Log: Like A Diamond In The Sky
Who: June, P'draig, Phara, Rhodya, Skinner, T'mic, W'ton, Jekzith, Bennath, Gedroth, Aath, Dasarth, NPCs: P'rol and Turatah (June)
When: Sunset, day 19, month 6, turn 20 of the 10th Interval
Where: Beach/Corrals/Bowl/Guest Weyr/Garden, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy catches up with June and Skinner on the beach, then Aath goes up and Jekzith doesn't catch. Phara stays over.
Main Beach, Ista Weyr(#444RJ)
The coastline of black sand stretches out in either direction, tropical waters lapping ceaselessly against the subtle decline of the main beach that rests at the base of the plateau cliff. To the northeast, water from the upper pool cascades over the plateau's edge, its destination shrouded in the lush fronts of the jungle's edge and a hint of blue-tinged mist. The Sandbar, Ista's seaside tavern, stands to the south beside the long branching structure of the docks.
The wet summer season oppresses the island with high humidity and sweltering temperatures. As the sun sets, a gray blanket of clouds dominates the sky and a nice, light breeze carries the scent of sea air.
The day has been an unbearable one, even as Istan standards go, but the evening brings with it a bit of relief, the searing sun having sunk and a nice breeze having sprung up to push across the beach. It's not that rare that June gets a rest day, but it's rarer that she spends it away from the tavern entirely; when she does, like tonight, she tends to spend it largely in solitude and quiet. And so she's picked an emptied corner of the beach to enjoy the lull in temperature and the pretty-colored sky both, lounging there on a wide towel with her feet dug into the still-warm sand.
The heat meant staying out of the Barracks and in the shade as much as possible for P'draig, who led most of the lectures and exercises for the day in the garden at the top of the plateau and in the actual pool with a focus on swimming instead of running and so on, which means that he's damp, even as evening rolls through and the weyrlingmaster escapes the heat above to come down to the beach. Off-duty he's unbuttoned his shirt to let that breeze flap its way through and his feet are bare though he carries a pair of sandals loosely dangling from his fingers. "Evening," he greets June, steps slowing as he nears, his own towel rolled up under one arm.
June tilts back a look, viewing the brownrider from that lazy, upside-down angle and drawing up a slow smile. "It's the Weyrlingmaster," she uses as a greeting, proving that, as removed as she is, she can still keep track of the Weyr's important people and their positions. "How are you?" she asks predictably, turning her eyes back upward, tracing the pinked edges of the incoming clouds.
"Paddy," P'draig corrects mildly with a slightly wider smile. "And I am very hot, surprisingly enough, so I have come down here to cool off," the weyrlingmaster answers and nods downward towards the sand. "Mind company, or are you looking for a little solitude, June?" His gaze follows hers upwards to the sky though. "Istan sunsets. They're pretty incredible and never the same twice."
June gives him another glance, then answers lightly, "I've never been one to turn down a little company." Though she doesn't move from her lazy lounge, leaving him to find enough space on one of the corners of the towel to place himself. "They are incredible," she agrees while he does so. "One of the things that's better in Ista."
Taking his own towel out from under his arm, P'draig spreads the article along the sand beside June's towel. His sandals are left just shy of one corner and he sets himself down with feet hanging off the end in similar fashion to the tavern-keeper's. "One of. What are some of the other things that you consider to be better at Ista?"
June rolls her head, rested on folded arms tucked behind, to the side in order to see Paddy better. She blinks across the short expanse of black sand between them while she thinks, musing out answers as they come to her. "The food. Clothing, I guess, it's so much lighter. The landscape. The men." That last one slides in with a dry note of humor, which he may also glimpse in her slightly squinted eyes before she turns them skyward again.
"Lots of fresh things to eat," P'draig says agreeably and leans back, mimicking June's position with hands folded behind his head, looking up at the slowly changing sky. "It's been interesting cooking here, different from at Fort." His head turns towards his companion, grin etching itself wide on his face. "Lighter clothing, or less of it ... and I can't really complain about the men myself," he jokes lightly.
"Oh, that's right," June pronounces idly, giving each syllable its own special treatment. "You're... oh, it's... weyrmated right? To that greenrider assistant, yeah? I keep forgetting." She keeps her gaze directed up, toes fidgeting in the sandy trenches they've dug themselves.
"T'mic," P'draig answers readily with a nod. "Weyrmated for the last almost three turns," the brownrider relates, one foot lifting a little, then dropping back down to rest on the sand. "You've met Mic, I'm sure? He -- was talking about ah -- bringing some business to the Seven the other day," the brownrider says carefully, eyeballing a drift of purpling cloud.
"Three turns." June's tone does all the marveling that her expression doesn't; she's clearly impressed by the time frame, even if her face keeps the same relaxed lines. "Was he?" This is enough to make her tilt her head again, but only enough to give him a glance and an arched brow. "Well, we would certainly appreciate it. Can never be too busy. I've seen T'mic," the name is adopted, though it lacks the familiarity that Paddy uses with it, "around, sure. I don't know that I've met him formally, though." There's only a trifle of uncertainty there.
"Not bad for a guy who'd given up on ever weyrmating again and one who couldn't keep his pants on for much of anything," P'draig says humorously and tilts his head towards the tavern-keeper. "He'll probably turn up at the Seven by and by." He. Not they. "Not tonight though, Aath's probably going to rise tonight or tomorrow. I should go check on him in a little bit, make sure he's remembered to put his pants on."
June laughs in her light, quiet way, then lets a beat pass with nothing but the creeping fade of the colors and the rustle of sand between her toes. She eventually wonders, though, "He can tell that soon? I thought it was more of a... spur of the moment thing."
A good ways off the shore, Skinner's been wallowing in the ocean for the past hour or so, enjoying the sympathies of a pretty young woman. She's sympathetic because he's covered in bug bites, with pink spots all over him, and she and the salt water have been easing his pains. Now, however, the girl's got to go, and so after letting her go first (for a somewhat discreet departure), Skinner now comes climbing up the beach.
"Aath builds up to it pretty obviously," P'draig explains with a grin audible in his voice. "She's ... just very overt about the whole thing. She's into males on the average day, when she's about to go up, you can't miss it."
"Ah," June utters as the understanding dawns on her, "so it's just different for each one." She ventures that confidently enough, having enough knowledge about dragonkind now to do so. Her sky-watching dips a bit to the surf when her periphery catches Skinner wading his way out. She moves a hand from behind her head long enough to give him a short wave of greeting, just a tossed gesture that's easy enough for him to dismiss if he has pressing business elsewhere.
But Skinner's still on leisure time, and with no business to distract him he raises a hand back to June. After a short detour to retrieve his shorts (so much for discreet?) he heads that way, calling out "Good evening" when he gets close enough. Grabbing the leg of his shorts, he tugs them with a grimace of discomfort. "Sand gets all over the place," he remarks, shaking some out of a fold in the cloth.
"Mm. Pretty much. Just like people, different ways of being," P'draig says with a nod that disarranges his towel slightly. The movement of June's hand tilts his head upward to catch sight o f Skinner. "Skinner," Paddy says simply, which is polite enough.
"I've slowly been realizing that, I think," June tells Paddy, not abashed at all about admitting to her lack (or perhaps recent lack) of draconic know-how. At Skinner, she's laughing with her eyes if not her mouth, looking him up and down briefly before replying, "It tends to do that. Helps if you're not leaving your clothes laying around in it, I hear."
"Hey, P'draig," Skinner answers, which is friendly enough. Whatever tensions there may be, he's an ace at ignoring them. "What can I say?" he asks June, giving his shorts a final shake that gets more sand out of them. "It was either sand or sand and water. I'm a simple man."
"Yeah, it's hard to have a conversation with a dragon without his or her rider to figure out what they're each like," P'draig says with understanding. "Or worse, winding up buried in sand without any clothes," the brownrider adds with a little wrinkle of his nose. "And neither of those sound all that appealing."
"No, they don't," June agrees with a tiny wrinkle of her nose in return. Sand, apparently not one of the things that makes Ista better. "You know," she notes to Skinner, straining for a second or two to tilt her chin up and see him, "you could just try keeping them on for once. Might keep you from getting attacked by bugs."
Skinner blanches at P'draig's suggestion. "I think getting buried would be the worst of the three. There are places you will never get sand /out/ of." He pulls a sweet, sparkling smile on June. "What fun would that be, if I did? Besides, I wasn't up to anything fun when I got eaten." He looks down on one of his clusters of bug bites, tapping it gently. "I was just hot."
Jekzith> Long accustomed to his green and her ways, T'mic hangs on the outside of the corral fence as Aath gathers suitors about her a little bit away in the bowl. One foot on the lowest rail, heel jigging, Mic stares at the grazing beasts without truly seeing them. Perhaps he's already using Aath's eyes, for the green turns her attention from one male to the next, coaxing this one closer with the flip of her tail while luring another with a flick of a wing.
Jekzith> Long accustomed to T'mic's green and her ways, Jekzith hangs out by the corrals with a weather eye for Aath and how she's behaving. When her attention shifts his way he flatters her gamely, with the knowledge gained from now turns of practice and a lot of hanging of spangles in the sky to light her perfect chiffon hide with. P'draig? Not in sight /just/ this minute, but the brownrider can't be that far off, can he?
"Bugs. Another downside to Ista," P'draig notes with a quirky little grin then squints up at the darkening sky, pushes up to his elbows and slants a look back towards the Weyr, a deep breath slowly taken. He blinks twice, looks back at Skinner nodding. "It does come out. Eventually. With a lot of pain," the brownrider answers gravely and eyeballs that cluster of bites. "In a word: ow."
June is fine until Paddy has to go and talk about the sand coming out. She turns another look on him, this one more level than the ones that came before it. "Men are such wonderful conversationalists," she generalizes dryly, nose still wrinkled up with a little bit of disgust. If she notices Paddy's antsiness, she doesn't merit it with comment.
Having his hand so close to the bug bites turns out to be more than Skinner can resist. He indulges in a short, frenzied scratch, as if doing it quickly will mean it doesn't count. Without lifting his eyes from the bites, he replies, "Such the life of a traveling salesman. Every place has its downsides, but I'll grant you the jungle is a particular bastard." At June's dry comment, he lifts his gaze to her for a second, and grins. "If you'd like to talk about something else, I'm at your service."
Jekzith> Bennath's a familliar blue at Ista, even if he doesn't live here. So it's not much of a shock to see the blue lingering at the edges of the gathering males. So eager to be a part of it, and yet holding himself back hesitantly. The conflict is evident in the way his neck stretches towards the green, his eyes intent, his tail waving in agitation. Phara lingers near the fence, looking indecisive. Finally she sighs and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Go ahead, Benny," she permits him, sounding weary. The blue looks back at her for a moment, crooning lovingly, and then leaps closer into the fray, shifting from foot to foot eagerly.
Jekzith> T'mic has a look and a grin for Jekzith, even if Aath is pretending she can't see him (except when she peeks over while pretending to be raptly absorbed in a young bronze's preening). "Soon," he tells the brown needlessly before his foot's jigging is transmuted into a whole body shiver that has him clutching at the wooden rails. << I see you, >> Aath breathes to her courtiers, with enough diamonds and coy looks scattered to make each one feel that she speaks only to him. Mic surfaces from his shiver to blink blankly about, and drop an absent, unseeing nod to the visiting bluerider.
Jekzith> Jekzith lets out a quiet croon for Aath and streeetches necks and wings out like he's warming up for the race that's about to take place. << You bet. Right here, lovely, >> Jekzith tells her jauntily and tings one of those diamonds so it reflects all the more. Cha-ching.
Jekzith> Bennath replies eagerly with a blue sky and lazily drifting clouds. << I see you, too, baby, >> he buzzes, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement. Phara nods in return to Mic, though it's halfhearted. She knows greenriders well enough by now to realize he doesn't have a clue who she even is most likely right now.
Jekzith> Skimming low in his flight, an overlong, skinny brown leads the way as two more Fortians come to join the crowd. Gedroth's aimed himself perfectly, his dangling feet just barely (but cleanly) missing the fence as he comes to a neat, collected landing inside the corral. Once there, he makes no movement towards the beasts, but he does pull himself up and crow to get the green's attention. Far behind him, his rider's walking in from the bowl with his straps wound over her shoulder.
Another deep breath from P'draig and he pushes up all the way to a full sit. "Sorry June," he apologizes for his bluntness. "We do get a little ... well gross sometimes," the brownrider admits and reaches for his sandals to pull them back on. "I'm also sorry that I'm going to have to miss out on the rest of this lovely sunset and the company. Aath's decided on tonight," he says calmly enough and heaves himself up onto his feet, though not to standing. Turning around he gathers his towel up, folds it up neatly and smiles at June. "Thank you for company and conversation until it took that nosedive, June. I hope the rest of your evening is cool and pleasant. Skinner ... shells man, get something for those bites, hm?" Then he does straighten up, salutes casually and heads off towards the stairs back up to the Weyr.
June angles her head again, sharply, so she's able to watch Paddy the whole time he's making his retreat to the Weyr. "Right," she says, then, "Good luck," as he's heading off. Quieter then, for Skinner, "I guess good luck would be in order, right?" She shrugs it off, an oddly hindered little gesture, then moves a hand to pat her towel with its free corners of space available for sitting. "Something else," she decides and lets the conversation switch from sand and crevices to something more refined, though it's sure to be derailed when that green does rise.
Corrals, Ista Weyr
Roughly a quarter of the western end of the bowl is enclosed by sturdy wooden fencing to contain the weyr's herd. Even in darkness, the twinkling stars and available moonlight give the corrals a dim, muted glow. The smell of animals persists here, even with the beasts tucked away for the night behind the closed metal doors of the stables. Long and deep, four stone troughs occupy the area immediately in front of the stable and are kept filled with cool, clear water. A plateau spreads out to the north, where grass has overtaken the sprawling plain. Well-worn tracks lead back east toward the heavily trafficked bowl.
Up from the beach comes Paddy, steps steady rather than hurried. He's dressed in shirt-and-shorts though his shirt flaps about unbuttoned and sandals scuff along the stone floor of the bowl until it gives way to grass. Under his arm, a slightly sandy beach towel. He walks right up to T'mic without compunctions and slides an arm around the greenrider. "Ready?" he murmurs in a low undertone to his weyrmate, while Jekzith keeps up the flattery-patter in the background.
What's a bronze to do when his clutchbrother goes chasing off after some green? Follow. If only to prove he's not afraid of doing something a mere brown is doing. Dasarth follows Gedroth and once he's landed in the corral his whip-thin tail lashes out to smack against the Fortian brown's back leg. But that's all the attention he gives the other male because...what's this? << Hello there. You are quite comely. >> Dasarth gives this some thought and there's a stomping of boots before he adds << For a green. >> W'ton's with Rhodya though and they're not here yet and all so whatever he says is for her only.
T'mic sidles a step toward Phara, dipping his head to her like Aath does to Bennath, when first Gedroth, then Dasarth arrive. The newcomers catch his attention as surely as they do his green's - it's probably lucky for Mic that his reach for Gedroth is prevented by that pesky fence in his way, though it doesn't stop his eyes from giving the brown a once over. << Aren't you just so... handsome, >> Aath offers, gladly including the new youngsters in her breathy, diamond-studded adoration. Her rider arches up into P'draig's arm, dropping his head and nodding silently.
<< Yes, >> Gedroth answers simply, and without adornment. << I am. >> He spreads his wings to prove it, showing off the vast sails and rippling muscles that control them. Shrugging off the sting from Dasarth's tail, though he sends a snort after the bronze, he hops in place, then begins to pace back and forth, adding more hops and graceful leaps to show off his agility. As Rhodya comes closer, her voice can be heard clearly. "Now he's gonna think I skipped out or something. Just can't win."
Phara ducks her head reflexively when her former charge flies overhead. She mutters something about trying to behead her and leans onto the fence like she can't possibly support her weight any longer. Bennath is practically falling all over himself at Aath's attention, ever the charmed gentleman. So what if she's also paying the others attention, he can hope.
In among the suitors is Turatath, a pale blue counterpoint to the darker shades of the other brown, blue and bronze that cluster around the glowy green. Though he's far out of weyrlinghood, he's only got a handful of turns on him, though he seems even more youthful in the embarrasingly forward way he has about himself. He showers Aath with quirky little asides, unasked for observations and overt praises while he hovers around her, at least until instinct takes over the game. He's the first to depart her side and wing shortly over to the pens, swiftly taking down a lagging mare when he gets there. He positions his kill, arranges his teeth just so over an artery and then sinks them in.
P'draig gives Mic's shoulders a little squeeze when the greenrider leans his head against him. "All done soon," the brownrider murmurs even lower down, then starts to step away as Jekzith goes a-hopping over the fence to take advantage of the beastie smorgasbord on the other side. He's not messy either and he's quick about his take-downs, taking care of business, with more than one look over at Aath.
Oh, is that the way he wants to play it? Phah! Dasarth sidles up and tries to nudge Gedroth. Out of his way! Look how good /he/ looks! One wing extends careful not to sweep it into anyone just a hint of a tease to show off the brilliant crimson underneath. See? A total hottie! Without stopping the preening he jumps across the front of Gedroth to get to a beast. Quick and simple. W'ton trailing with Rhodya laughs and pats the brownrider on the shoulder. "Sorry about that. You can always send him an apology note with the messenger later. Then you'd save yourself a trip. I have to admit coming to visit in summer was a sharding dumb idea." Stopping he grins at his wingmate as he says, "Oops. Language. Naughty me."
The Istan bronze is young enough that he remains behind when the others go to blood; the last pair of blues get into a scuffle over just who gets to kill this particular beastie while Aath looks on raptly. Gedroth's agility, Dasarth's wings, Turatath's quips, Jekzith's and Bennath's attention... each and every iota is absorbed, inhaled, adored as her wings spread. Mic shivers again and pushes P'draig abruptly away, backing nearly into Phara before catching himself. He stares wildly at the gathering riders for long seconds before jinking to one side, around them all, and pelting across the bowl while behind him Aath launches into the air and skates into the clear Istan night.
P'draig doesn't look perturbed at all about being pushed away, just catches at the fence rail, set a little off-balance by it and then slings the towel he's carrying over his shoulder. A brief look is spared for Jekzith, busy in the pens doing the 'blood the kills' thing, then he's catching Phara's eye, maybe recognizing her from another flight and offers her a lopsided grin, holds a hand out to the Fortian bluerider for the walk across the bowl. "C'mon," he tells her in a quiet voice. Jekzith meanwhile has bright flashes of color speckling his mind, chasing after bubbles that carry more diamonds into the sky, all for Aath of course.
They may be of an age, but Gedroth is the more experienced chaser, and Dasarth's rudeness earns him a hard swat from the disapproving brown. As he wheels away from retaliation, and begins another turn in his display, he realizes the green has taken off and converts his showy leap into an effective one that springs him into the air. Rhodya grabs W'ton's shoulder, briefly overwhelmed by the rush of her dragon's thoughts, and clinging to her wingmate for balance. Then she punches that same shoulder. "You swore /and/ called me dumb," she mutters, rougher than usual in the crush of flight emotions. "And don't be so wimpy, it ain't so hot here. It's just Ista."
Phara lifts her hand as if to catch T'mic when he inevitably bumps into her, but he never makes it so her hand hovers in the air awkwardly for a moment before falling to her side when T'mic bolts. Her groan is one of annoyance, frustration even. She abandons the fence to follow at a more sedate pace. "Hi," she says to P'draig and smiles at him tentatively. Bennath is already thick in this game of killing, blooding, an efficient and necessary part of the flight process. Every beast he takes down, he does for Aath, his bright propeller blades making the air shimmer brightly. The scene flickers and waves like some exotic dance, so very happy that he is here for HER, beautiful as she is.
Finally Turatath's rider makes his appearance, rushing across the bowl without visible excuse for his delay. He's late enough that he doesn't even make it to the pens and instead just bends his path to follow T'mic's. P'rol to those who know him well, this dark-complexioned guy must have impressed at the younger end of the range, for he looks to be square in the middle of his teens just now. He enters the room and gives the acne scars on the back of his neck a socially awkward scratch before retreating to the far wall.
Busy with his posturing Dasarth barely has time to sip before the quarry takes to the air. This he notices as Gedroth swats him. Then he's got to go as well. She's so pretty after all. So lovely and green and what's a boy to do? The Fortian bronze trumpets his intentions and without bothering to be sure no one is in his way launches himself into the air. Anyone who was in his way is just out of luck. << Unworthy >> he sends to Aath all trumpets flashing in the sunshine as the army marches to war. << They are all unworthy! >> W'ton chuckles softly. "Oh, hit me again," he tells Rhodya, but his eyes are following T'mic. Then his feet are following the greenrider as well. "Come on then, Rhodya sweetheart. Never dumb. Beautiful." But he's still not looking at her.
It's a well-known path across the bowl to the guest weyr, and Mic doesn't give the barracks' entrance so much as a glance as he leads the parade past. He does hang back just at the doorway to watch what he can of the flight, but Aath shoots nearly straight up and out of his sight before the slowest of her suitors are even off the ground. The greenrider shivers yet again, nearly slumping into P'rol, before his face lights and he darts away from the younger man, safe into the center of the weyr, his arms spread wide. Up above Aath hasn't yet glanced back at her chasers, trusting that they will follow, each and every one. Diamonds drip from her thoughts, no more words now: only speed and distance and higher.
Turatath makes neat work of his kill, blooding as efficiently as such a thing can be done. Multitasking is something he's always been good at; even while he's gorging himself, he's keeping mental and visual tabs on Aath and, to a lesser extent, each one of her followers. So when Aath skims upward, his full attention is with her in a flash. He spreads his wings and with just the right amount of force launches himself upward after her, calculating her trajectory and mimicing it as exactly as he can. << Unworthy? >> he echoes, cut and dry, the foreign bronze. To Aath, << That's simply one particular perception of many, it just complicates things when you listen to all of them. Yours is the only one that matters. >>
P'draig's hand curls around Phara's as they cross the bowl in Mic's wake. No hurry and no getting lost here either. Jekzith's quick off the ground after Aath behind the trail of riders heading for the guest weyr. Maple-hued wings don't have much light to catch at this hour, and the brown's motley hide is smoothed out by the cover of growing darkness as he slants after the green. He doesn't bother with tricks or fancy flying, he knows Aath too well and just puts on a good initial burst of speed, uses a thermal for lift and shoots on upward, eyes on the prize and nowhere else. His thoughts do bleed out a little though: full of shimmering, sparkling, shining things and no attention paid whatsoever to arrogant bronzes from Fort.
Sunset is the perfect time of day for Gedroth to be in the air, the faded colors warming his pale hide. He makes the most of his appearance, pulling wide so Aath can see him in her peripheral vision, and flitting from draft to draft with a grace that's almost dance-like. << The worthy will prove themselves by catching her, >> he tells Dasarth and Turatath both, not so far gone he can't talk to them. << There is no other yardstick. >> "And don't call me sweetheart," Rhodya snaps at W'ton. Now she's following him, but where he's intent on the greenrider, she's holding herself up stiffly and trying to keep a firm hold on things.
Bennath is not slow. The meager attention he spends on feeding is quickly rerouted to the knowledge that Aath is up, and is he not a zippy dragon? He bursts into the air, faster than he would if he had Phara on his back. His mind thrills at the wind whipping under his wings, the exhiliration of shooting straight through the air in Aath's wake. Even with the waning sun, his hide is still bright, taking advantage of the last glimmers of light to reflect his patchwork hide. Phara closes her eyes when he takes off, exhaling. "I hate flights," she tells P'draig weakly, her nose wrinkling.
P'rol starts when he becomes a prop for T'mic, but he still has enough of his wits about him to utter a familiar and fakely deepened greeting. "Uh, hey. Man." He can't explain that his hands, merely supportive a second ago, grope after the greenrider's departure, letting contact break only when T'mic's movement makes it necessary. He folds those disobedient hands in against himself when the momentary interaction is over, letting the wall prop him now.
Just because he's never done this before means nothing! Not that Dasarth is going to rely on beginnings luck. No, he's going to rely on being The Best. Because only the best will get to win. He holds back some trying to find a good strategic position from which to plot his victory. If there's one thing he is sure of it's that he will be the victor. That and Aath is obviously the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. W'ton's not got a reply for Rhodya, but he does give her a wink. He's all eyes on T'mic with just a little flicker of a glance on anyone else.
Up and up, up and up Aath rises, spiraling against the cool black night. The lights of Ista so far below strive but cannot match the sheer beauty of the stars, or the glory of the green and her potential mates suspended in the orb of horizon. It's just as the air begins to cool and thin that the green snaps her wings tight to her back, momentum carrying her just a few precious feet higher before cruel gravity grasps her tight. So far below, in a cavern barely lit by flickering glows, her rider's face is flushed, eyes dark, breath coming in gasps, and hands fumbling to push his vest off.
"Noticed," P'draig says quietly to Phara. He's still got enough focus to speak, but he's down to single words as more of him gets wrapped up in the action up /there/ and he lets out a long breath. He musters a longer sentence though: "Be okay." And then he's leaning against the wall in the weyr, head dropping back to find stone, chest rising and falling much more rapidly than before as he consigns himself to whatever fate Jekzith manages to pull out of the evening. Faster, faster, higher, higher and then hold back a little, watch, watch for her stall, watch for her fall, Aath-like-a-diamond-in-the-sky, Jekzith knows this as much as he knows how to breathe and his rider is right there with him. Their Aath. Their Mic. Maybe tonight, maybe not. She hangs there like a star herself for just that moment and then her wings seize and Jekzith's snap outward for that last mad dash to catch her.
There's no way of knowing if he's done the right thing, but Dasarth knows at least he has to do something. So when he's done watching because he has no more time to watch he trumpets out his charge before doing just that. Anyone who gets in his way will have to face that thin tail whipping out and maybe even a bit of claw too. Whatever will do the trick to get the unworthy out of his way so he can claim his prize. W'ton tips back and catches himself on the wall when the bronze charges. Eyes close for just a moment to regain his equilibrium but then they snap open to watch Mic. Because who wouldn't want to be watching him right now?
Bennath is no fool, and he's followed Aath before. There is no fear to follow, no second thought. He wheels sharply, cutting past anyone too slow to get out of the way, and plunges after the object of his (temporary) affection. With no respect for gravity, or speed, or how he's going to pull himself out of this one, he falls like a stone, every part of him pinpointed on following her. Phara lets P'draig lead, too unfocused to notice even when they pass from outside to in. She stands dumbly next to him, her hand limp if he still holds it but making no motion to pull away.
W'ton with all his winking and joking and - ugh. Rhodya can't deal with him right now. As soon as they get into the guest weyr, she pointedly takes herself off to the opposite side and stands there, arms crossed over her chest, eyes intent on the greenrider now. Gedroth has never flown in Ista before, is finding and following the currents for the first time. The thrill of exploration fills him, and when the green dives he revels in the edge-of-your-seat rush in improvising his way to her. Broadening his mental scope, he lets his full joy in this moment flow towards her with his body, and as his claws stretch out to seek her a little thought slips through as well. /Yes/. /This/ time.
Turatath, only a shade lighter than the twilight that surrounds the sky-bound troupe, makes the best of the sneaky advantage his color gives him, keeping the early lead he gained and angling to catch the green before her inevitable arc begins to bend. Precision with every pull, each wingstrokes puts him a point closer and recalculates his angle to match hers perfectly. Just as that fixed point is approaching, the exact time for him to extend his arms and find the predicted green in his grasp, all turns to chaos. She slows and banks sharply, leaving his talons straining at air. Quick to readjust his estimations, he too directs himself straight downward. Unlike Aath, he uses his wings though, at opportune moments, to assist gravity's force, counting on his smaller size to let him weave between the other, now closer suitors. P'rol, down in that cramped weyr, simply watches on, the beads of sweat dotting his forehead the only indication that he's anything but calm.
Aath's path, so simple at the beginning of the end, turns into a tumbling, jouncing path as she falls through the scrum. Jekzith, so close... and yet his grasp is thwarted as the young Istan bronze grabs for her and fails, sending her out of the motley brown's reach. So too does she fall past Bennath and Turatath, nearly captured by Dasarth, only to stretch for one of the older Istan blues. But the much smaller male is no match for the Fortian brown who suddenly appears between them, and it's Gedroth's improvisation that's captured tonight's prize. Mic's eyes flick from rider to rider, seeking out his own match to what Aath's found above, lingering on each face, each set of hands, of shoulders.
Snap. Missed. Jekzith pulls up, turns sharply and heads out to sea to find the coolness of deep waves. P'draig's hand tightens around Phara's and he exhales long, opens hazy eyes and holds there for a moment of disorientation. The Weyrlingmaster pulls together enough sense to pull away from the wall as surely as Jekzith pulls up and slightly staggered steps head for the bowl with its blanket of stars hanging far above.
Now he's pissed though. Stupid brown! Stupid clutchbrother! Dasarth bugles out his annoyance and his anger as he veers off alone. Stupid greens! So not worth his time! As the Fortian bronze goes off to sulk with sour grapes he strands his rider. Which means W'ton gets to stumble off on his own. At least tomorrow he can rib Rhodya to no end about it.
Bennath keeps going, past Aath caught in Gedroth's hold, past them all until he can pull out of his headlong rush, nearly crashing into the bowl wall before momentum drags him back upwards again, safely clearing the edge to come to a stop there. Phara clears her throat, face flushed all the way down her neck. She returns P'draig's handsqueaze, clutching almost too tightly. She stumbles out after him, though maybe not with him. A hasty retreat, either way.
Where did he go wrong? Turatath doesn't bugle or bellow, but grumbles with the frustration of a thwarted researcher flipping back and back through his notes. Another readjustment of his sails pulls him back from the mating pair and on a shallower trajectory that will give him some cooling time before he reaches the ground again. P'rol shakes himself free of the wall, blinking past the lingering blurring of his vision. Carefully, he edges around the room, avoiding the frenzied greenrider as much as possible, and makes for the exit.
Gedroth thinks it every time. This will be the one. I will catch this time. And when he's actually right, for once - well, he's actually surprised. This being his first catch and all, it takes him a moment to figure out what he's doing up here, but soon he has it figured it out and the green is so very /his/ that he forgets everything else. Rhodya doesn't share her brown's moment of uncertainty; the second he catches, she steps towards T'mic. Never you mind she doesn't know his name or there are people in the room; her dragon won and won't be the only one to claim a prize for it.
Northwest Bowl, Ista Weyr
Despite the frequent traffic the bowl receives, grass stubbornly continues sending up shoots to cover some of its hard-packed dirt. Well-worn tracks lead to commonly used areas: southeast to the rest of the bowl and the inner caverns, on further northwest to the sprawling plateau of Ista Weyr. Westward, by the corrals, the bowl wall is missing; the lava flow that once tore it down now long-cooled into the grassy plain visible from here.
The remaining walls, however, are well-used, riddled with the ledges of weyrs and lined along the bottom with entrances to ground weyrs for flights, visitors, and the injured--the infirmary's curtained doorway is equally close, for those particular cases. There's also the large tunnel with its metal doors to the weyrling barracks, back to the northeast.
Since she's holding on so tightly, P'draig winds up taking Phara with him when he makes it out to the bowl and it's a little ways out of the guest weyr that he stops, looks up at the sky and takes a few deep breaths. In the wake of the last of these he notices that he's holding hands with someone and blinks, looks over at the bluerider, holds up their joined hands and gets kind of a goofy look on his face. "You okay?" he musters, forcing his focus back to the here and now.
Phara is still working on coming back to herself, and she shakes her head a few times to clear it. She glances up at P'draig and then blushes a little when she realizes she's still clinging to his hand like a lifeline. "Yeah," she replies softly, trying to master her own breathing. The humid air does nothing for the flush on her cheeks though, and it lingers.
P'draig stands there for a moment, watching her and then without preamble, bends down to kiss her. It's not insistent or demanding, but it's a very clear offer, coupled with the shifting of his fingers from around hers to threading between them. "Don't have to hate flights," Paddy murmurs a little off-kilter, free hand lifting to brush lightly at the edge of her chin.
Phara is not completely caught off guard when he bends towards her. Her hand rises to cup the side of P'draig's neck, returning his kiss without hesitance. "They're not all-bad," she admits with a crooked smile for him when the kiss breaks.
P'draig grins crookedly and gives her hand a little tug towards the cover of trees over yonder, to find a quiet, out-of-the-way spot to follow up on that shared kiss. "No ... definitely don't have to be," he replies as they go and his hand squeezes hers again and night's shadows swallow them up.
Some time later.
Shallow breaths, a low groan as Phara slowly stretches her body, not precisely comfortable in their make-shift hideaway but not uncomfortable enough to do anything about it - yet. Instead she works on flexing each muscle up from her toes. Mission complete she smiles languidly, very much the cat who drank the milk at this moment.
That groan sees P'draig's arm curling reflexively around the slender bluerider and his head tilts up a little, bringing eyes into view to check on her. "Hey," the brownrider murmurs a little hoarsely - he wasn't exactly /quiet/ for all the relative privacy that some thick shrubbery and low-hanging tree branches affords. His hand rubs lightly at her back, the other lifting to cradle the back of his own head.
Phara mms and turns onto her side after inventory is complete, splaying her calloused hand against the brownrider's chest. "Hey," she replies huskily. "You have a leaf in your hair," she tacks on with amusement, her lips curling up in a grin. And then her head lowers to rest into the curve of his shoulder, just relaxing for a moment.
P'draig laughs at this pronouncement and reaches up to brush a hand through his hair, then returns it to the small of her back. "Perils of screwing outside under a bunch of trees," Paddy notes with some amusement and peers up between the branches at the sky. "I think Jekzith's almost recovered," he muses quietly followed by a curious: "Does your Bennath chase often? I know he's caught Aath once before."
Phara lifts her chin just a little to look up into his face. "Yes, that is a hazard," she agrees, her fingers exploring the planes of his chest. "Once," she confirms before answering his previous question. "No, not too often. Mostly only when I tell him it's okay. Sometimes he goes off on his own, but not too often. Your Jezkith? I know I've seen you at more than just Aath's flights."
That there would be a pretty nice chest. Paddy stays in shape. "Huh. Can't imagine that," P'draig confesses with a little shake of his head. "Jekzith ... he's just really into it. Chases a lot. Catches a fair bit too, roughly once a month he catches and he chases once or twice a seven."
Phara shudders just a little, a delicate ripple passing down her spine. "I can't really imagine that, either. I'd go nuts. Don't get me wrong, I love getting laid as much as the next girl but... I like to pick." Yes, it is a very nice chest. She clearly approves, if her wandering hand is any indication.
"Yeah, it's taken a while for us to find a balance there because he really, really, takes me along for the ride," P'draig explains as he re-cushions his head in his hand and the other hand's fingers traces idle patterns along Phara's skin. "It's taken turns of practice to be able to hold onto myself as long as possible and then let go when it's okay to let go. For all that, I usually go for a cool swim after," he notes with a touch of amusement. "But I thought since we were already tangled together an what you said before -- maybe this would be nicer for both of us."
Phara just continues to smile a heavy-lidded smile. "Not complaining," she agrees. "It's been a dry month." Smirk. "Sometimes it's nice...losing yourself completely. Especially when you just want to forget things. But usually I'd prefer not to." She pushes herself up on her elbow now, peering down at him. "Should probably be getting home."
"Jekzith and I we're just -- we're that close," P'draig describes slowly, quietly. "He's always right here, quiet buzz in the background. In a flight ... there's nothing between us at all. We're literally one." His chin tilts towards his chest again and his hand skirts up her back a little. "Mm. Won't keep you unless you'd like to stay? Mic won't mind. Nice big weyr. We got one with more than one room for a reason," he jokes a little. "And ... well, he might be a while."
Phara leans down, dividing her weight between his chest and her elbow, meager as it is. The kiss she presses to his lips is lingering, followed by a soft, breathy laugh. "Mm, tempting," she admits, not pulling away far. "Don't actually have anywhere to go. Just thought it was the polite way to offer you an out. In case."
P'draig lets his hand slide up to between her shoulder blades, head lifting to meet that kiss partway. "I'm in no rush to kick you out, either," the brownrider answers. "Though I might slip out to check on my weyrlings," he notes, palm sliding up further to cradle the back of her neck. "And I snore some and I get up early, so there's an easy way out for you too, if you'd rather not deal with a snoring, early-rising weyrlingmaster," he jokes.
Phara hums quietly. "I might snore too," she offers in a teasing whisper, her brown eyes somehow managing a twinkle in the dark, just the slightest glint of mischief. "And I might beat you out of bed anyways to be back home in time for drills." She leans down to trail her mouth against his collarbone. "I think I can deal, as one potentially snoring, early-rising, former assistant weyrlingmaster." Yes, she's definitely having a bit of fun.
"Don't forget, we're a couple hours ahead at Ista," P'draig reminds with a chuckle. "Dawn here'll be pre-dawn at Fort." More laughter sounds for that answer followed by a quiet murmur of appreciation for her lips against his collarbone. "All right then bluerider, better let me get my shorts on long enough to get up there," he quips. "Not that I'm shy, but flashing the whole Weyr's probably not advisable."
Phara sighs like he's really asking a chore out of her and leans away from him again, sitting up fully this time and casting her eyes about for any articles of clothing. This requires some patting of the ground to identify pieces, but she manages. "I'm sure there's some people who'd complain."
"Heh, not too many, but some." P'draig sits up, stretches and casts about for shorts, finds those, hauls them on and picks up the rest of his stuff, then holds a hand out to Phara. "C'mon. Let's go see how much it takes to tire you out," he says merrily, eyes dancing with wicked humor to lead the way back into the clear for dragon pickup and a hopefully fun night for all. And sleep. In there somewhere.
When: Sunset, day 19, month 6, turn 20 of the 10th Interval
Where: Beach/Corrals/Bowl/Guest Weyr/Garden, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy catches up with June and Skinner on the beach, then Aath goes up and Jekzith doesn't catch. Phara stays over.
Main Beach, Ista Weyr(#444RJ)
The coastline of black sand stretches out in either direction, tropical waters lapping ceaselessly against the subtle decline of the main beach that rests at the base of the plateau cliff. To the northeast, water from the upper pool cascades over the plateau's edge, its destination shrouded in the lush fronts of the jungle's edge and a hint of blue-tinged mist. The Sandbar, Ista's seaside tavern, stands to the south beside the long branching structure of the docks.
The wet summer season oppresses the island with high humidity and sweltering temperatures. As the sun sets, a gray blanket of clouds dominates the sky and a nice, light breeze carries the scent of sea air.
The day has been an unbearable one, even as Istan standards go, but the evening brings with it a bit of relief, the searing sun having sunk and a nice breeze having sprung up to push across the beach. It's not that rare that June gets a rest day, but it's rarer that she spends it away from the tavern entirely; when she does, like tonight, she tends to spend it largely in solitude and quiet. And so she's picked an emptied corner of the beach to enjoy the lull in temperature and the pretty-colored sky both, lounging there on a wide towel with her feet dug into the still-warm sand.
The heat meant staying out of the Barracks and in the shade as much as possible for P'draig, who led most of the lectures and exercises for the day in the garden at the top of the plateau and in the actual pool with a focus on swimming instead of running and so on, which means that he's damp, even as evening rolls through and the weyrlingmaster escapes the heat above to come down to the beach. Off-duty he's unbuttoned his shirt to let that breeze flap its way through and his feet are bare though he carries a pair of sandals loosely dangling from his fingers. "Evening," he greets June, steps slowing as he nears, his own towel rolled up under one arm.
June tilts back a look, viewing the brownrider from that lazy, upside-down angle and drawing up a slow smile. "It's the Weyrlingmaster," she uses as a greeting, proving that, as removed as she is, she can still keep track of the Weyr's important people and their positions. "How are you?" she asks predictably, turning her eyes back upward, tracing the pinked edges of the incoming clouds.
"Paddy," P'draig corrects mildly with a slightly wider smile. "And I am very hot, surprisingly enough, so I have come down here to cool off," the weyrlingmaster answers and nods downward towards the sand. "Mind company, or are you looking for a little solitude, June?" His gaze follows hers upwards to the sky though. "Istan sunsets. They're pretty incredible and never the same twice."
June gives him another glance, then answers lightly, "I've never been one to turn down a little company." Though she doesn't move from her lazy lounge, leaving him to find enough space on one of the corners of the towel to place himself. "They are incredible," she agrees while he does so. "One of the things that's better in Ista."
Taking his own towel out from under his arm, P'draig spreads the article along the sand beside June's towel. His sandals are left just shy of one corner and he sets himself down with feet hanging off the end in similar fashion to the tavern-keeper's. "One of. What are some of the other things that you consider to be better at Ista?"
June rolls her head, rested on folded arms tucked behind, to the side in order to see Paddy better. She blinks across the short expanse of black sand between them while she thinks, musing out answers as they come to her. "The food. Clothing, I guess, it's so much lighter. The landscape. The men." That last one slides in with a dry note of humor, which he may also glimpse in her slightly squinted eyes before she turns them skyward again.
"Lots of fresh things to eat," P'draig says agreeably and leans back, mimicking June's position with hands folded behind his head, looking up at the slowly changing sky. "It's been interesting cooking here, different from at Fort." His head turns towards his companion, grin etching itself wide on his face. "Lighter clothing, or less of it ... and I can't really complain about the men myself," he jokes lightly.
"Oh, that's right," June pronounces idly, giving each syllable its own special treatment. "You're... oh, it's... weyrmated right? To that greenrider assistant, yeah? I keep forgetting." She keeps her gaze directed up, toes fidgeting in the sandy trenches they've dug themselves.
"T'mic," P'draig answers readily with a nod. "Weyrmated for the last almost three turns," the brownrider relates, one foot lifting a little, then dropping back down to rest on the sand. "You've met Mic, I'm sure? He -- was talking about ah -- bringing some business to the Seven the other day," the brownrider says carefully, eyeballing a drift of purpling cloud.
"Three turns." June's tone does all the marveling that her expression doesn't; she's clearly impressed by the time frame, even if her face keeps the same relaxed lines. "Was he?" This is enough to make her tilt her head again, but only enough to give him a glance and an arched brow. "Well, we would certainly appreciate it. Can never be too busy. I've seen T'mic," the name is adopted, though it lacks the familiarity that Paddy uses with it, "around, sure. I don't know that I've met him formally, though." There's only a trifle of uncertainty there.
"Not bad for a guy who'd given up on ever weyrmating again and one who couldn't keep his pants on for much of anything," P'draig says humorously and tilts his head towards the tavern-keeper. "He'll probably turn up at the Seven by and by." He. Not they. "Not tonight though, Aath's probably going to rise tonight or tomorrow. I should go check on him in a little bit, make sure he's remembered to put his pants on."
June laughs in her light, quiet way, then lets a beat pass with nothing but the creeping fade of the colors and the rustle of sand between her toes. She eventually wonders, though, "He can tell that soon? I thought it was more of a... spur of the moment thing."
A good ways off the shore, Skinner's been wallowing in the ocean for the past hour or so, enjoying the sympathies of a pretty young woman. She's sympathetic because he's covered in bug bites, with pink spots all over him, and she and the salt water have been easing his pains. Now, however, the girl's got to go, and so after letting her go first (for a somewhat discreet departure), Skinner now comes climbing up the beach.
"Aath builds up to it pretty obviously," P'draig explains with a grin audible in his voice. "She's ... just very overt about the whole thing. She's into males on the average day, when she's about to go up, you can't miss it."
"Ah," June utters as the understanding dawns on her, "so it's just different for each one." She ventures that confidently enough, having enough knowledge about dragonkind now to do so. Her sky-watching dips a bit to the surf when her periphery catches Skinner wading his way out. She moves a hand from behind her head long enough to give him a short wave of greeting, just a tossed gesture that's easy enough for him to dismiss if he has pressing business elsewhere.
But Skinner's still on leisure time, and with no business to distract him he raises a hand back to June. After a short detour to retrieve his shorts (so much for discreet?) he heads that way, calling out "Good evening" when he gets close enough. Grabbing the leg of his shorts, he tugs them with a grimace of discomfort. "Sand gets all over the place," he remarks, shaking some out of a fold in the cloth.
"Mm. Pretty much. Just like people, different ways of being," P'draig says with a nod that disarranges his towel slightly. The movement of June's hand tilts his head upward to catch sight o f Skinner. "Skinner," Paddy says simply, which is polite enough.
"I've slowly been realizing that, I think," June tells Paddy, not abashed at all about admitting to her lack (or perhaps recent lack) of draconic know-how. At Skinner, she's laughing with her eyes if not her mouth, looking him up and down briefly before replying, "It tends to do that. Helps if you're not leaving your clothes laying around in it, I hear."
"Hey, P'draig," Skinner answers, which is friendly enough. Whatever tensions there may be, he's an ace at ignoring them. "What can I say?" he asks June, giving his shorts a final shake that gets more sand out of them. "It was either sand or sand and water. I'm a simple man."
"Yeah, it's hard to have a conversation with a dragon without his or her rider to figure out what they're each like," P'draig says with understanding. "Or worse, winding up buried in sand without any clothes," the brownrider adds with a little wrinkle of his nose. "And neither of those sound all that appealing."
"No, they don't," June agrees with a tiny wrinkle of her nose in return. Sand, apparently not one of the things that makes Ista better. "You know," she notes to Skinner, straining for a second or two to tilt her chin up and see him, "you could just try keeping them on for once. Might keep you from getting attacked by bugs."
Skinner blanches at P'draig's suggestion. "I think getting buried would be the worst of the three. There are places you will never get sand /out/ of." He pulls a sweet, sparkling smile on June. "What fun would that be, if I did? Besides, I wasn't up to anything fun when I got eaten." He looks down on one of his clusters of bug bites, tapping it gently. "I was just hot."
Jekzith> Long accustomed to his green and her ways, T'mic hangs on the outside of the corral fence as Aath gathers suitors about her a little bit away in the bowl. One foot on the lowest rail, heel jigging, Mic stares at the grazing beasts without truly seeing them. Perhaps he's already using Aath's eyes, for the green turns her attention from one male to the next, coaxing this one closer with the flip of her tail while luring another with a flick of a wing.
Jekzith> Long accustomed to T'mic's green and her ways, Jekzith hangs out by the corrals with a weather eye for Aath and how she's behaving. When her attention shifts his way he flatters her gamely, with the knowledge gained from now turns of practice and a lot of hanging of spangles in the sky to light her perfect chiffon hide with. P'draig? Not in sight /just/ this minute, but the brownrider can't be that far off, can he?
"Bugs. Another downside to Ista," P'draig notes with a quirky little grin then squints up at the darkening sky, pushes up to his elbows and slants a look back towards the Weyr, a deep breath slowly taken. He blinks twice, looks back at Skinner nodding. "It does come out. Eventually. With a lot of pain," the brownrider answers gravely and eyeballs that cluster of bites. "In a word: ow."
June is fine until Paddy has to go and talk about the sand coming out. She turns another look on him, this one more level than the ones that came before it. "Men are such wonderful conversationalists," she generalizes dryly, nose still wrinkled up with a little bit of disgust. If she notices Paddy's antsiness, she doesn't merit it with comment.
Having his hand so close to the bug bites turns out to be more than Skinner can resist. He indulges in a short, frenzied scratch, as if doing it quickly will mean it doesn't count. Without lifting his eyes from the bites, he replies, "Such the life of a traveling salesman. Every place has its downsides, but I'll grant you the jungle is a particular bastard." At June's dry comment, he lifts his gaze to her for a second, and grins. "If you'd like to talk about something else, I'm at your service."
Jekzith> Bennath's a familliar blue at Ista, even if he doesn't live here. So it's not much of a shock to see the blue lingering at the edges of the gathering males. So eager to be a part of it, and yet holding himself back hesitantly. The conflict is evident in the way his neck stretches towards the green, his eyes intent, his tail waving in agitation. Phara lingers near the fence, looking indecisive. Finally she sighs and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Go ahead, Benny," she permits him, sounding weary. The blue looks back at her for a moment, crooning lovingly, and then leaps closer into the fray, shifting from foot to foot eagerly.
Jekzith> T'mic has a look and a grin for Jekzith, even if Aath is pretending she can't see him (except when she peeks over while pretending to be raptly absorbed in a young bronze's preening). "Soon," he tells the brown needlessly before his foot's jigging is transmuted into a whole body shiver that has him clutching at the wooden rails. << I see you, >> Aath breathes to her courtiers, with enough diamonds and coy looks scattered to make each one feel that she speaks only to him. Mic surfaces from his shiver to blink blankly about, and drop an absent, unseeing nod to the visiting bluerider.
Jekzith> Jekzith lets out a quiet croon for Aath and streeetches necks and wings out like he's warming up for the race that's about to take place. << You bet. Right here, lovely, >> Jekzith tells her jauntily and tings one of those diamonds so it reflects all the more. Cha-ching.
Jekzith> Bennath replies eagerly with a blue sky and lazily drifting clouds. << I see you, too, baby, >> he buzzes, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement. Phara nods in return to Mic, though it's halfhearted. She knows greenriders well enough by now to realize he doesn't have a clue who she even is most likely right now.
Jekzith> Skimming low in his flight, an overlong, skinny brown leads the way as two more Fortians come to join the crowd. Gedroth's aimed himself perfectly, his dangling feet just barely (but cleanly) missing the fence as he comes to a neat, collected landing inside the corral. Once there, he makes no movement towards the beasts, but he does pull himself up and crow to get the green's attention. Far behind him, his rider's walking in from the bowl with his straps wound over her shoulder.
Another deep breath from P'draig and he pushes up all the way to a full sit. "Sorry June," he apologizes for his bluntness. "We do get a little ... well gross sometimes," the brownrider admits and reaches for his sandals to pull them back on. "I'm also sorry that I'm going to have to miss out on the rest of this lovely sunset and the company. Aath's decided on tonight," he says calmly enough and heaves himself up onto his feet, though not to standing. Turning around he gathers his towel up, folds it up neatly and smiles at June. "Thank you for company and conversation until it took that nosedive, June. I hope the rest of your evening is cool and pleasant. Skinner ... shells man, get something for those bites, hm?" Then he does straighten up, salutes casually and heads off towards the stairs back up to the Weyr.
June angles her head again, sharply, so she's able to watch Paddy the whole time he's making his retreat to the Weyr. "Right," she says, then, "Good luck," as he's heading off. Quieter then, for Skinner, "I guess good luck would be in order, right?" She shrugs it off, an oddly hindered little gesture, then moves a hand to pat her towel with its free corners of space available for sitting. "Something else," she decides and lets the conversation switch from sand and crevices to something more refined, though it's sure to be derailed when that green does rise.
Corrals, Ista Weyr
Roughly a quarter of the western end of the bowl is enclosed by sturdy wooden fencing to contain the weyr's herd. Even in darkness, the twinkling stars and available moonlight give the corrals a dim, muted glow. The smell of animals persists here, even with the beasts tucked away for the night behind the closed metal doors of the stables. Long and deep, four stone troughs occupy the area immediately in front of the stable and are kept filled with cool, clear water. A plateau spreads out to the north, where grass has overtaken the sprawling plain. Well-worn tracks lead back east toward the heavily trafficked bowl.
Up from the beach comes Paddy, steps steady rather than hurried. He's dressed in shirt-and-shorts though his shirt flaps about unbuttoned and sandals scuff along the stone floor of the bowl until it gives way to grass. Under his arm, a slightly sandy beach towel. He walks right up to T'mic without compunctions and slides an arm around the greenrider. "Ready?" he murmurs in a low undertone to his weyrmate, while Jekzith keeps up the flattery-patter in the background.
What's a bronze to do when his clutchbrother goes chasing off after some green? Follow. If only to prove he's not afraid of doing something a mere brown is doing. Dasarth follows Gedroth and once he's landed in the corral his whip-thin tail lashes out to smack against the Fortian brown's back leg. But that's all the attention he gives the other male because...what's this? << Hello there. You are quite comely. >> Dasarth gives this some thought and there's a stomping of boots before he adds << For a green. >> W'ton's with Rhodya though and they're not here yet and all so whatever he says is for her only.
T'mic sidles a step toward Phara, dipping his head to her like Aath does to Bennath, when first Gedroth, then Dasarth arrive. The newcomers catch his attention as surely as they do his green's - it's probably lucky for Mic that his reach for Gedroth is prevented by that pesky fence in his way, though it doesn't stop his eyes from giving the brown a once over. << Aren't you just so... handsome, >> Aath offers, gladly including the new youngsters in her breathy, diamond-studded adoration. Her rider arches up into P'draig's arm, dropping his head and nodding silently.
<< Yes, >> Gedroth answers simply, and without adornment. << I am. >> He spreads his wings to prove it, showing off the vast sails and rippling muscles that control them. Shrugging off the sting from Dasarth's tail, though he sends a snort after the bronze, he hops in place, then begins to pace back and forth, adding more hops and graceful leaps to show off his agility. As Rhodya comes closer, her voice can be heard clearly. "Now he's gonna think I skipped out or something. Just can't win."
Phara ducks her head reflexively when her former charge flies overhead. She mutters something about trying to behead her and leans onto the fence like she can't possibly support her weight any longer. Bennath is practically falling all over himself at Aath's attention, ever the charmed gentleman. So what if she's also paying the others attention, he can hope.
In among the suitors is Turatath, a pale blue counterpoint to the darker shades of the other brown, blue and bronze that cluster around the glowy green. Though he's far out of weyrlinghood, he's only got a handful of turns on him, though he seems even more youthful in the embarrasingly forward way he has about himself. He showers Aath with quirky little asides, unasked for observations and overt praises while he hovers around her, at least until instinct takes over the game. He's the first to depart her side and wing shortly over to the pens, swiftly taking down a lagging mare when he gets there. He positions his kill, arranges his teeth just so over an artery and then sinks them in.
P'draig gives Mic's shoulders a little squeeze when the greenrider leans his head against him. "All done soon," the brownrider murmurs even lower down, then starts to step away as Jekzith goes a-hopping over the fence to take advantage of the beastie smorgasbord on the other side. He's not messy either and he's quick about his take-downs, taking care of business, with more than one look over at Aath.
Oh, is that the way he wants to play it? Phah! Dasarth sidles up and tries to nudge Gedroth. Out of his way! Look how good /he/ looks! One wing extends careful not to sweep it into anyone just a hint of a tease to show off the brilliant crimson underneath. See? A total hottie! Without stopping the preening he jumps across the front of Gedroth to get to a beast. Quick and simple. W'ton trailing with Rhodya laughs and pats the brownrider on the shoulder. "Sorry about that. You can always send him an apology note with the messenger later. Then you'd save yourself a trip. I have to admit coming to visit in summer was a sharding dumb idea." Stopping he grins at his wingmate as he says, "Oops. Language. Naughty me."
The Istan bronze is young enough that he remains behind when the others go to blood; the last pair of blues get into a scuffle over just who gets to kill this particular beastie while Aath looks on raptly. Gedroth's agility, Dasarth's wings, Turatath's quips, Jekzith's and Bennath's attention... each and every iota is absorbed, inhaled, adored as her wings spread. Mic shivers again and pushes P'draig abruptly away, backing nearly into Phara before catching himself. He stares wildly at the gathering riders for long seconds before jinking to one side, around them all, and pelting across the bowl while behind him Aath launches into the air and skates into the clear Istan night.
P'draig doesn't look perturbed at all about being pushed away, just catches at the fence rail, set a little off-balance by it and then slings the towel he's carrying over his shoulder. A brief look is spared for Jekzith, busy in the pens doing the 'blood the kills' thing, then he's catching Phara's eye, maybe recognizing her from another flight and offers her a lopsided grin, holds a hand out to the Fortian bluerider for the walk across the bowl. "C'mon," he tells her in a quiet voice. Jekzith meanwhile has bright flashes of color speckling his mind, chasing after bubbles that carry more diamonds into the sky, all for Aath of course.
They may be of an age, but Gedroth is the more experienced chaser, and Dasarth's rudeness earns him a hard swat from the disapproving brown. As he wheels away from retaliation, and begins another turn in his display, he realizes the green has taken off and converts his showy leap into an effective one that springs him into the air. Rhodya grabs W'ton's shoulder, briefly overwhelmed by the rush of her dragon's thoughts, and clinging to her wingmate for balance. Then she punches that same shoulder. "You swore /and/ called me dumb," she mutters, rougher than usual in the crush of flight emotions. "And don't be so wimpy, it ain't so hot here. It's just Ista."
Phara lifts her hand as if to catch T'mic when he inevitably bumps into her, but he never makes it so her hand hovers in the air awkwardly for a moment before falling to her side when T'mic bolts. Her groan is one of annoyance, frustration even. She abandons the fence to follow at a more sedate pace. "Hi," she says to P'draig and smiles at him tentatively. Bennath is already thick in this game of killing, blooding, an efficient and necessary part of the flight process. Every beast he takes down, he does for Aath, his bright propeller blades making the air shimmer brightly. The scene flickers and waves like some exotic dance, so very happy that he is here for HER, beautiful as she is.
Finally Turatath's rider makes his appearance, rushing across the bowl without visible excuse for his delay. He's late enough that he doesn't even make it to the pens and instead just bends his path to follow T'mic's. P'rol to those who know him well, this dark-complexioned guy must have impressed at the younger end of the range, for he looks to be square in the middle of his teens just now. He enters the room and gives the acne scars on the back of his neck a socially awkward scratch before retreating to the far wall.
Busy with his posturing Dasarth barely has time to sip before the quarry takes to the air. This he notices as Gedroth swats him. Then he's got to go as well. She's so pretty after all. So lovely and green and what's a boy to do? The Fortian bronze trumpets his intentions and without bothering to be sure no one is in his way launches himself into the air. Anyone who was in his way is just out of luck. << Unworthy >> he sends to Aath all trumpets flashing in the sunshine as the army marches to war. << They are all unworthy! >> W'ton chuckles softly. "Oh, hit me again," he tells Rhodya, but his eyes are following T'mic. Then his feet are following the greenrider as well. "Come on then, Rhodya sweetheart. Never dumb. Beautiful." But he's still not looking at her.
It's a well-known path across the bowl to the guest weyr, and Mic doesn't give the barracks' entrance so much as a glance as he leads the parade past. He does hang back just at the doorway to watch what he can of the flight, but Aath shoots nearly straight up and out of his sight before the slowest of her suitors are even off the ground. The greenrider shivers yet again, nearly slumping into P'rol, before his face lights and he darts away from the younger man, safe into the center of the weyr, his arms spread wide. Up above Aath hasn't yet glanced back at her chasers, trusting that they will follow, each and every one. Diamonds drip from her thoughts, no more words now: only speed and distance and higher.
Turatath makes neat work of his kill, blooding as efficiently as such a thing can be done. Multitasking is something he's always been good at; even while he's gorging himself, he's keeping mental and visual tabs on Aath and, to a lesser extent, each one of her followers. So when Aath skims upward, his full attention is with her in a flash. He spreads his wings and with just the right amount of force launches himself upward after her, calculating her trajectory and mimicing it as exactly as he can. << Unworthy? >> he echoes, cut and dry, the foreign bronze. To Aath, << That's simply one particular perception of many, it just complicates things when you listen to all of them. Yours is the only one that matters. >>
P'draig's hand curls around Phara's as they cross the bowl in Mic's wake. No hurry and no getting lost here either. Jekzith's quick off the ground after Aath behind the trail of riders heading for the guest weyr. Maple-hued wings don't have much light to catch at this hour, and the brown's motley hide is smoothed out by the cover of growing darkness as he slants after the green. He doesn't bother with tricks or fancy flying, he knows Aath too well and just puts on a good initial burst of speed, uses a thermal for lift and shoots on upward, eyes on the prize and nowhere else. His thoughts do bleed out a little though: full of shimmering, sparkling, shining things and no attention paid whatsoever to arrogant bronzes from Fort.
Sunset is the perfect time of day for Gedroth to be in the air, the faded colors warming his pale hide. He makes the most of his appearance, pulling wide so Aath can see him in her peripheral vision, and flitting from draft to draft with a grace that's almost dance-like. << The worthy will prove themselves by catching her, >> he tells Dasarth and Turatath both, not so far gone he can't talk to them. << There is no other yardstick. >> "And don't call me sweetheart," Rhodya snaps at W'ton. Now she's following him, but where he's intent on the greenrider, she's holding herself up stiffly and trying to keep a firm hold on things.
Bennath is not slow. The meager attention he spends on feeding is quickly rerouted to the knowledge that Aath is up, and is he not a zippy dragon? He bursts into the air, faster than he would if he had Phara on his back. His mind thrills at the wind whipping under his wings, the exhiliration of shooting straight through the air in Aath's wake. Even with the waning sun, his hide is still bright, taking advantage of the last glimmers of light to reflect his patchwork hide. Phara closes her eyes when he takes off, exhaling. "I hate flights," she tells P'draig weakly, her nose wrinkling.
P'rol starts when he becomes a prop for T'mic, but he still has enough of his wits about him to utter a familiar and fakely deepened greeting. "Uh, hey. Man." He can't explain that his hands, merely supportive a second ago, grope after the greenrider's departure, letting contact break only when T'mic's movement makes it necessary. He folds those disobedient hands in against himself when the momentary interaction is over, letting the wall prop him now.
Just because he's never done this before means nothing! Not that Dasarth is going to rely on beginnings luck. No, he's going to rely on being The Best. Because only the best will get to win. He holds back some trying to find a good strategic position from which to plot his victory. If there's one thing he is sure of it's that he will be the victor. That and Aath is obviously the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. W'ton's not got a reply for Rhodya, but he does give her a wink. He's all eyes on T'mic with just a little flicker of a glance on anyone else.
Up and up, up and up Aath rises, spiraling against the cool black night. The lights of Ista so far below strive but cannot match the sheer beauty of the stars, or the glory of the green and her potential mates suspended in the orb of horizon. It's just as the air begins to cool and thin that the green snaps her wings tight to her back, momentum carrying her just a few precious feet higher before cruel gravity grasps her tight. So far below, in a cavern barely lit by flickering glows, her rider's face is flushed, eyes dark, breath coming in gasps, and hands fumbling to push his vest off.
"Noticed," P'draig says quietly to Phara. He's still got enough focus to speak, but he's down to single words as more of him gets wrapped up in the action up /there/ and he lets out a long breath. He musters a longer sentence though: "Be okay." And then he's leaning against the wall in the weyr, head dropping back to find stone, chest rising and falling much more rapidly than before as he consigns himself to whatever fate Jekzith manages to pull out of the evening. Faster, faster, higher, higher and then hold back a little, watch, watch for her stall, watch for her fall, Aath-like-a-diamond-in-the-sky, Jekzith knows this as much as he knows how to breathe and his rider is right there with him. Their Aath. Their Mic. Maybe tonight, maybe not. She hangs there like a star herself for just that moment and then her wings seize and Jekzith's snap outward for that last mad dash to catch her.
There's no way of knowing if he's done the right thing, but Dasarth knows at least he has to do something. So when he's done watching because he has no more time to watch he trumpets out his charge before doing just that. Anyone who gets in his way will have to face that thin tail whipping out and maybe even a bit of claw too. Whatever will do the trick to get the unworthy out of his way so he can claim his prize. W'ton tips back and catches himself on the wall when the bronze charges. Eyes close for just a moment to regain his equilibrium but then they snap open to watch Mic. Because who wouldn't want to be watching him right now?
Bennath is no fool, and he's followed Aath before. There is no fear to follow, no second thought. He wheels sharply, cutting past anyone too slow to get out of the way, and plunges after the object of his (temporary) affection. With no respect for gravity, or speed, or how he's going to pull himself out of this one, he falls like a stone, every part of him pinpointed on following her. Phara lets P'draig lead, too unfocused to notice even when they pass from outside to in. She stands dumbly next to him, her hand limp if he still holds it but making no motion to pull away.
W'ton with all his winking and joking and - ugh. Rhodya can't deal with him right now. As soon as they get into the guest weyr, she pointedly takes herself off to the opposite side and stands there, arms crossed over her chest, eyes intent on the greenrider now. Gedroth has never flown in Ista before, is finding and following the currents for the first time. The thrill of exploration fills him, and when the green dives he revels in the edge-of-your-seat rush in improvising his way to her. Broadening his mental scope, he lets his full joy in this moment flow towards her with his body, and as his claws stretch out to seek her a little thought slips through as well. /Yes/. /This/ time.
Turatath, only a shade lighter than the twilight that surrounds the sky-bound troupe, makes the best of the sneaky advantage his color gives him, keeping the early lead he gained and angling to catch the green before her inevitable arc begins to bend. Precision with every pull, each wingstrokes puts him a point closer and recalculates his angle to match hers perfectly. Just as that fixed point is approaching, the exact time for him to extend his arms and find the predicted green in his grasp, all turns to chaos. She slows and banks sharply, leaving his talons straining at air. Quick to readjust his estimations, he too directs himself straight downward. Unlike Aath, he uses his wings though, at opportune moments, to assist gravity's force, counting on his smaller size to let him weave between the other, now closer suitors. P'rol, down in that cramped weyr, simply watches on, the beads of sweat dotting his forehead the only indication that he's anything but calm.
Aath's path, so simple at the beginning of the end, turns into a tumbling, jouncing path as she falls through the scrum. Jekzith, so close... and yet his grasp is thwarted as the young Istan bronze grabs for her and fails, sending her out of the motley brown's reach. So too does she fall past Bennath and Turatath, nearly captured by Dasarth, only to stretch for one of the older Istan blues. But the much smaller male is no match for the Fortian brown who suddenly appears between them, and it's Gedroth's improvisation that's captured tonight's prize. Mic's eyes flick from rider to rider, seeking out his own match to what Aath's found above, lingering on each face, each set of hands, of shoulders.
Snap. Missed. Jekzith pulls up, turns sharply and heads out to sea to find the coolness of deep waves. P'draig's hand tightens around Phara's and he exhales long, opens hazy eyes and holds there for a moment of disorientation. The Weyrlingmaster pulls together enough sense to pull away from the wall as surely as Jekzith pulls up and slightly staggered steps head for the bowl with its blanket of stars hanging far above.
Now he's pissed though. Stupid brown! Stupid clutchbrother! Dasarth bugles out his annoyance and his anger as he veers off alone. Stupid greens! So not worth his time! As the Fortian bronze goes off to sulk with sour grapes he strands his rider. Which means W'ton gets to stumble off on his own. At least tomorrow he can rib Rhodya to no end about it.
Bennath keeps going, past Aath caught in Gedroth's hold, past them all until he can pull out of his headlong rush, nearly crashing into the bowl wall before momentum drags him back upwards again, safely clearing the edge to come to a stop there. Phara clears her throat, face flushed all the way down her neck. She returns P'draig's handsqueaze, clutching almost too tightly. She stumbles out after him, though maybe not with him. A hasty retreat, either way.
Where did he go wrong? Turatath doesn't bugle or bellow, but grumbles with the frustration of a thwarted researcher flipping back and back through his notes. Another readjustment of his sails pulls him back from the mating pair and on a shallower trajectory that will give him some cooling time before he reaches the ground again. P'rol shakes himself free of the wall, blinking past the lingering blurring of his vision. Carefully, he edges around the room, avoiding the frenzied greenrider as much as possible, and makes for the exit.
Gedroth thinks it every time. This will be the one. I will catch this time. And when he's actually right, for once - well, he's actually surprised. This being his first catch and all, it takes him a moment to figure out what he's doing up here, but soon he has it figured it out and the green is so very /his/ that he forgets everything else. Rhodya doesn't share her brown's moment of uncertainty; the second he catches, she steps towards T'mic. Never you mind she doesn't know his name or there are people in the room; her dragon won and won't be the only one to claim a prize for it.
Northwest Bowl, Ista Weyr
Despite the frequent traffic the bowl receives, grass stubbornly continues sending up shoots to cover some of its hard-packed dirt. Well-worn tracks lead to commonly used areas: southeast to the rest of the bowl and the inner caverns, on further northwest to the sprawling plateau of Ista Weyr. Westward, by the corrals, the bowl wall is missing; the lava flow that once tore it down now long-cooled into the grassy plain visible from here.
The remaining walls, however, are well-used, riddled with the ledges of weyrs and lined along the bottom with entrances to ground weyrs for flights, visitors, and the injured--the infirmary's curtained doorway is equally close, for those particular cases. There's also the large tunnel with its metal doors to the weyrling barracks, back to the northeast.
Since she's holding on so tightly, P'draig winds up taking Phara with him when he makes it out to the bowl and it's a little ways out of the guest weyr that he stops, looks up at the sky and takes a few deep breaths. In the wake of the last of these he notices that he's holding hands with someone and blinks, looks over at the bluerider, holds up their joined hands and gets kind of a goofy look on his face. "You okay?" he musters, forcing his focus back to the here and now.
Phara is still working on coming back to herself, and she shakes her head a few times to clear it. She glances up at P'draig and then blushes a little when she realizes she's still clinging to his hand like a lifeline. "Yeah," she replies softly, trying to master her own breathing. The humid air does nothing for the flush on her cheeks though, and it lingers.
P'draig stands there for a moment, watching her and then without preamble, bends down to kiss her. It's not insistent or demanding, but it's a very clear offer, coupled with the shifting of his fingers from around hers to threading between them. "Don't have to hate flights," Paddy murmurs a little off-kilter, free hand lifting to brush lightly at the edge of her chin.
Phara is not completely caught off guard when he bends towards her. Her hand rises to cup the side of P'draig's neck, returning his kiss without hesitance. "They're not all-bad," she admits with a crooked smile for him when the kiss breaks.
P'draig grins crookedly and gives her hand a little tug towards the cover of trees over yonder, to find a quiet, out-of-the-way spot to follow up on that shared kiss. "No ... definitely don't have to be," he replies as they go and his hand squeezes hers again and night's shadows swallow them up.
Some time later.
Shallow breaths, a low groan as Phara slowly stretches her body, not precisely comfortable in their make-shift hideaway but not uncomfortable enough to do anything about it - yet. Instead she works on flexing each muscle up from her toes. Mission complete she smiles languidly, very much the cat who drank the milk at this moment.
That groan sees P'draig's arm curling reflexively around the slender bluerider and his head tilts up a little, bringing eyes into view to check on her. "Hey," the brownrider murmurs a little hoarsely - he wasn't exactly /quiet/ for all the relative privacy that some thick shrubbery and low-hanging tree branches affords. His hand rubs lightly at her back, the other lifting to cradle the back of his own head.
Phara mms and turns onto her side after inventory is complete, splaying her calloused hand against the brownrider's chest. "Hey," she replies huskily. "You have a leaf in your hair," she tacks on with amusement, her lips curling up in a grin. And then her head lowers to rest into the curve of his shoulder, just relaxing for a moment.
P'draig laughs at this pronouncement and reaches up to brush a hand through his hair, then returns it to the small of her back. "Perils of screwing outside under a bunch of trees," Paddy notes with some amusement and peers up between the branches at the sky. "I think Jekzith's almost recovered," he muses quietly followed by a curious: "Does your Bennath chase often? I know he's caught Aath once before."
Phara lifts her chin just a little to look up into his face. "Yes, that is a hazard," she agrees, her fingers exploring the planes of his chest. "Once," she confirms before answering his previous question. "No, not too often. Mostly only when I tell him it's okay. Sometimes he goes off on his own, but not too often. Your Jezkith? I know I've seen you at more than just Aath's flights."
That there would be a pretty nice chest. Paddy stays in shape. "Huh. Can't imagine that," P'draig confesses with a little shake of his head. "Jekzith ... he's just really into it. Chases a lot. Catches a fair bit too, roughly once a month he catches and he chases once or twice a seven."
Phara shudders just a little, a delicate ripple passing down her spine. "I can't really imagine that, either. I'd go nuts. Don't get me wrong, I love getting laid as much as the next girl but... I like to pick." Yes, it is a very nice chest. She clearly approves, if her wandering hand is any indication.
"Yeah, it's taken a while for us to find a balance there because he really, really, takes me along for the ride," P'draig explains as he re-cushions his head in his hand and the other hand's fingers traces idle patterns along Phara's skin. "It's taken turns of practice to be able to hold onto myself as long as possible and then let go when it's okay to let go. For all that, I usually go for a cool swim after," he notes with a touch of amusement. "But I thought since we were already tangled together an what you said before -- maybe this would be nicer for both of us."
Phara just continues to smile a heavy-lidded smile. "Not complaining," she agrees. "It's been a dry month." Smirk. "Sometimes it's nice...losing yourself completely. Especially when you just want to forget things. But usually I'd prefer not to." She pushes herself up on her elbow now, peering down at him. "Should probably be getting home."
"Jekzith and I we're just -- we're that close," P'draig describes slowly, quietly. "He's always right here, quiet buzz in the background. In a flight ... there's nothing between us at all. We're literally one." His chin tilts towards his chest again and his hand skirts up her back a little. "Mm. Won't keep you unless you'd like to stay? Mic won't mind. Nice big weyr. We got one with more than one room for a reason," he jokes a little. "And ... well, he might be a while."
Phara leans down, dividing her weight between his chest and her elbow, meager as it is. The kiss she presses to his lips is lingering, followed by a soft, breathy laugh. "Mm, tempting," she admits, not pulling away far. "Don't actually have anywhere to go. Just thought it was the polite way to offer you an out. In case."
P'draig lets his hand slide up to between her shoulder blades, head lifting to meet that kiss partway. "I'm in no rush to kick you out, either," the brownrider answers. "Though I might slip out to check on my weyrlings," he notes, palm sliding up further to cradle the back of her neck. "And I snore some and I get up early, so there's an easy way out for you too, if you'd rather not deal with a snoring, early-rising weyrlingmaster," he jokes.
Phara hums quietly. "I might snore too," she offers in a teasing whisper, her brown eyes somehow managing a twinkle in the dark, just the slightest glint of mischief. "And I might beat you out of bed anyways to be back home in time for drills." She leans down to trail her mouth against his collarbone. "I think I can deal, as one potentially snoring, early-rising, former assistant weyrlingmaster." Yes, she's definitely having a bit of fun.
"Don't forget, we're a couple hours ahead at Ista," P'draig reminds with a chuckle. "Dawn here'll be pre-dawn at Fort." More laughter sounds for that answer followed by a quiet murmur of appreciation for her lips against his collarbone. "All right then bluerider, better let me get my shorts on long enough to get up there," he quips. "Not that I'm shy, but flashing the whole Weyr's probably not advisable."
Phara sighs like he's really asking a chore out of her and leans away from him again, sitting up fully this time and casting her eyes about for any articles of clothing. This requires some patting of the ground to identify pieces, but she manages. "I'm sure there's some people who'd complain."
"Heh, not too many, but some." P'draig sits up, stretches and casts about for shorts, finds those, hauls them on and picks up the rest of his stuff, then holds a hand out to Phara. "C'mon. Let's go see how much it takes to tire you out," he says merrily, eyes dancing with wicked humor to lead the way back into the clear for dragon pickup and a hopefully fun night for all. And sleep. In there somewhere.