Who

Nasrin, Ko'an, Ha'ze, Neryk, L'xan, Doji, F'kan, Divale

What

While storm-watching, Nasrin's Rajakhelath goes UP.

When

It is the twenty-eighth day of Winter and 50 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.

Where

Weyr Pass Road

OOC Date 17 Jan 2018 05:00

 

222.png divale_default.jpg f-kan_default.jpgdoji_default.jpg ko-an_default.jpg l-xan_default.jpgneryk_default.jpg ha-ze_default.jpg rajakhelath_default.jpg zodaiyath_default.jpg lukoith_default.jpgraktraeth_default.jpg kaisylaith_default.jpg nokteryth_default.jpg quaverilth_default.jpg

"I think he's moved on from goats, Divale…"


igenweyrpassroad.jpg

Weyr Pass Road

The temperature begins ever-so-gradually to drop as you travel further into the foothills of the Central Pass. Largely inhospitable and difficult to traverse, it is no wonder most traffic converges on this narrow dip through the mountains: a hospitable pass that runs east-west, deep-rutted with the marks of centuries' of wagon ruts and runner hooves. To your northeast, Igen Weyr is now clearly distinguishable from the other mountains in the range, and the eastern roadway splinters, a trail running up towards the plateau at its feet.


Sometime in the afternoon, Nasrin had the impulse to watch a storm rattle low through a distant valley within a couple kilometers of the Weyr. In a small observation tent, only one of its maroon sides down, the goldrider watches as the sky dims in that small sector of their world, sitting on a leather-bound collapsible stool, wool blanket on her lap. Winter's warmed to nearly spring weather, but only for a short stretch— enjoy it while it lasts. This view from above is impressive as a murky cloud builds momentum in its race through the river channel.

"More if you could, please," Nasrin asks the teenager with her for more tea. He's still young enough to also marvel at the spectacle of nature. His mount, a draft type known to be cool-headed, simply tosses his head and ignores whatever conditions are changing a mile away.

And of other forces of nature: Rajakhelath is in pursuit of a trio of caprines as they flee her on a steppe of rock. She's entertained by their fleetness of foot, much different than the stocked beasts in the Weyr. She's caught one already, blooded it, and left it barren further south. The young queen is after a second as she calls males to her, a low-frequency pulsing roar that is unmistakably a breeding chant.

F'kan had been on his way to the Living cavern after a request for transport brought him to the desert Weyr. He had come here only as weyrling to learn the coordinates for a trip between, but this time he was planning on visiting it properly. He had heard the most amazing thing the other night in the Kitten. How there was a caravan of traders here who had a certain kind of company for hire, so he was definitely going to check that out. That was until the queen's roar and suddenly Quaverilth changed their plans quite suddenly, insisting on following it to it's source. The brown arrives before his rider, who is running to catch up.

The beauty of low-frequency calls, is that they can carry immense distances. Did the call reach all the way to Igen Hold, or were a certain set of mental ears alert to anything that could break the tedium of another family dinner? Regardless of the impetus, the storm is not the only thing scudding low across the landscape. From the river comes a desolately dark bronze who hasn't been a regular visitor to these skies for a few turns now. The beast alights briefly, to drop off his rider before his duster-coat wings take him forward towards the impending chaos. « Hello luv! » The midnight ripples of restraint offer a few glimpses of binfire flame interest before the bronze settles himself on a crag away from the chase of caprines. He can wait, don't want to rush the blood after all. L'xan not only looks rather baffled as to why he's been dropped off in the middle of the desert, but he is rather more richly dressed than is is usual wont. With richly embroidered jacket, brightly white tunic, well brushed pants and soft, soft-soled courtshoes, he really looks out of place. "Weyrwoman." He bobs his head courteously once his brain catches up. "Pleasant day for it." He's gunna make small talk while the talking is good!

With winter's arrival, Raktraeth has sunken into a near hibernation state whenever duties don't call for him. All creatures great and small have gorged themselves and found a cozy hidey hole of his mind to try and wait until warmer weather. But there's a little spark burning away at the edge of the forest and the pine needles make perfect tinder. He manages to convince Doji that the relatively warmer weather requires a flight out towards crater lake, but that quickly becomes clear it's just a ruse when the brownrider finds herself just as baffled as some of the other riders who find themselves suddenly deposited on the side of the desert road. At least she's dressed in her warmest flight leathers. She'll tuck her hands those pockets of her's and just glare at the behemoth brown that's managed to snag a baby kid that hid away from the chase Rajakhelath is giving those adults. Just a quick little snack over here.

Who else but to hear that chant and call but Shadow (and madness) itself? Lukoith was not far off from this strange in-between stretch of desert and his midnight-cloaked form stretches in false laziness as Rajakhelath begins to blood. That too stirs something far more primal and dangerous in the young brown, as wings flare and talons click and scrape against the few shattered rocks he's gone and made his temporary den in. Where else to wait out his riders 'business', no doubt also nearby. Coincidence? Likely not in the slightest ? or so Lukoith would boast if asked. As for Divale? Abandoned! And left to curse her fate and play a game of 'catchup before Hell breaks loose', of course! The brown wastes little time in heeding Rajakhelath's call and flushing out his own prey; should there be any to be found among the small numbers of caprines. Low chested and deep growls will be issued to any other male also answering the gold's call; each marked and noted with predatory wariness.

The tea is no longer the scalding temperature that she prefers. Nasrin, then, takes a slightly larger mouthful as Rajakhelath produces her second round of breeding calls to rally males to her— those that aren't aware already via suspicions of their own. "Rytom? Take the runner and return to the Weyr. Matters are about to not concern you, or the beast," she offers the teen a languid look, adding to spare his feelings, "except in some sevendays when you're a candidate." She'd promised him that much. "But," as the first dragons begin to span the desert, bronzes and browns, "leave the tea." She resigns now to wait, and feel the slow crawl of dragon urge. The first rider to touch the transported carpet is L'xan, and Nasrin stays seated. She's perfectly warm and loathe to move. "Hello… rider?" She could gain that information from Rajakhelath, but dare not trouble the link to not consume what she kills.

Another storm collects upon a horizon of darkness, lit merely by the sickly sway of a lanternlight far off beyond a veil of thick, writhing fog. Whispers, murmurs. Far off wails are carried upon a breeze that speaks nothing of the living. And that grim, sullied mist does come, for it crawls with a surreal speed, and the feeling of something awful, something ghastly within it, and there within its wake. Oh the ocean of black water of eerie stillness does reach out toward that horizon, that World's End. The passage itself. Something comes. Tattered sails rise- both o'er that horizon with pale moonlight caught 'tween cannonhole'd canvas, and beyond the mind, where massive skeletal bronze Zodaiyath. He- It- is here. There is no mistaking His presence, and the fact that he has turned it fully upon the treasure which glows. Dark wings spread from otherwise unearthly still shipwreck'd form partially a'shore from the lake's edge, winter's chill be damned. Haunted, antediluvian beast, an echo of his true Stygian mindscape, rises as the lake's waters drip from his corroded copper keel.

It is the wandering days that has Neryk leaving the Weyr usually. The days where the life and bustle of the Weyr is not the warm comfort and busy he usually seeks, but an overwhelming cacophony of noise and color that will not allow a mind to latch onto one thing. Perhaps today Neryk couldn't catch a ride elsewhere, and now, with a little day-pack he comes walking up the pass from , a set of wet shoes tied together in one hand and bare feet walking carefully on the hard ground from Crater Lake. The lower half of his pants are mostly dry now, a jacket pulled tightly around his body, as if it could make up for being wet. He doesn't actually seem to notice the cold at all. Neryk pauses as the people ahead become more and more obvious. Eyes turn skyward, the colorful fair of Neryk's lizards twittering around him and the sudden burst of activity above. Dragons are massively impressive creatures and it would seem that all are pulling out all the stops for this flight. Neryk continues his approach after the second bugle of the gold, calling off of his lizards back to him.

Quaverilth is hanging back as he sees his sire land and hesitates only a moment before he is up to glide over to where a few caprines have separated from the main herd and with only the barest of stumbles, manages to grab a small one, which he lowers to the ground and begins to blood, cause that's what they do right? I mean it's this brown's first time after a gold, so he's just a touch unsure as he looks up towards the gold when he bites into his prey's neck. He's too shy though to actually say anything. F'kan on the other hand, finally reaches the tent, mostly out of breath, to see a fellow Southern rider already there. Oh and it's the one that yelled at him before. Fun. The blond-haired young rider bows to Nasrin, cause it's polite right? "Weyrwoman."

Poor, poor Rytom won't know what hits him — or more like that lovely draft runner of his! He won't get far, before the growing number of dragons are likely to set even the most calm of beasts into skittish fright. That and the hunting Shadow has spied value in that grey hide and Lukoith has no shame. None. And he's shaken off the shackles that usually bind him, with Divale preoccupied and her grip slipping. With a low roar that splits animal from handler, he'll run that poor daft beast into the sand, where talons send it tumbling before jaws clamp down. A good, HARD shake and it's done, with the brown holding his head up smugly with prize held fast. No tiny caprines for him! Immediately on his victory, he begins to blood, but hunkers down with wings flared and tented in a protective shield should anyone be foolish enough to challenge him (he IS small for a brown!). By now, it is far too late and only then does the brownrider appear, dressed in her full gear and looking as dark, troubled and energized as the storm that had passed through. Repercussions for the brown's actions will no doubt, come later once dust and sand has settled.

L'xan offers a courtly bow to match the courtly outfit he hoped would appease his mother. "L'xan, Bronze Nokteryth's. Formerly of Igen Blood..and Weyr. Now of Southern." Thankfully courtesy requires little thought for this bronze rider. The bronze in question, remains settled, the craggy angles of his wiry form providing a new silhouette to the wind worn stone. The swell of his weedy chest and the lidding of his night-rimmed eyes proclamation enough that he knows a bad-ass is sitting here. Instinctively a growl is returned to Lukoith, his memory not sufficient to remember the other numerous friendly greetings of this kind they have shared before. Raktraeth and Quaverilth get a sneer each, but it is clear from the way he postures at the other nightmare bronze than he knows who the real competition is. The flicker of fire creeps closer to the oily sheen of the bronzes mind, pulsing with anticipation and blood and lust. Soon, soon. The wait before the chase has its own sweet sensations that should be savored.

Hibernating desolation, or life suspended, the crags of Igen are bareback and not yet green with growth. On the vertebrae of their shape dash feral caprines, roused by a small flight of dragons. Rajakhelath almost catches another, but intense speed is not her gift, and she only serves to drive them hither and yon, perhaps into the jaws and grasp of another dragon. The furnace of her overheats, a lusty reckoning not quite as potent in the Weyr as if she were within its walls. « Cavort this way! » She simmers in a heatwave of mental breaching, spurring the males on. Nasrin, seeing more riders dismount— or leap from— their dragons, is getting more anxious, so she just drinks more tea, and turns her seated gaze up from under the hood of a cloak, at F'kan. Two Southern riders. A thought flickers, just known as a vague click of teeth behind her mouth. As Lukoith fells poor Rytom's mount, she twists in her chair, not anticipating that. "Foolishness." But she knows all is fair in love and war. "Welcome, you both. I don't have any drinks, I'm afraid." That she's sharing! Neryk, at a distance, catches her attention by the way he walks, and she soon loses him behind the wall of the tent.

Nothing brings the woods to life and gets the blood flowing quite like the smell of smoke that begins to rise from Raktraeth as the golden queen gives her second call. It's only a matter of time before the spark truly catches hold and the dead brush gets burned away, leaving only the strong behind and ready to grow. The behemoth brown finishes blooding that kid (the goat sorts of course!) and just tosses the remains aside. It won't go to waste as firelizards will surely scavenge the remains and then trundlebugs the remains that the flits leave behind. Nokteryth's sneer might as well be a light breeze brushing against the tree boughs. Trae may be brown, but he's as big (or nearly) as the bronzes that have shown themselves so far. When Rajakhelath adds her heat to the far a draft fans the kindling flame in the forest floor and now it's time for the show to finally get on. Tawny wings fan out and off he goes! Back on ground, Doji's jaw drops a little bit at the sight of Lukoith taking out the runner, catching some memories about poor Billy. "I think he's moved on from goats, Divale…"

It is a quiet thing as Neryk slips up, looking through riders with only a mild interest, one by one, almost all his faithful lizards have vanished as dragon aggression grows. Only his gold sits hunkered on his shoulder, pressing into his neck at whatever little bit of mind is leaking to her from her larger cousins. There is a hesitation at the tent. A worry. But finally, the former brownrider will slip into the tent, he pauses, waves at the assembled company, and sits without speaking. He doesn't think he knows most of these people, but there are a few familiar faces. The pack settled next to him, opened and a tin of biscuts is produced and offered forward to no one in particular. This done, he turns slightly in his chair and starts putting his shoes on.

Ko'an typically makes more than certain to be.. more scarce than usual around the Weyr when a gold glows. This time, however, his timing is less than perfect, and he's here. Here to feel the immediate change in the tides, the black oil that pulses through his veins. The shift of the psychopomp's gnarled ore clenched in skeletal hand. He flinches faintly, his teeth clenched as he falls to a knee upon damp, blackened decks. "Here, mate." The young niece of Eala, Ailsa, is lifted from his lap from where they sit somewhere amidst the winter bustle near-ish the Weyr, nursing warm drinks. Or, at least, the kids have steaming mugs. Rum brings the warmth in a whole other way. "Take her home. Mindful of the scallywags on your way, got it?" He rises after they leave, his expression darkening immediately as the loss of contact breaks his last grip, paused in place for the beats of time where a heart beats no longer. It would be some moments later when he'd arrive near Doji and Divale, a sinister chuckle and uneven smirk cast on roguish face. "It looks like we're in for a good time, dearies." Zodaiyath is none too patient. Not when there is something that should be his. Must be his. Unnatural noise, that a mixture of draconic and demonic, rises from the dark one's throat. Curled into the sky in answer of Rajakhelath. Colors risen, there is threat in his very state of being to all those who dare. A shipwreck, aye, but a ghost ship be he. Risen from the Styx herself. The taunting, the threats of the other dragons get a faint turn of his head, a curl of his lip. A pressure, a presence of mind where the sensation of Death- cold, wilting, weakness, ashes and dust- follows like the brush of a figment's fingertips. The rest of him is drawn from the watery depths, his hue that of something left to deteriorate leagues deep, in death among the fishes. The real battle will be in there air, in all the glory of cannonfire and destruction.

Divale does not barge in on that tent, as her hurried pace slows to something more sedate despite the tension in her frame. Grim is her expression and she has darker songs to battle as they echo in her head and through her. Ghosting her way forwards, she'll linger on the thresholds. F'kan, unknown, is given a wary stare. L'xan earns a flickering look of surprise that has her eyes narrowing in a near glare; a gesture likely echoed in Lukoith when he senses Nokteryth nearby. There is a fleeting look given to Nasrin and a subtle dip of her head in respect before Divale's focus settles at last on Doji. Lips twitch, curving to a rare, wry grin. "… he's had runner flesh before." A beat. "Wild." In case anyone assumes the brown has been helping himself to the wrong herds. Ko'an's arrival and comment have her expression falling to darkness again, as she glares up at him. "Depends." Short and curt, are her answers for now. Fire and flame usually do not beckon to Lukoith, but he is lured this time by Rajakhelath's rising heat and call. The runner carcass is tossed aside and purposely towards a clumped group of males, as the brown goes on the hunt again, blood lust not anywhere near sated and only growing stronger, as night fills his mindscape and the twisted, corrupted forests are bathed in feral moonlight. A caprine falls to his talons and teeth this time, after a brief snarled and mantled display to ward off another who'd come too close to claiming the poor terrified beast.

«Don't mind if I do, luv! It's been a while since I?cavorted » Nokteryth's cockney rumble is flavored by the rasp of cigarette seduction, clearly Rajakhelath meant that invitation just for him! With a showman's crack! of leathery wings the long-buried bronze slinks his way closer like an encroaching weed, occasionally snapping at the panicked caprines as they scamper past. Chance like chaos is a fickle mistress, and the twilight bronze doesn't seem to be intent on those fleet prizes passing him by, his eyes are on a bigger, better and golder prize! With the courtesies out of the way, L'xan falls silent, there is a 'What's up' eyebrow rise for his former wingmate, and a narrowing of eyes for F'kan - No yelling today! Perhaps not even coherent words, as the rising blood in his bond makes thinking (and other things) a little? difficult. As the chill of death tickles the heat rising in his shadows Nokteryth snorts, that weedy resilience of his walking the line of forest's life and watery oblivion, ripples of midnight rainbows, and discordant screams following in his wake.

Quaverilth laps at the last of the blood from his small prey. With the heat of the blood down his throat, he feels his urges rising in him, primal and deep. Shuffling briefly, he raises his head eyes beginning to whirl faster as the anticipation is building in the youngish dragon. With a more confident hop and a skip, he easily dispatches another beast, quick and cleanly, as he lowers his head again to it's neck for a second helping of the deliciously hot liquid. At the call from the gold, he just raises his head, muzzle dripping red, and rumbles in her general direction. F'kan stands back a little bit, uncommonly shy for this usually gregarious self. Hey, it's been a while for…reasons.

Nasrin is pulled towards distractions: voices, beating wings, the call of her life-mate. So much for storm-watching. As it picks up sand from the ground, the funneled wind in the valley below is more and more visible, frothing and spinning in on itself. Thankfully the walls of the gully contain it, like a tempest in a teapot. "Neryk," the name comes out and Nasrin sounds faint. She's prepared to question his presence, drawing in a breath, but then he seems so at home in a pavilion under a dim sky. "Circulate a biscuit this way, could you? This tea's weak." Doji, Divale, Ko'an… the junior is both entranced by the angle of their calves, the lobes of their ears, and repulsed for even looking. She dare not even look at Neryk. Rajakhelath soars fleet as a phoenix brushing off its ashes, hide color brilliant bright, a beacon for those lost. And randy. She climbs and turns east where the Central Mountains pick up height. As she follows their thrust, the air cools significantly, but doesn't dull her fervor, throat latch crumpled to her breast as she activates a marrow-churning trumpet, an expression of voice.

Ha'ze is FASIONABLLY late to this party. Fashionable as in he's got dirt under his fingernails and streaks of manure all over his clothing from his pre-flight activities. "Why can't the flights ever happen somewhere normal?" It's a gravely complaint as he comes through the winds and into a more sheltered spot. Hands settles on his hips and he'll give a grumpy look-my-joints-ache look all around. His eyes will fix particularly on Divale. "And what are you doing here?" TOTALLY ACCUSATIONAL. Above Kaisylaith is going to make up for lost time by picking up the chase. He looks like a dragon half his age, and showing his experience as he leverages what thermals there are. Mentally he joins the fray but asking, <The beginning of a story occurs to me…» Sit down youngsters, daddy's here with storytime to put you to bed with.

"Can I get one of those biscuits?" Doji's going to ask Neryk but regardless of the answer, she's going to snag on and then take a seat on the ground. She doesn't actually eat the possibly purloined biscuit, preferring instead to just stare at it instead of the other folks in the tent. At least tearing it into teeny-tiny crumbs gives her anxious hands something to do. Wind from dragon swept wings just fans the forest fire higher, which in turn causes Raktraeth to rise higher, jumping from one thermal to the next and leaving behind. Don't fear for the trees though! The heat can be good for it! Just look at those pine cones dropping off into the smoldering ash left behind to seed new life. And seeding new life is exactly what Raktraeth is trying to do as he takes advantage of his bulky, behemoth frame. He'll try to bull right through some of those smaller browns and bronzes to try and reach Rajakhelath.

Energy from two storms of two very different sources are the perfect elixir for the madness that makes up part of Lukoith's twisted psyche. Feeling more in his element now, his head swivels to turn and watch as Rajakhelath soars upwards. Blood-red tipped muzzle opens, lips drawn back in a feral snarl that rises in fevered pitch as he roars his echoing challenge to her trumpeting call. Roar wavers to a snap-click of teeth and deep, lingering growl directed to the suitors who also herald that same call. NOW they shall see who is the best of the best! And Lukoith will not be left behind ? gathering powerful haunches beneath him, he surges up, wings sweeping in broad strokes to join the rest of the pack of pursuing males. Neither is he afraid to roughly shoulder one or two out of his way, no matter their size; he is not one to play fair or kind! Ha'ze is another unexpected face and one that Divale is openly displeased in hearing his accusatory tone. Dark gaze all but roll to glare sidelong and up at him, mouth thinned as she considers even giving him a verbal response. "I'd say the same for you, old man." Her tone is as dry as the desert they're standing in and just as cold. The bronzerider is then pointedly ignored, as her attention focused back on the obvious: Nasrin. No shame either, on her part, for the staring.

At his name, Neryk's head jerks up. If the question had been voiced as to his presence here, he wouldn't have had an awns er. He also would have not likely left. As the request for a biscuit, the tin is quickly up and offered forward, offering it toward Doji, then passing it away toward Nasrin. His eyes flicker over the new arrivals, tension can almost be seen between some of them, it was impressive. However, perhaps that was a nice part about not having a place here, was that all that tension didn't touch him. Another sweep of the room and Neryk finishes tying up his shoes and settles back to watch the show, the little queen at his shoulder staring out with wide, half-frightened eyes.

Nokteryth may not be the first to lift himself in chase (Look, there was this last caprine that needed a toothy hurry up okay?), but he is well within the leading pack despite his advanced age. Age brings other things beside power and enthusiasm; it also brings wisdom? or well cunning in this particular bronzes case. With a quick peek behind, Nokteryth angles his voluminous wings to add his own contributions to the swirling sand below before his wing strokes lift him towards heaven and the promise sung from on high. Oh and over that way! With that slight course correction done, the anarchist bronze cavorts as promised, the freedom of flight without rider creating a unique up and down forwards motion. Even more seductive shimmies of rainbowed oil slicks and the curls of smoke climb before him in an attempt to coax the younger gold his way. « Give me a moment, and I'll show you a story grandpa! » Just because he's clawing his way towards nirvana, doesn't mean he doesn't have a moment to trash talk older, wilier competitors. He can multitask! Unlike L'xan who is clearly struggling with the basics like 'Don't pick up the pretty lady' This is turns of experience here! Further proof of multi-tasking comes when a series of tiny daisies start popping up in a dragonless mind, somehow despite the chaos this pair has finally remembered. « Hey want to see a trick? » The smoke and shimmy reach out, illuminated by the flare of a match and the glow of a drawn cigarette, to be followed by a sudden shift from lark to lance as he attempts to power his way towards the glowing gold before him.

Being young has it's advantages, and since this poor brown has the draconic equivalent of blue balls from his rider's foolish actions, Quaverilth is like a spring leaving the ground, haunches launching him into the air, dark cloaked wings pushing down powerfully. Well someone is eager. On the bigger side of average for a brown, Quaverilth's beats propel him high and fast with instant ardor burning along his body now. The ground soon falls away as he follows the gold's beacon, the other males completely forgotten in his chase, determined to be razor focused, no distractions, cause distractions lead to premature…well we all know what follows. And it seems this certain brown thinks he sees a window, and though it is early in the flight, he is just inexperienced enough to go for it. F'kan is now holding his breath as the strength of his dragon's desire washes over him. Woah! He had forgotten this part, and the need of his dragon seemed to be intensified by the fact that the target is a gold. He forces himself to breath and at least pretend he's can act cool.

"Weyrwoman Nasrin." Ko'an hums, her title just a little off as if he still toys with it there before her name. As if he finds it fun to say, or amusing in reminder of before. His deep voice not even quite his own, tainted, corrupted, but still thick with that honey'd poison. The presence he has is the same as his dragon's, though in this instance as in many others, there is hardly a difference anyway. His poise is broad and bold, his cockiness, his arrogance flourished if not just by him being there, than certainly by the bow he gives with one hand at his chest, the other spread. He winks at her before he rises to his height, the scent of seaspray and leather at war with the not entirely faint cologne of his rum. "A pleasure." As if he's already won. He must have entirely ignored Divale's response, his focus on the hidden treasure before him the only thing he sees. Wrath. Lust. Greed. Zodaiyath's massive wings spread, those black sail edges uneven by birth, tattered by his wars waged upon the sea of the sky. His seas. His sky. His gold to have, to take, to horde to worship. And once he's in the sky, Ghost Ship surges upon the waves of the air currents, overtaking the farthest of the group as soon as his momentum escalates. And escalate does everything else as well, for it's not a minute in the air before ichor falls. A small brown not a turn out of weyrlinghood falters as the piratical beast clips by him, his wing buckled under dark talon, and to the ground it returns, with a sound of accursed, maniacal draconic laughter echoing not far behind. Immediately after is he nearing Lukoith, and not all that far from Nokteryth either, the same intent clearly in mind. The sound of a medallion's fall whispers past within Death's touch to all nearby. The lament of Lost Souls, watery, forlorn and distant, come in the wake of the black sailed vessel, follow Zodaiyath's malicious rise into the sky.

« Story? » Rajakhelath's mind voice is as elusive as smoke rising when responding to Kaisylaith. This connects to a recent memory of Rhiscorath's love affair with books, and the younger queen conjures the image of a scroll consumed on its edges by fire licks. Brittle ash breaks off and the scroll is transformed into a void of thought, an immense backdraft. The natural course of mountain peaks are followed, dull scraps of planet plates that now see much snow. Through this thin vapid air, Rajakhelath's broad wings stretch, all but baelfire on their trailing edges. Nasrin's got a biscuit in hand, but fickle times make her forget about it as she fits her shoulder blades between one tent post. The second flight is thus far no real improvement over the first, and the junior's breaths have become slow and methodical, matching a moment of wing beats. If the gold tires, she shows little conspicuous lagging, high altitude air still serving her with enough oxygen to burn. But in time, the length and temperature will wear on the dragon and before being extinguished a blunt shoulder slams into Nokteryth.

Just as quickly as they appeared, the daisies retreat again, sucked into whatever hell that spawned them with a pop, pop, pop! There is a time for multi-tasking and that time is NOT NOW. Now is the time for a little conflagration! Those oil slicks of his flood the connection between them, even as limbs take possession. For a brief moment there is silence and darkness and the dank things that live there, before WHOOSH! A fireball fueled by apocalyptic abandon speeds along the link… and beyond! Nokteryth twines neck and tail and wings vane to keep the metallic pair from plummeting before his lust is slaked. L'xan doesn't completely forget his manners as it becomes clear that Nokteryth did have a trick and the conclusion to the story after all. There is a belligerent grunt for the disappointed assembled even as his large hands start fumbling for the ties to the other sides of the tent. "You. Go." It is his attempt to be gentle with Neryk, even as the thin veneer of control begins its inevitable dissolution into dragon lust.

And alas, the Southern brown has done what many inexperienced males have done for centuries before. Quaverilth's attempt was premature, and so the brown finds him completely overshooting the mark. Yeah, he totally meant to do that. Oh dear, now the rest of the chase has gone on without him and then it looks like the gold has been caught. Well wasn't that embarrassing. Oh well, at least now he can say he's done it. So there's that. He had spied a few pretty greens over in the bowl on his way in, maybe one of them will want to comfort the poor guy. He really just wants someone to talk to. F'kan's blood is still high though and he knows exactly where he is going, the desire from his dragon rousing his ardor to unbearable levels. His dragon was not the only one dealing with certain blue bits. But he had heard of this wonderful place where he may procure the company of a young woman for a short while. Sounds like his kind of place. So the young, blond, blue-eyed brownrider heads off in the direction of the Caravan Grounds, specifically the Zingari camp.

Well, forest fires cannot burn forever. Raktraeth and his trees will go on. A little blackened for their afternoon's participation, but rain will come. And spring. And new growth at some point. But that is a time that is not now. Now he'll go sulk in the greenest spot he can find. A little lost oasis. And Doji? She's just going to sweep those crumbilized biscuit pieces off her lap and into the desert sand. The brownrider has absolutely no desire to be in this tent any more and so off she'll run. Maybe not the same direction as her dragon. Eventually they'll find each other though and then the way home.

Neryk's mind wraps around the daisies. It had been quite a while ago since that conversation, those little gifts, and here they are again. A smile crawls across his face and hands settle into his lap, folding as if the little blooms where something he could hold. Even the little gold at his shoulder relaxes, claws releasing the needle-like grip into his shirt. Though he has no way of knowing what is happening in the skies above then, the shift at the catch and L'xan's words are enough to key him in. The flowers are gone, but Neryk is already standing, pack swung up again, a bright smile for L'xan and Neryk is back out on the road, walking toward the weyr again with a bounce in his step.

Long flights are of no consequence to the Ghost Ship. It, He, the Dark One who claims full control of sky, purgatory and bonded, chained man, soars across oceans vast when the alien war does not beckon his wrath. Two more dragons, one much older and the other around the same age, clash with Zodaiyath. Or, rather, he clashes with them. Rendering of a tail, a yank and pull of a limb. The associated riders growl their displeasure, hackles raised- but oh what a common thing this is in the rare instance this bronze arrives for a flight. The glory of bloodlust has no limit, for He has no limits on what he will do to get what he wants. He never has. Golden dragon, golden bauble, golden traitors to use as He desires for whatever plan the Darkness wishes. Dagger's sway grips and pulls soul deep, Ko'an far more quiet than he should be, than he ever is, for he isn't really here- a visitor, a prisoner within his own mind. And without his Light present this time, the sworn mutiny doesn't find its way onto those charred Stygian decks just yet. He does become distracted from Nasrin, though, which is probably a damn good thing, when one of the men gets in his face about his lifemate being ripped from the skies. Hopefully the winner and the junior weyrwoman are appropriately otherwise focused, because their palace of flight frenzy just became quite… lopsided. Two large men- another bronzerider and Ko'an- just slammed into one of the posts of it, pulling it askew. Possibly partly down, depending on how stable this thing was. It's okay, they don't need to see, right? Zodaiyath vanishes Between, the deathly, ominous sensation abruptly absent to the masses, though most certainly not within the consequences that remain for his rider.

Lukoith knows that touch well and the sound of medallion's fall ? no need for him to twist his head around to see what lurks behind him. His challenge rises from the depths of Shadow in the form of a deep throated growl, while his night-trapped mind echoes with the manic cries and howls of beasts not from this world. Should Zodaiyath dare encroach too close, the brown will make certain that the bronze feels either talon or teeth, regardless if they catch nothing but the air between them. A threat is a threat! The same attention will be spared for Nokteryth and not even Raktraeth (his own flesh and blood!), Kaisylaith or Quaverilth will be left alone, should fate draw them to close quarters. Anyone and anything in Lukoith's path will be challenged, tricked or maneuvered around in his fevered need to keep Rajakhelath within grasp of his talons. Only failure will succeed in stopping him ? failure who's name is Nokteryth, when the time comes. With a baleful hiss and snarled breath, the brown veers off sharply, just as exhaustion's burning touch leeches into him. Divale harbours no insult to being ignored and is largely doing the same in turn as the flight progresses and her mind is overcome with the strength behind Lukoith's influence. She remains tense and poised where she stands, lurking nearby and her gaze is riveted on Nasrin, while her voice is silent. When the conclusion is finally reached and Lukoith is on the losing end does she utter something akin to a strangled growl and she moves… away. Away just as two spurned riders take Ko'an down and temptation of a different sort is entertained for a few tentative heartbeats. Fighting would be just as enjoyable as another activity… alas, delayed. Movement of another fleeing form has her veering course to match stride and paths with Doji; as a shield, as R'kyr's old warning still holds.

…it's not a terribly sturdy tent. A goldrider and a youth put it up to storm-gawk, no prior experience necessary. As Ko'an performs much of L'xan's work for him, Nasrin pulls back the woolen hood of her cloak as her skin feels like it crisps from the inside out. Rajakhelath's flights leave her skin itching, and painful, and often red. "Stand still, I'll find you." She ordains, seeing a pair of boots leave (they're Doji's). Beyond, Rajakhelath's smoulders and her mindscape darkens as lava cools to stubborn slabs of rock. She pulls away from the bronze with practical energy, freeing her wings and following the spine of the mountains south. Guess Nasrin's stranded for a little while.

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