Difference between revisions of "Logs:Hraedhyth's Senior Flight"

Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr

The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.

A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.

Though the sun is shining bright, it's not nearly warm enough for anyone to take an afternoon dip in the lake. And yet, here's Azaylia. Heat that has little to do with Rukbat has chased her to the chilly waters, pale yellow sundress soaked and clinging around her legs and waist. Her torso is mostly dry, save for where she's splashed herself to cool off. Sitting in the shallow surf with her head tilted towards the sky, the Acting Weyrwoman gives a content sigh.

She's long since eaten lunch and at this point in the day, Alida's bathing Ilicaeth, the grey-toned blue playing submarine for some moments as he rinses away the sand his rider used to scrub away some excess dead skin that he couldn't reach. It's a quick scrubbing that leaves the woman winded but pleased, and her blue pleased and, more importantly, itch-free. During her dragon ablutions, the blonde's left Zay to herself a bit father beyond, but now that she's pretty much done, the guard gathers up her stuff, redons socks and boots, rolls down her pants, and trudges over towards the goldrider. "Hey Zay..." is noted in a clear tone, green eyes then glancing around for a few moments, as if peering for someone or something that's missing.

It was likely Rasavyth who pointed out to K'zin that the goldrider was starting her own one-woman wet-dress contest at the lake. Even with the torso dry, since K'zin doesn't apparently have somewhere else to be right now, he's meandering, hands in pockets toward the lake. He's not dressed in his leathers for once, but in a set of work clothes, some soot and grunge speaking to the fact that he's recently been at the forge. "Hey Zay!" He cups his hands around his mouth when he gets near enough to shout and have it be heard. Rasavyth is not with him, perched outside the feeding grounds, contemplating his next meal, as it happens. Or maybe waiting for something more interesting. It's possible that's why he's been hanging around here the last couple days. He's too young a bronze to have honed his senses.

Azaylia doesn't open her eyes, words carried by another sigh of pleasure, "Hello..." Drawn out, much like the bluerider's silence. It has her opening her eyes just enough to peer up through her lashes, though it takes her longer to realize, "Don is with Hraedhyth." The gold that's lounging on her ledge, hide rippling with amber heat. Occasionally she'll shift in the best ways, ensuring her ever-changing audience of browns and bronzes are watching. She's soaking up the attention much like the brown hatchling on her back is attempting to with the sun's weak rays. Azaylia's head rolls towards K'zin as he approaches, happy little smile growing, though she doesn't shout in return. "How are you?" A distracted pleasantry meant for both blue and bronze rider, once he's near enough.

"Don?" Alida inquires of Azaylia, then making a 'd'oh' face. "Keep fergettin' 'is name." Still, the bluie's casting her gaze over towards where the sunning 'hussy' of a gold and her tiny brown companion are splayed, then returning her gaze to Azaylia. Ilicaeth might be totally oblivious to the ways of love, but Alida's in her prime...and right now, Zay is looking rather...nice. Ahem. And then K'zin's call is heard upon the air, 'lida turning to him and calling back, "*You* again?!" Smirk. Back to Zay, "Okay. How's...uh...Don treatin' you?"

"Look, I'm trying to avoid you, but you're just not cooperating." K'zin calls to the bluerider, moving closer to the blonde while still angling closer to the edge of the water, changing the angle of the triangle the three riders create. "Zay," He addresses the goldrider, "I'm great, only you forgot to take your clothes off when you got in the lake." It's a complaint. One that would decidedly be considered too brazen on normal occasions. The roll of his shoulders is a touch different than the way K'zin normally carries himself, his grin a little wider, a little less guarded and a lot more cocky.

Over the past few days, Hraedhyth has been a stifling, unforgiving presence on those of her Weyr. Every throb of need, all of that burning frustration is shared so that her suitors might writhe with her in blissful agony. Finally, just as Rukbat reaches its pique... so does Hraedhyth. With ruby and amethyst eyes blazing she lets forth a roar, heard as well as felt as her drums sound the call. She desires many things, but first: blood. (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

To High Reaches dragons, Tsanth has steered clear of the warrior queen all this time, all these months. Suspicion of her has hovered vaguely in his conscious, a wariness that he's no longer able to place. But now that she has reached her pique, he returns driven by that primitive desire to chase, to catch. And to the pens he'll go, landing between larger suitors and reacting violently. He nips at their legs, snapping to drive the less fierce away.

To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth has not been much prone to roaming, these recent days: he knows. He knows where he's supposed to be, and if not the exact when-- well, that will come. He's been uncharacteristically drawn to the ground, today, as though hoarding up all of his energy for the inevitable main event. Now, though... now is the time. He is in the game (damn it).

If there are those who hope that Iesaryth's rare storms will rise in challenge to the heat, that her specific possessiveness will be drawn out in response to the other queen... there is no such luck. The roar might bring the surge of seas and the briefest pluck of the undertow of the depths, but her rider has been aware, and waiting, and not sleeping -- so in short order, both the tall dark goldrider and her lifemate are up into the skies and away to leave Hraedhyth and hers to it. (To High Reaches dragons from Iesaryth)

"Hraedhyth wouldn't let me." Comes Azaylia's smooth reply, jaw tilting so that she's able to look up at K'zin. "She says the males won't be hungry for it if I--" A sudden swallow cuts the goldrider off, blinking for a moment before she tries to answer Alida. "A.. ah, fine. He's protective, I think. And I know he's stubborn." Her breathing has picked up, and it's only when Hraedhyth lets loose that roar that the source might be obvious. Chilly water is sent every which way as the woman scrambles, effectively soaking herself as she crawls out of the shore. Then? She's running.

"Do I 'offend?' Alida inquires smirkily back at K'zin, the woman unable to help but picking up on all the draconic emotion thickening the air as she too puffs up just a little. Bleed-over...but at least it's not from her own swimming blue...or it'd be much worse. Oh cripes...that's Hraedhyth's call, and then Zay's buggering out. Alida? She's going to hole up deep in her weyr.

To High Reaches dragons, Rasavyth won't admit that he's young and inexperienced. He knows what's up. Or that something is up. He won't admit that he's been hanging out near the feeding grounds just casually waiting for the right moment. But with this surge, this change in the desires of the gold, he knows his waiting hasn't been in vain, at least. He's here. He won't miss it. If he can get off the ground with enough blood to last. And that's a big 'If.'

What the hell's he doing in here? Adding his own eighth mark, likely, Ilicaeth bursting into the lust fest and hollering, « BATTLE! » before disappearing. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth)

To High Reaches dragons, Deveriteauxth's icy, pale green is curious about those drums, but not oblivious to their meaning: his whisker-touch twitches and tickles as he takes up the call, and takes to the pens. Is Tsanth snapping? He'll dance out of the way, blasting the bronze with an aniseed wash, while he gets on with it all. There's glorious blood, flight, and sex to be had!

Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

Accessed via a narrow staircase from the Weyrleader's Complex, or from the broad, sunny ledge beyond, this weyr was clearly designed to be for one of the weyr's junior queens. Spacious, but not extravagant, it boasts a well-sized outer room, narrowing in front the well-sized dragon couch and ledge beyond. Much of this main room has been turned over to a couch and several chairs, which circle the hearth and the blue rug set down in front of it. There's a low table here, too, set in the middle of that rug. A tack-cupboard stands tidily behind the couch, keeping out of sight a rider's paraphernalia.

Three low steps lead up onto a peculiar little landing, just large enough for the brand new desk and set of shelves that have been placed there. Here, too, there are definite pointers to the lived-in state of the weyr: the desk could in no way be described as tidy.

Behind the desk, a narrow passage leads in an inner set of chambers, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area. A decent-sized bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter. There's a nightstand on either side, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf to hold toiletries.

Unusually, the walls, ceiling and floor of this weyr have all been whitewashed thickly, covering the natural stone. The hearth is brand new, too, as are most of the built-in fittings, as though they have recently needed to be replaced.

The little brown firelizard that was with Hraedhyth? He makes like a tree and gets the fuck out as the gold hurtles down towards the feeding pens. There's a fluidity to her movements, and while she burns for flight, she isn't quick to make a kill. No, she arches her blunt neck and fans her dark wings, a territorial show to inspire as well as ward them away from her kills. By the time she's finally made a kill, Azaylia is all but throwing herself into her weyr, yellow sundress soaked and clinging. Is she late?

K'del hasn't been so crass as to hang around the Weyrleader Complex all day, but that doesn't mean he's not quick to arrive - clambering up the steps before Azaylia makes it back. He's serious faced and quiet, paying attention to no one in particular, though Azaylia's arrival does lift his gaze for a moment. Out in the feeding grounds, Cadejoth bloods his kill with not unexpected fervor, blood ringing his mouth and bedecking his talons.

Tsanth throws himself into the herdbeasts, quickly taking down his prey like any experienced dragon is meant to. And like any rider with over fifteen turns under his belt, Z'ian doesn't arrive late to this particular flight. He's there before Azaylia like some people and takes his place back away, not crowding anyone just yet. And does it seem like he's keeping his hands carefully tucked up under his arms this time? He must remember the last time Hraedhyth rose.

Oh jays, NOT AGAIN! That's the look of utter woe and horror on B'rant's features when they weyrling's youthful but huge bronze decides to take up the urges of his baser nature at High Reaches for the second time. This time, with a whole three green flights (all unwon) to his name, Rhenth skids into the pens, accidentally plowing over a pair of herdbeasts in his hurry to blood. Their bodies crushed by his fervor, the young dragon makes the best of it, and starts supping off of them, his red eyes roiling with need. And his rider? Is escorted in Azaylia's weyr by some kind fool that's taken 'pity' upon the clueless bronzer.

As a gentleman should, Deveriteauxth waits for the lady to make her choice before he makes his, unnerved by her territorial display. He lunges for the nearest beast, parchment-pale and fluid of movement, jaws latching down upon the unfortunate creature's neck to begin suckling its lifeforce away. Hot on Azaylia's heels is R'co, still decked out in flight gear with his goggles pushed up onto his forehead. He pauses just inside the entryway to simply watch for the time being, while stripping off his gloves, helmet and so on. He holds onto them for now, fingers curled deathly tight around them while his other hand remains shoved deep into his pocket.

Rojeth takes advantage of the frenzy that the feeding dragons have caused among the herdbeasts, reaching out his talons to trip a terrified animal and the smashing its head into the dirt with a satisfying crunch. But as he drinks from his careful distance, he watches the gold, head tipped aside to keep her in his sight. I'zech's glance, as he staggers into Azaylia's weyr with a hand scrubbing over his cheek, is for the nearest chair, which he swings out to face the gathering bodies before dropping to sit, hands hanging between spread knees and an irritated look on his face.

Hraedhyth's flames stretch far and wide, unmerciful as they scorch and snare those who choose to feed along side her. Oh, now Tsanth is interested? Good. (To Tsanth from Hraedhyth)

K'zin and Azaylia have trained together - run together on many occasions. The bronzerider, who had been on the lakeshore with the goldrider, should have entered on her heels. But he doesn't. There's a delay. When he arrives, it's at a swaggering stroll, and he's already looking smug. Clearly, this bodes well for K'zin not ending up battered in some way by the end of the flight. In appearance, he's sooty and wearing work clothes like he's been at the forge (which from the smell of sweat, metal and smoke, he probably has). He doesn't seem to be particularly drawn to a wall, so he just wanders in the familiar weyr. Rasavyth has enthusiasm! But not skill. Woe. His first attempts to catch anything go woefully amiss. It's not, at least, a surprise to either member of the bronze pairing.

To Hraedhyth, Tsanth meets the flames with sheets of sand. Sand the melts and twists and settles in pools of liquid glass, a reflection. A mirror of an image of Hraedhyth's image. Fierce and strong, terrifying and brave. Something to be admired, revered.

Hraedhyth is greedy this afternoon, not only for blood but for their adoration. She watches them right back, judgement clouding her jeweled gaze that burns into each and every male. She doesn't quite finish with a beast, stopping to roar at a younger pair, squabbling and nipping at each other-- luckily she doesn't catch Tsanth doing the same. Rather than continue, her jaws snap another almost in half, messily slurping up what doesn't get all over her muzzle. Azaylia's eyes are wide, fighting to focus on the riders who are already in her weyr. Waiting. "Oh." She stumbles towards one, K'del, before stopping short and moving away. Her chin is tilted towards the feeding grounds, not being able to see, but not needing to.

"Zay," says K'del, when the goldrider stumbles towards her, half-raising one arm in order to reach towards her, though he's control of himself enough that he doesn't keep trying when she moves away again. Not that that means there's not naked longing in his gaze, of course, or disappointment. Cadejoth seems genuinely delighted by Hraedhyth's wanton wastefulness (or perhaps it's just the 'wanton' part of it): he hurtles his mostly-spent beast off across the grounds, heedless of whether or not it impacts with someoen else. He is enjoying himself.

Melted glass is maintained by her fire, thundering drums sending ripples through them that alter their image. Tsanth at her side. Tsanth twining with her. Then he's gone, and another, non-descript dragon takes his place. The future is as fluid as her preference, but he will earn the chance to prove himself. (To Tsanth from Hraedhyth)

Deveriteauxth takes down a second beast; a small one, that's quickly drained. Having had his fill, the pale brown spreads his silvery-scrawled wings, taking to the skies early, it might seem; but that's so he can get into a position he feels will give him an advantage. Someone's ledge is commandeered as he hunches over the edge of it, every muscle in him tensed and waiting, ready to spring into action once Hraedhyth makes her move. R'co is less forward than his dragon (for once); his blue-eyed gaze remains on Azaylia, lips pursed in a thoughtful, somewhat unhappy pout, as he hangs back and observes.

Poor pup. How can he expect to catch her if he is not able to contest with a filthy beast? Hraedhyth urges him on, dark tendrils of smoke twisting in a sensual dance, much like what will take place in the sky. Is he not hungry to learn? There is so much she could teach him. (To Rasavyth from Hraedhyth)

Rhenth isn't going to screw it up /this/ time! The weyrling bronze tosses his first, bloodless herdbeast out of the way, the carcass unintentionally striking a brown in the side. A low rumble soon finds the Fortian bronzling tucking into his second 'beast, suckling heavily at its throat, his eyes finally lifting to Hraedhyth and her messy blooding, the young beast crooning to her. Lovely! Finally inside Azaylia's weyr, B'rant's distress at being caught up in a foreign gold flight only becomes more apparent when he settles his gray gaze upon all those other, more experienced folk within. Wingleader, Weyrsecond, riders. Oh sweet Faranth, no weyrlings! The towering teen tries to cave in some on himself and hide against a wall, but Rhenth is doing his thing out there, and his bronze's lust is starting to collide with his rider's aghast state, beginning to push such silly human things aside. Once, those grays even manage to find Azaylia deeper inside the cave, and they cling to her like a drowning man would a piece of driftwood. A very sexy piece of driftwood.

Tsanth rips into another beast, suckling the heated coppery blood down with expert precision. He knows when to stop blooding and now is the time, he doesn't glut himself. It's now that he waits, bundling himself up into a tight package that's prepared to launch into the air just as Hraedhyth is. And oh no, he's no longer nipping at those around them. Though maybe that's just because he has a personal bubble now, they know better. His rider meanwhile remains quiet and in the back, away from the others that swarm the weyr. Waiting and watching carefully, for any movement or change in what's happening.

He's all youthful adoration for the warrior queen, her youngest suitor's noble heart roaring with desire for her and her fiery ways. « Hraedhyth. » His hearts might burst with the want of her. (To Hraedhyth from Rhenth)

K'zin happens to be wandering near enough to K'del that when Zay strays toward him and then away, the look in the older bronzer's expression has the man bursting out with laughter. Definitely laughing at K'del. He did warn him he was an ass in flights, so... Someone's having a good time at this flight anyway. His eyes flick toward Azaylia, a sly, secret sort of smile starting as his gaze lingers, and then it's away again as he continues to wander. Rasavyth is more focused, though, his head tossing toward the golden huntress. His efforts are renewed, and this time, he meets with success. Not once, but twice! Though they're not the most sizable of beasts.

And while the fire that melts and helps form his glass is hers, the material itself remains belonging to him. The image is dashed and changed. Mirrors turn to blown sculptures, the other dragon gone. Unimportant. Them together, a rippling mass of impressive muscle hurtling through the sky. Towards a destiny. (To Hraedhyth from Tsanth)

Hraedhyth can sense his delight, kindling to her fire as it licks at his chains, demanding they glow red hot. There's an unspoken, savage promise-- she'll be able to soothe the burn once he catches her. If he catches her. (To Cadejoth from Hraedhyth)

The intensity Hraedhyth's mind meets with is incredible. Incredible, because the oozy drums that beat are so much a reflection of her mind. It's like an artist painting a perfect image by a great master: it's a compliment paid, a mirror he provides herself with to see her awesome beauty and commanding presence. He has never been more impressed with her than he is now. His copy is not without his own twist, though, the ooze seeping through, suggesting how wonderful it would be to worship her in the winds. He is hungry. He's hungry for many things, not the least of which are her and blood. She could teach him much, will she? Won't she teach him this dance? His claws slash as he successfully makes a kill, and he drinks his tribute to her dry before seeking a second. He will give this his all. She calls to them all, yes, but deeper, he feels her calling to him. (To Hraedhyth from Rasavyth)

I'zech's dark gaze slowly begins to scan the room, the assembled men, most of whom have their attention on one wet-dressed woman. Neither Azaylia nor the collection of suitors do anything to soften the glare he's wearing or the sneer of a smile that tugs one corner of his mouth. But he's comfortable in his chair and makes no move to leave it. Rojeth, on the other hand, is the recipient of Cadejoth's used up meal, and he flexes his talons into the ground as he rounds his focus on the other bronze, letting out a rasping growl from between his jagged, protruding teeth. There's a slow, preparatory swish of his tail.

They glow - oh yes, they do glow. For her. There are no stars twined in Cadejoth's chains tonight, no ice-cold delight, no honeyed warmth; there are no other queens for Cadejoth but this one, and his chains burn and sizzle in emphasis for it. He will catch her. He will have her. And they will be glorious together. (To Hraedhyth from Cadejoth)

Azaylia seems to regret twisting away from K'del's grasp, gaze turning towards him when he utters her name. And yet, she keeps walking. Past K'zin, though there's a long drag of her body against his, dress marked by filth and the bronzerider wetter for it. Suddenly, she's frozen, not so much as breathing as legs flex and she stands on her tiptoes in the midst of them. At that very moment, Hraedhyth's cloak is cast off, revealing clubbed sails that flap after she takes a running leap into the sky-- knocking against Rhenth on her way into the air. Did she mean to? Does it matter? Beating wings send her skyward, gaining a lead through sheer power rather than agility.

And all of that waiting is eventually rewarded when she launches herself into the sky like so. Coiled tightly unto himself, Tsanth springs forth after her. He's gone and out of the pen before many of the others are, his smaller frame lending him that much more agility. The chase is on and this time, he seems to mean it. There's no attempt to burn his energy creating a path for others. Z'ian knows that moment all too well. Instinctively, his eyes raise up to a sky that he can't see and he pushes past another rider and moves to the forefront of the weyr. Where now, Azaylia would actually be able notice him around if she were to look.

Oh, go on, K'zin. Laugh. K'del's not laughing. For K'del, this is utterly serious: he can't seem to help himself but pull at the knot on his shoulder, and continue to stare so completely after Azaylia. He is pleased by her glance back, though, even if his own dragon distracts him so quickly. Cadejoth doesn't care that Rojeth has been hit by his beast; doesn't care that he's being focused on; doesn't care about much at all, most likely, except the sudden rush of air beneath his wings, and the height he's putting on as quickly as he possibly can.

Look! Over there! It's a bird! No, it's a plane! Wait-- what the hell is a plane? Never mind. It's Reisoth! His appearance over the bowl is accompanied by an uncharacteristic bellow of frustrated reluctance as he angles himself toward the bowl and not the sky to deposit his rider. He definitely isn't going to wait for straps to be taken off or anything like that. As soon as H'vier's feet are on the ground, the bronze is launching himself back into the air to take off after the bestial beacon of gold to join her lustful entourage of suitors. H'vier is probably just making his way across the bowl toward the weyr the bronze should have dropped him off closer to.

Hraedhyth's drums answer the foreigner who has traveled so far for his devotion: Rhenth. One solid syllable, one solid beat, the echoes rippling with sound as well as desire-- for him. (To Rhenth from Hraedhyth)

Power that couldn't be matched by Deveriteauxth, hence his chosen lead; but even still, his launch from the ledge he's chosen doesn't give him quite the advantage he'd hoped for. Light plays upon the ripple of muscles beneath his pale hide and across the silvery scrawl that edges his wingsails as he beats down with all the strength he can muster, ignorant of his size disadvantage as he revels in the sheer thrill of being there in the lust-fuelled flight. From where he is on the edge of the crowd in the weyr, R'co continues to just watch, though he does so now with decidedly less attention on the room and people before him as his focus shifts more to be with his dragon.

K'zin's purrs in approval as Azaylia slides across him, the laughter abruptly quieted in favor of a leering grin. He doesn't reach out for her though, more amusement showing in his expression and manner, his focus finally latching onto her though, at least for the moment. Hraedhyth's cloak must be hereditary, for her son, too, looks as though he's doffing one. The dulled bronze of the wings he keeps so primly wrapped around his slender, aristocratic form extend to reveal shining bronze hidden beneath as he takes wing. He might not be as well fueled as some of the other dragons, but he'll be putting his best foot forward and following the silent call that breaks bonds of heredity. (Even if they didn't, he'd be in good company. Right, Cadejoth?)

She shoves against him? Who cares that he's staggering a little, for Hraedhyth's /touched/ him! The sight, scent of her so near drives him mad with want, and in a few instants -- time taken to recover from that marvelous, fierce push -- Rhenth's impelling his huge body skyward, the young bronze squarely at the center of the pack of suitors, his eyes burning red, with a reflection of gold at their centers. Hreadhyth! His own heart fairly jumps into his throat when his lifemate ascends, B'rant suddenly staggering away from such earthbound things as a wall, then looking over imploringly to Azaylia...who he starts to drift towards as if upon a cloud.

Of course Hraedhyth calls to him. He's Rasavyth. Though passion surges through every fiber, it is not anger at her suitors-- suitor. No, she desires them. Him. The beat of her wings matches the adrenaline shared by two bodies... Will the young bronze catch and be her third? (To Rasavyth from Hraedhyth)

Rojeth launches, though perhaps it's more inspired by Cadejoth's take-off than Hraedhyth's. But maybe that doesn't matter, since it all happens at basically the same moment either way. He powers upward with the rest of the pack, trailing tight on Cadejoth, where he could just about catch his tail, even if Rojeth's eyes are on the leading gold. In his seat, the burst of activity tenses through I'zech with a long inhale and a momentary closing of eyes. They open again to survey the tightening of the crowd in front of him and one legs bounces, but he doesn't yet stand up from his chair. He can keep an eye on Azaylia from here.

It doesn't look as though Azaylia will be swinging at any riders today, eyes closed as she tilts her jaw skyward. The little curl to her lips widens to bare her teeth in a savage grin, hands curling into tight fists at her sides. Even with Hraedhyth's heat, the fabric of her dress is clingy and cold, urging her to find something warm. Someone. Opening her eyes, she catches the frantic movement of I'zech's knee. She's reaching for him, though there won't be objections should she be intercepted. The gold in the sky is not so generous with her touch, not yet. Smokey, spiced incense leaves a trail for them to follow as Hraedhyth climbs higher and higher-- wings straining to lift her gorged body. That earlier greed will be her undoing.

He's 'floating' towards her, and she's...moving towards him? Of course Azaylia is, because right now B'rant isn't really noticing the other men in here, especially I'zech back there. Smiling with sudden confidence and obvious want, the Fortian reaches out both hands to try and gather Azaylia into his arms. Greenhorn! Rhenth, meanwhile, is riding slowly above the main Flight pattern, wanting to be free of others so close so he can better see, close on the glowing siren that is Hraedhyth. He might lose a little forward ground at first, but his huge wings and their beats are making up for it, the queen's scent intoxicating him as he's never been before. His own urgent pine and oaks of forest medieval grow even taller, tower like titans towards her, their roots pulled from the ground in their/his want.

Reisoth's only focus is on Hraedhyth and trying to gain lost ground from his late start. The lack of blooding will probably catch up to him but it would be worse to not get in the sky at all before one of the others had their tails around the gold that should be his. Despite his frustration at being behind, Reisoth is silent. H'vier, not so much. He's swearing to himself as he finally makes his way into Azaylia's weyr, growling unconsciously at the first man he nearly runs into but manages not to shove out of his way.

Destiny. It speaks to her primal nature, urges her to leave his sands hot to the touch, scouring and scalding much like her desire. It too is beginning to chafe, wearing down her need to escape them. Him. Her flames flicker, unintentionally sharing that waver in strength. (To Tsanth from Hraedhyth)

To Hraedhyth, Rasavyth is too clever a dragon, even when lust-clouded, to miss the summation of those few mistaken points. But it doesn't matter. That's how these things go, right? The female gets many offers, and she accepts the best one. The one that brings her flowers, or in this case bones. He's not naturally leant toward ferocity, or licking. Or anything that gets his mouth near a potentially unhygienic, icky surface (like another dragon's flank), for that matter, but with a snarl, and flare of ooze-touched fire, his reflected drums intensify as he makes his declaration of war! Look out fellow fliers, he's on a collision course!

"Back off," says K'del, lifting a fist to emphasize his words: yes, that would be towards you, H'vier. Never mind that H'vier is taller (and bulkier); that's not important right now. It's a distraction, though - something that pushes K'del's attention away from his dragon's upwards climb, and away, too, from the sublime conclusion that is, surely, theirs for the taking (if only they succeed at the whole positive thinking thing, right?). K'del lets out a breath and Cadejoth adjusts his path, thrusting himself into motion in a different way now that it seems like it won't be so long a flight as all that.

Led on by that incense, Deveriteauxth powers after Hraedhyth, using his smaller size and agility to whatever advantage he can manage. A dip of his wing makes him swerve from the path of a larger bronze; a powerful downbeat drives him forward towards the glowing golden prize, on which his whirling, jewel-toned sight is firmly set. Perhaps it's H'vier's growling entrance that causes R'co to move at last - perhaps it's the young bronzerider with hands attempting to grab his Weyrwoman, but the brownrider finally steps towards Azaylia, hovering just behind the Fortian as if ready to pull him back - then he seems to change his mind, echoed in the skies above by another surge from Deveriteauxth. Wiry little R'co - because he is small, compared to these much taller men! - nudges in closer to Azaylia, one hand held up with its palm towards her, as if hesitant to touch her despite flight-fuelled lust and need.

The pack, what a joke. Tsanth weaves between them, expending some energy to bully the younger and more inexperienced dragons. The older bronze slams his small but muscled body into them before resuming course, chasing down that alluring scent of her spiced incense. It's the move that B'rant makes towards Azaylia that has Z'ian actually moving. Because he's done this before, well, he knows that it isn't going to end well for that Fortian weyrling. "Kid. Back the fuck off." He tries to warn, not quite making the distance to the pair before contact can be made.

Her heat turns his sands into something burning, something destructive and scolding it's true. But also something that could nurture, something of him that speaks to something she knows so deeply. Heated sands that warm eggs, that keeps them nested and safe until the moment that they hatch out into the world. Tsanth's sands can do that for her, for her progeny. If only she'd just stop flying from him. (To Hraedhyth from Tsanth)

Well if Azaylia is going to give him attention, I'zech can get up. He doesn't even haul himself out of the chair with heavy reluctance as he might usually do; he just moves easily to his feet, an elbow ready to shove off anyone who looks to intercept -- seems like that person might be B'rant. With dark laughing eyes on Azaylia, as if the two of them are sharing some private joke, a smug curve sharpens on I'zech's mouth, feral and undeterred by the minute jostlings of the other men in the room or the dragons in the sky. Rojeth continues drafting on Cadejoth, and then encroaching, creeping along his back with talons spread dangerously, downward strokes of wings near enough to tangle with upward sweeps should the rhythm change. He growls again, scratchy, and louder this time so that the sound isn't lost in the rush of thinning air even if the other bronze can't actually feel the breath on the back of his neck.

One thing can be said for certain, even so early on: much will be learned here by young Rasavyth. So far, he's keeping up well. Except, is that-- is the mannered socialite of a bronze snarling? It looks... well, downright silly. Although, he is a bronze, so maybe that lends it a little weight. This is the warrior queen, and he's decided to fight for her! His first target is a brown. A big brown. A brown that's very nearly the same size as he, and his weave has him slamming up against him. Thankfully, wings don't tangle, but it has Rasavyth rebounding. Well, that didn't go well. Someone probably could have told him that physical force wasn't the way to get the win with a slender frame like his, but he's young yet. He'll learn. K'zin's attention is pulled off the heat-seeking goldrider and back to K'del for the moment, observing the spat between his 'mentor' and H'vier, the smile that pulls on his lips almost gleeful, almost-- as if-- as if it gives him an idea. Let them take each other out...

When B'rant volunteers, Azaylia doesn't hesitate to open her arms, intending to wrap them around the Fortian. Is he foreign? Does it matter? Before she's able to, I'zech and his elbow are there. It's not as brutal as it could be, but his feral display has her eyes bright as she instead tucks up against him, shivering from chill as well as delight. There are goosebumps on her arms as they wrap tightly around his waist, trying to soak up his bodyheat. Above, Hraedhyth's oversized jaws are parted as she pants with exertion, deciding now to take a sudden turn. Sudden for her size, at least, though in reality she cuts a wide arc that offers plenty of time for her chasers to gain some distance. She begins to falter, stubborn until the very end as she struggles to keep ahead.

"Go fuck yourself," H'vier snaps back at K'del, eyeing the fist with a sneer while his own hand clenches in response to the prospect of violence. That's not why he's here, though, and he'd really rather be touching that woman over there. She's alluring to the point of distraction, especially with Reisoth above, desperate to close distance between himself and his queen, to take his place beside her. He pushes himself but it's clear he's flagging with as hard as he's been pushing himself up to this point trying to catch up.

Was Cadejoth a little distracted by his rider's distraction? A little, sure. It's got nothing on his distraction, now, a distraction fuelled by Rojeth's close proximity, and that increasing feeling of being hemmed in... and that is really not going to work with his plans. H'vier gets forgotten as a result, whatever he says in answer (none of it matters). "Get him to back the fuck off," K'del belows, turning his gaze away from the taller bronzerider and off towards I'zech. You. That. There. Him. Hraedhyth falters, and Cadejoth makes a desperate attempt to pull away from the bronze behind him, all but throwing himself at the queen. Now, Hraedhyth. Now!

And he's managed to keep his stamina up this time, kept it up and not lost it. Even if he did knock around some of the younger bronzes. It's now, just as Hraedhyth takes that sudden wide arc that Tsanth shoots up in the sky to fly over and above her. He passes a suitor that really should be better prepared to catch and now, drops down suddenly with his wings swung out wide to meet her. The older dragon isn't distracted by the others, unphased even. This is his time now to act. And he does. Z'ian meanwhile has slipped quietly between the would be suitors, edging closer and closer to Azaylia as his dragon gets nearer to hers.

Someone's saying something in urgent tones, and the part of him that's still B'rant is telling the young bronzer to listen, at least. But the part of him that's Rhenth -- the part growing in power with each passing moment -- couldn't care less. Hraedhyth/Azaylia is all there is in the world, right now. A small and foggy cant of his head is offered in faint irritation at Z'ian, gray eyes barely 'seeing' him, but certainly not seeing the approaching I'zech at all. And then there's an elbow, and that elbow hurts some...and B'rant's no longer finding Azaylia quite as available. Instant denial equals anger equals instant thrown punch in the vicinity of that elbowing. All the jockeying and growling and such is simple and pure distraction, in Rhenth's mind, the youngest dragon in the 'pack' seperating himself from all the others both physically and mentally as he shadows Hraedhyth from above. As she rises, so does he, as she veers, again, he does the same. He too is flagging, but he can see that the gold is too, and such only makes Rhenth try /harder/ to close with her, the young bronzling starting to lose some height as his lust drives him closer to her. Down must meet up at some point, and when he get so close to Hraedhyth that he can almost taste her exotic spices, the Fortian's misformed tail and large claws flex to aim themselves at her, stretch at her own limbs and tail. I'm /here/!

Hraedhyth's change in course is adjusted to with a dipping of his scripted wings, Deveriteauxth's smaller stature giving him an agility advantage over those bigger dragons, even if it means he's flagging a little due to lower stamina. But where there's a will there's a way, and the scribe's far from finished writing his verse yet; the parchment-pale brown pulls upon his last reserves to make a desperate attempt to capture the glowing prize. R'co stays where he is, surrounded by all the tall people, hands dug firmly into his pockets now as he leaves them to their thing, while he focuses on willing his lifemate forward - maybe. That unhappy-looking pout is back upon his lips; perhaps it's just a look of concentration.

There's a skipped beat of surprise, quickly followed by delight, and it has her smokey tendrils reaching for Tsanth. Eggs, yes. Sands, yes. But first? First, Hraedhyth will make her choice. And it is hers to make. (To Tsanth from Hraedhyth)

A choice yes, there are so many choices now for her. The young and inexperienced, the older yet still rash. Those that want her because they think they know better than her, their queen. And then there is Tsanth and he is waiting, waiting for her to allow him to take her. (To Hraedhyth from Tsanth)

And things were going so well! Okay, not really. But better than the last time! And the time before that! And all the times K'zin's memory can help Rasavyth remember. But it's the same problem. He's spent and he's not gotten anywhere near close. Lagged to the back of the pack of chasers after the rebound and now suddenly out of fuel, Rasavyth's bellow is one of earnest frustration. He won't win this battle, but maybe, just maybe he'll win the war, someday. K'zin's eyes briefly find Azaylia tucked at I'zech's side, a slight sigh quietly slipping from him, before he's pushing a hand through his hair and moving to meet his lifemate on the ground.

It's probably not too much of a surprise that I'zech lets out a bark of a laugh when K'del starts fuming in his direction. So, in short? Fat chance. He's got Azaylia all slunk up against him, all damp and clingy in the wrap of his arms, and even though he's laughing at K'del, that sharp, insufferable smile he wears is for the goldrider. And Rojeth, well, this was the plan all along: to fuck with Cadejoth and get the upper hand, er, wing. Without being deterred by fluster, he darts after the queen, ready to finish off the scheme with a mighty victory. You know, if all these other bronzes weren't around and thinking basically the same thing. And if that enormous Fortian didn't aim a meat-fisted punch at his rider's side. The blow is enough to knock I'zech off balance, feet tripping sideways and his grip pulling Azaylia with him as he winces and fumbles. Which leaves Rojeth fumbling too, at just the wrong/right moment to see his golden prize slip beyond his grasp.

A squeak quickly turns into a squeal as Azaylia goes tumbling down with I'zech in a tangle of limbs and sopping wet clothing. It's a spark that ignites Hraedhyth's fury, a surge of energy that has her climbing higher still, barreling towards the bronze above her with purpose. She stretches, reaching for Tsanth just as her rider lifts her arms, squirming not unpleasantly against I'zech-- too bad she's trying to get away. It's only when gold collides with the older bronze that Azaylia turns savage, kicking and biting if she has too in order to get to Z'ian.

K'del ... what? The look of shock on his expression is the kind that probably ought to be commemorated for all times. It doesn't last long, though: a few seconds, and then it's crumpled, and he's turning to all but run for the exit. But no, he doesn't cry. (He does disappear atop Cadejoth a few minutes later, though, so make of that what you will).

Ha-HA! She's /not/ yours! And so says B'rant's triumphant sneer/grin when he lands that punch somewhere on I'zech, which in turn drives Rojeth away from Hraedhyth/Azaylia. Too bad that Rhenth is diving just a little too slowly to beat Tsanth to the 'prize'. The Fortian bronze gives off a basso howl of frustration and loss, and immediately banks away from the Reachian pair, to slowly spiral to the ground, and thence to the chill lake. B'rant simply gasps -- his own consciousness within huge gray eyes, now -- and bolts for the hangings that lead to the outside of Azaylia's weyr. Once they've both got a few breaths to spare, it's Between and back to Fort, where at least one of them will get laid.../and/ yelled at later.

Man, a guys takes a punch for a girl and what does he get? Kicks and bites? As her squirm becomes rather nasty, I'zech's finger dig in a bit, as if he might just be able to keep her anyway, but a knee to the rib that B'rant just bruised is enough to roll him away, onto a knee so he struggle to his feet to glare at the huge wall of a boy who just screwed it all up. Nevermind how he himself screwed it all up for K'del. I guess maybe we shouldn't go throwing herdbeasts all willy nilly, should we. As Rojeth tears away from the other dragons, I'zech goes stumbling out toward the bowl with a hand on his side.

Foiled! Deveriteauxth lets out a sad croon of disappointment, before pulling away, tucking wings to his side and spiralling slowly down to the bowl below. R'co is quick to exit, too, hiding his long blonde hair beneath his flight helmet as he ducks out onto the ledge. He, too, doesn't linger long in the Weyr - it's up and up and up some more before the pair wink into between for places unknown.

Down and... caught. Tsanth is over Hraedhyth, twining up with her and guiding them now through the skies over the 'Reaches. And somewhere in there, the messages goes out to their weyr at large. Even now the bronze is beginning to extend his influence, his persuasion and weight to the others. And within Azaylia's weyr, Z'ian has been quietly approaching. And while there's a fervent look in his eyes, it doesn't stop him from pausing to actually help her up and out of the fallen bronzerider's grasp. He'll take it from here, thanks. And with a firm grip, he'll tug the damp clothed goldrider into his arms.

Shock is a good word for it. H'vier stares across Azaylia's weyr to where she's headed. It's that bastard. The one that kept him from winning the last flight. For a moment or so, it looks like H'vier kind of wants to go over and rip the other bronzerider a new, uh, something. But he somehow manages to turn himself toward the exit instead. He doesn't even hit the wall. His mom is probably proud!

Along with her body, all of that once-feared ferocity slams into Tsanth, hungry and hunting and-- oh. Tangled as they are, that intensity is used for pleasure rather than pain as they fly over their Weyr. For the first few moments, Hraedhyth will set the place ablaze with her savage claim, heat stifling and smoke choking until her hold suddenly relaxes. She is Matriarch, and she has chosen her mate. (To Tsanth from Hraedhyth)

Once Azaylia is free from I'zech's painful grip, those arms continue to reach for Z'ian until he helps her up. There's a moment of tense calm as she simply stares at him, and then she's crushed against him in a full-bodied embrace. She might even undo his good deed, enough force used to bring them back down to the floor, where most of their clothes will be joining them.