Difference between revisions of "Logs:All Lythronath's Fault"

Quinzeth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr

This weyr and ledge are a bit of an oddity, given that the entire ledge is enclosed within a bubble of rock that bulges outward like a lopsided pimple on the sloping wall of the Bowl. Clearly, this was a natural cave that was expanded and carved to become a weyr, rather than a deliberately planned space. The shapes the volcano made have been smoothed and guided over time by successive occupants, but the entire weyr still has a very organic feel to it. It takes a bit of skill for most larger dragons to land here, having to fly in and bank rapidly. Most blues and greens won't find it an issue though, the mouth of the weyr somewhat similar in aspect to a miniature Hatching Grounds.

It could be, Lythronath's plan had been to leave A'rist on the bubble of a ledge outside. It could be, familiarity lodged somewhere in his lizard brain (he certainly doesn't have a proper memory of this place) made him choose the ledge rather than one of its neighbours. Either way, A'rist is suddenly scrambling to keep his footing and not fall into the bowl, his yelp less than manly, and certainly loud. He doesn't fall to his death, though. No, then he wouldn't be able to be standing there, panicked, panting, abandoned.

Quinzeth is not so terribly territorial, but even she can get a little peeved when Lythronath finally finds a way to invade her ledge. It used to be so fun, watching him try! But then, she doesn't understand the burning determination that has the bronze taking to the sky to join others. It leaves the pretty green to cock her head at A'rist, big, bright eyes staring at him with obvious fascination. With one foreleg crossed over the other, she's been craning her neck to watch the flight, and now those bouncing clicks are aimed at Lythronath's rider. Is she giggling at him? Probably.

"Quinzeth." Her name on his lips sounds of nothing but his own purpose, pushed on by the intensity of Lythronath as he joins the chase. The bronzerider straightens, and looks straight on at the green, more finding those clicks of hers beside the point and discarding them than simply ignoring them. "I need a ride down." Taking a step forward toward the green, "I need a ride down."

Those high pitched gulps don't quiet, even after A'rist addresses her. In fact, they get louder, and the green's maw opens to flash her teeth in what must be her attempt at a grin. Then he's stepping toward her, which has Quinzeth giving a startled, honking squeal, as if he's actually a threat. You'll never catch her, bronzie-boy! Her grace allows the sleek dragon to avoid actually knocking A'rist off as she dives over the edge, acrobatics on the way down just flashy salt in his wounds. How does it feel to want?

A'rist doesn't duck away, but lunges toward the green. It's no use, though; fingertips rake ineffectively, and mostly harmlessly, at her hide. It leaves A'rist stumbling forward, catching himself in a crouch, and glaring off the ledge. Lythronath has joined the chase in earnest by now, and it's dragon lust pounding in that boy's veins. So the yell after the departing green is mostly inarticulate. And loud.

If Quinzeth's unusually high spirits aren't enough to rouse Klohi, that scream certainly is. She shuffles toward her ledge with a scowl already set on her face, loose yellow tunic and baggy blue pants rumpled from her nap. The greenrider would never go out in such an ensemble, so they must be what pass for pajamas during her afternoon naps. She doesn't walk out into the chill of the afternoon, but stands at the border of weyr and ledge with a hip cocked and arms crossed. Voice as flat as her expression, "Why are you screaming at my dragon?" Wait. "...Why are you on my ledge!?" That's a bit more emphatic, brows lowering once again.

A'rist whirls around, already answering, "Because she left me here!" to the first when Klohi is speaking the second. Palms go up and he spreads his arms in a wide arc, from his sides up to shoulder height, and makes a 'duh' sort of gaping expression at the greenrider, that previous answer left to stand in for her second question as well. "Faranth!" Next, and he turns again and goes to the edge of that ledge, one hand pressing hard against the stone, the other clenching into a fist. "Scorched dragons!" is shouted out to all the world. But mostly, Quinzeth and Lythronath.

The worst part of waking up, is a crazy as fuck bronzerider on your ledge. Klohi is reaching up to rub at her eyes with those too-long sleeves, sleepwear making her look like she's gotten into a father or uncle's wardrobe. Though what a man would do with a canary yellow shirt... "Did she bring you up here?" It has all of the snark of a rhetorical, but a moment later she has an answer, courtesy of Quinzeth. "No. So don't blame her because your dragon is so weird." That sleepy outrage doesn't last long, fading as she really begins to take in A'rist's reaction to a little inconvenience. "What's your problem?"

"I'm supposed to be down there, that's my problem," spits back the crazy as fuck bronzerider. A'rist shoves off the wall, spinning to stare at the greenrider. "That's what you do in flights, you go to the groundweyrs and wait to see if you win or not. That's what you're supposed to do. Supposed to do." And then he's turning, "Scorched dragon!" shouted again. To the bronze who is threatening other contenders with his talons, and very much not listening.

Klohi will risk a peek out to the side, as if the reason for A'rist's insanity is down on the ground. On the very... very far... Taking several steps back, she finds out how wrong her assumptions are with his next words. "Flight!?" A shriek, "Oh gross. Get off!" The finger she's pointing is visible for a split second, before the baggy sleeve catches up with her arm's motion to hang over her hand once more. Unfortunately, Quinzeth realizes that not only can she help Lythronath with his mischief, but cause her own! It's the reason she hasn't appeared to take A'rist where he's supposed to be, instead flying on high and jeering at the chasers. Don't mind the peanut gallery!

A'rist flails his arms a little bit more, a gesture to his surroundings, to the edge of Quinzeth's ledge that doesn't seem to be bothering him the way it does Klohi. "I can't get off!" (It doesn't even register.) "There's no dragons here!" The flopping sleeve, somewhere in all this, has got his attention, and he's glaring at it with all that Lythronian intensity that's been growing since he was first deposited. "And what is wrong with your sleeves?"

Now it's her turn to shriek, "Quinzeth! You get your butt over here right NOW!" Complete with a stomp of her bare foot on the cold stone. When the green doesn't appear, Klohi gives a defeated slump and whimper, "Why me? Why him?" Because of scorched dragons, that's why. A'rist's heated question startles her into straightening up, quickly bunching the extra fabric up at her elbows, "It's comfy." She answers, defensive of the oversized tunic, so much so that it hangs off her shoulder if she doesn't remember to tug it back up. "At least your dragon probably won't win." It's meant to be reassuring. Maybe.

"It doesn't even fit you," A'rist informs her, deadly serious. His head tilts, and he's halfway through stepping forward, thumb and index finger held out like pincers, ready to grab at her sleeves, when she goes and is 'reassuring'. "It's Teisyth's flight." Pincers close on nothing, and he brings his arms to cross over his chest. "He's probably gonna win."

"So? It's not like anyone is gonna..." Klohi's argument dies as her arms cross even tighter over her chest, suddenly self conscious about someone seeing her in her jammies. A'rist step is mirrored, the greenrider easing back as she keeps a close eye on him. "Like he won the one at Fort?" Less reassuring, more biting, spurned on by concern as realization begins to set in. "He BETTER not win," Voice is pitched even higher with panic, "What happens if he wins?!" Hopefully Quinzeth has some sense of mercy if that's the case, but given her view of Teisyth's flight-- the green isn't concerned.

And then, A'rist is looking at Klohi in a whole different way. A wholly animal way, the sort that doesn't bring words or shame along with it, or even, at this point, sound. His lips spread just enough to show some of the white of his teeth before he recognises himself, and takes a deliberate step back. "Nothing," is a decision. "Nothing has to." Even if every inch of him has gone stiff and tense now, as Lythronath dives to block another bronze, dives for the dropping Teisyth.

Klohi's gulp may not be audible, but the pathetic whimper that follows certainly is when she notices how he's looking at her. She inches to the side, only half-hidden for her efforts as one wide eye peeks out at the struggling bronzerider. When her hushed hiss of "Quinzeth-this-isn't-funny-anymore." still doesn't summon her lifemate, there's another mewl from behind the entrance wall. It's a while of staring before she can find her voice, as high and strained as it is, "If- if you need, you can use my weyr. For privacy. Like when we were in the barracks." Because really, who didn't know?

Well, if Lythronath hadn't gone on being so Lythronath about that whole business... At this stage in the game, though, A'rist doesn't even have the common decency to blush. His is a calculating look, pinned on what part of Klohi he can see. But it was there even before she'd made the offer of her weyr. And it stays unchanged after. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he's squaring up to her, to her new location. "He didn't win, you know."

As Lythronath's loss is confirmed by both his rider and her dragon, Quinzeth's smart enough to stay out of reach as she mocks the bronze, « Geez, learn the difference between green and bronze already, will ya? » Klohi steps out of her hiding place, letting out a shakey breath of relief at the news. "Good! I mean, not good. Sorry," Fear can even dull her claws, some, "But good!" Her hands reach up to scratch through the mass of tight curls, appearance unaffected by bedhead. She takes his approach as his accepting her previous offer, turning to lead him into her weyr, "You can find a... corner. Or something." Oh ew.

Somewhere in all that roaring and frustration, Lythronath aims a snap of his jaws in Quinzeth's direction. Even if he's way, way, waaaay too far away to make contact. It's comment enough, thanks. Grump. Rawr. He's gotta go squish something. "Um," says A'rist, coming back to himself even a tiny bit more, with his dragon... well, not unwinding, but shifting focus. "Uh," he tries again, but really it's not much better. And he drops his arms and links his hands conveniently in front of him.

That's all the incentive Quinzeth needs to give Lythronath his space, flying up to perch atop the bubble that shields her ledge like an ever-amused gargoyle. Klohi notices his hesitation, reaching for A'rist's arm and giving it an encouraging tug. "C'mon. I won't, like, peek or anything. Or do you..." Her steps slow, caught between where the couch leads into the weyr proper. "Do you... not need it anymore?" Her inexperience with anything beyond the lectures shows through, brows lowering in confusion. Or is that... concern?

Hippie Hole In The Wall Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

Inside, a very comfortable couch still looking like an upswelling of lava, but rounded out by turns of draconic occupation takes up almost the entirety of one wall. Beyond the couch a short, roughly oval tunnel dives through the rock wall and opens out into a bubble-like space pocked with little niches and pockets that could be used to store a variety of items or place glowbaskets aplenty. At some point, someone painted the walls a cheery pale yellow with swirly reddish designs that stretch up to the ceiling where flecks of quartz glitter in the glow-light like tiny stars. A round braided rug covers the floor in tones of burnt umber and sienna, picking up the warm hues of the walls. Another curl of lava, long-frozen in place rises like a small dais from the floor in one corner, the perfect place for a firm wool-and-cotton mattress. A collection of floor cushions in paisleys and tie-dye are gathered up in one of the large wall niches near the floor, giving the entire room a rather 'groovy' feel.

A'rist's arm tenses when she grabs it; it makes him wobble a bit, with no more give to it. "I..." The vowel drags out, and he goes from that unbroken stare to not looking at her at all in the blink of an eye. "Lythronath won't come get me." Quinzeth will be treated to a satisfied, « Hahaha! » although some of that satisfaction might stem from his making wherries scatter beyond the rim. "Last time was okay, but he was hurt last time." Said to the light beyond the ledge, apparently.

How is A'rist's averted gaze worse than his earlier, unwavering stare? Simple, the former makes her care. "That's okay. It's okay. We can wait. Inside." Where the wind won't bite through her loose sleepwear and her toes can defrost. Klohi's attempt at hospitality has her voice straining, "Quinzeth will get bored with the joke," As that's still what it is to the green, "And she'll let you off." Another tug, wide mouth fighting off a frown, "You're gonna... it doesn't hurt, does it?"

A'rist is sort of nodding, and shaking his head, and not really fully paying attention to Klohi, engaged in some sort of barely-worded conversation with Lythronath, most likely. His feet have started moving, but that last question has his head jolting around, that same interest in the greenrider as before piqued - though without that singlemindedness, and with much more of the bronzerider himself mixed in than the pure instinct of before. Needless to stay, his feet stop moving yet again. "What doesn't hurt?"

There's a little stutter of her feet as A'rist refuses to move once again, Klohi's eyes widening beneath the tendrils of hair that have chosen to hang in her face. Looking like a startled wherry herself, "You. Your... it." The long sleeve flutters as she motions to his lap, and the very real evidence of Lythronath's interest in the flight. Now it's awkward enough that her hand begins to slip from his arm, "It just looks... not okay."

"Faranth, you're looking?" His voice dares a crack, and that arm tries to tighten up even more. Shortly followed by, in different intonations altogether, with one eyebrow even lifting up a little, "You're looking?"

"Well you're looking!" As always, Klohi is quick to argue, though it comes off as less of a snap and more of a whimper. "I-I'm trying to be nice even if it's your stupid dragon's fault and you keep looking at me like that. Like you like me." Perhaps not like-like, but the greenrider isn't in the right mind to define teenage girl-isms right now, "When I know you hate me. So just let me be nice, okay?"

A'rist waves a finger and points, not at himself, not at her, but at that point she just made, which is possibly a spec right in the air sort of in front of them and toward the weyr? "Yeah! His- And if I didn't li- and I don't ha- And I don't think you'd like what I think I'd be like anyway."

Klohi turns away, her bare shoulder angled at him as she reaches over to rub at her upper arm. Staring at the ground, her eyes narrowing against whatever true emotion tries to break through. Finally, in a small voice, "You... don't hate me?" Of course that's the part she chooses to hear.

"No." Stated as if it should be obvious. "Now look - well, don't look, but - look. Lynner'll finish killing wherries soon and I'll just wait until then, okay?" A'rist tries a smile. And also tries to adjust his pants a little bit.

While Klohi 'doesn't look', her lips draw into a thoughtful slant, brows lowering in gradual determination. With all the romance of biting a bullet, she thrusts her hand out to grab his, regaining some of that youthful bite, "Do you want to or not?" That set expression wavers some as she looks up at him, a flicker of something that's quickly masked.

A'rist's smile sort of falls away, replaced with some sort of dawning bewilderment. He looks at Klohi. He looks at her chest. He looks down. And then he looks back at her chest. And then back at Klohi. "Are you talking about me," his other hand makes a pumping gesture, "or you?"

Oh, how quickly does she snatch her hand back, "I meant me!" Klohi is only seconds away from stomping her foot, annoyance failing to fully mask her embarrassment. "Ugh! Sorry I'm not all... Miravea." Whatever that means, although there are obvious differences between the blue and greenrider. At a loss, she stands there, arms beginning to hug herself as she glances at A'rist from under her hair.

"Well then obviously I want to," A'rist fires right back, frustration edging his tones even before that bluerider's name gets dropped. And that? That just makes him clench his teeth up while he leers. Maybe Lythronath has found something else to focus on, other than squishy wherries.

"Well okay then!" Klohi shouts, throwing her arms up so quickly that her long sleeves hover in the air before sliding back down those raised limbs. "Why do you always have to make things so... rrrgh!" Determination rekindled, she stomps both feet in order to close the distance between them. It's when she's there, in front of him, that her hands hover and hesitate, trying to decide on what to do. With something like a wince, Klohi reaches for the evidence of his flight lust-- action far more bold than she looks. "Now c'mon already."

"Mf," says A'rist, who's grabbed at the bit of shirt hanging off her shoulder before he's even really realised it. "Look, I don't think this is what you're thinking it's- uh." And he's scrunching up his nose and tugging at that fabric he's got hold of and pressing toward her and her hand all at once.

"It's what's supposed to happen after flights, right?" Klohi's sarcasm is softened by her curiosity at his reactions, increasing her pressure and watching for more. Weird. With a distracted mumble, "You don't know what I think." Fingers curl up to the waist of his pants, yanking him inside with that earlier insistence. She could probably silence him if the idea of kissing ever occurred to her. Instead they're left free to awkwardly mutter at each other.

"Yeah, sure, for the ones who win, or," throat noise, "the ones who - don't - ung." And somehow he's got a handful of boob. And then he's following. And then he's pushing her, and daring her with, "So what do you think, huh?"

Klohi's sounds aren't meant to discourage, but she's unfamiliar with being grabbed and pushed, adrenaline spiking like any prey animal. His dare is met with a little glare, "I still think it's your stupid dragon's fault." And it's totally not that she's making the same mistake other girls have made countless times before her. The pit of pillows at the floor of her weyr will do, and while it isn't what she was expecting, the greenrider sticks it out until the end.

Maybe he's been bonded to Lythronath long enough now that A'rist can smell adrenaline; can smell it, and likes it. "Well it sharding well serves him right," is, at last, a sort of surrender. That leads to absolutely nothing of the sort. Maybe it's too much like what he was expecting, when Lythronath forces his way into that ledge and shares in his rider's experience - and gets shared by his rider too - and lets Quinzeth in on it during. Maybe A'rist likes that more than he wants to. At least once it's over, he can think straight again.

There's pain. Quinzeth doesn't much like that part, her nightmare realm jagged and booby trapped just in case Lythronath decides to overstep his boundaries. Sharing doesn't trigger them, though the green will sometimes hiss at the bronze, mirroring Klohi's discomfort from inside the weyr. Once it's unmistakably over, Klohi untangles from A'rist to sit up, giving herself enough room to take inventory of herself. Throat hoarse from those high pitched noises that may have only spurned him on, "Your dragon's here."

Hahaha! To the hisses. To the discomfort. To the juicy end. A'rist only assists Klohi's untangling so far as to roll himself onto his back. He doesn't try to bring her in close after, nor to help give her any more room. He just lies there, hands across his abdomen, letting his breathing settle. "Yeah," he agrees to her, far more certain than any words he'd tried previous, "figured he would be."

Settled on top of the stone 'bubble', Quinzeth will hang her long neck down to stare at Lythronath with yellow-flecked eyes. Words quiver through her usual twang, « You can be a real jerk, yanno that? » Klohi's fingers brush where her neck meets her shoulder, digits brought up so she can check for blood. When there is none, she gives a disinterested, "Okay." Naked enough to get the job done, realization sets in as she yanks her tunic back down and sends her hands out to search for her pajama bottoms among the pillows.

On the ledge, Lythronath just snorts, and stretches out. Well, so much as he can, in a space better designed - or suited, if not designed - for smaller dragons. His is nearly the same dopey satisfaction A'rist is working through, his fingers slowly squeezing at one of the pillows he's halfway lying on. "I wasn't sure, but I figured," the bronzerider repeats, and all at once sits up and gives his head a shake, like that might wake him up some. "Guess that's how it's just gonna be, though."

There's wiggling, when Klohi finds her pants, yanking them on but not willing to test her legs to do so. The tension in her shoulders is the same felt from the green outside, Quinzeth not shy about sharing her disappointment. A'rist's voice startles her, hair bouncing at how quickly she turns her head to stare at him. "...yeah." An agreement, even if she doesn't understand what he means. In a quiet mutter, "Just a lot of moving and grunting and..." Those extra bits that are Lythronath's fault, "Whatever." Chances are, they aren't talking about the same thing.

"I tried to-" but never mind. A'rist is getting to be a bit more self-aware, enough to realise there are clothes missing; enough to try and find them, now, first just reaching here and there, next, getting up into a hunter's crouch. It gives him a few moments to gather his thoughts, listening more to his own head than anything else. "You know," is in a totally different voice, the voice of the golden bronzerider - or at least, the bronzerider who tries so, so hard to be that golden boy - "I was meaning to tell you... I'm not from here either. I mean, it wasn't always like home..." Ahah! Shorts.

Fully dressed, if rumpled and feeling different, Klohi returns to looking away. It's not the pointed stare of avoidance, but honest distraction as A'rist hunts for his clothing. It'll take that much longer for his words to register, "What?" Sounding a little more like herself, the greenrider's confusion carries a harsh tone, "What are you even talking about?"

A'rist doesn't seem to mind that he's dressing while speaking to, and looking at, Klohi. Dressing and hunting down clothes, intermittently. "Like... I wasn't born here or anything. We came here when I was just a kid." As opposed to now, clearly. He looks down to fasten his belt, and when he looks back up, summarises: "It made a really bad Keroon, then. It'll probably make just as bad an Ista." A shrug. "But it's okay as High Reaches, you know?"

Since A'rist insists on speaking, Klohi turns in place to watch him dress with brows pinched with faint annoyance. "I don't care about Ista." There's enough bitter feeling in her voice to suggest otherwise, "And I don't care about High Reaches. Nothing here is okay." Especially not now, proven by their moment of rough inexperience and one-sided fumbling. At least it didn't last long, right? Wild hair is even more riled by scratching fingers, frustration and anxiety prompting her to stand on wobbly legs, "You're not staying. Right?" It's more of a demand than a question. "I have to go between. And then take a bath." Which is why she's aimlessly wandering around her weyr under the guise of looking for her leathers and basket of bath-things.

A'rist's lack of believing her shows pretty clearly on his face, in that pause before he tugs on one of the boots he's found. "Just think on it, okay?" Then, his cheeks flush, and he pulls at the second boot much more insistently. "Once I'm gone." He's nearly back to the ledge when he stops and says, "This isn't how it's supposed to be, is it." He might've said it to a stranger, about soup in the caverns, for the distant and haphazard way it's tossed out. And then, he goes. At least now his dragon is here.

Klohi's wandering comes to a halt at his question, eyes drawn up from their unfocused search. Arms spreading uselessly at her sides, those too-long sleeves flutter, "How should I know?" It isn't as if she's an expert. But then he's leaving for real, and the greenrider is all too easily drawn back into her thoughts. Quinzeth's low clicking is a warning to A'rist as he walks out to meet his bronze. The dual hued green is still sitting above the ledge, head angled so that she can aim an accusing eye at the both of them. She's quick to take Lythronath's place when he finally does leave, not that Quinzeth is given any time to make herself comfortable. Klohi meant what she said about that extra preventative measure, and about getting clean. This? This is one bit of juicy gossip she's not going to spread around.