Stranger-Danger

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Weyrling Training Field
Near the tall black eastern wall of the crater is a cleared field. The earth there has been churned many times over by the landings and take offs of young dragons and only a few patches of grass cling to life in this active area. Wooden props and markers used to assist the weyrlings as they learn the precise maneuvers required for the rescue and protection work that the weyr is famous for, litter the training field. Close to the rimwall, in the east where the sun is usually shaded is a large wooden slat barracks for the weyrlings to live in. Tropical trees and shrubs have been allowed to grow here, perfuming the air with a floral scent.


Because CERTAIN PLAYERS are smarmy little jerks that think this is A GAME (oh wait, it is…), the setting is in the wee hours of the morning, time having only just creeped an hour or two past midnight. Most of the weyr is dead asleep, which makes it a perfect time to make an excursion with what is quite possibly the world's loudest lifemate. Indeed, R'hyn and Xermiltoth have sought refuge in the corner of the grounds closest to the bowl proper, the better to shield his mind from the sleeping weyrlings within. « BUT I DON'T UNDERSTAND, » Xermiltoth says in what might be his best conversational tone, which for everyone else is something shy of vocal-tearing levels of shouting. « IF WE NO LONGER FIGHT THE THREAD, WHY DO WE BOTHER EATING FIRESTONE AT ALL? » Somebody is overanalyzing a recent history lesson, asking in-depth questions his weyrling isn't ready to answer. "I dunno. That's a question for Irk or Czaiath." « YOU ALWAYS SAY THAT. » "I do when I don't know the right answer. Would you rather have an answer, or the right one?" At last! Stumped into silence! Xermiltoth's voice quiets, no longer deafening anyone in a twelve block radius, though it's still only too easy to follow the dazzle of diamonds that scatter about, for those unfortunate souls still awake at this hour.

Cita is not dead asleep, in spite of the very late hour. Cita is awake, and taking a walk to escape the ever-growing pile of books meant to help her prepare for her next bump in rank. Looking dressed for bed, the healer shuffles across the bowl, completely ignoring the dragony ruffled-feathers. Blanket over a shoulder, in completely the wrong part of the Weyr for sleeping unless she intends to commandeer an empty cot (MAYBE SHE DOES), Cita shuffles into the training grounds. "Heryn," The healer grins, obviously well-aware that the weyrling will be here. Come on, people at the Healer Hall probably hear Xermi, and even if not, there are the sparkles. "I did warn you." The brat. Rude. She has to rub her freedom in, obviously. "Xermiltoth, dragons can use fire for all sorts of things. I hear that the search and rescue wing does controlled burns," A beat. "…maybe not here." What would even burn, with all of the rain? Yeah, that's not going to happen, most likely. Know-it-all moment over, Cita offers the blanket to R'hyn wordlessly, grinning. What's it going to do, really, though. Annoy the bugs?

Flame. That is what can be seen as a small explosion is heard not far off at the edge of the field. Smoke seems to billow up from that direction as Derek steps out from it, covered in soot a bit as he hacks out a cough. His clothes seem to be a little singed from it, while he shakes his head a bit and seems to gather his faculties. Once he is in full control once more, he looks around in wild confusion after a moment. "This isn't where I left my cave."

Despite the fact that nobody sane should be up at these ungodly hours, Pritkin is. Imagine this: He's out for a run, minding his own business, when THREE VERY RUDE DRAGONS hedged him from the bowl and over towards the Training Field. He's only further lured to invade weyrling territory when CAPSDRAGON shares his overly loud (read: CUTE) thoughts with INNOCENT VIGOR. The guard peeks his head in, spots familiar faces, and goes about stepping in to join Cita and R'hyn's past-midnight rendezvous when KA-BLAM! There is fire, and magic, and DEREK POOFS INTO EXISTENCE LIKE A BLOODNINJA. The teenager pauses mid-step, to gape, stumbles backwards, and gives the ground one hell of a meeting with his tailbone. There /may/ or may not be some colorful words that follow, only ending on, "/Cave/?" STRANGER-DANGER. The unfortunate blonde with his unfortunate hair is slow to gain his feet, but he does, if only to minimalize the gap between himself and his former candidate fellows. "What are you two doing up?" he inquires, voice hushed as they jump from one, to the other, and settle with /pure unabashed awe/ on R'hyn's lifemate. Hewantsone.

Perhaps Xermi is just that loud, or perhaps R'hyn has tuned out the rest of the world due to the noise in the bowl beyond. Regardless, he startles, gaze jerking out of the middle distance to focus on the Healer. "Cita," he utters upon recognition, a smile initially pleased to see her dimming with caution and worry. "He didn't waken the entire resident hall again, did he?" This seems confirmed by the appearance of Pritkin just behind her, Heryn wincing apologetically his way. Unbothered even if he did waken half the damn weyr, Xermiltoth rolls to his feet with a wild scatter of diamonds for everyone's minds, thoughts thrashing and fighting one another to make their way to the top. « CITAYZLEAT, » he mind-shouts, using her full name since she insists on using Heryn's. « WE HAVE LEARNED SO MUCH SINCE WE LAST SAW YOU. » A beat, one underlined with flutters of black and gold as he listens, and then, « SHOW ME THIS CONTROLLED FIRE! » R'hyn sighs, pulling a harlequinned wing to draw the dragon's attention before — flame, explosions! R'hyn leaps to his feet in alarm, tugging Cita close by the arm extending a blanket his way, while Xermiltoth's eyes whirl with… fascination and excitement, and not a single bit of worry. Of course. « IS THAT CONTROLLED FIRE? IF IT IS, I'M READY. LET'S DO IT. » SPARKLE. SHINE. Heryn's face flattens in a 'no, dummy' expression for his dragon before his blue-grey eyes swivel up to the soot-covered Derek as he emerges. Cue a snort-cough of laughter. "Er, no, I would imagine it isn't. Are you okay?" The question is switched between Derek and Pritkin, considering the latter's fall, before his gaze finally settles on the guard. "I was trying to keep him from waking everyone with his voice." To which Xermiltoth issues a nigh-deafening, « WE WERE DISCUSSING FLAMING! » Does he want one so much now that his brain's ringing, complete with diamond-shaped imprints the like one gets from looking directly at a bright light? HMM?

While smoke brushes from Derek's clothes he seems to watch what transpires before him, and he takes a moment to unlatch a flask from his belt, before he takes a small drink from it. However loud it might be, he seems unbothered with little more than a flinch, as he slides a hand across his ear, "That was unpleasant, this definitely isn't where my cave is." He looks between the three which are there, "Hullo," he offers, while he places the object back at his hip. "My experiment was a success at least." He sees the three people that are there, then looks to where the dragons are.

"Pritkin!" Cita beams, all smiles, apparently delighted to see their former classmate. Except BOOM. This is all COMPLETELY NORMAL. Cita blinks at the flash of fire and smoke, and then Heryn is yanking her away, and the healer wobbles a little on her feet and gaping at the newcomer. "Where — what." A beat, and Cita frowns. "Cave? Are you drunk? The lagoon's that way, if you need to clear your head." The healer frowns as she points with her free arm, but apparently doesn't think the guy is dangerous at least; she doesn't fight to free herself, anyways, only eyes the fiery possible-drunk? warily. "I was studying. Are you okay? Shells, that looked painful." That's for Pritkin, eyes narrowed with concern for her friend. She catches that awestruck look and smiles, a little ruefully, finally turning to Xermi with tolerant amusement. Apparently, even if he is loud, this one is welcome to trespass in her brain-parts. "I'm glad you've learned, Xermiltoth." Patiently, the healer grins, eyes crinkling up a little. However, for the fire: "Mmmmayyybe not. You've got to wait 'til you're older, I think." The dreaded Parent Response. WOE. Absently patting R'hyn's hand, Cita huffs, eyeing the weyrling with amusement even as she HAS TO TWITCH BECAUSE OW. "I don't think he woke them up, before. Maybe now. Little louder for those in the back!"

Pritkin opens his mouth to respond, but doesn't get far, not when there's suddenly an adult bronze with eyes whirling red and maw agape to accommodate an ear-splitting scream. He looks rabid, tossing his head, growling, as that tail behind him thrashes and the monstrosity rounds on the new arrival: Derek. « YOU WILL NOT HURT MY WEAKLINGS. » Where usually Teimyrth is a private and reserved dragon, he doesn't bother to keep his mind voice one-on-one; this means that /everybody/ is getting to experience the sudden sensation of being mentally flayed, as invisible talons find homage in brittle human bones and teeth sink deep in muscle. The flurry of cold that follows is a blizzard, leaving mental frostbite along every nerve-ending. When he retreats, you can bet that anybody who was unlucky enough to be unsheltered by a lifemate will have a brain freeze, and suddenly Ila'den is there /too/. The bronzerider doesn't look silly, or amused, or friendly, or anything shy of homicidal when he's side-stepping Teimyrth, who has placed his massive body between Derek and the three-plus-baby-dragon in the corner. The rider's got a bow with arrow notched pointed straight at Derek's face - and he /doesn't/ look like he's aiming to maim if the opportunity presents itself. Every muscle in the bronzerider's body is taut, ready to chase if Derek tries to flee, and when he speaks, his voice is as icy as his lifemate's: "State your business." Grey eyes don't flicker once towards the trio tucked away, but it's obvious that Ila'den is checking on their wellbeing when suddenly Teimyrth drops that massive head, red whirling eyes spattering momentarily with white as he wuffles at Cita, then R'hyn, nosing Pritkin and then finally CAPSDRAGON. He seems satisfied, and emits another growl as his attention swings back to Derek.

The mental assault from that dragon when coupled with a bow which is nocked all of the sudden in his direction is enough to make most think twice. As in, Derek is unable to think, once or twice, as he reels back and lets out a small shout of defiance. He makes no hostile move, falling onto his rear, as he seems to look up to the bronze, and the bronzerider. He lets out a cough, his accent smoky a bit with an almost purr-like noise in it, "I heard a little noise and came to investigate," he manages to rasp out, while he brushes back his dark hair. He smacks his lips, "Derek, Journeyman Crafter and Chemist," he offers.

R'hyn is the master of overreactions, it's true. He likely didn't need to pull Cita around when clearly the explosion has done little to harm the person stepping out in its wake, but, well… maybe he's not as deaf to the chaos in the bowl as he initially seemed. Something is happening, something unwelcome enough that it summons Teimyrth into their midsts, the bronze weyrling's entire form going stiff with sudden alarm. Fingers tighten instinctively around Citayzleat's arm, his other hand shifting to get a better grip on Xermiltoth's wing as the elder bronze lets loose an ear-splitting shriek and, well. Though his mind is not as old, Xermiltoth is loud and bright and shining, and he is by no means afraid to throw his mental radiance against fangs, talons, and blizzards alike. Diamonds blaze white-hot, no longer happily dazzling, and one by one they explode in streaks of lightning. « YOU WILL NOT. » It would be so much more impressive if it weren't the dragon equivalent of a teacup yorkie going up against a bullmastiff, but you know. COUGH. « YOUR WEAKLINGS?! WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE PROTECTING US FROM, EXACTLY?! » Because there's nothing quite like inflicting the pain himself. "Xermi, don't." R'hyn's voice is quiet, brittle, fighting the good fight between mentally checking out and holding his ground. « NO, HE CAN'T. HE CAN'T JUST— » "Xermiltoth." Only then does the bronzeling fall silent, but VERY sullenly so, lightning still crackling around hot gold. It fizzes and snaps with agitation when the big bronze swings his head around to look at them all, but it's likely the concern bordering on fear that radiates off R'hyn in waves that keeps him in check. "Ila'den?" Blue-grey eyes likewise swing around present company, including the Derek's dropped form, but they land and linger on the bronzerider longest, trying his honest to Faranth damndest to take explanation before jumping to conclusion for once. The boy can learn!

Cita's first reaction to Teimryth's presence in their little corner of the 'grounds is to take a large step back — which obviously will help, in face of the giant dragon. The giant dragon and his shrieking. R'hyn's grip on her arm keeps Cita steady, but she gapes ridiculously all the same; terror, incredulity, rage, all present as the dragon bellows into their minds. The pain, rending, slashing, cold, distracts the healer for a long moment next. "Weaklings?!" Even holding her head with one hand, blanket forgotten, half curled into herself, Cita IS RAGE. The protective instinct of it apparently forgotten in the face of the hurt and also the INSULT, Citayzleat glares up at the dragon. Xermiltoth's response draws another wince and sharp look, but well, he's tiny. He's kind of adorable. Not that Teimryth isn't also adorable, but, the insult! Shells naw! Eeaaasing herself out in front of the little dragon, hands on hips, Cita eyes the larger bronze. "Just who you think you are! What gives you the right?" GLARE. Apparently finally noting Ila in the mix, the healer pauses her just-winding-up fit to blink, mystified. He has an arrow pointed at the possible-drunk's face. "Ila?" Echoing Heryn, Cita frowns, looking a little like she's lost the thread of this whole thing. He doesn't look like he's playing around, does he. And — huh. "Chemist?" Cita mumbles, frowning. "What's going on?" You know. The bow and all. The little details.

"You heard a /noise/," comes Ila'den's response to Derek, with no lack of sarcastic disbelief spared. But grey eyes are ever assessing, taking in the man's lack of hostility (which means nothing to Ila'den, clearly) and lingering on his knot. He pulls the bow tighter, as if he's heard /enough/, and then Teimyrth is there, again, this time only in Derek's mind as he rifles through memories and seems to find /nothing/. The sensation will be a far cry from pleasant for the Journeyman, but it's /brief/ and when the invasion is over, Teimyrth croons, low. Ila'den's bow-arm finally relaxes, dropping so that both bow and arrow are now directed towards the ground and /not/ Derek's face. "Welcome to Half Moon," he rasps, burr thick and the rasp of fury still catching at his words. Teimyrth, despite his rider's disappearance of aggression, still seems rather hostile. He is being chided by a baby dragon, and that massive maw drops to the ferociously brave little bronze, another wuffle spared before he invades again. Despite the still violent intrusion, his mindvoice is soft: a projection of gently falling snow, the scent of pine and winter combining as the promising coziness of a warm fire lingers. « There is danger, little one. That is all that my Ila wishes you to know. » Because /duh/, he's not trying to SOUND THE ALARM. There's already a pissed off blue and another pissed off bronze raising enough hell without his help. At the sound of his name, Ila'den finally chances looking away from Derek to focus on R'hyn. Whatever he finds in the weyrling's face elicits a sudden, inexplicable look of /hurt/, which is quickly closed off behind the brilliance of a smile - a smile that never reaches his eyes. "Just your local crazy," he breathes, but there's no playfulness in his tone despite a hint of self-depreciation. And then he's whistling low, and Teimyrth is pressing his maw into suddenly-furious Cita's stomach, /nosing/ her with what might be good humor - or a subtle hint for eyeridge scritches. "/No/, Teimyrth. You /cannot/ eat her," Ila'den suddenly breathes, and then he's pointing towards the barracks. "R'hyn, take Xermiltoth and stay inside. I /mean/ it," the last is rasped with a growl, as if there's something that /he/ might be afraid of too. "Teimyrth will stay here." And then sharp eyes are on Cita and Pritkin before he intones: "You two, with me. I will escort you home." A pause, a long look for Derek as if he hasn't fully decided to trust him yet, and then a gruff, "And you. /Now/. Come." CITA DO NOT SASS HIM. DOES THAT FACE LOOK LIKE IT'S IN A SASSING MOOD? NO. YOU DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD. Like Pritkin. Pritkin is doing what /he's/ told. YOU FOLLOW THAT EXAMPLE.

The whole situation seems to have caused Derek some extreme discomfort, because it is by this time that with a bow in his face, and more mental intrusion while he is reeling already, he seems to simply slump right backwards onto the ground and dirt once all the chatter and demands have been shouted out. One hand at his stomach and the other above him in the dirt. He is alive, but it seems unconscious for the time.

Tension. Lightning. Gold-plated steel that makes claws scrape in discordance. Xermiltoth doesn't back down, free wing cocking outwards in warning when Teimyrth leans in to whuffle at him again, but there just might be fractals showering from the edges of lightning strikes, the occasional firework of wonder mixed in with the spitting, his righteous indignance distracted by snow. « YOU COULD HAVE SAID SO WITHOUT HURTING MINE, » comes a sour shouted retort, the pot calling the kettle black as he adds, « YOU DON'T HAVE TO MAKE IT HURT. » Perhaps later, he'll realize how hypocritical that is, but for now he pulls his wing out of Heryn's grasp, pointedly turning his head away when Cita steps forward to take the elder bronze's attentions. R'hyn doesn't seem terribly up to arguing any points here - there are words enough flying about without dragging another outlying opinion into things, and there's a surprised blink for Derek going down for the count in a big way - but OH no. No. Ila'den doesn't get to go throwing around expressions like that and then expect him to flee like a puppy in the wake of a winter storm because he means it this time. "Hey," gets growled out, stiff posture dropped in favor of inserting himself into the bronzerider's path, stopping him with one hand if he has to. R'hyn's expression is thunderous at best, and there are words pitched low and growling, brows flicking expressively before he casts a last, flickering glance over the man and steps away again. "Let's go, Xerm. See you guys around," is added as though he isn't quite sure about that as he aims a nod at Pritkin and Citayzleat before leading his stubborn lifemate away. They likely won't even get a couple of steps before explosive gold-wrapped words start flowing again, but hopefully they'll be too self-involved to care - it's R'hyn's problem now, at any rate. R'hyn's and everyone he's just woken up in the barracks. Sigh.

The dragon. Is. Nuzzling her? Squinting warily into the giant whirring eye, Cita frowns, looking like she's trying to decide between thumping the bronze away and caving and giving him the scratches. But — "Wha - Eat me?!" SCOWL. Soft-squishy moment gone, kaput. Indignation! "I'd stick in your gullet, dragon." Grumble grumble she goes, but Ila gets a look that might be trying to be a smile. It suddenly doesn't much seem like a smiling kind of night. She misses the exchange between Heryn and Ila, but not Derek's fainting, and before she's thought it out she's stepping towards the poor fainted crafter. "Ila." Cita starts, watching Heryn go with concern for a moment before turning with a slightly rumpled brow to the older bronzerider. "I can check on him here, or the infirmary. Which do you prefer?" She's Totally Calm, never mind the blinding headache from dragon-fits of teeny and massive proportions. So calm. That eye ain't even twitching a little bit. "Faranth." SIGH.

"You have /got/ to be kidding me," comes Ila'den's low timber, as those grey eyes focus on Derek and the Journeyman goes DOWN. Ila'den slings his bow across his back, placing the arrow back in accompanying quiver /right/ as R'hyn approaches him and earns his attention instead. Whatever is exchanged between the two has Ila'den drawing back to /really/ look at the weyrling as if he hasn't seen him before, brows furrowed in evident confusion. There's something there, something more than simple disbelief, that has him opening his mouth and snapping it shut again. Is that a look of muted amazement? Maybe. Maybe it's something /more/. That's for another time; /now/ there are people to protect and MAGICIANS to escort home. Ila'den lowers himself into a crouch and hauls the passed out Derek over his shoulders while murmuring a distracted, "I like her too, Teimyrth. That doesn't mean you can /keep/ her." Tei's maw gapes, in what might be a smile, followed by another low croon, and then those eyes are furious swirling red as he moves to stand guard over TINY BABY DRAGONS, BOTH FIERCE AND SLEEPY ALIKE. (WOO RUNON SENTENCE) There's Cita, all fired up Healer, commanding the scene like she was born to lead and the first one to elicit a /real/ smile out of Ila'den. The affection is clear, the amusement muted, but both dissipate quickly in the wake of their situation. "Infirmary," he murmurs, and then he's bringing his free arm round her shoulders to give her a very gentle push in the direction they need to be headed. "Stay close," he breathes, and it's for both Pritkin and Cita, as the bronzerider takes large steps /away/.

Derek looks quite handsome when he is asleep, that is if people care about his looks. You might think he is the worst looking thing since threadfall. The man's dusky skin has a fine sheen of sweat on it from being harried mentally, and his black clothes are singed a bit. On him are a few things that might lead one to believe he is indeed a Chemist, or a Magician. Who knows. The badge definitely manages to mark him as a Crafter. Made in silver, which is no cheap thing, and the Smith Crafters sigil on it.


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