Difference between revisions of "Logs:Ysavaeth's Maiden Flight"

A series of beautiful days have continued into this one, the lunch hour ending and people returning to their jobs at a leisurely pace. The clear skies and light breezes that permeate the Weyr have created a climate of redolent relaxation, one that even the Headwoman doesn't seem to mind as she indulges in a post-meal walk, stepping past a pair of bronzeriders tending to their dragons and keeping a watchful eye towards the queens' ledges, and then a group of stonecutters, on their yearly (or thereabouts) inspection of the Starstones. On her ledge, Ysavaeth sleeps, or makes good pretense of it, even as her emotional state seems to ripple tangibly through the very breezes that dance across the Reaches.

But while warmth and sunshine beckon most Weyrfolk out into the bowl, Iolene sits in a corner of the cold storage cavern, somewhere between two strung up pieces of aging, dried pork, head tucked between her knees. She's been here most of the day since pre-sunrise as any one of the kitchen staff on duty might know, and any attempts to dislodge her form her safe place have been shrugged or kicked away. People have learned to give the non-weyrwoman goldrider of Reaches a wide berth today and many knowing clucks sent her way only have bolstered her foul mood.

The keenest of the maleriders have long since kenned onto what's happening; Taikrin, with her experience in goldflights, is one of them. And, since Taikrin knows what's going on, so must Riorde. The two of them have been together since lunchtime, lingering on the garden patio ledge outside the Snowasis long after finishing their meal. There's a sharp tension in Taikrin: she can't help flirting across the table with Riorde, but her girlfriend is also soon-to-be /competitor/, and some primal part of her -- and Szadath -- knows it all too well. For his part, Szadath has set up shop just beyond the ledge of Iskiveth's old weyr. The hulking brown is quiet -- too quiet -- as he watches Ysavaeth's ledge with uncanny focus.

If K'del were sensible, he might have hied away earlier today, keeping Cadejoth - and himself - out of trouble. If he were smart, he'd be at Southern, by now, or Ista, or anywhere at all that isn't his own Weyr. He's not smart, though, and he's not sensible: he's here, hanging out with Cadejoth on their ledge that is not so far from Ysavaeth's, the Weyrleader flipping distractedly through reports, the bronze's tail shuddering against the sun-warmed stone. "We're just here to support her," K'del is warning his dragon, one hand pressed flat against green-bronze hide. "Know what she's trying to do, but we're just-- just here for that."

Riorde's settled into a still, on-edge watchfulness as the day progresses, her and Sforzath both-- and, of course, his ledge overlooking the queens' ledges has proved the perfect place for her brown to sit on stake-out while Riorde smiles at Taikrin's jokes in a preoccupied, not terribly amused sort of way. She completely fails to flirt back. Fails to do much, really, except watch and wait.

Rhazekth just wants to know why the hell there's so many dragons stalking Ysavaeth. That's why /he's/ here, /and/ why he made Emme come with him. Gold rising to mate? Yeah, uhm. He's in for a surprise when he gets here and catches on. He's not dumb, really. He's just been focusing on other things! So he hunkers down nearby, tail swishing a lazy pattern while he waits. (And Emme tries to bang her head against something. But since it's just Rhaz there, it doesn't knock her out. Sad.)

A'zand certainly doesn't know why he's still here, either -- perhaps it's some sort of willing oblivious nature, but his bronze Guivreth has been refusing to let Ysavaeth entirely out of his sight all day. His rider, a mere twenty turns old despite having been a rider for five turns at least, lingers in the bowl giving his lifemate a rather dirty look. "What," he snaps. "Are you doing. Let her be -- she's one of those, you know. We can't have that. Be a part of that." But Guivreth cares not for A'zand's loyalty to his original home of River Bend, and he cares not for his rider's opinions or prejudice today. He cares for High Reaches. He cares for her. Ysavaeth.

M'temr is a man who knows that the worthwhile endevors take planning and patience. Sheltered from the sun by the shrubs which surround him, he lounges, almost bored despite the squealing young weyrgirls splashing in the lake. A sight that would normally delight is humdrum in comparison to the prize promised later today. Scoloth is much the same, though he's far on the otherside of the weyr, right beneath Ysavaeth's ledge. The skeletal bronze is has curled in on himself against the rocky base, hugging into the sun-warmed stone as he keeps watch. Soon. Crrk. Soon.

Upon his own low, stairs-accessible ledge, a gray-muzzled old bronze doesn't do much watching, seeing as how his whirlng eyes glazed by cataracts... but he's sniffing the wind anyway, as though Ysavaeth's promised heat could warm even his old bones. His rider, smarter than K'del yet anything but speedy, has given up eyeing him and is limping along to get his straps, muttering, "I thought you were past that. Break your heart, she will."

Leisure in the sunny day has cuffed M'sar, who -- despite rumors -- is out in that sun, looking, for all appearances, like the heavy cloud of knowing that touches other riders can't find him. In the confident grip of his hand, he holds a piece of fruit to occasionally bite at, enjoying the dribble. But if his gait is no indication, then his eyes are the betrayers. Wary, and narrow, they stare endlessly not at some lazy horizon but the warm, Sands-heated ledge where Kushvetath waits, out of sight, a lurking but invisible beast in a cave with a keen eye for spying. Biding. Keenly tuned, M'sar looks down after long minutes to scope the nearby bowl around a particularly careless bite.

Miracle of miracles, Taikrin turns away the waitress who tries to bring her her customary pint of afternoon beer, turning her too-bright grin on the young woman. "Gotta keep my head in the game, you know? Ri, you thirsty?" Her question is too-casual, her smile too-lazy-- butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, no sir.

Ysavaeth's tail slides off the side of her ledge, swinging with particular grace - a luminous, golden beacon towards those who stalk her ledge. And while for all accounts, she appears to be sleeping, those triple lids of pale gold firmly shut, the cadence of those breeze ripples has quickened and for dragonkind at the Weyr, a distinct bell-like clanging sounds a cacophonic melody that crescendos with every passing minute. Greens, browns, blues, bronzes, golds. Perhaps it's even in Iovniath's mind, so far away by now, in a distinctly loud manner. But it's in the cold storage caverns that a low groan emanates and a sharper breath sends a cloud of white towards the ground as Iolene exhales. "I should've punched myself for asking to Stand, I should punch K'del for letting us. How stupid. You're being stupid you know." Not that riders talking to themselves (or their dragons) is new in a Weyr, it still garners bemused looks from an assistant headwoman cataloguing how much rice grains are left.

And then, without warning, she's off, wings flung wide to the air, canting them to brush past the heads of pair of bronze dragons too close to her ledge, nearly slicing into them (oh, if only her pinions were sharper), descending quickly into the feeding grounds and dispatching her first and second kills with two swift swipes of her white gold arakh talons.

Riorde rousts herself out of her own mind, briefly glancing away from the dragons gathering in the bowl to look at Taikrin. She smiles, yes, but she's shrewd where Taikrin is lazy. "We're alright," she answers, unintentionally dropping into the plural. "Just water'd be fine." Sforzath heeds the bells like they were a summoning, tensely crouched until he drops off his own ledge altogether to follow his sister, leaving heavy, pungent traces of incense snaking behind him in his wake.

Cadejoth's tail twitches. In K'del's head, he's made of sparks and shivering, lingering metal, winding tighter and tighter until their bond is a single quivering line that binds them closer and more deeply than ever. Ysavaeth's reach pulls him sharper than a harp-string, and must be instantly obvious to K'del - K'del, who notices no one, but straightens instantly in the wake of that crescendoed call. The young Weyrleader stands, stretching with the stiffness of one who has been sitting, 'working' for quite some time. He makes no move to go anywhere else - but now, at least, he's given up even the pretence of his distraction. As Ysavaeth, so nearby, launches from her ledge, so too does Cadejoth: he's behind her, not able to pre-empt her movements, but he's there nonetheless, dropping soundlessly into the pens.

Scoloth scrambles at the sight of that deliciously delicate dangling tail, claws cutting into the rocky wall as if attempting to skitter up the side. She flies! Wings are folded and forgotten against his back as the bronze moves with a frightening fluidity, as if he had more than just his two legs to propel him towards the feeding grounds. There's a shriek from those poor unsuspecting girls as M'temr reveals himself, bursting from the bushes and heading straight for the young gold's weyr. The lanky rider is not used to physical activity, made obvious by his awkwardly high knee pumps and bony arms tucked firmly into his sides.

"If you say-- oh." Whatever Taikrin had been about to comment on is lost, as are all pretenses of lazy ease. She sits up ramrod straight as Szadath comes to full attention, then develops a thousand yard stare as he takes off in a flashy show of dustclouds and bellowing to make his own kill in the nearby pens. "I-- we-- go. We have to go." Only Riorde, and only if she's paying attention, might notice the subtle signs of panic lacing through Taikrin's resolve: the fingernails digging into her palm, the lines of tension crinkling her eyes, the stilted way she straggles out of her chair. "Let's go?"

Nerveless, Emme drops down from her perch on Rhazekth, keeping a tidy distance away from anyone and everyone else that's gathered. No, she just nods once in seeming acknowledgement of something that only she can hear. And then, her own lifemate shifts like rippling sand dunes into the action. One moment on the ground, and the next pouncing an unsuspecting animal in the pens.

The poor old bronze's rider hasn't even finished the last buckle by the time Ysavaeth goes up, and caught within her reverberating wake, the pair falter. The man tries again, and again he fails. Finally he swallows, summoning the same determination that had let him fly Thread for so long and survive, and clicks it home just as his dragon falters into flight. He'd like to chase, he would, his thoughts grumble and rumble after the young queen... but they've learned to be conservative, and not far off the ground, he disappears. And, somewhere else, reappears. There's no keening for him, none mourning but his own wistful loss, and his rider stays with him, aided by a long pull from his long-ago polished flask.

Guivreth is on the move at Ysavaeth's siren; he's slow and cautious, but not so soundless and effortless as Cadejoth. He follows, he watches, he moves to blood with awkward grace, swiping up a herdbeast and felling it with a quick slash and a suck on the neck. His A'zand looks sick, and trying to hold himself back, fists balled until there's blood on his palms. He does not. Want. Her. Not that woman, that girl, that -- but no. He can't fight it, not really. He's not strong enough to fight that pull. Much as he hates it, much as he forces Guivreth to know every second he's in the air that he hates it, he goes.

Two beasts down, but only one blooded, the crimson staining Ysavaeth's maw as her head lifts just inches above the carcass to observe her would-be suitors. A predatory gleam only now enters her jeweled eyes as it skips from Szadath to an arriving Rhazekth then lifts to the bronze-that-got-away; and it's that last that elicits a snarl from the normally, publicly, benevolent young queen and it's towards him that the bell-like beckon clangs just a bit louder for two beats before leaving his old mind abruptly cold and bereft of her overheated sunlight. And in the weyr where Iolene should be, there's no one but a drudge hurriedly finishing up her afternoon cleaning and hoping to steal out before the masses arrive.

Fire is born where there was nothing; Kushvetath, a streak of reddish, flaked bronze hide, with claws furled at ledge's edge to propel him with a snap of wings-- an instant's looming monster o'er the bowl, projecting his shadow over the Weyr-- before that's all that's left of him, and he's plunged, plundering, into the pens. Relish in the kill, in the quiet, confident stalk, and a bold echo of pride at the manner of Ysavaeth's claw-filled exit that smoothes the mind's field around him like snake oil. Fire, too, on M'sar's heels, calling him to task with a stuttered step he grimaces over, flushes; he bites his lip till it's gone. And there's red fruit juice soaking down his chin. Then, suddenly, he moves, with too easy speed.

"Oh--Iolene," Riorde breathes out in a way utterly different from the usual fond amusement. She's out of her chair in a flash, hardly paying Taikrin enough attention to register her words, let alone answer. Riorde makes her way down from the garden patio ledge at a run, reckless with the stairs, and abandons the other brownrider to catch up-- or not. In the pens, Sforzath's a storm of activity to make up for the tense silence that he's held himself in all day, an eruption waiting to happen. Darting at an animal seconds as a coy feint at Ysavaeth, testing out her mood and the limits of her forbearance.

[Iolene] You dare? There's no words from the verbal queen, so skilled at coaxing meanings from words that shouldn't necessarily be there. But now, the unvocalized sentiment weighs in heavy steam clouds in Sforzath's mind. (to Riorde)

Two of the first riders to arrive crowd the entry to the weyr, one stopping short while the other crowds in, calling glassy-eyed, "Iolene! Iolene!" and rushing towards the poor drudge with his arms held out. "That's not her, you idiot!" the other man yells, but only gets, "You're trying to trick me!"

M'temr's awkward gait does nothing to lessen the ground he's covered, driven by his long developed hunger for the untouched exotic queen. Phantom warmth fills his belly as Scoloth nurses on his fresh kill, jaws far too long and warped; mandibles made for the task of bleeding the beast dry. There's a nasally cry as the drenched and clammy rider is one of the first to arrive. "No, she's got to.. she has to... Sweet, succulent little Iolene..." Mouth gapes open as he breathes heavily, wasting time in checking under her bed and rifling through her things. Iolene may be missing a garment or two before the flight's over.

Taikrin is drawn after Riorde whether she likes it or not, but where Riorde seems to be moving easily, Taikrin's usually fluid grace is jerky and rife with hesitations. Not so, Szadath: the dragon is in his element, throwing his impressive bulk against both brown and bronze alike. He bares teeth at one male who dares glance his way, and shoulder-checks a taller - but slighter - bronze out of the way of his next kill. "Shit, shit-- not now. We can do this." Taikrin keeps up a running commentary under her breath the entire duration of the trip to Iolene's abandoned weyr, and when she finally arrives her chest is heaving as if she'd just run a marathon. Thus, it's no surprise she explodes, "WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?!"

It's not like Cadejoth to be efficient in anything, least of all feeding, but the ichor pumping through his veins challenges those normal habits; he feeds quickly, tossing aside his drained carcass with near-contempt before taking down a second with forceful attention. It's only now that K'del departs his lifemate's ledge, crossing through his own weyr and down the stairs into the Weyrleader's Complex. Even from here, perhaps he can hear - or even see - the disappointment in those who have arrived and failed to find the goldrider. He stands near the entrance, waiting; if there's worry on his brow, at least there isn't sweat. Not yet.

[Iolene] Can a queen in heat read minds? He doesn't want her? An overbearing radiance emanates from Ysavaeth, nearly disdainful as she dismisses Guivreth as a suitor. She doesn't want what doesn't want her. But no words. There are no actual words for the overwhelming emotions overcoming her right now. Only thoughts that never quite shape into any kind of tangibleness. Do you want me? (to Evali)

[Riorde] Sforzath cloaks himself in his own smoke, dipping away in mind as well as in body. A tease, weyrling games with the ante upped: now you see me, now you don't.

She isn't there. To some, that's a disaster -- to one man, that's a reason to run after a drudge, no matter what others say -- to others, it's an excuse to be creepy and go through her underwear, which A'zand pretends not to notice, and to some others still it's an excuse to swear very loudly. For A'zand it's rather a miracle that the goldrider he's never actually wanted anything to do with isn't present, even as frustration rises. He's trying to stay out of sight and out of mind -- which he can't, really, do. Not with Guivreth insistent. Loud. No, he wants her, he has to, he'll ruin everything if he doesn't.

Giorda hasn't been Headwoman at the Reaches for so many turns to be caught this unawares and in the bowl, she looks upwards and then to the living caverns and begins to walk back. There'll be wine barrels to roll out. And in those cold storage caverns, the assistant, so selected quite specifically by the Headwoman drifts closer to Iolene slowly, and lifts the girl by the elbow. "If you're here when it happens, you'll lose her," is the quietly firm words spared. It says much of Ysavaeth's presence of mind that she continues to blood systematically while considering the contenders, given Iolene's a limp basket of noodles in the assistant's hands as she's guided out of the cool comfort of the stores and into the too-hot-too-hot summer air and her weyr.

The drudge shrieks and scurries out sometime in the mean time. The convergence happened much too soon, or she was much too slow at her cleaning duties, all to only come up against Taikrin before she can escape and her bellowing. Wide-eyed, the girl just shrieks again and /runs/.

Riorde had the advantage with her preemptive departure, but it turns into an all-out race in the bowl between herself and Taikrin -- not to mention the other riders streaming towards the goldrider's weyr. "Shit," she echoes Taikrin unintentionally. "I don't know, she's supposed to be here, isn't she?" Riorde only stays in the weyr long enough to determine Iolene's absence and then steps back out to the ledge to scan, sharp-sighted and shading her eyes.

"Well, this is awkward." Yep, that's Emme. Stating the obvious once again as she too scans the area and hears the cacaphony of disappointed riders. But hey, they're all going to be here for awhile. So might as well get sort of comfy! She slides down a portion of wall and pulls her knees up to her chest. Waiting. And havng blooded all that he intends to, Rhazekth watches Ysavaeth calmly. Only the twitching of his wings giving voice to his impatience.

[A'zand] Guivreth's response is quick, lightning-fast and lightning-hot without a matching bellow of thunder. That noise isn't for him; he's all about subtlety. Ignore him, his thoughts return. Forget A'zand and his meaningless prejudices, for Guivreth has none of them. « He is nothing, » the bronze's mindvoice wispers, tentative, worshipful. « I want you. You are everything. »

M'sar's the weyr's ghost: pale, quietly haunting the outer rim upon having arrived to observe the general chaos of the other riders and their fruitless search-- swearing and shrieking he sneers at in his own, invisible world from which he observes a bowl that appears to glimmer in the ferocity of the sun. A mask of cooled calculating on his boyish facade has a twin, across the snaking lash of a mind bond which puts half of him in the feeding pen, relieving far less screaming prey of its blood with a smoothness of nature, past even when feeding. With an arched talon, he bats the latest, drained thing aside, his neck stretching patiently upward, flexing back and forth. No rush; no concern; not a thought nor flicker of mental bother given for any of those other silly, inconsequential dragons wasting their time.

[Iolene] Impatience? Oh, Ysavaeth could reward impatience with a lash of her tail or a sunflare of all those pent in overheated emotions of lust, desire, want. Oh, Rhazekth. Oh, brother. There's the thinnest veneer of mocking that only _just_ masks the youthful indecision that simmers beneath all that pretended control. Oh, she lusts and yearns and wants so much and in a pinch, perhaps a brown will know better than a bronze as to how to use certain (ahem) equipment? Will Rhazekth teach her? (to Emme)

Poor drudge indeed: Taikrin bellows at the girl as she runs, giving her a shove to speed her on her way. "GO FIND HER!" She whirls on Riorde, fear and uncertainty and lust all converging into a perfect storm of rage. "Where is she?" In the feeding grounds, Szadath roars in unison with his rider, wings mantling over the mangled corpse of his last kill. Turning from Riorde, Taikrin scans across the room-- then spots K'del. Oh. "What the FUCK did you do with her?!" It surely must be his fault. She's all set to advance on the Weyrleader, too, with clenched fists-- but then Iolene is being escorted in and all the wind is taken from her sails.

Scoloth drags his belly over the fallen herdbeasts, claiming their deaths and basking in them with his stretched, sickly pale form. Though their lifeless beauty is nothing compared to Ysaveath's glowing form, blood and saliva dripping from clicking mandibles as another hunger fills the bronze. M'temr's monochromatic appearance has gained a bit of color, only the best of Iolene's delicates stuffed into his shirt. Oh, they felt just like he thought they would against his cheek. All the yelling has him stiffening and rushing out of the more private portions of the weyr- his whiny voice joining in the cries of frustration. Where /is/ she?!

And Iolene is there, minutes after the people have crowded her weyr, and her skin pales to match the blonde of her hair as the assistant headwoman leans her against the doorway. Taikrin is the easiest person to pin her attention on, what with all the attention whoring happening in those bellows and a hand lifts to the brownrider as she stumbles into the weyr. "It's too hot in here. It's too hot everywhere." She'll notice her missing underwear later. Now is probably not the time. And in the skies, with only one chaser given warning of something less than full control in this young queen, golden wings beat and send Ysavaeth into the bowl, scrapping past the heads of stonecutters (who've been jawslacked watching the show so far), and lashing a tail against one of their heads. Then it's up and up and up.

Up and up and... finally Ysavaeth's call has reached Southern, as though not a pebble but a stone had been dropped into the sunlit ocean. There it is winter, not Iovniath's but winter all the same, and there is Visigoth amid the snow and the rocks of its southernmost reaches. He senses her, and returns a metallic echo that strengthens in his own right over the distance, through the minds. He's not there. But if he could...

K'del is surprising calm and composed for the rider of a dragon who has lost the icy core that has been his these past nine turns, and is blossoming now in sunlight and in heat. It's a surprise that Iovniath has not exerted her presence on the bronze, as yet; if she has, it has gone unmarked. "Shut your trap, Taikrin," he says, his voice holding only the faintest hint of suppressed tension and want - though now that Iolene has arrived, he can't seem to take his eyes off of her. His hands fold behind his back, as though it's all that's standing between sanity and them grabbing hold of Iolene pre-emptively; he's quiet, though, when he says, to the goldrider, "It's fine. It won't be long, sweetheart. It'll be fine." Out in the pens, Cadejoth hurtles himself skywards after the dazzling queen, those too-green wings greener still as the ichor works overtime to bring him faster, closer, better.

[Iolene] Oh fire can recognize fire, though for the Reaches' summer queen, it's usually summer sun, fun, and joy that permeates her thought and not the rushed heat of lava or monsters. And yet... in heat, even sunflares can be dangerous as it unfurls, only to curl about the bronze's mental neck to entice him towards her. Are you always so confident and cool underneath that fire? Are you always /so/ /so/ in control? Come, beckons wordless thoughts, show me something more. (to M'sar)

Sforzath veers out of Ysavaeth's way and settles over his own kill with his wings up, mantled, and stays there with hawkish attention until Ysavaeth springs aloft, and then so does he. Riorde rounds back towards the interior of the weyr as soon as Iolene's brought in, taking a few steps close and then stopping, holding herself off at arm's length. Taikrin? Unanswered; not even a glance. The exile brownrider says nothing, not to Iolene and not to Taikrin, and it's only K'del's words that draw her out. "Shut up," she tells him contemptuously. "She doesn't need you telling her anything. She needs her family."

If anything, Rhazekth's stare sharpens and narrows. A hissing rumble is emitted YSavaeth's way, though his tone is more soothing at least. He'll be any kind fo teacher you want, Ysavaeth. And as soon as her talons clear the ground, he's launching after her too; rising and dipping with the wind to try and claim her. As for poor Iolene, Emme glances at her with empathy. But recalling the etiquette of flights doesn't dare try to comfort her. Instead, she folds her arms across her chest so that she keeps her hands to herself.

Oh. It's really too bad that it's Taikrin that Iolene chooses to fixate on, because without her anger and her yelling the brownrider is utterly lost. She reaches out to take Iolene's hand on instinct, but her own is hot and sweaty and palsied and probably no help at all. "You-- we-- go--" Words fail Taikrin; she's utterly lost within Szadath as the brown takes off after Ysavaeth, roaring his challenge all the while. He is a sprinter in a pack of marathon runners, and it shows: he surges, swipes and cheats his way towards the front of the pack, using raw strength in a bid to make a relatively early end of it.

Guivreth launches, his talons digging deep into the ground of the pens and leaving marks upon his takeoff. Long wings beat tiredly, moving ever up -- but still behind Cadejoth, and staying shy of the approach of Sforzath. His tail lashes, a pre-emptive strike showing that he won't back off without a fight, directed at any that might challenge him physically, directly. A'zand has his hands in his pockets, his mouth forced shut. Jaw clenched. He won't say a word. He's not a part of this. No matter how much that dragonlust is tingling at his fingertips, burning and taunting. Forget your hatred of change, A'zand. This is about Ysavaeth now.

[Iolene] Does he like the feel of those delicates? Ysavaeth, having no idea what's going on in the weyr itself merely reaches out one of those sunflares of her thoughts; sharing with _this_ dragon, Scoloth, and by extension his rider, the promise of fulfilling those wet dreams men all have at one point in another. Men. Male dragons. Are they so different? She spares for Scoloth, the turn of a feminine neck, with golden hair soaked in sweat, matted against the lines of a bare back moving rhythmically. This could be his rider's. And then in the next instant, a golden neck and tail twined about his and a subservience the conquered must show their conqueror. This could be his. (to Azaylia)

M'temr surpresses a squeal of delight at the sight of Iolene. So close. Right there, in front of him, he can almost taste her on the air. His tongue flicks out, licking the collected sweat off his pencil mustache as he inches closer- but not too close as K'del and Taikrin make their stands. But the young goldrider should certainly be able to hear his heavy breathing, hunched and working spindly fingers against each other. Scoloth no longer forgets his wings, tattered things looking unfit to fly and yet he's cutting through the air right after Ysavaeth. Up and down, almost serpentine motions are none the less speedy as he skitters after the gold. There's a breath held between both rider and dragon, and those noisy inhales are cut short as M'temr wheezes a moan. Scoloth's sharp frame is used as a blade against those who venture too close, desperate to conquer the temptress.

Iolene clings to Taikrin, her light weight suddenly as heavy as that of a dead man. The fighting about her can go on forever and she might not notice and eventually, it shows that Taikrin is only one step towards something safer. The couch in front of her hearth, made up so thoughtfully by the Headwoman (or the drudge sent) with sheets and pillows. From here, knees curled to her chest, she watches M'sar and M'temr, skipping to Emme and Riorde and blanching at the latter two. "You shouldn't be here. I can't... I'm not... /No/. /I'm not that kind of girl/." It's the most force she's managed to muster since arriving, and perhaps all day. But even as she says it, her dark blue eyes can't quite pull away from considering either women's figure in a very un-Io-like way. Forget tomorrow. Later today is going to be an interesting exercise in embarrassments.

With a shake of that splendidly stretched neck, that crack that always seems to threaten a tear through his fire-laced hide, Kushvetath is alight-- on fire, and on wing. A snapping, mocking of his jaw buzzes the worried heads of the stonecutters as they seek to recover from the queen's onslaught and a mere hint of noise in him is just the rush of his tail flashing by behind: the snake behind the charm. Up, up; he can go up, like he was meant to be in the light; but in the onslaught of sun, his wretched body sparks with a touch of madness not in his precise aim -- a second tail-swipe is teasing, baiting. But if he isn't watching the dregs around him, then to who. Less than the sum of his dragon's fierceness, M'sar gravitates too easily to the back of his mob, this disheveled heaping he wishes he could sidle away from. But it's distant glimpses of Iolene, like a veiled prize, that keep him floating on the outskirts. But her embarrassment, of all things, makes him glance away.

Family, Riorde says; family, Sforzath projects. He's learning, for all those failed greenflights, and much like Szadath, the brown intends pace to work in his favor, the quick sprint over the long haul. It's a similar sort of shared tactics that has her coming up to Iolene's other side. "Hey, hey. It's fine. We're here. We're here for you." But the glance given over Iolene's head at Taikrin is all cold-blooded menace.

"And what's wrong," A'zand challenges, unable not to -- unable to keep his tongue where it belongs, silent in his mouth, no matter what Guivrelth warns, don't screw it up, A'zand, don't -- he ignores that. Instead, he speaks. Everyone else might comfort her, or let her do what she wants; he won't. "With being that kind of girl?" Guivrelth's atttention is almost drawn away for a second to the similarly swiping tail of rival Kushvetath, but every beat in his bloodstream is singing for Ysavaeth. She's the center of his focus, and he can't be drawn away for longer than a second.

"Don't you dare start anything," says K'del, sounding thunderous; it's directed not only at Riorde and Taikrin, but at the others, too, his gaze travelling from one rider to another all the way around the Weyr. If looks could kill, there'd be more bodies in weyrs to clean up - thankfully, he's not quite that skilled. As Iolene settles on the couch, he starts, but then stops again, as if some mental reminder has kept him from getting too close, for all that concern flourishes so obviously between the rest of those violent, eager emotions.

"It's alright, Iolene. This is all Ysavaeth, and Sforzath, and Rhazekth. It's not -us-. Don't think about our part in this." Emme whispers, somehow having unfolded herself and snuck nearby so that she can offer the words at least. She's still not trusting herself to touch. Nosirree. Rhazekth, however, just -wants-. Family, he echoes after his brother. He just, you know, emphasizes how smart and savvy he is too. What? He surges forward a bit, as if chased by a dust devil.

[Iolene] Should a sire be left out so cold? Bereft of the full weight of her lust-filled heat? Cracks here and there radiate warmth towards him, but for the Weyrleader's dragon, Ysavaeth is radio silent. Is it a tactic? Is it working? These short, small glimpses she'll allow him of those promises made not so long ago on the diving cliff? But even those glimpses seem like they're images meant for someone else, not for Cadejoth specifically, as if she's generously allowing him privy access to thoughts she'll spare someone else. Chase me. Catch me. Make me tell you all my secrets. (to K'del)

Taikrin doesn't protest when Iolene abandons her, doesn't even make an effort to recapture the escaping goldrider. She does turn, like iron filings to a magnet, to follow Iolene's progress but otherwise it's as if she's been nailed to the ground. Too soft for most to hear: "Don't go." Szadath? There is nothing soft about Szadath. He is all sound and fury, raking the side of a competitor's neck with a well-timed kick while another barely gets out of the way of his lashing tail in time. Each exhale is half-roar, given volume by lungs heaving like bellows in the warm summertime air.

[M'sar] Past the fiery curtain of flame, that shadowy threshold, Ysavaeth invites herself to a corridor of pure heavenly light coated with a sweetness foreign to all the nicest things on Pern. Nevermind the rules, when you're above the game. All but the gold he's above, whose tendrils of sunfire he coaxes with an alluring sense of /yes/. /So/. King on his throne, needing only a queen beside him whose riches burn with the same everlasting gold of their potentially combined heat. Can't she feel it now.

K'del's stare has M'temr giggling, fear prompting such a mad and completely unhinged burble to leave his thin lips. His long digits flutter- not starting anything, no! Not here. The sound only increases in pitch at the sight of Iolene moving, something he's familiar with all those times he's watched from the shadows. But now, she knows he's there. She must. They have a special connection! Scoloth is more intent on /forming/ a special connection, the twisted, entwined kind that ensures his rider's obsessive fantasies shall finally be fulfilled. Not the closest and yet not dead last, his simple mind is focused only on capturing. He gains just that much more speed, inching past a weary bronze and clicking his jaws at the other male. Ccrrkkk!

Riorde tunes out K'del altogether for all his volume and tone of voice. She obeys no etiquette, and rather than keep her distance like good riders should, she follows Iolene over to the couch and parks herself at one end, perched on the arm. "Io," she says, soft and low, somewhere between a plea and something else entirely.

The battle between A'zand and Guivrelth continues on -- the bronze fights for his prize, his lady, the shining light that is Ysavaeth, whispering flattery and lust and promises of beauty in his wingbeats. The human continues to be a shining beacon of trouble, and starting something exactly as the Weyrleader ordered not to ... but it wasn't him he ordered. "Why are you," he demands, "even here, Weyrleader? What will our Weyrleader say? And how should Iovniath feel? Betrayed for an exile piece of tail --"

Iolene's already shedding her clothing, the sweat of the (lacking) summer heat and Ysavaeth's heated flight running through her beading across her body. First it's her shirt, and then a pause as heavy breathing claims her rider-trained body. Not so coincidentally, Iolene's pause matches Ysavaeth's as her upward track of beating wings and swaying body halts for a split second. At this rate, she'll reach the stars before one of her chasers do, and does she get to decide? This wasn't something ever discussed in mating flights and well, Io being Io isn't much for answers. It's a slip in calculations and precious moments lost to the horde coming after her.

Blood it might occur to Kushvetath to shed, were he keen on patronizing Guivrelth with his time -- he is not. Too morbidly sharp talons may swipe, but if they feel flesh it is only the folly of the follower who fails to not heed his powerful body. M'sar, inside, stews with less inattention to his surroundings, for all he'd rather be as cool as his dragon, he breaks -- from the shadows, he protrudes just a long leg and a well-placed foot towards the back of A'zand's knee, nearly fool-proof to perhaps give him the sit-down he needs. Timed, could it be, to a break in the flood-gate of Kushvetath's fiery streak forward, a burning and brighter star than the ones Ysavaeth, and a closer one at that; his calculations have not faltered, and the control he projects is one he seeks to wrap the gold inside.

Taikrin's weight sways this way and that, though she never manages to quite move her feet. There's a bunch of almost-but-not-quite words that come out of her mouth, most sounding like the bitten off beginnings of curses. She might be looking in the direction of Iolene, but she's got that thousand-yard stare that implies she won't remember a thing of the skin being exposed right before her eyes. For once Szadath is silent: he senses weakness, and the predator inside says strike. Strike hard, strike fast, and strike silently. He does so, muscles bulking huge as he makes a last push of sprinter's speed towards Ysavaeth. There is no more focus for talon-swipes; he has to settle for hip-checking at the bronze vying against him for those last few lengths of precious airspace that separate the males from their prize.

Trembling chains mark the way Cadejoth attempts to reach for Ysavaeth mentally, even as he's throwing every bit of energy he has into hurtling towards her. If he's lucky, if nothing pulls him back, he can extend that shivering tail and trap her - and remind her, then, of all those unspoken promises, made not so very long ago. But there are dragons around him, and they're closing in, and who can say? Below, K'del's teeth bury themselves in his lower lip as he stands, torn between those competing desires. Where is Iovniath to pull them back? Where is sense? There is sweat on his brow, now, and those deep lines that remind of the problems inherent in this situation. Io. Iolene. This time, he doesn't have a knife.

Emme has the inane urge to clap a hand over her eyes when Iolene starts stripping. But, uh, there are other instincts that take precedent at the moment and they prevent her from even averting her eyes at the sight. Not a worrrrrrd out of the exile's harper right now. Maybe just a sharp exhale as she clenches her fists and waits. Waits for Ysvavaeth to make a decision or for one of the many chasers to claim her; and Rhazekth, like every other, intends to be that one who wins. One final shove of the air behind him and the glint of the sun off his hide almost masking him there, seeming like a blur.

M'temr can't breathe, so he hyperventilates. Beady eyes follow every scrap of cloth that's shed from her body, lingering a touch too long on the scraps he could add to his shrine. But then he catches sight of her flesh and another strangled sound leaves his throat, oversized adam's apple bobbing. "So... perfect.." He wheezes, creeping forward with those high-knee steps, not at all subtle as his dragon has much the same in mind. Scoloth weaves through the male bodies, venomous strikes thrown left and right which may slow him down- but it'll slow the others down more. Limbs are thin yet he's got more than enough body to wrap around Ysavaeth as he stretches forward in a strike. Claws and jaws are open wide, offering nothing of comfort in his wicked embrace as he makes one skittering attempt to stike his prey.

While Kushvetath misses Guivrelth, who is only swerving out and around, trying to reach Ysavaeth without becoming a target for anyone else's talons or tail -- something that does not, at this point, actually seem possible, more's the pity -- their riders fare different. M'sar's strike is perfect, and A'zand is down for the count, fallen forward, stumbling and moving to catch his fall with his hands. Sore as they may be later, he doesn't want to break his nose in a goldrider's weyr. No more bloodstains on floors are needed, after the Weyrleader's weyr not all that long ago.

Sforzath hasn't the stamina, but he does have the speed and perhaps something else besides: the familiarity of long association, heightened as he draws it out further from Riorde's mind. Within the touch of his thoughts, both primal and promising, comes the strong sense that they're hers, these exile dragons, and that so in turn a show of goodwill on her part's required to seal the deal. He strains himself with that strategy, while Riorde stays motionless in place, rooted.

[K'del] A rattle. A shudder. You promised. And oh-- he yearns for you. Where is Iovniath now? Not here. Not anywhere near. (Cadejoth to Ysavaeth)

Iolene's back arches and her body falls into the armchair groove of the couch she's sitting on, just as Ysavaeth drops a few meters past some of the overeager chasers, reeling away from Szadath's silent strike and Rhazekth's waitfulness, falling with some sense of deliberation into the wings and embrace of Iovniath's mate. And the heat that's been tangible in the minds of the chasers and the dragons of the Reaches flares outwards in one final burst of triumph before the actual summer breeze reclaims its rightful place. For Cadejoth, however, his afternoon will be one humid, sticky and lustful summer day after another in the hours it takes the dragonpair to float to earth.

Just like that, as Szadath shrieks his frustration, Taikrin becomes unstuck. Unglued? She whirls twice on her heel, fists clenching and unclenching, until she zeroes in on Riorde. If she can't have the goldrider, at least her girlfriend is someone she's familiar with manhandling. Six huge paces see her to the arm of the couch, and then she's grabbing at Riorde to pull her out of the weyr (maybe missing half her clothes by the time she gets there). And, should the other brownrider protest? Taikrin has no compunctions against trying to sweep her into a fireman's carry, caveman-style.

Scoloth falls out of the sky, bent in on himself and giving up on life as the one object of their desire is snatched away. Brittle and hard body stiffens as the loss is felt throughout his body. M'temr mimicks his dragon's descent, only there's hard weyrfloor to catch his knobby knees as he throws his head back and gives a high-pitched wail. No! Not his exotic flower! All that planning, spying, lusting- for nothing! At the last minute Scoloth's wings catch a thermal and he creeps somewhere cold, damp and dank to nurse his sore... heart. M'temr will need to be dragged out as he attempts to crawl on his belly towards Iolene despite not catching- not like he weighs much, so the task is simple enough.

Shiiiiiiiiit. Not that you'd know it, to see K'del's face, in that instant. Tiriana, Iovniath, the weyr? They're all going to have to wait, because heedless of the fact that not everyone has departed, yet, the young bronzerider has only one destination in mind, and it involves clambering onto the couch. And, if needs be, bodily shoving M'temr out of the way in the process. It's a pity he's not wearing boots, really. Above, wings and tail entwine until green-bronze and white-gold match up perfectly, falling downwards in a controlled dive that is all - and I do mean all - about pleasure. And maybe, later, babies.

Hopefully -- hopefully there's someone there to carry A'zand off, or at least maybe help him later, because he's definitely taking it slow now. It's a pronounced limp, M'sar's attack doing much more damage to his actual knee than any part of him. Guivreth recovers faster, settling off at a distance to think, or perhaps to feed, and cool off -- his rider doesn't fare so well.

Wait-- what? Hold on; Kushvetath missed that last part in his ever-climbing, ever-perfect ascent to the heavens. Did that queen just go off the wrong way? With a sharp twist, the scalding bronze plummets downward with a haughty shake that vibrates through his whole body, crackling like he might, too, explode in a burst of light. Until, with a swoosh and a private whiplash of grumpiness that smacks his rider in the face, he disappears into the shadows of the cave. Already planted towards the back, having quietly and invisibly retreated from his lashing at A'zrand, M'sar appears, his grimace and usually warm face warring together as he offers the poor, dire A'zrand a hand-- oh, dear, who would've done that, silly flight people. He'll get them both out of here to part separate, separate ways right after. He's just a nice guy.

Frustration comes bubbling out of Riorde in a yell without any words to it. There's no sense in the way that she fights back against Taikrin, although at some point incoherent snatches of sentences make it out."He can't have-- she's ours-- Ysavaeth--" She ducks away at first, moving quick, but then changes tactics altogether and shoves Taikrin up against the wall of Iolene's weyr. Maybe the exterior wall, if Iolene's lucky (and the rest of the weyr less so).

Who cares about Tiriana right now? Not Iolene. Who cares about Iovniath? Ysavaeth might, but not in the same kind of way Cadejoth would. If the dragons are all about pleasure, what can the riders do but mimic it as the rest of Iolene's clothes shed and they do their best to override any distracting noises Riorde and Taikrin might make outside. Cause that's not gauche at all. No.