Logs:Vrianth's Umpteenth Flight
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| RL Date: 17 October, 2012 |
| Who: H'kon, Leova, Taikrin, Beka, Sh'dor, S'trun |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Just when (most) people are getting over their hangovers, Vrianth rises... and it turns out that eavesdropping + persistence pay off. If you're Arekoth. |
| Where: HRW |
| When: Day 2, Month 1, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: The beginnings of the blizzard. |
| OOC Notes: Szadath/Taikrin show up first NPC-style and then PC-style. It's because this started out as a two-person pre-det flight for simplicity, with permission to NPC S/T as LUSERS... and then timing turned out so Taikrin could run her PC instead! |
| High Reaches was cold enough that night, before the wind got to it. Before the wind pinpricked exposed skin and dragonhide as so many tiny talons might. Before it stole down collars, skulked about ears and whispered between teeth. It started small, a passing gust here and there, the sort of thing that could happen to anyone. But the wind's rising. To almost all, it's wholly natural. But to the remaining few, even safely indoors, it's audible. Even within the arch of a weyr, even in the clinking kitchens, even in the depths of a workroom where there should be no wind at all... aside, at least, from what's broken after dinner's stew. And this wind isn't like, wouldn't like that. The wind doesn't whisper words. It doesn't promise. The wind steals through awareness in a way that's covert but unmistakable to those it slips near. To one such as Arekoth, to a raptor who merely overhears... why, it might seem as though someone's, well. Sneaking. Moving when he's not looking. When he's not attending. The wind might be up to something. Safely within the protection of his weyr, but, as always, in such a position that he can see all who would approach with a simple unlidding of eyes, Arekoth is aware of the wind. Cold wind that makes joints ache, the couch seem the more inviting, the weyr warmer. Cold wind that makes Arekoth sleepier, if only because it deadens the outside with all its activity. But somewhere in his sleep, Arekoth grows aware of that wind. And it shakes him into a doze, then into wakefulness. Soon, he's puffed up and curled in, but alert, daring to poke his nose out into those winds. Those winds. There's no overt scent on the air, no trail to follow, only... movement. A still-distant tang of electricity that owes nothing to ozone. Something, someone, is moving. And then others are, here and there, and they might be more readily perceptible: a sense of excitement, kept quiet but for one young dragon's stifled exclamation. Shh, don't tell. The winds tease by, unhurried. There's all the time in the world. Only... then, down in the maw of the Bowl, another disturbance. A herdbeast bellows, is cut off mid-cry. No time. H'kon has been with Arekoth long enough to know. The dragon's sudden interest, sudden attention, had him blinking eyes tired from the strain of seeing to leather stitching by glowlight, focusing up to the vault of a ceiling of his weyr. A long-suffering look is sent to no one, and he's too his feet even as Arekoth is stretching out his wings to test the wind, is calling his rider by an old nickname that he'd long ago appropriated. Boots on bowl floor, with only a chance to grab a scarf along with the usual riding gear, H'kon turns into a misplaced Igenite, quasi-turbaned to pick his way through the wintry bowl. Arekoth gives him no help beyond not dropping him midair. Once within the vicinity enough to see, the mouth of the guest weyr might seem a haven, its baskets of cool green light a beacon to those out in the darkness... yet still not recommended for stitching straps by. It really isn't Igen. And yet, there are those cliff-shadowed dunes, if of fresh-fallen snow. Minute crystals whisper with the wind as it stirs them, as it lifts a few into itself, moving. Others have preceded H'kon, other days and other flights, and tonight. Already the deep-trodden path has begun to disappear. Inside, a woman's battened down the hatches. Rocks hold down the weyr's outer curtain, keeping it from moving more than what's strictly necessary to admit the men and women who hear her. Further in, the fireplace glows. It's the only light. There are three beds' worth of furs, and most of another wrapped about her, though a glimpse of fabric's also visible and very little of shadowed brown skin. And her eyes, reflecting that light. Outside, Vrianth doesn't wait, not for anyone. Certainly not for Arekoth. She's already leapt, and another's ichor already darkens her narrow muzzle. She licks at it, her eyes luminous on those who have come to her, are still coming for her. Gradually, as she drinks, as she savors more of her beast, phosphorescence rises along her spine and in the silver of her wings. It's no haven at all. H'kon's boots bring in some of the storm. The storm itself doesn't notice the theft. That short brownrider announces himself only with a huff that clears what crystals had tried to form in his nose, and blinks hard, twice, letting his eyes adjust to the change of temperature as much as to another change of lighting. A visual skim is then undertaken of those present, only Leova getting a nod, but every face paused on, placed. It's only then that he unravels that sagging scarf. Arekoth was not expecting to be waited on. Arekoth was not even expecting. Arekoth wants to ride those winds, and stays airborne, seeking out the chase as much as the green in such an initial stage. There might even be a fierce appreciation of the night winds he jabs his hooked nose into, and beats back with broad wings. When he spots a blue at the last minute, all at once much closer to the pursuit, it's definite pleasure in his shrill, bugling cry. It's on. That light isn't bright. It keeps flickering, hardly good for a headache, its own constant inconstancy strobing further as people occlude it and then pass by, before it and by. Not that there's so many people as all that, but in such a small room it can seem that way, especially to the woman who's half-buried in furs and abruptly staring at H'kon... no, not at H'kon, past him, and it isn't or isn't just his height, not when the other brownrider's even shorter than he. The woman's eyes, Leova's eyes, narrow. It is Leova. With or without that familiar TIllek accent, when she swears it isn't ladylike at all: something about is half of Glacier here? She's visibly flushed already, is Leova, Vrianth an itch that writhes delicately up the spine. She rolls her shoulders, an uneasy shiver. Nor is she the only one to feel it, a lanky bluerider shifting closer to the table as though to guard it, though one of her substantially taller wingmates is preoccupied with checking H'kon over. Nobody's left. Nobody... No. Vrianth's leaving, what might have started out as a feint turned real once she got the wind hooked under her wings, and she's speeding in the opposite direction from that in which Arekoth is facing. The others stream after, towards him and thus her, the air increasingly turbulent. No calls or outcries, the rangy green silent, but as she goes there is a sharp prickle of energy designed for the Avalanche brown alone: why does he keep coming around, when he isn't wanted? Not wanted at all. All flights have some clustering, some motion, but H'kon's is minimal since having got himself inside and clear of the door. The scarf hangs about his neck now, untied. Leova's comment brings a firm press of his lips, a scowl to his brow. He gets only to loosening his jacket as a faint show of his right to be present, green eyes gone icy, and settling on that Glacier rider with a hint of challenge that would be lacking... in more everyday situations. And Arekoth? Arekoth now has to fight to maintain position, even to counter the wind. That wind tugs at his broad wings. That wind kills his speed. And his reach of talons is as much defense against those other chasers as it is an attempt at seizing Vrianth. Of course Taikrin is here; it's the Glacier event of the night. Beyond that, though, it's simply what's done for a wingmate. She rubs up against a fellow bluerider, maybe-purposefully, to share an overconfident smirk. Though Taikrin might not be in the game to win, though, Szadath never does these things with less than absolute, singe-minded focus. Wind is nothing. Wingmates are nothing. That blue from Snowdrift is nothing. He bulls his way through them all, bellowing and flexing and reaching and completely heedless of the damage he might be causing to himself and those around him. Abruptly Leova looks away before that smirk can hit too hard, furs slipping, even as Vrianth looks back: just a glimpse, she at least has to see, does Vrianth. She hisses: there's damage and then there's damage. Not that she lingers. If they'll argue with each other, why, she'll speed faster even as she ascends, taking each gust that would throw her off-course and changing her course like she'd meant to do that all along. Maybe she had, her own token chaos within the plan. The others? They'll just have to follow, and who knows where the gusts will be by then. Certainly Sevierth doesn't dodge, not like Idriloth does. Sevierth will manhandle the wind if he can, and it makes S'trun glower as much as H'kon does. He loosens his own cuffs, cracks his knuckles. Glacier's been an awful influence on him. And between him and Szadath? There goes that blue, the one Arekoth had spotted earlier, squeezed out. One down. So far, Vrianth's been flying pretty straight. It's Leova who's started to pace. H'kon tilts his chin up, sweeping the guest weyr once more, when he has the chance. Looking away is not backing down. The little brownrider, the partial foreigner, squares his shoulders, and lets his shoulder brush against someone else's when he steps forward, toward an intersect with Leova. Forward is a more difficult thing for Arekoth. Forcing the wind down and upward is a better use of his shape and skill, and he does it without thinking. There is some thought behind taking a swipe at one of the other browns, but not enough for it to matter which one. The blue gone brings a giddy joy, a few wingbeats occurring almost unbidden. Talons flex. Koth soars up, turning hits of storming air into spirals, veers. Altitude. Taikrin mutters something under her breath, half to herself and half to Szadath, and maybe a little bit for her blueriding companion. It sounds filthy, at least part of it, and the other woman quirks a hint of a grin despite her distraction. There's no leering, no glaring, no urgency in the look that keeps straying towards Leova-- only that everpresent smirk. The brownrider doesn't need any urgency: Szadath has plenty of his own. He snaps at Arekoth's swiping paw from a safe distance, gap-tooth flashing, then spins himself away in a display of raw athleticism. For a moment it hangs in a balance: chase or fight? But there are instincts, and there are instincts, and in this case the lure of her spark brings him back into the chase with a full-throated roar. This isn't a flight for strategy, if ever there were, if dragons could ever truly keep their heads about such things. Not with that darkness, with the sharpening wind, with Vrianth getting her distance and for bare moments her breath. If it weren't for Timor, she could disappear, perhaps. If it weren't for Timor, and her own glow that she can't escape. "What." It's low, its timbre smoke-turned-gravel. It's her rider, intercepted where her dragon isn't. It's enough to make Vrianth zag out of what had been her path. Higher, but also away. It's enough to make Leova flinch. Watched. Him, H'kon. The others, even Sh'dor. Taikrin, even without the urgency. They're looking. Quick movements, bare feet, and she's stepping behind H'kon unless she's stopped. Will step behind the others, will see if they can take her moving behind their backs, where who knows what she'll do. Vrianth's turning too, fast vees as the wind kicks up, seizing as many minutes as she can, exhausting them all. Idriloth's crossing those vees, the better to get her. He knows her. He's closing the gap, where so many have to follow. H'kon answers Leova with just a huff of air. There's no ice or cool air in his nose now - just a lack of words in his throat. He doesn't impede her when she steps behind him, though, instead focusing on a spot before him, taking a more careful breath, letting it out in greater measure. There's still an uncharacteristic shadow of defiance about him when he looks back up, turns, not willing to leave Leova - or the chaser he'd pushed past earlier - in his blindspot. But this time he's back to staying put, fingers working into fists, then relaxing. Arekoth's talons close on air, on nothing, stretch out again in turn, energies ready for altercation yet to be worked out. Now the quest for altitude has become competition, with the chasers, maybe, at least for now, with the green. Because now, the wind is working with him, and he's taken the exhileration to keep on going, a straight shot even with Vrianth's vees still within his field of vision. Mouth opens, but this time, no sound is pushed out. Or if it is, it's stolen by the wind. From barely audible, it's become obvious that Taikrin's cracking dirty jokes, and that she's not entirely sober. She's in the midst of a particularly improbable scenario involving a confused blue and a skybroom when her dragon makes his move with such ferocity it takes her breath away. And yet, Szadath should really take more care with his playmates, especially when they're also wingmates and also significantly larger than he is: his reckless need to go go go takes him on a path through Sevierth. It's really too bad the bronze is neither intangible nor willing to put up with such nonsense. There's a scuffle, momentary but sharp, one which ends with Szadath bellowing his protest as he's knocked out of the pack and halfway down to the ground below before he can catch himself properly. Eloquently, exasperatedly: "Shit." If that's all. H'kon might sense the whisper of fur against the back of his neck, if he hadn't turned too fast. Because by the time he has turned, she's already moved on, stone scraping briefly against skin. His neighbor doesn't look back when she goes by, might not even have sensed her if it weren't for the newly undeniable dilation of his eyes. There's a curse, further along. A woman, grasping her forearm, gets a hissed near-kiss in return: words, but inaudible before the greenrider wrenches away and then gone altogether. There's something she has to pay attention to: Idriloth's nearing her, closer even than Arekoth, and all this time and all this flying's reminding her how this works, what this means, how this plays and... the greenrider's not exultant, not distracted nearly enough, but someone else has her own half-dazed, smirking taunt as her blue swerves just out of the way as the bigger dragons fall. Even Sevierth. It's what he gets. As for Idriloth, even he won't take Vrianth that easily, and the wind's on her side when she cuts hard and sharp across his path. And Arekoth's. And the angle, for either of them, just isn't good. Either might intercept her, if she doesn't swerve and if they get the angle just right... but tangle her or don't, either way they'll be hurting in the morning. Or, there's the simpler way, the less-dangerous way: turn after her, turn as she must do with that other woman's blue oncoming, and if they have enough dregs of energy and if they're lucky, they just might run her down. It's not as dramatic. But it might be, it just might be that much closer to safe. Even with that brush of fur, even with the comments, actions from the others, H'kon holds his ground. The difference is expressed only by the changing angle of his arms are fists are clenched, relaxed, in tune with Arekoth's need for competition, his will to grapple, his - opportunity. The green's dart - the green dart - in his path brings about a reaction all from nerves and spine and gut, wings tucked back, all energies redirected. He reaches, raking at the green. It's only once he's sure his grip will hold that those broad wings go out, his advantage again. Well, until the next unpredictable gust. She shrieks, writhes slippery-wild against Arekoth, dark-sparred wings buffeting the Avalanche dragon who'd be her captor even as Idriloth skids by and nearly rams the other oncomer... who circles in distress, his own wings beating hard, unable to manage a hover in the growing storm. Vrianth's rider has pivoted on the ball of one bare foot, is all but flying to H'kon, one hand raised to strike. And then that gust hits, slamming dragons together rather than apart, and this grip's not just solid but right. Right, at least, for what instinct has in mind. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Vrianth's Umpteenth Flight"Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Thu, 18 Oct 2012 16:06:17 GMT.
Soooo... this is how it is even after ages, huh? Encouraging. ;)
Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Thu, 18 Oct 2012 20:34:22 GMT.
Don't blame Azaylia, Leova! She didn't mean to curse you! ;) Even if the flight was fantastic~
Varied (Varied) left a comment on Fri, 19 Oct 2012 05:23:13 GMT.
Brieli: You got to skip all the "how does this work again" parts. ;)
Azaylia: Don't worry, you'll get yours!
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