Who

Azraelle, I'dre, Vosji, A'kehm, Fja'vn [with Zhivvyrhaelth, Mhiruth, Iskanzivoth, Ahiardhath, Paendryth]

What

Zhivvyrhaelth rises for her first on-camera flight.

canon-typical debauchery

When

It is midnight of the twenty-fifth day of the second month of the nineteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Ground Weyrs, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 26 Jan 2020 06:00

 

00005.png vosji_default.jpg i-dre_default.jpg a-kehm_default.jpg fja-vn_default.jpg zhi006.png iskanzivoth_default.jpg mhiruth_default.gif ahiardhath_default.jpg paendryth_default.jpg

Zhivvyrhaelth slumbers under a sea of stars in Southern — but soon enough she'll be waking - and rising! @goroom #23698 and addcom oa=+Oathbound+ to join in on the fun! All chasers welcome including NPCs; this flight is not pre-determined.
— entered by Azraelle on 2020-01-26 09:52 MOO Time.


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Ground Weyrs

Neatly ordered are a series of ground-weyrs, each generic and functional rather than ornate. The caverns are unevenly staggered in a variety of sizes: some so small as to be a snug fit for the smallest of nowtimer greens, while others are roomy enough to fit two oldtimer queens. Each ground-weyr is fitted with a reed-strewn couch
and a cozy nook with a bed and clothespress.


Slumbering under a sea of stars in a sweet Southern summer night: Zhivvyrhaelth, curled in a little pitistchi-piebald ball of green hide and spell-song mindstorms. It's just past midnight, Belior luminescent overhead. Far-away at the weyr proper, Azraelle paces the groundweyr floors, waiting for the inevitable. It might be now (unlikely but possible in Azra's calculations), or it might be six candlemarks from now (more likely and more torturous), but Zhivvyrhaelth will wake — and rise. The bottle of bourbon on the sideboard of the open space of the groundweyr she's claimed for her own speaks to the greenrider's strategy for burning the remainder of the night.

In a nearby ground weyr — or maybe it's the one right next door — a pair of Igen blueriders are also catching a few z's before heading home. They just came by to drop something off for Southern's weyrlingmaster, but then it got a bit out of hand and there was a little bit too much de-stress drinking and — well. Vosji and I'dre are sleeping it off. Iskanzivoth, on the other hand, has not been sleeping but watching the ocean waters under the moonlight, being that kind of dragon, and he had nothing to sleep off except for the blame he carries whenever Vosji drinks to excess. For now he is enjoying that peaceful view, but he seems restless, so he would be easy to tempt away from his watch …

So. Much. WATER! Mhiruth is in his own draconic version of heaven, though strangely he is indifferent about the open sea and more likely to pursue quieter (and smaller) bodies of water. Never the less, he is not as mired to his 'watch' as Iskanzivoth and the blue will start to gaze skywards instead. Notes of violin fill the silence, as he waits… for what? I'dre is very much sleeping off his drinking, though likely not as worse for wear as Vosji.

Ground Weyrs are a warren of madness, but Fja'vn isn't here to pass through the juncture between the madness-that-was and the madness-that-is. Instead, his steps ring with an inner purpose as he closes in on what he knows should be here. Passing other places, other people, they do not register now. Not at the moment. Nay, as Paendryth hovers over the awaiting rock of inevitability, Fja'vn finds his quarry. "It's time, sasa." If it is, it is, if it isn't, it's close enough the air shivers with it, humming a sweet melody of promise. Of more than mere flight and sex, but of ancient rituals of times long past and times long in the future.

Part of the Weyr's natural fortifications moves. Not rock, but Ahiardhath stirring, awake and calculating. It's uncommon for him to bother with greens but every so often there's an itch to be scratched, to try. And not win one yet, but that is no deterrent as he skyfalls to the bowl where he won't blood, there is already strength enough for that. Opal eyes observe and A'kehm is on a prowl outside, not quite to the public weyrs.

Azraelle looks up, her eyes dark and slightly wild at Fja'vn's sudden appearance. "Of course it would be you," she says, her words rougher even from her typical voice of husk and ruin. The assistant weyrlingmaster roams to the sideboard and claims her bourbon in a possessive quality, stepping forward until her presence denies anyone entry into the smaller private quarter where the bed has already been stripped down to the sheets. Far-beyond, perhaps it is Ahiardhath's itching or the presence of the Igen blues that motivates Zhivvyrhaelth abruptly awake, her outer and inner lids opening in a cascade of violet and heliotrope. She takes a late-summer breath of flowers on the wind and heat in the air, in her veins, in the ichor within which is writ the fingerprints of her soul. Her mind's magic-storms rise in a fury of roseate glamour, sending a blast of presence through to every male dragon that might linger awake at this midnight hour. « I rise, » she breathes, triumphant at the turning of the seasons even as she's triumphant over a small wherry surprised by the dragon's waking. Blood drowns all thought.

While Vosji will not be as presumptuous as, say, certain bronzeriders who just walk in to the greenrider's ground weyr before her dragon has assuredly set on her course, she is certainly stirring as Iskanzivoth's interest is piqued. Whether or not his presence contributed, there is something to this particular waking and announcement that gets his attention regardless of his rare tendency to indulge in flights. « How lovely, » he croons softly, engine-steam blending into the collective mindvoice, a gear clang or two specifically to lure Mhiruth. And then he takes off from the seaside, heading toward Zhivvyrhaelth and a wherry's neck or two to snap for himself before he rises in pursuit. Meanwhile, his rider: "… the fuck," and then she wipes her eyes, totally fails to button the top two buttons of her shirt, and long-sigh wanders toward the door.
… stumbling slightly, because Vosji MIGHT still be a little drunk.

"Nghhh," Fja'vn grunts, watching her with the same steady, weighted gaze as a jungle lurker watches a cat. Knowing the feel of claws in the flesh gives a healthy appreciation for the danger, but knowing they'll hunt it all the same keeps the hunter in place. Ready. Words for a situation do not play in repertoire of believable responses, and so the bronzerider prowls forward, but not close to what she guards. Instead, Paendryth spreads his wings — beautiful and etched against the moonlight in fortress'd finery — and circles the awakening green. Gilt and silk overlay the rough rock of an ancient fortress, turning the brief mental touch into something genteel and beautiful. The grounds spread around him: manicured and maze-like, glinting under a galleon moon in treasured silver. A hush spreads through his mind as if the inner and outer night has taken a breath. Blood — hot and thin, then thick — gushes over Paendryth's tongue, though he's surprisingly fastidigious over his blooding. Over his hide. In a distant moment, he would have bonded well with Aojadinth. Fja'vn half turns at the appearance of another, but he doesn't say much. Just keeps her in his field of view. Now is the time for dragons, not men.

Under such a presence, there is no way Mhiruth could not ignore the lure that Zhivvyrhaelth presents, bolded further by Iskanzivoth and without so much as a heartbeat of time wasted, his wings unfurl and he takes to those starlit skies. Up, over and then down into the fray, efficient as ever in his strangely agile manners as the first of his prey falls under his talons. Blood sought, consumed. I'dre, once dead to the world, is no longer thanks to a combined jolt of Mhiruth's influence and Vosji's cursing. He's slower in gaining his feet and towering height, though not as stumbling (DRUNK) as the Weyrlingmaster. His hair is a disaster of a mess but that's the least of his concerns. "… I TOLD you this was a bad idea…" he hisses to Vosji in passing, as they make their way to enter the proverbial lion's den.

Ahiardhath knows the activity with herdbeasts and flock animals, heavyweight bronze skirting the feeding pens as if he should be mauling them but there's no true gut urge to. Red blood to his own green form would only add to weight already a handicap for a nimble a green as Zhivvyrhaelth. Though a flimsy fence separates them, he still follows her advance through the domesticated animals, proximity close. What precious little of his battlefield mind escapes is open space and hoof beats. They campaign for the green. Blinking at the light sources in the ground weyr, A'kehm was fresh-roused from bed and not elated about it but there is, or will be, an advantage to it. "Does anyone have courtesy anymore?" Looking around the room's highlights, there's equal yearn for Azraelle and that bourbon, a good prolonged stare for Fja'vn, and sniped comment for the Igen proxies: "You're far from home."

"Vosji?" Azraelle says, momentarily taken aback: the crews of those who raise Pern's next generation are not so numerous that the lifers don't know one-another at a glance. Truthfully, out of all the weyrlingmasters on Pern, Vosji is likely the one Azraelle would be most happy to see at one of her mating flights, though that doesn't immediately express itself. She has a measuring look for I'dre and her eyes darken yet when A'kehm joins Fja'vn in the wildling club. Beyond the influence of men, Zhivvyrhaelth takes a long moment to relish the feeling of a slight breeze to her sails and that one scintillant moment where all eyes rest upon her. She gathers them all: painstaking Paendryth and battlefield Ahiardhath, agile Mhiruth and gear-clanking Iskanzivoth, the nameless others than wake to rise at this late hour — she gathers them all close to her, relishing the taste of their mindvoices within her storm, and then she launches aloft. One of the smallest greens on Pern, it's no surprise she goes immediately up and then into maneuvers, seeking altitude that is forever banned to her lack of endurance.

"Which part was a bad idea? You coming with me and enjoying the afternoon off? Trying the Tipsy Kitten? Staying overnight so we didn't die between?" Vosji isn't actually slurring her words, but she sounds so very tired. Even if she doesn't sound drunk. "Because I am sure you told me at least one of those was a bad idea, but I can't recall which anymore — " Iskanzivoth chases so rarely she's not going to fight him down, not going to attempt to cease his indulgence, and if he practically goaded Mhiruth into joining him even if he was going to anyway … it is technically Vosji's fault I'dre is here, and she will accept that blame. "We meant," she tells A'kehm and Azraelle, "to leave a few hours ago. Hi." She looks like someone who crashed in her leathers when she'd originally intended to not stay overnight, so that is backed up well; Iskanzivoth has fully tuned her out, embarrassment at being half-drunk around a colleague distracting to him. « I remember you now, » he confirms as he plucks just that little hint from his rider before putting up the wall, with a clockwork-turning, « Zhivvyrhaelth, what a fine time to meet again, » as he rockets after her with no attempt to slow his pace. At least two of the contenders are substantially larger; with Zhivvyrhaelth's pacing, while he has no home court advantage, his blue-ness is a plus.

"Not by choice." I'dre snipes at A'kehm, all barb and sarcasm in stark contrast to the gentler Mhiruth. His tone implies he'd had preferred harsher words but some semblance of common sense holds him from poor choices ? one of them may be that Vosji is still within range (but maybe not wholly there). "ALL of it!" Jus ignore him, Vosji, he's being unreasonable! Still, he skulks his way instead and picks a spot in which to just lurk. All while yearning for that bourbon more than Azraelle for the time being, even as the flight effects trickle in. Damn it! He wants to punch something, someone even, but that'd just be poor form. Outside and beyond, as
Zhivvyrhaelth takes to the skies, Mhiruth will rear up on his haunches, wings flared as he voices a chime-like challenge, while his mind sweeps up in a chorus of violins. Stirring, moving, he will lower to couch, gather himself and then spring aloft. High, higher, highest, he will pursue in her wake, while his mirrored-lake mind ripples in the first disturbances to break the placid surface.

Known, A'khem gets a full-toothed grin existing between the territorial 'this-is-mine' space and the 'lets-push-the-red-button' space. I'dre's appearance garners a hard look as well, but for the moment with the Igenites lurking in the doorway, they are left alone. He's game to let A'kehm draw them into discussion, but he appreciates their form all the same. If this turned into a mass of teeming bodies, no one would fail the charisma check. Paendryth stretches: in the physical space as well as mental. Touches of peach-pink dawn crown his inner horizon, lighting the shape of his inner elegance in a roseate hue. His presence is collected but he holds true to his own space: not quite letting her claim. Only a true-claim would be honored, and for that he must fly. With hot blood still thick on his tongue, the glossy, shining knight of a dragon takes to the skies. His is not a parentage of agility, but of pagentry. Of experience. Of knowing that the end can yet be captured after the spinning top of fizzy emotions comes to rest. So he takes his gilt and opulance, the spaces thickly lined with gold, the museum opened for the night to clandestined meetings, and chases her. Whispers trail him, trail her. Of people, souls, running through hallways lined with precious works of art. Of heated kisses in the corners to stoke Zhivvyrhaelth's fire with promise. Paendryth's weapons in this war of flight lie within, not with the prowess of the agile.

Ahiardhath presents a crouch then standing takeoff, slower to ascend then his more agile brethren but able to make up 'ground' quickly. As with Mhiurth, there are stringed instruments to his making, peregrine ones, a slow-sounding khuuchir around tall mountains. Cold wind gallops almost as fast as the martial horde of thoughts and actions. With Zhivvyrhaelth as his point of reference, a guiding star, Southern's slow-moving air is stirred by these passing sweeps, accelerated fly-bys. At one point, he goes by and past Zhivvyrhaelth. One eye always seems to center her. As the air in the ground weyrs electrifies with tall men and self-pride, it's a good tang to him, nothing will be boring. On quiet exhale, "I should have faith in you."

What's that? Fja'vn just recommended turning this entire mess into a giant orgy? Azraelle enjoys that thought probably more than she should, thank Faranth this is all meta. Zhivvyrhaelth twists back in an agile bounding from northward pursuits to southbound, heading over Azov in a trajectory for the stars. She is not a green to snarl, to go for violence when she could instead glory in the feeling of the moment: tendrils of her rose-and-heliotrope fog reach to inquire on the particulars of Iskanzivoth's gear-turning: but how does it work? Does it work for her or does it work for work's sake? That lovely mirrored-lake of Mhiruth's is perfect for her mind to move over, if he would mirror the furor of her storms: there's flashes of turquoise lightning in time to the sound of his strings. Paendryth's whispered promise and courtly worship prompt a lark of her fancy to barrage a hallway with water, all-damage in the delight of destruction, a whimsy splurged. And Ahiardhath? She is pleased to be the center of the world to this largess of dragonflesh and mental hordes, to be the prized capital pursuit of his battlefield's movings. Below, Azraelle turns the bottle straight up, burning through bourbon instead of conversation.

There is an attempt from Vosji to simultaneously integrate with the Southerners and hold herself separate — by coming closer to not being a doorway-hoverer, but not entirely closing the space between them. Perhaps I'dre will be the brave one. Maybe she feels old around this room full of twenty-somethings, and maybe she is just a bit confused because her dragon never chases, what is going on. Iskanzivoth may chase rarely, but when he does, it is with dedication to his ardor; it is no surprise that he has met this green before, if his lifemate were actually to think about it instead of wondering if she should be consuming bourbon while already somewhat lingeringly intoxicated. That intoxication has created a buzz to Iskanzivoth too, an eager energy behind his movements as he attempts to mirror whatever clever motions Zhivvyrhaelth attempts, though with wider motions and caution to not strain a wing. Those gears will enlargen, click-clack and turn close up to a watch-motor that has been created only for this green; for the majority, it works. For this piece with this attention, it works because of her — it turns and whirrs as long as she remains in its presence.

Paendryth allows the sheeting of her water to wash through his halls, but reconstruction is a beauty of its own. What is destroyed and then created anew, but better. With more precision and knowledge of structural components and of how component parts come together to make a whole, and then to make it beautiful. In the courtyards of his fortress, a girl is dancing. And then a boy. And then others as music rises on the dawn's air whilst nobility — blooded — dance in finery below. Honor and righteous causes are wound together in his noble stance: for he embraces what he is, what he stands against. The darkness; and so he flies, in this ritual of mating, chasing after Zhivvryhaelth with all the courtly maneuvering he can muster, looking to the tactics of the end game for an opening. The chase, the singing blood, the fury coalesce into the noble warrior, roaring into the darkness. As above, so below: but Fja'vn carries no nobility within the savage containment of his movment. His voice is lost for it was never given, but he watches with glittering eyes. Waiting his chance.

Mhiruth's mindscape does take on the furor of Zhivvyrhaelth's storms, the once tranquil waters reflecting those flashes of turquoise and the touch of darkening clouds on his part. The surface ripples to a disembodied breeze, kaleidoscope in nature, within itself to constantly shift and change reflectively. Music carries, uplifted again and swaying to some old, unnamed song that is both strangely energizing but eerily melancholy in the same stride. He bides his time, straight and certain, following Zhivvryhaelth's star-born path no matter where it may lead. The others are forgotten, unless one happens to trip too close to his periphery, but he is not here to engage in dirty tactics and will evade conflict sure the need arise. Unfortunately, Vosji is on her own, as I'dre stubbornly refuses to leave the wall he's found, though his gaze has focused sharply on Azraelle and, in turn, the others milling about. He's gone utterly quiet, which is a blessing, though one is left wondering for how long.

In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity. Invisible ribbons of currents, back-filling vacuums Ahiardhath only just occupied fractions of seconds before are random rivers for aerial beasts, or in some instances, walls. But Zhivvyrhaelth is there and not always near and the bronze is not even attempting to catch— he would flunk it. Broad wings continue to carve where he thinks the flight will more or less feature from a green's limited trajectory, within the eye that's had her feature every wing stroke. When stuntwork and flaunting are truly snares set for a green, spent. His thought army, silhouettes of heinous single thoughts, head straight towards Zhivvryhaelth's dark thunderheads and bead lightning. Even that split-second of terrific brightness isn't enough to ward them off, nor the thunder that booms afterwards. A'kehm, with vertigo from his life-mates aerial subterfuge, presses his back into a wall, any wall, and sinks the back of his head to it. "My faith in you will make me puke."

Zhivvyrhaelth reaches the peak of her stamina, a starlit song held in the highest suspense over Azov's glittering water. And then she wavers, her wings failing her as the energy of her blooding fails her, leaving only the coursing desire. Cresting the top of the pack, she falls, and he who catches her first will win her. She knows the souls of those around her from the visibility given in the flight upwards and trusts in any who end up wrapped around her: Iskanzivoth's earnest engineering, Paendryth's palatial finery, Mhiruth's such like-souled waters and music - even Ahiardhath's chaos as a ladder. Far below, Azraelle steps forward to challenge the tallest with a hard look: I'dre, usurper. Her bourbon dangles from her fingers but the bottle seems ready to be leveraged as a club. Whenever you go to prison you're supposed to beat up the biggest person first, right? "Catch her now or catch her never," Azraelle's voice rasps hard, for not only I'dre but for her colleague from Igen and the two wildling bronzeriders that she seems despairingly entangled with.

Having never seen Azraelle as a threat but an intelligent colleague, even flight-minded Vosji isn't quick to move to defend I'dre lest he be beaten with a bottle of bourbon. Pray that doesn't end up happening, because she may have to move from her halfway-vantage-point if it were going to. She remains still; she lets her eyes close for a second, caught up in Iskanzivoth's planning, his mental sketching of blueprints and clockwork-trinket-designs, plans and plots and print-outs to determine the best way to claim this green as his own for a blessed moment. Some of this earnest plotting leaks to Zhivvyrhaelth, but most of it is only for Vosji — while normally he has no filter-out for Mhiruth, for now they are competing, and this is a plot he won't yet share. Not lest it may work; the sounds of water against iron and steam through engines become a little louder as he reaches, off like the fastest of racing-ships to try to be the one to twine with the falling green. Larger bronzes may be better catchers, but smaller blues surely have better speed.

"Aim that way, coyo," Fja'vn murmurs, still eyeballing Vosji and I'dre as he does so. Maybe with a subtle indication he means to paint the Igenites with the color of his… well. Surely not, right? Yet, with Zhivvyrhaelth still up for grabs, the territorial within him won't allow anything else. Closing his eyes, his chest first expands and then collapses in a long exhalation of air. It is time and like that, Fja'vn is airborne with Paendryth. The bronze cuts through the air, slicing it over his wings until trailing of vapor curls over the bones of his body. Sinew and tendon play together to move the great beast through the open, waterless seas. Far away, lightning strikes in some distant shores and it co-mingles with his inner landscape as the denizens of his manor up the frenzy of their dance to the oncoming celestial power. He lacks Ahiardhath's hordes or Mhiruth's and Iskanzivoth's combined agility, but he has pagentry. He has grand designs and plans. He has strategy and tactics: his is a natural born leadership, bestowed upon him by birth. So, he waits. Until it is time to do a fast burn and flip around the orbital axis of an unsuspecting brown. Talons score flesh, but he does not pause. It is a battle, after all. A battle of rights of mating, and one does not stop. Never stop. At the end of his, he aims to be where she will be so that he may attempt to enfold her in his sweet embrace. « Come, come. Dance with me. Enjoy the richness of my courts. » An invitation delivered in a low, melodious rumble that's almost too musical for words. A lure of a knight to a lady yet with hint of a courtesan's debauchery at play.

As above, so is below and Mhiruth's mind is no different. Stars mirror the water, the water mirrors the stars and reality folds in on itself again, in dizzying shards and refracted lights that glimmer and catch bits and pieces of other elements around it. Centre to it all is Zhivvyrhaelth, of course, who glows brightest and hot, as a falling star should. A chimed-call again, as wings sweep and his body strains to close the distance under the rapid encroachment of his own exhaustion. The world narrows to a pinpoint of focus, nothing but the thrum and pulse of instinct driving him towards her, the only desire he wishes to claim at that very moment with every fibre of his being. Vosji has every right to worry, if any of them had the focus to do so, as I'dre stares down Azraelle, undaunted by any threat of bottle-club. If anything, he's daring her to try with that cocky smirk of his or it's a misread timing of expressions, thanks to outside influences. Whether he heard wholly or partially, Fja'vn's suggestion for A'kehm to 'aim that way' has him skirting a little further along that wall in uncertain steps.

Bourbon's good for motion-sickness, right? If it's a tried and true Southern remedy, A'kehm isn't going for it, at least making no grabby hands for it yet despite I'dre's similar interest. Ahiardhath plummets through webs of his own design, punching through old slipstreams where the air is just starting to thin out. A betting man (or woman) would sponsor the blues though he and Paendryth practically have gravitational pull. String's vibratto peal precede his catch attempt as front feet start to spread in grasp. And his rider's own palms revolve down on his wrists, playing with the squeeze of a clench as he pulls hazel eyes up to Azraelle.

Zhivvyrhaelth is a falling star, a mindstorm of magical portent and fantastic colors, and she can only be caught by one. It's close — talons reaching, sails rustling, near-misses and distraught dragons — but it's Mhiruth that tangles around her, their intertwined scapes of water and wind and storm churning to a reality inside-out of the existing one. Azraelle's fingers drop the bourbon bottle — and luckily it doesn't shatter, but bounces towards the pair of bronzeriders. Her fingers come up to keep I'dre from side-stepping away, pulling the tall man down to her dimension instead, using leverage and every ounce of her considerable small-woman strength to pull him backwards with her. Sorry, boys (and Vosji - though Azra's really not apologizing for that, because the after would have been wretchedly embarassing for them both) — Igen's come to conquer in Southern tonight.

Quick fingers play for the bourbon the moment Paendryth spins through the sky in a flight lost. Hefting it, he considers. "Wanna get ourselves shit-faced?" To no one in particular, but probably to A'kehm. Vosji just seems so… womanly… and less inclined to join him, a random southern bronzerider, in a quest to get shit faced and turn all this kinetic sexual energy into something else. The bronze dips his head up to the sky, and whirls away, to nurse the wounds of a scorned suitor. At least, until he no longer remembers. Fja'vn is merely grateful it's all done, except now he has a powerful urge for … things… and has to deal with that. For Faranth's sake, it's been a sevenday. But, his cue has come, and whether anyone follows, he vacates the premises with speed.

No need to be sorry for Vosji — she is not in the most potential awkward aftermath situation that she could potentially be in, as Zhivvyrhaelth has taken care of that for her. Vosji, who also does not need to be more drunk, so it is logical that Fja'vn not invite her to continue drinking. She will give a tipsy grin to Azraelle and I'dre, then either find herself a pretty lady up at an odd hour or go to sleep. Or both. Likely both. And Iskanzivoth? He's not truly heartbroken, because that's not the dragon he is. While he may need to plummet into chilly waters, that's just part of the fun for him. Disappointed, but not shattered; there's an echo of his steam politely fading out for the others as he returns to the sea to wait out Mhiruth and Vosji's rest-of-the-nights.

A'kehm looks to Fja'vn with 'we was robbed!' but this can be salvaged, because Vosji is here. "You keep it." He'll well-wish his fellow bronzerider with a carnivore's slide of lip from teeth in a grinning smirk. "You're stuck in Southern a while yet," as Azraelle and I'dre crash behind him, he looks toward the bluerider's blond mentor and is on her heels as she leaves. Ahiardhath betweens back to his ledge to sleep and yet scheme.
Yes, A'kehm will do as pre-sleep entertainment; Vosji will not protest.

Mhiruth will gratefully twine with Zhivvyrhaelth the instant fate declares her as his and though storms may rage of all kinds in those mindscapes, it is only within that they do. Secured in his victory, he falls with her and the rest unfolds as naturally intended. Far below, in an almost detached way, I'dre has been cast adrift. This is new to him and he drowns swiftly in the onslaught of an unexpected win. His desire is no longer to escape, even if for a heartbeat he is rooted to the spot ? just enough time for Azraelle to make her move. That's all that needs to be done, really and I'dre will follow suit, half-blind but not lacking in enthusiasm once things are set in motion. One awkward situation out of many plausible ones and exchanged for yet another that may or may not be discovered later! None of that matters now, however, does it?

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