Logs:Horny Nightlight Extinguished
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| RL Date: 21 February, 2015 |
| Who: Laine, Rh'mis, Val, Irianke, Alida, K'zin, H'vier, V'ros, R'hin, R'oan |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Niahvth finally takes to flight and is caught by Reisoth. |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr, Irianke's Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 1, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: blizzarding |
| OOC Notes: Please make additions where needed! :D |
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>---< Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#350RJs) >----------------------------<
Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier
or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them
instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large
enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the
cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters
down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open
space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet,
and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's
offerings.
Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven --
only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they
add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the
centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling
and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end
of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an
array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows
are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Irianke F 36 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s
Laine F 17 5'4" trim, dark hair, grey eyes 1m
Rh'mis M 20 5'6" Scrawny, Brown hair, Blue eyes 2m
Val F 38 5'5" sleek, brown-black hair, brown-black eyes 5m
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Inner Caverns Kitchen Bowl
>-----------------------------------------< 25D 1M 37T I10, winter night >---<
>---< Irianke and Niahvth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#1207RJ) >---------------<
This hollowed out bubble cavern is large. Tendrils of steam come from a
corner near the lower caverns entrance to the weyr. It's situated near a
separated cave that has hanging glass beads obscuring view of it, likely
the bed chamber. The outermost room is decorated in bright colors and a
lot of interesting pieces of art hung on the walls. A large stone table
sits in the entrance from the ledge atop a yellow and teal rug. The
furniture is chaise lounges on other sectional carpet pieces and a cabinet
of liquor. The glassed-in bookshelf is filled with volumes and volumes of
books and scrolls and locked from prying eyes.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Alida F 26 5'7" Athletic, white-blond hair, Clear green ey 7s
Irianke F 36 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s
R'hin M 52 6'1 lean, sandy hair, pale blue eyes 28s
R'oan M 39 6'1 Muscular, Blonde hair, Grey-green eyes 31s
V'ros M 22 5'8 Slim, Brown hair, Brown eyes 19s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Complex Ledge
>-----------------------------------------< 25D 1M 37T I10, winter night >---< Such a blizzard. So much snow. Has the sun even risen? There's got to be a glow out there... somewhere. (To Niahvth from Visigoth) To Visigoth, Niahvth slumbers, but restlessly, and when Visigoth reaches out, a flower that has a mouth and such teeth snaps out to make sure the brown gets no closer. Teeth. Visigoth can respect those sorts of teeth. Now that he's found her, surely there's no reason for him to do other than obey. It's just... there's an experiment to be done, a slide of blade just a little nearer to stem. Surely, amid that field of flowers, she won't miss just one? (To Niahvth from Visigoth) >---< Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#350RJs) >----------------------------< There's a growl from the disheveled brownrider who enters from that very same bowl, the brownrider petite but not walking like it, pushing a copper-haired rider ahead of her. "Hurry up, or I will step on your feet," Val says, as though that will show her. "Fewmets, woman. And... Aelda! Grab her arm. You'd think she didn't want to get warm." To Visigoth, Niahvth's id pretends not to notice. One flower won't be missed and she has many to spare, including the one that snakes up in vines and entraps Visigoth's mind. Is she really sleeping? Her physical form is a brilliant, glimmering gold on her ledge. It doesn't move except in the rhythmic pace of one who sleeps. Laine plucks back the pencil, vanishing it (along with her crumpled, scribbled-on hide) into a pocket. "Yessir; sorry, sir," spoken rapid-fire, though not dismissively. She bobs her head--he'll get nothing but complete agreement from her--it's not her personal workshop. Got it. But she makes no effort to tidy her heap of leather scraps, instead leaning around the man to peer over at the incoming brownrider and her ward. Eyebrows perk, but Laine's got nothing to offer but some curiosity. Absently, she says to Rh'mis: "It's what, sir?" Is that a fair trade? That's not a question Visigoth asks, his own massive jaws slipping delicately along his stolen petals... right before he goes very still. Vines. Look at those. He breathes out onto them, sees if they melt or swarm. (To Niahvth from Visigoth) They shatter into tiny seeds, from where more vines grow and pin him into Niahvth's mind space. The gold stirs, a flicker of her coming to life for a moment where a field of flowers is simply a field of flowers and not a figurative moat protecting its owner. Then, sleep claims the dragon once more, and the vines return. (To Visigoth from Niahvth) Rh'mis let looses another stream of curses, but again, they don't seem to be aimed at Laine; instead, he's still staring off into the distance-- off into space, somewhere. "She's going to rise today," is not news, of course, but the way he says it... it's quite possibly the worst thing in the world; the absolute worst. It's at that point that he takes a staggered half-step back, barely registering anything else, and certainly not Val and her charge. "Aye," says a tight voice near Rh'mis. Irianke. When did she get there? Desert-tanned skin is pale on her cheeks and dark circles haunt her eyes. "Today. If not today, you lot might have to explain to Nimae why she's lost a junior. And," the Igen rider's so solemn face breaks into a rueful twisted grin, "The Curse of the Reaches will live on." Val's charge doesn't charge into the table with those scraps, exactly. It's more of an over-the-shoulder complaint that finds no pity from the brownrider behind her, only, "You're cute when you're messed up like that. Now move." With Aelda or without her becomes... away from her and, thanks to Val's own distraction, into the table of Laine's belongings. "'Curses.'" Of course they do. Visigoth doesn't have the decency, or the fear, to escape in the moment of simplicity. If it's a trap, it's one he strops his thoughts along, the better to hone his very own blade. (To Niahvth from Visigoth) "Oh," and Laine breezes away Rh'mis' explanation with a wave of her hand. That part--the 'she's-rising' part--that's apparent, and maybe Laine's about to say something else but suddenly there's a... someone on top of the tanner's table and the girl is blinking round eyes over the copper-haired rider, up and over at Val. Vaguely accusatory, but largely confused. "'Scuz me. You lost your, uh. Drunk guy." And Laine prods the collapsed rider. Here. They're right here. Another distraction. Another dragon. One with an irritability factor higher than Visigoth's must have appeared. Those vines slither along the valley in a different direction leaving the brown quite alone in a black void. (To Visigoth from Niahvth) Rhey? He turns on his heel, stares at Irianke, and promptly looks as though he's about to throw up. Or possibly throw a punch; it's hard to tell, given the mix of horror and fury that's all right there, on the surface for everyone to see. He's luckily just far enough from Laine's table not to be jostled by Val's companion, but the commotion there certainly doesn't help matters-- he sidles back, back and back and back. Maybe there's still time to run? (Maybe not.) On the tail of Irianke's 'The Curse of Reaches,' the devil might enter in the form of one stern-featured and silent blonde woman, Alida pacing towards into the cavern as if she has a specific destination in mind. She's clad in sweaty workout clothing, a towel draped about the back of her neck - the thing occasionally blotted at her brow - her clear green gaze set upon the destination of her choice: the bathing cavern well-beyond the living cavern. Alert eyes spot the small gathering of people about Irianke, especially that...collpased rider, and soon flick over to Rh'mis as if he might hold some sort of secret potential. Still, she keeps on moving. Irianke is not about to stop the poor man, stepping aside to let him escape. She's also immensely distracted by the drunk guy prone on... the table? "I knew I should've proposed proddy dragons get their own damn island away from anyone who needs to be productive. What a fucking mess." She looks to want to make her own escape, chase after Rh'mis, or just find somewhere, anywhere, else to be than here. "Hey!" exclaims the collapsed rider in a distinctly soprano voice. "That's my," only to have the brownrider cut in. "It's your arm, sweets. It will survive. Now, off the table." Not that Val's in any hurry to help, enjoying her predicament a little too long. Long enough for Rh'mis to escape so far as she's concerned, though it may not count as a brownrider-to-brownrider favor if she isn't paying attention to his existence. To Laine, very sternly, "Not a guy. I don't care how many layers of wool and leathers and feather she's wearing. Apologize." Dark eyes don't leave the girl even when Val adds, "It gets better." That, for the hot proddy mess. R'oan has arrived. Where's the excitement there? He tracks, too sharp to be a slither. If she's not too swift, swifter even than he. (To Niahvth from Visigoth) Laine's turned that wide, reproachful look over at Rh'mis as though this whole mess was somehow his fault. She just wanted to write a letter. But the expression softens somewhat, even collasping into a lopsided (if a bit crazed) grin that wanders across the caverns and finally lands, wobbly, on Val. Then down to the person--scratch that: the woman--on her table. On her scraps. On her scraps! It's just then that Laine notices the leather strips, now littered across her lap and table and floor. Then: a sigh. Just as wobbly as the smile. And Laine finds herself apologizing, dutifully, for the second time in minutes: "Sorry." But that's followed up with a plaintive, "Shouldn't I get one, too?" and another arm-prod. An apology, that is. Rhey takes one more look at the group-- and the sprints for the door. The snow is clearly an improvement on this. Proddy dragons... Irianke... Rh'mis of doom and gloom and non-escapability...riders acting whacko... and the final nail in the coffin is Ilicaeth - outside - landing as close as he can to Niavhth, and flexing his burly musculature for her pleasure. Apparently the blue doesn't give a single shit if he irks the browns and bronzes, nor does he care if he's not 'acceptable' company in a gold flight. Inside, his rider's eyes widen a little, and she suddenly picks up speed on her path towards the bathing pools, eager to get the fuck out of the way of a 'pre-mating flight ball' (aka flight hodee ring). >---< Irianke and Niahvth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#1207RJ) >---------------< Irianke follows Rh'mis out into the bowl, and the blast of cold, snowy air seems to wake her from whatever somnolent state she's in. "FUCK, it's cold," the warm-weather bred woman says, drawing her arms about her tightly. Up on her ledge, Niahvth sleeps, though it's becoming more and more restless, and the dragons in her vicinity and the dragons she or her rider have come in contact personally with in the last month will start to feel a crackle in the periphery of their minds. Sun sizzling the ground. Sun frying a string and lighting it on fire. Fire. Rh'mis doesn't seem to much like being followed-- his run breaks into a faster run, as he veers off towards the lake, as if that might actually help things (it doesn't). Rosvelth, his wings drawn about him like a cape, rouses, alert but not alarmed; it's nearly time, and he is ready. Etrevth isn't one of those dragons, yet he is still here, lingering at High Reaches as if he's considering finding a nice ledge and moving in. At least, until the glowing gold that has captured his attention has risen and been caught. He doesn't seem concerned about the other dragons that watch, dragons that are much larger and more bronze than he is. Instead, his primary concern is for the herdbeasts as he waits. R'oan's primary concern is his glass of whiskey, which he continues to enjoy in Snowasis, for the moment. It's about time. Low on a hapless blue's ledge above the feeding pens, Visigoth gnashes his teeth for the shell of it. His rider, who'd just gotten her redhead of the month into the baths, could strke sparks with her eyes alone. Val turns on her heel and turns the air blue. It's bad timing, for K'zin, really. Taiga riders are just blinking in above from sweeps. A trio of them wings down in formation to neat landings in the snowy bowl. There hasn't been time for Rasavyth to become distracted, or for his rider to go elsewhere. There hasn't even been time for K'zin to hear the gossip of the imminent flight since, if they're returning now, they've been gone a time and the bronzerider is probably near frozen as is often the case after sweeps at this time of the turn. He dismounts quite unaware of the impending danger. Rasavyth is not unaware, his curiosity peaked by sun. It draws his mind and holds it in wait. And K'zin? He checks the straps because he doesn't know any better. This time - though she got her brown out of 'contention' for the previous gold flight - Tr'enna isn't so lucky. While the middle-aged, bookish brunette woman is usually introverted and a-sexual, when Leth is involved, all is up for grabs. Instead of watery blue eyes looking at the floor or buried in a book, she's got eyes only for Irianke/Niahvth, sharing her lifemate's lust as he skids to a gliding halt outside the pens, then vaults over to snicker-snack on a fleeing herbeast. Blood; it does a body good! Hey sugar, I'm prime. Irianke has no eyes for where Rh'mis ends up. The snow picking up as she shields her eyes to look across at her ledge. It's part of her duty, and if anything has been made clear about this rider in the last month, she is exceedingly duty driven. For a moment, it even looks like she forgets the cold, the way she picks a path through snow drifts towards the Weyrleader complex and her weyr beyond, but somewhere along the way she kicks the snow and mumbles, "Of course, he'd have to run outside and not into the caverns. What an idiot." She stubs her toe against a hidden rock, of course, cause it's that kind of damn day, and her cry is the flimsiest reason for Niahvth to wake. But there she is, awake, wings snapped, and a high shriek for the sky. Then she's down, swooping low to the ground, past her rider and whoever is in the bowl, to the feeding grounds. It is when Etrevth protests with a rumble at Leth (hey, he was here first! He wanted just that herdbeast, too!) that brings a curse word spilling from R'oan's lips. The brown is quick to leap after Leth, striking his second-favorite herdbeast down under his talons and crooning a greeting towards Niahvth. Meanwhile, his rider knocks back the last of his glass, for all that he probably doesn't need that after drinking all morning. R'hin's absence throughout the morning is probably not something noticed, not with everyone already on edge from Niahvth's impossible-to-miss glowing status. It's perhaps somewhat more conspicuous when he's not amongst the riders gathering when the Igen-born queen's thoughts begin to crackle outwards, and more so when she wakes and angles towards the feeding grounds. Rosvelth surges into life as Niahvth does, beating past the falling snow in order to reach, airborne, for the feeding grounds - and for the blood that awaits him, there. No doubt his rider registers that, but his path towards the lake continues, unabated. The wind and snow howl around them; he runs blind. Life freaking sucks. Reisoth has been on alert, watching Niahvth from a distance, for the better part of the day. Not unlike a hunter waiting out his prey with an admirable amount of patience, or a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen. When she awakens, he's ready and eager, dropping from his perch above the bowl and gliding toward the feeding grounds to do what dragons do before they take to the skies. H'vier, though? No sign of him quite, but he's been visible with some form of alcohol or another for the better part of the day. Early avian gets the blood! Leth isn't one whit sorry - more gleeful, truth be said - at depriving Etrevth of 'his' choice of meal, the cocoa-brown offering a low sound of challenge to the other dragon before he mantles his wings about his catch and sucks it dry of precious carmine fluid. And with Niahvth arriving overhead, he's not a moment too soon abandoning the corpse, and seeking out another...a flurry of proto-feathers and ichor heralding the stomping flat of a wherry's head. MmmNom..preen. He's just as pretty as Niahvth. Dashing, actually. And his rider? Trenna is seeking to shove her way through others gathering here, the six foot tall, rangy female crafter rather odd in this slew of menfolk. Her grumbly soprano is overheard to note, "Move it, you louts." Cretins. Whiplash. Irianke turns too late to watch her dragon fly by, and after ascertaining the gold is in the feeding grounds felling one and then two herdbeasts, the woman hurries her steps, racing as much as she can over all the damn snow to her weyr. The lusty queen lets the red blood spill, pausing over her kills as if fascinated by the color against the white, white snow blanket, and takes her time to lick first the snow and then blood from the beast itself. By the time the first animal is drained, Irianke is in her weyr, sitting on a chaise and fully, absolutely fully composed. Fire's good. Blood's not yet better. Visigoth follows where fire sears the way he will where it soars, muscling past a smaller brown to get his kill and then spend far too long killing. His Val takes a shortcut through as much of the caverns as she improperly can, hailing a couple of brownriders she knows along the way like this is some sort of addicts' not-so-anonymous... after which there will be pastries. It's just that she has to get to Irianke and her composure first. As his dragon bloods, R'oan pushes from Snowasis, blindly making his way after other riders until he ends up at Irianke's weyr. It is clear, as he does, that he is not a polite drunk, a tipsy drunk. No, he is a sloppy drunk; the kind that comes with large gestures and loud words and, in his case, big smiles and low laughs at jokes in his own head. In fact, a laugh spills from his lips now, as he puts himself against a wall to hold it up. Etrevth is still determined, as he finds a second beast of his own greedily. There's a searing heat in the air when Niahvth wakens, a fireball emanating from the once Igen queen and releasing into the sky above. It's blinding in the Reaches mental space, but also so much less tense in comparison to the last day. (To local dragons from Niahvth) Cold, to counteract that heat -- or to try, anyway. For a moment, maybe, Leiventh's thoughts are his own, before that heat overwhelms him. There is a sense of distance, in his thoughts. (To Niahvth from Leiventh) A little bit of snow isn't going to stop Zmeyth from being intrigued, from pursuing such a winsome prize. He descends towards the feeding pens when the gold herself has leveraged herself there, his reptilian-patterned bulk skimming along the peripheries of the panicked beasts, until he finds one that fits his fancy enough to pinion to the ground and drain. Through the blizzardy conditions, V'ros wends his way, coming from somewhere over there. And he's climbing, with his head down, to the gold's ledge and hedging his way inside. He'll follow the curve of the weyr wall, sticking himself somewhere between that one short bronzerider and that other grossly-muscled brownrider from Glacier, trying not to make eye contact with Irianke - yet. Gold. Rosvelth's gold; Niahvth's gold. His holds a hint of water - just a little glistening beneath the shallows - and shining promise, true throughout. He could tell her such stories, you know. Their great adventure. (To Niahvth from Rosvelth) To local dragons, Etrevth is all intoxicating smoke and whiskeyed promises, giving way to fireballs as a matter of course. Yet, there's a thread of amusement through the dragon's thoughts, as if he is laughing at the queen and with her both. Can one hurry in a nightmare? If one has the proper motivation. It's a confused look K'zin gives the bronze as the dragon roars, in a way entirely uncharacteristic of even his typical flight-lusted behavior. That proves to be motivation enough, and the glowing form that is Niahvth winging over to quicken the pace as the bronzerider swiftly yanks at all the buckles to free his lifemate from potentially hazardous straps. The slender form of the dull bronze hurtles toward the feeding grounds, not bothering anything showy as he downs a beast and drains it. K'zin stares after him, still looking dazed, and those straps he's holding parts of? Those'll come with him as he turns to head for Irianke's weyr. Leth is utter darkness to Niahvth's fiery light, his answering touch as chill as the space between the stars, yet oddly rich and deeply textured. Their opposites will unite, and give birth to a new world! He's full of restrained 'negative' energy, space yearning to fill and be filled by the gold's brilliance. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) She's seated, poised on one of her lounge chairs, one leg straight, the other anchoring her to the ground. She's looking, watching people file in and glancing sharply to one side, the movement of a young man sticking himself against her walls making her look to make sure nothing breakable is in reach. Relieved her wooden apple carvings and that wooden sword usually hung over a cabinet are now gone, Irianke takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Her tongue sweeps over her lips. It's then Niahvth drains the second animal, and why the hell not, a third too. Now, three beasts in, she looks at her suitors and smiles that dragon smile, her maw shaping into something as dangerous as the continued crackling of her thoughts. Something smells singed in every mind available to her. Blood is spilled by Reisoth's claw and he settles over his fallen beasts to drink his fill while he spares one eyes for Niahvth and the other for his competition. He's silent, both physically and mentally, a dragon of few words. H'vier, however, is not. His arrival, not even the last!, is announced by a less than subtle, "Fuck, yeah, I'm here!" Slightly drunk. Just slightly. He can clearly still walk. And talk without an obvious slur, but certainly not fully composed. "Everyone else get the fuck out. Except you," is pointed at Irianke specifically. He'll need her, obviously. There is only shimmers at first, here, there, but never the same place twice. Then the shimmers flash bright as they reflect and amplify Niahvth's heat, her fire, as if her heat has sparked him into vivid, vibrant life. A glorious moment in the sun. (To local dragons from Rasavyth) As the dragons begin to blood, there's still no sign of hook-nosed Leiventh, nor his rider. It's when Niahvth moves onto her third kill that the pair arrive, appearing dangerously low over the skies. The bronze barely seems to wait to drop his rider to the ground before he's aloft, hopping into the feeding grounds with little care for who else is there, taking down the first buck unfortunate enough to move in his field of vision with a ruthlessness that doesn't preclude adeptness. Rosvelth is having, you guys, so much fun. Blooding? Totally fun. Chasing? The most fun. And Niahvth? Definitely fun, if you know what he means (and he's sure you do). He takes down a second beast to go with his first, but really, by the time he's partway through that, he's ready for action; blood's good and all, but there's more fun to be had, up there in the snow. His wings rustle and shift; ready when you are, oh shining one. Rhey? Nope. Still AWOL. "Why don't you start," R'oan invites easily, who does slur his words. "We'll all follow right behind you." He even smiles at H'vier, all promises with that smile, see. "You're going to need to bend over for your dragon when Leth catches her..." Trenna announces in a clear and rather oddly ringing voice to H'vier, the tall crafter grinning impishly at the burly bronzerider, her thin frame holding up one of the walls somewhat nearer Irianke's bed. And outside, Leth is blooding his third kill, while his huge red eyes follow Niahvth's every move. Waiting for the proper moment. Where's the fun in disposing of the breakables by not breaking them. Val's clomp turns into more an inward drift as the snow leaves her boots, scattered over Irianke's floors. She's gotten rid of her gloves somewhere, and heavy rings flash from her fingers as she high-fives a fellow brownrider... a fellow not-guy brownrider, no less. Visigoth's blooded a couple of times. She doesn't have to count. She does aim to cut in front of someone else, who-cares-who else. It's warmer inside. He's ready to go up, though 'fun' may not be his watchword. It can't be too easy. "Oh, H'vier, still having those delusions of grandeur," K'zin observes cheerfully as he enters behind the larger man, having dropped his straps somewhere along the way (hopefully no one trips and dies in the doom weyr tonight thanks to him~). "Going to find me after the flight?" He winks saucily at H'vier as shifts past him to find a place against the wall, grinning his smarmy greeting to whichever other chasers catch his eye. Rasavyth is after the next kill, snorting at Rosvelth and all his fun. It is fun, of course. But it's also srs bsns, guys, not that you'd know it from K'zin's grin. She's off. Without warming, without a fireball, without any courtesy. She's up into the air, battling the snow raining down from the skies and struggling to get somewhere without so much impairing her vision. Irianke's eyes snap open and the smile her dragon once smiled is now on her lips, curving crooked and sensual, her gaze descending on each of her suitors, including the loud mouthed one self-assured of winning. "Oh, doll, just because you were good the other night doesn't mean you'll be as good tonight. I don't even know if your dragon's ardor will help you get something that limp up with that much alcohol in you." It seems that some of R'oan's drunkness has infused Etrevth's ability to fly, not helped by the blizzard swirling around them. He pushes off sloppily from the ground, despite all the smokey confidence still held within his thoughts, and his path isn't quite-- straight. Or even purposefully curved. It is just crooked. "No one has to get anything up to fuck you," offers R'oan to Irianke as if she doesn't know, amusement twinkling in grey-green eyes as he glances first to Trenna and then Val. Amirite, right? Nope, walls are nice and safe. Kind of cold and foreboding, but better than facing his feelings, right? V'ros leans back and brackets his face in his hands, wincing against the persistent tug of the gold's influence, and since everyone else is doing it, his eyes seek out the lounging goldrider. There's pitiful, pitiful yearning there. He doesn't even notice all of H'vier's bravado and all their banter. No, this brownrider's only got big, moon eyes for Irianke. Zmeyth's midway through his third blooding when the gold takes off without warning, and his response is to drop the flaccid corpse of the herdbeast to launch purposefully into the air after Niahvth. Halfway through his second, a noise rumbles from Leiventh's throat that is more felt than heard. Is it enough? It doesn't matter -- since Niahvth launches skywards, the angular bronze abandons the half-drained carcass and surges upwards in her wake. Moments later, R'hin arrives at the weyr at a dead run, breathless, covered in snow, and tracking wet footprints into her weyr as he does so. He's got one arm stuffed into his flight jacket, the other hanging loose, and he looks cold and, judging by the tense set of his jaw, angry, pale eyes flickering around the weyr. You don't want to know what Rhey is doing, hopefully in the lee of a door, somewhere, and not right out in the open. He probably needs that part of his anatomy, whether or not he wants it right now. His dragon is unfazed; his dragon has taken to the air, his rippled glee transmitted widely - not just towards Niahvth, but to everyone. What a story! What a chase! "You fuckers can't blame a man for trying," says H'vier, not picking out any fucker in particular to smirk at until K'zin says something. It still earns a grin, but also a slightly less happy-fun-times, "If I find you after, it'll only be to break that pretty face of yours." He's too drunk to be that careful with his words. Maybe he actually thinks the man is pretty. "And you don't worry about me getting it up, sweetheart." Irianke must be assured. "Nobody worry about my dick, okay?" he says, louder, but he kind of sounds serious. Fortunately Reisoth isn't affected by his moronic rider's antics. When Niahvth flies, so does he, up, up into the sky after her glowing hide with all the agile strength his size will allow. The rush, at least, makes H'vier shut up for the moment. With Irianke's delightful rejoinder to H'vier comes Trenna's peal of giggling-laughter, the woman holding her sides as she rides high on her lifemate's feelings, on flight-fueled delight in the chase. R'oan's comment earns him a snickering nod...and then the woman's crows are suddenly cut off as Leth bunches up and casts his lean frame skyward on Niahvth's glowy tail. She's a comet in his space, and he's got to track her down! Chase is only the half of it! In the sky, in the sky, there's such sudden joy! Really, it's like a bad episode of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde the way Niahvth's emotions are roiling from the extremes of heated lust and irritability and joyous abandon and love of wanton sex. Or what will eventually come of this. For now, she radiates joy, passion, and that bright beaming golden sunlight inherent in her touch. « Come, fly with me! Chase me! Melt this snow when you catch me! » (To local dragons from Niahvth) Irianke is hilarious. K'zin, drunk only on lust and fun, is laughing. Laughing until there's the glitter of truly amused tears at the edges of his eyes that he has to wipe away. His smile is so wide, it nearly breaks his face and he falls silent. He doesn't even need to say anything! Irianke's got it covered. It's probably for the best since Rasavyth is a little rusty with this whole aerial courting business and he can use his focus there. The glitter of the bright bronze on the underside of his wingsails catches the sun as he angles his slender form skyward after the glowing gold. There's a table. Val draws herself up onto it, one knee pointedly outthrust, her other boot pointed just shy of the floor. "Dicks," the brownrider draws out. Diiicks. "Who needs 'em." Her gaze likes to linger on Irianke, whose gold Visigoth is hunting for, but it's not above assessing H'vier and twinkly R'oan and anyone else who just might not need them any more. « Melt ME! » Leth fairly croons to Niahvth's latest passion, the rangy brown arranging his long form just behind some other males so as to draft off them and save some of his precious energy. She's the only star for him, tonight! (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) R'oan needs his dick, Val. Stop assessing it. Focus on H'vier's. He especially needs it as the chase is on, and despite his drunken state, he is now watching Irianke with a hooded intensity. Etrevth, spurred on by Niahvth's roiling emotions, only goes faster but not necessarily better. Dragons fly, dragons chase. Humans sit around and pretend to be nice, or drunk which aren't entirely mutually exclusive. Irianke has been doing this for long enough that what comes next is as instinctive as Niahvth's flight in the sky. Except that Niahvth's flight in the sky is being further impeded by snow and a wind that's present higher up in the Weyr's air space. She's neither going as fast nor as precisely as she wants, and the irritation finds outlet in a bellow that echoes throughout the Weyr. And Irianke? She's shedding her dress and her shoes, shaking her hair loose and removing her jewelry. And then she's standing, fit and slender, and cause it makes her stomach not make an inadvertent sad face. To local dragons, Rasavyth might seem only that shimmering reflection of Niahvth's own light, but now he takes up her joy and her passion and weaves it cleverly into each sparkling ray casting away toward his mind, casting away and toward her. He reaches and there's a low purr of pleasure that ghosts along with that light. A reflection of himself within the reflection of her. While he may not have had quite the normal, prepared, expected start of usual, that doesn't mean Leiventh's undone. He settles into place in Reisoth's wake, riding the other bronze's tail as if perhaps he were the final destination rather than a means to an end. "Been having problems, H'vier?" comes R'hin's low-throated laugh, forced as it may be. "Ought to see a healer about that, old boy," and he's pushing, unceremoniously, past other riders -- that Fortian and Val's table, and he might even pass Rh'mis without noticing what he's doing, because he's focused on a chair and that Igenite, anger fading -- or at least visibly mutating into something just as focused and dark. Cold subsumed by the heat of the queen's fire, Leiventh is not vocal as many other dragons. His feelings don't extend past her -- a glimmer of cold, a zephyr of wind to make her aware of his presence; that's all that's needed for the time being. (To Niahvth from Leiventh) K'zin's smile is irrepressible by now. It's different than his usual obnoxious flight heckling. Different than the way he usually smiles at people. It's like Irianke (Niahvth?) has given him joy, has given him an anchor to set his sights on. He looks at her as one drunk with love for the only person in the world that makes the world, his world make sense, like a blind man seeing the sun for the very first time. Is he crying? Well. Rasavyth isn't! Rasavyth is straining his wings for every iota of speed and agility the wind around him can afford. He has eyes for only one, and that may be his downfall unless pure dumb luck is with him. "Nice," Val breathes, sitting up for a better view that's not of R'oan or H'vier, of those who laughed and those who've hid... which doesn't mean she doesn't kick towards R'hin's knee as he passes, just because she can. Visigoth knows the territory, knows the winds, takes the bellow as something to track. If there just weren't those bobblers in the way. Winding in and out of her dragon's mind, Trenna finds herself again laughing - this time at R'hin's rejoinder - until Irianke's dress hits the floor. With that, the goldrider is her utter, gawping focus, the heat that rises within the crafter making her cheeks pinken...but not in embarrassment. She's pushing slowly off the wall, moving with nearly-tip-toe baby steps closer to her (dragon's) ultimate destination. Far above, Leth gives no more voice to any answering cries, the tiring brown concentrating on outmaneuvering the larger males while hitting the accellerator pedal to go for broke. Rendezvous with comet! Orbit achieved! Coming in for a landing in 5...4...3...2... While V'ros is holding up the wall in Irianke's weyr, making shiny eyes at the goldrider, Zmeyth is taking care of business; sort of. He's smaller than the bronzes, but fast enough not to get lost in the dregs of the pack of suitors, dark-smoke wings searing through the winter sky in zealous pursuit of Niahvth. Val's chanting of dicks makes V'ros pale, just a bit, but he's managed not to throw up or run out yet, so that's something. There's a woman, the woman right now, getting undressed. H'vier doesn't want to pay attention to anyone else. "Speak for yourself, asshole," he growls after R'hin, grabbing his crotch just in case anyone wants a better view of just how not having a problem he's having. Reisoth maintains his silence. Except for his lust, the only thing that has maybe ever been heated about him, he's off the radar, a dark nothing in Niahvth's wake, honed in on his target. If only his rider were as subtle. "You're late," says Irianke, none of Niahvth's joy in her voice when she spies R'hin. Her shoe, so recently shed, is thrown at the bronzerider's head, the mostly nude figure following after it, to stand in front of V'ros to ruffle his hair. "If you want, I can be sure to have an artist make a painting for you later." If only, Visigoth! Blame it on the storm, but Etrevth manages to slam into the larger brown, seemingly an accident as he fails to recover from finding his path heading straight towards Visigoth. Bobble! A curse again slips from R'oan's lips, and he stumbles out of the weyr as Etrevth starts to drop from the sky. Without even time to appreciate Irianke's form. That might just be a wink R'hin gives Val, his gaze lingering for a moment or two. But, no, more important things. Like near-naked goldriders. He's certainly not shy about admiring the view, a noise escaping his throat that is both approving and interested. That the shoe smacks him full in the forehead and the Savannah Wingleader doesn't even duck can probably be directly attributed to this, as well as the fact that he hasn't heard a word of that scolding, nor H'vier's rejoinder. Leiventh, meanwhile, has found a brown to coast behind for a short time, but when the dragon falters, he pushes forward, angular figure slicing through the air. It's a good thing Rhey's not here to see Irianke; scarred.for.life. But Rosvelth? He's not faltering, not even given the wind and the snow and his rider's own despair-slash-desire. Onwards! Upwards! Forever! The big brown roars, massive wings slanting for room as he's knocked off-course and into a third male. Val's black-eyed now, that same noise ripping her throat and, though Visigoth slashes and burns past another two... it's not long enough before the brownrider slams off the table and departs, aiming to cop a goldrider-feel on her way out. You know: as long as Irianke's there on display and all. At one point, too much snow blankets Niahvth's wings and she twists, barreling in the air to shake it off. (Shake it off.) In doing so, loses her place in the wind, the slip in her flight plan causing her to fall into that dark nothing in her wake. Instead of a strangled cry, and a curses foiled shriek, Niahvth is all warmth and fluffy sunshine as her neck twines, her tail twists, and she vertically spoons her catch, Reisoth. Standing in front of V'ros, Irianke is suddenly molested, and apparently doesn't mind it except to look back and try to se who it was. But then there's the catching, and her gaze cuts swiftly through the crowd to find someone to fill the all the feels and needs her dragon is already experiencing. "You better not be too drunk for this," is what she just gets out before pushing past to climb up H'vier's broad body. Catch. Rosvelth-- what? He didn't catch? No, no, no. This is the worst thing that has ever happened... and one of the best things that has ever happened to Rhey. THANK FUCK. Oh, the look of disgusted consternation on Trenna's face when it's not Leth who catches that showy comet, but Reisoth. While the brown over-shoots Niahvth and lets out an angry bellow before plummeting towards the Lake far below, his lifemate utters in a strange mix of frustrated anger and relief, "But -he- wasn't supposed to..." Blue eyes scour over to H'vier for a moment, and then the crafter is running, fleeing the heat and desire, seeking to drown her own unwanted lust alongside her dragon, in that chill lake. A naked woman standing in front of you, touching you isn't a reason to look tortured, but V'ros manages to with a strangled sound, his fingers curling loosely into fists. "Uh." Speech malfunction. Then, there's the catching and Zmeyth isn't the one doing it, so naturally his rumble of dissatisfaction is heartfelt. His rider is left to catch his breath back on the ground and ungracefully, push his way out of the weyr, stumbling not once, not twice, but at least three times in his bid to be free, free at last. K'zin ... well, he's better off that V'ros or Rh'mis when it comes to sex, surely, but he does not need to see this. So wiping those things that are surely not tears from his eyes from staring at the sun too long, he's swift in his departure. Though... does he slap H'vier's ass on his way out? Just maybe. Rasavyth can't be too disappointed. He might not have caught her, but still, he feels tethered. A port in the storm. A port in the sun? He wings toward the ground and his lifemate. As much as R'hin might be inclined to stay and watch a naked goldrider, this involves also watching a naked H'vier, and so it's probably not a surprise the Savannah Wingleader's turning on a heel and departing quickly enough. Reisoth is on point to claim the prize that practically falls into his lap, such as it is. There are no sweet nothings. There probably never will be. The bronze is only focused on twining himself around his mate and keeping them aloft for as long as possible. These are what's important. H'vier is also focused on important things. It's Irianke. "Oh, baby, I'm never too drunk for this." That's an outright lie. But not right now. Irianke can't speak now as wave after wave of feeling passes over her and the exhiliration her dragon feels above, even if Reisoth is more intent on the task than making it enjoyable, floods through her. Her arms wrap around H'vier's neck and her legs wrap around his waist, and she's shutting him up with her mouth, her tongue, her touching and a hand that sneaks down from his neck to beneath his waistband. "Fuck me," you moron isn't said but it's in the hissed tone as she has to speak now to get her point across. H'vier is a moron. Especially about sex. Reisoth would attest to that. But he's also a little lost in his dragon right now, who is not a moron, wrapping his arms around Irianke and moving to the nearest hard surface so he can get his sharding pants out of the way and obey her incredibly convincing argument with all the pent up tension and renewed flight lust he can muster. At some point, they're sure to end up twisted in the sheets on the softer surface of Irianke's bed. It's just better than passing out on the floor. So many surfaces in this large weyr to christen, and they end up beyond the beaded curtains, on the floor with all her furs and blankets softening the blow. Irianke is barely covered, a twist of sheet wrapped around her abdomen somehow, and her legs and body splayed in an awkward angle half on top of H'vier. She stirs with a cough, a hand that moves to run against his body, and then the inadvertent nuzzle for warmth. He's warm. Warmer than the air around her for sure. Of course H'vier is unconscious. Between the booze and the sex, it was completely inevitable. But he's practically sweet when he's sleeping, given he can't do anything but mumble to himself on occasion. There's no mumbling now, but there is a rumble a few moments after her cough, a slight shift in his body, a tightening of his arm as his brain tries so very hard to rouse him from his very nice slumber. She would be the type that's ready for another round, once all draconic lust is gone, and that adventurous hand ventures down to test the waters, so to speak. Irianke's mostly awake now, though struggling not to be, her head tipping into his shoulder groove and her hair spilling all over his face. "Again?" Is he even sober enough to make an attempt without the viagra effects of a dragon? Usually, usually, H'vier would be the type for a second round, too. He really would. But now? Right now, Irianke's hand isn't going to find anything very interesting going on in those waters just yet. He groans now, as consciousness really takes hold. "Fuck," he murmurs, holding on to that vowel a little too long, lifting his free hand to rub over his face before he lifts his head just slightly to glance at her. "Is it hard?" The mind is willing. "No." The sad face in her voice could be seen on her face if it weren't busy hiding in his shoulder. "No, no. Oh, ugh," the guttural groan she lets forth is followed by her slowly rousing herself, collecting her body off the floor. She pushes herself off H'vier and the ground and situates herself against her bedframe, tipping her head back as if suffering a hangover. "Are you broken? Did I break you?" His head falls back heavily. Fortunately not with a thud. Thank you, furs. H'vier sighs. That's not the answer he wanted to hear but even his own hand taking over where hers leaves off isn't doing anything. "Fuck," he says again. Then, "No. Well, yeah. But no." Because that makes sense. "It's fine. Give it a few, gorgeous. It'll wake up." He's the romantic sort, clearly. He's also not making any move to actually get up. In fact, he closes his eyes and the hand trying to get something going starts to get a little lazy. Even if it wakes up, he's liable to fall asleep again. Irianke looks down on the man, so valiantly trying and laughs. It's not gracious at all, but the situation is funny enough to warrant it. She gets to her feet, reaching into her wardrobe for a thick, winter robe, and exits her bedroom. The couch will suffice for her, if he doesn't wake up before she does end up retiring. After doing some light reading. Or something. Even if Reisoth is the more analytical, less passionate, of the pair, at least it can't be said that he doesn't do his job. H'vier is down for the count, though. It's nature that eventually rouses him again, and it's a fantastic headache that keeps him awake. The bronzerider puts on what clothes he can find before he tries to move through the weyr to let himself out, assuming the goldrider on the couch is sleeping and probably hoping not to wake her. She has fallen asleep on the couch, a sheaf of loose leaf papers held limply in her hand off an equally limp arm. Irianke even snores in her sleep, but it must be the angle her head is skewed at on that couch. |
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K'zin (15:01, 25 February 2015 (EST)) said...
<3
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