the source. Deinha, muttering things under her breath, is in the process of picking up a top of some coarse, beige fabric; she is wearing only a (fairly decorous) white undershift over the proper underthings, but then, there's a fire in the hearth, and she's moving around enough to generate plenty of heat. She does /not/ look to be expecting any visitors.

Beginning to saunter in, O'kano pauses near the entrance to eye the disarray dubiously and, after a moment, averts his gaze from Deinha to peer down at a discarded shirt. Hesitantly, he clears his throat as a manner of alerting the goldrider of his presence before speaking. "Sebayeth said you weren't busy..." An almost reproachful glance is shot back towards the ledge as he adds on, "Maybe she was wrong."

Deinha's head snaps up at the sound, gaze moving from surprise to confusion to annoyance in the length of a second. "Did she, then?" is the almost flippant response, as Deinha carefully straightens, shirt clutched in front of her, to peer at O'kano. "I guess she might think so; I'm /only/ rearranging everything, you know. That certainly doesn't take any time at all, now does it...?" Sarcasm, definitely sarcasm, as the young woman makes her way hurriedly to the trunk with her beige top. There, she exchanges it for a silkier gold blouse, which is donned in a single, efficient move. She clears her throat. "Sorry. I'm not upset at you, really," she murmurs, pausing a moment to glance about the chaos that covers much of the area right around the bed. "Oh, but this place is such a mess!" Nevermind that she caused said mess. Rather than apologizing, the goldrider next adds, "Have a care not to step on anything, would you?" And, with that, she snatches up a skirt, preparing to shimmy into it.

Defensive, Puo forms his protest after hearing the first few phrases as his expression takes on the mask of vague irritation. "I /thought/ she'd check with you or something. Tell that all to her, not me." Again, he slants a piqued glance towards those present upon the ledge before his attention slides back to Deinha and his acerbic mood is smoothed over. "Oh." Shoulders give a slight shrug before he adds, "It's okay. Sorry if I came at a bad time." He steps around an article of clothing, commenting, "It's going to take you awhile to pick everything up again."

Deinha dismisses the first speech, having already taken care of that part of the problem. Besides, she has clothes to finish putting on -- for all that she didn't seem to respond to Puo's unexpected arrival from that vantage, it's a bit disconcerting, yet, for Dei to be but half-clothed (to her mind). "No, it's okay. We were just ... confused, apparently, about whether I was actually busy." Plopping down on the edge of her bed to deal with a pair of boots, the junior weyrwoman looks up long enough to explain, "/She/ thinks this is all unnecessary." Huff. Not looking up again, she slips on one boot, voice distracted as she continues, "Anyway, it'll take too long, and I'm hungry. I'd recruit you to help, now that you're here anyway, but you'd probably just get things put away wrong." Frank, she is -- she doesn't /mean/ it as an insult, even if it does come out as such. "But, enough of that -- did you want something in particular, Puo, or is this strictly social?" Now, she looks up again, features relaxing from earlier tension into more typical curiosity, and just a hint of a smile.

O'kano does his best to provide whatever privacy is possible by peering with feigned interest at the various vestments while feet shuffle and fingers absently smooth down imagined wrinkles in his own tunic. If he bristles just a bit at the unintended insult, he does so in posture; he attempts at tactfulness, anyhow, and firmly keeps lips pressed together. Eventually, he glances up to make sure Deinha's dressed, and then responds to the final question. "Just social," he replies simply. "I thought I'd just stop by before heading to the caverns--we just got off wing-duties and I figured I'd grab something to eat. They should be serving the evening meal, after all."

"Oh, you're right; they should," agrees Deinha, now finished with the second boot. "Did you want to go down together?" She stands again, stepping over an unmentionable without a second glance, and makes her way to a full-size, slightly low-quality, mirror balanced against the wall. Hands going to her unbraided hair and twisting it deftly upwards, she comments, "I really am quite hungry." A few more motions, and she reaches out to pluck what looks to be nothing more than a stick of sorts; this, she jabs -- rather fiercely -- into her hair. Voila: it stays, neatly arranged and everything.

"That'd be great," the bronzerider affirms, watching the last preparations as he detours around a discarded pile of clothing. "I'm hungry, too." The statement is obvious; he waits with absent chatter, preferring idle talk over silence. Thrusting hands into his jackets' pockets, O'kano finally offers a compliment: "You look nice."

Deinha frowns as O'kano speaks -- not at his words, but, rather, at her reflection. She tugs a little on her shirt, straightening a hem. Fingers just the scantest distance from her hair, she pauses at Puo's last words, and finally sets her hands down again. "Oh," is the soft answer, "Thank you." It seems she /won't/ have to re-do her hair just now, after all. Smiling, Dei next joins him, one hand extending to lightly touch bronzerider's arm. "Lead the way, then."

Deinha enters the caverns with O'kano, one hand resting lightly, comfortably on his arm. The other hand is smoothing her shirt down in a just slightly fidgety gesture. "..I certainly hope they have a nice selection out for dinner," she is saying, voice prim, "Because it would be most annoying to find nothing edible tonight."

O'kano, cast in the role of gentleman -- an unlikely role for the infamously cantankerous bronzerider --, leads the way towards their destination: the sideboards, piled high with the evening's meal. "I'm sure they will," he responds, pausing at the food tables to survey the spread. "There's always something edible stashed away in the kitchens, anyways." K'rian is noted and awarded an almost absent nod of greeting; Puo's attention is upon his dinner.

Deinha makes note of K'rian, all right. She makes note of his absent brushing of fingers through hair, and frowns slightly at the other bronzerider, advising, "A brush works best, you know." But then, her own mind quickly reverts to the food, as O'kano directs her to the tables. Withdrawing her hand, she peers down at the food, moving down the table with the slightly skittery step of unrestrained energy. "I don't know," she sighs, "None of this looks that good." Even the mashed tubers -- usually a favorite -- are bypassed in her search for the perfect food to satisfy whatever wild craving she must be feeling.

"...What?" repeats the young woman, herself distracted and no doubt oblivious to the repetition. And then, as if she were addressing a young child: "Your hair. It works much better to comb it than to use your fingers, if you were trying to fix that part that's sticking out." So says Deinha, tone calm and matter-of-fact. Rather at odds with the more offensive words.

"Looks fine to me," O'kano remarks as he snitches a plate from a haphazardly stacked pile. "It's just normal food. Maybe you're too picky." Spying a platter of broiled whitefish, he helps himself to a portion before deliberating over further choices. The so-called unappealing fare yields several more helpings of various items: crisp, orange-hued tubers; sweetroll; smoked wherry. A single tuber is popped into his mouth, and he munches gingerly, making a face as it leaves his tongue burned. "Hot," he finally pronounces.

<*Sebayeth*> Sebayeth fairly vibrates with a sudden whisp of jasmine-scented, green-laced pleasure. << Today is ... a good day. I feel .. en-er-gy. >> Indeed, she radiates the stuff; ripples nearly tangible sending quivers of bright orange, whisps of acerbic lemon, shocks of violet, in contrast to their paler backing. << But, it is so hot. >> Sultry almost, a flicker of alabaster follows, rising and subsiding just as quickly. << Too hot. >> to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

Deinha sniffs, "Am not," in response to O'kano's ... accusation. Suggestion. Whatever. Starmount's youngest Junior Weyrwoman next nods at K'rian, offering shortly, "Yes, right there." She points vaguely, "On top." Then, a short nod as Puo's comment registers and is promptly misinterpreted: "Hot, yes, it is just a bit, isn't it?" That thought gives her pause, before she concludes, "They must have built the fires up too big." Yeah, sure, at Starmount.

<*Sebayeth*> Krysanth rejoins with a testing tendril of smoke-like white-gold. Cool, like the fresh breath of snow and ice, she reaches curiously to greet Sebayeth, and pauses. The tendril hovers at the fringes of the other gold's periphery, offering the trace of a reply, then draws back with a careful inward pull. An aside, to a few others, she notes, << We are away. To Bitra. Call us when the wine is flowing. >> Casual, her tone, and little else, though it is only briefly before the queen and her rider are known to have departed with a minimum of fuss. to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

R'ken, the ever-distracted brownrider (well, at least of late), strolls from the weyr tunnel, watching only his feet and a short distance ahead of them so that he doesn't run into anything much. Face is set thoughtfully, hands stuffed deep in pockets as he finally lifts his gaze to dart a look around at the various folks. Kor, Brat, Deinha, others... Quietly, however, he makes for the serving tables and klah. You can bet he has /his/ priorities straight.

<*Sebayeth*> Privately, Jharzeth flares with a sudden moment of brilliance, crimson threads tangling around what lingers of the ivory. << Must be. >> Immediate agreement greets her comment, and he follows with single-minded intent. to Sebayeth

"Whatever," comes Puo's airy response; attention is snagged, momentarily, by R'ken's entrance, and he even manages a civil nod as a greeting. His gaze slides back to Deinha, and he seeks to remedy the misunderstanding. "No, no. What I just ate was hot." He rolls his eyes, adding, "I like it in here -- much nicer than outside." Anything's nicer than snow, ice, and wind in his opinion.

Deinha still hasn't found her food. She makes a frustrated sound at the tables, then tilts her head dangerously much to the left, peering again at K'rian, "You think it's funny that your hair is unfixable?" She purses her lips, then tsks, "I would /not/ find it so amusing, were mine in such disarray." Yet, at this point, the young woman can't seem to help but lift one hand to make sure her hair is, indeed, in order. That settled, she turns back to the other bronzerider, expression suddenly puzzled, "Oh, is that what you meant? ...But, Puo, it is also hot in here. You just aren't noticing because of where you're from." She nods, certain that this is the solution, and only then appears to notice R'ken, casting him a brief nod -- no smile.

<*Sebayeth*> Nasmyth's own awareness is only half-there, at first, his attention bundled up in what's been something of an ongoing arguement. There is no /way/... No /way/... But as R'ken is at least as stubborn as himself, he drops it for the moment, and instead trickles thoughts out towards the others. A pleasant farewell-feeling is offered after Krysanth, before his mind turns to more interesting things. Certainly not Sebayeth. He's been working on perfecting that feigned disinterest. << There is no such thing as too hot, >> he replies in polite tone, darkness settling smoothly. to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

R'ken looks surprised in passing - a civil O'kano? Surely those things don't exist on Pern - but he cants his head in reply, and the same for Deinha, even lifting eyebrows at the lack of smile -- though he doesn't seem quite surprised by it, after another quick, less distracted glance. Wary, though, and possibly half-inclined to escape. But klah /is/ still to be had. So he pours it, offers a mildly spoken, "Evenin' Dei, Puo -- Kor." And then a brief, one-sided smile for the one who's being badgered about his hair. "Good day?" And hands curl tightly about the mug as he casts about for the possibility of something else.

<*Sebayeth*> Tamlinth's thoughts stir like metal shavings sifting amongst each other as he rouses his full attention to this conversation -- and then with a brassy clash his attention reaches Sebayeth. << It is not hot, >> replies he, with a shimmeringly bright tone, << It is cool, as ever.. perhaps it is warmer near you, Sebayeth? >> There is, in that, a briefly probing tone as if seeking invitation. No disinterest here, feigned or otherwise. to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

"Maybe," O'kano hedges. "Maybe you're right. People who grow up in the cold sometimes get funny ideas about climate, though." He turns his focus to the selection of a beverage instead of continuing that thread of conversation, nibbling upon an already-gnawed fingernail before pouring himself a mug of klah. All that contemplation, only to decide on what's normal. Puo then announces -- probably for Deinha's benefit --, "I'm going to sit down and eat." He moves towards a nearby table, honing in on a chair.

<*Sebayeth*> Sebayeth is suddenly, forcibly, vocal again, as she slips from her weyr to the bowl and relishes in the crisper air. Images of flurries, light and fluffy and pristinely white, chase over the saffron silkiness of her thoughts. << Would it not be fun to .. to ... >> Just as quickly, the gold seems to lose track of what she's thinking. << But there is,>> she insists, stubbornly, in response to Nasmyth. Sandalwood, chased quickly on the heels by a vague notion of a breeze and something .. acrid, burning but without heat, blossoming into a sudden flare of mindscent -- incense? << And this, >> a flickering image of the environs from the west bowl, << Is surely it. >> Indeed, her image casts whitest snow in a dimmer, rubied light: almost sanguine. A sudden, innocent, acquiescence: << Yes, Tamlinth, that must be the case. >> to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

Deinha shrugs, "There've been better days." And, to O'kano, "I guess I'll just sit. And not eat." Almost petulant, that. "I'm just not going to be satisfied with anything they have to offer tonight," she mumbles, "So why bother at all. I'll just ... starve, for all that they care." Following resolutely after O'kano, the goldrider makes sure she sighs, gustily, before sitting down. She scratches absently at her arm, then frowns, "I'm hungry, and now I itch. There aren't just better days; this is the worst."

<*Sebayeth*> Nasmyth seems at first inclined to protest - that it can never be too hot because, quite simply, warmth is by far the best - but doesn't. He almost obviously stifles it, preferring silence for the moment, though he isn't still quite yet. He moves to the lip of his ledge, so that he can stare lingeringly down from above -- out in the cold, wings shivering absently with the touch of chill winds. And then he stops. Then he stills. Frozen, commentless, waiting, steel bared in -- not threat. Never threat. Razor-sharp awareness, though. to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

R'ken takes a seat himself, as perusal turns up nothing particularly of interest. He hooks a leg up and around, ankle on knee, as he leans elbow on his chair's arm. Sprawl. Lean. Flop. Y'know, those things brownriders are best at. And klah, of course, is there to sip at while he gazes about the caverns incuriously. Same old caverns. Proddy Deinha. Nothing of interest. "S'just some days, Dei. It'll get better," is the helpful assurance. Some opinions of 'better' must differ.

<*Sebayeth*> Sebayeth abruptly trembles, head tucking down a moment against the wind, << Oh. Oh, but that's it. >> Previous image resurfaces, scenic view this time melting into nought but a run of that same red-brown color. A swirl, gilded glitter drizzled into the mix, and the notion of sudden satisfaction. A plan. to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

"Surely there's something," O'kano begins, "that you'd approve of." He cradles his mug with cold-tipped fingers, grouchily eying the goldrider through the wafting steam that emits from his klah. "Go drink something, if there's nothing else. I don't know. Don't complain to me." Puo has every intention of enjoying his meal, but he only pokes around at his food with his fork, suddenly disinterested.

<*Sebayeth*> Jharzeth has been there the whole time, settling quietly in the bowl as he listens, watches, waits. His interest is aroused, however, by the gold's sudden statement, and he slides in his smoky-scented and hazy-hued query: << What? What's it? >> to the Starmount Weyr dragons.

Deinha casts brownrider a disbelieving look, then shrugs. O'kano's suggestion gets a more thoughtful look, though, then, "Yes, I believe I shall do that." She stands, just starting to look offended at the last part, when her own eyes unfocus, and she flings a hand down to the table as if for balance. "I..?" Deinha swallows, head turning right and left as she looks, blindly, for some unidentified person or object. "No, it's not.." she whispers, softly enough that only those closest would hear.

Sebayeth> Sebayeth lifts her head, alert, and takes a few loping strides before hurling herself into the air with considerably less grace than typical -- not bothering to respond to inquiries about her 'plan' as she, instead, executes. Despite graceless take-off, wings sling outward strongly enough to keep her aloft as she makes her way to the feeding grounds, a definite impression of something not quite hungry on mind.

"Shoulda left while I had the chance." And R'ken had the chance. He saw it there, dangling infront of his eyes, and he isn't quite as ignorant as some. But he didn't take it, and that bugs him. "Had a feeling I shoulda brought my jacket," he goes on to mumble to himself, head swiveling about towards the door. Grimacing, hands lift his mug once more to pull from, emptying it in a few throat-scorching swallows, prior to setting it gently to the table. Then, he watches Deinha. She is on center-stage, so to speak.

Sebayeth> Tamlinth lifts his head as the gold hurls herself upwards -- and with an almost lazy movement he rises as well to his feet, sleek and easy, taking his time and conserving his energy for now. He takes a few loping steps, then leaps into the air with a powerful launch of his legs, gliding along with a few short strokes of his wings towards the feeding grounds as well.

O'kano glances up, startled, food forgotten as he eyes the goldrider with concern. "You okay?" he wants to know. "Maybe you should go lie down or something. See the Healers. It's generally not good to sway on your feet or anything. You don't look good..." His words fade as he momentarily confers with his lifemate, eyes unfocusing. Then, barely audible, he adds with considerable annoyance, "Oh, shardit."

Sebayeth> Nasmyth really doesn't move from his ledge until that Important Moment, when Sebayeth first makes her leap for sky and feeding pens. Then he drops, silent but for the displacement of air 'caused by the wide sweep of wings and the faint scrape of talon on stone. He follows at somewhat sedate pace, half-gliding, as he angles towards the lowing of animals. Relaxed. Calm. Cool. Collected. Y'know the drill.

Sebayeth> Jharzeth watches with interest as the gold takes her leave; after a moment, he, too, launches himself into the air with a powerful snap of his wings. He follows, lazily swooping towards the feeding grounds. He takes his time -- the beasties will still be there when he arrives.

Deinha had less of a chance than R'ken to run away. Ignoring the first round of suggestions, she turns questioning gaze, oddly enough, to clutchmate: "Puo, what -- what do I ..?" A deep breath is taken, even as Dei's fingers clutch convulsively into a fist as she resists the urge to just sit down. "She's ...Faranth, she's ..." Swallowing again, Deinha trails off without ever completing the statement; it's the closest she can come to denial right now. Weyrleader's arrival isn't even noted by the slightly bewildered young woman. "Out of here, right...can't ... stay in here, they said." She murmurs, voice labored.

"And they wondered why I was laughing," K'rian says with a slow shake of his head, taking a deep breath and pushing up to his feet -- stretching upwards, both hands bracing at the small of his back as he moves to step towards the bowl entrance, "..here we go again.."

Oh, woe, how is it that a routine visit to Starmount Weyr could tumble a brownrider into this simple predicament. A look of surprise flickers over Kaz' face as the Azovian rider realizes where exactly Brendaith is headed. "Oh, shards." he mutters, falling into step with the male riders. "How ever will I explain /this?/"

O'kano fails to notice the latest arrivals as he attempts to find a solution for the goldrider, fumbling for words. "Um. Why -- why do you think I'd know?" he finally questions, fork clattering down upon his plate and mug pushed away. "Didn't Tamial ever tell you what to do? Or someone? Aren't you 'posed to learn things in weyrlinghood?" He runs a hand through his mop of sun-bleached hair in a habitual nervous gesture and looks up at Deinha with a helpless, confused expression. He's just a bronzerider. Don't ask him.

"Jus' remind her to blood, lass." That'd be R'ken, not quite inclined to sneak up near the two - O'kano and Deinha - once he's got to his feet. He keeps his distance, clasping hands absently behind his back. Then, with a faint, faint quirk of his mouth, "It'll be all right, eventually, once you're past the hard part. But yes, out of the caverns." So it is Puo she asks. It doesn't mean that brownrider isn't about to offer advice, being such a kind spirit. Really. Then he chuffs a sigh and moves towards the door, trying to catch K'zandir's eye and respond, "You tell them a flight happened. It seems anytime y'visit somewhere, a flight happens." Even when you aren't visiting.

T'ela stumbles a pace up from the lower caverns, a drink still clutched in her hand and looking rather drunk for the relatively early hour. Dark gaze, rather dulled, searches out then focuses in on the knot of riders, and she starts to head that way with a suprisingly firm step despite her slightly listing stance.

Sebayeth> Sebayeth takes this plan of hers quite seriously, wasting no time, upon reaching the feeding grounds, to seek out the easiest conquest, per se. Rather, she spots a plump 'beast as she flies in, pulls a wing in slightly to angle /that/ way, and drops ... right onto the creature, discounting the crunch of bones as talons make contact with throat. Unlike with her first kill ever, /this/ time young queen has no intention of losing valuable blood; she dips her head and buries muzzle in burbling liquid nearly as soon as she has landed. A moment follows, then, where she hovers, head still ducked, and then Sebayeth's head is lifted, a sound of something like fierce defiance torn from gilded throat.

"And that had better be something the rest of Azov will accept." Kaz mutters dryly, meeting the other brownrider's gaze and nodding slightly. "Typical isn't it? How a flight always seems to happen while visiting, I'd almost swear that the dragons plan it that way." he sighs for a moment and then clenches his fists at his sides. "I'd only hope we make it through this in one piece."

Sebayeth> Shepoth glides into the feeding grounds with an economy of motion, silence of the desert sands accompanying him as he arcs down to a landing with the agility of the small, reaching out to impale a panicked herdbeast at the last possible moment. Drawing himself up to his full height, rather unimpressive in the crowd of larger males, brown wings mantle as he lets out a single defiant trumpet of his right to be here as one of, if not the, smallest chaser. Only then does he arch his neck elegantly to the bleeding wound in the side of the deceased herdbeast and blood with ferocity, determined to gain as much strength from the liquid meal as he can.

Deinha turns away from O'kano, arms first crossing, then shifting to be wrapped in a hug about herself. Ah, R'ken's words bring something calmer to the woman's face, and she even manages the hint of a smile -- nevermind that it doesn't quite reach her eyes, which are both strained, withdrawn, and, as typical of a rider, somehow elsewhere. Distractedly, she takes her first look around, expression faltering as she finally sees the number of people now closer. And the foreign 'rider snaps Deinha out of her withdrawel; she offers, dryly, "Trust me, I had nothing to do with the planning." She holds up a palm in an innocent gesture of denial, then lets it drop again. Next, she gives T'ela a brief, appraising look -- hard to read -- and spins on her heel. Out, out, out, at last, and without another word to the others. Grim expression makes it clear enough that she doubts not that they'll follow, anyway.

J'kan strolls in from the tunnels to the ground weyrs, whistling as cheerily as ever as his feet carry him to the hearthside table. He offers a broad wave to the still unseen riders and residents present, concentrating instead on pouring himself a glass of wine with a flourish. Ears prick up at O'kano's words as he notes brightly, in reference to those Healers, "Wonderful persons, those. Ones around here certainly do have good heads on their shoulders." He brings the glass to his nose lightly, mumbling something about sweet vintages before sipping absently. Seems that ban from alcohol has been limited, and at a good time, too, what with all those interesting new things to drink at the 'Lizard. Finally the Bronzerider's blue eyes catch sight of a few familiar riders, one dark brow arching slowly as his expression melts into a thoughtful frown. "Ah... Another one, eh? Seems to be a lot of that going around." The last commented in tones that are certainly far too cheery for the tastes of certain others present. He flashes one of those patented brighter-than-Rukbat smiles Deinha-ward, nodding absently in agreement with R'ken before following the young Queenrider out, still toting that full wineglass.

Sebayeth> Brendaith's wings fold as he drops towards the feeding grounds, predatory gaze already spying out his prey. Talons extend, glinting and sharp as he races towards the large bovine, eyes transfixed upon his target, and snatches, slamming fown upon the beast with his weight. A tail snap to end the panicked cries and his head dips downwards

Brendaith's wings fold as he drops towards the feeding grounds, predatory gaze already spying out his prey. Talons extend, glinting and sharp as he races towards the large bovine, eyes transfixed upon his target, and snatches, slamming fown upon the beast with his weight. A tail snap to end the panicked cries and his head dips downwards--to savor the hot nourishing liquid that fuels the flames of his desire. Only then does he glance towards the young queen, admiration in his amethyst-tinged eyes.

It takes him a few moments choosing out a creature, and then Nasmyth falls -- and he doesn't miss. Wings pummel the air, slowing his momentum as he extends claws to snatch and grab, then hauls back. The beast struggles, sliced through by talons, before Nasmyth flops to the ground and dips muzzle to close teeth about the throat of his bovine. Shake. Snap. Wings mantle possessively as he lifts his head, blood-flecked muzzle canted left and right as he makes an appraisal of those around. Still silent, he snaps jaws back to previous position to drink deeply -- adding fuel to the fire.

Jharzeth sweeps over the pens with stoic silence; he circles once, twice, sharp gaze considering the terrified herdbeasts with an impartial eye. Only the best is good enough for him, and once he decides which is best, the dark-toned bronze drops quickly, quietly, atop his selection. Hunter amongst prey, the lordly dragon brings down a beast in its prime and breaks the dun-colored animal's back with one decisive snap. Lowering his muzzle, Jharzeth allows little blood to splatter the ground as he drinks deep.

T'ela sways a bit, managing to have dropped the glass off somewhere, but remains steady as she emerges out into the cold, all signs of bleariness slowly fading from her expression as Shepoth's urges take over. Dulled brown eyes stay continuously on Deinha, determination showing beneath the alcohol-induced haze. "S'about time.." Nope, no words of comfort, or advice, or anything of the sort. Just a solid, silent facade.

R'ken mutters to fellow male brownrider a trifle caustically, "You and me, both." He doesn't care for gold flights. But then hands are returned to pockets as he shivers, cold creeping in to chill his bones. Gaze lingers after Deinha for a few moments, before he drops his eyes. After all, this is Deinha, not Sebayeth. Nasmyth can think of Sebayeth that way, but he won't think of Seb-- Deinha. Muttering some indeciperable phrases beneath his breath, steaming the air with heated words, he merely follows.

Deinha pauses once outside the caverns, breathing in gaspy little puffs that leave clouds along the brisk air. "Where.." she murmurs, insistent, glancing briefly toward the entrance to her own weyr before shivering and abruptly veering in another direction: that of an empty guest weyr.

Outside of the guest weyr, K'zandir looks distinctly blue, as his upper body tilts towards the other brownrider. "Is it always this cold?" he frowns. Southern-born and bred, it looks like Kaz can't handle this. But his gaze brightens as he follows the others towards the guest weyr, at least he'll be somewhat warm.

Sebayeth> Anceth spirals down lazily from the upper sky, backwinging for a landing that, conveniently enough, finds him right atop a passing herdbeast. Snap goes its neck, bending easily beneath powerful claws, just as muzzle dips downward, jaws clenching about the creature's jugular, getting every last drop of the crimson liquid before nudging the lifeless body aside, faceted eyes whirling an angry scarlet as they settle momentarily on Sebayeth's glowing golden form.

Outside of the guest weyr, J'kan, much like his lifemate, sucks every last drop from his glass o' wine before heedlessly tossing it aside. Not setting a very good example, littering the Weyr like that, is he? Still, he's in a hurry! Hands clench into fists and uncurl repeatedly as arms hang at his sides, quick strides carrying him after the others.

Sebayeth> Sebayeth holds still a moment, almost posing before the multiple scrutinies received, and then she's off to the next 'beast. Again, she launches herself with no regard to grace, simply thrusting herself into the air and picking, plummeting, pouncing ... So it is with this, the second, and soon again with that, the third.

Sebayeth> Shepoth moves with an economy of energy - none of the rumblings and shifting and tailflicking apparent in so many other males, and remains cool as a midwinter's breeze on the outside, yet the violent whirling of deeply violet eyes gives lie to internal aggitation not helped by the state of his lifemate. One herdbeast is polished off in record time with a final lap of crimson-stained tongue, and snaps into a momentary glide-pounce that carries him within reach of another pair of herdbeasts. One broad-sweeping swat with claws extended, and both lives are cut short to feed the bloodlust of an eager little dragon, who crouches over both possessively whilst attacking the bleeding throat of one before its even kicked its last.

Sebayeth> Brendaith stays groundwards, none of that leapsing and hopping for him, thank you. Instead, he simply reaches out, talons imapling a particularly juicy looking herdbeast through the flank and drags it back toward him, to fasten deadly jaws over it's throat and drain it dry. The move is repeated again, his wings mantled jealously over his prey as he dines upon the rich redness at his feet.

Once inside, Deinha paces, hands clasped tightly before her. Occasionally, she looks up to see the others filing in, eyes flashing with some mottled emotion or another. Mostly, she frets, fighting the pull of lifemate's hunger along with the distraction provided by entering riders. "Hurry up," is, however, the soft mantra of this, Starmount's youngest goldrider.

Sebayeth> Nasmyth spends some extra time over his carcass, shaking and straining for the last droplets before shaking himself and moving on. He steps over his first kill and half-leaps forward, pouncing for the wherry that serves as his next drink. Snap, crunch, shake -- and formerly living, flapping, squawking creature becomes quite, quite dead. Wasn't that keen? And it's shortly only a pile of feathers and bones, bloodless, as he moves on to a third kill, which is dispatched just as promptly. He's not looking at Sebayeth -- definantly not looking. Otherwise, he might have to just keep still and watch, but he has to store up energy before his eyes can have their proper fill.

T'ela sets her jaw firmly, glaring at various maleriders as she pushes her way into the weyr, determine to prove her right to be here just as much as her lifemate is, despite her slight list to one side. Leaning back against a convenient wall, both eyes squeezed tightly shut, the struggle to maintain composure is exceedingly visible across her pale face, keeping herself still and rationing breaths as if to save her own energy to donate to her lifemate's cause - for he's going to *really* need it.

Sebayeth> Jharzeth leaves his first victim drained and dry, disregarding the empty carcass and selecting another. This one, a piebald female, bawls her terror before the bronze lands heavily and ends her life with the crunch of breaking bone. Always aware of where the youngest queen is, he crouches over the herdbeast to lap at and suck out the precious crimson liquid. He bides his time, testing his wings with a brief flutter before moving on to a third. All angles, the bronze readies himself, muscles tense, while partaking of this beast's blood; his third, his last.

Sebayeth> Sebayeth's tail whips behind her, she gathers her weight, and then she's up. This time, departure from soil is characteristically smooth, wings extending to catch the rays of fading light and reflect it in a glimmering beacon of rosey hues, golden grit almost second to the underlying shades of more saffron nature, before she pushes off and strains upward. Extended, now gathered, now flung outward again, overly long wings are fully used in sending the gold up and away, and quickly so. A bugling call lingers in her wake; now, now, is time for the chase.

K'zandir shuffles back through the crowd towards the inner recesses of the guest weyr, seeking the warmer locale before he presses tight against a wall, hazel-gold eyes flickering warily over the viasages of the other male riders, lingering longest on Deinha, before he glances Bowl-wards where even now, his lifemate fans the flames of draconic lust, to fuel his energy reserves for the flight to come.

Such a familiar place. R'ken's slitted gaze shifts about, not too uneasily, before he moves to his 'place'. The desk, and the chair -- the latter especially. Hand lingers over the smooth wood of the back until he tugs it out and straddles it, probably to restrain the temptation to pace, so full of energy is he -- nervous energy? Not really nervous, for he's done this too many times before. Again, stoically, he forces gaze to the floor -- and begins to tap foot to some unheard beat, absent. Restless. He'd definantly like to pace, to stalk and circle, but he just doesn't /do/ that sort of thing.

O'kano follows after the others, hands stuffed deep into pockets as he moves purposefully after the goldrider. Muttering inaudibly beneath his breath, the young man comes to a halt in the quickly crowding weyr and seeks a spot against one of the walls where his view of Deinha is unobstructed. Surprise registers, briefly, as the remnants of Puo -- not flight-crazy Puo, not Jharzeth-Puo -- surfaces, only to float away as the bronzerider surrenders to the demands of his dragon. Eyes close momentarily as he gives up, gives in, and withdraws into himself to watch through his bronze's eyes.

Sebayeth> Shepoth tears into the third beast lying prone beside him, hardly a second wasted in checking the status of Sebayeth, the gold beacon star that draws him on, before a fourth - *fourth?* - herdbeast is promptly dispatched with a well-placed snap of mahogany jaws that somehow never unclamp from about its neck as he bleeds it dry. This time, though, violet gaze never leaves the form of the gold one, and as such, her leap is noted and nearly anticipated with a powerful bunching and coiling of wiry young muscles as Shepoth takes to the skies just a few heartbeats after the golden queen. Broad wings pump with a flurry of motion before settling into a respectable pace for one so small, though one that will be hell itself for the smallest chaser to maintain for as long as is required.

Sebayeth> She goes, and Nasmyth prepares to follow -- to do any less would be insult to both Sebayeth and his nature. He could do no less. Edging back from his latest kill in order to give him a clear area from which to launch, he hunches close to the ground. A second stretches into eternity, muscles - the cold, unbending steel of his thoughts, freed of the cozy darkness - tense, and then he's throwing himself after the fleeing form. /Now/ he can look all he cares to, and does so - heedless of other suitors - before reluctantly falling back. He knows the drill very well.

T'ela sucks in a breath in time with Sebayeth's leap, though otherwise remains perfectly still save for the nearly imperceptable clenching of both fists that press into the wall behind her. Tense jaws are forced to relax a bit - in fact, relaxation is imposed over her entire body, visible as a slump against the supporting surface of the wall. Energy is something conserved, rationed out, and the usually vivid brownrider becomes nothing more than a human lump, not moving, not contributing, only *being*.

Sebayeth> With a powerful upthrust of his hindlegs, and his wings snapping out to billow out like a Tillek three-master's sail, Brendaith propels himself aloft in pursuit of the young gold, the glorious dazzling nymph that lures him onwards like a siren in a storm. But the canny brown is content to settle mid-pack, and let the others ease the strain on the wind for the moment.

Sebayeth> Jharzeth leaves the ground, the empty, drained carcasses, the pens far behind as his taut muscles bunch and coil; the night-dark bronze explodes upwards with strong downsweeps and a lashing of his tail as he sees Sebayeth launch herself skyward, blooded herdbeasts already forgotten and dismissed. Self-assurance sounds in his answering trumpet -- the hunt, the chase begins now, and Jharzeth pursues with all the confidence of a hunting nobleman as he rides - flys - after the gold.

Deinha flinches, and stops her pacing. Fingers unlocking, she reaches behind her to ... a wall. Oh, a wall, with cool, solid, supportive stone. Her own gaze drifts upward, eyes next squeezed tightly shut. A breath, two, three. Her eyes slant open again, just slightly, as, divided between opposing impulses, she looks searchingly to familiar faces -- and unfamiliar. After a considerable pause wherin she watches 'Ken's tapping foot, Dei drags her gaze to O'kano. And the first hint of something other than resistence or confusion or trapped feelings crosses, ever-so-briefly, the brightly blue eyes. And then she finds herself pushing off the wall, starting to pace again, unsteadily, until she seems to take note of the action and force herself to stop. So there she stands, almost trembling in her attempted stillness, every muscle tensed along slender frame, as she focuses not on any of the riders, nor on any part of her immediate surroundings, but rather on something distant, seen through another's vision.

Sebayeth> Anceth 's attentions to Starmount's youngest Queen are distracted by his ever increasing bloodlust, though fortunately a plump beast, slowed enough by its excess weight that the Bronze catches it effortlessly with an extended forearm, one talon sliding across its neck, his lips replacing it before the beast even hits the ground. Once his thirst is satisfied he leaps after a bit belatedly, though several beats of those powerful wings help him to catch up with most of the others. Though those crimson eyes see little beside the golden hide in his sights.

O'kano finds a point opposite him to stare at -- devoid of color, motionless, lifeless: he stares fixedly at the stone wall across the weyr, brows furrowed and face expressionless. That's what he tries for, anyhow; Puo can't help but steal a few glances of Deinha, and mixed emotions merrily traipse this way and that despite his efforts. So it's back to eying the wall, and eventually the young man's eyes unfocus and his gaze grows distant as the events above the weyr demand his attention.

Sebayeth> Mindless of her pursuit, or seemingly so, Sebayeth wings quickly upward, still, moving swiftly, arrow-straight, steadily higher. A snap of tender wings across still air sounds then, like the challenging crack of a whip, as both wings are drawn in, suddenly, and after the briefest of falls, snapped out again, the right extended just *so* to facilitate an abrupt turn as she blazes a trail out for the others. << More! >> urges the gold. << Still more. >>

R'ken's shoulders shift, a brief strain as wings haul his weight from the grou-- No. Again, the brownrider's head shakes, but the image and feeling are too /there/ to dispell. Limbs weren't like that before, and he never did really have a tail... It's a familiar enough change, but the shift rarely comes smoothly. It isn't until he - Myth - feels the wind full beneath his wings, cupping them and gaining altitude for maneuvering. And then his eyes close, face turning roughly in Deinha's direction. The back of his eyelids - and the sky, and Sebayeth, and also Sebayeth - are rather interesting, after all.

Sebayeth> Shepoth shows not a hint of his dismay as the larger bronzes eat up the distance he'd struggled for - he might be small, but he's far from stupid. A tinge of cunning colors the lust-induced whirling of the gaze locked on his beacon star's retreating form. Broad hazel shaded wings tip forward, spilling a bit of air in a dive towards a thermal just out of the direct path of the flight. Strategy is the name of the game - he's no other recourse, truly - and so strategy he will play, as the warm winds fill eager wingsails, sparing him that much more energy to be used for endurance and sending him off on a slightly divergent course from that of Sebayeth, risking the very flight on a gamble taken so very early on. No more does a flash of satisfaction show across his ever so expressive face than did dismay, though, at a gamble won - this time - as Sebayeth turns in just the right direction, leaving him up near the front of the pack still despite his obvious disadvantages.

Sebayeth> With valient sweeps of his seemingly flame-cloaked wingsails, Brendaith continues on his golden pursuit, almost as if he is stung by the arrows of desire sped from the bow of the god of love. But nay, there is no duch things as gods here, merely dragons, noble and true, mere mortals thought they command the skies. Sebayeth's fall is noted, and he chooses not to follow, instead continuing to keep to the higher airspace, for she rises upwards, turning as she does so. His own wings snap out, allowing for the slightest of turns in her direction, his size--neither bulky nor small--faciliating that turn, as the umber brown follows the gold almost as though she is a polar magnet, drawing him after her, amythestine gaze forever centered on her nymphly virgin form.

T'ela twitches just a bit as she surrenders completely to Shepoth's overriding need for Sebayth, loosing herself in his efforts. Only then does the barest hint of a satisfied smile curve across Tae's face - the first genuine one seen in quite some time. Lips barely move in a silent mantra as she urges the brown on with all her soul: no longer T'ela, but a merging of the two for just a short time.

Sebayeth> More. A demand for more from himself, or at least Nasmyth takes it as such. She wishes more proof of his ability, his will to be there, where she is -- to take care of that insistent need that /he/ knows is there. They never seem to realize until the end, however, that need is truely what it is. They must be shown. The fall is noted through violet gaze, the first set of lids falling to protect from the string of air, and color-shifting wings urge himself to turn as she does and to follow devotedly. Hanging back -- is far too overrated, in some cases, and when chasing a falling - or one not deciding whether to fall or to rise - star, the evening star earliest out, is one of those times.

Sebayeth> Night-swept wings find their rhythm, beating the steady, pounding cadence of the hunt--Jharzeth's chase is filled with the frenzied excitement of thudding ichor and drumming wings. His pursuit, though rapid, is anything but frantic--stateliness indwells within the sculptured bronze and lends a graceful edge to the movements of his toned musculature and a proud lift to his angular head. He flirts between whimsical thermals, deftly cutting between capricious currents which seek to throw him off-target and arrows after his target, plying the trade winds with all his expertise and capabilities. Youth's strength and stamina meld with determination, evident in every action: nearly unnoticeable adjustments, the steadfast tempo of wingsails and spars beating against gravity, the quick-paced whirl of purple-hued, lustful eyes. All attention is riveted to his quarry, the morning-bright gold, and all that is left in his wake is the flurry of displaced air and the ringing tones of his challenging bugle.

Tense muscles relax -- slowly, yes, but they do their job -- gradually, Deinha's eyes beginning to darken as something of ... anticipation?! ... slips into her face. Yes, there's a definite eagerness to the new fidgeting of fingers at her sides, a quickening of breath that has nothing to do with panic or fight. Flushed cheeks now begin to take on a look eerily similar to lifemate's brightened hide as excitement forces its place on more delicate features and settles there. Dei, with a sigh almost as pleased as wistful, gives into the juxtaposition of weyr's walls and evening's sky, wind's passing with fire's heat.

Sebayeth> Dive and swoop, pivot and align... The way the jeweled Bronze Anceth manages to maneuver like that is curious, considering his size. Still, once determined, always determined as he beats those almost translucent wings, rising just above the other bronzes and browns, attempting a catch from above as tail, neck, wings...every part of his being stretches, reaching out to ensnare the golden beauty for himself. Perhaps thinking it could help his chances, a purred rumble is sent her way, pleading and promising everything all at once.

K'zandir leans back against the wall for the barest of moment before he pushes himself forwards, hand reaching back behind him to steady himself, but all his attention is centered on the flight high above, even now, straining with his brown lifemate to lend his strength and support. Hazel-gold gaze settles on Deinha, watching, waiting, seeing first the girl... then Sebyaeth... then a flickering exchange of rider and dragon as he sees though his lifemate's--and his own--eyes.

Sebayeth> Sebayeth gives a garbled, pleased sound, near lost in the wind, as she climbs yet again, this time still faster than the first. As evening slips further into darkness, so glows her hide seemingly brighter against the stark relief made by encroaching night. Wings beat against the air in half-frenzied strokes in such a way that even her own size may be challenged, yet the queen is glorying in it all; such is clear from the smooth line of flight, the teasing flick of elongated tail as she makes another, wider arc. Nevermind that with the turn comes a faint slowing of pace, a faint falling-back of the gold's lead.

Sebayeth> Shepoth sweeps his gaze about the playing field, noting the position of his competitors, the distance to the shining form of his goal, and speeds the rhythmic tempo of his wingbeats to something more desperate. A sudden burst of that all-too-precious commodity - energy - and Shepoth surges forward as not the wind of the winter any longer but that of a desert storm, full of life and speed and a deadly earnestness, a drive to prove he's a notch above the rest. The violet fire of his gaze burned no brighter before than it does now as he speeds ahead with youthful, driven energy, neck extended after that teasing tail as he cuts across that arc with a tighter turn, compliments of his one advantage - agility. A long shot in the least, yet the sand-shaded brown appears quite willing to risk it all with the stakes being so high, the prize as grand as anything he could ever dream of.

Sebayeth> Brendaith beats his wings--not quickly, nay but powerfully--each stroking downsweep whooshing through the air followed swiflty by the swish of the upwards sweep of seemingly flame-cloaked pinons, the motion drawing him ever closer towards the head of the pack and closer to the dazzling aureate damsel that, while she is not in distress, could never the less use the comfort of his embrace, the supportive cradle of his wings. Flee not so, lovely gold, lest ye fall and injure thyself--his warbling dulect coon of symphony and song glides forwards on the air, preceding him as the umber brown follows through with the turn in heedless pursuit of the golden prize, every part of his frame reaching forwards, straining towards her as he seeks to reach her, and offer his comforting embrace.

Sebayeth> Nasmyth strives, body pulled stream-lined as he cuts and slices wings through the air. Ah, that need -- equal to his own, if not greater. She needs, she hungers, /he/ knows it. Blood fuels drive, heartbeat doubled, as R'ken lends his own will and determination to draw nearer. The turn and the obvious slowing - well, not so obvious, but to the practiced eye - prompts him to drop all reservations about giving his all. Soon he'll be in range, and with a few more hurried brushes of wings and a few twitches of wingfingers to adjust his angle as he comes about with the others, though from below, he /is/ in range. Up, up, up. She might see him to dodge, but his path is clear for this moment -- and so he draws on reserves and gives it his all, twisting body and extending limbs in invitation. It isn't quite as polite as he usually is, but flights're all too physical -- and definantly too lust-filled. Care to tangle, pretty lady?

Sebayeth> Jharzeth ignores the fatigue that threatens to engulf his tense muscles, surging despite the drain to what little strength remains; he pushes on, ever onwards. His lust flares, and the swelling emotion is echoed in his flight as he endeavors to increase speed by adding additional power and strength to each downstroke. Each movement, no matter how small, is calculated for advantage and conservation; the slight vaning of the broad wings in addition to a favorable wind brings him ahead of a tiring brown, and he hastens to retain his position with a small surge designed to bring him closer still to the gold and farther in front of the dusty-toned dragon. Metallicy glints off his hide as the dark bronze, silhouetted momentarily against the dying sun, sees the opportunity -- or what he perceives as an opportunity -- and moves, speeding towards the opening as he hurries to meet Sebayeth at the other end of her arc and cut off even a few yards; when she slows, he somehow manages another burst of the quickly dwindling speed, and the previous hunting horn-esque bugle softens to a inviting, hopeful warble as he seeks to twine tails and entangle wings, to draw the gold into his own embrace.

Anticipation? That does have a bad habit of happening to everyone, including the riders who's dragons are chasing. Chasing. Nearing. Breathing forcefully even, counting to himself in the section of his mind that's still his own, R'ken scoots back and stands, then steps over the chair and lets hands linger along the back, white-knuckled. Breath hitches as the moment elongates and he leans forward-- Ah, suspense!

T'ela actually stops breathing for a moment in anticipation as her body tenses with Shepoth's, leaning forward off the supporting comfort of the wall. Straining with limbs that aren't there towards a goal that doesn't exist for her, Tae's faze screws up into one in sympathy with the supreme effort being given.

J'kan stares in idle fascination at his own still-twitching hand before those pale sky-hued eyes find their way to Deinha, widening slightly before closing altogether, breaths heaved shallow and out of sync as he mumbles encouragements to his lifemate beneath his breath.

Sebayeth> What comes up, must come...well, perhaps not yet. All the same, Sebayeth's upward-striving is now impeded by the sudden slowing of wingbeats, rosy 'sails left extended a moment longer than typical in a quick, lovely flash of full-fledged, glowing beauty. Then, with a gentleness belied by the speed of the motion, she hangs back, back, left .... falling for open invitation of experienced brown limbs. Snared by Nasmyth.

Sebayeth> Shepoth doesn't bellow his disappointment - he hasn't the energy for it, truly. Straining body sags as he spills air to circle gingerly down towards the bowl below... one certain little brown is going to be paying for *this* experience all next sevenday.

Deinha's lashes suddenly fall shut; eyes squeezed closed for the space of a heartbeat or three before she reopens them. A wild, wild glance -- not to R'ken, but to O'kano -- with some unreadable intent. Then, her head swings over to Nasmyth's rider, and Deinha licks her lips in an attempt to steady the unbated rush of feelings. "Ken?" She holds out one hand, almost desperate, in his direction.

T'ela jerks off the wall like a puppet dancing to unseen strings, breath snapping back into her body in a rush. Gaze is still bleary as she spares a single glance for the successful rider and stumbles out, intent on getting some more work done on the handover she'd been working on.

Sebayeth> And he might be surprised, but Nasmyth -- isn't. He really, really isn't. After all, that complete confidence - up to the point that he fails to catch, at least - never wavers. And of those rare moments, he actually trumpets his success as limbs, neck, and tail twines possessively about Sebayeth's. He knew she needed him.

Abruptly, just as abruptly as Jharzeth swerves away and tiredly coasts off for his ledge, Puo comes back to the here-and-now. Blinking, slowly at first and then faster, the bronzerider shoots a returning glance towards Deinha, mirroring that same wildness he saw in hers. And then, pushing away from the wall, O'kano hurries away, tight-lipped and pale-faced, arms wrapped protectively over his torso.

"Dei." Weakly, acknowledging the win - little enthusiasm at first, given the state of his thoughts, but it blossoms swiftly - R'ken moves for the goldrider that's somehow, curiously, now his -- but only for the moment, for this brief time. Well, always expect the unexpected. He'll figure out some reason to be guilty later, but for now, it's give and take.

Her hair is straight, shiny, a touch on the long side, and a beautiful dark brown in color. Bound and plaited, it's kept under fierce control -- if one ignores the wisps that slip out here and there, the too-short tendrils that are tucked primly behind her ears. The constantly tied hair leaves her face relatively unmasked, and actually tends to emphasize a faintly feline cheekbone structure, bringing out the wideness of blue eyes. She's about average in height, perhaps a bit taller than most her age, and rather slender in figure. Soft curves are more evident than in previous Turns, and fair complexion (born of a life indoors) has given way to a light tan that makes the blue of her eyes seem just a little more pronounced. Despite her slight tan, the occasional blushes still stand out (rather prettily, some might say).

Simple, undyed leathers now grace Deinha's slender form. Although the color might leave something to be desired, they hide dirt well, keep out the chill of Starmountian skies, and fit rather nicely. In fact, the leathers flatter the young woman's figure: curves are emphasized while the slim form is shown off in the admittedly rather snug attire. Said attire consists of a sleekly cut jacket when outdoors, a comfortably insulating tunic in the day's chosen color, and form-fitting trous, tucked neatly into sturdy boots.

With soft lines, slim lines, each feature delicate and yet possessed of a certainty in its placement, she is poised, smoothly gleaming in subtly striated ripples of honey and amber; her hide glistens warmly, the metallic undertones flickering like dew across the golden flesh. The hint of yellow tipped rose painting her muzzle trickles back between her eyeridges in a galaxy-like sworling blaze, drifting in a clouded haze to tinge her headknobs with the faintest dawning pink. Tail, talon, and wings are each a bit overlarge for her petite frame just now. Her tail slips in prehensile fashion, slender, deft, and quite long, behind her while her talons, dark like teakwood, scrape at the ground as she moves. Her wings are lined with purest amber tones, the gemtone brilliance fading as it bleeds onto her wingsails and, like a morning flower, blossoms suddenly to a gloriously warm dawning gold that is so tinted with veining red as to flare to rose when caught full in the light. There's a certain natural grace about the young queen's movements, for all the lengthy proportions.

Pure rose dribbles, dips, slides snugly over likewise rosed golden hide. Natural pinks, drifting over golden expanse, are brought out yet further by the richly dyed straps -- these a suitably softened, yet dutifully strong length of passenger protection. Loops are strategically placed to assist in mounting as may be needed, and the straps are as well-oiled as the dragon's hide beneath.

Thick locks of sun-bleached oak sweep neatly over his angular countenance, cropped close against the high forehead, a few trailing roguishly above striking eyes of greying azure. A dash of freckling accents aristocratic nose, trailing off into nothingness about lips of too-pale iced rose, whispered mouth a dramatic contrast to darkly tanned skin, all too often found in a frown rather than the more appealing smile. Tall, his lanky frame fills out nicely, although a few reminders of a gangly adolescence still remain in occasional moments of clumsiness.

Ebon paints the wherhide leathers a deep, unrelenting shade of deepest darkness and shimmies down lanky legs before tucking into calf-high, fur-lined boots. A wide, leather belt, complete with loops undoubtedly used for flight, secures the leathers about the waist; a plain tunic, ivory in color, falls from shoulders and half-covers the sturdy wherhide strip. Black dye shades the bulky jacket as well, and when it's unbuttoned a glimpse of fur lining can be spotted; a high collar protects against the ever-present cold and several deep pockets often bulge with gloves, completing the ensemble.

Volcanic glass, chipped with precision, melds over the carved planes of his chiseled form while brisk angularity edges each curve. Nowhere is this sharpness so apparent as in the head he holds with silent, near-menacing pride, where his muzzle narrows so exquisitely that the sheen of bronzed metallicy awards him the facade of a blade honed to perfection. Translucent green enamel and gold dust overlay a core of darkness like the obsidian that gives him his shape; it lends him a hazy half-presence, not so much shadow as mirage.

Flashing, dark klah colored eyes peer out of a slender yet fierce face. Chin length dark brown hair frames her rather pale face. The expression most common on her face is a frown, as though she was annalyzing everything and everyone. Much like her face, her body, though of average height, is fierce and hard as well, full of wiry muscle over rather skinny bones. Not an ounce of fat covers her body, and she could almost be called unhealthy in her thinness, if one has not seen the way she eats. Several scars are along her body, if one look hard enough. She appears to be about 22 Turns, 6 months, and 25 days.

T'ela is wearing long, light brown cloth pants and a long sleeved leather tunic of an almost cream color. Sturdy, well worn black boots fit well, and seem to get quite a bit of use. A rather beat-up looking furlined jacket is wrapped firmly about her slender body, the collar reaching up to her chin, and the hem hanging down to mid-hip level. On her shoulder is the black, silver and purple long-tailed double corded Starmount knot of a wingrider, laced through with a ribbon of pale brown, and on her jacket is the patch of the Tempest wing.

Desert sand breezes across the hide of this lithe dragon, pinpoints of ecru swirling against the brown of burnt almonds. The sprinkles are sparse about his neck, only to thicken and gather into shadowed dunes across his withers and flanks.Down his tail and legs drips the sandy color in abstrast clouds, an hourglass tipped and spilled over gentle grassy hills. For indeed, here and there an oasis of fresh green peeks through the dunes, until the sand gives way to baked emerald at his tailtip and toes. Hazel dervishes and duststorms of dun dance lightly across wings just a bit overly large for his whiplike body. Tiny starbursts of aged bone white flicker across his belly in constellations that shift with each ofhis slowly deliberate movements. His head is held high and proudly, a single splash of sand covering one eye and cheek, though brown darkens along the length of his triangular head, his muzzle ending in a deep mahogany.

Shepoth appears to be wide awake, eyes spinning. They whirl a slow, contented green. Simple, black straps cut across the desert of Shepoth's brown hide, each piece carefully sewn against the next. Plain silver buckles gleam in the light from a recent shining. Shepoth is 5 Turns, 8 months, and 7 days old, and He measures 33.2 meters in length, with a wingspan of 55.11 meters.

A score and some Turns of life, love and worries have engraved lines of those experiences into K'zandir's tanned face. Smokey-brown hair, touched with strands of silver here and there, is cropped short, curling slightly at his neck and forehead. Long and lean, he stands just under six feet tall, an almost aura of authority and dedication clothes his well-muscled frame. But it is his face that is the most striking. Powerful, with a strong aquiline nose and a cleft chin, and an air of seeming sterness that is belied by the mischief dancing in his hazel-gold eyes. Crows feet, deeply etched, at the corners of his eyes and deep laugh lines about his thin-lipped mouth also betray that stern repose. He is a man who smiles often and loves laughter. At 26 Turns of age, K'zandir is in the prime of his life, beyond the boyishness of his youth, but still young enough in looks.

Skiens of ruddy-brown and gold tints bathe the hide of this rangy brown's hide with a lusturous sheen like sisal strands or the flickering flames of a fire. Darker toning to shadowed-swept mahogany flicker across his wind strong wings--a cloak of flames that swathes semi-transparent wingsails and upper back. An umber-brown shade of color splashes his throat and underbelly as if painted on... or woven into the tapestry of brown that make up this dragon's luminous hide. A dazzling portrayal of passionate embers of the flames bound up in one dragonic body.

Sun-bleached hair - having once been some shades darker, but now lighter along the top though remaining dark brown near the roots - is cropped short, usually brushed back in some form of neatness. This hair resides - predictably enough - above a face, admittedly leaning somewhat towards the attractive; sharp edges, high cheekbones, somewhat gaunt cheeks, a slightly too-narrow nose, and thin lips that're most often found quirked into an absently amiable grin, occasionally revealing white teeth. Add to this quietly intelligent, heavy-lidded eyes - almond shaped and distinctly azure, with a ring of darker blue about the pupils - and the swarthy skin. Occasionally, it must be admitted, he forgets himself and a day or two's growth is visable at his chin, but no more then that. Last but not least, he's of average height and slightly better then average build, having grown lean as a rider. At a guess, 'Ken's likely somewhere in his mid-twenties.

He's clothed to the point of bulkieness, several thin layers meant to trap and hold heat in the uncertain frigid temperature. Slacks are heavy wherhide, belted snugly about trim-waist, and tucked into fur-lined, moisture-resistent boots. Tunic is of light material, brown-dyed with long-sleevs, but is usually hidden beneath a massive turtle-necked sweater knitted with - unsurprisingly - brown yarn. This is all usually accompnied by a jacket with fur-lined hood and cuffs, and gloves either worn or tucked into belt. The knot occasionally glimpsed is the intricate enough, twisted with Starmount's colors into an Assistent WeyrlingMaster's; through it is woven a strand of brown. The patch sewn to his jacket is that of the Storm Wing.

It is with an inborn dignity and poise that this brown takes any sort of action. He lacks not for confidence, nor intelligence, nor any of those things that make for a calm and capable personality; his pace is unhurried, his movements, unrushed. This gives you ample time to feast your eyes on his exquisite hide. Viewed from afar, he seems to have the sleek, dark cast of polished mahogany; seeing him up close, however, gives one a good look at the swirls of burnt sienna that wind themselves through the brown-black base of his coat. The more varied hue of hazel puts in an appearance on the undersides of his wings--shifting in tincture from green, to grey, to gold in but a moment, never the same color twice. Only he seems unaware of his natural beauty; he's much too interested in things other then himself, and he's the last thing he's always cared about, anyways.

The promise of a bright, cheery vitality rests within a slim, willowy frame, and within every bouncy step that it takes. Nearly everything about this man who reaches up to six feet and then some screams of youth and amiability, despite the fact that he seems to be getting on in his turns. Thirty, at the oldest, one might guess by the gentle lines forming around those wide eyes caused by smiling too brightly and too often. Framed by long, dark lashes that must be the envy of every woman on Pern, his eyes are a deep, flawless blue the color of a cloudless sky on a sunny day. The color falters only where the gentle twinkle of silver surrounds the pupils. A fair-skinned face, evidence of living in cold climates for most of his life, is a sharp contrast to the dark ebony of his shiny locks, kept short and in neat order, though still long enough to run fingers through in the nervous gesture so common to him. That fair face is far from devastatingly handsome yet quite good-looking just the same, with it's narrow nose and finely chiseled features, complete with the oft-worn blinding smile.

His clothes are plain, and rather odd for Starmount's climate. A long-sleeved tunic is made of a thin, wispy material that had been dyed some indescribable brown ages ago, and has since faded to a nice, equally nondescript tan. The neck is left gaping open a bit, just wide enough to show off the tiny silver pendant worn around his neck with the little bronze stone dangling from the end. Black trousers are also old and worn rather thin, as evidenced by the off-color patch on one of the knees, and tucked into the tops of undyed wherhide boots that are left only partially laced-up. On one hand is worn an intricately carved silver ring that is rather old, and rarely seen /not/ on his finger.

The knot pinned to his shoulder is made of two cords, one a forest green and the other black, twining about each other and the wide bronze ribbon between them, forming three loops and ending in two gold tassels. The knot marks him as Starmount's Weyrleader, the bronze ribbon for his lifemate, Anceth, and the slim gold threading within the knot also showing him to be a Wingleader. The badge pinned just below the knot is that of the Spiral Winds Wing. If one were to try and make an accurate guess, they might say that the Bronzerider appears to be rougly 30 Turns, 3 months, and 18 days old.