Who

N'cal, F'in, Tija, Selaine, Iolarth, Rhakanth, Akitith

What

RP Tag Round 6: N'CAL & F'IN. Rhakanth and Iolarth love the ladies. N'cal, F'in, Tija and Selaine all converge in the Dragonhealer Yard.

When

It is afternoon of the tenth day of the second month of the third turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

n-cal_default.jpg f-in_default.jpg tija_default.jpg selaine_default.jpg iolarth_default.jpg rhakanth_default.jpg akitith_default.jpg

igendragonhealeryard.jpg

Dragonhealer Yard

Painfully elegant, a stubborn brand of cleanliness is retained in the gentle colors of faded murals and various curtains hung from the rusted metal poles meant to shelter injured dragons on spacious couches lining the permanently soot-stained limestone walls. Of a dusty no-color somewhere between brown and gold, the floor extends onward, fading beneath ragged cabinets built to withstand anything from lashing draconic tails to various medicinal spills.

It is the fortieth day of Winter and 40 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


N'cal and Iolarth are in the Dragonhealer Yard again, for a very familiar reason. Again. Nothing like a little greenflight to get the blood moving! Except, in Iolarth's case, the blood - ichor - is moving a bit outside where it should be. At least the two long, shallow slashes slanting down his left haunch were an accident this time and not the product of stupidity on the athletic blue's part. Even so, the cold - which isn't as bad as it could be - is making the dragonhealer's work on the wounds a bit slower than usual, and Iolarth is uncomfortable, leaving the Arrroyo wingsecond pacing around the small well in the midst of the yard as he waits.

"Next time he decides to," the Dragonhealer checks the chart and re-reads, eyes nearly crossing in disbelief, "'Be a sandstorm,'" he shakes his head anew, "Discourage him, hmm?" F'in, standing at Rhakanth's chest, a hand on the dragon's shoulder, straightens and, solemn-eyed, salutes the 'healer. The 'healer returns the courtesies and hands a copy of the report to the weyrlingmaster in attendance of this boisterous pair. F'in clears his throat and his face brightens with a slow grin up at Rhakanth, to which the dragon merely lifts his head, proud. "Oi. Weyrling. You listen to that 'healer. Get on those stretches, I'll be back to check on you in half-a-candle." Innocent, oh-so-innocent the look that F'in turns to the weyrlinstaffer, "Yes, Sir." A salute to match. He's managing not to smile through all his salutes these days. Rhakanth shrills a sharp report at F'in and while that jaw is open F'in jumps up to snag the young bronze's lower canines and hang. It seems unlikely that these are the aforementioned stretches. And nevermind WHY Rhakanth was trying to be a sandstorm…

Tija can be invisible, or she can be a presence. Today, she seems to be choosing the latter. Dressed more or less to kill in a floorlength dress with a darling slit almost all the way up to her hip. The fabric sways around her legs as she enters the yard, her brown lifemate nowhere in attendance. There's a hint of feral in her eyes- perhaps she and Izahyth had been caught up in that same green flight, and her gaze switches from person to person before settling on the unlikly pairing of wingsecond and weyrling. "Darlings, there really must be a better way for the two of you to spend your time." Moving forward one languid pace at a time she claims a healers table and neatly shoos the contents of it to one side so she can sprawl upon it.

And then there's Selaine, a worried look etched across her face as she makes her way over to F'in and another over at Rhakanth, eyebrows twitching. A salute is given to her wingsecond as she spots him pacing, another worried look over at Iolarth. What's with all these dragons and dragonlings getting hurt today? "What'd the healer say?" she asks, looking over at where Akitith waits, eyes swirling with agitation and concern. A glance is tossed over at Tija sprawled on a table.

N'cal comes to rest in a lean against the well, blue-green gaze falling on the weyrling bronze and his lifemate. At F'in's antics, he raises an eyebrow. "Are you quite sure his neck is strong enough now to handle you doing that just now, weyrling?" the wingsecond questions, his tone mildly disapproving beneath an otherwise even delivery. And then there is that unmistakeable presence of a certain Whirlwind brownrider whom he did happen to notice in the midst of the flight, the waning effects of which do not allow him to prevent his eyes from roaming the length of her before he realizes what he's doing and blinks, looking away. "Iolarth finds himself here quite often after flights, unfortunately," he notes with some chagrin. "He didn't before coming to Igen. I thinking the greens here are largely more…vicious than other places." Just his guess, anyway. Then comes Selaine, whom N'cal gives a nod and a return salute as she passes over toward F'in. No words for her just yet, but probably the most relaxed acknowledgement of the lot.

Well, if you're going to go around calling the Weyrsecond a 'dipwad,' then that's the dress to do it in, Tija. WHEW. That a green had gone up might explain Tija's sudden departure from the Living Caverns earlier and F'in's brows go up, light colored eyes tracking to Selaine at the mention of greenflights. NO REASON. "Just hangin' around, Ma'am," F'in quips, before addressing Selaine's question, "He torqued some of his spars pretty good, nothing to worry about. Please, tell Akitith," (Akitith, Akitith), "It's okay," his eyes track up to the lissome green and her worried eyes. He looks from N'cal to Selaine and back to N'cal. Akitith sure wasn't anything he'd describe as viscious. "Yes, Sir. 's how it got that strong." Rhakanth bobs his head, wagging F'in about. See those heavy shoulders and powerful limbs? That just doesn't HAPPEN. But the not-so-hidden rebuke is noted and F'in drops to his feet with a soft thud and a salute for, first, N'cal and then Tija as she saunters near. "Evening, Wingsecond. Ma'am, again." The bronze weyrling's eyes trip to the slow stitching of Iolarth's flank, wincing.

"He's too serious during flights. Chase too strong and well…" One of Tija's arms lifts upwards as the bangles on her arm clatter downwards to settle near her elbow with a musical tinkle, "No lady likes such aggression." Izahyth jokes his way through flights- which might be why he so rarely wins them. Shifting just slightly her dress parts at that break and falls open to reveal one smooth leg that hangs over the edge of the table. "Tell him Selanie sweetheart, does your green enjoy being treated like a piece of meat?"

Selaine lets out a sigh of relief at F'in's news, relaying the message to the worried green. "That's good…" Akitith? Her? Viscious? Never. There's also an eye given at their antics. Did they not learn from their very recent experience? Her eyes roll at the bronzerider's reply towards the Wingsecond. There's a shifting of her eyes as they move from bluerider to brownrider. "No… I don't think she does, at that."

There's a chuckle from N'cal for Tija's observation about Iolarth's seriousness during flights. "I couldn't ask him to be any less so than you could ask Izahyth to turn bronze," he returns with a grin. "He only gets aggressive if the other chasers are." F'in's salute is also returned, the flick of eyes toward his lifemate noted. "You'll be learning to do that yourself soon enough," he points out. How exciting. Selaine's reply to Tija earns a slightly amused shake of his head. "Iolarth would hardly view any green in such a light, I assure you." When he's not getting in the way of someone's talons, he's really quite the gentleman. In draconic terms.

Rhakanth shifts weight from one paw to another. F'in turns and thumps on the bronze's chest and throws his arms wide. Rhakanth, watching Iolarth's tending closely, spreads his wings, there's a balk when his right wing goes to it's widest unfurling. Realizing he's rather on display at the moment, Rhakanth rumbles, drawing his head up, muzzle tilted jauntily. "Cut it out, you knucklehead." Rhakanth's tail whips back and forth. Oh, no, he's not done posturing. F'in listens to reports from the seasoned riders about flights and proclivities of the females their dragons chase. "Learn what soon, Sir? To sew or to chase?"

"Being bronze would be so boring." Tija's hand flips again before she's sitting up to flash a bright smile at Rhakanath. "Present company excepted of course." She rises from her lounge and drifts around the room a bit before her eyes alight on N'cal again. A few long languid steps bring her towards the bluerider. Lifting up a touch on her toes she brushes a kiss against his cheek. "We should talk some time N'cal, get to know one another better." Without waiting for an answer she turns and drifts towards the door, "Have fun F'in sweets, and Selaine!" And then Tija is gone as quickly as she had come.

Selaine directs a grin towards N'cal at his statement. "That's reassuring." A glance over at Akitith as the rider relays some of the conversation to her dragon. "Akitith appreciates that as well." There's a light laugh from her. At F'in's question, Selaine shrugs, also unsure of what the bluerider is referring to. There's a wave as Tija heads out. "But hopefully he's learned not to be a show-off, if this was any indication." The greenrider eyes the dragonline again at his antics.

"Both, though the former far sooner than the latter," N'cal replies, peripherally eying Tija's drift around the yard. "You'll learn basic dragonhealing for any times that might arise in which your lifemate can't be tended immediately-" And then the bluerider is quite effectively cut off by Tija's approach and the kiss placed on his cheek. Were he in a different state, he'd have a quick, possibly clever and definitely safe reply for her words. Alas, he does not, left opening his mouth as if to say something and then shutting it again as he watches the brownrider walk away. Shoving a hand through his hair, he turns away, a stream of muttered words under his breath sounding rather more colorful than his day to day speech. Flights. He hopes a certain other bluerider proves to be about once he and Iolarth are done here. He doesn't want to go for another run in the cold. Clearing his throat, he looks back to Selaine, fending off a bit of sheepishness. "Nearly eleven turns of chasing, and he hasn't learned otherwise, I'm afraid," he says, casting a rueful look at his lifemate. Iolarth is a phenomenal flier and knows it. He isn't afraid to show it off at all.

"I guess men will be boys." Selaine laughs lightly, looking at Iolarth and wincing inwardly as her eyes gaze over his injuries. "You would think he would, if he keeps getting those kind of injuries…" her head shakes slightly before looking over at Rhakanth. "See what could happen to you?" she says, directing that towards the way-too-energetic bronze weyrling. "I definitely would hate to see a dragon getting injured during Akitith's flight." The young greenrider shudders slightly at the thought.

"Naturally, Ma'am," is F'in's instantaneous reply. No color on F'in would be boring and certainly not the big galut behind him. He joins N'cal in watching Tija's slinking departure, lips pursed at that slow roll of hips and flash of leg. Brows tick up appreciatively as he turns back to his exercises. The bronzerider rolls his shoulders forward, fanning fingers carefully. Rhakanth does the same, where 'fingers' are 'spars.' At Selaine's admonition the bronze puffs up and F'in's head rocks back with sudden laughter. The splayed hands of outstretched arms curl into fists and F'in's biceps curl. The gun show spoiled by the thick coat he's wearing, but the posture proud as he turns around to face Selaine. Behind him, Rhakanth's wings retract and furl, the two of them a picture of preening masculinity. "Chicks dig scars, Selaine. Didn't you know?" Selaine may recall that F'in's arms are marred up and down with scars small and large from his work at the forge. Hands spread again and arms go wide, Rhakanth, again mimicing F'in's movements. F'in rolls his wrists and Rhakanth's wings wrack similarly, sails rustling.

N'cal gives a good natured snort for Selaine's reply. "Or dragons will be weyrlings, in this case. You would think it, wouldn't you? But, you know. Short memories." He gestures vaguely at his own temple in indication. He idly watches F'in and Rhakanth go through their little display, laughing after the weyrling's last. "Indeed!" he agrees with a nod. "Perhaps Iolarth is just building a collection to show off. He's certainly got an admirable one going." His blue is nearly done getting stitched, numbweed soon to follow. Thank Faranth. That should help both their moods considerably - not that N'cal is really being surly in sympathy to Iolarth's pain or anything. "What exactly brought you two here today?" he asks F'in, able to concentrate a bit better now that there aren't any distracting, flight-fevered brownriders around to monopolize anyone's focus.

The greenrider laughs at N'cal's admission of his so-called short memory. "Right… of course." Selaine resists the urge to roll her eyes at her wingsecond before raising an eyebrow at the weyrling pair. "Uh huh… I think there's something about getting scars by being reckless that kind of throws off that theory, though." she responds, eyeing his 'gun show'. Akitith, on the other hand, merely observes their antics with quiet amusement at their exercising.

F'in gives Selaine a 'SEEEE' look. N'cal's got his back. BROS. Though… Selaine was probably the more credible source for what 'chicks dug.' OR… hmmm… The bluerider had some years on him. Yeah, F'in is gonna go with N'cal on this one. Sorry, Selaine. F'in himself had seen women eye the scars on his arms, trace them with their fingertips, ask him about them. Most of them he barely remembers getting, some he'd never forget. "Scars are stories, Selaine." No matter how they were gotten. At N'cal's question, F'in makes a coughing sound in the back of his throat. A laugh of sorts. "Uh, let's say Iolarth wasn't the only one posturing today." Young Rhakanth may be discovering girls early. A sound like a hundred rusty hinges creaking open splits the air and Rhakanth fans his wings, tail lashing. F'in wince smiles at Selaine and Akitith. Rhakanth, is undaunted! "Whoa, whoa, easy there, mate." F'in turns his attention to Rhakanth, who's fanning wingbeats were stirring dust and sand in the neat courtyard. "Not again."

N'cal meant Iolarth's memory, not his own…but he can't pick up on the glitch in translation, of course, raising a wry brow at Selaine for her answer before looking back to F'in an Rhakanth. The weyrling's answer surprises him slightly, and he chuckles again. "I see. Some of them do figure things out early. Iolarth was one of those, so I feel your pain." And so do his ears at the unearthly sound that emanates from the young bronze. "Hopefully he doesn't include his voice in his posturing too often." Iolarth, who is now in the process of getting his wounds slathered in numbweed, turns sharp, avian-like gaze on the dragonet as he sends forth a brisk mountain breeze across the young mind, a raptor's piercing cry among high clouds at daybreak demanding attention. « Calm yourself, young one, » a baritone both easy and commanding intones. « There are places for such displays. This is not one of them. » Here is meant to be for rest and recovery - after the whistles and howls of pain have passed, of course.

Selaine listens to the interaction between the two male riders about … well, male growing pains? Or in this case, dragon growing pains. N'cal's ears aren't the only ones who suffer from the sound that comes from the bronze weyrling. "I have to agree with you on that one, N'cal." says the greenrider, rubbing her ears. Akitith is more than amused and watches, this time glad that she's not the one to admonish the bronze for his behavior. Let the older, more experienced blue have the honors. "Well… seeing that he's pretty much fine… I think I'll be heading out for now. Akitith's due for a bath anyway… It was nice meeting you, Rhakanth. Just… try to behave?" A light laugh. "I'll see you both around." A wave to F'in and a salute directed towards her wingsecond. That said, the greenrider heads out of the yard and towards the lake with her green.

Look, everyone is agreeing with N'cal! It's like some sort of magic. Perhaps this is why the man is Wingsecond. Though on the matter of Rhakanth's voice, pretty much everyone agrees. Except Wyrraith and Sawyer. And F'in… there's something about those wild, raucous sounds that stir his blood. How about that lifebond, eh? At F'in's urging, and Iolarth's the bronze dragon subsides, muzzle dipping down. There're no ladies to dazzle any more either and F'in is treated to a headbutt that nearly bowls him off his feet. "Hey, easy, don't wanna put me in the people infirmary." F'in shudders, his arms going up to run hands along the bold planes of Rhakanth's face, "Sir?" A pause, leaning his cheek against Rhakanth's hide, "Is Zeyta okay?" She never had once seemed okay to F'in, but Tija's words earlier were cause for some concern. Of course, Tija had also called F'dan a dipwad, so… perhaps the slinky brownrider was the one he needed to be asking about.

N'cal flicks a casual salute in return to Selaine, watching the young greenrider leave for a moment before turning his attention back to his lifemate. The dragonhealers have finished with Iolarth, and the sky-washed blue pads over to his rider with a disgruntled bit of a huff, crouching down carefully beside his rider and the weyrling pair and lowering his head. A rub, please. N'cal obliges, though his attention shifts once again at F'in's question. "Zeyta?" he counters with a raised eyebrow. "She still carries off her duties as wingleader, so yes." It's a blunt answer, and he knows it, a hand lifting to run gloved fingers through his hair as he considers what else he might say. "She may be a bit more retiring than usual, but she isn't one to let on about personal issues. Therefore, to the best of my knowledge, she is as well as may be expected." Though what may be expected by him, he'll keep to himself for now.

F'in urges Rhakanth back into the stretches, bidding the bronze to crouch so he can work at the aggreived joints as directed. Callused hands run across the gleaming wingspars, glittering bands in the stretched hide seeming to give it an appearace of depth, parallax, as the wing furls and unfurls. "You ever wonder if," thumbs of a paired clasp knead into the hard knob of bone and muscle and sinew at the finger joint, "Under all that ice, there's," the weyrling looks over, eyebrows ticking up, "More ice?" The weyrling's grin is bright, but there's a thread of sadness there. Pain. A sympathy the brownrider would dismiss. Angrily. He nods, accepting N'cal's answer as all he's going to get, turning back to Rhakanth's wing with a thoughtful look. He backs up, rolling his shoulders and watches Iolarth's careful progress to N'cal. Deliberately inflicted wounds. Well. Those talons weren't decorative, were they? He pads over to the Wingsecond, boots scuffing on the stone of the courtyard, Rhakanth trailing him, a brown-gold shadow. He sticks a hand out to N'cal, "F'in, Sir. Since we hadn't met formal like." Rhakanth's introductory creak could charitably be said to be a friendly overture. If one was feeling generous. If one weren't, the gate swung open on hinges that creak similarly, into winding corridors of leafy, sunlit green hedges, a gravel path extended out to Iolarth, is unmistakeable.

It is rather difficult to focus on any one point on Rhakanth's hide, his particular shade of bronze a variety N'cal has never seen before. Therefore, he doesn't allow his gaze to linger long as he watches F'in lead his young lifemate through stretches. The weyrling's question, which might be viewed as out of line by some, is met with a thoughtful silence by the bluerider, a short hum his only answer for a long moment. "When someone works so hard to present such an effortlessly cold mask to the world," he observes, nearly murmuring, "I believe it's safe to assume there must be much working to keep the ice floating on the surface, if you take my meaning." He suspects as much about Zeyta, though has no intention of prying. The offered hand is firmly grasped and shaken, a wide smile returned to the weyrling. "Well met, F'in. N'cal will do in less formal settings, though I suspect most will have your hide if they don't hear you saying 'wingsecond' at all times." Gotta love the rules. Meanwhile, Iolarth's curiosity is piqued by those leafy, sunlit corridors - somewhat like his forests, but far more orderly. A brisk, cool breeze shushes through the gate to rustle the hedges within, the flickering shadow of a raptor in flight cast upon the gravel path and following along wherever it may lead.

Rhakanth's hedges rustle with that cool breeze, white petals of flowers skirling like a snowfall through the sunny corridors. A rabbit appears in the winding paths, scampering along from shadow to shadow, zigging and zagging, particularly when that shadow passes near. The young bronzerider works at that joint, face screwing up with the effort of massaging strained wing extensors. F'in isn't really good with boundaries and rank and propriety. Witness: striding up to Arroyo's Wingsecond like they weren't incredibly disparate in standing. The only person in the Weyr who's ever really got that automatic awe out of him is W'rin. And that wasn't truly the man's knot. Though the knot helped. And it's not that he's disrespectful, either, particularly. His 'sirs' are genuine. Effortless, even. So, on some level, this may be why his comments about N'cal's notoriously hot and cold boss aren't taken totally amiss. He seems concerned about her. "I do take your meaning, Sir." His handshake is firm, eye contact direct, "Yes, Sir. N'cal. Wingsecond. Sir." With each subsequent layering of address, F'in's smile grows broader. He blinks, eyes sliding to Iolarth, unfocusing as Rhakanth relays something. "Well met, Iolarth." His eyes narrow speculative and, as one, Rhakanth and F'in ask, «"Who got you?"» The bronzerider and his bonded startle and peer at one another.

A rabbit? Iolarth's first instinct is to chase, to catch the skittering creature; it's prey. But this is also Rhakanth's mind, and it's a young mind at that; the older blue has no intention of traumatizing the weyrling bronze. Instead, the breeze swirls playfully after, kicking up the white petals even higher. The shadow of that raptor materializes, the wicked-beaked, far-seeing avian that is the most tangible facet of Iolarth's mind lighting atop one of the hedges with a curious whistle pitching upward. « Driath, » that melodious baritone answers with some chagrin. « A green from Sandblast. But she did not mean it. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. » N'cal's smile broadens into a winning grin of his own at F'in's final layer, and he looks back at his lifemate, who turns a discerning eye on the young man. A light huff - approval. Generally. He has some observing to do yet. "I take it your young one here was trying a bit too hard. Shells, but he's beautiful. I've never seen a shine like that." Now if only the voice matched!

The golden thread of Rhakanth's presence trips along with the breeze, twisting through the swirling petals, chasing after the fleeing rabbit. Strangely… he doesn't seem to know where it will go, surprise shimmering along the glimmering thread at each unexpected turning. That thread winds around F'in's hands, his brow, « Driath. Remember her for me. » What? F'in blinks and tips his head, » You bet. « He's not sure what he's to remember, but it won't be difficult. Deeper in the labyrinth, etched into a wall he'll likely never see again, a bird of prey in flight, wings spread, talons extended, two drops of blood trailing in its wake. F'in reaches up over his shoulder, hand seeking Rhakanth's jaw, jaw seeking F'in's hand. He laughs, "Yeah, Akitith," Akitith, Akitith. "He got a little carried away showing off those mighty wings." Those mighty wings spread, a gleaming chiaroscuro of deep brown and honey gold. F'in's hand tightens on that jaw and shakes, moving that big head not a fraction, but the wings furl obligingly. F'in's smile is slow as he wracks around to peer at Rhakanth. "Yeah, he's something, eh?" He squints at Iolarth. "Y'know, I don't care what Trek says. Blues look fast." He looks at N'cal and points at Iolarth, "He looks fast."

"Ahh, yes," N'cal says with a nod, folding his arms and leaning against Iolarth's shoulder. "Akitith is certainly a pretty little thing. I can understand why Rhakanth would like to show off for her. Iolarth feels inclined to do the same fairly often." There's a neat pile of straps laying beside the well, which the bluerider walks over to and starts uncoiling. Iolarth takes this as a cue and turns, crouching again to allow his bonded to attach them whenever he's ready. "Trek said otherwise?" the wingsecond asks with a crooked grin, chuckling a bit as he works the straps around his blue's neck. "Iolarth is fast; he has a very fortunate build. Generally, blues are very quick. It's why they tend to win out in greenflights more often than bronzes and browns, and why they have such flexibility of position in the wings. The downside is that they don't have as much endurance, of course." A fact that Iolarth resents, as indicated by the pointed snort he gives. "At any rate, we'd best be off. Any other questions, F'in?" the tall bluerider invites, giving a final tug to a forestrap.

The crafter in F'in emerges as N'cal readies those straps. Seemed like he was adjusting or adding to Rhakanth's straps every other day. There's a close look and a critical eye to the handiwork, the stitching, the fastenings, the fit and finish. All the little details stored away to be sorted later. The young man barks a laugh, "Well, she said the same as you just did. Blues are quick, not fast. But I gotta imagine Kanyith is fast for his size." F'in is, apparently, an expert in aesthetic-based aerodynamics now. "Iolarth, too." F'in purses his lips, considering N'cal's words, "I'd'a thought blues winning greenflights was a numbers game." Huh. Flight characteristics made sense too, though. He nods, accepting. "No, Sir. Thank you." He grins and extends a hand to the bluerider, "Good to meet you, N'cal. Wingsecond. Sir." The same escalating grin. "Iolarth." He draws up into a smart salute, still smiling. Rhakanth rumbles. It sounds like a someone threw a box of rusty pterodactyls down a stairwell. F'in's eyes narrow, wincing, at that sharp, rusty report holding the salute until N'cal releases him and the two return to their stretching.

N'cal just chuckles over F'in's apparent 'expertise', nodding and reaching out to take F'in's hand again. "Likewise, F'in. Weyrling. Rhakanth." To whom Iolarth rumbles briefly in farewell before extending a leg to N'cal. The wingsecond doesn't leave the bronzeling hanging on to that salute long, snapping one off in turn before climbing easily up into place on his newly-stitched lifemate's neck. "Clear skies," he calls down, and then they are off, that quickness evident in the steeply-banked climb the blue pair takes to exit the dragonhealer yard on a heading toward the Bazaar.

Epilogue

Nathen chitters excitedly.

Rhakanth crouches waaaay down to peer at Nathen.

Nathen peers at Rhakanth, rustling his wings on his back nervously.

Rhakanth is just a baby. No worries, oldtimer.

Nathen carefully plods along the ground towards the bronze with a soft limp to his gait. The tiny brown is hardly bigger than a four sevenday hatchling, though the little ones posture tells a very different story. The flitter stops an arm lengths away from the bronzes' paws. He carefully sits back and curls his tail around his hindpaws.

Rhakanth blinks, eyes whirling curiously, the little brown reflected in every facet. He blinks again and looks up at F'in, the rider watching N'cal and Iolarth take to the skies. No help there. Wriggling massive hindquarters, the bronze presses himself even lower to the fitted flagstones. He stretches his head forward slightly, sniffing, a low creak of inquiry, as if an ooold iron gate had a question. His wings, collected against his sides, rustle.

Nathen sits in place, unalarmed by the bronzes' curiosity. The little browns eyes slowly swirl a blue green as he tilts his head to the side, then leans forward to meet muzzle to muzzle.

The touch sends a blaze of bright green through the facets of the little brown. He streatches his wings out and sings a high pitched warble before a noise pulls his attention away. A human pet summons and the mocha speckled critter whistles a few notes of parting before crouching and spreading his wings. In keeping with his age, it takes more than a few pumps to get these old wings spread propperly and catching the air needed for the jump and flight. His hindquarters wiggle a bit with the anticipation, then release, sending the tiny flitter into the air, fluttering away and dissapearing into a doorway.

Rhakanth's eyes, a bright sky blue, bloom with green sparks at the tiny nose on his. And, for the first time in all his days, and quite possibly the last, Rhakanth makes a pleasant sound. Relatively speaking. A warble, soft, like a fist full of marbles ground together.

Add a New Comment