Llysereth's 3rd On-Camera Flight

Llysereth> From the depths of sleep, a demon wakes. Llysereth, hide blazing with colour so rarely seem upon her, rouses with insatiable emotion, her dive from ledge to sky likened to a rising sun, a blazing ball of heat and light. Above the feeding grounds, she hesitates but a second, tangled emotions introducing her fumbled note of despair and delight, the dark winning over as she swoops to catch, and to kill, blooding her first beast with the jaws of death clamped down upon the ignoble prey. She despairs - she delights, caught between one side and the next, tail whipping to the skies in monumental strife. The blood drips down muzzle, down talons, her eyes whirling red - a bastion, a sentinel, through the late evening air.

Groggy, Lydiere's attentions are caught only by hesitance; her eyes go unfocused, and she half strains within her seat, the Living Caverns suddenly far too small for her aching movements. "Llysereth!" Her only warning, her headstart, fades to nothing, as she stumbles from her seat. "Blood them," she whispers, attempting to hide her eyes, rub her temples, hold her aching head. "Go!"

Llysereth> A spark of confusion, a conundrum with a wavering point of gravity, clicks within Aedhyth's mind. Ale-moted head cants aggressively to the side, a pitch that contradicts science itself, before mediocre wings give a powerful downsweep and the Igen bronze lurches forth into the air, stumbling a little as his scarcely elongated 'foils merge and mould in turn with the whip of the sultry air. Sensations peculiarly neoteric; unfettered passion, the barest scrape of apprehension, a zing of longing; break forth in both mind and action, and he curves towards the Feeding Grounds with a sepulchral croon that reverbrates in the quickly-disspating silence of the 'Grounds. Strong claws grapple a beast as Aedhyth swoops to claim it, almost contiguously landing and ripping into the meat, suckling the blood as if it were life's vital juice.

L'sta's actions are forthwith - his bronze tempted by the wiles of a queen is cause for alarm, and he moves quickly. "Aedhyth!" He cries, hands clapping to his head, fingers running through his hair in absolute confusion and horror. What is a bronzer to do?

Llysereth> Also from sweet oblivion, Ahreluth rouses the hero within. To slay - or at least catch - the demon that's been awakened in Llysereth is his goal, and one that he won't easily be swayed from. Spreading wings in an unvoiced challenge, he launches towards the feeding grounds unerring in his race to the sun. Unable to gaze directly at such beauty, whirling eyes seek lifeforce instead. A momentary flicker of his eyes towards no longer pale angelic hide brings pain… but sweet pain which he will endure. Whirlpools of deep magenta swirl and ebb as Ahreluth swoops towards an unsuspecting herdbeast, forelegs grabbing as one fluid motion ensures he can fly stronger, higher, and faster. Draining the herdbeast of ambrosial sustenance from the neck - always the neck - he now finds it easier to look upon such nymphean form, her defence of crimson kept in check with cerise.

Still in training, G'wain's feet thud into the bag suspended from the ceiling, made just for the purpose of training. Bare to the waist, he throws a final punch at the bag and it swings away from him. Breathing heavily, his eyes cloud momentarily, a muttered exclamation as he darts from the room, the bag left swinging, his jacket and shirt in the corner. Leaving the training area, he jogs towards the bowl, his eyes still clouded as his mind begins descent into the primitive, the dragon.

Llysereth> A moment's pause, head lifting to catch the scent on the breeze; sniffing deeply of the stirrings of the wind currents that flow about this Weyr so new and unknown to him. Xendrenth tenses, every muscle of his racer-trim frame taut with anticipation. And then he's aloft, arching motion and power flowing smooth in a surge to the heights. The feeding grounds sighted, he drops, raindrop-dappled wings folding to land neatly, bright talons slashing out to claim a herdbeast for himself. His head dips, teeth latching onto the throat and slakes his thirst, fueling himself for the chase to come.

It only takes a moment, and in that moment L'rien's attention wavers. "Xendrenth!" comes his cry, one of disma perhaps, or worry. "We have to go. we've got to go…" But his words are unheeded, for it is indeed to late. Who would have thought a simple trip to Ista could end like this? The brownrider has but little choice, and so squaring his shoulders, he encourages his lifemate in his blooding.

Llysereth> The demon rises: her mind is lost beneath the tides of power and passion, the beast within her grasp destroyed without so much as a moment of hesitation to her great ideal. Carmine and amber add another colour to her sleek, glowing hide, as she takes and kills her final beast, drawing out the passion and terror as it dies within her grasp, shaken to every breath of its far too short life. She bugles her challenge to her suitors, disgusted at their approach, drawing up to readiness for the flight that comes. They will not have her - she will flee their embrace, duck their attempts, delight in her own, true perfection. Up, she goes, at last, soaring into the clear skies - a beacon of light, a lighthouse through the darkness, hurtling without true path, towards oblivion.

Lydiere is aided, helpfully, by an older brownrider who's seen this far too many times, and somehow, she ends up in her weyr, sitting upon the bed, her eyes narrowed towards her knees. "They shall not pass!" she cries, lost within the carnal emotions of her lifemate, unable to put a division between Llysereth and Lydiere: the two are combined, one single mind soaring through the skies above.

Llysereth> True perfection, indeed. Aedhyth rips into the skin of a second 'beast, khaki-smothered lips tainted with the cryptically translucent sheen of freshly spilt blood coalescing with his skin to create a thin layer of deep, rose gold. Passion and power writhe and undulate 'twixt unencumbered swirls of sanguine and tangerine, caught in the lock of Llyserath's bejeweled form, and with each suckle of the herdbeast's life the determination in his middling structure swells to unimaginable heights. Heaving, he awaits the sound of the gun, the trumpet at which the race will righteously initiate.

L'sta winces for a moment and then lurches forward, running towards the edge of the Feeding Grounds and crying outloud as the fence forestalls his movement. Clutching his stomach in quickly-leaving pain, he then jerks his head towards the Weyr proper, fleeing to there for some unknown reason.

Llysereth> Xendrenth casts aside the drained carcass of his first 'beast with nary a moment's thought; a half leap taken to bring down another and quench his thirst. Nay not to quench thirst, but to fuel desire and need and to give atrength when the time comes. He leaps upon another, and drains from it that lifesblood which it gives in its dying gasping breath; only to give him life and strength. A roar is given forth, voiced in challenge to the queen as he lifts his blood-stained muzzle, every muscle tense and awaiting that leap skyward. When she goes, so does he, the raindrop dappled brown bursting into the air as if a runner from the starting gate. Once skyward, he drops back, settling into himself, preserving his energy and strength for the flight ahead. But Llysereth's glowing form leads him on, for she is truly a lighthouse's beacon in a darkening storm. Without her shining light to lead him forth, he would surely crash upon the rocks of lost dispair. He follows on, waiting, hoping.

L'rien follows Lydiere to her weyr, following her in as much the same as his brown follows her lifemate skywards. Once within the weyr, he leans against the wall, his only words like a mantra of support to his 'mate. "Fly well."

Llysereth> The herdbeast falls limply to the ground, drained of the life-giving liquid, bronzen talons releasing it with a spasm. Instantly seeking another, Ahreluth jumps, only to glide a short distance and descend on anohter unsuspecting herdbeast. Strong jaw clamps once more around neck, entrophic fluid once more sought. Neck is snapped with a slight jerk - never let it be said that Ahreluth is not merciful - and he continues in his quest for that which will sustain him in flight. Blood, red as wine, flows from his muzzle, and as he lifts his wheat-gold head, the blood trickles towards the ground, spilling as he prepares for the inevitable launch to the skies. Preparing himself, he coils as a spring, and sitting there, he suspends time itself. Barely moving but for the frantic beating of heart and the fast rise and fall of chest as he breaths, he poises for flight, eyes all the while on Llysereth. Smoky orbs filled with visions of delightful perfection that rises, he reanimates, the coil unwound as he springs from the earth with force. He will have her… or a part of him will perish in the attempt.

Desire and lust that cannot yet be abated swirl and ebb within G'wain as he spots Lydiere, following her into their weyr. Hissing at the other riders that approach, his eyes narrow. This is /his/ territory, and they shall not have her. A growl emits as he hears Lydiere's words, and he falls into the cavernous abyss that is Ahreluth's mind, awash with primal emotion. Deep and dark, G'wain's breathing quickens and heart speeds as it tries to match pace set by bronzen lifemate, and fists clench. They will not have her.

Llysereth> In flight, the demon truly shines: Llysereth is caught between her own desires, and her needs, flailing in her inability to control that which now controls her. Upwards she soars, taking to the furthest reaches of the highest skies, her wingsails blossoming with the speed that races her to the moon and back. Out towards the water she finds herself, body streamlined for the flight that has her a third moon, a second sun, the blazing beacon of the skies as she soars and dips. But there's no joy, here: no matter her delight of the skies, there is a constant reminder of the distaste of these emotions, the rolicing winds no match for her cruel temper - vicious hate. Buffeted by the winds that rage above the waters beneath her course, her size is a true benefit: more power, far more power, to flaunt against it, and seek higher still - her freedom.

Lydiere's head hurts. Caught between the constant, constricting pain, and yet the freedom of flight - the rage against potential captors - she finds no relief, turning her head away, hiding her eyes from the reality that she will not, cannot, face. There's little left of Lydiere, herself; Llysereth is all that matters, and with Llysereth is her mind, her intellect, and her response. Perhaps she registers those in the room, perhaps she does not, certainly, she finds no comfort in any of the faces, even if she does.

Llysereth> A small patch of night sky briefly frames the rising moon of Llysereth, midnight blue with a splash of silvery stars. Night falls rather quickly, however, then rises again rapidly, passing close by the gold in an estatic display of flying. « Whee! I was right, Golds DO play tag! » Yes - it's Maxanth. Darting about much more agilely than the more massive pursuing bronzes and browns, his wings hum as he flits in pursuit of the queen.

J'ran's head snaps up, and he steps back and raises a hand to forestall the sparring session with one of Raye's guardsmen. "Max?" he says aloud, his tone questioning. Abruptly, his eyes widen, and he curses. "Crackdust, Max, no!" Tossing his practice blade to the guardsman, he turns and runs out of the pratice grounds. Oh please, let it not be Ysmalath…

Llysereth> Raindrop dappled wings stretch to their fullest; powerful upsweeps and downsweeps carrying him forward in pursuit of the celestial goddess that is Llysereth. His wings, stippled with droplets of white; like the first falling snow upon the ground are his only support, uplifting him, carrying him as he seeks for the higher climes, as he seeks to scale the very heights of the heavens in his ardent wooing of the golden queen. Xendrenth shall seek to climb the very turrets of the moon, or dare to pass the blazing gate of the sun if he could only draw closer to her, his sun, his stars, his endless sky - if only he could approach her closer. A thermal is caught, the brown seeking a way to the higher atmosphere in his chase. He uses the winds, born and bred in the frosty north, the wind off the sea is nothing unknown to him for he has flown in far stronger gales. The thrusting of the wind, the sweep of breezing caress beneath his wingsails drives him, as he seeks to use them for his own and to follow the blazing aureate form ahead.

L'rien is Xendrenth; he's no longer such an earthy form within the weyr, but rather melding and merging with his dragon in the skies far above; offering his support and energy to his lifemate as together they seek to ensanre the golden prize.

Llysereth> Ahreluth senses division in the golden-hued beast before him, still endeavouring to conquer, though now neither death nor captivity are for Llysereth - he will tame the demon rather than kill or cage it. Following, the ever perceptive amber dragon has no time to consider the water which he speeds towards, and then over, yet consider it he does… he is more at home there, than land. But not sky - never sky. It is his hunting ground as he stalks his prey. Patient, he is, as he looks for an opportunity to ensnare his goal, the brighter of the suns in the sky - at least to him. Once ensnared… he will persuade her to his cause without words, without thought.

G'wain is no longer G'wain, just as Lydiere is no longer Lydiere, a part of the reason why all that shows is thirst and hunger for only the woman before him, rather than his weyrmate before him. Eyes seeing nothing but her, he only acknowledges the others in the room so far as to make sure that they come no closer than he. War wages within G'wain was well, Ahreluth seemingly not Ahreluth for once as he forgets planning and lives in the moment.

Llysereth> Llysereth is in no mood to suffer the play of a mere blue - yet another mere male; the demon screeches a howl of protest, embracing the skies to try and pull her massive bulk away from those who attempt to force her move. She'll unpick her tapestry every night, if she must, forestall their moves with whatever knavery she has left within her. Turning rapidly upon her wingjoints, she ducks downwards, sweeping away from the windswept oceans, her cry as raucus as those of seabirds fleeing her territorial dance up around the weyr once more. The sentinel peaks of Ista's spires are left far behind as again her path takes her higher: the skies are hers, to play with as she likes - and none shall take away that. A harvest moon - touched in red, but overall a brilliant, gleaming, silvered gold - rises, bedecking the world in spangled light.

Lydiere's breathing deepens, as her eyes shut tight, consciousness fluting in between the rolling waves of emotion shared by the other half of her, above. She takes a deep breath, squeezing her fists tighter, turning her head away from the lurking shadows beneath her eyelids - the shadows of those she knows are here, but will not face.

Llysereth> There is no anticipation on the part of the metallic as he persues the harvest moon, himself chasing as if emerging from a cloud to advance across the sky in a battle that seems impossible to win - she is beguiling and sly… But she will tire. And he will still advance. Pulling wings in to dive after the demon, he is barely far enough behind to snap open wings and follow once more as she again builds altitude. The blue is looked upon only a brief instant, discounted as competition - none are classed as otherwise in this - before once more, Ahreluth strives with muscle, sinew, ichor and strength, the last of which is waning as the flight progresses.

G'wain takes a small step forward in anticipation, about as much as he wold dare. If he was really G'wain, he would be less hesitant, yet now, he is not, the merge between rider and dragon complete in its entirety. They shall not have her. Muttering to himself, his mantra raises in his throat… "They… not… her. They shall not have…" Not loud, but noticable, nonetheless. If there were a way to win this with will alone, G'wain-Ahreluth would be a forerunner in the field.

Llysereth> Late to the 'game', Maxanth is fresh, eager, and having a great time. Dipping and weaving in amongst the much larger males, Maxanth tags brown and bronze indiscriminately with his tail or wingtip as he gamely beats his way through the crowd in pursuit of the /best/ target - a shining queen! Folding his wings and fairly falling out of the pack, he follows Llysereth down, then up, bugling gleefully.

J'ran finds himself on the beach, staring out over the ocean at the dancing and diving forms far, far above and out to sea. Caught up in the thrill of the game, he's quite lost as to how to find the others at this late point…

Llysereth> He would never seek to force her move, oh no. Not Xendrenth. Settling into position behind the gold, he merely follows, patient, waiting. He will not chase, but he will woo, he will flirt with the clouds and the winds if he must to further his cause. He will be there, he might hope, when she falters, prepared to offer her the comfort and shelter of his wings. But now, he shall pursue, winging along in her vanguard, one of the loyal subjects to a most worthy queen. At a moment's breath, he plunges seawards in her wake, for he would dash himself upon the sea if she willed it so, but again, up she goes. Wheeling upwards now, Xendrenth seeks the clouds, seeks her following, his eyes turned ever upon the harvest moon in all her full brightness. The time is ripe, and harvest should begin.

Leaning against the wall of the weyr, L'rien's breath comes short, his teeth worrying at his lower lip as he clanches his hands at his side. "Easy Xen." comes his words of caution, but he is matched with his brown; heart, mind and soul, he blends with his lifemate in their quest to acheive the prize.

Llysereth> Freedom is Llysereth's - held within her grasp, so tight. She has not taken into consideration other factors, however, the buffeting on her wings of a sharp gust of wind, a slipped movement, a rush of air that sends her hurtling in a direction unplanned. Ahreluth is the first she sees - the first who can save her, and vaguely remembered as one worth having. Unfortunately, in her desperate attempts to ensare that bronze, her tail is caught, her neck is twined, and when lust and delight come together, it's not Ahreluth that is her prize - Xendrenth has her within /his/ grasp, and surprise shows for but a moment, before, as they fall together, Llysereth finds her great joy in Xendrenth.

Lydiere's eyes go wide, frantic desperation so clear within her movements as she attempts to get away. "Llysereth, no, don't do that!" Gaze falls on G'wain, knowledge and acceptance there, and then gone; Llysereth is caught, L'rien is hers, and suddenly that's all she has eyes for. "Oh!" And so it ends.


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