Ysbryth's Mating Flight Log

June 25th 2001

Living Caverns (#392)
The rough-hewn majesty of this cavern far outpaces any delight in the multitudes of curves that form its enclosure. The glabrous grey granite is shot through with translucent obsidian, lending subtly-veined sparkle to the walls and the foot-trodden smoothness of the floor that shows centuries-old placements of the scarred trestle tables; carven hollows give homes for the glow baskets and the coat-pegs that line the walls. No mosaics, no painting, no tiles: just a few well-done tapestries mark the pathway that lead to the kitchen to the north and the inner caverns to the west, and frame the nighthearth's stew and snacks, while a heavier strip of oiled canvas shields the unwary from the wind in the bowl.
Scattered about in various perches and niches are fifty-three firelizards.
Areiah, Kariel, Takovic, Zi'n, Pyrene, Hiliza, Ceridwin, Merra, Hyzen, Lylia, and Daeyn are here.

Lylia lurks in, like the finest of vampire maidens. Yep, the brownrider's been spending a liiiiiittle too much time with her manly brain-attachment. "Mrrrr." The brownrider offers, a slight tilt of the head towards Hyzen, Hiliza, and all the H-names in the room. And Pyrene, because, let's face it, Py's /special/. But there's little else for her to say as she skirts towards a nice little corner, slipping down on a bench with a nice 'thump' from her rump.

Pyrene is special. So very special. And rather edgy. "Ly!" she wails upon seeing that rider—everybody else gets promptly ignored. She loves them all, really. "Lis is /pregnant/! Again!" The nerve of some greenriders. "And Areiah's being antsy," she continues lamenting as she crosses the room to the brownrider. "But Kare's being nice. Nicer than Zi'n anyway." Zi'n slept with her, ergo he has to talk to her once in awhile.

Daeyn blinks in surprise, pulling up short in her sojourn across the caverns. Her brows lift high, peering at her friend in puzzlement … then, shoulders roll in a fluid shrug and she makes her obligatory detour for tea before hurrying over to join them. "Little one?" she half greets, half queries, nodding to the others. "Hiliza, Hyzen … Lylia …" With a wary gaze and giving-of-wide-berth to the latter.

Hyzen returns Hiliza's wave merrily, gives the two weyrwomen a jaunty salute and moves to an unoccupied table and plopping herself down. Pushing the platter, which is full of all sorts of goodies… into the middle of the table, she rubs her hands together. As a drudge approaches, she inclines her head towards Merra for her choice of drink. "Just juice for me…" she murmurs before giving the slinky Lylia a wave and an invitation to join them? "'lo Daeyn, how're you?"

Geko steps quietly in from the Central Bowl.

Zi'n returns to the caverns after his quick departure earlier - you gotta love those craving lifemates - and sends Pyrene a rather disturbed glance. Him? Not nice?! What'd he do now?? "Uh…" Choosing not to comment on that, the bronzerider's mouth twists into a half-pout as he heads for his previously abandoned mug of klah.

"She's /what/?" Lylia blinks. Hard. The young woman simply freezes for a brief moment, eyebrow slooooowly raising. Whoa. Didn't the Weyr start forcing that girl to take her green stuff after the /first/ sprog? But getting a nice little commentary on the 'caverns is good, it means she can ignore Areiah and Zi'n. Ly offers Geko a little wave, before simply shaking her head. Greenriders. Huh. Time to nibble on cookies.

Merra eyes Hyzen, eyes the drudge, eyes Daeyn, and eyes her entering weyrmate, not necessarily in that order. "Hmm? Oh… wine, please," she answers quickly, the smile that again curves her mouth not quite reaching her eyes. "Gid," she greets off-handedly, idly resting her forehead against Daeyn's shoulder for a brief moment. Taking the wineglass the drudge gives her, she… guzzles.

Beam. "See?" This, to Pyrene, triumphant. Smiling. Moodswing. "I'm not harassing him. He's probably enjoying the company. Right?" Poor Takovic. Poor, poor Takovic. All the new arrivals get finger-wiggles and chirpy greetings - Areiah is perky, cheerful, and glowing. Erm.

Pyrene barely acknowledges Geko's entrance or Zi's re-entrance, taking comfort in the blanket around her shoulders. "Zi's too shy to talk to me since Cadge's flight…" she explains loudly. "And yes, Lis is pregnant. Without telling Kariel. Or Hiliza." And everybody knows that permission for pregnancies must come from Pyrene, Kariel and a nanny.

Brownriders are the best, we all know. Or Geko does, anyways… That's most important. And that's why she gets her favorite seat by the hearth and within reach of a simmering cauldron of stew - not because no one happened to be there. "How're things?" she asks the general populace, ignoring little warning bells going off in her head because of… what? "Nevermind, proddiness." So resumes humdrum life.

Daeyn offers a tight smile, perching on the very edge of a chair. The shoulder Merra is leaning against must be regimentally stiff. "Busy, as usual," she says in a light voice. She is perfectly content with her tea, lightly savoring. She glances over in Takovic's direction briefly, and arches her brows, simply pitying. "Are you all right, Merra? How are you, Hyzen?"

Pyrene also adds loudly: "And you are /too/ harassing Tako, Reia." If she was any more mature, she'd stick her tongue out.

Takovic peers at Areiah again, eyebrows still visible over his spectacle frames. He doesn't have the slightest clue what will happen to him depending on whatever he says. And so he just gives a slight jerk of a shrug, chancing to look away into the rest of the room in hopes that people are on his side. He'll let them decide what's going on. Head turning once more, he then slumps down in his chair, looking intently at the scroll and not much else.

Zi'n sighs and takes a sip of his klah. And almost chokes on it at Pyrene's last comment. "Pyrene!" The outrageous cry is heard through the living caverns - whoops. Watch ZiZi do his redfruit imitation. "Pyrene, that's not fair," bronzerider hisses, striding towards the weyrwoman - who's fortunately only still junior. Nyah. "I've talked to you," he mutters gloomily, glaring at the ex-nanny as he reaches her side.

Speaking of all thing healerly… Kare groans, eyeing the nearest timecandle. "Work time." Chair is rolled out of and klah mug passed to a skittering drudge, before gaze falls upon Areiah. "I'll see you later tonight, alright?" He has to leave. Even if she probably doesn't care. Moody goldrider. Mmph.

"I'm good, Daeyn." Hyzen offers the brownrider a wide grin before she blinks in the direction of the bowl. Giving a soft noise, she stands and waves towards her frineds before moving swiftly outside… "Talk to you later!" Yes… who that was directed to is your choice.

Hyzen goes home.

Areiah, the picture of Weyrwomanly poise, grace and stature, goes ahead and sticks her tongue out. Right at Pyrene. So there. Takovic gets a smile, though, all cheery, and then she turns it on Kariel. "I'll see you later, poppet. Don't work too hard." Aw.

Hiliza mock-sniffles, but then scuttles out of her chair and plops into one near Takovic. And Areiah, but that just happens. "Hi, Takovic. How have you been?" Soft and than brighter, to the 'Reia, "Hello! You're looking lovely today," And such niceities.

Kariel chuckles beneath his breath, nodding to the Weyrwoman once more. "I'll try." And then a wave to the rest of the caverns before he ducks into the inner recesses… "No one get sick!" Makes his job alot easier if you all just… stay well. Yeah.
Kariel steps into the shadows that lead back into the Weyr.

Pyrene lowers her brow and wrinkles her nose back at Areiah. Who asked her? "Sorry, Zi'n," she adds with very little actual apology in her tone. "But you don't talk to me that much unless Orbyth's wanting to see Cadge." She's hurt. Is she not attractive? Is she not sensual? Is she not worth more than a one-night-stand. And by the by, those are rhetorical questions. Best not to answer them.

Takovic is a bit surprised that goldriders would resort to tongue-sticking-out. But maybe he shouldn't be. They are, after all, goldriders. Looking up veeeeery cautiously toward Hiliza, he just shrugs gently again, murmuring rather mutedly, "Unusual, so to speak, rather odd…"

G'deon had been deep in conversation ever since he walked into the caverns. He nods finally to a fellow wing rider while tugging off his gloves and loosening his riding jacket a bit. "Aye, we can try that next time," he finally states, clapping the other rider on the shoulder before he turns back towards the bowl and Gid turns towards the tables… and the less drafty parts of the cavern. He nods in general to the group gathered there and pours himself a drink before joining them.

The wine is having the desired effect, it seems, and Merra is slowly coming down from her hyperness. "Shells, please tell me I'm hearing wrong and that we -aren't- going to have more Lis-spawn? And I suppose it's D'renn-spawn also?" she ponders, with a slight smirk for D'renn's fellow Weyrsecond. Areiah is eyed, and finally the woman can't help it. "So, Areiah, how's Ysbryth doing?"

Lylia thinks Py is very sensual and attractive. Mrow. One of these days, she'll move in… Just watch. But the 'rider just shakes her head faintly, hair ending up inevitably in her eyes, strands poking. Rowch. "Who's it with, this time? Is it D'renn's?" So many male riders, so many Alymath flights, so many choices…

And is she not acting as if he's just good enough not to be B'art? Sniff. Zi'n's feelings are hurt too, so his pout deepens at Pyrene's words. "Yes I do! You just don't remember because you're… you're… too busy complaining!" That's right, let's all play Insult The Goldriders. That works. At least /her/ dragon likes /his/. A lot. Some. A little?

** Areiah just set the @party! Type @party to check it out! **
Ysbryth is a-sparklin'. Fear. Or head on down to the High Reaches living caverns to join the fun!
— entered by Areiah on 2001-06-24 15:25 MOO Time. (3 seconds)

Geko is ignoring everything. Immature slash sulky slash proddy queenriders and their companions are not the type to get mixed up in. They can be pitied, though. "Pooor Takovic. Too bad he's stuck over there with Areiah…" What a fate…

Raevien walks in from the Central Bowl.

Daeyn spreads her hands. "I don't care if it's Trydanth-spawn, as long as D'renn keeps doing his share of the work," she says tartly, making a small face at Merra. She sighs lightly, sipping at her tea as her shoulders relax.

Pyrene blinks at Zi'n. "Sorry then. So you'll talk to me now? Give me your undivided attention? Keep me warm…" she suggests, eyes sparkling hopefully. To those debating the father of Lis' child, she contributes a shrug.

Zi'n's pout subsides and is replaced with a grin. "Of course I'll talk to you, Pyrene. Did I ever give you another impression?" Well, apparently he did. And whoever the father of Lis' child is, it'd better not be him. Two's more than plenty for now, thanks. For, say, the next ten-twenty Turns. "Keep you warm? Well, I could get you a coat," bronzerider offers, blithely misunderstanding her proposal. If it was a proposal.

Trimaka passes quietly, in from the Central Bowl.

Geko goes home.

Areiah (#11468)
Despite the ineffable softness of youth still lingering in her supple form and shy, quiet bearing, Areiah is quite obviously one no longer considered a girl, but rather a young woman. Lustrous onyx waves have been let down, falling to much resemble a waterfall in loose waves down her back, stopping only as they reach the calves of sculpted legs. Her generally artistic features are only enhanced by these wayward locks, the twin sapphire pools that carefully observe much of the world around her made even more dramatic against her lightly tanned skin. Subtly pronounced cheekbones and a button nose sit above full, naturally pouty lips, the innocence of childhood becoming less and less evident by way of her appearance.
Areiah is 29 Turns, 1 month, and 9 days old.

Takovic (#19518)
Slender in frame, average in heightgenerally pretty well builtTakovic still somewhat carries the appearance of a child. His complexion is rather pale, suiting his oval face with its straight nose, thin lips, and narrow chin well. A shock of thick, dark, copper-brown hair stays mostly cut and in order, save for his bangs, which disobediently and obnoxiously stray over his forehead. Thin, expressive, well-shaped eyebrows are mostly hidden by his thick, black spectacles, though the round frames do a nice job bringing out his cool, misty, intelligent grey eyes.
Takovic sports a very simple outfit that manages to look good on him anyway. Blue trous and a cream colored shirt could very well be a bit big for him, but a belt at the waist takes care of any problems. Simple black shoes have a better fit, probably a more fortunate thing.
Pinned to one shoulder is the simple knot of a High Reaches resident.
Takovic is 21 Turns, 5 months, and 10 days old.

Zi'n (#17149)
Shorter than before, though still long enough to get in the way, strands of errant hair fall around this young man's forehead and ears, the color a rich, dark brown, with the occasional peak of a persistent auburn highlight. Eyes are mostly half-covered behind the locks, though when open they gleam attentively at their surroundings, bright hazel dusted with emerald flecks. Skin tanned by Istan sun stretches over lean muscles, and the occasional sprinkle of freckles can appear 'round nose and cheek. Though standing a handspan or two 'neath average height and being a bit on the skinny side, there's nothing noticeable about him, apart from a few small, almost invisible scars one might notice on his lower arms.
As if painted on, tight leathers cling to the form of slender body. Warm cinnabar washes from shoulders over chest, past slim hips and down until disappearing into black riding-boots. Gloves sheat his hands, the russet leather, done with golden stitches, complimenting both cinnabar leathers and tarnished bronzen riding straps. Perched on Zi'n's shoulder is Radinka.
Ebony and steel twist and turn on Zi's shoulder, forming a High Reaches Weyr Wingrider's knot. A single strand of gilted bronze is woven into the midst of it, a symbol of love for his lifemate, Orbyth.
Zi'n is 26 Turns, 1 month, and 24 days old.

Pyrene (#11964)
Slight and spindly, her frame is nevertheless held as stubbornly tall as possible, falling only just shy of average height. Curves have in part softened the sharp angles of old, leading scrawny and frail towards thin and trim, while breast and hip bear slim testament to her motherhood. Still, there's nothing neat about the shrewish set of her limbs, or about the skimpy plait that struggles to keep her hair under control. Lank dark brown tendrils escape it to plague her point-nosed, thin-lipped face, only serving to emphasise the peakiness of her complexion. Yet if there were any doubts about her vitality, the grey eyes that snap out from beneath dark brows eliminate them as effectively as twin thunderstorms.
No artificial dye, but rich, ruddy brown claims her frame, earthing its slightness. The close-fitting warmth serves for both flying and the High Reaches climate in general, while the sleek smoothness of the leather gives the illusion of curve to bony hips and length to short legs. And yet the padded thickness of the jacket sits oddly on her narrow shoulders: no matter how carefully fitted it may in fact be, it resembles nothing so much as a new winter coat made for a child 'to grow into'.
Black, blue and sea-washed gold tangle their way over the badge worn by all members of Esprit wing.
Pyrene is 25 Turns, 1 month, and 10 days old.

Hiliza (#20694)
Not even reaching a full five Terran feet, this usually cheerful woman can only be classified as short. She is more cute than pretty, with an oval face, sharp nose, strong chin, and thin, rosy lips. Fern green eyes are expressive, framed by thick lashes and thin eyebrows. Skin is pale from a lifetime inside, and contrasts with the deep onyx of her hair perfectly. Bangs cut choppily across her forehead, lengthening to chin level gradually. Now completely black, still rugged layers fall to her shoulders, too long to poof out energetically. She is built slightly, with thin, delicate limbs and just the slightest hints of curves where curves belong on a woman. Though full grown, her height and build remain nearly identical to what they were at twelve.
Perhaps one of Hiliza's most extravagant looking outfits, it is in reality made out of common fabric. Long sweeping sleeves and scooped neckline are the features of the flush chemise, keeping her warm and providing color. A full black bodice is the top layer, flowing down to her feet. An opening goes all the way down, laced up inside and trimmed outside with silver-stringed knotwork. A loose black cord finds itself around her middle, breaking top from bottom simply. Black slippers grace her feet, muffling the sounds of her walking to a higher degree. Should she be outside, an equally dark cloak with hood has a dark gold clasp, and it outlined with the same trim as the bodice.
A ribbon holding charms, Dusty Grey Necklace is worn with pride. A necklace, glittering and loved, hangs an Amethyst Charm about her neck as well. On her left shoulder, a lithe blue firelizard seems almost smug. Occasionally nuzzling her neck from her right shoulder is a good sized blue firelizard. A rotund and odd-looking green firelizard rests comfortably on Hiliza's carrying tote.
Dark blue and black twine together on a single loop, one tail with a tiny tassle the only decoration. Posted on her shoulder, it says to all: High Reaches Assitant Nanny, Beware of Insanity.
Hiliza is 19 Turns, 8 months, and 8 days old.

Ceridwin (#17992)
You see a young woman of medium hieght and slim build before you. Her hair, a deep and shining shade of chestnut brown falls in waves to her waist and she is often seen wearing it in tiny braids. Her eyes are harder to determine… Green? Blue? yes to both and then some, like the churning sea, changing with her mood. She may look delicate with her small frame, but don't be fooled, she can handle any tough task assigned her. With skin the color of ivory and a natural warm peach blush, lips the color of copper and dark lashes rimming her eyes, she has just a bit of the exotic to her.
Ceri is wearing a simple sleeved tunic of a brilliant aqua to set off her eyes. The Tunic, which hits her at mid-calf flows long and full, gathered at the neck with fanciful multi-coloreed stitches. She wears an underskirt of a deeper green, that just brushes her ankles and on her feet are knee-high brown hide boots. Her belt and pouch compliment the boots in bromn hide and the pouch is tooled and painted in a matching design to her neck embroidery. Ceridwin wears Ceridwin's Listening Tube around her neck. Perched on Ceridwin's shoulder is Nim. Perched on Ceridwin's shoulder is Bambi.
Ceridwin is 18 Turns, 7 months, and 14 days old.

Merra (#19066)
The faded gold of a setting sun frames Merra's face, fine strands that are in abundance kept halfway between ears and shoulders in slight waves. Her face is a smooth oval, that from within forest green eyes, wide and deepset, study the world, sometimes keenly, sometimes lazily, framed by molten gold lashes. Her nose is narrow and curves very gently, set above an average mouth. Dusky pink lower lip is slightly fuller than its upper counterpart, giving her an inadvertant pout, though she will smile if provoked. Her skin is a warm bronze, Rukbat's rays darkening her. She's a smaller woman, standing at 5'3, and her curves are generally sparse, but two children have defined hips and chest. She is slender, not built, though arms and legs are lightly muscled. Small hands with deceptively delicate fingers are vaguely calloused.
A light-weight cream sweater, almost like a tunic and knit by Merra's own hands, rests easily on her frame, long sleeves loose to her wrists. Its v neck dips precariously, showing off skin tanned from the summer. Her pants are a rich brown and cling to her legs, the material of a velvety feel. Soft wher-hide boots of the same rich brown come to her ankles. Her gold hair is coaxed and captured in a tail. Clinging to the front of Merra's tunic is Macha. Larky clings desperately to the front of her tunic.
A single dark blue cord around her shoulder marks her as a resident of High Reaches Weyr.
Merra is 23 Turns, 1 month, and 7 days old.

Lylia (#18119)
A pair of piercing, forest-green eyes stare out from a pale face, the orbs reflecting her relaxed yet mischievious personality. Hints of ocean blue are in them, diluting the emerald color. Her reddish-blond hair is in a slightly loose braid going past her shoulders, and hanging partway down her back. A few stray wisps that escape the plait frame either side of her face, if not getting in her eyes. There's a sense of tranquility about, but her grin that occasionally creeps up is one of a wilder inner fire. The rest of her body is a bit skinny to appear anything but awkward on the tall girl, even while standing still, even if some muscle is there. Surprisingly, her movements show subtle grace.
The softest shade of gray, the color of wispy smoke, smothers her leathers. Thin leather fits comfortably, conforming to her torso as it flows to her waist, almost a second skin. The same shade, if a tiny bit darker, cloaks her wherhide jacket, loosely hanging on her in stark contrast. A slightly darker shade dyes the thick belt looping around her waist, still new and utterly pristine. Below it, the misty gray continues down the side of her pants, clinging just so faintly, accenting her long legs. The pants tuck into a pair of boots, reaching halfway up her calves. Another contrast: boots of shadowy brown, a dark shade that almost matches her lifemate. Curled about Lylia's neck, tail tickling at the shoulder, is Rydia.
Dark cerulean and coal-black cords twist together, winding into a pair of loops while silver thread peeks through. A small black tassel hangs closely to the knot, which also contains one last touch: a single, murky brown ribbon is woven into it, blending in with the other dark shades. Pinned just beside it is a badge, a blue wave against white, marking her of Tsunami wing, while the coloring for the rest shows her to be an assistant weyrlingmaster for the High Reaches Weyr.
Lylia is 23 Turns, 9 months, and 6 days old.

Daeyn (#18823)
Wiry and lean, her form is as streamlined as mercury, the lines of corded muscles and sparse curves melding and melting into each other. Lithe and elongated, she must stand over six feet tall. Her face glows light golden beneath its soft sandalwood tan, as if lit by some inner incandescence. Her pale blue eyes are of disconcerting lightness, sharp and keen. They leap out like beacons in a face composed of high arches and angles … a face stark and faintly mishapen that is further marred by the outline of a deep knife-scar across her left cheekbone. Sunkissed mahogany tendrils curl about her features, escaped from the tight braid that falls to midway down her back. Dark, thin brows expressively accent her expression, though her face tends towards the hidden neutrality of a mask. When she speaks, her voice is even blended between alto and tenor, cool and androgynous.
A full tunic of deep lavender sisal, sleeves cuffed at three-quarter length, falls comfortably about her, worn quite loose but obviously tailored to her comfort. A single tie of complementary darker hue fastens at the neck, and matching trim lines the base of the shirt. It falls to mid-hip, hiding the top of fitted deep green trousers - obviously the lower half of riding leathers - that in turn disappear into crease-worn but polished obsidian boots.
A flash of opal and gold catches the light and illuminates the ring on her finger. Always on, it is thus - like the one who gave it to her - never far from her heart.
Daeyn is 23 Turns, 2 months, and 4 days old.

Raevien (#21813)
Rich blacks deepen in thick bangs that wave in curls to frame Raevien's face, rare strands reaching to tip the corners of blue eyes - indigo around the edges and melting into light lapis near the pupil center. Set between opticals is a nose, not of any extroidinary difference, beyond that's it's small, but that's nothing for a nose. Cheekbones are set so that the cheeks are somewhat pudgy, though by no means extremely. Lips of light, pink crimson set above not-so-pointy chin, and that's the basic face. The rest of Raevien includes the light tan shade to his skin, natural by all means, and the fact that most of his height stems from his long legs, though he's only around 5 foot 8 inches, himself.
Light colors seem to appeal to Raevien for the most part. Donned as top is an ivory tunic, wrapped at waist with a thick black belt and silver buckle. Sleeves are cuffed hang to about the start of fingers upon his hand. The collar of the tunic is in V shape and underneath it is shown obviously a tan undershirt. Sometimes draped tunic would be a trenchcoat to reach to Raevien's ankle, and it being of a light brown shade. Pants are khaki and the ends widened to overlap black boots of red strings to tie, but only to mid-body. Perched on Raevien's shoulder is Moss. Perched on Raevien's shoulder is Hungry. Perched on Raevien's shoulder is Pooooo.
Raevien is 18 Turns, 10 months, and 8 days old.

Trimaka (#21635)
Mystery, an Enigma, and a work of unfinished art; Hints such as these decorate a slightly hidden face behind soft tresses of peroxide hair. Long bangs of the blonde hair sweep over two pairs of ambered-green oculars that drift off time to time; looking for trouble to cause, or one of her occasional companions. But not up in the usual high pony-tail, Cascading to stop at mid-back, does the feathered hair happen to flow. Strips of hair are stolen from the sides of her head to create a braid to mix in with the rest of let loose hair, and tied with a ribbon of brown. Milky white teeth are exposed in a innocent smile from behind two pale lips of pink, which hold hidden ploys and tales from a smooth face of a Half oval, touched on the cheeks with a natural blush. Broad shoulders of a tanned skin from the sun hold up the tall figure upon long legs that are quick and agile as to being called or simply to dodge the playfull tease or swat from others. Finnaly, hands of a long length are lacked upon this woman. Almost Kidlet hands are bestwoed upon, but yet are roughened with light callouses from the happenings of drawing or writting.
Due to the cold weather from the season change, A Long sleeved tunic; material dyed a deep maroon, Lies over the torso of the figured woman. The end of the sleeves, as well circled neck, are decorated with fine embroided braids of gold, and a few strands of a brown. Wrapped losely around the waist of the tunic, not attatched, but hanging and always needing adjusting, is a belt made of a dark klah color. Holes, encriled by metal, align all about the belt and the clasp that pulls the heavy leather together is made of a fake silver, that seems tarnished along the edges. Trailing downwards, Both legs are covered by a pasty white pair of loose pants, that are ducked down into two sable boots of suede. The pants seem to be a little worn out, showing a few dirt marks and grass stains. Under the boots soles, lay two peices of thin metal that work to move across the snow and ice with friction to lessen a fall. But when walking upon that of wood or stone, The metal cries out a rythmatical clink, and almost a dead give away to an entry. Floating around the wearer's neck, this necklace seems just to float in place, emitting lighting off the stone pendent in the center. This lighting pattern, may fade away, as it progresses around the necklace, but the inner light these gems, seem to possess doesn't.
Trimaka wears the knot of a Ista Hold Resident.
Trimaka is 17 Turns, 7 months, and 13 days old.

G'deon (#19620)
G'deon appears at first glance to be quite calm and collected, though a mischievous gleam seems to tint his blue eyes from time to time. He has grown into a rather well built frame and finally stopped growing a few inches over six feet. Many Turns of hard work have helped his shoulders fill out considerably, along with his arms, hands and chest. His legs however are still the wiry limbs of his youth, which he will never lose. His sandy blond hair is kept quite clean, but it is beginning to grow out a little on top managing to look a bit tousled at times, a golden frame for a lightly tanned face accented by his calm eyes of sapphire, clear and blue as the summer sky over High Reaches.
Sturdy black boots, darker than deepest night, give way to rather thick, close-fitting black trousers, dotted at various areas and heights with pockets. From there is found a thick, black, wherhide belt cinched tightly at the waist, holding a rather tight royal blue shirt in place. The shirt is a bit coarse but appears warm. The rather loose sleeves fall to the wrists in modest bellows, tied firmly at the cuffs, and the collar comes together in a V-shape below the neck.
Crimson wherhide encompasses G'deon in sleek brilliance, a close-fitting jacket of eye-catching fire. Soft fleece in contrasting cream peaks out from the high collar, the lining made especially warm for High Reaches' winters and the colder void of ::between::. Orange and gold flames lick up the long sleeves in tasteful embroidery: neither too flamboyant nor overly subtle, they match the flames which flicker over the Inferno Wing badge as well as the embroidered emblem on jacket's back, an exact replica of the wing's chevron-shaped insignia which rides high and proud on one crimson shoulder.
Unwavering shadows intertwine with the deep dark blue of a glacier, the two cords forming a single loop. A long tail hangs from the top of the knot, the blue and black joined by a thread of silver. Mingling with the cords is a fine ribbon of shimmering bronze, naming G'deon as a bronze rider of High Reaches. Added to his clothing just beneath the knot is a small pin, the emblem of High Reaches accented by licking flames, indicating he is an Inferno rider.
G'deon is 22 Turns, 5 months, and 15 days old.

Pyrene tips her head and gives Zi'n a disarming grin. She's just figured out what she wants to do with her day. "I've got this blanket, thanks," she points out to the bronzer. Although I'm always willing to share blankets with you, y'know." Flirting's never been her strong point.

Quirk. True-blue orbs glaze, momentarily, and Areiah blinks owlishly at Merra and her question. "Ysbryth.. Ysbryth is.. she's hungry," the 'rider answers softly, gazing past the resident and off into space, looking utterly, thoroughly lost. And then, just as suddenly as it began, it's over, and her attention has wavered back to Takovic. "You have nice eyes," she informs him, voice pitched low. "The specs make them look bigger." Well, it's that, or the abject fear.

Which is a good thing, since Zi'n tends to run screaming from flirtatious girls. "That's very nice of you, Pyrene, but I'm quite hot on my own." Isn't he just? At least he keeps fanning his face, eyes giving Areiah more than a fair share of glances. Gee, this is like a deja-vu.

Merra snickers into her mostly-empty glass, actually winking at her friend. "Well, I'd certainly wonder if it were -'wyllth- spawn," she quips, ducking out of simple reflex. Areiah is glanced at one more, and Mer arrives at a conclusion. "You know what? I quit. I'm going after non-riders. Women. Or eunuchs. I'm not picky," she murmurs to Daeyn, rolling her eyes. Talking is one thing. The actually event is something else, it seems.

Takovic's eyes widen further. Yes, it probably is the shock and the fear. Since he's nearsighted and nearsighted glasses make your eyes look smaller. Not sure quite how to react to the comment, though, he stammers simply, "Thanks, one might say, thanks…" then looks away. He's not giving up the scroll, if that's the object.

<High Reaches Weyr> Nylanth senses that Ysbryth slides, all rich honey and silvered sapphire, underneath everything. Subtle. Unobtrusive. And uncharacteristically sultry. « I am hungry. » And she's not being a pest about it; she just felt the need to share. « I am hungry. And I would like some company. » Hint hint.

Nylanth> Ysbryth slips down from a large, low-lying ledge just above.

<All> Nylanth senses that Cadgwith is always obliging. « The bowl is nice with the sun reflecting off the snow, » she sends out companionably. « You can come join us. » The proverbial penny has not yet dropped.

<High Reaches Weyr> Nylanth senses that he suavely replies with a gentle breeze of evergreens, crisp in the wintery mountain air. « It would be a pleasure, Ysbryth »

Daeyn coughs into her hand. "So would I," she says. "I'd wonder who else he's been drinking with, really …" She smiles wryly … and then the expression slips into a rapid blink. "Well … ah … I wish you luck with that?" she inquires. "Although I think there'd be some disadvantages to eunuchs." Prim, proper. You can't tell a bit of difference. She glances over at Areiah and just sighs.

Raevien enters. We could be detail-ish about it, saying that he might stroll, stride, saunter, slide, shuffle, or any other random movement, but we aren't, because he doesn't do any of that, really. And he'd look stupid doing. Thus, so, he just… enters. "Hello, people," he says at the crowd within the caverns, moving to get himself some juice. He doesn't have wine in the morning. And then he snatches a cookie, and moves to take a seat, randomly, somewhere. He's not particular, or, specific, about anything, really.

Nylanth> Ysbryth
Nylanth> Buttermilk pours, pale gold, along the drawn-out length of her; runnels of clotted cream churn down her attenuated throat to broadened withers, where starlit motes — paler still, though more intense — freckle her hide. Their heat steams milky gold to white-hot froth, boiling over shoulders and spine, foaming along the base of 'spars and lathering haunches, before cooling again to softer, condensed shades that settle comfortably into the hollows of her flanks; stars crossed; stars lost in the mellowed warmth of profound tranquillity.
Nylanth> A well-oiled pair of riding straps are fastened to Ysbryth's neck.
Nylanth> Ysbryth is 12 Turns, 3 months, and 6 days old.
Nylanth> She is 80 feet (26m) long, with a wingspan of 133 feet (44m).

<High Reaches Weyr> Nylanth senses that Orbyth has quite an appetite himself, actually. Black light transforms into the brightest yellows and reds as his attention shifts suddenly from everything and onto one thing. « Food. » Always keep good company.

<High Reaches Weyr> Nylanth senses that Dsalth sweeps the listening dragons in a warm lasting musty odor, the mist slowly encircling the queen gently. «The pens await you, dear. And I was just about to head on that way as well…» What a coincidence.

<High Reaches Weyr> Nylanth senses that Alymath she doesn't care - mostly because she doesn't swing that way. And because she's oversmug with some secret and pregnant with magnolia scent.

<All> Nylanth senses that Fiareth has just awoken, and still not-quite-sober with, and therefore ponders aloud to Cadgwith, « Who? » She could be talking to her, but she'll refrain from making her usual assumptions within the minds of all - or majority, at least - the dragons.

G'deon glances out towards the bowl quizzically as he slides into a chair near the others. "Areiah, are you distracting Takovic?" he asks quietly, sipping at his glass slowly. "Not that I can blame you, he's quite interesting to talk to."

Hiliza goes home.

Areiah doesn't want the scroll. She wants Takovic. Or, at least, she thinks she does. Heh. "Really, they're remarkable. I've never seen a shade of grey that soft," she lilts, melodic, sweet. Emptied wineglass is abandoned and she rises from her chair in one smooth, graceful motion - and then straightens up, blinking rapidly. "Oh - oh, no, oh, I'm sorry, I.." Twisting, turning, she looks to - ooh. Somebody's talking to her. "Hi, Gids." Something familiar. This is good. Reia? Distracting Takovic? Never.

Takovic goes home.

Merra shrugs, a meager lift of her shoulder that looks like it could use a serious dose of whatever Mer was previously on. "Well, he already drinks with Michel. I suppose it was only a matter of time before he extended his social circle," she comments dryly. "I can think of plenty advantages to being with a eunuch," she adds, glancing at her weyrmate. The bronzerider. "Daeyn? D'ya think I could go into denial and get massively drunk? Or would that just leave me in denial with a hangover?"

<High Reaches Weyr> Nylanth senses that Ysbryth shimmies in twists of color and heady whispers of honeysuckle, lilting contralto husky and soft. « The pens. We will go. » And that's that; glowing heat phases out, and there is no more noise; just a curious wake of shimmering emerald.

<All> Nylanth senses that Cadgwith is so generous that she'll invite dragons from all over Pern, see? Of course, she's belatedly figured out that Ysbryth is not wanting /her/ company, so now she'll invite herself to all over Pern. « Where is warm? » is her immediate question, lazy with summer salt.

Kinecha saunters quietly in from the Central Bowl.

<All> Nylanth senses that Fiareth purrs, letting nice, big, fat pink flower petals float into her mind-river. 'Cause she likes big, fat, pink flowers and everything. « Ista, » she says. « Ista is very warm. It is nice and.. pretty. » She was out of adjectives.

Nylanth> You go to the Pens.
Nylanth> Pens
Nylanth> Freshened breezes from the lake to the south linger with the stronger scents of herdbeast and wherry, dust and dung, that fill this ovoid enclosure. The sturdy fence sways out into the bowl, captures an outlet of clear blue lake, and, as it meets the bowl wall, grows into a stout wind-shelter replete with hay and feeding troughs; not too far above, a claw-marked series of feeding ledges lie, decorated by a few discarded and bleached-out bones. A few clusters of green sprout, downtrodden, in the hard ground, tracked over by the stampeding of the herds.
Nylanth> It is a winter midmorning. Puffs of steam rise out of hold, hall, and weyr, as fires burn to warm people about their morning chores. The sky is a light, almost crystaline blue, and utterly cloudless.
Nylanth> To the south, you see Zenzorath, Wiranth, and Anwyllth.

Nylanth> Orbyth moves with endless energy in from the Central Bowl.

Nylanth> Dsalth paces with regimental gait in from the Central Bowl.

Pyrene turns and suddenly glares at Areiah and tugs at Zi'n more urgently. "C'mon… how about we take a trip to Ista for awhile?" she pleads, already aware that it's a lost cause. Maybe /she/ should start harassing Tako.

Nylanth> Ysbryth lopes in from the Central Bowl.

Daeyn looks rather concerned as she studies her friend, though her brooding gaze shifts after a moment to her tea. Nothing she can fix there, either. "Yes, but don't you think becoming a father is a little drastic? Although if my mate is having my dragon's child I don't want to know about it …" She follows Merra's glance, then looks back at her again. "Hmm? Such as what?" And then, more reasonably, "it doesn't strike to me that there's much to be in denial about." She glances over at Raevien, and says only one thing: "Run."

<All> Nylanth senses that Ftoranth sends arm fuzzy thoughts. «My weyr is warm»

"Oh.." Surprise crosses Kinecha's face for a moment as she enters the living caverns, seeing all these people here, then moves to the hearth. Well, maybe she should have suspected, what with the glowing queen out in the bowl? Proddy riders usually came along with that, didn't they?

Amisha arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

<All> Nylanth senses that Cadgwith latches onto that with a crash of surf. « Ista is warm… is it sunny? » The surf ebbs away to leave only the pleasant feeling of sunshine on one's belly.

Amisha walks into the living caverns

Zi'n stares at Pyrene with the realization of th fact that…. "I don't think Orbyth will go." The sentence comes out is a hoarse whisper, hazel eyes skipping between the two goldriders - the proddy and the unproddy. Question is, where would he be more safe? Pyrene, even when she isn't proddy, is pretty scary y'know.

Plus Pyrene has all those sympathetic-with-her-dragon hormonal mood-swings.

Nylanth> Huge, shimmering eyes whirl here, there, and Ysbryth edges her way in 'tween Nylanth and Orbyth and Dsalth. Hunger. But she's subtle about it - contemplative, almost - lurking 'round the edges of the pen, wings tucked in close against her glowing form. She's stalking. And that one over there seems a prime cut; lanky limbs bring her to perch behind an unsuspecting herdbeast, and *pounce*. Yummy. But just for the blood. She hungers for other things, today.

G'deon frowns at the bowl, frowns at Pyrene and her squeeze and then frowns into his glass. "So… what are you up to Areiah?" he asks innocently enough, though his eyes do stray once more to the exit out into the snow-filled bowl. "Ista sounds like a fantastic idea, Pyrene," he adds, calling over to the other riders. "Fantastic swimming this time of year at the island there."

Amisha looks around in surprise at how many people are here

<All> Nylanth senses that Fiareth sends nice, postcard-esque snapshots all around. « You see.. this is Ista. It is such a nice Ista. » Because there is more than one Ista, she is sure, but she is also sure her Ista is… the best. Of course. « And see? This is Ista's beach… this is a nice waterfall.. and this is.. oops. How'd E'an in his undergarments get there? Oh, no matter. And this is a treee in Ista… » So the torture continues.

Raevien blinks. "Run. Run." Process. Oh. Run. "Why?" Runner asks, curious now, sliding his sea closer to… elsewhere. Wherever. You know. "Is something bad happening?" He doesn't think, because it doesn't look like anything bad, you see. "Why aren't you running?" And, thus, the Runner stumbles upon logic. Or something.

Merra sighs, but follows her friend's logic and actually *thinks* for once. "Okay, yes, you're right. Maybe a long soak in the baths is called for. Or maybe I can hunt Kariel down for a nice therpeutic massage. I'm letting myself worry too much." Be frightened, she's being logical. "I'd be worried, also, about Michel's been holding out, and how he's managed to hide *that* particular capability for so long. It would make for exciting times, that."

Amisha sees G'deon and walks over to him

"You can't go," Areiah informs G'deon, cryptic, reaching clumsily for his arm. "Out. All of you, out." Fingers fumble, and she shakes her head, pulling away from the bronzerider and breezing past him, moving fast for the exit. "Stuffy. Air. Ground weyrs. It is too hot in here." And with that, she disappears into the bowl. Follow along, if you must.
Areiah exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Nylanth> Orbyth is a good boy and folds his wings, making space for Ysbryth to get to the food. After all, it's also in /his/ interest, isn't it? Admiring the beautiful scarlet that is smearing onto golden hide, the bronze moves to make his own prey aware of its destiny; a fat buck is pounced upon, it's neck broken with one clean snap. And soon, fangs are buried in its stomach, tongue laviciously lapping up blood. Yummmm. Blood. Does to a dragon what gas does to a car.

<All> Nylanth senses that Cadgwith pores delightedly over the snapshots. /Especially/ E'an in his undergarments. « It /is/ warm. And nice. And with nice people for Pyrene? » That would be another qualification right now. « I come. But I want a beach. » So she's fussy…

Tremeyre blinks in from ::between::!

Zi'n exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Amisha smiles at G'deon and says shyly, "Hello"

Pyrene glares after Areiah and also dashes for the bowl. Most likely not to chase the weyrwoman of course. As she goes, a string of curses about bronzeriders and their sharded virility trail behind her. Cover any virgin ears.
Pyrene exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Nylanth> Dsalth seems to have left his lifemate behind, /far/ behind. Poor P'rru must be shouting to the top of his lungs up in the weyr. Did this brown forget to wake his rider up? Whoops.. However, he slowly makes his way towards the pens with head proudly snaking this way and that, tail snapping out at the sight of the glowing queen. Yes, he is a gentleman, really. He backs off slightly, towards one side as he awaits for Ysbryth to take her first down. As soon as that is done, he gracefully plunges forward and mauls a large beast, ripping at the throat for the blood. This has been done many times in his life… and there will always be a spark in him.

Daeyn gestures futilely. "I'm a brownrider," she says. "Unfortunately, there's no way for me to run far enough. You, on the other hand, have time to escape." She seems to think that it doesn't even require explanation. "And there she goes," she notes after Areiah. "You may be safe, after all." She regards Merra with solemn gaze, then follows the departure of the riders. "Don't worry about it … what happens is out of your hands … and his, for the matter of that."

Lis ambles aimlessly in from the Central Bowl.
Lis steps into the shadows that lead back into the Weyr.

Trimaka exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

<All> Nylanth senses that Fiareth whuffles, fluttering Istan snapshots all over the place. « I /showed/ you a beach. Goodness. The heat must get to your heads up there. » In High Reaches. She thinks. Wouldn't that be the right way to say it? « Of course there are nice people. Who do you think E'an is? » Like, duh. Totally. « I'll show you a beach. Just.. come to Ista, and be somewhere, and I will find you! » She says it in a happy enough, way. 'Cause its like a game, or something. Hide and seek, or the like.

Nylanth> Nylanth waits off to the side, his glowing eyes watching the others with fascination and curiosity. But not for long, there's a beast just over there he can't pass up. Nor does he. Dark bronzen wings stretch out as he glides slowly, talons outstretched. Suddenly he makes his move, the choice herdbeast snagged and snapped before Nylanth rises towards an empty ledge, serenely going about his own blooding.

Merra swallows, old worries pushing briefly to the surface before she can push them back down. "Good luck, love," she calls to the passing G'deon, offering him a tremulous smile. Then, with an arched brow, "Is 'wyllth joining in the fun, Daeyn, or have you managed to talk him out of it?"

Amisha sits down at a table

G'deon finishes off his water hurriedly and scrubs a hand through his unruly, still-thawing hair. "I, uh… Nylanth needs me," he mutters horsely, a frustrated frown flitting across his features. He stands slowly, only rising one blue-eyed gaze at Merra before the rider's again buttoning up his coat and grabbing his gloves, heading for the bowl.

Bundle up 'gainst snow or sun! The bowl is open to seasons' wrath.
Central Bowl (#3812)
Seven spindles brush the clouds — quite literally — overhead, a jagged, spired cotillion grey-stoned majesty. The bowl from here is expansively large, extending a full half mile in both directions, and although sometimes a bit of a stretch, most of the hubs of activity can be easily observed. Hard-packed ground shows the common pathways, all of them meandering about the craggy bunch of boulders that form a centerpiece: carven, hand-worn and foothold-full, it gives a bit of centerpoint to the otherwise vast emptiness of the area.
To the north lie the hatching grounds and leadership weyrs, while the lows of herdbeasts mark the feeding pens to the northeast. A flurry of ever-present activity marks the living caverns to the west, and another time-traveled path the ground weyrs just adjacent to the southwest. Southeast, a glint of blue shows the lake, glittering and cold.
It is a winter midmorning. Puffs of steam rise out of hold, hall, and weyr, as fires burn to warm people about their morning chores. The sky is a light, almost crystaline blue, and utterly cloudless.
Clinging to footholds in the boulder-mound are fifteen firelizards.
Green Kelitath, brown Revnath, green Zoryanth, brown Druseth, bronze Rixesith, and green Imbriath are here.

Open sky is exchanged for protecting stone.
Ground Weyrs (#2361)
Once a mere overhang in the bowl wall, this arched stone enclave was deepened in aeons past by who-knows-what to provide shelter for injured dragons and their mates. Craggy walls loom high to dwarf rider and dragon alike, sloping back from the weather-open entrance to a low opening into the infirmary itself. Stacked under rock-shaded cover are low supply chests of sturdy timber, flanked with long tables. Other openings are shaded by wherhide curtains, leading to smaller, private caverns for the dragonhealers' patients.
Settled on rough-hewn ledge are Bansi, Ghede, Bow-Wow, and Neely.
Areiah and Zi'n are here.

Nylanth> Ysbryth busies herself with polishing off her first, not watching the potential chasers do their thing, just yet; she's not ready. No. One more - in fact, that one. Right over there. Wings spread, and in true predator style, the impressively large dragon brings her open muzzle down ferociously, letting out a rending keen. Battle cry, or invitation? You make the call.

Nylanth> Nylanth swings his only slightly untidy muzzle in Ysbryth's direction, his dark gaze turning only that much more sultry as he hunches down, making quick work of his own meal. A low rumble emits from the bronze, his wings spread wide. Done for now, he's content to wait for the queen's next move.

Nylanth> Orbyth hears her voice - but it doesn't stop the pain; the physical aching and longing that feels almost painful. She might not be ready yet, but he'll be right here, waiting for her to take the skies in her glorious flight. His own soft bugle goes out for her to hear - ready when you are, darling.

Nylanth> Dsalth cleans his first dry, tossing the large body of the 'beast to the hide, licking the blood from his muzzle as he does so. So he isn't a bronze like the other chasers over there, but he has plenty of experiences to go with him. He stretches his neck out, head to the sky and he lets out a growl towards the other challengers, eyes whirling an agitated hue, quicker and quicker as he looks towards the large queen.

G'deon follows finally, feet at once reluctant and eager to bring him here. He stops, just inside the ground weyrs, blue eyes sharply taking in the others there, to whom he simply nods. Clearing his throat softly he hitches up the collar of his jacket and continues on towards Areiah. "Do you need anything?" he asks, finally closing the distance. Perhaps not the best question right now. "Blankets? Klah?…"

Zi'n is ruthlessly abandoned by Pyrene - however, the Cadge-rider is probably more mournful than he is right now. Yes, his main concerns right now are surviving this flight and having enough wine to do so. A skin of the refreshing liquid is slung over his shoulder, but soon enough dropped onto a table and opened, glasses pulled quickly into reach. "Help yourselves," bronzerider mutters, looking at no-one in particular.

"It is so.. hot in here," Areiah moans, shrugging out of her riding jacket and tossing it aside, watching as it lands neatly over the back of a nearby chair. "Hot. Humid. Isn't it humid?" And she whirls around, as if seeing the 'riders for the first time. "Oh, you're both so sweet to keep me company. Thank you." As G'deon happens to be so close, she takes a step, curling an arm around his waist and going up on tiptoe, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. Mmm. But - ooh. Wine? She detangles, and slender hips sway, Weyrwoman slinking Zi'n-ward. Another bronzerider, another kiss. Yummy.

G'deon stares after the now retreating gold rider and swallows quickly. "You know," he replies gruffly, "it /is/ a bit warm in here. That sandy mop of hair is scrubbed at once more, not quite nervous, but perhaps excited… adrenaline doest that. G'deon waits until he's sure someone is looking, then he sensuously strips off his Inferno jacket with a roguish grin.

"Very humid. Ho-hot…." Zi'n stutters, trying not to fall backwards as he's smooched. Eek! And you'd think he's tried it before, having two children and everything…. ahem. Not that it makes things easier with two different mothers - and being the nice lad he is he won't weyrmate either of them. But that's another story. "Very warm," he adds for emphasis. Phew.

Nylanth> Up! It's time. Everyone's ready? All right, then. Sparkling eyes roll up, surveying the skies; it's a lovely day for a bit of a glide. And unfolded wings are readied, Ysbryth steadying herself a moment before curled haunches are unfurled in but a breath. One fluid motion takes the gold into the air, and she lets out another lilting cry. Definitely an invitation.

Nylanth> Ysbryth leaps up Up UP into the air.

Nylanth> Orbyth leaps up Up UP into the air.

Nylanth> Dsalth leaps up Up UP into the air.

Nylanth> Up up up! Wings beat to lift you up out of the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Above the Feeding Pens
Nylanth> Wayward breezes carry the mixed scent of herdbeast and wherry from below, occasionally fusing with the salty odor of the ocean from afar. Spires overlook and shadow the pens below, often blanketing the scythed, claw-cut ledges used for feeding. Thermals, unusually steady for this area, keep that scent aloft and ever-present, growing stronger as they descend to the feeding grounds below.
Nylanth> It is a winter midmorning. Puffs of steam rise out of hold, hall, and weyr, as fires burn to warm people about their morning chores. The sky is a light, almost crystaline blue, and utterly cloudless.
Nylanth> Gold Ysbryth, bronze Orbyth, and Brown Dsalth are here.

Nylanth> Orbyth is not the one to ignore an invitation! Especially not when it's bound to be a /grrreat/ time! Up the bronze springs, wings beating furiously for altitude. There's no stopping him now! Like a rocketeer on his way to Rukbat he's on a collision course - and the obstacle will preferably be Ysbryth.

Hot. Yup. "Mmm." And Areiah is unbuttoning the first trio of buttons on her tunic, tugging at the loose material in an effort to ventilate, giving peeks of milk-pale skin and a well-formed torso. She's the picture of innocent seduction. "I kept trying to tell them it was warm, but nobody would listen," she pouts, sticking her lower lip out and everything. "I.. oh, yes, love, I'm sure it's stunning." Pause. "Of course." Pause. "Mmmhmm." Watery blue eyes glaze more and more frequently, and she falters backward, perching upon the edge of the nearest availiable surface. It just happens to be a comfy cot. Convenient, that. "No wine. I can't think."

Nylanth> Nylanth is ever a ready and willing flight companion, as he quickly shows, his wings carrying him at dizzying speeds to join Ysbryth per her invitation. Of course. Carried to a common plane, the bronze hovers for a second, plotting his next course of action to counter Ysbryth's.

Zi'n is too polite to stare at Areiah's chest. Really he is. So hazel-specked orbs are intent on looking anywhere but on the weyrwoman, ending up staring at G'deon instead. This is good. This is…. male, and thus not really enough when Orbyth is projecting thought of « femalefemalefemale! » into his head. "No wine. Fine. I'll drink it," he whispers - and quite contented with having the 'skin for himself, it seems. Unless Gids wants something, of course, which would be okay since they're in the same situation. (But don't drink too much - makes it hard to perform.)

Nylanth> Dsalth leaps up and away from the pens belong, far gone from his mind, with the blood running through him already. The heat is pumping and he is grateful for the winter wind soon surrounding him. Ah, but there is more heat to come, with the lovely Ysbryth in his view. Wings are given a beat, before he catches a cold breeze to take him into the sky at a well level. Her invitation, one that has been seen repeated. As old as he is and as old as he limbs may be (ignore that rusty sound, he needs to be oiled) there will always be a chase for this large brown.

Nylanth> Ysbryth twists and curves, arcing gracefully, beautifully in flight. Muzzle lifts, and she tries - and fails - to watch everything at once. Yet, at the same time, she evades the trio of chasers; no, no, no. Slinky tail flicks back, forth, kittenish, though her attitude is anything but. She is all challenge; she wants mental prowess. She wants intellectual stimulation. She wants.. she wants the clouds. And so, lengthy body stretches up, up, up, and powder-white huffs are slipped beneath and around, over and about. Fascinating.

G'deon pauses in the act of losing his own tunic as he spies Areiah's fumbling fingers. "You know… as riders, we uh.. we often have to withstand great amounts of heat. And cold." Of course. "But if you need to cool off Areiah, go right ahead," he adds, the roguish grin returning full force as his eyes unfocus momentarily. "Though the forge's heat is a Smith's best friend."

Nylanth> Orbyth is like clouds on a rainy day - he'll protect her and keep her warm and be that bulky shadow you can always make out to be interesting if you just give him a chance. And he can whip out pleasant conversation when the mood's for that, of course. But for now, he's more like a satellite out of control; he's burning though the skies at two hundred degrees! (Which is how he earned the nickname of Mr. Fahrenheith.) He wants /Ysbryth/ to be his - now and forever. But how can we say forever? At least he can hold on to the memories of the night, if everything else fails.

Nylanth> Nylanth hovers just a moment longer, darkly lusty gaze following Ysbryth, completely captivated. Not one to remain enchanted too long, the bronze again begins to rise, wings beating in a steady rhythm, whisps of high altitude clouds cascading over wings like an angel's caress… though he longs for another's. Much as he longs for that golden embrace, he stays behind the pack, sharp gaze waiting for just a hint of the queens's next move.

Areiah manages to snap back for just long enough to fidget, uncomfortably. And the barest shadow of her usual characteristics bleed through the proddy film, leaving her open face a playground for nervousness, tension, anxiety. And lust - but you'd have to *really* know her to know that look, so, really, it just comes across vague frustration. "I want.." she begins, softly, halfway to herself. Voice trails, though, and she shakes her head.

Nylanth> Dsalth spins in mid-air, his wings tightly against him as he drops for the moment. But not long, this brown is skilled in flying! He catching another updraft and heads up after the golden beauty, eyes locking on her as always. Opponents are completely ignored, his goal is not to growl and threaten those bronzes but to win the goddess of the skies— Ysbryth. He has experience, he can make a flight last an eternity, his musty rumbles the everlasting smell of an old book, always enjoyable to read over and over again, to go over as many times as you wish. He will always be around for her, and if only he can prove it. Wings pump endlessly, his tail whipping the sky as he stretches forth in the neverending skies.

Zi'n bites his lip, resisting the urge to tear off his own clothes. For the sake of coolness, of course. Ahem. "Wha.. what?" Again, words come out as a hoarse whisper and the bronzerider shakes his head as if having to clean his ears for water. Or maybe the slight wince on his face is the cause of all those clouds he's flying through right now. "Careful!" The cry is made before he can stop himself, eyes glazing over as Orbyth apparently does a stunt in the air. How much like him, leaving his rider as a shattering pile of goo on the ground.

G'deon closes his eyes tight for a moment, body straightening as if to follow his lifemate to those gauzey heights. But that's not his place for now. He sighs softly, eyes turning soft blue like an early spring day as he glances over at Areiah. And slowly he strides over to her, not intrusively, but circumspectly. "Mind if I sit here?" he asks quietly, pointing to the other end of the cot. "Unless you need the whole thing of course," he can't help but add, grinning just a bit.

Nylanth> Ysbryth lifts higher, attitude very catch-me-if-you-can - but she's nice enough about it. At least she's stopped bellowing. Tail whips through the fluff of white surrounding as she leads the trio ever closer to the warmth of the sun, where some clouds will burn off. One, though, will remain. And that will be where she will stay, enchanted, fascinated. She's loyal like that. Juding by the quicker and quicker movements of her heaving middle, the moment of truth may come sooner than later; perhaps she should've gone for three, earlier. Ah well. Speed holds steady, though - for now.

"Sit.. here?" Oh. An owlish blink, a hesitant pause, and she nods. "No, go ahead." Just don't sit too close - nevermind that she was kissing him not more than half a candlemark ago. Right. The unbuttoning of the tunic continues 'til she's down to a camisole, with the tunic balancing precariously across her slender shoulders. Cute and sexy all at once, yessir.

Nylanth> Orbyth hazardously plunges headlong towards the goal of the flight - and perhaps more than that? Bellowing out a quick, lustful challenge now that Ysbryth is no longer making those delightful noises, the bronze continues without a doubt in his heart that He Must Catch. Oh can't you see it, baby, you've got me going crazy! Yes, he's going slightly mad; he's one card short of a full deck. He thinks he's a banana tree. Ahem. But he knows what he wants, and that's the gold medal. He can already picture her smile in the eyes of their children-to-be. And he swears, he'll leave her safe and sound. He just needs to make it to the river of golden life.

Zi'n is quite happy to stay in his corner - unlike his weyrmate, he doesn't like counting the buttons before they're undone, so to speak. Wine is sipped, more now than ever, and a hands is run over perspirated brow and down over his chin, finally allowing those topmost buttons to be opened. Good thing he didn't wear his leathers today.

Nylanth> Nylanth picks up the pace now, if anything his eyes burning brighter, hide all but glistening, just to match his desire. That gem in the sky has risen to heavens, perhaps waiting for a gentleman to escort her back down to earth. If only the stars were out, what a picture that would make, the bronze never registering a doubt that perhaps this queen's not his to take.

Nylanth> Dsalth stretches out is talons, as is reaching to grasp the burning orb of Rukbat for the lovely queen herself. He will get that for her, and allow the heat emit from his own passions, his burning desire for her. But flames could burn through a book easily, if only there is a partner there, someone to love, to help him control the fire and keep him from breaking down. He needs her— /wants/ her, really. His voice reaches out, warm and with the odor of an ancient story. A story that still needs to have an end to it… He won't let his book end this quickly. Heart beats, blood boils, and he continues he passage towards Ysbryth.

G'deon does take a seat, though perhaps just /bit/ closer than Areiah had intended. It's still winter after all, no need to invite a chilling breeze. A heated curse is so much better…

Nylanth> Ysbryth is definitely huffing, now, and slowly, so slowly, she forefits some velocity in a bit of a half-twist. It's time. Elongated neck bends, and the buttermilked queen looks over a 'spar to survey the chasers three. Wings keep pace, steady and swift, but not quite as heated as before. She is much like a star; brilliant and hot, then, eventually, a quiet constant. And now, she searches for her mate. She, the star, he, the cloud - together, as one.

Perfectly still, perfectly silent, Areiah holds her breath in aching anticipation, slender fingers digging into the blankets that cover her cot-seat. Back is straight, posture is ideal - truly, she looks as a large feline, coiled to pounce.

Nylanth> Orbyth bugles with pleasure, seeing that the shooting star of gold seems to placate herself and instead turn into a great, ever-present sun. At least in his mind. And that's enough to make him lightheaded; he's floating around in ecstacy; like a rain-heavy cloud he's ready to whoa, /explode/. If you wanna have a good time, just call out his name - like the soothing existence of the eternal universe, he'll be right here waiting for you… now and forever.

G'deon tenses slowly as he becomes more withdrawn, his lifemate's desires overriding his own ability to think. Eyes glaze over completely now, hands forced open at his side, his stance poised as if to flee or fight, not waiting much longer to remain passive.

Nylanth> Nylanth stretches his wings even farther, going for speed, going for height, going for that golden queen evading him still! He reaches out, neck straight as an arrow, his wings beating for that last ounce, all to envelope the starry gold, like the clouds cover the evening sky, a gentle shade for the glowing gems. Glow now only for him, he'll be her consort, her champion through those stormy days, companion in the sun, lover of the night.

Nylanth> Dsalth allows a breeze to pick him up slightly, leveled instead of floating up in an everlasting ascending rate to the burning sun worshipped above. He has arrived, the book of the skies and now awaiting to play the role of the cloud. Experience would easily bring him to that level, his fellow challengers finally seen through unfocused eyes. Everything a blurr, a mist generating from his own mind. A fusty mist of potpourri glazing over his very form, the lasting smell of something ancient and guarded, and he could easily close his pages over the shimmering form of Ysbryth and mold her into the book as well. Become a part of the lasting story with him… Talons stretch, followed by neck and tail, the large brown grasping out and awaiting to see who ends up with the star.

Zi'n slowly outstretches his limbs and manages to get up in a straight position. Hazel eyes seem to focus on Areiah, and yet not; seeing right though her, images of gold upon a blue sky dancing before his eyes. And as his lifemate reaches and longs, so does the bronzerider, wineglass shattering into a thousand pieces on the ground as hands are opened, reaching…

Nylanth> Straight as an arrow? Indeed - it's an arrow right through Ysbryth's heart, for she relents and rolls backward into the open wings of Nylanth, lithe form curling 'round his sleek bronzen shape. Yours. Mine.

Zi'n has disconnected.
Zi'n finally has a moment's piece in his mind and takes advantage of the chance to sleep…

"Mine." And that is all Areiah has to say; breathy, soft, barely audible over the rumble of thunder in her ears. In but a heartbeat, the little 'rider tackles her long-time friend - and, now, mate - kissing any place she can get her lips on. Yup, he's done been pounced and claimed.

Nylanth> Dsalth is cut, his recent page ripped… Yes, the chapter has come to a depressing end, and he simply folds back his wings and swoops down back to the ground. Away from the cloud and the star, his broken page burning in loss. Now where could he find a glowing green, for this brown needs a new chapter to be written.
Nylanth> Dsalth flees the dust and circles south towards clearer air.

G'deon's arm reaches out slowly, tentatively towards Areiah, the image of the gold rider for only an instant replaced by one of the child he used to know. But no longer as he leans in gently, arm sliding around that perfect waist, his lips reaching for hers though he pauses a moment, his heated blue eyes scorching like that of the height a summer day, gazing into those pools of sapphire. "Areiah?" he whispers for her ears alone.

Nylanth> Nylanth makes one last lunge, neck outstretched as it glides along Ysbryth's golden length, curling, holding, embracing and enveloping. He grasps her glowing body, wings outstretched as they continue to glide in the heavens, now theirs and theirs alone.

** Areiah just set the @party! Type @party to check it out! **
The flight is over! Everyone congratulate G'deon and Nylanth; G'deon is the new weyrleader of High Reaches Weyr, and Nylanth.. well, he's stuck with Ysbryth. ;)
— entered by Areiah on 2001-06-24 17:05 MOO Time. (2 seconds)

Mmmm. Delicate hands slide over G'deon's shoulders as Areiah winds her arms around him, curling comfortably into the embrace as though it should be familiar - but it's strange and alien, too. "Mmmm?" Here, she looks up, mouth the barest breath from his as she presses close, watching his eyes with rapt fascination. Perhaps.. *seeing* them for the first time.

G'deon smiles softly, arms holding Areiah tightly against him as he pauses… but not for long, that entwined pair are still high above, and maybe he really doesn't want to hold back, his mouth moving to claim hers as his lifemate has already done.

Kiss is returned, and now, Areiah does not hesitate, sliding her svelte form into the bronzerider's lap in an effort to have more of herself in contact with him. "Mmm, G'deon," she whispers, voice feverish as she leans, placing her lips at his ear. "Not here. Anywhere else. Soon. Please." That last, vaguely hoarse, full of wanting and aching and full-out desire. "I need you."

Nylanth's World Headquarters (#8959)
The soft scent of seasoned wood permeates this rather cozy weyr, which, like the ledge outside, curves in a slight crescent moon shape. The aroma's source can be found throughout the weyr where there are quite a few pieces of wood crafted furniture. Near the back of the weyr near the bed there is an area set up for woodworking, a few long planks of unused lumbar stacked off to the side.
The very first object inside the weyr is a large dragon's couch. Next you see a tall wooden cabinet with sturdy doors opening to either side, two rows of shelves below. In the middle of the weyr is a large wooden table and four matching chairs with a dark, natural coat of finish, well built with simple scrollwork etched into the side. A large bed stands all the way in the back of the weyr, the foot of the bed barely in view. The fireplace is the last notable item in the room, standing opposite the dragon couch. An old worn forest green sofa, but comfortable nonetheless, has been set in front of the fireplace with a thick fur rug strewn between.
There have been a few efforts made to make this weyr look a little more like a home, and less like military quarters. A rather large charcoal picture of a mountain landscape has been placed above the fireplace, and two long, simple bouquets of mountain flowers lie on either side of the mantel. Back near the woodworking area an old fishing net has been hung up on the wall with various sea shells tied in at random points. Unfortunately this isn't quite enough to make up for the fact that the weyr is in serious need of a woman's touch.
It is a winter noon. As the sun reaches its peak, the light reflecting off every surface on this cold clear day is so bright you have to shade your eyes.
Snuggled into a corner of the dragon couch is Selig.

Areiah walks in.

G'deon guides Areiah up the backway quickly and leads her towards the bed in the back. No sense waiting much longer… "Tell me what you need," he finally replies, his own voice barely above a whisper, and a rather hoarse one at that.

"You," Areiah murmurs, still clasping the warm hand she was led in by, reaching for the other, reaching for *him*. "I need.. you. You have to be mine." No blushing, no awkwardness, and no more hesitation. Slender legs fold down, and she settles on her knees, anticipating.

G'deon laughs softly and pulls Areiah towards him, clothes discarded as they're able. "Then that's exactly what you'll get," he replies, voice quiet but tinted with amusement. "Nylanth assures me we'll have plenty of time…"

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