Difference between revisions of "Logs:Liftoff"

Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and bright that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh leave before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

A familiar presence is here, nearby. He is subtle, as always, just a dimming of the mental landscape at first, slowly but surely quashing the noise of other thoughts as his grows more noticeable, dark trendrils seeking her. Tziveth watches, hidden in the rain. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

Edyis manages to step up near the foreigners catching a snippet of the conversation. "Hey, don't I know you." Stepping up to the outside of the group, reaching to tap the Benden rider on the shoulder. Except that, her eyes go distant and an "Fuck" Escapes. "Fucking brown." Whatever had drawn her attention she's now darting out into the rainy bowl. In the Bowl warm waves dappled with sunlight are shared the taste of the ocean coloring the adventurous brown's thoughts. « You look lovely. »

There's the characteristic pause and unfocused eyes from L'sha that indicates that he's speaking with his dragon. "Rillaeth says that Aidavanth is about to rise." And sure enough, riders are suddenly scrambling outside. He sees Edyis rush outside and calls to her, "Good luck, Edyis! Hmmm, should I go out and watch from the patio? It's coming down pretty hard out there. Maybe we can get an umbrella or something."

It's always hard to say if being ignored in an increasingly busy drinking establishment is an intentional slight or accident. Kh'tyr's eyes draw to J'nason only after T'zur has the good manners to reply to the other rider. His eyes swiftly rake the younger man, "Tightpants," he dubs the other rider with a slightly narrowed gaze (nevermind if his pants aren't especially tight), "Pay attention," as if he'd been with them all along, "We are scoping out the room," he spreads his hands in an unnecessarily large gesture to frame different tables - including, briefly, the one at which the harper and greenrider sits, "in the guise of assessing business. But now that I've explained..." His tone implies it's all ruined. "Where's my drink?" he demands of no one as he turns back to the bar. "Aw, shell," is a half-growl that has him dropping his head toward the bar top, only to straighten before it touches. "Where is my drink," is no longer a question, but a plaintive hope.

There's something bemused about the way that T'zur regards J'nason, though whatever causes the expression is kept to himself. Instead, he tucks gloves neatly into his jacket, eagerly waiting for his glass when the bartender returns -- at least until he gets that tap on the shoulder. "Mm?" curious, blank expression is turned on Edyis; there might be a flicker of recognition -- but it's gone instantly as gaze goes distant. "Ah," he exhales, mouth twisting. When the bartender sets down the glasses, he snatches the first one (sorry, Kh'tyr!), practically gulping down the contents of the glass, tosses just enough coins onto the bar to make up for it, and pushes straight. "Follow the crowd, I guess?" to his fellow foreigners, trailing in the wake of that female brownrider. Tziveth is, for his part, largely silent -- there's no bellowy challenges or such. Instead, his thoughts creep out, subtly, extending outwards, making his presence felt in the movement at the corner of the eye, and the dark that lurks at the edges.

As Hephaisth makes his move unfolding his bulk like a wind-up toy, J'nason throws back his head and starts to laugh. "Oh that bastard F'reah is going to get it in his eye. 'Punishment Duty'." A snort for that as he shoves himself up from his seat and winks at the bartender. "You just keep hold of that whiskey for now, aye? If I'm not back in a hour just give it to some poor smuck, coutsey of a lucky, lucky, lucky man. Shall we men?" And he'll keep in pace with the other two so they can follow the native brownrider. Hephaisth bloods a kill, his mind a maze of machinery, and his voice like the clank of gears turning over one another as if counting down to the real event.

"Aidavanth?" Quint echoes L'sha with an exhale, fingers tightening momentarily on his glass. "Ah," he adds, in a low whistle, like something suddenly makes sense. He regards the foreign riders in a new light, eyes narrowing like he's assessing them differently, now. "I'd-- yes, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you? Perhaps you can tell me who the chasers are?" he asks L'sha, starting to rise. "And -- maybe take the bottle? I think we'll need it." He's taking his glass, for certain.

Though Kh'tyr might only now be realizing what Mograith must already have known, there's a brief flash of triumph, of victory - not the most important kind, what with that battle of wills and wants not yet begun, but the chance for that second comes from this first win. There's a dangerous sense of something primal having slipped the leash, and the faint sound of raucous, cruel laughter when his rider's barely breathed words, "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal," are hooked into that malevolent glee and shared with the rest. (To local dragons from Mograith)

Aidavanth's focus is singular; swooping low, she makes quick work of not one, but two ex-members of the High Reaches herd, tearing into both one right after the other. She's frenzied in her hunger, eyes awash in crimson. Jocelyn, who's bolted to the very back of her weyr with an adrenaline-fueled glare for the armoire as if wondering if she'd fit inside of it, clenches her fists and jaw. In the feeding pens, Aidavanth screams in all of a rising queen's usual fury before lowering her muzzle to each beast's neck in turn. If she can't eat, she'll at least drain them dry before going in pursuit of a third, burnished hide gleaming through the rain.

Akluseth has been waiting for this, the fire licked brown already has his muzzle buried in the throat of a wherry, the sticky drip of ichor dripping down his chin as he drinks. Every muscle in his frame wound tight as a spring, his thoughts the shift and swell of a depthless ocean sinking deeper and deeper into the cool dark. The flicker of lights and glowing shapes hinted at through the deep waters. For the others who dare to vie for that golden warmth, Akluseth only has the boundless chill of the ocean depths. The ghosts of ships lost to the deep looming in the gloom. The promise of ruin.

Flight jacket unbuttoned, Edyis's steps bear her to where believes she will find the Jr. Weyrwoman. She smells of spiced rum, and her cheeks and exposed throat are flushed with something other than cold. "Jocelyn." Is soft, but she maintains her distance watching the Goldrider where she stares at the furniture. "Jocelyn." There's an apology in the word.

Hephaisth's hide is like that of the inside of a really well worked fireplace, dark and bronzed with time and the heat of the fire. His awkwardly proportioned body does the job well enough, flicking blood from the herdbeast as he keeps an eye on the gleaming queen. He'll take a moment to size up the competition also, gears whirling in ever more complicated connections to find just the right one.

To Tziveth, Aidavanth's presence tilts and splashes dangerously. She's on a one-way course to a precipice she's never directly experienced. Is he just going to watch the entire time?

The rain makes it near-impossible to see, doubly so when you're in a foreign weyr. And while logic would dictate that T'zur don his helmet to protect his head from the weather, he's clearly got other things on his mind, such that, by the time he trails Edyis towards the appropriate ledge and follows it into shelter, his hair is plastered to his head. He looks neither left nor right, not as soon as pale gaze settles on Jocelyn; he exhales a breath, smiles, and steps closer. Not invasively close, but... he's there, hovering just out of sight, and he wants her to know it, too. Tziveth is done watching, done waiting. He's bidden his time, and the threads of his planning have been thrown out; whether they seek their mark or not remains to be seen. Gracefully, the small Benden bronze lifts into the air, unperturbed by the weather, seeking an appropriately sized buck. The kill is swift and bloodied, ivory-white talons sinking into flesh to choke out the life while his jaw snaps to the neck for blooding. The second is just as swift as the first, as is the third; and while his gaze may not be on Aidavanth, his brooding, dark presence hovers there, stretching towards her, seeking all the while.

J'nason manages to be one of the first of the strange-bronzers here-just-for-the-flight-because-they-are-lucky-like-that and while the brownrider steps into the room directly, J'nason does his best to slip around T'zur and put himself and his easy smile right into the doorway. "Why don't we give the lady some room, aye? Watch from here?"

No, indeed, for Tziveth is done with watching. The black depths of his thoughts spiral, heating all unintentionally by her nearness, while the tendrils of his shadows strain and stretch, seeking her, seeking the core of her. He will know her; he will know who she is and what she desires. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

The pale brown is a wraith in the storm, diving to collect carcass-to-go before sweeping to the muddy ground. Mograith's blooding is as beautiful as the weather. The heavy rain drives away the gore that would otherwise cling to his maw as he rends the beast enough to get his mouth to the juciest places. He doesn't stop at one, though the second has a little more fight despite his predatory grace in the moment of the catch, trying to take as much as the beast has to offer while the thing's heart still beats - no mercy or gentility to the way he lets it bleed out into his mouth.

Kh'tyr arrives after the other foreigners, having stayed for that damned drink before trailing the crowd. He doesn't take care with his boots here, in point of fact, he tracks as much mud as will readily come with them into Jocelyn's weyr with little care that he's a dripping mess in her personal abode. As much as there's something dangerous to the feel of Mograith's mind, the humor seems to have left Kh'tyr in the waking of flight feelings, and there's something almost hateful in the way his otherwise lusty gaze searches for the redhead (whose fault this is, clearly).

Discarding her third kill with a cry that's both challenge and surety, Aidavanth tosses her head and springs upward, enormous wings pushing her higher and higher still. Altitude seems to be her first objective, and she climbs well until the spindles fall away below her, out of her way. With the quick energy of blood and the flavor of flesh, if not its texture, some of her frenzy abates - enough for her to smooth her course, leveling out after some minutes to carve a wide orbit about the skies above her home. Is she on some sort of trek for the stars, boldly going forth in a blaze of incandescence?

Jocelyn probably hears Edyis, but gives no sign that she's listening, not until there are more voices, more footsteps, more people. "Get out of my bedroom!" are the welcoming, rapidly bitten out words the goldrider hurls at the brownrider, at other incoming riders who come into view, arms folding across her chest. "The line must be drawn here! There's another room over there you can very well stand in."

Fire licked and liquid all at once powerful muscles release all tension and Akluseth launches into the air, gaining altitude with every stroke of the brown's rippled wings. His thoughts now are laced with dancing glowing shapes, alien in their beauty as they drift on the currents. Those thoughts reach for the orange gold queen, inviting, protective even. His wings thrash violently against the air in the driving rain, up, and up and up after the glowing queen. A roar echoing out in a challenge to these invaders. Ink-dark eyes focus on the ones who have followed her and there is something decidedly fierce in the brownrider's gaze, if not downright territorial. "Marching into your bedroom is not what I had in mind ." Is growled low in that soft soprano, but then dark eyes are glaring at the poachers. "If you are going to throw something though, better them than me."

The gears abruptly fall into place, lighting up the seven key icons, and bursting forth with blue light. Hephaisth leaves his blooded kill below and launches himself towards the sky. His mind is quick now that the plan is set in motion, his wings and body working like a perfectly constructed machine for splitting between space (and of course), time. He follows without words - for now - though his flight is straight. J'nason reaches out to try to put his hands on the chests of the brown and bronze riders not-from here - he is PROBABLY going to get punched in his perfect blond face for this, and continuing to smile, "Why don't we just go wait outside, like the lady said?" There's a bit of an edge to his voice.

The rain serves a secondary purpose, besides concealment: it sluices the blood from Tziveth's messy kills, leaving only his dark, near-black shade. He is satiated, waiting, watching -- and when the moment comes he is ready, with the patience of someone who has planned for this moment. Upwards, he surges, with beats of his wings, his speed on par with that of the larger browns, falling behind the larger bronzes. This early set back doesn't seem to otherwise deter him, however: he knows his strength set amongst the others are akin to giants amongst children; such things he's seen again and again, cycle after cycle. For now, he's thrust in the middle of the pack, always mindful of Aidavanth's location, and ever seeking with the dark tendrils of his thoughts. Eventually, even stars die out and become blackness; what is old can be reaved and made anew, and a new cycle might find a brighter future.

T'zur isn't deterred by the goldrider's words. Small, they are, words -- it is deeds that determine the suitability of survival. He folds arms across his chest, daring to edge into the boundary she's set -- leaning over and eyeing the bed with a twitch of lips. "It will do. The rest are unworthy, however, and will fall as they always do." When J'nason pushes at him, his teeth bare, his arms unfolding and shoving back. "Really, now. You're a child, you know nothing."

Time for some thrilling heroics. Mograith's coiled muscles loose their tension in an upward shot that has angular frame cutting through wind as he twists into the sky, wings unfurling. He's not the largest chaser, not by far, nor the smallest, but he seeks a course that nimbly swerves through others, narrowly avoiding another brown in the pack to levy a spot in the chase that is above the pack (until she gains more altitude), if a little to the back as cost for the advantages of height and a little more room to maneuver.

"A big damn hero, that's what you are," Kh'tyr growls at J'nason's well-intended advice. Of course, that's growled as he angles to brush past the lot of them and wedge himself through that door. "What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?" He (wisely) heckles the goldrider within, even if he's not made it to or through the door yet.

Reveling openly in her strength, her power, the way she can put more distance between herself and the dark sets of wings somewhere behind her, Aidavanth pushes on as if guided by some inner force, banking abruptly to the right to dive through the nearest cloud. Between the nebulous formation and the rain, it may well be trickier to track her for a few minutes. She moves with the grace of one who has honed her movements to best take advantage of her size, presence all but vibrating with a low hum. They're not too weak to seek her power, are they, these others who are pledged to pursuing her for the moment? There, another challenging trumpet as she climbs a bit more, levels out with a triumphant lash of her tail.

"You're all acting like children, " snaps Jocelyn, who despite herself, has to unfasten the top button of her collar as her forehead grows damp with perspiration. "We have a code of acceptable behavior and this is not it. Let me make this simple for you; see the room that's not dark? That's the side you should be on." And she makes a shooing motion with one hand, even as her words trail off into a half-mumble, eyes squeezing shut.

Hephaisth grinds out a challenge to the others around him - perhaps catching some of his rider's good-ish-natured jibing. (Which is about to turn less good natured, but that's not important, right?) What is IMPORTANT is that he has the answer to the greatest question Aidavanth could ever ask. She just has to let him get close enough so that he can crunch out the question for her to read back to him.

J'nason sighs lightly, as if the two have just inconvenienced him. "It's really too bad, but I asked politely, she asked not-so-politely, let's just make the after a bit more pleasant, right?" And despite the calm charm in his words he goes from trying to gentle them out to straight up hooking a punch at T'zur which will hopefully push him into Kh'tyr... and out of the room. Because they wouldn't want to break the nice lady's things, RIGHT?

Observe, note and judge. Only then shall Tziveth interfere. And yet... yet, something makes him snap towards Hephaisth's tail, though he's for all intents and purposes stuck behind the other bronze. He misses Aidavanth's dive into the cloud, and loses sight of her; his frustration can be felt in the twitching tendrils of shadow, seeking, searching for her. His entire purpose thwarted by an unworthy foe, his frustration is bellowed out into the night sky. She is worthy; she must be raised up and made true.

T'zur's chin lifts, mocking features surfacing as he regards J'nason, "And you are who to decide? You are unworthy. Your Weyr is nothing more than petty, barely sentient club-beaters. Your line will not continue, and well for the future of our race." And meanwhile, whilst he's busy speechmaking, J'nason's busy doing; he doesn't even notice that fist coming towards his face until the last minute; there's a crack and a cry of pain, and the Bendenite goes stumbling backwards, into whomever might be behind him. "Ffffff," is about the only noise he has.

This is the kind of flying that the rippled orange-brown loves, He may not be as large but what he lacks in size he makes up for with sheer daring, matching her twist for twist, dive for dive and climb for climb, careful to keep himself away from claws and collisions with the others. Even with the scolding provided by Jocelyn, once fists start flying it's clear that the brownrider isn't going anywhere near that mess. She does stay well away from Jocelyn however. "Forgive me, but I really would rather not get sucked into that." Gesturing at the flying fists. But hey it's not a goldflight without a few punches right.

It's probably only the focus of the hunt, the driving need that presses Mograith to continue on and the lure of the gold to begin with that has this brown ignoring the rain. Just because he can ignore the persistent pelting of drops as he flies doesn't mean he can afford to ignore what the storm does to the air currents and that becomes his secondary focus, to use them, only vaguely familiar as they might be, to gain some speed in his pursuit of the gold. As she banks, he loses sight of her, but doesn't dive, as others might. It's a gamble, but it pays off when she climbs again and he makes quick work of maneuvering himself to a place that offers a better advantage in the chase.

Kh'tyr stumbles (and thus out of any turf he'd gained on that doorway) when T'zur rebounds into him, but he's not so ineloquent as T'zur ends up, so perhaps for both of them, he turns in toward J'nason to take a solid swing at the Istan as he pronounces, "Well, my days of taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle," as if he'd met the blond more than an hour ago.

At some point as her journey continues, Aidavanth has to assess those still in pursuit, crowing when first one of the smaller out-of-weyr browns, then another drops from the pack after they miscalculated their trajectories. In a battle of wills, however, that momentary slowing to see who's nearby costs her; she turns and pushes her way upward again, seeking to gain just a little more height. She's finally flagging, however, and there's a frustrated cry to reflect her state as her next few beats waver slightly. Whoever has their pinions in the right place at the right time has at least one advantage going for them: They'll be the very best, like no one ever was. All they need to do is carry them both across the Weyr, far and wide. And catch her, of course.

Had Jocelyn recognized the signs before Aidavanth rose, she might have had a chance to protect her weyr from devastation. Uniting everyone into her standards of acceptable behavior, however? Lost cause, as her weyrlinghood lessons will undoubtedly remind her in the morning. As her eyes finally open to take in the tableau, they're less focused on the fighting and more focused on them. Her eyes travel to each in turn, pupils dilated with shared desire and eyes narrowing in calculation with what little wit she has left to her. She can denounce them until the bovines go indoors, but that she'll have to extend a reach toward one or another soon seems imminent.

Hephaisth is ready - more than ready - for this journey to reach it's terminus. The goal is in sight and he's angling down on it just as clearly as if he was a psychohistorian who had plotted this well in advance. (Never mind the inherent inaccuracy of judging the future by the past.) His gears click into a higher drive as he dives himself after the gold in his pathway, one goal in mind win!

J'nason waves out his hand from the punch, mission get-the-jerks-out was totally a success. Except for the fact that one of them is closing in on him. He ducks just enough to avoid a face-punch, but Kh'tyr totally connects to the side of his head. "Dammmmnnnn man, you got a serious hook on that! Ear is totally going to ring for a while now." He rubs at it, stepping back into the doorway proper to keep it covered up until the gold DOES make her choice. Unless someone punches him cold. Which... would be really awkward for the winning couple to deal with. Just sayin'.

Wibbly wobbly timey wimy timing comes down to these last few stretches as Akluseth takes advantage of his position in attempt to twine his tail with hers, wings beating with the very last of his energy as the desire to fall overtakes them. He reaches and reaches for her. As for Edyis, she leans cooly against the wall, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and flush of her face suggesting the anticipation of the flights end. There can be only one.

Tziveth's frustration isn't abated by the expected blood. Instead, that frustration is fuel for him -- spotting the golden Aidavanth again -- seeking to outstrip the other chasers. He's flagging behind the larger bronzes, but he won't be undone -- his purpose must, has always been fulfilled, and this flight will be no exception. He will seek the core of the lovely gold, will know her thoughts and desires. They will be one.

T'zur is oblivious to the fight going on around (over?) him, spitting out blood all over Jocelyn's nice clean floor. This is clearly all the Istan's fault. He manages to rock back onto his knees, blood running from his nose and lips, wiping the back of his hand across it. His face is a tight snarl, pushing with effort to his feet, undaunted by the momentary sway. That ass of an Istan is in the way. But also, the Fortian. She's back there somewhere, and he wants to be there now, and so he sets about shoving blindly.

Mograith would never tell this lady that she's his kind of stupid, but he might think it, quietly. There's that glee when her slowing costs her. That's when the predator living in the skin of this pale, angular brown shows to his best advantage. Sleek and agile, he take the route that puts him as close to Aidavanth as he can get, using his smaller-than-bronzes frame to slip past some claws. Normally, if someone tried to kill him, he'd try to kill them right back, but the way a claw scratches across his spine doesn't quite count as trying to kill and there's a more important goal here. With a twist and a roll, he seeks to ensnare the gold.

Strange, probably, that a man can go from punching a guy to reaching to try to pinch that no doubt still stinging cheek of J'nason's, to say only, "Your mouth's still talking, you might want to look to that," before he's shoved and jostled by the blindly shoving Benden. His jaw clamps like he might like to say more, his feet move like he might like to get out of the way, but apparently enough of him is still with Mograith that that part of him won't allow him to just step aside in a moment like this, so jostled and shoved, Kh'tyr doesn't really try to make any room for the younger man. Too bad, T'zur.

Aidavanth struggles only briefly once wings and tails begin fouling with her own. She's able to wrest herself free of the first and the second, but the third attempt truly is a lucky one; here's hoping Akluseth has the stamina to keep them both afloat while at long last, she indulges in the feelings that have had several days to build, enthusiasm bobbing from her watery thoughts to his as she grips the brown tightly to her. She's too sexy for her straps - and for the others as they begin their descent, together.

And Jocelyn? There will be room for mortification later. For now, she's unbuttoning the remainder of her blouse, cheeks high in color as she marches up to Edyis, expression brazenly triumphant. "I bet marching into my bedroom is on your mind, now." And she tilts her chin to meet the brownrider's with the aim of landing a fierce, thorough kiss. The bloody men might have something to watch if they don't clear out soon.

Hephaisth had totally and completely been focused on the gold body, but when it is TAKEN, his machine-like mine snaps, the gears grinding to a halt and moving backwards. Backwards until he notices - WHAT THE CRAP SOMEONE BIT HIM ON THE TAIL. Obviously, this is why he lost. Can't do the dance if he's got broken equipment. Spiraling away he's totally going to get away from the jerk that attacked him. Jerk. J'nason can just walk through the rain to find him!

J'nason really really really was going to hold his ground. But the brownrider is able to shove him out of the way... just in time for the choice to be made - and it is TOTALLY not him. "Woah, nelly, let's go buy a drink man." As the flight fog lifts J'nason is going to remember the glass waiting for him. "PIck up some chicks. Ain't nothing here for us." He sounds like someone's best-friend.

To the victor go the spoils, and Akluseth's wings do the work they are meant to as necks and tails twine, her watery thoughts attuned with his own. Whatever Edyis had expected, that kiss is met, and returned with an equal fierceness as hands fumble to free her prize from her clothes.

A bellow of frustration marks Tziveth's failure, turning as tightly as he can manage, and woe whoever might be in the way of flexing talons as he escapes. The small bronze begins his descent through the rain, exhaustion lining his features as he seeks the stability of the ground below.

Well, would you look at that. While T'zur was busy trying to get into the doorway, someone else won. He makes an inarticulate sound, gives J'nason another shove for good measure. Scowling at the Istan, he turns and stomps out, dripping blood all the way. Maybe he's going to the infirmary, and maybe to drinks with his seconds-ago-arch-enemy; who knows!

Mograith's loss is expressed in a primal half-roar half-shriek that is equal parts rage and disappointment. He reaches a claw to swipe, but the gesture is curtailed before it has any chance of reaching anyone - the lucky winner, the gold or any of the other losers now sharing the sky with him. There's another sound of outrage for that, but perhaps in spite of how things have worked out, Mograith will take comfort in knowing he's still flying and even if that's not much, it's enough.

Kh'tyr's grinning like a fool with the privilege of getting to walk away from this goldrider's bower. Mograith may be upset, but clearly Kh'tyr is not. It's a damn fine shindig now, and that warrants a drink, which is where his feet will swiftly lead him.