the eastern end of the bowl, including the lake and the
trees that dot the shoreline. Reached by a flight of stone steps that
climb up from the bowl floor, the ledge is relatively low, an easy jump
down to the ground; possibly its selection was a safety precaution, so
anyone stumbling out the wrong way after a flight would be unlikely to
break his or her neck. Within the weyr itself is a comfortably-sized
dragon wallow, rarely used but swept clean nonetheless.
The cavern broadens as it stretches back away from the entrance to reveal
a neatly made double-sized bed pushed up against the back wall, a press at
its foot with an extra blanket folded on top of it and two chairs standing
guard to either side of the hearth. A rectangular table lurks against the
side wall, kept stocked with a pitcher of water and a basket of seasonal
fruits. The weyr is well-lit and kept immaculately clean, the refreshing
scents of citron-infused sweetsand mingling with the tang of herbs. It's been a long few days, except when it's not; Tela's kept less and less track of time, airy and light and cheerful. She couldn't be let loose, of course; once they set her to spend time with the aunties, which entertained her and them for a few hours until she wandered off and never came back again. Nobody did that today. Today she wandered, as increasingly tactile as Solith, the green glowing in mood if not yet in hide. Endorphin-bringers, both of them. Tela was nudged to eat lunch, to eat dinner, but it's during the latter that she had to put her fork down because Solith was... was... doing what she does and doing it so well. Tela made it to the guest weyr through the winds whipping at her dress, and there found that bedpost to rub her back up against, innocent and shameless as Solith bled a beast out. Solith, innocent and hungry and soon to be hunted, raising a gasp from her rider when at last she, glowing, took on the rising winds and flew. "Beautiful." Telavi, wonderingly. Soft. Solith glows, and sideslips a differently-hungry brown, and whispers her way into the deepening storm. In her weyr, Ulyana sits and continues writing in The Book - mismatched hide patched into a surreal cover, the interior pages packed full of nonsensical words and strange symbols and stranger beasts that will blissfully never see the true light of day. In the lake, Qhyluth lurks. He is aware of everything, as he often is; the waters of his mind transmuted to vapor and breezing through the collective consciousness of the Weyr's dragons. Solith's shift in moods is caught - and, for the first time in a long time, the blue is roused to emerge from his shadowy dominion. Ulyana puts The Book down with trembling hands and waits, waits until the nightmare beast has winged into the feeding grounds, still wet and glistening. She waits until the first beast is felled, dissected, and left to bleed out while Qhyluth takes none. Waits until the Deep One takes to the skies after the green. Only then does she work her way down the rope ladder from his ledge and make her way toward the guest weyr - only to stop just outside and press her shoulder to the stone in search of stability. The rising howl of the storm might be what forces her to press her hands to the head - or it might be the thunder of primordial waters finally stirred into life. Blood, wasted blood, muddied blood, Solith pays no mind. Her chasers, though, those she does once the first flush has risen; she's luminous in the falling waters, a bright and teasing glow that's all too easy to underestimate. It can't be precognition that has her catching a gust or being caught by one, sweeping away from a pursuer or being tossed right where it would interfere with another's trials, and yet. Nor does she seem to mind nightmares; there's no veering away from Qhyluth any more than she might another, and there's a fizz whenever she gets a little too close only to turn over herself and twist to freedom. Maybe it won't last forever, but maybe it won't need to; Telavi's already breathless beneath others' venturing hands that touch cloth and skin and, yes, her own blonde hair. It reflects the glowlight; Solith simply glows. There are others who attempt her: a large, strong brown with a likewise-uncanny eye for the winds; Rasavyth, who knows her well; dragons who avoid the rest of the pack through finesse, and those who will joyfully take on challengers with tooth and claw. Claws. More than one male will be bloodied green before the tumult is done, before one is proven in truth. Rain is a far different element than the lake or the ocean - but it's enough of the same that Qhyluth feels at home. But that feeling is one that's faint and distant, buried beneath the rising tide of want and need and lust that colors the typically dark waters of his mind. The fog is gone, the moons are luminous, tinged rose madder, and his eyes are a reflection of those great orbs. He moves with purpose, his claws set to use if need be; what he wants and what he needs is that glowing thing, that source of radiance that just might bring light into the darkness - and he will have it. He must have it. More monster than dragon; he is uncaring of the others that fly with him, around him, against him. He gurgles, he rumbles, he snarls - he lashes out, with mind and claws alike. And if he must suffer in turn, he will - and does, as water mingles with faint streaks of ichor that ooze from scrapes and shallow gouges. What's another cut? A bite? Worse? His hunger - no, his utter madness - knows no fear of such things. Far below, so far below, Ulyana sinks to the ground and struggles to maintain her steady breathing, hands pressed to the sides of her head and eyes shut fiercely. She is spared the crush of bodies within the weyr; she is not spared from the downpour that soaks her through to the bone. More and more, that need entices-- not solely Qhyluth's, but Solith's own, and those around them. She exhausts herself for more of it, more, more, eating up that hunger to gnaw cavernously within them, giving tastes here and there of her own life force with the glimpse of shimmering wingsail, the near-touch of tail. So close. The air vibrates with real thunder. Suddenly Telavi grabs on-- whatever she can grab onto-- and the sweet dark water might as well be falling onto her own face, into her own hair as Solith turns. There aren't so many males, now, whether fended off by those who lash out for her, or losing their will when she isn't so easy pickings, or simply outflown. The storm isn't as cold as it could be, for all that it drums and dances and demands. It wants, too. Then a possibility of Solith becomes visible, no, two: a larger dragon is struggling for her, silhouetted against the moonlight-- a risk-taker could raid the dregs of his own speed and try to intercept her, to trust that if she turns it will be the right way... or attempt to batter the larger male in hope of picking up the pieces after. Or other. There could be another way. If another doesn't get there first. Thunder. The end is, inevitably, nigh. He will consume everything. All of her essence. All of her. But, first, he must get his claws on her. Qhyluth shoves past a dwindling knot of exhausted pursuers, his own reserves yet to be tapped fully. He is in his element - in the rain, the wet, the thunder and lightning - more than it might seem. His wet-sounding calls of challenge grow deeper and booming, echoing the brazen bells that sound out a soul-deep warning to those that are too close. The water rises, froths, and boils. The Great Thing Of Nightmares within finally starts to pull itself free and, as that tentacled and winged mass of horror launches itself at the psyche of the larger male that strives to take what is rightfully Qhyluth's, the blue reserves some of his mental tentacles to extend toward Solith even asa he finally pushes himself. There is no enticement here, no hiding the raw and naked and bestial desires that fill him - and drive him - to stretch neck and tail and talons for her glowing visage. There is no attempt to mask what he wants, what he needs, what he hungers most for - and that failure to mask provides a rare glimpse past the water, the moons, the shadowy shapes that gather on the shore; past the protections and straight through to the hearts of a beast that wants only to love and be loved. He pushes, and she seeks to prolong it moments more, as though it could be sweetened with every exhausting wingbeat-- the larger dragon's staggering, not much but just barely enough-- and he might have her anyway, but Solith sees and with that glimpse she goes gladly. As much as she is taken, she gives, twining herself about Qhyluth even if it's with talons that she's impaled, an underwater beacon in the deepening dark. She's warmth, and light, and joy. He wants; well, he can have. And Telavi, she goes where Solith goes-- with Qhyluth's rider if she's to be had, cold and wet as she is-- and if not... there's always another way. Victory is a bittersweet thing, an ache that twists through his hearts. Qhyluth claims and is claimed, every ounce of his being shifted to pour into Solith, rather than to devour her utterly. He will carry her forever, if she'll let him; carry her to the deepest oceans or highest skies - even with the rending of his hide, and the exhaustion that gnaws at his very bones. That seizing of light, it's enough; Ulyana's compelled to enter that place once the bodies have started to filter out. Forced by needs that are not entirely her own. For this, at least, she welcomes the intrusion of Qhyluth's mind and, for a time, the tower is left unattended, while the ocean of lust swallows her whole. She's wet and cold and as uncaring of that reality as her dragon is; until the waters finally ebb, she is Telavi's - and Telavi hers. Solith will let him, welcome him; in such bliss, she might not even notice such rending so long as they fly high. It could be forever, for all of her. It's as those waters begin to abandon the humans on the strand that Telavi, not yet wholly back to herself, plucks fretfully at a clammy sheet; it's damp. When those waters recede, it's almost as violent as when they surged forth to claim. It won't be until after they've landed and had a chance to breathe; not until the riders have complied. The water drains away from the shared shores of their minds - and it's not long before Qhyluth extricates himself from Solith's grasp. His hearts are heavy again, the burden one that has no name. He flies away - and alone - to seek the solace that only the lake can offer for now. And then there's the matter of the riders and that bed. The sheets are damp and cool, but not cold, and the bed itself is empty save for Telavi. Clothing is left intact - though some might have been torn in haste - but the bluerider, at least, didn't have much presence of mind to remove anything of herself, or the other. Outside, on the ledge, the sounds of someone getting violently sick can be heard. It's not much of a reach to suss out just who. The lake. He wants to fly to the... lake. Solith, on the Rim, peers down and across at him before venturing a short little glide to hole up with a more hospitable friend. With a more hospitable rider too, maybe, to sigh and then dry her off while Telavi recovers. But as much as Qhyluth gets away, as long as Solith remembers, she'll look at him and she'll know. Telavi herself, though, isn't looking much of anywhere. There's a muted ugh, and a kick of her heels; she pats the mattress cautiously, finds it damp and only then opens her eyes. One eye, really, what with the rumpled cloak of her hair. Ugh. Easing up to her elbows, she stares with the beginnings of wariness towards that ledge. "Do you have a cold?" "No," is strained, but audible - which is perhaps better than it would have been minutes ago. It's clearly been a less-than-spectacular afterglow for her. Gagging follows again but, this time, it seems Ulyana's done; the dry-heaving turns into a brittle-sounding cough, followed by a lengthy coil of silence. "I am sorry," is, really, all she can manage - but she sounds uncertain of the words, as if unsure that they need to be said at all. Did she bite? Did she leave bruises? She can't remember - and, really, that's for the best. Whatever urges took her, she likely won't recall. Maybe it's an apology for the sickness? The dragon? All of it? In the lake, there's only the moaning, unspeakable presence of a miserable blue dragon - a perfect mirror to his rider's mood, paradoxical as it may seem given givens. That, if not precisely a good answer, is not the bad answer. Telavi nibbles on her lip, brows drawn together-- and then swings her legs around, tugs her dress down, puts her feet on the floor... only to not go anywhere after all. Her toes wiggle. "What's wrong," she half-asks. If she can hear the moaning from there, whether through Solith (who, head on paws on the overhang, is staring at him) or otherwise, there's no mention. "Are you drunk?" "No," is a bit more flatly issued. A little more solid. The sickness seems to have passed, though there's no sign that Ulyana's going to be approaching the guest weyr any time soon. "I do not drink," is a matter-of-fact utterance. Bland. Which just leaves the half-question to be answered - and it will be, but it seems to take her a few moments to pick through the words. Eventually: "It is not your fault. This is his first time catching." Her next words are distorted through another shuddery cough. "It is my first time with a woman." Which, evidently, is not settling well with her. Rustle-rustle-pitter-patter-- and then, whether or not the bluerider hears it and runs, there's Telavi at the cave's mouth with the furs draped around her shoulders and peering at Ulyana with huge green-today eyes. "Really?" Beat. Her lips part again, even though she doesn't manage out loud this time: really?! The sight that greets her isn't as bad as it would seem; the sicking was done over the edge of the ledge, so it's not on display. Ulyana herself is with her back facing the weyr's entrance, a shoulder pressed to the stone, and arms hanging listlessly at her sides. "I did not stutter," is deadpan - there is no mockery or acidity to her tone, just more of that dullness, that queer flatness of hers. "He is also sorry. I am certain he will apologize to Solith when he is-" she trails, with no words left to describe whatever passes for Qhyluth's normal. Her features distort, unseen. "I will leave as soon as I am certain of my feet." Telavi's already pssh-ing her breath out; "Don't be." Sorry? Or something else. "Why should he be sorry? Why is he off moping, anyway?" While she's at it, "You'll catch a cold out there like that." There's only a slight, mechanical shake of Ulyana's head. "He feels guilt. He feels it when he chases - and he does not chase often." A beat. "I think he has only chased Solith one time before. No others." A shoulder rises. Falls. "I cannot explain any better than that." Nor can the blue, in his water and with his thoughts clouded with irradiated fog. "I will be fine," is for the rest of it, soaked as she is. "It will not be the first time I have been in this kind of weather." She finally half-turns, catching Telavi just in the corner of her sight. But, there's nothing left to say. Telavi, with her gilt hair that, side-lit, catches the glowlight. "Well, she likes being chased," she tells the bluerider, tugging the furs closer about her. "I don't know why he feels guilty, and maybe he would anyway, but it wouldn't be any fun if she rose and he-- they--" she frees a hand to wave it in the air. "It wouldn't be right." Her brows are still down. She isn't short of things to say. Including, a deep breath later, "If you catch a cold, you'll just give it to whoever else you kiss." There might not have been anything else except, more quietly as though she's running out of not that fog but steam, "I've never had someone who hated girls before." "And he likes chasing," is noted. "He feels it after. When it's done." Ulyana finally pushes away from the wall and starts for the edge of the ledge to make the short hop down. There's a glance over her shoulder at that, a flat, "I do not think that will be a point of concern," for the worries over the cold, and a further, lopsided shrug as she actually makes that hop. "I do not hate women," is issued as a bland correction, all weight stripped from the words to leave them bare. "I just have no preference for them." "Well, that's all right then," says Telavi, brightly, deflecting all that peculiar vulnerability. "Enjoy your--" she audibly repurposes it into, "evening." Just one more breath. "Ulyana." |
Comments
Alida (01:47, 21 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
If there's anyone to be even one ray of brightness to a (sad?) rider/dragon, it's Tela/Solith. :)
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