Fort Weyr - Lake Shore

This lake shares many features common to mountain lakes — a brilliant blue jewel nestled amongst the rocks. The waters are crystal clear, and the north shore slopes gently before abruptly falling away into the depths. This lake does have one significant differentiating feature, however. The south shore of the lake is a tumbled mass of rubble, rock and earth of an ancient rockslide smoothed only by the elements in the intervening years. This rubble, as well as the rather sheer east and west faces, makes for the north shore to be the only one easily accessible.
The seasons shift around the lake in a timeless flow. Waters grow choppy as autumn blends the summer calm with winters coming fury. The shoreline soaks in the heat of the day and provides a pleasant strolling area in the evening hours as long as the weather remains tempered, releasing the heat of the day to the cool of the night. In the early morning a layer of frost can sometimes be found dappled over the shoreline though the waters remain liquid.


At least it's not snowing or raining. In fact, while the night might be chill-laden enough that one's breath can puff out in a white plume of dragonsmoke, there's nothing that bundling up warm can't handle. Luminous in the gathering darkness, Ystwyth moves along the lake's shoreline, paws treading the soft ground at the water's edge. Clothed in her warmest jacket, the green's rider stands up further above the waterline, hands shoved into her pockets as she watches the dragon, each word a puff of white. "It's cold out here, Ystwyth. Do you /have/ to explore the lake or can this wait until morning?"

Even if it where snowing or raining (or both, Fort is prone to that), Velokraeth would likely be out or nearby, considering the pale bronze has likely been keeping a close eye on Ystwyth for a good portion of the day as he does most of the viable females about the weyr. He's kept his distance until now, coming to land not far from where the green paces but still respectable enough not to get in her path. Rumbling low, he dips his oversized head down as if to greet her, one stunted forearm bending as if made to bow … or maybe he's stretching. Hard to say. Th'ero was hoping to remain out of the chill night and likely in the presence of another, but knowing it's futile to fight his lifemate's tastes the Weyrleader instead turns down to wander the paths leading to the lake, dressed in one of his heavier jackets. So it's no surprise that the bronzerider's brows are furrowed into a heavy frown and he looks less then thrilled to be where he is. "Worse timing. /Always/ the worst timing," he can be heard muttering, whether to himself or to another remains to be seen.

A stocky, small blue swoops in from above, gliding to land next to Velokraeth and give the pale bronze a bright, happy trill of greeting. Someone's pleased to be here. Crouching, he lets his rider dismount and Kimmila takes one look at the green and she frowns. "Not how I wanted to spend my evening," she mutters, staring at Velokraeth with a rather blank look. Hunching her shoulders into her jacket, she pats Varmiroth on the shoulder, leaving his straps on (because when does he chase? Never) and walks over towards Th'ero. "I thought we were going out to dinner," she mutters, before giving a nod and a weak smile to the greenrider. "Evening."

Ystwyth stretches her wings wide, the lean leaf-dappled sails snapping out for one brief moment and then quickly furled tightly against her side — nobody saw that, right? The rumble of sound from the bronze catches her attention, her long neck curveting in a sideways cant to better regard him, and were a dragon's eyes to narrow calculatingly at the movements of bended forearm — or merely stretching perhaps — she'd consider all the implications thereof. Or perhaps not, the green flicking her tail in a cheery greeting, her dulcet warble of greeting given, and then given again at the landing blue. Why hello! There's a rustle of cloth, Aklya's hands scrabbling a moment in her pockets as she catches sight of the males' riders, and her breath gusts out in a long and very plumey sigh. "I don't think it /can/ wait then," the words addressed to her dragon. Oh very well," Her smile, wry and amused is certainly not as luminous as her dragon. "Hello," comes the greenrider's address to bluerider and bronzerider. "Pleasant night?"

Velokraeth turns his attentions long enough from Ystwyth to follow Varmiroth's landing as the stocky blue arrives and while most males would bristle at the arrival of competition, the pale bronze is the complete opposite. He answers the blue's happy trill with another low and rolling rumble, ending in a few amused-like chuffs as he seems to "affectionately" nudge the smaller dragon with the back of one of his front feet. Come to join in the night's entertainment? When Ystwyth begins to stretch her wings though, Velokraeth's attention shifts back and his answer to her greeting is one of honeyed sweetness and seemingly "innocent" remarks and compliments. Hello indeed, dear lady. "We were, until he threw a wrench into those plans I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Wingmate," Th'ero grumbles to Kimmila, pitching his voice so that the comment is likely only overheard to the bluerider as he steps a little closer to her side. As Aklya turns to address them, the bronzerider keeps his features set in a neutral enough expression, a small and vague smile on his lips. "Pleasant enough, I suppose." He murmurs in return and likely awkwardly. "And… for you?" Yep. Awkward.

Varmiroth sways at Velokraeth's nudge, turning his blunt and broad forehead to butt against the larger dragon's side. Hi. He turns to look at the green, head tilting and captivated by the dappling of her internal sails. Drawn to that coloration, he croons softly, his mind a swirl of colors that accent that dappled patterning. He's interested, that much is sure, and Kimmila's brows lift slightly, and she turns to glance at Th'ero. "It's fine," she murmurs, with a little shrug. Nodding to the greenrider, the bluerider tilts her head and regards her, and then turns to look at Th'ero. Comparing? Considering?

"It's nothing that I can complain about," Akyla answers Th'ero's query with a lazy shrug, her fur-and-wool clad shoulders tilting upwards into a lazy shrug. "Even the night air is refreshing, was too … stifling inside, too hot." Her hands move inside the pockets again, whisked free to stretch out all her fingers in the chilling air. Her gaze shies away towards the form of her green dragon, Ystwyth surging up the bank of the lake shore until she's free of the marshier ground, wings flung wide once more, her tail a whiplash of motion across the ground as she glances between Varmiroth and Velokraeth, her call no longer dulcet sweet — but challenging, a loud hiss of sound erupting from her before she leaps upwards in an almost vertical lunge, the snap of wingbeats in the chilly air unusually loud. Akyla's breath catches, her gaze darting back towards Th'ero and Kimmila. "I hope you don't have plans at the moment." she remarks.

Velokraeth hardly sways from Varmiroth's head butting to his side, but he does chuff amused and encouragingly at the blue when the smaller dragon takes interest in the green. That'a boy! Th'ero catches the look Kimmila gives him and Akyla both and that only makes his brows furrow all the deeper, giving her a questioning glance in turn before his focus shifts back to the greenrider. "As the colder seasons roll in, it's likely to get stifling indoors. Enjoy the cool nights while you can, before the snow and ice come." He says, not lightly enough to be funny or joking and just overall awkward in his tone. Being friendly seems to elude him, though it's hard to be friendly when your dragon is putting on the wit and charm with another rider's glowing green … who is going up. Th'ero's eyes close for a moment and he makes a sound half way between a stifled curse and a groan. Yep, he had plans. Velokraeth draws himself into a crouch when Ystwyth surges forwards and the green's dulcet sweet calls turn to one of challenge. The pale bronze only answers with a low growl, jaw dropping into grin-like as his wings flare open and with a powerful spring, surges up after her. Not near as vertical as the agile green, but he makes a good effort, wings sweeping in powerful strokes to carry him higher into the chill night air.

Varmiroth's head lifts in surprise at the green's challenge and hiss, left flat-footed when the green suddenly takes to the sky. It takes him a moment, and then he shocks his rider by kicking off into the sky as well, soaring after the green. Kimmila's eyes widen as she lifts her head sharply to stare at her blue, and then she curses under her breath and unfastens her coat. "Damn dragon's going to ruin his straps," she mutters angrily. "Glad I didn't bring my bow…" Shifting onto her heels, she outright glares at the sky. "Yes, I damn well did have plans." As if it's Akyla's fault. Kimmila looks at Th'ero, and then to the sky, and then back towards Akyla, almost defensive in her posture.

"Duties permitting, sir," Akyla remarks to the Weyrleader, "I'll be doing my damnedest to avoid getting snowed in. I've never /been/ not able to go outside before in the winter." Although needless to say, the greenrider's last few places of residence have been in more tropical climes. "Unless of course I get lucky, and manage to snag a warm fur, a roaring hot fire and someone to share it with. Then it might just be worthwhile." She gives a cheeky smirk, shoving her hands back into her pockets, before matching Kimmila's skyward glare with a dangerous little dagger glint of her own — at the climbing figure of glowing green above. "I waited. All. Day." the words are clipped off, brisk in the cool air, "and she chooses now. I am /so/ sorry/ that your plans were ruined." Maybe it's the way the greenrider says it, but she doesn't really sound all that sorry at all. Well, not /that/ sorry anyway. "Ruins my plans too." Sort of. Her eyes narrow, watching as Ystwyth draws herself upwards with rapid wingbeats, streaking towards the blackened skie above the Bowl walls, her head snaking over her shoulder to snarl out another challenge at the pursuit.

There are days when the old chap of twenty odd turns could be halted and kept controlled, other days his attention would not even find the skies as a proddy gleam would dance glorified in the dance of mating, and some times there just wasn't a shardin thing that A'dmar could do to stop him, his Yarovith. Thankful at least that he had enough time to pry off the halters, fancy straps, streamers and cargo before his dark seething mass of a bronze decided he needed to chase. Springing up from one of the bowl rims, the black-copper wraith that was Yarovith sling shots himself after the herd already rising to chase the beauty in a green slender frame, twisting and writhing like a shadow on his way to join their battering wings assaulting the winds and those hissing songs of lust. The rider himself, had to make do with the guest lodging to see that his gear was taken care of before wandering his way over toward the crowd that inevitably belonged to the other halves flinging themselves skyward. Yarovith wouldn't be one of the dragons doing tight rolls or spins this night, but the bronze would keep pace all the same. A'dmar carries a weary frown for those people who stand in the colors of Fort, even his presence here has him rocking with a shifty sway. Hardly a friend here when twice prior he had been chased off like a crow who settled to eat corn and faced a farmer's angry stone throws instead. He didn't even recognize anyone, eyes blank as they fell over the people bunched around.

"I'd recommend a shovel then and some gravel. If it's not the snow that will pen you in, it will be the ice." Welcome to Fort. Th'ero grimaces a bit at the 'sir', likely having forgotten his own rank in the light of the situation. Dark eyes raise skywards too, though it's hard to read his reaction from the scowl that seems affixed to his features. Akyla's cheeky smirk is met with a quirked eyebrow, but the bronzerider says nothing. Instead, he's putting a hand lightly to Kimmila's back, a brief touch. His gaze, however, is on the greenrider and it narrows a bit, perhaps for her words or the not-so sorry tone she takes. "Rarely can these be… anticipated," he mutters, though he knows full well there were signs likely. Signs he could've noticed and pulled Velokraeth away. Then he wouldn't be here, but at dinner and not in all this awkwardness that he puts himself through. As A'dmar approaches, he's not met with hostility but rather a curious glance, brief but neutral. Velokraeth only answers Ystwyth's snarl of challenge with a rolling call of his own, likely filled with some barbed sarcastic remark that's likely to taunt the green rather then sooth and woo her. The pale bronze hangs back from the pack and when he's not bantering with the green they're all seeking to snare, he's keeping a careful and subtle eye on his competition. While his physical deformities don't hinder him in flight, even he can't begin to match the speed and agileness of his smaller brothers and so he leaves the fancy flying to them and the foolish. He'll bide his time and strike when he feels is best. For now though, he'll have /fun/ and if he can't garner a rise from Ystwyth, he'll feed his sarcasm and witty remarks to his competition.

Kimmila is Fortian born and raised, daughter of former Senior Elara, but a Western rider - not that anyone could tell, since she wears no knot. Her green eyes narrow at Akyla's sarcastic apology, and she snorts. "Yeah, sure you are," she replies, tone clipped. No sympathy here, it seems. The bluerider's gaze flicks to Th'ero at the hand to her back, and she huffs a soft sigh, shoving her hands into her pockets and hunching her shoulders against a sudden, chilly breeze. Staring towards the sky, her scowl deepens as Varmiroth wings after the green, and then she turns to regard A'dmar for a long moment. "Hi." Above, Varmiroth trumpets a happy trill at her snarled challenge, returning it with a flash of swirled color from his thoughts, a twisted kaleidoscope of his own sort of challenge. Can you do that?

Akyla shudders at the very thought. "Ice," she comments, "is the last thing I would like to experience, Oh it's simply marvelous when it's hot enough weather to boil a wherry egg on the stone, but when I'm surrounded by it? Oh perish the thought." Her hands whisk out of her pockets again, held up in front of her as if to ward off the very idea of being penned in by a wall of ice. Welcome to Fort indeed. That witty barb of sarcasm from Velokraeth seems to spark some kind of a response in Ystwyth — a rise of a different sort than what she's engaged in now — and her upwards climb turns into a banked roll that sends her streaking sideways over empty air in a corkscrew roll, teeth bared into a hissing torrent of outrage showing like the river's anger and turbulent tides, she's not all sweetness and light, as she growls out retorts to the pale bronze. Akyla's lips part, her gaze centered briefly on Kimmila for a moment, before she shakes her head and clamps her mouth shut. No point in digging a further grave. A'dmar is regarded then, the greenrider's brown eyes fastening on him before her gaze shifts to survey what dragon might be his in the skies above.

A'dmar has a strange look to him, even in the deepening sky, the darkness of his skin and the shape of his features mark him as having an exotic background. Some would know of the wild desert clans that tromp through the dunes of Igen and of their nomad houses on their backs, others may not. Regardless, his knot does not bear the marking of a Weyr persay, but seems to proclaim him as an independent, paying for all that he has, hardened by the lifestyle Ierne Weyrhold can have on some who are more ambitious. Yet, there is a politeness, expressed even through the tension of the flight lust, nodding his head to Kimmila, Th'ero, and finally his eyes linger particularly longer upon Akyla, to which she gains a far closer examination. His steps take him closer to them, to hear more of what they speak of, eyes dancing between the parties as if judging their strengths as his dragon is oft doing above them. Yarovith slips through the last ribbons of dusk which cause the living aurora borealis on his hide to awaken. There is a fluid grace to him as his dark purple eyes size up the competition and then swing toward the prize of pursuit. He chases for the instincts that guide him, hearlding cool winds of Fort underneath his wings to allow him speed or turns, sweeping wings wide to glide at times when antics become too tightly compacted for him to possibly mimic, slipping into the jet streams like second nature to change direction. There is no sarcastic banter, no hissing or marking his aerial turf with noise of his own, he is content in his silence, with only the howl of the wind buffeting wings for a voice.

"You get used to it," Th'ero almost grunts at Akyla, his thoughts too clouded and distracted now with Velokraeth soaring so high above and the flight well and truly underway. But the look he gives the greenrider is puzzled for a breadth of a second and his smirk could mean many things. She's going to have to adapt like the rest of the non-Fortians who happen to drift here. His hand remains gently pressed against Kimmila's back and it's obvious that the bronzerider hasn't drifted from her side. He tenses for a moment when Akyla's gaze centers on the bluerider, likely expecting some retort for the earlier comments but relaxes (just a fraction) when the greenrider bites her tongue. If he weren't so busy keeping his frown in place and neutral mask up, he'd look relieved. Instead, he looks like a man penned somewhere he'd rather not be but has to suck it up and deal with it. As A'dmar steps closer, Th'ero's distracted look turns back to the strange rider but there's enough of his senses left to at least nod politely. Now is not the time for greetings though and soon the Weyrleader is glancing up again, then down to Akyla and between her and Kimmila. Velokraeth croons in a mocking way. Oh ho, the green has thorns and fight to her! Now the challenge is interesting. The pale bronze banks sharply as she streaks sideways, losing some distance as he has to find different courses as she takes the acrobatic route. Using every trick in the book he knows, the pale bronze uses what he can to his advantage but for the most part keeps his spot to the back and below, letting the green's retorts roll off of him and then firing back before his mind drifts and it's back to egging on those still among the pack of chasers.

Kimmila frowns all the more at Akyla, bristling just a bit. "Then why are you /here/?" she demands. "Why not go to Ista or Western or Southern, if you're so against ice? If you can't handle cold, if you're some sort of tropical Holder's daughter," Pernese version of princess? "then you should leave." Defensive of Fort, much? Sorry, Th'ero. Above, Varmiroth meanders here and there, the blue not completely focused on the task at hand. He ignores the green's barbs and the bantering between her and her chasers, drifting through the sky. Head lifted, he gazes at the stars for so long that he falls well behind the pack, and with a sudden jolt, realizes there's something he should be doing - chasing - and he streamlines his bulky body as best he can and pushes after the green once more. Wait for me!

Jaye knows all about adjusting to the cold of Fort, the scarred brownrider about froze to death when she moved here from Ista after being searched, but now look at her, all comfortable in the chilly weyr's climate. Yes, well, the brownrider may not have made her presence obvious, but she has been here, off away from the small group while the shadowbeast of brown shoots through the darkening sky in silent pursuit, also not drawing attention to himself. He is there, though, looming like the silent shadow of a great beast.

"I could always skip out when I've got free time," Aklya chirps up, "go somewhere to thaw out and get the blood moving again and then be back in time to go out and save the world." My, how smug she sounds. "Holder's daughter," there's a snicker of laughter from the greenrider at Kimmila's words, this time discretion is not the better part of valor. "Wish I was a Holder's daughter. I'd be rich and wouldn't have to work a day in my life. But what're you gonna do." Her hands get propped on her hips. "Because there's some dragonhealers here I want to learn from. And because my training could come in handy if there's a dragon that's hurt and Search and Rescue needs to go out and help him or her. I didn't say I can't /handle/ the cold. I just don't /want/ to." Her teeth clamp shut at that, a steely glare sent skywards as Ystwyth reacts rather testily to the remarks from Velokraeth, a dervish of fussy anger and prickled pride as she lashes out at empty air, snarling and clawing at it, as if to tear into dragon hide itself. For the stocky blue, she doesn't wait, twisting and spiraling in the air above the Bowl, her gyrations slowing her down and bringing her closer to the knot of pursuers, and closer to the ground.

It's been all M'lo can do to keep Irelanth away from the greens while he's been recovering. As sick as he was, he was in no shape for the vigorous, heart-thumping activity that winning a flight means, nor the utter disappointment of losing. Poor Irelanth. But that's all in the past, and now that M'lo is better, the pale little brown is bound and /determined/ to fly for greens again. M'lo tried to talk him out of it, but finally when the others already had a good head start, Irelanth launched into the air, anyway. M'lo staggers up to the little group by the lake and grimaces. "Hey," he says. He's panting a little bit. He bends forward and braces his hands against his knees. "Whew. Couldn't keep him down, this time."

A'dmar's dark look finds the Weyrleader's knot on Th'ero's shoulder, taking note of the younger man and his mannerisms. A'dmar's dragon is well over two decades now, so the flight lust doesn't weigh heavily on his mind to the point of losing his sense, as it once did. If his bronze catches, that's a different matter. Investing in the dragon's whims was not particularly rewarding, so his eyes do linger and study Th'ero, in a hard way. Observing everything from Th'ero's stance to his words. A dangerous man A'dmar? A predecessor to the rank of Weyrleader believed so. Yet, the sharp words from Kimmila swiftly end his interest in the other bronzer, blinking at the demanding and rather childish tone. "Now there's the Fort I know…" he says abruptly into the conversation, "Prickly lot who find offense in every over turned stone." Ahh, likely the reason he doesn't visit more often! To the talk of wealth, he shifts lightly, putting his hand at his pouch, as if to make sure it was still there, no comment, just a faint smuggness. Oh how that inner laughter drifts skyward, toward Yarovith … toward his pride and joy. By then, Yarovith has slipped on in closer the moment green aerobatics cause Ystwyth to slow, as if he came from thin air, arriving in a position that puts him easily in range to ensnare. Abruptly the silence ended with slithering sort of promise, an oozing coil of rope as if he were the only one who could keep her from the ground.

Th'ero bristles a bit, tensed as he pulls his gaze away from the skies to focus on Kimmila with a narrowed look that the bluerider is likely the only one able to read the subtle and hidden messages there. He makes no comment though, likely unable to as the flight continues onward and his mind becomes more and more muddled the farther and deeper Velokraeth goes into the chase. Blinking, he gives his head a slight shake and then his dark eyes dart to Akyla, watching her carefully and listening to her reply in silence. It does little to calm him even though the words are not directed at all to him. His hand though does press a little firmer to Kimmila's back. A'dmar's comments sink in though and drag the Weyrleader from his distracted thoughts. "Pardon?" he drawls in a low and cold tone. Dangerous man here too, when his pride and honor are questioned. "Fort holds no ill will against you." Now the Ierne rider gets his full attention, dark eyes studying him carefully. High above, Velokraeth is literally bursting with mirth at all the subtle (and not-so subtle) chaos he has wrought and turned the lovely Ystwyth into a dervish of anger and pricked pride. Ooops. His bad? Like the bronze would have remorse over it. Though when the snarling and clawing begins, he does back off a bit. He still bares the scars from the last green he tangoed with talon to talon and while he enjoys a good mental clash, he's not so keen on physical…. Well, not /that/ sort of physical. As she slows and turns more towards them, Velokraeth begins to slip in more honeyed comments then barbed, edging them in sneakily as he weaves his path slowly through and around the competitors, spending some of his carefully stored strength for such a move but keeping the greater portion for that final daring leap. He's simply waiting for that time… that one small crucial window and then the witty banter will end and he'll strike. But not yet, not yet.

Kimmila snorts at Aklya, shaking her head firmly and muttering something under her breath about 'lazy'. Kimmila's green eyes then snap to A'dmar and she scowls. "I'm from Western." Right. Blame her bad behavior on her other weyr. "What's your problem with Fort, stranger?" she demands, perhaps bristling at the look the other rider gives Th'ero. Poor Th'ero's warning touches and looks get utterly ignored, as the bluerider is too riled by the flight to reign in her temper. Varmiroth must be getting to her, as she shakes her head firmly and looks away, and to M'lo. "Hey." See? She can be civil! Ystwyth's spiral and drop has Varmiroth thrilling at the challenge and the style, and he rolls and drops down after her, cutting a close angle to try and regain some of the distance he's lost. Bulky and distractible he might be, but he can be fast when he wants to be, and apparently he wants to be - for this moment, at least.

Maehwazeyeth has regarded each of his fellow competitors, has watched them long and hard as he drifts silently at the end of the pack. As Ystwyth slows and drops back and down, he presses forward just a little, still he will bide his time. He settles in to shadow one of the bronzes briefly, trying to draft long enough to gain some speed, not that he needs help but he does so enjoy watching the looks on the bronzes' faces when he shoots around them like a rocket. He has taken note of the green's position, he knows where she is, and he knows that soon…soon it will be all or nothing, but not yet. maehwa is a man on a mission, and his mission right now is to not waste energy until it is needed. Meanwhile, down below, his scarred rider remains a safe distance from the group exchanging words and looks, a careful mask of neutrality positioned upon her face even as her brown gives further and further in to the feeling of the flight. Jaye watches, and waits, glancing once towards the main bowl, as if waiting or willing someone or something to appear. When she does move, it's with a stuff tenseness that only brings her close enough so that she can leer at the rider of the green, dark eyes lingering upon the woman's body.

Akyla grits her teeth, tearing her gaze away from the riders of those pursuing her glowing green to fasten her brown eyes unerringly upon that frenzied form, her hands slipping off her hips to clench into balled fists, sharp hissed words spat out into the chilly air. "Shit, damn it, don't let him get to you, Ystwyth, don't have a hissy fit. Just fly, damn you, fly." Too late, those words, Ystwyth stirred to anger and resentment by the needled barbs of wit and sarcasm from Velokraeth lashes out, corkscrewing again into stiff-winged acrobatics that only narrows the gap between the pursuit and herself further, and the pale bronze's honeyed tones — oh, is he only just now being suave and dashing then? — now do little to steer her from her course as with another flip, the green nearly doubles upon herself and arrows into the assembled males, the dragon aware of the press of Yarovith, and Irelanth and Maehwazeyeth — as well as Velokraeth and Varmiroth about her. Her tail lashes, snaking out in furious contention as she flails, trying to clear the pack about her and make for open air. Akyla swallows hard, aware of gazes upon her, of Jaye's leering studying of her body, of everything happening this night, her eyes closing as her throat works, gulping air and waiting for the moment to come.

M'lo straightens again and eyes the people standing around. "What am I missing?" he wonders aloud. There's a bit of a curious look for the Fortian riders, and he speaks in that calm, commanding way that he's practiced as Weyrsecond. "Th'ero, anything I can… help you with?" In the air, Irelanth arrows closer and closer to the glowing, beguiling green. He's small for a brown, which lends him speed and agility, though not as much as most blues. Is there snarling and clawing? Whoops! Irelanth will avoid that if possible, but he croons lovingly at the green, sending her brightly-colored promises of pleasure and cuddles and big warm fuzzy canoodling. He's so good-natured that insults roll off his back. Most of his attention is on the lovely lady, and he tries to seduce her with beautifully painted mental pictures of her beauty, and of them together serene and glowing. Unconsciously, M'lo drifts a bit closer to Akyla, and gives her a little smile. "Did you ever find anyone to cuddle with?" he asks her teasingly, his voice dropping a bit. Irelanth flares his wings and barrel-rolls in an effort to chase Ystwyth's corkscrew acrobatics, bugling his joy - he's having FUN with this flight! His own tail snakes toward her flailing tail, seeking to entwine, to grasp, to posess her. M'lo sways just a little closer to Akyla, his eyes trained on her face, fingers twitching.

The response to his loose tongue tugs back his attention to Th'ero and then Kimmila, A'dmar's dark eyes considering the other riders as if they were some world apart from him. Soft, his expression read, how soft they are. His response is for Th'ero at first, canting his head, "I take your business away from your riders." He is honest at least, "The former Weyrleader of these parts claimed as much and demanded I never return. Maybe you are a more sensible man, clearly, if you are working with the Weyrwoman Thea on her little problem…" He has heard rumors and has seen to it to be involved in many himself, even going to meet the little problem face to face. To Kimmila, his expression softens, "Not with Fort Weyr precisely. Fort was the mother to all dragons at one point, or so we know of it. The riders I met, some of them, were snappish. It has been Turns since I've hailed here, for the sake of my freedom. Last I recall, I was threatened to be jailed and the other threatened castration." What is it with flights and making his tongue loose?! Blame the dragon. Still, to Kimmila, "Western had a strong clutch, I was there to witness it." As if this casual banter could go on! His eyes seem to go back up to the skies, his breathing coming to a held trickle, knowing exactly which dragon was his, even in all the blackness and sensing the end of the chase… Yarovith was there, riding the starlit sky as if he was one of them, blazing his way behind Ystwyth, heedless of her frustrations with a fellow bronze. He was a rogue compared to the honey-moaning Velokraeth, a stranger to the skies of Fort, a black devil coming in to sweep the lashing hissing green into his talons. Her spirit and her fight were driving him as swiftly as the wind underneath his sails. The excitement beat against his open maw with the moonlight gleaming against his fangs. Tempered with open wings, he stealths forward, shape lost against the sky that hides him… appearing with fanned wings and opened talons hopefully at the right time, at the right moment, in the right place, so that she'll collide with his wall of shadow for a haunting embrace. Who needs white knights… Alas, it all depends if he made the right calculation, assuming a position to steal the prize right out from underneath them all…!

Th'ero's warning touch and look may be ignored by Kimmila, but that doesn't stop the bronzerider from continuing to keep some contact with his hand still firmly pressed to her back, though it's now drifted down to her side as if to draw her closer. Even as he does, his gaze darts sharply to Akyla, her words bringing a bit of a heavier scowl to his features. He /knows/ Velokraeth's tricks, knows what his bronze has been doing and yet the bronzerider never called him off or reigned him in. Too late now. M'lo is given a slow glance, the Weyrleader distracted now and shaking his head. "No. We're fine. Just—it's a flight." Stating the obvious in clipped and blunt words, Th'ero is not one to realy speak or talk to right now. He's in a mood, but which is hard to read. A'dmar's open reply earns him another hard, long look from Th'ero, but there is no hostility. Just curiosity. "You and I need to talk, I think then. After… all this." Obviously. Since it's clear there are some issues that require explaining that is not fit for a time like this. Velokraeth works that way, bribes until he's pushed too far and then hastily backtracks to mend what he can. As Ystwyth begins to corkscrew again, the pale bronze gives a gusty exhale of air. Really now. Must they? But if he wants a chance at her glowing hide, he knows he'll have to make his move now and so with ever ounce of strength he's carefully stored, he dives after her, mindful to avoid the competition and any wayward lash of the green's tail. He is certainly no graceful dancer in the skies, but he makes an effort, taking sharper turns and dives but leaving the gutsier moves well enough alone. If Ystwyth succeeds in clearing the air, that is when Velokraeth will make his move and charge forwards, silent now as he surges forwards, clean and simple and without fanfare. Stunted limbs extend, wings labor to propel him and he leaves it now all to fate and chance.

Kimmila continues to keep a narrowed gaze on A'dmar, but then the bluerider snorts. "Jailed and castration? What the hell did you do?" She does not object to standing beside Th'ero, but she does so stiffly, tension held in her body as if she were about to spring into the air herself. Above, Varmiroth takes a moment to be distracted by a shooting star (oooooh, pretty!) and then his focus snaps back to the green and he pushes after her, using his speed and the reserves of his stamina to make his move. Clumsy, sure, but if she were to blunder, perhaps they might just happen to run into each other like virgins on Prom night.

Maehwazeyeth is no stranger to biting and clawing and general lack of safety, while some of the others draw back, the shadowbest presses onward. He may not be the smallest brown or the largest, but what size he does have he's had plenty of flight practice with. Still no sound escapes as he finally uses that draft off of larger bronze to send him boomeranging forward past that particular bronze and towards the green, who is now so very close. It was time, then, and as he sensed more than saw the other males closing in on Ystwyth, he too makes his move as he gives one strong flap then tucks his shadowed wings to his side and drops, tail and talons and neck all outstretched to try and snare the green in his sneaky little trap. On the ground, Jaye can't help it, now she must move just like her drahon must move, and the scarred brownrider pushes through to the crowd, dark eyes still leering at poor Akyla in silent plotting.

A'dmar is getting torn between the flight and the conversation, trying to hold himself sensible on the ground while his dragon gets right into the mix and goes for a try at the green. Th'ero's words have him nod, briefly, maybe hearing it, maybe not…. but Kimmila gets a little more out of him, "I believe… I came to Fort…"

The words of the males' riders around her drone in Akyla's ears, a humdrum of words around her as she centers her gaze upon Ystwyth's lithe body — her lodestone, so to speak, the line that keeps her grounded and sane in this mad mad world. "Ystwyth," her voice is a hushed whisper, almost despairing as the green strikes for freedom, perhaps a little more physically than is necessary. M'lo's voice echos a little louder in her ears than the others, close as he is and the woman tilts her head towards him. "Um…" the words about someone to cuddle with are acknowledged, but a little lost in the frenzied rush of the moment. Yet is /is/ those images from Irelanth that give Ystwyth pause — long enough for neck and tail tow entwine, promises of warm fuzzy canoodling intended to be extracted in every which way. Gone is the fight, captured is the green, and so too does her angered frenzy stop, lulled back into peace and harmony.

Maehwazeyeth feels himself grasping at air, letting loose the first sound he has all flight, and that sound is the surprised rumble as the other brown claims the prize that should have been his. Ah well, guess the fun's over. He regains his wings, opening them to allow himself to slow before he plunges right into the lake for a cooldown. Shadowbeast shall have to try harder next time. And, well, at least this gives his scarred rider a reason to go find her local tavern and drink the feelings away until her weyrmate shows up.

Varmiroth is not at all troubled by his loss, as he simply spins away and soars skyward once more, losing himself in the stars. The pretty, pretty stars. Down below though, is a different story as Kimmila reaches out and hooks a hand into Th'ero's belt. Possessive, much? And she looks at A'dmar. "You came to Fort and that's it?" Though she's already taking a step back, tugging Th'ero with her.

Yarovith swoop misses as is typical for the beast. He's got plenty of experience in chasing but like most of the male population, little record of actually catching. There is a disappointed whuff of air but the dark wrath of a dragon slides down the night sky toward the bowl where he left his rider. A'dmar for his part, well, you know how it goes for those who don't catch… that lack of satisfaction! His eyes burn with it as he adjusts his pants with an ill timed and probably not at all polite crotch grab… It hurts to wear pants with an arousal! And he happens to be wearing the leather kind - not much give in those. Trying to manage that and some talk of business and bad memories just isn't working, "Excuse me…" he remembers to say as he starts to waddle and walk oddly, pullin on his pants a few more times in the process.

Velokraeth is left empty handed again but he is not a bronze to take a loss too strongly and after firing off a few sarcastic and barbed remarks to Ystwyth and likely Irelanth too (and all in good fun! honest!), the pale bronze folds his wings and lets gravity, for the most part, take his exhausted frame back towards the ground. Th'ero comes back to his senses in one sharp snap, blinking like a man just rudely slapped in the face. To add to his welcome back, Kimmila's grabbing onto his belt and the Weyrleader grunts softly and leaning, he slips an arm around her. Oh yes, he's possessive too and the /look/ he gives some of the passing riders speaks volumes. Back off or pay. A'dmar is given a quick glance too, but then Kimmila is tugging him away and he goes without protest.


'The World of Pern(tm)' and 'The Dragonriders of Pern(r)' are copyright to Anne McCaffrey (c) l967, 2000. This is a recorded online session, by permission of the author but generated on PernWorld MUSH for the benefit of people unable to attend.