RP:First Flight, Freefall
Part of the The White Hunt Arc
With Hildegarde to watch over them, the outcast drow Lyros and his companion-cum-bodyguard Riselet travel into the woods north-west of Frostmaw to visit the pack of wyverns led by Nameless. An attempt to befriend the alpha's two offspring inspires an impromptu flight session that soon goes horribly wrong, and Nameless imparts some unsettling information to the Silver...
Part one of two.
Nameless NPC'd by Lyros.
Western Frostmaw Gates
Riselet's head is pounding from the night before. Not that anything particularly wild had occurred after they checked in at Frostmaw; just the usual drinking herself into a stupor, awaking the next day to find her head splitting open and her wallet half as light. She’d completely forgotten about the whole wyvern-seeing thing until now. The halfling trails after Lyros sluggishly, boots shuffling against the hard ground, and silently curses whichever god happens to be listening. Everything’s so harsh and bright and the slightest noise rings in her ears for ages. She supposes this is how Lyros feels, the mage himself looking particularly sour now that they’ve departed the inn. He ambles ahead of her without a thought, which infuriates her—if her mind was any clearer, she’d yell at him to go a bit slower. She opts for the simpler route instead, replying to him with a slurred “Yes, I’m coming.” The cold air of Frostmaw is refreshing, evening out how hot she is, but the stark contrast between the tavern and outside has her spinning. As the town gradually turns to wilderness, Riselet has to squint at everything ahead of her, all whites and blues that fade into each other. Any other day she’d take the time to marvel at it all, wonder what amazing discoveries were lurking around the corner. Today was not that day. Stupid sun, stupid trees, stupid snow. Stupid Lyros for being… Stupid. With a mocking grin she tries to mimic the drow, kicking a small pile blocking her path and nearly falls over herself. This issues another string of obscenities followed by a question. “When are we gonna see the dra—gons?” she whines, puffing her cheeks out in annoyance.
Hildegarde had been summoned via letter and she was never one to ignore a summons. Besides, she was absolutely certain that if she ignored this one that two people would wind up dead and the wyverns would feast heartily! So the woman went off in search of Lyros and his companion; this companion of a good heart apparently. “Kick the snow and you’ll wet your boot to slip later,” she warned the pair, smiling as she did to suggest the warning wasn’t made in all seriousness. “Is this your companion?” the knight asked, nodding her head just slightly at Riselet. “But, m’lady, perhaps you have seen dragons and simply don’t know it. Today, though, we will see wyverns for a certainty. For that, we must be quiet in our confidence and strong in our wills. Ready to venture off?”
"Wyverns," Lyros corrects with an exasperated sigh, and explains just for the sake of being irritatingly pedantic, "They're a separate species. No front legs, it's not a dragon." He did not drink nearly as much as Riselet did last night, not being the type to have more than a glass or two. For that he is somewhat thankful - were he also suffering a hangover right now he might be completely blinded by the snow, and besides, someone had to drag the intoxicated half-elf to bed when she finally succumbed to drowsiness. They are headed for the western gates, of course, on the far side of the city from the tavern and the cosy warmth and darkness of their rented room. Lyros had a note sent Hildegarde's way this morning which read simply: 'Meet us at the west gate around lunchtime. -L.' With such short notice, he was not sure she would make it, so he's glad to see the Silver already there and waiting nearby the gate. Halting in front of Hildegarde, Lyros scuffs a boot in the snow and tilts his head to her in the semblance of a nod, ignoring Riselet's antics behind him. "Nice of you to join us." He levels a hard frown on the two frost giants guarding the exit into the hunting grounds, then turns to motion towards Riselet. "That's her. You two can introduce yourselves." This said, Lyros is going to keep walking, eager to get away from the guards...or maybe he is just excited to see the Princeling again.
Riselet blows Lyros a raspberry—luckily he can’t see, else she’d definitely get a firebolt to the face. As they reach the edge of the city (not that she could tell; it all looks the same to her) a figure stands in the distance. ‘Hildegarde the Silver,’ Lyros had called her, said that she could direct them right to the dra— wyverns nearby. Riselet remembers hearing the name before, but can’t quite remember when or why. She stares for a good while at the unfamiliar woman before her, who wears armour befitting that of a knight and brings with her an atmosphere of regality. Something about her seems off; not in the sense that she’s suspicious, but that there’s more to her than meets the eye. The half-elf tries her best to look less bedraggled, fixing her posture and making an attempt at a smile. She twiddles her thumbs, feeling awfully small in comparison to Hilde. “It’s, uh… Nice to meet’cha. I’m Riselet. You’re Hilduh… Hildegarde, right?” She greets the knight awkwardly, fumbling over her name in the wake of a ravaging migraine. As Lyros walks on ahead of them, her expression turns irritable, an acrid glare directed at the drow. Rude.
Hildegarde doesn’t seem terribly bothered by the rude antics of the mismatched drow, but then again she’d make a poor knight if she was easily bothered by ill manners. “An honour to meet you, m’lady,” the woman offered in reply, her body gracefully performing a half dip as a respectful bow towards Riselet. “But we should follow in the footsteps of our associate here, if we are to meet the wyverns at an appropriate time,” she said kindly; taking a few steps forward as the butt of her halberd sank into the snow to seek out any treacherous stones that might vex her steps. “Why do you wish to visit the wyverns, m’lady? Graceful and wondrous as they might be, they are dangerous.”
Lyros, to his credit, does not simply wander off and leave the two behind. His footsteps come to a gradual halt some 30 metres beyond the gates, his cloak stirring in the wind as it tugs and plays with his hair. Squinting out across the flat tundra, the drow attempts to recall his previous path to the nest, although last time he was struggling with minimal vision in heavy snowfall and merely happened to stumble in that direction. He does not know if this place has ever been mapped and ponders what secrets western Frostmaw may hide, his gaze straying in the direction of a few half-toppled towers jutting out of the snow, far off in the distance. It is a vast, desolate landscape, windblown and quiet, as unnervingly empty as the sky and just as blinding in his eyes - Lyros rubs his face, grimacing and trying to find some relief from the pain, then resumes his seemingly futile search. To the north, the vague outline of the disused road appears to drift into the tree line around the base of the mountains, climbing away into rocky, snow-covered foothills. That looks familiar, though he stares at the distance between here and there with a hint of surprise, unaware he had wandered so far the other day. He waits for his companions to catch up, casting a glance to Hildegarde, pointing in the direction of the northern forest. "The nest is that way, right?"
Riselet takes a deep breath, the air’s biting chill keeping her somewhat attentive. Hildegarde’s manners perplex her, the city girl not used to bowing or being referred to with such honorifics, but attempts to go along with it. “And to you…?” she responds, hesitant but earnest, and begins to follow her as she makes way towards wherever Lyros could be headed. The halfling walks with them at an near-even pace, trying her hardest to keep up with Hildegarde without seeming a fool. The elegance of the Silver makes Riselet realize how dishevelled she looks in comparison, absently playing with her hair—she keeps it down today, messy rings curling over her scarf. Only at Hilde’s question does she snap out of her stupor, mumbling out an answer: “Dangerous? Yeah, I figured as much. I mean, they’re super strong, right?” A faint, but coloured laugh accompanies her reply. “I guess it’s just in the discovery of it. Like, learning new things, experiencing new things…” she grasps at thoughts in a vain attempt to string them together. “Never thought I’d get outta Cenril, so seeing all this is really amazing. And… i’unno.” A glance towards Lyros cements her small monologue. “Guess I’m jealous of him for seeing them before me.” She laughs again, her mind clearing up. The city’s nowhere in sight now, replaced by a vast stretch of wilderness, uncharted, ready to explore—the stuff she dreamt of. The boreal looked deserted, but what secrets could be hiding underneath the drift, through the trees? Her gaze turns to Lyros before returning to Hildegarde, waiting for her response.
Hildegarde nodded at Lyros, “That’s right,” she replied with confidence, allowing him to proceed ahead if he so wished to. The guards at the gate hadn’t said a word, though they might have questioned the pair or warned them if they tried to proceed without the knight to accompany them. The knight’s pace is set to match Riselet’s, politely walking side-by-side with her elbow propped out just slightly in the event that the halfling needs some assistance walking in the snow and ice. “Very strong, very quick. They can fly. Their maw can crush a skull with ease, but they are playful. However that can be lost in translation… Like cats they like to pounce things. But they forget that things are not as strong and sturdy as they are.” That said, the woman smiled as Riselet declared to be jealous of Lyros having seen the wyverns before her. “Oh I wouldn’t be jealous. He might have been eaten alive if he did not have the good fortune to run into me,” she said in jest. “Let’s press onwards. Hopefully we can arrive after they have eaten.”
Lyros slants Riselet an almost sidelong look and quirks a silver brow at her. Though his mood is clearly not at its best and he has not paid her a whole lot of (obvious) attention today, there is a distinct lack of anger in his movements and expressions - he is merely grumpy, a little stressed, and having trouble adjusting to dealing with a constant companion, having been a loner for much of his life until now. Considering the lack of trust the drow has for other people, he may not have slept all that well last night with another person in the room, albeit one likely too comatose to rob or stab him. But the fact he was still there come morning is a testament to...something— something Riselet can figure out for herself. A tiny spark of trust, perhaps. In the wake of that glance, Lyros returns Hildegarde's nod and continues walking in silence, following the road north. He does not leave as much of an imprint behind him as he should, even as the snow deepens on and to the sides of the path, which sees little use nowadays; once, maybe, it was a frost giant trade route, but now only hunters and their pray use it occasionally for more convenient travel through the snowbound forests. There are only light footprints left for Riselet to step in, but Lyros is not running away this time, hanging back closer to the pair - he offers little in the way of conversation, allowing the two to chat amongst themselves, although to the Silver's remark he does snort and say, "I was fine without you." This, unfortunately, brings his decision to ask her to join them into question, for if he is so confident, why bother?
Riselet is still a bit oblivious in this state, but her face reddens in surprise as she notices Hildegarde holding her elbow out just slightly—such niceties, no matter how small, don’t go past her radar easily. It’s a bit embarrassing to be treated so gently by a stranger, but a small smile to the knight indicates that she appreciates the gesture. “I’ve only read about wyverns and such in books, so it’ll be amazing to see ‘em in person… Like cats, huh? Or maybe dogs… I wonder if they’d like to play fetch.” Riselet doesn’t have much of a filter but still takes care to hold back anything that could offend—if what Hilde’s saying is true about rescuing Lyros (which, like all jokes, she takes seriously), then it’s best to be on her good side. Speaking of the mage, Riselet catches his glance and returns it with an exaggerated glower, sticking out her tongue. She uses his footprints as guides once again, but his longer gait makes her look a bit ridiculous. He brings out an oddly childish side in her that immediately recedes as she remembers the knight who’s walking beside her. The two stroll with a confidence that suggests they know where they’re going, but all this forest looks the same to her. Perhaps she should be thankful, though, as her internal compass would be leading her straight off a cliff right now. At least Lyros and Hildegarde are good with directions.
Hildegarde strolls at a relaxed pace, clearly unworried about the light footprints Lyros leaves in the snow. She seems to think that even without them she would have no trouble in finding the drow. “I suppose they are a bit doglike, yes. They are loyal when loved, they are loving when they see their trust in you has been worthwhile,” she said. “But hopefully we will be there soon and you’ll be able to see them for yourself.”
Lyros answers that stuck-out tongue by pulling a face himself, although his seems somewhat half-hearted in comparison. As they walk further from the city, the ground begins to rise as the road winds and wends its way through gradually thickening trees, the boreal forest scattered across the foothills of great grey mountains. What was previously a wide causeway is soon shrinking to little more than a glorified animal track cutting through the snow and occasional shrub, so difficult to make out that there comes a point where Lyros realises the road has either come to an end, or they have lost it entirely. Around them the forest is quiet, almost unnaturally still - what might normally be a tranquil atmosphere feels tinged with foreboding, as if a shadow stalks the spaces between the trees, unseen. Lyros' features settle into a frown and he grips his arm briefly, well aware of the potential dangers lurking out here, the wild beasts and their half-mad state. It's not right, he thinks. None of it feels right. "Where to, now?" he asks Hildegarde, his voice barely carrying through the still air. Lyros is visibly more alert than before as he keeps watch on their surroundings, bright eyes straining against the glare of the snow. But they appear to be alone and, for now at least, his paranoia is unfounded.
Off to the trio's left, not too far in the distance, a high grey cliff can be spotted through the coniferous canopy, where occasionally, winged creatures in flight are seen circling on thermals; the wyvern nest is close. Lyros is too busy staring into the nearby forest to notice.
Riselet grows more in more invested in the idea of seeing these wyverns as Hildegarde mentions them—so close yet so far away, as some would state. “I can’t wait,” she says in earnest, small hints of juvenile glee in her words. A deep-seated curiosity is brought to the forefront as they make their way towards the nest, and the gray elf is careful to take in the sights as her mind begins to sharpen. Her stride, still trying to match that of the drow’s, becomes less refined as they move through the snow banks, eventually losing the road entirely. Branches hang above them, obscuring a proper view of the sky, but the shadowed, muddied colours of the forest floor are easier on her senses. She can clearly tell they are far from the city, Lyros more cautious than before. The trio’s close, undoubtedly, and with that epiphany comes a grin from Riselet. Unlike Lyros, she doesn’t quite understand the threats looming in every corner, too giddy to understand the gravity. “We’re almost there, I bet,” she says in a hushed tone, almost as though she’s afraid of waking some great beast. “Ah, I’m so excited!” Like Lyros, she does not quite catch the cliff to their left, far too absorbed in her own thoughts and still somewhat affected by the lingering fogginess in her head.
Wyvern Nests
Riselet blinks at Lyros’s comment. “Attacks?” She hadn’t stayed in Frostmaw long and essentially knew next to nothing about recent events, but she assumed that whatever had been the source of the attacks wouldn’t come close to a wyvern nest. Too distracted to fuss much over his question, the halfling diverts her gaze to what lies in front of them. The charred, grazed trunks of fallen trees having given way to a clear opening, it’s obvious that they’ve finally made it. She holds her breath as they silently approach the nest, trying her best to keep her cool in light of the ardor bubbling inside of her. The effects of the hangover have gone, mostly, as her enthusiasm overrides any sort of lethargy that had taken hold of her. Bright, glimmering figures—distinct against the winter sky—drift and curl like smoke in the air, light as a breeze. They’re exactly what she expected and more. Cerulean eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, she trudges a few (unbalanced) steps ahead of Lyros to get a better look, putting a hand to his arm subconsciously. Mouth agape, the halfling can hardly contain her excitement. “Look at ‘em, Lyros! It’s like they’re dancing!” It sounds silly to say it aloud, but that’s the best comparison she can muster now. Turning to Hilde, she asks with poorly-hidden excitement, “Can we go see 'em now? What’ll they do when they see us? Do they mind us, or…?”
Hildegarde nodded at Lyros’s question, “I’m aware, yes. The animals… something has upset them, but we still don’t quite know what. My high priestess ventured to the west to discover anything useful, but I have been preoccupied with other current events,” such as her war against the drow occupying the Sage forest. The Silver looked between Lyros and Riselet, speaking gently but with total seriousness: “You need not fear any animal attacks. I’m here to protect you both,” she reminded them. “But yes, we can go forth and see them. Er… You two can walk in first. I’ll follow behind you,” she assured.
Lyros takes a moment to realise he's being touched - sensation is somewhat dulled through a combination of the cold and all his layers of clothing, and his eyes are focused distractedly on the heavens, watching the wyverns. When it does dawn on him, he blinks then quickly covers the surprise with a frown, and considers pulling away. Instead, a gloved hand — sans clawed tips, for once — closes over Riselet's, briefly, and he tells her, "Try not to wander too far. I'm not pulling you out of a wyvern's gullet." Turning to Hildegarde, Lyros offers the Silver a nod in answer to both her response to his question and to her assurance that they will be safe. He'll have to enquire further on the topic of the attacks, but— later. Above, the beasts wheel and twist gracefully through the sky, diving from their perches to circle overhead, their chattering and screaming rising to an almost excited chorus as Lyros steps forward into the nest, willing to take Riselet alongside him if she'll follow, his gaze focused upward and searching the gathered wyverns for any sign of the two he met the other day. His gait is fairly confident; the wyverns are no threat to him. Nor are they to Riselet, though without Lyros' knowing, it is not due to his presence but the Steward of Frostmaw's behind them.
Ice wyverns are smaller than their desert kin from the nameless wastes between Gualon and Cenril, with light horns, cold silver or white scales tinged with frost-blue, and fanned tails. Their spines are decorated with ridges that resemble hoarfrost and black ice, allowing them to blend in easily to their wintry surroundings. Most of the beasts nesting here are identical, but almost as many can be glimpsed sporting various differences: some with black horns and odd scale patterning, their colours a patchwork of gold and silver, or pearly tones, with vicious spikes growing from the ends of their tails, and obsidian mouths. The native species would be dwarfed by these hybrids were they fully-grown, but none have quite made it there yet - they are, in essence, teenagers at the oldest. Gradually, a few spiral down to investigate the trio, led by a truly majestic creature. He is by far the largest and clearly the alpha of the flock, his scales shimmering in the sunlight like liquid gold, his body a patchwork of scars gained from fighting to earn his place at the top. Graceful for his size, the Nameless King glides down from the top of the cliff in wide circles, banking slowly around until he comes to land atop a large boulder, his weight sending tremors through the icy ground. His eyes fall to the drow and half-drow and the great king huffs a warm breath at the two, bending his head down to inspect Riselet in particular more closely. Off to his side, another wyvern lands, this one sporting black horns and spikes, his scales a mottled mix of gold and silver and his head bobbing excitedly. Beside him perches a slightly larger sibling, her pearlescent scales glittering like opal and moonstone and her eyes an icy blue. She nudges her brother, earning a gentle headbutt to the side in return. Sighing at his offspring, Nameless turns lastly to Hildegarde and dips his head low - a sign of respect.
Lyros eyes the Princeling and his inability to stop moving around.
Riselet mostly brushes over whatever the two are talking about, focused on what’s right in front of them. She jumps at bit when Lyros grabs her hand, almost protectively, but makes no effort to wrangle her hand free of his. When he lets go, her heart flinches slightly—that short squeeze was a strange, but earnest indication that he’d be watching. “Neither am I,” she returns sarcastically, but in good humour. At the knight’s words, Riselet is inclined to run right in and say hello—but she controls the impulse, heeding what Lyros says, and walks ahead calmly, yet with an obvious spring in her step. She hardly notices the bones littering the floor of the pit, licked clean by young and old alike, as though completely unafraid of becoming their next meal. The presence of the Silver is enough reassurance that she won’t be eaten, making her foray into the nest a bold one. The beasts before her are mighty and proud, but possess the same simple curiosity as Riselet. The halfling marvels at their size, the authority they carry, the bright eyes that can bore through her. She simply watches, eyes fixed upon their radiant scales; some glimmer in a hue that contrasts the white banks surrounding the clearing, more like flecks of sand than snowflakes. Other than scale color, she can identify little difference between the hybrids and natives of Frostmaw’s boreal. With the descent of the wyvern aptly called Nameless, however, she realizes the source of the disparity: undoubtedly the king, he’s a behemoth among the rest of the nest’s inhabitants, wearing myriad scars and gashes with pride. A gilded statue, or a great beast carved from sand—somehow, he’s survived and made a niche for himself in the wasteland. The two others that flank to his side carry the same pride, related to him, somehow—she isn’t sure of the details from that first glance. The deep bow she receives makes her shiver with excitement. Riselet freezes in place, dazzled by the display. “That’s unreal. You see how big he is, Lyros? He’s hu—ge! So are the others, too!” Glancing at the knight behind them, she asks, “Do they have names? Do you know ‘em, at all?”
Hildegarde had remained silent as Lyros and Riselet ventured forth into the nest of wyverns, watching with quiet amusement as the wyverns flew around gracefully and landed to peer at the two-legged beings who invaded their lair. Strange humanoids, but they seemed to be welcome within the lair given that the Nameless King had not struck at them just yet. Hildegarde’s head stooped low in a similar mark of respect before she spoke gently to Riselet, “They have names you and Lyros might never understand. He,” she nods to the most resplendent and largest of them all, “is the Nameless King. These are the Princes and Princesses. That one there, that piebald princeling, is the one who took a shining to our drow friend here,” she explained gently. “I know the Nameless King and I know his son and daughter quite well. But as for the rest… well, they are numerous and I am but one. Too many names to know, particularly when these ones are just so young and playful and I am grown and weary.”
Lyros manages a smile at Riselet's quip, though he does not take his eyes off the great beasts surrounding them. He hangs back while she steps forward to investigate the nest's inhabitants, watching Nameless lean to peer at his awed companion. "If you hold out your hand, maybe he'll say hello," he calls, though his words are half-drowned out as the Prince takes flight, a powerful beat of glittering wings carrying him easily over all their heads to land behind the mage. He certainly seems pleased to see him, prowling around Lyros and rubbing his flank against the drow's side in the manner of a contented, purring cat, his chest rumbling with an attempt at such. Slightly surprised and unsure of how to react, Lyros settles for scratching at his scaly side - the effect is dulled by his gloves and he earns himself a shove from the adolescent, who swings around and forces him to duck beneath his tail to avoid being gored by those deadly spines. He has as much skill with animals as he does with people but the Princeling more than makes up for that, his snapping jaws and swishing tail both playful gestures that seem to say, "What, is that all you've got?" Again he begins shoving his head under Lyros' arms, as if trying to hoist him up...
Meanwhile, his regal sister has yet to leave her perch on the boulder but her eyes are definitely tracking Riselet's movements intently, shining with the sort of curiosity that the Princess cannot hide behind her elegant facade.
Riselet listens to Hildegarde’s explanation intently, letting out a laugh when she points out the Princeling’s affection for Lyros. “Oi, Lyr, you made a new friend without telling me?” She jabs him with an elbow before taking another glance at the Nameless King, bathed in light and resplendence, who eyes them warily. All strangers, even those accompanied by the knight of Silver, are still strangers at the core. She turns her attention to the sole female of the trio, Princess, looking to be older and wiser than her brother—but still a child and, Riselet hopes, still playful. She’s crafted from jewels, those bits of gleaming baubles she eyed from windows as a child, and her eyes are pits of bright water; like mother’s almost, but from warmer seas, so to say. Riselet doesn’t hesitate to approach the wyvern, still roosting on a boulder as though it was her pride and joy. “You’re gorgeous!” she exclaims, holding out a hand for her to greet. Unfolding a pair of leathery wings, she comes down to greet Riselet—she can see the female eye her brother every so often, though whether out of uncertainty of how to act she isn’t sure. Landing a few feet away, Princess initially regards the outstretched with confusion, her breath light and humid on the halfling’s gloved fingers, before giving a pleased(?) snort. A very reserved greeting, but a greeting nonetheless. “It’s so very nice to meet you!” Riselet’s voice is light and dainty, pushed up a note as if greeting a kitten. The half-elf rubs her chin, careful not to accidentally shove her hand into the wyvern’s half-open jaw; this elicits another snort, and Princess delicately rubs the side of her face against her arm. A dazed grin can’t leave her face; this is the stuff of dreams, pure fantasy, unfolding right in front of her. To bond with such a legendary creature! Riselet continues to pet Princess, unsure of how to approach such a beast but still enchanted by the bond they’re creating.
Hildegarde glanced at Nameless as his son and daughter appeared to content themselves with Lyros and Riselet alike. Nameless wears a face that seems to say ‘kids, right?’ and it’s totally lost on Hildegarde. The knight is not a mother and she’ll never be one, but she is not without compassion. Laughing gently, the Silver stooped slightly to plant a swift kiss upon the scaly head of Nameless: “My dear friend, your son is mischief and your daughter is regal… I’m not sure who inherited what from you!” she commented playfully. As Lyros is nudged repeatedly by the wyvern, the Silver glanced once again at Nameless. She knew the intent of the princeling. While Princess was unlikely to be quite so forward or rough, Princeling would be. “He’s made a choice?” she asked of Nameless in a hushed tone, watching as Princeling prepared for his next step of mischief.
Nameless regards Hildegarde with wise, knowing eyes, though hints of amusement lurk in the creases of his scales. "He reminds me of Kirien— in far too many ways," the King snorts in reply with a pointed glance to his son's drow companion, who looks as bemused by the Princeling's shoving and playful attitude as Kuzial was by Kirien's interest in him and love, despite all he was. Nameless grins at that, a laugh rumbling in the back of his throat. But soon enough, he turns serious again, and Hildegarde's question has him looking long and hard at the Prince. "It would seem so. Although he looks rather...unaware."
"I'm not— I'm not making friends!" Lyros denies with a frustrated growl, his words briefly interrupted when the Prince bucks his neck upwards and yanks the unprepared drow entirely off his feet. The next time, he very nearly succeeds in getting him onto his back, only Lyros twists beneath him instead, hanging from the wyvern's neck for a second before dropping back to the ground. "What are you doing?" he asks the adolescent incredulously, completely confused to the point where he looks to Hildegarde for guidance, but she is too busy conversing with Nameless. Lyros is left to endure the excitable young wyvern alone; he seems to calm down or perhaps give up for the time being, however, smashing his tail against the ground and uttering an echoing chirrup that sounds almost impatient as he lays his head on the floor. He stares up with pleading eyes, dejected, but the drow is not swayed into doing...whatever it is he wants. Frowning, Lyros chances a glance over at Riselet and sees her focused on Princess, and the mage pauses to watch her interacting with the graceful, composed female, so different and more polite than her boisterous brother. It's Riselet that his eyes are drawn to the most - more than the Princess' enchanting appearance, with her gemstone hide shining in myriad hues as if she is some living jewel, a child of the earth, mercury and pearl come to life— more than that, Lyros finds he cannot look away from the half-elf's smile, so dazzling it's almost blinding. This is the sight of dreams coming true and maybe for once in his life, he can call something 'beautiful.' It almost seems blasphemous to keep looking with these red-tinged eyes that have seen so many horrors, as if he might dirty the scene somehow, and he fights the urge to turn his gaze to the floor. She is short and scruffy with loose ends and wild hair but right now, at least, there is a spark keeping him caught, wide-eyed, a touch breathless. When he remembers to inhale again, the cold air is a shock to his lungs, leading Lyros to a mild coughing fit. Beside him, the Prince huffs a heavy sigh and attempts to bite his ankle, thoroughly ruining the moment as the drow yelps and leaps away, then trips over, still struggling to catch his breath.
Riselet looks to Hilde for guidance, unsure as to whether she’s going about this right, but the knight is deep in conversation with Nameless. Princess, herself, seems more receptive to Riselet’s attention towards her; though not nearly as energetic as her brother, she nips at the halfling’s fingertips and makes circles around her, intelligent eyes watching her with interest. The wyvern seems to be very careful about accidentally hitting her with her spikes, opting to have Riselet shower her with affection instead. She gladly does. She never expected something regal and stately to be so gentle all the same, relishing in the opportunity to feel the smoothness of her iridescent scales, to become an equal with such a powerful creature. Princess seems especially interested in Riselet’s scarf—a torn thing, thrashing about with the slightest breeze—and follows its trail with her mouth like a cat to a toy. It doesn’t take long for the halfling to notice, slipping off her scarf and waving it in front of her. Catching it with her mouth, Princess loses all sheds of her pride in favour of playing with the strange, cottony fabric, rending holes at the ends ever-wider. Unfazed, Riselet grabs the other end, and the two engage in a mock tug-of-war; obviously outmatching her in strength, the wyvern opts to jerk at it erratically, sending Riselet stumbling this way and that. But she laughs all the way, only stopping to take a fleeting glance at Lyros. The drow himself seems a touch lost, having a coughing fit on the floor. “Lyros, you okay? I think he wants you to ride him!” she cheers, waving with her free hand. “Just go with the motions, y’know?” She had stolen the occasional glance at him as he attempted to appease Prince’s demands, very much out of his element. She had to admire his tenacity; surviving on the surface, alone in a world that was not crafted for him. He had survived so far through his intellect and sheer will, and she silently promised that she wouldn’t let him go through the rest of it alone. They were kindred spirits, almost, like two strangers bound b— Her thoughts are interrupted as Princess tugs at the scarf, sending her tumbling. An expletive, then a grin; she gets back on her feet and casts a glance to Lyros, seeing if he’s made it up.
Hildegarde dare not look at Nameless when he spoke to her, when he spoke of that resemblance and of the only Prince she dared to love. A prince in title, a prince in name and deed; the only prince of her heart to be sure. “He does,” she agreed in a whisper, knowing full well if she spoke her agreement any higher that her words would only be a choked sob. The memories were far too precious, the likeness… it was beauty and pain all at once. Yet as both Prince and Princess push and nudge at their respective new friends, the knight watches over them both protectively. She expects the wyverns to behave to a point – they won’t eat or maim the strangers – but they were playful beasts. “He wants to fly, doesn’t he?” she asked of Nameless, jerking her chin in the direction of Prince and Lyros.
Lyros, who might be wheezing slightly, makes it back to his feet just in time to see Riselet go tumbling and rolling across the ground. Despite himself he starts laughing and inadvertently makes the task of breathing all the more difficult for himself - he can only stand there clutching his stomach, half-gasping and half-cackling with mirth. "'Just...go with the motions!'" he mocks in total amusement, lifting his voice an octave or so to mimic Riselet (badly). He sounds dazed and a little out of it but he's sure, surely. It seems he's snapped out of his stupor – which he will pretend never existed, if questioned – as Lyros holds nothing back, laughing himself breathless all over again. Truly, it is a strange sight and sound to behold, a drow laughing genuinely with no hint of cruelty in his tone, no malice. He may very well have ended up back on the ground when something causes him to stop and jerk his head up, gasping, "Wait, did you say 'ride'? Ride him?! As in, into the sky?" Wide-eyed for a different reason this time, Lyros stares at Riselet as if she's grown a third arm, not quite able to believe what he's hearing. Fly? Up there? Panting for air, he looks up at the vast blue expanse, where numerous wyverns still drift on the thermals like wheeling white comets. The dizzying sight makes his head spin and he feels a wave of nausea wash over him - the ground rushes up to meet him again as Lyros stumbles, but is caught by Prince before he can crack his skull open on a rock, the drow slumping over the wyvern's neck like a drowning man clinging to a pool noodle. "Ugh," he mutters, shaking his head and immediately regretting it when his vision swims and the ringing in his ears intensifies. "I don't think...that's a good idea?" Ever prideful, he tries to right himself, but the Princeling manages, with some manoeuvring and frantic twisting, to get the mage onto his back. He sits there looking vaguely horrified and not sure what to do with himself.
Nameless understands that pain - the love and the loss, the fear of never seeing her beloved prince again. He too was left behind, unable to venture into the narrow caverns and darkness of the deep, the underground world Kirien came to call home and then was unceremoniously interred in, one day years ago. He too feels a sense of failure, as if he could have done more to protect him. The King leans to nudge his snout against the Silver's shoulder, taking a quiet solace in her presence as they mourn together. His golden eyes lift to regard his son, though, observing how Lyros seems to have frozen atop the Prince's back like a chickadee caught in a bad snowstorm. "He wants to, but does your friend? He looks a bit peaky."
Riselet can hear Lyros mimic her mockingly as she spits out specks of dirt. In any other situation she’d become a teeming mass of wrath for not being taken seriously, but hearing him laugh—genuinely, as it sounds—makes her hesitate. She’d barely known him for a day, but somehow Riselet could tell that laughter from him is something of a rare commodity (as it is for all drow, generally). Wiping dust and grime from her coat, she comes up to Princess and tenderly wraps the rest of the scarf around her, one end still clamped in her mouth. “You really like it, don’tcha? I guess I’ll have to get myself a new one later,” she says with a chuckle. She turns to watch Lyros gripping onto Prince for dear life, completely unsurprised but more than a little bit concerned. Seeing Lyros continue to struggle with Prince, an idea pops into her mind—why not show him? Princess, somehow understanding what Riselet has in mind, meets her touch with a defensive flap of her wings. “Easy, easy,” the halfling coos, attempting to soothe the ornery girl. “I promise I’m not that heavy. ’Sides, wouldn’t it be nice to set a good example for your brother?” She rubs the top of the wyvern’s head with a grin, seeming to appease her. Riselet looks towards Hildegarde as though she has all the answers—while she’s still in conversation with Nameless—before tentatively hitching to the back of her newfound friend. Hands embracing her neck loosely, she exclaims, “I’m not so sure if I’m doing this right, but it’s worth a try!” Princess, probably the more sensible of the two, does not take complete flight as Riselet expects; instead, eyeing her brother, she takes a couple of vigorous flaps in the air, enough for them to gain a few feets’ lift. Together as one, they glide around the other duo, Riselet full of adrenaline while Princess hoping to teach her brother a lesson in moderation. "Hilde, am I doing this right?" the halfling shouts as they skirt the ground, kicking up dust with each flap.
Hildegarde did not budge at the nudge, only moving her hand to gently touch his snout in a show of affection. They were left together in the world, knowing they were both incapable of finding their friend; their liege and their heart. Hildegarde would never forget seeing him consumed by the earth, swallowed up without a hint of panic or fear; as if he had just gone for a leisurely swim. Perhaps that’s what it felt like to her liege. But it was a feeling she would never know nor understand. Swiftly, though, she is brought out of her reverie by Riselet’s question. “Tuck your knees in, scoot back a little bit – yes, that’s right.” Her attention shifted to Lyros, “Oh for goodness sake, just let him take you up in the air! If you keep this up you’ll break your back, come on!”
Lyros, frozen, does not seem to take notice of Riselet's antics at first - but when the realisation of what she plans to do dawns in the drow's head, he affixes his gaze on her instantly, features stricken with genuine horror. "Riselet!" His voice is a touch higher than usual and tinged with an uncharacteristic panicked edge. He truly cannot believe the half-elf would attempt something so ridiculously stupid, given she has about as much idea of how to fly a dragon as he does...but then the thought crosses his mind that Riselet rarely seems to think about something before doing it; something she made more than obvious with her joke the other day. Watching her wrap her arms around Princess' neck as the wyvern gracefully lifts off, Lyros begins shaking his head rapidly from side to side, which naturally does nothing to ease the awful sensation curled in the pit of his stomach. To his sister's sensible, safe first flight with Riselet, the Prince responds with a snort and a strong thump of his tail against the ground in irritation, causing Lyros to yelp in surprise as the wyvern suddenly moves beneath him. "Please stop— stop moving," he begs, his obvious apprehension making it clear he is far, far out of his comfort zone— and they have not yet left the ground! Every twitch of the Princeling's powerful muscles feels like an earthquake under his thighs and Lyros' head is swimming. Dimly he hears Hildegarde call out to him, exasperated, and tries to return her words with a sneer but instead looks vaguely ill. "I don't want to hear anything from you! You're probably used to this, you—" Whatever he might have said is cut off when the Prince sighs and, in one combined motion of snapping, leathery wings and strong legs, leaps from the ground and explodes into the air - Lyros' voice disintegrates into a wordless scream as the two go shooting upwards, shaking Princess with the turbulence and drowning her and her rider in the dust cloud they leave behind. The drow can do little but instinctively copy Riselet, wrapping his arms tight around Prince's neck as the wyvern whirls and spins, easily dodging ice wyverns already filling the air. With much screeching the flock scatters, drawing quickly away from the boisterous adolescent and his rather unwilling rider as they soar higher into the sky.
Riselet does as Hildegarde instructs, attentively taking in every word the wise knight speaks. The thrill of being airborne, if even for a few seconds, had completely overridden any semblance of responsibility she had. Pulse still high from their fleeting foray into the air, the halfling steels herself for a much longer flight, gripping Princess’s neck as if it were her lifeline. She remembers Lyros’s panicked shout had gone completely over her head, and she briefly considers how out of character it was for him to seem so alarmed—but the thought is brushed aside as Princess abruptly takes flight after her brother, hoping to surpass him after acting so rudely. The nerve! With each powerful beat of her jeweled wings, the wyvern lifts them duo up gracefully, going in sweeping circles around the nest until their height is comparable to Prince’s. Unlike Lyros, Riselet takes the sudden ascension in stride; though she has little control over Princess, the female eases her into the air despite an unexpected start. Being in flight is unlike any other experience—she feels weightless in this instant, almost like a higher power gazing below at its creations. Gusts of frost bite at her face, cheeks flushing, but she’s smiling all the while. Hildegarde can be made out alongside the Nameless King; Riselet breathlessly waves to them before being interrupted by a flock of wyrms, courtesy of the Princeling. With an agitated puff of air, Princess swoops towards her brother before dodging him effortlessly, which draws out a laugh from Riselet. She looks at the poor mage while Princess rebounds, scarcely hearing herself over the roar of the wind. “Isn’t this fun, Lyros?!”
Hildegarde watched as the pair soared ever higher: one with a princess like grace and one with… well, perhaps a sort of unusual grace. The knight watched them eagerly, like a protective bear over her learning cubs: she waits with patience for when one might fall or one might require assistance. “They’re having fun,” she said with a little shrug towards Nameless, “but your son might make the drow vomit. And the vomit will rain down upon us. I don’t know about you, but I firmly dislike being vomited upon.”
Right now, 'fun' is absolutely not how Lyros would describe this experience. Eyes squeezed shut, he hangs on for dear life as Prince spins rapidly with his wings tucked close against his body, arcing up over the crest of the nesting cliff and gradually bending away from it as he slows and gravity attempts to reclaim them. The manoeuvre turns the two upside down - Lyros' eyes open wide in shock when he finds himself lifted from the wyvern's back to hang in the air for a few seconds as time itself seems to slow to a crawl, before Prince flares his wings, draws them back, and drives them forward in a powerful beat that provides enough thrust to send them rocketing through the air again. He twists as they fly at high speed, righting himself just as Princess ducks beneath them; Lyros is treated to a brief glimpse of Riselet gliding under his head, comfortable despite the height and shouting something his ringing ears cannot hear, in a passing that is far too close for comfort. Snorting, Prince opens his wings wide enough to catch the wind and shave off some speed, swiftly peeling away behind his sister before she can turn to follow. He dives and Lyros tries not to scream again as the wind tears his hair back out of his face, his insides a mess as they descend towards the treetops at high speed. It's a miracle he holds onto the contents of his stomach, clutching at Prince while the wyvern barrels and bounds through the air just feet above the forest then abruptly pushes higher again, moving into a series of loops and back flips that really test Lyros' constitution.
Nameless watches the antics of his children from the ground, sitting alongside Hildegarde with his head tilting back and forth, following the movements of Princeling and Princess. "He's holding up all right...I guess. If worst comes to worst, I'll be your umbrella," the King jokes, extending a wing to cover the Silver's head. "The girl is rather enjoying herself. Quite a natural, in comparison," he comments, studying Riselet intently.
Riselet can’t help but stare as Lyros is tossed around by a lively Prince, holding in a laugh as the drow himself tries not to scream. Princess drifts at a steady pace behind her brother before righting herself in the opposite direction, seeming as though to land.. As if to say ‘you’re lucky to have me,’ the wyvern executes a polished descent towards the ground, only to be caught by a drift that sends them up again, something that leaves the smaller halfling winded, heart soaring yet still wanting more. They travel by long, rising arcs and freefalls, Princess aptly navigating the skies she’s known all her life. She stays clear of the rest of the flock, giving the duo a certain freedom of movement that allows Riselet to occasionally take the reins—with this, she encourages the high-strung wyvern to make more brisk, dynamic movements, ultimately in an attempt to catch up with Lyros and Prince. It’s not difficult to make out Prince himself, who’s currently giving his drow companion whiplash, and Riselet, at their detection, lightly presses her heels into the beast’s sides. With a nod of understanding, the two steadily climb the air to gather speed before plummeting downwards, Riselet squinting her eyes against the wind. They follow the more erratic pair above the canopy before Princess nearly mirrors Prince in speed, giving her brother a look of mock-condescension as she unfolds her wings to glide. Riselet—hair now a fluffy mess—opens her eyes and attempts to speak to Lyros over the zephyr: “Ly—ros! You hanging in there?!” The laugh that follows is quickly swallowed up, the halfling gasping for air. “Y’know what?! We should race! It’ll be fun, I promise!”
Hildegarde laughed, stooping slightly to maximise the effect of Nameless taking her under his wing; to make her look more cub than protective mother bear. “And here I am supposed to be the brave knight,” she remarked jokingly to the wyvern. “They want to race now… Your daughter is a natural at flying with a companion. Have you been sneaking her into the Eyrie?” she said with a sly smile. “Your son, however… well, he’s a little rebel. Like you.”
Lyros does not throw up, thankfully, although he can feel the bile rising in the back of his throat even as they keep to this fast-paced straight. The sound of Prince's leathery wings snapping and rustling in the wind is loud in his ears, almost deafening, like a flag whipping in a strong breeze. After a while of this without having to endure any surprise twists and turns, he dares to sit up a little, cautious and likely shaking, as the wyvern slows his pace and opts to glide over the treetops alongside his sister when she arrives. Hands desperately seek to find purchase on his smooth scales and the drow turns to look despairingly at Riselet, sharing none of her enthusiasm. Overhead, the sky is blinding and all the more vast than when he stares up at it from the ground. Up here, even this low, he feels entirely surrounded by brilliant blue— and there are no clouds to catch him were he to fall into it. "Are you mad?" he yells back at his companion, making a futile attempt to disguise his fear with fury, though he can't hide the wild terror shining in his eyes. Having spent much of his life underground, it is unsurprising for the drow to be rather agoraphobic and this situation is the equivalent of throwing him face-first into his phobias, something he is, naturally, not all that comfortable with. The openness of the sky is unnerving; Lyros likes close, enclosed spaces. "How do I make him go down!" the mage calls frantically to Riselet, clutching his stomach and groaning, dizzy. "I feel sick, I want to land!" Right then, too focused on Princess, the Princeling playfully swings his sister's way and attempts to buffet her to one side with his own turbulence - unfortunately Lyros is too busy holding his stomach and in one motion, the drow slips straight off the wyvern's back and plummets toward the forest with barely enough time to scream. Thrown into a sudden panic, Prince tries to bank around to catch or find him, his tail arcing round to smack Princess in the side if she does not move in time. The sight of Lyros falling is short but it ends rather grotesquely as the mage crashes into a tree on his way down, thereafter vanishing abruptly from sight beneath the canopy, a flock of disturbed crows rising, squawking, in his wake.