What a pretty lady
Who: F'ren and Haraith (I'stark), Ilora and Kloveth, Javeri and Chadamalith, P'jin and Beynth (Ianna), R'gel and Jayth (Yori)
Where: The bowl, sky, and guest weyr
When: Dusk on day 2, month 12, turn 19
What: Kloveth's maiden flight draws an assortment of dragons. One of them is Chadamalith who behaves typically.
Ianna gives careful consideration to each person on Ilora's list, and decides, "Well, you can just cross your fingers and hope for the boss's forgiveness. I may check in the kitchen as I head over for dinner, just to make sure they don't hate you there. As far as the Healers go, just don't break a leg any time soon and you'll be fine. Sailors? Well, if they warranted it, that's their problem. They need a nice tongue-lashing every now and again to keep them on their toes." As she glances once more toward the entrance to the caverns, an Istan brownrider exits them and begins across the bowl. "Shells, not him. Sorry, Ilora, but I need to disappear, and fast." With no further explanation, she's gone, hurrying in the opposite direction.
Taking advantage of the waning light of the setting sun, Ilora is sitting cross-legged on a bench against the wall of the Bowl. In her lap are her riding straps, and the needle flashing in her hand tells any observer that she's mending them. But, unusually for her, Ilora is fidgety. Every few seconds her right foot jiggles rapidly, until the vibrations cause her to stop mending and glare at the offending extremity until it ceases. Then she shifts her position slightly and mutters to herself. "I feel like I want to crawl out of my own skin, here." Finally, she puts the mending down - slams it next to her on the bench, actually - and sits back with a huff, crossing her arms and glaring at nothing in particular. The foot starts jiggling again.
Kloveth, asleep in a patch of sun, seems to be glowing from within. The lush green color of her hide suddenly looks exactly like an emerald when held up to the light - vividly brilliant - and the darker sable stripes which overlay that verdant color take on a life of their own, the intense green an alluring call to all interested blues, browns, and bronzes.
Blue Jayth is an interested blue. Interested, and he's been lurking nearby, where the sunset catches the dashes of yellow and aquamarine in his own hide. Those colors, garishly clash with the livid purple Jayth's eyes have turned. The blue eases himself from the too-still position of predatory hunter, which he's assumed, to allow himself the slightest stretch, to initiate movement back into his limbs that have begun to cramp in their enforced and ready stillness. The arrival of other dragons elicits a hiss from Jayth. He's /been/ here. He was watching from ground floor. This one is his. Jayth's rider, R'gel, was eating a bit of cheese rolled up in a thin slice of meat, within the living cavern proper. At Jayth's jittering mental hostility, unlike the usually cheery blue, R'gel rises, downs his klah, and after a moment's consultation, turns to head out into the bowl.
He's no lady's man is Chadamalith. At least not in the way that some are. He notices when a green is ready to go up most certainly, but he does not belittle himself or her by fawning over her. No, that's not the blue's way. Instead he simply watches. There's an empty ledge for him to perch on and perch he does. How interesting is this? Obviously more interesting for him than his rider who is nowhere to be seen at the moment. She'll turn up eventually. She always does. For now he just watches with the air of someone not that concerned with any of it. All in time.
That brownrider who drove Ianna away by simply walking out of the living cavern makes his sauntering way across the bowl, his gaze already locked on Ilora. P'jin has shortly fetched up right in front of the greenrider on her bench, and he bestows upon her a slimy smile. "You look like you got something bothering you, darlin'. Can I"--he pauses with weighty significance--"help you with anything?" His nearly black eyes stare down at her with what he probably thinks is charm, but it really just ends up being kind of creepy. His brown Beynth has just launched from his ledge, high above the bowl, and begins circling downward, the nearly-set sun highlighting his harsh angles and unusually dark coloring.
Haraith, too, is.... interested, to put it mildly. Having been a rider for plenty long enough to be able to pick up on the cues given by his bond, he finds himself here, along with that selfsame blue. Hopping down from a ledge, where the dragon has started to preen himself anxiously, the bluerider stands there for the moment... watching. He doesn't say a word for the nonce.
Suddenly, Kloveth awakes, and Ilora's awareness of the state of her dragon's mind causes all the blood to drain from her face. "Oh," she breathes out, suddenly understanding what's about to happen. Springing to her feet, Kloveth lets out a clarion note - at once a warning to other greens to stay away, and a call of seduction to all the handsome blues and browns and bronzes. Ilora leaps to her feet in the same instant, riding straps and sewing supplies flying from her lap, her surroundings completely forgotten, all of her concentration centered on her life-mate's fierce urges. Her eyes are wild, unfocused, and her breathing is harsh and rapid. She's a bit too preoccupied to answer P'jin's question, and moves past him a few steps, eyes on the green.
Casual, R'gel's padding through the dust-motes that waft in the last rays of the slanting sun. Casual, and toward his Jayth. The rider notes P'jin... Being P'jin, and he does not bother to suppress rolling his eyes. The lurking blue, overhead, is also assessed, and the mental comment to his own dragon, about Chadamalith's readiness, and experience, precipitates a jerk from Jayth, distracts him that split second from Kloveth's first movements. So it is that Jayth's a touch behind, and Kloveth's summons actually launches the spring-tight blue a bit off the ground, wings flaring in what may be display, as he tries to make his touch-down look...At least a little graceful. Jayth, paranoid, swings his own muzzle around, to again hiss at the other males, while R'gel makes his way over toward the green's rider. Boots cut through the silty episoil with a few scuffs, as he comes to a stop some distance from the brownrider, but where he might be visible to the greenrider.
Yep. That's what they do. Chadamalith, for all he's not so old has been chasing for awhile. Often and frequently. There's still no sign of his rider, but he's just not concerned. She knows. She never doesn't show up. Through it all he flexes his wings and watches not Kloveth now, but the other male dragons who've been lurking about. They earn all his attention. In the end he'll just keep watching. Until they're all in the air. The big blue never lets anyone else be last in the air.
P'jin recoils for a moment when Ilora ignores him entirely--though it's not a new reaction, given his track record. He's soon back in action, though, trailing and then catching up with the girl. Now that she's standing, it's apparent the top of his slick black hair doesn't even reach her eyes. "Hush now, love, it'll be alright. No need for concern." He stuffs his oozing tone with what is supposed to pass for comforting sounds, while his eyes trace her up and down. Beynth now lands not far from Jayth, and is already bristling, muscles bunching and stretching beneath his granite-traced dark hide.
Half-flying, half-running, Kloveth makes it to the feeding grounds and savagely pounces on a hapless herdbeast. Ripping into its neck, she nearly tears its head off in her eagerness to get at the blood which spurts in great gouts from the severed vein. "No!" Ilora cries out, preventing the green from eating the meat. "You must not!" But she still possesses some sense, and stumbles into the Guest Weyr, knowing what's going to happen. For just a moment, she looks over the gathered riders, strangers all, her large grey-green eyes standing out in the pale expanse of her face. She looks slightly terrified, but mostly resigned.
Ignoring... that's not what =F'ren- is doing, speaking of that term. He is watching P'jin right now, actually, a slow smile breaking his aqualine features. He arches a brow at the , but when Ilora cries out, his eyes widen a bit, eyes nailing themselves to her, and he nods, tonguing the inside of one cheek. "Ah... this is her first," he says, to no one in particular, "Lovely."
Half-flying, half-running, Kloveth makes it to the feeding grounds and savagely pounces on a hapless herdbeast. Ripping into its neck, she nearly tears its head off in her eagerness to get at the blood which spurts in great gouts from the severed vein. "No!" Ilora cries out, preventing the green from eating the meat. "You must not!" But she still possesses some sense, and stumbles into the Guest Weyr, knowing what's going to happen. For just a moment, she looks over the gathered riders, strangers all, her large grey-green eyes standing out in the pale expanse of her face. She looks slightly terrified, but mostly resigned.
"She's not listening to you, P'jin." R'gel's tones could dry soup to powder as he shifts and studies Ilora. "She's doing fine, knows what she's about, here. And I can see how you might love her. Suppose it's reciprocal, buddy?" Perhaps his blue's edginess is rubbing off on R'gel; the bluerider smirks at the brownrider. Jayth, for the second time, flares into the air, a bubbly launch and jittery trail after Kloveth. He, however, does not opt to take a beast. "Last time, see," R'gel explains, distracted now and perhaps voicing Jayth's logic, "Got left behind, still blooding the beast, when the gal took off. This time...We'll... Just be... Hungry." With that, and a wink at P'jin, a grin at F'ren, R'gel will follow the greenrider into the ground weyr. "This time..."
Look at them go. Kloveth there in the pens which is not what Chadamalith is interested in. The beasts are of no concern right now to him. No blooding and no leaping into the air. Not yet. Still on the ledge he watches though and sees who goes for a beast and who does not. It's all taken in and he just watches. Where Javeri is? She's not here just yet. She must be close because as soon as the other males are in the air Chadamalith will take to the skies. Surely she'll be there then?
Beynth's reaction to the green's leap is nearly instantaneous. He's soon aloft, his long wings snapping even as the brilliant violet whirling of his eyes picks up in speed and intensity. He hovers over the corral for a few moments, considering his selection carefully, the highlights of the dying sun on his hide only serving to deepen the darkness of the brown shadows in contrast. Then he decides, and it's a blur of brown motion that snaps the herdbeast's neck before the creature even has time to startle. His ferocity as he rips into his kill is suddenly matched by a similar mien in his rider. P'jin snaps upright, his previous grin replaced by a grimace of a smile, focused intently on Ilora. The interruption from R'gel is certainly unwanted; he snarls, "You're just jealous," before striding after the greenrider into the guest weyr.
Haraith is watching Kloveth now, his eyes sparkling with thoughts which bring an aiming of F'ren's emerald gaze to his dragon. And then, prefaced by the slightest of nods from the bluerider as a silent dialogue continues between the two, the Haraith takes to the sky. He's not going far, but he is positioning himself to get a decent shot when the race proper is on. It is now that F'ren approaches Ilora, considering her with an undisguised interest which borders on lust. He's a cocky fellow, and unabashedly languid, sensual in the way he moves. He is about to say something to her when Kloveth again gets his attention, and the rider frowns deeply, looking from dragon, to beast pen, to green. "You'd think it was -his- bloody first time," he says, his first words to Ilora.
Kloveth raises her head and hisses at the nearest dragon, her eyes a-whirl with possession and fierce hunger. "Mine," Ilora hisses, too, her fingers hooked like claws. Kloveth lowers her head back to the herdbeast, and carefully licks away all the blood from the wound. This done, the carcass holds no interest for her, and she tosses it away. Wings outstretched, neck arched, tail waving enticingly, she poses for the males, letting them take a good long look at the prize they'll soon be competing for. Ilora, caught in her dragon's turbulent emotions, can only sway on her feet where she stands. A low moan is forced past her lips and she shudders, overwhelmed.
"Hopelessly jealous. Oh yes. I'd love to be a short fellow who can't manage to bed anyone outside of greenflights. Pity me." R'gel, of course. He's one of those tall, lean, green-eyed sorts that has no problem finding bedmates. He finds his blue's lack of success in greenflights...Amusing, really. But Jayth. Wants. That. Green. Strategy. It's all about strategy, isn't it? The lean and small blue launches, this time taking the tact of the other blue, to get a head start by ascending early. Interception of the object is tactically more likely, if Jayth can match her initial speed, and be closer to her when she wears out. He launches out of the feeding pen, out of the flurry of frantic wings and dust and lowing of herdbeasts, and rises to a ledge some couple good dragonlengths above, where he can stare down at Kloveth. "Here." The words thought by the dragon, are echoed through his rider, into the ground weyr.
Now. Now that Chadamalith's ready to launch himself in the air Javeri appears. She's been on the beach and she's just not real happy looking. "Sharding idiot," she says and if she means her blue or maybe the greenrider it's impossible to say. The rest of the riders are looked at and she lets out a sigh. "Sharding /idiot/," she repeats once it dawns on her she's the only one there other than Ilora that's not a guy. Her spot. The spot she /always/ takes when stuck during a flight is right by the entrance to the weyr. Her eyes lift overhead and she watches the sky even if the dragons are out of sight. Arms fold over her chest and she watches. Other people? Not important. Since Kloveth's on the ground Chadamalith maintains his ledge. His eyes do track Haraith when the other blue finds the air already. Ho hum. Look. Another's gone up. How intriguing.
It is not the luminous green that Beynth watches, after a sharp, lustful glance in her direction, but his competitors. Rapidly finished with his only blooding, he eyes the circling blues with unconcealed competitiveness. While they take to the skies, however, he remains crouched, preparing to add the strength of his spring to the speed with which he will pursue his quarry. P'jin, with none of his dragon's deathly grace or stillness, stomps into the weyr and takes a position that might be uncomfortably close to Ilora. It is R'gel, however, that he addresses. "Yes, jealous. That hopelessly bungling blue of yours has no chance." His gaze is a weaker, watery reflection of his brown's, eying each of the others in turn.
The principal mistake made by Haraith on this day is the fact that he hasn't eaten nearly enough. Again, overconfidence, believing, perhaps, that if he is less weighed-down by a full belly, he will be faster. Of course, that will initially be true, but the rider of thea still fairly young dragon -- several unsuccessful chases under his belt in these few years or no -- has extrapolated. F'ren realizes, with a muttered curse, that his dragon is not going to have enough strength for this, unless something miraculous happens. And so, despite the fact that he's aroused, agitated, and needy, he moves -away- from Ilora for the moment, considering the similarly confident -- but with good reason, perhaps -- P'jin as he addresses R'jel.
Gathering her hind legs beneath her, Kloveth finally springs into the air, the broad sweep of her wings propelling her upward like an arrow shot from a bow. There is nothing more glorious than this feeling, wings cupping air, the world passing beneath like a tapestry. She issues a defiant scream at the males who follow. Ilora is standing on the ground, but her awareness of the fact is minimal. She is with Kloveth. "Can't catch /me/," she cries out scornfully. Her arms fling out to the sides, and she slowly spins in place, keeping the men and woman surrounding her at bay as she soars with her dragon.
"Probably not." R'gel agrees, easily to P'jin's insult. "But I've a chance -outside- a flight, sir." Just the edges of a smirk curl up R'gel's lips. "So you'd better be begging your beast to work his wiles on her; I doubt you'll ever see her bed any other way." Finally, R'gel will send a look over to the woman in question, lost in her own dragon. Jayth, then, seeing the green take to the air, launches himself from the ledge he's chosen (a good thing, as the resident bronze appears to be on his way 'home', having noticed the interloper on /his/ ledge, from across the bowl), and with the power of his hindquarter's thrust combined with arching of narrow wingsails, Jayth's in the air, and tilting himself into the chase with a wailing call after Kloveth. R'gel loses his balance, in his dragon's launch, and sidesteps so that he can press a hand against the cool hard solidarity of a wall. He blinks himself away from his dragon's whirling mind, to focus on F'ren for a moment. Then Ilora, and her arm-stretched spin. Finally, the image of Javeri swims into his vision, and R'gel will twist something that in other days might resemble a smile, toward her. Losing flights isn't always all bad; there's only one winning dragon, but the riders of the other dragons are also looking for... Something.
There she goes. But Chadamalith remains. The ledge has no current owner, but then this blue would take care to determine such a thing before perching there. Up she goes. There goes the other males. All of them are observed by the blue with an arrogant cast to his features. It's not time yet. It's not time until it is and when the time comes, when the other chasers are up and after the green he launches himself and gains altitude always watching all of them. Kloveth and her suitors are kept in view while he hangs back. No need to get close. Not yet. It's not time yet. Javeri watches them go and her eyes close for a moment when she feels the air under her blue's wings. She doesn't speak, doesn't look, when her eyes open they're on the sky watching with him. Since she misses R'gel's look he's spared a cutting remark. And Ilora's behavior? Well, she's aware enough to mutter, "Stupid first timers," to herself.
Beynth's leap is an aggresive challenge directly to the others who would give chase: he flares his wings and snaps his tail with unmitigated brutality, just daring them to match the power of his spring and the immediacy of his flight. As dusk deepens, he is cloaked further in darkness, but he makes no attempt to be sly about his chase. For the barest of moments, right when his brown launches, P'jin is just as barbrous and almost as fierce, but then he has to slither backwards, away from Ilora's whirling. Though clearly not immune to R'gel's comments, judging by his spiteful stare, he simply shakes his head. He's attempting to achieve an aloof superiority but merely managing to look desperate.
F'ren isn't at all interested in the machismo floating around the cavern. He's bloody worked up, all right, but violence, or intimated violence, isn't the release he's looking for. And seeing as how his wonderful, blue lifemate is doing his own thing and -not- listening to him in the slightest right now, the bluerider is beginning to think that the only embrace he is going to end up finding by the end of the evening is in a bottle or a mug. He doesn't -ask- if anybody knows where alcohol could be had in short order, as doing so might pull him into the penis-waving, and he's getting to the point where he's so irritated with Haraith that he just wants to take the hit quickly: Watch his oh-so-prepared bondmate flame out not terribly spectacularly, find some booze, and maybe... -maybe- get lucky enough to score some tail -somewhere- in this blasted weyr. Overhead, the blue in question has given chase, and is convinced that sheer speed alone is going to be enough.
Surrounded by males, Kloveth knows what it is that they want - but she isn't ready to give it, not yet. Almost contemptuously, she folds her wings and plummets past them. "Too slow!" Ilora howls, her back arching, arms widespread, an unconscious mimicry of Kloveth, who suddenly snaps her wings open again. The speed she gained in her free-fall rockets her past her fastest suitors, and the sudden catching of wind lifts her. She turns her head around to look at them, and screams again. It's a challenging call, a blatant dare.
The moon's wane light, yet unable to shed its true brilliance until Rukbat has fully set, still glitters over the pale streaks in Jayth's sapphire hide. Of course the dragon's way is illuminated by dusky-purple eyes that are directed, ever, toward Kloveth. While his rider lounges about in the ground weyr, picking at Beyth's rider, Jayth determines to do battle for both of them. Battle with the wind, with gravity, with the twists and turns that green will no doubt do. Chin up, fierce in will and strong in limber lines that cast forth, ever through the air, Jayth perseveres, follows, trying to claim space that separates himself and that green. R'gel loves this part. The chase. His eyes close, and that smirk on his lips evolves into a slight smile, deep breath drawn in. Pheramones, human musk here, the scents that can make one mad, permeate into his brain. Above, high above, Jayth does as bidden and inhales deeply as well. Dragon-lust. He is rewarded in his struggle to steal Kloveth's distance, by a surge in the chemicals that the wind strips from the proddy green. "So." R'gel murmurs, just loud enough to be heard, "P'gin. Got a back-up plan? Some little drudgey in the lower caverns, waiting for you?" Oops. Jayth just did a 180 that leaves R'gel's stomach somewhere in his throat, and the little blue dives after the prize, yowling now, like some caged feline in heat.
There's no reason to get carried away at all. No need to dart and chase and wear oneself out. No, there's the time for chasing and the time for more tidy watching. Chadamalith observes it all and shares it with his rider who lets out a laugh without looking over her shoulder. Javeri doesn't need to see the other people. Not with her blue showing her what goes on in the sky. From that she can extrapolate the rest. They can both see it all from his vantage point. When action is called for he'll be ready. But all in good time always.
The sheer force of inertia means that Beynth's powerful bulk is carried well past the point where Kloveth plummetted. His transition from forward thrust to downward spiral, however, is seemless. And spiral he does, too large to maneuver past the darting blues around him, but unphased and still vicious. Any who come too close receive a snarling snap, but the ruthlessness of his piercing purple gaze should be enough to warn them away first. With so much attention for his enemies, it would appear impossible for him to focus well on the green, but he manages to track her more or less from above, awaiting some mistake while gradually drafting toward her. His rider is nowhere near as restrained, eyes locking on Ilora with unmitigated desire until R'gel drags his focus away. Now he's spitting mad, and his right hand drifts toward where his belt knife luckily isn't. "No, you're the drudge-chaser, you pathetic cretin. No skirt--or sack--is beneath you." That's code, of course, for no backup. He'll be a lonely slimeball tonight if his dragon fails him. The lower cavern wenches are all immune to his "wiles," or rather, creepy stares and come-ons.
Someone else who is likely to be lonely tonight if -- strike that... -when- -- his dragon fails him is the bluerider known as F'ren. "Bloody cocksure imbecile of a dragon," he's muttering to himself, making any need for P'jin to start insulting him rather unnecessary. He does shoot a furtive look at Ilora, the frown amazingly finds a way to deepen, and then he looks up and narrows eyes as he tracks his dragon, "Prove me wrong and I'll never doubt you again." he's speaking to himself, mind, but no doubt the same conversation is happening concurrently from mind to mind, "Prove me right, and I have -no- sympathy."
Kloveth tilts her wings just so, and suddenly she's in a tight barrel roll. She looses altitude but gains speed, and has just enough control to determine where she's going to go. Ilora's hands close into fists and she rises up onto her toes. "Clumsly males," she shouts. Her face is red with exertion and emotion, but her expression is triumphant. Kloveth aims for an opening in the crowd of males surrounding her. Beating her wings to catch more height, it's suddenly apparent that she's tired, and that her energy is flagging.
"You'll be soaking in the falls this night, buddy, won't you?" Clearly, that barb is for P'gin. Then R'gel grins. "And you should try the bottom sometime, having those skirts... And sacks... Above you. Giving a ride is almost as good as getting." He reaches up to smooth where his moustache used to be, act of old habit, as he continues to needle the brownrider. "I hear Jennieth is proddy. Maybe if you drug her herdbeasts, your brown might have a shot, and you'll be able to..." Pointed pause, "Work a little of that frustration you carry, out, P'jin." The blue dragon, the one doing all the work up there, is nigh well exhausted. That opting not to suck on a herdbeast... It's beginning to tell. The cagey green continues her elusive twists, and the blue who is nearly as desperate as the brownrider so many leagues below, huffs through his stamina in a vague turn to her barrel roll, a looping turn to her drop. If the green goes any lower, Jayth's not sure he can regain any altitude. Suddenly, the older blue's holding-back...Makes...So...Much... Sense. F'ren's pep talk for his dragon does catch R'gel's attention; the bluerider's baritone drawls a touch of humor, "Maybe oil him more and he'll /slide/ through the air faster."
All those dragons getting carried and Chadamalith is as calm and collected as if he's just out for a nighttime flight. Like there's nothing going on at all. He watches the males posture and jostle, but even if he's only been chasing for just under a turn he knows what that brings. It brings nothing but mishap. No, not for the large blue who only drops his altitude down just a wee bit to keep an eye on everyone. He watches Kloveth most of all, but those others are not unwatched. And Javeri just stands there near the entrance to the weyr. She's got no dick to wave so doesn't waste her breath.
Beynth had closed the gap significantly before the green entered that barrel roll, while conserving his strength through a downward drift. He's therefore in an excellent position to warn his blue brethen away with a growl that rapidly crescendos to a roar, and drop a few dragonlengths to take up the hunt again, nearly on top of the female angling for an opening. His wingbeats are still sure and steady, fueled not only by his earlier kill but by the superior stamina of a brown and his calculated descent. His rider's salacious grin reflects his brown's confidence in his tactfully-flown flight, and gives him the buoyancy to answer R'gel with, "I don't need any advice from you, on women or dragons. You're just shielding for that useless blue of yours. I'm sure its he who has thought about drugging the herdbeasts--for his own benefit." He lifts one edge of his snarl in an almost-smile. "Besides, you should hear what Firen has to say about me." Half a moment later, his eyes widen and he shuts up; now why might that be?
The bickering is really starting to get on F'ren's nerves, though he -- in a monumental display of self-control -- doesn't lash out. All of his bickering right now is with his own dragon, and himself, and he's moved it from a quantum state of entanglement -- both outside and inside at once -- firmly to a space within his own mind. He's not managed to find any alcohol, and as Haraith makes one last burst, desperate now to get the pretty green, the bluerider can feel the energy threatening to abanding the dragon completely, that encroaching exhaustion now beginning to manifest in him as well. His shoulders slump a bit, and he readies himself for yet another night of frustration. Five flights, and no catches. And now sexual frustration stacked neatly atop his irritation. Lovely day, isn't it?
Though tired, Kloveth isn't ready to concede defeat /just/ yet. She beats her wings against the air, determined to gain altitude and escape the pressing mob of blues and brown. The stars start winking into place in the sky above, wherever the thick black-and-grey cloud cover parts, calling her to fly ever higher toward them. Kloveth labors upward and Ilora strains with her, grey-green eyes not seeing the stone ceiling above her.
"Firem. How /is/ -he-?" R'gel queries, though he concentrates a little more than he'd like to show, on holding that wall up, through Jayth's twists and turns. Shadows pursue in the starry sky, glints of blue and brown and green now and then layering over the greys of moving forms, the blackness of distant land. But Beyth's roar shatters Jayth's concentration; the blue drops significantly. Tight-voiced, R'gel continues, "Thought you were a lady's man, P'gin. Heard Firem likes the..." A weak wrist is displayed, waggled around... "Type." After a throat clearing that follows Jayth's low-voiced call to Kloveth, R'gel eyes both F'ren, who didn't respond to his verbal poke, and the quiet woman by the door, whose dragon appears to have more sense than the other three put together. Good thing that one is PC. Once more, the surge of desperation, calling on his initial and delusional claim on the green, Jayth lashes forward, wing and tail seeming both to drive him forward, with the added bit of drama of air-clawing. Then he's there, somewhere near her. With time-honored instinct being only that, that guides him, the little blue whips his tail forward, tries to snare the green's longest appendage, while he'll slash a wing toward her left, to attempt a foul there, as well.
With patience and observation comes a time to act. Chadamalith's ready for when Kloveth falters and with as much speed as his bulk can get he dives down and after the green. He knows where the others are and does his best to anticipate where they might be as well. It's all in the planning. All in the waiting. All in just going with the flow and finding the right way to behave. When he dives Javeri clenches her hands into fists and stares at the sky like she's going to burn a hole in it. With any luck it'll be over and she can go back to what she was doing.
As luck or planning would have it, that granite brown shadow above the green is surging forward and about to strike, even as she streaks upward toward the stars. Beynth relies now on a ferocious combination of placement, a forceful foward thrust, and striking fear in the hearts of his fellow chasers. If he gets it right, he'll collide with his target before any of the others manage to, sweeping her not off her feet, but out of the sky. P'jin is ready to do the same--sweeping Ilora off her feet that is--in the weyr, shifting so that he's ready to catch her if his dragon makes good on his lunge. That is, until R'gel's talk percolates through the tiny channel still open to his brain. "It was just a flight..." he defends weakly, "Nothing I could do about it." The shrimp angles back toward Ilora, desperation giving him the strength to ignore the other riders for now.
Haraith darts beside Chadamalith, though the blue is smaller. Lighter. Weaker. Still, it is with the desperation borne of going on a half-dozen futile flights, coupled with his rider's ill-disguised irritation with his methods, along with a healthy dose of 'wanting that damn blue' which all combine to give the dragon energy it otherwise shouldn't have, so lightly did he feed before the rising due to a misplaced sense of intellect. Haraith thought he was -smarter- than the other dragons, but at the moment he's just proving to be an overthinker. One thing he -- and F'ren -- do have going for them at the moment, however, is that desperation. Adrenaline. Want. Need. He makes his move, for good or ill. Down below, F'ren leans against the wall, leans his head back and slaps, hard, the palms of his hands to the cold stone to either side of him.
Wings and necks and tails come close, but not quite close enough. They won't grab her /that/ easily! Kloveth folds her wings to drop away from Chadamalith's attempt to catch her. When Beynth gets too close, a whip-like flick of her tail cracks smartly across his hide. Kloveth catches a gust of wind to tumble away from Haraith but then she loses track of where she is in relation to the others and she neatly collides with Jayth -- and she is too tired to fight any longer. Besides, he /is/ rather handsome, brave, and strong.
"Thanks," Javeri tells the sky lowly. Thanks to Chadamalith for losing. What a clever lad. She makes her way from the weyr to go find the blue that put her first. There's celebratory commiserating to do. With fruit!
Where: The bowl, sky, and guest weyr
When: Dusk on day 2, month 12, turn 19
What: Kloveth's maiden flight draws an assortment of dragons. One of them is Chadamalith who behaves typically.
Ianna gives careful consideration to each person on Ilora's list, and decides, "Well, you can just cross your fingers and hope for the boss's forgiveness. I may check in the kitchen as I head over for dinner, just to make sure they don't hate you there. As far as the Healers go, just don't break a leg any time soon and you'll be fine. Sailors? Well, if they warranted it, that's their problem. They need a nice tongue-lashing every now and again to keep them on their toes." As she glances once more toward the entrance to the caverns, an Istan brownrider exits them and begins across the bowl. "Shells, not him. Sorry, Ilora, but I need to disappear, and fast." With no further explanation, she's gone, hurrying in the opposite direction.
Taking advantage of the waning light of the setting sun, Ilora is sitting cross-legged on a bench against the wall of the Bowl. In her lap are her riding straps, and the needle flashing in her hand tells any observer that she's mending them. But, unusually for her, Ilora is fidgety. Every few seconds her right foot jiggles rapidly, until the vibrations cause her to stop mending and glare at the offending extremity until it ceases. Then she shifts her position slightly and mutters to herself. "I feel like I want to crawl out of my own skin, here." Finally, she puts the mending down - slams it next to her on the bench, actually - and sits back with a huff, crossing her arms and glaring at nothing in particular. The foot starts jiggling again.
Kloveth, asleep in a patch of sun, seems to be glowing from within. The lush green color of her hide suddenly looks exactly like an emerald when held up to the light - vividly brilliant - and the darker sable stripes which overlay that verdant color take on a life of their own, the intense green an alluring call to all interested blues, browns, and bronzes.
Blue Jayth is an interested blue. Interested, and he's been lurking nearby, where the sunset catches the dashes of yellow and aquamarine in his own hide. Those colors, garishly clash with the livid purple Jayth's eyes have turned. The blue eases himself from the too-still position of predatory hunter, which he's assumed, to allow himself the slightest stretch, to initiate movement back into his limbs that have begun to cramp in their enforced and ready stillness. The arrival of other dragons elicits a hiss from Jayth. He's /been/ here. He was watching from ground floor. This one is his. Jayth's rider, R'gel, was eating a bit of cheese rolled up in a thin slice of meat, within the living cavern proper. At Jayth's jittering mental hostility, unlike the usually cheery blue, R'gel rises, downs his klah, and after a moment's consultation, turns to head out into the bowl.
He's no lady's man is Chadamalith. At least not in the way that some are. He notices when a green is ready to go up most certainly, but he does not belittle himself or her by fawning over her. No, that's not the blue's way. Instead he simply watches. There's an empty ledge for him to perch on and perch he does. How interesting is this? Obviously more interesting for him than his rider who is nowhere to be seen at the moment. She'll turn up eventually. She always does. For now he just watches with the air of someone not that concerned with any of it. All in time.
That brownrider who drove Ianna away by simply walking out of the living cavern makes his sauntering way across the bowl, his gaze already locked on Ilora. P'jin has shortly fetched up right in front of the greenrider on her bench, and he bestows upon her a slimy smile. "You look like you got something bothering you, darlin'. Can I"--he pauses with weighty significance--"help you with anything?" His nearly black eyes stare down at her with what he probably thinks is charm, but it really just ends up being kind of creepy. His brown Beynth has just launched from his ledge, high above the bowl, and begins circling downward, the nearly-set sun highlighting his harsh angles and unusually dark coloring.
Haraith, too, is.... interested, to put it mildly. Having been a rider for plenty long enough to be able to pick up on the cues given by his bond, he finds himself here, along with that selfsame blue. Hopping down from a ledge, where the dragon has started to preen himself anxiously, the bluerider stands there for the moment... watching. He doesn't say a word for the nonce.
Suddenly, Kloveth awakes, and Ilora's awareness of the state of her dragon's mind causes all the blood to drain from her face. "Oh," she breathes out, suddenly understanding what's about to happen. Springing to her feet, Kloveth lets out a clarion note - at once a warning to other greens to stay away, and a call of seduction to all the handsome blues and browns and bronzes. Ilora leaps to her feet in the same instant, riding straps and sewing supplies flying from her lap, her surroundings completely forgotten, all of her concentration centered on her life-mate's fierce urges. Her eyes are wild, unfocused, and her breathing is harsh and rapid. She's a bit too preoccupied to answer P'jin's question, and moves past him a few steps, eyes on the green.
Casual, R'gel's padding through the dust-motes that waft in the last rays of the slanting sun. Casual, and toward his Jayth. The rider notes P'jin... Being P'jin, and he does not bother to suppress rolling his eyes. The lurking blue, overhead, is also assessed, and the mental comment to his own dragon, about Chadamalith's readiness, and experience, precipitates a jerk from Jayth, distracts him that split second from Kloveth's first movements. So it is that Jayth's a touch behind, and Kloveth's summons actually launches the spring-tight blue a bit off the ground, wings flaring in what may be display, as he tries to make his touch-down look...At least a little graceful. Jayth, paranoid, swings his own muzzle around, to again hiss at the other males, while R'gel makes his way over toward the green's rider. Boots cut through the silty episoil with a few scuffs, as he comes to a stop some distance from the brownrider, but where he might be visible to the greenrider.
Yep. That's what they do. Chadamalith, for all he's not so old has been chasing for awhile. Often and frequently. There's still no sign of his rider, but he's just not concerned. She knows. She never doesn't show up. Through it all he flexes his wings and watches not Kloveth now, but the other male dragons who've been lurking about. They earn all his attention. In the end he'll just keep watching. Until they're all in the air. The big blue never lets anyone else be last in the air.
P'jin recoils for a moment when Ilora ignores him entirely--though it's not a new reaction, given his track record. He's soon back in action, though, trailing and then catching up with the girl. Now that she's standing, it's apparent the top of his slick black hair doesn't even reach her eyes. "Hush now, love, it'll be alright. No need for concern." He stuffs his oozing tone with what is supposed to pass for comforting sounds, while his eyes trace her up and down. Beynth now lands not far from Jayth, and is already bristling, muscles bunching and stretching beneath his granite-traced dark hide.
Half-flying, half-running, Kloveth makes it to the feeding grounds and savagely pounces on a hapless herdbeast. Ripping into its neck, she nearly tears its head off in her eagerness to get at the blood which spurts in great gouts from the severed vein. "No!" Ilora cries out, preventing the green from eating the meat. "You must not!" But she still possesses some sense, and stumbles into the Guest Weyr, knowing what's going to happen. For just a moment, she looks over the gathered riders, strangers all, her large grey-green eyes standing out in the pale expanse of her face. She looks slightly terrified, but mostly resigned.
Ignoring... that's not what =F'ren- is doing, speaking of that term. He is watching P'jin right now, actually, a slow smile breaking his aqualine features. He arches a brow at the , but when Ilora cries out, his eyes widen a bit, eyes nailing themselves to her, and he nods, tonguing the inside of one cheek. "Ah... this is her first," he says, to no one in particular, "Lovely."
Half-flying, half-running, Kloveth makes it to the feeding grounds and savagely pounces on a hapless herdbeast. Ripping into its neck, she nearly tears its head off in her eagerness to get at the blood which spurts in great gouts from the severed vein. "No!" Ilora cries out, preventing the green from eating the meat. "You must not!" But she still possesses some sense, and stumbles into the Guest Weyr, knowing what's going to happen. For just a moment, she looks over the gathered riders, strangers all, her large grey-green eyes standing out in the pale expanse of her face. She looks slightly terrified, but mostly resigned.
"She's not listening to you, P'jin." R'gel's tones could dry soup to powder as he shifts and studies Ilora. "She's doing fine, knows what she's about, here. And I can see how you might love her. Suppose it's reciprocal, buddy?" Perhaps his blue's edginess is rubbing off on R'gel; the bluerider smirks at the brownrider. Jayth, for the second time, flares into the air, a bubbly launch and jittery trail after Kloveth. He, however, does not opt to take a beast. "Last time, see," R'gel explains, distracted now and perhaps voicing Jayth's logic, "Got left behind, still blooding the beast, when the gal took off. This time...We'll... Just be... Hungry." With that, and a wink at P'jin, a grin at F'ren, R'gel will follow the greenrider into the ground weyr. "This time..."
Look at them go. Kloveth there in the pens which is not what Chadamalith is interested in. The beasts are of no concern right now to him. No blooding and no leaping into the air. Not yet. Still on the ledge he watches though and sees who goes for a beast and who does not. It's all taken in and he just watches. Where Javeri is? She's not here just yet. She must be close because as soon as the other males are in the air Chadamalith will take to the skies. Surely she'll be there then?
Beynth's reaction to the green's leap is nearly instantaneous. He's soon aloft, his long wings snapping even as the brilliant violet whirling of his eyes picks up in speed and intensity. He hovers over the corral for a few moments, considering his selection carefully, the highlights of the dying sun on his hide only serving to deepen the darkness of the brown shadows in contrast. Then he decides, and it's a blur of brown motion that snaps the herdbeast's neck before the creature even has time to startle. His ferocity as he rips into his kill is suddenly matched by a similar mien in his rider. P'jin snaps upright, his previous grin replaced by a grimace of a smile, focused intently on Ilora. The interruption from R'gel is certainly unwanted; he snarls, "You're just jealous," before striding after the greenrider into the guest weyr.
Haraith is watching Kloveth now, his eyes sparkling with thoughts which bring an aiming of F'ren's emerald gaze to his dragon. And then, prefaced by the slightest of nods from the bluerider as a silent dialogue continues between the two, the Haraith takes to the sky. He's not going far, but he is positioning himself to get a decent shot when the race proper is on. It is now that F'ren approaches Ilora, considering her with an undisguised interest which borders on lust. He's a cocky fellow, and unabashedly languid, sensual in the way he moves. He is about to say something to her when Kloveth again gets his attention, and the rider frowns deeply, looking from dragon, to beast pen, to green. "You'd think it was -his- bloody first time," he says, his first words to Ilora.
Kloveth raises her head and hisses at the nearest dragon, her eyes a-whirl with possession and fierce hunger. "Mine," Ilora hisses, too, her fingers hooked like claws. Kloveth lowers her head back to the herdbeast, and carefully licks away all the blood from the wound. This done, the carcass holds no interest for her, and she tosses it away. Wings outstretched, neck arched, tail waving enticingly, she poses for the males, letting them take a good long look at the prize they'll soon be competing for. Ilora, caught in her dragon's turbulent emotions, can only sway on her feet where she stands. A low moan is forced past her lips and she shudders, overwhelmed.
"Hopelessly jealous. Oh yes. I'd love to be a short fellow who can't manage to bed anyone outside of greenflights. Pity me." R'gel, of course. He's one of those tall, lean, green-eyed sorts that has no problem finding bedmates. He finds his blue's lack of success in greenflights...Amusing, really. But Jayth. Wants. That. Green. Strategy. It's all about strategy, isn't it? The lean and small blue launches, this time taking the tact of the other blue, to get a head start by ascending early. Interception of the object is tactically more likely, if Jayth can match her initial speed, and be closer to her when she wears out. He launches out of the feeding pen, out of the flurry of frantic wings and dust and lowing of herdbeasts, and rises to a ledge some couple good dragonlengths above, where he can stare down at Kloveth. "Here." The words thought by the dragon, are echoed through his rider, into the ground weyr.
Now. Now that Chadamalith's ready to launch himself in the air Javeri appears. She's been on the beach and she's just not real happy looking. "Sharding idiot," she says and if she means her blue or maybe the greenrider it's impossible to say. The rest of the riders are looked at and she lets out a sigh. "Sharding /idiot/," she repeats once it dawns on her she's the only one there other than Ilora that's not a guy. Her spot. The spot she /always/ takes when stuck during a flight is right by the entrance to the weyr. Her eyes lift overhead and she watches the sky even if the dragons are out of sight. Arms fold over her chest and she watches. Other people? Not important. Since Kloveth's on the ground Chadamalith maintains his ledge. His eyes do track Haraith when the other blue finds the air already. Ho hum. Look. Another's gone up. How intriguing.
It is not the luminous green that Beynth watches, after a sharp, lustful glance in her direction, but his competitors. Rapidly finished with his only blooding, he eyes the circling blues with unconcealed competitiveness. While they take to the skies, however, he remains crouched, preparing to add the strength of his spring to the speed with which he will pursue his quarry. P'jin, with none of his dragon's deathly grace or stillness, stomps into the weyr and takes a position that might be uncomfortably close to Ilora. It is R'gel, however, that he addresses. "Yes, jealous. That hopelessly bungling blue of yours has no chance." His gaze is a weaker, watery reflection of his brown's, eying each of the others in turn.
The principal mistake made by Haraith on this day is the fact that he hasn't eaten nearly enough. Again, overconfidence, believing, perhaps, that if he is less weighed-down by a full belly, he will be faster. Of course, that will initially be true, but the rider of thea still fairly young dragon -- several unsuccessful chases under his belt in these few years or no -- has extrapolated. F'ren realizes, with a muttered curse, that his dragon is not going to have enough strength for this, unless something miraculous happens. And so, despite the fact that he's aroused, agitated, and needy, he moves -away- from Ilora for the moment, considering the similarly confident -- but with good reason, perhaps -- P'jin as he addresses R'jel.
Gathering her hind legs beneath her, Kloveth finally springs into the air, the broad sweep of her wings propelling her upward like an arrow shot from a bow. There is nothing more glorious than this feeling, wings cupping air, the world passing beneath like a tapestry. She issues a defiant scream at the males who follow. Ilora is standing on the ground, but her awareness of the fact is minimal. She is with Kloveth. "Can't catch /me/," she cries out scornfully. Her arms fling out to the sides, and she slowly spins in place, keeping the men and woman surrounding her at bay as she soars with her dragon.
"Probably not." R'gel agrees, easily to P'jin's insult. "But I've a chance -outside- a flight, sir." Just the edges of a smirk curl up R'gel's lips. "So you'd better be begging your beast to work his wiles on her; I doubt you'll ever see her bed any other way." Finally, R'gel will send a look over to the woman in question, lost in her own dragon. Jayth, then, seeing the green take to the air, launches himself from the ledge he's chosen (a good thing, as the resident bronze appears to be on his way 'home', having noticed the interloper on /his/ ledge, from across the bowl), and with the power of his hindquarter's thrust combined with arching of narrow wingsails, Jayth's in the air, and tilting himself into the chase with a wailing call after Kloveth. R'gel loses his balance, in his dragon's launch, and sidesteps so that he can press a hand against the cool hard solidarity of a wall. He blinks himself away from his dragon's whirling mind, to focus on F'ren for a moment. Then Ilora, and her arm-stretched spin. Finally, the image of Javeri swims into his vision, and R'gel will twist something that in other days might resemble a smile, toward her. Losing flights isn't always all bad; there's only one winning dragon, but the riders of the other dragons are also looking for... Something.
There she goes. But Chadamalith remains. The ledge has no current owner, but then this blue would take care to determine such a thing before perching there. Up she goes. There goes the other males. All of them are observed by the blue with an arrogant cast to his features. It's not time yet. It's not time until it is and when the time comes, when the other chasers are up and after the green he launches himself and gains altitude always watching all of them. Kloveth and her suitors are kept in view while he hangs back. No need to get close. Not yet. It's not time yet. Javeri watches them go and her eyes close for a moment when she feels the air under her blue's wings. She doesn't speak, doesn't look, when her eyes open they're on the sky watching with him. Since she misses R'gel's look he's spared a cutting remark. And Ilora's behavior? Well, she's aware enough to mutter, "Stupid first timers," to herself.
Beynth's leap is an aggresive challenge directly to the others who would give chase: he flares his wings and snaps his tail with unmitigated brutality, just daring them to match the power of his spring and the immediacy of his flight. As dusk deepens, he is cloaked further in darkness, but he makes no attempt to be sly about his chase. For the barest of moments, right when his brown launches, P'jin is just as barbrous and almost as fierce, but then he has to slither backwards, away from Ilora's whirling. Though clearly not immune to R'gel's comments, judging by his spiteful stare, he simply shakes his head. He's attempting to achieve an aloof superiority but merely managing to look desperate.
F'ren isn't at all interested in the machismo floating around the cavern. He's bloody worked up, all right, but violence, or intimated violence, isn't the release he's looking for. And seeing as how his wonderful, blue lifemate is doing his own thing and -not- listening to him in the slightest right now, the bluerider is beginning to think that the only embrace he is going to end up finding by the end of the evening is in a bottle or a mug. He doesn't -ask- if anybody knows where alcohol could be had in short order, as doing so might pull him into the penis-waving, and he's getting to the point where he's so irritated with Haraith that he just wants to take the hit quickly: Watch his oh-so-prepared bondmate flame out not terribly spectacularly, find some booze, and maybe... -maybe- get lucky enough to score some tail -somewhere- in this blasted weyr. Overhead, the blue in question has given chase, and is convinced that sheer speed alone is going to be enough.
Surrounded by males, Kloveth knows what it is that they want - but she isn't ready to give it, not yet. Almost contemptuously, she folds her wings and plummets past them. "Too slow!" Ilora howls, her back arching, arms widespread, an unconscious mimicry of Kloveth, who suddenly snaps her wings open again. The speed she gained in her free-fall rockets her past her fastest suitors, and the sudden catching of wind lifts her. She turns her head around to look at them, and screams again. It's a challenging call, a blatant dare.
The moon's wane light, yet unable to shed its true brilliance until Rukbat has fully set, still glitters over the pale streaks in Jayth's sapphire hide. Of course the dragon's way is illuminated by dusky-purple eyes that are directed, ever, toward Kloveth. While his rider lounges about in the ground weyr, picking at Beyth's rider, Jayth determines to do battle for both of them. Battle with the wind, with gravity, with the twists and turns that green will no doubt do. Chin up, fierce in will and strong in limber lines that cast forth, ever through the air, Jayth perseveres, follows, trying to claim space that separates himself and that green. R'gel loves this part. The chase. His eyes close, and that smirk on his lips evolves into a slight smile, deep breath drawn in. Pheramones, human musk here, the scents that can make one mad, permeate into his brain. Above, high above, Jayth does as bidden and inhales deeply as well. Dragon-lust. He is rewarded in his struggle to steal Kloveth's distance, by a surge in the chemicals that the wind strips from the proddy green. "So." R'gel murmurs, just loud enough to be heard, "P'gin. Got a back-up plan? Some little drudgey in the lower caverns, waiting for you?" Oops. Jayth just did a 180 that leaves R'gel's stomach somewhere in his throat, and the little blue dives after the prize, yowling now, like some caged feline in heat.
There's no reason to get carried away at all. No need to dart and chase and wear oneself out. No, there's the time for chasing and the time for more tidy watching. Chadamalith observes it all and shares it with his rider who lets out a laugh without looking over her shoulder. Javeri doesn't need to see the other people. Not with her blue showing her what goes on in the sky. From that she can extrapolate the rest. They can both see it all from his vantage point. When action is called for he'll be ready. But all in good time always.
The sheer force of inertia means that Beynth's powerful bulk is carried well past the point where Kloveth plummetted. His transition from forward thrust to downward spiral, however, is seemless. And spiral he does, too large to maneuver past the darting blues around him, but unphased and still vicious. Any who come too close receive a snarling snap, but the ruthlessness of his piercing purple gaze should be enough to warn them away first. With so much attention for his enemies, it would appear impossible for him to focus well on the green, but he manages to track her more or less from above, awaiting some mistake while gradually drafting toward her. His rider is nowhere near as restrained, eyes locking on Ilora with unmitigated desire until R'gel drags his focus away. Now he's spitting mad, and his right hand drifts toward where his belt knife luckily isn't. "No, you're the drudge-chaser, you pathetic cretin. No skirt--or sack--is beneath you." That's code, of course, for no backup. He'll be a lonely slimeball tonight if his dragon fails him. The lower cavern wenches are all immune to his "wiles," or rather, creepy stares and come-ons.
Someone else who is likely to be lonely tonight if -- strike that... -when- -- his dragon fails him is the bluerider known as F'ren. "Bloody cocksure imbecile of a dragon," he's muttering to himself, making any need for P'jin to start insulting him rather unnecessary. He does shoot a furtive look at Ilora, the frown amazingly finds a way to deepen, and then he looks up and narrows eyes as he tracks his dragon, "Prove me wrong and I'll never doubt you again." he's speaking to himself, mind, but no doubt the same conversation is happening concurrently from mind to mind, "Prove me right, and I have -no- sympathy."
Kloveth tilts her wings just so, and suddenly she's in a tight barrel roll. She looses altitude but gains speed, and has just enough control to determine where she's going to go. Ilora's hands close into fists and she rises up onto her toes. "Clumsly males," she shouts. Her face is red with exertion and emotion, but her expression is triumphant. Kloveth aims for an opening in the crowd of males surrounding her. Beating her wings to catch more height, it's suddenly apparent that she's tired, and that her energy is flagging.
"You'll be soaking in the falls this night, buddy, won't you?" Clearly, that barb is for P'gin. Then R'gel grins. "And you should try the bottom sometime, having those skirts... And sacks... Above you. Giving a ride is almost as good as getting." He reaches up to smooth where his moustache used to be, act of old habit, as he continues to needle the brownrider. "I hear Jennieth is proddy. Maybe if you drug her herdbeasts, your brown might have a shot, and you'll be able to..." Pointed pause, "Work a little of that frustration you carry, out, P'jin." The blue dragon, the one doing all the work up there, is nigh well exhausted. That opting not to suck on a herdbeast... It's beginning to tell. The cagey green continues her elusive twists, and the blue who is nearly as desperate as the brownrider so many leagues below, huffs through his stamina in a vague turn to her barrel roll, a looping turn to her drop. If the green goes any lower, Jayth's not sure he can regain any altitude. Suddenly, the older blue's holding-back...Makes...So...Much... Sense. F'ren's pep talk for his dragon does catch R'gel's attention; the bluerider's baritone drawls a touch of humor, "Maybe oil him more and he'll /slide/ through the air faster."
All those dragons getting carried and Chadamalith is as calm and collected as if he's just out for a nighttime flight. Like there's nothing going on at all. He watches the males posture and jostle, but even if he's only been chasing for just under a turn he knows what that brings. It brings nothing but mishap. No, not for the large blue who only drops his altitude down just a wee bit to keep an eye on everyone. He watches Kloveth most of all, but those others are not unwatched. And Javeri just stands there near the entrance to the weyr. She's got no dick to wave so doesn't waste her breath.
Beynth had closed the gap significantly before the green entered that barrel roll, while conserving his strength through a downward drift. He's therefore in an excellent position to warn his blue brethen away with a growl that rapidly crescendos to a roar, and drop a few dragonlengths to take up the hunt again, nearly on top of the female angling for an opening. His wingbeats are still sure and steady, fueled not only by his earlier kill but by the superior stamina of a brown and his calculated descent. His rider's salacious grin reflects his brown's confidence in his tactfully-flown flight, and gives him the buoyancy to answer R'gel with, "I don't need any advice from you, on women or dragons. You're just shielding for that useless blue of yours. I'm sure its he who has thought about drugging the herdbeasts--for his own benefit." He lifts one edge of his snarl in an almost-smile. "Besides, you should hear what Firen has to say about me." Half a moment later, his eyes widen and he shuts up; now why might that be?
The bickering is really starting to get on F'ren's nerves, though he -- in a monumental display of self-control -- doesn't lash out. All of his bickering right now is with his own dragon, and himself, and he's moved it from a quantum state of entanglement -- both outside and inside at once -- firmly to a space within his own mind. He's not managed to find any alcohol, and as Haraith makes one last burst, desperate now to get the pretty green, the bluerider can feel the energy threatening to abanding the dragon completely, that encroaching exhaustion now beginning to manifest in him as well. His shoulders slump a bit, and he readies himself for yet another night of frustration. Five flights, and no catches. And now sexual frustration stacked neatly atop his irritation. Lovely day, isn't it?
Though tired, Kloveth isn't ready to concede defeat /just/ yet. She beats her wings against the air, determined to gain altitude and escape the pressing mob of blues and brown. The stars start winking into place in the sky above, wherever the thick black-and-grey cloud cover parts, calling her to fly ever higher toward them. Kloveth labors upward and Ilora strains with her, grey-green eyes not seeing the stone ceiling above her.
"Firem. How /is/ -he-?" R'gel queries, though he concentrates a little more than he'd like to show, on holding that wall up, through Jayth's twists and turns. Shadows pursue in the starry sky, glints of blue and brown and green now and then layering over the greys of moving forms, the blackness of distant land. But Beyth's roar shatters Jayth's concentration; the blue drops significantly. Tight-voiced, R'gel continues, "Thought you were a lady's man, P'gin. Heard Firem likes the..." A weak wrist is displayed, waggled around... "Type." After a throat clearing that follows Jayth's low-voiced call to Kloveth, R'gel eyes both F'ren, who didn't respond to his verbal poke, and the quiet woman by the door, whose dragon appears to have more sense than the other three put together. Good thing that one is PC. Once more, the surge of desperation, calling on his initial and delusional claim on the green, Jayth lashes forward, wing and tail seeming both to drive him forward, with the added bit of drama of air-clawing. Then he's there, somewhere near her. With time-honored instinct being only that, that guides him, the little blue whips his tail forward, tries to snare the green's longest appendage, while he'll slash a wing toward her left, to attempt a foul there, as well.
With patience and observation comes a time to act. Chadamalith's ready for when Kloveth falters and with as much speed as his bulk can get he dives down and after the green. He knows where the others are and does his best to anticipate where they might be as well. It's all in the planning. All in the waiting. All in just going with the flow and finding the right way to behave. When he dives Javeri clenches her hands into fists and stares at the sky like she's going to burn a hole in it. With any luck it'll be over and she can go back to what she was doing.
As luck or planning would have it, that granite brown shadow above the green is surging forward and about to strike, even as she streaks upward toward the stars. Beynth relies now on a ferocious combination of placement, a forceful foward thrust, and striking fear in the hearts of his fellow chasers. If he gets it right, he'll collide with his target before any of the others manage to, sweeping her not off her feet, but out of the sky. P'jin is ready to do the same--sweeping Ilora off her feet that is--in the weyr, shifting so that he's ready to catch her if his dragon makes good on his lunge. That is, until R'gel's talk percolates through the tiny channel still open to his brain. "It was just a flight..." he defends weakly, "Nothing I could do about it." The shrimp angles back toward Ilora, desperation giving him the strength to ignore the other riders for now.
Haraith darts beside Chadamalith, though the blue is smaller. Lighter. Weaker. Still, it is with the desperation borne of going on a half-dozen futile flights, coupled with his rider's ill-disguised irritation with his methods, along with a healthy dose of 'wanting that damn blue' which all combine to give the dragon energy it otherwise shouldn't have, so lightly did he feed before the rising due to a misplaced sense of intellect. Haraith thought he was -smarter- than the other dragons, but at the moment he's just proving to be an overthinker. One thing he -- and F'ren -- do have going for them at the moment, however, is that desperation. Adrenaline. Want. Need. He makes his move, for good or ill. Down below, F'ren leans against the wall, leans his head back and slaps, hard, the palms of his hands to the cold stone to either side of him.
Wings and necks and tails come close, but not quite close enough. They won't grab her /that/ easily! Kloveth folds her wings to drop away from Chadamalith's attempt to catch her. When Beynth gets too close, a whip-like flick of her tail cracks smartly across his hide. Kloveth catches a gust of wind to tumble away from Haraith but then she loses track of where she is in relation to the others and she neatly collides with Jayth -- and she is too tired to fight any longer. Besides, he /is/ rather handsome, brave, and strong.
"Thanks," Javeri tells the sky lowly. Thanks to Chadamalith for losing. What a clever lad. She makes her way from the weyr to go find the blue that put her first. There's celebratory commiserating to do. With fruit!