Unrepentant (Citayzleat is 'Searched')

Fort Weyr - Kralkth's Weyr
Up too high and too precarious for the taste of most, this ledge has obviously been long-abandoned. Once impressive, it was a double-weyr — until one was walled in with stone and plaster. Several windows and a large, heavy door are set into the thick stone brick wall, only slightly more recently, if their aged look is any indication. The second cave's entrance is only partially confined, a low stone wall leaving a dragon-width entrance. The plaster on both walls is sunny yellow, but fading and flaking wildly with age, leaving huge patches of grey stone and mortar. Narrow but long, the ledge is painstakingly evened into several terraces with carved staircases; compensating for a significant slope between the two halves of dragonweyr and human living quarters. The last owner was clearly something of a gardener — in various states of disrepair, pots and tubs and stone pits hold the remnants of dead plants and old soil all up and down the ledge. If they were still living, they would certainly take advantage of the south-facing ledge's ample sunlight! As it is, Kralkth will reap those benefits.


Autumn has finally settled in on the northern continent, and while Half Moon is certainly no less bearable than any other day with its sunny blue skies and cloying heat, Fort is— "Fucking cold." R'hyn chatters the words over a stiff wind as they burst from between, complaint in his tone if utterly lacking in his gaze as he peers over Xermiltoth's side, irises flicking behind goggles to spy just the right weyr and - ah, there! Xermiltoth banks hard, forcing R'hyn to clench his thighs around the bronze's neck, a sharp 'whoop!' preceding a guilty look over one shoulder at Citazyleat and a slap to diamond-dazzled hide. « WE LAND. HAPPY HUNTING, » Xermiltoth croons as he banks towards the targeted weyr, progress slow enough to let a sullen green, frisky blue, and growly brown depart, riders offering various takes on single-fingered salutes as Xermiltoth wings to take their space. « SUCH CHARMING WOMEN. EPITOMES OF MOTHERHOOD, TRULY, » the bronze drawls to Ryn and Cita both, affection taking the edge off his tone as he dips a wing for an easy exit. « THOUGH I COMMEND THEIR ABILITIES. MORIZANTH'S SAYS THEY ARE FED AND NAPPING SO MAYBE DON'T MAKE TOO MUCH NOISE I MEAN YOU YOU BIG DUMB IDIO— » A beat, in which the bronze seems to realize just who Morizanth is talking about and then, sheepishly: « Anyways, they are fed and sleeping in the second bedroom. I will await Teimyrth's. » And off he goes the second bags have been unclipped from his side, R'hyn hoisting them up on one shoulder before flicking a bright grin down at Cita, chin tilting weyrwards. "Ready?" Because he might not be, elated and nervous still even though he's undeniably been here countless times in the scant number of days since the babies' births. It's perhaps the first time he's brought anyone outside the immediate family to the weyr, and the concept of showing off something that's his is still shiny and new and thrilling enough he might honestly be humming as he leads the way upstairs. Gross. Truly. Put him out of his misery before he makes us all sick.

That high-pitched noise that might be sheerest despair coming from beneath the second scarf wrapped around Citayzleat's face might be "Fuck." but it also might be some other invective. It's really hard to tell between the goggles and the sheer amount of things shielding the healer from the (likely not even all that) cold. Banking doesn't seem to bother Cita; she lets the straps handle it, jostling around like a roly-poly sack of tubers. Only when they land does the healer pull the scarves enough that she can speak with a little clarity, patting Xermi's wing affectionately as she unbuckles and swings down. "You're not too loud, Xermi. No better time than the present to get used to you, anyways." She hums, standing close enough to the dragon that she's shielded from the high-up wind. "I haven't missed this. Never thought I'd have to come back." Still muffled, the journeyman grumbles, squinting balefully down across the Weyrbowl. Sure, it's not actually miserable, and the wind isn't nearly as cold as it will be soon enough, but it's cold enough to warrant Cita's distraction and irritation in the moment before Ryn speaks again. The complexities of the look that she tosses the rider as he starts up the stairs are lost to the fuzzy-warm scarf, but Cita's eyes crinkle up in a grin just as soon as his back's turned; and he can probably hear the laugh as they head up the stairs. "If you wake them up, you'll regret it." She calls, uncharacteristically singsong, tromping along and all but jostling the bronzer aside if he doesn't hurry his ass in out of the cold. She'll get back to the feelings and awe and sheer bubbly joy just as soon as she's warm again.

Xermiltoth beams bright and thankful thoughts into Cita's head as he goes, likely about blinding her with the sheer number of fizzing diamonds that flash into her mind. He doesn't speak again, but there just might come a quiet, pleasant beat in the backs of their minds, one that evolves slowly into a complex a capella melody of a sort, one R'hyn ignores in favor of snorting over at the healer for her complaints. "I don't mind it much usually, it's a nice change of pace from the neverending sauna back home, but shells. Spent half the day on the sands just to come to this." He, too, is hunkered down into actual layers, and though his riding jacket is unzipped, his shoulders are still hunched up inside a bulky sweater with a scarf curled up to his ears. "You'll regret it, morelike," he argues back, laughing when his sedate pace sets her to jostling at him, more than willing to budge back at her with a free elbow and then race for the top of the stairs with a none-too-gallant, "Last one to the top gets to change the diapers!" And in case she thought he was a gentleman, he even turns to chuck her duffel bag at her, cutting loose a sharp bark of laughter before he resumes his madcap dash for the top.

Not too loud indeed — that bright spray of diamonds flashing might be familiar, but it still throws Cita off enough that she stumbles a little, bumping into a giant paper-mache statue of. Something. Somebody? Wearing a giant floppy hat. "Shells." The healer edges around the statue, shooting R'hyn an amused look and shedding outer layers into neat piles on furniture, then tables. "Sauna's better than the freezer. You could hang meat out there!" She stage-whispers, dramatic, throwing the final scarf onto the last pile and re-starting her jostling run after the bronzer — only to get whacked in the chest by her bag. This, apparently, is enough to spark a competitive jaunt in Cita. Or maybe it just pisses her off. That laughter is incredulous, as she bolts up the creaky stairs after R'hyn, tossing the bag aside carelessly. Remember that there are babies sleeping up there? Now how would she manage that, when she's so busy working on checking the bronzer into the wall like she's six-foot-five and three hundred pounds. It might not be as effective, or even land right, but the journeyman's scrappy. SHE'LL WIN THIS. Or she'll take him down with her. "CHEATER."

R'hyn is only a half-step in front of Cita, and indeed, that statue is enough to give anyone pause, enough so that haste is temporarily abandoned to examine the thing with morbid curiosity. "Shells ain't the half of it," he murmurs, plucking at a black fur-lined cloak on the thing's shoulders, squinting real hard to make sense of the mangled attempt at facial features, or perhaps get a better look at- "Is that real hair?" Blink. Blink blink. And then a wary squint. "Is that their weyrleader?" He, too, begins disrobing, but his attention is so focused that a pat-patting hand puts his jacket half-on, half-off a chair and hangs his scarf on dead air, at which point it promptly crumples to the floor. "Cita, what've I gotten myself into?" Still, there are races to win and Cita's to trick and babies to see, and you know, two out of three ain't bad. He might get that head-start, but it's soon lost to the same woman that landed on his back and beat him with a shoe and really you would think he'd learn, but no, here's R'hyn, rolling with laughter as he's taken out of the running by not-nearly-enough Citayzleat to actually do much damage, but more than enough to surprise him into staggering and clutching at ribs. "Agh, I'm a cheater?!" Wheeze-cackle. "You're a cheater. And-" snickerinhale "-a really shit healer. Damn. You do know most've my injuries to date are from you, right?" This as he aims snatch-and-grabs at ankles in a half-hearted attempt to trip her up, even as he scrambles up the last few stairs - in second place! There he collapses just as carelessly, just as noisily, chuckling through a stitch in his side as he catches his breath and squints a playful squint over at the healer. Whatever bullshit he was about to spew, though, is cut short by a noise from the half-open bedroom door nearby, a soft childish sound that whips R'hyn's head around with an almost audible crack, a quirky sort of grin tugging at the corners of the bronzer's mouth. Its effect is rather ruined by the finger he pushes to his lips in Cita's direction, the soundless roll to his feet stark in contrast to their lumbering crash up the stairs as he sidles to the door and eases it open with one hip, to reveal a series of cribs and one little wiggler that isn't nearly as asleep as she was rumored to be (WONDER WHY, R'HYN). "C'mere, sunshine," he drawls low, features soft as he carefully Heribly up in hands that suddenly seem too big, tucking the swaddled babe up into his arms before shifting back out of the room to continue to talk over soft, squeaky noises. "You remember auntie Cita, right? She told your mommy to shut the fuck up and push, didn't she? Yes she did." Blue-grey eyes finally flick up towards the healer in question, bright but warm as he adds, "And I bet you auntie Cita'd give anything to hold you right now, wouldn't she?" And really it's more of an offer than a tease, arms already shifting to allow the little sleepy little squish to be taken.

Cue triumphant cackling from Cita, who looks like she might stomp on the hands grabbing for her ankles. Or at least feint it, threateningly. "Yes! You can't start a race with a handicap. A bag! At my head!" She huffs, untruthful, and a little out of breath. Mostly from giggling, helpless, jostling for position in the last moment before they arrive at the top of the stairs. "Don't be a baby, R'hyn! It's not a good look on a father." She cackles, but keeps her voice a little hushed, in spite of their loud huff-breathing and you know. All the thumping and creaking of the stairs. "You —" That noise is easily caught, and Ryn's response to get gets a snort of laughter, soft and amused. Jabbing a finger in the bronzer's direction, and then over her own lips, Cita flashes wide eyes and a playfully threatening look: you be quiet. Creeping on soft feet, the healer follows him into the room, evening out her breaths enough that she's calm by the time she nears the cribs, peering into them with a million-watt grin becoming more and more common. "Yes, I did. She was being a whiner. Yes, she was." The journeyman croons, sidling up alongside R'hyn and peering down at the little bundle of infant. The attempt at a stoic facade is terrible, really, and lasts about until impatience gets the best of her and she looks like she might take the baby if R'hyn doesn't pass her on. He speaks, though, and Cita twitches a little, wide-eyed. "I'd give Ila your body back, but I'd still have to kill you if you didn't." She singsongs, soft and sweet, briefly leaning on his arm in silent appreciation before accepting the baby. Silence stretches, then, while Cita adjusts the little head in the crook of her arm and brushes the opposite hand down the side of her face. "Well, you look healthy." Eventually, she coughs, delicate and obviously an attempt at discreet. Definitely not a frog in her throat, or anything like that. No need to be paying any attention to the little cracks here and there. "No notable jaundice. Look at that nose." The last seems involuntary; or at least the healer winces, caught, and shoots a look at R'hyn. Well, in for a quarter-mark — Cita pokes the nose in question, huffing under her breath.

Heryn, UNREPENTANT. He doesn't rise to her baiting, instead summing up his feelings on cheating and being a baby in a subtle flipping of the bird that he waggles up and down at her entire person before distraction comes in the form of teeny tiny cuteness. It's all over, then, as he gently shifts the baby into Citayzleat's arms, hovering close still as though unwilling or unable to truly give his daughter - his daughter - adequate space now that he's acknowledged her. "Your auntie Cita likes threatening to bodily harm your daddy. You're going to have to defend me, you know," he murmurs, voice still trying for baby-voice cuteness but perhaps going a little soft around the edges here or there as one oversized hand smooths over dark whisps of hair, thumb brushing soothingly over a brow that tries to knit with renewed squirms and tinny-whiny noises, palm only withdrawing when Cita moves to touch the baby's face instead, grin shifting constantly between small and fond and so wide it hurts when the touch quiets the little nugget again, tongue poking out with a healthy slop of drool. Cutest. And R'hyn definitely isn't quiet through all of this because his throat is tight either, nope. Instead he huffs laughter through his nose, blue-grey gaze still riveted on tiny little hands with tiny little nails that raise to bat ineffectually at her own face, at Cita's person, and about anything and that nose. R'hyn actually laughs for that, a quiet facsimile of his usual barking laughter, but present just the same as he peeks right back at the healer, and it's almost impressive, the difference Heribly makes by merely existing in the bronzerider's space. It's not that he's terribly closed off anyways, not with Cita, but there's a sort of carefreeness about the quality of his expression, a distinct lack of the need to try at it, that somehow makes the difference between this warmth and the sort of regard he usually shows the woman. "What about it," he pokes, tilting his head to peer down at it, voice gently teasing as he pretends to assess it. "Hmm. It is, perhaps, a little on the pointy side. Hopefully she gets her mommas and not mine." There comes a hum from the bronzerider, a long stretch of silence, and then Xermiltoth's song changes, subtle enough to reinsert himself back into the equation. Again R'hyn's mood shifts, body giving him away as he thinks words over, a small frown ever-so-gently knitting his forehead as he looks at Cita again, a budding question evident in his gaze before it flickers out and he sighs with a minute shake of his head and a refocus on Heribly with a low-voiced, "She's beautiful."

Citayzleat, ALSO UNREPENTANT. No regrets. Only the flash of a smirk in R'hyn's direction as she sways a little, attempting to soothe the whining. "Girls have got to stick together, hmm? Plenty of us, now. Your —" Beat. "Sister will be on our side, too, hmm?" And apparently her touch helps, and that widens the healer's eyes a little — shock fleeting, and not even hidden is the pleased little shimmy. Clearly, she's Good. However, gloating isn't on the table, because who can feel anything past blinding joy when faced with such a tiny person? Such a tiny person who might just have R'hyn's nose, or his chin, or maybe she's just seeing things or imagining them. That bloopy drool might as well be gold, for all the grinning Cita's doing; and the full-on giggle the pat-patting elicits from the healer. Well. Clearly, nobody is coming out of this experience with much dignity, but who needs that? Ryn's laughing, too, and the journeyman glances over at the other cribs just-in-case, before turning her attention back to the tot blep-ing happily in her grasp. Then the rider. Then the baby. Back and forth it goes, and to say that Cita's similarly lacking in reservations is entirely fair — she doesn't even dash away the suspicious shine in her eyes, instead cants her chin up and twitches an eyebrow amusedly. "It's cute. Cuter than either of yours." A beat of silence, and she tickles a cheek with soft fingers, face scrunching up with something approaching an undignified, girlish squee. Xermi's presence drifting back into the corners of her awareness picks Cita's attention up, and she turns her head in the dragon's general direction, smiling happily. "Perfect." The Cita-stamp-of-approval is generously given, completely oblivious to the inner machinations of R'hyn's mind, but not those faces. Those get a cant of her head as she angles her body back around, swaying a little with the infant. He's got her attention, dragged away from those perfect little fingers for long enough to cant her head to the side. "What?"

"She will," R'hyn agrees of the sisters banding together, perhaps already envisioning it judging by the sliver of ruefulness to his tone as his gaze tracks over to the quiet cribs nearby, "two of them, to hear the ladies talk of it. We're all doomed." And yet, if this is to be his demise, he accepts it willingly, chuckling under his breath for Cita's victory-shimmy even as he finally tears himself away to find a clean, folded rag to use to dab at the blep-mess at the corners of Heribly's… well, everything. There's been a bit of drool-smearing in all of that pat-patting, and R'hyn makes a face that's half-grin, half-wince as he offers the towel up to the healer once the babe is spittle-free. As for dignity, BAH; what happens in Fort stays in Fort, because Heryn is enjoying Cita as much as she is him, beaming for her first glance, scrunching up the corners of his eyes for the second, and finally breaking with a laugh and a downwards glance in the end, one hand ruffling through his hair because not this mutual crying stuff again just kidding here we go huff before he's back to hogging up their personal space, aiming to catch a teeny tiny hand around his finger. "Undeniably," he says, voice thick with the attempt to repress emotion as he twiddles his finger in Heri's teensy grasp, lips quirking up on one side. "Ibsy's is even cuter though. Her daddy says it's 'cause she's got her mommy's genes, but we all know better, don't we baby?," he asks gently of the blurbling beeb, gaze fondly tracking over to the crib that evidently contains Ibsyglei. There's a moment's vacillation in which he nearly goes to fetch said sibling, but no, she's asleep, and better off that way, especially given R'hyn's suddenly awkward shift, gaze tooling around the room as though suddenly finding everything else massively interesting - Lerik's mobile, that chip in the ceiling, motion in the bowl beyond the window, Cita's shoes, and finally, Heribly again. It's hard to tell if the rider draws strength from her or from his dragon, as the bronze's mind slowly surges with song, the occasional soft twinkle sparkling here or there, but draw it he does, gaze sliding slowly, slowly up until his eyes catch on Cita's and hold. "What if… At some point… That is to say…" A sigh, and a roll of his eyes for the sudden lack of knowing how to phrase what he wants to say, staring at somewhere over her shoulder before he tries again, gaze going quiet and intense in a way he's picked up from his weyrmate for sure, that extra sense of gravity pushing him through. "I know it wasn't easy the first time around. A lot happened, a lot changed, and in the end you were still… you," he says expressively, both to emphasize that being 'you' was good - better than good - perfect - but also, in a sense, a little heartbreaking. "And I know you've been working your ass off and it can't be any easier to consider a major life change now than it was then, but… I'm not the only one with children that need cared for," he says, breaking his gaze to dwarf Heribly's tiny hand in his again, observing tiny, pale fingers wrapped around just one of his before the corners of his lips quirk up, quiet and crooked. "There's eggs on those sands, Cita, and this time they're Xermiltoth's, and I - we - would be remiss if we didn't ask you to stand for them."

Turning again, slowly, swaying into it like a tree in a storm, Cita surveys the cribs — with something like proprietary pride, eyes scrunching up delightedly. Babies! There are just so many babies present, and nobody to take them away from her right now. "Can't believe there are three of them." She laughs, including the little boy with a happily-slanted look. "I wonder if we'll get him for winters." Wistful, the healer hums, completely and entirely missing R'hyn's internal anguish. There are much more important things to consider, like baby-snatching, as Cita tucks Heribly closer to herself and drifts around the cribs once the spit-wiping routine finishes. They might both be crying, but Cita doesn't even look like she notices, too busy observing the infants with a happy hum. The healer's gaze drifts over each infant, carefully categorizing every feature and checking for problems, but evidently finding none, she eventually re-focuses. On R'hyn's remarkably shifty expression. When he finally manages to settle, she holds his gaze, eyebrows pulling in with worry to cloud happiness over. The worry diminishes a little for the stumbling over words (a fleeting, amused look is slanted down to Heribly; your daddy is dumb but we love him right?), but she keeps her vigilant watch on the rider's face, wary. He's focused again, though, and doing an intense thing that sets her teeth on edge — the healer stills, but then starts again at some noise or other from the baby, bouncing gently on the balls of her feet. The words, though? Any second now, Heribly's going to pick up on the abrupt change, more than likely. A sharp inhale, eyes widen, and Cita kind of twitches, letting her gaze skitter right on anywhere but Ryn's face. Nope. The direction of the conversation is clear. Poor guy is broadcasting his approach far and wide, and for a long moment, it looks like anger might win out before he even finishes talking. She draws in a sharp breath, blows it out, lips thinning and eyes resolutely settling on the diaper pail in the corner. Tact keeps her trap shut until he finishes, and the anger slowly fades from the healer's face, leaving flat blankness behind for a beat of slow bouncing and watching the infant grip R'hyn's finger. "And what if I did Impress?" The question comes after a lengthy silence, rough and catching on the edges with sorrow. Cita finally draws her attention back to the infant she's holding, and keeps it there, arranging clothing gently. "Weyrlings don't get a lot of free time." Not said: a great many things. Things that will probably not see the light of day, if the fidgeting and purposefully slow, settling breaths have anything to say about it. Also not said: appealing to her affection for Xermiltoth, and waiting until she had an armful of baby probably are the only things keeping the journeyman from flying off into a temper. As it is, her shoulders sag, and she sighs, unsuccessfully attempting to arrange her expression into one not belonging to somebody whose dog's just been eaten by a wher. "Do you really think this is the right time to be throwing that around?" Whether it's an attempt at humor or an accusation isn't real clear, but Cita lifts Heribly's feet up pointedly. REALLY. NOW?

"If you impress," Ila'den drawls from the doorway, leaning with his shoulder pressed to the frame, arms across his chest, one booted leg crossed before the other and resting on protected toes, "then you'll make a damn fine dragonrider, Citayzleat." A beat, and then, "Or a terrifying one. And you might even be lucky enough to get a name that's a whole lot less of a mouthful than Citayzleat. Like Itayzleat. Think about that." BECAUSE THAT 'C' MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD. And what is Ila'den, if not a man born to ruin all those sweet touching moments between friends. But despite the ever present, husky growl that is just his voice, the bronzerider's expression is mutedly soft, his attention less on weyrmate or weyrmate-by-proxy and more on the infant child that the potential candidate is holding cradled in her arms. That's his daughter, just as much as it is R'hyn's, and it's hard to look away from her so that he can lift his eye to Cita's, even if she's not looking at him, but he does it. Slowly, lingeringly, his focal point shifts, and there he holds, with just as much intensity as R'hyn had only moments before. There's a hint of his usual smile then: roguish, deviant, speaking of mischief with no less adoration as he tacks on, "And R'hyn is asking you because it's polite to seem like you have a say in the matter, but you don't really have a choice." And maybe that's why he's blocking the way out. Because he's an asshole. S'A NICE INFIRMARY YOU HAVE IN HALF MOON BAY, CITA. BE A SHAME IF SOMEBODY… DRAGGED MUD ALL THROUGH IT.

R'hyn can't believe it, either, and says as much in a low, wry drawl, sarcasm belied by a fond smile that's half-smirk, half-dimple, all pride to match Cita's and then some as his gaze bounces around the people - tiny people - occupying the room with them. "I hope so," he says of Leia's son wintering with them, "We'll need the strength in numbers." The rider follows when Citayzleat breaks away, if only to take a moment to lean on Lerik's crib, hands folded in the air as he peers down at the borrowed sibling, 'hm'ing a pleasant little 'hm' to himself as he tucks the errant end of a blanket up around the babe's sleeping form before sidling back to the edges of the room. Alas, contentment fades fast, replaced at first by awkwardness, then wariness, concern, settling somewhere right around 'grave' as Cita finally finds words in response to the offer and R'hyn's not entirely sure what he expected, but somehow, impossibly, this wasn't it. The finger held in Heribly's grasp continues to wiggle, thumb shifting to soothe over teensy knuckles as, predictably, the baby makes with the unhappy squeaks and fidgets, not quite upset just yet but well on her way. R'hyn hears the healer out in silence before flicking his gaze up to skim over sorrow-ridden features, sharing in her sadness, something that might be apology in his eyes before he puffs out a breath and shrugs. "Seemed like the best time to me. You can't beat the shit out of me with your shoe when you're holding my baby," he says, trying for jovial and missing it by a mile as his hand finally withdraws, both palms sliding into pockets even as his big body shifts in response to some gravitational pull - Ila'den's pull - as the bronzerider speaks from his position in the doorway. R'hyn isn't nearly surprised enough by the bronzer's sudden presence; if anything, it eases the tension of worry back out of his shoulders, lip-quirk small but visible for bad jokes meant to ruin the moment. Blue-grey eyes catch and hold on the man's visage, more intent on watching Ila watch their daughter for a long moment before finally, finally his gaze shifts back over to Citazyleat with another lopsided shrug. "I'm not throwing anything around, Cita," Ryn says, totally deadpan as he adds, "but he might."

Cita doesn't toss baby Herry, but that's healer's instincts to not make sudden movements more than anything — she twitches a little when Ila appears in the doorway, somehow having evaded the creaking terrible stairs to surprise her. Maybe she's a little distracted. Maybe. Immediately the healer opens her mouth to riposte, but snaps it shut with narrowed eyes and something like a harrumph, shoulders rounding defensively. "Maybe just Cita." She grumbles, adding swaying back into the routine to attempt to soothe the fussing she's set off. "Sorry, love, sorry. Your daddies aren't very smart sometimes. We'll just have to smarten them up, won't we? I bet they want to hold you, too, hmm? Sweet face like that." She murmurs, gentle, still trying valiantly for something less heavy and falling somewhat short, and does lift her gaze back up to meet Ila's after a moment, serious. The seriousness lasts for all of a few seconds before he speaks and she twitches, and there's a growl in her voice that's pitched sweet-high when she speaks again, eyes a little wide. "Try me." Which, honestly, isn't the brightest thing to say to Ila, but Cita's not always the smartest person in the room. After a beat of humming something jaunty under her breath and swaying, glaring murderously at the bronzerider, she turns a little back up to Heryn, huffing under her breath. "You underestimate me. I only need one arm for that. Don't I, sweetheart. You're just a little thing." Croon, croon, she goes, batting her lashes at the baby and tickling her side. If nothing else, she can deflect the situation by hiding behind a baby, right? It's going around, maybe. She looks a little bit like she might like to bum-rush Ila and escape with the baby in tow, running off to bribe some dragon to take her far away from either of her men, intent on ruining her life. The urge to escape is not, apparently, as strong as the urge to stick around and bask in the babies, though, even if she's got screams trying to shake out of her or a deep-set need to not be here. Those, she settles with more humming and swaying, definitely not giving Heribly up even if they both have their World's Happiest Dad faces on. This is hers — searching out differences in the three tots, or similarities, or contemplating something past anything presently happening. Staring at the babies and naught else, the healer is quiet for a long beat, eventually sighing. "Isn't this enough?" Wistful, more plaintive than probably intended, Cita glances between both of the riders, jaw set.

"Why am I always the bad guy?" Ila'den asks R'hyn - though there's no shortage of amusement in his tone; it's punctuated by the low, rumbling laughter that escapes him despite Cita's temper (or maybe because of Cita's temper) even when he's aware that he Shouldn't Poke The Bear. Either way, Ila'den listens to the healer speak, attentive even while his grey eye strays back to his daughter and lingers there while the healer makes threats Ila'den knows better than to dismiss. One, two, three, and Ila'den is slowly pushing away from where he leans, to cross the space separating him from Citayzleat and Heribly, and doing the most unwise thing he has ever done by reaching into the proverbial lion(ness)'s den to extract the infant. And she can fight him, but… well… WE ALL KNOW ILA IS A BADGER. He doesn't care if all the babies wake up; he is a man on a mission. "Cita," he says softly, the tip of one digit pressing to Heribly's delicate nose and down to her lips before he passes the bundle of new-child back into her empty crib. And he crowds her with his body, because that is what Ila'den does, while he smiles. "R'hyn is the one who will talk feelings with you, little bird. He's good at it. Me? I'm just here to make sure you accept that knot." And so he's doing exactly what you would expect him to do: hauling Cita up and over one shoulder ALL MANLY IN THE FACE OF POSSIBLE MURDER AS he turns to smile at his weyrmate and says in an almost sing-song tone, "Don't forget her knot." And THERE HE GOES. HAULING HER OUT OF THE WEYR. She can probably escape, and she can definitely pummel him with fists, but he's going to do his best to not let her go. And stuff.

Again R'hyn rolls his shoulders, this time at Ila'den, chin tilting with a slow look up and down the rider's person before he drawls a wry, borderline-flirtatious, "What can I say. You wear it so well." There it is, a flare of real amusement flickering back into his eyes, eyes that are still cautious as they slide back in Citayzleat's direction, but have lost their harrowed edge. Instead he winces for the sing-songed challenge, murmuring a low, "Now you're in for it," under his breath. He ain't even worried about whether or not Cita can clobber him one-handed or not, because already Ila'den is moving, and for once it's not him on the other side of the visible intent to be picked up and carted off. He knows that gleam in his weyrmate's eye, and can only fix the healer with a long look for that wistful question, edges softening for a brief moment, a small lip-twitch accompanying a low, "Of course it is, but there's always something more." Something like Ila'den crowding her space and commandeering her destiny by tossing her over one shoulder, and that tiny smile flicks outwards into a real grin as he extracts one hand to waggle fingers after them. "I wouldn't dream of it," he replies with a wink, but doesn't immediately follow, instead turning to settle Heribly's blankets about her and soothe her back to sleep with the assistance of soft, dazzling flickers underlaid with music from Xermiltoth, who has just enough mindspace to spare to bespeak Cita with a warm, gold-rushed, « THANK YOU, CITAYZLEAT, FOR BEING OUR CANDIDATE. » All of theirs.

This is Citayzleat's fate in life: having some sort of Moment with her Feelings Parts, and having one or both of her men completely distracting her from the plot. Maybe it's for the best. Cita's not one for performing best under the stress of Feelings. "Ila." Sigh. "Ila." No, there he goes, and there Herry goes, and there she goes. Riding Ila like he's a prized pony, only not in the fun way, but the 'this is entirely undignified what impressions are you giving the children' kind of way. "Something more? Isn't this enough?" That floats backwards down the hall, or stairs, or wherever she's being taken — wherever she'll probably eventually corral the bronzer into some sort of Talk. This time the words are longsuffering, but fond, and she doesn't even try to elbow him in his face as she watches Ryn's face retreat, looking all smiley and stupid. She doesn't contradict Xermi either — who would have the heart to really hurt any one of them. There are too many babies around for meanness. Well. "One day I'm going to haul your ass, and I don't want to hear a word out of you." Ila.


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