==== November 3rd, 2013
==== Kyara and Liareth, A'dan and Narloth, D'rat (NPC - Mayte, handler) and Qath, N'thu and Itzquintlith, Vashae and Jovianth
==== Liareth rises! Blues and bronzes become the main contenders in the chase…and it is quite a chase!

Lake Shore
Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens.

The early spring day wanes in calm coolness, though the young sunset upon high clouds provides a fiery contrast to the feel of the air. In spite of this, Kyara moves along the quiet of the Lake Shore in clothing less seasonal - a flowing skirt of crinkled tan fabric swishing around sandaled feet, a fitted sky-blue tunic with half-length sleeves draped over with a gold-washed amber shawl as her only defense against a nip hardly felt. This is her second day with Liareth being proddy. She still feels constantly feverish, and every bit of contact is far too intense. Her hearing seems sharpened; any whispered sound risks eliciting a shiver. Everything is worth the deepest scrutiny - men, in particular - and is carefully weighed. All found wanting are judged. All meeting her standards are tolerated. If it's male, it's practically ogled. All of this is what Kyara rails against by being out here, alone. This isn't her. It's Lia. Damned close mindlink…

Narloth is resting, a dark sphinx, eyes swirling orange and green, bright against the dark luminous brown of his hide. A'dan stands a good distance away, eyes lit from the rising wind on the horizon of Narloth's mind.

D'rat and dull blue Qath, man and dragon of a slightly different…well, physique, were so conveniently visiting from elseWeyr when Qath notified him that Something was Happening. D'rat, not a man to let Something Happen without him, comes strolling along, his slight beerbelly straining the buttons of his flight jacket. Qath, on the other hand, is some awfully depressing colour, pock-marked, with as lascivious a grin stretching his mouth as possible. He's catching what Liareth is throwing, whether Lia really wanted this one to or not.

N'thu and a tall, skinny teenaged boy - who looks like a miniature version of N'thu except with redder hair - are walking along the shore of the lake already, oblivious at first to the goings-on around them. They're arguing, but in a playful sort of way; the boy shoves at N'thu and N'thu shoves back. Itzquintlith is tangentially aware of Liareth, but not yet so much precisely honed in on how close she may be to mating. His rider, on the other hand, spots Kyara as he and his companion approach, and stops to get a good look at her, calling out, "All right, Kyara?" Because she doesn't quite look it. And he didn't see her yesterday.

Vashae and Jovianth have this habit, you see. Which is apparently a bad habit to have right now, although they themselves don't know it yet. Jovianth is all too able to notice his sister's state, but without the most obvious sign, he's not going to…well, he's not going to get too excited just yet. Vashae and he have just finished a wash, and he is contentedly drying while she examines his wings. N'thu's comment catches her attention, and she looks up first at her Wingleader, and then at her friend and clutchmate. "…Kyara?" Her voice is bemused, perhaps moreso because her lifemate's incessant chattering peters off with a welcoming croon to Liareth.

So much for being alone. Liareth may as well be a beacon… Well, not that's she's really that readily apparent to the riders on the ground from the ledge she's on above the Lake, her presence oddly quiet rather than sociable, though she knows who's around and brushes teasing acknowledgement across their minds with a thick waft of humid steam. Kyara, for her part, looks up at the sound of N'thu's voice, gaze becoming distinctly heated before she's pointedly looking away…spots Vashae at the next greeting, sees A'dan and some other strange rider nearby, and gives a bit of a groan, rubbing her forehead. "Just…no, guys. I'm not…you really don't want to be around me right now." Seriously. She might hit someone who gets too close. Or something.

D'rat could tell you all about wanting to be alone, but he'd really be lying, so he just leers in from the edges of permissibility. Qath, however, isn't nearly as restrained about making his advances known, just staying out of possible nipping distance. If possible, Qath's leer is more bug-eyed. Wanna see him do something funny with his spots?

Itzquintlith comes in for a gentle landing in the water, touching down near his son and offering a soft bugle, low in his throat, to Jovianth. Hello there, child who has now grown too big to be considered a child. N'thu, meanwhile, looks a bit concerned, but doesn't actually protest. "All right," he says, and actually takes a step back, pushing his little brother, as it turns out, back with him. "If you're not feeling well —" And that is when Itzquintlith properly fills him in on what's going on with Kyara, and then he doesn't seem sure if he's going to leave her alone or stay there and try to protect her in case anyone else does try to get too close.

Aw, Dad. Or at least that's almost the look that Jovianth seems to give his big bronze daddy. There's a welcoming bugle for him, too - but Jovianth's attention turns right back to Liareth. "Are you sure…?" Normally Vashae might just leave it at that, but if even N'thu is staying… Of course, Jovianth hasn't really filled her in, perhaps choosing to be too silent in this moment. Since Kyara has pretty clearly voiced she doesn't want anyone to be close right now, however, she'll keep her distance: staying near water's edge instead of moving anywhere at all.

"I'm fine," Kyara snaps to neither Vashae or N'thu specifically, "and I'm not-" The mezzo bugle of challenge that suddenly echoes across the Bowl seems to reverberate in Kyara's head, and she looks up in surprise. Liareth's gold-limned form springs suddenly aloft from the ledge upon which she'd been catching the last rays of sun and dives with breathtaking speed for the pens. Startled relief writ clear on her face, the greenrider surges forward in the same direction. "That was…sooner than I thought it'd be," she announces to no one in particular as she jogs to a stop outside the fence at the far end of the Lake, beyond which her lifemate is rending the throat of a good-sized herdbeast. Blooding, rather than eating. Mostly. "Smart girl," she observes distractedly, fingers fiddling at the ends of her scarf as she takes measured breaths, watching. Okay. Okay.

Narloth rises to his feet, golden tones playing across his hide. He gives voice to a deep, rattling bugle and leaps into the air. He wings over the pens, banking, then drops like a stone to earth on a fat beast at some remove from the luminous Liareth. The bronze makes a macabre show of the kill, fanning viscera at Liareth, claws flexing, eyes riveted on the young green. A'dan's seen a flight or two in his day. The first was always the toughest. There's a sympathetic look in his eye that he keeps to himself, should Kyara look his way. She's young enough to be his daughter. He walks up to the fence and leans on it, watching Narloth, a squinting that fans the crows feet around his eyes. "She's breathtaking."

If Qath bugles, it sounds thin and reedy, like a poorly made instrument. But his heart is in it, in some smarmy fashion, and he is waiting, watching, eyes whirling. D'rat is doing a very poorly hidden scan of Kyara, trying to sidle closer without actually lifting his feet. "Hullo, miss," he says introductorily, and then watches, as Qath does.

Oh fuck. Vashae's eyes widen in understanding at Liareth's bugle, at the green taking to the pens, at her friend's lifemate blooding. "You…You should have told me," she hisses at her own lifemate in an undertone, just as he abandons her by the lake to blood his own beast. Drawn compulsively to be closer to Liar-Kyara, Vashae approaches the pens as well in hesitant strides. The woman stops about three meters away, alternating between looking at Kyara, at Liareth, and Jovianth. They'd been doing so good at avoiding this sort of thing… For his part, Jovianth doesn't take his eyes off of his green sister while he bloods the beast he's felled. "Kyara…" The bluerider doesn't finish that sentence.

N'thu continues to — hover. Normally, this is the point where he'd leave; he doesn't often hang around flights unless Itzquintlith is dead set on the female dragon in question. Which in this case isn't quite the case; he could still talk the bronze away from the appeal of Liareth, but in the end he chooses not to. He did tell Kyara he'd help her, and so out of some sense of loyalty for what they've already shared, he stays. Or rather, he follows. "You're both smart," he reminds Liareth's rider, as Itzquintlith leaps into the air, does a funny little twist midair and catches a herdbeast to snap its neck and blood, the comparisons between bronze dragon and feline now making sense to those who hadn't seen it before.

Liareth is hidden in the heavy, clouding steam of a boundless room, though there is torchlight glowing, flickering red and orange and gold within the humid billows that roll round about. Sandalwood and incense tease the sense of smell here, vanishing and giving way to jasmine and moonflower there. At the very edges of hearing are whispers - guessing, wondering, suggesting - mingled with the nearly inaudible swish and tinkle of a dancer's bells. A fleeting, curvaceous silhouette wrapped in gauzy shadow catches the eye and slips back into the fog with the rich, teasing challenge of laughter echoing 'round about. « You think to keep step with me? How very entertaining. »

A second herdbeast falls to Kyara's lithe, glowing green…and the greenrider almost absently starts back toward the Bowl, long strides filled with an unusual determination - as though she's trying to get closer to something. Her jaw clenches as it becomes increasingly harder for her to focus, the heat of blood trickling imagined down her own throat, and she shakes her head against it. Just reach the Ground Weyrs. But she's listening, listening so incredibly intensely now… There's a pulse, a beat, just beyond her hearing - a tantalizing music that she has to find the source of… "ShhhHHH!" Any sound from those around her is a distraction, and she tries to silence what little comes from them in pure irritation, reason coming in bursts as she struggles increasingly to retain her own awareness. She knows she just has to let this happen, but she's not where she needs to be yet…

Narloth is a rising wind, a darkness on the horizon. Coming closer. For now, stillness reigns with the promise of a cleansing to come. A revelation. Where Liareth's swirling mists are intimate, tantalizing…Narloth's are electric with energy waiting to be unleashed.

A'dan's brow furrows in concern for Kyara. He knows her by reputation. A good reputation. He gives her room to blow by and follows at a remove. She seems to be surrounded by folk who care for her - 'cept maybe that smarmy bluerider - so this would probably end well for her. His chest is tight with Narloth's anticipation. His body feels at once heavy, purposeful - but coiled with a brightness, a lightness. He keeps a distance from Kyara and her friends. It would be best for one of them to catch. But Narloth was determined.

D'rat can take you anywhere you need to go, baby, and Qath is willing to help too. The former bounces (as does his belly a little) as he follows to the groundweyrs - he's almost got this one in the bag, he knows it! Whether Kyara knows it yet or not…well, she doesn't have to just yet. Qath is NOT blooding, as a matter of fact, because he ate just before he came and couldn't possibly have anoth…oh well, perhaps just one. Qath rises to pick a herdbeast that doesn't contribute to the gene pool anymore, and slowly bloods on it. Oh baby, he's a Fabioth in the making.

Jovianth is oddly silent for the blue, choosing instead to merely exist, a presence lingering upon a roiling grey mist sliding upon, not a cemetery as usual, but upon a romantic moonlight bridge going nowhere…and everywhere. The disembodied choir that so often accompanies Jovianth's presence is singing a wordless melody, something sultry and probably could be called a touch romantic.

Hopefully D'rat doesn't get too close, because N'thu might punch him. Not that he thinks he has any claim over Kyara, but because the lady said not to come near her and he's going to make sure that's exactly what happens as long as she wants it. Of course, she's also shushing people — and perhaps also Liareth's music, but he doesn't know that — and so he continues his semi-protective hovering in utter silence, trying to keep himself on the ground and out of Itzquintlith's head as the bronze circles low, waiting, waiting, only the tip of his tail lashing.

That music that is teasing and taunting Kyara may not be coming from Itzquintlith, but the low beats of bongo drums filling the minds of every dragon in proximity are. He may not be any of the more truly musical of the dragons, but he can keep a rhythm and keep it well. It's steady and consistent and ever-present, a background soundtrack that isn't annoying or particularly attractive, just there. « I think to try, beautiful one, » he heeds Liareth's query, the wind through his trees setting the birds that sit in them to chirping and singing.

Vashae hushes at Kyara's insistence, a hand choosing to fidget with her own hair in the lack of something else to do with them. She opens her mouth to speak - and then silences herself in the same moment. Silence must be had. At least they're not in a library. Vashae follows as Kyara moves from the pens; the less experienced of the group of chasers she may be, but he- Jovianth's determination is seeping into her as deeply as it is within the blue himself. So long as her friend wants distance, however, Vashae will do her best to grant the woman what she wants.

Ground Weyrs
Spacious by necessity, these weyrs house couches made to fit dragons of various sizes and in various states of health, each with feeding and watering stations near to hand, as well as the necessary medical aids to treat any draconic illness. A small alcove offers up a different view: Healer's records stashed in meticulous order on a shelf, a cluttered desk full of hidework in process, and a polished small basin where fresh water may be poured. Above it, a small rocky shelf protrudes, holding various cleaning supplies in neatly labeled containers: redwort is most prevalent, followed by numbweed.

Liareth is off and instantly away with an incredible upward leap and powerful sweep of jade wings, faster than she's ever moved in the air before - leaving her stunned pursuers in a long wake. Mirthful laughter resounds among the urgent whispers of hedonistic, mist-laden atmosphere of her mind, the dancer in the shadows twisting and spinning as she's glimpsed. « Slow! » is the chortled taunt that echoes back to the chasers. Yet even as she leads them onward, that uncanny grace is ever-present amidst the speed, her movements sensual and hedonic, making a show of every curve and line of her form as she dominates the sky. Let them just try! She'll tease them at every twist and turn!

Kyara's eyes have been squeezed shut in concentration as she still listens, still searches, and finally, she finds it - that elusive, scintillating song thrilling through her as Liareth exultantly takes to the sky, engulfing her lifemate's mind in her own. Kyara laughs, a rich, resounding, seductively taunting sound as eyes come open in a gaze fiery and challenging and having nothing to do with her. For all intents and purposes, Kyara is gone; she and Liareth are one and the same, now. "Slow!" she cries skyward as one with Liareth, mocking mirth renewed as she spins about, arms spread to stretch the thin scarf behind her. "Fools! Can you not hear? You'll never match me!" Weaving among those around her in a manner much like her lifemate above, she dances now to a rhythm only she and Liareth can feel. A music only they can hear.

A'dan's chest tightens and a feral grin plays across his bluff, solid features. He surveys the riders one last time before submitting himself to Narloth's storm. Those gathered are young, fit. One had even been Weyrleader, however briefly. He turns his gaze on Kyara, radiant and swaying with her dragon's passion. He closes his eyes and smiles; the worst is over for her now. A'dan steps closer, eyes alight, blood rising with Narloth's.

No, no, D'rat is only creepy from a distance - close up, it would be called harassment. He watches the dancing Kyara with trepidation warring with want. Qath, on his part, was taken by surprise, so enamored with his Fabioth impression (which will totally win the look-alike contest next turn) that it was a few seconds before he realized Liareth was up. As such, the dull blue will already be lagging behind.

Vashae surrenders in the fight for control, for separation, suddenly giving way to Jovianth's desire. She steps closer to the greenrider, only to pause again as she watches Kyara all too closely while the greenrider spins. The moves are up to the ones high in the sky - Vashae will not try to take what's not hers yet. But there's only so long such temptation can be dragged out. Still she remains silent, even at the taunting: her voice robbed by the passion of dragonflight, and by command to be silent earlier.

N'thu smiles, once Kyara seems to let herself go; it is a faint, muted smile that only one who knows him well or happened to be watching him closely would actually notice. As it stands, he's not quite looking at anyone and most likely no one's looking at him, either. He does not give in as the others do; he maintains a distance from his dragon, only so much as he feels he has to — but this is always N'thu's way. He does not become Itzquintlith, not fully, not yet. Too soon, just yet, to let himself go so far. As Vashae steps forward he starts to extend a hand, but stops himself; that's the dragon, and he has no need to touch the bluerider. No sense in starting fights.

Jovianth is up, up and away after his clutchsister as soon as she lifts into the sky, soaring higher and higher. The higher he is, the better line of sight he has to plan. To weave as much with the dancer as his own bodiless chorus tries to find a chord that strikes true with the green who's flying fast and high. « Liarethhh. » The only word he's uttered since she took to the pens. His mist all but dissipates in abandon of caution, as if a lure to tempt her 'cross the bridge within his mind. And ever he flies harder. She wants to be chased? Jovianth chases.

Itzquintlith is small. And he is steady, strong, lithe — he may not be able to race ahead of the others, but he will outlast them. He will outlast her. They will tire and he will stay, and until then he will follow and chase, loyal and focused. He has tuned out the other dragons. He is flying like nothing else matters but Liareth, Liareth, Liareth, her name repeated in each of his drumbeats as the pace quickens, the jaguar's purr implicit as he reaches out to her mind to briefly touch it, windblown leaves dusting the mindspace in an elegant pattern as they spin through the air and then fall.

Narloth leaps forward, the storm descends, a flurry of scouring sands howling down, down, down towards the dancer in the mist. Narloth bugles defiance, not at the other fliers, at Liareth, his mind voice resonant with howling winds, thrumming, steady… relentless. « Pace yourself. » The bronze angles to cut off the other chasers. Jovianth darts out ahead. Expected. Narloth beats powerful wings in a bid for altitude. Altitude is options… the hunter… the seeker for truth… rises on Igen's winds.

Liareth wings higher and higher still, throwing in a sudden drop or veering turn and return to throw the chasers off. Is it working? A flash of blue; Jovianth, whom she bugles defiance at, but also whose shadowed bridge she washes a fog of her own over in mild admiration for getting so close so soon. It would figure. But she dives again, away, rolling and catching the flashes of bronze from Narloth and Itzquintlith. A purring growl in protest against the older bronze's words; she knows what she's doing. And a teasing call to Itzquintlith as she surges ahead again. His drumbeats are a temptation, being similar to what is within her…but she'll not be swayed so easily.

Narloth's storm is wide and stretches from horizon to horizon. Up from down hard to reckon. Sand roars into the mists, the scouring, a purifying cleanse, strangely gentle, pressing deep into flesh and then gone…a raw tingling left. The winds howl again, pressing… easing… rising to a shriek and dropping again. A taste of what will come. Narloth's mind reaches out to Liareth in the silence between howling gusts. A gentle touch, teasing. « Lead on, then. »

Qath is up, up, and away, struggling to regain lost airspace. One would think that being a slight and immodestly modest blue would have some benefit in the way of speed, but not for this guy. Before too long, he's already taking in deep breaths, and there's no real subtlety or grace to Qath's chasing - if you follow the girl long enough, you'll catch up to her, right? So Qath is racing along behind Liareth, no real sexy moves but for the strangest little wiggle of his head - a signature move, perhaps. Ya know ya want it. *track laughter*

Jovianth washes smug with her surprise at his being so close, and his chorus swells boldly even as his wings carry him onward. Chasing, weaving, and climbing higher, ever higher. The blue again lapses into no-words, merely presence. Presence, and that bridge, and the chorus. The never ending chorus of voices that crescendos and decresendos every time he gets closer - and every time he lags behind. Should one of the other chasers get too close to him, he won't hesitate to try and make them back off with a slash of talons.

Itzquintlith is staying clear of Jovianth, though not so much staying clear of the group in general: in fact, he seems to be trying to surge not so much ahead but above. What is he getting at? Perhaps an attempt to come down in front of the rest of the group? That wouldn't be a surprise to anyone who remembers how he caught Kohleth; maybe collisions are his style. Gentle ones. Friendly ones. That lashing tail keeps on going, just at the tip, twitch, twitch, twitch to match the beating drums and the cry of birds. The scent of the jungle, the sound of the babbling brooks, all merges with the drums to make a collage of forest worship designed with Liareth at the center.

Liareth is smug in her ability to stay ahead and a bit above her chasers, though she banks sharply to veer across the steep face of a mountainside, effectively bringing them all back around in a very wide loop as she leads them forth again, calling a few more bugled taunts at them all. If smugness is a downfall…nobody told her (or Jovianth, apparently). Thick fogs swirls defiantly against Narloth's sandstorm, throughout Itzquintlith's jungles…but she's going to have to find some other tack to try distracting Jovianth, since he's no stranger to mist himself. And that other blue? She's not even paying attention to that one.

Qath is definitely not going to stand for this kind of intimidation that Jovianth is putting fo…except Jovianth is faster and meaner, so Qath does his level best to stay out of range there. He also will totally up his game when he notices that Liareth is not falling all over his little head-wobble. He's spending so much time following that he hasn’t engaged his biggest weapon - his beauteous voice - and with one sonorous CROAK, Qath is the dragon of the hour, straining his wings to catch up to his prize. She'll fall for it soon!

Narloth beats higher and higher, howling winds falling off, dust settling. Did she drive him away or is he testing her strength? He angles across the loop she's leading, pulling himself out of position in the chase to better place himself for what comes. He rolls as he peels away, flashing talons and teeth at Itzquintlith. A sandstorm himself, and born of Igen, he knows the winds of this place in all seasons, she was headed for a tricky spot and Narloth waited… the storm waited… electricity crackles in the air… poised to strike.

Jovianth, stranger to mist? Hah! More like Master of Mistiness, (Be)fungler of the Fogs, King of Kreepy, Doctor of the Disembodied! …Okay, so most of those he's made up for himself on the spot. But the point still stands; he is no stranger to mists himself, despite the continuing almost non-existence of his own personal mist tonight. « Liiiiaaareeeth. » Her name is broadcasted sensually, whisper-like, as if he has secrets for the dancer, and the dancer alone. The romantic, moonlit bridge wavers briefly at the sharp turn; but then it is there again, and his own mist caressingly covers it - and then unveils it yet again.

Itzquintlith does NOT like that. Not one bit. Don't you get in the way of his focus on Liareth, Narloth — don't you even think about it. He lets out a piercing growl at the other bronze, flashing talons and no doubt giving N'thu a headache as the drumbeats temporarily grow deafeningly hostile. The tail lashes out in a fuller swing to try to take a hit at Narloth's snout, but once he's made that gesture he's done. Finished. It is no longer Narloth who matters — was it ever? No. No, not ever; everything is Liareth and nothing is wrong. « Beautiful one, » is a whisper on his wind, swirling her fog around and making art with it, little pictures of dragons flying together and tall plants; he is willingly lost in that fog, making the best of what has overcome him. « You are doing so well. » And that is why he's above her, using his size to gain on her, now dropping height at an even pace to meet the others soon enough. Because she is beautiful, inspired. And he is only one bronze mystified by it all.

Liareth is wary of the ebb of Narloth's winds…and his new trajectory, but she expected a cut across. Which is why she now takes a dive straight down, wings pinned to gain as much new speed as she can - and quickly snaps them back open to soar well right. This puts her slightly closer to Jovianth and Itzquintlith…but no matter. She's quite certain she's well enough ahead. Her own weakness for words may be apparent in this; they speak, she listens, though the mist and the scented air don't let up one bit across their minds. A small taste of the music within to tease her chasers with; let's see how well that distracts!

FWOOMCH. Liareth's dive is met — or perhaps challenged — by Itzquintlith's dive, and the wide pale bronze wings take a lot of air with them, spreading out wide and altering the entire focal point of the area's thermals. He is not so much distracted by the music as he is letting it become a part of himself, altering the drums of his desire to suit her, a rhythm for her melody. « Li-a-reth, » he purrs, a hum, sing-songing her name, matching her sounds and his beats. She has to slow down sometime; she has to tire. Part of the point of leading a chase is being caught. He's certain she knows that — but for how long will they fly? No matter; he does so love to fly. « Lure us on, Liareth. » Hum, beat, hum, thrum. Purr. His wingbeats match the beating of the drums; his mind is her song, his body entwined in it.

Jovianth is the little dragon that could. Except he's not really that little, and he never thought of this as a mountain to climb; more a chase that he's determined in. Again, he whispers her name, and that alone. No words of seduction here - her name will have to do instead. The music she lets slip is examined, and his chorus answers exultantly, that bridge ever beckoning. Her dive surprises him, but his wings beat faster and harder, pleased to discover that she is close, now, so close. Can you blame the blue for his attempt to try and ensnare the beautiful green with a sharp, sudden roll-and-grab?

Narloth's winds rise, darkening the sky. Winds rise, howling. Sand scours. Gentleness is gone, the teasing touch of Narloth's mind is gone. There is no seduction in the storm. Only meeting its glory with glory. An ancient storm at the height of its fury, bolts driving down, down. Narloth rolls like thunder and tucks his wings, a powered dive driving earthward, falling like a bolt from the heavens, the focus of his will the fleeing green.

With a lot of strain and struggle, Qath is trying to move closer, but it's totally not his fault that the backwash from other dragons is impeding his progress. Any moment now. Almost there. And so on, but even Qath's energy is flagging and he's starting to fall back which is great when Liareth makes her move, darting down, but he doesn't maneuvre in time to reach her before she's pulled another move. No fairsies! So he's just gonna keep trying.

Liareth suddenly finds herself in the midst of a bit of chaos - both bronzes diving, Jovianth rolling. Her bugle is one of effort, and perhaps surprise, to end up in such a position. She veers, sideways from Narloth, but down from Itzquintlith - no, this doesn't work! And the confusion takes her right into Jovianth's path, almost haphazardly - one of the less graceful moments of her life, to be sure. She shrieks in frustration at the bronzes that hampered her progress, but no matter now. She's tangled up with the blue, straightening from haphazard now into something a little more conducive to actual flying. Caught! Her frustration is not with Jovianth, and she lets him know it, the previous turmoil of her mind rolling to something calmer as she joins him on that bridge, fog billowing and engulfing affection, acceptance - a giving in. « It is well, Jovianth, » comes whispered - no taunt to be found.

Jovianth bugles triumphantly, and yes, perhaps there's some smugness in there too as his talons tangle with Liareth's. Everyone in the immediate vicinity will receive a full-dose of dragonlust from the blue as he rights them, and as the mist closes in upon them both upon the bridge, there's something said - but it's for her mind only. His chorus is, perhaps annoyingly, singing a triumphant staccato melody. As disembodied as ever. Definitely the quality of a madman in a box (or is it in a dragon?). For her part, Vashae closes the distance between self and greenrider, and pulls the other into somewhere far more private than where they currently stand. How much of it is Vashae, and how much is Jovianth that long for the privacy? Impossible to tell.

Liareth senses Jovianth thinks, « Worry not, Liareth. »

Itzquintlith is defeated — Itzquintlith's life is over — Itzquintlith is bereft, alone, circling, circling, heading down toward the lake slowly and steadily — Itzquintlith is landing in the water and making a big splash and getting over it. There will be another chance. There will be another moment with Liareth; don't think he'll forget her. (Well. He might. But not for long.) Next time he will be there, and next time maybe he won't end licking his nonexistent wounds in the lake shore. N'thu, meanwhile, is mildly more discouraged, not so easily bereft of flightlust as his dragon. He is notably off to the bazaar, to find a certain wagon, to find a certain girl.

Narloth bellows at the close call, he twists, peeling away and…it's over. The blue. The storm rages, fury frustrated, raging, towering. He turns, lashing at Iztquintlith with his tail, talons flashing out and beats for the skies again…fury far from spent. A'dan's eyes snap open and he staggers, teeth bared. His dragon making off for the horizon, he's left to burn. He heads off towards…what? He's not sure. His feet move faster and faster, carrying him away at ground-eating pace.

Qath isn't quite ready to admit defeat, he's not! Nope, he's, he's…. Well, he could have won if that bratty blue hadn't been there. Young upstart. Hmph! Croaking his displeasure with the situation, the else-Weyr blue wheels away to go impress someone else, see if he doesn't. He won't.

Liareth allows herself to be wrapped in Jovianth's mist, letting her own linger but not overpower, laughter at the edges of jasmine-laced steam, content to remain and listen to him - to simply be with him. And below, Kyara also finds herself caught into arms she's barely aware of as Liareth's grip on her mind gradually begins to ebb. She is, maybe, aware that it's Vashae on the extreme periphery of her consciousness, though how long it will take her to actually realize it is debatable, with how deeply entrenched her mind was within Liareth's. Thusly returning to her own being, she lets herself be pulled to a ground weyr with the winning rider, the lust of the chase to burn from themselves at the ending.