LOG: Dragon Dreams
Dragon> A continued melody, that's carried along a heavy, rainbow-dyed silk scarf, brushes past Cadejoth's mind in a fluttering motion, where each tactile moment where scarf, and a sleeping baby queen's mind, meeting her sire's mind creates a note. It's disjointed to be sure, and abruptly ends with a baby snore that pops all the rainbowy musical notes. Like soap bubbles. Sleeping baby dragons + subjects that were, not so long ago, on a rider's mind = dreams and recollections and unintentional reachings out. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth)
Dragon> Surprised, Cadejoth's chains jangle into activity, dropping abruptly still again moments later - no doubt the same moment in which he realises that she's sleeping, that this is not an /intentional/ intrusion. So he hovers, extending out a silver thread that clearly seems intended to soothe and caress; as long, of course, as he hasn't woken her up already. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth)
Dragon> To Cadejoth, Ysavaeth remains asleep. Though, in a barracks not so distant from his ledge, a sleeping baby dragon's eyes squeeze much like a child's might when unexpected light spills into the room, or in this case, a jangle of chains that don't quite fit into her melody. It's a tense little moment where the gold's brain wavers between sleep and wakefulness, but eventually, with a flop of her tail and a turn of her still, small body, she finds sleep once more. This allows a little miniature version of her to pop up into Cadejoth's mind and prance after that silver thread, bat at it, nose it curiously and then disappear with another snoring pop.
Dragon> Such cuteness! It's not been long enough for Cadejoth to forget his role as sire; he leans in to watch with a certain amount of paternal adoringness, extending that thread into a playful ribbon-- at least as long as she's there to chase it. He's so quiet, now: so still. To wake her up would be an intrusion, and besides, this is a pleasure he's loathe to lose. It's as though he's holding his breath, hovering just barely outside her mind, like an encouragement for her to return to his. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth)
Dragon> For a while, there's nothing intentionally extended from her. But should he be peeking or hovering, the gentle rhythm of a tired out dragon can be heard in successive snores and then a sleep yawn that has her turning once more. As she cozies herself physically, her brain again reaches out to the one touch that accepted her somnolent state, and the tiny little dragon reappears and hovers. The sudden emergence of a tall red colored tree hides her until her little head leans out from one side to peek and giggle. It's not very dragon-like at all. In fact, it's very Io-like. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth)
Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth, let's face it, is not exactly patient. Or subtle. Or inclined to accept boundaries if he can get away with it. And Ysavaeth? Is part of his weyr. That totally justifies peeking. But he seems much more content with that tiny little dragon in his head, and adds to the image a representation of himself, much larger, but nonetheless terrified by the peek-a-boo Ysavaeth. 'Terrified'. The giggle seems to amuse him, resonating quietly in the faint twang of bone-and-chain, caught short though it is, like a captured breath.
Dragon> Just because she's sleeping doesn't mean she can't hear her rider's thoughts; those bright, vividly colored thoughts that Iolene can't seem to stop sharing even when speaking so so quietly. In a succession of rainbow colored soap bubbles popping, Ysavaeth withdraws, the little dragon stung and hurt, though not, it would seem, by anything her sire's done, for she takes along with her that silver thread should it still exist and curls her mental touch about it. It will spend the rest of the night suffocating in her honeyed, smooth, withdrawn little head. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth)
Dragon> It exists: it stays. And if it is comfortingly warm to the touch, well, that's just a representation of a father's love for his child: hers to take with her, wherever she goes. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth)
Dragon> Surprised, Cadejoth's chains jangle into activity, dropping abruptly still again moments later - no doubt the same moment in which he realises that she's sleeping, that this is not an /intentional/ intrusion. So he hovers, extending out a silver thread that clearly seems intended to soothe and caress; as long, of course, as he hasn't woken her up already. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth)
Dragon> To Cadejoth, Ysavaeth remains asleep. Though, in a barracks not so distant from his ledge, a sleeping baby dragon's eyes squeeze much like a child's might when unexpected light spills into the room, or in this case, a jangle of chains that don't quite fit into her melody. It's a tense little moment where the gold's brain wavers between sleep and wakefulness, but eventually, with a flop of her tail and a turn of her still, small body, she finds sleep once more. This allows a little miniature version of her to pop up into Cadejoth's mind and prance after that silver thread, bat at it, nose it curiously and then disappear with another snoring pop.
Dragon> Such cuteness! It's not been long enough for Cadejoth to forget his role as sire; he leans in to watch with a certain amount of paternal adoringness, extending that thread into a playful ribbon-- at least as long as she's there to chase it. He's so quiet, now: so still. To wake her up would be an intrusion, and besides, this is a pleasure he's loathe to lose. It's as though he's holding his breath, hovering just barely outside her mind, like an encouragement for her to return to his. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth)
Dragon> For a while, there's nothing intentionally extended from her. But should he be peeking or hovering, the gentle rhythm of a tired out dragon can be heard in successive snores and then a sleep yawn that has her turning once more. As she cozies herself physically, her brain again reaches out to the one touch that accepted her somnolent state, and the tiny little dragon reappears and hovers. The sudden emergence of a tall red colored tree hides her until her little head leans out from one side to peek and giggle. It's not very dragon-like at all. In fact, it's very Io-like. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth)
Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Cadejoth, let's face it, is not exactly patient. Or subtle. Or inclined to accept boundaries if he can get away with it. And Ysavaeth? Is part of his weyr. That totally justifies peeking. But he seems much more content with that tiny little dragon in his head, and adds to the image a representation of himself, much larger, but nonetheless terrified by the peek-a-boo Ysavaeth. 'Terrified'. The giggle seems to amuse him, resonating quietly in the faint twang of bone-and-chain, caught short though it is, like a captured breath.
Dragon> Just because she's sleeping doesn't mean she can't hear her rider's thoughts; those bright, vividly colored thoughts that Iolene can't seem to stop sharing even when speaking so so quietly. In a succession of rainbow colored soap bubbles popping, Ysavaeth withdraws, the little dragon stung and hurt, though not, it would seem, by anything her sire's done, for she takes along with her that silver thread should it still exist and curls her mental touch about it. It will spend the rest of the night suffocating in her honeyed, smooth, withdrawn little head. (Ysavaeth to Cadejoth)
Dragon> It exists: it stays. And if it is comfortingly warm to the touch, well, that's just a representation of a father's love for his child: hers to take with her, wherever she goes. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth)