Who

Z'bor, Ozriath, F'kan, Quaverilth, Veena, Czrygheth

What

In which Z'bor is trying to plan his Turnday and Ozriath has much different plans.

Flight

When

-- On Pern --
It is 8:15 AM where you are.
It is midmorning of the twenty-second day of the seventh month of the fifteenth turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the eighty-second day of Summer and 109 degrees. Rukbat's heatwave has not yet let up, gripping Igen in its tight fist. Escape the heat!
In Southern:
It is the eighty-second day of Winter and 37 degrees. The day is dreary and overcast. A chilly winter rain is falling down in soft drizzles.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the eighty-second day of Winter and 0 degrees. It's really damn cold out.


Where

Southern weyr, Lower Bowl

OOC Date 21 Nov 2018 07:00

 

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"Lucky You."


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Lower Bowl

Cobblestones sweep as far as the eye can see, a unique feature to the lower section of the bowl — but necessary, perhaps, as the stepped western bowl drains off into this high-trafficked area. The shallow bowl is bounded by craggy-black bowlwall with entrances pockmarked - and some boarded over in an effort to prevent entry from un-renovated caverns. Directly south, the wall neatly crumbles away to roll southerly into rollicking fields of soft hills; a glance of the stables can be seen through the gap, nestled against the entrance bridge that spans westward.

It is the eighty-second day of Winter and 37 degrees. The day is dreary and overcast. A chilly winter rain is falling down in soft drizzles.



With a rare day off, Z'bor has decided to get a jump on planning his turnday party, he's already been to the boardwalk, and has been seen blinking back in from Igen a couple of times. The second had been but an hour or so ago and a planned trip to Ista's market was cancelled because Ozriath came back from the second Igen trip glowing faintly. So now, one eye on his green and one on the fields ahead, Z'bor shakes off the cold, pulls his jacket tighter and moves on. He's hot to see if there's a place big enough for a couple of large outdoor tents. His Weyr is nowhere big enough to host a crowd. Overhead, Ozriath is unusually silent, her rainbow bubbles absent from his mind and the yellow brick road of hers seems closed to the public at present. It makes Z'bor wonder…

There is another who is enjoying a rare day off too! Veena arrived some time earlier, having coaxed Czrygheth into moving long enough to bring them 'home' to Southern Weyr. Her replacement as watchrider for Black Rock didn't seem to mind arriving a touch ahead of schedule and the bluerider has since been using every second of her time away to her advantage. Time to explore, time to visit old friends and former Wingmates and time to idly wander… as she does now. The cold doesn't bother her so much, dressed warmly as she is against the worst of it. Her hands are stuffed into the pockets of the deep reddish-brown jacket she wears, her hair currently messily tied back in a mixture of small braids and runner-tail. Czrygheth has settled somewhere nearby, perched gargoyle-like even in repose and hardly moving — yet not wholly unaware. Neither is Veena, though she hasn't quite caught on just yet what may be unfolding as she aims to walk the length of the lower bowl.

As per usual after the loss of a gold flight, especially bad since the prize in question was Zymuraith, Quaverilth has been in a deep sulk. He'll rouse enough to do his duty to Lynx, which will continue at least until the eggs are clutched and F'kan resumes his work as AWLM. For his part brownrider has been indulging himself with his new weyrmate to counteract the ennui he's getting from his brown. At this particular moment, the brown is laying out on a ledge over looking the Lower Bowl, head dangling over the edge as he huffs a loud sigh, a drizzly rain pattering the surface of the lake in his mind, the mist suspiciously absent. But then, there's something…like a peek of sunshine through the clouds and he perks up a little, lifting his head in intrigue, as if trying to pinpoint the source. F'kan is not in the immediate vicinity for now.

Z'bor glances upward, eyeing Ozriath as he plods along, it won't be very long now at all. Part of him sighs in relief, both for the lack of a proddy period, and well, at least it won't happen on his turnday. There's a chuckling burst of bubbles in his head at that thought. Oh, so you are listening up there. He aims this at the green above while his eyes return to the path in front of him and the woman that seems to have joined him in walking the bowl. He gives an idle wave, friendly guy that he is and has to keep from giving Oz the evil eye at her next. «I am always listening my rider, always

Czrygheth remains as still as stone from his vantage point. Nothing short of Threadfall would appear to make this blue move now and yet… Veena blinks, dragged from her inner thoughts and glancing over just in time to see Z'bor's friendly wave. Tilting her head at lack of recognition, she does note his rank and offers a smart salute before a more casual wave in return. "Good day, sir!" she greets, her tone warm and easy going.

As clouds part futher, letting beams of sunlight sparkle over the still lake of the brown's mind, Quaverilth shuffles on his ledge, rising up and craning long neck up until he spies Ozriath. Is that the beacon calling to him? The little patchwork green? His muscles twitch with mounting tension as the rains clear from his thoughts, the warmth from the sun bringing mists to congeal and twirl in almost arcane patterns over the mirrored reflection of the still waters. That is enough of a warning bell to his rider that F'kan comes ambling out of the Living Cavern, his jacket being pulled around broad shoulders. When he sees Z'bor and Veena already here, he grins weakly at the other riders, nodding in greeting. "Hey." he murmurs roughly, not trying to look too uncomfortable before the show really starts.

"Good day rider." Z'bor responds, not recognizing Veena either, but being congenial nonetheless. Z'bor's wave to F'kan is a bit friendlier, having known the man in passing at least. Nearing the edge of the bowl where one can view the fields and stables beyond, Z'bor stops, eyes craning upward and a groan escaping his lips unbidden. In her usual fashion, Ozriath goes from a feint glow, to a blinding shimmer of patchwork light, her green hide glowing like emeralds set to sunlight. WIth a sultry call to the males in the area, the small green darts for the pens, and the blood that will sustain her in flight. Her kill is messy and thorough, leaving her maw dripping with hot red liquid and her rider in a state of amazement. Rainbow bubbles fly on the winds of her mind, reaching out and taunting those nearby before beginning to float up a yellow brick road that lays itself brick by yellow brick.

Lifting her hand up in greeting again, she'll salute and wave F'kan as he approaches and she voices a more familiar-toned reply in turn. "Hello!" She would have said more, but she's a touch thrown off by the hint of the brownrider being uncomfortable. Not being left to wonder for long, when Z'bor groans and her attention is drawn back to him, the pieces finally click into place. "Ah-ha… Looks like things are picking up, huh?" It wasn't on her task-list to be roped into a green flight but she's been a rider long enough to know when to roll with it. Sometimes Czrygheth cannot be stirred, even for this but today… the blue is very tempted by the offer of a patchwork green. His implied stone-shell fractures the moment Ozriath makes her kill, the blue rousing to his feet and flaring his wings with a low-rolling growl like thunder. In his own quiet way, he heeds her call and soars up and over to make his own kill among the panicked herds. No time is wasted and while he does not shower her in flowery prose, he is ever the warrior-like gentleman in giving her respectful attention… and distance.

That sultry call is all the invitation Quaverilth needs, and he coils his long body before springing from the ledge to dart through the air towards the pens. A young herd beast is dispatched in short order even as his whirling eyes are locked on Ozriath. At the infiltration of rainbow bubbles, thick mist parts and swirls amoung them even as a hum of primal energy crackles from the deepest reaches, sparking ultraviolet. « Lady Ozriath, may I say you are looking particularly stunning today? » he offers shyly even as he sucks the blood from his kill. F'kan was almost hoping he was wrong when he wondered out to see what the fuss was all about, but seems not. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he looks at his feet as he shuffles idly in place. Snorting at Veena, he gives the bluerider a sidelong look, "Looks like indeed…" He seems to finally resign himself to this with a heavy, hoping that it might snap Quav out of his funk.

«Stunning and fierce.» Is Ozriath's only reply as she nimbly takes to the skies, green haunches flashing temptingly at the two males in her wake. With a flick of her tail, the green is off, soaring through the skies in a spectacular display of aerial skill, darting and rolling through the thermals with wild abandon. Z'bor is only left on the ground, shaking his head and chuckling as more and more of Ozriath takes over and less of him remains. The price for a near non-existent proddy period it seems, is more loss of one's self during the actual act. Dreamily, he looks between Veena and F'kan, wondering which would be sharing his bed today and it's no surprise that Zee's gaze lingers on F'kan a bit, hopeful.

Veena just grins wide for F'kan, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug of one who understands too much how many sides there are to a seemingly 'innocent' flight! For her, she welcomes it. Being so removed from everyday Weyr-life, even this is 'new' and refreshing, no matter the outcome. "It's so rare he chases," she reflects idly and to neither rider in particular, though her gaze settles firmly on Z'bor at the end. "Ozriath has caught his full attention!" Which is a compliment! Czrygheth is not good with compliments and much of the finer art of woo'ing and courting is beyond him. Instinct, he understands and he'll throw himself into the thrill of the flight, both chase and hunt. He admires her skills and will execute some tactical maneuvers of his own but nothing over the top. He has stamina, but he guards it carefully… saving it for the right moment. Any suitor that crosses his path, he'll do his best to evade or outsmart; he's not one for dirty tactics or skirmishes! He wants a fair and true 'battle' to win this green's heart and favour, after all!

Quaverilth is certainly not going to argue with the lady as he rumbles his agreement and springs after those tempting haunches, his lithe body uncoiling straight as an arrow. It takes all the moderately sized brown can do to keep up with the wild aerial display the glowing lady leads them on. His narrow frame does help him swirl and dip after her to a point, but he holds of on more difficult feats, hoping to conserve his energy until the most advantageous moment. Ancient power vibrates through him, a thick scent of spring flowers interlaced with a nostril twitching amount of faint ozone seems enhanced by the dewwy mists of the browns 'scape. « Fierce indeed! Though little, she be! » That sad attempt at poetry has even F'kan cringing and not liking his brown's chances with lines like those. Catching Z'bor's attention on him, the brownrider quickly averts his gaze, rubbing sheepishly at teh back of his neck as he in turn looks at Veena with a lopsided grin, "Lucky you." he grumbles before crossing his arms over his chest, really wishing he had a drink right about now.

Ozriath won't pretend it doesn't thrill her little green heart to have such wonderful chasers, one quiet and looming, the other wrapped in magic and water. It's a tough choice between the two, others completely ignored at this point, as it seems the patchwork girl quickly narrows things down. She drifts between Quaverilth and Czrygheth, with a sultry wiggle of her glowing body, she'll tempt them both farther afield, diving and twisting and turning as she goes. But at some point the chase must end, and this lady is in no mood for something drawn out. Darting back towards the bowl, she'll pick up speed, leaving those who are unworthy in her 'dust'.

Czrygheth isn't so dense as not to realize when he's being flirted with and definitely not cold-blooded at not responding to Ozriath's sultry teasing. He rumbles in deep bass, amusement rolling off of him like the gentle touch of nightfall and while some may choose to show off, he will merely echo her dance. Granted, he's no nimble and agile thing, even for a blue, but he can weave and turn and glide eerily graceful. A totem of strength and power, but controlled and tamed for now. « You fly well, lass. » His voice is gruff and deep, but warm in his first voice compliment. Below, Veena just smirks again to F'kan for his grumbling, stuffing her hands back into her pockets as she waits out the events of the flight. Her calmness is likely due to her lifemate's nature, but her focus on anything else but Z'bor and those surrounding him is heightening.

Her twists and turns, and especially that wiggle of tempting glowing green hide, has Quaverilth pulsing with draconic need from his wizened face far older than his Turns to his whip-like tail and everything in between. Galaxy dusted wingsails snap as he nimbly pushes his pursuit further and faster as the field narrows and he sets his sights narrowly on the emerald prize. Crackling purple bolts of pure energy play over the the suface of dark waters reflecting a night's sky full of celstial bodies, slowing coming into heavenly alignment, a signal of great power building in anticipation. When he spin back around towards the bowl, he scrambles to follow with a brief roar of frustration before he's finally back on track, pushing wings to tehir limit to make up any ground lost. F'kan sways with the power of dragonlust striking out from his brown to him. It draws the man towards Z'bor a step as the two minds align, layering one over the other, blurring the lines between rider and dragon.

It is now, more than ever that Z'bor is struck by the sheer force of Ozriath's lust, it makes him sway on his feet, holding his hands out for balance. "Here goes…" He says with a husky voice through gritted teeth. Above, Ozriath shoots overhead, so low it blows Z'bor's hair about his face. About three seconds later, she begins an arduous climb upward, flying until the air is so thin it near freezes. She suspends there for a moment before tipping her nose to dive. Come come as fast as you can, you can't catch her she's the ginger-wait, wrong mythos. Brick by brick her yellow road stretches along, rainbow bubbles racing along and bursting in childish laughter. Who will win the race to catch her before they all hit the ground, SPLAT!?!?!??

Czrygheth wasn't expecting the turn around or for Ozriath to swoop so low, but he's committed now and he will pursue her to the very end. Determination can be a clever tool and though his strength is nearing its limits, he pushes on and ever upwards. His mindscape races to hers, just as he does in the physical sense, a broad expanse of forested wilderness that gives way to a towering fortress and stronghold of stone beneath a full moon sky. As she begins her descent, he will fold his wings and dive with her, just as reckless in his abandon in an effort to swoop in and save claim her. Talons outstretched, he puts all the remaining strength he has in these final moments; either he'll be successful or he will fail. Veena's posture tenses, drawn in by the same effect on her bond, eyes rivited on Z'bor now as she inhales sharply…

Quaverilth is ready when Ozriath shoots up and up, finally pulling at those carefully conserved energy reserves and using his generous wingsails to push him higher and higher after her, but stalling just before she meets her peak, hovering for a moment before she falls past him on her way down. With a roar that's echoed by a flash of purple lightning that strikes the surface of his lake, crackling aloing the surface to light up his thick mists with a purple glow, the brown almost folds himself in half to dive after her, long neck and forelimbs reaching desperately even as wings clamp to his back to reduce any drag. With a trumpet of desperation, he coils and springs towards her making use of every scrap of momentum he can muster. F'kan isn't grumbling anymore, his dragon's need completely consuming any inhibitions that the brownrider may have as he lurches unsteadily towards Z'bor now, his hands stretching in the greenrider's direction, a mimic to his lifemate's attempt, frozen in place until the victor is chosen.

It's a long drop down, one that has Z'bor swaying on his feet as the last of his sanity bleeds away to dragonlust and his sight fills with whatever it is Ozriath happens to be zoning in on. Back and forth she weaves between the two males diving behind her, unsure until the very last moment when she pulls up and it is into Quaverilth's claws she's snared, his purple lightening and magical energy something she just can't resist in the end, though Czrygheth came quite close. It is magic that wins over heroism this flight and she wraps her tail 'round Quav's and sails off with him just as Z'bor turns feverish eyes towards F'kan.

Not all battles can be won and Czrygheth yields to Quaverilth's victory without challenge. Disappointed as he is, he is also content to return to his previous ledge and hunker down again. Daytime is not his preferred time of day and while Ozriath was an exception, he's all too pleased to return to his former statuesque state. For Veena, she may as well have jumped into an ice-lake in the Barrier range. Shivering from head to toe, she's jolted from flight lust to complete cut-off and chuckling to herself with a grimace, she'll turn her path and head elsewhere to shake off the worst of the flight loss through drink or perhaps delayed company.

Quaverilth's roar of triumph echoes over the bowl as his over long tail twines tightly and he pulls the petite green into his clutches, wingsails spreading to halt their descent as he veers them towards more private skies. Below, F'kan is propelled towards the greenrider by pure need and pulls him roughly into brawny arms before crushing Z'bor's mouth with a desperate kiss, all thoughts of gender and preference put aside as he complies with his dragon's choice of mating partners, the age old dance. It's not long until the brownrider can't actually hold back any longer, and drags the greenriding wingleader off to a nearby ground weyr, let's just hope it's not currently occupied, because F'kan might not notice.

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