Stuzmoth> Pens
Stuzmoth> Freshened breezes from the lake to the south linger with the stronger scents of herdbeast and wherry, dust and dung, that fill this ovoid enclosure. The sturdy fence sways out into the bowl, captures an outlet of clear blue lake, and, as it meets the bowl wall, grows into a stout wind-shelter replete with hay and feeding troughs; not too far above, a claw-marked series of feeding ledges lie, decorated by a few discarded and bleached-out bones.  A few clusters of green sprout, downtrodden, in the hard ground, tracked over by the stampeding of the herds.
Stuzmoth>   It is a winter afternoon.  The snow on the ground seems to muffle the normal sounds of the day, giving them a strange, muted quality, as if the noises were frozen in the chill air.  Your breath fogs the air in front of you, and is blown away by the western breeze.
Stuzmoth> To the north, you see two people.
Stuzmoth> Squabbling over leftovers is Vedra.
Stuzmoth> Blue Sakuruth is here.
Stuzmoth> You see Herd of Herdbeasts, Kukalaka, and Orange beastie herd here.
Stuzmoth> Obvious exits:
Stuzmoth> Stables     Barn     Training Grounds     Central Bowl     Beach

Stuzmoth> Kelitath drops in from above; beasts scatter. Wiser than they look, aren't they?

Mhari steps with unconscious grace in from the Central Bowl.

Stuzmoth> Stuzmoth lets out his usual gurgling croak, happy enough to see Kelitath even if the feeling isn't mutual. Lips curl back from his fangs to display yellowing fearsome daggers, mate to the too-long scimitars capping each finger and toe. Lovely, isn't he?

Quara saunters into the caverns, heading, as always, for the wine. There, she pours herself a glass, sipping it, before she looks around. "Mhari! Darling! You'll be wanting the Benden as well, dear?" she inquires, with a grin and a wink. Oh, dear. That's the flight-flirt, it is. Beware.

Meanwhile, as lifemate-dear wreaks havoc in the Pens, H'naw is here to, well, generally look scary. Utterly too tall and boyish-looking, he squints down a bulbous, hooked nose with eyes to close together at Mhari. "So it's /you/ again," rumbles the rider, voice jumping from tenor to bass to level out at a baritone.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath arrives in a flurry of wings and plenty of disturbed snow flying everywhere. Her gaze slides over the grounds and the males - disdainful, haughty. None of the male gender hold even a little of her attention as she fastidiously cleans ice from her talons.

Stuzmoth> Aztekith winks in from ::between::, a harsh sun of bronze spreading below him.

Caylea silently, suavely, glides in from the Central Bowl.

Stuzmoth> Daeyn slips in from the barn's side-door.
Stuzmoth> Daeyn heads out across the bowl.

Daeyn stalks restively in from the Central Bowl.

Sakuruth> So long as he stays in the shadows. Kelitath pauses in the midst of chasing off a particularly persistent ice crystal to turn a glare on a blue who treads a little too close. Glowing? Her? She's nt glowing. Or perhaps one might say she's not admitting she's glowing. Restessly, the tip of her tail lashes at the snow covered ground, digging up icy lumps which are then scattered in a restless fury.

Quara deftly pours a second glass of the wine, handing it to Mhari and looping the stem of her own through her fingers, all without spilling any. "Lovely, dear." Eyebrows raise slightly at H'naw; next to him, she's bound to be a lovely choice. "Keli's a preference?" comes the laconic inquiry, after another sip of the ruby liquid.

Daeyn has a certain sense for proddy riders, and this one causes her to pause in the - safe? - shadows of the entrance to the living caverns, a flicker of consultation with her brown before she sighs.  "We don't have time for this, 'wyllth ..."

Hikari arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

Ch'slyn, however, is not on the prowl.  In fact, he seems in a rather good mood.  Despite the rather territorial pleas of his dragon beyond these stone walls, despite Az's near callused eyes locked on the glowing one, this rider seems unremarkably cheerful.  And yet...he's in his...'jamas?  White clads his stocky form, a flimsy loose material one would only wear in bed, or around the weyr, so to speak.  Never in public.  However, he's presentable, striding over to a table -very- near said green's rider.  "Noon, all."

Hiliza arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

Stuzmoth> Of course she's not glowing. Anwyllth, with his fine, discerning eye for every nuance of shades, would never attempt to claim that she was. The brown lumbers on his path, a thing of ponderous gracelessness. If anything, he's making a subtle attempt not to be noticed ... not yet.

Raoul snaps out of *between* with a flick of his milky blue tail.

Mhari accepts her wineglass, sky-blue gaze switching rapidly from rider to rider as she sips, one finger coming up to twine a golden ringlet about itself absently. "Preference? Oh, how could there be, with so many lovely, big, strong...." Words trail off, and next her steps are taking her towards Ch'slyn, lips quirking. "Ready for bed already?"

Hiliza comes back to a -very- crowded Living Caverns. "A girl goes away for a minute..." she murmers to herself, not at all displeased. She waves cheerfully toward the people she knows, signing out "Hiiiii!!" per the norm. Smiles are given out to the others as she makes her way over. Not suprisingly, she bears no hint of working or planning on it, though perhaps she should. Stopping halfway to the tables, Hiliza ponders this a moment and detours. Broom and dustpan are retrived for sweeping-near the tables, of course.

Stuzmoth> Stuzmoth demands recognition, unlike his rider. Granted, it's a lumpy, twisted form that begs for attention, fully functional yet... grotesque in shading, pattern, and color. Even the inherent bronze of his hide is sickly - or is that merely the splattering of blood he's indulging himself in, in this sloppy debauchery?

Stuzmoth> Far be it to spoil the fun. Lengthy charred tongue flickers over Redsanded muzzle as Aztekith's eyes whirl with a crimson gait. Contrary to his rider, the brown only passes his fellows embroided hisses, wings rustling lightly against his back, muscles rippling beneath toned hide. Showing off? Well, someone had to. He seems almost...agitated at something.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath's gaze snaps onto Aztekith and a hiss of warning and snarling fury emerges, the green edging sideways and back a little... further away from those males. The herd of animals, understandably disturbed by the gathering of predators is awarded a measureing glance. But she doesn't move, not yet. Rather, wings are refolded fussily and her tail-tip continues to lash the ground.

Two steps in the caverns, and Rauve is already contemplating departure. Proddy riders never were his Thing. But he is rather thirsty, and for once, wine won't quench him. Polite --yet curt-- nods are angled toward anyone he happens to recognize, attention soon refocused on attaining a cup of 'juice.

Daeyn mutters to herself as she skirts the very edge of the room, well avoiding the cluster of riders near the proddy one.  Someone's in a less than sterling mood, her usual attitude towards flights unfortunately not doing much for it.

H'naw certainly has the qualification 'big' under his belt, though strong doesn't seem to want to validate itself any time soon. Large, lanky rider lurks in a lackluster lair, some creepy corner of the cavern, quiescently quiet. /Feel/ the alliteration.

Leaning back slightly on the bench, his eyes following the greenrider with only the barrest reflections of his brooding 'partner', Ch'slyn gives an appreciative nod, lips pursing for a moment, free hand reaching up to ruffle through the many stray locks of sun-burnt brown hair.  Eyes trail down to his own clothes, though they, as a point, mean very little to him.  An innocent shrug is given, his 'award winning' smile plastered back on, aimed directly at Mhari.  "Thought I'd take a break from the norm."  YOu know, real clothes verses nighties?

Mhari isn't going to be avoided by anyone, not today. The more people she attempts to seduce now, the more people she gets to seek out, blushing, and apologise to afterwards, a habit the greenrider persists in, even after all these turns. And so she's on the move again, sipping slowly from her wineglass, stalking her prey. Rauve. "Not going to run away again, are you?" she asks, words half a purr, although fingers are already wiggling a greeting to Daeyn.

Stuzmoth> Sakuruth continues to wait for Kelitath to make her move, patient, his gambit not yet revealed; but then, he might not have one. A quiet rumble, hardly noticeable, begins deep in his chest, a confident sound that has a hint of laughter in it.

Stuzmoth> Anwyllth curls up almost like a feline, tail lashing about to buttress his form as he crouches, indomitable sphinx who might be pronouncing judgement upon the scene rather than taking part of it. His head snakes downwards, breaking his own tableau as eyes lid to deceptive slumberous depths. Only the faintest sparkle tells the tale of the alacrity of his attention.

Stuzmoth> Finally done rolling in as much blood as he's drunken, Stuzmoth straightens himself as far as crooked form will allow, slurping up the remains of his kills with regard to only partake of liquids. It's only by chance certain once-solids have liquified under his... frolic.

"Daeyn, dear! Benden?" Quara's appointed herself official barmaid for the duration, and pours glasses of wine in between sips of her own drink, and quiet flirtation with anyone who'll talk to her. And, as hostess, she makes it her duty to see that everyone who'd be likely to participate in what's to come is well prepared. And wine does that nicely. So she's serving it. "Anyone need more?"

Rauve lifts a brow toward a lanate hairline, the taste of unadulterated fruit juice abnormally refreshing. "Not unless I find the need?" he answers bluntly, though cheeks flame a rather dazzling rose; a proclivity he's known for.

Daeyn shakes her head at Quara's query, flashing a brief smile nonetheless.  "Evening, Mhari ... no, thank you, I don't drink unless there's something wrong."  Not that she'll stop anyone else ... and not that this couldn't be considered 'something wrong' with the mood she's in.

Pemeron arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

"Don't I get any Benden?" whines H'naw from his shadowed corner, his voice lurching into the higher ranges of baritone - all the better to wheedle with, my dears. Even attempting to relax, the man looks uncomfortable - or simply ridiculous? - hunched over in a chair.

Stuzmoth> Affords the green her hiss, decidedly remaining in place as his eyes trail over her glowing glamour before glancing back towards the other males. The life's blood he'd so recently drunk running its course through his tawny form, paperweighted wings hugging his side, tail prowling behind, ever restless. The patterns of an overheated desert run ember cracks along his burnished hide, half lit towards silvery bronze, half shaded within darkened browns, ever shifting beneath a glimse of light.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath shifts again and abruptly springs into action without even a little warning to anythign in her path. Herdbeasts scatter before her, although she pays most of them no mind. A second later and her kill is brought down, slender muzzle fastening greedily to the herdbeast's neck almost before her talons tear it's life away.

Quara rolls her eyes at the rider's whining, splashing some wine into a glass and sending it H'naw's way. "There, you." So polite... But Mhari's the one she's interested in, of course. So, abandoning her post, she makes her way towards the greenrider with a little wiggle of her hips. She can shake her groove thang, yeah.

Hiliza purses her lips. Oh! Lookie! Someone else. "Hiii! Pemeron!" She waves madly, loosing her broom in the intirm. Oops. High Reaches has it's vast array of people, and an overly happy(usually) slightly.. not-all-there drudge is just another cookie on the platter, so to speak. Retriving her broom and thusly sweeping all the dust, etc. she magnaged to land the broom in, back into a pile, Hiliza is all grins. A vast difference from the moody, stuck up girl she was when she arrived. Well, she always knew Apay was smart.

"Did I hear whine?  -Just- the thing I need to wake me up."  Ch'slyn comments, reaching an oddly palid hand -so greatly contrasting his 'beachboy' appearance- for his own glass.  His eyes gaze about the cavern, ambar hints flickering within their dark shades.

Mhari considers this, one hand outstretched, a single finger now beckoning H'naw closer. It's like being in a candy store, and having the place to herself. Eyes are upon Quara, but it's to Rauve she speaks. "Need? There's not going to be any need. Do I look like something you'd want to run away from?" Words, once more, trail off -- somewhere, outside, away, a beast is blooded.

Stuzmoth> Sakuruth follows suit after the green a split second later. If he weren't telepathic, you'd think he was psychic. Skimming over the pens for a moment, he selects a young herdbeast and bloods it, talons sinking as his jaws surround the beast's neck, snapping it carelessly in his quest for blood, that banal counterpart to his rider's beloved wine.

Pemeron sits down and looks at his boots for a while.  He takes them off and inspects the interior, shaking one out and finding ... geez... an eighth mark in it. "Well, by Faranth, this is a great day." He holds the piece in his hand for a moment and then reaches into his pouch, counting his horde... "Shards... must have a hole in m'pouch..." So saying, he stands and looks around for any other partial marks he may have dropped.

Stuzmoth> Anwyllth gazes out from beneath cavernous brows, ashen heat in his breath as well as salting his curved claws. The glimmer brightens, a hint of fire flaring in somnolent depths and growing ... yet at such a pace that one might well believe him of keeping sentinel for this flight, gathering strength and energy for the next. But no, it is Kelitath he seeks, and so a beast that wanders too close to the only dragon that isn't scaring it out of its wits is pounced on with an almost negligent snap of movement. He resumes utter stillness again, only the lapping of tongue interrupting it.

Rauve thins his mouth for a moment, the slightly uneven crook in one corner never quite relieved. "Under the circumstances, I could argue a 'yes' rather easily," he murmurs, voice unbroken, a hand raked through caramel-tinted locks. His cheeks, however, remain scarlet. Greenriders tend to give him the shivers.

H'naw hefts himself to his big feet with an audible groan - though he's at best not even into his thirties. It must be a psychological thing. Padding across the caverns, he hones in on Mhari and the Benden promised. Not to mention other things to come, once Kelitath takes to the air.

Quara laughs merrily at Rauve's comment, sidling up next to Mhari with the grace of time long spent in social circles. "We're not that frightening, are we?" she asks of him, with an eyelash-fluttering wink, taking in Ch'slyn in a brief glance.

Daeyn vanishes into the convenient nearest patch of shadows with a mug of cider, quite content to forget and be forgotten.  She props up one foot against the stone, trying to tug herself into the notion that watching the other riders will at least be entertaining ...

Stuzmoth> Stuzmoth lolls about, the bloodied gargoyle now twitching about as the once-hot blood chills soon in cold High Reaches air. The only cure for this is more blood, adding to his gruesome tally in the pens. Fangs sink in as do claws, both leaving trails of red for him to slurp at his leisure.

Stuzmoth> Aztekith remains on his station, eyes locked upon the green as she takes flight, diving then upon the kill. Every motion is watched: every tactful movement noted. Already a stratigy forms within the wisened mind of this desert 'god', muscles quivering in heated excitement. The image of his mind, a vaste, flattened desert, where little dares to grow. The moon, hugged low in the opposite horizon, casting glints off this brown's bronzen hide. Eyes dripping with the crimson blood of ancient sacrifices hunt Kelitah, the sun casting purpled hues against the plain, but having yet to explode above the horizon. Patience...

Stuzmoth> Kelitath discards her first choice with a disdainful shrug, gaze exploring the nerest creatures with quiet, mild interest that is then submerged beneath lust as she leaps, wings catching the air, a powerful movement which brings her down on a fat, shrieking wherry. Shrieks die in a heartbeat as she turns her attention to draining this new prey. Gradually, like fire slipping along a trickle of oil, a bright, hot glow steals along the threads of brass, flame and copper that dances over her half spread wings. It's sets the rich shades of her green hide aflame as well, a steadily depening glow searing her ouline into brilliance.

Bester mrowls curiously at the crowd and pounces onto something odd rolling across the floor. His paw catches the.. well.. whatever it is, and he begins to bat it around. What is this mystery object? Well, it could be a pepple, lost mark, button, or something more disgusting that probably wouldn't be too pleasant to mention.

So much choice, so little time to enjoy them all. Something that's halfway between a hum and a purr is aimed at H'naw, Ch'slyn and Quara, the greenrider watching each of them through her lashes in turn. Then a finger goes out, pointing towards Daeyn, lower lip jutting out in the most adorable of pouts. "Her. She's ignoring me. Why's she doing that?"

Rauve runs his thumb against the rim of his cup, considering Quara a moment before attempting response. "Normally? No." He's grown accustomed to their peculiarity. "Now?..." Excessively. Mhari's lack of attention (toward his person) is noted with a relieved deflation. Threat gone. All is well.

Threat gone? Shows what you know...

Hiliza continues to sweep, diligently picking up dust and Faranth knows what else. "Okay, fine Pemeron, don't say hello," her  tone is joking... but then she asks, "Looking for something? I've been sweeping.. d'you want to check the pile?" It's not like he doesn't go through ickier stuff normally, right?

"Ridiculous," H'naw decides, voice lumbering back into the baritone range of things and bordering on bass in some quiet introspection. The wine he's somehow obtained is swirled in his glass, half tipped by in a gigantic shot - to go straight to his brain, no doubt.

Stuzmoth> Sakuruth springs from the ground just after Kelitath, following her into the air and abandoning his herdbeast, wings pounding as he attempts to regain the distance she temporarily managed to put between them.

Ch'syln places his mug on the table before him, drink ignored in favor of the images his brown sends him, eyes lost, unfocused, as the green bloods.  "Mm.. you could try this, yes..but it's perhaps not the wisest of all decisions." Chuckle returns to his features, rosing his cheeks as his eyes refocus, though the new found light never dimming.  Private discussions asside, prideful and gunning emotions sent to Aztekith, urging him -not- to try and catch the green while she still blooded, Ch'syln blinks, glacing about the room.  "Ignoring?"  Pushing away from the bench, the rider gazes towards Daeyn.  No reason not to have a little fun with this...  Motioning towards Daeyn, "Never ignore a lady...tis not nice!"  One could almost hear the mirth tinting his words, as he turns back to Mhari.  "I tried?  No worries..we'll all comfort you."

Pemeron looks up at Hiliza "Oh... lookin for a couple of ... ah... quarter mark pieces... my pouch seems to have a hole." He kneels down and looks in the pile "Yep... there's one there." He picks it up, all smeared with some kind of something, and wipes it before putting it away.  He takes the 1/8 mark from his pocket and says "Here." handing it to Hiliza.

Stuzmoth> Anwyllth savors the herdbeast fallen victim to his breath flurry of activity, spinning out each drop of life-fluid for every molecule of throbbing heat before drinking it down, an estatic growl forming deep in his throat and building as the blood acts as catalyst to oft-dormant energies, a spark of electricity to limbs and litheness.

Daeyn narrows her eyes in a glower towards Ch'slyn.  "None of us ladies, during a flight," she says tartly, her attention wandering away again.  She isn't usually this acerbic, really, but right now her jaw is visibly clenched and one has to pity the mug she's holding.

Mhari seems to have decided she rather likes her pout, for she aims it at Daeyn once more, adding a quick flutter of her eyelashes. Suddenly, wineglass is drained, and tossed aside, and she's off again. Time to get out in the open air, away from such a big cavern, where there are so many places for them to hide from her.

Mhari exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
Caylea exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

H'naw clunks his glass down with a solid thud, still managing to leave the thing in tact as he departs. There she goes... and with a sigh, so he follows.

Daeyn exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Bundle up 'gainst snow or sun! The bowl is open to seasons' wrath.

Central Bowl
Seven spindles brush the clouds -- quite literally -- overhead, a jagged, spired cotillion grey-stoned majesty. The bowl from here is expansively large, extending a full half mile in both directions, and although sometimes a bit of a stretch, most of the hubs of activity can be easily observed. Hard-packed ground shows the common pathways, all of them meandering about the craggy bunch of boulders that form a centerpiece: carven, hand-worn and foothold-full, it gives a bit of centerpoint to the otherwise vast emptiness of the area.
To the north lie the hatching grounds and leadership weyrs, while the lows of herdbeasts mark the feeding pens to the northeast. A flurry of ever-present activity marks the living caverns to the west, and another time-traveled path the ground weyrs just adjacent to the southwest. Southeast, a glint of blue shows the lake, glittering and cold.
  It is a winter afternoon.  The snow on the ground seems to muffle the normal sounds of the day, giving them a strange, muted quality, as if the noises were frozen in the chill air.  Your breath fogs the air in front of you, and is blown away by the western breeze.
Clinging to footholds in the boulder-mound are Zhaneel, Vanitas, Antietam, Tremayne, Immie, Archimedes, Sentanta, Gavin, Gyahaahaa, Wilt, Archer, Chiernathe, Beats, Martini, Wyrre, and Pandora.
Bronze Nhamarath, bronze Rixesith, green Yshanth, brown Druseth, and green Alymath are here.
You see a wagonmaster, Kageri, Ruff, and Rocky Egg here.
Eiryn, Ehryca, Lilinia, Mhari, Caylea, and Daeyn are here.
Obvious exits:
Pens     Northern Bowl     Caverns     Ground Weyrs     Lakeside     Guards HQ

Stuzmoth> Kelitath brushes the remains of her wherry aside, instinctively crouching away, away from that male. It's a demand, a dsire. Somethign she cannot argue with. Thus, even as the glow of her hide reaches a peak against the white and red snow beneath her bloodied talons, she tenses. Spangles of bronce glitter on her wings as she spreads them and her gaze slides upwards. The sky! It holds freedom, freedom from those arrogant pursuers and she hurtles herself skywards.

Mhari abandons the bowl for ground weyr's shelter.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath leaps up Up UP into the air.

Open sky is exchanged for protecting stone.

Ground Weyrs
Once a mere overhang in the bowl wall, this arched stone enclave was deepened in aeons past by who-knows-what to provide shelter for injured dragons and their mates. Craggy walls loom high to dwarf rider and dragon alike, sloping back from the weather-open entrance to a low opening into the infirmary itself. Stacked under rock-shaded cover are low supply chests of sturdy timber, flanked with long tables. Other openings are shaded by wherhide curtains, leading to smaller, private caverns for the dragonhealers' patients.
  It is a winter afternoon.  The snow on the ground seems to muffle the normal sounds of the day, giving them a strange, muted quality, as if the noises were frozen in the chill air.  Your breath fogs the air in front of you, and is blown away by the western breeze.
Settled on rough-hewn ledge are Bow-Wow, Thessalonike, Commander, Freak, and Marp.
You see Generic Egg Pot here.
Mhari is here.
Obvious exits:
Bowl     Inner Ground Weyr     Infirmary

Daeyn comes into shelter from bowl's wide open spaces.

Stuzmoth> Anwyllth leaps up Up UP into the air.

Stuzmoth> Stuzmoth prowls in obvious discomfort; no suave suitor nor patient stalker is he, pacing back and forth with talons dragging in dirt. Someone else's picked-over herdbeast is listlessly sucked at, drained of it's fast-cooling blood as the same starts to coagulate over dirty bronze hide. Lucky, lucky Kelitath, should she manage to find herself ensared with /this/. But first - up!

Stuzmoth> Up up up! Wings beat to lift you up out of the dusty pens.

Stuzmoth> Above the Feeding Pens
Stuzmoth> Wayward breezes carry the mixed scent of herdbeast and wherry from below, occasionally fusing with the salty odor of the ocean from afar. Spires overlook and shadow the pens below, often blanketing the scythed, claw-cut ledges used for feeding. Thermals, unusually steady for this area, keep that scent aloft and ever-present, growing stronger as they descend to the feeding grounds below.
Stuzmoth>   It is a winter afternoon.  The snow on the ground seems to muffle the normal sounds of the day, giving them a strange, muted quality, as if the noises were frozen in the chill air.  Your breath fogs the air in front of you, and is blown away by the western breeze.
Stuzmoth> Green Kelitath and brown Anwyllth are here.
Stuzmoth> Obvious exits:
Stuzmoth> Up     Pens     Weyrling Air     Above the Lake     Above the Bowl     Ledges

Stuzmoth> Aztekith bursts up from the dust below.

Stuzmoth> Stuzmoth barrels into the sky with the grace of a drunken wherry, yet with better aerodynamics due to the furious pumping of pinions against the cold air. Faranth only knows how long he can keep this up, but it's a good effort to close the lead set by Kelitath.

Stuzmoth> Anwyllth rocks back onto his haunches and echoes Kelitath's movement an icy breath behind, his transformation chameleonic as earth becomes sky: trundling bulk becomes a streamlined glide of ice, awkward tangled webs of wings turn into intricately sketched aerodynamic canopies. Melting, shifting, warping, the Anwyllth-ogre turns into a sky-sylph. Flirting with the clouds, he rises higher and higher, taking his favored vantage point above most of the rest of the chase.

Stuzmoth> Colors so bright, painted across a canvas by some lunitic artist, grace Aztekith's eye as the Desert sun explodes into the air. So begins the chase! Wings cupped tightly to his sides, the brown's strong hind legs heave him off the ground with unbelievable will. While still hanging between his point of flight and ground, those great sail-build ornaments spread, grabbing the air about and using it to climb. The first down pump sends the dirt and dust that lines the pens flying, a maniacs whirlwind sent ascew as the brown quickly rises into the air, sending out an almost haunting musical note towards the green.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath is intend on speed, wings working swiftly to pull her further and further ahead like a blazing arrow let loose. Height matters little to her yet and she's aimed directly towards the bowl wall - seemingly uncareing that it won't shift for her. Stone sweeps closer, closer until she seems certain to smash headlong against the cold rock. Yet at the last moment she swerves, swirling to her left and then upwards again to pop over the edge of the bowl and immediately plunge downwards - momentarily out of the sight of those nuisancy pursuers.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath spirals higher, looping up past the Spindles themselves.
Stuzmoth> Aztekith spirals higher, looping up past the Spindles themselves.
Stuzmoth> Anwyllth spirals higher, looping up past the Spindles themselves.

Stuzmoth> So you go up, up, and up somemore, spiralling past ledges and Star Stones and up past the very Spindles themselves.

Stuzmoth> Above High Reaches
Stuzmoth> Quite, quite high, nothing braves these heights but stone and dragon and cloud; the Star Stones jut dutifully above the Weyr proper, flayed by the mountain winds that are consistant at this altitude whilst the rest spreads below, protected by its crown of jagged stone spires'-teeth.
Stuzmoth>   It is a winter afternoon.  The snow on the ground seems to muffle the normal sounds of the day, giving them a strange, muted quality, as if the noises were frozen in the chill air.  Your breath fogs the air in front of you, and is blown away by the western breeze.
Stuzmoth> Gliding around are Pix and Aztekith.
Stuzmoth> Green Kelitath and brown Anwyllth are here.
Stuzmoth> Obvious exits:
Stuzmoth> Weyr     Over The Mountains     Star Stones

Stuzmoth> The world flies below in a blaze of startling colors, and yet the only object for him lays straight ahead, in the form of his desert oasis, -his- Kalitath. For she must be his! (egotistical, no?) Height! He must strive for height, else there would be no chance of his massive, wrinkly bulk to catch this cunning flower. Flower? Instead she presents the form of a desert viper, ready to plunge all into that wall face in the sheer thrill of flight. Cindered ash wings stroke down once more, a great heave of wind propelling him upwards, still more above the green. Crimson jaded eyes never leave Kelitath as she leads her foes towards the rock, and no surprise registers as she swerves upwards, last second. Instead, he's ready for her, another self-rightieous (sp) creel sent towards her, broken by the wind's sting.

Stuzmoth> Stuzmoth's grunt is audible as he wings higher, flapping fiercely with a sharp snap of sails against the wind. Gangly body dangles, no extra energy in holding limbs close or craning his neck high. No - all that blood spilt in the pens is for wings alone, for tail and neck and legs are only important should that tiger, tiger burning bright in the middle of the night fall into his clutches.

Stuzmoth> Anwyllth takes no more heed to Kelitath's vagaries movements than an icy gale would, clipping the clouds with the wind's uncaring heedlessness, brushing stone as close as to meld with it in passing before spiraling upwards, further heights attained and made his ally. Blood sings through his veins, a song of the elements, calling the energy of each to him: flame's searing heat, water's fluidity, air's swiftness and earth's endurance. No seduction crooned, no warning of his presence: one deed is worth any number of words.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath dances in the air. Frolics around clouds as she twists and turns with that viperish speed. For a time, her attention is fixed soly on the glory of flight, of the responsivness of her own agile body in her dare-devil like antics. She spins in and out of wispy clouds, delighting now in flashing close to her suitors before spainnign away. She's quicksilver in gold and green, far faster than even the fastest chaser as she leads them all onwards over the mountains. The pace is intense, enough to send one wouldbe (NPC) winner spiraling down, out of the race.

Stuzmoth> Stuzmoth starts to flag, dipping and swerving from what was once an unerring course straight from him to Kelitath. But unlike the spiraling loser, he continues to lurch upward like an ungreased chain, slowly turning upon it's rusty cog to inch painfully upward. Ascent is slow, labored, but gradually he rises - though the others may leave him far behind, including Kelitath.

Stuzmoth> There is quality of mercury about Anwyllth's form, deceptively rounded and solid, yet the slightest tilt of breeze or imperceptible twitch of wingtips, and he rolls with elusive liquidity, bending with jointless ease. He curves through the air as a dolphin through the water, weaving past and through barriers only he can perceive. It almost seems he is possessed of an elemental second sight as he darts at random through adorning cloudwisps and into the carrying drafts of fierce icy breaths. But despite the world Anwyllth has drawn to his breast, it lacks one thing: Kelitath.

Stuzmoth> Tis not nice to play bumperbodies. Thus the 'wisened' brown pulls away from the cluster of dragons, going higher only so his wings have full stretch without the hinderence of wondering if he may ram into another dragon within one of the green's spiraling turns. Above, the burning sun streaks across his broken-glass form, those blackened areas lit to an almost silvery sheen, then returning to normal within the frosty clouds as he follows pursuite of this dancing vipress. Within each dive, legs tuck closely, onyx claws tightening against his wrinkly hide, tail whiplashing behind him in seductive furry. Stanima, not speed, lends strength to the brown, and he shall not end his starlit hunt until his neck intwines with him...or Kelitath falls to another's touch. [Aztekith]

Stuzmoth> Kelitath coyly swirls higher, dancing close - perhaps too close - to some of her pursuers. But with a flurry of wings, she off again to flirt with clouds rather than hot dragons. Yet even as the late afternoon sun glints off the spangles in her hide, her engery abruptly fades and she slows. Falling back she's now in the midst of the little band of would be winners, shreiking out her dismay even as she tries to evade them, evade them all...

Stuzmoth> Yes, yes, yes! Stuzmoth crows triumphantly as that Sands-forged beauty drops lower and lower, to his awkward, trembling rise. Wings start to shake even know - what prize will Kelitath win herself in this loathesome creature? A weak and waif-like lover, barely managing to break their fall with his own supposedly superior wingspan? But, ah, Kelitath - here he comes!

Stuzmoth> Aztekith's sun-hued eyes burn with an almost possesive fiery as he watches the green mock their motions with each spritely twist. And yet he's studied this Sun, it's every turn and curve upon the dawning sky, it's every life giving, life taking motion. And he's prepared for its finale, where the sun begins to sink towards the other horizon. And as Kelitath's wings urge her to elude them all, Aztekith's quickly fold upon themselves, the brown now using gravity and massive body to his advantage. Except, now tail dances ever more tightly behind him, almost -eagerly- awaiting this elusive serpent. Forearms, however much weaker then hind, reach out towards the green, seeking a hold that would bring him closer to her... and gravity plunges him down upon her, dropping from the sky, envading her space. Lust is a powerful emotion, when coupled with sky and ground...

Stuzmoth> Anwyllth's tail snaps with the hiss of flame, a sharp sussuration rippling through his body as he backwings through the air, his erstwhile ally stabbing him in the back with a solid wall of inertia. But would his wings wither, the blood evaporate in his veins, his strength sap away into the roiling winds, still he seeks the green, something-that-is-Anwyllth and nothing else awakened to a sudden, roaring fervor. He lunges for Kelitath, nothing else of consequence but himself, her, and the space between them.

Stuzmoth> Kelitath ducks, swerves - flings herself desperately through a cloud to avoid one bronze's greedy snatch. A blue below her darts up and she sideslips, almost flailing. this way, that way... she turns and turns again only to be met with another hopeful on every side. Above - she swerves again and barely manages to avoid colliding with Anwyllth, even as her wings half tangle with his and she surrenders to his fervour.

Mhari stands stock still in the centre of the weyr, eyes unfocused, body tensed. Suddenly, she springs to life, usually cheerful and polite face animated with something far, far less harmless as she turns, slowly, unerringly, towards Daeyn, one finger pointing in the other woman's direction.

Stuzmoth> Ah... This may not have been the release Stuzmoth originally intended, but it is good enough. The bronze drops towards the bowl, wings barely held outstretched as he drifts like an errant leaf.

H'naw follows his dragon's lead - run for your life and jump in the lake. At least he didn't try to insinuate himself into Mhari and Daeyn's pairing, as seems to be the custom up north.