==== January 7th, 2014
==== Dragons of Southern:
==== A bit of draconic rambling.

Who Khalyssrielth, Kraakenaeth, Desmeth, Ninurtath, Jiamoth, Dhiammarath, Sekhaenkath, Cignalusath
What A bit of draconic rambling.
When There are 0 turns, 3 months and 9 days until the 12th pass.
Where Draconic mindlink of Southern.

<Southern Weyr> Khalyssrielth traces delicacies of curlicues and etchings of frozen beauty across the minds of Southern. In contrast to the glacial storm of previous months, her touch is soft. Tantalizing. Igniting the fires within by icy touch. « Oh look. » Sof her voice; seductress velvet that slides across bare skin. « Our Weyrwoman's pity fuck has come. » Oh? That a secret? My bad.

<Southern Weyr> Kraakenaeth is always the dark and the deep, the quiet of the dead disturbed only by the creak of waterlogged chests straining against rusted locks: but now, but today, but at that — for once, Kraakenaeth and Khalyssrielth find themselves well-matched, for his becomes the smuggery to her scorn. A hidden current of relief brightens like sun on choppy waters, spindrift caps and churning promises of the siren's rest below: « Thanks be t' Faranth. »

<Southern Weyr> Soft, subtle hints of blackberries and cherries, a nose of pepper with hints of citrus respond for Desmeth, then melt into the vaporousness of a smoky scotch on the tongue: he's listening with fascination through ruby-red port glittering with reflections of glowlights.

<Southern Weyr> Ninurtath sends a singular, spartan tendril of thought through all the fancy mental pictures: « Hm. Interesting. » And then, there is silence.

<Southern Weyr> Jiamoth's canals turn briefly towards the open, frost-rimed sea, accepting a brief taste of the messages conveyed. Finding them not to her taste, that scintillation of water dapples fades beneath the bone-deep ache of a lone violin note, soon to fade as she retreats in Ninurtath's wake.

<Southern Weyr> Dhiammarath gently curbs the ice and the death and all that is untoward by simply radiating her serene warmth to all that fall beneath the umbrella of her wings and regard. Scents of sandalwood and myrrh spice the air briefly before washing under the sweet tidings of honeysuckle and candlelit jasmine. « If only we could find one of those for yours, Khalyssrielth. » Her sweet voice is terribly compassionate. « Or maybe one for you. All the weyr would rejoice for the succor of silence. » She is so dreadfully genuine.

<Southern Weyr> Khalyssrielth icicles Kraakenaeth delicately, touching hoarfrost 'pon craggy surfaces. A playfulness drives the cold wind to extend, further enveloping Desmeth and Ninurtath; chilly satin to tease and taste the males. « You just worry about your shrimp. » Dangerous is the icy edge that hovers on the brink of reveal. She, too, is so very, very genuine as tendrils of ice exist for the mere warmth that the old gold offers. Distance is a thing felt within Khalyssrielth's mindscape, yet the storm-clouds of permafrost do not gather against the peaks of the iron mountains: nay, all is soft and rounded to lend the delicacy of woman's curves to the jagged rocks beneath that'd threaten to split skin were one to fall against them. « All it would take is one push. One. Little. Push. » And she would be Queen. Rue the day!

<Southern Weyr> Kraakenaeth is silent. Maybe a little bit of a sigh, felt rather than heard. Women.

<Southern Weyr> Little care for the wiles of women, Sekhaenkath offers only one thought: « You do remember Thread, right? » Each word dances like fae-light in the darkness; golden will'o'wisps that dance against midnight fur. Even still, loyalty sprinkles starlight against the velvet darkness, touching upon the icicles of his mother. Still. Still censure lurks.

<Southern Weyr> Well that's one way to make a soufflé fall - hearty wheat beer sours, wine turns vinegar, and Desmeth hmphs, a final bursting bubble of champagne before it loses its charm. Still, there's always hope for more gossip, as Desmeth turns off the brewery lights for the night, to discuss with his own on this.

<Southern Weyr> Withdrawing to the frigid upper atmosphere, Khalyssrielth blankets the weyr in the chilling tickle of soft snowfall. Her nemesis stays quiet; her job here is done. Everyone! Everyone gets snow!

<Southern Weyr> Cignalusath melts the snow that falls upon himself with his own personal fire, and smokes upon the distant horizon. Ever watchful, and yet, unintervening. For now.

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