Difference between revisions of "Logs:Elaruth's Sixth Flight"

A dusting of snow has begun to fall from what were clear winter skies, vivid blue traded for a heavy, oppressive white as snowflakes settle on ledges and the floor of the bowl, adding a fresh coat to snowdrifts and dunes frozen and refrozen through colder than cold nights. Elaruth has so far spent the day alone, any male attention /pushed/ firmly away, bronzes and browns foolish enough to try their luck dismissed with a uncharacteristic snap of jaws and low growl, and now she sits next to the waterfall, high on the rim of the bowl, glowing form beacon-like against dark stone. Watching for strangers? Or calling them? Much like her queen, Hattie too has descended past hazy and into a foul, easily-irritated mood, and stands tucked just under the archway of the entryway to the weyrling complex, long leather coat unbuttoned over a low-cut dress, her features visibly flushed. Every so often, she lifts a resentful glare up to her queen, who cares not and her pays her no mind. She doesn't need Hattie's guidance in /this/.

Bijedth has been stalking Elaruth from afar ever since that first shade of glowiness showed up in her usually pale hide. For now he's hunched down on the leader's ledge, watching her like a feline watches a bird in flight. His attention is wholly consumed by her glowing presence, his whirling eyes fixed on her as if her bright hide has hypnotized him. Every nerve is on high alert, his forked tail flicking this way and that and talons digging into the worn stone. N'muir, very much Bijedth opposite at the moment, is attempting to fend off the newest ledge resident - a kitten - from attacking the bronze's flicking tail, the little ball of fur as transfixed with Bijedth's tail as the bronze is with Elaruth.

Out of the wind, beneath the overhang of his weyr, Vhaeryth carefully not-watches Elaruth. Or if he does watch her, it's through the minds of others: a friendly blue who shares an image or two, an elderly brown who's too ancient to chase but who looks upon the senior queen with wistfulness and an almost-memory of his youth, a local bronze who's fairly radiating her image along with I-know-what's-coming I'm-gonna-catch-her you-just-wait. And just as Vhaeryth is careful not to overtly disturb the little queen, so too does he avoid disturbing his rider, fallen asleep in the baths after dawn sweeps. If one of his wingmates is decorating his hair with sweetsand suds, well, maybe N'rov is just getting what's coming to him.

Adiulth has been attentive but not to the point of being obnoxious. He stops just short of that by degrees, even though he's taken to settling just outside of the entrance leading into the dragon sized infirmary. It's nowhere out of place for the bronze. Especially as he's bound to be found there. E'ten, on the other hand, would have rather slept to prepare for the evening sweeps. If not for Adiulth's shake from what would have been an impromptu nap while pouring over hides inside, he would have done so. Instead, he reaches for the mug of klah still hot, for another sip.

Hattie lurches away from cold stone in perfect tandem with her queen, Elaruth's attention snapping from sky to /something else/, orange-eyed gaze swinging down towards the pens as she twists and drops almost too carelessly from her perch, the snap of wings an afterthought compared to her desire to sate her hunger. Her first kill is clumsy, random beast dropped down onto and dragged into one corner seemingly simply in the process of landing. Claws tear at flesh in the same instant that she registers that she /already/ has company in the form of an eager, focused brown, and just as she might lunge for him or for her meal, she stops dead in her tracks, as though pinned. One heartbeat, two... and she latches teeth to the herdbeast's neck. Denied. Hattie has yet to move from the doorway to the weyrling complex, lurking in shadows to /watch/... for now.

Blood on the wind. Vhaeryth stiffens, poised, scenting. And when she stops, he takes to the sky, floating like an outsized (and surely very /special/) snowflake down towards the pens. He gives the brown a companionable-enough growl if a growl all the same, and the first N'rov learns of all this is when he's abruptly choking, sputtering on Vhaeryth's draught of wherry-ichor straight from his first kill's throat. He curses under his breath, once he can get enough breath for it. "Can I just drown myself now?" There's plenty of snickering, but at least someone throws him a towel. Eventually.

Bijedth's entire being twitches, and it's enough to startle the kitten and N'muir. The ball of fur disappears into the shadows of the nearest weyr and N'muir jumps before whirling around to watch Elaruth's progress. Bijedth leans over the ledge as his attention is guided along by gold hide, the spell cast upon him by his queen leading him precariously over the ledge's edge until finally wings flare and he coasts carefully down to the far rim of the feeding pens. Almost as an aside, he drops onto a stampeding herdbeast, sinking talons into flesh. He tears into the creature, eyes watching Elaruth as he buries his nose into the carcass, lifting it only to growl his displeasure at that brown. N'muir scans the Bowl from the ledge, forcing his hands into his pockets to feign passive casual care but can't disguise the line of interest and attention that straightens his posture. It's game time. "Where are you?" he mumbles to himself.

Wroth has managed to mangle one of the herdbeasts into indistinguishable pieces. Really. Blood. Is. Everywhere. The mahogany brown's body is draped in it: his maw, his chest, his claws. It gives him an eerie swirl of decoration and his snarl of warning to the bronze nearest him only adds to the scene of murderous intent. He only takes the time to disembowel one more beast, whatever is nearest when he's thrown his first discarded carcass to the left at /that/ bronze. This is a quick, cleaner, kill and he gulps up the blood while his eyes lock on Elaruth's glowing hide. When she flies up, he'll follow, and stay below the pack to preserve his strength.

One moment he's there. The next? The bronze is already launching from his entrance perch to glide towards the feeding pens with ease. It really isn't that far in comparison. Landing with the intention of getting a clear spot, it's not long before he also angles towards a herdbeast that is running in the wrong direction. It's towards him. A life cut short, the beast has a purpose in lending energy for the upcoming chase. For all that he's herd focused, there's always one eye if not two settled on the smaller queen, no less brilliant though. E'ten gives a jolt the moment that excitement jolts him out of the review of logs of injuries, most of them minor. "I had almost hoped you wouldn't be interested." Meaning his bronze. Alas, who was he kidding, reaching for his jacket with the intention of stepping outside as he turns towards the bowl.

One of the browns in the pen draws Hattie's attention more than the others, a frantic edge to her gaze as she glances around... and around, hurried steps carrying her out towards the pens, until she finds who she's looking for, brown's rider dragging his feet for every step of his journey towards her. "/Stop him/," the Weyrwoman insists, fists clutching at her skirts. "Stop him /now/." G'dreyn lifts mournful, regretful eyes to his lifemate, who... does not listen to him in the slightest and continues to drink from his latest kill. There may be no blood between herself and G'dreyn, but an honorary uncle is still an uncle, these circumstances intolerable. "DAKINTH!" she bellows at the brown, like she might have more impact, no pause for breath made as she adds, "Keep him /on the ground/," in hoarse tones to his rider. The best G'dreyn can do right now, in answer? "Wherever you go, I won't follow." Well, that's something. Elaruth is too busy to take in this exchange, her focus already on her next kill. Radiating frustration, she shoves herself past Bijedth and Vhaeryth, over Wroth's last carcass, angling towards Adiulth in pursuit of her target. She doesn't fight this time. She knows what she needs.

/Past/ Vhaeryth? That's when the young bronze's tongue snakes out on the reach of his long neck, like he'd /taste/ Elaruth as she goes by. Oh, he kills again then, drinks again, but that gesture seems to have whetted a different sort of appetite: he sinks back to his haunches, rumbling, with an eye for the more experienced dragons about him. Even Wroth. And then the queen, of course, he won't forget /her/. N'rov? Mostly dressed, hurrying unhappily through the caverns and trying to get his shirt on at the same time while not dropping his jacket or tripping over his bootlaces. And of /course/ every slow-moving auntie and uncle have to be in his way, this day of all days.

N'muir firmly plants his boots against the stone of the leader's ledge, the first boost of adrenalin making his passivity less convincing with each passing moment. Elaruth's approach lifts Bijedth's nose from the belly of his carcass, his tongue flicking out to lick off blood and fur as he inches back hurriedly to give the queen her space. He's drawn to follow behind her, a moth to her glowing flame. N'muir spots what he's looking for, brows knitting as he squints to see the brownrider. Something about that closeness draws out a senseless need and he is jogging down the stairs from the ledge and clipping carelessly across the precarious half-frozen Bowl in pursuit of Hattie, burrowing dark glares into every male-looking thing he comes across, including E'ten. Perhaps to soften to blow of his expression, he mutters a passing, "hey," before trying to put himself next to Hattie. And hopefully between her and G'dreyn, with a poor attempt at hiding his sudden, unwarranted contempt of the man.

For days now, a certain Benden bronze has been making an unusual number of visits to Fort Weyr with any number of excuses to explain his presence. Today, the dark bronze winks in from between with a small rucksack tied up in his cargo straps. He lingers in the sky circling lazily, calculating the situation in the Feeding Pens before coasting down to land outside of the pens to watch intently from the sidelines. His rider dismounts and begins untying his armful of cargo before unbuckling the rig itself and dragging it off of his bronze. A strapless dragon is a faster dragon. The man rips off his head gear, a mop of wild red hair brighter than the Benden knot on his shoulder tossing about in the wind. Were it not for the wrinkles just beginning to plume from his smiling blue eyes, he might get away as a man younger than his thirty-some Turns. He throws an impish smile at Hattie and her growing crowd of suitors. "'Looks like we're just in time."

The Fortian junior that remains is, as ever, reluctant to leave the Weyr- as the intensity of Elaruth's flight washes over Fort, there's a sense of resistance from Isyath, though it fades minutes later and the stars vanish from Fort, leaving her dam to claim the skies of the Weyr. (Isyath to all Fort dragons)

With the first kill being discarded, the carcass being flopped over to one side as if it really didn't matter. It's the presence or rather clear path that Elaruth makes in his direction that at least brings his attention front and center to the queen. It's not supposed to happen this way. Her seeking him but who is he to complain. Then again, anything can happen. It likely does, only it's something that E'ten spots as he makes his way across the bowl with one arm firmly in one sleeve and the other joining the emptyness of his jacket. In time to see N'muir's glare - that he doesn't find himself worried about. And the arrival of a red-headed rider that he clearly doesn't know. Even if he's been on errand duty lately. That one is the recipient of a darkening look. Foreign riders usually are the easier targets, especially now.

G'dreyn just looks all the more miserable as time wears on, something grateful in his gaze when he glances over at the short distance between himself and N'muir. "Take her away," he asks lowly, for it's all too clear that Dakinth has no intention of being dragged out of the proceedings now, brown poised to spring, whenever that moment arrives. The brownrider himself begins to stalk off in the direction from which Hattie appeared, hastening towards the empty weyrlings barracks as the first point of shelter. The Weyrwoman herself lifts a hand to try and latch a grip on his elbow, fingers curling like she'd dig her nails through layers of clothing. Help. Hattie has a snarl and vicious little grin for that Benden rider, inviting him to, "Come and get it then," right as Elaruth abandons her latest kill and twists a look back at her own flank. Was she /licked/? She'll figure that out later. For now, it's to the skies, unnatural (for her) bellow of challenge echoing around the bowl walls. Up, up she goes, almost on a trajectory with those very walls, vanishing into the blank canvas clouds. And on the ground, another voice, a feminine one: "Looks like frequenting your bar has paid off." Brunette, Ista-knotted, and so very, very smug.

As Vhaeryth glances upward, briefly distracted from his Elaruth-stalking, N'rov gets just enough fine-motor control to be able to actually /tie/ his laces, in hard, deft knots: if he still winds up tripping, at least he won't have them to blame. He makes it to the mouth of the caverns and stares out at the falling snow, head turning this way and that, and then abruptly he clutches at the wall because Elaruth's going up and so is Vhaeryth, slowed for seconds by his distraction but endeavoring to catch up all the same. The foreign dragons don't seem to register on his radar. Yet. It's enough to get airborne, to get to /sky/ at last.

N'muir lets jealousy consume him, whether it's his own or Bijedth's doesn't matter as he throws a scowling look at G'dreyn. But there is more than just G'dreyn to concern himself with. There is the Bendenite, and now the Istan, and a growing flock of other bronze- and brownriders crossing the Bowl and staring at either Elaruth or Hattie. N'muir reaches for Hattie, trying to claim her arm, her wrist; any part of her in /his/ grip, as if holding onto her now might make some difference up above. "The cave." It's not a suggestion but he waits all the same for her answer while Bijedth launches himself after Elaruth. Bijedth isn't taking it easy; he's right on her tail, almost colliding with a young bronze with the same idea, but sparing no energy to yell his displeasure.

It doesn't take long before Adiulth launches to the skies. He really knew things were too good to be true. It's with the discarded carcass left behind that he takes to the chasing of Elaurth in the wintery skies, leaving his rider to follow but one thing's clear. He's not reaching for Hattie. Not with all those in her immediate presence but like the rest, he's following. Willing, in a manner of speaking.

As Elaruth exchanges land for skies, Hattie's eyes fall closed and her head lolls right back as if she might be about to fall backwards in a dead faint, if not for N'muir's support of her. She stays like that, lost in her queen, sense fading all too quickly now; too quickly to make it across to her weyr, but as her worry or frustration rises, so in turn does Elaruth's anger, and so the goldrider struggles to be free and take unbalanced steps that lead to her staring at E'ten. "Not me too," she tells him, whether she means to let that thought slip out or not. The cave. The cave. Where's the cave? Somewhere around here, and so she just starts walking, steps weaving. High above, Elaruth is still pushing up through the clouds without levelling out much at all, trying to pull herself just out of reach of her suitors. She's not ready yet. She's not. But if she /doesn't/ level out soon, it could be a very short flight.

There's a faltering procession making its way towards the feeding pens, or rather towards the riders belonging to the other dragons who just vacated the feeding pens, some of the laggards calling out to each other or maybe it's to Elaruth's rider to answer, to tell them where she is so they can /get/ her. N'rov's just one of the people trudging through the snow, though he's grimly silent. He grimaces, once, as Vhaeryth snarls at another bronze who's slowed down just in front of him, so he'll have to work at going around if he wants to make up any ground. Elaruth's up there, even if he can't see her as well as he'd like. He has to go /up/. But first... /out/, heading in the direction that's closest to hers, closer to level than she.

AND UP! Up! Up! Wroth continues to push himself forward and fights between two of the foreign bronzes. « Stay away, scum! » His storms are a swirl of anger as he snarls a challenge. Other males may tempt the golden beauty above with sweet words, light, fluff, any manner of things to draw her attention. Not Wroth. He's too focused on the competition right now. And making them drop out. Or falter. So he dips his wing down and banks hard to the right to slam into another male. Ah-ha! Take that!

N'muir's grip on Hattie tightens, his other arm instinctively looping around her waist. "Hattie?" There's a thread of concern in his voice, and it sobers his mood as worry takes the forefront to second-hand emotional infections from the sky-borne Bijedth. His hand on her tries to give the Weyrwoman's body a firm shake to bring her back, his grip on her tightening for a brief, selfish moment as she pulls away. Sense prevails and he lets her go, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He'll let her lead. Bijedth doesn't concern himself with who is next to him, brother, cousin, father, or stranger. Elaruth is the only light he sees and where she goes, he will follow as if his very life depends on her being near; being /his/. Now, forever, always. He's nudged out of place by one, two, three other smaller, quicker dragons, and struggles not to lose ground to a fourth.

From the depths of a pale cloud, a small bronze figure emerges and darts in with the rest of the pack, trying to use his smaller stature to wing his way past bigger bronzes and browns. Wait, bigger /browns/? His efforts are clumsy and unskilled, a kick aimed here and the flick of a tail there, wingtips brushing too close to others. As he earns the rake of talons in response to his own delivered injuries, he roars out his anger, attention settling squarely on the bronze who dares to draw /his/ ichor. Lashing out, his attacking is poorly-timed, and results in a tangle of wings from which both parties struggle to free themselves. The awkward little bronze doesn't even seem to know what he wants (or how to achieve it, anyway), busy shoving himself away from the other bronze to blindly fling himself after Elaruth.

To Elaruth, Bijedth is nothing more than a quiet, tender kiss and a whisper: « Love, you cannot go /up/ forever. There is only so much sky. » His usual thunderstorms are held back; /everything/ is held back but that voice, as if afraid for his sensitive mate to feel the storm within him and unwilling to trust himself to give her even a taste of it. And then he's gone, swiped away like a stroke of that little, strange bronze's talons.

"What?" He doesn't really expect an answer but it brings E'ten closer to Hattie and N'muir by extension, eyes focusing more intently on the former even as he tries to puzzle out that statement. Not that it's a long lasting attempt on his part. Not when there are distractions, even if the Weyrwoman is a lure to keep him going in that direction, dragon influenced as it were. Adiulth tries to use his smaller size to get past a couple of larger dragons that stand between him and Elaruth. But it's not beyond a threatening rumble to a couple of unfortunate passerby. At this point, it doesn't matter if it's bronze or brown.

To Bijedth, Elaruth answers not in words, but in the heat of the pale sun no longer cloaked by mists, the tang of salt and the brush of brittle reeds, all so close to burning up and collapsing in on itself. She's going to keep going, she's going to keep going, she's going to... And she's gone.

A terrible, shrieking bellow seems to rend the sky even before the lightning-pop of the new arrival -- battle-cry foreign to these parts; this wretchedly colored brown not a familiar haunt in the Fort skies. Lacing through them now with a borrowed fervor, tail cracking, he snacks into the pack of pursuers, powerful hind-legs kicking at an Istan contender like the other were no more than a gnat; something to be squashed. To the whirl of his angular eyes, the bullying lights as much glee as chasing -- preying. As snapping to an angle too deft for his size and then careening back into the fray. For his appearance, no stumbling rider below. No late attendance aching to push in, mirror that rush and cram after a group full of drastic, shifting needs. Just this hulking brown, natural in the sky, but deranged of purpose. Upon finding Elaruth, he pushes off of another dragon for momentum, claws raking indiscriminately.

Hattie must assume that all will follow, even if the first time she tries to tries to find the flight cave, she finds the entryway to a different ground weyr instead, what remains of sense spinning her about and to the next weyr over. The cruder things called after her make her pause, weight thrown against stone to support her in the weyr's entryway as she insists that they, "Go fuck yourself!" Not the /best/ time to be throwing that idea out there. She stumbles inside, disappearing, as above Elaruth begins to struggle to fight /higher/ and so is forced to let momentum do its work and level her out, coasting as she loses speed and swoops back to life with a clattering roar. She'll let them fight it out and see who's left; be the first and final challenge. Yet even in the rush of flight, her sensitivity demands that anything off-kilter be addressed, and so she peers back at those who pursue her, a passing acquaintance with even foreigners made over the past few sevendays. But that bronze? That brown who rakes another? She flees.

As she levels out, Vhaeryth takes advantage of having done much the same, and sooner, now that he's past the dragon who'd blocked him before. He re-ascends in the echoes of her roar, that seeming invitation, bugling back... except now that there's yet another, and it just doesn't seem to make a difference whether this one's been raked or kicked at or shoved when it's plummeting towards the earth and threatening to take him with it. N'rov, cursing, pauses to catch his breath and then takes on a new direction as Vhaeryth himself swerves, the bronzerider following the rest of the procession towards the flight cave. Finally. If he even makes it over the threshold.

Below, behind, removed - that's Wroth's strategy this flight. He's maintained his strength by staying behind the pack, letting the others throw themselves faster and higher than he. He can't hide his delight when one of the other browns drops out of the flight, exhaustion taking its toll as the brown slowly heads towards the ground in defeat. But not Wroth! No! He's still moving up and now he gathers what remains of his strength to push himself forward and make a dash to catch up with the rest of the group.

A window is created by that wretched brown, the dragon he wounded falling behind and giving Bijedth an opening to throw himself through. He pushes higher and higher, swaying a little wide in effort to escape the damage inflicted by that brown and bronze. He struggles to stay in Elaruth's wake, battling for space with endless pairs of wings and talons. Chaos is setting in all around, those injured and falling out of the race creating obstacles for those fighting to stay in - and stay safe. N'muir follows Hattie mindlessly, getting caught in the entranceway of the weyr shoulder-to-shoulder with N'rov. He glares at his wingmate, trying to shove him back as if the order in which they enter the room is somehow telling to their success - Bijedth's success - up above. He's too caught up to care that a little patience could free them. Someone from behind calls forward, presumably for Hattie when he says, "Fuck myself? I didn't come all the way from Benden to fuck myself. I'd rather you did!" Which for some reason earns N'rov an even harder shove from N'muir.

That's dangerous! It's not something Adiulth will call out but it's only due to his size and the quick duck behind another dragon that he's spared being hit or clipped by another dragon that's come almost out of nowhere. That sound from above isn't a good thing, not when there's mass carnage - injury that comes in the bronze's wake. Or ahead. But he'll have to squeeze past those who are competing. Some with a turn of his head. Others with a loud enough rumble in warning. He still needs his strength and intimidating other dragons isn't going to help him in the long run. As for his rider? He's near enough to feel the ripples of the shove that draws E'ten's brows higher towards them before he tries to get out of the cluster of other riders. It's just as bad up in the skies.

The little bronze is looking all the more like one who doesn't have a plan. He nose-dives after a brown just bigger than him, teeth bared, intent on /shoving/ him out of the way to claim his spot, but he misjudges the angle and its he himself who winds up being thrown off-course. He shrieks out his frustration in a distinctly less than masculine or grown-up fashion, angered all the more by the bronze who clips his left side as he overtakes him. Thrown about, it takes him a bit to get his bearings, then he's following that invisible thread again, mindless of who is in his way.

She flees? Fantastic! Elaruth has made a beacon of herself that the unknown brown kicks off towards, leaving his long, mismatched forelegs draping down, ready to swipe any who come for vengeance after being knocked around by his entrance. Wings beat -- hard, and then lazy, and then swift again, showing -- though he flies deftly -- a lack of coordination when it comes to decisions. Fight, or flight, or fight the flight. Noise turns his hard-angled head, head-knobs like spikes cutting the air and, all at once, he twists like a snake and drops, aiming not after the gold but the ignorant dragon who dared bully the little bronze, hind-legs dropping and kicking.

Is it out of habit that Hattie keeps track of numbers, struggling as she is? "...Two, three, four..." she murmurs, swaying as she pads around in an uneasy circle. "Five..." And on she goes, until it's back to, "...One, two..." Something doesn't add up. "Who are you!?" she demands, casting her dark, unfocused gaze around at the riders in her weyr. "Who do you belong to?" Are these her thoughts or Elaruth's? "Well?" Reaching out to the Istan brownrider as she passes her by, she latches onto her shirt to try and drag her down to her, face a mere inch from hers. "You? ...No." But with her so close, the brownrider gets the kiss that she goes for, and more besides, her hands dropping to her hips to haul her nearer. Will Hattie even remember the first time she's kissed a woman? Could it be that Elaruth drifts a little to favour that Istan girl's brown? Or is she slowing to evaluate all of those who pursue her? There's Vhaeryth and his answering bugle... Where is he? She calls again - to all, or to /him/? Maybe Adiulth has shown enough in not being injured so far...

Wroth's small stature is his ultimate undoing. He's come a lot further and lasted longer than the bets placed on him had ever anticipated. His wings just can't keep up the chase any longer. In a howl of fury he swipes at a brown below him when he finally dips his head and begins his plummeting descent back to the ground. Thwarted!

Bring it! Well, maybe not at first: caught off-guard, N'rov hits the side of the entrance with a leathery thud, and he'll feel those bruises later. Right now , though, adrenaline's overpowering momentary confusion or anything resembling good sense (echoed by Vhaeryth, up there in the skies, who's bypassed the little bronze-who-should-know-better with as much triumph as though he'd been Llofruddiaeth's size) and rather than retort back to the rider behind them, when N'muir shoves him that second time, he reaches one-handed for the other man's coat: the better to haul him in with his own momentum, and then aim a fist at the senior rider's cheekbone. Or nose. At this point, it doesn't much matter. But of course, that's when Vhaeryth bellows in pain as the unknown brown's claws graze his flank, and twists in his own right to snap at the brown's descending wing and savage it if he can.

The difference in stature might come to Adiulth's benefit, but it's going to be a lot of work for E'ten in the upcoming days. Mending this. Stitching that. But as the dragon gets closer whether by his attempts or the thinning of the crowd around her, it's all about how he can close the gap. Any spots that can be used to his benefit without injury. He can't court a queen if he's injured, can he? But the fighting is fierce in the space that has followed them from the ground. But there is a bugle. He's there. There's another injured dragon to contend with. Whether or not she has to look for him is another matter. E'ten half-steps and half-stumbles to one side until his hand touches the cool wall of the weyr as he takes note of the near or was that a punch thrown from N'rov to N'muir?

Slowing? Is Elaruth slowing? There is no time to /think/, just react. Bijedth seizes on an uncertain opportunity, dodging bronze, brown, Vhaeryth, pushing off another brown that veers too close. If he's fatigued, he won't show it now. He drives ahead, forward, devouring the air with his windsails, bloodied nose stretching towards gold hide. It all happens so quickly: one second N'muir is shoving N'rov, the next N'muir is staring at Hattie and the Istan as if he is having difficulty deciding whether to let them play it out or disrupt the fun-time on account of the Istan being (among a long list of things) an opponent, leaving him very suddenly and very appropriately open for N'rov's attack. Then, he's getting a fist to the forehead. It's just not fair! Instinctively, he reaches for the front of N'rov's shirt to not just shove but /shove/ with all his might. And then he looks back at Hattie and the Istan.

The carnage is beginning to become distasteful for one who must choose or be subdued by one of the brawling males: why isn't there a clear winner yet? Surely they should have fought it out to its completion by now? None of them will be in any state to capture her if this goes on, and Elaruth of course demands all eyes on /her/ for this one time, veering to double back and /up/ into denser clouds once again. She glances down as she goes, waiting to see which of them make it through the change of direction without crashing into each other, to continue to the chase, her attention for them and them alone. She might even be close enough to brush against Bijedth as she goes, in invitation or challenge. Just that little bit further. Meanwhile, Hattie is in serious danger of losing her dress, the Istan's hands sliding straps down her arms until the goldrider reluctantly shoves back at her, steadied by a foreign bronzerider as she stumbles in against E'ten, dress held up by willpower alone. Hello.

Being shut out by a bronze and brown pair does away with the last of the little bronze's efforts to follow after Elaruth, too exhausted and confused to struggle on. They don't get away unscathed, his frustration vented with the rake of claws across flanks before he plummets through the skies with a thin wail of disappointment. It's impossible to tell just /where/ he lands or where he's headed, white closing in around him as he drifts back down to the ground. Does he go Between? No-one stumbles from the flight cave, reacting to /his/ loss.

Coarse wingsail banking out of Vhaeryth's grasp has less to do with the brown's battle prowess as that, abruptly, he's wrecking his own flight-path. Dual instincts warring as much as the males in the air; he gnashes his teeth around the open air he's projected himself into, but it's almost thoughtful, as his jaw mashes down. Wings pumping, he skates backwards, up, sideways, snaking again, but this time //out//. Above. As he whisks to the higher of the pack, he flips his tail at the males below mockingly: an insult salute. Suckers. But he narrows in on Vhaeryth with a gleam of his whirling eyes, and there's a glisten of red across near black as he flies; maybe that chomping wasn't //so// off-course after all. As Elaruth blows by the group, rising like he did prematurely, he nearly takes after- but at the last second, swerves, violently tossing his own self off and into the strange whence from which he came. As fast gone as he arrived.

What with Vhaeryth's sudden wrath, N'rov's taken enough aback that N'muir doesn't just shove him against the wall but sends him staggering back, smack into the small clot of riders just behind them. That's one way to clear an entrance! Scrabbling ensues, along with a bronzerider's aspersions upon N'rov's mother. Or maybe it's N'muir's. One of them, a brownrider whose dragon is caught up in another duel, mutters an oath and gives up, N'rov... N'rov does eventually find his footing, with the unwilling help of yet another whose jacket he clutches, this time as a ladder instead of a brace for a blow. He mutters under his breath and pushes off to lean against the stone just outside of the entrance, the snow falling on him, cooling him. He's barely gotten a glimpse of Hattie and her dress, if that. His eyes close. Vhaeryth strives to rise and intercept Elaruth, but he's slowed, not by taunting but perhaps by delay, perhaps by his rider's own clenched-fist demand.

A little to the left. A little to the right. It's not until Adiulth finds an opening that he loops slightly outside of the pack in an attempt to follow Elaruth. Only there's Bijedth too. At least it's becoming clear who he has to get past. A thought that E'ten may or may not necessarily agree with in other times. Speaking of, it's E'ten's momentarily surprised expression that Hattie might see. If only because he didn't think that he'd be face to face with her. Not after the turn with the Istan brownrider. Instinctively, his hands rest lightly on her shoulders if the passing visit lasts long enough in an attempt to place the straps a bit higher. It's the closest that he might get to getting a feel of the goldrider's... shoulders. At least, there's a good attempt of steadying her but somewhere he knows that a well placed kiss is not wise.

She veers and that brief brush is fuel to Bijedth's fire. He fights to claim her then and there but he's too late or she's too quick, and he's left chasing after her once again. As the weaker dragons drop out or fall back, Bijedth fights exhaustion to keep on Elaruth's tail, reaching for her, stretching the boundaries of his strength to /have/ her. Will Adiulth out fly him? Out-maneuver him? N'muir takes a step toward Hattie, his focus on her broken by the sudden awareness of E'ten. How long had he been there? N'muir lifts a hand to his head and looks back for N'rov - no. He steels his focus forward, on Hattie, on Elaruth, on /them/, and takes another step forward.

Surely, if she remembers enough, Hattie will appreciate E'ten's kindness. That she repays it by hands dropping in quest of his waistband, well, that, she'll probably not want to recall. Nor that she leans in like she'd deliver a kiss to his lips, despite her earlier protests. She's stalled by her queen and the nearness of Bijedth; the nearness of N'muir suddenly realised as she reels back from E'ten, lost in the skies as Elaruth /twists/ and reaches for Bijedth with a certainty that Hattie matches in her lunge for his rider. Decision made, fingers curl in a grip to secure him as much as gold twines with bronze. Anyone not wanting an eyeful had better leave quick: she's not going to wait any longer, Fort's leadership secured again just like that.

Some small thing to be grateful, now that all's said and just about all done: not yet into the cave, N'rov can escape, at least the remains of the flight if not the dragon whose mind is tangled up in his. Vhaeryth rumbles, shouders into yet another loser /just because/, and leans into his descent.

Everyone says that no good deed goes unanswered. Only, did anyone expect this sort of repayment? E'ten certainly didn't, being far more responsive to the roaming hands and the kiss that almost happens. Almost. Almost like nearly catching a gold almost. Because once the rider begins leaning in, it's when the shock from Adiulth kicks in to tell him that she chose someone else. When he was so /sure/ that he was going to win. Disappointed but enough to wing down to the bowl, it's just the right bit of figurative cold water to get the rider half pushing away from the wall abruptly but towards the bowl.

Bijedth takes hold of Elaruth and gladly spreads his sails wide to carry them out over Fort. N'muir reaches with one hand, preparing to pull E'ten away from Hattie at the same moment she lunges. He staggers back couple steps as wings and tails up there translate into hands and feet down here, and N'muir's arms wrap around her familiar figure and pull her into him to deliver fierce passion without delay. Fort's Weyrleader is definitely not dead.