Log: Happy Turnday, K'del!

[kasadel]

Date: Day 11, Month 6, Turn 19 (K'del's turnday)
Location: Snowasis / Tiriana's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: K'del celebrates his turnday until Iovniath ruins it all by rising, the b****. It doesn't go to plan. Um. Shit.

Language. Sexual themes. This log includes conversation between K'del and Cadejoth, for added oh-please-noness.

Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ)
The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.
Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.

Eila's eyebrows quirk just a little she chuckles a soft sort of chuckle. "Could just start following Tiriana around if that's the sort of interesting you're looking for." Except then her eyes are widening a little and she's cupping a hand over her mouth and between her fingers she groans apologetically, (although not without a faint, breathy laugh), "I didn't say that! Oh." Onward to other things, please: "you know Leova? She was a weyrlingmaster of mine. Friend, too," she has to add, and then ticks off on a finger, "-- and L'vae's my wingleader. Odd how things like that work, isn't it? Small world." For matters Kelerith-related, she just has another small sigh, and reverts to her standard, "But at least now he's older, he's getting /better/." Right? That's all that matters, right?

Laughing, T'rev shakes his head. "That's okay, I know Tiriana. She's from Telgar and I Impressed there, so I knew her for a couple of turns. Plus, y'know, I Impressed with Rev. I mean R'uen. Fort's Weyrleader so -- yeah. Get plenty of Tiriana stories." He winks over at the bluerider, looks up at the barkeep as the klah is brought and he smiles at the man. "Thanks." Payment is made and T'rev curls a hand around the waiting mug, pours the brew in. "Yeah, Leova's -- a friend," T'rev says carefully, looks down at the mug. "Mecaith caught Vrianth the first time she rose," he adds, voice steady. "L'vae's a friend too though ah -- we met after one of Vrianth's flights." He laughs a little sheepishly. "Pattern there see. Vrianth. Mecaith's kind of got a thing for her." He blows across the surface of his mug, nods a few times about Kelerith. "Yeah, older and wiser, right?"

K'del has been out on the Ledge for - oh, much of the day, drinking beer with buddies, most of whom seem intent on buying the pitchers of beer themselves. Now, however, the turnday boy himself makes the wander in, heading for an empty spot at the bar which, conveniently, happens to be not far from T'rev and Eila. The barkeep has someone else to serve, after delivering T'rev's klah, so he drums his fingers on the counter while he waits, and glances around idly. Eila! T'rev! "Eila! T'rev! Hello!"

The bluerider doesn't seem quite so horrified after T'rev's reassurances, and she lightly rolls her shoulders backward; nods, and turns that hand-over-mouth into a hand-through-hair, and eventually she just seeks out her glass again and drinks. Once she's available to speak again, there's no traces of anything other than genial 'you-know-someone-I-know' in her voice and she says with a grin, "small world that revolves around Vrianth, maybe? Only Kelerith's never caught one of her flights, so." Maybe it's a joke? By the soft laughter, it is. Then: "K'del, hey! Heard it was your turnday today from a little birdy!" Since you can't make it out to the patio without noticing the festivities. "Happy birthday," she offers, lifting her glass to him.

"Yeah, focal point there," T'rev says with a little laugh. "And who knows, maybe someday," who goes on about Kelerith maybe-catching-Vrianth. He takes a sip from his mug, looks up at K'del's approach and casts a sunny smile towards the younger bronzerider. "Hey K'del! How's -- oh hey! Happy turnday. You gotta let me buy you a round," he says cheerily, hand held out to Cadejoth's rider. Something though, beyond him perks his attention and brown eyes go towards the entrance of the bar, the ledge just outside.

Leova heads in from the patio ledge.

K'del is standing at the bar not far from T'rev and Eila, waiting on the busy barkeep. The greetings - and, in particular, /birthday/ greetings - of the other two draw a goofy (tipsy) smile from the young bronzerider, who says, "Thanks! Both of you. I-- yeah. Just celebrating out there, with a few people. Birthday's got to be an excuse for something, right?" Totally cool; birthday? Not really a big deal. Yeah, right. He accepts T'rev's hand, and though his head tilts slightly for the other bronzerider's shift of attention, what he adds is only, "Wouldn't say no to that, thanks."

Somewhere between T'rev's hailing of the birthday boy, and the birthday boy's reply back, Yuliye's attention is caught, the slender brunette peering way down along from her own seat at the bar surrounded by a trio of equally hot friends dressed to the nines. Studio 54, welcome to Pern. Though he might not see her or her dazzling smile now, it won't take long after her call out to the rest of the bar, that alto pitched clear and high, "Seems like we gotta turnday boy on her hands! Next round's on me if y'all think he deserves a turnday spanking." Humor in words gives way to a bubbly laughter and a finger wave to catch K'del's attention.

Eila blinks, points out, with a flash of a grin for T'rev's own laugh, "I didn't mean -- and that would be cheating, you know, it's not as though we can retroactively pretend like we met through one of her flights if we didn't. Though it might be good for a laugh." Anyway. The bluerider gives her head a shake as though to clear it of cobwebs and musty things, and turns on the birthday boy with a swing of her feet. Birthdays: totally cool. "How old are you now, K'del?" She tilts her head back, thinking. "Seventeen? You were, what, fifteen when we were candidates? -- woosh, time's flown, eh?" A sudden face pulled for the thought of birthday spankings, and she motions for the door with a stage whisper, "quick! Hide while you still have the chance!"

T'rev shakes K'del's hand firmly smiling widely still. "All right then, name your drink, K'del," the bronzerider continues jovially though his gaze is flickering just over the younger man's shoulder like he's trying to spot someone coming in from the ledge. Yuliye's hail though brings his gaze back inward and T'rev laughs again. "Oho, well what d'you say, K'del?" he continues merry, then releases the other man's hand and turns back to Eila, shoots her a brief, warm smile. "I hear you," he tells her simply and reaches over again, aiming to give her shoulder another light pat, before he pulls his klah mug towards himself.

It takes a moment for the greenrider's eyes to adjust, a moment spent rubbing bare arms from the cold: relative cold, it must be, just the cave's shadow after the sweltering sun. But someone else enters from behind her, someone taller, hurrying her along and then she's in the Snowasis proper instead of just the edge to the ledge. It's become a familiar gesture, that casual glance towards the bar to see who's working, who's not, this time extending along the line of stools. Studio 54? Leova will find herself one of those nooks instead, even if she has to slide over an abandoned and not-yet-bussed drink to do it.

K'del's grasp on T'rev's hand is equally firm, and after a moment's thought, he says, "Just beer'd be fine. Don't want to drink myself out of a good time, later tonight. Thanks, T'rev." Eila's guess at his age draws a nod, and, "Seventeen, right. Shells - two turns. Time flies." That's /all/ he gets to say, however, before Yuliye's announcement has his head swivelling, followed by the rest of him. Pink flushes his cheeks, but his expression is otherwise not outright embarrassed; he gives the woman from Crom a considering glance. "From you? Guess I'd volunteer myself!" Happy, happy day.

Yuliye isn't above dangling a carrot and reeling it back. Her laughter brightens her face, those hazel eyes set sparkling with fulfilled amusement: "Keep dreaming, kid." There might not be a spanks on the horizon, but she does extricate herself from her cohorts in order to stalk a slinky path to the trio at the other end and inserts herself by K'del - in between people if she must with an elbow braced on the counter. "Seventeen?" If she'd heard about his birthday, she certainly doesn't need confirmation on the age that's been bandied about. "Yuliye." She has no free hand, but the greeting extends to both Eila and T'rev with turns of her little chin.

Eila's just finishing tilting up her glass, finishing the rest of whatever-was-sparkly-and-pale, and returns Yuliye's greeting with an inclination of her head. But all this talk of drink has her idling twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers, and then she excuses herself to catch up with the bartender and get a refill; there's a drink in it for K'del, too, if she's got the marks for it in her pocket. She'll stay for a while longer, catch up with the bronzeriders and exchange pleasantries otherwise, but not for too long, and then she'll slip out with a quiet farewell.

"Beer it is," T'rev agrees readily and signals the keep, mouths 'beer' and puts the marks down on the bar, while gesturing towards K'del. Yuliye's approach is marked by another brief glance, appreciative, but the bronzerider's focus is caught again by movement near the entrance and his eyes stay there this time as Leova enters and he marks her path into that nook. Up goes his mug, several long drinks taken from it as if for fortification and then he smiles around at the group. "T'rev," for Yuliye's greeting, "bronze Mecaith's. Pleasure t'meetcha. And seventeen? Shells K'del, I was your age when I Impressed," he adds with a laugh. For Eila, he has one last smile as he pushes away from the bar and out of the potential Yuliye/K'del sandwich. "'Scuse me, there's someone I need to catch up with," he notes and with a quick refill of his mug from that pitcher, he heads across the bar to lean against the edge of Leova's nook with a lopsided grin and a ready: "Hey there."

K'del manages /not/ to look too disappointed for the disappearing carrot, and just grins at Yuliye, instead. "It'll be my pleasure to," he tells her, all wide eyed and not quite innocent. At all. Ever. "And yes, seventeen. K'del." That last would, presumably, be his name. He looks a little rueful for T'rev's comment on his age, nodding, his mouth opening to say something more - but it doesn't quite make it out before the bronzerider heads off towards Leova's nook. So. K'del accepts the beer placed in front of him, and goes back to considering Yuliye.

Yuliye leans into that counter; she's a talented leaner, having mastered the art of maximum body shape-age combined with absolute innocence and that completely casual air. That, 'I have no idea why you'd be staring where you shouldn't be' look. "Seventeen. I remember seventeen," she says, her drink shifting hands so she might free one to push back K'del's blond hair, allowing that finger to just linger that one second too long at the tip of his ear. "Tell me, what you've done today already, how you've celebrated, and all the dreams you hope to fulfill while you're seventeen, Kuuh-dell?"

"Evenin'," is what Leova greets the Fortian bronzerider with, a deliberate echo of his own Nerat drawl. That, and a half-smile, a nod towards the bar: "Innerestin' company you been keeping. Don't he look proud?" Not that it's full-on evening, yet, but give it time.

"Evenin'," T'rev drawls back, face merry, though there's a certain keenness in his eyes as he takes in the greenrider. "K'del? Yeah. Good guy. Met him a while back in here, actually," he drawls out by way of answer. "Don't know the girl though," with a nod for Yuliye. As Eila departs though, he gestures towards the bluerider. "Eila I do know though. We both got caught up in Leisath's flight down Ista-way. One of few times Mecaith's gone after a green who ain't Vrianth." He takes a breath, nods to the seat across the way. "Mind if I join you? Happily get you a drink," he offers too. "

And K'del shifts, so that he, too, can lean, though his is actually casual, and looks it: not quite cool enough, not quite enough to not look awkward. He doesn't react, to her fingers in his hair, on his ear, except to raise his eyebrows and transfer his mug from one hand to the other. "Slept in," he begins, this hardly exciting litany, "wandered down here to have drinks with friends, and here I am - still. Not so exciting, but it's been nice. Supposed to have dinner with the family tomorrow, and-- dreams?" He laughs. "Does getting laid a lot count as a dream? No, nothing specific. Trying to focus on taking things as they come. Suspect I'm too young for promotion, even yet." Even at /seventeen/. "Suitably uninteresting for you-- Yuliye?" He tastes the name, tests it.

"Did you now," and Leova eyes the toffee-haired teenager, borrowed accent slipped somewhere by the wayside. The teenager and... can she refer to him as his companion? Yet? One corner of her mouth curls up, and a tick later, that smile deepens. But she defers, "Don't know so much about /her/. Eila'd be another story," only T'rev's gone on and she's drawing patterns with a forefinger in the pooled condensation left by that abandoned glass. Not-quite-patterns. "Sit. S'why I came in, this early."

A beat passes, the hand about his ears dropping to play with the stem of the girly drink she carries, all toxic in its pinkness. For his raised brows, there's her own too, fazed more by his lack of reaction than his dreams, though that gives her the opportunity to dimple about her smile and lift one shoulder in a 'cute' shrug. "Suitably interesting enough. About the same as my day. Slept in, wandered the halls, met with a few of the Weyr's ranking crafters for lunch and now, I'm here. With them-," a hand gestures idly over her shoulder to the trio of pretty girls she's left behind. "Do you need another drink?"

Patterns, not quite, on the table, traced in left-behind liquid. T'rev watches their formation, then offers jovially: "He told on me," and slides into that seat, mug set down and hands wrapped around it. He might've been about to say something else, but he looks up at her at those words, something complex flickering behind his eyes and the chipper expression he's been maintaining starts to slip away, seriousness coming to roost. "How've you been, since I last saw you?" is what he asks next though, eyes on her face.

K'del's gaze follows Yuliye's hand towards the trio of pretty girls; they, too, get a briefly appraising look, but, really, his attention is fairly quick to return to the one in front of him, pink drink and all. "And what is it that you might do, to make it a more interesting day? This day, any day?" K'del indicates his mostly full drink with a shake of his head, appending, "And no, I just got this one, but thank you. Nice, all these people willing to buy me drinks. Should be my turnday every day." His eyelashes flutter as he laughs, though it's not exactly a funny joke.

"If he hadn't? Wouldn't be here." This early. Leova's gaze lifts to her companion even as her shoulders slip back, forearms resting on the small table's edge rather than, quite, braced. Where the not-quite-patterns intersect, they thicken with collected volume. Where they thin, they begin to dry. "Holding up. Getting decent hours in the infirmary," without prepending /dragon/, it being the one that matters. "You?"

While K'del's gaze drifts off, Yuliye's own passes sidelong over her shoulder to find where T'rev went, but given the nature of nooks, gives up the search as fruitless to return all that charming attention onto the one in front of her. "If I hadn't told you my name, I could think of enough pleasant ideas to make our night a lot more interesting, but alas. One more of these, please." It doesn't matter if the bartender's busy, she'll flag him down with a finger that waggles in the air that then drops to indicate her pink drink that's nowhere near done. "Sometimes, I get nice dragonriders like yourself, to taxi me to far off distant places I might otherwise never get a chance to see. "

"Helpful then," T'rev says with fondness in his voice for Mecaith and his eyes narrow for a moment, a low chuckle in his voice. "So much heat ..." he murmurs softly, passes a hand over his forehead and looks down at his mug, makes the spiked klah swirl around and around. "Good, glad t'hear it," he says, looks up again, smile back. "Was worried for a bit." He offers this up lightly enough, though the corner of his mouth pulls up, a touch self-deprecating. "Interesting cases, or just the usual? As for us, things're pretty good. Still no end in sight to our little fabric problems, but there might be somethin' about that soon. Wing's good, though there's been some issues with folks wantin' to dial down on drillin' with it bein' Interval n' all. Had a few good chats with R'uen lately. Made some new friends."

"My knowing your name makes a difference?" K'del's tipsy. Not enough to slur his words, but enough that he sounds just slightly stupid as he asks this question. He's not really helping himself; he does look cute doing it, though. He takes a swig from his glass, and swallows it, then adds, "One of the benefits of being in a Weyr, I suppose. We're always willing to explore new places, try new things. Though - never did say that /I/ was nice." Flutter. But, also, "What is it, that stuff you're drinking? It's very--" Pink.

Dragon> To K'del, Cadejoth is a distant rumble (is that snow in the distance? Ice? Just cold?), a twang of metal against metal. << D'you need to keep drinking, K'del? You're fine as you are! >>

Dragon> To Cadejoth, K'del projects, << Shut up. It's my /turnday/. I'll do whatever I want, Cadejoth, and don't you dare try and stop me. Besides, Yuliye's kind of cute. Maybe... >>

"It is." Admiration colors her sweet voice as she regards the pink drink now lifted to the light. Yuliye fails at answering questions posed of her, for the most part, picking, choosing, blithely bypassing what she wishes. "It does." Pause; enough to think or pretend to think with a tilt of her head and a finger to her chin. "Buuut, we could start the night over, you and I. Use aliases, pretend the first ten minutes didn't happen." Being shorter than him makes it all the more easy to lean forward and look up with affected naivety softening all her features. "Hi," she murmurs, all huskily, "I'm Junie."

Dragon> To K'del, Cadejoth projects, << I don't like her. >> The image of Yuliye wavers; darkens. << You should stick to the others. >> Milani. Stronger. Other women. Any of them. And the ice - it's there again, more visible. << Don't. Please. >>

He says that, and goosebumps rise up the greenrider's arms. She doesn't rub them this time. Isn't looking towards the bar either, hasn't since those first few comments: Yuliye could be giving K'del a lap dance by now and she wouldn't see. At least, until the cheering started. Leova says, "Good to hear that too." And: "More or less the usual. Don't think it makes sense, dial down the drilling? Some, anyhow." And, at last, with a long look for not just his expression, "Chats." She's studying him instead, as though she could see old bruises beneath T'rev's skin, never mind hers.

T'rev sets his mug down very deliberately and sets it aside. His hands rub together for a moment, then turn over, backs to the table and extend across it towards Leova. Maybe it's for those goosebumps. Did he actually see them? Or is it the oddity of dragon minds bouncing things back and forth and that increasing chill that's sweeping through the Weyr, but largely mental? "Mm, we're still drillin' five days out of seven. I can see how they might want to cut back a little and focus a bit on other things. Not down-time, but other tasks. I'm thinkin' it through. Talkin' to people." She says chats and he sees the way she studies him and he draws a long slow breath. "I can tell you 'bout that if y'like, but it ... it ain't what I came for. Leova --" he starts and then stops, gaze going inward.

For a Weyr that's been on edge all day, the release finally comes late in the evening, when the sun is heading down behind the clouds rolling in from the west. It's then that Iovniath, waiting patiently on her ledge for so long, finally takes off toward the feeding pens, a pulse of pure cold howling out from her and over the Weyr's dragons. She streaks over the bowl to the corrals to slice down a herdbeast. And thus does all hell officially break loose.

K'del's mouth opens, his brows narrowing questioningly, but Yuliye's transformation into Junie forestalls actual comment. Can't ask Junie what Yuliye means, after all, right? He sets his beer down, reaching to take her hand - if she'll let him - and squeeze it warmly. "Junie," he says, whether or not he has the hand, tipping his head into something between a nod and a bow. "A pleasure to meet you. And I am--" suddenly frowning, actually, and glancing away. Outside. Oh look, he's gone pale.

Dragon> To K'del, Cadejoth is aloft, alight. He's all white and cold and /alive/, the chill burning through his metal, sparking and ringing out.

Dragon> To Cadejoth, K'del projects, << What are you doing? >> A pause; then, a shuddering realisation. << You were supposed to warn me! We agreed. We're not staying. We need to /go/. Stop that, Cadejoth. STOP IT. >>

Dragon> It's too late. Cadejoth is-- there's no regret from the bronze, just a dragon on fire with cold, with Iovniath, who looms so heavily, gleaming in his thoughts. No apologies. (Cadejoth to K'del)

Oh, she'll let him! Suddenly all pleased again, not that there was much difference between her disappointed and pleased tonight, but still, Yuliye-nee-Junie is about to take one dainty sip from her glass when K'del goes pale. And in going pale, turns away. That's not happy. "Are you- ok?"

All those words. Her fingertips rattle against the tabletop, that pooled water shaking as the surface shakes, a miniature earthquake until her fingers splash right into it. Her hands rock back on their heels. Wet fingertips should ice over, but don't. "T'rev?" And then Leova says, "/Don't/ reckon that's what you came for either," that with certainty she surely mightn't have with another man. "You going to go?" Go. Chase. Go. /Leave/.

"Iovniath," says K'del, through gritted teeth, his hand suddenly squeezing Yuliye's as though he wants to crush it. "Cadejoth -- we /agreed/." His gaze falls back on his companion only briefly, utterly apologetic, not to mention furious - but that's probably not got anything to do with her. "I'm sorry. I have to-- /fuck/." At least he'd already set his drink down. He releases her, finally, head shaking, and runs. Fuck.

Tiriana's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#1327RIJMa)
A short tunnel and a handful of stairs lead up from the ledge to this weyr, its austerity tempered by little touches of welcome added here and there. A thick, sunshine-yellow shag rug before the hearth breaks the monotony of the stone floor and offsets the ruddy tint of the hearth, inlaid with a square pattern of bricks along the floor; they also rise to form a decorative arc around its outline. The mantle boasts two glass ornaments, one at either end, of matched shipfish rising from the surf, while at the edge of the yellow rug sits a older but comfortable-looking dark blue couch. On the opposite side of the room is a stone table and by it, a utilitarian bookshelf that holds a set of hides labeled as the Weyr's history as well as a richly-covered crimson writing box. A tunnel to the east leads down to the Weyrleader's complex.
At the back of the weyr, bedroom and bath are only made distinct by two walls that rise three quarters of the way to the ceiling. Behind one wall lies a well-crafted canopy bed with furs and sheets and a generous blanket in faded blue; made of fine broomwood, its posts feature carvings that spiral upward into patterned leaves and wooden roses also reflected on the double-doored wardrobe, the decorations clearly the work of an experienced carpenter. A couple of trunks are also set here, beside the wardrobe set against the side wall. Next to the bedroom, and just to the other side of that other wall, is the bathroom, an elevated stone bath built into its back wall. Ancient plumbing ensures hot water when needed, and instead of a vanity, a single shelf is carved out just above the tub. It's filled with baby blue towels and an assortment of ceramic jars of bath oils, shampoo, soaps, and scented soap sand. Hung on the opposite wall is a full-length mirror, slightly warped.

Dragon> To Cadejoth, K'del projects, << I hate you. I hate you. Fuck. I hate you. Fuck. Cadejoth! Damn it. Fuck. On my /turnday/. >>

F'rint should not be doing this, should not be doing this. "And neither should you," he calls across the bowl toward a pair of well-worn brown wings that sweep down from a stumpy ledge not so high up over lake. The old man, who never did start wearing his interim knot, just Glacier's, trots across the bowl toward Tiriana's weyr. But done was done, and Oranyuth followed in his queen's wake, no fool like an old fool, all set to take his rider from Acting to the Real Thing.

In the feeding grounds, Iovniath snarls once over her meal, but it's only a halfhearted complaint. And then she's blooding, head lowered to the first beast she's struck down. It's quick work to suck it dry and abandon it, but before she snags another one, she's shooting a look around, neck arching just so to make sure all her suitors are there, to do one last wild appraisal of all of them. And in the Weyr, Tiriana waits, still leaning up against the doorway of her weyr: watching the spectacle just beginning, Iovniath plainly visible even from this distance.

K'del's swearing can be heard across the distance between the Snowasis and Tiriana's weyr - mostly, it's just bad words, but in between, something about an agreement, and the need to leave, and /not on my turnday/. That one's pretty specific. The young rider is mostly silent, though, by the time he actually makes it to the weyr, wobbling slightly tipsily as he clambers towards the stairs, hesitating as he glances up at Tiriana. He's quite pale, despite the alcohol. Beyond, Cadejoth was one of the first to leap after Iovniath, and he kills and drains with increasing enthusiasm, the blood splattering pale hide.

A'son walks in, clearly in some sort of daze. He's muttering under his breath and chewing his lip. He's basically the poster child for crazy. With a curse he drops down onto the floor, smushing himself up against the wall and looking highly disgruntled. Nikoth however, outside, is enjoying himself immmensely. He's ripping apart his kills and blooding expertly. An old hand, indeed.

Mecaith has been in the bowl this little while, as frost spread through the Weyr, mental frost that has been creeping, growing in his mind. It has seized him now, Iovniath's ice and he watches the grounds, eyes purpled, though he shifts restlessly in place, leashed for now it seems. His head cranes towards where the gold bloods her kills, everything stretching towards her, sands whirling, reaching to try to touch, to knock down a wall of ice made earlier. Tension runs visibly through his flame as blood hits the ground, as other males tear into beasts. Then suddenly like a branch snapping, something changes and with a rare bugle, Mecaith launches himself into the pens to join the fray, two kills in rapid succession, neat and efficient.

F'rint raises his eyes toward Tiriana's while he makes his way in, not the first time passing this threshold lately but the first time he's worn this particularly apologetic look, feeling especially awkward coming in right behind K'del-- a kid barely a third his age, and they're supposed to compete on the same playing field? "Forty-four turns and you won't give a man a break," he can be heard to mumble while Oranyuth slashes determinedly at the belly of a passing beast. Passing A'son, confronted with the age-old problem of what the hell to do with himself to pass the time, he remarks, "Hey, maybe it'll turn out better for you this time, mate." He smiles with his teeth, Oranyuth slashes with his teeth.

There's Oranyuth--is he really that stupid? And Cadejoth, even more so, though he and Nikoth both earn disgusted looks for their messiness, Iovniath's cold disdain touching their minds in turn. She's neat even now: a ruthless slice across the throat of a second herdbeast and she bloods it as well, so delicately licking her mouth clean when she sneaks another look up, reveling in all that attention. It's more Tiriana's prodding than even her own lust that keeps her moving, finishing off her kill rather than wasting her time on the chasers. Tight-wound Tiriana's not nearly so interested in the showing off: each chaser that comes in her door, from the baby-faced K'del to old F'rint gets the same glower before she sweeps further inside, out of the doorway with jerky steps.

Mecaith takes his time drinking down those carcasses, neat and tidy enough to maybe make Iovniath proud before he goes looking for a third. His gaze though, lifts frequently to the glowing, snow-minded queen and to the others as well, cataloguing movements, tracking paths through the grounds, taking measure just as much as she measures /them/. She sent frost and ice howling out over the Weyr, out of his mind creeps a tendril of heat, challenging maybe the dominance of winter. There's still nary a sign of T'rev, the Fortian bronzerider's nowhere to be seen and his footsteps do not ring up the stairs.

For now, Cadejoth is less concerned with pleasing Iovniath (beautiful Iovniath, burning-cold Iovniath) than with finishing his meal, preparing himself, though he rumbles in her direction, his tail twitching, his wings fluttering, his bloody maw reaching for the skies though the time is not quite right to seek into them. K'del's expression is bland, Tiriana's glower earning nothing more than that, before he, too, stumbles inside, seeking out a wall to lean against. And, okay, his gaze goes back to Tiriana, glazed, but still watching. Not his fault Yuliye part primed him already.

Midst those chasers is little E'dro, now all of eighteen, though still little, lanky, and timid. Spying out Tiriana and her glower almost immediately upon entering, he starts a litany of a frantic, "OFaranthOFaranthOFaranthpleasedon'tletthisbemyfirst." Over and over and over again.

Oranyuth's... not exactly the hot-and-heavy type. He's here because he's male, and she's a queen, and a combination of hormones and duty call. Iovniath has his attention when she needs it, but the primordial necessity to blood has the majority of his focus. Of his competition, only Mecaith-- kill the heretic foreigner!-- gets more than a passing glance.

They're not watching her enough. Iovniath has an uncharacteristic snap of her jaws for Oranyth, who has the temerity to act more interested in his blooding than in wooing her. She might not want /him/, but he's damn well supposed to want her! She's emotions everywhere, that lust and fury, while her rider crosses her arms, closed off as she glances around her own males, paces a jittery circuit of the hearth. And Iovniath, she'll show them, all of them: she crouches, an instant later springing upward, into the air. Iovniath rises rapidly to the top of the bowl, a wisp of frost-tipped fur sent backward at all those suitors, to draw them onward after her as she climbs higher, sets a westward path into the strong wind blowing in from Tillek.

Skywards! K'del lets out a long, low breath as Cadejoth takes flight, as though his own breathing will send his lifemate-- faster? Slower? His expression is so glazed it's hard to know whether he's happy to be here or not, now, now that they're in the midst of things. Cadejoth hurtles higher, as fast as he can, making use of the thermals to hasten his celestial voyage. Now, as the blood dries about his mouth, Iovniath is everything again: look he can fly! Look, he can fly fast! Look, he can call after her, that low, howling kind of lust, westward across the plains. Mountains. Whatever.

"Hroxeth," says the rider of Pern's answer to Obiwan Kenobi-a-la-bronze-dragon. It's a despairing sound that ends in a choke, as a powerful boost sends E'dro's bronze into the air, one of the first after Iovniath's glowing body. To F'rint, "Jays, this is really gonna be my first isn't it?" He's already sure he's going to win; it'd be just his luck, of course.

Dragon> Really? Really? Iovniath's not so convinced he can, and her condescension touches him in a flurry of white sparks, a pat on the head for an overeager child. (Iovniath to Cadejoth)

Dragon> Desperate. Well. Half desperate. There's lust in K'del, now, for this Iovniath-Tiriana combination. But. /But/. << Can't win, Cadejoth. /Can't/. >> (K'del to Cadejoth)

Dragon> Can! Frozen chains, clinking and plinking against each other, seek for any chance to touch Iovniath. He /reaches/, already, eager, unwilling to be dismissed as just a child. /Can/. /Will/. He /yearns/. (Cadejoth to Iovniath)

It's a breathless T'rev who comes up the steps, footsteps a little unsteady and quite loud. When he arrives though, he doesn't quite come inside. He lingers in the entryway, shoulder turned to stone and its outward he faces, looking up at the sky where dragons have taken off, Mecaith included. If Iovniath was worried about not being admired enough, focused on enough, she might be pleased to find Mecaith hopelessly ensnared. He's watching, observing, focused on how she moves, when she moves, where she moves. For now it's all about speed and position and getting up high enough to get into the right place to be able to shift at a moment's notice to catch the right angle for her. His rider though, is tension incarnate, one hand curled into a fist against the weyr's rocky entryway. A glance is cast back over his shoulder towards Tiriana and his eyes stay fixed there for a moment. Renewed determination sets his jaw and T'rev resolutely looks away and presumably sends his thoughts up after Mecaith to pull him free of Iovniath's mental clutches.

F'rint, chuckling, "Sure it is, kid. And it's gonna be my last." Because Tiriana would absolutely be the death of the old man, and that's the look he gives the goldrider now, one that knows full well that discretion is the better part of valor. /Run/, F'rint; run while there's still time-- oh, there goes Oranyuth, pulling away from Iovniath's snapping jaws and right into the rush of chasing her. Agility left him long ago, temerity left for those young fools-of-dragons who don't know what this Flight /means/, he just dogs the queen's trajectory. Let her snap at him, he's not in this for /her/, he's in this for /here/, because the 'Reaches could really use a decent dude to be Weyrleader for a while. And he knows just the man for the job!

Dragon> To K'del, Cadejoth isn't listening. He can hear nothing but the sweep of wings, and the yearning within him. Iovniath. Iovniath. /Iovniath/.

For Iovniath, it's a game: a very important one, admittedly, but still a game, the bronzes pawns to toy with. Her mind reaches back to touch them again, to make sure they're with her as she climbs higher, letting the headwind lift her up. Her pace is just fast enough to keep ahead of them, not enough to fly off and leave them; such overconfidence in her ability to orchestrate it all. Tiriana has it, too, enough so that she laughs, not pleasantly, when she catches E'dro's words. And then there's footsteps on the ledge, and she turns to look, even though nobody comes in. Such second-guessing won't do, and she stalks to the ledge as imperious as Iovniath. "/In/," she orders T'rev.

Cadejoth? Still here. He doesn't try to watch his movements wingbeat for wingbeat to Iovniath's; for now, he's content to trail in her wake, lower than she is, though not by too much, and certainly not quite as close as he might like, given his straining efforts to get closer still. His tail, usually always in motion, is still for once, straight, and flung out behind him: it's his wingbeats that matter, now, and the elongated length of his neck, streamlined into the wind. K'del pays little attention to those around him: breathing, that's where it's at. In. Out. In. Out. His palms flatten against the wall; his eyes shut.

Oh shit, she's looking at him. She's /laughin/ at him. E'dro sinks into himself, taking steps backward until he's found a wall to melt into and possibly disappear.

Nikoth is for now residing in the back, unusual for the showy bronze. He's moving slowly, but steady and keeping in pace for the most part. There's a steady determination emanating from him. A'son? Well, he's still hiding in the back of the weyr. He's looking annoyed still and is unresponsive to just about anything around him.

/In/. F'rint looks across the room, lowers his head, shakes it with a look of abject disappointment to behold the arrival of the Fortian. Out there, Oranyuth still relentlessly believes he's got a snowball's chance in hell of taking this flight, still thinks he's the right dragon for the job. But soon, with the first glide instead of flap, with the first conservation of energy, certain facts will become insurmountable: he's too old and the wrong color for this crap.

T'rev's head turns, face a mask of punch-drunk desire mixed with resistance. "No," he tells Tiriana quietly, firmly. "I won't be the one to do this to him. Or to you." His voice is kept low, not really meant to echo back to the others and he turns back to the sky, sweat beading along his brow as he pushes against his bronze above. Mecaith's still in the thick of things, lifting up higher and higher after Iovniath, his pursuit seemingly single-minded, intently focused. Is T'rev at all having an effect on him? Or is he just too bound up in it all now?

Any other day, Tiriana probably wouldn't want anything to do with T'rev. Today, though? Today anger flashes across her features for the snub, and Iovniath howls, fury directed at Mecaith but leaking away from her, onto her other chasers. But it's not attention she can long focus on him, with other chasers breathing down her neck. She flies higher, no fancy tricks. She's tiring already, a growing desperation at the back of her mental presence. Her head tilts back to look at them under her wing, searching until she finds what she wants: Nikoth at the very back. What's he doing there? Iovniath hesitates, a wild glance around and then she's turning sharply, to cut around behind the pack--not the brightest move, probably, but she's desperate, and not planning very clearly in the moment.

F'rint rubs his hand across his dome, slides his palm down his face, gives up the ghost. "We really are f--ked," he announces summarily, looking around the room with increasing disappointment: T'rev, /who does not belong here/; E'dro and K'del, still wet behind the ears; A'son, oh my god just grow a pair already. There's nothing left in Oranyuth for the end, he saved nothing, and he breaks away the same way he has a bajillion other times before tonight. They leave.

Slumping against the wall, T'rev really looks like he could use a stiff drink right about now. And then ... as Iovniath howls and breaks for the back of the pack, Mecaith swerves like he'd try to intercept. His rider's fist curls tight, his jaw sets and then the Fortian bronze is changing direction again, sweeping wide and tucking his wings to drop out of the flight all together. A splash down in the lake follows and the tension seems to bleed out of T'rev all at once, hands covering his face. He doesn't even look back as he stumbles away again and if anyone is paying attention, he apparently winds up going down the steps on his ass if the strangled: "OW!" from somewhere out there is any indication. Fort's out. Relief all around, most likely.

Cadejoth's far enough back in the pack, despite his best efforts (he's young - who can blame him?), that Iovniath's turn around places him, in fact, much closer to her - not quite close enough to grab at her, not yet, but close enough to surprise both him, and his rider, whose eyes flutter open, seeking back to Tiriana, wildly. But they don't linger: A'son, then, takes his attention, the young bronzerider seeking out the older one, considering him with what attention span he can muster. Cadejoth alters his path again, to shift closer still, and beneath; so close, now! Except for stupid Nikoth. F'rint's assessment? That goes unheard, uncomprehended. For now.

Nikoth, who's been hiding in the back of the pack this entire night? He sees Iovniath make that move. He gets a sudden surge of strength. Broad brozen wings beat hard, hurtling him to the front and beyond. He catches up to the forerunners and it seems that he may even be close to getting near Iovniath herself. Then with a gut wrenching, ear splitting cry he folds his wings and plummets down to the ground. It's this action that drops him so unexpectedly from the race when moments earlier it seemed he might even take it.

A'son: He's been sitting sullenly quiet in the back, not speaking. Not acting or moving. His eyes have been distant and empty this evening, while tensions otherwise have been running high. Suddenly, his shoulders tense and he comes into the moment. He looks around the weyr with a clarity in his eyes that's perhaps frightening. It's then that he dips his hand into his riding boots and removes the small dirk. The sheath is thrown across the room and in one swift moment he buries it into his right shoulder. To the hilt. He screams, gets up and staggers out.

They're leaving--wait, they're leaving! Tiriana doesn't know what to do, anger giving way to shock as T'rev flees, F'rint flees--and then A'son. He's going to be so fucked after this, as if he wasn't already. Tiriana's glaring after him, but the wind's out of her sails just that quick as things start going to hell in a handbasket. Iovniath's got it in for A'son, too, another screech as Nikoth plummets just before she can reach him. Her wings flare in the effort not to actually collide with him, and she's lost, faltering completely as she tries to recover and figure out what she's doing. But it's too late; she's flown herself too close to the rest of them, and though she's got a quick snap of her teeth, talons flashed at the first one who makes a grab at her, she's suddenly too preoccupied with just not getting caught to get away. And Cadejoth's right there.

Cadejoth? Cadejoth's there? The bronze is almost (almost!) to surprised to actually make his move - but only almost: he reaches out, his tail twines with hers, and then it's all over, and they're falling together. K'del... K'del barely has a moment to be horrified over A'son's self-inflicted violence before the rest of it suddenly comes clear, and his eyes go very, very wide. And fasten on Tiriana. Like the rest of him does, as soon as he can pull himself away from the wall, and reach for her. Happy turnday, K'del!

It's over, but not before Iovniath thrashes, claws half-heartedly out at Cadejoth one last desperate attempt to get away that ultimately fails. And then they're falling as she gives herself over to him: going down in flames even if she's still ice cold. And Tiriana can't resist K'del, either, when he grabs for her. But she can sure try to punch the shit out of him first, a couple of quick blows aimed at his stomach and jaw in retaliation for his upset. Then she's throwing herself on him, just as rough.

K'del probably deserves those punches. It's not as though he shies away from them, though perhaps the full realisation of what's going on is not, exactly, something he can get his head around just now. C'mon: boobies! So it's rough, and it's eager, and, well, the bruises (and the rest) can be worried about... later.