The Kindling
This is one directly inspired by a pic from the talented oCe, which can be found here:
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/690526/
I've mulled over a possible sequel idea, but I'm not sure whether there's more demand for continuation of this or of Paul and Corr. We'll yet see.
Enjoy.
It was a big day for Phiron Hindknelter.
A big day for him, yes, and also for his son, Colasc.
His mate, Drenna, was running around their corner of the tribe's caverns in a bit of a tizzy, making sure that Colasc was all garbed up properly, all ready to go, all set for the event to come.
Tradition dictated that she leave Phiron largely alone. His preparation was to be his and his alone; he was soon to perform, rather than to be performed upon.
And so he waited by the front of their little alcove in the grand, hollowed space, knowing the time was soon coming, and soon Drenna would have to let her son go, let him join his father for the ritual.
The setting sun was casting its light at a diagonal through the Even-Notch in the roof of the cavern, and soon it would shine directly across to Morn-Notch, signaling sunset's arrival. That was the time at which he and Colasc would depart, as was the customary time for many rituals of the tribe. Unlike most of the tribe's gatherings, this event had its set time--a time to begin that must not be forsaken.
But for now, he waited. The day was burning, as all days burned, and its wick grew shorter with each moment that its flame traced across the sky.
An expectant silence preceded the padding sound of Colasc's feet upon the cavern floor as he walked towards his father. Phiron turned his head silently to see his son, and noted that he was more fragrant than usual, his mother having glossed much of his scaly body with oils--some fragrant, some scentless, all bringing his body to a shiny glisten, rendering his blood-warmed form more supple to the touch than the age-hardened armor of his father's scales. Like all members of their tribe, save Roral, who was a strange white color and had pink eyes, his body was mostly black with hints of a verdigris mixed in here and there.
But unlike his father, his breath did not occasionally leave sparks in the air, did not smell of embers, did not leave the face warmed after a laugh. His breath smelled of sulfur, and could only be seen on a cold day, when all breath hung in the air, or felt up close, such as from a whisper in the ear of a loved one.
In his right hand was a small flask, containing a sample of the dragon's own essence, which a friend of his had helped him obtain; he'd returned the favor for his friend, as the two of them would both be part of this night's ritual, as they were hatched not long from one another. In his left were two small logs; he gave one to his father, who accepted it wordlessly with a nod. The other Colasc kept.
On most nights of gatherings, they would be destined to go to the Council Fire in the middle of the grand cavern, the place where the large and small gatherings of all who wished attend were so often held. But for this auspicious occasion, such an open place would never do. No, this rite was meant to be a moment of relative solitude, of anticipation with less expectation, and certainly less observation. They were destined for the Kindling Room, a cavern which was sealed with the symbol of the elders and specifically described to them since they could understand language as a place to never trespass upon. Colasc had been dared in the past to sneak in, but he wasn't one to take dares, and he didn't want to find out what might happen were he to be caught in the act.
There was an elder there by the door. It was Kerrek, a fairly young elder; one of his own hatchlings had been Kindled the last time the rite was held, two years ago. It had been a harsh famine the year after that hatchling's birth, and there had been no males born that year, so no young were eligible for Kindling the year previous to this one. But the year of Colasc's conception was bounteous, and there were four this night to be Kindled. Colasc's bond-brother Varsel was just passing into the room with his father, Mortic, as Colasc and Phiron rounded the corner into view of its entrance.
"Eventide to you, brother Phiron and young Colasc," said Kerrek. "I've been told to expect you." He glanced at the contents of their hands. "I see you have brought the tokens asked."
Phiron nodded; Colasc bowed his head without words. "Yes. We are prepared."
"Then please," said Kerrek, gesturing broadly towards the doorway aside him, "Enter and be seated around the embers."
Phiron again nodded; Colasc kept his head bowed, as was generally expected of the young of the tribe in formal situations such as this. A gentle hand on his back prompted him to move in ahead of his father, despite his expectations that the reverse would be true. The room itself, as he entered it, revealed itself to be very simple and very small; it was round in shape, and much of the floor was strewn with animal pelts. In the center was a fire pit with moody embers glowing within. Phiron took a seat, and Colasc followed suit; they were across the embers from Varsel and his father. The young male, dearest friend and thus bond-brother to Colasc, seemed tense--an unusual state for the often-carefree and always jovial dragon. On the far side of the room, between Colasc and Varsel, were Rotig and Lacor, the two strongest males in the tribe, son and father, and next to them was Esidet, chief elder. All were silent, largely pensive, and given to watching the slow ripples of heat bend and glow the air on the embers.
Soon Jorun and Duror arrived, father and son; Duror was the tallest individual in the entire tribe, dwarfing his father of moderate height, though his height also made him spindly. He ran very fast and farmed well, Colasc knew, but his hunting skills were minor, as his size made stealth one of his lesser traits. Behind them came Kerrek, and the change in the light of the room as he did made it evident that he'd closed the earthen door behind him. He remained standing in the entry passage, as though guarding the room's inhabitants, preventing them from leaving.
Esidet let Jorun and Duror get settled and calmed before he began to speak, his tone methodical and unhurried, despite the fact that his occasional sparks were every bit as vigorous as Phiron's or Mortic's. "To the younglings I ask this: have you wondered what lay in this room, this forbidden niche of our great caverns? Did you feel a tinge of regret as you sat down, when you saw that all it held was a fire pit and some pelts?
"I do not blame you. Though it has been many seasons since my own Kindling, and it happened far away, in the caverns of the Tundric north, I, too, felt disappointed to see what had awaited me for so many of my young years. A room with nothing exciting, nothing magical, no secret instruments and no elaborate potions.
"But the truth is, such miraculous implements are all here, in this room, with you. They entered with you, in your hands, and alongside your feet. The wood you have carried will be a token, as you will see, but even without it, this rite would continue. The true ingredients are the essences of your own bodies that you brought with you, and the essences of your fathers, still waiting within their bodies."
Colasc stirred a bit at this, and he noticed that Varsel did as well, and Duror glanced at his father with a somewhat concerned expression. But Esidet continued: "I will share with you the tale that surrounds this rite, so that the legacy will live on in your minds as much as it will your bodies.
"As you know, you and all of the other hatchlings of or below your age do not breathe fire as the bucks, sires, and matrons do. They cannot ignite their own breath without the aid of outside flame, and their essences are black and like slime or muck. It is said that this is the curse of vengeance placed upon us by Brother Serpent for our taking his two legs." The classic myth went that both snakes and dragons had two legs each, but one day, through his cunning and strength, Father Dragon won Brother Serpent's legs for himself, leaving Brother Serpent to forever wallow on his belly on the ground. In recognition of this, dragons of their line always left snakes to their own devices where it could be helped, but often blamed unfortunate events upon embittered Brother Serpent.
"But Father Dragon was resourceful, and he sought the aid of Emissary Sun and Ambassador Flame. 'Emissary!' said Father Dragon. 'Ambassador! My seed has been cursed; how can I carry the legacy of the legs I have won in my kin when I cannot sire young like this?'
"But kind Emissary Sun and noble Ambassador Flame knew that Father Dragon had won the legs in fairness, and so their favor was not withheld from him. Emissary Sun said to Father Dragon, 'Do not fear, Father Dragon. For where light is, there, too, is a place for growth. Wherever there is light, your seed will be fertile.'
"And Ambassador Flame said to Father Dragon, 'There is no light within you or your matron yet, but I will bless you with a portion of my spirit, and thus you will always have fire within you. Where there is fire, there is light, and where there is light, Emissary Sun's blessings will hold firm.' And so he imparted Father Dragon with a portion of himself, and from that day forward Father Dragon, and all dragons after him, have been able to breathe fire, and fire itself does not harm us, but instead soothes and comforts us. When the fiery seed of a sire is given to his matron, she, too, will have this blessing, as well as becoming able to clutch their hatchlings.
"But as you are already aware, you, younglings, neither breathe fire nor have fiery seed; as a reminder of this, you have with you a vessel of your own, black essence. This we call Coalseed; it takes fire easily, but is black as night and is itself no warmer than your own bodies. Tonight you will receive the passed-down legacy of Father Dragon, the blessings of Ambassador Flame. Please, sires, come forth and place your wood upon the embers, and breathe flame upon it as one to make a fire from our coals."
The four fathers arose from their positions, each clutching a single log. They put these upon the embers, not worrying for the heat of the coals, as to them it was a mere warmth. Then each took a step back, for the flame breath of one dragon could prove harmful to another, if there was too much of it; though it was not likely that they could hurt one another, the distance was part of the tribe's etiquette. Each blew forth a gust of flame, the orange-red gales converging upon the logs, and when the blasts subsided, the logs had taken fire themselves, their exteriors beginning to give off yellow flames.
To their places they each returned, and Esidet continued promptly thereafter: "This is a token of the flames you will give to your sons, the ones who will go forth and continue your legacy of blood and bone, and sustain our tribe. And you do this as an example, as well, for they will one day do the same.
"To the younglings here who will today become bucks, you have not known, I presume, of what will take place today. I will tell you now, as I do not wish for you to be surprised more than is necessary by what you are about to do.
"As you know, our tribe has almost no concern over whom you bed as a youngling, if you bed anyone at all. Your Coalseed is infertile, so no illegitimate hatchlings can possibly result. Only the deposition of fiery seed within your body can Kindle you, and it would be obvious to all if you were Kindled inappropriately, even without seeing your seed; the breath of one Kindled is, as you know, quite different from that of a youngling.
"The rituals of our tribes prescribe that your fathers have the right to Kindle you--this is considered a great honor. Thankfully, none of you have been orphaned, but in the event that you were, you would have been allowed to select another sire or buck to perform that honor for you.
"Through many years of experience our kind has learned that the Kindling rite is less effective when the fireseed is deposited in your mouths; only about one or two in ten succeed that way, and it often takes multiple attempts. Instead, though it may surprise you, the seed must be deposited within your other major entrance..."
The thought scared Colasc a bit. He knew that when one male bedded another, that "other entrance" was used; this was not news to him, and two hatchlings of the year after his own were near legends in how often they used such practices. Yet courtesy meant that his tribe generally went around with genitals covered, so he'd never seen how large his father's member was. He'd heard that it could be painful, if the giving male was large...
Phiron noted the looks of mixed dismay and surprise that seemed to flit along the faces of the sons of his fellow sires. He glanced at his own son out of the corner of his eye, looking more sideways than down at the well-grown dragon he'd sired, and noted that he alone seemed to be largely unperturbed. But he knew his son well; Colasc was not one given to display emotions without cause. He was more of a stoic--even-tempered and sensible, much like his father.
"The gift of this seed, and thus the Kindling it brings, is still not foolproof. The gift has a high chance of failure if the recipient is anything less than willing, as is also the case for the donor. If any of you here have any objections to this process, you must speak now. Should this be the case, you may opt to select another Kindled male from the tribe--though doing so will deprive the sire here of a great honor--or you may wait until next year. Do any of you wish to do this?"
Though slight apprehension remained, no heads nodded assent. This did not surprise Colasc; none of the youngling males there wanted to seem weak, afraid, or incapable in front of their fellow hatch-years, he reasoned. He himself understood that it needed to be done, and he knew that his father would do his best to be gentle to his son.
So Ediset continued: "Very well. To help your Kindling take fire when the gift is given, you will now drink the flasks of your own essences that you have brought, younglings." Colasc was sure he saw a grimace on Duror's face, and Rotig seemed to scowl, but they'd already faced down the promise of the task's largest obstacle--there was no turning back now. Though it took him a few moments to break past the initial uneasiness the idea provoked, Colasc uncorked the flask and brought it to his lips. "Do not swallow over-quickly," Ediset said at the same moment. "Allow it to coat your mouth so that your flame will be bright and strong when you Kindle." Colasc did as he was bade. The black, oily-looking fluid wasn't bad-tasting as it oozed onto his tongue from within the flask, but it wasn't something he'd want to have every day, either. It was nearly room temperature by this point, and had some slightly stringy bits, lending it an undesirable texture. He swilled it around his mouth, letting the black liquid base rinse over his teeth and gums before swallowing thoroughly.
Unsurprisingly, Duror was the last to finish. But Ediset was patient, and only continued once the flask had been set aside the tall youngling. "Now, would sires and sons please remove their loincloths. At this time," he said, gesturing with his hand to signify that he meant for them to start disrobing even as he continued to speak, "you may each discuss with yourselves what position you would like to use. None has been proven better or poorer over the years, so the choice is yours."
Colasc removed his loincloth slowly, making a show of seeming rite, but in reality it was a reflection of his moderate hesitation to expose himself. True, he was amongst only other males, and many were ones he knew well, but he still tended towards modesty, as their tribe was one that believed in such things--unlike the more feral tribes of the jungles and deserts, who often wore nothing at all, save pretty trinkets they might fashion from scavenged odds and ends. His father seemed to have similar sentiments, and looked to be in no hurry to expose himself. "Father...what position do you think we should use?" he asked quietly. "I have...no experience with this sort of thing..." It was true; the dragon had not bedded another yet, simply because he'd felt no need to do so. When his loins needed attention, his hands were usually more than enough provision...
Phiron gazed at his son. The expectation in the youngling's eyes was evident, tinged with veiled apprehension. He wanted to erase as much of that as possible, to make sure that the gift took hold, as well as minimizing any distress his son might be experiencing. "We will use the name from which our family line was derived, I think," he said.
"What?" asked Colasc. "Our family name is..." It seemed he couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.
"Yes," said Phiron. "it is derived from the position some nameless ancestor used for Kindling his son many generations past, and while it hasn't always been used, the legacy has been continued in name and memory."
"But what is it?" said the youngling. "It is very...unspecific..."
"Do not worry," responded Phiron. "Get upon your hands and knees, comfortably, and I will do what is needed." He reached down with a hand to massage himself to hardness; he was not one to normally be aroused by the sight of his son, even though he was quite proud of the youngling's growth and accomplishments thus far.
Colasc did as he was bidden, and began to piece together what would occur as he did so. He wouldn't be able to see much of his father while facing away, and his father would see less of him. It made a certain sense to him, as his father's attraction was--and was meant to be--for his matron...not his youngling. Here Phiron was performing a duty of a sacred gift of defense and fertility to protect and ensure his legacy...this was not an encounter of lovers.
Mumbling was heard from all four corners of the room as the other sire-son pairs determined their positions. Colasc glanced around to see what they'd chosen, and he could see Mortic walking in upon his knuckles over a supine Varsel, the younger dragon's legs bent at the knee to incline his hips upward. Rotig and Lacor were in a position similar to that which Colasc found himself in, but Rotig was flatter to the ground, his hips only inches above the floor and his weight upon his forearms rather than hands, his father parallel to him and entirely above, rather than behind. Jorun and Duror had settled on a position where the tall youngling was kneeling, his rear straddling his father's hips; Colasc deduced that they might have had trouble with other positions due to the large differential in height between sire and son, and Jorun was known for being sensitive to the care of others--perhaps this position would be easier on Duror.
"Don't let me hold you back," said Esidet as it became reasonably clear that the pairs had decided on their positions. "Do what you have come to do."
"Tell me if you need me to slow down, my son," said Phiron from behind Colasc's body. He spat into his hand, the spit tinged faintly red as it usually was for Kindled males. He slicked it upon his erection, then reached forward gently, almost hesitantly, and applied some along the outside of that black-ensconced pucker offered to him by his dutiful son. He felt it clench in reflex to his touch, inspiring also a quiet gasp from his son, but gradually it relaxed.
That touch had surprised Colasc--he'd thought it was perhaps the pride of his father's loins already--but he relaxed as he realized it was just Phiron's fingers, wettened, spreading that pleasant coolness upon his exposed rear. But then it was removed, and a faint shifting sound came from behind him, and then--something quite warm, quite solid, was there at his rear, and it didn't feel the size or texture of a finger. It pressed against the entrance to his body, a portal unaccustomed to entry thus far, and he had to fight his body's instinctive response to clench around it; he had reason to believe it would only hurt more if the resistance went unchecked.
Phiron heard a quiet hiss from his son as he began to enter that immensely tight ring, and he reached forward, lightly kneading the top-side base of his son's tail, knowing it to be a comforting gesture that his son particularly enjoyed. "I'm sorry that it hurts, my son...have patience, relax, try to push out rather than close in, and soon the pain will give way to something more endurable..." He didn't wish to make his son feel uncomfortable by saying that it would soon give way to pleasure, but he vividly recalled how it had done just that when his own father, Colasc's grandsire, had done the same to him many years past...
Colasc did his best to acquiesce to the words spoken from his father, despite the miasma of pain that clouded his focus. It helped that he did, though, as the pain diminished noticeably, letting him focus better by measures; so, too, did the comforting gesture his father kindly gave him. That flesh felt so long, so thick, stretching him open inexorably...but soon enough he felt his father's groin come to rest against his rear, bending his tail somewhat upward with the intrusion. He took a few deep breaths, doing his best to mentally and physically come to grips with the spire impaling his passages.
Phiron held position for a while, knowing it would help the process to let his son become accommodated to his size. Phiron wasn't the most greatly-endowed of the younglings he'd Kindled with, nor of any of the other sires whose loin-staves he'd beheld at various times, but he wasn't far behind those who exceeded him. He knew that he needed to afford care accordingly, as his son's body was--so far as he knew, though he was reasonably sure--completely naïve to intrusion by another male. A more modestly-endowed male would have been less painful, easier to take, but that couldn't be helped in these circumstances... "Tell me when you feel ready to continue, Colasc..."
The younger dragon had found that his rear was clenching sporadically against the fleshy rod spreading it open, but in a few moments it settled down, reducing the waves of pain to a dull and more even soreness, almost like an abraded knee that had already been tended to. He took another deep breath, and then nodded his assent to his father. "I believe I'm ready, father." He now felt less than surprised that a rite that could cause pain like this was generally held in secret, and valued as a significant achievement.
His father slowly began to withdraw, knowing that at this early phase it would feel almost like a rub with granite upon that sensitive flesh. And again his son's hiss reached his ears, but his hand was still upon the younger dragon's tail, and rubbed it again, hoping to help him overcome these preliminary painful moments. It was becoming difficult to maintain his level of care, however; his son's passages were so very tight, and the feeling was quite decadent upon his father's member--it was all he could do to refrain from going at it with the fervency he could so safely wield upon Drenna, his matron. This, at least, was a good omen: the more stimulated he was, the more seed he'd be likely to bestow upon his son, and the more he gave, the greater likelihood of a successful Kindling. A son not Kindled on the first try was seen as a slight upon the virility of the Kindler, and should consecutive tries fail, it might cause the honor to pass to another.
It was true that motion just now wasn't comfortable, but Colasc could feel the pain begin to subside as new sensations within him seemed to rustle to life, like the little prey animals did after harsh winters, buried in burrows. At first, it merely felt odd, like the first time he'd been tickled, or the first time he'd rolled in the tall, waving grasses of the field, purely for fun...but soon he could tell what it was: soon it grew into a new and sonorous pleasure, flowing across his mind like the gentle waves at the edge of the sea. With each passing motion of his father's pride, in, out, and back again, it became the more prominent sensation from his rear, pressing the pain aside like ferns to be spread back from a trail: the pain was still there, but no longer was it a concern, no longer was it something of note.
He closed his eyes softly, focusing on feeling out the breadth of this new sensation, and closing off one sense made it easier to sound the intricacies of it. Memories of happy times flickered through his awareness like tongues of flame--indistinct, fleeting, yet bright and warm. He could feel the warmth of his father's hands, one upon his hips for leverage, the other at his tail for comfort, and he realized that the touch of them was as gentle as they'd been when he was the tiniest hatchling. He began to realize why the two males in the next younger clutch year bedded each other so frequently--after feeling something like this, who could ever want it to come to an end?
Phiron could see and feel it as his son slowly relaxed and gave into the sensations, the tightness of his loins becoming less reflexive and more rhythmic. He wasn't sure, but it felt as though his son was clenching that tight ring each time the older dragon hilted into his child, in perfect harmony of tempo. It felt amazing, and it brought the memories of Phiron's own Kindling even more fully into his awareness. He could almost feel his own father behind him, bestowing upon him the gift of flame anew, and the gravity of what he was doing magnified in his mind. He'd not bedded another male, ever, and though this wasn't exactly that same thing, he began to wonder why he'd not done so. Drenna, after all, had become his matron nearly two full years after Phiron's Kindling, and he and his bond-brother had been quite close, 'til that dragon left to seek his fortune in other lands...
Gradually, the feelings in Colasc's body seemed to even out, instead of continuing to rise so dramatically--but he wasn't sure if he could have handled it, had they followed that skyward trajectory of bliss. It was still one of the best things he'd ever experienced, and he didn't want it to end, but now he was aware of the feelings, in all of their manifold delight. He could feel his own shaft begin to swell, and it surprised him--was that supposed to happen at a Kindling? His eyes eased open, as he looked unobtrusively around the room to see if perhaps his clutch-years were reacting the same way.
Mortic, his bond-brother, had his eyes closed, and his mouth was gently open; his breathing wasn't audible over the crackling of the fire, but he imagined it was heavy--he could see his friend's chest rise and fall rhythmically, overtly. His own state of arousal couldn't be seen, however: his legs were propped up to give his father access to his rear entrance. There was something beautiful, however, with the intimacy of it--it was as though their two bodies were cleaved together there, flowing with shared motion, and they both seemed to be enjoying that shared pleasure.
Rotig and Lacor, however, had a different flavor to their time...Colasc had heard the sounds of grunts and growls, muted though they were, and now he could see that they were the source. The two muscular dragons were rutting with such fervor that it seemed as though they felt it was the last day to live. Lacor was a dragon utterly concerned with masculinity and strength, and it seemed that he wished to extend that primal roughness even to this time with his son. Rotig, every inch his father's son, was taking it with clenched teeth, but no sounds of pleading came from his mouth--only those that sounded aggressive, whether or not they were inspired by pain.
Duror and Jorun, however, were giving off the quiet moans that sometimes blended with the rougher emanations from Rotig and Lacor. The tall young dragon was rolling back into his father's thrusts, his eyes pinched tightly shut and an expression of euphoria straining his visage. His father seemed equally lost in the moment as he made short thrusts up and forward into his son--perhaps he was trying to hold back from doing anything more intense than his son was ready to handle, but it seemed that Duror was more than ready to take whatever his father could provide.
Briefly Colasc's eyes surveyed Esidet and Kerrek. Esidet's eyes were closed--he seemed to be perhaps meditating, but it was also possible that the elder was merely listening to the sounds of the passionate activity around him, or maybe he simply wished to not seem intrusive upon the intimate moment. Kerrek, however, seemed to be watching the room quite raptly, his gaze flicking from pair to pair with all the fascination of a youngling.
"Colasc," said Phiron, quietly. "I...I wish to use more force, but I don't want you to be hurt..."
The sound of his father's voice returned Colasc's awareness more to himself. He turned his head slowly, gazing back at his sire. "Please, father...it is important that this be as pleasurable for you as possible. You were right...the pain has given way to something far better. I feel confident...that I will be able to manage a bit more intensity..."
"Thank you, my son," said Phiron. The need to rut more fervently had been building in his mind, his instincts sensing the tightness and clenching of his son's body as though it were that of a female in heat, and the weight of it wore heavy upon his restraint. Slowly he eased his caution back and let instinct take its course, and the force of his thrusts and their frequency began to rise. Still he felt confident that he held control, however, and he was prepared to stop if any indication of pain came from his son.
It was true that at first Colasc felt little twinges as Phiron had his way with his son, but soon that again receded. Now there was an impact as their loins met, now Colasc could feel his arousal sway between his legs from the momentum, throbbing palpably with his satisfaction. Being mated in such a way roused cravings he'd never known, and he found that without thinking he was beginning to push against the ground with his hands, countering his father's thrusts so that their impact would be that much more satisfying. It dawned on him that this was why Duror had been doing something quite similar--yes, the passing in and out was a delight, but that sensation of coming together repeatedly punctuated it with surges of bliss. Strangely, as he thought of them, he heard Jorun give something like a muted yell, and his gaze flashed to them...at first it seemed the two were pressed together as tightly as possible, but Jorun seemed to be the one holding them together most tightly. Then Duror gave a moan, and then coughed--and with a roll of his neck, he belched forth a gobbet of flame, ignited coalseed remnants from his mouth flying forward and smoldering moodily against the wall of the cavern. He saw that and knew: Duror had been kindled, and his expression was even more content and delighted than ever before. He wanted that, wanted to feel and know it, and it coaxed even more instinctive involvement out of his body.
The way his son mirrored Phiron's intensity heated the older dragon's state of arousal even more, via instinct and thought alike. He could practically see the gouts of flame coming from his son's jaws already, his confidence in a successful Kindling beginning to soar. With so much delight, he was sure to offer plenty of his fireseed into his son...already he could feel the increase in heat of his sac as it prepared for that climactic moment; the insides of his groin were alive and tingling in readiness.
It was all Colasc could do to not try to balance on one palm in order to touch his own needy erection--it bobbed and waved this way and that, and he dearly wished he could afford to tend to it...but were he to do so, he might lose his balance, with the way his father was thrusting into him, and he didn't want to interrupt their rising delight with an untimely fall. Doing so would also reduce the leverage he could muster to counter his father's hilting thrusts...and that in itself would be something sorely missed. And this wasn't about his release, after all...but he knew he'd have to take care of that as soon as he could spare a moment of privacy afterward, or his loins would punish him with aching wistfulness.
Phiron's breath became somewhat panting--the moment was at hand. "Ready yourself, my son...it is time..." He continued to thrust, letting the sensations in his loins build and build, hoping it would increase the load of his seed that he would deposit--and then it was on him, a roar of less-than-polite volume surging forth from his lungs, his loins clenching in fevered tempo, the sensation of his searing seed coursing through his shaft like a core of molten steel. He tightened what voluntary muscles he had in synchrony, hoping it would force every last drop of his seed into his son's tight passages.
The younger dragon wasn't entirely sure what he was to do to "ready himself," but he closed his eyes and focused, all the same--perhaps it was something akin to the sensations he'd felt as pain had given way to pleasure, and shutting out other senses would help him give himself over to the change they both expected. He felt his father give a final hilting into his rump, and the shaft inside him gave several heavy throbs before he felt blazing warmth inside himself. For a few moments, it seemed confined there with his father's pride, but then he felt that warmth suddenly begin to spread. Could it be? He could feel it radiate inside his torso, at first more outward than upward, but quickly, like a meadow fire, it surged upward towards his head. He could feel his chest tighten momentarily, and it was all he could do not to cough just then--and then the heat was in his throat, in his mouth--he opened it out of reflex, his eyes snapping open, and with a sound of rushing air he beheld a modest fireball that burst against the floor, leaving a singed circle in the edge of the pelt they were upon.
Phiron felt a surge of pride as he saw that fireball, and his loins gave a surprisingly hard clench in response, causing his body to twitch over in a momentary clenching over which he had no control. But soon his composure returned, and as he breathed heavily, catching his spent air, he felt the sparks of his breath flare up, giving his nose and mouth a forge-like cast as he smiled. He slowly withdrew from his son, his incandescent seed glazing his shaft like liquid embers as it was again exposed to the outside air.
Colasc turned to look back at his father, the coalseed in his mouth giving rise to similar sparking in his own breath. He felt suddenly spent, with the passing of that fireball; he wondered, in some distant corner of his mind, if perhaps the Kindling was naturally an exhausting thing. But it mattered little: he was now a buck, fertile with the gifts of Ambassador Sun and Emissary Flame. No longer was he at all a youngling. He was Kindled, and the awareness of it filled him with joy.
Slowly they sat back as one, and then Phiron drew his son closer, back to chest, his arms crossed around and in front of his son as though Colasc were still a small hatchling, despite the fact that they were now quite similar in stature. He began to realize that now his son's destiny was his own, and their days as a family in their tribe might come to an end soon...though he did not often hold his son in such a way, this might be his last chance, and he wasn't about to let it pass away.
Colasc felt drowsily content, and had no objection as his father drew him close. It was an unusually tender gesture for the somewhat stolid sire, but in a moment like this, it felt nothing if not appropriate...together they watched the other two father-son pairs, silently wishing for their successes in their hearts. With half of this clutch-year Kindled, there was no turning back.
Varsel and Mortic seemed rather close, and though their heads remained apart, Colasc could see Varsel's arms and legs embracing his father's body, almost as though they were lovers. It seemed a bit odd to him, seeing his bond-brother acting in such a way, yet also curiously poetic...this was a gift his father would give him that would last his entire life, and there was no denying that gratitude was due it.
Then the two seemed to grow tighter in unison, their heads both angling back, and now faint sounds of delight passed through the heated air from their mouths. Then Colasc saw something--it was hard to catch with the lighting of the cavern, but he spotted it as a thin jet of something black. Could it be...? But as he did, Mortic gave a guttural noise of inarticulate expression, his waist tightly pressed into his son, and Colasc knew this was the critical moment. Within seconds, another jet passed between their two bodies, but this one was searing red--Varsel had indeed reached his own climax at quite the same time, and his seed had become Kindled in the midst of its release. Then there was the cough, and the gout of flame, which Varsel's craned-back head vaulted behind them, saving either of them from possibly injury.
Rotig and Lacor were still at it at that moment, and it was clear from their posture that Lacor was dominating his son thoroughly, gripping Rotig's body like some kind of constructed implement and pounding into it with the roughness that only a dragon with their build could keep up for long. There was no sign of his climax until it was suddenly there a few moments later; with a loud growl, fangs showing, Lacor pulled on his son's body so hard that it lifted Rotig from the support of one of his arms, and his body clenched as he brought his strength to bear on remaining above ground with the other limb. But then he gave a roar and jetted forth his own gust of flame: the Kindling was complete.
As the last two pairs settled back around the fire, Esidet seemed to rouse from his closed-eye absence, and stood, again approaching the fire. "Now you have within you the gift of flame; now you are capable of siring young, and of using fire as an implement unto itself. You must use it carefully: your gift upon bedding a female will Kindle her, and by this it is known that she may soon have young. The customs of our tribe demand that an un-Kindled girl may only be Kindled by her sire-to-be, for that is his right and honor. Similarly, save if it is your right by the choice of a sire-less youth or by it being your own son, you may not bed an un-Kindled male--and then, only within the context of this Kindling ceremony. It is a custom that must be observed, for it is part of our identity. Do not break it.
"Beyond that, you are free to bed any Kindled individual that you wish, if there is consent, but know that you may be called to the duties of a sire if your seed brings forth young. We will not have children without sires if we can at all help it; though the wilds may rob a youngling of a parent, fickle choice will not be allowed to do so here.
"We are to conclude this ceremony with the placing of the remaining logs by the new bucks in our midst. When you have done so, breathe fire upon them as your fathers have done--and as you will again do when you are a sire." He took a few steps back, perhaps to avoid the flareup that might occur as a result of the additions to the already well-burning fire.
Phiron gave a nod as he drew his arms back from around his son, helpfully reaching back to pick up the all-but-forgotten second log to pass it to Colasc as the younger dragon arose. He watched with pride as his son took it and boldly placed it upon the fire--and then, when all of the logs were placed, breathed a smooth stream of flame upon it, as though it were all he'd ever done. Varsel and Rotig did alright, too, but the stream was jagged and uneven; Duror didn't have it at first, but after a few comical motions of his head and a quiet burp, he, too, breathed fire onto the central assemblage.
"It is done," intoned Esidet. He bowed his head briefly, then silently left.
A few glances passed around the room; none of the youth were sure what to do now. Kerrek stood up, then helpfully offered, "You may leave whenever you'd like, though there may be some other tribe members outside, so you might want to get dressed again..."
The natural-seeming course of the entire thing had left Colasc blissfully unaware of the fact that he was still completely nude, but this mention reminded his sense of modesty to return, and he promptly turned around, intending to fetch his neatly-folded loincloth. The others did the same, but they were perhaps less intent upon it...or at least, that was Colasc's impression, as he felt somewhat self-conscious at the time.
Varsel and Mortic came over to Colasc and Phiron as they were returning to a clothed state. "Bond-brother!" said Varsel.
"Yes?" said Colasc, fumbling with the tie of his loincloth. His palms were achy from supporting his weight and pushing back against his father, and the dexterity of his fingers was only beginning to return.
"We're Kindled!" he said, with a wide smile. "We did it!" He paused for a moment, noting the gazes of their mutual fathers, then added, "with our sires' help, of course."
Colasc gave a wry grin. "That's true. And now we have all the rights of a grown buck...no more having to be a youngling in everyone's eyes."
"Well, there comes a certain responsibility with that," said Mortic, "but I believe in both of you. You've already both done us proud before tonight, and that hasn't changed now."
"True," said Phiron. "What do you think you'll do with your new freedoms?" he asked, addressing them both with his gaze.
"I don't know," said Varsel, ruminating on this. "I mean, I've heard it's good to visit other tribes, maybe find a girl there..."
Colasc gave a slow nod. "We'll decide on something," he said, with a faintly knowing grin. "After all...we've all the time in the world."