Logs:Teonath Rises. A'son Avoids Disaster.
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| RL Date: 19 January, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei, T'rev, R'uen, A'zan, B'yan, A'son, Satiet, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Teonath rises as soon as Leiventh is out of the Weyr. A new order is about to be established, averted, and then redone. |
| When: Day 28, Month 12, Turn 14 (Interval 10) |
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| Wyaeth> Mecaith senses that Wyaeth plays nothing like the welcoming party. His interjection is abrupt, determined, and unyielding in its gruffness; « Why are you here? » Wyaeth senses that Mecaith is very calm, placid in fact as he lands in the Bowl and his passengers disembark. There's two of them, his rider and one very tall, very red-headed man dressed in Harper blue. Both men head into the living cavern in short order, T'rev at an ambling pace, playing escort. « Good evening, Telgar's duties. We bring the harper who has need of the Records and to visit his family. » There's a flash then of a seafoam green. « Sionath's rider's son. » Wyaeth> Mecaith senses that Wyaeth drawls, all southern gentility and flint-edged implacability, « So you brought him, now you're done. G'night. » The view from his mind's eye is much improved when he envisions the bowl with Mecaith erased from it, hazy but obvious, the image caught from the star stones-- where Wyaeth's lean outline can /just/ be glimpsed from below. Wyaeth senses that Mecaith is endlessly patient and polite and his answer actually takes some time in coming. « He has asked us to wait on him. Therefore, we wait. » The foreign bronze curls up comfortably in his little spot on the snow, eyes slow-whirling. T'rev is nowhere in sight, having gone indoors with the harper. Wyaeth> Mecaith senses that Wyaeth , irritated; « And I'm askin' you to leave. Seeing as the harper doesn't live here and I do... » The unspoken implication, the amber-clear thought that passes through Wyaeth's mind is simple: even a Telgar dragon should be able to figure out when he's not welcome. Wyaeth senses that Mecaith is unperturbed, though mildly apologetic. « I do beg your pardon for the imposition, but I cannot abandon my passenger. » There's a sense of slight distance as if he's touching minds with his rider. « Mine says we will not be long, just the time for a delivery, a pickup, a short visit and then we will return the harper to Telgar. » Wyaeth> Mecaith senses that Wyaeth fires off one abrupt betrayal of full-fledged /anger/ at Mecaith's presence, a birdshot-speckling of lead frustration. « Fine. » His tone calls to mind a different four-letter word that also happens to begin with an F. Wyaeth senses that Mecaith continues with that likely maddening lack of being ruffled and polite refusal to get himself hence. « Thank you kindly for your gracious understanding. » Wyaeth> Mecaith senses that Wyaeth's presence falls to the wayside, nothing more than a lingering anger and irritation-- a mental hangnail, if you will. Wyaeth senses that Mecaith is wise enough not to press. Leave the hangnail be, don't worry it at it if you can't cut it off. His presence retreats a safe distance, watchful, eyes turned towards the caverns where his rider disappeared, not impinging on any other dragons or persons at the Reaches. While most queens seem to nap up until the moment their hormones kick in fully, Teonath rests on her ledge, wide awake with swirls of reddish-orange and lavender quick in her multi-faceted eyes. Irritation ripples in her predatory movements, lithe limbs moving circularly to stalk piles of snow gathered along the rim of the ledge, while the undercurrents of her mental state ripple amongst the dragons of and at High Reaches: frustrated agitation coupling with a heady ill-concealed lust -- made to wait past her dues. Perched across the bowl at a Snowasis patio bench, Satiet makes a pretense of knitting despite the winter chill, needles flying quickly in aimless knits and perls that contain no pattern. Sidelong glimpses keep tabs on not only her afternoon sun-lit gold, but the Weyrleader's bronze that's been paying court to the queen for little over a week. The duty roster did not list Wyaeth on watch-duty tonight, had an entirely different and less abrasive pair as a matter of fact. Yet there's the etch of a tumbleweed-bronze outline on the star stones, keenly squinted eyes attuned to all those comers and goers this afternoon. Even at a distance, his fidgeting is visible with the rustle of his wings, the frequent shift from one side of the stones to the other. N'thei stays huddled against the cold, now and then rising to stomp the feeling back into his feet. A solemn and quiet visitor in the Bowl, Mecaith is here on business and very focused on the possibility of his rider's swift return after being warned off repeatedly by Wyaeth. His rider is presently nowhere in sight, but Teonath's state of mind washes through him as much as any other male in the Weyr at the time, drawing his head up to slow attention. It takes some time for the change of mood to slip through the sand dunes of the young bronze's mind, but Teonath's touch is a heady rush of blood to the head and a storm, far off yet, starts to build deep in his mental desert, little sandy whispers of thought reaching out to graze against that dangerous violet. T'rev sits in the living cavern, jacket off, knot turned inward, trying to look completely at ease, like he belongs there, chatting up one of the lower caverns workers, waiting on Telgar's harper to finish up whatever business it is that brought them to this particular Weyr. It wouldn't be much surprise that Jaireth would notice and watch the Reaches queen before his rider does, the bronze unusually in the bowl with B'yan nowhere in sight. He seems just a tad bit agitated, his tail twitching to his own beat as he seems to stand guard need the lower caverns entrance. Nikoth bursts from between, returning from whatever errand had them on leave from the weyr. The large bronze swoops down into the middle of the bowl, depositing A'son. The man seems to be in some sort of communication with his dragon, touching a hand along his jaw before suddenly stopping. His eyebrows furrow into a look of suspicion, peering off into the direction of the main weyr. He glances up at Nikoth, catching the hints of agitation that start to swirl in his eyes. Almost as attentive as the Weyrleader's bronze (at least as far as ogling from a long distance goes) Zunaeth watches Teonath from the height of his ledge, scarred wings spread out over it to warm themselves in the afternoon sun. He's very still, not restless at all yet, though the gold's emotions are as present in his mind as they are in every other dragon in the Weyr's. I'daur isn't visible from the outside, the winter keeping him inside for his drinking, rather than up on his lookout above the ledge. Zaiventh touches down in the High Reaches bowl, under Wyaeth's watchful eye, with his rider and a passenger in tow and Kevruth close behind. The passenger is a rather dumpy young woman who is already chattering happily as R'uen unbuckles them both and helps her to the ground. While she is obviously thrilled to be back on home soil, or snow as the case my be, and after what sounds like a long absense, R'uen's affable expression turns a touch perplexed to feel the strange tension that pervades the air. He shoots a sideways glance at A'zan, a brow cocked to ask if his companion feels it too. With a glance around he spots Mecaith in the distance. "A regular invasion," he mutturs for A'zan's benefit, meanwhile pulling the girl's duffle bags down from Zaiventh's straps. Wyaeth> Nikoth senses that Wyaeth announces himself with a fit of possessive agitation, latching to Nikoth like the two of them are friends! « Mecaith and Kevruth and Zaiventh're here. We should deal with 'em. » A certain stress to the word /deal/ implies nefarious things in a way the mental images of dragons chased away from the Seven Spindles never could. Wyaeth> Mecaith, Kevruth, and Zaiventh sense that Wyaeth, blunt; « Leave. » Maybe he was just whistlin' dixie with Mecaith before, but now it's downright malice. Kevruth drops swiftly to the ground and lands neatly but hard enough to jar an unwitting rider. A'zan, luckily, is well aware of his tendencies and so it is not the too-quick descent but the palpable currents that fill the bowl that have his head jerking up. Pale eyes cut to R'uen just as the fellow bronzerider glances his way and he tips his chin up in assent. "T'rev... he's here to ferry someone." He offers it in his own low-tone, getting at least that much from his bronze. For his part Kevruth is already crouching, urging A'zan to dismount with brandy-hued pinions rustling even as his eyes whirl faster. "Aren't there enough greens at Telgar? Honestly." Kept on a short leash for such a time makes Leiventh no happier than Teonath, and consequentially, drives R'hin out of his weyr in his dress flight leathers, goggles, and helmet. While respect usually shades his greeting of the senior queen, a flicker of hardened light blue cast Teonath's way and then colder down to the bowl where Telgari riders darken his Weyr as he mounts his bronze and readies to fly. R'hin's appearance fuels the speed of Satiet's fingers and puts an end to the flickering glances, knitting needles quickening in pace as the bronze lifts up in flight. Three heartbeats and two minutes more are granted Leiventh's departure from High Reaches Weyr to the Minecraft, before the tension knotting the Weyrwoman's shoulders release in conjunction with the crisp snap of Teonath's wings to the air, as wheaten gold banks with calculated purpose towards the feeding grounds. A siren's call trumpets into the afternoon sky, echoing against bowl walls and drawing looks from passing weyrfolk, some of marked relief. Satiet's knitting falls lax into her lap, a hurried scan of the air drawn to the point where Leiventh was once rather than to Teonath's destination. Wyaeth, Mecaith, and Zaiventh sense that Kevruth flares instantly like dry kindling catching at the slightest spark. No image or sensation is offered beyond that bright flash and then dry words. « You do not own the Weyr, Wyaeth. If Teonath asks us to leave we will. » The name of the Reachian queen is stressed there, and just as quick as his mind reached out it withdraws, his attention clearly, pointedly turned from bronze to gold. Nikoth bespoke Wyaeth with « She rises. Soon. » His tone is tight, aggression edging into it. « Yes. No place for them here. Not with her. » Wyaeth, Kevruth, and Zaiventh sense that Mecaith betrays his inner agitation only slightly, there's winds growing in the back of his mind, and his neat and tidy sand dunes are such no longer, shifting and sliding slowly downward only to reform in other configurations, but he only continues to maintain the careful, polite distance established earlier. Clear in his mind: he cannot leave. He cannot abandon his duty. And so he remains, rooted to that spot in the snow. Perhaps even trying to ignore the siren's call. That's all it takes to get Wyaeth off the star stones, all it takes to pull N'thei away from pacing. The time it takes to drop his rider on the floor of the bowl is all Wyaeth will allow, barely touching talons to snow, soon just a dusty blur of wings fast for the feeding grounds. While his dragon draws away, N'thei cuts a snow-crunched course toward a particular interloper. Relish, that's the look he wears while nearing A'zan, relish for a dish best served cold. There's some inner struggle going on with Mecaith, that call continues to infiltrate the neat order of his logical mind, knocking down patterns, starting to wreak chaos. His interest is supposedly only academic: what will she do next? And yet ... and yet. The dunes shift and reform, the wind picking up, a dry baking heat fired by the gold's passion. He sticks to the spot he chose in the Bowl, unmoving even as others stream across the snowy expanse to blood in the feeding grounds. That's about when T'rev, jacketless comes out of the living cavern, looking a little disoriented and wide-eyed to stand in front of the bronze. "Don't ..." he murmurs softly, unaware of his fellow Telgari, or N'thei bearing down on them. "Please ... don't ..." he reaches a hand towards Mecaith's muzzle and the bronze noses into it, eyes only faintly tinged with deep plum as of yet. Wyaeth> Nikoth senses that Wyaeth offers agreement that's as quickly blown away as it is resolved. It's the cowboy-up mentality, cockiness second only to eagerness; « To hell with it, let's just show 'em how it's done. » It's quick that Jaireth takes to the skies and wings towards the feeding grounds, racing after the first herdbeast that makes the mistake of lumbering into his path. He snaps it up and takes it to the fence, deftly snapping its neck right afterwards. It's after this that B'yan finally emerges out into the bowl, quickly tucking something into the open flap of his riding jacket with his eyes going straight towards the feeding grounds. It's belated that he takes in the others gathering beyond him, standing in place as hard eyes fly towards where the other dragons are heading as well. Zunaeth's eyes track Leiventh without much interest as the Weyrleader takes a break, but a couple of minutes later the stoic bronze becomes more agitated, seeing Teonath rise once Leiventh is gone. I'daur stops whatever it is he's doing inside to look peevish and curse the dragon colorfully, but as Zunaeth pointedly eyes the feeding grounds the old bronzerider moves to mount up rather than get abandoned on his ledge. A trip down, drop off I'daur, and then Zunaeth is waddling toward the feeding grounds himself, while I'daur gets his bearings and takes a drink from the flask he snatched up before leaving their weyr. A'son has to back up rather quickly from Nikoth, because the bronze swiftly rises to flight and leaves him in the middle of the bowl. It's only then that he notices the other men, also abandoned by their dragons. His eyes goes from the Telgar riders to N'thei, who seems to be making a beeline for A'zan. There's a surprised grunt and he shakes his head, looking as if he's gone from reality to some other plane. His dragon in the meantime has gone, winging his way after Teonath. A'zan begins to strip of riding gloves, irritation etched across his features as Kevruth sidesteps as soon as his feet hit the ground. "What is your hurr-" the word dies on his lips as the sight of that flash of gold suddenly launching into the sky makes it all completely clear. Kevruth is quick to be drawn straight into the rocks by the queen's trumpeting song- leaping skyward as soon as A'zan is clear and heading for the feeding grounds. In this last moment where Teonath does not claim his entire attention he focuses on the nearest herdbeast as he crosses the fenceline, snags it in sharp talons and drags it across the icy ground as he takes his sweet time to land. The poor beast is shredded by stone and snow, bleating feebly by the time Kevruth stops dallying with it and dips his head to drain it. Decisive action allows for some leisure it seems. A'zan scrubs a hand over his face just as Kevrut's eyes take on violet shades, completely unaware of the wall that is about to topple over on him. "Fan/tastic/." Both Zaiventh's and R'uen's heads turn to look at the star stones and the bronze that leaves its heights, the former with electricity twitching down his length and the flex of talon in the snow and the latter with a wary eye. "Uh, A'zan..." R'uen says, ignoring the girl who is now going on and on about what might be taking her bronze bellboys so long. R'uen is absently handing one of the duffles off to A'zan when Teonath's sudden appearance and the bellow of her throat claim all attention in the bowl. Zaiventh's response is immediate, barely clearing the humans before he lauches up to wing toward the feeding pens and land on a doe. Between Teonath calling, Zaiventh leaving and now N'thei approaching, R'uen gets a clear picture all to quickly. He pushes the bags on the girl. "I'm sorry. Just go," he tells her. "Get out of here." Now getting the picture herself, the girl obeys, moving off hurriedly with the bags clutches to her chest. If Teonath leads the quick charge on hapless animals of prey, her first kill as viciously predatory as the slinking impatience with which she haunted her ledge, Satiet is much slower on her feet. The knitting that's fallen to her lap then falls in a heap to the ground on the patio ledge, pale eyes still fixed to the point where Leiventh once was, the watchfulness cast with a decisiveness that turns more impassive with each passing second the Weyrleader's bronze doesn't return. Leaden feet find life, the slight, athletic frame animating in clipped motions that move as if by rote from ledge to the bowl, pushing her way through towards the ledge the pale gold just vacated. She doesn't need to speak to clear the way. She doesn't need to tell her lust-filled dragon to blood only. But she does find it necessary to speak sharply, taunting, as she passes the cluster of dragon-abandoned riders on her ascent towards her ledge: "Come to steal our Weyr on top of our Hold, have you?" N'thei clips his left hand on A'zan's shoulder, a check to bring the Telgari halfway around. His right fist flings right around to clock the slighter man in the nose. When he draws back and shakes his fingers vigorously, a well of blood seeps from the crack of his forefinger knuckle. Smile, his words fall to an undertone beneath Satiet's taunt; "Welcome to High Reaches." Wyaeth bloods, looks even more smug than usual. Mecaith lingers by T'rev as long as he can hold out, rider at dragon bending the air between them almost audibly with the push and shove of their thoughts. And inside the sand-blasted bronze's head, another wall is suddenly blown out by the seething violet miasma that suddenly brings the storm to full force howling over the dunes. His high-pitched warble of apology is torn from his throat as wings lift, drop again and he casts his sunset-ruddied form into the fray as well. Neat and efficient, he stalks, he kills, he drinks, taking in everything in a swift rush, parsing it all in some part of his mind still untouched: who does what and how, what it means. T'rev's arms fall to his sides, watching the bronze go and then turns, uncertain, swaying a little in place, looking for where he should go and his eyes widen further as N'thei clocks A'zan. "Shit!" he exclaims loudly and starts pelting thattaway. A'zan is too busy looking somewhere between irritated and concerned to notice Satiet's approach. Of course her words succeed in bringing his eyes snapping back from their distant stare and they snap to the slight, dark-haired woman as if on their own accord. "We may yet /win/ both but at least I won't steal /from/ either," he shoots back with 'steal' ammended pointedly. Kevruth's agitation is already seeping into him, robbing his tone of its usual measured pace. He can't offer anything else though, as he's roughly half-spun, leaving him reeling for balance before that right fist finishes the job. That seep of blood on N'thei's knuckle is nothing compared to the rush of the crimson stuff that explodes from A'zan's nose. Already far from steady on his feet he stumbles back, nearly collapses against R'uen with hands at his nose. A string of curses is his only retort for the moment, and even this is not enough to bring Kevruth's attention from his task. Jaireth bloods carelessly, messy in this and the discarding only. Even to his choosing of the next herdbeast, and the next, he isn't picky. He just keeps his eyes trained on Teonath and continues to clock his kills. B'yan, on the other hand, seems to linger on the side of the groupings, moving slowly step by step towards the ledge. With Satiet emerging from the patio he stills, catching in glimpse of the quick movements that signals the call from T'rev. It's only then he turns in their direction, recognition falling on his expression as he remains broodily silent. The fact that a punch has been thrown leads him to note it impassively before he's looking back towards the ledge where the Weyrwoman is. First blood on both sides split, I'daur just shakes his head, while his bronze ignores everything except hopping over the fence into the grounds and swiping his claws into the first beast that's driven too close to him in the melee. I'daur pays it little enough mind himself, except to raise a brow when N'thei goes after A'zan. "You boys might want to be more careful," is all he remarks to the Telgaris as he limps on past, following Satiet rather than involving himself in the scent-marking. Zaiventh bloods; it's very exciting, lots of posturing as he kills, slices and drinks. R'uen, on the other hand, is not the sort for showing off or snappy come backs and with A'zan falling on him, he doesn't really have time for either anyway. He catches his friend under the arms, staggering a bit in the snow as he helps A'zan back to his feet. "I hate this Weyr." Nikoth lands amongst the animals, catching one without any style or finesse, blooding and tossing it away. His attention and fascination is only focused on Teonath, and not for the moment, with the numerous suitors that are also taking down their kills. "Lucky he only slugged you one!" A'son calls out across the bowl, watching N'thei greet the Telgari. There's a sickly amused look on his face as he turns and follows in the direction of Satiet. A strong young man in his late teens, T'rev stands at about average height with a slender-to-medium build. He gives the impression of being confident and self-assured in the way he carries himself and the direct way he tends to meet a person's gaze. Tawny brown hair curls in disorganized fashion atop his head, framing a handsome face composed of strong features: boldly arching brows over warm brown eyes, a refined aquiline nose, full lips and a squared jaw. If she'd stopped to actually look at those she taunted, Satiet's sly smirk might deepen even more smugly than the look Wyaeth dons. As is, the slender weyrwoman tosses raven curls and shifts her weight with deliberate archness to one swinging hip, pausing just long enough to cast a glance backwards conveniently post-punch: ice eyes pale with thin browlines hooking up with a sensuality that also reflects in the less decisive and more fluid movements of Teonath in the feeding pen as bloodied lust heats into a heightened awareness with a third kill dispatched easily. The crooked smirk, cruel and distant, that suddenly blossoms on the sharp-featured woman's face is akin to the beckon of one coyly curled finger as her gaze skips quickly across whoever, riders and non, in the immediate vicinity. The look, however, lingers for seconds longer on A'zan and R'uen behind him, the crimson sprouting from his nose mirrored in her faintly triumphant eyes. Then, she turns, shifting her weight once more, and completes her disappearance into the weyr, seemingly uncaring, or already too aware, of Teonath's own progress, a quick unexpected launch into the sky, or the mess her taunt and the meeting of foes left in her wake. The threat is all in a look, words spent by the short greeting N'thei spared for A'zan. He holds a lavish smile on the three Telgar bronzeriders, makes sure it lingers on the flow of blood, turns to jog a few steps ahead of them and catch up with A'son's purposeful steps. Congenially, odd considering they're technically rivals today; "Worth it." His back to the Telgari, his back to the feeding grounds where Wyaeth tumbles away from a kill in a dust-devil rush to chase Teonath. T'rev builds up quite a bit of speed, crossing the not-too-long distance between himself and his fellow Telgari. With Mecaith distracted by blooding and therefore the more measured bronze's tempering influence, T'rev recklessly charges head first towards N'thei, aiming to take the bigger man down in a full body tackle, though his slighter frame probably has about a snowball's chance in hell of succeeding. In the feeding grounds, Mecaith continues to kill and drink with analytical efficiency, while the sandstorm of lust continues to rage in his mind. Teonath's abrupt lift into the skies tears him off of the beast he last dispatched and the young bronze's wings stretch to catch the wind, drive him upward after the fleeing gold. With Satiet disappearing into the weyr and Teonath taking to the skies, Jaireth tosses away the blooding of his latest kill and takes to the skies with a spread of wings. His eyes keep to the flying queen, the familiar air currents being slipped through with open ease. B'yan follows behind, coming near to glimpse the blood on A'zan and only raising a wordless brow at him before he continues on up to the weyr with both hands being shucked into pockets. Kevruth abandons the third rent and bloody carcass to seep offal and blood into the ravaged snow as he springs upward. Crimson is smeared across his muzzle and black talons, echoing the reddish hues of his wings as they catch the air and carry him on a direct path after Teonath. A'zan mumbles further curses, some aimed at N'thei and some at the headstrong bronze who has abandoned him to whatever the next minutes will bring, and he snatches himself upright and away from R'uen as if his friend were purposefully holding him down. T'rev may go bolting, but A'zan simply strides purposefully after Weyrwoman and chasers, making short work of the space as he dashes blood from his face with the back of his hand. They're all heading for the same place after all, no sense in rushing his demise. B'yan gets a snot- and gore-smeared scowl as he passes with that brow-lift. "Hate is too kind a word," he growls back at R'uen. R'uen watches T'rev charge off and looks to the heavens, where, by George, he spots Zaiventh already launched, a colorful blast of rainbow bronze in the sky. "This is just getting out of control," he tells... himself. Really, who else is listening? His grip goes from a supportive one to a restraining one, a fist trying to hold A'zan's shirt just in case. But A'zan brushes him off. "Just. walk." He might be talking to his friend, or he might be talking to himself; what with all the scornfull looks they're receiving and T'rev bounding off to tackle a man much larger then himself, R'uen is holding on to his calm tooth and nail as he starts off after the crowd toward the Weyrwoman's ledge. Nikoth tosses away his latest kill, bursting explosively up into the sky to chase after Teonath. He throws himself forward into the familiar chill of High Reaches skies. A'son in the meanwhile has passed the Telgari, and is on the heels of I'daur, right behind the older man. He tosses a look over his shoulder to N'thei, "Definitely worth watching." Getting off the ground is never a very easy process for Zunaeth; he's slow, lagging behind while the younger, less stiff dragons launch themselves without any trouble. Still, he gets himself up in the air, wings pumping for altitude as he drops the last beast he's blooding in favor of pursuing Teonath skyward. I'daur doesn't have the same problem, as thanks to his lack of both hitting and bleeding he's among the first trailing into the weyr after Satiet. Of course, he stops as soon as he gets there to rest and rub his leg. Also, to observe with a raised brown on the entire flight debacle: "Interesting timing." The hearth in Satiet's weyr is stoked, the warm weyr meticulously, painfully neat and oddly delicately feminine in its various decorations and knicknacks and the raven-haired weyrwoman has wasted no time in procuring herself a bottle of wine, without a glass, aware enough of herself separate from her dragon to do this much before pale eyes disappear. In the sky, Teonath's wide wings send her in a clear path up into the air, past the Starstones and into the afternoon sky above, the winter sun dancing through the near translucent web of her sails. Echoes of taunts and fleeting brushes of her desert whisper coexists in a discordant blend of colors as it dances from mind to mind, from Jaireth with a subtle twist of mocking added in, to Mecaith, where the young bronze's youthful efficiency only serves for Teonath to weigh the pressure of her desire more heavily in efforts to mentally break the Telgari bronze. Satiet's heard R'uen earlier, though not A'zan's return, the bottle at her lips paused just long enough so she can shoot the slim man a mocking laugh. "Come, come. Hate is a thin line from worship-filled love. I'daur knows all about that. Doesn't he?" "Too perfect timing." A'son retorts to I'daur, shooting any arriving Telgari riders with a nasty glower. He pushes his back up against a free space of wall, taking in the decorations and then finally Satiet herself. Nikoth in the skies, continues on strong. Teonath is kept in sight at all times, but this early on in the flight? These other dragons have become his main preoccupation. There's a strong, loud howl from him as he rolls into a dive towards two close flying bronzes. Get out of the way. Riders punching and going down around him seems to be of little notice to B'yan. There's a faint crooked smirk for A'zan in return, the expression lacking mockery - for now. He takes up against the wall, eyes settling on Satiet as he pays little attention to anything else. Jaireth streaks on after Teonath, countering her touch of mockery with gusts of smug confidence. He hides in behind a pair of browns, never straining before he slips by them to get just alittle closer. He takes few turns but he keeps near, never slipping slower. "Lemme go!" T'rev's face is flushed, ruddy from the loss of control as one of those so-helpful Reachians grabs his shirt and holds him back. "Get a /hold/ of yourself, lad!" roars the older grizzled rider, a knot threaded with green on his shoulder and he gives T'rev a shake. "It's a flight not a sharding brawl!" Duly shaken, the teen stares back at the other man and his eyes widen again, touching base with Mecaith and he lets out a low groan and cusses again. "Okay ... okay ... I'm okay ... sorry ..." both hands lift and a moment later the Telgari bronzerider is released to stumble after the others and he at least has the sense to stay well /away/ from N'thei as he crosses the threshold into the weyr, shirt mussed, hair tousled. Mecaith's sliding through the cold Reaches air like a knife, sunset still rosying his wings, Teonath's poking knocking over the last wall in his mind so that his sands reach for hers, it could be one desert, it could be. A'zan lifts both hands, palm out, as Reachian riders claim the space between himself and N'thei but fending them off and claiming no intent to fight in the simple gesture is all he can manage for the moment. T'rev gets a quick glare and a shake of his head. "Don't make it any worse," he grumbles over his shoulder as he strides into Satiet's weyr. The woman and her wine bottle get a quick once over before he takes a spot against a wall a mere stride away from her. Though he's silent his air is one of entitlement that mirrors the brash declarations his bronze is making in the sky above them. N'thei is pointedly ignored, no more worth his time than the rangy Wyaeth is worth Kevruth's. That can be settled later, more important things are the focus at the moment. Like avoiding a diving Nikoth for instance, which is done with a sharp angling of wide wings and a taunting rumble as Nikoth's loss of altitude gives the Telagar bronze the advantage. Zaiventh is all brash and flashy in the air. Look at him, ain't he pretty? And so, well, it's questionable how much he's actually flying after the queen and how much he's just trying to catch her attention, likely annoying his competitors in the process. It's in contrast to R'uen's more low key arrival in the weyr, his grimacing pass of N'thei and T'rev and his furtive look toward the Weyrwoman. "Yeah, I don't think I really have that... problem." he murmurs, not really speaking up to the woman that he's just sort of insulting. Low key, that too. "Doesn't he my ass," I'daur volunteers in answer to Satiet, "Weyrwoman." It's a mockery of politeness, that title, with a lift of his little flask in a half-toast while she breaks out her own bottle and the dragons continue their flier. Zunaeth for now is a steady presence somewhere toward the end of the line of chasers: holding on even if he isn't the strongest flier of the group. The near-misses and jockeying for position in front of him leave him to soar around, avoiding anything flashy in favor of keeping pace and making up what time he can, slowly and arduously. To A'son, "You'll have to take that up with the Weyrwoman, then," I'daur adds in an unmuted aside to A'son, his voice dry. "Or rather, her dragon's clock." His mouth smirks as he glances back to Satiet. The desert queen of Pern's ice Weyr flicks her tail tauntingly after gaining a good distance from the pack that chases. It's then that she appraises the situation, making 'S-patterned' weaves in the sky as distance and time become less important as entertaining herself. It could be one desert, it could, but what pressure of the gold's mind that lingers in Mecaith's head turns into an echoey laughter that suddenly withdraws and leaves a desert night's cold loneliness in its place. Relaxed, where one might presume tenseness, Satiet finally takes a long swig of her wine, the only signs of human control losing a battle to keep a modicum of control over complete beastial need found in the white knuckles that grip the bottle's neck. She flashes R'uen, and his response, an overly sweet smile. "We could resolve this now. You could win. He could win." A glance darts to pinpoint T'rev, then quickens to A'zan, no words corresponding to that last look cast a Telgar interloper. "Middle ground found in a dragon's flight? Y'all," sweeping disdain encompasses the Reachian riders, "Going to let them just take her? Me?" The last word is choked out, a flare of the closing draconic bond claiming the weyrwoman's eyes and then body completely at last. A cruel little smile crosses N'thei's face at what he can hear of T'rev's scuffle, a laugh under his breath. The warmth of the weyr brings him around from the fun of fighting, surprises a sudden seriousness in his expression. His eyes hang on I'daur while he barbs back at the weyrwoman; on A'son, near whom he stops to stand; even longer on B'yan with an acknowledging nod to the man; the Telgari, keeping their distance; the rest of the bronzeriders are caught in glance, a look held on every face in the room but Satiet's. Wyaeth may struggle to keep pace with a graceless buckshot version of giving chase, but his rider's eyes calculate something other than lust. Desert bronze chasing desert queen, he rejects the possibility of the cold night as illogical. It's the storm though, the blinding winds that whip up mental sands that wind up blowing through, chasing after the fleeting mental touch of Teonath's. Methodical still in flight, Mecaith dodges and dives, trying to shake off Nikoth, ducking around a smaller bronze to do it. T'rev just winds up slumping against the wall, mouth open, slack-jawed as another wave off of the dragons hits him between the eyes. His own careful walls are all a shambles and he stares at Satiet with naked, unadulterated longing now that the incipient fight is behind him, his own natural inclinations laid bare without all of his usual meticulous discretion and buoyant cheer to disguise him. Nikoth saves his full impact for Mecaith, since Kevruth has escaped his path of dragon bowling. It's a struggle to regain his altitude after bullying the other bronze. He howls again, veering off now after Teonath, done with pranks and games for now. He has to beat his wings twice as hard to catch up with the rest of the chasers, but for now it looks as if his youthful energy is there in spades. Gradually he creeps up closer and closer to the golden queen. A cruel smile begins to cross A'son's face, linked strongly to his bronze now. He nearly misses N'thei when he stops near him, but slowly those dark eyes of his rest on his almost friend. They're smoldering now with an almost intolerable heat as they leave the other man and focus again onto the woman. There's tension in B'yan's shoulders as he stares straight ahead, the bunching curve of his pockets suggesting that his hands are both clenched now. The last of whatever smirk lingers is completely gone now, giving way to a sense of urgency that is clearly not his own. Hazel dart every which way, lighting on some longer than others, but never moving from his spot against the wall. He catches the tail end of the look from N'thei, of Satiet's words to the riders among them, and his return look betrays little. In the sky above, Jaireth continues his duck-and-slip moves, slipping in among browns and bronzes and snapping at one bronze that ambles too close to his path. He keeps up his momentum and never loses sight of Teonath, trying to keep to the side for better maneuvering. A smug grin claims A'zan's lips as Satiet meets his eyes, wordless or no. Pale grey eyes slowly slip nearly closed, veiled by dark lashes for a beat before he inclines his head to her. "Maybe they know when they are squarely beat. Sounds like a fine resolution to me... you let Teonath know of our plans, mmm?" Kevruth stretches to a more aerodynamic line, eyes his competition and begins to seek favorable angles and shortcuts to bring him closer to the prize, and the bronze's plain arrogance leeches the last of the irritation from A'zan, replaces it with a glint of hunger in his normally icy eyes. They flick from Satiet, land on N'thei and there they linger assessingly, catching the calculation that has risen there. Perhaps there is at least one worthy opponent. The very thought is dismissed by Kevruth even as it rises though, a haughty tail-flick all Wyaeth deserves. R'uen rubs a hand over his head, ruffling his hair absently as his next stolen glance catches Satiet looking back at him with that scary-sweet smile. His brows lift as he takes a flustered sort of breath and he starts to voice a response, but instead, after a glance around at all the men, grumbling and glaring, and he shuts his mouth, scruffing knuckles over the back of his neck and keeping his eyes down. No matter how inexpertly cocky Zaiventh might be as he barrels headlong through the sky, R'uen keeps his eyes .down. Teonath's hovering dance in the sky is indecisive for just a split second, her twisting body briefly cast towards the older Zunaeth, the lashing tail stretching with an unmasked longing for the cripple's bronze, but with a sharp escape of air from Satiet and likely a mental order to focus, the senior queen of High Reaches deviates from her meandering path upwards and nowhere. The decision is made, pale eyes coldly skipping over the Telgari she once offered her Weyr, her queen, and herself to, flying past B'yan, N'thei, and I'daur to find A'son. If she were more herself, maybe the loathing of her gaze might not be as muted by resigned necessity, but in tune, the gold drives down, brushing enticingly close to Kevruth and then Jaireth, towards the climbing Nikoth as a white-knuckled goldrider turns to the bronze's annoying rider. A'son senses "N'thei can really sound like a prick when he wants to, but the furtive voice isn't accusing, isn't selling A'son short. He's /trying to get through/ to the man behind the lust-glazed eyes." N'thei's hand raises to the shoulder of another bronzerider tonight, to A'son's. He mutters to A'son, "... don't... A'son.... You've got... you're not ready for." A'son senses "You don't want this, A'son. She's the Weyrwoman. You've got time to walk away without a knot you're not ready for." A'son's expression is a mixed look of massive confusion and almost uncontrolled rage when N'thei's hand comes up. His eyes flash, mouth set into a firm line as his entire body tenses. It's the hushed words that come next that push that confused, frazzled look into one of decision. He takes a shakey step away from that wall, and soon his feet are carrying him to the exit. In the skies above the High Reaches bowl, Nikoth is extending himself down to tangle with Teonath until he howls with rage, pulling away from her. Hurt and furious and for reasons unknown he barrels down to the lake far below. Outwardly, I'daur's calm distachment remains intact while Zunaeth flies after Teonath, a rather hasty change of direction drawing a strained rumble for him as he dodges the threatening pile-up ahead. It's a move that brings him closer to Teonath, however, at the same time that Teonath is angling her body toward his; and that rumble cuts off sharply as he adjust his wings to carry him the distance between them at almost the same moment she abandons him for Nikoth. I'daur manages all of a, "Thank Fa--" before Zunaeth tucks his wings slightly and drops downward after Teonath, not quite willing to give up his prize for all she's left him far behind before he can even turn about to try to keep on chasing. Rather pathetic, that. Bang. Ow. Nikoth shoulders past Mecaith knocking him askew. A flare of irritated hot wind flashes across the young bronze's mind, his nice, neatly calculated path to Teonath all messed up. It takes a few moments, precious seconds lost, for him to regain momentum, more still to re-assess, analyze to formulate a new plan of approach. Once he's got it though, he's reaching again with his mind, searching for that oh-so-tempting caress or slap of her golden desert, the shape of her mind as much a draw as her actual physical form. Sand to sand would be so very interesting indeed. T'rev? Is embarrassingly showing every sign of being only eighteen, new to gold flights and flights in general and totally lost in his bronze's pursuit of Teonath. There's other people in the Weyr? No way. Coulda fooled him. Nope, for him right now, there's only Satiet whom he's already undressing with his eyes. ... undressing /her/ ... yada yada *oy* Wyaeth played Nikoth's shadow enough to be poised for the moment his brother breaks away with a warning snarl at Zunaeth. All his sunbleached lankness slides right into place for Teonath, snares her with the ease of having lay in wait all this time. There's time to see N'thei's expression change, to see him watch A'son leave and take a ragged breath before he also pushes away from the wall. He finally looks at Satiet; by the undimmed lust written on his face, it would be a good idea if everyone else cleared out in a hurry. With Teonath slipping away, Jaireth gives a shriek in protest and loses some momentum in the process. It takes some time for him to get it back, nearly falling in after a brown as he wings himself up. With Satiet flying passed him, B'yan's eyes towards A'son with a mild raise of brows until A'son moves away from N'thei. He watches him for a few seconds, then it's back to watching Satiet - his shoulders not lessening in tension. One of the problems with spending one's whole pursuit showing off is that when it comes time to make a move, there isn't much left in the reserves. This is just another learning experience for one brightly rainbowed bronze Zaiventh who now finds his bold wingstrokes to be less powerful than he expected. Out of range and out manuevered, as Wyaeth makes his claim, the younger bronze twists away from the pack. And one very relieved R'uen wastes no time getting out of the weyr, lest he see more of N'thei than anyone should have to witness. It appears the Weyrwoman's choice does not always decide the day, for all that she might like it to be otherwise. A'son's abrupt departure and the mirrored descent by his bronze brings Kevruth wheeling and diving in an effort to save the desert gold from being left hanging. So intent is he, when Wyaeth captures her so neatly it is all he can do to angle away with a hiss of utter frustration, and folded wings send him hurtling downward and away. A'zan echoes his 'mate with an exhalation through his teeth, but with smears of blood still darkening his skin he gives the newly paired Reachian duo a wide birth and heads out after R'uen. Zunaeth's teeth snap together metallically in answer to Wyaeth's snarl; the scarred old bronze glares hatefully at the younger one while his claws clench ineffectually. Finally, he shoulders away, dropping his wings to glide toward the ground, favoring his left wing as flight-lust and adrenoline fade from his body, waiting for I'daur to come shuffling out of the weyr. On the ledge, the cripple, looking as worn as his rider when it's all said and done, pauses a second to take a breath of the fresher, cooler air, then limps further from the doorway, toward the dragon. Teonath is Satiet, and Satiet is her dragon, but the surprise of the best laid plans going astray releases rough and furious frustration from the gold's throat, finding outlet on Satiet's face, if not voice, in a pained, whitened reel that finds no A'son where he should be and N'thei encompassing the entirety of and looming in her vision. Fury, however, goes easily at hand with lust, and though she's unable to resist the bond of dragon-to-rider, Satiet's slim, empty hand rises to fly swiftly to redden N'thei's cheek. But yes, it would be a good time for others to clear as the slight frame gives herself wholly, if with a violent start, to High Reaches new Weyrleader. Mecaith's still trying to stay in the running when Nikoth drops out leaving the path open for Wyaeth to take the day. Confused, with that sandstorm still raging out of control, his mind closes like a steel trap around all that chaos pulling it tightly inward. The young bronze breaks away wit a soft keen of disappointment. It would have been so very, very interesting ... but the whisper of her sands has been claimed by another and so he buttons himself up again and wheels away, gliding down towards the Bowl. T'rev does not break away so easily, hands lifting to his head as the defeat now slams into him and his eyes go all unfocused. There's no sense left in the lad and in the end it's only some lingering shred of self-preservation that sends him outside again into the snow a headlong rush to meet Mecaith and up onto his back and recklessly, into Between without his safety straps on and his nice black jacket left behind as the only sign for one abandoned harper to find later. With Teonath caught and out of reach, Jaireth drops from the skies to take a jarring angle towards the lake. Not even bothering to wait for his rider, he's gone into the icy waters without further ado. As for B'yan, he's wreching free of the wall like it's sprung to life, making a hasty exit out of the weyr and into the bowl. |
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