Igen Hold Banquet Hall

It's lavish, this grand room of limestone and tapestry and history above all. Tables are frequently set up here, the place used as a secondary eating facility when the dining hall is overrun at peak times; at others it's a ballroom where gather dances are held. Now, it's decorated for a fine dinner, all the round tables sporting centerpieces and all of Igen's who's-who having personalized seating, cards with their names written upon them propped up on fine porcelain plates. A dais is raised at the top, for the program's speakers.

It's a lovely day — or it has been, most of the time having been spent out in the sun underneath a blue sky haggling with vendors or dancing to Harper's screels. With the sun setting on the final day of the Gather, Evhain's invitations bear fruit: the banquet hall is starting to fill in, though surely it's still a half-candlemark out from any events actually starting. K'vre is seated at a table in the back, not where his name is engraved in thick vellum up at the top of the room, chatting to one of Keroon's blooded children — a man who almost looks like him, and shares that particular abruptness of stance and posture. "Any idea what this hullabaloo is all about?" K'vre asks his companion, who speaks in a lower voice than is easily overheard. Curious Holders file in, along with early-bird guests intent to claim a spot at one of the coveted open-seating tables toward the back.

When the call for food comes up with loose talk of something coming up, Sophius ends up making his way to the Hold proper. Usually only reserved for the highest honored guests but with the annoucement being a special occasion, he was allowed to enter. He'd be allowed to settle with other Apprentices, Journeymen and even Masters of verying crafts, sitting near mostly those of his own rank near the back side of the innerhall. He does give a few kind greetings though as of yet, doesn't recognise anyone. The hall was filling quicker than a dragon could go between, least he thought ir was.

Fashionably late? How about fashionably early? A group in Steen scarlet appear en masse and while most of the group head directly towards one of those prime tables that aren't at the top of the room, but certainly still within earshot, one particular figure trails behind the rest. Even with the somewhat chilly winter air, Ramita's come prepared with a fan in case the crowded dining hall gets two warm and flutters it already as she passes by K'vre's tables. "Surely not a hullabaloo of your own making? I would think Igen's Weyrleader would have earned a better seat." If there's a smile on the vintner's face, she's hiding it well behind the golden fan.

Tzajal is no stranger to formal affairs and fancy parties — even it's been a day and an age since he attended one hosted by a prominent Hold and not between the families of Igen's Bazaar. Inwardly, he's unsure of which he prefers, though he's already regretting being among the early-bird crowd. Where to go? Who to speak to? These 'dances' are not his preference and so he's about to aimlessly drift among the crowds when a glimpse of scarlet catches his eyes — Steens. A familiar face at that! And with Igen's Weyrleader, unfamiliar by sight but not in name. He'll choose to find his place among the variety of tables, already preparing a few choice excuses in which to escape by if need be.

Despite the restriction of his lightly golden formal wear, L'xan moves through the crowds with ease, a polite nod here, a wink there and a bawdy joke told a little too loudly for a favoured unlce by the hearth. If he's been to one of these things he's been to 'em all! Slowly he makes his way across the room, to the table the 'Steens are commandering. Cocking his head he frowns at the name plates, noting that his name is indeed mixed in with those settling themselves. "Oh, this won't do at all." He mutters as he snags the fancy looking name and swaps it with one from the table nearer the kitchen where his mother and grandmother have been seated. Congratulations Bremuk, you've gone up in the world, Enjoy the 'Steens! "Any table that is closer to the kitchens is closer to the good stuff I say." How fortuitious that this bastard branch of the Blood seems to have been seated somewhat close to the rest of the Weyr contingent (except the Steens at their fancy table).

Despite all of the strange ensembles Diem has been found in this sevenday, she is dressed to the nines tonight. Her dark colored hair has been done up into an elegant braided chignon and she is wearing her finest Igen sari in a traditional black and yellow color combination. In one hand is a wine glass that she is sipping and in the other is a delicate looking fan spayed out to help keep her cool. Igen's senior weyrwoman appears to be having a hot flash — or several by the way she is constantly fanning herself. She is mingling with a few Ladies near the head table, but not too close. "Excuse me, I need to… refill my glass." she says to the small group of women. In truth, she needs air. Right now.

"Ramita," K'vre greets perhaps his most favorite Steen (sans Nasrin, she belongs to the weyr now and he will never think different) with a hale smile that's half-hidden behind that mess of a beard. He still hasn't let anyone clean it up, though he himself is fully outfit in proper attire. Maybe not as proper as L'xan… "I have a spot up front." In the table of honor, actually, but he's not going to just go around throwing that shit around. He might be able to get Tzajal to go pretend to be him! He's eyeing the Herder speculatively, the other being of quite a similar cut to his own. THIS COULD BE A THING.

Up front, early, Evhain climbs the dais. "Ah," says the man, an unremarkable-looking creature of dark hair and slender stature, "If you would all find your seats, please, thank you. We will have a great dinner, after a few brief announcements." His voice doesn't carry, but those at the front will certainly hear it clearly — and those at the back will notice some bloke in fancy clothes up front on the stage.

Ramita is the Steen that controls the booze. Or some of it. She's a lot of people's favorite Steen, this is as true as Nasrin belonging to the Weyr now. She is also giving some serious side-eye to that crazed-mountain-man beard that the weyrleader has going on. "If you're trying to slip someone up there in your stead, now's your last chance!" And with another fan flutter she swoops off as fast as her pregnant feet can waddle. Someone did say food, right?

Sophius felt rather out of place in his pretty usual attire that he wore. While it was nicer than his usual affair, being specific for gathers, it wasn't much diffrent from when he was doing dealings with the craft directly. At least back here, he hoped no one would really notice what he had on but made a mental note to get some better fineries for the next gather he attends. He turns his head as he hears some words coming from the dais. Hearing a few hushed words but most who were at least settled, would go silent.

<Igen Weyr> Rhovvth senses that: The scent of burning white sage intensifies all through the desert Weyr with an accompanying crackle of energy, much like it does before a bolt of lighting is about strike… (Zsaviranth)

<Igen Weyr> Rhovvth senses that: Oh, fuck. (Rhovvth)

Listen, if Tzajal's going to be impersonating anyone tonight, there better be a very sweet deal thrown in with it! Which better be quick, because Evhain is doing his thing and the Herder is going to move on… and probably behave and not go swapping nameplates like a certain bronzerider (while being envious he didn't think of it sooner). And see, as fate would have it, he'll find his reserved spot, at a table adjacent to the Steen's fancy get up. Are they all Crafters there? Or a mishmash? WHO KNOWS. Just before he is to take his seat though, he is delayed again, having to stiffly apologize for almost bumping into someone of more significant importance than he.

Ev'rett is here, somewhere, using his father's calling-card to grant him easy access. It means the young bronzerider ends up not far from where Diem is looking for air, and this Harper-turned-Siroccoan looks speculative. Where's his Tlatoani bookie? He needs to make a bet.

<Igen Weyr> Rhovvth senses that: The well rusted crater of the last lightning strike suddenly springs up with attentive daisies. Is there chaos in the wind? There is a new presense that is going to nap through these precedings with one eye open. (Nokteryth)

K'vre stands, chastened enough to go find his own seat. Fine, fine. He passes Tzajal on the way and claps the Herder man on the shoulder, saying in passing, "You almost ended up a perfect decoy," in something very like mourning. Why is K'vre moving INWARD when all the dragons say he should be moving OUT? Good question.
Va'os would be here just for the party (invited or not), but alas! Tsiroth cannot chase (stupid bum wing!) and so both of them are very :( :( for a multitude of reasons.

Can't say anything about the Tlatoani bookies, but one of the Steen's is currently pulling out a seat for Ramita as she claims her spot at the table next to her husband and she takes care to smooth out the napkin into her lap. Wouldn't want to get her gather best ruined by some dropped food. As for any currently brewing shenanigans among the dragonkind? This crafter-merchant is completely oblivious. Eyes and ears are turned towards the new lord and hopefully some even newer news.

L'xan is just going to rearrange the seating name plates to his own satisfaction. Sure he's probably making the Master of Ceremonies cry. Juuuust as he arranges things so that he can sit in the knot of manly man men (rather than with mumsy), the manliest man of them all (judging by the beard) departs. "Ramita." He bobs his head, she's still here right? "Imitation K'vre." Who needs names? Perhaps L'xan has already gotten into the good stuff, or perhaps what is floating about in the wind is already working it's magic on his speech centres. Searching for something to pay attention too, he falls silent and frowns at the man who is on the dais. Technically, he's a cousin… but yeah.

In the distance, a beautiful young gold lifts to the air in sudden alarm: Jaehnieseyth with her precious cargo returning ::between:: to the weyr of her clutching. It seems to presage a golden retreat, from the spider-bulk of Tuli's Elicheritath to the inksplattered vellum rustle of Mayte's Rhiscorath. They rise in silent chorus, departing the skies of Igen Hold.

If K'vre saw L'xan was in the back, let's be real, he'd probably have stayed back there. He's just got his damn blinders on!

Maybe if he shaved, he'd be able to see more. Bushy mutton-chop blinders?

Get to the door, get to the door. Diem can feel the heat tingling beneath her skin as she is suddenly hurrying toward the exit of the grand hall. The voices around her are starting to blend with Zsaviranth's overpowering presence bearing down upon her consciousness, which means she's not exactly listening to Evhain's request to sit down. The wine glass in her hand is accidentally dropped and then her little fan follows as the glass makes a very piercing, shattering crunch all over the floor. If she was trying to be inconspicuous, well. Not happening. "Do not.. not yet. Blood!" That was a bit louder than she intended. Faranth, where is the door? Bumping into someone and almost losing her balance, Diem spins around and sees several eyes now staring right at her.

Up at the dais, Evhain clears his throat, unawares of what mayhem may yet visit his hold. "Thank you, honored guests," he says, his voice reedy but carrying a little bit better — his steward's prompted him to speak louder. "Igen's blessings on all of you," he drones on with proper addresses and calling out the dignitaries as he sees them. It goes on for a minute as people seat themselves. Then: "I do have an announcement to make." Someone scrapes their chair and all eyes turn toward Diem at her loud demand to Blood, and Evhain, eyes-wide, blurts into the finest pause before the mayhem comes to eat them all: "I'm not marrying. I'll be choosing an heir from the minor unmarried bloods of Igen basin." And just like that, Igen Hold's future exploded in the chaos. Like this scene is about to explode in similar chaos, evidently. HAS NO-ONE THOUGHT ABOUT THE PREGNANT LADY!?

Beware, beware, of the golden exodus! Tzajal is likewise unaware, with not connection to dragon kind and too much buzz of conversation for him to parse out anything alarming or whispered. "Imitation K'vre?" he tosses back to L'xan, bewildered and yes, looking over his shoulder because surely that wasn't meant for him? He's got no beard! There is, however, a small nod given to Ramita in passing. Hello, hello! His eyes scan the milling crowds again, one hand now on the back of the chair supposedly 'his'. Looking for fellow Crafters, perhaps? Or a particular Healer Journeyman? At the sound of shattering glass, he flinches, ready to make some sympathizing remark for whichever server or drudge did it but… it's the Weyrwoman instead. Puzzled, he's regretfully one set of eyes staring in her direction, not quite putting two and two together. Because Evhain had to go drop that on everyone's head and suddenly he's slinking back from that chair and away from the uproar (but which!?).

But if K'vre shaved his mutton-chop blinders everyone could see him turn white as a) Diem confirms Zsaviranth is about to pull a full-on Rajakhelath and rise over Igen Hold and b) Evhain drops the bomb that doubtless will be trouble for… "Fuck," K'vre vaults over a corner of a table and dodges around the Steen contingent, eyes wild as he chooses the visceral uproar over the political one. Outside, Rhovvth brings down a herdbeast, and the blood he doesn't drain pours crimson as his wings over the perfect white hide. oh no. this is not going to end well.

Deprived on masculine company, L'xan is just going to continue to muck about with the name tags, merrily committing etiquette chaos as he plays god with the assorted names at his command. Those who are familiar with the pair maaaay find the behaviour a little bit more in keeping with the twilight wreck pretending to nap upon the fireheights while picking out the fattest runners at the pickets. Yeah. L'xan may finally get his dearest wish of never being invited to another family event ever in the history of ever! #WINNING! "Sure why not." The bronzerider answers, before picking a name at random. "Shirvelle." With a neglient toss he hands over Tzajal's new name even as he stands and fake-cough's a "IDIOT!" at his cousin and his announcement.

The pregnant lady thinks for herself as Ramita's icy eyes focus on Lord Evhain and his latest proclamation. There's calculations to be done. Calculations interrupted as wine glasses crash and weyrwoman evacuate followed by another sort of evacuation of male riders after a very particular Weyrwoman to the other potential disaster unfolding. "Well… this changes things." Her eyebrow raises as rumors fly up towards those front tables of Zsaviranth and her suitors BLODDING HERE. "Perhaps several things…" But shard it, Ramita and her swollen feet aren't moving. SHE WAS PROMISED DINNER!

Oh this is not good. This is terrible, horrible, twisted timing when Zsaviranth calls all of the male dragons to her as she lifts skyward to bring them to chase. She brings with her crackles of lightning within her mindscape, the plume of white sage mingling with dragon lust that settles over the desert territory like a vicious sandstorm. The senior queen is known for her violent flights — and this one is no different than the last. Diem looks to be frozen as if caught in a spotlight, but it's Evhain's announcement that has the room's attention torn in half. And so she bolts away from the crowd as best she can in these shoes. Her vision is a bit blurry the more Zsaviranth's presence takes over, which means she bumps right into someone. "Out of my way!" she hisses. "She's going to start a …" Riot?

Jerome Auvergne is here, austere and well-turned-out as he always is: the dark elder of the Auvergne clan looks like the cat who has gotten into the cream, and isn't there something quite interesting about it all? He salutes the air toward where Evhain's half-cowering behind the dais and drinks down his full glass of wine, looking not nearly as frail as a man of seventy should.

Meanwhile L'xan's mother has her face clasped in her hands, and looks to be shaking silently. At her side, Kevy cackles and drinks in all the delicious goings-on with delightely bright eyes. A temporary lull in the political storm that has been unleashed.

"What an unfortunate name…" Tzajal mutters under his breath, as he'll accept the placard, to only hastily set it down again. Sorry, not sorry? There's a startled half-laugh when L'xan fake-coughs, recovering quickly enough though he's side-eyeing the bronzerider. Who dis? Political storm aside, eventually the other chaos-storm is discovered and now it's his turn to pale a little. "… the herds…" Ah, shit! Too little, too late and he'll probably be part of damage control if the prized ones are mucked with — or those picketed runners (gdi no one better get a taste for Gar Sheenbreds lines). Maybe he will take a seat after all and wait this out, all grimly and tense. Where's some alcohol when it's needed!?

K'vre is not the one bumped-into but he snarls at any being so close to Diem whilst Rhovvth chases above: the brown is supercharged with white-herdbeast blood and already scraped by claws from the back of the pack. Luckily, his mama provisioned him well with wings wider than most browns on Pern, and from his sire he gains a unique ruthlessness when it comes to chasing this particular gold: he powers through the pack like a demon set on fire from holy oil, a mercenary carving his way through lords. No, wait, that's K'vre: that blood from Keroon he was talking to earlier is trying to stop him from going, holding up hands to keep the man there. And K'vre, mild-mannered K'vre, punches this dude straight in the face and moves past him like that was part of his base choreography. DIEM. HE'S COMING FOR YOU DIEM!

Yanskar declined the invitation but Yoshe, his youngest scion, laughs uproariously not far from Ramita's table. He's been enjoying the largess of Evhain's wine cellar - a blessed change from the morose man mostly seen around the bazaar as-of late.

To be fair, The spirit is willing, but the body is getting a bit slower to get started, which probably is why L'xan is still tangled up in a mess o' people. "Nice talking to you …Shrivelle. No numbnuts not the shiny ones!" There is too much going on to really stop one sentance and start a new one. Let alone give a detailed political analysis of how exactly his distant idiot cousin is rapidly decending into imbecility. Nokteryth didn't take too many from the picket lines, only a couple of fat ones, but the rest of the runners have scattered, the entertainment promises to continue for hours and hours yet. He's not really all that close behind the exodus of the other riders, but he is close enough to give a love-tap greeting of his own as he goes past the Keroon Blood. WAIT FOR HIM GUYSES!
A few women faint as high emotions and corseted gather finery don't exactly mix. A tittering of gossip is already flying among those still standing. A few of the scarlet clad Steens rise and begin to circulate. Information is power so knowing who is worried about what could be useful. Or… maybe they're just taking some last minute bets about the outcome of the leadership flight and the other more human leadership fight too. Ramita remains a statue of calm, raising a hand to flag down a server once one finally appears.

Sophius heard the suddenness among the riders and started to wonder what was happening, only to notice those that were leaving the room suddenly. Wondered if there was something up. The politicall annoucement really didn't have much to do with him though might have to help pick up from the aftermath of the chaos should the Hold's Jounreyman Healer or even MAster request it of him. For the moment, he would remain seated.
After the first punch is thrown comes another punch, then another and soon there is a brawl in the grand dining hall of the Hold. Diem ducks a few flying fists and spins around when someone gets pushed in her direction, only to stumble and barely regain her footing. She is making an attempt to get herself near the wall where there should be less contact, but as she darts toward her destination a man is thrown onto a nearby table and it breaks. Wood splinters, silverware falls, plates break — is this what a riot looks like!? Zsaviranth slices through the night sky and leads her suitors higher and higher still. "Out of my way! She's going to—" Yeah. IT'S TOO DAMN LATE NOW.

The Holdguard have been called, surely, but those currently engaged in the hall are less apt to wade into the riot at the back and more concerned with containing it from the upper series of tables. Evhain is DEFINITELY cowering behind something at this point. Did one of the Steens just pay one of those hold guards to make sure their table isn't involved in the fracas?

L'xan's mother has been around long enough not to faint, or to give much expression to the HORRORS occuring right in the banquet hall, but she does depart, offering the sanctuary of her appartments to those not willing nor inclined to brawl like filthy heathens. Kevy might possibly be too old to brawl, but she'll stay here long enough to approach Tzajal. "Could you be a dear and escort me over there." She flutters her non-existant eyelashes at the herder even as one arthritic finger points out Ramita and the server. "Looks like we need something a little stronger than wine eh?" DINNER DRINKS AND A SHOW? how can he say no?

K'vre hesitates at the edge of the fray, probably long enough for L'xan to catch up. He seems to be trying to figure out if he can just leap over the whole mass of the fighters to get closer to the bronzeriders not fighting, the few rare guys circling Diem with predatory grins. Ev'rett's over there and K'vre wants to fucking punch the smirk right off his idiotic face. "Truce until we get to the other side?" Kev asks L'xan once the other presumably pulls up; the brownrider is already out of his jacket and starting to roll up his shirt-sleeves like a man ready to get down to fucking work. Or fight his way through a brawl to the weyrwoman. Whichever.

L'xan's eyes alight in a manner very similiar to his grans. "'Only til we get to the other side." Sorry mum, his formal dinner jacket has. to. go. Althought the complicated button system has him fumbling a little for a moment or two. RIGHT! That sorted, L'xan is going to use that frame of his to wade into the fracas, boots and fists flying, anticipation and sheer bloody-mindedness making his grin a little maniacal. Oh they may be OOOOOLD/ but they still got it right?

Tzajal is mid long suffering sigh when L'xan's mother happens to drift his way and just as he's about to take his leave now that a brawl has started. Heathens, indeed! "Of course," he agrees, with a hasty dip of his head and the proper offer of his arm. That's a thing, isn't it? As Ramita is pointed out, he doesn't quite get the joke but his concern may outweigh that — and whatever they may be, are left to this own thoughts. As the chaos continues, he's going to stick to being an escort until that is fulfilled. Maybe he will return! If he's a wiser man, he'll escape. May as well start regrouping elsewhere to take stock of damage later and away from a foiled dinner party!

A few bribes, a few calls of reinforcements from their own men… either way, the Steen table does seem to have a fairly firm line of men looking to keep order about. Even if there wasn't a brawl blocking the main entrance, there is certainly stampeding runners and herdbeasts throughout the courtyard and Gather grounds. THANKS DRAGONS. While Ramita might not be drinking herself, several well stocked flasks have appeared at the table, enough to share whenever Kevy and whoever else does join. The cowering Lord isn't much entertainment to watch and so the vintner scoots her chair around to keep an eye on the brawl. As one of the burlier bronzeriders from Telgar manages to launch a firm uppercut into an Istan's jaw, she winces. "Oooohhh… I hope there are plenty of healers around."

The movement around Diem has her looking for the nearest place to hide if she can't get to the door in one piece. It doesn't appear that she can get anywhere without being knocked into and so she scurries over to one of the head tables as she picks her way through the crowd. In the night sky, Zsaviranth is dodging outstretched talons and dives beneath the clouds to make things difficult — temporarily, at least. The senior queen is already showing signs of fatigue and she bugles to tease the male dragons just a little more as she cuts to the side unexpectedly. Diem's vision is blurred even more and she steps onto the dais to see if she can hide underneath the table, hopefully not losing her balance in the process. She's going to try! They'll NEVER FIND HER.

Two lions into the breech: Kev and Lon are both of a similar height and build, and the poor fools in front of them probably ware the day they determined to be in either of their way. If Sophius didn't have much to do before, well, he'll surely be pressed-upon to mop up some of the losers of this mad battle royale. "Oh for the love of…" K'vre yells to L'xan, "She's fucking moved to the front again!" Rhovvth pursues, goaded by his queen's bugling: he shreds a Telgar bronze's wings with cruel claws as he passes and snaps at a High Reaches brown too-small for the chase. K'vre turns, twisting from going across the melee to going up it, Lady hovering overhead and no-doubt tasked with feeding him information on Diem's precious whereabouts.

Sophius does get up after a bit when some of the scuffle gets to close to him and the others at the table he's at. Many of them, himself included, being crafters, have really nothing to do with the brawl that was going on. So some were trying to weave their way out before being pulled into the scuffles that were going on. He himself decides to hang back, as far back away from the fighting as he could. His own calling would kick in before he would turn to see to the wounded if he could do so. While he was low rank, he could at least tend to those who needed it till one of higher rank could take over for him. Would grab any towels that he could find.

Prepare thyself for the wisdom of ages Ramita. "Eh, they never really grow up you know." Kevy hobbles to a chair close to Ramita (and even closer to the booze: her true objective). "They'll tussle some, then they'll go looking for women." She nods sagely even as she gestures to the server to poor her a mug…a little more. No more! PERFECT! "Back in my day we had a harper who would play fightin' music." She may or may not be pulling legs now. Taking a long drink that makes her jowls wobble she smacks her lips and leans back to watch the show, in the relative comfort and peace of the Steen table.

Outside and up there, Nokteryth is kind of flapping along with seemingly little purpose. But he does 'bounce' upon an upstart brown with all the joy of kicking things while wearing army boots. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT PROMISE! Inside L'xan takes his eyes from the fight long enough to register an expression of disguist. "She's not trying to fuck my cousin is she?" BAD DIEM, BAD! "Euw." He declares before bonking a poor unfortunate upside the head and changing course. He's got your back K'vre… at least until a dragon catches, or they catch up to Diem.

What little peace the Steen table may have had is soon threatened as Diem changes course again and heads for the dais. while the Steen men may view themselves like a hundred times more competent than the bazaar's guard, they really aren't ready to deal with a freaking RIOT of flight addled bronzeriders (especially not for a leadership flight). With her husband hovering right by her side, Ramita finally rises from her seat, but not before giving a keen lookover at the older woman's knot. "Perhaps we should find somewhere else to wait out the storm? I believe we can rummage up some more refreshments along the way…" Because there's nothing Igenites know more than how to hunker down and wait out a storm, sand or otherwise.

Evhain MIGHT be yelling 'HELP! HELP!' at the top of his lungs now that Diem's veered close to his position.
Kevy rolls her eyes and tsks. Young people are so excitable and loose sight of the important things. In a generally unhurried action she scoops up as many of the bottles as she can manage in her withered arms. "Lead the way dearie." And then, she cackles. "I know the perfect place!" Because it is her home after all, let no one say she wasn't curteous. Eventually she'll hobble them all along to somewhere worthy of the bounty she carries. And there will be stories! ALL THE STORIES!

Zsaviranth cuts through the crisp night air and soars so close to Nokteryth that he could very well reach out and touch her glowing hide. IF he were quick enough! The senior queen is so very focused on evading bronze claws that she screeches when she catches sight of brown ones that are not so easily missed. Her usual protests are no longer bugled for the entire desert to hear as she is now accepting defeat. Should Rhovvth manage to keep her within his grasp, this flight is… well, it's not over just yet. INSIDE there is still chaos and mayhem, and Diem is crawling onto top of one the head tables so she can dive onto its other side. Is there a table cloth that hangs to the floor? She can't see very well! If there is, it'll hide her and she… That's when she feels Zsaviranth's surrender, the familiar wave of Rhovvth's scent and she is suddenly yelling for the (Holdless looking) Weyrleader. "K'VRE!"
Other healers would quickly be called in for help, calls going out to whoever they could find and get to the hall. Even with what there was, Sophius ended up finding himself having to pull rank on a few people to get them to help out. Much of the moves he made at this point was to try to clear the hall of the wounded before any further fighting could break out. USing what knowledge he has to sort those who could wait a bit for healing with those who needed immedate attentions. Would quickly differ to healer of higher rank than him and just go into assist mode.

Oh look. K'vre just angsted over a bunch of shit for nothing. Is anyone else surprised? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? "DIEM!" Well, tonight's spectacle is going to be K'vre jumping up on a tabletop and starting a leap from table to table rather than try to get past everyone. He even lands on the tabletop that Kevy and Ramita patron, but he's too focused to comment to either of those two worthies: instead, leaving L'xan behind (HE LOVES YOU THO BRO) the brownrider FINALLY dives over the dais to the underside of the table where Diem is. The rest of the story can only be articulated via paid snapchat and none of us subscribe to that channel. Rhovvth would be happy to give a play-by-play, because he's a dirty motherfucker, but he's too busy wrapped up with his own gold to worry about anyone else. As the senior gold's full mating lust descends as a cloud to all below, well — this might be a very interesting evening for some of the more hidebound denizens of Igen.

Always the bridesmaid and never the bride! (That one time in Southern doesn't count cos Nokteryth can't remember it anymore okay? Or the times in Ista…it's been a while poor boy) With a thwarted screel he takes out his disappointment on the closest dragon, even as he watches the brown and gold pair lock necks. While not totally placated by the random ichor-shed, the apocalyptic bronze accepts his lot, and flaps off once more to do things (He's looking for runaway runners) and lick some incidental wounds. Meanwhile in the hall, the pregnant cohesion that held the friendly little riot together seems to unravel all at once. While there are a few more punches thrown they lack the good-natured intentions of the moments before Rhovvth's successful defense of his queen. So close to the prize, but yet so far, L'xan gives the cowering Evhain a disguisted look, even as he dabs at a trickle of blood from his lip. "Oh do shut up!" How did this one win? Stretching out his sore knuckles he looks at the wreckage of the once elegent hall, and barks a laugh. "Well, they don't need an audience folks!" He had K'vre's back in the fight, and apparently he has K'vre's back now. "Drinks on Lord Evhain!" Like his cousin is going to say anything right?