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Date Posted: 23:07:54 08/29/06 Tue
Author: Mylanith & Talla
Subject: I, ah, may have run on a little long.

The sky is bright and clear above the Weyr today, a brilliant cloudless blue shade that any Weaver would give their souls to capture in tapestry. It will be hot later on, the breezes frequent but lacking in any real force - but right now it's only mid-morning, and the sun caresses the island below rather than beating down hard upon it. Its light warms the hides of blues and browns and greens dozing on the heights, and flashes brighter off the metallic hides of bronzes and golds. One gold in particular, however, glows more strongly than the sunlight would account for.

Mylanith has been restless for almost two sevendays now, and quite distinctly snappish and bad-tempered the past four days. Even Talla is growing short with her, and for that matter she's been short with everybody in general, influenced by her proddy dragon and vague apprehensions of what will be coming next. Because there's no doubt in the minds of the senior dragonriders that the young queen is about to rise for the first time, and all the kindly-meant advice and warnings in the world can't settle Talla's nervous stomach; on top of her concerns about the flight itself, she's starting to worry that maybe it's her nervousness holding Mylanith back. The gold is radiant yellow by now, and hasn't risen yet.

If it has been Talla holding her back (which she would vehemently deny in any case, but Talla can do no wrong in Mylanith's loving eyes), that hypothetical constraint is quickly losing its power. This morning Mylanith is trying to sun on the heights, having claimed the highest perch near her Weyr and run off every dragon within twenty dragonlengths. Anyone flying above is giving her a wide berth. But now that she's claimed her spot, she can't seem to get comfortable, twisting around and fanning her wings every few minutes. The gold's eyes barely close, despite having told Talla earlier that all she wants to do today is sleep. And her restlessness is not confined to the heights; Mylanith's general upset is roaring loud and clear in the back of Talla's mind, leaving her at a loss of how to settle her dragon long enough to get anything done. She can feel the threat of an impending headache, and is only stomaching her breakfast through force of will.

/Are you hungry, my heart?/ Talla finally asks, more gentle than anyone seeing the expression on her face right now might imagine. Most of her irritation is Mylanith's irritation, and she knows that her dragon will retreat with badly bruised feelings if snapped at in this sensitive state - though she wouldn't be so careful to avoid that if she hadn't had to jolly the queen out of just such a retreat the night before. It's tiring. /Or do you want to be oiled? If you were more comfortable-/

I want that breeze to stop ruffling my wingsail, Mylanith complains. And that blue is looking at me funny. Stop that, you!

/Mylanith,/ Talla sighs. Maybe she'll just leave her dragon to sulk this time, if the gold drives her to scolding again. /I don't think he meant to offend you./ The buzzing of Mylanith's restless annoyance is becoming overlaid with something else, though it's taking its own sweet time emerging from the grating hum. Talla frowns, trying to figure out what new thing Mylanith has unexpectedly added to her emotional range. Something about it niggles at her, familiar-yet-not.

And just like that, it surges above the rest of Mylanith's presence in her head, and roars.

On the heights, Mylanith rises onto her hindquarters, wings unfurling, and launches herself unflinchingly into the air. She vanishes into between only a few feet off the ground, the sound of that first violent snap of her wings still echoing above the empty perch.

Talla launches herself to her feet, morning meal forgotten, and is nearly flung into the ground when she trips over a bench a few tables down; only a rider's quick hand keeps her from taking a header onto the floor, and she rushes on without stopping to thank her anonymous benefactor. She's never done this before, but Wessae has gone over it so many times she could probably repeat the lecture in her sleep. I can't let her gorge I can't let her gorge I can't let her gorge....

A brilliant flash of gold appears above the Bowl as Mylanith emerges from between, shrieking her hunger to the Weyr. She dives towards the herds below, the milling animals still unprepared for her attack, and viciously dashes a herdbeast against the ground before finishing it off with a savage twist of the neck.

The delight she takes in the kill gives Talla a bare few seconds to dash out of the Lower Caverns, to where she can see the Bowl; fortunately, those seconds are all she needs to stop and focus on what she needs to do next. /Blood it, Mylanith! Blood it!/ She's met with a wordless surge of resistance from her dragon's mind, and struggles not to let it overwhelm her. /Shard it, Mylanith, blood your kill! Or you'll fly no better than a green!/

Mylanith greets the imposition of her rider's will with fierce, violent anger, but bends to drain the dead herdbeast with only one more squall of protest. The next is far less of a battle for Talla, and by the time Mylanith rises to descend upon her third kill, she goes straight for the jugular. She only bleeds this one half-dry before rearing back again, blood smeared wet and red across her muzzle and claws. Her own blood seems to be made of liquid fire, hunger-lust-power rushing through her veins with every beat of her heart.

At the edge of the Bowl, Talla stands flushed and shaking, one hand against the rock wall beside her for support. She'd feel weak if Mylanith's feelings weren't so mixed in with her own, and their thoughts are already starting to run together. It's clear that she's not really seeing the world around her as a faint smile touches her lips. Let's give them a flight, my heart.

Bugling her challenge, loud and high and harsh for any dragon that cares to hear, Mylanith hurls herself into the sky. Let her suitors take the air. She'll outpace them all!

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