Log: In which Taikrin is TERRIBLE.
Date: Early evening, day 14, month 8, turn 26 of Interval 10
Summary: Taikrin flirts with Riorde. She didn't mean to, really-- it's all Szadath's fault! Him and that shiny green!
NorCon MUSH = 8/28/2011
------------------------
Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake.
At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
Contents:
Sforzath
Riorde
Szadath(#1824Qabep$0)
Obvious exits:
[Sky] Guest Weyr Dragon Infirmary Weyrling Area [Dragon Baths] Feeding Grounds Craft Area Lake Shore West Bowl
It is a summer dusk, 20:48 of day 14, month 8, turn 26 of Interval 10.
>---< Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr: Glance >------------------------------<
NAME SEX AGE HT BUILD HAIR EYES IDLE
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Riorde F 21 5'7 thin dark brown green 9s
Taikrin F 25 5'6" lean dark brown brown 0s
--- Dragons ----------------------------------------------------------------
NAME COLOR AGE SHOULDER LENGTH WINGS RIDER
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sforzath brown 0.1 5.02' 7.49' 13.11' Riorde
Szadath brown 4.3 22.45' 33.50' 58.62' Taikrin
>----------------------------------< 2 people / 2 dragons / +glance/long >---<
The warm evening has brought many of the weyrfolk outside; dragons dot the bowl, sprawled in piles or individually. Szadath is without a green companion, though he doesn't seem to mind given the rapt attention he's giving his rider. "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine---" Pushups. She's doing pushups. Apparently Taikrin's been at it for a while, because her sleeveless shirt is damp with sweat, and there are streaks of dirt on her face and arms.
"Aren't you tired?" Riorde is no master at the whole talking silently to your dragon thing, especially not when the day is winding down, lessons are over, and concentration is low. Szadath, who had waited just outside the caverns all throughout dinner, ventured partway in before exclamations and chuckles brought Riorde out in consternation. "Go-- run around or something." She gestures futilely, an arm motion that encompasses Taikrin and draws the weyrling rider up short. After a pause, Riorde has another suggestion for how Sforzath can burn off steam. "Go say hi to that dragon."
The count continues, tireless, because Taikrin is kind of a machine. A sober machine, just at the moment, but still. Szadath looms over her, and then, oh so carefully reaches out the side of a talon to press down on the small of her back. The brownrider squawks with indignation, but then she's got a mouthful of dirt and all she can do is wretch and spit and try to clear it out of her mouth. Meanwhile, Szadath bellows his amusement, broadcasting widely with, << GOT YOU! >>
Sforzath, ball of energy, bounds towards the much larger brown, then pauses several feet off with sudden caution. He hunkers down but cranes his neck up, wings no longer flat along his back but half-mantled in anticipation. Though for what, even Riorde can't say; she's approaching the pair with her own brand of caution. "Does that one count?" she calls, still a-ways off.
Kind, considerate, gentle Szadath mantles his wings, stepping back to graciously allow Taikrin to pull herself out of the dirt while he considers his little brother. He twitches forward, hesitates, then lowers his head down to peer at the little brown. Still enthusiastically, << Did you see how I got her? It was pretty awesome. >> Taikrin manages to sit back on her haunches, groaning, and swipes a hand across her mouth. "Fuckin' shells." It takes her a minute to spot Riorde, what with the dirt in her eyes and all. "Flaming well counts as a million, don't it? That lump weighs about that many million pounds."
<< Awesome, >> Sforzath agrees without stopping to consider what 'it' was, immediate enthusiasm expressed in a surge of quick beats, rat-a-tat-tatting the pace of his excitement. Without a pause, he carries on, << I went in the-- >> No word for it; instead, the sudden shot of a dragon's eye view of the caverns from their entrance, all bustling people, lights, colours, scents so strong they're nearly overpowering. <<-- and she chased me out. That was awesome too. >> Szadath's word sounds a bit stilted coming from Sforzath, despite his energy. "Glad he isn't big enough to do that to me yet," Riorde says, smiling as she comes to a stop just behind her brown. "Don't give him ideas."
Taikrin paws at her face a couple of times more, though she's really only just smearing the filth around. It's odd, though-- one of the dirt smudges on her cheek looks more like a three-day-old bruise. "Lucky thing for you they got memories of about five minutes. S'okay, though, Szad's full of brilliant ideas. Sure he'll be passin' 'em on in no time." Poor Taikrin, she's kind of bitter. << Did you get to eat any of it? >> He latches onto one of the scents with an ice-cold breeze, swirling it hypnotically around and around. << I'd eat that. I think it's burned meat. >> The gust of scent suddenly leads into an image of herdbeasts on fire, running madcap around the feeding grounds. << Did you catch your own, yet? >>
"I'll be sure to thank you. Him." Riorde makes the adjustment to include Szadath, encompassing him in her attention with a glance that is short but thoughtful; she looks at him in a different light than in previous encounters, looking at him now as if she sees him for the first time as what he really is. << No. >> Sforzath dips into a melancholic tone, a sudden low. << She chased me out, >> he repeats. << It smelled good. >> His tones are overlaid with the sure knowledge that it's just not /fair./ Until the herdbeasts distract him. << Soon, >> he promises, watching avidly. The flames strike his fancy; he makes them dance higher.
Flaming herdbeasts. He tweaks the image, adding a tiny little brown belching long tongues of flame in frantic chase behind one of those running meats. << A dragon should catch his own meat. >> Not teasing, or mocking, just-- stating facts. "He ain't started in on you, yet?" Because, to Taikrin, it's only a matter of time. "Guess he's still young, yet." She gets to her feet, grunting with effort, and finally smiles ruefully at Riorde. "Been okay?"
Sforzath opens his mouth and expels a puff of air, clearly expecting flame to follow. His disappointment weighs heavily when no such flame is forthcoming, and frustration storms up in a belch of acrid smoke-- he can make it in his mind, at least. "What great things I have to look forward to." Riorde picks up on her Sforzath's sudden temper and drops her gaze to him, coming forward until she can place her fingertips on his shoulder. "Yeah, we're okay," she answers, still looking at her dragon to begin with. Looking at Taikrin herself prompts a complaint. "There's just so many classes. Who cares if I can't name all the Holders?"
"Meara cares," Taikrin grunts. It has the sound of deep experience. "S'important, though, I guess. More important to know which ones are idiots and which ones help stock the good booze in the bars, though." She strolls around behind the brown with lanky grace, looking-but-not-touching. "Just gotta do enough to get through. The rest of it's way more important... drills, that sort of thing." Though Szadath doesn't have memories, exactly, of flaming, he can make a damn good extrapolation. << You need some 'stone, little guy. They don't let the hatchlings into the good stuff. >>
Riorde can't help it; she grimaces. "Bet she does," is given glumly. "They don't teach us that." Still keeping her hand on Sforzath, Riorde starts to rotate, following Taikrin with the pivoting of her body. She, also, looks but doesn't touch. "Haven't gotten to drills. Think it'll be much longer?" Still speaking about drills, for all intents and purposes -- except for the way she's following Taikrin with her eyes and the orientation of her body. Sforzath lets out another few puffs of smoke, but the harshness is dwindling, turning into something sweeter, softer.
"Nah, shouldn't be too long. Surprised they ain't got you studyin' 'em already. We were, awful early-like, but then Szadath was--" Taikrin isn't paying attention, at first; she's too busy eyeing the dragons. But when she looks up to meet Riorde's gaze, she sees something that cuts the ramble off mid-sentence. She tries for a smirk, then drops it into something a little more rueful. "Probably a while." It's not something she's particularly pleased about; she rubs again at what's definitely a bruise marring her cheekbone. Szadath threads his mind through the smoke again, playing curiously with the scents as they mingle with the crisp coldness that defines him. << What cool tricks can you do? >>
"We're learning who's who," Riorde seeks to clarify. "They just don't add the idiots part." She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed, and not because of her poor showing in the comprehensive exams. Dropping her gaze, Riorde rubs at the back of her neck, fingering her hair before she mutters, "I have to get a haircut tomorrow." A topic change if ever there was one. Glancing at Taikrin again, she switches tack a second time and gestures at her own cheek while asking, "What happened to you?" << Tricks? >> Sforzath either hasn't heard that word, or doesn't know how it operates; thinking hard, his the musky overtones of his incense smoke intensify.
"What?" Taikrin echoes, momentarily confused, before she realizes what it is she's doing. "Oh, this? Havin' too much fun, me. You know how it is." And just like that, she's switching the topic to something else herself. She finally comes to a halt beside Riorde, with that same looking-but-not-touching aspect. "Gotta get it cut short, yeah? Might suite you. You get to pick who does it, or is Meara or Leova or one of the others gonna come at you with a pair of shears in the night?" Szadath rumbles, full of smug self-satisfaction. << Tricks, >> he affirms. << Can you roll over in a tumble? Or climb on top of something tall? Or catch one of your brothers' tail? >>
"Oh, right." Riorde easily lets it go and lets Taikrin maintain her privacy. She looks down at Sforzath rather than stare at Taikrin's bruise, tracing the peaks and valleys of his neckridges with her fingers. "Yeah, said we have to have it out of our faces. I was thinking here." She lifts her hand and chops at her chin, looking at Taikrin to see what she thinks. "They didn't say it mattered who did it, so long as it was done." Sforzath moves out of his stillness almost immediately after Riorde removes her hand, as if it were the only thing keeping him in place. << I can catch them all, >> he affirms in a loud, proud burst, right before he tumbles into a sideways roll to prove a separate prowess. << Especially Amareth. She's slow. >>
"Might be cute," the elder brownrider allows with a lopsided smile. She ghosts a finger along the indicated line, tracing slowly backwards along the length of Riorde's hair. "Be easier, havin' it out of the way. Won't give... people... somethin' to grab on to, like." Szadath's attention briefly pings away from Sforzath. He catches the roll, but he's momentarily distracted. Then, << That's not a bad trick. You can do it in the air and come about very fast. Good for catching thread. And greens. >> His voice takes on a strange echo on that last note, and his touch briefly hardens and goes ice-cold. << Amareth. She's your sister. You should spend a lot of time learning to chase her. The best to catch are your clutchmates. >>
"You think so?" Riorde aims for detachment but her slow, pleased smile gives the lie. "I never minded longer hair before. Especially-- even if people could grab on." Her brown sprawls out of his roll, half on his side as he looks up at Szadath. << She's my sister, >> he agrees, confused but curious about the tone his older brother takes. << So is Yanijath. She's harder to catch. Next time I'll attack her before she can move. >> Sforzath's mind is awash is gleeful, violent hues, crimsons and oranges to match the brute force of his planned attack.
Taikrin doesn't actually seem to be much aware of what she's doing; or rather, she knows exactly what she's doing, but has forgotten why she really /shouldn't/. "Well, if it's a little shorter, you're gonna have to let someone get /real/ close before they can manage it." Sort of like how Taikrin is predatoring up next to the poor, defenseless weyrling. << It's good to surprise them, >> Szadath agrees, before his attention ping-pongs again. << The best kind of surprise. They like that. >> He gusts the cool breeze of his mind through the colors, matching violence for violence but threaded with something red-hot and glowing that Sforzath probably won't understand. The strand runs through the elder brown's mind, tying it to a green who's just woken with considerable agitation.
Riorde stands stock-still and straight, carrying her tension in her shoulders. "It'll grow out," she points out or promises. "Didn't say we have to keep it short forever. I've never had short hair." She brings her hand up to touch her hair, separating a strand and drawing it forward, fingering it. << They do? >> Still so innocent for all his violence, Sforzath latches on hungrily to lap up knowledge, even that which he doesn't comprehend. Yet. Soon.
Something in Taikrin finally pings on to what Szadath is throwing out there; she jerks back her hand as if burned, pulling back a stumbling step or two with a look of agitation. "The shells you think you're /doing/!" It's not Riorde she's demanding it of, but at the nearly vibrating brown. The look she shoots at Riorde is apologetic, and more than a little bit frustrated. "He's-- there's a green." Which Szadath is happy to share with Sforzath, at least by bleedover. << They do. I'm going to go surprise Aralath right now. >> Which, without preamble, he does. He drops into a crouch then shoots up into the air, rising quickly in pursuit of a bright green figure that's just dropped off a ledge. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-- fuck, I gotta go." And go she will-- but not before lunging in to press a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of Riorde's mouth.
"What?" Riorde doesn't differentiate at first, looking stung. Apology and explanation diminish her the immediate offense of her reaction, and her first impulse is to look at Sforzath. The dragon seems unperturbed, though Szadath's precipitous departure excites the smaller brown into activity. "Oh," Riorde says vaguely, attention split in the instant before Taikrin kisses her-- and then her head whips up in her surprise, and she stares after Taikrin until Sforzath claims her attention again. "Nothing, it's nothing," she assures the month-old dragon, who can't possibly understand his rider's response. She distracts him with, "Bet Yanijath's still up and out for you to play with."
Summary: Taikrin flirts with Riorde. She didn't mean to, really-- it's all Szadath's fault! Him and that shiny green!
NorCon MUSH = 8/28/2011
------------------------
Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake.
At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
Contents:
Sforzath
Riorde
Szadath(#1824Qabep$0)
Obvious exits:
[Sky] Guest Weyr Dragon Infirmary Weyrling Area [Dragon Baths] Feeding Grounds Craft Area Lake Shore West Bowl
It is a summer dusk, 20:48 of day 14, month 8, turn 26 of Interval 10.
>---< Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr: Glance >------------------------------<
NAME SEX AGE HT BUILD HAIR EYES IDLE
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Riorde F 21 5'7 thin dark brown green 9s
Taikrin F 25 5'6" lean dark brown brown 0s
--- Dragons ----------------------------------------------------------------
NAME COLOR AGE SHOULDER LENGTH WINGS RIDER
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sforzath brown 0.1 5.02' 7.49' 13.11' Riorde
Szadath brown 4.3 22.45' 33.50' 58.62' Taikrin
>----------------------------------< 2 people / 2 dragons / +glance/long >---<
The warm evening has brought many of the weyrfolk outside; dragons dot the bowl, sprawled in piles or individually. Szadath is without a green companion, though he doesn't seem to mind given the rapt attention he's giving his rider. "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine---" Pushups. She's doing pushups. Apparently Taikrin's been at it for a while, because her sleeveless shirt is damp with sweat, and there are streaks of dirt on her face and arms.
"Aren't you tired?" Riorde is no master at the whole talking silently to your dragon thing, especially not when the day is winding down, lessons are over, and concentration is low. Szadath, who had waited just outside the caverns all throughout dinner, ventured partway in before exclamations and chuckles brought Riorde out in consternation. "Go-- run around or something." She gestures futilely, an arm motion that encompasses Taikrin and draws the weyrling rider up short. After a pause, Riorde has another suggestion for how Sforzath can burn off steam. "Go say hi to that dragon."
The count continues, tireless, because Taikrin is kind of a machine. A sober machine, just at the moment, but still. Szadath looms over her, and then, oh so carefully reaches out the side of a talon to press down on the small of her back. The brownrider squawks with indignation, but then she's got a mouthful of dirt and all she can do is wretch and spit and try to clear it out of her mouth. Meanwhile, Szadath bellows his amusement, broadcasting widely with, << GOT YOU! >>
Sforzath, ball of energy, bounds towards the much larger brown, then pauses several feet off with sudden caution. He hunkers down but cranes his neck up, wings no longer flat along his back but half-mantled in anticipation. Though for what, even Riorde can't say; she's approaching the pair with her own brand of caution. "Does that one count?" she calls, still a-ways off.
Kind, considerate, gentle Szadath mantles his wings, stepping back to graciously allow Taikrin to pull herself out of the dirt while he considers his little brother. He twitches forward, hesitates, then lowers his head down to peer at the little brown. Still enthusiastically, << Did you see how I got her? It was pretty awesome. >> Taikrin manages to sit back on her haunches, groaning, and swipes a hand across her mouth. "Fuckin' shells." It takes her a minute to spot Riorde, what with the dirt in her eyes and all. "Flaming well counts as a million, don't it? That lump weighs about that many million pounds."
<< Awesome, >> Sforzath agrees without stopping to consider what 'it' was, immediate enthusiasm expressed in a surge of quick beats, rat-a-tat-tatting the pace of his excitement. Without a pause, he carries on, << I went in the-- >> No word for it; instead, the sudden shot of a dragon's eye view of the caverns from their entrance, all bustling people, lights, colours, scents so strong they're nearly overpowering. <<-- and she chased me out. That was awesome too. >> Szadath's word sounds a bit stilted coming from Sforzath, despite his energy. "Glad he isn't big enough to do that to me yet," Riorde says, smiling as she comes to a stop just behind her brown. "Don't give him ideas."
Taikrin paws at her face a couple of times more, though she's really only just smearing the filth around. It's odd, though-- one of the dirt smudges on her cheek looks more like a three-day-old bruise. "Lucky thing for you they got memories of about five minutes. S'okay, though, Szad's full of brilliant ideas. Sure he'll be passin' 'em on in no time." Poor Taikrin, she's kind of bitter. << Did you get to eat any of it? >> He latches onto one of the scents with an ice-cold breeze, swirling it hypnotically around and around. << I'd eat that. I think it's burned meat. >> The gust of scent suddenly leads into an image of herdbeasts on fire, running madcap around the feeding grounds. << Did you catch your own, yet? >>
"I'll be sure to thank you. Him." Riorde makes the adjustment to include Szadath, encompassing him in her attention with a glance that is short but thoughtful; she looks at him in a different light than in previous encounters, looking at him now as if she sees him for the first time as what he really is. << No. >> Sforzath dips into a melancholic tone, a sudden low. << She chased me out, >> he repeats. << It smelled good. >> His tones are overlaid with the sure knowledge that it's just not /fair./ Until the herdbeasts distract him. << Soon, >> he promises, watching avidly. The flames strike his fancy; he makes them dance higher.
Flaming herdbeasts. He tweaks the image, adding a tiny little brown belching long tongues of flame in frantic chase behind one of those running meats. << A dragon should catch his own meat. >> Not teasing, or mocking, just-- stating facts. "He ain't started in on you, yet?" Because, to Taikrin, it's only a matter of time. "Guess he's still young, yet." She gets to her feet, grunting with effort, and finally smiles ruefully at Riorde. "Been okay?"
Sforzath opens his mouth and expels a puff of air, clearly expecting flame to follow. His disappointment weighs heavily when no such flame is forthcoming, and frustration storms up in a belch of acrid smoke-- he can make it in his mind, at least. "What great things I have to look forward to." Riorde picks up on her Sforzath's sudden temper and drops her gaze to him, coming forward until she can place her fingertips on his shoulder. "Yeah, we're okay," she answers, still looking at her dragon to begin with. Looking at Taikrin herself prompts a complaint. "There's just so many classes. Who cares if I can't name all the Holders?"
"Meara cares," Taikrin grunts. It has the sound of deep experience. "S'important, though, I guess. More important to know which ones are idiots and which ones help stock the good booze in the bars, though." She strolls around behind the brown with lanky grace, looking-but-not-touching. "Just gotta do enough to get through. The rest of it's way more important... drills, that sort of thing." Though Szadath doesn't have memories, exactly, of flaming, he can make a damn good extrapolation. << You need some 'stone, little guy. They don't let the hatchlings into the good stuff. >>
Riorde can't help it; she grimaces. "Bet she does," is given glumly. "They don't teach us that." Still keeping her hand on Sforzath, Riorde starts to rotate, following Taikrin with the pivoting of her body. She, also, looks but doesn't touch. "Haven't gotten to drills. Think it'll be much longer?" Still speaking about drills, for all intents and purposes -- except for the way she's following Taikrin with her eyes and the orientation of her body. Sforzath lets out another few puffs of smoke, but the harshness is dwindling, turning into something sweeter, softer.
"Nah, shouldn't be too long. Surprised they ain't got you studyin' 'em already. We were, awful early-like, but then Szadath was--" Taikrin isn't paying attention, at first; she's too busy eyeing the dragons. But when she looks up to meet Riorde's gaze, she sees something that cuts the ramble off mid-sentence. She tries for a smirk, then drops it into something a little more rueful. "Probably a while." It's not something she's particularly pleased about; she rubs again at what's definitely a bruise marring her cheekbone. Szadath threads his mind through the smoke again, playing curiously with the scents as they mingle with the crisp coldness that defines him. << What cool tricks can you do? >>
"We're learning who's who," Riorde seeks to clarify. "They just don't add the idiots part." She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed, and not because of her poor showing in the comprehensive exams. Dropping her gaze, Riorde rubs at the back of her neck, fingering her hair before she mutters, "I have to get a haircut tomorrow." A topic change if ever there was one. Glancing at Taikrin again, she switches tack a second time and gestures at her own cheek while asking, "What happened to you?" << Tricks? >> Sforzath either hasn't heard that word, or doesn't know how it operates; thinking hard, his the musky overtones of his incense smoke intensify.
"What?" Taikrin echoes, momentarily confused, before she realizes what it is she's doing. "Oh, this? Havin' too much fun, me. You know how it is." And just like that, she's switching the topic to something else herself. She finally comes to a halt beside Riorde, with that same looking-but-not-touching aspect. "Gotta get it cut short, yeah? Might suite you. You get to pick who does it, or is Meara or Leova or one of the others gonna come at you with a pair of shears in the night?" Szadath rumbles, full of smug self-satisfaction. << Tricks, >> he affirms. << Can you roll over in a tumble? Or climb on top of something tall? Or catch one of your brothers' tail? >>
"Oh, right." Riorde easily lets it go and lets Taikrin maintain her privacy. She looks down at Sforzath rather than stare at Taikrin's bruise, tracing the peaks and valleys of his neckridges with her fingers. "Yeah, said we have to have it out of our faces. I was thinking here." She lifts her hand and chops at her chin, looking at Taikrin to see what she thinks. "They didn't say it mattered who did it, so long as it was done." Sforzath moves out of his stillness almost immediately after Riorde removes her hand, as if it were the only thing keeping him in place. << I can catch them all, >> he affirms in a loud, proud burst, right before he tumbles into a sideways roll to prove a separate prowess. << Especially Amareth. She's slow. >>
"Might be cute," the elder brownrider allows with a lopsided smile. She ghosts a finger along the indicated line, tracing slowly backwards along the length of Riorde's hair. "Be easier, havin' it out of the way. Won't give... people... somethin' to grab on to, like." Szadath's attention briefly pings away from Sforzath. He catches the roll, but he's momentarily distracted. Then, << That's not a bad trick. You can do it in the air and come about very fast. Good for catching thread. And greens. >> His voice takes on a strange echo on that last note, and his touch briefly hardens and goes ice-cold. << Amareth. She's your sister. You should spend a lot of time learning to chase her. The best to catch are your clutchmates. >>
"You think so?" Riorde aims for detachment but her slow, pleased smile gives the lie. "I never minded longer hair before. Especially-- even if people could grab on." Her brown sprawls out of his roll, half on his side as he looks up at Szadath. << She's my sister, >> he agrees, confused but curious about the tone his older brother takes. << So is Yanijath. She's harder to catch. Next time I'll attack her before she can move. >> Sforzath's mind is awash is gleeful, violent hues, crimsons and oranges to match the brute force of his planned attack.
Taikrin doesn't actually seem to be much aware of what she's doing; or rather, she knows exactly what she's doing, but has forgotten why she really /shouldn't/. "Well, if it's a little shorter, you're gonna have to let someone get /real/ close before they can manage it." Sort of like how Taikrin is predatoring up next to the poor, defenseless weyrling. << It's good to surprise them, >> Szadath agrees, before his attention ping-pongs again. << The best kind of surprise. They like that. >> He gusts the cool breeze of his mind through the colors, matching violence for violence but threaded with something red-hot and glowing that Sforzath probably won't understand. The strand runs through the elder brown's mind, tying it to a green who's just woken with considerable agitation.
Riorde stands stock-still and straight, carrying her tension in her shoulders. "It'll grow out," she points out or promises. "Didn't say we have to keep it short forever. I've never had short hair." She brings her hand up to touch her hair, separating a strand and drawing it forward, fingering it. << They do? >> Still so innocent for all his violence, Sforzath latches on hungrily to lap up knowledge, even that which he doesn't comprehend. Yet. Soon.
Something in Taikrin finally pings on to what Szadath is throwing out there; she jerks back her hand as if burned, pulling back a stumbling step or two with a look of agitation. "The shells you think you're /doing/!" It's not Riorde she's demanding it of, but at the nearly vibrating brown. The look she shoots at Riorde is apologetic, and more than a little bit frustrated. "He's-- there's a green." Which Szadath is happy to share with Sforzath, at least by bleedover. << They do. I'm going to go surprise Aralath right now. >> Which, without preamble, he does. He drops into a crouch then shoots up into the air, rising quickly in pursuit of a bright green figure that's just dropped off a ledge. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-- fuck, I gotta go." And go she will-- but not before lunging in to press a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of Riorde's mouth.
"What?" Riorde doesn't differentiate at first, looking stung. Apology and explanation diminish her the immediate offense of her reaction, and her first impulse is to look at Sforzath. The dragon seems unperturbed, though Szadath's precipitous departure excites the smaller brown into activity. "Oh," Riorde says vaguely, attention split in the instant before Taikrin kisses her-- and then her head whips up in her surprise, and she stares after Taikrin until Sforzath claims her attention again. "Nothing, it's nothing," she assures the month-old dragon, who can't possibly understand his rider's response. She distracts him with, "Bet Yanijath's still up and out for you to play with."