Chaos' Storm (Kihatsuth Rises)

Xanadu Weyr - Shores of Lake Caspian
The cliffs that run along the shore come and go, various weyrs nestled along the tops of them or dug into the walls, but eventually they recede enough to expose a beach. The white sand echoes the rise and fall of the cliffs with a multitude of sandy dunes, endlessly creating tiny valleys that are constantly demolished and rebuilt by the frequent arrival or departure of dragons. The dunes smooth out as the gentle slope approaches the edge of the deep blue water. The sand darkens, and a shell here and there stands out for children to collect.
The beach narrows to the southwest, leaving a path barely wide enough for dragons in single file before cutting into a smaller, more sheltered cove. The sands are the same white, the waters the same blue, but they're calmer and more tranquil, more protected from the winds that ruffle Lake Caspian and the currents that tug beneath the surface.
Rough, wide stairs lead up to the meadow above and the road that runs along the top of the cliffs, passing through the fields and heading for the river mouth that can be just barely seen from here. The largest of the staircases up the cliff is located near the docks that jut out onto the peaceful blue waters.

NOTE: This was an 'interactive' vignette, where poses were submitted in! I want to thank everyone again for their entries! It was a lot of fun to read and on that note… enjoy~ <3!

Ah, summer! Not the most unpredictable of the seasons, but on occasion provides the perfect storm — quite literally. Kihatsuth had spent much of the day prowling the coastal cliffs, only to settle near the early evening hour. From there, she called her court audience not only by a broadband reach of smoke and mirrored mindscape, but visibly too. Come and admire the way the encroaching dusk and the far distant gathering storm clouds compliments the witch-fire glow to her mossy-green hide! She waits, predatory-avian like, wicked coyness an alluring mask to hide the devilish snarled mask lurking beneath, awaiting her pawns willing challengers.

Without warning, she will launch airborne for the feeding grounds, screeching and cackling gleefully as she sows further chaos by flying low. Some after dinner entertainment for those unfortunate enough to be outdoors! Quick to blood, macabre 'artistry' in full swing and quicker still to the skies, Kihatsuth is bold and reckless, chaotically mercurial without warning. She will feed off her chasers, playing them against one another in the dizzying flight path she weaves. It will be a flight that burns hot and swift, as electrically charged as the stormy atmosphere encroaching to add a flavor of drama in the form of unpredictable and changing winds — and the still distant flash of lightning and muffled roll of thunder. It is a flight that is pure, raw, power and she expects no less out of her chasers: if they cannot claim her by strength and stamina, they will have to try to outmatch (or outwit) her chaos~ They've only her fierce tempestuous moods to deal with too and mind those over-long wickedly curved talons!

The evening shadows contain other shadows, and among them is the brindle of Garouth. He's caught the scent - metaphorically, that is; the taste of allure in that smoky reach - and waits, wolf-patient, hidden in the darkness of his mind, for the green who's hunting suitors to turn upon her heel and become the hunted.

And then… Kihatsuth moves, and Garouth follows. He's cunning enough, in his way, to have chosen a stalking-point with swift access to both feeding grounds and the green herself, ready regardless of what course she might choose to break, and so his launch is followed by a dive, a swift kill of a hapless penned beast whose lack of challenge is a disappointment… but muted beneath the thrill of another chase, a greater challenge now begun. It's left half-blooded, regardless; Kihatsuth advances swiftly to the wild dance of the skies, and Garouth is quick to pursue.

His mind is focused on the hunt, even as his wings beat and twist, curving his body through the air with a skill that's not been used on other dragons in recent turns, but instead honed by hunting sea-birds on rocky islands, prey barely a talonfull for the brindled bronze and yet no less joyous a hunt for that. It's a different prey he seeks tonight, the shadows of his mind taking on a wordless song as he chases through the sky… the eerie call of ancient hunters, seeking to prove themselves to - or else simply to catch - a mate.

There’s little doubt on how Jovianth approaches his mating flights from the moment he sweeps into the feeding pens. With his main focus on the beautiful glowing green he’ll send warm thoughts of light flirtation to her. « Hello my sweet. How well you will fly today for you are a beauty to behold. » his mind voice is a slow, deep drawl as if born on the bayou of Louisiana instead of way out here in the wonders of Pern. He feeds though slowly as his eyes watch the green for any movement. Mere moments after she leaps up he follows though his bulky frame means several other leaner, trimmer dragons will beat him up to the skies. No matter for once he’s up there he spins, dives and spirals along the air unfamiliar air currents in chase. Oh how he loves a chase! « How gorgeous you are my sweet lady. » he continues to outrageously flirt as he slides through the skies, using his bulk to push past smaller dragons who clearly are not worthy of staying in such a chase.

At some point throughout the flight Jovianth’s murmurs of sweet nothings to Kihatsuth will trickle at he really has to put focus on his flying. He dips and dives with speed to pass some and pure endurance to ensure he’s not one to drop out of the flight too early. Positioning himself above and slightly behind to her right side he’ll speed up with a burst of last minute stamina with intentions of simply dropping in from above to make his capture attempt! He’s counting on the element of surprise to entwine necks with her before she can escape him! He’ll risk those wicked, curved talons if he must for he must catch this glorious green who, right now, is his whole world! He must catch her so he can woo her and spoil her. He’ll lavish attention upon her for as long as he can.

What is upon the coastal cliffs may be hers as she prowls it, while she deems this storm the perfect moment. What is beyond those cliffs, though, belongs to something else entirely. And it comes. He comes. Where storm clouds gather, tumble and roll above in warning of the imminent weather, a mindscape intrudes indiscriminately, but most profoundly to her. In the mind’s eye, the water that stretches out from her cliff becomes black and still. An unearthly mist crawls along its surface with intention, with a dire undeniable consciousness. As that fog draws too-close, so too do the whispers. So too does the infiltrative, creeping cold. The chill of nothing, the suggestion of weakness betraying every muscle, the failing of the body not-yet sated by the blood of her quarry that so awaits her.

From somewhere directly below, likely from the underworld itself, Zyddagath rises in a dramatic, rapid vertical ascent along the forbidding rockface, followed by a wake of seaspray collected from waters far and wide. Bleak and back sails, ragged along the edges, torn by eons of war and strife long before his true age, curtain her horizon as he sails in front and then above her. For that so-brief moment where he passes directly before her, his head turns to see her. All of those voices, all of those vague figments of lost souls or demons that collect around the edges of her own mindscape, undoubtedly fit with this haunted visage. This skull-like interpretation of a dragon’s face that has just enough hide on it to stretch over the bone turns one faceted eye upon the green, its colors a mixed shade of blood red, infiltrated by the deep tones of lust’s purple.

And then he’s passed, soaring above her, the corrosion of his underside and tail managing to admit to his bronze hue in spite of all the other rot and decay trapped in an accursed timelessness. Zyddagath lands somewhere nearby, that itch of fear that doesn’t belong continuing to trace along the back of the neck like three malevolent claws. To stand up every hair on end. To make one question every sound, every shadow if their restitution hesitates even a little. He needs no manipulation by the glowing green to already be playing upon her other suitors. His presence alone is enough to deter a foreign blue, to unsettle and betray the confidence of a small reclusive brown. It isn’t enough. Zyddagath has come to claim Kihatsuth, and his attendance comes with a price to pay.

Where he had landed was nearly atop another dragon, the blue leaping out of the way just in time as the substantially larger Zyddagath takes his place. A short, coughed pitched noise is an eerily delighted draconic musing. « This will be fun, Dearie. » The River drawls to Kihatsuth. What is to come during the chase, he implies, and of course the finale.

Oceans cannot be shared, let alone the spoils that are to be found in them, upon, over them. The underworld holds a great many treasure that has been lost to the fathomless deep. Zyddagath and His have many things, but they do not have Kihatsuth. The sky is simply not big enough for the dragons that swiftly rise after the green in flurry of blue, brown and bronze pinion as she launches upwards. Wing and limb that falter too close to the Ghostship fall prey to it, as if piratical cannons and hellish flame would send them to the same fate that Zyddagath must have met an eternity ago. The vessel of the Damned chases after her, too fast for his size in linear straights, and undaunted by such mercurial patterns. Sails tainted by ash and smoke take him higher every time she dips or turns or falls, separating himself from the others that hadn’t yet been wrenched from the sky by his talon or gnarled fang. Enough of the males had managed to evade him that the sky still teams with her suitors, and it is a calculated chance by the Stygian bronze to outwait rather than outplay his treasure.

The lightning which splits the air around him outlines the battered and beastial ship as no more than a forsaken silhouette just as her chaotic flight takes her abruptly, perhaps inadvertently closer to his path. It highlights those torn sails, the prominence of skeletal bow, and the anchors that crown every digit in a flash of wicked light. It is as if he never existed at all when the lightning comes and goes, leaving blindness and blackness in the seconds trailing its disappearance where he once was. The wraith-like dragon vanishes for that split second, dark within darkness. Too late does the phantasm of a purgatorial predator reappear within her sights, claws outstretched to rip the Virus herself from the sky.

One would forgive another if they were to (so boldly) assume that Foryth sought out green after green after green to slake sempiternal thirst. They wouldn't necessarily be wrong, either, but for that this is Kihatsuth, that mask-wearing she-demon that speaks to the errant prankster in his sprawling, cosmic mindscape. The rules of normal flight don't apply here, where the odds are stacked against him, where his only hope to win is to outwit the whole of his competition — so he changes the game. She's a favored treat, a flavor still coating the tip of his tongue, a memory impressed upon him not long enough ago for it to be distant and unreachable (at least when he delves into the filing recesses of his rider's mind). She is a green worth the frustration, worth the potential humiliation, worth the failure should his attempts prove underwhelming.

Where Kiha is avian, Foryth is lupine, laconic, mephistophelian; he carries himself with confidence, with arrogance, with the swagger of those who know their own prowess and believe in themselves. It translates into every movement, every corded muscle that ripples beneath star-spackled, midnight hide as he pursues. He comes to heed Kiha's call, another challenger willing to fight, willing to win, willing to sink his claws and teeth into those brethren that might oppose him. It is, after all, witches that can read the stars of his mind, find meaning in constellations, create worlds from stardust. So Foryth is ready to rise, painted in the blood and viscera of one felled beast, one more victory claimed in Kiha's name, one last vicious strike in his bid for her regard before that powerfully svelte body poises to leap and gives chase in the skies.

Foryth is just as bold, just as reckless, just as daring as he is careless, diving and twisting and taking advantage of what aerodynamicity his compact form yields in the face of less mobile suitors. He twists and weaves in the wake of her chaos, sails flaring to catch the updraft of stormwinds beneath, utilizing that resistant push to carry him up, up, up, higher and higher to reach dizzying heights and spare flagging stamina. But Foryth is not the kind to wait, is not a dragon born of patience, has never known how to simply bide his time. Forsyth is a dragon of daring, one who sees a risk and takes it, who comes for Kiha despite the fact that it very well might find him at the end of her claws and the subject of her disdain.

With an idiot like Xath in the skies of Xanadu today, it's a true testament to Kihatsuth's allure that other males elect to show up with the very real danger of side-swipes, T-bones, and other near misses even before the added rigors flight adds wreaking focus on the driver flyer. Maybe some of the other potentials are paying attention, at least enough to realize that while the silent screeching wings that bring the brown down much too fast in the dive he executes, the maneuver itself is extremely precise. Xath doesn't seem aware of either it nor how he ruffled the figurative feathers of some blue hided beast, so it certainly wouldn't be a surprise to that idiot, Xath, if no other if any other male had missed the subtle totally unconscious control of reflexes that seatbelt the equally unconscious appearance of peril (when, really, there's no threat in Xath more mild than getting caught up in a plot unfolding too fast — but Kiha's got that story momentum totally covered).

Snagging bachelor's take-out for the road sky ahead, the beast whose energy might be sustained by the klah and cream swirls of his hide lone nevertheless buries his face in blood pronto, like he's trying to beat a chow time bell rung too soon (or just Kiha's capricious whim to cast into the sky in wait of more than one kind of storm). If anyone were getting points for table manners, Xath's guzzle that leaves him streaked with red would earn a solid "0.2" from the judges — since he does duck his head to try to rub it on a forelimb … making it inadvertently but markedly worse. Well, his mother would be proud he tried. Maybe the green with the flare for ghastly aethstetics will score him higher? It's not like he's aware of any of it in any case, too busy watching that sorceress' smolder out of his periphery so that when she leaps, he's twisting airward moments after. He's not the largest brown, though nor does he have the advantage of being smaller framed and sized than many of his color, so taking an early lead is his best bet for success.

If Xath starts to have questions about whether or not this is one lady he wants to woo as the flight's chaos clamors toward crescendo, mayhem mounting maelstrom looking to rival the storm that may or may not have physically reached them, then he's proving him less of an idiot than his initial impressions would indicate. This is, however, a far cry from being smart enough to ignore the spinal reflex that leads him to dare this dog dragonflight, cruising chancy conditions and a mutable mate to strive to secure this demented darling's fleeting focus. Unlike some suitors, this is not a male inclined toward quiet, at least where Kihatsuth is concerned, mixing witty remark with dumb as dirt errors in evaluation, either of which could be as responsible as the other for foretelling his misfortune in all this. While some would call winning a misfortune, Xath would not, and so it is with so briefly wounded pride that after his wild whip into the midst of those that would claim her proves unsuccessful, save to garner him a new (small) scar for his trouble, he's winging his way down to the ground.


« AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! DID YOU THINK TO BAMBOOZLE ME, MY TRICKY TREASURE? YOU HAVE YET TO ESCAPE ME— » he booms, much, much too loudly at some point before that sister of his goes skyward, completely inaccurately, but evidently the multiple losses have yet to register, « —AND YOU SHALL NOT ELUDE MY EXALTED EXALTEDNESS TODAY! ONWAAAaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaRD! »

With the same amount of self-doubt as he had when he left his shell (which is to say, exactly none), the bronze, who MAY HAVE left some heads ringing from either the volume, his complete lack of care to narrow his focus to just Kihatsuth's mind, or the painfully off-key, but nevertheless clearly HEROIC THEME MUSIC that is accented by clash of weapon and sizzle of battlefield fires (and the smell of them and something distinctly musky— Eau de Glori, perhaps?), throws himself into the fray at the feeding grounds to snatch up his own victim (AND MAYBE SQUISH ANOTHER FOR GOOD MEASURE). It is with deep regret that the typist highlights that given this beast is a dragon, having a mouth full of blood does exactly nothing to prevent him from going onand onand on about his fellow suitors' various inferiorities by comparison to the paragon of perfection that is the one and only Glorioth.

F'yr, much like his lifemate, is highly aware of the green pair in the days leading up to these final moments — but for vastly different reasons. The big blond is usually one to drag his feet when it comes to green flights, but not to this one. And yet… the familiar face never appears, despite the fact that his lifemate's presence is nearly impossible to miss because he's just so shelling obnoxious. Perhaps it's for the best? Glorioth's tussle with another bronze turns— nasty might be too harsh a term, given the GLEEFUL LAUGHTER that accompanies his downright exuberant declarations of, « LET THE ENCOURAGEMENT SINK IN! » that roar in the direction of that other bronze— but unfavorable for the prospect of winning in the least as they manage to tangle themselves and fall.

This might have led to some truly gratifying devastation, but ended, instead, with the males managing to pull free of what DEFINITELY WAS NOT a lover's embrace (this is what happens when certain sexy blues are not here to take advantage) and get themselves to the ground with little more than flesh wounds as ENCOURAGEMENT to forget the loss fast. Whether or not F'yr can get over it as swiftly is left a mystery… seeing as he's not even here.

In the face of on-coming storms, the tickle of chill that manifests at the edge of Kihatsuth's domain might well be missed, save for the incipient notion available to any mind casting about that this is no natural breeze. The cold, so unnatural in summer to start with, is more absence of heat, a void of what ought to be there. Little more than an echo of reality to start with, the mind that makes this negative space with a distinct sense of distance solidifies the closer and closer the lurid lighthouse on the cliffs comes to enacting her exhibition of entropic entanglement. The blue whose body holds all the beauty of cloudless night is drawn from his sentinel's stillness upon the stone into flight.

He would be drawn as helplessly as a comet caught in the wake of a gravity far denser than his own in any case, but something about how naturally chaos clings to the mantle of her mind that sparks animation beyond the primal drive that motivates Tsoth to chase the native through storm and sky. His kill in the feeding ground is a testament to his precision, his purpose, not a drop wasted in either blood or effort; it's evolution's efficiency at its most elegant. His honed habit of observation serves his aims, too, for where and when Kihatsuth leads, he follows.

The Fortian blue doesn't lack for flatteringly fraying self-possession, for grace in motion and determination in drive, but what he does lack is passion. He wants her, make no mistake, to fornicate, to propagate, to sow his wild oats and make some eggs, (yes, yes, he's impotent, we know, it doesn't keep him from wanting to try) but it's an animalistic need detached from any higher or deeper meaning that some glowing temptresses might wish for in a mate, even if they don't plan to keep him long.

— * —

It wasn't the worst sevenday or so of proddiness for Ru'ien. Still the same gradual escalation of symptoms, the wearing down of his mind and body by the final days so that on this evening, he's easily overpowered by Kihatsuth's influential control. Not that he's wholly out of his senses, but he doesn't have the strength in him to fight it unless absolutely necessary. And let's face it, it's Ru'ien! By the time she makes her broadcasted challenge, he is laughing to the point of tears (in relief, maybe?) and fully embraces the inevitable.

Ru'ien will go play 'host' with those who come to seek him out, treading the now-too familiar path to the guest weyrs. He'll welcome those unfortunate souls whose other halves have been caught up in the maelstrom of chaos that is Kihatsuth. Lines may be crossed for willing participants, boundaries pushed and tested with others and some yet that he playfully dances around (proverbially and literally!). Everyone gets equal attention, if so desired, Ru'ien carrying a small enough sliver of his awareness to note reactions and react accordingly to any and all potential partners; taunting, testing, bold and brash. Arrogant and demanding, playful and sweetly coy, he's as varied as his lifemate or her current puppet. It will all be over soon enough, likely to everyone's relief and, if chaos is merciful, before things get painfully awkward (or tensions run too high).

D'lei remains on the ground, at least in body… but his mind is Garouth's in the sky, one of the shadows moving in the chase, one of those voices calling through the darkness. He's here with Ru'ien, yes, with amber eyes focused on the greenrider, with his lips curved in a sharp smile… but though he'll respond to moves made with amusement and even passion, he's unlikely to make a pounce of his own. It's not that time in the chase - not yet, at least - and the pack-hunters know to keep their focus on the most important part of the hunt, wheeling and darting through the skies.

Whatever reason may have brought Ashwi here today is completely tossed out the window as soon as that green went for her first blooded kill. So she’ll seek out the green’s rider who is no doubt by then surrounded by a group of chasers. Narrowing her eyes somewhat as she looks at everyone. Ashwi will hang back and be a quiet observer with most of her attention and mind on the flight in the skies above them.

And Leia? Leia is never one to miss a party, never one to let a good moment pass her by, to forgo a chance to sample what delicacies life has to offer. It might be honest chance that finds her back here, soaking up Xanadu's heat, aware in that way that every rider is aware of their better half chasing lightning across the skies, but she is here. And she's here for Ru'ien's dance, moving through those steps with him, laughing and taunting and giving and taking, partaking of and enjoying the chase. She will win or she will fail before the night is through; the outcome doesn't really matter. The only thing that matters is tonight, even if it's just tonight, Ru'ien gave her one more chance to live.

This, in the very least, releases the tall, dark haired, dark eyed man from his position within the wooden walls that are Ru'ien's domain, where only a lazy smirk, and a look that dangles disinterest so slowly coaxed to its opposite through the course of the flight as some kind of bait — or maybe just how he looks as mind melds more with the action in the sky the longer the storm rages (physical, emotional, other). M'tras was among the last to appear and isn't the sort to linger, heading for the door and out as soon as things are decided, without so much as a longing glance back. How rude.

M'zal— well, he's the worst. He should really consider himself fortunate if he manages to make it out of the guest weyr without a bloody lip or other souvenir of his unexpected presence here because — THIS WHOLE PARAGRAPH HAS BEEN REDACTED FOR THE GOOD OF ALL. And because no one wants to see any more of that, when Tsoth finds himself at the back of the pack come catch time, it's all to the good — except, you know, for Tsoth, whose rasped wordless cry of frustration echoes in the sound of a thousand beating wings and a sense of deep and profound darkness as the planet dragon on the verge of being known is lost to memory once more, spiraling down toward the ground where one hopes eventually his rider will find him. The sooner to be gone from Xanadu. GOOD RIDDANCE.

No matter the grandeur of his dragon’s arrival, Ki’lian is suspiciously absent. He’s done this before, and it usually equates to a return visit to the Weyr by Zyddagath, even though he himself is still at sea. Fortunately, whatever awkward situations that may have caused is dismissed by the fact that the man is actually ashore for once. He’s in his own weyr, but nearly incapacitated by Zyddagath’s abrupt and overwhelming control when his decision to take after a green is so acutely made. Such lines are blurry, barely evident in the best of circumstances, but tired and weary from just returning from a long stretch at sea, he’s not a single wit about him to try and mutiny his own bloody ship. He’s chained and imprisoned upon the familiar blackened and rotten deck, weighted down onto his knees. A subject forced to watch through dragon’s eyes the events that unfold. A man, used to numbness, embraces his dragon’s needs without a fight this time, the shared desire and compulsion reverberating, transforming relentlessly into his own.

Ki’lian staggers from the treacherous height of his living quarters as he manages to find some sense of his barings. His roguish face is strained in lines mirroring the terrible pleasure of aggression and domination that Zyddagath employs above him. The usually graceful man falls not once but twice before the unwelcoming rocky beach gives way to the softer sands. Eventually, cold, intense blue eyes rimmed in kohl see Ru’ien from behind amidst a handful of others. He’s not familiar enough to know him, but it doesn’t matter. Not right now. In fact, it would be much more ideal if this wasn’t Xanadu at all. Furious glares turn to him as he passes, and more than one tries to reach for him in retaliation for the violence sewn above like a horrific tapestry. With his good hand, glinting dangerously in silver’d ring, he grabs Ru’ien’s collar, turning him only to shove him hard back into the closest solid object, wanting, needing to pin him. Awful, sinister, Devilish is the smirk that comes with the accented curl of word,

“You’re mine.”


Lightning flashes and the growl of thunder echoes louder, closer, as winds shift to unpredictable patterns.


Kihatsuth was truly in her element, within and without, wantonly proud of the power she holds and the lure she's managed to bait such wonderful prey males with! She delights in all attention served to her, replying in kind with dark-edged sweetness or acid-tainted barbs loaded with sarcasm and threat. Those who draw ichor or tangle among themselves earn a crow of approval from the chaos-born green; she will take such tributes as they are, though does not spare mockery for those who fail and fall. Such a shame. NOT! She is the least bit distraught over those who fail her, renewing her focus on entertaining — and evading— those who still pursue…

« You DARE! »

Her flare of temper is as intense as lightning, abrupt and blinding intense in force as it slams right back in tandem with physical forms colliding. It’s all for effect, of course, an additional dramatic touch to the clash and crash; she doesn’t care for gentle, unless to make a mockery of it. Chaos welcomes Death in that downwards spiral, challenge writ in their eventual descent. As the anchors dig in, wicked curved talons find purchase to Zyddagath's rotting hull, clawing and grasping, readjusting until they are well and truly hooked; if they wish to dance, then dance they shall~

And as above, so it is below. Kihatsuth is caught, not long after the timely (if late) arrival of Ki'lian and the rough greeting bestowed. Not that Ru'ien minds, because it's not wholly Ru'ien who greets the bronzerider with an arrogant, defiant roguish grin. It is and is not the greenrider who tilts his head, haughty and taunting, while teeth are bared as words come purred from the depths. Something the others may only catch in portion as it's directed to Ki'lian: 'this night only'.

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