Wyaeth flies Ciath at Fort Weyr. Part two.
RL Date: 10/11/07
IC Date: 10/21/13
Zahava stumbles along beside P'draig, leaning against him as he guides her in the right direction. Once there, she pulls away from him, tripping a little, but finding a seat in one of the chairs arrayed in the room, sinking down into it, her head tilting back.
Wyaeth> Above the southwest area, Loketh wings up from the Feeding grounds.
"Card?" V'delin dully repeats, a small flicker of recognition returning to his eyes. "I like to play cards. Dragonpoker, roundhand, what have you. Won't send you any, though. Get my decks from home." Clearly he'd missed enough of what was said to improvise, his legs carrying him by rote. "Moving again."
T'rien wipes the rain from his face, shaking his hand through his hair in a vague attempt to unstick it from his head and neck. The action only serves to tousel it further, giving him a just-rousted-from-bed appearance. Despite the warmth within, he lingers near the exit, hands shoved into the pockets of his riding jacket as he leans back and watches the gray-fogged sky.
After following the dazed goldrider into the small cave appointed just for this circumstance, V'ryce smiles blearily through runnels of moisture tracing over his forehead and cheeks. Following where his friend leads, Val appoints himself a second guardian of sorts over Zahava, taking a tense yet relaxed stand somewhat nearer to her -- the man simply grinning and humming tunelessly to himself as he waits.
Wyaeth> Ciath climbs dizzyingly towars the heights, passing out over the rim, letting the mating flight spill out over the mountains around the Weyr. She heads upwards at a shallow angle, her direction carrying her towards Fort Hold and the low-lying lands around. Her lithe form allows her to twist away from the premature advance of a young bronze, moving with more agility in the skies than he expected. She quickly returns to her intended course, though she redoubles her efforts to leave all of her persuers behind, frequently checking their proximity as they sort themselves out behind her. As she surges forward, she leaves the mountains behind, soon soaring above lower hills as they move farther from the high peaks of the Weyr. The weight of the meat in her belly seems to have kept her from rising as high as she might have otherwise, but the course has compensated for it, the land falling away below.
E'rik draws a sharp intake of breath as suddenly all the dragons launch up. He looks away from his lifemate just in time to follow behind the other dragons. He stumbles slightly, managing to regain his footing before falling flat on his face. Somewhere he finds a place to stand out of the way, his unseeing gaze on Zahava.
N'thei deduces jovially, "And you're sure you play with a full deck? Or conversation just eludes you presently?" Moving again. He lets Zahava and her lean-tos get a fair distance ahead of him before falling in near the back of the pack, leaves himself with a little extra time to toss a look over his shoulder as Wyaeth wheels back around on the right course. In out of the rain, side-stepped out of the entrance, he pulls his thumb off his bottle, wipes it across his thigh, and tastes the sticky-sweet contents with his eyes mostly clenched.
P'draig squeezes her shoulder briefly as he steps away to find a spot against the wall to lean against. He seeks out E'rik then and clears his throat, voice going rough now that his own control is starting to slip, the closeness of his bond with Jekzith ramming through any restraint and tearing away that which makes Paddy, Paddy and leaves only a dragon's need staring out of the brownrider's eyes. "Hang in there," he advises the younger brownrider, then subsides into silence, chin dropping to chest as he does what he typically does during flights: lets go, goes within and shuts everything else out until the end.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth struggles against the rain, the unfamiliar aerial terrain, and his late start. He arcs a long, too-slow loop back until he's got Ciath in his sights once again, then hunkers down with his head just below the horizon of his 'sails. With water splattering in his eyes, sheeting off his desert-blasted hide, he angles toward the queen to make up for his bad beginning. The queen's lack of altitude, her full belly, is a saving grace.
Wyaeth> Cavoth slips over the rim of the weyr in pursuit, his powerful wingbeats bringing him to a height equal to that of the fleeing gold. He lingers behind, his strength lying in endurance rather than speed as he keeps up the chase, following Ciath past the mountains and into the hill country. He's gone silent, for now, keeping his peace as he conserves his massive quantities of energy, belly light from a quick blooding yet full of energy from the warmth of the kills.
Wyaeth> Jostling is a preferred activity of Imirath, and where threats and snaps and growling rumbles fail, his bulk helps to clear his way in a more direct fashion. However, his indulgence below has placed him near the rear of the pack, intense wingbeats promising early strain on his translucent sails if he doesn't demonstrate restraint. Heeding the burning, he resorts to more subtle tactics like remaining airborne and seeking genial currents among the wind and threatening rains.
Wyaeth> Loketh glories in flight, both his own and Ciath's, the great bronze warbling his joy to the thinning Fortian air. He knows the meat within the whisper-fleet lady will not aid her swiftness, but he doesn't underestimate her, either. No, Loketh grew up with Ciath, and he knows her rather well. As the delicate gold swirls and rises, so does he, utilizing strong muscles to drive him onward to keep pace with her bewitching form. The mountains, hills provide an autumn lushness -- their divergent tones only accenting Ciath's splendid hide.
Wyaeth> Seith slowly but surely gains his height, his attention fully on the glowing speck growing further away in the distance. He seems unconcerned by the distance between the two as he maneuvers through the unfamiliar currents. He darts between a bronze and brown ahead of him, darting forward and up.
Wyaeth> Jekzith swings higher and higher, course changed to match the guiding star that is Ciath. His shadow spreads over the neat fields outside of the Hold and brief trumpet of greeting sent towards Harper Hall for some reason and then he focuses back on the flight itself, pushing onward on fleet wings. As always he is so full of delight at the feeling of the flight itself, that he is all joy, all happiness as he speeds onward, not much in the way of intensity or lust broadcast outward, only elation.
Wyaeth> Solath is engrossed with the imagery that Ciath plays before him, a sun setting to leave them all in a dismal regret, a regret that would fester without her wings beside them - beside him. He ached as he watched her skim the clouds, unable to reach the heights her fury should be able to take her. It was such a beautifully macabre sight, her conquest of the highest skies defeated but her course still so stern and proud - precise. It riled this coffee light brown up, his wing muscles pushing harder, his tail twists quicker - changes in his flight pattern sudden to keep up with the female's choosen course. The crowds above were moving closer to him though, and with one wrong move, one of the other males could cut him off from the path of his intended direction. The shadows below did not phase him even though he knew his proximity to the sharp peaks, he dared not veer his gaze from the streak of light for he could lose it. His muscles worked in unison, his wings thrown forward as much as possible, whipped back in his deep wing sweeping thrusts. His speed allotted him a place in the front of the pack, drifting on the outside to forego his entrappment or entanglement with the wrong dragon.
E'rik's brown eyes snap to P'draig. His own voice is rough as he clears his through a few times before saying. "Hanging in there, sir." he manages a lopsided grin. A deep breath is taken in slowly and exhaled slowly, his emotions all tangled up inside. To Zahava he can't stop looking, watching. "Soon." he murmurs though it's a comment that was mostly said quietly to his lifemate.
V'delin blinks, shaking his head enough to return an awareness to his sharp blue eyes. "Presently," he settles for quelling any ire in laughter, "I beg the cause of distraction. Though others might not call your observation out of line; I do fly in the wing that plans to test-fly luminescent clothing at night." He, too, takes advantage of the halt to gulp his rain-flavored ale, then steps inside, shuddering off the caress of raindrops and casting a quick glance about for Zahava, the first indication of his concern for her wellbeing hastily hidden in a veneer of lust.
Zahava's grey-green eyes are vacant, her whole vital force aloft in the skies, rushing away from the Weyr as swiftly as Ciath's wings can carry thim. Every so often her lips press together or part as though on a word, but her throat never gives voice to them.
N'thei tries very very hard to reason through V'delin's words, even while he's finally given over to having his eyes pinned on poor Zahava, one girl in a wash of testosterone. Eventually, after another tight sip, he just gives up on 'luminescent clothing;' "Why?" Never looking away from the goldrider, he holds the bottle toward V'delin-- or to anyone who happens to be quicker than V'delin and also in arm's reach.
Wyaeth> Now well out of sight of Fort Weyr, rolling hills distant beneath the flight of the dragons - almost invisible in the worsening rain, Ciath veers to the right, trying to lose some of her suitors in the decreased visibility of the darkened skies and dismal light as the rain grows thicker, pounding against thick hide. Her pale golden form summons them to greater efforts, though those who've tired most quickly, fallen behind, have likely given up and begun their return. She snakes her head under a wing for a moment to check their positions, watching a brown dwindle out of sight and vanish as he gives up the chase.
V'ryce is rather vacant-eyed, too, his body tied to Loketh's, his actions a subtle mimicry of his lifemate's. But never does he lose track enough to stray far from Zahava's side, though his smile is upturned to the rocky ceiling.
Sal'ros eventually comes in behind the rest of the crew, having tried to stem his feet from carrying him in this direction, but being unable to do so as his dragon was captivated in the chase - and he too should be. Although, as he broke through the flight cave's entrance, his eyes shook off the in depth connection with his dragon, a grimace on his face as he has to stand by someone else, presently that happens to be T'rien. Sal says nothing though, keeping his hands in his pocket, letting the rain drip dry off of him.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth lets Imirath plow through the back of the pack for him. He shadows the stockier bronze's right wing, a few lengths behind, and only gradually increasing his speed to draw nearer. Despite what it will cost him in precious energy later, he rumbles a much-obliged grunt, a friendly counterpoint to Imirath's threats. He fills the space left by the brown now spiralling back to the Weyr, a brief gleam of gunmetal-gray and barren-bronze for Ciath's backward glance.
Wyaeth> Cavoth is not poetry in motion. He is not graceful or slick. He simply /is/. He is Cavoth - sure and steady, soaring through the drifts of rain toward that little patch of sunshine directly ahead of him. His wings carry him ever-closer, leaving the faster dragons behind as their stamina begins to wane. A slight dip to the right and he's on her scent, never faltering, attention riveted, pursuing out of hope that his wings might just entangled hers and keep her from falling.
Wyaeth> Seith boasts to be a larger size of brown, thinking he can do much outside of his limits. He reaches into his energy gained by the blood of the beasts within the feeding grounds and he uses that to push himself further into the sky. He drives himself against the propelling rain that hurdles from the heavens as if in an effort to stop him, an Istan brown, from catching up and drawing near to the sweet, sweet gold ahead. A merry chase she's leading them on so far and his sole concentration is on keeping up with the others and her in sight.
T'rien's eyes seem to refocus for the moment, all that /he/ is presently contained therein. This chase is for Cavoth, not for him and, although he gives a brief glance and nod to Sal'ros as he stands next to him, his eyes drift away from the exit and the sky beyond toward Zahava. His lips part, as if he's about to say something, then close as he shakes his head, reconsidering.
Wyaeth> Keeping to the rear of the foremost group of suitors, Loketh drafts off them, letting his preceeders do more of the work up keeping up with glorious Ciath for him. His large form cuts through the deepening dim light, the growing pound of rain with a seeming carelessness -- the hunter quiet and patient on the trail of his beloved, for now. Long wings cup and stroke the heavy air with a strange, predatory grace, never letting him fall far behind, never letting his sibling too far from the hope of a sudden surge to win her over.
Wyaeth> Jekzith is long and lean, an arrow in flight, sure-winged and fleet, matching Ciath's course changes. He's tempered the impulsiveness that used to have him chewing up all his energy early in flights from when he was younger, with time and experience. However, it's a big pack and there's some rowdy younger browns in there. Two of them get into it a little and one of them gets knocked off course, jostling Jekzith on his way by. Knocked off course and spirling out of control for a few wingbeats, when the motley brown gets control again, it's too late. He's fallen too far down and with a mournful bugle, drops down and back to the Weyr.
Wyaeth> Onward forays Imirath, hot solder in his eyes as he ripples along the windcurrents, ill at ease with the rangy and leathery bronze who has taken up position in his shadow. Consumed with and by the competition, he may seem to have forgotten the beacon burning beyond, but for the occassional glance to determine her flight path, made rough by the pelting rain. A voracity propels him onward, his direction largely guided by the darker forms in the foreground, the dipping of one wing providing a pivot point for an angular turn in his aim to discern the slender queen's destination.
Shaken out of his flight meditation, P'draig's head lifts suddenly and awareness blinks back into his eyes, followed by visible relief. Quietly he pushes away from the wall. He pauses by T'rien to clasp the man's shoulder then he's ducking outside hastily with only a brief backward glance for Zahava and he's gone out into the rain.
Wyaeth> Solath thrives in the melancholia the weather produces, in fact the dragon seems to be brought to life as he taps into his resources, letting the blood from the beasts he killed (even the unsightly one) drive the lust for the queen straight to his head - his eyes liquifying with it as he navigates through a skyscape perfect for his mentality. He races toward the gathering gloom, keeping his gaze fixated to the brief glimpse of light that is slowly dimming now that the rain shields her, the clouds misting lower as he rides the shadow of the day. In a daring move that could make or break his attempts, he splits from the front pack of competitors, using his strength to propel him forward - so that he's riding a line parallel to Ciath - but still at a distance. Abruptly he changes courses again, veering dangerously in front of a few bronzes, but his method worked enough to gain him a dragon length or two from where he was.
Wyaeth> Ciath begins to tease the dwindling pack of beaus who've managed to keep up with the initial long endurance race. She slows suddenly as she rises steeply, letting those closest to her overshoot her position, testing their strategies. She arcs to the south, and a siren call drifts back to the males, urging them on, enticing and demanding at once. Eddies trail off her wings as her passage disturbs the downpour of rain, drenching her as though in attempt to extinguish her brilliance. Her escape is no longer quite as swift as it was in the first portion of the flight. She arcs again, heading east towards the sea, allowing more of the males to approach her as the move trades forward motion for sidelong.
V'delin's not moving with rapidity or grace, but that bottle of sweetened tonic promises better than his rain-soaked ale, so he takes it, a hasty thanks before a swig's taken of the delicate dessert wine's contents, the Reachian rider's query lost entirely. "Sweet," he cleverly comments. "Bet she's sweet, too. When she's not being sour." He chuckles roughly, voice catching in his throat, as though he's clever. "Drink, Sal? T'rien?" comes though the drink's not his to offer.
Zahava's breath comes faster as though it were her own limbs propelling her through the air, her own body drawing on the blood and flesh of the beasts Ciath dispatched. It is perhaps a blessing that she is unaware of those around her, not even twitching as P'draig makes his way out of the cave.
Wyaeth> Loketh lets a fraction of his attention be drawn away by Jekzith's mounful dirge, the bronze watching the older brown spiral down and away for a moment, then reclaiming the sight of Ciath far ahead. Purple spinning eyes take in Solath and Imirath about him and the others as he cranes his almond-blanched nose this way and that to size up the competition, and with the thickening fray growing about his own bulk, Lo' chooses to break from the pack some, losing a little forward motion as he climbs above the main flight, and parallels sumptuous, sleek Ciath. And then she suddenly slows a little, drawing them closer again by chance, causing Loketh a thrill that permeates him from nose to tailtips, the bronze calling back loving, eager croons to answer his sister. His own hide will not be put out by the downpour -- shining bright coppered-bronze to meld him against the autumn trees so long left behind below.
Wyaeth> Seith isn't close enough that he's in any way going to overshoot her. He is slowly but surely making his way through the suitors in the sky, gaining precious ground bit by bit. Ducking under a slower bronze, Seith uses his slightly smaller size and agility to turn on wingtip, intently following the path of the queen who suddenly seems oh so nearer. But not to near and he fights to be closer to her. Through the rain he zips on, arching with the wind some to help his movements and save some of his strength.
Sal'ros startles as someone actually speaks to him, his shared thoughts shaken as he becomes aware of the offering, his throat suddenly feeling dry as if it wasn't raining all day and there wasn't moisture to spare out in the air. The man straightens and pulls a hand out of his jacket pocket, "I'll take a splash of it, but Solath doesn't do well when I'm liquored up.. though a swig would be good right about now..." he grumbles, a hand out turned toward V'delin's offer.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth really must be made for shotgun-style strategy, just flying every which way with absolutely no finesse. A slow, easy turn would have suited just fine to keep his track on Ciath's, but he jerks and jars and first overshoots her easterly bend only to have to correct afterward with another stuttered turn. His vanity unfazed and his ardor undimmed, he splatters through the rain after the clever girl, gaining now that she's lost swiftness for all his wreckless flying.
Wyaeth> Cavoth angles himself upward, keeping the pace and growing ever-closer as the pack dwindles. Rain slices over his coppery hide as he cuts through it, unfaltering. He does not take the bait as Ciath lays it, sparing his energy, following her toward the sea. Her sideways movements bring him just behind and to the left of her and, finally, caught up in the moment, he answers her siren's call with one of his own - exuberant and heartfelt - a bugle that causes the rain before him to shimmer and fall away in tattered drapes.
E'rik barely notices the fact that P'draig has left. Now he stands alone which is fine for he knows not anyone else in here. His eyes stare unseeing at Zahava, his lips moving in silent words of encouragement to his brown up there somewhere in the skies above.
V'ryce arches and weaves his long body in harmony to Loketh's, his eyes now shut as he concentrates all his inner resources in aiding his brave soulmate. Soft sighs and subtle chuckles roll through the young man's lungs every so often.
T'rien shakes his head at V'delin's offer, eyes turning back toward the outside once more as he leans back. "Maybe later," he murmurs, the first words he's spoken since the blooding began.
N'thei retires to a space of wall, giving off the air more that he's supporting the wall that vice versa. Now empty-handed, save the mug that he dangles by its handle off his index finger, he folds his arms and lets those tranquil gray eyes meander looks at Zahava and her quickened breath, bestill his heart. "At this point, she could be no sweeter than a mouthful of brine and I doubt we'd be complaining," he mumbles, much subdued.
Wyaeth> Imirath lingers behind, distance once given not regained. He falters, hovering in a long moment between wingbeats, his strategy soon revealed when another current-riding brown is forced to veer and fight to regain position rather than collide with his extended talons. Streaming rain provides cover for the sooty bronze, momentum carrying him in her direction, his arced wing taking him below Wyaeth's jerky turn, the gold's more agile maneuvers unmatched in conservation of his strength, his course roughly aligned with yet lingering below hers.
Wyaeth> Solath rumbles in surprise when another brown comes up from below him, the coffee creamed dragon having to spin out of the way before another brown became entangled with him - narrowly missing yet anther dragon above him! The near misses were to be greeted with a mouthful of teeth that snap at the air, the brown not giving up stride yet as his avoidance rolls only put him on a better course with Ciath as she takes a turn east. Rain shears ripple down his sides as he does another twisted underhanded move that scares a fellow competitor - dropping him too from the race. It all works to line Solath up better with the easternly direction - subsequently pushing himself to the limits to make for a parallel attempt yet again, though he does have a height advantage as he's not weighed down by meat consumed, body tilted as he tries to keep steady enough so that he can make a slide side ways toward her.
V'delin releases the berry-flavored dessert wine to Sal'ros with a nod. "Had to cut back for him? I hear you." He frowns for a moment, then smirks, gaze settling on the girl of the high cheekbones and shorn blonde hair. "Mmm, isn't that the truth. Take you up on that, Wingleader, especially if Cavoth prevails." Discretion absent in the flare of hot desire, he notes, "He's been after her for turns, I'd wager."
T'rien moves his gaze from it's contemplation of the rainy sky to V'delin's face, where they focus again in an unsettling display of clarity amongst the clouds of desire. "No," he says simply, a bit of a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Not him."
Wyaeth> Ciath checks continually for how many remain in pursuit of her, and their positions. Driven to height by her rider's insistance, she is deprived of some of the tricks used by greens to shake those who tail her. Her inexperience produces a repetition of the same stunt she used before, pulling up, rising swiftly. Her delicate golden body rises towards the underbelly of the clouds as she lets the forerunners catch up and pass her. Then she folds one citrine-spangled wing, trying to cut down through a gap in the ever-thinning pack.
Sal'ros shrugs, "Been like that since he hatched.. can't take the liquor.." he rolls his jaw before pushing back the wine toward his lips, letting the berry-flavour restore his parched throat, having not realized how intent he was upon Solath's attempts. Putting his lips together he passes back the wine to V'delin, nodding his head in thanks before settling back with his hand sliding into his pocket. He regards Zahava now with a curious look in his eye.
It's just as well V'ryce is all caught up in his lifemate's efforts. He likely wouldn't care for losing his smooth, easy reputation in this room, what with the hormone laden talk circulating around. He simply stands loosely near the junior weyrwoman, staring ahead at a seeming nothing, smiling..
"Tastes like pink breakfast syrup, doesn't it?" N'thei imparts this sagely, now that the drink has made the rounds. Somewhere between being the outsider in a cluster of Fortians and being, well, rapt with Zahava now, he gives up his conversational input.
Zahava's dry lips part, wetted briefly, her only movements aside from the quick breaths and flutter of heartbeat at her throat. Then, suddenly, she stiffens as Ciath makes her little dive down amongst the males. "Ciath! No!" she whispers, too late for the gold to respond.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth lacks the wiliness to read Ciath even after her second go at the same tactic, but fortune favors the bold! After a rat-tat-tat series of stunted half-turns that barely corrected his course, he breaks hard in the direction that Ciath's dive is most likely to put her, if luck will have it. Stretching, straining, all the usual, he reaches and reaches for the queen. If luck won't have it, his current trajectory ought to make him very cozy with Imirath in a couple of moments. It's down to the wire, this last-ditch effort to cut off Ciath before she's utterly away from him.
Wyaeth> That spangle of bright citrine is Loketh's signal, the siren-call of sweet Ciath's hide rising, then falling calling him home to her side, finally. A deep, thrumming note issues from his huffing, tired chest, coppered-bronzen hide falling in a controlled fashion after pale gold. Recklessly cutting across the path of some other males with snapping teeth and lashing tail, Loketh sidles quietly up beside the respendent queen, talons unsheathing, tail seeking to curl and twine with her own, even as he falls alongside her. The hunter offers himself fully, without hesitation.
Wyaeth> Cavoth keeps his position to Ciath's left, her uncertain movements bringing him in even closer as she tries to out-maneuver the pack. His wings beat once, twice more in powerful succession, trying to prevent her escape. His tail dips, wings fold backwards, then down, reaching out, toward, near...
Wyaeth> Seith's large powerful wings beat in steady stroke in an attempt to gain him one last burst of speed needed. He's lasted this long through the chase, the distance, the driving rain that coats his sleek brown hide. Now he lunges, spinning on wingtip and finding the golden queen is so much closer to him than he thought before. Without thought now he dives down, coming at her from above in an attempt to reach her. Silently he's a brown shadow in the sky, stretching. So close....
Wyaeth> Imirath is still banking, his forged-filthy frame shunting at an angle, his attention on further eliminating competitors rewarded as another breaks away and spirals downward. Again the queen is lost in the heavy, pelting rain, and again he pauses in futile efforts to hone in on her, when lo! A streak of citrine on a golden flank hurtles into their midst from above, and however futile the gesture may be, he scrambles to throw his wings out to buoy her fall, his tail seeking to unite her streamlined beauty with his - and if they both should miss, it's a forceful embrace with Wyaeth that awaits.
Wyaeth> Solath is a forerunner, but that does not mean he'll go soaring passed her like the inexperienced ones do. He's flown with well versed greens who could out wit even the cleverist of dragons. He was ready for something outstanding from the gold, something that would shake every other dragon from the chase, but no, it's the same action as before. His wings cut through the wind, his tail straining as he twists full force to meet the rest of the males head on, distracting them as he goes through them with wild abandon, clipping wings with a few, skimming his head agaisnt another's tail. Rain now prickles over his entire body and in the vortex of gloom - of all the other dark gloomy brown and bronze bodies - is the light, caught up in the vacuum of males... and he, a pale light brown makes to join her in the gathering of luminosity... He sweeps through a crack in two males and reaches out for her, and should he miss, he'll have to make one hell of a dive to avoid a head on with Wyaeth.
V'delin chokes on his half-formed reply laugh, almost getting out the questioning "You?" to his Wingleader before he has to smack himself on the chest to stave off the cough. "Aughh," is much more likely for his lifemate's antics, his own eyes finding Zahava, then half-closing in dreadful anticpation of the impending and potentially unintended close quarters in the skies.
V'ryce just arches and leans in towards Zahava/Ciath, the young man totally committed to his lifemate, and seemingly to the weyrwoman. A low moan escapes his throat, and green eyes lock onto her with all the fire and intensity that might otherwise never be his. Not without Loketh.
Sal'ros clenches his teeth, his eyes dropping down from Zahava as he tries to help keep control if Solath happens to miscalculate his wing-space...
N'thei's got nothing. He's there. The wall's there. Zahava's there. The rest of the weyr might as well not exist. He stares at the goldrider, teeth filing across his lower lip anxiously.
Wyaeth> Ciath realizes her error as she sees Cavoth's wings too near to her, and Imirath's encroaching as well. Her own flutter open as she jerks down and to the right to narrowly escape their grasping talons, putting more distance between herself and Seith as he comes down from above. The move brings her nearer to her bronzen clutchmate, but she sweeps her wings forward to avoid Loketh's clutches. Now both Wyaeth and Solath hurtle towards her, converging from both sides. Try as she does to twist away from them both, it is Wyaeth who reaches her first, the young gold bugling in dismay as she feels him take hold.
Wyaeth> Seith's youth doesn't help him as his inexperence perhaps keeps him from reaching the Golden beauty in time. He twists in mid air, bugling in frustration as he swerves at the wrong time and she's able to put distance between him and her. Veering sharply he sails away, dejected.
T'rien blinks at V'delin, looking faintly amused by his wingrider's surprise. "Yeah, for all the good it does." He closes his eyes as Cavoth makes his attempt and, then, something seems to slowly deflate within him. After a long, long moment, his eyes open and fix on the sky once more. "I'm sorry, Cavoth..."
Wyaeth> Loketh screams, how he screams in rage and denial at Ciath denies his embrace for the foreign bronze's! The sound shreds the thick air as his form artlessly peels off from the mating pair -- a final, loud bawl of protest railed onto the skies before he blinks *between*, back to a a cold lake that wil provide scant comfort for him.
E'rik's eye snap open suddenly and he looks about in surprise as if he were unaware of his eyes even being closed. He steps away from the wall and manages to find a way out of the room.
Wyaeth> Cavoth folds in his wings and sails away, his head hanging in defeat as a low, plantive croon murmurs from his throat. Slowly, reluctantly, he flies back toward the weyr, toward home.
Wyaeth> Imirath's burnished wings are so extended that the sails catch very little wind, and his reliance entirely on forward momentum carries him closer and closer to Wyaeth and his surprise prize. At the last moment, he bugles in frustration and in horror at the impending arrival of Solath to the front, and he surrenders to the air current, which whips his wingspars upward, causing him to drop like a large, sooty-bronze piece of firestone, barely escaping sandwiching with the Reachian and the closeknit pile of Ciath's admirers.
Wyaeth> Solath has to buckle down his wings and drop quick to avoid missing running into Wyaeth and Ciath, a quiet knowing sound snorted back at the mating pair, as if he knew it wasn't going to happen any ways. It's the way of the females, the way of flights, the way of the pessimist. He falls away toward the earth, gliding back toward land, an unsatisfied quail shrieked wickedly into the rain cast night where he disappears into...
Wyaeth> Wyaeth goes from braced for impact to bracing Ciath from certain doom. In the same careless-but-lucky fiasco that has been the whole of his flying, he scoops a wing to help brace the gold, twines neck and tail with hers, and leaves it to the skill of Imirath and Solath not to crash into the pair. For the rest... you'll just have to buy the book.
And V'ryce..well, his eyes open in utter disbelief, staring like a mortally wounded man at Zahava -- his mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for liquid air. His own deep groan falls out of his lungs, and with a quick whirl, he's jogging out of the little weyr, gone to tend to his lifemate arrowing towards the cold lake.
V'delin's not even left with the wine! He frowns as Sal'ros leaves, taking the syrupy beverage with him. "Shells," he exlaims, followed by a few words for less polite company, and he's quick to follow the flow out of the weyr, making eyes at a glossy-eyed female brownrider as they fall into step, murmurs of spirits and rendezvous as the pair's left to the cave. How -you- doin'?
N'thei is not so much, um, gentle and loving and such, but at least it will be a fun ride? A raspberry wine-flavored ride; poor Zahava.
IC Date: 10/21/13
Zahava stumbles along beside P'draig, leaning against him as he guides her in the right direction. Once there, she pulls away from him, tripping a little, but finding a seat in one of the chairs arrayed in the room, sinking down into it, her head tilting back.
Wyaeth> Above the southwest area, Loketh wings up from the Feeding grounds.
"Card?" V'delin dully repeats, a small flicker of recognition returning to his eyes. "I like to play cards. Dragonpoker, roundhand, what have you. Won't send you any, though. Get my decks from home." Clearly he'd missed enough of what was said to improvise, his legs carrying him by rote. "Moving again."
T'rien wipes the rain from his face, shaking his hand through his hair in a vague attempt to unstick it from his head and neck. The action only serves to tousel it further, giving him a just-rousted-from-bed appearance. Despite the warmth within, he lingers near the exit, hands shoved into the pockets of his riding jacket as he leans back and watches the gray-fogged sky.
After following the dazed goldrider into the small cave appointed just for this circumstance, V'ryce smiles blearily through runnels of moisture tracing over his forehead and cheeks. Following where his friend leads, Val appoints himself a second guardian of sorts over Zahava, taking a tense yet relaxed stand somewhat nearer to her -- the man simply grinning and humming tunelessly to himself as he waits.
Wyaeth> Ciath climbs dizzyingly towars the heights, passing out over the rim, letting the mating flight spill out over the mountains around the Weyr. She heads upwards at a shallow angle, her direction carrying her towards Fort Hold and the low-lying lands around. Her lithe form allows her to twist away from the premature advance of a young bronze, moving with more agility in the skies than he expected. She quickly returns to her intended course, though she redoubles her efforts to leave all of her persuers behind, frequently checking their proximity as they sort themselves out behind her. As she surges forward, she leaves the mountains behind, soon soaring above lower hills as they move farther from the high peaks of the Weyr. The weight of the meat in her belly seems to have kept her from rising as high as she might have otherwise, but the course has compensated for it, the land falling away below.
E'rik draws a sharp intake of breath as suddenly all the dragons launch up. He looks away from his lifemate just in time to follow behind the other dragons. He stumbles slightly, managing to regain his footing before falling flat on his face. Somewhere he finds a place to stand out of the way, his unseeing gaze on Zahava.
N'thei deduces jovially, "And you're sure you play with a full deck? Or conversation just eludes you presently?" Moving again. He lets Zahava and her lean-tos get a fair distance ahead of him before falling in near the back of the pack, leaves himself with a little extra time to toss a look over his shoulder as Wyaeth wheels back around on the right course. In out of the rain, side-stepped out of the entrance, he pulls his thumb off his bottle, wipes it across his thigh, and tastes the sticky-sweet contents with his eyes mostly clenched.
P'draig squeezes her shoulder briefly as he steps away to find a spot against the wall to lean against. He seeks out E'rik then and clears his throat, voice going rough now that his own control is starting to slip, the closeness of his bond with Jekzith ramming through any restraint and tearing away that which makes Paddy, Paddy and leaves only a dragon's need staring out of the brownrider's eyes. "Hang in there," he advises the younger brownrider, then subsides into silence, chin dropping to chest as he does what he typically does during flights: lets go, goes within and shuts everything else out until the end.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth struggles against the rain, the unfamiliar aerial terrain, and his late start. He arcs a long, too-slow loop back until he's got Ciath in his sights once again, then hunkers down with his head just below the horizon of his 'sails. With water splattering in his eyes, sheeting off his desert-blasted hide, he angles toward the queen to make up for his bad beginning. The queen's lack of altitude, her full belly, is a saving grace.
Wyaeth> Cavoth slips over the rim of the weyr in pursuit, his powerful wingbeats bringing him to a height equal to that of the fleeing gold. He lingers behind, his strength lying in endurance rather than speed as he keeps up the chase, following Ciath past the mountains and into the hill country. He's gone silent, for now, keeping his peace as he conserves his massive quantities of energy, belly light from a quick blooding yet full of energy from the warmth of the kills.
Wyaeth> Jostling is a preferred activity of Imirath, and where threats and snaps and growling rumbles fail, his bulk helps to clear his way in a more direct fashion. However, his indulgence below has placed him near the rear of the pack, intense wingbeats promising early strain on his translucent sails if he doesn't demonstrate restraint. Heeding the burning, he resorts to more subtle tactics like remaining airborne and seeking genial currents among the wind and threatening rains.
Wyaeth> Loketh glories in flight, both his own and Ciath's, the great bronze warbling his joy to the thinning Fortian air. He knows the meat within the whisper-fleet lady will not aid her swiftness, but he doesn't underestimate her, either. No, Loketh grew up with Ciath, and he knows her rather well. As the delicate gold swirls and rises, so does he, utilizing strong muscles to drive him onward to keep pace with her bewitching form. The mountains, hills provide an autumn lushness -- their divergent tones only accenting Ciath's splendid hide.
Wyaeth> Seith slowly but surely gains his height, his attention fully on the glowing speck growing further away in the distance. He seems unconcerned by the distance between the two as he maneuvers through the unfamiliar currents. He darts between a bronze and brown ahead of him, darting forward and up.
Wyaeth> Jekzith swings higher and higher, course changed to match the guiding star that is Ciath. His shadow spreads over the neat fields outside of the Hold and brief trumpet of greeting sent towards Harper Hall for some reason and then he focuses back on the flight itself, pushing onward on fleet wings. As always he is so full of delight at the feeling of the flight itself, that he is all joy, all happiness as he speeds onward, not much in the way of intensity or lust broadcast outward, only elation.
Wyaeth> Solath is engrossed with the imagery that Ciath plays before him, a sun setting to leave them all in a dismal regret, a regret that would fester without her wings beside them - beside him. He ached as he watched her skim the clouds, unable to reach the heights her fury should be able to take her. It was such a beautifully macabre sight, her conquest of the highest skies defeated but her course still so stern and proud - precise. It riled this coffee light brown up, his wing muscles pushing harder, his tail twists quicker - changes in his flight pattern sudden to keep up with the female's choosen course. The crowds above were moving closer to him though, and with one wrong move, one of the other males could cut him off from the path of his intended direction. The shadows below did not phase him even though he knew his proximity to the sharp peaks, he dared not veer his gaze from the streak of light for he could lose it. His muscles worked in unison, his wings thrown forward as much as possible, whipped back in his deep wing sweeping thrusts. His speed allotted him a place in the front of the pack, drifting on the outside to forego his entrappment or entanglement with the wrong dragon.
E'rik's brown eyes snap to P'draig. His own voice is rough as he clears his through a few times before saying. "Hanging in there, sir." he manages a lopsided grin. A deep breath is taken in slowly and exhaled slowly, his emotions all tangled up inside. To Zahava he can't stop looking, watching. "Soon." he murmurs though it's a comment that was mostly said quietly to his lifemate.
V'delin blinks, shaking his head enough to return an awareness to his sharp blue eyes. "Presently," he settles for quelling any ire in laughter, "I beg the cause of distraction. Though others might not call your observation out of line; I do fly in the wing that plans to test-fly luminescent clothing at night." He, too, takes advantage of the halt to gulp his rain-flavored ale, then steps inside, shuddering off the caress of raindrops and casting a quick glance about for Zahava, the first indication of his concern for her wellbeing hastily hidden in a veneer of lust.
Zahava's grey-green eyes are vacant, her whole vital force aloft in the skies, rushing away from the Weyr as swiftly as Ciath's wings can carry thim. Every so often her lips press together or part as though on a word, but her throat never gives voice to them.
N'thei tries very very hard to reason through V'delin's words, even while he's finally given over to having his eyes pinned on poor Zahava, one girl in a wash of testosterone. Eventually, after another tight sip, he just gives up on 'luminescent clothing;' "Why?" Never looking away from the goldrider, he holds the bottle toward V'delin-- or to anyone who happens to be quicker than V'delin and also in arm's reach.
Wyaeth> Now well out of sight of Fort Weyr, rolling hills distant beneath the flight of the dragons - almost invisible in the worsening rain, Ciath veers to the right, trying to lose some of her suitors in the decreased visibility of the darkened skies and dismal light as the rain grows thicker, pounding against thick hide. Her pale golden form summons them to greater efforts, though those who've tired most quickly, fallen behind, have likely given up and begun their return. She snakes her head under a wing for a moment to check their positions, watching a brown dwindle out of sight and vanish as he gives up the chase.
V'ryce is rather vacant-eyed, too, his body tied to Loketh's, his actions a subtle mimicry of his lifemate's. But never does he lose track enough to stray far from Zahava's side, though his smile is upturned to the rocky ceiling.
Sal'ros eventually comes in behind the rest of the crew, having tried to stem his feet from carrying him in this direction, but being unable to do so as his dragon was captivated in the chase - and he too should be. Although, as he broke through the flight cave's entrance, his eyes shook off the in depth connection with his dragon, a grimace on his face as he has to stand by someone else, presently that happens to be T'rien. Sal says nothing though, keeping his hands in his pocket, letting the rain drip dry off of him.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth lets Imirath plow through the back of the pack for him. He shadows the stockier bronze's right wing, a few lengths behind, and only gradually increasing his speed to draw nearer. Despite what it will cost him in precious energy later, he rumbles a much-obliged grunt, a friendly counterpoint to Imirath's threats. He fills the space left by the brown now spiralling back to the Weyr, a brief gleam of gunmetal-gray and barren-bronze for Ciath's backward glance.
Wyaeth> Cavoth is not poetry in motion. He is not graceful or slick. He simply /is/. He is Cavoth - sure and steady, soaring through the drifts of rain toward that little patch of sunshine directly ahead of him. His wings carry him ever-closer, leaving the faster dragons behind as their stamina begins to wane. A slight dip to the right and he's on her scent, never faltering, attention riveted, pursuing out of hope that his wings might just entangled hers and keep her from falling.
Wyaeth> Seith boasts to be a larger size of brown, thinking he can do much outside of his limits. He reaches into his energy gained by the blood of the beasts within the feeding grounds and he uses that to push himself further into the sky. He drives himself against the propelling rain that hurdles from the heavens as if in an effort to stop him, an Istan brown, from catching up and drawing near to the sweet, sweet gold ahead. A merry chase she's leading them on so far and his sole concentration is on keeping up with the others and her in sight.
T'rien's eyes seem to refocus for the moment, all that /he/ is presently contained therein. This chase is for Cavoth, not for him and, although he gives a brief glance and nod to Sal'ros as he stands next to him, his eyes drift away from the exit and the sky beyond toward Zahava. His lips part, as if he's about to say something, then close as he shakes his head, reconsidering.
Wyaeth> Keeping to the rear of the foremost group of suitors, Loketh drafts off them, letting his preceeders do more of the work up keeping up with glorious Ciath for him. His large form cuts through the deepening dim light, the growing pound of rain with a seeming carelessness -- the hunter quiet and patient on the trail of his beloved, for now. Long wings cup and stroke the heavy air with a strange, predatory grace, never letting him fall far behind, never letting his sibling too far from the hope of a sudden surge to win her over.
Wyaeth> Jekzith is long and lean, an arrow in flight, sure-winged and fleet, matching Ciath's course changes. He's tempered the impulsiveness that used to have him chewing up all his energy early in flights from when he was younger, with time and experience. However, it's a big pack and there's some rowdy younger browns in there. Two of them get into it a little and one of them gets knocked off course, jostling Jekzith on his way by. Knocked off course and spirling out of control for a few wingbeats, when the motley brown gets control again, it's too late. He's fallen too far down and with a mournful bugle, drops down and back to the Weyr.
Wyaeth> Onward forays Imirath, hot solder in his eyes as he ripples along the windcurrents, ill at ease with the rangy and leathery bronze who has taken up position in his shadow. Consumed with and by the competition, he may seem to have forgotten the beacon burning beyond, but for the occassional glance to determine her flight path, made rough by the pelting rain. A voracity propels him onward, his direction largely guided by the darker forms in the foreground, the dipping of one wing providing a pivot point for an angular turn in his aim to discern the slender queen's destination.
Shaken out of his flight meditation, P'draig's head lifts suddenly and awareness blinks back into his eyes, followed by visible relief. Quietly he pushes away from the wall. He pauses by T'rien to clasp the man's shoulder then he's ducking outside hastily with only a brief backward glance for Zahava and he's gone out into the rain.
Wyaeth> Solath thrives in the melancholia the weather produces, in fact the dragon seems to be brought to life as he taps into his resources, letting the blood from the beasts he killed (even the unsightly one) drive the lust for the queen straight to his head - his eyes liquifying with it as he navigates through a skyscape perfect for his mentality. He races toward the gathering gloom, keeping his gaze fixated to the brief glimpse of light that is slowly dimming now that the rain shields her, the clouds misting lower as he rides the shadow of the day. In a daring move that could make or break his attempts, he splits from the front pack of competitors, using his strength to propel him forward - so that he's riding a line parallel to Ciath - but still at a distance. Abruptly he changes courses again, veering dangerously in front of a few bronzes, but his method worked enough to gain him a dragon length or two from where he was.
Wyaeth> Ciath begins to tease the dwindling pack of beaus who've managed to keep up with the initial long endurance race. She slows suddenly as she rises steeply, letting those closest to her overshoot her position, testing their strategies. She arcs to the south, and a siren call drifts back to the males, urging them on, enticing and demanding at once. Eddies trail off her wings as her passage disturbs the downpour of rain, drenching her as though in attempt to extinguish her brilliance. Her escape is no longer quite as swift as it was in the first portion of the flight. She arcs again, heading east towards the sea, allowing more of the males to approach her as the move trades forward motion for sidelong.
V'delin's not moving with rapidity or grace, but that bottle of sweetened tonic promises better than his rain-soaked ale, so he takes it, a hasty thanks before a swig's taken of the delicate dessert wine's contents, the Reachian rider's query lost entirely. "Sweet," he cleverly comments. "Bet she's sweet, too. When she's not being sour." He chuckles roughly, voice catching in his throat, as though he's clever. "Drink, Sal? T'rien?" comes though the drink's not his to offer.
Zahava's breath comes faster as though it were her own limbs propelling her through the air, her own body drawing on the blood and flesh of the beasts Ciath dispatched. It is perhaps a blessing that she is unaware of those around her, not even twitching as P'draig makes his way out of the cave.
Wyaeth> Loketh lets a fraction of his attention be drawn away by Jekzith's mounful dirge, the bronze watching the older brown spiral down and away for a moment, then reclaiming the sight of Ciath far ahead. Purple spinning eyes take in Solath and Imirath about him and the others as he cranes his almond-blanched nose this way and that to size up the competition, and with the thickening fray growing about his own bulk, Lo' chooses to break from the pack some, losing a little forward motion as he climbs above the main flight, and parallels sumptuous, sleek Ciath. And then she suddenly slows a little, drawing them closer again by chance, causing Loketh a thrill that permeates him from nose to tailtips, the bronze calling back loving, eager croons to answer his sister. His own hide will not be put out by the downpour -- shining bright coppered-bronze to meld him against the autumn trees so long left behind below.
Wyaeth> Seith isn't close enough that he's in any way going to overshoot her. He is slowly but surely making his way through the suitors in the sky, gaining precious ground bit by bit. Ducking under a slower bronze, Seith uses his slightly smaller size and agility to turn on wingtip, intently following the path of the queen who suddenly seems oh so nearer. But not to near and he fights to be closer to her. Through the rain he zips on, arching with the wind some to help his movements and save some of his strength.
Sal'ros startles as someone actually speaks to him, his shared thoughts shaken as he becomes aware of the offering, his throat suddenly feeling dry as if it wasn't raining all day and there wasn't moisture to spare out in the air. The man straightens and pulls a hand out of his jacket pocket, "I'll take a splash of it, but Solath doesn't do well when I'm liquored up.. though a swig would be good right about now..." he grumbles, a hand out turned toward V'delin's offer.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth really must be made for shotgun-style strategy, just flying every which way with absolutely no finesse. A slow, easy turn would have suited just fine to keep his track on Ciath's, but he jerks and jars and first overshoots her easterly bend only to have to correct afterward with another stuttered turn. His vanity unfazed and his ardor undimmed, he splatters through the rain after the clever girl, gaining now that she's lost swiftness for all his wreckless flying.
Wyaeth> Cavoth angles himself upward, keeping the pace and growing ever-closer as the pack dwindles. Rain slices over his coppery hide as he cuts through it, unfaltering. He does not take the bait as Ciath lays it, sparing his energy, following her toward the sea. Her sideways movements bring him just behind and to the left of her and, finally, caught up in the moment, he answers her siren's call with one of his own - exuberant and heartfelt - a bugle that causes the rain before him to shimmer and fall away in tattered drapes.
E'rik barely notices the fact that P'draig has left. Now he stands alone which is fine for he knows not anyone else in here. His eyes stare unseeing at Zahava, his lips moving in silent words of encouragement to his brown up there somewhere in the skies above.
V'ryce arches and weaves his long body in harmony to Loketh's, his eyes now shut as he concentrates all his inner resources in aiding his brave soulmate. Soft sighs and subtle chuckles roll through the young man's lungs every so often.
T'rien shakes his head at V'delin's offer, eyes turning back toward the outside once more as he leans back. "Maybe later," he murmurs, the first words he's spoken since the blooding began.
N'thei retires to a space of wall, giving off the air more that he's supporting the wall that vice versa. Now empty-handed, save the mug that he dangles by its handle off his index finger, he folds his arms and lets those tranquil gray eyes meander looks at Zahava and her quickened breath, bestill his heart. "At this point, she could be no sweeter than a mouthful of brine and I doubt we'd be complaining," he mumbles, much subdued.
Wyaeth> Imirath lingers behind, distance once given not regained. He falters, hovering in a long moment between wingbeats, his strategy soon revealed when another current-riding brown is forced to veer and fight to regain position rather than collide with his extended talons. Streaming rain provides cover for the sooty bronze, momentum carrying him in her direction, his arced wing taking him below Wyaeth's jerky turn, the gold's more agile maneuvers unmatched in conservation of his strength, his course roughly aligned with yet lingering below hers.
Wyaeth> Solath rumbles in surprise when another brown comes up from below him, the coffee creamed dragon having to spin out of the way before another brown became entangled with him - narrowly missing yet anther dragon above him! The near misses were to be greeted with a mouthful of teeth that snap at the air, the brown not giving up stride yet as his avoidance rolls only put him on a better course with Ciath as she takes a turn east. Rain shears ripple down his sides as he does another twisted underhanded move that scares a fellow competitor - dropping him too from the race. It all works to line Solath up better with the easternly direction - subsequently pushing himself to the limits to make for a parallel attempt yet again, though he does have a height advantage as he's not weighed down by meat consumed, body tilted as he tries to keep steady enough so that he can make a slide side ways toward her.
V'delin releases the berry-flavored dessert wine to Sal'ros with a nod. "Had to cut back for him? I hear you." He frowns for a moment, then smirks, gaze settling on the girl of the high cheekbones and shorn blonde hair. "Mmm, isn't that the truth. Take you up on that, Wingleader, especially if Cavoth prevails." Discretion absent in the flare of hot desire, he notes, "He's been after her for turns, I'd wager."
T'rien moves his gaze from it's contemplation of the rainy sky to V'delin's face, where they focus again in an unsettling display of clarity amongst the clouds of desire. "No," he says simply, a bit of a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Not him."
Wyaeth> Ciath checks continually for how many remain in pursuit of her, and their positions. Driven to height by her rider's insistance, she is deprived of some of the tricks used by greens to shake those who tail her. Her inexperience produces a repetition of the same stunt she used before, pulling up, rising swiftly. Her delicate golden body rises towards the underbelly of the clouds as she lets the forerunners catch up and pass her. Then she folds one citrine-spangled wing, trying to cut down through a gap in the ever-thinning pack.
Sal'ros shrugs, "Been like that since he hatched.. can't take the liquor.." he rolls his jaw before pushing back the wine toward his lips, letting the berry-flavour restore his parched throat, having not realized how intent he was upon Solath's attempts. Putting his lips together he passes back the wine to V'delin, nodding his head in thanks before settling back with his hand sliding into his pocket. He regards Zahava now with a curious look in his eye.
It's just as well V'ryce is all caught up in his lifemate's efforts. He likely wouldn't care for losing his smooth, easy reputation in this room, what with the hormone laden talk circulating around. He simply stands loosely near the junior weyrwoman, staring ahead at a seeming nothing, smiling..
"Tastes like pink breakfast syrup, doesn't it?" N'thei imparts this sagely, now that the drink has made the rounds. Somewhere between being the outsider in a cluster of Fortians and being, well, rapt with Zahava now, he gives up his conversational input.
Zahava's dry lips part, wetted briefly, her only movements aside from the quick breaths and flutter of heartbeat at her throat. Then, suddenly, she stiffens as Ciath makes her little dive down amongst the males. "Ciath! No!" she whispers, too late for the gold to respond.
Wyaeth> Wyaeth lacks the wiliness to read Ciath even after her second go at the same tactic, but fortune favors the bold! After a rat-tat-tat series of stunted half-turns that barely corrected his course, he breaks hard in the direction that Ciath's dive is most likely to put her, if luck will have it. Stretching, straining, all the usual, he reaches and reaches for the queen. If luck won't have it, his current trajectory ought to make him very cozy with Imirath in a couple of moments. It's down to the wire, this last-ditch effort to cut off Ciath before she's utterly away from him.
Wyaeth> That spangle of bright citrine is Loketh's signal, the siren-call of sweet Ciath's hide rising, then falling calling him home to her side, finally. A deep, thrumming note issues from his huffing, tired chest, coppered-bronzen hide falling in a controlled fashion after pale gold. Recklessly cutting across the path of some other males with snapping teeth and lashing tail, Loketh sidles quietly up beside the respendent queen, talons unsheathing, tail seeking to curl and twine with her own, even as he falls alongside her. The hunter offers himself fully, without hesitation.
Wyaeth> Cavoth keeps his position to Ciath's left, her uncertain movements bringing him in even closer as she tries to out-maneuver the pack. His wings beat once, twice more in powerful succession, trying to prevent her escape. His tail dips, wings fold backwards, then down, reaching out, toward, near...
Wyaeth> Seith's large powerful wings beat in steady stroke in an attempt to gain him one last burst of speed needed. He's lasted this long through the chase, the distance, the driving rain that coats his sleek brown hide. Now he lunges, spinning on wingtip and finding the golden queen is so much closer to him than he thought before. Without thought now he dives down, coming at her from above in an attempt to reach her. Silently he's a brown shadow in the sky, stretching. So close....
Wyaeth> Imirath is still banking, his forged-filthy frame shunting at an angle, his attention on further eliminating competitors rewarded as another breaks away and spirals downward. Again the queen is lost in the heavy, pelting rain, and again he pauses in futile efforts to hone in on her, when lo! A streak of citrine on a golden flank hurtles into their midst from above, and however futile the gesture may be, he scrambles to throw his wings out to buoy her fall, his tail seeking to unite her streamlined beauty with his - and if they both should miss, it's a forceful embrace with Wyaeth that awaits.
Wyaeth> Solath is a forerunner, but that does not mean he'll go soaring passed her like the inexperienced ones do. He's flown with well versed greens who could out wit even the cleverist of dragons. He was ready for something outstanding from the gold, something that would shake every other dragon from the chase, but no, it's the same action as before. His wings cut through the wind, his tail straining as he twists full force to meet the rest of the males head on, distracting them as he goes through them with wild abandon, clipping wings with a few, skimming his head agaisnt another's tail. Rain now prickles over his entire body and in the vortex of gloom - of all the other dark gloomy brown and bronze bodies - is the light, caught up in the vacuum of males... and he, a pale light brown makes to join her in the gathering of luminosity... He sweeps through a crack in two males and reaches out for her, and should he miss, he'll have to make one hell of a dive to avoid a head on with Wyaeth.
V'delin chokes on his half-formed reply laugh, almost getting out the questioning "You?" to his Wingleader before he has to smack himself on the chest to stave off the cough. "Aughh," is much more likely for his lifemate's antics, his own eyes finding Zahava, then half-closing in dreadful anticpation of the impending and potentially unintended close quarters in the skies.
V'ryce just arches and leans in towards Zahava/Ciath, the young man totally committed to his lifemate, and seemingly to the weyrwoman. A low moan escapes his throat, and green eyes lock onto her with all the fire and intensity that might otherwise never be his. Not without Loketh.
Sal'ros clenches his teeth, his eyes dropping down from Zahava as he tries to help keep control if Solath happens to miscalculate his wing-space...
N'thei's got nothing. He's there. The wall's there. Zahava's there. The rest of the weyr might as well not exist. He stares at the goldrider, teeth filing across his lower lip anxiously.
Wyaeth> Ciath realizes her error as she sees Cavoth's wings too near to her, and Imirath's encroaching as well. Her own flutter open as she jerks down and to the right to narrowly escape their grasping talons, putting more distance between herself and Seith as he comes down from above. The move brings her nearer to her bronzen clutchmate, but she sweeps her wings forward to avoid Loketh's clutches. Now both Wyaeth and Solath hurtle towards her, converging from both sides. Try as she does to twist away from them both, it is Wyaeth who reaches her first, the young gold bugling in dismay as she feels him take hold.
Wyaeth> Seith's youth doesn't help him as his inexperence perhaps keeps him from reaching the Golden beauty in time. He twists in mid air, bugling in frustration as he swerves at the wrong time and she's able to put distance between him and her. Veering sharply he sails away, dejected.
T'rien blinks at V'delin, looking faintly amused by his wingrider's surprise. "Yeah, for all the good it does." He closes his eyes as Cavoth makes his attempt and, then, something seems to slowly deflate within him. After a long, long moment, his eyes open and fix on the sky once more. "I'm sorry, Cavoth..."
Wyaeth> Loketh screams, how he screams in rage and denial at Ciath denies his embrace for the foreign bronze's! The sound shreds the thick air as his form artlessly peels off from the mating pair -- a final, loud bawl of protest railed onto the skies before he blinks *between*, back to a a cold lake that wil provide scant comfort for him.
E'rik's eye snap open suddenly and he looks about in surprise as if he were unaware of his eyes even being closed. He steps away from the wall and manages to find a way out of the room.
Wyaeth> Cavoth folds in his wings and sails away, his head hanging in defeat as a low, plantive croon murmurs from his throat. Slowly, reluctantly, he flies back toward the weyr, toward home.
Wyaeth> Imirath's burnished wings are so extended that the sails catch very little wind, and his reliance entirely on forward momentum carries him closer and closer to Wyaeth and his surprise prize. At the last moment, he bugles in frustration and in horror at the impending arrival of Solath to the front, and he surrenders to the air current, which whips his wingspars upward, causing him to drop like a large, sooty-bronze piece of firestone, barely escaping sandwiching with the Reachian and the closeknit pile of Ciath's admirers.
Wyaeth> Solath has to buckle down his wings and drop quick to avoid missing running into Wyaeth and Ciath, a quiet knowing sound snorted back at the mating pair, as if he knew it wasn't going to happen any ways. It's the way of the females, the way of flights, the way of the pessimist. He falls away toward the earth, gliding back toward land, an unsatisfied quail shrieked wickedly into the rain cast night where he disappears into...
Wyaeth> Wyaeth goes from braced for impact to bracing Ciath from certain doom. In the same careless-but-lucky fiasco that has been the whole of his flying, he scoops a wing to help brace the gold, twines neck and tail with hers, and leaves it to the skill of Imirath and Solath not to crash into the pair. For the rest... you'll just have to buy the book.
And V'ryce..well, his eyes open in utter disbelief, staring like a mortally wounded man at Zahava -- his mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for liquid air. His own deep groan falls out of his lungs, and with a quick whirl, he's jogging out of the little weyr, gone to tend to his lifemate arrowing towards the cold lake.
V'delin's not even left with the wine! He frowns as Sal'ros leaves, taking the syrupy beverage with him. "Shells," he exlaims, followed by a few words for less polite company, and he's quick to follow the flow out of the weyr, making eyes at a glossy-eyed female brownrider as they fall into step, murmurs of spirits and rendezvous as the pair's left to the cave. How -you- doin'?
N'thei is not so much, um, gentle and loving and such, but at least it will be a fun ride? A raspberry wine-flavored ride; poor Zahava.