"Shh." Prince Tiernan of the Kingdom of the Winter Diamond presses a fingertip to his lips, warning his companion to silence. He's wandering where he's perhaps not supposed to - that is, noone's explicitly told him not to, but he's not stopped to ask permission. "You'll get us caught, Leon." He flattens himself up against the wall, peering warily around the corner to where two corridors intersect. "Yes, I know we're not supposed to be here, but that's rather besides the point, isn't it? Mother won't notice any time soon, and besides, I'm tired of nymphs offering for me to put my head in their laps. I'd like something different to do."
He sidles around the corner, brilliantly blue eyes alert for the slightest movement. "What's that, Leon? You're shedding? Again? Well, alright, let's find a place to fix you up, shall we? Hold on. There's a doorway; looks like a library's on the other side. We'll stop in there to hide and I'll fix you up in there."
Dark hair threatens to fall and cover one eye; absently he sweeps it back as he circles round the ajar door and into the library, one hand coming up to the royal blue doublet he wears. From the shoulder of it he lifts what appears to be a clockwork lion fashioned from topaz, with rubies for eyes. There's a pouch that hangs at his side, against fawn-colored leggings; he moves quickly to a surface with only the briefest of passing glances to see if anyone's there. He's now focused on a new task. The little piece of clockwork's set down, where it shakes itself, then turns round in a half-circle as Tiernan takes from the pouch a jeweler's loupe and silver tools like a watchmaker's. "What's that, Leon? You'd like to be a real lion? Well, I can understand that, but I'm afraid I don't have that kind of ability. You're well off as it is. Besides, real lions have to hunt to eat, and people hunt them - for fun. No, I don't particularly think it'd be much fun to hunt you; I have to spend enough time trying to find you when you've fallen between the bureau and the wall. Now, on your back, please, and hold still."
Yes, here... a library is the perfect place to hide. One wonders -- or rather, this one wonders -- why it was constructed in the first place, if it were to remain idle. Did they build prophetically and simply for him? He is not such an egotist to think it's true. But the point remains, the library is the domain of only one.
Himself.
Prince Iowerth Rhudd Draig, Captain and Commander of the Dark Seas, sits in the library much as he may usually be found --- dressed in captain's coat and gear, captain's sword close by, his booted feet propped up on a padded high footstool (the boots go over his knees like that of an earthly cavalier's) and on his lap a great, large book. His colors are black and scarlet. His hair is as crimson as a red dragon's. As his father's before him.
Perhaps he seemed as decoration in his unmoving state, his concentration complete. At your entrance, his green eyes lift -- the green lighter than his father's by several degrees and filled with odd periwinkle. That, too, a gift from the High King. Eyebrows lift at you and your object d'art.
"Don't forget the bit about the fleas," comes the drawl of the other prince's voice. The unseen prince, over there in the corner, by a window, his clothing masqueraded by the neighboring brocade drapes...
"Yes," Tiernan says absently, "fleas as well. You don't have to worry about those, Leon, but real lions do. - What does it feel like to be bitten? Well ... remember that time you dented one of your solders? Rather like that, I'd imagine. So no, not painful, but irritating, and tiresome." Then he seems to realize - someone else has spoken. And his head lifts.
It's a swift, alert motion, not the motion of someone given to nervousness or fright; assessing, taking in the situation and analyzing it. One hand cups protectively over the clockwork lion, but apart from that, he holds its ground. "Good afternoon," Tiernan says in an even tone of voice, the blue gaze seeking you out, attempting appraisal as he straightens slowly from where he'd crouched to his work. Where are you? Ah. There. His voice has nothing of hostility or animosity or even surprise, guarded as it is; and nothing of resignation, either. He'll stand his ground.
Even if he's in the wrong...
A finger lifts an edge of parchment, holds it suspended till downward arching it slides. Green to blue -- there are seas in that -- and those gazes held by two young men who hold their positions. Neither giving into the other.
Idly, another finger slides against the parchment. He lifts the page and the corner of his mouth quirks, trying to determine -- should it smile or no? "So who is Leon's Keeper-Creator? A Leon Tamer?" Now, Prince Iowerth smiles. A low chuckle moves in his throat as he looks back to his book.
"And it's no trouble. I'm the only one here to bother, and I'm not bothered by either of you. It's not as if the library were ever filled with enterprising minds and eyes. I don't think nymphs care much for reading..."
He relaxes, very slightly. Ah, so he's not to be immediately tossed to the curb; though what answer should he give? The truth? There are shades and shades upon shades of truth. "I can accept being a Leon Tamer better than some slurs," Tiernan murmurs, his hand shifting to scoop up the little clockwork lion. It's returned to his shoulder, where is clambers to a more secure perch and stands proudly on four legs, its tail whipping back and forth. The plume on the end is for a moment like a bottle-brush; then, like a sleepy hedgehog, it relaxes again. "Tiernan. Just ... Tiernan."
No title is mentioned; no explanation given. Let's see what happens, that seems to be his motto of the day. The prince in blue moves forward easily, pulling out a chair for himself and resting one knee upon its seated surface, he leans forward to drape his forearms together along the edge of the table, fixing you with his attention. "Who might you be? If it isn't a cardinal sin to ask, though I've never been known to be much of a one for cardinals, sinful or otherwise."
"Oh, nymphs." There's a wealth of disgust in his voice for a moment. "I've no use for them. Stupid creatures, most of them. The only thing they're interested in reading is a tailor's mark - for half a second. I've got better things to do with my time." Tiernan glances upwards, hair ruffling and almost spiking back. "Nice library, though," he adds politely. "Is this where I ask you if you come here often?"
"Captain Draig," he answers easily. It is, for the now, his preferred title. Not because he does not love mother and father, or indeed have admiration for the station of his birth. But he does not work to be a prince -- that was given to him. Captain is something he has carved out for himself since the tenderest age of nine.
He closes the book with a snap, sets it aside and rests his hands on his coated stomach. Beneath that coat is midnight silk, to match the midnight else that he wears. "For a moment there, I thought I heard an echo." He grins, "I come in here as much to elude the nymphs as to increase my vocabulary. It is a nice library," he nods. "I should think my mother hopes I will read the love poems and sigh for some sweet maid. She does not yet realize that I am already married to the sea. That old cliche," Iowerth rolls out, a sidelong grin just like YOU KNOW WHO. "And, you... Tiernan? Are you and Leon out for sport, adventure, mischief or solace?"
"Captain," Tiernan nods easily, accepting this, watching you with interest; it is not a casual interest, but something toned by courts and intrigue, a certain wariness, nerviness paired with that simmering blue gaze. "How do you do, then."
His boots are the colour of midnight; now he sets one down firmly on the floor, turning the chair with an easy spin and settling himself so he can lean across its back. "Mother'd prefer I avoid the nymphs, for the most part. She fusses at me - I swear, you'd think I were still a child instead of a man, the way she frets." One hand comes out from his side, and the little lion bristles for a moment. "...Sorry, Leon. Get in behind my collar, then, where the straps are sewn, if you're worried about falling. - I've never quite grasped poetry. I've tried. But very little of it speaks personally to me, and so I just don't."
There's a flicker of thick dark eyelashes - too like a girl's, but veiling his gaze. It is both true and untrue all at once, and he knows it. The irony of it quirks one corner of his mouth, but it's as if he can't decide whether it needs a downwards or an upwards slant, and so he settles on nothing at all. "Let's not go on about nymphs. They're boring. I'm not married to much of anything. - No, Leon, not even to you, though we're old friends. Just not that kind of friends. As for what we're out for ... must we narrow it down to any single cause?"
He leans back, rearranges himself, leans forward again while still running a finger between his collar and his throat. A thin gold chain circles his neck, gathered across the front with a sliding puzzle knot. "Mostly," Tiernan adds frankly, "I wanted an escape route. I didn't ask to come here in the first place, though I'm just beginning to feel it might almost be supportable as a notion."
"I should think that there should be no limits, but then... I am a creature of the sea," Iowerth quirks a smile, the odd periwinkle-jade eyes settling their attention on you. He shrugs his shoulders -- he's not a small creature, this captain -- a motion that seems to say: so be it.
A roll of those eyes at the mention of nymphs. Iowerth raises his hand and shall say nothing more on them. "An escape route," he mulls, eyebrows lifting in a double arch. "You will find that the library will suffice. And the secret chamber that leads from it, to a series of tunnels. Those tunnels straight to a winding road into the village, and then...of course... from the village to the shore. From the shore," he grins, "... to the sea. Would you care to see?"
Rising from his chair, his height is known. He still has room to grow but the captain has already a seaworthy stature. The coat is still large on him, but he will grow into it, from what shoulders promise. Copper hair is pulled back in waves of fire. He take the book he formerly held, and stacks it upon three others. One after the other he tucks in his coat, his coat swallowing them as easily as pins.
"Secret chamber." Dark eyebrows lift in a 'you're shitting me' gesture. "I could do. Why not? Anything to make my mother a little less likely to track me down and drag me by the ear." Tiernan rises to his feet as well, a simple cantilevered push that ends with him on his feet. "No, Leon, we won't make you try to swim, we know you'll sink. If you start getting worried about losing your balance, just crawl into my pocket." Now he casts you a half-apologetic look. Lions. Really.
He's not so tall nor so broad as you, but that's not to say he's diminutive. His grace is a more lithe grace - an archer, a sprinter, a human cheetah of sorts. Not bony, though; padded with lean muscle beneath heavy velvet. He stalks in your direction as edgily as a cat. "Nice," Tiernan says approvingly, eyeing your coat. "Is it the books or the coat that's magicked?"
"Neither," Iowerth quips with a quicksilver grin, "... it is I. Now, let us see," comes the drawl as he moves in that marching way of his toward a wall of books. He drags a finger along this spine, that spine, another haphazardly, as if he were trying to remember which may be the one that opens the portal. And he hums rising and falling notes of thought before murmuring, "Oh yes... that's right."
But he does not pull out a book, nor pat, nor slide, nor lift, nor clap his hand upon a shelf. All of the sudden tiles upon the floor give way, shifting to open in a crescent moon shape. From the orifice that opens, one may smell the sea.
The folds of midnight clothing shift as Iowerth gestures toward this darkened hole, this crescent cavern he has opened. "After you, Tiernan. And Leon," Iowerth adds.
Those dark brows twist quizzically, half-skeptical, half-impressed. "Impressive," Tiernan mutters reluctantly, blue eyes shifting from your coat to your back as you move, and he follows in your wake. "Is the humming part of the opening process, or just you trying to think?"
And then the floor suddenly shifts, and involuntarily, the Prince of the Winter Diamond jerks back. There's an audible though tiny yowl from the clockwork lion, and he lifts a hand automatically to cup his shoulder protectively. "...Next time," Tiernan says in a voice which is terribly even, "a word of warning might be nice."
He gives you a look - are you mad? You want me to go down? Into nothingness? Where I haven't been before? What the nine hells do you think I am? But he doesn't voice his incredulity. How can he back down from a challenge like this? Without a word, only the faintest flaring of his nostrils, he turns to the hole. Feet first, he lowers himself into the darkness.
The Crescent Moon is deceptive, as most phases of the moon are. What seems to be a hole into Nothingness is actually quite a nice, albeit steep, staircase. There is a rope for grasping onto, like the earliest of stair rails, and the cool stone gives off the smell of the ocean coast. Sea foam. Fog. Ocean water.
"If you were standing right over it, I would have. But you were fine, were you not?" The laughter sounds behind you as he joins you. "Alright, a word of warning. It's about to get very dark. But don't worry. I am merely closing the portal. Hold onto the rope." That's what it's there for, as well as sure footing.
"Ready?" comes the lilt behind you, the bemused sound of Iowerth Rhudd Draig. He waits to hear your assent before he plunges you into disconcerting darkness.
"Define ready," Tiernan grumbles at you, looking around as best he can. He grabs hold of the rope with both hands rather than just one. Closing his eyes, the prince tips his head back, inhaling deeply. "This is going to be a new experience for me," he admits, a flash of sudden self-consciousness heard perhaps more than seen.
He doesn't explain, though; instead, he just waits. Then he realizes you're probably waiting on him. "Oh. Right. Ready." And another yowl from the lion. "Leon's ready, too."
Iowerth doesn't comment. When you and Leon state your readiness, no matter how hesitant, Iowerth closes the portal with a whisper of Goodnight Moon. And the tunnel is plunged into darkness, impossible to see the way, and with stairs so steep how shall you dare to move?
Well, he's no fool. Moonlit illumination moves along the walls as he presses his hand to it. And the stone seems more like the scales of a dragon. Perhaps a dragon carved it by moving through the earth beneath this castle.
The heavy midnight fabric of the captain's coat moves against you as he slowly passes you. "I grew tired of running through my mother's palace chased by nymphs and pixies, so I created my own corridor of sorts. It goes directly to my private dock."
Iowerth heads down easily, though the stairs are steep and the hallway is narrow -- wide enough for only you and he to walk side by side. "So...your mother... she is pressing for you to find a wife already? My mother is convinced that I am lacking in love. It is not that I lack. It is that, like you, I have other matters on my mind."
Periwinkle sparkles lavender in the silver moonlight of the tunnel as he glances back at you with a wry look. "I am glad I am not alone in such things. I was starting to feel like I was the only man of common sense in the united kingdoms..."
Eyes narrow to slits, adjusting to the darkness as he holds himself as still as he can for your passage. "Impressive," Tiernan mutters again. It's not a word he often uses, and yet he's used it twice with you already. What else shall he find impressive? "My mother's palace is forever in shadow. Things move around and change; I've had to develop my own ways of getting around, but no point in constructing passageways."
Instead, he's constructed trinkets. Clockwork lions and tigers, a menagerie of miscellaneous pieces. His booted feet thump only barely, lightly, whispers of sound against the staircase. "Mother seems to hope that I will not marry," Tiernan says factually. "I sometimes think she hopes I'll someday look upon her as something other than a mother, but frankly, my mind can't conceive of it. To be honest, I've never yet met a woman who's managed to do anything other than annoy me, but then, until we came here, the only women other than mother that I've met have all been nymphs and the like. It must have something to do with being so tied to the earth, all they can think about is procreation."
He's silent for a moment on the heels of that speech, one hand leaving the rope to absently check on Leon. It is not a lengthy silence. "...I don't talk about love as a rule. I've formulated some thoughts on the matter, but - well, a long story, there. Just say it isn't the safest topic, where I'm from." Blue eyes harden to flint, a storm brewing behind them, then dispelled in favour of other topics. "But no, you're not alone."
Tiernan answers your wry look with one of his own, glance sliding across your face and then looking ahead of you, as to see where he goes. "And by the way, thank you for your consideration of Leon. Few people think of him as a person instead of a toy, and myself as an eccentric to talk to my creation."
"How odd one may be depends entirely upon one's perspective. Where one is standing. There are places I have been where we would be as strange to them as Leon may be to others here. Besides," Iowerth smiles, "...my ship is both living thing and created thing. So, again...perspective."
He moves on ahead and the steepness begins to level out into a smooth path of glittering stones. He reaches up behind him, hand moving through his hair, tugging it free of the bounds and his marching stride is quick. "Everyone I know seems preoccupied by such things. Perhaps it is due to all of the royal weddings. Myself, I can barely sit still. The sea is calling me. Your mother's kingdom... is it far? I have been sailing into Chaos, dropping anchors to calm the waves. I have found amazing islands. Or maybe... they are creating themselves as I pass by." Iowerth slows to make sure you are yet walking with him. Here, you and he may walk side by side. "I do not yet know. But I am compelled to find out."
He looks to you, looking to Leon. "I must say, I would not wish Leon to be a regular sort of lion. There's nothing interesting to be found in a regular sort of lion. How did the two of you come to meet?" Which is a far more considerate way of saying: how did you make him?
"I'll be interested in experiencing your ship. For many reasons, not just that it's alive." Tiernan scratches behind one ear, moving to keep up with you; he's unfamiliar with the place, and as such, his footsteps are a little more cautious.
"Weddings get a lot of attention. It's an excuse for a party. For some, they think they'll find love at a wedding - romantic surroundings and all that. But they're overlooking the fact that a wedding need have nothing to do with love, any more than romance does. Romance is just a backdrop, a tool, a key. Love ..." He shrugs, lifting his gaze upwards, looking at scaled walls, then down to glittering stones, analyzing, absorbing, listening with his eyes.
He stumbles a little as you slow, almost losing his balance; a graceful turn of an ankle rights himself so that his hand only whispers against your shoulder, not needed for keeping balance. He doesn't talk about love; not yet. Perhaps he fears listeners in shadow. "My mother's ... ah. You've figured me out, then." Tiernan doesn't blush; there's no real outwards display of embarrassment. Well, it couldn't last, could it, this pretense of being anything but a prince. "Her kingdom's landlocked, so I'm not surprised you've never been there. It is in a hollow, surrounded by mountain. There are three ways in; by air, which is treacherous and filled with wyverns and rocs; by land, through passes through the mountains which have their own dangers, and underground through the tunnels... filled with et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." He shrugs. "Really, I don't know that mother could have made it more enticing to adventurers if she'd actively tried."
On the topic of Leon, Tiernan does show a bit of colour to his face; his hand comes up absently, fingers downwards to provide Leon with a ramp, and he holds the lion aloft on his palm so that you can get a better look at him. Leon struts, braces and opens his mouth to roar. Instead, a tiny 'mew' escapes. "He is my oldest and perhaps my first friend," the prince answers with a slight shrug, blue gaze on the lion. "I made him when I was six. Mother had just executed her principle jeweler for some reason or other, and in the commotion, noone was paying much attention to his workroom. I snuck in because I knew I wasn't supposed to be there, and made off with a few odds and ends which I knew I could conceal. I was bored. Executions have never really been my thing."
There was a glance as you righted yourself. A brief flicker of 'Are you alright?' and then the momentary stumble is over. None the worse for wear. "It was more of a hunch than anything. The only men my age that I've seen hiding from nymphs and mothers are princes." He laughs at that, the musical sounds of it trickling down and echoing through the serpentine tunnel.
Iowerth looks ahead as he continues down the moonlit path. Occasionally, the filtered sounds from the village seep through, like water, and drip along the surface of the stones. Whispers and indications of life and sound more than anything coherent. "Sounds delightful," he chuckles suddenly. "I think being landlocked would make me feel claustrophobic." Iowerth tilts his head in consideration and then looks to you. "I would miss the water too much. More than this, easy escape to my own adventures."
His smile cants crooked as he looks at you, and then at Leon. "I'm not fooled. I suspect you're quite the ferocious lion when you've a mind to be," he says directly to the creature. "Who needs to be King of the Jungle when there are many more kingdoms to be seen. Oes?" He lifts his gaze to you, to your face as you speak of Leon. "My first friend..." he has to think about this, "...well... my first friend was...is ...my brother, I suppose. We shared a womb. After this, I would say... Vania. Vanni. She is ...well, you will meet her. She has a thing for conversation, sherry, and books. Quite extraordinary for a drake."
"This place is interesting." Tiernan is busied looking about again, Leon reaching up with both front paws and chewing on the chopped strands of hair that tickle the nape of his neck. "And you made all this?"
He doesn't repeat that one word. Yet. Instead, he turns towards you. "I'd never seen the sea until we came here. We have bodies of water - rivers and lakes, fed from the mountains. Just ... nothing like ... that." A hand comes out in a loose gesture, indicating airily the vastness of the ocean. "It's ... compelling. It has a certain draw. But it's also utterly unfamiliar to me; alien."
A fingertip lifts, stroking absently along the little lion's back. It seems to appreciate it. "I have no friends who weren't made by me," Tiernan says casually. "Mother's court isn't the sort of place where you make friends. Sounds like your life's been a bit ... different from that. More freedom. Must be nice." There's no real envy in his voice. He means it for its own sake, without self-pity. It's different. It is what it is. "A drake? Huh. I've seen some at a distance, but never up close. But it sounds an interesting mix. Is your brother a captain, too?"
"Oh god no," he says about his brother. His eyes go wide and he chuckles. "He's more of a ..." And then Iowerth has to pause. What is Gwilym, really? How does one describe one such as Gwilym? "Well, not of sea water anyway," he thinks to say after a time. "He captains beds and shadows. From what I hear."
It gets a bit more chilly and the air becomes damp. "We are near the coast now." There is a droning noise -- that must be the sea itself. "I had a bit of help, but...yes," Iowerth murmurs to your question. "So far it has gone undetected." He looks to you -- it will be our little secret? He winks in the low light and chuckles.
As you mention freedom, and as the tunnel begins to open outward a bit, Iowerth nods. "I am freer than many. Even others of my station... prince to prince... I am freer. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is just ...perspective again. Or maybe it is a benefit. I am not sure yet, which is true. Perhaps both things are true. For the most part, my life is ...fairly solitary. I have a family, one that I can trust -- which is... a rarity, I admit. But I spend most of my time on the sea, discovering new worlds, mapping them... and learning how Chaos works. And the purpose it serves to ...Everything Else."
A moment later, Iowerth is slowing. "Here we are, Leon and Tiernan." Here? Where? It looks like a crescent shaped carved out area of stone but no real destination as such. Behind you, the way you have traveled is already shadowed, tossed into pitch. The moonlight coalesces around you and Iowerth, but not much further. He smiles then, that same slight but crooked smile. "I hope you don't have a problem with climbing," he murmurs.
As he turns you see what appears to be a trellis of thick limbs and vines. It is not haphazard. They really create a quite orderly ladder. "I'll go up first," he offers. "You might want to stow Leon. I can put him in one of my pockets if you'd rather?"
"Hence your near and utter surprise at my sharing your views," Tiernan murmurs drolly, about your brother. No malice behind the words, again, just a hint of amusement. "Well - to each their own, though I wish he'd been around earlier. Though then I might not have needed escape and I wouldn't be here, so ... perhaps not."
He lifts his nose, sniffing experimentally. Salt-damp smell. So this is what it smells like, from closer up. "I... take my own freedom, when and where I can. Mother doesn't punish me, particularly. She just sighs and scolds. It worked when I was very small. But now, I've learned to shrug it off and tune it out. I'm sure she means well, in her own way, but I can't help it; I end up resenting it. I understand what you mean, about solitude." You receive a quick, keen glance, and then he looks away again, to behind him, to where his feet have been and where his feet go. "I understand," he admits, quietly, "because - well. I spend my time avoiding mother's court. The people who think I'd make a good pawn, or addition to a collection. Or think that my friends," he caresses Leon again, eliciting a tiny squeak of a purr, "are something I'd just give away to anyone who asks."
You slow, and he slows as well, eyes glinting with unhidden curiosity. Some of his habitual caution, the wariness of the Unseelie, is lessening; relieved, a bit, by being so far from any court, from any company but your own. "I can climb," Tiernan murmurs; the circumstances seem to call for hushed voices, quiet responses, restrained motions. "Mm? Yes, Leon? Ah. He wants to go with you." There's a flicker of something in his expression, a faint, sardonic cant of his eyebrows, and as carefully as ever, he extends his hand to the lion, and then to you. "Far be it for me to deny a feline his due," Tiernan says with studied casualness. "It's a rare compliment; be flattered."
"I take compliments when given, when true," he says with a smirk. His hand out, he easily accepts the lion. "Alright, Leon... Captain's front pocket. And stay tight." The captain's coat, very like those of buccaneers of mortal 18th century, is substantial and as such has substantial pockets. He slips the gemmy lion into that front pocket, brocaded and decorated though it is, and turns to ladder.
As he begins the climb, he glances down to you. "You don't have to be overly careful. The vines will break your fall. Should you slip." But the look doesn't suspect that you will. Merely a point to be duly noted.
The viney ladder leads to ... nothing. Or appears to lead to nothing. Upon arriving at the top, the captain again begins to hum and he murmurs, "Now...where did I put that..." Who knows what trips the stones to moving again, but soon there is a new crescent moon opening. You can feel the cool breeze. You can smell the salt. Hear the waves. After pulling himself out of the hole as easily as climbing a ship's ladder, Iowerth offers his hand to you to help you up the rest of the way.
The crescent opening is in an old tidal cave, but with the changing of tides and currents it is now dry. Across from the cave is a view of the docks, crowded and busy with commerce. But first and foremost? The huge form of a tall galleon ship, its dragon sails relaxed, its anchor lowered. Its great form painted midnight to be invisible on the evening seas. And Iowerth its captain...
He says nothing as he hands over the lion, nothing as you warn him of the rope. A faint slash of a smile appears, but nothing else; and he follows you up the ladder as if he'd been born to climb. He simply ... melts up the rope. Perhaps out of habit, he stays closer to shadows than not. Perhaps it reminds you of your brother...
At the top, Tieran pauses, hanging on with one hand as you rise through the new opening. You offer your hand, and he accepts it, still wordlessly. He is absorbing everything, making a living sensory recording, expressionless save for his eyes - those are alert, moving rapidly, glinting sapphire and silver in the dim light.
He looks at everything; everything except you, turning in a semi-circle with his back to you. And he turns to you, one midnight eyebrow lifted, and he finally speaks again. What will he say?"
"Impressive..."
Tiernan flushes slightly, lifting a hand to his head, his other hand palm outwards as if to stop you. "I know," he adds with light self-mockery. "I need to expand my vocabulary. Still. I am very impressed." There is an ambiguity nonetheless to his regard, to the cant of his head. "And what now, o captain?"
"She's a good ship. The Draigamor." Named for him, most likely. Well, it is an easy assumption to make. As you speak of 'impressive' again, he looks to you. "That is what libraries and ships are for." Expanding vocabularies and experience alike. Reaching into his pocket, he returns Leon to your keeping. "I trust the ride was pleasant?" he wonders of the gemmy lion.
"How about a tour. And then, I think, a drink. We'll start with that..." His fiery eyebrows lift and he tilts his head to you to see if you agree upon the terms as he starts out of the cave. His marching stride returns and it carries him over stones and puddles of seawater as he heads along the shoreline to the pier.
Leon squarks and hops from your hand back to Tiernan; the prince lowers his head a little, looking the little lion in its ruby eyes. They seem to commune in some way, and one dark eyebrow goes upwards. "He says he liked the taffy in your pocket." And the lion's returned to his shoulder with a little shake of his head.
"Tours and drinks both sound good," Tiernan agrees, glancing swiftly to you as you begin to move. "A chance to relax without being pounced upon by nymphs." He moves in your wake, surefooted and unconcerned, even if wondering in his wander.
"You ... seem experienced, for someone who seems on the outside no older than me... but appearances are deceiving," Tiernan remarks. "How long have you captained?"
"I got a bit of an early start. I first took the ship out at the age of nine." Iowerth grins at that. "Wearing this very coat. It was a bit bigger on me then. I didn't take it as far as I wanted to. My mother's ships came out after me. That was the first of many chases. And looks are deceiving," he looks at you with a lopsided grin.
He leads you from the shore up and to the pier. Though the ship is docked, the plank is not lowered. And as he approaches, the ship awakens: Sails materialize, the silvery forms of dragons shifting simultaneously. "All hail Iowerth Rhudd Draig, Prince of the Dark Seas!" The plank rolls itself down, silver dragon scales forming the plank -- those are dragons, too.
Now, it's Iowerth's turn to flush. Just a touch, barely even noticeable. "They are a bit ...exuberant in their salutations," he wryly notes. "But at least they are no longer calling me the Prince of Tides..." His tone goes droll but then he realizes that the 20th Century mortal reference likely means nothing to you.
Iowerth holds at the beginning of the plank, his arm coming out in a gesture for you, his guest, to go ahead. "Welcome to the Draigamore..."
Skittering talons scratch above. One might mistake it for the tumbling, bumbling gait of a Welsh corgi if one did not also know that drakes move in much the same manner.
"I would think the coat looks better on you now," Tiernan agrees blandly. "But it shows a certain sartorial sense that appears to have stayed with you." Your lopsided grin is met with one of something like mischief. Wary he may be, but timid he is not; he is simply not entirely cocky in his confidences.
Along the pier, he pauses for a moment, looking down into the water. A hand comes up protectively to cup over Leon, and then he pulls back, moving to follow you again. A dark eyebrow cocks upwards at the salutation. "At least you have three names and a title," he murmurs without mockery. The reference, indeed, goes right over his head. How would he know, here so long? If he recalls his mortal life at all, he does not mention.
You hold your way, and he waits a moment; then realizes what you intend. "My thanks, Prince Iowerth," Tiernan answers you as formally as if this were a gala. "Your kindness and hospitality are most generous." His mouth quirks. "There. Now we can tell our respective mothers that yes, the formalities were attended to." And he moves to go up the plank, eyebrows drawing curiously for the sound of scrabbling.
"Oh, right," a bow is returned. He rolls his eyes at his mother being happy with the courtesies. He's not sure what would make her happy, really. He'll leave that conundrum to his father. Iowerth boards the ship right after, coming face to face with Vania holding a huge scroll of parchment that rolls out far behind her.
"Our list of supplies, sire," the drake intones in that haughty way of hers, spectacles set low upon her long snout and her claws daintily holding the start of the massively long list of supplies.
The drake is violet-scaled and no bigger than a medium-sized dog. She looks from the captain to the... other person... and drums her talons on the parchment she holds. "I've taken the liberty of scribbling a few notes."
"Vania, this is Prince Tiernan and his associate Leon. And that is a long list, let's look at it later. How about the brandy. Would you mind? Just...set it up in the Captain's Quarters." Turning to Tiernan, Iowerth quirks a grin. "Vania is my Chamberlain and also in charge of social functions on board the Draigamore. Not that there is much in the way of functions, usually. But still... it makes the wild seas civil..."
"Oh quite right," Vania purrs. "And tonight is cribbage night..."
This is ... different. You can almost hear the thought. Tiernan's eyebrows rise for a moment, but only for a brief moment; then his features are composed, and he bows gallantly to Vania. "M'lady. A pleasure to meet one in whom his highness the Captain places such faith. How do you do?" He holds the bow a moment, then straightens fluidly. "And I hope I may compliment you; you have lovely scales. I've never seen any quite like them before."
It's quite true, as it happens...
It gives an idea of what he must be like when he's at home, at court. How terribly bored he must get. Courteously, he takes the little lion and holds him out on his palm. "Allow me to present to you my faithful traveling companion," Tiernan says gravely. "Sir Leon, the world's fiercest clockwork lion. He wishes to compliment you as well, and inquires if he might be of service in chasing down rats."
If she had eyebrows, she would raise them. Instead, her eyes widen. "Oooh, yeees," she purrs again. "Even this ship is not immune from rats. But then, we do have to have something for dragons' roast tuesdays. But... certainly, I can show the lion the way." But, first, she bows to the prince. "A pleasure, your highness," or your lowness if you prefer. "I thank you. I will tend to the brandy," she says, bowing to Iowerth, and she turns to trot off toward the captain's quarters at the stern. Glancing back, "Coming, Leon?"
Iowerth chuckles, feeling your pain and sympathy with it. "I don't go in for ceremony either," he murmurs. "So..." a gesture to the stern of the large ship, "...I'll give you the threepenny tour. If you want more, just say so. It has eighty guns, forty on each side," he gestures to each flank. "It has three full holds for trade or contraband. It runs silent, dark and quick."
His marching stride, though slowed to a captain's stroll, carries him quickly toward the stern. "The Pilot's wheel, there. Up above, the crow's nest. The sails are a confederation of pixie dragons and brownie wyverns. They do not require the whim of wind to move, which is good. No dead air for the Draigamore. As my father says: they eat wind and turn it into speed."
Iowerth glances to you as he continues to a hatch. The hatch has a French door opening that leads to a set of spiraling stairs. "This is my home, welcome aboard," he says quietly, opening the doors and giving you your first view of the Captain's Quarters.
The Captain's Cabin -- such a quaint term for such a large and fantastical place. The floor is tiled, or seems tiled, with the universe -- with the self-same comets, the same glittering, shifting clouds of stardust, the arms of the Milky Way one may see now upon the larger space. On closer inspection, it is the view of something specific -- not merely pretty stars and universes running on some random pattern like a computer's screensaver. It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them. Over there, the closest kingdoms, with the dots of flickering lights showing the kingdoms as they appear from above and at night. Perhaps as the way that angels see them. Across the far distance, no more like in the exact center of the chamber, is a point of bright light -- a single point, and it is softly throbbing.
That must be your destination. A single point of light in a dark, dark sea.
There are two other doors, and there are rugs of spun light, glowing gently, comfortingly. Pillows made of clouds. Round-bottom bottle floating suspended. It leads the eyes upward...
Globes of scented oil lamps hang to be the stars over this map of kingdoms, each giving off a slight but exotic flavor. And above this, one can see the real stars, or what one might believe to be the real stars -- who knows anymore? -- as there is a round observatory of glass in the ship's deck, and the spiraling platinum stairs upon which you stand...
He bows, bending and setting the clockwork lion down and letting it bound after the drake. Such simple pleasures. "As I said - it's part of why I've gone in for isolation," Tiernan murmurs dryly in response. "I suppose it has its place. Just ... not in my private life, thanks."
He follows you with eyes alert, again trying to take in everything all at once; disassembling it with his eyes, fingers twitching just slightly as if reassembling it or making notes on how it all fits. When you reach the cabin, it's almost a relief - until he steps inside.
"...I am going to control myself," Tiernan tells you lightly, turning to regard you with those brilliantly blue eyes. "And therefore, I say - spectacular." His features crease into a sudden, boyish grin that strips away years of guardedness in an instant, for just a moment. And he turns away again.
Hands folded now behind his back, he crosses slowly to the bottle, the pillows, a circuit of the room, finally stopping somewhere in the middle. He tips his head back, regarding that map. "As if all the world were laid out upon it," Tiernan murmurs. A hand goes to his shoulder, stops abortively. Something's missing, but so be it. "And you ... made this?"
"I wish I could take credit for it," Iowerth smiles grandly as he enters. This is home and he is immediately comfortable in it. As he steps upon the floor that is also a living map, he looks at the kingdoms within the kingdom of his own father. "My father created the ship. When I was born, he gave it to me. When I was nine, I took it. Now, I am sailing... exploring the seas. Creating new oceans when I get out to the edge. Dreaming these oceans into being." He slants a smile then, heading for the two cups sitting, brandy poured. "But ...thank you...Here..."
Crossing over to you, the prince offers you a large snifter of brandy. He taps his glass to your glass. "To the absence of court and the presence of brandy. And to new friends," Iowerth toasts. With the slant of a smile, he lifts the glass for a sip, and comes to sit on the next cushion over.
From the seated position, an upward glance will show you the sky. At night, it would be full of stars. Particularly out on the sea. Iowerth unbuckles his sword, and after a moment he has shrugged out of the large captain's coat. He seems to youthen as he does. He seems eighteen and only eighteen. But his eyes are far older. His temperament tending to the shadowed ways, perhaps even as your own.
Brandy. He is feeling a need for that. He scoops the cup up with a well-formed hand, taking a deep sniff and then a draught. "Whereas I create ... creatures," Tiernan murmurs, tipping his head to you. "They call me Tiernan Toy-maker when they think I won't hear. I let them." He shrugs. Let them think what they like. "If they choose to think that Leon and his brethren are only toys, they vastly underestimate both him and me."
He eases down to the cushion next to yours, spreading his legs out in front of him. "Your coat adds weight to you," he comments, turning to give you a sharp look. And then he looks away again; takes another drink, leans back.
"Leon is very taken with you," Tiernan murmurs. "I'll be sad to see him go."
Iowerth breathes in the vapors from the brandy but he turns a curious look to you, pausing his sip of the drink. "Is he," he wonders. He looks to you, and then he wonders: "And where is Leon going?" An incline of his head accompanies the lifting of an eyebrow.
He then glances down at himself, the heavy coat splayed out behind him. "I suppose it does," he murmurs, eyes lifting to you. Iowerth smiles faintly. "It is heavy, I can tell you that. But it's formidable against the wind. Or did you mean symbolic weight?" His mouth twists a smile.
He takes a swallow of the brandy. A healthy swallow. He looks to the drink a moment, and then he looks at you. "You are wise to let them fool themselves. Let them think what they think, you are right in that. I'm sure that such gadgets could be ...very enterprising when employed."
Sitting up, Iowerth takes the opened bottle of brandy, refreshing your glass first and then his own. "I should think it is the act of creating that is important. What one creates is just a form, one is not really more superior than another..."
"He hasn't said yet, but it's obvious to me he wants to stay here. Lions have fixed hunting territory; Leon doesn't /need/ to eat, although he can." Tiernan glances to you, mouth twisting as it did back when you first saw him; up and down, as if he can't quite decide on the most appropriate expression. "I've never seen him hunt anywhere except back home, before."
The brandy is lifted, swallowed, and his eyes close as he sinks into the seat as if becoming one with it; making it an intimate part of himself. "A bit of both, really," Tiernan tells you, one eye opening as he turns his head towards you. "It alters you. Your appearance; your bearing. It roots you and makes it harder to see who you are - but at the same time, it is who you are." He shrugs. He's Unseelie. One gets used to looking at masks and through masks and penetrating them.
"Thank you," he murmurs quietly as you refill his cup. He's going all introspective, now; some men, alcohol makes them boisterous. He is not a generally boisterous sort. "It is, yes - more than because they are useful. I find it relaxing, to work. After all, it isn't as if I'm expected to; I'm a prince, I'm bloody expected to play the part of the lay-about!"
Tiernan sits up, offering you a small, private grin. You understand, he imagines. "We are what we are. This is very good brandy."
The grin is shared. He echoes it with a momentary dancing of eyebrows. Yes, we are. "Hmm... indeed. We are what we are. Which is why I choose to lay-about on a ship," Iowerth chuckles quietly, taking a swallow of brandy. "Ah, yes...the brandy. This is from my father's cabinet." He grins again. "The best brandy is always pilfered brandy."
Masks. Costumes. Layers. Like you, he lives in them. His true self, whatever that may be, hidden well from view. But being in his own space, with a peer his own age, with a glass of brandy... it begins to open certain doors, part certain curtains. Periwinkle flickers, the color nested in moss-colored eyes. "It is an office, an artifice, but also the truth," Iowerth adds. "Much as any mask is either a part of, or apart from some nature in ourselves. Whoever shows the whole of their face to another? There is always something kept back, behind, held private between one's self and one's soul."
There is something there, some energy. It is between you, flowing easily back and forth. It is quiet. It is subtle. It is powerful. He feels it and for a moment, Iowerth says nothing. He looks into the glass, he looks at you, and he simply allows himself to feel it.
"I would not keep your Leon from you," Iowerth says softly after a time of silence. "But if you wanted to join him, to travel a while...you would be welcome to join me." He looks to you directly then, to gauge your interest.
"One can't keep out the sea, they say - or so I hear," Tiernan murmurs, resting his weight forward with his elbows on his thighs. "It'll rust through metal, wear through stone, seep through everything else. Perhaps that's a little what it's like, living with masks; one body of water flows into another, until they're so commingled that there can be no separation."
The energy - he feels it too. Can you tell? He is not certain what to make of it, and he almost sniffs at the air as some wary hound might. But he feels it; and he, too, says nothing, turning his gaze to the side as if in politeness.
Your offer is made, and the air has a curious stillness to it. What traps might this offer hold? No; he knows there's none. What would his mother say? He doesn't really care, to be frank. What does he want?
"I would like that," Tiernan answers slowly, "though I don't know how I'd be able to help, here. I could find ways." He nods. He is clever and creative. "I do not know how good a sailor I'd make. I've never been on a boat before."
"You will learn," Iowerth smiles, his shoulders lifting and falling. "Or not. As much or as little as you wish. Either way, it will be good to have someone on board. And... an adventure for you, oes?" He lifts his glass to that, leaning over and tipping the glass against your own with a lopsided smile. "It will be an adventure," he nods in thought to that.
What will be discovered? He is not sure. Nor sure, in truth, of the amount of energy kicking up. Perhaps it is merely the coming of a storm. "There are plenty of quarters, you will be able to make yourself comfortable. Perhaps I will take you to the Island of the Crescent Moon. But we will have the whole world of the sea... and a swift ship."
Taking up the bottle again, Iowerth refills the glasses. The brandy is reddish gold. It tastes of apples and honey and pears. His body relaxes, even as the masks have relaxed, and he sinks comfortably in the cushion. "Hmmm... we will have to sail to the edges of the known sea... to where Chaos turns the seas to stars, not water, and the unformed waters swirl. We'll have to mind the hydras, but..." He glances to you, grinning, "...we'll have fun managing...hmm?"
"I have a certain familiarity with Chaos," Tiernan drawls, and the corners of his mouth lift unmistakably this time. "My mother's kingdom is founded upon it. She has laid above it a rigid hierarchy of faces and courts within courts - but it is Chaos beneath. Perhaps sometime I'll persuade you to come there with me," he says suddenly. "Maybe then we can make things stop always bloody moving around on me."
He grins. Adventure. And an adventure in which he would not be alone. He seeps downwards on his cushion, folding his hands around the rim of his cup against his chest. "Mm. I should probably figure out a way to make mother accept it and pretend to like it, but that can wait until morning, surely. What's the Island of the Crescent Moon?"
He sits up suddenly, turning on his side towards you, looking at you. For a moment, he neglects to speak again. Potent, this brandy. Potent, this energy. He feels it. He responds to it. And in turn, he reacts to it, a hand lazily extended outwards towards your wrist for a glancing touch.
He isn't even aware of how it echoes another event - the night your father and mother met, and dragons danced on skin with electricity at a touch.
"I've never been afraid of snakes..."
"It is my island," Iowerth whispers. "No one save you knows that it exists. Should I show you these secrets?" He seems to ask himself, though his voice sounds between you. He smiles, secrets held at the corners of his mouth. "Hmm...a prince of dragons and a prince of masks. It won't be the first secret I shall have shared with you."
The glancing touch does not create a shock of pain, but it does create a shock. It moves through him like lightning, the hum on his skin lingering after. Do you feel it in that glancing touch?
The periwinkle flickers in lavender hues as he turns toward that touch. His hand echoes it, the brandy passed to the other grasp. "That is good," Iowerth smiles slowly, "...you will see more than your share of serpents on this trip. Some of them... not even on board the ship."
It swirls around you both, this energy. The brandy did not create it, but with masks lowered in growing intoxication it may be more easily felt. Coiling, yes, like the snakes you say you do not fear.
Iowerth brings his brandy to his mouth, his eyes not leaving you. He drinks it, tipping his head back, and then he lets the glass roll safely to the floor, cushioned to a roll against the carpets that lie upon the floor, obscuring some of the maps.
It is getting difficult to breathe. The air has thickened in his lungs, it seems; each breath a little slower, a little deeper as his lungs struggle to reach capacity. He finishes his brandy; sets the cup aside as you speak. "I've been known to keep secrets," Tiernan murmurs. "They're ... as common as roses, where I come from. Someone skilled can pluck them as easily. The only ones worth anything, though," his eyes meet yours, glance away and return as if centering, "are the ones kept for private use."
The shock jars him, even if it isn't painful; it might as well be painful. It borders so much on things he has hinted to you but not said. Things which he has kept secret himself, so that no courtier with an axe to grind or dagger to stick in the back of him can steal it, wield it, use it to hurt him. That it is magic is of no consequence; it does not deepen the shock, here. The shock runs deep enough on its own.
Tieran regards you, gaze half-feral for a moment. It is something to fear, having masks ripped off. Your father knew this. Your mother sensed it. But he does not shy from it, faces it instead. "I ... do not run from my fears," he says finally, voice low, pitched with something like emotion; something like intent, as if reminding himself of this. "I stand up to them, or I find a way around them. Bring on whatever serpents you wish. On your island or off it."
He rubs a hand across his mouth, his other hand still reached towards you, as if he's forgotten to bring it back in. Tiernan blinks once. Part of him is tempted to say something light; dissolve the tension upon a jest. And he parts his lips as if to do just that - and doesn't. Instead :
"In fact, that's a challenge."
Don't rub the brandy from your mouth. Let me do it...
The brandy snifter rolled along the cushion to land harmlessly upon one of the rugs below. With the same ease of motion, he moves from his cushion to yours.
Like the rolling of the sea over the shore...
His body settles beside your own, against your own, upon your own, on hand bracing in the cushion, his other moving against your face. The energy sparks again, you are not the only one to feel it... no. It moves his eyes, that odd mixture of lavender and green. The slight roll of them at it, that ends with the bending of his arm, and the lowering of his mouth to meet your own...
But he stops short, mouth parted above your mouth. Iowerth smiles, tilts his head as if to kiss from a different direction. But no kiss follows. A brush of his lips is all. His eyes are opened, to see what feral fear may be doing now, or if the fear, the nervousness, the anxiety, even the rolling energy abates.
Rolling...
Rolling like the sea beneath this ship when it strides it. Rolling like the storms across the sky. The energy is a wave. It moves along his back, over his shoulders, against your skin. Coiling, serpentine, like the mouth of the ocean itself. Surrounding. He does not wait. The wave moves him, and in undulating motion, his body moves along your own and ends with the joining of your mouths.
The bodies of sea serpents are said to wind around their prey. His tongue winds around your own. A slow motion that knots the two of you together. There is even something cool there, like a droplet of sea water, without the saltiness of it.
With a teasing brush, Iowerth lifts his head out of the wave. Lifts it for a breath. He feels it, that energy, crashing against his back as if it were a storm surge. Hand in the cushion, his lifts himself over you as if to shield you from the worst of it. Fiery waves curtain him as he bends his head to look at you, to look at you beneath him, and then where your bodies press against one another.
Then periwinkle eyes, the green pushed to the rims, stroke their gaze back to your own. The back of his fingers stroke against your face again.
Someone should have warned him that to utter a challenge to anyone of this bloodline is akin to waving a red flag. No; it's more akin to waving the flag and then setting it alight and standing out in the open with nothing to duck back behind. Tiernan's eyes widen for a moment - reflex, that - as you are so suddenly on the move.
And so suddenly on him...
You pause, and he blinks; just a single blink, a shortened exhale of breath. Do? What would he do? There is no room for coy protest. He is a man, isn't he? He has left himself no room for debate or doubt.
There is no dissipation to the energy, because there is no place for the energy to dissipate to. It is transferred; it grows with that closeness, crackling below his skin, forming an arcing current with you so near. The brush of lips does not have him drawing back. Those savage blue eyes close, that's all; veiled, shuttered, the thick fringe of lashes to make him look even younger for a moment. And then his eyes open again, and even as you move, so does he. Towards you, not away. I do not run from my fears, he said...
Lips part; the press of your tongue and your body are not unwelcome. There is a slight tensed spring to him, but three cups of brandy do much for lowering the tension of such a moment. Your tongue circles, and where you circle, he thrusts; gently, exploring this strange new option. What a danger you have proven yourself to be!
You lift, and he sinks, drawing air into his lungs with sudden force that's matched by his sigh. Tiernan closes his eyes as his head falls back, as you look at him beneath you. And then his eyes open again, seeking yours with their strange sea lights.
He does not look away.
He lifts his hands slowly, as if uncertain what he might do; as if uncertain what you might do. One hand slides to your waist, fingers curling against the small of your back. His other hand to your shoulder goes, a slow caress as his eyes drift closed again, lips parted for words he can't find.
You will simply have to expand his vocabulary...
The captain's shirt is midnight silk, dark sea waters. Prince of the Dark Seas indeed. It billows, falling loose and full. It is in apposition to the musculature, youth though he is, you feel beneath it. As your hand moves over his shoulder, a surface that shall yet broaden with Time, and your other caresses his back, the shirt begins to come untied, loosely bound as it was.
Where fabric parts at his shoulder, his left shoulder, there is yet still more midnight. Midnight blue marks that nearly pulse with his pulse in their vibrancy, blue marks that cover his left pectoral, shoulder and end at his bicep. Though he is young, as you are young, already his form is taking shape. His shoulders and chest are still a promise for the future, but his lean cut is there, the strong arms are there.
And there are seadragons there...
In waves of midnight and the white of his skin, they writhe and swirl, lit by a swirl of heavens and stars, a galaxy there. Serpentine forms indistinguishable from the water they inhabit twist around a compass. What power it gives him over the sea must yet be discovered. But it means something. And the energy between you does nothing to lessen.
Iowerth sits up, his arms stretching, his body moving beneath your grasp as he twists out of the shirt and lets the silk slip down upon the cushion and floor. The marks around his left bicep has a cousin upon his right shoulder and bicep, leaving his right pectoral startlingly clear. Upon his right shoulder and arms, more seadragons and more water. A calmer of storms? Or creator of such storms? Lightning moves with the color of his pale skin, and the surface of the seas are rocked. Even perhaps as you and he are rocked, your bodies pressing together on this cushion like the embrace of the sea and the shore...
Life on a ship must have its labor, even a magical ship, for his body is already burgeoning with the visible signs of such labor, the visible rewards of such work. Waves begin to form at his torso, his mid-section strong. And there at the waistband of those navy leathers, fingers of a swirling sea, and a swirling dragon's form may be seen, briefly seen before it disappears, yet to be revealed.
Iowerth grins again, that secretive smile. One that knows more is yet to be felt, seen, tasted, known -- and yet one that knows that you and he have a secret now between you. Something that binds you one to another. Your eyes are closed, but you feel him ... first the static of his arrival, then the lightning of his touch... as his lips cover yours again.
That coolness again, you feel it. It has a hardness, too. A piercing... a tiny globe of some sort. A bead of coolness in an otherwise heated mouth. His kiss becomes a dichotomy. Savoring ravenous. Suckling wild. Gentle ungentleness. Tender fury.
And like the seadragons that cover his skin, he begins to writhe with you. Circling presses that introduce you to his arousal, as if it needed an introduction, perhaps it is worthy of its own herald. His explorer's tongue slides against your own in discovery. Curls with his unspoken insinuating tone.
With a loud exhale of breath, sweet as a seabreeze with basil and clove, Iowerth parts from the kiss, his lips trailing along your throat, as if he shall seek sustenance there. A hand still in the cushion, his other fastens at your hip, holding you to him as his leathered hips grind.
What need is there for asymmetrical veils of cloth between you and he, when you have understood each other, so far, so quickly, so deeply? He is lost; suddenly, he is captivated. Marks upon your skin, the meaning of which he has yet to learn. Fingers trail against your marks, pressing lightly as if to skim along the surface of your waves. He stares from under heavy-lidded eyes, lips parted, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth.
He bites his tongue, a sharpness to summon him back from hypnosis. It is not the first time that he has been kissed. Not the first time that he has been touched. Close to it, though; close enough. Tiernan's hand circles slowly from your back to your front, teasing against your chest, between your pectorals and down to the leather at your waist. He isn't talking. Talking might banish things to being no more than some wild fantasy; he'll wake, with Leon chewing at his hair, in some corner of his mother's palace or yours.
But you are still there. And your mouth is upon his again; he lifts a little, with each press of your mouth. Your writhing does not go unnoticed, for it drags from him a sudden groan against your mouth, his hands going to your hips with emphatic tightness, emphatic speed, as if to hold you in place. Instead, his hips lift to against yours, a little thrust of sudden demand.
He lets his head fall back against the cushion, lips parted as if it would be painful to close them, the trail of your mouth only driving him to fever. Blunted fingernails draw up along your ribs, lifting to your shoulder again, squeezing tightly. He looks to you, seeking out your eyes again; there is something in him which likes too well the feel of your hand at his hip. Tiernan closes his eyes as they roll back in his head a little, his hands trailing along your leathered thigh, your bared bicep, falling away to above his head as if you have simply defeated him. He swallows hard, forcing his eyes open, but doesn't speak.
Where have all his words gone? But to speak might risk the destruction of the moment...
Posted by rowan at April 30, 2006 07:12 PM
