The World of Pern(tm) copyright (c) 1967 by Anne McCaffrey.
The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.
An online session, recorded by permission of the author for the benefit of
members unable to attend.
============================================================================

June 21-22, 2000.  PernMUSH.  E'vrin's POV.
--
Your location's current time: 23:53 on day 16, month 1, Turn 32, of the Tenth Pass. 
It is a winter evening.
Cast:  E'vrin, Ryialla, Leya, Maylia, Shasta (NPC), Ducere (cameo).

Ryialla's green Pliarth rises in a late-night mating flight.
============================================================================
[In the Telgar LC:]

E'vrin is a long, slouched figure at a table. Mug stands before him. Mug's been 
forgotten. He stares past it, towards the bowl.

Ryialla stalks into the living caverns, restless. And leather-clad. Likely not a 
good sign.

As long as Mr. Flibble's not around ... E'vrin refocuses as that motion, restless 
and leather-clad as it is, crosses his gaze. "Ryialla! Or -- do you prefer 
'Wingleader' now?"

Leya walks in from the bowl.

Actually, he's been attached by a thong to the corset she's wearing. Middling blue 
eyes narrow, focus on E'vrin. Then, suddenly, she smiles - all teeth. "Oh, Ryialla's 
fine, EE'vrin. Jusssst fine."

"That's nice." E'vrin blinks a smile into her hissing. Isn't she sweet, offering him 
all that potential spittle. "And Leya, too! Hadn't thought you were all late-
nighters like me."

Leya slowly peaks around the entrance, then warily walks into. Klah deprivation can 
drive to brave the greatest dangers. Full awake this time, she sidles along the wall 
toward the serving table. At E'vrin's call, she winces, then sighs. No hiding now. 
"Finishing up hidework. Need more klah to stay awake."

Ryialla isn't sweet - she's all sharp edges at the moment. But still - Leya gets one 
of those toothy smiles. "Lay-uh. Hel-lo there." Sing-song voice, Mr. Flibble 
dangling dangerously.

Leya keeps her back to the wall, it gives her sense of security even if it doesn't 
allow her to turn tail and run. She manages to reach the serving table right as 
Ryialla gives her one of those scary,teeth filled smiles. "Uh, hi." She quickly 
pours herself a mug of klah and downs most of it in a few seconds. Ouch.

"Ryialla looks like she'd obviate the need for klah," E'vrin observes clinically to 
his fellow wingsecond. "/She'd/ wake the dead, and never mind that sludge we drink. 
But would she taste better?"

Ryialla tosses her head as she sashays past E'vrin, riiiiight on over near Leya. 
And, well, the klah. "I don't know, E'vrin," she purrs back at him. "What you do 
think?"

Maylia walks in from the bowl.

Pierron twirls his moustache at the Weyrlingmaster.

E'vrin folds his hands primly on the tabletop behind /his/ empty mug. "I'd have to 
try it to see, Ryialla. I don't like to guess blindly."

Leya finishes her mug of klah, hot klah, setting the mug down before inching back 
toward the door, inching more quickly as Ryi starts moving her way. "I don't know 
and I don't want to find out."

Maylia's chatting with a very tanned appearing rider, all bundled up in borrowed 
winter weather gear from the looks of it. And from the looks of the young woman, 
she's related to Maylia in some way. "Marila was right, May," the southern 
Wingsecond admits, a ruefull tone to her voice. "Tasayli's cute. Evening there!" She 
calls, echoed by the Telgari Weyrlingmaster.

Ryialla lets her hand drop, not on the belt knives. No, no. Her hand rests on Mr. 
Flibble. "What's the matter, Leya? Leaving so soon?"

E'vrin leaves Leya to Ryialla's tender mercies, to focus on the newly entered duo. 
Looking very familiar there...

Leya also notices the two entering riders, if probably for a different reason. 
They'd great cover for her to duck back out behind... "Yeah, you know. Things to do, 
hides to work on."

Maylia's got the little bundle of blankets and hide that is Tasayli snuggled close, 
and heads for a seat while her sibling offers to fetch cider. "Really," Maylia 
suggests idly, "You should bring Khysta up here to meet Tasayli.They're cousins, 
after all." Shasta's answer is a drawled version of a contemplative 'hmmmmm', but 
it's unclear whether the brownrider's answering her sister, or simply observing Ryi.

Ryialla stomps her foot, and tosses her head - again. "Fine," she says arrogantly, 
"Be that way." And she and Mr. Flibble retreat to get a glass of wine. And sulk.

E'vrin observes Shasta. Well, for a moment, anyway, until he nods to himself (placed 
her?) and then tosses at Ryialla, "You know, that Flibble thing of your is really 
disturbing. Does K'nan like it or something?"

Aser comes in from the bowl.  [Tania's puppet, for the NPC V'lyn/Fuath]

Shasta offers E'vrin a broad, warm, smile, as she carries two steaming mugs back to 
Maylia. And stubs her toe on a table leg in the process - luckily she doesn't slop 
cider everywhere.

Leya doesn't seem to care, just so long as she goes off and pouts /away/ from her. 
Unfortunately, her wonderful cover has moved away from the entrance so she can't 
bolt as planned, instead she continues to inch toward the door, her eyes warily on 
Ryialla.

Ducere walks here from the Inner Cavern.

V'lyn walks into the living cavern.. in nothing but a night robe, even. He pauses, 
though, surprised at the goodly number of people here in this late hour, and just 
looks around, mouth open, look of puzzlement on his face.

Shasta plunks herself down in a chair, doing her best to recover decorum after the 
close call. One arm draped over the ladderback of her seat, she leans close to 
Maylia, whispering. Not much can be heard, but those with good hearing or sitting 
nearby might catch, "Please tell me... not proddy... every sharding time..." At 
least she seems rather amused by this.

Ducere pops into the Living Caverns, twiddling his favorite spoon between his 
fingers. As he wanders halfway through the room, he stops and realizes he's not 
alone..."How come all of you are in here?" he asks, for he really doesn't know why.

Ryialla snaps back at E'vrin, "You wouldn't understand. And that's /Mr. Flibble/, to 
you."

TGW-Bowl>> Muinyth zips up, over the fence, and down into the feeding grounds.

Tovith presses a huge, swirling eye to the Living Cavern entrance, along with a big 
Brown snout.
TGW-Bowl>> Tovith lumbers here from the south.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Sharath flies over from the south end of the bowl.
TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Sharath flies over the feeding grounds from above 
the bowl.

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

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Sharath is a trick of false light, a piece of 
bronzed sun lingering after dusk, after dark, to slip (false light, false fire) down 
a helpful breeze into the feedings grounds. Silent, so silent but for the whisper of 
air against wings' tissue and sleek flanks, he drops -- he drops -- and a herdbeast, 
knock-kneed in sleep, pays the bloody price.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Muinyth swoops over the herds in a whirlwind of 
earthy shades, stark against the winter wonderland that is Telgar's bowl. Below his 
wings, the tossed heads of the herds catch his scent - and the mood he's in. An 
alert is sounded shrilly. As one, they move fluidly, and the ground begins to 
thunder with the pounding of their hooves. Stampede!

E'vrin sucks in a breath to hurl some merry bantering something-or-other back at 
Ryialla -- then loses the breath entirely. Chokes on it, and his eyes bug out at 
Pliarth's rider instead.

V'lyn -stares-. No... not Mr. Flibble! He quickly stands and hurries out to the bowl 
and to his lifemate - but it's probably too late, now.

Aser heads out to the bowl.

--
TGW-Bowl>> The winter air is freezing against you. The cloud cover increases until 
the sky is overcast.  The blizzard tapers off, though the snow still comes down 
heavily.
--

TGW-Bowl>> Aser heads here from the south.
TGW-Bowl>> Aser moves past the gate and into the feeding grounds.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Tovith lumbers almost lazily into the feeding 
grounds, though his eyes whirling brightly show him to be fully alert. He saunters 
past a group of sleep dazed herdbeast. A flash of claws. A bellow sharped cut off. 
Tovith sucks the lifeblood from his first kill.

Ryialla smirks at E'vrin, and says, "Don't tell me you didn't know." By this point, 
she knows full well. And has outfits made for it, too. Like Ryi walks around in 
skin-tight dresses all the time...

Shasta has no clue what this Mr.Flibble thing is - she's been secluded in the South, 
after all. She glances out towards the bowl, then smacks a hand against her 
forehead. "I -swear- on Faranth's shell, May! I come here, and some green sends him 
blooding." She seems more exasperated than anything else, but shoots a glare at her 
sister. "Tierth's not gonna start glowing, is she? Bad enough he chases Briedith, 
shardit, don't need..." Maylia's head shakes with amusement, but the brownrider's 
attention focusses on Ryialla.

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath is a touch, is a tease: fire flickering, 
dancing, luring on and on, will-o'-the-wisp. Will she come out and play? There are 
ever so many (the taste of blood, cupric and hot) wanting to play (the ache of lust, 
hotter still) with her.

E'vrin shudders to standing. "I had," he returns hoarsely, "a fair guess." He scants 
a look to the others, as bronze sweeps wide, catches him, holds him close. Another 
shiver. Let's ... go.

Leya's poised near the entrance, just one more step and she free. But it's too late. 
Much too late. She freezes, her eyes go wide, then she sags against the wall, a 
despairing sigh coming loose as she closes her eyes.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, It is indeed too late, it seems.. as here comes 
on big Blue Fuath, and no V'lyn to be seen. Ah well.. lets get down to business. A 
powerful downsweep of his wings, and a flap, and almost imediatly a dive later, 
there's one less ovine in the fields.

Dragon> Sharath senses that Pliarth is mewed up tight, safe and secure in her world 
of sleep, of dream. Leave her alone. She doesn't want to play right now. Not yet, 
anyway. Give it time, and she will spring free.

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath won't give it time, won't give it up. His fire 
hardens, sharpens, and it's a crystal scalpel, prying at the mews so that the raptor 
might fly free.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Muinyth folds his wings and dives upon the tide 
of herdbeast bodies that flows in currents and eddies below him, his talons 
outstretched. There. One on the edge, a fat young buck. Time must seem to freeze for 
that creature, for the instant before inky black dragon talons sink into his back. 
There's a crack of sunlight-touched umber wings, and the sandstone brown lifts 
himself and his still squealing soon-to-be kill away from the danger of other 
dragons and herdbeasts.

Ryialla laughs, a rather unpleasant sound. Tossing back her wine, she slips the 
ecreepy hand puppet on to her hand and grins wickedly...then lets it slip back off. 
Pliarth's still asleep. And the time is coming when she'll soon wake, but for that 
few precious moments inbetween, she's still got that little touch of control. Enough 
to sweep out of the caverns, at any rate.
Ryialla walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Sharath snarls, but it's lost in the boiling fury 
of that brown-swept stampede, so he makes his body into the comment incarnate: the 
hunch of wings, the lash of tail, and the long, vicious rake of talons, blunted by 
sudden earth, before his first kill. His eyes rake the other suitors, too, maddened, 
madder.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Tovith finishes his first kill, discarding the 
bloodless carcass. He eyes the feeding grounds for a few moments, plotting his next 
kill. Then suddenly, he launches himself into the air, but not too far. Just far 
enough to snag himself a circling wherry, one of those annoying noisy ones. It 
disapears into his jaws and with a *crunch* he silences it.

Leya walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.

E'vrin hammers a hard breath down into his lungs, buoying, emboldening ... and 
follows.

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

TGW-LC>> Shasta's not seeming overly perturbed at this turn of events. In fact, her 
eyes are bright, as she rises to her feet. "Scuse me May..." the Southern Weyr 
wingsecond murmurs, watching Ryi intently, a smile playing about her lips. She 
doesn't even notice her sibling's vaguely amused nod, as she gathers her coat and 
heads out into Telgar's wintery bowl.
[Shasta] comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Fuath tosses aside that first kill and crouches 
there a moment, sapphire hide gleaming in the moonlight as he takes a moment to 
glare at his competitors. And then he's in the air again.. and then upon another 
unlucky ovine, it's bleat of pain cut short by the snapping of its neck breaking. 
And Fuath drinks.

Leya walks stiffly after Ryialla, she shoulders set as she walks behind her, close 
enough so as not to lose her, but far enough away so as not to draw an undue amount 
of attention to herself.

Attention, schmattention: E'vrin prowls along, his breath growling in and out, and 
tracks Ryialla's path without a thought to appearances. "Wasn't supposed to -- but 
he did, Sharath, Sharath ... where /is/ she, Ryialla?" he cries with another's need, 
shocking and furious.

Ryialla spins round and round in place, head tilted upward as white flakes drift 
down, creating patterns on that black, black leather. She stops still, then, head 
tilted ever so slight - just as Pliarth's eyes snap open. Whirling redly, she lets 
out a earth-shaking bugle and launches herself into the air, winging towards the 
feast that awaits in the feeding grounds. And Ryi - eyes a-glitter, smiles that 
slow, vulpine smile that's been gracing her lips the past few days, and beckons - 
silent. Come. She goes. We go.

Pliarth takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to carry her aloft.
TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Pliarth flies over the feeding grounds from above 
the bowl.

Ryialla moves down a short passage and past a curtain, moving out of sight as she 
enters the workroom.

Shasta follows, her stride more of a stroll than anything else. In a low drawling 
voice, she grumbles about the freezing temperature, but lounges back against the 
wall of the bowl. "She'll wake, she'll wake... there. See?" She calls to E'vrin, 
seeming mostly to be just biding her time.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Sharath throws back his head and bugles thinly to 
the green: she comes! And here they go, and here /he/ goes, leaping up and over the 
carcass to strike down another -- to lash an insolent tail at the Southern brown, to 
snarl, soft as velvet ripping, at those others, those /others,/ -- to drink. Oh, to 
drink.

Shasta pushes away from the wall, with a tossed grin, and shuffles after the green's 
rider.
[Shasta] moves down a short passage and past a curtain, moving out of sight as she 
enters the guest weyr.

E'vrin sobs a breath, hands fisting at his side, and does likewise, with a last 
angry look towards the feeding grounds. Yes -- they do go.

Leya stays silent, withdrawn, brooding. She walks pale, ghost-like, resigned as she 
follows the proddy rider intot the weyr.

You push aside the curtain and enter the guest weyr.
--
Telgar's Guest Weyr
This is a large, ground level weyr not far from the junior queen's weyrs. The stone 
couch is covered by several thick furs and is very comfortable while providing a 
soft place to rest. Several glowbaskets give off light and the floor has been worn 
very smooth.
There is 'roomhelp' available.
Contents:
Maylia(#15669PJOUceq)
Ryialla
--

Leya comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath croons, with the touch and sybaritic taste of 
blood smoothing it down, down, down into lust's rut: She comes, oh, and finally she 
does. (About time!)

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Pliarth is a glowing green streak of light, 
talons outstretched as she flys straight for an unsupecting wherry. The creature 
doesn't even have time to realize what is happening before those talons sink in deep 
and pin it helpless. Pliarth's triumphant bugle echoes throughout as she fastens her 
teeth on the creature's head and rips it free. The head bounces away, forgotten, as 
the green locks jaws on the fountain of life's blood - no hesitation, not even a 
hint of trying to eat. She knows /exactly/ what she wants, this time.

E'vrin moves to a stolid, squared position near the exit. Doesn't budge. Just 
broods. At Ryialla. (But without the bloody puppet, at least.)

Dragon> Sharath senses that Pliarth is a mass of chaotic thoughts set a-swirl, then 
settles into one unerring thought. Fly. Fly far away from the males - from /you/. 
She's no need of lust - she simply needs to be free. And free she shall be. You'll 
see.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Fuath tosses aside this next kill only to 
imediatly snatch up a panicing bovine, neatly ripping off it's head to get to the 
strength-giving blood of the creature. He pauses in his feeding to bugle softly to 
the glowing green, eyes whirling with the red of blood-frenzy, the purple of lust.. 
and then he's drinking again, with more enrest, it seems.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Tovith ignores the others. The other nothing, no 
one. They do not exist. It is only him and that beautifully enchanting streak of 
light. He doesn't bugle at her entrance. No, instead he emits a low throat croans 
that rumles almost inpercepable across the feeding grounds toward her. A paniced 
herdbeast runs against his flank and the spell is broken. Angrily, he turn and with 
a deft swipe justice is delt.

Ryialla makes her way to the far wall, eyeing the others warily - yet every line is 
set in smugness. She is /certain/ of the outcome of all this. And all she has to do 
it wait it out.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Muinyth bloods his kill, staining the snow-muddy 
ground with traces of the creature's life. Droplets mark his cheeks and snout, 
macabre pictographs depicting a horrendous mating ritual. Fertility (yeah right, 
she's a green, but doesn't matter to him), strength, lust, blood, all swirl into one 
liquid entity on his tongue. As the bleached desert green arrives, he lifts his head 
to eye her with appreciation, before springing aloft again - his kill abandonned, 
limp and bloodless. That bronze from Igen? He, like the others, are ignored. Only 
one thing matters: blood.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Sharath lifts his head from second kill's second 
drink, his jaws dripping night-black blood. Rolls his eyes, those madder gems, and 
rolls his hips luxuriantly, sensually side to side to side again, preparatory to 
launching into free flight. His tail rolls with them, into place, ready. Ready!

Leya takes moves more from habit, a habit she'd far rather not have need of, to 
stand against the cool stone the makes up the side of the wall. The familiar 
indentions and curve press against her back and she slowly sinks to floor and her 
legs give and her eyes go distant.

Shasta strolls like she speaks, a lazy drawling pace. While others might choose to 
take up residence agains the cool stone of the walls, she peruses the weyr, eyeing 
Ryi in an almost predatory manner as she passes by.

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath crisps his reply, yielding crystal to fire 
again, the flames that leap high to answer her challenge: Fly, then, but there /is/ 
a fall, there will /be/ a fall, and ... and.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Pliarth gives a casual swipe of paw, raking 
talons rending the nearest herdbeast from head to toe. And lightning-quick, maw is 
fastened and darkened crimson coats tounge and jaws in an orgiastic display of blood 
and death. And with that snuffing out, she is ready. Quick and to the point - lets 
get this little charade overwith. A mocking hiss is given voice, and suddenly she is 
aloft, wings catching currents so familiar now and using them to propel herself away 
from the others. She is the wind, given wing. And she /will/ have wind's freedom.
TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Pliarth takes flight, using the thermals rising 
from the bowl to carry her aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Sharath crouches and springs, leaving the blood 
and dust behind for the joy, the freedom, and the rutting lust of the hunt. Now!
TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Sharath takes flight, using the thermals rising 
from the bowl to carry him aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

E'vrin sighs. Leans into the wall.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Muinyth's umber-whispered wings furl again, and 
he plummets from the air to a second kill. The beast hasn't time to squeal before 
it's knocked in a head over heels spin by a single swipe from ebony black talons. In 
moments, the brown has made use of his kill, and flings it away with a casual flick. 
Now - there - yes - it is time. He springs upwards, as Pliarth disappears into the 
night sky.
TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Muinyth takes flight, using the thermals rising 
from the bowl to carry it aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Fuath launches into the air again, chosing his 
kill more carefully this time - and with a roar, and drops like a rock, landing on 
his chosen sacrifise and ripping its neck open in one swift move. He drinks deeply.. 
and is caught offguard when his chosen /love/ takes flight. With a bugle of protest, 
he launches after her, leaving kill to spill it's blood on the muddy ground.
TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Fuath takes flight, using the thermals rising 
from the bowl to carry him aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Tovith finishes with his heardbeast, its life now 
spent, its blood lending him strength. His tail flicks and he's perfectly, watching 
Pliarth, admiring her form, grace, and, yes, freedom before in a sudden, swift 
motion is follows, rising after.
TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Tovith takes flight, using the thermals rising 
from the bowl to carry him aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

Dragon> Pliarth bespoke Sharath and Tovith with << << I will never be any of yours. 
You cannot hope to best me. >> >>

Sharath> Tovith and Pliarth sense that Sharath's reply is a sputter of fire, halide-
rose, halide-bright, with the deep carmine of desire limning their licking tongues. 
No wordforms, no coherence, just the heartbeat, lust-beat, of hunt.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Muinyth is aloft, his wings working hard to compensate for the 
advantage those northern males have over him. They know the thermals well, while 
he's left floundering in a fluctuating one. No matter, for he knows he has the 
strength to outlast many a brown and blue. His bleached granite head lifts upwards, 
watching that lovely green, as his wings fill again and again with the bitterly cold 
wind. Further and further away the ground falls below him, as this sandstone 
outcropping of a dragon struggles against the ties of gravity.

Ryialla runs a finger along her neck, the lightest touch skirting down. Eyes alight 
on each in the room, considering - then dismissing. Finally, they turn outwards. 
"Fly, my love," she murmurs. "Fly away and free. You are faster than any of them."

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Sharath does not struggle -- no mere rock here, thrown up into the 
clutch of gravity! -- and does not fight. He /flows./ With the winds, around them 
and through them, with the power of strong shoulders pulling up higher along green's 
heady trail. He drifts past Tovith, sideways if not ahead, and carves out a space 
for his own, here in the graven night.

The world collapses, if only for one man, centered on that line of finger down neck, 
and E'vrin swallows, sways forward an unwilling step towards her.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Tovith rises on the winds he so loves and longs to be one with, 
the winds he was hatched and shrouded him. His wingsails rise and fall in a steady 
even beat as with practiced elegance he rises after the enchantress that has him 
enthralled. No power exists in him to resist, he is drawn inexorably upward, his 
only desire to be near her, to be one with her as with the wind.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Fuath rises easily - albeit slowly - into the air, flapping his 
wings madly a moment to try and compensate for lost ground. Higher and higer he 
rises.. but father and father his goal gets from him. He is young.. and a bit lazy - 
this one has much to learn if he's to be sucessful at this kind of thing. Dipping 
down suddenly, he contents himself with staying at the back of the pack, conserving 
energy.

Leya's previous closed eyes open at Ryialla's word. A light foreign to her eyes 
alight in her gaze as it turn to the greenrider. She stays silent, but her mouth 
curves upward in a sardonic, knowing smile before again her eyes close, dousing the 
light as she rests her cheek on her knees drawn up against her chest.

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath reaches a thought forward, mind racing even as 
body does, to touch, to try to touch--

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Pliarth cares not for conserving energy - for she is caught up in 
the thrill of flight, the sheer exultation of becoming one with the elements. It is, 
perhaps, a careless burning of energy. Or perhaps she has more in store than most 
greens. Or even the delusion that she is still a young dragon, and not one ever 
growing older. Whichever of these it may be, she leads her suitors in a merry dance, 
twisting and turning like a bit of cloth caught and tossed by a playful feline. A 
dizzying pattern, designed to lose the slow, confuse many of the canny. No moonlight 
shines upon that greenly glowing hide, and the snow melts as soon as it touches - 
not even it can get a grip on her, this early on.

Dragon> Sharath senses that Pliarth brushes it aside like a pesky bug. No touching 
now, bub. Nothing shall penetrate this world she's created for herself - the 
illusion reaffirmed with every rising. For now, she is invcinible, and Sharath is 
nothing. Never mind that there /was/ a touch in that brushing, the briefest moment 
of contact - she denies it all.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Sharath disdains the patterns and slices through, leaving the 
Gordian threads flapping loose in his wake. He cuts, he slashes, and he burns: 
higher! He surges ahead of a smaller, slower male made anonymous in the night and 
the snow: faster!

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath has a hook in now, sly bug that he is, and 
nothing is invincible -- incon/thiev/able! He clings, and he follows, even unto the 
death, or the pain. Just try to get rid of him. Just try.

Ryialla trails a hand up, lifting the little bit of hair that clings to her neck - 
every gesture unconsciously seductive. The dragon may not know, and the rider may 
not realize yet, but the outcome of the flight will not be as they think.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Tovith has no need for those lesser light, the sun or the moon, 
his enchantress lights his path and provides the only illumination he desires. He 
dodges around the few dragons that cannot keep up or get lost in the dizzying 
pattern that she weaves, but he is clever and never once does the spell that has 
captured his mind, body, and aching soul let him slip for an instant as he 
faithfully follows her path, rising on the faint sparkle of light and rush of wind 
that she leaves in her wake.

Of course not. Of course not. E'vrin takes another step for his own, then pauses. 
Considers Shasta sidelong, with his head slung low in thought: would she challenge 
him?

TGW-Bowl>> Above, The moon does shine off of Fuath, though - or perhaps it's the 
soft reflection of that green streak of lightening he tries so valiently to follow, 
his body, smaller than that of those browns and bronzes, following her pattern 
easier.. but oh, if only he could go just a /bit/ faster!

Leya certainly will not. She stays wrapped in her own distant thoughts, eyes 
squeezed shut, her whole body tense. Her hands clamp on her upper arms, depriving 
the rest of her arm of blood.

Sharath> Tovith and Pliarth sense that Sharath burns, night-fire, caught in 
crystal's walls, and there's subliminal growls at the interface of flames and their 
cage. Fly -- fly all she likes -- fly -- but there is a fall, there is a fall, and 
she must fall with one of them--!

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Pliarth snakes her head back, and is displeased with what she 
sees. Still too many - she needs to weed some of these upstarts out. And so, it is 
with another turning on a tail-tip kind of motion that she plummets suddenly - a 
controlled dive towards the ground, pulled out of at the last possible moment with a 
quick veer in the opposite direction. Her taunting bugle floats back, towards the 
others. Over /here/, now, boys.

Dragon> Sharath and Pliarth sense that Tovith flows, a swifly flowing stream, of air 
or water, or both, through a rich autumn landscape of crimson red, vermillion brown, 
accented with touches of gold. Soothing, lulling in its peaceful patience. Time... 
Time waits for no one. Everything that goes up, comes down. With time.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Sharath steeps hard into the turn, the dive, the rise -- but no, 
no, not all the way. He skims only the cream off that trajectory, riding his 
momentum straight through to the parabola's other end, where green rises so bright 
and sure. There's a cant to one of his wings now, a lag in the galloping beats, but 
he continues on gamely. Endurance now, and not speed: all in a bronze's legacy.

Dragon> Sharath and Tovith sense that Pliarth ponders. Fall? Did someone mention 
fall? Very well. She will conceed the fall - but not the capture. For that will not 
happen - not while there is a lick of energy remaining in her body.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Muinyth has been here all along, striving ever after the glowing 
desert jewel. In the darkness of Telgar's night, the southern brown is hardly used 
to the wind patterns, nor the effects of a bowl on those swirling winds! Valiently, 
he surges forwards, making a grasp as the green plummets - and failing horribly. It 
is with a sudden frantic sweep of wings that he turns what was nearly a bone-
wrenching collision with a blue into merely a cracking thwump - and both dragons 
make inelegant landings, spent.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Fuath watches his green lovely plumit to the ground, and this he 
has anticipated her next move - he swoops a little ahead of where she dove, but 
stays high, waiting for her to suddenly shoot up - and when she doesn't, he roars in 
protest and flaps for all he's worth in the direction she took.. but this waste of 
energy seems to much, and suddenly he veers corse, slowly circling downward.
TGW-Bowl>> Fuath backwings for a landing.

Sharath> Tovith and Pliarth sense that Sharath sleeks a rivulet of heat through 
brown's stream, highlighting it with haughty, heedless care: this he can do, among 
other things. Does she like the show? For, to be sure, the fall will come, and it's 
ever so much fun to fall together, to find out just how many licks of energy it 
takes -- to be sure! -- to reach /her/ center.

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath has energy, himself, for now, to reach out with 
a laughing, bodiless hand: a thought, only that, holding in its palm the tiny, 
twining figures of green and ... oh, but no need to continue, is there? (How /many/ 
licks, hmm?)

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Tovith doesn't dive, though every inch of him screams protest for 
this once he disobeys. Instead he circles with the swirling current of air, watching 
her, waiting for to come up again so he can again act on this compulsion that drives 
after his enchantress. As she rises, _down_ comes his wings in a powerful downswing 
that pushes him after her. The invicible thread that bind him to her, drag him 
onward, burning strength and cool confidence pulling him forward.

E'vrin tips his head back with a sudden gulp of air, and then a grin creases his 
face, rolls his eyes to the sky. "Always, always the dive," he murmurs, throaty and 
oddly halt with bronze inflection, which swings him around after all towards /her/ 
rider. Fists back at his sides, his body strung taut, he grins.

Shasta lets out an anxious curse, and wheels about to dash from the guest weyr.
[Shasta] leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Pliarth has done this trick so many times, over the turns - and it 
works every time. But she is not as young as she used to be - and that one brown got 
a little /too/ close. Close enough that the air currents near Pliarth are disturbed, 
swirled into momentary chaos - and in her smugness, Pliarth is caught off guard. 
Bobbling for a moment, she loses that precious distance she needs to remain ahead of 
the others, and slowly, inexorably, the crowd closes. She spends some of her 
remaining energy recklessly, burining it with voice and wing as she attempts to 
further the distance between her and the others.

Ryialla hisses warning, holding up hands in a warding off-gesture. Not yet, no. 
She/Pliarth are not done yet. There is more and the winning is not certain. Stay 
back.

Dragon> Tovith bespoke Sharath and Pliarth with << With swift precision the wind-
born water or water-filled air douses the bright flame. He does push against her 
mind, instead letting himself be an abiding presence, a peaceful reassurance, a 
quiet strength as he waits for his time, for it will come. >>

Leya, if possible draws even tighter into herself, into her shell. Hands squeezing 
even tighter until her arms must be tingling unmercifully. Yet she doesn't seem to 
notice or care. Her brow is furrowed and her mouth compressed into a harsh line as 
all her concentration is diverted elsewhere, upward.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Sharath coaxes his body along, slowly, carefully, wisely, pinions 
splayed as quillons for his coasting bronze dagger. Then -- a twist, a thrust, 
painfully timed: the dragon leaps forward with a wrist's lash, straight for her 
target, straight for her heart, and then coasts again on that inertia to reach 
forward and reach down, for her (if only, if only--).

[An accident on my part:  the catch attempts were to be in the next round, so
 I had to do some creative work on the next pose.  Whoops!]

E'vrin is no cowered ball. Not him. With the swirl of Shasta's cursing passage still 
buffeting this tight place, he stands his ground. Cants forward, with the pull 
towards Pliarth's rider, but stands, though the grin fades. If ... only.

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath clings, yes. Bug in her wake, splattered by her 
wind, but he's got the hooks in yet. If, if--

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Tovith presses the advantage, the winds catches and pushing 
against the steady, pounding rythmn of his wings. Spell bound, soul longing to bound 
with another, he punishes himself, pushing for everything he has and beyond to reach 
the enchanting sorcess that has cast such a powerful spell over him, that nother 
matters but her and the remaining expanse of sky that separates him from her.

Dragon> Sharath senses that Pliarth regards that dancing figure, that hook pulling, 
pulling. For a moment drawing closer, then darting away. Will she slip free? Or will 
she be reeled in and claimed?

Sharath> Tovith and Pliarth sense that Sharath can scarcely spare the energy, but 
ah, pride's a chancy thing: he has to respond. Not peaceful, no; rather, fire to 
leap to her challenge, bronze to answer green's gauntlet tossed into the night's 
winds. He is, he is--

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Pliarth's burning flame does begin to flag, finally - the glowing 
spark dulled in the haze of fatigue. To rest would be nice. Quite nice. But not 
alone. No, no, despite it all, the others were right. She should rest with anoter. 
But who? She lets herself slow a bit more, a nod to the press of those she knows 
will try. She will still have the final say, however, in who she will fall with. 
/She/ will choose, for all their attempts. But...she deigns to let them. It is time.

Dragon> Tovith bespoke Sharath and Pliarth with << After the peaceful interlude, the 
winds whip and waves roar in anticipation, rising to engulf and secure. Reaching, 
for now it is time. >>

Ryialla considered the others only a little before - and now, now she considers more 
intently. A choice is coming - but who?

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Sharath reaches now, now that energy's brought him this far, and 
his wings stretch to their widest to catch the wind that'll angle him just right. 
Fire to flame, sparks darting between them (starlight, weak through the clouds, 
or--), he makes himself her afterimage, trailing after, trailing bright. And, with 
last giddy energy ... /lunges./

E'vrin's mouth parts for a breath, a word (a name?), but bronze blinds him with eyes 
wide shut, and he can only stand under the scrutiny and wait for the choice to fall.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Tovith lets the magic in the air rekindle his flagging strength. 
His quest is near its end, the enchantress near at hand if only he can endure, 
battle his way through the last test and find rest and peace with his lady, the 
enchantress that has ensnared his heart. Spellbound, he reaches for her beauty, her 
grace, her flaming spirit waiting to quieted by his quiet strength.

Sharath> Tovith and Pliarth sense that Sharath adds the dagger's touch, needle-
precise through storm's raging anticipation, with flame purling down to that point 
of contact. Now, yes, now and now -- time's up.

Leya is frozen, is bloodless statue propped up against the rough stone walls. Not an 
eyelash flutter, not a finger twitches, as she waits. Not even daring to breath.

Dragon> Pliarth bespoke Sharath with << Hook, line, and sinker - drawn in exorably, 
is she, and finally, she capitulates. Surrender - she is yours. >>

Sharath> Pliarth senses that Sharath lets the fire move from purl to purr, and hook 
and sinker, he catches them close together in aetherical embrace, for the long, 
slow, delicious slide down into consummation.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Pliarth considers Tovith, all fine lines and wonderful curling 
tail - but the choice has already been made, for her. If she will fall, she will 
drop and be burned in the glory of flame, a brilliant comet of light lighting the 
snowy nighttime sky. No quiet strength for her this time, alas - and it's to Sharath 
she turns, letting wings carry her that last little distance before surrendering .

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Tovith rumbles with sadness deep. As another touches his lady, the 
spell is shattered, the quest undone. The threads holding him upward break and 
plunges, spiraling toward the ground below.
TGW-Bowl>> Tovith backwings for a landing.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Sharath dips, delicate as dagger's deadly touch, and takes her 
into his rise, wide-winged and wind-wide; and perhaps there is enough surrender, 
after all, for them both on the long flight down, with no shadows at all to darken 
their fall.

E'vrin catches his breath between his teeth, and his body becomes a word, with eyes 
devouring Pliarth's ri--/Ryialla/: _now._

Ryialla closes her eyes for a moment - and when they re-open, they are for E'vrin 
alone. And as Pliarth falls, she pushes away from the wall, offering her embrace - 
letting her defenses melt away. The string holding Mr. Flibble to her corset scrapes 
a wall - snaps: and the puppet of torment falls to the ground, forgotten in the 
larger scheme of the moment.

The statue takes a deep shuddering breath, then stands so quickly she nearly falls 
as she stands on stiff legs. But she stays on her feet, not a glance to either side 
before she runs out toward the bowl.
Leya leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

[And it's fade to black in the weyr, though post-flight has been delayed for
 another time, due to RL constraints.  For now, dragons fly, and log ends.]