==== November 28th, 2013
==== T'ral, Esanth
==== T'ral and Esanth fly together for the first time.

Who T'ral, Esanth
What T'ral and Esanth fly together for the first time.
When There are 0 turns, 7 months and 15 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

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Upper Bowl
The graceful sweep of spacious bowl lies scoured clean by an easterly breeze. Detritus is whisked neat to the eastern steppe of the bowl that lies several feet lower than the western plateau. White walls contrast the rough granite of the rivercliffs: the giant maw of the Hatching Cavern lies in the thickest part of the western wall, sheltering the training grounds and weyrling barracks lying nor'west. Directly north lies the leadership courtyard, heavily humid and subtly scented by intrigue.


Today's the day. Butterflies. Wherry-sized butterflies. T'ral makes yet another check of his flight leathers and the gleaming straps on Esanth's neck. His gloves are tucked into his belt and his hands move over the straps, testing tension and fit, fluttering across the smooth blue hide, a comforting warmth. The buzz of T'ral's own thoughts are steadied by the thrum of Esanth's mind.

« This is an easy gig. » Cargo is secure in the hold. Thrumming vibrates through the hull, a steady tickling sensation of anticipation and readiness. « Done it dozens of times, haulin' sacks o' 'stone heavier 'n you. »

T'ral nods, mouth dry. All true. And not a bag dropped. He checks the straps. Again. Esanth's shoulder is well above eye level now, and he has to clamber around, hopping up Esanth's obligingly extended legs. A weyrlingmaster calls. They're are on deck, next up in the flight line to take a wheeling flight around the bowl. T'ral tenses. Butterflies. T'ral checks his helmet and pulls gloves onto hands that are - quite frankly - shaking.

« Nerves are good. Nerves'll make ya sharp. » Thrumming deepens and the stars of the void dim. T'ral is held, securely, no sense of up and down particularly, but no sense of drifting. Held. « We're up! »

T'ral nods again, mouth still dry. He takes a deep breath, resting his head on Esanth's chest, eyes squeezed tight. He clears his throat, climbs up, straps in. Sitting at the juncture of neck and shoulders, T'ral can feel muscles, bunch and shift as Esanth moves. Though Esanth is a small dragon, for T'ral the change in point-of-view is significant. The amount of ground covered in a stride, significant. The distance swayed from one step to the next, signficant. T'ral's learned, in sevens and months of practice to anticipate these movements and compensate to not be especially jarred. The 'link helps. And that Esanth knows better what he's about helps. It seems that with flight, Esanth has come into some understanding of the dynamics of his own body. Disastrous (embarrassing) missteps have been fewer. The tanky blue is still rough as a cob, brutal in his efficiency, not yet a master of his strength. But there are flashes of brilliance when strength and intent align and he's a sight to behold on the wing. Lithe like a green, brawny like a brown. T'ral pales a bit, thinking of the stunts he'd seen Esanth pull riderless. He swallows, leaning back.

« Won't be doin' any o' that. No worries. » The thrumming of Esanth's mind rises in pitch. The stocky blue sets himself, planting each foot deliberately and wriggling back and forth int a low crouch - preparation for a lope into takeoff. « 'member. Lean forward. »

T'ral nods and tilts forward, putting pressure on the footloops his boots are tucked in, bracing lightly against the waist straps. He curls his fingers under the forward strap, ready to let his arms take some of the shock of Esanth's lunge. His arms feel weak with the sick tension of nerves. A painful stab of adrenalin as Esanth stills in preparation to leap forward. T'ral is more or less crouched on Esanth's neck, sweating buckets. Jaw muscles bunch and, when they weyrlingmaster drops his hand, they lunge!

T'ral's legs and arms tense, absorbing some of the lurching, three long, bone-jarring steps - less so, for the crouch - with Esanth's wings stretched and starting to beat and then a final hard leap and a long…

…long…

…long…

…queasymaking moment of weightlessness before Esanth's wings catch the wind and are beating hard for the sky. T'ral is tensed, hanging on for dear life. The wind buffeting, pulling… the upward angling of Esanth's climb, gravity dragging T'ral back, towards the ground…. feels like it will - has to! - tear him from the straps.

« T'ral. » The thrumming is a steady roar as Esanth beats for height. The mindscape wraps T'ral in the sense of being held, fixed. Five points. Maybe more. Snugged, safe, stars wheeling, « You won't fall. I won't let you. »

Esanth finally hits the break in the caldera wall, where a thermal rises and he can gain atltitude more easily. The wingbeats slow and the climb becomes more gradual.

Violence and tension of takeoff and ascent over, T'ral eases back from his crouch, settling onto Esanth's neck, his hands and legs weak, watery. Heart hammering. The meaty-bony pack of Esanth's neck and shoulders feel totally different on the wing. There's no impact. Just the smooth contraction and extension of the flight muscles. He can feel the delight coursing through his 'mate at the feel of wind-over-sails, driving toward the sky and at finally having T'ral there.

T'ral grins and would thump Esanth on the neck, but he's still got a rather white-knuckled grip on the forward neckstrap. It occurs to him that in his adrenal fog he hasn't really looked aroun- T'ral goes pasty white. We're so high.

Esanth's thrumming stutters, laughter, « Didja think we were gonna strafe th' canopy? »

Uh. I didn't envision it from my eyes. He swallows, hands sweating. Slippery. It looks different through yours.

The thrumming rises, revving, « By all means, use mine! » Esanth stretches forward and up, wings beating hard for more height.

T'ral closes his own eyes and opens himself to the rush of Esanth's thoughts and visions. They're climbing, sure and steady. Climbing, climbing, climbing… stalling. T'ral's stomach lurches as they're weightless for a moment. Esanth snaps in his wings, letting gravity take them, turning into the fall as they nose down into a dive. Wings still tight, Esanth and T'ral plunge. T'ral hunkers down on Esanth's neck, partly in terror, partly because it felt like the wind was gonna tear him off of Esanth's neck otherwise.

Esanth's thrumming roars, an exultant rush as they plunge. Surprised, T'ral's eyes snap open. The wind drives tears from his eyes. The ground is rushing towards them. His heart is in his mouth. It's hard to tell if he's shaking, but he's pretty sure he is. Esanth's mind is wild, the stars stretching into lines of light, down, down, down, collapsing into a point, infinitely distant. Exhiliration overwhelms T'ral's fear. The ground is rushing, rushing up. And Esanth is roaring in his mind. Sitting up a bit, the wind, buffeting him and stealing tears, T'ral grins madly. He shouts a wild laugh, the wind rips the sound away. Esanth gives throat to a wild bellow as his wings snap out and he strains up. T'ral, hands slippery, arms weak, faceplants on Esanth's neck, hands slipping out of the straps and groping wildly to cling to Esanth's neck. "WOOOOO!" T'ral shouts. That's what he means to shout. "WMMPHH!" is what it really sounds like, crushed against Esanth's neck.

They've leveled out again. Not that close to the ground after all. When you're plummeting towards it… the ground looks close. However far away it really is. Shakily T'ral pushes up from his faceplant. "That was amazing!"

« Wanna do it again? » Thrumming rises and falls. Revving.

"No!" Another wild laugh and an exaggerated shaking of his head. "I can barely hang on." It's no lie. He's shaking. And pale. And grinning from ear to ear. He looks around and down, noting the details from the ground that you can't see afoot. The shape of the bridge to the weyr entrance, how it fits along the curve into the bowl. The dots of people moving to and fro, the web of tracks their feet have worn into vegetation.

They spiral lower and lower eventually finding the landing area a wide pasture full of divots from landings. Around the edges, pairs stretching. Esanth lands with a tooth-rattling, bone-jarring thud. T'ral, sapped of strength by the panicky adrenalin spikes, doesn't even try to brace. He just leans over and throws his arms as far around Esanth's neck as they'll go, clinging weakly. Esanth trots out a few steps, bleeding off the momentum of landing. They move off to the side to clear the landing area. T'ral jounces along, slipping to hang sideways, off balance and held only by the straps. Lay down please. Esanth obliges and with weak fingers, T'ral fumbles at the buckles of his harness. He slither-tumbles onto the ground, sprawling half on the ground, half against Esanth's flank and stares aimlessly for several minutes.

« You all right? »

"What?" T'ral snaps out of his fugue and scootches up to sit more comfortably against Esanth's flank.

« You all right? » Esanth repeats, « Your mind's… empty. »

"Too full, more like." T'ral sighs and leans back into Esanth's flank. He's still shaking and doesn't trust his legs to stand, but they've got stretches to get through. He levers himself up and steadies himself against Esanth's shoulder, mind still fogged. Come on, let's get to stretching.

Esanth rises to his feet, shoulder checking T'ral, who pinwheels and grabs Esanth's leg to stay upright. "Hey! Watch it."

« Ya had fun, didn't ya? » The thrumming flutters and stutters, Esanth's chuckle.

T'ral nods. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, resting his forehead on the smooth hide, "Ever find you were made for a thing and didn't know it?"

The small bright speck in the vast darkness turns slowly, surely. « Is that a rhetorical question? »

T'ral grins, thumping Esanth's chest and standing away, grinning at his lifemate, "Is that a rhetorical question?"

The small bright speck in the vast darkness flickers. « Is that a rhetori- »

"Shut up, you."

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