odetodatura

[odetodatura]

[exposed] unfurling- qin sylus (L&DS)

[The Dragon watches his Sorcerer, the Conqueror watches his Hunter. A series of moments where Sylus watches the object of his intrigue and affections.]

-> Content: Set in the 'Beyond Cloudfall' Myth, Fluff, Suggestive themes, Cave Cohabitation, Developing Friendships, Pre-Relationship, Developing Relationship, Skin shedding, bonding, Bathing, Shirtless Stayrus, Teasing, Vulnerabilities.

(11.3k) [AO3 Link] Interaction and comments always appreciated <3

When the tepid spring airs that flow through the cave of your new mountain home replace themselves with the warm summer breeze, you find Stayrus has made himself rather scarce. Acclimated to his visible and invisible prowling, the missing weight of his ruby-hot gaze leaves you feeling on edge. You take to not-so-subtly scouting for him. Slow and light footsteps along the old rocks below take you through the parts of the cave you've been able to explore before, head sticking out like stork moving around a riverbend. Raised eyebrows and widened eyes search for naught, each sizable opening that you've seen empty of the giant brooding lizard you've slowly started to befriend. It leaves you slightly saddened, not that you’d say it aloud, instead gracing the air with an exasperated sigh. The man is essentially twice your size, even without those ridiculous wings of his, but he’s somehow hidden himself like a field mouse with a valley all to itself.

One last glance around is thrown to each corner of the room, a small check that you haven't (somehow) missed him, before kicking a rock and returning up to the open heights of the cave in defeat. It's become a favourite during your stay here. Just off centre from the main cave mouth, it grants you a comfortable flow of wind without the sun baking you or the night chilling your bones. Piles of blankets sit atop reorganised hoards, meticulously placed whilst yammering on at his absolute lack of interior design, and how he's just a bit dull for not making at least one of his endless brooding spots at least somewhat comfortable. He did nothing but sit (brood) with his eyebrow raised at you during this, head turning to match your movements with unmatched focus, before a chuffing noise signalled some sardonic judgment.

There's still leftover pieces of fruit and cured meats on your ornate little breakfast table, scattered on plates of pure gold atop silk and centuries old carved oak. You sit down unceremoniously with a little bounce on to the collection of Stayrus’ pillows you’ve shamelessly taken, and chew on a fresh plum he brought here before dawn. Sweet juice drips past your lips as you return to pondering the sudden disappearance of that lizard of yours. 

He’s no stranger to having a mood, huffs of indignance or a sudden mocking lilt to his voice whenever he deems fit. But after he left that annoyingly flakey and dry mark on your neck, he’s suddenly been quite adverse to leaving you on your own. Trailing a few of his long paces behind you, letting his tail sit nearby, or simply observing you from afar after he's been swatted away for his incessant hovering like a fruit fly. There's a brief flash in your mind that your tiny banishments have pierced his scales ever-so-slightly, and the bite of fruit tastes just a bit sour as you swallow it. Head turning behind you, elbow on the table, another bite fills your mouth as you try to think where he might be holed up. Recollection shows that whenever he shuffles off to be on his lonesome, he always burrows down to the heart of his mountain. The cacophony of his heavy steps and scaled tail against stone signalling his retreat, and that hand on the table knocks on covered wood before rising with you to wipe away a stray drop of juice.

The walk down pushes you past semi-familiar rooms. Side caverns that house coins that shine all but gold. Small crevices with bones and worn armour left suspended against the wall. Until they lead to one of his main lounging areas. A soft sigh leaves your lips at the sight of his main stone perch being uninhabited, even with the efforts you made to pick out and drape two of the softest pelts he had lying around on top of it. Inquisitive steps lead you just in front of it, knees almost knocking against granite as you peer at the offending ‘bed’. There aren't any traces of him recently here, with no fur squashed flat or warmth radiating up, and a big step has you standing over it to march forward before dropping down on the other side.

There's not much else to this room, you think. One large round space with a gap in the ceiling for moonlight to occasionally gleam through, however the daylight brings in details you've never been able to see before. Stalagmites and stalactites that sit as large as the teeth in his dragon maw, decorated with amber warming rocks and thin crystals. They line the outer edge of the cave evenly, near-inorganic in cleanliness of their repetition, until you keep turning on a single point to note a break in the order. At the very back of the room, opposite the entrance you slid in through, sits a dark gap. You squint, and the darkness has a near endless reach to it that confirms it to be more than some dead end. One slow step forward brings the faint visage of a tunnel.

Enough to fit four of you, you approach without caution, comfortable in the sanctuary provided by the dragon. One hand sticks out forwards and just off to the side, trailing along the pathway’s wall after a warming rock is plucked for light. You feel craggy rock catch on the roughening pads of your fingers, a nail chips on a particular bump, and after a few more steps you begin to hear the tip tip tap of water in the distance. Halting, the noise takes up your senses. Light and soft, it sounds like a gentle drip onto the floor. One of the waterways by his mountain? Perhaps connected to the lagoon you’ve stolen from him to bathe in peace, and a small vein of the nearby mountain gap passes through down here.

The air fills with humidity as you carefully creep further, light and eyes angled down for any wet ground that could turn your journey hazardous. Something more akin to carved steps fall into view, and the tunnel opens up into a wider space. It's nothing that could constitute a ‘room’, but it's enough for cool-toned luminous stones to have dotted the walls once more. The rock formations are unique, distinct from the higher and drier parts of the cave, and you feel your skin get coated in moisture fairly rapidly even without stepping further. There's no obvious water pool, but the glass-like reflection of the stone shows that everything here is at the very least damp.

One nudge of the foot sends a pebble bouncing down, and as it hits the opposing wall like it was skating the water’s edge, there's a deafening silence before some unknown noise reverberates through the air. The hairs on the back of your neck stick up a bit, some sort of innate feeling to reconsider moving forward. Stilling in response, you wait for any other noise. Nothing. After a moment of impatience, too eager to see if he is actually down here, you make the move to kick a second rock on purpose.

It flies much further than your earlier accident, bouncing loudly and landing in the shadows beyond the glittering walls. You receive the reward of another noise. Deeper, notably annoyed this time. And the harmonised trill that underlays the whole song clues you in to just who is making it. A smile works its way to your lips, only a little, at finally having found your mark. But it fails to linger, worry setting in at the lack of any human-like response, or even some command to cease this foolish mortal task you've cast upon yourself

One deep breath in, and you keep your eyes low once more to slowly approach that moody creature brooding in the shadows. 

The warming rock no longer serves its purpose, and you tuck it away into a large pocket to free up a hand for grasping the rocks in the name of stability. A small hiss slowly builds up with each step closer, and if you knew less of Stayrus’ habit of barking instead of biting you might've turned around. You know all too well that the fact you've made it this close means there's a soft limit to what any pestering would lead to. The first and second discarded stones are overtaken, rolling on their smooth sides as the heel of your shoe just scrapes the ends of them, and you once again find yourself staring into another inky abyss. Not entirely, however, as a squint of the eyes brings two red stars to attention.

They sit vertical, one low on the ground that shakes like an autumn leaf in the wind, and the other holding firm what you assume to be a foot higher. It mesmerises you, drawing you forwards like the north star, and it takes lukewarm water hitting the exposed toes in your sandals for you to realise that there is in fact a waterpool deep down here. 

Waters shifts after the red stars blink out of existence for a mere moment, rippling outwards with a gentle twinkle in the air. They move to stare at the foot of yours that intrudes his unlit bath, thinning in passive disapproval or focusing to make out your figure in the darkness a degree sharper. His silence begins to irk you, spoilt on you he usually refuses to not engage with you at least in greeting. Starting to shift that semi-submerged sandal forwards, objectively unwise considering how the water is as black as ink, you barely get an inch forward before something moves towards you with such speed that the wind lashes at you like a whip.

The recoil is immediate, body dodging back with a speed normally reserved for fights against the legion or beast as the tip of a scorpion tail just sails past the tip of your nose. The stumble is unavoidable and as a hand slams to where you know a somewhat grabbable section of wall sits, your body stands rigid. There's a faint flash of light on what’s discerned to be the scales of his tail, duller than normal. You attribute it to the low light, and straighten up slowly as his tail disappears below murky depths. The red stars merge by the water’s surface, and his face sits low and wary under the reflected light. Fingers pressing into rock, that held breath finally releases shakily into the air, taking the momentary adrenaline with it.

There's no further aggression coming from him, as he sits low like a crocodile, and he eventually blinks. Good, you think. Blinking means he doesn't consider you a threat. Means that the tail swipe was a warning, a boundary that won't need to be repeated as long as you don't push. He blinks once more, as if impatient, and your brain finds itself scrambling to validate this intrusion. Lips open and close a couple times like a fish as you try to come up with the words before a hand settles on an inoffensive path.

“I was planning to head down to the city.” You begin with your hand settling on your hip in an attempt to seem nonchalant, “Thought you might want to join, considering…” The words trail off, hand waving slightly, and you watch his eye lift slightly above the water to follow its movement with laser-like precision. 

You get no words in response, disappointingly, only the swish of that sharp tail in the water, and it pushes some odd… rock towards you. It grabs your attention easily, the way it blocks the natural ripples in the water, and your body is reaching down to grab it without thought as it beaches itself half-out of the pool. Light and paper thin, it's far more delicate than anticipated. Greyish-white gauze sits gently between your pinched fingers, and your eyebrows tilt in concentration as you bring that pocketed warming stone out to illuminate it. The light seems to disagree with Stayrus, his eyes squinting before his tail moves to shade his face. The noise shows you his discomfort, and you turn around to have your body shield him instead as your attention returns to this brittle shard. You hear his tail slither back underwater with a grumble as the warming stone shows you distinct folds in the material. It reminds you of the unfurled paper shapes you used to make back in the Ivory City, haphazardly flattened when a priest would get too close to see you off in a world of your own. 

A huff brings you out of your reverie, and you turn to find his whole face freed from the inky pool. There’s a slight tilt of his head that mirrors the movements of a confused hound, and a thumb rubs the side of your catch as you turn your head over your shoulder to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Are you going to join?”

His formalities seem to have escaped once more. A single deep rumble, long and almost whiny is what he deigns you with, earning an eye roll of your own in response. A clear ‘don't bother me with ridiculous questions’ is translated through it before you raise a hand in mock surrender. 

“Alright.” The enunciated ‘t’ punctuates for you. “I’m taking your purse then, since I won't be taking you. Or your attitude.” you finish, before kicking a rock back out to the glimmering stone cavern. You leave swiftly, not wanting to bother him in this state. Missing the almost disappointed expression on his handsome face as you walk back up.

One of his many bags left sitting in one of his many chests gets swiped up by your deft hands, filled with copious amounts of his many gold coins he leaves to do no more than fill the ambience with metallic clinks. The now-heavy pouch’s strings sit between fingers, swinging in loops throughout your familiarised path down the mountain through the city gates and into the market. The summer’s start brings in more nomadic merchants, those coming over from various valleys and seas. You spot a few that draw you back to recent plunders, their wares and what they wear in the same style of trinkets you had plucked from now smokey towns. A few catch your eyes, glass and fabrics only made possible by regional materials, but none that let your gaze linger.

The streets you frequent act as easy paths to the other end of the city, past taverns and bars that stay surprisingly full this early in the day. Must be the rising heat, you feel it yourself on sweaty skin. Volcanic mountain ranges give the local denizens a level of tolerance you lack, acclimated to the cooler temperatures of the Ivory City further north. The shade seems far too welcoming, and it's an immediate duck to the cobblestones covered by fabric tarps. You let your attention sweep over the open-stores next to your path.

You notice that familiar blind vendor from your first visit, and smile at his passing of a nod in acknowledgement, his ears twitching with each step you take towards him. There's more bone-wear out this visit, carved utensils and combs sit closest to you with large instruments born of ribs tinkling at the very back like delicate keys. A hand digs five coins out, neatly stacked, before they land gently in the small ceramic plate he keeps for transactions. 

“Got anything to keep me from peeling the paint on that old chest of yours?” You begin with a jut of the head to his stock off to Another five coins are placed down as he lights his cigar, and after making sure they sit orderly, you use a finger to push the plate an inch closer to him. “The good stuff, this city’s weather is unkind to me.” There's a tingle on your neck at the declaration, and muscles under that bite flex in an attempt to casually itch that scratch.

A large plume of aromatic smoke leaves through his wrinkled nose as he takes a good look at the skin you've left exposed under the shade of his shop, and despite his politeness to turn away to avoid smog floating towards you– the herbal blend he’s mixed makes it pleasant regardless.

“You need someone from lands far east,” he begins, “The tundra folk crush ox fat with clay and stalactites, after some pompous Noble had his men run like headless chickens to appease a mistress.”  Another five coins land in the plate, silver this time, as you watch him move to sit on a stool a few paces inside. “An old trading partner carries them on her at all times, never travels without her buffalo.” With his face as blank as always, he digs into a wooden drawer and tosses you a small brooch. Fully iron, the painted metal depicts a front facing owl, and only as you fasten it to your clothes does he reach to collect his payment.

A thankful parting leaves your lips, and you turn on your heel to where you can see the flow of merchants settle into stalls and shops by the civilian gates. A few moments of a wandering search lands you to the sight of a bovine seated and munching on a sack of reeds. Cute, thick fur and single engraved horn speak to you of care steeped in affection, and you drink in the decorative swirls gently carved along beige bone. 

You approach the large beast with even steps, sandals thin against cobblestone and uneven tiles, and let your closed knuckles raise in friendly greeting as it sniffs inquisitively before bumping a forehead in return. Fingers scritch and scratch on short hair, eliciting sweet ‘moos’ when a nail hits a spot behind floppy ears just right before the noise of walking boots hits your ears. You let your hand drop to just dotingly by the sweet thing’s slightly nose as the aforementioned trader walks into view and lands a pat on the buffalo’s back in tandem. She’s old, or at least older than your informant friend is. A face full of crow’s feet and smile lines sits pretty in the warm sunlight, eyes a charming deep brown that match her companion’s fur. Only when her travel companion starts shifting to sniff at your pockets does she speak, all without looking at you.

“What’re ya buyin, young un.” Her accent sinks into your ears, warm and sturdy, it reminds you of the voices of pilgrims that travelled through Ivory gates. The working men and women who lended their skills in exchange for food and board, good and honest folk. It disarms you ever-so-slight, but the soft echo of Stayrus’ chaperoning tuts raises you back to an acceptable level of awareness within the streets of Taurus.

“Something I could apply with my eyes closed,” You say, and it has her eyes calmly zip over to you, her body relaxing under layers of thin flowing clothes when she hones in on the nocturnal bird sitting on your person. “The sun is far too harsh, both on the eyes and on the skin.” And despite the formality of exchange, the wet nose of the buffalo causes you to curl your head into your shoulder as it makes contact with the infuriatingly flakey mark left by the tyrant of your soul. 

The old merchant hums in consideration, her eyes flitting between you and her trusty steed before she turns to rummage through one of near-infinite bags and satchels of goods. Hands pulling apart sturdy strings from richly dyed pouches, you hear some bottles clink against each other and finally give the bovine enough of a scratch behind the ears for their head to lower back down to the leftover plants. There's a slight noise to her old back as she straightens up with a filled to the brim of some unknown mix, and her hand shoos of your attempts to aid her before she's turned back. The sunlight lets you see the soft white liquid within, viscous and slightly pearlescent as it moves in microcurrents within glass barriers.

Despite your worries, she holds the large bottle with ease in a single hand. Not a drop of sweat on her brow, and her free hand extends palm up in your direction. The little embroidered pouch from Stayrus’ hoard is naturally emptied into her hand, coins landing easily in her firm hold, and a slight toss up is all she needs to confirm the price as you shove your pouch back into a once-empty pocket. There's a casual toss of gold to an open bag behind her, tucked behind the tail of the buffalo, you see it curl to act as a drawstring once the clanging of metal quietens. The rumble of her steed brings your gaze back up to see the way she opens the seal of your purchase, two old fingers just barely swipe the top of milky solution before swiftly closing it and setting it in both of your hands. 

As fingers raise to your form, there's an instant flinch back of your body. It is only then that you realise how this old merchant has busied your hands and emptied your pockets with the ease of a swordfish through calm waters. A foot shifts back, ready to bolt, but before your ankle can shift enough to turn her hand has already found its way to your neck. The wet solution hits cold against heated skin, with the relief it supplies the only thing keeping your muscles from springing back once more. Squinted eyes meet her slightly exacerbated ones and there's a semi-affectionate, semi-fed up look at the instinct to flee like a startled deer.

You refuse to relinquish eye contact as the gentle press of her fingers continue, and only when her hands-on demonstration ends do you straighten with an awkward clearing of the throat. 

“You need aught else?” The old merchant says, eyes back to her wares and rubbing off excess moisturizer on an old white towel plucked from one of the buffalo’s many harnesses. No immediate response leaves your now parched lips, tongue gliding over them as you feel the mark on your neck finally feel smoothed and soothed. The wind cools the side of your neck even more, and you’d consider letting out a small content sigh if you were anywhere but a bustling merchant zone. It’s a moment too long, apparently, as the old lady turns back to you with a hint of impatience in her tone. “Well? Unless yer lookin’ to deal business with a gaggle of midges.” It snaps you back to reality, a slight flush from unintentional rudeness and loitering.

“No, My lady.” Is spoken to her with the tiniest stutter, before nodding your head in polite thanks. She simply waves you off as you turn on your heel, properly this time, and leave after allowing the sweet beast– ‘Xiezhi’, as seen on a now visible collar–  to gently bump its forehead against your bent elbow.

The trek back up the mountain takes a bit more effort beyond the uphill climb, the weight of your find and the slight sweat on your warmed skin forcing you to keep jostling it slightly so as to not crack it open all over the dry valley, leaving some poor animals to trip in it. Higher altitudes provide you with forgiving winds, drying the nape of your neck and cooling the latter half of the journey. Part of you keeps your gaze up, hoping that despite the harsh afternoon light, a particularly moody dragon might have been spotted amongst the clouds in his own homeward journey. But you see no contrails left up in cool skies, or cuts through the scatter pileus clouds up high. 

Passing through the main cave mouth offers well needed respite from the sun, the beginnings of vines that hang like curtain beads swaying gently as you pass through them, depositing tiny bits of pollen on your hair and clothes like speckles of stardust. A small deviation is decided upon, instead of marching down to Stayrus’ wallowing hole down below. Fatigue finally begins to show itself as uneven steps bring you closer to your many blankets and tables, with that far-too-large bottle down with a ‘thunk’ to sturdy wood. Nothing seems to have changed much since your departure. A glance around after wiping your brow shows no overt signs of movement. The fruits and meats sit exactly as they were, a dry drop of juice sits where it had fallen from your lips, and no indent to any nearby pillow.

At least Stayrus has stayed where he feels most at ease you think, so far down into his mountain that there was nary a bone to signal any human getting that far before. A jar from a nearby crate is grabbed, and with a spoon wiped clean you start transferring a portion of moisturizer into a smaller glass jar. It feels like the tallow found back in the Ivory City, completely unsurprisingly, but it melts and soothes far better than anything you’ve gotten your hands on before.The barest swipe of product coating vast expanses of skin, with a pleasant smell as well. A sniff to the forearm reveals hints of aloe and vanilla, earthy tones slipping through from the clay, and you find yourself nodding at the softness of it all. Stayrus hates strong smells. From the willow bark he shoved to be used for scrapes, to the lemongrass and garlic sauces left to waft through the taverns both of you frequent. Perhaps he might find use for it.

Thinking of him, your hand ends up back into the pocket you left that odd paper scrap before you left. It sits snug still, but the end of it sits dampened by the wet nose of that sweet buffalo. It feels far softer now, less craggy and jagged. White translucency shifts to a peachier veil, and when you hold it up to the light filtering through a cave mouth, it looks eerily similar to the various scrapes of skin you had to brush off after grueling training sessions years back. The fingers still coated in residual cream slowly rise to the curio found by the lair’s maker, and with the swiftest contact, it softens immediately.

It makes you pause. Eyebrows pinched at the rapid change in texture, and a clean finger against it reminds you of the feel of his skin during one of the many times you grab ahold of his bicep or hand to drag him wherever you want him. There were a few more of these littered around, you realise. Small flecks of something you mistook for a new style of rock that forms only in a mountain’s heart that dotted your path towards him like bread crumbs left behind. These aren't rocks, or shavings, or some man-made object. This is skin.

Skin far more robust than yours, stronger and thicker and settling like an exoskeleton once freed from his moving frame. You dip a hand back into the mix of animal fat and clay, immediately rubbing it to the shard you possess. And eyes widen at the way it completely relaxes the once-rigid material. You have to release your original hold on it, the strength now warping and bending it like the softer skin worn by your kind. A tiny speck separates from the main piece, and you blink rapidly as it floats down to your favourite bronze blanket.

He’s down there because he’s shedding. His body sinking and submerging into comfortable waters is his own efforts to molt, avoiding the warm volcanic winds that have been drying you out the past few days. There's a flash of regret at the realisation, the intrusion to what surely isn't something he was eager for any mortal to bear witness to. If the soft scales of wild lizards you'd accidentally brushed against outside, beyond the shedding of a protective layer, the new skin underneath is far from as protective as he might want. You decide upon one little olive branch, a portion left for him to do with as he pleases. He uses it, and maybe it helps; or he doesn't, and the two of you reconvene like nothing happened whenever he decides to come back up.

One final swipe of the soft cream is taken and applied to the side of your neck that bares his bite, rubbing gently into the pricks left by sharp canines before swiftly closing the lid and making your way back down to his unlit waterscape. The path is far easier this time, warming crystals just a bit stronger with the midday air keeping them bright and your previous attempt guiding you. It feels instantaneous to get down to the blue shimmering cavern, only realising your arrival as the humidity picks up rapidly, and it’s even quicker to hone in on that small red star in the distance pinned to your approaching figure.

Having learnt from this morning’s encounter, you dare not venture into the shallows yourself, sandals stopping half a pace before the swaying water’s edge. He sits closer to you this time, hulking body of muscle and scale submerged in waters darker than the night sky itself. The true depth and size of his mountain pool is unknown to you, human eyes not sharp enough to pierce the darkness beyond his face. But you can tell he’s shuffled forward, or at least shifted in some way, and the lack of a warning growl or defensive swipe raises your hopes at whatever has gotten him stuck in there. Just a bit.

The quiet engulfs everything, a steady heartbeat and the occasional stalactite drip muffled by the Dragon’s hold on your senses. That beautiful, gleaming ruby eye stares unwavering. Watching, observing, calculating. No signs of a grimace or huff at your hand bringing the jar upwards keeps your movement steady, and you offer a little waggle to show him the spoils you’ve found just for him. Well, not just for him. For you. For that pesky bit he’s left on your neck without a single ounce of shame. He can have a little if he behaves that giant tail of his, you oh-so-graciously decree. He doesn't need to know that, though.

Enjoyably, his eyes follow the waggling jar like a cat does a feather on a string, glowing and dulled red rubies enraptured by the strange offering. The little act ends soon, not wanting to come off as patronising, and you move to put one knee on the ground and place the far down with a soft ‘clink’ to slippery rock.

For a while, neither of you move. Small drips from rock count the seconds for you. Maybe forty light ‘plinks’ pass until the hand still gently holding that soft shedded skin places it next to the jar, and you point between them in silent correlation. There's an inquisitive trill that travels from his body through the dark waters, and you watch his nostrils flare at the lingering moisturiser, forked tongue just slithering out to taste it in the air. Satisfied at the message being received, freed hands dust of the small grains of rock and dust from damp trousers, before you wave in parting to Stayrus sat in his pond.

The walk back up passes by in a blink, some small beat you heard from travelling musicians traversing in the city getting drummed and hummed to. On the way, you detour slightly to collect a few bright warming stones. They sit like molten pebbles in your hands, hot like a cup of freshly brewed tea, and will make for good light by the sleeping cavern later tonight. A clink echoes as a second rock joins one in your palm, and in the distance, it harmonises with the quiet pop of a lid deep in the dark.

A few days pass before you see him again, but it's clear he's been keeping himself on host duty despite prowling outside of your sight. Each morning as you migrate from indulgent blankets and pillows, sleepily dragging your feet up carved steps to find a new array of breakfast foods. Longan, lychee, and mango sit ripe in spirals and circles. Gold and Ruby in the dawn’s warm light, they glisten in their fresh chill. A dagger has you carving into them like hot butter. Soft and sweet they rhythmically enter your greedy lips, and honey-touched tea following in between. You always take up the task of tidying with him, more so the two of you balance this domesticity with ease, one collecting and the other cleaning. Although Stayrus' habits of eating with his claws and devouring meals without cutlery often means there’s little of his to clean up. 

Normally, it repeats without fail for each meal. You arrive at the shared eating space to find him amongst the spoils to be shared, some animal bone crunching between his dragon maw. Food meticulously gathered on the days you don’t venture to some distant city or down to the Tarus markets. But despite the continued quality of fruits and meats and wines to your shared dining table, the seat of lavish pillows with a perfect spot to rest a sprawling tail sitting empty leaves your stomach bored by the time you stand to clear any mess.

The only way to deliver food to this dining setup, however, is through one of the cave mouths scattered at the peak of the mountain. You know through the selection Stayrus gathers that he has to be flying out to get them, or at the very least has to enter his home to bring them in. So, you decide to take your daily task of going through even more of his hoard to sort and shine up here under the breeze. An old flute gets dusted, made of ivory and painted in metallic inks. One of many ornate daggers gets sharpened and admired in the light. And as you finish up organising antique coins by engraved design, the distinct flap of giant wings to your left has your head snapping up like a deer in the woods.

Despite the speed of your head turn, Stayrus has already landed on his feet. Blood red patagium folds neatly in the fold of strong wing spines, the light handing through the skin creates snapshots of red thunderbolts where healthy veins flow. They disappear into red-black mist as he struts forward placing a sturdy wooden box in the centre of your dining table, sending a few specks of dust and scraps floating onto the blankets below. 

“Did you have fun waiting for me?” He begins with a teasing tilt to his voice, head shaking to move long wind-swept hair from the front of his body, a few strands catching on the large guards on his shoulder. “You looked quite like a forlorn puppy sitting here on your lonesome, sighing to yourself. I was beginning to wonder if I should bring some little toy for you next time.” The jest works to soothe the distance between the two of you, and you sit up to open the box he brought as he moves to recline back against pillows.

An eyebrow raises in judgement at his choice in greeting, and you bite back the comment that he’s more than welcome to offer his tail as something you can chase and yank at, should he wish to swing it at you like a few moons prior. But you instead, in your endless patience and kindness, steer the conversation to what you know will let him move at a comfortable pace. Hands grip the lid of the chest, pulling it outwards on a hinge to reveal the still-warm stacked ceramics of food from that stall you had been eyeing a few weeks back. You take it greedily, quickly grabbing a cloth to dampen the heat to your grubby mittens, and hum approvingly at the scents of slow-roasted meat and gluttonous rice. There's a smile on Stayrus’ face that you miss in your endeavour to unearth and take in the array of smells hitting your eager nose.

At the tail end of spices and herbs, the wind shifting into the cave travels from his form to yours, bringing just the faintest whiff of vanilla along with it. You try your best to have the connecting cogs of your brain not seem too overt, not wanting to broach the topic of his shedding before he does. And instead hide it with a little sniff in as you lean over a somehow not split bowl of noodle soup. He seems to take great intrigue to your reactions, eyes zoned in on the twitches of nose and eyes as you evaluate various dishes. You react most to dishes you have yet to try, the ones only seen written in script outside of unexplored taverns and those granted a lingering look at through glass pane on a walk. 

A soft and muscular arm leans across the table, pressure light as a feather, as Stayrus leans over and plucks a piece of glutinous rice from the lotus leaf you had just unfurled. Sharp claws slicing clean into the perfect bite-size, his bite size, maybe three of yours. His cheeks puff slightly as he chews, unused to the way rice sticks to itself and the edges of sharp teeth. It’s cute in a way. The scrunch of his nose as he works to clean stray rice grains from the inside of his mouth, and the time it takes for him to keep at his efforts equals out the price of his taking of the first bite. You slice a portion of your own with a dagger, and settle with one leg bent to rest an elbow on.

A hand lifts to sit in front of your mouth as you chew and address him. “Missing you is quite the claim.” He smiles at your words. “Perhaps I miss you making yourself useful, this mountain ends up quite the ordeal without a pair of wings.” Despite the cloaking of their presence from your eyes, you swear you can feel a satisfied flap push the breeze to you. You nudge a plate of cooked vegetables towards him. He doesn’t take it right away, some carnivorous part of his head holding him back. But watching you pluck at the stems and add them to your plate has him mirror the action in inclusion, like how the city cats would start licking their fur when you washed your hands at the taps.

You mention the plans last discussed before his little disappearance. Old settlements loosened from Ivory grasp, military outcrops, and cities filled with nobles fattened on their own greed. There's a joy that returns to the both of you at this, like a lizard awakening after sitting in the sun. Food slowly gets nibbled as the map the two of you update each moon gets brought up and drawn over. The summer passes without much hitch. Plunders and incursions take the two of you along the path finger and claw traced upon aged paper, returning home each morning before dawn with new spoils in tow.

It is when the summer breezes replace themselves with the autumnal winds, that the itch on your neck replaces the dragon at your side. The moisturiser sits as full as before, maybe having gone through a thin sliver each day it becomes needed. However, the pad up rocky stairs to an empty seat across the breakfast blankets brings a renewed tension to the bite mark left on skin. It’s nothing immediately worrying, more than familiar with the occasional shift in schedule. Leading you to wait for three full moons without any sign of horns or wings, before your head starts swivelling like an owl to the path towards the path to the mountain’s heart.

As you chew on nuts and yogurt from the city for the 4th day in a row, you begin scrounging around for another jar and spoon around the clutter of your table space. The summer has your main supply of salve sit just a tad thinner, easier to scoop and press into its new container, almost shimmering in the stronger light of the midday. You use the residue left on both spoon and finger to soothe the side of your neck, as well as the skin near your eyes– just for utility’s sake. This gifting jar is a bit larger than the last, unsure if the last bottle (if used at all), is enough for the large expanse of Stayrus’ ginormous body. And it weighs heavy enough to move it to sit against your clothed torso as you waltz down to him, glass held firm in your sturdy grasp.

A belt fashioned for holding luminous and warming rocks sits looped around your left leg, offering passive light as the tunnels deeper sprawl too far for sunlight to reach. Their scattered placement across leather leave overlapping spotlights on the groups, dappling warm and cold to shiny granite that bounces back onto your body, shaking with the bounce of each step down stairs. A whistle accompanies the prance sown, echoing along the cavern’s walls.

You find your way to him quickly, the third trip familiar enough to not need a hand braced against the wall as whistles turn to gentle hums, and further to silence as you approach the twinkling lagoon the dragon sits in.

There are no red stars to greet you this time, though that doesn't surprise you. With your excursions and journeys happening between the dark expanse between dusk and dawn. He sleeps, the dragon sleeps. Curled up in the murky depths as the sun passes over his home. You make sure to step as light as you can, the strength of his ears and his snarky comments means there's no way you’ll go undetected. But you can at least endeavor to give him a gentler rousing of sleep, something akin to awakening from rainfall hitting a bedroom window’s glass pane.

A slosh of water and shift in thin shreds of slight singal his rousing state. Long scaled tail shifting far beyond your sight pushing the edges of the water’s surface out as you approach. The dangling stones get absentmindedly removed from your leg, discarded so as to not jarringly sit in front of Stayrus’ nocturnal eyes, and they land softly as you move under the gate connecting the cavern to his pool.

You take joy in the slow blink of ruby eyes awakening from slumber, the dimmed glow of his right eye slowly brightening until a slit pupil blows out to see in the dark davern. A small ring, fire-like, zones in on you. Before they raise slightly to reveal Stayrus’ whole head from the water. With no growl thrown towards your presence, small steps continue to take you closer to him. Until the feeling of something knocking against the toe of your leather shoe has you halt. Your eyes snap from him, earning a pout obscured by the darkness, as you look down as to not trip into unseen depths and shatter glass.

The noise, hollow and light, rings gently like the glass wind chimes sat under arches as various Ivory festivals. And as you kneel down to grab at the curio, you find the outside to be strangely slippery. It forces you to put down the filled jar that occupies your left hand, a heavy ‘thunk’ onto flat rock, as you move to grab this slippery object with both. Mainly so if it does skirt away, you won’t have to deal with a bemoaning dragon at your so-called clumsiness. Strong hand’s fumble before finding purchase on either ends of a now identifiably cylindrical object. A few inquisitive twists and turns make it clear that this is the near-empty jar you left down here, moisturising salve left haphazardly on the outer edges.

You bring it closer to your face, squinting at it in the dark as the barest traces of light show its outline to you, as a particular flash of lumination shows what you could only describe as a claw slash near the lid-side of the jar. Eyes flick back to Stayrus, who’s pupils blow out at the rejoined staring as you shake the glass object just a bit. Precariously placed down on the opposite side of you, hands move in a manner similar to spreading soap between fingers and skin to even out the residue as you move to sit with legs crossed closer to the water. 

A pleasant feeling blossoms in your chest at the fact that your little gift was in fact used, and that there would be no suffering of his relentless teasing or an awkwards shuffle back up with two heavy jars of salve. There is also, now that you focus on it, a faint lingering smell of vanilla through the air. Sweet and gentle, from the open jar left beside you. It suits him, you think. That soft and fresh smell dancing with his burning and bitter undertones. 

Water droplets from stalactites harmonise with a calling trill from deep in his chest. Symphonic in its sound, it works easily to bring your attention back to the present. Red stars slowly close to crescents, dimming to match the darkness of the pool, before opening in no rush. He uses this noise to call for you, frequently. From the mountaintop when the moon is clear, as he flies in during a daylight nap of yours with a present, or simply when he's bored in one of his caverns. One day you’ll chew him out for Pavloving you as if you were some stray cat he picked up by the scruff of its neck, but not today.

There’s a difficulty in what to do next. Stayrus wasn’t particularly chatty in the Spring, and he isn't making any moves beyond centering your attention onto him. A small gasp of air makes its way in, about to sound some syllable out, until the sound of rapidly moving water and the gust of air interrupts you.

His tail. Large, thick, and jagged cleanly breaches the water. It swings around him to you, wet surface catching the light as it cleaves the air like a scythe. You jolt back a bit at the suddenness of it, leaning back ever-so-slight, before the hulking mass of scales reaches to rest just in front of you. Blinking away the stray droplets that landed near your eyes, a hand does the same for those on your cheek and forehead, before lowering and casting a judging look at him. With an eyebrow raised, you see how his whole form has moved along from the centre of the pool. 

He’s shirtless. You note. Well, more shirtless than normal. You don’t think anyone would truly call his regular (and only) apparel a shirt. More a collection of straps and one sleeve, in which his protruding scales cover skin more efficiently. But he is, well and truly, shirtless. A faint flush blossoms under skin, even with the lack of light, your eyes have seen to choose this moment to acclimate to the dark. The strong outline of muscle stands bold above the water’s surface, dripping with water that periodically ‘plinks’ down. The red tissue of his skin glows slightly, like his eyes, and you let your eyes roam across them in curiosity- just enough to be seen as momentary, not indulgent. You realise those red marks go dangerously, deliciously, low; like fruit on the vine fat with the promise of sugary delight. Eyes then flicker upwards, they trace along his arms. Covered in thick scales to a far higher degree than any other part of Stayrus’ body, his arms sit bent on the shallows, an inch of water swaying past biceps and lax claws. He leans forward, chin bent down slightly, sending carmine eyes steady through thick eyelashes. 

Certainly a treat for the eyes, you drink him up in the lowlight, the faint blue glow from the outer cavern reaching him at this distance. Although, you have to admit you don’t exactly know why he’s arranged himself as such. He stares up with steady expectancy, and all you can do is lower your brow and sniff a bit in contemplation. The hesitancy earns you a signature scoff and the roll of red eyes, before his tail lifts off the ground and has the hooked tip secure itself around the full jar of salve. It moves as if weightless in his grasp, and is placed right in the gap of your crossed legs. You feel it then, the snag of dry scale against sturdy trouser leg. Attention drawn to its retreating form, you see a mess of flakey grey scales jut out from new material. A small piece fractures off at the last bit of contact, and it settles to sit on your leg, almost floating off on its own.

You pick it up, and gently drop it onto the floor. Before returning to look at him, and sigh out.

“And why am I doing this?” You ask, pointing at his resting tail and the still-closed glass jar in your lap. “Big mean dragon can’t open a jar on his lonesome?” You say, knowing he’ll take the bait.

He latches onto it and gives a displeased grumble, harmless in its tone, before the quietest mumble of something far too specific to be just a vague huff just barely makes it to your eager ears.

“Oh? Did you say something?” The prod continues, hand coming to cup behind your ear as you turn your head to the side. It earns you a louder rumble, and a ripple of the water behind the two of you, before Stayrus speaks up just a tad.

“.....s.. Gr…sy” He mumbles, lucky that your mortal eyes still lack the clarity to discern the blush growing across his dry cheeks. He then looks at you, expectant still, now that he’s made the effort to repeat himself at your tyrannical command. A deep sigh gets pushed out of his bare chest at the fact your little human ears don’t work well enough for his sake, and closes his eyes in semi-pained bracing before speaking again. “It is greasy.” He states yet again, a push to further his normally strong enunciation. His defined Adam's apple bobs as a claw comes to dramatically wave in the air next to his face. “And it’s not exactly easy to get out between the crevices of my hands. I’m rather surprised I didn’t drop you on one of our recent flights.”

“And wouldn’t that be enjoyable for you. Oh great Sovereign.” You tease with a smile, granting him the mercy of aid after his push to be transparent. And you see his shoulders sink in gratitude as your hands begin to pop the jar’s lid. The coolness of the mountain’s centre has made it solidify slightly, but the warmth radiating from your fingertips softens it as you knew it would. After a decent drop sits between two straightened fingers, you nod your head at him to sit how he deems necessary for you to give care to sensitive skin. A moment of pause before he shifts to rise out of the pool with strong arms, and sits sideways to angle a heavily scaled across your knee. 

Just about to start dabbing salve onto him, you find the obsidian tone hard to grasp in the shadow cast by your body. Head turning like an owl, you look back to see how far your line of lumine stones lays on the ground. About to apologise and stand, you see a tendril of red-black mist travel out past the cave mouth, and return with specks of white light peek through it. Stayrus’ energy deposits it on the leg not busied with his lax arm, and you offer a thankful pat to his hand before adjusting it slightly and get to work.

He refuses to turn his head away, despite the light’s cast to his now-slit eyes, and stares unblinkingly to the gentle movements of your hands. You move his wrist to have his claw face upwards, left hand sat with a thumb anchored to the centre of his palm. And take an inquisitive look to see how his scales unfurl like petals of a blooming bud. They seem to snap most with the joints, rubbing against each other at the slightest movement. Fingertips coated in salve, you separate his thumb and pointer finger, working it in with gentle circles after the flakes themselves are doused and softened. Purlicue, first web, second web, and then third, you massage the folds between his giant claws, and smile softly at the small pleasant hum that comes from his throat at the soothing sensation. 

A wave signals him to give his other hand, and he moves to face you fully. His own criss-cross sits mirroring yours. And you repeat the action to his other hand. There’s this ever-present vibration to the air by the time you get to his forearms. Even and deep. The purr from his chest deepens by the time you get to his biceps, and with the thickness of them you need two hands to work into them properly. The salve works wonders when in between skin and scale, removing brittle flakes from the conjoining lines. Satisfaction wells up in your chest when you see the moisturisation in real time. Translucent flakes become near transparent, and the ease at which you can gently pinch off flat pieces to leave them somewhere on the floor.

Stayrus moves to bare his back without you asking, and he lays prone with his side to you. Softened arms sit to pillow his head from wet rock, and you shift onto knees to lean over his incredibly broad back. His long hair has to be moved, sitting as closed curtains over skin, and you gingerly collect it to sit off to the side. The shedding here is at least simpler, less craggly lines and some loosened enough that you can ever-so-gently peel them off with just a bit of prep. The skin below these fresh patches are softer than anything you've ever touched before. Softer than the young babes held by Ivory hands. Softer than that of the city animals. And you think, it’s no wonder he swiped you back so quickly last season. It’s not like either of you have forgotten your habit of taking physical shots at the other. Only having recently agreed to call off your attempts at his eye, and his goals of receiving your soul. Having you realise just how easy it is to rend this flesh of his is something no one on Philos would give to a fated arch-nemesis.

You don’t know what to do with that information. And so, you blanket it for the you of another day. The fact that he gives you this knowledge. Gives you his still-healing back so openly. Gives you… him. It leaves an odd lump in your throat, like a nut not chewed properly before swallowing. And you retreat into rationalising it as something a fiend would do. Faux docility to see how best to herd your greed, see how you like him. Belly up, throat bared; or head turned, blind to your ministrations. You end up drowning yourself in the task at hand, pushing hard into his spine. It softens skin and clicks his spine, and if you dared to look to your left where his handsome face sits. You’d see the soft observational gaze landed not at your working hands, but honed in at your focused gaze and pinched brows. 

Hand dipping one final time for the gentle rubs by the protruding obsidian spikes leading down to his tail, fingers working deftly into the small sharp edges, you pat his tail to signal him to turn around. Stayrus, obedient as ever, is swift in his swivelling, and you’re reminded once more of his obscene height and frame as he sits in front of you. There's a shake to his neck, a slight wiggle as it no longer sits supported by his hands, and you sit in awe of his profile. That long tail moves in an arch to curl around you and land the tip just in front of the open jar between your legs.

The toughness of scales here, like the extremities of his hands, are tough enough to better yank off the obvious flakes. Too thick to waste salve on, they pop off without harm to reveal scales just a bit softer. And you focus on the remaining short flakes with long swipes. The salve sinks into these better without rubbing it in, and it takes far less time than you anticipated. The warmth radiating from his tail melts the moisturiser quickly, and you find yourself physically maneuvering it in no time. It sways in contentment by the time you reach the base of his spine again, and your dragon has greedily turned around for you to continue before you can blink.

He sits semi-submerged, perhaps kneeling on some small ledge in the water, that leaves his whole torso and a few inches of his simple trousers directly in front of you. Thoroughly wet and dripping, his defined abdominal muscles derail you. How could they not? And as the flush of embarrassment (and slight arousal) of his offered chest makes you flush, you loudly cough into a hand. It snaps Stayrus out of some hypnotic revelry, eyes thinning into carmine slits at the noise hitting his ears. You’re given a displeased grumble, similar to an indigent cat when you refuse them a bite of the braised fish from your dinner plate, and land a hearty palm on his scaled bicep before clearing your throat.

“I think.” You pause, finally meeting his gaze. “That you have had more than enough of a demonstration.” Each word comes out crisp and punctuated, as you wring your hands together, before rinsing them in his pool. It earns you a very visible and disappointed pout, at the fact that this was not some all-inclusive treatment. You waggle your finger at him, doing what you can to stave away any threads of deduction that would clue him into your predicament. “It wasn’t greasy at all you silly man.” The title snaps his gaze back to yours, a slight challenge in the quirk of his brow. “You felt like a slippery eel because you were using enough to grease a bell hanger.” To prove your point, you bring up the discarded jar from the springtime. Lumine stones cast it bright between the both of you, and the claw marks left over now clearly bring up the image of his far too slippery claws trying to find purchase on smooth glass. He looks down to see the jar you’ve been slowly taking from this day, and lets out a chuff at the fact there's barely a tenth of it gone. 

He decides to comment back anyways, far too used to the endless back and forth momentum the two of you have built up.

“Well, excuse me. It’s not as if you granted me any instructions.” His tail thrashes, just a bit in petulance, and it creates billowing waves away from him. “You toss some of your trash-”

“Trash?! Y-” You interject.

“Yes, Trash.” He interjects back, leaning his infuriatingly toned and wet chest towards you. “Into my chamber, and leave without so much as telling me what it is. How was I supposed to know exactly how to use it?”

“And yet. Use it you did” You return, not yet in the mood to rise to the heights of a formulated response. “For a man who speaks so much about the superior minds of his kin, you seem to comment on instructions even a human babe need not.” There's a poke to his chest, blunt nail clinking against that glistening ruby above his heart.

A smile creeps up on his face, cheeks dusted a cool moonlight blue from the rock’s reflection against the water, and it paints him a rather dashing shade of purple. “Perhaps you should follow through then.” The words float to you with an air of enjoyment and jest, his chest puffing out in preparation. “It’s not as if I was primed for a lesson facing away from you. Why don’t you…” His words trail off, dangerously low. They reverberate in the depths of his chest as he leans even further forward, and it tickles your spine. You vaguely see a hand raise up, claws encircling your far smaller hand in his, and feel yourself burn up as he places your palm flat against his soft pectorals. A slight push of his claw has your hand feeling him up, and a clipped cough escapes you at his boldness. “Demonstrate.” That shaped enunciated ‘t’ cleaves through the air. And you know, despite all your wishes, that he’s fully indulging in the heat radiating from your cheeks. The dancing of his eyes away from yours, and the momentary linger on your lips speaks volumes of his intent. 

Far too overwhelmed, that hand juts out to plant itself firmly on his defined shoulder, fingers slotting in perfectly to the groove of his pronounced scales. The speed distracts him, and his eyes widen in a slightly-cute stupor as he turns to look at your hand. A second hand plants itself on his other shoulder, and you straighten his body with the ease one arranges a small puppet. He blinks, multiple times at you, eyes now moving across your face in evaluation. And once he stops his batting eyelashes. You release your hold.

“Well, considering the rate you’ll find yourself burning through my supply, I think it might be best to do it yourself.” The words come out a little too fast, and you don’t even look at him as you reach for the salve, curl your hand to motion his hand to join you. He stares, just a bit, before you see him come to a conclusion between those pointed ears of his. There’s another pout, as if he hasn't done enough of those tonight before he tilts his head down and begins his lean forward once more.That infuriatingly soft whisper makes its return, hypnotic, as you find yourself leaning forward yourself. 

“Why not one more little lesson.” He offers, each word dripping with temptation. “You can’t expect your student to learn on his lonesome? Take my hand.” He offers up a claw oh-so-sweet, and it wouldn’t be out of place for some forbidden fruit to be nestled in his grip, yours for the taking. His sharp nails drag sensually along the edge of your arm, leaving a trail of raised hairs in its wake. If he wasn’t so damning in his nature to drown you in your own desire, the contrast in mood would’ve been a bit comical– the near-instant switch from springtime distance to summer intimacy. Piercing ruby eyes and the warmth from his breath have you holding that electrifying claw to the open jar, and a hard swallow has you slide into the teacher’s seat.

You guide his claw to gently scrape the top of the salve, a finger of his and yours dipping to the softening material, and you find words travel the silence from him to you without lips moving an inch. Soft echoes of how to cult his claw just right to avoid it gathering on the underside, using the side as a palette, and making sure it doesn't drip. Knees shuffling, you bring yourself into his orbit, swallowed up by his frame and scent. You guide him, close enough for noses to touch, and drag your finger across his strong collarbone. Diamond scales that decorate near the bone bump under skin, and you feel Stayrus' claw follow your lead like a dutiful shadow. 

A slightly wavered breath comes from your dragon’s mouth as you dip into the top of his sternum, and you find the barest trace of a smirk blooming on your lips at the noise. You press down slightly, and the noise repeats, echoing slightly in the quiet of the cave. 

“Do you get it now?” Whispers escape you, lips an inch away from touching his as words move plush lips, and you let Stayrus’ eye flit down to your lips as you continue to speak. “Only a little bit.” He hums in response, and you press his hand into himself to rub in circles like you had his arms and back moments prior. “Think of it like desire. Not too much, not too little… Just enough to soothe the hunger.” His eyes light up at the parallel, speaking his tongue works wonders for his sweet fiendish brain.

His head nudges towards you, noses knocking, before his eyes finally return to yours. A hum permeates the air, thick and sweet, as he guides your hand lower down the centre of his chest. The valley of his chest has shedding scales that fall easy, floating on the water and away from the two of you, and he only speaks when cold crystal meets skin.

“Most certainly.” A claw rubs gently on the outside of your hand like one rubs the cheek of a kitten. “It seems I’ve been a tad overzealous. But, perhaps you could teach me mediation.”

A dangerous glimmer blooms in his eyes, infectious in its spread to you and you dig your blunt nail down the sharp edge of his alluring ruby, before the hand left dangling at his side swipes at his guardless face. He makes a little yelp, caught completely unaware in the web of indulgence slowly entangling him. And a slightly devious laugh leaves you as you stand to move away from the reach of his pesky hands and tail. 

Stayrus, poor thing, looks absolutely stumped at this halt in song and dance. Speechless as you turn on a heel and waltz out of his hidden cavern. His hand gently hits the rockbed to sturdy his leaning frame, slipping just a bit with the salve lingering on him. Long hair half-dried, it stays semi-pushed against the edge of his right shoulder where you left it, with a few stray strands swaying against his handsome face. You cast a look over your shoulder, faux innocence on your face for just a moment as you turn back.

“A fast learner, aren't you?” Amicable teasing causes him to swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing as he catches up from the whiplash, still expecting you to swim in indulgence just a moment more. “No need for me to drown you in more lessons.” The declaration earns you a scoff, the gall you have. To waltz into his web and leave him entangled in it. Anyone else would’ve died for it, anything else would’ve bored him.But he settles for rolling his sharp eyes whilst sitting up in the dark, water sloshing heavily as you walk away.

Your discarded belt sits with him, now floating in the water, a softened glow amongst the waves. And as you walk up those carved steps, listening to the sway of his tail across the water’s edge. You wonder if the autumn breezes will bring you floating down here like a dry leaf, tumbling down to a welcoming forest floor. Or if the kick of the forest floor will have him joining you up in the heights, curling upwards until snagged in your grasp. A trill catches your attention once more, and you turn just in time to catch a scratched glass jar soaring through the air towards you, not before it slips from your grasp. It takes a frantic scramble to catch it safely, leaving you bent over in the rush. 

As you let out a sigh of relief, your ears prick at the echo of a deep and rich laugh from the darkness. It twinkles in mirth, and you spot that familiar red star honed in on you as you scoff in return. You lose sight of that northern star, the slow disappearance to a crescent moon before it blinks back to life.

Endlessly infuriating, he is. Endlessly his to infuriate, you are.

[odetodatura]

[watcher, watching] owl - qin sylus (L&DS)

[pt.1: Gargoyle] [same series: Star Gazer (18+)]

[The Dragon watches his Sorcerer, the Conqueror watches his Hunter. A series of moments where Sylus watches the object of his intrigue and affections.]

-> Content: Set in the 'Beyond Cloudfall' Myth, Cave Cohabitation, Developing Friendships, Pre-Relationship, Developing Relationship, Rock Climbing, Mentions of Injuries, Injury management, Moon-gazing, Reminiscing, Bonding over connected pasts.

(6.2k) [AO3 Link] Interaction and comments always appreciated <3

It took five days of stubborn labour for the Sorcerer to finally claw their roughened hands up to the open top of the Dragon’s mountain. Footholds hollowed to perfection and path melodic in its graceful ascent up the craggy wall. They’ve amassed swipes of dust and sweat on their sun-tanned face during each ascent, and the gale free night has left stray hairs stuck to their brow.

A single chipped fingernail first scrapes a sharp edge of the opening, shaking from the stretch, and a single hot gaze steady in anticipation at the gap being closed. It seems like neither soul dares breathe as one finger followed by another gains purchase. Three sit trepidatiously under the moonlight, a thumb pinned against the vertical wall. One push on the plateau, and another, before they deem their grip strong enough to move their foot up to the final foothold it will take. It’s a clunky movement, leg feeling leaden with exertion, and it skids outwards as they try to set it down. Their head snaps to the unreliable leg and they send a scolding look down towards it like a mother who’s spotted their child sneak a slice of cake whilst they still nurse a toothache. The worn leather boot settles in place, moving into the end of the hollow and pressing forward in self-assurance. A moment passes before they turn their head back to the cloudless sky and push themselves closer to that clear full moon with a straightening of the leg.

The other hand clutching desperately near their face takes the opportunity greedily to land clear on the landing, a loud slapping noise on the open rock. Fingers dig in with a curl of the fist, small rocks lifting into the underside of their uneven nails as a shaky smile begins forming on their face. Two hands up, feet sturdy. It gives them the confidence to bring that final foot up to the last hole they've toiled to place in the wall, and the moonlight that hits their face feels near religious in its glow. The first breath in with their head gazing at the mountain-scape that reaches to the horizon fills their lungs and fills them with joy. They're not done yet though, not truly they remember, and hurriedly push their exhausted body up and over the harsh wall edge. A scrape adorns their knee in the rush, blooming blood in a way familiar to them after days of meeting the stone and later lathering it in that willow bark salve gifted to them by the Dragon.

The Dragon, they think. Sylus, they remember they decided him to be. They steady themselves on all fours, before exhaustion hits them and they roll onto their side facing the inside of the cave. It's effortless to meet his gaze, that red hot gaze, as if it has an innate pull to it. He’s frustratingly cosy down there on his cave floor, sitting in his usual spot with his legs bent comfortably and arm resting forward over his knee. His long claws dangle at the end of a limp wrist, tapping an uneven rhythm. Those carmine eyes stare as even as ever, rapt attention that consumed them entirely. He's leaned his head out slightly like a lizard towards them, not willing to part with an inch of their efforts being obscured, and it makes their own eyes widen in return at just how important Sylus had deemed this endeavour of theirs. A little smirk adorns his lips when he sees that stubborn little Sorcerer has finally flopped down on that platform, and he throws a teasing eyebrow lift at their exhausted form.

They sit there on their side for a bit, dazed in victory and drinking up his proud expression that flowers on his face because of them, before letting out a huff in exertion at shifting to lay on their stomach and prop themselves up on their elbows. A slight breeze has picked up, barely there, and it kindly cools the sweat on their exposed neck, eliciting a sigh. They watch his face twitch at the noise and eyes dart to their neck, before he refuses eye contact. The moonlight dances handsomely in his irises, bright specks of white light turning them into gemstones reminiscent of the red crystal in his chest. He is patient in their silent exchanges, both letting themselves indulge in the view of the other, nothing but calm breathes between them. The sorcerer has their fill first, and clears it with a succinct swallow of the heavy tongue and lips leftover from the day before nodding their head towards him.

“How was that?” They call out to him down below, a smile blooming in satisfaction at their towering position over the cave’s sovereign. “Not half bad, if I do say so myself.” The sentence ends with a sing-song tone to it, energy slowly returning and muscles relaxing. They watch his ears twitch ever so slightly at the noise travelling down to him, and take his continuing smirks as their own sign to continue after flicking a stray lock of hair over their toned back. “Bet you thought It would have taken me four times as long, huh.” Their smiles embolden the other, and the teasing flows easily. His prattling and mock-play makes sense now, it's fun to bat at the other like a cat with a ball of yarn with the claws tucked away. The shake of his head and good-natured eye roll substitutes a response as they push themselves up proper now that their muscles no longer scream at them.

They watch him watch them, his gaze follows the quirks of their parched lips and the crinkles of their nose as they speak, each hypnotised by the other as the Dragon- Sylus, smoothly stands from his spot. He coils and bends like a snake, lugs muscle and scales like a well oiled machine, tail swings like a metronome. Hypnotising. There's always a slight sway to his broad hips, similar to a ripe fruit swinging on a tree in the wind. And as he prowls towards their skyward perch they swear he’s playing it up, letting his steps bend this way and that way just a bit more than usual. Who are they to bite the hand that feeds them though, he’s quite the sight with his head angled high and the moonlight dancing on the arch of his nose oh so dashingly.

Sylus shakes his head a little, waggling it in contemplation before ending his strut towards the punctured wall of his cave and crossing his arms over his defined chest. “I don’t recall partaking in anything other than making sure you land on something that's not your rear. But I’m glad whatever big, mean, Dragon you’ve conjured up in that head of yours has made itself useful as this...” He trails off with a small wave of his hand, “... source of motivation, for you.” It gives way to a slight eyebrow twitch on the Sorcerer’s shaded face, and his lips yet again scratch into a smile at the joy of getting under their skin. “It clearly wasn't any good for reminding you to step with even a modicum more grace than a dog on ice.”

The sting of their scraped knee suddenly flares to life as he reminds them of it, and their leg jerks sideways to remove its contact with the rock below, tongue clicking at the sting. There's a refusal to cut their eye contact short just yet, thinking he’ll view it as some small one-up after their- to note- much larger victory. Defiantly, they furrow their brows whilst taking a bent elbow away to paw at the belt looped through worn leather pants. A few moments of fumbling makes the realisation that the little satchel containing a vial of salve they had made a habit of fastening was nowhere to be found. The sorcerer shifts, sitting similarly to how Sylus was until a few minutes prior, and they look to see no string and no bag in sight. It forces a heavy sigh out. They'll have to hobble back down to get it. They'll have to leave their hard earned spot to make sure it doesn't become some nasty little thing. Eyes are shut as they lean back and tilt their head towards the sky, before opening them up at the moon up high. One deep breath in, steadying themselves for the climb of shame down is taken before they resign themselves to it, and suddenly-

A strong wind stream flies right past them, warm like a summer gale and fast like a hawk up high; it startles a croak out of the young Sorcerer as they fling a hand up to guard their face. The feeling disappears as soon as it comes, the Dragon’s agile form darting through the air as precise as a kingfisher breaking water-surface, and they whirl around to try to find where he's placed himself on the open ground. It takes a bit too long to find him with the way he blends into the night, the tips of hardened scale leaving tiny reflections of light that meld him with the clear night sky. They trail their gaze up from what they think is the spot where worn leather meets his knees and squint to keep track of the billowing red fabrics that match his impressive wings. Inch by inch they acclimate to his shadow-casting form, clued in by the leisurely swing of his scorpion tail that blocks out the tiny stars near the horizon. He doesn’t rush them. Lets them meander up his form, lets them drink him up like pomegranate wine, lets them indulge in carving him into their sights. When he spots a halt in the snaking climb of their gaze, the squinting focus of their beautiful eyes, he decides to breathe out deep. It moves the dangling leather buckles that fall off his body like windchimes, a harmony of clinks that draws the Sorcerer’s attention like a cat to a belled feather.

The pupils of their eye’s swallow coloured irises, and Sylus watches himself in the dark abyss of their beautiful eyes. Moments of indulgence pass, the traces of red from his ruby chest, and a soft billow of greys in his moonlight limned hair. The pinned reflection of the moon finally snaps upwards, their gaze settling somehow on his face and chest at the same time- ‘close enough’. Before he swipes his tail backwards and curls it towards his Sorcerer. It hurls something, something they can’t make out with the speed it's launched from a hook on his to the air, and lands with a hearty bump to their chest. There's a dull, and then a series of tiny clinks. They scramble to catch it before it falls to the rock, not getting a firm enough grip the first time, and flailing in a hurry as it bounced between outstretched palms. The Sorcerer chooses in their kindness to ignore the amused snort from their scaley companion, and lets out the tension in their muscles when the satchel is held strong between two closed hands. Such kindness is limited however, and ends with a pointed glare to his form that's moved to no longer obscure the moon.

His gaze stays steady as he prowls further, walking backwards with an unmatched air of comfort and confidence. His clawed feet create tiny scrapes on the rock, tiny twinges of noise in the wind; and they once again find themselves somewhat entranced by that (exaggerated) sway of his hips as he waltzes. The indulgence in his continued performance causes a slack of the hands, and it's only when the weight they cup feels near-gone do they snap out of that reverie. The satchel is easily recognisable, as eyes focus in on it, the trusty thing that's been kept close on all their rock climbing days since Sylus brought it to light. And they get quick to task on bringing out the opaquest bottle from the bunch, needing the strongest salve there for the mean pulsating pain on the knee. One hand pinches the neck of the glass bottle whilst they cast a momentary glance back to where the echoes of scrapping claws resonates from. Sylus’ eyes are caught for but a moment, before he cleanly twists behind a wall to some unknown pathway and flicks his tail in invitation for when they rise back to their feet.

A flush creeps onto cheek and neck at the snapshot fire of the Dragon’s gaze, the Sorcerer shakes their head like a wolf whipping off the remnants of a river before clearing their throat and finally paying due attention to their scrapped flesh. The willow bark is tolerable now at the very least, only accredited to consistent application, to the point that a cloth covering their senses is no longer needed. Another victory of the day, it's decreed, but the sharp twang of a fresh wave of smell makes them realise the reason Sylus started waltzing back the moment the pouch left his person. He still can't stand the smell. Well then. Good thing he situates himself off into the unknown, he won't be able to cast a moody brow at them leaving the uncorked bottle open as they rest their hands. The pungent little thing, pearlescent in the pale moonlight, sits between their bent legs for a minute or two as they take in the fresh cold air. Something in it moves though, a small blur. They tense. A bug? Some stray bird using the hot currents of the lava? Or something tumbling from rocks above? The unknown intruder continues its fling, and lands just at the tip of their leather boot. A small plink as it richochets gently. A rock, they figure out, sound identical to the pieces that rained down on the cave floor as they chipped at it with their trusty dagger. They wait as the wind picks up, blowing in the direction the Dragon just sauntered off to. The whistle of it bending just right around the craggy wall hits their human ears and a moment later, a second rock flies through the air towards them. It lands square on the same boot, on the flat top instead of the point, and a small smile makes its way to their face.

He's throwing them. He's throwing the rocks. He’s decided they've taken far too long with the Willow Bark wafting in the air, and he’s pelting rocks at them. It elicits a breathy laugh and the incredulous raise of their forehead. He's unbelievable.

“Did you hatch from your egg yesterday?” The Sorcerer says, voice raised a tone to ensure he hears them. “The boys in the Orphanage had better aim than you.” Arms lean to rest around bent legs, looping to leave clasped hands past the knees. It leaves their back arching forward, and they press a cool cheek to the unblemished knee, face angled towards where they know him to vaguely be. No sound comes from him, another rock does. Smooth like tumbled opals and a matte grey that reminds the Sorcerer of the iron embellishments on Ivory City’s fences. It hits their foot, three for three, and they use a hand to toss it off the cliff after it stills. Silence fills the air once more, and they shift the assaulted foot to the side with a tiny shuffle, before picking up the insulting bottle and placing it down in substitute. A minute passes, then another. Both parties sat in anticipation for the next move. A petulant grumble greets them, light and moody in the space between. They click their tongue in response before muttering: “Thank you. I'll be just a moment.”

A digit dips into the open bottle, and takes a hearty dollop of the semi-prismatic fluid, before rubbing it between thumb and forefingers. It's still fairly thin, a bit like buttermilk, and they suck their lower lip between their teeth as they place hand to knee. The smell has been tolerable, but that sting of herbs on raw flesh never truly does. Face muscles twitch and the hand keeping their injured knee still jolts along slightly, before they bite the branch and press down proper. A growl, much like the ones Sylus lets out as frequently as he does air, releases from their clenched throat. It's a quick job, thankfully. No other parts of the legs bruised or hands particularly raw. The endless perfecting of wall hollows and climbing technique leaves little room for natural error, and they need not dip into the glass bottle a second time to cover the scrape fully. The eventual numbing and cool blanket on their knee comes gratefully, a melodic sigh floating from them as they put the cork back on the bottle and neatly tie up the satchel. Standing comes easy as well, no strain in the sifting skin at their clunky movements and no hindrance to settling weight to both feet evenly.

One small bend down to hook the little strings under a single finger is made, before swinging it gently in a slow walk to a crag away from the winds near their climbing wall. A small twinkle is heard as it meets the rock once more, and when they see it wont fall from its propped position, they leave it be until they eventually need to venture back down for the night. One hand raises to the back of their neck as they go to follow the path left by Sylus, working out kinks from the day-long upwards stares. It's near orgasmic, rolling one way and the other, neck bones clicking in satisfaction. Fingers remain there with the slow pace of footsteps, gently massaging the now-dry nape of the neck how they used to knead bread back in city kitchens. They prod around a bit, pointer finger tapping along the side of the neck until it falls back down as they near the edge of the cliff. It’s a beautiful view, made even more impressive by the effort spent to witness it. The rocks below glow with lava flowing in branching tendrils, resembling liquid Tourmaline and Spinel, making the neighbouring black rock so dark it shines. The warm glow reaches the outskirts of Tarus City, red-orange casts on the strong walls and spires and the Sorcerer takes a moment to drink it in, standing in the wind that brings stray embers up to the clouds. Eyes catch on small embers, the torches of local mercenaries floating along with their patrol, fireflies buzzing around their dark foliage. They cluster and break apart, stalling in their bobbing as the shifts change and new hands from hidden rooms take the burning batons. So small they look from the Dragon’s perch, inconsequential. It’s hauntingly similar to how the orphans looked in the courtyards from the Legion’s turrets and high halls, bobs of bound hair amongst swallowing white architecture. Stains on the land they walk on.

The Sorcerer recalls some small moment years ago, them and some now-faceless children having snuck onto the roof of a Holy building with their soft fingers and flimsy arms. They had to hoist each other up linked like parts of a chain, room after room, walkway after walkway, avoiding those mean Justiciars and their unrelenting hands. It was worth the climb, motivated by indignancy on extra chores placed on all of their shoulders after a new orphan got greedy with the fruit in the store rooms. They had huddled close in the night of their shared dorm like penguins weathering a harsh snowstorm, whispering of some little stained parchment left in the crack of a wall on how to reach one of those illustrious bell towers. A few defiant nods and grubby hands pointing at the cursive text had them all sure in their plans for when the sun had not yet set. Small stampedes of little feet scurrying when the guard changed, ducking into thin white crevices in the hallways and thin little fingers covering each other's mouths when some strict adult got too close for comfort. It was fun, they reminisce with a faint smile towards the amber City, finally walking where and when they wanted to. Pushing boxes up high to reach previously unknown floors, and scrambling like new-born ducks to the pristine bell chamber in the East of their living grounds. The excitement to push their little bodies over ornate railing to see their white cityspace ends up with them toppling into each other, small noises of protest being immediately shushed in fear some recon falcon would snitch on them.

They were the last to approach the ledge, hanging back to keep an anxious eye out for anyone ready to reprimand their act of rebellion. It takes some old friend, some kind little brunette with fat cheeks and a weak knee, who happens a glance back to bring them over by the wrist- reminding them that they too made the effort to get here. What a shame it would be, to reap no fruit that you helped sow. He guided them to it, budging someone out of the way gently, and started saying some forgotten speech on how nice it felt to see everyone so small. Ants, Flies on the ground, Tadpoles skimming the floor of a pond. He reaches around their little neck, positions their hand right in front of their line of sight, and pinches down on the speck of a Justiciar. It elicits some shocked gasp from their child self, some shock at how casually he snuffs out the representation of one of their own. And he brushes them off, saying it doesn't even look like some living soul, before passing a stolen date and surrendering it to distract them. To his credit, it works, and they care not for the immature show of power. And they spend their time standing in a line on intricate white stone carvings in hushed giggles until the sun finally dips low. They all quieten when the sky turns orange, finally seeing it dip below verdant mountain-scapes instead of artificially straight white building edges. It brings something out of all of them, awareness of the scale of the world beyond their walls, the colours that get blurred to make white. The young soul wonder what they might eventually see one day, once knighted to slay that Fiend they keep hearing about. How that monstrous form would blot out the sky until they let it into the cold dirt.

They get no chance to ponder the details, to try and think of where on the restricted maps they might meet, as one of the sentry men burst into the bell chamber, and startle them to stillness. More follow in, permitted easy access in their frozen state on the edge of the open space, and all get dragged back by rough gauntlets clamping down on skin and bone. The shared chores from the little thievery of the new soul is nothing in comparison to the months of gruelling agricultural work along the Monastery farmers for the whole of the summer. Baking like bread on the scorching hot white courtyards around their fields, and simmering like soup in the glass flora houses. None of them ever dare venture so far again, shooting scorned glares when anyone of their cohort even mentions dawdling. It’s a bittersweet memory, and they come back to attention with their hand raised over the sentry walls of Tarus, a hair's width away from squashing some little mercenary like a tiny spider. There's no movement, neither closing the gap or lowering of the hand, as they simply sit in contemplation. Soon, a deep breath out, and they drop that condemning hand back to rest at their side. The glower amber of the torch slowly moved behind some curving wall, and a heavy thunk out to the right steals their attention in an instance.

Ah yes, the Dragon, at least this petulant crack of his whip-like tail has adopted a more patient and mindful tone to the noise it makes sailing through the air. They heed his call this time, partially to avoid a rock being thrown somewhere more precious than their foot without the protection of a tough leather shoe. Light footsteps carry them a safe distance away from the steep and perilous edge, a hand sliding against the outermost wall for support as they round the corner. The moonlight stares directly at this little walkway, and the winding path requires rapt attention downwards to navigate the uneven ground. A little pebble, one probably discarded from being pelted, almost trips them up just as they rejoin another open platform, and they finally catch sight of that swaying tail once more. It sits lax, curling in and out with the grace of swan’s bending neck, with his tendrils of gold chains adorning it clinking in the wind. There's more on his tail than before, they note, small links of flora and rubies making up dainty blossoms. One long piece of jewellery, that loops around spines and flows along the entire tail like a river from mountain to sea, holds glimmering golden crows that sit snug against obsidian scale. The sharp wings poised mid flight cup his sharp scales like a hug, avian heads rest along the dangerous edge of the most prominent spikes. A soft embrace. Plush feathers coat and cloak hard scales from cold winds and sunless skies, dark scales provide a sturdy perch and a barrier from storms. Entirely him.

The Sorcerer begins closing the gap, focusing on his seated form that dangles long legs over the edge of his mountain, when the clinking of metal diverts attention again. It swings simple and clean towards them, and settles in a point towards a now noticed bucket and bowl to the right of their halted feet. It sloshes gently with clean water, moonglow strong in its reflection, and the bowl holds a powdered soap common across Philos. It seems the Dragon under the bridge demands a toll, and the Sorcerer tosses an eyeroll at his broad back before settling down to thoroughly wash their hands. It's welcomed, in any case, the clean path they had forged in the wall didn't leave much residue when clawing hand upon them over and over, but the thin layer of dust from the mountain gales always feels annoyingly dry. Cool water flows easy into parched gaps between fingers, and a smooth sigh comes from them at the sensation, and they get to work on getting the first bits of salve off with bare hands. Digs into hand lines and the thin webbed skin between joints are followed by a brief shake off above water, and pouring some of the grainy powder into a cupped hand to lather. It breaks apart easy, softening into a little paste before bubbling like simmering water. It smells pleasant, the lavender left to mix with it cleaning the air and tinting spring into their skin. Sylus takes a dramatic breath in when they go for a second round of soap, humming contently into the wind, and finally graces them with a head-on look when a drying cloth is used and wrapped on top of the salve coated knee.

Soft as always, his eyes run a gentle one-over on their form, analysing the stray threads of the dark casual wear they've taken to wearing whilst stuck in his lair. The loose billowing fabric dips deep past collarbones, flowing through wide sleeves and pinched shirt ends. A high collar flaps gently like a flag in the wind, and the changing gales leave the tip of it to smack their neck gently. He follows it, tap tap tapping on cooled skin, before trailing lower to the make-shift utility belt around sturdy hips, loops for daggers and a few small pouches- journals and maps. Barring the single rip at the knee, the trousers stay the most undamaged, thick treated leather hardly affected by anything that doesn't hold substantial force. A red city flag sits tied loose on the point of the Sorcerer’s knee, folded so to avoid fabric touching skin, bowing outwards like a full parachute. Their feet are protected even more so, some boots slightly too large taken from unfortunate trespasser lifetimes past, but the way they've adapted quickly to stepping in them brings a slight smile to his face. Satisfied on the state of them after their perilous climb, he swings his tail around to open up the space next to them, smoothly curling it around their form once sat down.

The quiet is nice up here, he ponders that the open sky makes his Sorcerer less anxious to fill the air, the echo of their own heart in his lair no longer some intruding metronome to their day. He keeps a steady gaze when they divert up to the moon, full and bright. Noticing small indents and flecks upon skin under the pale light, none of the injuries of their fated meeting persist, his energy healing it well before they made themselves at home, they must be older. Some little indent in the skin near the ear- a small crater no larger than a ladybug, a tiny raised line on the temple of the head, straight and true. Red eyes see it all far more than any human could, the tiniest droplets of pigment from the glaring sun as they dug at his walls, dry skin on the tip of the nose, he commits it to memory; the human fragility. The sorcerer gazes still at the moon, eyelids squinting once in a while and he thanks the clouds for moving slowly, nothing that might break their trance and spot him lap up the finest details of their form. Irises lighten under the white streaks, moon engulfing the dark abyss of pupils. A blink, and eyelashes flutter and vibrant blood vessels pushed just to the skin’s surface, he maps out the blues and greens dancing under skin like the feathers of a peacock.

Sylus can't recall the last time he could watch so calmly, before the Sorcerer set him free. His chained existence forced vigilance on the edge of a wire, members of the legion peering down at him lodged far down in the Abyss. They could never hold his gaze long, one flex of serpentine slit eyes and they went scattering off, irrationally terrified of a boy they pinned down like a dead butterfly to a display case. The soul in front of him, cultivated and pruned by those same people, does not skitter off at all- they hold his gaze until some wave of boredom or annoyance strikes them. Some rare blossom from a distant crop, they face the sun head on, no fear for their eyes getting swallowed by the light, or soul swallowed by the Dragon’s maw. He wants to open his jaws, set it around their head, and see how much pressure he can set down before petals close up and shut him out. His thoughts get disrupted by bold hands on his resting tail, and he looks down to see them move it around themselves like a blanket, patting the top like a pillow when satisfied. Maybe they’d close his maw around their head, dare him to bite down. Sylus no longer knows if he would. Willingly at least.

They start drumming a tune on his hardened scales, fingers dancing upon raised spines in some rhythm he has no capacity to recognise and huffs at them. “You really are a weird one.” He starts, putting on a smirk when they tear eyes away from the moon to meet his unwavering gaze again. “Was this in that little curriculum of yours, ‘break through the Fiend’s scales by song and dance.’” The sorcerer starts drumming properly in response to his teasing, palms flat on the fat side of his softer under scales, and he tries to remember if they've hummed this tune before.

“Oh yes,” They indulge him with a smile. “We were told to lull you like those snake charmers, that some secret tune would have you roll over like a fat dog, underbelly exposed to conquer.” The Sorcerer leans into him, just barely crossing over into his space. “Did it work?”

Sylus keeps a level face, and neither carves more space or carves into theirs. “No.” He says simply “This new one is hardly my favourite.”

“Some expert in music now, are we?”

“You know the answer to that. I said it held no standing with me, not if it was good or not.”

The casual admittance of personal preference is surprising to the Sorcerer, and they run a gentle finger along the scales of his tail. “So,” they begin with a pleasant sing-song tone, “Which one does tickle your fancy.”

“Perhaps you’ll find out, if you exhaust that little collection of yours in that human head of yours.”

He watches them pout, cheeks puffing briefly in annoyance of his stubbornness to continue the topic he started. “If,” they stress, “IF, I decide to grace you with the rest of them.” They decide to push his tail off of their legs, and the wind wafts away a slight complaining rumble. "It’s not even for you, you know. You just happen to keep lurking when it happens.”

“Hardly lurking if it’s my own home.”

“Because it’s normal to sit on your lonesome by the door most hours of the day?”

“I’d be quite the careless Dragon if I just let some part of my treasure roll out the door, especially one that seems eager to do so.”

The Sorcerer clicks their tongue, deciding to change the conversation when he brings up again how he still makes sure they land right. He is right, the first bottle of Willow Bark being empty even with his timely interventions, but that doesn't mean they want him to bask in his victory. “It’s nothing of the Legion’s music.” They begin to detail, giving in this flow of conversation when he’s not willing to. “It’s not music at all, really, just noise.”

“Noise for the sake of it?” Sylus questions, trying to place this course of action next to his limited knowledge of human’s and their strange systems of value.

“I guess, sort of how your tail is always swaying.” They try to bridge, a few sturdy knocks on the tip of his tail left on the floor by them. The tip bumps up in response, thumping back onto the ground. The dragon hums some sort of contemplative noise, swinging his tail a few times, before conceding. He gives a shrug and leans back on both hands, arms locked straight. It feels too simple, though. Where's the little on ‘human limitations in understanding others’ or ‘you assume I commit actions for no purpose?’, and they mirror his movement with an added raised eyebrow. “What. I’m right?” They wave a hand at him in exclamation, and watch his eyes follow it’s flailing perfectly.

“Surely you’ve seen some sort of animal idle before.” Sylus responds, in slight disbelief. “Or were they outlawed in that pristine little city.”

“Oh come off it. We had animals there.”

“And did you ever catch a glimpse of one?”

“Well obviously-”

“‘Obviously’ seems a bit generou-”

“Obviously. I did.” They stress, picking up his deceivingly heavy tail with a huff when they see his smirk at winding them up, and jabbing it at him in the air. “They just weren’t idle, nobody was idle. If someone caught you doing nothing for a second, you were given something to do.”

“Even the cats?”

“We only ever took them in to deal with the mice in the granaries. So if they weren't catching a mouse, the City would drop them off-” They pause, trying to think of any clue as to where those little orange beasts were shipped off to, “Somewhere?” The word is said as a question more than a conclusion. “If there was a cat lazing around, it wouldn't stick for long.”

The small tale makes the Dragon’s face morph into a judgemental scowl. “How magnanimous of them.” Sylus drawls, “Sequestering even the smallest of souls out of sight and mind the moment a fabricated use is at its end.” He’s taken a clawed hand up to his face, and busies himself with inspecting his claws similar to a tabby the Sorcerer recalls after a hunt. They see him push his tongue to his cheek in annoyance and turn to attempt to lighten the mood.

“Wouldn’t we know.” They say with a small and genuine smile, nudging his armoured shoulder with theirs, probably bruising themselves in the process. And it snaps himself out of his spiral, eyes snapping to theirs, mouth parted slightly in calm surprise. For the first time in their shared time together, his gaze wavers, flitters gently between them and his hand. It's silent as he contemplates that simple sentence, soft white hair blowing in the breeze, and he swallows thick. The sorcerer watches him force composure, sitting up straight like a rod and staring back at the moon .As they crane their head to catch his eyes beyond a white curtain, they almost miss the slight clench of a jaw before he speaks.

“Wouldn't we know.”

[odetodatura]

[watcher, watching] star-gazer - qin sylus (L&DS)

[The Dragon watches his Sorcerer, the Conqueror watches his Hunter. A series of moments where Sylus watches the object of his intrigue and affections.]

-> Content: Set in the 'Beyond Cloudfall' Myth, Female genitals but no gendered chest, written gender neutrally otherwise, Oral Sex, Soft Sex, Forked Dragon tongue, Cum Eating, Horn Gripping, Face Riding, Post-Coitus cuddling. (18+ Explicit Content)

(4.1k) [AO3 Link] Interaction and comments always appreciated <3

EXPLICIT CONTENT 18+, MNDR.

Soft pillows gratefully cushion the Sorcerer’s thrown back head, crinkling in their ears as it pushes further in time with a sharp pang of pleasure up from their core through the spine. A warm and blanketing feeling on their naked form, that blurs the dimly lit cavern ceiling above. It settles in time with a soft whine from their mouth, and another spark follows suit. The slow and indulgent laps of a ribbed tongue between lower lips incite shaky breath after shaky breath, wading like gentle waves into a beach alcove. 

The two of them have nestled in this slow dance since the moon first chased away the sun, small streaks of silver light now cutting through the cave and landing gently across strong obsidian scales. The light catches with the Dragons rolling back and it scatters flecks back up, casting a starry sky only for one. Their vision clears through the fog of pleasure as the unrelenting mouth at their core moves to suckle on the pliant and toned flesh of the inner thigh. Sharp teeth and wicked canines dig deliciously into the soft expanse of skin, dotting nebulous clouds of purple and red alongside constellations of teeth pricks. The sweet pain unlodges a sweet noise, clipped and choked, and they receive a deep rumble in response. Approval and appreciation reverberating from his toned chest to theirs, and lingers silently the moments after- a simmer of attention reaching deep inside.

A hand once clenching strongly at a bundle of one of their many woven blankets moves swiftly down their body and gently threads a finger over the Dragon’s face. They look up still, dazed and happy, but they can feel his iron-hot gaze finally slide from their face when a nail first skims his cheekbone. It flickers instantly, and the biting is swapped for languid licks on bruised skin as he takes in the sweet contact to his warmed face. His tongue takes one last loving swipe at their embellished thigh as that hand waves its way above the crest of his ear into his soft pale hair. His head bows like a willow in the wind to it, and nuzzles against calloused palms, before pushing his way to press sticky lips upon his Sorcerer. He faces straight again now, and a second dotting kiss adorns their hand with a slight smacking noise before eyes once again train themselves to their face. Cheeks burgeon with heat, his gaze heavy and comforting, before a deep calling chirp prompts them to lower their chin and sit up on their remaining elbow.

It shakes the sweat-glistened skin of their chest, they smile ever so slightly at the greedy flick of his attention to perk nipples and pectoral fat, and they angle themselves so as to push their chest out even more. His nostrils flare, and tongue slips out between his lips to indulge in the residue of slick and the taste of them lingering in the damp air. A few loving scratches of nails bring their eyes back together, red rubies glinting in desire and lust, before the Sorcerer grips firm and shoves his face back down between soft hair and plush lips. One breathes in, the other out. Sylus wastes no time in opening the Dragon’s maw to drown once more, and his slit eyes blow out to consume red with black. His left hand releases its iron grip on their waist leaving strong imprints in its wake, and slowly snakes it up their sternum. Sharp talon tips catch slightly on raised scratches along their flesh and plucks soft gasps from his feast like guzheng player dancing along dunhuang strings. Sylus delves his tongue inside from its dance along their sweet lips when he hears the twinkle of his favourite song, and moans deep at the strong vice of their thighs wrapping around his thick neck.

His climbing hand settles below their breast, cupping it easily in his massive grasp and massaging in time with the roll of his tongue. The other sits strong around their hip, and begins rocking them along the slight twitches they give when wet muscle slides just right against their slick walls. They begin to push back in earnest with his guidance, riding the Dragon’s face with climbing confidence and tightening their thighs against him as their slick amasses more and more where they meet. He smiles into their suffocating vice, and nudges his head lower so that his nose bumps against the sweet pearl hidden between their folds. The strong cartilage at the bump of his nose bridge hits the hood of their clit only once before the hand in his hair tightens once more to drive him home with renewed vigour as the Sorcerer arches their back like a cat. His bare form, strong muscle and impenetrable scale ruts against the mountain of plush bedding, cock head weeping into the soiled threads. A clear and crisp moan echoes through the air as it rubs against his nose again, and they feel Sylus’ face wetten impossibly more. Had they been any less consumed by pleasure and desire, a shred of embarrassment might have had the chance to take flight between them- but the warmth of his tongue and the anchor of his heavy hands permits no shyness. They’re far too enraptured by the abyssal gaze that pins them in place, the dark and all consuming pit of his desire laid out on a silver platter- reflecting their own. 

The strokes of his tongue and the gyration of their hips meet again in a comfortable simmer of pleasure, blanketing them back in calm delight. The hand in his hair loosens slightly, and quivers in its release as their Dragon drags a particularly deep push inside of them. A shaking hand hovers just above his soft limned face before a knuckle curls and drags itself along the small bit of his nose bridge free from their folds. Sylus’ eyelids flutter slightly at the tender touching, lashes blink and brush against them softer than the wings of a butterfly. He's so handsome like this, they think, devilishly so. Eyebrows pinched in concentration, pupils blown out in desire, and muscles relaxed in comfort. All those forbidden novels and their risque acts in the Ivory City that they’d sneak into their bedchambers at dusk don’t hold a candle to his efforts and devotion. He holds more care and attentiveness in the tip of his claw than those fictional lovers do in all their dramatised romps combined. It’s dizzying, the way he effortlessly unravels them and braids pleasure into their very soul. They keep stroking the space between those carmine eyes with their knuckle, synced with the unrelenting curling of his tongue, and his purring fills the air once more. 

The elbow that still holds up their upper half angled up buckles when Sylus drives his gluttonous mouth forwards, chasing more of their release. It doesn't hold for long, fully slipping out of place when he tilts his head to reach that ribbed tongue in right to the softest part of their walls. A deep moan from the very centre of their chest comes out unabashedly with the ragdolling of their body, but before their back can land on the overflowing piles of quilts arranged for them, the hand previously preoccupied with their tender breast coils around them. Thick muscles of the Dragon’s bicep keeps a high arch of their spine, angling their slick core impossibly more perfect for his gluttonous maw. The purrs resonate stronger through their body, greedily surging forward once more with a gentle manoeuvre of their body. He shifts up from his prone position on the bedding, the hand he placed on their hip sliding down to hold onto a strong thigh, keeping them tethered to him as he leans forward on his bent knees. The Sorcerer is happily raised up with him, throwing their head back once more and escaping his intense gaze once their own body blocks them from his beautiful face. 

His efforts double with them completely in his grasp, and their hands hastily fly to his head and shoulder now freed of the need to support themself in his steady hold. He groans deep in the sweet pull of his alabaster hair, and the pleasure travels down to his flushed cock high against his stomach. He leaves it be, any attention he could give it would pale in comparison to the elysian act he's delving himself into. His clawed hands gently stroke the skin they sit upon, blunt sides of his talons rub up and down glistening and damp skin as he revels in it marking him. He can feel their hot blood and strong heart thump beneath him, excited and filled with the pleasure he endlessly gifts them. Their heart acts as his metronome, and his tail tip swishes behind him as proof of their orchestration of him. The scorpion spikes strike through the air with the energy of a cracking whip, the remaining gold chains he adorns himself with clinking slightly at the sharp twists. It sweeps high and low, cutting side to side like a freshly sharpened scythe, and he feels it quiver in its entirety as his Sorcerer begins to reach their third peak of the night. The strong muscle goes taught like an iron rod briefly as he takes a shaky breath in at a delicious wave of their desire down his mouth, before it shakes like a rattlesnake’s. 

It's not enough for him though, nothing ever would be, even if he were left to spend the rest of his immortal life between his Sorcerer’s plush thighs. And he, with great effort, unlatches from his exclusive source of ambrosia. It causes a desperate and endearingly pathetic wine to come from his treat’s throat as they try to force his head back down with the hands still entangled in his hair. When his head doesn't budge, they release one hand to hoist themselves up and cast a devastatingly cute glare at him for cutting off their pleasure so abruptly. A hearty chuckle escapes his heaving chest, and he clicks at their impatience before boldly licking their traces off of his mouth with his forked tongue. Their breath hitches, and heat burns off their face once more as they are reminded of just how self indulgent their Dragon is, before throwing in one last pout and a questioning arch of the brow. The large hand curled around their back returns to him, and he reaches backwards to unlock the ankles behind his head without letting them stray from his gaze. They put up a bit of a fight, not wanting to be stripped of anything else they've grown entitled to, before they relent. Not before shifting their cunt to his face an inch or two, to feel his hot breath fan against them until he decides to stop his little pause in their pleasure. He smirks fondly at how they take without shame as he spreads their quivering legs to the outer edge of his terribly broad shoulders. The Sorcerer finally begins to steady with deep breaths, and is about to wipe a hand against their sweaty brow right as his tail lurches forward and curls around their waist.

It's sudden, the way he leans back fully. The sorcerer hardly has the ability to yelp in response to his tail tugging them off their back and onto his knees as he once was, and how it drags them up his body to have their dripping core hover over the blood-red Ruby sat in his defined chest.

They slam their hands up above his head, a drop of sweat landing on his cupid's bow, and he immediately flicks his tongue out to draw it into his mouth. He rumbles as they see his strong Adam's apple bop in swallowing, and licks his lips again like a cat that managed to stick its head into a saucer of sweet cream. The extent to which he refuses deprivation of even a drop of them is awfully intriguing, draws them in to kiss him, mouth open and tongue eager to delve into him. He opens his wet mouth in turn as they lean down, and brings a clawed hand up to bury at the nape of their neck to ensure they remain close. The taste of them is sweet yet tangy- like the grapefruit he shares with them in the mornings over their breakfast blankets, completely overpowering the taste of him they know well, and they tilt their head in to push their tongue in further. He returns the enthusiasm tenfold, tail tightening around their waist and squeezing as they suckle on his tongue. His growls and purrs of delight are met with their melodic moans, both being swallowed through the Sorcerer’s cum, and they are yet again pried back by him. That gentle grasp on their neck slides down to rest partially on their back, and lifts them from their liplock. They bring one hand the ground to pinch at his ear slightly, and he shakes them off whilst his immeasurable strength of his thick arm and tail has them sitting straight up. There's a sweet patting of their back as he brings his hand back to him, raising the fine hairs and bumps on their flushed skin.

His tail releases its hold on the Sorcerer’s waist, glistening in the moonlight with the remnants of their sweat on it, before it pushes their kneeling form forward, and places their soaked cunt right above his still-wet chin. The hand shaken off from its pinching is swiftly captured by it as it arches round their form, and curls around their wrist, guiding it to settle on his sharp horn. There's a content glint in his lust-glazed eyes the moment they grip them firm, and they move their other hand there once they see how his eyes shine at the action. He purrs in satisfaction, and adjusts his wide hips to lay comfortably with his tail against the soft threads, the tip of his cock hitting his stomach and leaving a trail of pre-cum between it and his abdominal muscles. The shifting travels up his body, head waving to settle into some gauche pillow, and they jolt at the brief touch of his nose to their sensitive lips. A hand comes up to bend at the elbow and rest under his head, that dastardly attractive smirk returning to his handsome face as he reclines like a king with them over him. They stare for a moment, before their Dragon gets impatient after oh-so graciously arranging the two of them for both their sakes, and they push their hip towards the hand that still caresses it, before satiating his impatience with a strong thrust of their cunt down towards his mouth. 

His blown out eyes finally sharpen as they shrink to thin slits again, red blooming like the first roses of Spring, as he opens his mouth and slips his long tongue back into them. They use his horns to tilt his head up, thumbs nestled between the first sharp twist in them and fist curled around them in full. They feel his rumbles and growls more than ever, through their slick cunt and palms. It makes their head spin, the vigor of his forked tongue stroking in and out over and over and over again like the pistons the Sorcerer would see at the City’s smithing stations. And they curl forward, eyes open and hungry for the red gems of their Dragon’s eyes, unwilling to deprive themselves of even a glint of his pleasure. They’re rewarded with his nose fitting against the hood of their clit, and the strong bridge feels even sturdier now that it sits below them. They bend their elbows just a tad, before pushing and tilting his head back so that the tip of his nose bump hits right where they want, and they hear the jewels on his tail clink vigorously as it whips through the air of their use of him. His carmine eyes are the only thing they can truly see, enveloped again in his sweet fog of pleasure, and they begin rocking on his slick face faster and faster as the braided pleasure inside them continues to plait towards their head. 

They feel the spines of his tail swipe against their back, cold gold against their hot skin causing them to shiver in delight. It's too much, too much, and yet not enough, as they feel themselves clench on his tongue and hear the obscene sounds of their coupling. He must’ve chosen their sleeping space far in advance, they realise, it's as if this hollow in his lair is carved to echo only their voice. Beyond his obvious traits of marking them as his and his as theirs with his incessant biting, they’d have to labour for weeks on end to purge these fabrics of the smell of him. The smell of them. Not that they would. It sparks something new in them, beyond the waves of pleasure he drowns them in, coupling as an act of unification, an act of merging. And it ties the knot on his night-long braiding, a single hand leaves his horn- which earns them his tail quickly shifting from its measured wagging to drag it back to where it should be- but they place it on his face again, softly by his right eye, and his tail coils back in acceptance before returning to sit on their waist like a belt.

He feels their approaching completion before they do, attuned to the flexing of the muscles in their neck and fluttering of their glassy eyes, and brings a hand from their hip to their eager clit. His mouth moves down ever so slight to make space, and he trills when their loudest croaking moan decorates his lair at the added attention. The blunt side of his claw kneads at their pearl like dough, and he makes no move to stop their other hand returning to his hair as they rock widely into his maw. A nail digs in by his ear, and they grip his head like a lifeline as the walls of their cunt spasm in release. They collapse under the intensity of it, hands falling from his face onto the pillows as their back hunches over, elbows catching their fall. He continues through their release, greedily suckling on them like a ripe fruit, kissing their soaked lips with reverence for the nectar they provide him. His chest rumbles like an engine, and it causes his dear Sorcerer to shake in his iron grip, soft licks on their overstimulated lips as a teasing apology and heartfelt appreciation. 

Kitten licks and small bites on their wet thighs carry them gently through their soft descent, respite occurring as Sylus leaves his last few marks of the night on their inner thighs and stomach. They watch the moon dance on their boneless hands, and drag one down beneath them to pet the Dragon’s head near the base of his horns. He halts in his affectionate licking for but a moment, before trilling against their muff. He finally closes his eyes under them, singing a song to their ministrations, as they slowly begin sitting upright. With their spine eventually straightened, they shuffle back a small bit, and sit their core right on that brilliant Ruby on his chest. It’s surprisingly cool, and they sigh softly like a morning bird at the feeling of it. They're brought back to the moment as their Dragon starts rubbing circles into their hips, and bring their hands to rest atop his, tapping the tough scales of his knuckles along to a tune they might teach him another clear night.

They both open their eyes to each other at the same time, chests settled, and the cave adorned with his continued quiet trills. The right hand moves off of him with a firm press, and leans back to rest as an anchor, but as it makes contact with his toned stomach- they feel something sticky and wet. It makes their head whirl back, body curving slightly like a snake, as they find fingers landed in his still-warm seed. It flushes their face once more, the realisation that they have just taken all night without giving, and attempt to rectify it before that pesky tail yet again halts their efforts. It blocks the path to his semi-hard cock, red marks of his skin trailing down past a thick bush of silver hair and trailing to the tip of it, and coils around them yet again that night. He manoeuvres her hand as if it were the hairs on a paintbrush picking up pigments, and brings their hand coated in his seed back towards their face. Gazes link once more, and the scorpion-tip brings itself into view in front of him. Inching their wet hand towards their face, they naturally open their mouth, and let him guide his release onto their awaiting tongue. It’s tangy, but sweet. Sweeter than them. He often is, they've learnt. And they need no guidance to begin their own feast, moaning at the taste of him and the rumble of that Ruby by their cunt in his satisfaction. The tail retreats as they busy themselves in suckling his honey off of their fingers, and they stare right at him as they suckle his honey off of their fingers. Its slow, and indulgent, moans similar to the ones they make at the fresh mangoes he ensures are there for them each morning sing through the air. 

A drop slips from the corner of their swollen lips, dripping down to their chin as he brings his thumb to catch it. His sorcerer smirks as they capture his thumb in his mouth before he could retreat, eyes widening in rare surprise, before the sucking of his talons elicits a harmonised moan from them. It's dirty, truly, the way they devour each other. But they revel in it, and he presses his thumb down on their tongue before slowly dragging it out of their greedy mouth. They let their lower lip be pulled by him, before it bounces back into place, and steal a nip at him and he pokes their nose in return. They don't speak, unwilling to disturb the sweet daze of the night, and Sylus begins moving them again so that they nestle back into their nest of quilts and pillows.

He tucks them securely into the space they normally curl up in, and nestles himself without a word, soft expressions dotting both their faces as limbs interlock and tangle them into each other.They left partly on their back, angled up to the roof of the cave, and spot how Sylus still adorns their lair with a cosmos of their own with the glinting reflections of his sharp scales, its entrancing. They sway gently with his soft breaths, glittering like tiny crystals in the rock. They snap their gaze down to him as he settles his bare from impossibly closer to them, arm locked around their shoulder and tail wrapping from their ankles and legs to their navel. It brings a small smile to them, and it grows as he nuzzles his nose into their chin. They shift their head up, knowing what he wants, and sighs into the cooling air as he makes room for his tongue to lave across their neck. He kisses and suckles gently, the occasional nip by the jugular to tease, and they pet his soft hair once more in return. The Sorcerer gazes up at his stars as they indulge in the afterglow, committing the noise and weight of his sweet kisses to memory. He’s still coated in their cum, they can tell with the way methodologically licks spots that his wet cheek and chin scrape on, creating his own trail to clean up over and over again.

The fog of pleasure slowly seeps in again, covering their Sylus’ night sky like gentle clouds in the wind. His own movements begin to taper out, licks becoming smaller and shorter, almost entirely replaced by soft kisses and nose nuzzles. He breathes in deep, imprinting them into the shell of his lungs, and settles his noble face into the curve of their neck, heavy body a blanket in the summer night. The sorcerer steals a few more glimpses at the ceiling, before bringing their arms around his broad flight-trained back, and kissing his bare forehead. They hear the distant trill through the mist of sleep, before allowing their shared dreams to unite them until sunrise.

[odetodatura]

[watcher, watching] gargoyle - qin sylus (L&DS)

[The Dragon watches his Sorcerer, the Conqueror watches his Hunter. A series of moments where Sylus watches the object of his intrigue and affections.]

-> Content: Set in the 'Beyond Cloudfall' Myth, Dragon Sylus taking his time to observe humanity, Cohabitating a cave, pre-relationship, developing friendship/relationship, slight scrape wound- no further injuries, Sylus' tail can you tell I love how active his tail is in the myth? (General Audience)

(5.5k) [AO3 link] Interaction and comments always appreciated <3

The Dragon, as the Sorcerer has learnt in their time in his lair, enjoys watching them. Not unlike how the Ivory city cats watched the wild birds from a window ledge; part predaceous fun, part affectionate intrigue.

They first begin to notice it when endeavouring to carve a path up his cave’s rocky walls, a puny knife in hand that he barely remembered the name of. They hold it as steady as they can, chipping slowly towards the open top of his mountain. The stone is unforgiving, and it takes multiple stabs into it to dislodge pebble-sized chunks to the floor. After a few days of this, they take to turning some old ornate rug into a makeshift broom, swiping the scraps of their effort out of the cave and tumbling down to oblivion off the edge. The dragon made no complaints of them utilising his old dusty hoard, only a glance at the scuffle of fabric being wafted open before turning on his little pedestal to observe them rip it into lines, and tie it to a lance- the tip of his tail brushing along the ribbons before following their retreating form in bored intrigue.

The sun is still high as they crouch next to their battered wall, light heating their gleaming skin that flexes with the rhythmic stabs to the lowest hole meant for their foot. Labour and summer heat causes a thin sheen of sweat to settle on their exposed arms and back, with soft gales travelling through the cave mouth behind them mercifully cooling them down. The Dragon avoids the sun in its entirety, leaning against a shaded wall by the mouth, tail flicking lazily over the floor and dipping down off the cliff edge. His endless obsidian scales probably aren’t enjoyable in sunlight, the Sorcerer assumes, recalling how the orphans in the City were only permitted to wear black during detention labour in the courtyards. The endless white marble and rock walkways made it miserable in the hotter months, reflecting and enhancing the heat back to any soul around. His scales in particular seem thick, strong, and are best for short sunbaths well before midday before they absorb too much heat.

With the mortal back into their endless carving after a quick swipe of their arm to brush at their face, he adjusts his broad shoulders ever so slight during his continued staring. Eyes follow flexing biceps and rippling muscle under skin, moving towards the knife that pistons into aged rock. A speck of sweat flies off towards him, and he licks his lips to taste it in the air like a snake. Saltier than yesterday. They must not be drinking much water still, he makes a note to himself to bring some full skins up by their work station overnight. It would be a shame for them to slow down from exhaustion now that they're quickly learning how best to hold the blade, how best to utilise their striking force.

Chip, chip, chip; they continue on, fuelled by a desire to prove themselves capable. The knife takes clean arches like a scythe in a wheat field, and the metal stays strong against constant battering. They find their mind wandering, the gaze of their cave companion is hardly insignificant. It's as if his eyes leave physical imprints on where they land, dragging across their form with the same weight of his tail. Every time they navigate his little labyrinth after that little bite of his, he trails after, one of his senses always honed in on them.

He joins them soon after they pop down to the pile of fruits within his main treasure room in the mornings; blood red pomegranates and cherries blend with scattered Rubies, royal purple grapes mingle with Sugilite nuggets. They sit opposite each other, his massive tail curling all the way around them across the breakfast blankets and sometimes gently flicking a stray fruit near their crossed legs when the wind causes it to tumble like a weed. He does not partake in eating, sometimes pinching a grape from them just before their own fingers grab it, a little smirk tossed at them at their instinctual ‘tsk’ before tossing it to them to catch. He watches them as they wash their sugary hands in a small bowl of water. He watches as they dry their hands in the midst of standing with some tiny scrap of fabric they found from a treasure box. He watches as they return his gaze for a moment, before they turn with the grace of a waterfowl to the room they whittle away in now, and he rises to follow.

With his endless ego and entertainment at their efforts like a cat who's got a mouse’s tail under their claw, they expected some taunting noise from him- perhaps a pitiful huff and a shake of shoulders at the sight. His shadow ripples with a little laugh as they land a weak strike against the rock and the knife almost leaves their grip. But whenever they took a break and cast their eyes to meet his, they found only intrigue. Face even and wholly enraptured at every move of theirs. It was… Odd? Inspiring? Pleasant? The fact that he sits with the intent to see them make progress is one that fuels them to reach the moonlight mountain with vigour renewed. He must be playing a game with himself, they conclude on his behalf, a bet on when they'll finally drag themselves up to the flat mountain ridge. A couple of weeks, they again decide for him, is what he thinks they need to complete their quest. Their mind’s version of him is wrong though, they huff, they'll show him how he underestimates them. Another swipe at the brow as they stand to stretch their screaming back, with the most coincidental glance back they can muster. His eyes quickly snap to theirs, and they see him slowly blink his eyes out of sync- first the left, then the right, like a rolling wave between them.

The sorcerer decides they don't want to think of the implications of such a relaxed stare, how a predator like him takes this in leisurely. A swift flick of their right hand is made as the thick dagger is repositioned to deepen the first foot-hole as they break eye contact first. It digs in nicely, hollowing out the space for their foot to raise up after finding purchase, and in the strong light that adorns the cave from behind them- they see a somewhat approving flick of a strong tail-tip shadow next to them when they finish their hacking at the wall. A foot is inserted to test their modifications to the foot hold, and the Sorcerer finds it no longer scrapes at the roof when they go one more step up. It makes the next foot hold seem worse than before, but not tauntingly so. One sturdy result means the others can be made the same. They take a brief look down to check the pile of scraps on the floor won't jeopardise their drop back down before making the small fall. A tiny ‘oof’ emerges as they place their feet on the ground, pushing the smallest pebbles away with stray gusts and nudging a few others as they steady themselves. A hand purchase sits level with their face now, one that's been annoyingly difficult to work with since they first started.

The scorpion-esque tip’s shadow sits angled to the by of the Sorcerer’s ire, deadly still at the edge of the hollow. It draws their attention, and their head shifts to centre gaze on the dark projection. It starts waving ever so slightly when it knows it’s being watched. Slow and mesmerising like a snake heading the call of a charmer, it swishes along the bottom edge of the dent. He's tracing a guideline for the base of the hollow, they figure out. A few moments pass like that, the wind blowing gently. It carries his scent to her, heavy with the boysenberries he had been bringing to his fruit piles. They delight in it for a moment before they move leftward to avoid their body blocking out the tail’s silhouette, marking the path that the tail takes with light scraps. It retreats as she makes the final swipe it guided her to, curling low before settling on the shaded ground. One short nod is offered in thanks before they turn away from him fully. Meticulous in their efforts the knife gently digs further, wanting to not waste the help given. The rest of the day passes in relative monotony, the shadowy tail at most weaves up and down from the ground with no task at hand, and the Sorcerer makes good progress along their vertical path. They end up securing six good quality purchases into the wall by the time the light from beyond the dusky clouds filters ambers through the cave. A gentle toss of their trusty dagger flings onto a pillow they dragged here, gemstones tinted red in the sunset.

A first, second, and then a third flex of their hands unravels the tension from hours of gripping the knife’s hilt, sweet relief at the stretch of knuckles and joints before they thrust a hand into a hollow. It’s significantly easier this time round, multiple steps made with no scrapes and easy pushes upwards. Even when they pass the refined hollows to the further ones that scarce provide any hold. A few more upward paces are made towards a natural platform halfway up the wall.. It’s nothing terribly large, probably enough to fit half of that lounging Dragon’s reclining form with the tail entirely off, but it’s more than enough for them.

The last few feet however have no carved indents, and they have to rely on natural jags in the wall to try and forge on further. The moving sunset and its angled light make it difficult to ascertain where hands can be slotted, and with waning strength from calculating where to next go, the Sorcerer lunges upwards for a small indent in the wall. It’s a sharp and pointed movement, like a grasshopper fleeing danger into a frog’s maw. But the lunge lands, and they dangle from a clawing hand whilst desperately digging their feet. Slowly, and carefully, they let a wavering sigh leave their mouth as they move their other arm over with great effort. The double-handed grip alleviates some strain, evening it ever so slightly, and they shuffle awkwardly with tiny movements of the fingers. A breath in, out, in, out; they steady themselves, arms locked straight and jaw set with equal intensity.

Just as their hand shuffles an inch to the right a small, hoping to widen their purchase, a ‘crrk’ noise snaps through the air. Everything stops, as does their previously steadied breath, and they jostle in their precarious suspension. There's no visible hairline crack from their low point of view, but just past a trembling finger, a tiny stone dislodges itself and tumbles along her knuckles before-

Snap.

The feeling of gravity is immediate, it lurches through their stomach and it feels like their organs no longer sit snug against one another. Flailing fingers do nothing as the protruding spike has already fractured from its craggy spot, and a yelp comes out from their falling form. There's no grace in the descent, grabbing at the wall like a kitten shoved off a tile roof, with some rapid brushes against unforgiving rocks scraping harsh against desperate hands. Skin breaks easy and specks of blood and pink skin sting in the air. Scarlet droplets form in time with the thundering heartbeat enveloping their senses, and hands quickly draw inwards in defence. The tiniest flickers of neat hollows race past their line of sight and they know there's not long before the floor gives their tailbone a bruise for days. Eyes squeeze shut to brace for impact, before a coiling mass curls meets them before the ground could.

The Sorcerer doesn’t turn, doesn’t move as their chest begins to heave from the adrenaline that permeates their muscle and bone. In and out, in and out. They chant like a mantra to themselves when they recognise no pain from an impact, and they slowly recoil their arms to above their chest to rest against their raging heart. A slow press to the chest, and one final breath in before they start to shift. The newly familiar tail sits around their like a boa constrictor under their back and knees, with its unbelievable length allowing the tip to weave back upwards and dangle in front of them. One hand grasping a dangerous spine on the outside, and the other wrapping around the softer under-scales, they blink slowly until interrupted by a rumbling noise. It erupts from the Dragon’s chest, even and earthy, a call to attention. It successfully snaps the Sorcerer out of their daze as they turn around and look vaguely upwards and behind. They meet that same even gaze, sturdy and curious, with his head slightly tilted towards them. They note his body is suspended at the end of a lunge, semi-sideways with one leg bent in front of the other. It’s clear he reacted in good time, but the distance between his lounging spot and the wall to the open air was a tight distance to cross against her fall. He makes it, regardless. He catches them, regardless.

His head slowly returns to an upright position, gliding backwards with the fluidity of an owl, and his back straightens, the Sorcerer moving along with his relaxing form. They’re given a second acknowledging noise, lighter in tone than the previous one- a slight trill with the lower notes missing. It reminds them of bird song, echoing with itself along his thick neck. The Dragon sweeps his carmine eyes over them, and the Sorcerer recognises it as self-satisfaction of the state they're in. They’re slowly lowered down by him, clothed rear softly setting down on the cave floor as the comforting coil of the tail untangles itself from them. Though it remains around them even as they settle their weight, a comforting hold. One hand gently lets go once a spinal spike begins to glide from their fingertips, and the other offers no resistance against the soft under-scales. The sensation is nice, smooth and uniform under their still hand, and they note he doesn’t flick away from their hands at all. The tail tip drags slightly against their back as he stands at full height and withdraws the limb entirely, sending a pleasant shiver up their spine. Just a smidge calmer, and the seated mortal would’ve noticed the tiny flash of a pleased smile at their reaction. The Dragon breaks their eye contact first, gaze fluttering to the other’s scraped hands before speaking.

“There are some old little bottles somewhere in one of my piles,” He drawls whilst adjusting to lean on a leg and scrutinise his claws in faux-nonchalance, “Carried by some foolish thieves who thought they’d live to lick the wounds gained from me.” A jerk of his head signals he’s talking of their slightly bloody fingers. “Just do me a favour and use them outside, they’re terribly pungent things.”

He doesn’t get the immediate response he wants, and looks up from his nail picking to see them in the middle of blowing gently on their own hands. He watches with vigilance, and notes the slight wobbling of their lips as the wind hits a patch of raw skin between the base of their fingers on the palm. One flex of the hands, then another, and they shift to a kneeling position before standing and turning to face him. Watery eyes rapidly blink away a small sheen of tears as they adjust to face him, as he stands against the amber sun outside of their cave. It glows and burgeons on the sharp edges of his scales, catches on his molten veins. A few weeks back, this sight would've been the pinnacle of what was taught to be danger. But the hulking Fiend in front of them embodies none of that. His body, a tower of flesh and sharp hematite, stands poised to protect. Whilst it is a fools monologue to discredit or wave off his abilities of destruction and chaos, his actions speak of an equal capability to protect and foster. It is that dichotomy that allows his offer of a salve to land so smoothly, the Sorcerer squints to get a better look at his shadowed face and twists their head like a curious dog. “And just how am I to open some old glass bottle like this?” They wave their hands forward in his direction, shaking them slightly, and his eyes rapidly dart in sync with their movements. “Unless you want these to get worse before they get better. Or get blood all over the place.” The words come out half-petulant, half-teasing, and they point a finger towards his impassive expression. Still focused on their hands, he lets out another huff, before playfully swatting their arm down with his tail. The pesky appendage continues to wag and sway between them wafting air upwards in waves.

“Well,” The Dragon drawls out with a slight purr. “Not all of your delicate little fingers are useless, are they?” His clawed feet tap with each step, slowly circling around them with his chin raised. “Hardly some insurmountable task when I’ve already saved you from that untimely demise. Or do you want me to kiss it better once your humble chamberlain licks your wounds for you, your Highness?” A deep chuckle resounds in the cave, acoustics seemingly warped to echo his voice perfectly, and it sends a pleasant sensation through the Sorcerer's head. He rounds behind them cleanly, swift movements blowing their hair forwards as a strand tickles their lips. He lets out another laugh at how they tense at the proximity a smidge, clearing their throat before twirling to face him and place a pace between their bodies. Only part of his form is shaded now, the crown of their head leaving a dark silhouette just below his lips, and they are made all too aware of how the warm light enhances his roguish looks.

Soft blanched hair sways like a willow, edges tinted coral and citrine. It tickles his forehead, landing just by his sharp brows, hiding the tails like a juvenile fox scurrying in the underbrush, emboldening the sharp red of his eyes. Hawk-like, they think, alert and confident to even the slightest of movement in front of him- crinkling in mirth as he permits the ogling. A preener as well, angling himself to encompass more of their line of sight, privy to some sort of bodily reaction the human mind is not attuned to in from them. A loud and theatrical clearing of the throat snaps the Sorcerer to attention, and they shake themselves whilst recalling whatever smooth words just came out of the handsome man’s mouth moments ago.

“A…. Charming offer, terribly so.” They start with a stumble with a slight blush, “ But most healers require qualifications to tend to others.” A pause to give a sassy up-and-down of the Dragon, “Do you have one?” They probe, emphasis on the second word. A roll of the eyes and a ‘tsk’ makes it clear he finds the rebuttal unsatisfactory.

“And why would I care for some silly little mortal’s opinions on my healing capabilities. Last time I heard what your kind were working on, those faith healers were prattling on about cracking open the skull to fix a headache. But I’m more than happy to apply that theory to your hands.” He says with a slightly sinister smile, crossing the gap in half a step. “Pass me whichever hand pleases you, and I can poke a little hole to see if they were right.” His teeth are visible from between his lips and they glimmer wet in the sun, elongated canines catching a dangerously sharp ray.

It doesn't unnerve them though, they know well enough by now his habit of play-intimidation when a conversation needs spicing, and they jut their head forward to meet him.

“Alright then.” Their hand raises palm forward to his eye level, and his gaze easily flits back to them once more, smile calmly retreating. His form follows, straightening back up from his lean to bare his teeth close and gently grabs their wrist. Two strong claws pinch them, and rotate it back and forth to his contentment, before he removes his hand with even more care and turns back into the dim caverns. Heavy and calm footsteps resound his entire walk, and the Sorcerer hears some jumble of grumbles and clanking before the steps begin their return journey. His tail swooshes low, a fabric bag held within a curved spine at the end, clinking noises at the end of each swing. Instead of stopping in front of them he continues past them to the craggy cave entrance, and sets the bag down where the wind travels away from the lair. His arched nose crinkles as he moves away from them, and sends a quirked eyebrow to the Sorcerer before walking past them yet again to sit down against the hole-punched wall.

His gargantuan tail spikes end up effortlessly carving into the wall like a hot blade through butter, and they feel an eyebrow twitch at the ease this giant of a man has at making clean incisions that took them hours. A small huff of hair moves a strand of hair that landed on their face after the tumble and they see him watch them turn away to approach the beige leather pouch sitting alone on the cliff's edge. Mindful of his confirmed sensitivity to the smell, they sit with their back to him and legs dangling like reeds over the rocks, before fiddling with the loose string tie. Strained fingers still slightly taught from the dried blood plasma tremble slightly in getting the opening wide, and in favour of being kind to their sore hands they shake the bottles onto their trousers. There’s only three in there, simple glass things with cork seals. The liquids slosh thinly like soapy water, and they each have different levels of opacity. They leave the least-transparent two to remain on their lap as the leather satchel is placed behind them to not get blown away like a leaf in the wind.

Using one hand to gingerly hold the bottle and the other to grip onto the dry seal, the pesky thing wiggles after a fair bit of effort, and the Sorcerer’s face scrunches up like a babe being fed a lemon for the first time. It causes them to recoil, sinuses on fire and eyes watering, even after extending their arms as far out as possible into the wind the urge to cough overwhelms them. Thick and strong enough to feel like their bones rattle in getting that smell out of their lungs, they push their head into their shoulder and breathe in through the filtration of linen fabric. The stinging in the eyes dulls eventually and with a final exhale and shake of the head, a snorting chuckle is finally noticed. A quizzical brow is rapidly whirled at the Dragon swinging a metal chain around his tail tip, and he has the gall to keep going under their scrutiny.

“Anything you'd like to share with the class?” Is pointedly said to him, eyes thinned and lips pouted. It does nothing but rouse another infuriatingly handsome smirk to his lips, shrugging his broad shoulders and crossing his arms across his exposed chest pushing the ruby gem in his chest into the light.

A teasing hum leaves his lips, “Not really, nothing that wouldn’t get you to throw that thing at my head anyways.” The sentence dissolves into a chuckle, clearly amused at the prospect of them batting at him like a hissy kitten, and the Sorcerer turns back when they learn any reaction will be a success to him.

“You could have graced me with the knowledge that this old-” a pause as they scramble for the right word with a twitching nose, “sack of curdled milk was pungent enough to send a cavalryman off of his steed.” A cough interrupts them again, before the ramble continues. “I mean honestly. What on Philos have you given me, some Dung ointment?”

“You can’t tell the difference between Dung and Medicinal Herbs?” The Dragon says in good jest, his laughs having died down, leaving a sweet aftertaste in the dusk glow.

“Quite frankly, I don't think I’ll be able to tell the difference between my left arse cheek and a freshly baked pie after this.”

He likes this, a rumble in his chest signals, and he rips a rectangle of the Sorcerer’s make-shift mop and tosses it to them. It falls right by them, with their hands still outstretched into the wind to avoid inhaling any more concentrated formula. They follow its flight path, and gingerly set down the cork and bottle as far away as possible on the cliff’s edge before picking it up and wrapping it around their nose and mouth. It does enough of a job, no longer feeling their lungs cringe at the slightest inhale of this supposed salve. He watches them unhappily pick up the open bottle, and pour its thin contents into their palm. His nose crinkles again, the smell reaching him this time, and lets out a large huff to clear his lungs.

It pools in their palm, and they move their hands out over their legs to the open air before using it to coat their entire hands, gently washing it into their skin. Thankfully, the relief is almost immediate, and a gentle moan comes from them. A tail they cannot see swishes in response. Acclimated to the salve’s smell, they pick up the other two bottles to place them into the bag they discarded (the heavier contents must be more concentrated versions) and begin a second coating with the thin liquid. Willow bark, they piece together, the last time they had the misfortune of being around this was when some of the faith’s monks came back from some ambush. Nasty wounds, but it quelled the pain like nothing else.

“Thank you.”

A hum is heard in the cave, and they sigh in semi-faux annoyance at his insistence to be detailed on the extent of their thankfulness. They cap the bottle with their hands feeling far better, and swivel to face him criss-cross on the floor, elbows on their knees. He’s still staring, as they resume eye contact. Comfortable against the rock with his impossibly long legs stretched out, tail laid flat.

“Thank you for catching me.” The Sorcerer repeats with fabric still obscuring half their face. “Thank you for the willow bark salve as well. You don’t have the qualifications, but whatever fool of a man in your home did. Or, well, he knew someone who did.” The sentence loses its structure the further they go, and they decide to leave it there before they give the Dragon something to tease them about some other time.

He waves his claw in the air in dismissal, as if he wasn’t the one preening for more. But there's a look in his eyes they recognise from their first day here after they were healed by that innate black-red energy of his before crossing the threshold. The dragon seems to dislike anything of value in his hoard being damaged, either a slight to his collection or himself. It's useful at least, something the Sorcerer can utilise in their cat and mouse game to ensure safety. It’s touching, considerate, they realise. Not enough to sink them into reverie about the Fiend’s intent or nature, but a bittersweet development on how Ivory city treated those ‘useful’. They take the makeshift mask off when the sunset winds have taken the lingering traces of willow bark away, and collect the leather satchel’s closed tie in the hook of their pinkie finger as they rise to walk towards him. Bending down to place it down so as to not shatter any glass, it sits in front of his tail that waves with their approach. They make moves to verbally return it, now that the scrapes are treated enough to heal for when they next take up that dagger to the wall. But his tail-tip picks it up and places it by their stack of tools, dropping it off without even looking.

“No need,” He states, tapping a claw against his leathered knee. “Not like I have any want or need for it.”

“Confident that’s something exclusive to me, are we.”

“I’m not the one taking tumbles from rock climbing now, am I.” His claw points at himself, and jabs extra when he refers to himself.

“I suppose.” The Sorcerer gives in response, face flat.

“You know.” The Dragon finishes in tease, smug air returning. He hauls himself up with ease, his tail just swiping against their shoes as it arches around for counterbalance. The sun is nearly engulfed by the horizon at this point, both bathed in cool light from the setting world. The cold is a tad too much on their still-drying hands and with a scoff they move further into the cave in aim of the piles of furs and quilts they claimed from his hoard. He stands unmoving for a short while, staring at their repeating back before trailing with a distance. He sees them navigate their home with developing ease, dodging the little raises in the rock with ease despite their human eyes preferring a bit more light. He can’t deny the urge to see how easy it would be to try and trip them up with a tail swipe, just a small one.

The Sorcerer doesn't attempt to make conversation, shot out from their digging and falling and complaining for the day being fulfilled, and the Dragon slows his gait to linger in the fork in the road toward the small ‘room’ they’ve taken for themselves. It's an ungraceful tumble into the pile of buffalo skins and bear pelts, and observes the way they sit in such a way to try and catch anything before it catches them out first. A small huff escapes him at the thought that they assume he guards his home so poorly that something else would be able to nab anything from his hoard. There's a single swipe of his tail to signify his passing, a courtesy, before he takes the lone walk back to his hall of glittering gold.

The space echoes his every sound, pinging off the walls and metal plains, scrapes of spines like nails on steel and the jingles of his many belts as his muscular form stalks onward. Attention goes to the large rocky surface he calls a bed, and runs a scaled hand on it before relinquishing himself to rest. The thing isn't terribly comfortable, large at least, but Stayrus finds himself unable to settle. Tail swinging in agitation as moonlight replaces that of the sun’s, he tries a range of actions to quell this fickle discomfort. Laying on his softer side, his stomach, on the floor and leaning against some side of his pedestal.

None of it does any good, and a deep growl leaves his chest when he stares up at a stream of pearlescent moonlight filtering in. It reminds him of that small pale fur the little Sorcerer was quick to compliment, semi-transparent in it’s wispy and insulating hairs. He rolls himself off his resting spot, twisting his spine like a snake, and prowls over to the remaining furs to send a scrutinising glance at them. He quickly finds more of that pale fur, and flings it up over his shoulder with his tail, and starts grabbing items akin to the ones already picked from the lot. He carries a hefty sum of three thick beast skins and two furs, and swiftly gets to piling them on his rock slab. Two rest flat to cushion his large form, and the one left to dangle on the floor where he knows his tail might end up in the morning. The furs lay on him easily and they do their job of providing soft encapsulation well, securing him in a cocoon of fur.

One final shuffle is all that's needed to settle into place facing the entrance of his home’s inner sanctum, as he sets his arm to a ninety degree angle where his soft cheek meets his hand. The faint breeze cools his face just right above his pocket of warmth, and his tail stretches straight before relaxing and weaving through his legs. Eyes slowly drift shut and a small smile tugs at his lips with the question of if he’ll get to enjoy the expression of his cave-mate when the moon reaches its peak. Shuffling in with a quilt around them as they try to sneak the remaining fruits from their breakfast spot for a late night snack, eyes wide like a raccoon in the torchlight when a chuckle breaks the silence.

[odetodatura]

Lingering (Robert McGinnis Paint Over)