01.28.3014: Carry Me On the Waves
Summary: After Klaudea departs, Cyrielle and Nitrim share some quiet time after the storm.
Date: Around 11/15/2013
Related: [[[Sail Away, Sail Away…]


Cyrielle Nitrim 

Captain's Cabin, Darmour's Revenge
Included in log
January 28, 3013

She’ll have to thank Klaudea for that later. Though more than likely, Cyrielle will make light of the squire’s departure to join the others and crew belowdecks while sending her Knight a letter of glowing recommendation. Everyone did well… except, perhaps, Nitrim’s chaperone. The Hollolas woman doesn’t mind that, though. It gives them at least a short time alone.

Settling heavily onto the edge of the bed in the captain’s quarters, Cyrielle starts undoing the tabs that hold the leg brace into place. She’s already directed Nitrim to the best liquor stored within the cabin itself. The woman is soaked through, but doesn’t seem aware of the fact that an edge of her bedding will receive the same treatment. Instead, she watches the Khourni lordling.

There’s a hint of a smile to her features, but also a sadness.

“I’m going on a pilgrimage in the Forest of Eden once we return.”

Turning his back to Cyrielle, Nitrim shrugs his sopping wet, freezing cold coat off of his shoulders to let the ambient warmth of the room settle in over his bones. His billowy black shirt, also soaking wet, clings to the tattooed muscles on his back, and if the shirt were white would likely provide the Hollolas lady with hints of them through the fabric. Nevermind the slightly blue lips, Nitrim's shivering isn't from fear, and he will be warm soon.

"The only question on my mind is if the only reason you are telling me this is so that I'm informed." Nitrim replies, pausing as the sound of whiskey being poured into two glasses filters between his words. "Because I, of all people within a thousand miles, knows the need for spiritual exploration." Supportive, apparently, Nitrim turns and steps across the room to her, setting her glass on a table beside her.

"What do you need from me for your pilgrimage to go right?"

“Well, informed, yes,” Cyrielle says, dropping the brace aside once it’s removed from her leg. She stands then, wincing slightly as she removes her own coat. It’s dropped to the floor with a fluttering of fabric and a clatter of buckles. “I don’t know how long it’ll take. We’ll be wholly cut off from each other… I can’t take any technology in with me and I’ll be alone.”

She seems a bit uncertain as she reaches for her drink, lifting it to take a sip. “I know we’ve… adapted to being apart, but we’re always still just a message or a picture away. This will be different.”

"But you're capable, you're not some wilting flower." Nitrim stands firm before her, eyes watching here over the glass as he takes a sip. As the glass lowers, he reaches out for her ear, brushing his thumb over it gently and tucking a wet lock of straight hair behind it.

"And you know that I love you, and I am changed because of you. I owe you much for that." Nitrim adds, his eye and cheek on his left side squinting in a visage of acceptance. "Are you okay?"

Brown eyes close slightly as Cyrielle leans into his touch. Breath comes out in a rush and this close, he can see that she’s shaking. “I feel as if we’ve both changed,” she offers softly, eyes opening again to lock to his. “I think back to that first time we met and… already, we’ve come so far.”

The question brings silence initially, but she’s soon stepping in, winding her free arm around him. Ignoring the state their clothes are in. She may be damp and chilled, but she has her drake for warmth. “It’s just all hitting me at once,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I could have lost you out there. Any of you. I couldn’t handle that.”

Holding his glass to the side, Nitrim presses his shivering body against Cyrielle's and clings to her for warmth and comfort. His arms squeeze around her sides, drawing her into a tight, emotional hug that sends his breath rushing over her shoulder in a sigh. The squeeze holds tight, and then slowly releases.

"It's been a hard few weeks for you, and then this." Nitrim replies, pressing his lips to a spot beneath her ear, a kiss to the soft skin of her neck. "We made it through, though, if you're superstitious like I am it isn't necessarily a bad sign." Nitrim points out, but his body language pauses, held tentative against her chest. "Why the pilgrimage?"

There’s a soft sigh at that press of lips. It lets much of the remaining tension melt out of Cyrielle and she leans comfortably against him. Against the frame she knows can and will support her. Fingertips press lightly against his back; other hand still holding the glass gently.

“The fact that a storm hit us at all is part of the issue,” she murmurs. “I left Lazarus during a storm. I ended up in a storm on my first real voyage back out. It’s almost like the Captain doesn’t want me on his oceans.” Fears borne of a rush of adrenaline held at bay. Cyrielle steps back just enough to drain the rest of her glass. Eyes close as the warmth of the liquor infuses her.

“I need to… get in touch with my roots, as it were. Make sure I’m… I’m doing the right things. I don’t have rituals or divinations for that, ‘trim.”

"Do what you have to do," Nitrim's arms slip to her hips, holding her with a backwards lean; giving her the room to finish her drink. "I don't know if this is expected or not and I know your house doesn't quite understand us Awakened, but I know a place where someone has to figure things out on their own when I see it. Six know I've been there a thousand times, myself."

Releasing her hips, Nitrim turns his side to her to face the table and pulls his soaked shirt over the top of his head. Folding it over the top of a chair to drip-dry, he moves towards the heater and crouches to place his hands before the fire.

"What does your gut tell you, Cyrielle? Do you feel like all of this is happening because you're not going the right way, or that there is something being missed and these storms are portents?" Nitrim turns his head to watch her while he warms up. "Will fixing your ankle anger your spirits?"

“It is not expected, no,” Cyrielle says softly, setting down the empty glass on the desk. She watches Nitrim remove his shirt with sharp eyes. Oh how she loves seeing him like that; it’s almost better than naked. There’s the allure of those scars and muscles, with the tease of what lies beneath the rest of his attire.

“I’m not good at reading my gut,” she admits quietly, moving to the trunk of her belongings that was brought aboard. She pulls out a long-sleeved top with enough length to serve as a dress and a pair of breeches made of a warm, but thin and snug material. “I think that’s why I want to go, my love. I’ll miss you and hate being so fully cut off, but… I need to figure this out.”

There’s a pause as she starts to tug off her own soaked attire. “I need to figure myself out.”

Nitrim's eyes narrow perceptively to follow Cyrielle's movements. The way she peels off her wet clothing, the cling of the fabric to her curves that results in bared flesh, never gets old. Even as he rubs his hands together to restore circulation, he tilts his head to observe. Then again, watching each other undress has become a bit of a ritual for both of them.

"I'll miss you, too, but not doing this is going to make you feel blind. It will be a necessary evil. Like I said, I will be here when you return, in one form or another." Nitrim replies with a smirk, his knee lowering to the floor so that he can pivot and turn his back to the heater. "So I won't be offended when we're out of contact, but when you're back out I demand that you message me so that I know you made it out okay."

There’s a shiver down pale flesh as Cyrielle’s body is bared to the ambient air of the room. There’s no shyness surrounding the revelation of her naked flesh to Nitrim; hasn’t been for a while. He’s the one soul she doesn’t mind seeing her in such a way. Scarred ankle and all.

She grabs a blanket from the bed and makes her way over to the Khournas, settling down next to him before the heater and draping it about the both of them. “You’ll be the first I contact, love. The instant I am returned to the waking world and my belongings. I will let you know all is well and find a time and place to meet you so we can talk over whatever the results of my search may be.”

Too mindful to admit things like I am cold or I need a blanket, the shivering Khouni wraps his arms around the dry top she wears and huddles in close against Cyrielle to sap at her warmth. A ragged, freezing sigh crosses over his lips as his wet hair teases at her jaw. A grunt muscles it's way up his throat as he shifts, landing his ass upon the floor so that he can work at the laces of his boots.

"Well, one thing is for sure," Nitrim comments as he tugs the laces free and peels his socks away. "I dressed for warmth but I am an idiot for all of this heavy clothing. If I am to sail with you I am going to have to pick better clothing for it. That coat of mine is easily three hundred pounds soaking wet."

“Now you know why we sailors don’t need to train with the heavy packs like foot soldiers do,” Cyrielle says with a soft laugh. She extends an arm around him, holding the other edge of the blanket in place. Between the heater and the blanket’s material, they’ll be warm (but not wholly dry) in no time. “When I return, I can help you get some good clothes for sailing. There’s certain materials that do better than others.”

She leans in against him, her own wet hair falling against his shoulder as she leans in to place a kiss upon the bared flesh. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “Thank you for being here with me.”

The blanket shifts as Nitrim's bared arm tucks Cyrielle close to his chest, forming a cocoon with her body as he reaches for the end of the blanket, wrapping it all the more tighter so that their warmth will trap beneath. His eyes close and he returns his kiss to chest with one of his own to her brow, followed by a gentle sigh that brushes through her scalp.

"I guess this is what it's like, isn't it?" Nitrim begins, vague and distance as he traces unintelligible symbols into the fabric that clothes her shoulder. "Just being there, often, sharing moments like these. I never really figured I could have that kind of relationship with someone." His lips curl and he laughs harshly against her temple. "So help me, Six, our fathers had better make this happen. I believe it will, but my paranoid nature doesn't do much to calm me sometimes."

It may not be the most comfortable of places; chilled and damp, wrapped up before a heater. However, Cyrielle savors it. The closeness, the places where flesh meets flesh. They have so much less time together than she’d prefer. There is a smile at his words and she curls in close against her drake.

“Your guess is as good as mine, ‘trim. I’ve never had anything remotely like this, but it makes me happy, so I figure whatever we may have… it works for us. That’s what they say is important, isn’t it? To find what works for you.” Cyrielle lifts a hand to his chin, directing his jaw to an angle where her lips can find his. “You and your paranoia. Sometimes, I think you enjoy it.”

"A dog wouldn't dig if it didn't ever find something important." Nitrim grins against her lips, eyebrows and skin curling in a devilish manner as he presses another chaste, friendly kiss to her mouth. "Now, that's not to say the dog won't ever accidentally uncover a secret gate to the Devil's own door, a box he can't close. I've got to be careful."

Nitrim pauses, a brief brush of his forehead to hers and a quiet sword fight nose-to-nose. "I think you should help me out of these clothes, what do you think? I mean, they say if someone's core temperature drops that skin-to-skin transfer is required." Nitrim pauses. "That and fucking Varlos is sleeping."

“Ah, my love, I doubt your temperature has dropped that much, but I’ve never been one to turn down an invitation to see you naked.” Cyrielle shifts, getting her knees beneath her — ankle angled carefully — to give her better balance. There’s a brief, light press of lips to the scarring on the side of his neck before she starts working away the pants he wears. She’ll even take over the whole of undressing him, using a gentle touch as she does so; letting the blanket fall away from her own form to envelop the Khourni lordling.

“Never have I had to deal with a chaperone before,” she murmurs at one point, “and never again do I wish to. There’s restraint for decorums sake and there’s… the bondage of being watched at every turn.”

Inch by inch, Nitrim is helped out of his clothing until his clothes become an invisible man spread out before the heater. On the floor, he stretches out in a display of absolute impropriety that Varlos would disapprove of, tangled with Cyrielle's next to the discarded blanket. In his defense, she still has his clothes, but the soupy mood has been replaced by something affectionate that outside eyes and tabloids would drool over.

"It's only for a short while," Nitrim replies to her, curling an arm under the long hem of her shirt to splay his fingertips over her leggings-covered backside. Shifting onto his hip, he nuzzles into her neck and plants a soft kiss to her skin, leaving an impression of himself behind. "Besides, you're warm and far more attractive than he is. You're sparing him the need to be around while I get warmer up." Another kiss presses to her neck, this time under her ear. "You're leaving when we get back to shore, right? I want to say goodbye."

After laying the clothes out, Cyrielle retrieves the bottle of liquor before joining Nitrim once again under the blanket. She can always use additional warmth in this climate. The bottle is pressed to the man as her arms go about him, seeking to aid in bringing warmth to his form… as much as a personal desire to be intimate and trace those parts of him she has long-since memorized.

“I would damn well hope I’m more attractive than he,” she teases, shivering at the press of his lips to her skin. It causes her to nestle in closer, to let her body start to find a form within his. “I am… Straight to Primus to meet my guide,” she offers, lips curving in a soft smile. “Whatever your goodbye may be,” Cyri continues, tone somewhat teasing, “make sure it’s lasting, I may need something to keep my thoughts company during the nights.”

"That sounds dangerously close to I want you locked in this room with me for hours." Nitrim teases, his head turning to the side to bring the bottle to his lips. The liquor sloshes within, like liquid metal chiming against the glass wall, as it is forced to move suddenly to his waiting lips. Swallowing down the burn, he forces the bottle into her hands and shifts beneath her, drawing her into his lap. "But that also sounds like we need more of this to remember each other by, too."

Pressing his face to her breast, Nitrim's arms constrict around her ribs and draw her in to a long, tight hug. His eyes shut closed and a breath snorts out quietly over the front of her shirt, the last of the cold seeping from his bones.

"Maybe when you come back, Cyrielle, our fathers will have begun talking."

Dark eyes watch him drink with a rapt attention. Remembering their first night together; full of alcohol and things of a darker nature. Cyrielle lifts a hand to brush her fingertips over his neck… the side that isn’t scarred. Just a soft touch, considering and remembering. She’s smiling with an absent expression as she takes the bottle.

She settles into his lap, sliding her free arm around his shoulders. Chin goes to the top of his head as she sips at the drink, nestling in against the Khournas. There’s a small, pleased sigh as she lowers her arm after a long drink. She lets it burn its way into her stomach.

“Maybe. I can meditate on that during my time in the forest.”

"The hardest thing about having something you want…" Nitrim's jaw moves, a featherlight brush of stubble against the breast of her long-sleeved shirt as he talks. "…is having the instinct to want to fight and force and demand, and knowing that's the thing that will make it not happen. Patience is not something I've had to work with in years, truly."

Unannounced, without warning, Nitrim laughs softly and gnashes his teeth, bringing his less than vice-like, playful bite down onto the outline of Cyrielle's mounded skin. Holding the bite playfully, he growls a sigh against her bosom and releases her, leaning back to look up into her eyes. The smirk that is on his lips dissipates into a moment of reflection; seeking meaning in her returned gaze before leaning up in the beginnings of a kiss.

"C'mere." He murmurs. "I missed you."

“I learned a lot regarding patience during my time away,” Cyrielle murmurs, nuzzling her face into his hair. She draws in a long breath, savoring the musky scent melded of him and the rain. “But this is trying. I want to tell everyone, but I can’t…”

She lets out a squeak at the bite, swatting at him as he leans back. She’s grinning, though, meeting his gaze. Cyrielle mirrors his motions and presses the bottle between them, freeing her hand to cup his cheek, fingertips tracing his jaw. Her kiss begins light, but steadily deepens.

The gesture is held for a long moment before she parts, leaning away from him to begin squirming out of that top. Her eyes white over in the process and she reaches out with telekinetics, nudging the latch to her cabin closed.

« Keep quiet and we’ll have all the hours we need, my love. »

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