| Who | |
| What |
En'rys revels in newfound love — dragonlove. Excessive cuteness. :D |
| When |
Before dawn, the nineteenth day of the seventh month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass |
| Where |
"The Cat's Cradle (Briamiorth's Couch)", Igen Weyr |
| OOC Date | 25 Mar 2018 05:00 |
Had he ever loved quite like this?
The Cat's Cradle (Briamiorth's Couch)
Two tall, carved posts guard the entrance, a cloud-white, spotted feline hide stretched across to bar entry. A blank feline face snarls eternally overhead, string with blank accusation at all who might seek entry, begging the question of this feline's ignoble end as a windbreak. An island of calm amid the chaos of color: muted blacks and grays spill over the canvas walls of this small dragon's couch in waves, weaving betwixt the two in perfect harmony. Circling the lighter stripes, the stylized images of felines chase round and round ad infinitum, striking various poses as they go: from playful to predatory and back again, the life of a feline is on full display. Hanging from the strategically placed hooks about the couch are various carved wooded windchimes, clinking musically in the aftermath of whatever clumsy strike Briamiorth may make as they hang from their various knotted thongs.
The thing he never believed would happen to him has happened and he's hung between extremes: pure joy in finding a lifemate on the Sands, and disbelief that it happened — to him. He who once swore he would never accept the life of a rider is now just that.
He feasts his eyes on his tiny green, running reverent hands over the delicate lines of her face, admiring the perfection of her features, her color, her proportions; had he ever loved like this before? No, never. It seems impossible to feel this all-consuming need to be close to another living being, to know her so intimately that he cannot tell where she ends and he begins. What had life been without her? He can't quite remember, not tonight, here in the quiet confines of their couch.
She makes a small noise and he tenses, awaiting her pleasure; but no, she is merely changing position, bending bonelessly into a new position, impossibly contorted, and yet so comfortable, it seems, to have her body thus. She purrs, softly, deep in her chest, her forearms sprawled akimbo, her hindparts twisted in the opposite direction, upside down and content with a full belly and fresh oiling; her hide gleams subtly, so soft, so beautiful.
Faranth, he loves her.
Eventually he pulls himself out of his reverie, eyeing the scissors he'd borrowed from the Weyrlingmasters assistant. He hadn't wanted to cut his hair, but knows, now, it's a small sacrifice for the greater comfort of his Briamiorth. With a deep sigh, he sets the scissors to the braid, cutting of years of growth and pain and vanity in a fell slice. The thick rope falls to the floor and he stares at the shining length almost as if he cannot recognize it.
Had that been his?
He runs his hands through what's left, a shining black curtain that just brushes his shoulders — and trims a bit more until the soft stuff reaches his chin in feathery layers. It would still be beautiful, of course; how not? It is his. But shorter.
As he curls himself around his Briamiorth, he smiles a little, wondering sleepily how Reveka would feel about his new look and his new lifemate.
Sleep claims him before he can quite think it out.