Log: Safriath's Maiden Flight
Who: Ch'son, Jiella, Nenita, P'draig, Val, W'chek, Taineth, Orisoth, Safriath, Jekzith, Visigoth, Zhikhath
When: It is a summer day, day 11, month 6, turn 22 of Interval 10.
Where: Guest Weyr/Sky, Ista Weyr
What: Jekzith tries to make Paddy Weyrleader. Paddy objects. It doesn't go so well.
It's been some minutes since Safriath took to the feeding pens. Just long enough for Nenita to rush out of her own weyr (hell no) and make it across the bowl to the guest weyr. She made one notable stop along the way and that was to the kitchen where she not-so-smoothly stole a bottle of wine from the cooks. Inside now she's hunched up against the headboard of the bed, knees to her chest as she works on uncorking the bottle and tossing the broken up pieces onto the ground. Expert at this opening bottle thing she is not, but eventually it's opened up while she watches random bronze and brownriders wander in.
Safriath wakes up from the classic pre-flight nap, taking to the pens in a blur of gold. She's a raging inferno as she tosses the nearest large herdbeast down and begins to make short work of it. There's the obvious initial struggle where she clearly wants to just devour the entire animal rather than blood. It seems to not take Nenita /all/ that much time to get her under control though. Blooding gets underway while she turns a near hostile eye on all the dragons arriving to join her.
The last few days for W'chek have not been easy ones, hence at some point along the way, the suggestion was floated of a nice, relaxing rest day. At Ista. Was relaxing, right up until that moment where Zhikath figures out Something Is Going On and heads for the feeding pens, leaving his rider to make a very reluctant departure from his weyrmate. Grumbling the whole way. By the time he reaches the guest weyr, he's still in shorts and sandals with a fruity drink in his hand. "Should have gone to Southern," is the conclusion of the grumbling to himself, as he finds a spot against a wall to sit on the floor, knees tucked up to his bare chest. Zhikath, meanwhile, is making short work of a single herdbeast. The summer sun does quite a lot for him; he's large, shining, ever so focused on Safriath.
It's really hard to say what the hell Jiella is doing at Ista. Given other Fortian brownriders have been around, it might be assumed she's here to continue more of the snooping - but given she's not wearing a whole lot and is looking particularly bronzed, tousled and sleepy, she might've just been tanning and fallen asleep. Either way, it brings her into the guest weyr at a languid pace, throwing on a long-sleeved shirt over everything else, but not doing it up. Why bother? Outside, Orisoth wings over from the beach, quick enough to find the feeding grounds for all he hasn't been here a whole lot; the young, burnished brown's gaze is immediately drawn to the gold, of course - and with a precise strike, he takes out his first victim.
It's late enough for Ch'son to be drinking but still too early for him to be drunk. At least noticeably drunk. And more unfortunately for him, the walk from his bar of choice to the guest weyr is a long one so the drink that he took along for the ride is gone by the time he makes it there. And then it takes some wandering for him to decide where to settle back against a wall. Taineth is much more on the ball than his rider. But then, he's been watching his precious Safriath the last few days, waiting /just/ for this moment. He's all twinkling lights for the gold that he watches and a low buzz of noise for her other suitors as he drains his herdbeast, over-large wings partially unfurled.
Near-hostile? Only near? Give him time: Visigoth swoops down without any other invitation than Safriath's own presence, muscling his way there before a bronze not much larger than he. There he's quick to take advantage of Ista's hospitality, the Benden brown feasting as if famished, though as yet only on blood. Blood and the emotions that roil around the tarnished queen. His eyes are dark, watching her, watching them. Dark, and more than a little teasing. And if his rider laughs, swears, "No /chance/," even as she stumbles into the guest weyr after Ch'son, that won't stop him from getting what spoils he can. Or her, from finding better footing and then, after an initial scan, bypassing the wall and heading for the bed. The woman. The /wine/. "Come on, share," she says to the about-to-be-Senior Weyrwoman, to the dark-haired girl not much older than she. "You got us here, after all." From their own supposedly-relaxing break, at the very least.
Jekzith is prompt. He's been keeping an eye on Safriath the past couple of days and not saying a word to his rider who's been distracted with other things. The lean brown might be all motley color-wise, but he actually moves fairly gracefully for all he's a ball of barely contained energy to boot. Raging inferno though, well, that's a clue to stick to the edges of things a bit at first, find a kill, deal with it. He's playing it cool, but his eyes have slipped from pleasant, happy aqua to bright violet far more quickly than some might expect. Somewhere down on the beach, Paddy drops a frying pan on his foot and winds up with his fellow cooks staring at him. "Shit!" the brownrider cusses loudly, leaves the Beach House in the care of the senior-most of the cooks and takes off at a dead run. Ista's sometimes-weyrlingmaster will therefore arrive hot, sweaty, disheveled and a little wild-eyed after failing miserably to get Jekzith to give up on blooding. Wild-eyed gives way to sudden focus though as he catches sight of Nenita and visibly makes an effort to pull himself together, shirt tugged straight, gaze scanning the weyr slowly.
This could only be a nightmare for someone like Nenita. Plenty of chasers but most of them from places that aren't Ista. Benden and Fort born. Dark eyes flip from both women brownriders, relief spelled out plain across their face. Not bronze, not bro- Oh, except for that one guy from High Reaches. W'chek is given a withering gaze where he sits on the floor. Even if he's keeping to himself. And it's likely her attention would remain fixated there on him if not for that strange woman coming up to her. "I didn't invite anyone in here. Get your own wine." P'draig and Ch'son don't get any immediate recognition as she's too busy giving Val the evil eye for suggesting she give up her booze. Taineth gets more of a response out of Safriath though. She turns on her usually attentive clutchmate and gives what could best be described as a dragon roar before going for her second beast. She drains the blood from this one too, suspcious eyes on all those potential suitors. When one bronze gets too close to invading her personal space she extends her wings with a snap, giving all and sundry a good look at their width and length.
Through with his extremely precise blooding, Zhikath fans his wings but keeps his distance, readiness in every muscle, tense as a tight-wound spring. He has cursory attention for the comptition--not the browns, but the bronzes, assessing but gaze increasingly distracted by Safriath. His spine straightens, head holds at an angle just so, waiting but with this awareness of being watched. W'chek, however, has no such awareness for Nenita's gaze. He just buries his head in his hands. Waits.
There's chairs in the weyr, and if almost everyone else is going to stand against the wall, Jiella's going to take one of them, crossing long legs and leaning back to look around. She'll give a little wave to the woman of the hour first, smile brilliant for Nenita, even with the relief on the woman's face - then, on spotting Val in her attempt to get at the wine, she sighs, "/Finally/, I'm not like, practically the only girl here. And good luck with that." By her tone, she's not about to try it, happy with her chair for now. As for Orisoth, he might not have had the advantage of watching and waiting on the gold, but from the laser-sharp attention he pays to both Safriath and his competitors both, he's sure as hell going to give the chase his best shot anyway... despite the fact that all of his strengths aren't really at play here. Perhaps a little too aware of that despite the fact that candle's flame has burst into full fire, his next kill is a grossly surgical exsanguination, letting the body fall as the queen's wings stretch wide.
For Ch'son, the bronzerider is being very calm indeed. Perhaps it's some influence from his lifemate and not so much calm as concentration, though. His attention is focused pretty readily on the woman at the focus of all of this, somewhat less so on the woman that's wanting Nenita's wine since she's right there. The glass he holds in his hand is rolled between his fingers and thumb, restless. Taineth is restless, too, especially after he's finished with his herdbeast and focused his full attention on the gold. He keeps some distance but there's no hint of him being intimidated by her. If anything it makes him more eager for her to hit the skies, wings mantling to their full span in anticipation.
"/She/ sure did," says Val to the strange woman-who-happens-to-be-a-goldrider. "And sure I would've, if I knew she was going to," but instead she has to pull a long face at her lack of foreknowledge, or at least at Nenita's lack of engraved announcements, and aim to help herself to the foot of that same bed. Surely she can sit there, if she can't have wine? As for Visigoth, who crunches his way rather messily to his own second beast yet barely drinks from it before dropping it and crouching /right/ on top of its gurgling nearly-corpse, "You know it," his rider adds more or less to where Jiella's voice had come from. "My boy /would/ think her gold is awful hot, her wings like that. Of course, she's proddy. So he might be biased." Surely he is. But Visigoth's also eyeing not just Safriath and her wings, but her skies.
For once, P'draig doesn't wind up in his usual wall-lean. He drops into the next chair over from Jiella and picks up one foot, eyeing what's likely to be one hell of a bruise across the top in a little while. The brownrider grimaces and blows out a breath, looks between Val and the Fortian brownrider curiously, then actually musters some manners. "Welcome to Ista. Drink?" And he inches forward in his chair a little, reaches into one back pocket to pull out a flask. Jekzith? He's finished up stoking his engines and is ready to /go/ he is, vibrating with intensity as he focuses on Safriath in spite of her rage. Or maybe because of it. Either way, his thoughts are pretty open: the sky's waiting with all the glory and freedom to be found therein.
Safriath has had those wings spread for awhile now, while she sucks down the blood left in the mangled corpse. There's no challanging cry issued, hardly any change in her body language. So it's with very little warning that the body is abandoned and she lurches into the sky, wings flinging back while she takes to the air. Once she has some altitude the the path is clear, straight and high. "So tell him to come back, land on the ground and you just go on back home." Nenita tells Val, bringing the bottle to her lips and drinking from it. She watches the foreign woman with open eyes as she drinks. P'draig gets a 'look' for offering "these people" any beverages. It seems the only person who isn't getting a dirty eyeball or anything is Ch'son. For once, he's free and clear over there.
It really doesn't look like W'chek is paying much attention to alcohol, even though he does have his own. There's a bit more muttering, something about 'take it back' but most of it generally inaudible, and he is absolutely not looking at any of these people, not noticing what they might be doing. He doesn't, after all, generally expect something like this to be catered... but then, he wouldn't expect to be here, either. Zhikath has not missed even those slightest changes in body language, and he's in the air just a portion of a moment after she is, following, wingsails glittering as sunlight catches them.
Almost cheerfully, given the circumstances, Jiella tells Val, and perhaps P'draig as well, "Doomed to failure." The blonde, as always, is more concerned with herself than anything, combing through her hair with her fingers - though more and more of her attention drifts Nenita's way, brown eyes keenly interested. Thus, she follows the goldrider's gaze to Ch'son, for some reason smirking a touch when she notes him. Blinking back to P'draig again with a bright smile, "Thanks. And sure." Not like she'll turn down the flask. Even if the soon-to-be-Senior doesn't want her to have it, so there. As soon as Orisoth sees Safriath begin to leap into the air, his wings snap out and he follows, quick and fast into the skies. If he's doomed to failure, he didn't get the memo.
His lean turns into a short pacing along the little bit of wall he's claimed after Ch'son pushes himself away from it. His head turns when he switches sides to keep his blue eyes on the goldrider though there are a few moments taken to scan the rest of the riders with chasing dragons. Jiella is recognized, clearly, but his gaze doesn't linger. Soon enough his steps take him away from the wall and closer to the foot of the bed. He closes his eyes when Taineth surges upwards after the molten gold, hand tightening on his empty glass. The shadowy bronze is silent in his pursuit now and he angles high of the path that Safriath chooses.
There's a little breathless pause... and maybe Val was just lost in Visigoth's upward leap, high and fast and not bothering with any tricks like staying to the outside of the pack. No, he'll go /through/ or not at all. Or maybe Val was waiting, just so she could lean across the bed and say right to Nenita's brown eyes, "Too late." She sinks back on one elbow, then, says in a lower voice, "Want /her/ wine. Or mine. Hers, hers, hers." P'draig's got to understand, right? Or maybe he doesn't, but her Visigoth does. She lets one all-but-bare foot dangle, heedless of Ch'son's looming closer and closer, its sandal hanging from her toes. Her Visigoth's not glittering, not catering, but lunging further into the thick of things... and if that's into someone else's way? That can't, won't, be helped.
There's a noise of frustration deep in Safriath's throat when Zhikath is up /so/ fast. Her head whips around briefly to catch sight of his exact location and soon her wings are beating hard, desperate to put distance between this foreign bronze and herself. She is a molten streak across that sky, the heat she expresses seems like it could heat the air itself. With the pack all up in the air now she switches direction when the desired height is reached, twisting to evade. Nenita makes like she has another remark for Val, her mouth opening in preparation only to stop at Ch'son's approach. Her clutchmate isn't given a bad look, but it is cautious and she shifts on her part of the bed. Phsyically away from him.
P'draig passes the flask over to Jiella with a wry grin that doesn't last because Jekzith's just launched himself up after Safriath, all loose-limbed and mobile and quick on the uptake. The Istan brownrider's gaze goes all lost and whether Jiella takes the flask or not, his grasp on it loosens, breath indrawn sharply and then released on a single syllable: "Shells." And his motley brown's thoughts are a surge of singing and fierce joy as he twists after Safriath, fully committed. "Jek ... you can't," Paddy murmurs under his breath and then he's shaking his head like he's trying to clear it of something.
Those browns may be operating on borrowed hope, but Zhikath has not just hope but near-certainty. He is Mr. Superbly Incredibly Fantasticness, and how can Safriath fail to notice his perfection? Not a cold sort of serious perfection, no, not right now. Secure in his speed and stamina, he's downright showing off, hanging back a little bit and then every now and then pushing forward again on her tail. He's going to keep her alert if nothing else. But after a couple tries of that, there is a faltering. These Istan winds aren't the ones he's used to. And W'chek... W'chek just lets out a sigh at in that moment that is nearly relief.
Orisoth's strengths are in knowledge of the angles, the lines; the minutiae of the area, of the dragons, the changes in them. In foreign lands, the burnished brown isn't entirely lost - he has strength to power speed, but that can't hold him forever, not in this flight. Even so, the fire beginning to rage fuells him, pushes him to gain height as quickly as possible as Safriath streaks across the sky like a comet, trying to edge around the pack rather than /through/ it. Meanwhile, the crowding of Nenita at the bed gets a bit of a wrinkled nose from the blonde, like - could you be more presumptuous? Generally, mildly, "She really doesn't look like she wants anyone near her. That's kind of tacky." So is regarding the goldrider as openly as she is, but she tries to keep it to a minimum, at least? Thankfully, the flask is taken from P'draig in time - both because she needs a drink, and dropping it would be a bad thing right now.
Taineth positions himself above most of the chasers, avoiding most of the hustle of the pack except for those that keep high the same as him. For them there's a disconcerting array of lights and a possessive burst of noise. Don't they all know that Safriath is /his?/ It would be even better if she knew, too, but for now he'll take what he can get, speed that he's using to close the distance between himself and his target. Ch'son eyes Nenita's motion briefly but he's not attempted to get all up in space. Not yet. His gaze turns on Val, who he could care less about tromping on personal space with. He's apparently ignoring Jiella's comment entirely. Except for that tensing of his jaw.
Val could watch her mouth. Does watch her mouth. But then something about Nenita's... changed. So she tracks it. Her fingers curl in the covers for purchase as she leans back, looks up. "/Tall/ boy." Also older than she, if not by much. Her eyes roll up him, and she sits up a little more. Protective. As for Visigoth... apparently the best part of protection is aggression, even if it does earn him a body-blow from a larger suitor, enough to shove him out of alignment when Safriath makes that turn of hers. Still, when he's slowed it slows those behind him too, and the nearest clips a wing and goes spiraling down. As the queen evades, the double-edged brown seeks to whittle down the ranks of her harriers... because who cares about hope or noise when you have battle's own joy. Onward! And Val warns, lower yet, "Careful."
Jekzith doesn't need to borrow hope, he's a powerhouse of seemingly boundless energy and he has no reason to think he can't do this, based on past experience. His rider however, is trying to pull him back in, the strain on his face probably obvious and he swallows hard. Jiella's remarks about Nenita disrupt that tension though, redirect his focus back to those in the room, the crowd around the bed. Frustration and something edgy infuse his usually easy-going expression. "Back off," is a much more direct warning than Jiella's mild suggestion, both hands flexing atop his knees as pure longing flashes through his eyes and the see-saw between him and Jekzith starts to balance in favor of the brown. The brown whose thoughts are all one long line of brightness and heat inspired by Safriath's own. Fly with me. Fly with me. He's never been interested in taking on the others in the pack, it's always all about the flying and about the one he's flying with and for. Paddy's head drops to his chin, several deep breaths taken and he doesn't look up again.
At least Jiella has manners. So even if she was totally some sort of spy at some point, Nenita turns faintly appreciative eyes on her. They might be more so if there wasn't some other things to consider, but. "Thank you." She says simply before she takes that bottle and draws a long drink from it and then tosses it half full towards the floor. Smash? By W'chek. "Get. Out." It's unlikely that she cares about his dragon's flagging ability or that he's been quiet and out of the way the entire time. His mere prescence here is enough. "Out. Now." Safriath is not enjoying the persistance of Zhikath back there either. He's keeping her alert and making her incredibly nervous to boot. It doesn't help that Taineth is up above, blocking a vertical escape. She's young too, and this is the first time. There's no long enjoyed techniques that she has hidden up her draconic sleeves, no pretty moves. There's just fuel to burn and that fuel can't last forever. With a final twist she tries to break away from the crowd, burn up those last reserves of energy before she's done. And if there's a pack of surprised browns in her way, well, they asked to bowled over.
"Out?" Only then does W'chek, dazed, actually look up, seem to see Nenita for the first time, as glass shatters and wine spills and spreads blood-red against the stone. And more than a little of it soaked up by his shorts, which are no doubt ruined since there's not going to be any club soda in the vicinity. There's swearing, half-hearted fumbling to get further away from her, but he can't quite manage to make sense of it. Zhikath, after that faltering, regains his composure but possibly not his position, still expends absolutely everything he has left to lunge for her, all showy wings and lashing tail and never mind who all might now be in his way.
Orisoth likes to stay high and out of the way - in case of need for immediate catch or suicidal dive - though he's not the sort to tangle with other dragons, so his notice of Taineth or vice versa is likely negligible beyond the fact that each is there, each is chasing the same prize - but only one actually has a clear shot at it. His strength is beginning to wane, so indeed - imagine his surprise when Safriath shoots up as expected, but so suddenly there's nothing he can do about it, as tired as he is. At least he can tell Khazioth he was thisclose? It's as much of a surprise as both the thanks and the bottle-smashing are to Jiella; brown eyes wide between Nenita and W'chek, the blonde takes another long swallow from P'draig's flask, sets it down on the table, and pushes out of her chair as her brown dives down for the bowl, morale shot. So close! Never mind that it wasn't meant to be.
His dragon's feelings of possessiveness are being felt pretty strongly by his rider. Ch'son turns his head to look at P'draig where he'd ignored Jiella and the bronzerider growls challengingly, "Fuckin' make me." He might not mean it but he's still sporting a pretty array of bruises. His blue eyes come back to Val like he expects her to try next, ignoring that other, quiet bronzerider which he should probably feel is his more likely competition. Taineth twists to follow Safriath's movements, oh-so-eager and focused on that molten hide. He strains his reserves to gain just that much more and then he's diving toward her with a loud, brassy bugle to go with the blur of lights for those nearest Safriath.
Bowled over. Bowled... /over/. She can try. Val whispers something, maybe Visigoth's name, as the bottle whistles over her head... as he's caught up challenging his neighbor only to see... to see. Safriath's coming. Hurtling. And the big brown's never been one to favor sense over prowess even with the round-eyed queen thrown into the mix, so maybe the angle isn't right... but. He goes for it anyway, throwing himself sideways into what he predicts is her path, at what's got to be a painful angle. Others are coming down. He should move, out of her way, out of theirs. He doesn't. Val's all but kneeling on the blankets under Ch'son's stare, brown eyes black, seeing more than him. Her elbow goes out, hard.
You'd think that with turns of experience and a usually laid-back attitude around flights, that P'draig would be pretty copacetic for this one. Only he's been playing tug o' war with his dragon since it started and he's been off-balance from the start. Ch'son's response brings a dark red flush to the brownrider's face and suddenly he's on his feet, chair falling to the floor from the strength of that push upward as Paddy launches himself at the younger man's mid-section, aiming to carry him back against the wall. It's possible he might catch Val's elbow on the way by even. Up above, Jekzith's hyperfocused on Safriath, pushing all of his energy into a quick jag thattaway, more into her path. He's long for a brown, but lean and more agile than some big dragons. It helped him to victory when he caught a queen that one and only time. It plays against him now as he doesn't catch Visigoth's painful launch after Safriath and there's suddenly nowhere to go. His attempt to jump ahead without sacrificing his own catch-angle only makes it worse. Boom. Brown-on-brown collision.
That whole 'veer this way towards those other dragons!' plan doesn't seem to be working out. A few have scattered but the others are crashing into each other. Safriath has shook the High Reaches bronze off successfully but now it's a game of slowing the fuck down before she's part of the mess up ahead. With a desperate veering up she's not paying attention to Taineth diving down from above and seems utterly shocked when she finds herself tangled up with him. It doesn't last long because soon there's acceptance and less of a struggle from the shining gold, after all this is /her/ Taineth. Back back on the ground? Horror. Not for Ch'son's bronze winning but for P'draig flinging himself at her clutchmate and newly appointed Weyrleader. "Paddy! /P'draig/." And isn't she supposed to be uh... meeting with the bronzerider right now? Lust and horror, not good for the facial expression department.
Some people might be flinging themselves at each other, but W'chek is scrambling on broken glass and getting the hell out of there. There are definitely a few cuts on his legs by the time he gets his footing again, and his shorts are definitely ruined, but there's nothing but relief on his face as he makes his exit. Zhikath has started to shift away as soon as it's clear that she's not his. That doesn't make him happy about it, but he's got a very sympathetic green to go spend some time with.
Jiella would try to help break up this little situation, but there's two issues with that. First is that the curvy brownrider would be risking her pretty face for people she doesn't know very well, and second is that she's got a brown dragon to comfort - and likely places to be right about now that are most definitely not this weyr. So after a glance over her shoulder, it's pretty much so long, suckers and she's out right after W'chek. And /now/ she'll start doing up her shirt. Though hopefully it'll get undone again at home. It doesn't make the brown's life any better, but Jie's will be, so hey.
Ch'son seems to have a way of attracting violence. Some might call it a talent, some a fault. To Chaes it's just the way things are. Whether or not Val's elbow connects with him or P'draig, there's not much time for Ch'son to react to it before he's being shoved back toward the wall. It's all he can do at first to keep his footing, but he manages. Once his back hits stone, after gasping back the breath knocked out of him, the bronzerider is groping for some purchase on the brownrider so he can hold him steady while a fist flies. Another takes aim but Ch'son falters and some odd, open-mouthed expression crosses his face before the fist becomes the furthest thing from his mind and all of his attention hones in on Nenita while Taineth entwines himself with Safriath like he belongs there. And he does! Because she's his now!
Aaand that slamming-tangling-fist-fighting thing would be when Val starts trying to scramble her way off the bed. Quickly. Never mind the footboard, never mind the spilled wine and broken glass beyond, never mind the... /tripping/ over the footboard and losing her sandal and trying to evade the big-strong-men in favor of hurrying out to her descending brown before she's even got her first really good breath. Hurrying. Limping now. But forget the new Weyrleaders, she's got to get to /him/. (And quitting back when Orisoth did? That might have been smart. But at least W'chek's soaked up some of the wine.)
Ch'son's fist connects nicely with P'draig's jaw right around the time that Jekzith and Visigoth are ... um ... well not /twining/. Jekzith's surprised bugle, even if high above and far away, combined with Nenita's exclamation, wrenches his rider's focus away from the new Weyrleader and something like sense floods Paddy's face. "Shit!" he swears again and now he's the one backing off. Fast, the arm he used to pin Chaes to the wall slackening and dropping away. Briefly, he shoots a horrified look of his own over his shoulder at the Weyrwoman. "I'm sorry," is brief and to the point, not to Ch'son, but to her and then Paddy's beating tracks out of the weyr too, to find Jekzith first and T'mic after.
When: It is a summer day, day 11, month 6, turn 22 of Interval 10.
Where: Guest Weyr/Sky, Ista Weyr
What: Jekzith tries to make Paddy Weyrleader. Paddy objects. It doesn't go so well.
It's been some minutes since Safriath took to the feeding pens. Just long enough for Nenita to rush out of her own weyr (hell no) and make it across the bowl to the guest weyr. She made one notable stop along the way and that was to the kitchen where she not-so-smoothly stole a bottle of wine from the cooks. Inside now she's hunched up against the headboard of the bed, knees to her chest as she works on uncorking the bottle and tossing the broken up pieces onto the ground. Expert at this opening bottle thing she is not, but eventually it's opened up while she watches random bronze and brownriders wander in.
Safriath wakes up from the classic pre-flight nap, taking to the pens in a blur of gold. She's a raging inferno as she tosses the nearest large herdbeast down and begins to make short work of it. There's the obvious initial struggle where she clearly wants to just devour the entire animal rather than blood. It seems to not take Nenita /all/ that much time to get her under control though. Blooding gets underway while she turns a near hostile eye on all the dragons arriving to join her.
The last few days for W'chek have not been easy ones, hence at some point along the way, the suggestion was floated of a nice, relaxing rest day. At Ista. Was relaxing, right up until that moment where Zhikath figures out Something Is Going On and heads for the feeding pens, leaving his rider to make a very reluctant departure from his weyrmate. Grumbling the whole way. By the time he reaches the guest weyr, he's still in shorts and sandals with a fruity drink in his hand. "Should have gone to Southern," is the conclusion of the grumbling to himself, as he finds a spot against a wall to sit on the floor, knees tucked up to his bare chest. Zhikath, meanwhile, is making short work of a single herdbeast. The summer sun does quite a lot for him; he's large, shining, ever so focused on Safriath.
It's really hard to say what the hell Jiella is doing at Ista. Given other Fortian brownriders have been around, it might be assumed she's here to continue more of the snooping - but given she's not wearing a whole lot and is looking particularly bronzed, tousled and sleepy, she might've just been tanning and fallen asleep. Either way, it brings her into the guest weyr at a languid pace, throwing on a long-sleeved shirt over everything else, but not doing it up. Why bother? Outside, Orisoth wings over from the beach, quick enough to find the feeding grounds for all he hasn't been here a whole lot; the young, burnished brown's gaze is immediately drawn to the gold, of course - and with a precise strike, he takes out his first victim.
It's late enough for Ch'son to be drinking but still too early for him to be drunk. At least noticeably drunk. And more unfortunately for him, the walk from his bar of choice to the guest weyr is a long one so the drink that he took along for the ride is gone by the time he makes it there. And then it takes some wandering for him to decide where to settle back against a wall. Taineth is much more on the ball than his rider. But then, he's been watching his precious Safriath the last few days, waiting /just/ for this moment. He's all twinkling lights for the gold that he watches and a low buzz of noise for her other suitors as he drains his herdbeast, over-large wings partially unfurled.
Near-hostile? Only near? Give him time: Visigoth swoops down without any other invitation than Safriath's own presence, muscling his way there before a bronze not much larger than he. There he's quick to take advantage of Ista's hospitality, the Benden brown feasting as if famished, though as yet only on blood. Blood and the emotions that roil around the tarnished queen. His eyes are dark, watching her, watching them. Dark, and more than a little teasing. And if his rider laughs, swears, "No /chance/," even as she stumbles into the guest weyr after Ch'son, that won't stop him from getting what spoils he can. Or her, from finding better footing and then, after an initial scan, bypassing the wall and heading for the bed. The woman. The /wine/. "Come on, share," she says to the about-to-be-Senior Weyrwoman, to the dark-haired girl not much older than she. "You got us here, after all." From their own supposedly-relaxing break, at the very least.
Jekzith is prompt. He's been keeping an eye on Safriath the past couple of days and not saying a word to his rider who's been distracted with other things. The lean brown might be all motley color-wise, but he actually moves fairly gracefully for all he's a ball of barely contained energy to boot. Raging inferno though, well, that's a clue to stick to the edges of things a bit at first, find a kill, deal with it. He's playing it cool, but his eyes have slipped from pleasant, happy aqua to bright violet far more quickly than some might expect. Somewhere down on the beach, Paddy drops a frying pan on his foot and winds up with his fellow cooks staring at him. "Shit!" the brownrider cusses loudly, leaves the Beach House in the care of the senior-most of the cooks and takes off at a dead run. Ista's sometimes-weyrlingmaster will therefore arrive hot, sweaty, disheveled and a little wild-eyed after failing miserably to get Jekzith to give up on blooding. Wild-eyed gives way to sudden focus though as he catches sight of Nenita and visibly makes an effort to pull himself together, shirt tugged straight, gaze scanning the weyr slowly.
This could only be a nightmare for someone like Nenita. Plenty of chasers but most of them from places that aren't Ista. Benden and Fort born. Dark eyes flip from both women brownriders, relief spelled out plain across their face. Not bronze, not bro- Oh, except for that one guy from High Reaches. W'chek is given a withering gaze where he sits on the floor. Even if he's keeping to himself. And it's likely her attention would remain fixated there on him if not for that strange woman coming up to her. "I didn't invite anyone in here. Get your own wine." P'draig and Ch'son don't get any immediate recognition as she's too busy giving Val the evil eye for suggesting she give up her booze. Taineth gets more of a response out of Safriath though. She turns on her usually attentive clutchmate and gives what could best be described as a dragon roar before going for her second beast. She drains the blood from this one too, suspcious eyes on all those potential suitors. When one bronze gets too close to invading her personal space she extends her wings with a snap, giving all and sundry a good look at their width and length.
Through with his extremely precise blooding, Zhikath fans his wings but keeps his distance, readiness in every muscle, tense as a tight-wound spring. He has cursory attention for the comptition--not the browns, but the bronzes, assessing but gaze increasingly distracted by Safriath. His spine straightens, head holds at an angle just so, waiting but with this awareness of being watched. W'chek, however, has no such awareness for Nenita's gaze. He just buries his head in his hands. Waits.
There's chairs in the weyr, and if almost everyone else is going to stand against the wall, Jiella's going to take one of them, crossing long legs and leaning back to look around. She'll give a little wave to the woman of the hour first, smile brilliant for Nenita, even with the relief on the woman's face - then, on spotting Val in her attempt to get at the wine, she sighs, "/Finally/, I'm not like, practically the only girl here. And good luck with that." By her tone, she's not about to try it, happy with her chair for now. As for Orisoth, he might not have had the advantage of watching and waiting on the gold, but from the laser-sharp attention he pays to both Safriath and his competitors both, he's sure as hell going to give the chase his best shot anyway... despite the fact that all of his strengths aren't really at play here. Perhaps a little too aware of that despite the fact that candle's flame has burst into full fire, his next kill is a grossly surgical exsanguination, letting the body fall as the queen's wings stretch wide.
For Ch'son, the bronzerider is being very calm indeed. Perhaps it's some influence from his lifemate and not so much calm as concentration, though. His attention is focused pretty readily on the woman at the focus of all of this, somewhat less so on the woman that's wanting Nenita's wine since she's right there. The glass he holds in his hand is rolled between his fingers and thumb, restless. Taineth is restless, too, especially after he's finished with his herdbeast and focused his full attention on the gold. He keeps some distance but there's no hint of him being intimidated by her. If anything it makes him more eager for her to hit the skies, wings mantling to their full span in anticipation.
"/She/ sure did," says Val to the strange woman-who-happens-to-be-a-goldrider. "And sure I would've, if I knew she was going to," but instead she has to pull a long face at her lack of foreknowledge, or at least at Nenita's lack of engraved announcements, and aim to help herself to the foot of that same bed. Surely she can sit there, if she can't have wine? As for Visigoth, who crunches his way rather messily to his own second beast yet barely drinks from it before dropping it and crouching /right/ on top of its gurgling nearly-corpse, "You know it," his rider adds more or less to where Jiella's voice had come from. "My boy /would/ think her gold is awful hot, her wings like that. Of course, she's proddy. So he might be biased." Surely he is. But Visigoth's also eyeing not just Safriath and her wings, but her skies.
For once, P'draig doesn't wind up in his usual wall-lean. He drops into the next chair over from Jiella and picks up one foot, eyeing what's likely to be one hell of a bruise across the top in a little while. The brownrider grimaces and blows out a breath, looks between Val and the Fortian brownrider curiously, then actually musters some manners. "Welcome to Ista. Drink?" And he inches forward in his chair a little, reaches into one back pocket to pull out a flask. Jekzith? He's finished up stoking his engines and is ready to /go/ he is, vibrating with intensity as he focuses on Safriath in spite of her rage. Or maybe because of it. Either way, his thoughts are pretty open: the sky's waiting with all the glory and freedom to be found therein.
Safriath has had those wings spread for awhile now, while she sucks down the blood left in the mangled corpse. There's no challanging cry issued, hardly any change in her body language. So it's with very little warning that the body is abandoned and she lurches into the sky, wings flinging back while she takes to the air. Once she has some altitude the the path is clear, straight and high. "So tell him to come back, land on the ground and you just go on back home." Nenita tells Val, bringing the bottle to her lips and drinking from it. She watches the foreign woman with open eyes as she drinks. P'draig gets a 'look' for offering "these people" any beverages. It seems the only person who isn't getting a dirty eyeball or anything is Ch'son. For once, he's free and clear over there.
It really doesn't look like W'chek is paying much attention to alcohol, even though he does have his own. There's a bit more muttering, something about 'take it back' but most of it generally inaudible, and he is absolutely not looking at any of these people, not noticing what they might be doing. He doesn't, after all, generally expect something like this to be catered... but then, he wouldn't expect to be here, either. Zhikath has not missed even those slightest changes in body language, and he's in the air just a portion of a moment after she is, following, wingsails glittering as sunlight catches them.
Almost cheerfully, given the circumstances, Jiella tells Val, and perhaps P'draig as well, "Doomed to failure." The blonde, as always, is more concerned with herself than anything, combing through her hair with her fingers - though more and more of her attention drifts Nenita's way, brown eyes keenly interested. Thus, she follows the goldrider's gaze to Ch'son, for some reason smirking a touch when she notes him. Blinking back to P'draig again with a bright smile, "Thanks. And sure." Not like she'll turn down the flask. Even if the soon-to-be-Senior doesn't want her to have it, so there. As soon as Orisoth sees Safriath begin to leap into the air, his wings snap out and he follows, quick and fast into the skies. If he's doomed to failure, he didn't get the memo.
His lean turns into a short pacing along the little bit of wall he's claimed after Ch'son pushes himself away from it. His head turns when he switches sides to keep his blue eyes on the goldrider though there are a few moments taken to scan the rest of the riders with chasing dragons. Jiella is recognized, clearly, but his gaze doesn't linger. Soon enough his steps take him away from the wall and closer to the foot of the bed. He closes his eyes when Taineth surges upwards after the molten gold, hand tightening on his empty glass. The shadowy bronze is silent in his pursuit now and he angles high of the path that Safriath chooses.
There's a little breathless pause... and maybe Val was just lost in Visigoth's upward leap, high and fast and not bothering with any tricks like staying to the outside of the pack. No, he'll go /through/ or not at all. Or maybe Val was waiting, just so she could lean across the bed and say right to Nenita's brown eyes, "Too late." She sinks back on one elbow, then, says in a lower voice, "Want /her/ wine. Or mine. Hers, hers, hers." P'draig's got to understand, right? Or maybe he doesn't, but her Visigoth does. She lets one all-but-bare foot dangle, heedless of Ch'son's looming closer and closer, its sandal hanging from her toes. Her Visigoth's not glittering, not catering, but lunging further into the thick of things... and if that's into someone else's way? That can't, won't, be helped.
There's a noise of frustration deep in Safriath's throat when Zhikath is up /so/ fast. Her head whips around briefly to catch sight of his exact location and soon her wings are beating hard, desperate to put distance between this foreign bronze and herself. She is a molten streak across that sky, the heat she expresses seems like it could heat the air itself. With the pack all up in the air now she switches direction when the desired height is reached, twisting to evade. Nenita makes like she has another remark for Val, her mouth opening in preparation only to stop at Ch'son's approach. Her clutchmate isn't given a bad look, but it is cautious and she shifts on her part of the bed. Phsyically away from him.
P'draig passes the flask over to Jiella with a wry grin that doesn't last because Jekzith's just launched himself up after Safriath, all loose-limbed and mobile and quick on the uptake. The Istan brownrider's gaze goes all lost and whether Jiella takes the flask or not, his grasp on it loosens, breath indrawn sharply and then released on a single syllable: "Shells." And his motley brown's thoughts are a surge of singing and fierce joy as he twists after Safriath, fully committed. "Jek ... you can't," Paddy murmurs under his breath and then he's shaking his head like he's trying to clear it of something.
Those browns may be operating on borrowed hope, but Zhikath has not just hope but near-certainty. He is Mr. Superbly Incredibly Fantasticness, and how can Safriath fail to notice his perfection? Not a cold sort of serious perfection, no, not right now. Secure in his speed and stamina, he's downright showing off, hanging back a little bit and then every now and then pushing forward again on her tail. He's going to keep her alert if nothing else. But after a couple tries of that, there is a faltering. These Istan winds aren't the ones he's used to. And W'chek... W'chek just lets out a sigh at in that moment that is nearly relief.
Orisoth's strengths are in knowledge of the angles, the lines; the minutiae of the area, of the dragons, the changes in them. In foreign lands, the burnished brown isn't entirely lost - he has strength to power speed, but that can't hold him forever, not in this flight. Even so, the fire beginning to rage fuells him, pushes him to gain height as quickly as possible as Safriath streaks across the sky like a comet, trying to edge around the pack rather than /through/ it. Meanwhile, the crowding of Nenita at the bed gets a bit of a wrinkled nose from the blonde, like - could you be more presumptuous? Generally, mildly, "She really doesn't look like she wants anyone near her. That's kind of tacky." So is regarding the goldrider as openly as she is, but she tries to keep it to a minimum, at least? Thankfully, the flask is taken from P'draig in time - both because she needs a drink, and dropping it would be a bad thing right now.
Taineth positions himself above most of the chasers, avoiding most of the hustle of the pack except for those that keep high the same as him. For them there's a disconcerting array of lights and a possessive burst of noise. Don't they all know that Safriath is /his?/ It would be even better if she knew, too, but for now he'll take what he can get, speed that he's using to close the distance between himself and his target. Ch'son eyes Nenita's motion briefly but he's not attempted to get all up in space. Not yet. His gaze turns on Val, who he could care less about tromping on personal space with. He's apparently ignoring Jiella's comment entirely. Except for that tensing of his jaw.
Val could watch her mouth. Does watch her mouth. But then something about Nenita's... changed. So she tracks it. Her fingers curl in the covers for purchase as she leans back, looks up. "/Tall/ boy." Also older than she, if not by much. Her eyes roll up him, and she sits up a little more. Protective. As for Visigoth... apparently the best part of protection is aggression, even if it does earn him a body-blow from a larger suitor, enough to shove him out of alignment when Safriath makes that turn of hers. Still, when he's slowed it slows those behind him too, and the nearest clips a wing and goes spiraling down. As the queen evades, the double-edged brown seeks to whittle down the ranks of her harriers... because who cares about hope or noise when you have battle's own joy. Onward! And Val warns, lower yet, "Careful."
Jekzith doesn't need to borrow hope, he's a powerhouse of seemingly boundless energy and he has no reason to think he can't do this, based on past experience. His rider however, is trying to pull him back in, the strain on his face probably obvious and he swallows hard. Jiella's remarks about Nenita disrupt that tension though, redirect his focus back to those in the room, the crowd around the bed. Frustration and something edgy infuse his usually easy-going expression. "Back off," is a much more direct warning than Jiella's mild suggestion, both hands flexing atop his knees as pure longing flashes through his eyes and the see-saw between him and Jekzith starts to balance in favor of the brown. The brown whose thoughts are all one long line of brightness and heat inspired by Safriath's own. Fly with me. Fly with me. He's never been interested in taking on the others in the pack, it's always all about the flying and about the one he's flying with and for. Paddy's head drops to his chin, several deep breaths taken and he doesn't look up again.
At least Jiella has manners. So even if she was totally some sort of spy at some point, Nenita turns faintly appreciative eyes on her. They might be more so if there wasn't some other things to consider, but. "Thank you." She says simply before she takes that bottle and draws a long drink from it and then tosses it half full towards the floor. Smash? By W'chek. "Get. Out." It's unlikely that she cares about his dragon's flagging ability or that he's been quiet and out of the way the entire time. His mere prescence here is enough. "Out. Now." Safriath is not enjoying the persistance of Zhikath back there either. He's keeping her alert and making her incredibly nervous to boot. It doesn't help that Taineth is up above, blocking a vertical escape. She's young too, and this is the first time. There's no long enjoyed techniques that she has hidden up her draconic sleeves, no pretty moves. There's just fuel to burn and that fuel can't last forever. With a final twist she tries to break away from the crowd, burn up those last reserves of energy before she's done. And if there's a pack of surprised browns in her way, well, they asked to bowled over.
"Out?" Only then does W'chek, dazed, actually look up, seem to see Nenita for the first time, as glass shatters and wine spills and spreads blood-red against the stone. And more than a little of it soaked up by his shorts, which are no doubt ruined since there's not going to be any club soda in the vicinity. There's swearing, half-hearted fumbling to get further away from her, but he can't quite manage to make sense of it. Zhikath, after that faltering, regains his composure but possibly not his position, still expends absolutely everything he has left to lunge for her, all showy wings and lashing tail and never mind who all might now be in his way.
Orisoth likes to stay high and out of the way - in case of need for immediate catch or suicidal dive - though he's not the sort to tangle with other dragons, so his notice of Taineth or vice versa is likely negligible beyond the fact that each is there, each is chasing the same prize - but only one actually has a clear shot at it. His strength is beginning to wane, so indeed - imagine his surprise when Safriath shoots up as expected, but so suddenly there's nothing he can do about it, as tired as he is. At least he can tell Khazioth he was thisclose? It's as much of a surprise as both the thanks and the bottle-smashing are to Jiella; brown eyes wide between Nenita and W'chek, the blonde takes another long swallow from P'draig's flask, sets it down on the table, and pushes out of her chair as her brown dives down for the bowl, morale shot. So close! Never mind that it wasn't meant to be.
His dragon's feelings of possessiveness are being felt pretty strongly by his rider. Ch'son turns his head to look at P'draig where he'd ignored Jiella and the bronzerider growls challengingly, "Fuckin' make me." He might not mean it but he's still sporting a pretty array of bruises. His blue eyes come back to Val like he expects her to try next, ignoring that other, quiet bronzerider which he should probably feel is his more likely competition. Taineth twists to follow Safriath's movements, oh-so-eager and focused on that molten hide. He strains his reserves to gain just that much more and then he's diving toward her with a loud, brassy bugle to go with the blur of lights for those nearest Safriath.
Bowled over. Bowled... /over/. She can try. Val whispers something, maybe Visigoth's name, as the bottle whistles over her head... as he's caught up challenging his neighbor only to see... to see. Safriath's coming. Hurtling. And the big brown's never been one to favor sense over prowess even with the round-eyed queen thrown into the mix, so maybe the angle isn't right... but. He goes for it anyway, throwing himself sideways into what he predicts is her path, at what's got to be a painful angle. Others are coming down. He should move, out of her way, out of theirs. He doesn't. Val's all but kneeling on the blankets under Ch'son's stare, brown eyes black, seeing more than him. Her elbow goes out, hard.
You'd think that with turns of experience and a usually laid-back attitude around flights, that P'draig would be pretty copacetic for this one. Only he's been playing tug o' war with his dragon since it started and he's been off-balance from the start. Ch'son's response brings a dark red flush to the brownrider's face and suddenly he's on his feet, chair falling to the floor from the strength of that push upward as Paddy launches himself at the younger man's mid-section, aiming to carry him back against the wall. It's possible he might catch Val's elbow on the way by even. Up above, Jekzith's hyperfocused on Safriath, pushing all of his energy into a quick jag thattaway, more into her path. He's long for a brown, but lean and more agile than some big dragons. It helped him to victory when he caught a queen that one and only time. It plays against him now as he doesn't catch Visigoth's painful launch after Safriath and there's suddenly nowhere to go. His attempt to jump ahead without sacrificing his own catch-angle only makes it worse. Boom. Brown-on-brown collision.
That whole 'veer this way towards those other dragons!' plan doesn't seem to be working out. A few have scattered but the others are crashing into each other. Safriath has shook the High Reaches bronze off successfully but now it's a game of slowing the fuck down before she's part of the mess up ahead. With a desperate veering up she's not paying attention to Taineth diving down from above and seems utterly shocked when she finds herself tangled up with him. It doesn't last long because soon there's acceptance and less of a struggle from the shining gold, after all this is /her/ Taineth. Back back on the ground? Horror. Not for Ch'son's bronze winning but for P'draig flinging himself at her clutchmate and newly appointed Weyrleader. "Paddy! /P'draig/." And isn't she supposed to be uh... meeting with the bronzerider right now? Lust and horror, not good for the facial expression department.
Some people might be flinging themselves at each other, but W'chek is scrambling on broken glass and getting the hell out of there. There are definitely a few cuts on his legs by the time he gets his footing again, and his shorts are definitely ruined, but there's nothing but relief on his face as he makes his exit. Zhikath has started to shift away as soon as it's clear that she's not his. That doesn't make him happy about it, but he's got a very sympathetic green to go spend some time with.
Jiella would try to help break up this little situation, but there's two issues with that. First is that the curvy brownrider would be risking her pretty face for people she doesn't know very well, and second is that she's got a brown dragon to comfort - and likely places to be right about now that are most definitely not this weyr. So after a glance over her shoulder, it's pretty much so long, suckers and she's out right after W'chek. And /now/ she'll start doing up her shirt. Though hopefully it'll get undone again at home. It doesn't make the brown's life any better, but Jie's will be, so hey.
Ch'son seems to have a way of attracting violence. Some might call it a talent, some a fault. To Chaes it's just the way things are. Whether or not Val's elbow connects with him or P'draig, there's not much time for Ch'son to react to it before he's being shoved back toward the wall. It's all he can do at first to keep his footing, but he manages. Once his back hits stone, after gasping back the breath knocked out of him, the bronzerider is groping for some purchase on the brownrider so he can hold him steady while a fist flies. Another takes aim but Ch'son falters and some odd, open-mouthed expression crosses his face before the fist becomes the furthest thing from his mind and all of his attention hones in on Nenita while Taineth entwines himself with Safriath like he belongs there. And he does! Because she's his now!
Aaand that slamming-tangling-fist-fighting thing would be when Val starts trying to scramble her way off the bed. Quickly. Never mind the footboard, never mind the spilled wine and broken glass beyond, never mind the... /tripping/ over the footboard and losing her sandal and trying to evade the big-strong-men in favor of hurrying out to her descending brown before she's even got her first really good breath. Hurrying. Limping now. But forget the new Weyrleaders, she's got to get to /him/. (And quitting back when Orisoth did? That might have been smart. But at least W'chek's soaked up some of the wine.)
Ch'son's fist connects nicely with P'draig's jaw right around the time that Jekzith and Visigoth are ... um ... well not /twining/. Jekzith's surprised bugle, even if high above and far away, combined with Nenita's exclamation, wrenches his rider's focus away from the new Weyrleader and something like sense floods Paddy's face. "Shit!" he swears again and now he's the one backing off. Fast, the arm he used to pin Chaes to the wall slackening and dropping away. Briefly, he shoots a horrified look of his own over his shoulder at the Weyrwoman. "I'm sorry," is brief and to the point, not to Ch'son, but to her and then Paddy's beating tracks out of the weyr too, to find Jekzith first and T'mic after.