The Falling Vanished by Plexadonn

The Falling Vanished

This is the story that goes along with the picture series. I wrote this for my friend Marohen's birthday. And yush, he loved it :) There is only a little bit of romance at the end of this, I hope that it'll be okay with Yiffstar. I'm sure it will, especially for those who find comabt to be erotic.

THE FALLING VANISHED: The Tale of the Blue Dimorai and The Dreetle

If one could ever imagine the feeling of the hunt, one would surely be the privileged sort to know its intensity and how erotic it could really be. Or perhaps it truly could manifest, imagination not required. Then brings the question of how to handle it. Does one run with it, learn to suppress the fear and use the sensation to improve the situation on a path to victory? Or would one use that imagination badly and only promote the latent fear within?

Either situation brings excitement, of course. Terror truly does make one feel alive, but it also brings hatred. Fear and panic only lead to a psychosomatic loathing of the World, as many could testify for themselves and they would find it difficult later in life to find true Adjustment, instead only sufficing to simply justify themselves in whatever endeavors. Adjustment: this is the concept that seems to escape many, sadly.

In the hunt, one needs to adjust perceptions and emotions, but not to force thoughts or sensations. Let the fear be a tool and let excitement help. With excitement there comes two main aspects that seem to be the most important. Pleasure and survival.

During the hunt, either the hunter or the supposed prey, either of the two notions are necessary. And disaster shall befall both if one of them should wield the incorrect passion. It truly is sad when the hunter would find pleasure with himself in his hunt when he really should be concerned with his very survival.

Immortality mistakenly ensures survival. But basically, it only makes the instinct more fiendish and difficult to attain, retain or suppress. In beings of great strength and skill, this could be found to be quite easy or at least not problematic.

To the immortals, survival can be confused with pleasure, and when fuelled by weariness it can lead to the chaotic search for danger, simply to give purpose to that shallow quest for survival. Pathetic, really, but in some minds it does not become a question of decency or being polite. To them it is granting a courtesy to other immortals, if that is their mark

Such was the case in the mind of Plexadonn, The Dreetle, an immortal of fading history. Even in his own country, that of his birth and much of his life, his existence was only now vaguely remembered to be the result of some long-forgotten war. His life itself was now in question and thus he fled, the world he had known centuries ago having dissolved with his own history and legacy.

Some said he was a grotesque monstrosity. Some say he was simply a retired soldier, proud and noble. Some claimed that he had been an artist and a musician who had been loved at one point in time. All were true. At some phase in his life, he was progressively one of those things and had possessed the respective titles. But those times, that era, was long over. Now, he was simply The Dreetle. A sullen and taciturn entity bored with life and wanting pleasure in the hunt again, weary of simply surviving. It is easy, then, to see why the Dimorai could have so easily attracted him.

The race was magnificently noble, in more prestigious fashion than The Dreetle fancied himself. The Dimorai were beautiful creatures, he thought, and in his subdued manner of study had had come to respect them. Greatly, in a macabre mentality, The Dreetle envied the Dimorai, and many nights - found often to be cold and callous to his own anatomy - he felt flooded with his jealousy.

How The Dreetle came to the Dimorai home-world was never fully understood. As he was a vagabond, worlds no longer meant anything to him, as the Universe in which he lived was simply one enormous world; distance between any place or places was of no consequence and not even a minor inconvenience. In his mind, thoughts were never delayed or belated and neither was adventure; all was fluid experience: people, faces and planets building his life. Things passing his eyes defined his life.

Sometimes he thought it bleak. This was when his mind retrograded back to Plexadonn, the one of old, empty and decayed now. Thus he had to remind himself frequently that his old mind and spirit were dead.

In quiet solitude he examined. This was all that could describe it. The Dreetle acquainted himself with few of the Dimorai, frequently convincing himself that he was unworthy of such. Yet he found this species to be utterly fascinating, bringing an enormous amount of mental occupancy. This made him happy, and gone for many months at a time were those horrible thoughts of the past. The memories he could suppress, the knowledge that they were there, however, betrayed him by keeping in the open space that displaced his study, disrupting what his life was for.

Sometimes he felt like he was falling, never able to hold on, and never to receive help.

The Blue Dimorai was his favorite. This one shined bright to him, and to keep this one in his mind, The Dreetle liked to pretend that The Blue Dimorai shined -for- him. It became easy to let himself envelope The Blue Dimorai in his mind, wrap thoughts around him and it took away his fear, and the falling vanished then.

His name was Kelnorai Marohen, but he was frequently referred to as the latter of this title, as did The Dreetle.

It soon become known to The Dreetle that Marohen was a philosopher and the only mission in life that was apparent to the Dreetle was Marohen's desire to live his own life to its fullest extent. That it entailed the acquisition of knowledge, much studying included, intrigued his new acquaintance. Marohen's life was never in question, but his lifestyle never became apparent, as his mercurial nature allowed him to adjust constantly to any new stimulus.

That Marohen could ingest data and experience and grow from it, his mind expanding delightfully, was one measure of envy of Plexadonn's. And Marohen noticed this, specifically how The Dreetle was so unable to focus on learning, and occasionally how he came back frozen, as if the news had only been second thoughts. Silently, the Draconian entity could see that his friend would never attain Enlightenment.

Plexadonn only wanted experience and thrill. The Dreetle relished in visual stimuli, wanting to invoke panic within himself and learn strength through the fear. It was passion and emotions that moved Plexadonn and not intellect and rationality as with Marohen. But it was not only The Dreetle that wanted to wrap his mind around someone and learn. Marohen eventually found himself quite interested with the creature.

Yet both males found mutual obscurity, as both were not fully willing to indulge the other in his life's history. And neither were the sort to prod and harass until breakdowns. They teased and intrigued each other, playing games of brief history or a sequence of conversational topics that vaguely spanned each other's life. Each time the other spoke became a gamble of the other, and speculations as to which sort of meeting they would have were rampant.

Sometimes the chain ran long, but frequently it severed. There were occasions of mutual passion, mental intercourse, and subsequently - as if natural opposites unnaturally followed to balance their lives - during those times of severance only stalemates occurred. But this developed trust in the other, and no amount of bondage was ever allowed to keep them from entering a destructive pattern. Stalemates made it all the more fun.

Yet one day, things plummeted and disaster fell.

The forest glade was one of Plexadonn's favorite places to be. During the dawn hours the dim sunlight caused the foliage to glow bluish and green and during the high noon hour there came the addition of the palest violet. The colors shrouded the forest, sometimes creating a stir of eerie surrealism hue. Plexadonn felt that the surrealism of the wooded area he had grown to love matched his emotions. Pastoral was a fine way to live, demure even. There was no strong current in the capacity of his passion while he stood there. Even while on the hunt.

As The Dreetle stood there, his eyes shadowed n the dim light, he pondered how he would go about this new quest. To know a Dimorai was a privilege, to have one as a friend a tremendous honor. Marohen had become a very good friend, and a mutual love and respect had grown between them. Plexadonn looked upon his Dimorai companion as a sort of archetype for what his mind could become. Marohen's intelligence was another thing he envied.

Plexadonn was unsure of what his own reputation was among the Dimorai, but he knew that Marohen found his existence quite lovely, and was a fan of his Art, but found his inability to adjust alarming. The few limited times he had attempted to aid his friend rarely found home in Plexadonn's mind, and sometimes simply annoyed him. His personality simply would not allow him to learn from words or knowledge; he needed to experience tangibility.

Marohen's stubbornness had caused The Dreetle to grow weary of the teachings and of his friend's philosophy. After an argument, Plexadonn insisted on Marohen allowing him to learn the way he wanted to and challenged the dragon to his type of sparring.

Plexadonn meditated for several minutes, standing completely stationary except for his long segmented antennae. The elongated appendages swayed gently to and fro, spanning the forest with his elevated, insectoid perception. Doing this, he could perceive translated emotions. He knew Marohen was there someplace, could sense him to the right, but he was either too far to read or the dragon's emotions were too subdued.

No matter, he moved forward and headed east, to his right. His footfalls were quiet, The Dreetle's large, bare feet settling softly and comfortably in the grassy soil. He tried to remain poised, prepared for an ambush, but maneuvering through some of the brush was difficult and required him to contort and diminish his defense.

The beast was close now, and soon he came into view. Marohen stood motionless, facing away with his posture slack, as if he were casually waiting for someone to drop by. An acquaintance he would find: an irate friend. Plexadonn watched for a moment, unsure if Marohen knew of his presence, unconcerned really. The Dragon's blue flesh touched his sentimentality and it glistened softly in the sunlight, the entity standing in a patch of descending luminescence.

He truly was a handsome specimen, The Blue Dimorai. His silky hide was of the most pleasant azure, not unlike the clear sky of summer. And his accompanying garb suited him very well. Unlike his Dreetle friend, the Dimorai dressed fully, donning ivory white attire with a light-weight robe that beautifully complimented his natural hue. The cloth flowed smoothly across the dragon's body and gave a false impression of being heavy.

Plexadonn knew this would not be an easy task, and the very prospect of it thrilled him. He stood and watched for any sort of movement from Marohen, movement of the trees causing the light to play patterns on the Dreetle's glittering chitin armor, his exoskeleton practically sparkling with the dark indigo and blues. He smiled, mostly to Marohen who would not see the gesture on his countenance, and was pleased to see that Marohen now gave away the knowledge that he knew of Plexadonn's presence.

It had begun, it seemed. There were four blades harnessed to Plexadonn's body, and as he unsheathed the first pair, he did away with the straps and the scabbards. The sliding metal sounded delightful to him, as did the sound of the leather and wood cases hitting the ground.

Then came the second pair of swords, held tightly by the Dreetle's bottom set of limbs, these other arms sized just an inch shorter than his upper half, but equally strong and dexterous. They could handle the skill of swordplay just as magnificently as the others. With these bottom two, Plexadonn would not be using to hurt the dragon, saving them only for defense.

From somewhere in the vicinity, a separate plane of Space, Marohen drew his own sword. He held it delicately and wielded it effortlessly, a great pronged blade that was his signature instrument. It was constructed of a light metal, bright yellow, and Plexadonn knew better than to underestimate its power, and the power of its owner. Marohen has still not turned to spy the Dreetle.

Marohen kept still after moving his arm holding the fork, the entity positioning it across his shoulder as a shield for his back, and only now finally glancing backward, slightly pointing his face to the side to gaze at the Dreetle in his peripheral vision.

In anticipation, Plexadonn softly growled, the sound emanating from his throat; and he chittered quietly, his larynx clicking rapidly as if a predatory call; the elytra of his chitinous shell fluttering lightly and producing a soft flapping sound. Marohen scoffed almost silently, amused but largely unimpressed with the display.

The Dreetle then attacked, leaping high into the air with his powerful legs, his long thin tail flapping behind him. With two blades prepared for a downward stab and the other two crossed in front of his abdomen for protection, Plexadonn felt prepared for any sort of counterattack Marohen might try.

And down he came, Marohen still turned away as if apathetic, his head cocked to the left side to hear the Dreetle's descent behind him.

The blades met Marohen's sword, the dragon raising his clenched fist and quickly repositioning his arm to the right, easily deflecting both of his friend's blades, the ever perceptive Dimorai having calculated the trajectory nearly perfectly.

The dragon was quick with his next action, now that Plexadonn was done with his. Plexadonn was also quick to move, now thrusting forward with those top blades again, but Marohen gripped his sword in both fists and swung it upward, sending the long prongs to arch vertically over his head in an axe-like fashion. Again, the attack was deflected, Plexadonn's blades clashing heavily, and the sudden upward motion causing the Dreetle to take a step backward to regain his disrupted balance.

Yet Plexadonn delayed for a moment too long. He wondered if he should thrust for a second time, or try for a slash maybe, anticipating another wide arch, horizontal this time. But Marohen did not pause, and the fluid vertical motion continued smoothly without slowing, the dragon spinning on his heel and sending the great blade flying diagonally upward across Plexadonn's body, finally turning to face him.

The blade contacted the Dreetle's wrist, top left, severing the hand from the ante-brachial arm. Dual passions came at once to Plexadonn, and neither one could arrest his attention equally, and thus he could only focus on one extreme at once.

First, he had seen Marohen's eyes, a split second before the injury. They glowed softly with light, but furiously with anguish. The dragon was frustrated and miserable with the scene, having tried to avoid this encounter to the best of his ability and now feeling insulted and abused by Plexadonn.

Then the Dreetle saw his wound, and for a brief second he watched the arching fountain of blood spill from it and taint the air with its aroma. But he did not want to hesitate again, yet apparently he had done so again for he then noticed Marohen's fist quickly approaching his face.

Plexadonn jerked himself backward, leaning in order to avoid the blow and was very eager to now try his own counterattack.

He stepped on the sword, placing one foot onto the pronged weapon then swinging his upper two swords across the direction of Marohen's head and torso, keeping the bottom two blades still crossed over his thorax.

This defensive function, which he had developed long ago, only -now- aided him, for Marohen quickly tilted his sword and dragged it upwards through the air, swinging it into another wide, vertical arch, the metal clashing with those crossed blade and scraping the entire length of the prong.

This forced the Dreetle to jump backwards again, but this time Marohen did not use the force of his swing to arch and diagonally slash again. Instead, he halted the motion, and simply swung it around to his back, then turning to face away once again, glaring menacingly at his friend, sending a view of disgust in a flash of his yellow eyes. He was now back in his defense position.

Plexadonn lunged, not leaping upwards as he had before, as the uncontrolled descent had left him too vulnerable. This time, he let his body plunge horizontally forward. Marohen grimaced again and growled in irritation, being a fraction of a second too late in his intended parry and feeling Plexadonn's swords cut him.

Though he managed to lodge one of the monster's swords into the prongs of his forked weapon, both blades had still sliced into his wing and deeply shredded it, cutting a long gash along the tender flap. Plexadonn found this to be an excellent opportunity to do further damage.

The Dimorai turned again, desiring to throw another punch and deliver a blow that would knock his friend to the ground, but he only encountered an upward slash, the offensive blade not wedged coming up across his front and cutting his skin again, stabbing and chopping through the ivory-white shirt.

More wounds, more blood being shed, but only a slight hint of pain and sting. Marohen did not appreciate the gesture, nor did he like the damn beast's determination to prove his point. The fact that he was unconcerned about having his hand removed so violently showed the Dimorai how little he cared for their friendship at the moment.

The encounter ended with a simple punch. More specifically, several of the sort. Straight forward came Marohen's fist, first to collide with Plexadonn's abdomen, the spot where he knew the chitin would cease and the beast's draconian anatomy began. This blow was enough to stop the Dreetle momentarily, and in the brief moment that Plexadonn was stunned, Marohen delivered the next one, using the same arm and fist to beat against Plexadonn's face twice.

Plexadonn fell and Marohen quickly disarmed him, kicking away the swords held in the limp hands. Although the Dreetle was dizzy, he was not yet defeated and could find strength enough to stand and continue the battle, but he then immediately found himself pinned down to the ground by the forked sword. Marohen here could easily slay him now.

The sharp prongs stuck into him, one digging painfully into his armored thorax, and the other stabbed superficially into his insectoid flesh at the vulnerable junction of his lower pair of arms. Yes, impaling him and fixing the blade to the ground could kill him, but Marohen could easily use the Dreetle's own swords to butcher him further if that did not finish him.

A hiss of pain and anger was all Plexadonn would speak for the moment. If Marohen decided to kill him, he would not utter another sound.

He had lost the battle, been defeated so quickly. Now, Marohen was with the decision whether or not to show mercy and forgiveness. Plexadonn would not die from his amputation alone, and both knew this. Another such wound could, however, unless a hospital visit saved his life. Plexadonn was more upset over the idea of losing a hand than the thought of being slaughtered by a close companion.

The males glared at each other for almost a full minute, both quietly breathing, soft now, letting their systems relax as much as possible. Plexadonn was not certain his friend would spare him. The battle had not been serious, and was never intended to end in one or the other's death.

The trust that had grown between them was now glistening, much like Plexadonn's blood that ran slick in the dirt, and the Dimorai's eyes that shined, beaming maliciously downwards to him.

Plexadonn lay there, fantasizing and remembering of the day that he could have once championed this battle. And thus, a kind of sorrow came over him. This was only the nostalgia though. Like what Marohen had tried again and again, he needed to learn not only from those memories, the experiences, but also from the knowledge of Life. He would understand eventually, as long as he remained chained to a world that was always flowing. He could not depart.

"All right," Plexadonn said with a smirk, "you win, good job. Can I get up now?" His voice was drained a bit: alto, frequently rounding out to bass tones.

"I hope you've learned something, Plexy." The Blue Dimorai spoke quietly, looking a bit concerned at his companion's injury. This sort of wound could be healed at a hospital, though it would take some time and patience on everyone's side.

That name had caused Plexadonn to flush, and he suddenly felt hot around his face and ears, flattening his long antennae against his head and holding them down, as if in submission. It was not a name that was usually used to refer to him, but one only used or known by his very, very close friends... or a lover.

"Uh... yeah, I'm just outta practice." The Dreetle explained.

Marohen then took away the sword that he had been using to pin down his Dreetle friend. Plexadonn sighed, able to breathe more properly again, and watched Marohen crouch, showing the bloody gash in his chest where the shirt was ripped and stained.

"Well, you're not a fighter anymore, Plexy." He replied, sitting at the Dreetle's feet and smiling pleasantly. There came that name again, that brief spurt of the beast's true name that let Plexadonn know that Marohen did not hate him and was forgiving. The Dimorai's face was even more handsome to Plexadonn from this point of view, but it might very well have simply been the idea of having just been defeated.

The situation made Marohen appear to be gallant, and Plexadonn could not help but feel impressed. The dragon beamed at him, eyes fiery and peaceful.

"I just thought I'd try it again, sorry." Plexadonn sighed with a chuckle.

They embraced each other, Marohen having crawled closer, and sighed in each other's arms. Instantly, comfort washed over the both of them, and they could only laugh at each other. For just a quick moment, they kissed, the two males' mouths touching gently and licking at the other affectionately.

At the suggestion of Plexadonn, they next quickly made their way to the hospital, the Dreetle presenting a doctor with his severed had for reattachment. It would be no problem.

~Fin, dedicated to K. M.

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