View source for Logs:Blood and Flight and Glass and Blood

{{Log
|Involves=High Reaches Weyr
|type=Log
|who = Jo, Leova, Quinlys, Taikrin{{!}}Szadath, V'teri, Z'ian
| where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Vrianth rises. Dragons blood. It's supposed to be a release.
| when = It is a winter night, day 3, month 2, Turn 31 of Interval 10.
|day=3
|month=2
|turn=31
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
| gamedate = 2013.02.25
| quote = Vrianth's not at all a surprise. The only question is when.
| weather = A layer of gray clouds hangs oppressively around the spires. The air is humid and cool, but there is no snowfall today.
| categories = Flight
| mentions = Azaylia
| ooc = Warnings for damage. This scene took a hard left turn when the glass broke, because when that happens, it's like they say about a gun on a mantel: something has to be done with it by the finale. XD
| icons = jo fighter.jpg, leova vrianth final5.jpg, quinlys legs.jpeg, taikrin.jpg, v'teri.png, z'ian zian2.png
| log = 

Dragon> Their wingmate started out in drills, yesterday. Halfway through, after challenging the lines too many times for her rider's sanity, she ''left''. Since then, she's lurked above the caverns, a condensed exhale that, minute by minute, becomes a fizz of static. (Vrianth to all Glacier dragons)

Dragon> There's been static in the air, like the low-hanging clouds but ''prickly'', not all-encompassing but diffuse. Now, it's taking on a sense of... direction, like the lodestone's ''that'' way. Or perhaps at a different angle. One might have to fly, to triangulate, to see. (Vrianth to Olveraeth)

Dragon> The green's an intimate whisper, a glancing blow, a frisson of energy. She almost, ''almost'' says his name. (Vrianth to Tacuseth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Olveraeth has taken to this static like a scientist, examining it from every angle. ''Such'' a phenomenon! ''So'' interesting! Now, however, his attention is lifted: a swoop of stars that gather together, generating a constellation of consideration... and a dart of interest. Here. There. ''Where''?

Dragon> To Vrianth, Szadath surges, instinct making him push ice-cold tendrils against the reach of that static. Challenge rises, rises, and then-- deflates. Drums. Drums in the deep.

Dragon> She's lurked above the caverns all day, a fidgety bundle of olive green turned glossier, brighter with oiling and more. She hasn't looked his way, hasn't ''tracked'' him, but something about the air hints more and more of static. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tacuseth is there, always. His presence is a lingering one, though this time, it's more possessive than usual << Vrianth, >> he is perfectly fine with saying her name, his blocky, rough tone blunted in a caress.

Dragon> She senses it, shivers against it, that cold... and lets him feel it, the sensual tinge of might-have-been. Of what-won't-be. And then she abandons him to the drumbeat. (Vrianth to Szadath)

Dragon> She hasn't looked, so he hasn't pretended to notice that static -- that crackling that dances in the air and sparks along the very fringes of his thoughts like little explosions of glow bugs. Flare! Darkness. Flare! Darkness. No, he doesn't notice. And yet his limbs ready and there's a stretch that inches along his neck down the curves of his back pooling into nervous energy that trembles his hind legs. (Riuscyth to Vrianth)

Vrianth is not a surprise, not this time. She's been perched above the living caverns for nearly a day now, radiating a prickly sort of tension that spikes static against those who get too close. Now and again she'll rub luxuriously up against the carved statue that surmounts the ledge, but it can't scratch her itch forever. She's not at all a surprise. The only question is when.

Dragon> The lodestone spins as though it were a fortune being told: ''that'' way, towards the caverns... or perhaps it's to the as yet unbloodied beasts? It spins, and swings, in great rocking arcs that narrow and narrow and narrow. (Vrianth to Olveraeth)

Dragon> She rubs up against it, but tinged abruptly with ''cold'', not hers but another's. Will that fend him off? She's going to see. (Vrianth to Tacuseth)

Olveraeth doesn't do surprises. He ''studies''; he ''plans''. He's had half an eye on Vrianth all day, except when he's been supervising Cirrus' drills, and now... now he's got two eyes, both of them, whirling in anticipation as he tips his head up, up, up to see her. Hello, Vrianth.

Dragon> Energy. Nervous, trembling energy. Which she surely doesn't feel, doesn't seek to steal, leaving in exchange another's ''cold''. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

Dragon> They shouldn't move like that, lodestones. Their should be method to their madness - there should be science and logic. And perhaps that's why this fascinates him all the more, why his stars are carried more intensely, now, upon the ripple of solar winds. Soon, then. (Olveraeth to Vrianth)

Dragon> There, on the wind: a drift of static, ''sharpening.'' (Vrianth to Tsanth)

Tacuseth has been keeping steadfast to the Weyr for the day, his own focus having been centered on one certain green. He's been keeping himself where he can see her, his blue body ever at attention as if in anticipation for what Vrianth will do. If he seems a little agitated, so be it. Regardless of what his rider needs to do for the day, it was clear from him that plans have changed to Vrianth. Too bad.

A when that V'teri is wary of, as the once Monaco rider finds himself in the bowl after exiting the living cavern. She's hard to miss, stretched, perched, scratched, rubbed -- whatever motion or non motion she might be in, the shadow of it catches the bronzerider's gaze in that quick brow lifting study that diverts quickly to where his dragon might be. Riuscyth doesn't notice up on the Starstones. He doesn't notice when the dark sleekness of his wings unfurls out, nor that the night's shadow his frame casts might drape across Vrianth's body. He doesn't notice anything at all; the overtness of this non-notice shared so broadly with dragonkind turns wary into weary on his rider's face.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth is aware, always of the wind. It stirs the sands and the static, alerts him. Wakes him.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tacuseth isn't easily put off, and it shows in the buffer of hot winds and rolling rocks. He's laughing. << Have ya finally decided to come to me, Vrianth? >> Cocky with the undertones of his rider, his boldness being in every shape of each word given. << I stayed to fly the skies with ''you'' >>. Because there's no one else. Of course.

Dragon> There's something like laughter, now, a teasing frisson that's passing by, siding by, ''away'' and soon to be gone. She just has one little thing to do... first. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

"Just a little longer. Just a ''little'' longer." Leova, chanting softly, trudging in her furry coat through the snow with a sack of wineskins and bottles and who ''knows'' what else. From the Snowasis, to the guest weyr, letting her glance slip along those she passes like a touch. Human-height, and higher. She's the one who stares up towards Olveraeth with a tautened pull of her mouth, she's the one who spots V'teri and his knot as though seeing the ghost of Monaco behind it. Behind him. And then she's heading up the steps, high boots' steps not staid but almost skipping. Or skidding. Vrianth leaps out of shadow and skims, flaunting it, above the Bowl and down, scarcely moving a wing, as though the wind itself moved to her whim.

Dragon> Has she? Did he? << You'll see, >> says she, unworried, untroubled... but, very suddenly, ''hungry''. (Vrianth to Tacuseth)

There's no rest for the wicked, no rest for the weyrlingmaster, but Olveraeth's a nasal burn in the back of Quinlys' head; all the way down at the weyrling barracks, she squirms in her chair, twisting a strand of her hair around one finger, then pulling on it-- and then, abruptly, slamming her chair back so that she can stalk for the door. "I get it," she grumbles, under her breath. "I'm coming." Olveraeth is yet to move, but his rider? She is on her way.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth pushes back against his other half, a flash of the man in the records room. One little thing to do first, he could join her. Wants to join her. Such a short drop down from the ledge, to follow.

If anyone can't tell that Jo is pissed, then they're going on blind. She's seen in the bowl, tugging off her black gloves and her riding helmet and looking like someone very much prepped for flight - a flight and departure that wasn't going to happen. She's breathing heavy as she divests herself of those things, tucking that helmet under one arm as she could be heard muttering on the way to the guest weyr, "Nice timin' to get yer jollies off, Tac." As for 'jolly' Tacuseth, that blue's up in the air from the moment Vrianth moves herself, lingering in the air before he's following suit.

Dragon> Such a short drop, such a long plummet... there she is, skimming out of another dragon's shadow, another ''bronze's'', and towards the feeding pens, trailing a nascent, phosphorescent glow in her wake. If he looked, he could see. He could leave his rider there, abandon him to the hides, not take him to the wine and the quickened breaths that begin to warm the round cold cave. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

There ain't no rest for the wicked / there ain't nothing in this world for free... oh, but there could be, couldn't there? What consequences could chasing (closing on) (twining with) Vrianth possibly have? She's moving, she's plunging, she'll steal first blood and send it spurting green ichor while her rider grimaces and drops the wineskins just past the entrance, just inside. They could be a trap, to trip on. She's more careful with the bottles, lining them up, three of them. And still her sack isn't empty. She peeks outside, says quite softly, "Hurry, or you'll be late."

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth abandons his ledge, down and down to the feeding pens. He's likely got a late start on everything else, but that's never stopped him before. His rider, where is he? Records still, what a shame. The bronze has little to no regard for him now, focus attention on Vrianth. He's a blast of hot beach sand, pulling the heat off of her onto himself. Hot enough he could almost begin to melt those grains with it.

Dragon> She bites into that vulnerable neck, puncturing it, and ichor spurts hot and pulsing between her jaws. Can he taste it? She can. (So she's not abandoned him ''entirely'', perhaps.) (Vrianth to Szadath)

The ghost of Monaco has been plaguing V'teri the last few months, as he's kept a low profile in both wing and Weyr. Duck your head, keep it down, don't draw attention. It's hard to miss Leova trudging through, his gray eyes drawn to the fur-clad greenrider in a way his dragon still feigns an all too obvious disinterest in Vrianth. "It would have to be her," notes the bronzerider wryly, in that beat before dragon and rider meld. There goes that whole plan of keeping a low profile. "''Go''," is V'teri's soft hiss into the winter night, a single word command that releases Riuscyth from the Starstones and the Spires in a heavy swoop downward.

Dragon> There's an echo of a woman's smoky voice. 'Hurry. Or you'll be late.' It's almost laughing, almost sing-song, threatening to pull that heat right back in a flying tug-of-war. Or, no: she's, Vrianth's, trapped prey. A wherry. Its plumes fly. So do others, closer and closer, from the Starstones and the floor of the bowl and beyond, and they might even beat him, too. They might take it all, before he even has a chance to bite. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

Dragon> This time, Vrianth's sending rebounds off a wall of ice-cold fire that thumps in staccato battle rhythm. Eggs. Eggs eggs eggs eggs! Hraedhyth's mind entraps the essence that is Szadath, directing and channeling him ''away''. (Szadath to Vrianth)

Dragon> Eggs. Blech! It's a wash of revulsion: ''be'' that way. ''Away''. (Vrianth to Szadath)

Olveraeth's late to the feeding grounds, but no less enthusiastic for it: it only takes a single darting movement to get him aloft, and from there it's clean sailing, a hop, skip and a jump to the pens, and a single gash to set free the blood. His rider is running, now, buttoning up her coat as she goes, her steps faltering only once as Olveraeth's feeding lust catches her out. She's probably visible across the dark bowl, by now, wading through snowdrifts in a half-drunk, half-blind kind of gait, red hair a beacon in the night.

Tacuseth is quick on his first while Jo saunters into that weyr. She eyes the winskins dropped briefly before they settle on those bottles - then Leova. She's keeping her riding gear close as she pauses within the weyr and stares at her wingmate, and her blue is well set on blooding his next kill with deft claws. All the time, his attention doesn't stray from the green, his tail lashing like a sharp whip in indication of his barely held-in aggression.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth isn't worried, he's all bravado. Are there a few here larger than himself? It doesn't stop him from flinging his smaller bronze form into the fray, pushing sturdier dragons out of the way. Can she see him still, notice him in the crowd? He's there for her, pulling that incandescent heat away once more to himself. Allowing it to turn his sands to a scorching, glittering expanse. For her. For Vrianth. He bloods on a herdbeast, tearing it at the neck, coloring his muzzle red.

Of ''course'' it would have to be her, as a matter of course, soon to be a racing course. All the tension, all the arguments, for months or even ''Turns'' now it's been, Vrianth wakes them up and yanks them taut. ('You can't punch that man.' But you can rip that beast's throat out.) ('You have to hold your tongue.' You can growl challenge at those who'd best you.) ('You have to duck your head.' You can fly just as fast and as hard as you possibly can.) Stranded within the weyr, Leova gives Jo back stare for stare but then... ''then''. Leova may not be the only one who tastes blood in her mouth as Vrianth spits out vertebrae, dark and wet upon the snow. She hisses with her green, arches her back as Vrianth does in a rippling undulation. ('You have to sit and take it.' Now you can take ''her''. Or... try.) And then she gathers herself and springs past those latecomers as though catapulted, high and fast and heading for her beloved Spires, leaving her rider breathless and blind in her wake.

Quinlys is pink-cheeked from cold and exertion when she finally clambers up the stairs - two at a time - to enter the guest weyr. Her breath is coming out in huffs of white, and she has to grasp onto the wall, scrabbling for purchase; it doesn't help that Olveraeth has just abandoned his kill to shoot after the green, a shooting star into the cloudy sky. She shoots a gaze towards Leova, one-part amused and one part already lost, given the way her teeth pull at her lip. It could be worse: it could be ''Meara''.

Dragon> ''Finally''. Such a release: does that blood do for him what it does for her? Surely he's not so out of breath as his rider. How ''is'' it, that wind that's known her wings first? (Vrianth to Olveraeth)

Dragon> Glitter. She does like ''glitter''. And heat. Her own glow has heightened, and in her high flight, she abandons him to the heat he'd hoard... but perhaps he'll take it with him? (Vrianth to Tsanth)

The gravity that brings Riuscyth down so speedily from the Starstones, works against him and his large frame as Vrianth springs past him into the sky. He barely has time to drain half the life of his kill before he's struggling to flare open his wings and powerfully launch himself after the smaller dragon. V'teri? He's sucking in one last breath of that wintry air, his muscles as taut as the tension that seemingly pervades about the green. It's only ''after'' his dragon is aloft that he stumbles towards the weyr, mindless of where he steps or eventually lands. Were there bottles there? Woops.

Some people aspire to be fashionably late to such things, to make a grand entrance that gets everyone's attention. Z'ian isn't one of those people and he definitely doesn't look happy to be here right now, really not happy to be totally honest. In fact he looks like someone who was just doing something really important that isn't doing that important thing anymore because their dragon decided 'Hey! Lets go chase a green!' in the middle of it all. Meanwhile outside, Tsanth has rapidly blooded the kill that he got started on much later than everyone else. And then, the smaller bronze is launching into the air shooting past others that arrived before him.

Dragon> He's connecting the dots: one star to the next, a brand new constellation ready for the night sky that is, in his mind, cloud-free and brilliant, moons-lit and lovely. The blood, yes, but-- ''her'', and her sky. Their sky. He's hers, of course; this is ''their'' glorious dawn, their galaxy rise. (Olveraeth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Is that a crash of wood, of glass? Surely not ''here'', up high, up high where he's ''not''. Yet. What if he'd never left those spires, never tasted that blood at all? At least that other one, too, is slow. All this wind, she breathes it in so he can taste it, and the chill of snow and stone. (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth has that. ''Glitter.'' Dazzling, golden-bronze glitter, the shade of his sails. The shade of the beach when the sun hits at noon. Scorching. He ''does'' bring it with him, a trail to follow her own that glows so brightly through the sky. Chasing after it, mingling and creating a brilliantly painted canvas along the path to her.

With Leova staring down Jo, Jo is returning that intense look before she turns and moves plant herself against the wall. Her dark gaze takes in Quinlys, then V'teri from where she is, keeping her gear up under one arm before Z'ian enters. If her gaze manages to at least linger on him the longest, so be it, but it's back to Leova. Right now, it's ''always'' back to Leova. But then she's Tacuseth, who's blooding yet another before he finds Vrianth launching herself into the sky. He's quick on his wings to follow after her, wings out as he tries to use the winds to push him forward.

Dragon> Does he still watch her? Or those others? Watch out, someone's about to bump into him... or don't. Those winds he wants to use are hers, after all. But she might share them with her wingmate if he's fast enough, strong enough, if he ''wills'' enough. But he might need to get rid of some of those others, first. (Vrianth to Tacuseth)

Dragon> Even above and beyond that glittering trail, it's not precisely his rider's ''unhappiness'' that Vrianth so likes: it's Tsanth's ability to sway him, his ''will'', that she draws on with such wild delight. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tacuseth is good on playing down distractions, however brief they may be. Blood in his veins...can she feel his confidence? Such brazeness that Vrianth was simply...waiting for him to catch up. Those others? No consequence. There's others in the sky with them? His thoughts were pure desire to possess, sheer certainty that he ''is'' fast enough. That he ''is'' strong enough along with his rider to take them on.

Does it feel like a punch to the gut? Or like punch''ing''? The impact of cold wind against heated wings, the release of no longer waiting but ''flying'', of the closest thing to Fall that some of these dragons will ever know? Vrianth cuts a course that's all punishing speed, threading the Spires in a move designed to stall the larger dragons as she swerves out into the dark. Here, beneath the cloud cover that robs the snowy peaks of moonlight, beyond human habitation, she is the only glow. And down below, in the little cave, the spores' green light catch at Leova's eyes and turn them green too. She drags in a deep draught of air, and takes a quick step towards... not the latecomers, scrabbling or unhappy, not those so ''displeased'' to be here, but rather to the sudden ''smell'': alcohol that might have been brandy, rising intoxicatingly from the shards. What a pity about that broken glass. "If you don't want to be here," she says bitterly, or maybe it's teasingly, or maybe it's tauntingly, "Go." And it crunches underfoot. Above, a brown takes a sudden swipe at the chaser nearest him. If he makes contact, that could crunch too.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth is his rider and his rider is him, even in this. Even with the willful bending. Especially in this that they share so closely together. They're strong, both together.

Dragon> Stars. Dawn. But dawn's not here yet, constellations still spinning, ready to be made with spilled blood and strength and ''will''. Can he do that? Riuscyth would speed past him, if he could. Tacuseth might overwhelm him. And that's even before he gets to Vrianth and the dark. Can he get past them, to send his stars her way? (Vrianth to Olveraeth)

Dragon> Are they? Tacuseth feels he's strong, too. Is Tsanth, and his, stronger than Tacuseth, and ''his''? Can he... prove it? (Vrianth to Tsanth)

Z'ian doesn't go far into the guest weyr, he presses his back against the stone wall alomst immediately. Slowly he sinks down to the balls of his feet, quiet and brooding as he observes the people he's sharing this particular adventure with. His gaze flickers from the bronzerider he's not familiar with, to Quinlys. It lingers there speculatively before switching to find Jo and her eyes on him. There's a certain weight there, a weight that's pulled away and directed onto Leova with some force. Was that comment from her directed at ''him?'' His eyes narrow but the rider has the good sense to keep his mouth ''shut'' here. Tsanth feels the sharp curves around the Spires, for while he's smaller than average... he's no blue or brown regardless. He fields it better than some but it would be foolish to not acknowledge that it slows him.

There's nothing a man like V'teri enjoys more than being ordered to do something else. A man doesn't get his back broken by Tiriana if he's not fond of being contrary. And being told ''go''? The Monaco bronzerider smiles, his lips curling superciliously in an expression far more reminiscent of Riuscyth than of himself. A hand snakes out, quick to try and grasp and then crush a greenrider's wrist. But it's Riuscyth in the sky that is swiped at by the brown, the slow increases his broad bulk makes diverted by this and as such, V'teri's attempt to pin Leova turns into a curled fist and a whirl of his body to lash out at the brown's rider; except with the haze of flight goggles on, it's hard to not just punch any random passer by.

"Leeee-ooooooh-vaaaaaa," singsongs Quinlys, who is recovering her breath relatively admirably, and has thankfully moved out of the way of the broken bottles, and the other latecomers. 'Who would not want to be here?' says the arch lift of her red-tinged brow. 'Who would leave?'. She throws herself back against a convenient wall, fingers playing with the buttons on her coat, pulling them free one by one in a way that might be a strip-tease if ''she'' were the center of all of this, and not Leova herself-- though glancing-Z'ian may get a show. High above, Olveraeth lights his own darkness, celestial navigation - ''Vrianth'' navigation - to carry him to the spires, and around them, where size (or lack thereof) is not impediment, but ''benefit''.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Olveraeth is not daunted by the competition, not here in the skies where he is so ''very'' at home. Let them take the lead, now, if they so choose; he's here for the long haul, circling past, relying on wits and not brute force. Let her weave-- he'll follow, floating and flapping like a mote of dust upon the evening sky.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth is unapologetic in his belief. Yes. Stronger. The sands, grains of his mind are a whipping tornado of abrasive destruction. He's so much more powerful than Tacuseth.

Dragon> She knows he's fast. She's flown with him. She also knows he's strong. But is he fast enough, is he strong ''enough''? Tsanth feels he's strong, too. Riuscyth would like to be fast... but instead he's slowed, by stone and then swipe. Sevierth's their wingmate, he might catch on. Olveraeth... Olveraeth's ''quick'', and just perhaps quick of wit. And Tacuseth? She'll just have to see. (Vrianth to Tacuseth)

Tacuseth is blaring to the sky, lost in the thrill of the chase! He uses his size to his advantage, using pure speed as he cuts those same corners with little trouble, not seeming to care if his tail gets scraped in the process of angling too close. The blue seems to pace Olveraeth in fact, and if the other blue gets too close to either him or his prize, his body and teeth are at the ready. Down below, Jo is eyeing the way V'teri is with Leova with a heavy frown, and just like everyone else, the barb Leova tosses out has her wondering, too. There's a frustrated, tense set to her shoulders, and if the greenrider looks her way, the smile thrown her way is predatory. Yeah, she isn't going anywhere at all. But something seems to draw her ire towards Quinlys so suddenly, however.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tacuseth has enough of a push - of a bold presence - in her mind when she questions his prowess. Olveraeththat name seems to enrage him, the daring to either have himself compared! << Never, >> he actually puts it to words, especially on wit as his mind is a whirl of heat and windsand rocks. << I am -better-. They all know it. >> Do they? << ''You'' know it, and she knows mine is better. Stronger. We will protect. We will fight! >> His aggression is laid bare, failure not an option!

High above, far beyond, Vrianth glances back over one wing to gauge the distance she's earned, even as she streaks along the mountains' spine as though it were the current and she the spark. So much distance! She can't resist a delighted, teasing twist that flaunts her agility that they'll have to get closer to in order to know in truth, that flaunts the rangy lines of her body where they'll have to reach closer yet. So free. They can just ''go''. Go and go and never come back, never be grounded, never ever have to hold still or wait or comply or defer, not when all the sky is theirs. The clouds have broken, the stars swing above as though crafting their own constellations, Belior piercing-sharp and Timor a broadening gow. It's almost, almost whole. But then... but ''then'', as the echoes of her rider's name die against stone and flesh, her rider's at first yanked at and then freed. And stumbling, starting to fall, through the frustrated ire of their speculations and stares, upon that stone and into that glass. Vrianth, twisting, ''shrieks''.

A... strip-tease? So easily distracted. Maybe this isn't so bad after all. Z'ian's drags his focus away from the Leova and V'teri situation, lifting his eyes to settle onto the bluerider. He takes in a deep long breath for that and it's enough of a distraction now that he really doesn't notice if Jo is over there, ire drawing towards Quinlys. And he just sees that Leova is falling when it's way too late for ''him'' to actually do anything about it. Except to darkly mutter, "...Damn it." And begin to get to his feet. Tsanth clears the Spires, ''somehow''. It's just him and those who could keep up... and Vrianth. The shriek reaches him and his response is silence, no bellowing in return. The bronze tightens up and hurdles down through the frigid air, grim determination now and only slowing when he's close enough to try and catch her twisting, glowing form. To try and pluck her from the sky and bring her safely back to the ground once more.

Quinlys' brows arch: there's a question in the look she aims at Jo, one matched by the taunting smirk set upon her mouth. She's finished her buttons, now, and is sliding her jacket over her shoulders, inch by inch, revealing the shirt she wears beneath. Does the other bluerider want to make something of it? Right now, ''this'' bluerider seems more lover than fighter-- and her blue, too, who darts out of the way of Tacuseth, putting in his distance though not so much that he loses sight of the green-- her freedom calls to him, sends him venturing further to the stars. Her shriek calls to him, too, sends him to answer with a bellowing challenge as he makes his break towards her. "''Vrianth''!" yells Quinlys, suddenly, abruptly, standing tall. ''Vrianth'' says Olveraeth, but not in words: he throws himself for her, grasping for purchase in the space between them. He's probably too far, but since when did ''impossible'' win? ''Anything'' is possible.

Riuscyth has more focus than his rider and side swiped or not, ''he'' at least doesn't go after that brown, but he's lost his way and not within the pack means he's outside of it, beating wings against winds in a circular attempt to force his way back ''in'' when she falls with twisting shrieks. There. ''There.'' He drives his large frame in, like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole; if cunning won't win him the day (and let's face it, he's not much for cunning), brute force will have to do. As for rider? He, at least, mimics his dragon. Brute force and likely a blackened eye is all he'll show for his efforts tonight as he throws another punch at a ''girl'', not that flight goggles lets him realize that.

Tacuseth lets the winds guide him - every shift, every twist he's determined to mirror, and those winds were going to be his. ''His''! Another roar of dominance from him as he shows off his own agility in the face of the browns and the bronzes, knowing that they would have to exert more energy than he does. His moves are sharp like a hunter, like a tracker, not caring about the finesse, but about being the first to get to what's his before they do. When Vrianth is close - so close - his sharp in reaching out with his wings at full sail, making his attempt to claim her in potential triumph and to keep her from falling. And below, all Jo is left to do is tense up, lost to the sensations of her dragon as nails dig into the wall behind her. She barely registers her gear dropping to the ground, briefly eyeing that smirk from Quinlys with narrowed eyes before they are pinned on Leova.

One hand crashes palm-down into that glass, Leova trying to catch ''herself'', failing. Shards fly, skittering across the floor, bouncing off boots amidst the thuds of blows and curses and, this time, the echo of ''Vrianth's'' name. Vrianth, spinning, dodging driven-in force and never quite making it to grasping possibility or determination, not when her wingmate's there, ''there'', Tacuseth bearing her up even if her rider's shaking there amidst glass and, now, blood.

Dragon> There's a last fleeting moment of ''almost'' ... and then she's not even gone but right ''there'', with ''him'', that ''blue'', her glow guttering. (Vrianth to Tsanth)

Dragon> Might he have caught her? Will impossible be possible, someday? Her passion and fear transform, and if her sparks are stars, this time they're pressed against and into another shape. (Vrianth to Olveraeth)

Dragon> In his miss, Olveraeth is sent elsewhere, hurtling off into space-- but not into time. Another time, Vrianth. There will always be another time, for stars and galaxies; a universe of possibility, just waiting. (Olveraeth to Vrianth)

There's a gasp of breath from Quinlys, and perhaps from Olveraeth, too: he has to throw himself out of the way, hurtling off into space quite without intention before he can recover his momentum. His rider is thrown, too, somehow managing to entirely miss the glass-and-blood incident when there's the cold of outside to rush for. It's a pity she's already taken her jacket off, though, and that in her haste to be gone she... simply leaves it behind. Oh well.

Dragon> Cunning? Force? ''Knowing'' worked this time. ''This'' time. Another... neither of them may get off so lucky. (Nor, admittedly, will he this time. Get lucky.) (Vrianth to Riuscyth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Tsanth frustrated, veers off. Bellowing that rage down to the bowl.

"Oh, that just figures." Z'ian is so not having a particularly well running day. Since he's already up, it's not hard to get out of there as quickly as he can. He spares no glance for anyone remaining in the guest weyr. But he does spot that jacket laying there on the ground. There's a moment of hesitation (and so maybe he glances back ''once'') before he swipes it off the ground and goes.

Tacuseth roars his triumph - or is it a possessive call to back off? - beating his wings to keep him and Vrianth from crashing to the ground together. No, he'll use his strength to see her through, to make sure that ''they'' got to where they needed to be. Together. As for below, there's a bark of laughter suddenly from the part of the weyr where ''someone'' used to be fuming, and Jo is pushing past those to claim her wingmate right there amidst the glass and blood. As aggressive as her blue, those leathers don't stay on long - and the convict rider could hardly care right now that she's going to end up as bloody and as scratched as poor Leova.



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