Butt'face and Abominath the Snowdragon

Day 11 of Month 10 of Turn 2714
High Reaches Hold - Courtyard
Dark grey flagstones march in even lines, stone touching stone, forming the wide expanse of the main courtyard of High Reaches Hold. A tall wall runs along the outside of the area, pushing back the resilient northern vegetation, and providing definition to the area. Beyond the wall, a large field stretches out - perfect for visiting dragons and hold gathers - and in the distance, recently constructed cotholds line the road. A small guardhouse sits near the gate, providing token protection to the hold's inhabitants.

It MIGHT be late afternoon, but for all that one can tell it might well be morning or evening or really any hour that isn't shrouded in darkness because all anybody can see for miles is snow. Fuck Ila'den's usual joke of 'six to eight inches' - this is a full on late autumn blizzard come to bury the hold alive. The only reason R'hyn knows it's afternoon is because of the lower-spine, numb-butt pain he's got going on from a day full of meetings, meetings that were not-nearly-rushed-enough to get the entourage from Half Moon gone before the weather set in. "T-t-this is r-r-ridiculous," he chatters probably not loud enough to be heard over howling winds, but how he tries. Xermiltoth to the rescue. « MINE SAYS THIS IS RIDICULOUS, » the dragon says, eyes lidded once even as he sticks his face right into the wind and more-or-less fascinates in the stinging of the snow. « I AM INCLINED TO AGREE. » It's still fucking cold though, and though R'hyn's thanking Faranth for leathers, it's still not enough. He's trying to unpack and get them inside to where it's warm and proper so the dragons can lumber to somewhere vaguely-protected, but can he feel his fingers? Does he even HAVE FINGERS anymore or have they broken off and he just doesn't know it yet? HE sure doesn't know. "Fuuuck thiiiis."

It could also be Day 65, Lost In The Frozen Tundra, for all Citayla knows. Even in her warmer pair of leathers, the ones with fur lining and wool felting and a scarf twice as tall as she is, the goldrider is unhappy. "I-I-'mmmm-muh-muh dying." She chatters, high-pitched and nigh on wailing over the cutting wind. "Fuck all of-f-f you. I h-h-hhhate y-" And she's done. She can't even finish it, too busy making hissing, spitty shivering noises. Ilyscaeth is a beacon of warmth and — well, not a whole lot of sympathy, actually. No, she's got a powerful wonder going on about the snow, delighted and only a little cold. « Don't be a hatchling, Xemiltoth. Mine's. » The gold murmurs, half of her attention completely gone on the way the wind blows the snow and the feeling of it crunching between her toes. This, she shares, delighted, feeling all of it gleefully. « Like sand, but not. It crunches. » She observes, crouching a little to observe the ground. Pay attention to her rider, R'hyn, and their plight? No. Pass. Cita whines, probably loudly enough to be heard over the crunching and the wind. "I-f-f we survi-ii-ve, m'go-n-n-na ki-hill y-you all." The junior kicks at the nearest door, uselessly probably. "LET US IN!"

"F-fuck us? W-w-w-" EXHALE, one that freezes before his very eyes he'd swear to it, "W-what'd we d-do?" Even Xermiltoth's sunbright thoughts aren't enough to alleviate the rider of his misery - he points a grumpy look at both dragons as, unburdened, the bronze pushes against the wind to join Ilyscaeth. « THAT IS DROLL, COMING FROM YOU. » An image of her fresh out of the shell, stumbling about rocket-ship-style in her bright silver egg, implication clear: she is a hatchling still! Perhaps forever! Or perhaps not, because he's only teasing, allowing the image to blow away with the wind. « IT IS LIKE TEIMYRTH'S MIND ONLY BETTER. » Because something isn't trying to tear out your insides, and maybe that's why they're so damn tolerant of it all - when you live with a basilisk blizzard, what's a little snow? « I HAVE SEEN HUMANS MAKE SMALLER, ROUNDER HUMANS WITH IT. LIKE SANDHOLDS, BUT PEOPLE. » He tries to demonstrate, bless him, mounding up snow with enormous paws and… pretty much succeeding only in making a great big PILE of crunchy, stomped snow but this is fine. R'hyn, meanwhile, doesn't even dignify poor Cita with an answer. He merely hoists his bags over one shoulder and books it to the door the weyrwoman is attempting to kick in like some kind of fee-fi-fo-ing giant. Leans past her. Twists the knob. Gestures for her to enter ahead LIKE AN ASSHOLE. "Q-q-quick b-b-b'fore they yell at us f'r-r leavin' the snow c'come in." Half-shouted because JESUS H., HIGH REACHES, WHY.

Ilyscaeth probably cares about her rider, and also probably about R'hyn, but she doesn't really have the time for them. The imagery of her tiny self gets a rebuff of dazzling starlight, nebulous forms flashing bright and too-fast to really see. She doesn't have the attention to form a more formal diss, but a flash of tiny-Xermi passing out mid-rant, a little hazy secondhand-and-further-back will have to suffice. "Your f-f—-fffffault." She finally finishes the sentence, determined enough to power through the ridiculous shivers wracking her body. It's definitely over-the-top, but blizzard. « YOU'RE RIGHT! » Ily laughs, a booming noise even louder than that gust of wind, moaning through the various parts of the hold. « I like his mind. I like the snow, too. Oh, » Is that a snow-person? Ily craaaanes her head down, eyes whirring fast, gleeful. « MORE! » She orders, already rearing back to shovel some, herself. Help Cita? She's good here. Cita doesn't need help, either, she needs to be able to feel whatever damage she just did to her faranth-forsaken foot. Did she snap it clean off? Maybe. Who knows. The door doesn't move until R'hyn opens it, either, and Cita piles through it fast enough that she stumbles and takes a running fall into the floor. It doesn't seem to bother her, really. Neither did that SASS, which she SAW, R'HYN. "W-h-hat are the-ey gonna do? W-w-w-w," She pauses, inhales whatever is closest to her on the floor, where she remain, either too tired to get up, too bundled, or just too lazy. "We outr-rank them." This seems to bring her comfort, at least, as she lowers her face to the floor and makes a noise eerily similar to a dying herdbeast. He can get the door, right? Right.

MENTAL GASP. « TELL CITAYZLEAT TO KEEP HER THOUGHTS TO HERSELF, » Xermiltoth laughs, mental quill scratching a big black 'X' over and over the surface of her thoughts before scribbling horribly over that mental image of him as a baby. NEVER HAPPENED. NOPE. "Your f-f-fault," R'hyn gripes back because really he wouldn't even be here if not for her wing so there! Thhbt! Can she even hear the retort over the wind? Probably not. Undeterred, Xermiltoth continues piling snow, mind singing sunbeam words into Ily's. « I LIKE IT WHEN IT'S ALL WOODSMOKE AND GREEN TREES. » He tries to imitate it, but his rendering is golden, snowglobe-esque it its imperfection. It fades fast, replaced by rampant amusement at the gold's willingness to join in snowbuilding. « YOU MAKE THE SNOWHUMAN. I WILL MAKE THEIR DRAGON. » Oh boy. How many ways can this go horribly, as the bronze starts digging with both paws to heap snow high before jumping more-or-less on top of it to stomp it down with not-nearly-dextrous-enough paws. "Y-youuu outr-r-rank them," R'hyn chatters with a stiff point in her direction. Down there. On the floor. He's too cold to properly mock her, WOE. "I j-j-just work here. Fuck." The latter because he really can't handle the door okay - it's heavy for one, and he's half-frozen for two, and it's windy as fuck for three and somewhere between this perfect storm of STORMAGE he's just going to… hold it halfway and dig his toes in and try not to lose the inches he's gained. He's totally not slowly sliding backwards I don't know WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT (he is though, he totally is). This is how it ends. They're going to freeze to death in this hallway and they'll find their corpses come SPRING.

Rise gotten, Ilyscaeth laughs, not in wild abandon but slow, deliberate. She pretends to think it over, nebulous whales turning in lazy circles as she endures the wind and driving snow without so much as a shiver. « No. » The queen hums eventually, smug as shit. And there's another: tiny Xermiltoth, snout to snout with Teimyrth, words to a forgotten argument blurred with time. Amusement thrums in a climbing scale of piano and strings as Cita refuses to stir, making herself at home and utterly useless, also, on the floor. It's cold, but compared to the blustery day happening a few feet away? Paradise. "Wrong." Grits out like it takes a lot of effort to speak clearly; just this, though, no further explanation except a boot pointed very, well, pointedly in Ilyscaeth's direction. Out of the door, which is still open. « That's good too. » Ily doesn't mock Xermi for his poor rendition of Tei's mind, at least, accepting the snowglobe with an amused rumble of distant thunder. « His is better. » She points out, flashing a few layers of eyelid over her eyes and staring at her pile of snow. It's not really proportional, but — honestly, what to do but make the human even bigger? There it goes, growing! Giant human! « How about a big one. I bet I can make a bigger human. » Than what? The dragon? WHY NOT. DON'T TEST HER. "I'm-m-m-m-mmmmm," Whine. It doesn't help to bring her arm up to shield her head, because snow, and now she's writhing, like some sort of pile of angry misery, kicking her feet and snow all around. "g-g-going back t-to the infirmary permanently, a-and you can't st-t-top me." The pile that is probably still Citayla moans, finally finding a wall to prop against — warmth! Sort of! She curls up against it, still completely useless. Help? Absolutely not. How is she supposed to get up off of the floor, she can't feel her legs. "O-or we d-d-diiiiiiieeeee here." Muffled by the wall or not, she's feeling a little sorry for herself. Don't mind her. She's just going to carry on with that dying to the Uncaring Frozen North thing. "Ily's g-g-gonna be so sad." Right. That's what she'd be. Ilyscaeth? She's not worried. She's trying, vaguely, to form the top of the snow-mound into what might be a head. Or a butt. Hard to tell. « It looks like Mine's! » Oh. Rude.

Xermiltoth's mind runs melody around her scale, evocative of songs hummed to eggs, little eggs, so many eggs, an image he lets slip from his mind to hers casually, just a glimpse at the corner of thoughts though so edged with mental laughter that it could only have been on purpose. HE'S GONNA BEAT YOU AND YOUR ONE-TWO CITA PUNCH. Just try him!! Give him a few turns and it'll all be a draconic wash like everything else, left for R'hyn to remember and Xermiltoth to steal, but for now it's all his. Fight him! "G-g-good point," R'hyn still chatters as he peers to follow her booted indication, staring for a long moment at the pair of dragons building snowblobs in the midst of howling winds before shaking his head and doing his damnedest to shove the door again. Grunt. HEAVE. GO GO GADGET TRACTION? No? Okay then. He'll just slowly let the pressure of his shoulder against the door give, sliiiding down its length to knees, hip, pathetic. « OF COURSE HIS IS BETTER. IT'S HIS, » Xermiltoth rumbles good-naturedly, but he focuses a little harder and adds a passel of tumbling kittens under one of the trees with a smug noise of contentment. « THERE. THAT'S BETTER. » And then she poses a CHALLENGE, and he's nothing if not game. « YOU'RE ON. » So much for public relations - the hold's gonna wake up to Buttface Bunyan and Abominath the Snowdragon at this rate as the bronze goes whole-hog and flops into the snow to best spread wings and use his entire self to drag more snow into place. It's safe to say that Cita and Ryn are probably just fine and merely whiny little babies because he's also supremely unconcerned about anything except guffawing at Ilyscaeth's creation and using jackrabbit kicks to mould his snow into place. Heryn, meanwhile, pushes feet against the far wall and tries again at closing the door, managing the few inches long legs buy before stilling again. "Yep. Gonna die here. Tell Ila I hated him the most."

Ilyscaeth's scales falter; this, evidently not something she can immediately counter, her own not-quite-memory of the thing long gone. The gold considers, absently piling the snow up higher, leaving wide swaths of muddy-bare ground in her wake. Evidently Cita's aware enough to share, though, because: newly-hatched Xermiltoth, looking like a kicked puppy on the sands, mournful and lost. It evidently doesn't occur to her that her own stumbling is considerably more damning. Look. Ily's good. « Kittens! » The gold laughs, and there are hers — spectral, glittering in starlight and nebulous energy, tumbling in an excited pile. Cita isn't even looking up from her cocoon of warmth, now, shoulders rounded and head tucked against the onslaught of the wind that R'hyn just keeps letting in. "C-c-c-can't you c-close the d-d-d-doo-or?" The junior cries, muffled probably by her arms and, y'know, the fact that she's not doing anything useful but hiding her whole person as well as she can. "So co-c-" Dramatic whine. "Cold." She'll just be here. Freezing to death. And on the eve of her first Official Visit to High Reaches, too! Alas, Citayla, at least she died not still being called Citayzleat. « YOU'RE on! » Meanwhile, completely uncaring, Ily blares trumpets and a fanfare of too many old church organs, possibly-accidentally smacking the bronze with her tail as she wheels, determined to complete Butt'face in a quickness. « Is your dragon a miniature one? Oh, no, I know, » Another flash of tiny-Xermi, all limbs akimbo, sleeping in the middle of the bowl. « Just a hatchling! Cute! » Bunyan-Ilaryn, meanwhile, is starting to resemble a yak. At least it's an improvement from 'pile of snow'? "W-wo-won't be alive t-t-to tell hi-im." Cita, meanwhile, kicks her feet in abject despair. "T-the babies." She sighs, mournful. "T-th-think they'll k-know that we l-l-l-loved them?" Evidently not enough to not get sent off to the Frozen North to freeze into popsicles, but, these things happen.

Poor, poor Teimyrth. I mean he deserves it a little bit, for this mockery of his mind's landscape to be filled with infinite kittens, howling winds and rending claws replaced with a scene right out of a Christmas story with kittens spilling from the sky and the trees and coalescing out of the smoke and tumbling in firework offshoots from even the fire. It's what he gets for being a dick sometimes, this vision of tiny things the bronze not-so-secretly loves romping gold and starry betwixt and between one another in merry mimicry of their weyr back home. The gold kittens might beat up on their celestial brethren juuuuuust a little bit for that stolen mental image but shhh. This is all fine. "Y-y-y-ou c-c-close it if you th-think you're so hot," R'hyn shoots back, but the plaintive whining hits the mark: he gathers what scraps of dramatic fortitude he has left, pushing up against the door and shoving backwards with his feet, slowly making progress against the battering wind and increasingly-drifting snow. Snow that Xermiltoth stops packing quite so high because oh. OH. RUDE. You don't just GO AROUND INSULTING ONE'S WORK LIKE THAT, ILYSCAETH. Xermiltoth circles atop his mound of maybe-hatchling, maybe-gator, points his muzzle right at Ilyscaeth, and kicks her man-yak over. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, "N-n-nope." R'hyn tries to quiet the chatter of teeth by biting his lip, and only succeeds at incidentally gnawing it instead, sighing and giving up with another heaving push. "T-they'll grow up r-r-resentin' us j-j-just like I do m-mine." He doesn't, really, but then again he also doesn't seem know he's managed to SHUT THE DOOR and is still angling his body and pushing against it, so… Just call him Ryn Snow. HE KNOWS NOTHING.

Teimyrth definitely deserves it. There's affection in the mockery, at least; and no small amount of unabashed delight, on Ily's part. Xermi's rendition of the bronze's mindkittens gets the vague impression of clapping, or at least rapt attention, the vastness of space widening into the yawning void and then collapsing, laser-focused, on the details. « HEY. » And, LIGHTNING. Then thunder. A whirl of light and noise and oh no you didn't, not the kittens. Even Cita startles a little, glancing up towards the door instinctively before sinking back into her misery. "I c-a-a-an't feel m-my l-l-l-legs." The goldrider kicks her feet vaguely, but makes a cheering kind of noise when the bronzerider manages to find it within himself to start to actually close the door. You can do it, Ryn! Cita believes in you! Or in that she doesn't want to become a popsicle. One. NOT THAT SHE HAS TO WORRY MUCH, because very suddenly Ilyscaeth's mind is a supernova of color and crackling heat, energy flashing out and out and « MY SNOW-HUMAN! » oh boy. Maybe if she was older she might have handled it differently. Maybe if she was any less itchy. MAYBE, if he hadn't KNOCKED HER BUTT'FACE OVER, Xermi wouldn't be on the receiving end of the mother of all football-tackles. Near-on a hundred and fifty feet of dragon, IN YO FACE, XERMI. « YOU KILLED IT! » She yells over the howling wind, and Cita visibly collects herself, sitting up a little and glaring at the door. Still, if Ily can ignore her, she can damn well ignore Ily. HRMPH. "I d-do-don't want them to h-h-hate us." The goldrider mourns, in her not-yet-puddle of snow. If you thought Xermiltoth's baby puppy-dog-eyes were bad! These aren't even earned, outside of the delusions of somebody who might be experiencing frostbite for the first time. Cita sniffs, dramatic. "You closed t-t-th-the d-d-door." The healer adds, after a moment of Reflective Silence. Look at that!

The little gold fluff bappa-bapping Ilyscaeth's starry mindcreature reflects Xermiltoth's whipcrack laughter, bouncing up and down rapidly on toe-tips, floofed-out tail curling and whipping about with a mind of its own before it RUNS AWAY the same way his mind does, a golden ship (starship? masted? maybe a little of both) fleeing the voidant collapse. « YOU STARTED IT, » the bronze crows, and while Cita might be startled enough to look R'hyn's had this shit in his head for over five turns now and is a shade more jaded. He soldiers on because he can only focus on one thing at a time and it's either the door or Xermiltoth and we all know what he's gonna pick okay. Besides, Xermiltoth's GOT THIS. His golden mind solidifies into a shield, literally, wielded Cap-style that he might brace himself behind it to withstand the vivid onslaught. He doesn't push back so much as inch forwards, step by creaking step, a halo of stunning gold rebuffing heat with warmth and shine and diamond-hard refractions of everything she's throwing at him - everything except herself. That Xermiltoth either wasn't expecting or was expecting but accepted his fate anyways, because way-too-many pounds of one of the biggest fucking golds on Pern hits him square in the schnoz and he takes it. « YOU INSULTED MINE. IT WAS THE LEAST HE DESERVED!, » the bronze shouts and it's on, paws grappling for purchase, wings twisting awkwardly to slap at any bit of the much-bigger gold he can find. « HAD I FIRESTONE, I'D'VE MELTED HIM INTO A PUDDLE INSTEAD! » Fightin' words!! And maybe I lied. Maybe R'hyn is a little caught up in the dazzle of enough diamonds and heat and bright colors enough to make his head spin because it takes a hot minute for even Citayla's words to kick in, for him to utter a "Huh?," and finally peer towards the nonexistant gap in the door. "Oh. G-good. 'Cause I don't know if I could'a d-done much more." Siiiideways he slumps to join her on the ground, worm-inching his way to flop against her (read: lay mostly on her) with a shiver and a theatric, "C-c-c'n they fire you for f-f-freezin' on the job?" Does Pern DO worker's comp for bits getting frozen off? "C-c-can goldriders even g-get fired?," more petulant because watch him get in trouble for piling this hallway full of freakin' snow and dropping it thirty degrees but her come off scott free. JUST WATCH. MMF. WIGGLE. MUMBLE. "Fire," the bronzer murmurs at least. "I want a fire. And s-soup. And f-five blankets. Someb-body's gotta have this sh-shit. C'mon." But note he's… not moving. Yet. I mean. That sideways sway might be an attempt to stand but it fails and therefore doesn't count. Saddest excuse for a human ever.

« I'LL DO WORSE TO YOU. HOLD STILL. » Ilyscaeth bellows, because he's moving a lot, and he won't hold still and take his licks, and she's gonna KICK HIS ASS if she has to SIT ON IT FIRST, enduring those wing-bats like a pro. « JUST BECAUSE YOU LACK ABILITY DOESN'T MEAN YOU GET TO PUNISH ME. » The gold adds in a flurry of color and sound — but it's just that, no yawning void. She's not really angry. Or well. She is. But she's not going to take Xermi's life. Yet. GIVE HER TIME. She's thrown the gauntlet, insulted not only Xermi's actual effort but his ability, and Ilyscaeth isn't gonna back down now! No, no, why would she do that. Instead, she coils all of her weight on her hind, and then springs, aiming several strong backwings (RIP, all of their snowy efforts) on tumpling the bronze over. Cita's given up on being able to see straight, and doesn't need to anyways, leaning listlessly against the wall and staring at R'hyn. "You s-saved us-s-s." Citayla sniffs, and if her cheeks weren't already red with cold, she'd be going a little ruddy around a wibblin' lip and big, teary eyes. "It's s-s-so c-cold." She adds, on a hiccup of purest misery, absently trying to dust snow off of her person. It's. Not entirely successful. "T-t-t," Hffbreath. "To dead t-to fire." The goldrider points out, because she still has some of her sense, even if it applies only to the completely overblown fear of dying in the middle of literally several hundred people. With not-actually-useless dragons right outside. "S-s-sent to H-Ho-Honshu f-fired?" Added, with quiet whimsy; she's old enough to retire to a life of luxurious not-ever-snow, right? RIGHT?? R'hyn's Wants List gets a long, mournful noise of deepest despair from the healer, whose legs are not working. At all. Probably ever again. "T-t-their s-soup is spicy. Warm." She points out, with a look that suggests she'd do a lot of unspeakable things for that soup. "Blankets." She adds, watching the sideways sway listlessly. "Ila." Is that a want? A suggestion on getting them out of here? A warning? Yes. Yes to all.

« IF YOU LACK ABILITY TO CATCH ME, WHY SHOULD I HOLD STILL FOR YOU TO RETURN SAID PUNISHMENT? » Hmm, ILYSCAETH? HMM> Riddle him that! If the bronze truly fears for his life, he doesn't much let it show - that shield bursts apart in blinding fractals, gold and white and black edges all catching and returning her colors back with a hiss and fizzle of maybe-lightning, maybe-fireworks that jumps, playful, from one corner of her mind to the other. And she… well, she succeeds in tumbling him alright, rolling draconic growls that sound an awful lot like laughter immediately preceding a launch of bronze dragon back into her person with a curl of shoulder and an amused croon. Gonna wreck not just their snow-folk but the entire courtyard? Prooobably. If R'hyn cares? It's kept in his brain-bits, whatever of them are left what with the dragons carrying on on the other side of that wall. "G-good point," he says of their being too dead to fire, brightening somewhat. "H-honshu. That'd-d-d be s-swell." And they'd be FREE of these diplomatic necessities to boot! This idea's sounding better and better as the seconds pass! But that's a long-game and R'hyn is rather thoroughly ensconced in the immediacy of the right now, which is to say he wants free of this damnable COLD, even if it means willing his entirely-rejecting-the-idea-of-locomotion body to move. It's the mention of Ila that finally does it, honestly, the bronzerider making a noise that'd be indecent if only it weren't followed by, "Y-yessss. He is warm." RIP ILA, ONLY LOVED FOR HIS BODY HEAT. "Okay. We've g-got this. S-soup, b-blankets, Ila." To his knees he rolls, ignoring the fact he still can't quite feel some of his fingers as he scoops them under Citayla's shoulders and legs, biting out a, "This's gonna hurt" before he hefts her up and promptly leans them both against the wall so he can gain his feet. Numb toes man. They are not the business. "Okay. Okay. We've got this," follows them the whole way down the hall, probably, but shh, who's counting okay? The point is he gets them somewhere that isn't here, ignoring warring dragons entirely in the efforts to be warm again and stay that way until the storm passes and they can make like trees and get the fuck outta there!

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