non silentium [gwyn/flightlust]

[Zen]

T’ron felt the impact of the opal’s Flight in the form of mental flightlust. It was staggering, especially when he hadn’t even prepared for anything like this. Semith’s flight, the lust he felt during that, was nothing, nothing like the lust that oozed through his veins now. It was all he could do not to buckle, much less help stem the tide of the break out. Needless to say, T’ron was not the best when it came to lust. He’d always felt it more than the average person. Perhaps that’s why he never tried to get with women, because he was worried his emotions would take over and he wouldn’t be able to stop, or something. Well, he’d survived Semith’s carnage of his soul.

Iiateth’s lust was about ten times worse.

T’ron cringed as Cabarath tried to woo the Opal with his words. It was true: he was immensely more powerful as a Chaser on the ground than in the air. It had something to do with his feline grace. But right now T’ron wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking about people killing each other right now. He was thinking about how in the sharding shards of the deepest cavern of the ocean he would maintain his sanity throughout the flight.

The Weyrling barracks. That was it! He slipped past Kuriel as she left the barracks and sat uncomfortably on one of the couches in the central area. His hands met his temples and he started massaging them with force. A deep breath in, expelled slowly out. More temple massaging, more breathing. Oh Faranth, why did he have to be so emotionally tuned? It was a feeling unlike like any other, and he wondered if he could keep it up without … relieving himself … so to say.

[Lesa]

She was still reeling. She'd woken early, unable to sleep (thank you, Halbert, for that), and had decided to go try a little night shooting. It had gone well enough in the beginning, despite her inability to really see the target overall. Better than she had expected to do at any rate, five of her seven arrows shot had at least hit the target somewhere, she didn't know where, but she knew the sound by now, that gratifying thunk of an arrow firmly in a bale of hay - the other two had hit the posts holding the bale up. Not half bad, for firing half-blind.

Gwynell had walked forward, collected her arrows and began walking back towards her starting spot when she tripped, nearly impaling herself. Oh Faranth, what was - then she recognized it, the burning, throbbing, dizzying sensation. Never so severe as this, ever. A want to be held, a want to feel skin against skin and lips firm against her own and just all those things she had wished for but never gotten, all those things she had dreamt of but never known... all of it came over her in the rush. Her braid collected dirt at the tip as she sucked in air, trying to collect her thoughts, to collect her mind as graywings-rainbowhide-tannedskin-redlips tried to pull her under.

The sense of someone over her prompted her back into herself, and into action, swinging a hastily nocked bow up into a man's face. He had a knife, heading towards her neck. Release-fire. The thunk was different, going into flesh, meatier, especially with that gurgle. Her head turned, sickened, as the prisoner died at her feet, her arrow fletching deep in his throat. The smell of death wafted over her, the odor of released bowels, and she lost it, throwing up what little remained of her hours-ago meal onto the grass beside her. Gwynell wiped at her mouth with the hem of her shirt, in care of her own mind enough to gather up her remaining six arrows and make her way back to the prison.

She had one destination in mind, one only. The Barracks. The stone would protect her, even if Willoth couldn't - the blonde swayed on her feet, as thinking of him restored their connection, and lust swamped her once more. Sheer luck had her staggering the horn-tipped end of her bow into another prisoner's gut, winding him enough for a guard to tackle him. Not that the woman noticed. Her mind was in the sky, chasing down the multihued goddess who didn't know her own worth. They would show her! A death-scream snapped her into herself and she sidestepped to the wall, using it to guide her way back to the Barracks, at least to a point, avoiding the fighting as best she could, slashing at those who got too close with her handful of arrows, the many heads providing an odd sort of blade.

The Harper burst her way into the Barracks, dropping bow and arrows with barely any regard to them. No prisoner would dare come in here, would they? If they did, well, she trembled, forcing herself to slip the arrows into the quiver on her hip, determined to get them to her room. At least until she really stared into the gloom of the still-dark common area, eyes wide behind spectacle lenses.

"T'ron?" her voice carried well in the darkness, the unnatural silence of the space, for all what was going on outside; there was always noise here, not this silence. She slid her way onto a couch, movements feline as Willoth took her over again, humming as he sang out to Iliateth, beautiful, so beautiful, so perfect, and unaware. She shook her head as the bow in her hand hit the arm of the couch, jolting her. The petite woman sat, smoothing down her skirt out of habit, more than need.

"Are - are you alright?" She took a breath, letting it out slow as the song filled her again, "You, um, anything I can do to help?" Poor, naive Gwynell.

[Zen]

T’ron quickly found that massaging his temples, thinking about food, thinking about guarding, thinking about anything other than the Flight did nothing to lessen the lust. He also found that digging his nails into his hand, even when they drew blood, did nothing to stem the pulsations beneath his skin. Cabarath’s flightlust-filled mind did nothing to help him, either. That was just it, ‘nothing,’ and there was nothing he could do about it. Perhaps save kill himself. If he did that, then that might only have added to the death counts that were perhaps skyrocketing even in this moment. But T’ron was certainly acting just like a dead man. He was unable to do anything about it. He couldn’t even focus much less—

Who was that?

Oh shards of the sharding between death-world. Or something like that. Did she not know how horrid he felt right now? How horridly wonderful—oh shards, don’t listen to Cabarath, don’t listen to Cabarath. DON’T. LISTEN. TO. CABARATH. He shook his head, experimenting with the movements. They did nothing to help the lust. They worsened it. He felt like Cabarath. He felt himself flying through the air. He—fardles. Fardling fardles. He had to. He couldn’t tell Gwyn. He couldn’t tell her because he couldn’t. It was physically impossible. If he opened his mouth, he might as well cry out with draconic howls instead of words.

Get away. Get away. He wasn’t ready for this. But her voice was so enticing. It invited him forward. He almost stood and launched himself onto her, but he held back. Another wave of lust flashed over him. He gulped strongly as she stepped closer. His emotions grew as she sat. They grew more as she spoke. Finally, he gulped again. The long, low sigh that escaped his mouth was followed by words, jumbled and quick. “IflightlustyoushouldbeherenotgetIamawaynotabletocontrol.” He coughed and lowered his head into his hands. Cabarath began to hum and he twirled through the air. It sent nausea into his stomach.

He forced himself to slow down. His mind. His thoughts. His breath. Everything. “I am… am more susceptible… uhh… to flightlust. Than others. I… I can’t, I can’t control it… not now. Iiateth… her flight is. My mind. It’s broken.” His throat caught and he swallowed hard. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t think about her. Her blond hair, the spectacles always seen on her face, her body—oh fraking shards of the Red Star’s path. Stop thinking. Stop thinking now. Get away, girl, get away before I burst.