Logs:Isyath's First Flight
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| RL Date: 14 January, 2012 |
| Who: Ali, E'dre, K'del, N'muir, V'teri, Val |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ali's Isyath rises in her first flight. |
| Where: Southern Bowl / Guest Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 10, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Mustn't spook the riders. Visigoth's rumble is scarcely audible, past the lower reaches of human hearing, and he casts about in a slow, deliberate swing of his head while Cadejoth sits so still. Has the bronze spotted... whatever, whoever? The big brown is still looking. His /rider/ is more engaged in laughter, and making sure she isn't going to be stepping in something unsightly, and in crooking her elbow for K'del: "My taking /your/ arm would be too far," she teases. "This about does it, hm? And where is it? I don't remember being here since it was a little leak. I hope it's as fancy as you promised." No, Cadejoth doesn't seem to have spotted-- whatever, whoever. But he sits at attention, eyes whirling more rapidly, his wings furling in more tightly: it's a good thing his rider is so busily taking Val's elbow, eyes rolling. "Tease. You're teasing me, Val, and here I am, taking you somewhere /wonderful/. I--" He swivels, glancing around. "It's on the caverns somewhere. It's been a while-- I barely remember the old place. I guess I only visited once or twice. This way, I think." 'This way' is northwards; at least he knows his geography of Fort /that/ well. He's got /her/ elbow, but he's still the one leading: Val obligingly goes along with it for once, her tulle skirts swishing, though she pushes her hood back with her free hand now that they're down low and the wind can only tease at the red ribbons in her hair, not yank them out altogether. "You think," Val teases. "Maybe we'll run into someone who knows. We can tell them that we're taking a tour, and our guide ran away and our guide abandoned us in our hour of need, and could we see the stables now, please." Visigoth tracks on Cadejoth, then looks away, just /happening/ to roam in ever-widening ellipses, his footfalls quiet on the packed earth. High above the Weyr, Isyath circles the skies - as is her habit. While other dragons are prone to joining her now and then, this is something different - the larger dragons, the browns and the bronzes, seem inclined to watch, rather closely. Perhaps it has something to do with the color of her hide, a soft underglow of gold that anyone who's been around a proddy dragon would be hard-pressed to miss. Ali, for her part, remains pointedly, obtusely oblivious: she's wearing a sundress, a shawl draped over her shoulders as she makes her way across the bowl, heading for the lake shore. Halfway there, there's a pause. She must have spotted the 'Reachian riders, for she angles directly, deliberately towards them. K'del never was any good at this propriety thing, it's true - leading, while holding someone's elbow, really is exactly the kind of thing he'd do. But perhaps, this time, it's in jest; the glance he aims at Val certainly holds a great deal of amusement. "In fact," he says after a moment, for Ali has caught his gaze, "I do believe that's exactly what will happen. Ali! Can you show us the way to the bar? I owe Val here a night out, and-- you look pretty." Cadejoth? Yes, he's seen Isyath, now, and he stretches in response, his neck arching, his body shivering just once. At least it's not dragging. Probably? Yet. Whatever the brownrider's response might have been, now Val laughs, and follows K'del's gaze towards the girl with what shouldn't be surprise. A moment later her voice is light, inviting the so-called confidence she's about to share, "He's telling all the girls that tonight. Even if he's right," and is he? As for Visigoth, it's the natives that give him first clue: perhaps he'd missed her before in the shadow of her Bowl, perhaps they'd flown in too low, perhaps the sky is just that... huge. Remembered stars hover, dangling between Cadejoth's chains as he extends a tendril of thought - a greeting. Homage, too, perhaps: he's a reflective surface, mirroring her brilliance. (Cadejoth to Isyath) Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps all these things in one, but now he sees her, light glinting off the blade of his still-undetermined interest as though it might illuminate her intent. (Visigoth to Isyath) There's something slightly off about those who've met Ali before. A kind of subtle confidence that isn't normally present, her usual hesitant gestures absent. There's a smile from the goldrider, for K'del and Val both, eyes lighting from one to the other with equal, pleasant interest. "The bar?" the Fortian woman echoes. She shouldn't be surprised, but somehow, she is. K'del's compliment deepens her smile, but still, it's Val whom her gaze lingers on, as if trying to place the other woman. "It's- off the inner caverns. I can take you- /if/ you buy me a drink?" Isyath is aware of the attention, there's no doubt. She's showing off, lazy circles gradually widening: no showy flashes to expend energy. And then, she's sweeping downwards, spiralling towards the ground, drawn by the sounds of the herdbeasts milling in the feeding grounds. It's a day for Reachians at Fort, as the inky streamlined bronze that is Riuscyth bursts from between. His quickened descent slows into a languid spiral halfway down the bowl's walls and culminates in the fold of his night-shaded wings against a spare frame not so far from the trio. Above, V'teri is as slow to unstrap himself as the latter half of their arrival, and casts a /look/ down at the suddenly, incredibly complacent bronze. "Yo-," but perhaps thinking better of such admonishments when his less than better half is cheerful at dispensing of /work/ and /duty/, the bronzerider shuts his mouth and slides off with an audible thud to the ground. 'That's right, you go along now,' is what could be construed of the almost cheered huff Riuscyth sends his rider's way, 'I'll just wait /riiight/ here.' His wingtips quiver, at the sweep from on high. Magnanimously, "Of course I can buy you a drink, Ali, if you do us a favour like that. Something fruity; I remember, now, that you don't have a taste for hard spirits." He's got one arm free, and offers it, waggling it-- he gets that far before, through Cadejoth, he registers the arrival of V'teri; his head shakes. "Invasion." But Cadejoth's attention is not, for the most part, upon that other bronze: it's on Isyath, and on, now, drawing himself up from the ground to sweep into a low, easy glide - he follows. To Cadejoth, Isyath answers, as is her want, with images rather than words: a sense of flashing stars, the sunlight streaming across warmed wingsails. A sense of freedom. A longing. A /need/. There's an acknowledgement of the interest, a rush of stars ceasing only as she pauses to inspect, to dissect and split apart the other dragon's images. Hers are all straightforward: the wind, the sun, the stars: and a craving for blood. For freedom. (Isyath to Visigoth) To Isyath, Cadejoth's chains wrap around themselves, tighter and tigheter, reeled together: ready, waiting, eager. « Fly, » he tells her, earnestly, expanding that sky into brilliance that lasts forever. « Fly! » Off... or on? Val lingers with her companion even as she considers the goldrider's offer, her smooth dark head cocked just so. "Will we get there, safe and sound," she doesn't /quite/ ask, more like she's considering alternatives, a liquid sort of humor in her voice. And though she must recognize the name, /does/ recognize the face, "Are you sure she knows what she's talking about, K'del?" Just so nobody misses which weyrleader's standing here. "She might abandon us." And for V'teri, not looking before her over-the-shoulder glance for all that /Visigoth/ might, "Stalker." It's light too, singsong, challenged, as though 'Reaches riders would never visit Fort without a reason. It was Wroth's demands that bring he and E'dre to the bowl from the lake. The diminutive brown assesses the dragons gathered around him with a cold, calculating, glare. E'dre stays near Wroth's side for a moment before one bronze shape is noticed and the brownrider continues forward, straight towards K'del, and subsequently, Ali. He pauses to glance towards V'teri. "What's all this about? We've got Reachian visitors." Then he looks towards K'del and Val. "Interesting." That's a good greeting for one's former Weyrleader. "You remembered." Ali looks delighted at the Reachian Weyrleader's words. She's content to slip an arm through K'del's, looking past him towards Val with a knowing smile, a sudden recognition, perhaps. "I would never abandon /you/," comes her reassurance, the emphasis subtle, but telling. There's only so much obliviousness even a young and ill-practiced woman can manage: Isyath's dive down into the feeding grounds and her sudden, delighted shriek as she begins to blood would be all but impossible to ignore. Certainly so, for Ali: there's an expression like a mingling of horror, resignation, and mute determination. She lets her arm slip free of K'del's, while Isyath battles to consume her prey. That duties bring him here is one oh-so-coincidental thing. That Riuscyth might keep him here longer than the quick trip to the records room and out- well, that's something else entirely. Ink and bronze commingle along the the bronze's sleek body as it twists to watch Isyath in flight and then in landing, and not having been shelled yesterday or Impressed the day before, V'teri's sudden awareness brings the wryest crinkle about his eye and a certain resignation to the roll of his shoulders. And then it's all over as the anticipatory quiver to Riu's wingtips find reason to launch himself into the air and into the feeding grounds for his own violent bloodletting. "Ahoy~," is the singsong of V'teri's voice as he hails the familiar and un with a jaunty wave, not so unlike the taunt spared earlier from his dragon to Cadejoth. Wind, sun, stars... and there's a reflection in his mind, of some of those same stars hanging, hanging from chains, dancing and tingling against each other in the wind. It intrigues the older brown: not just those stars, but what they might mean. Not just the craving, not just the blood. Yet. In the trail of her shriek, he eases skyward too, for those pens, to see just how /much/ she'll share that feast. (Visigoth to Isyath) K'del's chuckle breaks off part way, and he reaches out, again, but this tone to rest a comforting hand upon Ali's shoulder (as long as she'll let him). "Guess we'll have to save that drink for another time." It's only then, half turning to smile apologetically to Val, that he seems to register the fact that Cadejoth has also moved-- and more to the point, where he's gone. "Tiriana," he states, generally, for the group, "is going to murder me." Given that, perhaps it's no wonder that the others get nothing more than a glance. The High Reaches Weyrleader looks, frankly, a little green. While she doesn't need the encouragement, the words inevitably draw her thoughts to the sky. She wants to be up there, flying free of everyone, everything. Slipping free of those chains and twisting away, upwards until the brightness becomes dark. (Isyath to Cadejoth) Bijedth turns his back for /one minute/ and the Weyr is full of outsiders! The bronze descends from the sky and purposefully makes his landing near the Reachians, his hide looking and smelling recently scrubbed. "Weyrleader K'del," comes the friendly greeting from N'muir, still undoing his straps, "What an unexpected surprise." He climbs down, sides momentarily sliding to E'dre before turning back to K'del. He tears off his glove before offering his hand and a smile. Bijedth's head swivels around, watching Isyath. "And what timing you have." Is that a jab at the Reachians? It can't be. Could it? At least he's still smiling. His eyes move to Ali, softening gently for the sake of the poor young thing. "But the more the merrier, right, Weyrwoman Ali?" There's no ice in Cadejoth's thoughts, no lingering remnants of Iovniath-- not now. Instead: stars alone, and the rapidly rising beat of his pulse, thrumming through his thoughts as he bloods his kill, eagerly anticipating that trip to the stars. No chains, no ground, no limitations: just freedom. (Cadejoth to Isyath) "/Murder/ you," Val agrees, rather more bloodthirstily. Also: "The small man is walking this way," this to K'del, to Ali, even as wind-leapt Visigoth circles now to hunt a herd gone placid... gone /boring/... during its time of safety. Safety that's gone, now. She swallows with his first taste of blood, murmurs to K'del, "Sorry." So quietly. She lets him go. She cracks her knuckles, with their rings. She pushes back her coat, with its ironworked clasps, against the tulle skirts and the pretty little knife at her hip, one that she doesn't touch. And there's N'muir. "Oh, look, another Weyrleader." So bright. Wroth ends his swaggering into the bowl by bunching his stumpy hind legs behind him just long enough to launch him into the air. It's a few, rough, pumps of his wings before he's angling up and over to the feeding grounds. He doesn't waste time on picking a meal, finding the first and easy target to descend upon and rend for his meal. It's the only one he'll bother with as once it's discarded he only has eyes for the glowing queen. E'dre gives N'muir a glance and a nod before he takes a step back. His arms fold in front of him and he hunches his shoulders. He's really got nothing to say. For once. Isyath wastes no time, after her first meal is denied, but in blood: a second, and third are consumed rapidly. The normally bright, warm queen is nothing but a cold killer, with a sole intent: to fly upwards, to reach the stars. The astute of dragons will sense the moment before she launches, in the brilliant flare of her mental tones, and then she's soaring skywards, arrowing straight up. By the time the mental wrestling is done with, Ali's covered in a light sheen of sweat, her eyes wide, the nails of her hands digging painfully into her palms. As the queen wings upwards, she has time to focus on those around her: the Reachians and E'dre, she knows, V'teri, whom she doesn't- N'muir- there's a slight breath there, as she sees the Fortian Weyrleader, then a vague sort of panic, "Sir, you shouldn't be- you can't-" she's casting around for Bijedth, watching. Isyath has no such discerning taste: her thoughts and her presence drag them all onwards and upwards, teasing, seeking to test them in flight. Share? No. They are all /hers/, one moment. Then not even thought of the next, as she wings skywards. A teasing note is left, a trail of cold stars to chase skywards. (Isyath to Visigoth) Though half-gritted teeth, K'del manages a, "I do apologise, N'muir. We came to visit the bar--" and now look what's happened. If his expression is anything to go by, he's currently engaged in a battle of the wills, one, given the sweat on his brow, he's rapidly losing. He steps away from Val, as she pushes back her coat, only half watching: most of his attention is on Ali, now, and on-- Cadejoth's in the air. Too late, then, to get out of this. He wipes his forehead with the back of one hand. He half turns, then, a desperate look - cut with lust, of course - ingrained in his expression as he reaches to grab for that half-seen knife of the brownrider beside him. Riuscyth is strung along upwards, the one herdbeast he'd managed to land atop still not quite dead yet. Or drained. But that doesn't really matter to the native Monaco dragon. Someone else will clean it up, someone not him. The merry greeting once on V'teri's lips recedes as- tension. Tension /not/ of his own making and not exile-based which, for a moment, causes the man a moment's pause as he appraises the entire situation with an air of male confusion. Buh? "See, this is when we all drop trous and make our way into some nice little hole and compare. Or not," as he catches sight of Val with a slight, twisty little grin. Stars. Stars and... something. A sense of heat coming from nowhere, fuelling- no, /demanding/ some sort of action. These unworthy should be discarded, like roadkill, leaving only the strongest to continue. (Isyath to Cadejoth) Cold stars in the height of afternoon, and yet... why not? She's young, she's teasing, she's showing her stuff... and with the blood surging within him, Visigoth will play, and never mind the ghostly chains that still prick at his thoughts like so many tiny claws. Almost. /Isyath/. Almost a word, half a question. (Visigoth to Isyath) To Isyath, Cadejoth is strong. Cadejoth can prove himself, too: he'll fly further and higher than the others. He'll match her heat with heat of his own, raising the temperature of his chains until they melt and meld-- for her, he'll do anything. It's a foreign sky, but it's /sky/: Visigoth picks up speed, the wind drying the thin sheath of blood on his talons, and shoulders not directly into the pack but to the side where he can /see/... only then he growls over one wing's shoulder, his Val looking upward and unsuspecting, into the impact of K'del's hand and hers reaching for the hilt, not quite in time. It's a distraction from even Ali, much less from little man and big man and ... the others. Maybe next time, V'teri. Seasoned in the chase, though not one to usually toss in with a gold, Wroth is quick to leap skyward as Isyath heads upwards. Up, up, up. It's a steady beating of wings and a determined mind that brings the smaller brown falling in amongst his competitors. He may not have the stamina of the bronzes around him or a larger brown, but there's something cool and calculating in his mind as his storming thoughts reach towards Isyath. « Fly high. Fly well. » And he'll be there to end it all. Arrogance as cool and crisp as the autumn air swirling around his wings. E'dre is unbuttoning his jacket, suddenly flushed and hot from the stirrings of his dragon's thoughts. He glances between all those gathered and looks to Ali. "We should move," he murmurs in agreement with V'teri, moving to step towards the flight cave. "Can't help who is here now," he adds, glancing around at those nearest. He misses the grab for the knife. When his little queen is up, Bijedth is quick to follow, his wings kicking up a gust of wind that swirls around the collected riders. His electricity chases after her, spurning Isyath on. Higher, higher, higher. Cadejoth is spotted and the Fortian bronze veers a little close to the Reachian. N'muir raises his brow at Ali. "And leave you in the hands of these Reachians? Not a chance," he says, jovial tease softening the edges of his words. Maybe flights make him happy, for the Weyrleader is certainly more chipper than usual. A hand gestures to the flight cave. "Ah, don't worry, Weyrleader," N'muir assures, "these things happen. Shall we just call it a friendly competition?" His eyes slide to K'del's hand reaching for the blade, and N'muir's spine straightens. "Weyrleader," he says darkly, questioning, and reaches for Ali's arm. There's something subtle and languid in Ali's posture that is not normally present: she doesn't turn her eyes skywards, but her thoughts are there nonetheless. She weaves amongst each of the maleriders, teasing: a brush of hands against Val, a knowing smile to E'dre, a suggestive look to V'teri, winding their emotions high and tight, jealousy and rivalry amongst them. Or is that Isyath that does that, in the skies above? It's the same difference, for them. The same outcome. Heated emotions have to have some outlet. N'muir, the first to reach for her, earns himself a brief press of the woman's hands as she stretches up to murmur something into his ear. The suggestion of moving to the cave is missed: certainly she's not going to initiate any move. If she won't initiate it and the other riders seem more distracted with a knife and what a /brownrider/, a female at that, will do with it, V'teri sees no other option open to himself. He'll pick Ali up, throw her over his shoulder, and bodily carry her away. If this gives Riuscyth an extra advantage, so be it. Not that Riu, way up in the sky, needs that advantage as, for now, he claims the middle of the pack quite solidly. For Val, as he passes by with a goldrider, in whatever state of mind, in tow, he has low, teasing words, "You can cut them off later, I promise." "Friendly--" There's something apologetic in K'del's tone, nonetheless, as he grabs that knife away from Val before she can rescue it, holding it between his fingers. He steps back, apparently with the intent of trying to reassure those concerned by its presence, and in truth, it's to his own throat that he holds it - not Ali's, not, V'teri's, not anyone else's. "/Cadejoth/," he says. He's not even paying attention to the manhandling of the goldrider - not to any of it. "/Stop this/." A single drop of blood, if anyone is paying enough attention, drips onto the knife. Val's is a distraction that Ali's touch takes advantage of, the brownrider twisting to stare after her with eyes gone dark. And K'del's got her knife and V'teri who keeps /talking/ has got her... "Hell." There's a fleeting look for her weyrleader, one that's more opaque for N'muir, and then... she's not grabbing for Ali: instead, in a few steps she'll reach for the junior bronzerider and aim to catch at his exposed, vulnerable forearm for leverage to twist at the joint. Hard. If Isyath is teasing and taunting, Wroth is not playing into it. He's focused on one thing and one thing only: how best to get his claws around her and wrap his tail firmly against hers. The usual cloud cover that can come in handy in such flights are minimum at best: small puffs of white against the backdrop of bright, brilliant, blue. The only other option is to fall back and slightly behind a bronze. It happens to be Riuscyth. E'dre, on the other end of the tightening bond, is lost within the conflicting personalities. His own and Wroth are blending in his voice as that knowing smile is directed his way, "We can play quite nicely together, don't you think?" If Ali doesn't want to move in, he's not going to let N'muir be the only one laying his hands on her. But before he can move in for a touch, V'teri's got her tossed over his shoulder. "Shardin' cheater," he growls out, one step behind and glowering. Then there's a knife against K'del's throat. And a gesture from N'muir. "I'm going," he answers, not sure which direction, until he's trotting behind V'teri just in time to reach for Val's shoulder and wrench her back. "Back off," he growls out, "Or I'll make you." With only one good fist, too. Onwards and upwards, Isyath draws the dragons, seeking the stars themselves. She won't reach there, of course- already she tires, faltering once or twice. But still, her mental thoughts twist them tighter, making them jostle for attention. Each near miss, each growl, all of them are welcome, and she encourages it, lit further by it. Something more mindful, perhaps, slips into Ali's demeanor but for a moment, eyes widening as she sees K'del raise that knife to his own throat. And then- V'teri's scooping her up and over his shoulder and she doesn't have much more of a chance to react then a single, low-throated noise of surprise (though not, mind, protest), hands flailing at his back for purchase, wriggling to try and get free. It's an awkward game of human dominoes, where one jerk threatens to tumble the entire endeavor of get Ali somewhere where getting naked might not horribly embarrass her or anyone else for that matter. In this case, that one jerk is Val and the arm she reaches out to twist V'teri's elbow with and with a yelp that's far more feminine than the low-throated surprise of the woman he carries, he stumbles backwards into the Reachian brownrider, but doesn't just drop Ali on her bottom. "Hey!" His protest shocks him out of his momentary delusion of being more macho than he normally is (Riuscyth's brain meld to blame there) and in reeling, the upward trek of his elbow smashes towards Val's face and her nose, "Hey!" Way up high? Riuscyth is still doing his thing, chasing after with wing tips this way and that, fully aware of the brown just below him using him as cover. So he does what any enterprising bronze might? He tucks himself and drops down below the smaller dragon and then somehow disappears in the pack. Surprisingly (or perhaps not), it's not the blood at K'del's throat that sends Cadejoth to drop, quite suddenly, careening down from the midst of the pack (and quite possibly interrupting the path of other dragons in the process) - back to the bowl. K'del drops the knife, hand shaking, cheeks pale (for all that there's barely a scratch to his throat), and begins, breathing hard, to back away. Someone no doubt has an icy reception waiting for him at home-- but despite that (or perhaps because of it), he doesn't hesitate in mounting back up, and heading home. Carefully. Out of the reach of the flying dragons. The ones Cadejoth doesn't even glance at, this time. Sad. No stars for Cadejoth. If only K'del hadn't said girly! If Val weren't in skirts... V'teri's elbow sends her reeling, her fingers releasing his arm, albeit reluctantly, in the process. Not for long, though, for, skirts or no skirts, she launches herself back at him. /Fight/. Poor Ali. Let them drop! Wroth bugles as Riuscyth falls back into the pack of chasers and then Cadejoth is removing himself from the chase. None of this need phase the smaller brown, for his mind is still focused on the task at hand. If he's tossing out tendrils of thoughts, of teasing, of intrigue and any other sort of back-handed-means of getting Isyath's attention no one but she and him need know. So far he has not made a grab for her even as the gold's stamina is clearly faltering. He's patient, waiting, watching, for that /right/ moment to make his play. "That's enough!" E'dre growls out, somehow managing to shove at Val, grab at Ali, and free the weyrwoman from the tangle of blows that may follow between Val and V'teri. Hopefully his attempt is met with success and in the event it is, he'll be bustling Ali on her own two feet towards that flight cave. Let the rest of them punch each other or knife each other or whatever else may be going on behind him. Bijedth lunges forward, tail whipping about in an attempt to smack against Riuscyth's face if he can. His electric storm reaches for her, thundering on her heels. N'muir backs away from K'del, and when the shaken Reachian Weyrleader makes his escape, a slightly happier N'muir trots to join the other chasers. He leaves all the scolding for E'dre, though he does deliver a glare at Val and V'teri. But his attention doesn't linger long on them. "Ali, the higher the better. Push her /up/." Cadejoth isn't the first to drop out: there are others that fall away, spent. Isyath, too, begins to slow, though she continues to strain skywards, the pack - those that remain - will soon surge up around her. There's panic, in that thought, and this further fuels the emotional state she imposes on the dragons around her. Ali, too, picks up the queen's mood, and she /struggles/ wriggling and trying to fight her way free with (let's face it) ineffective thumps of her fist against V'teri's back. Val's intervention, no matter how unfortunate, is probably far more timely, and allows herself enough leeway to deliver an ill-placed kick at the bronzerider's stomach. She /was/ aiming elsewhere. And neither does the dark-haired Fortian seem inclined to be passed from one rider to another: she's straining against E'dre's attempts to bustle her into the cave. In the end, it doesn't matter who is holding or touching or otherwise feeling up Ali. It's what the dragons up high are doing and in the instant Riuscyth ducks beneath the pack, losing distance where he should be gaining that V'teri is all too willing to relinquish the Fortian goldrider. Lest we forget about that knee to his stomach, for which he and his future progeny will be ever so grateful for, and the Monaco transfer is suddenly his knees groaning without /Ali/ at hand. But really, how Riuscyth goes from near the end of the pack to suddenly above the gold plummeting after her is a story harpers might tell young children of as an example of how cheating can get you very far sometimes. Maybe. The bronze will try at any rate, even if his rider looks suddenly horrified. Then again, that horror might just be the way his lunch might want to come up. As those who have not managed to make it even this far are falling further and further behind, Wroth sees an opportunity he had not before. He swings to the left, seemingly ready to give up himself and let those who have last bursts of speed wear themselves out in their attempts to get up and up and /high/ enough to capture Isyath. Watch. Wait. Time it. Then: Pounce! Wroth pushes with what remains of his own strength to stretch his billowing sails out, wide, up and down and surge further to the left of the pack. He sees Riuscyth's rush for height and hopes it is a distraction. The mahogany brown's own wings are closed in tight as he barrel-rolls towards Isyath and opens his wings at the last moment to break himself just as he lets his claws reach out to grab. The tangling of fists, feet, and punches are not all lost on E'dre but somehow he manages to miss any of Ali's flailing and quietly urges her, "It'll be /nicer/ inside." N'muir's eyes slide from rider to rider, eyeing his competition as fiercely as if he were the one after Isyath's golden tail. Up above, Bijedth hisses his disapproval of Riuscyth's sneak-attack from overhead, and charges forward, pushing his muscles beyond their limitations. He must have her, if only to keep the Reachians from having her! "Outsiders-" N'muir mutters, putting himself between the Reachians and Ali. Momentarily coming into his own head, he moves to grab Ali by her arm and hopefully push her the final few steps towards the cave. His voice is gentle as he tries to ply the logic within the woman: "Just a little further, love. You'll be happier if this finishes in private." The great dark clouds of Bijedth's passionate, possessive thirst try to engulf the young queen. « You are ours, my precious beauty...» Here's hoping. Firmly in the midst of the pack now, Isyath fights hard- twisting away from that bronze's tail and wrenching wings away from that brown- she's not going to go down easily. The Fortian junior is definitely not anticipating a sneaky manoeuvre. She's young, and it's her first ever flight- and /she's/ the one who cheats. Not anyone else. That's the way it's always been. And so Riuscyth's arrival from /above/ is entirely unexpected, and too late, the queen attempts to wrest from his grasp, unsuccessfully. Ali's fight against being manhandled ceases as suddenly as if a string were cut. She's /frozen/, her thoughts way /up there/, distant. At least that, in the end, makes Val cease her fighting. Probably, anyway. Brash Riuscyth, filled with a machismo he's not always entitled to, will probably crow later, after instinct takes hold and shapes his body into Isyath's, molding against hers as his riders should be with Ali's. And yet, there's V'teri struggling between trying to get up and crawl his unmanly way to the flight cave and trying to keep the contents of his stomach inside. He does get up, he does manage to pull Ali inside, but it's highly doubtful they make it any way further than just beyond the entrance. Hopefully, there's a curtain. Either way, it's going to be an incredible afternoon for both of them, surely. Watching Isyath succumb to a Reachian leaves Bijedth viciously roaring his frustration overhead, his cry of defeat eerily echoing off the Bowl walls. He veers off with the other chasers, nearly brushing wings with Wroth as they wind their way away from Riuscyth and his catch. On the ground, N'muir's expression as he watches V'teri pass by is one of murderous rage, but the Weyrleader keeps his hands to himself. He spots E'dre heading for the caverns and follows suit, muttering something under his breath. |
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