Who F'inn, K'zre, Nymionth, Yasminath
What Yasminath's first flight.
When Winter - Month 13 of Turn 2718
Where Elysion Garden, Fort Weyr

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Elysion Garden Weyr
The well-worn pathway leading from the ledge opens onto a cavern that is nearly as massive in scope as the one before. To the left of the entrance, a hearth adorned with ornate stonework affords glimpses of the dragon hollow beyond. The hearth, itself, is massive in scope, more then large enough for two full grown men to stand side by side, arms akimbo. To either side of the hearth towering shelves have been carved into the wall, the upper portions reachable only by narrow ladders affixed to the wall. The exterior edge of the mantel has been carved with a depiction of a pair of dragons in flight, the intricately crafted dragons depicted in perpetual pursuit of the full moon resting dead center. From the hearth, the room sweeps out in wide half circle, the cavernous space more then large enough to comfortably house a modest-sized dragon (although there is no way a dragon could navigate the pathway). It is immediately noticable that this weyr is not equipped with electric lighting, although there are numerous nooks for glows and fixtures for candles and torches adorning the walls.

To the right of the entrance, the room sweeps into a gentler arc, an ancient hearth for cooking dug directly into the stone. To either side of the hearth shelves have been carved into the walls, a taller opening leading to long narrow room that is clearly meant for storage. At the far end of this area, almost directly opposite of the entrance, an opening leads to spiral staircase— carved directly into the stone— that descends deeper into the weyr.

Before the hearth a plethera of soft, lush furs have been added, massive pillows in bronze trimmed green and green trimmed bronze added for additional comfort. A pair of sturdy, comfortable chairs in dark wood are arranged before the hearth, a small table bearing a glass sconced candle resting between them. Each of the chairs is complete with comfortable, dark green cushions and matching footrest. Upon the hearth graceful candlabras are arranged, a massive beveled glass vase in the shape of a crescent moon, with two small crescents dangling by bronze links, and filled with lush red roses, settled dead center. Not to far from the 'kitchen' area, a long wooden table with four sturdy chairs has been arranged. Near the western most wall, a sturdy dark wood couch and coffee table have been arranged atop a plush carpet in forest hues. Opposite it, tucked out of the way, along the eastern wall, a potters wheel, kiln and a pair of easels have been arranged. Settled along the wall within easy reach are canvas, barrels of clay and a set of shelves containing numerous paints, glazes, brushes and dyes.


When K'zre woke the next morning, he was absolutely and completely certain that today was the day. Yasminath would rise. He could just feel it. If asked, he would have been unable to say exactly *why* he was so certain. But he was, nonetheless. The sun was shining down on the Weyr, bathing the ledge in sunlight. Yasminath was snoozing away. There was a nervous, anticipatory energy… how could it NOT be today?! But as the hours wore on and nothing happened, all that nervous anticipation began turning to anxiety, and dread, and nail-biting, and pacing, until Kez was very likely to wear a path into the stone from his constant back and forth. He cannot be distracted. He cannot be consoled. He's going to pace, and worry, and rehash everything that the weyrlingmaster's told him, and what R'sner told him, so that he gets this absolutely and completely correct.

And the day wore on. And nothing happened. Nothing.

Until the sun is setting, and Kez is… utterly and thoroughly confused. Eventually, as the sun sets and Yasminath has yet to rise (though now she's awake, and once more entertaining her suitors), K'zre must concede that he was wrong. She's not going to rise today. Collapsing into bed, the last thing he remembers is Yasminath happily tucked beneath Nymionth's wing, giggling away at the silly advances of the males that she takes entirely too seriously.

It is very late. The moons are shining, full and bright in the winter sky, and Yasminath is bathing in their moonlight. Glowing silvery-bright beneath it. She watches them, ignoring the males that still attempt to gain her attentions and pull her affections from the bronze at her side. Her attention is for Timor and Belior, in admiring the beauty that the full moons offer. There's a desire rising in her. A want to touch those moons. To be one with them. And it has her shivering despite not feeling cold. When she stands, when she moves, it is with an effortless grace previously unknown to her on the ground. Her croon to Nymionth is as sweet as always, but there's a sensuality to her mind that is entirely foreign. She will not blood, for she has no desire to kill and gorge. She wants the sky, and the stars, and to own the night. « The moons are bright, » she declares, the lure of them impossible to resist. « I want to touch them. Chase me, Nymionth. Catch me! » And then she is gone, abandoning ledge and Weyr and Pern altogether, as she races for the sky.

And inside the weyr, K'zre wakes with a gasp.

F'inn does his level best to stay out of K'zre's way while remaining close enough to offer comfort if needed or wanted. He's fretting, but ready, willing and able to leap on K'zre and keep him in the weyr, should it be necessary. Nymionth, on the other hand, had remained hovering at Yasminath's side, taking to pacing in the outer cavern once she's settled into sleep. He's tense and has no idea why he is so tense. But, like K'zre there is no consoling him, no calming him, and no chance of stopping the massive bronze from wearing his own path into the stone. When Yasminath rises and seems eager to entertain her suitors, Nymionth does his best to conceal his annoyance. No matter how large, or determined he is, at this point there is no chance of chasing them off. He does, however, issue subtle warnings. Warnings that are designed not to upset Yasminath, or even be noticed by the flirty little green.

Late. And Nymionth has managed to tune the other males out, ignoring their presence as he croons to Yasminath and admirers the silvery glow of her hide in the light of the moons. This? This is his favorite pasttime and he indulges in it with the devotion of one thoroughly smitten with the object of his affection. The moment she stands, he is on his feet, massive molten wings stretching out in an unconcious posturing that comes in response to Yasminath's croon. That that croon strikes cords in him that have not been struck before, it is enough to fill the air with the scent of roses and the low mellow hum of longing that thrums deep in his chest.

The moment that Yasminath rises, he is following, only vaguely aware of the confusion of the other males when she does not blood. Nymionth? He /knows/ her. He shares her passion for Timor and Belior and he is eager to see her soaring in their glorious light. With Yasminath rising ever higher, Nymionth dances behind her, twirling in the air with the intent to foul the other pursuers while remaining close enough to bask in her glory. He has every intention of allowing her to get as high as possible, to relish her flight with everything in her, before attempting to close the gape between them.

In the weyr, F'inn has ignored the call to sleep, remaining perched on the edge of one of the chairs, he'd been lulled by the dancing the flames. It is K'zre's gasp, however, that has him jerking into awareness, pale eyes casting a startled glance at his weyrmate as he slips down onto one knee beside him.

Yasminath is a queen, nay, a goddess, and the sky is her domain. She owns the night, and she knows it. The moons? They are the jewels in her crown, and she seeks to claim them as her own even as the males in pursuit seek to claim her. She ignores them, no longer interested in their sweet words and empty promises. She wants Timor and Belior, and nothing will keep her from them! She knows they are there, those blues and browns and bronzes. But they are an annoyance, and easily kept out of reach with a clever twist or twirl or the interference of Nymionth. Nymionth is the only one she will call by name, because he is the only one who understands why they are racing for the moons. But even he wants to catch her, she knows this. And she's not ready to be caught.

Inside the weyr, K'zre is lost and confused. He's been thrown from sleep and hazy dreams, straight into the heady rush of his rising green. There's no chance for him to understand what is happening. Only to feel it. And feel it he does, on a level that steals his breath and makes him shudder. It's F'inn slipping down beside him that brings movement, an unconscious and immediate attempt to evade him, to get away from him. Because he does not comprehend F'inn. He only comprehends that someone is too close, that Yasminath does not want to be touched or caught, and so K'zre does not want to be touched or caught. He's on his feet with surprising swiftness, dancing out of reach before the dizziness that comes with standing too fast makes him wobble and reach for support.

Indulging Yasminath is Nymionth's reason for being. It is what keeps him back far enough to give her ample space to dance in the moonlight. It is what keeps him fouling the flights of the other males, driving them back violently, if necessary, to grant her all the space she demands. His world is in the gracefully soaring green, shimmering in the silver glow of her hide. « Higher! » The call is uttered in a burst of roses as brilliantly silvered as the moons, Nymionth's massive wings beating the air as he closes the distance with slow, but determined, focus.

In the weyr, F'inn knows, logically, what to expect. But that rush of desire, that rush of need is strong enough that it sings in his blood. Still, like Nymionth, he is aware that they are not ready. And like Nymionth, he is determined to give K'zre all the room he needs while still remaining close to reach him. It is the wobble that catches F'inn's breath, pale blue eyes blazing in the firelight as he surges to his feet and takes an unconcious step closer. Still, there is as much beauty in K'zre's movement below as Yasminath's above, and F'inn finds himself as unwilling as Nymionth to do anything to quell that glory.

And higher she goes, leaving behind the males that cannot keep up or decide that trying is no longer worth the effort. Until there are only a few left. They are easily ignored. But what she cannot ignore, and what will become increasingly apparent, is that she grows tired. Her stamina is waning. For the moment it holds, and she thrills at the moonlight on her skin as she dances in the night. « Dance with me, Nymionth! » He is allowed to come closer, to enter her space, to share the moonlight with her. But that does not mean that the others won't also try, those few that still seek to catch her despite her evasive spins and the aggressions of her bronze. They will try, and when she falters, when her wings stutter and strain, they pounce.

Logic has no place in K'zre's world right now. It's all feelings. Emotions. Sensations. The desire to flee. To evade. To be caught. To give in. It's confusing, and conflicting, and it has him teetering where he stands as he fights two very opposing and yet equally powerful desires. Inclined toward F'inn but keeping out of reach. He can feel the strain of her wings and the waning of Yasminath's strength. It feels like his own. They know they won't last much longer before they're both caught. And they know who they want to catch them. He wants him so badly it aches, but he's got to /earn/ it. "Catch me." And then he runs.

Nymionth is there, the moment he is called, twirling through the air with Yasminath, his own hide lit with faint silvery hues. She is /his/ and he knows it and he revels in it. With the few remaining dragons that have not fallen behind moving in closer, laying in wait, he releases a bellow that shakes the skies. He can feel that she is tiring, his empathy standing him in good stead, and he remains close. Close enough that should he be inclined he could with the beat of massive wings, send the two of them careening through the skies. Twisting in the air with a nimbleness that is shocking for his size, Nymionth charges the other males, driving them back before shooting back up to where Yasminath dances in all her glory. He is aware, though, of her state and paying close attention to her. The second she falters, the second she tires, he will be there, molten bronze winding around her to support and claim her as his own.

Breathing heavily, F'inn can feel Nymionth, feel the aggression turned on the other males, feel the fierce intention to let none of them get within reach of Yasminath. It is an aggression and desire that shakes through his limbs and has him circling K'zre with a ferocity that is complete foreign to his nature. Like Nymionth, linked in a fashion that he could never have imagined, he can /feel/ K'zre tiring, he can feel the need and the moment the words are uttered, F'inn is after him like an arrow loosed from a bow.

As below, so above, Nymionth and F'inn moving in unison, their pursuit given new force as they dive in the exact same moment. Even as Nymionth's neck and tail lash out to wind around Yasminath, F'inn's arms are reaching for K'zre. As the dragons collide, so to do the humans, a raw, wild sound of triumph breaking from lips and maw as they claim what has /always/ been theirs. And, as the dragons begin their heady descent toward the ground below, F'inn bears K'zre to the floor. Where there would normally be concern and some measure of gentleness, at the moment there is only pure, unadultered lust and need. It is a raw, animalistic joining, full of power and force and the undeniable drive that will end in bone deep exhaustion.

Yasminath is caught, and she accepts it immediately. Ensnared by bronze neck and tail and perfectly content for it. There is no struggle. The moons remain in the sky, unclaimed. But Yasminath is happy to let them go. Nymionth is hers. She is his. Of course she is. How could there be any other way?


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