====May 6, 2013
====Rhaeyn, Eth'n, T'ii, Jesha, W'rin, others
====Aevryscienth rises as the Comet falls on Crom.

Who Rhaeyn, Eth'n, T'ii, Jesha, W'rin, Brit, Sara
What Aevryscienth rises as a comet falls.
When Tenth Interval, summer dusk.
Where Central Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

chased.jpg ysvarth_flight.jpg


Central Bowl
Seven spindles brush the clouds overhead, displaying a jagged, spired cotillion grey-stoned majesty. The bowl from here is expansively large, extending a full half-mile in both directions, and though a bit of a stretch at times, most of the hubs of activity can be easily observed. Hard-packed ground shows the common pathways, all of them meandering about the craggy bunch of boulders that form a centerpiece within the middle of the otherwise vast emptiness.
The hatching grounds and leadership weyrs are located to the north, while the sounds of herdbeasts noisily allude to the pens slightly east of there. Constant traffic marks the entrance to the westward living caverns, and a glance southeast reveals the cold, glittering, glacial lake.


** Rhaeyn just set the @party! Type @party to check it out! **
Comets threaten the skies, and Crom is about to fall… but at High Reaches, Aevryscienth looms to rise in Tenth Interval High Reaches Weyr's final leadership flight! All those interested in the ultimate chaos are encouraged to addcom alias=APOCAFLIGHT! and @go High Reaches!
— entered by Rhaeyn on 2013-05-06 17:44 MOO Time. (12 seconds)

It's technically evening, sunset: dusk looms, and fire lights the skies behind the towering seven spindles. Ominous, those spires: dark and jagged, the silouettes knife into the violet-tinged russets that dominate the northern sunset. Behind the brilliance, twilight's promise glows darkly. Before the brilliance, the erstwhile senior queen of High Reaches glows bright. Slumber is upon her, curled loose in an unlikely sprawl at the middle of the bowl, wings outstretched to catch the last light of the sun: about her, heat sizzles and spikes, and her unconscious influence prickles at the skin and sends hairs on end.

And from the shadows Ysvarth lurks, charged to full by an afternoon nap held in the slumber of Rukbat's butter-yellow rays. Sharp-edged and spiked the bronze awaits on crouched legs, form held close to the ground as if to spring to air as soon as Aevryscienth rises. His mate, returned. He watches as a jackal would watch it's prey, moonlight-limned darkness awaiting the kiss of hearth fire glow. Eth'n is not far from his lifemate, though his feet pace in all together different direction. On edge. From both impeding flight and the comet looming like a fat blister in the sky. Agitation cloaks, leathers of midnight and shadow's blue making it even harder to find him where he paces in the shadows of the large, and spiked bronze.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that she is the fiercest of fires: a single flame amid darkness, a tiny blaze encroached by snow and ice. But fire she is, and fire she remains… and this fire is lavender and violet, darkening to heliotrope: this fire shimmers with the rich royalty of porphyry. It quickens the blood, this flame - it gives shape to desire itself.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Dhiammarath withdraws into the shell of her sanctuary, hidden from touch and sight as to not provoke that which should never happen. Twilight's serenity cloaks the rock garden as lanterns puff out and all goes silent. Dhiammarath, out.

W'rin is off to one side of the bowl, as inconspicuous as his giant form can be. Only this time he isn't watching the coming and goings of riders, or even the brilliant colors of the sunset, he's locked in another looming object in the sky. One much more ominious than the regular sunset. "It's getting close." He comments absently to his dragon, though he isn't paying much attention to him. Valiuth is here too, but his attention isn't on his rider either, or the sky, or any firely glowing objects in them. No, the glowing object he is concerned with is curled in the bowl. He watches, silent even of the faintest muscle twitch, like a predator against the falling darkness, waiting for the moment to strike.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Ysvarth edges on the blissful edge of monochromatic spools of greys, whites, and blacks to the vibrancy of over-saturation of primary colors. It flickers. In, out, in, out. Until that moment when Aevryscienth rises out of the flames, forged to desire itself. Blood rushes, quickened, and the calm, emotionless, disinterested Ysvarth is gone. Cue, yappy, little toy-dog Ysvarth.
One of the local brownriders is just emerging from the direction of the northern bowl, slowly shedding her gear while her riding jacket flaps, getting in the way.
Distracted, much? Brit has a frown on her face, momentarily perplexed by that prickling sensation. Her lifemate, brown Mivuroth, soon fills her in, which has the lanky brunette looking across the bowl quickly. Chance brings her along the side of the bowl where Eth'n paces, but she knows well enough not to interrupt, except to give his bronze and the glowing gold a second look. A weighing look. Should I say or should I go? Mivuroth knows what he's going to do as he slows to a careful prowl.

Two heads are better than one, at least for a time: one a head of auburn curls just beginning to be threaded through with silver, bent low in conversation with another, dirty-blonde and frizzy-curled; their lifemates await near. One, older, larger, bronzer waits attentive, Bandeleth's easy-going everyman charm a little on edge, aware as he waits, keen eyes focused on Aevryscienth's slumbering, glowing form. The younger, smaller, copper-iridescent over tortise-shell brown, brown, brown is attentive as well, but anxiously so; unnerved, Ryglinath swivels his head from fair golden queen to ominous sky. The confab breaks; T'ii pats Teyaschianniarina's cheek with a fond hand, melancholy and distracted, while she presses her face into it, then flings her arms around him and squeezes tight, then flings herself away again, hooking a hand and scrambling aboard Ryglinath mere moments before he takes off, and they wing away. T'ii's attention joins Bandeleth's, focused.

This is normal, right? Dragons rise, life goes on. What isn't normal is the sudden screaming-teakettle noise that accompanies a meteorite entering the atmosphere: it falls outside the bowl, rattling the very fundament upon which all else conspires to walk upon.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Valiuth is as quiet, only the soft pounding of distant drums adds to the colors of fire and blood. Thumping to the quickening heart the primordial call.

Amidst the tension strung nerves and pre-flight quickening of the blood, Sevareth's puppy-like frisking definitely stands out. "Yes, y'shard-headed ol' man, I NOTICED. Ain't the first time this's happened, ain't gonna be the last," grumbles Jesha as she pushes out of the Living Caverns' entrance, cane thumping noisily on the ground. The noise ceases her hand's lift, a greeting dying on her lips as she looks up at the skies. "Yeah, though that's a first." Even Sevareth freezes mid-frolic, gaze following Jesha's to the flare in the atmosphere, and a slightly canine *whimper* comes from his throat.

Visiting a blue rider is what brings the harper to a strange Weyr on this dark night. The sreaming in the air is what brings her running outside, and her eyes are pinned to the sky watching the destruction fall.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Static crackles, sound spiking abruptly and then fading, scattered background noise remaining just below the realm of hearing; Bandeleth has nothing to say, precisely. Not yet. But his is the warmth of a thousand summers, of a quick shot of something bracing after a High Reaches snow, loosening joints and inhibitions alike; his attention is all for the bonfire queen, save what brief alarm spikes through his laid-back interior at the meteorite's crash.

A dead run brings Rhaeyn from the direction of the Northern Bowl: the weyrwoman is in a scandalous state of deshabille, all wet hair and a sheer slip clinging translucent to all the damp spots. Aevryscienth's head jerks up in alarm, bringing her violet-whirling eyes to bear red-tinged on the direction of the sound. The attention of bronzes drags the queen's focus to the here-and-now, and hostile repudiation flies as mental daggers outwards, white-hot from fire-forge and scented of sandalwood. Mental shrapnel coincides with a violent upwards burst of wings and bulk — almost a heart-attack given, but she isn't really going up, she's going over, bringing down a herdbeast with unmitigated violence. Rhaeyn, meanwhile, is transfixed in the bowl, staring upwards with a face devoid of blood: white lines trace the skies, as tiny meteorites start raining down as fire and brimstone loosed upon Pern.

A convergence of ideas, bisecting to orthogonal pathways; first Ysvarth takes to the skies the moment Eth'n heads for Rhayen. Hands, fingers, try to grip his weyrmate's shoulders, "Rhaeyn." Yelling, worry adding dimension to his tone, the comet's first strike not gone unnoticed. "You have to — " Does he push her? Chance the backlash of flight's angry desire? Yes, towards the ground weyrs. "INSIDE." Just to get her moving, the others can flock as they see fit, though for the murderous look directed to W'rin — an //interloper — Eth'n's stance of graceful death may also lead to a touch of possessiveness over that which is his. Ysvarth, meanwhile, blares the blazing double suns of butter yellow, intensity of heat and the brilliance of color-saturated azure blue skies. His desert mind is clouded in red dust, baked beneath the twin stars. His first kill is mess. Bloody. And savage, but his desire leaks, drifting on the tether lines of mind touch with /abandon/. WANT WANT WANT WANT WANT WANT.

W'rin's attention is stolen from the sky by the scantly clad weyrwoman, heeelloooo. Wait. No. "Blasted dragon!" The man might have had a chance to stop his dragon from this coming disaster but the screaming ball of space death steal his attention. "It's starting." Does he mean the comets? The flight? Both? Rather than moving towards his dragon, whose predatorial rage is now taken out on some unsuspecting herdbeast, he is walking away towards the side of the bowl where the comet fell. But his footsteps slowly, then stop. "Inside." Bass voice rolls over the word, as his lifemate lifts his gaze, blood splattering around the corpse like the comets will soon - near, around and ON Crom. "Inside." And then he is abandoning what seemed so important a second ago and rushing towards the ground weyrs.

Rumbles shake the ground and Jesha's staring is interrupted as she goes ass over teakettle onto the ground, laid out as Pern groans under the pugilizing fists of cosmic matter. "GREAT EFFIN' TIMING, WEYRWOMAN," she shouts, struggling to sit up and giving Rhaeyn a panicky glare even as she rubs at one bony, bruised hip. Sevareth himself is torn — his eyes whirl with frantic oranges and red, faster and faster, and he lunges briefly towards his lifemate. Whatever Jesha yells towards him, however, is hidden under the great roarings from above, but the meaning is clear if the dismissive flip of one of her hands is any indication. The struggle between biology and love holds the brown fast in place, and it's a full minute before he leaps up to glide, to feed, to join in with his fellows for this ill-timed chase.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that she radiates brilliant hostility, the metallic tang of blood hinting with the bitter note of ichor: fresh blood and a bitten tongue, and comets on the horizon. Beneath it all, the hollow hunger of a need untouched aches.

"Faranth's flaming tits," scrapes raw, baritone bottoming out as T'ii stands transfixed; meteorites crashing down, Aevryscienth up and down again on unlucky herdbeast. Bandeleth follows; his kill is messy-quick, attention fully drawn onto Aevryscienth, spared little for Ysvarth and their fellows. T'ii's steps stutter, forward once and then back, but then he echoes Eth'n's command on a broader scale: "Everyone inside," bellows parade-ground voice, old authority and new ringing in his voice; he may only be Tsunami's wingleader at the moment, but that leader is worn heavy. He watches the skies, too, as he follows, as he ducks and dodges and weaves to get toward the ground weyrs, propelling errant weyrfolk toward the caverns themselves if ever he encounters them.

Brit, willing companion to the chaos that is any flight, happily joins the men as people begin to filter inside, either to the caverns or the ground weyrs. Mivuroth has already joined the blood fest, so it's little surprise when the 40-something rider joins the group of soon-to-be chasers.

Sara is thrown into the doorway, catching herself before she can fall. Rider stream past her as she stares at the sky, a melodic line dancing through her mind. She pictures Crom burning, juxtaposed with the sight of the dragons befor her- a sight she had never seen before. Finally, the sensations becoming too severe to stay any longer, Sara obeys the order and leaves the destruction outside, stepping away from the confusion and destruction.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Ysvarth radiates desire. In it's purest form, he desires the molten fire of his mate, lost but not forgotten. Lost but never given up on (like some people he knows). « MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE… » The comet strikes little affect through the cloud of flight-mode, though after, he'll have much to say. For now, he flies. Bloods. Kills.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Valiuth the rage of battle flares, the falling destruction which will eradicate so much of Pern ignites, somewhere deep inside Valiuth, a vociferation of passion. Drums of war beat with the passion of desire.

Fear fades fast: Rhaeyn wrenches out of Eth'n's grasp with belligerent bellicosity. Scorn touches for all of those who run for the safety of the cavernous arches. "Flee, then." She tips her chin back, arms outflung: the madwoman, the Nero of Pern, to dance as Crom burns. But not yet — not yet. For now she is merely the conjuror, the soothsayer, the accused brought to trial. Aevryscienth lifts her muzzle to the skies, and blood runs as rivulets down the crags and crackle of golden hide, an appalling beauty of cruelty and strife. Warlike, warmonger, warmistress: she leaps to the skies and is lost to the flames.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Bandeleth thinks « Bandeleth's mellow warmth cracks, flares burning-hot down throat, through limbs; whiskey harsh over summer's brilliance, heat radiant, overwhelming, but still not unwelcoming; ever the gentleman, there is want in him, oh! and there is need, but not possession. »

W'rin turn at the entrance of the groundweyrs to take a final look at his dragon and then the sky. As his gaze turns back he spots Rhaelyn still standing there, and the fallen Jesha, "Fucking women!" He roars, though it could be lost in the chaos that has errupted in the bowl? Chaos he is running back into, the brownrider is scooped up and tossed over his shoulder like a sack of firestone. "Inside." The command is repeated as he pushes he way back through the crowd of panicked weyrfolk. All the while mumbling about comets and dragons and WOMEN.

If Rhae would dance with Death, then so to shall Eth'n; blue eyes narrow, sly smile curving lips of dangerous expression. Brit, T'ii, W'rin, Jesha — they all earn looks of predatory possessiveness, but within lurks the desire for protection of the one thing he cannot live without. Rather than force, he stalks the soothsayer, the oracle of the comet. Whistling rocks lace the sky like tracer beams, while everything that is male. Everything that can be called up as Eth'n, stalks Rhaeyn. Subtly, slowly, and deliberately. Towards an overhang. For them all, for despite his dragon losing his head, the bronzerider has not. "I. Will. Not. Flee." But he'll stalk! And even if the overhand might be near the ground weyrs… score.

Sevareth wriggles his bottom, his blunted headknobs pointing inwards as his face contorts into a mask of concentration and full-body preparedness, muscles coiling and bunching. Bones pop, and not just his own, as with practiced motions he snaps the neck of the next beastie to get in his way. Jesha's joints do as well as, mid-Eth'n diatribe (wherein she tells him just WHERE to stick it and HOW to deal with it), she's interrupted with the ol' tubersack treatment from W'rin. Not that she won't go into another rant, only directed at the hulking nowtimer. "WOMEN NUFFIN', LADY ASS! How'd you even stay standin' in that? Women. What the shit is wrong with you, anyway? Like I meant t'fall. THOSE ARE BIGASS ROCKS THAT ARE ON FIRE THAT JUST HIT THE GROUND!" Her words trail off as W'rin lugs her slight body to safety.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Ysvarth abandons the beast whose blood drips, hot, down his muzzle. To the skies the bronze flees, chasing after his lady-desire. Twin suns, heated sands, blindingly over-saturated primary colors make up a mind voice that he shares with EVERYONE. Pushing his desire onto EVERYONE. His want too. His ideas of what he'd do once he got her — oh oops, does he try to dry-hump the next dragon over? Can't fault a dragon for thinking it might be Aevryscienth! Unadulterated, emotion/al/, and heavily influenced Ysvarth. « Want want want want want waaaaaaaant. » The cool words, precise witty comments, are all gone the moment the flight was on. TEENAGE BOY, ho!

"Anywhere is better than the storage cellars," grinds, frustration and fear briefly broken by old-faded amusement as T'ii tracks Rhaeyn, tracks W'rin and Jesha and Brit and Eth'n all. His strides are not long but they are solid, now, as he joins the dance, as falls into orbit around Rhaeyn herself. The fidget-scuff of his hand through his hair, the flex-grind of fingers into fists, balled and then shaken out again. "Weyrwoman," dips low, acknowledgement and challenged and old-worn, underacknowledged affection all braided through his voice. His lifemate's assistance useless: Bandeleth is a streak of golden-bronze, amber's glow harshed ruddy by blood and flame as his wings propel him aloft in Aevryscienth's wake. Useless, then; he scribbles haphazard notes on scraps of hide, sends his fair winging in and out in pop-fizz gusts of Between-cold air as he rallies Tsunami's search and rescue riders — but does not lead them himself.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Valiuth is there, wings unfurl as he hurls himself into the sky after the gold. Oh, to the winner goes the glory, the spoils of war. The colors of his mind drips with the blood, warm and slick, down the throat. Already, his claws reach for his enemies, teeth snap at anything close. The blind fury of battle has overcome and he will win at any cost.

"Wrong with me?" W'rin asks to the woman's butt which sits parallel to his face. Can't se see what's going on? Well probably not since he hasn't let her down, which he does now. More gently than one might imagine. Especially with Valiuth bent on destruction above. "Will you look at your fucking weyrwoman. Firey death day and a flight, and she's standing out the middle of the bowl. Wrong with me?" He scroffs, still for as much has he is disparaging her his eyes have yet to leave the ridiculous woman in her night-time undies like a firery prostitute of immortality.

Another meteor races through the sky, small but on fire. THIS WEYR IS ON FIRE! Or maybe it is the distant booming that can be heard, echoing through the mountains that get the smallest of pebbles dancing. But, eh, what's all this to the Fiery Prostitute of Immortality and her batch of Heathen Worshippers? NOTHING.

The weyr, the weyr, the weyr is on fire. We don't need no water let th— wait, nevermind.

"Yeah 'cause her dragon goin' up leaves her with a lot of brain left over, y'lunkhead, as evidenced by her standin' outside in her admittedly cute nightwear," grouses Jesha, staggering for balance as her feet touch the ground. Moreso as the ground shrieks in protest with another impact that throws her face-first against W'rin's chest and, voice muffled by ~manly muscles~, she notes, "Good grief you're a biggun'. Pshew, though, you smell like hormones. How long have you been holding out?" Lifting her face and pushing away from the bronzerider, she purses her lips, lending more wrinkles to her aged face and giving him a deliberate once over from head to toe. "So if neither of us end up doin' the dragon dance with Rhaeyn here, I am completely okay with climbin' you like a tree."

As if summoned, the pinnacle of Aevryscienth's flight to the skies coincides with the sky falling: far to the southeast, there is a flash of light that makes the dusk-fallen sky vivid and bright, and the belated booming of a sound long-fallen and slow to catch up, a hideous simulcrum of thunder after a strike of lightning. Aevryscienth's flight falters as a result of Crom's destruction — it must be Crom's destruction — and she veers from the height of her maddening spiral, hauling herself back a'right with a violent, vicious struggle that mauls a pitifully small Newtimer brown - one of the only ones to be allowed to jump back - and rakes long furrows down the front of a native bronze's face. Ichor erupts from Dhioth's once-perfect visage, and K'ane's cry of pain and horror is only one voice of the many who flee for the caverns. It is only now that the madwoman stands still again, staring out at the fading light of Crom's shattering. The crackling noise comes from above: a long slab of rock falls from one of the spires, altering the profile of High Reaches forever. Horror and realization floods her face, and sense pervades enough for her to run barefoot as Eth'n stalks her, fleeing past Jesha and W'rin and T'ii to the ground weyr within, shaken and shaking. Above, the future hangs in the balance: Aevryscienth is yet to catch her breath, and bronzeriders on the ground hold their own, the last pushes of all effort coming as the future: inevitable.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that she is off-kilter, well-unaware of the irony; a queen of fire offput by the same. Will it be the madness of Ysvarth's singleminded WANTING or the ambered ferver of mild-mannered Bandeleth? Will the encroaching war-drums of Valiuth claim victory over the hunka-hunka burnin' Sev? Will another steal the past's future - or is that the future's past?

Dodge! Parry! Thrust? Maybe, if Sevareth is cunning enough. Certainly, the agility of Turns of living still reigns in his effortless dodging of the odd tiny rock, of the tail of Dhioth. It's not a complete miss, though, as a splash of bright green blood paints a line across his surprised, youthful face. Pushing past the screaming bronze, Sevareth's wings vane even larger as he rides an updraft towards the heavens before reaching an apex far above the crowd. It's then that he brings the long appendages close to his body and, hanging there for a moment, descends in a tightly corkscrewing drop towards his target that shines bright in the summer's light to rival that of the comet that screams its way through the heavens.

Ysvarth is a violent storm, raptor-sharp claws tearing and smashing into any that come into his wake. Despite the teen-boy desire of love and want, the vicious predator lurks within. The moment his golden star falters, the iced abyssal bronze reaches up, attempting to grasp and tangle — whether he succeeds is left to chance as a whistling rocks that pelt, heated, through the skies. Eth'n, meanwhile is now the one chasing after Rhaeyn. Grasping for the flesh he desires, for the dragon he desire, for the /world/ to right once more. Pushing, pulling, grappling, the ground weyrs finally afford their protective cover as the bowl is shattered by the sounds of wailing dragons.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Ysvarth is madness embodied; over-saturation, brilliant, and heated, the bronze unleashes talon and teeth to fight for what he wants. To will it back to time and place. To pin it to the now, to never flee again. « WANT WANT WANT WANT. » And within, in the heart of the abyss, a single, subtle thread of true need is woven through the heated battle lust of a Flight. Forlorn, melancholy, need.

"Not sense before we jumped." W'rin offers to the woman stuck in his muscley man chest. Wait. What did she just offer? "Climb me like a tree? Woman you can barely walk without breaking your -" But his rather insulting words are cut off by IT. Even knowing what was to happen cannot stop the rage which wells up in the rider. "Bloody fucking -!" There is no way to end the statement as he half turns into the groundweyrs a different kind of feeling bubbling beneatht he surface, maybe Jesha had the right idea - But with his Valiuth has not given up so easily, the battle is not over, not for him though for some of those he left in his wake the battle will be over for many days. And onward he pushes, smaller than many of his foes he attempts to strike early as the queen falters just briefly.

All faith to his valiant 'seconds and 'riders that they attend the disaster, because now he cannot: T'ii's fair face is paler still under its blanket of freckles, eyes wide as the comet crashes; he is caught mid-message, mid-step, hand stilled in the air as the dragons falter. As dragons fall. It is the booming crash of rockface, of weyrface crashing that propels him into motion again, headlong after Rhaeyn. His voice and will both punch upward, "Go!" wrenched from his throat as against the comet's crash, against Aevryscienth's stutter, he urges his lifemate onwards. Bandeleth surges, whether propelled by T'ii's will or by his own; the fire-lit sky sets his wingsails ablaze, and he swoops in to tangle, too, like the sweep of brushfire-burning, stretching, reaching for bonfire's own brilliance and seeking to plunge through the sky in echo of the comet's own fall.

"Stand?" offers the older woman, raising a single gray eyebrow. "So hold me up! We don't need to stand if you follow my meaning!" As W'rin becomes briefly distracted with his stark realization of the current ongoings, Jesha takes the time to reach over and ever-so-gently rest a hand over one of his upturned, feminine buttcheeks. "And I do love these tights y'wear. Y'can see every last feature of your…" T'ii's outburst overlays her words, though, thankfully camouflaging her admiring yet crude assessment of the merits of leggings.

Chaotic, to say the least. Khetanaxeroth stirs from her ledge and pushes off the brink of it, wings batting to gain altitude in the summer sky. Mind the falling rocks. Hell bent on joining the flight, each wing stroke starts off securing altitude before some momentum rallies and her size (for a green) makes the distance steadily close. She is female and well-acquainted with the mating frenzy but she isn't cycling and has no lust ill or otherwise for Aevryscienth. No. A frenzy does stir within her, and she hunts for males; the smaller foreign ones, the interlopers. Trespassers. And the first to feel her teeth is a bronze on the fringe. Just a serious nip at first.

Outbursts and outcries: predators and prey. The warmongerer returns with ferocity, coming out of her aftershock-influenced daze to find no less than four dragons in vicinity. In the end, life is a choice, is it not? In the end, there is nothing but the truth of the moment, that crystal-clear clarion cry. In this moment, this frame of time, desire is what truth brings. Careening off from Valiuth's admirable close and just barely avoiding the grasp of Sevaruth's claws, Aevryscienth ducks from the plea of Bandeleth and is instead ensnared within the fever-dream of Ysvarth's red-skied arroyo. The past's future is thus written, and the future's past: Ysvarth claims Aevryscienth again, darkness against light, and the chiaroscuro pair fade from light and memory into the bleak, red-lit hell of the present.

Fully anticipating to catch and not be caught, the newtimer bronze after being sprung upon, throws up his claws defensively at Khetanaxeroth. She meets him claw for claw, wings folding back to counter the initial assault. A warning growl fights throw the rows of her fangs as they make a feint for the bronze's exposed shoulder. This is a set back for him, a recovery only possible if the flight swarms back and down. Hind feet lash a dual kick which misses but in the male's dodge his head sprawls away from his body and into the spotted green's easy reach. The dragonhealers won't appreciate the trauma done to his left head knob and outer eye orbit. Neither will he. Satisfied, Kheta disengages to stalk Valiuth.

Ysvarth grapples, grasps, and finds that moment of *connection*. Eth'n grabs for, unimpeded, for Rhaeyn and sweeps her into his arms. The others, the weyr, even the fiery hell of a cataclysmic event fades away as home returns. As love returns. As the world returns. Shattered shards of self are sewn together, made whole. Tonight is about reclaiming that which is his. Into the shadows, deeper to the inner weyrs, light and darkness once more find reasons to battle. But in very, very different ways.

Oh disappointment might color the night for Valiuth as he circles slowly back down to the bowl, all that pent up energy directed at the green whom he pretends not to notice is stalking him. But for W'rin, there is a hand on his ass and a challenge in the air, and the passion dispinsate until it is satisfied. "Alright, woman. You're pretty fiesty for an old one, let's see what ya got." And Jesha is thrown over the bronzerider's should for a second time and carried back out into the angry night - but for these two the destruction else where can wait till morning. There is flight lust to be worn off in a dark corner of the weyr somewhere. The last words heards of the retreating pair are, "You can get a better look at my ass from this angle."

In excitement of the incipient dragon-with-two-backs of their own, Jesha responds to W'rin's scooping with a loud, fratboyesque 'WOOOOO!' that echoes off of the walls of the bowl and, for the moment, the sky falling has taken a back seat (much like Jesha's hand has!) in her brain. Exit, stage porking.

<All> Aevryscienth senses that Dhiammarath is a whisper of an echo of destruction; a small voice of strength woven through dim, dim stone lanterns of light. « Thief. Thief. » Danger echoes. Fueled by the fear of escape, this single call mingles with that last moment of destruction. The pinnacle of Aevryscienth's flight. But as the flight ends, the clarion call is made. « GUARDS. We have a thief using the flight's distraction to rob the weyr of it's valuables. » Images of darkness, Br'er and Hannah. To those in the know, the greenrider's shifty countenance is near the entrance to the secret holding room of everything of value to the weyr. As the flight culminates to the end, the crash of light and dark expose even further shenanigans.

"-oh," pops soft, the sound lost amongst the chaos on the ground as T'ii reaches, falters; as above Bandeleth's own reach is for nought, as Aevryscienth is caught by Ysvarth once more. Elder bronze falls too but solo, sorrowful; his wings still blaze with sullen prairie-fire as he spirals down to land, away, awash in melancholy. T'ii, too, flies solo: he finds himself a handy corner, absconds with himself to a handsy corner of the ground weyrs, dark; eventually he re-emerges to rally his lifemate, to fall full force into the chaos of the comet's fall.

** Rhaeyn just set the @party! Type @party to check it out! **
Ysvarth has claimed Aevryscienth as his own, while the skies fall: Crom's destruction has arrived, and Hannah has accused a Newtimer of stealing at High Reaches… @go High Reaches, lc, kitchen, cellars to join in on the mayhem!
— entered by Rhaeyn on 2013-05-06 20:12 MOO Time. (26 seconds)

Add a New Comment