Fort Weyr - Feeding Grounds
Milling herdbeasts dot this lightly grassy section of the southern end of the bowl. Fences keep them neatly secured on all sides, even extending into the lake, allowing the beasts ample drinking water without granting them an escape. Dragons young and old come here to hunt on a fairly regular basis, though not all come at once of course. From here you can easily make out the entirety of the Weyr's lake as it spreads out south and southwest to the tumbled rubble of the far shore, while the rest of the bowl lies beyond the fences to the southeast, east and northeast.

The evening fog chills the weyr this wintery day, the gloom stretching its fringed tendrils all throughout, and sending most folks hurrying indoors. The dampness cuts through cloth and leather alike, reaching for bone despite all efforts to the contrary. And it's into this hazy world of grey that a gleaming autumn hued queen glides, circling above the feeding grounds. Head tilted, she squints through the swirls of mist to try and sight her prey as her wings stir the clouds, leaving eddies in her wake. Down below, bundled up against the chill in a long dress and a jacket with the hood up, Nyalle peers into the gloom and waits. "The sun will set soon, love, and it'll be even harder to hunt," she calls to her lifemate. To which Kayeth replies by dropping and striking, only to miss and surge aloft again. "Next time, next time my sweet."

It seems that despite her best efforts, a certain Wingleader is forced to brave the wind and weather. This is growing to become an irritating trend. The lanky brown shape, big enough to be a bronze, cuts through the mists like a knife. Sails billow as Cikitsakath backwings to let his rider off, bundled from head to toe in flying leathers as she slithers down the foreleg. Beside her dragon she's barely a speck, but the comparison doesn't last as the sienna beast lurches skyward again, seeking something juicy to eat. It's a few moments before the brownrider's eyes adjust and attempt to cut through the gloom, not even able to see her lifemate. "Sharding fog…" Booted boot kicks at the earth in annoyance as her arms fold to hug herself against the chill.

Kayeth senses the arrival of another and her mind casts out with a subtle and curious brush, though it's tainted with predatory hues. A creature prowling on the beaches of her mind, padding through tall sea grasses with a low snarl of warning. Clear enough without speaking - she is hunting, please wait. Swooping, the queen soars past Cikitsakath in the mist, a flash of reddish tinted gold and then gone, though it's hardly a surprise with the telepathic link they share. Then she drops, and the satisfying crunch and squeal - swiftly silenced - signals a kill. Hunched over it, the young queen bends her muzzle to feed, tearing into the beast belly first. By the fence, Nyalle grits her teeth but gives no other visible reaction before she's moving closer to the voice. "Hello?"

Cikitsakath catches a current idly as the brazen mind touches his and is met with deep blues, starry infinity, and a swirling vortex of blue and purple that threaten to swallow the unwary whole. « Good eve. I'm Cikitsakath. » He careens casually out of the golds way as she downs a beast with aplomb. « Well caught. » The rich baritone is inquisitive yet aged. Sure that the queen is done for the moment be begins to circle, seeking his mark. The sound of a voice draws his rider's attention, the Wingleader turning toward the sound. "Evening, stranger." Her voice lilts a low soprano. "Yhri, brown Cikitsakath's." That's enough explanation for now, right? At least until she can see the other person.

Kayeth finishes her first and prowls forward, heaving herself effortlessly into the sky to circle once again and strike down another beast with style that is invisible in the swirling fog. Her mind sharpens on Cikitsakath's as he replies. « Thank you, » she purrs in response. « I am called Kayeth. » Her second beast captured, she hops the fence and reaches out to him once more, « The pens are yours. » "Hello," Nyalle replies softly, moving forward through the fog. "Nyalle. Gold Kayeth's," and her right hand shifts, ready to salute once one is offered.

Cikitsakath banks almost absently as the gold takes to the air again, watching the flashes of that coppery gold as she breaks another beast to its end. « My thanks, Kayeth. » The rich voice rolls outward with a sun's fire and warmth, far enough away to be cozy rather than singe. A quick circle and wings snap back as the brown dives, landing smartly on the back of a slow moving herdbeast, the spine snapping audibly as the beast goes down with a momentarily piteous cry, quickly silenced as the brown rips out the throat. « None of that, now. » Muzzle digs into the tender belly next, gorging. The brownrider finally encounters the goldrider and offers a salute, but then proffers her hand forward for a more conventional shake, standing short at only about five foot tall. There's a lot of personality in that tiny frame, however. "Well met, Nyalle."

While Kayeth eats her second beast, Nyalle extends a hand to Yhri after the salute. Palm down, fingers curled, it's not so much a shake as an offering of her hand to the brownrider. "Goldrider or Weyrwoman Nyalle, if you please," she says with a small smile. "Wingleader?" she asks, searching for a knot.

"Gladly, Weyrwoman." Yhri takes the fingers and bows, imitating a kiss of homage before straightening and releasing the hand. Her Roc wing patch and Wingleader's knot are barely visible in the swirling fog. "Yes, ma'am. Of Roc wing." No doubt words have already traveled to this goldrider's ears in the form of rich rumors. Cikitsakath finishes devouring the carcass of the first beast, leaving precious little behind save bones and some stringy bits before he takes to the air again, lazily circling in search of his next course.

Nyalle draws her hand back with a smile, tucking it into her pocket. "Roc," she says thoughtfully. "Transport, yes? My apologies, I'm still learning the new wing names and their jobs, wingriders and leadership. How are things in Roc?" Either she hasn't yet caught up on gossip or she puts no stock in such things.

Yhri glances toward the feeding pens, feeling her brown circling and waiting for that perfect kill. "I absolutely understand, Weyrwoman. It is indeed the transport wing." She turns her focus on the rider again. "Things in Roc are full of change." That seems tactful. "I only recently took over the wing, so I'm still settling in." She offers a warm smile, not ready to bog the newcomer down in Fort's miasma of politics just yet. Above their is the sound of sails snapping sharply, the brown descending like a rocket through the air — geronimo! — and crushing a beast beneath his talons, starting to eat his second course now.

Kayeth peers through the swirling fog, only able to get glimpses of the large brown hunting, but she rumbles her pleasure at the sounds of a successful catch. Autumn hued body is flecked with blood before she surges aloft to perch on an empty ledge above and clean herself. "Oh?" Nyalle asks, politely curious. "What happened to the previous Wingleader? Is turnover a problem in Fort?"

"Oh, he retired." Yhri leaves out the juiciest bits, not really much for gossip herself. "The wings are all pretty stable. Occasionally a rider may transfer to hone another skill, but largely it is a smooth operation." It sounds good, in practice, and the brownrider believes it. "I've honestly never seen turnover to be a problem." She shrugs a bit. "New blood has to step into things eventually, at least until we learn to live forever." She chuckles softly, eyes going distant as she confers with her brown. Cikitsakath rumbles back at the sunset gold, tongue licking the beast's body clean as he finishes enjoying the steaming flesh, joining the queen on a nearby ledge and beginning to groom himself. « Where were you from, Kayeth? » The query carries curiosity for the unknown and knowing it.

Nyalle ahhs, nodding her head. "And is he still around to mentor you? To ask questions of, should you need some guidance? What of the Wingseconds? Did they stay?" she asks, shifting her jacket around her shoulders and adjusting the hood. The young woman laughs softly at the joke, but doesn't elaborate on it. Kayeth lifts her head when the brown joins her, watching him for a moment for his brazen approach. She shifts her body slightly and returns to cleaning. « I was hatched in High Reaches Weyr, though I have Fort in my veins, » she replies, shifting a bit to peer through the mists towards a certain pale gold's ledge. « I am of Wiyaneth's line. »

Yhri nods affirmation to the goldrider's questions. "I frequently seek his council, to ensure the transition is smooth." A smile. "I was lucky that I got to keep the Wingseconds. They have been an invaluable resource." She's perfectly willing to give credit where it's due. Cikitsakath licks the blood from his claws, eyeing the gold speculatively with a swirling blue eye that is occluded occasionally by strands of thickening fog. « A noble and worthy line. Welcome home. » Paws now clean he settles easily on his haunches, eyeing the sky instead. « Hopefully this cold does not bother you after the bitterness I have heard of in High Reaches? »

Kayeth swings her fine boned head around to peer at the brown. « It does not, » she replies smoothly, before she's tipping off the ledge and soaring up to a better perch on the star stones. Below, Nyalle smiles and peers around. "I'd best get back to work, but it was a pleasure Wingleader. Clear skies to you and yours."

Cikitsakath watches as the gold takes wing. « That is good. » A pause. « Rest well, Kayeth. » The brown swoops down, winging over the feeding pens toward his rider. Yhri nods understandingly. "I fear I must do the same, but it was a pleasure to meet you in person, Weyrwoman. If you ever need help with technology I'm your woman." Another salute and then the brown is backwinging behind her. "Clear skies to you and warmest regards to your beautiful Kayeth." And with that she's climbing back up the forelimb and they're off, quickly fading into the evening mists.