Who

Ca'elian, L'xan, Nasrin, F'mond, Sa'mael, N'kn, Devra - NPC, Khulan - NPC

What

Rajakhelath rises to mate out of her normal schedule outside of the Weyr

When

It is noon of the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth month of the sixteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Dabih Hold

OOC Date 12 May 2019 04:00

 

l-xan_default.jpgf-mond_default.jpgnasrin_default.jpgsa-mael_default.jpgkhulan_default.jpgdevra_default.jpgca-elian_default.jpg n-kn_default.jpgtravith_default.jpgrajakhelath_default.jpgnokteryth_default.jpgtuanhjaliteth_default.jpg czhaevth_default.jpg

"If you're not with child now you will be in the morning,"



Dabih Hold

Known for its proximity to Telgar enough to share in productive swaths of grasslands and softwood trees, Dabih is a small hold quickly outpacing its old boundary walls. Those are under renovation though the courtyard is already a vast field of flagstones shaped to hexagons. It's a charming place in the desert where the chief mason once loved Byzantine arches and canines: both architecturally displayed in reliefs and over door ways. The surrounding area is resistant to the desert, but it encroaches on its bluffs when the elements are just right.


Not far from Telgar's plains of plenty, though dormant now, Rajakhelath waits outside a holding called Dabih. The gold, with too much mass to be taken up on their walled parapets, roosts on some nearby low bluffs. Sand encroaches and she stirs it around with a string of claws, parallel striations left behind. A rainbow of colors refracts within large eyes: impatience, a clawing hunger though she ate last two days ago. Enormous white herdbeasts, the largest she's ever seen, clip at last fall's coarse stubble of grass in the expanse below. A check in with her lifemate signifies Nasrin is still conferring with holder Rachard. Though outside the Weyr, a pulse starts with the dragons there, a magnetic pull toward the southwest. Males will know it. Rukbat's kindling the desert in winter, a mild day, not like the summer chaos of months prior. With an inner fire hungering for fuel and redemption, the firebird gold's lambent wings fall to her side and carry her toward a vast field. The herd below of scattered animals, run as well-spaced units of flesh and big bone. Salivating, Rajakhelath's axis leans left to follow a bull with a ring looped through his nostrils. Unused to being hunted, the ripe animal falls under the queen's talons. Inside the walls of Dabih she feels Nasrin's spine tighten to the chair. This should be fun. Their heart beats start to race to an unknown finish.

Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain; Czhaevth has pushed his rider to his obligatory machinations. What lie in those machinations? Who can tell for the beast of elemental time rages and races down a long, winding road through the endless depths. His goal is his own, but yet here they are. Chasing once more. Perhaps it is to find a permanent hook into the arid soil of this place, perhaps it is to show that compulsion becomes truth when his rider is involved. In the end, Sa'mael is incidental to the moment for Rajakhelath has called and he has answered, circling a wide, lazy road around the gold's roost. The sounds he wails into the high, high blue sky are the engine rumbles of a beast in his prime. Until the gold begins to blood and so does Czhaevth: the cruel length of a long-to-dust ancestor allowing his talons quick mercies to endless gorging of blood. He tracks his quarry, while Sa'mael does as a man will do in this: seek the one to whom the gold is bonded.

Bronze Yhraeth is as small as he is a piece of living history, perhaps the smallest of any nowtimer bronzes, and as storied a piece of Igen in the past several decades. Why he is here is no surprise: the senior dragonhealer has always made his fondness of this queen particularly known, drawn by her fire, by her desert ichor. N'kn strolls into Dabih with little concern over the timing of his visit, brushing by sycophants as he makes his steady way toward Nasrin within. His, "Oh, your shirt, that color! It's so… you," follows after a man in orange, even as his lifemate drops to blood without the walls, painting texture and color with the blood-splatter that the herdbeast's neck provides. Did he just write "u mad bro" in the dusty dirt? Fuck, Yhraeth.

As dragons and their riders wink in from the cold nothing of *between*, bidden by an instinct deeper and older than any other, they cast strange shadows over a stirring herd and hold unused to the tell-tale theatrics of mating call. It burrows faster than Thread in a lush, green field, and burns far hotter in the blood of young and old dragon alike. Which explains why senior Kedavrath, an elder brown with a still-impressive wingspan, blips in, his circling descent a little slower than the rest who are so eager to rid their backs of riders and sink teeth into raw and living flesh. His lifemate, A'vdar, shows his own advance in years as he dismounts with a slight hitch, but smacks his brown's foreleg with an encouraging send-off to the fields before he turns to see where the others lead.

Another day, another dreary visit to the former home Hold. The pallid desert winter sun barely even penetrating the layered crud and darkness of Nokteryth's hide. It was hard coming from the liquid warmth of the Southern summer, to this pale facsimile of the desert heat. It isn't even the weyr where he was sure mischief could be found amongst others of his kind (of a like mind or not, he's not fussy.) It is a rumble of discontent that causes his buried bronze hulk to shudder… until… the low-waves intended for others wash over him. His head lifts even as his mental ears prick. NOW THIS IS MORE LIKE IT! L'xan may be busy with his mother, but that isn't going to stop Nokteryth from once more summoning his rider and following that siren song to it's source. It is a matter of moments for him to locate the small hold, and deposit his rider. "Uh, Nasrin. I should have guessed." But his charm is his beasts, as he offers a courtly bow and waits. Blood is flowing, and he has to contribute his share! Does he remember her? Does she him? It is irrelevant, blood calls and he answers!

As a general rule, Tuanhjaliteth doesn't chase the ladies (they chase him), but rules were made to be broken. Rajakhelath's call pulls the tarnished bronze from home, seeking out that beacon of flame with a single-minded focus. Igen's dusty deserts are echoed in his thoughts, undercut by the jaunty sound of a horn, playing the sort of tune he deems fitting for the importance of this moment. « Hey, » he greets, with a 'how you doin?' nod to Rajakhelath, even though the gold is already blooding by the time he arrives. It's never too late for a guy to make his big entrance. His other half is somewhere nearby, clinging to the shadows, like he might somehow be able to avoid this situation entirely if he goes unseen. But Tuanhjaliteth? He takes to blooding with flair and flash, because he wants to be seen, thanks.

Familial visits may have been cut abruptly short, as F'mond is barely even strapped in as Travith blinks in from between and the bronzerider is certainly not in his riding leathers as he's abruptly dumped near the rest of the riders and the tiny, wiry bronze tosses himself at the nearest bovine. Did anybody call for a stampede? Because even as the herd may be panicking, Travith adds his own mental hoof beats to the commotion. The former herder winces as he observes the beginning carnage. "That's gonna be expensive."

A beast of long, sleek lines is Upuauth; shadow-dark, but bronze all the same. A funeral mask of near gold encases his visage, matched with other markings that hint at ancient jewelry - bracers, bands, and more. A jackal among dragons, he manifests as all the others do, seemingly from nothing - and then, they are there. Ho'rs is another born of the desert, though forgettable in contrast to the bronze that claims his bond. The man's face is not given to confusion - he will go where others gather in preparation - and the bronze moves with the unerring ease of one that seems to know what will transpire next. His first - and likely only - kill is swiftly made and efficient, a minimum of blood lost before he latches and drains. His mind is a dull hum filled with chanting and chimes, paeans only partially formed - but wrought in Her name. Rajakhelath.

This is a surprise. Nasrin's observation like riverwater through the volcanic slope of her dragon's mind, going with the flow and holding its own cool temperature. Despite the junior being unprepared, she is not unnerved enough to break the tradition to curb that displaced hunger at a growing frenzy. Rajakhelath mars that silver-white hide to the scarlet colors dear to the Steens and the flesh here is ample. She plucks at its neck some, shaking her maw twice to make certain its horns won't gore her, and as browns and bronzes shake the abysmal cold of between off, she can smell the nothingness on them before it's replaced by the musk and elemental rock scent dragons and their riders convey. Blood-stained fangs are bared for them all as puny riders quickly dismount and look around for her rider. Her rumble turns into a cavernous hiss as she tries to pull some of the meat to her. Nasrin tells Rachard bluntly what is happening and to expect his holders to react with their own lusts. You're welcome, Dabih's baby boom in nine months. Out of her seat, Nasrin meets some riders and bids them to follow her outside away from these restrictive sensibilities, her jaw set.

Somewhere, likely not a far from Nasrin in physical distance, but far enough that Sa'mael has to stop and clutch the wall when the moment escalates. Grit grinds into fingernails digging into stone. One bends, breaks, but he does not know. Czhaevth is king to him now. A beastly creature of darkly lit glory: blood flows over teeth and tongue while bone and sinew flex 'neath the penny-bright chrome of his too-bronze gilt. Neither bore nor ninja-master: Czhaevth's cunning lies in the old philosophies of time and space, of a lineage held 'twixt dark and light and he harries the gold, tossing the limp body of a blooded beast to the ground. Wings span outward, internal engines forge and a stench of exhaust soaks the local mind links. A hint of his mindscape escapes: time bleeding into the wounds, clocks melting as fire and water collide. Air heats to the light of distant suns. Czhaevth gazed long into the abyss long ago, and now the abyss gazes back to a prize desired above all others. At least for now, at least for now.

N'kn has found Nasrin, and his mobile face blossoms into a smile. Ah yes, change your apartment, change your world! Wait; wrong engagement? Yes, wrong engagement. Having known Rachard since the holder was a boy, N'kn pauses to make conversation and commiseration, before trailing after Nasrin as a long-limbed and too-tall pepe le peu. He lifts a hand to trail it through his close-cropped facial hair and compliments a young woman on the glow of her skin, telling her, "If you're not with child now you will be in the morning," and a charmingly eccentric smile before he dips after his goldrider to blink again into the winter morn. Yhraeth is not without his thirsts, and he crushes another herdbeast to drink it to a dry husk. As a canny old man, he knows that the elixir of blood will mean more to him than some of the young punks brought to bear as chaser's flight: he will need the nirvana of another's lifeblood to guide him through the next candlemark. All the while his eyes whirling, affixed upon the phoenix-queen prize as she marks her kill with Steen-adjacent flair.

The slouchy, sleepy airs of a brown nearly past his prime shake off as the thrill of hunt and chase wake his bloodlust. Kedavrath makes a short trip from outer courtyard to the panting, panicking herd not so far away, no matter how fast they run. His swooping grab catches two beasts and with his weight he pins one down while ripping into the neck of the other. The firm command of his rider, whose jaw is set with grim, taut focus, keeps him from a pre-flight snack of tender flesh and returns the brown to blooding. The swirl of his faceted gaze finds the gold amongst the chaff of bronzer bodies closer to her. He tosses the snapped-neck morsel aside and pecks for the next, ending its squeals with a brutal squelch.

There is a veritable field of complimentary dark bronzes and browns ready to pay court to the flame-pale queen. Count Nokteryth among them as he pins a bullock neatly and pierces it's neck… less than neatly. The slowly weakening bawling of the beast adding to the chaos and carnage of his blooding. While his memory may not remember the queens and greens he's courted in such a manner before, instinct is strong and undeniable, and the promise of enjoyment tantalising. Nokteryth isn't such a young punk any more, but he is still a punk and isn't above snatching another freshly caught beast from a smaller, weaker, brown dragon, with a defensive snap of his teeth he bloods the second beast. It is his now, perhaps the prize will be his later? As the blood begins flowing, L'xan's blood also flows, away from the charm and manners of his youth. So he's just going to join the line of riders following Nasrin away quietly. This is Nokteryth's show, he's just here for the ride.

He drinks and drinks deeply, this beast borne of the underworld. Upuauth finishes with his kill and lingers over it, a low rumble issuing from him as if to offer final words over the sacrifice that now resides before his feet. His claws, like sickles, curve and press into the beast's hide to mark it - just so - in a ritualistic gesture; then, further, to gut it, and spill steaming entrails to the ground for survey. Ho'rs is silent as he joins the others, his communion with Upuauth singular and complete - even now, at this early stage of the oh-so-familiar rite of breeding. His jaw twitches once, his head tipping momentarily to one side as if in consideration; it mirrors the same motion of the masked bronze, as another kill is contemplated. But, no. The signs are not right. Whatever the offal says is regarded as gospel truth. Both gold and rider are viewed as one; a sacred vision, yet only to be viewed - for now. Yet, the chimes and chanting intensifies, the scent of incense and charred meat spreading outward in offering to the firebird-queen; the first of many yet to come.

F'mond may not be a man to pick on subtle clues, but between the glaring the ever growing mass of riders is getting from the surprised holdfolk and the fact that Nasrin is going that away has this particular bronzerider following. If a cleared path didn't already exist, those booted feet will soon be creating a new desire-path. As for the make-shift feeding pens, the Nowtime bronze is in his element and enjoying the blood from the prized-bovine flesh he may have eyed before but never dared touched before. Like all the others, the call of instinct is strong. He'll drink and drink deep while his eyes stay locked on Rajakhelath so as not to miss when the phoenix might just rise again. There are no ashes yet, but maybe by the end along with the desert dust.

Aged by dullened hues though his hide may be, Tuanhjaliteth isn't an old man, or even a middle aged one. He's all bluster and confidence as he polishes off his first herdbeast and goes for the second, without Rajakhelth's care for possible puncture wounds. What's a little ichor between friends? He's tough, he can take it. His confidence may overstate his actual competence, but that remains to be seen. For now, he bloods, 'accidentally' throwing what bulk he has into the body of the nearest male. His focused gaze never leaves Rajakhelath and the promise she presents, even as he attempts to push Ca'elian toward Nasrin. The man may move a few steps, but he remains largely as stone, staring toward the pens rather than the people.

Fine. Rajakhelath is restricted to blood so blood she will have and she lopes unevenly on foot after a yearling heifer not yet in her prime. So be it. A life for the lives of her own unborn is paltry and the gold leaps with strong back legs to lance the animal with a forward swipe. Two more are taken of these white beasts so beloved of Igen Hold's Lord. Nasrin, she senses, winces at the last beast and the grand total of this carnal event. Repercussions will wait. As Nasrin seems to know the riders at least by name and rank, Rajakhelath knows these dragons. One among them has captured her before. As temporary energy restores her limbs and faculties, the gold crouches almost to her knees to prepare for the grand leap provided to take her far away from this settlement. Shoulder and keel muscles are pulled tight as she makes rapid beats to gain altitude. She sees her rider in the courtyard below then leaves Nasrin behind with an ambush of her own to endure.

In truth, Sa'mael is in no rush to find Nasrin - instead, guided as he is, he stalks her unseen for the glory of the here-and-now belongs to his bronze. Braided through each sharp-taloned action flows the hot-water of the body's blood. Blood, it is the memory's river, quelled and distilled into a myriad of senses until nothing remains but copper metallic coating the tongue. Czhaevth withholds nothing from his rider in quest, his machinations. Sunlight plays across the haunches of Rajakhelath's hide when she makes her leap, though he is slow in following. Indolently, he savors the last of his herdbeast's blood, held in check by his rider only by a little. A hair's breadth from ruination. In the end, the long road calls: twining through the endless skies couched by fluffy white clouds 'neath a cruel sun. Czhaevth begins the chase, engines roaring, leaving his rider to continue his shadow of Nasrin. Felt more than seen, the bronze knows his rider catches a glimpse of hair, of others. To the others he pays no mind, though a vicious swipe here, there lets those near him feel the brunt of male wrath should they circle too close.

An ambush? Oh, lord, no, absolutely not, that would just be… that would just be gauche, and N'kn is too seasoned to be doing any of that without a good massage first and the promise of a fantastic bubble-bath after. "Oh, oh, yes, I can't imagine what sort of fee this will be. You know, they had stories, I mean to say the oldtimers, yes, well. They had stories of this green who preferred fluffy white animals. I feel she would fondly look upon this scene, may she rest beyond ::between::, of course," N'kn with the words that so many seem to lack; is he speaking to Sa'mael? Likely, as he's been jostled over closer to the young, violent bronzerider. Yhraeth has little time for theatrics: he launches from his kill in a wing-spread display of athleticism that can only be achieved by eating well and working out. Children, take notes. Though grey touches his muzzle, there is nothing but the sizzle of a dragon in his mature prime as the diminutive bronze alights, his sights set upon the firequeen; all others fade, like that one commercial where the lady portrait-modes out all the other kids to highlight only her own.

The defiant screel from Kedavrath's bloody maw dares to scold the younger queen for eloping so soon after his next catch, barely blooded and still half-alive by the low, fear-laden moo that escapes from its slack-jawed mouth in response. The old brown bends to silence the creature forever with a last, hurried suckling of its lifeblood, the fuel he needs to find the wind and beat it into submission. He takes to the skies with a heaviness the others lack, but two mighty downstrokes later, he's keeping the pace of years gone by, clawing at the lone, shimmering vision in his sights, forgetting all else but the heat in his veins and the chase ahead.

Just as the thought that This lady is taking forever… crosses the bond between rider and dragon, it seems that Rajakhelath has grown tired of blooding. Tuanhjaliteth lingers, polishing off his last beast, ever-watchful of the phoenix queen who prepares to take flight. Muscles tense as she does, clouded wings shifting as he watches her every movement in anticipation of the launch. And then she's up, and Tuanhjaliteth… stays. At least for a moment. Confident to the point of cockiness, he knows his speed can make up for any delay. A wrench turns, gears clank, and the old machine splutters to life as those jaunty bar tunes grow in volume. He launches himself skyward without warning, slightly behind the pack, but unconcerned. All those agility drills and hours spent practicing won't be for nothing, even if he can feel his rider's continued reluctance mingling with desire. Ca'elian is closer to the prize, now, but not so close as to join the rest.

Now! Now! Now! The thud of revitalized blood pounds along facebones gilt by twilight, revivified flesh pulsating with anticipation. Now! Now! Now! Eyes outlined in ash never leave the bright glowing hide of the queen, antics aside she is his focus, so when the grand leap occurs he is ready Now! Now! Now! Nokteryth abandons a third beast, partially blooded and capable of stumbling away, perhaps it is the beasts lucky day, at least some of the herd survives! Okay, so maybe he wasn't as prepared as he thought. But you know what? He's ready when it matters! Joining the pack of males that launch after her. There is no sign of hard-work and diligence in his chase, in fact it almost appears as if his effort is half-assed, but appearances can be deciving. « Hello luv! » A tendril of cigarette smoke curls after the gold. Choice and chaos is what will win the day, but Nokteryth isn't above attempting some charm (this time it really is half-assed though). As his dragon launches, L'xan lurches, mind linked with his lifemate things like co-ordination and consideration are falling far far away. "Fly high! Fly fast!" Is this for Nasrin? Or Nokteryth stating his intentions?

With a snap of rawhide (or at least, hopefully it's a bullwhip and not his knee joints!), Travith launches himself into the air. His flying isn't fancy, but it gets the job done or so he thinks as he charges on ahead. It's a straightforward plan, but some things really can be that simple. F'mond hears N'kn pouring on the words and takes another glance over his shoulder at the carnage. "Best guess? Fifteen marks a head. More if the heifers were carrying. And for the largest steer…" He lets out a sharp whistle and won't even hazard a guess.

Yes. One. This will do. There's a serpentine dart-flick of tongue to daub some remaining blood from his maw and, as Rajakhelath rises, so, too, does he. Ho'rs follows his dragon's flight for a moment to ensure the course is true and, only then, does his bearded regard turn to Nasrin in earnest. But what he sees is not the woman, but Her; and Upuauth sees Her as radiance incarnate, the very vision of Rukbat that he must chase and devour, that She may be reborn anew. No words are laid out in sacrifice to Her; there is only that drumbeat and chant, incense and - now, gold, scattered at her proverbial talons, littered with lapis lazuli and promises of eternity. Spice and salves, spicy and heated, threaten at the fringes of minds. More offerings. Yet more. But will it be enough? So hopes Upuauth.

Rajakhelath's softer love for her rider would be satiated knowing Nasrin's found her last stand by a canid-shaped statue and bench within an east-facing atrium. But it won't be for long as the goldrider, all but choking for space, stalks past the guards at their posts near the hold's entrance, and they let her through wide-eyed and both attracted and reviled at that fierce attraction. It seems she's all but ready to walk back to Igen on the old roads. But tender devotion isn't motivating Rajakhelath as she twists a look under one wing to count her chasers. Not enough and too many. A shrill call will keep them close but she dives to throw off the callous, swings her tail to help with the sharpest right turn she can perform, flares out each and every spar largely unmarred by the taint of Thread and heads toward the Weyr still some grand distance off. They may catch sight of it before they catch her, or they may see it sooner if they're left in the dust!

Czhaevth is ever aware of his rider: the pull of the man's desires. The fingers that let fall an old ravaged knot bearing hints of Fort twined with shiny bronze. Whatever the outcome of the day, the bronze has pushed his rider into something more. Tilting, tipping, wings flap as he drops, plummeting for better advantage for some advantages come from below. Outward his minds cape stretches, aiming to touch upon Rajakhelath's though others may yet see into the strange worlds of Czhaevth's mind: desert, arid, dark, broken. Existence falls away to reveal a golden thread of time, wound through the abyss. Razorwire tightens, digging into tender flesh where that mental scape may touch. Sa'mael laughs, broken and rough, "Fluffy white animals…" The thought is absurd that such a preference lies. Czhaevth bats away the man's thoughts as distraction-fueled viols. Sa'mael finds himself pulled to the apex moment: the final stand just in time to hear L'xan's encouragement. When the gold dives, the bronze swells upward: a tactical move, though rare does one's first battle plans survive first contact with the enemy. Czhaevth learns from what mistakes will be made, fires heating.

Euskal may not be there to save Nasrin if she steps out beyond the steppe roads to give herself once more to the desert; but there is N'kn, and well, a host of more physically capable riders. Irrespective: there will be someone to catch her, or so N'kn would figure the sum. "Yes," owlish to L'xan, "That is the goal, is it not?" and one of his gestures of fingers that seems ineffably elegant in way that should be at-odds with masculinity and yet is somehow not. Because Jeff Goldblum is a goddamned sex alien that can do what he wants. Meanwhile, Yhraeth engages with the subtle thermals that yet rise over Dabih; his chase is efficient, none of his fuckery engaged in the conservation of strength and speed. Agility he has in spades: where she veers, he follows, as close a wingman as a parade-flight formation.

Tuanhjaliteth's mental chaos — the sounds of a noisy bar, with dozens of patrons talking over each other and the clink of glasses — spreads, seeking nearby competitors to try to disorient them. No one said he had to play fair in this game, and he has no intention of doing so. The bronze pumps battered brass wings in chase, narrowing his distance from the other males. That sharp turn pulls a victorious crow from Tuanjhaliteth, whose agility rivals that of dragons much smaller. With a flick of those seemingly-aged wings, he shows his youth in the sharpness of his turn, putting him in a far better position than that of moments before. He can feel Ca'elian's rumbling growl which echoes in his own chest, as the man down below watches his fellow riders, torn between ensuring none move too close and keeping a watchful eye on the object of his desires.

There's little advantage to being slower than the rest, perhaps even portly by most standards, but cumbersome Kedavrath, for all his mighty start, has shown and early fatigue. However, as the queen in question tries a trick and turns sharply right, he's in a fine position to angle directly for the streak of gold where others may be caught making the same hairpin turn as their prey. He lets his sudden chance at an advantage be known with a thunderous bellow, a warning that echoes internally and pulls a pale frown from his rider far down below. Perhaps if A'vdar, too, had his fill of blood and felt the lusty wind beneath his wings, he would not trouble his lifemate with a reluctant warning. What sort of predator thinks it best if another steals his prey? Kedavrath's wings beat on, his dull brown neck straining to entwine it with a far shinier, slimmer one that seems ever closer.

Like the jackal he so resembles, lean and sleek and full of purpose, Upuauth persists, upward-canted headknobs ringed in gold; too-sharp neckridges perpetually perked like a canine's ears at full alertness. A casual tilt of wings displays a dexterity more suited to a small brown; his litheness and the narrowness of wings allows for maneuvering that dances as fine as a surgical blade. He carves the air as a necromancer lays into a corpse; clinical and efficient and always with purpose. She turns and so does he, incense-smoke and chiming bells making way for rising cries of wordless weight that call from places deeper than the flesh can ever know. Light flares, a hundred-hundred candles lit in that dark void - and, for Her, a chamber is revealed, offering more than the meager secrets of this world. But for that, there is a price; a price that, for now, is not revealed. Light flickers, smoke thickens, and the beast races on in her wake. Ho'rs, ground-bound in the flesh, if not the spirit, will likewise walk; his stride a hungry one, the man long-limbed like his bronze bond.

Let us all hope that Nasrin doesn't veer out too far in the desert! It's a treacherous enough landscape and the Weyr already has one weyrwoman with a broken ankle! F'mond's eyes narrow as the crowd is led outside the courtyard and yet he still follows. "Whatever happened to actually rising at the Weyr?" Where there's convenient things like groundweyrs or at least the stablehands aren't too offended if the hayloft occasionally gets commandeered for some dragon inspired recreations. Travith tosses out his wings to full extent as Rajakhelath's little trick almost loses him, but not quite. He comes almost to a dead stop in the air before turning his charge now in this new direction. Some distance may have been forfeited, but he'll just keep on rolling along, occassionally nipping at the tail or wings of a brown or bronze that might be too close for his own comfort.

Nokteryth can't even rely on the weak heat of the wintry desert sun to provide uplifting thermals, so it appears the appearance of half-assery must be abandoned as the larger queen does some trick flying. Yeah, well Nokteryth can do that too! With a crack of displaced air, his wings flare into full extension. Behold their magnificence! Oh and now they're going to work as he takes the high road for once and ghosts in the phoenix-queen's wake. Clawing at the limpid wind it is more sheer perversity than skill that keeps him in the game. As the hints of other blandishments are offered through the linked minds of the chase, he adds his own flavor. Slick midnight rainbows lick at bar, offerings and patrons alike, a silent seeping promise of world consuming conflagration aaaany time she chooses, or so the still curling cigarette smoke promises. L'xan is beyond the ability to appreciate the architectural details of their final destination and so he just stares at N'kn and lets the other riders words wash over him without much comprehension. (Although I'm sure many 90's girls are trying to smush them together now)

The dunes under them keep the pattern of a quilt shapely lying over the flat crust and gentle hills of solid earth beneath them. Raja spins away from Nokteryth, perhaps wise to his ways from their once-tryst, and continues to hold her lead with the slight edge in size. Like the active volcano that lurks under Ista Isle, a spray of lava bolts from the gold's mental scape, launched liquid turning to hot glass and falling as cinder shards. Desolation will slash and burn those lacking the stamina to compete. Lowest stratocumulus clouds fog about them, their mist marring the fireglow'd haunches just barely. Higher she claws, each on her wings, in front of Anubis Upuauth and maybe Yhraeth made need to avoid Travith flying too close. As Rukbat fits behind her shoulder, Rajakhelath's blood feast is waning and the earth is calling back to her with gravity as her handmaiden. But Nasrin lost? She enters an abandoned grain silo, at the very least to salvage some dignity of sand dunes (remember, L'xan?).

Czhaevth was formed for this moment, cut from the brink of darkness and forged from unforgiving light: he swells and like a dervish, struggles to catch the last of Rukbat's rays made flesh in Rajakhelath. Engines fire and he swirls in a cacophony of dragon hide and wings, talons and tail and so he tries to catch, to capture that which is ephemeral in elemental primal earth. Her ash and molten glass are greedily consumed, for he is in his element though dimly he feels his rider trembling through the bond as the man does what he should do in the flight. He moves closer, willingly unwilling to be driven to this conclusion but yet here he is. Clinging to the sanity left of Czhaevth's insane march across the skies for his prize. Perhaps this is the battle plan that will succeed against the enemy, the prize.

No, no, the name of the game is Nasrin win; N'kn is visibly almost-distressed at this late stage in the game, when Yhraeth's best efforts — should his track record with Igen's golds continue in the vein that the best predictor of future behavior is past — shall doubtless falter. He is simply too small to keep the endurance necessary in such a flight, and he flies dangerously close to Travith in his focused conservation of efforts: there is only now, with his claws outstretched, that he deep-drives as a closing race-runner — any longer than this and he will be well and truly outclassed. N'kn closes his eyes and says a faint prayer to whatever gods Pernese might pray to: Faranth and the embodiment of clear skies, or just the golden warmth of light on a day without thread. His eyes open at the penultimate moment of Raja's rising, scanning the skies not for victory but for the violence of defeat; the senior dragonhealer has removed himself from his lifemate and now, impassive, considers which dragons above his hands might yet be working upon, should things turn… sour.

Blessed by chance to be this close to the catch, the aged wings of brown Kedavrath careen his body through the last burst of energy his blooded body holds, maw half-open with hungry anticipation, as if the queen's neck might be his next sup. But he's not alone in this last hurtle for the prize, the air crowded with wingspans broader and bronzer than his. Unknowing, uncaring, he snaps at erstwhile friends and wingmates alike, screeching his frustration that any other dares to usurp his advanate or take his place. His tail lashes with an instinct to beat back these upstart suitors, threatens to unbalance the final dive he makes for that shining back just there, so close he can taste the need in his queen's flesh. If only she would give in, give up, and let them fall through the madness together, they could both rest and be sated. It's a prayer his lifemate echoes, a finger tugging at the collar of his too-tight tunic, as he begs a moment's rest against the frame of the silo, far more hesitant than his counterpart to give chase for the ultimate prize.

Right now? L'xan may be hard pressed to remember his name, and it is only the instinct of turns of flights won and lost that keeps him from trying to do some hard-pressing of his own. That and the determination of his lifemate not to screw things up. You see Nokteryth has a plan… Oh stuff it, he had a plan! But it got boring and there is nothing the anarchistic bronze detests more than boredom. Almost like the long stretch of twilight's shadow he surges ahead once more. The fall from the clouded grace from on high is nothing new. Apocalypse approaches with his descent into chaos, even as that cigarette thought tumbles end over end towards the inky promise of his oil-slick seduction. Plan or no plan, he's played his hand, the end is nigh! Only time will tell if his descent towards light will prove a saving grace or an unmitigated, unsalvagable disaster.

Whorling hues of andalusite and whiskey glint upon Tuanhjaliteth's hide, not so brassy-bright as others with that coat of tarnish, but still enough to catch the sun as he chases that fire-lit queen. He brushes past a brown whose stamina is flagging, purposefully angling his tail to whip at his lagging competitor. Laughter follows, as this charming rogue abandons all pretense of following the pack. Instead, he dives down, dropping below the rest. Muscles strain along clouded brass wings as he pushes himself forward, prepared to catch his phoenix as she inevitably falls. It's a cheap trick, to come up from below, but Tuanhjaliteth never claimed to be above them. Whatever gets the job done. His rider lingers near the silo, not coming close to the entrance, for what Tuanhjaliteth has in confidence, Ca'elian certainly lacks.

The sand and the sun has been all that Travith has really known and so the desert bronze does not hesitate as Rakakhelath goes up and up and up. He'll follow and just live on a prayer that his last bullish charge will have him reaching out to catch Rajakhelath and not ending up with the unfortunate consolation prize of Yhraeth's tail (as awesome as he is, the other bronze just isn't his type). F'mond stops when he reaches the grain silo, also not going in the silo just yet. Whether that's from willpower or just being too focused on the sudden surge of effort playing out above is debatable.

He has endurance; Upuauth has sacrificed well for his gifts, gifts which are put on full display for the phoenix-queen as She rises, yet higher and higher still. And, there, as wings falter and the air fails, so like a scythe does he move in for the harvest; the chamber is lit, the offerings laid bare, and the price of his knowledge is obvious: sacrifice unto him and he will give everything to Her. Silence trembles in that space, the smoke hangs, expectant and heavy. But who is to say whether his timing is right; the entrails spoke, but he has been wrong before. And with Her and Her brightness, blinding against his mask - perhaps there is a misstep to be found. Ho'rs lingers at the silo, persistent and patient, a shadow of a man amongst so many others. His eyes are up, on the one his dragon sees, following Her, rather than Her human half for now. The end is inevitable; now to see if all is aligned in his favor.

Rajakhelath still wants to revel in the sky and she can see the lapis lazuli expanse above call to her, offer all horizons. These clouds speak her name— or is that Nasrin keeping one last tether to the queen to keep the memory of earth in mind? The males are just behind her and though their bodies' endurance fails them too, they are made to catch and hold. As close to vertical as she can climb without stalling, the air thin and weak against her hide, Rajakhelath holds her wings stiff, a dead glide adopted as the sights below are now minuscule and insignificant. But there's relevance there, her home, her Nasrin, their combined ambitions. In this hesitation of purpose, there's the telltale physics of gravity and in this limbo of inertia to earth pull, she is brought to Czhaevth. One last struggle to grasp at the universe heavy overhead and she's his this time. Nasrin hasn't moved but she itches to bolt for or against Sa'mael.

Despite the pull of instinct, the second it's clear another shall claim the queen, the last of grand old Kedavrath's reserves begin to fail him with quick succession. A final scream pierces the space he could not claim. He banks left and flags, dropping height at an alarming rate, downstrokes stuttering. Far below, but growing rapidly closer, his lifemate grasps his chest as if to still a heart beating too fast, or not enough. A'vdar never even entered the silo, his wrinkled eyes watching the skies with a focus that takes on a different sort of edge now. "Easy, easy now," he rasps, moving aside to make way for the unlucky riders who stumble from the silo's interior in search of a drink now. His will is enough to steady his lifemate, who finds the wind again and lets the currents drift him in lazy, slow spirals, as if this were all just a joyride from the start.

Czhaevth's battle plans for once hold and he enfolds her within the dark embrace of his wings. Tails twine as his victory is cemented, throwing Sa'mael's knot into the proverbial abyss. As Czhaevth carries them through the plummeting fall they spin and spin until nothing but blue eclipses the vision as babies are made in time-honored tradition of dragon mating. A final pulse of pheromones spreads outward in a wake of emotion that will lead to an indelible mark of this day in future babies to come. Sa'mael reaches for Nasrin, almost apologetic for he is not subtle nor gentle, but the moment carries them away, pulling her into the shadows before all reason leaves. And that is, as they say, all folks!

As they appeared, so are they gone in short order; his reaping failed, Upuauth utters a single, sharp keen - a mourning note that trembles on a thin edge - and vanishes between. His return to the Weyr will be unceremonious, left alone to pick through the remains of that bitter harvest and discern where he went wrong. Ho'rs, as ever, is left to make his own way - as he will, a long-legged lope leading homeward, to eventually be recovered when the taste of salt and ash has left Upuauth's gilded maw. Hours, perhaps. A day, at worst. He has nothing but time.

Nokteryth falls… and continues to fall, lacking the brakes that Rajakhelath's golden form would have provided. THIS IS NOT THE PLAN! Or even the not-plan he came up with. With reckless disregard the ruinuous bronze lets that cigarette fall on the fuel-primed liquid of his desire, but instead of lust and desire, it roars into frustrated flame even as he veers off and away. Foiled again, but luckily dragon memory is short. Outside the silo, L'xan groans as it is evident Nokteryth was not successful. Lurching away he bumps into N'kn and grabs the mans face between his hands. "You talk too much." He growls, before landing a flight-frustrated kiss. Who can resist an alien sex god? Well apparently L'xan can, because no sooner than that is done, he's striding off to meet Nokteryth, so they can go home. This place sucks anyways… and the sun is hotter in Southern.

The alien sex god acknowledges the worshipper (almost typed as whorsipher, but perhaps that is accurate as this is Lonaxian we're speaking of here) of his face, looking faintly puzzled when the other man leaves but — all is well in the camp of the dragonhealers, Yhraeth dispirited but not necessarily surprised by the outcome. However, he came, he saw, he conquered had a good old time slaughtering priceless cows. Now he leisurely spirals down to pick up his lifemate, because alien sex gods also require transportation when no obvious dragon injuries are here to be tended. N'kn adjusts himself once aboard, smiles once at the grain silo, and then the pair of them are off, slated back on-duty within the hour.

Travith's charge somehow went badly astray and sunblinded, he's not quite sure how ends up sailing on empty clawed. Well, at least he didn't end up twining tails with another bronze that would have been… not right. With a grumble of frustration, the nowtimer swoops down to fetch his rider and both F'mond and Travith head back home where at least a good beer might be able to soothe some of those disappointments.

Tuanhjaliteth's plan fails him, as Rajakhelath falls into another's embrace. With a growl, the bronze drops from the sky, vanishing… well, to somewhere other than where Ca'elian waits, that's for certain. He's gone, leaving his rider to walk home while the cocksure bronze pretends that he's totally fine because he didn't care at all.

It's a long fall, from grace and all that elevation, for Rajakhelath's neck and claws to grapple the Southern bronze. Her molten mindself darkens and flakes basalt at the edges, new ground and new prospects for all of the waste it took. The cold air against the back of her rider's neck is the catalyst that makes the junior queen release her grip. One more wing is freed and her claws have partially retracted for the slow flight, low now, back to Dabih. She bypasses the carnage of 20+ animals now left to be salvaged and the remaining herd reformed. Nasrin closes the silo door with a nudge of her foot. She may even make this a new office of operations.

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