Liabeth's First Flight

June 22, 2004, 4 PM EST

Cast: Gay, Gwynfyd, Jh'roni, G'rad, R'sel, K'ran, Jehrina (cameo), Juliri (cameo), D'mon, Livia

Gay:
She never seems bored, this young woman of about 20 turns. Her attention is always on her surroundings, showing a keen interest in the world about her. Unfortunately, such enthusiasm tends to exact a price - in her case, concentration seems to be easily pulled from one thing to the next.
Her hair reflects her moments of distraction; short, thick, and wild, a confusion of peach-coloured corkscrew curls and tiny braids. A wide bright-red scarf holds it all back from her round, fair-skinned face, though it is not held back without a fight. Her long-lashed eyes are deep brown, usually brightened with excitement or amusement, the spark of a fierce intellect lurking in their depths. She's attractive, though closer to cute than stunning, with a small nose and a quick and ready smile. Willowy and tall with a boyish figure, she moves with a hard-won athletic grace.

She's dressed in simple though well-tailored clothing; a fitted white blouse with long, loose sleeves that flare at the wrist, paired with a long straight pale orange skirt. The boots peeking out from under the hem look as if they've seen a few turns worth of wear, but are still sturdy and strong. She wears a bracelet on one wrist, a flash of gold and amber, and a ring on her right hand. Her knot is Telgari; a complex weaving of black and white, twined with a strand of incandescent gold.
   <+details available>
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Telgar Weyr's Living Cavern(#750RDJM$)
This huge cavern is sufficiently roomy to hold a large portion of the Weyr's population without feeling cramped. There's always a bustle of activity here. Fragrant dishes are constantly in prepartion for mealtimes: currently for the mid-day meal. Drudges are always present, either cleaning under Pierron's watchful eye, or helping fetch and carry. A myriad of glowbaskets and many ever-lit hearths make the cavern warm and inviting despite its size. The scents of cooking meats, baking breads and pastries, and the pungent aroma of spices hang mouthwateringly in the air. It is little wonder that those seeking to relax nearly always find their way here to do it. Dark summer blooms of vivid hue decorate the tables.
A short tunnel jaunts northward out to the bowl and the merry sounds of cooking, chores, and laughter echo from the kitchen at the southeast end of the cavern near the easterly passage to the rest of the lower caverns. Within the lower caverns is an entrance to the infirmary weyr to care for injured dragons and riders.
Contents:
PLAYERS: Pierron Gay Gwynfyd Jh'roni G'rad
OTHER: Telgar Serving Tables
Obvious Exits:
Inner Caverns  Kitchen  Bowl

Pierron nods thoughtfully as he eyes the junior queenrider.

Gay has been wet, dirty, near-silent and grouchy for the past few days - but now, as she enters from the bowl, she's looking a little less like a drowned feline and a little more like herself. As she enters and merely nods around the cavern, one thing is clear; she's still not talking much.

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Gwynfyd:
      Brown might be considered a drab shade, but Gwyn is living proof that a palette of browns doesn't have to make for a boring appearance. Her hair is cut relatively short -- drifting in long wisps and spikes around an oval face -- and is a rich chestnut in color, streaked with sunshine. Eyes are the exact shade of a glass of whiskey held to the sun, set slightly too far apart and seperated by a nose just a shade too long to be considered attractive. A thin but elegant mouth, rounded chin and proud cheekbones complete her face, all of this sheathed in skin well-tanned and freckled by the sun.
While not graceful or eye-catching, she moves with a confidence that speaks of a certain level of athletic ability. Clothing is simple: a tunic of crimson linen belted over pants of boiled wherhide. Both knifebelt and boots are in matching black leather, and on her shoulder is the simple knot of an Igen weyrling, woven through with brown. A ring of orange-brown jade is worn on her right hand, and around her throat is a thick band made of leather cords strung with little beads. Polished wood, bone, and stone comprise intricate patterns in red and green and white, with a few indiscriminate blues appearing at random.
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No cultured envoy, Gwyn. The name she procedes to call Aleynth is incredibly foul and rather unfair, given that his parentage is well known and legitimate. Fortunately she's diplomatic enough to keep it pitched low. "Look, where's this R'var? I need to give him this and then I can get out of here," she says, lifting the rolled hide she's still carrying. A glance is spared the woman who enters just behind her, and a doubletake -- a wary doubletake -- is done upon closer inspection.

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Jh’roni:
Laughing grey-blue eyes regard you from a narrow face, where the wariness of adolescence has given way to a more adult amusement, fuelled by an active mind that was probably never innocent from the first time it managed a conscious thought. The long red tresses are a thing of the past - his hair is now cropped close to his head, smooth and shining like the pelt of a feline now the curl is gone - the shearing has made him look older than he used to, and his face seems more angular. This lad is probably somewhere around twenty Turns old, though it would be hard to place his age easily - he isn't above medium height, which might indicate that he was younger than first thought, but the intelligence in those eyes suggests a mind that might be rather older than the body that houses it.

He's wearing a tunic and trousers of soft grey wherhide, not new, but well cleaned and cared for. On his shoulder is a wingrider's knot of Fort Weyr with a mottled bronze thread running through it for his lifemate, and on his sleeve is the wing patch of Dawnguard Wing. Around his neck is a braided choker of black runnerhair, with a tiny pebble incorporated into the braid, the pebble has something engraved on it but it's unreadable from here.
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G’rad:
Before you stands a man that you might place as being in the region of 5 ft 7 to 5 ft 9 in height, but the precise level depends on wether or not he has his boots on. He does seem fully grown, and is clearly below average height. This is contrasted by his shoulders. Like his father, the long-passed on Padraig, he has shoulders like a bull herdbeast. Huge. Wide like a barn. Indeed, his upper torso is all proportionally large, like he was meant to be taller but was squashed down into himself. When he flexes them, the fabric of his tunic strains. It is fairly safe to say he is pretty strong.
His hair is jet black and unruly, much like that of his mother, Ofira, but is currently cropped rather short. Indeed, his piercing and clear blue eyes are also hers, and the set of his jaw as well. He is not classically handsome, but actually has an almost pretty set about his face. The mirth that twitches his mouth does rather offset that, but it is friendly, and rarely seems to have anything other than warmth writ upon it's lips. His left cheek bears a scar from brow to near his upper lip, and it is quite a striking one. It looks a little red, and adds a rather scary appearance to an otherwise unblemished skin. A blue teardrop hangs at his right ear, the exact colour of his eyes.
His voice is a pleasant deeper-end of the range tenor. His movements are a little hurried, and there is a suggestion that he might be rather clumsy.
At the moment he wears sturdy black knee-high boots, and matching skintight black wehrhide trousers, held up by an elaborate carved wooden chain belt. He has on a dark blue shirt, open to mid chest, and a black and blue jacket over the top. Matching gloves are tucked into his belt, and usually his helmet and goggles are easy to hand in case he is required to make a flight at short notice. A bronze dragon pin is on his chest, to the left. Knots of Benden Hold, Telgar Weyr and High Reaches Weyr grace his shoulder, the latter depicting the rank of Assistant Weyrlingmaster.
You might assume he was 31 Turns, 7 months, and 17 days old from the way he appears.
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G'rad waves an eyebrow at Jh'roni and murmurs "Heads up, the lady is here." he beams in Gay's direction "Well met again, Gaycia. You do look somewhat cleaner than before. I take it the lady has decided to let you off your chores a while? Care to join us for refreshment?"

Jh'roni glances across as Gay enters. "Fort's duties," he offers to the young weyrwoman, but very carefully says little else. When they teach the lecture on mating flights at Fort, part of the demonstration involved a female doll ripping the head off a male doll. It's a salutary lesson. Jh'roni now tendfs to treat the proddy and the might-be-proddy with the degree of care normally used for the clinically insane.

"Got the -spot- she was on about," Gay says, nose wrinkling. "Invisible sharding dirt, that dragon, I swear..." And she lapses into quiet mutterings to herself - and if one knows the goldrider, they'd be like to guess it's cursing. At the mealtable, she remembers that there's always wine to improve her mood. She picks up a skin and a cup, and heads over towards the other riders. "Telgar's duties," she offers, barely polite.

Gwynfyd apparently went through the same sort of instruction given Jh'roni. The goldrider is given a wide berth, with set jaw and stormy expression. Her mood is not improved upon a brief and thankfully silent exchange between herself and the brown she was so roundly cursing a moment ago. "-Fine-," she seethes quietly, gaze tracking Gay on her way to and fro. "Igen's duties, ma'am." Reflex causes the weyrling's hand to move through a crisp salute.

Liabeth> From the air, From the Telgar Star Stones, Requa's pale green Ninnenth rears on hind legs and bugles a greeting to brown Svaroth and his rider, R'sel of HighReaches Weyr.

Liabeth> From the air, Svaroth glides down from above.
Liabeth> From the air, Svaroth flies downwards towards the bowl.

Jh'roni cocks a thumb over at the table. "If you're going for wine, Gay, I'd watch out for the red. Tastes like someone's been trying to spice some of the red flagons, if the glass I got is anything to judge by - and I don't think that the combination of anise and black pepper is actually an improvement. You got a new Bakercraft apprentice here or something?"

R'sel walks in from the bowl.
R'sel has arrived.

G'rad speaks with evey sign of casual conversation, no hint at all of agitation. "I am delighted to hear that, goldrider. I trust she will allow you perhaps a few moments more of peace to enjoy some refreshment. Now, where were we when we were interrupted?" he sips down his water and then lays the beaker aside. "Looks like Pierron is still busy. I am sure he does it to confound me."

Gay throws herself into a chair, nearly disbalancing with the force of it. Looking silly -always- improves her mood; her scowl deepens. Lucky for Gwynfyd, she doesn't seem to be the sort that minds being called 'ma'am'. Jh'roni just gets a bemused glance as she fills her cup. "It's white." To G'rad, darkly, "I was probably complaining about -her-."

K'ran walks here from the Inner Cavern.
K'ran has arrived.

Pierron eyes the Weyrleader suspiciously for a moment before grunting a greeting.

"Look, if you see R'var, give this to him, enh?" Gwynfyd steps close enough to Jh'roni to press the hide towards his hand. "I'm not getting stuck on the Sands for months. Luck." The last is added almost absently -- the Fortian may -want- to suffer through such an ordeal after all -- before she pivots on a heel and beats a hasty retreat.

Jh'roni nods cautiously. "Probably the safer option." Mind you, he'd probably agree with Gay at present if she said the sky was pink with blue polka-dots. He stands politely as the Weyrleader enters. "Fort's duties, sir." Eyes unfocus, possibly trying to see if there's any chance that the bronze Sleeping Beauty in the bowl might be persuaded to wake up and head on elsewhere. Since he then sits down again, the answer to that is probably a resounding 'no'.

Gwynfyd walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.
Gwynfyd has left.

R'sel stays just inside the entrance at first, scanning the crowd for someone in particular it would appear, at least since he doesn't approach anyone for a while. Finally manners and lack of success take over long enough for him to call out, "Reaches duties to Telgar. Anyone seen Ys?"

K'ran meanders into the living cavern with a roll of hides under one arm -- customary, for this time of afternoon, when he might steal a few moments of relative peace to peruse reports, before drills resume. Pierron's grunt goes unrewarded as the Weyrleader scans the place briefly, and offers up a pleasant, "Telgar's duties," by way of salute to outweyr visitors.

G'rad smiles at Gay then "Well, yes. That was rather in the theme of things, but it is understandable." He turns and nods to K'ran's entry "High Reaches duties, sir. Pleasant day is it not?" He then looks to R'sel "Actually, no. If you see her, give my regards?"

[Public announcement: Gay announces "Blooding for Liabeth's flight will start in a few minutes. Chasers, please join Flight if you're not already listening. If you want to come by, +go TGW-Bowl or +watch the same!"]

K'ran touches a brief smile on Jh'roni and R'sel; to the latter, he answers, "Haven't, no -- maybe she's still out drilling with Dawnslight? If you catch her, though, do send her my way; I've something to give her." Then his gaze shifts back to G'rad, and he rolls his shoulders in a light shrug. "Suppose it must be, given that we've so many visitors."

Gay sips at her cup, moodily, brushing curls out of her eyes. She isn't paying much attention to the conversation around her, hunched over and grouchy. Suddenly, barely steady fingers set her cup down on the table in front of her and she mutters, "Oh - shards. They were right."

G'rad blinks at Gay's outburst "Are you quite all right? Who were right, Gay?" He is a little wary. Nobody can be SURE what a proddy rider might do, and there are breakable things here. Playes. Goblets. Bronzeriders....

"Don't tell me I'm not the only one she sent to get peppers?" Either R'sel hasn't bothered to check whom he's addressing, or he's just that informal. Either way he grins at K'ran then shrugs, "Svar's not to interested in finding her right now anyway, I'll just wait." It's Gay's words that catch his attention enough to distract from the wave he was sending G'rad, "Hmm?"

Jh'roni has also snapped his attention over to Gay - though he seems to be drawing his own conclusion as to who's right about what. Eyes flick frantically to the bowl. "Oh /shardit/." The mutter is almost unheard. "Too bloody late."

K'ran, about to divert toward the afternoon's viands, instead loosens his shoulders with an exhalation of breath and eases the bundle of scrolls down into his chair at the head of Starblaze Wing's table. "Ah," he says, simply, and the smile with which he favors the others is nothing if not wry.

Jehrina walks in from the bowl.
Jehrina has arrived.

Pierron winks laconically at the retired Weyrwoman.

Gay's mood has vastly improved in mere seconds. She's up on her feet, grinning widely and brightly - and yes, perhaps a little wryly at each of the riders. She offers Jehrina a merry wave as she spies the retired goldrider, fairly bouncing towards the exit. "She was just proddy! Oh, thank Faranth - let's get this thing -done-."

Juliri walks in from the bowl.
Juliri has arrived.

G'rad blows his cheeks out "Well, that is about time. I had hoped to get home in time." he looks about "Where would you like us to go, goldrider? I presume that this is not the venue you had in mind?"

Jehrina shoots a grin at Pierron before her head swivels about, looking for one particular person. At the younger woman's comment, she grins and nods. "Leilanth was grumbling about noisy kids in the bowl. -We- are going to Igen to visit my grandson." She looks directly at Gay and says, "Take care of her. She'll take care of you."

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Jehrina:
A woman in her late 50s. She is of middle height, approximately five and a half feet tall. She has short, dark hair, and green eyes that sparkle mischeviously. Her eyes wander a lot, watching everything, or trying to, it seems. Jehrina is wearing a light brown skirt that trails all the way to the floor, barely allowing the tips of a pair of dark, almost mud brown boots to show at the hem. Her tunic is off white, and long sleeved, tied at the wrists. Over this is a vest dyed in harper blue, unbuttoned. She wears a blue hilted knife at her waist. On her right shoulder is a large knot, with interwoven strands of black, white, and gold. Running through the knot is a single red cord. The knot is slightly more complicated than a junior weyrwoman's and less than the Weyrwoman's. It signifies her status as the retired Weyrwoman of Telgar Weyr. On her right hand she wears a ring that you could see the details of if you looked closely enough.
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R'sel might be somewhat slow on the uptake with his recent arrival, but not completely lost between one clue and the next. His comment is quiet at hearing -that- magic word and he shakes his head, "She's so not going to believe this..." And what ever else he says under his breath is too quiet to be over heard.

Jh'roni also seems to be resigned to the inevitable. "Well, the only thing he's ever caught is one geriatric green, and that was because he was the only one chasing. The odds are we'll be home in a few hours." The comment is directed quietly to Gwynfyd. He also gets to his feet and looks across at Gay, waiting for the goldrider to make the first move to wherever.

Foul does not begin to describe Gwynfyd's demeanor upon reentering this cavern. Arms folded across her chest, the Igenite lingers near the tunnel that brought her here, while accusing eyes flick from goldrider to maleriders and back again. "I don't want to be here -now-," she growls softly at Jh'roni. He is included in the list of those whose fault this is, poor fellow. "...mutiny. Hate..."

Gay offers Jehrina a grateful smile, pausing for a moment on her way out - nervousness betrayed to the older woman and perhaps anyone near enough to her. "Thanks." She looks back towards the riders, and heads out to the bowl.

Jehrina gives another rapid look around the cavern, "Good luck, riders." With that, she not-quite runs out of the cavern.

Jehrina walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.
Jehrina has left.

Juliri arches a brow as she ambles into the living caverns, appearing surprised for a moment. "Oh." Then Juliri's on the way out after Jehrina.

Juliri walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.
Juliri has left.

You walk down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

Southern Bowl(#396RDJ$)
Towering above, the bowl wall rises in a curving three-pointed arc as it shelters this southernmost point of Telgar Weyr's great caldera. Sloping down to the north to a slight degree, the floor of the bowl has been channeled so that runoff might drain down to the lake beyond. There are several strategically placed evergreens that serve to baffle the biting mountain winds away from the southern entrance into the Living Caverns. Drifts of snow and the heavy tracks of large dragon feet and bellies cross the expanse of the bowl. Rocks and crags are hung with the purest white. Northward, the center of the bowl spreads hugely, leading to the feeding pens, hatching grounds, weyrling barracks, the Telgar Weyr lake. The ground-level weyrs of the queenriders dot the mountain to the northwest. Use '+view queenriders' to view them. The murmur of voices and the clatter of pots and chairs drifts from the Living Cavern, where the evening meal is being served.
The afternoon is clear, and the sun shines with a few small clouds floating past. A light wind blows and the summer air temperature feels comfortable.
Contents:
Ciroth

Contents:
DRAGONS: Behemoth Indrath (Typhenth) Aleynth (Ularrith) Svaroth Malaith
PLAYERS: Jehrina Gay Juliri
OTHER: Sebring Traders Camp (STC)

Obvious Exits:
Living Cavern  Central Bowl  Outer Infirmary  Guest Weyr  Records Room

Svaroth was already awake, thank you very much. Awake, alert and missing little. He's still poised as if a statue, waiting for his moment to make a move. Let the others blow off their steam.

Jh'roni comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.
Jh'roni has arrived.

R'sel comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.
R'sel has arrived.

Aleynth tosses his head back and throws wide his wings, Behemoth's challenge sparking not anger but excitement. The rangy desert brown is not suited to impressive bellowing or posturing. He fidgets, he peers, he watches the others with keen expectation.

Gwynfyd comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.
Gwynfyd has arrived.

Juliri scrambles out of the living cavern and onto Malaith. Then, the pair are up, and gone *between*.

Juliri clambers up onto Malaith's neck.
Juliri has left.

Malaith takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to carry her aloft.
Malaith has left.

K'ran comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.
K'ran has arrived.

Above, Malaith disappears into Between.

G'rad comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.
G'rad has arrived.

Ciroth has come out of his sleeping pose, and is now crouched with a general air of watchfulness that bears little resemblance to the lazy mien of a few minutes before. Though he seems to be regarding the aggressive posturing of the older bronzes with what can only be described as draconic amusement - the sole indication of his true state of mind are the frantically whirling eyes.

Jehrina stomps her foot, and hollers up the side of the weyr, "Yes, you WILL come down. You're the one complaining about all the noise, and we can -not- be here. You're a righteous old lump, but you're not feeble, and you -will- disrupt Liabeth. You have a bronze of your own, shardit."

Above, Leilanth leaps from Leilanth's Ledge and flies into the air.

G'rad follows, snagging up a wineskin en route. He knows enough to come prepared for disappointment, at least. His expression is becoming more sour, and his jaw is clenched. Seems like his dragon is rather closely linked to the rider for now.

[Missed some stuff due to confusion.  I got a little freaky, ya’ll – Sorry!]

Liabeth> He is quick, he is agile, he is... landing directly in the path of a stampeding bull! Aleynth bleats in surprise as he and the bovine attempt to occupy the same space at the same time. The situation is saved with the reflex application of a talon-sweep to the creature's body. Well... that went well. Seeming rather bemused, the brown latches onto the bawling animal's throat and silences its cries.

Liabeth> The summer afternoon is lovely and temperate, the bowl and lakeshore filled with people and dragons both enjoying the painfully short Telgari summer. Liabeth has been barely visible over the past few sevendays, only glimpsed from her ledge or when bathing - so when a dark shadow passes over the bowl towards the feeding grounds - swiftly, no less - there's some surprise that it's Liabeth. A very bright, very gold, very irritable Liabeth. She lands as gracefully as ever, but isn't slow about arranging herself perfectly or moving, not this time. The males barely exist for her - so long as they don't get too close to her or her kill.

Liabeth> Indrath, though, does not delay overlong: one fear-struck caprine meets its end on his claws as he plunges downwards and pins it to the hoof-wracked mud, the better to lay open its throat and drink.

Liabeth> Ciroth lazily glides towards the terrified herd, then suddenly drops, bringing down a large female bovine whose furry life is cut short in one last pitiful squelchy moo. The bronze lowers his sunset muzzle to tear the throat out, suckling at the hot blood with a soft hiss. Spurts have painted his feet and chest with a spattering of scarlet, but he seems oblivious to it.

Liabeth> Behemoth lacks subtlety. He is a massive monster that wants blood, wants the female, and wants every other male to know he is not going to give in to THEIR challenges. With a flick of his neck he ravens a herdbeast, greedily feeding on the poor creature's fluids, while his foreclaw reaches for another with scarecely a moment's thought. He dispatches with frightening skill and speed, his experience showing in every move

Jh'roni is rocking slightly on his feet, and his face is currently a peculiar shade of whitish green as mentally he shares in a most unpalatable meal that as yet he's not lost enough in his dragon's personality to actually enjoy. "Ciroth, why do you always have to be such a sharding slob with your meals," he mutters, his hand unconsciously wiping at non-existent blood splashes on his arms.

Livia, parcel under arm, stands where she must have just dismounted despite the lack of dragon present, looking rather befuddled and confused. "What the..where you..hey!" Realizing that her lifemate has abandoned her, and for what, she frowns, "Doesn't that figure..."

Liabeth> Svaroth wastes little time and even less energy as he simply times down a bovine in one clean stroke. Landing such that his weight breaks its back and he has to step off it, before his teeth have a chance to sink into the soft belly so that he might drink deeply with his eyes fixed already on Liabeth.

Liabeth> Alzaeth's a late arrival to the brewing chaos--after dropping his rider off in the bowl with little fanfare and some muttered curses on D'mon's part, he gives a cursory look to the dragons about, then finds himself a heardbeast. A flash of claws, and the young Istan bronze dips his muzzle to drink deeply of the thing's lifeblood.

Gwynfyd's mood is not improved at seeing a fellow Igenite here, though an effort is made to greet Livia. She manages a soft grunt and a flick of her fingers for the other, before attention is stolen. "Pay more attention," she might be heard murmuring beneath her breath, before teeth are gritted and arms folded across her chest. Silence, then, from the gruff Igen weyrling.

Dazed, filthy from being dumped onto the ground, and still mumbling occasional curses, D'mon drifts his way south as Gay leaves. "Guess it wasn't as good a time for a visit as I thought, huh?" The question seems rhetorical, since his gaze likely doesn't linger long enough upon the Telgari weyrwoman to earn a reply.

G'rad loosens his collar and shirt slightly. His clenched jaw and hands speak of his own internal emotions, and the skin in his hand is clenched with white knuckles. He speaks not. He is controlling himself as best he can.

Gay bounces on the balls of her feet, grinning from ear to ear as she watches the chaos across the bowl. "I won't have to -dust-! Wow."

Liabeth> Aleynth dawdles not in draining his accidental victim, licking his chops once the deed is done and swinging his head about to focus on the next. With a skip and a wing-assisted hop, he vaults over another feasting brown and lands squarely on the back of a caprine frozen with terror. This killing is more merciful than the first was, a quick *snap* ending its pain. Then, to drink.

Liabeth> Hicerth just sort of appears. Where did he come from? Igen, apparently, but when, who knows? Regardless, he swoops in, snatching up a small herdbeast in his claw and shakes it about roughly before he lands, greedily making a mighty mess of it.

Jh'roni snaps away from the imagined bloodstains for long enough to grin at Gay. "There's a positive side to everything, eh, Gay?" Then his eyes suddenly unfocus again, and the next word is far more of a hiss. "Too close..."

Liabeth> Liabeth's eyes are as bright with incandescent fire as her hide; she lashes out with a foreclaw to take down a wherry. Its neck is snapped delicately though there's not much to be done about the fount of blood that follows, but to drink as quickly as possible. She hesitates over the carcass, but eventually drops it, reluctantly as whirling ruby eyes search out the next victim. She hisses suddenly at a brown that ventures too close, disturbing her ladyship's feast.

"Not for a while, anyway," singsongs K'ran, in markedly higher spirits than his lifemate. He lingers an arm's length from Gay, his eyes beginning to lose their focus.

Liabeth> Behemoth is a noisy consumer of blood, and he hurls each spent corpse away to land in a broken head some distance from his gruesome feasting. Rumbles and roars build inside him, and his eyes scarcely leave the queen.

Livia tilts her head from one side to another, cracking her neck and squaring her shoulders. She definitely doesn't look pleased about her predicament, but she seems resigned to it. Although, spotting the weyrling from her weyr does little to help her mood. She grunts at the gruff girl, slightly lifting her chin in greeting. Then, her attention seeks out the rider of the gold who stole her lifemate's attention away, just like that. How fickle a boy can be....

R'sel is simply resigned as he follows along behind the rest. Or at least that's how his expression reads. He checks the pouch at his waist to be sure it's still tied there, and fidgets. Fidgets with this and that, while he avoids conversation with any of the others and tries to keep some idea of his bearings with his attention constantly straying back to Gay.

Liabeth> Ciroth has tossed aside the drained remnants of his first kill, and immediately risen to strike for the second. Blooding of this beast is a far more leisurely affair than the first one, he seems to be taking his time about it as his eyes never leave the glowing Liabeth. The drying blood on chest and legs has shaded his sunset hide to darkness, but he seems still oblivious of it, though his tongue does flicker out to catch a few drops of blood sprayed on his muzzle.

Liabeth> Indrath dines with a purpose, draining his prey with vicious efficiency before taking up the hunt anew: an abbreviated wingbeat propels him back into the air, the better to scatter the herd animals and isolate his choice, another hapless caprine. Talons rise, fall; he lands to claim his prey, its throat in his jaws.

Dusting? Gwyn's not always the best at hiding her thoughts, and one look at her face hints that she's thinking these Telgari are a strange breed indeed. That look is here and gone, fortunately, in the time it takes her to scrub a hand across said face and then refocus on the fields to the north.

"Yeah, right. Drop it. Good," Gay's muttering. She focuses enough to glance around and finally notice D'mon. Her eyes widen slightly, then she shrugs. Oh well, nothing to be done about it now. Her attitude is similar as she marks R'sel as well, then the Igenites, the others. "Interesting way to meet people," she remarks, vacantly.

G'rad shoots a rather cold look at the others that are gathered here. His movements are quick and rather jerky, as he fights back the instincts that are wafting over him from his own lust-driven mate. He still does not speak, but lets out a sharp grunt. Not really anything coherent. Just a noise that suggests he has little time for such pleasantries as may be exchanged here.

Liabeth> Alzaeth finishes with his first beast easily enough, carelessly tossing the carcass aside. Though he hasn't spotted Liabeth yet, he knows she's here, and like moth to flame, his whirling red eyes are drawn toward her, even as he selects his next victim. Once she's spotted, he gives a low, brief keen, then turns his attention to the more primal need before the courting. Once more, claws flash, muzzle dips, and this time, he spares a moment to clean his muzzle once he's tasted of the sweet elixir.

Liabeth> Svaroth is as silent as his rider, or so it seems at first. But in truth that low croon that carries across the pens while they feed might well be traced to him. Or at least him in part. He skips posturing and just prepares. Drinking his fill, then seeking out another kill with quick efficacy. The less time it takes to make the kill, the more time he has to watch the current object of his affections with violet whirling gaze.

Liabeth> Aleynth has only just finished drinking from the second fallen beast when lightning-polished reflexes save him from being brained by Behemoth's discarded prey. He jerks back, neck swanning and wings flaring in alarm when the body slams into the ground directly before him. -That- will earn a growl for the Reaches bronze -- the lean brown is not without gumption, for all that he seems the cheerful comfortable sort. To further express his ire, he lashes out... and snares a wherry through the belly with his talons. Because draining another animal will sure show Behemoth...

Liabeth> Hicerth snarls, snapping warningly at another male who encroaches a little too much into his personal bubble. Nevermind that this isn't his weyr, he's behaving as if this were all his territory. His first carcass he leaves in a heap, leaping up with his wings spread wide to snare another beast - this time a fuzzy little ovine that bleats like mad until he silences it.

R'sel spares a wry grin for Gay, as she notes his presence, but that's the only indication he heard her words. Distracted enough he glances about to see who else is there. His focus not as intense as his brown's just yet, but getting there -- moment by moment.

Liabeth> Liabeth takes down wherry after wherry with the same graceful movements, an economy of motion. She's as careful as she can be about her feeding, though her claws and muzzle both are quickly blood-spattered - not much to be done when they spurt like that. She pauses in her feeding to look up, marking each of the males with her whirling eyes. Let's ee if they measure up. Now first, more drinking.

Liabeth> Behemoth reaches out with each forepaw and grabs a wherry in each. With a bellow of determination, each is squeezed with lethal strength. As they erupt in gore, which the bronze slakes his thirst upon, his eyes whirl with deeper reds of lust and growing animosity to the males that dare challenge his pre-eminence. Once again, as the pulped bodies of his prey are spent, he throws them aside and crouches, muscles rippling beneath dark bronze hide.

D'mon creeps away from whoever he's standing closest to and tries in vain to brush away some of the dust he collected during his precipitous dismount. "Ista's duties," is rather nonsensically offered once he's deemed himself at least a little more presentable. As Alzaeth's gaze goes to Liabeth, his goes to Gay, and stays there this time, whereupon he offers a weak smile and a wave.

Liabeth> Ciroth meets the brief stare of Liabeth with one of his own, and there's implicit challenge in the gaze, the red-purple of the eyes intensifies, then he breaks the gaze again to lower his muzzle back to his beast - although he's still watching the gold cautiously. He hisses sharply at the older bronze beside him who appears to be crowding too close, there's little left of this dragon's normal lazy good humour. For now, everything is focused on one golden target. Later - well, there's always another time to finish a nap in the sun. This is now.

Liabeth> Indrath cleans his muzzle with his tongue as he allows his narrowed, crimson-spun eyes to wander the pens. Rather than take to air again, he'll simply snap up one of the wherries that Aleynth's movements send scattering; peeling open its throat, he dines now on blood of mottled jade rather than vivid garnet while, at length, fastening his attention on Liabeth as he coils his lean frame back again.

Liabeth> Alzaeth flashes obsidian talons at a challenger who ventures too close--a moment later, lightning-quick reflexes snare yet another beast: if Liabeth isn't finished, neither is he. Yet more, he tries to satiate the growing need with the blood of the beasts that surround him, but each time, his attention returns to the aureate beauty shimmering nearby. No caution here, only hunger and need.

Liabeth> Svaroth's posture is still. Statue still as he takes his time with a wherry of his own. His presence understated, obscure while he meets her own gaze as levelly can mange without moving from his place in the assembled crowd. Crimson might stain his muzzle and talons, but he doesn't seem aware of that now as he deepens that croon he makes for her.

Liabeth> Aleynth lacks the intensity of the other males. He is here, he is blooding, he is eager for what follows and willing in his amethyst regard of Liabeth. Things are as they are, and save for that one brief moment of animosity for Behemoth, he tempers excitement with the relative calm of inexperience and budding instinct. Small consolation to the beasts he's left drained and lifeless on the ground, or the one who is currently graced with his teeth in its throat, of course. But such is life.

Gwynfyd expels a long, slow breath and blinks her eyes. It takes a number of those blinks for fogged vision to clear enough that she can pinpoint Livia in the crowd. Her first step towards the other brownrider is hesitant, uncertain. Those that follow are less so, and she has managed some small measure of calm upon reaching the other woman's side. "Enh." A grunted summing up of current events.

G'rad matches his dragon's rather noisy consumption with throaty growls of his own. Eyes dart hither and thither. Resting like insects now and then on Gay, to dart away once more. Every rider is studied. Appraised.

Gay's dark eyes grow steadily wider and wider, as she stares across the bowl. She starts to back towards the steps to her weyr, slow and careful. "Any minute now," she cautions, though her words are quiet.

Jh'roni has actually started to shiver which seems ridiculous given the warm summer afternoon. As he straightens his shoulders and his eyes fall on Gwynfyd, he manages a half smile. "It's not that bad, Gwyn. Honest." Then the eyes unfocus, and he's lost again, watching an unseen gold with his mouth full of lifeblood.

Liabeth> Hicerth shakes his head with the ovine in his maw, like a canine shaking his prey. He finally lets go, giving the thing a hard fling. Again, his wings flutter open. Look, aren't they pretty? At least, that's what he would say if he weren't busy being so angry at all the other males for thinking they could compete with /him/. He bugles a loud announcement of /himself/, obviously trying to get the attention of the glowing gold. However, as there are so many other males around, he quickly gives up that effort - instead helping himself to another fuzzy snack.

You head up the low, wide staircase toward Liabeth's ledge.

[And into the weyr...]

Liabeth's Ledge(#6510RJLVh)

Set in the northwest face of the caldera, the wide ledge of this weyr is near enough to the activity of the bowl to provide a near-constant din, but still sheltered enough by an outcropping to make the noise a pleasant reminder of the Weyr's activity. Large enough for a gold and her mate to sit comfortably, scratches scar the granite ledge's surface from turns of dragon's talons scraping over it.
The afternoon is clear and the sun shines brightly. A light wind blows and the summer air temperature feels comfortable.  

R'sel's gaze is drawn back to Gay at her words, though his glance to the others is cursory again as he follows. He's checking who and where as they enter the weyr. G'rad he marks with a slightly narrowed gaze, but he simply makes sure he's not within arms reach of the bronzerider he knows better than the others present.

Gay walks quickly to a spot on her ledge, loosing a small bag from her belt. Its contents skitter across the rock; small painted stones of varying colours. A yellow is placed first, then she marks each rider as he or she comes up the steps, brown eyes serious - and a stone is placed around the yellow one. She leans over the stones, serious as a renegade planning an attack on a hold. "It's time," she mutters.

Liabeth> Liabeth looks up from the last of her kill, incandescent gold of her hide dulled with blood, but for once, she doesn't seem to mind being dirty. Her head cocks, as if to listen and she lets out a low, pleased hiss. Rising up, shadowed wings spreading wide, she takes a moment to pose in the soft afternoon light for all to admire - desire. Then, faster than she's ever moved, with the rustle of wings, she's in the air.

Jh'roni has quite deliberately taken a position near the back of the weyr, casting his face into shadow, palms pressed flat against the cool stone of the walls. He retains just enough of his own inidivuality to laugh softly. "Can Ciroth be that greeny stone then?" Eyes flicker, unfocus, and whatever the answer to that question, it's plain he isn't going to hear it.

That's a change, someone one-upping Gwynfyd in grumpiness. True enough though, the weyrling seems more uncomfortable than grouchy by this point -- except when rewarding Jh'roni a bit of a glare for his attempt at reassuring her. Easy enough for -him- to say...or something like that. She folds her arms across her chest once the ledge is reached, hanging to the back of the group of hopefuls. Being penned in would not be a good thing for the anxiety levels right now.

Liabeth> With the tension in his muscles holding him ready, Behemoth awaits the queen's move. And so, she is off. With the loudest roar of all so far echoing from his throat, he pushes upwards. His wings unfurl and then beat - the explosion of air beneath them catching dust and sending up clouds. Streaking blood and drool from his maw, he pursues Liabeth. On ground he may look clumsy, but those muscles that make him so are geared for this moment, and his powerful legs give him the upward momentum to take him after the rising gold with considerable speed.

D'mon stumbles after the others, later than most, limping slightly along the way. No surprise, then, that he's muttering under his breath as he goes, and though a curious eye's given to what Gay is doing, the tall, broad-shouldered bronzerider finds himself a wide space of cavern wall to lean up against.

Liabeth> Ciroth has dropped the remainder of the carcase as though it had turned red hot. A single bugle, the first clear sound he's made since the blooding began. Sundrenched wings spread as though to test the summer air. Then with a crouch and a spring, he's away - summer lightning in the afternoon sky, chasing a setting sun.

Liabeth> At once, in a rush, Indrath's marshalling power husbanded in the lean coils of his body: wings cleave sharp purchase in the air as he surges skywards, as if he could catch Liabeth just off the ground, to cloak her sunset with his own dusk-hewn frame. He'll angle for a spot wide of the pack, to afford him room to maneuver freely toward the open air into which gilt beauty leads.

Livia doesn't lean. She doesn't loiter. She doesn't relax and wait to see what happens. What she does do, however, is just stand there, stoic and unmoving, shoulders squared and feet flightly apart. She doesn't seem to care if she's stopped in front of another rider or gotten in the way. They can just go around. Her head does tilt down slightly, the rim of her helmet casting a sort of dark shadow over her eyes, which stare at the arranging of the stones as if it were the most bizarre thing she'd ever seen occuring.

G'rad grunts and closes his eyes as his dragon takes to the sky, then reopens them to fix them on Gay, watching her expression for every possible indication of how she may react as her mind links to her own lifemate.

Liabeth> Alzaeth, a study of opposites when compared to his lifemate in general terms, displays nothing out of the ordinary today: once Liabeth takes to the air, he's ready, and springs skywards in one thrust of powerful hind muscles. Spreading amber-streaked wings to the Telgar sun, he launches himself after skyward.

Liabeth> Aleynth has only just finished his most recent kill when Liabeth launches herself into the air, the phoenix rising from the ashes... er... corpses. Finally the desert brown breaks his silence by emitting a brassy yelp of encouragement. So that's the way of it! The lean brown follows with a determined leap, cinnamon-laced wings eating large gulps of air in his haste to follow.

Liabeth> Hicerth somehow took his attention off the gold for a split second - the wrong second, as she goes shooting up into the air. Caught with his mouth full of fuzzy ovine, he gives a muffled creel of dismay. Spitting out the wooly creature, he gives an angry roar, his wings opening once more. He springs, then, upwards with the force of his thick musculature giving him more power than speed in the move. Still, upward he goes, his tail flicking out angrily behind him, as if it could make him move faster. Starting out behind is not the place he normally likes to be during a flight.

Liabeth> Svaroth doesn't rumble or roar. His challenge is all posture. One moment he's poised there, gaze fixed on her. Then next he's spread auburn touched wings to their utmost for a moments pose, then with a massive push of his hindquarters he seems to draw into himself and then uncoil into the air as a spring released. His leap is lightweight speed vs' the power of some of the other chasers, the end result, he's airborne in the middle of the pack as they fight for flying room.

[Dragons into the air!]

K'ran sinks into a crouch to study more closely Gay's array of stones; "Pretty," is his assessment, though to judge by his lazy smile and his glassy gaze the word could as easily be for her, or her lifemate. "Which one's me?"

Liabeth> Liabeth climbs higher and higher in the sky of the bowl, exulting in her strength, her speed, her sheer agility in the air. Her wings spread wide, every movement pure grace as she makes a perfect soaring arc around the bowl, calling down to the males with a brassy taunting bugle. Come on. Let's see if you're fast enough. -Smart- enough.

Liabeth> Ciroth has chosen to take a position high above most of the chasing pack. This puts him at a slight disadvantage if there's a sudden change of pace or direction, but equally offers the advantage of a clear field of vision, and space to manoeuvre without the risk of fouling wings with another chaser too close. Sun gilds his hide to temporary splendour as he catches a thermal,rising on almost still wings for a short while to attain the height before with strong downbeats taking up the chase. He makes no response to the bugle. Challenge was given and accepted, silently, back in the feeding grounds. Now all that remains is the sunlight gold ahead, and the bronze sunset that follows, will she or no.

Gay is Liabeth’s secret weapon, it appears. Her eyes unfocused, she's moving the stones swiftly as the dragons move, muttering under her breath, "No - bad idea. Right, right, better. Watch your turn, there." She looks up at the Weyrleader, bewildered, then vaguely irritated. "That one -" she gestures to a reddish midsized stone. "We're busy." She eyes the formation critically, muttering more advice to her lifemate.

Gwynfyd grunts again when Aleynth finds his way into the air, chin tucking down into her throat and eyes closing momentarily. Once that initial shock has passed, she softly clears her throat and opens her eyes again, uncanny instinct allowing her to focus fuzzily on Gay -- or what she can see of Gay, around the heads and shoulders of the others clustered here. Rocks? What? People can keep up with more than one thing during events? It's all she can do to stand straight and steady there.

Liabeth> Behemoth is not going to be outshone by some younger beast - or a smaller one, scorch these pestilential browns! His wings beat the air as he follows the queen. For all his bulk, he is an experienced flier and seems able to turn and wheel a lot faster than his size might allow. Indeed, his proportions are as near to that of the queen that he could be called her shadow - which is his intent, as he follows her moves carefully, a few lengths behind and imitating her closely. His eyes stay on her motions, his roars now subdued as he keeps his energy for the flight ahead of him.

Jh'roni has his head back and his eyes half shut. Sweat has drenched his dark red hair to a mahogany brown, hands are clenching and unclenching like the paws of an angry cat, mimicking the rhythm of great wings unseen in a bright sky. The other riders in the weyr are now completely forgotten - except that under the half-closed eyelids, the gaze never leaves Gay.

R'sel's gaze falls on the stones as he tries to puzzle them out, but it's one of those things it's hard to focus on without letting his gaze run back to Gay. He'll figure it out later, if he has to. For now, he just keeps ready to move if they turn to missiles.

G'rad laughs curtly and mentions, to the room in general "Curve your neck...ahh..." well, his mind is quite locked to Behemoth's right at this time, so that is only natural. But he is not totally out of it, as his eyes move to the stones, and his brow furrows. He rolls his shoulders, easing the strain there.

Liabeth> Svaroth might have started in the middle of the pack, but that doesn't leave him out by any stretch of the means. Not so early on. He rises as she does -- As they do. Keeping each wing stroke as steady as the one before. He's all about economy, well, other than that croon he gives for a moment again. As if the wind really could carry the sound to her now? He gives it a try, regardless.

Liabeth> Indrath skips through that soaring arc she sketches with ease borne of familiarity: these have been his skies for Turns and Turns, and he's hardly put to heel by fellow suitors bigger or smaller, more muscular or more agile. If Liabeth's arc widens past the bowl's rim, he'll straighten his ascent to whittle away any distance between them while keeping space from the paths burned by the others, though closer to Aleynth and Alzaeth than the rest.

Liabeth> Unfamiliar, these winds, yet Alzaeth still tries to make the most of them. Some things, after all, are instinct. Though his whirling gaze never wanders far from the glowing golden form before him, he's also taking stock in the competition, in trying to best spot for himself amidst this large company of smaller dragons, or those more experienced than he. His hide gleams in metallic mahogany and amber as he simply tries, for now, to follow.

Liabeth> Aleynth is fighting a number of disadvantages and is cheerfully oblivious to all of them. He is her ladyship's most devoted follower, a desert-born fanatic who will fight for his place amongst the throng -- and indeed, that's where his size and speed place him, directly in the middle of the pack. He squeezes in between an Indrath and Alzaeth, and calls it good. Here, at least, he has the teeniest glimpses of the gold they're all competing for, and they soften the wind somewhat, when they're not trying to cut the Igen upstart off.

Liabeth> Hicerth may be unfamiliar to these skies, but he has a strategy that has worked for him in countless flights before, so he'll employ them here as well - He'll just have to be a bully. Aiming his path directly for the tightest pack of dragons, he makes to go through them, threatening and muscling his way into their midst with as much brawn as he can muster. He has teeth and claws, and he's not affraid to use them to influence the outcome he has in mind. He may be brown, but he's a big fellow. He can hold his own with the average bronze, and his attitude is clear: He's not giving up the Gold he's chasing to some bronze. If attitude alone could win the flight, he'd already have wrapped this thing matter up.

Liabeth> Elegance in draconic form, Liabeth seems unconcerned still with the males giving chase - not Ciroth's quiet acceptance of her challenge, not Behemoth's shadowing, not Svaroth's croon, not Indrath's obvious expertise on these winds, not Alzaeth's simplicity, nor Aleynth's cheerful inexperience, or Hicerth's brutal determination can move her - with a flick of her tail and a measured beat and quick angling of her wings, she's shooting across the bowl - she's had five turns of practice for this. She wheels around to head straight for the pack, then dives well under them all, gliding towards the hatching grounds with a giddy roar as she passes. Showoff.

Liabeth> Ciroth has now reached a cruising speed, steady, tireless, energy conserved. For once the intrinsic laziness of this dragon has found in his favour, because the bronze has learnt well the lesson of not using all your strength and energy in the wild first minutes of a flight. She will tire - if she doesn't tire you first. So the first battle is not to let her tire you. Only if that skirmish is won can you look at the possibility of trying to catch. And then suddenly Liabeth darts back under the pack - and the whole gameplan has turned around. Literally. Bugling frustration, the bronze swings in a wide turn, losing precious lengths, but making them up as others in the pack flounder. He hasn't lowered his high chasing altitude at all. What goes down, must come up.

Liabeth> Hardly breaking his pace, Behemoth judges the flight of the lady and decides not to shadow THAT move. Not that he is incapable, as the larger queen can do the move, so could a bronze. But he has seen her inevitable flight trajectory, and while she may have elegance, he has experience and intelligence on his side, and with a flick of his tail in a rather contemptuous manner for those who are behind him, he shoots in a straight line, aiming for the point where Liabeth will inevitably end up if she continues her current trajectory.

Jh'roni laughs out loud, the sound harsh. "Let her try, clever little girl. Let her try." He seems almost unconscious of what he's said, but his shoulders give an odd twist, mimicking Ciroth's turn. His eyes fix on Gay and the normal gently humour in them is all but gone, there's a raw lust on his face that would render it unfamiliar to most who know him.

G'rad barks out a laugh of his own. He moves now, coming in close to the rock to see the display there - and bring himself closer to the goldrider, coincidentally. His voice is harsh, force from clenched teeth. "Fancy tricks ... hah. Not good enough, lady. Not good enough."

"Show off," Gay mutters, crouching, moving stones. "Told you -no-, you bloody stupid - alright! Fine. Right, right. Around and..." She glances up, curls damp and sticking to her forehead, eyes glassy. As she notices the stares of the riders, she shudders, looking back to the stones. "He's gonna try to cut you off there - change it a little..."

Livia eventually unfolds her arms, her hands sliding into her pockets instead, where they curl into fists. Her expression sours, sharing that particular rage of her lifemate's, and his urge to bully the others...But she doesn't bully anyone. She just stands there, although her face turns a little red with the effort to hold back that urge. Instead, she tries to focus on the bizarre game Gay seems to be playing on the floor, mapping out the conquests of the males like that.

Liabeth> The brutal change of direction is not something Indrath was altogether prepared for, but one he'll take as challenge rather than hardship: he'll wrench himself free of his giddy ascent to match her horizontal course, for all that it puts his talons precariously near Behemoth's contemptuous tail-flick. But tempting a target as *that* may be, the queen's finer scent is a greater draw, and dusk-kissed bronze returns to playing outrider close to Alzaeth and Aleynth -- while affording the latter a bit more space, rather than fight shoulder to shoulder for air.

Liabeth> Svaroth folds his wings, and drops from the pack, from his prior course at the sight of her tactic. It's enough to cut off his song as he now conserves energy, respreads auburn sails and swoops into a turn that will bring him back on course to her. He's lower than he was, but wasted less time in turning. Now he uses those steady wingbeats to regain altitude as he paces her once again. He's answered that challenge as silently as the ones before, and watches with anticipation for her next attempt to shake him...Well, them.

A sigh from Gwynfyd, chock full of disgust and resignation for her lifemate's gleeful pursuit. Unlike some, she is silent, and unlike others, she offers no apparent guidance to her lifemate. Like him, she doesn't know enough to provide more than grit and instinct to this chase. For now, she is simply another face in this expectant crowd.

Liabeth> Aleynth is quite happy to have Hicerth's assistance in shaking up this mass of bronze but really, it's too much when the other brown's talons aim for -Aleynth's- person. He squeals and ducks low to avoid being slashed, only to find himself with a vision of gold charging them. Cue further squealing as the youthful brown shows off the agility and reflexes that serve him well in Igen's oft' cruel skies. A twist, a turn and some frantic wing-flurrying sees him back in his proper place, chasing her instead of vice versa, and vying for room with those males not taken aback by Liabeth's 'attack'.

Liabeth> Alzaeth's not baffled by Liabeth's sudden change in direction--he sees it far enough in advance that he's able to adjust, adapt. While his maneuver to twist himself around is not as extravagant or graceful as hers, he manages it with a movement that's seemingly effortless. Height lends comfort, so he doesn't match the dive, but nor does trail in Behemoth's wake--he's not so presumptous to attempt such. Caution rules the day: he watches, conserving his strength, and maintains that hard-won space amidst the pack.

K'ran has, by now, uncoiled from his crouch over Gay's boardgame, but hasn't retreated, as have others, to the chamber's walls. Instead, he continues to hover, fascinated, nearby -- and if his eyes follow two stones more than the others, who can blame him?

Liabeth> Hicerth rams his flank against another smaller local brown, giving the fellow enough of a jostle to get him all out of sorts. One down, a couple dozen to go! With a deep throated rumble, he actually seems to be enjoying his strategy. Quick changes of direction by Liabeth, though, don't bode too well with him, and he has to arch in a wide turn to get back going in the right direction. And that rumble goes on, a low grade growling deep in his throat, threatening and foreboding, like distant storm clouds threatening to rain down such strife on all things...Doom. He brings an ominous sense of doom to the Telgar skies, and for those who would dare chase /his/ gold.

Eyes glazed and unfocused, D'mon remains a silent presence leaning up against the cool weyr walls, with only the occasional sharp intake of breath to indicate that he's even standing there. Startled briefly into reality by one thing or another, he stares at the stones for a moment, then pulls his eyes to Gay's face. "Ever the strategist," he mutters, smiling, before he falls silent and unaware again.

Gaze fixed on Gay, her hands, those stones... R'sel leans forward, just ever so slightly as if for a better look. So it mimics Svaroth's swooping maneuver in part, that's probably not chance. Even if unrecognized by the rider.

Liabeth> Liabeth skims over the walls of the bowl, form made so much the brighter for it's backdrop of forbidding stone. Then, it's up, up, up once again amongst wispy summer clouds. At the flight goes on and on, she shows no signs of tiring, no signs of stopping - only the strongest will last, only the brightest will follow. The gold calls down again, mocking bugle echoing through the air, across the weyr as some of the older and less experienced chasers begin to drop out. She is untouchable, until she decides this is over - and it's far from over. She arcs into a controlled dive, making as if she'll try another of her fly-bys again. But no - her wings snap out, and she glides away again, closer to their height, but no closer to being caught.

Liabeth> Ciroth seems to have recovered his equilibrium, if anything the bronze seems to be regarding his golden leader with some degree of draconic amusement. Thanks that's a new trick, does she? A few Fort greens could tell her otherwise. The late afternoon sun that bakes the Bowl is providing a nice selection of thermals as the overheated air rises, and Ciroth is making the most of them - anything that makes his job easier is fine by him. And it seems that Liabeth has just decided to make his job easier as she rises higher and higher, and at last is at his chase altitude. He doesn't follow the dive, correctly anticipating that having made all this height, she'll pull out again halfway rather than lose the effort. By the end of the manoeuvre, he's gained a few lengths on her, simply by remaining in the same position. But there's everything in this game left to play for...

Liabeth> Behemoth seems to have judged his angle accurately, as far as it goes, but his velocity was not quite right to meet the queen coming up. And so he lashes out again with his wings, increasing speed and dropping down towards the ground, much akin to a stone, only to let his wings fly out at the last possible moment, booming the air around and using the increase in speed to aid his rise once again. This time he aims upwards, rising beneath the lady he flies to catch, and rising at speed. A cunning manoeuvre - he is not all muscle after all.

Jh'roni has picked up a loose pebble from the floor of the weyr and is playing with it, gently tossing it from hand to hand, still with his eyes half shut. But he's following the progress of the pebbles on the rock - perhaps the pebble that's he's picked up is that of a now-spent challenger. A lazy smile is curling the corners of his mouth, tempering the desire in the eyes, he's no more conscious of his actions than he was a minute ago. As his gaze returns to Gay it's hard to know whether he sees the rider at all - or only a mocking gold bugling challenge to chasers in the afternoon air.

Liabeth> Svaroth has to be smart if he's going to outlast the bronzes and catch the prize at the end of the match. But he's been as conservative as he can be, and still is. Steadily he marches on, avoiding any excess maneuvering except in response to hers. He too is a shadow from below, though an echo of one compared to Behemoth's size. Still, what goes up, usually comes back down again, so he'll stick to this plan and only raise from beneath in measured degrees.

G'rad studies the stones with cold eyes, then starts to laugh a little. "Pebbles?" The comment is then forgotten as his eyes narrow. "Yess...." a hiss of voice this time, as he sees the gold through multi-faceted eyes once more. "Closer now."

Liabeth> Alzaeth allows a low rumble to escape as he observes the gold highlighed against the bowl walls, and if his eye was drawn to her before, now it's fixed upon her: Liabeth, the true North of Telgar's skies--for this Istan bronze, at least. Gilt wings creak as he pushes himself ever higher in pursuit, determination hardening the muscular lines of his form. His flight's still simplistic, but thus far, it's proven as effective as anyone.

Liabeth> Mocking? She's mocking them? Aleynth's good cheer begins to fade as that clarion cry reaches him and filters through the fog of 'chasechasechase!' that clouds his thought processes. Were he capable of it, his jaw would be set with steely determination as realization dawns -- he'll show her! For all that he's bringing a more serious attitude to bear, he is no less the youth in all of this. It's early yet, but the brown slashes more energetically at the air with his wings and begins to inch ever so slowly ahead of those shadowing bronzes. One Telgari, one Istan... he'll show them too!

R'sel's attention is at least pulled by Jh'roni's pebble for the moment, even if he didn't mark the source by looking past it to the face of the one tossing it. He shifts back to the others instead. They seem to mean more to him, since they mean something to -her-.

Liabeth> It's amid that next maneuver that Indrath begins to fade from contention -- perhaps that twist to match Liabeth's scattering of her suitors was a bit more wrenching than advertised. Today, it would seem, sunset shan't be stolen by dusk: he gives a few more leaden wingbeats of stubborn determination, and a disconsolate cry which is perhaps regret for not clawing arrogant Behemoth when the opportunity arose, before he coasts back towards the bowl floor in a thermal's embrace.

Liabeth> Indrath flies downwards towards the bowl.
Liabeth> Indrath has left.

G'rad seems to keep his eyes on the pebbles, then the face, then the pebbles, appraising them carefully. His expression is still rather unpleasant, but it is tinged with cunning now

Gay glances up again, suddenly. Her brown eyes are wide and sharply focused on each malerider, one by one. "No, it's all you, Lia - I don't -care-," she says, herself again in her irritation with the gold. "Just finish it already!"

K'ran's expression suddenly twists in a frown; quickly, he reaches for the gameboard and makes to snatch up that one reddish rock, and then hastens his way toward the exit.

Liabeth> Hicerth twists his length, angling upward more sharply as he leaves the poor males of the middle pack alone (for the moment). His forboding drifts more away from the main pack, taking the outside venture this time. Always with an eye on the prize, he works those gold streaked wings of his, determined and stubborn to a flaw. He has no love songs, no attempts to woo her. After all, he doesn't need them. Deep down, all girls secretly want the bad boy.

K'ran heads down the low, wide stairs and into the Bowl.
K'ran has left.

D'mon's startled back into the here-and-now by K'ran's departure, and he looks after the Weyrleader for a long moment, his expression blank. He looks over Gay's way again--one last glimpse of the goldrider before he looks toward the weyr's exit, perhaps hoping to catch sight of the gleaming golden lady and all those in pursuit.

For once, Gwyn isn't reluctant to press close to the wall of rock. She steps close to it, when K'ran sweeps by, avoiding his stumbling over her. It steadies, rather than closes in on her, and offers a bit of coolness to her cheek when she leans against it, eyes closed. Aleynth's finally won the upperhand in the contest of will and she needs all of the stability she can get as he runs away with her mind.

Liabeth> Liabeth climbs only a little higher before levelling off, thermals swaying her this way and that, almost effortless in her attempts to evade capture. However, that she's using the thermals at all seems to indicate that she's tiring - or perhaps she's growing bored. She turns her head to look back at the field of competitors. Who's left? Who's -worthy-? She slows in her wingbeats, watching them still. Let's see what happens.

R'sel never quite marked who it was that left and who remains. He glances only, seeing someone is out of the running, but so many are still here.

Livia's head tilts down a smidge further, her gaze plainly leering at the goldrider. Leering, like a dirty minded individual. With such a creepy gaze, shadowed by it's angle and her helmet. Really, she looks tense. Really tense. There are veins standing out in her neck.

Liabeth> That is the mistake Behemoth has been waiting for. For while Liabeth slows to look behind her, she seems to have forgotten what lies beneath... And rising from the air below her, the mighty bronze, with a final bugle of disdain for all those who would dare challenge his arial mastery, moves in for one final surge. Wings beat, talons and tail swirl in reach for the golden prize, and Behemoth makes his play, twisting so that he might better reach for Liabeth - and the golden delight he has chased so hard to capture!

Liabeth> Ciroth sees Liabeth check, and at last that moment he's been waiting for arrives. With a cry of love and yearning, the bright wings furl and the bronze plummets through the air towards golden immolation, the height he's maintained all along standing his friend now as the wings flatten to reduce air resistance. She is tiring, his strength will bear them both if she will but let hin, if the dawn gold can accept that however long the day, sunset comes at last. Talons and tail stretch out as he closes with her from above, reaching, reaching....

G'rad snorts as he notices someone leaving, and returns his gaze to the goldrider. Ah yes there it is - the hesitation that all females make in flights, the desire to know who it is they are to fly from. In that moment, mind linked to his dragon, he flexes and clenches his arm muscles.

Jh'roni has taken a half pace forward and his arms are reaching out to air, mirroring his dragon. The eyes at last open, and the gaze fixes on Gay, unwavering, as a forgotten pebble falls from one hand, and with a dul clink, hits the floor.

Liabeth> Aleynth finds that, upon pressing forward, that he had less energy than he'd planned upon. Not that the brown had actually been -planning-, mind... when he surges forward now, triumphant in Indrath's absence, he finds himself with burning wings and flagging lungs. It's all the rangy desert brown can do to throw himself at his reason for being, his purpose, his great glowing gold lady love! Though perhaps it is better he wax poetic after he dodges around an age-paled bronze to reach for Liabeth, neck and tail straining towards her in an attempt to pluck her from the skies.

Liabeth> Alzaeth might not be as experienced as some of those who remain in the field, but he's smart enough to know opportunity when he sees it. He makes one last push toward her, coming up from beneath, wings and tail straining up toward her, ready to catch should she choose to fall his way--and there's no doubt from *this* bronze that it will be the incandescent, fiery lady's choice as to who wins the chase. Once more, a quiet, low croon escapes, and he gazes upward toward her, adoring, and ready for whatever may come.

Liabeth> Hicerth raises his rumbling to a dangerous level, a crescendo of his mood. When Liabeth levels out, he keeps going at his angle, barreling full speed up through the sky with one obvious intention: to ram haphazardly into the gold dragon and knock her out of the sky, so then he can be sweet and nice and carry her back down...after, you know, knocking her down and all. What an impression on the Telgari population that would make!

Liabeth> Svaroth gambles now. What is life without risk? He'll push ahead for the most lovely of prizes, crooning to her once again, a continuation of the melody he would share with her. He's using that energy he saved to give him speed while still Behemoth's shadow. If she dodges the bronze, he'll have a moment to act. To reach and entangle from where she wouldn't expect. His neck glints as polished hardwood in the light as it stretches in anticipation the chance to capture the marvel that leads them in this merry dance of the moment.

D'mon clenches shaking hands into fists, breathing harsh, as he alternates attention between Gay and the game of stones she'd been using to advise Liabeth's movements. Heedless of the ankle he sprained on the way to the weyr, he steps forward, watchful.

Gwynfyd's finding cool sanctuary against the wall is only a temporary thing. Aleynth's pushing towards the gold compells her to also takes steps, however unsteady, towards Liabeth's partner. Shaky and grim, she advances on the hapless goldrider without a care for the others who press in close now too.

Livia doesn't move. She's a creepy, staring, leering statue. Even if one of the other chasers suddenly pulled off their clothes and danced around the weyr, it's doubtful she would even notice or blink. It's all about the anticipation.

R'sel notes nothing but Gay. Never mind the pebbles, the others, even the fact that he's been standing there this whole time, without truly moving. He just waits, as the others do, for everything to sort it's self out as it will.

Liabeth> As the males all stretch towards her, hoping to catch her, Liabeth pulls out one last swift wingbeat to propel herself forward, hide bright in the dying light, and spiral into the one she's chosen - the one who recognized it was her choice all along - Alzaeth. She allows the Istan bronze to catch her, as she lets out a low, pleased croon.

Liabeth> Ciroth veers off with a single cry of loss - then he's plummeting back down to the bowl again, tiredness in every line of his body.

Liabeth> Ciroth flies downwards towards the bowl.
Liabeth> Ciroth has left.

Liabeth> Behemoth once again is denies, and lets out a bellow of rage as he overshoots. And continues flying. He does not look back, he just howls his way out into the distance.

Liabeth> Alzaeth, ever the gallant one when he wants to be, catches Liabeth as she turns his way, enfolding her in a gentle embrace as they fall together.

G'rad kicks the rock, and turns and stalks out, snatching up his jacket and wineskin, which is open even before he is out of the weyr. Once again, he drowns his sorrows.

G'rad heads down the low, wide stairs and into the Bowl.
G'rad has left.

Liabeth> Hicerth over shoots his mark, his speed taking him on an almost laughable trajectory - how he thought he was ever going to actually connect with the gold is a mystery. Suddenly, becoming aware that another dragon caught her, he errupts with an enraged roar and he breaks away to find some peace of mind.

Relief. Gwyn projects nothing but relief when she abruptly whirls and hurries from the weyr.

Gwynfyd heads down the low, wide stairs and into the Bowl.
Gwynfyd has left.

R'sel heads down the low, wide stairs and into the Bowl.
R'sel has left.


Livia's head pops up, a growl coming from her throat to echo Hicerth's. Immediately, she turns away, shoving other riders out of her way as she storms out. How could she lose, after all? Hicerth is the best!

Livia heads down the low, wide stairs and into the Bowl.
Livia has left.

Liabeth> Svaroth swoops down as silent as before, that is with a disappointed rumble in place of the prior croon.

D'mon lets out a long breath as it sinks in that Alzaeth is the one who made the catch. He stares for a moment, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, then steps forward and offers a still shaking hand to Gay.

Gay straightens, walking quickly across the weyr to take his hand - and now, she's near tall enough to look him in the eye, certainly tall enough to wind her arms around his neck, pull him in close, and kiss him. She doesn't waste much time.