Outside Those Lines {Dilath's First Flight}

The Brown had been…sullen. Losing both of the Tans had been a blow to his pride—especially as it had been due to their quirky, unknown nature. Ietermath had not warned him that one of the creatures was controlled by a human, nor had the Bronze mentioned that the other liked playing strange games instead of actually Flying. They were terrible: At being dragons, and at being good dragons. Of course his frustration had waned as the days passed, but—”What, looking for more women to lose old man?” Verensith snapped his head around to his Rider and snarled softly, his talons digging into the edges of their weyr’s ledge. Of course he might have even given the man a response, if he hadn’t at that very moment spied a Pink diving down upon the beasts in the pens.

Snorting, the dragon uncoiled himself from the boneless sprawl he had been stretched out in, and began stretching himself back into sorts. He had absolutely no intention of even speaking to his Rider, but Ro'ark stilled him with a firm hand on one large foreleg. ”Now, you don’t really think I’m going to run again, do you? Because,” and he paused, looking out into the Bowl where the Pink was just shooting skywards. ”That isn’t happening.” Verensith growled in frustration, but allowed his Rider to mount none-the-less, though when Ro'ark tried to stall further, he simply deposited the man in a sprawl across his shoulders and sprang from the weyr the moment his hands had found a dorsal ridge.

Depositing the man went much the same: He had barely touched a paw down on Dilath’s weyr before Ro'ark’s booted leg was in his mouth. The Brownrider saw the world flipped upside-down for a moment as his dragon dragged him from his back and tossed him casually through the open entryway, and any shouting he may have done after the retreating rose-hued brown hide was lost as the wind was knocked from his lungs by his less-than-graceful landing. Ondine, of Dilath How was that for loyalty? Dragging himself to his feet, he swept the dust from his leathers even as he strode into Rider’s quarter’s—at least the overgrown lizard had seen fit to supply him with a name, it would make things far less awkward if things went his way.

Ondine seemed well and truly paired with her dragon, and that was fine for Ro'ark, he left her to it and began methodically stripping his upper body. Every piece of clothing removed was folded neatly and set aside—within reach just in case she came to and decided he didn’t fit her profile for an ideal partner. While not fully prepared to remove even his heavy riding trousers, he did roll down his thigh-high riding boots, to save time in case he would need to kick them off later. Having completed his ritual, he placed his back to the far wall where he could see the entrance, and idly scratched the circular scar that sat on his chest: He wouldn’t fall prey to his lust for some time.

With mild curiosity he reached toward the Brown his eyes going out of focus as the view before him split between that of the human, and that of the dragon: Verensith was shooting skyward, and Ro'ark was curious enough to watch. Warmth spread over his shoulders and back, as if the enormous muscles propelling the dragon up were his own, and every chesty breath the sandy-hided creature stole from the warm sky was echoed against his Rider’s ribcage. It was a glorious day for a Chase, he was able to ride the thermals up after the smaller—faster—Pink. It saved his strength for later; because he knew she could out fly him if it dragged out in length, or if she chose to do more dancing than most: The smallest ones always seemed to enjoy running circles around their bigger suitors.

In the rippling heat of day, his leathery membranes rustled audibly in the air as blasts of hot wind buffeted his broad wings. Up and up. She had the advantage of size, speed, and, because of his rider, a head start—but Verensith was not a dragon to give up, even when the odds were stacked against him. When she called to her suitors he remained silent, but he would be hard to miss in these bright skies—and if he happened to be, well, that could be advantageous on its own. Extending his leading pinion forward, mainsail going taut, he spun in a tight circle on the spot, and his head twisted to follow Dilath’s glowing movements. Yes, perhaps this time he had found suitable prey.

Verensith was hungry, and when he thirsted for his needs, he worked for them all the harder. It was not in his nature to dance like his slender brothers; he much preferred the stalking hunt to a showy display, but chasing the smaller females was already a trial on patience. The scent of her shining hide set his lungs to a vibrating song, exhaled air vibrating up his long neck until it came out in a coughing growl as he swept after her—and her other suitors—his broad wings open to the warmth of the sky. Up he went, his pinions sliding up and down in the currents like a game, the changes in positioning pitching his large body to and fro in the sky in his own version of a dance, the wind cutting across those deceptively fragile bones causing pitchy music against the ripples of his wingsails.

When Dilath dove, he followed, though his was a leisurely pace set by the cusp of his wings as he spun after her, like a twined thread of metal falling from the sky to Pern. The glances of light bouncing off of his rose-tinged hide glowed bright enough to near her pink colouration, but always fell short. Her game, however, was to spin and twist like the delicate ladies enjoyed, and he had his own tricks for maintaining his stamina. Sly methods. Twisting out of his curling dive, his hind legs extended behind him as his wings swept forward to arrest his downward movement. For one long moment he appeared as if caught in a leap from a ledge, balanced in the air in a gentle glide, his graceful head pitching up toward the open expanse of sky that no dragon occupied. Momentarily he touched his rider’s mind, both of their attentions focused on that space far above, and then he was gone.

Heartbeats later and he existed again, accompanied by a rush of cold air from the depths of between, and distanced high above his quarry and the young pups who sought her. In the light of day his slender lips pulled back from his teeth in a predatory smile, proud, and accomplished: From above he would wait for her. Below, in Ondine’s weyr, Ro'ark gave a throaty laugh: It was soft, no more than a purring growl, but it was as possessive and prideful as Verensith’s would be—if dragons laughed. Coyly, he arched his brow at L’xon, wondering if perhaps he might not find time to taste the man himself—if only every flight could have the delicious conclusion that had been the finale to the Tans.

Of course he also appraised I’co, but there would be time to partake if they allowed it—later that is—as Veren hunted Dilath above, so Ro'ark would quietly observe his target below. The Brown felt his rider’s thoughts, the lust in them, and was spurred on—or rather down—to meet the Pink as she careened upwards through the clouds casting misty beams of coloured light away from her as she disrupted their travels with her passing. Behind him, clouds swirled down to grasp at him, but none could hold to his sleekly muscled hide, very few could ever hope for a chance. So close now, he extended his mind to hers for that first delicate touch: No words were spoken, none ever were, but he tasted her mind like he scented her spiciness, and allowed her to feel his fire.