Ay'den (NPC-run by Kyara), Majel, Mayte, Sienna, and Yukie


The weyrlings have their first mounted flight. Whee!


It is morning of the nineteenth day of the ninth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


North Bowl, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


mayte_default.jpg majel_default.jpg yukie_default.jpg sienna_default.jpg rhiscorath_default.jpg dyxath.jpg inayalinaeth_default.jpg kehemath_default.jpg


North Bowl

In the quieter spaces of the Northern Bowl, there is less activity; all is kept serene for young, forming draconic bonds. Beneath the sweep of skies' ever-changing colors, this round little panorama hosts the short distances between the Hatching Cavern and the weyrlings' ultimate destination: the barracks and training grounds. More packed dirt and tiny little hillocks than clean white sand, the floor is an uneven thing, a startling trap for the unwary and the clumsy. Further onward, the Ground Weyrs beckon, a haven for those who may seek medical attention.

There's been a lot of waiting going on in the weyrling barracks. A lot of eager anticipation. The dragonets have been doing plenty of flying one their own, and their lifemates are well-accustomed to being up on their necks by now…but they all know the real excitement is coming. Ever exacting in his preparations for this momentous time, Ay'den has been making sure all is in order, the airspace above the North Bowl kept as clear as possible for those about to fly… And the summons comes. Trahaeath, the heated forge of his mind washing encouragement and eagerness across the minds of the young ones with heat and molten-iron brilliance, puts out the call. « To the North Bowl, weyrlings! The time has come for you and yours to fly together! »

Rhiscorath has been working out along side Mayte, reading the books (or having Mayte do it), getting the info. She's quite ready to get this 'flying' thing started, and Mayte is admittedly not too far behind. For the girl, this summons brings a look of concentrated anticipation over her face, much better than the stormy cloud she's had for the past few days. Whatever brought that on, Rhiscorath is eager and evidently forward-thinking: she's already had Mayte put on her riding straps. The Weyrling and dragon present themselves, the former with a salute.

Expectation thrums palpably in the warm autumn morning as weyrlingmasters make their rounds to do a different set of pre-flight checks; those with recently extended straps who pass inspection are ushered out of the training grounds to heed Trahaeath's summons. It's a hodge-podge group that forms up with their dragons near Mayte and Rhiscorath, a smattering of browns, blues and greens in various postures of eager attention. Majel and Dyxath, straps in place, end up next to the blue's impressive golden sister, presentation crisp and terribly alert. The older weyrling's salute is sharp, but there's a tiny nod for her fellow trainee, too.

Sienna and Kehemath land not far away, the green in a new set of straps (one guess what happened to her last set) and Sienna dressed for flying. Lifting a hand, she waves down to the others but she doesn't yet dismount. Kehemath's thoughts are of the sky above the bowl, wingtip to wingtip…seems she's going to be the one to go with them on this first flight, as wingman.

Rhiscorath senses Dyxath's focus is all but absolute on their weyrlingmaster, yet a flicker of a silhouette leans casually from the shadows that watches her and hers. A curl of cigar smoke puffs gently across the link in search of answers: Mayte's mood of late hasn't gone unnoticed. Is all well?

No smoking in the library, but one curl of cigar is allowed to to rise, no hands waving it away. A book is open on its lectern, the low murmur of voices, usually so hushed in library halls, rises in distracted concern. It's a true secretary's reply though: things are fine, there's been some developments, nothing to worry about… the tip of a green ribbon smoulders quietly in the ash-tray provided for Dyxath's convenience.

Ay'den - stoic at the best of times and bearing a rather frightening scowl at the worst - actually has a hint of a smile on his lips as he returns the salutes given. Trahaeath snorts a short welcome to Kehemath, while his rider glances up and gives a nod of greeting to Sienna before turning back and unleashing the familiar boom of his voice upon the weyrlings. "I know you're all excited, and you've got every right to be. But keep your heads cool; you'll need the focus. This'll be mostly Trahaeath and Kehemath guiding your lifemates along while you sit tight, but you'll be echoing back commands for practice. On my signal, mount up, check your straps again," because one can never be too careful, "get you helmets on, then fall into a line formation facing north." Raising his fist, he looks them all over once more, then drops it. "Mount up!"

Dyxath does some scribbling of his own, from time to time; he and she aren't so very different in that regard. His, however, is an all but illegible scrawl, the low scratch of a pencil-stub taking note of movements, whispers, those things not voiced in the polite reply. A small circle of light hits that burning green ribbon before he withdraws completely for their lesson.

There's Sienna and Kehemath too! Mayte salutes them as well before turning to listen to the WeyrlingMaster. Face set in serious stone, she's intent on each word, while Rhiscorath is looking over her brothers and sisters as well. Upon Ay'den's order's Mayte turns to examine Rhiscorath's straps, as the tall dragon has to crouch down to let Mayte examine further up. Helmet over dark hair and Mayte takes her dragon's offered arm for help up to sit between Rhiscorath's neckridges, doing a thorough check of the straps from that angle too. Looking over then, Mayte gives a faint return smile to Majel nearby.

A nervous green weyrling near the back of the group looks rather clammy as he scrambles up his dragon at the command, checking his straps with a pallor that stands out even amongst his peeling, Fort complexion. Whether it's motion sickness or fear of heights, he's not too far off in hue from his pale, chirpy lifemate by the time he's settled properly, grip white-knuckled.

Keeping calm and being logical is what Majel's best at. Despite herself, the corners of her mouth twitch-twitch upward as she runs her hands over the lower half of Dyxath's straps again, checking junctures and tugging experimentally before deftly making her way up to his neck. Helmet and headgear donned, she buckles herself in with a careful efficiency, automatically turning slightly to observe their peers as they finish their own checks while she gets settled in.

Sienna grins, reaching forward to thump Kehemath on the shoulder when the lithe green begins to prance in place. Her thoughts are eager of the wind and the /sky/, distant drum beats echoing across the bowl walls.

« Spread your wings, young ones, » Trahaeath instructs, fanning his own molten-bronze pinions in demonstration. « Flex them a bit, test your balance as we move. » He pads out into the Bowl a little way, leading the line of them while Ay'den jogs along nearby, watching. "D'gon! Focus, weyrling; tighten that right strap! She's not gonna let you go anywhere! Trust her!" That's barked at the sick-looking green weyrling as they come to a stop. Dark, narrow eyes take them all in yet again before the Weyrlingmaster looks up at Sienna again. "Figure we'll take them in a low circle around the Bowl, starting north and banking left," he informs the AWLM, just loud enough to reach her and not the new fliers as he hops up onto his lifemate's leg. "Want to bring up the end, hang inside to keep them on track?"

Rhiscorath's spreading of wings is taken with a bit of care so as to not knock poor Majel off Dyxath's neck. She's flexing, testing, waving them back and forth. On her neck, Mayte checking the straps again. Just to be sure. There's a look over again at Majel, Mayte's smile growing a bit more fierce as they start the final preparations for launch. Rhiscorath moves into the line of young dragons, her wingtips held smartly off the ground. "Ready, sir," Mayte calls, for herself.

Dyxath may never be truly graceful on the ground; he's one of the more awkward walkers of the group as they follow slowly in the weyrlingmaster's wake. Weathered wings spread deliberately as they proceed, experimentally leaning ever-so-slightly this way and that against their movement and the current wind conditions. Gathering data, please wait. It's tricky to get a sense of his bearings when Rhiscorath's wings are right there, but his hindquarters tense as he crouches, expectant. Majel's still three seconds removed from a genuine smile: some feelings just can't be cut with reason. Not like this, not right now. "Together, " she breathes aloud, sitting straighter. She's ready.

Sienna lifts her hand to salute the WLM, nodding and smiling. "Aye," she agrees, nudging Kehemath back in the short line, where they'll take up the rear. The green protests this, but it's good for her to not be first.

Before the glory of Inayalinaeth's wings are unfurled, Yukie is reaching up to place her gentle hands to the side of her lifemate's face, encouraging the green to share a moment's look into the deep well of the soul's gaze. It's a collection of breaths, this moment, as understanding dawns on the green riding pair before the green is once more facing forward. The girl then settles back after once more ensuring her straps are set. With whispered command that's caught by the day's breeze, the green pair slip into place in the line of young weyrlings. Inayalineath is not quite the awkward, tumbling creature she was before, but neither does she carry herself with grace on the ground either, walking some line between. She — they — are ready.

Ay'den sends one more nod at Sienna as he buckles in, then raises his fist in the air again, ready to drop it once it's determined all are ready. The molten-iron glow of Trahaeth's mind brightens throughout those of the weyrlings, the melodic ring of metal on metal industry sounding subtly in the background with his own eagerness, the bronze tells them all, « Follow after me! Strong and swift now, but keep space between each other! One line! Let's fly! » With that, Ay'den drops his fist, and Trahaeath's densely-muscled length bounds forward once, then springs into the air, wings taking him high enough and far forward enough to hover and cast a glance over his shoulder, making sure the first ones behind him get off the ground well and follow directly after.

For once, the library is in an uproar - following Traheath's lead, Rhiscorath bounds forward, just as they practiced when she was flying on her own, but now the dustmotes are shaken from their rest, pages fly in the wind that roars past her wings as she spreads them out to catch air. on her back, Mayte holds on tight to the straps, teeth clenched into fearsome grin as they lift into the sky, going for some altitude. A delighted woop may trail behind her to the next.

It's more jarring than one might expect, this launch of an adolescent dragon. Thrown back into her straps that hold fast, Majel's grip tightens convulsively as Dyxath springs upward with a glad warble. He adjusts swiftly to balancing both himself and his rider, displaying a comfort in working with the currents that belies his earlier awkwardness on the ground. And as dark wings beat steadily, the slim woman he carries releases a joyous laugh, swept away by the fierce, fulfilling rush of unbridled freedom.

Kehemath launches herself into the sky with an eager downstroke of her wings, with Sienna perched on her neck and leaning forward, keen attention from both rider and dragon on the Weyrlings, searching visuals and mentals for cues of strain or anything that would require a hasty landing.

From ground to air is a brief, jolting change as Inayalinaeth plies muscle and bone, sliding sinew and tendon, to launch herself from the ground. The awkward, jarring run ends in the the smoothest flight — so startling is this change that even Yukie lets out a surprised sound. Her's is the movement of an albatross: she has a peculiar way of going about her, that gliding, that leaves her suspended more often than rising or falling. Since she is so smooth and so fine, and the length between wingbeats is enough to have one believe that they are momentarily suspended in the air. Her flight is hypnotic, slowly seducing Yukie into a very, very relaxed state.

Even the drill sergeant of a Weyrlingmaster can't completely suppress the joy coming along with the memory of flying for the first time; Ay'den sees that same elation played out every time this lesson comes, and he outright smiles as he listens to the glad warbling and whooping reaching him from behind. Trahaeath bugles encouragement and wings forward again, leading them higher and higher, gently banking left as the lip of the Bowl approaches…and then drops away beneath them. « Turn left, carefully now, » he tells them. « We climb and we turn as well. Keep your focus, young ones! »

Higher? No problem: Rhiscorath pumps a bit, her mouth opening in the excitement of flying for a brief moment. She climbs until she can glide smoothly, interestingly silent in the air. She seems to hang there almost impossibly, until it's time to gain some air again and then banking left in her glide with the barest whistle of air. Within the uproar of the library halls, there's a quiet scritching, a sense of important note taking. Dear Mom, guess what I did today…

Dyxath ascends with more speed than strength, casually winging left to follow the path of the dragon in front of him. It's a smooth, confident turn: This is something he's practiced, even if doing so with additional weight on his neck results in a very different sensation. No doubt he and Majel are comparing observations and conclusions at breakneck mental speed as their flight continues.

Kehemath flies with them, her thoughts twined with theirs, invited into her expansive mind with gentle puffs of sage. On her back, Sienna is beaming with excitement and pride, remembering /her/ own first flights and thrilled to be a part of theirs.

The rise and fall of Inayalinaeth's form is timeless, woven of Eternity itself. It is patient and strategic, her flight. With ease, the green and her rider follow the commands of the Weyrlingmaster as they move through the skies like they were made of silk. Inayalinaeth has an eye for thermals, plotting the best movement before each swish of aurora borealis wing sets her path. She's careful, this flying albatross, to keep far enough away from her fellow weyrlings for this moment is for hers alone. It is beautiful. It is free. It is full of glory and life. It is flight.

Trahaeath leads them higher still, that easy left bank a constant as the warm air fills his glowing bronze sails and carries the new flying pairs along after him. At the peak of their flight, right before he starts down again, the Weyr is an impressive distance below them. Well, Ay'den did say low, but there is a whole lot of sky above them. Context is everything. Down again they guide the weyrlings, spiraling wide and lazy back to the earth. « Be careful. Do not let yourself get too fast on the descent; no crashing! » How's that for encouraging? It's probably more tactful than Ay'den himself would put it. All too soon, talons touch down into the sand again, and Trahaeath bounds out of the way to watch his charges do the same - hopefully without too many tumbles.

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