Logs:Vrianth's Maiden Flight
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| RL Date: 25 May, 2008 |
| Who: B'yan, I'daur, L'vae, Leova, N'thei, Niena, T'rev |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| When: Day 1, Month 7, Turn 16 (Interval 10) |
| High above the lake, a rangy green is flying relaxed figure-eights in the cloud-dimmed light, more gliding than anything, taking it easy. She could fly like this all day. Occasional wingbeats send her further, higher, past the Star Stones or even the Seven Spindles more than half swallowed by the blanketing clouds, but Vrianth never enters the cloud cover itself and her path always leads back to the lake again. She's watched, too, by her rider if no one else. The woman sits on the edge of the ledge outside the Snowasis, boots dangling above the Bowl floor, the drink in cupped hands a cool one for the hot, still afternoon. There's a damp cloth on one knee, and sometimes she uses it to wipe her forehead, or her neck, or her bare arms. Between drinks she sings, very softly, in that low smoky voice. Out from within the Snowasis comes T'rev balancing a drink, half-full. A look tossed over his shoulder and he lifts the glass partway. "Yeah, thanks, I got it!" he says cheerily and keeps on going, then pauses at the change of light from shady to bright, one hand held up against the assault of the sun. There is another set of eyes watching, belonging to the lanky parched-pale brown who crouches on the lake shore below Vrianth's figure eights. It's not an uncommon pose for Bremuth, to be sure, save perhaps the occasional flicker of sunset's tints across facets of deep blue. His rider, hair still vaguely showing the dents from flight gear despite being wetted down, ambles up the steps from the bowl. Though he first appears intent on the bar's entrance, the sight of Leova causes his path to veer. There's a smile on lips that part as L'vae nears as if to say hi, but the words never come. Perhaps it's the singing he overhears. Closing again, the corner of his mouth twists up unevenly and his head turns up to follow the greenrider's gaze into the sky. Blue Masoth, clutchmate and wingmate, is also watching. Often enough he's matched her moves as she flies, but today the game is different. Niena, meanwhile, is holding a customary mug of klah as she exits the Snowasis. There's Wyaeth, perched on high, commanding a view, owning the bowl, as usual. The watchdragon may call greetings to dragons coming and going, but it's Wyaeth who challenges the presence of anyone who doesn't meet familiar muster. He's less interested in Vrianth than a fair few of the other dragons, more interested than his usual just-a-green registry. His possessive position on the Star Stones angles so he can keep a glance to the green now and then, but she's his preoccupation, not his objective. With Jaireth settled stiffly in the bowl, his eyes on the sky, it's no surprise that his rider is nowhere to be found just yet. The bronze's tail is twitching here and there, a particular green in the sky getting just a bit more of his attention than usual. His attention doesn't shift until at the last minute, looking towards the patio ledge just as B'yan is emerging from the Snowasis in deep conversation with a man that looks very much like he works in the inner caverns. T'rev blinks a few times and sight returns, Leova outlined by the sun's rays now and he continues forward with a chipper smile still on his face. L'vae just beyond is noted too and he bobs his head politely ona approach. "Telgar's duties, hey there Leova." Mecaith's been in the Bowl for a while, sleeping in the sun while his rider was otherwise occupied, but he's just woken not that long ago and his head has lifted, sandblasted wings spreading then closing again as eyes turn upward. He's focused soon enough while his rider remains easy-going and good-natured, still walking at a careful enough pace not to spill his drink. Eventually that dragon's course changes further, no longer inscribing figure-eights toward infinity, not even back up to the Star Stones and those who watch from there, but coasting leisurely downward. Towards that ledge outside the Snowasis, it could be, and indeed her shadow crosses over her seated rider, but she doesn't land. Perhaps it's the sudden burst of firelizards from the upper ledge she'd passed too closely, but now Vrianth's winding back through the air, making a pass over the feeding grounds, still so very casual about it all. No hurry. Could be, she's just headed back to the lake again. Maybe, when her rider stands up and silently starts for the steps just as the conglomeration of Reachians are leaving the Snowasis themselves, they're just going to have another picnic together. Like yesterday. And the day before that. A picnic with Bremuth, even. Certainly Leova's murmuring something to L'vae now, a quiet, "You see it too." Duties? She looks back up at T'rev, startled into silence. Maybe it's sheer accident, too, that just at that moment, Vrianth's talons just happen to be aimed for that herdbeast still staring dimly up into her shadow. Wyaeth starts from his roost, drops from the ledge into the airspace over the bowl, the gray-green-bronze of his wingsails hard to pick out against the slate of cloud cover. His glide tails Vrianth's, angled toward the lake, the feeding grounds, a leisurely follow-along a long few 'lengths behind her. But a snort marks his change in direction, a raspy grunt of frustration sounded while he wheels back around toward the Star Stones again, talons scraping loudly when he re-lands. All that for nothin'. Once out on the patio ledge, B'yan and his companion continue in long talks before something draws the wingleader's attention towards the ledge. A slight frown stops the conversation, hazel then sweeping the surroundings until they light on Leova and those with her. It lingers here for a few moments, unreadable, and he turns back to mutter words to the worker to dismiss him and continues his walk across the ledge. Jaireth, for his part, doesn't lose sight of the green now. As if a signal had been given, he launches up into the sky and angles toward the feeding grounds, aiming for a landing ontop of the fence. Sulk. (Wyaeth to Vrianth) Static. (Vrianth to Wyaeth) I'daur is off... who knows where, probably some deserted corner of the Weyr getting drunk as usual. But while his rider is absent, Zunaeth is plainly visible up on his ledge in his own usual place, watching the bowl with a rather bored air. He's stretched out, wings spread to either side of him; while he pays some attention, even if just a glance, to the other dragons that circle about, it's Vrianth that keeps stealing most of his focus, particularly when she dives down for that none too bright herdbeast. He doesn't move from his ledge yet, however. Masoth watches, not moving yet, though his eyes are whirling an unusual violet, at least for him. Niena glances over at Leova and asks, with as much curiosity as concern, "Are you doing all right?" "Now?" L'vae says the single word quietly back to Leova, tones of curiosity and gentle concern mixing in his voice. Yet his upwards turned gaze only comes down at the sound of T'rev's voice. Pale hazel eyes scan over the foreign rider, assessing this other man who apparently knows his friend. "Our duties to Telgar," he thinks to add after a moment's silence, a friendly curve to his smile. Out on the beach, grey-brindled wings spread as Bremuth pushes quietly into the sky. A picnic with Vrianth? Well, the brown does follow slowly in her wake towards the feeding grounds. A sip taken from T'rev's glass turns into a sudden liability as Mecaith sits up on his haunches and focuses closely on the shifts in Vrianth's flight over the Bowl. T'rev starts coughing, that swallow's gone down sideways and his eyes cross briefly, then refocus out in the Bowl not on the green's rider. The Telgar bronze doesn't lift off yet, he's still observing, absorbing the way she goes, blue-green eyes slowly darkening, shading down to violet. A slow exhale of draconic breath follows and he swings his head around, searching out T'rev on the not-far-distant patio ledge. Rooted to the spot, the Telgar rider's face creases with uncertainty, then he just nods once. This is Mecaith's signal and he launches from the Bowl floor, gliding, gliding towards the feeding pens at a sure and steady pace. After a pause, T'rev offers L'vae a renewed semil. "Thanks," he answers L'vae, eyes his drink and knocks down the rest quickly, leans to set the vessel down on the nearest convenient tabletop. "Now," Leova agrees, reaching for L'vae's arm, keeping her glass in her other hand instead. She may need it. "Better hurry. And not get the wrong weyr, hm?" That old joke. Only then there's coughing, and then a question: doing all right? Mistaking who Niena's question's for, the greenrider half-turns, but even that doesn't slow her pace, quickening even as T'rev stabilizes and B'yan's booted tread comes up behind them. They haven't yet made it to the guest weyr when Vrianth's jaws trap the herdbeast's throat under her watchers' eyes, the green's throat working to drink down its blood, nothing delicate about it. Maybe she'll have more panache in later Turns, but now in her maiden flight it's all new. Raw. She could be starving. Could eat. And she nearly does, but Leova's whispering at her across the Bowl that separates them, and she keeps drinking until her expressive tail flat-lines against the floor of the pen and the beast's dying convulsions slow. Stop. And that's when Vrianth looks around. Sees who's here. When Leova /doesn't/ look around. Walks faster. Almost there. That's when the lid comes off. Zunaeth, Jaireth, Wyaeth, Mecaith, Bremuth, and Masoth sense that Vrianth's been focused inward nearly all this time, the fast-moving current of her thoughts difficult to read. Now, though. Now, gravel strikes flint. The polarity flips. Her youthful attention turns to them, fairly crackling with excited electricity. They're here. For her. What a /challenge/. Wyaeth senses that Vrianth's gravelly voice teases, well after his wingbeats have veered back up towards the 'Stones, « Do you need some'n? » How about peace and quiet? The posture equivalent of Wyaeth's tone, his presence, is the desolation of sitting with head-in-hands. Frustration fills him to the brim, turns the play of a dust-devil to the gathering threat of a flash-flood; « Do I ever, sugar. » (Wyaeth to Vrianth) Masoth finally takes off, efficiently killing and blooding a beast of his own, then focusing on another. Niena follows Leova, meanwhile, unsmiling and all business, leaving the klah mug behind. Bring it on. Ozone's sharp in the air above that flash-flood's threat, promise of lightning coming: « Tell me what you want. » (What you really really want.) (Vrianth to Wyaeth) Flick. Flick. Wyaeth's broody overtones have chased the old green off the Star Stones landing, sent her on around to a high ledge to leave his twitching wings and palpable frustration in command for now. The watchrider, being paired to that aged green dragon, gets to sit back and watch amusedly while inhibition battles instinct. While the other dragons hit the feeding grounds, Bremuth and Mecaith and Masoth and the others, he taps a gunmetal talon against the stone, rhythmless, intense. Jaireth bloods, making quick work of his first kill, and B'yan's shaking his head as he follows the riders off the ledge after Leova. There's a tightening of his jaw as he moves, collecting up a bottle of something off the table he passes and startling the two occupants there with his thievery. With the bottle claimed he keeps going without a backward glance at the commotion from it, keeping close to last in the filing out of the patio. L'vae will look around, even if Leova won't. His expression is mostly neutral, save for a flicker of warmth in his eyes when they fall on Niena. But the greenrider has his arm, and he has a mission. "Alright. We'll find the right one." A promise made, but not devoid of humor. The brownrider's strides are long to keep up with the quick pace Leova wants. Down the steps, across to more steps and the guest weyr... on the way, a rather unsure look is turned across the bowl towards the pens. Bremuth's eyes are shifting, away from a more typical cerulean towards the deep blues and purples of sunset's skies. On the other side of the pasture from Vrianth, the brown sweeps neatly down to make a quick kill, his motions calm and sure even as his jaws latch onto the beast's throat. Only takes a spark to start a wildfire; N'thei must be one helluva firefighter. « You'll find out. » Could seem coy were it not for the flagrant undercurrents, familiar taste of blood, feel of charged air rushing past, warmth of hide touched at neck and tail. (Wyaeth to Vrianth) And Zunaeth still doesn't move, apparently foregoing the blooding for this flight. But his gaze becomes more interested the longer Vrianth does so, and he inches forward along his ledge to get a better view of her. His eyes are whirling faster, wings stretching a little in apparent preparation. I'daur? Still nowhere to be found, even as the rest of the little party moves toward the guest weyr. T'rev wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and takes a deep breath, nods as Leova half-turns and then waits without further speech until the green and brownriders have gotten a pace or two ahead before he follows, hands stuck in pockets. Could just be a casual amble across the Bowl but for the tense line of his shoulders. Mecaith's making neat, efficient work of blooding two beasts in the pen, each in turn. A swipe of talons. One. Drink deep. A blur of motion to take out the second. Two. T'rev lifts a hand out of his pocket to rub at the side of his head, another tell-tale sign that all is not well in Denmark. The electric snap of Vrianth's thoughts, pulls Mecaith's sandgrains in, drawn irrevocably by the flip of ions, positive to negative. Wyaeth> I bespoke Zunaeth with « Go get 'er, old man. » Ooooooooooold maaaaaaaaaaan. « What're you waitin' fer? » Something not unlike this may happen nearly every day around High Reaches Weyr, but not to /them/. Leova's head is tipped upward, and with taller men and women heading for the weyr, even Niena taller than she, perhaps it won't be so hard for her to let L'vae's arm slip and stay out on the ledge with that sweet northern view. Or perhaps she's just fooling herself. And Vrianth? After that long look she's blooded again, another herdbeast rather than the poor hunting of a wherry with its wings clipped, and she's drinking, still drinking. It would be easy to relax, to blood another, like Haraith who's already got a wherry in his grip, or just to enjoy Wroth's thunder as he growls. She could take a while. But then. Then, the young green leaps upward without warning, without finishing the job, discarding the dying beast half-drunk. Smaller than the others, she accelerates as she ascends, past Zunaeth's ledge, her chartreuse glow a giveaway against the dark stone as she heads north and then northwest, angling certainly not for Wyaeth's Star Stones but for the far side of the dangerous Spindles. And she's fast. And yet maybe not fast enough, the first moments' acceleration perhaps taking their toll, her route straight enough that larger dragons might gain a little ground. If they don't? Someone else might catch her first... Masoth was in the middle of stalking his second beast when his wily sister takes off. The sky blue immediately spreads cloud-streaked wings and launches after her. Not much larger than Vrianth is, he gets a fast start in his first chase ever. « Will I? » She doesn't understand it, not yet, and there's that push-pull of attraction and avoidance... but Vrianth's not above spiking it higher, amplifying those sensations of his with her own fleet self, and rebounding them right back to him. Firefighter? Take that. (Vrianth to Wyaeth) Wyaeth> I bespoke Vrianth with « Sorry. » Why does that sound like it was meant for someone other than Vrianth? That's not a cowboy tone that slipped through, certainly not the calloused caress that follows the stray word. « You will, sugar. » And he can't stand no more! Glimmer of glowing green darts across the bowl, flash of weathered bronze flares from the Star Stones, laughter of an old greenrider rings out on the wind. Wyaeth's off like buck-shot, gunsmoke shy of a shotgun blast, the initial moments of his sudden chase scattered and indirect. To Vrianth's fast start, his jockeying to bring around toward her tail, to clear the Star Stones and find open range look slow and unfocused, rambler-in-action. Jaireth is perhaps slower than some of the others in taking off, discarding the only kill he does as he takes to the sky. The familiar winds lift him effortlesly and helps him wing away from the star stones behind one blue and a brown. He rides on their momentum with ease, partly unseen and yet he still manages to keep focus on the green far ahead of him. B'yan is still towards the back of the pack, his cool exterior and demeanor evident in the shift of gaze he sends at the other riders. The hand holding the bottle tightens visibly on it, and his slow booted steps barely audible along with others. It's only when Vrianth starts to climb that Zunaeth moves, gathering his muscles under him as she rises higher and nearer his ledge. Still waiting, though with dwindling patience. And finally, when Vrianth is nearly there, he makes his leap up into the air, making the most of his initial higher point to save himself the struggle of getting off the ground. Not worrying about who he might cut off, jamming himself into the pack when they're already struggling higher, Zunaeth just aims for Vrianth there, to start his own chase. Calmly almost, Mecaith finishes off that second beast and looks up, eyes slow-whirling violet, trained on that chartreuse arrow, marking it's sudden leap from the bow, the shape of Vrianth taking to the skies. It's the angle of her ascent that he analyzes taking a second or two to understand it, and he launches neatly off the ground in a single bound, wings unfurling to send him aloft after her, his own angle of takeoff meant to bring him in on an intercept course. Sandy dunes shift and reform and so does he shift and reform himself to suit her, suit this moment as he winds after her through Reaches' somewhat unfamiliar skies. L'vae doesn't trap Leova's arm with his, but he is not eager to relinquish her. His elbow unbends, the hand dropping lightly towards the greenrider's waist as he stops beside her on the ledge. But the brownrider is surely not interested in the northward view - his eyes are focused on the woman's face as his own expression firms in tight lines while a host of emotions play hazily behind his eyes. Bremuth likewise is focused on Vrianth, luckily ready, so that he flows into the sky a few beats after the green. He climbs with graceful power into the sky, unfocused on and unconcerned with the dragons around him. As Zunaeth joins from the ledge they pass, the pale brown curves smoothly into a new path as he follows the green's trajectory up and past the spires. There's B'yan with his bottle, and it's not that Leova's trying to hide from her wingleader, but if L'vae's still between them... maybe she can stay out here on the ledge, stay looking up, her face so very intent. Her dragon's trajectory has become a difficult one even with Bremuth as buffer, with Zunaeth striving to intercept from that ledge's vantage and deft, unwilling-to-be-distracted Masoth hard on her tail, Vrianth has to not only swerve but ramp up the speed to keep that distance she strives for: not too little, not even too much, just right. Harder to see those playing the waiting game, but Wyaeth, will he stay slow enough to not cut her off? As Vrianth reaches the Spindles, she cuts a hard right with all her spectacular agility: north-northeastward between two of the last spires, near their bases where there's so little room to maneuver, since higher they're swallowed by clouds. Calculation or accident? Going slowly, going around, all that loses time. Going up, the clouds become her shield. Trying to keep up? An accident in the making, especially for those dragons in the thick of the pack. Not for Vrianth to worry: instead she's keeping that same near-level, focused course, heading for the nearest break in the cloud cover where that condensation can't touch her wings. Only then does she look back. Just once. Just to see who won't be fended off, before she ascends past the clouds and straight for the sun. Sorry? And perhaps not for her... she could, would be curious, but she's got flying to do, especially with his not sharing the same difficult angle as the others: « Need to remember my name, first. Wyaeth. » Just that and she's through the Spindles, safely through those prison bars. (Vrianth to Wyaeth) The litany that brings N'thei to this weyr is profound, a long string of words that primarily start with F and end with guttural mutations into the next curse in line. "--doesn't even have pants to keep it in, the sorry son-of-a--" Along those lines. Dried and dressed in haste, he has water-stains on his clothes, untied bootlaces, half-buttoned tunic, death-and-hate in his eyes when he marches up the stairs onto the ledge. Overhead, Wyaeth click-clicks his talons menacingly when he comes into could-hurt-you range of Sevierth, and he's just malevolent enough to start a swipe when Vrianth's angle brings her back into focus. Baaaaaaanking wide, careless-seeming course fringes the inner track of the spires; up up up around, but a far cry from her agility, all he can do is pace her zigzag from the inside shadow of the Weyr walls. Masoth is playing the same game, really, but this time for keeps. He's zigged and zagged with his smaller sister before, and for now he is doing much the same in a far more dangerous and charged situation. All of his attention is focused on Vrianth as he follows, perhaps cutting a corner here and there, and not noticing if any of the larger dragons are catching up. Any wild maneuvers get looked over; Jaireth keeps to the straight and narrow, remaining behind the blue and brown that hides him from most view. His pace remains easy but determined, never spending too much speed as he gets just alittle closer towards the green. Despite his own position, B'yan can see Leova and those in close proximity to her well enough. His attention shifts from above towards her, then towards certain riders, all in long succession. He makes no move forward or backwards; if anything, he seems rather rooted in one spot. Wyaeth> I bespoke Vrianth with « Vrianth. » Lipstick and lemonade, desirable and refreshing, a smudge of something lusty and a sour-sweet change of pace from his usual queenly fare. « I know who you are. » What you are. « Now why'nt you come on back here and find out who /I/ am. » But that move seems to be most of what Zunaeth has, throwing himself into that one attempt to get close to Vrianth. When it doesn't work out so well, he doesn't work hard at catching up, getting in a few wingbeats that only put him further behind the pack. He might have the advantage of surprise, but they've had time to start building up speed, and with his wing wobbling, he slows down further, piling up a couple of small young dragons that aren't bright enough to get out from behind him in time. And then he's dropping out, gliding back toward his ledge. I'daur doesn't even have time to stump his way out to the weyr before it's over for them. Wyaeth senses that Zunaeth, ruefully, finally just says, « That. » Wyaeth> Zunaeth senses that Wyaeth, not old and still keeping up, could show compassion. Doesn't. « Damn shame for you, ain't it. » Mecaith, not as agile by far as Vrianth, plots a course after her based on a guessing game: where will she go next. He does not try to match her every move, though he admires from some small distance as his own wings beat steadily, surely, bringing the speed of greater bulk to bear, skimming through Reaches' airspace he goes, seeking greater and greater height, keeping a view of Vrianth, a bolt of green lightning across the sky to guide him onward. He cuts over that spindle and after her, reaching for the clear air, avoiding the clouds himself. T'rev has found a spot to lean against, hand skimming the wall on the way up the steps. Though he may not be as agile as the smaller dragons, Bremuth is fluid and sure in his movements. He follows Vrianth's cut through the spires without leveling out his rise, fearlessly angling for the cloud-shrouded mouth that gaps higher between the Spindles. The pale hide may disappear into the mist, but the violet glow of his eyes marks his climb. His consciousness spills out, the smooth surety now more storm serge then gently rippling oasis. On the ledge, L'vae turns an eye towards the string of curses that heralds N'thei's arrival. Already close, the brownrider edges closer to Leova with a step that brings him more between her and the bronzerider. Protective. But now that his attention has strayed from her, it strays even further to take stock of everyone present. Who says, what goes up has to come down? Not Vrianth, still angled up for the sun, her small frame so very hard to see against its blinding radiance as she uses it to her advantage. Masoth's got Idriloth to contend with now, who may lack their sire's momentary malevolence but isn't going to make things easy all the same: will he be distracted this time, will she vanish in that harsh light? The group has begun to spread out that much further, Zunaeth managing to knock out Marckilth and Haraith in a two-for-one special as he dropped, all three never even making it above the clouds. And far down below them, Leova's rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand, her glass shaky in the other, muttering, "Can't see. Can't /see/." It's not a curse, but it could become one, dilated-dark eyes lifting into the twilight: who's still now, B'yan and T'rev. Who's not. And it's when L'vae's distracted that she steps out from the wall herself, glass shaking and shaking. Trying to /see/. Masoth continues to climb, brushing against Idriloth and then irritably brushing him off before focusing once again on the speck against the blinding sun which he can only hope is Vrianth. Niena had sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chin, though her hand is perhaps ridiculously shading her eyes, despite the dreariness of their surroundings. "Aw, for fuck's sake, I'm not going to beat her senseless, lad." So reacts N'thei to L'vae's protectiveness, a firm hand on the brownrider's shoulder to pull him back, ensure his distance from Leova. "Nobody has the presence to take the poor girl inside, you sorry disappointing fucks." He frowns the accusation around at the others clustered on the ledge, and there are no tender fingers to clasp the greenrider's forearm, to draw her toward the weyr, willing or otherwise. "Unless you plan on putting on a free show," he tells her in low urgency, "get your ass inside." Utterly separated from what his rider does, Wyaeth moves with determined independence, ducks out of the way of Zunaeth, then the two that get bumped right after. A slow climber, reluctant to reach the broken layer of clouds, he flies in Vrianth's patchwork shadow 'tween spots of sun. With the blue blocking his path dipping down, Jaireth can be seen as he hitches off from their speed and moves forward. The bronze is definitely more for stealth than speed since he flies out of reach - slipping behind those dragons close to him and riding off their speed in turn. It's not that useful but it gets him closer inch by inch, and never losing endurance. B'yan for his part finally works up his legs to move to the wall, choosing to lean rather than sit like Niena. His hold on the bottle is still tight, his hazel eyes close as his lifts up his head back and expels a long breath. Better. And she's more than a touch breathless now, the pace wearing on her but not just the pace alone, « Do you need, do you really /need/ me to come back there? » If he can't catch up himself, can't /show/ her himself, then why would she want to? « /Wyaeth/. » (Vrianth to Wyaeth) T'rev seems to sort of be going in and out of consciousness somewhat. Drawn this far by Leova even as Mecaith is drawn up high by Vrianth, he lingers in the shadow of the weyr's entrance, hand still resting against sun-warmed stone. He left his jacket behind somewhere in the Snowasis and though he may be from Nerat's warm climes, he's yanking at a shirt button or two, pulling away fabric that's stuck to sweaty skin and flapping air inward for relief. The young bronzerider swallows hard a few times as his eyes go all crossed again and he takes a deep steadying breath. There's a brief, sympathetic smile for Leova's need to see but he doesn't speak, doesn't move. Restless fingers against stone come away with a light coating of dust and he looks down at his own fingertips as if surprised to find the stuff there. Thumb and forefinger move across each other releasing shimmering motes into the dying light just beyond his patch of shade. Mesmerized it's these he stares at rather than Leova. Far above, Mecaith is completely focused on Vrianth. Where eyes fail, there are other senses to use to find her, to answer the challenge she poses by diving into the obscurity of a fiery orb. All fluid motion now, not too unlike Bremuth's surety, sandy carved bronze is limned with golden light, casting parts of him into sharper shadow as the young Telgar bronze gradually increases his speed, not to perform acrobatic maneuvers but to track after where he can /feel/ she is. Cocky confidence, surefire smirk; « You don't wanna fly forever, Vrianth. » He impresses the name, dusts it off, plays with it. Does he really need? « I need you. » And if that means he has to climb toward cloud-cover, dammit, that's what he'll haveta do! --Soon as he figures out how to get over being too big to climb fast enough. (Wyaeth to Vrianth) Doesn't she? Does he? « Then take them out. » There: the pack. Have at. (Vrianth to Wyaeth) Mist trails a moment, a false source of the rain-spatter that dapples the baked-clay hide of the dragon that breaks above the clouds. Gathered dew burns off quickly as Bremuth courses upwards, the wide span of his wings dancing gracefully against the thinning air as he moves towards the bright sun and Vrianth. There's no grace to the way L'vae stumbles back under the pull of N'thei's grip, his weight unbalanced as he unsuccessfully tries to resist the larger man. Once he gets his feet more surely under him, his arm tosses up - not towards N'thei, but in an arc that attempts to wrench himself free again. "No," is all he manages to utter, somewhat-unfocused eyes lifting to the bronzerider's face. Oddly enough, his breath remains slow and even throughout all this. Vrianth. Plummeting. And that's when Leova's already shaky drink drops, shattering glass and frothy liquid across stone, fit to splash any who'd stopped to sit nearby, Niena if she's close. Close enough. Maybe in a few hours an assistant headwoman will bring her broom back out but not now, not now. Not with that urgency catching Leova up, boots across glass and breath even more ragged now, and N'thei's going to have to decide who he's going to keep hold of because she's going /in/. B'yan? T'rev? She's heading past after all, a near-stumble. Because sometimes, sometimes it's fun to go down, and that's what Vrianth's doing, throwing herself into a plummet out of the sun that's interrupted only to see who she can knock out. See who can be led into others' way. Who can survive her. Because if she's not caught before then, she's heading for those clouds at last, soon to disappear into that thick cloud cover unbroken by spindles' tips. /Right/ where those spires can spike the unwary. And who will know her well enough to find her? Who will want her enough to /make/ that happen? Malicious gray talons reach for anyone fool enough to come near Wyaeth, stretch eagerly upward while he reaches to take a swipe out of Bremuth, Mecaith, anyone near. On the ground, it manifests in a cold smirk from N'thei, who repeats L'vae's single word with a baiting lilt; "No? No what, son?" He releases Leova at once when she heads inside of her own volition, and the hand that would have dragged her pushes L'vae's shoulder toward the inner weyr instead. "Go inside, you sorry--" Curse words. The light of malevolence fades in his eyes, fades from Wyaeth's, and it's the steel gray of /control/ that breaks the lashing bronze from the pack. Now it's his turn to suffer, a guttural roar when he jerks away, arcs away from the group, forced to breath the free air over the bowl. Masoth had the advantage up until now, but the plummet takes him by surprise, and he feels the green in not quite the way he'd planned. Briefly stunned, he begins falling as well, and it's only at far too close to the last minute that he recovers, barely avoiding hitting the ground as he swoops. Now grim with determination, the blue rises again, bugling defiance to his wingmate, still focused on her and not caring about the rest. Niena sucks in her breath as Masoth plumets, only releasing it when he's recovered. She absently wipes a few drops of wine off of her arm. Wyaeth> Vrianth senses that Wyaeth, eager to tear away the others, happy to hurt-- and suddenly not. In a breath, the space between one heartbeat and the next, the storm's broke and mud-water of the flash flood races cold through his thoughts. « --Can't. » Clamped down, gone, vaya con dios. She'll find out. Just not with him-- and that cold flood's enough to drown might-have-beens without mercy, even if it can't quench the unleashed lightning-stroke of desire, aimed just before he's altogether gone. /Can't./ So mote it be. (Vrianth to Wyaeth) |
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