Logs:Elaruth's Fifth Flight
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| RL Date: 27 August, 2012 |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| For various reasons, one of them being the more obvious glow of the senior gold, Ali's been visibly on edge today. She's selected a rock towards the lake end of the bowl to settle on, where she can see just about everything, and it's there that she rests, some sort of sewing project resting in her lap. The material is a brilliant sort of red, and there's some folds of gold underneath too, and she's carefully sewing- although that's somewhat interrupted by the fact that almost every noise makes her jump and look up- or around. To all Fort dragons, Isyath's blithely oblivious to her rider's unease; as always, she circles the skies high above the Weyr, the summer updrafts making it an endless, effortless cycle. The only indication of her awareness of her dam's state comes in the form of a subtle undercurrent to her thoughts: her brilliant white stars are, here and there, stained darker, a possessiveness limning her tone as she circles the Weyr. What's a man to do when his Weyrleader's assigned a day of rest on a day like this? When drills or sweeps could be welcomed, even embraced? Not that N'rov's been chained to Fort, other than Vhaeryth's disturbing desire not to /leave/. Not that the young bronze has stayed put, rather shifting from neighbor's ledge to wingmate's ledge and on and on, moving at nearly every mental twinge. His more solitary rider stands shin-deep in the lake nearish the waterfall, intently tossing pebbles as though to get them to skip, but failing miserably: no coordination, not today. Plus, stones that were actually /flat/ would help too. Hattie is that far gone that jumpy just isn't a word that applies to her or can be in her vocabulary right now. Skirts of her short lavender-tinted dress caught in the light breeze that speaks of a brewing storm, she ambles from the northern end of the bowl in absolutely no hurry at all, gaze unfocused and steps not all that straight. Only when her eyes light upon Ali does she stop, focus narrowing to include only her, for one thing at a time seems to be about all that she can concentrate on. "You have to go," she tells her; no room for argument. It couldn't have been a better day for a rest day, even if there's the ever present looming thought that something's coming. Something unseen. Something that isn't quite menacing. While Adiulth has been content to stay one hour and ready to go the next, that indecisiveness could have less than stellar results for the man who is involved in a walk. Kicking pebbles and coming to an abrupt halt on seeing Hattie, Ali and then N'rov. Though the other bronzerider is fairly not easy to spot unless actively searching. Now and again Vhaeryth's attention catches on one of those darker stars, but for the most part he's keeping his thoughts mostly to himself, an uneasy shift that mimics claws hooking onto stone: stone that threatens to move beneath him. (Vhaeryth to all Fort dragons) Ali doesn't notice the other goldrider until she /stops/, and then she stares, fixed, at the other woman. It'd be impossible to play dumb, not now: there's a paleness that creeps into her features and she looks visibly frozen for a beat or two. "But-" the protest is on her lips; she can't help it, even as her gaze seeks out Elaruth. And /then/, higher, her own queen, lazily circling still. Her gaze fixes there. Heat seeps from the mind of the Weyr's senior queen, mist swept away and banished from the twilight skies drifting over a marshland too warm to maintain its usual calm and serenity. With the mist burnt away, distant, hazy stars threaten to rip through the landscape and char anything they discover; anyone they find in their path. And then, just like that, the heat eases again, unconscious mind withdrawing. (Elaruth to all Fort dragons) Also, it would help to have flatter water, no waterfall-caused waves. Too many waves, around this place. N'rov tosses the next pebble more sharply, and it bounces... but only off a larger rock hidden beneath the surface. He stands, hands on hips, the mist in the air beading on his hair and bare arms. One of the young ones shivers, of all things, at that growing heat. He breathes a little faster, but shallowly, shifting and shifting from foot to foot. (Vhaeryth to Elaruth) "NOW!" Hattie has no time to be nice about it or play at reassurance and all-will-be-wells. "No 'but'! Go! Get her down here and /go/! That's an /order/." She'll even invade Ali's space if she has to, gaining ground to try and physically drive her into action as soon as possible. "Are you stupid?" she demands. "Do you /want/ to lose her?" the Weyrwoman questions, gesturing wildly up at the sky; at Isyath. As the heat rises, the younger queen's thoughts trial from flashed, cold stars, echoing the heat for one, two, three heartbeats. Brief enough, but it's there. Reluctantly, slowly, she's drawn down to the bowl, obeying even if, for a moment, Isyath rebels. (Isyath to all Fort dragons) "Ali." It's almost a warning that he tries to convey, still not close enough to do anything but to speak. If Hattie's clear predicting of what's going to happen isn't helping the other goldrider in thinking now's the time to go, then maybe that confirmation from E'ten might help confirm such things. Even if he hasn't avoided noticing the Weyrwoman's attire with a brief, fleeting glance towards one woman to the other. N'rov's noted finally, even as he takes another deep breath with his head tilting upwards to see Isyath's decent with almost relief. It can't be the heat, can it, that's making Ali sweat? Her lips part, and she takes a gasping breath of surprise, eyes widened in a sudden shock. Isyath /dives/ down, even as Hattie's voice draws her back to the here-and-now, with a sharp exhale. "I- she's- /NO/!" the words tumble out, one after another, the junior practically falling over the rock to back away from the other goldrider, the material in her lap falling, forgotten, to the dust of the bowl. Her gaze flickers towards E'ten, as he says her name, and there's pure panic in her gaze. "I need a- jacket, or- /fuck/." It's one of the few times she's sworn, and any further protest filters away from her lips as scrambles upwards and towards where Isyath lands. That thin summer dress won't be much protection against the cold of between, but she's past caring at this point. It's the clamor from beyond that makes N'rov turn, a handful of pebbles still in his fist. He shades his eyes from the waterfall's mist that obstructs his vision, from Elaruth's mist that has neither of them thinking quite straight, and when he can finally, finally sharpen them... he heads towards the shore, picking up his pace, waving. Too late. Isyath's barely on the ground before Ali can be seen climbing up onto her strapless back, fingers clinging to neckridges for an awkward balance as the younger queen takes one, two, three wingbeats upwards... and is gone. The Weyrwoman turns from her junior with something that sounds suspiciously like a snarl, stalking her way towards the line of fencing that keeps the soon to be scared witless animals conveniently where they should be. The company that Elaruth has accumulated and collected over the past few days have been banished from her presence for the past few hours, the now not-so-pale queen claiming the usual favourite spot for the dragon's population all to herself to lie with shadow-brushed wings fanned out to catch what sunshine remains of the cooling afternoon. As light fades over the Weyr, once cloud-free skies are streaked with the grey of an encroaching storm, the deep rumble of thunder ringing out every often, accompanied by crackles of off-white lightning. No rain yet, and it's just as well for Hattie, who approaches the pens presenting all with the air of one who is in complete control, no matter who must be aware of the contrary by now. Up on the ledge, Elaruth stirs, eyes still closed as wings rustle and lift, slowly easing back. Vhaeryth's let go his talons' sullen clench, if only to hop to a lower ledge, a ledge that's closer to between where Elaruth is and where his rider is. He tilts his head with uncertainty, blowing out a long, hollow breath, alternating flexing and flattening his wings in a nervous tic. Down below, N'rov picks his barefoot way from the water... and steps on fabric with what becomes a sudden, awkward wince-hop: stepping on a needle, too? Distractedly he picks up the offending cloth, stuffing it in his pocket. No, he's not happy to see anyone. No, his gaze isn't lighting on the feeding pens, far from it: swinging away, always away, as though he weren't /allowed/ to look. Bijedth may have been banished from Elaruth's presence but he paces the edge of that imaginary boundary, lurking in the background, clinging to some ledge in the distance to watch the gold from afar. N'muir bolts up from the lake, eyes casting incredulous glares up at Isyath's moonlit hide before she winks /between/. His attention snaps over to Elaruth on the ledge and then the slight figure of Hattie heading for the pens, and perhaps it's seeing neither too distressed that is enough to slow his pace and ease that stricken look from his face. One task is exchanged for another, trading his concern in for curiosity. He gives Hattie a wide berth of room, walking in a wide arch away from the pens without any clear destination ahead of him; if he can just keep walking... somewhere. For just that brief moment, E'ten has relief on seeing Isyath and Ali depart before it's swiftly back to checking on his bronze. His indecisive other half that has been worse than a pendulum regarding whether or not he's interested or staying. This is a slightly new dance for him, but one that he doesn't ignore. And yet he's been lingering all day. Somewhere nearby on a ledge that gives him a gracious view of Elaruth. For the man, he stays along the edge of the feeding pins with equal generous space to the riders, even as he makes an adjustment to his own sleeves, if they can be rolled higher - they will be. Long limbs straighten as Elaruth wakes, weight tipped onto her legs as she reaches her forearms out before her in a leisurely stretch, eyes opening to reveal a clashing swirl of violet-red-orange that fixes not on bronzes, browns or her rider, but on the feeding grounds. Recently folded wings snap out once more, their purpose now no longer to soak up dying warmth, but to carry her across the bowl in a low, all but silent swoop, her first target neatly taken down, its neck snapped before it can form any sound of protest. Talons rake through mottled hide, spilling the blood she needs out onto the dry earth, her intention to tear meat from still ribs. "/No/," Hattie snaps, voice low, catching her queen with a mouthful of meat that she's reluctant to surrender. "I said /no/," she commands, only to get the mouthful flung at the nearest wall in a brief show of petulance before Elaruth complies and drinks what blood she hasn't dashed all over the ground. N'rov's not cursing, not speaking, his own /no/ inaudible. It's his own dragon who threatens to seduce him, pushing at him the sensation of /flight/ that is Vhaeryth's shuddering after the big brown from the nearby ledge who's already made it to the feeding grounds, already claimed a kill. The bronze's landing hits him just as hard, but he's seen E'ten by now, and he starts walking towards him with awkward steps. Vhaeryth's staring at the senior queen now, and then at the brown, but he hesitates quite a while before killing. Even then, though he bloods, it's irregular and once /he/ takes a bite of meat as though someone were pushing him /to/ gorge instead of the other way around. Bijedth crawls along the Weyr's craggy rim, lurking in the background. He makes his way slowly to the southern end of the Bowl where the wall begins to pitch downward, whirling eyes watching Elaruth with cautious intrigue. He nears that ledge Elaruth just occupied overlooking the pens, and he hunkers down, wings pressed close. Here he'll wait. N'muir's aimlessly walking has to end somewhere, and it brings him close to his young bronzeriding wingmates but today they may as well be perfect strangers for all the lack of warmth he gives them, cold eyes scraping over them before he fixes his attention on Hattie. One: E'ten's been a part of a flight before. He's used to being ignored. He'd be more concerned if he was acknowledged for longer than a number tally. Giving one sleeve a final tug and another glance upwards towards Elaruth's decent and positioning on the gorunds, he's leaning against the fence for stability while Adiulth... wait. Where is he? The bronze isn't still ledge watching but rather skimming down to the grounds with the intent of catching one of the beasts that scattered to partake in blood. Just blood. No meat here. This isn't a mealtime. And this he's sure about. Even if the human part of bond is watching intently. Thank goodness he's not asking any questions. Hattie's hands curl into the fabric of her lavender skirts as Elaruth crushes one poor herdbeast and doesn't argue this time, save to tug it /away/ from a bronze who was about to go for the same beast. /Hers/. She abandons the carcass the moment it starts to refuse to yield blood, another living beast's spine broken following a flurry of wings and the snap of jaws. Her crimson-stained muzzle dips to tear its throat and lap up what spills out, then she sets about draining it dry too. Perhaps a fourth would be indulgent, or maybe instinct tells her to fly sooner rather than later, but after a fourth she goes after momentary hesitation. She stares right back at Vhaeryth over her latest kill, a spluttering snarl given between one gulp and the next. Meanwhile, Hattie has started to lean towards the pens as if drawn by siren song, oblivious to anyone but Elaruth. It could be so quiet out in the bowl, aside from the snaps and snarls and squeals from within the pens, if it weren't for the red-haired rider starting to talk trash: hey, there's the Weyrleader, made you look! hey, babies, what are /you/ doing here, go back and hide in the egg! N'rov's swallowing hard, N'muir's passage barely registering except for a relieved sag to his shoulders... when Elaruth, normally so gentle, stares and snarls at Vhaeryth with such vigor that the youngest bronze startles back in an awkward hop and so does N'rov, wincing. And of /course/ the other rider has to pick on that, too. N'muir crosses his arms over his chest, fists balled so tightly that his knuckles turn white where they are tucked to tightly under his elbows. He ignores them all - N'rov, E'ten, that red-head whoever he is. Everyone fades to the background except Hattie and Elaruth. Bijedth finds what he's looking for over the edge of the ledge and doesn't so much launch himself into the air as simply drop off the ledge in a hurried dark shadow that claims its victim silently. It's a crisp, clean kill ending with Bijedth's teeth sunk into the creature's throat, gulping blood in as tidy a manner as possible, keeping one crimson eye on Elaruth. Get too close to Elaruth and get snarled at. It's a lesson quickly learned as Adiulth reaches in a half hop and sudden decent onto a nearby beast that has been sent scurrying around the dragons for an attempt to escape. Only, it's not that lucky as it's met by a paw and very sharp claws that serve to drag and bring it closer for it's neck to be pierced by the dragon's muzzle. All the while, still alert. Surely, this can't be all that it is to this entire matter of a gold flight. E'ten, on the other hand, is leaning against the fence for all that its worth. He hasn't backed away abruptly but between both gold and bronzes, his attention is quite literally in many directions at once. She's had enough of this carnage. She's got what she needs and has been talked - ordered - out of taking what she initially wanted, so what more is there to do but leave the ground and bronzes and browns behind? Elaruth hunkers low to the ground, paws padding through spilt blood rather than the sharper, rockier earth as she turns and launches herself skywards with no further warning than the twist of her body, angling away from her potential mates. One poor brown almost ends up with a faceful of wing fibre, the smaller beast dismissed and ignored in the queen's quest for the skies, lightning crackling overhead as she vanishes over the wall of the bowl, coasting, until she catches a warm current that sends her soaring high into the clouds. Head lolling back to follow the path of her queen, Hattie lingers with closed eyes aimed at the clouds overhead, then sways, feet dragging as she turns, gaze darting from rider to rider. "Let's go," she breathes, stumbling into a route to her ledge. Whatever fun the redhead missed out on since he couldn't provoke N'muir or E'ten, whatever fun he /did/ get in poking at N'rov, he's shutting up for the moment, all business as he turns for Hattie's weyr, maybe even to beat her to it if he can. N'rov stays where he is, staring at Vhaeryth, /holding/ him until the dragon looks his way... and then Vhaeryth breaks through his novice attempts with the sweet taste of ichor, with the sudden /demand/ that's Elaruth's rising, and he's winging awkwardly after the senior queen. Of course, he has a brown to dodge along the way. Only when he's out of sight does N'rov turn and join the procession, his own footsteps slow but very, very precise, his hands flexing at his sides between flat and fist. Bronze sails snap to life, Bijedth's haunches coiling to launch himself skyward in pursuit of gold hide. He's ignorant to wind, rain, the flash of lightning, or the call of thunder; let another be afraid of the storm! N'muir watches Hattie's trek passed him and the cluster of riders that follow in her wake. One last glance is spared for Bijedth's figure before he's eaten by some foreboding cloud, and then he gives himself in to the tug that draws him after Hattie's footsteps to her ledge. Wait. What? Now? It's /NOW/? Adiulth had, no has to fling aside the herdbeast quickly as other dragons take flight. This time, he was taken by surprise by Elaruth's rapid ascent to the darkening and thundering skies. Now he's having to play catchup. What can be said? This is his first time around the block, as it were but he's not going to let it cause him to come in last place. Besides. She's the reason why he's braving the elements. E'ten on the other hand might take a few moments to pry himself away from the fence. Literally, if the shove that he gives with one boot against the wooden frame is any indication. He'd probably stay there watching. Eyes on the ground for Adiulth, if he could think of it. But he has to turn and follow the group heading away. For now, it's just his dragon who has to do this on his own. Hattie's progress up the steps to her ledge is faltering at best, balance having vanished somewhere between the ground and the sky, her body arching faintly every so often as her lifemate banks or twists in the skies above. She says nothing to those who accompany her to her weyr, bodily nudging a staggering brownrider from crashing into her desk, her own course altered drastically by the effort and /then/ by the hand that finds her backside, barging mistaken for flirtation. He gets another nudge of her hips for that, though it doesn't have the effect she wants on him /or/ her, instinct keeping her close for second after second, until she brushes him aside and fetches up against the arm of the couch in the inner weyr. Above, Elaruth is lost in the thrill of weaving through the brewing storm, not a glance spared for her suitors as vanishes into a particularly dense cloud. If only she could remember that the glowing gives her away. One step after another: N'rov follows the man ahead of him, up the steps, into the unfamiliar weyr. He doesn't look at the Weyrwoman now, but rather sharpens his gaze on what he can see of the walls. Equipment. That tree. He stops at the tree, but doesn't stand still, shifting from foot to foot and forward then back, over and over. The half-heard sounds of people /touching/ makes him swallow harder, and it's rough on Vhaeryth too: he has to follow Elaruth as though tugged by a heavy leash, chasing right into that cloud without regard for possible ambush, catching up to other males only to find himself blocked and no way around unless he attempts to muscle /through/. So he does. Bijedth emerges from the dark cloud soaked and follows almost lazily after Elaruth, biding his time and energy through the stormy pursuit, keeping the beacon of her glowing hide not far from his sight. Somehow Vhaeryth's nudging lands Bijedth veering out of the way of someone's scratching talons. It forces him up above the dense cloud, hissing his displeasure and straining to keep up with the throng of bronze and brown - and most importantly gold - through the thick grey sea she weaves them through. He catches glimpse of gold and banks quickly back into the cloud after her, probably coming a little to close to one of his fellow chasers. N'muir knows these stairs, and though he bumps shoulders with another chaser trying to hurrying up the stairs in front of him, he somehow finds himself safely at the top and winding his way into Hattie's weyr, weaving through the cluster of riders - searching, maybe, mirroring his lifemate. Glowing can be one Elaruth in the heavens. Or it can be lighting. But there are clouds. They're a dragon's worst friend to compound with other bronzes and browns, nudging and seeking to thin the playing field. Skies. Finding someone's talons too close to his own, he veers to one side to widen his arc while increasingly aiming for the clouds to spot a hint of the gleaming hide that will tell him - yes, he's on the right path. Until.. there! Getting close will still pose a problem but he's optimistic. He'll find a way before it's too late. E'ten knows where the stairs are, he can see those. What he doesn't see or register immediately are those hands that pass by him with intent of reaching for Hattie. One that was smacked away, it's owner bumping into him causing, like dragon, the rider to step back out of the range of some riders. Elaruth finally spares a look back at the males pursuit of her, intrigued, perhaps, by the idea of there being some sort of jostling or combat going on back there. Amusement, that little bit scornful as it might be, is shared in the form of the high trill that she lets forth, so different to her usual vocalisations, and Hattie too laughs brightly, unseeing, stepping away from the couch as she breathes out, "Higher..." Complying, Elaruth tears her attention away from the pack of males and darts sharply upwards, out of that cloud to soar high and look down, trying to catch glimpses of bronze (browns? what browns?) below. Silly beasts. She calls out to them again, her new, twisting path carrying her closer to Fort Hold and its current guests. Welcome to weyrlife? Vhaeryth flies and flies, ragged surges and lunges, a bellow of half-surprise when Bijedth actually /moves/ and he can get through. There's no savvy for tactics, none of the free motion to which he's accustomed, handicapped by his rider who's begun to breathe harder, too. N'rov shuts his eyes for a long moment, then guiltily faces the wall and pulls out his shirttails, tugging them down before touching the stone, and then the tree, and eventually the ornaments that hang there: anything to ground him in the moment. One of the wireworked spheres is within range, and he tugs it off its branch with blind eyes, not seeing the white ribbons that wind through it, trying to see only the moon. He nearly drops it when Hattie laughs like that, and then he holds it tighter yet. /Vhaeryth/ is happy to rise, though he's distracted by the other beasts around him, happy also to jostle further even as he heeds Elaruth's call. And part of the crowd trailing after Elaruth violently crashes into one another, some quicker to the change of direction than others. Bijedth dodges and dips, having to use up some of that carefully stored reserve of energy to weave out of colliding claws and veering wing tips. His wings fight hard through the thick air, fighting to get ahead of Vhaeryth again, fighting to find Her through the pelting rain and thick clouds. N'muir bumps into one of his fellow bronzeriders and both men startle at the unexpected touch, their nerves and sense so warped by their incensed lifemates high above Fort that they glare at one another with sightless eyes, minds as clouded as the skies that rattle the Weyr with thunder. Adiulth finds that the jostling just isn't his style. It's rough. It's interrupting and keeping him from a closer eye on Elaruth. Still, being on the fringes of the dragons headed higher and ever so higher, there's no such thing as too far left and right. Just up and down at this point as he begins to adjust his wings so that 'up' is more of a reality. They're over Fort Hold? He hasn't even noticed. What is, happens to be the rain. If this is a good tactic, both dragon and rider will know soon enough. Even if it's the latter keeping against the wall that remains unoccupied for the most part in E'ten's immediate area. It's the /sound/ of thunder closer than she anticipates that sends Elaruth reeling off-course and dangerously close to a scarred bronze, talons raking across hide as she tries to slip out of the danger zone and regain her balance, bellow echoing through the skies as the bronze drops out of the chase, dripping ichor as he goes, his rider turning a furious gaze upon Hattie, who, sharing her queen's desire not to be caught just yet, murmurs, "No, no, no..." while Elaruth battles to right herself. She's got the height, but, having lost momentum, she's not going to gain any more quickly enough to not be captured in the process, and so sends herself diving into the throng of bronze and brown bodies, Hattie up on tiptoe repeating that one word again and again. Does Elaruth know who they want? Or has she left herself all too vulnerable to being snared by anyone at all? It's a miracle, clearly, that upends the normal order of things. Lightning flashes like the sky's silver grimace, lighting the wet dragon bodies that much more brightly for a moment. In its afterimage, Vhaeryth strikes, surging in inchoate desire toward what little he can see of the senior queen as she falls towards him. Towards them. He seizes N'rov's sight, sends him staring at Hattie after all, surely an image he can't soon forget. But as Vhaeryth reaches out, N'rov's free hand has become a fist, and now he thumps it against his thigh... and in response, his dragon jolts just enough to foul the flight of still another bronze. /Not/ Bijedth. It's a chaotic sea of crashing bronze and brown around gold, the trail of chasers collapsing into themselves and the rest either darting out of the way or being pushed out of the way by those surrounding them. Bijedth must sense something is wrong and yet he stays hard to his course, battling for higher skies against his closest opponent - Vhaeryth. So long as the young bronze battles upward, so will he. Suddenly, his opponent disappears and no amount of putting on the brakes will keep him from a head-on collision with someone, whether Elaruth or another set of wings in the chaos. N'muir blinks up at Hattie's ceiling. "No!" He pushes himself through the crowd, trying to find her smaller wrist captured in the circle of his calloused fingers. "Up, up, /up/!" As if he could somehow convince Elaruth himself. It's not a good idea. Adiulth might consider that later, but being on the fringes means that to get to Elaruth? He needed to have been within the cluster of dragons, not on the edges. Angling himself to aim for the lower end of the dragons, he gives a start. Almost timed to a perfect reaction to E'ten's response to N'muir. Something's wrong? Beyond the fact that the dragons need to be higher. Something he knows already, but it's that split second difference that keeps him from entering the throng. Much less getting to the other side in case the glowing queen does pull a fast one. Her wrist captured by N'muir, Hattie starts, unbalancing on the tips of her toes to stumble and almost fall, split-second of panic induced by his words telegraphed to Elaruth, who automatically flares her wings and finds a crafty little brown's talons caught up in the edge of the 'sail of her right wing, fibre tearing as he tries to snatch his forearms back and snare her for himself. Elaruth makes not a sound, but Hattie whimpers, her lifemate's frantic wingbeats to try and get free sending the glowing queen right into Bijedth and, well, if he doesn't catch her, then she'll catch him, tail snaking out around his. Whether she's chosen or is trying to right her course, it matters little enough. Whatever brings them together, be it her will, his, or circumstance alone, Bijedth holds fast to Elaruth. He melts into her, his wings becoming hers and righting their intertwined figures to guide the smooth descent through the dark cover of clouds, accompanied by the song of the storm. In Hattie's weyr, N'muir doesn't need turned backs or vacant rooms to make clear his intentions with the dark-haired Weyrwoman, blissfully unaware of their audience beneath the weight of urges beyond his control. It's quick. That feeling of failure from Adiulth being reflected back into E'ten's head with what may as well be a jolt to signal that it's passed. No more dragon laced influences. Impulses that would have caused change. It's also not from seeing Bijedth and Elaruth. The sight of N'muir and Hattie? He's already turning his steps towards the ledge with brisk steps, thinking forward. Something to drink. Somewhere that isn't here. And at least one wide-eyed member of that audience is rooted to the spot for an instant... until, as the collective dragon sense kicks in that it's done, it's finalized, that the loose threads are tensioned back into place and Bijedth leads them once again. Thwarted by more than the queen, Vhaeryth careens suddenly higher and then starts his decidedly displeased progression back to the Weyr. /Then/ N'rov can escape, for all that he has to wait behind other riders too. /Now/ he can leave. Somewhere, anywhere that isn't here. |
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