Logs:Post-Flight Fights
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| RL Date: 13 December, 2015 |
| Who: Olivya, Ivraeth, W'leri, Voaneth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ivraeth's first Fortian flight is-- Well, it's a flight. |
| Where: Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 7, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Piling up during the night, the clouds darken and thicken oppressively in the early part of the day. At first distant, thunder roams closer so that, before lunch, the rain and lightning arrive, coupled with a quick, directionless-seeming wind. Throughout the afternoon and evening, the storm continues, eventually petering into a light rain that lasts through the night. |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions, X'vin/Mentions |
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This small, ground-level cavern clearly has one use and one use only. The
headwoman's staff keeps the place neat and tidy, but otherwise, the space
is very clearly set up for the sole purpose of flights. The bedframe is a
double, sturdy, but has seen better days, with plenty of nicks and
scratches in the wood. The linens are plain, undyed, cheap fiber, easy to
wash, easy to replace.
Several chairs, all of them of the repaired, second-hand variety, stand
against the walls and a table holds a pitcher of water and a selection of
chipped mugs as well as a bowl of seasonal fruits and another bowl of
nuts. The glows in here are usually a bit dim, older ones that have been
changed out of more trafficked areas of the Weyr but not completely
depleted yet. A small hearth also provides heat in the colder months, with
logs and coal both kept supplied for use at any time. All morning, Ivraeth has been settled on one particular edge of the sunning spot, despite the steady fall of rain. That sleek rain only rolls off darkly green hide and honeyed highlight with a tell-tale glow, unique even from the shine of wetness. With Taeliyth settled near, her attention has been captured by the queen, but it does not stop the way the jungle of her mind continues growing and blooming under the heat and rain, or the way her roots work their way into the minds of nearby male dragons, always growing. And suddenly, it changes as those roots tighten and she stirs, her whirling gaze suddenly transferring to sweep the bowl to judge who exactly she has caught. And below, Olivya inspects the flight weyr, her fingers running over the rims of chipped mugs at the moment and falling still at the sudden change in her dragon. Her trademark red jacket has been shed onto the back of a chair, leaving her with bare arms in a sleeveless white tunic and black pants that hug long legs. Her hair is still damp with the rain, despite the fire that burns cheerily in the hearth, likely lit on her orders. The green's pervasive roots haven't touched Voaneth today, not when he has been out of the Weyr, exploring blue skies and southerly climes. He isn't unaware; he has acquaintances back at Fort watching the green with vested interest. But he doesn't reach out with any sweet promises of his own, because the plan isn't to come back, not anytime soon. Southerly climes are Ivraeth's domain, but today she is stuck with stormy skies and stone. If her catch of Fortian dragons entangled in her web of roots doesn't quite meet her expectation, it doesn't show except in the tinge of disappointment that might drive some to prove themselves and discourage others. Then, she stretches to her feet with one slow movement, her glow only growing brighter as she does. She doesn't blood; those who are now are left behind as she flings herself into the sky without anymore pre-amble, intent on leading a chase that is more about speed and agility than lasting. Business is business, but W'leri's younger wingriders want to take advantage of the tropical weather and the tanned babes. It's a vicious tug of war, one which -- aided, unknowingly, by his blue's devious persistence -- the wingsecond wins by force of will. "A-holes, you better make it back before drills tomorrow or you'll take it up with X'vin," he growls, before throwing himself up into Voaneth's straps and, to follow, the storm raging back at home. Up, between, and down, swiftly, to many curses and complaints from W'leri. "Fucker," the bluerider says, stumbling back as he barely makes it out of the straps, and onto the guest weyr ledge, in time for his dragon to vault back into the sky, chasing after the green. Voaneth's arrival into the chase doesn't go unnoticed, a bright flash of heat and more, something poisonously precise as Ivraeth reaches out her thoughts to brush against his to welcome him to the game. She twists perfectly in the air, an agile redirection as she flies back the way she came and through her chasing males that might just give the joining blue a better chance to catch up. Inside the weyr, Olivya still hasn't taken a seat, though some dripping dragonriders have. She has set herself in front of the hearth, cupping a chipped mug. As Ivraeth changes path, a soft, subtle smile breaks through briefly, her gaze lifting to the entrance of the weyr for a moment. There are chasers of all ages and all sizes, but Voaneth makes his way into the head of the back in no time, with an agility borne of want.. and help, from Ivraeth, with that tricky maneuver. « Heeyy, beautiful lady, » the blue greets her, her heat and poison meeting his warm, bright air and endless reaches. Clumsy? Hardly. Enthused? Very. W'leri has to resign himself to this turn of events, and with a lot of squishing and stomping, he enters the guest weyr, glowering at everyone who glances his way. Olivya gets a sneer-leer. "Hey, hot tits," the bluerider calls, combing his hands through his wet hair as he stalks closer. « Voaneth, » is a soft thought, drawn out by the ivy green even as Ivraeth puts on a sudden burst of speed, flinging herself directly upwards into the pouring rain. « You are late. Did you not want to be here for me? » He isn't immune to the touch of disappointment in him, even as her thoughts twine against his. She veers again, executing a practiced loop to shake some of the chasers free as the storm takes out others who can't keep up with this speed in the wind. "Wingsecond," drawls Olivya, her fingers dragging through blonde curls that have already dried. But her gaze? That lingers on him as he enters, studying him with a weight that is heated by the antics of her dragon in the air. She even smiles where he sneers, an almost inviting thing. "I am glad you noticed." « Babe, come on. How could I miss this? You. » Blue skies that stretch as far as she wishes to fly, and airy clouds that become wisps through which is warm, spicy words filter. Voaneth expects the acrobatics, and swings to pursue, driven on by tale-as-old-as-time flight lust. "Move out of the way, kid." One of the younger brownriders try to get in his way, to point out that he should sit with the rest of the lumps against the wall. His face connects with W'leri's palm, and it gets pushed out of the way as the bluerider advances. "What? You've got a pair I could see from Rukbat," he compliments, holds up his hands to demonstrate how big he thinks they are. Classy. There isn't even a moment of empathy for the young brownrider that gets pushed aside, all of Olivya's attention lingering on W'leri as she curves a brow upwards. The cup is set aside on the mantle as the greenrider, freeing her hand to brazenly cup her fingers against the front of W'leri's trousers as she steps forward to close the distance between them. She challenges, "Oh, I think the same could probably be said of you." And in the air, Ivraeth doesn't bother to mask her intent, a final twist seeing her perfectly placed in Voaneth's path rather than any others as she forgives him. Just this time, though. Her lush vines and flowers, the whole jungle of her mind invades his blue skies, filling them with an intent that is almost like drowning. And below, Olivya isn't surprised. Voaneth is not a subtle winner, and projects his whooping, jolting victory to nearly the whole weyr as his svelte blue form surges towards the green. His limbs and hers, entangled, their tails entwined, as they fall.. down.. down.. So much grumbling, from so many men, who all want the attention of the greenrider who is too wrapped up in the bluerider to notice them. "You hear that, boys? Get the fuck out," W'leri crows triumphantly, which comes moments before the fateful catch. He is not a gentle, romantic lover, but at least he isn't boring! It's much later, after everything has played out, that W'leri, one hand still tangled in the abundance of Olivya's hair, is gently snoring on his side of the flight bed; half covered by the sheet, half exposed, he's a man who isn't afraid of anything, as he slumbers. Olivya sleeps briefly, letting herself succumb to too little sleep in too many evenings and that her dragon's lust has finally been extinguished. That she wakes to fingers in her hair and snoring-- well, there is some humor to be found in that with the slow curve of her lips, and she shifts to angle herself up while gently drawing his fingers from her hair. From this vantage, she watches him sleep for a long minute and then two, before her impatience will finally win out and she starts to tug the sheet off of him to wake him. Olivya must not know W'leri's resilience. Sheetless.. he slumbers on. Try again. Olivya does continue in her efforts to wake him, her fingers trailing over the lean plane of his stomach. "Wake up, wingsecond," she encourages, leaning over him to drag lips against his jaw, and then nipping precisely at his earlobe to wake him. "I think you owe me some time to get to know you, now." The snoring ceases, first, and then his eyelashes flutter. "For fuck's sake, woman. The Weyr had better be on fire," W'leri growls, a hand reaching out to grab hold of her shoulder and keep her there should she try to roll away. "Owe you? How the fuck do you figure that?" Blue eyes, wide open now, stare into her blue eyes. His question only manages to draw Olivya's brow upwards in her own challenge, fingertips tracing teasingly lower as she answers so simply, "Because I want to know you. The very opinionated wingsecond who hates Monaco." Even without his grip on her shoulder, she isn't going anywhere; not with a leg hooking over his as she twists to straddle over him, as long as he'll let her. Even if he won't, she might be prepared to wrestle him into that submission. "And, we have all the time to take so that I can figure you out now." The wingsecond's hand on her shoulder loosens and eventually drops, as he leans back against the pillows with a heavy exhale. "Fuck. I forgot women get clingy after this type of shit. Voaneth hasn't.." His eyes hardened on Olivya's face when W'leri realizes he's said too much. "There ain't much to figure out, darlin'. I drink and a cuss and I'm a mean drunk. I do what I do well and I don't take well to change. What else do you want to know?" "Change is only as scary as you allow it to be, wingsecond. What do you fear so much about change? This change?" challenges Olivya, amusement meeting the hardened gaze as she watches him in turn. A moment, then two, before she gives in to exhale in reassurance, adding, "Don't worry. Ivraeth and I aren't the clingy type. She doesn't let the same dragon catch twice. So whatever Voaneth hasn't done-- It won't be a problem again." "Nothing needs to be changed that's not broken." W'leri doesn't even try to stifle his yawn, instead using one hand to scratch his chest while the other goes about trying to find his balls to do the same. "Don't," he warns, frowning a fiercesome frown. "Don't talk about him." Voaneth, who is still sleeping his victory sleep, with visions of clouds and starry skies in his head. "You're a pain in my ass." "This Weyr was broken," Olivya has no hesitation over saying, her humor falling away into something more serious. "It is still broken, and you would be afraid of the change that could fix it." At his disinterest, at his scratching, the greenrider finally moves to roll away, but she perhaps takes too much pleasure in the label he gives her or can't resist one last push as she adds, "What? Don't say that he can't catch on his own, without a green throwing herself at him? Is that it?" W'leri laughs coarsely. "You Monacoans came here with your plans and your opinions, but you don't know a damn thing." He rolls to the side, to swing his legs off the side of the bed and sit up. His hands on the mattress tighten. "I've never needed a drink after a flight before," he growls, pushing to his feet so that he can prowl around the weyr for his clothes. Fingers rake through blonde curls, the greenrider remaining shamelessly naked on the bed even as her gaze follows W'leri as he stands. "Well, I am honored to be a first, then," she counters back with a saccharine edge, her lips curving into a smile. "And at least we are trying, here. With our plans and opinions. Are you?" There's a little discontent rumble from the darkened green, and she only curls closer and more possessively against Voaneth as he sleeps, contrary to whatever words her rider might have spoken. There is an equal lack of shame in the way W'leri stalks around, looking for his clothes that he doesn't look in a hurry to put on. "Flint suffered fewer casualties in this damnable plague. X'vin is alive. I'm alive. We go on. We don't try to pull the fucking rug out from under the feet of half dead people," he retorts, stiffly. "Lucky Flint, but Fort wasn't so lucky. And no one is trying to pull any sharding rug whether you believe that's what we're here for or not," is a sharp retort, anger seeping into the words as those blue eyes narrow on W'leri. Olivya is quiet as she adds, those feelings slipping through more, "Two Monaco women in a Weyr full of Fortians, and suddenly everything has changed for you. Nevermind for Mirinda or--." She doesn't finish, but she does find his underwear in the bed to fling at him promptly. Helping! "Quit your bitching, and help me find my.." W'leri gets hit in the face with his own underwear, which is a fitting insult to the day. His cheeks flex as he clenches down on his jaw, but that means he's silent as he tends to putting on his pants and then, his shirt; it ends up on backwards, obviously. "I wish I could say it was my pleasure," he sneers, and takes off for the ledge. Fucking greens and their fucking plans! Fucking Monacoans! Fucking.. fuck! There is a flush of victory for that aim, no regret for her actions as Olivya finally pushes from the bed. Naked, at least she's kept from pursuing him from the weyr but she does call to his retreating back, "Oh, no, darling. At least you got some pleasure." -- Which, that implication is a blatant lie, given her reactions earlier. And as she is left in a cavern without alcohol herself, she goes about finding her own clothes. |
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