Logs:Hraedhyth's Third Flight
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| RL Date: 6 June, 2014 |
| Who: Azaylia, A'rist, H'vier, K'del, R'hin, R'oan, Rasavyth, Ilicaeth, Solith |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Hraedhyth rises in her third mating flight. Cadejoth's victory doesn't come easy. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Complex/Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 12, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
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| Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr Only about a man's height from the ground, this low ledge is wide and flat, reached by a set of timeworn steps that hug the cliff face. As the ledge stretches back away from the head of the stairs, it simultaneously broadens out over the bowl and tunnels into the mountain to become a sort of antechamber, from which a passageway winds back to the Weyrwoman's weyr, the council room, the records room and the hatching sands. A small round table is set in a shallow alcove here, surrounded by four chairs that provide a waiting area for those seeking one of the weyrleaders. Another short flight of stairs leads upward from the tapering end of the ledge to the Weyrleader's quarters, while others lead to the further recessed junior queens' weyrs. While it's hard to get a good look at the lake from here, the view does encompass the majority of the bowl and the comings and goings across its span.
Though it doesn't take one with his talent to know how close Hraedhyth is to rising, Reisoth has been observing the senior from his cool distance since the first inkling of it was noticeable. The bronze and his rider have wanted the knot she could give them since they arrived at High Reaches, before it was her that could give it to them, that's no secret. But H'vier has been somewhat laid back of late even with the imminent flight. Which doesn't really explain why he's out here now. "Weyrwoman. You might feel better if you just take it all off." "Mmhm." Azaylia murmurs in agreement from where she sits, huddled in a chair within her preferred alcove. She opens her eyes and smiles at H'vier, familiar enough to have her grip loosening on the robe. "It's late." And cold, which is why she's trembling despite the effect the glowing queen has on her . With a dip of her chin, her airy voice fights off laughter, "You're early." But that's not a bad thing. "He won't let me sleep." Reisoth the observer, presumably. H'vier moves to lean against the stone nearby. He's wearing a proper jacket, nice and warm, though the front is undone. "You'll have to see the healers if you stay out here too long. Do you want to share my jacket?" A hand moves to flap one side. Maybe not enough room for another person, but the proximity seems like a good idea to him. Azaylia leans forward, eyes seeking out Reisoth's ledge with surprising accuracy. Hraedhyth has been keeping tabs on her males. Whether or not the bronze is actually there is another matter. "I know... but it's awful inside." H'vier's offer has the goldrider's attention snapping back to him, focus settling on his chest. "...you're too warm." And yet she abandons her seat, unsteady steps leading her to tuck right up against the bronzerider. For all of her complaints, her dark skin is cold to the touch. The bronze is, in fact, there, barely visible in the shadows cast across his already dark ledge. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to this direction, though, even if he probably is. H'vier opens his jacket in an attempt to wrap her in it, though it's mostly just his arms that go around her. It's not really his fault if it's a vaguely possessive gesture, is it? "We could just get rid of the clothes altogether. Your bed can't be that warm if you haven't been in it." Though Hraedhyth slumbers, the Weyr is still at the mercy of her pulsating drums and suffocating heat. As the evening creeps steadily toward morning, her flames rouse from their steady dance with erratic flickering. For one, eerie moment her drums stop... (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth) And in that moment, Cadejoth is awake. He has, after all, only slept lightly, this evening. It's important. (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth) To High Reaches dragons, Solith stirs in her sleep, hiding her head even further under her wing. To High Reaches dragons, That silent moment brings Lythronath's head up for from his ledge. It's not words yet, just the first thought: « Hraedhyth. » To High Reaches dragons, Leiventh's awake -- no sense of sleep or lack of awareness from the bronze. He watches, waits, listening as a cold wind stretches towards that heat. While her mind plays tricks on her, Azaylia's body knows what it needs, and she all but melts against H'vier. Beneath his jacket her hands start to roam, a breathless laugh ticking his chest, "You're right." Just as her nails scrape at skin, that's when Hraedhyth falls silent. With a hiccup of breath, "...come. Come on. Come on!" Vicious delight has her nearly leaping from his arms, grabbing a hold of H'vier's jacket and pulling him as she walks backward. Is it any wonder she accidentally leads him into the Weyrleader's weyr, instead of her own? And H'vier? He's only watching the woman who has more or less just agreed to get naked in bed with him, not where they're going. Who cares where they're going so long as there's a bed to get naked in? Even if it's K'del's bed. Weyrleader's Weyr As low to the ground as this ledge is, the view it affords is not an especially spectacular one, simply the bowl spread out in front of it, still some distance down. The ledge itself is a large one, easily big enough for a full grown queen and at least one, if not two, others, the stone worn smooth by turns and turns of steady use. A brocade curtain shelters the inner caverns from the outside. Rank certainly has its privileges, and among them are amply appointed apartments. The short flight of stairs from the Weyrleader's Complex opens up into the larger of two chambers, formally decorated and clearly designed to cater as much to important guests as the occupant's personal living. Old, but obviously expensive, llama wool rugs dyed blue-and-black cover the stone floor, leading towards the second chamber, the stairs, and the rush-filled dragon couch and ledge beyond it. A formal seating arrangement - a sofa and chairs, all blue-and-black - sits around a large, tiled fireplace, whilst along the other wall, a finely made, if now somewhat antique, desk sits between a bookshelf and a tall cupboard to which tack-hooks have been attached, riding gear arranged neatly inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendour for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl, and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside. The inner weyr, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area, is smaller and cosier and distinctly less ostentatious. An oversized wooden sleigh bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter, their covers dyed in varying shades of navy blue, light blue and bronze. There's a nightstand on either side, both with reading lamps, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf holding toiletries, shaving equipment, and clean towels. Silence. Not since Hraedhyth cracked shell have her drums been so still. They return, deafening in the force which taut skins are slammed with the queen's infamous intensity. In a blaze of molten amber, the queen all but throws herself off the ledge, summoning her males with a savage roar that is felt as well as heard. (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth) Luckily for everyone, K'del is not squatting in the Weyrleader's Weyr tonight - and neither are his children. No, really lucky for everyone. Really. What that does mean is that he's halfway up the bowl, of course, and he probably doesn't know where he's going-- this weyr is not his first choice. Cadejoth barely gives him time to dismount before he's off for the feeding grounds; K'del, his boots unlaced, his clothes on rather haphazardly, takes some minutes after that to actually find his way into the right weyr, fists tense with anticipation. While all the good boys and girls are in bed, some still haven't yet found a bed. Or at least not their own. A scruffy-haired and barely-dressed R'hin stumbles up the ledge, buttoning up a shirt that's been hastily pulled on, covering up that beltknife at his waist. The day-old stubble and tired eyes suggest he's not had sleep in a while, and he's not exactly pleased with the timing of all this. "Azaylia," he growls, pale eyes flicking around as he takes a step into the Weyrleader's Weyr. Just a beat of silence, before eyes narrow and he stalks inside. A'rist's M.O. is to not be there from the start. But this time, that's different. This time, the young bronzerider - the really young bronzerider, who does his best to act like he doesn't notice this fact, as he makes his way into the weyr - is there, finding a spot along the wall, unable to keep from crossing his arms over his chest, or around his torso, in turn. And Lythronath? This time, he's flying to the pens, roaring to disrupt the beasts, as much for his own pleasure as to make it more difficult for the others as they come. « Hraedhyth. » An idea so strong it makes it to verbal form, now. He's ready. Etrevth is almost too small to be competition when it comes to catching golds, yet. Yet, he is here and diving for the feeding grounds. His rider is nowhere in sight, at least for the moment, to control the foreign brown dragon as he strikes at one of the wherries as if he owned the thing. (He doesn't; they belong to High Reaches.) His rider is, in fact, hiding away in Snowasis, currently trying his best to bum a drink from someone, anyone, where he has long since ran out of marks to support his own habit. One would think a dragonrider would have more pride than that, but then--. When he does show up, dragging himself towards the weyrleader's complex by following other rider's, the fact that his hands are shaking or that there is a soft sheen of sweat to the rider might point towards a deeper problem than pride. Azaylia lets go of H'vier's jacket once they're inside, confusion furrowing her brow as she gives a slow spin. "Not my..." But does it matter? Not once Hraedhyth is heading for the pens, the Weyrwoman's lips curling into an impish smile. Lips not quite blue, she's shivering in the middle of the sparsely furnished weyr, thin robe a poor choice against winter's chill. R'hin's growl has her spinning, "R'hinnnn." Tongue clings to that last letter, brown eyes taking in each rider as they arrive. If he could, Ilicaeth would fly after the molten amber queen he so likes. With his color's endurance limitations and the implacable mindset of his rider, however... he can only answer her back in a baritone roar of his own, while eye-spotted wings rustle unhappily at being grounded. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) Hraedhyth's voice is gone, devoured by instinct so that only a savage snarl remains. She answers his want, his need with her own, drums singing his name. Lyth. Ro. Nath. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) Reisoth's reaction to the waking queen is a swift drop from his ledge to fall with precision onto a panicking herdbeast. It breaks beneath his weight, hide pierced with talons and then teeth to drink the heat out of it. H'vier still doesn't care where they are, but he does care that there are other people showing up and that Azaylia's attention is being distracted away from him. He turns to glare at whoever falls into his line of sight, standing like the Weyrwoman is territory that he's already claimed as his own. K'del runs his fingers through his hair, uneasiness easing into something more comfortable as he takes in these surrounds: he's at home here, in more than one sense. Azaylia's gaze is met squarely, even if only for a moment. After that, he takes himself towards the couch, leaning upon the back of it with a deliberate easiness, quite as if he's won already. It's an act - but it's a reasonable one. Outside, Cadejoth's chains jangle, tangled with bone and molten fire, as he takes down his first kill. He bloods with ferocity, roaring his challenge to those others who dare to vie for his queen, progeny-and-lover all as one (never mind that he's never caught her). There's a deep draw of breath from R'hin, like maybe the older bronzerider is steeling himself. The twist of his head suggests he's tracking K'del's arrival in particular, but noting each of the others present, too. Another beat, and makes a beeline for the goldrider, hands stretching out to draw her closer, as if it's a natural sort of thing to claim her, and H'vier isn't right there as he moves to brush past the other bronzerider. Well, at least he's not a foreign rider anymore. Leiventh, for his part, is tired of watching -- he drops off his ledge, sailing towards the feeding pens in the wake of the other dragons, quickly dispatching his first kill. Lythronath. Lythronath finds a beast easily, among the panic he's created. Lythronath downs it, drinks in some of the blood, splatters the rest across the ground. Lythronath, gore-muzzled, loks up to catch sight of Hraedhyth. « Hraedhyth. » He feels the blood. He roars gain. A'rist looks over to K'del, to R'hin. to H'vier. It's the wingsecond he takes issue with, confidence coming in time to the rush of blood down his dragon's throat, shouldering his way forward (sometimes bouncing off), glaring at H'vier - and then at the Monacoan rider in turn. Etrevth doesn't meet any of those challenging bronzes; he doesn't greet the queen as she joins them in the pens. Instead, he focuses on blooding and tries to make himself as invisible as possible, as if afraid that the moment someone notices him, he will be made to sit out from this flight. Even the intoxicating smoke and whiskey of his mind is muted at the moment, for all that it should be intensified by the feelings stirred by the glowing queen. R'oan takes longer to assess the situation, his gaze dragging over dragonriders with a hint of a crooked smile pulling at his lips for a moment. Then, he seems to take his dragon's approach, moving to hold up a wall and attempting not to draw notice to himself. Only when burning from within does Hraedhyth have such disregard for the pitiful creatures in the pen. There's even a dark thrill at seeing them scatter, knowing that her might is why their blood runs. She drinks deeply, the force of her jaws snapping the beasts in half in her wanton ferocity. Her wings suddenly fan out, not taking flight yet, but demanding their attention. All of it. R'hin to H'vier and back again, Azaylia seems torn-- but is too easily gathered up, should Leiventh's rider make it to her. Her focus is elsewhere. There are surely other threats here that H'vier could focus on, everyone not Azaylia, for instance, but it's R'hin in particular that the Iceberg Wingsecond takes issue with. He's the one trying to cross whatever invisible line has been created by the former Istan. H'vier is quick to try intercepting the other bronzerider with a heavy shove back away from Azaylia, little thought as to whether she wants him. That doesn't matter. "No," is all he says to R'hin. Outside Reisoth is silent, watching. He bloods his kill without drawing particular attention to himself before he needs to rip into another. His chains draw Hraedhyth in, the sound familiar if discordant when paired with her drums. He could change that. They could find harmony in the sky. (To Cadejoth from Hraedhyth) Cadejoth howls, this time, around the spurting blood he's still drinking from; around the dead weight of the beast he's soon to toss aside. His wings are ready for flight; he is ready for flight. Soon. Soon. K'del, drawing in a deep breath, glances around, finally bothering to take inventory of those here to chase. Most are dismissed, one after another. One - R'hin - even gets a solemn nod. Otherwise, though, his attention is for Azaylia. His jaw sets. This? This is serious business. A shaky laugh escapes R'oan's lips at the show between bronzeriders, even as his head falls back against the stone with a louder thunk than he probably intended. Nevertheless, it doesn't interrupt the laugh that he has at the posturing. Etrevth seems to echo his amusement as he tears into wherry flesh, kneading at it to draw more blood to the surface to slurp at greedily. He could-- he can. He will. The endless tattoo of Cadejoth's thoughts rattles and shakes, drawn into a more enthusiastic rush of noise beneath Hraedhyth's attention. It could be glorious, their shared song. An endless melody; a dance for the ages. (To Hraedhyth from Cadejoth) An utterance from R'hin isn't quite audible; his gaze on Azaylia suggests where the sentiment is intended to be expressed -- yet before he can reach her, H'vier's shove sends him back a couple of paces before he stops abruptly. Eyes are narrowed, though his lips part, less in a smile than a showing of teeth. "The Istan bloodline has always fared poorly outside of Ista," it's dismissive, as if he is no threat, and yet his hand reaches not for Azaylia, but H'vier, seeking for a tight grip on the other rider's arm. This is no time for neatness; Leiventh abandons the carcass in a messy way that is uncharacteristic of the normally deliberate bronze. He's quickly onto his second kill, a larger buck, shifting himself in such a way that he can keep an eye on Hraedhyth, emitting a low noise that might be a growl but isn't vocalized loudly enough to determine in a way that is an echo of his rider. Lythronath lets the last of the blood soak into the ground. There is always more, there is always that beast there. That one that he grabs, one might leap, a snap of jaws, a wicked shake that dislocates bones and snaps necks. Lythronath kills again, and tears open the flesh to find the blood. More blood. It surges through him now, and a roar and stretch of his own wings answer Hraedhyth. Muscle. Strength. A'rist, he leaves H'vier and R'hin to their business. He ducks around, draws nearer Azaylia, and waits, hands at his sides, fingers splayed. Watching. Waiting. Smiling, just a little, as his dragon drinks. So quickly does Azaylia's smile turn into a snarl, reaching hands pressing nails into both skin and leather. She'll try and squirm between the two bronzeriders, though it isn't greed that drives her, "Don't." A husky command, "He's mine." Hraedhyth echoes the sentiment, dropping her last 'beast in order to voice another savage roar. Blood smeared across her molten hide, she charges toward the nearest male-- Etreveth spared only when she leaps into the sky. The vicious winds do nothing to stifle her passion, a hunger that blood alone won't satisfy. Hraedhyth has noticed him, this... outsider. In the rarest of forms, there is no insult at finding a foreigner in her territory. Even for Etrevth, she burns. He could join her-- body, mind, and Weyr. (To Etrevth from Hraedhyth) The grip on his arm is pushed away, too, but this time H'vier doesn't follow through with what he'd surely like to be something more satisfying than a simple shove. Whether it's Azaylia's words or something else, though, H'vier only ends up glaring violently at R'hin, jaw tense with anger heated further by draconic bloodlust. Reisoth doesn't share his rider's impulsive heat, cool and calculating by comparison, but as soon as Hraedhyth is leaping into the sky, the long, dark bronze is launching himself after her. Etrevth doesn't show fear, dancing to the side with a flick out of his wings to balance himself and abandoning his wherry to Hraedhyth, but any amusement dies on the swirling smoke in his mind as the queen focuses on him. His wings are still extended as she launches into the sky, and he is quick to spring after her. He may not have bulk or stamina, but in getting off the ground, the lack of bulk helps. "I don't think you can own another person," R'oan drawls quietly, dryly. Just like that, Cadejoth throws himself into the air, tossing aside his kill. He knows these skies; he takes to them like a duck to water, thrusting himself higher and higher with each beat of those greenish wings. K'del grabs tighter hold of the couch behind him as his bronze takes to the air, as though he needs to steady himself against the rush of air beneath his-- no: their-- wings. He's silent; concentration is important. This is important. To Hraedhyth, Etrevth meets that invitation with every fiber of his being in agreement. He /will/ join her; mind, body, weyr. He may not know exactly what he is agreeing to at the moment, where lust darkens the smoke of his mind, but he agrees. Yes, yes, yes. How many bronzes can claim to have risked life and limb literally for a gold? The cold of the day doesn't compare to the breath of between that comes with Rasavyth as he appears for the first time in nearly a turn in High Reaches skies. He is here for Hraedhyth, because of Hraedhyth. His wings strain to find his way into the pack of pursuers, even unblooded as he is. But it's not more than three wingbeats when the slender bronze screams in pain, his wings failing him from too great a strain and down, down, down he must go, toward the dragon infirmary. His chase ended before it truly began. Even as her lusty inferno rages on, there's a stutter of Hraedhyth's drums. Rasavyth. The flicker of concern is consumed all too quickly by her flames, driving her up and away as he falls-- forgotten, if only for now. (To Rasavyth from Hraedhyth) Any bronzes who've flown against Lythronath. The young bronze is airborne instantly, reflexes quick, wings strong. His roar echoes again, and there's more of that at the ready. Always more. He hurtles after Hraedhyth, talons forward and teeth bared. And if any others get in his way right from the start, say that Fortian, or maybe the acting weyrleader's bronze himself, well. Talons. Hraedhyth, she can have a taste of those too. If she's lucky. A'rist is simply braced, smile turning to a smirk while he watches those older riders. Still waiting. There is frustration, and it comes in the form of a weak mimic of her drums and flames, but even that doesn't last long. Too soon there is only pain. No the worst he's ever known, but it sure as shell isn't pleasant. And his rider? His rider is far away. Too far. Rasavyth came for Hraedhyth. K'zin will have to find his own way home. (To Hraedhyth from Rasavyth) A low throated chuckle escapes R'hin as H'vier shakes his grip off, though it's followed by a subtle gesture downwards. Azaylia's interposing herself between them proves suitable enough distraction, the older rider's pale eyes inevitably drawn towards her with an exhale and a lifting of hands towards her arms -- a gesture that is aborted after a sharp breath and gritting of jaw. Leiventh's tensing of muscles proves fortuitous timing, allowing him to spring upwards into the sky shortly after Hraedhyth does. The winds are familiar to him and welcome, despite being of Monaco; he surges upwards in the wake of the queen. R'oan will earn a hungry stare, even if Azaylia doesn't quite catch what he said. She eases back between R'hin and H'vier, grip tightening once Hraedhyth throws herself into the rough winds. It is a game of endurance, of power. The queen's bone clubs strike the air, determined to outlast those who are not worthy while tormenting her chasers with that fiery pleasure-pain. Only one way to make it stop. The Weyrwoman closes her eyes, lips parted in bliss rather than concentration. Not serious business at all. Cadejoth screams as Lythronath's talons graze his side - and down below, K'del yells out, blood rushing to his face as he aims to throw himself at A'rist. Despite the ichor now running freely from his side, Cadejoth? He chases on. He is hardcore. "I'll fucking kill you!" says K'del as he attempts to beat A'rist with his fists, though he's rather lacking in coordination. Excellent. Good job. It is her usual tug of war, fighting that need in order to weed out the weak. And yet, Hraedhyth's spiced smoke reaches for Leiventh, twining on his winds in a poor imitation of what could be. What she wants of him. (To Leiventh from Hraedhyth) You know who's not throwing himself into the mess of bronzeriders and fists? R'oan. R'oan only meets Azaylia's stare with a quiet, cocky smirk that pulls crookedly at one corner of his lips more than the other. He does opine, still so dryly, "Someone could use a drink." He might mean himself, or everyone. Etrevth is never going to win a game of endurance, so it's likely a good thing that Lythronath's talons target Cadejoth, since the brown dragon already starts to lag. Yet, he persists stubbornly to chase after Hraedhyth. He already made a promise, an agreement. Leiventh's pressing into the thick of things -- not for the best, easiest route, but as a deliberate move, his sharp turns and spread of wings occasionally causing the sudden arrest of other chasers, forcing them back down the line. Not all are subject to such blatant attempts though; will the fact that he rides on the heels of Cadejoth be something to be noted, later? When Cadejoth is injured however, Leiventh surges past, as if the actions of earlier were a brief abnormality, seeking the path of Hraedhyth. R'hin's hands reach for Azaylia's arm again, and with a growl directed at the distant skies, he turns abruptly on a heel. There's a flash of silver as he draws his beltknife, a hiss of breath, and the faintly metallic scent of blood in the air as he seeks a distant corner of the weyr. The surging of his winds are warm -- normally chill tones heated by her presence. While he is present, it isn't until she teases him that his attention fixates fully on her; that he yearns for her and sets himself to reach her. He is what she needs. That there's a distant flash of red on the horizon of the sky is a brief anomaly, yet his winds grow suddenly cold. (To Hraedhyth from Leiventh) Despite the woman they all want between them, H'vier seems unwilling to tear his glare away from R'hin. He's even trying to settle a hand on Azaylia's hip while he glares when K'del is screaming somewhere else. H'vier turns to look, maybe hoping to see someone beating on him, but when it's A'rist he's going after, the wingsecond leaves Azaylia to R'hin like he's totally going to break that shit up. Or maybe get in on it. Reisoth stays out of the way. He's always been that one not quite in the pack, waiting for his opportunity to take what's his like it should be. Lythronath answers Cadejoth's scream with a triumphant roar. His wings beat faster, certain he can overcome the wounded bronze, eyes on Leiventh now, profiting from Lythronath's victory. That pain-pleasure drives him so much as the blood he's consumed. Lythronath flies fast, flies hard, and snaps his teeth after the Monacoan bronze. A'rist's answer to K'del is a low-growled, "Try," the teen's hands up and ready, a crouch assumed, all those tactics weyrlinghood taught him. But he's half his dragon now, athletic, a fighter. Fearless. And barely seeing his wingsecond coming. To Hraedhyth, Cadejoth hurts, but don't think he'll let that get in the way of the glorious music that is to come. If anything, his bones rattle more loudly; his chains shake and call. So what if the ichor is pumping? He's coming. Hraedhyth is too far gone to pay attention to possible plans or mischief-- that is, until Cadejoth screams. A hard bank throws off more suitors, those that Leiventh may have missed, while she gains a glimpse of what is happening behind. Azaylia snaps out of that bliss at the sound of K'del's scream, abandoning R'hin just as he leaves her. "Stop!" Another echoed roar from on high, Hraedhyth barrels into those who are not fast enough to catch her, looking to tear both bronze culprits out of the sky. How dare Lythronath. How dare Cadejoth! R'oan lifts his empty hands innocently at Azaylia's shout. See, he's not doing anything. Just holding up this wall. Etrevth is just as innocent, but only because he keeps lagging farther and farther behind, never giving up. Hraedhyth answers those chains, although her touch is far from forgiving. She consumes his pain, soaks it up and lets it fuel her own sizzling ichor that has yet to spill. She wants him. To hurt. To be with her. A tornado of lust and fury, she's coming for Cadejoth. (To Cadejoth from Hraedhyth) K'del's knee aims itself at A'rist's groin. Roughly. It scarcely matters whether it connects or not, or even that his fist drops back instead of connecting, answering Azaylia's yell-- actually, it's very restrained of him, really. He's not really conscious of H'vier's presence. Or anyone's, really: it's just the traitor A'rist, and Azaylia/Hraedhyth. Cadejoth? Cadejoth dares. He dares to keep flying-- he dares to throw himself in Hraedhyth's direction, aiming to grab hold of her (and probably spray her with ichor, too; sorry about that). Pain and pleasure-- that could work, right? Now, Hraedhyth's drums pound in time with her own ichor, a deafening rhythm that falls upon Lythronath. Her intent is obvious-- to burn him from within. Whether or not they've twined by then... Even the queen's mindscape is torn, ruby and purple amethyst tainting her flames. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) H'vier doesn't care about K'del. He probably doesn't care that much about A'rist, either, admittedly. But it's the latter's side he'll take when faced with a choice, so it's him, whether he appreciates it or not, that H'vier is trying to move in front of to block K'del from getting at. Or it's entirely possible he's just looking for an excuse to get into it with K'del himself. But that might be too much thinking at a time like this. Reisoth is doing all the thinking for them, lurching to follow Hraedhyth without putting himself at undue risk. Sometimes it's hard caring whether you get yourself clawed up in the name of getting laid. Leiventh's behavior is not that of a suitor seeking his prize; when Hraedhyth banks and turns back into the group, his turn is slow, affected -- a pantomime of a chase, while the sounds of frustrated bassy bellow escape the angular bronze. R'hin's pale eyes flicker towards K'del, the mess there, but there's something strained in his expression, fingers around that beltknife tightening, pressing inward for a moment. It's once he becomes aware of H'vier launching towards the group that he does, too -- limping over and growling wordlessly, though it's not clear what he intends when he throws his weight at the other bronzerider's side. A'rist dances back, makes a grab for that knee - and shoves, the only sign of having heard the weyrwoman at all. His wingsecond's back, suddenly, between himself and the (acting) weyrleader... doesn't matter anymore. A'rist has turned, and is looking at the weyrwoman, chest out, head held high, that little smile playing at his lips again. Just as Lythronath tucks his wings and roars, a strong limb aimed for Cadejoth's wing, the young bronze's own teeth looking to seize « Hraedhyth! ». His. The senior queen cuts an erratic path through the sky, nearly giving in to grasping claws one moment, and cutting down those who try in the next. With all of her bulk, Hraedhyth throws herself at Lythronath and Cadejoth, bringing that promised pain to both. Pleasure will only be awarded to the quickest-- or who manages to survive. Azaylia doesn't balk at the growing confrontation, barreling between the men much like her lifemate. There are no commands, only guttural noises from the woman's throat as she looks to claw and strike at whoever she can get a hold of. No, no, no. Etrevth has lagged too far to make any real attempt at capturing that queen even as she launches herself at the bronzes, yet he tries. The last of his energy is put to use, as little of it as is left, but he doesn't even make it close before he is spiralling down, away from the flight as his muscles fail him with a frustrated roar. R'oan, shaking softly, doesn't push away from the wall yet, not yet. Instead, he draws in a slow breath between clenched teeth. K'del was going to stop. He was. But A'rist has grabbed his knee, and that means he's got no choice but to throw his weight against the younger bronzerider. Besides, it's not just the two of them now: this is a proper brawl. His fists fly. Hopefully, none of them connect with Azaylia. Cadejoth doesn't have the bulk of many bronzes, and nor is he naturally prone to violence, but his ichor is raised (and leaking) and Hraedhyth is so close: it doesn't really matter who gets in his way now. The queen's talons may well connect, may well add to the injuries he's already sustained, but he is not out yet. All he needs to do is grab. H'vier is not aware of what hits him, but hey! It gets him out of the way, even if he's cursing about it and trying to get a fist into whatever it was. He's not really picky at this point, so long as it's not Azaylia. Reisoth dives toward Hraedhyth when he thinks there's any chance he might be able to interpose himself into the violence. But, nope. He doesn't want the knot that much. He likes his hide. Instead of committing, he turns sharp to spiral away from the most likely contenders. It does matter what gets in Lythronath's way. Cadejoth is a stepping-stone, one back leg pressing against the older bronze's shoulder, slipping against a spar as the young dragon scrabbles for a hold. Teeth are close, so close, to Hraedhyth's hide. Lythronath stretches, flaps those comet-streaked wings, strives... And A'rist, he stumbles, now, forced back by the brawl, but catches himself on his heel, a fist pulled back and at the ready, his other hand reaching in Azaylia's general direction, though he can't see her, not just now. R'hin's mouth is fixed in a growl, drawing a fist quickly back and striking out. Whatever his goal was has gone by the wayside -- now he just seeks to take out his frustration on the nearest target, which was probably H'vier. That he's favoring one leg will probably go unnoticed, given this is more about fists and strength, though it does mean he isn't quite fast enough to duck either. With his rider distracted again, Leiventh banks sharply, arrowing downwards. It may be too late, but he tries -- aiming to break up that trio of all-too-comfortable looking dragons. Azaylia is jostled as she no longer tries to stop the brawl, but join in. There'll be a nasty bruise where someone's fist strikes her bronze skin, several from where well-meaning riders have tried to yank or push her away. She's having none of it. Hraedhyth is a flurry of gouging talons and snapping jaws, wings straining to keep her aloft as she charges again and again. The last is too close, Lythronath's jaws sinking into her glowing hide, only to have Cadejoth yank her up and away. She'll fight him at first, giving in only when that inferno is doused. Suddenly, Azaylia is pushing for K'del, knocking shoulders against A'rist on her way to him. As catches go, it's not a very pretty one. Lythronath's back leg connects with Cadejoth's wing, likely fracturing it, right as the older bronze grabs hold of Hraedhyth. She may fight, but Cadejoth, now barely able to fly, is not letting go: he might fall. Actually, they'll probably both fall, and it's not going to be pretty. But... yay? K'del's cry of pain has him lashing out with new fury, though it turns just as quickly to pleasure and lust as he shoves his way towards Azaylia. This? This will be fast and furious. People may want to leave quickly. Just as promised, if with more pain than pleasure. It's still there, Hraedhyth's flames reaching new heights, stretching and filling her-- filling both of them to bursting. She'll wrap her clubs in his chains, drums singing a song of triumph. Their song. Their pack. Their Weyr. (To Cadejoth from Hraedhyth) A'rist's yell isn't pain. It might have started as pleasure, thinking, along with his dragon, that maybe they had her - had them. But it turns to frustration. The grope for Azaylia becomes a frustrated flail, and if he grazes her behind in it, he's not aware enough to enjoy it. The yell is non-verbal, an echo of Lythronath's frustrated growl. The young bronze tastes the queen's ichor the same time he tastes defeat; beware, those who get in his way as he leaves. A'rist might shove at some shoulders too as he makes his exit, but he'll certainly do less damage. Theirs. All is as it should be. Minus the searing pain, obviously, but that... that can wait, even if more damage is caused in the meantime. Cadejoth and Hraedhyth; home. (To Hraedhyth from Cadejoth) Frustration echoes in Leiventh's bassy cry as he wings his way downwards. The disappointment exhibited in R'hin's sudden, sharp look at Azaylia is, perhaps, overwrit by the exhale at who she seeks out. Bruised and dripping blood, the weary bronzerider's steps are uneven as he seeks the cold air of the ledge outside, not really caring who he steps over or pushes out of the way in the process. Losing and getting punched are quite enough, thank you. And losing to K'del is kind of like getting punched again on top of it. H'vier looks like he might go after R'hin for a moment, growling with something like rage, but instead he storms out and off, followed soon by a fellow loser who's kept herself well out of the way of the violence. It's K'del is who Azaylia takes it all out on, robe finally falling well before the Weyrleader's weyr is completely empty. Then again she's never been one for modesty. In the dark of the night, Hraedhyth's roar of triumph carries with it the beat of her drums, Cadejoth's chains cast out across the Weyr by her hand. There will be consequences in the morning, but for now neither gold or goldrider care. |
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