Who

Diem, K'vre

What

Igen's leadership flight of Turn Sixteen bloodies more of Igen's sand than not. The aftermath finds Diem and K'vre in various states of disrepair. Spoiler alert: they're still better off than The Pit.

flight aftermath

When

It is late evening of the twenty-second day of the twelfth month of the sixteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

The Pit, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 10 May 2019 05:00

 

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There is blood, torn wings, broken bones — it's an all out battle royale as Zsaviranth leads her suitors on an aggressive chase.


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The Pit

One does not enter The Pit so much as descend into it. Why else the name? The Steen ancestors paid for their square footage with sweat, excavating the area and building curved walls up around it. Wide, smooth steps descend into a large entry area that overlooks the pit and galleries. Floors, ceilings and walls have been whitewashed with limestone paste, increasing the amount of light reflected back from the numerous glow baskets hung on the walls. A rounded doorway to the right leads one into the business' "office", which is furnished in spartan style: cushions for kneeling or sitting upon, a desk that's low to the ground constructed of the same whitewashed stone as the rest of the building, and niches carved out of the walls themselves for decorative pieces. Here is a small sculpture of men wrestling, there is a wooden carving of a champion with a foot upon his vanquished foe.

Continuing on through the lobby brings one to another set of six stairs that descend into the galleries surrounding the sand-filled pits. A low wall separates audience from combatants, but even at its highest point, those in the galleries are never more than twenty feet away from the action. The sand is raked daily, with fresh sand added whenever the blood to soil ratio becomes too great.


Tension has been building for the better part of a sevenday as Igen's senior queen approaches her time. Even the gelid winter climate of the desert Weyr is not enough to quell the fiery dragon lust that radiates from its source and, finally, without warning, Zsaviranth takes to the pens at sundown to blood. Bronzes and browns immediately flock to her side while their counterparts desperately search for the Weyrwoman — where is she? Deep in the Bazaar and in attendance at the Pit during one of the Steens' most active nights they've had all Turn. With tension as high as it's been throughout Igen, it's no wonder that tonight is a packed house with all the extra dragonriders now closing in on the hidden Weyrwoman amongst the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. As Zsaviranth takes to the sky, people get shoved. Dragons get clawed. Fights break out both underground and in the sky. There is blood, torn wings, broken bones — it's an all out battle royale as Zsaviranth leads her suitors on an aggressive chase. Bronze and brownriders brawl, and Diem is right in the thick of everything. When she gets shoved hard, it's then that she gets pulled to safety and into the arms of the winner, Igen's Weyrleader.

What happens afterward is a blur of time, for when Diem stirs awake, the Pit is silent and empty. That is, except for her and the victor. The Weyrwoman's dress has been torn and she's barefoot, her hair mussed, and she aches all over. The Pit is not heated and it's cold, especially during this winter evening. Diem blinks awake and thinks she sees a puff of her breath upon the cold air that causes her entire body to shiver. And then? She gasps when she feels a surge of stinging pain after moving her ankle.

It is a night for memory, except that memories are blessedly few and far between. Earlier, the sense of having been elsewhere, doing good work, guarding, protecting, engaging in active mitigation where vulnerable populations exist. And then… then the unexpected: a lifemate that so frequently refuses to chase gold all but bucking his rider off mid-air to go after the pack, late to a party that he has never been properly invited to. Perhaps it's the bloodlust rising in the air that attracts the ruthless violence of a dragon uncouth and unlettered, raw in his desire for — for something beyond what he has allowed to come to his claws to this point. By the time he claims Zsaviranth for his own, he is streaming ichor and rage, having dispatched no fewer than three of his own competition. To the victor goes the spoils, and the flight blazes into the midnight air streaming as many casualties as a threadfall.

It is a unique thing to awaken with only fragments. The memory of a packed house, of a violent brawl of his own: the lanky blonde-headed man isn't violent by nature but is by training and skill a wolf among the desert's coyotes. His thirst slaked not in blood but in victory, and in the sheltering of another in his arms, unstrung in his lifemate's soul splintering against the loveliness of Zsaviranth… it is a memory to be sure, but not one given to this one, not yet. Igen's Weyrleader opens his eyes when the woman pulled against him stirs, and his eyes are slate-blue, his name K'vre. "Diem?" he half-croaks, leaning forward. He's lost half his shirt — the entire left arm has been ripped off, and some of the underlying as well — and the brownrider shivers as he registers — as he registers. To say those blue eyes widen… "Diem." His voice is unstrung, raw, rough from having not slept the night before and now only having this scant time to rest in the aftermath.

The only source of heat against her exposed skin is from K'vre as Diem is still kept close to him. When he says her name in that familiar tone she recognizes after every leadership flight, she winces ever slightly. "Hi." Such eloquence. In the moment, she stirs again and can feel every burning sensation her leg and ankle has to offer — her skin is scraped in certain places and that ankle of hers is looking rather swollen. It's not normal to say the very least. Already she feels more like herself now that Zsaviranth has been caught by none other than brown Rhovvth, the dragn that elevated his rider to the rank of Weyrleader. Diem is in no hurry to move and shamelessly uses K'vre for his body heat as the cold air has settled around them. For the most part, she is covered. Her dress is badly torn, though, and it looks as if she lost some jewelry. "K'vre." She has enough of her senses to recognize the brownrider next to her.

And in this moment, K'vre is the most eloquent. "Fuck." He hasn't figured out yet that Diem is injured — he's not that aware yet. She's likely close enough to feel his heart hammering; if she is very lucky, she might just stroke out her new weyrleader and get to rule the weyr as Diem-Tyrant. No? "It's so cold," he says, the arm more-or-less slung around Diem tightening; then his hand moving, the brownrider finally starting to stir enough to contemplate getting up. "Are you okay?" he asks, suddenly concerned, shifting in a way that allows him to crane his head down to look at her. His eyes slip past her torn dress to her ankle, and he inhales sharply.

Diem should probably start making moves to get herself up and back to her weyr, but every attempt radiates pain in her ankle. "The Steens don't heat the arena." she winces when she makes an attempt to get up. A gasp follows and she decides to remain where she is, for rest and warmth. "I think my ankle is broken. Or very badly sprained…" She can't examine herself at the moment to check. "Summon the Steens." That seems to be his first official act as Weyrleader if he is apt to obey his Weyrwoman. "They'll fetch a healer." she winces again. "If it hurts to move, it'll hurt to walk."

To his credit, K'vre doesn't say a you don't say when Diem comments on the arena being not-heated; instead, he carefully extricates himself from the goldrider and groans, sitting up. He grimaces at his surroundings, be it the blood-soaked sand beneath them or the viewing galleries (blessedly vacant); they all receive the same gimlet glare as he pushes his way to his feet. "Fuck that," he says after only short consideration. "I'm getting you out of this place." His uneasiness within the Steen's confluence of power is very visible. "I can carry you out." Valiant or stubborn? Perhaps both. He straightens and stretches his back, ligaments stretching and joints crackling. "There is a healer enclave just without. We can get you there without needing beg assistance." Now he crouches down, his face serious — somber, under the beard, or whatever the fuck you'd call that growing on it, as if gauging her reaction before just going for throwing her over his shoulder like some kind of throwback second pass weyr-wildman.

At this point, Diem can be slung over K'vre's shoulder and she wouldn't care so long as he didn't disturb her ankle. The ankle that is practically flaming at this point. She's not very big, lucky for him. Pushing herself so that she's now upright, the goldrider looks down at the bloody bits of sand clinging to the front of her dress. "Is this yours?" Her tawny colored gaze casts up to the brownrider for any signs of blood on his skin and she then reaches for him with both arms so that he can lift her. "Or mine?" Honestly? She hasn't looked herself over since her throbbing ankle is starting to cloud her thoughts despite Zsviranth's reverie.

Well, then, it's happening. K'vre steels himself — he's had a rough last couple of days — and then eases his arms around Diem, saying only, "Sorry," as if he hadn't quite taken other liberties with the flesh that he's gathering now. He lifts her in a bridal carry with as minimal jostling as he can affect — because though a fireman's carry is more realistic, it's boring and Pern has telepathic fire-breathing dragons, we can stretch a little bit of realism here. "I'm sure some of it is mine," K'vre says, distracted; "My arm." There's a gash on his bare left arm, dried-blood and sand crusted over the cut. He doesn't seem to pay it too much mind. His steps are deliberate as he takes them away from the blood and sand of the cold Pit. "It was… mayhem." All the better reason to get Diem to a healer; his steps hasten. "Why is it always mayhem with you?" he murmurs, the first touch of something approximating warmth sounding in his tired baritone.

Diem was truly expecting to be carried out of the Pit over K'vre's shoulder and is pleasantly surprised when he carries her within his arms instead. She's held close to his chest, which she doesn't mind since it's currently freezing inside the arena. There's a shiver that grips her body very briefly and she wraps her arms around the brownrider's neck for both warmth and comfort. Her ankle is otherwise left alone and she can think of other things beside the pain for the moment. "Mayhem?" She sounds a little miffed. "Not always." Just most of the time, no big deal. "She's not normally this aggressive. The whole sevenday was… intense." Males, both dragons and riders, constantly posturing and pushing boundaries. "I've never been injured in a flight before. I hope she's okay, she hasn't said otherwise. Is Rhovvth…" She doesn't finish her sentence and rather turns to look at K'vre to see if there is any fresh blood near that beard of his.

"He's going to need a dragonhealer," K'vre says, coming more alert as they pass under the colonnades upholding the elite viewing balcony; they are almost out of Steen clutches, and the tension in his shoulders visibly decreases as the two of them escape. A brief commune with his lifemate has him saying only, wryly, "I don't think I could tear him away from her for the world, right now." There's no swamp to be found in Rhovvth's mindscape, but clear ocean reflecting a beautiful sky. It's something out of a storybook, and Rhovvth is hardly a storybook dragon. Kev will let him have his moment. "I'm fine." She'll feel his chuckle - it doesn't make it out as an actual noise. "I think the redfruit did more damage." A deliberate attempt at levity, or perhaps just some shared ground to re-orient upon, as they turn the first corner toward the neat Healer outpost settled as a tiny piece of serenity in this bloody segment of the bazaar.

"You know, come to think of it," Diem says after K'vre mentions redfruit. "I'm going to have to apologize to the Steens again. You know, because this is the second time I've wrecked their property." First it was the tea room a few Turns ago, now it's the damn Pit where they make most of their marks. It's their pride and joy! "I think we'll need to make a… diplomatic visit." Things to look forward to. A beat, "Maybe we should bring Nasrin with us since she's their kin. And they can't get mad at us with her around, right?" It's a jest, one that's followed by another wince as they both round the corner toward the Healer outpost. "Oh, and," The scrapes and cuts on her leg are really starting to sting now that the freezing cold is settling upon them, and Diem's breath hitches as a result. "Congratulations."

"They live in our weyr," how quickly does K'vre take possession — but then again, it's always been there, just not quite… so dominant. "If they want to continue to exist, I would recommend that they play nice with us." Spoken like a true fighting rider of Pern who faces certain death twice a seven, and perhaps an inkling of what might come forth in the future. But that is for other conversations, and with domestic diplomacy obviously Diem's, K'vre will focus in on what he can do: which in this case is ducking into the Healer enclave and seeing his weyrwoman properly repaired. But before that becomes an actual outcome, he pauses, and smiles at Diem, his expression almost… a little shy. "Thank you," he says, softly, and then forward causality reasserts itself, and things proceed as they well should: Diem patched up and seen to her weyr, and then - still half-shirtless - the new weyrleader of Igen turned out at a loss with himself, to wear away the wee hours of the morning and find a balance in the aftermath.

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