Logs:Terrible Appetites

Terrible Appetites
"M'kris sends his love, darling. And his cock."
RL Date: 5 September, 2015
Who: Roszadyth, Farideh, Drex, Genitals, Beefy, Vhaeryth, N'rov, Besmernyth, X'vin, N'rad, Maldoranth, Rasavyth, K'zin, Reisoth, H'vier, Kaitlin, M'ron, Lythronath, A'rist
Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr
Type: Log
What: Roszadyth goes up in her maiden flight over High Reaches.
Where: Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
When: Day 25, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10)



OOC Notes: Holy mother of logs.. some NSFW-ish stuff.

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Darkness shrouds High Reaches as rain falls from the leaden skies overhead, and yet-- light and warmth holds the Weyr's sleeping denizens in its grasp, or more rightly, a certain junior queen's scintillating lust. It recedes somewhat as the petite gold sleeps, but in the hour before dawn, all of the cloying energy that's been hanging over the Weyr the past day grows; she wakes. Her awareness is slow in unraveling, and becomes a soft melody that builds into a bold crescendo. How can anyone sleep with all of that desire, noise and light? (To all dragons from Roszadyth) Thanks for the warning, Roszadyth! There are mental ears about, and some of them belong to Monaco... it's not Feyzeth that pops out of between into the pre-dawn skies, but the bronzes that do are recognisable all the same. Hello, High Reaches! (To all dragons from Cadejoth) The tinny scent of dried blood, asLythronath wakes, and the tail end of his dream (chasing! scraping! squishing!) carrying along the mental link as feeling more than images. Can they hear the thump of his tail and tick of his talons against his ledge? Certainly everyone can share in the « Roszadyth » of his focus. And if anyone didn't know where that glowy feeling was coming from? Well, problem solved. (To all dragons from Lythronath) Vhaeryth was... sleeping. He stirs, one eyelid opening and then the one behind that and the one behind that, and peers towards the ledge over there (for he's not the only Fortian bronze to stay the night) to regard tne young queen. Roszadyth, the most singularly luminous rooster he's ever seen. (To all dragons from Vhaeryth) Restless bronzes don't get a lot of sleep and Reisoth is alert almost as soon as Roszadyth begins to unravel over the Weyr. His presence is tension more than anything else, begrudging restraint. He waits on his ledge for now, observing the spread of awareness as the other males rouse as much as he watches Roszadyth herself. (To all dragons from Reisoth) It is the heat and light which draws on restless seas, and stirs them into motion. « Woah, already? » The sleepy touch of the brown's mind reaches. (To all dragons from Akluseth) When Besmernyth comes alert it's with sudden chill and the startlement of a murder of crows; he sleeps lightly, and the winged figures fly up, up, until they are specks on his barren white landscape of his mind then nothing at all against the snow. There is a certain smugness to him as he stretches, but not far; his mind is close to Roszadyth's, one black bird tangling through her light attentively. (To all dragons from Besmernyth) It's a wistful note, sleepy and near to languid: « You're awake. » He rustles his wings, anything but ruffled feathers, and looks at her instead of up into the morning. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) A dark Nothing joins the awakening conversation, more presence than dialogue as Maldoranth presses against the others' minds, inexplicably near, no matter that this is not his Weyr. Sparks of silver flare suddenly white like the burn of magnesium, followed by an acrid tendril of charred stone. (To all dragons from Maldornath) The time between the gold awakening and her rider dashing from her weyr, out into the rain, barefoot, is short. It's a slippery, muddy trek to the guest weyr, but Farideh makes quick work of it. She pauses at the entryway, her head turning towards the weyrleader complex, where she can just see her dragon's pale, glowing hide through the deluge. Clenching her jaw, she walks under the overhang and into the relative comfort of the guest weyr, pulling up the shoulder of her robe that had fallen in her speed-walk over. There, still, are too many pillows on the bed and not enough sheets, but everything else is as it should be: clean, minimal, and out of the way. She executes a complete circle, standing in one spot, starting at the far wall until her eyes fall expectantly towards the weyr opening; in time to the first footfalls sounding just outside. Half a world away, in Monaco, it's already evening-- thanks, time differences!-- and that means that while the locals may be waking up and dragging themselves out of bed, the three Monacoan bronzes that appear in the damp, pre-dawn skies are ready for action, dropping their riders off with uniform precision: one bronzerider, two bronzerider, three. All three know where they're going, seasoned subordinates to M'kris that they are. All are big men... two are probably familiar to Farideh, and smirk at her now as they approach. The third is younger, and his smile is lustier by far. To Vhaeryth, Roszadyth projects « Scorching heat and building momentum, a chorus of strings, and the flippancy of an errant breeze, greeting Vhaeryth now. « Catch me? » is playful, despite the obvious tension, despite her not actually having taken to the air yet. » It's well before dawn, and someone's dreadfully hung over from a night in the Snowasis. Drex's eyes are bloodshot, and he walks with an unevenness that suggests he hasn't fully slept off all the alcohol he imbibed the night before, although one advantage of the rain is that it serves as a mini bath, so he doesn't smell all that bad. He can feel that sensation that makes his jaw clench, makes him shoot glances towards Farideh's weyr as he steps out into the bowl -- just in time to see a figure dashing towards the guest weyr. He picks up his pace, arriving shortly after the Monacoans, already shooting dark looks in their direction as he seeks to push past them, towards... "Fari--" It's a quick drop from his ledge to the bowl for Reisoth with his barely dressed, barefoot rider. No time wasted here. Once H'vier's feet are on the ground, the dark bronze is back in the air to circle the bowl and spiral toward the feeding grounds. H'vier makes his way to the guest weyr, probably regretting the particular haste that made no boots seem like a good idea, but manages not to slip on his way up the stairs with his muddy feet. "Fine time for her to decide to fucking rise," is his greeting. He could really use that beauty sleep, evidently. K'zin probably isn't the only one catching a ride to the ground looking more than a little disheveled; who can sleep with all that lust and noise, indeed. That Tela isn't Farideh doesn't stop K'zin from saying goodbye as inappropriately as a flusty K'zin knows how before his lazy stride leads him toward the guest weyr, following the trail of other suitors. Rasavyth, by contrast, was punctual, responding to Roszadyth's waking, to her mood, soaking in the feeling and mirroring them in his shimmering ooze of lust-laced charm. The feeding grounds draw him, the better to prepare for the flight ahead. N'rad pages: Sorry to bug you again. Are the dragons actually at the feeding grounds? Or is all RP happening in this room? He yawns, all teeth beneath brightening eyes. His tail's lash might as well be a stretch, the spread of his wings to soak up all that heat as if Vhaeryth could draw it into the ichor of his blood. « Let's go. » One last flower, singed at the metal petals' tips, falls as though in slow-motion: will she beat him there? (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Lythronath will be to the pens in no time, and without his rider. A'rist was not wholly abandoned; he's somewhere out in the rain, trudging. He's not in the guest weyr yet. He's also never been on time to a flight in his life, so why start now? Speaking of dragged out of bed, and footfalls, N'rov's are neither the first nor quite the last (thanks, A'rist!); the tall Fortian grimaces away the rain as he stalks from the ledge where he'd spent the night, bare-chested beneath his flight jacket, but at least he's shrugged into trous and stomped into boots. Emphasis on the stomped. At least he's got klah. The other foreigners don't get a second look, nor does anyone except the odd familiar face; not even Roszadyth's rider, yet, with Vhaeryth leaping for a not-quite-lazy turn for the pens. Then N'rov eyes the room, balefully. N'rad has a hand on the wall as he enters the weyr, his attention still back toward wherever his dragon is until he has to step out of Drex' way. N'rad is a little out of his league, compared to those riders from Monoco, and lust? Yeah, maybe that's what his expression is. If you don't mind a green tint to it. This particular bronzerider looks every bit like the canine who was just found being somewhere he's not supposed to be. It would make sense that the Reachian convict riders would show up for this. Probably a few of the last to arrive into the weyr, two brownriders - M'ron and Kaitlin - saunter in, the two laughing over something or other despite them wiping the sleep from their eyes. A few of the riders they pass gets a few nods in greeting. Both Jormunth and Hiyudath wing their way towards the feeding grounds eagerly in the meantime. It's notable that a Fortian rider follows Farideh's exact path, down the stairs from her weyr and across the bowl with a more leisurely step than the one that takes her to the guest weyr. It matches the way Besmernyth stretches on Roszadyth's ledge, shaking out his wings of collected rainwater like he has all the time in the world. Farideh's an alluring lure, to be sure, and the smile on X'vin's face when he slips in behind her is already pleased, like the cat who caught the canary. He's wantonly put together: riding trousers and his jacket with the Fortian knot and patches intact, with no shirt beneath and his hair sleep-mussed. "Farideh," he says, lowly. "We could have just stayed. I could have saved you a walk through the rain." Maldoranth drops into the pens with a squelching splatter that sends a wreckage of churned mud outward. His wings are hooded as he eyes the meals on hooves, but it's toward those others gathering that the bulk of his ire is directed. He snorts loudly, tail whipping more mud toward the fence line in one sweep, then toward Lythronath in the next. Because he can, of course. The Fortian bronze seems to have little interest in blooding an animal than he does in being a hulking menace. At least for now. Rain isn't an obstacle to this party! It slides gloriously over Roszadyth's pale, antiqued gold wings when she unfurls from her ledge and stretching them open. She's still for hardly enough time to get a good look at her glowing hide, launching up and sinking into a low glide that takes her towards the feeding pens; she lands there with little elegance left, creating a bloody mess when her talons rip into her first kill without preamble. Death and lust is a messy, messy business. To call it a 'decimation' would be inaccurate, but it's certainly true that High Reaches' herds have suffered catastrophic losses of late; first Niahvth, and now, with all these foreign bronzes, Roszadyth. The Monacoan trio take down two apiece, talons and teeth tearing torturously. In the Weyr, the two taller men seem intent upon getting close to Farideh, as close as they can; the younger man stays back, finding a wall to lean against as he glances around at the assembled riders, smirking. All this rain is almost making Lythronath presentable. The gore from the previous night's painting is washing off. Thank Faranth there are fresh beasts to chase and scrape and squish. He lands on one hard as he arrives, digs in with those strong back talons, and roars. Roars at all of them, at the dragons from Monaco in his airspace, at the ones from Fort, too (even Vhaeryth, definitely Maldoranth). He bobs his head, he click-clicks in his throat to that queen. And then he flares his wings and dips his head and tastes blood. A'rist has made it to the stairs by this point, but pauses near the top, and stares up at the rain. How many dragonriders strut into the guest weyr? The more that come, the wider Farideh's eyes get, but it's those Monacoans that bear the brunt of her hungry stare. "You're not supposed to be here," the goldrider tells them, her voice, unlike her face, radiating her anger; and that look shifts to Drex, next. "You," an unkind laugh. Her hand reaches for that robe shoulder again, tugging it up hastily, while wild eyes sweep over the assembled face and knots, most unfamiliar. "But I've already had you," X'vin gets informed, prettily, that haughty chin of hers lifting as she waves a hand, dismissing him with a flick of fingers; easy. As the glowing gold descends on the feeding grounds, Reisoth follows, claiming both beasts and territory as he lands, wings mantled out wide so he can blood his prey in relative peace. There's no show for Roszadyth, only preparation. H'vier is clearly unhappy with the crowd, moving closer to the goldrider with every intention of making some space between Farideh and the foreigners. "Back the fuck off, boys, or we're gonna have a problem here." He probably doesn't expect 'we' to be just him, admittedly. Drex's scowl deepens as more and more riders pile into the guest weyr, fists clenching. His bloodshot eyes dart from one face to the next; giving the distinct impression he's making a mental list. X'vin's familiarity with Farideh undoubtedly makes the sailor focus on him first, scowling as he bodily interposes himself between Farideh and the foreigner with what's probably not a gentle shove of the latter. "Get your dirty hands off her, you lumpish gull-flap. She aint yours." He's so fixed on X'vin he hasn't noticed the Monacoans pushing in, too, even if Farideh's words makes his shoulders stiffen in response. Long gone are the days when securing a meal, or in this case, blood to sustain the chase was not a sure thing for Rasavyth. He's still not graceful in hunt of herdbeast, but in pursuit of a blood besmirched beauty? That he might just show more finesse for. For now, there's a muzzle marred by life's blood, his thirst burning and not quenched but rather sated enough to give over to his hunger for something more. Besides, to Rasavyth, this is all the most natural act in the world (including the blood), so for a gold like Roszadyth, he'll call it a crimson complement to the glow of her antique gold and want her all the more for it. Vhaeryth bloods fast and sharp and savoring, despite the squelch and the rip and the splatter that fouls his otherwise rain-sheened hide. He doesn't bother with challenging the menaces, phantom or otherwise (though all that roaring leads to the bronze showing his already-ichored teeth in a yawn: so loud; too early), nor do more than glint a look at those of his Weyr who, for Roszadyth, have come here. It's Roszadyth he looks for, prepares for, the strong muscles of his hindquarters flexing as though he's not inclined to wait. Both Hiyudath and Jormunth pace each other kill for kill - each snagging one and then tearing it apart. The convict brown dragons are messy and bloody, reveling in each kill - reveling in Roszadyth - while Kaitlin and M'ron take up space towards the back together. There's open amusement as they watch certain riders around Farideh - the Monacoan ones and X'vin, for sure - though their eyes always manage to return to Farideh with open hunger. That H'vier is entering in the Monacoans' space, as well, seems to earn some interest from the convict riders. For now, they wait to see what happens next. As for Vhaeryth's rider? "Oh, shut the fuck up," N'rov growls to the youngest of the Monaco riders, who hasn't even said a thing. That klah, he's having to drink it black. That voice, though; even as he keeps an eye on the Monacoan, he's half-turning to try and get a glance. Familiar. Not-familiar. Somewhen. Besmernyth's huge, lean form is not deceptive; he looks quick, and is impressive when he moves off Rosadyth's ledge and stays close on her tail: demonstrably, perhaps, of things he anticipates to come. He is a messy hunter, stealing up two beasts in one swoop and launching them against the wall, where they splatter open wetly on impact and he will dive for them. Blood, guts, all of it down his mouth and throat, viscera hanging between his teeth; his eating is rote, his attention fully on Roszadyth for just the right moment. He's coiled like a canine waiting for the ball, but so much more vicious. Any moment now. H'vier won't stand alone in defense of Farideh. (Did anyone see these things coming? Really?) K'zin's saunter takes him to the foreigners back, an impish smirk twisting his lips, but for once his mouth remains shut, proving that even under the influence of the leash his dragon holds, he's not a complete idiot about getting the drop on trouble-makers should the need arise and any of them get careless. N'rov gets a briefly amused look from K'zin, something that might say even though he's a foreigner, he's not a foreigner. Join Team HRW, N'rov? Farideh could be hiding cookies under that robe. "Or what?" One of the beefy Monacoans turns to give H'vier a look (and then K'zin, too). He more or less matches the taller High Reachian bronzerider for size, and there's something about his stance that suggests he's no stranger to a fight. "I didn't say anything," is the younger one's comment in answer to N'rov, defiance writ large upon his features. And the third one? To Farideh: "M'kris sends his love, darling. And his cock." Just like the one he's just cupped in his hand, but possibly smaller. Or bigger. Practice and insatiable need make draining the first beast easy, and the second, and third Roszadyth chooses to linger over. She's every inch the on-edge predator, but somehow manages to hold herself with dignity, free of cacophonous sound and teeth-barring; that there's blood swearing her dainty muzzle is no fault of her own! And just like that she's had enough and she's airborne, soaring up into the air, aiming to disappear between the thick, gray clouds that pour insistent rainfall on the Weyr below. Unmistakable is her lilting call, not a roar or a bellow, but a deeply-ingrained invitation to come, to follow. "Kid," X'vin says at length when the boy - yes, boy - puts himself between them, because of course it waylays him. He's already reaching for her despite, or because, of her teasing, laughing at Drex's insults. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Or, perhaps worse, "Do you eat her with it?" That's Farideh, who X'vin is watching over Drex's shoulder, eyes glossed with need. Lust. Something, whatever, that is shaken by the shove Drex issues. X'vin's alarmingly quick in reaching out to sieze the younger man's shoulder, fingers clenching down into that tender bit near the neck and shove him away. "Get lost." N'rad is all too happy to hang back, his head leaned back against the weyr's wall as he watches the others with pale blue eyes that are just a little wider than they should be. He mutters something dark and glances vaguely in the direction of the pens, where he can sense his dragon making a right jerk of himself. As usual. The heated words and gestures coming from the knot of riders (and non-rider) nearest Farideh make him edge a step back toward the weyr's entrance. N'rad always has a few escape plans in his back pocket. Maldoranth is definitely making an ass of himself, gliding toward a group of beasts only to send them scattering. There is only the briefest moment of advantage to not being muzzle-deep in some herdbeast's side. He's been ready to pounce air-ward since he first arrived, and as Roszadyth leaves the pens behind, the dark bronze is on her tail, bellowing a roar of challenge to the gold, a taunt to the other chasers, tail lashing out with little regard to aerodynamics. When A'rist enters, at last, there's rain still running down his cheeks and jaw, the nape of his neck, too. That shirt clings, and the boot that didn't quite make it under a pantleg makes squelching noises when he walks. It's the sound more than anything that might be blamed for the irritated twitch of his lips. Or perhaps, indeed, the crowd, the unfamiliars. He's neatly on the outside of them all, watching, quiet. More so, now he's stopped step-squelching. Lythronath is warm, fire against rain, with that blood in his belly. There's a pile beneath his feet now, a pile against which he pushes off. It's not an ideal launch; it gives way under the force of the jump. But it also brings up a spray of mud and entrails, and that is delightful enough to prompt another roar. Or maybe it's all the other dragons with whom he'll be jostling for position as his wings gouge at the air. Jostling. For now. Or what? Does the beefy Monacoan match H'vier more or less for impulsive violence, too? The bare-chested bronzerider's answer to Beefy's returned threat is to lunge at the one grabbing his crotch and aim a big, angry fist right at his jaw. There's clearly not a lot of thought put into this, but apparently there's not enough room in this weyr for M'kris' cock, too. "How about I fucking send yours back to him in a box!" Someone is cranky this morning. Fortunately Reisoth is long used to blocking out his rider. Once Roszadyth takes to the skies, the silent bronze leaps after her in a well-practiced surge. Abandon ship (and entrails); Vhaeryth's had to wait long enough and now he's up and after, sleep and its lack long forgotten, muddy gore falling from his paws if not the wings that never have touched earth. It's thick in the air early on; he has to focus on getting through the mass, deftly avoiding for the moment the easy chance for the longer stretch. Once in the clouds, he swings higher, scenting should she become lost, all too ready to ascend above even them and abandon the cold and the wet altogether. Come there? Make it good. The argument X'vin and Drex seem to be having doesn't interest Farideh in the least, because she's too busy giving the one Monacoan fondling himself a hard stare; her actual emotions are unreadable outside of intense. "That disgusting son of a bitch," the brunette growls, but rather than aggression and anger, she's sizing the tall bronzerider up with lust. "Can you give him a message back for me?" she asks, suggestively, advancing towards him. She's obviously not heeding any of the threats being thrown around the weyr-- or the tension, between foreigners and High Reaches' own. Where will she lead him, lead them? He seeks even the last flutter of her veil to find out. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) There's another, deliberate shove from Drex at X'vin's chest, aiming to keep that outstretched hand from actually touching Farideh. "Nah, but I kiss your mother with it," because your mom jokes are terribly mature, and the Fortian started it. When X'vin's hand bites down into his shoulder, he lets out a yell of pain, staggering back for a moment. Just for a moment, and then he's rushing forward, aiming a punch for the bronzerider's kidney. Or close enough to, anyway. Nevermind he's forgotten about the whole protecting Farideh thing, he's hung over and angry. When Roszadyth launches, both Hiyudath and Jormunth are airborne with synchronized speed. They abandon their kills, Jormunth shrieking his call to her and putting on the speed early. Perhaps far too early. In the weyr, things are heating up M'ron and Kaitlin are watching with smirks. At leas the male of the couple pushes himself from the back to stand by K'zin, his eyes on the Monacoan riders with his big arms folded across his broad chest. From where he stands, "You've got some nerve coming this far," he sends toward the Monaco riders before H'vier launches at the one fondling himself. Tensing, he's already itching to shake this party up even more. The unnamed third bronzerider-- the one fondling his genitals-- receives that fist in the jaw, and raises it with a knee aimed at the groin, and a shove, too: it's time for Farideh's first flight brawl! Beefy, on the other hand, is there to try and intercept the goldrider, to reach for her arm and say, "I'll pass back any messages you please," as he attempts to grab hold of her and hold tight. Above, their dragons are all in the sky. This thing is on. There's charm to the rain, isn't there? There is when Rasavyth's oozy charm thinks of it, suggests the romance of the story unfolding in the sky as he finds the air beneath his wings that with long strokes of the brilliant-below, dull-above wings with their smattering of scars. Just before dawn-- if they fly long, chase long, and then fly longer, together, they might make love in the first light of the new day (which will somehow manifest through the grey clouds as would only appropriately happen in the tale he's telling). Cookies. So that's what they're calling them. N'rov has a brief nod for K'zin as he heads by, but he's given over looking for the voice in favor of (to that younger Monacoan), "Now you did." And a smirk. And then, "Shells, already?" because fists. "Lost that bet." Nor does he make any move to step in, though neither towards A'rist and out. Besmernyth is like a shot, coiled muscle unwinding in a lean launch skyward, the impression of a twist of cold wind and the howling of wolves at Roszadyth's back. His whiplike tail snaps at something behind him, but he pays no heed to it; what he wants is in front, so close, just there. And if there is something going on the ground, Besmernyth is unfaltering. What his rider does is no concern, not now, not here, not close. X'vin's eyes have drifted past Drex, forgetting the sailor with an undertoned, "You don't belong here," like he's surprised someone's infiltrated their ranks. Farideh's got his eye, which would likely explain why Drex takes him squarely, and then there's a fight. There's no shoving this time; X'vin stops in his tracks with a sound of pain, then turns with a clenched fist and hauls off to, presumably, knock Drex ass over teakettle. Where is Farideh, right now? Who knows? "Shall we?" is really very polite of the too delighted K'zin to M'ron, as he offers to let the other man precede him into the fray (a fray that K'zin is definitely joining, seeking not to punch in this moment, but rather aiming to snag hold of arms; K'zin will help hold them while the others punch, that's helpful, right? High above, towards the shining stars and twin moons that hang in the sky, watching their swift flight and terrible appetites come to a head. Roszadyth touches Vhaeryth with that light, her light, a suggestion of a possible ending. « You will have to fly faster, » she taunts, unapologetic, now. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) Whether or not he belongs, Drex is most certainly here and not about to take that lying down. Except for the fact that, well, X'vin's punch lands him pretty much on his ass, spitting out some blood. "You full-gorged caprine fish, think yer pretty special eh?" he's growling, and instead of pulling himself back up, he lashes a foot out at X'vin's ankle. Apparently he's rather content with playing dirty, because, you know, pirate and all. « Not a problem, » and this high, this glad, Vhaeryth's is an exultant laugh (maybe he is, thanks to Roszadyth herself, he's touched in the head). Far better to abandon the clouds, that muffling blanket, for brighter sights. Lead on. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) A knee in his groin is all the worse when the only thing protecting his balls is a flimsy bit of fabric suitable for comfortable pajama pants. H'vier is shoved back pretty easily at that point, but it only takes a couple of seconds for him to realize that Beefy is getting all up in Farideh's business and that makes him mad enough to try going after him instead, reaching for an arm to try pulling Beefy around toward him. Because turning your back on the guy who was just attacking you is always the right thing to do. "Get your sharding hands off of her!" Reisoth is still mostly unfazed. His rider gets beat up pretty often and he has better things to look toward to. "Whichever one that think he's not getting punched in the face today, he's ours," M'ron is willing to join partners with K'zin in order to blow off some steam, sending a smile towards a Farideh that's likely not even looking his way. He doesn't even wait for K'zin to agree, seeming to assume he will since he plunging right into it and aiming a shoulder towards the closest Monacoan rider he can reach. The closest Monacoan? That would be the younger one, the one who has mostly been staying out of things... but who will plainly fight back as required, with the sharp fist of one who has been trained in these things. McBeefy's sudden move takes Farideh by surprise, and his force enough to see her jerking around with a sound of irritation. "Ever so kind," the goldrider says, using the closeness to try and wrap herself around the Monacoan; everyone else is distracted. "Be sure to tell him just like this." Body pressed to body, she's quick to grab his chin and start to pull it down to hers, but-- H'vier is there, destroying her perfectly laid plans. "What in the name of--" Obviously, she's angry, as she looks around the weyr, at the men more interested in fighting than making out; what's the world coming to! A'rist has got his weight balanced on the balls of his feet now, and his hands a bit out to his sides. It's this readiness that into his step as he tries to read the flow of the groups of bodies, navigate his way through the crowd. It's an open avenue he wants; a clear line of sight to the one who rides that golden tail Lythronath is chasing over. A deep breath here, a controlled release there. A glance. A shift. A quick dance when an elbow gets too close. And he can see her. Motion stops again. He's started to grin a little, though. Some things can't be helped. McBeefy? So down with this turn of events, with-- but not with H'vier. He's too distracted with Farideh to actually notice the other bronzerider until that arm is pulling him around... on the other hand, his companion, Genitals? He's grabbing H'vier from behind, or trying to, so maybe it will all work out (except for Farideh, who just wants to make out). When Drex falls, X'vin turns - presumably to make his way towards Farideh as his dragon does above - and Drex's kick out takes him square. Again. Flight lust is not great for balance, as it were. "You shit," is about as vulgar as X'vin gets, certainly not comparable to an honest-to-god pirate, but he didn't make it a step, which puts him right there, easily spun to clamber atop Drex and try to pin him down. Not for loving. For punching. All the punching. Well, let the men fight. While M'ron is busy trying to duck the youngest Monacoan's jab with a return one of his own, Kaitlin is moving towards the side towards Farideh. The blonde convict rider uses her body to shift and slide through riders to reach her, reaching Farideh with a husky, "Why don't you tell me. I'll send the message on over to Monaco while we let the boys play." Presumably in response to McBeefy reaching out to the weyrwoman and getting sidewinded by H'vier. Both Jormunth and Hiyudath keep up a quick and hard pace after the little queen, Hiyudath's tail lashing out at any dragon that comes too close. Brawls and boys-- Roszadyth is literally above it all, leading all of the lust-drunk bronze and brown dragons on a merry chase through those pregnant clouds. She's light and warmth, a comforting beacon that shows the way-- this way, up and higher still, until they start to get too close. She's not done yet, she's got plenty of time. Maldoranth has no need for romance. All he needs is the bit that's connected to the scent coming off that glowing golden hide ahead of him. Perhaps it's the fact he's never gotten quite this close that makes him forget there are others in this chase, as he loses all peripheral vision, honed in on Roszadyth's rump. N'rad isn't doing much better with the peripheral vision as he keeps edging toward the exit. His own focus is an even split between Farideh, the scuffling riders, and his own dragon's increasingly invasive emotions. When his shoulder makes contact with A'rist, the blonde pulls back, hands up defensively, though not as fists. Not exactly as not fists, either. They're just there. The fact that K'zin seems only too willing to back M'ron up is probably further evidence why anyone that ever thought about Rasavyth catching Niahvth would be perfectly justified in shuddering. Even in this, he doesn't even whisper 'leader!!' His reach for the youngest's arms might not get him anywhere, but he'll still try (with a measure of distraction because Rasavyth actually is focused on the sky above and not the flight here). Drex is, of all things, laughing. Because who doesn't like punching bronzeriders, really? Hands up! He's starting to sit up, when X'vin climbs atop him. "True colors. Knew all you bronzeriders were just pansy-loving goat-munchers." Even pinned, he's fighting back, and he's fighting mean, punching, kicking, and even biting anything of X'vin's that might be in range. Rasavyth, arguably, is more the natural leader of the pairing and yet it's Roszadyth with her sweetness and light that tames him. His wings cut through the air, his slender frame offering him a little more maneuverability than some of the larger bronzes in this flight. As ever, he relies on wits to navigate rather than brawn to push his way though, taking calculated risks that bring him closer to the beacon that calls to both his heart and his-- well. The rest of him. H'vier is focused enough on Beefy and Farideh, then specifically Beefy, that he's not really on guard for Genitals grabbing him from behind. He's put into a rather vulnerable position, particularly against a man of similar size, particularly when he's looking for the goldrider rather than at Beefy himself for a few moments there, struggling against Genitals all the while. Reisoth follows Roszadyth's gentle beacon with single-minded focus, not at all interested in echoing the chaos of below up here in her wake. Lythronath is all force and speed. He doesn't need manoeuvrability when he's got those. Also claws. It's been held back, but now, those coming within range will be rewarded with talon swipes, with showing of teeth. Faranth help the bronze or brown who actually tries to get between him and the gold he's after. When someone's foreign hide gets hit, when Lythronath's, « Hahaha! » rings out, A'rist clenches his teeth. Yeah, that's a Fortian wingleader. Yeah, N'rov's not backing him up; this isn't his fight and likely not his flight, despite a very different weyrwoman's invite. And M'ron, taking away his conversational partner, has him ducking away from the ring even as A'rist, Kaitlin and others move in: the complete opposite of Vhaeryth who, even before he catches sight of disappeared Roszadyth, is accelerating. Now to see if she's not just leading them but leading them on. After spotting a few bouts of 'they get close' 'she goes fast,' and the threat of claws at Hiyudath, he makes to match her moves as he can... without, yet, moving to intercept. Yet. Someone's tailgating, and inclined to take her time. It's the bronze partner of Genitals that Lythronath hits, and it's a sharp enough event that it causes the bronzerider to teeter, likely giving H'vier a chance at escaping this double-pronged attack. Genitals' roar is epic, and Beefy's is triumphant, though his bronze is no closer to Roszadyth than anyone else's (damn it!). None of the fighting and threats being bantered around are impressive to Farideh, who watches with dissatisfaction and quite a few open stares at bare chests. Her focus is easily stolen by Kaitlin, who receives a winsome smile. "Your," eyes drifting to the other woman's mouth, "lips are too pretty to bite." Because that's obviously what was about to happen, one big, bloody fuck you to M'kris via his henchman. Still, since they're there-- this brownrider gets a kiss! Finally! Besmernyth, so recently acquainted, knows the way to Roszadyth's heart is through whimsy - through romance, bravery, daring. What's happening below is aftershocks to his mind, puffs of snow kicked up with each impact that he acknowledges peripherally while the wolves race, howling, a cacophonous cadence to each of his expansive wingbeats. They're jarring, not romantic, but they would be the villains; he would be the handsome suitor to take her, to spill vodka on her tongue and warm her from the inside, to feed her fine caviar and -- it's understandably getting mixed up as the aftershocks come with increasing frequency. Still. He has so many stories to tell her, and at least one to make. Act two. X'vin, luckily, doesn't expect N'rov's backup. For that pretty face, he has a lot of power if less control given the circumstances. He's aiming to knock out teeth, blacken eyes, break a nose if he gets just the right angle, but it's not until Drex bites him that he rears back with a roar and tries to retreat far enough to find his feet. Tries, again, to find Farideh. There are too many bodies, and it's too hot, and where is the thing they're fighting about? As soon as there's a weakness in Genitals' grip, H'vier is surging away from the pair of Monacoans and closer to where Farideh is making out with another woman. It probably says something important about H'vier that this makes him pause to watch with a strange sort of lustful focus and none of the violence he'd held for Beefy and his friends. Double standards, yo. H'vier is full of them. It's not the first time Drex's earned a few black eyes, nor had his nose broken, and that's probably why it happens again, with a roar of pain from the sailor, followed by a series of unintelligible curses. He fights wildly, arms flailing and teeth gnashing, until he scores a solid hit on X'vin and the bronzerider retreats. Panting heavily, he pushes himself up to a seated position, blood pouring from his nose, eyes unfocused. He probably should be doing the same as the bronzerider -- looking for Farideh -- but he hasn't the lustful distraction of a dragon, so instead he wobbles to his feet, tracking X'vin, balling a fist and letting it fly towards the side of his face without much warning. No, not enough time, not enough distance. Overestimation and distraction drive Roszadyth higher, to where she can break through the cloud coverage, without much thought for the visibility; the stars are nice up there, and those double silver moons. It's a rookie move; one that any -- or all? -- of her chasers can now take advantage of. The three Monacoan bronzes are in varying good positions for catching, now, though none of them are right there... and in a way, it's as if they haven't even been trying, not more than instinct requires. Perhaps it's because of their riders, so ready for punches; all three are focused on Farideh, now, though the youngest-- a little battered, but still standing-- has started trying to get his hand down his pants. Charming. Kaitlin is more than willing to steal the show - to steal Farideh - those lips of hers curving into that smile before she succumbs to that kiss. She'll even try to claim the woman's body to herself while the men fight, though of course M'ron does manage to look over that way in time to deliver a "Hey!!" He pushes the youngest Monacoan away - likely towards where K'zin and N'rov are - as he surges after Kaitlin. In the sky, Hiyudath shrieks after Lythronath with Jormunth falling steadily behind the higher they go. Just as well Kait's getting that kiss from Farideh, for that's likely all she's getting! Either way, it's Hiyudath that goes for the catch over his brown clutchmate, shooting closer to Roszadyth as he tries to knock against any bronze that wavers close to see if he can claim the queen for himself. Ichor has been falling for a while now, pooling in the lee eddies of Maldoranth's shoulders and haunches. It's with growing annoyance that he's faced with acknowledging their source. Make that sources, plural. With a growl, he looks over his shoulder at any behind, then suddenly puts on the brakes, balling himself and turning, only to whip his wings out and catch the backdraft, talons and spars reaching. He knows he's out, and rather than back out gracefully, he's going to take it out on someone. That is, until something else tugs at him. At his brain. He spins and folds his wings, diving out of the fray and turning his back on Roszadyth and the pack, finally convinced to limp his way back to the Weyr, and his rider who has finally made his escape. "Let me help you with that," K'zin purrs to the youngest Monocoan, reaching for the wrist of that hand that's working so hard to find some kind of satisfaction, as the man is shoved in his direction, meaning to use a grasp paired with the touch of hand to his side to spin him and shove him in-- oh, look, N'rov, did you want a friend who's not K'zin? He got you one (if his intentions are successful). Better than cookies? Reisoth swerves after Roszadyth above the clouds almost immediately. With her glowing hide that much more visible, the large bronze gains ground with an impressive burst of speed at this point in the game. There has to be some advantage to avoiding the bickering violence that so often trails after Reachian queens. Reisoth has every intention of wrapping himself around this one unscathed. The stars are nice, so are those moons, but more beautiful by far is the glowing gold they can't hold a candle to. The one Rasavyth angles to embrace with talons, wings, tail-- pretty much any part of him he can, if he can. Charm and romance are a natural pair, aren't they? His mind will whisper so-- if she'll just oblige him by -- you know, surrendering to him? Or getting knocked into him. Whichever. He's not that picky about the details, the story will be better in the telling after, as everyone certainly knows. The look A'rist sends to the ongoing fight is almost annoyed. Eyes narrow, and any close to him might hear, "Just go." It's timed with that, that Lythronath summons a final surge. He's close now, among those closing. Hiyudath's shriek is answered with a bellowing roar, with talons. It's only claws going for him and any other bronzes trying to shoot past him, past Lythronath, whose last massive flap is almost an aerial leap after that queen. Hopefully, his limbs will be freed up enough at this stage that he can catch hold of her. What occurs between X'vin and Besmernyth happens in tandem. The Fortian bronze puts on a burst of speed at that clear opening. He angles his wings to cut between a pair of browns, likely ready to batter them into submission with superior size, crawl atop them with claws if he must, and in the weyr X'vin finds a similar opening between two riders, where he might be able to step in just behind H'vier, only without the hesitation of girl-on-girl action. We'll never know, because Farideh's dumb boyfriend finally lands a punch that's more than just inconvenient; it's effective, just below his temple in that place that makes his eyes unfocus a moment. X'vin's conscious when hits the ground again, but moving terribly slow. Above, a shudder goes through Besmernyth from nose to tailtip. He might still get claws in a brown, but the launch he takes does not push him forward. It somersaults him backwards, back to the ground with a furious roar. "Shtay.. fuck away from my girl. Arshhole." It might be a more impressive threat from Drex if it weren't somewhat muffled by a broken nose and all. Is he feeling bad right now that he pretty much just king hit a Fortian Wingleader? Nahhh. He enjoys his moment of victory, lifting a foot as if intending to pin the still-conscious bronzerider down, but he suddenly sways a bit, ruining that plan. Dropping his foot back, he straightens and tries to stem the blood from his nose, which just ruins it all. He's completely oblivious to what's going on outside, which is probably for the best. As an older bronzerider limps past him to depart, N'rov thrusts the now-drained mug into his hands with a quick "Hold this," as though it were important. Weariness has him sliding his reclaimed hand over his face, not quite a yawn, not even an attempt to conceal his hectic flush and the feverish glint in his eyes. And then, right as Vhaeryth's sweeping an arc not to where Roszadyth is but where she might be, if she can read that flash of signal, if he can get there and intercept... there's a Monacoan on the literal rebound, shoved right into his rider, And then a whole lot of swearing. The catch is inevitable, but it still takes Roszadyth by surprise, when, after all of the height and speed, after all the other dragons surge in, that she's suddenly tangled up in Lythronath. Him, of all the others, that recently returned Reachian bronze. It's over like that, with little resistance, though in the guest weyr, Farideh pulls away from Kaitlin and tries to push the other woman away. She turns with purpose, her eyes seeking out A'rist in the throng of fight-wear dragonriders, and starts to move, pushing away anyone that stand in her way. And that robe? Yeah, it drops. One thing that can be said for the Monacoans? As the catch is made, none of them move to stay and cause further issues... and Farideh will probably miss entirely the blown kiss and genital-fondle Genitals aims at her before he goes. With Kaitlin being shoved back, she goes right into M'ron's arms and he drags her out of there once the catch is made. As usual, the convict riders don't stick around or linger. More swearing, but at least N'rov's intact on his way out of that cave, and if he's in a hurry (and he hurries) he can beat the rest. There's another roar outside as Besmernyth's dive lands him in the bowl. UP, X'VIN, GET UP, and he does, like he's being dragged by the nape of his neck. He doesn't even look at Drex as he hurries out, presumably to meet a demanding dragon in the bowl, but he is running a finger over the swelling near his ear as he goes. Once the catch is made, Reisoth breaks away without a sound and H'vier stalks out of the weyr looking more than a little pissed off. He did get kneed in the crotch at some point. No one should be surprised. There's a wistfulness to the way Rasavyth retreats from the sky, a single glance over his shoulder showing concern in his whirling gaze more than disappointed lust. What's that about? The world will have to wonder. K'zin's exit is quicker, quieter, slinking back out of the weyr with a yawn finally allowed to show as the 'weakness' in defeat. Clearly, Drex is uncomprehending of what makes all the riders suddenly bail, nor what makes Farideh disrobe. He stares at goldrider, stalking towards her, hurrying to pick up that robe, opening his mouth. At least, until he sees them together and -- gritting his teeth, he turns and stalks outside. Nevermind that he's still got that robe, and she might actually need it later, it's his. A'rist has managed to maintain what is mostly a line of sight. As the weyr empties out, he pushes forward. It's an unblinking leer pinned on the de-robed goldrider. His teeth have set together again, and are showing, just a little, between his lips. He's fighting his way out of sopping clothes as he goes, but well. If he can't get them all done, surely she can rip them. In the skies, Lythronath digs in, and holds tight. She flew high. He can make sure they go far. And, you know, leave at least as many marks as his rider is sure to.