Who

T'ral, Esanth, Z'bor, Ozriath, Kultir, S'yn, Iaxryth

What

Young men move in packs.

When

It is noon of the seventh day of the eleventh month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

t-ral_default.jpg esanth_default.jpg z-bor_default.jpg ozriath_default.jpg kultir_default.jpg s-yn_default.jpg iaxryth_default.jpg

beach.jpg

Beach

An eerie mirror, the glass-quiet Sea of Azov: the clear waters stretch along the dark-pebbled shores, and along this narrow beach. Here the faintest lap of waves belies the calm beyond; here the rocks have been ground down into finest, softest sand - those observant would mark upon the similarity between it and the sands of the hatching grounds. The soft sand soaks up summer sunlight as a sponge; painfully hot during the warmer months, it is only truly pleasant at wintertime. Rocks rise to east and west, lichen-limned and green against the abyssal darkness of stone.

It is the thirty-seventh day of Spring and 101 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


There's a very slight breeze on the water, but it does little to cool the skin. The blistering Southern heat finds Z'bor and his green enjoying a day off at the beach. Ozriath is stretched across the dark sand, sound asleep as she bathes in the sun. Looking maybe just a tad smidgen brighter than usual. Z'bor, is a figure weaving in and out of the waves as he swims, both cooling off and getting part of his daily workout. The beach is quiet, peaceful and desperately in need of some disruption.

Esanth alights on the beach with a grating bellow of greeting for Ozriath that abruptly shifts volume as the dusty blue realizes she's asleep. Whoops. T'ral slips down off of Esanth's neck and makes quick work of the stocky dragon's straps. Rider and dragon commune for a moment and then Esanth is off, headed for the water. Bound, bound, bound… SPLASH! T'ral unhooks his pack and gitar case before going over the straps carefully, hand over hand. Rolled, bundled and lofted onto his shoulder with a grunt, T'ral, pack, case and straps in hands, traipses up the beach to his favorite spot. A boulder that, with some effort, makes a great sunshelter. Grinning out at Z'bor in the waves, the bluerider raises a hand in greeting as he sets up for a hard-won afternoon of not a damn thing.

Z'bor doesn't let the addition of company slow him down. He has ten more laps to go. He gives T'ral a wave back and makes sure to skirt the large bulk of Esanth playing in the water. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Breathe. Ozriath however, isn't sleeping so soundly that she doesn't notice the arrival of Esanth and T'ral. She bugles a sleepy hello to the blue in the water, and then gets up, stretching like a feline. She then prowls over to T'ral, curious at what the rider might be up to. She gives him a solid nudge on the shoulder and a whuffle of hello before sniffing at T'ral.

T'ral grins, buckling a bit at the friendly nudge, reaching up to scratch under Ozriath's chin. "Afternoon Ozriath. What's yours up to?" Not expecting an answer, just making chitchat. "Mind holding your wing up while I get shade set up," he lifts an arm to demonstrate. Out of the pack come stakes made of whatever passes for bamboo on Pern that fit together. T'ral assembles them and sets them in crevices in the boulder. It's like they were MADE for this. The sheet rumbles softly in the breeze that flows across the sand, hot as breath. Shade accomplished, the bluerider begins setting up the nest where he plans to park it for TWO WHOLE candlemarks. And hopefully, in this heat, the candle melts before the marks are counted. Because that's how that works, he'd have more time that way, right?

Ozriath indulges T'ral and spreads her wing, the newly healed one a that, and seems to hold it well for the duration. When T'ral has his shade accomplished, she snaps her wing shut and settles down near the bluerider to watch Esanth and her own in the water. She rumbles happily, a type of reply and watches. Z'bor is now half way through his last laps. He'll be on beach soon.

Esanth, out in the water swims up upon Z'bor and keeps pace with him. Totally not interfering with the currents the rider swims through. Nope. Not Esanth. And totally not his rider's idea either. Jets of airs spume from Esanth's nostrils as he takes a breath before submerging again. "Thanks Ozriath," he looks up at the extended spar and gives it a critical once-over, shading his eyes with a hand despite the shade the outstretched wing is providing. He watches closely how she stretches it and moves. She's not guarding or hesitating. Good. He nods. Blanket now spread. Mid-day repast deployed. Drinks uncoupled. Something icy (thanks Ice Fields!) and alcoholic (thanks Dione) and delicious. Stripping down to trunks, T'ral folds his clothes into his pack and settles down to eat. Chewing idly, sandwich held at an arrested height as he fishes one-handed in his pack for his notebook and a stylus.

It is not long before Z'bor is dragging himself out of the water. He stands just at the edge of the water and wipes the rivulets streaming from the top of his head away. He moves further up onto the beach and heads for his green and T'ral. He scoops up his towel and rucksack along the way. As he approaches he gives a wave. He's greeted with a rumble by Ozriath and he pats her on the nose when he gets there. "Hey there, Goose." He says lightly, a smile on his face.

T'ral, setting into his meal and scribbling something in the little book, chews, swallows and tosses a chin at a section of blanket. "Dry off and help yourself." Out in the water, Esanth, now that he's sans rider to cavort with heads out further, breaching periodically in dramatic arcs of spray and flared wings. He's having a big time. Back at the beach, there's food and drink aplenty. "Ozriath's looking fit." T'ral finishes scribbling and marks his place, closing the little book over his finger.

Z'bor towels off quickly and joins T'ral on the blanket. No food for him just yet though. "She's getting stronger every day. We've been put back on light duty then in a few sevendays we'll be back to full time. She's happy about it. I think being grounded nearly drove us both mad. And it couldn't have happened soon enough." He chuckles and nods his head towards the green. "I think she may be looking a little brighter…."

T'ral squints at the lovely green, "Limited duty is… trying." Cocking his head this way and that, he peers at the lovely green. 'Huh,' he grunts, "I thought it was just the sun, but… I think you're right." He squnches his face and chuckles. Oh. Would Esanth chase? The blue certainly liked Ozriath. T'ral's ears ears color a bit. "I mean, of course you're right. When you think?" Just a casual conversation between friends who may be drilling one another soon. That's all. T'ral goes for his drink, adam's apple working as he takes some long swallows. "Sure you're not thirsty?" he gestures at a lidded ceramic jar, dark with condendsation.

Z'bor turns a slight shade of red as his mind takes the same train of thought as T'ral's. "Soon I think, within the month." He meanders over to the jar and pours himself a drink, careful not to get the sand on his feet all over the blanket. He sends a look to his beautiful green who lays there grooming herself. He brushes the sand off his feet and claims a spot near T'ral, smacking his lips in appriciation at the taste of the drink. "You off today too?" He asks, he'd not seen much of his friend lately. He smiles at T'ral.

"Yup. First restday in…" he blinks, incredulous. "A month? I don't really remember," and because it's him, he adds, "Regular remember, not," he waves a hand around his brow, "You know." At Z'bor's estimate T'ral nods, sitting back against the warm stone at his back, book put aside. "What's she like proddy? Or, uh," heh, he laughs, "You." These are things he should know, right? The frustration of losing a flight was … unpleasant to be sure. T'ral's reasonably sure it's a fair trade for the days/weeks of proddiness he'd observed. Maybe Z'bor was lucky, maybe he was one of those who as all ebullient and happy.

Z'bor chuckles at T'ral's explination of which 'remember' he meant. He sips at his drink and nearly chokes on it when T'ral asks him about proddy time. "Uh…" He begins, turning a violent shade of puce. "She… is amorous, as am I, but it's ten fold when she's proddy." He hopes that's enough of an explanation… he turns into a love bug on steriods. That's a good one right? He leans against one of the boulders and darts a glance at T'ral.

T'ral's brow furrows, "Cuddly or more…" he makes grabby, gimmegimme hands. What? This is important to know. Z'bor's a big guy and while T'ral's reasonably certain he could take the man in a fight (in his estimation the friendly rider has lots of tells) and he needed to know what kind of line to be drawing over the next several sevens. The bluerider's eyes are crinkled at the edges. "So glad I don't have to deal with that."

Z'bor shrugs while raising a brow at T'ral. "Depends. Mostly, it's like falling madly in love with every single person you meet and having all the instincts that go with it." Watch out for a very overly affectionate Z'bor, Goose! He drinks again and looks out to the waves to watch Esanth swim. He looks back at T'ral with a slightly weird look on his face. He jerks his head towards the blue. "Think he'll chase?" He asks, and hey, it's a viable question to ask considering their friendship.

"Oh, great." T'ral rolls his eyes and then pauses, tapping his forefinger against pursed lips. This might be advantageous somehow. Not that he'd exploit a friend and wingmate. No. Noooo. Not T'ral. He looks out at Esanth who's still jumping and diving, splashing. His brow furrows, "I couldn't tell you," he shrugs, not enough data. "The only green he's shown any interest in is Liareth, Kyara's, out of Igen." He pauses to think again, "But he might pay more attention when she gets closer." He shrugs, looking at Z'bor, eyes widening, No idea, says the look. "Why? What's that look?"

"What look?" Z'bor asks, running his hands through his hair. Even though he'd given a look, he'd been unawares of it, weird as it was. As to the draconic pair with them, Z'bor shrugs. They'd just have to see what happens. He takes a long drink out of his mug and looks back out at the water. Ozriath now heaves her weight up and ambles down to the water as well. She enters it daintily before tearing through the shallows like a playful puppy.

T'ral squints, grinning at Z'bor a long moment to see if he can assess whether Z'bor is having him on or not. He decides the latter and watches as Ozriath heads out the the water. He laughs at her playful-puppy romping. Esanth surfacing to bellow at the little green from where he's rolling and diving out in the waves. "How much longer on light duty?"

"Couple of sevendays, maybe less. She healed up right well, the healers were quite impressed and happy." Z'bor laughs himself when Ozriath begins cavorting amongst the waves. When Esanth surfaces and bellows at her, she warbles in response and just about glomps the blue as she cavorts around. Water sprays around her as she mimes chasing fish.

T'ral gets back to his sandwich, gesturing again at the food for Z'bor to help himself as he munches, watching the dragons sport. Esanth submerges, staying under as long as he can before emerging from the waves, wings flaring, shedding water in a streamers of spray! RAWR!

Ozriath shields herself from most of the spray before diving out to deeper depths. She rumbles at Esanth and frolics through the waves like an otter, swimming circles around Esanth and playfully nipping at his heels before darting away. Z'bor chuckles and raises his drink to T'ral, jerking his head towards the dragon play. "And this is how it starts…." He gives a wide cheshire grin and sips from his cup, again waving off the food. "Ate before we came down to the beach. Thanks anyhow." He gestures at T'ral. "What do you have going there?" He asks… not about the sandwich.

Esanth rolls, keeping Ozriath and her nipping jaws in sight then swims after her, his lines suited just as well to swimming as to flying, she doesn't get much of a lead before he's after her. T'ral nods in sage agreement. "Yup." There's a brief uncharitable flare of relief, he'd not really wanted to share the melon salad. "Hmmm?" he briefly furrows his brow at Z'bor before, "Oh, the book? Just notes. Lyrics. Ideas." Z'bor's seen the book before. Out in the jungle when they'd found remnants of smugglers' crates.

Z'bor takes a closer look at the book and nods. "Ah, yes, I remember that book now." He smiles at T'ral, and there's some nostalgia there. They'd had a couple of rough adventures, Z'bor has scars for trophies, even though they were the result of him being a complete dumb ass. He chuckles at the thought. Out in the waves, Ozriath manages to keep a slight lead on Esanth playfully weaving back and forth just out of reach.

She manages to keep a slight lead on Esanth because he's allowing it. Or is he? You never wanted someone to know you were letting them win. The dragons are closely matched for speed, if not size. The blue dives deep, the grinding noises he makes carrying through the dark water. He picks up the book and opens to an empty page, silverstick poised as he looks as Z'bor, "You been up to the Ice Fields yet?" Ozriath probably wasn't on hauling duty, but she might be ferrying personnel. T'ral and Esanth had done both. A lot of both. "There's a HUGE cavern of heated water. Saw it last time I was down."

Z'bor shakes his head. "We've been weyrbound so far. I've been hearing some rumors from there. How hot is the water?" Z'bor's eyes light up as he takes interest in the topic at hand. "What's it look like?" Ozriath doubles back and dives below, chasing after Esanth gracefully… or so it seems. She erupts from the water, seconds later, leaping into a graceful dive before disappearing once more.

"Like the baths," so, pretty hot. Hotter deep down. "The contrast is weird. It's so cold and then WHAM," T'ral punches the air, "It's like you're back in Southern. My hair froze." That may not seem to follow all that well. Esanth, doesn't give chase, he swims deeper.

"I may have to see this for myself." Z'bor says and cracks a grin. "Sounds eerie and fun." He leans back and takes a long draw off his drink. Ozriath surfaces, paddling around like a playfull canine. She's in an odd mood. Z'bor tries to push her distracting thoughts out of his mind.

"The ice caves are," T'ral's eyes are wide, wonderstruck, "They're white and blue and green and the strangest patterns. You wouldn't think it could be so beautiful." His eyebrows climb, looking into the middle distance, "Balls cold, though. Miserable. It's a good thing those springs are there." His brow furrows, "I really don't know what Leadership was so hot to do there in the first place. Did Q'fex ever say anything about it?" Z'bor and Ozriath had been cooped up in the infirmary for ages with Q'fex and Kraakenaeth… a venture of this magnitude HAD to have spanned Q'fex's tenure. Right?

Z'bor sits and thinks for a moment. He had indeed been holed up with Q'fex and his for quite some time. "I don't think he ever mentioned anything about it to me. And really, why would he?" Z'bor laughs. "I'd like to go up and see them none the less though. Something like that sounds like it'd be worth the cold."

A large but lithe shadow passes over the sun to silhouette across the sand as a lean, coppery bronze form glides through the humid air to spiral downward. Iaxryth is devoid of straps and his rider is garbed in comfortable garb after the morning drills and an early lunch after them. The dragon backwings lightly for his size onto the beach and lets S'yn disembark before slithering into the rolling surf to join the other dragons among the saline waters, leaving the young rider squinting about briefly for familiar faces and sauntering toward the first one he happens to see: T'ral. Despite the Harper's memory loss the youth seems to want to attempt keeping that friendship alive, even if he's feeling that awkwardness. "Hey." Master of eloquence, this one.

T'ral nods sobering, chewing and swallowing slowly, brows knitting briefly, "He did, uh, have other things on his mind." Kraakenaeth. A close-to-dying-on-any-given-day Kraakenaeth. Way to bring it down, T'ral. Oh, good. S'yn. The bluerider smiles aroun, "S'yn! Come pull up some blanket." He nods at the food, "And help yourself. How's Iaxryth?" Chomp.

Z'bor sobers as the conversation goes on. "Aye, that he did." As S'yn approaches, Z'bor shades his eyes, effectively going into a salute. "Sir." He says in way of greeting. Ozriath swims circles around the newcomer, bugling a hello.

Kultir is making his way down the beach from the jungle where an entrance is more easily made up by the cove as he moves back toward the Weyr. The young tracker is frowning at the strands of sinew as deft fingers untie and tuck all the metal bits of his snares into a pocket on the front of his snug-fitting vest. Hearing larger splashes in the water than he's used to, he glances up and notices the dragons sporting in the water before his eyes dart around to see which riders are on the beach today. Seeing a few that he recognizes, even from this distance, he waits till he reaches easier communication distance before hailing the three men settled on the blanket. "Afternoon, riders." A generic and rather bland greeting but it covers all colors and is still respectful though his smile is not as cool as the generic greeting could be interpreted.

S'yn saunters in with that rolling, gangly stride that constantly sprouting limbs tend to engender, his expression rather relaxed with a smile for a change rather than that thoughtfully brooding expression he seems to so frequently hold. Since T'ral seems willing to invite him into the fold he's happy to comply and settles onto the offered swath of fabric to curl his arms around his legs, knees bent and giving him almost an N shape. "Eh, no salutes. Just Sy." All this formality is for the avians. Kultir's technically respectful greeting earns a mock scowl. "What'd I say?" His chiding is largely with humor, however as he quirks an eyebrow at the tracker. Iaxryth for his part could care less about the formalities of color and rank, for there is a lithe green dancing through the surf and his attention is duly devoted to her now that she's been spied, resulting in the lithe dragon cutting through the current to catch up to the cavorting creature and warble a greeting as he shows off his glistening hide.

The bluerider rolls his eyes expressively and scoots over. "FINE. Come on. You too." He grins up at Kultir but then there's an assessing look, squinting at the repast he'd put out before making a possessive cage of arms, mantling, over the food near him. MINE. "There's probably enough for everybody," eying Kultir, the tracker could put it away and S'yn… S'yn was a teenaged boy. Enough said. Not that any of them were far from their teens. "Beauregard makes a helluva picnic." He gestures with his sandwich between them, "You'll have to armwrestle for the cake though, only one of those left." T'ral's arm curls protectively around the one he's got, mock-glowering at the others.

Z'bor grins. "Alright then Sy. Z'bor." He raises his glass in greeting and then also waves brightly at Kultir. "Hey there friend." He scoots a bit to make room, but not so much that he gives up his boulder back rest. He holds up his hands when T'ral mentions food again. "Have at guys, I ate earlier." Ozriath darts around the bronze like a fish nipping playfully at his hide, fiesty in manner. And where did Esanth go?!?

Kultir tosses the shredded sinew away as the last bright bit of metal is removed from the snarled snare and tucks it into his vest pocket. His amber eyes sparkle with mischief as his bronzeriding little brother and crouches down at the edge of the blanket. T'ral's manteling over the food gets a perfectly innocent look from the tracker though his lips quirk in a smile at the jibe about his appetite. "Yeah, yeah … I know but I'm not going to get called out just because you don't want salutes, little brother." He claps the younger man on the shoulder with brotherly affection before unclipping his pack and letting it slip from his shoulders. "Don't worry, T'ral. I've got a bit of rations in my pack still and I can always go snag a fish or something from a tidepool if I get really hungry." Z'bor's greeting receives a smile and nod as he settles into the slightly larger opening and leans a shoulder against the boulder next to the greenrider. "Afternoon, Z'bor."

A soft snort issues from the young bronzerider at the zealous guarding of the picnic laid before them. "I ate before I came. Pretty sure I filled both hollow legs." S'yn's thumps his legs with his palms which produces a solid sound to prove they aren't hollow any longer. At least for a few candlemarks. The cake does net a long look before the youth decides that the cake is a lie and avoids it altogether in favor of socializing. "Eh, I'm not telling you not to salute them, just not me." The smack on the shoulder earns the tracker a brotherly shoulder punch before the kid settles down amicably. "What'd ya haul?" The pack is eyed curiously. Iaxryth is all too willing to flirt with the luscious beauty cavorting alongside him, trilling adoringly in her direction and utterly oblivious of his blue clutchmate, wherever that rusty bucket went. Wings and tail stretch out in attempted caresses, seeing just how friendly Ozriath will allow him to be.

Polishing off his sandwich and with a few pointed looks about, T'ral waves Kultir on, "All yours. Oh," he leans forward and snags a redfruit, "Except that." He parks it in his teeth, sucking at the juice, "Hamnn mee nat ksss." He says, rearranging his end of the blankets. Esanth has swum deep, relaying images to Ozriath of a sunken boat, rotted structure a kelp tangled skeleton in the depths, mysterious and strange. Iaxryth's labrynthine stacks are illuminated briefly when all of the orreries therein spin to life, celestial bodies aglow with Esanth's greeting.

"Hand you what, Goose?" Z'bor says grinning and raising a brow. He gives Kultir a friendly sock on the shoulder as the hunter settles near him. The greenrider settles in to a bubble of comfort. Guy time. It's awesome. Ozriath however, seems to be playing the field. She sends her excitement about the ship to Esanth, her mind invading his with the smell of salt on the wind and dolphins playing on the surface. On the actual surface, she darts in and becomes adjacent to Iaxryth and brushes against him as she glides by, sending laughter into his mind in a wave of riotous bubbles.

Kultir snorts at S'yn's assertion that his hollow legs are full for the moment before grimacing at the question. "Nothing. Pulling lines since I'm headed out on a long hunt. Gonna be gone seven or so days so no sense letting the carcasses rot in the snares." He smiles but shakes his head at the bluerider's unintelligible sounds and reaches for one of the items in the picnic lunch to munch on, the hunter is always hungry as two of the others already know but he manages not to scarf it down as if he's starving. "Thanks." The sock on the shoulder by S'yn was totally expected, they are brothers after all, but the one from the greenrider is a bit of a surprise though a pleasant one as the older man gets a lopsided smile of curiosity. "At least you understood part of it. I grew up around Keroonians who could barely string two intelligible words together and still didn't get anything out of that."

"Where?" It's a reasonable question and there is admittedly a tiny tinge or concern in the teenager's voice for his adopted older brother, though he doesn't really show it. That'd be unmanly, that would. The discussion about what the bluerider asked for earns a bit of a quirked lip smile from S'yn, who reaches for a napkin and offers it to T'ral. "That's my best guess, anyway." I mean, there is juice dribbling down the former Harper's face. It's at least a sensible notion. A waft of fragrant, aged smoke of unfamiliar variety wafts across Iaxryth's mindscape as Esanth brings that curious object to his attention, a rustle of pages seeming to indicate the bronze looking up some reference before the discovery is deemed less interesting than the lithesome green, who gets a tickle of spiced incense and a sense of warm wax dribbled teasingly along those neckridges as she brushes alongside him. Gentleman and a scholar? Perhaps; or maybe just classy enough to get him in trouble.

"Ksss. KSSS." Slurp. Crunch. T'ral bites the redfruit out of his mouth and catches it in his hand, "Case." Zero's the closest, and the bluerider tosses a chin at the case beyond the picnic basket. T'ral would get the case himself of course, but not when he has roadies. Plus, he's still arranging things to his liking. He snags the napkin from S'yn, "Thanks," and wipes his beard carefully with the thoughtfully -if incorrectly- provided napkin. He nods at S'yn's question to Kultir, "Up to the Ice Hold?" T'ral's dark eyes flicker up, then unfocus as, "Whoa. There's a ship down there." He looks off to the water, blinking. Maybe he knew it before, maybe not.

Z'bor chuckles and grabs the case, handing it to T'ral with a grunt. He's keeping tabs on the conversation between Kultir and S'yn, but he has nothing to add to it…for now, so he just leans back again and follows chatter. Ozriath turns and glides by Iaxryth again, this time rubbing up against him like a feline would it's master. Then she darts away again, diving beneath the waves like the dolphins in her sending to Esanth. Her laughter bubbling through to both males, high and playful and full of mirth.

"No, thank Faranth. I'm not at the new Hold this sevenday. Up on the grasslands toward the foothills. Going after some caprines and maybe a porcine or two, depends on how their breeding season went whether I'll take them or not." Kultir claps his younger friend on the shoulder, trying to alleviate the youth's concern. He watches as the bronzerider offers the napkin and shrugs slightly. "I suppose it's a possibility. Kinda why mother would smack me in the head for talking with my mouth full." The tracker chuckles softly as he munches on the pastry. "Oh, case … thought you were asking for a kiss there, T'ral." His amber eyes twinkle with mischief at the bluerider as the greenrider hands the case over, curiosity taking over that mischief.

Hey, it's the thought that counts, right? S'yn takes the napkin being accepted as at least a useful offering, even if not the intended one as the request is soon clarified. Oh, well. "Need a lift?" This inquiry is directed at Kultir, since he knows that's a goodly hike and figures he can spare his brother the trouble — not to mention reduce the required rations packed — by offering. The tracker's remark earns a quickly suppressed snort of clearly boyish amusement, the rider biting his lower lip to keep from sniggering at the mental image that pops to mind. Then he realizes that Iaxryth is flirting with the greenrider's dragon and that makes his stomach flip with nervousness, which promptly sobers him. Ahem. "A ship?" Convenient change of subject! Iaxryth surfaces long enough to draw in a deep lungful of air before chasing after that undulating form, eyes whirling with flecks of amethyst as he leers at those shifting flanks, finding those far more intriguing than that decrepit old boat. No pleasure in that salvage.

T'ral takes the case carefully, lifting it with a brace of arms over the heads of the others. "Thanks. Any requests?" From Zero, since he handed the gitar over. If not, T'ral will just noodle and keep up on the chitchat. He and the greenrider had done it often enough during Ozriath's rehab. T'ral settles the into his lap and flicks the latches open. He looks up at Kultir, a thought striking him, "Ever go hunting with any of the mountainfolk?" The case creeaks open and then with some half-muted thrums and some shuffling, yields T'ral's trusty gitar. It has an obvious repair on the soundingboard -a big patch of paler wood- that T'ral's fingers trace momentarily before shifts the empty case off to the side and settles the gitar back, "Awww. That's sweet, Kultir, and you're cute and all, but…" he grins as he bends his head to tune up. T'ral's fingers trip across the strings as tunes, pausing to adjust, strum, listen, "Yeah, ask Iaxryth," Adjust, strum, listen, "There's a wreck down there. Creepy fish. Maybe treasure," he brow waggles, not really believing it. That wreck was so old, shipfi-er… dolphins had probably already scoured it. Esanth keeps up the flow of mysterious images, strange leering fish and gleams of white amidst the colorful plants.

The mixture of Kultir's earlier retort about kisses and T'ral's reply have Z'bor laughing heartily, considering how close Ozriath is to flying, this subject matter is hilarious to the greenrider.. He takes a long draw off his drink when the laughter finally peters out. Ozriath uses her avian skills to dart around in the water like a fish. She too emits images of the eerie ship. It keeps her attention for a few moments, but then she's bored with it. She wants to play. When she can reach Esanth she tags his hind flank and swerves off, speeding past Iaxryth whom she wriggles playfully at and races for the surface.

Kultir grins at his brother and shakes his head. "Thanks but we're taking a wagon for toting the carcasses and the supplies we'll need. I got Daren coming this time since his firelizards are trained to go to specific people if we need help." The young tracker doesn't have anything he cares to hear right off hand but nods to the bluerider. "I have, got two on this trip, in fact. Some of the best hunters I've come across since I've been down here, can't track worth squat though." He gives a quizzical shrug as that thought confuses him. At the bluerider's retort and the greenrider's hearty laughter, the tracker mimes throwing something at T'ral as he laughs and shakes his head. "Hey, I kiss pretty good. Just ask Kalea." A mocking leer is given to the bluerider, his eyes sparkling with humor as he teases the other man.

For someone who was raised — at least for a while — by a Harper and has and fostered sibling pursuing the same path, S'yn has surprisingly few requests for music. That is to say he doesn't voice any, content with whatever the former Harper deigns to entertain them with. "Least you're being smart about it." There is a little scowl for the last time the tracker was gone without a suitable member having trained fire-lizards. His own two are nowhere in evidence, no doubt off in some mischief or another quite happily on their own today. Amber eyes go out of focus as he reaches for Iaxryth in inquiry of that mysterious ship and instead gets a mindful of lewd thoughts and imagery for his trouble, making him stiffen in surprise as the dragon rises to the challenge that nimble green offers and wheels about beneath the waves to pursue her eagerly, the ship utterly discarded. The game is afoot, after all!

Without a specific request, T'ral sits back against the warm stone, one knee up, the heel of one foot wedged into the arch of the other making a rest for the gitar. His hands pick out a cascading tune, dark and bright, that he'll occasionally stop to peer at the frets and his traitor fingers before resuming. He grins lopsided at Z'bor and the dark eyes travel back to Kultir, brows furrowed, "How do you hunt without tracking?" Seems… strange to him too. He pauses in his playing and puts a hand on Kultir's knee, "Awww, Kultir," T'ral nods indulgently, "Of course you do." He nods at S'yn, lips pursed seriously, nodding, "Of course he does." He sits back into his perch dark eyes twinkling at his wingmate. "Hey, S'yn," T'ral cocks his head at the young man when he stiffens momentarily. Huh. "How's that new Wingleader?" Deep beneath the waves… Tag? Oh. It's on now. Esanth is IT and darts after the little green, stardusted hide shimmering in the sparse shafts of light that filter intermittently into the depths. Iax isn't spared, he'll get tagged just as readily as Ozriath if the coppery bronze doesn't keep a sharp eye out.

There are advantages to being small! Ozriath shoots forward her bubbling laughter trailing through the minds of those behind her. She darts about, adding intrigue to the game. When she reaches the surface she rumbles a challenges and darts off, swimming circles while she waits for blue and bronze to emerge. Z'bor on the other hand taps out a beat on his thighs to T'ral's song, mahaps a little off, but servicable. He can't stop chuckling at the banter around him.

Kultir settles back and listens to the music, still laughing softly at the teasing the bluerider offers him in return, his glance going to the greenrider as the older man taps out the beat of the music on his thigh. Noting the stiffening of the bronzerider, he wonders what is going on in his younger friend's head but doesn't ask for now, perhaps later when they are alone. The tracker shrugs at the former Harper's question. "No idea, but they do … somehow." Gazing out at the rippling water, he's totally oblivious to the game of tag going on beneath those waves, he simply enjoying the sparkling of the sun on the waves and munching absently on the crunchy veggies included in the picnic.

The bright interlude would normally be quite enjoyable for S'yn — perhaps not the most musical ear, but at least appreciative of a good lyrical romp — but Iaxryth proves momentarily distracting as the bronze expresses a great deal of interest for that flighty form. He manages to pull himself free of that distraction after a few awkward moments, though T'ral's music seems like a good cover for his lapse in conversation. "Wingleader?" Fogged brain takes a moment to cogitate the inquiry before those two hemispheres crash together and sense is made. "Oh! S'fine." How descriptive. The idea of hunting without tracking sort of percolates as a topic of conversation and he leans in to listen and perhaps on occasion contribute to the dialog as it suits him. Iaxryth for his part is happy to play tag with Ozriath and dodge dragon with Esanth, since the chase is always the best part, the catch always where things get just a bit more dull. Rukbat meanwhile just watches the gaggle of friends as it gradually descends in the azure sky, beaming brightly down on their rousing rapport and those dragon filled waves, a non-partisan observer even as that fellowship eventually draws to a satisfying close as the afternoon wears on toward evening.

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