Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr
This end of the bowl is grassy and serene with the pretty blue of the lake nearby as a draw for residents, riders and dragons alike. Since the earthslide collapsed in the spring of turn 23, a dramatic view of the mountain slopes that circle the Weyr has opened up beyond the lake, where a faint misty haze often shimmers above the small waterfall.
The feeding grounds are fenced off to on the northeastern end of the lake, just a short walk from the weyrling barracks, the Weyrleader's complex, the hatching complex, living cavern, and infirmary.
Leaden skies don't do much to set Fort off to its best advantage, this afternoon, though at least it isn't (yet) actually raining. Suraieth has retreated to the rim, her hide glowing aquamarine despite the lack of sunlight; she surveys the bowl below, lounging, utterly still. Down in the bowl, N'dalis trudges away from the caverns, the collar of his coat drawn up against the chill, his vacant gaze clearly focusing on some non-physical point off in the distance. The bowl is relatively busy, not surprising for the time of day, but no one seems to be paying the young greenrider much attention at all.
Don't mind the poker-faced, green-eyed woman marching a double-time, almost militaristic step from the living cavern out here to the Bowl. Alida's apparently on some kind of mission - a large satchel slung over one shoulder and crossed over the front of her riding jacket - her braided and pinned-up, palest blonde hair managing to shine despite said lack of sun. N'dalis' position and manner are noted in silence, and as she closes, a cursory and small bob of head is offered. Polite is apparently 'in' when not 'in house.'
Captured at a table at The Glass Fountain, R'oan is at least already three or four glasses into his usual afternoon tradition already this afternoon. It isn't he that is paying any attention to that glowing green and her rider, but rather the bright drawn gaze of a darker, smaller brown. At twenty-three turns, Etrevth isn't young enough to chase after anything and everything that glows, but something about Suraieth has caught his attention, if only for the fact that this is the green's maiden flight. He watches from his own ledge, set middling above the bowl, and drags the first brush of a warmed note of music against the green's mind, something dismissive and interested all the same, wrapped together.
Vhaeryth's taken up Tooth Crag, which is higher, not still in the least; dark chipped-looking claws bite into stone and shift now and again in quiet scratches, and his neckridges arch and spike against the silver sky. His rider's nowhere in sight, not to Suraieth, not to anyone in the bowl; now and again his tongue licks at the damp air in lieu of blood.
Lythronath is on edge already, where he rests alongside the watchrider's dragon. The riders, both watcher and weyrling, have dismounted, speaking to one another quietly. A'rist is very much the alert pupil, his whole posture respectful, his eyes sharply attentive. Lythronath's agitation brings attentiveness also, though his is not for the blue dragon, nor his rider, nor the finger points they are discussing. Lythronath is pressing his mind up, a testing lean, against foreign dragons. And all at once, and notably, against Suraieth. Now she makes his twitching tail and bobbing head still.
Honestly, N'dalis doesn't even seem to see Alida, let alone register her nod: even his footsteps are kind of labored, giving him a peculiar gait - not quite drunk, but close, so close. Now, as a sliver of sun peeks through from between the moody clouds, Suraieth stirs... and considers. She's noted Etrevth, certainly, and Vhaeryth has long been under consideration; Lythronath's testing lean is fascinating to her, answered in a washing of waves against him, the current drawing him in and in and in. Dal lets out a rasping breath of surprise, quickly accompanied by glee: his green has set herself aloft from the rim, and sweeps now down to the feeding grounds, killing a beast with a single thrusting talon.
There's surely some very important reason for H'vier to be in Fortian territory. This very important reason might have something to do with a very important consumption of alcohol. But whoever he was talking to while consuming said alcohol has already taken his leave and H'vier might have had a couple more. Drinking and flying aren't an issue. Reisoth is a responsible driver. And he's currently not coming to the bowl where H'vier is now waiting for him. Nope, he's watching a green. And when she ends up in the feeding grounds, the long, lean bronze glides his way down to help himself to Fort's beasts. "You've gotta be kidding me."
They were here for Weyr business of a sort - delivering and picking up mail - but once the silently observing Ilicaeth spies, then scents Suraieth not far off from the rim's sunning spot, thoughts of duty slip from his mind like a duck's back shedding water droplets. Vhaeryth is glimpsed by slightly narrowed gaze that swirls faster - from blue to yellow into red, as are his fellow 'Reachian dragons - and in a twinkling, the craggy blue's falling from his perch with outstretched wings. Down he glides like a gigantic owl of sorts, and the buck he's chosen from the pens doesn't even have a moment to bawl terror before coppery claws snicker-snack it through, lift it over the fence and drop it to the ground, where the gritty guy suckles hot blood fervently from the corpse. In the Bowl, not very far away as she passes N'dalis, Alida jerks to a sudden halt, squares her jaw, and casts instantly angry green eyes up and out to her descending lifemate. Under her breath is ground out, "Oh you *bastard." For a moment, she wars with her willful lifemate, but it's near useless this time, especially with his mindset, of late. Already she's pivoting around, and giving N'dalis' person a thorough going-over.
Fort must be the place-of-the-day. Alida isn't the only 'Reaches bluerider in the bowl, though the brunette woman looks decidedly lacking in mission, by contrast. Dressed down in still-warm breeches and tunic, Laghnei was making her case to the burly blue who will gladly tell anyone that he's Cerzoth, as if they should know the name. "Fine," Laghnei's annoyance is mild at best, and soon there's a laugh, because, "Fine. I said fine. Go have your fun." And the blue gets a thump before her eyes are seeking something, something she can't quite pinpoint, but then, she's foreign, so playing 'which one's the greenrider' isn't necessarily the easiest game to win.
It is Etrevth's quick, precise drop from his ledge to pin his own beast beneath wickedly sharp talons that finally draws R'oan's attention from his drink, twisting it thoughtfully in between his fingers as he lifts his gaze to the ceiling in internal consideration. Whatever he decides, it is a slow sigh that parts his lips before he drowns the last of the liquid, turning his glass over and setting it down against the Fountain's bar before pushing himself to his feet to make his way towards the bowl on instinct. Etrevth's instinct has his teeth tearing unmercifully through his wher's neck in a particular show for Suraieth, spilling more blood to the ground than he manages to lap up from those long rends of flesh.
That watchrider, he's been around some time. He notices A'rist's bronze about the same time as A'rist does. A'rist himself hasn't even managed to come up with a word when Lythronath rips into the air. Lythronath is a hurtling rock, his mind making solid and one all the thrills at once, the lust, the promised competition, the - « Blood! » Her path is more than acceptable. He joins her, downing the first beast he finds, jaws crushing and snapping as much to show their strength as to accomplish anything. A'rist, he's still speechless. That watchrider, he's not. He pats the young man on the shoulder and informs him, "You'll be needing a ride."
That rock of a Lythronath crashes right through those waves, want, and need, and power, and will. The hunger that's there isn't really for the herdbeast. (To Suraieth from Lythronath)
Fort knows Vhaeryth's name. At last, once he's had his fill (for now) of watching Suraieth make her kill, the bronze stoops at last: to the pens, to strike... but also to sink his claws into a pair of beasts and, with strong beats of his wings, to carry them screaming back up to the Rim where Suraieth once had been instead of to the one more formally on watch. He'll put them out of their misery there, and drink from them too, but in the meantime the view is so good. It's then that N'rov emerges from the caverns, hands thrust in his pockets, gray eyes no brighter than the leaden skies. It's to the cave he's headed; he knows the way.
To Lythronath, Suraieth knows hunger, too, but hers is like a drop in the ocean, her ocean, the one that expands and expands until it covers everything, washing around and through mere rocks. She can wear them down. She's here for the long haul.
The blood that leaks in gushes and torrents from her kill is satisfying; Suraieth revels in it, drinking deep, heedless of the way it stains that glowing hide. Some of it escapes to the ground, to be soaked up in the chilly earth, but she won't mourn the loss of it. It's only a little blood she needs, really: just enough to push her aloft. N'dalis is new to this, of course, and his expression suggests he's utterly lost within his green's embrace-- that's the only way to explain the way he licks his lips again and again. But there's enough presence of mind still in him that he can start walking again: into the flight cave, just in time for his green's next move. Suraieth is airborne.
Flight Weyr
This small, ground-level cavern has one use and one use only: it's for flights. The headwoman's staff keeps the place neat and tidy, but otherwise, the space is very clearly set up for its sole purpose. The bedframe is a double, sturdy, but has seen better days, with plenty of nicks and scratches in the wood. The linens are plain, undyed, cheap fiber, easy to wash, easy to replace.
Several chairs, all of the repaired, second-hand variety stand against the walls and a table holds a pitcher of water and a selection of chipped mugs as well as a seasonal fruit and a couple of bowls of nuts. The glows in here are usually a bit dim, older ones that have been changed out of more trafficked areas of the Weyr but not completely depleted yet. A small hearth also provides heat in the colder months, with logs and coal both kept supplied for use at any time.
They likely meet up along the walk towards that cave, Alida not knowing where it is, but following others, especially the known factor of N'rov. Keeping her attention upon her appointed path is difficult, given how greens slip first to N'dalis, then the 'competition,' but the blonde does manage to mutter aside to Vhaeryth's rider, "Guess it's time ta' turn the tables..." She sounds more grumbly than humored. Ilicaeth is likewise his rider, the tough-looking blue turning his reddened gaze upon vivaciously-lovely Suraieth, then around to the other males in silent assessment. A sudden bound over the fence again soon procures him a singularly-squawking wherry, silenced in an instant by having it's neck crushed by brutally efficient teeth. More draining of ichor from the limp proto-avian soon follows, and when finished, the foreign blue vaults up to some weyr ledge between Bowl and Rim, ignoring the surprise of a brown resting inside his couch as he waits for the green. Mantling. The moment her motion indicates true flight, he's rocketing up just behind her, deceitfully-patterned wings gobbling up the air, just as mightly lungs do. I'm on yer pretty tail, toots!
Lythronath heeds those stains on green hide. Lythronath wants them, wants her, wants it all. He roars. When he swings around to launch, it's not without managing to get one of those large back feet squarely on the remains of the carcass he's left behind. Crush. Squish. Fly. Another roar, this one a challenge. The weight of the young bronze's mind throws up against the other chasers now, testing, taunting. Somewhere in the bowl, a blue who's chosen not to chase - so lucky to have a choice, him and his maturity - lands to drop off a High Reaches weyrling with a very determined expression on his face.
There is no smile touching R'oan's lips when he finally slips into the flight weyr, following the trail of other riders with ease. However, as his gaze catches on what can only be the greenrider, tracing along the length of the man slowly, he lets out a muttered, dry, "Fuck," flavored with the softened tones of alcohol. And he shifts, making his intent to hold up one of the walls clear as he watches the room darkly, knuckles scrubbing against the sharp line of his shadowed jaw to give his hands something to do. Etrevth, however, has his own eye on Suraieth, a hungry, whirling gaze that is drawn by the green dragon and caught even as he bloods from his beast. He is not caught by surprise when she decides to take flight, experience seeing his own push into the skies of the Weyr come only a second after, only remembering to drop the wherry from his mouth after he's already in the air.
"Upside down?" N'rov inquires sardonically of Ilicaeth's; the man's found himself the bowl full of nuts and has stolen a few, idly cracking their hulls against each other. His quick look from her towards N'dalis might mean to be cautious, possibly even reassuring, but his mouth can't help but curl into something closer to a grin. Vhaeryth's own teeth have drawn back, exposing their canines, never mind that they're in flight; he's used the advantage of height to speed after Suraieth, temporary though it is, and if the blood dries upon his fangs from the Rim-discarded beasts... so be it.
To Suraieth, Lythronath is here for the now. Now is hunger. Now is lust. If there's all that much to her, that much ocean, that much expanse, then one pelting of intention and feeling won't do. Lythronath throws himself at her over. And over. And over. The weight, the raw purity of emotion, it defies words. Over. And over. And over.
In blooding, Cerzoth might have been too to social, too cajoling, enjoying the masculine displays that Suraieth so inspires, at least from him, with the flexing and the slurping of blood, and the bloody moustache left behind. All very manly. But once in flight, this is serious business and inky blue wings bring him into the chase. Laghnei is much less serious. Her hands are tucked into her pockets, her stroll relaxed, she even reaches to loose her brown locks from their messy bun, shaking fingers through her hair. It's time for her to kick back and wait while Cerzoth does all the work.
Reisoth doesn't pay particular attention to the green except for the fact that he's sucking down the lifeblood of a beast to chase her. He's efficient and precise about that, like he is about so many things. But once Suraieth is airborne, precision becomes less of a concern for the bronze. He follows in one leap and powerful downstroke of his dark wings. H'vier is less precise about his trek toward the weyr where he'll be spending the next few minutes, anyway. The bronzerider mutters under his breath. Or he probably means to be muttering under his breath. "Sharding damned greenriders. I've had more fucking evenings messed up with your damned dragons than..." Something. He's probably not actually sure.
More. MORE. It doesn't need words - who needs words? Suraieth inspires, nay, commands action. She draws them in, a battle to the... no, not to the death. But close. Only the best shall stay. Over. And over. Yes, she encourages, enthuses. More. (To Lythronath from Suraieth)
As Maldoranth is wont to do, he is late to the party. Always. He's just a dark stain on the sky above for a brief moment, then he lands in the middle of the others, scattering animals, though he makes no play for any of them. His hide is a dull, sleek bronze, muted by dust, but unmistakable. Keeping wings unfurled, he turns to survey the area, whirling orange eyes settling on Suraieth as he snorts out a breath. He hunches there, muscles tensing and relaxing, wings hovering in a state between rest and action. Meanwhile, N'rad has managed to find the others, more by instinct than experience. Perhaps by some smaller trace of deduction. At first, he does little more than look from one face to the next, blonde brow furrowing at the unknowns. He eventually picks out N'dalis, however. Was that a wince? From the holdbred rider? At least he doesn't try to force Maldoranth away from his quarry. He'll just... uh. "Did anyone bring liquor?"
Inside the weyr, N'dalis retreats hastily to the bed, sitting upon it with his knees brought up towards his chin. He wraps his arms around them in turn, looking around the room from one rider to the next. It may be his first time, but he doesn't look scared: he looks alive and predatory and eager to face whatever comes next. "You'll wash up," he predicts. "You'll wash out. All of you. No one is good enough for us." Above, Suraieth is up and up and up. She's no longer concerned with precision, and if there's logic in play, it's her own strange brand of it: such a straight path may make this an easy run. Then again, the broadening of Dal's feral grin may suggest otherwise, and his green's bloodthirsty below may not help much at all.
"I hope the shit *not*..." Alida comments in return to N'rov, her slightly hazy green eyes managing a quick little emphatic roll to him while her lips thin in undisguised displeasure. She'd *so* rather not be here, right now. Once they're inside, the blonde finds a wall to support her back, the satchel at it making her grumble and shift to get a little more comfortable. And then... oh. Maaan. H'vier's voice is unmistakable out there, and those greens suddenly focus like a predator's upon the towering, male 'Reachian for a long moment, then flick off to N'rad. Not good, already imagining her fist and his nose making contact again. She's not going to allow herself booze this time, and so when deft fingers make for her hip flask, it's to wave it before the Fortian and then toss it in a soft arc to him. As for Ilicaeth, he's much more 'happy' and into this than his lifemate, the younger 'Reaches blue displaying more aerobatics than usual as he darts and slips between and by slower, larger beasts, and rises a little above the main flight. Observing...calculating.
Etrevth's mind extends again to the green, his own predation reflected in the smooth, low keys of a bass drum. His impression is a promise, a simple, « One way or another, » that is not expanded on. He chases after, though his smaller size for a brown at least allowing him some speed to match the green's. "You'd think so," R'oan murmurs with only a hint of dark humor, his attention drawing briefly from N'dalis only to trace the arch of Alida's flask with envy before returning inevitably to the greenrider. It does not, however, have to make him show interest, not where he insists on only staring with the hint of narrowing to his gaze and a darkness in the weight of it.
If N'rov brought liquor, he's not sharing; his having turned from Alida means he misses her throw of the flask long enough to toss a nut at N'rad, though. One from the bowl, that is, complete with shell: not anyone's in particular. Not even N'dalis', though some might say they're here in the weyr in honor of him and his lifemate. There's still enough sense in him to inform the greenrider, "That'd leave you in the lurch." Rather than approach the bed and the man upon it, he goes for another handful of nuts. Vhaeryth's meanwhile gaining speed, though he's massive enough to impede his escalation's matching the numbler green's; anticipating a change in course, he even permits a dragon or two to sprint past him in favor of keeping enough wingroom to swerve... though he's also not above trumpeting loudly and without warning at the blue who does, the better to try and startle him off his course.
A'rist is - at least at the time of his entrance into the ground weyr - the last to arrive. That set expression manages to hold its place long enough to take in the room. His gaze pauses on those he recongises, or thinks he recognises, from home, High Reaches dragonriders. N'rov earns a slight narrowing of his eyes, not suspicious, but strange, a memory from a moment rather than a place. He winds up on N'dalis, not knowing him from anything except... Lythronath. The copper-blazed wings of the young bronze dig into the air, wingstroke, after wingstroke, after wingstroke. The first blue, he misses. But Ilicaeth's not right in his path, not yet. Cerzoth, though. Lythronath veers toward him, snaps his teeth. Too close. Blues, man. A'rist's lip makes its first attempt at a curl, but he fights the snarl away.
Alas, Laghnei has no liqour with which to assist N'rad. But, if a bottle gets passed by way of her, she'll take a tip for her trouble. N'dalis' voice draws her eyes, but his words get a laugh, a warm thing, a deep thing, amused because... clearly they've never met Cerzoth. Cerzoth who bandies words with the brutes who would have her, Cerzoth who dips and soars and sings as he flies. It's off-key, and very bad. But at least most of it is lost to the wind, and hopefully none of it actually reaches the green or his chasing will be in vain from the start. The snap of teeth so close to his midnight hide is enough to summon a roar from the blue. Bronzes. What makes them so special anyway?
With Reisoth in the sky, following his current, thankfully very temporary obsession, H'vier has a somewhat more difficult time keeping himself separated from the bronze with his current level of intoxication. When he really looks at the greenrider in question, H'vier's expression isn't much less predatory, if somewhat sloppy. "Don't get too cocky, kid. Someone will be pounding that grin off of your face before it's all over." And he looks so pleased with himself about it.
To Suraieth, Lythronath has more. Always more. More without end. Those rocks, they have teeth, they have edges. When they splash, the ripples are red. Red by their very sensation. White, and red, and then, « Hahaha! » a rush of triumph and challenge and desire. More enthusiasm. More blood. More ichor. More green please.
N'rad catches the flask Alida tosses to him. At least at first. Then someone helpfully tosses a nut at him instead, which makes him bobble that flask. Hands finally grip it safely, nothing dropped except the nut, nothing spilled, except a glare in N'rov's direction. N'rad is about to say something, maybe thanks to the bluerider, maybe something snappy to the bronzerider (unlikely), but it's all cut off by a wince, as his dragon lurches into the sky. Maldoranth is all raw power as he chases after Suraieth. Wing talons sweep toward a blue there, tail lashes at a brown over there, and hind talons job toward a fellow bronze. Swerving and turning, he manages to miss all of them for now while wings pummel the air, reaching for altitude and speed. There's no finesse, no finely tuned aerial acrobatics. Mal would be more likely to fly through another dragon than around him.
There is so much green to be had! If he's good enough. If he's strong enough and fast enough and good enough. The red excites her; so does the green. Her ichor burns in her veins, carrying her higher. Can he feel that? (To Lythronath from Suraieth)
Suraieth chances a glance behind her, and seems positively gleeful at the array of dragons there - close, but not too close, not yet. She dives, hurtling around and sweeping many of them in her wake; let them come at her. Let them come at each other. There is no logic, here. "I don't need any of you," says her rider, firmly. "We don't. You're all just for show. Just for..." And yet he's unbuttoning his shirt, button by button, and there's a sheen of sweat and a certain breathlessness to him. He shifts, uncomfortably... but not that uncomfortably. "It is known. We will only have the best."
Startle? Haw-haw! It's a move Ilicaeth might make himself, and so when the wily blue hears that sudden trumpet of Vhaeryth's, he simply guns his engine - so-to-speak - and pulls a little farther forward. Is that tail of his flipping the Fortian bronze off? Unknown, especially since the greyed-out blue is shifting his attention under one wing to snarly, snappy Lythronath behind him. If Ilicaeth could hoot his dark humor and derision to the younger bronze, he would, but this Flight's much more important right now, so he returns his senses to the potentially vicious green hide of Suraieth. If the blue's wary of getting caught up in her claws, he doesn't seem to show it, offering her a short roar of defiance. Brave the battle! He dips and dives, deviates with her, but not to the extent even more aerobatic blues do. He's still calculating some. To herself, though unintendedly louder, Alida mutters sourly, "Gonna be one 'a *those* kinda Flights...", her gaze fixed upon some distant point in the air, her expression tight and focused. The woman's stance is a little more aggressive as she slowly pushes away from the wall she was holding up, a few flexes of knuckles offered in tandem with Ilicaeth's efforts to remain nearer Suraieth. Must ignore H'vier... oh what's this? A N'dalis chest for the peering...and stare the woman does.
Well, if he's going to get a glare... N'rov's pleased to toss another ownerless nut N'rad's way... and then a third, right on its heels: catch that if you can. There might have been a fourth, except N'dalis gets into unbuttoning, and then the older, 'supposed to be able to handle all this by now' bronzerider accidentally drops a whole handful, swearing. That won't make it trickier to walk around at all. Vhaeryth just doesn't resist the opportunity to gnash his teeth at Ilicaeth's tail as it brushes by, though it means he's slowed a heartbeat from noticing Suraieth's change in course; now he does swerve with the space he'd maintained, shouldering his way towards her path as others close in, but all too glad to oblige.
Reisoth is paying little attention to the other chasers, focused only on Suraieth. The only thing worth being focused on right now. Giving into this base instinct isn't something he tends to speak well of, but only when he's not giving into it himself. He's silent in his pursuit, which is so often the case, but he's definitely there, a presence close at Suraieth's tail in mind if not quite reality just yet. Any other time, H'vier would probably have something horrible to say about the greenrider's skin on display. Right now he just looks hungry as he starts to move toward the bed. "Good to know you've already made your decision." Which, being the best, is obviously him.
Etrevth skirts the other dragons where he pursues Suraieth, avoiding the conflicts of the males despite his own desire and possessiveness of the prize that he chases, whether that be from laziness of the energy a fight would take or from self-preservation. The smaller, older brown works instead at tracing Suraieth's pattern as his own, the cut of his path like a knife where he attempts to slide after her. Yet, R'oan keeps his act of indifference, kicking at a loose nut that rolls near his feet idly even as grey-green eyes linger on the button that escapes from fabric.
Lythronath roars right back at Cerzoth, roars, and looks, and that brings him closer. Wings beat back the air, turning after the diving green, turning with the help of one powerfully muscled hind leg that kicks out, kicks off from, that blue. Those talons work better for grip on things that don't give way. Like hide. But blue hide, that's just in the way. In the way, then not. Then, there's bronze in his way. A'rist still hasn't thought to get out of the doorway. He grits his teeth. He grunts. He barely notices the skin N'dalis is showing. And Lythronath, this time, keeps his teeth and talons to himself. But his wings are big. And Lythronath is fast. Another roar, for the sake of green, for the sake of loud, for the sake of letting Maldoranth know that he's gaining. Hahaha!
"Or not," Laghnei's alto rises lazily to contradict the big 'Reaches bronzerider's talk of pounding. She shifts her stance, slipping one hand out of her trouser pockets to examine her nails, as if to highlight her obvious femininity. One thing's for sure, if Cerzoth catches Suraieth, she has no intention of doing pounding, let alone the kind that's hard enough to remove grins. Only, with Lythronath's talons finding purchase on dark hide, it doesn't seem like Cerzoth is going to have any luck in that department, and the realistic odds of pounding just went up for N'dalis, for Cerzoth's angry roar turns to one that's surely a sign of injury that has him streaking groundwards and Laghnei running to meet him. Of course, there are N'rov's nuts to consider. And down she goes with a curse, only to scramble back up and keep going. It must be more than a simple flesh wound to motivate her so.
To Suraieth, Lythronath can feel it. He'll feel it even better, soon. Closer. Harder. More. « Hahaha! » The blue is gone. Hahaha, « Better! » Lythronath won't be stopped. The confidence, that strikes the ocean. The victory, that too. He'll have her. Can she feel it?
To Lythronath, Suraieth approves. Oh, she approves. Only the most worthy shall stick with her! Blood and lust: bloodlust. Take them all down.
Maldoranth watches as Suraieth changes direction, enough so that he just keeps going a full two seconds before he thinks to change direction. Recalculating route. The bronze dives, barely missing Lythronath, though he doesn't miss the younger bronze's roar. He's just close enough that if he reaches, he can swipe the bronze's wing with his tail. Of course, that changes the aerodynamics, too, and as Mal loses speed, he starts to slip behind the other bronze and reaches out with a claw to somehow halt his deceleration. Then wings fold for a moment as he drops in front of a brown, who gets a kick of their own as Mal's wings snap wide again, seeking purchase on the wind.
From his seated position, H'vier looks... very tall and imposing, actually. N'dalis freezes, his hand still pressed against one of his buttons, though the most of his shirt is off. "No," he says. "No, not you. Not yet. No." And so too does Suraieth respond, with a scream of a bellow that nonetheless ups the ichor pumping through her veins and sends her furiously onwards. She's aware of the dragons behind her, more than ever: she's aware of the blue that's been forced out, the beginnings of carnage, and aware, too, of the dangers that lurk amidst those still remaining. She doesn't care. She's arced upwards again, out and over the bowl wall and off towards the open valleys beyond. They're gaining on her, though, and she's beginning to tire-- even if her enjoyment continues, increases, demands satisfaction.
Missed my tail! Ilicaeth spares no breath for trumpeting at Vhaeryth, the blue's jaws gaping slightly to let air scoop towards his lungs with less effort than labored breathing would require. Cue a sudden flash of coppery claws at some poor sucker who's dared to get too close to him...and the rocky blue's scoring a fine smear of ichor from a pair of thin furrows he's awarded to aformentioned fool's back. Cerzoth's roar has him peeking quickly backwards to glimpse the other blue falling away from Lynner's inflicted injury, the blue then laughing inwardly as the two bronzes tussle a little. Suraieth's screamy-bellow calls for an answer from 'caeth: a tiring trumpet that's still proud and edgy and wanting, and it again inspires him to keep up his young and untried speed. Alida's suddenly staring in frowny fashion at Laghnei and her nutty fall. Blink-blink...and instead of helping, the blonde's jerking her gaze over to N'rov and smirking out a low, "Dipshit." Evil, organic landmines! She must remember this. Wait-whut? N'dalis is speaking again...but to someone she doesn't really want to risk looking at again. Green eyes dart away from almost staring at H'vier's face...imagining it littered with bruises.
Etrevth is the essence of danger in the press of his mindvoice against the green dragon out of his reach, the promise of capture in that brush, the impression of never letting Suraieth go once he's wrapped himself around her. And yet, he still has to win her to make good on that hint of promise, his teeth baring in a violent smile as he seems to sense the green tiring and puts a burst of his own energy into the slice of his wings. "You heard him. Not you, so step back, jumpy," R'oan practically growls to H'vier with a hint of possession to his own words, his words cold despite the slight slurring with the effects of alcohol. Still, however, he doesn't lever himself off the wall that he is holding up with his back. Otherwise, it might fall down.
N'rov's flipping Alida off is a reflexive gesture, nothing that requires thought; he misses that other bluerider's fall entirely, all of a sudden laughing on the heels of Suraieth's bellow, his baritone holding such joyous ferocity in tune with Vhaeryth's roar. The bronze has dodging to do, though he doesn't like it much; it's something he can do, is doing, but just now he'd rather reach out and grab her. If only he can swing near... he licks his chops out of seeming-nowhere, and tries.
H'vier barely acknowledges Laghnei except for turning his head to look her up and down. Definitely feminine enough to hold his attention for a few moments. Maybe even enough to make him look for her after the fact, never mind her injured dragon. He's a little single-track minded right now, which means his attention draws back to N'dalis easily, eagerly despite the negatives. He doesn't back off more than a step or so, though. R'oan's words earn a challenging sort of glare. You want to say that closer to his fists? Fortunately Reisoth isn't very distracted by his rider. He avoids scuffling with the other chasers as much as possible. That's not very efficient and he's never been particularly prone to violence when it can be avoided, unlike his rider.
All of them, one by one. All of them, and her last. Fallen dragons hit the waves now, one, after another, after anoth- (To Suraieth from Lythronath)
Lythronath sees that tail, and he's still smaller, still that much more agile. Old bronze. He twists to roar defiance at Maldoranth, twists just in time that his shoulder catches that claw. Lythronath roars. A'rist makes a sound like a cough, but a cough forced out by a dragon stepping on his gut. His dragon kicks out one of those big feet, to free himself, to scar Maldoranth. When Lythronath roars, his teeth are close to the other's hide. Why not use them? « Fall! » is a command for that old bronze. "Green!" was probably meant to be a quiet refocus, but it's not. It's voice-crackingly out loud.
To Lythronath, Suraieth's waves expel the intruders, one by one. She freezes them; they shatter. They weren't strong enough. Is Lythronath?
Maldoranth is hardly old. Just big. Big enough to catch that kick with a grunt of air, then a scream of pain as ichor dances free on the wind. When Lythronath's teeth make contact, Maldoranth leaves off chasing Suraieth altogether to turn and bite the other bronze right back, teeth sinking in for enough of that bitter taste of dragon's blood to make N'rad turn to spit to the side. Possibly looking a little green around the gills, the bronzerider takes a heavy swig of whiskey, tosses the flask toward Alida, then turns to go. With his dragon disengaged from the flight only to reengage with another dragon, he's pushing his way right past that other dragon's rider to get out to the bowl. The better to try to control Maldoranth before he causes any more damage.
No, no, no. It doesn't matter that Suraieth has been taunting and encouraging, even pressing for the violence. As the skirmish breaks out, behind her, she falters. Vhaeryth's proximity is enough to keep her from completely losing her head, though, and again she shifts her path, thrusting herself past him with a shove that is clearly designed to send him away and leave her-- well. She's tired, now. She's tired, and there's ichor, and all her bloodthirsty desires have just left her bursting for touch. N'dalis gasps. He may be trying to swat vaguely to keep H'vier (and anyone else) from getting too close but it's feeble, now. Suraieth is too tired to escape; it's nearly over, now.
R'oan meets that challenging glare with the curve of a brow upwards, a sarcastic little slide of his gaze along the few steps that H'vier retreated from the greenrider. He says nothing, but does he really need to for his point to be made? Then he pushes his luck further, kicking another nut idly in H'vier's direction, allowing it to slide across the floor of the weyr towards the bronzerider. And yet, before he can antagonize the other man further, Etrevth is suddenly, finally roaring his intent, putting the last of his own strength into surging after the green where she lags and attempting to wrap himself, tightly, hard around the glowing prize with no intentions to release it to anyone if he succeeds.
Alida's actually laughing at N'rov's gesture, the sound of it a little hawkish, full of Ilicaeth's straining flight. Still, it's humor instead of anger, and this is good(tm). A'rist's crackling 'Green' earns him a darted look of mixed surprise and dark humor, the blonde muttering in his direction, "Duuh..." before she snakes a look back over to N'rov. The motion and spitting by N'rad steals her focus for a moment, and apt hands dart out like felines to nab her own tossed-back flask from the air. Pure reaction without thought...much like N'rov's bird-flipping. In the sky, at the same moment, Ilicaeth's eyeing that attempted grab of Suraieth by greedy Vhaeryth-claws, and the blue suddenly snarls and attempts to nip rather pointedly at whatever bits of the Fortian bronze that are nearest. If he connects, there will be ichor flowing, though not in major fashion. The painful 'connection' between Maldoranth and Lythronath just behind him is spared only a moment of listening, since he's concentrating on keeping louty Vhaeryth from another conquest. Joy! The tiring green's shoving him away! This is the cue for Ilicaeth to suddenly croon, and tap into the last dregs of his rapidly fading energy for a last little boost. Leaden wings feel a spurt of adrenaline and their rocky muscles respond with singular effort, surging him into a near-collision with whoever's before him, now. Hopefully it'll be Suraieth! The tail that teased Vhaeryth before whips around like a vine to try and lasso loosely around one of the female's hind limbs, while coppery claws try to make a desperate grab for one of the glowy green's shoulders. At this moment, he's utterly silent...almost totally spent.
He doesn't make as quick a getaway here as he did from Cerzoth. He doesn't make much of a getaway at all. Lythronath's teeth come away from Maldoranth's hide, framing another roar, and his talons dig in deeper, trying to tear through, push off, pull away, when he remembers Suraieth. Looks for Suraieth. Her change brings a roar from him - or were those Maldoranth's teeth? Wings beat to support weight, his weight, the weight of another. And on the ground, when N'rad pushes, A'rist pushes back. Not to get around the other bronzerider; to shove him. "Stop it!"
The deep, rumbling bellow from the until now silent Reisoth may be an attempt at a warning for the other males to stay away from his green. His green. The one he's making a last powerful rush toward with his eyes whirling red. H'vier is caught up in that last ditch effort, at once wanting to tear off the rest of the greenrider's clothes and punch R'oan in his nuts, as might be clear in the way he looks from one to the other were anyone clear-headed enough to notice. If nothing else, he can save hitting the brownrider until the catch is made.
N'rad sprawls momentarily as he's pushed, but forward momentum carries him away from the flight caves and toward the bowl, where his pale eyes are searching the sky for his dragon. Maldoranth rips himself away from Lythronath, possibly taking a strip of the bronze with him. Wings fold as the bronze does indeed fall, all carnal flight lust forgotten as pain and the heady sense of blood loss take over. Wings unfurl again as he begins to glide back toward the Weyr, slowly raining ichor toward the ground. Once there, both N'rad and Maldoranth will be making their way toward the dragonhealing area of the Weyr.
Vhaeryth gets to touch the green! Score! ...Except for the part where it's looking like she's scoring him. Not that he dodges; he'll wilingly take the blow on the shoulder and use that momentary proximity to reach with his forelegs and long, strong neck to try and draw her in. Except. She pushes off, deflecting him just enough to be pushed back, out of reach of her. Though it's also out of reach of Ilicaeth's claws, by his sudden growl, the tradeoff is not worth it. N'rov's growling too, one hand flung up to rub his shoulder, head turning even as Vhaeryth's swings to look.
Suraieth screams as she begins to stumble and fall, and screams for the loss of more of her suitors, too, fickle creature that she presently is. In the weyr, Dal lets out a little cry, blindly glancing around the room, seeing-but-not-seeing. He's there with his green as her exhaustion is met by that of another; foreign Ilicaeth, the one Suraieth reaches for at the very last moment. Why have a known quantity, when you can have an unknown?
It is an angry hiss and gaze that Etrevth draws over the mating couple as Ilicaeth wins Suraieth, hanging in the air briefly to watch them both before he wings down to find his ledge and nurse the wounds to his pride. R'oan's own grey-green eyes slide between N'dalis and Alida, only easing himself from the wall after a moment, kicking one more nut with purpose on his way out of the weyr. He doesn't seek out H'vier in the aftermath of the flight, instead preferring a caverns worker, preferrably female, and alcohol rather than bronzeriders.
Lythronath doesn't want to land. Free of Maldoranth, he roars again, a higher note to the sound this time, the loss barely registering. The shock, though... He veers through the air, flight stilted. A'rist has regained sense enough, with dragons out of their lock, to run out. Run out and calm his lifemate's mind, get him to land, and find the dragon infirmary. Some things look easier than they are.
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