--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lysseth's Sixteenth Flight


Date:  March 29, 2001
Places:  Telgar Weyr's Living Cavern, Southern Bowl, Feeding Grounds, 
Skyspace, and Guest Weyr
Game:  PernMUSH
Copyright Info:  The World of Pern is copyright(c) to Anne McCaffrey 
l967. The Dragonriders of Pern(r) is a registered copyright.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kassi's Note:  This was one of those flights where I was getting pages
about how wonderful everyone was doing and how hard it would be to 
choose, and I quite agree--all of the participants were extremely 
talented posers, and it's just a shame that dragons aren't into 
groups. ;)  Credit for this round's ProddyDesc inspiration goes to 
Nimiriel, who suggested that Kassi should appear as that lady from The
Matrix; credit for pose inspiration goes to Alfred Lord Tennyson, who
wrote the brilliant poem 'The Lady of Shalott.'  Thanks again to 
everyone!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Log:

You walk past the lintel and into the wide living cavern.

Pierron humphs thoughtfully as the Wingleader of Thunderbolt arrives.

Kassima:
	You have entered another reality. It is a reality in which nothing is 
as it seems, and sight cannot be trusted; a reality in which the normal laws
of human nature and morality no longer apply. It is called the 
KassiMatrix... though 'the presence of a psychotic proddy greenrider' would 
probably describe it just as well.
	It's rarely difficult to tell when Kassi is being affected by Lysseth's
hormones; this time is no exception, with her standard black clothing in
full evidence. Nor is the color all that's full evidence. She has managed
to find herself a skintight jumpsuit of the glossiest leather imaginable,
which manages to display curves and muscles alike while still giving
'modest' covering from collar to ankle; the whiteness of her slender arms
and shoulders is left bare by the thin straps that secure the top in place.
High-heeled boots reach up to embrace her calves and lend yet more height
to her naturally 5'10" frame. A belt of the same color as the suit is slung
over her hips, its purpose being to keep her wherry-skewer and assortment
of knives close to hand.
	Oddly, for Kassi, she's limited her ornaments to these knives and a 
pair of dark-lensed glasses which keep her eyes from view. Dark eyebrows 
hover over their rims in a near-constant glower. The skin drawn taut over 
her fine-boned features is even paler than usual, and the rich blue-black 
of her hair contrasts startlingly as it pours unhindered down her back to
brush her lower calves. Despite the lack of knots on her shoulder, it
shouldn't be difficult to guess what color of dragon she rides.

Lysseth> Indrath comes out of Tarlo and Cariath's weyr.

Lysseth> K'ran comes out of Tarlo and Cariath's weyr.

Lysseth> Indrath steps easily out into the gloom of the cloudy afternoon,
his lifemate just a short distance behind. While the young bronze ensconces
himself upon near the bowl's edge, the better to admire yon smoulderingly
proddy green, K'ran proceeds across the bowl, towards and into the work room.

Lysseth> K'ran moves down a short passage and past a curtain, moving out of
sight as he enters the workroom.

Lysseth> Lysseth has curled herself, oddly, as *far* from the Living Cavern
as possible--the better to tuck her body into a coil of radioactive pine,
or something close enough. Her wings mantle at the presence of a male, and
her greeting upwards takes the form of a rather hostile hiss.

Lysseth> Undeterred -- perhaps even encouraged -- by that note of menace,
Indrath settles lightly back upon haunches; an elegant, crouch,
ever-present amusement overlain with an air of regality. For all that
poise, though, muscles coil tensely beneath bronze hide as he watches, just
watches, and -appreciates-.

Lysseth> Mildly temperamental even at the best of times, Lysseth is in no
mood to be amused by amusement; her talons curl into the ground beneath
them, cutting great rakes. She uncurls enough to bare her teeth and snarl:
who is *he*, to regard her so from on high? Appreciation, amusement, it's
all the same to her--she's still being *watched*, and from her own
tenseness, it would seem that isn't a state she cares for at this time.

Lysseth> And aqua-whirling eyes, rimmed by vivid orange, follow each of
Lysseth's movements; the tensing of claws, the twisting of muzzle into
snarl. Why, what else could he be expected to do -but- watch, with one such
as her about?

Lysseth> Lysseth could think of a few things. Most of them rather bloody
and probably anatomically impossible, mind.... Her own eyes are a smoky
red, not in the least a welcoming color. Her tail whips once, twice against
the ground. The crouch she adopts couldn't really be a battle crouch; not
even proddy do dragons usually fight--but it may suffice to get the
'royally peeved' message across if that has not already been accomplished.

I'sai walks here from the Inner Cavern.

Fresh from the baths, I'sai enters on a whistle, too airy for a sailor's
chantey, too naughty for a little's, tucking the tail of a striped towel
back into its impromptu turban.

Kassima is normally a fan of towel turbans, and might comment on the
stylishness--or lack thereof; come on, *stripes*?--of his, yet for the
moment she has better occupations. Namely, the polishing of knives. And as
much as this activity should make her happy, she's muttering a litany of
blue-stained curses rather than whistling while she works. "Grrr." That
might be a greeting. It might be random. Who knows?

Lysseth> Fight? No. No, that's most assuredly not what Indrath has in mind.
And while doubtless he'd like nothing better than to be sensitive and
supportive and all those other myriad traits associated with hen-pecked
Holder husbands, he is who he is; and spreads his wings minutely, to sample
the air and map its currents, while letting a gaze hued a progressive more
vibrant shade of desirous orange linger upon the Thunderbolt wingleader's
lifemate.

That'd be 'The Shadow,' for a sixteenth mark. Not that I'sai has one in
either hand; no, his stride is eminently casual as he nods to Pierron, nods
to the aunties, even lines up for some dinner - and not raw, either; but as
long as he's standing in line anyway... "Oh, hey, Kassi. Sharpening for the
whole Weyr, or just yourself?"

Lysseth> And when push comes to shove, as it so often does, there really
isn't anything Lysseth can do about it; she might *like* to remove his eyes
and use them as a dangly wall ornament, but then she'd have to sit through
a Lecture on Why We Do Not Mutilate the Males. There are some places even
proddiness dares not tread. So with a last delicate baring of fangs, the
green turns about with as much dignity as she can muster, concentrating on
Ignoring Him.

"Grr--" Oh, wait. She said that already. Kassima clears her throat and
summons frosty decorum, insofar as she's able. "These are all mine,
a'course. See the notches on the blades? They're t'be tallying each
smart-mouthed bronzer I've taken a trophy from. Usually just an ear or a
finger, but now and then something more vital, depending on just how
smart-mouthed he is."

Dragon> All dragons sense that Lysseth wiggles a wingtip and makes a quick
OOC announcement: << I'm looking to have a flight over Telgar in fifteen
minutes or so, so any interested male-types are invited to come on
over--and be sure to join the +flight channel, too. Thanks much. :) >>

Lysseth> Above, From the Telgar Star Stones, L'klal's burnished bronze
Pteynth rears on hind legs and bugles a greeting to bronze Gelth and his
rider, A'zric of Ista Weyr.

Dragon> Umirieth bespoke Flight with << Go Lysseth! >>

Lysseth> Gelth backwings for a landing.

"What do you do with the smart-mouthed brownriders?" I'sai's reminded to
ask with patent interest as one comes up behind him in line. "Or -for-,
anyway. Whichever. ...Mmmm, spiderclaws, tasty. Or blueriders, for that
matter. Greenriders. All of 'em."

Lysseth> A'zric climbs down from Gelth's neck.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth grins at Umirieth. Thanks; I plan to. ;)

A'zric walks in from the bowl.

Lysseth> Above, From the Telgar Star Stones, L'klal's burnished bronze
Pteynth rears on hind legs and bugles a greeting to brown Kemonth and his
rider, St'fen of HighReaches Weyr.

Lysseth> And yet Indrath's gaze still wanders of the curve of neck and
back, the sweep of wings, even as Lysseth turns away, sets about ignoring
him. The Istan bronze's arrival pulls a quiet rumble from him, no warmth in
the greeting.

Lysseth> Kemonth backwings for a landing.

Lysseth> St'fen swings a leg to the other side, dismounting slowly with
Kemonth's aid when he gives it.

Kassima replies succinctly, "Mincemeat." Her knife swishes through the air
in a vague chopping motion, which somehow manages to avoid actually
chopping anything. "For the fire-lizards. Blueriders have too much gristle;
greenriders are poisonous, didn't you know?" She'd salute yon Istan
Weyrleader, she really would, only she's busy being a glowering creature of
darkness over here.

Lysseth> No warmth in Lysseth's greeting, either; she's awake, and gives
one, but it's the violent hissing of an overboiling kettle rather than any
sort of welcome. And, joy of joys, it's accompanied by an angry scarlet glare.

Lysseth> Kemonth bugles softly his greeting. His rider slaps his side. "I
won't be too long, just a quick visit. "

Lysseth> Yehlth lumbers here from the north.

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth's a lazy gleam of well-washed blue -
well, those glitter-streaks along his leading edges, at least, along with
greens and violet and gold, if with base bronze beneath; << Caught any
fish, Lysseth? >>

Lysseth> Laidan slips off of Yehlth and looks at the crowd. Uh, oh.

St'fen walks in from the bowl.

A'zric ducks a little, even for being all the way over here away from that
waving knife, "Poisonous?" he ventures, "Evening Kassi."

St'fen slips in, casting a curious look over his shoulder. "High Reaches
Duties." he calls out to the room at large.

Lysseth> Yehlth warbles greetings, being especially courteous to the pretty
green.

Lysseth> Laidan hurries into the living cavern to see if her fears are
justified.

Laidan walks in from the bowl.

Lysseth> Kemonth warbles in surprise, crooning an inquiry to the green.

Laidan hurries inside and looks around for signs of a proddy greenrider.

Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth's thoughts boil, a cauldron of
burning steam with nothing of beauty to it--<< *No*. >> Snarled, that. 
<< No, I have *not*. >>

"I didn't," I'sai says as soberly as can be expected, given that light of
fell good humor in thos pale eyes. "And here I am, without a way to take
notes..." He half-turns from the meal table at the other man's voice, then
- "Evening, Ista - hey, St'fen! Try the spiderclaws," till he's poked in
the side by the impatient brownrider behind him, and has to hurry up.

Lysseth> Two more distracted, rumbling greetings, one for the 'Reaches
brown and another, one more sincere, for his clutchsibling, as Indrath
continues to study Lysseth.

Lysseth> Gelth rumbles his own greeting, settling down to watch Lysseth at
a nice safe distance.

Lysseth> Lysseth spreads her foreclaws wide apart to rake them with nothing
like nonchalance through the sands. They don't need it; they're quite sharp
enough already, tracking great furrows where they go. But it's more a
gesture of malice than practicality anyway.

Lysseth> Yehlth settles in to study the green. This one seems a lot more
predatory than some of the others.

Lysseth> K'ran emerges from the passage leading to the guest weyr.

"May you drop dead of a bilious attack caused by cabbage, liver, spinach,
and chutney boiling together in your stomach, causing you to choke on your
own vomit," Kassi bids I'sai quite pleasantly, with associated gestures of
the knife. "You, too," she suggests to all the newcomers for good measure.
"*All* of you. Only don't do it where I have t'be *seeing*, though I'd nay
mind hearing the cries of death agony and all. It might even brighten up
m'day some." Her greeting back to Yaz consists of a thoroughly disgusted
look, for reasons unknown.

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth smokes with the steam, charred dark
within the damp: curious and curiouser - yet he returns a milder
reflection, << Do not swim, then; there are none -here-, >> adding an image
of the mineral-spiced, water-washed heat.

St'fen moves over towards I'sai. "Spiderclaws? Sounds good to me." he
grins. "How are you?" his attention moves over to Kassi and blinks. "Um,
she seems crabby."

Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth steals great swaths of that darkness
to cloak herself in, for there's nothing better than a good shroud of smoke
to glower effectively from. << *Good*, >> is her spiteful reply. << You
don't deserve any. >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth gets out her clipboard and pencil.
Mouseketeer Role-Call! Who's here for the fun and games? :)

Dragon> Flight sense that Indrath 

Laidan frowns and sidles over towards I'sai. "What's the score?"

A'zric eyes Kassima, "I suppose asking you if you've seen my Mom is moot
right now, hmm?"

Dragon> Flight sense that Yehlth is.

Dragon> Flight sense that Gelth is in.

I'sai whispers rather fondly, eyes distanced on the wingleader, "She's
especially inventive when Lysseth's proddy, St'fen. If that explains your
other comment sufficiently?" and ladles himself a good helping of those
'claws. He'll need 'em. "I suggest you try it without the side dish -she-
suggested, though. Keara's a better cook than that. And I'm... I'm all
right, I suppose you could say; no scorings -yet-. Laidan, you met St'fen?
St'fen, this is my cousin, so behave."

Dragon> Flight sense that Kemonth is here!

Dragon> Flight sense that Umirieth has her pompoms on. Go Lysseth, go Lysseth!

Dragon> Flight sense that Taralyth T-A-R-A-L-Y-T-Hs.

Dragon> Cyrath bespoke Flight with << Go Lysseth! ;) >>

Laidan shakes her head at I'sai again and informs St'fen, "He says that to
every male I get introduced to."

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth beams. Excellent. :) Blooding starts at
your leisure, good gents; I'll join in a bit, and rules and regs will
follow shortly after. :)

St'fen helps himself to a helping. "Proddy?" he peers in the greenriders
direction. "Shells, I do pick an interesting time to arrive. I suppose her
green was out there then." he nods towards Laidan with a smile. "Well met."
he grins at I'sai. "I'm always on best behavior."

Kassima starts to wave a knife at A'zric by way of answer, but, well,
*some* sense of self-preservation remains. Grudgingly, she mutters,
"Haven't seen her aught about. A'course, I haven't seen many people about
today at all; I can't imagine why...." She pauses to give I'sai a quick
one-fingered salute before adding, "Cowards, the lot of 'em."

Lysseth> More meandering steps bear K'ran out of the work room, a
fresh-repaired riding strap slung over his shoulder; and, with a sigh, he
hefts this up a bit higher, and veers nearer the guest weyr as, 'cross the
bowl, Indrath spreads wings wide to catch the faint drafts that gather here
and there, to vault long over and towards the feeding pens.

Lysseth> Indrath takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to
carry him aloft.

Telgar Weyr> A'len awww, Kassima's rising and I'm gonna miss it!

Lysseth> Gelth considers Lysseth's new decor for the bowl floor and takes
to the air, stright for the feeding pens.

Lysseth> Gelth takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to
carry him aloft.

Lysseth> Fasolth backwings for a landing.

Lysseth> T'kar slides carefully off of Fasolth's neck.

Telgar Weyr> T'kar says, "Huh?"

Telgar Weyr> Kassima gets the weirdest mental picture of her character,
glowing green, flying high above Telgar with a bunch of males chasing. Oh,
dear. ;)

Lysseth> Above, Indrath flies towards the north end of the bowl.

Lysseth> Above, Gelth flies towards the north end of the bowl.

Telgar Weyr> T'kar says, "Oh gosh."

Telgar Weyr> A'len sighs. You know what I mean. :)

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

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

Telgar Weyr> Kassima knows. :) I just appreciated the surreality. ;)

Lysseth> Kemonth lumbers north.

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

Lysseth> T'kar makes his way towards the Living Cavern quickly, leaving his
eager brown behind. Fasolth stirs about, neck stretching inquisitively
toward Lysseth, then turns in preparation to follow the others north.

T'kar walks in from the bowl.

Lysseth> Yehlth lingers a moment longer to study the green, then goes to
stoke up. Looks like an interesting one.

Lysseth> Yehlth lumbers north.

Lysseth> Fasolth lumbers north.

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

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

A'zric turns to look outside towards the bowl and then back at Kassima, "Oh
shards, this is about to be surreal."

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Dark talons flash in the sparse few rays
of failing sunlight that struggle through the canopy of clouds to lend
witness to this tableau; quick and sure, Indrath seizes a hapless caprine
while still on the wing, and, insouciant air all but gone, settles into a
corner of the pens to drink, greedily, of the bounty that the beast's
throat offers.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Yehlth prowls about, being a bit choosy
this time, as if preparations done just so could mean the difference. He
pins an ovine and neatly tears a hole to drink from.

"As you say, as you say," I'sai tells the brownrider. "Which reminds me -
how are you about winecrafters? Like 'em, hate 'em? Laidan... maybe an
empty stomach'd be better. Or full. Or... shards, I should keep better
track," chattering on as fast as if he were freezing. Kassima gets a bow
sketched from the waist, enough to make his shirt-tails flutter before,
"-About- to be?"

Laidan shakes her head and eyes Kassi's knife. "I'm glad I've got my
leathers on, still.."

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Gelth dives down upon the flock, sending
a beast flying, tumbling to the ground to let the bronze pounce, ripping it
through and spraying blood before clamping his maw upon the spurting
lifeforce.

Kassima starts to ask with irritation, "So what else is ne--" She breaks
off mid-grouse, though, to pull off the dark-lensed glasses and give the
exit towards the Bowl an accusatory glare. "Now *listen*, you Star-spawned,
mindless, hormone-infested *thing*, I'm nay finished sharpening these
knives yet and you're nay bloody well going t'rise until I have! I might
*need* them!"

T'kar clears his throat. "Hmmm. How did I miss this entirely? Well, looks
like Meri's going to have to care for the kids tonight after all. I don't
think I'm going to have a ride back up to the weyr." These spoken thoughts
are concluded with, "Good evening all, where's the safe klah?"

St'fen turns his head sharply to look out towards the bowl. "Kemonth." he
says quickly. The brown is no longer out there though, he has glided
towards the feeding grounds where if you listen real hard you hear the
screeches of terrified animals.

A'zric nods to I'sai, "Mmmm, I havent seen them fly yet, then it would be
just like childhood." he points for T'kar, "Try that one."

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth allows, suddenly, as how fish aren't
what he'll be hunting for - and leaps from water past stone into sky, aloft
on sharpened, savoring wings. And will she take their leavings?

Lysseth> Above, Taralyth wings up from the south surrounded in clingy wisps
of steam.

Lysseth> Above, Taralyth's gauze-veiled, less grey than ruddy within the
late, lowering sunset; he glides towards the dusk, the pens, the _hunt_.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Kemonth glides over, a long shadow over
the feeding grounds and the occupants within. Quickly though he swoops
down, grabbing it's chosen prey in his strong talons. He lands with the
beast and savagely tears into it gashing it wide open before he starts
slurping down the blood.

Lysseth> Taralyth backwings for a landing.

Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth's mindvoice keens at fevered pitch,
red rapidly overtaking the steam grey--take leavings? She'll leave *them*--

Lysseth> Lysseth gapes her jaw wide to *roar* a full-voiced retort towards
the Cavern. Oh, she won't rise until her rider pleases, won't she? Just you
watch--

Lysseth> Taralyth swirls past - and, dilettante, swifts up yet again.

Lysseth> Taralyth takes flight, using the thermals rising from the bowl to
carry him aloft.

Lysseth> You spring into the air and catch the thermals rising from the
bowl floor to carry you aloft.

Lysseth> You fly towards the north end of the bowl.

TGW-Bowl>> In the Feeding Grounds, Fasolth sweeps in low, just over the
fence. Brown form slices through an ovine herd like a blade, turning just
at the end. An abrupt, flowing whirl whips the young dragon back towards a
suitable target, working now as an actual blade as long teeth tear into the
flesh.

Dragon> Flight sense that Gelth grabs supper which is boiling over on the
stove.. I will brb.

Lysseth> Taralyth flies over from the south end of the bowl.

Lysseth> You fly downwards towards the feeding grounds.

Lysseth> Yehlth finishes off the first kill and pins a wherry, drinking
from it thoughtfully as the green makes her entrance.

TGW-Bowl>> Above, Taralyth circles before her, beyond her - and his call
rings bright within the red-clouded sky, bright even as he stoops to dull
new-washed talons in living blood.

Lysseth> Taralyth flies over the feeding grounds from above the bowl.

Lysseth> A shrill scream dopplers in from on high as Lysseth, wings
slashing the sky as knives, makes her descending entrance: claws flash out,
and there's a meaty *thunk* of impact as they hook through the soft skin of
a bovine cow. No time for the animal to protest. No time for anything at
all. It's already being torn apart, while it still lives, by eager claws
and yet more eager teeth in search of the perfect vein.

Kassima starts swearing at considerable length, and makes a grab for all
the knife hilts she can reach; with a silvery and rather spiky bouquet in
each hand, she charges for the exit. Let's hope no one's standing in her
way. She evidently never learned her lesson about running with sharp things.

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

Lysseth> Exultance drained, along with the bright fuel from the throat of
this caught caprine, at Taralyth's arrival; Indrath favors the approaching
bronze with a crimson-whirling glare that bears not welcome but challenge,
challenge that lasts until the green claims kill and blood; and he discards
his prey casually, to stalk through the pens, to snatch up a wherry in
cruel claws.

TGW-LC>> Laidan hmms, watching Kassi leave. "I do believe this is the most
-dangerous- thing Yehlth has ever dragged me into."

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth takes a moment to give out the rules. :)
<< All pretty standard: we'll be going up two skyspaces; make one pose per
Lysseth-pose, if you would. No line limit (though twenty might be overdoing
it a bit ;), and no limit on rider poses. The Guest Weyr is off of the
Southern Bowl, alias GW. Any questions? :) >>

Lysseth> Kemonthhead snaps up, fresh blood actually dripping down at his
quick movements. Warm air blows out his nostrils as for several moments he
watches the green beauty land and move in for her first kill. But he does
not admire her for long for his thirst for blood has still not been
quenched. Lowering his muzzle he makes quick work of the rest of his first
kill.

Lysseth> In the keening echo of that scream, Taralyth swipes a paw's slash
into the path of a running herdbeast; it seems at first to miss - but then
then it crashes into the bloodied, hoof-wracked mud, hamstrung; at his
leisure Taralyth finishes it up, then, licking slow and long along its
throat, made the brighter for Indrath's draining - he could be all bright
eyes and lashing tail, but for the laughter that's in whitely sharpened
fangs and those lavish, wide-cast wings.

TGW-LC>> A'zric eyes Kassi leaving, "Oh shards." he heads out after her.

TGW-LC>> T'kar's fingers run back through his hair in a long, slow sweep,
setting down the mug of klah he's barely finished pouring. After a moment's
consideration, a quick draught is tossed back, the rest left there. The
brownrider winces as the hot fluid slides down his throat. It's not like
he's going to fall asleep in the midst of this, after all. Kassima's path
is then followed out of the cavern, a grin tossed towards the others. "Come
along, all she needs is some company."

A'zric comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.

Already leaning against the wall of the bowl by the guest weyr, K'ran
adusts the fresh-repaired riding strap on his shoulder once more. There's
little of hthe normal roguish humor curving his lips, now; just distraction
as storm-blue eyes, and thoughts beneath, follow what passes in the pens.

Lysseth> Yehlth finds his last kill and pins it just as neatly, not seeming
to care about the bronzes and their posturing. Everything is focussed on
the green.

TGW-LC>> I'sai, for a moment frozen within the talk of children and the
rest, abruptly scoops up a good handful of those spiderclaws into a napkin
and, with a nod to those remain, walks straight-backed _out_.

I'sai comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.

T'kar comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.

Laidan comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.

St'fen comes out of the short tunnel from the living cavern.

Laidan follows the crowd out, chewing on a lip.

Lysseth> Gelth rumbles a challenge to the green as she arrives, a challenge
mixed with desire before he tosses aside the pale limp corpse and grabs for
the next, tossing it in his maw before crunching down firmly, the
creature's head no longer.

Kassima manages to come to a halt before she actually skewers anyone on her
double-handful of knives--three in one hand, five in another, and it'd
likely be better not to ask what she plans to do with them. Apart from
clench them as she starts to chant the flight mantra under her breath:
"Blood it. You know the drill. Blood it."

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth sleeks along the rider-heard echo of
_her_ rider's demand: blood? Only blood? Let there be plenty of it, at least -

Lysseth> Fasolth barely has to move to catch the next ovine, one which has
rather stupidly wandered in his direction. He pounces it over anyhow,
rolling it to the ground and then turning to drink from long gashes in the
belly and at one leg joint.

Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth would answer, could answer,
only--thought is drowned beyond comprehension in rich, hot red, coppery and
salty and glorious. Free at last, at last....

I'sai, easing out with Laidan and St'fen, whispers the warning while he
still has breath, bootsteps sucked by the clinging mud; "She -marked-
Taralyth. Turns ago, it was."

St'fen walks out slowly, his jacket forgotten in the Living Cavern. He
looks away from Kassima to peer at I'sai. "Marked?" he questions before his
eyes slide over to Laidan.

Lysseth> Lysseth raises up on her haunches, throwing her neck back in a
combination of angry bugle and defiant scream loud enough to wake the
dead--though her meal shows no signs of getting up and wandering away. It
only lies there like a dead herdbeast, appropriately enough, as she sinks
teeth into its hide to stain their moon-brightness a sullen, salty red. She
drinks. And she glows. Oh, she glows, and trembles with the tension in
furled wings that cannot be released just *yet*.

"Claws," I'sai returns; and - his own lip caught for a moment, watching
those shoulders white against the black - hands the other man a couple
'claws of his own. Even if they are by comparison but feeble, undersized,
and -cooked-.

A'zric leans against hte side of the bowl, muttering something aobut death
for his sister, "Guest cavern anyone?" he offers with feigned lightness.

Laidan frowns and sighs. "Out of my hands, now."

Lysseth> Challenging air's abandoned for the matter at hand, and after
laying open the throat of his last catch and consuming copper-scented blood
greedily, Indrath gives his prey an errant toss, the arc bearing the
discarded corpse to that churned, gore-soaked mud near where Taralyth
feeds. He echoes Lysseth's defiant scream with a piercing cry of his own --
desire, there, stark hunger carrying up into the cloud-dappled skies.

Kassima's mutter of, "Isn't it always," is actually not so much angry as
distracted, absentminded. "Soon, soon. Just need one more. One or two." At
least she has enough presence of mind to start tucking those knives through
her belt, where they can still gleam against all that black without
actually being in danger of slice-and-dicing anyone. Hopefully.

Lysseth> Fasolth isn't normally one to get emotional, but Flights do bring
out the best in everyone. Eyes whirl fast, crimson-tinged violet, not one
to stand by idly while a challenge is literally screaming in his ears.
Brown lungs fill to bursting and blast out a single-noted trumpet,
intending to shake down the Barrier Mountains as far as any might tell.

Lysseth> Yehlth seems to have gotten his fill. His entire frame is waiting
on the green, his eyes tracking her movements as if she were a wherry,
herself. A rumble comes from the small blue of the need he feels.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth is thinking take-off directly after
Lyss's next, by the by; is that all right with folks?

Dragon> Indrath bespoke Flight with << Fine here. >>

St'fen takes the claws he holds them loosely in his hands, his attention
slipping more and more towards the blooding dragons. He nods absently to
I'sai. "I see." is all he says.

Lysseth> Gelth tosses this next beast aside, his maw stained ruddy with
blood. He watches Lysseth, eyes whirling, sending sparks into the night
air. A claw nips out, absently braining an ovine and he nibbles, just a
snack while he waits really.

Dragon> Gelth bespoke Flight with << Sure. :) >>

Dragon> Kemonth bespoke Flight with << Fine by me. >>

Dragon> Yehlth bespoke Flight with << I'm ready. :) >>

Lysseth> Scuttled into the mud is that thudded corpse, beneath launching
hindclaws' splattering; Taralyth's aflight, an abbreviated launch that
claims a masculine share of green ichor: a wherry's, green for her red,
that red for this ash-smoldered green. Within the others' calls, within the
wherry's death, he's silent - though headknobs do prick above once-shielded
eyes, and as his own corpse sags, he crouches for her, for the
sunset-bloodied night.

Lysseth> Kemonth finishes yet another kill, several dead animals
surrounding him. Crouching low his forked tounge darts out to taste the
blood that still speckles his hide. His eyes move faster now, locking on
the beautifull Lysseth.

I'sai's nodding likewise, even as he cracks a bit of its exoskeleton with
its thumbnail, the better to reveal the white flesh beneath - if with his
attention on Lysseth's black-haired rider, and the red-smoldered skies as
yet unparted. Soft, "...Or two."

Dragon> Flight sense that Taralyth yeps!

Lysseth> Lysseth snaps out of her curl around her thoroughly desanguinated
kill to launch towards her next with a serpent's swiftness: she is Death
with ample sharp claws, to take the place of scythes; her coal-marked wings
will serve as cowl, raising to shadow the corpse as she drains it of all
life and value. Her tail lashes at each echo of her own cry, more fidget
than true anger at this moment. Now is the time. The time is now. And now,
indeed, she is aloft--one moment there, the next skyward bound. Will they
follow her up this stairway to heaven?

Lysseth> You spring into the air and catch the thermals rising from the
bowl floor to carry you aloft -- much to the relief of the wherries.

Lysseth> Taralyth rises up from the feeding grounds.

Lysseth> Fasolth rises up from the feeding grounds.

Lysseth> Indrath rises up from the feeding grounds.

Lysseth> Yehlth rises up from the feeding grounds.

Lysseth> Kemonth rises up from the feeding grounds.

Shoulder still slouched casually against the wall of the bowl, just outside
the yawning entryway of the guest weyr, K'ran's gaze climbs to follow th
trail his lifemate blazes into the dusk-bruised skies.

Lysseth> Gelth rises up from the feeding grounds.

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

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

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

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

Laidan moves quietly towards the entrance to the guest weyr, a step at a
time as she watches the dragons rise up into the sky.

Kassima breathes out a long, low sigh. "About time." Spinning on one high
heel--and narrowly avoiding falling--she dives past the throng, *through*
the throng, towards that dubious place of safety.

You push aside the curtain and enter the guest weyr.

T'kar comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

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

Laidan comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

I'sai comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

St'fen comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

A'zric comes into the guest weyr from the bowl.

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

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

No stranger to this place, K'ran steadies himself against one wall with the
grazing touch of a palm, the braided leather strap he bears sliding,
unnoticed, from his shoulder to coil near his feet.

Lysseth> To heaven, is it? Fasolth's bugle fades slowly in the echo among
rocky walls, left behind along with care and restraint as the brown's wings
slap heavily against the airy steps of this stairway, carrying him ever
higher after the elusive green spectre of Lysseth.

Kassima draws on the benefit of experience here--her heels click neatly
against stone as she heads directly for her favorite wall, and takes
possession of it by means of setting her back against it and, with a
bloodshot glare, just daring anyone to even *think* about coming close.

Lysseth> Yehlth stretches his wings after the green, for a moment, though,
he almost seems to forget the object of the chase in the first burst from
the ground and flight up the oh-so-familiar winds of the bowl. Flying is
glory on these winds, but the glory is not enough. The strayed attention
returns to the bright female. He would call, but he needs his breath for
the chase.

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

Lysseth> Taralyth'll climb her spiral sharp, savor the winds she's claimed;
and if even such a quick-winged beast has greater bulk to lift, at least he
has the initial onrush of that tail to incite him, that familiar scent,
even as she draws away: perhaps not heaven, but purgatory he'd chance to
share indeed, so long as it be endless - all this, as even stone yields to
sky beneath the onslaught of their wings.

Laidan finds herself a place on the wall, attention leaving the room with a
slight smile as Yehlth enters the chase. Whatever the result, the flight
itself is exhilarating.

Lysseth> Gelth bugles in delight, the chase becoming a game to the younger,
out of weyr bronze. He plows into the unfamiliar air currents, testing
them, tasting them, delighting in their feel on his wings. Yet he still
seems to tag along with the pack, even in his play, not letting the
perfection that is Lysseth too far from his sight.

Lysseth> Kemonth wings up quickly, in the middle of the pack of other
chasers. He tries valiantly and finally catches the perfect thermal to rise
him up higher and make more room between him and the blue and brown that
flank his other side. His wings rise and fall quickly as his only goal for
the moment is to gain speed and altitude.

A dare, is it? Oh, I'sai mayn't come knife-close just yet, but he'd dare
even - especially - that glare: one insouciant step nearer, two. And
mutters something about more _glows_ -

A'zric sighs quietly, looking around the room thoughtfully before watching,
just watching ther other riders, his attention aways somehow drifting back
to Kassima.

T'kar may not be quite so familiar with this room, but no great intimacy is
required for him to find a spot. As the walls fill up, he decides to tempt
Death's lifemate with a cheery grin, quite the sort of expression lemmings
might have before they reach the sea.

St'fen isn't as familar with here, he takes a moment to look around.
Claiming a spot to stand he too leans up against a wall, eyes on Kassima.
He takes in the knives with casual acceptance, as if it were common for the
greenrider to have them drawn.

Lysseth> Feeble winds caress these skies tonight, and Indrath seizes them
jealously, surging up and after ash-green prize. No, flight this evening is
not for the mere joy of it, but with -purpose-; and dusk-gilt wings bear
him along with the plague of chasers, shouldering for position in the pack,
not far behind.

Lysseth> Lysseth sweeps slender wings in unfettered flight. The light of
her glowing slides from them to trail half a heartbeat in her wake, tracing
ephemeral fingers across the clouds only to depart. She is quickened, newly
alive, made so by the rush of blood both hers and not; no male could match
her speed at this early stage, and well does she know it. *Too* well. A
spear afire, she splits the clouds without effort, headed on a true course
towards the sky's fading red... as though she too would chase, and chase
the sun.

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth dives - soars - after that thought's
drowning, that copper-salt glory - though even now, diamond seeks innate
crystal turned not mere liquid but living flame. Such a quickening: here
she comes, born to be green, she's the Lysseth of the universe...

Come to think of it, it *is* fairly common... and Kassi does have one of
them drawn again now. She's using it to sharpen a fingernail with, in
nonchalance that's clearly feinged; truly heedless people aren't half so
tense, and don't keep darting looks composed of mingled suspicion and anger
around the room. A few of its occupants earn fuller glowers. Lucky them.

A'zric returns the glare and glower with a slow slow smile. Somewhere
between sultry and smug, he just watches the greenrider.

Lysseth> Kemonth can use that light to guide him into her open wings. She
may not be ready to invite him into her embrace just yet but this brown is
full of confidence that soon she will know that she must succumb to what
happens always and he will be there for her. With her. Together they will
fly the Telgar skies. But for now he continues his attempt to merely out
fly the competition. Brown wings sweep the sky as he continues to race.

Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth's only response is a wild,
uninhibited laughter, silver as starlight and red as the midnight
sun--faceted, aflame, alight, alone. Free!

Lysseth> Yehlth threads the wisps of cloud that marr the sky, a blue dart
among the red and pink of the dusklight. Wings arch over the winds, split
the clouds, carry him after the glimmering green that leads them all.

Lysseth> Fasolth, too, carries the realization that the journey to this
emerald of the sky will be a long one. And yet, there is intrinsic value in
any journey, and even more with the promise of such a treasure. The heart
beating deep beneath the flowing patterns of this brown chest is wild and
free tonight, and pours effort into the journey while never forgetting the
final goal.

Laidan still is focussed on the flight outside, perhaps because of just how
much venom Kassima seems to be holding for any unlucky soul that gets too
interested. She closes her eyes and stays with the safer realm of the
dragons for now.

Lysseth> Up into those clouds, and beyond, and -after-; Indrath, this
living bit of dusk's brilliance, all but disappears against these skies but
for a dance of gilt lighting along wings that reach and strain for the
space into which jewel-bright Lysseth leads. Arrow straight and
single-minded in this chase -- single-minded after an instant's
crimson-hued glance towards Yehlth, and the chance faltering of his pace
that this distraction lends.

Lysseth> Taralyth's trumpet rings deep-throated from him, as if it could
meet that trailing, glimmering flush, an evanescent touch as mere flesh
does not; he argues premptorily for room with short, strong wingbeats - not
within the pack, but through as best he may, even should he thereby cut
close to Kemonth's race: high, and westward, that even with the
dragonlengths increasing between them, there might be no other dragons _in_
them.

St'fen thumps one foot absently against the wall behind him. Thud. Thud.
Thud. It's the wait that's the longest part. Most of his attention is
indeed not in this room but up in the skies with his lifemate, soaring
quickly and high after the object of his desire. But when in the room with
a proddy greenrider who wields a knife it is not safe to not keep some of
your attention on that person. So quite often St'fen's eyes are indeed
locked onto the form that is Kassima. Watching. Warily.

Lysseth> Gelth sets himself a little more to the task at hand, his childish
delight being pushed aside by a more adult desire. He takes a high route,
using bronze strenth to take him up over the pack to watch, much as his
lifemate does below.

Lysseth> Lysseth can weave those threads *too*, or at least weave among
them... she's had her first draught of freedom without restriction, and
though it is heady stuff, the time for subterfuge has come if she is to
drink of it as long as she could wish. Wings tip, tilt; she slides
crosswise beneath a cloud, vanishing into its misty hold and leaving a
wound to leak dying light in her wake. Her brief wake. Roils in the
cloud-cover above her mark where her wings beat just below, yet she
maintains this shroud. She is unwilling to further sink. And in course, she
must once more rise--casting off her dusky cloak with a flick of impatient
wingtips. Would Indrath's arrow find its target? Would Fasolth claim a
prince's ransom in treasure? Would Kemonth fly the friendly skies? And what
of the others; they, too, would have what they wish? Then all must follow,
follow, follow--

K'ran's stormy eyes have long since glazed out of focus, though perhaps the
young man's attention yet lingers on the here and the now: he's sunk to a
crouch amid the braided leather ccoiled, snake-like, about his feet, and
tilted his head in what might be a close study of Laidan, under other
circumstances.

Oddly, a cocky glimmer shines in T'kar's brown eyes now. Odd, for the rider
of a virgin brown competing against much more experienced bronzes and other
dragons that provide more than a little challenge. Odd, for his dragon is
certainly not pursuing the easiest of catches. Odd, for arrogance has been
almost entirely buried in those eyes since Weyrling days. Arrogance
provides no advantage in this contest, but it is there nonetheless,
awakened perhaps by Fasolth's exuberant striving.

Kassima scowls at A'zric, and never mind his rank. The others yet manage to
escape such visible ire, for the moment at least; she's distracted, and
allows the knife to drop--drop!--from her fingers with the ring of fine
metal on stone. She draws in a deep breath and holds it, eyes closing.

Lysseth> Gelth dips closer, rumbling towards the elusive green,
appreciative of her games, of her subterfuge in this larger game. Lingering
light trips off the wheat gold spikes on his wings, the compact bronze
angling up the pack, hunkering down, like a feline with this new game, his
tail lashing against the air.

Laidan seems to return to the weyr, seeing the Kassima has not changed her
stance, then her eyes travel over to notice K'ran's study as if she could
feel it. A slight smile of challenge appears.

A'zric has the audacity to chuckle at the scowl, still watching the
greenrider in all her fury.

Lysseth> Will these skies be indeed friendly? The High Reaches brown
continues his chase, leveling out at a fairly high level, free from most
other suitors that dare to try to claim the prize that in his heart he has
already claimed. Surely no other green is more beautifull, more striking,
more lovely than the skillful Lysseth. Her very path that she cuts across
the sky and even through the clouds is taken by Kemonth. Alone he will
chase and and alone he will catch. But wait! He is not alone. A bronze
dragon dares to keep the same pace he keeps. Taralyth does not go
unnoticed. He is not too close yet, though Kemonth keeps a wary eye on him.
A rumble escapes the brown, as if challenging the Telgar dragon to even
dare come closer.

Lysseth> Yehlth burrows into the clouds after the green, more than willing
to try his skill. Without the sight of the green to guide him, the wisps of
her passing must tell him where he will go. Her scent will guide him
through the fog, and the ripples in the cloud are tracked by the edge of
one wing that trails along behind, feeling out the course and muddying the
waters for anyone who it not as quick to follow.

Lysseth> Oh, Taralyth will follow, follow, flirt with the cloud in lieu, in
her ghostly, gleaming wake: dance rampant into the mist, betting blind at
first - enough that he must slow, lest he run into a more agile blue,
though he stalls not for Kemonth's rumble - and when they all rise beyond,
fly just above the sunset-lit clouds with -his- wingtips just brushing
their cooly diaphanous blush. Follow, then, for now: but where will Lysseth
lead them?

Blue eyes follow the path of the fallen knife untill it clatters on the
stone floor below. Then ever so slowly St'fen drags his gaze upwards,
admiring the greenrider openly.

Lysseth> Weaver Indrath is not, and his claim upon the cloying mists from
which Lysseth fashions her cloak is the more tenuous for the bruised skies
above, as the fire of sunset fades to dross. Misaimed, this arrow, this
night: the winds gathered beneath the gilt lightning of his wings are
filched, purloined, by Fasolth's confident passing; and with a defiant cry
he falls further back, behind, out of reach -- and sketches a spiralling
course down and away towards the cooler blue jewel of the lake, far below,
than after the smouldering green one that claims the skies above.

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

It is not Laidan's challenging smirk that causes K'ran to flinch, nor the
cockiness that one-time mentor T'kar gathers about himself like armor; no,
something else, and after stooping to shoulder that repaired riding strap,
he repairs again -- stepping from the place.

K'ran leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Lysseth> Fasolth banks into the encompassing cloud without hesitation,
relying on more subtle senses to divine Lysseth's course through this
obstructing veil. Steady flight and dogged pursuit of the journey's path
continue, though its goal seems farther than ever now. Indrath's form, near
in the night, causes brief delay. But the brown's efforts are poured forth
anew, then, in hopes that those ahead will not outdistance him.

I'sai stirs at metal's ring - at another rider's leavetaking - and all at
once he sets down the napkin's worth of spiderclaws, too swift to be
presented, too abrupt to be an offering. Out of his hands, now.

Lysseth> Lysseth rings out a note of her own as that cry is carried to her
on the winds, but *hers* is a thing of pure triumph--she leaves her wings
to flurry the mockery, indulging in a twist in the air to dance her
victory. Only it would not do to dwell on it too long; there are others,
always others, and her path is not yet free. She beats against the skies as
though to bruise them further, swerving, dipping, darting in a course of
false starts and wide swings, half aerobatic display and half attempt to
wear down those who would follow with such diligence. Lead to death she may
not, but lead to exhaustion... that would be her fondest dream, to be
pursued at any price.

K'ran's left, so there goes that distraction. Laidan turns her attention
back to Kassima. Her eyes look sympathetic for the trapped greenrider,
though it is fairly well hidden in the smile at the feel of the flight
above, there is that compassion in the eyes.

Dragon> Indrath bespoke Flight with << Hopefully that exit didn't seem to
contrived. Thanks for having me, Kassima. :) >>

Kassima is silent only a moment before she abruptly begins to smile, if
mirthlessly, and--*laugh*. Low, rich chuckling bubbles up from her throat
at K'ran's departure, a sound that might be sultry if there weren't such
vicious glee undercutting it. She lifts her head to full height to eye the
others with dark amusement now; do they really think that they will fare
any better?

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth grins. My pleasure, Indrath; thanks for
flying with us tonight. :)

Lysseth> Gelth rumbles his amusement, watching the green from his perch,
watching, biding his time until she drives herself to exhasution and is
ready for the plucking from the skies in his strong bronze wings. He waits,
his patience growing thin, but still he waits.

Lysseth> Yehlth is wise enough not to call if he is to chase. His breath is
not so expansive as the larger dragons'. No, his strengths are in his speed
and agility as he follows the twisted course laid by the green. Though he
may cut corners here and there to attempt to close the distance, there is a
sense of sheer joy in following the winds in the wake of such a prize. He
can catch her before either he or she tires, he knows it.

A'zric meets that darkly amused gaze with a smile and a chuckle of his own,
holding her eyes if he can. He's up for the challenge.

T'kar grins a hesitant grin, quickly solidifying as this demon of
confidence seeps its influence into his lips. The flash of white teeth
hints at defiance as well, before the saner parts of this brownrider's mind
have a chance to put any accepted challenges up for review.

St'fen's smile is a little unsteady as Kassima begins to laugh. He matches
her look though, defiance flashing in those blue eyes. Give up? Not that
easily. If knives don't intimidate him, then surely he will last till the end.

Laidan is stoic in the face of the laugh. One leaving doesn't make the rest
any less determined.

Lysseth> Exhaustion - in their own sharp time, Taralyth mightn't mind, but
for now... if he waits as Gelth does, it's by necessity, distance lending
him leeway to sketch that so-agile route with sight to surpass
winds-glorying self - even with that Yehlth a shadow after her, before him,
blued flak on the radar.

Lysseth> Kemonth sails silently now, not wanting to loose any precious
energy on making any sort of sounds. Now that the race is heating up and
some of the dragons have begun to loose steam Kemonth works on his Plan.
Rising up a little further in the sky he starts to really watch the path in
which the green choses. Not following exactly in this path he works on his
own path, one set to possibly intercept the green. He must prove his worth
if he is to be the one she chooses. If a choice is given. He is very agile
for a brown and he manuvers deftly, crossing directly underneath Taralyth.

I'sai doesn't match her look, not now - not _yet_; that fair, downturned
head is surpassingly meek, for all of mouth's faint curve, the banked
glitter in hooded eyes. And there's a rattling in his hand, hidden in his
jacket.

Lysseth> Fasolth is tricked into more than one false turn in, lured by
Lysseth's labyrinthine lead. Each is corrected as it comes, balancing out
in the long run. Thrice he is caught off guard by a sudden shift, and
thrice he falls behind enough to see the next one before he's ensnared in
another of her agile maneuvers. As the journey races on, the brown grows
quicker to perceive and pace himself. Confidence holds and the velocity
still increases. He has a -goal-.

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth mayn't laugh just now - it's
determination that drives him deep, beyond those sharp turns, those arch
curves that he mayn't match: only sketch, learning her flight as ever
anews. Determination; and, yes - for the challenge, for that she's the one
who dares it - not a little delight.

Lysseth> Lysseth must needs tire, mustn't she? Nature's laws demand it, for
all that she might wish to refute it; for all that she might fly now in
defiance of it, already pushing her reserves to ensure speed and grace. Her
chosen path would take her to the stars, beyond them; not veering, not
anymore, but straight and true and high as a dream could take one. It is a
lofty bid one must make to match her own, and her tail flirts defiance of
gravity. O, the muse of green fire, not to be caught by earth or earthbound
creature but only in airborn wings!

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << You know, you're all fantastic. I'd
just like to say that. ;) I'm thinking catch poses after Lysseth's next;
sound good? >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Yehlth nods.

Dragon> Gelth bespoke Flight with << After the one that just happened, or
the next one? >>

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << After the next. >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Taralyth okays.

Dragon> Gelth bespoke Flight with << Okee, didnt want to get ahead of
myself. ;) >>

Dragon> Kemonth bespoke Flight with << Sounds good to me. And I think
everyone is doing a good job. Good thing I don't have to decide. :) >>

Kassima smiles superiority in return for each challenging look... at least,
she does for a moment. The smile slowly falters, slipping into an
expression that's pensive and not precisely pleased. A quick step presses
her back firmly against that wall--you'll never take her alive, copper. Not
yet, at any rate.

Lysseth> Yehlth finds a place below the rising comet. He saves his reserves
for this stretch, paralleling underneath. She will fall, sooner or later,
from her rise. He must keep up so that he can be there when she will need
him to catch her on her way down. He will not fail this shining jewel

Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth's fierce red has changed into
something much darker, less fiercely confident and full of laughter. It's
been traded for a keen edge and a cloak of night. The edge parries thought
away, lest it reach too close to her intents, for she would not have those
guessed--a flurried, furious flare retorts to delight, and then slips back
into full-fledged concentration.

A'zric cocks his head to one side, nodding slowly, thoughtfully as he
watches Kassi, restraining himself from taking that step forward physically.

Laidan focusses again on the flight more than here, as if willing strength
to her lifemate. She will not leave him out there to strive alone for
something he desires so much.

Lysseth> Gelth holds his spot high in the thinned pack, if she wants ot
shoot for the stars, she can come to his gold and bronze starspeckled
wings, he'll show her the moon. His entire focus is on her, glistening
green, beckoning green.

Lysseth> And so, the end is near. Fasolth yearns ahead, the pace of this
journey redoubled in its final stages. He stands at the Cracks of Doom, he
sights Ithaca on the horizon, and though the question of victory or defeat
remains in this ultimate moment, the journey will soon come to an end. The
light of the emerald treasure finally falls upon whirling eyes, and sinuous
neck strains forward, to grasp or to be turned away.

Lysseth> With Kemonth beneath him, so close that a swat of paw might take
him down - oh, Taralyth's surely and sorely tempted; but with Lysseth
rising high - _high_ - he spares not so much as a feint, only that moment
lost to indecision... which may yet prove fatal falter enough. May yet; and
there's time to spread and speed those spectral, unearthly wings of his
through Rukbat's falling and Belior's rising, along a path shy of Gelth's
yet with that same brilliant view.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth ohs and does remember. ;) Anyone who
*doesn't* want to win should prolly page my rider at about this point to
say so. :)

There's that rattling again, within those leather folds; I'sai's free hand
reaches to the striped towel where it had fallen to his shoulders, rubs its
damp burr against his throat, his cheek. And then he's silent - silenced -
again: not one step forward, but surely, surely not one step back.

Lysseth> If the stars are where Lysseth does desire to go, then surely she
should have an escort. Someone to go there with her and together they will
catch the stars and bring them down for all Pern to see. Kemonth reaches, a
yearning to be together so strong that he indeed would be the perfect one
to take Lysseth to those stars. As the race continues, Kemonth watches as
yet more dragons tire and give up. No more antics for this brown, now it's
time to settle down and concentrate fully on this race and winning. But
it's really more than just 'winning'. It's not a game of simple pursuit and
capture. The end of this is only the begining of a night filled with
pleasure--and possibly some pain. The passion growing inside him bubbles up
and threatens to burst. Taralyth is barely noticed, though Kemonth's flight
keeps him near the bronze and slightly beneath the flight path of the
Telgar Bronze.

St'fen tugs at the collar of his shirt, the top button lossening and
falling open slightly. "Very warm." St'fen utters these faint words. He
looks at noone other than Kassima but as his lifemate nears I'sai's bronze
he darts a look in that direction. "Careful." he warns softly, barely audible.

T'kar tenses up, confidence or hesitation needless in the suspense of the
last bursts of the chase. Brown eyes are fixed on the wall just beside
Kassima's right knee, flickering up to her face briefly.

Lysseth> But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her
stand? Or is she known in all the land, the Lysseth of Shalott? Lysseth
could well be that doomed lady, whose web of woven cloud has unraveled;
whose mirror has shattered; whose curse has come upon her, and who can but
wait for the ending with glassy forboding. Only--she is no lady to wait
helplessly and die in her last song. She is Lysseth. She is a dragon. She
is fighting fatigue even now, wings sweeping to plea with the stars: let
her ascend, let her escape! The consequence yet hangs there, and so does
she--driving herself upwards further with every stroke, for all that
capture must surely soon come.

Dragon> Gelth bespoke Flight with << Catch attempts now, yes? >>

Dragon> Lysseth bespoke Flight with << Right. :) >>

Kassima turns her head from those watching eyes. Not in fear, you
understand; never that, nor in submission either. Contempt? Maybe. Bravado?
Most likely, since she's a moment later drawn to stare out at them in
defiance. And if one of her hands creeps near those knives at her belt,
well....

T'kar's tight lips part and his eyes go distant, urging on his lifemate as
the treasure which seemed so close but still retreats.

Telgar Weyr> Merielan waves

Telgar Weyr> Aisling snugs a Meri ;)

Telgar Weyr> T'kar says, "Hey there! ;)"

Telgar Weyr> Kichevio snugs Meri! :)

Telgar Weyr> Merielan missed Kassi's flight! ;(

Lysseth> Gelth belies his pounce attempt with a croon, draconic instincts
winning over a feline touch. He twists, angling himself from his high perch
to be there, to be the one who captures the fading spark of definace from
Lysseth, to give her the strength that still waits within his metallic
steaked wings and hide. It is hardly capture when it is a caress, he wills
her to come up, up to him in the stars, waiting for her.

Dragon> Gelth bespoke Flight with << Argh.. Telgar spam is infectious! ;) >>

Lysseth> Yehlth sees the green tire, sees her desperate assault on the sky.
He gathers those last reserves to arrow up into her path. A single croon of
comfort is offered as he places himself beneath the struggling green. Come
to me, and I will keep you safe. I will defend you from all the others. He
turns to catch her from the sky as she flees the bigger, coarser browns and
bronzes.

Telgar Weyr> A'len says, "Who won?"

A'zric finally does take that step, that one single step that he's been
fighting, towards Kassima, even with the knives, the threats.

Telgar Weyr> A'len would have gone, but I'm teaching a lecture. Sniff.

Telgar Weyr> Kassima says, "Still to be seen. ;)"

Telgar Weyr> T'kar says, "Not done yet."

Telgar Weyr> A'len ahh!

Lysseth> Kemonth speeds past slower dragons though his own movements show
that he is also tiring. Flying at such a quick pass and so far tends to use
more energy than one would think. His wings move up and down a tad slower
than before and theres a bit less zip in his movements. But wait! Is it
true? It is! The distance that was so overwhelming in the begining has
actually begun to lessen. While he was so busy working on his plan, it
seems it was actually working. He is closer, much closer to Lysseth. The
time is here! Quickly he alters his path once more to angle downwards and
directly towards Lysseth. He's so near, surely he will be the one to
embrace the lovely green and together they will fly....fly the 'Friendly'
skies. Where all your wishes come true!

Laidan stands up from the wall pensively, watching to see the result.

St'fen actually steps away from the wall, stopping himself before he can
actually reach Kassima. She's not trapped but neither her nor her dragon
will escape the destiny that awaits at the end of this night. Who will
catch them both? Whomever it is better watch out for those knives. St'fen's
gaze falls on them, watching carefully.

Lysseth> Fasolth cannot hesitate, though it would certainly be nice to have
a long moment to gather himself again for another pursuit. Instead he
forges on without pause, the heavy strokes of his wings like the plodding
steps of the wounded, battered traveller, finally within reach of treasure
and sanctuary and the last path to Lysseth, to the plateau at the top of
the stair where she waits. The brown pushes forward for those last steps on
willpower alone, but it is a strong will, still unbroken, and one with the
potential to fulfill its goal.

Dragon> Lysseth senses that Taralyth, in those first mirroring moments,
marks the edge, the cloak - cloak and dagger, this operation? - but,
parried, that retort demands time to recover, long wingbeats lost to the
all but fallen sun, the stars, perhaps even the dragons that would also
crowd about. Parried, even so he moves at length to harry that
concentration; yet his is not with blows, but with teasing, deep-passioned
distraction, full well -knowing- the stakes to be heady and hot-blooded and
her all the more desirable. Not with blows, then, and he'd deny any curse;
and if there's a cloak, it's less to muffle than to revel in its free,
flagrant snap against the wind.

A warning from Kemonth's rider for his own, earlier: let all debts be paid.
A fractional nod's worth of silence for that suggestion, before _her_
stare... becomes that familiar rattle, rattle. Rattle... and then, and then
I'sai's gaze finds hers, eyes burning wide and warm, and at last he reveals
his hand: a full two-marker piece, lofted in an arc before her: _that_ way.
Just reach.

Lysseth> Freed by Kemonth's flying downward, Taralyth may dare - bet -
_trust_ that she'll indeed ascend, may valiantly surpass those others; his
wings are a whistle against the coming stars, a lilting piper - pipe dream?
- that refutes the curse, that calls her on: this way. Just reach.

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth takes a moment to wingsnug all and sundry
before typing up the catch pose. You've all done gloriously tonight; I'm
highly honored by such amazing chasers. Thank you all so much. :)

Dragon> Gelth bespoke Flight with << Truely, the honour's all here, I've
been trying for years to get in on one of your Flights and it's as
wonderful as I anticipated. :) >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Kemonth beams. << You brought out the best in me,
Lysseth. :) Everyone was good and you were excellent Lysseth.

Dragon> Flight sense that Nisanth wonders who won? :>

Dragon> Flight sense that Yehlth nods. This is the best one she's been in,
so far.

Dragon> Sielth bespoke Flight with << Patience, Grasshopper ;) >>

Dragon> Flight sense that Taralyth thanks -you- for the fun. Including the
other fellows: joint effort. <g>

Dragon> Flight sense that Lysseth beamsnugs. You're all entirely too kind.
:) And I'd love to have all of you at the next flight, or the next, or
whenever you can make it or feel so inclined. (Okay, now I'll pose the
catch, honest. ;)

Lysseth> Lysseth may hear croons; she may perceive desire; she may admire
will--another time. Now, all is bound hearts and soul into this last
fleeting moment of freedom. Of air, cold and clear beneath her wings; of
stars, glimmering their cruel promise above where she cannot go after all;
of the last rays of the sun, slipping over the horizon in the final fall of
night as she too falls to pay the clarion piper. Reach, no--but her
desperate attempt to avoid those agile males, worthy pursuers all, lands
her in the snare of Taralyth's valiant wings.

T'kar scratches his chin, grins and heads out.

T'kar leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Lysseth> Fasolth banks away, ready to rest now.

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

Telgar Weyr> T'kar yays for I'sai! :)

Oh, now, that's just *evil*, exploiting a lady's weakness like that. For of
course, Kassi must abandon the promise of knives to dart a hand for that
mark, lest it fall into the pockets of another--and as her fingers clasp
around it in a catch, startled dark eyes catch on his, caught.

Lysseth> Gelth bugles his dismay and frustration, dipping away from the pair.

Lysseth> Kemonth lets loose a bugle of despair. He's not even close to her
and from afar he must watch as another dragon slips in and catches what he
so despertly wanted. What he needed. No! This can't be! With yet another
bone-chilling screech he quickly sails downwards.

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

A'zric nods slowly, watching and then turns and leaves.

A'zric leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Telgar Weyr> Kichevio sighs. _Again_, Is? Honestly. ;)

Lysseth> Yehlth slides away as as the green is caught, tired wings taking
him back down and away. The air is suddenly too heavy as he glides down,
down to the ground.

St'fen growls, hissing at the nearest rider before he barges out.

St'fen leaves the guest weyr and heads out into the bowl.

Laidan nods and heads out to comfort her lifemate.

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

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

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

Telgar Weyr> Aisling was just blown away by -all- the poses, that was an
amazing flight.

Telgar Weyr> Merielan chuckles "Another 'spawn'..what is that..the 50th Is?"

Telgar Weyr> Merielan is still sorry she missed it--

Lysseth> Taralyth senses that Lysseth glitters brief triumph at her
successful sally, only--then harry meets sally, as it were, and she's
caught in cloak folds... and all smoke, all brimstone is at naught, leaving
her to shine pure in crystal clasped to diamond dream.

Telgar Weyr> I'sai agrees with Ais, the other fellows made it one of the
more plain ol' _fun_ flights and such to be in. And Meri, wouldn't you
think she'd know better than to spawn? ;)

Telgar Weyr> Merielan face-palms "I forgot! Kassi wouldn't..Kassi is too
sensible."

Lysseth> Falling, yet anything but failing: price is paid, and redeemed,
with a frankly masculine rumble raked vibrant along their shared twining,
throat to throat reverberating all along through to tails ashen and pale.
Those wings clasp her close and true before the stars, and beyond that
display it's Rukbat that's truly fallen - and forgotten.

Caught, clasped - within dragons' meeting, within their meshed gazes, even
I'sai's eyes are made the brighter for Lysseth's shift to shine: "-That's-
the way," he murmurs, all praise, before last words are lost; and it's not
an easy mark that she has to keep, but at least it's not blood that's the
glory in which they'll drown.