Flight!
Who: A'son and Nikoth, C'sel and Corvinth, K'del and Cadejoth, Leova and Vrianth, Rhodya and Gedroth, and T'rev and Mecaith
When: Evening on day 22, month 13, turn 19 of Interval 10.
Where: Snowasis, East Bowl, Guest Weyr, and Sky at High Reaches Weyr
What: Throwing caution to the wind, Gedroth decides to chase Vrianth despite his youth and the warnings from local bronzes. He pays the price for daring, retreating early with a scratched back. But a new friend!
It's been an afternoon with a lot of flying and a special trip up north for Gedroth's practice purposes. And well, fun. Now though in the wake of all that, T'rev's had the pair land at the Reaches and leads the way to the Snowasis. "You might like this place, it ain't as fancy as the Fountain, but it's nice, cozy. Good drinks. Decent food."
Fun! Now, there's something to keep your mind off your worries. What with that, and a successful trip /between/ to a place so far away, Rhodya's bouncing happily along at T'rev's heels. "I could definitely use a bite to eat," she comments, too fixated on the promise of a meal even to look around. That doesn't mean others don't look at /her/. Being a former leatherworker, she's got a very handsome set of leathers, and they don't match - at /all/ - the disastrous pink flower cap she's pulled down over her ears.
"Great, we can order a little somethin', maybe toast your victory today," T'rev says cheerily and heads on up the ramp to the patio ledge and then within to the bar proper. "Pick us out a place t'sit?" he suggests. "I'll get us some menus and the drinks are listed up yonder," he points to the chalkboard. It's only a matter of moments to fetch two menu cards and then come back to wherever Rho's chosen. Out in the bowl, Mecaith is stretching out a little, re-arranging his wings and then tipping a rather expectant look in a particular direction. He seems a little atypically ... tense.
"Sure," Rhodya says, turning to look at the room. She's not picky - the nearest open table will do, even though it's next to a group of giggling girls who seem particularly entertained by her hat. The brownrider answers their curious stares with her brightest smile, and ignores the murmurings as she sits down to wait for T'rev. She waves for him when he comes back, attracting his attention to her spot. Gedroth doesn't feel the thrill of victory as deeply as his rider; at least, it hasn't made him oblivious to all around him. He comes back from a prowling exploration of their part of the bowl to find Mecaith acting oddly, and sits back on his haunches to look at the bronze, look where the bronze is looking, then look at the bronze again. << Are you talking to someone? >>
"Here you go," T'rev passes Rhodya one of the cards, doffs his jacket and sits across from her. "Lookin' good," he notes with a smile for her hat, not daunted at all by those murmuring folks over yonder. Once he's sat though, T'rev's hand wanders to the back of his neck like it itches and he starts rubbing there absently at first. Mecaith; distracted: << I am. >> With a zing of staticky fuzz that has little to do with the way his mind usually is, green-scented and his desert's worth of sand seems to suspend partway up into the air, with a feeling of ozone and the rumble of thunder not too far off.
Rhodya rubs her hands with anticipation when she gets her menu card, but why read when you can interrogate? "Oooh, this is a lot. They got them little cheesey log things?" Like the giggles about her hat, T'rev's odd scratching goes unnoticed. Gedroth is already on his hindquarters, but now he pushes up on them, all but standing on his two hind feet for a few seconds while he sniffs that air. Is there a physical scent to match that intriguing ozone? He falls flat-footed without yet having caught it, and shakes his head with a snort.
"Mostly bar-stuff, but some small plates too," T'rev answers a little distractedly and looks up. "Did you hear thunder?" He's rubbing a hand up his arm now and then drops it back to the table's surface, promptly starts drumming his fingers. He's eyeing the menu card again, when he looks up slowly and focuses outside. The card falls to the table and for all Rhodya is a lady, he cusses. "Oh /shit/." Pushing back his chair, T'rev gets to his feet and grabs his jacket. "C'mon Rho. We might have a problem." Mecaith's whole body has rearranged now into a single tense line and his eyes are starting to take on a subtly purple tinge. His mind swirls with a sudden wind, sands all whipped up. << Vrianth ... >> is reverently whispered and then his mind shuts off like a light going out as his focus goes elsewhere.
Rhodya blinks and looks around her. "No?" She checks the faces of the other patrons: nobody else seems to have heard thunder, or if they did, they aren't as surprised by it. "Hey," she scolds T'rev reflexively, "language." Reflexively? Usually, her reflex is to be sing-songy and nice about the reminder, not snappish. She still looks puzzled, though, when T'rev suddenly starts to leave, although she follows obediently. And then - "Oh!" She picks up a jog, herself. Probably she's just heard Gedroth saying, to the vanished space that /was/ Mecaith: << She's a green, this Vrianth? That's very interesting. >>
To Gedroth, Rhodya projects, << Baby, you want to come exploring with me? We could look around High Reaches. >>
To Rhodya, Gedroth projects, << I'm already exploring. There's a green that Mecaith's interested in, whom I would very much like to meet. >>
To Gedroth, Rhodya projects, << Baby, no. Come on, please. >>
Silence. (Gedroth to Rhodya)
Some other flight and its participants must have tramped the guest weyr's wide, easy-to-follow path of dark rock against the white snow all about and the white fog all around. Tramped, not scraped: it's icy, with skidmarks leading both to and from, from boots larger and smaller than Leova's. The greenrider is currently kneeling on the guest weyr's ledge, /in/ the snow, feeding a brazier that burns smokily. Gray rises and diffuses, a loose trail within the white. She waits. Waits for Vrianth, who's stirred upon her ledge above the lake, her sending a characteristic subtle one for such times: a hint of electricity, its path as yet uncertain. But teasing, yes. Glints, here and there. It takes the perceptive to pick up on it. Surely she's simply stretching her wings, casting over her territory, as she has done at this time and that through the last day and a half. Surely it's just a false alarm. Like last time.
To Gedroth, Vrianth drifts from above the lake, /her/ lake, a barely-there movement within the white. It might be the wind, but for the growing sense of... purpose.
Vrianth's sparks, even this subtle electricity, have always had an impact upon Cadejoth's conductive metal chains; tonight, through the fog, it's enough to draw Cadejoth up from the low crouch upon his ledge, enough to bring his wings back, and send that ever-moving tail into a tensed straightness, beating faster than usual upon the icy expanse of his ledge. Ping. Zing. A ting, too: almost musical. His mind reaches out, seeking for Vrianth's in eager curiosity and awareness, lit from within as those sparks dance riotously within. It's not enough to send K'del over, though; he stays in his weyr, oblivious to this new development, what with his book and his single glass of whiskey to keep him company. After all... Cadejoth hasn't chased anyone since Iovniath.
Out in the bowl, the shapes of two foreign dragons lurk in the fog. One of them at least has his head turned towards Vrianth, eyes carrying a lurking hint of dusky purple, body a long line of tension, singing with that current Vrianth sends forth. Voices ring out from the direction of the Snowasis. "Have to talk him out of it," is drawled in the distinct tones of Nerat, maybe carrying as far as that guest weyr's ledge. Another shadow lurks, but this one is far above, Corvinth, dark-winged and watchful. He's been there or down in the bowl near weyrlings as the weather permitted, for most of the day, but his mind has been tracking Vrianth through her every move, while C'sel has gone about duty and business without a sign that his brown is essentially, stalking. Coming out of the weyrling training cavern just now in fact, the weyrlingmaster's assistant looks up and up and up through the fog and remains that way, still and silent for several long moments, before resolutely turning his steps towards the guest weyr. Corvinth's wings stretch wide in echo of Vrianth's and then he's taking off, dropping like another swirl of fog towards the feeding pens.
Down by the lake, Nikoth is playing out on the frozen surface of the lake. With A'son standing there on the shore, cursing at him about one thing or another. To anyone nearby it's something about 'not wanting to play the rock game again'. The bronze is happily playing and ignoring him anyway, though something seems to catch his attention and he freezes in place, turning his head towards the wall of the bowl. From a happy blue-green swirl, his eyes change to one tinged with violet and his body tenses. "No, I don't want to do this." But that's evidentally not up to the bronzerider, as the dragon suddenly moves, careening past him and launching into the sky, taking off into the bowl and whatever green he's decided to chase after today. There's a sigh and reluctantly, A'son begins his march in the same direction.
Bolder than his companion, the second foreign dragon doesn't just watch Vrianth, but creeps closer, searching for that curious electric spark within the fog. Gedroth's big enough to pass for a grown brown, but there's no mistaking the immaturity of his interest in the whole proceedings: a little sniff here, an inquisitive rumble. He doesn't have the focused intensity of the other males circling in, nor does he seem to quite /get/ what's coming up here. A female voice, his rider, comes after that Neratian one: "How do you even do that? He's - you know how he gets." Rhodya brushes irritably at the fog that's getting in her face, although it does no good.
Down on the ledge, Leova blows on the brazier. It smolders more. She sneezes, wipes her nose on the back of her hand, wipes /that/ in the snow. Clean snow. Not tramped snow. Clean enough to have fallen, not just after a queen risen or eggs hatched, possibly even before a certain renegade was hanged. Her eyes rise before her head does, slewed to the side to get a glimpse of the first one arriving: a burly woman, not unfamiliar, who gets a nod and a, "Took your time." A taller man, after, who gets nothing at all. Never mind that it's not fair, that Vrianth hadn't given /real/ warning, that nothing about this is ever fair. Those that don't like games, well, they probably won't like /this/ either, not with Vrianth taking a more protracted route to the pens, enough to fly low over some auntie or weyrling or stablehand or ill-advised Fortian treading where they really, really shouldn't be. But it's not long before she kills, spills an ovine's red blood made that much brighter in the falling dusk and clinging fog. Its bleat is loud before it gurgles to an end, and she turns her head, /looks/ to see just who's there. Leova looks, too, only she hasn't Vrianth's laughter in her eyes.
T'rev reaches Mecaith and puts out both hands to take the dragon's muzzle between them. "Have t'focus. Lots," the bronzerider answers distractedly and bends his forehead against his bronze. "Mec ... we talked about this ..." is murmured so maybe only Rhodya hears. "/Space/," he says emphatically and then there's silence while lifemate and rider strive between them for one outcome or another. For now, T'rev's not noticed Gedroth's interest or Rho's irritatbility. C'sel meanwhile has reached the steps to the guest weyr, his walk patient, unhurried and he climbs the steps one at a time, carefully, slowly, guided by that brazier Leova's lit. "Good evening, Leova," he offers in polite, measured tones, for all of Corvinth's sly will-he-won't-he baiting of Vrianth from above and comes to a halt, hands in pockets. As unruffled as ever he is. For now.
Gedroth ducks instinctively when something goes flying over his head. The green! There she is! With a flick of his tail, he trots purposefully after her, sniffing the wind. And then, when he reaches the hunting grounds, sticks his neck further over the fence than he probably should, so he can inspect that smell, and her kill, more closely. Oh, he's not touching her - he's not that naive - but remaining juuust outside the personal space bubble doesn't tend to work as well with proddy greens as it does with ordinary ones. "Gedroth!" Rhodya snaps, somewhere behind him. The brownrider stomps her foot. "Get back here and leave her alone!"
Nikoth heads immediately to the pens, having left his rider behind in the cold and fog. He doesn't get there fast enough to beat the green, but once he sees her? There's a cocky, triumphant bugle and he descends to the ground. As is his usual act, the bronze flares out his giant wings just so she can get a good look-see at what he has to offer. Check out these goods, baby!! It's then that he lifts off again, knocking a young, fresh looking beast to the side and blooding it with all due haste. A'son takes his time wandering through the fog and he's probably one of the very last to arrive, thumping his way up the steps. When he gets to the top and sees Leova he utters out a long litany of curses. "This is why he wouldn't tell me who he was fucking chasing. Son of a bitch, I'll ki-" The rest is cut short as he stamps past the greenrdier, not even bothering to say hello.
It's after most of the dragons - certainly after Vrianth - have arrived at the feeding grounds that Cadejoth, far across the bowl, is thrown into motion. It happens at once: one moment, he is leaning forward, lingering in the fog, aware and alert, but still quiet, and then in the next, he is airborne, lost in the fog until he might be seen, greeny-bronze and pale, amidst the pens, where a beast chosen entirely at random becomes his immediate and enthused upon kill. It's after that, then, that somewhere inside, K'del stirs, and then goes still, eyes wide. The book gets placed down, then the glass; then, he reaches for his coat, shoves his feet into boots, and begins towards the exit.
"Won't even this rattle you?" is what Leova's asking C'sel as A'son curses his way by. Her eyes shut, hold there a moment, lashes still dark in the firelight against the circles worn beneath her eyes. But he's gone by then, and she can look up. Can explain to the brownrider, "I don't remember." Last time. Nikoth gets less attention than his rider for all of his wing-fanning, even Corvinth with his would-be lack of commitment gaining a long glance through the fog further, but when that second herdbeast gets tossed her way? She'll accept his offering... but. No. No, Vrianth's whirling eyes have fixed on young Gedroth, dark and delighted, and though her jaws lower to clench into flesh, it's to /fling/ it over the fence in the brown's direction. Maybe he can't kill for himself, is that it? Does he need a /bronze/ to kill for him? Or can he do it all his very own self, after all? She'll see, perhaps. If she waits that long. She's already all but turned, killing again, a breath after Cadejoth who just might set that Fortian an example. A twist of her neck brings this second close, closer even than Cadejoth, close enough to drink. It'll be her last. This time.
Rhodya's plea to Gedroth snaps T'rev's focus on Mecaith and he looks around blearily through the fog. "Wha--?" Clearly, he didn't expect Gedroth to be interested so soon a full three months before he's reached a turn. The Fortian bronzerider cusses again and turns from Mecaith with a warning glance. He's got a mentee to look to. "Focus, Rho, focus, try to distract him from her. Get right in there with him and /hold him/ on the ground," T'rev tells the young woman urgently, though he strives to make his voice low and reassuring rather than distracting and disruptive. C'sel stays put, standing watch, looking out into the fog, maybe his jaw has tensed a little. Maybe. "For now,no" C'sel answers Leova quietly then resumes his silent watch. Blood on the snow. And out of nowhere .. SNAP! Corvinth makes his shadowy presence in the pens known, cracking a herdbeast's back and drinking deep, eyes brilliantly purple in the gloom. He /will/. Meanwhile, with his rider distracted, Mecaith straightens up a little, head held at an angle and edges towards the pens, eyes fixed on Vrianth, only Vrianth, though he spares a thought for Gedroth, poorly formed compared to his typical meticulousness. << Not time yet. >> And then he springs over the fence and into the pens, tracking a kill that he likely won't have time to actually truly catch.
Green and red-bronze, now, now that Cadejoth has let the life-blood of his kill spurt and burble all over him, in his haste to catch up; he's a little out of practice, forgive him. He's just about finished this kill of his when his head tilts up again, this time to whip around towards the two Fortians, whom he watches with rapidly whirling eyes. It's not that he's gone still - has he ever gone still? - but... but. His rumble is a warning one, somehow protective, and clearly taking precedence over the continued feeding, at least for now. It's about this point when K'del finally shows up, slouching his way across the bowl with an expression of surprise, his gaze flicking towards Leova as he gets near enough, his lips tightening.
Zing. Spark. Electricity dances up and down the mental chains of Cadejoth's mind as he reaches out towards the two Fortian dragons. << You don't belong here, >> he notes; and while the words are serious enough, it's hard to miss the pumping of energy, the posessiveness over - not the weyr, or, at least, not /just/ the weyr. It's Vrianth, too. Vrianth, first? /His/ weyr. /His/ green. He's protecting her! (Cadejoth to Mecaith and Gedroth)
Storm. There is only storm where Mecaith should be. If Cadejoth said anything he did not hear it. There is only Vrianth. Her current. Her lightning. Her glass in his sands from more than one past catch. But he explains none of this. Because there is only she. (Mecaith to Cadejoth and Gedroth)
Gedroth snorts and recoils from the meat that's thrown at him, too late to avoid it. It smears down his muzzle, dragging blood with it, but the brown shakes it off with a snort. What does he need to kill for? Gedroth sits back and flares his wide wings, to let the green see just how powerful a male she's messing with here. But she's already turned her back! A clacking sound emerges from his throat as Gedroth springs to his feet, pacing a few steps down the fence, then reversing mid-air with a little hop. << It's time if I say it is, >> he tells his mentor, far more composed, and a little vexed by Vrianth's attitude. Rhodya looks over her shoulder at T'rev, biting her lower lip, then plunges her face into her hands. She's /trying/ to block everything out, trying to make Gedroth stop, but her brown shakes off the effort with a snakelike plunge and raise of his neck.
A chorus of frogs croaks laughter at the other two males. Wrapped up in this green, are they? Protective of her? << If she's yours you'll be able to take her, >> Gedroth tells Cadejoth fearlessly. Mecaith isn't even worth speaking to. (Gedroth to Cadejoth and Mecaith)
Once A'son is inside the guest weyr, he takes up his customary position. As close to the exit and as far away from anyone else that he can get. Once there, he'll slowly slide down to the floor and drop his head into his knees. Every once in awhile there's going to be a groan and probably, "Shut /up/. You're embarassing both of us." Back in the feeding pens, the more enthusastic one of them is having a grand old time. He throws a beast towards Vrianth, which she doesn't seem interested in? But that doesn't stop him. This is Nikoth! He goes back to that old beast he was working on and finishes it off. The young brown from Fort is watched, carefully. Then he lifts up from what he's eating to swoop much too closely to Gedroth. And trumpet as loudly as possible. Then he'll land on the other side of the fence and begin more of that awesome postering.
To Gedroth and Mecaith, Cadejoth's possessiveness of the green is only partly the lust of a dragon long denied; there's a sense now, too, of the green as part of his pack, part of /his/ weyr. Part of him, then. Though Mecaith in his storm may not listen, the younger bronze reasserts himself to both, chains twanging together with bones, like a tribal dance to ward off evil: << You do not belong here! >>
On the heels of Cadejoth's warning, Vrianth's warble is gravelly welcome, if for one Fortian rather than the other... the other that evidently does not know to leap and drink, no matter the noises that she might hear beyond her, the hops, the pacing, the battle. She gleams, she glows, incandescent down the line of her back and spreading moment by moment out toward the very tips of her wings. She might learn to regret overlooking Corvinth in his gloom, but for now? Nikoth can posture but she, /she/ will leap.
Up, up, up flies Vrianth: through the fog, through the white, higher and higher and... out of sight?
What chains? Mecaith's mind 'sees' only Vrianth, though there's a sense of bubbling water from a deep spring, his rider, as T'rev's focus shifts from Rhodya back to the bronze and pulls hard on the reins. There is nothing to spare for Cadejoth, though that would not perhaps be the case if things were not already so far advanced. Mixed in with it all though, is an image, an image of a tree, holding a spark and its color is olive green: Vrianth's. It may not be the time for understanding, but Mecaith is marked. He is hers, twice over and beyond. (Mecaith to Gedroth and Cadejoth)
To Cadejoth and Mecaith, Gedroth answers Cadejoth with /heat/, not a dry, focused beam but a lead weight of mugginess. << But I am here! >> he exclaims, and a barrage of ribbits back him up. << You're wasting my time with threats. I'm going to fly. >>
Watching Rhodya struggle, T'rev puts a steadying hand against her shoulder and says nothing further, though he's eyeing Gedroth with a distinct look of ill-ease. And then Mecaith goes a-leaping over the fence and he, yes, cusses again. Ungloved fingers, pinking from the Reaches' chill tighten on Rho's shoulder and his eyes find Mecaith through the fog and mayhem in the pens, narrowing, focusing, on the bronze, though he says nothing aloud, the tension in his body would be amply evident to anyone with the attention to notice. Corvinth finishes with his first kill, tackles another speedily and sneakily, taking it down with a swish of his tail first and a strong bat of one paw. Drink. Watch the green. Be ready. Oh he's ready. So /very/ ready. Which is why, when she springs, he's in the air only a hair's breadth behind her, while Mecaith, greater of bulk and just having pinned his beast to the ground, is even slower off the mark than usual. It's a miracle the herdbeast he felled but hadn't killed yet doesn't die of a heart attack. Instead it gallops off bleating to live for at least one more day. Out of sight she goes, but Corvinth too uses the fog to disappear, maybe using other senses to track her, curls of shadow reaching and retreating, here now, then gone as quickly. Can he stay the course? Will he? /Find out/ the shadows whisper, tempt. Mecaith meanwhile is forged of will and trusting to fate. Where she goes, he follows, seeking out sparks in the gloom to lead the way.
"No?" No. Vrianth's rider reaches into the brazier with her tongs, scatters coals to hiss into the snow: is K'del past in time? Latecomers will have fire to leap, for as many moments as it lasts, and those leaving likewise. /She's/ up, her skirt dark with damp where she'd kneeled, stalking for the inner weyr as Vrianth takes to the skies as though to hide... or /find/.
To Mecaith and Gedroth, Cadejoth is undaunted, though perhaps it's as well that there's a green to chase, now, to distract him from these interlopers to his weyr; he has a final warning note for them both, never mind how they will ignore it, and a - << You're far too young, >> for Gedroth, dismissive, and yet, somehow playful. Vrianth, though... Well. Perhaps it's for the best that he turns away to concentrate on her instead.
To Gedroth, Vrianth gleams, might even tantalize, though the heady electricity in her sending is focused more on challenge: will he /really/ let those others deny him, will he back down so far, so soon? Maybe she'll see. If he rises so far as to /look/. Or maybe he's just... too young. Still.
It does sort of make Cadejoth's warning look inefficient, that warble of Vrianth's, but he seems an affable sort nonetheless, and though his gaze in their direction remains warning, he returns back to flinging away the remains of his feed - and then, mere moments after the green herself, launching himself once more into flight. The fog may provide cover, but there's one thing he knows, and that is up, and so, up he climbs, sending an aching rumbled howl through the dim as he seeks her out. K'del is, indeed, just too late to avoid the the fire; he leaps, expression twisting, trailing Leova into the guest weyr with his arms crossed, very nearly tripping over his own unlaced bootlaces in the process.
Gedroth spares a look for Nikoth, but it's not a very polite one. Maybe on an ordinary day he'd back down in the face of this bronze, his elder, but there's nothing ordinary about today. He paces a few steps past Nikoth, trying to find Vrianth again so he can resume prancing for her, only - she's gone! He cries out, a shrill clattering sound, and launches from his dance. It's a graceful launch, but not a powerful one; he wasn't expecting her to leave just then, but damned if he'll let them throw him. He heaves himself into the air, but goes slowly; after a few wingbeats he remembers to swing out, hastily making room for Nikoth.
Nikoth freezes in mid posture, tracing Vrianth's path into the sky with his brilliant, violet eyes. All the more fabulous for their traces of scarlett. He watches other males leap into the sky afterwards, waiting with a cockiness all his own. The space that Gedroth leaves him is given a disdainfull flick of his wing tips. When the foreign, all-too-young brown is out of his way, he leaps into the sky. With broad, powerful sweeps of his wings the bronze throws himself up and into the air, passing some of the early starters. << Learn to fly, suckers! >> -- A'son. "Please, stop talking. Can't you chase silently?" His face remains shoved into his knees and hands, his body still on it's spot on the floor, leaning against the wall.
Scattered distractions have thinned out Gedroth's attention, but that coy touch from the green is like a beacon, drawing him in. He doesn't answer at first, too busy analyzing what he felt of her mind for clues, some hint of where she's gone. He must keep her somehow. << I back down for no one, >> he snorts. (Gedroth to Vrianth)
The frogs suck in breath, their quivering jaws readying some final retort. Before they can say anything, though, something interrupts; Gedroth snaps out of this conversation in a heartbeat. (Gedroth to Cadejoth and Mecaith)
Silence. (Mecaith to Gedroth and Cadejoth)
Rhodya's shoulder goes tight beneath T'rev's hand, and she remains frozen that way, head in her hands, for several long beats after Vrianth's launch. She's lost her fight. At last she rouses herself with a deep breath, looking around in the fog. "Where do we go?" she asks T'rev tersely, ready to follow his lead.
Fog, Vrianth can use to her advantage, less up just now than out: even such a large Bowl is too small for her, and she'll have to rise past the Rim into clear all-but-dark skies to get anywhere further, but /until/ then... with Corvinth so close behind her, it's his favorite Spindles that she speeds toward, still low, still in that shroud of fog. Know them though he does, still there are several of which she could choose any to pass between... and make it the more tricky for visitors to find their way besides. Even frequent visitors. Perhaps. /Perhaps/. Unless Cadejoth, with that reverberating howl of his, knows somehow and shows them audibly the way, visitors and those still too slow alike. And Vrianth's rider? Not so slow: a boot-toe collides with a coal, sends it in a bright arc off the ledge itself, but at least it's not in ill-laced K'del's way. Towards any others? Who knows. In she goes: past A'son in the meantime, with a casual fist aimed to bump his shoulder, no more. In, the better to pace, and shove the chairs in line, and circle round all over again. Snatch some fruit, toss the in-season-only-down-South orange from hand to hand.
<< For... no one. >> Vrianth repeats it, languid for all the speed of her flight, electricity that refuses to ground itself but only ever pass through and through and through. Will she, someday, be no one? Or always and ever some-one? << Tell me your name, >> she says, even while it's unvoiced on her breath. Gedroth. /Ged/-roth. Ged-/roth/. (Vrianth to Gedroth)
C'sel remains, upright, looking out into the mist, seemingly unmoved as coals hiss and sputter and sent up steam and smoke to join the fog. It's not until everyone else is within, that the former Igenite finally turns away from the darkening prospect of the foggy bowl, to join the others. Silent and still as a statue, just a few paces away from A'son. << I /am/ >> Corvinth answers Nikoth from ... somewhere. Somewhere unseen, just a shadow in the air, cawing a cackle towards the large bronze. << Don't know what /you're/ doing friend, but it doesn't look like /flying/. >> And then he cuts out because he's twisting in the air for some reason. Vrianth? Likely. Shadow and strange light don't so much chase as /stalk/ her current, scenting for its trace to use as a guideline through the soupy conditions. << What a time you've chosen. And through /there/. Couldn't be more interesting, babe. Dodging shadows. Dodging spindles. I /like/ it. >> Ha ha. Out in the bowl: T'rev is standing stock still, trembling, hand still crimped to Rho's shoulder. That's more than just condensation on his face. It takes a little while for him to focus on Rhodya. "Have to get him down," he says in a low, hoarse voice, then blinks a few times, swallows hard, looks up and nods. "This way." He won't abandon Rho, though his steps across the Bowl are far from steady and the flight's only barely begun. At least he knows the path to that guest weyr well, even if he gets pegged in the forehead with a flying coal. "/Ow!/" rings out from outside. Once they've reached and crossed the now cold barrier of dead coals, T'rev seeks out Leova, eyes conveying an apology that is not spoken aloud, even though he's rubbing a dark smudge in the middle of his forehead with a trace of light burn beneath. He takes up a position on the other side of the entry from A'son. Mecaith? Steady as he goes on her tail, on her glow, on /her/ wherever she goes. Her spindle trick? That one he does know at least and can stay the course, for now.
At this point, Cadejoth is more likely to show visitors the wrong way, for though he alters his path for out, and then, as a snatch of green hints at her path towards the Spindles, alters again to aim towards them, he doesn't actually seem to know where he's going. Which Spindle. Where. Through the fog, though, he makes that sound again: a pure howl, this time, bone-shaking, probably liable to reverberate through the sky if it weren't for the muffling qualities of that smog. Inside the guest weyr, K'del finds himself an empty piece of wall to lean against, and tilts his head back, shutting his eyes; his fists are clenched at his sides, now, and surprise has faded to concentration and determination.
To Vrianth, Gedroth's mind is not made of or for poetry; it's mud and water and the simple things that live in both. Being no one? Being someone? << For no one, >> he repeats firmly, << but I'm Gedroth. >> Geh-/droth/. Try it that way. It's quite manly. << Who are you? >> He's not trying to follow her flits of electricity as they dance around, distracting; as long as it keeps coming around and around, he can just focus on one moment, and glean what he can from the image. The Spindles impress themselves on his awareness, and Gedroth is palpably smug. He visualized those for /between/.
Kabam. A smash of drums. The sound of a crash. Jolting. << You're floundering. >> Nikoth has no idea where Corvinth is, but that hardly seems to matter. << Go back to chasing nothing. That's all browns are good for anyway. Not fast enough to be /blue/, not powerful enough to be /bronze/. Pathetic. That goes for you too, Fort. >> For all his postering and waiting in the back, he's catching up fast. Going straight across the bowl in the direction of where he thinks Vrianth has gone. Those spindles? Well. Only he and Cadejoth truly belong here and he owns them like the back of his claw, knowing where their locations are even in the fog. That pure howl from his descendent gets returned with one of his own, loud and annoyed for the irritation. -- A'son jerks when Leova's hand thumps into his shouler. He looks up only briefly to watch her path across the weyr, his eyes dark and smouldering.
Rhodya meets T'rev's eye when he looks at her, but her expression is tight. She's busy; she can't spare him a moment of sympathy. No, not even when he gets pegged by that coal. She startles a bit, her firm demeanor broken by surprise, but after a few blinks she's back on track and stepping into the weyr. Better not to look around and see who's here; better just to find a wall and stand there. Gedroth waits for Nikoth to pass him, then slips in behind him, nose-to-tail like a parading elephant. The fog makes everything cold, otherwise the bronze might feel his rival's breath on his tail: that's how close they are. He hasn't got a second to spare for the taunting going on, even when his own color's insulted. This is tricky flying, made even more so by the fact that he's tailing someone, and that takes all of his attention. Well. Mostly all. There is that spark of a green to think about.
There's a backward glance over one gleaming wing as Vrianth has to rise out of the fog, rise and disappear... /does/ Corvinth like it? She doesn't answer in words, but a downsweep's worth of electric light is paired with deliberate slowness that doesn't seem to dodge shadows or spindle so much as to dare them: close. Too close. Close enough to entice a feint, perhaps, but just as someone reckless might try a catch? All of a sudden she swerves hard right, close enough that she has to vane that rockward wing for room. Close enough that it shakes her Leova in a shudder. Close enough to slow those too near behind her, run those less agile into each other like nits caught on a comb. And then she's past, faster and faster, a sudden warble that might be answer or challenge and does it even matter? It's muffled at the very end as she dives back into the fog, as she curves beneath it, dying out just after she takes on straighter flight once again with all those valleys below her for room. Leova? Hasn't so much room, by her lights, or maybe it's for refreshment that she tosses that orange of hers /between/ the Fortians rather than out the exit: a good shot midway that either might reach or let fall... or bump into each other and lose it all, instead. As she moves back to the fruit basket, a shorter man gets a pear tossed to him. K'del? A second, smaller orange. And then a third for A'son, if that gaze of his doesn't light it on fire midway.
<< Gedroth, >> she allows in that gravelly voice of hers, new-made with that foreign lilt as though she'd bestowed it on him, as much as though he'd known it from birth. He knows his lessons? << Let us see what else you remember. ...Gedroth. >> And there's her name, writ in energy radiant on more levels that light, unmistakable if still unvoiced: /Vrianth/. She's Vrianth. Now, to see what he can do with it... (Vrianth to Gedroth)
Nikoth realizes that there's someone tailing him. There's not a hint of warning before he suddenly adjusts, moving himself higher in the air and drastically reducing his speed. A manauver that may cost him plenty later, but hopefully puts him above Gedroth when the brown goes sailing past him. Which will again, hopefully, allow him to sink and /rake/ as many of his cruel, sharp talons into the younger more inexperienced brown as he can. Once he's done mauling up that poor young brown, he'll shoot past him again. He lets loose a triumphant howl, pleased with what he's just done. It's of the best fortune for him that Vrianth takes the hard turn, throwing off those that are so close to her. It gives him some time to catch up and become more of a competitior than he was so much earlier. << Baby, baby. I'm coming for you! Give me a hint! >> -- A'son doesn't set any oranges on fire. He just gets hit with one. "Damn it. Leova? What the hell?" The bronzerider looks over picks up the orange and flings it back across and in her general direction.
Cadejoth? He's going to take Nikoth's return howl as encouragement, and so, there goes another of his, audible through the density of the fog, though perhaps it isn't quite as telling of his location as it might normally be. But he must be on to something, now, because his wingbeats are faster still, and somehow more focused, more intent: his distance from the back means he avoids the potential for entanglements as Vrianth swerves, and then she is within his sights again, and he's making up for lost time - faster and faster and faster. K'del's orange hits him in the chest, thanks to closed eyes, though he manages to catch it fumblingly on the rebound, before it hits the ground. It gets turned in his hands, turned and turned, watched with eyes that, moments later, lift to consider Leova herself.
Gedroth spies Vrianth for the first time since the feeding grounds, and she's /slowing down/. He gives himself away with a short cry of excitement, speeding under Nikoth without a single thought spared for the bronze. So he gets it good. The sudden attack from above spurs the young brown forward in a burst of speed, which helps him get away more quickly, but no less raked by Nikoth's talons. Now his momentum is unbrakeable; he wrenches himself around in the air, throwing himself into Mecaith rather than get so close to those foreign Spires. He's young, though, and young things bounce. In his case, he bounces right off Mecaith and turns around, recognizing that he's out of this one and turning suddenly to go. The impact must have really knocked some sense into him. His rider doesn't go so peacefully. Rhodya's eyes snap open and she howls at the room, "Whoever did that, I - URGH!" She will be inarticulately angry at them! The brownrider clenches her hands into fists and stomps out to find her dragon.
C'sel's stoic mask slowly starts to soften and change, typically immovable features going mobile and expressive. The message is writ large by degrees: all-consuming desire and something narrow, keen-eyed, avid in his brilliantly blue gaze. It's potentially disturbing to see that there if anyone who knows him notices. T'rev meanwhile is a mess, from the black smudging his brow and the developing small burn, to the spiked up hair from his hand raking through it repeatedly and the rather wild-eyed look to him. When he looks at Leova, longing and deep caring are easily found, but that keeps getting pushed aside by determination every time he looks away. Orange. He startles and it's instinct maybe that sends his hand snapping outward to catch it. For a moment, his gaze is held by the fruit's round shape, then his head back-tilts with a hollow-sounding thunk and brown eyes close to fight Mecaith down. It's a battle largely unseen, but maybe that he's won, when the bronze unaccountably slows down and turns slightly ahead of Vrianth's vaning. It's a move that might've worked too, to keep the bronze in the running, if it weren't for many things happening all at once. His rider /pulls/, that raking takes place and Gedroth's bounce sends him spinning off-course away from Vrianth. T'rev is pulling and pulling, harder and harder, though Mecaith wheels about once control is regained to try to make up distance. Pain lances through him and he lets out an uncharacterstic bugle, a longing note held in the cry as sun's keen heat stretches to Vrianth briefly, energy for her sparks, then fades out as he does, down into fog and snow. Corvinth is much too agile to get taken out by that swerve. Bastard. Foosh, there he goes, tick-tacking above those big-ass bulky bronzes. Ha ha. Can't catch /me/. Cocky sucker that he is. He doesn't taunt them by getting too close though. If one of them decided to make a rock sandwich out of him, well they'd win. /Yes/ he likes it. Loves it. Loves /this/. << Babe, you're the best, >> he crows with true admiration threading through all those sly, sneaky shadows of his. There's light to be found somewhere in that darkness, a glimmer of silver reflecting off of something. Shiny. Shoulders slumping, face sheened with sweat, T'rev carries out his one prize of the evening: the fruit. Then he's stumbling after Rhodya quickly.
To Vrianth, Gedroth doesn't say anything because she's just come into view, and excitement flashes through him. Maybe she'll see a bit of what happens next: him charging, him getting scratched, him bumping into Mecaith. Then, him turning back to go home. << Vrianth, >> he repeats soberly, acknowledging her name at last. Now that he's out of the game. << You're an interesting green. I'm going home now. >> Just like that.
To Gedroth, Vrianth doesn't /look/ back, but how can she help but notice this too, with the attention she pays her chasers, /hers/. She uncoils energy for the younger brown's reply, enough to perhaps lighten some of his pain, restless and racing and, yes, randy as it is... but above it, still the gravelly voice that won't be offset just yet. << Gedroth. >> His name, /knowing/ his name, for him to take home. She'll remember. All the way to Fort. And then /she's/ gone.
When: Evening on day 22, month 13, turn 19 of Interval 10.
Where: Snowasis, East Bowl, Guest Weyr, and Sky at High Reaches Weyr
What: Throwing caution to the wind, Gedroth decides to chase Vrianth despite his youth and the warnings from local bronzes. He pays the price for daring, retreating early with a scratched back. But a new friend!
It's been an afternoon with a lot of flying and a special trip up north for Gedroth's practice purposes. And well, fun. Now though in the wake of all that, T'rev's had the pair land at the Reaches and leads the way to the Snowasis. "You might like this place, it ain't as fancy as the Fountain, but it's nice, cozy. Good drinks. Decent food."
Fun! Now, there's something to keep your mind off your worries. What with that, and a successful trip /between/ to a place so far away, Rhodya's bouncing happily along at T'rev's heels. "I could definitely use a bite to eat," she comments, too fixated on the promise of a meal even to look around. That doesn't mean others don't look at /her/. Being a former leatherworker, she's got a very handsome set of leathers, and they don't match - at /all/ - the disastrous pink flower cap she's pulled down over her ears.
"Great, we can order a little somethin', maybe toast your victory today," T'rev says cheerily and heads on up the ramp to the patio ledge and then within to the bar proper. "Pick us out a place t'sit?" he suggests. "I'll get us some menus and the drinks are listed up yonder," he points to the chalkboard. It's only a matter of moments to fetch two menu cards and then come back to wherever Rho's chosen. Out in the bowl, Mecaith is stretching out a little, re-arranging his wings and then tipping a rather expectant look in a particular direction. He seems a little atypically ... tense.
"Sure," Rhodya says, turning to look at the room. She's not picky - the nearest open table will do, even though it's next to a group of giggling girls who seem particularly entertained by her hat. The brownrider answers their curious stares with her brightest smile, and ignores the murmurings as she sits down to wait for T'rev. She waves for him when he comes back, attracting his attention to her spot. Gedroth doesn't feel the thrill of victory as deeply as his rider; at least, it hasn't made him oblivious to all around him. He comes back from a prowling exploration of their part of the bowl to find Mecaith acting oddly, and sits back on his haunches to look at the bronze, look where the bronze is looking, then look at the bronze again. << Are you talking to someone? >>
"Here you go," T'rev passes Rhodya one of the cards, doffs his jacket and sits across from her. "Lookin' good," he notes with a smile for her hat, not daunted at all by those murmuring folks over yonder. Once he's sat though, T'rev's hand wanders to the back of his neck like it itches and he starts rubbing there absently at first. Mecaith; distracted: << I am. >> With a zing of staticky fuzz that has little to do with the way his mind usually is, green-scented and his desert's worth of sand seems to suspend partway up into the air, with a feeling of ozone and the rumble of thunder not too far off.
Rhodya rubs her hands with anticipation when she gets her menu card, but why read when you can interrogate? "Oooh, this is a lot. They got them little cheesey log things?" Like the giggles about her hat, T'rev's odd scratching goes unnoticed. Gedroth is already on his hindquarters, but now he pushes up on them, all but standing on his two hind feet for a few seconds while he sniffs that air. Is there a physical scent to match that intriguing ozone? He falls flat-footed without yet having caught it, and shakes his head with a snort.
"Mostly bar-stuff, but some small plates too," T'rev answers a little distractedly and looks up. "Did you hear thunder?" He's rubbing a hand up his arm now and then drops it back to the table's surface, promptly starts drumming his fingers. He's eyeing the menu card again, when he looks up slowly and focuses outside. The card falls to the table and for all Rhodya is a lady, he cusses. "Oh /shit/." Pushing back his chair, T'rev gets to his feet and grabs his jacket. "C'mon Rho. We might have a problem." Mecaith's whole body has rearranged now into a single tense line and his eyes are starting to take on a subtly purple tinge. His mind swirls with a sudden wind, sands all whipped up. << Vrianth ... >> is reverently whispered and then his mind shuts off like a light going out as his focus goes elsewhere.
Rhodya blinks and looks around her. "No?" She checks the faces of the other patrons: nobody else seems to have heard thunder, or if they did, they aren't as surprised by it. "Hey," she scolds T'rev reflexively, "language." Reflexively? Usually, her reflex is to be sing-songy and nice about the reminder, not snappish. She still looks puzzled, though, when T'rev suddenly starts to leave, although she follows obediently. And then - "Oh!" She picks up a jog, herself. Probably she's just heard Gedroth saying, to the vanished space that /was/ Mecaith: << She's a green, this Vrianth? That's very interesting. >>
To Gedroth, Rhodya projects, << Baby, you want to come exploring with me? We could look around High Reaches. >>
To Rhodya, Gedroth projects, << I'm already exploring. There's a green that Mecaith's interested in, whom I would very much like to meet. >>
To Gedroth, Rhodya projects, << Baby, no. Come on, please. >>
Silence. (Gedroth to Rhodya)
Some other flight and its participants must have tramped the guest weyr's wide, easy-to-follow path of dark rock against the white snow all about and the white fog all around. Tramped, not scraped: it's icy, with skidmarks leading both to and from, from boots larger and smaller than Leova's. The greenrider is currently kneeling on the guest weyr's ledge, /in/ the snow, feeding a brazier that burns smokily. Gray rises and diffuses, a loose trail within the white. She waits. Waits for Vrianth, who's stirred upon her ledge above the lake, her sending a characteristic subtle one for such times: a hint of electricity, its path as yet uncertain. But teasing, yes. Glints, here and there. It takes the perceptive to pick up on it. Surely she's simply stretching her wings, casting over her territory, as she has done at this time and that through the last day and a half. Surely it's just a false alarm. Like last time.
To Gedroth, Vrianth drifts from above the lake, /her/ lake, a barely-there movement within the white. It might be the wind, but for the growing sense of... purpose.
Vrianth's sparks, even this subtle electricity, have always had an impact upon Cadejoth's conductive metal chains; tonight, through the fog, it's enough to draw Cadejoth up from the low crouch upon his ledge, enough to bring his wings back, and send that ever-moving tail into a tensed straightness, beating faster than usual upon the icy expanse of his ledge. Ping. Zing. A ting, too: almost musical. His mind reaches out, seeking for Vrianth's in eager curiosity and awareness, lit from within as those sparks dance riotously within. It's not enough to send K'del over, though; he stays in his weyr, oblivious to this new development, what with his book and his single glass of whiskey to keep him company. After all... Cadejoth hasn't chased anyone since Iovniath.
Out in the bowl, the shapes of two foreign dragons lurk in the fog. One of them at least has his head turned towards Vrianth, eyes carrying a lurking hint of dusky purple, body a long line of tension, singing with that current Vrianth sends forth. Voices ring out from the direction of the Snowasis. "Have to talk him out of it," is drawled in the distinct tones of Nerat, maybe carrying as far as that guest weyr's ledge. Another shadow lurks, but this one is far above, Corvinth, dark-winged and watchful. He's been there or down in the bowl near weyrlings as the weather permitted, for most of the day, but his mind has been tracking Vrianth through her every move, while C'sel has gone about duty and business without a sign that his brown is essentially, stalking. Coming out of the weyrling training cavern just now in fact, the weyrlingmaster's assistant looks up and up and up through the fog and remains that way, still and silent for several long moments, before resolutely turning his steps towards the guest weyr. Corvinth's wings stretch wide in echo of Vrianth's and then he's taking off, dropping like another swirl of fog towards the feeding pens.
Down by the lake, Nikoth is playing out on the frozen surface of the lake. With A'son standing there on the shore, cursing at him about one thing or another. To anyone nearby it's something about 'not wanting to play the rock game again'. The bronze is happily playing and ignoring him anyway, though something seems to catch his attention and he freezes in place, turning his head towards the wall of the bowl. From a happy blue-green swirl, his eyes change to one tinged with violet and his body tenses. "No, I don't want to do this." But that's evidentally not up to the bronzerider, as the dragon suddenly moves, careening past him and launching into the sky, taking off into the bowl and whatever green he's decided to chase after today. There's a sigh and reluctantly, A'son begins his march in the same direction.
Bolder than his companion, the second foreign dragon doesn't just watch Vrianth, but creeps closer, searching for that curious electric spark within the fog. Gedroth's big enough to pass for a grown brown, but there's no mistaking the immaturity of his interest in the whole proceedings: a little sniff here, an inquisitive rumble. He doesn't have the focused intensity of the other males circling in, nor does he seem to quite /get/ what's coming up here. A female voice, his rider, comes after that Neratian one: "How do you even do that? He's - you know how he gets." Rhodya brushes irritably at the fog that's getting in her face, although it does no good.
Down on the ledge, Leova blows on the brazier. It smolders more. She sneezes, wipes her nose on the back of her hand, wipes /that/ in the snow. Clean snow. Not tramped snow. Clean enough to have fallen, not just after a queen risen or eggs hatched, possibly even before a certain renegade was hanged. Her eyes rise before her head does, slewed to the side to get a glimpse of the first one arriving: a burly woman, not unfamiliar, who gets a nod and a, "Took your time." A taller man, after, who gets nothing at all. Never mind that it's not fair, that Vrianth hadn't given /real/ warning, that nothing about this is ever fair. Those that don't like games, well, they probably won't like /this/ either, not with Vrianth taking a more protracted route to the pens, enough to fly low over some auntie or weyrling or stablehand or ill-advised Fortian treading where they really, really shouldn't be. But it's not long before she kills, spills an ovine's red blood made that much brighter in the falling dusk and clinging fog. Its bleat is loud before it gurgles to an end, and she turns her head, /looks/ to see just who's there. Leova looks, too, only she hasn't Vrianth's laughter in her eyes.
T'rev reaches Mecaith and puts out both hands to take the dragon's muzzle between them. "Have t'focus. Lots," the bronzerider answers distractedly and bends his forehead against his bronze. "Mec ... we talked about this ..." is murmured so maybe only Rhodya hears. "/Space/," he says emphatically and then there's silence while lifemate and rider strive between them for one outcome or another. For now, T'rev's not noticed Gedroth's interest or Rho's irritatbility. C'sel meanwhile has reached the steps to the guest weyr, his walk patient, unhurried and he climbs the steps one at a time, carefully, slowly, guided by that brazier Leova's lit. "Good evening, Leova," he offers in polite, measured tones, for all of Corvinth's sly will-he-won't-he baiting of Vrianth from above and comes to a halt, hands in pockets. As unruffled as ever he is. For now.
Gedroth ducks instinctively when something goes flying over his head. The green! There she is! With a flick of his tail, he trots purposefully after her, sniffing the wind. And then, when he reaches the hunting grounds, sticks his neck further over the fence than he probably should, so he can inspect that smell, and her kill, more closely. Oh, he's not touching her - he's not that naive - but remaining juuust outside the personal space bubble doesn't tend to work as well with proddy greens as it does with ordinary ones. "Gedroth!" Rhodya snaps, somewhere behind him. The brownrider stomps her foot. "Get back here and leave her alone!"
Nikoth heads immediately to the pens, having left his rider behind in the cold and fog. He doesn't get there fast enough to beat the green, but once he sees her? There's a cocky, triumphant bugle and he descends to the ground. As is his usual act, the bronze flares out his giant wings just so she can get a good look-see at what he has to offer. Check out these goods, baby!! It's then that he lifts off again, knocking a young, fresh looking beast to the side and blooding it with all due haste. A'son takes his time wandering through the fog and he's probably one of the very last to arrive, thumping his way up the steps. When he gets to the top and sees Leova he utters out a long litany of curses. "This is why he wouldn't tell me who he was fucking chasing. Son of a bitch, I'll ki-" The rest is cut short as he stamps past the greenrdier, not even bothering to say hello.
It's after most of the dragons - certainly after Vrianth - have arrived at the feeding grounds that Cadejoth, far across the bowl, is thrown into motion. It happens at once: one moment, he is leaning forward, lingering in the fog, aware and alert, but still quiet, and then in the next, he is airborne, lost in the fog until he might be seen, greeny-bronze and pale, amidst the pens, where a beast chosen entirely at random becomes his immediate and enthused upon kill. It's after that, then, that somewhere inside, K'del stirs, and then goes still, eyes wide. The book gets placed down, then the glass; then, he reaches for his coat, shoves his feet into boots, and begins towards the exit.
"Won't even this rattle you?" is what Leova's asking C'sel as A'son curses his way by. Her eyes shut, hold there a moment, lashes still dark in the firelight against the circles worn beneath her eyes. But he's gone by then, and she can look up. Can explain to the brownrider, "I don't remember." Last time. Nikoth gets less attention than his rider for all of his wing-fanning, even Corvinth with his would-be lack of commitment gaining a long glance through the fog further, but when that second herdbeast gets tossed her way? She'll accept his offering... but. No. No, Vrianth's whirling eyes have fixed on young Gedroth, dark and delighted, and though her jaws lower to clench into flesh, it's to /fling/ it over the fence in the brown's direction. Maybe he can't kill for himself, is that it? Does he need a /bronze/ to kill for him? Or can he do it all his very own self, after all? She'll see, perhaps. If she waits that long. She's already all but turned, killing again, a breath after Cadejoth who just might set that Fortian an example. A twist of her neck brings this second close, closer even than Cadejoth, close enough to drink. It'll be her last. This time.
Rhodya's plea to Gedroth snaps T'rev's focus on Mecaith and he looks around blearily through the fog. "Wha--?" Clearly, he didn't expect Gedroth to be interested so soon a full three months before he's reached a turn. The Fortian bronzerider cusses again and turns from Mecaith with a warning glance. He's got a mentee to look to. "Focus, Rho, focus, try to distract him from her. Get right in there with him and /hold him/ on the ground," T'rev tells the young woman urgently, though he strives to make his voice low and reassuring rather than distracting and disruptive. C'sel stays put, standing watch, looking out into the fog, maybe his jaw has tensed a little. Maybe. "For now,no" C'sel answers Leova quietly then resumes his silent watch. Blood on the snow. And out of nowhere .. SNAP! Corvinth makes his shadowy presence in the pens known, cracking a herdbeast's back and drinking deep, eyes brilliantly purple in the gloom. He /will/. Meanwhile, with his rider distracted, Mecaith straightens up a little, head held at an angle and edges towards the pens, eyes fixed on Vrianth, only Vrianth, though he spares a thought for Gedroth, poorly formed compared to his typical meticulousness. << Not time yet. >> And then he springs over the fence and into the pens, tracking a kill that he likely won't have time to actually truly catch.
Green and red-bronze, now, now that Cadejoth has let the life-blood of his kill spurt and burble all over him, in his haste to catch up; he's a little out of practice, forgive him. He's just about finished this kill of his when his head tilts up again, this time to whip around towards the two Fortians, whom he watches with rapidly whirling eyes. It's not that he's gone still - has he ever gone still? - but... but. His rumble is a warning one, somehow protective, and clearly taking precedence over the continued feeding, at least for now. It's about this point when K'del finally shows up, slouching his way across the bowl with an expression of surprise, his gaze flicking towards Leova as he gets near enough, his lips tightening.
Zing. Spark. Electricity dances up and down the mental chains of Cadejoth's mind as he reaches out towards the two Fortian dragons. << You don't belong here, >> he notes; and while the words are serious enough, it's hard to miss the pumping of energy, the posessiveness over - not the weyr, or, at least, not /just/ the weyr. It's Vrianth, too. Vrianth, first? /His/ weyr. /His/ green. He's protecting her! (Cadejoth to Mecaith and Gedroth)
Storm. There is only storm where Mecaith should be. If Cadejoth said anything he did not hear it. There is only Vrianth. Her current. Her lightning. Her glass in his sands from more than one past catch. But he explains none of this. Because there is only she. (Mecaith to Cadejoth and Gedroth)
Gedroth snorts and recoils from the meat that's thrown at him, too late to avoid it. It smears down his muzzle, dragging blood with it, but the brown shakes it off with a snort. What does he need to kill for? Gedroth sits back and flares his wide wings, to let the green see just how powerful a male she's messing with here. But she's already turned her back! A clacking sound emerges from his throat as Gedroth springs to his feet, pacing a few steps down the fence, then reversing mid-air with a little hop. << It's time if I say it is, >> he tells his mentor, far more composed, and a little vexed by Vrianth's attitude. Rhodya looks over her shoulder at T'rev, biting her lower lip, then plunges her face into her hands. She's /trying/ to block everything out, trying to make Gedroth stop, but her brown shakes off the effort with a snakelike plunge and raise of his neck.
A chorus of frogs croaks laughter at the other two males. Wrapped up in this green, are they? Protective of her? << If she's yours you'll be able to take her, >> Gedroth tells Cadejoth fearlessly. Mecaith isn't even worth speaking to. (Gedroth to Cadejoth and Mecaith)
Once A'son is inside the guest weyr, he takes up his customary position. As close to the exit and as far away from anyone else that he can get. Once there, he'll slowly slide down to the floor and drop his head into his knees. Every once in awhile there's going to be a groan and probably, "Shut /up/. You're embarassing both of us." Back in the feeding pens, the more enthusastic one of them is having a grand old time. He throws a beast towards Vrianth, which she doesn't seem interested in? But that doesn't stop him. This is Nikoth! He goes back to that old beast he was working on and finishes it off. The young brown from Fort is watched, carefully. Then he lifts up from what he's eating to swoop much too closely to Gedroth. And trumpet as loudly as possible. Then he'll land on the other side of the fence and begin more of that awesome postering.
To Gedroth and Mecaith, Cadejoth's possessiveness of the green is only partly the lust of a dragon long denied; there's a sense now, too, of the green as part of his pack, part of /his/ weyr. Part of him, then. Though Mecaith in his storm may not listen, the younger bronze reasserts himself to both, chains twanging together with bones, like a tribal dance to ward off evil: << You do not belong here! >>
On the heels of Cadejoth's warning, Vrianth's warble is gravelly welcome, if for one Fortian rather than the other... the other that evidently does not know to leap and drink, no matter the noises that she might hear beyond her, the hops, the pacing, the battle. She gleams, she glows, incandescent down the line of her back and spreading moment by moment out toward the very tips of her wings. She might learn to regret overlooking Corvinth in his gloom, but for now? Nikoth can posture but she, /she/ will leap.
Up, up, up flies Vrianth: through the fog, through the white, higher and higher and... out of sight?
What chains? Mecaith's mind 'sees' only Vrianth, though there's a sense of bubbling water from a deep spring, his rider, as T'rev's focus shifts from Rhodya back to the bronze and pulls hard on the reins. There is nothing to spare for Cadejoth, though that would not perhaps be the case if things were not already so far advanced. Mixed in with it all though, is an image, an image of a tree, holding a spark and its color is olive green: Vrianth's. It may not be the time for understanding, but Mecaith is marked. He is hers, twice over and beyond. (Mecaith to Gedroth and Cadejoth)
To Cadejoth and Mecaith, Gedroth answers Cadejoth with /heat/, not a dry, focused beam but a lead weight of mugginess. << But I am here! >> he exclaims, and a barrage of ribbits back him up. << You're wasting my time with threats. I'm going to fly. >>
Watching Rhodya struggle, T'rev puts a steadying hand against her shoulder and says nothing further, though he's eyeing Gedroth with a distinct look of ill-ease. And then Mecaith goes a-leaping over the fence and he, yes, cusses again. Ungloved fingers, pinking from the Reaches' chill tighten on Rho's shoulder and his eyes find Mecaith through the fog and mayhem in the pens, narrowing, focusing, on the bronze, though he says nothing aloud, the tension in his body would be amply evident to anyone with the attention to notice. Corvinth finishes with his first kill, tackles another speedily and sneakily, taking it down with a swish of his tail first and a strong bat of one paw. Drink. Watch the green. Be ready. Oh he's ready. So /very/ ready. Which is why, when she springs, he's in the air only a hair's breadth behind her, while Mecaith, greater of bulk and just having pinned his beast to the ground, is even slower off the mark than usual. It's a miracle the herdbeast he felled but hadn't killed yet doesn't die of a heart attack. Instead it gallops off bleating to live for at least one more day. Out of sight she goes, but Corvinth too uses the fog to disappear, maybe using other senses to track her, curls of shadow reaching and retreating, here now, then gone as quickly. Can he stay the course? Will he? /Find out/ the shadows whisper, tempt. Mecaith meanwhile is forged of will and trusting to fate. Where she goes, he follows, seeking out sparks in the gloom to lead the way.
"No?" No. Vrianth's rider reaches into the brazier with her tongs, scatters coals to hiss into the snow: is K'del past in time? Latecomers will have fire to leap, for as many moments as it lasts, and those leaving likewise. /She's/ up, her skirt dark with damp where she'd kneeled, stalking for the inner weyr as Vrianth takes to the skies as though to hide... or /find/.
To Mecaith and Gedroth, Cadejoth is undaunted, though perhaps it's as well that there's a green to chase, now, to distract him from these interlopers to his weyr; he has a final warning note for them both, never mind how they will ignore it, and a - << You're far too young, >> for Gedroth, dismissive, and yet, somehow playful. Vrianth, though... Well. Perhaps it's for the best that he turns away to concentrate on her instead.
To Gedroth, Vrianth gleams, might even tantalize, though the heady electricity in her sending is focused more on challenge: will he /really/ let those others deny him, will he back down so far, so soon? Maybe she'll see. If he rises so far as to /look/. Or maybe he's just... too young. Still.
It does sort of make Cadejoth's warning look inefficient, that warble of Vrianth's, but he seems an affable sort nonetheless, and though his gaze in their direction remains warning, he returns back to flinging away the remains of his feed - and then, mere moments after the green herself, launching himself once more into flight. The fog may provide cover, but there's one thing he knows, and that is up, and so, up he climbs, sending an aching rumbled howl through the dim as he seeks her out. K'del is, indeed, just too late to avoid the the fire; he leaps, expression twisting, trailing Leova into the guest weyr with his arms crossed, very nearly tripping over his own unlaced bootlaces in the process.
Gedroth spares a look for Nikoth, but it's not a very polite one. Maybe on an ordinary day he'd back down in the face of this bronze, his elder, but there's nothing ordinary about today. He paces a few steps past Nikoth, trying to find Vrianth again so he can resume prancing for her, only - she's gone! He cries out, a shrill clattering sound, and launches from his dance. It's a graceful launch, but not a powerful one; he wasn't expecting her to leave just then, but damned if he'll let them throw him. He heaves himself into the air, but goes slowly; after a few wingbeats he remembers to swing out, hastily making room for Nikoth.
Nikoth freezes in mid posture, tracing Vrianth's path into the sky with his brilliant, violet eyes. All the more fabulous for their traces of scarlett. He watches other males leap into the sky afterwards, waiting with a cockiness all his own. The space that Gedroth leaves him is given a disdainfull flick of his wing tips. When the foreign, all-too-young brown is out of his way, he leaps into the sky. With broad, powerful sweeps of his wings the bronze throws himself up and into the air, passing some of the early starters. << Learn to fly, suckers! >> -- A'son. "Please, stop talking. Can't you chase silently?" His face remains shoved into his knees and hands, his body still on it's spot on the floor, leaning against the wall.
Scattered distractions have thinned out Gedroth's attention, but that coy touch from the green is like a beacon, drawing him in. He doesn't answer at first, too busy analyzing what he felt of her mind for clues, some hint of where she's gone. He must keep her somehow. << I back down for no one, >> he snorts. (Gedroth to Vrianth)
The frogs suck in breath, their quivering jaws readying some final retort. Before they can say anything, though, something interrupts; Gedroth snaps out of this conversation in a heartbeat. (Gedroth to Cadejoth and Mecaith)
Silence. (Mecaith to Gedroth and Cadejoth)
Rhodya's shoulder goes tight beneath T'rev's hand, and she remains frozen that way, head in her hands, for several long beats after Vrianth's launch. She's lost her fight. At last she rouses herself with a deep breath, looking around in the fog. "Where do we go?" she asks T'rev tersely, ready to follow his lead.
Fog, Vrianth can use to her advantage, less up just now than out: even such a large Bowl is too small for her, and she'll have to rise past the Rim into clear all-but-dark skies to get anywhere further, but /until/ then... with Corvinth so close behind her, it's his favorite Spindles that she speeds toward, still low, still in that shroud of fog. Know them though he does, still there are several of which she could choose any to pass between... and make it the more tricky for visitors to find their way besides. Even frequent visitors. Perhaps. /Perhaps/. Unless Cadejoth, with that reverberating howl of his, knows somehow and shows them audibly the way, visitors and those still too slow alike. And Vrianth's rider? Not so slow: a boot-toe collides with a coal, sends it in a bright arc off the ledge itself, but at least it's not in ill-laced K'del's way. Towards any others? Who knows. In she goes: past A'son in the meantime, with a casual fist aimed to bump his shoulder, no more. In, the better to pace, and shove the chairs in line, and circle round all over again. Snatch some fruit, toss the in-season-only-down-South orange from hand to hand.
<< For... no one. >> Vrianth repeats it, languid for all the speed of her flight, electricity that refuses to ground itself but only ever pass through and through and through. Will she, someday, be no one? Or always and ever some-one? << Tell me your name, >> she says, even while it's unvoiced on her breath. Gedroth. /Ged/-roth. Ged-/roth/. (Vrianth to Gedroth)
C'sel remains, upright, looking out into the mist, seemingly unmoved as coals hiss and sputter and sent up steam and smoke to join the fog. It's not until everyone else is within, that the former Igenite finally turns away from the darkening prospect of the foggy bowl, to join the others. Silent and still as a statue, just a few paces away from A'son. << I /am/ >> Corvinth answers Nikoth from ... somewhere. Somewhere unseen, just a shadow in the air, cawing a cackle towards the large bronze. << Don't know what /you're/ doing friend, but it doesn't look like /flying/. >> And then he cuts out because he's twisting in the air for some reason. Vrianth? Likely. Shadow and strange light don't so much chase as /stalk/ her current, scenting for its trace to use as a guideline through the soupy conditions. << What a time you've chosen. And through /there/. Couldn't be more interesting, babe. Dodging shadows. Dodging spindles. I /like/ it. >> Ha ha. Out in the bowl: T'rev is standing stock still, trembling, hand still crimped to Rho's shoulder. That's more than just condensation on his face. It takes a little while for him to focus on Rhodya. "Have to get him down," he says in a low, hoarse voice, then blinks a few times, swallows hard, looks up and nods. "This way." He won't abandon Rho, though his steps across the Bowl are far from steady and the flight's only barely begun. At least he knows the path to that guest weyr well, even if he gets pegged in the forehead with a flying coal. "/Ow!/" rings out from outside. Once they've reached and crossed the now cold barrier of dead coals, T'rev seeks out Leova, eyes conveying an apology that is not spoken aloud, even though he's rubbing a dark smudge in the middle of his forehead with a trace of light burn beneath. He takes up a position on the other side of the entry from A'son. Mecaith? Steady as he goes on her tail, on her glow, on /her/ wherever she goes. Her spindle trick? That one he does know at least and can stay the course, for now.
At this point, Cadejoth is more likely to show visitors the wrong way, for though he alters his path for out, and then, as a snatch of green hints at her path towards the Spindles, alters again to aim towards them, he doesn't actually seem to know where he's going. Which Spindle. Where. Through the fog, though, he makes that sound again: a pure howl, this time, bone-shaking, probably liable to reverberate through the sky if it weren't for the muffling qualities of that smog. Inside the guest weyr, K'del finds himself an empty piece of wall to lean against, and tilts his head back, shutting his eyes; his fists are clenched at his sides, now, and surprise has faded to concentration and determination.
To Vrianth, Gedroth's mind is not made of or for poetry; it's mud and water and the simple things that live in both. Being no one? Being someone? << For no one, >> he repeats firmly, << but I'm Gedroth. >> Geh-/droth/. Try it that way. It's quite manly. << Who are you? >> He's not trying to follow her flits of electricity as they dance around, distracting; as long as it keeps coming around and around, he can just focus on one moment, and glean what he can from the image. The Spindles impress themselves on his awareness, and Gedroth is palpably smug. He visualized those for /between/.
Kabam. A smash of drums. The sound of a crash. Jolting. << You're floundering. >> Nikoth has no idea where Corvinth is, but that hardly seems to matter. << Go back to chasing nothing. That's all browns are good for anyway. Not fast enough to be /blue/, not powerful enough to be /bronze/. Pathetic. That goes for you too, Fort. >> For all his postering and waiting in the back, he's catching up fast. Going straight across the bowl in the direction of where he thinks Vrianth has gone. Those spindles? Well. Only he and Cadejoth truly belong here and he owns them like the back of his claw, knowing where their locations are even in the fog. That pure howl from his descendent gets returned with one of his own, loud and annoyed for the irritation. -- A'son jerks when Leova's hand thumps into his shouler. He looks up only briefly to watch her path across the weyr, his eyes dark and smouldering.
Rhodya meets T'rev's eye when he looks at her, but her expression is tight. She's busy; she can't spare him a moment of sympathy. No, not even when he gets pegged by that coal. She startles a bit, her firm demeanor broken by surprise, but after a few blinks she's back on track and stepping into the weyr. Better not to look around and see who's here; better just to find a wall and stand there. Gedroth waits for Nikoth to pass him, then slips in behind him, nose-to-tail like a parading elephant. The fog makes everything cold, otherwise the bronze might feel his rival's breath on his tail: that's how close they are. He hasn't got a second to spare for the taunting going on, even when his own color's insulted. This is tricky flying, made even more so by the fact that he's tailing someone, and that takes all of his attention. Well. Mostly all. There is that spark of a green to think about.
There's a backward glance over one gleaming wing as Vrianth has to rise out of the fog, rise and disappear... /does/ Corvinth like it? She doesn't answer in words, but a downsweep's worth of electric light is paired with deliberate slowness that doesn't seem to dodge shadows or spindle so much as to dare them: close. Too close. Close enough to entice a feint, perhaps, but just as someone reckless might try a catch? All of a sudden she swerves hard right, close enough that she has to vane that rockward wing for room. Close enough that it shakes her Leova in a shudder. Close enough to slow those too near behind her, run those less agile into each other like nits caught on a comb. And then she's past, faster and faster, a sudden warble that might be answer or challenge and does it even matter? It's muffled at the very end as she dives back into the fog, as she curves beneath it, dying out just after she takes on straighter flight once again with all those valleys below her for room. Leova? Hasn't so much room, by her lights, or maybe it's for refreshment that she tosses that orange of hers /between/ the Fortians rather than out the exit: a good shot midway that either might reach or let fall... or bump into each other and lose it all, instead. As she moves back to the fruit basket, a shorter man gets a pear tossed to him. K'del? A second, smaller orange. And then a third for A'son, if that gaze of his doesn't light it on fire midway.
<< Gedroth, >> she allows in that gravelly voice of hers, new-made with that foreign lilt as though she'd bestowed it on him, as much as though he'd known it from birth. He knows his lessons? << Let us see what else you remember. ...Gedroth. >> And there's her name, writ in energy radiant on more levels that light, unmistakable if still unvoiced: /Vrianth/. She's Vrianth. Now, to see what he can do with it... (Vrianth to Gedroth)
Nikoth realizes that there's someone tailing him. There's not a hint of warning before he suddenly adjusts, moving himself higher in the air and drastically reducing his speed. A manauver that may cost him plenty later, but hopefully puts him above Gedroth when the brown goes sailing past him. Which will again, hopefully, allow him to sink and /rake/ as many of his cruel, sharp talons into the younger more inexperienced brown as he can. Once he's done mauling up that poor young brown, he'll shoot past him again. He lets loose a triumphant howl, pleased with what he's just done. It's of the best fortune for him that Vrianth takes the hard turn, throwing off those that are so close to her. It gives him some time to catch up and become more of a competitior than he was so much earlier. << Baby, baby. I'm coming for you! Give me a hint! >> -- A'son doesn't set any oranges on fire. He just gets hit with one. "Damn it. Leova? What the hell?" The bronzerider looks over picks up the orange and flings it back across and in her general direction.
Cadejoth? He's going to take Nikoth's return howl as encouragement, and so, there goes another of his, audible through the density of the fog, though perhaps it isn't quite as telling of his location as it might normally be. But he must be on to something, now, because his wingbeats are faster still, and somehow more focused, more intent: his distance from the back means he avoids the potential for entanglements as Vrianth swerves, and then she is within his sights again, and he's making up for lost time - faster and faster and faster. K'del's orange hits him in the chest, thanks to closed eyes, though he manages to catch it fumblingly on the rebound, before it hits the ground. It gets turned in his hands, turned and turned, watched with eyes that, moments later, lift to consider Leova herself.
Gedroth spies Vrianth for the first time since the feeding grounds, and she's /slowing down/. He gives himself away with a short cry of excitement, speeding under Nikoth without a single thought spared for the bronze. So he gets it good. The sudden attack from above spurs the young brown forward in a burst of speed, which helps him get away more quickly, but no less raked by Nikoth's talons. Now his momentum is unbrakeable; he wrenches himself around in the air, throwing himself into Mecaith rather than get so close to those foreign Spires. He's young, though, and young things bounce. In his case, he bounces right off Mecaith and turns around, recognizing that he's out of this one and turning suddenly to go. The impact must have really knocked some sense into him. His rider doesn't go so peacefully. Rhodya's eyes snap open and she howls at the room, "Whoever did that, I - URGH!" She will be inarticulately angry at them! The brownrider clenches her hands into fists and stomps out to find her dragon.
C'sel's stoic mask slowly starts to soften and change, typically immovable features going mobile and expressive. The message is writ large by degrees: all-consuming desire and something narrow, keen-eyed, avid in his brilliantly blue gaze. It's potentially disturbing to see that there if anyone who knows him notices. T'rev meanwhile is a mess, from the black smudging his brow and the developing small burn, to the spiked up hair from his hand raking through it repeatedly and the rather wild-eyed look to him. When he looks at Leova, longing and deep caring are easily found, but that keeps getting pushed aside by determination every time he looks away. Orange. He startles and it's instinct maybe that sends his hand snapping outward to catch it. For a moment, his gaze is held by the fruit's round shape, then his head back-tilts with a hollow-sounding thunk and brown eyes close to fight Mecaith down. It's a battle largely unseen, but maybe that he's won, when the bronze unaccountably slows down and turns slightly ahead of Vrianth's vaning. It's a move that might've worked too, to keep the bronze in the running, if it weren't for many things happening all at once. His rider /pulls/, that raking takes place and Gedroth's bounce sends him spinning off-course away from Vrianth. T'rev is pulling and pulling, harder and harder, though Mecaith wheels about once control is regained to try to make up distance. Pain lances through him and he lets out an uncharacterstic bugle, a longing note held in the cry as sun's keen heat stretches to Vrianth briefly, energy for her sparks, then fades out as he does, down into fog and snow. Corvinth is much too agile to get taken out by that swerve. Bastard. Foosh, there he goes, tick-tacking above those big-ass bulky bronzes. Ha ha. Can't catch /me/. Cocky sucker that he is. He doesn't taunt them by getting too close though. If one of them decided to make a rock sandwich out of him, well they'd win. /Yes/ he likes it. Loves it. Loves /this/. << Babe, you're the best, >> he crows with true admiration threading through all those sly, sneaky shadows of his. There's light to be found somewhere in that darkness, a glimmer of silver reflecting off of something. Shiny. Shoulders slumping, face sheened with sweat, T'rev carries out his one prize of the evening: the fruit. Then he's stumbling after Rhodya quickly.
To Vrianth, Gedroth doesn't say anything because she's just come into view, and excitement flashes through him. Maybe she'll see a bit of what happens next: him charging, him getting scratched, him bumping into Mecaith. Then, him turning back to go home. << Vrianth, >> he repeats soberly, acknowledging her name at last. Now that he's out of the game. << You're an interesting green. I'm going home now. >> Just like that.
To Gedroth, Vrianth doesn't /look/ back, but how can she help but notice this too, with the attention she pays her chasers, /hers/. She uncoils energy for the younger brown's reply, enough to perhaps lighten some of his pain, restless and racing and, yes, randy as it is... but above it, still the gravelly voice that won't be offset just yet. << Gedroth. >> His name, /knowing/ his name, for him to take home. She'll remember. All the way to Fort. And then /she's/ gone.