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Lysseth's Seventeenth Flight


Date:  May 14, 2002
Places:  Telgar Weyr's Lake Shore, Central Bowl, Southern Bowl, Feeding 
Grounds, Skyspace, and Guest Weyr
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

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Kassi's Note:  Another comeback flight--I seem to have a lot of those,
for some reason. ;)  Anyway, in this case, the last flight I'd tried to
run had insufficient turnout, and many are the patient souls who can
recount how much I wailed to them over that one.  I was a bit reluctant
to try again (thus why this flight takes place over a year after the
last); it's a good thing I did, though.  This was a *magnificent* 
flight, with seven wonderful chasers, excellent pre-flight RP, beautiful
posing, and everything a greenrider could ever wish for. :)  Thanks 
again, y'all who chased; I was more honored by your participation than
I can say.  As far as the log goes, the scene begins on the Lake Shore;
I've left in plenty of +watched foo, knot chat, and such, but I did cut
out the LC stuff that occured during the flight.  If you want a log of
that, try asking Teryla. ;)  Credits go to the band Avalon Rising for
their song 'Black Davie's Ride', and also (as always) to Monty Python, 
for serving as pose inspiration.  Credit is due to Neil Gaiman as well, 
since he created the unwitting basis for Kassi's desc. :)

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The Log:

Yashira heads over from the central bowl.

Decarath lumbers in from the central bowl.

Riane heads over from the central bowl.

Yrinth lumbers in from the central bowl.

Yashira tromps along, Decarath following her. She's got her straps and some
tools in hand, and is heading for the lake shore.

Someone, for reasons of their own, has turned a span of the Lake shore into
some sort of bizarre fighting ground: a large wooden target, much-abused
and now studded with knives, occupies one space, while a few feet away a
sparring dummy sits. Well... 'sits' might be the wrong word. 'Is pounded
into dust' would be more fitting: Kassi's practicing on the thing, and her
stabs and kicks are not designed to prolong its existance. Particularly not
since most of the kicks appear to be aimed for the groin region; imagine
that. She's mindless of the presence of others, but Lysseth notices--and
snarls, showing teeth, at both young dragons.


Kassima:
	This is Telgar, and it is only early spring; yet from Kassima's 
garb, no one would ever guess it. Though normally sensible--well, 
relatively sensible--with regards to clothing and climate, the woman has 
thrown comfort and self-preservation to the winds in a manner that likely 
gives away her reason.
	Her top is the thing most noticeably out of place. Bad enough that 
it's crafted from thin, clinging satin; its blackness may ensure opacity 
enough to preserve some decency, but it couldn't possibly be very warm even 
if it had sleeves... which it doesn't. Instead, a thin strap loops over each 
pale shoulder, leaving arms and a fair amount of both chest and back 
entirely free of cloth. The heavy silver pendant that dangles from her neck 
is roughly dagger-shaped, though its pommel is unusually large and a hollow
oval in form. Compared to these, the skintight leather pants with their
blue-black gloss and the wide sable belt studded with bits of some dark
metal probably seem like sane fashion choices. Low boots fastened with
multiple buckles add a bit more height to her 5'10" frame and complete the
ensemble.
	Perhaps unsurprisingly given her current state of mind, Kassi's 
allowed her hair to run wild: the usually well-groomed midnight mass stands 
out a bit from her head, threatens to fall in her eyes, and tumbles down her 
back in rioting disarray. The skin drawn taut over her fine-boned features 
is even more white than its norm, likely due to the same stress that keeps 
her brows lowered in a near-constant glower and has turned her eyes dark and
unfriendly. She's outlined said eyes in black paint for some reason. It may
be wiser not to ask why.


Yashira pauses, taking in the scene with some awe. "Huh." She looks
longingly over the practice equipment, though is jolted from her admiration
by Lysseth's snarl. Blinking, she looks up at Decarath, whose eyes whirl
with confusion.

Riane walks up, apparently having caught sight of Yashira and Decarath and
attempting to catch up. As she approaches, she greets, "Hey Yashira, Ka - "
blink blink. -What-? Yrinth looks equally confused. "Er... hi," she
concludes more queitly. And attempts not to stare.

Kassima spins away from the battered dummy at the sound of Yashira's
voice--keen ears she's got, neh?--to face the 'intruder,' a long dagger
gleaming in either hand. She straightens from her automatic defensive
crouch upon seeing who's making the noise. "Oh. A *malerider*," she spits.
"I should've known one of you would interrupt m'practicing. They always
*do*, nay matter how many times I chase 'em until they run away screaming
like a girl." Riane, at least, gets only an irritated glance rather than a
tirade, at least for now. This must be her lucky day.

Peth lumbers in from the central bowl.

Mirielle heads over from the central bowl.

Yashira cocks her head to the left. "Uh... huh. No one's interrupting,
Kassima. I imagine you're quite capable of continuing your practice on that
singularly lovely setup."

Mirielle walks out, trailing Peth as she makes for the water. Eyeing
Lysseth, Mirie makes a wide berth, settling onto a rock, even as Peth drops
to the sand at the water's edge.

Riane doesn't seem too set at ease when she just gets the glance. Her eyes
go to the daggers, and averts her gaze. Spotting Mirielle subsequently she
edges over that direction slowly. She mouths, hopefully so the black-clad
greenrider can't see, 'Proddy'. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Kassima can't quite be said to relax, but a small measure of tension leaves
her shoulders; she straightens further, shaking damp, wild hair away from
her black-lined eyes. "Lovely isn't the word. 'Tis fardling near *ruined*
and I've *only* been using it for the past three days--when I get m'hands
on Aleinn, I'll throttle him for selling me such inferior equipment. *Look*
at that target! The bullseye's almost ruined!" Well, yes. Having three
daggers stuck in it, each separated by a hair's breadth, will do that. As
Lysseth bares her fangs at yet another green who's entered *her* territory,
her rider slips the daggers into sheaths at her hips and grumps, "So what
*do* you lot want? If'n you greenriders are here t'practice, you can, but
you'd better have brought your *own* knives. Those are *mine*."

"I was going to sit and work on my straps," Yashira says, waving said
straps again. "I can send Decarath off a little if you like. Or we can both
go." She shrugs. "Whatever."

Riane tries not to look horrified. This could be her in a few months.
Shudder. She eyes the targets, the knives, and a nearby boulder. "Uhh, I'll
just watch for now. That way I can be... better prepared."

"Well. If'n you aren't going t'be interfering... and if'n your male doesn't
bother the great glowing wher... then I suppose I don't *care* if'n you
stay." Kassima folds her arms and tilts her nose skywards. "Only if'n you
start taunting me as your kind are prone t'do, I'll pick you up and throw
you in the Lake. Mark me. And 'twill only be *that* nice because you're
m'mentee and can't help it that you're a malerider." How generous of her.
Riane receives a terse nod. "All right. Mayhaps you can learn something.
Like where on a man 'tis best t'place your knives. Only problem is, this
sharding thing," and here she aims a kick at the dummy, which rocks and
would probably whimper were it capable, "doesn't *bleed*. What of you,
Mirielle?"

K'ran heads over from the central bowl.

Yashira glances over at Decarath thoughtfully, then nods to him. He settles
down his bulk - well away from the lake shore, and Lysseth - and Yashira
settles down nearby, straps in hand. "Three days already?"

K'ran's sighing a mournful sigh as he approaches the lake shore and surveys
the no-longer-frozen surface, but such travails are not so pressing that he
can't offer a pleasant, "Afternoon," to the weyrlings, and to Thunderbolt's
wingleader.

Mirielle nods. "I think we'll just sit back here, out of your way," she
says to Kassima, clearly referring to herself and Peth, the green eyeing
Lysseth and backing off a few paces, out of politeness, probably.

Kassima snaps impatiently, "A'course three days; can't you--oh. Sharding
blazes. You *can't* tell, you're too ruddy green. Then let me offer some
advice," leavened with more irritability and a touch of scorn, "as a good
mentor should. The greens who stay proddy for awhile--who *torment their
riders* by *refusing* t'rise right away, are you listening t'me, beast?"
Lysseth growls, the intense red of her eyes deepening a notch. "Oh, shard
off--anyway, *those* Star-spawn will get brighter the closer they get to
the time. You can tell how far off 'tis apt t'be by the shade of their
hide, usually. *She's* almost finished, thanks be t'Mnementh and his
ever-fertile parts." Lesson delivered, she stalks to her target and sets to
pulling the knives from it. She spares just a moment for a rude gesture to
K'ran; Lyss ignores him entirely, instead eyeing Peth. Yes. You do that.

Yrinth steps back as well, to settle near Peth. She's watching carefully
the whole time. One of those daggers wouldn't be pleasant in her hide.

Yashira quietly raises a hand to salute K'ran and calls out, "Wingsecond."
She nods to Kassima, then eyes Lysseth. "Oh - soon - oh. Uh oh. I gotta...
oh."

Mirielle salutes K'ran as well, watching Lysseth carefully for a moment,
having also listened to Kassima's words. "Do all greens, err, torment their
riders?"

K'ran, evidently inured to such salutes as Kassima's, answers the
weyrlings' instead -- and drifts over toward the group, though nearer
guarded Peth and Yrinth than Lysseth.

Kassima confirms with a wave of a knife, "Soon. It had *better* be soon.
Tonight, or tomorrow, but if'n 'tisn't *early* tomorrow then I'll find
boots with sharp spikes on their toes and set t'kicking her arse 'til she's
up in the air." To which Lysseth responds with a muted roar, the draconic
equivalent of 'Bite me.' Such a loving pair, these two. "*All* greens do
it, may they be condemned t'life with only maggot-ridden beasts for
meat--they all rise, and if'n they don't give you the headache and refuse
t'let you *sleep*, then they'll have you leaping in bed with aught that
wiggles its hips, and thank Faranth she's nay one of *that* sort. You'll
both know soon," she announces, twisting to point a fistful of knives at
Mirielle and Riane in turn. "Then you'll *understand*. And you'll be sorry
you didn't learn how t'maim maleriders when you had the chance. *What* have
you got t'do, Yashira?"

"I dunno," Yashira says, meekly. "I want it to be over for you." She looks
down at her straps, frowning. "But I'm nervous, too, for when it happens.
What you're dealing with is worse, though."

Riane does a salute to K'ran, after she catches site of him. "I see...
well, I'll keep it in mind. Er, thanks.. I think." A momentary pause, then,
"Where do you get all your knives at then?" It's at least something to talk
about.

"Maiming maleriders," K'ran reminds all three weyrlings, in a quiet aside,
"is a passtime of Kassima's anyway. Has nothing to do with Lysseth's state."

Kassima's brow furrows. For once, it does so out of bemusement rather than
rage. "A malerider concerned for m'welfare," she mutters. "Well, there's a
first in a sharding long time. And you're ruddy right on the *last* count."
She hesitates. Then, reluctantly, "Don't bother with nervousness about
*that*. Be afraid of me, if'n you like, and wisely so, but the flight--if'n
he chases, you can find *someone* t'soothe the loss afterwards. I'm sure."
There's meaning in the emphasis. She finishes freeing her knives before
turning to Riane, and as she speaks, slides each of them through her belt.
"Salassin sells me most of those I buy. G'har, others, from time t'time.
Most of 'em are gifts or won in wagers or competitions... usually in the
throwing. Looking t'start up your collection?" Casting K'ran a sharp
glance, she demands, "And what's *wrong* with maiming maleriders? Someone
needs t'do it."

Yashira's head bobs to Kassima; she smiles a little. "Thanks." She still
seems wary, but she just bows her head and applies herself to her task of
messing with straps. Again. Decarath remains silent and uninterested as ever.

Mirielle covers a small smile with her hand for a moment. "Those are lovely
knives. I suppose it couldn't ever hurt one to have a collection, but I
hope you won't mind if I choose to let you do the malerider maiming?"

Riane shrugs awkwardly. "Well, er, hey," she gestures towards Yrinth.
"She'll be rising before too long, and better to be prepared I guess."
Perhaps. She glances at Mirielle, "You might think different when Peth
starts glowing." It's accompanied with a slight, amused smile.

"Doesn't bother me," answers K'ran, though he adds a more trenchant, "so
long as you're maiming the rights ones." And who *they* might be, he
declines to state, and instead carries on in light tones. "Still and all,
I'd say that the temper of the proddy rider depends on her lifemate. F'r
instance, my wingmate, Kendra? Her Noth gets hide-bright, and she turns
absolutely exhausted 'til Noth goes up. No knives, no froth. And I know
this goldrider, down at Southern Weyr, who turns nine kinds of reclusive
when her dragon's turn comes."

Kassima lifts her pale shoulders, then lets them drop. "All the more for
me, then, but you may change your mind when 'tis *her* turn--aye. What
Riane says." With a tilt of her head, she mentions, "You have the right
philosophy, Riane; you *may* become an acceptable greenrider someday.
Mayhaps. Be prepared! It should be our creed. The maleriders are always out
t'make our lives a horror, and nay self-respecting femalerider lets 'em get
away with that. Just ask Kindre. She's got a golden knife she uses t'geld
the insolent; me, I make do with steel and silver. And the Emasculator."
Kassi considers Yashira for a moment. "Normally I get m'mentees an
Emasculator for graduation, but you don't ride green, so 'tis a quandry. We
can't put our most effective weapon in the hands of the enemy." Smiling a
slight, chilly smile, she assures K'ran, "I have a list of who's right t'be
maiming. Worry nay."

Mirielle eyes Peth for a moment, eyes unfocusing as she apparently receives
some sort of comment. "Peth says she has no interest in rising right now,
Riane. Thank goodness." The last is added in an undertone, with noticeable
amounts of relief.

Yashira looks up to nod to Kassima. "That's alright. If I really need to
emasculate someone, I've got my old hunting knife, after all."

Riane just nods, and glances off towards the barracks uneasily. "I think
I'll be going off for a while. Nice chatting with you." It's directed to
all gathered.

Riane heads in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering lake.

Telgar Weyr> Teryla peers. Terror on the lake shore again?

Telgar Weyr> Kassima looks innocent. Innocent, she tells you. ;)

Telgar Weyr> Teryla heaves a snort. Somehow, she does this. ;)

Telgar Weyr> Mirielle giggles.. come on out, Teryla.. :)

Dariyath lumbers in from the central bowl.

Teryla heads over from the central bowl.

K'ran's answering smile to Kassima is all warmth for her coolness, and,
"Who's worried?" he says, with easy confidence. "Anyway. I've never been
much for the whole us-versus-them thing, 'cept out on the ice, and then
that's just letting off so much steam. Take care, Riane -- no, Mirie? Not
for a while, then, I guess. Probably it'll sneak up on you. It always seems
to."

"Is it dull?" Kassi asks. Rather hopefully. "And rusted? I heard, once, of
a lady who could do it with a spoon, but I never found her t'be learning
the trick of it. Pity." She watches Riane go without comment; Lysseth gives
an irritable rustle of wings and turns her head away. "More a pity if'n
Peth isn't interested in rising," the rider comments after a moment. "If'n
she were, 'twould be an excuse t'haul Her Obnoxiousness the shard out of
here and get drunk somewhere. Well. Why shouldn't you worry?" she inquires
of K'ran. "Are you insinuating I *couldn't* maim you, if'n I wanted to?
With or without ice. Ice is *useful*--you can stab icicles through
someone's heart and they melt away, leaving nay traces--but hardly necessary."

Mirielle waves at Teryla from her rock vantage point, a safe dstance from
the glowy Lysseth. "Hey you!"

Teryla is running - full speed! - alongside Dariyath's rather less-tiring
walk. "No, it wasn't nice of him, but he's entitled to wear whatever kind
of underwear he wants!" Teryla's panting rather loudly - it seems
Dariyath's keeping her rider in shape. The pair slows down and finally
stops, at a safe and respectful distance from Kassima and Lysseth.
"Afternoon, Wingleader, Wingsecond!" Salute! Bing, bang, it's done. Glances
to her fellow weyrlings with a grin.

Yashira shakes her head at Kassima. "Naw. I keep my knife nice and sharp.
Do you keep any dull knives?" She sounds skeptical. A pause, and a nod to
Teryla. "You and underwear."

"Did I seem like I was?" K'ran challenges question with guileless question
before greeting Teryla and Dariyath with a wave. "Who's 'he', Teryla, and
what's he done that's bugged poor Dari?"

Telgar Weyr> Teryla wonders if there's a Pernese equivalent of spandex?
elastic? *g*

Kassima admits, "Nay for very long. They wear out a bit, but 'tis what a
good whetstone's for." Perhaps reminded by that, she produces a stone from
her pocket and takes to whisking the blade of one of the knives across it.
Her dragon hisses and snags a large rock to drag her claws across--if her
rider is going to sharpen claws, then so shall she. "Bloody fragged-out
shells, 'tis nay going t'be the *underwear* again, is it? You'd think
'twere a *bronzer*, Teryla--you'd think 'twere A'lex himself--so often
d'you yammer about someone's underpants." She eyes K'ran through a narrowed
gaze. "You seemed as if'n 'twere insinuating such. Aye."

"I like whetstones," Yashira says, head bobbing. She fusses with the sewing
on part of her riding straps.

Telgar Weyr> Kassima doesn't *think* we have elastic, though I wouldn't
swear. Shiny, clingy satin-like stuff is the closest equivalent I've been
able to think of. (Not, let me stress, for underpants. ;)

Teryla joins Mirielle at her safe distance and grins, protesting to
Yashira, "Hey, /he/ was the one wearing those... tight... black... uh,
formfitting... you know." She waves a hand vagues. "Far too tight. Far less
form to fit too than you'd hope, too," she adds as an aside for Mirielle.
At K'ran's question, she replies, "T'fax. He's always trying to get me to
wear his underwear." She rolls her eyes, then pauses, giving Kassima a
doubtfully respectful nod. "Sorry, Wingleader... I'll, uh.. try not to
yammer anymore." She doesn't sound particularly hurt though.

Telgar Weyr> Teryla aaahs. Hm. Clingy satin-like underpants? Doesn't sound
so comfy...

Peth rumbles softly, standing. "Okay, okay, we'll go." Is Mirie's response,
as she gets up and hurries off. "She says she's hungry."

Peth lumbers in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering
lake.

Mirielle heads in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering
lake.

Yashira blinks a couple of times at Teryla. "Uh." That seems to be about
all she can say.

Though he's still half an eye on Teryla to attend her answer, K'ran affords
Kassima a helpless kind of shrug -- a wordless apology, perhaps, which is
simpler and less open antagonism than challenge. "Why's he trying to get
you into his things, Teryla? That's a sharding weird kink, if I can say,
and I've heard of some strange ones." Fetishes for maiming maleriders
notwithstanding, apparently. "Take care, Mirie!" he calls after Peth's
rider, then.

"*Good*. You should refocus this obsession of yours into something healthy.
Like hunting," Kassima directs, "or weaponry, or stealing purging powders
from the Healers t'put in maleriders' klah. Though there's something t'be
said for black clothing, whatever its nature." Only when proddy, folks.
"Whetstones and oilcloth; everyone should have 'em both on hand at all
times. Learn that from me if'n naught else, Yashira." Evidently restless
after so much talking, she leaves her place and saunters to the line drawn
about fifteen feet from the abused target--the better to begin throwing
knives at it again. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk.

Yashira smiles, pausing in her work to pat a belt pouch. "Old habits die
hard, Kassima," she says.

Teryla shrugs one shoulder at Yashira, as if agreeing that it's not very
understandable. She thinks for a moment, answering K'ran, "I think because
he knows I don't wear any, and he thinks it's because I don't /have/ any,"
she says honestly. "And his Pizeth is always asking Dariyath why she
doesn't like me to wear them." Holding her breath to keep from giggling,
she watches Kassima as she lists her acceptable alternatives. A nod is her
only reply.

K'ran's own nod -- his to Teryla -- is encouraging. "So he's a generous,
misunderstood soul, then," he decides, though his tone's a dubious one. A
quick look toward the flash of knives in the gray light, and he draws
shoulders up into a mild shrug. "Suppose if you humor him by taking them?
Then, you know, tack them up in the living cavern or something."

Kassima mutters, not entirely grumpily, "As well they should when they're
habits like that. You *should* have been a greenrider. Then 'twould be
right for you t'use and channel all this weapons talent, but as-is, you're
doomed t'always be prey instead of predator, and 'tis *almost* a shame."
Which is probably the highest praise one is apt to get from her, these
days, for all that the crease in her brow fades a bit with every knife she
lands in the target's bullseye. Switching hands, she adds, "Sounds as
though Pizeth's rider's going about his wish t'get in your pants all
bass-ackwards t'me. Would you like me t'leave him a warning?"

Yashira looks from Kassima to Decarath, whose eyes are whirling that
particularly vivid green he's prone to getting. She looks back to Kassima,
nodding. "I'll have to settle for being the nastiest sort of prey, then, I
suppose. And I fear underpants coming into the living cavern again. I
remember Khelmor and Talisha."

Teryla gives K'ran an equally doubtful look, but grins. "I'm not taking
them - they're /gross/ and besides, if I were to take his, you never know
what rumors would get started. Let him keep trying. No!" This to Kassima.
"No, no... I can take care of T'fax, but th-thanks for the offer." She
adds, as an afterthought to K'ran, "He's really not a bad sort. Just... not
all that quick, it seems."

"U'nar." K'ran signals his comprehension of Teryla's situation with that
one spoken name. "Gross? What, does he not wash them?"

Kassima eyes Decarath for a moment herself, but green eyes must not trigger
any internal alarms since she soon glances away. "Feel free t'gore *other*
greenriders," she bids, "or do whatever else nasty sorts of prey do. Only
nay t'me. Unless sparring would count; I haven't gotten to *really* fight
anyone since Maylia, and it might be... entertaining." A final knife flicks
across the span that separates her from the target, and hits the wood with
a dull thud. Kassima surveys the results with a dark expression. "*Fardle*
it. That one isn't dead on; 'tis all this *distraction*--you're sure,
Teryla? I'd be quite pleased t'leave a dead tunnelsnake in his furs t'warn
him off. 'Twould scarcely be any trouble."

"Alright," Yashira says. "If we can enter a no goring each other agreement,
I would be alright with that." She flashes a grin. "We'll spar once I'm
graduated."

Teryla wrinkles her nose. "Not that, they're just so - eh." And that's all
she seems to be able to say. "I've no idea how he squeezes into them. Or
why. They're tiny. Probably really uncomfortable. Gross." Thus her
definition. "I'm sure, Kassima, but truly, you've my thanks. Perhaps I'll
take you up on the offer some other time, if the need arises." She looks to
K'ran, eyebrows raised as the subject of sparring comes up. Her look seems
to say, glad it's Yashira and not me!

"All the more reason," K'ran tells Teryla, "to pretend to humor him, and
then tack them up in the living cavern. On the lintel, say. Wear gloves,
and hold 'em out at arm's length, you know?" But that reluctant look of the
weyrling greenrider prompts him to glance back toward Yashira and her
mentor, and then prompt Teryla, "What, you not confident with your
self-defense, or something?"

Kassima lopes out to retrieve her knives again, leaving the target--once
bare--that much the worse for wear, and more small wood-chips joining those
littered all about. "Agreed," she says at once. "With live steel or dead,
I'll leave up t'you. Only mayhaps it had best be dead since the
*Weyrleaders*," scorn, scorn, scorn, "have this *thing* against riders
hurting each other. Never heard of survival of the fittest, I suppose. Very
well, Teryla. When 'tis your turn, if'n you feel more like warning him
then, let me know and I *might* feel generous and show you the best methods
of warning. Which reminds me. Did either of you," and she splits a glance
between the Weyrlings, "happen t'notice one of your barracks-mates
screaming bloody murder this morn?"

Yashira shakes her head. "Not really. Emali was shrieking about her shirt
or something, but she screams about anything."

Teryla tilts her head to the side. "Perhaps," she muses to K'ran's
suggestions. "He'd be so... proud, though," she adds with a laugh. Frown
snaps to. "Of course I'm confident," she retorts - obviously not completely
confident. "I was just saying, sparring Kassi right now, and all." Speaking
of which, she turns to watch the arrangements being made. "I heard Emali,
yes," she agrees. "But she wasn't just shrieking, Yashira - don't you
remember? She went running outside sobbing about something dead being in
her cot or something."

K'ran slews a look toward Kassima, and opines, "That sounds like your
handiwork; what'd she do, look at you cross-eyed?" with easy humor. "She's
alright, though, yes?"

A smile touches Kassi's mouth at that. It's quickly eclipsed by an annoyed
scowl, however. "Ch'yar *should* have been screeching up a storm--what, did
the fool nay put his boots on at all? After I went to the trouble of
indulging Kichevio? Just wait until I get ahold of him--" She twists about
and snaps one wrist out, sending the knife it was holding flying towards
the dummy rather than the target. It lands where the groin would be, if it
were anatomically correct enough to have one. "He'll have a lesson about
ignoring warnings. I should enjoy that very much... what, confident,
Teryla? What are you suggesting? Think you that you'd *win*?" She meets
K'ran's look and arches a brow at him. "Something like that. She disputed
the wisdom of m'form of dress. She should be fine--one dead 'snake in her
furs won't *hurt* her. A warning only."

Yashira nods once, looking over at Decarath and leaning over to pat his
flank twice for a moment. She continues to work on her straps, scowling
abruptly at them. "Backwards again..."

Danger! Danger! Teryla knows the flashing light (er, signal fires?) when
she sees them. "Respectfully, Kassima - I'm sure you'd kick my rear end to
the wherry patch," she admits. "But otherwise I'm perfectly capable of
defending myself." Her tone suggests she doesn't think she'll ever need it.
"Uh- Ch'yan? Was he the one that threw up this morning? I was wondering
about that," she adds speculatively. She's still at that _safe_ distance
from Kassima.

"Traumatized forever, more likely," is K'ran's disapproving mutter, for all
that a smile still touches his lips. "What got into poor Ch'yar's boots?
And what grievous wrong did he do to Kichevio, that she set you loose on
the poor man?"

Phoukath lumbers in from the central bowl.

"Try t'High Reaches," Kassima suggests, once she's reclaimed her blade.
"And back again. Elsewise, you may be quite correct... oh, he *threw up*?"
For the first time this evening--for the first time, probably, in
days--Kassima is outright *delighted*. "How magnificent! I didn't think
'twould go *that* well! He must've stepped right *in* 'em; lovely, lovely,
'twill teach him t'think greenriders are lesser creatures I daresay. If'n
it doesn't, I'm sure I can arrange something else." K'ran's disapproval
fazes her not at all; if anything, her smile broadens. "Fish heads," she
sings out. "Fresh fish heads, newly severed, and his just desserts for
refusing t'obey anyone save Maylia. Certain he was that riding a brown made
him superior, Kich said--I *should* have filled his boots with entrails.
Shardit, Yash, you've been making straps long enough t'do better'n that."

Phoukath warbles a brass-edged hello to the lake's denizens before slipping
sinuously into the water.

M'silne heads over from the central bowl.

Yashira waves a little to Phoukath; Decarath observes the blue with a faint
rumble. She frowns slightly, glancing away from the blue and toward the
path, then back to Kassima. "I know, I know... I'm just... not very good.
Which is why I keep doing it."

Teryla makes a disgusted face. "That's disgusting! That's what the stench
was... I think he even threw his boots out, too." She shakes her head,
sickened, and catches sight of Phoukath and M'silne. She offers them a wave
as Dariyath whuffles at them.

K'ran's never in his life been accused of being the responsible type, but
that doesn't prevent him from wincing a trifle, and musing, "Well, you
certainly showed him," before Phoukath heralds his own mentee's arrival.
"Evening, there, you two."

M'silne tosses out a salute while he's still far enough for one to count
for all the authority-types. "Evening, Assistant Weyrlingmaster,
Wingsecond. What's all this about boots?" He marches closer to the group,
clasping his hands behind his back with a dull 'thwack.'

"Can't you pretend the straps are some man whom you've mutilated, and you
need t'stitch up as good as 'twas a'fore you can mutilate him again?"
Kassi's voice is half-cross, half-plaintive. "It does wonders for me...
well, only I tend t'jab the awl through the leather a bit too hard. Things
get messy from there. Threw the boots *out*? Now I'll have t'find where he
keeps his *new* ones if'n he needs warned again. What a bloody bother. But
thankee, K'ran; I do try." M'silne, upon arrival, is eyed with only a shade
less hostility than Lysseth's hiss shows towards Phoukath. "'Assistant
Weyrlingmaster'?"

"The mutilation thing might work," Yashira says, in mild tones. Mild
compared to Kassi's, anyway. She looks from Kassima to M'silne and back,
forehead wrinkling.

Teryla whispers M'silne's way, "Wingleader! And don't ma'am her, you know
how she hates that - be careful." Louder, to the group at large, she sighs.
"Straps - I forgot, I told F'tax I'd help him with his." A shake of her
head, and she heads off towards the barracks again. On her way past
Dariyath, she murmurs, "Stay here and sun, love. Just keep your distance."

Teryla heads in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering
lake.

"It's the bad light," K'ran explains for his mentee, and does toss a wave
after Teryla while he meanders a few steps closer to the bluerider and
leans close enough to offer a few hushed words.

M'silne's initial alarm at the talk of mutilating little strap-men is
compounded severely, and rapidly. "Ah..." he begins, unclasping his hands
to brush some hair away from his forehead. "Ah." He manages to hold frozen
a look of terror while being whispered at by sundry. Phoukath offers a
muted blazon towards Lysseth, almost apologetic in its undertones, buying
the lad a few more seconds. "Wingleader. Sorry about that, Wingleader. I,
ah, just woke up." He brushes back his hair more vigorously, a few beads of
perspiration appearing against his skin. "Napping, you know, it dulls the
brain..."

"I don't see how it could be the bad light. I look *naught* like the
Assistant Weyrlingmasters," Kassima grates out, eyes narrowing further.
"Nor does Lysseth resemble any of their dragons--and she's providing her
*own* light at the moment. Aye," she breaks off to agree with Yashira, "try
that. If'n it still doesn't do the job, we'll have t'work on it when
Lysseth's more... amiable. You're nay sharding well going t'fall behind on
account of *straps*." Pursing her mouth at M'silne, she nevertheless grants
him a sharp nod after a beat's consideration; Lysseth only eyes Phoukath,
and drags her claws all the more deeply over her sharpening-rock. Screeeee!
"Watch it in the future, malerider. Nay all greenriders are as forgiving as
I am; you'll end up with your legs broken off and stuffed down the front of
your shirt."

Phoukath replies with a throaty whuff, slinking off through the lake to a
less abrasive distance. His eyes whirl slowly in yellow-green confusion,
but he keeps his attentions (as proprietously as he can manage) on Lysseth.

Yashira's head bobs again to Kassima. "Right. Thanks, that's be good." She
looks toward M'silne, shrugs a shoulder. "Might not be the best time to
play in the Lake."

"Thank you, Wingleader," M'silne replies quickly, his voice taking on an
almost bleating quality...K'ran also gets a nod of thanks, though the
sentiments remain unvoiced. "Oh, I dunno, Yash, I think the cold water'd do
good to wake us up." He waves a hand towards his lifemate, who indeed
appears more intent on soaking rather than playing. "Um."

Whatever advice K'ran's given to M'silne, he's apparently ill-equipped to
follow it himself, and turns squared shoulders toward Kassima the better to
level her way a long and angry glare.

Kassima glances back over her shoulder towards the blue. "'Tis all right
for the moment. So long as the beast doesn't care t'use it as her killing
grounds--then, a'course, he'd have t'vacate. Speedily. But Faranth forfend
she should even do something as *useful* as killing." The green and her
rider trade baleful glares, red eyes meeting bloodshot green, and it's
several moments before Lysseth proves to be the one to look away. "Don't
mention it, Weyrling. And don't forget it again. Or you'll be *warned*,
just as Ch'yar." She turns slowly to meet K'ran's glare with a cool, mildly
contemptuous look. "Did you want something?"

M'silne swallows carefully, edging towards Yashira. "What happened to
Ch'yar?" he whispers quietly, trying to make his words overlap with
Kassima's demand to K'ran.

"Fish heads," Yashira says quietly. "In his boots. You know, though, he's
been a jerk - won't listen to Assistant Weyrlingmasters Flannery and
Kichevio, thinks he's better because he rides brown..." She shrugs. "So
Kassima put fish heads in his boots. That's why he was throwing up this
morning."

M'silne's lips shape into a silent 'ohhhhh.' "I thought it was more
meatrolls," he confides in low tones.

"No, 'Silne," Yashira says, lips quirking slightly. "That's only you."

Flannery heads over from the central bowl.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from threatening the boy," K'ran says,
quieter: the words hold an angry tension, but they're kept low and
controlled. "You know as well as I do that any rider, green or otherwise,
who'd lift a hand in anger at a weyrling over an honest and harmless
mistake'd be grounded at least, and probably thrashed bloody by Maylia and
the other staff, if the rest of us didn't get them first. Nobody's going to
break anybody's arms and stuff them down the frontsides of shirts, and it'd
be useful if you could stop spouting off with such nonsense."


Flannery ambles over, giving a little finger-waggle to the assembled.

M'silne starts to smile at Yashira's comment, quickly sombering as K'ran
makes his point. Almost instinctively the weyrling casts his gaze down to
the ground, though after lifting his face to salute to Flannery he looks
directly to his mentor, eyebrows lifted in an oddly attentive expression.

Kassima stares at K'ran for several moments. It's not quite an angry stare;
it's more the look one might give an irritating insect one has just failed
to squash. "You really do think far too much of yourself," she observes.
"Well, but I'll address your complaints regardless. Part the first: I
distinctly said that another greenrider *might* break off his legsand stuff
them down the front of his shirt, nay that 'twould do so. 'Tis colorful
enough to get the point across without being likely to occur. I *could*
have said ''twill ask May's permission haul you t'Weyrling rock and teach
you a lesson about respect,' but I'd only say that if'n I actually intended
t'do it. Part the second: Maylia and her staff couldn't thrash me bloody,
thankee. They could *try*. Part the third: I don't give a wher's arse
whether 'twould be useful t'you or nay, as I'm surprised you've failed
t'realize." She turns away after that, apparently disconcerned, though her
shoulders are tense; a knife finds its way to her hand, and she uses it to
wave--in her fashion--to Flannery. "Evening, Flannery. Care t'throw knives
with me?"

Yashira salutes Flannery with a bit of a terse smile, before cocking her
head and looking to M'silne. "It won't be much longer like this for her,"
she says quietly.

Flannery folds her arms nervously, heaving a sigh as she realizes that
something rather unpleasant is going on. She pauses for a moment, not
wanting to interrupt, at last heading over to Yashira and murmuring to her,
"What's going on?"

"Well, then," K'ran says, undeterred: Kassima's long since failed to
impress him, apparently. "Allow me to retort. Part of the first: Don't
forget again, or you'll be *warned*, just as Ch'yar was. Or did I just
hallucinate you saying those very words? Sure sounds like a threat to me.
Part the second: I'll take that bet, thanks. Part the third: maybe you
don't give a wher's arse whether it'd be useful to me. But I thought you
might give a wher's arse that you, a relatively respected leader at Telgar,
are embarassing yourself by filling weyrlings' ears with a bunch of gas and
ash."

Yashira looks sidelong to Flannery, murmuring, "Lysseth's proddy and
Kassima's... uncomfortable that way." She shuffles her feet. "Which I
suppose you could guess and is unhelpful for me to say. K'ran thinks she's
threatened M'silne, Kassima doesn't think so. I'm not sure; mebbe the only
one who can really say is M'silne." Her voice is quiet, and she smiles a
little at the bluerider. "But I don't want to put him on the spot."

"Putting fish heads in someone's boots is scarcely a physical threat,"
Kassima retorts without bothering to turn around. "A threat, aye, I'll
grant you that. And 'twill cut you some slack because the lad is your
mentee; you'd mayhaps naturally nay like hearing such things. All right.
But you addressed the breaking off of legs, and so that's what I replied
to." *Thunk.* A knife hits the practice dummy, right where the left eye
would be. "As to the second, by all means, do so. I'm always in search of
new marks for m'pouch. For the third, I am nay embarrassing m'self, I
assure, for I'm nay 'tall embarrassed." Another two thunks mark the
entrance of blades into the other eye, and then the heart. "I believe the
matter's quite finished."

Flannery aaahs slowly, a knowing grin crossing her features as the reality
of the situation dawns. She ambles over toward where K'ran and Kassima are
conversing, pausing near them with hands on hips, a smile plastered across
her lips. "Ah...Kassi?" she interjects.

"Finished," M'silne cuts in curtly, "...yes. I don't think we're going to
get more out of this conversation, points 1, 2, and 3, inclusive." He nods
once, trying to look even vaguely authoritative. "I heartily doubt I'll be
getting my limbs broken today, and if they are, I'll know precisely who to
talk to about the whole," he waves his hands in a large circle, "...sordid
ordeal."

Yashira's lips press together and curve slightly at the corners as M'silne
speaks.

For a moment, K'ran's gaze wanders skywards in some kind of appeal for
heavenly strength. And it appears to work, for he visibly bites back
further comment on the heels of Kassima's dismissal, then cements his
silence with his mentee's assessment. "Hope she rises soon, Kassima," says
he by way of farewell, though there's little enough of a typical bronzer's
eagerness in the words. "G'd'eve, the rest of you," he adds, and then turns
and begins heading back in the direction of the bowl.

Flannery hears M'silne's response and approaches him. She slings an arm
around his shoulder, murmuring, "Weyrling....Kassima is the /first/ proddy
rider you've encountered since you Impressed, am I right?"

Kassima starts to turn towards Flannery, but pauses to actually quirk a
smile--if a small smile--upon hearing M'silne. Granted, it's the sort of
smile an adult might give when a very young child does something
particularly cute... but its amusement is genuine. "Well, a'course,
M'silne. That's quite reasonable. For the record, I *don't* have particular
plans t'break your limbs, and unless you do something drastic--along the
lines of harming Lysseth, say; festering pile of pus that she can be, I'm
oddly fond of her--'twill likely stay that way." Speaking of Lysseth,
*she's* mantling in open hostility by this point, though not moving from
her crouch beyond a highly agitated, flicking tail. "For the last time,
*stop* that," the greenrider snaps before focusing her attention on
Flannery, with raised brows: "Aye, Flan?" No response does she make to
K'ran--not even a rude gesture--though her expression does flick
momentarily back towards the sour.

Flannery casts her gaze over toward Kassima, giving her old friend a mild
smile. "Ah...lass....have you been at it with the knives again?" She winks.
"I'm sure M'silne has no intention of harming Lysseth. He wouldn't survive
the attempt, with her in her present condition...." She grins. "If you
catch my drift."

"Evening, Wingsecond," Yashira calls quietly to K'ran.

M'silne starts to open his mouth to protest K'ran's departure, but gives up
at his dead-pan farewell. "Good evening, K'ran," he says simply,
outstretched hand waving to his mentor.

K'ran heads in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering lake.

"Aye, for a bit now. A few days," Kassima admits, holding one slim-bladed
throwing dagger up in demonstration. "Interspersed by hunting and whatnay.
You know the drill." She's not particularly irritable towards Flan, more
resigned; perhaps it's to do with their long friendship, or--more
likely--the rumors that a proddy Flan wields a mean cleaver. "Nay, nay,
'twould be suicide and dragons don't Impress the suicidal. So as *you* can
doubtless tell, and M'silne can doubtless tell, 'twas scarcely a real
threat when 'tis never likely t'happen. Am I right?"

M'silne studiously avoids either giving an answer or catching Kassima's
eyes, instead turning to watch Phoukath lurk, a large blue boulder in the
middle of the lake.

Flannery nods amiably to Kassima, dropping her arm from M'silne's shoulders
and stepping a few paces toward Kassima, a soft smile curling her lips.
"Exactly, Kassi." She casts a look over her shoulder at the weyrlings.
"M'silne....Yashira...allow me to introduce you to our topic for the day -
Proddy Greenriders 1, Section 1. " She pats Kassima's shoulder, sighing,
"So when do you think Lysseth will rise, Kassi? In the next sevenday?"

"So I'm t'be an object lesson?" This seems to irritate Kassima for a
moment, and her shoulders tense again... but after a beat, or perhaps two,
they lower again and she sighs. "All right, all right, I know 'tis useful.
Ask whatever 'twill." And she directs that towards the Weyrlings, too, even
if they're not looking her way. "M'*guess* would be tonight or tomorrow
i'truth--but she's nay always easy t'predict."

Flannery swivels toward Kassima with an appreciative smile. "Thanks, Kassi.
You know I've been where you are now - and I've eaten a few bloody chunks
of wherry in my time as well." She winks, then turns back toward the
weyrlings. "You are both the riders of male dragons. Can you describe to me
how you feel when your dragons are near Lysseth at this time?"

Yashira shifts a little on her rock. "Worried for him. He's staying over
here. She doesn't look like she's in a pleasant mood." A glance at the
lounging brown. "He doesn't seem to care at the moment."

M'silne speaks without turning to face Flannery, in fact dropping to the
ground so that he can continue to watch Phoukath without tiring muscles
used to aching. "He's quiet," the lad says of his lifemate. "Very quiet. I
don't really...I don't really understand what he's thinking. It's not as
loud as usual."

Telgar Weyr> Riane waves!

Kassima murmurs with a highly dry amusement, "Nay t'mention that you're
better with a cleaver than I'll ever be." Folding her arms, she works to
keep her expression blank as the Weyrlings answer. "Lysseth's in nay sort
of pleasant mood, nay. She's... difficult. At best. But she's never clawed
up a male a'fore the flight starts, for what 'tis worth."

Telgar Weyr> Flannery hugs Riane and invites her out for Proddy Greenrider
101.

Telgar Weyr> Kassima snugs Riane, and snickers. I'm an object lesson now. ;)

Flannery lets out a guffaw at Kassima's remark, slapping a hand against her
knee. "Ah, you remember the cleavers! You know, Benden banned them from the
kitchen after a few unfortunate..../incidents/." She presses her fingertips
against her lips, winks, then returns her attention to the weyrlings.
"Good, Yashira....M'silne. Well, no doubt your dragons are confused by
their feelings. As they grow older, they will find their reactions to the
proddiness of their colleague-dragons easier to control and to understand.
They will begin, in a few days, to act edgy, as if they have a feeling of
impending doom. This is perfectly normal."

Riane heads over from the central bowl.

Flannery spies Riane and waves her over. "Ah, Riane! Just in time. This
lesson will be useful for you too, as the rider of a green. Kassima's
Lysseth is glowing and will rise within the sevenday, most likely. I'm
explaining the process of proddiness and its effects."

"'Twas banned from the kitchen after the first time 'twas proddy, m'self,"
Kassima sighs, frowning at the memory. "They had something against getting
wherry ichor everywhere, I suppose. You'd think they'd be *used*
t'that--impending *doom*? I like that, Flan. I do."

M'silne twitches at Flannery's explanation, the matter clearly not sitting
well with him. He sits with crossed legs, propping his chin up with his
hand. He turns at the mention of Riane's name, offering his fellow weyrling
a weak smile by the way of greeting.

Riane approaches hopefully. As Lyss and Kassi are spotted, the hope fades.
She quickly salutes, but doesn't attempt to interrupt. Instead, she finds a
nice spot on a boulder to sit and listen. She nods to Flannery, "Yes'm."
She scooches a little closer. Good, it can't be too bad then.

Yashira repeats, "Impending doom?" She quirks her eyebrows. "Huh. Heya,
Riane."

Flannery giggles unsettlingly at Kassima's remark, head bobbing
enthusiastically. "Well, you know, if they don't feel it, Kassi, they'll
/see/ it, when the green or gold begins carving grooves in the walls of the
weyr with her claws...." She winks, then addresses her pupils again. "It
seldom happens that a proddy rider actually kills anyone, though it has
been known to happen. Most of the time the weyr leadership steps in and
guards the in-season green and her rider with a pair of larger dragons.
These dragons and their riders have been specially trained in relaxation
techniques to lessen the impact of the pair's proddiness. But I
digress...." She pauses, then continues. "I should explain what a female
dragon feels at a time like this...."

Kassima gives Riane a slight nod, no more. Lysseth seems to have curled in
on herself and is now ignoring her surroundings entirely. "Depending on the
dragon's nature," she reluctantly admits, "it might be more eagerness than
aught. Particularly if'n 'tis a green more, ah, flirtatious than Her
Irritability. Pshhh... she's already been sharpening her claws, Flan." She
points a finger towards the abandoned sharpening-rock, all claw-furrowed
and damaged. "I haven't killed anyone, m'self. Yet. Go right ahead, Flan."

Yashira has set her straps down for the nonce, hands in her lap. She
listens attentively, looking only at certified green riders.

M'silne slowly tears himself away from staring out at the lake, dropping
his hands onto his legs as he looks up at Flannery in specific.

Flannery shakes her head briskly, sighing, "Neither have I, Kassi, though
Tyrrath was grounded for some time for biting a certain Benden blue who
shall remain nameless...." She clucks her tongue. "The dragonhealers
managed to save his tail, Thank the Egg." She heaves a sigh, then
refocuses. "Where was it? Yes, a green dragon generally has two responses
to proddiness - welcoming it, or rejecting it. If it is in her nature to
welcome her rising, a green find herself acting in a suggestive way toward
male dragons....whipping her tail around their legs, whirling and warbling
at them, that sort of thing..." She rakes a hand through her hair. "The
rider has a similar response, and may find herself almost absurdly
flirtatious and sexualized. The other variety of green...the one who
rejects her glowing, seems to reflect a pure disdain for the males of her
species and will avoid them - and ward them off - at all costs. It is the
riders of these dragons who can be problematic..."

"Methinks I can guess the name," Kassi mutters, grinning a slow, malicious
grin that's full of teeth. "Well--wait now, Flan, you're calling me
*problematic*? In comparison to the flirt-gills who drag men off to the
Records Room for mass orgies and then wail all over the place about nay
knowing who the father of their child is? *That's* some sharding logic!"

Yashira blinks twice. "The Records Room?" She pauses. "It's all... musty."

Flannery raises a reassuring hand toward Kassima, nodding, eyes closed for
effect, "I said these riders /can/ be....they aren't, necessarily. I mean,
look at us!" She grins broadly at her old friends. "We have learned, to the
extent possible, to control our own feelings and those of our dragons. It's
a necessarily skill..." She directs this last comment to Riane, with a nod
for emphasis.

M'silne wrinkles his nose at the mention of the Record Room, clearly in
agreement with Yashira.

Riane bites her lip and glances at Yrinth, who gives what could be
interpretted as amused rumble. She turns back and nods.

Spineth flies in from above and lands in the waters of the lake.

Ymedath flies in from above and lands in the waters of the lake.

Kassima exhales another long sigh, turning a sour gaze on her lifemate.
"I... do nay, perhaps, excel at control," she admits grudgingly. "Lysseth
is particularly difficult. I believe 'tis because she rises so seldom; most
greens rise several times a Turn, and aren't as troublesome. But Lysseth
rises once a Turn if'n that, most times--and I've heard tell that she's
'loud' enough t'affect even the Weyrbred sometimes. So. With luck, most of
you won't have as much trouble with your lifemates after the first few
flights." Her tone remains clipped, and her eyes are more on the air above
the Weyrlings' heads than the Weyrlings.

Phoukath is just sitting in the center of the lake, positively sulking
compared to his usual sporting deportment. He warbles to the incoming
browns, swishing his tail.

Decarath lets out a low rumble of greeting, sprawled near the rock where
Yashira perches, a little ways off from the lakeshore and Lysseth.

Lysseth, by contrast, uncurls just enough to hiss sharply at both
browns--not quite a welcoming sound, and her eyes blaze ruby.

Yrinth raises her head in bugle towards the two arriving browns, sitting
fairly near the Weyrlings. Riane salutes lazily, directing her attention
towards Kassima and Flannery.

Ymedath offers a muted bugle as greeting, just as he lands a fraction
beyond the water's edge. His tail churns in a more agitated fashion for the
hissing green, and he keeps his distance. Zai dismounts, but merely waves
in greeting.

Zaidra uses the riding straps to vault from her position astride Ymedath,
landing lightly on her feet, then giving him a friendly pat.

Tyrrath lumbers in from the central bowl.

Spineth lands neatly, but at the green's hiss, he flutters his wings
slightly. Then he settles, again, warbling his own greeting. Atop him, Ursa
regards the gathering and the words of Kassima with a mild interest, then
dismounts.

Flannery nods briskly to Kassima, her eyes following Kassi's to some point
off in the distance. "How's Lysseth doing now, Kassi? How close is she?"

Ursa climbs carefully down with the assistance of Spineth's extended forelimb.

Tyrrath warbles with as much orange-eyed serenity as a perpetually edgy
dragon can muster. She wuffles Kassima's hair just once, then without
further comment makes her way toward the lake.

Flannery waves Ursa over, smiling, "We're giving the weyrlings a lecture on
Proddy Greenriders, 101. Is there anything you'd like to add?"

"Close." Kassima's answer is terse. "Thanks be t'Faranth and all her little
children. She nigh always curls up like that a bit a'fore rising." The
unbound hair flies every which way under the whuffle, and its owner spares
a halfhearted glare for Tyrrath; Lysseth, well, she snarls at the other
green. Natch. But true to her rider's words, she remains curled up, not
further protesting such incursion into her territory. "Though she *might*
be doing it just t'fool me... might be better t'ask the maleriders, at
that. *They* always know. Shard them."

Ursa smiles, a pale smile, as she walks over. "Flee for your lives," she
suggests.

"What, really?" Yashira sits up a little, swallowing.

"I think I'm definitely feeling that 'impending doom' bit now," M'silne
says helpfully, the first words to come out of his mouth in a while.
"Assistant Weyrlingmaster, Wingleader," he adds, saluting to Ursa and Zaidra.

Riane tilts her head at M'silne and Yashira both. "Are Decarath and
Phoukath ready yet?" She wonders quietly. Surely, they'd know by now?

Ursa looks at Flannery. "I know they're nearly fullgrown," she comments,
"But do we really want the weyrlings here now?"

Yashira salutes quickly, realizing she missed doing that. "Maybe we should
go elsewhere. Where...?"

Zaidra moves toward the group. "Ymedath chased Saulith," she offers. "When
he was about the same age as these dragons. And Decarath's bigger than he
is, anyway."

"Got 'em right this time," Kassi can't quite resist commenting, with just a
bare hint of dust-dry humor. "*Ursa*, shardit, you'd think 'twas apt t'rake
over 'em with a plow--I've nay killed a Weyrling *yet*. And these two have
been relatively well-behaved. For maleriders. They'd probably survive."
Even if Yash does earn a brief glare at mention of 'elsewhere.'

Saulith flies in from above and lands in the waters of the lake.

Flannery eyes Kassima with slight concern, taking a deep breath. "/How/
close, Kassi?" She looks a bit concerned, remarking to the others, "If
she's within hours of rising, we should get the greens to their weyrs, so
they won't rise with her." She nods to Ursa briskly. "You're right. I
didn't realize Lysseth was quite this close. I thought we had days...but
that look disturbs me."

"Size doesn't matte--," M'silne calls out a bit defensively, stopping dead
as his cheeks shade furiously red.

Yashira holds up a hand. "Elsewhere to do this the first time," she says.
"I don't---" She pauses, and looks to M'silne. Blink, blink.

Saulith joins the throng, visibly steering clear of Lysseth. The males are
all yours tonight, Lyss, _all_ yours. Kichevio dismounts, grinning a bit as
she hears M'silne. "That depends on a great many factors, M'silne," she
tells him. "None of which you want to mention around Kassi tonight."

Riane looks confused at Flan's words. "Other greens would rise too, even if
they weren't proddy?" She's forgotten her inquiry to the maleriders, and
now looks at Flannery with a sudden look of worry.

Flannery grins at M'silne, nodding briskly. "You're right, 'Silne - size
really doesn't matter for a green flight. Blues have flown Tyrrath, browns
have flown her..." She gives Ursa a grin. "...and bronzes have flown her.
It's all a matter of a dragon's worthiness and his skill."

Kichevio slides down easily from Saulith's neck.

Flannery answers Riane's question with a shrug. "If a green is proddy or
close to proddiness, several can rise at once - sometimes with terrible
consequences. This is doubly true of queens."

Kassima straightens at once, actual concern flashing across her
face--however briefly. "*That*," she agrees flatly, "would be a flaming
disaster. Lysseth's the fighting kind. Say ''tis what you do with it' next,
M'silne, and 'twill rethink that promise nay t'kill." Lysseth summons a
muted roar for Saulith, but only tucks in more tightly on herself. She'll
just radiate 'go away' vibes from here, thank you.

Yashira remembers to salute this time, and she does so with Kichevio from
her perch on a rock not terribly close to the lake shore. "Assistant
Weyrlingmaster."

Zaidra explains, even as her own brown is stealing glances at Lysseth (he's
either brave or stupid, maybe both). "Oh, M'silne, I didn't mean...it was
just a point of comparison. But FLannery and Ursa and Kich'll make the
call, I guess?"

Ursa is watching each of the weyrlings present with a careful eye.
Flannery's pointed grin gets a nod, but Ursa's a wee bit distracted. "I
dare say, the greens should be away from here fairly soon," she says.
"Quite soon."

"Consequences?" Riane glances back at Yrinth, who seems moderately
disinterested at best. She's playing with her tail, at the moment. But you
never know. "Like what?"

Decarath's tail gives a lash, and while he's never quite still, the coiled
energy he's always exhibiting seems more... present.

Telgar Weyr> Kassima takes a sec to whee and thank y'all. However the
flight goes, with this pre-flight RP, y'all have reminded me of why I
always thought these things were fun. :)

Telgar Weyr> Riane is feelin' the tension rise. And -really- needs to
finish this stupid research report. Pah.

Telgar Weyr> Yashira grins. I wish I'd watched more when they happened. I
think I've read Cariath's last flight, but that's about it.

Flannery's eyes unfocus for an instant, before she looks up with a cheery
grin and blurts, "Tyrrath says there's a party going on at Shipfish Island!
Any greenriders wanna come?"

"What call are we making?" Kichevio asks Zaidra, before looking over all
greens present quickly. "Yrinth is too young yet, and Saulith's not
proddy--I'd know. Flan, is Tyrrath twitchy?" She blinks once at Decarath.
Moving over to her fellow Weyrlingmasters, she asks softly, "Are Decarath
and Phoukath going to try and chase?"

Riane nods, though not looking entirely enthusiastic. She's still worried.
"What consequences? Even if Yrinth is young, I'd like to know for future
reference.."

Kassima grimly clarifies, "Fighting. Combat. Injury and death. Always a
danger with queens, less so with greens, only *some* are apt t'fight if'n
another green so much as crosses their path too close--much less tries
t'steal her males from her." Judging from the way Kassi's hands curl into
fists, which green she speaks of is probably little enough mystery. "Get
the greens out of here if'n they're restless. Contrary t'what K'ran may
believe, I *don't* actually want injured Weyrlings on our hands."

His blush increasing exponentially, M'silne gives Kichevio a dull salute.
"Affiftn weyrlingmftr," he mumbles, eyes focused firmly on the ground.
"Phoukath's...." he trails off, eliciting a a dull brass-throated 'hroomf'
from the erstwhile silent blue. "He's anxious." He looks up at Kichevio,
clearly distressed. "Should we leave? Too? Or stay?"

Yashira frowns a little, reaching out to rest a hand on M'silne's shoulder.
"Hey, we'll be fine. You'll be fine."

Flannery shrugs at Kichevio, "Nah, that's how Tyrrath /always/ is...." She
gestures toward her fish-chomping lifemate, who is glowering by the lake's
edge. "But it's better to be safe than sorry."

Telgar Weyr> Flannery says, "Do you guys want to chase?"

Phoukath stirs from the lake, finally fed up with lurking. Spreading his
wings, he glides across the water's surface towards the shore, steering
decidedly clear of Lysseth without letting her move beyond his field of
vision. With a last splashing flip of his tail, he hop-climbs out to
air-dry beside his brown clutchmate.

Telgar Weyr> Yashira was going to, yeah.

Telgar Weyr> M'silne was thinking yesh, as well.

Kichevio laughs dryly. "True. Very true." She looks to M'silne, then spares
another look for Phoukath. "It may not be up to you. Ask _him_." She looks
almost sympathetic.

Telgar Weyr> Kassima yays. :)

Telgar Weyr> Zaidra cheers.

Flannery shrugs lightly. "We do want to take the greens into the weyr,
though, whenever Lysseth rises. The confusion is a bit intense otherwise."

Telgar Weyr> Flannery yays!:)

Telgar Weyr> Kichevio cheers for the brave weyrlings. ;)

Zaidra murmurs softly, "Lucky them," but louder, she observes. "Well,
Lysseth at least seems calmer than the time she and En - um - never mind."
She cuts herself off lest she scare the weyrlings.

Yashira swings her head toward Decarath, blinking. "He's going to. Whoa."

Decarath swings his head toward the blue nearby, rumbling quietly.

"Go or stay, as you like." Though Kassi flicks that former glare to M'silne
now. "Whatever pleases him--them--so long as they all stay *away* for
now--but aye. What Kich said." Shoving the knife she's been toying with
through her belt, she hisses, "*Shards*, but I should've brought alcohol
out here! Don't be mentioning that, Zaidra! Eneryth's fault 'twas!"

M'silne takes a steadying breath before nodding to himself, at first slowly
and then with more assertion. "We're staying. He wants to. I want to. We'll
stay."

Kichevio shrugs once. "I'm staying here for the aftermath, on weyrlings and
otherwise. Saulith's giving Yrinth an image of Shipfish, Riane." Without
her urging, a couple of other green weyrlingpairs start edging away.

Mirielle heads over from the central bowl.

Riane eyes Yashira, M'silne, then both their dragons. A wry smile tugs at
her lips. "Good luck. Yrinth's decidedly disinterested, but we'll go to
Shipfish anyways. Are you and Tyrrath coming, Flannery?"

Yashira frowns, nodding to Riane. "Thanks." She picks up the straps and
leatherworking tools on her lap, hopping off her perch to approach
Kichevio. "Could I ask you to please hang on to these for me?"

Mirielle walks back out, sans Peth, and eyes the growing crowd.

Flannery grins at Mirielle. "Hey there!" She grins to Riane, "I might come,
Riane, if Tyrrath isn't too tired. She's been flying sweeps all afternoon,
and I was going to give her the evening off."

Zaidra glances back at Ymedath to make sure /he's/ not contradicting
Lysseth's rider. Then she smiles to Kassima. "Of course it was," she says,
meaning it. "Bronzes are so uppity that way." And then she turns, spying
her mentee. "Mirielle!"

Mirielle grins at Zaidra and waves happily. "Am I missing something?"

Kichevio takes Yashira's tools, nodding. "I will--come by for them as soon
as your head's clear again." Note her tactful omission of when that time
might be.

Kassima mutters under her breath, "I'd be deeply distressed if'n Yrinth
*weren't* disinterested." And Anne McCaffrey would have cats. "Then stay.
Only don't get near me--shells, Zaidra, you're telling it *fardling* true."
Mirielle gets a glare. But it's a distracted glare.

"Thanks, Riane," M'silne says to his fellow weyrling, raising a hand to
wave to Mirielle. "Yeah, you're missing the caravan to Shipfish. Better get
going." He offers her a trepidatious smile, his lips twitching in anxiety
as he breaks off to look back to his lifemate.

Ursa has been conferring quietly with Spineth. She turns back. "So they're
going to chase, are they?" she asks. Ursa seems to be in a solomn mood. "Do
get those green weyrlings away. Spineth's not willing to leave, so I'll be
remaining. Be watching the chasing weyrlings. Whatever help that might be."

Yashira's head bobs, her face solemn. "Thanks, Kichevio." Her lips press
together, and she looks down to the knife strapped to her thigh.

Dragon> All dragons sense that Lysseth borrows a mic for a second. <<
Evening, all. :) I'm going to be having a flight starting in about, oh,
fifteen minutes--any interested parties are invited to join the +flight
channel and come on over to Telgar. :) Thanks! >>

Kichevio's mouth quirks. "Might need that, Yash. But Kassi's knives are
bigger. Ursa, I'll supervise the LC, during and after. Make sure nobody
drinks themselves sick or bothers the caverns girls too much."

Telgar Weyr> Kassima rings the fifteen-minutes-to-blooding bell. Anyone who
wants to chase, please feel free to join the flight channel. :)

Mirielle ohs and looks around quickly. as if to make sure she doesn't have
a green follower. "But Peth's asleep. I don't think she'll cause any
problems, should I still leave?"

Telgar Weyr> Yashira says, "Sorry - How would we do that?"

Telgar Weyr> K'ran says, "dtu +hear flight"

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "dtu hear +flight"

Telgar Weyr> K'ran says, "Er. dtu hear +flight"

Telgar Weyr> Yashira says, "Thanks!"

"And I know how t'use their size, too." Kassi just couldn't resist saying
it, could she? "How many times am I going t'have t'say, I *haven't* maimed
or killed any Weyrlings? You'd sharding near think I've killed a slew of
'em and thrown the bodies from m'ledge!"

Flannery shakes her head, raising a hand reassuringly toward Mirielle. "No,
I think she'll be fine where she is. I'm going to take Tyrrath up now,
though. If you'll excuse me...."

Yashira's head bobs in response to Kichevio, and she leaves the knife where
it is. "Thanks," she repeats, before turning and moving back toward M'silne
with an inquisitive look.

Tyrrath takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to carry her
aloft.

Ursa notices Yashira's look at the knife. "If you try and use that in the
guest weyr, weyrling, you'll likely be dealing with me," she comments. She
nods towards Kich. "Like I said, I'll be doing what I can."

Riane glances at Lyss, then back at Yrinth. "Should I take her over
t'Shipfish now?"

Zaidra tilts her head toward Kichevio, "You gonna be watching out for the
caverns men as well?" And her sea-green eyes flick briefly to Yashira, and
back. And then to Ursa, "Yme won't leave either. So I guess you've an extra
body to help in the guest weyr."

Yashira nods to Ursa. "Watch me. I don't know how I respond to this stuff
yet."

Kassima, despite her earlier words, adds, "*And* me," while one hand grips
a knife-hilt tightly enough for her knuckles to go white. "Up t'you, Riane,
don't ask me; if'n she's fidgety, then take her--shells, 'twill be *soon*.
I can tell it. At least for *once* I'm nay in the middle of mauling
someone, so she won't be interrupting aught important."

M'silne blushes once more at the mention of size, but offers Yash a smile.
"Um. I don't either," he adds, his voice scratchy. His hands, pushed deep
into his jacket pockets, seem to flex restlessly. "Kich? You'll be around?"

Ursa laughs, suddenly, a hoarse laugh, lacking much mirth. "I'll watch all
of ya," she promises.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth taps her clipboard. << Mouseketeer Roll
Call. :) Who's in for the fun and games tonight? >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Spineth raises a draconic hand. Oh me! Me!

Riane clears her throat and steps up towards Yrinth. "I'll be going then.
Good luck, everyone." She's shakey, this is new for her. She gets together
her things in a few minutes, and remounts. "Good night!" And she takes off.

Yashira rubs her forehead. "Shards. I don't wanna ask for trouble." She
reaches down, unbuckling the thigh harness and holding it out. A feeble
smile, also lacking in humour. "I'm good with my fists, too."

Dragon> Tyrrath bespoke Flight with << Watching y'all! Good luck! >>

Kichevio is already heading towards the Bowl, Saulith following with
delicate steps. "I'll be here," she says quietly, the reassurance directed
towards both chasing weyrlings. "Be careful."

Riane climbs up onto Yrinth's back.

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith is watching too. Get 'em, Lysseth! :)

Dragon> Decarath bespoke Flight with << Like father, like son. Decarath's
in! >>

Dragon> Ymedath bespoke Flight with << Oooh, me, too. >>

Dragon> Yrinth bespoke Flight with << Good luck chasers! Go Lysseth! :) >>

Kichevio heads in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering
lake.

Yrinth takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to carry her
aloft.

Saulith lumbers in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the
shimmering lake.

Dragon> Flight sense that Phoukath flips his tail and pats his wings into
place. << Me! Me too! Don't forget the svelte one! >>

Telgar Weyr> Ursa tries to follow the spam while quizzing a 7yrold on
spelling. :)

Mirielle looks around, and follows in Kichevio's general direction,
muttering something about it being safer elsewhere.

Mirielle heads in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering
lake.

Dragon> Gyreventh bespoke Flight with << OOCly <<Any dragons on shipfish
who want to participate in the flight please feel free to.>> >>

Southern Bowl> Indrath's gathered himself into a neat if tense perch near
the living cavern entrance, and while he does offer up a warm rumble for
Saulith, her rider, and Peth's, his attention's clearly elsewhere.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth harumphs. I'm usually the svelte one. ;)
<< All right! Blooding starts at your leisure, gents--and thanks,
Gyreventh. :) Lysseth will join in the fray in a couple of minutes, and
then I'll go over the rules and regs. Any questions you have at any time,
feel free to page Kassi. :) >>

Yashira glances about, realizing there's no one to give the knife too. She
frowns, and sets it neatly on top of the rock she was sitting on.

Southern Bowl> Above, From the Telgar Star Stones, L'klal's burnished
bronze Pteynth rears on hind legs and bugles a greeting to bronze Tianyith
and his rider, G'dron of HighReaches Weyr. 

[Editor's Note:  I got disconnected here, but Yash was kind enough to
page me the poses I missed at the Lake.]

We'll get it...uh, in the morning," M'silne says to Yash, tipping his head
towards the set-aside knife. "I don't think anyone'll think to 'borrow' it
before then." 

Ursa takes a deep breath, still solomn. She looks at Spineth, who is
looking back with whirling eyes. She raises one eyebrow, sighs, and crosses
her arms.

Spineth lumbers in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the
shimmering lake.

Zaidra shakes her head, "They won't." And then she turns around, glaring at
Ymedath for a moment. Finally she mutters at him. "Fine, go then."

Ymedath lumbers in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the
shimmering lake.

Yashira snorts faintly. "Better not."

TGW-Bowl>> Ymedath springs into the air for a quick flight over the fence
and into the feeding grounds, where he settles again.

TGW-Bowl>> Tianyith bugles suddenly, staring after Spineth.

Southern Bowl> Kichevio and Saulith cross the Bowl, the woman's hand light
on the green's neck. She glances at Indrath, smiles wryly, and says "She'll
be blooding soon. You might want to go on over to the lakeshore and check
out the competition. And tell your rider I'll be here, afterwards." She
glances over her shoulder at Mirielle. "Come on inside...yes, safer away
from the ruckus, for now." Courteously, to the bronzer, "They're all over
by the lakeshore, Gaddie."

Ursa watches Spineth go. He'll be fine. It's the weyrlings that gives her
more worry. And not so much the dragons, either.

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << And advance apologies if my 'Net is
flaky. It's *been* behaving today, so hopefully that will continue. >>

Southern Bowl> G'dron in the motion of beginning a greeting, stops in his
tracks. "Wait, what'd I get myself into? Kich?"

Southern Bowl> G'dron says "Oh no."

Southern Bowl> Kichevio sums things up succintly. "Lysseth. Glowing. See
you afterwards. Or not."

Decarath rumbles again, rising to his feet and stalking toward the central
bowl with a swish of his tail. He looks insufferably smug.

Decarath lumbers in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the
shimmering lake.

Southern Bowl> The rumble with which Indrath answers Kichevio is something
of a disconsolate one, and while he does vane out his wingsails briefly, he
doesn't move -- not yet.

Southern Bowl> Mirielle /looks/ at Kichevio for a moment with an 'oh dear'
expression. "Is Kassima really that bad?"

Southern Bowl> G'dron turns to see Tianyith definitely heading toward the
feeding grounds. "Oh no," he repeats, but heads the way indicated.

Southern Bowl> G'dron walks north.

G'dron heads over from the central bowl.

Kassima bites her lip as the males leave, her complexion paling slightly.
"Time, then...." Her green, still coiled tensely on her claimed stretch of
sand, is eyed with as much acid as she's ever given anything. "Hurry *up*--"

TGW-Bowl>> Decarath springs into the air for a quick flight over the fence
and into the feeding grounds, where he settles again.

Southern Bowl> Kichevio lifts her eyebrows meaningfully. "You saw how she
was dressed, Mirie. When _Kassi_ dresses that way, it's bad."

TGW-Bowl>> Tianyith springs into the air for a quick flight over the fence
and into the runner pasture, where he settles again.

Phoukath gives a blazoning trumpet abruptly, launching skywards with only
the slightest of warnings to his lifemate.

Phoukath takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to carry him
aloft.

Southern Bowl> Kichevio walks beneath the lintel and disappears into the
living cavern.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Phoukath flies downward towards the feeding grounds.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Spineth cruises into the feeding grounds
and before even landing, he's skimming low over a cowering herd of beasts.
The herd scatters, and Spineth bellows in satisfaction. Effortlessly, he's
seized one in his talons. The scattered herd cries out in alarm as more
dragons appear. Spineth himself lands on a high hill neatly. With one quick
movement, he's ripped out the animal's throat and is drinking the warm blood.

Southern Bowl> Mirielle walks beneath the lintel and disappears into the
living cavern.

G'dron comes in late, chest heaving, almost against his will.

With the last of the males gloriously gone, Lysseth finally--finally--eases
from her curl, stretching out body and wings in a manner that can only be
described as feline... and frankly sexual. With a gape-jawed hiss and
baring of teeth for her impatient rider, she leaps aloft: blood waits.

Lysseth takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to carry her
aloft.

Lysseth> You fly downwards towards the feeding grounds.

Lysseth> Decarath comes gliding in, not bothering to announce his arrival.
He swings out to Spineth's left, selecting one of the scattering beasts for
himself. Once he's focused on one, it doesn't survive very long. Talons
slash out, ending the beast's life with efficient precision. Decarath's
neck arches as he bows his head to lap at the blood.

Kassima exhales a long, low breath. "C'mon," she mutters unwillingly. "We'd
best... *I'd* best--oh, shardit, just follow."

Lysseth> Ymedath plays with his prey, much as he always does. A fat wherry
is stalked till the poor thing is cowering against part of the fence. Then
a brown foreleg moves with swift ease, and his claw slashes the creature
open from belly to 'beak'.

You head in the direction of the central bowl, leaving the shimmering lake.

In the Feeding Grounds, Tianyith snatches a beast with his talons to blood,
his eyes noticing the singular glowing green approaching. Teeth that
fifteen minutes ago were chewing on oceanfish now rip open the beast's
throat for the blood.

G'dron heads into the central bowl area from the lake shore to the north.

Zaidra heads into the central bowl area from the lake shore to the north.

Yashira heads into the central bowl area from the lake shore to the north.

In the Feeding Grounds, Phoukath mimics his sire's tactic, swerving low
across the grounds in place of landing. A herd is tracked from a great
distance before, with only a silently triumphant flick of his tail, the
blue dives upon the trailer of the group, firmly ensnaring his kill.
Blazoning in triumph, he settles towards one end of the grounds to feast,
dark-red warmth smearing across the flicks of his tongue.

G'dron stumbles along, following Kassi, trying to adjust to the abrupt
change of emotional state he is experiencing.

M'silne heads into the central bowl area from the lake shore to the north.

Ursa heads into the central bowl area from the lake shore to the north.

Southern Bowl> Indrath's eyes glint steel of a sudden, and with purpose he
straightens from his crouch and pads off northward.

Ursa brings up the rear. Oh whee. Rears.

In the Feeding Grounds, Lysseth spirals once above the Grounds, a long, low
circle suited for a queen surveying her territory... or a green flaunting
what those already present *may not* have. A loud, shrill scream splits the
air a moment before she furls long wings to fall into the grounds
proper--but no wild dive this, no; there's a herdbeast buck waiting at the
end of it, one who just yesterday was secure in his virility, his mastery
of his small herd. No longer. Beneath Lysseth's claws, he's only ribbons,
and beneath her fangs he's naught but drink.

Indrath lumbers here from the south.

Kassima shoots a look back over her shoulder towards the Grounds and the
glowing green shape there, and stops her lope to turn and face the ensuant
chaos. "Blood only," she whispers. "Blood only. You *know* this. Blood only."

Indrath's gait from the south end of the bowl turns from a purposeful march
into a springing vault, and then he's airborne on those dusk-kissed wings
and angling for the feeding grounds.

Indrath springs into the air for a quick flight over the fence and into the
feeding grounds, where he settles again.

Telgar Weyr> Flannery feels sorry for herders who watch flights.;) Their
poor prize bucks - toast.;)

Yashira lopes after Kassima, her stride long and her movements efficient.
Kassima's pause makes her pause as well, and whatever internal switch got
flicked to make her this way gets flicked again. Shoulders tense, and she
bites her bottom lip, shaking her head a little.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth rattles off the rules and regs. :) <<
It's all pretty simple stuff. One pose for every Lyss-pose, please; there's
no size limit to the poses, and no limit on rider poses at all. The Guest
Weyr will be IC, but the flight channel will be OOC. Joking and heckling
are welcome if folks are in the mood. ;) Blooding will last two or three
more pose-rounds, and then we'll go up two sky-spaces from the Grounds. Any
questions? :) >>

In the Feeding Grounds, Tianyith makes do with one, shaking his head from
side to side a few times. His eyes have rapidly changed color to an aroused
purplish red, and his wings rattle as he prepares to use them in a fashion
he'd never thought less than a half hour ago.

Zaidra moves with the group, through the bowl, to quieter surroundings.

M'silne stumbles onwards behind Yashira, his eyes seeming to unfocus and
refocus under the strain of double-demand. He relies as much on memory of
the Bowl as his current view of it as he picks his way forward.

In the Feeding Grounds, Spineth lifts a blood-red muzzle to welcome the
green with a deep-set, resounding trumpet. Then he finishes the task he
started, casting aside the carcass. He surveys again. There. A herd,
beginning to regroup, not out of any sense of security, but rather for a
way to ease their bleating insecurities. Again, he goes for a group,
sending them scattering, coming up with another beast hanging, limp with
fear, from his talons. He lands with a surprising lightness, holding the
beast on one great forelimb to drain it.

G'dron shakes his head a few more times, echoing his dragon and making his
own connections. His brown eyes have become intense as he concentrates on
keeping control until he can reach a safer place.

In the Feeding Grounds, Indrath's terse wingbeats bear him long and low
over the pens, a decisive if heated circle above 'til he's selected prey:
the group that Spineth's scattered, and with a vicious cry he fashions a
sharp descent to give talons their first taste of blood in a screaming
herdbeast's back. And with that prize claimed, he dips darkling muzzle to
drink.

K'ran walks in from outside the room.

In the Feeding Grounds, Phoukath raises his muzzle to blast a resounding
roar as Lysseth appears, letting the blood drip, unheeded, down the carcass
of the beast in his claws. Greedily, he bends his jaws once more to the
animal, whuffing in anger as he realizes how much of its salty-warm prize
has slipped past him.

In the Feeding Grounds, Ymedath knocks his first, blooded, carcass aside,
skipping his customary gruesome 'finger painting' with the entrails. He
eyes Lysseth through the terrified herd of animals, daring a half-croon,
but then ducking down after it's sounded. A second later, he's drinking the
lifeblood of another wherry.

In the Feeding Grounds, Decarath continues feeding on his beast, hunched
over it possessively. He is somewhat neater than one might expect, but that
does not mean he is docile. His tail lashes, and he abruptly raises his
head, slamming the dead herdbeast away with one forepaw and swinging his
attention toward Lysseth. His call is low, brief.

In the Feeding Grounds, Lysseth mantles her light-limned wings at that
human command; blood only? Blood *only*? But that isn't what she wants--she
wants to rend, to tear, to feel the slick slide of muscle down her throat
and the crunch of bones beneath her teeth... yet want and need are separate
things in this instance, and on some level her instinct recognizes this.
Shrilling a long scream of protest, she nevertheless bends her proud head
to take the blood--blood *only*, but plenty of it, rich and red to stain
that glowing muzzle dark.

K'ran's steps, staccato with anger, bear him from the galleries cavern and
down toward the feeding grounds -- where accusing, rage-touched eyes fasten
briefly on his lifemate blooding yonder, and a quiet, "Headstrong bastard,"
passes his lips.

Kassima closes her eyes at the scream, a ghost of relief flitting over her
expression. "Good," she murmurs to her heedless dragon; she herself is
heedless to the presence of others, focused entirely on Lysseth just now.
"Good. We've done this a'fore; you know what's what, so don't *fight* me...
but more, more. You need more than *that* t'outfly these."

"Know what you mean," Gad mutters back to K'ran with the last of his human
connection.

G'dron says "I was only supposed to pick somebody up on the Shipfish Island
Expr..."

In the Feeding Grounds, Spineth lingers not over his second carcass. It's
quickly cast aside, left in a pathetic heap. His next hunt is quick,
efficient, wasting not a wit more of energy than he needs. Hot blood pumps
through the veins of even a weary beast, and this is what he selects, a
beast exhausted from the repeated scattering. With a quick rip, he's
draining it, drinking the blood still thirstily.

Yashira's eyes narrow - she remains silent, her jaw clenched. Her hands
twist about other, calloused fingertips rubbing over scarred knuckles.

Ursa hears the curses of the bronzeriders, and once again, she laughs
hoarsely, a deep, mirthless laugh.

For some reason, Zai finds the exchange between the two bronzeriders
extremely amusing. Soft laughter emanates from the brownrider, and she
mutters to herself. "Yep...uppity." Then she's shaking her head, and while
her voice is still low, it's directed inward as well as not, and the tone
is tighter. "Just. Blood. Don't. Play."

In the Feeding Grounds, Phoukath launches from his perch, hurling his empty
first kill against the ground where it hits the earth with a dull thump.
Swishing his tail left and right, right and left, like clockwork, he once
more sights and tracks a heard through several winding turns, doing his
best to remain high enough as to not scatter them. An approaching feeder
signals time is short, however, and Phoukath dives towards the head of the
pack, sweeping with his claws once, twice, thrice before seizing on a
charging buck. Bugling, he returns to his former position, pink tongue
licking at his kill's neck even before he has rent it open.

In the Feeding Grounds, Indrath drains his prey to life's ebb, and once the
screaming bovine's struggles cease, he lets the carcass fall into the
uncaring blood-soaked and churned mire. Those sunset-streaked wings thrown
lavish-wide, he swipes foreclaws through a panicked caprine's side; catches
that beast, and goads more rich, bright fuel from his prey with the caress
of a tongue along its throat.

In the Feeding Grounds, Decarath is as ungainly as any other dragon on the
ground. His next kill is gained by lunging upward into the air for a few
wingbeats before striking down a plump beast - a powerful leap, a pounce.
He selects his prey quickly. He disposes of them quickly. He is a hunter.

Feeling the bond with his lifemate ever more tightly about his thoughts,
M'silne flicks his tongue out over his lips, brows flexing in momentary
confusion.

In the Feeding Grounds, Ymedath drops his second wherry-appetizer to the
ground, and plants a foot squarely in the center of the carcass even as
he's picking out another victim. Porcine, this time. Variety and all that.
Claws flash. Teeth tear. There's a geyser of blood before he sets his
muzzle down to drink. Well. Ymedath was never one for neatness.

Kassima starts fractionally from her trance at the laughter. "*Quiet*," she
hisses without true strength. "Do nay you laugh at us, nay ever!"

Neither Ursa's nor Zaidra's amusement endear them to K'ran very much, and
he grumbles a very quiet, "I hate you both so much right now," as his eyes
begin to glass, and his shoulders knit with tension.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth has to say, K'ran, that pose gave her
player an Amazing Race flashback. Which is probably fitting, all things
considered. ;)

Dragon> Indrath bespoke Flight with << Amazing Race, huh? >>

Southern Bowl> Saulith chirps softly to Maireth from her quiet little coil
in the moonslight.

Yashira's form has slid into a ready position, knees slightly bent, arms
loose at her sides. The switch has been flicked again; she's all business
again, a hunter on the hunt.

Dragon> Cyrath bespoke Flight with << Use the fast forward! >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith waits for a Survivor pose to complement
it. ;)

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth yeps. One of the members of my favorite
team had an, 'I'm hating you so much right now' moment a couple of episodes
back. Hee, Cyrath!

In the Feeding Grounds, For just this once, Lysseth obeys; more out of her
*own* will, to be sure, but that doesn't change the fact that once the
once-prime buck is a juiceless husk at her feet she lashes out with curved
talons to hook the throat of a female too frightened--too frozen--to run.
The blood pours forth freely, until the dragon fixes her jaw on the wound
so as not to waste a drop. That glow that already covered her brightens
notch by notch in time with the beats of the prey's dying heart; and at the
last, she raises her head towards the sky, night's stars shining already in
her eyes. Silence. One moment of silence. Then... no cry, no taunting, but
the beating of her wings dispels the quiet and takes her to where she may
dance in heaven--who would seek to be her partner there?

In the Feeding Grounds, Lysseth takes flight, using the thermals rising
from the bowl to carry her aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

Ursa is not exactly pleased to be standing out here, herself, watching
dragons repeatedly rip the throats out of animals. There's a wee baby
waiting for his mother to nurse him, and she's had a long day with a small
group of weyrlings. She's tired. Still, she is unapologetic to K'ran, and
to Kassima, she says through gritted teeth, uncaring whether she's heard or
not, "I was /no/ laughing at you."

G'dron breathes deep, as if gathering himself. He ignores the laughter,
raises an icy eyebrow at K'ran, then turns to focus intense brown eyes on
Kassi's figure. Eyes on the prize.

In the Feeding Grounds, Tianyith takes flight, using the thermals rising
from the bowl to carry him aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

Kassima's eyes flutter again, just once, before her lips press into a thin
line and she turns on her heel to storm--no, *run*--for the Guest Weyr. And
if she has to force her way past the others to get there, so be it.

In the Feeding Grounds, Spineth is not as silent as the green. His beast is
dropped and he is bellowing a triumphant, even joyous cry, as he takes to
the skies with a mighty leap.

You walk south.

TGW-Bowl>> "I was," Zaidra tells her former mentor, on the heels of Ursa's
comment. "But it's not personal."

Lysseth> Spineth rises up from the feeding grounds.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Decarath's head swings up, and he wastes
no time on shrieking. Just efficient movement. Crouch, jump, and his wings
unfold, shadowy length unfurling and beating as he takes wing.

Lysseth> Decarath rises up from the feeding grounds.

Lysseth> Ymedath rises up from the feeding grounds.

You push aside the curtain and enter the weyr.

G'dron comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

Yashira comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

Zaidra comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth gets the WR changed into the GW. :)

Lysseth> You soar upwards and into the open sky above the Weyr.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Phoukath lets loose a bellow that is
almost flustered as he casts aside his prey, launching skywards upon
thermals with his neck stretched as far as it will reach.

Lysseth> Tianyith flies up from the southern half of the bowl.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Indrath's among the last off the ground,
but no less joyous for those first elemental wingbeats up into the open air.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Phoukath takes flight, using the
thermals rising from the bowl to carry him aloft -- much to the relief of
the wherries.

Lysseth> Decarath flies up from the southern half of the bowl.

Ursa comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Indrath takes flight, using the thermals
rising from the bowl to carry him aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

Lysseth> Phoukath flies up from the southern half of the bowl.

Lysseth> Indrath flies up from the southern half of the bowl.

Lysseth> Spineth flies up from the southern half of the bowl.

Lysseth> Ymedath flies up from the southern half of the bowl.

K'ran comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

Southern Bowl> Maireth cracks open one eye, lazy whirls nearly invisible in
the darkness.

M'silne comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

Ursa follows Kassi automatically. She's familiar with this part of the
whole ritual. Only once she's in there does she remember that she was
trying to keep an eye out for the weyrlings, too. She looks around. Oh!
They're here. That penetrating her brain, she takes her place against the
wall. Time to perform buttress duty.

K'ran follows -- storms? -- behind sprinting Kassima at a far more measured
pace, and with purpose plants his shoulders against the cold stone nearer
the entryway. "Really hate you," he mutters, now -- though this time the
words could just as easily be directed toward draconic ears.

Yashira stalks in, moving away from the door and dropping down into an easy
crouch, eyes unfocused. She balances there, unmoving. Silent.

Lysseth> Above and beyond where a dragon might normally fly, up where the
air grows cold and the cloud cover mere wisps of vapor on the wind, is
where Lysseth seeks to go: her wings will take her there, flaring out
strong and true to catch a rising breeze and make it her very own. She
commands the sky this night--see how she speeds through it, its darkness no
consideration to eyes that see glory more than the physical world? Her
sails ripple under the winds, and the stars light her way: she shall
outwit, outplay, outlast, and just *let* any of those who chase behind dare
to vote her out of the game.

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << There, Kich, happy now? ;) >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith beams. Overjoyed, thanks Kassi! :)

G'dron sports a slight half smile as he/his dragon makes a good takeoff.
Bracing himself, as if against unfamiliar Telgari winds, with feet slightly
wider than normal apart, he stands in the middle of the room as if he
belonged there.

Dragon> Flight sense that Yrinth fears.

M'silne enters with a quick stride, but is decidedly slowed by his tendency
to pause in his tracks every few steps. Finally crossing the threshhold to
the weyr, he presses himself against the first wall he can find, sinking
down along it until his knees touch the ground. His breathing has become
audible, almost ragged.

Dragon> Flight sense that Spineth thinks some one should do a flight where
we all vote out the dragons one by one. wouldn't that be hell?

Dragon> Cyrath bespoke Flight with << Oohh that's fun! >>

Dragon> Yrinth bespoke Flight with << Someone said they did that once for a
flight, IIRC. >>

Dragon> Tyrrath bespoke Flight with << Who gets voted off the Island, as it
were...;) The weyr has spoken! >>

Zaidra sinks down against the wall on the opposite side of the entry from
K'ran. It's the position she /always/ assumes during these things. She
doesn't respond to him, though. Nope. She just glances at Kassima for a
long moment, then leans her head against the wall, pulling some of the
curtain into her hand. "I've got to remember to bring snacks to these things."

[Editor's Note:  At this point, Alirath joined the chasers; ICly he'd
been blooding and such with the rest of them. :) ]

Dragon> Flight sense that Ymedath would /so/ lose.

Kassima has her own favorite section of wall to support, though she doesn't
so much lean against it as fling her back into impact. Her upper lip lifts
slightly in a soft, silent snarl: *her* wall. Hers. Abandon hope, all ye
who approacheth here. Yet within bare moments, her eyes are too glazed to
see, focused not on *this* space or its occupants but on somewhere that
becomes increasingly far away by the moment.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth was in one of those, once, and won. But
only because she had the strongest alliance. ;)

L'nan comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith patpats Ymedath. Not if you were cute and
meek and sneaked under the radar, a la Tina in Survivor 2. ;)

Lysseth> Spineth is in pursuit. She glows spectacularly, and she beckons
him to follow, no matter how high, how fast, how far. He has a purpose, and
any other dragons flying here, too, are only mistakes. They can chase all
they want, but he is certain they will all tire, fumble, or otherwise fail.
Upward, upward, ever upward, just like her.

Lysseth> Alirath was there the whole time, but was a slow starter, even
with the blooding. It took a few moments for him to get into the spirit of
things but here he is now, and them wings is pumping faster than ever. Like
the bubbles that speed to the surface of water and burst suddenly, such is
Alirath's energy as he puts on that extra bit of speed now. He darts to the
side, trying to get past all those that were faster to start than he. He
must see her! And there she is, far ahead - she who demands attention.

Lysseth> Ymedath shoots upward after Lysseth with all his characteristic
exuberance. Outside! Flying! A pretty green beacon in front of him! His
tail churns, rudder-like, as his excitement carries him forward.

Lysseth> Tianyith revels in the use of his wings in the pursuit of a prize,
that glowing green whose wily siren song beckons him further onward and
upward. The winds carry him higher, and his excitement grows as he seems to
command these ever changing thermals that he knows will bring him ever
closer to his goal.

Lysseth> Decarath remains a shadow, a presence on the peripheral. He's with
them, but he's following her. A little lower, steadily, smoothly, his wings
beat and silent he remains in his hunt. She is prey. She will tire. He will
be there.

Lysseth> Silken wingbeats carry Indrath's lean, dusk-dappled frame from
ground to sky, and carve a meteoric ascent up into that cold and
mist-cloaked air into which she dances. Stars as her partners, for now, and
moons' light ghosting her path -- but while she may presume to command the
skies, he settles into a courser's pace: such claims are ephemeral, at best.

Lysseth> Phoukath has been trained at the stars since he took flight from
the feeding ground, and the challenge of his chaser only adds to his
confidence. Having ridden the winds high before, this will be his time, his
chance to ride higher than ever and be close, very close, to
she-with-the-green-hide that sparkles like the sun beneath water ahead of
him. His silvery-turquoise wings, shot with veins of deepest navy, beat
strong gusts of wind beneath his slate-chalked form. As if he were naught
but a gust of wind himself, he angles directly for his quarry: this blue
has much to learn about pacing, yet.

Lysseth> Lysseth continues her ascent, seeking the kiss of distant stars;
and if she should have learned by now that such cannot be gained, still she
is stubborn, and bound to try. Not *now*, however. It's the dance that
calls her now, the night's dark beauty and transient freedom such a heady
intoxicant that even her will falls before it. Let her now twist: let her
now veer sharply to the side, towards that Northern air where mountains
might just threaten. Let her seek to lose pursuers there. And let her,
perhaps, though she'd never admit it, seek to impress them too with her
mastery of the dance.

A faint smile replaces the wariness on Kassi's face, and she even relaxes a
touch against the rock at her back. "That's the way; keep going like that
and they'll *never* catch you," she encourages her lifemate nigh
breathlessly. Wouldn't one have thought that by now, after so many flights,
she'd learn? But hope springs ever eternal.

Lysseth> Spineth warbles loudly, melodiously, admiringly. Let her twist,
let her veer, his objective is to stay on her trail, not follow her move
for move. He knows better than to waste his strength in mimicking green
maneuvers, for he'll want to save his agility for later. Let her tire
herself in her alluring dance, for now he's content to simply follow and
admire.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth reflects that watching Phantom Menace
again recently may have been a mistake. I'm starting to picture the pod
race here. ;)

Lysseth> Alirath is indeed impressed as he follows the arc of the green
emerald, flashing through the air so quick. He corners, gaining ahead of
one tiring, older blue. He hardly seems to notice that there are countless
others beside, behind, and ahead of him - for what is there to really
concentrate on, besides Lysseth and her acrobatics? Wings beat the time
away, stamp the air away, and sweep the distance between he and the lead
flier away as best they can.

Lysseth> Tianyith lets his terracotta bronze wings brush at the sky, the
sand from Shipfish Island still clinging to his body and sanding the stars
into flashes of moving light, much as two people would dance a Red Sail
Reel with one partner standing on the other's feet to learn the steps. For
now, /this/ dragon would OWN the steps, but must bide his time with a slow
dance.

Lysseth> Tempt Indrath to the moons, the stars, and he'll follow -- no,
carry the last glints of Telgar's dusk to light her way through the void
she strains to touch. That arch of emerald neck, the play of tail: *these*
command far more admiration than mere dancer's skill, yet for now he'll
still strain to match her reel step for step, though the more clumsy for
his size.

Lysseth> Ymedath settles a bit, his initial exuberance tempered by vague
familiarity. He's spun through this dance before, though not with the
partner he seeks just now. Wings of frothy caramel seem darker as they
slice through the night sky, and while he may realize that Lysseth's
veering and twisting is some kind of a trick designed to send wayward males
off the dance floor, he's still young enough to attempt mimicry of her
movements.

Lysseth> Phoukath twists and turns, he curves, arrows, and streaks, all in
the interests of direct pursuit. Closer and closer, only to be deterred by
a sudden swoop, he valiantly follows wingtip behind wingtip. Calling out in
a throaty warble, a creening call of admiration just as much as to announce
his continued presence to the beckoning green, he redoubles the speed of
his wingstrokes...a sapphire streak against the darkening sky, he presses
forwards against straining muscles.

Lysseth> Decarath slants to the side, tilting in the air as he follows her
ascent. He will mimic her night dance to a certain point. See how well he
follows her lead? Never one for sun and blue skies, this flight suits him
well. It is night. He makes himself like her to hunt her, still an
insidious presence.

Ursa takes seriously her job of holding up that guest-weyr wall. Or perhaps
the wall is holding her up. For as much as she had intended to keep eye on
those weyrlings, her attention is soaring through the air, focused on a
sky-dancing green. Only the slightest sliver of awareness remains in the
guest weyr, an awareness that would notice a problem, but otherwise is
completely ignored.

Lysseth> Lysseth might laugh, were she capable of it; as matters stand, her
ringing trumpet will have to suffice to express her delight in this
intricate reel. Behold! Some follow, some wait, yet all are with her
still--and still *behind*, most importantly, still where they cannot yet
pin her wings and steal from her this wild and reckless joy. Indeed
reckless: an outcrop of rock lies just ahead, and she flings herself
towards it--towards it--*past* it, sheering off at what seems the last
possible moment to escape that Death and seek a different darkness. Night's
candles are not yet burnt out! And those who will share light, share her
floor, must brave dangers to do so, for never will *this* partner be one
bought cheaply.

L'nan has taken a different patch of wall, away from Ursa's or any other's.
Arms crossed, fingers alternately clutch his arms or straighten, tensed.
"Don't tire too fast," he murmurs to himself in a ragged whisper. "Take it
easy."

Yashira remains eerily still, crouching there in the guest weyr. A hunter
never forgets, and it's been a long time since she was able to give chase.

A slight whimper comes from M'silne's direction, where the weyrling sits
against the wall just beside the doorframe, fingers tightly interwoven.
Though the sound is one of injury, his expression remains rapt, focused,
and even desirous.

Zaidra concentrates on smaller things. Like breathing. And twisting the
edge of the entry-curtain. It's fortunate that no one's ever aware enough
to realize just who is responsible for the loss of fringe, and the odd
wrinkles. Even M'silne's whimpering doesn't make her eyes open now that
they've closed.

G'dron has no wall support, but it seems that he has more freedom to move
without one. Gad's arms have risen from his sides to mimic a flying
posture, and he is leaning slightly forward on the balls of his feet, his
eyes looking upward toward the weyr ceiling.

Kassima breathes out a quiet, almost silent sigh, folding her arms in
around herself as though the cool wind chills her too. No more words for
Lysseth now; she's entranced, enrapt, though when sense returns to her eyes
for a moment she turns them on the maleriders one by one. Wary, yes, but
primarily silently defiant. No favor will they find from her. Not yet.

Lysseth> Alirath follows Lysseth's path o' danger, veering above the
outcropping as he nears it, perhaps not quite so perilously close as the
green dared. He's been trying his darnedest to catch up, but now seems to
set a pace for himself, keeping along with the stream of chasers. He
doesn't get ahead but neither does he fall behind - must save steam for the
first sign of tiring - though Lysseth's energy seems not to be abating in
the least.

Lysseth> Dare *him*, Lysseth? Indrath braves the cold talons of stone for
all that they reach to tear at his lean frame as he passes, to mute dusk's
brilliance beneath blood. And while he dare not marry the trail she cuts so
close, he'll match that blind, elemental courage with each sweep of wings,
forever stretching, stretching to light the night into which she runs.

Lysseth> Spineth answers her trumpet with another of his own. I'm here! His
draconic memory, so selective, remembers well entwining with green wings in
the sky, and recalls not that he ever failed to catch. So it's with
ultimate confidence, inspired by selective memory rather than arrogance,
that he follows with the inner surety that once she tires, he will be there
to support her in the skies. He watches her approach the rock with the same
confidence--she will flirt with the rock as she flirts with the skies, and
move on. His path takes him above the rock, still in pursuit, still
declining to mimic her precise intricate path.

Lysseth> Ymedath sees the outcropping just in time to attempt to slip
beneath it. He's done this before, in fun, and scared his rider half to
death. Now though, his focus more on Lysseth than safe flying, he skims a
bit too closely. A sharp screech of pain, for scraped hide, and he's headed
groundward, and out of the dance.

Lysseth> Decarath is silent still. He speeds toward the rock, muscles
contracting in a flowing sequence that will change his course. Wings slice
downward through the air, carrying him over the rock outcropping, but he
encounters a thermal that takes him higher than expected. The upward lurch
annoys him, and he snarls for but a blink of an eye. Great wings flap with
increased vigour to gain back what he lost due to inexperience. His
attention remains on her, his quarry.

Yashira's lips curl back from her teeth in a snarl of her own. Her eyes are
dark with predatory hunger and longing, nostrils slightly flared.

Sea-green eyes snap open, and Zaidra chokes out the name, "Yme!"
Distraction pushed from her head by her dragon's distress, she flees the
guest weyr.

Zaidra leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Lysseth> Ymedath flies downward towards the southern end of the bowl.

Lysseth> Phoukath matches Lysseth's path almost exactly, his safety from
the rocks ensured only by her own quick evasion and the time lag with which
he follows her. He trumpets a flourish of notes...here is one who can match
his own acrobatics! Deviating from the invisible trail streaked in his
quarry's wake just once, he swoops upwards and back down, a dipping call
for attention...you are fast and fleet, as am I: it will be I who catches you!

K'ran spares a flicker of attention for Zaidra as she retreats from the
guest weyr, but no more than that: after a sympathetic shiver's wracked his
shoulders, that cobalt-dark regard shifts back to the darkened interior of
the place, to Kassima.

Lysseth> Tianyith speeds through the night, wings slicing through the crisp
cold spring air. In the midst of the pack, Tianyith finds himself closer to
the peak than he'd like at this speed, arcing around it to avoid the danger
and keep his place: Speed is not always his best asset. A trumpet blast
echoes around the bowl, reinforcing his virility and reminding that
glowing, lovely green that endurance may yet triumph.

M'silne's head lifts upwards, eyes shining with cunning, rakish pleasure:
his lips twist into a bitingly wry smile. "She is fitting, my own," he say
aloud, his voice artificially deepened with a swaggering affectation. In
his rapture, he does not notice Zaidra anymore than his lifemate notices
Ymedath's faltering...only distractions, and nothing more.

Lysseth> O, hear her cry now! Filled with triumph, fierce and merciless:
she has shaken one. She has shaken one! Soon others must surely
fall--Lysseth gains new confidence and light with this new development,
even a smugness that leads her to dip and dart in a brief burst of aerial
delight which gains her nothing. She could ignore the slow fading of her
dark-bright wings in such a moment... the draining of brilliance from tail
and hide, slow but sure. She shall tire, and in no short time, but for now
she does not realize it... for now she spins a pas-de-deux around this
spire, that cliff, risking wings and claws and self to test her courtiers:
come to her, then! If you can!

Like rider, like dragon: laughter bubbles up in Kassima's throat too, low
and darkly satisfied. Her eyes gleam deeply green with triumph. Another
time, she'd be concerned, might feel regret for what's been done, but never
here--and never now.

Lysseth> Spineth knows well that she'll tire, for then she'll seek the
strength of his own rich brown wings to support her in the skies. He does
not dance with spires, does not flirt with cliffs. When he needs to, he
banks widely, for he does not want to lose her path, but rather, he wants
to keep himself strong and fresh, to admire her in her virile dance, and to
be there for her when at last she needs him.

Lysseth> Alirath seems to see the glow of Lysseth lessen slightly, though
she is no less brilliant for it. Now is the time, now he quickens his
speed, his pace, his wingsweeps. He circles the spire, dodges the cliff,
and pushes his path through the air, turquoise hurling through the dark
night after the pretty green ahead.

Lysseth> Decarath is a shadow no more. A shadow flickers over obstacles,
intangibly; he is a brown, and he is not quite finished growing - not at
ease enough with his size to play these games, to dance these complicated
steps. No, he will be above this. Decarath surges upward, muscles
straining, above obstacles, sacrificing precious time so as not to deal
with these small things. He will not play games. He will be there when she
does not want games anymore.

[Editor's Note:  I got disconnected again here.  The pose Yash paged me
has been added above.]

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth arghs. Sorry, y'all--did I miss any
flight poses after Alirath's last?

Dragon> Flight sense that Decarath pages her pose.

Lysseth> Phoukath lets out another echoing cry, swooping easily through and
above obstacles, but at a palpable cost: even as his enthusiasm strengthens
at the realization that the shining dragon before him has begun to show
signs of slowing, his own pace begins to falter. With a desparate wurble,
he dips low below the plane of the flight in the hopes of resting and
supporting aching wings. A swoop, five steady beats, and he snakes an
ascent once more at the expense of precious seconds wasted.

Lysseth> Indrath endures cliff and spire whip and spur, for other, smaller,
quicker males press closer -- and when that bright fuel she's drunk is
spent, he'll be aim to be nary a pace away, to lend the incandescence of
neck and tail to light her steps and *lead*, rather than be led. Her
delight at Ymedath's agonized descent is nothing he shares, but her joyous,
headlong rush among stone, that he'll join, outstrip the very wind.

M'silne's breath becomes a sharp series of inhalations and exhalations, the
weyrling's jaw clenched firmly against shadowed pain.

Lysseth> Tianyith lifts high over the dipping and darting group - if she
finds her joy in daring, let her! There are other ways. His daring - HIS -
is to wait and take his opportunity when it presents itself. No other here
can match him for endurance, and the wait, while frustrating, should be
worth it. The night cloaks him as well as it may, but she lights the
heavens yet, and for her he would wait forever.

Lysseth> Lysseth rises at last from her stony maze, abandoning its narrow
paths and threatening spires for the clean, true course of night: no more
does she have the energy for such games, and it takes more than she'd care
to admit merely to rise up into the heaven that is her just desert. Must
she fall, then? Must she drop, like a man who's failed to answer the
questions three, into the abyss of failure and be ensnared by cunning
wings? Not yet; she will defy the stars a moment longer, as long as she
can, and call to the moons--a ringing, ragged bugle--for inspiration. Their
light shall be her guide and path in very deed, and perhaps, should she
press on in this fateful hour, they shall yet stand between herself and the
onset of darkness.

Yashira's chest rises and falls with more regularity. As Decarath is no
longer shadow, she is no longer still. Her eyes narrow further, lips
parting to reveal tightly clenched teeth.

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith yays! Kassi still worked in the required
Holy Grail reference! :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Semeth unlids an eye and peers over.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth has to say, y'all are making this
terribly difficult--you're all posing *beautifully*, quite honestly. :) But
in the interests of not keeping this going too long, shall we do catch
poses after Lysseth's next? (Yep, Saulith, I had to. It's in my contract. ;)

Dragon> Flight sense that Phoukath nods his bluesy head. "Sounds good to
me." :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth ohs! And before I forget, if anyone
*doesn't* want to win, now (or soon) would be a good time to page Kassi and
let her know. :)

Lysseth> Decarath sees her rise, sees her come closer to his level. He
surges forward, this longing he never knew overwhelming him, muscles
straining as he bursts forward, beginning to pour all his energy and effort
into speed. Not much longer...

Lysseth> Alirath rises above the maze as well, though a bit winded from the
exercise. He can't resist a good agility test when led by such zest! And
there they are - the jewels of moons, the jewels of stars, and the jewel
that is Lysseth. He taps into that bugle, saving his breath to perhaps help
gather the wind beneath him, and rockets after the green spark above,
reaching - as both man- and dragon-kind are wont to do, for the heavens and
the beauty above.

Lysseth> Spineth now recognizes the time to stop holding back. His wings
beat with a power that has been held in reserve, he climbs swiftly upwards.
One more cry into the night, a melodious call, a hint of the shared beauty
to come. And should she take that soaring flight straight into the stars,
even there will he follow, to catch, to entwine, to dance the stars together.

Dragon> Spineth bespoke Flight with << Hooray for Lysseth for a great
flight! :) >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith waves the green pompoms!

Dragon> Flight sense that Decarath cheers! I'll be happy seeing any of you
guys win. You're all posing beautiful.

Kassima's eyes fly fully open at last, all hint of lassitude and pleasure
leaving them. "*Nay*," she hisses, more from distress than anger. "Nay--you
*can't* tire, you can't! Keep going, keep flying, you *must*...."

Lysseth> Indrath'll join her ascent to that open air, let her inspiration
limne sunset-streaked wings in ghostly light and set that rich lattice
aglitter. Defy the stars, Lysseth, the unreachable void beyond: scorn
Nature and him alike, and he'd yet be drawn on by the sight, the singular
scent of her, and dare the claws of her other suitors, those of the
mountains below, and those of the sky itself.

Dragon> Flight sense that Alirath adds a confetti toss to the flight leader!

Lysseth> Phoukath's reserves refueled by a spirit of competition as dragons
begin swooping in around him, he angles his way upwards once more, leaving
room for the chasers below to try and outfly their temptation. Having
already indulged himself and displayed his prowess to the glowing would-be
mate before him, he shall do his best to seize opportunity and depend on
the winds that can support his light form better than that of his heavier kin.

Dragon> Flight sense that Spineth is glad he doesn't have to choose. :)

Dragon> Tyrrath bespoke Flight with << You are all fantastic! And Lysseth
is a Posing Goddess. >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth beams and thanks much. :) Y'all have made
this a truly wonderful, memorable comeback flight. And if I could pick you
all without Anne McCaffrey descending upon me in wrath, I would. ;)

Dragon> Flight sense that Indrath adds in his own well-wishing. Good
flight, everybody! :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Phoukath straps an annoying pink polka dot party
hat onto Lysseth. "For she's a jolly good fellow, for she's a jolly good
fellow..."

Dragon> Flight sense that Yrinth nods! Excellent job, everyone! :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Alirath grins at Phoukath. And adds a pink Barbie
cake that says, "Happy bir//flight, Lysseth!"

Dragon> Flight sense that Tyrrath grins as Lysseth picks all the dragons as
winners, then lays a clutch of silver dragon eggs.;)

Lysseth> Tianyith begins his long, high powered dive, calculating the point
where he will reach his goal. More than anything, Tianyith flies to be the
one standing between Herself and the Darkness, to protect yet ravish, to
shine in the darkness not as A star, but as the only star. Closer and
closer he comes, talons beginning to uncurl in the dark to possess what
he's determined will be his.

L'nan has pushed himself off his patch o' wall, though arms are still
crossed and after a step forward he again makes himself stationary.
"Almost... don't waste energy trickster flying, you're almost-"

Ursa has finally, finally forgotten her solomn mood, her concern, the
weyrlings, herself. Her radiant face echoes the exultation of soaring
flight and rousing chase, the intoxicating nearness of the stars and the
glowing green. Even still against that stone wall, she turns that radiant
look upwards, gazing right through the guest weyr's ceiling.

Yashira's fists slowly clench, head tilting sightlessly upward, eyes widening.

M'silne appears to curl even tighter upon himself, his words msotly lost
into his knees. "One swoop, one more easy swoop, my own, and it will all..."

"Still hating you," K'ran mutters, though more half-hearted now, and
without the scowl he wore into the guest weyr.

Lysseth> Lysseth puts a last burst of speed, hoarded against this moment,
into her wings; she'll not be caught like this, ascending only into a
trap--she'll lead them for a few last steps, the pace now more a waltz than
a reel. A waltz under the moons that might yet slow and descend into a
paired dance fit to light the night. Yet she shan't harbor such thoughts
now; they would be tandem to admitting defeat, and that she shall *never*
do. A final twist, towards the first star to the right and straight on 'til
morning: one must join her, catch her, steal her, but there's still this
moment of freedom left to her, and it's a prize she shan't allow to be
wrested from her without difficulty.

Dragon> Flight sense that Phoukath wants a bright orange shirt that says
'Still hating you...' on the front!

"Oh, bite me," Kassima regains sense enough to mutter, but it could be
directed towards anyone. Or, most likely yet, everyone. Nearly cornered,
her gaze turns wild and desperately angry--let her alone! Why won't they
let her alone?

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << It sounds almost like a VSD update.
;) Day 14: Still hating you. >>

G'dron makes a noise for the first time since the beginning - one, deep,
heartfelt cry. His hands reach out beseechingly to Kassi, one step forward
in slow motion, one abiding hope.

Dragon> Flight sense that Indrath snickers. << Still not king. >>

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << Still the prettiest! >>

Dragon> Saulith bespoke Flight with << Still the prettiest--no, wait,
that's Lysseth's line tonight. ;) >>

Lysseth> Decarath has not yet made a sound, and remains silent still,
lust-bright eyes giving him away in the darkness. Dark wings thrust
downward, shove upward again in one more mighty burst, culminating in a
tilted lunge to try to gain her side, neck straining, straining toward hers
in arrogant offering.

Lysseth> Alirath angles himself as he catches a lucky thermal. He doesn't
try to catch her from behind, though, more from the side. She aims for the
first star on her right, so he will aim for the third, twist in the air and
reach, reach for the star-kissed Lysseth with the last of his energy, his
motivation, and his wind. Tail, neck and wings stretch out, to grasp - but
will that grasp be filled?

Lysseth> Spineth spreads his wings in a final burst of speed. They spread
wider than they've ever spread before, he flies higher than he's ever flown
before, approaches faster than he's ever approached before, croons more
lovingly than he's ever crooned before. Banking to intercept her path, he
approaches from below and reaches... neck extending towards her as it's
never extended before. He's appreciated her stardance, now he shall give
her the rest she needs. Now his wings--see these wings?--shall support her,
his neck shall entwine her, his songs shall serenade her.

Lysseth> Phoukath lets fly from his throat a coronet's blast: there! There
lies his chance! Folding his wings onto his back (sweet relief!), he dives
with the wind. Spreading his brightstreaked sails to level out, he tries to
copy the game which he's practiced in play with many of his sisters: to
trap an emerald tail firmly within turquoise coils.

[Editor's Note:  Got disconnected here.  Again.  I think that dial-up
connections may have been invented for the express purpose of raising
my blood pressure.  The Phoukath-pose I missed has been placed 
above. :) ]

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << Oh, for heaven's sake. IQuest's
timing sucks rocks. Did I miss any poses after Spineth's last? >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Phoukath pages his pose.

Dragon> Decarath bespoke Flight with << One Phoukath, I'll page. >>

Dragon> Decarath bespoke Flight with << Or not! >>

Lysseth> Tianyith wobbles a bit in his flight, trying to anticipate in
which direction and whether the green will move if she sees him coming.
Shall we dance?

Lysseth> Indrath's played dancer and gallant, played courser and daredevil
and libertine, and rogue, required now, is not so far a stretch: he'll
light her night 'til dawn comes, make transient cut along the purse of her
freedom. A subtle vaning of 'sails draws him just beneath, and then he's
surging up on carefully-hoarded energy, and offer braced neck and ready
tail to entertain this most discriminating of dance partners.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth all rights and starts working on the
catch. But before I do, I want to thank you all again. I don't think I've
ever held a flight where everyone has been this consistently amazing, and
I'm vastly honored that y'all came to chase. :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Tyrrath echoes Kassi's amazement and is thrilled
for her.:) What a great flight!

Dragon> Flight sense that Tianyith bows. Like a friend said, << Whatever
happens, it's going to be interesting. >> :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith echoes as well. Such talented maleriders
as we have. :)

Dragon> Decarath bespoke Flight with << You were awesome, Kassi! >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Phoukath can't really say 'great flight' with a
wealth of knowledge and experience, but thanks for a *fabulous* first
flight, everyone and especially Kassi. What fun!

Dragon> Flight sense that Tianyith thinks Phouk did extremely well for a
first flight. Vivat.

Dragon> Tyrrath bespoke Flight with << Yes, all of our weyrlings' dragons
were fab.:) >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Decarath flutters eyelashes. Our maiden flight.
Siiiigh!

Dragon> Flight sense that Alirath adds kudos to the first-flighters. My
first flight I mavved not once. Or twice. Four times. Good job, y'all.

Dragon> Flight sense that Tianyith looks around suddenly. /All/ our
weyrlings? How many of you are?

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith laughs. The two PC male ones. :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Phoukath nodsnods. "Be afeared, for our PC class
was over half green!"

Dragon> Yrinth bespoke Flight with << Mbuahaha! >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Tianyith fears!

Lysseth> And when you ride on down the coast road, thinking of silver,
thinking of gold, wondering why the nights are so cold, who will you be
with when you are old? But such concerns are not Lysseth's, for this
flight--this chase--is a thing of blazing, shining glory, not to age nor
let the darkness steal warmth; and warmth there now must be, for those
sharply determined wings can no longer pace this course alone. With a final
cry and last-ditch tactic, she seeks a descent of her own free will... only
to find her path undercut, moonlight switched for dusk, and Indrath's dance
outlasting her own indeed ephemeral sole mastery.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth theres. :) Bless you all again! I hope
you'll chase next flight I run; I've enjoyed myself immensely. You're all
seriously hot sheep. As, well, I've said already, but it bears repeating. ;)

Dragon> Tianyith bespoke Flight with << Good choice Lyss, Indrath's badass
;) >>

Dragon> Decarath bespoke Flight with << Huzzaaaah! >>

Dragon> Phoukath bespoke Flight with << Woot woot woot!! >>

Dragon> Yrinth bespoke Flight with << Yay Indrath! Wonderful job, everyone.
Specially Lysseth. :) >>

Dragon> Tyrrath bespoke Flight with << Woot! Congrats Indrath! >>

Dragon> Spineth bespoke Flight with << Go indrath! (I'm hot sheep?) :) >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Saulith cheers for Lysseth and Indrath both.
Watch for those knives, K'ran. ;)

Lysseth> Alirath twists away from the now entwined Lysseth, diving down to
the lower winds with a saddened warble as he goes.

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << Sheep being a replacement for
something I can't say on this channel. ;) >>

Lysseth> Alirath flies downward towards the southern end of the bowl.

Southern Bowl> Alirath backwings for a landing.

Lysseth> Tianyith overshoots as Indrath catches, and circles downwards, spent.

Lysseth> Tianyith flies downward towards the southern end of the bowl.

Telgar Weyr> Riane now goes to bed, she's up over an hour past bedtime :)
Great flight!

Southern Bowl> Tianyith backwings for a landing.

Dragon> Phoukath bespoke Flight with << I dunno, I think having hot sheep
is pretty damn cool. :) >>

Dragon> Gyreventh bespoke Flight with << Is a hot sheep the opposite of a
nakedfluffy? >>

L'nan growls and bites his lip - and then he's racing out to be with his
lifemate in consolation and comfort.

L'nan leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Lysseth> Decarath veers away, then downward, muscles aching.

G'dron leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Lysseth> Decarath flies downward towards the southern end of the bowl.

Lysseth> Spineth is so close... yet not close enough. A tangle of bronze
and green wings is a disappointment he could not have expected. Soaring
past them, he turns his path downwards, spiralling down.

Lysseth> Indrath's startlement bleeds through his own determination, but
what Fate's given he'll not deny; and twines neck and tail and wings the
better to shelter this prize from the long fall back to earth.

Lysseth> Spineth flies downward towards the southern end of the bowl.

Southern Bowl> Spineth backwings for a landing.

Lysseth> Phoukath's dive continues, his wings flipping only briefly before
he spirals rapidly down to the Bowl, muscles screaming in protest at abuse,
mind screaming in protest at failure.

Lysseth> Phoukath flies downward towards the southern end of the bowl.

Southern Bowl> L'nan wraps arms as much as he can around Alirath's blue
neck, crooning back to the sorrowful and discouraged blue. He murmurs and
soothes, just as Alirath warbles and soothes right back.

Southern Bowl> Spineth settles shakily down to the solid pernese ground,
whimpering pathetically.

Yashira's eyelids flutter; her gaze darts left, then right as she suddenly
rises from her crouch, raking her hands through her hair and stalking out,
one hand stretched out to the side as she passes M'silne.

Yashira leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Ursa's eyes fly open, her attention is brought to the here-and-now, and she
hurries out.

Southern Bowl> Decarath backwings for a landing.

Ursa leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Southern Bowl> Tianyith curls into a disconsolate ball on the bowl floor,
Gad nestled right up next to his head, the two of them looking drained and
upset.

K'ran's desperately trying to blink away distraction and startlement, but
with a step and then another he's closing the distance to the black-clad
greenrider, dragons-lent instinct gilding the blue of his eyes.

Southern Bowl> Phoukath backwings for a landing.

"Still hating me now?" Kassima can't resist asking as she abandons her wall
to step forward, to meet him--but it's a distracted question; her attention
is elsewhere, green eyes locking with blue.

M'silne looks up with sudden intensity, his eyes slowly refocusing on the
here and now. "My own..." he whispers quietly, urgently. He grasps
Yashira's outstretched hand gladly, pushing off the wall and tugging her
forwards out of the weyr.

M'silne leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Southern Bowl> Decarath lands, head swinging from side to side. A lash of
his tail, and his claws grasp at the ground.

Southern Bowl> Ursa moves to Spineth's side, arms wrapping round his
neck... well, not all the way around, but as far as they go. "She was
yours, I know, I know, she was..." she murmers to him. "What say you..."
she asks, "Take flight, you and I, go find a tropical beach?" Then, "I
know, I know, love. She /was/ yours."

Southern Bowl> L'nan remains there in the awkward embrace with Alirath, as
the blue's eyes whirl redness and disappointment is evident in L'nan's
every movement. "We can, lump, we can," he says affectionately, voice
rough. "Anywhere you want, we can go, anywhere."

Southern Bowl> Yashira tugs on M'silne's hand, tilting her head to the
left. "He still wants it," she informs him, predatory look not quite left
her features.

"You?" falls from K'ran's lips, as if she's just asked him why grass is
green. "Him." And then he's lost.