Log: Jekzith Chases Rielsath
Who: E'tyn, S'fox, X'lar, P'draig, N'thei, Lujayn, Niereth, Inorath, Malsaeth, Jekzith, Wyaeth, Rielsath, Leova, Vrianth, Niena, Masoth
When: 8/11/17
Where: Bowl/Feeding Pens/Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
What: Paddy's visiting family at the Reaches when Rielsath goes up. Jekzith chases and does not catch. After the flight, Paddy hangs out with Leova in the Bowl.
East Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#343RJs)
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.
Lujayn starts to shake her head, but water is at least a distraction from what she'd rather not think about. "If you have a skin.." She hardly greets X'lar, but includes him in the conversation as if he had always been there. "I wish there were more clouds." She confesses, nerves betrayed by her stone-still posture and monotone voice. As little effort as possible, now. No energy to spare.
Long lounging on one side of the Reaches bowl, Inorath rises slowly while his rider heads out of the caverns with a couple of passengers for pick-up. Squinting in the light of outdoors, S'fox pauses to find his dragon amid the bowl, then points that way and sets off, his expression slowly growing concerned the closer he gets to his dragons. The other people with him look a little confused themselves, especially when S'fox just shakes off their questions about what's wrong, what's going on.
"We'll get a skin." Leova absents herself only long enough to set down the oil pot at the base of the cliff, and then she's back to Lujayn, protectively near but not too near. Takes a deep breath. And, if they're going to ask questions, starts telling people what to do: "You in it for the haul?" Her attention may be mostly with her clutchmate, but it swings up to survey X'lar. "Then put that book away. Straps off your bronze." A taller man's walking by: she doesn't bother looking at his knot, snaps her fingers at him. "Water for her, please. Now."
Niena heads over to her clutchmates, standing protectively by Lujayn. "Water, or something stronger? I can always run into the Snowasis for you." She gives Leova a glance which is at once a question and a statement.
X'lar's breath catches as he watches and listens to Lujayn, concern flashing over his face in distinct, if slightly addled, recognition of the event. But soon, that concern's replaced with sterner stuff as he hears Leova. "Better believe it," X'lar answers her prompt with absolute certainty. "It's /Lu/." And soon, the Istan is jogging back to Malsaeth, hands practically ripping off his dragon's straps. The book's thrust into the messenger bag, probably ripping a few pages in the process of doing so. He turns around now, walking back and looking to the newly arrived with narrowed eyes. "Bloody well better not touch-" comes X'lar's next comment, his hand digging into one of his jacket pockets and taking out a meatroll.
Lujayn would normally be amused at Leova's attitude, but nothing much seems to get her attention today. Rielsath isn't much aware herself, though from time to time the gold shifts to one side or the other. Lu winces at each shift, each little move bringing her closer to wakening, willing to let the world move around her rather than move herself. The summer sun is without mercy, hardly a cloud drifting by to cast itself over Rielsath's slumbering form. Rays beat down and she stirs more noticeably, a growl of discontent beginning even before the young queen awakes. A subtle haze rises up from her basking spot on the rim, heat waves glimmering and adding to the glow. "Shouldn't I go?" Lu wonders out loud, though it's quiet and not aimed at anyone in particular.
Exiting from the lower caverns across the way, E'tyn's sure-footed steps carry him across the bowl to where Niereth's leonine grace ripples across muscles at ready. "Ready?" asks the bronzerider, voice quiet, a steadying hand lifted to brace himself against his dragon's side to vault up. Then, a pause; his clenched hand at the leather straps whitening reflexively. Without a verbalized word, bronze and rider looking to each other, E'tyn relaxes and takes a step back, a nod deferential to his dragon. Then tall, lanky man turns, his scar-whitened face seeking faces of any kind and landing bovinish questioning eyes on Leova. "Water?" Was that to him?
P'draig comes up from the lake, with, incongruously, his daughter up on his shoulders, walking along with Emilly and chatting back and forth. Looks like they were just swimming, damp hair and all, but everyone's dressed and the path the little group is on seems to be heading for the lower caverns. It's Emilly who puts a hand on P'draig's arm and nods across the Bowl and Paddy stops mid-sentence, blinks once as he touches base with Jekzith and inhales sharply. The Fortian brownrider reaches up to swing Palia down and pass her off to his mother. "I'll see if I can keep him down," he murmurs in an undertone, tousles the little girl's hair then moves off towards where Jekzith hunkers in the Bowl, tail swishing back and forth. Meanwhile Emilly moves off with her granddaughter, meeting Sionath several paces away. Green, rider and child vanish up to a high ledge in the Bowl wall while P'draig's stride takes on more purpose as he nears his brown, his gaze flicks briefly over towards Lujayn and his face is a mask of mixed emotions, concern foremost among them.
Still at Lujayn's shoulder, Leova shakes her head briefly at Niena. "She's had a lot of sun. Best to keep a clear head." And then there's a nod to go with it, reading her look, until she gets that question and has to refocus: actually /at/ the blond man this time, up and up, landing on his face with just a flick of attention for his scars. And then the knot. And back to his face again. "Relax," she tells him after all. "Not your worry. Niena will handle it." At least, that's what she's counting on, as she turns away, back to Lujayn again. "Your weyr," she says to the young goldrider, like a prompt. "Unless it's easier by the pens, reminding her to blood. Whatever you and Satiet came up with. It's going to be fine."
Rielsath is deadly still, the pause full of predatory tension rather than languor - when did she waken? Did anyone catch that? In one breath she unfurls those transparent wings, limbs tensing and body poising on the edge of her blistering roost, horribly awake and knowing of a deep thirst. There is no ceremony to her departure, a single-minded leap, course set straight for the feeding grounds. Lujayn's eyes follow Rielsath as she flies, and something clicks inside the goldrider at long last. Legs work, mouth set in a thin line, and she's running for the closest sanctuary she knows, the guest weyr.
Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
This broad ledge is dappled with bright light in the morning and commands a lovely view of the eastern end of the bowl, including the lake and the trees that dot the shoreline. Reached by a flight of stone steps that climb up from the bowl floor, the ledge is relatively low, an easy jump down to the ground; possibly its selection was a safety precaution, so anyone stumbling out the wrong way after a flight would be unlikely to break his or her neck. Within the weyr itself is a comfortably-sized dragon wallow, rarely used but swept clean nonetheless.
The cavern broadens as it stretches back away from the entrance to reveal a neatly made double-sized bed pushed up against the back wall, a press at its foot with an extra blanket folded on top of it and two chairs standing guard to either side of the hearth. A rectangular table lurks against the side wall, kept stocked with a pitcher of water and a basket of seasonal fruits. The weyr is well-lit and kept immaculately clean, the refreshing scents of citron-infused sweetsand mingling with the tang of herbs.
Jekzith> Up on the star stones, there's Wyaeth, being irritated that all these dragons keep showing up in his Weyr, a flare of dusty wings to greet each arrival throughout the day. By the time Rielsath makes for the feeding grounds, he's just about had it, snarls at one of the Reaches own blues who's actually supposed to be on watchduty. He hesitates, a silhouette against the sky, so near the edge of the star stones. It would be /so/ easy just to drop down, just to blood, just to chase, and why shouldn't he? --Teonath left already, right?
Jekzith> Rielsath is already zeroing in on her goal even as the males catch up to her. There is little acknowledgement for others or their intentions, a trace of her earlier sleep prevailing in a momentary pause - but that vanishes abruptly as she twists downwards and swoops onto the first lumbering beast in her sights - thankfully a bovine and not a fellow dragon.
Jekzith> Jekzith has been peacably sitting in the Bowl, strapless, for most of the afternoon, chatting with Sionath and whomever else happens along while his rider gets in some family time. And then, there's that sense of restless unease floating around and he focuses on it more and more, looking up at the Rim where Rielsath so recently lay. Tension thrums through the lean brown as he watches her and her leap brings him to his feet. He stands still though as his rider reaches him, stands there and the push-pull between them might almost be visible in the air. This time, it's the rider who breaks, P'draig's head bowing as Jekzith suddenly takes off, arrowing into the feeding pens, a long streamlined shape looping after a first beast, with an eager flick of his tail, eyes bright violet already as he takes the animal down with a sharp crack of its neck.
Still trying to hold on to this doozy, this flight, X'lar takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, then opens them. "You can handle this, Lu," X'lar says to the goldrider, repeating himself from another time. "You can handle anything." It seems enough to steel him for the walk into the guest weyr, his gait already growing somewhat lazy. A hand rises, meatroll. Eat. He moves to that rectangular table, the one with the food, leaning effortlessly despite his free hand already holding himself steady.
Niena wanders in with the water skin Leova prompted her to get. She quickly hands it to her clutchmate and begins to say something, then clamps her mouth shut. She turns and heads out to where Leova is.
Dragon> She'd been sleeping earlier, but her waking draws Jekzith's thoughts like a magnet, listening, taking her in. His memories of their last encounter when she was just new are a little dim. Since then it's only been the odd polite exchange in passing when P'draig visits the Reaches. Now though, he has visions for her, visions of fast flight and her wings shimmering in the sun, wordless admiration, the sharing of excitement over what's about to transpire. The air awaits up above, waits to carry them, speed, wind, glory. (Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Malsaeth arrives in the feeding grounds with a riotous sound bellowed from deep from his throat. His spark-like covered wings take him hovering over the feeding grounds and then suddenly darting downward to the bleating beasts about to be blooded by the multitudes of Rielsath's suitors. It is the loudest squealing beast the crimson chased bronze catches. The bleating mercifully stops when Malsaeth jugulates it. Heavy drops of blood appear to be almost ritualistically thrown to the right and left of him and soon he begins to blood like there is no tomorrow. The bronze drinks from the beast in a bloody bacchinalia, reveling in it all, but not without keeping an eye on that sunfire gold.
Jekzith> Forget his passengers; both Inorath and S'fox abandon them unceremoniously, the latter for the feeding grounds, the former for the guest weyr in pursuit of what he presumes must be the lucky goldrider today. Inorath meanwhile lands in the feeding grounds with a heavy thump and a swipe of paw that mostly clips the terrified herdbeast and sends it limping away as fast as it can: not fast enough in the end, because Inorath's next sharp motion snags it good, dragging it back over to him for real blooding.
Lujayn holds tight to the waterskin, neglecting to actually open it. The first chair she sees is /hers/, the goldrider sitting rather suddenly and possessively filling the space. Y'all can go somewhere else if you want to sit. The waterskin, apparently now a security item, is clasped in both hands while Lu surveys the room.
Jekzith> Ready. Aware. A predator with his prey in sight, Niereth's broad-built frame pushes easily off the bowl, over the fence of the pens, and down with a languid flick of his tail to fell his first kill and swipe casually at a brown who's in the way. While is rider might be radiating nerves, this Fortian bronze is in his element, crimson twining with lavender in his eyes and as the shadow of a dragon overhead distracts him from the festival of flowing blood, a haughty light brightens his eyes. A challenge, a sly invitation up to that irrate, undecided bronze high up.
Dragon> Little more than a harsh, dry wind and merciless sun are here for Jekzith to admire, sand and rock baked bone-dry in the desert. It's all heat, all light, no shade to hide in and no words to offer insight. (Rielsath to Jekzith)
P'draig is on the losing end of the battle of wills with Jekzith and he passes a hand over his face, looks back towards Lujayn and the cluster of folks around her. Recognition in his eyes for Leova and he lifts a hand briefly her way. The stream of riders heading for the guest weyr turns his steps in that direction and he waits until most of the others are inside before climbing the stairs. This makes him one of the last in and the bit of wall he fetches up against is relatively near the exit. "Lu," is all he says, the word quiet as he passes the goldrider, gives her a nod and an encouraging look, scans the cavern full of riders.
Dragon> To Rielsath, Jekzith squints against the bright light, but drinks in that heat, even as a whispering breeze drifts away from him, technicolor and sparking towards that heated landscape. There's perhaps the possibility of relief in it, but not yet, not yet. They've so much to do first, so high to fly. And she's the one leading that charge, leading the challenge and he's waiting for it. Waiting to see if his wings can match hers, do they both have what it takes?
Arriving on the heels of everyone else, but not without a backward glance for that amber-eyed rider and where she might go, E'tyn's lanky shoulders roll back even as he pitches forward to seek refuge in the shadows of the guest weyr. Turning to the voice, the one that speaks a name or part of one 'Lu', P'draig comes into his sight, and from the Fortian brownrider, E'tyn turns to seek Lu; the face by Leova so soon found in the nearest chair. Impassivity breaks when he finds the chair-possessive goldrider, a flare of sympathy overriding briefly the beginnings of dragon-lust haze, he stays where he is, standing by P'draig. "Lu?" he queries lowly of the weyrlingmaster.
Lujayn bites on her lip, muttering - struggling one way or the other with her queen, all vestiges of self-control employed to keep still and quiet. "Blood it, damn you, don't be a stupid wherry," Along with several colorful words. "They'll get you if you don't, they'll be fast and you won't..."
Jekzith> A challenge met with a broody snort, a dismissive rumble, and Wyaeth paces back and forth and back and forth. Aw-- what's the worst that can happen? Gravel sprays around him like buckshot when he scrapes off the ledge of the star stones, when he barrels whip-quick to the edge of the feeding grounds, that lead-footed landing pinning down a doe with a rush of stupid stupid glee. After all, Rielsath's his own daughter, who'd know her better? He should be a shoe-in!
Jekzith> What do they want? Teeth bared in a low hiss of warning, talons sunk deeply into the belly of her kill, Rielsath stops just short of tearing into the hot flesh. Her next hiss is more violent, head thrown back to the sky and soon screeching at some unseen mind, lunging for the neck of the beast after a tense moment of silence. The blood runs hot and fresh, and soon she's forgotten all about the meat waiting just under her talons. Drinking her fill with a wary eye to the browns and bronzes around her, the glowing gold all but ignores them.
E'tyn's query lifts P'draig's gaze from the slender goldrider, gray-blue eyes still mostly his own, sympathy, concern, caring all directed at her, but fading to puzzlement first as he focuses on the former Telgari Weyrleader. "Lujayn," he tells the bronzerider. "She's from Fort. Born and raised. Good friend." And his gaze slides away from Niereth's, back to Lu herself, arms folding across chest, hands clasping elbows.
Jekzith> With more joining in, Inorath is quick to possessively swipe another herdbeast down even before he finishes the first, lest they all get gotten before he gets around to it. When he does finish the first, a quick flip of his head sends the creature sliding away while he takes up the next for more furious blooding.
X'lar runs a hand through his hair slowly, seemingly still trying to brace himself as the blooding continues just outside. But nothing can stop him from eating his meatroll, apparently. A glance is given to P'draig, and suddenly, something like recognition flashes across his face. Steeling himself further, he finishes off the pastry and nods to himself, murmuring something under his breath that seems to bolster him. Even if he does look like a Baker with the number of crumbs on his jacket. "Lu," he finally murmurs, watching her in that chair. There's a smile that appears when he hears her though, a lazy kind of smile. "That's it," Xie drawls. A glance is given to the others in the room, bluish gray eyes narrowing in direct contradiction to that lazy look to his body as he leans against that table.
Jekzith> One down, one more to go. Feigning a lack of attention to where Rielsath is at least with eyes fixated onto herdbeast number two, that he's all too aware carries in the lean of his muscles, the turn and lift of one large shoulder to favor wherever Rielsath is and lands and where she bloods. The regal bearing of his broad frame kens to where High Reaches' winter sunfire queen moves, a lord quietly awaiting his lady's desires.
Jekzith> Jekzith is busily taking care of business in the feeding pens. His first kill discarded, the loose-limbed brown nimbly tackles another, again swift to the kill and drinking deep while he tracks Rielsath out of the corners of his eyes. Maple-hued wings flutter, catching the light of the afternoon sun, eager for flight, for wind, for the strain of getting up there already. It's all about the flying after all. Isn't it?
Jekzith> Malsaeth dashes his next herdbeast's skull against the ground in some cruel fashion. It only takes one time to stun it, paralyze it enough so that his char-black talons may rip into the flesh to get to the blood. Rather than do his ritual of spreading the drops of blood to the right then left, he instead bloods as much as he can without sending any astray. This one, this beast, is his for the taking. All of the blood is his, marring that ash-mask on his angled maw with it. Rielsath's own glowing body, those sharpened neckridges, receive another look from the ruddy hued bronze, ready and waiting, now.
Jekzith> Luck. Luck is for sad fools who can't win otherwise. Wyaeth's cocky confidence defines every bucking movement, every wing-flip, every talon-scrape, every guzzle, every warning growl for the fools that come too near the claim he's staked to a pinned cluster of herdbeasts stuck between his rangy self and the fenceline. /His/ herdbeasts, /his/ Weyr, /his/ daughter, and his malevolence is getting a little over-the-top.
Jekzith> First beast dry, Rielsath aims for the closest meal and launches herself in a short leap -watch where you're going, Wyaeth! Sire or not, she's annoyed by the encroaching males, and her near collision with the bronze on her single-minded hunt - more the fault of her ignorance than his actions - is the last straw. Rielsath can no longer ignore those around her, no matter how much she'd like to try. As quick on the draw as she was from the rim to feeding grounds, Rielsath swerves away from the hunt and reaches for the wide open sky, the summer sun matching her brilliance. No more of this silly game, chasing beasts around. She's ready for the real deal, pale wings stretching wide to welcome the cloudless blue expanses.
Jekzith> From the feeding grounds, Of course Wyaeth isn't one of those sad fools who need luck to win. Of course not. Niereth certainly doesn't think so. And then they're off, his quick, leonine grace propelling himself up quickly after the young gold with outstretched wings of citrine, maneuvering past Wyaeth as quick and deliberately near as he might and into the skies.
Jekzith> From the feeding grounds, Niereth launches up towards the sky.
Jekzith> Jekzith drinks one last mouthful from that beast and then, there she goes. His lean form gathers for the spring, waiting a moment as a larger bronze takes up his immediate airspace and then he launches upward, sneaking under bronze wings with an agile twist. He's smaller, faster than the bigger dragons, but not so small that he hasn't got staying power if he needs it. Bundle of energy that he is, once he's looped around that first obstacles, his wings snap wide and beat fast to carry him up and up. This is the game, speed and agility and maybe a little smarts, but right now he's only focusing on the fun of it. Hot sun gleaming on hide, gold, bronze, brown, wind rushing to match the rush of ichor in the veins. His joy for that leap for the maneuvers so far radiates outward as the Fortian brown sets a course for Rielsath's sun.
Jekzith> Wyaeth teeters, tumbles, scatters his collected herd in his haste not to collide with Rielsath. She's up, and he's trying hard to recover and get his legs under him and his wings stretched. He does reach a claw toward Niereth-- come here, little boy-- while he makes that jump aloft. But there's a problem: he's not chasing her, not like he should be, uttering a guttural roar and tearing himself off of a pack that hasn't even formed yet. Below, shoving his shirt into his pants, taking the steps two at a time, the cause of his dragon's sudden quit comes striding across the bowl, angry as ever. Diatribe.
Jekzith> Malsaeth finishes one, and rips into the next. This seeming to be his element despite it being a foreign place. Not so foreign, maybe. He sends the blooded carcass of his last, with his skull caved in toward another, overpowering it in mere moments as his maw rips into it and sucks its very life away. BUt soon, oh so soon, that revelry shifts toward the brilliant sky above High Reaches, making him vault into the sky like fire. He won't be left behind, even if he does fly lower than most. The others? Those suitors chasing too? They receive no looks. Only the streamlined figure of the wintry gold receives his attention as he dives lower and rises higher, finding that right spot to chase after her glowing form.
Dragon> Following on that wider joyous broadcast, Jekzith's focus narrows to reach Rielsath again, mind buoyant, full of a tumult of colors and sparks, possibilities. There's free and clear air up there, the kind you can slice through like a ship's prow through waves, nothing to impede any trick or turn of wings or tail. Can she make it all.the.way.up.there? A whisper of crazed barrel-rolls and wingtip turns flashes through his mind towards her. What .they. could do up there. Just for fun. (Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Rielsath wastes no time gaining height, streamlined and flying like a golden arrow. Her straight path begins to waver as the feeding grounds grow smaller and smaller below her and the thrill of outdistancing these flocking males seizes her mind. Was she ever cold, the queen from the snowy mountains? The images for her chasers are all the same, a harsh desert with a beating sun dominant, no end in sight to the parched landscape, burning crimson rock and cracked, thirsty earth, inhospitable and even malicious to unwary travelers.
Jekzith> Winner! Well, not of Rielsath's glowing charms, but when Wyaeth gets dragged down by the angry diatribe of his rider, Niereth can't help but crow a smug bugle into the sky. It fuels his competitive streak, pushing him towards the heights the young gold aims towards, his citrine wings beating heavily against the churning winds brought on by countless male bodies and the Reachian summer winds. His lengthy body stretches at all points, wings wider, neck forward, tail slamming backwards to push into the face of a would-be amorous brown. Without the distraction of goading Wyaeth, Niereth refocuses his determination on the wavering, hazy, nigh invisible horizon at the far end of that harsh desert.
Jekzith> So it's to be a race it seems. Jekzith can do racing and he tosses himself into it gleefully as Rielsath puts on the speed to try to leave them all in the dust. He swings from side to side a little, dodging bigger males, lifting higher to find a free channel to call his own, an open path that will let him sprint after her as she sprints away from them. That harsh landscape deters him not one whit and its heat in fact seems to energize him all the more, though there's a rumor of water in his mind, iridescent bubbles that could float out over that parched earth and quench its thirst if called. A drop of one wing tilts the motley brown sideways as an unwary bronze cuts across his path and he slips around, pushes onward, only one goal in sight.
Jekzith> Malsaeth wastes no time in rising to the middle of the pack. A small brown from Ierne is given a bellow from that oft adventurous sly bronze, once again from the depths of his throat, making it that much more jarring for the other dragon. The small brown, distraught at the sudden sound, shifts in the sky and changes his flight pattern, which Malsaeth innocently takes advantage of, moving smoothly like a lance of fire through the sky as his angular body rolls into better position to chase after Rielsath. All the better to keep his eyes on that glowing gold's bouyant frosted sails. His thoughts remain a deluge of rain to nurture that barren landscape, a hurricane of lust seemingly appearing as the rain and wind picks up.
Jekzith> Banking sharply as the pack assembles more closely behind her, Rielsath rises ever upwards to meet the beating sun with a flippant twist of her tail. She's not going to fool around; even in flight the youthful gold isn't much of a tease. If they think they can catch her merely by being swifter or stronger than her, they have another thing coming altogether. Still, it's hard to resist using her newfound wiles, and today is all about temptation. An enticing croon turns to more of a feral bugle as she catches a glimpse of a smaller falling behind, egging them on just because she can. Wings adjust, and all at once she's rolling through the sky, completely enamored of the scorching sun and its promise of freedom.
Jekzith> Jekzith bursts upward through clear blue, punching through Reaches' airspace, mind a livewire from speed and that sense from Rielsath of love for the sun, for freedom. It's a heady mix as he almost twirls upward, aiming for the ruddy glow of Rukbat. The sun has mysteries of its own to share if you play with it. Turn this way and pop, a dragon could almost vanish in its light, create the illusion of absence where there is presence. One could. And where the sun leads, does anyone know? The brown winds around an errant sunbeam, using it as a guide to propel him onward after Rielsath, her fire, her sun, her promise. What could be.
Jekzith> On that desert horizon lies a glimmering light, and onto that glimmering light Niereth attaches himself wholeheartedly. Or tries, maybe Wyaeth did succeed with that outstretched claw, for the once Telgari bronze falters, his wing beats slowing as he goes quickly from near the front of the pack to the middle, and from there further and further behind. Is it that youth wins over age that he loses his wind?
Jekzith> Malsaeth isn't one to be challenged by one mere flip of a playful forked tail. He ain't fooling around either, it seems, as with every beat of his wings, he seems to slide into the right position for him, cleverly angling himself by trying smarter tactics to propel himself forward, faster. He's not the largest nor is he the smallest, not in this pack, but he uses what Faranth gave him to do what he needs to do. Challenging him with that feral bugle only makes him that much more steadfast in his choices, his body, every hardened muscle moving together as to fly after the glowing figure of the athletic Rielsath. It is his carefully achieved movement, that rolling into place for the next move, that burst of speed, that seems to make him that much more consumed by the draconic desire of the sun, that fire, that glow. Rielsath.
Jekzith> Right there in the middle of the pack all along, that's Inorath. Undistinguished so far, he barrels along with no grace but enough stubbornness to make up for most of his lack of crack flying. In the close quarters, his size isn't much of an asset, though, and leaves him shouldering onward, struggling to break free, get some altitude and some breathing room. Climb higher, up toward the open air--and not at all coincidentally, Rielsath's own path.
Dragon> Does she know what's at the end of this race? What secrets there are to find when she gets there? Jekzith laid out a trail of bubbles for her to follow once before, to lead her on to a secret beneath the waves of Fort's lake. Here now he has other hints to offer, that tip about the sun, and yet there's still that thirst to quench. And how will she? He has ideas. Oh he has ideas. Such ideas. Another flash of possibilities all wound around with the wind's caress. Temptation offered in return for hers, answers for what it is she seeks in the sky so high, up against the sun. (Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Rielsath comes out of the barrel roll just a little slower, a little more tired, but she notes nothing but the audacious males - always a little closer, a little more threatening. The blinding glint of gold off her body could be the sun itself, luring chasers down the wrong path if they're not careful. She presses onward with every fiber of her being, snowy pale wings lit to hot white sails by her own glow, each 'ridge a lethal blade ready to wound the unwary. Her tail lashes and she takes an abrupt swoop downwards, finding a thermal that takes her up again just as quickly, gaining momentum from the scooping dive. Almost there, just almost. A dry crackling in her mind, the very earth on fire though there are no signs of scrub to burn. Smoke obscures her mind, still hiding from the prying chasers. Just a little more is all she needs, that last inch of sky.
Jekzith> Indeed something is wrong with Niereth, as from dead last he then falls to a sad little drop to the ground. And shortly, his rider exits the guest weyr, hurried and looking markedly less stressed.
Jekzith> Jekzith flips over, echoing that roll, wings pulled close and then snapping out again, mirroring Rielsath from a bit behind and slightly above. Her thermal lofts her up above him in turn and he cants sideways, looking for it, looking for it and pop, up he goes, wingsails spread wide to catch the lift. Tricky, tricky, she's using the light and her mind is hidden by that camouflage of smoke. Where is Rielsath? It's a game, a quest an adventure to find her. A whisper of clear blue, just up there, just off to the side sneaks out of the brown's mind, winding through smoky obfuscation. Here's the air and clear light of the sun. And he's making tracks for it himself, the last inch of sky to share. With her.
Jekzith> Malsaeth doesn't seem that fooled by the allure that which could be the sun or not. His wings, covered in sparks of a smoldering fire beat hard and fast now, his cleverness achieving its maximum. But soon, Malsaeth is unable to further contain the energy coursing through him (if he had ever tried), Malsaeth now spends it in an all-or-nothing attempt to catch that glowing sunfire gold in his sights. Every draconic desire in his angled, muscular body seems to propel him forward, fueled by the very inferno of his desire for Rielsath. His wings, tail, and entire body stretch, ache, extending to their limits if not beyond them. As such, he pushes himself harder than ever as that blazing masquerade bronze aches for that adventurous wintry gold in the sky. His one chance. His /only/ chance. To show his spirit. That hurricane of his in his mind spreads forth, hoping to send that smoke of hers away. The thoughts of rain against that scorched barren landscape intensify. Malsaeth attempts that which he undeniably wants most of all: to be with /Rielsath/.
Dragon> Here. Right here. Jekzith's got an answer to that possible puzzle, air, free and clear to fly in. A soothing breeze winds towards scorched earth offering the possibility of relief. She hides and he seeks, but they could find each other high above, beyond cracked ground and concealing smoke. And together they could spill out the water to ease thirst. He has this much to offer if she chooses, if she can catch him as much as he might catch her. Together.(Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Inorath isn't capable of such flips and turns--straight flying's his limit, as he strains every muscle to keep up. He doesn't dive, either, not trying to mimic her every move; instead, he looks ahead to where he thinks she's come up, and he aims for there, shortcutting to cut her off if he can. Style, not so much, but it's a move designed to get the job done, his wings, talons, neck and tail, all extending to reach for the gold he expects, hopes, to turn up.
Jekzith> Struggling to hold on to the open sky, refusing to realize that she's losing even a tiny bit of ground against her ardent chasers, Rielsath rumbles with annoyance as she senses first one, then another male close on her tailtip. She lashes her tail in warning, turning hard to avoid being caught on the predictability of a straight line. Her wings tremble, the first hints of bitter snow sliding into her desert landscape, frozen diamonds appearing and disappearing so quickly. The turn quickly becomes another, a tight spiral that steers the young gold on a course to meet her assailants head-on. Realizing the mistake and attempting one more turn to make up for it, angling off to one side as bronze and brown wings fill the sky, there's the barest touch of a wingtip, or was it a tail? The one touch is enough to break the dried, brittle armor surrounding Rielsath's mind and set free the tired creature within, letting the floodwaters pour in and wash away her pains. Icy gold wings tangle with the bronze embers of Malsaeth's sails, burning cold and hot all at once. Caught.
Jekzith> Jekzith gives it his all, angling to meet Rielsath as she turns back towards the males. As she tangles with Malsaeth he breaks off hard, wheeling fast through the sky and drops away, diving, diving for a splashdown in Reaches' lake.
P'draig draws a sudden breath and runs a hand over his face, lost this little while in Jekzith's mind in the to and fro of the flight. He pushes away from the wall, maybe a hint of relief along with regret in his expression as he goes back out the way he came back in with just the briefest backward look at Lu. Everything'll be all right. And then he's out and gone.
East Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#343RJs)
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.
But Leova doesn't have the wine, and the foreigner's headed her way, even just a step's worth. But then, they've already covered the problems of focus for those who haven't had the wine. Yet. So she gives Heckan the eye, but while Millie might be able to get away with it, it's not working here, the baker making as though he's oblivious. Which means: destination, intercept, the better to try and pass off the waterskin as wine /just long enough/ because here come the troops: from the living caverns' main entrance, so a while away yet, but they're coming. Wine! Groupies! Some of them in bodices!
And in the meantime, there are bakers with platters. Meatrolls. And cake. Let them eat cake. But the wine, it is a-comin'.
P'draig makes it most of the way down the steps without a stumble. The last one catches up his feet though and he has to lean against the wall down below, hand to eyes. No groupies here. The brownrider pulls himself together and makes tracks for the lake where Jekzith has sent up a mighty splash of water.
E'tyn makes a bee-line for the wine and after a swig from a skin shoved into his hands, fails to ogle bodices (and likely fails at being a bronzerider thus), and makes his way to Niereth. His efforts at leaving, this time, are a little more successful, but instead of going between in the sky, it's a long, cold straight flight for the pair.
Down the steps comes S'fox, right along with the rest of the forlorn uncatchers, with their dazed and slack-jawed expressions. S'fox fits right in as he heads vaguely toward a bronze shape--not Inorath, he discovers shortly when he gets enough thought together to actually look at the dragon. A tired-sounding rumble from his own bronze sends S'fox heading that way instead, chagrin on hold for the moment until he drags himself up on the dragon and scoots home himself, post-haste.
It's back into the lake for P'draig, a trail of clothing left behind and a dive into cooling water, a swim out to Jekzith where Fort's Weyrlingmaster remains, hands cupping water up and over motley brown sides.
Coiled-up Vrianth looks around, and after a moment so does her rider. "Not getting nearly as messy as it could," she says to Niena, with approval this time instead of missing-the-chance-for-a-show. "Think I'll just... be right back. No sense in a repeat." She abandons the shelter of Vrianth, dodging a few stray people along the way, to get to the base of the cliff where Malsaeth's straps and bag are: it takes some rearranging of the unwieldy leather, but eventually she gets it all over her shoulder and starts hiking for the guest ledge, there to abandon it all in a pile and leave just as promptly.
A little while later, half-dressed at least, a damp P'draig makes the trek back up from the lake looking a lot more ... present. Jekzith's left on the lake shore curled up for a nap in the sun. He dodges another helpful groupie and instead approaches Leova and Niena, a wry grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "No extra chair this time?" he tells Vrianth's with good humor enough.
Leova, only just returned, gets to turn around and doubletake: maybe not used to meeting the shirtless-and-dripping-a-bit version of P'draig, assuming that /is/ the correct half. Which means it takes an extra moment to realize, and laugh. "Bound to be some in there. Wine, too? And pretty sure there was cake going around."
P'draig laughs too, gives a little shake of his head. "Not aiming to get soused," the brownrider claims as he slings his shirt on, water damping the fabric almost right away. "Cake though, now that's tempting," he notes with a low chuckle. His eyes close for a moment, a deep breath taken and when they open again there's a faint haze to them, but still that twinkle of merriment to be found. "How's things?" he asks the greenrider, apparently in no hurry to shove off, for cake, wine or anything else.
"No idea what kind, though," Leova admits. "They weren't yelling that part. Or is any kind of cake the tempting kind?" She leans a shoulder into Vrianth, doesn't look at him too warily. "Things are... things are good," she says. "Happy for Lu, too: you two were friends, weren't you? Do you still keep up?"
"I'm a little pickier than 'any', might still be worth finding out though," P'draig answers and wipes at his face where water droplets have seeped down from his hairline. "Glad to hear that," the brownrider says with a nod and he looks up towards the guest weyr, blows out a short breath. "Happy because Rielsath finally went up, or because the right dragon caught her?" he asks next, as he starts pushing buttons through button-holes. "Are friends, yep," he confirms. "Known her since she was a kid. Keep up a little, not as much the past few months with Weyrlings at Fort."
"Those," Leova agrees, tacking on a, "No offense." She adds after a moment, "And a good day for it. She had at least a little warning. Didn't see any ichor spilled... how was the weyr? Clean flight?"
"None taken," P'draig answers readily. "Better if he's who she'd have wanted, me ... would've been awkward later," he murmurs softly though his eyes are on that not-so-distant ledge again. "Hm? Oh yeah, no bumps. Jekzith just put a lot into it. He and Rielsath shared a moment or two when she was younger. Always kind of hooks him more. Probably why I couldn't keep him on the ground." A what-can-you-do shrug follows.
"They're young and very..." Leova hesitates. "Head-over-heels? So there's that." She reaches up just as Vrianth's wing is descending, closes her fingers very gently over its sail. "And glad, about Jekzith being all right and all. Don't suppose you were around last time a queen went up around here." /That/ time. Unlikely, but who knows?
That brings a warm smile to P'draig's face. "/That/ is good to hear. Lu was lonely sometimes it seemed," Paddy murmurs thoughtfully and looks over at Vrianth, amusement for that descending sail. "No, not that time," P'draig says with a shake of his head. "And Ciath's last was uneventful though Zahava had trouble holding her back in her maiden."
Leova's turn to look at the guest weyr, just for a moment before she looks back. "Ciath... do I remember the stories right, is that the one Wyaeth sired? And she... gorged, was it? Don't remember how small the clutch was, though."
"Mm. Wyaeth," P'draig affirms. "She did eat but the clutch was still decently sized given the Interval that was supposed-to-be," the brownrider says thoughtfully, tips his head back to the late afternoon sunshine and is still for a moment.
"Ah." Vrianth's rider is quiet for that moment, observing the gesture from her shade: just the sun, or is there more to it?
More apparently. Because P'draig stays that way for a little longer than just soaking up the sun might warrant. But when his eyes open again, they're fairly clear. "Gold flights are always harder, after," he explains simply but otherwise doesn't make a big deal out of it. "Might go in for ale, not wine though." A tip of his head towards the ledge that leads to the Snowasis.
Realization finds her: that kind of more. "They'll have some on the house," Leova mentions, unnecessary as that may be. "For you." For those like him, who rose for Rielsath that day. "And... I'd better get going. Still a few hours of sweep to ride." She turns her head long enough to press a light kiss to the wingsail, and lets it slip free before easing to Vrianth's side and then up. It's her wave that says: clear skies.
Another grin from P'draig and he nods. "I know." One hand frees from his pocket to return that wave and he voices the actual words: "Clear skies, Leova. Good catching up with you." A moment later he's swinging around towards the Snowasis, humming under his breath as he goes.
When: 8/11/17
Where: Bowl/Feeding Pens/Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
What: Paddy's visiting family at the Reaches when Rielsath goes up. Jekzith chases and does not catch. After the flight, Paddy hangs out with Leova in the Bowl.
East Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#343RJs)
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.
Lujayn starts to shake her head, but water is at least a distraction from what she'd rather not think about. "If you have a skin.." She hardly greets X'lar, but includes him in the conversation as if he had always been there. "I wish there were more clouds." She confesses, nerves betrayed by her stone-still posture and monotone voice. As little effort as possible, now. No energy to spare.
Long lounging on one side of the Reaches bowl, Inorath rises slowly while his rider heads out of the caverns with a couple of passengers for pick-up. Squinting in the light of outdoors, S'fox pauses to find his dragon amid the bowl, then points that way and sets off, his expression slowly growing concerned the closer he gets to his dragons. The other people with him look a little confused themselves, especially when S'fox just shakes off their questions about what's wrong, what's going on.
"We'll get a skin." Leova absents herself only long enough to set down the oil pot at the base of the cliff, and then she's back to Lujayn, protectively near but not too near. Takes a deep breath. And, if they're going to ask questions, starts telling people what to do: "You in it for the haul?" Her attention may be mostly with her clutchmate, but it swings up to survey X'lar. "Then put that book away. Straps off your bronze." A taller man's walking by: she doesn't bother looking at his knot, snaps her fingers at him. "Water for her, please. Now."
Niena heads over to her clutchmates, standing protectively by Lujayn. "Water, or something stronger? I can always run into the Snowasis for you." She gives Leova a glance which is at once a question and a statement.
X'lar's breath catches as he watches and listens to Lujayn, concern flashing over his face in distinct, if slightly addled, recognition of the event. But soon, that concern's replaced with sterner stuff as he hears Leova. "Better believe it," X'lar answers her prompt with absolute certainty. "It's /Lu/." And soon, the Istan is jogging back to Malsaeth, hands practically ripping off his dragon's straps. The book's thrust into the messenger bag, probably ripping a few pages in the process of doing so. He turns around now, walking back and looking to the newly arrived with narrowed eyes. "Bloody well better not touch-" comes X'lar's next comment, his hand digging into one of his jacket pockets and taking out a meatroll.
Lujayn would normally be amused at Leova's attitude, but nothing much seems to get her attention today. Rielsath isn't much aware herself, though from time to time the gold shifts to one side or the other. Lu winces at each shift, each little move bringing her closer to wakening, willing to let the world move around her rather than move herself. The summer sun is without mercy, hardly a cloud drifting by to cast itself over Rielsath's slumbering form. Rays beat down and she stirs more noticeably, a growl of discontent beginning even before the young queen awakes. A subtle haze rises up from her basking spot on the rim, heat waves glimmering and adding to the glow. "Shouldn't I go?" Lu wonders out loud, though it's quiet and not aimed at anyone in particular.
Exiting from the lower caverns across the way, E'tyn's sure-footed steps carry him across the bowl to where Niereth's leonine grace ripples across muscles at ready. "Ready?" asks the bronzerider, voice quiet, a steadying hand lifted to brace himself against his dragon's side to vault up. Then, a pause; his clenched hand at the leather straps whitening reflexively. Without a verbalized word, bronze and rider looking to each other, E'tyn relaxes and takes a step back, a nod deferential to his dragon. Then tall, lanky man turns, his scar-whitened face seeking faces of any kind and landing bovinish questioning eyes on Leova. "Water?" Was that to him?
P'draig comes up from the lake, with, incongruously, his daughter up on his shoulders, walking along with Emilly and chatting back and forth. Looks like they were just swimming, damp hair and all, but everyone's dressed and the path the little group is on seems to be heading for the lower caverns. It's Emilly who puts a hand on P'draig's arm and nods across the Bowl and Paddy stops mid-sentence, blinks once as he touches base with Jekzith and inhales sharply. The Fortian brownrider reaches up to swing Palia down and pass her off to his mother. "I'll see if I can keep him down," he murmurs in an undertone, tousles the little girl's hair then moves off towards where Jekzith hunkers in the Bowl, tail swishing back and forth. Meanwhile Emilly moves off with her granddaughter, meeting Sionath several paces away. Green, rider and child vanish up to a high ledge in the Bowl wall while P'draig's stride takes on more purpose as he nears his brown, his gaze flicks briefly over towards Lujayn and his face is a mask of mixed emotions, concern foremost among them.
Still at Lujayn's shoulder, Leova shakes her head briefly at Niena. "She's had a lot of sun. Best to keep a clear head." And then there's a nod to go with it, reading her look, until she gets that question and has to refocus: actually /at/ the blond man this time, up and up, landing on his face with just a flick of attention for his scars. And then the knot. And back to his face again. "Relax," she tells him after all. "Not your worry. Niena will handle it." At least, that's what she's counting on, as she turns away, back to Lujayn again. "Your weyr," she says to the young goldrider, like a prompt. "Unless it's easier by the pens, reminding her to blood. Whatever you and Satiet came up with. It's going to be fine."
Rielsath is deadly still, the pause full of predatory tension rather than languor - when did she waken? Did anyone catch that? In one breath she unfurls those transparent wings, limbs tensing and body poising on the edge of her blistering roost, horribly awake and knowing of a deep thirst. There is no ceremony to her departure, a single-minded leap, course set straight for the feeding grounds. Lujayn's eyes follow Rielsath as she flies, and something clicks inside the goldrider at long last. Legs work, mouth set in a thin line, and she's running for the closest sanctuary she knows, the guest weyr.
Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
This broad ledge is dappled with bright light in the morning and commands a lovely view of the eastern end of the bowl, including the lake and the trees that dot the shoreline. Reached by a flight of stone steps that climb up from the bowl floor, the ledge is relatively low, an easy jump down to the ground; possibly its selection was a safety precaution, so anyone stumbling out the wrong way after a flight would be unlikely to break his or her neck. Within the weyr itself is a comfortably-sized dragon wallow, rarely used but swept clean nonetheless.
The cavern broadens as it stretches back away from the entrance to reveal a neatly made double-sized bed pushed up against the back wall, a press at its foot with an extra blanket folded on top of it and two chairs standing guard to either side of the hearth. A rectangular table lurks against the side wall, kept stocked with a pitcher of water and a basket of seasonal fruits. The weyr is well-lit and kept immaculately clean, the refreshing scents of citron-infused sweetsand mingling with the tang of herbs.
Jekzith> Up on the star stones, there's Wyaeth, being irritated that all these dragons keep showing up in his Weyr, a flare of dusty wings to greet each arrival throughout the day. By the time Rielsath makes for the feeding grounds, he's just about had it, snarls at one of the Reaches own blues who's actually supposed to be on watchduty. He hesitates, a silhouette against the sky, so near the edge of the star stones. It would be /so/ easy just to drop down, just to blood, just to chase, and why shouldn't he? --Teonath left already, right?
Jekzith> Rielsath is already zeroing in on her goal even as the males catch up to her. There is little acknowledgement for others or their intentions, a trace of her earlier sleep prevailing in a momentary pause - but that vanishes abruptly as she twists downwards and swoops onto the first lumbering beast in her sights - thankfully a bovine and not a fellow dragon.
Jekzith> Jekzith has been peacably sitting in the Bowl, strapless, for most of the afternoon, chatting with Sionath and whomever else happens along while his rider gets in some family time. And then, there's that sense of restless unease floating around and he focuses on it more and more, looking up at the Rim where Rielsath so recently lay. Tension thrums through the lean brown as he watches her and her leap brings him to his feet. He stands still though as his rider reaches him, stands there and the push-pull between them might almost be visible in the air. This time, it's the rider who breaks, P'draig's head bowing as Jekzith suddenly takes off, arrowing into the feeding pens, a long streamlined shape looping after a first beast, with an eager flick of his tail, eyes bright violet already as he takes the animal down with a sharp crack of its neck.
Still trying to hold on to this doozy, this flight, X'lar takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, then opens them. "You can handle this, Lu," X'lar says to the goldrider, repeating himself from another time. "You can handle anything." It seems enough to steel him for the walk into the guest weyr, his gait already growing somewhat lazy. A hand rises, meatroll. Eat. He moves to that rectangular table, the one with the food, leaning effortlessly despite his free hand already holding himself steady.
Niena wanders in with the water skin Leova prompted her to get. She quickly hands it to her clutchmate and begins to say something, then clamps her mouth shut. She turns and heads out to where Leova is.
Dragon> She'd been sleeping earlier, but her waking draws Jekzith's thoughts like a magnet, listening, taking her in. His memories of their last encounter when she was just new are a little dim. Since then it's only been the odd polite exchange in passing when P'draig visits the Reaches. Now though, he has visions for her, visions of fast flight and her wings shimmering in the sun, wordless admiration, the sharing of excitement over what's about to transpire. The air awaits up above, waits to carry them, speed, wind, glory. (Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Malsaeth arrives in the feeding grounds with a riotous sound bellowed from deep from his throat. His spark-like covered wings take him hovering over the feeding grounds and then suddenly darting downward to the bleating beasts about to be blooded by the multitudes of Rielsath's suitors. It is the loudest squealing beast the crimson chased bronze catches. The bleating mercifully stops when Malsaeth jugulates it. Heavy drops of blood appear to be almost ritualistically thrown to the right and left of him and soon he begins to blood like there is no tomorrow. The bronze drinks from the beast in a bloody bacchinalia, reveling in it all, but not without keeping an eye on that sunfire gold.
Jekzith> Forget his passengers; both Inorath and S'fox abandon them unceremoniously, the latter for the feeding grounds, the former for the guest weyr in pursuit of what he presumes must be the lucky goldrider today. Inorath meanwhile lands in the feeding grounds with a heavy thump and a swipe of paw that mostly clips the terrified herdbeast and sends it limping away as fast as it can: not fast enough in the end, because Inorath's next sharp motion snags it good, dragging it back over to him for real blooding.
Lujayn holds tight to the waterskin, neglecting to actually open it. The first chair she sees is /hers/, the goldrider sitting rather suddenly and possessively filling the space. Y'all can go somewhere else if you want to sit. The waterskin, apparently now a security item, is clasped in both hands while Lu surveys the room.
Jekzith> Ready. Aware. A predator with his prey in sight, Niereth's broad-built frame pushes easily off the bowl, over the fence of the pens, and down with a languid flick of his tail to fell his first kill and swipe casually at a brown who's in the way. While is rider might be radiating nerves, this Fortian bronze is in his element, crimson twining with lavender in his eyes and as the shadow of a dragon overhead distracts him from the festival of flowing blood, a haughty light brightens his eyes. A challenge, a sly invitation up to that irrate, undecided bronze high up.
Dragon> Little more than a harsh, dry wind and merciless sun are here for Jekzith to admire, sand and rock baked bone-dry in the desert. It's all heat, all light, no shade to hide in and no words to offer insight. (Rielsath to Jekzith)
P'draig is on the losing end of the battle of wills with Jekzith and he passes a hand over his face, looks back towards Lujayn and the cluster of folks around her. Recognition in his eyes for Leova and he lifts a hand briefly her way. The stream of riders heading for the guest weyr turns his steps in that direction and he waits until most of the others are inside before climbing the stairs. This makes him one of the last in and the bit of wall he fetches up against is relatively near the exit. "Lu," is all he says, the word quiet as he passes the goldrider, gives her a nod and an encouraging look, scans the cavern full of riders.
Dragon> To Rielsath, Jekzith squints against the bright light, but drinks in that heat, even as a whispering breeze drifts away from him, technicolor and sparking towards that heated landscape. There's perhaps the possibility of relief in it, but not yet, not yet. They've so much to do first, so high to fly. And she's the one leading that charge, leading the challenge and he's waiting for it. Waiting to see if his wings can match hers, do they both have what it takes?
Arriving on the heels of everyone else, but not without a backward glance for that amber-eyed rider and where she might go, E'tyn's lanky shoulders roll back even as he pitches forward to seek refuge in the shadows of the guest weyr. Turning to the voice, the one that speaks a name or part of one 'Lu', P'draig comes into his sight, and from the Fortian brownrider, E'tyn turns to seek Lu; the face by Leova so soon found in the nearest chair. Impassivity breaks when he finds the chair-possessive goldrider, a flare of sympathy overriding briefly the beginnings of dragon-lust haze, he stays where he is, standing by P'draig. "Lu?" he queries lowly of the weyrlingmaster.
Lujayn bites on her lip, muttering - struggling one way or the other with her queen, all vestiges of self-control employed to keep still and quiet. "Blood it, damn you, don't be a stupid wherry," Along with several colorful words. "They'll get you if you don't, they'll be fast and you won't..."
Jekzith> A challenge met with a broody snort, a dismissive rumble, and Wyaeth paces back and forth and back and forth. Aw-- what's the worst that can happen? Gravel sprays around him like buckshot when he scrapes off the ledge of the star stones, when he barrels whip-quick to the edge of the feeding grounds, that lead-footed landing pinning down a doe with a rush of stupid stupid glee. After all, Rielsath's his own daughter, who'd know her better? He should be a shoe-in!
Jekzith> What do they want? Teeth bared in a low hiss of warning, talons sunk deeply into the belly of her kill, Rielsath stops just short of tearing into the hot flesh. Her next hiss is more violent, head thrown back to the sky and soon screeching at some unseen mind, lunging for the neck of the beast after a tense moment of silence. The blood runs hot and fresh, and soon she's forgotten all about the meat waiting just under her talons. Drinking her fill with a wary eye to the browns and bronzes around her, the glowing gold all but ignores them.
E'tyn's query lifts P'draig's gaze from the slender goldrider, gray-blue eyes still mostly his own, sympathy, concern, caring all directed at her, but fading to puzzlement first as he focuses on the former Telgari Weyrleader. "Lujayn," he tells the bronzerider. "She's from Fort. Born and raised. Good friend." And his gaze slides away from Niereth's, back to Lu herself, arms folding across chest, hands clasping elbows.
Jekzith> With more joining in, Inorath is quick to possessively swipe another herdbeast down even before he finishes the first, lest they all get gotten before he gets around to it. When he does finish the first, a quick flip of his head sends the creature sliding away while he takes up the next for more furious blooding.
X'lar runs a hand through his hair slowly, seemingly still trying to brace himself as the blooding continues just outside. But nothing can stop him from eating his meatroll, apparently. A glance is given to P'draig, and suddenly, something like recognition flashes across his face. Steeling himself further, he finishes off the pastry and nods to himself, murmuring something under his breath that seems to bolster him. Even if he does look like a Baker with the number of crumbs on his jacket. "Lu," he finally murmurs, watching her in that chair. There's a smile that appears when he hears her though, a lazy kind of smile. "That's it," Xie drawls. A glance is given to the others in the room, bluish gray eyes narrowing in direct contradiction to that lazy look to his body as he leans against that table.
Jekzith> One down, one more to go. Feigning a lack of attention to where Rielsath is at least with eyes fixated onto herdbeast number two, that he's all too aware carries in the lean of his muscles, the turn and lift of one large shoulder to favor wherever Rielsath is and lands and where she bloods. The regal bearing of his broad frame kens to where High Reaches' winter sunfire queen moves, a lord quietly awaiting his lady's desires.
Jekzith> Jekzith is busily taking care of business in the feeding pens. His first kill discarded, the loose-limbed brown nimbly tackles another, again swift to the kill and drinking deep while he tracks Rielsath out of the corners of his eyes. Maple-hued wings flutter, catching the light of the afternoon sun, eager for flight, for wind, for the strain of getting up there already. It's all about the flying after all. Isn't it?
Jekzith> Malsaeth dashes his next herdbeast's skull against the ground in some cruel fashion. It only takes one time to stun it, paralyze it enough so that his char-black talons may rip into the flesh to get to the blood. Rather than do his ritual of spreading the drops of blood to the right then left, he instead bloods as much as he can without sending any astray. This one, this beast, is his for the taking. All of the blood is his, marring that ash-mask on his angled maw with it. Rielsath's own glowing body, those sharpened neckridges, receive another look from the ruddy hued bronze, ready and waiting, now.
Jekzith> Luck. Luck is for sad fools who can't win otherwise. Wyaeth's cocky confidence defines every bucking movement, every wing-flip, every talon-scrape, every guzzle, every warning growl for the fools that come too near the claim he's staked to a pinned cluster of herdbeasts stuck between his rangy self and the fenceline. /His/ herdbeasts, /his/ Weyr, /his/ daughter, and his malevolence is getting a little over-the-top.
Jekzith> First beast dry, Rielsath aims for the closest meal and launches herself in a short leap -watch where you're going, Wyaeth! Sire or not, she's annoyed by the encroaching males, and her near collision with the bronze on her single-minded hunt - more the fault of her ignorance than his actions - is the last straw. Rielsath can no longer ignore those around her, no matter how much she'd like to try. As quick on the draw as she was from the rim to feeding grounds, Rielsath swerves away from the hunt and reaches for the wide open sky, the summer sun matching her brilliance. No more of this silly game, chasing beasts around. She's ready for the real deal, pale wings stretching wide to welcome the cloudless blue expanses.
Jekzith> From the feeding grounds, Of course Wyaeth isn't one of those sad fools who need luck to win. Of course not. Niereth certainly doesn't think so. And then they're off, his quick, leonine grace propelling himself up quickly after the young gold with outstretched wings of citrine, maneuvering past Wyaeth as quick and deliberately near as he might and into the skies.
Jekzith> From the feeding grounds, Niereth launches up towards the sky.
Jekzith> Jekzith drinks one last mouthful from that beast and then, there she goes. His lean form gathers for the spring, waiting a moment as a larger bronze takes up his immediate airspace and then he launches upward, sneaking under bronze wings with an agile twist. He's smaller, faster than the bigger dragons, but not so small that he hasn't got staying power if he needs it. Bundle of energy that he is, once he's looped around that first obstacles, his wings snap wide and beat fast to carry him up and up. This is the game, speed and agility and maybe a little smarts, but right now he's only focusing on the fun of it. Hot sun gleaming on hide, gold, bronze, brown, wind rushing to match the rush of ichor in the veins. His joy for that leap for the maneuvers so far radiates outward as the Fortian brown sets a course for Rielsath's sun.
Jekzith> Wyaeth teeters, tumbles, scatters his collected herd in his haste not to collide with Rielsath. She's up, and he's trying hard to recover and get his legs under him and his wings stretched. He does reach a claw toward Niereth-- come here, little boy-- while he makes that jump aloft. But there's a problem: he's not chasing her, not like he should be, uttering a guttural roar and tearing himself off of a pack that hasn't even formed yet. Below, shoving his shirt into his pants, taking the steps two at a time, the cause of his dragon's sudden quit comes striding across the bowl, angry as ever. Diatribe.
Jekzith> Malsaeth finishes one, and rips into the next. This seeming to be his element despite it being a foreign place. Not so foreign, maybe. He sends the blooded carcass of his last, with his skull caved in toward another, overpowering it in mere moments as his maw rips into it and sucks its very life away. BUt soon, oh so soon, that revelry shifts toward the brilliant sky above High Reaches, making him vault into the sky like fire. He won't be left behind, even if he does fly lower than most. The others? Those suitors chasing too? They receive no looks. Only the streamlined figure of the wintry gold receives his attention as he dives lower and rises higher, finding that right spot to chase after her glowing form.
Dragon> Following on that wider joyous broadcast, Jekzith's focus narrows to reach Rielsath again, mind buoyant, full of a tumult of colors and sparks, possibilities. There's free and clear air up there, the kind you can slice through like a ship's prow through waves, nothing to impede any trick or turn of wings or tail. Can she make it all.the.way.up.there? A whisper of crazed barrel-rolls and wingtip turns flashes through his mind towards her. What .they. could do up there. Just for fun. (Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Rielsath wastes no time gaining height, streamlined and flying like a golden arrow. Her straight path begins to waver as the feeding grounds grow smaller and smaller below her and the thrill of outdistancing these flocking males seizes her mind. Was she ever cold, the queen from the snowy mountains? The images for her chasers are all the same, a harsh desert with a beating sun dominant, no end in sight to the parched landscape, burning crimson rock and cracked, thirsty earth, inhospitable and even malicious to unwary travelers.
Jekzith> Winner! Well, not of Rielsath's glowing charms, but when Wyaeth gets dragged down by the angry diatribe of his rider, Niereth can't help but crow a smug bugle into the sky. It fuels his competitive streak, pushing him towards the heights the young gold aims towards, his citrine wings beating heavily against the churning winds brought on by countless male bodies and the Reachian summer winds. His lengthy body stretches at all points, wings wider, neck forward, tail slamming backwards to push into the face of a would-be amorous brown. Without the distraction of goading Wyaeth, Niereth refocuses his determination on the wavering, hazy, nigh invisible horizon at the far end of that harsh desert.
Jekzith> So it's to be a race it seems. Jekzith can do racing and he tosses himself into it gleefully as Rielsath puts on the speed to try to leave them all in the dust. He swings from side to side a little, dodging bigger males, lifting higher to find a free channel to call his own, an open path that will let him sprint after her as she sprints away from them. That harsh landscape deters him not one whit and its heat in fact seems to energize him all the more, though there's a rumor of water in his mind, iridescent bubbles that could float out over that parched earth and quench its thirst if called. A drop of one wing tilts the motley brown sideways as an unwary bronze cuts across his path and he slips around, pushes onward, only one goal in sight.
Jekzith> Malsaeth wastes no time in rising to the middle of the pack. A small brown from Ierne is given a bellow from that oft adventurous sly bronze, once again from the depths of his throat, making it that much more jarring for the other dragon. The small brown, distraught at the sudden sound, shifts in the sky and changes his flight pattern, which Malsaeth innocently takes advantage of, moving smoothly like a lance of fire through the sky as his angular body rolls into better position to chase after Rielsath. All the better to keep his eyes on that glowing gold's bouyant frosted sails. His thoughts remain a deluge of rain to nurture that barren landscape, a hurricane of lust seemingly appearing as the rain and wind picks up.
Jekzith> Banking sharply as the pack assembles more closely behind her, Rielsath rises ever upwards to meet the beating sun with a flippant twist of her tail. She's not going to fool around; even in flight the youthful gold isn't much of a tease. If they think they can catch her merely by being swifter or stronger than her, they have another thing coming altogether. Still, it's hard to resist using her newfound wiles, and today is all about temptation. An enticing croon turns to more of a feral bugle as she catches a glimpse of a smaller falling behind, egging them on just because she can. Wings adjust, and all at once she's rolling through the sky, completely enamored of the scorching sun and its promise of freedom.
Jekzith> Jekzith bursts upward through clear blue, punching through Reaches' airspace, mind a livewire from speed and that sense from Rielsath of love for the sun, for freedom. It's a heady mix as he almost twirls upward, aiming for the ruddy glow of Rukbat. The sun has mysteries of its own to share if you play with it. Turn this way and pop, a dragon could almost vanish in its light, create the illusion of absence where there is presence. One could. And where the sun leads, does anyone know? The brown winds around an errant sunbeam, using it as a guide to propel him onward after Rielsath, her fire, her sun, her promise. What could be.
Jekzith> On that desert horizon lies a glimmering light, and onto that glimmering light Niereth attaches himself wholeheartedly. Or tries, maybe Wyaeth did succeed with that outstretched claw, for the once Telgari bronze falters, his wing beats slowing as he goes quickly from near the front of the pack to the middle, and from there further and further behind. Is it that youth wins over age that he loses his wind?
Jekzith> Malsaeth isn't one to be challenged by one mere flip of a playful forked tail. He ain't fooling around either, it seems, as with every beat of his wings, he seems to slide into the right position for him, cleverly angling himself by trying smarter tactics to propel himself forward, faster. He's not the largest nor is he the smallest, not in this pack, but he uses what Faranth gave him to do what he needs to do. Challenging him with that feral bugle only makes him that much more steadfast in his choices, his body, every hardened muscle moving together as to fly after the glowing figure of the athletic Rielsath. It is his carefully achieved movement, that rolling into place for the next move, that burst of speed, that seems to make him that much more consumed by the draconic desire of the sun, that fire, that glow. Rielsath.
Jekzith> Right there in the middle of the pack all along, that's Inorath. Undistinguished so far, he barrels along with no grace but enough stubbornness to make up for most of his lack of crack flying. In the close quarters, his size isn't much of an asset, though, and leaves him shouldering onward, struggling to break free, get some altitude and some breathing room. Climb higher, up toward the open air--and not at all coincidentally, Rielsath's own path.
Dragon> Does she know what's at the end of this race? What secrets there are to find when she gets there? Jekzith laid out a trail of bubbles for her to follow once before, to lead her on to a secret beneath the waves of Fort's lake. Here now he has other hints to offer, that tip about the sun, and yet there's still that thirst to quench. And how will she? He has ideas. Oh he has ideas. Such ideas. Another flash of possibilities all wound around with the wind's caress. Temptation offered in return for hers, answers for what it is she seeks in the sky so high, up against the sun. (Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Rielsath comes out of the barrel roll just a little slower, a little more tired, but she notes nothing but the audacious males - always a little closer, a little more threatening. The blinding glint of gold off her body could be the sun itself, luring chasers down the wrong path if they're not careful. She presses onward with every fiber of her being, snowy pale wings lit to hot white sails by her own glow, each 'ridge a lethal blade ready to wound the unwary. Her tail lashes and she takes an abrupt swoop downwards, finding a thermal that takes her up again just as quickly, gaining momentum from the scooping dive. Almost there, just almost. A dry crackling in her mind, the very earth on fire though there are no signs of scrub to burn. Smoke obscures her mind, still hiding from the prying chasers. Just a little more is all she needs, that last inch of sky.
Jekzith> Indeed something is wrong with Niereth, as from dead last he then falls to a sad little drop to the ground. And shortly, his rider exits the guest weyr, hurried and looking markedly less stressed.
Jekzith> Jekzith flips over, echoing that roll, wings pulled close and then snapping out again, mirroring Rielsath from a bit behind and slightly above. Her thermal lofts her up above him in turn and he cants sideways, looking for it, looking for it and pop, up he goes, wingsails spread wide to catch the lift. Tricky, tricky, she's using the light and her mind is hidden by that camouflage of smoke. Where is Rielsath? It's a game, a quest an adventure to find her. A whisper of clear blue, just up there, just off to the side sneaks out of the brown's mind, winding through smoky obfuscation. Here's the air and clear light of the sun. And he's making tracks for it himself, the last inch of sky to share. With her.
Jekzith> Malsaeth doesn't seem that fooled by the allure that which could be the sun or not. His wings, covered in sparks of a smoldering fire beat hard and fast now, his cleverness achieving its maximum. But soon, Malsaeth is unable to further contain the energy coursing through him (if he had ever tried), Malsaeth now spends it in an all-or-nothing attempt to catch that glowing sunfire gold in his sights. Every draconic desire in his angled, muscular body seems to propel him forward, fueled by the very inferno of his desire for Rielsath. His wings, tail, and entire body stretch, ache, extending to their limits if not beyond them. As such, he pushes himself harder than ever as that blazing masquerade bronze aches for that adventurous wintry gold in the sky. His one chance. His /only/ chance. To show his spirit. That hurricane of his in his mind spreads forth, hoping to send that smoke of hers away. The thoughts of rain against that scorched barren landscape intensify. Malsaeth attempts that which he undeniably wants most of all: to be with /Rielsath/.
Dragon> Here. Right here. Jekzith's got an answer to that possible puzzle, air, free and clear to fly in. A soothing breeze winds towards scorched earth offering the possibility of relief. She hides and he seeks, but they could find each other high above, beyond cracked ground and concealing smoke. And together they could spill out the water to ease thirst. He has this much to offer if she chooses, if she can catch him as much as he might catch her. Together.(Jekzith to Rielsath)
Jekzith> Inorath isn't capable of such flips and turns--straight flying's his limit, as he strains every muscle to keep up. He doesn't dive, either, not trying to mimic her every move; instead, he looks ahead to where he thinks she's come up, and he aims for there, shortcutting to cut her off if he can. Style, not so much, but it's a move designed to get the job done, his wings, talons, neck and tail, all extending to reach for the gold he expects, hopes, to turn up.
Jekzith> Struggling to hold on to the open sky, refusing to realize that she's losing even a tiny bit of ground against her ardent chasers, Rielsath rumbles with annoyance as she senses first one, then another male close on her tailtip. She lashes her tail in warning, turning hard to avoid being caught on the predictability of a straight line. Her wings tremble, the first hints of bitter snow sliding into her desert landscape, frozen diamonds appearing and disappearing so quickly. The turn quickly becomes another, a tight spiral that steers the young gold on a course to meet her assailants head-on. Realizing the mistake and attempting one more turn to make up for it, angling off to one side as bronze and brown wings fill the sky, there's the barest touch of a wingtip, or was it a tail? The one touch is enough to break the dried, brittle armor surrounding Rielsath's mind and set free the tired creature within, letting the floodwaters pour in and wash away her pains. Icy gold wings tangle with the bronze embers of Malsaeth's sails, burning cold and hot all at once. Caught.
Jekzith> Jekzith gives it his all, angling to meet Rielsath as she turns back towards the males. As she tangles with Malsaeth he breaks off hard, wheeling fast through the sky and drops away, diving, diving for a splashdown in Reaches' lake.
P'draig draws a sudden breath and runs a hand over his face, lost this little while in Jekzith's mind in the to and fro of the flight. He pushes away from the wall, maybe a hint of relief along with regret in his expression as he goes back out the way he came back in with just the briefest backward look at Lu. Everything'll be all right. And then he's out and gone.
East Bowl, High Reaches Weyr(#343RJs)
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.
But Leova doesn't have the wine, and the foreigner's headed her way, even just a step's worth. But then, they've already covered the problems of focus for those who haven't had the wine. Yet. So she gives Heckan the eye, but while Millie might be able to get away with it, it's not working here, the baker making as though he's oblivious. Which means: destination, intercept, the better to try and pass off the waterskin as wine /just long enough/ because here come the troops: from the living caverns' main entrance, so a while away yet, but they're coming. Wine! Groupies! Some of them in bodices!
And in the meantime, there are bakers with platters. Meatrolls. And cake. Let them eat cake. But the wine, it is a-comin'.
P'draig makes it most of the way down the steps without a stumble. The last one catches up his feet though and he has to lean against the wall down below, hand to eyes. No groupies here. The brownrider pulls himself together and makes tracks for the lake where Jekzith has sent up a mighty splash of water.
E'tyn makes a bee-line for the wine and after a swig from a skin shoved into his hands, fails to ogle bodices (and likely fails at being a bronzerider thus), and makes his way to Niereth. His efforts at leaving, this time, are a little more successful, but instead of going between in the sky, it's a long, cold straight flight for the pair.
Down the steps comes S'fox, right along with the rest of the forlorn uncatchers, with their dazed and slack-jawed expressions. S'fox fits right in as he heads vaguely toward a bronze shape--not Inorath, he discovers shortly when he gets enough thought together to actually look at the dragon. A tired-sounding rumble from his own bronze sends S'fox heading that way instead, chagrin on hold for the moment until he drags himself up on the dragon and scoots home himself, post-haste.
It's back into the lake for P'draig, a trail of clothing left behind and a dive into cooling water, a swim out to Jekzith where Fort's Weyrlingmaster remains, hands cupping water up and over motley brown sides.
Coiled-up Vrianth looks around, and after a moment so does her rider. "Not getting nearly as messy as it could," she says to Niena, with approval this time instead of missing-the-chance-for-a-show. "Think I'll just... be right back. No sense in a repeat." She abandons the shelter of Vrianth, dodging a few stray people along the way, to get to the base of the cliff where Malsaeth's straps and bag are: it takes some rearranging of the unwieldy leather, but eventually she gets it all over her shoulder and starts hiking for the guest ledge, there to abandon it all in a pile and leave just as promptly.
A little while later, half-dressed at least, a damp P'draig makes the trek back up from the lake looking a lot more ... present. Jekzith's left on the lake shore curled up for a nap in the sun. He dodges another helpful groupie and instead approaches Leova and Niena, a wry grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "No extra chair this time?" he tells Vrianth's with good humor enough.
Leova, only just returned, gets to turn around and doubletake: maybe not used to meeting the shirtless-and-dripping-a-bit version of P'draig, assuming that /is/ the correct half. Which means it takes an extra moment to realize, and laugh. "Bound to be some in there. Wine, too? And pretty sure there was cake going around."
P'draig laughs too, gives a little shake of his head. "Not aiming to get soused," the brownrider claims as he slings his shirt on, water damping the fabric almost right away. "Cake though, now that's tempting," he notes with a low chuckle. His eyes close for a moment, a deep breath taken and when they open again there's a faint haze to them, but still that twinkle of merriment to be found. "How's things?" he asks the greenrider, apparently in no hurry to shove off, for cake, wine or anything else.
"No idea what kind, though," Leova admits. "They weren't yelling that part. Or is any kind of cake the tempting kind?" She leans a shoulder into Vrianth, doesn't look at him too warily. "Things are... things are good," she says. "Happy for Lu, too: you two were friends, weren't you? Do you still keep up?"
"I'm a little pickier than 'any', might still be worth finding out though," P'draig answers and wipes at his face where water droplets have seeped down from his hairline. "Glad to hear that," the brownrider says with a nod and he looks up towards the guest weyr, blows out a short breath. "Happy because Rielsath finally went up, or because the right dragon caught her?" he asks next, as he starts pushing buttons through button-holes. "Are friends, yep," he confirms. "Known her since she was a kid. Keep up a little, not as much the past few months with Weyrlings at Fort."
"Those," Leova agrees, tacking on a, "No offense." She adds after a moment, "And a good day for it. She had at least a little warning. Didn't see any ichor spilled... how was the weyr? Clean flight?"
"None taken," P'draig answers readily. "Better if he's who she'd have wanted, me ... would've been awkward later," he murmurs softly though his eyes are on that not-so-distant ledge again. "Hm? Oh yeah, no bumps. Jekzith just put a lot into it. He and Rielsath shared a moment or two when she was younger. Always kind of hooks him more. Probably why I couldn't keep him on the ground." A what-can-you-do shrug follows.
"They're young and very..." Leova hesitates. "Head-over-heels? So there's that." She reaches up just as Vrianth's wing is descending, closes her fingers very gently over its sail. "And glad, about Jekzith being all right and all. Don't suppose you were around last time a queen went up around here." /That/ time. Unlikely, but who knows?
That brings a warm smile to P'draig's face. "/That/ is good to hear. Lu was lonely sometimes it seemed," Paddy murmurs thoughtfully and looks over at Vrianth, amusement for that descending sail. "No, not that time," P'draig says with a shake of his head. "And Ciath's last was uneventful though Zahava had trouble holding her back in her maiden."
Leova's turn to look at the guest weyr, just for a moment before she looks back. "Ciath... do I remember the stories right, is that the one Wyaeth sired? And she... gorged, was it? Don't remember how small the clutch was, though."
"Mm. Wyaeth," P'draig affirms. "She did eat but the clutch was still decently sized given the Interval that was supposed-to-be," the brownrider says thoughtfully, tips his head back to the late afternoon sunshine and is still for a moment.
"Ah." Vrianth's rider is quiet for that moment, observing the gesture from her shade: just the sun, or is there more to it?
More apparently. Because P'draig stays that way for a little longer than just soaking up the sun might warrant. But when his eyes open again, they're fairly clear. "Gold flights are always harder, after," he explains simply but otherwise doesn't make a big deal out of it. "Might go in for ale, not wine though." A tip of his head towards the ledge that leads to the Snowasis.
Realization finds her: that kind of more. "They'll have some on the house," Leova mentions, unnecessary as that may be. "For you." For those like him, who rose for Rielsath that day. "And... I'd better get going. Still a few hours of sweep to ride." She turns her head long enough to press a light kiss to the wingsail, and lets it slip free before easing to Vrianth's side and then up. It's her wave that says: clear skies.
Another grin from P'draig and he nods. "I know." One hand frees from his pocket to return that wave and he voices the actual words: "Clear skies, Leova. Good catching up with you." A moment later he's swinging around towards the Snowasis, humming under his breath as he goes.