Moment of Truth {Couineth's Flight!}

Slender fingers swept across the sandy brown dragonhide; soft as down, yet rippled with a texture that caught at his oiled fingertips: Dragonflesh had always been wondrous to him. Every crevice between muscled joints, every expanse of taught skin over defined curves, and every breeze-curled inch of deceptively fragile sail was slicked with oil and set to shining in the light of nooning. This work, what was sometimes more of a chore for Dragonmen, had become a respite for A’kai; his thoughts still lingered with pained definition on the destructive events that had transpired at Dalibor Weyr. That fire and subsequent explosion had claimed lives and injured many more; it was a shocking blow to a community sevendays away from the reality of Threadfall: That was yet another notch in his belt of contemplations on this day.

So, he oiled, and awaited the inevitable. The Wings would rise, and he would fight, and that would be life; until his ended. With a sure power to his body, he scaled his dragon’s muscled shoulder; far easier to do while the great beast was lying prone—especially when strapless. Foreclaw to forearm, and then it was easy to find purchase between the great muscles that roped along those powerful arm and wing shoulders. He stood then, between those powerful apparatuses of flight, and began his work anew on places he could only reach from this position. His hands were quick and agile on the fleshy ridges which served as support foundations for flight, and the straps which would keep him tied to the brown neck. This was his world, as far as he was concerned, nothing else existed but his dragon and him—this was his conclave.

Rirth would not protest; even if he thought his Rider should seek out the comfort of others—which he did not—there was not an inch of him willing to throw off those tender ministrations: If this helped his bonded, then it helped him as well. Yet, today, there was something in the air that distracted him from falling into the respite; something A’kai had not yet sensed, or remembered. They were an aged pair, so the taste of the wind translated into the mind of the Dragonman should have sent signals that would receive immediate understanding, but today the Brownrider’s thoughts ran far too deep, and the changing mood of the Weyr around him went unnoticed. Onward he worked into that noon; Rukbat beat warmth down onto his shoulders that made the work of his back even more pleasant an experience—cathartic.

Ever onward his hands slathered oil upon the flesh of the dragon to whom he had given his heart twenty-seven turns ago: Down, and down further, eventually finding his feet planted once again on the Bowl ground; fingertips carefully oiling the twin tines of Rirth’s tai, and the crevice between—he’d known many a Weyrling dragonet to nearly lose a tailtip when their bonded neglected to care for the area properly. Dragonflesh stretched to grow, and so quickly over those first crucial months of development. Of course the Brown grew no-longer, but the connective tissue between those tines could chafe and split much like the damp flesh between men’s toes could. It was far better, for dragon and Rider, to be ever-vigilant in the way of dragoncare.

The Brown shook himself experimentally, finally free from needing to help his Rider balance upon his back, and then he unfurled those massively broad wings. Shaded now from the warmth of day light, aside from the glow that permeated the terra upon which he stood from the rays passing through the wing membrane, he worked the oiling brush quickly over the underside of those wings. Each quadrant of sail received a coating from spar to spar down to the pinions; again and again: Five quadrants per wing. The topsail was done simultaneously, Rirth simply folding his wingfingers beneath to expose the Rukbat-warmed flesh to his Rider. Then it was finished. The Brown was a glorious sight of sun-flashed flesh; every inch of sandy brown throwing spars of light as if covered in reflecting metal. He was beautiful—not that A’kai was biased, but he was distracted.

Now at long last a distance away from the bulky Brown to drink him in as whole, rather than as separate pieces of oiled hide, A’kai found those facetted eyes lanced with crimson that billowed outward to fill each compartment before being viciously swirled away by further layers of the bloody colouration. Dark to light, and back again, and laced within were the mixings of Rirth’s typical content sea-blue—turned to purple flashed by the overbearing scarlet. Though the Brownpair matched each other in an even temperament that rendered their speech emotionless—save for the underlying foundation and ever-present love—there was absolutely no doubt in A’kai’s mind as to the emotions that now began to roil from his bonded. Only Dragonflight possessed the subKing to this level of emotionality.

Couineth, my Queen, flies—I will chase, A’kai

A Gold? aren’t you a little old to be chasing young Queens, darling?

With my age comes experience answered the Brown with a rumble in his chest that brooked no argument. Those defined muscles that his Rider had only just oiled now roiled beneath taut hide as he gathered powerful limbs beneath himself and rose to all fours—ruby tinged eyes roiling as that triangle head honed in on the great Golden form that fell from her weyr and swept across the Bowl to the pens. Did I not carry the Gold egg upon my back? I am worthy, and she will be mine

Rirth knew that his bonded would find the Goldrider’s weyr; he would be drawn to the human as his dragon was drawn to the Queen herself, so he took his leave with an agility that belied a bulk which—while slimmer than the Kings who rose in chase—possessed little of the agility his fighting skysiblings could claim. Wing fingers swept forward to taste of the Rukbat-warmed bowl air; those sails rippled against invisible winds as he tested the rising heat from terra for a thermal that would lift him to the Rim before the Queen finished her display of blooding. When he found it, he claimed it, powerful haunches gathering beneath his body to launch him forward: Unlike those fighters, he could not achieve a vertical flight, but he needed far less room to find the sky than the bulky Bronzes and Irons.

One powerful leap from where he had been standing; his wings matching that great powerful thrust with a downstroke that scattered dusty sand from the stony Bowlfloor, and then he lept into the thermal; wings finding purchase that only dragon could command, and he spiraled skyward inside that pillar of warm updraft; claws alighting upon the stony Rim only when he was certain of the distance he had placed between himself and the Bowl—long ago having learned that dragons of bulk must first fall to Rise. There she was, fang-deep below him and bleeding from her beast the life-blood that beat within courageous chests and powered mighty wings: When she screamed her challenge to the Weyr he responded with a flowing bugle of his own—today he was King for her.

When she Rose; having drawn the moment out for what seemed like an eternity, he dropped—wingspars folding tightly to his body as he allowed Pern to pull him home: There, scant feet from dashing himself senseless on the floor below, those powerful pinions broke open with an audible snap that echoed across stone. Wingspars pulled mainsails open with delicious tightness as each individual membrane caught and held at the warm pillar he had used previously. One furious downstroke at the nadir of his dive, body caught within the confines of that updraft, and then he was arrowing skyward—a body of flashing light against the nooning Rukbatlight due to the oil on his hide.

She was there, above him, her own glowing dragonflesh brighter than the light of day itself: A glorious ray amongst the cobalt of the sky, and he rose to her with an agility he had wrested from the air itself—he Chased. Even as, far below, A’kai found his place among the other suitors whose dragons Rose, maintain a respectful—if waning—distance from the young Weyrwoman who had no more choice than he.

He felt the eyes of his Queen on him, on all of them, judging and weighing them and finding them wanting—as all females of the sky did. None were worthy, not even him, but one of them would be proven. One would catch or be captured and then there would be the great falling; twined together as Pern called them home to her embrace as they consummated the joining. Yet that was not now, and would not be for some time yet; this Queen wanted to test her suitors—and they would rise to the occasion as proper males. The updraft threw him skyward on the power of wind beneath sail and he expended none of his energy in following her to those greater heights; here they swam amongst an endless blue that swept across the arc of terra below. His facetted eyes flashed across her golden form as it caught and reflected the light of day back at him; she was glorious.

She leveled out, but he allowed the pillar and warmth of sky to carry him higher still; he had little interest in the others that chased. Here he could watch the subtle changes in the muscles of her hide; in a way he could read her mind—see her actions: Such a young and daring Queen, but naïve. Her only interest was in proving herself. There was always the possibility she would wear herself down too soon—he had seen it happen in the young ones before—and those were opportune moments for subKings who lacked the size to fully foil a Queen’s perpetual momentum. Those crimson-hued compartments flashed along the golden wingshoulders of the Rukbat-dragon as her pinions drew sails taut and forced an effort from them.

Forward, ever across the sky-turned-sea, she pulled away from them in her haste to leave them behind and he allowed it; to an extent. He would not fall behind the tailmost suitor, but he would not break himself against the pulling of the wind to surpass her effort and gain—not yet. There was a fire burning in this Queen that needed stoked by the chill of fall sky and the heat of Rukbatlight. He stayed above, his open wingsails casting a shadow down upon the wispy clouds that clung to the lowest atmosphere; they promised a fall storm would come and go, and in that threat of marred open sky his instinctual dragonlust was fed the fire of Flight; not only those of dragons but that of Wings—it was in his blood like a distant memory of his heritage, and it was nothing that he could understand.

Predator of the sky the need to fulfill this part of his existence crowded out the memory of Weyrlife and bonded minds; he was only the dragon, as his Rider was only the dragon—they were one and had never been anything save this entity: Here above the open waters and hard ground. Here where fragile dragonwings could fly high enough to beat ineffectually against air too thin to support them. He stalked her like a preycat of the Southern lands, he kept himself between his golden Queen and the burning heat of the brilliant Rukbat; yes, he could see her illumination as a flawlessness there below him—no matter the distance that existed between them.

Then she was diving, and he was nearly powerless to answer that call; he knew it was a ploy—dragons must fall from on high, but she was beautiful. He had to chase and catch, had to make her his, but the logic of age warred with the lust in his beating heart even as he folded wingfingers to his sandy chest and fell in tandem with his Queen. Not as far, and not as steeply, no; she would need to Rise again and he would be there. So he leveled out above her, again keeping his broad wings flashed full of the light that beat down upon him from the sky. Her exhibit of power—and rage—did not go unnoticed; it released a thrilling response in his nerves. She was dangerous, at least she wanted to show that she was; exhibit her prowess to her suitors. He wasn’t fooled, and he wasn’t close enough to feel even threatened by her display, but it called to him.

Yet even her wild abandon with her anger served a greater purpose—it drove her upward. He responded immediately; he did not want to be in her path, not yet, not this low. Spars tested the warmth of air currents as they swept around him and then hooked into the nearest thermal, his broad expanses of sails served him well as he commanded the air to his need—to his will. Upward he rose with her; his path was more vertical than her forward drive, but he would slope to meet that forward momentum when he had achieved distance from terra again. Higher, and higher, and then forward as if a bowstring loosed—one powerful downstroke; spartips curled to cup the air and cast it backwards.

Ever forward, ever after, always chasing—his Queen. While far below, and far behind, A’kai remained motionless within the Queenrider’s weyr; even as another moved to her ledge, even as another joined them. This was a duty, his duty, he who was Rirth more than Rider. There was no need to move, no need to follow or touch; he waited. Biding his time: They were not an aggressive pair; they were tenacious, and patient.

Rayna blinked slightly, dragged from her place in the clouds by someone addressing her. It took until Um'per had repeated her name for the second time for it to sink in that he was addressing her and that it wasn't a dragon speaking to Couineth. Rather unwillingly, she dragged enough of her attention from Couineth and her home in the skies just in time to feel the purplerider's hand reaching towards her shoulder and turning her away from the ledge.

Her eyes narrowed sharply and she pulled away from his touch, viewing it as an unwelcome advance. If she had been completely Couineth in that moment, she would have lashed out at him. As it was, Rayna moved purposefully away. The other suitors were too close to her. Too close, too close. She needed room, she needed space. Rayna needed the open skies. She needed to be able to get away from all of these stupid, self-centered suitors that wanted her. Rayna didn't want any of them!

Closing her eyes for a moment, Rayna focused on Couineth once more. Her shoulders felt like they were straining to carry her bulk upwards and when Rayna opened her eyes again, she barely saw the world around her. All of her mind was focused on Couineth. She felt like the two were one whole in that moment. They were both straining to get as far away from these self-centered dimglows as possible.

Couineth herself had leveled out for a moment. She twisted her head backwards to stare at her suitors, crimson still whirling fiercely in her gaze. The first hints of being tired was beginning to dance in her muscles. Her wings still drove her forward, but Couineth was beginning to tire. This was going to end soon, but Couineth was not interested in ending it yet. They were so stupid, so self-centered! Radith, Lebeth, Rirth, Natoth. None of them were worthy of her, the most amazing Queen that Dalibor Weyr had to offer. They were the only ones who recognized how amazing she was, though. Couineth was pleased by that much, at least. They did recognize that she was amazing! She was the greatest Queen ever!

The thought was enough to drive Couineth onward again, her wings snapping powerfully. She flew flat for a time, driving herself forward as quickly as she could go. Couineth was no lithe and swift green, however, and moving her heavy body forward at such speeds was hard for the Queen. She wasn't ready to stop, not yet, but she was growing more tired with each moment that went on. A glance behind her informed her that her suitors were gaining on her and a snarl escaped Couineth.

She shot upwards again, wings pumping powerfully to carry her upwards. Couineth didn't want them to get too close to her! She wasn't ready to choose, not yet! All Couineth wanted was to get as far away from these stupid, self-centered suitors as possible! Couineth flew upwards, driving her wings until the gold came to a stop, wings beating to keep her suspended in the air. Couineth's crimson gaze swept across each suitor in turn.

Now was the time to choose the least self-centered of her suitors, the one who was most worthy of her amazingness. Couineth gazed at each of her suitors in turn. Her wings were sore and the energy was bleeding from her veins

Her final decision was hurried, but Couineth dove for Lebeth. Her claws pricked against his hide, drawing ichor as her tail twined with his and Couineth let herself fall. Mine.