Logs:Iesaryth's Second Flight
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| RL Date: 13 September, 2013 |
| Who: Aishani, Quinlys, Alida, K'del, R'hin, K'zin, H'kon, H'vier, I'zech, G'mli, V'teri, N'rov, E'dre, J'rus |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Iesaryth rises in her second flight. There is drunkeness, stabbings, fights, provision of intel, surprises and what's likely a non-surprise in Fort's Vhaeryth catching the gold. |
| Where: Snowasis/Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 10, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Feel free to add icons, pros, poses as need be! |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook. Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern. Whether it's the 'lightest sprinkle' of snow or not, it's unlikely than most of High Reaches is entirely prepared for it, regardless of their hardy mountain background -- no one really wants it to be winter yet, mostly because it just seems to drag on up this high. But now there's the question of food on people's minds and scrawny scared-looking kids skulking about besides. It's not much of a surprise that there's more than a few people drinking away their worries as dusk falls over the Weyr. Aishani, by the fire, rather than at the bar as per usual, looks less worried than just sort of sleepy, lingering over a mug in a chair, her feet propped up on a stool to keep the soles of her boots to the fire. She's slouchy and not entirely alert. Weird. It is weird, and though Quinlys surely has enough on her plate with twelve first-month weyrlings in her care, it's weird enough that having collected what she presumably intends as her dinner, the bluerider breezily bypasses her usual companions in favour of joining the goldrider. There's a spare armchair just nearby, and it's there that she drops herself, her audible sigh likely intended as warning and, if needed, wake-up call. It does seem that Aishani's noticed Quinlys. It just takes her a moment to get around to actually turning her head to look over the weyrlingmaster's way, and when she does, it's sort of a roll of her head, so she can rest it on the back of the chair. It's an awful lot of effort. Though she does have a brief smile, and there's none of the signs of sleep deprivation about her eyes, her mouth. "Quinlys. I hope you're well." There's a little tilt of her mug the bluerider's way.
Covering a yawn with the back of her free hand, Aishani waves Quinlys' concern off before taking a hefty drink from her mug. She and the bluerider are seated near the fire, the goldrider slouched into her chair and jacket, looking both tired and... weirdly relaxed. "Just... tired. Iesaryth's sleepy right now, so she's making me sleepy. It's one of those things." Indeed, the queen has been sleeping an awful lot lately, but she probably hates snow just as much. "I'd like to just go to bed, but I got up ridiculously late already and it just starts to feel, well. Like you only live in the dark or something of the like." Speaking of snow, Alida enters the bar with her hair and shoulders dusted in the stuff, the blonde wrapped in the embrace of her flying jacket and a scarf to keep warm. Done with Wing duties and looking to keep the leftovers of heat inside her, the bluerider makes for the bar, dipping and dodging the usual throng of bodies along the way. She too looks as if she could use a nice dose of lounging before a nice fire, given the pink tint of her cheeks. Damned weather. If she notices Aishani and Quin over there, the woman gives no hint of any reaction. Despite spending so much of her time just resting, Iesaryth still dozes on her ledge, ignoring both the traffic of the bowl and the snow that drifts down lightly from above. Perhaps the grey skies are reflected in the ones over deep, dark eerily calm waters that have a sense of strong undertow beneath. Far off, on the horizon, there's a line of unnaturally dull green. Storm's coming. (To High Reaches dragons from Iesaryth) Quinlys' fork hovers in the air above her plate after Aishani mentions Iesaryth, as if she's adding two numbers together into a not-wholly-surprising equation. "Ah," she says, but only after that fork dips towards her stew again. "The healers always say that's unhealthy, even when you're sick," she agrees. "I mean, less so, when you're sick, I guess. But--" As she casts her gaze around, after that, she lets it rest just briefly on a few figures, brown- and bronzeriders, largely bypassing Alida in the process. "Well. It's that time, isn't it?" To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth flies, out in the autumnal dusk, his thoughts rich with the wind and snow that ricochet off his streamlined torso, those green-bronzed wings. Storm's coming, sure, but in the meantime? The skies are fine. There's flying to be done. While the bluerider looks around, Aishani definitely doesn't, letting Quinlys scope out the situation. She'll just look into her mug, thanks. Given the situation, it's likely some sort of spiked klah. "I don't like it very much. It's a nice change from... not being able to sleep. But I like to be... productive. Awake. Upright." That last is offered up quietly, in case of any stupid male riders making stupid jokes. Dark curls mostly obscuring her expression, "Maybe. Probably. At least you won't have them at the same time." To High Reaches dragons, Arekoth has been perched on the rim for some time, staring down his hooked snout with so great an intensity he almost looks as serious as his rider. But all the impression of character that the shape of his nose might give him is just out the proverbial window as soon as he catches sight - catches thought - of Cadejoth. Flying. Broad wings open, and he drops into a low swoop, purely for the sake of pulling back up. Fascinating! Look at that green far off. Facing facts, Rasavyth's been sort of a stalker the last few days, interested more than usual in the workings of Iesaryth's mind, even when (or possibly especially, if he needed more creep-factor than he naturally has) she was asleep. Does he know what the green means? Does he guess at what's coming? Well, he is a clever bronze, but Iesaryth just being Iesaryth can make him slow, or at least feel that way. In any case, just now he's no less the stalker, hanging at the fringes, often using the mental presences of others to help veil his watchful mind. Not that it's not obvious which gold he has a crush on. (Then again, the other one's his mom, so... maybe he's not the creepiest creeper of them all, right?) (To High Reaches dragons from Rasavyth) She too can't help but noticing the nearby preponderance of brownies and bronzers, Alida still not putting two and two together, as she's distracted by the need of drink and warmth. Bellying up to the bar, the blonde orders an irish klah, paying for the drink, then turning about on her stool to observe the interactions all about here. Ah, now she notices the other two womenfolk, and Shani and Quin receive a nod, whether they see it or not. Meanwhile, Reisoth maintains a certain disinterest in anything that's going on, certainly of the other males, despite a very stark awareness of Iesaryth herself. But there's no attempt to draw attention to himself. He can simply observe from afar. For now. (To High Reaches dragons from Reisoth) Counting on her fingers, Quinlys confirms: "Seems like Hraedhyth's lot will be just about ready for their own weyrs by the time your lot are into my care. I suppose there's some benefit to that. Really, though, I was hoping she'd take longer." The Weyrlingmaster is mostly teasing, though, and that is obvious in the way she wrinkles her nose and then grins, evidently intending to be encouraging. "It's all right. Most of them aren't staring at you, yet. At least it'll be over, soon enough." She does catch sight of the other bluerider out of the corner of her eye, but blueriders - for the moment - count as harmless; she does nothing but vaguely return that nod. To High Reaches dragons, Ilicaeth projects « Who cares if he's still pretty clueless in this particular facet of draconic ABC's? Not Ilicaeth. He's much more interested in how the others behave, the blue watching from some abandoned weyr's ledge like a rocky gargoyle, his inner-lidded eyes unblinking. » "You and me both," Aishani murmurs. Even though Quinlys' nod seems to be toward someone relatively harmless -- Alida, as it happens -- the goldrider doesn't want to take the chance; she just finishes her mug and looks back to the fire, crossing her ankles. "At least you won't be bored for long. I don't now if it'll be soon, but... from the way things were looking earlier, it seems everyone else does." That makes her set down her mug a bit harder than necessary, Iesaryth's influence not quite calming her irritation over that. "Last time was better." To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth is not paying Iesaryth any attention. Nope. He's even soaring over the bowl walls and out into open sky; no chance he'll get caught up in the storm to come! Really. Honestly. For sure. To High Reaches dragons, Arekoth might not be posted on the lookout anymore, but he's still watching. The brown doesn't follow Cadejoth, not out into the open, not now. He reaches the rim again, and banks, circling carefully. « I think you should fly out a little farther. » Tire out the could-be competition. Couple days' roadtrip, why not? Alida looks about as interested in Aishani as Ilicaeth is in Iesaryth. Even with portents of storm a-coming, the dozing queen is still pretty boring, so Ilicaeth's mostly focused on the posturing of the other males taking place around the gold. His rider is simply drinking, watching, listening, and finally noting how those various men and women continue to orbit to the goldrider like errant comets, brought to fiery life by the warmth and gravitational pull of her queen's incipient heat. To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth is having too much fun just flying to be easily needled, even by would-be competition. « I'll fly where I want to, » he tells Arekoth - tells the whole Weyr, really. Is he supposed to keep it down? He doesn't much mind. Or care. « The sky is perfect for flying, tonight. » Ilicaeth has an even better idea: « Why doncha' two race each other from 'Reaches ta' Southern? » See, he can be helpful! (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth) To High Reaches dragons, Riuscyth rouses himself from his tail-thumping 'sleep' by the lakeshore with one thought to former Weyrleader dragon: « Shut up, already. » There's far too much pleasure in that spared thought for the bronze to actually be asleep. To High Reaches dragons, Rasavyth's stalking isn't limited to Iesaryth. (Lucky Weyr dragons!) One of his ever-numerous lines of thought follows Cadejoth, and hears Arekoth's suggestion. He's encouraging. To his mentor, he casts oozy chains that might also reflect sunlight on ocean waters. « Flying farther sounds glorious. » Doesn't it just? Rasavyth might even be tempted by the thought himself. (Or seem to be.) It's not like he's headed down to the bowl, suspiciously near the feeding pens or anything. "Because you weren't here." It's not exactly a conclusion that's difficult to come to, but Quinlys feels it out on her tongue; testing it. "I can imagine that. I know people go on about how the riders of female dragons always win, but... it still must be weird." She sounds genuinely sympathetic. "Don't worry, they're not, like, staring at you much or anything. Not too much. And I can kick people in the balls if you want me to - if you don't want to get up." She's helpful! As somnolent and lazy and bound and determined she is to sleep, dammit, everything is getting so loud that Iesaryth can't help but rouse herself from her heavy doze. The greenish skies darken the swelling waves, glassy and silent. Really? « Do you not have better things to discuss? » She usually does. She can think about things all on her own, without telling everyone, Cadejoth. (To High Reaches dragons from Iesaryth) What would the fun be in that, Iesaryth? Boring! (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth) Again, oh-so-helpful, « The more ya pay attention to 'em, the more they won't shut up. » Just like him. (To Iesaryth from Ilicaeth) Though Iesaryth has been whisper-quiet in sleep all day, mostly calm, with the eerie green edge that might be familiar to his rider, if not Vhaeryth himself, she's suddenly roused in mild irritation, glassy waves swelling higher. Where is he? Cadejoth is here and annoying. (To Vhaeryth from Iesaryth) « It's not discussion, » Arekoth points out, as his circle brings his silhouette just above Rasavyth and the pens. « It's suggestion. A good one, » as he swoops on, and peers through the air after Cadejoth, « too. The air's better, out by the ocean, you know. » (To High Reaches dragons from Arekoth) « Open your eyes. » There's a pointed nudge to her shoulder, surely not Cadejoth, especially not with that slow ripple of wave-like molten glass. Right here. Vhaeryth's been watching over her, here where Cadejoth dare not land. (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) Mmm, yes! The ocean! Not Iesaryth's ocean, but a corporeal one. Rasavyth helpfully projects the joyful sensation of flight on warm thermals, the way it feels to glide low over water, with the smell of salt and leaping fish. Doesn't that look like fun, Cadejoth? (To High Reaches dragons from Rasavyth) There's a slow nod for the bluerider's supposition, though Aishani will add, quietly, "They weren't all there, more to the point. I don't... I don't want to hurt anyone." But she will, that's there in her undertone. Quinlys' joke is enough to make her laugh a little, give her the courage to peek out from behind her dark curls, gaze faintly hostile. As hostile as one can look when all slouched in her chair. It's then that she notes Alida at the bar and nods her way, though her attention's back to the fire soon enough. To Iesaryth, Rasavyth feels the need to make a private aside to the rousing gold. « Cadejoth's is a simple mind. We can leave him to his simple distractions and talk of other things. What occupies your mind, my queen? » The 'my' might edge with possessiveness now, or at least covetousness. She's not his yet. But maybe someday... Perhaps even soon. Slow to open her eyes, Iesaryth is still warmly pleased that Vhaeryth's right there, with her. Possessive now, the undertow of those waves starting to pull. « Clever. » It's a good thing. (To Vhaeryth from Iesaryth) When Cadejoth shuts up, sort of, Riuscyth slowly sheds the semblance of sleep. « What would you like to discuss? » There's a hint of ink colored snark haloing that would-be polite thought sent Iesaryth's way. (To local dragons from Riuscyth) Wandering down from her high bar stool, Alida finally picks her way over to the fire and the pair of women there, murmuring to Shani, "Must be reassurin' ta' know at least blue's ain't gonna crawl all over ya like fleas on a canine..." A droll bit of a wink for Quinlys transitions into her glib, "So... fists 'n knives soon?" Is Leiventh even here? Surely they haven't noticed: he's quiet and astute enough to keep to himself, guarded as always, refusing to be drawn into the maelstrom of his place of birth. His cold wind tucks tight, waiting with a seemingly infinite level of patience. (To local dragons from Leiventh) To Rasavyth, Iesaryth needs little encouragement to dismiss Cadejoth. He is so irritating! The skies above the swelling waves now creepy green, there's a sense of yet another bronze near, the flash of metal. « I mostly wanted to sleep. » But now that she's up and everyone's paying so much attention, there's the beginnings of a pull, as strong as an undertow. Hopefully no one will drown. It is. The Fortian bronze rises from his languid sprawl, not far, not fighting the pull so much as strengthening it; if he went completely along with it, after all, he wouldn't feel her tug nearly as well. If his stretch happens to show off glossy, glassy-dark wings and their contrast to the gleam of her hide, it's not as though Iesaryth's looking, but that just means he shares the sensation anyway. (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) To local dragons, Cadejoth? Still flying. Still ignoring the jibes of others. Still... not all that far away, but he's bound to be tiring himself out in the process. Is that intentional? Something in Quinlys' expression hardens, but it's not entirely clear what has caused that. She's careful in setting her plate aside and in remarking: "I think you're allowed to. If they try anything. I'd forgive you. It's like pregnant women having their bellies touched; it doesn't make you public property, but it doesn't seem to matter how many times we try and remind people of that when they're weyrlings..." She rolls her eyes. "Alida." The Fortian bronze has the right to lounge on Iesaryth's own ledge, and lounge he does, dark wings that much more of a contrast to the bright queen as, languidly, he stretches them. (To local dragons from Vhaeryth) To local dragons, Riuscyth is supercilious in his regard of the interloper, Vhaeryth's image shared with everyone near by. An image that slowly gets extinguished like a flame being put out by two very large talons pinching together. Snuff. Go. Away. Right, he doesn't exist. Conspicuously. To local dragons, Iesaryth wanted to sleep. Was sleeping soundly enough that certain foreign bronzes could even sneak up onto her ledge, not that the bright, sunlit queen seems to mind in the least. He's there half the time anyway. But now that she's awake and stormy skies are dull muddy green, now that massive waves begin to rise and crash on the beach, now maybe she'll stay up for a bit. Since everyone's paying attention. To Iesaryth, Rasavyth's mind colors with apology, but he feels the tug of the undertow, the swell of the storm that's becoming obvious. « That does not seem likely, now, but after soon has come and gone... » His suggestion is one that's a gossamer ooze that glimmers and trembles in the winds that stir the waves to action. He's speaking of what he doesn't fully know or understand. It's a notion knit together from the minds of those who have actually flown successfully in flights. To local dragons, Rojeth is... somewhere. Hard to pinpoint exactly, but then he does prefer to be just a disembodied voice most of the time. Or, in this case, just a disembodied clammy fog, stirred by the slow exhale of a derisive breath and the pressure of a watchful presence waiting on one finally-roused Iesaryth. A racing of cold, icy wind brushes the surface of her oceanic depths. A greeting; an acknowledgement; a tease? Too soon to tell, surely. (To Iesaryth from Leiventh) To local dragons, Arekoth banks hard, fans his wings, and winds up dropping down near Rasavyth. An atmospheric crackle greets stormy skies, offering no colour to vie with that green, not yet. « He's lost, » answers Riuscyth's image, a harder edge to the words. Maybe Cadejoth should escort him home. Those pincers, how ineffective. Do they have better luck anywhere else, anywhere at all? Only the shadow knows. Vhaeryth stays low, for the moment Iesaryth's high-cast cloak, anticipating rather than daunted by the rising tide. There will be a whole pack of them, soon, who have lost. (To local dragons from Vhaeryth) What little ease she has left is gone at the bluerider's wording. Aishani gives Alida a grimace, telling her in a low tone, "No one's crawling all over me." Not right now, at least. Later... well. Sadly, she might not have a lot of choice in the matter there. She's about to say something to Quinlys, drawing in a breath; then something has her pausing and looking to the door to the bowl, going faintly pale. As she pushes out of her chair, slowly and regally, she unstraps the belt knife from her hip, and offers it up to the weyrlingmaster, regretfully. She probably won't kill anyone now? Probably. To local dragons, Rasavyth isn't thrilled to be being joined near the hatching grounds, but it was rather inevitable with the way that storm is growing. He's circumspect with his silence. He's one of the youngest whose mind has contributed to the noise that's kept Iesaryth from sleeping, and now his wisdom has him sitting back to watch as the older dragons waste their energies on one another. His eyes are on the beasts, already nervous with the proximity of the dragons. Something (maybe someone if no one takes the stabbies from Aishani) is dying tonight. Steam rises where icy wind meets too-warm waters, unsettled and rough. The gold's undercurrents begin to grow stronger, drawing even the distant in. (To Leiventh from Iesaryth) Quinlys' mouth opens - and then she stops, stops herself from saying whatever it was she intended to. Instead, she takes the knife, giving Aishani an encouraging enough nod. "Good luck," she says. "I'll keep this safe for you." She nods towards the exit, expression rueful, in a way. Nobody ever said Alida was politically correct, and that eyeroll her commentary evinces from Quinlys earns the Weyrlingmaster a quick flash of a small grin. Aishani's rise, her handing over of her knife to the other bluie earn the goldrider a quick, "Good thing ya' ain't learned any advanced defense tactics." Beat. "Yet." Unlike Quin, she's settling down before the fire. Soon enough, they'll all be gone for the flight cave. That door's where N'rov has emerged, clad ambiguously in grays that are lighter than, just now, his eyes. "More guests," he says drily, the thumb hooked behind him denoting his Weyrsecond, but those eyes are for his girl within the group. "I won't pretend even this one's for me. Come on." To local dragons, Wroth is older, yes, but not nearly as wasteful in energy as Rasavyth may think. He's there, somehow, admist the Reachian males. A small, burly, brown presence. He will play the broadcast game and throws out his storms to amplify all the tension. Crackling thunder hints at his laughter.. he has flown these skies before. It'll feel good to fly them again. "Guest, I guess," E'dre drawls, making his way in after N'rov. His expression is pinched, brows furrowed, lips drawn in a thin line. Still clothed in his riding gear, he begins to undo the front of his jacket to let in cooler air. Where to go? He makes his way to stand just a bit from the rest of the group. His eyes are locked on N'rov. He could be keeping an eye on the bronzerider, for many reasons, or he could be sizing up competition. Rolling her eyes, Aishani's about to say something to Alida, but then there's N'rov-- and that's enough of a relief, visible in the drop of her shoulders and the way she goes to him, despite looking like she was going to her death a minute before. "Thank you for your help," she calls over her shoulder, only semi-sardonically, and then she's wrapped around the Fortian and out the door, because that's going to make things so much better! E'dre gets a long look before, "Touch me and you lose your hand. Welcome." She's a charmer. Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr This broad ledge is dappled with bright light in the morning and commands a lovely view of the eastern end of the bowl, including the lake and the trees that dot the shoreline. Reached by a flight of stone steps that climb up from the bowl floor, the ledge is relatively low, an easy jump down to the ground; possibly its selection was a safety precaution, so anyone stumbling out the wrong way after a flight would be unlikely to break his or her neck. Within the weyr itself is a comfortably-sized dragon wallow, rarely used but swept clean nonetheless. The cavern broadens as it stretches back away from the entrance to reveal a neatly made double-sized bed pushed up against the back wall, a press at its foot with an extra blanket folded on top of it and two chairs standing guard to either side of the hearth. A rectangular table lurks against the side wall, kept stocked with a pitcher of water and a basket of seasonal fruits. The weyr is well-lit and kept immaculately clean, the refreshing scents of citron-infused sweetsand mingling with the tang of herbs. To local dragons, Arekoth projects « Since when is a a good sparring match a waste? Arekoth makes a few awkward sideways hops toward that young bronze, with so much to learn about this whole dance, and spreads his wings as wide as they will go, flicking them at full extension. « There's no fun in you, » to Rasavyth, has only the slightest sound of distraction. Blame the skies. » It's rather hard to be distant from her: there's that bond of familiarity and family that they share, but more than that: he's drawn to the warmth of her waters, swinging back and forward, teasing, waiting, watching for the moment. (To Iesaryth from Leiventh) While others have vultured around Iesaryth's rider, or ignored it, or found a drink elsewhere, V'teri's taken advantage of his knowledge of how flights work to just sit on the cot in the guest weyr, shirt off, with a deck of cards being air shuffled in between his two hands. How's them apples? He might have even lit some candles to set the mood or something ridiculous. His boots, at least, are still on. How long he's been here, who knows, those candles don't look all that fresh though. R'hin's, well -- let's face it, he's had a few drinks. Perhaps more than a few -- he's clinging to the flask as he strolls in with K'del, chuckling at something the other bronzerider's said. There's an air of... distraction about him, like he's trying hard to ignore what's going on, and his own dragons' attentiveness to the High Reaches queen, but really, even he can't pretend forever. K'del is not precisely wobbly on his feet, but his cheeks are flushed with more than cold, and though he grins in answer to R'hin, he's equally not quite all there. Or here. Or wherever it is he's supposed to be. Far above, Cadejoth is finally on his way back to the Weyr, but he's already slower than he was-- he is clearly not a contender in this, no matter how lustful his thoughts are now. SMRT. "Yeah, well," he says, finding himself a place up against one wall. "That's women for you." H'kon has the lightest smell of whisky on his breath, but seems lucid. Seems solemn. Seems rather unhappy to be present. He has taken, as he always does, a place at the outskirts, and is contenting himself to scowl, with something more than a Face, at a space in the air just in front and up from his feet, careful to at least keep his breathing measured. There are some things wholly his own and under his control. It takes a little while for Aishani to get to the guest weyr -- and yes, everyone is directed to the guest weyr, not the goldrider's weyr, and if anyone asks, the caverns workers in question mostly look awkward and embarrassed. The goldrider is absolutely neither; she is wrapped around N'rov, however, like he's a life preserver. Because Vhaeryth lounging on Iesaryth's ledge isn't enough. And speaking of the queen, she finally rouses herself from that ledge, but likewise takes her time about it, spreading rippled wings wide just so everyone can admire before she takes off and lands in the feeding grounds, scattering the herds. "Which is why you're now in to men?" asks a non-addled brownrider by the rose-cheeked K'del. His voice is gruff, his head is a little bald and he looks old enough to be Aishani's grandfather possibly. A look of amusement shoots past the once Reachian Weyrleader to the other once Reachian Weyrleader. "Thank the fuck I never was really Weyrleader. Turns men is what it does." J'rus is hurrying in a minute after the last of the tardiest of the main group has entered the flight cave, the handsome brownrider having only just returned to the Weyr-proper after a long, lazy soak at the hot springs with his brown Kadarith...who's now making ga-ga eyes at wakening Iesaryth. The affable man is puffing slightly after jogging all the way across the Bowl, and actually greeting everyone in the cave with a mellow baritone, "Evening, folks," and his trademark, winning smile as he too takes up a place holder at the outskirts of the throng. Nevermind that his blue eyes keep straying towards Aishani. That's just a given. There's little difference between the I'zech that strolls into the weyr now and one that might be headed toward the bathroom. Maybe he's considering unbuckling his belt, just in case, or maybe he's just getting it buckled now after rolling out of bed. He does have a pretty just-woke-up look about him. Anyway, he doesn't actually unbuckle anything, it's just that his hand is on it as he ambles in, makes a bit of a face and looks around for a seat. And Rojeth, he's appears from somewhere, sweeping quietly onto the feeding grounds to begin some gory decimation. It's true that Rasavyth could not be called frivolous just now as red mingles with purple in his bejeweled eyes. The sideways hops and flare of wings fail to impress the young bronze, who, while slender and proportioned in such a way that suggests he's management, not your average knuckle-dragging bronze, he's still larger than most browns. He could probably explain something about sparring matches being a waste, but, there's no fun in him, as Arekoth has pointed out. Not just now, not with his focus drawn otherwise. He simply emanates mild amusement at the brown's attempt to engage or otherwise unsettle him. (To local dragons from Rasavyth) E'dre's entrance is not nearly as grand as N'rov and his goldrider drapery. He doesn't bother greeting anyone. He does give a pointed look at K'del before making his way to lean against a wall. The rest of those present will be ignored. Just another stuck-up Fortian, right? Weyrsecond knot on his shoulder or not. Arms crossed in front of him, he glares forward and does his best not to be obvious that he's watching N'rov. At the feeding grounds, Wroth makes his presence known with a snarl as he lands. It's a trick! Or a play at one. The mahogany brown is no stranger to his birthplace and knows his way around. There's no bumbling or fussing. He lurks, hunkered down and ready to spring. His mind-voice is a roll of thunder, his laughter is a crackle of lightening. This will be fun. "Did I ever tell you about the time--" R'hin's just launching into another tall tale, but he falters about halfway through as he gaze shifts and tracks Aishani's arrival, completely derailing his thoughts. "So... yeah." And then that happens, that comment that swivels his head around towards the brownrider, and his eyes narrow. From near the lake shore, it's a straight, arrow-pointed glide of the angular bronze Leiventh that takes him to the feeding grounds. He is an efficient, effective killer, though all the while as he tears through sinew to get at the blood, the Monacoan's gaze is fixed on Iesaryth. If K'del were going to pay attention to anyone in particular, it would be Aishani and not that non-addled brownrider, or the Fortian one either... and even then, it would be so that he can give her a look of something akin to apology, even if it really is apology tinged with the onset of draconic-induced lust. Really, though, he doesn't quite manage to look at her face, so it may not count. "Yeah," he says, with an exhale. "Yeah." Cadejoth's lazy about the way he throws himself into the herds, as if he, too, is aware of his own limitations in this particular fight, not that he seems to intend to let that stop him. Blood splatters; spurts. Lurking near those feeding grounds, brown Durinth must have decided to start early, because he's already muzzle-deep in... well, it was going to be his meal, but now it's something else, as Iesaryth scatters the other meals-to-go. Rumbling something that would be more welcoming without such a raspy edge to it, he instead focuses on taking care of that warm blood, while his attention hones in on the glowing gold. There are other dragons? Oh well. He pays them little heed. For now. N'rov escorts his girl in, staying with her, ignoring the walls. If he spots H'kon, he looks right over his head, because that worked so well last time; he only has time to throw back to E'dre, "Aren't you glad you followed me?" With that, his attention's back to Aishani, like he'd be the pole to her dance if that's what it takes, though his grimace might have to do with how the brownrider stares and isn't even the only one staring. Vhaeryth's hunting already, and not for some lame cull, but the pick of the herd and then another. He bloods, they blood, they all blood for ocean's flood. It's too bad cards aren't quite as sharp as darts as V'teri just lounges on that bed, like he owns it, and starts flicking cards one at a leisurely time at people near by. Like target practice. Bam, you're done. Bam, you're done. One leg bends and crosses over the other and he watches the arriving circus of male dragon riders and the one focal point to all this. Riuscyth rises from the lake shore in a low glide and makes short work of two herdbeasts, in a neat, orderly fashion, then waits, and while waiting, runs the tip of his talon through the fur of one of the beasts. Arekoth maybe shouldn't be the one to decide it's getting crowded, but man. Look at all these guys. He heads for a beast promptly, another crackle at the back of his mind for Iesaryth's ripple, even a flash of pink glow when the gold shows. Grabbing the beast isn't quite as graceful as he might have liked, with the sudden stampede, but it works, on the second snatch. H'kon knows more from reactions around him than from looking that N'rov is here. That man, at least, is worth looking up for, worth glowering (up) at. Of all that people to expect showing up drunk, H'vier might be high on a list. But he's not drunk when he arrives. He doesn't need to be drunk when there's a flight to be won. And even if this one is a lesser priority to the last goldflight he chased in, H'vier is here for business. We'll call it business. Reisoth might have feigned disinterest earlier but even he is drawn to the feeding grounds in Iesaryth's wake. He's amused, and not just amused: yes, he's watching her. How could he not? (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) K'zin doesn't arrive alone to the weyr. In fact, he's courteously and congenially leading the way for a Telgari bronzerider. As ever, with flights, the young bronzerider has a too easy, and sort of creepy grinleer thing going on. K'zin's attention isn't solely for Aishani, in fact, his sweeping leer is more for the chasers right now. After all, nothing very interesting has happened yet, and he's scoping out the possibilities. Who'll get punched? Who'll go home crying? Kadarith's younger, but he knows this dance well. Up his tan wings conduct him, to then drop him down upon a herdbeast's back, weight breaking it with a loud crack that gets lost in the braying and bleating of the paniced herd. Blood and need are the pulse of his thoughts, and while the other males waste their time (in his opinion) bashing their egos against each other, he simply fuels up, watches beguiling Iesaryth, and bides his time...soon blooding another, then another beast. "Seriously, man, keep that grin to yourself," E'dre shoots towards K'zin. Disgust is clear on the brownrider's face. "Women go for that? Since when." Wroth might be firmly in play with the brownrider's behavior.. but then again, maybe not. With other males blooding, Wroth waits for those that are discarded and laps lazily at the blood that still flows. Oceans? He'll take some. Save his energy for other more important pursuits. Is it fascination that pins his gaze to her, or just plain old-fashioned lust? Surely such a refined being as Leiventh would never be that crass, though: the walls start to crumble as he's drawn into the circle of her attentions. (To Iesaryth from Leiventh) "In here," K'zin practically purrs in the direction of E'dre, "It's not much about what women go for, is it. It's about what their dragons want." He's not over-confident so much as simply relaxed. "Besides, there can be only one," Beat. "Catcher." But can't everybody win under the right circumstances? Regrettably, K'zin is the far more graceful of the pair just now. Rasavyth's blooding is lacking in finesse, but hey, at least he's blooding this flight and not just coming up empty again and again. Aishani doesn't want to look at anyone really; her usual ability to seem completely unaware of other's regard is now gone, her dark gaze is fixed to the stony floor. Maybe it's her need to corral Iesaryth, whose storm is raging in earnest now, the winds and waves drawing them all in like a typhoon, pulling them under. It's not the blood that's an issue, it's slowing her to bother with it as wings rustle, as the bright gold already looks skyward. Her rider isn't quite clinging to N'rov in the same way, but if he's keeping everyone else away, it's working. She doesn't look up, not even when she catches her breath suddenly and wavers, when the gold looks up to the snow and stars and flies. Don't worry, H'kon. You're not alone in the (lack of) height category, 'cause here comes G'mli! Huffing and buffing, the burly little brownrider rushes in, eyes almost as wild as his hair. "Did I miss it??!" He asks the nearest rider, grabbing some poor bronze rider by the scruff and shaking him. Still trying to catch his breath, though, he finally takes in the rest of the scene (possibly on tiptoes) and starts to calm down. He'll just... move off to the side and rock on the balls of his feet. Totally casual. Durinth, meanwhile, grows even more intent, as his meal-turned-fuel is pushed aside. Must clear a spot so he can take off when ready, right? Her storm needs more darkness, and he offers the inky expanse of his night mind to the physically brilliant gold. It creeps into her thoughts, just at the edge, waiting for any by your leave to encroach further. There's solace in that darkness, for her particular stormy rage. (To Iesaryth from Riuscyth) When doesn't he? Any times where she might have felt slighted are gone now; if he watches her, he can follow, if he follows, he can fly. This time. Maybe this time. That's an echo of Shani, though as she lifts higher, there's a little of her own thrill at the idea. So close. (To Vhaeryth from Iesaryth) "Sorry about this, ol' chum," that mutter's for K'del, as R'hin steps past the other bronzerider towards that brownrider on K'del's other side. He balls his fist and reaches back in one of those epic-time-slows-down punches to solidly connect against the man's face, spinning him in an entire circle and smacking him against the wall. At least, that's how it goes in his head: the reality is he trips over K'del's foot as he's trying to move around, and his swing goes wildly into the wall behind the brownrider, with a stunted curse of, "Son of a porcine loving mother fuck, to which the curse is accompanied by Leiventh's leap skyward after the High Reaches queen. To Leiventh, Iesaryth would usually be too polite to demand this tribute, too relaxed to pull like this, too lazy, frankly, to lead a chase. But now, her warm winds whip through and along with the colder ones, urging him to follow. Rojeth's wings start off before his crooked teeth fully release their latest meal, but the second it hangs from his mouth doesn't slow the jolt that launches him into the air after Iesaryth, body aimed toward the gold even as he takes a calculating glance aside at the other males in pursuit. All it does for I'zech, though, is draw in a deep breath and harden the glare he's turned on Aishani, with little interest at all for the millions of other men in the room. He watches her; he can follow. He does follow; he flies, narrowing between the others, a splinter of glass that would pierce if any of them get in his way. That thrill, that's not just hers. That's theirs. (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) K'del, who had closed his eyes in order not to get worked up by Fortian interlopers or anyone else he doesn't like (the list keeps growing) can't help but be jolted back into the present, away from his bronze, both by R'hin's muttered words, and the punch-gone-awry afterwards. As his foot gets tripped over, he loses his balance too-- and he ends up launched forward, his leg just barely managing to avoid hitting the Monacoan bronzerider as he goes flailing forward. Does he hit someone? It's entirely possible. Does Cadejoth make it into the air without too much of a problem? Thankfully, yes. Fly. Fly. And Riuscyth is off like the light his mindvoice lacks, shooting towards her to try and lead this pack of rabble rousers. There's motivation in his massive frame as his neck extends and wings thrust backwards as he coasts for those initial, precious seconds before they snap out to beat against currents and snow towards Iesaryth. Is he first? He's certainly not last. During that initial cruise, however, the cards have fallen slack, but each wing beat brings with it the pointy edge of a sharp card thrown (a la ninja star) at random people's heads. It manages to graze a former Benden brownrider's cheek. E'dre's expression says it all neatly: his upper lip is curled back and his brows are crooked: one up, one down. Disgust. "Right. Only one. And I doubt it'll be you, anyway." He lifts his shoulder up in a half-shrug, his hand splaying out in front of him as the look of disgust is replaced with a cocky smile. "We'll just have to see what wins out, right? With the way N'rov is wearing her, I'm sure the decision has been made already." And the punches fly! E'dre makes his way to stand closer to N'rov and subsequently Aishani. Wind and rain, thunder and flashes of brilliant blue-tinged lightening, Wroth tosses these happily towards the gold and her typhoon. He'll feed it, enhance it, toy with it. As she leaps skyward, he waits and lets a few others go ahead of him. Only after the majority of the males have launched themselves does he follow. Has he already given up? Or is he plotting? There are things that are important to H'vier here and things that aren't. Aishani is the important thing, Iesaryth beyond from Reisoth's perspective, and everyone else can die in a fire as far as they're both concerned. He focuses and moves closer while his bronze bloods with efficient expertise. Reisoth doesn't launch himself skywards immediately after the gold does, draining his kill before following the rest. It's fascinating, and were Iesaryth herself, she'd take her time to explore the darkness, the edges of it, the color and depth. But now, she has to go go go, but it does complement the eeriness of the storm, the raging winds, the waves that threaten to pull them all under. Who will survive. (To Riuscyth from Iesaryth) Air! This is what Arekoth's been waiting on, waiting for, waiting in- well, doesn't matter. When Iesaryth is up, he's up with her, a flash of green managing to glint off the snow, welcomed into his mental landscape as he strains through it, strains forward. He's already checking for competition, checking that recently-cleared spot, calling, « Sure you've got enough Endurinth for this? » back jovially. Not a waste if you're having fun. H'kon presses his back to a convenient wall, and shifts his attention to warily watching the room. That's enough of a consent, the lack of a no, to Riuscyth for him to not only chase her in the air, but to send that sweeping, roiling empty blackness into her thoughts. Always threatening but never quite overcoming that storm, perhaps pushed back by those winds and waves, perhaps cautious and aware of the dangers therein, but tempted and tempting in kind. (To Iesaryth from Riuscyth) From his 'observation post' towards the back of the weyr, J'rus takes idle notice of R'hin's drunken and mistimed punching of the wall and K'del's subsequent trip over him, the Monocoan bronzer's cursing earning him a low, liquid burble of baritone laughter from the easy-going brownrider...the sound taking on a more airy quality as Kadarith impels himself skyward after ascending Iesaryth. He's not a planner or conniver, but the brown's not daft, either, watching his fellow males in the pack, and jockeying for the best opening position. It's early in this lust-fueled Filght, after all. F'rint watches R'hin and K'del stumble around drunkenly, having side stepped first R'hin's punch by happy accident of the Monacoan bronzerider's stumble, and then K'del's accidental punch thrown in a flail. Fuck me. It's written all over his wearied face and abruptly he turns to exit, even though Oranyuth doesn't depart the skies and his chase. N'rov mutters, low and urgent, as Vhaeryth pierces the sky splinter-swift after Iesaryth; the rider's shoulders twitch, and the length of his arm would ward off I'zech's glare and dull H'vier's focus if he could. He certainly doesn't welcome his wingsecond's approach, as though if E'dre had his back, it might have a fist with it. K'zin makes a point of looking at E'dre with an extra saucy grin and leer before pulling his attention away. He doesn't attempt to dissuade the Fortian of his doubts. Let E'dre-- and more importantly Wroth underestimate them. After all, who would worry about the young and inexperienced Rasavyth (who has yet to make it to the end of a flight, let alone win one). No one. Don't mind the way that the weight of his kill is left behind and his smooth launch occurs with a bunching of powerful muscles. Once he's aloft, dull wings unfurl to reveal their impressively bright underside and he surges higher, throwing himself into the storm and into the chase with fervor, but not without his wits. And follow he does, drawn tight as a bow to her radiance, arrow straight. The cold winds of his mental tones warm to match hers, spinning them every higher and upwards. Soon, they whisper, promising so many things. (To Iesaryth from Leiventh) Durinth is up with the chasing cloud, focused on Iesaryth and on gaining altitude. So focused, in fact, that he doesn't notice a young, upstart bronze coming straight up his left flank. Literally. Talons rake and limbs tangle, dropping ichor down to the feeding grounds so recently vacated. Luckily there's just enough air that both dragons are able to find their wings again, and while the bronze battles forward, Durinth instead veers away from the hunting pack, off to find a place to nurse his wounds. In the weyr, G'mli, all excitement just moments before, is crestfallen (not to mention worried). At least he's caught his breath, so it's with some small shred of dignity that he quietly slips through the exit. Time to find something to numb both his dragon and him. There's a beating, of a man who deserves it. Except it's not really happening: R'hin's slumping to the ground now, laughing hilariously like someone's just told Pern's best joke. If he's even noticed his intended target's departure, it seems unlikely: between far too much alcohol and a growing tension that has his gaze pulled inevitably in Aishani's direction, the Monacoan is far too distracted. His dragon is a shade (okay, miles) more decorous than his rider: flying arrow straight, using his broad wings and angular body to slice through the air quickly and cleanly. Of course, this also opens him up to jostling from others, given his attention is largely fixed on the queen. Okay, the mess that R'hin and K'del have managed to get themselves in? That makes Aishani look up, still holding onto N'rov's arm, but staring at the pair of former Weyrleaders in vague disbelief. Especially R'hin, given she doesn't hate him so much. "Are you serious?" The fact that they're too fucked up to get handsy (or maybe catch) doesn't quite penetrate her indignance. Above, Iesaryth is a sun in the night sky, wings taking her ever higher as she goes faster, faster still. She never moves this quickly, never flies so high or so long. The mountains below tiny spines, she banks and dives, waves breaking, pulling them all under. The smile N'rov gets from I'zech is all snarl, all teeth and no warmth, as the Fortian's arm catches his eye like a predator drawn to movement. He lets out a low, dark laugh. "Odds aren't in your favor," he points out in an exhale, getting some twisted amusement from the fact that, whoever wins, there's a good chance N'rov's girl is bedding down with someone else tonight. And this time when turns his glare back at Aishani, it takes a nice slow path over her, aaaaall the way down her body and back up again. The drunken tussling doesn't seem to interest him at all. In the air, Rojeth rumbles out a rough note, ducking beneath a wall of wings to come at this pack from another angle, hissing a warning at whoever is nearest. The sound of Aishani's voice throws K'del back into the present, now that he's attempting to disentangle himself from the poor brownrider he ended up tripping into. He actually grins, turning his attention back towards the goldrider as he says, "Anything to avoid ending up in bed with you, darling." Which would work better if he weren't looking at her with quite so much lust. Luckily, Cadejoth is already beginning to tire, though he's still part of the pack for now. Maybe if he's really lucky-- One down. That's just the beginning. And then down in a different way, her way, and he does follow her, down and down even if there's no air to breathe, they're that fast. He could breathe, should breathe. But he won't, not if she's doing it too, not if he can drown in her. (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) Bumping with the bronze that comes off Durinth, Arekoth loses some momentum, loses some direction. The effort of attempting to regain all these has ribbons of colour springing forth, refracted when they fall under Iesaryth's waves... and rushing all out when the brown makes a desperate dive, aiming for Iesaryth, cutting right toward Leiventh. H'kon takes a deeper breath, upsetting his former rhythm, and presses both hands back, palms flat to the wall. The laughter gets a look. But so does everything else. The other bronzerider's arm around Aishani does less to dull H'vier's focus than to make him want N'rov to be somewhere else. He moves closer (personal space, what's that?) and a hand reaches out to grab at the man's shoulder. More to get his attention than anything else, surprisingly. "This ain't your party yet, pretty boy. How about you back the fuck off, huh?" "Shells I'm reminded ever-so-much why I left this place turns ago," E'dre mutters to himself, disgust returning as he throws a glance back at the drunks. Then to I'zech, snarl matched by a smirk. "Always find those who bet in these flights lose big." Somewhere in all this time, E'dre has lost his jacket. And his shirt. He brushes his hair back from his face and glances towards Aishani. Iesaryth is the sun, well, arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon; who is already sick and pale with grief. Wroth has somehow made his way from the back to the middle of the pack. He continues to keep his distance, the mountains below of no concern to him, his energy is being stored up for a final surge forward. In an effort to speak to that fair, glowing, beauty before him he shares more waves of poetry in the form of graying storms being parted by that fair sun. Pull me under! Pull me under! Pull me under, I'm not afraid! is the harmonious, answering cadence of Kadarith's thoughts to Iesaryth's undertow, the brown almost as genial as his rider. With nearby Rojeth hissing at him and another pursuer comes the over-sized brown's rolling rumble of scoffing humor. Those who protest the most have the least, after all! Hahahaha! This sentiment gets J'rus laughing all over again, the Flight stealing more of his wits from him as time goes on, the sound of the man's humor quite the contrast to all the foul spirits currently found within the weyr. Even H'vier's spouting of testiness earns the bronzer a snigger. Well, the rumors said that K'zin who once had a penchant for punching his father-figure of a bronze mentor, K'del, had simpered down once they started working together in Taiga. But K'del's words draw a derisive snort from the younger bronzerder and he turns to smirk cruelly toward K'del, "Like she'd want a piece of your worn-out, limp-dicked attempt at love-making. You're all washed up, old man." And if that doesn't earn him some of K'del's attention, maybe the pair of step he takes toward his wingsecond will. It's not like K'zin has any special warm fuzzies for Aishani, but his mind so entrenched in Rasavyth... well, Rasavyth does for Iesaryth, and by extension her ambitious rider. Ambition is the name of the game now, his touch comes fleetingly to the stormy gold, « Brown on your left flank, bronze sweeping upward. » True, they might be far from the fast-flying queen, but just little heads ups that will help her avoid entanglements with anyone who's name doesn't start with Rasa- and end in -vyth. Down, down, fast enough to drown, Vhaeryth rumbles against any hiss and follows Iesaryth's riptide in. N'rov, he spares a glance for the former Weyrleaders, no more. Even I'zech and his odds only gets a scowl; he knows it too well, way to rub it in. It's a scowl that turns to a smirk as E'dre chimes in, at least, and though he half-turns under H'vier's grip, there's no way he backs off. "Afraid you can't last, man? Deal with it on your own time." It's never so good any other way, this flight, and before, the pieces she has, that wasn't like this either, nor was the sharpness there in the flight or the chasing. Not the breathlessness. She'd tell him where she's going next, but that wouldn't be fair. Or fun. (To Vhaeryth from Iesaryth) It mightn't be fair... but it would be clever. And then it would be more than fun. (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) Aishani's exclamation earns a low-throated chuckle from R'hin -- completely unapologetic. In fact, his grin goes wider when she's looking at him, and there's definitely something keenly interested beneath his drunken demeanor. But still, he's on the floor, she's all the way over there: that makes it safe, right? Except he's pushing to his feet, now, K'del largely forgotten. Leiventh, too, twists and makes to dive after that glowing gleam of brilliance, though Arekoth's cut across his path makes him veer sharply to try and avoid the brown. Not quite fast enough, perhaps -- there's certainly contact, and a jolt of something sharp, angry and pained from the normally guarded and taciturn bronze. "You tell him," says V'teri from his bed perch, overhearing and espying H'vier's manhandling of Fort's pretty boy. For N'rov's head, there's another card flicked. Sooner or later, he's going to be out of cards and never will find a full deck of fifty-two again in this sausage-ridden weyr. Riuscyth uses his big body and his lashing tail to try and keep a bubble of personal space about him and tries to maintain that lead, but he's big and part of endurance is the ability to not expend all your energy up front and shortly, the dark, sleek bronze's place in the sky falters. « Be clever. Figure it out. » (To Vhaeryth from Iesaryth) « Working on it. » (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) To K'del, "That's the nicest thing you've ever done for me." Even though she's smirking, she seems weirdly touched. Though now that Aishani's looking, she can see the way people are watching her, I'zech's once-over -- and doesn't try to hide her disgust. That is, until there's shoving. That totally distracts her from R'hin and the fact that he's on his feet. Harshly, glaring at H'vier, "What the fuck?" There's actually something of an accent there in her voice, the loss of the cultured tones she's developed. Iesaryth is oblivious to drama or her rider's likes or dislikes; if the dragons can follow, if they can guess, if they can chase without getting rolled under by the tsunami growing, they're worthy. She's now skimming the snowy mountain tops, and though she's still fast due to size and massive wings, she's slowing, gliding longer, dipping lower. Shani: "Shit." If it weren't for Aishani's remark, however smirky, K'del would probably be throwing a punch at K'zin right now-- and who could blame him? But somehow, he seems pleased, and it's enough that he struggles away from his wingmate, shoving past him instead of aiming that blow. "Go fuck yourself," he says. "If your dick even knows how to get itself up, yet." Cadejoth's not going to make it: he's dropping back, dropping down. It's a relief... it's also not. Though the dragons may be far, though the hints may be self-serving, Iesaryth appreciates those little notes, placing them in her peripheral vision, in a larger sense of the flight. He is so helpful, Rasavyth. (To Rasavyth from Iesaryth) Reisoth has been conserving his energy, not playing into the fighting between the males with less intelligence, focused on his goal much like his rider is focused on his. Except smarter and more patient, waiting for his opportunity to put his reserves to good use and close distance. Since N'rov doesn't see fit to make space, H'vier reaches out for Aishani herself, a hand gripping around her bicep to try jerking her out of the Fortian's grip as he growls, "This is my time. And my fucking Weyr." In the sense that it's not N'rov's, anyway. As Riuscyth seems to lose steam, though the bronze still tries, V'teri suddenly rises, as if by standing, he can somehow give some of his unused lackadaisical energy to get his dragon to go faster, further. Or not. Maybe it's more to loom behind N'rov to try and sandwich the Fort rider between him and H'vier. There's no easy grin on V'teri's face, infected, likely, by Riuscyth's territorial dislike. "Should just g'home, Fort. Go home. She's not yours tonight." "Back off," E'dre snarls at H'vier. V'teri is met with equal force and glower. He's easily towered over, being 5'7", but he's not afraid of getting in the middle of a potential fight. Fists up, face set, he's ready to go! There's a flicker of inner conflict that leaves K'zin scowling at K'del. It's not that there weren't quippy responses ready for the remark, but too many of Rasavyth's helpful suggestions crossed lines K'zin won't cross. He forces Rasavyth's focus back to the sky, the bronze narrowly avoiding getting raked by one of the others in the pack. He uses his size and build to his advantage. He's one of the more limber bronzes owing to his small stature, and agility helps when paired with strong wingstrokes this time fuelled by enough blood to continue the chase. What K'zin settles on as a response is, "If you've learned in your many turns how to fuck yourself, you might consider enlightening the rest of us. For now, I'll focus on giving that kind of show to someone who hasn't seen it before." His eyes drift toward the goldrider. She seem the most obvious one to think of in this moment, his expression briefly nothing but lust. I'zech doesn't even seem to realize that the gambling comment is aimed in his direction, but then he might be a touch distracted when his dark glare is met by Aishani's disgust. She's disgusted, is she? Does that matter? He jaw flexes tensely, and then, oh hey, if H'vier is going to try to pry her away from N'rov, maybe he'll just put himself in a nice position to have her handed off, stepping in closer and ready to take advantage of whatever squabble develops. If they're busy with each other... And oh, if only the situation had such clear opportunities for Rojeth, but the air is still a mess of bodies and his frustration stretches out to his wingtips, cutting through the air with little regard for whether or not he bumps or bruises anyone along the way. Such a testosterone-laden room...even with the women in it who ride some of the browns who are chasing! J'rus finds himself smirking and grinning at the cavalcade of chest-thumping idiots all about him, the easy and self-confident brownrider pushing off the rocky wall and starting to meander among the various folk, 'Reachian or foreign. It does give him an excuse to cast his blues over Aishani's fetching form, though he's not a lech about it, like leering K'zin. As he passes the youngest bronzer and K'del, in fact, "I vote for both of you giving us a floor show right now!" Laughter...and on he mosies. As for Kadarith, he's angling off a little from the confining pack of males, rising a little, the conservation of his strength ending now that he sees the first signs of Iesaryth's faltering. It's nearly time! That look from R'hin after K'del might have some interesting emotion in it -- but the Monacoan's busy wincing, rocking back against the wall now he's found his feet, gaze flashing distantly for a moment in reaction to his lifemate's impact with another dragon. The fear in his expression is fleeting, but definitely there, and enough to keep him in place and more importantly, keep his distance, with a clenching of fists as if straining not to surge forward. How much energy does Leiventh waste on that expression of displeasure? Certainly more than is normal for the Monacoan, though Arekoth is a thought in passing as a gleam of gold restores his sense of equilibrium. Now is the time for desperate measures, and his broad wings beat faster, striving. He may be older than the majority of dragons here, but older means experienced, and he angles for where Iesaryth will be. N'rov swears near-simultaneously with Aishani, only it's because he's reaching up to his ear where... he's just pulled out a card, thanks to some unknown benefactor, and a black look reveals that it isn't even aces. Vhaeryth's following, all right, those mountains like waves he could surf, anticipating the tsunami like he wants to crash if it means crashing into her. She dips lower, but he anticipates higher. Down there, there's only rock. And the occasional brown, close enough. As for N'rov, he shoots H'vier a scowl of his very own, but then E'dre steps in, and he's just laughing. "Aren't you a flight late," and he might have completed the thought, but E'dre's going to take the beefcake out, right? There's something more important. Someone more important. It's Shani he's murmuring to. "Almost there. Higher, now." To Iesaryth, Rasavyth isn't a stupid dragon, not even when there's that lust creating a haze of heady good-feeling. Lust doesn't rule him. He's aware as he continues to feed little details to the gold that this can back-fire on him. Giving her the insights can help her choose a dragon that isn't him, and woeful that would make him. But still, this is Iesaryth not some green that isn't worthy enough to have a choice in the matter. He's young, strong, though true, untested, but he gives her freely his knowledge of the pursuit because the storm he weathers with effort is one that if he's to survive in safety, he'd rather it be by her choice that he does so. A respect he gives to his queen, and her alone. What's this? Wroth's dropping out? He had lasted so long and now his wings are overdrawn. He howls his frustration even as he turns his tail and descends back towards the ground. Home. But E'dre can't go.. not now. And yet he's going. "Fuck you all." He leaves with that. To Iesaryth, Leiventh strains, reaches for her, wants her in a way that far more full of emotion and naturalness than he is normally want to do. The walls are down, and the guarded bronze is exposed while he seeks for her within the whipping wind and oceanic depths. Though the men are getting all territorial and macho about the situation, Aishani has just gone over a line, by the way she slowly looks from H'vier's hand on her arm, then back to H'vier. That does give I'zech some nice cover to put himself in a more likely position to get his hands on the goldrider... but he might think twice about that as, quick and lithe, she reaches behind her back with a flash of something in her hand as it arcs around and stabs the bronzerider in the arm as hard as she can. "Don't. Fucking. Touch me." She told E'dre he'd lose a hand, maybe he's lucky. And it is indeed time for desperation as Iesaryth only has so much energy left to keep up the storm, the massive wave about to break on the shore -- the sunny queen reaches for the skies again, the moons that seemingly glow with her reflected light -- and if Shani weren't so busy stabbing people, she'd be whispering names like a litany. K'del? He's got to be so glad he's on his way out, now: out the door and into the snowy evening. Even Cadejoth must be relieved. Life is... better when one can be alive to enjoy it. There's blood and suddenly not-the-tallest looming bronzerider ever wobbles and faints. Maybe Riuscyth can do better up in the sky as he tries to put one last surge in, in spite of his rider's momentary pansy moment. H'kon's attention has been drawn by the gathering machismo all around the goldrider. It's hard to say if he sees the knife, but he sees the ruckus. Distraction is only momentary, fingertips digging into the wall as Arekoth - smaller than Leiventh, and way too focused on Iesaryth and making a joke at some other bronze's expense as he dives - is sent reeling. The smallest of the remaining brownriders is done. Fingertips give one final push, he's off the wall, and skirting around the crowds for the exit. Even when his brown's pinwheeling turns into desperate attempts at altitude, wings clashing with a nearby dragon's as he tries to make the most of his accidental trajectory, and gropes at that gold thing he only just saw out the corner of his eye, a piercing call issuing from his throat. K'zin is probably suddenly glad that he was picking fights with local bronzeriders instead of the prettyboy from Fort. And his vicious lover. In point of fact, though. the knife and the blood have K'zin stepping back toward the wall. He looks completely uncertain about the prospect of approaching that goldrider with lust in his loins. He'd like all the important bits to still be there come morning. Too bad for K'zin that his dragon is certain. If K'zin has to sacrifice use of his manhood for Rasavyth to have his moment shining (literally, she's glowy!) with Iesaryth, that's a chance he's willing to take. He makes his move, maneuvering between a lagging brown and a burlier bronze to sweep toward his queen and reach for her, offering himself for her choice. <OOC> V'teri says, "Lust in his loins." <OOC> H'kon says, "Please, if you catch, do a 'throbbing meatroll' line or somesuch." N'rov says, "Of luv." <OOC> N'rov says, "OOC, that." To Rasavyth, Iesaryth doesn't indicate whether this will sway her decision or not, but she will certainly take all that information, interested as always, but now, in this moment, she accepts it as her due. If such tribute is worthy, well. That will be decided in the moment. <OOC> K'del says, "Hot meatroll injection." <OOC> V'teri says, "And please keep that completely not OOC line in the log." His poor, beautiful muscles! It doesn't process immediately that there is a knife in his arm - who the fuck expects that! - and that brief moment gives him just enough time for a reflexive back of his hand to swing toward the goldrider before the pain takes over any other thoughts he might have wanted to have. H'vier stumbles backwards, grasping for his arm to cover the gush of blood. Probably a good thing he didn't come here drunk. Somehow this doesn't cause Reisoth as much distress as it probably could. There's an angry scream from the usually silent bronze before he's surging toward the gold. It's hard to tell if he wants to catch her or hurt her right now, though. Maybe both? That is... well, apparently, frankly hilarious. Especially since R'hin is safely over here and not within range of the goldrider and her now-bloodied knife. The alcohol-fueled glaze makes everything more funny, it would seem -- and doesn't he look mature and experienced by comparison? Well, maybe he would if it weren't for the white-knuckled fists, and, well, the grimace given his once-mentee V'teri. Though exhaustion is likely creeping up on the angular Monacoan bronze, she goes upwards, and he is drawn inexorably in her wake, despite his miscalculation. Leiventh strains towards the heights, determined enough to barrel through any who are slower in his path towards Iesaryth. <OOC> K'zin shakes his lusty loins in the direction of the other chasers (maybe I can get them to flee in terror before the end!) <OOC> R'hin says, "K'del would love to receive you! pushes him out in front" <OOC> K'del says, "Wait, what?" Holy shit! Aishani's stabbity-stabbing someone?!? That fact - noticed on his stroll-by - cools J'rus's growing ardor some, the brownrider's eyes widening, his grin wiped off his face when H'vier reacts to his second blooding via a female rider during a gold flight. Kadarith's completely devoted to catching Iesaryth at this point, however, overrides his rider's desire to withdraw from this den of wild felines, the big brown trying to cut off tiring Leiventh in order that he might snatch the glowy gold in his charcoal claws. Youth over old age! That difference, that openness is tested, tasted, different... appreciated. Reaching higher, Iesaryth's indecision is palpable as the wave is about to break; this will not be a mistake. (To Leiventh from Iesaryth) Here's the fun thing about knives: when they're in some other dude's arm, they are less likely to be in your own. And so yes, I'zech will take advantage of the moment, whether because he thinks he's capable of dealing with a knife-wielding goldrider or because he doesn't think at all. As Rojeth uses talons to push off some neighboring bronze, making a final lurch for a ride on the cresting wave that is Iesaryth, I'zech reaches for Aishani, her name murmured, low and seething, as his hands aim for her hips to try to pull her back against him, whether she's his to pull or not. Needless to say, he's not thinking much about how anyone else is fairing, or how easily she could probably swing that knife around and get him right in the gut. N'rov didn't get stabbed. N'rov didn't get stabbed. N'rov didn't get stabbed, this time. His sudden, sharp laugh might as well be applause, at least until there's that backhand, and instinctively he shoves his way to try and intercept it before it can touch his girl... even if she still probably has more knives than he does. Even if there's still I'zech, on the other side. It's a distraction that Vhaeryth can ill afford, though the remaining Fortian's spurred on by the way she's risen after all, seeking to meet her after all. Crash here. He predicted. She's coming. Crash here. He won't break. But is it that clever is as clever does? (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) It's pretty easy for I'zech to get a hold of Aishani, given H'vier's backhand glances off the side of her head, partially thanks to that shove of N'rov's -- better than her face, even if she's reeling. Even if she's dropped the bloodied knife, which is a plus for anyone who wants to survive the night. As she cries out in wordless fury, every muscle in her body is tensed to launch at the big bronzerider again, barehanded. She'd probably manage it if I'zech's hands weren't holding her hips, if she weren't still dizzy, if Iesaryth didn't need to take all her attention and breath away in one last gasp to dodge Leiventh and Riuscyth, abandoned by his rider; especially Arekoth and now, Reisoth; avoid Kadarith and Rojeth and Rasavyth. The queen doesn't slow for any of them, instead flying nearly full-speed, into Vhaeryth, waiting above. Riuscyth shrieks when the gold evades him for his son. Not that he remembers that. It's not like his rider's in any state to remember either, prone as he is on the floor of the guest weyr. He did, and she does. The wave breaks finally, but it won't drown him -- not with her. Not together. (To Vhaeryth from Iesaryth) A throaty, unhappy growl issues from Kadarith's maw when he misses his chance at nabbing lovely Iesaryth - and to a foreign dragon, at that! - the big brown simply continuing on and down past the mating pair above, spiralling towards the lake, where he can cool his heels. As for his rider, all is not lost. J'rus is rarely even in want of a happily willing bedmate. But before his admittedly relieved departure, the muscular young man steps over to passed-out V'teri, sighs, and squats down to scoop him up and carry the daft bronzer off to the infirmary for treatment. Why must it always be duty before fun? A moment of rage, denied, has I'zech digging his fingers fiercely into Aishani's hips, as if some force of will and the bite of his grasp could undo the reality that has taken place in the sky. But it can't. And so the grip becomes a rough shove, not caring at all where it leaves the goldrider. I'zech and Rojeth will have to get their kicks somewhere else tonight. Kadarith's cut past Leiventh arrests the Monacoan's speed enough to deter him, if momentarily; when he resumes, if slower, Iesaryth is already wrapped up in the wings of another. There's no sound of disappointment, just a shift of weight and a downward, steady dive for the ground. R'hin's moving moments later, his fingers finally releasing from their curled ball, exiting quickly without a backward glance. Rasavyth's disappointment is silent as he sinks from the sky, his normally open mind walling off from the world. K'zin? He heads out, following on the heels of the Telgari bronzerider he showed in. If he looks a little relieved in the end, who can blame him after the bloodshed? Together. All the better to see fish instead of stars. (To Iesaryth from Vhaeryth) Finally. If she's shoved, at least this time it's into him. At least this time they, the four of them, can win. |
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