/Yes/. /This/ time.
Who: People in the tag
When: Dusk on day 19, month 6, turn 20 of Interval 10.
Where: Corrals and Guest Weyr, Ista Weyr
What: Gedroth decides to chase T'mic's green Aath at the most inconvenient time (of the month). Even more inconvenient, he wins!
Long accustomed to his green and her ways, T'mic hangs on the outside of the corral fence as Aath gathers suitors about her a little bit away in the bowl. One foot on the lowest rail, heel jigging, Mic stares at the grazing beasts without truly seeing them. Perhaps he's already using Aath's eyes, for the green turns her attention from one male to the next, coaxing this one closer with the flip of her tail while luring another with a flick of a wing. Jekzith is on the edge of the crowd, and Bennath has just joined (say, six males total). Phara's near Mic on the fence.
Jekzith lets out a quiet croon for Aath and streeetches necks and wings out like he's warming up for the race that's about to take place. << You bet. Right here, lovely, >> Jekzith tells her jauntily and tings one of those diamonds so it reflects all the more. Cha-ching.
Bennath replies eagerly with a blue sky and lazily drifting clouds. << I see you, too, baby, >> he buzzes, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement. Phara nods in return to Mic, though it's halfhearted. She knows greenriders well enough by now to realize he doesn't have a clue who she even is most likely right now.
Skimming low in his flight, an overlong, skinny brown leads the way as two more Fortians come to join the crowd. Gedroth's aimed himself perfectly, his dangling feet just barely (but cleanly) missing the fence as he comes to a neat, collected landing inside the corral. Once there, he makes no movement towards the beasts, but he does pull himself up and crow to get the green's attention. Far behind him, his rider's walking in from the bowl with his straps wound over her shoulder.
Up from the beach comes Paddy, steps steady rather than hurried. He's dressed in shirt-and-shorts though his shirt flaps about unbuttoned and sandals scuff along the stone floor of the bowl until it gives way to grass. Under his arm, a slightly sandy beach towel. He walks right up to T'mic without compunctions and slides an arm around the greenrider. "Ready?" he murmurs in a low undertone to his weyrmate, while Jekzith keeps up the flattery-patter in the background.
What's a bronze to do when his clutchbrother goes chasing off after some green? Follow. If only to prove he's not afraid of doing something a mere brown is doing. Dasarth follows Gedroth and once he's landed in the corral his whip-thin tail lashes out to smack against the Fortian brown's back leg. But that's all the attention he gives the other male because...what's this? << Hello there. You are quite comely. >> Dasarth gives this some thought and there's a stomping of boots before he adds << For a green. >> W'ton's with Rhodya though and they're not here yet and all so whatever he says is for her only.
T'mic sidles a step toward Phara, dipping his head to her like Aath does to Bennath, when first Gedroth, then Dasarth arrive. The newcomers catch his attention as surely as they do his green's - it's probably lucky for Mic that his reach for Gedroth is prevented by that pesky fence in his way, though it doesn't stop his eyes from giving the brown a once over. << Aren't you just so... handsome, >> Aath offers, gladly including the new youngsters in her breathy, diamond-studded adoration. Her rider arches up into P'draig's arm, dropping his head and nodding silently.
<< Yes, >> Gedroth answers simply, and without adornment. << I am. >> He spreads his wings to prove it, showing off the vast sails and rippling muscles that control them. Shrugging off the sting from Dasarth's tail, though he sends a snort after the bronze, he hops in place, then begins to pace back and forth, adding more hops and graceful leaps to show off his agility. As Rhodya comes closer, her voice can be heard clearly. "Now he's gonna think I skipped out or something. Just can't win."
Phara ducks her head reflexively when her former charge flies overhead. She mutters something about trying to behead her and leans onto the fence like she can't possibly support her weight any longer. Bennath is practically falling all over himself at Aath's attention, ever the charmed gentleman. So what if she's also paying the others attention, he can hope.
In among the suitors is Turatath, a pale blue counterpoint to the darker shades of the other brown, blue and bronze that cluster around the glowy green. Though he's far out of weyrlinghood, he's only got a handful of turns on him, though he seems even more youthful in the embarrasingly forward way he has about himself. He showers Aath with quirky little asides, unasked for observations and overt praises while he hovers around her, at least until instinct takes over the game. He's the first to depart her side and wing shortly over to the pens, swiftly taking down a lagging mare when he gets there. He positions his kill, arranges his teeth just so over an artery and then sinks them in.
P'draig gives Mic's shoulders a little squeeze when the greenrider leans his head against him. "All done soon," the brownrider murmurs even lower down, then starts to step away as Jekzith goes a-hopping over the fence to take advantage of the beastie smorgasbord on the other side. He's not messy either and he's quick about his take-downs, taking care of business, with more than one look over at Aath.
Oh, is that the way he wants to play it? Phah! Dasarth sidles up and tries to nudge Gedroth. Out of his way! Look how good /he/ looks! One wing extends careful not to sweep it into anyone just a hint of a tease to show off the brilliant crimson underneath. See? A total hottie! Without stopping the preening he jumps across the front of Gedroth to get to a beast. Quick and simple. W'ton trailing with Rhodya laughs and pats the brownrider on the shoulder. "Sorry about that. You can always send him an apology note with the messenger later. Then you'd save yourself a trip. I have to admit coming to visit in summer was a sharding dumb idea." Stopping he grins at his wingmate as he says, "Oops. Language. Naughty me."
The Istan bronze is young enough that he remains behind when the others go to blood; the last pair of blues get into a scuffle over just who gets to kill this particular beastie while Aath looks on raptly. Gedroth's agility, Dasarth's wings, Turatath's quips, Jekzith's and Bennath's attention... each and every iota is absorbed, inhaled, adored as her wings spread. Mic shivers again and pushes P'draig abruptly away, backing nearly into Phara before catching himself. He stares wildly at the gathering riders for long seconds before jinking to one side, around them all, and pelting across the bowl while behind him Aath launches into the air and skates into the clear Istan night.
P'draig doesn't look perturbed at all about being pushed away, just catches at the fence rail, set a little off-balance by it and then slings the towel he's carrying over his shoulder. A brief look is spared for Jekzith, busy in the pens doing the 'blood the kills' thing, then he's catching Phara's eye, maybe recognizing her from another flight and offers her a lopsided grin, holds a hand out to the Fortian bluerider for the walk across the bowl. "C'mon," he tells her in a quiet voice. Jekzith meanwhile has bright flashes of color speckling his mind, chasing after bubbles that carry more diamonds into the sky, all for Aath of course.
They may be of an age, but Gedroth is the more experienced chaser, and Dasarth's rudeness earns him a hard swat from the disapproving brown. As he wheels away from retaliation, and begins another turn in his display, he realizes the green has taken off and converts his showy leap into an effective one that springs him into the air. Rhodya grabs W'ton's shoulder, briefly overwhelmed by the rush of her dragon's thoughts, and clinging to her wingmate for balance. Then she punches that same shoulder. "You swore /and/ called me dumb," she mutters, rougher than usual in the crush of flight emotions. "And don't be so wimpy, it ain't so hot here. It's just Ista."
Phara lifts her hand as if to catch T'mic when he inevitably bumps into her, but he never makes it so her hand hovers in the air awkwardly for a moment before falling to her side when T'mic bolts. Her groan is one of annoyance, frustration even. She abandons the fence to follow at a more sedate pace. "Hi," she says to P'draig and smiles at him tentatively. Bennath is already thick in this game of killing, blooding, an efficient and necessary part of the flight process. Every beast he takes down, he does for Aath, his bright propeller blades making the air shimmer brightly. The scene flickers and waves like some exotic dance, so very happy that he is here for HER, beautiful as she is.
Finally Turatath's rider makes his appearance, rushing across the bowl without visible excuse for his delay. He's late enough that he doesn't even make it to the pens and instead just bends his path to follow T'mic's. P'rol to those who know him well, this dark-complexioned guy must have impressed at the younger end of the range, for he looks to be square in the middle of his teens just now. He enters the room and gives the acne scars on the back of his neck a socially awkward scratch before retreating to the far wall.
Busy with his posturing Dasarth barely has time to sip before the quarry takes to the air. This he notices as Gedroth swats him. Then he's got to go as well. She's so pretty after all. So lovely and green and what's a boy to do? The Fortian bronze trumpets his intentions and without bothering to be sure no one is in his way launches himself into the air. Anyone who was in his way is just out of luck. << Unworthy >> he sends to Aath all trumpets flashing in the sunshine as the army marches to war. << They are all unworthy! >> W'ton chuckles softly. "Oh, hit me again," he tells Rhodya, but his eyes are following T'mic. Then his feet are following the greenrider as well. "Come on then, Rhodya sweetheart. Never dumb. Beautiful." But he's still not looking at her.
It's a well-known path across the bowl to the guest weyr, and Mic doesn't give the barracks' entrance so much as a glance as he leads the parade past. He does hang back just at the doorway to watch what he can of the flight, but Aath shoots nearly straight up and out of his sight before the slowest of her suitors are even off the ground. The greenrider shivers yet again, nearly slumping into P'rol, before his face lights and he darts away from the younger man, safe into the center of the weyr, his arms spread wide. Up above Aath hasn't yet glanced back at her chasers, trusting that they will follow, each and every one. Diamonds drip from her thoughts, no more words now: only speed and distance and higher.
Turatath makes neat work of his kill, blooding as efficiently as such a thing can be done. Multitasking is something he's always been good at; even while he's gorging himself, he's keeping mental and visual tabs on Aath and, to a lesser extent, each one of her followers. So when Aath skims upward, his full attention is with her in a flash. He spreads his wings and with just the right amount of force launches himself upward after her, calculating her trajectory and mimicing it as exactly as he can. << Unworthy? >> he echoes, cut and dry, the foreign bronze. To Aath, << That's simply one particular perception of many, it just complicates things when you listen to all of them. Yours is the only one that matters. >>
P'draig's hand curls around Phara's as they cross the bowl in Mic's wake. No hurry and no getting lost here either. Jekzith's quick off the ground after Aath behind the trail of riders heading for the guest weyr. Maple-hued wings don't have much light to catch at this hour, and the brown's motley hide is smoothed out by the cover of growing darkness as he slants after the green. He doesn't bother with tricks or fancy flying, he knows Aath too well and just puts on a good initial burst of speed, uses a thermal for lift and shoots on upward, eyes on the prize and nowhere else. His thoughts do bleed out a little though: full of shimmering, sparkling, shining things and no attention paid whatsoever to arrogant bronzes from Fort.
Sunset is the perfect time of day for Gedroth to be in the air, the faded colors warming his pale hide. He makes the most of his appearance, pulling wide so Aath can see him in her peripheral vision, and flitting from draft to draft with a grace that's almost dance-like. << The worthy will prove themselves by catching her, >> he tells Dasarth and Turatath both, not so far gone he can't talk to them. << There is no other yardstick. >> "And don't call me sweetheart," Rhodya snaps at W'ton. Now she's following him, but where he's intent on the greenrider, she's holding herself up stiffly and trying to keep a firm hold on things.
Bennath is not slow. The meager attention he spends on feeding is quickly rerouted to the knowledge that Aath is up, and is he not a zippy dragon? He bursts into the air, faster than he would if he had Phara on his back. His mind thrills at the wind whipping under his wings, the exhiliration of shooting straight through the air in Aath's wake. Even with the waning sun, his hide is still bright, taking advantage of the last glimmers of light to reflect his patchwork hide. Phara closes her eyes when he takes off, exhaling. "I hate flights," she tells P'draig weakly, her nose wrinkling.
P'rol starts when he becomes a prop for T'mic, but he still has enough of his wits about him to utter a familiar and fakely deepened greeting. "Uh, hey. Man." He can't explain that his hands, merely supportive a second ago, grope after the greenrider's departure, letting contact break only when T'mic's movement makes it necessary. He folds those disobedient hands in against himself when the momentary interaction is over, letting the wall prop him now.
Just because he's never done this before means nothing! Not that Dasarth is going to rely on beginnings luck. No, he's going to rely on being The Best. Because only the best will get to win. He holds back some trying to find a good strategic position from which to plot his victory. If there's one thing he is sure of it's that he will be the victor. That and Aath is obviously the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. W'ton's not got a reply for Rhodya, but he does give her a wink. He's all eyes on T'mic with just a little flicker of a glance on anyone else.
Up and up, up and up Aath rises, spiraling against the cool black night. The lights of Ista so far below strive but cannot match the sheer beauty of the stars, or the glory of the green and her potential mates suspended in the orb of horizon. It's just as the air begins to cool and thin that the green snaps her wings tight to her back, momentum carrying her just a few precious feet higher before cruel gravity grasps her tight. So far below, in a cavern barely lit by flickering glows, her rider's face is flushed, eyes dark, breath coming in gasps, and hands fumbling to push his vest off.
"Noticed," P'draig says quietly to Phara. He's still got enough focus to speak, but he's down to single words as more of him gets wrapped up in the action up /there/ and he lets out a long breath. He musters a longer sentence though: "Be okay." And then he's leaning against the wall in the weyr, head dropping back to find stone, chest rising and falling much more rapidly than before as he consigns himself to whatever fate Jekzith manages to pull out of the evening. Faster, faster, higher, higher and then hold back a little, watch, watch for her stall, watch for her fall, Aath-like-a-diamond-in-the-sky, Jekzith knows this as much as he knows how to breathe and his rider is right there with him. Their Aath. Their Mic. Maybe tonight, maybe not. She hangs there like a star herself for just that moment and then her wings seize and Jekzith's snap outward for that last mad dash to catch her.
There's no way of knowing if he's done the right thing, but Dasarth knows at least he has to do something. So when he's done watching because he has no more time to watch he trumpets out his charge before doing just that. Anyone who gets in his way will have to face that thin tail whipping out and maybe even a bit of claw too. Whatever will do the trick to get the unworthy out of his way so he can claim his prize. W'ton tips back and catches himself on the wall when the bronze charges. Eyes close for just a moment to regain his equilibrium but then they snap open to watch Mic. Because who wouldn't want to be watching him right now?
Bennath is no fool, and he's followed Aath before. There is no fear to follow, no second thought. He wheels sharply, cutting past anyone too slow to get out of the way, and plunges after the object of his (temporary) affection. With no respect for gravity, or speed, or how he's going to pull himself out of this one, he falls like a stone, every part of him pinpointed on following her. Phara lets P'draig lead, too unfocused to notice even when they pass from outside to in. She stands dumbly next to him, her hand limp if he still holds it but making no motion to pull away.
W'ton with all his winking and joking and - ugh. Rhodya can't deal with him right now. As soon as they get into the guest weyr, she pointedly takes herself off to the opposite side and stands there, arms crossed over her chest, eyes intent on the greenrider now. Gedroth has never flown in Ista before, is finding and following the currents for the first time. The thrill of exploration fills him, and when the green dives he revels in the edge-of-your-seat rush in improvising his way to her. Broadening his mental scope, he lets his full joy in this moment flow towards her with his body, and as his claws stretch out to seek her a little thought slips through as well. /Yes/. /This/ time.
Turatath, only a shade lighter than the twilight that surrounds the sky-bound troupe, makes the best of the sneaky advantage his color gives him, keeping the early lead he gained and angling to catch the green before her inevitable arc begins to bend. Precision with every pull, each wingstrokes puts him a point closer and recalculates his angle to match hers perfectly. Just as that fixed point is approaching, the exact time for him to extend his arms and find the predicted green in his grasp, all turns to chaos. She slows and banks sharply, leaving his talons straining at air. Quick to readjust his estimations, he too directs himself straight downward. Unlike Aath, he uses his wings though, at opportune moments, to assist gravity's force, counting on his smaller size to let him weave between the other, now closer suitors. P'rol, down in that cramped weyr, simply watches on, the beads of sweat dotting his forehead the only indication that he's anything but calm.
Aath's path, so simple at the beginning of the end, turns into a tumbling, jouncing path as she falls through the scrum. Jekzith, so close... and yet his grasp is thwarted as the young Istan bronze grabs for her and fails, sending her out of the motley brown's reach. So too does she fall past Bennath and Turatath, nearly captured by Dasarth, only to stretch for one of the older Istan blues. But the much smaller male is no match for the Fortian brown who suddenly appears between them, and it's Gedroth's improvisation that's captured tonight's prize. Mic's eyes flick from rider to rider, seeking out his own match to what Aath's found above, lingering on each face, each set of hands, of shoulders.
Snap. Missed. Jekzith pulls up, turns sharply and heads out to sea to find the coolness of deep waves. P'draig's hand tightens around Phara's and he exhales long, opens hazy eyes and holds there for a moment of disorientation. The Weyrlingmaster pulls together enough sense to pull away from the wall as surely as Jekzith pulls up and slightly staggered steps head for the bowl with its blanket of stars hanging far above.
Now he's pissed though. Stupid brown! Stupid clutchbrother! Dasarth bugles out his annoyance and his anger as he veers off alone. Stupid greens! So not worth his time! As the Fortian bronze goes off to sulk with sour grapes he strands his rider. Which means W'ton gets to stumble off on his own. At least tomorrow he can rib Rhodya to no end about it.
Bennath keeps going, past Aath caught in Gedroth's hold, past them all until he can pull out of his headlong rush, nearly crashing into the bowl wall before momentum drags him back upwards again, safely clearing the edge to come to a stop there. Phara clears her throat, face flushed all the way down her neck. She returns P'draig's handsqueaze, clutching almost too tightly. She stumbles out after him, though maybe not with him. A hasty retreat, either way.
Where did he go wrong? Turatath doesn't bugle or bellow, but grumbles with the frustration of a thwarted researcher flipping back and back through his notes. Another readjustment of his sails pulls him back from the mating pair and on a shallower trajectory that will give him some cooling time before he reaches the ground again. P'rol shakes himself free of the wall, blinking past the lingering blurring of his vision. Carefully, he edges around the room, avoiding the frenzied greenrider as much as possible, and makes for the exit.
Gedroth thinks it every time. This will be the one. I will catch this time. And when he's actually right, for once - well, he's actually surprised. This being his first catch and all, it takes him a moment to figure out what he's doing up here, but soon he has it figured it out and the green is so very /his/ that he forgets everything else. Rhodya doesn't share her brown's moment of uncertainty; the second he catches, she steps towards T'mic. Never you mind she doesn't know his name or there are people in the room; her dragon won and won't be the only one to claim a prize for it.
It's Rhodya's stepping forward that snaps T'mic's attention to her, tearing it from the backsides of the departing riders. Any momentary qualms or pangs of regret disappear in a puff of aether and a bright, nearly desparate beam - and if Rhodya is as inexperienced as her brown, Mic and Aath have more than enough to cover.
As it turns out, Rhodya isn't inexperienced - if anything she's insatiable. Maybe it's the dominant feelings washing over from her brown, but she's downright aggressive, and it isn't really the best time for it. She's on her period, though heedless of it, and by the time her flight fervor wears off her body's made a mess of everything. The woman herself is (/finally/) too tired to notice it right away, having rolled off onto her stomach to breathe and see if she still remembers what her name is. Gedroth's had a much easier time of it, having landed with Aath some time ago and spent the intervening time gently admiring her.
Neither Mic nor Aath make any protest at Rhodya's taking over, though one might argue that this -is- the best time for it. With a stamina perhaps unexpected in a short man (or perhaps expected in a greenrider), when she finally collapses onto the bed Mic is still staring at the ceiling, grinning like a fool even if he is breathing heavily. Perhaps he's a little hazy around the eyes, but it doesn't stop him from reaching over to run his hand just above the curves off her back and shoulders, fondly admiring. "Mi-," he starts, coughs and clears his throat, tries again: "Mic. T'mic. Aath's. Hi."
Like it's moving of its own volition, Rhodya's back arches into the touch of his hand. Her conscious mind follows it with an effort, and she pushes herself up on her elbows with a garbled mumble. She has to clear her throat before she can try it again. "Rho. I'm uh. Rhodya." She plants one elbow down to keep her upper body lifted, and looks around. To her credit, she doesn't freak out. She does, however, pull her free hand over her eyes and sit there fighting down a grimace. A second later, she splits the fingers so she can peek at Mic from in between them, and adds her own, "Hi."
T'mic's covered with enough stickiness that one more bodily fluid doesn't matter - or at least, after a glance down and a quirk of an eyebrow, he doesn't mention it. When she almost-not-quite pulls away he pulls his own hand back, waiting and watching, and gets rewarded by that dark-eyed peek. It brings his bright grin rushing back, and, daring, he offers another feather-light caress to bare shoulders. "Nice to meet you, Rho. Rhodya. You all right? Your boy's a handsome lad. Sweet, too."
Complimenting Gedroth is always the right way to relax Rhodya, who drops her hand out of the way completely with a wan smile. "Thanks. He's Gedroth. He ain't never caught before and he's just all... agog for your Aath." She turns her face to watch that daring caress he gives her shoulder, pulling her lower lip in between her teeth. After a moment's thought, she meets his eye again and gives her head a furtive shake, almost shy about it.
"/Gedroth/," Mic repeats, as if testing the fit of the vowels against his teeth. They must do, for he drops her another nod and shifts off his back and onto one hip to face her, retrieving his hand and placing it decorously on the rumpled sheets between them. "Oh, he hasn't? Twisty in the air as he is, would've thought he'd snuck up on many a green. Where are you two from? Fort?" It's a shot in the dark, pure and simple. "I'd say we'd come to visit and let them cuddle, but with weyrlings I can't do more'n promise to try."
Rhodya pulls her knees together under the sheets and aligns herself in a neat, prim little line, which is the best she can do to restore some sense of her own propriety in the midst of all... this. "Well, he's come close, but he won't blood before he flies at all. Can't say I'm sure, but I think when it comes time to catch he just hasn't got the push in him that the other fellows do. Usually." Since apparently he did today, she has to concede - with a one-shouldered shrug - that there's a hole in her theory. "We're from Fort, all right. I don't come out here much, but today I was supposed to visit my uncle. And knowin' Gedroth, he's gonna want to come back and see Aath some more."
T'mic remains blissfully uncaring of the various bodily fluids and oil spots on himself and the sheets - even of the rumpled sheets themselves - though he allows Rho her decorum without so much as a murmur save to twitch a bit of hem a little higher over her shoulder. "Well, I'm glad he did. Think it got sort of messy there, at the end. You two are welcome to stop by any time - just let Aath know, and I'll see if we can get away." Yet one shoulder lifts in a silent reminder of the vagaries of weyrlings and their schedules. "You want to stay for a little bit, go another round? Or... looks like you're ready for me to leave." Which pronouncement he makes with an unabashed, unbothered grin.
Though she (again) looks a little embarrassed by it, Rhodya picks the second option with a small nod. "Yeah, I've got to-" she stops. He's been so good about not bringing up a certain messy subject that she'd hate to spoil it. "Go," she finishes instead, belatedly. But she struggles to keep avoiding the subject; now that it's verboten, it keeps trying to drag her in, leading to more disjointed sentence as she corrects herself on the fly. "I'm - Thanks. For invitin' us over and all, which like I said I'm sure we'll try to do. Will do. Weyrlings can't mess up all the time, right?" she sallies with a grin. Then, awkwardly, she jolts a hand up to offer him a parting handshake, except oh-no-it's-bloody, so she turns it into a wave instead and hides under the sheets again. "It was nice meetin' you T'mic. And Aath."
If T'mic is a guy - and that's been fairly successfully established at this point - how did he end up so unfazed by the not-small amounts of blood and goo? But so he does seem to be, and patient with her start-and-stop stuttering. "Exactly," he agrees about weyrlings. "I'm night shift these days - well, you know what I mean - for another month or so, but late afternoons I'll be around." She offers a hand and he tries to capture her fingers, but handshake becomes a wave and that is what tilts the greenrider's smile into bemusement. "And you, Rhodya and Gedroth of Fort. Washbasin and cloths are under the stand over there, I think," he adds as he rolls out of the bed and leans into doubled fists to crack his back.
"Thanks," Rhodya says. Since he's getting up, she starts to stir also, flipping onto her back and edging up to a sitting position with her back against the wall. She brings the sheets with her, keeping them wrapped up to her shoulders, and exposes another blotch of red in the process. Now, since he's mentioned the washbasin and all, she can't help herself. "Some poor laundry girl's gonna take a look at this and think we tried to kill each other. Just hope she ain't new to the Weyr."
T'mic reaches down to find a bit of clothing - his? hers? - and shake it out. Hers. Laughing, "Not if they know it was me in here. Only time I use a knife is when eating." He considers sending the shirt to bed, but on second thought tosses it onto the nearby chair instead. A quick search and sort ends with the greenrider shrugging into his vest, shorts second (blood? What blood?), with a nod to her clothes. "If you want a proper bath," he gives directions to the hot springs. "Otherwise, it was /very/ nice meeting you, and wish me luck trying to pry her away! He's just the sort of man she adores. Might just end up crashing in the barracks tonight."
Rhodya gives him a lopsided grin. "Sorry, but for my dragon's sake I can't wish you luck in that. I'm gonna take that bath, I think, so he's got a bit more time to spend with her. But you can tell Aath she's free to drag him along with her, at least till I've got to go home, so if you need to go up to your weyr she won't lose him." Her eyes fall to the floor; as he picks up his clothes, she starts looking around for her own, mental organizing the quickest way to get them all back once he's left.
Here's Mic's grin back at the thought of lucky Gedroth. "Yeah, well - won't be the first time or the last I'm sleeping in there. Clothes are there," he adds, pointing to the chair. "Think I got 'em all." He hesitates for a moment, looking at her in her sheet-wrapped glory, his own thighs streaked with blood and let's not think about what else... but then flicks her a jaunty salute before ambling out of the weyr, whistling cheerfully.
When: Dusk on day 19, month 6, turn 20 of Interval 10.
Where: Corrals and Guest Weyr, Ista Weyr
What: Gedroth decides to chase T'mic's green Aath at the most inconvenient time (of the month). Even more inconvenient, he wins!
Long accustomed to his green and her ways, T'mic hangs on the outside of the corral fence as Aath gathers suitors about her a little bit away in the bowl. One foot on the lowest rail, heel jigging, Mic stares at the grazing beasts without truly seeing them. Perhaps he's already using Aath's eyes, for the green turns her attention from one male to the next, coaxing this one closer with the flip of her tail while luring another with a flick of a wing. Jekzith is on the edge of the crowd, and Bennath has just joined (say, six males total). Phara's near Mic on the fence.
Jekzith lets out a quiet croon for Aath and streeetches necks and wings out like he's warming up for the race that's about to take place. << You bet. Right here, lovely, >> Jekzith tells her jauntily and tings one of those diamonds so it reflects all the more. Cha-ching.
Bennath replies eagerly with a blue sky and lazily drifting clouds. << I see you, too, baby, >> he buzzes, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement. Phara nods in return to Mic, though it's halfhearted. She knows greenriders well enough by now to realize he doesn't have a clue who she even is most likely right now.
Skimming low in his flight, an overlong, skinny brown leads the way as two more Fortians come to join the crowd. Gedroth's aimed himself perfectly, his dangling feet just barely (but cleanly) missing the fence as he comes to a neat, collected landing inside the corral. Once there, he makes no movement towards the beasts, but he does pull himself up and crow to get the green's attention. Far behind him, his rider's walking in from the bowl with his straps wound over her shoulder.
Up from the beach comes Paddy, steps steady rather than hurried. He's dressed in shirt-and-shorts though his shirt flaps about unbuttoned and sandals scuff along the stone floor of the bowl until it gives way to grass. Under his arm, a slightly sandy beach towel. He walks right up to T'mic without compunctions and slides an arm around the greenrider. "Ready?" he murmurs in a low undertone to his weyrmate, while Jekzith keeps up the flattery-patter in the background.
What's a bronze to do when his clutchbrother goes chasing off after some green? Follow. If only to prove he's not afraid of doing something a mere brown is doing. Dasarth follows Gedroth and once he's landed in the corral his whip-thin tail lashes out to smack against the Fortian brown's back leg. But that's all the attention he gives the other male because...what's this? << Hello there. You are quite comely. >> Dasarth gives this some thought and there's a stomping of boots before he adds << For a green. >> W'ton's with Rhodya though and they're not here yet and all so whatever he says is for her only.
T'mic sidles a step toward Phara, dipping his head to her like Aath does to Bennath, when first Gedroth, then Dasarth arrive. The newcomers catch his attention as surely as they do his green's - it's probably lucky for Mic that his reach for Gedroth is prevented by that pesky fence in his way, though it doesn't stop his eyes from giving the brown a once over. << Aren't you just so... handsome, >> Aath offers, gladly including the new youngsters in her breathy, diamond-studded adoration. Her rider arches up into P'draig's arm, dropping his head and nodding silently.
<< Yes, >> Gedroth answers simply, and without adornment. << I am. >> He spreads his wings to prove it, showing off the vast sails and rippling muscles that control them. Shrugging off the sting from Dasarth's tail, though he sends a snort after the bronze, he hops in place, then begins to pace back and forth, adding more hops and graceful leaps to show off his agility. As Rhodya comes closer, her voice can be heard clearly. "Now he's gonna think I skipped out or something. Just can't win."
Phara ducks her head reflexively when her former charge flies overhead. She mutters something about trying to behead her and leans onto the fence like she can't possibly support her weight any longer. Bennath is practically falling all over himself at Aath's attention, ever the charmed gentleman. So what if she's also paying the others attention, he can hope.
In among the suitors is Turatath, a pale blue counterpoint to the darker shades of the other brown, blue and bronze that cluster around the glowy green. Though he's far out of weyrlinghood, he's only got a handful of turns on him, though he seems even more youthful in the embarrasingly forward way he has about himself. He showers Aath with quirky little asides, unasked for observations and overt praises while he hovers around her, at least until instinct takes over the game. He's the first to depart her side and wing shortly over to the pens, swiftly taking down a lagging mare when he gets there. He positions his kill, arranges his teeth just so over an artery and then sinks them in.
P'draig gives Mic's shoulders a little squeeze when the greenrider leans his head against him. "All done soon," the brownrider murmurs even lower down, then starts to step away as Jekzith goes a-hopping over the fence to take advantage of the beastie smorgasbord on the other side. He's not messy either and he's quick about his take-downs, taking care of business, with more than one look over at Aath.
Oh, is that the way he wants to play it? Phah! Dasarth sidles up and tries to nudge Gedroth. Out of his way! Look how good /he/ looks! One wing extends careful not to sweep it into anyone just a hint of a tease to show off the brilliant crimson underneath. See? A total hottie! Without stopping the preening he jumps across the front of Gedroth to get to a beast. Quick and simple. W'ton trailing with Rhodya laughs and pats the brownrider on the shoulder. "Sorry about that. You can always send him an apology note with the messenger later. Then you'd save yourself a trip. I have to admit coming to visit in summer was a sharding dumb idea." Stopping he grins at his wingmate as he says, "Oops. Language. Naughty me."
The Istan bronze is young enough that he remains behind when the others go to blood; the last pair of blues get into a scuffle over just who gets to kill this particular beastie while Aath looks on raptly. Gedroth's agility, Dasarth's wings, Turatath's quips, Jekzith's and Bennath's attention... each and every iota is absorbed, inhaled, adored as her wings spread. Mic shivers again and pushes P'draig abruptly away, backing nearly into Phara before catching himself. He stares wildly at the gathering riders for long seconds before jinking to one side, around them all, and pelting across the bowl while behind him Aath launches into the air and skates into the clear Istan night.
P'draig doesn't look perturbed at all about being pushed away, just catches at the fence rail, set a little off-balance by it and then slings the towel he's carrying over his shoulder. A brief look is spared for Jekzith, busy in the pens doing the 'blood the kills' thing, then he's catching Phara's eye, maybe recognizing her from another flight and offers her a lopsided grin, holds a hand out to the Fortian bluerider for the walk across the bowl. "C'mon," he tells her in a quiet voice. Jekzith meanwhile has bright flashes of color speckling his mind, chasing after bubbles that carry more diamonds into the sky, all for Aath of course.
They may be of an age, but Gedroth is the more experienced chaser, and Dasarth's rudeness earns him a hard swat from the disapproving brown. As he wheels away from retaliation, and begins another turn in his display, he realizes the green has taken off and converts his showy leap into an effective one that springs him into the air. Rhodya grabs W'ton's shoulder, briefly overwhelmed by the rush of her dragon's thoughts, and clinging to her wingmate for balance. Then she punches that same shoulder. "You swore /and/ called me dumb," she mutters, rougher than usual in the crush of flight emotions. "And don't be so wimpy, it ain't so hot here. It's just Ista."
Phara lifts her hand as if to catch T'mic when he inevitably bumps into her, but he never makes it so her hand hovers in the air awkwardly for a moment before falling to her side when T'mic bolts. Her groan is one of annoyance, frustration even. She abandons the fence to follow at a more sedate pace. "Hi," she says to P'draig and smiles at him tentatively. Bennath is already thick in this game of killing, blooding, an efficient and necessary part of the flight process. Every beast he takes down, he does for Aath, his bright propeller blades making the air shimmer brightly. The scene flickers and waves like some exotic dance, so very happy that he is here for HER, beautiful as she is.
Finally Turatath's rider makes his appearance, rushing across the bowl without visible excuse for his delay. He's late enough that he doesn't even make it to the pens and instead just bends his path to follow T'mic's. P'rol to those who know him well, this dark-complexioned guy must have impressed at the younger end of the range, for he looks to be square in the middle of his teens just now. He enters the room and gives the acne scars on the back of his neck a socially awkward scratch before retreating to the far wall.
Busy with his posturing Dasarth barely has time to sip before the quarry takes to the air. This he notices as Gedroth swats him. Then he's got to go as well. She's so pretty after all. So lovely and green and what's a boy to do? The Fortian bronze trumpets his intentions and without bothering to be sure no one is in his way launches himself into the air. Anyone who was in his way is just out of luck. << Unworthy >> he sends to Aath all trumpets flashing in the sunshine as the army marches to war. << They are all unworthy! >> W'ton chuckles softly. "Oh, hit me again," he tells Rhodya, but his eyes are following T'mic. Then his feet are following the greenrider as well. "Come on then, Rhodya sweetheart. Never dumb. Beautiful." But he's still not looking at her.
It's a well-known path across the bowl to the guest weyr, and Mic doesn't give the barracks' entrance so much as a glance as he leads the parade past. He does hang back just at the doorway to watch what he can of the flight, but Aath shoots nearly straight up and out of his sight before the slowest of her suitors are even off the ground. The greenrider shivers yet again, nearly slumping into P'rol, before his face lights and he darts away from the younger man, safe into the center of the weyr, his arms spread wide. Up above Aath hasn't yet glanced back at her chasers, trusting that they will follow, each and every one. Diamonds drip from her thoughts, no more words now: only speed and distance and higher.
Turatath makes neat work of his kill, blooding as efficiently as such a thing can be done. Multitasking is something he's always been good at; even while he's gorging himself, he's keeping mental and visual tabs on Aath and, to a lesser extent, each one of her followers. So when Aath skims upward, his full attention is with her in a flash. He spreads his wings and with just the right amount of force launches himself upward after her, calculating her trajectory and mimicing it as exactly as he can. << Unworthy? >> he echoes, cut and dry, the foreign bronze. To Aath, << That's simply one particular perception of many, it just complicates things when you listen to all of them. Yours is the only one that matters. >>
P'draig's hand curls around Phara's as they cross the bowl in Mic's wake. No hurry and no getting lost here either. Jekzith's quick off the ground after Aath behind the trail of riders heading for the guest weyr. Maple-hued wings don't have much light to catch at this hour, and the brown's motley hide is smoothed out by the cover of growing darkness as he slants after the green. He doesn't bother with tricks or fancy flying, he knows Aath too well and just puts on a good initial burst of speed, uses a thermal for lift and shoots on upward, eyes on the prize and nowhere else. His thoughts do bleed out a little though: full of shimmering, sparkling, shining things and no attention paid whatsoever to arrogant bronzes from Fort.
Sunset is the perfect time of day for Gedroth to be in the air, the faded colors warming his pale hide. He makes the most of his appearance, pulling wide so Aath can see him in her peripheral vision, and flitting from draft to draft with a grace that's almost dance-like. << The worthy will prove themselves by catching her, >> he tells Dasarth and Turatath both, not so far gone he can't talk to them. << There is no other yardstick. >> "And don't call me sweetheart," Rhodya snaps at W'ton. Now she's following him, but where he's intent on the greenrider, she's holding herself up stiffly and trying to keep a firm hold on things.
Bennath is not slow. The meager attention he spends on feeding is quickly rerouted to the knowledge that Aath is up, and is he not a zippy dragon? He bursts into the air, faster than he would if he had Phara on his back. His mind thrills at the wind whipping under his wings, the exhiliration of shooting straight through the air in Aath's wake. Even with the waning sun, his hide is still bright, taking advantage of the last glimmers of light to reflect his patchwork hide. Phara closes her eyes when he takes off, exhaling. "I hate flights," she tells P'draig weakly, her nose wrinkling.
P'rol starts when he becomes a prop for T'mic, but he still has enough of his wits about him to utter a familiar and fakely deepened greeting. "Uh, hey. Man." He can't explain that his hands, merely supportive a second ago, grope after the greenrider's departure, letting contact break only when T'mic's movement makes it necessary. He folds those disobedient hands in against himself when the momentary interaction is over, letting the wall prop him now.
Just because he's never done this before means nothing! Not that Dasarth is going to rely on beginnings luck. No, he's going to rely on being The Best. Because only the best will get to win. He holds back some trying to find a good strategic position from which to plot his victory. If there's one thing he is sure of it's that he will be the victor. That and Aath is obviously the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. W'ton's not got a reply for Rhodya, but he does give her a wink. He's all eyes on T'mic with just a little flicker of a glance on anyone else.
Up and up, up and up Aath rises, spiraling against the cool black night. The lights of Ista so far below strive but cannot match the sheer beauty of the stars, or the glory of the green and her potential mates suspended in the orb of horizon. It's just as the air begins to cool and thin that the green snaps her wings tight to her back, momentum carrying her just a few precious feet higher before cruel gravity grasps her tight. So far below, in a cavern barely lit by flickering glows, her rider's face is flushed, eyes dark, breath coming in gasps, and hands fumbling to push his vest off.
"Noticed," P'draig says quietly to Phara. He's still got enough focus to speak, but he's down to single words as more of him gets wrapped up in the action up /there/ and he lets out a long breath. He musters a longer sentence though: "Be okay." And then he's leaning against the wall in the weyr, head dropping back to find stone, chest rising and falling much more rapidly than before as he consigns himself to whatever fate Jekzith manages to pull out of the evening. Faster, faster, higher, higher and then hold back a little, watch, watch for her stall, watch for her fall, Aath-like-a-diamond-in-the-sky, Jekzith knows this as much as he knows how to breathe and his rider is right there with him. Their Aath. Their Mic. Maybe tonight, maybe not. She hangs there like a star herself for just that moment and then her wings seize and Jekzith's snap outward for that last mad dash to catch her.
There's no way of knowing if he's done the right thing, but Dasarth knows at least he has to do something. So when he's done watching because he has no more time to watch he trumpets out his charge before doing just that. Anyone who gets in his way will have to face that thin tail whipping out and maybe even a bit of claw too. Whatever will do the trick to get the unworthy out of his way so he can claim his prize. W'ton tips back and catches himself on the wall when the bronze charges. Eyes close for just a moment to regain his equilibrium but then they snap open to watch Mic. Because who wouldn't want to be watching him right now?
Bennath is no fool, and he's followed Aath before. There is no fear to follow, no second thought. He wheels sharply, cutting past anyone too slow to get out of the way, and plunges after the object of his (temporary) affection. With no respect for gravity, or speed, or how he's going to pull himself out of this one, he falls like a stone, every part of him pinpointed on following her. Phara lets P'draig lead, too unfocused to notice even when they pass from outside to in. She stands dumbly next to him, her hand limp if he still holds it but making no motion to pull away.
W'ton with all his winking and joking and - ugh. Rhodya can't deal with him right now. As soon as they get into the guest weyr, she pointedly takes herself off to the opposite side and stands there, arms crossed over her chest, eyes intent on the greenrider now. Gedroth has never flown in Ista before, is finding and following the currents for the first time. The thrill of exploration fills him, and when the green dives he revels in the edge-of-your-seat rush in improvising his way to her. Broadening his mental scope, he lets his full joy in this moment flow towards her with his body, and as his claws stretch out to seek her a little thought slips through as well. /Yes/. /This/ time.
Turatath, only a shade lighter than the twilight that surrounds the sky-bound troupe, makes the best of the sneaky advantage his color gives him, keeping the early lead he gained and angling to catch the green before her inevitable arc begins to bend. Precision with every pull, each wingstrokes puts him a point closer and recalculates his angle to match hers perfectly. Just as that fixed point is approaching, the exact time for him to extend his arms and find the predicted green in his grasp, all turns to chaos. She slows and banks sharply, leaving his talons straining at air. Quick to readjust his estimations, he too directs himself straight downward. Unlike Aath, he uses his wings though, at opportune moments, to assist gravity's force, counting on his smaller size to let him weave between the other, now closer suitors. P'rol, down in that cramped weyr, simply watches on, the beads of sweat dotting his forehead the only indication that he's anything but calm.
Aath's path, so simple at the beginning of the end, turns into a tumbling, jouncing path as she falls through the scrum. Jekzith, so close... and yet his grasp is thwarted as the young Istan bronze grabs for her and fails, sending her out of the motley brown's reach. So too does she fall past Bennath and Turatath, nearly captured by Dasarth, only to stretch for one of the older Istan blues. But the much smaller male is no match for the Fortian brown who suddenly appears between them, and it's Gedroth's improvisation that's captured tonight's prize. Mic's eyes flick from rider to rider, seeking out his own match to what Aath's found above, lingering on each face, each set of hands, of shoulders.
Snap. Missed. Jekzith pulls up, turns sharply and heads out to sea to find the coolness of deep waves. P'draig's hand tightens around Phara's and he exhales long, opens hazy eyes and holds there for a moment of disorientation. The Weyrlingmaster pulls together enough sense to pull away from the wall as surely as Jekzith pulls up and slightly staggered steps head for the bowl with its blanket of stars hanging far above.
Now he's pissed though. Stupid brown! Stupid clutchbrother! Dasarth bugles out his annoyance and his anger as he veers off alone. Stupid greens! So not worth his time! As the Fortian bronze goes off to sulk with sour grapes he strands his rider. Which means W'ton gets to stumble off on his own. At least tomorrow he can rib Rhodya to no end about it.
Bennath keeps going, past Aath caught in Gedroth's hold, past them all until he can pull out of his headlong rush, nearly crashing into the bowl wall before momentum drags him back upwards again, safely clearing the edge to come to a stop there. Phara clears her throat, face flushed all the way down her neck. She returns P'draig's handsqueaze, clutching almost too tightly. She stumbles out after him, though maybe not with him. A hasty retreat, either way.
Where did he go wrong? Turatath doesn't bugle or bellow, but grumbles with the frustration of a thwarted researcher flipping back and back through his notes. Another readjustment of his sails pulls him back from the mating pair and on a shallower trajectory that will give him some cooling time before he reaches the ground again. P'rol shakes himself free of the wall, blinking past the lingering blurring of his vision. Carefully, he edges around the room, avoiding the frenzied greenrider as much as possible, and makes for the exit.
Gedroth thinks it every time. This will be the one. I will catch this time. And when he's actually right, for once - well, he's actually surprised. This being his first catch and all, it takes him a moment to figure out what he's doing up here, but soon he has it figured it out and the green is so very /his/ that he forgets everything else. Rhodya doesn't share her brown's moment of uncertainty; the second he catches, she steps towards T'mic. Never you mind she doesn't know his name or there are people in the room; her dragon won and won't be the only one to claim a prize for it.
It's Rhodya's stepping forward that snaps T'mic's attention to her, tearing it from the backsides of the departing riders. Any momentary qualms or pangs of regret disappear in a puff of aether and a bright, nearly desparate beam - and if Rhodya is as inexperienced as her brown, Mic and Aath have more than enough to cover.
As it turns out, Rhodya isn't inexperienced - if anything she's insatiable. Maybe it's the dominant feelings washing over from her brown, but she's downright aggressive, and it isn't really the best time for it. She's on her period, though heedless of it, and by the time her flight fervor wears off her body's made a mess of everything. The woman herself is (/finally/) too tired to notice it right away, having rolled off onto her stomach to breathe and see if she still remembers what her name is. Gedroth's had a much easier time of it, having landed with Aath some time ago and spent the intervening time gently admiring her.
Neither Mic nor Aath make any protest at Rhodya's taking over, though one might argue that this -is- the best time for it. With a stamina perhaps unexpected in a short man (or perhaps expected in a greenrider), when she finally collapses onto the bed Mic is still staring at the ceiling, grinning like a fool even if he is breathing heavily. Perhaps he's a little hazy around the eyes, but it doesn't stop him from reaching over to run his hand just above the curves off her back and shoulders, fondly admiring. "Mi-," he starts, coughs and clears his throat, tries again: "Mic. T'mic. Aath's. Hi."
Like it's moving of its own volition, Rhodya's back arches into the touch of his hand. Her conscious mind follows it with an effort, and she pushes herself up on her elbows with a garbled mumble. She has to clear her throat before she can try it again. "Rho. I'm uh. Rhodya." She plants one elbow down to keep her upper body lifted, and looks around. To her credit, she doesn't freak out. She does, however, pull her free hand over her eyes and sit there fighting down a grimace. A second later, she splits the fingers so she can peek at Mic from in between them, and adds her own, "Hi."
T'mic's covered with enough stickiness that one more bodily fluid doesn't matter - or at least, after a glance down and a quirk of an eyebrow, he doesn't mention it. When she almost-not-quite pulls away he pulls his own hand back, waiting and watching, and gets rewarded by that dark-eyed peek. It brings his bright grin rushing back, and, daring, he offers another feather-light caress to bare shoulders. "Nice to meet you, Rho. Rhodya. You all right? Your boy's a handsome lad. Sweet, too."
Complimenting Gedroth is always the right way to relax Rhodya, who drops her hand out of the way completely with a wan smile. "Thanks. He's Gedroth. He ain't never caught before and he's just all... agog for your Aath." She turns her face to watch that daring caress he gives her shoulder, pulling her lower lip in between her teeth. After a moment's thought, she meets his eye again and gives her head a furtive shake, almost shy about it.
"/Gedroth/," Mic repeats, as if testing the fit of the vowels against his teeth. They must do, for he drops her another nod and shifts off his back and onto one hip to face her, retrieving his hand and placing it decorously on the rumpled sheets between them. "Oh, he hasn't? Twisty in the air as he is, would've thought he'd snuck up on many a green. Where are you two from? Fort?" It's a shot in the dark, pure and simple. "I'd say we'd come to visit and let them cuddle, but with weyrlings I can't do more'n promise to try."
Rhodya pulls her knees together under the sheets and aligns herself in a neat, prim little line, which is the best she can do to restore some sense of her own propriety in the midst of all... this. "Well, he's come close, but he won't blood before he flies at all. Can't say I'm sure, but I think when it comes time to catch he just hasn't got the push in him that the other fellows do. Usually." Since apparently he did today, she has to concede - with a one-shouldered shrug - that there's a hole in her theory. "We're from Fort, all right. I don't come out here much, but today I was supposed to visit my uncle. And knowin' Gedroth, he's gonna want to come back and see Aath some more."
T'mic remains blissfully uncaring of the various bodily fluids and oil spots on himself and the sheets - even of the rumpled sheets themselves - though he allows Rho her decorum without so much as a murmur save to twitch a bit of hem a little higher over her shoulder. "Well, I'm glad he did. Think it got sort of messy there, at the end. You two are welcome to stop by any time - just let Aath know, and I'll see if we can get away." Yet one shoulder lifts in a silent reminder of the vagaries of weyrlings and their schedules. "You want to stay for a little bit, go another round? Or... looks like you're ready for me to leave." Which pronouncement he makes with an unabashed, unbothered grin.
Though she (again) looks a little embarrassed by it, Rhodya picks the second option with a small nod. "Yeah, I've got to-" she stops. He's been so good about not bringing up a certain messy subject that she'd hate to spoil it. "Go," she finishes instead, belatedly. But she struggles to keep avoiding the subject; now that it's verboten, it keeps trying to drag her in, leading to more disjointed sentence as she corrects herself on the fly. "I'm - Thanks. For invitin' us over and all, which like I said I'm sure we'll try to do. Will do. Weyrlings can't mess up all the time, right?" she sallies with a grin. Then, awkwardly, she jolts a hand up to offer him a parting handshake, except oh-no-it's-bloody, so she turns it into a wave instead and hides under the sheets again. "It was nice meetin' you T'mic. And Aath."
If T'mic is a guy - and that's been fairly successfully established at this point - how did he end up so unfazed by the not-small amounts of blood and goo? But so he does seem to be, and patient with her start-and-stop stuttering. "Exactly," he agrees about weyrlings. "I'm night shift these days - well, you know what I mean - for another month or so, but late afternoons I'll be around." She offers a hand and he tries to capture her fingers, but handshake becomes a wave and that is what tilts the greenrider's smile into bemusement. "And you, Rhodya and Gedroth of Fort. Washbasin and cloths are under the stand over there, I think," he adds as he rolls out of the bed and leans into doubled fists to crack his back.
"Thanks," Rhodya says. Since he's getting up, she starts to stir also, flipping onto her back and edging up to a sitting position with her back against the wall. She brings the sheets with her, keeping them wrapped up to her shoulders, and exposes another blotch of red in the process. Now, since he's mentioned the washbasin and all, she can't help herself. "Some poor laundry girl's gonna take a look at this and think we tried to kill each other. Just hope she ain't new to the Weyr."
T'mic reaches down to find a bit of clothing - his? hers? - and shake it out. Hers. Laughing, "Not if they know it was me in here. Only time I use a knife is when eating." He considers sending the shirt to bed, but on second thought tosses it onto the nearby chair instead. A quick search and sort ends with the greenrider shrugging into his vest, shorts second (blood? What blood?), with a nod to her clothes. "If you want a proper bath," he gives directions to the hot springs. "Otherwise, it was /very/ nice meeting you, and wish me luck trying to pry her away! He's just the sort of man she adores. Might just end up crashing in the barracks tonight."
Rhodya gives him a lopsided grin. "Sorry, but for my dragon's sake I can't wish you luck in that. I'm gonna take that bath, I think, so he's got a bit more time to spend with her. But you can tell Aath she's free to drag him along with her, at least till I've got to go home, so if you need to go up to your weyr she won't lose him." Her eyes fall to the floor; as he picks up his clothes, she starts looking around for her own, mental organizing the quickest way to get them all back once he's left.
Here's Mic's grin back at the thought of lucky Gedroth. "Yeah, well - won't be the first time or the last I'm sleeping in there. Clothes are there," he adds, pointing to the chair. "Think I got 'em all." He hesitates for a moment, looking at her in her sheet-wrapped glory, his own thighs streaked with blood and let's not think about what else... but then flicks her a jaunty salute before ambling out of the weyr, whistling cheerfully.