Logs:Accidents Happen
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| RL Date: 8 August, 2015 |
| Who: N'rov, M'vyn, Cece, Y'ral |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Elsyth is caught by Vhaeryth |
| Where: Guest Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 6, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Ali/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, Kyouri/Mentions, N'dalis/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
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| M'vyn doesn't often show any signs of proddiness and those that he does have are generally reserved for Nala. Elsyth is not nearly as discreet as her rider. The green is not known for friendships and she certainly is not keen on seeking the company of others. The last few days she has actively been seeking places that put her in public view - especially for the males to notice. Today she's lingering by the lake, her hide steadily glowing towards richer shades and hues of greens as the day progresses. Her thoughts are sharpened points of ice, a radiating of her contemplation of the sky, and she broadcasts it to all who may listen. Ice. More ice. Because they haven't had enough of it, these last seasons. Vhaeryth was gone in the morning, drilling with the refurbished Hematite; this afternoon, though, he's been lurking. Not by the lake, exactly; by the feeding pens, on any of half a dozen ledges above them, scoping out the beasts he isn't supposed to have just any old time. There's one in particular, wily and juicy-looking (just his type) yet he hasn't made up his mind; to pass the time, he starts batting at those ice-javelins that happen to veer his way, not sending them right back at their source so much as deflecting. That sleeping, ancient green? She wakes in a froth of disgruntlement, staring blindly around in surprise. Does Elsyth notice Vhaeryth and his deflecting techniques? It would seem so as she amplifies the direction of her thoughts towards him. A fierce array of cold is gathered and jettisoned towards him in a swirling mass of cold. That cold seems to signal something else as she rouses from her lounge and pushes herself into the air. It's a short enough flight to the feeding pens, one that doesn't warrant circling about the Weyr as much as Elsyth chooses to do. She angles herself against the sun to draw whatever attention her action may bring. She toys with another lazy circle over the feeding pens, taunting whatever male may be watching her. Will she or won't she? A beast (is it the one Vhaeryth is eying?) is singled out and she slams her wings against her side and dives down into the feeding pends to slice her claws into it's back. The creature barely has time to bleat it's distress as she breaks its neck and begins to greedily gulp at the blood that begins to pool in the dirt. Vhaeryth doesn't dodge that one; he shivers and shudders and judders at the blow, shaking his wings as though shaking off ice crystals. Of course it's his beast; now he'll have to go through all the work of finding a new one... or just grab the nearest. That's what he does, and drink where he hadn't before. Around them, others circulate and steal and slay. The dirt is becoming mud, and worse when entrails fall and get trampled on. Time to get out of town! He flexes his hindquarters in preparation to do just that, and never mind how he'd abandoned his rider on someone else's ledge. Mud is beneath Elsyth and as it slowly begins to spread out in clumps of blood and gore. The grotesquely created mud-strewn grounds are thick with piles of dirt slickened to an eerie and darkened black from the mauled and half-gnawed on corpses of the creatures being dispatched for nothing more than a few, hot, throaty-gulps of blood. Elsyth has rendered another beast to pieces, its body broken and splattered against the bones of her previous victim. She toys with it, eying the males and sizing up those that have come for her. It's only when she's certain enough are there to please her that she flings that last carcass towards blue Oryth and takes to the skies with a throaty bellowing challenge for the males to follow. The guest weyr is full of most of the riders and is a hazy image in the link Elsyth shares with her rider. She takes M'vyn up with her, drawing him into her mind to experience the thrill of the air billowing beneath their wings as he makes steady progress upwards. As long as N'rov doesn't have to walk on it. Or run. He barely makes it off Oryth's neck in time, hurrying (and cursing) after Y'ral while the blue scrambles with limited success to avoid the carcass and get into the air. Vhaeryth's already up, accelerating after Elsyth. N'rov's got to catch up. Somehow in the confusion he gets the wrong ground weyr on the first try, surprises a couple people who didn't want to be surprised and high-tails it out of there. By the time he gets to the right spot he's speeding, skidding inside. Y'ral shouldn't be laughing - but he is as he and N'rov finally make it inside the right weyr. "S'what we get," he drawls as he elbows N'rov and gives him a wolfish smile. "Good thing Oryth has the patience to take us!" The rest of the men and women in the weyr shoot various glares at the entrance of two more competitors and then narrow their gazes on the man sprawled out on the bed. "Cece's here," Y'ral grumbles as he eyes the blonde brownrider. "She's always trying to hold a claim." Cece has no words for her wingmates as she remains focused with her head tipped back against the nearest wall and arms folded in front of her. Above, Elsyth's made progress through the scattering clouds. She doesn't always keep her body angled up, choosing to even out now and then to save her strength and fly a straighter path with the air currents. There seem to be no males that are near to her at this time, her earlier launch having maintained a certain distance and an edge of time for it from the others. Not to mention the inherent distractions in removing other males from their territory, in which Vhaeryth happily engages now that they're far above the ground; sometimes it's subtler, wider wings stealing updrafts or gauging risky spaces, sometimes more physical with a swipe of his tail intended to foul another male's path as irrevocably as can be. The only thing is, the last one may off-balance another bronze enough that a particularly savvy blue further upsets him with a body blow and sends him falling... but in the meantime, another couple of blues have gotten past Vhaeryth himself. Well past him; his recourse now is, other than getting back to the straight flight that suits his larger size, keeping a better eye on Elsyth and attempting to predict her future maneuvers. Speaking of maneuvers; N'rov's been muttering back at Y'ral and, increasingly, at his dragon; it doesn't stop him from, as they reach Cece's wall, splatting a hand in the air in front of her face with a suddenly-loud, "Boo." Elsyth must be taking notes from her fellow greens - especially those that fly in Jasper. She's full of stunts and tricks, her wing-beats and maneuvers strong and sure. A few blues have gotten near enough to make attempts at catching her, though savvy they may seem they are not savvy enough to twine with her. Thwarted, one blue barrels down past the remaining males with the intent of bumping a few from their paths as he goes. Elsyth twists to the left and peers back at her at her remaining suitors and bugles a challenge at them. « Still trying? None of you are worthy! » Her mental blast of ice is meant to disorient any that are weak enough to such a tactic. Cece slaps N'rov's hand away without flinching. Clearly she is used to such behavior from her wingmates. "Dunno why you bother coming," she challenges as her eyes open and she leers at Y'ral and then N'rov. "You two aren't suited to win this one. Call your boys home and lick your wounds with someone else." The others that are lingering near the wall glance at the Hematite riders and mutter amongst themselves. M'vyn seems to be unphased by any as he lounges back on the bed with his hands tucked beneath his curls. Eyes closed, he encourages his green to soar higher. That's disappointing. Not Elsyth's maneuvers; those are more exciting than they used to be (and if much-larger Vhaeryth can't match them, he'll concentrate on predicting where each will take her). Not the blue, whom Vhaeryth wouldn't bother to dodge if it weren't for that pesky momentum business (after which the bronze has to dodge all over again, thanks to one of the blue's earlier victims that had been slower to fall). Definitely not the ice blast, his portion of which rattles and sizzle as though on now-heated metal, amplified back to her and the rest of them; jocular on the surface, « You're worth trying, aren't you? » Maybe he's in the wrong flight? Maybe they all are! No, it's Cece's not spooking that's the downer. Just because they've all been doing that sort of thing to each other for Turns. "Shells, Cee. No licking wounds for you?" is all about the implications in N'rov's low drawl. "What if I poured salt in them? Or a dusting of salt. A sprinkling." He glances at M'vyn. "Rimming the very edge of the glass." Elsyth doesn't even bother to reply to Vhaeryth. That rattling and sizzling of heated metal is interesting. It's a shiny, distracting, sparkly-sort of object that draws Elsyth's mind further against the bronze's. She angles more of her ice towards it, flicking it casually as she flies further into the clouds. Her mental focus being on Vhaeryth, she narrowly misses being caught from a brown that has surged up from beneath her. She snarls at him and shoves his reaching claws away as she banks hard to the left and folds her wings to barrel downwards. She'll lose some height but hopefully in the attempt she'll put some space between her and the others. Cece's smile is laced with Oryth's more wicked humor as she taps a finger against her lower lip. "Salt in the wounds? Licking? Me? Hm. If I'm going to lick anything, I'll coat it in sugar and make it worth the other person's time." She gives a wink in answer to Y'ral's guffaw at her lewdness. One of the other rider's hisses at them, "Be quiet! Some of us need to focus!" That earns him a laugh from Y'ral as he elbows N'rov. M'vyn in all this? Still draped on the bed. That's the spirit! Vhaeryth snarls too and swerves, taking advantage of all the lost height he can (rattle-ping-ping!); if he can't intercept her yet, he's (still) working on it, and if her attention on him remains a problem, he (still) doesn't seem to mind. As for his rider, "Cee... she... likes it sweet," N'rov of the not-injured-enough ribs recites all singsong, Y'ral getting the smirk he might otherwise have lent the poor hissing rider. "Flights for her are such a treat, suckling on a little tea--" Elsyth has pulled her mind from Vhaeryth in a snap - one minute she's draping him in the cold, the next she is simply gone. That loss of height has done more damage than the green anticipated as she finds herself battling for space between her and a steady group of males. Her focus shifts down to snarl at them, leaving someone who may be waiting for such an opportunity to swoop in and claim her. Cece can't help but laugh and Y'ral's got a cocky-smile directed towards the bronzerider before he murmurs encouragement to his blue. M'vyn growls, lifting up from the bed to swing a glare in the direction of the riders. "Don't," he warns, clearly voicing Elsyth's warning. This time, it's the warmth Vhaeryth shudders at, or rather the cold's lack, her lack; as to M'vyn's warning, though N'rov turns, it's less that the bronzerider rebuts it as that it can't possibly apply to him. To them. To them, because Vhaeryth's already swooping, aiming, the better to take her and make that group take it. Elsyth's fury is a blast of ice that sharpens into razor edges as Vhaeryth's aim is true and she finds herself tangled within his grasp. There's enough clawing of denial from the green as she attempts to break free of his clasp to no avail. She finds her anger ebbed by pleasure and finally submits to the ichor-marked bronze. M'vyn's there, of course, and not as he is subsumed by his green and her desires. Unlike his green, he opts not to mark his partner and finds his time better spent in simply enjoying. Ichor-marked and all too proud: the bronze claims not merely submission of her but ichor-deep satisfaction, hunting up that rare warmth of once before. Even after, after they've all four worked it well out and the dragons have found stone to settle upon, his rider's still there; braced only barely upon an elbow, he traces the different sort of marks on the other man's neck with that lazy gray gaze and, only after M'vyn seems to stir, his thumb. Elsyth toys tiredly with that warmth, allowing enough in to melt the surrounding ice into a slush-coated state. Content, she drowses near the bronze. Near enough to solicit Vhaeryth to curl around her. She's pleased, that's clear. M'vyn slowly comes into his own awareness once Elsyth's mind begins to recede into her own space. He stirs beneath that tracing and he shifts enough to lift his head up to twist a glance at N'rov. This reaction is far different than that other time. Their relationship has some foundation in agreement (if not friendship) and he stretches languidly beneath the bronzerider. "Satisfied?" he queries, genuine enough in the question as he settles back amongst the crumpled sheets. She's pleased, Vhaeryth's certainly pleased, and indulgent to boot: not only curling about Elsyth (there's a forearm for her to rest her head upon, much more comfortable than stone) but idly grooming any stray splatters of ichor as well as his own drying wounds. N'rov's less with the licking; he's got a slow grin for M'vyn, though, one that loses what focus it had when the other man moves. He laughs then, low; he rubs his jaw, where the stubble's started to show. "You... Yeah." Then, "Better?" Elsyth rumbles at his grooming, that borderline of contentment and annoyance there as she decides whether or not she likes his attention in that manner. She decides to tolerate it as she moves to rest her head upon that offered forearm. She will not be returning the favor of helping Vhaeryth with his wounds. Instead, she eyes them with a sense of pride. She marked him. She chose him. M'vyn shifts, moving to the side and not caring for the moment that in doing so he reveals his nakedness. He stretches his arms over his head and yawns. A glance is given to that stubble and another glance towards N'rov's chest and torso in appreciation. He finger-combs his hair into some sort of order as he lounges back against a pillow. "You're better than others," he tells the bronzerider with a sly tilt to his lips. "But yes. Since that first..., I don't...," he shrugs. "I've learned to let her be my focus." He pauses then, looking away from N'rov and towards the entrance. "You could choose not to... with men. So... why do you?" As he adjusts, N'rov half-absently does as well to make it easier. Once settled on his side, he contemplates M'vyn, though his gaze doesn't roam as far as the greenrider's had; indeed, though he doesn't take shelter in any way, there gets to be a flush to his ears that only deepens at the other man's remark. All he can do is swallow a laugh, and touch two fingers to his brow by way of a provisional salute. In the end, "Think you might underestimate Vhaeryth's powers of... persuasion." Or of just doing. The bronze's amused and possibly even entitled rumble lingers about the pair of them, deeper than Elsyth's and the warmer for her so-great tolerance; could be he likes that edge of hers. In that rumble's echoes, his words ring as all too genuine. As might the question that emerges after all; "You think we can?" There's something about N'rov's blush and his accompanying amusement that serves to lower M'vyn's inherent defenses. Still languid from a flight, he considers the bronzerider in a lazy, thoughtful, way that he rarely shows to others. "I do think some can," he reasons, lifting a brow at N'rov, "I've never seen N'muir allow his bronze to chase a green, much less one that's ridden by a male." He shrugs, moving an arm to tuck back behind his head. "I figured you all had some pull and say on whether or not you let them chase." He angles a glance towards the bronzerider with the barest hint of a smile. "Unless you like the thrill of it so much you don't care who you tumble?" A push to see if that blush of N'rov's will remain or deepen. "I know you've won your fair share of goldflights. So it isn't as if Vhaeryth has no choices." Elsyth has made her choice and for now seems content enough to slumber beside the bronze, her ice slowly reforms around her as she sleeps, but when she wakens it may be easier for some to make way in the face of the bronze's warmth. "Bijedth's all swoony over Elaruth," N'rov can't let that pass without saying; he manages to survive without interrupting the rest, but it's a near thing. Vhaeryth can watch over Elsyth; he... he's there and yes, the flush travels a little further despite the rueful hook to his mouth. Yes, it's different for him too, right now. For now. And still he asks as part of his answer, "Would you be... satisfied... with three tumbles in your lifetime?" To quote the man over and over again. M'vyn allows a smile, however small and short lived, to show his enjoyment as he watches N'rov's reaction. That question earns N'rov a surprised guffaw. "I hadn't," he manages to say, "quite thought of it that way." He shakes his head, holding back a laugh that somehow etches its way into the tone of his voice. "I've only recently started to find some sort of... joy in a flight. Earlier, I would've been glad for having few." He shrugs, "Now? I suppose they're worth having more of." He slides a sidelong glance at N'rov as he asks, "Don't you get some outside of a flight though?" That guffaw gets a grin, quicker than the rest but no less lasting; N'rov starts to speak, then holds off for M'vyn... only to wind up grinning all over again. He reaches back, rubs his neck; the easy humor in those gray eyes, though, that doesn't go away at all. "Sometimes after a flight, even," he imparts the forbidden knowledge. "No, but I want him to be happy. He gets tense, I get tense. He likes the chase, yeah? It's going all out and you just don't get to do that in drills, though losing's a big ball of suck." It prompts him to lean up a little, enough to poke his pillow so it's more fluffy when he leans back down. "It was hard for a while there, though. After our first flight," he stops to look more fully at M'vyn again. There's an infectious quality that N'rov has that continues to lower M'vyn's defenses, Not fully, for he stiffens at the mention of 'after a flight' but slowly relaxes again rather than react otherwise. "I suppose if you came to and truly - ah - well," he struggles for a moment there, the slightest hint of redness there against his cheeks, "you'd want to go again." N'rov's movements has M'vyn equally straightening on the bed, though he eventually settles back down and angles himself to the side. He rests his elbow on the pillow and places his chin in the palm of his hand as he appraises N'rov. "Elsyth is fond of the males that chase her. But, she's a different creature entirely." He pauses for a moment, then prompts, "What happened after your first flight?" "'Course she is," has assured warmth rather than otherwise, like 'different' is a fine way to be. N'rov hadn't called M'vyn on his blush, though for a moment temptation might have lurked; he holds off, similarly, on Elsyth's first. After a deep breath, he doesn't hold off any longer on what he'd put out there himself. "Imagine, if you will," here his look at M'vyn turns distinctly wry, "us as a new pair. Vhaeryth's started sniffing around. I'm even looking forward to flights half the time. But who does he set his sights on first? Elaruth." Near-whispered, "Elaruth." M'vyn lifts a brow and smirks at N'rov's assurance over Elsyth's quality but otherwise doesn't do anything to downplay or disagree with the bronzerider. His other brow lifts in response to the sharing, more on the comment of looking forward to a first flight than to the punch-line. "I guess I don't understand what's wrong with that? Other than the fear of being tapped a Weyrleader shortly after completing weyrlinghood. Wouldn't it be obvious that - ah, Vhaeryth's youth in that department, would've made it unsuccessful?" He rubs his thumb along his jawline. "Unless," he muses, "in losing you ended up out of your mind and tumbled the first person you laid hands on." He tries for a joke, though it may come off less than humorous, "was that the first time you slept with a man then?" "Accidents happen," N'rov says to M'vyn and those raised brows. "Point is, though..." He breaks off, not-quite-laughs. "Ah, no." The bronzerider's smile lingers, private but soon explained. "First time I slept with a man was thanks to Suraieth, and that was significantly later. You know Dal?" More than just a hello, presumably. "I suppose they do," M'vyn replies with a twitch at the corner of his lips as he holds back a smile. His amusement still shows in the ease of his features and a spark in the glance he gives N'rov. "Dal? No," he replies, shrugging as that seriousness descends upon him. "I don't socialize with all that many riders." He at least is honest in that. "Never been the type to seek others out. I don't make friends." He heaves himself upwards, glancing at his nakedness and then slips out of the bed to go and fetch his pants to tug on. He pauses once they're settled on his hips and glances at N'rov, lost in a thought of his own before he looks away and goes to find his shirt to tug on. All the more sheets for N'rov, and he isn't even three to the wind, though some might not be in a condition to be wanted; he goes about sitting up, but winds up just comfortably sitting. At the glance, however, "Hm?" It's as unhurried as, "Toss me a towel, would you." M'vyn's got his shirt pulled on when N'rov makes his request. "Sure," he says as he makes his way across the weyr to fetch a towel. He doesn't throw it at N'rov, choosing instead to walk it over to the bronzerider and offer it. He looks like he almost wants to say something but opts not to. With little to no reason left to linger, he gathers his boots and sits to pull them on, preparing to leave. "Thanks." N'rov's glanced at M'vyn's wrist on the way to the towel; it's the latter that he takes. There's a slight smile crooking his mouth, one that suits the slant of brows. This time he doesn't ask; if the greenrider wants to escape that, or the other questions being turned back on him, he'll let him get away with that much. But not, unless the other man's quick, the clap on the shoulder and the push off once N'rov's abruptly swung himself to the edge of the bed, the better to get going and gather his own gear. After all, M'vyn could've gone after his boots! M'vyn seems caught off-guard by that clap on the shoulder and gives N'rov another look. He isn't one for lingering goodbyes. With his boots on, clothes straightened, and a resigned glance towards the door he begins to head out. It may be out of respect (or simply habit) that he turns and gives N'rov another look. He taps two fingers to his temple and flips his fingers out in a semi-salute. "See you on the mats in a day or so," he offers before he heads out to face the remainder of the day. "Next time," N'rov agrees with apparent simplicity, and an over-the-shoulder flash of grin that doesn't slow him any. Not that he's in a rush, just thorough; even once he's clean and changed, he gets back to searching the room. There's hardly any dust, and definitely not that still-missing die... but he does come up with a shiny stone button wedged in a crevice, too pretty to be theirs. The bronzerider sets that on the corner of the bed in plain sight, the lift to his mouth distinctly ambiguous, and leaves. |
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