Logs:Teisyth's Maiden Flight
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| RL Date: 4 March, 2014 |
| Who: D'kan, G'laer, Kazavoth, Lythronath, N'rov, Teisyth, Rh'mis, Rosvelth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Teisyth rises in her maiden flight. Predictably, males are in attendance, even if she isn't the prettiest green on the block. |
| Where: Bowl and Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 2, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Big thanks to all the chasers, especially for being flexible enough to forward-date! |
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| Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake. At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
It goes without saying, really, that Rosvelth is far more interested in Teisyth than his rider is. In fact, Rhey really doesn't seem to care at all... except that such exaggerated 'not caring' is pretty obvious in its own way. The brown is out in the bowl, today, not quite napping but certainly relaxing: it's so nice to be able to streeeeeeeetch out like that, isn't it? And if it makes his wings look good? GREAT. « HEY, Teisyth! » he says to Teisyth. Oh, is she hiding? His mistake. It seems that Vhaeryth, in residence upon Iesaryth's ledge, has found a new calling in life: architect. He's nosed the snow into carefully packed-down walls, and if a couple of them had exploded during the packing-down, well, that's just the way it goes. Not that the 'walls' are really much in the way of barriers, being about ankle-height on a dragon, but still it's the principle of the thing. It would all be quiet, peaceful really, except there's that jitteriness over there, and then the shout and, « SHHH. » Surely not for Teisyth's sake. Surely it's because he's trying to work here. Lythronath has been noticing Teisyth a whole lot in the last few days. Has been trying to force his way onto her ledge. Has been laughing at her flighty escapes. But Lythronath, he's not here right now, not in the bowl, not on the rim, not even near the Weyr. Lythronath is missing, and there's no one to snap at other males, or try to see if he can chase Teisyth into the caverns or something. Oh well. Failure is just success rounded down, right? Kazavoth is just another big brown boulder in the bowl. He's been there a while now, because there's still some snow clinging to the various crevices that a dragon's body makes when still. His tail, however, is snow-free, as it keeps twitching. In true Kaz fashion, he has not been still in the mindvoice arena, though he's been far more quiet than usual, trading conversations here and there with various males in the vicinity. The topic? Which of those lovely females is taking to the skies next, of course. This would explain why the hiding Teisyth is in his sights. Spotted! Teisyth startles behind G'laer, all her eyelids snapping up in concert. "It's just Rosvelth." Her rider observes with a roll of his eyes. "And Vhaeryth," He adds a beat later. "And he's not even paying attention to you." For the rider's part, he's as relaxed as she is anxious, and she is downright twitchy. "So go fly or something," The greenrider suggests to some silent communication. The chances are good that the man doesn't mean that kind of flight, and maybe as Teisyth launches to go to wing the short distance to the feeding grounds, she doesn't realize that's her intent either. Hunting is a good outlet for nervous energy too, right? Maybe Rosvelth and Kazavoth didn't even see her go! It's not like she's glowing. Oh, wait. Too late the realization comes, the beacon is pouncing her first kill and G'laer's jaw is tightening as realization hits and control is exerted to keep her from rending flesh along with her very un-lady-like slurping of blood. G'laer watches a moment before starting to trudge toward the guest weyr, hands thrust uncharacteristically into the pockets of his long brown coat. Flying? Rosvelth can do FLYING. He can also do 'ignoring Vhaeryth'. The bulky brown takes longer to get in the air than Teisyth does, but he's fluid enough once he's there, needing only a few lazy wingbeats to complete his glide towards the feeding grounds, and then throw himself into the fray. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch: this is truly the greatest story ever told. Somewhere in the Weyr, Rhey is probably facepalming right now. Wherever that is, though, it's not here: he's nowhere in sight. There's flying, there's rending of flesh, there's flowing of blood, there's promise of sex, and still there's no Lythronath? Seriously. Vhaeryth could use another light to properly adorn his creation, come to think of it. What with the clouds and all, the sun's none too helpful. If this one happens to be green, is that so wrong? After a moment to poke his nose into the weyr (whatever he relays might be along the lines of, 'I'll be right back, promise!' as though he were a human shopping for candles or a new glowbasket), off he goes in one long, lanky leap. Rosvelth might have pretended to ignore Vhaeryth, but he must have heard, or so the bronze would have it; he's quiet, after all, those crunchy noises hardly count. Speaking of which, Vhaeryth promptly engages in several of his own, guzzling from a couple of wherries in rapid succession. Look, Teisyth, what big teeth he has! Kazavoth shakes off that snow and eventually glides toward the animals, though he does not feed. He's too busy watching. Possibly leering. He's still keeping his comments mostly to himself, which is really for the best. By the look on D'kan's face as he exits the caverns, however, Kaz is not keeping his thoughts from his rider. D'kan pinches the bridge of his nose before he starts tugging at his coat so he can button it properly. Once she's muzzle-deep in a warm carcass, Teisyth doesn't care who might be watching. It's about this moment. This moment is for the blood, and unlike other fierce huntresses, she doesn't seem to mind or bridle against her rider's control; G'laer knows best, she's certain, even if she might like to chew on that little bit of leg that's right there. It only gets a brief longing look. So Vhaeryth's teeth aren't noticed, nor the epic Rosvelth is embarking on, nor Kazavoth's maybe-leering. And Lynner? Well, he's not there, but she wouldn't've noticed him anyway. She's busy! Busy beating wings now, busy ascending into the clouds as G'laer enters the guest weyr, pausing just inside to unbutton his coat.
This broad ledge is dappled with bright light in the morning and commands a lovely view of the eastern end of the bowl, including the lake and the trees that dot the shoreline. Reached by a flight of stone steps that climb up from the bowl floor, the ledge is relatively low, an easy jump down to the ground; possibly its selection was a safety precaution, so anyone stumbling out the wrong way after a flight would be unlikely to break his or her neck. Within the weyr itself is a comfortably-sized dragon wallow, rarely used but swept clean nonetheless. The cavern broadens as it stretches back away from the entrance to reveal a neatly made double-sized bed pushed up against the back wall, a press at its foot with an extra blanket folded on top of it and two chairs standing guard to either side of the hearth. A rectangular table lurks against the side wall, kept stocked with a pitcher of water and a basket of seasonal fruits. The weyr is well-lit and kept immaculately clean, the refreshing scents of citron-infused sweetsand mingling with the tang of herbs.
Hightailing it through the snow with the laces barely poked into his boots and not wearing a coat to be done up in the first place, that's no fun, and N'rov doesn't even make it look fun. Especially with the swearing, inventive though it currently is, and the shirt that's hanging out, followed by more swearing because that ice, he just slipped on it. But no, that doesn't stop Vhaeryth any; Vhaeryth's hightailing it skyward after the green who happens to be Teisyth. Rosvelth better not glitter too much, because he might accidentally take him back instead. By the time N'rov makes it into the guest weyr, he still isn't doing the fist thing, but he also isn't handing out wine and inviting people to party. Kazavoth continues his disinterest in blooding, so when Teisyth takes wing, so does he. It's not a burst of speed, but a steady climb, just enough to keep him in the chase. He keeps his distance from the other males, speckled brown hide absorbing the light rather than reflecting it, wide wings helping with the ascent, but less so with any changes in direction. No blood. No fire. Maybe he's more the journalist following the action. Watch? Ha. Teisyth doesn't. She is busy. Busy because at first she was focused just on flying, but now there are clouds to fly though. It's like the best game of hide and seek ever! Nevermind that she has a disadvantage because until she gets deep in a cloud, that glow gives her away. But she's busy, bouncing from cloud cluster to cloud cluster. Are there dragons chasing her? Is that even important just now? G'laer has moments of privacy before the rest of the chasers arrive because of his head start, and he makes use of the time, draping his coat on the press and getting settled on the edge of the bed. For now, the man seems in control of not only himself but his lifemate in the skies as there's no thought for between or escape, just the joy of flight and clouds, but how long can that last? Among all those wings, none are those blazed sails of Lythronath. Nope, he's not there, not when they lift from the bowl, not when they're all gaining altitude. It's only once the chase really gets underway, once all those already here have joined, when cloud bouncing begins, that, BAM, there's a bronze-shaped hole, high up, in an otherwise grey sky. Oh wait, no. It's a bronze. A bronze who sweeps along the bowl wall, and then is dropping like a comet with riding straps, all talons and roars and « SEX. » Still no A'rist, though. « I see you! » says Rosvelth, who surely did learn how to control his voice to project directly, for all that he's apparently forgotten about the skill now. « I'm coming for you! I'll save you and protect you and we'll be victorious and amazing together. » He may sound just a little peevish by the end there, and that's probably because because Lythronath is kind of ruining the narrative. Brothers, man. Mostly, though, he flies: his patter is an after-thought, and instinctual efforts keep him otherwise occupied. Wings beat; neck reaches; sky beckons. Teisyth beckons. Rhey... scowls, throwing himself against a wall once he's inside the guest weyr, fists still warningly raised. « Still as eloquent as ever, Lythronath? » comes Kazavoth's voice at last, his rasping baritone carrying to all and sundry. Perhaps even to the riders, for that matter. He loves projecting. Maybe he needs a Dragonmindhealer. In any case, the dark brown is still staying toward the back, though he seems to have embraced the spirit of the chase, if not the efforts as the pack of males twists and turns to follow Teisyth. Below, D'kan is just now getting to the guest weyr, though like his dragon, he's sticking to the back. If they were hunting canines, all on the same team, there might be baying to better track down her location sooner; as it is... as long as it's loud anyway (kids, man), Vhaeryth trumpets to join the ruckus. Rather than follow her directly from place to place, he cuts corners, though there is that moment where he's just plain staring (at something other than Teisyth, even). But Lythronath isn't lit up, so Lythronath is safe. As for N'rov, he grumbles at Rhey as he pulls his own shirtsleeves back to his wrists, "Put those the fuck down. Nobody's going to hit on you." Except for G'laer, maybe, but what are the chances? « What? » Teisyth falters as her shocked answer comes. It's an answer to both Lythronath and Rosvelth. And there goes G'laer's calm as his dragon's sudden panic invades and overwhelms. His hands grip the edge of the mattress. At least he doesn't look inclined to hit (on) anyone just now, though blue eyes do flick from face to face, settling briefly on D'kan before moving on. Teisyth was here to play. Sex? That's oh-so-very-adult and who wants to do that anyway? Well, she does, and now she has to admit it, sort of, only it's okay to keep running from that want, for a little while longer as she stops her carefree bouncing and starts straining wings to get away from her playmates. This wasn't the game she thought she was playing! "Fuck you," says Rhey, voice taut and tense with-- anxiety? It could be. Either way, the fists are going nowhere. He does not look at G'laer. He does not look. Above, Rosvelth is delighted by Teisyth's shock and surprise, flaring his wings to show off that spark of gold beneath them, as he surges higher still. This is the game he is playing, and he's in it to win. The others? Boring. So boring. Yawnfest. You know what melts gold? Hot blazing comets. Those wings angle and Lythronath flies straight for Rosvelth, veering aside only at the last minute. SEX. It's very nearly his whole mind. Here, Teisyth, he'll show you. Even while those talons flex and point and dare his brown brother to try and keep him from getting in front. "Yeah, no," N'rov says, somehow more cheerful for the disagreement... or for the anticipation that presses Vhaeryth's wings faster; either way, he gives Rhey deliberate space (which Vhaeryth really should give Lythronath, but then again, the latter's not headed his way), or maybe it's that he gives himself more elbow room. Not as far back as D'kan. Not without a sharper look G'laer's way, one that's started to slide toward hungry. Oy. Newbie green. Kazavoth's eyes have gone from a swirling wash of oranges to a dull gold as he starts to fall farther behind. This brown prefers his meat more seasoned, it seems, though he's still at the back of the pack for some sort of voyeuristic qualities. Or possibly just to make fun of other dragons. Instinct? What's that? « Vhaeryth, did you blood something fermented? » he sends out, followed immediately by, « Rosvelth, you are going to tear something. » Finally, « Lythronath, for the love of Faranth, chase Teisyth, not Rosvelth. » And with that, he will take his commentary elsewhere, while D'kan thankfully slinks right back out of the guest weyr. G'laer's eyes roll at the exchange between Rhey and N'rov before settling his eyes squarely on assets neither of the men have. Some lucky brownrider has garnered his attention as he tries to get some control over the panicking green. At least she's running out of steam, and running out of places to run as the pack gains on her, putting her too close for comfort for many sets of talons. Some are avoided, but the more she lags, the more she's trapped, and the more she panics. It has G'laer on his feet, brownrider and her assets forgotten, fists clenched, "Hang on," is the instruction given to the green above through gritted teeth. By now, Rhey can't help himself: N'rov is forgotten, and so is everyone else in this weyr except for G'laer himself... who has never looked this good. His cheeks have darkened with a flush, and his mouth hangs open; there could even be drools. There are also, always and forever, fists. Above, Rosvelth is too canny and brave and wise and generally awesome to be foiled by Lythronath's tactics, so there. Instead, he presses an advantage he's found somewhere, thrusting himself past a dithering blue and right into what (he thinks) will be Teisyth's final trajectory. Don't hang on. Hang here. With him. Panic. Panic sharpens Vhaeryth's need for speed, and N'rov flattens his hands over his skull with the pressure of it; he's not so aware now, not of what's here, not until Teisyth's... Teisyth's rider's movement at last. When another male falls as Teisyth avoids him, Vhaeryth aims to take that space, increasingly heedless of the others. The light's ahead. « Mine! » and a roar to the blue. « Mine! » and the turn of his shoulder to that woman's brown. « Mine! » to Vhaeryth, with teeth flashed to his sire, a turn of his head that alters Lythronath's trajectory just enough to get squarely in Vhaeryth's way. Same for those reaching talons. His. She is his. Only, it's not Lythronath's. Teisyth is, was, and shall forever be only G'laer's. So his bid for her is confusing. Then there's Vhaeryth. And he's confusing just because... are Pappys supposed to bed their daughters? Does it matter? Figuring that out just takes too much thought. Maybe she should ask G'laer because there's so many limbs reaching for her, and it's just so overwhelming. But G'laer, too, is overwhelmed in this moment and is of no help to her beyond just being with her. So she seeks the only not confusing set of limbs. Hanging. She can do hanging here, Rosvelth. But he does mean just hanging, right? She'll find out as she meets him in the expected trajectory and reaches in turn for the big brown. With the dragons settled, that leaves G'laer's blue eyes to find Rhey, and his fists, but he doesn't move more then to sigh with that tiny part of himself that is still himself. Rosvelth... oh. Oh, this really is the stuff of legends, isn't it? It may be more of a 'controlled fall' than a 'hang', in the end, but those great wings are spread to keep it slow-- Valhalla is calling. That's just how glorious this is, okay? Rhey is not quite so instantly thrilled, but on the plus side? His fists get to do what they've wanted to do all night: pop goes one of them, aimed at G'laer's face in the moment before the other arm is grabbing for the greenrider in a rather more protective, possessive kind of way. He can regret this... later. Vhaeryth may twist midair, altering his trajectory to minimize impact... but when bronzes go thud, there's a moment where they too seem to hang midair with the opposing forces of the collision. Not hanging the way Teisyth might like; not the way Teisyth-and-Rosvelth are starting to; Vhaeryth, he's going to have to head home without his light. 'They were all gone before I got there.' And N'rov? He can only console himself with the knowledge that at least he didn't drool. ROAR, for Vhaeryth, for getting up in his way like that. Lythronath pushes away. A few more roars in his retreat, frustration vented, though, so far at least, nothing's been broken. But the night is still young. And A'rist? He's still trapped on some stranger's ledge. That much, at least, will at some point warrant a « Hahahaha! » G'laer might have been expecting the punch, or it might just be all the turns of training that keeps the greenrider's hand from moving to rub the injured jaw. It might also be that he has enough inches and pounds on Rh'mis that the strike probably looks a little comical. He does grunt, and Rhey can later be pleased that at least he made G'laer bleed, even if he has to taste it when (if?) they kiss. The kissing's not really important here, right? What is important is G'laer's attempt to entrap the fist that was inclined to swing and-- well, it's only after that the goals shift to be more in harmony with the tail-twisting dragons above. |
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