Who

Z'bor, Ozriath, Rielle, Obhaeroth, F'kan, Quaverilth, C'mry and Fiachrath(NPC)

What

Z'bor turned 33 and as is her custom, Ozriath took to the skies with vigor because her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard!

Flight Shenanigans and Sexual Themes

When

-- On Pern --
It is 11:49 AM where you are.
It is noon of the twenty-second day of the ninth month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the twenty-second day of Autumn and 89 degrees. The small dark cloud has grown rapidly over night, covering the blue sky. It blows a furious rush of stirring wind. In a moment, the daylight is gone as visibility plummets. The clouds of stinging sand mercilessly flog all living things as the air itself turns against you. Every living thing chokes on sand and dust before escaping inside.
In Southern:
It is the twenty-second day of Spring and 80 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day with a gentle wind.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the twenty-second day of Spring and 12 degrees. It's really damn cold out.


Where

Southern Weyr, Beach

OOC Date 15 Apr 2018 06:00

 

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"It never fails, does it?"


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Southern Weyr Beach

An eerie mirror, the glass-quiet Sea of Azov: the clear waters stretch along the dark-pebbled shores, and along this narrow beach. Here the faintest lap of waves belies the calm beyond; here the rocks have been ground down into finest, softest sand - those observant would mark upon the similarity between it and the sands of the hatching grounds. The soft sand soaks up summer sunlight as a sponge; painfully hot during the warmer months, it is only truly pleasant at wintertime. Rocks rise to east and west, lichen-limned and green against the abyssal darkness of stone.

It is the twenty-second day of Spring and 80 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day with a gentle wind.



It's a beautiful day in Southern, Rukbat shines brightly, there's a slight, gentle breeze and the waves on the beach are ripe for the picking. Along one of the quieter stretches of beach, a party has been set up. There's food and liquor tables, a few games of beach ball going, a few surfers in the waves and now and again a sunbathing dragon or three. The party is a Turnday party and the lucky guest; Z'bor, who's just turned thirty-three and loves the chance to celebrate, despite the fact that Ozriath has been showing signs of going up, he loves a chance to be able to relax with friends and family. Ozriath herself, is stretched out in the sand asleep, her patchwork hide sparking under the surface.

Rielle has been anticipating Z'bor's Turnday for the simple opportunity to give him a gift, while Obhaeroth has been anticipating it because he knows what happens each and every time this day comes around. The copper-laced brown is one of those sunbathing, though he's obviously (and literally) keeping one eye on his favorite green not far away, the playful breeze of his magic-infused minds cape riffling the pages of the table-top tome that brings his mind to life in anticipation. Rielle, while perfectly content to just be there in celebration of her wingsecond and friend, knows quite well what to expect and is resigned to it. She smiles when she spies Z'bor and wanders his way, a box tied in twine in hand as she crosses the sand. "Happy Turnday, Z'bor," she tells him, touching a chaste kiss to his cheek as she hands him the box. "Zariel has something she wants to give you later, too. She wanted to come out badly, but…" There are a few obvious reasons that would've been a bad idea at the moment!

In the water just down from the party setup, F'kan is just finishing up bathing Quaverilth, giving his dragon a hearty pat on his shoulder and instructions to rinse on in the waves. Dressed only in a pair of swim shorts, his sandy blond hair plastered wetly to his forehead as the brownrider heads back towards shore with the various bathing accouterments. Once he reaches his towel on the dry sand, he picks it up and, after shaking off any sand, towels himself off vigorously, sending his shaggy coif flying in all directions. Spotting the gathering, the man is curious enough that he wander in that direction, his towel draped over his shoulders. "So what're we celebrating over there then?" he asks with a lazy smile on his face as bobs respectfully to the Wingleader and Wingsecond, touching his temple in a casual two fingered salute at each in turn.

Z'bor gives Rielle a playful salute as she approaches, a chuckle leaving his lips when he accepts the gift. "Thanks much. You didn't have to Ri…" He says in regards to the gift, giving it the tiniest of shakes. He nods at the comment on their daughter attending and smiles. "I'll take her tomorrow, we can go do something together her and I." Youngsters are definitely not supposed to come to Z'bor's turnday parties. Too many flight shenanigans. As F'kan approaches and comments, Z'bor grins.
"Turnday. Mine actually, you're more than welcome to a drink and some food if you like." And momentarily, Z'bor wonders if he should warn the rider how these things usually end…but ends up not, F'kan will probably see soon enough.
Ibrahim steps onto the soft sands of the beach, the winds from across the inland sea whipping around him.

Shaking that box won't reveal much - it rattles nondescriptly, shifting with contents both heavy and light, hard and soft. Opening it later will reveal a kit full of bow maintenance materials as well as a small field medic's kit she's assembled for him. Absolutely not a commentary on his scars, of course. "She'll like that. As usual," she notes with a fond smile over their daughter, then turns her attention to F'kan and gives him a nod and an echo of his casual salute. "Few parties have food and booze as good as what Z'bor takes care to lay out," she pronounces with a wink to the other brownrider. If she knew F'kan better, she might warn him about the shenanigans to ensue…but she figures Ozriath's presence speaks for itself.

F'kan is happily clueless to any turnday flight shenanigans, his own mind full of a certain wildling woman, which is probably for the best all things considered. He runs a hand through his damp hair, trying to settle his unruly blond locks. The wink he gets from the brownrider will bring a roguish smile to the man's lips even though he's not sure what it was all about. "Well Happy Turnday then Z'bor." He bobs his head in acquiescence to the offer of a drink and will wander away to find a beer. At this point, Quaverilth will wander out of the waves and onto the sand where he will flutter his wings to shake off the excess water clinging to his galaxy-painting 'sails. Hopefully he's not too close to the sleeping green because the brown has been eyeing Ozriath since they started their bath, watching and assessing. Now he will move nearby and carefully make like he's preening, completely ignoring her, because that's how you tell a girl you like them right? Quav is woefully inexperienced when it comes to females.

Oh, C'mry, how could you be so late. And so utterly without a clue? And yet, he is, and he's here. in all his shirtless, clueless glory! But hey, it's a party, nobody minds at all. Drink in hand hand he joins the group, nodding here and there to people near and far. S'up; hey; how you doin'. And Fiachrath, that muddy brown creature lurking grumpily in the water like Jaws — thematic music naturally included — with only his ridges exposed? Don't mind him, he'll be fine.

Z'bor grins at F'kan, and Rielle's comments to the brown rider and gives a nod of his head. "Thanks, F'kan, enjoy. There's a whiskey from up north you might like." Z'bor calls his gold, who pops in from ::between:: with is bronze and both airlift/::between:: his gift home where it will stay safe until shenanigans have passed. "I was just headed for a drink myself, care to join me?" This is aimed at Rielle and as Z'bor moves his way over to the tables, he checks off a friendly salute to C'mry. Ozriath however, is beginning to stir, multifaceted sparkles of green beginning to shift underneath her hide, the glow begins to actually show a bit while she lifts her sylven streaked head in a yawn. Stretching her sunset sails, the rainbow bubbles of her mind reach out to feint and touch the minds around her, following the stretching path of her yellow brick road. «Good day gentlemen.» Comes her girlish, laughter filled voice.

Rielle is all for a drink, and for winking at just about anyone right now on account of Obhaeroth. "I would love one," she replies, moving along behind the greenrider and then peering about rather distractedly. Her lifemate hops to his feet and shakes off the sand, copper-laced wings flaring as Ozriath stretches. « Hi Ozriath! » he enthuses with a croon, golden motes of dust swirling through his minds cape to set those teasing bubbles dancing and fling the pages of his mystical tome wide. Ink dances from quill to parchment page, words scrawled and tales woven, images beginning to coalesce into visible shapes from the fresh pen strokes. « You look amazing right now! Not that you don't always, but especially right now. » Maybe he's getting a little better at this. Rielle, however, sighs and chuckles ruefully as she senses what's going on. "Well, there's that," she notes, gesturing off toward the glowing Ozriath and her brown. "It never fails, does it?"

Now this is a party! C'mry smiles almost vapidly around, the drink in his hand waving vaguely. "Heeey, whose birthday is it anyhow?" Look at him, crashing the party with no idea whose it is. Rude! He'll just go over there where there's more dranks, thanks! Fiachrath lifts his head as Ozriath reaches out to touch everyone with that goldrn shimmer of hers. «Well now, aren't YOU a cheerful thing… Things are beginning to look up!

"Whiskey huh?" F'kan says as he looks around and finds a bottle and some glasses, pouring himself a couple of fingers. "Cheers!" He says as he raises his glass in the birthday boy's direction, mood as light as the day. The last time F'kan was an uninvited guest at a turnday party it didn't go so well, but the weather is gorgeous, there's booze and food, his dragon is freshly bathed and seems to be content lounging in the hot sands. Life is good for once for this brownrider and he seems to have a touch of spring fever as his mind continues to wander to the girl with the brandy-bright eyes. So lost is he in his own thoughts that F'kan fails to notice the way his lifemate's mindlake is brightening with spring sunshine, scented with soft musk that wafts in the direction of the patchwork green as he answer her girlish call with an awkward chuckle, « Well it's getting better by the minute lovely creature. » As he glides forward on the sands, his long face kept low as he looks up at her, marveling at the way she sparkles.

Z'bor pours himself a drink, and Rielle one too. "Happy turnday to me!" He toasts and downs his drink before pouring another. He is aware of Ozriath's waking, and the beginning of what will be the end of his party. He chuckles and nods at Rielle. "Never." Ozriath sends tendrils of rainbow bubbles out to dance and tease through each of the male's minds, each bubble tinted gold and bursting with childlike laughter upon contact. «It would be more beautiful in the skies, don't you think?»

Z'bor pours himself a drink, and Rielle one too. "Happy turnday to me!" He toasts and downs his drink before pouring another. He is aware of Ozriath's waking, and the beginning of what will be the end of his party. He chuckles and nods at Rielle. "Never." Ozriath sends tendrils of rainbow bubbles out to dance and tease through each of the male's minds, each bubble tinted gold and bursting with childlike laughter upon contact. «It would be more beautiful in the skies, don't you think?» To F'kan, Z'bor raises a drink too. "Fine whiskey isn't it?" (fix)

Rielle joins Z'bor in his toast with a little chuckle, the sigh that accompanies her downing of her first sip given more to steel herself for what's coming than anything. Obhaeroth hasn't gotten to chase Ozriath for a while, and she's not about to deny him. Leaning against the table, surveys the others that have gathered - F'kan, C'mry… That can't really be all, can it? Maybe it's just the fact that they're other brownriders that makes her notice. Meanwhile, Obhaeroth is weaving a new story with the cues from Ozriath's mindscape, the golden bubbles infusing dark ink to scrawl a sunlit autumn world upon the parchment. Leaves dance upon his breezes, and shining brook wending its way through a forest full of the whispering of dried foliage upon swaying branches, all glittering gold and russet and fiery orange. A pathway meanders alongside the brook, bathed in the brilliant light of golden hour, distinctly romantic in the shade of autumnal bowers bending lower over it. « Definitely! » he agrees as the scene unfolds from paper to encompass his entire 'scape. « I'm ready to follow wherever you lead, beautiful one. »

F'kan furrows his brows at the cryptic remarks being passed between Wingleader and Wingsecond, but doesn't much mind to be on the outside. He'll happily sip at the whiskey and nod his approval at the greenrider. "Very good. You get it up North you say?" F'kan really hopes it's not Igen, cause he's still not sure he's allowed to go there and is likely going to avoid it even when he can. The long form of Quaverilth slinks forward more, head held straight out creating a straight line from nose to shoulders to tail. When her golden tinted bubbles invade his mindscape, faint tendrils of mist form to carry the bubbles on them gently, cherishing the rainbow bubbles like a most precious gift. « The skies would be so lucky to have you oh radiant one. » his words of romance may need a little work, but the awkward way he is cocking his long face and watching her with dopey lovesick eyes is charming, right? only when his brown stretches and rustles his galaxy painted wings, readying himself for the chase does F'kan look over and finally catch on to what is going on around him. "But…" he protests weakly, but his dragon is invested now, so the brownrider looks over at the male greenrider and gulps audibly before he downs the rest of his drink in one before he exclaims, "Shit!"

Oh! "Happy Turnday to you." C'mry salutes Z'bor in wry amusement, taking careful note of Fiachrath's suddenly cheerful mood. Riiight, there's a green about to make tjings interesting, like the ultimate party crasher. "Well, now, it looks like we're about to have some entertainment." He edges over to F'kan, offering the man a semi sympathetic chin nod. He finishes off his own drink and sighs. "The dragon decides and the rider complies." That old annoying adage. "Inconvenient, isn't itot.

"Get ready…." Z'bor warns Rielle under his breath as Ozriath's flirting makes itself known to the greenrider, who is now eyeballing those around him while he has the sanity to do so. Ozriath has never led him into an unfavorable position, and he trusts her not to now. F'kan is assured that aye, the whiskey is from the North, a Zingari Red, the best they offer and then, F'kan is given a look of calm acceptance. Look out F'kan, things are about to get interesting!

And get interesting they do. Ozriath's pale blue eyes whirl with mischief as she eyes her competitors and hears their sweet nothings. Obhaeroth is of course lingered upon, extra bubbles floating towards his epic tome to splash upon it's pages,
Quaverilth's mists are danced upon as her yellow brick road paves itself into their minds, Jaws over there is sent bubbles to snap at. She has their measure, now what exactly is their worth? She shall have to find out! Bursting into bright, sylvan hued light, Ozriath glows like the light of RUkbat as she finally roars her challenge to those who might chase and takes to the skies in a mighty leap, her sunset sails dancing like rubies in the skies. Come and get her boys! The patchwork green darts for the pens and her own bloody pre-game drink.
So much for a beach party, can't do nothin' when Ozriath's milkshake brings all the browns to the yard.

"I usually am when it comes to this," Rielle says with another sigh, giving Z'bor one more kiss on the cheek before settling in to weather the chase. At least with Z'bor she can be comfortable regardless of whether Obhaeroth wins or not…and considering his only win ever has been Ozriath, she's rather resigned to her poor brown's continued dry spell. But she always has to hope, for his sake! Obhaeroth bounds after the patchwork green and takes to the sky with an enthusiastic bellow, winging out toward the pens himself but holding back until she has her own kill in hand. His glittering golden path draws them in closer, quietly coaxing Ozriath along with the promise of somewhere more intimate and beautiful at the end of the trail, if only she'll let him be hers once again.

Maybe somewhere in F'kan's subconscious Z'bor's reply about the whiskey and where it can be found penetrates, but there is far too much else grabbing his immediate attention. Like the fact that his dragon just took off for the pens after a proddy green. He grabs for the nearest bottle, as C'mry's comment is scoffed at bitterly, "That may be true, but there's nothing that says I have to be sober for it." And with that F'kan will forgo the glass and just start chugging at the bottle, only dropping it with a gasp when he needs to breathe. It takes only a moment for Quaverilth's substantial star-dusted wings to snap fully open and sweep down powerfully, propelling him after the patchwork green with an answering roar of his own, his musky scented mists stretch to skip down the yellow brick road that invades his mind. When he lands in the pens, he has decided to forgo his own blooding, hoping that laying in readiness for her first leap is the best tactic this still not deflowered brown can think of. He tries not to let his desperation slip into his mindscape as he croons softly in her direction, admiring her from every angle unabashedly.

Ozriath is not long in blooding her kill, she pounces on the nearest beast, rendering it to nothing but well, nothing in a matter of seconds. It helps it's a small beast and then, she's leaping back up into the skies with a fierce challenging cry. «The skies they call! Come dance with me!» Executing a barrel roll, Ozriath shoots off and now it's up to whomever can catch the feisty green. Turning her head, she eyes each of her chasers in turn. Come on boys! Catch up.

Z'bor chuckles at Rielle and raises an eyebrow at F'kan, wow, the man can chug. Z'bor is damn near impressed. He finishes off his drink and pours another, nothing to do now but wait until things go down. And he has a feeling, that things might end with a bang, if Ozriath's feisty mood is any indication. "Hey there F'kan, you may want to slow down, that stuff'll do you in if you drink too much." No sense in waking up with both flight AND liquor hangovers, no matter which way it goes down.

"True that." C'mry will confirm with another of those sideways grins and claims his own bottle of brew, swigging casually. Nothing to do but wait it out like a good little rider, watching Fiachrath spread dark wings and sail to the blooding grounds to wait like a giant gargoyle at its very edge, hunched and staring intently, his eyes whirling purple and wings half unfurled. Oh, that golden road is entrancing — shall he, like the lion before seeing the wizard, run away? NO! Rather, he is bursting with it, raring to give chase, to pull back the curtain and look the dragon behind the curtain in the eye. Or whatever.

Rielle does take note of F'kan's chugging, gently-angled brows steepling in sympathy. "Everyone to their own way," she notes, her tone unavoidably dropping to a purr as Obhaeroth's intent intensifies. The lanky brown makes careful note of how Ozriath bloods, making certain his own kill is almost as small and watching closely for her takeoff. Nothing is as fast as a proddy green, however, and she still catches him a little off guard. Up she goes, and he follows with zeal, veering sideways to get closer at the end of her roll. « There's no better dancer in all the world! » he declares, merrily gusting autumn winds sending a glittering veil of leaves billowing free from tenuous mooring to swirl and tumble across an impossibly clear blue sky.

Whether F'kan doesn't hear Z'bor's warning or else chooses to ignore it isn't clear. He'll finish off half the bottle before he feels his head swim and decides to put it down again. Bracing himself on his hands on the table in front of him, he drops his head and closes his eyes before reaching along the excited swirl of mist to join with his bonded. Quaverilth was tensed and ready so that when Ozriath first leaps, he springs, quite literally into action. His long brown frame uncoils powerfully as his wings draw down to launch him into the skies after her. With her first barrel roll, he offers a hearty warble after the green, « It would be a pleasure to dance with you dearest, I'll just follow your lead shall I? » because this brown is still a little uncertain of the steps, his long frame stretched into a straight line now, arrowing in on the green as his galaxy painted wings pump hard to keep up pace with the quick green.

Ozriath wheels in the air, her laughter erupting from floods of rainbow bubbles that only seem to intensify in number the longer she flies. «Ah yes, but can you dance like the wind my boys? Can you? Because I dance with it….» Rolling with the breeze, Ozriath darts off, speed is her friend. She bellows her carefree joy to the world and comes closer to each male in turn, only to bolt away when she's just within reach.

Down below, the party goes on, and Z'bor has decided to just wait it out like everyone else, though he does seem to have the 'oooo shiny' look when he looks at any of the riders involved. Drinks are his friends right now, though this show with F'kan is pretty darn amusing. He murmurs something to Rielle about feeling sorry for the man should his brown catch. Poor straight guy. Sorry, not sorry dude.

Oh, enough with the gargoyle routine: it's time to fly! Fiachrath is so late, but so determined! He's going to sidle past one or two others who seem to be dazzled by the rainbows, sparkle, and glitter, and try his hand at using the wind to show off some awesome moves, like barrel-rolling. So what if such a thing might lead to a wrenched wing later on? He doesn't really care; now's the time to show off some prowess.

Rielle does acknowledge Z'bor's comment with a commiserating smile…though it looks like something much more than commiserating as Obhaeroth nears his intended target. "Might not want to get too close just yet, aye?" she purrs, tapping a finger against the greenrider's jaw before forcing herself to stand up from her lean against the table. She downs what's in her glass in one go before turning to settle her teal gaze fully upon Z'bor, drawing another full, deep breath. Obhaeroth, enthralled and determined as ever, bugles in answer to the green's joyous challenge and pins his wings, diving fast to gain speed before unfurling them again and using that momentum to turn a loop-the-loop. « Woohooooo! How's that? » he answers the green gleefully, the autumn skies and forests that he's conjured this time flaring with warm, lively sunset's gold. He rumbles when she bolts away but carries forward, yearning for her, the promise of a sweetly satisfying end stretched forth relentlessly toward her.

Quaverilth is fully enchanted with Ozriath as his mists swirl and bounce among the rainbow bubbles, his own mental chuckle deep and resonating over the glassy surface of the lake in his mind, softly rippling the water there. His form flows through the air, insinuating the length of his body through the air and cutting sharply when she breezes into reach, only to bellow disappointment as she darts away again. « You sure do! It's breathtaking! » And he lets awe color his words as he pushes his long strokes harder, willing his lean form higher and faster with fierce determination. F'kan on the other hand, is running is fingers absently through his hair before he throws his head back in a long sigh as he looks in the direction of the greenrider, taking one single step in Z'bor's direction but then freezing as if he wasn't fully responsible for that step to begin with.

Z'bor 's warm brown gaze finds all those that belong to those that have given chase. "Aye, not too close, not yet." His gaze flicks to the skies, watching the small dots that have become his green and her beaus. The end is near however, Ozriath leaning towards her decision….maybe. The green seems to be taking her time and wheels back towards the beach and it's occupants. It's the long race now. Putting on a BURST of speed, Ozriath leads the race. «Come! Come boys! You beautiful dancers you! If you can catch me, I'm yours, your partner for the greatest dance of all! Who's fast enough?" And giving a challenging wiggle of her behind, she's ripe for the catching.

There is very little left of Rielle now, her focus upon Z'bor/Ozriath so intent that it might just be palpable now. Teal eyes become obscured by the dark fringe of her lashes as her concentration becomes Obhaeroth's, warm tendrils of glittering golden breeze, the storyteller's breath, weaving through the romantic autumn scenery that unfurls even further to try embracing her mind even as he stretches to seek an embrace of her form. Along the path, a sleek feline with coppery fur bounds and leaps to play and catch at the bobbing golden and rainbow bubbles she's loosed, skittering among the swirling leaves. And Obhaeroth beats his heavy-leather pinions mightily, adding in a roll as he turns tightly to pursue Ozriath toward the beach. « I'll join you, Ozriath! Come with me! »

F'kan clutches his hands into fists as he steels himself as he feels the tension of the cahse drift over him from his brown. Quaverilth's efforts are redoubled as they wheel back over the beach, rolling his body to the side so that he can follow her close on the left as she continues her dance. But it's her final taunt that gets this young brown's ichor pumping as he flaps his wings desperately, reaching them ever forward with each stroke until he decides he's reached his now or never moment. With a final bellow of need, the brown surges forward then, reaching for the very last of his reserves of strength as he reaches for her, willing his galaxy painting cloak-like wing sails to catch her as his neck is stretched in her direction, « Oh please pick me lovely thing. I want to dance so badly. » His mindvoice betrays his youth with it's pleading reply.

Her decision, his desire: Fiachrath strains toward Ozriath, seeing an end to the road, a way to finally see behind the curtain to catch a glimpse of what's really controlling the glittering scenery of her bright and bubbling mind. But oh, that butt wiggle, how it encourages him, how it revives his flagging spirits! And Fiachrath manages to bull past a spent blue, crowing delight as at last he pulls closer still, heading for the beach, reaching, reaching — desperate to catch, desperate to turn this into a tango and a tangle of wings and limbs and tails; meanwhile, C'mry is pulled closer to Z'bor, but not too close; he's long since forgotten why he's holding a bottle of liquor on the beach, why he'd even come out here in the first place. His mind's been clouded by his dragon's desire.

It's never easy choosing between suitors, and what fine suitors Ozriath has this chase. She darts towards Fiachrath, lingering but the blink of an eye before she glides towards Quaverilth and his magic, hesitating but a moment before she darts away again. Sorry sweet Quaverilth, not today, maybe someday! Ozriath grumbles her indecision, a roar echoing around her as her ichor erupts with the fire of the dance, the heat of her need. Her bubbles swirl like mad before glimpses of the emerald city at the end of the yellow brick road can be seen. And what is this? A ruffle of pages in her mind, a sweet storyteller she's known before. Banking her fires so that they don't burn his precious pages, it is into Obhaeroth's familiar claws Ozriath goes, her til winding with his as they begin the most primal of dances.

Z'bor is fraught with the indecision of his green, a hand reaching for C'mry before clenching and drawing back, turning towards F'kan, and hesitating, warm brown eyes taking in the rider with a deep heat before shying away. he runs his hands through his hair, near roaring himself when Ozriath does. He paces, looking much like one of the felines that gave him his scars. Then he stops, head jerking up and in Rielle's direction. Striding to her, he wraps her up in a lusty kiss and after looks desperately for someplace to take her.

Rielle wavers on her feet, eyes flying open and an involuntary gasp escaping her as the surge of Obhaeroth's elation hits her like a tidal wave. It's been a bit over five Turns since his last catch, so experiencing the non-losing version of flight lust is quite a rush indeed. Movement is a sudden blur - her hands finding Z'bor, lips meeting his, feet taking them away from the party and toward somewhere, anywhere more secluded than this to bring things to their inevitable conclusion. And Obhaeroth, bugling his victory, entwines himself tightly with his lovely patchwork green, carrying them off to a place where only they matter for a good long while.

Oh poor Quaverilth, his dance card will remain woefully empty, as his catch misses the green and he tips his wings to begin slow lazy circles down to the beach as he calls mournfully after the mating pair, the cry of the chronically lonely. For his part, F'kan is mighty relieved that his brown was unsuccessful in his chase. A quick glance in the direction of the departing Serval riders, before the brownrider is sprinting to his things, grabbing them up in an moment just as his brown lands on the beach. It doesn't take him a moment to be astride his brown's neck, mentally sending his firelizards to search out Devana as his brown takes off and takes them away to seek out his Wild woman, bringing plenty of dragon-fueled lust with him.

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