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[Lyli got to snip out all
the 'I bespoke Miravith with's. Editing is fun. And dragons are cute. Especially
evil dragons. Druseth and Miravith have a little late-night conversation...
Very short, but don'tcha love Buffy dragons?]
Druseth sends a mournful little tint of blue, his hesitant tones gleaming with effulgent greens and effulgent... effulgency. << She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes: / Thus mellow'd to that tender light / Which heaven to gaudy day denies. >> And his voice trails off. Aww. He's shy.
Druseth senses Miravith speaks high and haughty. << Oh God. Go away Druseth. You're beneath me. >> What can she say? she's always been bad. to him.
Druseth pauses, his jaw mentally tightening and resisting the urge to drop. << Beneath... ? >> The mental tones harden, soft sapphire giving way to the hardness of diamonds as he slinks off. She'll regret that. Bitch. He'll come back with a studly jacket and bleached-blonde hide, and she'll /regret/ it. Rawwwr... Sniffle. Mope. Mourn. No one loves the black-clad-hunk-of-a-knight-thing.
Druseth senses Miravith's icy tones melt away, denial stripped away from her mindvoice to reveal redhot passion...and something... more tender. << What's wrong? >> she inquires after the retreating sadbrown. << Is there anything... I can do? >> to him.
Druseth sparks with a little hopefulness. << It's just... I know I'm a bad poet, but I'm a good dragon. Pet, all I want is for you to see me as I am. And stop leaving dead squirrels where I can step on them. >> He's got practical concerns, even if they're all wrapped up in a sad puppy-dog look. << Your effulgent beauty... >> His voice halts again, unsure. Yeah, words aren't his thing. He'll sit here and look hero-ish.
Druseth senses Miravith reverts to habit, to learn'd cockney accent, mindvoice lined with savage fanged teeth. << Oh, buck up. The worse that could happen to you if you stepped on the squirrels is that you'd get bloody. And we all call you Druseth the bloody anyways, 'cause of your /bloody/ awful poetry. I'd rather Thread shot through my head than listen to your tacky words. >> to him.
Druseth's hope dies a painful death. Like those squirrels, probably. A little sigh escapes him, before the poker face learned through the centuries can return. << I may be nothing to you, but every syllable I say is for you, ducks. Tacky or not, they come from the heart. I do care. >> He's not some careless fungus demon to throw about, he's got a real unbeating heart, somewhere below the fangs and morbid fascinations. Probably a few inches past the brooding. A little quizzical thought crosses his head, almost unsaid. << So... they're not calling me Druseth the Bloody because of, y'know, the blood thing? >>
Druseth senses Miravith wails with centuries (about two) of anguish. << You and me? This? This is wrong. I know it. You think I want it? You're outside my weyr, you're in my dreams, you're all... >> Confession time. << You're all I bloody think about. >> Mira returns to the well-learned soprano chirp. << ...that's why you gotta die. >>. to him.
Druseth's mindvoice is strangely dark, amusement and hope and satisfaction all rolled up into a single thread of silver and darkness. << I can feel it, Mira. You know you want to dance. >> The dark passions and puppy-love twine together, slinking out of his mind and directed at hers. << Death is your art. As is it mine. But I don't think I'll die today. >> The worlds all fly off into the wind, on a vampire's laugh. << Another night, love. Another night. >> The boyish bit of sweetness and sincerity return to his sudden change in tone, just for a moment. << See you in dreams. Beautiful... >> That's a promise, one that tastes like ashes as he slings off into the night. Time to prowl.