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6/3/2001
Logfile from G'deon
MOO Time: 2001-06-03 14:07:25

Nylanth> Above, Plymouth heads in from above the lake.
Nylanth> Above, Plymouth drops down towards the Bowl.
Nylanth> Plymouth drops in from above, landing with a light *thud*.
Nylanth> Above, Catiminith drops in from Spires' height.
Nylanth> Above, Catiminith glides off towards the pens.

G'deon slowly takes a seat, eyeing the bit of contention between Pia and Merra with curiosity. "Why would Mialie mind?" he replies to Pia before starting to tear apart a flaky pastry.

Nylanth> Above, Llama heads in from above the lake.
Nylanth> Above, Llama drops down towards the Bowl.
Nylanth> Llama drops in from above, landing with a light *thud*.

Zi'n nods at Jesha, chuckling slightly. "I did. I prefer this climate. Never got used to the heat." Bronzerider wrinkles his nose and sips his klah. "Klah's better here too, y'know, when it's cold. Who can stand klah in that heat?" Well, anyone but him, probably, but nevermind.

Nylanth> Fallanth takes off.
Nylanth> Above, Fallanth takes off from Central Bowl
Nylanth> Above, Fallanth circles leisurely towards the lake.

Merra regards the vintner with a gaze that's only faintly venomous. "Well, we can't all be as lucky as I was to meet someone as wonderful as Gid," she answers finally, though the look she gives her weyrmate is affectionate, untainted by any malice. She also has no explanation for the contention, ignoring her now in favor of the bronzerider. "You've certainly been cheerful today. What brought that on?"

Maeve arrives from deeper in the Weyr.

The last few drops of klah are drained and the brownrider nods vigorously at her bronzeridin' companion. "You got it," says Jesh, brushing her mug to the side and balancing her chin on a hand. "Besides, Pyrene and a bunch of folks've been buggin' me to transfer for the last 8 or so turns... perhaps longer. I think something was mentioned the night I Impressed, which was..." Fingers are ticked off slowly -- noone said she was a math genius -- "Well, I just turned 23, impressed at 12... 12? No, 11 turns ago."

Nylanth> Above, Catiminith sneaks in from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Above, Catiminith drops down towards the Bowl.
Nylanth> Catiminith drops in from above, landing with a light *thud*.
Nylanth> A touch of orchid shimmers with Sora's descent, leaving behind Catiminith's elegant indigo ridges for the more stolid support of the ground.

Tiseerim walks in from the Central Bowl.

Pyrene wanders distractedly in from the Central Bowl.

"Ohh, you Impressed early," Zi'n proclaims, marveling with his genius, no doubt. "I think I was the oldest in /my/ candidate group... I was just reaching 24." Faranth, he's a novice, isn't he?

J'mi blinks in from ::between::!

Pia shrugs a shoulder carelessly. "I was under the impression that Mialie was rather fond of you, G'deon. But, perhaps I was wrong." Another shoulder twitch and the girl redirects her attention to her plate, missing Pyrene's entrance.

Cytherea blinks in from ::between::!

Living Caverns (#392)
The rough-hewn majesty of this cavern far outpaces any delight in the multitudes of curves that form its enclosure. The glabrous grey granite is shot through with translucent obsidian, lending subtly-veined sparkle to the walls and the foot-trodden smoothness of the floor that shows centuries-old placements of the scarred trestle tables; carven hollows give homes for the glow baskets and the coat-pegs that line the walls. No mosaics, no painting, no tiles: just a few well-done tapestries mark the pathway that lead to the kitchen to the north and the inner caverns to the west, and frame the nighthearth's stew and snacks, while a heavier strip of oiled canvas shields the unwary from the wind in the bowl.
Scattered about in various perches and niches are fifty-five firelizards.
You see OOC NOTICE (look sign), Generic Sign-Up Sheet, Look at Me Postcard to Tatia, White Clay Egg Pot, Jaeshri, and Gigi here.
You notice Cassio asleep here.
Zi'n, Merra, Jesha, Pia, Ceridwin, Tiseerim, and Pyrene are here.
Obvious exits:
Bowl --- Kitchens --- Inner Caverns --- Crafting Area

Tiseerim nods to the people as she walks in "hello."

Zi'n (#17149)
Shorter than before, though still long enough to get in the way, strands of errant hair fall around this young man's forehead and ears, the color a rich, dark brown, with the occasional peak of a persistent auburn highlight. Eyes are mostly half-covered behind the locks, though when open they gleam attentively at their surroundings, bright hazel dusted with emerald flecks. Skin tanned by Istan sun stretches over lean muscles, and the occasional sprinkle of freckles can appear 'round nose and cheek. Though standing a handspan or two 'neath average height and being a bit on the skinny side, there's nothing noticeable about him, apart from a few small, almost invisible scars one might notice on his lower arms.
As if painted on, tight leathers cling to the form of slender body. Warm cinnabar washes from shoulders over chest, past slim hips and down until disappearing into black riding-boots. Gloves sheat his hands, the russet leather, done with golden stitches, complimenting both cinnabar leathers and tarnished bronzen riding straps. Perched on Zi'n's shoulder is Radinka.
Ebony and steel twist and turn on Zi's shoulder, forming a High Reaches Weyr Wingrider's knot. A single strand of gilted bronze is woven into the midst of it, a symbol of love for his lifemate, Orbyth.
He is awake and looks alert.
Zi'n is 25 Turns, 10 months, and 24 days old.

Merra (#19066)
The faded gold of a setting sun frames Merra's face, fine strands that are in abundance kept halfway between ears and shoulders in slight waves. Her face is a smooth oval, that from within forest green eyes, wide and deepset, study the world, sometimes keenly, sometimes lazily, framed by molten gold lashes. Her nose is narrow and curves very gently, set above an average mouth. Dusky pink lower lip is slightly fuller than its upper counterpart, giving her an inadvertant pout, though she will smile if provoked. Her skin is a warm bronze, Rukbat's rays darkening her. She's a smaller woman, standing at 5'3, and her curves are generally sparse, but two children have defined hips and chest. She is slender, not built, though arms and legs are lightly muscled. Small hands with deceptively delicate fingers are vaguely calloused.
A light-weight cream sweater, almost like a tunic and knit by Merra's own hands, rests easily on her frame, long sleeves loose to her wrists. Its v neck dips precariously, showing off skin tanned from the summer. Her pants are a rich brown and cling to her legs, the material of a velvety feel. Soft wher-hide boots of the same rich brown come to her ankles. Her gold hair is coaxed and captured in a tail. Clinging to the front of Merra's tunic is Macha.
A single dark blue cord around her shoulder marks her as a resident of High Reaches Weyr.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 4 minutes.
Merra is 22 Turns, 10 months, and 6 days old.

Jesha (#15255)
What was once a form comprised of knobby knees, sharp bony angles, and those angry red pockmarks so common to the teenage ilk has morphed like the terran caterpillar into a butterfly. Those complexion inadequacies have faded into smooth befreckled olive skin that has an almost constantly moving glow to it. As expected, her primary features are still largely intact, though her trademark grey eyes are wider, and her crooked nose less visibly marred in her more filled-out face. The curve of breast and hip is more prominent with the onslaught of incipient womanhood, though her hereditary slenderness is very much present and 'in full effect' if you will. Lithe muscles (a nice side-effect to a few turns of riding a'back) compliment her form now as well, rounding out those once-scabbed legs nicely into ones less wherry-like. Her shoulders are squared and her back straight with confidence, and even her *hair* looks good, those dusty-brown curls falling neatly to brush her rounded chin, though she tries desperately to keep them tucked behind her smallish ears. Pop in the sparkle of her gaze and love in her face for her Sevareth and you've the picture of innocence (?) and a not-too-shabby lookin' teen.
Too-loose leathers of sable and umber drape their way over the too-thin form of Jesha, not being tight as they were designed. Perched on Jesha's shoulder is Twitterface.
Triple-cords in orange, red, and brown flash their autumnal bouquet from Jesha's shoulder. A wingrider at Ista is she!
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for a minute.
Jesha is 23 Turns, 1 month, and 25 days old.

Pia (#19393)
Her form is slender self-importance, a svelte self of pride and bronzed skin. Cast upon her oval, sun-blushed face is a set of insidiously charming features -- rather appealing at least 'til she opens her mouth. Her pale green eyes, wide set against the urbane arch of her nose, suggest a depth of character denied by the soft pouty curve of her lips. Thick waves of gold kissed russet frame her face, blowzy predisposition firmly supressed by the artificial creation of those perfectly sleek curls.
Delicate pale creamy sisal slides into a swishy sundress, thin straps arching over angular shoulders and lifting the bodice in a fairly fetching manner. Skirt flows to knee-length, hem edged with hand-made lace interwoven with a pink ribbon. A thin sweater of some soft wool is tossed casually around her shoulders, the arms looped neatly in a loose arrangement. Russet curls are upswept into a careless knot, a few tendrils escaping to coil lazily around her ears. Green smears across her shoulder, a long looping tail entwined into her hair. Blue slithers up and down her arms, rarely still, never calm.
A delicate gold metal firelizard earcuff clings to Pia's ear. A rich wine ribbon runs gleefully along the silver chain at her throat, from which dangles two sparkling charms: a vintner wineskin and a miniature markpiece.
She is awake and looks alert.
Pia is 21 Turns, 9 months, and 3 days old.

Ceridwin (#17992)
You see a young woman of medium hieght and slim build before you. Her hair, a deep and shining shade of chestnut brown falls in waves to her waist and she is often seen wearing it in tiny braids. Her eyes are harder to determine... Green? Blue? yes to both and then some, like the churning sea, changing with her mood. She may look delicate with her small frame, but don't be fooled, she can handle any tough task assigned her. With skin the color of ivory and a natural warm peach blush, lips the color of copper and dark lashes rimming her eyes, she has just a bit of the exotic to her.
Ceri wears a soft suede green vest.. one that fits.. well. It is laced under each side to pull in and show all her curves to their best advantage. Under this vest is a sheer offwhite cotton blouse, full-sleeved and gathered to fall off the shoulder. Add a multi-tiered broomstick gathered skirt of the same sheer fabric in black and she is dressed.. mostly. her black soft hide boots complete this outfit. She wears a simple necklace of a seashell, the only reminder that she was once a dolphineer. Perched on Ceridwin's shoulder is Grover. Perched on Ceridwin's shoulder is Bambi. Perched on Ceridwin's shoulder is Nim. Ceridwin wears Ceridwin's Listening Tube around her neck.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 3 minutes.
Ceridwin is 18 Turns, 4 months, and 14 days old.

Tiseerim (#21436)
Hard grey eyes stare out from a small nose,Tiseerim has short blond hair and is 6' tall.Her skin is brown from being in the sun to long and her hands are scared and calloused from hard work,her face is lined from her hard life.Tiseerim has a slim figure and looks very athletic.
Tiseerim is wearing tight brown pants, a well fit white tunic and a travling cape that has seen better days. On her feet are knee high boots that have also been around for a wile.
The blue of water is capured by a strand of midnight black are intertwine in a single loop of color.
She is awake and looks alert.
Tiseerim is 26 Turns, 5 months, and 18 days old.

Pyrene (#11964)
Slight and spindly, her frame is nevertheless held as stubbornly tall as possible, falling only just shy of average height. Curves have in part softened the sharp angles of old, turning scrawny and frail into stocky and trim, while breast and hip testify to her motherhood. Still, there's nothing neat about the lank tendrils of dark brown hair as they escape the skimpy plait that struggles to keep them under control. Plaguing her point-nosed, thin-lipped face, they only serve to emphasise the peakiness of her complexion. Yet if there were any doubts about her vitality, the grey eyes that snap out from beneath dark brows eliminate them as effectively as twin thunderstorms.
No artificial dye, but rich, ruddy brown claims her frame, earthing its slightness. The close-fitting warmth serves for both flying and the High Reaches climate in general, while the sleek smoothness of the leather gives the illusion of curve to bony hips and length to short legs. And yet the padded thickness of the jacket sits oddly on her narrow shoulders: no matter how carefully fitted it may in fact be, it resembles nothing so much as a new winter coat made for a child 'to grow into'. Kernow watches from Pyrene's shoulder in wide-eyed curiosity.
Black, blue and sea-washed gold tangle their way over the badge worn by all members of Esprit wing.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for a minute.
Pyrene is 24 Turns, 10 months, and 9 days old.

G'deon (#19620)
G'deon appears at first glance to be quite calm and collected, though a mischievous gleam seems to tint his blue eyes from time to time. He has grown into a rather well built frame and finally stopped growing a few inches over six feet. Many Turns of hard work have helped his shoulders fill out considerably, along with his arms, hands and chest. His legs however are still the wiry limbs of his youth, which he will never lose. His sandy blond hair is kept quite clean, but it is beginning to grow out a little on top managing to look a bit tousled at times, a golden frame for a lightly tanned face accented by his calm eyes of sapphire, clear and blue as the summer sky over High Reaches.
Sturdy black boots, darker than deepest night, give way to rather thick, close-fitting black trousers, dotted at various areas and heights with pockets. From there is found a thick, black, wherhide belt cinched tightly at the waist, holding a rather tight royal blue shirt in place. The shirt is a bit coarse but appears warm. The rather loose sleeves fall to the wrists in modest bellows, tied firmly at the cuffs, and the collar comes together in a V-shape below the neck. Perched on G'deon's shoulder is Hitokiri.
Crimson wherhide encompasses G'deon in sleek brilliance, a close-fitting jacket of eye-catching fire. Soft fleece in contrasting cream peaks out from the high collar, the lining made especially warm for High Reaches' winters and the colder void of ::between::. Orange and gold flames lick up the long sleeves in tasteful embroidery: neither too flamboyant nor overly subtle, they match the flames which flicker over the Inferno Wing badge as well as the embroidered emblem on jacket's back, an exact replica of the wing's chevron-shaped insignia which rides high and proud on one crimson shoulder.
Unwavering shadows intertwine with the deep dark blue of a glacier, the two cords forming a single loop. A long tail hangs from the top of the knot, the blue and black joined by a thread of silver. Mingling with the cords is a fine ribbon of shimmering bronze, naming G'deon as a bronze rider of High Reaches. Added to his clothing just beneath the knot is a small pin, the emblem of High Reaches accented by licking flames, indicating he is an Inferno rider.
He is awake and looks alert.
G'deon is 22 Turns, 2 months, and 15 days old.

Pyrene wanders in on a cloud of... radiance. A beatific expression is on her face, and she turns a benevolent smile on all and sundry--even on a few random brats. Even on Pia. One might almost feel that /D'renn/ would receive the same treatment.

Lylia walks in from the Central Bowl.

Sora ping-pongs haphazardly in from the Central Bowl.

And, right behind Pyrene, in strolls B'art -- well.. in /swaggers/ B'art, bowed legs supporting his massive frame with very little grace. "Well, everyone, did you miss me?" He announces with hearty good-cheer, bass voice echoing from the high cavern ceilings.

Tiseerim nods to G'deon as she finds a corner to sit in. or at least some place dark,"

J'mi isn't D'renn, but he's close. Just check out his qualifications: old, creepy-looking, obnoxiously bright clothing, and very tight pants. And, suitably -- and with wine glass in hand -- he sidles up to Pyrene. "Well, hel-/lo/, darling. You're looking lovely today." And it's a change from the usual, for sure.

G'deon blinks at Merra, opening his mouth as he's about to answer, but the growing crowd is just too fascinating... or is that terrifying? The bronze rider's mood might seem to be waning from chipper to stolid. "Um... it's just... a good day is all," he finally tells Merra, his eyes, darting about as he frowns, fidgeting a bit with his juice glass.

T'mar strides purposefully in from the Central Bowl.

Jesha nods and opens her mouth to say something, but stops -- Pyrene has entered the building. A wave and puzzled expression greets the weyrwoman ... the B'art. "Ohhh no. Oh no. Not him. Anyone but. Not today," bemoans the poor ash-coated sweeprider before burying her face in her hands with a muffled groan. "Zi'n? Please tell me what I think is happening is not, in fact, happening," Jesh asks, peeking 'tween her fingers in sheer terror.

Nylanth> Cadgwith stretches and stares about her with a sudden fierce intensity. She... /needs/ something. Any sudden proliferation of bronzes and browns is ignored as her gaze is drawn to the pens. And with a stretch of her wings and a flick of her hindlegs she glides that way.

H'tiwdac doesn't appear to be in the best of moods as he makes his way into the living caverns. The stout bronzerider has a craggy face, completely gray hair, and a husky build. /Very/ husky. This guy knows what he's doing. And you don't want to mess with him. Trust me. In any event, he's dressed in leathers, and looks as if he just got charred or something. His leathers are completely black. Frump, frump, frump. Over to the drinks, the bronzerider frumps.

Nylanth> Cadgwith crashes resplendently to the Pens.

C'dial oooooozes in. Oooze-like, yellowed teeth flashing dully and pock-marked face the perfect picture of ... of ... nothing particularly great. Mud-eyes squint, lasciviously, at the knot of people. "Yummy."

Nylanth> Catiminith ambles jauntily with a flash of dawn-like hues to the Pens.
Nylanth> Liulfr glides to the Pens.

"What? What's happening?" Poor, clueless Zi'n blinks all confusedly at Jesha - until he spots Pyrene. Uh-oh. /Uh-oh/! That woman is scary enough as it is, not to mention her dragon, but /this/? "I'm afraid so," bronzer whispers, clearing his throat.

Nylanth> Simpsonth glides to the Pens.
Nylanth> Orbyth moves with endless energy to the Pens.
Nylanth> Druseth glances about watchfully, slowly slinking to the Pens.
Nylanth> Hendrixth glides to the Pens.
Nylanth> Dsalth paces with regimental gait to the Pens.
Nylanth> Exulcero glides to the Pens.

Merra's brows arch at Pia's words, but she says nothing. Starting to greet the entering Pyrene, the reason her bronzerider may have been so cheerful hits her in the head. Hard. And between the goldrider's glow, and the bonzeriders gathering, it's fairly obvious. "Ohhh... Faranth. Cadgwith is going up, isn't she?" It's just barely murmured to G'deon, a cloud to match the ones outside settling over her. "Good luck," she adds tonelessly.

Nylanth> Sevareth walks to the Pens.
Nylanth> Plymouth glides to the Pens.

Nylanth> Pens
Nylanth> 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.
Nylanth> It is an autumn midmorning. Dark clouds loom pendulously to the north, pregnant with rain; already a few spots hit you from above. If the wind is any indication, they will be here before the afternoon.
Nylanth> To the south, you see Zenzorath and Wiranth.
Nylanth> Squabbling over leftovers are Cocoa, Llamath, Liulfr, Simpsonth, Anjuth, Hendrixth, Exulcero, and Plymouth.
Nylanth> Green Miravith, green Imbriath, gold Cadgwith, blue Catiminith, bronze Orbyth, brown Druseth, Brown Dsalth, and brown Sevareth are here.
Nylanth> You see Kukalaka, Herd of Herdbeasts, and Kae here.
Nylanth> You notice Paldorin asleep here.
Nylanth> Obvious exits:
Nylanth> Stables --- Barn --- Training Grounds --- Central Bowl --- Beach

Nylanth> Enerypth glides in from the Central Bowl.

Tiseerim walks up behind G'deon "Umm could i talk to you?"

Nylanth> Zinfandelth twitches. Madly -- tail flicks, wings rustle, and that pointed little bronze muzzle twitches the most of all. Orbs whirl, incandescent: feeding.

Pyrene turns and, yes, /smiles/ at B'art. "Oh, B'art... did Cadgwith call Simpsonth? Silly dear... I didn't know she remembered him..." A frown suddenly crosses her face wiping away the previous glow. "She's not remembering anything right now..."

Nylanth> Simpsonth's thick tail swishes absently, despite the focused tenseness of his frame, the intent light in his otherwise dull little eyes. One hind paw lifts, claws dangling, and stretches up to pensively scratch at his belly -- his very generous belly.

A series of short, staccato kicks-against-the-wall heralds the entrance of A'postrophe, the long-legged, curve-backed bronzerider pausing dramatically in the doorway and just posing to make an impression ... that's his jobm of course. He's attired resplendently in mismatched shades of puce and virulent indigo, a sickly hyacinth gone dreadfully wrong.

Nylanth> Orbyth is by no means disorientated as he scurries to the pens - the bronze's usually short attention span is currently focused on one thing: Food! Oh, and Cadgwith, of course. Who's glowing. How purty! Isn't she just?

Nylanth> Hendrixth lumbers in after the gold, his eyes already beginning to take on that orange hue that means he's quite ready to fly. It's a rather normal occurrence, for all that the bronze catches rarely these days. But he remembers the flights of his youth, he does, and that exquisite brilliance that... er, anyway, he settles down in the sun. It's warm. And his bones are old. Concessions to age, eh?

"Sweetie Py, would I even consider for a moment not being here to support you in your time of need?" B'art croons -- or attempts to croon. The beard and ale-belly gets in the way. "And yes, Cadgewith called us, that big ole' dear. I think she likes us, if you want my opinion. Nothing like that runty little blue rider..."

Nylanth> Food! FoodFoodFoodFoodFood. Sevareth /hungry/. Sevareth eat. Bleed. *gnawgnawgnaw* *sluuurp* Carnal instinct takes over the usually slightly less messy feeding of everyone's favorite dopeybrown. A wherry, a buck, a ... vtol? ... are chased with equal ferocity and eaten with sloppy flingings of blood and goo and grass and dirt. Hey... where's the cream filling?

Nylanth> Llamath whirls, twitches, and then settles. Ready, reddy eyes flick over the pends, over the grounds, and over all the other. Disdainfully, he dragas down a small meal - tidbit ready - and begins to feed.

Nylanth> Nylanth stealthily follows close behind Cadgwith, carefully staying out of the way of the other dragons. With one powerful downstroke he's airborne and already diving for a small herdbeast off to the side. Neck is efficiently snapped in the bronze's talons before he rises to a ledge, his teeth making quick work of the small snack.

Nylanth> Cadgwith comes down light but lethal on a herdbeast, her wings flaring viciously as she wars for just a moment with an exterior force. It's a short battle though, there's something about blood that is so much more attractive than heavy flesh.

T'mar wanders in looking around the room for a familiar face..and frowns slightly as he sees none...but the caverns look pretty crowded..maybe someone he knows will show up later...until then he grabs a mug of klah and skulks in a corner watching the goings on with quiet interest.

Nylanth> Punctuath barrels at breakneck speed into the pens, not even pausing for a breath as he practically tumbles head over heels, an unstoppable force of physical eloquotion before ... bang! He stops, pulls up short to catch a breath, and flames into the next sentence: that is, a death sentence for that there beast.

Nylanth> Enerypth is late. But then again, when is he ever on time? The /over/-large bronze rivals the smallest golds for size, that's for sure. And he doesn't appear to be themost lithe of the bronzes by any stretch of the imagination. He's portly, stout like his rider. Not by any means /fat/, but definitely husky. Don't mess with him. Rrrr. And he's experienced. His hide has taken on a reddish tint, so old is this dragon. Or perhaps 'seasoned' would be a better word -- he's not past his prime, /yet/. As of now, the bronze comes to a stately landing on one of the ledges, drawn by the blooding Cadge.

Nylanth> Vax flies haphazardly in from the Beach.

Nylanth> Druseth is craving something.... Any guesses? A faint growl begins in his throat, bubbling up like a fine glass of champagne, spilling over as he tenses, dark tail flicking. Back and forth. Back and forth. He's ever so hungry. His serene stare keeps the gleaming Cadgwith out of the corner of his eye, but his main focus is the innocent, twitching herdbeasts. Happy Meals. All ready for a drive-through mauling. Extending his talons, the low shadow swoops over hte crowds. Mmmmmm. Swoop! Batlike wings extended, the silent predator rips the throat out of a scrawny beast. Small, but his blood sings.

Nylanth> Plymouth swoops in like a wave crashing majestically on a beach and lands, sizing up the competition with his dark stormy eyes.

Jesha makes little fake-sobbing sounds as her fate is sealed with Sevareth's hungry mindtouch. "I don't even get a batttth." Yes, she would like some cheese with her whine. Speaking of whine... "Druuuudge. Wine. Lots of it. Strong. And many glasses. I think," and she shrugs at Zi'n, "That now would be a good time for me to get quite drunk so perhaps I don't get too tense."

J'mi pouts temporarily at Pyrene. She's ignored him. But, shrugging it off, he downs the rest of his drink and refills it, getting a head start on the rest of them. And, glancing about, he leers at anything that walks past, as long as it's female and of an age to consent.

Nylanth> Orbyth grabs a herdbeast carelessly, burying his muzzle in its guts. Wait - blood is better than flesh? Certainly not. He himself fancies a good piece of female dragon. Hehe. *slurrrrrp* Tongue works to get all the juices in. Mustn't let anything spill. It looks so... wasted... on the ground.

Nylanth> Dsalth follows Cadgwith in a trance, head bobbing just off the ground as he studies the golden's form, his eyes rolling from a orange-red hue. Broad old wings expand, almost the wrinkling form of an old crisped book before he takes the scene into consideration. What is /he/ doing here? There is something glowing, and there is something to chase. With one leap, he takes down a large bull just ahead, claws snapping the head and blood sucked dry; however, an eye is always kept on the queen, who is the competition in this battle. Other males are eyed, and he releases an audible hiss towards a nearby brown.

Ceridwin watches with an amused expression on her face.. flights are always interesting and certainly bring in the most 'amusing' clients afterwards. What she wouldn't give to have Nolas around for after the fact. She might just need him.

Nylanth> Calmly contemplating the herdbeast he kills, Simpsonth digs his blunted muzzle into the belly and yanks out those tasty natural sausages -- the intestines. Abandoning those for a more liquid meal, the enormous bronze produces a number of repulsive gulping noises.

Nylanth> Zinfandelth bares teeth just as yellow as his lifemate's, hissing in a slow drawl of sound and shredding a herdbeast carelessly. Ooops? Bronze grunts, loudly, as blood is sucked in an excess of energy down the throat of the most graceful.

G'deon is definitely tensing now. Who would have thought he'd be nervous in a crowd like this. His blue eyes, now turning an oddly icy tint, dart towards Merra. "I, uh... I need some fresh air. I'm going to go stand... over there." Not many people standing in the drafts from the bowl.

Tiseerim strugles to hold back her tears, she realy needs to talk to someone.

Pyrene makes a sharp gesture suddenly. Perhaps because of B'art's calling her Sweetie-Py, perhaps because of what's going on outside. "Blood!" she suddenly calls, her face now as fierce as a feeding dragon (odd that). Of course, her words again could apply to B'art. Her eyes drift around the cavern again, taking note: "Jesha, you're here? Oh, Faranth, J'mi... G'deon..." Her tone changes from surprise to irritation and ends quite frankly on lust--and G'deon's only the first recipient of that look.

"I'll take some too," Zi'n replies drily to Jesha, waving at the drudge to bring two skins of wine. Wine, sweet wine. Beverage of ignorant bliss. Pyrene gets a rather troubled look from the bronzerider - especially as she starts rambling about blood and lust. Bloodlust! Aiee! He'll stay clear of the weyrwoman, for sure.

Then again, Pyrene's ignored them all. And H'tiwdac doesn't really appear to notice. At all. Instead, he pours himself some good, rough, Tillek red, and frumps over to the wall. He'll stand, thank you. Hungry eyes of brown run through those gathered, as he listens with only half an ear towhat's going on -- the rest is paying attention to his dragons. You'd think he'd know Enerypth's hungry musings before now. So maybe poor Dac isn't exactly /the/ most educated person on Pern. Just pretend, yes? "Pyrene," Gruff voice, old enough to be her father croaks, "How could you forget lil' ol' me?"

Nylanth> Hendrixth watches the herdbeasts flee the others with an expression of amusement. Holding still, he waits patiently until a particularly fat one blunders directly into him. Self-serve. One taloned claw reaches out, lazily snapping its neck, and he drinks of the blood with all the nonchalance of one who's done it time and time again... which he has.

Never mind C'dial's yellow teeth -- he grins at Pyrene. He wants that lusty look. Oozahoozah.

B'art beams comfortingly down on the goldrider, going so far as to attempt to pat -- fondle -- the rider's shoulder. "Shall I get you some wine, cupcake?"

Nylanth> Cadgwith continues ot ignore the bronzes, the browns, the lesser beings. Another leap, and she brings down two herdbeasts while her tail fells another. For that moment, the thrill of killing subsumes her hunger, but then she smells blood and dips her muzzle again, crooning oddly over her kill.

T'mar's eyes alight on the young woman who seems to be causing all the attention. A gentle smile adorns his dark features as he takes a sip of klah and then slowly appraises her. His mind is half elsewhere in the rejoicing mental cries of his dragon afire with bloodlust..and instinctively knows what is to come....

Tiseerim turns to the woman who waz siting beside G'deon "excuse me, we haven't met but i waz wondering if we could talk?"

A'postrophe is simply too wrapped up in his own little world to notice that he's being completely ignored. After all, he's a necessary part of this crowd - any crowd of proper distinction. Then again, he seems to have forgotten that this doesn't describe High Reaches all that often. He snatches for a glass of wine, misses, and sends the skin ... bouncing ... across the floor.

J'mi purrs. Or, at least, it'd be a purr if it didn't stop halfway through in a rough, hacking cough. Frowning, he sips more of his drink -- which, incidentally, is usually kept far out of reach of children -- and then licks his lips. His expression, at this point, could easily be described as bloodthirsty.

Nylanth> Orbyth is ignored? That's fine, he's too busy gorging in blood anyway to notice Cadgwith. Really, he is. He hasn't noticed her at all. Nu-huh. And that's his tail getting bigger, y'know.

G'deon doesn't bother looking casual anymore as he quite frankly scurries towards the exit to the bowl muttering something about a large bronzen lump. Not much of an excuse for panic really. At Pyrene's comment he spins on a boot heel and almost sprawls backwards. "Need... to be outside. Yes." And so he does.

Nylanth> Llamath leaps, twirls, and lands upon a now rather squished morsel. A little haphazard? Perhaps. Never one to be picky, he rips with the best of them, eyes still scanning the field.

Nylanth> Simpsonth lolls his tongue all over the hapless herdbeast carcass, leaving great trails of bloody slobber over the creature's shaggy fur. Tail tip twitches, the only other movement the hulking brute produces.

Pyrene twists away from B'art, although the look she gives him might go some way to recompense that. She passes close to A'postrophe now, to H'tiwdac, to T'mar and Z'in. Her hands rise suddenly and she wheels around looking at them all before giving a throaty laugh and running outside. They're permitted to follow.

Nylanth> Dsalth ignores any organs inside of the one large 'beast he recently killed, slicing the neck and getting all that his mouth could hold before clamping jaws shut and swallowing. Tail whips out directly behind him, the flowing bloow still lapped at as he allows its warm rich taste fill his entire form. Sorrel head raises, mustard wings stretched out before glaring Rukbat and the brown drops his maw to echo his hiss to the males; which is followed by a croon over towards the queen. Old enough to have caught many greens in his life, but a gold?

Nylanth> Plymouth picks out the not so fortunate herdbeast of his choice and like some demonic monster leaps into the air to spiral over and then pounce with breakneck speed onto the pathetically squealing kicking creature before it is despatched with butcher like precision and torn into with lusty growls.

Pyrene exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Merra watches him go, affection and worry mingling in her expression. Letting out a long breath, she shakes her head. "I've known from the beginning that bronzes are infamous chasers," she murmurs, to herself, really. Reluctantly, she looks away from G'deon, gaze settling on the goldrider. She can't help but be a bit amused by Pyrene's distinctly Lis-like behavior. Shudder. -That's- frightening.

J'mi exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
Pia exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
Zi'n exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
H'tiwdac suddenly disappears ::between::!
Cytherea exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
Lhana arrives from deeper in the Weyr.
Jesha exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
T'mar exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
Stella exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Nylanth> Punctuath growls softly under his breath, each expert flick of the tongue absorbing every nuance of taste and texture ... there's an incredible wealth of subtext to be found in blood, and he'll enjoy every moment of it. Whirling, lust-filled eyes lift slowly - a building impression of tension, at last revealed as he reaches the pinnacle ... of his neck's extension, at least, observing Cadge intently.

Lhana goes home.

Tiseerim just breacks down crying.

Sora exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

Nylanth> Swoop! Another one bites the dust. Druseth's slender fangs drip with the herdbeast's lifeblood, his tongue snaking out as he attempts to dislodge the bits of flesh stuck between his teeth. Those intestines could make good floss... Lowering his dripping muzzle back down onto his second dinner mint, he proceeds to sink his teeth into the throat, ripping it from the corpse and letting the rest of the blood trickle over his tongue. Nummy. Bloodlust has burned through his gaze, their normal hooded stare replaced by a prowling hunger as he glances up, a fleeting glance at the gold. Hunger.

Nylanth> Enerypth isn't one to be easily forgotten. Oh no. He's a /diiirty/ old man. The semi-elderly bronze watches the gold make her kill, as he's watched countless other golds make their kill as well. He's king of the mountain. He's...oggling? Yes, he's oggling. Cadgwith's golden form holds his eyes quite easily and the reddish-bronze dragon is soon all but drooling over this particular thing. Thing? She's a thing? Probably in his mind. A catcall type of croon threads itself in a sort of cackling way from Ener's muzzle, sickening the air around him.

Nylanth> Nylanth watches Cadgwith closely, blood dripping unceremoniously from his muzzle before a dark tongue snakes out to take care of the mess. Eyes grow dark to match his hide, lightning flashes of yellow and red all but crackling as he tenses slowly, ready spring on a moment's notice.

Lylia exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.
Ceridwin exchanges the protection of stone for the bowl outside.

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

Central Bowl (#3812)
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 an autumn midmorning. Dark clouds loom pendulously to the north, pregnant with rain; already a few spots hit you from above. If the wind is any indication, they will be here before the afternoon.
Clinging to footholds in the boulder-mound are twelve firelizards.
Green Kelitath, brown Revnath, blue Decuth, and bronze Jhanath are here.
You see a wagonmaster, George Dubya bush, Trash n Treasures, Wagon One, and Trey's Trumbling Wagon here.
Lylia and Ceridwin are here.
Obvious exits:
Pens --- Northern Bowl --- Caverns --- Ground Weyrs --- Lakeside --- Guards HQ

Lylia abandons the bowl for ground weyr's shelter.
Ceridwin abandons the bowl for ground weyr's shelter.

Nylanth> Cadgwith drains the last of the three herdbeast she killed in that leap and then suddenly seems to illumine. Her throat swells in one long wailing cry and her nose is raised to the heavens--and presently the rest of her follows.

Maeve steps out from the Weyr's living caverns.
Tiseerim steps out from the Weyr's living caverns.

Nylanth> Cadgwith leaps up Up UP into the air.

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

Nylanth> Above the Feeding Pens
Nylanth> 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.
Nylanth> It is an autumn midmorning. Dark clouds loom pendulously to the north, pregnant with rain; already a few spots hit you from above. If the wind is any indication, they will be here before the afternoon.
Nylanth> Gold Cadgwith is here.
Nylanth> Obvious exits:
Nylanth> Up --- Pens --- Weyrling Air --- Above the Lake --- Above the Bowl --- Ledges

Nylanth> Orbyth bursts up from the dust below.
Nylanth> Catiminith bursts up from the dust below.
Nylanth> Llamath bursts up from the dust below.
Nylanth> Simpsonth bursts up from the dust below.
Nylanth> Dsalth bursts up from the dust below.
Nylanth> Druseth bursts up from the dust below.
Nylanth> Orbyth spirals higher, looping up past the Spindles themselves.
Nylanth> Cadgwith spirals higher, looping up past the Spindles themselves.
Nylanth> Hendrixth bursts up from the dust below.

Nylanth> So you go up, up, and up some more, spiralling past ledges and Star Stones and up past the very Spindles themselves.

Nylanth> Above High Reaches
Nylanth> 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.
Nylanth> It is an autumn midmorning. Dark clouds loom pendulously to the north, pregnant with rain; already a few spots hit you from above. If the wind is any indication, they will be here before the afternoon.
Nylanth> Bronze Orbyth and gold Cadgwith are here.
Nylanth> Obvious exits:
Nylanth> Weyr --- Over The Mountains --- Star Stones

Nylanth> Llamath shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Hendrixth shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Simpsonth shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Liulfr shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Catiminith shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Druseth shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Enerypth shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Plymouth shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Maeve shoots up from the dusty pens.

Open sky is exchanged for protecting stone.

Ground Weyrs (#2361)
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 an autumn midmorning. Dark clouds loom pendulously to the north, pregnant with rain; already a few spots hit you from above. If the wind is any indication, they will be here before the afternoon.
Settled on rough-hewn ledge are Bansi, Akujin, Ghede, Bow-Wow, Larky, J'mi, Cytherea, H'tiwdac, Stella, T'mar, and Ka'fei.
Blue Trydanth is here.
Pyrene, Zi'n, Jesha, Pia, Sora, Lylia, and Ceridwin are here.
Obvious exits:
Bowl --- Inner Ground Weyr --- Infirmary

Nylanth> Zinfandelth flings himself recklessly after that star in the night -- that golden nugget -- that third moon Cadgwi. Moon? Yes, moon -- bronze flows like liquid starlight after the gold, wings flashing in slick lubrication.

J'mi is here, though he's taking something of a back seat, leaning against the wall in the back and idly sipping his wine. Let the young and agile provide the entertainment; he can wait. And look mature. Some women like a mature man.

Nylanth> Sevareth shoots up from the dusty pens.
Nylanth> Exulcero shoots up from the dusty pens.

Pyrene wanders into the middle of the room and pauses, laughing out loud suddenly as her whole body strains upwards. She turns with equal abruptness, and looks almost mockingly at the riders who've followed her. She's untouchable... no wine for her this time, the sheer heady rush of it all is enough.

Nylanth> Punctuath cries in jubilation, a coda slapped none too subtly on the end of his bloody oration, and explodes skywards in a tangled mess of over-effusive verbiage given the form of energy. An inward monologue devotes itself to Cadgwith, and Cadgwith alone, running the lines of iambic pentameter ... and barely pausing for that all important breath.

Maybe it's the Druseth in her, but Lylia's remaining around the edge of the ground weyrs, a glass of red wine delicately balanced in her hand. If her dragon's too busy to nag, she's going to enjoy it. Throwing off her heavy jacket, the brownrider takes up lurking around the edge of the cavern, her body tense with energy as she prowls like a wildcat. Yep, Druseth's love of the red stuff's gone to her brain.

Nylanth> Orbyth follows Cadgwith up in the air. *bang* And the games begin! Toniiiiight, hes gonna have himself a /good/ time, you betcha, and Cadge is just dying to be his li'l playmate, isn't she? He'll be the honey bee, locked in her fruitcage. And like a bee indeed, he flaps his wings, powerful bronze streaking the dull rainy sky. Now let's see if he gets to 'sting' her as well?

Nylanth> Simpsonth lumbers aloft, somehow defying both gravity and physics by heaving his non-aerodynamic blobby form into the air high above the weyr. Wide wings curve, cupping rain-drenched air to squirt himself towards the gold, tongue dangling behind him from his gaping jaws. Sure, he's already panting.

Nylanth> Plymouth curves upwards through the slicingly cold rain, soaring with athletic precision between two to her bronzes to better view the golden prize...and what a striking beauty she is too. As if striving for the highest summit of a dark imposing Tor, he beats with ever stronger wings, fighting against the driving water coming the other way...

Nylanth> The clouds above beckon. Actually, it's Cadgwith that beckons this particular old bronze. Huge wings labor against the heavy air, thrusting his overlarge body into the pregnant air with reckless abandon. Enerpyth is already lusting after the gold -- he probably was from the moment he glimpsed her in the pens. Now, his eyes whirl that lustful purple, and his jaw hangs open just a little as drool drips from his chops. Such a...lovely sight.

Nylanth> Beating wings 'gainst the water and wind, Sevareth uses those horribly buff-n-sexay muscles to strain upwards. Tonight's forecast calls for sheets of rain followed by a long spell of hot lovin'. Dragons are dodged as the brown zigs and zags in the oh so slightly inclement weather. I'm coming for yoo, my prettty! Ohh, she is shy, yes? No? *mwah* *mwah*

Zi'n only pauses to stare at Jesha's bare skin for a moment before he drains his first glass of wine. Someone's going to have a /really/ nasty headache tomorrow - but that's tomorrow, and now's now, and he's not on the ground; he's in the air. Flyyyying, he's flyyyying! Ahem. Orbyth is.

As his offer of wine is rejected, B'art simply tosses the drink back himself, head tilted as he somehow manages to swallow it all in one gulp. Years of practice, no doubt. "Well, sweetcakes, you ready for another dose of B'art lovin'?"

"Did someone get ... extra wine?" Never mind that the significant pause isn't needed, A'postrophe feels it adds a certain dramatic flare. He ponders Pyrene in what might be considered a threatening manner, but unable to come up with anything that rhymes with "nanny," he remains blessedly silent.

Nylanth> Cadgwith rises from the depths of the weyr into the storm. Proud, wild and heedless of those small fry trying to follow her she calls her challenge to the clouds as they come swiftly nearer. Beneath them, in that queer twilight she glows an eerie green-gold--lightless and yet blindingly visible.

Nylanth> Llamath weaves, wavering, through the sleet and rain. Drops of water beat up strong wingsails, creating their own melodic rhythm. Water mixes, blurring the outline of other, but silently, effortlessly, Llamath soars on towards a bright point - sunlight? Or sunlight-colored? Still too far back to tell, he whips on with the pack.

Nylanth> Nylanth dashes through the gusty wind blasts, the torrents wafting like a cloudy sea, following that ribbon of gold through the stormy darkness, flying, flying, flying, straining to reach her through the heavy pressures of growing cold. His hide twinkles softly in the little light still shining, his wings snapping with soldier-like attention as he soars high over head, over-shooting that golden jewel so as to watch from above.

Nylanth> Orbyth sees; he hears and answers her call with a bugle of his own to match hers of a ship coming into sea. And man, would he like to dock into her harbor! He's like a shooting star, leaping through the sky towards the sun that is Cadgwith; on a collision course with Rukbat itself as he hurdles himself mindlessly into the chase.

Nylanth> Hey sweetcakes. Peekaboo? Lovely view, don't you think? Akin to climbing up a ladder after some lass who's wearing a rather floucny skirt. Hellooooooo Cadge! As the gold surges upward, the old Enerypth moves in to follow, trumpeting his own lust for her. Who's your daddy?

T'mar jolts of mental lightning flare though T'mars silent form...he is with his dragon now, barely clinging on to his sanity as Plymouth takes over his thoughts feelings and senses. Gulping slightly he takes another swig of wine and then offers it to whoever wants it...." I have a full skin here if anyone wants some..." he faulters as his eyes glaze and his heart follow the path of his lifemate.

Nylanth> Punctuath isn't a small fry, though he's far from large: but the key is in the details, and he's an entire string of tiny lines and etchmarks, each one moving in muscle-linked tandem and weaving through the sky. He travels at the speed of bad news, catching the winds of rumor to lift him higher and higher, an exalted height obtained on the hundrum grime of the mundane.

Nylanth> But... there's no blood up here. Druseth's hide normally has a faint bit of crimson mixed in, but the sun-dusted vampire suddenly seems to have streaks that go down to the bone, harsh dribblings of blood patterning his body. He's a hunter, and it's time for the hunt, through the forest of breezes, against the fastest prey... His ghostly wings flutter heavily, seeming at home in the storm as he lets it wash away the hints of the feed. The strong winds seem more like a friend than foe as he slides along them, struggling upwards into the heart of it all.

Pyrene is trembling with a smile that could best be described as hysterical on her face. She is indeed ready for another dose of B'art-loving. She's also ready to take Jesha in a dose of Brat-loving. Or cure Z'in's headache. Or give A'postrophe something that /does/ rhyme with nanny. But just right now, she's going to wait to figure out which of the above is the right answer. Or whether there's another solution altogether.

G'deon wanders in slowly, his face a bit pale though that brief look of panic from the caverns has already disappeared. "Sorry, I..." He pauses again and shakes his head, seeing that people are already down to the business of the day. "I'll just wait over here," he mutter to no one in particular, walking towards one of the cleaner corners of the nearest weyr and taking a seat.

"Up... no! Left! No! Under! Gahh, weeeet." The stormy-grey of Jesha's eyes are lidded and she's gone, mind outside in the tumultuous storm of hormones and rain and slick multicolored bodies. "Wet... Wet? Ah, DANGIT!" Eyes snap open and what's wet is the brownrider herself -- apparently a red-wine bath was in order, as her white shirt is now turned crimson with the alcohol, and clings to her like a second skin. "I have a drinking problem."

Nylanth> Up comes a storm-caused gust, flowing up beneath Simpsonth's wing and sending him veering far off course. A subtle check and he's back on track, thick tail serving as a willing rudder to this still sea-worthy hulk.

Nylanth> Hendrixth is flying, a style that has much of experience in it. No useless wingbeats for him; he uses what updrafts there are, demonstrating the fine art of dynamic flying to the youngsters. His own tarnished bronze, more of a green-brown than actual metallic shade, blends easily into the storm-hues, just as he uses the winds to his advantage, rather than ripping through them like some of the others. Now, 'scuse him while kisses the sky, lofting up to meet the clouds before chasing after the water-born creature that is Cadgwith.

A'postrophe leans back against the wall, procuring a bottle of wine with a sideways swipe of his arm and clasping it to his chest like a lifeline. Bobbing in a sea of sudden brilliance, he begins to ponder other ... "Shardit! What rhymes with flight?" There are inspired poets, those who fill the world with wonder and make women swoon under their spell ... unfortunately, none of them could make it.

Nylanth> Zinfandelth strains, wingtips splayed wide, to progress against a sudden gust of wind, dropping in a neat tuck-and-roll to shoot past a smaller brown. Yellowed fangs bare in primal instinct, claws reaching for the ungraspable prize: oh where oh where has my Ca-adwith gone..

"Anything, for my sweetstick," H'tiwdac offers the wineskin forward even as he steps forward as well. Perhaps Dac has never flown with Pyrene. Perhaps he's just entirely too controlled by his 'dumbstick' to know better. Stout arm snakes out around the weyrwoman's shoulders, pudgy fingers holding the wineskin itself, "Wine from yo' daddy?" Perhaps an unconscious echo of Enerypth -- perhaps he meant to do it. You never know with H'ti.

Zi'n isn't seeing Pyrene's glance or anyone else's; not is he seeing Cadgwith in the sky - he's just staring into the bottom of his wine glass, casting Jesha a short glance. Don't all riders have a drinking problem during mating flights?

B'art's own smile slips predatorily, dull teeth gleaming behind his leering lips. "Another glass of wine, I think," he mutters to himself, and abandoning the glass, drinks straight from the skin.

Nylanth> There's a rumble from far off, that could be thunder. It's not lightning however but Cadgwith who answers it, her call as electrifying as any thunderbolt. Her wings play effortlessly along the breezes as she flies straight for and into the rainclouds immediately above. This chase is going to require something other than good eyesight.

C'dial is in the corner, feeling up some random female brownrider. Booyah.

Nylanth> *Gawhump* *Gawhump* Like a graceful 'phin does Sevareth NOT dive through the watery air. Instead, he opts for his own freakish style -- limbs made night-black by weather's touch point in every which direction possible, while tail snakes feverishly through the air, as if every rolling motion could somehow bring him closer to that ever-so-shiny target. In fact, that's about the only thing that keeps him on task during these events: The fact that the goal of his endeavor is shiny and bright. Otherwise he'd probably end up happily diving into a lake and entirely forgetting about scoring.

Nylanth> They say seeing a flash of green at sunset is lucky.and so Llamath heaves forward, racing against the elements, against his peers, all efforts towards one goal: the elusive, flickering flash-of-green-gold visible ahead. Neither clashes of thunder nor swirling winds keeps him back, instead only strengthening his resolve. Onward, upward, forward. Tail lashes left, narrowly avoiding another.

Nylanth> Plymouth bugles loudly and deeply as the surface of the planet dizzyingly spirals away from him...lifting his face to the sky he catches glimpses of her twisting turning torso and knows that this creature is what is causing him to live at this moment...his lust for her is his lifeblood and without her he will die....crashing onto rocks like a wrecked ship. glancing back and assessing the progess of his competitors, he views them only as brown tufted grasses of the marshes...swaying to the wind, crowded together and moving as one...he will be different. Soaring under her, he barrel rolls to one side and avoids his peers emerging near her...longing to touch her...

Nylanth> Orbyth is burning through the sky! Here's for lightning; he's traveling at the /speed/ of light - he's hot, two hundred degrees at /least/! (Why they call him mr. Fahrenheith, y'know.) He is saaaailing, he is saaaaailing, through the rain, home again - to the homely ripples of Cadgwith's golden skin.

Nylanth> I am thunder. Here me roar. Actually, it's sort of a more sleezy trumpet than a roar, but at least Enerypth's trying, right? Right. Of course. Please? In any event, Rypth's trying, so give him some credit. He's an old man by now. Hey honey, c'mon over an' give me some sugar. It's the trumpet that excites him, sending electrical currents through his body and spurring him onto lower and lower means in order to get his end -- Cadge. And the subsequent mating, of course. Can't forget that. There's n oreason to be doing this if it weren't for the booty.

Pyrene wipes non-existent rain from her eyes and retreats blindly from everybody until the backs of her legs hit the cot and she falls to sit on it. Her legs are drawn up sensuously and her eyes gradually lid closed as she crouches there, rocking slightly and smiling dreamily.

Nylanth> Nylanth clatters over the whirling clouds, his eyes whirling just as quickly. He twists to the left to slip between two dragons and again soars ever higher, his bronzen wings carrying him onward as he waits patiently for his chance. His body straight as an arrow, he's focused on that glowing prize, determined to catch that yellow gold before the morning's gone.

Nylanth> It was a dark and stormy night is a true classic, and Punctuath finetunes the seething mass of suitors with well-placed marks ... or at least, his own place in the pack, vanishing an unseen wraith behind this cloud, reappearing a breath later unseen, unthought of, taken for granted ... until he is stolen away, and he's doing his best to make sure that Cadgwith is not deprived of his cultured presence.

Zi'n wipes something from his eyes as well, but that's very existent sweat, created by wine and, well, lust. Orbyth's lust, of course. Ahem. Hunching near a corner, the bronzerider huddles into his chair.

Nylanth> Intently focused on Cadgwith's tail, Simpsonth arranges wings and tail to propel himself even higher, following the taunting twitching lure like a glittering bronze blob that he is -- not something that many would appreciate, once netted, but with the potential to be very... satisfying. Eyes blink constantly, shunting the rain sideways and hopefully out of his vision.

Nylanth> Even if his voice is lost in the wind, Druseth lets out a low, rumbling growl, that builds and falls like the thunder. His dark tail swishing even as he soars, the pure gloominess of the sky seems to hearten him, add to his feral pleasure. There's nothing like the shadows cast upon a glowing lady, a seaborn prey... Flaring his wings, he draws his body in, letting the wind throw him and batter him upwards. Lean to the left. To the right. There's a strange plotting going on in those blood-dazed eyes. Gotta find a way to catch the storm.

Nylanth> Hendrixth might not have the best eyesight -- frankly, it's rather worse than most -- but he's been flying far longer than the average dragon. Experience has to count for /something/, doesn't it? And so he chases onward, for that goal that is the rather... unique... Cadgwith. Because, as he'd tell you, it's not just about the flight. It's about the girls. Even the ones who aren't classically beautiful. And Cadgwith is certainly not classically beautiful.

G'deon watches Pyrene's retreat with an odd curiosity as he rests his chin on his arms crossed over his knees. Before long, however, his own eyes are focused on nothing at all as he mind eventually yields to that of his lifemate. The rider's fingers stretch out and clench as if grasping at something unseen.

T'mar sees a kindred spirit in G'deon and goes to join him. " I'm T'mar...from Telgar...want some wine?" Seating himself near his fellow bronzer, he leans agains the wall and lets the waves of emotion and lust emitted by his dragon crash over him...and fights it...not yet..mustn't succumb yet....

Nylanth> Cadgwith appears briefly beneath the cloudbank, gazing one last time at the world below before diving upwards again. And this time she's not returning. She's going through.... beyond wind and rain and cloud... and most especially beyond the efforts of the puny dragons beneath her.

Oh, she's thinking about him. That's for sure. Wouldn't you want to think about the slightly overweight and entirely too sleezy H'tiwdac? Of course. Pyrene's movements toward the bed are easily followed by the seasoned bronzer, even if his steps are more overbearing, frumping. Yo ucould almost feel them shake the very foundations of the Weyr. Just pretend, yah? "C'mon baby..." He mutters, completely caught up in the flight, up in the sky with his own dragon, rather than trapped in the groundweyrs with the rest of the bronzeriders.

"Azurite?" A'postrophe ponders. Suddenly worrying, bronzerider flings himself to his knees, managing to toss wine in his own face - although that saves someone else the trouble of doing it - as he peers at the queenrider in a desperate attempt to divine the color of her eyes. It's the only word he can think of, after all.

Ceridwin releases Nim, who launches into the air.

B'art, no doubt imagining that those dreamy eyes are focused solely on him, swaggers over and plops his wide rump on the floor by Pyrene's feet. "Let me give those tootsies a rub," coaxes the bronzer, his balding head glistening with sweat.

Ceridwin calls to Nim, who flies over and lands on her shoulder.

Nylanth> Llamath races ahead, then lags behind as the wind whips his sturdy frame around. Dictated by nature, his flight seems both unsteady and graceful. Dictated by Cadgwidth, he hurries, ignoring the tempting eddys and currents of the air. Today they mean nothing to him, only irritants in his path. Again, straining upwards, he follows. Neither a path nor a light to guide him, he strains to catch sight of her sunthe one golden object in the sky once again.

Jesha falls to the floor in a puddle of wine and dirt and sweat and ... well, Jesha. Head leans 'gainst Zi'n's ankle and she sighs, staring at the ceiling. "Could someone stop the weyr? I wanna get offff." Lids flutter shut once more and she wipes feebly at her face while muttering, "I'mnotsupposedtobeheretoday" over and over again.

Nylanth> Awwww...she doesn't want to return? That's just not going to do. With an almost angry bugle at her defiance, Enerypth surges further upward, as if to bite at the end of the gold's tail, to punish her for her impudence. Aw now, that's just not fair, Cadgwith honey. Come to poppa now, come to PoppaRypth.

Nylanth> Punctuath will perservere, for the darkest hour is before dawn, and it isn't over until the fat lady sings ... he's a veritible wellspring of such tired phrases, but they gain no life under the power and determination of his swift-soaring wings. Would Cadgwith like to buy a vowel? Past the point of no return he soars in ardent pursuit, now sonnets crafted on every breath of the winds, meter with wingbeat, the tearing storm matching each breath.

Nylanth> Orbyth is a satellite, he's out of control! Cadgwith is his steadfast link as he navigates though the sea of rain, keeping his connection alive by zooming towards her golden form. Classically beautiful?? Who needs beautiful! You don't have to be /beautiful/ - to turn him /on/! You just need to be sexay and /female/ - 'cause he's a lovemachine ready to reaload, like an atom-bomb about to, whoa, /explode/!

Nylanth> Nylanth has not been beneath Cadgwith however, but high above, and as he sees her rise through the clouds his wings snap to his sides, plunging his bronzen body down at a almost reckless pace. Reckless if it hadn't been so calculated. Not a moment too soon his wings again unfurl, the momentum of his drop carrying him at dizzying speeds towards the glowing jewel in the skies just in front of him.

Nylanth> Plymouth longs for the mists to part so that the rays of Rukbat can bathe the golden queen before him and illuminate her startlingly unusual beauty...although her glowing hide is achieveing as much as the beams of the sun could ever do just at the moment....surging forward and beating his enormous wings savagely this craggy beast is not about to give up yet....his granite features are softened and smoothed by her delightful light and as the contours of the land below change, the mountains fall away, he knows more and more that she must be his....

Nylanth> Well aware that following Cadgwith to infinity and beyond -- or at least above that next layer of clouds, is nearly beyond the ability of his wings to lift, the blobby bronze strives valiantly on -- no one said he was long on brains. Claws flex and grasp, talons glittering amid the rain soaked air and hides surrounding him.

G'deon blinks slowly at the other rider as he takes a seat beside him. "G'deon," he mumbles, barely intelligible. "Telgar? I liked Telgar." And that's about as much as you're going to get out of that almost wistful voice. A bit too deep to be wistful, but lilting all the same as his eyes again go to a blank stare vaguely in the direction of Pyrene.

Pyrene abruptly pushes her feet outwards again--hopefully missing B'art's sweaty head, but you never know. "Azurite," she says aloud, distracted by a word that's got far too much to do with blue for her liking. She groans, her head shaking as she tries again to focus on the here and now. It's a short effort and she soon gives up, instead lying back on the cot. Much less effort to wait for the end of the flight before trying to speak to anybody. Less people to talk to too.

Nylanth> Zinfandelth floors it, sinewy body coiling once in intrepid determination before blazing -- wetly slick, though still bright above the rain -- his way in stretching, sleeking forward sweeps of those paper-thin, cinnamon-blessed wings. Whence dignity? He has none, for now, fire licking the jagged whirl of opalescent eyes and burning unsated fire with every whiplash movement.

Nylanth> Well aware that following Cadgwith to infinity and beyond -- or at least above that next layer of clouds, is nearly beyond the ability of Simpsonth's wings to lift, the blobby bronze strives valiantly on -- no one said he was long on brains. Claws flex and grasp, talons glittering amid the rain soaked air and hides surrounding him.

Nylanth> With the clouds surrounding them with darkness and the rain's obscuring of their eyes, sight's not the best thing to rely on. Druseth's nightstalker instincts have risen, the gleam of Cadgwith still a visible point. She's like a bright little ray of sunshine, isn't she? Mmmhmm. A little snarl on his features, he screams at his muscles to give more speed. If she's going up, he'll follow. Till they fall of the planet, or beyond.

Zi'n squeals softly as Jesha's head connects with his ankle, a hand awkwardly moving down to pat her shoulder-head-whatever-is-near. "You'll get off soon," the bronzerider promises - all in innocense, of course. Hehe.

A'postrophe curses himself inwardly for his faux pas ... how could he have forgotten Pyrene's fatal emnity to creatures that are blue? He slings an arm across his forehead, probably hitting someone else in the doing ... misplaced, which he often is, he just makes things worse.

H'tiwdac shoots a glance A'postrophe's direction, mostly because the man has interrupted his concentration on Pyrene. He's going to get some, whether she likes it or not. Horny old bronzer. Then again, with their dragons in the sky, they'd be hard put /not/ to be horny, now wouldn't they?

T'mar's eyes follow the direction that G'deons have taken and sighs softly, wishing fervently that he knew her...this strange situation is not the easiest way of making a lady's acquaintance...

Nylanth> Hendrixth isn't puny. He's large and in charge... mostly, anyhow. A faltering wingbeat here, a dodge to avoid lightning's strike there, and yet he perseveres. He'll have a pulled muscle or three after this, undoubtedly. But in the meantime, he ignores pain, as well as the sleeting rain, to gain the goal, perhaps insane, that holds his brain in thrall, and one main lane of thought drives through: Cadgwith. Even if she doesn't rhyme.

Nylanth> Llamath soars, peaking at the apex of his flight, looking down towards the cloudy recesses of the mountain peaks below. Only for a minute does his vision waver, then to return once again to the skies. Hey, its sorta pretty up here. With increased energy, Llamath floats forward, taking a minute to sort out the sky. Let's see, she's over there and Llamath'v over here. With a start, he speeds back up.

Nylanth> Annnnnd... he's lost. In the clouds. If this were a cartoon, Sevareth would skid to a halt and have about 800 question marks appear above his head. A-ha! Is that ... a tail tip! *chase* Orbyth is pursued with ardor and lust as Sev shadows the very first shiny dragon-like thing he sees. Come to me, my jungle friend.

Nylanth> Cadgwith has been calling throughout the flight. The same haunting note, as a guide through the rain and clouds. Up here though, in the cold thin air her sirensong changes to her swansong. It's too high, too far, and she cannot endure much longer before she must return down to the murky depths of the world she knows. Yet, even as she prepares to return, she knows that one will fall with her....

Pyrene lets out a soft sigh and goes limp for a moment on her cushions, her body yielding to the fate that's still to be decided.

Nylanth> Nylanth has waited until now to bugle towards that glowing jewel, her golden hide like a beacon through the stormy seas of clouds. Long and low, he projects his own answer to her challenging calls, that ghostly sound like a lure, pushing him onward, his wings beating with a fanatic frenzy, ready to catch that jewelled hide should she fall.

"Make it go away," murmurs Jesha, curling up 'gainst Zi and cuddling her knees to her sopping wet and half-uncovered chest. Head leans 'gainst his patting hand and she sighs blissfully, muscles tensing as she, too, follows her lifemate's flightplans. "How do I always end up at these events?" She should be getting frequent flier miles.

Nylanth> Orbyth has heard her call, of course - she's been his lighthouse, leading him through the storm into her arms! Err, wings. But not yet - first he'll get closer, cloooser... like a racing car he's passing by Sevareth, wiggling his sexy rump. For Cadge, of course. Uh-huh. As the goal is suddenly in sight, he's flying on wings of love; floating around in extacy. The world is turning inside out - he's reaching, reaching, for those golden arches of her wings and that tempting fruitcage...

Nylanth> Llamath calls, through the clouds and swishing sleet, a reasoning sort of bugle. Come in before you get soaked, it seems to say. Find a fluffy towel and dry up. Wings keep time to an inner beat, flashing between the pack, weaving in and out. He's there, closer, closertime will tell.

T'mar's head rolls, a soft moan escaping his lips as the surge of emotions generated within him take their strongest hold yet....with a longing look at the prone figure of the weyrwoman his eyes then close to allow himself to swirl in the moment....

Nylanth> Enerypth doesn't even catch sight of Sevareth chasing a bronze. He has sights only for that tantalizing gold. Who's being entirely unreasonable. C'mon baby, you know he'll treatcha well. What's he going to do to ya? Beatcha? Well, possibly, but we don't really have to go into that. Dragons don't beat each other. 'less...well nevermind. One last lustfull crow squirms past the bronze's lips to burst forth into the air, nearly tainting it with the sinful sound of it's horny need. If that makes any sense. Cadgwith, baby, sweetcakes, come to poppa...

Nylanth> Simpsonth looms, his massive frame angled against the sky and stormridden clouds. Wings fight for support, battered by winds and rain and the lust riding him like a bolt of glittering lightning. An errant gust puffs him forward, positioning the bronze at a location far more promising than any his tiny mind could devise, fate's way of evening the score. Tail flickers, guiding the bronze as close as he dares get...

G'deon's face takes on an almost pained expression as he leans forward inch by inch, his entire body tensing for what he knows must be nearing the end.

Nylanth> Druseth is the depths, is the abyss, is the pit of despair. Crimson in his eyes, his muzzle, and his blazing energy, a faint hint of weariness can be seen in the twitch of his tail, the struggling of his wings. Storm-weary, he follows the queen as a loyal servant, a silent stalker. So far, too close, and with a final stretch of his wings he swoops for the final chance, the final moment of the hunt when pain and breath no longer matter. All that exists is the storm and its lady.

Nylanth> Zinfandelth is drawn, as the sun is drawn to clouds, birds to bees, and overstimulated bronzeriders to swooning goldies -- drawn to Cadgwith's siren-like allure. He stretches, long as light and nearly as sunshine-bright as gold itself, claws straining towards the fallen swan. Take me to your siren depths, remove me from this murky prison...

Nylanth> Punctuath croons in an alternate rhythm, tempoed breath whispered in as Cadgwith exhales, finding a hiatus every time she begins anew. Though the flight is all, it exists on another realm ... one of memory, recorded forever in some annals of time. He speaks simple poetry-in-motion, an invitation, a challenge: come with me, and find a refuge forever from the shifting banality of the unwritten world.

Or frequent f... miles... ahem. Zi'n keeps patting Jesha's head - though one might mistake that as a caress, especially as Orbyth does somethign in the air that makes his rider squeal and clamp his wine goblet over his, eh, lap. Whoops.

C'dial lets out a sudden, sharp breath, groping pausing.

Nylanth> Lustrously shimmery brown wings reach, reach, reach for the rainsoaked wigglin' bottom of Orbyth. Is that... an invitation? It's so, so close... muzzle nips towards bronze's tail and a bugle issues from Sevareth's muzzle. Could it be? Might Sevareth just catch this one? This goddess of the rain, this ... sexmachine. Yes, he's ready for love... and delightfully close to that dark bronze hide.

B'art's fingers clench on the wine skin, squeezing the helpless bag with all the tension haunting his pudgy body. Like dragon like rider, the man inches closer to Pyrene, scooching over with his rump dragging the floor. Hardly a cassanova, no matter what his ego tells him.

Nylanth> Hendrixth chases, fleet of wing, and at last a raucous call doth sing, as he flings it to the open skies. Too far to fly for her embrace, the saving grace of this long chase is sought. At last, she'll fall, and he'll be all that she could ever need, indeed. Dare he hope his dreams be met, he'll catch her in his slow-drawn net, ere the day draw close, and yet she flies amid the skies, the only focus of his eyes.

Nylanth> Hearing the sweetest of songs sung by the loveliest of females, his bugles echoe hers calling with determined desperation that she should hear him and know that he, Plymouth adores her...admires her and would give everything to become everything to her...His immense frame creates a shadow as he flighs above her protecting her from the driving rain and vowing to protect her always....

A'postrophe comes out of his sonnet-induced daze to peer at Pyrene with something like shock. "What? Already? But I've only got fifteen lines!"

Jesha sits up quite suddenly, tossing a horrified glance at her Zi-pillow. "Did you just /pee/ on me?!" she gapes, jaw open and eyes flashing in terror. "I felt something warm come from your crotch and hit my back... that better not have been pee, or I'll slug you."

Now /that/ just completely ruined the mood. 'did you just /pee/ on me?' Even in the depths of lust from his dragon and from himself, the over-the-hill rider jerks away from Pyrene just in time to see Jesha spazzing out about someone peeing on someone else. "Shards..." He mutters, but that's about it. H'tiwdac doesn't have the energy to deal with it, especially now that his dragon is spending his last few ounces of beautiful energy...

Zi'n splutters wine all over his /own/ clothes as well. "No! no-no! Wine!" For emphasis, the bronzer swings his glass around, causing more of the hite liquid to sprinkle all over.

T'mar's eyes start open...at the peak ...at the moment of exquisite excitement...somebody pees themselves? Or even worse...they pee somebody else? T'mar shuts his eyes quickly...

Sora has disconnected.
Sora slowly relaxes, slumber overtaking her form.

B'art's wineskin -- having had enough of B'art's torturing fingers -- bursts, showering himself and those close to him with a gush of pale white wine. B'art himself, simply twitches and shakes what shaggy hair he has out of his eyes.

G'deon leans forward onto one knee, his fingers in a death-grip on his crossed arms as he all but collapses on himself. Any extraneous events in the ground weyrs have been luckily missed.

J'mi comes properly alert at Jesha's exclamation, and then muffles his laughter behind one balled-up fist. Oh, heavens. And, amidst his amusement, his wineglass nearly escapes his grip. Luckily for those nearby, he recovers, snatching it from the grip of cruel fate, and then leers at the assembled ladies, few though they are. Anybody wanna play?

Nylanth> Cadgwith gives one last cry and is silent as she dives down, graceful and by design. She is not caught, she allows somebody to share her fall, and perhaps it is a sign of perversity in her nature that in becoming one dragon's prize, she steals another. For indeed, at the last moment, Sevareth sees Orbyth stolen from him by a wash of gold.

Nylanth> Neeeee-yaaaaaaarrrrrrooooooow......... *fwoosh* Quite suddenly, Sevareth gets his paramour stolen from him and... notices a brighter object, more golden, entangled with it. A squeak issues from his throat, surprisingly reminiscent of a small girl, and he floats down through the clouds, his outlook on life and flights and lovin' changed forever.

Nylanth> Simpsonth savagly claws the air, rending rain and cloud as he sulkingly spirals downward, dull little eyes dim and pouting.

Nylanth> Orbyth is now /really/ ready to explode - within his harbor. Mrowr. A bronzen tail flicks in a 'too bad' notion after Sevareth. Once you tried gold, you're never goin' for second best. Hehe.

As Cadgwith comes down, Pyrene rises up, her legs coiling on the cot even as her body leans toward Zi'n, one arm stretching out as she calls. "Now..."

Nylanth> Llamath suddenly disappears ::between::!

B'art yelps, dismay mingling with outright hatred on his wide and pudgy features. Denied? Too bad the wine skin popped, he needs it now.

Nylanth> Hendrixth takes a little while to recognize that she's otherwise occupied, and his rhythm falters. Is there a rhyme for occupied? He sure can't think of one... Oh, well. Anybody want a peanut?

Nylanth> Liulfr suddenly disappears ::between::!

Cytherea suddenly disappears ::between::!

G'deon really does collapse this time. Or almost. One hand reaches towards the ground to stop him from falling as his eyes rise to watch Pyrene and Zi'n. Slowly he gets to his feet, his eyes now able to focus on his own surroundings and not the icy clouds above.

Nylanth> Plymouth swoops down over Cadgewith and finds..Orbyth? a quick retreat is executed and in dismay he makes his disgruntled exit...

Larky splutters his way ::between::

Nylanth> Plymouth suddenly disappears ::between::!

Uh - can he think about it? OK, done thinking, he's in! Zi'n bolts from his chair, careful not to knock Jesha's head in the process. And of course, now he's torn between two women. Scary or... scary.

Nylanth> Druseth falls. Ow. Well, he's lost, the storm's gone... Time to go back home to his Lylia. She'll keep him... company.

Nylanth> Hendrixth is flying home, too. Even if J'mi isn't nearly as good company as Lylia.

Pyrene isn't willing to share though, and she's sure she can distract him fully for Jesha. Jesh can go find... E'rp.

Nylanth> Enerypth pouts. He actually pouts. The poor guy lost his only hope for some booty this century. Poor draggie. He'll live. Rypth wings off into the sunset, lumbering off to sulk on his ledge and leave his rider stranded in the bowl.

Nylanth> Nylanth turns on a wing towards the west as he quickly glides away, the sight of Cadgith in another's clutches not quite what he'd had planned. His bronzen head cranes back for just a moment more before he sours back up into the clouds.

Nylanth> Hendrixth vanishes ::between:: with a final pose and small snort in farewell.

J'mi suddenly disappears ::between::!

H'tiwdac has been foiled again! Poor guy. Out he goes, abruptly leaving PYrene's immediate vicinity, wineskins lung over his shoulder, steps heavy and disappointed. Maybe he won't get laid /after/ all.

Nylanth> Enerypth suddenly disappears ::between::!

H'tiwdac leaves healers' enclave for the central bowl.

Jesha gets kneed in the face mid-standing and falls over once again, laying to stare at the ceiling for about three seconds. "That's ok! I don't love you anyway, y'piss monster!" bawls the girl, staggering to her feet and wavering towards the door. "Try not to pee on Pyrene, ok? I'mmmmm g'ngotakeabath." Sage advice given, the woman is gone, leaving only her wineskin behind as a mute reminder that alcohol does not equal instant sexxin'.

Jesha leaves healers' enclave for the central bowl.

Ceridwin leaves healers' enclave for the central bowl.

T'mar slumps against the wall, the sudden rush of emotion gone from him like a wave retreting back into the ocean with a hiss......eyes open slowly, and blearily he looks around him...

Lylia goes home.

[End of log]

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