Winter in Igen is fairly cold during the day… and then it's night-time, and the cold falls in truth. It doesn't seem to bother K'vre too much, though he's got several layers underneath those worn leathers of his. He's sitting against Rhovvth, his attention turned upward toward the skies. The two of them are close to the spill of the only mounted glows by the Northern bowl-stretch, perhaps sitting in for the junior riders typically posted on elevator duty here. Kev doesn't seem to mind. Rhovvth reaches out from time to time, communicating with those who pass above, alert in a way he typically is not.

Part of learning to travel between is learning to travel at all different times of day. One of the Southern AWLMs has opted to take a small group of weyrlings to Igen Weyr, to properly build their catalog of mental images to pull from. It's not long before the handful or so of weyrlings and the AWLM pop out overhead, only to carve out a lazy circle as some lesson or another is relayed. The young dragons all issue their greetings as appropriate, including - or, perhaps, especially - Theidith. « Southern's duties to you! » This is announced boldly, as bright and robust as the jungle of her mind. They're skybound for a little while yet, but soon make a slow descent - to rest and to survey the lay of the land from the ground level.

The slate shades of Igen in evening are quite different than the verdant spreads of Southern; Rhovvth is rendered similarly, in velvet-touched darkness. Seawater and salt-spay, with just the hint of an inland bog: he's fairly pleased. « Aye, an' Igen's welcome to you, daughter of Southern, » he says. « But be warned, our senior's close tae risin', and if she starts at it, ye may not want to be here. » He doesn't seem too worried, but serves his duty regardless. Kev adjusts, smiling up at the sky as those dots resolve themselves as a memory of once-home.

In the spreading gloom, Theidith yet remains bright, though fortunately far from proddy-brightness. She wings down to a surprisingly nimble landing, though her diminutive stature doesn't hurt in that regard. « Your warning is well-heeded, » she replies, her tone somber, but ever-colored with confidence. « Though, I am told, I have some time yet before that is a true concern. » The vines encroach on that bog, just so; adapting and flourishing at the fringes, only to make an offering of flowers. Her rider, meanwhile, is in the process of checking everything - as she does. Straps. Helmet. Leathers. All of it. Only when she's satisfied does Ulrika unclip and dismount, the pair moving with a practiced ease that speaks well to their particular union. "Aye, there you are. Making friends already?" The Istan is good-naturedly suspicious - probably for good reason.

« Ye are a wee little thing, » Rhovvth says, lifting his head to examine the half-grown gold. « But ye don't look like a Southern gold. » What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Rhovvth? Nevermind: it's a compliment from this one, a hint of warmth - or mirth - in his whiskey-and-smoke voice. K'vre, meanwhile, hefts himself to his feet and calls, "Igen's favours," in greeting to the approaching gold-weyrling. "A bit of training?" he hazards, his eyes skipping past Ulrika to her lifemate.

« No, » Theidith replies with amusement, though she waits until Ulrika's rigged her helmet to the straps and stepped away before she makes her own approach to the brown. Her stride is stately, a measured thing that could easily turn into a march if left unchecked. « I am of Yorprith's line - and she is of the north. My sands-sister, she is the larger of us and properly Southern-grown. » Ulrika follows suit, drawing inexorably closer to the rider of the brown, though she - appropriately - offers a salute first and foremost. "Aye, Sir. They reckoned on giving us as much experience as they could today. This is our last stop before returning." Her expression is neutral, her tone matter-of-fact; tall and blonde, she probably looks more Northern than Southern herself, in truth. "How are you and yours this fine evening, Sir?"

« There was a Benden queen, once, at Southern. » Rhovvth's voice goes momentarily… wistful, as if the memory evokes some particular feeling. « She was of the North, but Southern. » Crags and thickness returns to his voice, the momentary lapse forgotten. « Barely bigger than I. » K'vre glances to his lifemate briefly, shakes his head and returns Ulrika's salute with the crispness of a Keroon parade-ground guard. Which he was, once upon a magic fairy-tale. "Good. She's not looking grey yet," he squints, "Not that I can tell. It's best when you don't wear them out early, in my experience." He reaches forward, extending a hand in a different kind of welcome: a handshake. "K'vre," he offers, "Rhovvth's. We are well, tonight." A little melancholic, but when aren't they?

Thoughtfully, Theidith extends a wing to consider the reach of it, then cranes her head as if to measure her tail, before looking to Rhovvth with that bright amusement again. « I am not so much larger than you, either, » she points out with a warble. Her wing folds back into position and she settles near the older dragon, poised - but confidently so, as if she belongs right where she settled. « Are you of here? » Ulrika dips her chin in appreciation of that salute, one corner of her mouth pulling as if to threaten a smile. It's deftly restrained, though, and she nods firmly. "Aye, Sir. Though, in truth? She's more like to make me grey than for it to be the other way around. She pushes, aye." The hand that's offered is taken with a firm grip. "Well met, Sir. Ulrika, Theidith's." And if she picks up on that melancholy? It's not remarked upon, though there is a momentary hardening of her expression in assessment. Instead, there's a sidelong look and a raised eyebrow to her lifemate, whose tail is snapping a bit behind her.

« Even smaller than you, I wager, » Rhovvth says, reduced to using REAL WORDS. The fuck is going on with that? « No, » he says then, the growl returning to his voice, but in laughter; « I'm quite bloody proper Southern, by ye're f… standards. » Politics. He HATES politics. "The push and the pull," K'vre says, as if it makes all the sense to him in the world. "Well-met, Ulrika. She's a fine young thing." It's acknowledgement and compliment to the gold, even as he re-orients himself and perhaps gives Rhovvth a touch of warning in one oblique look. The human lifts his hand to scratch idly along one side of his beard. "If you're trotting around Pern, you're close to your first live 'fall?" he questions. "Southern still running the queens wing, that is, I'm guessing?" He hasn't stayed abreast, other than knowing the weyr of his impression is sorely lacking in the riders department currently.

There's a very definite lifting of eyeridges at that and a questing-slash-questioning, « Rhovvth, please. Do not feel that you must bite your tongue in my presence. I do not bite - and mine has a mind that is- » she trails there, laughter bubbling up, but somehow stifled in that bog of his mind. Say no more; the former guard might appear to be a thing of duty and honor, but her bonded knows the truth. Theidith shifts her positioning slightly, forelimbs crossed and the weight of her regard settled comfortably on the brown. "Thank you, Sir. She's grateful for the praise and hopes to grow to be a fine old thing some day," sardonic, that. "And, aye, Sir. We've thrown our share of firestone sacks and, aye, I reckon they'll need us to help with the rest to get them to riders in 'Fall proper." There's another confirming nod for his other query, "Aye, Sir," though there's a trace of concern there. It's shrugged off a moment later. "We're as prepared for it as can be expected."

« I'm not, » Rhovvth says weakly, mostly because he's lying through his scraggly teeth and seems entirely unable to revert back to his normal cunty bloke self. It's enough to prompt K'vre to laugh, turning an incredulous eye onto his lifemate. Great call-out, Kev; Rhovvth flattens his neck, his eyes whirling with a hint of tangerine irritation. "Well," Kev says to Ulrika, caught in his loose amusement and not thinking about what he's saying (which is K'vre living his best fucking life, make no mistake): "Just don't get killed and everything will be fine."

« You are, » Theidith asserts, chin lifting just a touch. It's such an imperious look and it suits her, painfully so, in fact. But then her head lowers and she streeetches over, aiming to press her nose to him - anywhere will do, honestly, but it's the touch that's important to her. « But, I understand. Perhaps, in time, you will not be so vexed. » Light and good-natured, she'll even offer a special vine for him, one laden with mosses and bioluminescent flowers as if drawn from some great swamp. Meanwhile, Ulrika glances to Theidith as if to check her, in some capacity, though there's a low chuckle when the older man laughs. But then he speaks and she laughs, low and throaty and comfortable with that. "Aye, Sir. If my mother and brother have dodged death this long, I reckon I've half a chance with her. Maybe a hair more, given her stubbornness." That looseness in mood, bleak though it might seem, is enough to compel her to aim a companionable fist to K'vre's shoulder. She checks it almost a little too late, the gesture clear - but pulled at the last second.

oh shit he's getting marked by a foreign gold. Rhovvth rears his head up but not quick enough to avoid the touch, and so he stays in momentarily freeze, his snout against Theidith's. « Sexual harassment isn't a good look on either side of th' fuckin' fence, » he says gruffly, pulling away awkwardly. K'vre snorts his amusement. "It's not like you have anyone you're cheating on, you dumbass," he calls, because it's that kind of night. And because she pulls her own blow, he reaches out to give her one of those open-handed back-slaps that are so common among the menfolk. "Ulrika," he tells her, "Don't ever change. Dying counts as a change." Because he has a lot of gall tonight, he winks at her. "But I'm going to get this fuckhead away from your baby before he embarasses himself. C'mon, Rhovvth." And so, with a two-fingered salute, the pair of them wander off, one laughing, one still-ruffled. AND FOR ONCE, it's not the usual arrangement.

What's worse? This foreign gold has an eye for browns for reasons that continue to escape Ulrika. Theidith whuffs against Rhovvth's hide and, stubbornly, presses a little more firmly before she pulls away. « My apologies if I have somehow tainted your honor, Gruff One. » She's only fueled by his awkwardness and that tingle of not-quite-panic that she can practically taste. « I shall have mine bring something suitable in compensation the next time we are here. » That last is utterly serious, though, her tone cooling and firming up, just in case he's not joking. Ulrika laughs again, another of those low things that's rare enough in her. The slap to her back? That brings a true smile to her lips and she returns it, a hint of her latent strength offered. "Aye, Sir. We don't plan on changing, unless it's for the better," whatever that might be. It's the wink that elicits, "You should come to Southern some time, when the weather's not completely fuck-awful." It's fuck-awful a lot, but not all the time. The timing is good - perfect, even, as the AWLM is starting to round the lot of them up. Ulrika issues another salute to K'vre - and another to Rhovvth for good measure. "Clear skies, Sir." She and hers are soon off in the other direction, to get into formation and then to head home.

As they walk away, Rhovvth: « What shit-speckled mayhem was that? » in the helpless way of a brown who has abruptly found himself very much in over his head. K'vre just keeps laughing, waving a hand blindly behind him as they go. Someday, he'll find himself back at Southern, but not anytime soon — they might conscript his ass, and then he'd have to write Divale and whoever wins Zsaviranth's flight a very contrite letter about why he's suddenly riding with Jaguar again.