==== March 31, 2013
==== Br'er, Q'fex, N'thu, W'rin, El'ai, Rhaeyn, Ri'enn
==== Drunkwatching and draconic teasing at 11th Interval Igen are interrupted by a truly remarkable visitor.

Who Br'er, Q'fex, N'thu, W'rin, El'ai, Rhaeyn, Ri'enn
What Drunkwatching and draconic teasing are interrupted by a truly remarkable visitor.
When Summer(?), Turn 195 of the 11th Interval
Where Igen Weyr - Lakeshore

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Igen Weyr - Lakeshore
Desc to be included once there IS a desc!


The heat of an Igen day is infamous throughout Pern, and rightfully so. Even here in the Weyr, hundreds of feet above the sizzle of the Central Desert - and some hours after Rukbat has passed its highest point in the sky - the air shimmers in the distance. Still, it's cooled down enough that the Weyr has resumed a languid state of activity. Here, especially - if the lake is a little overbright from certain angles, its shoreline is nevertheless comparably cool, and those who can afford the free time have every reason to mosey on over. Which is why Br'er and Inlayraith are here, of course. The little green is digging amicably at the low dunes edging the shore, her tail dragging in the water. Her rider, some feet off, is watching a pair of drunk brownriders, teetering along the water's edge some dragonlengths away. He has his eyes narrowed, but he's smiling; maybe he's making mental bets over whether they fall in and drown.

It's fardling hot. Q'fex can get behind that, like he's behind Br'er currently… er, except without the creepy insinuation of that statement. However, directionally, the man /is/ walking on a trajectory that happens to cross behind where the greenrider stands. Perhaps he notices that smile; whatever the impetus is, Fex's path shifts until he stops next to Br'er, lifting a hand to shade a familiar squint off at the drunk brownriders. His voice, an expressive thing of contrast and depth, rasp and velvet, issues forth amicably. "Is that S'lren?" He names a 'helion, certainly not one of his lot, and glances over briefly to Inlayraith. He doesn't pay her a terrible amount of attention - she's only a /green/, after all - but Kraakenaeth doesn't share his opinion. The barnacled bronze dallies in the shallows, for all the world appearing like some ancient water-creature left to dry in a mud flat. His gaze is focused on Inlayraith, however, and her digging.

Inlayraith senses Kraakenaeth is the saltbrined depths, cold and dark and frigid: the still waters that possessively covet the locker of ol' Davey, the resting place for so many lost sailors. The end, not the beginning; harbinger of the Crone who laughs at the frenetics of those who exist, who try so hard to live… and fail, at the end, always, /always/, to her hand. The creaking of his mental voice is as a waterlogged chest, long-disused, the hinges given to rust and slats water-swollen. « Inlayraith. » Only then do the tentacles of curiosity reach out, sliding, slithering, seeking. « What is it that ye seek for, girlie? »

A salute is forthcoming: not that Igen is an especially formal Weyr (compared to… certain others), but certain courtesies still exist. Especially when directed at bronze wingleaders from mere green wingriders. "Yessir. S'lren and… Du'lin, I think? It's hard to tell with that ugly hat on him." Du'lin being a 'Blaster, naturally. He is, as always, a mild-voice sort of fellow, pleasant without being distinctive, with that underlying rasp of his that never quite goes away. After a moment's studious consideration, the greenrider offers forth a light smile and a light offer: "Bet you a sixteenth mark Du'lin falls in first." A little ways over, Inlayraith's claws come to an abrupt stop, sand descending lazily between her toes: Kraakenaeth's approach has been NOTED. As suddenly as she stopped, she resumes, with an uneasy little flutter of a wing. Maybe she's trying to burrow out of sight.

Inlayraith thinks to you, « I bespoke Kraakenaeth with: Inlayraith thinks « If Kraakenaeth is a beast of the waters, Inlayraith is undoubtably a creature of land: all underbrush, she is, the sweet scent of crushed leaves and the soft sound of crickets, edged all 'round with verdant hills filled with nooks and crannies. Creatures rustle and scurry and skitter, always just out of sight. Her voice is just barely discernible from the background chorus. Soft, feminine, fever-fast - and jumpy. But then, Inlayraith is /always/ jumpy. « It's - it's just… sand. That's all! I just - » even with the bonus of being /telepathic/, the next part is nevertheless totally inaudible for an awkward beat, before she remembers herself and raises it to a high-pitched squeak. « How are you! » PLEASE go away now :( » »

The salute is given mild appreciation; a hitch in the perpetual half-smile, making it more lopsided, and a return of salute. That hand goes back to shielding. "/Is/ that Du'lin?" Dark eyes squint further to try to discern. "I guess it is. Good eyes." It probably says something that the man's wingleader can't place him. Oh Q'fex. Crisply: "I'll take that bet, raise you another sixteenth that Du'lin pushes S'lren in." … and that his wingleader thinks of him as a mischievous miscreant. Kraakenaeth slowly trawls northerly, an angled vector taking him obliquely past Inlayraith's uneasy digging.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Kraakenaeth stirs at the depths, a ripple like the far-off effects of a butterfly over Honshu; somewhere, deeper and darker and southerly, an earthquake trembles where the soured ground lies under the murk of brackish water. There be blood in these waters, the sweetest taste of tender flesh. « Oh, /Inlayraith/. » A doubling of those harsh vocals, the crackling of bone fracturing from pressure, crumbling in the face of that-which-will-claim-us-all. « I am most sincerely pleased t'be sharin' this fine shoreline with one… » his voice drifts off, ghastly, « … such as yourself. »

"I wouldn't take that bet," Br'er says, voice /precisely/ balanced between being humorously dismissive and being properly respectful: you could balance a hair on how perfectly he's walking that line. "No point wagering on a sure thing." It's mid afternoon, and it's hot as a bazaar hooker's tits (but then - /Igen/) but it's comparatively cool here down by the waterline. A certain greenrider is sitting on the shoreline, neck craned to look up at Q'fex: the objects of their conversation, some dragonlengths away but wobbling closer, are brownriders S'lren (Parhelion, drunk) and Du'lin (Sandblast, drunker). Elsewhere, none too far off: poor Inlayraith, born with the wrong type of claws for tunneling rapidly out of sight. But she's making a spirited attempt, wings twitching with every. single. step. Kraakenaeth takes around her. Her head rotates, ever-so-slowly: if she thinks she's being subtle in trying to keep him in sight, she's very much mistaken.

Itzquintlith wanted to swim; that has N'thu forced to abandon whatever he was working on — given by the way his hair is rumpled it likely involved a younger sibling, of which he seems to have as many as he does fingers — in order to accompany the bronze, who refuses for whatever reason to go alone. They're moving slowly, but by the time they've gotten close enough to overhear, it's to catch only the last thing Br'er said. "What bet?" he asks first, and then, "They look like crap," about the other two riders. Itzquintlith stops in his walk toward the water to tilt his head at Inlayraith, carefully considering her not-that-subtle motions.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that she quells at the earthquake, and the crackling, and the GHAST. She quells, and her underbrush quells with her, the soothing sound of crickets vanishing in an abrupt silence. Maybe if she's quiet and very very very still he'll forget she's here! That's… how it works, right? And yet - manners! Her indecision hangs in the eerie quiet, crisp as an autumn breeze. Finally, her voice stirs the stillness: ever soft, ever subdued, painfully polite, /painfully/ ill at ease. « Thank you! » The silence descends, lifts, gives way to « I'm very busy! » SQUEAK.

"Good eyes /and/ a quick mind. No /wonder/ you aren't in my wing." Q'fex's rasp-and-velvet voice isn't dour or bitter, though - if anything, he's perversely delighted in /not/ having the talent, kthx. It doesn't occur to him to sit, though, so he stays standing, one hand tucked in a pocket, the other shading his eyes as he obviously stares down the beach. Q'fex shifts his gaze to the younger bronzerider as N'thu approaches, shrugs a shoulder at them-looking-like-crap. "Dumbasses being dumb," is his version of the bet. "And predictable." Kraakenaeth ceases his forward momentum as Itzqwertyyuiowtfomggonnadieth approaches, and it /just/ so happens that he's dead-center behind Inlayraith. Such /perfect/ timing. He doesn't mind just … standing there, looking like a relic from an ancient age, a discarded treasure gathering tarnished-copper mold in the fierce demands of the sun.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Kraakenaeth has only the soft susserations of tidal waters to fill the silence: that, and the creak of rope and wind and lost things. There is only the swish of predators unnamed under the dark mirror of glassy waters, then, and even the gulls fear to cry raucous; all quail, then, and there isn't anything to fill the silence except fear itself, and the pounding of ichor rushing through frail veins.

"Good afternoon, N'thu," Br'er offers, civilized; even more civilized, he makes a vague, restrained gesture that could be interpreted as 'please, come and sit, watch drunks with me', to all present. Otherwise he's gonna have to get /up/. "What he said," the man adds, his raspy voice pleasant (but when is Br'er ever not?). "S'lren or Du'lin - who's first in the lake? I'd place the odds on Du'lin, with the way he's trying to take his boots off." Which, indeed, he is: /while/ walking, because being drunk makes you smart. Elsewhere: where poor Inlayraith wants to be. The little green has frozen perfectly still, head craned just enough to give her a glimpse of Kraakenaeth behind her, Itzquintlith unnoticed in her panicked fugue. She doesn't blink. Quite possibly, she doesn't /breathe/.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that she thinks « Fight isn't an option. Flight - she doesn't have enough of a head start. Bronzes can't see you if you don't move or make any sounds, yes? Like T-rexes? Inlayraith's leafy silence reverberates in the air, so intense you could almost /taste/ it; so pronounced it even begins (unconsciously, surely, she would never dream of doing it on purpose) to push /back/ against the fearful void, edging back the darkness and filling it with still, still leaves. There is, just on the very edge of hearing, in the range only the smallest of small mammals utters - a squeak. »

Drunk-watching is definitely a spectator sport kind of thing N'thu can get behind. He adjusts his water flask so it's not secured to his leg — makes it hard to sit — and joins wingmate and other-wingleader in sitting to enjoy the entertainment provided. "If Du'lin doesn't just fall right over first doing that," N'thu theorizes, "he'll probably just tip over. But he might grab S'lren and either knock him in first or drag him wth him, meaning he's ahead only by seconds — I'll bet on Du'lin anyway." That was a lot of overthinking; Itzquintlith rubbing off, perhaps? For his part, the pale bronze has redirected his headtilt to Kraakenaeth, now asking the silent question: what /are/ you doing?

Q'fex still stares off in fascination at his dumbfuck wingriders. "Wonders will never cease." Du'lin. Dumbass. "Oh, frell it all," he mutters, finally wizening up to the draconic drama going on by the shore. "Kraakenaeth, leave that damned girl alone!" It's his DRILL SERGEANT voice, the voice that is only used when he finds his office broken into and all his damned whiskey gone. Dumb. Fuck. Wingriders. It could be that Du'lin freezes mid-yank at the echo of the unusual snap of the previously unnoticed wingleader. Talk about a stimulus indicating punishment is available… "You /heard/ me." Kraakenaeth, unhurried, unworried, moves on past Inlayraith, without a single indication that he ever noticed her in the first place.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Kraakenaeth crackles in the depths, a most uncomfortable sound: gristle caught between the teeth, a scrap of a single nail on a chalkboard, the grinding of a lady's fine bones together, casual cruelty only to taste and test the texture of the marrow within. The rasping baritone offers only a single thing to follow the hair-raising sound, a single word, a single syllable, irony and amusement and the grim hilarity of knowing how it all ends: « Boo. »

Like a fresh splash of water, a fairly cherub-cheeked, green-behind-the-ears, obviously just-out-of-weyrlinghood young man — okay, boy — has made his way safely towards the lake. His clothing is squeaky new, knot shiny-bright and wound in Telgar's colors with a splash of fire-lit bronze for his lifemate. Dust seems adverse to him, though it could be more because his time in the desert has not been very long. A cloak of innocence and gullibility hovers around him as earnest gaze sweeps this way and that. This way and that — "Oh! Gosh! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to — I don't suppose you know where I might find some — oh never, mind /there's/ the lake." Some errant Igenite just got bombarded with a word bomb and then left in the ashes of earnestness as El'ai's happy steps carry him towards the water. His expression is like sweetness meets excitement, a naivete that sees only the rosy brightness of the world. Eyebrows rise upwards, expression brightens. "People!" Yes, he actually /says/ that out loud. All excited like. Behind him, stalks his lifemate, craggy darkness like a blot against the desert, fire-forged feet planted ever-so-carefully on the scorched earth.

W'rin enter scene left. Fresh from drills his riding helmet is tucked beneath an arm, the free hand buttoning the veil back to reveal his frowning, as he surveys the scene before him. "FuckingBlasters." Is mumbled, non to quietly, as he makes his way to what appears to be the observation deck. A curt nod to those gathered and a rather abrupt jab of his thumb toward the drunk idiots being watched. "What the hell?" Whether the question is "why are we all sitting around watching this?" or "are we taking bets on this shit?" is left up to the imagination, as he turns to watch.

While a spine-tingling sense of terror has been permeating the edges of Br'er's consciousness, it's only when Q'fex actually /notices/ what's been going on that he actually… looks at his dragon. His frozen-stiff-in-fright dragon. (Look, don't judge him: if he let himself pay attention to her every neurosis, he'd never get anything done. And after all, she's only a silly /green/, however much he loves her.) "Hm? Oh." The greenrider doesn't quite keep the wince off his face, even as he regretfully gets to his feet: one bronzerider, two bronzerider, three bronzerider, four - if W'rin's coming to join them too (he gets a salute), he can't really justify /sitting/. "Inlayraith," he calls, in the patiently irritated tone of a strained parent dealing with an upset child, all while trying to look good in front of other adults at a bazaar stall. "Calm down. Go for a swim, stop butchering that dune." Possibly the worst possible advice he could be giving her, considering, and the green's whirling stare mutely conveys this. Br'er /does/ wince outright at this, even harder as she makes a sudden startled flare of wings and all but hops onto the other side of the dune, a flail of limbs and tail. Her rider, watching, merely sighs, absentmindedly giving the approaching El'ai a passing glance. "Sorry. She's - well. … Green." How's that internalized colorism working out for you, Br'er?

The magic word 'swim' has been said again, and dismissing the brief draconic drama around him, Itzquintlith finishes his walk to settle in the lake, just /soaking/ more than he was really swimming. N'thu, who has already been sitting, does not stand up like Br'er does — in fact, he gives Br'er a funny look and jerks his head back to the ground, like, why are you standing up it's just us relax — but he does give the approaching W'rin a salute as well as an actual answer: "Drunk watching. You know how it is, sir?" El'ai, though, gets even more a question than an uptalk: "Hey. You lost, looking for someone, just touring the beauty that Igen's shoreline has to offer?" Not, of course, that he bothers to stand to address the foreign bronzer either.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Valiuth drifts slowly into the conversation, moisture clogs the heavy air, the smell of salt stings in a delightful sensation up the nose. A sense of smallness against something vast. Blue envelops as far as the mind can think, an endless enternity against the singlness of life. Maginified by the darkness above, a single sphere shining fragmented light into the abyss. But something ties it all back to finite reality, water laps against creaking wood, the muted shouts of labored work a vague hum against his spoken waves. «No need to frighten anyone. »

<Local> Inlayraith senses that she is off like a SHOT. Not only in the literal sense; the high-strung green's reaction broadcasts itself loud and clear, a flurry of panic and crickets and flashes of green green green go go GO. Only after she has landed (literally and figuratively), does she finally speak again: her voice almost inaudible, squeaky with awkward indignation. Possibly she is buoyed up by Valiuth. « That wasn't very nice. » So much :(

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Sekhaenkath is the midnight fur at the edge of sensation, velvety soft and humming with a hint of a rumbling purr. Night-blooming jasmine twines through hints of night-cloaked jungles and mingles with the scent of briny sea air. Breeze further brings feline essence closer; protection beats within the star-fire chest, aimed straight at his very own lifemate.

Normally, Q'fex is the one to laugh at the jokes. Hell, he's the one that STARTS most of the jokes. But at this point (despite the fact that Du'lin has, IN FACT, fallen over into the water with a crashing splash), his ire is raised at his lifemate and it just HAPPENS to confer itself neatly to W'rin, who just says the wrong thing at the wrong time. The others - even the foreign bronzerider - are blocked out as Q'fex's face screws up into unusual fury. "FuckingBlasters? If that fuckingblaster right THERE," he JABS at Kraakenaeth's looming presence, "Didn't win a shitdamned goldflight, then YOUR beast," JAB towards Valiuth, "Would have never been clutched, much less left the cursed shell to impress to — oh fuck, what is that SMELL?" These other wings do things called drills? That make them sweat? What the /hell/.

Used to the world being aligned in the right places, El'ai has a fairly cute little fairy frown for Br'er's statement of 'being green', big baby blue eyes skipping from greenrider to green dragon and then back to the /people/. People that are /talking/ to him. Face brightens again. Naivete might cling to him like the heat clings to sand, but sharp intelligence does glitter in trusting eyes. "Oh, me? I'm visiting. I've heard Igen is really awesome and I'm hoping that maybe-kind-of-maybe-me-and-my-most-awesome-sister-might-can-be-moved-here!" The rush of words /whooshes/ by, followed by a 1000-watt smile that just doesn't age him any. Rather, it only makes him look younger despite the hint of /whisker/ on his chin. Yes. Maybe someone's /accidentally/ not shaving on purpose. Big eyes get even /bigger/ when Q'fex goes on his yelling spree. Sneaky glance to Sekhaenkath. "Igen is awesome!" Go team?

Somewhere in the background, Kraakenaeth is losing man points just by being within a square mile of El'ai's presence. They are LEECHED AWAY, like calcium, withering away like Vergi's sanit… bone density.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Kraakenaeth is lost to the depths of the watery belows, the lapping of shores far above a rough approximation of— no, wait, there's his laughter: creaking and eerie. « Me dear sweet lass, who /ever/ promised t'be /nice/? » He swirls inky tendrils into Valiuth's fragmented light, because he's a fuckblaster like that, and radiates open and dangerous hostility towards Sekhaenkath, and a flash of entirely unlikely protection for poor, poor Inlayraith. No rabbit for the kitten; that would be entirely :(. Or in Kraakenaeth's case, >]:{.

W'rin might have actually acknowledged the greetings he gets from the others, but Q'fex is yelling. Yelling at him. Cold eyes level at the Sandblaster's wingleader, and a short snort of laughter is offered in response to the tirade. "Ah yes. Sandblasters: The cool collected wing." Turning to the visitor turned hopeful immigrant, "Clearly someone you would want responsible for you life during a Fall." A quick glare back at the wingleader before his full attention is given to the question at hand. "Can you fly? - and what makes your sister so 'awesome'?"

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Itzquintlith is just /present/, allowing the sounds of his mind to lurk in the background of the conversation. Where water meets shore, perhaps, is where Itzquintlith's echo lies, the sound of cicadas in the trees and rustling leaves as animals jump from branch to branch. The foreign bronze gets the simplest of greetings, in a deep but friendly tone, « Sekhaenkath. » He knows your name. And that is all he knows, but it's something. The others only get the sounds of chirping birds and, maybe, a little bit of :|

In the background, sidling a few steps so he /isn't/ in the direct line of sight of certain irritable wingleaders, Br'er slowly raises a hand. To put it to his face. El'ai and his fairy dust are shot a glance between roughened fingers: it's an odd mix of 'fascination' and 'WTF'. (Elsewhere, Inlayraith is hunkering down on the opposite side of her little dune. Now she's staring at Sekhaenkath, motionless save for the sudden twitch of a wing.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Sekhaenkath is at once on point as soon as the open hostility comes to play; midnight fur arching, fuzzing out in sudden expansion. The universe expands, touches of the abyss coloring the night sky where stars flare brightly. Purring rumbles louder, louder, louder still to something of a growl. « Itzquintlith. » Wound through the tenor that stirs hints of the night, melodious voice carries depths that his rider never will have. Heat stirs beneath it all; the world's birth a white-hot star of exploding light. Mrrrreow: >^.^<

<Local> Inlayraith senses that she isn't having a good day. Kraakenhaeth, alright, we already known how THAT is going. Itzquintlith and Valiuth, okay! Sekhaenkath, kind of freaking her out a little. A lot. The lush undergrowth of her mind rustles: small fluffy creatures fleeing for the safety of hidden burrows and secure little crevasses. But she manages to speak, her soft little voice barely audible above a faintly frantic chorus of crickets. Somehow, the low murmur of ocean currents has infiltrated, an odd backdrop to the squeaky choir: Kraakenhaeth's protection has been noted, and, evidently, seized like a security blanket. « Good… afternoon! »

From above, there is a flash of light and air and fire and Other. Afternoon has started to fall into evening, and at the slope of the horizon Belior and Timor hold full sway, visible even in the daylight: and now there is something else visible, a behemoth from a previous age, a dragon so lrge as to make even Valiuth and Kraakenaeth appear as mere peons. A wordless cry of heat and dismay and disorder blasts from the foreign presence: hearthfires at Igen, in the daytime? Inlayraith's day just got worse, because Aevryscienth is falling from the skies in disordered disarray, wings experiencing technical difficulties… and she seems aimed precisely for the green's location. …. :( just doesn't seem to cut it.

"His sister's a goldrider, I — think?" N'thu speaks up, and he's back to the uptalking just because he's not really sure. It's not El'ai's name that sounds familiar so much as his dragon's, and /Itzquintlith/ has a tendency to know who everyone is and where they're from. So the bronze is likely whispering in his ear. "Thinking we're awesome definitely gets you a leg up in the transfering department, but I don't know how helpful asking /us/ is gonna be." They've got two wingleaders there, though. Evidently N'thu doesn't think W'rin's testimony alone is enough, and Q'fex … well, you know. Meanwhile? Itzquintlith's zen breaks into a million pieces as a GIANT GOLD suddenly appears, letting out a mental roar as he skeddaddles backward further into the lake.

Q'fex was about to bitchslap W'rin like the little girl he is ('he' being Q'fex, because he is), but that kind of … well, doesn't happen, right? He just stares upwards. Kraakenaeth does, too. It's a bird! It's a plane! It's … "Vergi is going to shit herself." … completely random statement time.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Sekhaenkath presence is no longer partially distracted by dragons that lurk around the Igen watering hole. Nay, midnight darkness flares, the touch of the abyss rising colder from the depths of that-which-was, as starlight explodes in blinding light, exposing an echoing fire wound through his heart's desire. Invader is pushed against, all for the protection of El'ai. Yeah, he'd let Igen get crushed by Aevryscienth. Sorry, little rabbit.

W'rin earns El'ai's shocked look, which just accentuates the boy's cherubic qualities. "Bailey is like the most awesome sister ever!" Sekhaenkath's spiked contours hunker down, though it is not the delicious prey of Inlayraith, but the hostile presence of Kraakenaeth. Starlit wings lift just enough to make his body fuller, the unsettling stillness settles over him. Is that a hiss? Naaaaah. El'ai is entirely, wonderfully /oblivious/ to the heat of his lifemate's rising protection. "My sister is the /most/ awesome," though by reputation, Bailey is more considered… troublesome, really, "… junior weyrwoman like EVER! I"m El -" Dewy blue eyes look to each of the Igenites in turn, as if he could convince the ALL by sheer love alone. That is until all of Igen's veritable dragons hold little interest to his own bronze, who's stance and presence is suddenly filled with white-hot protection. Wings unfold to the fullness of their length, flame-foot treads carrying him swiftly to that which lights the fires of protection: El'ai. " -ai!" Comes the broken, muffled squeak.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Itzquintlith is only kind of trying to be helpful. The jaguar's roaring settles into a jaguar's soft growl, but the bird chirping just got a lot louder. « INLAYRAITH. MOVE. »

Let it be noted: however pudgy and subtly ridiculous Inlayraith looks, she /is/ a green - and greens can /book it/ when they need to. (It is, after all, what they are DESIGNED FOR.) Br'er's shocked "INLAYRAITH -" hasn't even fully formed in his vocal cords yet (see, he does have some priorities straight after all) before the little green bursts forth in a whirlwind of clover, following Itzquintlith into the water. Her panicked shriek is both physically and mentally audible through half the Weyr; Igen's heat-filled afternoon has been disturbed, and draconic (and human) heads are starting to turn. Br'er, meanwhile, has two priorities in mind: 1) Inlayraith is moving, that's good, and 2) "Shit, what the fuck /is/ - get two of them up there to slow her down, she'll break a wing!"

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Valiuth is enveloped by darkening clouds. Lightening strikes, thunder booms - the sea roars. Gone is the quiet place of lively contemplation, a graveyard of many souls opens. Death from above, the angry splintering of wood. Death from below, predators circling, waiting. « Who is that? » Fire breaks out from the hull, « Is she okay? »

W'rin is unmoved by the boys adoration of his sister, in fact this growing crease between his eyebrows indicates he may be more than a little creeped out by it, but a snide comment is cut short by a strange and plummenting gold. Br'er's idea is registered as reasonable, though only in a vague startled way. Valiuth's expansive masts unfurl as he breaks into the open sky.

Inlayraith thinks to you, « I bespoke Chekalveith with: Inlayraith is a sudden alarmed presence, the verdant fields of her mindvoice giving way to deep dark tunnels - of safety. Burrow burrow burrow, as fast as she can - away from danger, away from peril. « CHEKALVEITH » the usual quiet of the green's voice gives way to a squeaky shout. « There's a gold in the Bowl, she's hurt, get your rider! QUICK! » »

Off like a shot: Kraakenaeth takes to the skies in tandem with Valiuth. Aevryscienth isn't entirely out of her own power, at this point, but turning visibly grey by the moment, gold leeching so fast that she nearly seems to be turning silver: a hollow, dull silver, left to varnish. When the pair of bronzes match beneath her, she valiantly tries to right herself, her mental klaxion of warning coming belatedly (and unneeded, thanks to the swiftness of the rabbiting green). Her descent, now-aided, comes more stately than freefall, though it may be chilling to those watching: she's a full fifteen feet longer than either of them, a quarter again of their bulk. At this altitude, the rider can be seen: a brunette, barefoot — /barefoot/? — strapped into straps of rich cut and padding, with an unfamiliar style of straps-bags just behind her… and wearing clothes that, by current standard, would mark her out as a doxy or a whore, or worse: uppity.

Inlayraith senses Chekalveith is the wind of the desert wild upon the sands, scouring, howling, alive as the force of change across an ever-shifting landscape. Louder, clipped, hoofbeats rise in staccato rhythm, gaining in volume. « FORSOOTH! A maiden downcast from the sky? Her avenging champion essays forth this instant! Valiant and adoring, he shall restore her to her glory.» A pause, trumpets might blare as desert gives way to cobbled city to greet a traveler returned, reclaimed, met with all the fanfare of a hero adored.

Battling out from Sekhaenkath's clutches, El'ai's cherubic head pokes out from where wings and body amass around the boy, blue eyes wide. Wider /still/, though less by the monster of a dragon, but by the /clothing/ the woman wears. Sheltered is writ all across his expression by wide eyes and slack-jawed mouth. The bronze — though large enough to aid the others — is foreign to this soil and thus stands where he stays, wrapped around his lifemate. "Oh, /wow/… " Then he's nudging his dark-meets-fire lifemate. "Go help! They're hurt! Or something! They surely aren't healthy! Oh goodness Faranth, what if they've brought a plague?!"

"Wouldn't /that/ be wonderful," N'thu grumbles, as El'ai makes the plague comment; just what they need, really. Thread and a plague. As Itzquintlith is the smallest of the bronzes by a number of feet, he's remaining in the water alongside Inlayraith expecting Valiuth and Kraakenaeth to take care of the work in the moments before the gold dragon actually plummets to the ground. That doesn't at all mean he's holding still; his tail is thrashing, feline-like, in the water. Apologies to anyone who gets splashed, except maybe the drunks.

With the gold's descent now controlled, both halves of the token greenriding pair calm themselves. Inlayraith remains in the water, bobbing slightly as Itzquintlith makes waves; her eyes whirl like little red whirlpools. Of FEAR. Br'er, after a moment's sensible consideration re: 'is there any chance she's going to land on me', instead lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of afternoon sun, frowning. The first thing that comes to mind: "… What is she /wearing/?" Is that an ANKLE he can /see/? There's an out of focus moment, and then "- Ri'enn's on his way." Normally he would never refer to the Weyrleader so casually, in public; he's a little flustered.

Big is right, and W'rin's face seems to bear part of the weight Valiuth is helping down. Wrinkles deepen as he watches the bronze-gold descent, he's already moving towards the blemished gold, and the woman of ill repute who rides her. El'ai is shot a quick assessing look as the older man passes him, "Well. She's here." As if that solves the plague problem. Calling out as he nears the fallen trio. "Weyr? Woman?" A questioning note on the 'weyr' as she is no one he recognizes, and a half remembered softening on the latter word.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Aevryscienth smolders outwards, the fierce flame of her presence diminished, roiling forwards at only the most atavistic level. She broadcasts dismay/anger/confusion, emotions radiating stronger than words: but then there are words among the images… images of a Pern much different than the one she finds herself in. « Iszuayth? Chiellarith? » The names are offered as demands in a fiercely dominant contralto: a weyrlingmaster, a senior gold. Even Valiuth's request doesn't touch her, for when the one she calls for aren't immediately forthcoming, her mind lurches in limbo: « Ysvarth! » is as near to frantic as she has ever been, a reaching for a mate that simply is not there. Her mind brushes past Sekhaenkath's, and rather ominously, the fires simply cease to be, and blackness paints the void where her voice once was.

Landing is achieved, and Rhaeyn is unstrapping herself with numb fingers: so /cold/, and barefoot, what was she thinking? Kraakenaeth is jostling away as soon as Aevryscienth has landed, and Q'fex is just kind of facepalming, because what do you -do- at this point, right? Rhaeyn lands on the sands of the Igen beach, one hand pressed against Rys' hide; the gold radiates alarm and then falls silent, slumping physically against the sand, greying further after passing out. Her chest still heaves with breath, however, and Rhaeyn draws herself up. "… bronzerider," faint, to W'rin. "Wingleader," she corrects herself, and her accent is /odd/, like Fort but.. not right, not close.

Behold: the bold and daring knight, burst from the sky with a *clap* as he emerges from the vast cold of between. Chekalveith, a dark blight upon the golden desert sands erupts with a trumpet, bugling to the fallen warrior-queen come from — wtfomgidek. BUT NEVERMIND THAT, no pause given as he spirals down, no forethought given when the distress is clear, the mission apparent: RESCUE THE DAMSEL IN DISTRESS. Wings drop, pinned against sleek sides as he falls, a blackened spiral with barely-there-glimmers of bronze, and rising in protest, "NONONO, YOU'RE GOING TO GET US KILL—AAAAAH." Dramatic entrances must be a specialty for this pair, for, descended close enough to the ground, Ri'enn unbuckles, falls, and rolls across the sand dunes while his bronze skims the sand headed straight for Aevryscienth. Coughing up the grit stuck in his teeth, the swarthy Weyrleader picks himself up, brushes himself off and … crosses his arms. Someone, come attend to him! Maybe YOU, greenrider Br'er over there. As cold and dashing as he is, the look of confused wonder looks writ the same across any man's face: O_O

<Local> Inlayraith senses that her mind shrinks back from Aevryscienth's flames, drawing herself in close, digging deep into the rich loam of the earth - where flame might struggle to follow. And yet pity stirs in the little green's heart, as the flames recede and the void beckons: « Safe » her soft little voice whispers, perhaps too later to register - but she means well.

El'ai wiggles /completely/ free for something in the arriving gold awakens the presence — with echoes of the gold's own innate presence — that unfurls with the slackening of wings to allow all of El'ai — who looks so much like a much younger maybe slightly shorter version of Eth'n — to spring free. "Woooooooooooow." Oops, was that whispered out loud? He starts to inch forward, but by this point his own bronze has gathered his wits to tail-block his rider's approach from being /too/ close. "Ma'am! Have you come to try to transfer to Igen? Just wanna let you know! I so got here /first/! This spot is for my SISTER. Just. Y'know. Gotta know where you stand." Right?

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Sekhaenkath is born of fur, midnight and dark, with a single flame-spark set within its velvety darkness. Stars coalesce into the jungle's night; a jungle set at the edge of a beach lit by moonlight. Echoes of so many things linger within the night-blooming jasmine that winds through the lower currents. Farthest walker, born of fire. « There is no Ysvarth. » Melodious, rich, full of the sounds of night and faintly feline in presence. Until there is only the abyss.

Oh, Ri'enn is here: awesome. Now Br'er knows what to do with himself, which is, in order: stop staring at Rhaeyn's legs, draw himself up into a dignified expression, amble ever-so-casually over towards the Weyrleader. Golds crashland in the Igen bowl every day, right? He tosses a respectful salute (he makes fun of himself for doing it, in private - but does it anyway, in public) before saying, calmly: "Sir? I think we have a situation." Thank you for that scintillating summary, Br'er. "Permission to summon the dragonhealers? She can't fly, I'm sure."

W'rin, as surly as he is, isn't one to forget manners. A arm is extended to the woman, he listens, but his gaze lingers on the former gold. "She's - passed out." As if this needs to explanation, but does give him a moment to respond. After a pause, pulled brows search for placement of the goldrider. "W'rin." Is offered after his title. Knots don't change I suppose. "And Valiuth. And you a-" Cut short of finally finding out who the plunging goldrider is the bronze rider catches sight of the rather hapless weyrleader. "That is our weyrleader. Ri'enn. This is Igen." Feeling some need to clarify that is where she is.

N'thu is trying not to laugh. N'thu is trying not to laugh. N'thu is — laughing. At least it's muted and he has his face covered almost entirely with his hand, so Ri'enn can't /see/ that he is laughing. Once he's saved some face, he walks over to the Weyrleader with a shrug, echoing Br'er's sentiments minus the question: it's a slightly better summary? "As you've probably gathered, sir," though the 'sir' is just as much friendly as it is serious, "a strange gold just appeared. Nobody seems to have a clue who she is. Or where she came from. Or why she's dressed like that." Besides that she must be totally nuts, of course. "I hope the Weyrwoman hasn't noticed yet," he's adding in a mutter.

If Aevryscienth was awake, she'd probably have something sharp to say about Chekalveith's antics, but — she's past standby mode and into hibernation. This leaves Rhaeyn to gather herself, shaking her head as if to clear it. She's dressed in snug black pants, and a blue shirt so /rich/ and /bold/ and /brilliant/: cobalt, with the faintest sheen to it, three-quarter sleeves that leave the smooth expanse of forearms bare, and it's only haphazardly buttoned. Her eyes move past W'rin to Ri'enn, and blankly past him (she isn't even reading knots, at this rate!), to El'ai… and /she/ turns sickly-pale, the blood draining out of her face and the hairs standing up on end on her arms. "Your sister," faintly. And she /heard/ that, irritation bringing her back to the here-and-now, "Damn you, I don't need a dragonhealer, I came here because /you/ needed a dragonhealer," and her glare focuses on Br'er with ferocious chill, jaw clenched. She exhales hard through her nose, turns to W'rin. The civilized one. "W'rin. Thank you. High Reaches' regards to Valiuth."

Ri'enn, standing again, composes himself, preening himself to pat down any sand clinging to his riding leathers. Frigid gaze searches, reaching the foreign goldrider and setting off the remind for squared shoulders as he bears himself up tall, lean, invariably *dirty*. "Summon no one! Who in the world— okay, summon /a/ dragonhealer that gold just passed out. But no one let Vergi know what happened." He is insistent about this last command, as he issues mandates and then reneges on them, all signs of untried leadership. Six turns have done nothing for him, uncertainty in his (calmer) face as, brushing himself off one more time, he struts forward to confront Rhaeyn. "Goldrider, what brings you to Igen Weyr? None of riders have need for a 'healer, but it looks as if *you* might?" His tone is opitimistic; maybe she'll concede to this idea.

"I've never seen a girl turn quite that color," El'ai whispers earnestly, glancing to the first male who looks like they might know such things. Q'fex or N'thu or W'rin. Since he's just a visitor trying to maybe edge his sister into a gold spot, he's all eyes and peanut gallery comments. "I see… " voice drops, "… /boobs/." Thus the pitfalls of haphazardly buttoned shirts. "I don't remember any hooker gold riders from my lessons."

N'thu's calm breaks and he ends up just laughing again, this time forgetting to cover his face. At least they're soft little chortles and not full-on cracking up. "Me either, El'ai," at least he remembered his name? Speaks highly for his future attempts to transfer, "me either."

Another voice cracks into laughter, more hysterical wheezes than chortles: uh, that would be Q'fex, nevermind, carry on.

High Reaches' regard to an Igen dragon? If the clothes didn't give her away as crazy they all know it now. "I can assure you Valiuth doesn't need a dragonhealer…" Though if that is the measure of a healthy dragon at High Reaches maybe Igen is better of than they thought, with this positive look at things he is able to remain rather unembarrassed by the bumbling weyrleader. "Goldrider, I hate to contradict you, but I can assure you Valiuth knows ever gold at 'Reaches and we do not recognize…" He trails off, his eyes fall to Ri'enn, alright boss. What now?

Br'er really deserves a medal for how much he /isn't/ staring at Rhaeyn's haphazardly buttoned shirt. You can see women dressed like that in Igen, sure - if you're parting ways with your marks, first. He would normally also deserve a medal for how much he doesn't blanch at Rhaeyn's unfriendly glare. She's just… she's not as intimidating as she might otherwise be, at the moment. "High Reaches?" Stare. "You're not from High Reaches. I was there two days ago. You're not Vienn, or Thabae, or Kada…" STARE. His brows furrow, slowly.

Rhaeyn pulls herself to her full height - she's tall for a woman, perhaps especially in the time in which she finds herself - and hasn't an issue with turning on her heel and taking two steps towards Ri'enn. "I don't know /who/ exactly you /think you are/," she begins, her contralto a low snarl that is perhaps more intimidating for it… but is less intimidating because as quick as Br'er can start rattling off names, she's staring at him and TIMBER, down she goes. That's right, bitches. All the bronzes and testosterone one could ever want, and the greenrider is the one who fells the goldrider. It's probably an omen.

<Local> Inlayraith senses that Itzquintlith, meanwhile, has been — thinking. As he does. Because he is always thinking; he has started thinking so much the chirping jungle sounds have faded into nothing, and in the chaos, it is likely that none of the other dragons noticed. « Chiellarith, » he echoes the foreign gold, at last. « Chiellarith /was/ our senior queen. » That's a definitive 'was' there, and he's looking over to his rider now, waiting for what exactly he is supposed to do about /that/.

"There she goes." El'ai watches Rhaeyn fall with something like pained worry. /He/ would rush to help were his dragon not cock-blocking him from access to the easy-woman. He turns to Ri'enn. "So. You're the Weyrleader? About your gold situation… I've totally got this most awesome sister…" Yeap. He just did that. He'll earnestly broker his whole REASON for being here while everyone does the grown-up thing to do. Eventually? He'll go home and tell his sister of his weird, naked goldrider falling out of the skies. Final assessment: "NAKED WOMEN FALL OUT OF THE SKIES IN IGEN. We /MUST/ live there."

And the answer is — the answer is that N'thu has no idea. He's trying. He's getting the idea from Itzquintlith that that was, well, a really long time ago; he cuts off El'ai, unfortunately or not, to hold up a hand and get Ri'enn's attention. "Weyrleader," he interrupts, "she's asking for Chiellarith. She's looking for someone who died centuries ago."

And next time, on This Turn of the Hourglass…

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