Log: Elaruth's Maiden Flight
Who: D'kai, P'draig, Mikhuth, Jekzith, NPCs: C'tane and Taymith (Jaeyi), F'vel and Saulienth (B'kaiv)
When: Afternoon, day 25, month 9, turn 20 of the 10th Interval
Where: Feeding Grounds/Hattie's Weyr, Fort Weyr
What: Elaruth rises in her maiden flight and is chased by a mixed pack of experienced and inexperienced riders. P'draig does a little inexperienced rider herding and shares his whiskey.
Feeding Grounds, Fort Weyr
The feeding grounds are fenced off from the rest of the Weyr with a high, wooden fence and gate, providing plenty of space for the resident herdbeasts -- bovines, in particular -- to ramble about. The vast majority of the animals are for draconic consumption, but some of the more valuable varieties are penned away from those designated to be dragon food. Ovines and porcines are a bit more useful to humans than to the dragons that would happily dine on them and are kept further away from the bovines and closer to the stables as a result. There's plenty of grass to feed them, while herders and stablehands regularly add feed to the troughs along the eastern fence. The soil turns to mud as one gets closer to where the area butts up agains the lake, which doubles as a watering hold for the animals.
It's a cool autumn afternoon, full of clear skies and bright sunshine that finds Fort's junior queen a rather obvious spectacle up at the Star Stones, a wrapped-up bundle of glowing gold only marginally bigger than a bronze. Elaruth has been perched there for a good few hours, right beside one of her little green sisters for a while, but now there's no company for the sleeping queen, save, of course, for the watch dragon. Hattie paces steadily across the Bowl, headed for the feeding grounds or merely in that general direction, since some may have observed her pacing back and forth between here and nowhere for the past half hour or so. In a summer dress and sandals, she seems to have dressed more for Ista than Fort today, but even a pretty dress can't detract from the fact that she looks sullen as anything.
Saulienth's been agitated all day, wrestling with Gedroth and refusing to leave the Weyr - that's probably why F'vel looks as sullen as Hattie does. He drops into step beside his clutchsister, hands shoved into his pockets. "Don't know what's gotten into him," he offers by way of greeting, nodding to the smallish brown lurking on the far side of the feeding grounds. "Doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to fly, had the hardest time getting him to go on sweeps. You've got some dragonhealing training: any ideas on what's gotten into him?"
Word gets around, rider to rider, dragon to dragon, Weyr to Weyr, and the rising of a junior queen at Fort is good enough reason for the arrival C'tane and his bronze, the sun-hardened rider just dropping down from Taymith's side near enough to the feeding grounds to make plain that he knows the layout of the Weyr, and he's here for precisely one purpose. Chasing golds across the continents is as good a way to spend the Interval as any, right? And at least Hattie's one of the prettier juniors, one he squints at in the autumn light while giving Taymith a quick pat on the muzzle. "You tell me," are his lowered words, aimed at the bronze who swings his head around to peer up at the queen in much the same way his rider's peering at hers.
It's a crisp background against which Elaruth is a hard sight to miss -- not to mention the ... suspicions of some, perhaps most or maybe even /all/, of the male dragons within sight, smell, or mental reach of the Weyr. Elaruth. It crackled through the air in sight of the glowing hide, and Mikhuth has had the wisdom to stay coiled up on his ledge, easily within sight, for the goodly part of the day. Poor D'kai, trapped without a ride in the bowl below, has spent the goodly part of /his/ day trying to entice his lifemate down, so at least he could change his clothes, but to no avail, and so he, too, converges towards the feeding pen with a resigned sort of wag of his head. /Dragons/, eh?
One pair of eyes has been fixed on Elaruth all day at least, though often covertly. Mecaith's. He lets out a low rumble now and likely reaches out to Peirith. There's another pair of interested eyes, a visitor to old stomping grounds, Jekzith, who's been hanging out with various greens since he arrived from Ista earlier while his rider's been talking away with Bennath's rider for the last half hour or so. Now though, Jekzith extricates himself from a green wing and flits down off a borrowed ledge and sidles towards once-familiar feeding grounds, sniffing the air.
Hattie just keeps on pacing, definitely towards the feeding grounds now, and doesn't manage to summon words immediately to reply to F'vel. All she does is cast one hand behind her, aimed high enough to point right at Elaruth, a simple, "Her," all she finds to say. She walks right past C'tane with what can only be described as a glare aimed in his direction and catches up against one fence post, leaning heavily. It's lucky she finds something to balance herself in time, for in the next moment, Elaruth is awake and in the air without a single shriek or cry, just the sound of wing beats as she makes her way across the Bowl and angles in with what appears to be every intent of ensuring a herdbeast meets a quick end.
F'vel echoes, "Her?" and looks around, bless his heart, until Saulienth's intent gaze brings him around to walk backwards a few steps, watching. Oh. Up /there/. /Her/. "He's not Gedroth, to chase," the young brownrider babbles, turning with a hop-skip-jump to fall into step beside Hattie again, dropping C'tane a distracted hi-how-are-you nod. "Where's W'ton? Shouldn't Dasarth be here?" Luckily for him Elaruth and Saulienth take matters into their own hands at that point, the former dropping into the pens and the latter hopping over the fence with a glad cry for his sister. Maybe they'll keep him from shoving his boot any farther past his teeth, because F'vel shuts up right then and there, gaping at his brown.
Somewhere, high up on his ledge, Mikhuth is unfolding himself slowly and fastidiously, each limb given their due attention and streeeeetched. Wings last: shaken out with particular diligence and care, and D'kai angles his chin upward, shading his eyes against the sun (or maybe Elaruth?). Mickey is patient, content to wait, even, and his restraint is eventually rewarded when the gold launches into the air; so he does, too, and angles ink-stained wings towards the pens so that he might bank effortlessly down to join the growing pack of males. "Hattie," softly, Deke makes his approach, offers a lopsided smile and a lazy salute to the weyrwoman before he tucks himself up against the fence, his turn to fold up and wait.
C'tane drops an ever-so-amiable nod at the goldrider, flashes a smile that leaves his teeth looking over-white in a face that's seen too much sand and sun over his double-her-years. "I guess that answers that," he adds in the same lowish tone, met with an approving rumble from Taymith while the bronze leaps the fence to shoulder-tackle a buck, send it tumbling head over heels, crashing into a post that rattles the fence in either direction. Which should teach all you people leaning against it a valuable lesson, shouldn't it? Sort of prepared for that eventuality, the Igenite stands back with his arms folded. "His loss if he's not," to whoever W'ton is and wherever he might be, not that he was invited to join the conversation or anything.
Hurried footsteps announce P'draig's arrival from the direction of the caverns, gray-blue eyes tracking Jekzith who's already over the fence, motley hide catching the sunlight that makes his maple-hued sails translucent. He's polite enough to wait until Elaruth makes that first kill, but then he's joining the fray, quick and deadly and not making much of a mess. Tanned hands clasp the top rail of the fence as P'draig comes to a stop there, eyes fixed on his brown and Jekzith's head lifts for a moment, eyes locking on his rider's already tinged with violet. They stay like that for the space of several breaths and then Paddy slumps against the rails. "Dammit ... we have /weyrlings/, Jek," he mutters and looks along the fence towards the others, catches Hattie in their midst, nods once politely.
"Well, he's doing it, isn't he?" Hattie snaps to F'vel in about the lowest voice she can manage right now. "Just concentrate on him - not who is and isn't here." Speak of the devils - Dasarth's presence isn't exactly hard to miss, but the goldrider might well miss it, too busy biting back whatever it was she meant to snap at C'tane, leaving behind a more bewildered glance for him this time. D'kai gets a nod and a quiet, "Hey," just before she jumps back from the fence and curses rather vehemently. It's as she turns from it that she just about barely nods to P'draig in return, but then there's Elaruth and that kill that the queen reluctantly drinks down instead of consuming the meat, the mother of all one-sided staring contests going on, Hattie glaring at her dragon. When Elaruth goes for another kill, it's done neatly and with the minimum of fuss, still not even a rumble from her, not even when Hattie barks, "Elaruth," quite uselessly and a gold muzzle goes to drink the carcass dry.
The quick apology, a clipped, "Sorry," that leaves C'tane really doesn't convey the sentiment at all, his eyes pinned to the fenceboards as the last reverberations die away. On the other side of that fence, Taymith is likewise unrepentant, though he lacks his rider's amusement about the situation. Eyes fixed on Elaruth, that broken-backed herdbeast collected and gouged eagerly, the foreign bronze hunkers happily over his kill with an encouraging rumble for the young queen. The snagging of the second terrified, stampeding beast is almost absent, one talon reached out, fouling hurried legs, and then he stomps the downed beast with a satisfying, crunchy scream.
Elaruth might know what she's doing, but Saulienth dances from foot to foot, more interested in showing off his wings - they're brown! and his! and brown! - than getting down to the serious business of blooding. It's F'vel who yelps a protest when Taymith's meal comes tumbling to a sudden stop, and he turns on C'tane with unusual belligerence, stepping between the Igenite and Hattie. "Don't you have any manners, you, you... whoever you are?" he barks, puppyish, and probably expecting D'kai to back him up, here. It's Saulienth who rumbles and flashes first his wings, then teeth at the larger Istan brown, crouches and tries an experimental swipe at Mikhuth.
D'kai startles, too, when that fence shakes violently, though his first motion is to catch first himself, the second is an aborted half-reach for Hattie as she leaps out of the way. Jaw tightening, the bronzerider presses his lips into a thin line and offers a faint, wan smile, settling back again, and redirecting his blue gaze skyward. It's either a plea for patience, or a silent communication with the inked bronze above, and it's only a heartbeat later that Mickey is plummeting down to slam a herdbeast to the ground and crouch over it, red-tinged eyes trained on Elaruth. One herdbeast for her two: the bronze hop-skips backward with a flaring of wings, to a crouch nearby. When Saulienth's talons brush past his muzzle, he snaps sharp teeth at the younger male, /hisss/, his tongue flicking in and out before -- stillness.
Pushing away from the fence, P'draig quells his own irritation with Jekzith as the motley brown keeps up with the feeding in the pens, drinks his fill, then coiled like a spring ready to unfurl, waits on Elaruth's pleasure with the bright float of a single clear bubble her way full of the promise of flight. "Hey now," he says in a calm voice to F'vel as he nears, "take a deep breath, keep focused on in there and when we need to start walking," the now-Istan Weyrlingmaster advises and shoots a quick look Hattie's way. "Best to keep things smooth for her, hm?"
Dragon> It's a wash of warm red-gold that unfurls her way, carrying that bubble with it, glittering with promise and another is blown on its heels along with not irritation, but excitement, eagerness for flight and going far and going fast and oh, won't it be so much fun? (Jekzith to Elaruth)
Hattie's steps find her backing towards D'kai a pace or two, a beyond baffled and incredibly frustrated expression on her face as she peers between F'vel and C'tane. Odds are, were it not for P'draig's words, she'd snap something far less pleasant to one or both of them, but as it is, she simply takes the time to breathe. There's still an edgy look of dread settled upon her as she peers about, less for what's going on in the pens and more to do with the behaviour of the riders around her. Whilst some of the males might be a bit distracted, she who is usually slow and measured in her movements makes a break for the skies with such a dart of a leap into the air it's difficult to tell whether the unfurling of Elaruth's wings or the leap itself came first. No look back to see whether they'll follow, no uncertainty, she's gone, up wherever the currents will take her, starlight touched to bronze and brown minds as she soars, up, up.
"Manners?" C'tane blinks around him, the beginning of the usual daze descending to cloak eyes with a perpetual squint to them. "What do you think is going on here, exactly?" What with the dragons all gashing and guzzling blood and taking swipes at each other, but he draws in a level breath afterward, nodding with slow caution after P'draig's suggestion. The nod follows through in good time to have him looking up while Taymith flares his wings, kicks away his carcass so there's a nice splash of blood aimed at those stupid lolligagging riders all ranged along the fenceline; voyeurs. Up and after her, shedding the lethargy of Interval in the bloodrush of Flight.
That faint touch of starlight brings to life the roar of a licking, reaching fire bleching acrid black smoke, banked so quietly previously that Mikhuth's broadcast seems to come to a surprise even to his lifemate, who, simultaneously holds his hands palm-out towards Hattie, cranes his neck up, up, and back to follow Mickey's jarring launch upward. He's favouring his left wing, only slightly, and Deke subconsciously redirects a hand to tuck against his own shoulder. Splashing blood nonwithstanding, the bronzerider exhales out a long-held breath and leans away from the fenceline, chin tipped upward, eyes narrowed, to follow the flight up and away, though long before Mikhuth is lost in the gleam of the sun, the man's attention is narrowed down on Hattie, confirming quietly, "You still okay?"
Saulienth isn't about to be thwarted by some bronze! He snaps right back at Mikhuth while his rider looks about to do the same to P'draig, calm words or not. It's the Istan's knot that has him backing down with a reluctant nod, though he isn't about to leave Hattie to face C'tane alone. There's a mumbled, "'Orry," for the gathering as he studies his knees, and then the young man is overcome by a whole-body shiver that leaves him gasping. Saulienth springs after Elaruth, calling to her mist and stars and doesn't she want to come with him, leave these others behind?
Dragon> To Jekzith, Elaruth echoes excitement and eagerness, bounced against that bubble as tendrils of heat from the pale sun that tries to outshine the stars that will not be hidden and allow their light to be smothered. For all there's such similar feelings, she doesn't allow it to entice favour of him and she flutters the feel of the wind and its currents, of freedom, back, teasing.
Elaruth goes and Jekzith's wings snap open, launching him up and up after her. He's older, he knows Fort well still and makes good use of his mobile musculature to put on speed rapidly. P'draig takes a sudden breath, swallows, but remains steady on the ground. As the other dragons take off too, he looks back at F'vel. "Come on, kid. Take a walk with me," he tells the weyrling and jerks a thumb in the appropriate direction. Briefly, his gaze slides past to D'kai and Hattie and there's a grin for the Fortian bronzerider in spite of the tension abounding as he sees his former Weyrling handling things with Fort's junior.
Dragon> The bubble pops and releases sparkles that rush up into the sky to join those stars, to dance around that pale sun. Yes! That way is freedom and open sky and the wind and so much delight and can she do this? He envisions threading the stars, jumping between them to find that sun. << Let's go! >> It's not so much about competition or winning, just about the shared moment. (Jekzith to Elaruth)
It might be noticeable by now that Hattie seems to be endeavouring not to make any kind of physical contact with anyone, though D'kai's hands get a moment of blank-eyed study. Her feet look to carry her off almost without permission, sending her a little off-balance as she turns, murmurs, "I'm fine," in what's definitely nothing like her normal voice and sets off towards her weyr, steps weaving just a bit. "Come on," she calls out, like she knows what she's doing and it's everyone else who doesn't. The steps to her ledge are something of a bother when she reaches them, but eventually she reaches the top and either can't or doesn't stand on formality: just heads right inside. Up above, Elaruth's all about altitude and hasn't faltered even for a second. There's been no look back to see how much distance there is between herself and her pursuers, there's just the currents that she surrenders to, lets them twist and turn her about, so much joy taken in it that she perhaps doesn't know or realize whether there's anybody drawing near.
Hattie's Burnished Fretwork Weyr
Spacious and well-appointed, this weyr is the first off of the steps leading up from the ground to the Weyrleader's complex and is known to have once belonged to the legendary Moreta.
Leading in from the ledge, the weyr is initially a lopsided cavern almost longer than it is wide, save for the curve that the dragon's wallow creates. Most of the surfaces in this part of the cavern are smooth, including that of the wallow, rock warn down to a polished sheen beneath blankets and turns of use. Behind the wallow, a serious of shelves line the wall, a long trunk sat beneath them to store the equipment that doesn't already perch above.
The cavern eventually narrows to the entrance to the rider's weyr, allowing very little natural light through. Small arrangements of glows have been placed on outcroppings and inside nooks roughly midway up the walls, that create a bar of light that casts fainter illumination towards both ceiling and floor. The screens that usually divide the room are gone from their usual posts, stacked neatly against the far wall. A comfortable bed covered with bright pink linen and a fur or two is tucked into one corner, whilst a long couch in a shade of deep russet sits along the opposite wall. At the other end of the room lies a sturdy rectangular table and set of four chairs, with another couch in earthy colours and a rather worn comfy chair tucked together in the far corner.
A lifetime at Igen ought to weigh against Taymith, make him unfamiliar with the thermals of Fort, but more than a decade of cavorting from Weyr to Weyr makes him reasonably comfortable in the air even here. There's a brief teeter, the glitter of wings that need to rebalance, and then he's off arrow-straight to chase her altitude. On the ground, a little more loathe to leave the grounds than his dragon was, C'tane pockets his hands and wheels on one heel to follow in Hattie's wake. "Where're the drinks?" he asks like they're just an accepted part of Flight culture-- an /expected/ part of it, even.
F'vel goggles at little at P'draig but nods, shivering still despite wrapping his arms tight, tighter, tightest across his chest. Head down he follows after Hattie, stumbling now and again on a pebble or boulder or chasm. The stairs give him about as much trouble as they gave her, and at the top he pauses to send a plaintive look skyward, but the chase is long since gone and it draws him after her. So too does Saulienth chase his glowing sister, the pale golden sun lifting higher like time itself has reversed. He's young, this brown, and inexperienced, with no blood to fuel his wings, but as yet the burn is welcome, and so what if he's near the back of the pack?
D'kai chuckles softly, dropping his hands back to his side where he rubs them breifly against his tunic, slides them into his pockets as though he doesn't know what to do with them when he's not shielding Hattie. He follows, keeping his distance, but also keeping half an eye leveled on the goldrider -- though aren't they all? Deke finally spares a glance over his shoulder, hoping to catch P'draig's own gaze, and offers a respectful salute in greeting to the brownrider before he's working his own way up the steps to the weyr. And Mikhuth, oh, Mikhuth is arrowing after Elaruth with all the intent he can muster, and his lanky, ruddy form is weaving through those stragglers at the rear, overtaking as many as he can manage and stuttering only once or twice on that bad wing.
Dragon> Sparkles. She likes sparkles, does Elaruth, and she follows their course closely, a tendril of mist sent after to whirl around and follow them. Delighted laughter, the rustle of reeds breaks through and greenery survives long enough to not be burnt to cinders by starlight. No words, but she certainly approves, her mind so close to his before a star winks out and her touch goes with it. (Elaruth to Jekzith)
Jekzith's one of /those/ kinds of flyers. He loves it. Every second of it. And seems to be treating the flight less as a competition to win Elaruth, than a chance to fly with her and everyone else and isn't it just /great/? He's acrobatic and fast and winds around currents like an air-demon when he has a mind to, calling up memories that are starting to dim a little, but he did hatch here too after all and his home for most of his life, where Ista is still relatively new. His enjoyment in fact, is not tamped down, not one little bit. He shares it all, mindless of how it might affect the poor Weyrfolk down below. Paddy is more steady, for now at least, making sure F'vel takes the right path and he nabs another lost looking younger rider by the shoulder, turns him into the string of riders, mostly male that heads for Hattie's weyr. A look is shot C'tane's way and he gives a shake of his head. "This isn't the guest weyr," he points out. D'kai's look is met and the young bronzerider is shot a lopsided smile and return touch of finger to temple and then it's time to find a patch of wall to lean against, to keep a weather eye on some of those youngsters still until Jekzith's joy sinks too deeply into his skin and Paddy just has to go along with it with a goofy smile on his face.
Dragon> To Elaruth, Jekzith beams joyfulness her way, sending up more showers of sparks and sparkles to dance in the stars. Briefly there's a curl of color to meet her mist, warm, affectionate, playful. Nothing more than that, sort of like a handshake of like-minded flyers across the distance. When her touch goes, he stays with her, easy to find mentally at least, while his body continues to twist and turn to keep up with her in the physical realm.
"Wherever you want to pay for them," Hattie sighs out, words meant for C'tane and meant to be snapped, the weyrwoman crossing the room to slump a bit against the wall right beside the stacked screens, as if it might be possible for her to hide behind them in some way. No such luck. Her arms knot beneath her chest, which likely doesn't do her any favours in the hiding department, but she's rather too far gone to notice or care. Her eyes shut and despite how she's spoken, despite how she tries to separate herself from everyone and anyone else, she smiles. It's now that Elaruth looks back, just for a second, seems to decide that flight itself is still much more interesting and enjoyable than the aim of the whole affair. She drifts a while, slowing, then finds a thermal to soar and twirl on, only her delight in acrobatics gets the better of her and sends her off-course, tumbling down into a dive that leaves her closer to those in pursuit than she'd like.
"Still," C'tane persists with a sniff, keeping a disappointed pout at bay after Hattie's come-back only because it doesn't exactly come across as the most butch response. His attention only grazes the room, nothing alcoholic immediately reaching out for him, so he contemplates the furnishing with his arms crossing once more. While he seems distractable, Taymith stays relentlessly focused so that, when Elaruth's acrobatics lead her astray, he needs only to veer toward the pack, to give warning to his fellow chasers by way of a quick, hissing exhalation-- incoming, gents. If she's going to dive, he intends to be somewhere in her tumbling trajectory.
Saulienth tries to kick past the pack like he sees Mikuth doing; tries to entice Elaruth with cries to stop playing catch-me with the stars and come back down here instead. Isn't he her favorite brother? --Her only brother, just now, with Gedroth off to Southern and Dasarth off somewhere and all the others not here, only him? But youth and inexperience (not to mention the lack of pre-flight snacking) chew him up and spit him out, and just as Elaruth's pirouettes bring her closer to her suitors Saulienth peels off with a lonesome bugle, dropping down, down, away from the chase. F'vel gulps back a cry of his own, hands frantically rubbing his arms to try and soothe away the burn of someone else's wings, and with only a single look back at Hattie, at C'tane - somehow this must be his fault! - at D'kai and the strange Istan brownrider, he plunges out of the weyr, managing to find the steps before he finds the edge of the landing and over.
Deke's turn to find somewhere to set up shop: he casts about the weyr with half-narrowed eyes for just a beat, and finally takes a cue from Paddy, securing himself a nice solid section of wall against which to lean. Hands creep back to flatten against the stone, fingers curling into the rock as though to anchor himself there. The bronzerider manages only one flickering glance, uncharacteristically cool, toward C'tane, then: blankness, as he closes his eyes and props his head back against the wall. Mikhuth, ducking from the body of the pack, seeks a higher point, pushing his wings /wider/ and /fuller/ and willing them /faster/ as he seeks out some thermal to loft him upward so that he's well out of Tyamith's trajectory when he intercepts, with a smokily appreciative chuckle for -- Elaruth's acrobatics? his own cleverness?
Oh. Soaring. Oh. Twirling. Oh. Diving. Oh /fun/. Jekzith's wings tuck and he goes down with her, spiraling neatly though. For all he's exuberant and really into this, there's just a little something held in reserve at least for later, so he doesn't burn out too soon. C'tane's persistance earns an eyeroll from P'draig and he digs around in his jacket pocket, pulls out his flask. "Heads up," he warns and waits for eye contact before flipping it to the other rider. His shoulders re-settle against the wall and he takes a sudden breath as Jekzith dives up above and for a moment, his focus is all outside of himself, irises shrinking as pupils widen darkly.
No snarky response from Hattie this time, just her arms knotting tighter and her smile edging towards a smirk. To all that's going on around her, she's oblivious, uncaring. Whatever kind of gleeful mood the young queen might be in, she's still Elaruth, her attention grabbed by Saulienth's bugle and her wings miss a beat, slowing her further still. But there really is no time for fixing hurts and hesitation has cost her, leaving her right in the middle of the pack. Darting upwards isn't an option, the current she reaches for just not close enough, so down she goes again, wings folded for what may be meant to be a quick jaunt towards the ground before she can soar again, but being so focused on the skies and thermals and freedom leaves her right there for the snaring away.
The too-white smile flashes again-- persistence pays off!-- and C'tane catches the flask in mid-air, which is pretty impressive given how little of himself remains detached from Taymith out there. Unscrewed, sniffed, nodded at appreciatively, drunk. And he's coughing slightly at the burn of it, eyes leaking a touch while Taymith fails to be impacted, rock-freaking-steady. Taking over the space left by Saulienth, wings spread to their fullest to occupy his own airspace and that of the queen's brother, he arcs slightly into his turn, tilts upward his wings in an effort to find Elaruth's descent, his neck curled up and back to keep her in his periphery. What he lacks is the gumption to go up and /get her/.
D'kai tenses, all at once, as crimson-speckled sails catch at the air and Mikhuth twists his lanky body in mid-air, redirecting the wind in his wings into a steady, tightly-controlled plunge. There's enough altitude, there, that he avoids the stragglers, narrowly avoids a collision with an unwitting brown, and evens out ... somewhere ahead of where he was, slightly faster, slightly nearer, body flattened tight against the sky, one wing held, perhaps, slightly closer to his lanky form. /Elaruth/, his mind flares up all at once, and there's the wailing of flutes and licking red flames and darkly gleaming delight, and then she's /there/, right /next/ to him so close that the inked bronze lashes out instinctively, whipcord tail and neck seeking out her gleaming, slick hide, and fingers splayed blindly against the wall grope for purchase from that dizzying, sudden movement.
Plummeting after Elaruth takes Jekzith into tighter quarters than he'd usually like and his own longing for clear air and space to soar sends him forward first. It's tight, too tight and his thoughts speak of freedom still as he tries to cut in from the other side to bump his shoulder in under hers, lift them both up and out of the tangle of dragons to where they can /breathe/ and fly, only it's probably all just a little too late. Paddy? Checked out now, leaning hard against the wall. He'll probably chasten Jekzith later for letting it go so far.
There's enough time for Elaruth to notice Taymith's manoeuvring, but the problem she finds is that studying it even for the shortest of times leaves her close enough to almost skim Jekzith and nearly fall right against shoulder-bumping. A last ditch attempt to twist away and find her own space, stars, thermals to dance with has her banking right into Mikhuth and his lashing out, twining as if she could steady herself against him and still regain her freedom somehow. But it's not to be, and, in the end, it turns out that she forgets the skies and her adventure - any thoughts of escape - incredible quickly. Hattie's eyes snap open and for split second she doesn't move, breath held and fingers curling against her elbows with enough force dig in and draw blood. She unwinds all at once, gaze fixed on D'kai and amazingly measured, certain steps that show none of her previous weaving about aim to carry her right. Over. To. Him.
Drawing a harsh and fast breath, P'draig hangs there against the wall for a moment as Jekzith's hyperattenuated hide picks up the heat from Elaruth's and his eyes roll back a little in his head. Her twist away leaves the motley brown disappointed and shooting onward a little off-kilter so that he nearly takes out another smaller bronze who was still dropping to make a play for her. He has to roll in the air hard and eventually comes around and splashes down in the lake to cool off. A familiar ritual for the brownpair. Unseeing eyes open and an effort of will more than anything else sends Paddy staggering out of the Weyr. He'll be relieved later, for now, he's got someone to find. And if C'tane is nice, he'll return the flask sometime, it does after all, have quite the sentimental engraving on it from the brownrider's weyrmate. Out Paddy goes into the cooling autumn afternoon like he's the one who's been drinking though he hasn't had a drop.
Another drink-- another cough-- C'tane's wiping at the corner of his mouth with the curve of his thumb, chasing drops of whiskey while Taymith... fails. A short sputter of profanity accompanies him when he turns to jog down those steps, absently tossing P'draig's flask on his palm; probably not the first time he's left with someone else's token, and likely to be returned, yes. His crossness is matched by the frustrated groan that leaves his bronze as he breaks away the twined Fortian dragons. "Well, there'll be others," the man can be heard to mutter at the bottom of those steps, off to take advantage of some flight-addled caverns girl. Which may not be quite the same as winning, but it sure beats spending the night at home doing himse-- doing nothing.
When: Afternoon, day 25, month 9, turn 20 of the 10th Interval
Where: Feeding Grounds/Hattie's Weyr, Fort Weyr
What: Elaruth rises in her maiden flight and is chased by a mixed pack of experienced and inexperienced riders. P'draig does a little inexperienced rider herding and shares his whiskey.
Feeding Grounds, Fort Weyr
The feeding grounds are fenced off from the rest of the Weyr with a high, wooden fence and gate, providing plenty of space for the resident herdbeasts -- bovines, in particular -- to ramble about. The vast majority of the animals are for draconic consumption, but some of the more valuable varieties are penned away from those designated to be dragon food. Ovines and porcines are a bit more useful to humans than to the dragons that would happily dine on them and are kept further away from the bovines and closer to the stables as a result. There's plenty of grass to feed them, while herders and stablehands regularly add feed to the troughs along the eastern fence. The soil turns to mud as one gets closer to where the area butts up agains the lake, which doubles as a watering hold for the animals.
It's a cool autumn afternoon, full of clear skies and bright sunshine that finds Fort's junior queen a rather obvious spectacle up at the Star Stones, a wrapped-up bundle of glowing gold only marginally bigger than a bronze. Elaruth has been perched there for a good few hours, right beside one of her little green sisters for a while, but now there's no company for the sleeping queen, save, of course, for the watch dragon. Hattie paces steadily across the Bowl, headed for the feeding grounds or merely in that general direction, since some may have observed her pacing back and forth between here and nowhere for the past half hour or so. In a summer dress and sandals, she seems to have dressed more for Ista than Fort today, but even a pretty dress can't detract from the fact that she looks sullen as anything.
Saulienth's been agitated all day, wrestling with Gedroth and refusing to leave the Weyr - that's probably why F'vel looks as sullen as Hattie does. He drops into step beside his clutchsister, hands shoved into his pockets. "Don't know what's gotten into him," he offers by way of greeting, nodding to the smallish brown lurking on the far side of the feeding grounds. "Doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to fly, had the hardest time getting him to go on sweeps. You've got some dragonhealing training: any ideas on what's gotten into him?"
Word gets around, rider to rider, dragon to dragon, Weyr to Weyr, and the rising of a junior queen at Fort is good enough reason for the arrival C'tane and his bronze, the sun-hardened rider just dropping down from Taymith's side near enough to the feeding grounds to make plain that he knows the layout of the Weyr, and he's here for precisely one purpose. Chasing golds across the continents is as good a way to spend the Interval as any, right? And at least Hattie's one of the prettier juniors, one he squints at in the autumn light while giving Taymith a quick pat on the muzzle. "You tell me," are his lowered words, aimed at the bronze who swings his head around to peer up at the queen in much the same way his rider's peering at hers.
It's a crisp background against which Elaruth is a hard sight to miss -- not to mention the ... suspicions of some, perhaps most or maybe even /all/, of the male dragons within sight, smell, or mental reach of the Weyr. Elaruth. It crackled through the air in sight of the glowing hide, and Mikhuth has had the wisdom to stay coiled up on his ledge, easily within sight, for the goodly part of the day. Poor D'kai, trapped without a ride in the bowl below, has spent the goodly part of /his/ day trying to entice his lifemate down, so at least he could change his clothes, but to no avail, and so he, too, converges towards the feeding pen with a resigned sort of wag of his head. /Dragons/, eh?
One pair of eyes has been fixed on Elaruth all day at least, though often covertly. Mecaith's. He lets out a low rumble now and likely reaches out to Peirith. There's another pair of interested eyes, a visitor to old stomping grounds, Jekzith, who's been hanging out with various greens since he arrived from Ista earlier while his rider's been talking away with Bennath's rider for the last half hour or so. Now though, Jekzith extricates himself from a green wing and flits down off a borrowed ledge and sidles towards once-familiar feeding grounds, sniffing the air.
Hattie just keeps on pacing, definitely towards the feeding grounds now, and doesn't manage to summon words immediately to reply to F'vel. All she does is cast one hand behind her, aimed high enough to point right at Elaruth, a simple, "Her," all she finds to say. She walks right past C'tane with what can only be described as a glare aimed in his direction and catches up against one fence post, leaning heavily. It's lucky she finds something to balance herself in time, for in the next moment, Elaruth is awake and in the air without a single shriek or cry, just the sound of wing beats as she makes her way across the Bowl and angles in with what appears to be every intent of ensuring a herdbeast meets a quick end.
F'vel echoes, "Her?" and looks around, bless his heart, until Saulienth's intent gaze brings him around to walk backwards a few steps, watching. Oh. Up /there/. /Her/. "He's not Gedroth, to chase," the young brownrider babbles, turning with a hop-skip-jump to fall into step beside Hattie again, dropping C'tane a distracted hi-how-are-you nod. "Where's W'ton? Shouldn't Dasarth be here?" Luckily for him Elaruth and Saulienth take matters into their own hands at that point, the former dropping into the pens and the latter hopping over the fence with a glad cry for his sister. Maybe they'll keep him from shoving his boot any farther past his teeth, because F'vel shuts up right then and there, gaping at his brown.
Somewhere, high up on his ledge, Mikhuth is unfolding himself slowly and fastidiously, each limb given their due attention and streeeeetched. Wings last: shaken out with particular diligence and care, and D'kai angles his chin upward, shading his eyes against the sun (or maybe Elaruth?). Mickey is patient, content to wait, even, and his restraint is eventually rewarded when the gold launches into the air; so he does, too, and angles ink-stained wings towards the pens so that he might bank effortlessly down to join the growing pack of males. "Hattie," softly, Deke makes his approach, offers a lopsided smile and a lazy salute to the weyrwoman before he tucks himself up against the fence, his turn to fold up and wait.
C'tane drops an ever-so-amiable nod at the goldrider, flashes a smile that leaves his teeth looking over-white in a face that's seen too much sand and sun over his double-her-years. "I guess that answers that," he adds in the same lowish tone, met with an approving rumble from Taymith while the bronze leaps the fence to shoulder-tackle a buck, send it tumbling head over heels, crashing into a post that rattles the fence in either direction. Which should teach all you people leaning against it a valuable lesson, shouldn't it? Sort of prepared for that eventuality, the Igenite stands back with his arms folded. "His loss if he's not," to whoever W'ton is and wherever he might be, not that he was invited to join the conversation or anything.
Hurried footsteps announce P'draig's arrival from the direction of the caverns, gray-blue eyes tracking Jekzith who's already over the fence, motley hide catching the sunlight that makes his maple-hued sails translucent. He's polite enough to wait until Elaruth makes that first kill, but then he's joining the fray, quick and deadly and not making much of a mess. Tanned hands clasp the top rail of the fence as P'draig comes to a stop there, eyes fixed on his brown and Jekzith's head lifts for a moment, eyes locking on his rider's already tinged with violet. They stay like that for the space of several breaths and then Paddy slumps against the rails. "Dammit ... we have /weyrlings/, Jek," he mutters and looks along the fence towards the others, catches Hattie in their midst, nods once politely.
"Well, he's doing it, isn't he?" Hattie snaps to F'vel in about the lowest voice she can manage right now. "Just concentrate on him - not who is and isn't here." Speak of the devils - Dasarth's presence isn't exactly hard to miss, but the goldrider might well miss it, too busy biting back whatever it was she meant to snap at C'tane, leaving behind a more bewildered glance for him this time. D'kai gets a nod and a quiet, "Hey," just before she jumps back from the fence and curses rather vehemently. It's as she turns from it that she just about barely nods to P'draig in return, but then there's Elaruth and that kill that the queen reluctantly drinks down instead of consuming the meat, the mother of all one-sided staring contests going on, Hattie glaring at her dragon. When Elaruth goes for another kill, it's done neatly and with the minimum of fuss, still not even a rumble from her, not even when Hattie barks, "Elaruth," quite uselessly and a gold muzzle goes to drink the carcass dry.
The quick apology, a clipped, "Sorry," that leaves C'tane really doesn't convey the sentiment at all, his eyes pinned to the fenceboards as the last reverberations die away. On the other side of that fence, Taymith is likewise unrepentant, though he lacks his rider's amusement about the situation. Eyes fixed on Elaruth, that broken-backed herdbeast collected and gouged eagerly, the foreign bronze hunkers happily over his kill with an encouraging rumble for the young queen. The snagging of the second terrified, stampeding beast is almost absent, one talon reached out, fouling hurried legs, and then he stomps the downed beast with a satisfying, crunchy scream.
Elaruth might know what she's doing, but Saulienth dances from foot to foot, more interested in showing off his wings - they're brown! and his! and brown! - than getting down to the serious business of blooding. It's F'vel who yelps a protest when Taymith's meal comes tumbling to a sudden stop, and he turns on C'tane with unusual belligerence, stepping between the Igenite and Hattie. "Don't you have any manners, you, you... whoever you are?" he barks, puppyish, and probably expecting D'kai to back him up, here. It's Saulienth who rumbles and flashes first his wings, then teeth at the larger Istan brown, crouches and tries an experimental swipe at Mikhuth.
D'kai startles, too, when that fence shakes violently, though his first motion is to catch first himself, the second is an aborted half-reach for Hattie as she leaps out of the way. Jaw tightening, the bronzerider presses his lips into a thin line and offers a faint, wan smile, settling back again, and redirecting his blue gaze skyward. It's either a plea for patience, or a silent communication with the inked bronze above, and it's only a heartbeat later that Mickey is plummeting down to slam a herdbeast to the ground and crouch over it, red-tinged eyes trained on Elaruth. One herdbeast for her two: the bronze hop-skips backward with a flaring of wings, to a crouch nearby. When Saulienth's talons brush past his muzzle, he snaps sharp teeth at the younger male, /hisss/, his tongue flicking in and out before -- stillness.
Pushing away from the fence, P'draig quells his own irritation with Jekzith as the motley brown keeps up with the feeding in the pens, drinks his fill, then coiled like a spring ready to unfurl, waits on Elaruth's pleasure with the bright float of a single clear bubble her way full of the promise of flight. "Hey now," he says in a calm voice to F'vel as he nears, "take a deep breath, keep focused on in there and when we need to start walking," the now-Istan Weyrlingmaster advises and shoots a quick look Hattie's way. "Best to keep things smooth for her, hm?"
Dragon> It's a wash of warm red-gold that unfurls her way, carrying that bubble with it, glittering with promise and another is blown on its heels along with not irritation, but excitement, eagerness for flight and going far and going fast and oh, won't it be so much fun? (Jekzith to Elaruth)
Hattie's steps find her backing towards D'kai a pace or two, a beyond baffled and incredibly frustrated expression on her face as she peers between F'vel and C'tane. Odds are, were it not for P'draig's words, she'd snap something far less pleasant to one or both of them, but as it is, she simply takes the time to breathe. There's still an edgy look of dread settled upon her as she peers about, less for what's going on in the pens and more to do with the behaviour of the riders around her. Whilst some of the males might be a bit distracted, she who is usually slow and measured in her movements makes a break for the skies with such a dart of a leap into the air it's difficult to tell whether the unfurling of Elaruth's wings or the leap itself came first. No look back to see whether they'll follow, no uncertainty, she's gone, up wherever the currents will take her, starlight touched to bronze and brown minds as she soars, up, up.
"Manners?" C'tane blinks around him, the beginning of the usual daze descending to cloak eyes with a perpetual squint to them. "What do you think is going on here, exactly?" What with the dragons all gashing and guzzling blood and taking swipes at each other, but he draws in a level breath afterward, nodding with slow caution after P'draig's suggestion. The nod follows through in good time to have him looking up while Taymith flares his wings, kicks away his carcass so there's a nice splash of blood aimed at those stupid lolligagging riders all ranged along the fenceline; voyeurs. Up and after her, shedding the lethargy of Interval in the bloodrush of Flight.
That faint touch of starlight brings to life the roar of a licking, reaching fire bleching acrid black smoke, banked so quietly previously that Mikhuth's broadcast seems to come to a surprise even to his lifemate, who, simultaneously holds his hands palm-out towards Hattie, cranes his neck up, up, and back to follow Mickey's jarring launch upward. He's favouring his left wing, only slightly, and Deke subconsciously redirects a hand to tuck against his own shoulder. Splashing blood nonwithstanding, the bronzerider exhales out a long-held breath and leans away from the fenceline, chin tipped upward, eyes narrowed, to follow the flight up and away, though long before Mikhuth is lost in the gleam of the sun, the man's attention is narrowed down on Hattie, confirming quietly, "You still okay?"
Saulienth isn't about to be thwarted by some bronze! He snaps right back at Mikhuth while his rider looks about to do the same to P'draig, calm words or not. It's the Istan's knot that has him backing down with a reluctant nod, though he isn't about to leave Hattie to face C'tane alone. There's a mumbled, "'Orry," for the gathering as he studies his knees, and then the young man is overcome by a whole-body shiver that leaves him gasping. Saulienth springs after Elaruth, calling to her mist and stars and doesn't she want to come with him, leave these others behind?
Dragon> To Jekzith, Elaruth echoes excitement and eagerness, bounced against that bubble as tendrils of heat from the pale sun that tries to outshine the stars that will not be hidden and allow their light to be smothered. For all there's such similar feelings, she doesn't allow it to entice favour of him and she flutters the feel of the wind and its currents, of freedom, back, teasing.
Elaruth goes and Jekzith's wings snap open, launching him up and up after her. He's older, he knows Fort well still and makes good use of his mobile musculature to put on speed rapidly. P'draig takes a sudden breath, swallows, but remains steady on the ground. As the other dragons take off too, he looks back at F'vel. "Come on, kid. Take a walk with me," he tells the weyrling and jerks a thumb in the appropriate direction. Briefly, his gaze slides past to D'kai and Hattie and there's a grin for the Fortian bronzerider in spite of the tension abounding as he sees his former Weyrling handling things with Fort's junior.
Dragon> The bubble pops and releases sparkles that rush up into the sky to join those stars, to dance around that pale sun. Yes! That way is freedom and open sky and the wind and so much delight and can she do this? He envisions threading the stars, jumping between them to find that sun. << Let's go! >> It's not so much about competition or winning, just about the shared moment. (Jekzith to Elaruth)
It might be noticeable by now that Hattie seems to be endeavouring not to make any kind of physical contact with anyone, though D'kai's hands get a moment of blank-eyed study. Her feet look to carry her off almost without permission, sending her a little off-balance as she turns, murmurs, "I'm fine," in what's definitely nothing like her normal voice and sets off towards her weyr, steps weaving just a bit. "Come on," she calls out, like she knows what she's doing and it's everyone else who doesn't. The steps to her ledge are something of a bother when she reaches them, but eventually she reaches the top and either can't or doesn't stand on formality: just heads right inside. Up above, Elaruth's all about altitude and hasn't faltered even for a second. There's been no look back to see how much distance there is between herself and her pursuers, there's just the currents that she surrenders to, lets them twist and turn her about, so much joy taken in it that she perhaps doesn't know or realize whether there's anybody drawing near.
Hattie's Burnished Fretwork Weyr
Spacious and well-appointed, this weyr is the first off of the steps leading up from the ground to the Weyrleader's complex and is known to have once belonged to the legendary Moreta.
Leading in from the ledge, the weyr is initially a lopsided cavern almost longer than it is wide, save for the curve that the dragon's wallow creates. Most of the surfaces in this part of the cavern are smooth, including that of the wallow, rock warn down to a polished sheen beneath blankets and turns of use. Behind the wallow, a serious of shelves line the wall, a long trunk sat beneath them to store the equipment that doesn't already perch above.
The cavern eventually narrows to the entrance to the rider's weyr, allowing very little natural light through. Small arrangements of glows have been placed on outcroppings and inside nooks roughly midway up the walls, that create a bar of light that casts fainter illumination towards both ceiling and floor. The screens that usually divide the room are gone from their usual posts, stacked neatly against the far wall. A comfortable bed covered with bright pink linen and a fur or two is tucked into one corner, whilst a long couch in a shade of deep russet sits along the opposite wall. At the other end of the room lies a sturdy rectangular table and set of four chairs, with another couch in earthy colours and a rather worn comfy chair tucked together in the far corner.
A lifetime at Igen ought to weigh against Taymith, make him unfamiliar with the thermals of Fort, but more than a decade of cavorting from Weyr to Weyr makes him reasonably comfortable in the air even here. There's a brief teeter, the glitter of wings that need to rebalance, and then he's off arrow-straight to chase her altitude. On the ground, a little more loathe to leave the grounds than his dragon was, C'tane pockets his hands and wheels on one heel to follow in Hattie's wake. "Where're the drinks?" he asks like they're just an accepted part of Flight culture-- an /expected/ part of it, even.
F'vel goggles at little at P'draig but nods, shivering still despite wrapping his arms tight, tighter, tightest across his chest. Head down he follows after Hattie, stumbling now and again on a pebble or boulder or chasm. The stairs give him about as much trouble as they gave her, and at the top he pauses to send a plaintive look skyward, but the chase is long since gone and it draws him after her. So too does Saulienth chase his glowing sister, the pale golden sun lifting higher like time itself has reversed. He's young, this brown, and inexperienced, with no blood to fuel his wings, but as yet the burn is welcome, and so what if he's near the back of the pack?
D'kai chuckles softly, dropping his hands back to his side where he rubs them breifly against his tunic, slides them into his pockets as though he doesn't know what to do with them when he's not shielding Hattie. He follows, keeping his distance, but also keeping half an eye leveled on the goldrider -- though aren't they all? Deke finally spares a glance over his shoulder, hoping to catch P'draig's own gaze, and offers a respectful salute in greeting to the brownrider before he's working his own way up the steps to the weyr. And Mikhuth, oh, Mikhuth is arrowing after Elaruth with all the intent he can muster, and his lanky, ruddy form is weaving through those stragglers at the rear, overtaking as many as he can manage and stuttering only once or twice on that bad wing.
Dragon> Sparkles. She likes sparkles, does Elaruth, and she follows their course closely, a tendril of mist sent after to whirl around and follow them. Delighted laughter, the rustle of reeds breaks through and greenery survives long enough to not be burnt to cinders by starlight. No words, but she certainly approves, her mind so close to his before a star winks out and her touch goes with it. (Elaruth to Jekzith)
Jekzith's one of /those/ kinds of flyers. He loves it. Every second of it. And seems to be treating the flight less as a competition to win Elaruth, than a chance to fly with her and everyone else and isn't it just /great/? He's acrobatic and fast and winds around currents like an air-demon when he has a mind to, calling up memories that are starting to dim a little, but he did hatch here too after all and his home for most of his life, where Ista is still relatively new. His enjoyment in fact, is not tamped down, not one little bit. He shares it all, mindless of how it might affect the poor Weyrfolk down below. Paddy is more steady, for now at least, making sure F'vel takes the right path and he nabs another lost looking younger rider by the shoulder, turns him into the string of riders, mostly male that heads for Hattie's weyr. A look is shot C'tane's way and he gives a shake of his head. "This isn't the guest weyr," he points out. D'kai's look is met and the young bronzerider is shot a lopsided smile and return touch of finger to temple and then it's time to find a patch of wall to lean against, to keep a weather eye on some of those youngsters still until Jekzith's joy sinks too deeply into his skin and Paddy just has to go along with it with a goofy smile on his face.
Dragon> To Elaruth, Jekzith beams joyfulness her way, sending up more showers of sparks and sparkles to dance in the stars. Briefly there's a curl of color to meet her mist, warm, affectionate, playful. Nothing more than that, sort of like a handshake of like-minded flyers across the distance. When her touch goes, he stays with her, easy to find mentally at least, while his body continues to twist and turn to keep up with her in the physical realm.
"Wherever you want to pay for them," Hattie sighs out, words meant for C'tane and meant to be snapped, the weyrwoman crossing the room to slump a bit against the wall right beside the stacked screens, as if it might be possible for her to hide behind them in some way. No such luck. Her arms knot beneath her chest, which likely doesn't do her any favours in the hiding department, but she's rather too far gone to notice or care. Her eyes shut and despite how she's spoken, despite how she tries to separate herself from everyone and anyone else, she smiles. It's now that Elaruth looks back, just for a second, seems to decide that flight itself is still much more interesting and enjoyable than the aim of the whole affair. She drifts a while, slowing, then finds a thermal to soar and twirl on, only her delight in acrobatics gets the better of her and sends her off-course, tumbling down into a dive that leaves her closer to those in pursuit than she'd like.
"Still," C'tane persists with a sniff, keeping a disappointed pout at bay after Hattie's come-back only because it doesn't exactly come across as the most butch response. His attention only grazes the room, nothing alcoholic immediately reaching out for him, so he contemplates the furnishing with his arms crossing once more. While he seems distractable, Taymith stays relentlessly focused so that, when Elaruth's acrobatics lead her astray, he needs only to veer toward the pack, to give warning to his fellow chasers by way of a quick, hissing exhalation-- incoming, gents. If she's going to dive, he intends to be somewhere in her tumbling trajectory.
Saulienth tries to kick past the pack like he sees Mikuth doing; tries to entice Elaruth with cries to stop playing catch-me with the stars and come back down here instead. Isn't he her favorite brother? --Her only brother, just now, with Gedroth off to Southern and Dasarth off somewhere and all the others not here, only him? But youth and inexperience (not to mention the lack of pre-flight snacking) chew him up and spit him out, and just as Elaruth's pirouettes bring her closer to her suitors Saulienth peels off with a lonesome bugle, dropping down, down, away from the chase. F'vel gulps back a cry of his own, hands frantically rubbing his arms to try and soothe away the burn of someone else's wings, and with only a single look back at Hattie, at C'tane - somehow this must be his fault! - at D'kai and the strange Istan brownrider, he plunges out of the weyr, managing to find the steps before he finds the edge of the landing and over.
Deke's turn to find somewhere to set up shop: he casts about the weyr with half-narrowed eyes for just a beat, and finally takes a cue from Paddy, securing himself a nice solid section of wall against which to lean. Hands creep back to flatten against the stone, fingers curling into the rock as though to anchor himself there. The bronzerider manages only one flickering glance, uncharacteristically cool, toward C'tane, then: blankness, as he closes his eyes and props his head back against the wall. Mikhuth, ducking from the body of the pack, seeks a higher point, pushing his wings /wider/ and /fuller/ and willing them /faster/ as he seeks out some thermal to loft him upward so that he's well out of Tyamith's trajectory when he intercepts, with a smokily appreciative chuckle for -- Elaruth's acrobatics? his own cleverness?
Oh. Soaring. Oh. Twirling. Oh. Diving. Oh /fun/. Jekzith's wings tuck and he goes down with her, spiraling neatly though. For all he's exuberant and really into this, there's just a little something held in reserve at least for later, so he doesn't burn out too soon. C'tane's persistance earns an eyeroll from P'draig and he digs around in his jacket pocket, pulls out his flask. "Heads up," he warns and waits for eye contact before flipping it to the other rider. His shoulders re-settle against the wall and he takes a sudden breath as Jekzith dives up above and for a moment, his focus is all outside of himself, irises shrinking as pupils widen darkly.
No snarky response from Hattie this time, just her arms knotting tighter and her smile edging towards a smirk. To all that's going on around her, she's oblivious, uncaring. Whatever kind of gleeful mood the young queen might be in, she's still Elaruth, her attention grabbed by Saulienth's bugle and her wings miss a beat, slowing her further still. But there really is no time for fixing hurts and hesitation has cost her, leaving her right in the middle of the pack. Darting upwards isn't an option, the current she reaches for just not close enough, so down she goes again, wings folded for what may be meant to be a quick jaunt towards the ground before she can soar again, but being so focused on the skies and thermals and freedom leaves her right there for the snaring away.
The too-white smile flashes again-- persistence pays off!-- and C'tane catches the flask in mid-air, which is pretty impressive given how little of himself remains detached from Taymith out there. Unscrewed, sniffed, nodded at appreciatively, drunk. And he's coughing slightly at the burn of it, eyes leaking a touch while Taymith fails to be impacted, rock-freaking-steady. Taking over the space left by Saulienth, wings spread to their fullest to occupy his own airspace and that of the queen's brother, he arcs slightly into his turn, tilts upward his wings in an effort to find Elaruth's descent, his neck curled up and back to keep her in his periphery. What he lacks is the gumption to go up and /get her/.
D'kai tenses, all at once, as crimson-speckled sails catch at the air and Mikhuth twists his lanky body in mid-air, redirecting the wind in his wings into a steady, tightly-controlled plunge. There's enough altitude, there, that he avoids the stragglers, narrowly avoids a collision with an unwitting brown, and evens out ... somewhere ahead of where he was, slightly faster, slightly nearer, body flattened tight against the sky, one wing held, perhaps, slightly closer to his lanky form. /Elaruth/, his mind flares up all at once, and there's the wailing of flutes and licking red flames and darkly gleaming delight, and then she's /there/, right /next/ to him so close that the inked bronze lashes out instinctively, whipcord tail and neck seeking out her gleaming, slick hide, and fingers splayed blindly against the wall grope for purchase from that dizzying, sudden movement.
Plummeting after Elaruth takes Jekzith into tighter quarters than he'd usually like and his own longing for clear air and space to soar sends him forward first. It's tight, too tight and his thoughts speak of freedom still as he tries to cut in from the other side to bump his shoulder in under hers, lift them both up and out of the tangle of dragons to where they can /breathe/ and fly, only it's probably all just a little too late. Paddy? Checked out now, leaning hard against the wall. He'll probably chasten Jekzith later for letting it go so far.
There's enough time for Elaruth to notice Taymith's manoeuvring, but the problem she finds is that studying it even for the shortest of times leaves her close enough to almost skim Jekzith and nearly fall right against shoulder-bumping. A last ditch attempt to twist away and find her own space, stars, thermals to dance with has her banking right into Mikhuth and his lashing out, twining as if she could steady herself against him and still regain her freedom somehow. But it's not to be, and, in the end, it turns out that she forgets the skies and her adventure - any thoughts of escape - incredible quickly. Hattie's eyes snap open and for split second she doesn't move, breath held and fingers curling against her elbows with enough force dig in and draw blood. She unwinds all at once, gaze fixed on D'kai and amazingly measured, certain steps that show none of her previous weaving about aim to carry her right. Over. To. Him.
Drawing a harsh and fast breath, P'draig hangs there against the wall for a moment as Jekzith's hyperattenuated hide picks up the heat from Elaruth's and his eyes roll back a little in his head. Her twist away leaves the motley brown disappointed and shooting onward a little off-kilter so that he nearly takes out another smaller bronze who was still dropping to make a play for her. He has to roll in the air hard and eventually comes around and splashes down in the lake to cool off. A familiar ritual for the brownpair. Unseeing eyes open and an effort of will more than anything else sends Paddy staggering out of the Weyr. He'll be relieved later, for now, he's got someone to find. And if C'tane is nice, he'll return the flask sometime, it does after all, have quite the sentimental engraving on it from the brownrider's weyrmate. Out Paddy goes into the cooling autumn afternoon like he's the one who's been drinking though he hasn't had a drop.
Another drink-- another cough-- C'tane's wiping at the corner of his mouth with the curve of his thumb, chasing drops of whiskey while Taymith... fails. A short sputter of profanity accompanies him when he turns to jog down those steps, absently tossing P'draig's flask on his palm; probably not the first time he's left with someone else's token, and likely to be returned, yes. His crossness is matched by the frustrated groan that leaves his bronze as he breaks away the twined Fortian dragons. "Well, there'll be others," the man can be heard to mutter at the bottom of those steps, off to take advantage of some flight-addled caverns girl. Which may not be quite the same as winning, but it sure beats spending the night at home doing himse-- doing nothing.