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

Your location's current time: 17:19 on day 16, month 10, Turn 53, of the Tenth Pass. It is a autumn afternoon.

HRW-Bowl> High in the bowl, Xalerth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

HRW-Bowl> On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Bronze Xalerth of Ista Weyr.

HRW-Bowl> High in the bowl, Mraneth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

HRW-Bowl> On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Brown Mraneth of Ista Weyr.

HRW-Bowl> High in the bowl, Xalerth wings down in the bowl, towards the western wall.

Down below, on the bowl floor, Xalerth has arrived.

HRW-Bowl> High in the bowl, Mraneth spirals downward in the bowl, towards the western wall.

Down below, on the bowl floor, From atop Xalerth, B'rakis has left.

Down below, on the bowl floor, B'rakis clambers down Xalerth's side to the ground, the dragon's sparkling eyes watching closely.

Down below, on the bowl floor, B'rakis has arrived.

Down below, on the bowl floor, Mraneth has arrived.

Down below, on the bowl floor, From atop Mraneth, Delaney has left.

Down below, on the bowl floor, Delaney slips a long leg over Mraneth's lithe neck, easily sliding to the ground along a sepia-tinged forelimb, dismounting gracefully from her lifemate.

Down below, on the bowl floor, Delaney has arrived.

Satiet(#15762POce)

Satiet is slight and compact in build, overall figure slender and toned with muscles. Her face, once beleaguered by baby fat is thinner, almost sharply so at her chin and cheekbones, but little bits of fat persist between her chin and throat. She appears to be in her later teens, though still young yet, the muscular strength of arms and the pride of posture showing a girl coming gracefully into adulthood. Raven hair has grown a bit, framing her face and curling at her shoulders, a judicious touch of oil lending its soft sheen to the dark tresses. A set of lengthy bangs sweep one side of her face, pinned back with a silver clip. Creamy complexion sets off her vivid blue eyes in their ice-like depths of underlying aloofness.

So this isn't the most practical of exercise gear, but it does give room for cooling down, with the exposure of a flat belly to the air, and bare shoulders. The fur of the bikini top at least, has been dyed so that only the occasional glimpse of gray pokes through vivid crimson, blending with the darker, reinforced ties that stretch around her neck and back. Over this, -some- since of self has preserved itself in a sleeveless jacket, trimmed with the softest ovine fur. Loose pants, dyed in tan hang low along her waist to provide glimpses of the perfectly matched bottom for that bikini, the thin strings visible along the bony juts of her hips. Her bare feet are visible just beneath the hemline. A few +details here and there are visible.

Down below, on the bowl floor, As visiting brown and rider backwing to a landing and she dismounts, Delaney can't help but a shiver. "Shards, I'd forgotten how shelling cold other weyrs are," she murmurs aside to B'rakis, as she accompanies him on his errand.

You go down the steps, to the bowl.

Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#880RJs)

High in the bowl, Sruth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth bugles loudly, welcoming Brown Sruth home.

Rojieth watches all the new arrivals while trying not to look like he's watching all the new arrivals. Of *course* that rock is more interesting.

High in the bowl, Sruth bugles, coarsely but triumphantly, in return to Ulanoth, and this pair, too, finds a familiar spiral downward.

High in the bowl, Sruth circles lower in the bowl, towards the western wall.

Public announcement: Satiet taps, "If this thing's on, I'd like to announce that in about half an hour Teonath will be rising at High Reaches Weyr and that riders can gather in the bowl, while dragons can tango in the feeding grounds around then. All browns and bronzes are welcome in this undetermined flight." :)

Xalerth greets the other dragons, crouching down to let his rider dismount. As soon as B'rakis touches the grouhd, he busies himself with getting a hide-wrapped bundle out of bronze's saddlebags. "It's not *that* cold Delaney, believe me. My breath isn't even frosting the air." He demonstrates, "See? No smoke here. Now if I can find that trader, he can get his feathers and I'll have a heavier belt pouch for the trouble."

L'ian strides out of the lower caverns.

L'ian has arrived.

In the sky directly above, Sruth alights a moment on his ledge, long enough for an exchange or a quickly-penned note, and then - slowly - finds his way to the bowl floor.

In the sky directly above, Sruth swoops down to a landing on the ground.

Sruth has arrived.

Sria climbs down Sruth's side to the ground, the dragon's sparkling eyes watching closely.

Sria has arrived.

High in the bowl, Ahazeth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Bronze Ahazeth of Igen Weyr.

High in the bowl, Ahazeth circles lower in the bowl, towards the western wall.

In the sky directly above, Ahazeth glides to a swift landing on the ground.

Ahazeth has arrived.

T'asu slips he leg from over Ahazeth's neck and shimmies out of the straps, sliding down his bronzed neck to land with a gentle oomph on the ground.

T'asu has arrived.

A slight figure, one that's being given some berth to the sides by various cavern workers - they think she's crazy or some such - is working her way around the bowl in a slow jog, one hand fidgeting between fastening her loose jacket together, and the other hand having a mind of its own in undoing it as it happens. Conflicting emotions, much? "Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe," the low mantra accompanies each thud of foot to ground, and the wind-touch rose of Satiet's cheeks darken with the ever-growing busyness of the bowl. On the ground puddles of a recent rain shower catch bits of a waning sun's light.

Delaney is a warm-weather fiend, and she slants B'rakis a repressive glance from those often-narrowed eyes. "Pah," is her returned statement, huddling closer to the mahogany bulk of Mraneth. Her lifemate spares a nuzzle for his rider, looking instead towards the feeding grounds with a hopeful gleam to a large, faceted eye. "Hungry? Again? Flaming shells... Go. But be quick!" Arms are crossed akimbo on the rather tall Istan woman, and she trundles closer to B'rakis, scouting for any sign of traders.

Ahazeth lumbers towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Ahazeth has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Ahazeth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

Mraneth lumbers towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Mraneth has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Mraneth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

Sria's either oblivious or distracted - either way, there's barely a wave for all those gathered riders, which some corner of her well-trained mind must register. As a result of nearly running into one Istan visitor, however, she pauses long enough to trade duties, inquiries, mention of the eggs at Igen, and then continue on her way to the lower caverns. Sruth is very carefully glancing around, but most of his attention seems to be elsewhere - perhaps on the thing keeping Sria so occupied.

High in the bowl, Rusuth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Bronze Rusuth of Telgar Weyr.

L'ian comes out from the lower caverns, running his hand through his hair, which anybody who knows him knows is shorter than usual. He approaches his dragon quickly, not really looking anywhere but the bowl ground before his feet, until he hears voices and realizes there are other people around. He smiles at the newcomers. "High Reaches duties." He notices Satiet in her jog, but declines to say anything until she's closer. She does wave to Sria when the other riders does to thhose gathered.

High in the bowl, Rusuth bugles back, a throaty rumble, and circles down on the stiff winds with utmost care. Still practicing, y'know.

Flight sense that Teonath wavies while trying not to lose anything, especially her mind, « Thanks for those who are here already, we won't actually start for a little while, and I hope to start blooding at 8:30 exactly so take your time and I hope everyone has fun. » :)

High in the bowl, Rusuth wings down in the bowl, towards the western wall.

In the sky directly above, Rusuth wings down to a quick landing on the ground.

Rusuth has arrived.

St'vren slides down from Rusuth.

St'vren has arrived.

High in the bowl, Aansoeth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Brown Aansoeth of Ista Weyr.

High in the bowl, Aansoeth flies lower in the bowl, towards the western wall.

In the sky directly above, Aansoeth wings down to a quick landing on the ground.

Aansoeth has arrived.

Jasia takes a hold of the straps and, with Aansoeth's aiding leg, slides easily to the ground.

Jasia has arrived.

St'vren hits the ground saluting, since it's better safe than sorry and there sure are a lot of ornate shoulderknots around tonight. "Telgar's duties to High Reaches and her queens, and to...all the rest of you." He would be more effusive, but he seems to have landed right in the middle of something. The head-cocked, curious pose of his dragon isn't helping much.

The large Igen bronze lands, and T'asu proceeds to unbuckle his passengers. One by one, they slip down from Ahazeth's neck to the High Reaches bowl floor. The older rider, the first to land so as to assist those who were mounted down, takes a moment to chat with the individuals before they go into the living cavern, one by one, like trundlebugs to a discarded bubblycrust. He takes his gloves off and stuffs them into his belt, looking around at the fairly populated bowl. Spotting a knot from High Reaches, he walks over to L'ian, nodding. "Igen's duties to Reaches and her queens."

Glancing about the bustling bowl of 'Reaches, Delaney eyes the large assembled mass of people with a slightly malignant stare before it occurs to her that malignancy in a visitor might not be the most appreciative guest behavior. Schooling her features into one of plain sternness that she habitually wears, she manages to idly observe passerby. A few landing bronzeriders. Another Istan gets a wave. A jogging goldrider is eyed with a smidgen of interest, the brownrider managing to look convincing like she's helping B'rakis search for someone. "I expect we'll have time for some warm klah before we leave..." is the sly remark towards B'rakis' back as she tails him around the bowl slowly, tall legs covering the ground with an ambling stride.

Satiet continues her jog, hands balling into tiny fists of restraint. Lips move, but it's difficult to hear what she's saying exactly, but it at least -looks- suspiciously like: "Stupid duties. S'riet was right." Or maybe she said S'rist, they're so alike in any case. The course of the bowl's wall takes her past B'rakis and Delaney, their quest to find a certain trader eliciting a raised brow, and then past the lower caverns entrance where L'ian was at last. "You," the slender goldrider stops short, hands instinctively coming up to try and close her jacket, "Your hair isn't all messy anymore. You cut it." A pause and then the first sign of pleasure this afternoon shines forth in a brightened smile, "For me?"

B'rakis offers his own polite greeting, "Ista's duties to High Reaches and her queens..." He looks around, tip-toeing to see around a little better. As if that'd help much. "I'm looking for a trader wagon that was here about a Sevenday or two ago? I spoke to the driver about doing a little business?" He shifts the bundle in his arms, looking toward L'ian. "Satiet spoke to him as well, perhaps she remembers him?" The goldrider suddenly is near enough to ask himself. "Oh.. Hello Satiet."

L'ian smiles at the greeting. "High Reaches duties to Igen and hers as well." He nods to the disappearing passengers. "I see you dropped some people off. Anything else I can help you with?" He turns at Satiet's voice and nods. "Well, yeah, I guess. You did say it needed to be cut, so I did." He runs his hand through it again. "Is it better now?" He looks back to B'rakis. "I guess we can check with her now, because I really haven't paid that much attention to traders lately."

High in the bowl, Sarevith emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Brown Sarevith of Telgar Weyr.

Sria, returning from the lower caverns after a few moments, glances around with brief suspicion - not for the riders gathered, but for, it seems, her dragon - who for the second time today earns a levelled glare. L'ian's wave -was- noted, and she starts to make her way over. Satiet, however, gets there first, and Sria halts completely before spinning on a heel to look at her dragon, and then at her once-mentee again. Fingertips to temples, now, as if a headache's suddenly come upon her.

While Rusuth continues to /listen/, a soft rumble vibrating from his throat, St'vren just tries to be inconspicuous. He's just here delivering messages like the AWLM asked him to, no matter what else is going on. He sees exactly two semi-familiar faces--the brownrider and goldrider he met during his last 'Reaches visit--and salutes them both with a tentative smile.

High in the bowl, Sarevith dives in the bowl, towards the western wall.

T'asu smiles at L'ian and shakes his head, "No. Just transport duty. I'm sure you know how that is," the man rolls his eyes with a chuckle. "I may make my way into the living caverns later for a bite to eat and a drink before we head back. I have to wait for my passengers to finish their business, unless you guys wouldn't mind a few new residents?" He gives the man a goodnatured wink. At the goldrider's approach, he turns and quirks one eyebrow as he gives her the once over. He promptly then salutes Satiet.

High in the bowl, Alzaeth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Bronze Alzaeth of Ista Weyr.

Aansoeth wings in from somewhere to the east, rumbling lightly as he glides to land near the other Istan dragons. Jasia leaps down before he's quite settled and, in one smooth movement, helps her passenger off his neck while tossing a wave to those assembled. "Ista's duties to High Reaches and her queens," she says, with remarkable politeness, but there's something wry in her smile as her gaze cuts to Delaney.

High in the bowl, Alzaeth glides downward in the bowl, towards the western wall.

In the sky directly above, Sarevith backwings to a neat landing on the ground.

Sarevith has arrived.

In the sky directly above, Alzaeth swoops down to a landing on the ground.

Alzaeth has arrived.

Delaney stops shortly up behind B'rak, hands shoved into the too-small-for-warmth pockets in her trousers. Copper stare directs itself briefly and balefully at a too near child playing a rather raucous game of 'throw the rock' that lands too near for comfort, before returning to the trader speak. "Ista's duties," she adds after a hesitant moment of lurking, before a look at the feeding grounds to the east draws her attention to her absent lifemate. Dark blond brows draw together briefly, before she returns her gaze to the 'Reaches folks and the talk of traders, haircuts, and transports. Jasia gets a decent-sized grin from the brusque woman, as her attention is drawn to the familiar face of the brownrider.

Through time and space, the ebbing flow of an oasis lapping against heated sands, the soft cadence of a sleep that verges on wakefulness, comes up to higher ground, and then falls back. It's almost too quiet, but in the pinprick of each draconic existence that's nearby, the sensation of -it- -- something significant -- sparks.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Ok, we'll be starting very soon. If you did not just get an emit please page me so I can add you to my list. If you got one and aren't chasing, page me so I can take you off the list. ;) I'd like to start off by thanking everyone who came. :) There aren't many rules for this flight. Namely two, have fun, and one pose per Teonath's. Male dragons can start blooding in about 5 minutes, after which Teo will show up in a marvelous mood, for two more rounds and then take off. :) We'll play it by ear from there. ;) »

In the sky directly above, Volath rises up into the sky from Sionath's ledge, low on the western bowl wall.

In the sky directly above, Volath banks and lands neatly on the ground.

Volath has arrived.

V'lano slides down from Volath.

V'lano has arrived.

Looking for an opening in the busy flight pattern that plays across the airspace above the bowl, Brown Sarevith of Telgar circles the high spires, weaves as close to in and out of them as his large form is able, then spots an opening, settling lazily, slowly to the ground in an easy glide. His rider rolls his eyes, muttering something to his mount, then slips to the ground with a genial wave while Sarevith restlessly sidesteps, neatly avoiding children tossing rocks. "Telgar's duties," hails the rotund man to the gathered group, eyes holding on Satiet for a moment before scanning the rest of those assembled.

T'bay slides down from Sarevith.

T'bay has arrived.

Sria straightens abruptly, clasps her hands together, and - though Sruth doesn't appear as immensely satisfied with himself as he likely is, blue eyes kaleidoscoping the occasional lavender confetti highlight - she shakes her head silently at her brown. Pressing her lips together, there's the tiniest flicker of something like resentful awe - now, seeing St'vren's salute, she just barely returns it.

In the feeding grounds, Mraneth has esconced himself at the far edges of the herd, wherries being not his favorite meal, rather strenuous to catch, after all. But visiting rules apply, and a gracious weyr-guest he will be. Despite a lazy preference for the slower herdbeasts of Ista, a neat ebony-taloned paw reaches out to tap playfully at a passing wherry, earning a satisfying squawk of alarm from his playtoy.

Satiet slinks, the unsteadiness of her steps a sign of wobbly knees that have probably been jogging for an hour longer than she should have. Pleased, and happy to show that she is, a hand reaches out to try and catch a bit of L'ian's shorn hair, "Absolutely, it looks marvelously better, and I'm -sure- Amarie will adore it. She's lucky you know. If only we were all so lucky, but some men," the emphasis there is hard to miss, "Are too blind and stupid to realize a good thing when they see it. Really." It's a different sort of acidity than her norm, the sarcasm mostly rueful, and never mind the glances that slide involuntarily towards her ledge where just above the edge the slumbers of a queen can be seen. For B'rakis and Delaney, there's a polite nod, one that rakes more over the brownrider's figure than the more familiar bronze. Distracted, she offers a: "He's probably around. Or they've left. I haven't really noticed much today of anything. Much."

High in the bowl, Wirrath emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Brown Wirrath of Igen Weyr.

High in the bowl, Wirrath circles lower in the bowl, towards the western wall.

In the sky directly above, Wirrath banks and lands neatly on the ground.

Wirrath has arrived.

Alzaeth, much like Sarevith, takes his time with landing, waiting until a likely spot opens itself up. With little fanfare, he touches down, seemingly impatient to be rid of his rider, who's eyeing the assembled crowd, then the dragon below him, with narrowed eyes. If there's a comment that passes between the pair, however, it's a silent one--the Istan bronzerider simply slips to the ground, mumbles a semi-coherent greeting at anyone who might look his way, tucks hands into his pockets, and strides away from his lifemate.

D'mon jumps down Alzaeth's side to the ground, using his foreleg as a step.

D'mon has arrived.

P'ton slides down Wirrath's side to the ground.

P'ton has arrived.

L'ian grins at T'asu with a nod. "I do know how that is." He turns his head at Jasia's duties and returns High Reaches' to her. T'bay gets the same greeting, and L'ian seems surprised as he looks around now and realizes just how many people are there. He does let Satiet touch his hair. "Thank you, Satiet."

And the slumber continues, but the inevitable signs of growing desire that simmer beneath the surface of a golden sleep bubble here and there. Soon.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « I forgot to mention but someone was good enough to make a question of it. If you'd like to pro and emit and stuff, feel free. I may not be able to respond, but it's always welcome, and any other questions can be directed my way! Satiet might bite figuratively but the player won't. ;) »

Volath comes down from a Reachian ledge, wings spanned broad to simply let him coast toward the bowl. There he deposits his rider, whose jacket is looped over one arm. "Gracious," mutters V'lano, "It's a Telgar congregation." Blame Rusuth, at whom Volath makes a strangely derisive whisper of a snort before steepling his wings and bolting skyward anew. Above, he soars, relaxed in the wind, in familiar sky and space. Biding. Below, the younger of Telgar's weyrseconds eyes the grown weyrling brown before trotting toward the caverns - then, realizing other people, makes better of it and alters his course toward them. "Telgar's duties," he jests through a grin. "Again, I'm sure."

Teonath senses that Sruth will not wake her, though his rider's now trapped - plots and plans over now, for his own, and the rest - watching her sleep, feeling it - all for _her_.

Volath has left.

In the sky directly above, Volath launches into the sky from the ground below.

B'rakis gives Satiet a cheerful smile, "I hope he's still around. I brought those feathers I was telling you about." A slight frown flickers across his face, then he says, "Wait.. maybe it wasnt' you.. well anyway. I was just going to ask you if you knew what his name was, because it's completley gone out of my mind. Alvisan, was it?"

In the feeding grounds, Ahazeth looks over at Mraneth toying with the wherry from where he sets poised at the edge of the feeding grounds. Something has his eyes all a whirl with myriad of colors, flickers of orange and violet dominating the mix. His head swings around at something and he looks skyward for a brief moment before his gaze settles on a number of scared herdbeasts. His nostrils flare like large molten arches as he takes in the frightened scent.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « And feel free to start blooding. :) »

Rojieth waddles towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Rojieth has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Rojieth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

Wirrath lands and rumbles as he urges his rider off his back and he shrugs off the straps with a deep croon. P'ton shakes his head and mutters as he drags the straps off the brown, "Igen's duties to High Reaches and her queens." he says with a brisk salute after coiling his straps and he sighs a little as he looks at his brown again for a moment.

Wirrath tromps towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Wirrath has left.

Alzaeth wanders towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Alzaeth has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Alzaeth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

In the bowl, to the east, Wirrath flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

T'asu's eyes narrow at the weyrwoman's shaky steps and he steps forward, "Are you alright ma'am..." he pauses and looks toward the feeding grounds, eyes widening for a moment as an epiphany is struck in his own mind. He then quickly steps back, "Oh dear."

St'vren is having a rough time. It's so sharding /crowded/, and Rusuth is acting odd, more dragons keep arriving...and what are T'bay and V'lano doing here? And then Satiet comes into view, and a whole lot of things suddenly become abruptly clear. "Oh--" He really has to look for a minute, can't help it--he's male, after all. "Rusuth," he mutters, slipping back to the young bronze's side, "you really shouldn't do this. We're not cleared, and I don't think..." Dark eyes meet blue-whirling (blue flecked with orange-red, sparkling) for a minute or two. The dragon wins, and Stav steps back, shaking his head. "I'm /dead/," is all he says aloud. But hey, given how Satiet looks tonight, maybe he'll die happy.

In the sky directly above, Volath flies towards the east.

Rusuth wanders towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Rusuth has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Rusuth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

Lesra strides out of the living cavern.

Lesra has arrived.

Teonath senses that Sarevith slowly reaches out tendrils, whispering warmth and sunlit hues over the slumbering murmurs. Patience.

Aansoeth lumbers towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Aansoeth has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Aansoeth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

High in the bowl, Aquileth emerges from Between with a blast of cold air!

On the Star Stones, Ulanoth warbles a greeting to Bronze Aquileth of Ista Weyr.

In the feeding grounds, Rojieth watches the other male dragons arrive at first, content to size them up instead of the beasts he'll be blooding. But he bores of that quickly, no matter how many of them there are, and decides it's time to join their fun. He leaps powerfully into the air and then glides slowly across the feeding grounds, surveying the territory below until he finds a likely victim. Down he comes then, landing squarely on a herdbeasts's back, killing it with his weight. He moves off it quickly and sinks his teeth into the beast's side.

Xalerth wanders towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Xalerth has left.

In the feeding grounds, Rojieth launches into the sky.

Above the bowl, to the east, Rojieth flies down to land gently on the ground.

In the bowl, to the east, Xalerth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

Teveroth has arrived.

T'bay's eyes light on a familiar figure, a youth from his own weyr, and one brow rises notably. The rider counts on his fingers, as if figuring something intently, then woahs as his lifemate takes abruptly to the air, scattering him with dust and elicting a non-becoming cough that (fortunate for St'vren) distracts him entirely. "Ah, I thought perhaps I'd forgotten someth--" Another glance at Satiet's revealing wear, and he adds, "but perhaps it will have to wait."

"I..." and for a moment the control freak of a goldrider pauses, "I honestly, B'rakis, I honestly don't care. I don't give a damn. About your feathers, or that trader." This is accompanied by the nervous twitch of shoulders that rise, and flashing the bronzerider and his Istan companion, the latter receiving one far more appreciative, a lopsided smile, Satiet moves from this trio to another, her legs pulling back, knees further up, as if stretching the muscles there. "You're a doll to ask, sir," and the fight against long ingrained practice results in a choked greeting for T'asu, "Reaches duties to you and your queens." But that's not her final destination, and with a sultry shift in her step, the Reachian goldrider finds Sria.

Sarevith lumbers towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Sarevith has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Sarevith flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

Teveroth darts towards the eastern side of the bowl.

Teveroth has left.

In the bowl, to the east, Teveroth swoops across the bowl, over the fence, and into the feeding grounds.

High in the bowl, Aquileth dives in the bowl, towards the western wall.

In the sky directly above, Aquileth wings his way towards the east.

Above the bowl, to the east, Aquileth banks and lands neatly on in the feeding grounds.

In the feeding grounds, Rusuth flies low, still a little clumsy in these unfamiliar winds, but food is never hard to find. A wherry judders past, squawking helplessly, having forgotten never to run from anything draconian--it only attracts their attention. One amber-streaked forefoot lashes out as the young bronze lands, and the wherry is reduced to blood and feathers and bone. Rusuth is focused only on the blood.

Aquileth bespoke Flight with « (OOC) Can I join, or is it too late? »

In the feeding grounds, Y'il swings his leg over Aquileth's ridges and slides down the straps to land on a bronze foreleg, which lowers him the rest of the way to the ground. He hops off Aquileth's foreleg and pats the dragon affectionately for the help.

In the feeding grounds, Y'il leaves through the gate, latching it securely behind him, and heading west in the bowl.

In the feeding grounds, Mraneth is not used to the cooler air of High Reaches, as such, it has made him a lethargic hunter. As irritation at his slow reflexes increases, fractured eyes snap to half-open, and a crack of forearm around a chattering wherry earns him his first meal. But there's something else in this heavy mountain air, a lush promise of something bright and shining that urges him instead to blood, rather than feed. Great mahogany maw fastens on the hapless wherry, pulling sanguine fuel from the carcass.

B'rakis's jaw literally drops open at that. "Excuse me?," he almost stammers at that. Then Xalerth is off for the feeding grounds, and understanding dawns. "Ohhh," he says. Then a moment later, "Ohhh no...." The feather trading with the Trader will have to wait.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « It's still open. Welcome. :) »

Delaney turns a slightly distracted head back from the eastern side of the bowl, Mraneth's antics causing a slash of brows to lower over copper eyes, hands shoving deeper in pockets as lips are pursed into an even thinner line. "Shells.." is the curt mutter from tall woman, eyes shading a hue darker as they flicker over the nearby goldrider with a measuring look. She takes a subtle step sideways, a conscious effort perhaps to appear nonchalant, as if the coming storm that will soon envelope the woman will bypass her in someway without wreaking any havoc. Fat chance of that. "Um.. B'rakis...?" A hushed whisper is generated towards the bronzerider, even as darkening eyes flicker with combined worry and heat back and forth to the feeding grounds.

Above the bowl, to the east, Volath banks and lands neatly on in the feeding grounds.

Jasia's eyes hold Aansoeth for a significant moment before she turns to the growing crowd. "I suppose I chose a bad time to visit," she remarks rather dryly, hands crossing against her stomach, but she seems more amused than put-off by this. It's with a blatantly bemused air that she turns to T'bay, a semi-familiar face to whom she notes, "I don't believe I've seen you in awhile. How have you been since we last spoke?" Whenever that was.

D'mon wasn't looking his way, but he notes Alzaeth's departure just the same, and helplessly scrubs a hand over the stubble that covers his head. "Could've just *said*," he mutters, then his eyes go unfocused, searching the faces of the riders present, recognition flashing somewhere deep as familiar faces turn up. Then, he spots Satiet, and there, the wandering gaze stops.

In the feeding grounds, Ahazeth's quiet observation quickly becomes raucous action as he takes to the skies amidst a flurry of wings as dragons seem to materialize out of thin air around him. A beast off at the far end of the corral, more sedate than the others, quickly becomes the victim of the Igen bronze as he backwings quickly to land upon its back, crushing it to the ground. Moments pass, and shortly the bronze head is lifted, muzzle dripping a crimson liquid, and a beast is left lying limp on the ground floor.

In the bowl, to the east, Y'il is calm, a veteran of many flights, though none successful. So he can smile and wave at his competition -- Aquileth never takes over until they're actually in the air. "Ista's duties to the Reaches and her queens," he says levelly, without any hint of innuendo. It could be a business trip. "I hope Reye's greetings made it here all right."

In the feeding grounds, Teveroth prances around, his high-held neck belying his good mood as he settles his bronze wings to his back, eyeing his prey myscheviously. He doesn't seem to notice the other males arrival with anything more then aloofly interested amusement.

In the feeding grounds, Xalerth settles onto the feeding grounds, only to be 'buzzed' by a pair of wherries flying over head. That gets his dander up, and he snarls, snapping at the tail of one of the avians and yanking it out of the air. He hauls it down, and brings it's squawking to quick end, before lowering his head to drain it of blood.

Jesting meets narrowed gaze, the former a Telgar Weyrsecond's and the latter, one from the Reaches. Sria studies V'lano a moment and then returns, airily, "And duties to Telgar, again," with some emphasis. "Visiting?" Sruth barely notices all those other dragons as they fly east; he remains deadly still. Now, the goldrider's coming her way, and Sria says only, "Nice top, Satiet. Where'd you get it?"

L'ian seems a little lost with all the greetings and questions and conversations flying around. He takes a good look at all of the gathered riders but at least tries to pretend he's not looking anywhere near a certain goldrider.

In the bowl, to the east, Rojieth flies east across the bowl, over the fence and into the feeding grounds.

"Timing," V'lano notes idly, "Is everything." It's St'vren he stalks toward, though as much as he manages the shoulders-back and spine-straight posture of a scolding about to happen there's this rather ridiculous smirk on his mouth. Sria's words distract enough to cause him to toss a glance her way - the smirk tenders to a smile - and words: "Once in a while. I'm overdue to bring Jorel another toy, though," he points out, "Something more age-appropriate."

T'asu's eyebrows lift a few levels higher on his forhead as he takes a step back from Satiet. He watches her quietly make her rounds to the various riders in the bowl who conveniently have male dragons. As the weyroman passes by, his head swivels to watch. For now, he's captivated with Satiet, though the taught jaw muscles would indicate that he is concentrating heavilly on controlling something as well.

In the feeding grounds, Wirrath gives a deep hiss as he sees all the other males and he darts over to the side and he snaps upa wherry that doesn't want to move, dragging her off her nest as he starts sucking the blood out from the bite of his teeth around the wherry's neck. His jaws clench tight to allo no drop to be spilled of that crimson rush of energy.

In the feeding grounds, Alzaeth's arrival in the feeding grounds is much like his arrival in the bowl--with little fanfare, he simply turns up. He's quick about his business, talons flashing as he snares a herdbeast, ignoring the other males as they arrive. It seems almost contemplative, the brief study given the beast, but then he dips his head to drink, one among many.

In the feeding grounds, Rojieth at first doesn't let the wherries distract him from his blooding, but then again they were silly enough to fly over his head making lots of noise. So he lets his first victim off the hook - or off the tooth as the case may be, and snares one of the wherries with his talons. Down it comes and with quick work at the wherry's neck the blooding begins anew.

In the feeding grounds, Sarevith shudders as he lands, heavily, the leap over the fence and to the ground not as great as the one to which he is accustomed. One wing outstretches for balance, narrowly missing a fence post, and Sarevith angrily shrieks at it, head dipping with intent to strike before he realizes it is inanimate. Redirecting his focus, he spies a lone herdbeast, and brings down one pinion, caging it. Slyly, he brings his open maw down, raking it but not yet feeding, waiting patiently despite the creature's cries.

P'ton sucks in a deep breath and he sighs a bit mre as his jaw tenses, eyes closing for a moment as his gaze focuses on Satiet, his shoulders shifting just a little as he holds tight to hios straps, coiling them even tighter as he looks around the mass of riders around him.

St'vren is shaking his head, trying to clear away distraction. It's really not working. "I didn't do this on purpose," he says quickly to V'lano, eyes flckering involuntarily from the Weyrsecond to Satiet. "I /didn't/. M'fraid asked me to drop some messages by, and there were all these riders here and then Rusuth...I can't /think!/."

In the feeding grounds, And that something that T'asu is concentrating on would be Ahazeth. The large bronze has already moved on to not one, but two large wherries, both victims of his bloodlust. He snarls at a younger bronze that comes too close to where he has his kill, jaws snapping and making a suction noise as they clamp shut each time. No time to waste, the dragon proceeds to lap up all he can of the pulsing jugular as the animal dies within his grip.

Lingering in beads along Satiet's neck, though her forehead is now clear, is the results of her more recent jog, and a slim arm makes to slip around her mentor's neck for a hug. The motion, however, stops midway, the hand snatched back as if mindful of a much higher purpose. "Isn't it? It's.. odd, I've never thought of it as particularly wearable, and I thought you were dafter than a wherry's behind when you gave it to me, but it's almost pretty. I had to add the jacket though, Teonath tried to tell me earlier that if you've got it, you should flaunt it, but that's -so- unbecoming, isn't it?" V'lano's arrival garners an unsteady look, one that shoots past the Telgar Weyrsecond in favor of younger, less familiar prey: St'vren, and a very slow, seductive smile flickers briefly, sliding towards some of the other riders that are gathering. Herd mindset.

In the feeding grounds, Aansoeth's in a good mood, his movements almost playful as he picks his way through the wherries. He pauses to consider one, his head lowering, before he abruptly lashes out and pins its neighbor to the ground. He takes his time with the actual kill -- he's all cat-and-mouse now, taunting and mocking -- but when he finally begins to blood, there's purpose behind each motion.

In the feeding grounds, Volath soars a slow circle high above, banking a wing down and curling its tip to slowly increase the speed of a downward spiral. Inevitably, its path takes him to a single, young wherry; for a split second the bronze rides it, one set of reartalons closed about the little beast's back. Then it's crumpling beneath his weight and with the other three feet the sun-dappled dragon lands, head already bending to taste of his minimal treat.

Lesra meanders into the bowl, looking slightly startled and confused at the crowd. Next to her toddles a little boy - obviously hers - one who is delighted by the crowd, and who tugs anxiously at his mother's pants, demanding "up! Up!" Looking exasperated, Lesra swings the little one up into her arms, meandering over into the direction of Sria. She notes Satiet's odd clothing and expression, then glances to Sria questioningly. Esradan looks at Sria, suddenly taking on the shy, coquettish look young boys are so incredibly good at. "'Ria!" He proclaims, apparently not noting tension in the air.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Ok, I have my head once more, can people who are chasing give an aye if they've posed once? »

Xalerth bespoke Flight with « aye! »

Volath bespoke Flight with « Aye »

Wirrath bespoke Flight with « Aye »

You sense St'vren is trying not to look, it's not his place and he shouldn't even be here. But you smile, and he smiles back. It'd be ruude not to, and you /shine/.

Ahazeth bespoke Teonath with « Aye »

Alzaeth bespoke Flight with « Aye. »

Aquileth bespoke Flight with « Aye »

Aansoeth bespoke Flight with « Aye. »

Rusuth bespoke Flight with « Aye! »

Mraneth bespoke Flight with « Aye, aye. »

Rojieth bespoke Flight with « aye »

In the feeding grounds, Teveroth joins the crowd with a will, reaching out a long, ebony talon to snatch at a convieniently stupid wherry. He pulls it towards him and doesn't even have the mercy to kill it before he drains it's life away from it. Merrily, he bats it around a bit, playfully, before turning his attention to another - this time, a young herdbeast. A small roar might turn away contenders - this is /his/ Weyr, and he'll take what he likes!

Sarevith bespoke Flight with « aye! »

In the feeding grounds, Aquileth hooks a second wherry by accident as wings flare outward, the black talons gleaming in the light like obsidian. He brings the wing down and throttles the poor wherry, who lets out a strangled squawk before submitting to Aquileth's timely ending. Aquileth takes his prize to the edge of the ground before draining it, and looks around for a third.

"It's not your fault," V'lano replies, bending his head toward St'vren to relate this notation. "But... try to stop him from straining his wings too much. Volath's shoulders - wingmuscles - misery. Last time we were here. Last time we were here like this." The distraction of a wherry's blood's taste makes him speak a bit haltingly, tongue darting over his teeth once in a while as if to test their sharpness. Abruptly, nonconversationally, he follows the near-graduate's gaze toward Satiet, and then - grinning - shakes his head and dips his chin. "What a scene," he murmurs, perhaps ashamed, perhaps delighted.

Now, and only now, Sruth begins to uncurl, a talon here, a forelimb there, and his tail - his tail last, and slowly. Sria doesn't reply to V'lano, though it's for concentration on the matter at hand: Satiet's attempt to hug renders her slightly more than surprised, though she covers: "Hmm, is that so. But you did, indeed, give me one first. Satiet." Flicking her eyes to Sruth, who's moving now, "The jacket was a good choice. I'd keep it on, if I were you." Now there's a child addressing her; Sria's day just got even _better_. "I'm sure," she tells Lesra's questioning look, "You can figure it out."

T'bay dusts himself off, casting a rueful grin the direction of Sarevith's departure, and he raises one finger to point intently toward St'vren, a 'You're gonna--' gesture, though he restrains himself as he sees V'lano in his periphery nearby, his hand falling back to his side. "Well, what's a mentor to do, with a Weyrsecond here to give you approval?" An easier smile settles over his face, a light flush with which he briefly regards Satiet with a quiet, "Hello again," as she passes on her path to Sria, then he nods to Jasia, hands moving to remove gloves. "I've been well, actually. How about yourself?"

Sruth has left.

In the sky directly above, Sruth springs powerfully into the sky from the ground below.

In the sky directly above, Sruth follows the curve of the bowl, heading east.

In the bowl, to the east, Y'il is content to wait, there's no need to hurry. Like his dragon, each movement is effecient, and he slowly scans the riders around him, noting details of each individual. Not in a hostile manner, just gathering information, perhaps for later use when he is again sane.

"That wasn't approval," V'lano notes, only belatedly realizing T'bay - and then, staring at him for quite some time as if trying to put in place something about a picture that doesn't belong. A carrot among oranges, a golden thread in a stack of hay. "It was advice. He'd probably do better to ignore me."

Above the bowl, to the east, Sruth backwings to a neat landing on in the feeding grounds.

Lesra's eyes go wide, and she clings her child close - an action which has the toddler squirming in retaliation. "Oh, gracious. I knew Satieth's Teonath was due to go up... But I didn't think this soon." Well, here's the action, she may as well watch. Esradan holds his arms out, wanting to see the other woman, but Lesra cuddles him close. "Not now, love. She's busy." She tells the boy, brushing her nose with his.

A crackle of life, coalesced energy brought together into the already high charge of still slumbering desires, streaks through the minds of select dragons with the decisiveness of one who is all too aware of her existence and current purpose. The radiant point of light, amethyst clouded as it is, speaks of the ascent of a star into the approaching night's sky. Instinctive desire merges with the physical, sleep cast off in favor of a sharp awareness, one that fixates first onto the other queens in the area, and then flares out to include much of the Weyr.

In the sky directly above, Teonath launches into the sky from Teonath's ledge, low on the western bowl wall.

In the sky directly above, Teonath flies towards the east.

Above the bowl, to the east, Teonath swoops down to a landing on in the feeding grounds.

O'rani is still, quiet. The boy is young, and obviously shaken, but he stands among the crowd, slipping himself near V'lano - looking for stability and comfort which only experiance can bring. He watches the Feeding Pens, quite apparently nervous.

In the feeding grounds, From a mid-ground weyr, the sensation of a languid stretch is felt before it's visible, High Reaches' most youthful queen sliding backwards onto her back haunches, wings expanding to take in the chilled mountain air into her sails. Slender and commanding, the long length of her neck rises into the air to survey, observe, watch; calculating each movement of the bowl, the gathering flock in the feeding grounds with an air of complete ownership. Then, the moment of peace is over and Teonath launches low, gliding just a breadth above the tallest figure in the bowl, down with the full heaviness of her form onto two interlocked herdbeasts. With a flicker of talons, both forelimbs extend to slice open each to relieve the animals of their life's blood. A snarl of malcontent sounds into the clouded sky, before she lowers her maw, teeth gnashing into the flesh and liquid of her double kill.

Delaney huddles in washes of alternating flares of heat and splinters of cold, as if her body can not quite decide which sensation is the most real, the heated boil that Mraneth's body is flaring up with, or the shivers of cold that shatter through her thin Istan skin. Despite both, those wary copper eyes cannot seem to take themselves off the nearby figure of Satiet, bemusing and not a little frightening for the tall woman. As male upon male makes themselves a closer companion to the goldrider's vicinity, she manages to look like she's idly studying a boot toe as it peeks from beneath trouser legs, as if pretending that when the glass ball of pretense around them all shatters, it won't disrupt her innocent actions.

Delaney

Cropped caramel-brown hair is the first noticeable attribute, a distinctively masculine haircut on a face and body that are definitely female in type, from curved hips and generous chest, woman, not tomboy, is defined in her figure. The face is graced with strong features; high brow, deep set eyes, and defined cheeks, though dusted with few freckles over skin fair enough to remain unscathed by Turns of remorseless attempts at tanning. Though more than tall enough at near six feet, she is slender enough, pretty enough, and curved enough; the word 'enough' summing up physical presence perfectly, forever relegating her looks to the caste of 'average'. Only the feral look in thick-fringed eyes gives her away as anything worth looking thrice at, the hue of bright copper, nearly molten ore, flashes out from behind the heavy-lashed, perceptive gaze. A determined chin is rather pointed in shape, above which floats a thin-lipped, but wide mouth that's more often pursed in contemplation than aught else. Though the hands long-fingered and fine-boned, the wide shoulders are strong, and palms calloused, showcasing a lass well used to labor.

Clad in simple rider's leathers, her trousers are a fine-grain leather, thin but durable in their tawny color. Thick boots are of sturdy wher-hide, tucked under the slightly flared cuff of those pants. A heavy, fleece-lined flying jacket is held in one hand, able to be quickly donned. Her tunic is of little fuss, Delaney preferring understated to blatant, the soft off-white color playing off her permanent tan all Istans acquire. The tunic is sleeveless, the round collar notched in a small vee at the base of her throat. Last of all a thick belt circles those womanly hips, rings all around it where riding straps may be attached. On slender hands, two rings are sported, the right is a unique 'wooden ring' and the left hand has a 'graduation ring' of gold.

She appears to be around 21 Turns, 10 months, and 19 days in age.

P'ton

This young man sees to be quite tall, standing at nearly 6'4 and his build is fairly muscular, as if he spent plenty of time working at a physically demanding job while he was growing up. His features are rather rugged, starting with slightly long reddish brown hair that has been growing out from a recent cut, except for a set of bangs that he has to constantly push back to keep them out of his merry emerald eyes. His nose is a bit hawkish as it sits between his high cheekbones, giving him a bit of a daunting look when he looks down on someone. His lips are a bit narrow, but they rather suit the young man, usually curved into a fetching smile that shows that despite his looks, he is a rather friendly guy. His deeply taned skin is a bit weathered from the wind and rain and he has fine lines around his temples from squinting in the sun all the time. His shoulders are broad and his arms are laced with muscles that show when he moves, all the way down to massive wrists and big hands. His torso is broad as well and it flows to a somewhat more narrow waist, though it wouldn't be considered small by anyone's measurements. His legs are long and solidly muscled to support his mass. When he speaks, he has a mellow voice, not to deep, but deep enough that he has a rumble for a laugh.

This man dresses in light colors, usually beige and light browns and white, mainly because they don't clash with his hair color. He's not a real spiffy dresser, usually just running around in a white shirt that has been fitted to his frame, the loose material is lightweight and tucks into a pair of light brown breeches that snug to his long legs. On one shoulder he wears a knot with two strands of black and one gold strand braided together in a simple design twined with a strand of lemosian brown, showing that he is a brown rider at Igen Weyr. The only other dark colored item that he wears are a pair of dark brown riding boots that his breeches tuck into. The leather is quite worn on them, but still serviceable, still in time they will have to be replaced. All in all one might hazard his age to be somewhere around 23 Turns, 8 months, and 26 days, give or take a few sevendays.

Y'il

There's an undeniable sense of presence about this man--his more than six and a half feet in height sees to that, as does his width. Damon's broad shoulders, well defined upper body, and big hands marked by occasional burn scars have no trouble advertising his being accustomed to hard work. His skin is dark, like tanned leather, roughened with exposure to wind and sun, marking him an Istan as surely as his shoulder knot does. By his eyebrows, one might guess that his hair--if he had any--would be dark brown, but whatever hair he does have has been shorn to mere stubble. Sharp and intelligent, his blue-grey eyes draw in details of all that surrounds him, and his generous mouth is nearly always curved in a smile. When he speaks, which seems to be rare, his voice is deep and resonant, coming from deep within his chest, making him capable of shouting without much effort.

He's dressed for comfort rather than duty: a short-sleeved tunic in lightweight, cream colored linen. Trousers are dark brown and of similarly light fabric, the cuffs tucked into wherhide boots that come high on his ankle. On his shoulder is the orange and black knot of an Ista wingrider, a bronze thread running through it. In addition, a patch on his shoulder identifies him as a rider for Timor Wing. He looks to be somewhere in his mid to late twenties.

T'bay

Freckles dapple a rounded face. Pert apple cheeks stand out when T'bay smiles, enhancing dimples around his mouth and nose and drawing attention to the neatly-trimmed crop of goatee over the cusp of his rounded chin. Orangeybrown hair has been trimmed rather recently, blunt edges revealing the touch of an amateur barber as well as revealing leaf-green eyes.

The youthful man is a trifle stout, though much of his rotund form has reluctantly given way to muscle. A secondhand but clean green shirt hangs low at the bottom hem over brown taken-in trous. A servicable sweater of darker green plus a set of riding leathers offers extra warmth, and a plain black and white Telgar knot laced with a cord of brown hangs from one shoulder, leaving the other to bear the patch of the Thunderbolt wing. Solid minecrafter's reinforced shoes, complete with forged protective toe-tips and heel-pads, create a characteristic sound when he walks.

V'lano

Tousled, sometimes fly-away curls frame a sun-drenched face made rough over the bridge of the nose and above generous brows from much time out of doors. Dark, expressive eyes framed by lashes too long for a young man's face are brilliant and sparkling most times, though traces of a deeper dullness can rarely be found. His nose is a little narrow, but the even, smooth lips beneath it are not unpleasing, and a frame of smoothly curled hairs in the brackets of his mouth sets it off to advantage. His hands are slender and as expressive as his eyes, softened by much time in dragon-hide oil. He appears to be somewhere in his early twenties.

A silken shirt of pale gold swaths his chest, loosely laced several times just below the throat. It's tucked into trim-fit trousers of an expressly fine weave, complimentary to both the shirt and his dress jacket in a gray so dark it might almost be black. That jacket itself is made of leather in that same near-jet shade, but stitched in far too ornamental a way to be appropriate for Threadfall; no, this jacket serves primarily as perch for the bronze-threaded knot braided through with a Weyrsecond's flourishes. Soft leather boots buckled at the ankle and laced to the calf complete the rider's dress. (+details)

Jasia

Jasia's appearance pays Ista constant tribute, all bronzed skin and tan lines and a dragonrider's lifestyle. Her face is angular, composed of sharp features and eyes as much blue as gray, and her auburn hair is cropped short at the chin to fit more easily beneath a helmet. She is, at eighteen or so, slipping gracefully into adulthood, and what once remained of her baby fat has since been whittled away, replaced now by lithe muscle and a slender build.

Her day-to-day work outfit is hardly flattering, but sturdy. The shirt is a plain rose gray, and its sleeves, though long, are usually rolled up to her elbows and then pushed further back in a wrinkling mess. Black trousers tuck eventually into wherhide boots, and below a toned stomach, a dark cord binds pants close to ride her hips. Her only decoration beyond the belt is the knot on her shoulder - dark cords threaded through with brown, marking her as Aansoeth's lifemate and a rider of Ista Weyr.

St'vren

Six feet three inches and still getting used to it, this young man walks with a hint of care and on the lookout for low doorframes. Long-legged and long-armed, his skin is naturally golden-brown, and marked here and there with the tiny burn scars any Smithcrafter falls prey to. Dark brown hair is cropped in a near-burr, as much for practicality as to hide the early signs of a bald spot. His eyes are deep-set and brown, with heavy brows and a dark fringe of lashes. His nose is...prominent (but well-shaped), and his mouth seems permanently set in a small tolerant smile. Cords of muscle are evident in his arms, and the rest of him is correspondingly solid. His hands, also scarred here and there from small burns, are broad and short-fingered with hints of soot under the nails. St'vren has 21 Turns, 0 months, and 27 days.

A long-sleeved shirt of dark charcoal-grey, long khaki trous, and battered black leather boots clothe St'vren's long body. While not fancy, the clothes are well-fitted and clearly comfortable. His one concession to semi-decorative dress is the black cord around his neck, from which dangles a pendant made of a pale eggshard. A worn leather belt secures the trous, its brass buckle polished into something resembling brightness, and a pair of brown riding gloves are tucked securely into the beltloop. The wherhide riding jacket he wears is painfully new in contrast, smooth and supple brown material lined in warm fleece. A small oval badge showing a scatter of stars against a black and white field is displayed on one shoulder, and a knot of black, white, and one cord of vivid bronze is looped on the other. He is thus marked as a rider in Stardust Wing, and a bronze weyrling of Telgar Weyr.

T'asu

T'asu has rather tousled, orangey-red hair, short on the top and slightly longer at the nape of the neck. The color is very, very bright, and very, very noticeable. Below his hairline are two thin eyebrows, slightly darker than his hair color, bordering two almond shaped, hazel eyes that sparkle with mischeviousness and enthusiasm. A slightly turned up nose just under his expressive eyes only adds to his own kind of boyish charm, making him seem younger than he really is. Finally, his small, flexible mouth can usually be found in an adorable half grin, making the whole ensemble into a sly, mischevious, youthful expression.

T'asu is wearing a light green vest over a creamy, offwhite shirt, and belted at the waist. This, along with a pair of worn but tough, hide brown pants and matching calf boots to complete the outfit, create a picturesque traveling outfit. However, it's not really fit for any nice occasion, so it's a good thing he mostly hangs around in the Bowl or in the Living Cavern of Igen Weyr. He wears the knot of Igen Weyr on his shoulder: Interwoven with the regular knot are strands of pale, shimmering bronze, symbolizing his beloved Pale Speckled Goby Bronze Ahazeth. He is also wearing a little charm around his neck on a thin chain, though it is usually protected and worn under his vest. <+detail T'asu's charm>

Tasuki seems to be about 41 Turns, 6 months, and 6 days.

Sria

Sria is all lean muscle and sharp form, her 5'6" frame and some thirty Turns carried with assurance. Haphazard waves in shadowy blonde would graze her shoulders if pulled straight; color contrasts the sienna of elegant eyebrows and darker lashes that line greyed-greenish eyes, luminous for the thoughts behind them if not their muted hue. A paler tan outfits her modest figure; a few barely-there freckles lie in waiting.

Sria's fitted crimson top is fierce for color as well as style; the neckline angles to a deep point, fabric cinched around the edges and woven through with a barely-seen white ribbon. Her black flying jacket's likely to be nearby, matching the slim belt slung across beige-grey trous - these are lightweight, wide cuffs turned up at the tops of her scuffed brown boots. The Weyrsecond knot at her shoulder is thoroughly dark-threaded: brown for her lifemate, blue and black for High Reaches Weyr.

L'ian

L'ian, at around sixteen turns, has finally grown into his looks as much as he probably ever will. He is almost unrecognizable from the pudgy boy he once was. His dark hair is cut short, shorter than it has been in a very long time. His icey blue eyes are usually his most distinguishing feature.

He is now wearing well fitting riding leathers in a very dark burnished brown. His feet are also clad in brown: old and worn but well cared for boots cover his feet. His only adornments are the pin of a gold firelizard he wears on his jacket and the ring he wears on his finger. His knot shows him to be from High Reaches and the patch on his jacket identifies him as a member of Glacier Wing, for those who would know. The bronze twined through his knot shows off his lifemate's color. (+detail available)

Carrying:

Family Portrait

B'rakis

B'rakis is a young man that looks to be somewhere around 23 Turns, 8 months, and 24 days old. His lightly tanned skin shows his fair complexion, even though he's had a few turns to get used to prolonged exposure to the Istan sun. Slight irregularity to the skin on his face is evidence that at one time, this rider had some very bad acne. He's not very tall, standing somewhere around 5'6" in height. He has a medium build, and while not bulky, he's well muscled from time spent taking care of his dragon and drills. Sun-tinted hair is a dark klah brown in color, and is neatly trimmed short, parted and combed to one side. His eyes are a rich hazel shade, and probably are his best feature. His voice is a pleasant baritone, and his demeanor is generally amiable and cheerful. He seems to favor his right leg slightly when he walks, moreso when he is tired. When he speaks, his accent indicates he is probably from Lemos originally, or thereabouts.

He looks clean and well kemped, and is clad in a pair of worn but comfortable looking riding gear that seems a bit overlarge on his frame. The pleasant scent of citrus and spice wafts from his direction. Soft wherhide boots protect his feet, and a beautifully lacquered wooden knife (+detail) hilt sticks out of the small scabbard on his black leather belt. A knot on his shoulder shows him to be the Weyrsecond at Ista Weyr, and is orange and black with a bronze thread woven through.

Carrying:

Dirtball

Targets for Hunting Lesson

In the feeding grounds, Ahazeth lifts his head to look at Teonath as she's arrived, very much aware of her presence. As she bloods her first kill of what is hoped to be many, the bronze swings his massive body around. Hind legs crouch, the muscles twisting underneath the desert hide, and then snap as the dragon is sprung aloft in search of his next victim. He glides down to an easy kill, claws piercing the flesh of another large herdbeast, having decidedly avoided the smaller wherries in search of greater wells of blood. A chunk of flesh is torn from the body and flung aside as he shoves his muzzle deep within the cavity now revealed.

In the feeding grounds, Rusuth will offer Teonath the courtesy of lifting his head from his blooded wherry and admiring her, eyes rapid-whirling with hot color, infatuation. He rumbles, a thick drawn-out sound that's half a challenge, half a lure. His neck snakes in her direction--but it's only to snatch an ovine, bite it sharp, and suck at the blood with red-stained fangs and slick-dark talons. An ovine, a little blood, and thou.

In the feeding grounds, Rojieth rumbles a greeting to Teonath as she enters the feeding grounds, similar to a greeting he might give any other day, and yet completely different at the same time. He's finished off the unfortunate wherry that chose to fly to the wrong part of the feeding grounds, and looks around for his next drink with some of his last still dripping from his mouth. He doesn't even bother to lift off the ground, instead he bounds several feet to a herdbeast that narrowly escaped another bronze's teeth. But this one doesn't escape his; his throat is open before the beast can even register that he's dying.

In the feeding grounds, Mraneth is what you could call a confident one. Arrogant as a sailor might be another term. Irregardless of the label, the tar-stained forearm that holds the now drained wherry reaches like the snap of a billowing sail out for another, confident that the crowd of males that seems to have overtaken the feeding grounds are irrelevant to his plan of action. Raising a red-stained muzzle, the forked tongue flickers out to slither with supreme enjoyment over the last of the mess, and he moves with the quickness of any hot-blooded male on the next victim, draining it with no little gusto, water-marked tailtip lashing far behind him. The arrival of a sinuous length of gold that streaks through the feeding grounds pulls up his garnet-washed muzzle, a promising look that trains with the heat of Ista's noon on the feeding figure.

In the feeding grounds, Two wherries, too noisy, too -small-, and Sruth passes over those kills for bigger, better. He stalks, first, and then snakes one talon into the fray - first blood finished, he watches her - landing, slicing, but that hunger, that's a different sort.

In the feeding grounds, Wirrath gives a deeper rumble in appreciation as the Igenite brown watches the younger gold come diving down, her twin kill dragging a deepr growl from him before he drops the drained wherry and his talons lash out and he drags a herdbeast to him the struggle of the rapidly ending as he clamps hios jaws along it's spine and starts drinking deeply from the wounds, the sucking sounds coming from him would be disgusting if anyone was truely paying attention to him, but he's more than content to be overshadowed by Teonath, for now. His tailtip twitches in time to his drinks and he gives a low thrum of delight, quite a verbose fellow all things considered.

St'vren laughs a little, the sound caught in his throat and really not all that humorous. "Don't need advice," he says, voice suddenly soft. "We'll figure it out. Very easy. /Easy/, Rusuth."

In the feeding grounds, Sarevith, gentility forgotten, is keeping his caged attraction tightly pinned beneath one blue-tinged wing, haunch-muscles shuddering with taut, still rousing desire. Teonath's wakening is what he has awaited: glittering eyes search the heavens, seeking her presence, and when she provides it, he responds, deliberately, and with a great cry of rejoicing, rending his captive herdbeast into slivers, supping on its life essence with a cry of resounding intensity.

Jasia runs her tongue over her teeth, blue gaze considering as she eyes the crowd. "Well enough," she replies to T'bay, her manner almost vague. "I was going to complain about a lack of excitement, but I don't suppose I have the right to anymore, mm?" Her lips quirk in a thin smile, and her attention, which has up to now been on everyone /but/ Satiet, shifts to the slender goldrider. Her expression is almost calculating, but she hides it well by looking swiftly away, directing her focus instead to St'vren. Hrm.

In the feeding grounds, Teveroth pauses in his delighted blooding to tilt his head up, oh-so-slightly, so that he may get a good, long, lusy glance of her. Apparently, the fright of his rider has not affected this young bronze. Interestedly, he picks his head up from his second kill - half to admire the glimmering gold, half to search for his next kill.

In the feeding grounds, Aquileth trumpets out a greeting to Teonath, acknowleging her rights and simultaneously showing his interest, appreciation, and respect, all in one prideful (and rather loud) bugle. He flares his wings and arches his neck, the tip of his tail twitching, in a display of his own. See how beautiful I am? See what a good match we would make? Not at all a typically brilliantly bronze dragon, he revels in the fact that his dark, scarred hide is nevertheless unique, and rumbles again, hoping that she too will find it so.

In the feeding grounds, Xalerth negligently pushes the body of the dead wherry aside, lifting his head to watch the gold dragon land with gleaming lavender tinged eyes. His muscles are tense and his wings half extended, ready to blood or fly in an instant. For now, he chooses the former, and drags another wherry to the ground, dispatching it quickly. He lowers his muzzle and drinks deeply again.

In the feeding grounds, Though Alzaeth is lost in the haze of the kill, in seeking fuel for the activities to come, his blood-stained muzzle lifts at Teonath's arrival, and lets loose a quiet rumble of something that sounds rather like admiration--whether for the sight of her or her skill, perhaps that's difficult to say. Jeweled eyes match the color of those streaks across amber-lit hide as, once more, he turns his attention to the feast. And yet, distraction waits in form of the young Reachian queen, whom he now steals glances at, across the crowded and chaotic feeding grounds.

T'asu's color drains from his face, causing the freckles on the rider's face to show up a little brighter. He rubs the back of his neck hard with a caloused hand, the toughened skin of his fingers pulling so hard on the neck so as to create tiny little rolls of soil, likely dried sweat, that he quickly brushes off without a second thought. He watches Satiet, quietly.

In the still statue that her dragon made seconds before, Satiet also stills, a silent shudder wracking her thin shoulders. Absently, in the way where she hears but doesn't quite compute, the dark-haired weyrwoman tears her gaze away from her ledge, flinching at the low glide that is far too high up to even touch her, and then reaches out with one arm, towards anything to steady her. Quickened terror turns narrowed eyes wide, the brilliant blue of which roves across in that unseeing fashion before latching onto comfort in the face of pride: V'lano. From somewhere, a steeled nerve twists, straightening her spine, but for a moment she looks vaguely lost, never mind the mantra that's replaced 'breathe' with 'blood,' a shaky exhalation, and then a louder, "Blood, right? Blood."

In the feeding grounds, Volath has no issues with small. From his first kill, the bronze takes his time with that little wherry, slicing through delicate feathers and skin to draw from it the entirety of its blood supply in slow, thoughtful draughts. The tip of his head allows a single eye to take in his since-grown, golden offspring; violet facets reflect her form in myriad angles, appreciative, unknowing. His head lifts, the drained beast left behind as he prowls over the cold, torn ground.

"Me neither," Sria mutters, to -something- overheard, and then she inhales sharply, glancing first to Satiet, and then to the guest - no, junior queen weyrs.

L'ian watches Teonath as she flies above their head, and seems pleased with the distraction as he keeps his eyes on the dragon until she enters the feeding grounds, where his dragon probably takes over. Now with the distraction of dragon gone, the distraction of rider can recommense. He frowns as Satiet shutters. "Are you alright, Satiet?" He moves a step or too closer, concern written on his face.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Ok, dudes, one more blood pose that segues into taking off. I'm not sure how much can be heard from feeding grounds to sky, but we'll go one sky room up. It's probably best to actually pose in the sky though. Complicated enough? ;) Then the riders will hit 'satiet' and trot up to her ledge so we can kill double spam opportunities. :) »

D'mon puts visible effort into unfolding his shoulders, in straightening to his full height as the carnage in the feeding grounds continues. Teonath's arrival there sharpens his gaze upon the gold's rider, and he shakes his head abruptly, as if trying to rid himself of some unwanted vision. Where others might ask after her welfare, he remains where he is, quiet and almost statue-like in his stillness, brow furrowed.

In the feeding grounds, Aansoeth arches his neck, his attention shifting to Teonath as she descends for her kill. There's something at once respectful and predatory in his stance, and though his hunger, now, is for the wherries panicking around him, it's quickly shifting to something eles entirely. His eyes are all for her, each facet colored in appreciative violet and tinges of darker shadow.

Rojieth bespoke Flight with « just to clarify, you mean you'll be posing once more and then take off immediately after, then we go up one room and *then* make our next pose? Or one full round more of blooding? »

Lesra watches, expression oddly distant. She seems like a scholar, watching a group of animals - her expression takes on that same detached interest. Somewhere behind her, a nanny rushes up to pry the squirming little boy from her arms. "Here's no place for a child, missy. No, no." And with that, the woman's gone, Esradan's wail cut off aburptly by some treat or toy. Lesra doesn't seem to notice - caught up in that way that flights tend to affect non-riders.

P'ton hugs his wheyrhide jacket around him a bit, the air is chilly here compared to Igen and he blinks a bit before nodding at Satiet's question, "Blood, only blood." he murmurs in response, though he has no problems getting Wirrath to blood only, the brownrider though can't seem to take his gaze off Satiet now, even as he licks at his lips a bit.

"Of course you don't," V'lano all but snaps to the Telgar weyrling, a ferocity of response which he might later regret - or forget entirely. There's icy eyes upon him for a moment, and he steps toward them, a hand lifting with palm upturned - offering, providing, perhaps supplicating. "We should have gone," he decides, audibly, apparently mostly deprived of the special talent of thinking in any fashion but aloud.

In the bowl, to the east, Y'il laughs a little, lightly, shaking his head in amusement as his dragon shows himself off. Dragons can do that, being awe inspiring beasts. But he, he's just a rail thin Threadscared rider who's probably old enough to be the father of at least one or two of his rivals. He unbuckles his riding gauntlets, and only one who's watching closely enough might notice that he's taking twice as much care to do so as they actually require.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Yes, I'll be posing once more and then hit the skies. »

O'rani pulls away some from the snapping Telgarian, looking surprised and slightly frightened. He glances around to find his support elsewhere, looking lost among the many older riders.

Delaney is far from worried about the glowing gold or her tenuous reins held by the young goldrider. Perhaps its the uncaring thump of male dragon that beats at the recesses of her mind, telling her to ignore weakness, to possess. A shake of short caramel head, Delaney returns her mind to humanity, and she pulls her gaze from the girl, a little embarrassed by the wanting that was there a moment ago in her gaze. She stands a bit apart from others, removed even from the bonds of weyr, feeling only rivals in the crowd of riders around her, hands pushed deep into pockets and fisted tightly. A heavy breath is drawn in, calming. "Easy," she mutters to herself, pulling herself back to full control of herself, standing languidly at ease with an effort.

Y'il strolls over from the eastern side of the bowl.

Y'il has arrived.

Timely, the snake out of a guiding arm, a female brownrider who is far more experienced at this than the girl, and the shove is all but friendly, commanding for the fist-clenched goldrider to make a few stumbled steps towards her weyr. "Blood -only-," harsh whispers accompanying the fear-touched eyes that follow Teonath in her thrashing movements of willful disobedience. A foot stomp does seem to help, both the rider and dragon gain bearing, and with that, suddenly self-possessed that her orders will be followed, Satiet flees, tripping over the last step into her weyr. If she runs faster than them, maybe they'll forget she exists. Or something.

In the feeding grounds, The contest of wills between rider and dragon takes physical form in the visible strain of Teonath's muscles as she lifts her neck skyward, the attempt to rid herself of this mental struggle in a throe of physical shakes, wings rustling irritably, and the whiplashing her tail gives to a herdbeast not far behind. The cries of a dominated spirit, concessions made in exchange for others bugles in challenge not only to Satiet, but also for the dragons that crowd her and with the threat of a malicious lavender in her hardened sapphire gaze, she lowers herself, smoldering gaze skirting across the male dragons before she drinks; for now, hunger satiated by blood, green-blooded heat given life by crimson. With three kills made, only two are exsanguinated, their carcasses discarded with a powerful flick of talons that sends the drained corpses into the side of a brown that leers too closely. Another attempt to buck the constraints of rider imposed self-control elicits a toss of her head backwards, overly large eyes eyeing the herdbeast with narrow-eyed desire. Then, with little preparation, the rush of winds and the clap of wings to air, she departs, scattering animals in her one way ticket to the skies.

In the feeding grounds, Teonath launches into the sky.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Ahazeth leaps into the sky.

Teonath> Ahazeth has arrived.

You go up to Satiet and Teonath's ledge.

Teonath's Ledge(#12466RJs)

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Volath springs powerfully into the sky.

Teonath> Volath has arrived.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Alzaeth leaps into the sky.

Teonath> Alzaeth has arrived.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Mraneth launches into the sky.

Teonath> Mraneth has arrived.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Wirrath rises effortlessly into the sky.

Teonath> Wirrath has arrived.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Aansoeth springs powerfully into the sky.

Teonath> Aansoeth has arrived.

Down below, on the bowl floor, T'bay's gaze holds on Jasia's blue-grays for a moment, though it is with effort that he remains focused. "No, really can't complain about that." A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, a backward hand-over-his-hair motion as his free hand tips gloves into a waiting jacket pocket. "Flattering," he observes, intent uncertain, his partly-glazing focus shifting back between the wavering goldrider and the visiting bronze Telgar weyrling and Weyrsecond. "Breathing's not a bad idea either." But then she's moving, and with the crowd, he'll follow.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Rusuth leaps into the sky.

Teonath> Rusuth has arrived.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Xalerth leaps into the sky.

Teonath> Xalerth has arrived.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Rojieth springs powerfully into the sky.

Teonath> Rojieth has arrived.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Uh yeah, my exits are spammy as well. 'iw' after that. Meep, sorry. »

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Sruth whisks, after, away - and up to follow.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Sruth springs powerfully into the sky.

Teonath> Sruth has arrived.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Aquileth leaps into the sky.

Teonath> Aquileth has arrived.

Teonath> Teveroth pounces gleefully into the sky, the added baggage of his last kill dragging him down only momentarilly. It's soon dropped onto the head of a slower, though ambitious brown as the bronze wings strongly into the sky, launching himself gleefully after the glitter of a gold that is his prize.

Teonath> Wirrath darts after another small werry, his form working hard to drain the fluid from the fowl before Teonath takes off. As the gold drives upwards into the sky he drops the mostly drained wherry to the ground and he leaps upwards into the sky his wings beating hard as he flies up after the shimmering gold, his lavander streaked gaze locked on the shimmering gold as he darts after her, wings beating hard in the unfamiliar, colder air.

Teonath> Rojieth has been watching Teonath as he drains blood from the herdbeast, and as soon as she rises into the air he detaches himself from the beast's neck. Maw still dripping, he leaps powerfully in the air to the percussion of beating wings. Now that he's in the air his gaze is more on the other chasers than on the gold for the moment, like he's an overprotective brother making sure none of the other males get too close. But that lasts only a few short moments, for the gold is too enticing not to center his attention on for long.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Sarevith studies the artistic corpse he'd created in his fit of passion, then discards it, taking flight with a whirring beating of wings that expends precious energy in the unfamiliar area.

Teonath> Ahazeth soars upwards towards Teonath, leaving the ground below without a second thought. His massive wings beat furiously, the sails stretching as they catch large masses of air that propel him towards the elusive gold. A young brown comes too close and receives a snarling snap of warning.

Teonath> In the feeding grounds below, Sarevith leaps into the sky.

Teonath> Sarevith has arrived.

Teonath> Mraneth is glutted on two carcasses, his humming mahogany form radiating with the heat of fresh blood and desire combined into an amalgum of combustive energy. That energy is what drives him to a quick reaction, as the gilded form of Teonath launches skywards with a rebellious writhe of form, his powerful amber sails snap open, catching the cool breeze of 'Reaches like an anchor on a reef, pushing up with a violent wave of motion into the sky after her. His course is plotted, no navigator is needed to find what he seeks, and the brown pushes his lithe, tensed frame upwards in quick pursuit.

L'ian distracts himself by looking around Satiet's inner weyr, he hasn't been here before. But that doesn't work for long, because alas, the reason he's here now is at the center of his attention. While normally he might want to fade into the background, he does stay relatively close to Satiet, protective in the way that his dragon is.

Teonath> Volath continues his grounded prowl, content to snarl and snap at wherries and caprines to send them scattering, lording over their escapes with muzzle up and wings spreading, then steepling, then flattening against his sides. Like a distance-runner's stretches, all of the show has function, and once the queen's taken flight he follows on easy, ready sails, sending thundering sweeps of familiar Reachian air out from beneath his wingbeats.

Teonath> Rusuth leaps into the air after the brightness of Teonath, focus narrowed into orange-eyed intensity. Now is /now/, and nothing matters but taming these harsh winds and following her. Playing the game, chasing the prey, showing her how quickly he learns. Which is quick indeed--for all his muscular bulk, he's young and agile, darting among a few of the older males with a disdainful snarl for their lumbering flight. All they'll get is falling sparks. He's after the fire.

Teonath> Alzaeth, the feast of blood forgotten, spares a moment after Teonath launches into the air to simply *watch* her--it may hurt him later, but for now, his admiring gaze lingers briefly on the young queen's form, and only then does he follow. What he lacks in knowledge of the area, he makes up for in strength and size, and just plain cussed determination. Wings spread wide to harness the winds, bend them to his will, to the chase.

Teonath> Aquileth just finishes the last of a smaller herdbeast and bellows encouragement out loud in a voice as rich as velvet, though with a core that suggests he will not be easily defeated. It's a strong tone, a passionate avowal of his want and her desirability. Snapping his wings open and springing into the sky with all the ease of youth, he gains height as fast as he can, rowing through the air on wings that from certain angles look almost black. His tail whips out behind him, a streaming banner of antiqued statuesqe bronze and royal, nay, Imperial purple.

Teonath> Sruth leaves only a few drops in the remainder of his final kill, discarded as Teonath takes flight in favor of chase, and power - his tail whipping back, propelling up with massive wingbeats - sails lit maroon by the peeking-through late afternoon sun. After all, there she _is_, and all his colors swirl in violet wash, now.

Teonath> Aansoeth lingers over the third of his kills, his attention more for Teonath than his meal. The moment she wings for the sky, he detaches himself and launches after her, his terra-cotta form all confidence and the arrogance of the young. He may not have the size nor the stamina of the metallics around him, but he has the agility to make up for it -- and he uses it now, when the going's still good, throwing his body into the path of a bronze in hopes of delaying his rival's flight. His only goal is Teonath, and he'll use all the tricks he has to reach her. Today, the end justifies the means.

Teonath> Xalerth springs upwards slowly, heavily, for all that he'd been doing his best to watch Teonath and guage her own launching upwards. But in the end he was caught off guard, and now pays the wages, bringing up the rear of the chasing cloud of browns and bronzes. He emits a roar of frustration at this poor showing and immediately sets his gaze upon the gold dragon far far ahead, winging her way by the most direct route available.

P'ton follows after Satiet, not the first in the group of riders, but certainly he's noit the last and he makes his way to an empty spot in the shadows where he can watch Satiet without being blocked by any of the other riders, though furniture might be in the way, he's not really thinking of that at this time. No his thoughts are mostly with his dragon now as Wirrath flies high above after Teonath.

Delaney follows the general crush of movement up to a weyr, the slightly feminine and neat style denoting a female occupant. A sneaking suspicion is that it belongs to Satiet, whom she finds herself staring at with heated copper eyes too frequently. To belay the dual instincts of possessive staring and straight-out running away, she folds her arms once more across her not so subtle chest and leans against a wall, taking solace in the cool, comforting feel of stone pressed to her right side, content for the moment to lave the occassional hungry glance over the goldrider who is still seemingly enveloped by males.

O'rani gives up on finding companionship, and instead leans whereever he can - a bit away from the group. His expression has gone impassive - he watches Satiet easily over the heads of his competitors, his tall lanky frame coming in handy. "I never thought you'd get us into the Junior's rooms," he says, softly - not to anyone around him, and his tone is a touch scornful. "Just fly."

T'asu is against the wall, watching the goldrider quietly. He doesn't say anything, just lingers there, eyes intent on what will be his momentarilly.

Sria clasps her hands together again, fingers interlacing, unlacing, retwining, and she watches Satiet with a guarded sort of expression, then turns - in a moment set apart from Sruth - and finds a spot to linger, not too far from the entrance.

B'rakis follows the other riders into Satiet's weyr, looking a little dazed over all. The hide-wrapped bundle is still clutched in his arms, held so tightly at the moment that it's doubtful whatever is wrapped up is going to survive the next few candlemarks. He finds himself standing next to a stone table, bumping into it with his leg. Coming to himself long enough to look around, he puts the package down on the table, for lack of a better choice.

D'mon blindly follows where everyone else is headed, and once the destination is reached, he finds a spot of wall to occupy. Predictably, he's silent as he stands there--unless someone should happen to block his view of Satiet, whom he's still carefully tracking with his eyes. Then, he'll mumble something wordless and vaguely unpleasant and find somewhere else to lean that tall-and-broad frame.

Always the last of the riders to show up in a weyr, Y'il has never fully gotten used to the gut-wrenching jolt that happens to him when Aquileth takes over for the actual flight itself, and so it usually leaves him a few steps behind. It's no different this time, though he managed to continue right into the inner part of the weyr and so actually got here first and managed to claim a bit of wall for himself to lean against. When next he opens his eyes, the dragon-light in them makes them a vivid sapphire quite unlike his usual cool sky blue. The way he holds his body is a clear indication that he's given himself completely to his dragon.

St'vren can't quite keep still, pacing around the walls crowded weyr as best he can, dark eyes opaque and locked on Satiet. "It's just flying," he whispers, an edge of his dragon's gravel in his deep voice. "Enjoy it."

T'bay's steps are almost rote, the route into the junior queen's weyr beaten by those ahead of him. Almost reflexively, he looks toward the hearth as it nears, a faraway smile at his lips. He follows with the throng, pausing at the entry to her chamber room to finger the gauze of the curtains, the texture rich beneath heightened sensations.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Well, it's not a flight without something happening, I'm told. :) The last inside pose I saw was St'vren's, the last outside pose was Xalerth's. »

Jasia isn't as intent on Satiet as she is on the men around her. It's a struggle, but she keeps her focus on anyone but the goldrider -- St'vren, for a moment, and then T'asu and D'mon. As the others pile into the weyr, she pushes her way through to the wall furthest away and, with her gaze resolutely fixed on an Istan rider, leans her back against it.

Rojieth bespoke Flight with « that was the last pose I saw too, St'vren's. »

Flight sense that Rusuth had a massive lagspam a few minutes after I posed--Satiet, Jasia, Sarevith, T'bat. And Jasia just reposed.

Teonath> Sarevith's heavy wingbeats carry trows of sound, the waves echoing outward as the rifts of sunset color speckle the sky. His head twists, vermillion gaze seeking the brightly-lit cream filigree gracing the Reachian skies, though they are clouded by throngs of color thick in pursuit. He answers the jubilant cry, belatedly, a low, long-held breathy wail as if playing a hide and seek in desperation.

Flight sense that Ahazeth posed once, but didn't see Teonath pose yet. Has she?

Teonath> Flashes of the departing light cast warmth through the cool approach of night, racing to snare the luminescent figure Teonath strikes in the rose-casted sky. Her widespread wings welcome the touch of winter's approach in their ballooning sails, the strain of her neck basking in the remnant warmth of sunset. Here in the sky, she's free of the constraints of humans, of the growing pack of panting bodies in the pens; free of feeding frenzy and the desire to feed that's been clamped down on. A streak of crimson, she's not the neatest dispatcher of meals it would seem, discolors the slant of her nose, wind doing little to wipe the stain away, but this bothers her little. The distance provided by unexpected flight brings with it an the carefree undulation of flirtation in the curves of her youthful body, for those who chase. Sarcasm and challenge, the desire for power, the icicle pinpricks of discernment call out in both the mental and vocal plane: shrill and daring.

Flight sense that Teonath was waiting on one more. :) Thanks for being patient. There will be two more full rounds of flapflap posing, then Teonath's and then catch attempts. I'll remind again when the time comes, and ask other various things at the time. ;)

In her weyr, the timely escape not so timely it would seem as she's soon followed, Satiet's taken up residence behind a chair, gripped hands whitening on the back. A gesture that speaks of how she could use that chair to ward off would-be suitors, sends her hands fluttering out in front, wary eyes watching those who arrive. "Good girl," is breathed out resignedly, and in the next moment, it's to the familiarity of V'lano that the dark-haired girl's gaze rests, a twist on her lips that isn't necessarily happy, but not -yet- cruel. (repose for those who got bumped)

Teonath> Rojieth doesn't answer the call, at least in words or sounds that anybody could hear. But he does follow, so isn't that an answer in and of itself? He follows Teonath's movements as closely as possible, though far enough back not to alert the gold that there's someone that should be avoided behind her. He still pays more attention to the other males than usual, barking out a warning to any that get to close to him or seem too menacing towards his clutchsib.

Teonath> Teveroth seeks height, not necessarily closeness - rising above the young queen on well-known air currents. He pulls himself away from the pack, whistling at the young golden gem as he, too, enjoys the unrestrained flight. Giving a little bugle, he expends a little energy and does a barrel roll - half to show off, and half to revel in his newfound freedom of high and far flight.

L'ian isn't one of those who stay at the edges of the frey, though normally that may have been his choice spot. He stays a little back from Satiet as well, quite similar in many ways to his dragon in the sky. He eyes any of the others that stray too close to the goldrider, though he doesn't act as agressively as his lifemate in the sky.

V'lano follows after the others, that hand still outstretched toward the goldrider as if now, rather than supplanting, it holds the link that draws him along behind her. Even he gets the general idea about the chair, however, and stops halt right not far inside the entrance to the lady's chamber, overturning that hand to ward off and assure of his own innocence. The broad grin probably does not really help.

Teonath> Mraneth senses that Teonath pinpricks with an icicle, taken from her environment, mutated for her own use. One might ask how something so cold can withstand the lust-fused intensity of her mind, but it has a purpose, driven forward to try and pierce through what layers are buffered by the mind of this brown, the imagery of a tail flick swinging so tantalizingly close and then snatched away. Even beyond instinct and desire, this is sheer need for something more, and it seeks quite pointedly.

Teonath> Rusuth calls a deep descant to Teonath's shrill challenge, a vibrant basso croon that undercuts the ice and edges. Not so gloriously crimson as the queen, sunset's light and the lingering stain of blood (a worthy sacrifice to such as she) shade him down into the color of night, streaked and glinting garnet. Up, and up some more, solid body arching into the wind, he hisses once at an overeager bronze and keeps tracking. Not patient, not at all, but steady. Here I am, milady.

Teonath> Wirrath responds to the mental and vocal calls with is own, driving his body harder and faster, his wings beating that much harder, pushing him through the heavier air of High Reaches, he seems to care not that he might injure himself as he gives all that he can into the chase of the lovely gold, his eyes focused solely on her. He cares not for the positions or conditions of the other suitors that chase the lovely Teonath, for she is his world, his heart, his very soul in this moment and he must win her or he will be lost in the unfamilar surroundings of High Reaches. He gives a low, undulating rumble as he tries to close some of the distance between himself and the gold, not crowding her and yet trying to be closer to the ravishing beauty.

Teonath> Sunset and sky, and the tiny pinpoints of light that claim Sruth's preference still to come - and preferences are wide-ranging, tonight - the brown powers after her, hide glimmering russet only when advancing night doesn't cloak his dark hide still darker, reaching easily-mistaken ebon. No tricks, he watches steadily: survey, patterns, colors.

Teonath> Ahazeth eyes the queen as she continues to fly upwards into the sky. Early in the autumn evening, the sun is starting to set on the horizon. Clouds reflect the ending of the day as they are painted in the hot orange hues of the great star. On the opposite horizon, the dawn sisters shine bright, beginning their rise into the sky, and join the many participants that are giving chase to High Reaches' younger queen. Ahazeth's hide shimmers with each wingstroke as he slips in and out of the dirty cloud that is male dragons.

Teonath> Mraneth pushes himself early to distance himself from the lacking chasers that fall far behind, the wide chest cutting through the dwindling light and heavy fall air like the prow of some determined schooner. A glimmer of rose-gold off the prow draws his attention, the shrill challenge issued by the taunting young queen filtering back to him- inciting, provoking, promising. He wields his wingsails like an old hand, a dragon in his prime with no few flights under his talons. His lashing tail propels him sideways, a rolling bank of a turn that looks less painful than it is. But the blood of earlier does much to ignore strains on muscles, and he rumbles a low growl that thunders up from throat in salt-laden response, barely heard over the rushing atmosphere past them all.

Teonath> Aquileth is always the perfect gentleman, even in the wild display of arial wooing that he only allows himself at these particular times. He warbles verbally, an intricate spiral of ever increasing excitement, spurred on by Teonath's sheer joie de vivre. A series of stately, graceful, yet more than midly acrobatic maneuvers (including one brief encounter with a thermal which allows him to trade height for speed and so be among the front runners) bring him near her, though because he is one of the largest dragons of his color, there is necessarily quite a bit of space between him and the rest of the pack. He can see some of them, just off of one wingtip, and angles so that only she, the glowing mote, the jewel, the emblem of spirit and everything he admires, is in his sights.

Teonath senses that Rusuth offers a scene, night sky full of stars and one Star--ruby and gold, falling free, the others paling to insignificant slivers of mere light. « I think tonight I will catch a star-- »

Teonath> Aansoeth senses that Teonath's touch skirts past this brown, testing the various layers of thought with the desert aridness of heat that lacks humidity. And one of those icicles, one of those needles that has some purpose dives down to suss out something, a greater plan something beyond the desire and unthinking lust that many males offer. It's calculating and cold beneath that heated -want-, and it's certain this queen, at least, knows exactly what she wants.

P'ton shudders hard and he pulls off his riding jacket, sweat beading on his brow and a low sound comes from his throat at the same instant of his brown's rumble in the sky, he sees nothing but Satiet as he licks at his upper lip, breath rasping a bit in response to the efforts of his brown in the sky, and he shifts just slightly closer to the goldrider, moving in much the same way as his brown, not crowding, but he needs to be closer, nearer to the warm, sensual creature before him.

Teonath> Aansoeth answers the gold with a rumbling call hinting at music, his wings folding close as he swerves /just so/ in an attempt to distract a bronze. He's holding back, pacing himself, watching those who follow -- playing not the stiff-mannered gentleman but the charmer, tilting and dancing and showing off. He's young, and he's confident of his own abilities in this vast expanse of freedom.

Teonath> Xalerth is up to Teonath's challenge, thank you very much, and his answering deep bugle announces that quite clearly. He beats his dark bronze wings harder, veering left, then right, seeking one of the elusive thermals that exist above High Reaches Weyr. But the unfamiliar winds aren't playing to his favor tonight, and he is not making up any of the lost distance between the gold dragon and himself. For now, he must focus on getting closer to her, instead of the frivolous aerobatics other males are exhibiting.

O'rani crosses his arms over his chest, looking guarded, though a tiny bit of smile does touch his lips. "Steady now, old boy." He murmurs. "Not too much, now."

Sria purses her lips and breathes out slowly, just short of what might whistle, and she takes a solid step back, seeking stone to now-separated palms, fast-fading white marks where the other fingers were so clenched.

Teonath> Alzaeth, content to linger in the middle of the pack for now, concentrates on the simple things--the relax and contract of muscle, the cold air as it caresses bronze and amber wingsails, and Teonath as she streaks through the air above. Spurred on by the chase, by her taunts, he pushes harder, an attempt to pull away from those closest to him--other males who haven't even been acknowledged, as disciplined as his focus has been upon the rising gold. His world has contracted to those few things: the flight, the freedom, and the sight of her.

Delaney worries her lower lip between teeth, casting slightly worried glances about the crowded weyr, leaning on the wall like its her newest duty to make sure it doesn't fall down. The solace of that cold stone wans as her body warms it, she shifts a step backwards to find a new, cooler spot to rest her shoulder. The protection that Satiet finds in the chair kept so consciously before her is given a brief uptilt of lips at the idea. Still, she is still for the most part, content to fight to keep her mind focused on the alternate reality of Mraneth's intensity so high above, striving for innocuousness here on terra firma.

T'asu remains mostly to himself, eyes closed and back against the wall - As the original T'asu's stepped out for a bit, and I'm working him with interesting puppet strings. Any resemblance to an original character is entirely cooincidental!

Teonath senses that Aansoeth extends a wisp of darkness to embrace the desert heat, velvet shadows that caress and soothe and murmur. There's a promise in the waltz of this brown's mind, and it's encased in silver like the most precious of things -- an illusion of everything the gold could ever want, and more, images cradled in the curve of crystal orbs.

B'rakis has his eyes closed, and turns around to rest his rump on the edge of the stone table, resting one arm on it as well. Fingers drum the stone, but as it's stone, luckily there's no overly annoying accompanying sound.

St'vren rolls his shoulders as though feeling Rusuth's wings beat, a smile flickering in and out of existence on his face. He stops pacing for a moment, long enough to lean against an empty patch of wall in a motion that's more a pose, the cant of his tall, solid body deceptively relaxed. But his eyes are still alert and shining, watching Satiet for a weakness. Or a strength.

Y'il hardly registers the chair, heart and soul with Aquileth in the air, though he does murmur something indistinguishable, low in the back of his throat. He is suddenly aware of the restricting and heavy flying leathers and shimmies out of them as though the shedding of the weight on the ground will somehow enable Aquileth to be lighter, and therefore faster. Naked longing is clear in the dragon-eyes they both share through the link, but he inclines his head to Satiet in acknowlegement of her as herself, and does not move. '

T'bay attempts to distract himself by playing interior decorator, and useless hands mumble about the draperies, slipping their positions from open to partly open and back again without any real change. The menacing chair posture of Satiet is taken into account with a sidelong glance, as is V'lano's humble promise via palm-direction of distance, though T'bay works at breath control rather than chastisement, pulse quickening each time his eyes slip toward the raven-haired goldrider.

Teonath> Sarevith's streaked charcoal underside dampened by streaked red casts from his own shoddy meal consumption. The barrel-chested brown extends his reach, then tucks his wings in close, flapping tightly in an effort to rush ahead. Distracted by the copper tipped tail above and the curving motions connnecting it to the luminous queen, Sarevith quiets, rapt, lost in the sound of the ocean and the dance of its waves, sublimely surrendering to her challenge with a resplendent flick of sky-hued wingtips.

Teonath> Volath is far from content so far back from the crowd, using the mighty thrust his wet-brushed wings can provide to send him upward, then tucking his sails to descend, ever seeking a better view of the prize soaring high in the chill sky. The exhiliration opens his maw, a taste of the wind rolling over a lolling tonge, catching up its forked tip and rippling it in the rushing air. A whisper of a rumble answers the maiden queen's cry, the barest hint of a thundercloud to come. Pleased to fly for her, for himself, Volath's open mouth seems almost to smile.

Jasia starts, her eyes snapping to Satiet despite her reservations. "Well, shards," she mutters, husky laughter an undertone to her words. "Is that even allowed?" There may be something akin to awe lining her voice, but it's gone as quickly as it comes, evaporating when she tilts her head back and stares hard at the ceiling arching above her.

The chair is released, Satiet having caught Delaney's shift in lips -- high strung energy attempting to be aware of all. But the release isn't only induced by the brownrider, the call from the sky too much for the slender girl not to respond to, and with a slight arc of her back, neck reaching as her lifemate above does. When she returns, the terror-struck eyes are far more cold, the awareness of Teonath enveloping her past the buffers of defense, and each rider is given a -look-: significant and desiring. It's at St'vren she finally rests, the turn of her palm upward towards this as-yet weyrling. And yes, the smile has turned more sharply satisfied and predatory.

Teonath> To the stars, dancing midst them with sinuous twists that her body can afford, her solo tango takes her past the upper rim of the bowl, towards a sky that darkens with increased speed. Beguiling twists send her further into the air, wheaten gold haloed by the low rays of sunset's light, clouds parting at the ascent of her glowing form hurtling higher. For now, there's no discernible path, no aim, no landing spot, but appearances can be deceiving, the swing of her neck shifting ever so slightly to provide glints of jeweled facets of lust burning for fulfillment. Over Aansoeth, to Mraneth, then a mental note answered in a low, humored bugle for Rusuth: they can dare, but it's inevitable that the only winners here will be herself and the stars above, and the stretch of her lissome figure punctuates this sensation, wingbeats quickened.

Teonath> Ahazeth falls to the back of the group, being cut off by a brown and having to re-route his course. A squawk in protest is given and he tips his body to careen to the side, away from the group. His body bursts through a cloud, sending creamy whisps of mist about him that catch the purple and orange rays that are given off by the sun setting on this autumn eve. The air is cool, crisp even, up in the air.

Teonath senses that Sarevith glitters softly, gently, as though from a much greater distance. Velvet-tinged admiration for her wingspan, shimmering sand-granule delight at her spirals, appreciative yet bittersweet ginger and the twinkling of stars urging her onward.

Teonath> Rojieth follows the dance Teonath is putting on for them, but doesn't choose to attempt a match to her twists and turns. She's not really looking at him, and those aerial feats would be misspent without her gaze on him, without her to impress. If she does look in his direction there will be a second pause as if he were catching his breath in his chest, before he regains his steady pace, following her as best he can.

L'ian turns his own gaze on St'vren when Satiet does, and sizes him up as the bronzerider folds his arms over his chest. He steps back a little bit, he might be acting a bit protective but this is not the stand to make.

Teonath> Rusuth was under the impression that it took two to tango, and so veers slantwise and circuitious, the better to keep in rhythm and not lose the steps. Clouds are no match for his hurtling bulk, they unravel into rose-tinted featherings, flying in streamers from wingtips as he stretches to mimic Teonath. A poor player, mere bronze to her aching gold beauty, but he will strut his hour nonetheless. Unable to match her speed, he can at least remain constant.

Teonath> Teveroth strains his wings, noting that she has begun to play with her suitors. He lowers his altitude, bringing himself within quick reach of the glimmering Gold. His wingbeats have become a bit strained, but he pushes himself owards gamely.

Teonath> Wirrath gives a deeper rumble and he drags deeper on the stored energy of the crimson fluid upon which he feasted, the lost fueling his body burns strong and he arcs his wings higher and beats them harder as he drives upward, finding a thermal to aid him enough so he doesn't exhaust himself before the flight is over, there will be time to rest when the flying is done and he strives to reach the star dancing gold, the wheaten color is his mone, his starlit sky and he must have her for his own, or else he might die. That is the attitude of the autumnal brown as he darts closer to the gold, who cares about landing right now, there will be no landing until she is satisfied, for she is the spice of life and he follows after her, giving his all in the chace to woo her into his grasp, He will win her, he will have her, perhaps, if he is lucky, though he doesn't think that at all, he thinks only of his desire to have her held close against his form.

Teonath> Sruth twists his bulk after, aware of a maneuverability that for once exceeds most of his competitors - but rather than flexibility, his movements flaunt grace, and power. No tolerance for those who might crowd, he extends a talon almost daintily, carefully, avoiding resistance but inflicting what he might. Muscles beneath hide, sun beneath shadow, and all those stars beyond even her - why not match.

Teonath> Xalerth has fallen quiet for now, feeling the need to conserve his energy for flying faster, in this overly long draconic version of catch-up that he is in. He's not comfortable with this, not at all, and the line of muscles from his jawline down his neck seem unusually tense, as though he's almost grinding his teeth in frustration. As Teonath shoots onward like bright star streaking across the sky, he suddenly angles upward, trying to get above the crowd and giving a flagging brown a derisive look as he does.

Teonath> Alzaeth uses size and cunning to his advantage, makes a quick feint one way, but spurs himself ever upward in an entirely different direction, to rid himself of one particularly persistent shadow. Energy is conserved by matching only the broadest of any changes of direction Teonath might make--one never knows when following a more prudent path will turn out to be beneficial. And still, as he pursues, he watches, a low, admiring rumble escaping at some of her more daring moves in her attempt at chasing the stars.

Teonath> Mraneth sluices through a wispy cloudbank, catching the last of the fading sunlight as a cherry wash on mahogany barrel as it labors to provide thin, frigid air to his lungs. Luckily his thrumming blood warms where air cannot, and his heated frame splices the air with his passing current, arching towards the overhead midnight blue canvas, the stars pinpricks of glisten on the gold he chases. As her eyes alight on him, desire is doubled, he is sure of his quarry now. The arrogance is back, detailed in a showy barrelroll that sacrifices his position to a nearby bronze, but the maneuvar worth whatever space he lost for the sheer exhuberant, lush adrenaline that doubles in his body, wingsails as strong as the trade winds, undeniable.

St'vren grins, a wide, predatory grin that has likely never been seen on the easygoing young man's face before now. He cocks his head at Satiet, then lazily shifts position. Not moving towards her, not even a step out from the wall. An alteration of his pose only, but it curves him closer to her, posture possessive.

The goldrider's regard passes over him and sticks elsewhere. Dismissed, V'lano's grin eases, becomes more of a lazy smile, and he turns away from her - almost turns his back on her! - and trods along the weyr's wall toward the hearth and the wallow which belongs to the queen soaring so far above. "Wouldn't have thought I need cards here," he muses in the mostly-silent space, finds a swath of wall just before the beginning of the rushes-decorated depression, and puts his shoulder to it. Slowly he turns his head to watch the weyrwoman over his shoulder, thoughtful, curiosity in his flickering dark gaze.

Teonath> Aquileth soars even further upward. He has a Plan, with a capital P. Hope springs enternal and though his Plan has never worked before, there's always a first time. A reassuring, somewhat seductive croon issues from his throat as he soars, tilting his wings this way and that. He makes a wide circle, angling his body to conserve energy for that final sprint, and can't quite keep the tip of his tail from twitching in anticipation and excitement. Flying is good. Flying is always good. Flying with the bright strength and grace of a young queen enticing you every step of the way is better. Much better.

P'ton sucks in a deep breath and he swallows almost convulsively as his hands clench hard, the muscles of hius back and arms flexing in response to the efforts of his lifemate and sweat is once more licked from his upper lip quickly as he once more goes just a little closer to the goldrider, no, mustn't crowd the precious, even though he can't help it.

A sweet hiss escapes Sria's lips, in place of a louder one passed over by her dragon, and she's far from apologetic, her head down but her eyes up, sweeping across the rest of them. In a moment of better consciousness, she does what she can to focus -anywhere-, lifting one boot and knocking it against the other - a soft, smooth scrape sounds vaguely like rogue sand within.

Y'il continues to stay away, keeping his own personal space, mirroring his dragon. Tiny beads of sweat grace his hairline, and as he runs an unfeeling hand through his hair, it becomes slicked down on that side in response. He licks his lips, wills himself not to pace, stays unnaturally still. He too, is saving it all in hopes of a beautiful wooing.

D'mon, while Alzaeth watches Teonath, puts visible effort into tearing his gaze away from the gold's rider, rubbing his eyes as he does so. This spot of wall he has claimed for himself appears to be rather comfortable--if his dogged determination to *stay* there is any indication.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Not to interrupt people's typing, but I think I'll need one more round before catch attempts, if that's cool? But please, if you can page me now whether you'd like to win or not before we go into this round. This -will- result in a PC clutch, just as fyi. :) »

Teonath> Aansoeth spins, twisting his body until he's chasing at an angle, his attention as much for the other suitors as for the gold. His reddened hide catches the sinking light, and then he's flying onwards -- still dancing, moving to some music only he can hear. There's a beckon in his wings and his stance, calling to the dragon ahead: come dance, a tango's not for one but for two. Teonath can only stay alone for so long; she deserves a partner with whom to waltz the night away.

Delaney is too tense for idle chitchat, muscles stiff with the effort to keep still, too much to walk about with the easy grace others seem to possess. Her hot copper gaze flicks searingly over that of the goldrider, before returning to the toes of her boots, a far safer object of attention. The other riders that crowd the cavern seem dragonlengths distant, a buzzing sound of motion and restlessness that distracts her from her exhilaration in Mraneth's rush of feelings. An indrawn breath is held tightly in her chest, released slowly in a waning sigh, near silent.

Teonath senses that Sruth is there, Teonath - not young, tonight, just Teonath, and a differently lit Teonath, too - for who could look away from day and night at once in play. He'll play, dark to light and knotted ropes - and he knows desert sand, today baked in desert sun, and -that- feeling, still vivid for a dragon's memory, he'll share, with cool air still now on his wings.

Teonath> Sarevith's desert-hues flicker and waver in the afternoon light, the patterns and lines drawn across his surface undulating in a distorted mimicry of her grandiose gesticulations. Pulling his gnarled neck upward, Sarevith seeks to split the skies with the force of his sinewed muscle, wingsails taut in unfriendly air currents, fighting them all the way. Reflected Teonath's glimmer brightly, slender figures pirouetting in eyes overtaken by rapture. Desirous, determined though he lags aside, the Telgari brown pushes his endurance.

T'bay's hands register their preoccupation with the draperies, then respond by falling to his side abruptly, coinciding with the heated yet all too brief gaze of Satiet. T'bay's lips curl at the edges, identifying the weyrling target she selects, and his fingers repeat the motion, tightening.

Teonath> The Telgari bronze is no dancer. He's a spirit, a sporting sort, in love with the sky and what it offers, and after the distant gold he soars. Her twisting neck and swirling flight draws attention to her pale form, the contrast of the darkening sky her canvas on which to paint. He follows, not even a palette to her brushstrokes, with that glimpse of her as inspiration. One last rippling taste of the wind and he clamps his maw over withdrawn tongue, wings speeding him higher. This one, he will seek out at her peak. She will not, if he succeeds, have the opportunity or desire to fall. (Volath)

T'asu's fists clench, grimacing as his dragon has to change his flight path for the brown, and shifts along the wall sideways, eyes still closed.

Teonath> Gilt wings, embraced by night's darkness as welcoming as the sun sheds its last lingering glory on her form, slice through the air, Teonath's pace becoming somewhat leisurely in its arc. She's not hurtling upward as higher or as fast as before, toying with the males behind her, or, just tiring. It's questionable at any rate, what she means to convey, the magnanimous swish of her tail dropping from its tense straightness, providing something to aspire towards, should the queen not be attainable as it stands for certain, lesser browns. And as time passes, the stars unreachable as it is, she twists in on herself, neck skimming past a rounder belly towards her tail in the luxury that her initial distance allowed for, and then she straightens to glide to the side, using one wingtip to change the direction of her flight.

Teonath> Ahazeth is lucky enough to catch a thermal that propels him upward quickly, saving his energy and giving him an edge on some of the younger dragons. While he is fairly well preserved, age has taken its toll on his body but given him ground in his mind. Sly, he cuts forward ahead of a few dragons, cutting off their pursuit. They roar their defiance but it matters not to the Igen bronze. He has other things on his mind.

Teonath> Rusuth croons after Teonath as she segues into a glide, a love-growl carried by the thin night wind. Young and determined as he may be, the cold mountain air and fierce winds are rough on inexperienced wings. Giving up is not an option, but changing his modus operandi is. The gold disposes, he proposes, leveling off into a very slight ascension to watch her twine into an aureate infinity symbol. Will she, won't she join the dance with him?

Knowing strikes blue flames in Satiet's eyes, the curved smile pleasantly surprised at the lack of overt response from the Telgar weyrling, and gracing him with one last smile: one that lingers far too long in places where good girls shouldn't be looking anyway, she continues on. The relinquished chair is nudged aside, and in a reflection of her lifemate above, the slender girl begins to pace through the would-be suitors, fingers reaching out to catch a stray curl of one there, the back of her hand to brush and straighten the tunic of another one here. For Sria, a sultry look is offered, one she'll surely be embarrassed over another day. Wide-eyed, dark-lashed looks are spared for Y'il and P'ton, and a secretive, smug smile of all-knowing is finally for T'bay. As she passes V'lano, he's perhaps the only one who doesn't receive such a look, but the jacket that covers her bikini clad form is shed, dropped to the bronzerider's feet.

O'rani stares as the goldrider passes, his mouth dropping over some as her form is revealed. He shuts his mouth slowly, but his expression conveys no less admiration and awe.

There are familiar faces here; V'lano's dark eyes pick them out, over and over. Sria, T'bay, St'vren - even B'rakis, for a long moment in which it seems the Telgari Weyrsecond has much to do to figure out the identity that goes with that combination of face and mark. There's a moment's unbecoming suspicion for his peer of rank, then his gaze slides onward, taking in the weyrwoman's classmate, then Y'il and P'ton. It's a lot to take in, and distracts him adequately from Satiet's unusually displayed form - until she's right in front of him and that jacket hits the floor. Startling visibly, the bronzerider twitches, then stares. "You'll want that later," he remarks in almost paternal, ridiculous calm, and stoops to retrieve it.

Jasia has lost interest in stone and architecture, and her gaze now glides to Satiet, hooded eyes more steel than blue. Her lips curl back -- whether it's in a smile or a smirk is debatable -- and her face take on a narrow, calculating air, sharp features heightened by an almost predatory look. She's given up whatever inner battle she was waging, and she caves in to her dragon's urges. Like many of those surrounding her, her attention is now only for the wandering goldrider, to whom she whispers, "Dance, dance. It's not so hard to, sweetheart; I'll lead."

Teonath> Rojieth has stayed relatively quiet during this chase, focusing more on the chase and Teonath, saving his energy more for those than displays of masculinity. But as the gold slows a little, he can't help but rumble deep down in his throat as he tries to pick up as much speed as he can to get to among those in the front of the pack-or beyond at the right moment. He rumbles again, louder, as she changes direction. A change brings hope, to any colored chaser. Who needs sunlight to see the brightness he wants, the increasing darkness only makes everything else dim as much as it already had for the bronze.

Teonath> Teveroth bugles in weary glee! The time is now! He wings in closer to her, pushing aside a brown in his way in order to aspire to that golden taily-tip. He strains his wings further, ignoring weariness and pain to try to trip up his prize and twine with her. He issues a beguiling croon to the gold, straining ever harder.

Teonath> Energized by her actions, Alzaeth drives himself that much harder amidst the unfamiliar winds. Though his path alters to match hers, his speed remains the same, assisted by a friendly thermal, to try and close some of that distance between them. All else is ignored in his quest to reach her, the glowing temptress above.

Teonath> It's that combination of a shorter distance, a flipped tail, and a twist-turned direction that allows for overshooting, falling behind - Sruth's mistake, though a graceful one, does not lead him to an irreversible separation, but rather a point of study, ever admiring, ever shooting after. Those stars, they'll yet return, and until then, he flies above one in particular and among the rest.

Teonath> Wirrath gives a low deep sound in his throat and his wings surge in strong beats, the faltering brown image gone now, though he is indeed getting tired, he surges forward now as the lovely, devious Teonath glides to the side, his sudden burst of speed and power closing the distance between him and the gold and he cants over to follow her path, his act has been just that, though he is more tired than he wants to let on as he pulls on the stored energy deep within and he watches, closing the distance in s burst of power he'll probably pay for later as he comes within reach of the gold, body ready for when she grows tired of her game, he'll be there, ready to draw her close to his dark brown form.

Teonath> Xalerth leaps forward with a burst of speed at that faltering or slowing or toying, call it what you will, the end result is the same. As she turns on a wingtip, that means she's at least not moving further away from him.. or at least not at the same rate she had been. He drops lower in the sky now, trying to get under the pack instead of over. He is wiley enough to know that eventually, they all drop down. Hopefully he'll be in the right place at the right time.

P'ton gives a slow smile in response to the look given to him and he straightens up, the rasping breath dying away, though sweat still beads his upper lip as he watches Satiet move, his muscles tensing a little as he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches, and waits.

Teonath> Aquileth is still going strong, the promise of strength inherent in the huge muscles, sliding easily under the soot-edged bronze hide. Two downbeats later of the great wings and he surges forward, releasing everything he's held in reserve, giving her everything, wooing with fierce intensity. He flaps hard, straining to keep up and match whatever she does, even his tail is jerking in time to the rythym of the great wings. His mouth with its fangs opens as he sucks in the air greedily, owning the wind, using it to fuel and fan his desires. His eyes whirl as he continually focuses and refocuses only on one thing: Teonath.

L'ian has kept his own jacket on this whole time, and even though others shed theirs his remain on though he does loosen his collar just a little bit. His eyes remain on Satiet as she passes him and makes her rounds of the room, but the aggressive stance he's had all this time loosens a little bit as he starts to feel the ebb of energy that the Flight is taking as toll.

Teonath> Mraneth is a far cry from lesser, something his polished sorrel form is inspired to ensure all know. Heavy beats of wings propel his sloop-like form forward, momentum building behind him as his trajectory flattens to a plane that angles to intercept the star-kissed golden form not so far in front of him. She is just within teasing range, and his tail lashes angrily behind his working form, as if to convey the crusty words that would be formed if he had a thought to spare for them. As it is, he does not, the water-worn brown form hurtling with inspired, provoked fantasy towards the tangible form lurking just beyond ebony talons arcing reach.

St'vren is all eyes, all for Satiet (after all, she was looking at /him/), but V'lano's comment earns a deep chuckle. "No, she won't," he corrects the older bronzerider. "She'll be warm enough."

D'mon's shoulders hunch--he's paying more attention than he lets on--and he watches Satiet's progress through the weyr, carefully. Absently, as the chase so high above continues, teeth worry at his lower lip, and his shoulders start to tense, the longer the flight continues.

Y'il manages a smile for Satiet as she passes, eyes warm with approval. Quiet, never saying much, his body language is nevertheless clear, the aching need to be one pervasive.

T'bay mutters, "A fire. I could build a fire." 'Cause it certainly isn't warm enough in here. This seems to strike him as a brilliant idea, and his legs travel toward the hearth though his upper body is slower to respond, resulting in an awkward trunk-last start that halts entirely as Satiet's eyes meet his. Openmouthed, red of face, his eyes laze into slits, returning that impassioned expression and lingering over her exposed form long after she's passed and shed the outer layer of her warmer wear.

Teonath> Aansoeth, though determined to woo through flamboyancy, is tiring, and he acknowledges it. As he slides towards a thermal, he relinquishes the chance to confuse another brown and pushes on ahead -- still dancing, but with more care to his movements, striving to save his energy. That final burst will come later. For now, he gauges the distance between himself and the queen, biding his time and waiting with his eyes aglow with promise.

Delaney has the advantage when the goldrider's brazen move yeilds more than a few gasps from the menfolk. Her eyes are frankly appraising as the scantily clad form makes its way about the small weyr, copper gaze fastening with draconic intensity and some other factor on her for no small amount of time. A heaved breath restores her balance, and she merely flashes the first of a real, though cheeky, grin at the goldrider, as if to say, is that all? Gaze slips lower, fastening again on boots, tamping down the mischevious instincts rearing their heads.

Teonath> Sarevith's energy is compounded and swallowed in this most graceless attempt at grace, leaving him drained. One wing crimps painfully, and he shakes it hard, tugging at the shoulder joint, aspiring to greater things such as the gleaming tease from the circuitous path of the maiden above. Successful, at least temporarily, his arced neck leads his stout body upward, slicing through a passel of the lower formation of chasers. He releases a call, a greeting, startled at his own progression, then just as quickly drops, having forgotten to maintain altitude, rejoining the lower portion and angling to match the golden light's new direction.

B'rakis blinks between the pair of Telgari riders, a slight frown appearing on his face. Then his gaze falls on Satiet, who he's avoided looking at this whole time. And now it's not going anywhere else for the time being, not given what she is wearing. Or not wearing.

Sultry looks Sria's seen before, if not, to be sure, from Satiet. This one she meets, and reacts with flair - a lifted brow, but a darker, deeper expression akin to strange approval. Now, however - "I told her to keep that _on_," the rider who is, still, a mentor, comes through sharply, comically. And since Satiet was by V'lano, and he's now collected the outerwear, Sria turns her gaze - rooted longer now, seeing that first regard for herself - to the Telgari Weyrsecond.

Archly raised eyes finally graze over V'lano, the look tossed casually over her shoulder in that come-hither look that speaks volumes of the history between the pair. But that's all he's getting. Consumed by the dragon without, probably not fully cognizant of her own actions because if she were, the next would not happen. It's as if she needs to prove a point to the mental lock within her head, or to any number of other familiar and unfamiliar faces out there, as a hand reaches out to bring her lips to another's: at least to brush them past that of D'mon's, feather light. Pulling back before she can be caught by the Istan, she gifts him with a wink, the tease of dragon shining through the pale blue eyes of her rider.

Satiet did that totally, cause y'know, I am lame.

T'asu's eyes flick open, back straightening rigidly for a moment, whilst his dragon plays his dues up above, and he turns to watch bikini-clad sultry movements with distracted, distant eyes. No small part of him is up there with Ahazeth right now.

Teonath> And it's the beginning of the end, or the beginning of something at any rate, the lazy spiral that segues from tip to sky, slanting her large figure in easy sweeps around the bowl. She'd fly circles around them if she could, and a mocking rumble of a queen that's fully aware of herself, what she's capable of, and what these males below mean sounds through the night's sky. It's less of fatigue that sends her closer, wings outstretched to graze past a brown here, a bronze there. It's the chance to tease, to flirt, to find something within the throng of minds that calls to her to make him hers that tantalizes her spirits, renewing her fast fading desires to soar. The presence of an entity that's commanding, and more than a little demanding, flickers through the minds of each suitor.

Teonath> Volath, only just catching up with the forerunners in the chase, shivers visibly as the queen inverts. He lowers a spar-talon toward Pern and banks after her, losing time and position for the relatively slow shift in direction, though bronzes larger than he may be forced to swing wider yet. The motion conserves energy, however, and leaves him strong to beat his wings again, the soaring span between strokes unhurried though each lift and fall of his sails cracks the air like thunder.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Thank you all. I don't know how much I can thank everyone who came and supported. Y'all were seriously terrific tonight, and the posing was absolutely amazing. If you can do catch attempts now, that'd be fantastic. :) »

Startled, D'mon's eyes snap open at the touch of Satiet's lips to his, and though he doesn't reach for her, he's certainly paying attention now. "Too hot," he mutters rustily in response to T'bay, but the comment comes so long after his that it's likely fodder for more confusion.

Teonath senses that Sarevith reaches out, the kiss of the stars and the light of their brilliant embers urging the golden lass onward, upward, around. Subtle gleams of chestnut and sienna almost touch, yet hang back, then lightly extend support to lace wings and cream sails, encouraging.

Historically, most of the looks V'lano has turned on Sria have been wary, wondering, permission-asking even - this one is not one of those. Startled still by the jacket, even as he folds it alongside his own over his arm, he is even more surprised to find the Reachian 'second's gaze upon him. His mouth opens in a silent, monosyllabic greeting - it might be 'h'lo' if his voice cooperated, but no such sound occurs. The unhindered arm raises so a hand can run over the back of his neck, something about the young Telgari suddenly abashed. But still, he eyes Sria, curious.

Teonath> Ahazeth sees his chance, an opening, however brief, having presented itself in the spiralling of a golden body. He tucks his left wing to his body, causing himself to barrel wildly to the side. It thrusts him into the fray of dragons and then he bursts free. Wings spring outwards and he struggles for a moment before he takes that chance, that opportunity presented. Arms outstretched, he gives his wings the last opportunity to prove themselves, and goes for it, snatching forth.

In the main entry: D'mon, Y'il, O'rani, Sria, Satiet, Jasia, St'vren, T'bay, T'asu, L'ian, P'ton, V'lano, Delaney, and B'rakis

Teonath> Alzaeth allows himself one last vocalization--another quiet rumble, this one is full of entreaty to the object of his affections, the young queen, announcing his presence while staking a claim on the space he's chosen. Smoothly, he glides up just below her and to the right, ready and waiting, should she choose to fall his way. If the lady desires a companion in her dance, in her quest for the stars above, he'd be a willing and devoted participant.

Teonath> Rusuth presses on despite growing weariness. He is still in the running, the goal is in sight, and it is assuredly worth flying for. With the aid of one surprisingly useful gust of wind, he lets his darkling body arc towards Teonath, bugling a rich, warm sound, brazen wings open and welcoming. Her demand is met with his willing offer, and the elusive gleam of starlight off his silver-flecked wingspars. Perhaps she'll choose him. Perhaps they'll complete the dance's final figure together. Perhaps.

Sria presses her lips together, looks -away- from Satiet, and if Sruth didn't steal her attention, if she didn't look back a beat longer at V'lano, there'd surely be amusement - helpless, hopeless amusement - there. As it is, it barely registers, barely flickers before concern, and then - up with Sruth, and Teonath, and all the rest - she stamps that sand-scattered boot against the floor.

Teonath> Rojieth is ready this time when Teonath's gaze passes by, and he makes a roll in the air that brings him in the right position to continue his chase as if he hadn't pauses to show off a little. He rumbles, his enjoyment of the teasing, flirting change to the chase evident in his voice. Demanding as the gold may be, the bronze is up for it. He uses all the energy he has left, and perhaps some of his rider's, to break through the throng of chasers and entwine with her given the chance. A tail to twist with tail, wings to support. Both are ready to comply with any demand Teonath has.

Teonath> Wirrath gives a low thrumming croon as that mind, commanding and demanding, brushes against his and he arcs his body, wings beating sure and steady as he reaches, taloned forelimbs seaking to grasp as neck and tail seek to twin with Teonath as she grazes past him, his mellow tones bespeaking of her beauty and her spirit, mind responding to her caress with one of his own, his mind filled with awe, delight and the willingness to answer her commands and demands with pleasure and delight as he tries to cradle the golden form of Teonath close, He's weary yes, but that brush of her body seems to have revitalized the Igen brown his spirit unflagging as he tries to woo the gold with everything he has.

Teonath> Aquileth glances down and forward, watching Teonath sharply with the eyes of a lover who delights to have his beloved in his sight day in, day out, midnight or sunrise. His eager gaze sharpens as he senses the change in her attitude. Cupping his wings to put on a bit of braking motion, he then initiates The Plan, folding his wings in what is essentially a controlled, guided plummet, using the classic maneuver again to trade height for speed and therefore come upon her in a rush to attempt to claim the golden jewel that has been tempting him all the while. Error of course, is always a possibility, and he hopes he's judged correctly, letting everything be expended in this, the final effort.

Teonath> It's here, now, that Aansoeth lowers his boundaries and releases his all -- here, now, that he pulls himself sideways, mirroring the spiral of the gold. He spies an opening in her downward dive, and he follows swiftly after, grace abandoned for the sake of speed. His wings swell to capture the wind, and his neck extends to reach for her, a question at the tips of his claws and the curve of his tail: Will she dance?

L'ian seems to have managed to stay pretty unnoticed despite his uncharacteristic reaction to chasing in his clutchsib's Flight. He looks up at the ceiling, as if he can watch what's going on out there through it. Perhaps he can, because his eyes are closed shut.

P'ton straightens as Satiet kisses, ever so lightly, D'mon and his jaw tenses though no sound comes from him as he tries to stay still, muscles twitching as he fights the urge to grab the goldrider, unlike his lifemate's efforts in the skies above.

Teonath> Sruth spins, too, just his tail, a circle for show, for power, for putting that last reserve in use - little saved, little left, but it's enough to try. Dark wings and tail and a neck corded in muscle twist and turn, contrast and moonlit in every way, dropping weight and turning violet-sparked eyes to see her. Seeking another contrast - light to dark, once again knotted together, to catch her.

Teonath> Teveroth has little left, shown by the frustrated roar that rocks him. Valiantly, he opens his wings and tenses his body, surging that last little bit of what's left towards her, hopefully - needily.

Jasia is not known for diplomacy or tact, and whatever hints of it she's ever had she sheds now, her tone low and dry as she notes, "That isn't very fair, is it, that he gets a kiss." But she still doesn't move from her spot by the wall, instead seeming to press into the stone when her brown reaches out to Teonath, her hands curling into fists and her brows knitting in concentration.

Teonath> Aansoeth

Teonath> Unmatched flagstones have been masterfully fitted to form a perfect mosaic, sun-warmed browns piled together across the hide of this angular dragon. Chunks of terracotta meet weathered brick along his shallow ribcage, a wash of ever changing reddish rock which ends at muscled legs shaded like a dirt path obscured here and there by a whirl of autumnal leaves. Delicate paws sport razor sharp talons of ebon, echoed in the sepia streaks that sweep out from the edge of each keen eye and up over sharp eyeridges. His pointed muzzle only accentuates this sleek look, a glint of teeth giving him an almost fierce appearance. The remnants of sturdy vines in winter, a duller tone of grey brown, find purchase in aged mortar and wind their gnarled way over the spars of widespread wings, surrounded by the translucent rust of the membranes themselves. Across his high back paler sandstone crumbles with age, leaving uneven neckridges to march sharply down his slender neck before disintegrating into a grainy haze over his long whiplike tail.

He appears to be 2 Turns, 3 months, and 13 days old.

Teonath> Xalerth is good for one last burst of speed, one last snaking movement around the tail of another more golden bronze. He extends his neck toward her and croons as persuasively as he can, with no small amount of hoarseness for the effort he's putting out in this long flight. Talons extend hopefully, and his tail snakes sinuously around, looking to entwine with Teonath's should she come his way.

Teonath> Mraneth

Teonath> There's a decidedly rich, almost aged hue to this brown's hide, like rare old wood refinished into something new, polished to a gleaming shine without losing the luxurious variety that turns can sometimes leave behind. A deep mahogany runs across a sleek, elongated body while smudges of ash mar the smooth lines of sinewy shoulders and muscular haunches. That long, lean build gives him a decidedly svelte appearance, buoyed by fluid ease and sleek carriage, a certain tilt to muzzle, a certain airy slant to tailtip. A trace of tar edges sinewy neck and back, fathomless ebony reiterated in sharply arched talons. Burnt umber and sorrels gather beneath him in a parade of shades, becoming darker around his sleek belly and beneath wide wings. Deep swathes and pale flecks gather in jagged forms as the lines of water-wear meet and mingle with soft meandering grain, tracing lines of muscle as though serving to delineate them. Those wide wings are strewn with a wash of sable, but that mahogany looms beneath, warm and rich, throwing into contrast the new and old.

At 5 Turns, 0 months, and 17 days, Mraneth is 34.5 meters in length with a wingspan of 57.3 meters

Teonath> Mraneth has had enough of teasing, flirting, and promises. His frame is tiring, his heart is unfulfilled, and his body is yearning for the promise to be satisfied that Teonath has lured him with thus far. Relentless like the ocean, he cannot be denied, he will not let himself fail in this venture. His tar-edged forearms reach in a final greedy grasp for the lure of the golden young queen, confident that his final thrust will set him ahead of bronze and brown alike, amber-edged wings straining like sails in a hurricane for the safety of a port.

Teonath> Sruth

Teonath> Dark, beguiling, all angular intensity - Sruth's striking brown hide glimmers with burgundy's hints, dull carmine hues surfacing at his breast and maw. Moonlit loam traces a long form, corded in muscle and gifting at once both menacing power and fluid grace; all-but-black darkness spreads across vermillion-bathed front talons and slicing wings that fade into multifaceted maroon. Sruth manages a certain charm despite his morose exterior, contrast found in the pale cream of his tan-tipped neckridges.

Sruth has just 16 Turns, 5 months, and 13 days, and is approximately 34 meters in length with a 56-meter wingspan.

St'vren's pose drops away, and he leans back against the wall as his eyes close. Mouth slightly open, he makes one eager little sound and grabs his jacket in both hands, white-knuckled with effort.

Teonath> Sarevith

Teonath> Pale sienna sweeps across this young brown's hide, wrapping him in a desert-hued cloak. Close up, the traceries of reddish chestnut appear in random patterns, rivulets of rain-dampened sand marring that undisturbed patina of color. Gossamer tendrils of ice blue highlight wingsails, mirroring the skies above, and random hints of shadowed green glimmer through here and there. A streak of dark charcoal from the nape of his neck to a tip of his tail--a path, perhaps, through the endless wasteland of his hide, leading home. Barrel-chested but not particularly large, he moves with a natural grace that belies his size, that will only get more refined with age. He is 31.5 meters long and his wings span 52.29 meters tip to tip. He appears to be about 4 Turns old.

T'bay, having forgotten the subject from before, stands dumbfounded. Uncurling fingers tap tap tap at his side, clench into his trous along the outer hem as the goldrider's affections are bestowed upon another. Deliberate, he tears his gaze away, focusing instead once again on Jasia's short crop of hair, then on Sria's assessment of V'lano, brows furrowing, then again toward the hearth, then settling on clamping tightly closed. Safety.

Teonath> Sarevith alters his course from strictly up or through the throng, instead veering sharply to the left, working with the curve of the bowl rather than against it. He glistens sienna, a sheen of exertion causing pinions and sails to reflect dewdrops of afternoon's last rays of sunset as they furl outward, the snap echoing in the air with the force of his presence. The queen's tease is accepted, admired with a low rumbling croon that suggests he is hers for the taking, should she wish a suitor to command, his blue-tipped brown embrace outstretched.

Teonath> The thundercloud opens with a roar - again, Volath's maw yawns to the sky, his throat rumbling with intent, his tongue reaching to taste invisible contrails of the queen's wake. A few last wingbeats, then he tucks his sails inward and dives. Not to be the maiden's pillow, this descent, nor to overturn at the last minute and offer wings to catch with. He's been turned a few times since last Reaches opened her sky's embrace to him, and with nothing but sheer vicious determination he bolts straight for his tantalizing, temptress daughter. Talons outstretch. Wingsails ripple in the wind. Teach a girl to tease, he will.

Teonath senses that Sruth won't be the last to reach out, in talon and touch, nor the first - but quickly, quietly, an image of light and dark and all that she'd pictured, all that he'd helped envision, and that so long ago to come back to him, with desert heat and coolest sand - but together, desert sand is far warmer than that --

Teonath> Her spiral finds its end, her flight the source of what encompasses, for now, her desires. And there's no startled cry when the tip of one dew-scattered wing touches to that of moonlit loam, the graceful roll of her body to slide into the neat fit that nature provides for. Long and sinuous, the neck twines instinctively, even as her tail snakes down to ensnare for herself -her- prize. Widespread wings welcome the embrace that Sruth can provide.

Teonath bespoke Flight with « Thank you all so much for coming. I hope we can play together again sometime, though maybe not in such a crazy sort of scene. »

Aquileth bespoke Flight with « It was very fun! Thanks much, and hope to see you around sometime! »

Volath bespoke Flight with « Thank you! Great RP all around! :) »

Flight sense that Rusuth whews. Thank you for letting me join in!

Y'il wanders out onto Teonath's ledge.

Y'il has left.

P'ton gives a sigh and he grabs his jacket and heads out, heading for the bowl quickly.

P'ton strides out onto Teonath's ledge.

P'ton has left.

Aansoeth bespoke Flight with « Thanks for holding the flight, and for a great RP overall! :) »

Teonath> Spurned, Alzaeth breaks away, a graceless, tight spiral back to the ground, with nary a backward glance.

O'rani walks out onto Teonath's ledge.

O'rani has left.

L'ian doesn't look disappointed, but he doesn't look like much at all. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and quickly leaves the weyr without another look back.

L'ian strolls out onto Teonath's ledge.

L'ian has left.

Flight sense that Mraneth snugs all around. Great RPing with y'all! :)

St'vren's mouth snaps shut, and his eyes refocus. He stares at Satiet for an instant, then his face goes bleak and he hurries out.

Jasia doesn't linger, doesn't hesitate, doesn't pause. She pushes away from the wall, almost spinning in her haste, and strides out of the weyr.

Teonath> Wirrath gives a low hiss of fury before his weary form glides for the bowl

T'asu hurries out, as his dragon pulls away...

St'vren strolls out onto Teonath's ledge.

St'vren has left.

T'asu has left.

Delaney strides out onto Teonath's ledge.

Delaney has left.

Silent, as always, D'mon pushes away from the wall and walks out.

D'mon has left.

Teonath> Teveroth cries in disappointment, spiraling down wearily. His young wings, it seems, can no longer support him - strained far beyond their young maximum.

B'rakis walks out onto Teonath's ledge.

B'rakis has left.

Jasia wanders out onto Teonath's ledge.

Jasia has left.

Witless> Down below, on the bowl floor, P'ton quickly puts his straps on the weary brown and the two head off after P'ton gets on his lifemate.

Witless> Down below, on the bowl floor, Rusuth has barely landed before St'vren is clambering up his foreleg. He almost slips once.

Flight sense that Alzaeth thanks all for a fun flight, offers many congratulations to Sruth, and promptly gets hauled off for dinner. :)

Teonath> From first touch, Sruth won't have her slide by, and she rolls, he turns - and long, long wings stretch to cover, steer, and -now- carry them both together.

Teonath> Mraneth is again left with empty talons, and a rumbling growl for the brown who wins her. Rebellious and irritated, he heads for the bowl with a lash of tail.

T'bay gives up all thoughts of the fire as his dragon's knowledge is one with his own. Leaving the curtains, the hearth, he makes quick tracks for the exit, leaving the winners in peace.

T'bay wanders out onto Teonath's ledge.

T'bay has left.

Teonath> Soft whines from Sarevith mark his acceptance of the golden queen's choice, his barrel chest following the tilting of his wing toward away from the twined pair.

V'lano turns to leave and is all but gone before the jacket is remembered. He pauses at the exit, sidestepping to leave others go past, and casts a glance around. Finding nothing nearer, the hook which would hold back the gauzy drape when appropriate takes up the jacket's neck, and with her garment so hung, the bronzerider leaves Satiet's weyr behind.

V'lano strolls out onto Teonath's ledge.

V'lano has left.

Teonath> Teveroth spirals down, looking out of control. He bugles his distress, and his rider, dashing down the stairs from the Queen's weyr, looks up in surprise and fright. "He's overstressed himself!" The young man cries.

Sria was practically halfway out the door, sandy boots and all, but Sruth pulls through - pulls up - and she inhales, closes her eyes, then opens to one focus - no glance spared for watching the others leave.

Flight sense that Sarevith waves congrats to Sria, thanks everyone for a great flight, and thanks also to Satiet for 'hosting.' :)

Sruth bespoke Flight with « Thank you all for being great company. What a crowd to chase with. »

Flight sense that Wirrath congrats Sruth

Xalerth bespoke Flight with « Grats Sruth! (and Teonath too, great flight!) »

Witless> Down below, on the bowl floor, T'bay, with one last furtive glance back at the queen's ledge, shakes his head, amazement and some traces of disbelief at his own timing. "Quit crying. Come and get me! We've a ledge we're welcome on, if you're quick about it," calls the rider, shrugging off some of his heat with a spiralling of his shoulders in the joints, arms waving in the air at a brown shape with blue-tinged wings slowly spiraling to the ground.

Teonath> Volath flies like a shot past the space where Teonath just was, then banks back to try again - only to find it's too late. He half-folds his wings and dips toward the bowl to acquire his rider and fly off their strange, elated despair.

A flush. An expectant shudder, one that has her reeling away from the others to stand in the center of her weyr, the exit of other riders barely noticed. And with a slow, almost dreading lift of her head, Satiet seeks out Sria's form in the weyr, a sudden flash of the rider that holds the mental draconic entity within escaping in the wide-eyed look that's spared Sria. It's rueful, a bit shaky, and hesitant, unlike the decisiveness that is her lifemate, and the wobbly knees return, each step that's taken towards the brownrider a bit unwilling before Teonath's passion floods once more to reach out towards her once mentor.