| Characters | Alexa, F'inn, F'yr, K'zre, R'que, Risali |
| Synopsis | Following the grievous crimes perpetrated against an innocent Xanadoan brronzerider and the confession of the criminal, SOME HELPFUL DRAGONS decide it's time to get JUSTICE. …. and also laid FOR HONOR. THANKS, YASMINATH. |
| Out-of-Character Date | February 21, 2020 |
Igen Weyr - South Bowl
The orange hued sandstone layers comprising the bowl walls curve gently, but ever presently in your view. Fine sand shifts underfoot, a slightly paler version of what is found upon the walls. It gives way along the eastern edge to a section of contrasting green grass where a series of cleverly engineered pipes provide water to the fenced off area of the feeding grounds, and keeps the shimmer of the shallow lake beyond from dissapearing during the dryest periods of the turn. A distinctly squared entrance farther south is the tunnel leading out to the lands beyond. Traders and tithes arrive here at regular intervals and it is not uncommon for part of the bowl to be set up with a series of tents and wagons as wares are displayed and sold. To the west, the bowl wall has been eroded by the desert winds into strange shapes. At their base are found the weyrling barracks and training fields.
In conjunction with CRIMES OF CONFECTION and the CANDY CRISIS!
[DTU/Project] Leirith senses that Nymionth reaches out in a wash of roses, a hint of laughter coloring his tones. «Pardon me, but would you mind finding out which of your bronzeriders has has a bag of candy go missing in Igen recently? I would appreciate it. »
[DTU/Project] Nymionth senses that Leirith is electric thought, a house party that seeps in and grows louder and louder and louder until every crack and crevice and thought is permeated with her sound, sending minds and projections shivering with a willful kind of exuberance. « WE HAVE MANY OF THOSE. » Bronzeriders, she means, if the flickering of too many faces, too many brindled and shadowed and metallic-burnt hides turned like the pages of a catalog are not answer enough. She settles on one, though: F'yr. The image comes apart on another boom of bass and sound, underscored by the heavy scent of spun sugar as Leirith's mind pulses to another beat. « IF YOU HAVE MORE SPECIFICS, WE WOULD BE HAPPY TO NARROW DOWN THOSE WHO MIGHT BE IN A CANDY-BAG DEFICIT. » And then come collect the candy for eating THEMSELVES. Oops, did she let that thought slip? It's fine. She pulls it back with another thunderous thrum of WUBWUBWUB laughter. (FIX'T)
[DTU/Project] Leirith senses that Nymionth is having a very hard time taking this as seriously as his little green mate thinks it is and it shows in the whisper of mellow laughter coloring his thoughts. « It would be whichever one was in Igen with the past day or so. » Unfortunately, he did not really see F'yr, but he would most assuredly recognize his lifemate. « There was an incident with the bag of sugar and my mate's rider. The bag of candy ran off with him accidentally. » Accidentally on purpose, but still. « My rider would like to return the bag and the lost candy.. It will need to be different candy, of course » The candy in question having been consumed by a very proddy greenrider. « Preferably to the bronzerider in question. Although, he would be happy to provide additional candy necessary to satisfy your sweet tooth, as well.»
[DTU/Project] Glorioth senses that Leirith that NOT SO SUBTLE BEAT that brings Leirith to the forefront, an exuberant, ecstatic, unending energy that has no end, yields nothing, merely permeates and seeps into every crack and crevice with a WUBWUBWUB of bass and sound and too much reverberation until she commands attention. « MY MOST VALIANT AND VALIFOROUS — YES THAT IS A WORD RISALI, STOP BEING DISAPPOINTING AND STOP INTERRUPTING THE MAJESTY OF THIS MOMENT — GLORIOTH. I HAVE HEARD FROM THE OTHER BRONZE IN THE OTHER PLACE THAT THERE HAS BEEN A TREACHERY OF CANDY AND BAGS AND MISSING. I STOPPED PAYING ATTENTION, HONESTLY, BUT MY RISALI INQUIRES IF IT IS A TREASURE THAT BELONGS TO YOUR MOST F'YRSOME COMPANION. » A beat, the heavy, sickly-sweet sent of spun sugar to punctuate amusement and a mind with far more depth than what one might suspect given the surface breach of that persistent house-party mind, and then, « MY FIERCE MINION ALSO WOULD LIKE IT TO BE KNOWN THAT SHE THINKS THERE WAS BETTER USE FOR CANDY AND BAGS, AND THAT IT WAS NOT IN IGEN. » Laughter, a booming thrum of rhythmic timing, and then she quiets, to wait, to listen.
[DTU/Project] Leirith senses that Glorioth must be there. He's not asleep. The thrumming, bone-jarring, body-saturating vibrations of the Senior Queen's touch are readily received, and there's a long…. long… WORRYINGLY LONG silence. Then there's a gout of flame with acrid smoke and the ferocious clang of weapons dancing a deadly dance. « MY ARDENT ALLY, » for who but an ally would tell him of this SLIGHT TO THEIR HONOR, « I HAVE ONLY NOW, ONLY THIS MOMENT, BEEN INFORMED BY MY F'YRFULLY COWARDLY COMPANION THAT IT IS SO. NOT ONLY HAS HIS HONOR BEEN BESMIRCHED, BUT THE CONFECTIONS HAVE BEEN CRIMINALLY CONFISCATED. » AND LISTEN, IF YOU THOUGHT FOR EVEN HALF A SECOND THAT F'YR IS NOT PRESENTLY ENGAGED IN TRYING TO CONVINCE THE MOST HEROIC BRONZE EVER TO HAVE A DESTINY ON PERN NOT TO GO OFF TO IGEN TO TRACK DOWN THE FOE-VILLAIN FOR THEIR TREACHERY, you have not met Glorioth or F'yr. « I CANNOT BELIEVE MY F'YROCIOUSLY FORGIVING LIFEMATE IS WILLING TO LET THIS SLAP TO HIS VALOR, » and by extension, maybe, possibly, JUST A LITTLE TINY BIT, Glorioth's own, if he can bear to think about someone other than himself for .0000000000000000034 of a second, « TELLING ME HE HAS A HOARD WORTHY OF A DRAGON STORED IN HIS VERY HOMESTEAD. » Hear that Risa? Definitely don't come steal all his candy, okay? « AND— WHAT? NO, I WILL NOT BE YOUR BEAST OF BURDEN AFTER THIS INSULT. I CERTAINLY WILL NOT TELL LEIRITH THAT YOU WANT RISA- » Yes, she still has a name, « -THAT YOU EVEN HAVE PLENTY TO MAKE USE OF IN WHATEVER WAYS YOU THINK IS— THIS IS RIDICULOUS. IF YOU WISH TO SPEAK TO THEM, GO SEE THEM. IGEN HO! » Hopefully F'yr is in those straps? Maybe Leirith should HELP F'YR OUT HERE AND KEEP GLORIOTH FROM CREATING AN INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT. Maybe?
[DTU/Project] Nymionth senses that Leirith is taking this VERY SERIOUSLY. NOTHING HAS EVER BEEN MORE SERIOUS THAN THIS GRIEVOUS THEFT — wait, she means — MAJESTIC BADASSERY OF CANDY-BAGS RUNNING AWAY FROM THEIR OWNERS. There's a stillness, a long, quiet pause as if Leirith's mind has momentarily placed Nymionth on hold to consult with another or ANSWER A DIFFERENT DRAGGO-LINE and then… BOOM! Leirith's laughter comes back, robust and ecstatic, an unending source of joyous amusement that rings and clangs and seems to take root everywhere without ever really taking root at all. « WHAT A CLEVER BAG OF CANDY. ONE MIGHT EVEN SAY BADASS. » Because Leirith might not be the smartest dragon to grace Pern, but even she knows BAGS and CANDY don't have sentience. COME NOW. « WE HAVE FOUND THE ONE WHOSE CANDY IS LACKING, AND WE PROPOSE — IT'S A WONDERFUL IDEA, RISALI, MIND YOUR OWN THOUGHTS AHAHAHA — THAT YOU SHOULD SET UP SOME KIND OF QUEST THAT HE MIGHT VANQUISH THE OFFENDER OF HIS CANDY. WELL. VANQUISH IS A STRONG WORD, BUT THERE IS NO BETTER WAY TO PROVE YOUR BADASSERY THAN TO COMPLETE A TRIAL OF THE CANDY. » Wait for it… WAIT FOR IT. WUBWUBWUBWUB. « MY MINION ALSO WOULD BE EVER GRATEFUL FOR WHATEVER CANDY CAN BE SPARED, IF ANY CANDY IS LEFT AFTER BEING IN THE PRESENCE OF SUCH… » Don't do it, Leirith. DON'T DO IT — « GLORI. AHAHAHAHAHA. » She did it. Still, she weaves together a collective picture of F'yr and Glorioth together, with the impression that, perhaps, the queen is sending them on the scent of candy in Igen — and, perhaps, the green and bronze duo might prepare for the incoming lack of… mercy. Or, you know, the stunning encouragement. Whichever better suits.
[DTU/Project] Glorioth senses that Leirith is just as ready to receive this response, a blooming beat of too much sound that only seems to wrap around the already-loud thoughts in her mind and makes them louder. It's as if she agrees, though amusement underlines every thought, shivers at the edge of every shared connection until she's booming with more of that laughter and finding footing somewhere within that acrid smoke — the same smoke she uses to pervert the sweet-scent of cotton candy into the burnt aftermath of what once might have been. « SURELY YOUR F'YROCIOUS LIFEMATE DOES NOT INTEND TO LET THIS SLIGHT AGAINST HIM — YOU, ALL OF XANADU WEYR — STAND. EVEN MY DISAPPOINTMENT IS WILLING TO GO FORTH AND FETCH THE SENTIENT CANDY-BAG FROM THE HANDS OF IGEN'S MASTERMIND VILLAINY. » Look. We never accused Leirith of having a good idea in her life. That blip in connection is definitely not because Risali is attempting to rein in her own weyrmate. BECAUSE LISTEN. IF YOU THOUGHT THAT LEIRITH WAS NOT GOING TO ENCOURAGE THE MOST HEROIC BRONZE EVER TO HAVE A DESTINY ON PERN TO GO OFF TO IGEN AND TRACK DOWN EVERY FOE-VILLAIN THAT SMELLS EVEN REMOTELY OF TREACHERY AND CANDY, you must not have met her. « MY DISAPPOINTMENT THINKS IT IS A TERRIBLE IDEA, BUT I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT THERE IS A QUEST THAT AWAITS ONE SO GLORIOUSLY VALOROUS AS YOU, MY GLORIOTH. YOU ARE THE MOST FIERCE. THE MOST BADASS. YOUR DRAGON-HOARD OF CANDY WOULD BE EVEN MORE DRAGON-HOARDY IF YOU RETRIEVED WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY YOURS. » A thrum, a hint of laughter, a caress of something more gentle, more subtle, as that mind dims, but does not go still. « MINE IS ALSO DISAPPOINTED THAT YOURS HAS BEEN HOLDING OUT ON HER, AND SAID HE CAN TAKE ALL THAT CANDY AND SHOVE IT UP HIS — MINION! DELIVER YOUR OWN WEIRD HUMAN TRADITIONS YOURSELF. AHAHAHAHAHA. GO FORTH, MY GLORI. YOU HAVE OUR — OKAY, MY — BLESSING! »
[DTU/Project] Leirith senses that Nymionth takes it all in with the calm for which he is famous. Or. Well. Known for in Fort, at least. « I will make certain mine is aware of the impending visit and that there is an appropriate measure of candy included both to do justice to quest and, of course, your bombastic personage.» He /might/ be being a little sassy. Just a little. Teensy bit. « Rest assured there will be an ogre or two to bravely battle.» Or scarecrows, as the case may be. No rivers, though, that would be going too far.
[DTU/Project] Nymionth senses that Leirith is the antithesis to his calm, an unending edge of chaotic energy that manifests as humor and really, really bad ideas. It'd be more apt to say that Leirith is infamous for all her lacking. If she senses the sass, it does not bother her; if anything, Leirith's humor only seems to find root in it, to expand upon it undaunted and unaffected because he will not be the first (or the last) to come by such presentation in regards to her. « MAKE IT FIVE. » She's joking. Probably. OR MAYBE NOT. Either way, there's a gentle brush like the aftershock of one too-bombastic sound, something that might be considered gentle by Leirith's standards, as if there is a gentle nudge of affection from so very far away. « AND WE WISH YOU FARE WELL, AND EVERY GOOD LUCK. » More laughter, and then she retreats. Honestly, the river might not be a bad idea…
[Dragon/IGW] Glorioth's been to Igen before. He's even manage to get wrangled away from Igen before he has time to make more than a ROUTINE display of his DUMB AS ROCKS FAUX-HEROICISM AND MADE UP VOCABULARY. But all thank you notes for today's visit may be directed to K'zre and F'inn, c/o YASMINATH and NYMIONTH, c/o LEIRITH WITH BADASS SMOOCHIES OR DESTRUCTION WITH FIRE, whichever it pleases a person to send as a gesture of gratitude. It's hard to miss the brief altercation between the MUCH TOO LOUD (HAVE WE MENTIONED TOO LOUD) bronze from Xanadu and the dragon on watch duty. The booming reach of his larger-than-life mindvoice, with crescendo of off-key theme music, the clash of weapons and the acrid smell of smoke burning something truly unpleasant mingled with the more natural notes of everything DRAGONLY like LEATHER and SWEAT— WAIT, MAYBE NOT THAT BUT SOMETHING ELSE VERY MUSKY MANLY DRAGONLY. ANYWAY. THE EXCHANGE GOES SOMETHING LIKE THIS: « I HAVE COME FOR JUSTICE! MY VENGEANCE ON THE AMBROSIAL BOUNTY BANDIT OF NAUGHTY AND NEFARIOUS DESIGNS. DIRECT ME TO THE CANDY CATBURGLER. I SHALL- » but listen, no one needs to hear that very violent description of what he's going to do. Mind, it's only that violent because, apparently, according to the images that are offered in caricature of anything even remotely real, the candy thief appears to have the head of a bovine and the rump of a porcine. This probably isn't a reflection of K'zre. Probably. IN ANY CASE, A SHORT, TART RESPONSE LATER, GLORIOTH IS WINGING DOWN TOWARD THE BOWL… AND THE JUSTICIEST KIND OF JUSTICE. If anything like it can be found.
[Dragon/IGW] Kelsith twists tendrils of mist around his mind, hidden away somewhere, lurking. « Justice is far easier to obtain when you have the element of surprise. » The mists darken, and swirl. « Though, it would seem you are well past *that* point. »
[Dragon/IGW] Yasminath is not sure what that crazy-creature connected to her lifemate is (or even that it's connected to her lifemate) but she clearly connected the dots between JUSTICE-SEEKING-BRONZE and GUILTRIDDEN LIFEMATE and decides « We didn't mean to do it! It was an accident! It was a very delicious accident but it's maybe your fault for bringing delicious candy into the Weyr and into our path and into our sight and not sharing because not sharing is mean and maybe you should have shared the candy and then K'zre wouldn't have taken the candy and no you cannot have it back because it is ours now and also it was delicious! » This is Yasminath being fierce. Fear.
[Dragon/IGW] Nymionth sighs. Do dragons sigh? Nymionth is definately sighing. He is also rolling his eyes so hard they spring out of his head, make a few circuits around the bowl, and return in time for him to announce just as LOUDLY. « A Quest! The only hope of regaining that which is lost is to search the desert far and wide for the one.. YES.. ONE. SINGLE. PURPLE AND PINK Stripped rock in all of Igen!! » He's going to ignore the new details regarding the candy theft that come pouring out of his little green. Instead, he assures. « Many bold and…. uh… fierce… and… vicious.. Kobolds» Where he got that word from we may never know. «Stand between the brave warrior, the rock and the prize of… an…ENTIRELY NEW BAG OF CANDY!» Because that sounds good, right? Sure. Go fight kobolds in the desert for a while Glorioth. It's Leirith's fault. >.> She insisted on a quest.
YES, FAIR MAIDS AND INADEQUATELY MASCULINE COUNTERPARTS, NEVER FEAR, HE'S REALLY HERE. As soon as Glorioth lands in the Igen bowl, his wings are shaken and extended just so, putting the devastatingly handsome bronze to best visual appeal. He's a very pretty package for something dumb-as-rocks and superbly selfish, but THERE IT IS. It might seem at first as the dragon's head swings to take in all those various SQUINTY-EYED FOE-VILLAIN WOULD-BES in the bowl around him (DRAGON AND HUMAN, HE'S NOT RULING ANYONE OUT YET), that his rider might be staging a sit-in protest by not maneuvering out of the straps. But some moments later there's a tensing of that large man's frame and then the defeated slump of shoulders. He probably even rubbed his face there, but that might have just been the precursor to removing his flight goggles. He is, it must be said, rather disheveled. He slides down to the ground, even as the bronze settles into a very plainly WAITING stance - just waiting for the first of the prey he may pounce on to demand answers from to get close enough. Meanwhile, F'yr is quickly tugging at boots that didn't get properly laced, and settling his pair of work trousers and slightly ripped tunic that has enough grime on it to indicate having been in the midst of some outdoor task when he was suddenly NEEDED. In the air above Glorioth suddenly pops in a grotesque little brown firelizard who squawks at the bronze before settling onto his headknobs. « THIS IS NOT MONACO, MY LOYAL STATUARY. THIS IS IGEN, » the bronze's booming, much much too loud voice for the firelizard goes to just… oh, everyone in the vicinity who's receptive to it. F'yr has long since given up on wincing. Or apologizing. Or, well, it's probably just a miracle he's standing next to the bronze at all, but he, like everyone else, must play the hand they're dealt in life.
Not from the caverns but rather the sands, storms Alexa. All fire and fury and five-feet-four-inches of five-and-a-half-month's pregnant weyrwoman, glowering daggers at a very big and very loud dragon and giving exactly zero shits that he might eat her. "What the hell are you doing?!" is definitely the way to start a political discord, right? Sure. Alexa was a harper once, she knows how to behave! Flashing eyes find F'yr with as he slides from the bronze, squinting all the harder for the glare of the sun. "Just who the heck are you and why is your dragon yelling at my dragon!" (And every other dragon in Igen, but she's gonna kinda ignore that part of things). "No, it is very well NOT Monaco!" she continues, because why not yell at the dragon again since it worked so well the last time?? "It's too hot for this mess!" Just wait until she finds out who's (partly) responsible. RIP F'inn! And things were starting to go so well between you two!
[Dragon/IGW] Glorioth's never known subtlety or surprise, it's true Kelsith. Just as Glorioth has never known a doubt or a consequence (or not one that could, in any way, be linked to his behavior. Arguably, there's been a learning curve since he was shelled, but most of the leg-work is done by the one half of the pair with any brains to speak of, and even then… honestly, things are pretty sketchy as success goes. All Glorioth knows, but with extreme certainty, is the RADIANCE OF HIS OWN VALOR. IT IS THE BOLDEST OF BOLD, THE MOST GLORIOUS OF THE GLORYFUL, THE NOBLEY NOBLEST. Okay, listen, the point is that he's GREAT. And he knows it. And any doubts you have sounds like a you problem, which he will not notice (not because he's too high and mighty for that, even though he is), but because you're just not as interesting to him as he is. To himself. SO NOW THAT EVERYONE IS CLEAR ON THAT POINT, IT ONLY FOLLOWS RIGHTLY THAT GLORIOTH SEIZES ON POOR, SWEET YASMINATH'S CONFESSION WITH A VERY LOUD, « AHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHAH HAAH! I KNEW THE CULPRIT WOULD FALL TO THE POWER OF MY PERSUASION, THE VERY BRILLIANCE OF MY BATTLEPLAN. » So there, Kelsith. See where BOLDNESS GOT HIM? RIP F'yr because that is the take-home here and no amount of argument or sighing later will convince him he was wrong (not that it ever could have - a lost cause from before it's begun). « SINCE YOUR STICKY-FINGERED SUSPECT HAS CONSUMED THE EVIDENCE, » of which he cares for not at all, honestly, « LET HIM BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE. » Since Yasminath's rider has the head of a bovine and the rear of a porcine, he can get very creative with just what that bloody justice might be. Nevermind that it doesn't begin to encroach into the brain that MUST BE IN THERE SOMEWHERE that riders are, perforce, HUMAN, and therefore not in the category of things he would ever mete out this kind of justice to. All's fair in dumb brain games with caricatures of things that look delicious? At least Nymionth is offering a distraction. But… there's brief (much too brief) suspicion. « A QUEST YOU SAY. FOR A RARE ROCK OF SUPERNATURAL SPECIALITUDE? » Now, that's right up his alley. At least Leirith wasn't wrong about what would work here? Even if giving him her blessing to come was probably a GIANT MISTAKE.
[Dragon/IGW] Kelsith is content to let the other dragons carry on and on, for Glorioth to loudly declare victory, even as the mists continue to swirl around the blue's mind, drifting in and out, obscuring his thoughts, though from the shadows drifts a soft laugh. « You will need to build a team, The *Right* team, if you want to be successful. » Coils of mist dance towards Nymionth and Yasminath. « Those two, for sure. »
[Dragon/IGW] Nymionth huffs as he lands back in the sands and his rider takes off running toward the bowl. « That's it, » he calls to Glorioth in the sorts of tones one uses with a very small child who might just have very specific needs. « A quest for a very super supernatural rock of a splendiforous origins. The sort of rock that only the bravest and boldest of …» Morons. « Heros could ever be capable of finding.» Kelsith, alas, is NOT HELPING! And Nymionth immediately exhales a grunt of frustration. «Alas, I am bound to the sands, but I will gladly cheer on the efforts of those bold enough to take on such a magnificent quest of massive proportion.»
Honestly? The real miracle in all this is that for whatever reason Glorioth is managing not to run his mental mouth directly into the minds of the two humans standing in close proximity. HOW? WHY? When this normally never happens?? F'yr might thank Faranth or the First Egg or whatever mystical power Igen can bring to bear for that rarity to occur… except this is probably one of the times he really would wish to be privy to every detail of his dragon's dumbassery. Fortunately for the 6'3", broad-shouldered bronzerider, he does rather have an unfair amount of experience dealing with stompy, pregnant, small goldriders, so as Alexa comes striding up to the Xanadoan pair, he knows just what to do: look as unthreatening as he humanly can. Risa would probably shove him in the nearest mud, but listen, that's one reason to love Alexa from the outset since she's using her VERY DIPLOMATIC WORDS first. He doesn't, however, begin with the apology that would probably be the best tactical use of his own arsenal. At least he's not wearing his jacket with its patch that denotes him to be of the DIPLOMATIC WING at Xanadu to make it all worse, right? Right. They can work with this. "F'yr," it's actually pronounced F'ihr, a little more clipped than the actual word 'fear' but in this moment surely that could be misheard or misunderstood. "He was shelled this way." Loud. Obnoxious. Idiotic. "I'll have him out of your hair in just— a moment, I hope. I just have to-" he glances because, YES, YOU BIG DUMB BRONZERIDER, YOUR DRAGON IS RIGHT THERE AND LISTENING YOU TRY TO RENIG ON THE DEAL YOU JUST MADE WITH HIM. "I just have to go inside and ask a few questions." He does not go so far as to promise Glorioth will try to quiet down because that's another hopeless cause. "Or-" He glances the way Alexa came from and manages a weak smile, "Your dragon… could tell my dragon to go…?" WILL RAANETH FIGHT HIS BATTLE FOR HIM? He sounds unsure, but that might be the FASTEST ESCAPE.
AT LEAST HE DIDN'T CALL HER MA'AM (probably something he also learned from Risali? Alexa will thank her later). And as there is no mud in Igen — because desert — and violence isn't really her thing, said short-and-shouty weyrwoman will just glower at F'yr very ferociously instead. "F'yr." She's definitely filing that away for later. It will probably go under 'FOREIGN HOOLIGAN' or something (probably right next to F'inn. So you're in good company! <3). Green eyes that are far too squinty to see properly slide the way of the 'born this way' bronze and all of his poetic, heroic splendor. And somehow, they squint all the more (seriously, how is she seeing right now?) at the bold attempt at eliciting the gold's help at eliminating a problem! Alas, "No," is what Alexa says, while somewhere in the distance there is maybe some really misplaced amusement from the sands-bound queen. The eggs are pretty, but they don't do much. THIS IS LIKE A SOAP OPERA FOR RAANETH — There's no way she's gonna change the channel! A slide of not-as-squinty eyes up and down seem to take in the disheveled mess of dragonrider before her and, given the sight, perhaps her nose-wrinkle and very obvious and undiplomatic distain is warranted. "Ask a few questions of who?" she demands. Because this is Igen. And it's sort of hers. And she definitely gets to demand answers from foreign bronzeriders who are not wearing their insignias.
Fortunately, or not, F'inn chooses that moment to come around the bowl at a loping run. Course, he skids to a rather comical halt at finding Alexa already out there and mad as a wet…er… sweaty.. hen. "Ahhh…" Glancing between F'yr, who he has dubbed as the candyman, and Glorioth who he has dubbed as dumb as a box of rocks, he exhales a breath, drags a hand through his hair and sighs as he resumes his trajectory at a much more sedate pace. It should be noted that nothing about him is nearly as sedate as that walk might suggest. And really? Who can blame him when eventually SOMEONE is going to have to tell Alexa that all of THIS is over a bag of candy? "It's /nothing/," he calls as he tugs the satchel of candy (Which is all now candy from Igen's bazaar and none of the candy from Xanadu) and tosses it F'yr. "He forgot his purse."
Why not add more to the mix? Glorioth is demanding the sticky-fingered suspect. Would he settle for a glowing green? Because they are (sort of) one and the same. Not quite hot on the heels of F'inn (because maybe K'zre had to change and wipe the guilty-look from his face) comes Yasminath, landing with glowing grace just beyond the foreign bronze and kneeling to let a less-disheveled and definitely-not-dirty K'zre slide from her shoulders. SHOULD HE BE HERE? Probably not. But he's the ACCUSED (and, admittedly, guilty) OF THIS LITTLE PARTY, so he might as well get a say in. Or just… slink over to stand near F'inn and try not to look as utterly mortified as he might feel. Ahem. JUST IGNORE THE GREENRIDER IN THE NO-CORNER PLEASE.
Listen, y'all, F'yr is REALLY TRYING HERE. Because of all people, despite being in the literal midst of this ongoing ridiculousness, he sees the humor. If the big bronzerider didn't see the humor in half of the things he suffers through ON A ROUTINE BASIS, mind, he would have lost his mind long ago. His lips are managing to stay more or less flat, with just the twitches at the corners of his lips that show how badly he wants to grin or laugh. He does have to clear his throat before speaking. He probably would accept the label 'foreign hooligan' as the least of all possible labels, and be impressed with Alexa's ability to find her mental file again later, but maybe they can compare (lack of) filing systems another time. That's presently not of consequence to the way the tall blonde is shrugging his shoulders in answer to that 'no.' He had to try, right? "Ask a few questions of anyone who might know anything about a 'K'zre' who has a notable sweet tooth." That much he can answer in a fairly straightforward fashion. And lo, there is not K'zre, but another man he hasn't seen before, with words to overshadow his own (wouldn't it be nice if Alexa didn't even hear F'yr?), his brows lifting as the familiar backpack-with-straps-adaptations ends up lobbed, a deft catch seeing it in his arm. "Ah, thank you." AND SEE? IT'S RESOLVED. ALL BETTER. NO NEED FOR— « JUSTICE! » The bronze demands, rearing back only slightly to slap the ground under his forepaws. « WHERE IS THE BOVINE-BRAINED, SOW-BOTTOMED THIEF? » It's probably good that this is the description he's going off of (which may have been a mercy of F'yr's quick thinking so the bronze didn't have an actual face to look for). "Glori, I think justice has been done. Look, the candy's back right where it came from, and I already told you that I have more than enough at home…" The rider is trying to soothe his lifemate. He doesn't actually apologize for the bronze, but he does flash a marginally apologetic look for the candy being the source of all this, to F'inn, and he takes in K'zre there with a flicker of a smile that could really be misread. Of course, then there's Yasminath. Glorioth registers her presence, that something that is a signal of some variety to the very basest part of his brain, and yet, she's not flying yet, so she's entirely dismissed from the proceedings. Evidently the bronze is not able to clue in that K'zre is the culprit. Yet. Probably best for all that way.
At first, one might wonder if Alexa even heard F'yr, given how very blank and very not shouty she suddenly is. But then there's a twitch, subtle to start, at her eye. And then her mouth. And then her fingers as they ball into fists. And then a toss of her head as she groans toward the sky because "OF COURSE IT WOULD BE HIM!" Only she's not talking about K'zre. She's talking about, "F'inn!!" who happens to show up at exactly the right (wrong?) moment to be on the receiving end of her Deathly Glower (second-cousin to the Deathly Hallows). Fingers press to her forehead; her eyes. Her temples. And she sighs with all the exaggerated longsuffering of a teenager (despite NOT BEING A TEEN) as the bag is tossed and words are shared. And maybe, maybe she is ready to retreat. Ready to bid adieu to the bronzerider and his beast. Until there are demands for JUSTICE and appearances of GLOWING GREENS and really… "This is ridiculous!" is something of an understatement. And then K'zre. Of course. K'zre. Who is distinctly without the head of a bovine, nor the rump of a porcine, but guilty all the same. She does not, however, turn her glare upon him. Because maybe right now, she'd like to pretend they all don't exist.
Yeah, that smile turned on K'zre? NOT EARNING F'YR ANY POINTS WITH F'INN. That F'yr is also tall enough that they are eye to eye? ALSO NOT EARNING F'YR ANY POINTS WITH F'INN. So much so that that flicker of a smile aimed at his weyrmate has F'inn quite pointedly (and entirely to possessively) draping an arm around K'zre's shoulder and pulling him in tighter against his side. Course, then /he's/ getting yelled at and he can't help turning a gap-jawed look on Alexa. "What? It's a purse!" It's not his fault Xanadu riders carry purses. And while he had /every/ intention of smoothing things over because GUESS WHAT? Fort's Weyrsecond is a diplomat too!!!!! F'yr had to go and smile at his proddy weyrmate. "It's just candy," he grumbles. Course, he is acutely aware of the fact that Alexa is very pregnant and all things being equal he would rather not be skinned before meeting his soon to be son (Daughter?). "It's fine. Really," he soothes despite the fact that he knows soothing Alexa is a mistake of monumental proportions. "I replaced what was eaten." But he's WATCHING YOU F'YR and your big bronze VAN of a dragon. "No knot, eh?" Oh yes, he's noticed.
Maybe he should've stayed home. That is almost certainly to be a thought running through K'zre's head when faced with the big foreign bronze (and his big, foreign rider). He'll just stay quiet. Because that seems safest. Let Alexa yell. Let F'yr explain. Let F'inn be diplomatic and… possessive. This is fine. THIS IS ALL SUPER FINE! No one needs to die today! Over candy. Snugged at his weyrmate's side, there's a long, scrutinizing look for Alexa that says feeling is mutual between them right now. Hiss-hiss-grr. But it's the smile that has him stiffening. Because maybe F'yr didn't mean it like that. But K'zre is definitely gonna take it like that. Particularly when Yasminath is glowing like that. So there's a sour look in return; a squint of dark eyes that say HE SEES YOU F'YR and maybe he remembers you taunting him with candy. The glowing green, however, is clearly just confused; hunkered down and watching the spectacle unfold and wondering if maybe going on the run isn't a good idea after all?
Sometimes naturally charming good looks work in a man's favor. Sometimes they tip him face first into a three-way (HEY, MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER) international incident. It's bound to happen sometimes in this life of adventure. Automatically correcting F'inn with a, "Backpack," instead of purse, because this is not F'yr's tiny daypack, this is a legit 'can carry things on his riding straps' bag that doesn't look more than the average amount of undersized compared with the man's broad shoulders. Having had the routine practice of being eye-to-eye with weyrlinghood pal, Ru'ien, the foreigner manages to be unfazed by that, though not unaffected by either the pull of K'zre under the man's arm (a slight twitch to a blonde brow there), nor the observation of his knot. A hand moves comically to his shoulder before he glances between F'inn and Alexa, flashing another apologetic kind of smile. "My apologies. It was… this or let him come alone." Does anyone want to guess just how much Igen might prefer this outcome rather than the other? "I hadn't mentioned the candy to him." He notes, giving a meaningful look toward K'zre and then sharing it around to the other riders. There are reasons he didn't. He probably should go on to add his name and rank and origin, but wouldn't some of that be redundant? Also a very good way to make sure even more trouble follows him home?
Alexa already has his name. And his dragon's name. What are rank and origin compared to that? Give her a name and she can find him anywhere. (or, more like, Raaneth can just do that dragon-thing and find his bronze). "Bag," comes at nearly the same time F'yr says it, because that pack is definitely bigger than anything she'd be caught carrying through the market. At least there's no more yelling? "Candy? Do I even want to know?" Only to add, "Nope. NO. I definitely do not want to know." Fingers, once more at her forehead and then her temples. And then balled hands at her hips as she glowers between the two unforgivably tall bronzeriders. "Sort this out. No more yelling. Or I'll… DO SOMETHING REALLY NOT PLEASANT!" As far as threats go, Alexa's could definitely use some fine-tuning. (Let's also ignore the fact that she was yelling after saying 'no more yelling').
Purse. F'inn's stubbornly sticking to that for the time being. "Mm." Fortunately, as disgruntled as he might be, he is not at all inclined to risk spinning Alexa back up into yelling some more. He does, however, shake his head at the query of whether or not Alexa really wants to know what is going on. "No." Definitely, not. "It's been handled." Or, at least the candy has been replaced and the bag (purse) has been returned. Course, there is the matter of taunting proddy greenriders with candy still unresolved. But that is something F'inn is willing to let go. FOR NOW. Fortunately, he is completely distracted by the thought that F'yr's dragon might have come alone. It is a thought that immediately has him eyeing the pair. "Surely he knows better then /that/."
Oh look, everyone is calm and no one is yelling and Glorioth is no longer calling for justice! IT IS THE BEST OF TIMES! IT IS ALSO THE WORST OF TIMES! Because of course, of course, now would be the time that Yasminath shivers; that silver-moonlight washes across her hide and her head cranes back to watch them rise and the call to fly sings in her blood. K'zre senses it first; enough that there's a little jerk to his shoulders, a sudden suck of breath and a flash of something like shock and disbelief and maybe fear in those dark eyes of his as they go skittering from the humans to his dragon and back again. "F'inn—" comes a half-second too late. Yasminath is already up, a croon sung for the moons above and an offer extended to those that want to take it. To chase. To flee. To dance on moonbeams and starlight and fly. And then she is doing exactly that, launching herself skyward.
The look on F'yr's face would be comical in just about any other moment. F'inn has, after all, been acquainted with Glorioth for over five minutes at this point. WHAT DOES F'INN THINK? If there's one thing that can be said for F'yr, it's that he has perfected his deadpan. That's the expression he gives the other bronzerider for a long moment before he looks— well, it was going to be toward Alexa, but his attention is suddenly sharpened on K'zre, and unwittingly, he takes a step forward as Glorioth's honed muscles are whipped into a frenzy of movement, leaping away from the fragile humans before he launches himself into the Igen sky. She didn't blood. But that's fine. Glorioth can YELL HIS OPINIONS ABOUT THE INADEQUACIES OF HIS FELLOW CHASERS WITH THEIR PERVASIVE AIR OF VIRGIN AND EFFEMINIATE SENTIMENTALITIES while he flies. There are some things that rocks-for-brains can multi-task: this is one of them (mostly because proving his prowess IS the same thing as catching the green) and he's bent solely on that task. It would be much more fair if he weren't wickedly maneuverable for being a bronze, being one of the smallest of his color anywhere on Pern. F'yr's eyes shouldn't be on K'zre like that. Not in front of his weyrmate who happens to also be Fort's weyrsecond. He shouldn't be taking another unwitting step toward the man who's practically a stranger save for that candy that exchanged hands. The young bronzerider, for it might well be noted here where no one can really realize it, that he's only just graduated from weyrlinghood and is still really somewhat new at some of this, looks slightly confused, slightly bemused and a healthy, heaping dosing of annoyed. "Son of a…" he begins but doesn't finish because unlike his extremely RUDE lifemate, F'yr has (rapidly diminishing) self-control.
And that is definitely a cue to leave! Greens going up? Bronzeriders getting all… testosterone-y? Yeah. Alexa is just gonna see herself right on out of this international incident. Probably so she can't be called as witness to whatever crimes are about to take place. Does she say 'bye'? Does she wish anyone luck? NOPE! She just spins on her heels, throws her hands into the air with a half-groan of disgust, and books it for the sands. BAI! <3
F'inn is having NONE OF THAT. NONE of it. The moment that K'zre gives that warning— really, he didn't NEED it given he can see Yasminath rising in all her glory— F'inn is pushing him back behind him. This is not something he is willing to handle right now. And while, under normal circumstances, he might be a bit more genteel about the whole thing? Any thought of genteel behavior is out the window the moment that F'yr takes a step forward. That advance is met with an immediate and unconditional burst of violence on the Fortian Bronzerider's part. Without missing a beat, he is doing his damnedest at (And it should be noted he is very adapt at hand to hand combat) leg sweeping poor F'yr. And, should he succeed in putting him on his ass, he will growl, "Stay. Down." Before sweeping K'zre up and over his shoulder. Of course, he's prepared for a fight on that front, as well, a fact made clear as his arm locks down on his werymate with an amount of force that is probably a little on the painful side. He'll apologize later. Right now? Right now, he's doing his damnedest to get them both the hell out of there before F'yr's hormones have him on his feet and in pursuit. Fortunately, this is not F'inn's first rodeo at Igen and he knows exactly where lockable storage closets happen to be.
The Xanadoan's training for combat is nothing to sneeze at, having been personally instructed at length over the last couple of turns by the one-eyed cactus of a man covered in scars known as Ila'den, or to his friends, Ila'den, if he had any friends who were willing to claim him in public. What F'inn has on F'yr is turns (HA, old timer) and preparedness. He might also have prowess, but that's a contest for another day, glowing greens willing. F'yr is too focused on K'zre to catch Alexa's quick retreat, too busy working his internal framework of the lifemate who is most often at a mental remove but now slams into his brain without warning. The leg sweep catches him up, and he goes down, though F'inn may bear a boot mark from the automatic reflex of self-defense in a fight that has one long, strong leg lashing out toward the bronzerider's shin as the big man falls. Unfortunately for F'yr, 'stay down,' is just about the last thing a person wants to do in a fight and so honed muscles have him on his feet again within seconds. Fortunately for F'yr, in those seconds K'zre is hauled up and off by the bronzerider beating a retreat. The younger man stumbles forward a few steps before his own higher thought is able to put things together. "Oh, shards." He glances skyward, eyes wide. He grits his teeth, and maybe this is his gift to K'zre and his weyrmate - a few extra seconds, before he's following on, calling Roderick to him and giving instructions that will hopefully yield some results when he realizes that closet really is barred against him, even when Glorioth claims his next impossible win.
F'inn is not hanging around to see how things turn out. Sure, he maybe limping, but he's not stopping and Roderick can follow all day long, but eventually, the firelizard is going to see more of Fort's werysecond then he probably wants to. F'inn, however, is confident that the door- designed to keep out sandstorms— will also serve to keep out F'yr's. The Xanadoan bronzerider, however, is more then welcome to give a musical accompaniment that will be sure to add to the stories of Igen's halls being haunted. Tomorrow, when all the (Candy) dust has settled? K'zre will be taking care of that bruised shin and getting a lecture about choosing less sizable targets.
Roderick is arguably more helpful to F'yr than he ever seems to be to Glorioth. Is the gargoyle-brown interested in F'inn and K'zre's path? Not especially, though his over-sized, bulgey eyes do seem to take in whatever is in their path. Roderick, having been invited on this INTERRUPTED CANDY QUEST, zips along behind the bronzerider in hot pursuit of the vanishing greenrider and his savior. Biology is demanding a lot of things of him, but when he realizes that closet is a NO ZONE for F'yrs, he looks his instructions to the tiny brown who goes popping through to— WELL, PROBABLY RIGHT IN FRONT OF RISALI'S FACE, HONESTLY. DON'T LET THE LITTLE GROTESQUE BOTHER YOU. At least he's readily identifiable in his little dance of conveyed panic from the bronzerider and Igen-Igen-Igen is flashed to the ARCHITECT OF ALL THIS DOOM. One vanish and return later, there's Lake-Lake-Lake to guide the goldrider and her lifemate to the literally soggy bronzerider sitting in the shallows, arms clutched around his knees, head bent into them, trying to block out the world as Glorioth's need drives him crazy. He probably should have just grabbed a willing passerby— but honestly, that goes too much against the grain of F'yr to really fly. Instead, in his moment of weakness, in his GREAT NEED, he called for her.
It takes Risali so long to respond, that one would certainly not fault F'yr if he thought she wasn't coming at all. Except, JUST KIDDING, because there's a too-familiar brown flit popping into her space with pictures that Leirith grabs onto and feeds upon. It doesn't take much to convince the goldrider to rise; Risali is on her feet from where she sits buried beneath piles of paperwork, taking not-nearly-long-enough strides towards the exit of her (and R'hyn's) office while she pulls on her flight jacket, tugs gloves over her hands, secures helmet and goggles in preparation for that incoming jump between. LEIRITH'S GRAVID STATE WILL SURELY NOT IMPEDE THEM — not yet, anyway, not this early into the stages of her nesting. AND SO THERE IS NOTHING TO BAR RISALI FROM MAKING THAT PERILOUS CLIMB UP LEIRITH, nor from making that harrowing — cough. cough. cough. — jump between. They arrive, Leirith heralding greetings to watch dragons with a punctuated, « WE HAVE COME FOR THE FIERCE BADASS. AHAHAHAHA. » And there she is, one gliding tilt of mustard-tipped wing and she's touching down in a spray of sand that's PROBABLY MOSTLY INTENTIONAL not far enough from where F'yr sits huddled in on himself. It's turns of repeated movements that make Risali's descent from the monstrously-large queen a feat of (deceptively) fluid ease, and now those booted feet and leather-clad thighs are eating up the sand as legs not-nearly-long enough carry her forward, to claim her prize: the bronzerider and all of his wild need. There is no hesitation in Risa's step, no reluctance in her posture as step after step after step carries her closer, closer, closer — "F'yr," it comes gentle, marred by an undercurrent of amusement as Risali steps into the shallows herself (RIP, BOOTS) and settles into a crouch. She's close enough that her sudden reach could find his person easily if she didn't halt intention just shy of doing it. She knows the agony. She knows the agony of being left to drown alone in the throes of dragon-driven lust, even. "I brought you this." TO TAKE THE EDGE OFF, MAN. Her other hand is digging in her coat to produce a flask that is probably full of liquor, even if, let's be real, between might have impeded its ability to be… distributed for now. It's LEIRITH that follows up with, « YOU LOOK AWFUL. AHAHAHAHAHA. » Look, it's cheerful, and she doesn't mean it as an insult.
It's only the sound of her voice that has F'yr stirring from his spot in the water. His head comes up and the eyes he looks at her with are… not right, or at least not wholly his. He should look less wild, less ''ravaged'' for someone still wrapped up in — can Leirith see the flight? It's just finished. The bronzerider's voice is hoarse. "Glori caught a green. The rider's behind a locked door. I need to go home." Or somewhere that is not a foreign Weyr where the still pretty new to the different ways a flight can come out that isn't ending with a romp on or near a bed in a flight weyr. He stares at the flask a moment too long, but when he rises, it's not the flask he reaches for, it's his personal hero. (THE BRAVEST BRAVERISM HAS SURELY BROUGHT HER HERE.) In the same movement, he's aiming to kiss her with an acute need that brings a sound that is equal parts pleasure and pain from his throat, and he's breaking the kiss as quickly as he pursued it, fighting hard against that inner drive as his forehead presses to hers, his chest heaving in breathless want. "Not like this," he mumbles. "I need to go home, Risa. I need you for you, not for him. Please." Is he making any sense anymore? Does she understand? Does it matter the way he seems to think it does? He snatches that flask from her hand as he makes to tear himself at least partially free of her, even though there is almost no part of him that actually wants to. He might not wait for her as he stumbles toward Leirith, flask tipped to his lips to starts swallowing down the liquor with only the goal of complete insensibility before they even hit Xanadu airspace.
Risali is certainly not unaware of the flight — not when her own lifemate can feel it in her very bones, not when the mood sweeps and plants itself among the vulnerable (though she, luckily, is unswayed by the want and need of a fellow sister dragon). And Risali? She listens, and then offers, "Okay." Even the humor has fled in the wake of genuine misery, replaced by only understanding and a willingness to see him where he needs — wants — to go. And maybe she should have seen it coming, maybe she should have expected it, but despite the fact that she's already rising as F'yr stands to tower over her, there's a gentle parting of surprise on her lips in those one, two three seconds that finds his mouth over hers. Risali parts with a soft sound of her own, swallowed though it is by the press of lips, either a hushed sound born of startled realization or — F'yr's forehead is on hers, and Risali's hands are framing his jaw, her breath coming in too-quick draws as she remains and listens and… "Okay." MAYBE she came with every intention to thoroughly terrorize F'yr in revenge for his CRUELTY during her own proddy-driven need to touch and be touched, but she can't — not now. Not when it's clear that he's struggling just to keep himself in control. Leirith doesn't make the journey any easier — though, to her credit, she doesn't make it any harder either. « F'YR. YOUR ABILITY TO WALK ALL THIS WAY AND NOT DIE WILL SURELY BE THE CANDY-THEIVER'S DOWNFALL. AHAHAHAHA. » But Risali is picking up her pace to catch up, having taken just a moment to watch the bronzerider's retreat from there in the water. And okay, she might not be intent on torture, but she's decidedly not a saint. So YOU'RE JUST GONNA HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT when she tucks in a shoulder under F'yr's and slips her fingers beneath his wet tunic, fingers grazing flesh. "We need to get you dry first. You'll freeze." And so she's dragging him to redirect him, to find the weyr's store of extra clothing and only then will she make that jump between with him.
