Ilare - Monday, December 18, 2000, 10:12 AM ------------------------------------------- Chanticoth's Couch of Cuddles Cozy, if a bit roomy for its current occupants, this dragon couch was designed to fit the future needs of the pair sharing it. Rushes have been piled deep on the raised couch, their scent and appearance indicating them to be newly laid down. Arranged so they lie flat, the area has been swept clean and dust-free. Upon one end of the couch, several quilts cover them, each one in brightest royal blue and deepest darkest black, patchwork colors of the Weyr. The smell of clean rushes and aired quilts waft about here, carrying with it the scent of freshly oiled dragon hide. Curled about the couch is Bay. Brown Chanticoth is here. Obvious exits: Barracks Chanticoth Oh what sweet, sweet treacle flavours his slimly elongated curves, lightening the glimmering patina of burnt pinewood; oh what bright, bright ridges carol along his snow and mistletoe back, kissing the gingerbread surface below. But it is the patterned decadence of brandy-butter that defines this rogue: toasted to perfection from the ruddy nubs that cap his head to the festive curve of that spoon-shaped tail candycane-striped with russet, his sweetly blunted snout is fairy-dusted with holly-crimson, which also reddens freckled cheeks. His chestnut hide roasts in the open air of winter's breath wings, along which a darker brown tracery gaily hunts for perfection. Smouldering embers of evening's end warm his underbelly, stretching dusky shadows except where disturbed by the rare sunburst of flames, breathing life into the whole of his enchanting body. Chanticoth is 2 months and 18 days old. He is 17 feet (5m) long, with a wingspan of 28 feet (8m). Chanticoth senses Ilare looking at him. Chanticoth seems to be listening. Just beyond the recesses of your couch, you hear..humming? And splashing? Is it another hatching?! Nooo..., not quite, for soon following those sounds comes the ever pleasant: "Mzadith, don't /do/ that! Now I'm all wet." Whine. Of course, this is soon followed by another splash and a giggle from ling. Weyrling Barracks The large covered entryways open into two immense U-shaped caverns that stretch back deep into the rock of the cliffside. Glow baskets lining the cavern walls cast a soft light dispelling the shadows and illuminating the home of all High Reaches weyrlings. Stone couches, some smaller for the greens and blues and some, for bronzes and the occasional gold, so large they have to be climbed into, rise up to loom over the walkways of well-packed dirt. Along the walls nearest the entrances, shelves and pegs sport several sets of leathers and various books and tools needed when teaching and practicing; crates and supplies also take up residence in various nooks and crannies. Toward the back, a large, man-dug pool for use by the dragonets and their lifemates and several large containers kept full of fresh meat serve as conveniences for the busy residents of these barracks. To the southwest, you see Zaqith, Niamhyth, and Kelitath. Snuggled in with the leather supplies and tools are eight firelizards. Brown Backstreeth, blue Recounth, blue Catiminith, blue Mzadith and green Branwyth are here. You see Weyrling Progress Record and Dragon Wing here. Cayl is here. Obvious exits: Staff Office Bowl Couches Chanticoth> Ilare arises from the couch and vanishes out into the barracks. Chanticoth senses that he stretches his legs out before him, tail coiling about his lifemate as he awaits her awakening. Dark swirls, rich and velvety, rippling with a hint of humour. << Good morning.. >> Chanticoth arises from the couch and vanishes out into the barracks. Chanticoth senses that Mzadith's voice, as smoothly flowing as liquid fire and yet pooled into an azure lake of delight, sweeps over your thoughts. Brief flashes of somber red and violet accompany, the patterns of a morning dawn. <> Ilare yaaaaawns, emerging from her couch half-towed by the russet-striped tail of her brown lifemate, who pads with enviable style towards the tables where his life mate can make him some breakfast. "'Morning.." is called in the direction of the bathing pair, before she chuckles at some mental comment from Chanticoth. Chanticoth senses that his voice, deep and rich, swirls with a seductive beat, the throbbing of amazonian drums echoing through the rich chocolatiness. << Indeed it is so, mate. C'mon Ilare, honey. Let's get some food, then we can see what's planned for the day. >> Soft chuckle rolls the words pleasingly. Immersed in the warm pool beside an overwelming lump of blue and soot, Cayl nearly misses Ilare's greeting. However she glances over and flashes an unfelt smile. "Oh, morn Ilare. He have you up at the crack of dawn too?" She asks, watching the eager brown before she turns back to scrubbing at some, no doubt horridly, itchy spot. "No, it's nice and warm in here. Safe and warm. We are /not/ going to the lake. I refuse this time dear! Really. No. No. Sorry, nope. Not a chance. Mzaaaaa, stop asking! You wouldn't want me to catch my death would you?" Facefault. "No, it's not a green...sigh." Chanticoth senses that Mzadith's pleading is obviously getting him no where, swirls of angsty jasmine taint his voice with exasperation. However, at the mention of Death, he quickly seeks out said dragon, to question why Cayl would 'catch her', instead of he? Women are such a puzzlement, dragon or human. Especially human. And dragon. As he shakes free his mental mind, the sound of crisp icicles dropping to the dew-damp earth, the blueling sends towards Chanticoth: <> Seems last time he'd fallen asleep right after eating, and made the ling's life a bit harder. All that dragging to the lake and all. Ilare gives a nod, an answering smile on her lips. "Well, not exactly. I was almost awake. His need just dragged me out from under the covers." Unwinding the tail from about her waist, she chuckles again. "Yes, I'll get right to i-- no, you can't have a cookie. It's not dragon food, hun." Reaching for a pail, she places it on the table, away from her bigger lifemate, before snagging her usual knife and placing one of the large slabs of meat on the table. "He's getting so big..." she chuckles as Chanticoth waits to one side, tail coiled about his forepaws, thrumming in amusement. "Well, duh, KlahBunny. And no, bubblies are not on the menu..." Chanticoth senses that he gives an amused thrum at his lifemate, wings twitching a little as he awaits breakfast. A deep chuckle rolls, like the thudding drum beat, with hints of tropical birds singing in the mists beyond. << Mind is happy to feed me before my bath, aren't you, hun? >> Eyes spin in deep blues and greens, and head turns to look at the bathing pair. << Your lifemate's looking well, Mate. You treating her well? >> Couldn't possibly be the other way around... Cayl has disconnected. Cayl suddenly goes into a quiet daze... Training Grounds The marks of thousands of claws give testament to the shuffling of the young dragons that have torn up what little grass once grew in this corner of the bowl. Tucked in between the feeding pens to the south and the curve of the Weyrleader's complex, the training grounds are home to daily exercises and classes, all taking place well out of the way of the hectic bustle of the rest of the bowl. Cut deep into the cliff face, the large, covered openings leading into the extensive weyrling barracks rise high over the heads of any who come near, although the height of the caldera's spindles far above cast their own reaching shadows across the hard packed earth. It is an autumn before dawn. The air is cold, the sky dark. The rain begins to slack off to a gentle, chilly drizzle. Soaring high overhead are Satyr, Shugogetten, and Harme. Green Zaqith, green Niamhyth, and green Kelitath are here. Obvious exits: Weyrling Barracks Northern Bowl Corrals Chanticoth pads with effortless poise in from the Weyrling Barracks. Ilare is led in by Chanticoth. Chanticoth senses that he raises his head, eyes spinning slowly as a soft rumbling of drums, accompanied by the soft hiss of a waterfall and the faint hint of tropical birdsong whisper outwards through the weyr. Deep rich velvet tones spin forth, announcing his presence. << Good morning... A touch damp today, isn't it? >> A soft chuckle, warmer than the rains beyond the entrance to the bowl from the Weyrling barracks, follows his words, shrouding them like a soft mist. Chanticoth senses that Branwyth chimes in, smoky wisps of drowsiness shot through with a sharp wintergreen of amusement. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith smoke, heavy and dank, yet misty and light, coil 'round sparks of rampant maroon. << Still raining, man? Great. I love the rain. >> Images of water eddies douse the flame of his fire, seeping with dusky hues of pleasure. << You're green, if you mildew, no one will notice.>> Chanticoth makes a disgruntled sound, paws moving carefully, tail carried high as he makes his way after his human lifemate, wings clamped tightly to his back. A faint noise escapes him, earning him a sympathetic smile from the jacket wearing weyrling. "I know - it's very cold. But that's 'Reaches for you I guess." *shiver* Ilare steps back towards her weyrmate, minding the small puddles here and there. "Ready to do your exercises?" The expression on the brown's face is clear - 'Do I have to?' "Yup." Dang. Chanticoth senses that he gives a smooth chuckle, the thrum of an amazonian dawn coloured with the soft lights of the outdoors. << No rain now, Soliquith, mate. Just a cold chill wind.. >> A purely mental shiver escapes the brown, before the rich scent of cocoa, deep, brown and rich coasts towards his clutchmates. << Good morning, Branwyth, darling. I doubt you'll have to worry. >> Charm itself, isn't he? Chanticoth senses that Branwyth offers wrinkling, gently writhing whirls of tarnished silver, spiced with a cool, amused and slightly teasing blue-green. <> A warm, rich burgundy twines itself around the name of her beloved, before the amused blue-green returns. <> Only /slightly/ obvious with the charm. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith answers ambiguously, tarnished crimson murky and labored. << Maybe it'll rain later... >> His mindvoice tapers off into a low, prussian sigh, a flicker of ale-hot tangerine still gripping, though weakly. Branwyth's rejoinder is recieved in a whorling, amused spiral of black, though there is nothing uninviting about the curling of darkness. Chanticoth senses that he chuckles, the deep sound rolling forth, smooth, encased in the scent of fresh hot cocoa. << Try? I'm simply stating the truth, sweetheart. >> A hint of distant chanting, spiralling between rythmic drumming and the bustling hint of amusement. << It IS cold, though. And the floor is damp. I am practicing my wing exercises with Ilare. >> Chanticoth senses that Branwyth adds her own amusement to Canticoth's laugh, quicksilver and wintergreen mingling in pleasant ripples, with the brisk scent of mint hanging through. <> 'Mildew' apparently being highly amusing to her, as little sparks of private amusement flash through her words, before she settles, and remarks in an azure-tinged conversational tone that <> The chilled breeze swirls across the bowl, but cloaked in her jacket, brownling childe is safe from the cold. Ilare tucks her braid beneath the jacket, before standing before her lifemate, hmming softly. "Now, remember how we were shown yesterday?" Chanticoth gives a rumble, slowly unfurling his wings as she watches, mentally thinking the step-by-step instructions. "Slowly now, open them up and out.. That's it! Good..." Brown wings are spread outwards, at snails pace instead of the snapping speed he would rather. But the wind is still whistling through... Chanticoth senses that Soquilith falls silent, both in color and voice, a greyed whipcord of moonray silver argent the only telltale sign he was ever there intially. Chanticoth senses that he raises a purely mental eyeridge at the 'mildew' joke, as it makes very little sense to him, nor to his lifemate. << It is damp, but I do not think stretching my wings will lead to mildew, lovely. >> Chuckling, he adds hints of deepest browns mixed with rich saffron and amber, all the while amused by something. R'ave skulks broodily in from the Weyrling Barracks. Soquilith caracoles indolently in from the Weyrling Barracks. Chanticoth senses that Branwyth doesn't seem to care overly-much that she's the only one getting the joke, as the little silver sparks continue to bubble beneath the calm azure of her thoughts. <> Hmmm... Dragon-sized snowball fights? Ilare chuckles at some comment from Chanticoth, the candy cane striped tail swaying a little as he extends his wings up and out to their fullest extent. He croons happily as she begins to praise him, ducking under the sails to check them over, carefully searching for any hints of patchy skin. Brown looks back over and bugles a soft greeting in the dawn light to the bronzling pair, before Ilare notices. "Good morning R'ave, Soquilith." A hand waves, before she pats the smoothest, softest (and patchless) hide. "You can fold them again, Chanticoth." Chanticoth senses that he sends forth... Amusement? << Ilare says that it is always cold here; but she is not of High Reaches. She comes from.. >> There is a moment of quiet, as the drums halt and there is naught but the hint of birdsong, the whispers of chanting beneath a layer of dark choclatey thought.. << An Island. Called Ista. >> Pleasure rumbles through his chuckle, as he remembers the name of where his lifemate was spawned. << She says that this snow is.. cold, but fun.>> [Monitor] Orbit has connected at Mon Dec 18 13:02:02 2000 CST Ilare hugs Orbit! Orbit reaches out and hugs you tightly. Deathgrip??? Nah, she's just trying to pull you out of the way of Ivrylth. **Splat** Ooops. Orbit didn't manage. R'ave saunters towards the brownling pair, holding a gnarled bone that looks suspiciously like a rib. "No, I don't know what it belongs to, Soq... hey Ilare, mornin' Chanticoth." Soquilith whuffs laboriously over the twisted length of bone, a quick greeting whicker-rumbled toward his clutchsib. Chanticoth senses that Branwyth gives a mental nod, touched with quick flashes of turquoise light, as she ponders the future fun available. <> Or something to that effect. Explaining sledding to someone draconic /would/ be a little difficult. More flashes, and then the colours and light swirls into a whirlpool of pondering. <> Chanticoth senses that Soquilith breaks his oath of quietness, a heated tongue of lime green sarcasm reaching toward Branwyth. << Hard enough to walk on? I'll let -you- go first, in that case. >> Chanticoth returns the whuffle, even as the big sails retract to his sides, flipped neatly to his back. "Chanticoth says to say hi," giggles the brownling, before looking back to the dragon. "And again..." Out and up, and stretch! Ilare ducks as her lifemate moves a little faster, backing away so as not to get hit by a wing. "Soquilith is looking very well, R'ave. He grows well. How big's his wingspan today?" A running joke between Weyrlings, no? Do their dragons' wings not expand and get larger each day? Soquilith regards R'ave's fellow weyrling for a moment, glancing to his own before unfurling murkily dark 'sails, nothing fluttery about them, hardness where gauzy-thin membrane is often found. "Um.. pretty big? Almost as big as Miravith is length-wise." Smirk. Soquilith is quick to re-fold his wings, first stretching wingspars outward before the retract. Chanticoth senses R'ave looking at him. Chanticoth senses that he echoes the humour found within Branwyth's voice, the thrumming hymn of multiple soft voices chorusing between the bouts of bright swirling warmth. A long chuckle wafts across minds... << Hard? But slippery no doubt, sweetheart. I doubt that it would be safe to walk upon. I doubt I'd care to try - but my lifemate might. She has never.. >> a chuckled pause, before an image of the lake, flat and smooth, is sent forth, figures gliding on silver across it, spinning and dipping like birds. Soquilith Pinto patches gleam in full moon silver against windswept bronze, eddies of airborne dust scouring the crests of skin-sheathed muscle and streaking red the leeward side. Prairie fire blazed fetlocks into paws, tongues licking up the gentle hillocks of legs' straining muscles, warm contrast to cool flames of alcohol against the beaten metal of his neck. A jagged skyline of ridges is hammered out from the broad, brawny arch by unseen hands, pressed foil-thin over the peaks of headknobs. Twin caverns pock the noble slope of an aquiline, equine muzzle, containing in their overhanging shadow endless pools of summer sky, as luminous as wings are dark: from the puissant grip of roots around a barrel chest, twin wiry trunks twist tendons up spars' bone fingers, reaching for the wisps of lavendar clouds as the fresh rays of a new sun gild the edge of velvet-night sails. Soquilith is 2 months and 22 days old. He is 18 feet (5m) long, with a wingspan of 30 feet (9m). Soquilith seems to be listening. R'ave Madder-ghosted moonrays swamp to sculpt and slink over yielding slants of cheekbones, widening into a gauchely weak jaw; alabaster upwelling into each bank of soft flesh and every wiry twist of sinew. Aurum-gold seeps into the honey-raveled measures of fawn tresses, rakishly layered lengths spreading a shade from neutral jaw to the naturally uniform rigidity of neapish shoulders. Not excessively stinted, imperfectly spare torso tapers into impossibly slender, lank legs and upsweeps into similarly rangy arms. An intrinsic severance fades the smoldering orchid tint of signature cyan-spindled eyes, orbicular skew concocting an outlandish look to his unsheltered, raw sway Uniform-geared: a royal blue shirt of no-nonsense fabric clings warmly to his arms and torso, navy collar a trendily folded v-contour. Long sleeves end in neat cuffs at his wrists, and as neat is the doubling of the hem over a suede-black belt. Cotton pants are uncomplicated and loose, allowing for easy, nimble movement (nimble if the wearer was nimble, that is). Once-shiny black boots have been pulled and dusted from the depths of his wardrobe, and the loose creases of slightly too-long pants gather 'round the worn heels. Dual twisted cords twine; an ebon length coiled with another strand of navy, forming a single loop. There within spirals a ribbon of red-veiled bronze, though streaks of faded material hint at silver. He is awake and looks alert. R'ave is 17 Turns, 11 months, and 6 days old. You notice R'ave looking at you. Ilare A bright smile filled with warmth shines out from creamy-tan skin, framed by red-gold curls that fall in waves to the middle of her back. Locks once always in total disarray, obscuring amber eyes light enough to be considered golden, have finally become tame and controllable. Tanned skin is clean with a row of freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones, the final hints of childhood pudginess fading to the faintest hint. Not willowy, she'll never be that, but strongly built and sturdy, as agile on her feet as a dragon midair. Having reached 5'6, she gives the impression of being taller through sheer smiliness and an insatiable friendliness. Alert and cheerful, her eyes seem to sparkle more since her Impression of Chanticoth, glowing almost bright gold when they're together. Deep royal blue, crisp and bright, colours the silken fabric of Ilare's shirt. Darkest midnight buttons hold the practical fabric in place at the neckline, with long sleeves tapering to small wrists, ending in a cuff that keeps them safely out of the way when working with her life mate or allows them to be shoved up to her elbows when the work becomes messy. The hemline is tucked neatly into trousers made of sturdy strong wher-hide, hued to darkest black of a midnight starless sky. A belt of matching black is fastened 'round her waist, while knee high black boots, lined with soft down, fit her feet comfortably, barely noticeable as their black fades into the rest of the ensemble. Nestled in Ilare's hair like a crown is Kairo. Curled snuggly about Ilare's neck is Jolinar. Perched on Ilare's shoulder is Seth. A double twisted cord, one strand blue and one black, in a single loop, with a ribbon the color of Chanticoth - deepest, richest brown - threaded into it. She is awake and looks alert. You notice Ilare looking at you. Ilare is 18 Turns, 6 months, and 1 day old. Chanticoth senses that Branwyth 'eyes' the image sent, quicksilver cracklings of delight accompanying her thoughts. <> [Monitor] Orbit has disconnected at Mon Dec 18 13:20:30 2000 CST Ilare grins broadly, resting her hands on her hips as she watches Chanticoth do his usual exercises. A head shake is given; "Not until you've done at least ten. Then you can go back inside. And it's not that--" a wooosh of cold air whips through the bowl, and arms instantly wrap about her, even with the jacket on. "---bbbrrrr! Okay, yes, it's a bit cold. But when you've done your exercises.." A nod, echoes by the amused twinkle in her eye is all the brown dragon gets. Stretching out roast chestnut wings wingspars stretched to their farthest point, they are retracted back once more. R'ave tilts a glance up (upupup) toward Soquilith. "You really should be doing that, y'know." Snort. "And a bath.. try a bath? Have you eaten lately? What do you -mean- you found a feline? You can't eat felines." The exasperated semi-aside ends in a defeated sigh from R'ave, and a shuddering shake of Soquilith's mammoth head. "Cold, eh?" Not really. After a few four turns, you get used to it. Chanticoth senses that he grins mentally, the expression causing a ripple through the deep cocoa flavoured mindvoice. <> Longing tinges his mindvoice, before he chuckles again. << Ilare says that the turn will fly-- >> an extra deep, pounding chuckle, << --by quite swiftly. I should think I would enjoy being in the sky, flying through such 'snow'. >> Head tilting in her fellow weyrling's direction, she eyes the bronze thoughtfully, a nod of warm humour spilling forth after a few moments. "Yes, a bit. I don't think I'll ever adjust from being Istan.." Well, she might. We'll just have to see. Gazing up at her browwn, who turns and sends amused coloured eyewhirls at his clutchsib, she snickers suddenly. "Chanti!" Ilare shakes her head. "Daft brown.." she shrugs. Soquilith looks mellowly indignant, a cool gaze lifted to the brown. "What'd he say?" R'ave asks in place of his bronze, watching a feline /bolt/ (with a formidable screech) away out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sure the feline will forgive you, Soq." Chanticoth senses that he turns his head to gaze at Soquilith, eyes whirling. << Methinks our lifemates should be doing some exercise also, if they are chilled. Don't you, mate? >> Ilare hahs at her brown, before shaking her head. "He's insisting we should do a bit of similar exercise. I pointed out we're not the ones who need to get our muscles strengthened.." Pausing, she starts to giggle. But this time she's no intention of revealing what Chanticoth 'said'. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith wrenches a fog-diluted answer smokily, languidly, toward Chanticoth. << Man, so long as I don't have to sit for a half hour and open and close my wings... >> As is usual, his mindvoice drifts into a prussian-coiled sigh. << That sounds fine. >> R'ave cants his head very faintly, jaw flexing as he leans against Soquilith. "Raise and lower our arms for a half an hour or something?" One trunk-like foreleg curls, the bronze's penchant to slouch for a better look at little things (people) given in to. Snort. Ilare giggles, even as she moves back towards her brown's brandy-butter coloured side. "Mayhaps. But I certainly am not going to. Besides, it's up to him to keep up the exercises." Pokepokepoke, she prods Chanticoth in the side. "A little faster, Chanti." Chanticoth senses that Branwyth sends a suddenly-occured image of her own, chasing off on yet another flight of fancy with a blissful wave of delicate blue. A full wing of dragons, quite easily recongnizable as their own, soaring and wheeling gracefully through a glistening shower of sunlit snowfall. The conditions are implausible, undoubtedly, but what does she know of snow? Spirals of silver circle burgundy happiness. <> This is almost to herself, and the swirling colours become indistinct and far-off, as she sinks again into some mysterious daydream. Chanticoth senses that he lets out a whuffle, the gingerbread hint to his hide washing across his lifemate as he does so. A thunder of drums pounds an answer back to Soquilith. << Perhaps they can run. A few laps about the bowl might do them good. >> Russet dusted snout lowers and nudges his human. << Ilare, honey, why don't you go stretch your legs? >> Soquilith appears amused, regarding his clutchbrother dryly. R'ave is being told just about everything, and thus his brow is raised. "I am not running laps." A/hem/. Soquilith's draconically horse-ish expression is teasing as he flutters his wings at Chanticoth, mimicking. Chanticoth senses that he lets out a sigh, wistful swirls of tropical mist spiraling and sharing such an image with his lifemate. << To do so, what fun aloft we would have! >> A chuckle now, deeper and filled with humour, deep within the amazonian greenery. << If that is what awaits us, I shall certainly look forward to it. >> Chanticoth looks innocent, eyes spinning in bright golds and blues. "Why is that then?" A hint of challenge enters Ilare's voice - something that, before Impressing, you might ne'er a heard. "Not fit enough to do so?" Leaning against her dragon's shoulder, Ilare raises a single eyebrow, eyes twinkling. Chanticoth rumbles in deep amusement - both await an answer. R'ave blinks, and Soquilith rolls his head around mid-mock. "I am /quite/ fit," he answers, interest sparking in the bronzeling's eyes. R'ave's pride, like Ilare's challenge, is something now enhanced by Impression. "I just don't see the point of running laps." Ilare buffs her nails on her chest, examining them in detail even as Chanticoth rests his jaw lightly on one shoulder. "Oh, I see. You're just lazy." Well, surely he is, neh? "And I must say, I agree with Chanticoth - running will certainly keep us warm, as well as strengthening out leg muscles." Glancing up, expression clearly innocent, eyebrow tilts aloft once more. "You game?" R'ave sighs, a nudge placed 'tween his shoulderblades by an amused Soquilith. "Soquilith thinks this is incredibly shallow.. but sure. I'm game." R'ave isn't lazy, after all. Soquilith is. "And I'm not cold, either. I am /humoring/ you." "Humouring me? I need humouring?" Eyes batt and hands are planted on hips. Both eyebrows arch now, gold-amber twinkling in spite of her 'serious' expression. Chanticoth gives a warm chuckle, and noses his rider's back gently. " R'ave shrugs apathetically. "At the moment, you do." Ilare gives R'ave a mock look of disgust, before slipping off her jacket, and placing it on one of Chanticoth's paws. Rolling up her sleeves, inspite of the chill, she takes three steps forward, and crosses her arms infront of her chest. "Is that so.." Not a question, but a statement. In the back of her mind, an amused chuckle rolls, before she grins and glances back at Chanticoth. "Thank you Chanti." Looking back to R'ave, she tilts her head. "I don't 'need' humouring, sweetheart." Using one of her dragon's nicks for herself when he's being slightly sarcastic or amusing, Ilare flicks her braid back over her shoulder. "And why, at this moment, do I need humouring?" "Sweetheart?" R'ave looks disgruntled. "You're being stubborn?" The bronzeling's weak logic is foiled as Soquilith's defense is dropped. There's that /cat/ again. Stalk. "If you wanna run, go ahead. I'm not stopping you." Ilare doesn't look even slightly convinced. "Uh huh." Stubborn? Her? Well, perhaps. But she won't admit to it. "If you say so, R'ave. I guess I'll just have to find another up to the challenge.. " turning on her heel, she pads back to Chanticoth and strokes his shoulder. "Give me a countdown, Chanti?" R'ave is now wounded, as much as disgruntled. "Hey! Fine. D'you want a race or something?" Wow. It's been a long time since he's really.. /ran/. Well. Ever since he was in that dress, and that drunken cook thought he was a girl.. and.. yeah. Ilare doesn't turn for a moment, which means her Brown is the only one to see her grin. Schooling her features into a more ready, faintly disbelieving expression, she folds her arms across her chest once more. "Hmm.. Well, if you think you're up to it." Dragonic laughter flitters between her ears, and her mouth twitches up in the corner. R'ave wrinkles his nose --a shade of the old Rauve-- and glowers. Until he's immediately told to lighten up. "Sure... we wagering anything?" Ilare gives a half shrug. She's not exactly got anything to wager, but if he's any suggestions...? "WHat did you have in mind, mate?" Gone is the 'sweetheart' but it might return.. if your not careful. Chanticoth senses that he gives a deep laugh, syrupy-gold swirling with brilliant brown as his thoughts are trummed beyond. << Well, this is more interesting than wing exercises.. >> Chanticoth senses that Soquilith is all buttery, blatant oils, dripping dark, dank crimson. << A curious thought... clowns. I hope his legs are stronger than his logic. >> R'ave pats his own cheek conspiratorially. "If I win, you have to be my personal slave for the day.. and same vice versa?" Either way, he could end up winning. Beam. Chanticoth senses that he sends deep swirling patterns across to Soquilith, amusement spiralling beyond the usual. << And that is the best your lifemate could do, my friend? I expected better... >> A wink, echoed by throbbing drumroll chuckle, is sent the bronze dragon's way. Chanticoth senses that Nylanth thinks of lazy swirls of an overcast sky lit by the sliver of a moon at midnight, flashes with distant lightning. << What are you two up to? >> comes the low, amused question. Ilare echoes the thoughts of her dragon. "That's the bet?" Amused? Muchly. "Exactly how long a day? Which day? And truely, mate.. is that the best you could come up with?" Large brown head swivels to peers in amusement at bronzeling rider, and Chanticoth's croon of amusement indicates he doesn't mind. As long as things don't get out of hand. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith suggests ...suggestion... in a tongue of flickering lime, touched with argent. << Those who assume... >> The latter part of the comment is left to fuzzle 'midst a blooded emerald. << Chasing kittens. >> Well. He is. "Just today... and if you can do better..." R'ave hand is swept outward. "Than please, do so." Soquilith pauses his feline stalking for a moment. Out of hand? Let's hope so. Chanticoth senses that he chuckles again, rich chocolate exoticness coating the over-mouthed vowels. A flickering image of the bowl, and two Weyrlings come to mind, and the chuckle rumbles forth on the aztec drum beat. << Things are looking interesting, mate. >> G'deon quietly strides in from the Weyrling Barracks. Nylanth carefully and as silently as possible tramps in from the Weyrling Barracks. Sora ambles amiably in from the Weyrling Barracks. Catiminith shuffles awkwardly in from the Weyrling Barracks. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith's murmured slur trifles, tickled with an eclectic swirl of electric pink and sun-stained ivory. << Your weyrling is metal. >> He means, rather, that she is unbendable. Ilare straightens thoughtfully, eyes glowing a moment as she ponders ideas with her large brown lifemate. Finally.. "Agreed. BUT, no dragons are to interfere--" this s as much for her own lifemate as it is any other, "And it's just between--Oh, hi G'deon!" is called, with a wink and a grin, before attention returns to R'ave. "As I was saying. this is our race. No others.. But who ever loses still must care for their dragon." Is Sora not here? Poor Sora. Poor sleepy Sora, trailed by an equally sleepy Catiminith. "'lo, guys," is her yawned comment, gaze shadowed and still dream-riddled. "See, Cat? Outside Things. Finally." G'deon shuffles out with Nylanth just before Sora and Catiminith emmerge. "Hello there Ilare, R'ave!" R'ave lifts a distracted hand toward the others, eyes all for Ilare, at the moment. "Sure.. sure." She couldn't handle Soquilith. He nearly can't. "A run toward the corrals, and then we finish here?" Chanticoth senses that he pictures his lifemate made of steel and iron, forged from the metals of Pern. Hmm... Nah. << Yours is certainly ready to rumble, >> amusement in dark cocoa-ness is obvious, even as he picks the phraze from his lifemates mind. Chanticoth senses that Catiminith drifts into the link with wide, sleepy splatters of periwinkle and feather-soft gray. <> "There and back? Sounds fair to me," is the nodded reply, and hand is extended. "Shake?" Ilare gives a grin, clearly ready to go. All they need now if for someone to give the word... After R'ave has given her his. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith rolls his mental 'self into a shrug, also spilling indifferent purple pomegranate. << He found his spine. >> G'deon's eyes carefully look to one weyrling to the other. "What's going on?" he asks, amusement twinkling in his sky blue eyes. R'ave grips her hand once, a squeeze, and it's dropped. "There and back. Someone say 'go', wouldja?" Chanticoth senses that he pauses, mists of amazonian dawn swirling, before the chocolatey rich voice chuckles at Soquilith. <> Chanticoth senses that Soquilith sighs a mist of ale-inberiated lavandar. << /Man/, he doesn't find it very often... >> "A race. With the loser playing slave for a day." Ilare giggles, even as Chanticoth moves off to one side, her one-dragon cheering squad. "Someone count us down?" Having already shed her jacket, she stretches a moment, before getting ready to sprint. Her fire lizards make doubting sounds. Surely she cannot run that fast. Look at her! Chanticoth's rumble silences them; Ilare can do it. Watch.. G'deon nods quickly and stands to the side. "Alright. On the count of three then. Both of you ready?" he asks in a crisp voice, alight with excitement. Sora perks up, 'lashes fluttering gleefully open as she hastily moves her slumbery blue to the side. "Race? Why?" Ilare grins broadly, idly sending the thought of, 'What the shard am I doing?' towards her dragon as she gets ready. Aloud, she replies. "Ready." Chanticoth senses that Catiminith echoes Sora's question in the draconic imitation of a mental yawn. <> A pause, soft, soft orange lingering along the edges of still-sleepy grays. <> Soquilith resolves to let the fuzzy ball of fur escape is attention, and swings his hips 'round, a somber, snickering whinny-broken whirr loosened toward his lifemate. Oi. People. "Yeah, sure I'm ready," R'ave answers his fellow bronzeling, and finally the bluelt, "To save face." G'deon nods to Ilare, then to R'ave. "Alright. 1... 2.... 3!" "From what?" Sora wants to know, turning slightly to Cat and resting a hand on one big ploofy headknob. "Cat, dear, it's R'ave an' Ilare that're racing. Not Soq and Chanticoth." Chanticoth senses that Nylanth softly settles on his back haunches, his eyes whirling slowly, head pitched forward at an odd angle. Wavy lines of azure infiltrate his mindvoice, a rushing stream at spring. << Will we race when they are done? >> Ilare tenses briefly, before chuckling... And forward she launches herself, to the sound of her life mate cheering her on, encouraging her in her head. Her feet pound a strong solid, even rythmn across the bowl as she makes her way across. Smaller she may be than R'ave, but she's calm and she's determined indeed. Chanticoth senses that he does not care to race, for he does so mind-to-mind with Ilare, his own mental rythmn and natural beat pacing with her in encouragement. << If you wish. And it shall be I who starts your race... >> Eyes follow the running path of his small lifemate, and he gives a soft bugle. << You go, girl! >> R'ave hesitates before breaking into a sprint, glad for functional clothing, instead of the usual tight-pants second-skin shirt ensemble. His gait is fluid, but his stride isn't solid or rhymatic. It shortens and extends, arms swaying and retracting as he paces, pretending --for encouragement-- that the randy cook is after him again. Hee. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith crinkles colors into burnished shadows. << I'm too big to gallop.>> G'deon leans forward, his hands on his knees as he keenly watches the race. Legs stretch out beneath her, pounding feet hitting the stone floor squarely, carefully watching for slippery mud or puddles.. Not that splashing R'ave wwouldn't be fun. Ilare dares a glance to find her competitor closing, and eyes slide forward once more. Over two thirds of the way towards the enterance to the pens now, and she's not even out of breath yet! R'ave is out of breath, sure, but not out of steam. Panting, boots slip-sliding haplessly, he looses ground.. Oh no! Or is he doing it purposefully? Either way, he's smiling, nose and cheeks touched with fresh rubicund. Tatia slips in from the Weyrling Barracks. Vespurath slides in from the Weyrling Barracks. Ilare hears the slip but doesn't DARE look back, even as her braid streams out behind her, feet still smacking the floor of the bowl. Pant, pant, not out of breath, nonono. Chanticoth bugles, wings opening, eyes whirling, watching her run. Reaching the pens' enterence, her hand slaps the wood before she pivots and takes off back the way she came. "Ooo." Sora's brilliant comment, mouth slightly open and eyes wide in a big, foresty-greeny sort of way. "Look how fast they are." Catiminith gets a beam, from a glimmer in her mind. "Yes, Cat, someday you will be faster." R'ave's hand meets wood a second after Ilare's, using it for a supporting launchpad as much as a marker. Flump-smack, flump-smack, his heart really does make strange noises. Orchid eyes are narrowed, but not in an entirely unfriendly way. Hmm.. sometimes he really doesn't mind running behind. Beam. Chanticoth senses that he lets out a second bugle, rich in texture, cheering on his lifemate as she strides seconds a head. << Soquilith, your rider wwouldn't be fall behind on purpose, would he? >> Amused much? the syrupy smoothness tickles minds, the rolling of certain letters adding to the amusement. Tatia slides out from the barracks, her step urged faster by the nudge of a sage head that pushes at her shoulder. Her eyes hold a distinctly sleepy look, and her hair is rather tangled. From the bits and pieces caught in it, it's rather likey that Tat was trying to steal a nap atop a pile of rushes. She glances over her shoulder, grinning slowly at Vespurath despite the interruption, even as she calls toward her fellow weyrlings. "What's going on out here? Ves said something bout a game....." She stops suddenly as her eyes swing away from the green, widening at the sight of the others. Well. Teach her to waste time on stolen naps. "'lo, Tat," Sora calls, waving lazily over at the greenling. "See them? They're racing." Insert sage nod. Gaze flickers to the small green following, appreciative. "Vespurath's getting big," is noted, before she glances back to the race. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith's guileless rejoinder is clouded, tendrils curling round the piquant contourt of his word. << If he really wanted a look, I'd have to say yes. >> Sometimes a gentleman, sometimes a cad. Rider is as dragon does. Chanticoth senses that he chuckles again, mists clearing away as the tropical tendrils mesh with the chocolate spirals. << That's what I thought.. >> No objection from him - is his rider not perfect? And lovely too? Tatia inches her way toward Sora, glancing back at Vespurath with an adoring smile. The green, however, isn't watching her 'rider - she's far too busy watching the race with a look that's half draconic pout. She came just a bit too late. "She is, isn't she?" Tat replies before searching out Catiminith. "He's doing a bit of growing himself," she notes with a nod toward the blue, returning the compliment before repeating her questions. "What's going on?" "Ilare and R'ave are racing each other," G'deon answers with light voice, just short of a laugh. Sora beams at Tatia, still gazing at the race. "Ilare 'n' R'ave are racing. To save face, or something like that. Cat says Soq and Chanticoth've been talking about it for a while." Maybe. It's a race, isn't it obvious? There's two people, running. Very quickly. In your direction. yup. Half-leaping, half taking a giant step over a puddle that's in the way, she misses it, making a smooth landing before continuing forth, glancing back over her shoulder. Almost half way home now.. Ilare's not going to slip up now, you know... ;) R'ave takes the time to wend 'round that puddle, breath coming in grating rasps now. Wheeze. Wheeze. Effort is gained again, for now that sight of the brownling's backside is tedious. So.. let's move a little faster legs? Huh? Move. Scoot, scoot. Sigh. Let's hope all this sweat will bring -some- sort of reward... "Must've been why Vesp wok.. er, why she decided we needed to come out," Tatia intones, gaze swinging toward the racing duo. "To... save face? /Why/?" Her gaze swings between G'deon and Sora, questioning. G'deon laughs softly at the returning 'lings, then turns to Tatia and shrugs. "Got me, I came out just as they were getting ready to race." Mzadith trip, skip, lumbers ackwardly in from the Weyrling Barracks. Cayl is led in by Mzadith. Chanticoth senses that he whirls his eyes in cheerful colours, << You can do it, sweets! You show him how it's done! >> Cheering on his lifemate, russet-striped tail coils about him, and wings flare a little. Tilting his head at the other dragons present, his eyes whirl. << They run because they needed the exercise. >> Laughter is present in golden syrup spires and deep reverberating tones. Chanticoth senses that Vespurath's voice bursts in, exploding with a rush of cool blue. A flurry of excited impatience shades her voice, undercut by just a touch of wistfulness. <> the green questions as her eyes fix intently on the racing pair. Ilare keeps running, that same steady even pace that has carried her forth so far.. And here come's R'ave, trying to level out neck and neck, can Ilare find any extra bursts of speed as they reach the two-thirds mark? Will R'ave pass the brownling and take the victory? I don't /think/ so! With a deep breath, Ilare speeds up the beat, running faster. Or at least she hopes.. Chanticoth senses that Imbriath sends her disgruntlment through the link, blurry shades of a sleeping dragon and rider intermingling with the dim colors. << We are sleeping here... >> Trust the fey one to comment on that... Chanticoth senses that Branwyth radiates a sleepy curiosity, wisps of woodsmoke mixing with a sharp wintergreen. <> Sleep may be abandoned if the mysterious activity is intriguing enough. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith is detached, coolly somber violet a twilight 'twixt black-lined amber and swift spirals of tangerine. <> And on that word, a drop of sunny yellow whorls toward Vespurath. Chanticoth senses that Catiminith admonishes the green with a flourishing sparkle of brilliant lime-green. <> Chanticoth senses that Mzadith thinks <> Chanticoth senses that he just rumbles his amusement, tail flickering back and forth like a little flag. Go, Ilare, go! Rahrah--*cough* >>chuckle<< << We will race aloft in the winds when we are grown, ladies, >> is his response, liquid tones dancing with birdsong. << Besides, it is more fun to watch our lifemates get red in the face.. >> R'ave is wheezing yet, stumbling swiftly and closing distance between himself and Ilare. "Can't go any faster?" His breath is wasted on a breath call, a grin curving his mouth and a faint lifemate-uninspired (if he took inspiration from Soqui, he'd be chasing felines...) determination extending the reach of lank legs. Hee. Chanticoth senses that Imbriath's already dim hues darker more, the former picture fading into one of clouds. Yes, clouds. Pale blue and white then darken. << Sleep... >> And she's gone. Chanticoth senses that Catiminith chimes in with a gleeful ringing of teeny silver bells. <> Chanticoth senses that Branwyth's wisps of smoke and green are suddenly shot through with a scattering of slightly-imperious silver sparks, as the formerly-sleepy green's impatience gets the better of her. <> Chanticoth senses that Vespurath is shocked. A mental gasp nearly echoes from the green, sending waves of tart lime cascading through her vouice. <> The others don't get nearly the reply, but the tartness fades to the scent of warm, soothing breezes sweeping over fresh grass. <> Cayl stumbles onto..what? A racing field? Eyeing her clutchmates wearily, the blueling leans against the pro-offered shoulder of her Mzadith. "Hm? What are they talking about dear? Ohhhhkay. No, I'm not as weird as them." She snickers idly and waves an imaginary flag about. "Rah. Rah. Rah." Ilare simply raises an eyebrow, not bothering to reply as R'ave extends his longer legs.. And with a grin she launches herself forward like a dragon springing aloft. "Bubye, R'ave.. see you at the finish line!" Shorter she may be, but she's always been very quick. Plus, she's a dragon playing cheerleader in her ears. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith mentally stalks Vespurath, a murkily alcoholic hindrance. << Remind me what we're playing, again? >> Branwyth's mental shriek is badly recieved. <> G'deon tenses slightly, leaning forward slightly as he stands, walking next to Nylanth who also seems intent on the race. Chanticoth senses that he gives an amused whuffle across the mindlink, and swirling mists part as the rolling thunder of drum beats forth. << Branwyth, chica, no need to yell. Just a bit of Weyrling competition.. >> His eyes whirl in colours at Soquilith's reply t Vespurath, amusement tickled again. R'ave has always been fairly quick as well. From escaping randy bakers who think he's a female (ooh lala...), to dodging chores. He considers pacing himself... but... what, besides losing, ever came from that? Unless you're a tortoise. He's scampering now, leaping paces. Chanticoth senses that Vespurath sends a wave of smoky green toward Soquilith, grays mixing to swirl with it. <> she replies, irritation creeping into her tone. <> Sora has disconnected. Sora slowly relaxes, slumber overtaking her form. Chanticoth senses that Branwyth grumpily returns to her sleepy mumbling, woodsmoke with the tang of pine swirling slowly about her words. <> Never mind what she's just been up to, she's a completely different case. <> Mindlink dwindles back to a small whisp of textured grey. Chanticoth senses that Nylanth things of thunder cracking in the distance, brief lightning strikes flashing through dark mountain nights, hinting at a torrent of rushing water at your feet. << Come join the fun. This is really quite fascinating. Much better than the excercises they make us do. >> "If you ask me, they look rather silly," Tatia notes dryly, throwing the comment to the gathered weyrlings in general. "What precisely are they trying to prove?" Chanticoth senses that Mzadith seems to have completely lost touch of the conversation, staring towards the games and conversing with his ling. Fog intermixes, heat against ice, ice against fire; the sizzling of azure hued confusion masks his ancient voice. <> Is he joking? There's the barest myst of sarcasim, though it's faint enough to be ignored. Chanticoth senses that Soquilith takes a colorific step away from Vespurath. <> Branwyth is contritely ignored. Meangreen. Ilare isn't about to be left behind, her own legs moving like lightning across the bowl, carrying her forth. Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, runrunrun... Of course, it would help if a certain feline hadn't bolted forth across her path. An attempt at leaping over it results in somehow ending up in R'ave path.. uh oh... Cayl glances towards Tatia and gives a nod. "Exactly. As if our babes don't give us enough of an exercise during care. But I suppose.." She chokes, laughter threatening to break her cool facade as she looks up at Mzadith's gently whirling greens. "No..er..I don't.. Well, actually that might be funny." Chanticoth senses that Vespurath offers a mischevious twinkle of sapphire, sending it snaking toward Mzadith. <> she insists, now letting her tone loop toward Soquilith. <> Rainbowed threads begin to twirl with the blue in a hopeful dance. The housekeeper arrives to cart Sora off to bed. "What might be?" Tatia questions promptly, sending a questioning glance toward Cay. "Cripes!" R'ave executes a graceless hop-dance out of the feline's way, ending up off his feet and crashing toward Ilare. Soquilith is only now roused. His cat! Oi... Chanticoth senses that he chuckles, mindvoice whorling and throbbing with a sultry exotic beat. <> a hint of alarm touches the brown's mindvoice as his lifemate veers off her track and into R'ave's. Drat that cat! Chanticoth senses that Soquilith snorts, a rolling exhaust --motorcycle must-- twisted with scarlet. << Because, 'thang, it keeps the weyrlings busy. << Hey. It's not that cats fault, man. The cat was just /being/.. those two could've ran slower... >> Mzadith doesn't understand the point of this game, since nothing's chasing these lings. However, he will aid them if he must? And now, with Cayl nearly forcefully /insisting/, bluelet -now fairly grown in size- 'stands', stretching haunches, flanks, and tails..er..tail, before lomping off towards Ilare and R'ave. See, something's chasing them now! All the more reason to run! And /fast/! Rrawr! Cayl is litterly knocked off her feat with laughter, the sight of her dragon starting after the others more then she can bare. She motions towards Mzadith, in answer to Tatia's question. "**Whuff!**" Crashing towards? Try crashing _into_! Ilare gives a squeak as both she and R'ave hurtle down and forwards.. and slam into the damp dirt together, across the finish line. Chanticoth's eyes are whirling in alarm, and the big brown paces forward as he moves towards lifemate in worry. R'ave, the race, the others are forgotten. If Ilare is injured... *meeeep!* Stunned, Ilare winces, before sitting up. "Ow..." Blinkblink.. "Chanti, no, it's okay. *I'm* okay. I tripped, R'ave tripped, we fell down. I'm okay, really!" R'ave is subject to a snuffling over by Soquilith after his collision, and then deemed in good health. Sorta. "/Ow/..." The bronze nudges his 'ling, and finds that feline. "I'll be more careful of the feline, Soq.. I promise." Oi. "Thanks for the compassion." Ilare winces, the ground IS hard after all, inspite of the dawn rainfall. Pushing herself unsteadily to her feet, she rests both hands on her dragon's nose. "I'm fine.. although it appears neither of us won the race.." Dang, /such/ a shame! Tilting her head at her dragon, she nods, and turns to offer R'ave a grin and a wink. "Good race. Shame about the finish.." "Ilare! R'ave!" G'deon calls out, hurry to the pair, weaving between concerned dragons. "Are you two alright? Shoule I grab the first aid kit?" Chanticoth senses that he rumbles softly, the warmth of his voice wrapping about his lifemate, and towing her against him with his tail. <> His eyes spin, before her relaxes. <> No nonsense will be taken.. R'ave isn't quite up yet. "Yeah. That's what I was lying here thinking. Shame, shame." Sarcastic? Hardly. Soquilith isn't concerned. He's not even amused. "Nope, Gid.. it's cool. I'm fine." He's just lying down. Because the dirt is so comfy.. What? Ignore the undergrown dragonet lumbering his way towards them? Pshaw. Strange game. Looking towards the other dragonets as they scramble towards them, Mzadith simply blinks. Okay, so, their dragons came after them, but they didn't run. What's the point of this game again? Cayl facefaults and picks herself off the ground, chucklingly. "Don't worry, sweets. It's over. Er..well, see, they won. Someone won. I think it was a tie." Pause. "That's when they both win and lose. No, I don't know what that means either. Shhhh now." Eyes glance towards G'deon as he rushes after Ilare and R'ave and blinks. She didn't know a fall could be taken so strongly. Shrug of shoulders and the ex-healer heads over towards Tat. "So, what's been goin on?" Ilare gapes at her brown, before sighing, and shaking her head at G'deon. "I'm fine, it's okay. Chanti, what are.." Candiecane striped tail coils and begins to drag her to the barracks. "Chanticoth, let me go. I mean it.. Chanti.. *sigh* If anyone needs me, I'll be indoors...." Weyrling Barracks The large covered entryways open into two immense U-shaped caverns that stretch back deep into the rock of the cliffside. Glow baskets lining the cavern walls cast a soft light dispelling the shadows and illuminating the home of all High Reaches weyrlings. Stone couches, some smaller for the greens and blues and some, for bronzes and the occasional gold, so large they have to be climbed into, rise up to loom over the walkways of well-packed dirt. Along the walls nearest the entrances, shelves and pegs sport several sets of leathers and various books and tools needed when teaching and practicing; crates and supplies also take up residence in various nooks and crannies. Toward the back, a large, man-dug pool for use by the dragonets and their lifemates and several large containers kept full of fresh meat serve as conveniences for the busy residents of these barracks. To the southwest, you see Zaqith, Niamhyth, Kelitath, Chanticoth, Soquilith, Nylanth, Catiminith, Vespurath, Mzadith, and four people. Snuggled in with the leather supplies and tools are eight firelizards. Brown Backstreeth and blue Recounth are here. You see Weyrling Progress Record and Dragon Wing here. Obvious exits: Staff Office Bowl Couches Chanticoth pads with enviable grace in from the Training Grounds. Ilare is led in by Chanticoth. Chanticoth's Couch of Cuddles Cozy, if a bit roomy for its current occupants, this dragon couch was designed to fit the future needs of the pair sharing it. Rushes have been piled deep on the raised couch, their scent and appearance indicating them to be newly laid down. Arranged so they lie flat, the area has been swept clean and dust-free. Upon one end of the couch, several quilts cover them, each one in brightest royal blue and deepest darkest black, patchwork colors of the Weyr. The smell of clean rushes and aired quilts waft about here, carrying with it the scent of freshly oiled dragon hide. Curled about the couch is Bay. Obvious exits: Barracks Chanticoth moves out of the barracks and up onto the couch. Ilare is led in by Chanticoth. *** Disconnected ***