Who: Isolwyn, C’aol, Eosyth, Daeserath
When: Month 12, 204 AT
Where: Isolwyn’s Weyr, Fort Weyr
What: Eosyth finally rises and Fort’s Weyrleaders are confirmed.
It’s another two days after the one that found Isolwyn fending off that bronzerider before Eosyth decides that the moment is now, and those two days are not the most comfortable for Fort, let alone the goldrider herself. Though she doesn’t object to the close watch C’aol keeps on her, that he stays so near makes matters difficult in terms of her control and what she does and doesn’t want in the wake of the attack. More than once she seeks out kisses, and more than once she curls up against him and just goes to sleep, but anything further she backs away from with murmured apologies and evident shame and frustration with her own reticence. Almost to the moment that Eosyth wakes from a nap in the height of the day’s cool sunshine and launches herself to drop down into the feeding pens, bronzeriders of Fortian origin and foreign alike begin to head to Isolwyn’s weyr, where she watches for a moment from the ledge and then retreats with the proverbial hounds on her tail.
The two days leading up to Eosyth’s maiden flight were not kind to those males within attendance at Fort. Daeserath’s rage was a boiling mass of pressure, his nearness to Eosyth something that caused more than a handful of riders to complain to C’aol directly. C’aol’s own anger was more controlled, those who thought speaking to the Acting Weyrleader would be positive found themselves quickly realizing their mistake. As to Isowlyn’s needs, C’aol has done nothing but let her decide – not needing to pressure her so soon after the attack. He is the first to arrive at Isolwyn’s weyr when Eosyth heads to the feeding pens and he makes it clear that her safety is a priority when two female greenriders enter the weyr and hold themselves focused as they watch the rest of the men stride in. He finds a chair and sits, awareness on Isolwyn and with Daeserath a battle as the bronze rends flesh and gulps down hot blood.
Eosyth needs hardly any intervention from Isolwyn to keep to blooding only, yet the battle of wills is in keeping her from tearing into the bronzes who join her in the pens, her eyes whirling more red than lavender at the sight of them and their presence so near to her. That Daeserath is accepted as neither a threat nor a focus for her attention might speak volumes to the others, one of which spreads his wings to loom over her as if he’d not let her take flight at all, but after she drags her claws through his wingsail, it is in-fact he who will not take flight. She pushes for the skies, teeth and claws stained with blood, the threat of her wrath hanging as heavy over the Weyr as her desires. Isolwyn’s gaze darts from one greenrider to the next, her mind already all but Eosyth’s, and while her focus fixes on C’aol for slightly longer, she doesn’t drop the dagger that’s appeared in her hand. “The only one to touch me will be the one who catches me,” she warns, making a show of the blade as more men fill up the weyr and she fetches up against the wall alongside the open door to her bedroom. Eosyth may be small, but it allows her to be quicker in her rush for height, meaning to shed the weakest and slowest of her suitors before her strength might give out and leave her vulnerable.
Daeserath finds his own claws within the bronze who dared to try and touch Eosyth, claws dug in as he launches himself into the sky. Perhaps he did not //see// the wounded bronze in his scramble to be airborne – though many may doubt that as the ichor mixes with the discarded carcasses and blood in the dirt of the feeding pens. C’aol’s teeth are bared as more men filter into the weyr, his attention pulled from Isolwyn when murmurs of anger make their way into the space. “She decides,” he reminds them all with a sneer, “or your life is in your own hands. No one will stop her from attacking,” he looks to the two female greenriders, each having a hand on a knife themselves, “they are here to protect her, not you.” He settles back in the chair, folding his arms in front of him, as he allows his eyes to close. He trusts the women and Isolwyn in that action and he dares any who might want to strike him to do so. Daeserath’s not a small bronze and his altitude gain is far slower than the smallest of his color. He may not be fast, but he will have the endurance, to chase after Eosyth. He lets his cold thoughts reach for her, encouraging her on in her flight. << Higher is better >> he tells her, swirling cold in his thoughts, << I will find you higher. >>
Eosyth has put all her faith into this one gambit, it would seem, for she continues trying to lose those she would not have touch her by assuming they will not be able or inclined to power through the cold and burning of thinner air and aching wings, her intent to drag them down into a muddled darkness that will keep her from their reach. Such is her focus that she fails to realise the full extent of what she’s forcing her own body to suffer through until it’s almost too late, a point reached where her muscles freeze and her wings falter, her mental shriek of defiance a point of agony that ripples out across the Weyr below. At its centre, Isolwyn arches, her grip on the dagger white-knuckled as her queen’s wings lock up and she begins to drift and fall instead of gaining altitude. << I will be yours, or I will be cracked and crushed and shattered and the chance will be gone, >> Eosyth shares with Daeserath, nearly all of her but fury and instinct lost beneath mist and midnight.
Daeserath has been focused on elbowing, ripping, and shoving those males strong and daring enough to reach into the thinner altitude that Eosyth has brought them to. There are only three of them when Eosyth’s strength falters, none of Fortian blood save that which Daeserath has claimed since coming to the Weyr. He’s tired – but as always, fueled by anger, he gives one last push of his wings to reach ahead of the others as golden hide falls past. He grabs her from above, his claws locking onto her as he twists his body with hers. Her fury is welcomed by his own, matched with his triumphant bugle as he holds her close against his body as they plummet towards the ground. C’aol has no awareness for those remaining in the weyr as he rises from his chair and stalks towards Isolwyn. “You are mine,” he tells her as he reaches to free her of the dagger. “You will always be mine.” The greenriders manage to usher the disappointed out of the weyr, closing the door behind them, and remaining outside to guard it. C’aol’s knee finds the space between Isolwyn’s body as he reaches to draw her to him. “Mine,” he tells her as his lips find her own.
Too lost in Eosyth, Isolwyn tightens her grip on the dagger before she recognises C’aol well enough to let it slip from her fingers and tumble to the floor, the strength of that hold transferred to him when she answers him with a low, predatory and wordless note just as his lips meet hers. She’s been sensible enough to start the day in a dress that requires no laces, and it’s just as well, for she’s of no mind to lend any help with it, her focus narrowed to getting C’aol free of his clothes, hands yanking buttons clean off his shirt before they slide low to allow her to better press herself to him, a sharp nip delivered to his lower lip. “Prove it,” she demands, sense surfacing for long enough for her to deliver the challenge through a purring ripple of laughter. For Eosyth, there’s only Daeserath, who she twines tighter with and forgets about all else, to the extent that it’s a little too close for comfort when she remembers that she has wings and she ought to do her part in making sure that they don’t hit the ground. It’s a long fall – and one that no-one need ever know was not driven by some biological imperative to produce a large clutch.
C’aol tries to stay present in the moment, willing himself to put distance between himself and Daeserath. He manages to do so in the first few kisses he exchanges with Isolwyn. He’s there and then in a blink, something changes as he frees himself of his clothes. He reaches for Isolwyn’s wrists, moving to hold them over her head as he claims more of her mouth. And then his lips move down her neck, mirroring her nips with his own. “I’ll prove it,” he drawls in her ear and then nips her earlobe. His hands are demanding. His need overweighs her own as he claims every inch of her body with his mouth and teeth. He hovers over her breasts, freeing her hands so he may use both of his to wrap around her flesh. He holds them firmly, his mouth claiming, pulling, tugging, and releasing. His leg eases hers apart and he moves to enter her, not bothering to pleasure her before he twines her her as Daeserath does with Eosyth. He continues to tug and claim her breast as his body moves into hers. “Mine,” he growls, nipping her and then moving to once more claim her mouth with his own.
If not for her queen, there might be – would have been – some flicker of fear as C’aol secures Isolwyn’s wrists, not for memory of him, but of recent days, yet, as it is, all she does is tip her head back and bare her throat as his lips trail down her neck, surrender found with the same contentment as Eosyth finds being with the one she has long known is meant for her. There’s no will or interest in resisting or preventing him from taking her as he wishes, only in making sure that there is no distance between them, what could be some soft exclamation of pain soon swallowed by a rushed and jumbled plea not to stop. Her nails dig first into his shoulders, raking their way down until they can sink into his backside, that course abandoned only so that she can wrap her legs around him and encourage him further. When she drags her mouth from his, it’s to bite, her teeth claiming the curve of his shoulder in a vicious move that only briefly smothers her cries and is sure to leave a mark.
C’aol is rough and claiming, when her hands find his back he once more reaches to grab and pull them off of him. He hikes her arms above her head, holding her wrists within one firm grip as his other hand keeps her pinned beneath him. His movements are rough, his need more important than her cries of pain. As her feet move around him, he grabs her hip with his hand. His grip is hard, his fingers bruising, as he moves to hike one of her legs over his shoulder so he can go even deeper within her. Daeserath spreads his wings and eases the plummet with Eosyth, finding the ground far from the Weyr to tuck Eosyth against his side. His wing spreads to cover her, meaning to conceal her from any watching eyes. C’aol shudders over Isolwyn, finding his completion now that Daeserath is on the ground. He settles on top of Isolwyn, catching his breath with his face burrowed in her hair. As he comes to himself, he rolls off of her and to his back to stare up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.
Isolwyn bares her teeth when her wrists are secured again, her fingers flexing until the moment she discovers that such a thing is futile and more distractingly uncomfortable than trying to demand the right to use her hands across his form. She arches beneath C’aol when he adjusts her leg and their angle, the gasp that follows caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, yet one or the other – or both – is enough that she’s soon lost to her own release, his shuddering vaguely answered by a murmuring of quiet moans as enough of reality as to acknowledge his presence over her gradually filters back in. She sighs again as he rolls off of her, doing little to rearrange herself, her eyes closed and arms still cast above her head. Eosyth curls herself close to Daeserath, tucking herself beneath his wing so that only her tail, twined with his, is visible, her nose just about able to be seen when she lays her head down next to his with a sigh that echoes her rider’s.
“We did it,” C’aol’s voice is rough as he closes his eyes and smiles in triumph. “We //did// it,” he repeats again, a chuckle working its way free, and then transforming into a brash laugh. He throws his fingers through his sweat dampened hair and continues to laugh. It takes him a moment to control himself and then he falls to silence. He lifts up on an elbow, turning to look at Isolwyn. His hand moves to her breast, cupping it in his work-roughened palm as he smiles down at her, flickers of Daeserath’s presence coming and going from his gaze. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, noting marks and the beginnings of bruises along her ribs. He leans forward to kiss her breast, then reaches up to kiss her collarbone, her cheek, and once more her lips. “I’ll be more gentle next time I make love to you,” he promises against her ear, another warm chuckle offered, “which I plan to do as often as I can, my lovely Weyrwoman.” He eases himself back, watching her with a far too satisfied smirk on his face.
It’s the hand at her breast that makes Isolwyn open her eyes, gaze lifting to C’aol’s as he notes the marks along her. “A little,” she confesses, which is perhaps not quite the extent of it, though she assures, “I enjoyed it while you were doing it. It isn’t that I wanted you to stop.” Her arms finally drift down, her hand finding the nape of his neck as he kisses her, his promise one that makes her draw her legs together and unwittingly groan a low note of what could easily be mock protest or need. “Gentle is nice, but not always necessary,” she tells him, edging her lips along his jaw while he’s near enough for her to do so. “If as often as you can is half as often as I want, we are never going to get anything done,” is delivered with a smirk of her own. “Weyrleader.” She reaches for one of his hands to quite brazenly begin to direct it to where she most wants it, only to stop and colour from more than exertion as she asks, “Are those women still outside? Did they… hear?”
C’aol grabs Isolwyn’s hips at the mention of his title and tugs her closer to him, moving her to sit on his stomach as he shifts back onto his back. He lets his thumbs idly stroke along her thigh as he smirks up at her. “If they heard I’m sure they’ve since left to go and find someone to ease their own aches,” he drawls at Isolwyn. He drops the satisfied-smirk and looks more seriously up at her as he eases a hand behind his head to pillow it. “I was taking no chances with your safety. I also wasn’t going to have our union go unwitnessed. Now there are two who can assure those who may doubt it that I did not coerce you into letting me win my knot. Daeserath claimed Eosyth in the most ancient rite. None can deny us now.” He moves his hand up along her side and against her ribs as he reaches for her chin to grasp gently. “You have standing now. Your uncle is nothing compared to you and Eosyth. The strongest Weyrwoman in all of Pern,” he all-but-purrs as he tilts her face towards his, “is mine.”
Isolwyn makes a soft, low sound as C’aol moves her, muscles and bruised tissue protesting even when she actively doesn’t, settling herself over him with a moment’s deliberate control exerted to keep from letting herself entertain the idea of doing anything but sitting there, even as his thumbs threaten to distract her. She plants her hands down over his heart, as if expecting his to be steadier than hers and thus aid her further in staying grounded, though they slide forward and past his shoulders to dig into the sheets as she dips her head to kiss him in no shy or uncertain fashion. “I quite like this view,” she tells him, slowly sitting back up. “I wonder how the Weyrleader of the strongest Weyrwoman in all of Pern would feel about being at her mercy.” Her hands settle at his ribs his time, gently curving to meet them. “Thank you for taking care of me,” is a softer murmur. “For keeping me safe. For understanding what needs to be done and who Eosyth is.”
Isolwyn’s words earn her a pleased smirk, a spark lighting his usual cold gaze as he watches her move above him. “You’ve earned this view,” he teases her, letting a hand wander up to cup her breast. “And perhaps you’ll get to see it more often.” He once more finds purchase on her hips and eases her to the side of him. He sits himself up with a stretch and a yawn as he glances towards her bathing area. “We should get cleaned up,” he tells her, moving to brush a hand through her hair. “We needn’t rush out to declare ourselves,” he adds, brushing a thumb along her lip. “But it would be good to show our faces sooner rather than later. Especially if there is doubt… that I was kind to you.” He tips himself down to claim her lips in a quick kiss before he stands, unbothered by his nakedness. “I will always keep you and Eosyth safe,” he reminds Isolwyn as he waits for her to join him. “That will never be questioned. I’m hoping now that Daeserath has full claim of Eosyth… his less agreeable temper tantrums may reduce.”
Sat at the edge of the bed, Isolwyn tilts her head and stares off into some distance that only she can see, murmuring, “…There was a woman here. After I was attacked. She had thought that it was you who hurt me and that you would force and abuse me. That I’d been led to believe that it was my responsibility to submit to my Weyrleader.” She blinks, regaining focus, and pushes herself to feet which she finds herself unsteady on, still reeling from the intensity of having her mind so tightly wound with Eosyth’s. “I informed her that this was my Weyr, that you were mine and that she should take her aspersions and get out.” Her gaze flickers down her body, darker marks beginning to rise here and there, but nothing enough to suggest more than a particularly rough flight. The significance of the visit, she doesn’t seem to fully grasp, yet still she declares, “If she returns, Eosyth and I will chain and cage her.” Literally or otherwise. “I will not be dictated and lectured to.” She’s a little slow in reaching C’aol’s side, one hand reached for as she passes by on her way to the bathing chamber, unwilling to let aching muscles tighten stall her now that she’s got moving.
C’aol’s features freeze at the mention of a woman visiting Isolwyn. He reaches unconsciously towards his thigh, where a large scar he’s never talked about puckers his otherwise blemish-free skin. “That she visited you first and not me is likely the only reason why I am still alive right now,” he manages to grind out, tightening his hand into a fist against his thigh. He holds his gaze on the floor to gather himself before he lifts it to hold Isolwyn’s gaze. “It is unlikely you would be able to chain and cage her, Isolwyn. I wouldn’t try. She won’t come back,” he manages to say, closing the distance between them to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Her point was made. It was not against you – but me.” He sucks in a breath and lets a shiver trail down his spine before he gathers her against him in a hug. “Let us not cross her again. There are things that her and her people do…, even I do not do.” He kisses Isolwyn’s forehead and inhales the smell of her to settle his racing heart. “I am glad you are brave and smart, Isolwyn.”
“If I don’t believe that I can do anything I set my mind to, I’ll be a pretty poor Weyrwoman,” Isolwyn declares, though she leaves off from making any more specific threats about what might happen if she receives another visit. “I won’t let her hurt you. Ever.” She loops her arms around C’aol’s middle and rests her cheek against his chest, murmuring, “…But you need to tell me exactly what happened with her so that I can do that. I don’t want her using anything that I don’t know to throw me off.” Lifting her head, she touches her lips to skin. “Not now; another day. Now we show our Weyr who in charge.” She reaches for his hand again and draws her after him and into the bathing room, where she keeps herself to kisses and promises before requesting his assistance in lacing her into a dress that is sure to leave an impression on those who see her in the wake of the flight. It’s later that she encourages him after her into the darkness of the uninhabited weyr that will be hers to find their way around each other again rather than map out her new home, and if any see them moving across the ledges of the Weyrleaders’ complex in various states of undress… at least it’s their right to, now.