Logs:Solith Flies Again
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| RL Date: 31 March, 2015 |
| Who: A'rist, Alida, C'stian, K'zin, R'oan, Telavi, Ulyana |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Solith flies. Folks and dragons flock from all around to try catch her. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr; Ground Weyr, High Reaches Weyr; Feeding Pens, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 5, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Scene between Ulyana and A'rist prior to flight in italics until they join the group. |
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| That egg didn't move, it couldn't have. But Lythronath is up from his haunch sit once more, tail extending behind him on the ledge he's taken as his own, and entire back end wiggling with delight while he balances lower on his front legs, and huffs at the evening air. Babies! A'rist has only just dismounted, and ducks a twitching wing, any sternness on his face fading into curiosity, as his bronze remains insistent. The curiosity has him edging nearer the edge of that ledge, and peering down to the sands also, while the heat threatens to steam him in the rain-soaked riding leathers he's yet to even open up, let alone take off, since landing. And, behold, a damp and darkling blue that descends to claim his own section of ledge. Familiarity with the process has him helping his rider down quickly; fortunately, the flight was brief and all that can be heard of Ulyana's discomfort is heavy breathing. Still, he shields her from view until she's presumably prepared for viewing. Only then does he slink toward the edge of the ledge to drop his head down, eyes whirling a lucid and, yet, sickly hue of blue-green. Ulyana remains tucked away, pressed to his side and behind a foreleg, her eyes shut and body knotted up in a crouch made all the more uncomfortable for the soaked leathers she still wears. At least she's on the side nearest Lythronath, rather than the far side of the blue beast. No greeting is issued by the rider; that duty falls to Qhyluth, whose mind expands slowly with a whisper of water. For Lythronath. For the eggs. For all of it. « Babies! » It's not quite a shout, not now. They've been here a while, and probably some of them are sleeping. But still, « Babies, » is worth repeating. This time, the bob of his head is incidental as he lifts it to examine this blue; this blue that he's become used to in his Weyr, even if he's not fully accepted it as theirs yet. There is no challenge, although Lythronath takes his fill of staring at the other dragon. A'rist takes a moment to finish his own inspection of the sands before he sends his eyes sidewards, bluewards, scanning. The beast echoes the call in the only way he can - Lythronath's word in Lythronath's voice shudders across the waters like a skipped stone. It sinks and the waters recede slightly, exposing simulacra of the eggs residing on the water-logged shore of his psyche. Each egg has clearly been the object of obsessive observation; they are replicated perfectly in that queer mental space, with luminous scribbles and arcane notations in the sand beneath each one. Qhyluth's physical self shifts only slightly. There is the impression of a sidelong look angled to the bronze, of weighty consideration being given, but the eggs - the EGGS - those are his primary concern and point of curiosity. His claws sink into the stone and Ulyana blows out a breath, finally daring to crack open an eye. Ideas that become voices that skip over water make the bronze open his mouth, and then clap it shut. There's a click in his throat, but he turns away from that blue over there. And wriggles his rear end down into a satisfied position for looking at those babies. Even if they're still hidden under shells. A'rist's ears, were they more mobile, would surely perk at the sound of talons on stone, familiar, and yet not, this time. It makes his back stiffen, his shoulders flex testily against his jacket, his hands ball into fists... and then relax, purposefully. Once settled, Qhyluth is like a statue. Talons in stone, body poised. Prepared. Somewhere in the distant reaches of his mind, a brass bell sounds - resonant and compelling, a wordless plea sent across the waters and toward the sand. Imploring. Begging. Summoning. To no avail, of course, but he'll not hear protests otherwise. Ulyana finally pushes to her feet and starts to peel the layers off, only to methodically hang them on the straps - all in their rightful place. It's only now that she looks beyond the narrow world that is the ledge and lifts her head to consider other figures in other places. Familiarity insists that she lift a hand in a stiff salute of greeting to A'rist - and, so, she does. Familiarity is what makes A'rist's mouth twist into a strange little curl when he sees that salute, having turned his head to catch the full of it, when the initial motion of leathers was in his periphery. He can't help but offer it back, though it's in a sort of sardonic way. His face is growing red, likely due to the heat, but it's only after this sort of a greeting's been exchanged that he even bothers to open his jacket. "He likes babies too, huh." Once she's stripped down to her usual clothing - today is a day consisting of an austere white blouse and black trousers - does Ulyana seem to relax. If, in fact, relaxation is a word in her vocabulary. She leans in against Qhyluth's side for physical support, arms folded across her midsection. Her response is a bland, "He is fascinated by their possibilities. I am not certain if it is a matter of liking the eggs and hatchlings themselves, but, rather, what they might become later." There's a strange, damp sound from Qhyluth at that - agreement, perhaps - then nothing at all. Query: "Why does he like them?" "Huh," says A'rist, with a little lift of his head. His jacket is not hung with such care, or at all. Rather, it's tossed onto one of Lythronath's feet, amusement pulling at the bronzerider's eyes when his dragon doesn't react in the least. "Lynner, he knows all he has to know about them: they're going to hatch adorable little things soon. He'll probably start caring less about the time the weyrlings start flying... except maybe with the Igen thing, I don't know... Anyway." Shrug. "Babies." "I see," says she and Ulyana is silent for a long span of time. Eventually: "I am not sure how he will feel about them after they have hatched and begun to grow. I wonder if he will remain fascinated, or grow bored when they cease to develop as he anticipates they will." She angles a look down the lean line of the blue's neck, but he - much like the bronze - is unmoving. Her features distort for but a moment - easily missed if one blinks. Then: "How have you been?" Let the dragons have their strange, shared study of the eggs. "Once dragons get big," A'rist goes on, though his has the sound of agreement, "then it depends on his gut. I don't know where the line is... one day they're babies, next it's gut. Mostly, he's guts. Maybe liking babies is part of that." It's a lot of words all at once, but the red of his face might still be blamed on the heat of the cavern. Lythronath's tail has twitched at every use of the word 'babies'. He lowers his head and stares hard at one of the eggs, still ignoring that blue. "Don't know. Kind of away, I guess." He looks over to Qhyluth, now. "You're here, though?" Which is like asking the question in return, almost. It's been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. At least, weather-wise; for a certain greenrider camped out in the guest weyr-- her guest weyr!-- it hasn't been bad at all, what with the fire and the furs and general hanging out... without the worry of some other flight barging in, the way it had been when all those greens were rising some seens ago. Telavi wiggles her toes in front of the fireplace. Solith, up by the Star Stones, stretches with a flutter of gilt-green wings as the rain falls and falls and falls. At least it isn't muddy up there? This time, there is no vocalized agreement. Ulyana nods once - up, down, center - to signify understanding, or, at least, that she heard A'rist. Her attention is fixed on the rider-half of the opposing equation; the blue's behaviors or seeming lack thereof are not worthy of her observation. For what it might be worth to others, however, Qhyluth has slithered just a little farther forward, soundless and slow, to better regard that other egg. Not the one Lythronath is clearly peering at. That other one entirely. In the realm of minds, the simulated egg is highlighted in sickly luminescence - and possibilities begin to spin in dizzying array upon the shell. Not all possibilites are draconic. In the world of flesh, Ulyana intones flatly, "You are here now. We are, as well. I have been worse." Telling enough, that. "I am trying to get more shelves in the weyr." Etrevth hasn't been here long; long enough, surely, to catch sight of Solith with a keen interest. Long enough to have rolled himself around, so handsomely and attractively, in a patch of soft mud in the bowl until it dulls his golden-brown hide. It's in this patch of mud that he lies at the moment, as still as a statue and plastered lowly against the ground as he watches the Star Stones far above him. Why his rider is here is certainly a question to be asked. Where he is is probably not surprising, as he sips at a glass of something clear out on the patio ledge of Snowasis, watching his dragon with exasperation. His gaze goes, sometimes as he nurses his drink, to another weyr along the ground, but it isn't Telavi's claimed guest weyr, yet. Through the falling rain, a breeze wanders by-- a warm breeze, a curious breeze-- pausing here and there to investigate. Only, where it lingers, there's the first drifting cramp of... hunger. (To local dragons from Solith) To nearby dragons, Etrevth already has an edge of hunger in his mind, intoxicating smoke always paired with a faint need to consume. That same smoke dissipates and reconsolidates in the wake of that breeze, curling and uncurling even as Etrevth's wings do in preparation. Then, in a moment, he is launching himself upwards from his self-made wallow with a spectacular shower of mud around himself. Hunger pang? Say it's not so, little Solith! Ilicaeth helpfully offers his clutchsibling an image of a place over the Southern continent where wild wherries and herdbeasts frequent. « S'where I ate, last. » Good. Yum! And a nice, tasty change from the slightly bland Weyr offerings. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) "Yeah. Now," A'rist agrees, turning away from the blue, away from the blue's rider, to consider Lythronath. Lythronath, in all his glory, staring still at that same egg. "Been here a while," A'rist ackowledges, shows that he's known, even if he's not made a point of being in her presence all that much. "Thinking of staying, then?" It's just as the young bronzerider turns back toward Ulyana that Lythronath's focus falters, and he raises his snout, only slightly, to sniff at the wind. A low click issues now, with another slight turn of that great head, this one, toward the blue. That blue. Liesanth, too, has been watching Solith with obvious interest from where he rests in a muddy hollow just out of the edge of the rain. Her warm and questioning breeze is met with the bronze's usual mental zephyr -- the winds driving /upwards/, an urge to go /high/, to finally prove himself. Spreading his wings and shaking them once in a shower of water droplets, the bronze takes flight towards the herdbeast pens. His rider, having been relaxing somewhere /indoors/ and out of the wet with a mug of klah, is nowhere to be seen yet. "The weather is more agreeable," Ulyana intones blandly. "Whether the Healers are correct in their hypotheses remains to be seen." One shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. "We will remain unless they are proved incorrect." The waters of Qhyluth's mind abruptly shift, matching some stirring of a breeze. A violent tide crashes in and buries the carefully constructed eggs in his mind, leaving the shattered bodies of his horrid concepts to wash upon the foam. With that dangerous shift in mood comes an equally dangerous shift in stance; the blue rises fluidly to his feet without warning, sending Ulyana staggering a few steps away. Revelation has yet to come; confusion shudders across her features and crawls down her spine. Trembling hands work quickly to remove her gear from his straps, with no words shared between rider and monster. As for the blue, his terrible visage swings sharply toward Lythronath, nostrils flared to drink in some scent or another before he issues a thick gurgle of a sound in response. No words; just the low, distant hiss of an ocean that's starting to boil. There's a sneeze of all things from Solith, a little hiccupy sound, whether it's from Etrevth's smoke or... is that perfume, more hearkening of Niahvth than the green herself? Or perhaps it's the thought of down South; the queen's illusory flower petals float about her, from her, like so many droplets as she glides and glides and glides. There are beasts here. She could have one. Or many. Oh, she's hungry. (To local dragons from Solith) Oh... wait. Snoozy Ilicaeth manages to open one eye enough at Solith's hunger to realize that she's rather glowy. And, for a long moment, the blue considers simply staying on his warm, dry wallow and not responding to the green's siren call. Fuck it. Lurching up and shaking the last dregs of somnolescence from his mind, the craggy blue stalks out to his wet ledge, spreads his huge wings...and waits for her, red-eyed. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) As soon as his dragon has flung himself up, with a protective hand going over his clear glass, that is when R'oan finally eases himself up from the ledge he occupies. The last of the liquor is downed, the glass left abandoned on the table there before he's off striding in the direction of the guest weyr that he's too familiar with, by now. Etrevth is the first to fling himself down on a herdbeast, killing it instantly with a hint of competition in the way his gaze slides to the other Fortian dragon there even before lowering his muzzle to the exposed neck. Yet, his gaze snaps back up at those petals that somehow accompany Solith, a rumble growing in the brown's chest at that, for some reason, before he bites down violently on his herdbeast to spill blood. Solith descends; mud flies; droplets fall; Telavi, in the guest weyr, tosses down a card with a cry of triumph-- only to stare at the bluerider who's been keeping her company. "You let me win," she accuses. Solith doesn't accuse; she doesn't mind at all, her gaze swinging with pleasure among her visitors, even the muddy one... right before she darts to try and steal a wherry right out from under a larger dragon's nose. "And he-" but A'rist has made sense of it all before he can finish that sentence, probe further. He's already darted to save his jacket from Lythronath's claws as the bronze plants his talons and issues another warning click, this one accompanied by a headbob. "Solith." He has hold of the straps. The look he sends to Ulyana is sharp. "We're going." « Blue, » is Lythronath's farewell, that and the sound of his talons raking the ledge as he springs to the air. Stay here. Stay safe. Blue. Did she hear that? Is that her, that echo on the wind, the very considering, « Blue....» ? (To Lythronath from Solith) Etrevth's blatant challenge can't go unmet; Liesanth's pride is stung. The Fortian bronze drops from his glide onto a herdbeast, crushing it to the ground and snapping its neck instantly. See? He can make the Quickest and the Cleanest kills, if he chooses! He can kill the Most! There's a clear edge of defiance in the glance he turns to his fellow Fortian, before lowering his head once again to tear into the carcass. Maybe being an asshole (not that he'd call it that) at the clutching feast and all this hubbub with Igen has done Rasavyth some good. Arguably, some might've preferred it not do what it's done: inspire him to act more like his old self. He's been watching Solith, and he's ready, only, he happens to be distracted when she goes to the feeding grounds. It's only K'zin's notice as he exits the weyrling training cavern that has him arriving late, and annoyed while K'zin sprints for the guest weyr. "No." It's a denial of everything. Reality does not shift to match that denial. Ulyana's lost any color she might have had and finds herself mirroring A'rist - just as Qhyluth mirrors Lythronath in his peculiar way. Those warning clicks are echoed in the blue's gurgling voice; that blue is countered with a fractured whisper of « She, She, She » in those sickly, sycophantic voices that can barely be heard over the roar of the ocean. And then he's on the wing as well, body moving with a singularly serpentine undulation and with a grace that's obscene. Stay here; no. Stay safe; no. Blue; yes. « No. » The word comes with the strength and force of a wingbeat, and takes in some of the cold and wet of the rain. « Green. » And now, he sees her. « Bronze. Lythronath. » Each syllable, a wingbeat, bringing him closer, the intensity of his focus taking off some of the rain. (To Solith from Lythronath) « Oh? » It's drawn out: ohhhh? « Bronze, » is considering. Lythronath... well, she can smell the blood, the distracting blood, and now she can taste ichor too. (To Lythronath from Solith) R'oan never sprints. At least he seems much more sober than the last flight he participated in at High Reaches, his stroll straight. Indeed, he even grabs one of those orange fruits from the basket, helping himself while nails bite into the flesh to tear it in a mimic of his dragon, though it only releases a fine spray of citrus. It is the only way he mimics his dragon, being perfectly clean and even smelling faintly of musk and leather and-- lavender? -- as he settles himself onto a wall as is his want. C'stian, in contrast, enters the area at a rather faster pace than his fellow Fortian rider. Perhaps he had a longer distance to run, or perhaps he's just not used to showing up late; either way, he's still pulling his jacket back on as he hurries towards the guest weyr. Lythronath gives his rider barely time to dismount before taking to the pens, taking to a beast, spilling its blood short and quick, and looking back over his shoulder, roaring, as much for Solith as for his contenders. A'rist is not to the ground weyrs, yet. He stands outside, in the rain, face stony with focus while Lythronath bloods one - just one, this is their home, protect it, just one - herdbeast. Talons scrape hide and flesh and bone. A'rist gets rained on. Just one. Snap! Solith shakes her drained wherry like a slick green dishrag, its neck broken now, as though that could somehow give her more; it's the fellow cards-player who reminds Telavi about-- "No," Tela exclaims. it's a different no. It's a, "No no no." Her gaze passes briefly over those riders who have begun to join her in the weyr, R'oan among them; "She doesn't want to. So annoying. It's not like I'm a goldrider." This can't be news to her, the restrictions, and yet-- "Ugh."Cards go flying. Lythronath roars. Solith breaks off from what had begun as an expectant stare at Liesanth to look at him. « Loud, » is not exactly a complaint. « Watch. » Boast. (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath) For Lythronath's roar, Etrevth abandons his half-blooded herdbeast only to take down another on as if to make a point, his whirling gaze focused on his competitor for a moment before he rips into flesh. Once his claws have dug and found blood, however, his attention returns back to Solith, who is more important than the others. And still, R'oan's fingers precisely tear and peel at the flesh of his orange fruit, until that flesh lies in pieces around his feet and he can separate the first slice and slide it between his lips. Telavi's outburst is met with silence and the curve of a brow, curious. "No, you aren't a goldrider," he observes dryly. He's sharp, this one. And Qhyluth? He's entirely too far gone. Ulyana all but falls free, landing hard and without the usual shield offered by a dark, blue wing. She remains crouched on the ground, struggling to catch her breath and gather her bearings. The rain is a welcome thing. Better that she be soaked to the bone; better that it wash the mud and muck from her. The rain is a welcome thing to Qhyluth, too. The rain-slick shadow of a blue all but oozes into the pens and proceeds to strike down a smaller herdbeast in open mimickry of the other males. Teeth hook into flesh and his tongue laves over the open, pulsing wound. He bloods. The throaty gurgle he offers is no true rumble; no, for his noise is all in the mind, a tumultuous crash of thunder against the churning oceans. And, distantly, the dull, echoing toll of an ancient bronze bell. « Win. » Encouragement. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth) Abandoning his kill, Liesanth springs into the air once more as if at Solith's urging. He dives down onto a /second/ herdbeast with a roar, as if to prove he can be Loud too! This time, rather than settling down to feed after snapping the herdbeast's neck, he rises into the air clutching his kill and carrying it towards Solith like a promised gift. « Lythronath! » It's a bellow that reverberates in mind and through the bowl as another roar, another warning. Does it shake or crack that blue's bell? But then Liesanth is jumping - and Lythronath, too. Lythronath dives at him, full speed, with another fierce roar, and force enough to ram the other dragon, certainly, if he's not evaded, perhaps to have him drop his kill, or to take it away. « ONE. » His home. His green. His. A'rist grits his teeth in the rain, hands stretching out to either side of him, glaring at nothing, barely seeing Ulyana at all, and certainly not acknowledging her, or any other latecomers. He'll forego the blooding part, Ilicaeth still feeling some of the weight of his Southern meal from a day and a half ago in his belly. It'll do. Instead, the blue hunkers down into a crouch upon his ledge, red-eyes watching Solith and the others like an eagle as he readies himself to spring skyward when the green does. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth) Rasavyth is attentive to the task at hand, blooding his kill, and to Solith only. The rest? Out of his field of focus for the time being. What had begun as urgent sprint has slowed to casual, smirky stroll by the time K'zin arrives at the weyr. Poor K'zin, he probably wanted to be here to support Telavi, but as per usual come flight time, K'zin is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a smarmy leering stranger wearing his face. Telavi's not the only one who gets subjected to his leer and grin. A beast. For her. That makes two, for those counting at home; Solith fans her wings with excitement and lunges towards the beast Liesanth's bringing her, the better to disembowel it if he truly gives it up to her-- but Lythronath is interfering! « Mine, » she declaims with a hiss, trying to snake her way in and steal it, heedless of the bigger dragons or Telavi's eloquent, "No no no!" Her prize. Hers. If Etrevth had suggested something like... perhaps she'll remember to give him credit later. Despite their relation (and certain OOC promises), Etrevth doesn't help as Lythronath dives at his Fortian bronze nephew (or something). Instead, his gaze is on Solith, something a lot like laughter in that whirling gaze as those bronze dragons fight over her prize and he, merely a brown, gets to blood his second. "C'stian," is a warning or something shot to his fellow Fortian from R'oan, here, those narrow grey-green eyes sliding from the bronzerider towards A'rist as if he might be about to push off the wall and-- you know, do something, despite still having half eaten fruit. The bell sounds again. Louder. Deeper. Blame Lythronath. Something in the deeps begins to stir - and there is no ice to contain it. Not this time. Qhyluth further eviscerates his kill, spilling steaming guts onto the ground and probing at them with an intense interest. What he seeks is not to be spoken of. The kill is discarded. His rider is forgotten. Red eyes glow all the more terribly beneath the shadow of heavy 'ridges, their hue rendered all the more unnerving for the traces of purple twisting within. That unspeakable gaze rests on Solith, devouring the details of her, of what she does. Yes. His posture is peculiar; his stance, statuesque. And Ulyana? Gone, gone, gone. Her presence is swallowed by the ocean; her fleshy self far, but not far enough, from where the other riders are gathered. Liesanth is normally fairly adept at dodging, but it's difficult to do so when carrying a herdbeast as an offering; he tries to swerve away from Lythronath, but can't quite make it. He's forced down, though he manages to avoid injury. « You cannot take it! It is /hers/! » he snaps mentally at the other. « I promised! » Out among the riders, C'stian's posture has gone tense, as he tries to wrestle through Liesanth's feelings and rein in his bronze. Focus on the flight, save it for the air. /Not/ the ground! Lastest is bestest? Not in Alida's eyes. The sour-looking blonde steps into the weyr holding a tray of rained-on food and drink, her own form dripping some, as she's not wearing a jacket or hat. Dourly, green eyes rake around to see who's here - no...not Telavi, not yet - and the bluie is finding the nearest wall to prop herself up on so she can EAT her FUCKING DINNER. Thank *you*, Ilicaeth! Outside the ground weyr still, in the rain, A'rist is unaware of R'oan's eyes seeking him. He's even unaware of Alida as she passes him. His arms are still oustretched, but at their ends, fists form. Lythronath's talons dig into the beast upon which he lands, rather than the foreign bronze (the laws of physics be a harsh mistress); teeth snap just shy of Liesanth's hide as a final warning. « ONE. » But his attention has been brought back to Solith, and it's to her he bellows. That brown... will maybe get away with it. A'rist's arms still haven't dropped yet, not with his dragon's muscles coiled, ready to leap and rend more flesh in the process. By all rights, K'zin should just leer and grope people and provoke the other chasers, but he must not be wholly stranger for he moves toward the greenrider, not reaching for her, just intending to position himself close enough to ensure any idiot chaser who thinks to claim her early is going to be within swinging distance. Maybe he'll use his words, reformed bronzerider that he is. Rasavyth is bored. Boredom is a problem because his attention starts to wander, wander to the sky, to the mud, to the stupid weather being stupid all around them. Maybe this boredom is what gives K'zin his perhaps brief sense of self. Even where Etrevth doesn't seem to care, R'oan isn't one to let A'rist, by extension of his dragon, get away with picking on C'stian, by extension of his. So truly, the fact that he peels off an orange fruit slice and throws it at A'rist is just payback. Sweet, sweet payback. The next one gets popped between his own lips, though, so violence seems to at least be held in check in favor of juvenile outbursts. And Etrevth. Well, Etrevth pushes his luck as well, abandoning his second to strike down a third to blood. Stupid stupid stupid weather. And Solith, that hiss switching to a squawk as she has to backwing hurriedly because her beast has become one with the mud. Backwing and-- air, not ground! no more dinner like Ilicaeth's rider's for her!-- through the bellow and the tolling bell, shove off Lythronath's haunches, catapulting skyward. Up up up up up! Telavi's breath catches, and she instinctively steps closer to K'zin, though she's on her toes and staring up. Ilicaeth's not bored. There's a sexy green lady to win, other guys to pit himself against, and he intends to 'play' hard, just like he works. Upon his home ledge, the blue watches everyone below him posture and squabble, while he simply waits in silence, only his whirling red eyes evidence of his intent in the evening. There she goes! And up *he* goes, right after her, his head start affording the craggy blue a nice, up-close view of Solith's tail and haunches while others might get a view of *his* rear. Haw Haw! And inside? Alida's almost choking on her tea as she too finds her inner wings, the ceiling her purview, for now. Freedom! « HERS! » Liesanth roars back, hunched over the beast even where it rests in the mud and grime. But then Solith is in the air, and with a final defiant snarl towards Lythronath the Fortian bronze abandons the now-forgotten herdbeast in favor of pursuit, taking to the skies in a shower of mud. Once again, he's trying to get altitude over the rest of the pack -- avoid being taken out, and allow himself to gain speed later by diving /downwards/, if possible. Over among the riders, C'stian finally relaxes -- inasmuch as any young bronzerider really /relaxes/ at a flight, that is. The bell tolls again. Louder and louder still. The time is nigh; the moons glow full within the scope of Qhyluth's mind. And in the depths, something simultaneously squamous and slippery stirs. The dark blue rises in her wake. The bell is no more. The voices are no more. There is only the rising howl and crash of the ocean, well-matched to the unexpected power he pours into his propulsion and flight. The waters rage with energy and unfathomable need - and he, too, moves as a monster controlled only by those deeper urges, those primal hungers. Follow. Yes. Those others - dismissed, already, as unworthy sycophants for « She, She, She » And She, the Other She That Should Not Be Other, Ulyana remains just outside the guest weyr, a shoulder pressed to the wall and the rest of her balled up tightly. That green is smaller than Lythronath, smaller by far, but still the push required for take-off is enough to change the 'Reachian bronze's posture, to make his own launch into the air (and subsequent scattering of guts and gore behind him, even as some of the beast still hangs from his hind claws) delayed. It also puts Liesanth and Solith squarely in his sights. Lythronath pumps upward. A'rist only now looks around, not noticing the bit of fruit in the mud near his feet as he turns. He does notice Ulyana, and steps partway toward her as Lythronath sees that blue as they climb. And then, he looks to the weyr, fists finally lowering to his sides. And then he breathes. Yes, he remembers that too. Etrevth abandons yet another herdbeast half-blooded to drain itself into the churned mud beneath them. And then he's off, snapping into the air like a loosed coil and gaining height quickly with all of the speed available to his smaller size. And R'oan draws in a breath, held, as his gaze draws inevitably to Telavi, not up. Finally focusing on the prize here. It's certainly K'zin's inclination to stay near Telavi - Telavi who might be considered 'his' Telavi were he more himself than he is now. That sense of self slips as Rasavyth tears into the sky after the green. He'll give a good chase, though he's never caught her before and little does he know but this flight is destined to be no different. Woe! Once K'zin's true sense of self is stripped away, anything could happen (in this case, probably mostly just smirking and leering). Solith's certainly going for the heights, rising up through all that mud- and gore-washing rain until... oh, stars. There, on the other side. There's a moment where she's poised there, delighted-- but then Ilicaeth and the others are too close behind; she might even blood-fueled not be able to outdo them in straight flight, but she can twist and double over her route, crossing over Qhyluth's path in an endeavor to keep him between her and Ilicaeth. The 'prize,' meanwhile, all but bounces with her all-too-vocal, "No-- don't stop--" that's what she said-- "go go go." He will follow. He must. And in that moment when Solith warps her path and all but drives Qhyluth in as a wedge between herself and Ilicaeth, the darkling beast's mind is awash with possibilities. Stars scatter in alien constructs across that mental space, hideous echoes of the heavens above. The colors are wrong; the sensations stranger still. All symptoms of the strange thing that threatens to heave itself into the fore; a thing that only She (She, She) can summon. A tentacle emerges in the mind; in the flesh, there is a fleeting, futile extension of one talon before it retracts and he's forced to put his lust-charged ichor to work again. Fly harder. Faster. Keep Ilicaeth away. Keep Lythronath away. Keep them all away. He's greedy in his want of sunflower-warm Solith, especially in this rain-soaked environment, and so when Ilicaeth's attempt to 'lasso' the green with his extremely long tail fails, he utters a strange 'bark' of frustration. Who cares if they were barely a hundred feet above the ground?! The canny little minx's twisting and doubling earn her a rumbling coo of admiration as he angles away from Qhyluth just enough to avoid collision. And then the gritty blue is working to regain a little ground, and sparing a quick look behind him to place the other males...and watch his own six. He knows *Lythronath's* there, after all, but so are some foreigners. And Alida finally finds her own Flight equilibrium, the blonde woman absently shoving food into her yap and chewing, swallowing just as daftly even as she struggles to see around the small knot of other humans who try to steal looks at Telavi. How can anyone keep smoke from the wind? How can Qhyulth keep Etrevth from Solith, where he twines his own path through the others after the leading green, following her twists without getting tangled up in the others as he pursues her. And R'oan smiles slowly, his gaze steady and filled with amusement as he watches Telavi's reaction. Lythronath will not be kept away; that mark left by Solith's talons on his haunches drives him further than just the flight lust, the competition. His slowed start is his advantage now, and the bronze bellows his challenge to the green, recalling, « LOUD! » almost inadvertently as he makes a straight shot toward the dropping figure. If that other Fortian dragon gets in his way, well. He's managed to force one aside this night already. A'rist taps his fists against his hips, and takes another step, coming between Ulyana and the main entrance of the weyr, still not fully through the threshold, though he's looking in for Telavi. Solith, the Path-Warper. She shudders-- tentacles!-- and speeds higher; the clouds below might as well be an ocean that could swallow her, for she comes nowhere near it, but only up and up and over and around and up, unaware of-- or unworried by?-- any that might lurk in the heights. From the safety of K'zin's arm, hanging on it, Telavi-Solith scans the chasers; she may not well be able to see whether Alida's eating with her mouth closed, but her gaze catches on R'oan's, her eyes widening and breath coming a little faster. Quickly she looks away. Not towards the entrance, either: in, around, not out. Around. She looks and looks as the dragons challenge each other, as Solith grows more tired, more... playful, glancing back over her wing as she diverts into a long pass through the spread-out pack. There is something knowing there, a gleam in grey-green eyes as Telavi's breath catches, before the greenrider can look away. R'oan even says it, more Etrevth than himself as he offers lowly across the weyr shamelessly to tell her, "Darling, you couldn't escape me if you tried. Even without looking at me." Etrevth's confidence is just as effusive, his intoxicating smoke shamelessly touching against the minds of the dragons around him and careless of whether he darts in front of Lythronath or not in his attempt to stake his claim on Solith as she passes through. He's a bite of a brute, himself, Ilicaeth shouldering, tail-lashing one other male out of his way as Solith grows not only more tired, but more frisky. Good thing, because he too is tiring, the burly blue looking to angle up into his sister's path from a sneaky place *below* her easy view, his looong tail and coppery claws reaching to try and ensnare her for the very first time ever. There's no tru call to the flash-fire of a green, only his relentless sands that hiss and heat and scour away veneers. Inside, Alida simply drops her empty tray and mug to the floor in a clatter, and pushes off the wall to approach the other riders - especially R'oan - with a faint swagger. In her usually hard alto, the blonde notes to the Fortian, "Don't touch, bronzer. She'll rip yer face off." Telavi? Or Solith? He is pushing. Hard. Later, he will suffer for it; for now, all he knows is the hunger and the need and the pounding of ichor that so echoes the pounding of water on the shore. All he knows is The Call. Her Call. Qhyluth persists at the fringes like a nightmare, tentacles periodically reaching to mirror his grasping talons that seek and, yet, fail to grasp. Yet. He flows past one chaser; over another. Snakelike. Swift. The air is like water now - and he is, briefly, in his element. And when that moment comes, when The Call becomes loud enough to summon, he begins to reach - and reach in earnest. He reaches with everything, talons and tail and neck; he reaches with everything, water and alien appendages and the chains that may yet bind him. Below, far below, Ulyana stirs - as if pulling herself up by the very chains that link her life to the monster in the skies above. Where that movement will lead remains to be seen. Lythronath doesn't lurk. He doesn't swim. Comet-blazed wings shear through the air and flout the rain, all raw power, even on the blood of only one beast. He draws closer as Solith ducks and dives, the endurance that comes with his size seeing him through now, at the end, the agility he may lack compared to some of the smaller chases made up for in one swift and instinctive decision; a path is chosen, and any in his way are subjected to claws. His teeth? Those will be saved for the green, if he catches her. A'rist shows his own, balances on the balls of his feet; his hands slowly open, fingers stretching out, ready to catch... Such focus. She twists out of the way of those teeth-- tries to ascend-- tries-- (To Lythronath from Solith) To Solith, Lythronath has more than teeth. He does more than try. Either way, she's too caught up in the winds-- breathless yet again-- to rip just yet;Tela has to stand on her own two feet now that Rasavyth's sunk and K'zin's left. Her two feet, two irresolute steps. She reaches out for the wall, but instead finds someone's shoulder... that she touches, caresses, abandons as though burned. The next time, certain men and women moving closer while others hold back, it isn't the shoulder. Nor the next, the greenrider tasting not lips but the line of a throat. Nor-- Abruptly Solith's stolen, the twist that presaged her would-be ascent thrown off-kilter as Qhyluth nearly claims her; she's distracted from the heights, from the stars, and that's when Lythronath not only tries but does. Damn him! Ilicaeth roars his anger and frustration, attempts to swipe his copper claws over Lythronath for stealing away what was nearly his (at the start, anyway) as he veers away from the twining couple and makes for the Lake below. Inside the weyr, Alida snarls as well, but only cries out to the ceiling, "I TOLD YOU SO!" before she plows her way out of there without a second look back. Fuck dinner, fuck Flights, fuck you all! Raaaaar! The chains pull - and it is not the beast that does the pulling. That which resides within, that which hungers so desperately, is suddenly pulled back down to the depths with a howl of protest and rage that's all but drowned. Qhyluth makes no sound aloud and the only sign that all is wrong is in the faltering of his wings, the tremble in his talons. He pulls up short, his attempted claim abbreviated by that revelation. Then comes the ice, all-consuming as it is - and, with it, the dark blue banks hard, angling for where he'd abandoned Her. His True Her. How could he have forgotten? How? The sycophants moan their apologies. Ulyana steps away, stability found once more - mentally, if not physically. The latter is rediscovered soon enough; with the monster at her side once more, the pair will make a measured departure. R'oan isn't prone to outbursts at the loss of a flight, especially a green; years and years of this has given some immunity to that immediate rush of his dragon's anger and frustration. This is different, where violence in the air spills over on the ground and his fist slams into rock that likely bloodies knuckles at the very least, marking the wall there red as the brownrider stalks from the weyr. That violence in the air is the clash between Etrevth and Lythronath that the brown dragon surely provoked in getting between the bronze and his green. And if ichor is drawn on Etrevth's hide as well, adrenaline currently keeps him from feeling it as he practically dives back into his muddy wallow in the Bowl below to sulk. That Fortian brown isn't Etretvth, or a brown, or dragon. He's an obstacle, and he is dealt with. Lythronath's strength courses through the link to A'rist even as it lays claim to Solith in the air; there is no more hesitation. The young 'Reachian rider in, past those leaving, with no difficulty in finding Telavi. Waiting hands close about her. Nothing else is worth noticing now. |
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