Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,
Sythyry
sythyry

Peace Everwhere (Mating Flight 102/240)

Peace Everywhere (Day 68)

Peaceful Sleep

“No, I’m not going to wake her up. You wake her up if you want her awake,” hissed Nrararn.

Ňẫsśuò, Mẩŝśuò” I mumbled. “I’m not asleep, I’m awake.” I was, too, obviously. Nobody speaks Grand Draconic in their sleep. Every dragonet explains this to their parents on many mornings.

“Arilash isn’t,” said Nrararn. “Osoth wants the Melismatic Tempest. He left some things in some catacombs.”

“Oh! I left some things in some catacombs too!”

Osoth peered at me over Nrararn’s wings. “Subtle dragoness, to conceal your riches in my own domain of research! Beware, beware — it is not mine alone, a veritable horde of petty archaeologists and overzealous, underskilled seminarians seek the origins of their religion in the corpses of its martyrs. They will take your treasures for their own, if they find them!”

“Just Tarcuna,” I said. “We’ll probably want her soon.”

“Subcontractest thou thy mating duties to thine whore?” hissed Osoth, and giggled.

I snapped at his wing, and missed. “No, no. She studied weapons engineering. In Trest.”

“A course of studies which inevitably leads to whoredom, in one form or another!” chirped Osoth, drawing back.

“Well, if you’re stolen by a cyoziworm, it might,” I said. “Anyways, I get to wake Arilash up. Where is she, anyways?”

She was curled up with, and rather stuck to, Csirnis. Obviously they had been up a bit after I had gone to sleep. This made me jealous, so I woke them both up with a sharp gust of ice breath.

Tried to, rather. Csirnis awoke instantly — his dangersense is as good as mine — and managed to interpose himself between my breath and my rival. “Oh, good morning, Jyothky. I’m not sure that today is quite the best time for dominance contests. And I’m not quite sure that they really count quite as much if your opponent is fast asleep.”

“Good morning, Csirnis! I was trying to wake her up, not have a contest. Osoth and I need some travel spells.”

“Ice breath might be a bit much for your first alarm,” said Csirnis, as he healed himself.

“A screaming argument didn’t wake her! Or you, either,” I said.

“Two of them, actually,” noted Nrararn.

Csirnis lowered his wings. “You could have just nipped her a bit.”

I made sure my illusion spells were strong, and lied, “That never works on me. I forgot it’d work for other people.”

Csirnis regarded me closely. “Naturally you are unused to the basic properties of the people who surround you.”

“Stop teasing me, Csirnis. Just wake Arilash up, will you?”

“I’m not asleep, I’m awake,” mumbled Arilash in Grand Draconic.

So we got our the Melismatic Tempests, Osoth and I, and wrapped ourselves in many illusions, and headed off to another continent, trailing a wide wake of thorny music.

Originally published at Mating Flight. You can comment here or there.

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