Rhyath's Maiden Flight

8th October 1998
Logged by Lani


And on Pern …
It is evening of the twenty-eighth day of spring.
It is the sixteenth Turn of the Tenth Pass.
It is a spring evening.

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.
Tucked into a glowlit niche are Maeve, Fish, Adonis, Kate, WhirlWhind, Sobrinita, Kynance, Dougal, and Karal.

J'vyn arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

Lani is casually twisting Wart's tail this way and that. "Hello." Oh so innocent.

Pantalaimon blinks in from ::between::!
Jobber flashes in from ::between::, brilliant gold glinting from her spread wings.

J'vyn (#7054)
Shy grey-blue eyes gaze with innocence -nearly- incarnate from a pale, fine-boned face, framed by lashes and 'brows of inky darkness. His slight figure tricks guesses at his age to far younger than is truthful, close-cropped cap of shiny black hair doing nothing to shred the illusion, instead only emphasising slightly delicate features. Quite synonymous to his young appearance, J'vyn is slim, long limbed, even a bit tall; dragonriding apparently agrees with him when he isn't shy or unsure.
Somewhere on Pern by night the sky is a vibrant, rich indigo blue. And somewhere on Pern said colour was reproduced into a set of handsome, dark leathers. Loose, soft trousers tuck into black boots reaching mid-calf, the matching jacket a bit too loose and large to be form-fitting, contrasting with his pale skin.
J'vyn is 22 Turns, 7 months, and 12 days old.

Lani (#10661)
Cropped to cap of fly-away, finger-long curls, Lani's hair is darkest umber. With locks shorn, her features show clear: a high-cheeked triangle of a face, deep-set grey-green eyes, a generous mouth and ears in roughly the right places. Faint freckles play across her nose and cheeks, lurking beneath an enviable, cinnamon tan with a sort of disobedient insouciance. Of middling height, she's a certain sturdiness about her that is but seldom mistaken for grace - except perhaps in the length of those once-redworted fingers.
Flowing leather cloaks her in a hodge-podge of tans and blacks; worn to hand-me-down pliancy and easy motion and lined with llama-hair for unbulky warmth, her thigh-length riding coat and sleekly tailored trous taper each in turn to quiet, soft-soled boots of grounding coal. Lani has a Wart on her right shoulder; not just any wart - this one is brown, with wings. She'll be coming 'round the mountain when she comes!
Lani is 20 Turns, 5 months, and 22 days old.

J'vyn ducks out of one of those many hallways leading further into the weyr, quite obviously lost. "Uhm," He coughs, but the woman /looks/ nice enough.. "Hello." So he even throws in a form of wave at the end.

"Can I," Lani asks, measured alto preternaturally calm, "Help you…?" Head tilted, she blinks doe-eyed and harmless. "There's wine…" she looks for it, "There."
Lani says, "For your cough."

J'vyn simply peers, first at the goldrider, then the wine. "Oh. Th-at's okay." He pauses momentarily, apparently to 'regroup'. "I suppose you could actually help me.. Do you know anything about where I might find the," And here he pauses /again/, only this time to consult a small scrap of hide pulled from a dark pocket. "The Weyrweaver, Teni-Tennia, I think her name is?" He even proffers the scrap for inspection.

Kumiko walks in from the Central Bowl.

Lani takes the proffered scrap, but doesn't read it. "Tennia." She tastes the name and washes it down with another sip of her wine. "It sounds familiar. I use Vivian, myself. Well, I used to. Ista took her, did you hear? For their last…" She smiles and offers her hand. "I'm…Landry." She doesn't notice her clutchmate for the intentness of her gaze.

Salea drifts in from the Central Bowl.

Kumiko wanders in, slowly, as she rubs at her eyes. Sleep. She's missed it recently, that old friend of hers. Someone was yammering about the twin moons half the night. Yawn is blithely stifled, before she waggles fingers toward the others.

<High Reaches Weyr> Rhyath senses that she yowls absently. « Swim ? »

"Oh. J'vyn." Slightly discomforted bronzerider produces his own hand - It was there in the sleeve /somewhere/ - and clasps the other's hand lightly. "Well, I guess if you don't know where she is.." Nevermind that she didn't /say/ that, "Mind if I sit here?" He gestures at a seat nearby.

Beltaine *poofs* onto the scene and immediately starts preening.

<High Reaches Weyr> Rhyath senses that Seivvath recoils into his own dry, dusty heat with no words but the sentiment still expressed: water, ew.

<High Reaches Weyr> Rhyath senses that Kaelwyth offers naught more than attention; being a visitor, all he does is listen.

Lani pulls her feet up under her buttocks and balances, nodding sagely like a pernish buddha. "Certainly," she replies, all graciousness. All too much, in fact. "Hello, Kumi. Salea."

S'mile smiles as is usual for the alwas smiling bronz rider as he wanlks into the caver. "good evening all!" is his overly cheerful greeting, his blue eye almost dancing with maryment. "how is everyone?"

Taida lilts, with a light step, in from the Central Bowl.

[At the lake]
Rhyath> Nyara yawns and stretches quietly. Hohum.. Oh dear. Did she doze off outside? Tsk. She's late for work. Eyes flick towards the nearby gold, to whom she gives a polite little nod, then it's off to the kitchens for the quiet woman.
Rhyath> Nyara softly steps to the Central Bowl.

Taida nods politely to the four women and makes her way to pour a mug of klah.

Nyara softly steps in from the Central Bowl.
Jh'ral strides in from the Central Bowl.

Taida (#13940)
Big, electric-blue eyes fix firmly on whatever it is Taida is interested in, like large, round sapphires that just won't quit. Once they hold your gaze, looking away is difficult, which is exactly the effect Taida searches for. Black hair that is cut carefully reaches to her shoulders in the back, but curls gently around the chin in the front, carefully styled in all of it's thick glory. The next thing you notice is her height. Just about an inch away from 6 feet, on the up side, Taida finds herself towering over nearly everyone else, and she doesn't bother making up for it with a meek personality, as you can also clearly see. She is effervescent and bubbly, in constant motion.
Taida is wearing a green skirt and a powder blue tunic, clearly dressed meticulously. Her sandals are brown and well worn in. Perched on Taida's shoulder is Psychadelic. Taida is wearing an absolutely enchanting bracelet. The chain is of moonlight-silver, lovely and delicate, with small, close links.Hanging from the chain by a small link through the top of the gem is a small emerald heart. It is a vibrant green, a dazzling, majestic color. It almost seems to glow with a glorious inner light all its own, but you realize it's just the sunlight caught in the gem.
Taida is 16 Turns, 1 month, and 8 days old.

O'feri swaggers in from the Central Bowl.

J'vyn smiles, sliding down into the seat he chose, only then taking a 'time out' to glance up at others. But doesn't offer anything by way of words, yet.

One bronzerider, two, as they come in the door. But Jh'ral makes it in first, looking a bit abstracted but not disturbed. La-la-la, life is good.

"Lani." It's faint, given past a slow yawn as she moves to the klah, the whole pot taken. No mincing today from Kumiko, as she finds a chair to flop in. "And J'vyn. And everyone else."

Having gotten her klah, Taida finds a big comfortable chair to lounge in as she peers about at everyone, glittering blue eyes taking in everything about her.

Lani chants the names like a roll call. "S'mile…Jh'ral…O'feri. Wonderful." Life, the universe and wine. "This is J'vyn," she introduces.

Conlan arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

O'feri would agree, life *is* good, as he hurries after Jh'ral. "So, Jh'ral, did you get my note? About wanting to move out further on sweeps?" he asks, waving towards those he knows.

J'vyn nods, by way of greeting, to Kumiko, and then eyes widen as he glances back at Lani. "Uh. Yes, hi." He'll just nod, smile, and try to pretend he's not here.

Kumiko (#7404)
Dusk slips and eddies into human form; ebony colored locks fall in a neat braid down past slender shoulders to hips as almond hued eyes glimmer softly, depending on mood, or circumstance. Willowy, curves grace her dimunitive frame with surprising strength, working life taking it's toll in the form muscle augmenting softer planes. Expression tends to a consistant form of neutrality, compliments and insults rolling off of placid facade, as if never said.
China red streaks along her form in no concern of the current style. Like the slick biker outfits of old, this crimson creation of leather starts at a high collar, molding to her body; the only apparant breaks coming at her hands, where gloves are never far away, and her boots, which have also been dyed in the same color.
Kumiko is 24 Turns and 7 days old.

Salea (#9933)
A raging wind spreads short cropped hazel hair everywhere, while sea green eyes look out from underneath the frizz. A moon face and a petite, almost pert nose gives the impression of youth. Small in stature but not lacking in courage, Salea is nimble and quick. A shining grin flees across her lips, but just as quickly, disappears. An inside joke? Perhaps. Her compact frame is well muscled, telling of years of toil and hard work. She walks with a confidence that speaks of knowledge about her profession, and her values always leads her willing to help others.
Lightly dyed leather curves to create a simple jacket and pants. Sturdy but not heavy-weight, small forest green vines have been embroidered into the seams running down pants and around the pockets. Underneath the jacket is a simple tunic of linen, perfect for inner caverns wear.
Salea is 30 Turns, 6 months, and 19 days old.

O'feri (#9825)
Short though he may be, muscular ropes bind his heavily boned figure with fluid strength and vigor. Sallow flesh stretches tauntly over cheekbones and nose, creating a thin-lipped expression that is not leavened by a shorn ruff of sparsely silvered mud-and-tar hair; nor by the glaring set of creases banding his broad forehead. Instead zealous, almond eyes, thickly fringed by coaly lashes, express the chesire cat mirth he truly feels and savors.
Though his attire does not boarder coarse, it is neither fine. Thin black threads stick barbs to the wrists of his off-white lawn shirt with its laced, open neck and untucked hem. Dark sable breeches slide over his legs and his fur-lined boots reach high for his knees. There's a sharp kick of wit lurking somewhere within today's cryptic humor well belonging to him alone.
O'feri is 57 Turns, 8 months, and 16 days old.

Jh'ral (#5059)
Silver streaks his once-brown hair, lending some rakishness to what otherwise is a very plain face: brown eyes, okay cheekbones, largish nose, middling mouth, and crow's feet. He's mid-height but on the lean side, with a certain air of whimsy to his freeflowing limbs.
Leathers have him in their clutches. Slug claims a shoulder with taut talons. Zein perches more lightly.
Jh'ral is 51 Turns, 3 months, and 21 days old.

Conlan skirts the crowd, hopefully. There must be an empty table somewhere in here.

Conlan (#13536)
Unkempt black hair frames his wide, round face. Deep, dark eyes nestle beneath even darker brows, and the straight line of his nose lengthens and breaks the monotony of his otherwise unremarkable features. A soft mouth, perhaps more full than he'd wish, shadows his cleft chin. Broadshouldered for his age, he's stocky, and his torso's built like a brick. Big hands and feet, too big for the rest of him (though he's big already), sometimes seem less-than-connected to his short but sturdy arms and legs.
Faded blue tunic, undecorated but laced with braided cord, tops his black trous and equally black boots. 'Round his thick waist, a black wherhide belt, plain-buckled, serves more as a carrier for pouch and pack than a fashion statement. Cradled in the crook of Conlan's arm is Morgan.
Conlan is 16 Turns, 4 months, and 23 days old.

L'shil bounds in from the Central Bowl.

L'shil (#10317)
A mass of mousy brown curls perch atop his head, seeming to have been cut using a bowl as the only guide; bright eyes of a warm mahogany peek out from beneath a shaggy fringe of hair. Jovial features mark his pimpled, rounded face, the shadow of a mustache ghosting over his top lip while his barrel torso matches the rest of his chunky, awkward form. Huge hands and knobby wrists provide a bit of contrast, his legs seeming far too long for him though the dainty feet at their ends appear faintly ludicrous.
Distinctively padded with bright jacinth patches everywhere they could possibly be needed, L'shil's leathers mark him even from a distance. From head to toe a wash of blues clothes him, hues swirlled steadily lighter towards the ground. Helmet darkest, near-purple and plain, leads the eye next to jacket made with room to grow, ranging from periwinkle to Istan ocean; pants loose and slightly billowing from extra length cascade into sturdy boots, the faintest chill shade of frosted sky. Perched on L'shil's shoulder is Lissel.
L'shil is 15 Turns, 2 months, and 11 days old.

Smile spreads over Taida's face and she nods politely to Lani, who catches her eye again.

L'shil bounds in. "Did the rumors speak right? Are there bubblies? Wingleader, Lani, Kumi, I give you all good day. Though where that phrase came from, I've no clue. Giving a day, what an odd notion!"

Whoops, wait a minute, life is good has nothing to do with duty. Turning back to O'feri, his brow seams, "Note. Note. Sweeps. Ah," as his brain gets around to that section. Filed in N-N-S, see.

Kumiko broods, but mostly from lack of sleep; klah is poured into a large mug without a forethought. Brows scower as bouncy L'shil enters… too much darned energy.

Salea smiles towards L'shil, motioning to the tray beside her, "It seems the bubblies have miograted over here…"

L'shil always has too much energy. It's part of what makes him who he is. "They would, Salea, they would…"

S'mile quietly strides in from the Central Bowl.

Lani grins at L'shil, shading towards the manic. Her voice, though, remains inestimably reasonable. "It's evening, L'shil. And," her eyes drift to Taida, "Welcome to High Reaches, too."

O'feri raises his brows just slightly at L'shil. Indeed, an odd idea. Returning his attention to the weyrleader, he swishes his hand through the air in dismissal. "Well, nothing too important. Just, it'd be something new - or maybe switch sweep areas. Just an idea," he says.

Warm klah, herdbeast sandwich with no greens, it's not too difficult for Conlan to pretend it's just an ordinary day for him. But all these people.

"No reason not to, really," Jh'ral offers, "New usually makes the eyes sharper, anyway. Right?" And a misted smile creases his face in the other direction.

Slightly sarcastic smile turns warm and Taida nods at Lani. Deciding that being antisocial is a _bad_ thing, she rises and extends a hand to Lani. "Taida of Pern," she says, that smile turning a little wicked again. "Of Ista," she adds, as an afterthought. "Of anywhere," she adds as an afterafterthought.

Kumiko makes just a slight face, as she goes back to drinking klah. Gaze scans over the others, mussed hair only given a smoothing pat as she takes a deep drought - no rest for the wicked, as red leathers creak.

Watching warily, young Telgarian bronzerider does his best to remain inconspicuous. Not a hard task, considering the sudden influx of activity. Quite suddenly, J'vyn stands and scoots toward the closest klah besides that pot which Kumi stole. A mug is poured, plain straight klah, and he returns back to his chair, this time smiling, though it does waver.

S'mile dashed out to check on something withut beeing noticed, amazing feet when you think about it, realy, the constantly smiling S'mile? bouncing to the klah, the overly cheerfull bronzrider pourse a steaming drink, then smiles his way over to the cluster of riders.

L'shil huhs. "Oh. Yes. Well, that's why I'm here, see. I got hungry." Can we say growing? Still? "I think I've found the world's worst and most effective wine, though."

Feeding time at the zoo. Lani blinks owlishly at Taida, and laughs, a broad, round chortle. Approval. "Of Anywhere! I'm…" And she sneaks a glance around, and decides she can't remain incognito, "Lani."

Approval on this end too. Taida can always use a good sense of humor in her day. "Well met, Lani. Of anywhere, yourself? Or here of High Reaches," she says, in a mock-solemn voice. Not shy, this one.

O'feri agrees with a nod, "Preciesely," and then tugs his shirt-cuffs over his wrists. "Anyway, let me know what you figure out," he says sort of beginning to move away and towards his wing's table.

Nyara slips into the caverns after a nice nap on the beach. So excuse any sand that falls on the floor, hm? She pauses and narrows her eyes cautiously. Although her arithmetic is a bit bad, she doesn't remember the caverns being so full. Granted, she's normally in the kitchens this time of night.. Returning greeting for greeting, the cook makes her way to the hearth, doublechecking the supply of cider, klah, mulled wine, and ooh, stew.

Wrinkles blinks in from ::between::!

J'vyn peers back at the girl - Does he /still/ not see her knot? - just a little bit confused. "Didn't you say you were Landry?" Cough.

<High Reaches Weyr> Rhyath senses that she ripples watery thoughts Seivvath's way, taunting. Prune. Sultana.

Kumiko is curled at said table, klah now watched zealously as eyes bore holes into J'vyn's back. Hrmph. Some people. Didn't even ask. Lips purse, faintly, before she drains the rest of her mug in a single shot.

"Hey, Nyara," Con says, spying the cook, "just the person I've been looking for. I had a letter from my parents; they're going to bring me some of those beans I was telling you about."

L'shil bobs his head. "Lalalalalalalani." Just his comment. Honestly, you'd think he'd already found the sweets. And the klah. Even though, for once, that isn't the first thing he heads for. His mouth opens, as if to answer J'vyn's question, and then snaps shut again. "Kumi? Are you in a bad mood?"

"I'm a woman of the many names," Lani replies to both Taida and J'vyn. "And places." Mysterious isn't her forte. She comes off sounding ridiculous.

<High Reaches Weyr> Rhyath senses that Seivvath works at escape, no water for *this* old man, no thanks. He puts up defences, a sort of shell, a barrier and dyke, to keep her out.

"Ah," Taida remarks with a sly grin that melts over her face evenly. "Of places, I see? Just about as good as anywhere."

J'vyn relies on perhaps the one tactic he's ever learned since a weyrling. Smile and nod, and sip at your klah. Works every time. At least he doesn't notice other riders looking daggers at him, oblivious.

Salea grins and notes to L'shil "Did you know I used to call the poor girl Laundry? Poor girl." Smiling, she looks at the now in command woman, so much different from the healer candidate so long ago…

Zirade arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

Kumiko's gaze softens a touch, before it flickers over to L'shil. "I'm just tired." Lips try to move into a smile, though however only a faint grimace is accomplished. "Zenzen decided to talk when I was sleeping." The whole time.

Zirade (#9846)
Silvyr caught by well-threaded braids pushes above pearly ears. Her face eroded of sweetness, simply hard, cold features, sharp nose arched over thin-lipped mouth that always seems to keep between the shade of purple and red from coldness caught in her bones. A thin sheet of weathered skin, not smooth and soft, but, rather, dark and caught in a reddish sunburn from the ever-reflecting sun covers over her muscles coiled in bones and fat insolation on tall, straight, not an ounce of curve here!, form. Pinched features make up for gentle movements, from the sway of her lulling hips, to the dance of words her scratched fingers bring.
Crinkly-dark, light at the same time - grey-cotton-hooded-jacket accumbents around her body in ease. Sunny-side golden strands zip around to make sparkling diamonds, at least a pattern of them, anyway. Scoop pockets are only added for decorations, Rader has much better things to do then to collect little tidbits, and arms will do. Muscle-ly curves belie blue shine among skin-tight, white wherry-jeans held together by elaborate navy stitches that only add on to the don't-mess-with-me look that Rade wears oh so well. A pretty green firelizard peeks out of Zia's locks. Purplish and made by the proudest of proud is a craftly-type knot that would probably mean Head Nanny, right atop Zirade's shoulder!
Zirade is 16 Turns, 3 months, and 15 days old.

<High Reaches Weyr> Rhyath senses that Infernoth glimmers; a discreet brush of flickering amusement, but quickly suppressed.

"I got Lardy, too," Lani puts in, put out. "Ach, anywhere and everywhere. I…" Puzzlement marches across her face. "…Forgot what I was going to say."

Giggle that borders between alto and tenor bursts out of the girl and she winks at Lani. "Did you, then?" she teases.

" Lesson number one, don't bother proddy womyn!" Zirade marches with the children - her children, taught in her ways; through and to the Living Caverns. Braided hair clatters loudly with each other as she weaves through children, plopping upon the nearest seat to delve in a brief, if appologetic smile, towards Lani before staring at the others again.

S'mile smiles, as usual, not saying much, just beaming brightly. :blink, what, oh nothing, just a thought from bronz lifemate. looking dagers toard other riders? nope, not S'mile, his to cheerfull to be looking daggers at anyone, some would say he should take life more seriouly, though but he never listened, lifes to short, enjoy it. sparkling blue eyes gaze a gold rider lani, watching her. goldriders always did have a way of catching his attention.

Rhyath> Sarala wanders sleepily to the Lake.

L'shil winces. "Could be worse. Quirky wrapped me up in my blanket and flew around carrying me one time when I thought I was dead on my feet. He said that I'd feel better once I was off my feet. Took me a mite too serious."

Shaela arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

O'feri works through people, crowds, drudges - whoops! Don't want to knock that tray of glass-ware over, before he reaches Kumiko's back and extends a hand to tap her shoulder. "Hey, at least it's not like he was throwing things around, 'ko. Some dragons are apt to do that while you sleep, eh."

Areiah arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

Jh'ral has made it across the cavern, not always an easy task and certainly not this day. With a fervor that would do Dorian proud - if not the same relish in stacking anything and /every/thing onto the bread - he slaps together a sandwich. Fingerfood. Phah for things like tubers and roots.

"I'm…" The words dribble through Lani's fingers and escape into nothingness. One sticks, though, strikes a resonance. Eyes flicker to Zirade, denying it. Proddy. "Not."

Kumiko wrinkles her nose, nearly jumping at O'feri's touch. Gaze widens perceptively, before she mentions, "You've never heard him speak, have you." Head jerks in L'shil's direction. "Like that, but on lots of sugar."

Nyara hears her name. Hearing her name causes her to turn. Turning brings Conlan into her line of sight. Seeing Conlan brings a faint smile to her face. Smiling gives her time to figure out what he said. Figuring out what he said brings her closer to his seat. Close enough to speak. "Oh? Well, now, I'll have to cook them up for you, then, won't I?"

L'shil huhs? "Like what, Kumi?"

Nyara (#11496)
A slender young woman with a not quite flowing grace, Nyara has yet to overcome a slight clumsiness that comes with limbs a little too long for her body. Not quite gangly, not quite awkward, not quite smooth. Thin arms and thin legs, and just enough curve to her body to be certain at a glance that she is indeed female. Her figure may not be worth a second glance, but that's not the case for the bright, skyblue eyes that peek out from behind dirty blonde bangs. Trimmed up nicely for a change, her closecut hair is no longer unappealing, and those eye-hiding bangs have found a better home. They drape down the left side of her face, framing her brow instead of covering it, and taper to a point just beside the corner of her left eye. Not un-pretty at all.
Close fitting trous of a dusty brown cover the lower half of her body, while a tunic of somewhat darker green conceals her torso. Both pants and tunic are designed for practicality, not fashion, and both appear cut for a tall man instead of a lean young woman. While she's most definitely female, her clothes seem intended to disguise that fact, at least from first glances. Perched on Nyara's shoulder is Dervish. A small silver ring adorns her hand, a single clear stone fitting perfectly against the vine rose pattern of the band, catching the light with each movement. A double corded knot of blue and black, with a single loop, a little tail, and even a bit of tassle, marks Nyara's position as assistant cook for High Reaches Weyr.
Nyara is 21 Turns, 10 months, and 13 days old.

That laugh bursts forth again and sapphire eyes sparkle at Lani. "Not what? Come on, I think you can remember the rest of this," she says playfully.

Confusion is back again, and J'vyn doesn't look at all comfortable. You mean, he was sitting next to a proddy rider this /whole/ time? "Hm." But her answer to Zirade's words seem to convince him. Naivete. Not always a virtue.

Areiah takes a few tentative steps into the cavern, gaze flitting lightly from person to person. A quiet, "Good evening." is offered before she chooses a seat on one of the availiable benches and settles, watching reactions, facial expressions and generally taking in the conversations occurring around her.

A'han walks in from the Central Bowl.

Zirade shakes her head, queen o' the world, " Yes, we know, we know, " she smiles, and glances towards the children, beginning to whisper - " T' deny " when caught in the eye by hunky L'shil, who she oogles for a moment. Oh. Mm. She flashes a smile o'er there at him; but one cannot help but wonder who's really proddy?

D'ante strides quickly in from the Central Bowl.

Shaela steps in with a quick glance upward, noting the absence of her 'lizard. Good. Maeve's gone off to torture someone else for the day. One pal down, Shae turns to the next she sees: L'shil. "Lesh!" she calls, bounding up to the brownrider, interruptorily. "Whatcha doin'?"

O'feri glances towards his fellow wingrider, the male brownrider, and he smiles. "I don't see what's bad about that, who needs sleep anyhow? Tell me, what's the purpose of sleep *and* if you're not sleeping, why not be brightened with such .. cheer. Such enthusiasm for life," he spits out rapidly, philosophy chucked in with sarcasm.

D'ante (#7402)
Crom-coal 'locks drape his head; the kinky, coarse hair teased and left to tangle over time, now falling just long enough to brush at his prominent cheekbones. Mahogany skin stretches taut over an angular face - no winter's pallor here - but marred by the ropy scar tissue that traverses one side, carving deeply into cheek, chin and temple, and only narrowly missing his eye - lending a sinister, grim aspect to his otherwise even features. Inscrutable eyes are deep-set and ink-dark, framing a broad nose; though full, sensuous lips and a slightly weak chin soften his appearance.
Broad-built shoulders and lean torso are clothed in red flannel; a button-up shirt, soft and well-worn and turned up at the elbows to expose long, brown forearms. Black canvas trousers are too large for his lanky frame, and so are secured at the waist with a supple, black leather belt. Heavy boots of an indeterminate dark shade are obviously old but well-made.
D'ante is 34 turns, 7 months, and 18 days old.

Pens
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. It is a spring evening.
Brown Fallanth, brown Jodith, brown Zenzorath, brown Piccath, and brown Cvinth are here.

In the pens, Kaelwyth drops in from above; beasts scatter. Wiser than they look, aren't they?

"You will." Conlan digs into the sandwich, chews thoughtfully. "You know, if you took beans and cooked them and mushed them all up and added some spices, they'd taste really good on a herdbeast sandwich." He leans elbows on the table - and the seat next to him is empty, too. "Boy, they do get all wound up, don't they? My parents didn't like me in the public rooms when there was a goldrider proddy." Dark eyes flick with interest: Conlan is all grown up now, see.

"Nothing." Flat out lie from Kumiko, a grin tossed in L'shil's direction, before brows raise at O'feri. "I'll remember that the next time I wake you up," is given, sacchrine sweet, teeth bared in the most humorless of smiles. Mug is cradled, antoher shot down her throat, before she sighs. "He kept insisting I come out and see the moons."

L'shil waggles his fingers, first to Zirade, then to Shae. "Not much. How're you? O'/fer/i, sleep is needed! For that very same cheer! Else we get…droopy. Boring. Blah. Right?"

Tagion comes out of the kitchens, the smell of fresh baking following just behind.

A'han saunters over to the hearth for something hot, keeping his jacket on.

Lani shoots a flash of stormed-tossed ire right between those sapphire eyes. "Not. /Not/." She folds into herself, feeling…feeling.

S'mile downs his klah and hands his mug to a passing drudge who mutter, but sceries off with it nevertheless. beaming smile is turned to lani as another though strikes him from his lifemate. - where was he anyway? the bronz was bouncier sometimes than even smiling S'mile.

In the pens, Rennth drops in from above; beasts scatter. Wiser than they look, aren't they?

Tagion walks out of the kitchen, attracted by the noise of all the people. He glances around, wondering if anyone is hungry…

Well, now those sapphire eyes are showing that she is feeling bad. Quietly, the girl apologizes. "Sorry," she mumbles. Something hard for her to do, mind you.

"Wrong!" O'feri pounces, then continues. "Look at me." He flashes white teeth and then reaches for Kumiko's mug. Empty, shucks. "Why didn't you? I was looking, they looked real nice, too," he mentions, slyly adding, "Like, uh, certain sunsets."

In the pens, Fallanth looks around, daintily stepping between those assembled….excuse me…pardon me…off to catche something tasty

Shaela waggles her fingers back in smirky imitation. "You look silly when you do that, you know," she notes, sliding into a seat near L'shil. Thick man-hands don't waggle well in Shae's opinion.

Lani reaches for her glass and waves Taida's apology away, even smiles, mercurial as the winds that strike chills through the Reaches of a night.

Shaela (#8028)
Violet orbs gleam out from within the dark-skinned face of the petite pre-teen girl, their deep shade reaching an almost blue-black tone in most lighting. Jet-black hair, once long and braided, now hangs barely to her chin, the thick mass shorn unevenly as though the cut was done on impulse. Shiny though her hair is, it has the look of not enough washing, and the static-like halo of frizz that rises and crackles from such a style. Bangs frame her indistinct forehead, curling and waving in their unstyled way to fringe on thick 'brows. Black lashes, full and long, match the furried eyebrows. Lips often curved in a crooked smile reveal gaps spacing disproportionate and misaligned teeth.
The girl wears clothing typical of a young fosterling: A long, one piece dress of deep red, and a beige vest over top. Both of a simple fabric; one which takes good wear. The vest has no ties, but is wrapped around, then held by a wide cloth of the same red as the dress. The belt-like cloth has been wrapped around many times, then tied at the back. A tight cap of the same red finishes the outfit. It has no brim or peak, and fits to just above her ears. Embellishing the finished edge of the cap, firelizards of various colours have been stitched. Her light brown sandals are made from the hide of herdbeast. Blue Neckpouch hangs heavily from Shaela's shoulder. Perched on Shaela's shoulder is Eldi.
Shaela is 12 Turns, 10 months, and 8 days old.

D'ante moves aside the oiled canvas curtain, and the cool spring air follows him inside from the Bowl, pooling for a moment there by the entranceway before the strip is slid back in place. He nods to wingmates and forsakes klah in favour of something stronger: a full skin of Tillek Red to keep him company as he finds a spare seat. Eyes flick to the young weyrwoman once… twice… before he fumbles with the pouring. Dragons.

Kumiko coughs, ever so softly, before a wry smile comes to settle on her lips. "If I'd known that," is given to O'feri, "I would've dropped by." Head tilts, mug refilled before she pushes it in her wingleader's direction.

L'shil peers down at his friend. "Shae… Don't I always look silly?"

In the pens, Infernoth drops in from above; beasts scatter. Wiser than they look, aren't they?

J'vyn's glances become all the more frequent, until finally thoughts click - "You're a /weyrwoman/?" Now, don't look so shocked, boy! Hoy. An apology is mumbled toward Lani, as if to make up for the slight outburst, and he turns reddened face back to the mug in his hands.

In the pens, Jodith bubblerumbles, peering around the pins, dinner? anyone? ohh, theres a nice jucy looking one, nope, maybe that one, no that one, or there. the bronz deside to wait and see if one strays his way by mistake.

In the pens, Cvinth eyes the herd from above. Scrawny, weakened in the winter cold, yet still well-fed, for herdbeast. His wingsails swoop almost lazily as he chooses…/that/ one, spilling the air out of his wings and dropping with accuracy and delicacy, breaking the beast's neck instantly, looking up for one wild moment, and blooding.

Nyara looks around quietly, curious. "Proddy? Who, Lani?" Yes, Nya knows about proddiness. Yes, she knows about flights. But proddy riders.. Those she tends to avoid more often than not. "How can you tell?" Bean recipes might be safer, but less fascinating. Not by much, but there it is.

Zirade ignores the craddles of children that pant and spurge about her like eddying water, black evil, and draws up beside L'shil, formally known as /Leshil/, and Shaela. Cold eyes grace Shae's form, she smiles at her, " Hey, hon, how're you?"

O'feri accepts the mug, tipping his head back to take a long draught. "Mmn, *good*," he says as he wipes excess moisture from his mouth and cradles the mug between his palms. "See.. see what you miss wanting to sleep!"

Conlan, the experienced teenager about the weyr, smiles knowingly. "Oh, sure - look at all the signs. She's all over the place, upset one minute, calm the next. And look," and here he lowers his voice, "she's /drinking/, too. C'nor says they mostly drink a lot when they're proddy. /And/," a mere hiss now, "Look at all the /riders/."

A'han wanders over to Conlan, a friendly smile on his face. "Hello." He looks around. "Your first time seeing this, kid?"

"You just insulted yourself, you know," Shae replies blandly. "But, yes, you do." And she grins, wink-blinking at Lesh as she reaches out to grab a redfruit. "And what's that, 'Rade?" she turns to the older teen, taking a delicious bite from the fruit.

"Indeed." Kumiko's look borders on sly, as red leathers creak, an unproductive sprawl taken in her chair. Yawn erupts, as she adds, slyly, "And it's not like I wouldn't have a place to crash, now would I?" Smirk comes, and goes, as she looks away from the table, and back to the… crowd.

In the pens, Piccath grabs, twists, crunches…and slurps. Loudly. There's one less herdbeast among the living, and one more blooded dragon.

Lani doesn't even so much as glance in Conlan's direction. J'vyn, though, is talking neutral ground. "One of them." It's hard to string the words together. "Nuff, Lara, Mitria…Lani." She beams, delighted to have managed the progression without stumbling.

In the pens, Seivvath drops in from above; beasts scatter. Wiser than they look, aren't they?

Zim pops into the room from ::between:: crooning as he flies around.

In the pens, pounce! crack! a herdbests neck is seesed and snapped, Jodith has claimed his dinner guest. did someone fail to menton to the poor best he /was/ dinner?

Zim exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

"Shells no," drawls Conlan, seated not too far from cook Nyara. "I'm weyrbred." How proud he is. How cocky. (How stupid!)

In the pens, Zenzorath lands, the light of the moons still rampant within his mind. And probably sneaking the thoughts to his lifemate, no doubt. Body slithers, a bit too big for the action, before he suddenly runs, coming up to tackling a herdsbeast. A smear of crimson is left, before the brown feeds, supping on what's left.

Despite the crowd, Areiah manages to pick up Conlan's piece of advice, twinkling eyes widened in surprise. No comment is made - the young woman would much rather listen to the interesting bits and pieces people are saying - brilliant gaze shifting over the people modestly beneath her lashes.

A'han laughs softly. "You got that first time wonder look on your face."

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 waves of pure obsidian have been tamed by a careful hand, woven into an intricate plait and pinned up to form a simple loop at the nape of her neck. Control of anything, however, wavers from time to time, leaving featherlight tresses to escape and fall around her smooth oval face. 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 attired simply, her apparel proving to be well suited to the generally cool High Reaches climate. Flawless swirls of gun metal grey and pale cream combine, staining the thick, well-oiled wherhide that clings to her upper body near like a second skin. The jacket, left open as it is, reveals a light ivory tunic, ties fastened with care and tucked inconspicuously away beneath the soft material of the blouse. Conforming to as well as effectively covering and protecting her shapely legs are a pair of coal black trousers, the soft material reminiscent to cotton, though not quite as thin, making it a useful variation for one who spends a fair amount of time out of doors. The hem of said trousers brushes the tops of matching ebony ankle boots and, rather than wherhide, the designer chose a luxuriously supple suede, both a tasteful and practical finish to her casual ensamble. Nestled in the hollow of her slender throat is a thin platinum disc, smoothed and shaped to effectively resemble a six-pointed star. Filling this meticulously crafted setting from tip to tip of the star itself is a single drop of lapus lazuli, the purposefully added layer of gloss causing the exquisite semi-precious stone to glisten when touched by light. A weightless link chain of the same fine metal marks this elegant treasure as a pendant.
Areiah is 17 Turns, 3 months, and 26 days old.

A'han (#13961)
Thirty turns of riding have kept this man fit in many ways, but it is apparent that he is not one of the younger set anymore. Lines on his weathered face mingle with old scars and some newer ones, and his dark hair is more silver now than it is brown. His silvery blue eyes sparkle with life when he smiles, the lines of his face crinkling up companionably. From his build and demeanor one can tell that he was never a very tall man, standing, at best, a lean and trim five-foot-six, with an average build and a confident stance. His hands are soft from lovingly oiling his lifemate, but his left hand is missing the fourth finger, the result of an old threadscore.
Despite his age and minor deformities, he still has a flair for what's vogue and likes to dress for an occasion, whether there is one or not. It would appear that his gather best is his everyday clothing and he's often seen in dark and flashy sisal or tight trous with an attractive if conservative earring or two, and perhaps a necklace under his collar. He is dressed in a tunic of soft black sisal, unadorned and simple but for the embroidery over the right shoulder and down the front. His trous are snug and his knee-boots are of soft wherhide and laced all the way up. Tiny silver bells jingle lightly at the tops of the boots and at the cuffs of his shirt while a silver necklace almost hides onder the collar of his shirt, peeking shyly out when he moves just right. A'han wears a double corded knot of black and orange, single loop, long tail, twined with silver, showing him to be an Ista Weyr wingrider.
A'han is 47 Turns and 27 days old.

Jem blinks in from ::between::!
Wrinkles suddenly disappears ::between::!
Tegran strides in from the Central Bowl.

O'feri remains standing behind Kumiko's chair, a free hand on its back and with his leg crossed over the other. "Exactly. Never sleep, ever. - *Although* … there is some talk of insanity after three sevendays with no sleep, but why, well, who knows," he shrugs and takes a smaller sip than before.

Nyara glances up at A'han, giving him a long look. Just comparing with the other riders. Hm. "I think I'm glad S'phen's in Ista.." she decides quietly, dropping her eyes to a cup of cider she didn't remember picking up.

<High Reaches Weyr> Rhyath senses that she shares her view of the world, syrup over fractured glass, topsy turvy, insidious and rosy. Yawn and stretch.

In the pens, Kaelwyth makes a show of settling to the edge of the pens, but don't be fooled - it's just youthful bravado. Shells, he's not even in his home weyr! Irregardless, a wherry is staked out, and watched, intently.

J'vyn watches Lani intently - looking for all those signs of proddiness he obviously isn't experienced in seeing. "Oh. Well, congratulations, I suppose." A bit of composure is regained, even as eyes unfocus long enough to share a few comments with roving lifemate. "Maybe we should -" Too late. "N'mond.." He mumbles.

In the pens, Rennth beats the earth flatter still as he lands with a jarring thud. Well, okay, so it was the beast beneath that really did the stamping, but he's bigger than the beast so he contributed. Blood gushes to fill in the gaps, but Rennth is quicker and catches it. Mmm. Hot. Almost too hot, but not quite.

Zirade shhimply shakes her head, " Oh, hon - - Shae, don't you have chores to do? Oh, I s'pose that /perhaps/ you could help me teach those kiddies 'bout those, um, proddy golds. Y'know 'em." Dark Bony Fingers scratch at the nearest crumbly bread for herself…

In the pens, Cvinth looks up once again, his muzzle only slightly mussed. A dignified dragon, and dainty, he carefully swipes a small forepaw across his mouth, then bends to finish, a slow blink in the direction of the other dragons, those too caught up in heat to be tidy.

S'mile isn't smiling as much now as he shifts slightly, sparkling eyes shifting from face to face around the cavern. "jodith." is a barely, if at all audibl whisper when blue eyes fix on, and remain on, goldrider lani…

A'han moves over to Nyara. "Is S'phen your weyrmate, dear?" he asks with a smile.

Tegran exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Conlan sniffs toward the greenrider. "Nah - my parents just never /wanted/ me to see this sort of thing. Well, but now I'm old enough." It's a little vocal chest-puffing. "How come S'phen's at Ista?"

In the pens, Infernoth rumbles, genteel, even in these circumstances, before swooping to the back of a fat buck. Frantic bawling and the muffled crack of the beast's spine herald his choosing. Blood? Don't mind if he does. (*repose*)

"Depends all on the why, I suppose." Kumiko shrugs, faintly, before she adds, "You, O Wingleader, will never catch me up for more than a day." For the simple fact that Zenzen nearly runs her ragged. Hard to keep up with a dragon with the brain of a five turn old.

Jh'ral has his mouth full, too full; chewing becomes a problem as he appears to listen for a moment. Surprise - but not shock, not this time - crosses his face above the pouched cheeks, brown eyes stretching their pupils.

L'shil gulps at the bubblie he's munching. "Ah… Yeah. Proddy's not so bad as… Oh, mayhesomedayseethingsfrommyvieworruethedayhe… Shae. 'Rade. Nice seeing you. I have to go scold my dragon. He's plotting against me, he is, flights, flights, I detest 'em…"

Shaela doesn't have chores, no sirree. She already tucked her 'kids' in - Maddy, and that Jinnie girl. She shakes her head sharply, indicating the negative, and takes another bite of her redfruit. "I ain't teachin' nothin'," she replies, a droplet of red trailing down her chin.

Taida goes home.

In the pens, Seivvath is late, perhaps not fashionably so - half the people aren't wasted, no - but he's last so far, and shoves his gears down into park. Landing. On the not-so-fleshy spine of a beast which does well to halt the animal so that he can close his jaws in its gut.

In the pens, Zenzorath flickers off his mess, making another complete one as a wherry catches his attention. Ride em cow… er, dragon. Well, a dragon of any size trying to sit on a wherry is a cause for disaster; luckily, the brown only manages to get a paw down on the beast, snapping his neck. Since it isn't moving… maw latches onto its belly, life's blood taken away.

Nyara nods with a calm smile, replying to A'han before Conlan. "Yes, he is. And he's visiting his foster sister.. Allyson." She pauses, then explains. "She's pregnant, see.."

In the pens, Jodith pounces again, the normal whirling bue orbs now spinning faster with the deep red of a dragon ready for the chace. another beast in invited to dinner and promtly drained of it's life. oops, another envition gone sower.

In the pens, Wherry is stalked silent, Kaelwyth springing from his lurk to encompass and blood, skidding across the pen floor and raising a good-sized dust cloud. Hot, dark, blood is savoured as he locks onto the dying wherry's neck.

A'han smiles. "Pregnant sisters are special. It means nephews and neices and an excuse to see family. Having instant transportation helps though." He winks and turns a chair around backwards, straddling it.

"Mm-hmm," O'feri says distractedly, his forehead forming wrinkles and mouth darkening into the barest of frowns. "Right…" and he licks his lips, swallowing. "Wait, what'd you say Kumi? Sorry."

L'shil points to the nearest door. "You'd rather find out first-hand what the after-effects of a flight are?" For once, he shows some resemblance to his father, authority ringing in his tones and flashing from his eyes, mixed with honest, unmasked concern."

Lani finds the feeling in her legs sorely lacking. "I think…I need to lie down." Her gaze finds S'mile, Kumi, J'vyn, but shies away, away. "L'shil…?"

Rhyath> Kicking up sand, you leap into flight.
Rhyath> Above the Lake
Rhyath> North you go, into the dusty air of the pens.
Rhyath> Above the Feeding Pens

In the pens, Fallanth meticulously picks…tears…and shreads, searching for the tasty tidbits. Neatly, almost surgically, he rips into his second kill.
In the pens, Rennth decides it's empty. Empty is not good. He takes a last slug from the bottleneck, then lets the herdbeast drop, uninterested in recycling. Haste and waste is the motto of this day.

Rhyath> A wherry catches your attention, or something else equally delicious hrm?
Rhyath> Pens
In the pens, Rhyath drops in from above; beasts scatter. Wiser than they look, aren't they?

L'shil explodes to his feet. "Yes, Lani?"

Kumiko wonders, "Are you okay?" Brownrider twists in her chair, gaze going back to Zephyr's leaderoted, lips quirking into a grimace.

Con replies, "Oh; I didn't hear about that." Of course, he also didn't know S'phen had a foster sister, but since we're pretending to know more than we do, all subjects are game. "S'phen has been really nice to me." Eyebrows raise as the scene over there continues. "So," and he's seeking conversation now, "what did you think about my bean paste idea?" Surely no one else has /ever/ thought of it.

Tagion goes home.

A'han watches the proceedings, completely passive. "I've seen this happen so many times it's not even funny. Oh well, may the best dragon win and many eggs result."

In the pens, Infernoth finishes, too; aperitif set aside in favour of something stronger: caprine, perhaps? The epicurean selects, strikes, sniffs, sucks. Fine bouquet; excellent finish.

In the pens, Rhyath strikes down, avenging angel, drags a bawling herdbeast into her embrace and rends it with a careless talon. Her jaws lock around the jugular with drunken delight. Drink, drink, don't feed. The thoughts chase themselves through the clouded recesses of her shared mind, heedless of the chorus of killing around her. Soon enough they'll have her attention. And she, theirs.

Concerned for the moment, J'vyn's gaze at not only Lani and other riders assembled slowly changes perspective, perhaps emotion as well. No longer appearing to hide down in his seat, instead the inexperienced bronzerider stands languidly, the very features of his face rearranged in a sort of part-grimace-part-leer.

Jh'ral manages to get his mouth clear and addresses the air, "Rennth, are you trying to fly every gold in the weyr? Next thing you know, you'll try for Marakachekith!" Faranth forbid.

In the pens, Cvinth looks up from the beast he has now fully blooded, the red from the beast having transferred itself to his whirling eyes. Ah, Rhyath. It is her time. Cvinth has watched. He knows. Tied to his leathers, care of his doting lifemate, is a gift for the gold, a bric-a-brac pretty, caught on a long-ago mission and saved for the right occasion. This seems to be it, but the brown is suddenly shy. Oh, another beast. Cvinth rises, and drops, blooding another.

In the pens, Seivvath lands harshly on the ground - thump, bump, and a good spray of dirt and dust as he doesn't control his landing. Too absorbed in chugging, really, to pay much attention to other things. It's good, blood, even if it makes him feel slightly dizzy with excitement; but maybe that's something else, too.

In the pens, Low rumble of savage pleasure, and Kaelwyth is rising from the ground just enough to provoke a 'beast into fleeing. And after he sweeps, just clearing the dirt, until the poor (stupid) animal is brought down in a tangle of limbs. So sorry.

O'feri slips his mug over to the table and straightens up, waving his hand - oh, no, nah, nothing. "I was just .. noticing .. something," he says, his words emphasized by expression. "Unexpected." It's an explanation. "So, what'd you say?"

Nyara watches the riders for a moment or three longer, eyes narrowed in bemusement. "This may be why I keep in the kitchen these nights… Hm." Bean paste. "I think Tagion's got a recipe for that, actually. We just never make it, since it's a bit bland and the riders sort of prefer ..meat."

D'ante just lurks, silently, from his table. Oh, he doesn't mean to; but speech is slow in coming. Should he stand? He does, wineskin in one hand and goblet in other, with a concerned glance angled at Lani. "Are you alright?" Softly spoken.

Lani shakes her circulation into action and rubs her temples. She's had one glass of wine. It can't explain the drunkeness. And the realisation, always there, but only now acknowledged, strikes: "Rhyath's…Tiareth." But even that concern is fleeting.

Conlan isn't old enough to realize that world-weariness is cool; he just nods enthusiastically. "But you could spice it up, the bean paste. And you'd serve it /with/ meat."

L'shil moves - glides, almost, curiously enough - to be near the youngest weyrwoman. "Oh, dear. Anything I can do to help?"

A'han smiles at Nyara. "I'm a fair hand with spices, what say you and Conlan and I go into the kitchen to see if we can't spice it up a bit?"

Kumiko grins, an idea twitching in - probably someone else's fault - as she leans back to whisper something to O'feri. One's done, chesire grin denotes, "That's what I said."

In the pens, another invition sent out, and another beast exsepts, foolish thing. - snap, crackle, pop, neck is snapped, lifeblood drained, and Jodith is done. ready, jombow jet fueled and ready. crimson pools wirling with draconic lust fix, and glue to the queen, rhyath.

Softly spoken, but clear. D'ante. Lani places him. "I…No. Yes. Give me a moment." Rhyath's being a cow.

S'mile stands, slowly, but he stnads non the less. by the emotion comming frome Jodith, it wouldn't be long now… smile almost, but not yet vanished, sparkling eyes watch lani with encreasing enterest as bronzrider leans against the table.

In the pens, Zenzorath continues to run upon his little rampage, his clutchmate just seen from the corner of his eye. Ah, O Horder, or Keeper of Anything Insignificant. A wherry is snatched, almost on impulse, before he greedily pulls it back in, neck cracked.

In the pens, Rennth finds an unopened wherry and changes that, blood fizzing appropriately as it bubbles through the suddenly depressurized neck. Guzzling, for this dragon lacks manners at times like this, and wherries don't deserve them anyway, he drains the carcass; for carcass it is, that limp body certainly holds no life - Rennth's stolen it.

"O-oh," says O'feri, one brow slid up on his forehead. "That.."

Nyara shakes her head and explains, "Conlan's parents are bringing him some beans. They aren't actually /here/ yet. But he wants me to cook them for him when they do arrive." The beans, not his parents. Besides, she might get in trouble letting a rider loose in the kitchens. Who /knows/ what might happen?

Cow isn't the exact word J'vyn would use, but at the moment all such decisions are coming from the bronze in the pens. "A-hm." Uncertain for moments, alternately decided, he leans on the table, torn between sitting, standing, and just plain fleeing.

In the pens, Piccath blooded just the one. That's more than enough, as he eyes his golden clutchmate with sidelong gaze. Unless he's mistaken in his whimsy, she's gone more towards the … purple?

Oh my, but he hopes so. His gaze is pure wicked and another quaffing of caprine toasts his own impure thoughts.

A'han pouts a little. "Well, alright… but I /am/ a fair hand in the kitchen."

In the pens, Rhyath is eating a cow. Intestines and stomach. She's knows she shouldn't, is told she shouldn't and finally, tosses the carcass away. Blood oozes over the riddling rum and butter of her muzzle as she takes note. Seivvath, Rennth, Piccath, Zenzorath Infernoth, Cvinth, Kaelwyth, Fallanth. Disdain in every line, she takes her fourth beast and drinks.

Seivvath
His is a wind-buffed skeleton skinned of murky, bronze flesh and jointed with the odd angles of shoulders and spine. Sinews bind his spare muscling to those jutting 'blades which in turn rig subtle framework for sails that are steeped in Guinness ale, spars to pinions and back again. Amber splinters then spark the tips of his gargoyle-claws, the blunt end of his boxy muzzle and the ridges wickedly barbing both neck and tail with something akin to fire.
Seivvath is 34 Turns, 4 months, and 4 days old.
He is 37 meters long, with a wingspan of 61 meters.

Piccath
The piquant zip of spiced sienna zings along the quirky, compact build of this brick-brown dragon, his stubby wings and short-coupled body built for barnstorming, not gliding flight. Copper rivets his poppy-peppered hide all along the ranks of 'ridges that march down his foreshortened neck and back, and those rusty motes also festoon the jiggery-pokery of his mettlesome muzzle. Thick-muscled, his abbreviated tail is a spitfire's guiding rudder to the intrepid irascibility that illuminates the spangled swirl of wide-set eyes.
Piccath is 2 Turns, 7 months, and 15 days old.
He is 34 meters long, with a wingspan of 56 meters.

Zenzorath
Ginger spikes the thick, dark ochre that bakes this young dragonet's body in subtle, spicy warmth. He's all awhirl, aswirl with a conflagration of burnt gold and the deeper, sharper brown that dapples heavy flanks. Painstakingly elegant, arched sails contrast the rough prickles of his spine, his jagged shoulderblades and high-crested neck-ridges tempered with tan-heath accents. Roguish and likewise, rascally, his eyes are perpetually lit with incorrigible mischief and jesting, joyous glee.
Zenzorath is 2 Turns, 7 months, and 15 days old.
He is 31 meters long, with a wingspan of 51 meters.

Infernoth
Opalescent bronze glimmers, milky pale but for the incandescent flickers of crimson and orange and cerise; flashes of colour seen only for the briefest of instants. Thick withers and barrel-chest surge into the classic flex of marble-veined wings: pale, still, but with fissures of brassy pyrite to add style. Crenellated 'ridges crest the length of his long back, neck and tail like antiqued filigree: disproportionately dainty in comparison to the rest of his brawn. That craggy neck supports his heavy, blunt-nosed head: brighter under jaw and down the line of his throat where the runnels of iridescence intensify; glinting like flame seen through frosted glass. Fire, indeed, but well-contained. Strapless, today.

Kaelwyth
Molten, liquid, shimmering through bronzen spectrum and sun-splashed with gold, colour fire-touched washes over youthful dragon's form. What he lacks in size and age is certainly made up for in the pure play of beauty along stocky, muscled limbs and the sunrise curtain of his outstretched wingsails. His stature is influenced by a hint of insecurity, as if he has no idea what he should be doing as a 'bronze'. Even so, handsome lines and intense colour is bold, if not quite daring.

Rennth
This dragon has aged well, now nearing his prime. Bay-bronze brightens the extremeties of wingtip and talon while that shade darkens in thicker regions; his hide is smooth and solid, shifting in gradation rather than color. A lean curiosity guides the flex of planed muscles - and the tilt of muzzle - while inertia holds his tail steady.
He is 36 meters long, with a wingspan of 60 meters.

Fallanth
Earth's moist, loamy colors slide mud across muscled haunches and lean, low-lying belly, cascading down the coil of his tail and up beneath neck's spikey spine. Overlaid, autumn's fire falls in a riotous pattern of forest hues: deep reds, pale bronze, and a variegated jumble of brown paint mayhem across his broad, dizzying sails. Below this canopy of chaos, refined power in sleek curves and tempered muscles are held steady, more restless than the sedate satisfaction most evident in those oversized eyes.
Well used and oiled, the riding straps are dyed to match Fallanth's color, and are not obvious on a quick inspection. V shaped, the style potrays Fallanth's wish for comfortable gear.
Fallanth is 13 Turns, 4 months, and 5 days old.
He is 33 meters long, with a wingspan of 55 meters.

Cvinth
Never before have so many different shades of brown been appeared together on a dragon's hide. Dark and light browns swirl and meld together in dizzying disorder along prominent flanks; the amber of the finest wine dances gracefully with the dull, sober brown before darting across a well-rounded belly and insinuating itself up and along wide and perhaps a bit stubby wings, vanishing into the dusky shadows of the membranes. His wedge-shaped head is a dark, ruddy red-brown, the color splashing along two cherubic cheeks and continuing down his neck ridges. His attitude is one of general indifference, eyes swirling a slow, calm blue.
Cvinth is 14 Turns, 8 months, and 25 days old.
He is 31 meters long, with a wingspan of 51 meters.

Rhyath
Buttered sunlight broils - bakes - bastes this straggly young dowager in a glossy layer of liquid fire: it distils sharp neckridges and bowed legs into sleekly polished style, darkening with the ruddy rum that riddles capacious sides and stalwart withers into full-fledged battle armour. Such formidable elegance melts at last into the dishevelled comfort of crazy-quilted wingsails, sprawling indistinct shades of fawn and rum from their scythe-sharp spars. Her stature may be diminutive indeed, but devious intent dominates the intoxication of this dragonet's gaze.
Rhyath is 2 Turns, 7 months, and 15 days old.
She is 39 meters long, with a wingspan of 65 meters.

In the pens, Seivvath tosses the crumpled wherry's body: forget the entree, main course, and dessert, he'll just have the complementary drinks. He swings his tail hard enough to bring down another which he quickly grabs and thrusts his teeth into. It's like that, bam, wham, thank you wherry. He takes what he likes.

Salea shivers, Is it cool in here? A worried glance towards Lani - but no - she's under good care already. No need to crowd. Hunkered down, she ignores the background noise as her mind wanders…elsewhere.

Conlan blinks. "Well, but when the beans get here. I mean, I'll let you know." Trust Conlan to be talking about beans at a time like this.

Kumiko nods faintly, as she leans back within her chair. "See what you miss when you're elsewhere?" Smirk comes, and goes, before she notes, "There is time for that later, I suppose." Gaze blurs, completely, as before she lurches in her chair.

Pyrene arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

In the pens, Cvinth finishes the second beast, his eyes whirling quickred with a hint of the pale yellow of interested participation. Sliding the second beast into a neat pile with the first, he notes the look of disdain from the gold. And reaches around to grab the gift. Now? No, later…It is still tied as Cvinth's sleek muscles tense, draconic breath coming deep and even.

In the pens, Fallanth peers through the virtual crowd of dragons, the flash of luminescent gold catching his eye. Raking his claws across the emains, he leaves it aside. Enough for now.

A'han exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

In the pens, Zenzorath twists and moves, carcass tossed away as he moves a bit further from the crowd, wings half spread as Rhyath… well… he was more thinking of a pig, not cow, but eyes take a near violet slant, tail twitching, a childlike glee within the blood splatter and gore.

Lani elbows through towards the arch of the caverns. Confined, rocks, walls. She's got to break free. Be free. "My weyr." It's out there somewhere. And out she goes, spurred by need; her own and her dragons.

Bundle up 'gainst snow or sun! The bowl is open to seasons' wrath.
Central Bowl (#3812)
It is a spring evening.
Clinging to footholds in the boulder-mound are Jubilee, Gunwalloe, Zim, Zed, and Tigana.
Blue Pavelth and brown Caerynth are here.

Everyone steps out from the Weyr's living caverns.

In the pens, Rhyath flanks her nearest suitor, prowling, eyes darting, talons dripping. Her eyes whirl, wicked starpoints against a darkened sky. They say the eyes telescope the soul, and Rhyath's are no different. Upwards, they shoot. And moments later, her wings sheet, tail flicks and the ground falls away.

D'ante follows Lani-and-throng out of the caverns, keeping to the edges of the crowd. He carries his goblet with him and takes another quiet pull on it. It's thick and hot and metallic and… no… he blinks, disoriented for a moment. At least he's not wasting good Benden.

Rhyath> A powerful starts your rapid ascent up up UP towards the Spires.
Rhyath> Above High Reaches
Rhyath> Quite, quite high, nothing braves these heights but stone and dragon and cloud; the Star Stones jut dutifully above the Weyr proper, flayed by the mountain winds that are consistant at this altitude whilst the rest spreads below, protected by its crown of jagged stone spires'-teeth.
In the pens, Rhyath just leaps, sprialling strong and fast up towards the spires.

In the pens, Wait, wait, he wasn't finished drinkin'! Rennth growls, tosses the wherry aside, and heads for more intoxicating pleasures. The second and third best things in the world are drinkin' and smokin' - and my, does he flame well - but the best is yet to come.

In the pens, the dragons all take off.

J'vyn steps out from the Weyr's living caverns.
Nalin walks in.

Meandering further 'neath spires' watchful spikes, you head north. You climb the stairs to the junior queens' weyrs.
Rhyath's Ledge (#11647)
The stairs empty out onto the southern lip of a veritable mesa. Broken by the craggy entrance on the west, the cliffs slant inward, here, vertigo inspiring in their groundward lance. The ledge claims the extra metres greedily, large and relatively smooth with a view of most of the bowl when visibility is good.
You enter the rambling caverns of Lani's weyr - careful of the potholes and don't run over any of Rhyath's pets. She bites. And so do they.

Rhyath's Rookery (#11648)
Cathedral arches sweep up to the unusually high-flung ceiling of this weyr. Recently chiselled in above the entrance way and along the natural veins of the rock, and stone-cutter smooth further back, the flecked gunmental of granite fades into gloom where glows don't go. Within reach, the walls are washed a pale yellow, closing the echoing spaces with a pleasant warmth that focuses before an eternally cheery hearth on northern face. A sofa, a number of chairs, and a low table huddle around the fireplace, a kettle and the makings of tea ready for company. Curtains and rugs map out the rest of the weyr, one path of tasselled blue leading towards the baths, another to the immense concave that Rhyath calls her couch, the last into the private sleeping areas.
Out on the ledge, you see four people.
Jh'ral and L'shil are here.

J'vyn strides in from the ledge.
D'ante strides quickly in from the ledge.
Kumiko walks in from the ledge.
O'feri swaggers in from the ledge.
Salea drifts in from the ledge.

Kumiko is dragged - dragged - along, a soft oof given. "Zenzen always kicks like a runner when he…" Wow. "This place is new," is mentioned to O'feri, wrist still caught.

"Clean," Jh'ral murmurs.

L'shil laughs. "I could have told you that /months/ ago, Kumi. You only have to talk with people to find out things like that."

In the sky, Seivvath does not voice his upset but still: more would've been nice, too bad the bar closed before he was finished and his gut filled tip-top full. None the less he takes to the air with an angry flourish of wing and tail, a powerful thrust of annoyance to send him off. Bon voyage!

J'vyn doesn't seek to hurry in, nor look around, instead a cursory glance is given the room and he edges between other riders to stand somewhere in the middle - as though he's safer that way.

In the sky, Kaelwyth is all eyes for glimmering gold, now, disdain only increasing lust's drive. A third beast had found its unlucky day, but the blood hadn't even stopped flowing before young bronze was throwing himself into the air after, all abandon. Rhyath's form ahead only offers one thought to blood-addled brain - Catch /this/. And he'll try.

S'mile quietly strides in from the ledge.

In the sky, Infernoth leaves a caprine kid half-finished, there, in the dust of Rhyath's rising; forsaking all to rush aloft in chase. His opalescent hide glimmers pale flame, caught by the faint rays of the setting sun, but that's nothing to the fire that sings through his body. And like heat, he rises too.

"Isn't it?" O'feri says, glancing around as he drops Kumiko's wrist to slide both his hands into pockets.

In the sky, Zenzorath ups, ups, and aways - though not without a zoom or flair. He's curious, his clutchmate gone all so gold in two seconds flat, and he wants to see it up close. Blood pumps through, his own and the rest he gained, as the collector of oddities is persued.

"Finally clean," sane Lani remarks. "Do you like it?" But homely pride is lost to the swirling confusion and sanity proves transient. The sofa is hers. She claims it, curling into a corner and lodging there.

In the sky, Jodith sweeps wings down, gaining hith and speed. jumbowjet he may be, but in the air, he's at home.

In the sky, Fallanth surges, muscles easily responding…so many muscles to make wing work…each pushing or pulling…faceted eyes catch and hold on the rum tinted horizon….wafting along, he trails the pack, saving enery.

In the sky, Cvinth rises to his haunches, spreading his wings, then leaps into the air after the gold, wings negotiating a powerful and nearly silent downsweep, pulling him high into the air to glide after the golden one, the one he has watched so closely all this time. He makes not a sound, only sweeping his wings through the cool night air, the wind whistling softly in his path.

S'mile is late, walking a bit slower than the rest, but making it non the less. bronzrider enters and slows even more, advancing still, but one slow step at a time.

<Local> Rhyath senses that she courses, starlight twisted around and around into a skein of pure energy. She chases it, armored against the chill, girded in might, exulting in newfound freedom. « Follow me, gentlemen. »

Jh'ral still has a bit of clarity to his eyes, if unsteadiness to his feet, and his hand seeks a sofa arm - the opposite one. He'll… lean. And not fall down. Falling down is not good. Rennth might do the same thing, and then Jh'ral would hear about it until he forgot. Which, if the dragon kept talking about it, might take a /long/ time.

"I was expecting more stuff," Kumiko jokes, wrist twisted slightly, before hands are pressed together. Lani gets a wry, nervous grin, before she darts her glance to the way out. So close, yet so far away.

In the sky, Piccath rockets into the air, his mind and motions filled with rollicking good cheer and rambling energy.

D'ante finds a spare bit of wall to prop himself against: near, but not oppressively close. Another gulp of wine; more careful, this time. He'll try not to spill.

<Local> Rhyath senses that Kaelwyth seeks some of that starlight for himself, a sparkle to the shine of mental tang. « Of course. » Serenity fills the voice that contrasts his form, liquid-molten-smooth.

O'feri does say much, but he agrees: clean, very, where's the clutter so typical to most women? But then he slips over to the wall and slides down against it's rough surface, deliberately until he's in a sitting position alone, which is most important. Solitude, for now at least.

<Local> Rhyath senses that Zenzorath follows, though no gentleman is he. It's more that the starlight wraps about his senses, the sight of a double moon forgoten as freedom assults, windwhipped. «If you insist.» Indeed.

In the sky, Rennth isn't falling down, is lurching through the sky with the headrush of a drink left too quickly to be chased with one even stronger. A taste, a flicker, an invitation, and the bay-bronze follows Rhyath's energetic flight. Addicted so quickly? Perhaps, but blood-filled bronzes seldom make much sense.

Salea chats, trying to appear unconcerned and carefree…"Its quite nice! Very large without the…extras….But maybe you'll have more…extras…later.." She trails off, concentraiting less on speaking than needed…

Lani smiles glumly at Kumi, vacantly. "Ask Posida about it." The junk was hidden by the darkness. At the base of the stairs. Good thing noone tripped, actually. The smile tightens into a grin, wild. "Rhyath."

In the sky, Gisanth circles up from the Central bowl.

<Local> Rhyath senses that Jodith sparkles and shimmer already my dear rhyath, much like you. not /like/ you mind you, just, like you. you, my queen of pern, surpass any pattern a beauty that stars my produce.

<Local> Rhyath senses that Seivvath once tried to dart her, but at the invitation is more than pleased to accept, swirling sandy-rough. » But of course. «

In the sky, Back, forth…Back, forth…Fallanth wings it to a regular beat. Working off the chill, he keeps a gentleman's - or is it dragon's? distance. At least for now.

"I always wondered where my hair ribbon went." Conversation, Kumiko keeps up, though words falter every now and again. Stone wall is touched, before elsewhere eyes completely shut.

In the sky, Cvinth follows, willingly enough. Ready to be more than watcher, he pumps his wings, semisweet chocolate in the dark night sky, rising still, /above/ her, watching her glow against the white of the snow beneath, watching her swagger in the air, watching her…Yes. Watching her.

<Local> Rhyath senses that Piccath sends a flash of wintry blooms, spring's first gleaming gleanings stark against pure white. «Whither shall I follow, follow, follow, whither shall I follow, follow thee?»

<Local> Rhyath senses that Infernoth sends flame: indigo tipping the scarlet impropriety of his thoughts. « After you. » Which he is. After Her. In all senses of the word.

In the sky, Seivvath lingers towards the back and side, sectioned off from the cluster - he likes his space, enjoys spreading his wings without fear of hitting others or being hit. A stalker, he, who having sighted his prey is certain to follow for the full chase.

In the sky, Kaelwyth throws youth's energy into the ageless dance, which more often than not comes off as lust-driven flight. Movements a touch jagged like the 'Reaches rock, unsure in the unfamiliar environ exactly /where/ he is going, only one thing shines certain. Besides Rhyath. Follow. Fly.

<Local> Rhyath senses that Rennth followithers, dithers, settles for not understanding. It's of no consequence.

S'mile moves forward a few more steps, then stops, hand going into pocket, eye on but not seeing goldrider lani. "nice weyr." is the only comment, and the first comment from bronzrider's lips tonight."

In the sky, Zenzorath follows, lead by the collar and the mind as he moves away to the left, a cluster of wingmates and more where he finds himself. Content to hang with the crowd, so to speak, before he dances on, moving a bit above and beyond them.

In the sky, Rhyath allies herself with the poles and banks north, those crazy wings broken from their latency and into torcless maturity. Respondez sil vous plait, in writing. Dress to the occasion. It's going to be fire and ice, all the way.

In the sky, Gisanth wings over mountain's ridge with a cry of challenge - or perhaps merely an announcement that he has arrived fashionably late. Sunset's light glints against bronzed hide, large wings carrying larger body through the air like a warship.

O'feri curls his knees up to his chest, his arms loosely folded around them while he watches thoughtfully. This, indeed, should be an interesting night.

In the sky, Jodith finds his even rythem for flight and eases into a steady glide, using the mountain curents to his advantage at ever oprotunaty possable, matching every turn.

Lani grunts. Rhyath has stolen her tongue and her eloquence.

In the sky, Fire and ice. Rennth can identify the fire. Whoa, can he. Ice he'll forego. No thanks. Don't want the roiling flames quenched. They feel good, even though the cooling air gusts under his wings in a giddy lift. Going too fast for using them for fancy maneuvers, he instead captures the fleeting burst they provide. Hey. you. Get your tail out of my face.

In the sky, And how can fire and ice mix? One will melt the heart of the other….Fallanth chhoses to flame forward, motions streaking in a burst of power…Ice bewarde…

In the sky, Zenzorath slips and sides, fire and ice mix to make steam. He's seen that, his rider doing something or other… random thoughts move within that mile-a-second mind, mischief that would have been caused tossed away as thermal is reached, a boost given to perfect wings as he ascends higher into the air.

In the sky, Spindles approacheth and Rhyath rides the winds around and through, threading her way out and beyond, where the stars are reflected back and back on themselves between snowcap and sky. Buttery flanks are alloyed to platinum as she checks her procession. Come, come. Let's turn the mountain on its head.

In the sky, Burning cold, freezing hot? Steam. Sweeping wings drag through the air, bronze Kaelwyth wings carrying him far, though without much grace involved. Instead driven on by pure force of want, perhaps even need, there is no choice, no possibility, other than to continue on. And on. Whatever it takes, right? The spindles are dodged, without fancy embellishment. Pure flight, is all. A dance.

In the sky, Seivvath responds, yes, in the jagged jerks of flight, his whip-thin body lashing through the night sky and writing: he'll come, yeah, he'll be there waiting in the shadows; no need to find him, there's no trouble finding the chill and ice of *her*. Swift he races, prepared for hairpin turns and the such which Rhyath seems to invite.

In the sky, Gisanth suddenly disappears ::between::!

In the sky, There's the ice. But it looks too solid to flip over. Shatter, maybe. Rennth doesn't intend to be one of those dopes who headbutts lockers and mountaintops, though. His brains are addled enough as he whips around one of the peaks - nice to meet you, now go away - and dodges a brown trying the same thing.

In the sky, Cvinth dips one wing, following above and behind as Rhyath changes direction, focus. And drops, to watch her against the sky, the moons paling beyond her, the stars not even visible above her radiance. Rising again, pulling at the cold air, the luxury of thermals a thing of memory only tonight, he flies. Watching, flying…Steam rises from his hide as he glides for a moment, then downsweeping, pulls at the air around him.

In the sky, Piccath cascades down, crackles up, slides as graciously as a glittering iceflow and swiftly as a new-lit flame. To win, perhaps, but more to /be/, to be seen, to see, he barnstorms with determined daring and dexerity.

In the sky, Fallanth knows these mountains and the tricks they play upon starry-eyed trespassers. Raised to know the sharp curves and currents, like a cool stream he flows between and around, following the streaking comet ahead.

In the sky, Turn the mountains on their peaks and let them spin. Spinny tops that lurk with the spiced brown's mind - Zenzorath, despite the lust of the chase, finds it amusing. Winds dart and downsweep, multi-colored hide becoming one as he moves, the blur of speed making him one smooth shade as ice whips without, and fire burns within.

In the sky, Fire suits Infernoth; clothes him too. No black tie, so he'll have to do as he is. Consider his invitation accepted. Starlight, star-bright… if he's wishing, he doesn't tell, but he flickers pale flame of his own as he winds through the spindles; following in the heady dance she leads.

In the sky, turn the mountain on it's head and let the fire of love - or is it lust? - melt the ice of the ::between::. Jodith catches an updraft and bank on tailtip, a menuover few bronzes can do yet somehow he manages it, barely missing spires with wingtip. turn the moutain on it's head, put spire out of our way benieth. let our harts twine, and this dream this bronz will give.

L'shil mutters, mirroring to some slight degree his lifemate's flight. "Stones and stars, rocks and talks, moons and tunes… Wine's on the wind."

D'ante just drinks.

J'vyn gazes at the sound of L'shil's voice, though unseeing, he's listening halfway. Even someone's boot could find enough reason to be intently watched, depending on where it fits in his field of vision. Nice floor, by the way, Lani.

Salea hazily notes, "Wine on the wind would be wasted…but on the rocks…perhaps later…maybe…" Again, she lapses into thoughtful silence.

S'mile eases to a wall, nearer lani, leaning against the cool stone for the time. in, out, in, out, rider consentrates on breathing while lifemate consontrates on flying.

Kumiko sighs, a deep note escaping, even as red boots are looked to. Head tilts, thoughful, before eyes shut once again.

Jh'ral is silent, contemplatively silent, examining in minute detail that couch he's leaning on. It's… cushioned.

O'feri merely smiles as he reflects on wine, wine and earth. Whether it'd be wasted or put to good use, wine's still wine and ultimately good, at that.

Over the mountains, Rhyath cracks her muzzle against the wind and bugles, taunting. Sissies! Dare the rocks, brave the avalanche, risk and race. No flat runner, Rhyath lifts and drops, catches the eddies, pulls the mountains into herself and /uses/ them.

"Wine…mmm." Lani isn't one for smalltalk.

Kumiko doesn't even see the wine, the red of high heeled boots, laced in matching leather laces has her in complete thrall. Well, the do match the leathers.

Over the mountains, Rennth narrowly avoids cracking his muzzle on something much harder and leaves the peaks to fend for themselves - they're doing an admirable job already - as he rises up a bit. Race, yes; risk, to a degree. Rocks hurt. Still, though… ah, what a pull this young gold has for an old - not old! Experienced. /Prime/. - prime dragon like Rennth. Maybe he'll risk after all.

Over the mountains, Fallanth flips, rolls, and comes up swishing through the windy slopes. Faster, slicing corners and angling, he performs; minute adjustm,ents to wings and tail keep him safely from the cavernous cliffs.

Over the mountains, Kaelwyth doesn't have the thought for reason, instead blindly following where she will lead - though with a bit less acrobatics. Intense rumble answers the wind-whipped bugle, wings panorama a minature sunrise of bronze as he glides, swerves, dodging Rhyath's mountains. Pawns, really. With knights of rock and rooks of weyr buildings, and Rhyath the king, of sorts. Does he have it in him to checkmate? Only flight can tell.

Over the mountains, Jodith flies, forward, onward, steady, falling out of line once in a while, but for the most part, managing, - or trying to - stay up, using the wind to his advantage. another one of those dardevel tailtip turns and a thrust of wings to push him forward, hopefuly even close to his goal.

Over the mountains, Cvinth flies, silent and determined, dignified in manner and pose. Watching…red eyes spinning quickly, that hint of yellow now shaded to orange, flickering streaks of color in that steady gaze. He braves the mountain peaks, the crags, pulling up with one wing, down with the other to make it through narrow passages, spinning down and under and through, up and among and above. Rhyath…gold…shimmering against the snow, shimmering within the mountains. Cvinth stays near.

Over the mountains, Seivvath relies on his own ablities not those of another or, much worse, nature; things have a tendency to turn on you, then there's only himself to blame and he'd much rather escape the rocks this eve. No need to get buried, no, and he still lingers - a strong pursuer - but removed: maybe they all think that'll work, but he's a non-conformist.

Over the mountains, Zenzorath flips and barrelrolls… not exactly, as skydiving becomes a new form of dance. Wings flip in, no turntip creature is he, as he dives along with larger breathen, following at a higher level from the rock taunting Rhyath. He likes his skin where it is, and he'll loose more of he gets hurt and returns.

Over the mountains, Piccath ricoches amongst the rocks, finding greater speed there for less expenditure, and more joy; then skims remains of snow, slick ice, sharp 'cicles to gain still more. Life is lived for such foolhardy things, outdoing her and then some for sheer delight in tumbling through air in breath-taking manuvers. Names exsist for those like him, elsewhere, but he has no care except for chase and… Ooops. One last, sharp, grasping gasp of an attempt is made to catch; after this, he needs to head for that hard, unrelenting ground.

Over the mountains, Infernoth answers taunts with silent motes of laughing, teasing, come-hither scarlet: touching Rhyath with thought, if he can't with body. His body is busy, anyway, fizzing recklessly along the gold's steeplechase course, skimming over obstacles and banking quickly on one marbelled wingtip to miss /that/ tree.

S'mile straiten, unbuttons and removes jacket, tossing it on the floor at his feet. it's gotten /warm/ in here. - wonder why? - then back against the cool wall bronzrider leans and closes his eyes.

Over the mountains, Rhyath kaleidescopes a wicked ridge ahead, banks, dangerously late. Her breath catches and the stunted mountain shrubs feel her passing as they poke through the snow towards spring time. Close. Too close. Careless of her suitors' safety, but not of her own, she leads the faerie ride higher, higher into the ranges. Rhythm, she's found it, got it. And the stamina to outlast you all.

Over the mountains, Poor shrubs. Likely scared out of their spring growth. Rennth, high already, stays that way. High on chilled air, high on heated blood, and definitely high on Rhyath. Now don't get any scratches, they might bleed on the bronze that catcher her.

Over the mountains, out last us you say? Jodith has all entet to follow yoou till the end, to catch if fait should have it. massive bronz winges thrust down again to persoo the wild stuntfier rhyath. talin brush a gree-top, but no mind is given for crimson orb are focused on one thing only.

Over the mountains, Kaelwyth doesn't doubt, instead seeking to get his groove back after his follow-up encounter with the selfsame shrubs - only he manages to take out a couple, innocently enough. To red-tinged vision, Rhyath is another, larger star against the backdrop of glittering night, this one close enough to Pern to make you want to reach out and clutch, and bring down to burn forever. Of course that isn't possible, but the thought is entertained, shared with any and all who want to see it; and he flies. Dreams become reality in fantasy, some say.

Over the mountains, Fallanth angles upwards, advoiding the trees and shrubbery…not particulary nice looking…and not half as attractice as the treasure at the end of the race. Blood pulses regularly, helping to spped the intricate melody of rushing wings and wistling wind. Forward, onward ho! Over the hills and woods we go…

Over the mountains, Seivvath wavers on the brink of decision but not there, not yet. Left, right, in closer perhaps or hang back some more, there's no easy out despite his knowledge, his experience. Everything's different, each thermal throws itself a different way and must be accounted for. He settles for skimming close, near and yet away from the landscaping. Smart, he calls it. Smart.

Over the mountains, Cvinth blinks slowly, watchful of the golden hide, the golden tail, the golden muzzle, the golden…Yes, he watches, still. And rises, stroking the cold air, pulling himself upwards, colder air. He misses the shrubs, the mountains, the rocks, and dives straight for the twin moons, nearly bugling his joy and excitement, but masking it instead with another fierce downsweep of his wings, a careless flick of his tail.

Over the mountains, Besides… scratches mean pain, right? Right. That's what he's always been warned, at any rate, has Zenzorath. Stamina is questioned as he follows after Rhyath, bulked form moving within a shivering cloud, an icicle formed upon his muzzle heating as he moves onward, speed and internal heat melting it all away.

Over the mountains, Piccath shoots after, calling on a reserve he didn't know he had, to make… a lovely bell curve, glancing and reaching as he so-briefly passes Rhyath on his way to the cold, unwelcoming land below. Now shall mettle and meddle and mastery and musicality and mordantcy and his melange of talents show, to keep himself, well, mortal.

Over the mountains, Rhythm? Bugled taunts? Who could ask for anything more? Not Infernoth, certainly. He, too, rises, ghostly hide aglint with faerie lights to match the dance, and eyes aglint with something more. Sparks fly, fire banks. Upward. Onward. To Her.

Over the mountains, Pain, oh, yes. Rennth isn't fond of that, either. But then again, it's easier to soothe than endure. He'll soothe, and then there's pain that's pleasurable. Right now, he has pain in the burning itch of his wing-joints. Air may be thin, but it pushes after a while.

<Local> Rhyath senses that she's thoughts are an angry red, her eyes lifted to spy Rennth, Cvinth…And even Seivvath skimming above rather than following her mendacious weaving through the valleys. Height, the instinct thrums in her now. The games are done, determination augmenting the dreadful weariness and cold that nips at her wings. Aim for the stars - you may just impale yourself on a mountain peak.

hands slip out of pockets, but eyes squeeze tighter, S'mile refusing to open them, not yet. sideways step is taken in the direction lani is known to be, back sliding along the wall. ahh, a cooler spot to rest against, the other one had warmed considderably.

Over the mountains, to the stars and beyond will Joidth follow, till reaches snow has melted and the glacier streams nolonger flow. as long as the stars shine, and the twin moon gleam, so long will this bronz persue the, oh Perns beauti queen.

Rhyath thinks to you, « I bespoke Piccath with: Rhyath touches, reassures herself, fleetingly regretful. Another time, perhaps. Faeries and mortals are better thus. to him. »

Over the mountains, to the stars and beyond will Jodith follow, till reaches snow has melted and the glacier streams nolonger flow. as long as the stars shine, and the twin moon gleam, so long will this bronz persue the, oh Perns beauti queen.

<Local> Rhyath senses that Kaelwyth chases Rhyath's branding thoughts with the sheen of his own glimmer, ever seeking to tangle and cover. Through the valleys, weaving ever after, he falls victim to using a Smooth Moove to get himself up and out of dodge; reach for the stars. Rhyath was the first he saw tonight. Does that mean he gets a wish on her light?

Over the mountains, Rennth doesn't aim for the stars, he aims for Rhyath. Much more attractive than a coldly blinking light somewhere far away. /She/ is right here, maybe out of reach for now, but he knows… he knows… somehow… that won't last.

Over the mountains, Cvinth glides quietly, silent as the snow far beneath him, silent as the moons far away. He backwings delicately, deferential to the golden bullet rising from below, giving her space, giving her the stars…and gliding again, eyeing her against the blackblack sky, his eyes, once red and orange, now brightly purple and swirling quickly, taking in the sight, watching, yet again.

Over the mountains, With a cheerful farewell to dangerous curves and avalanche peaks, Fallanth follows upwards, muscles starting to burn…the fire is here, warming and cosy….but can it meet the ice of the stars? Perhaps shooting stars…

Over the mountains, Seivvath does wing his way swiftly higher, matching her progress now - oh, and no thanks, he'll skip any impalement. This near-final intensity burns his limbs, burnishes the heady purple of his eyes as he gears up. Fifth, he's reached but hasn't pushed to the limits. Who knows, she may change her mind and decide the ocean's more to her liking.

Over the mountains, Piccath, meanwhile, drops steadily, though always directly below the rummy one. Tiredness dulls his peppered, hot flare of a mind-touch, blurs all images sent into a impressionist work while keeping colors clear. So that if, as now, he gifts the sidhe hunt with a sight of how colossally tiny they seem from his vantage, how salient and close to twilight's soft mysteries they look, it soars and diffuses into pinpoints of rainbow hues that form a fuzzy whole.

Lani has bitten her nails to the quick. A good thing for the upholstery, in which she's digging them now. She speaks her dragons's thought, her own - the line was lost somewhere. "Fallanth." She can see him closing. Can feel them closing and yes, some failing, the fire at her heels and the embers in her wake. "Go." Rhyath.

S'mile has taken another, and another and yet another step in lani's direction, back never leaving the wall. butp, oof, he's against a sofa. is it the one lani's 'atacking'? he's not opening his eyes to find out.

L'shil slips to the doorway, gazing wistfully as he watches the progress of the others.

Over the mountains, Infernoth crackles upward, slipping from thermal to thermal as he careens along on Rhyath's wild ride. Cliff faces blur past, some missed by sheer chance and nothing more. And then, he is clear: his pale hide ascends above the jagged rims like a third moon, though no moon ever burned as he does. Forward, ho! He chases his star.

D'ante pulls at a lock of tangled hair; stoops to drink, only to find his goblet dry and wineskin empty. Thwarted, he /fidgets/.

Over the mountains, Rhyath zeniths, the perilous antics earlier leaving her soulless, adrift, empty. Cold, thin, and yes, tiny agains the endless nothingness of the sky. Her wings falter, breathe grows short, but her heart pumps with bitter determination. Muzzle jutted, she flies stubbornly on. Brave the chill, find the fire, if you dare.

Over the mountains, Fallanth surges, filled with excess heat; pent up exertions make every stroke near agony as wings helplessly slow…still headinf for the stars…the twinkling changes and turns…into Rhyath.

Over the mountains, Stubborn to the end, but what's the joy in a catch so long delayed through flight if it's given too easily? Rennth courses wearily but similarly stubborn - or pigheaded, or even less flattering terms - as he looks for that pearl to fill the soul's void, all the world contained in one tiny ball of… hope.

Over the mountains, Piccath perched on a jutting lip of stone, he cranes his neck upward, watching. Nose first, of course, highest of all. He didn't gain a reputation for being nosy without cause!

Over the mountains, Kaelwyth would brave, if you could call it that. Instead a sort of intense desperation takes over mind and thought, his own sunrise worn thin, cold air beneath his wings keeping time with determination's drive. Must not-cannot-will not-yes. If he could hold on, find the fire, possibility has it 'twould carry Rhyath and himself burning across the foreign weyr's sky. If he can.

Over the mountains, Not small, to Cvinth. Not empty, or soulless is she, either. She still glows, bright against the sky. She slows, and the brown tugs, winging in close, closer…his own heart beating against his chest, pounding, nearly breaking the otherwise silent night as he watches yet.

Over the mountains, Jodith flies on, closer, and closer he tries to get, his wings pumping for all their worth. the queen begins to tire, the chace is near it's end and the goal is withen reach. come by queen of the sky, together let you and i fly. fly on tilll the morning light, fly together till the end of night. oh queen, the beauti of my world, let me carry you away, away for your persooing hord.

Over the mountains, Fire would seek it's own, if Infernoth could reach. And he tries, oh! he tries. The cool spring evening holds no chill he recognises; he's aflame with more than desire. Heat-seeking, he sings skyward after the soulless one. A kindred spirit? Indeed.

Over the mountains, Seivvath calculates a little, but no more than to figure she's female, determined to the last as is he. All his figuring, skimming close and lingering outside wasn't for nothing - he had a *plan* and now he exploits it, propelling himself still, throttle full up so that, Faranth knows why, he can be burned by her fire.

L'shil bounds out onto the ledge.

Over the mountains, Rennth winds down, stolen blood spent too fast, thrown away on chance's whim. Yet the game is not over, the bar not closed, and Rennth just won't leave till it's closing time, even if he's to be left in the gutter. Tired, wind-beleagured wings pump with only his own blood pounding through their veins now - but as the extremities of tail and muzzle reach for Rhyath, it might, just might, be enough.

Over the mountains, Rhyath's course is ragged, her orbit erratic, and finally, just as gravity tells: Wings scutter as a presence is felt, close, too close, far too close. Darkness and fire, muting into a hellish symphony of wagnerian proportions as the descent begins. « Infernoth! »

Salea goes home.

Kumiko chokes, faintly, before she begins to step out. And out. And further away. Least those boots were made for walking. And that's just what she'll do.

Over the mountains, Fallanth drops lower into the Weyr's caldera.

Over the mountains, Kaelwyth veers off in abruptness, retreating out of sight of the falling star, caught by another. Energy spent, he sweeps down to remove his rider.

Over the mountains, Jodith thrust one last time with bronzen wings, and that's all she-er0he, (as the case my bae) worte. wings fold and the metalic male drops to the ground in an ever tightening spral.

Over the mountains, Cvinth backwings as the gold drops into the embrace of another, bugling finally into the silence of the night, sorrow and frustration overtaking as he descends, a slow spiral, his eyes never leaving her, watching still, watching always.

Over the mountains, Infernoth could never resist the cry of a soul in torment, and so he clings; wrapping wings round butter-soft hide, and twining bronze neck round gold: flame to flame; heart to heart; light to light.

Over the mountains, Seivvath mistakes something, somehow, and spins away, down, but thankfully *not* on to any peak or spire.

O'feri scoots up slowly, dazed, blinks once and then heads out.
O'feri swaggers out onto the ledge.

Kumiko walks out onto the ledge.

J'vyn comes back to 'himself', startled into staring at Lani before fleeing the room. Hoy.

Lani stands abruptly, vertigo starting at her toes and leeching colour from her face. Blind for a moment. "D'ante." And colour, sight, feeling returns, especially feeling. Returns a thousand-fold.

J'vyn strides out onto the ledge.

a gust of air ascapes the lungs of S'mile as he picks up his jacket and flings it over his shoulder. back to normal duties of wyerlife, the duties gon unseen.
S'mile quietly strides out onto the ledge.

Over the mountains, Wasn't enough, getting … and maybe in the churning rush of lost knowledge, Rennth will admit to getting just the tad bit … old.

Jh'ral pushes off, pushes away, leaves the sofa to its seated inhabitant.
Jh'ral strides out onto the ledge.

Over the mountains, Zenzorath drops lower into the Weyr's caldera.

D'ante is here; was always here. No longer on the fringe, he comes to meet her. One dark hand rests against Lani's cheek for a long moment before head bends; lips claiming even as his lifemate claims hers.

Lani surrenders herself to the embrace. The Divine comedy ends in Il paradiso, afterall. And thought ceases for a long time.

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