A long, long time ago in a weyr far away…
Fort Weyr - Scenic Overlook * Sheltered Cavern
To get to this room first you must walk up a long and perilous staircase, and move through a sturdy wooden door. Once you do that, however…
Distinct bands of deep brown and black work their way across the low ceiling, and act almost like columns along the sides of this room. The stone has been polished to a high sheen, perfectly smooth as it follows the natural contours of this cavern. Thin gauzy panels of fabric have been hung from ceiling to floor in cascading complementary colors. The fabrics roll and flutter beneath the invisible air currents which occasionally push their way into the cavern. Nestled coves of curving benches and pillow piles can be found stashed in the semi-private coves between the waving fabrics. Light filters through the thin fabrics, creating a surreal if peaceful daytime scene while lit from a few spots unobtrusive along the ceiling at night. At the back of the cavern are two heavy wooden doors while farther forward it looks like there is a larger opening.

« COME FIX THIS. » That's Ilyscaeth. Not that anybody who recognizes the gold in the slightest would not recognize the voice. Or the giant, glowing golden figure clinging like some sort of very exceedingly angry barnacle to one of Fort's spires. She might be mirroring Cita's mood, or have simply lost all of her ability to give a damn about the brains of those around her and the not-exploding thereof. Maybe it's because Citayla is in Distress. Why she thought it was a good idea to walk up the spire through the snow, we might never know. (hint: the proddy probably had something to do with it. or the pregaming on the whiskey she's been doing.) WE MIGHT NEVER KNOW. The results, though…well. Cita. Obviously cold. Not seeming to mind, but also, well. Trying her hardest to light a fire using one of the pillows. It's not working, because gues who never learned a damn thing in those wilderness outings? CITA. She's striking the back of her beltknife against a flint, and sparks are raining down on the gaudy magenta pillow, but they fizzle in the air. "LIGHT!" The goldrider yells every time they spark and die, stomping a still snow-covered boot and snarling increasingly rude invectives under her breath. Cue Ilyscaeth, a storm raging above the gentle snowstorm, lightning and thunder and suddenly those mental whales and kittens aren't nearly so friendly, seeking, dragging, demanding. « FIX THIS. » She repeats, and it's anybody's guess as to what they're supposed to be fixing. The mental image provided //is at least of the Spire's little niche, settled below Ily's claws, but the snow. The climb! Woe! "Light, damn you!" Citayla stomps a foot and growls, crouching closer to the pillow. Getting warmer. Well. RIP pillow, probably.

Something. Needs. Fixing. That's the impression Garouth is getting, anyhow. Not that he's from around here. Or from around Ilyscaeth's native stomping grounds. Oh no, Garouth is from a different continent than either the person or the place, and yet. There are /shadows// cast beneath those storms, the darkness of Garouth's mind cold like the snow. Like the air here, where Garouth is - had been - flying for perfectly innocent reasons that have to do with training exercises and practicing in different climates. But no, that practice for rescues must be interrupted, because there is a REAL GENUINE CRISIS. ILSCAETH RELATED. Well. Citayla related, but that's related to Ilyscaeth for what should be obvious reasons and… « We come. » It's no glorious promise of aid, more a notice that HEY there's a brindle-hided bronze who's coming in for a landing on that spire, and maybe golds who do not want to be USED AS CLAWHOLDS should be aware of that fact so they don't end up in front of claws. See? Here's his flightpath, provided for the convience of the tower-clinging gold. Who, yes, is loud, but… Garouth is used to that, okay? He's had practice. Just like he's had practice landing on cliffs and sinking ships and other unsteady surfaces. The ice is relatively unfamiliar, hence his desire to train in it, but hey. He's got this, maybe. So - maybe - does D'lei, tucked into the straps on his back. MAYBE. WHO KNOWS? NOT THEM.

Shadows don't concern Ilyscaeth; not a lot, actually, concerns Ilyscaeth, just now. With the vague impression of agenothree and ozone, the gold sends out howling winds and crackling lightning, determined tugs on the psyche of Cita's own. Garouth? He'll do, too. « YOU COME QUICKER. » Ilyscaeth orders, whipcrack, and move? YOU move. The vague impression of tremendous bodily harm seethes to the surface, before — something catches her attention. "Stop that." Cita breaks from her arson attempts and glances up at the ceiling, scowling. "You'll hurt yourself, idiot. You'll die in your flight." She snaps, smacking the knife and flint together with particular ire. « No. » Ilyscaeth doesn't budge, stubborn and determined; this is her spot. « Find your own. » This is close to Cita. Cita who, bereft of any fucks to give to continue the pointless line with her dragon, goes back to trying to light the pillow on fire. Finally! A spark lands on a bit of lint and catches, leaving a tiny ember burning in the luxurious pile. "FIRE!" Cita screeches, triumphant. They can probably hear her down in the caverns. The ember spreads, a little, but without much reason to light, fizzles out. This screech, too, is probably plenty audible. "LIGHT, DAMN YOU." We're back on this. Well. Nobody said Cita needed a new repertoire.

« I would be quicker if you moved. » There's no ire from Garouth, merely a statement of cold hard facts before he sweeps on, cupping his wings to veer against the wind and shift past. There's that bridge, yes? He can make a landing there, with one hindpaw extended to catch like he's an airplane coming in to the hook on the carrier, a bronze body draped over it - hope this thing has been load tested! - and forepaw hooked over the other side. Hope nobody else needs to use this bridge, because Garouth is STRADDLING IT GOOD. Aww yeah. Hug that bridge! He's got this, definitely. D'lei unhooks from his straps, holding on as Garouth settles - whooops, there's a bit of ice, it's okay - and… okay. There we go! Stable, for the moment. Garouth digs his claws into the bridge as he extends his neck out, reaching toward that niche as D'lei digs around on his straps because… hey, he's come prepared! Okay, admittedly, the pack he tosses over his shoulders is meant more for sea rescues than land, more tropical than frozen, but it's still a rescue kit. HE'S GOT THIS. And he stands up on Garouth's back, taking a moment to get his balance before he runs right up that dragon neck, jumping from ridge to ridge as the bronze holds still for him. Because, well, he is used to sea rescues, where there isn't a place to stand that isn't water. And the water here may be frozen, but it's still a bad idea to stand on it, so. UP HE RUNS! And into the niche, where there is…. fire? "…uh." Yep. There's a goldrider! Unsurprisingly, given the gold outside. Also unsurprisingly, it's Citayla! Which D'lei takes in as he shuts the door whose breeze is probably directly responsible for that flame guttering out because what kind of help is he, WORST RESCUER. But he is at least trying to redeem himself, by which we mean swinging the pack off his back to offer a weird silver blanket thing that crackles and is also weird (but warm), which he shoves toward Citayla like it's going to ward her off… or at least it might help her keep warm, and not die of hypothermia, and not have Ilyscaeth blame Garouth for not being fast enough, and not drag him with her to the icy pits of between where they will die in the cold and all because NO FIRE FOR YOU. So. "Here." Thermal blanket? No murders or accidental weather related deaths? KTHX.

REST ASSURED THAT RISALI IS HERE. SOMEWHERE. The where is the real mystery here (she's probably drunk crawling under a table somewhere and biting somebody's inner thigh, because why only be inappropriate when you can be completely shamelessly inappropriate?), but it's UNIMPORTANT because there's another dragon that is not an over-enthusiastic gold (who is probably home babysitting baby dragon eggs and giving Garouth a day off or MAYBE NOT because what are timelines and how hard are those eggs even, WHO KNOWS), and is not brindled-hide and shadows who is reaching out with the blizzard of his mind - a harsh howl gentled to the flurry of freshly fallen snow, smelling of pine and fire because he's talking to Ilyscaeth who he's got a total dragon crush on and it's stupid - to COVER UP WHALES AND KITTENS BECAUSE CALM DOWN. « There is one with you. » But there's no ire in that brain-freeze, talon grip of mindvoice as it soothes over Ilyscaeth's; it's merely an acknowledgement that maybe he is no longer needed (though he heard her, and he is here should that change (and should Garouth get the hell off of that bridge (and D'lei's sexy rescue rescues not be good enough))). Buuuut? Well, there's a shift in one of the shadows, because of course Ila'den has been there the whole time watching Citayla be miserable (because maybe he thought it was cute or something or MAYBE HE'S JUST ILA or MAYBE HE'S A BASTARD), and of course he's only speaking up now that there's another man on the scene to… not make fires, but to provide thermal blankets. "I don't think yelling at it's going to help, little bird," Ila'den drawls in that harsh, husky burr, stepping free of whatever was occupying him to take in D'lei with that lone grey eye and - a shift in demeanor, a tilt of lips that isn't exactly friendly but is certainly a far cry from hostile - he laughs. "Braver than me," comes amused, an almost-compliment hushed and directed at D'lei as he steps around obstacles towards goldrider and bronzerider both, one hand held out for Cita's knife and flint because // he was a renegade// and he can at least do this (as maybe an apology for enjoying Cita's discomfort for so long, if she doesn't turn the knife on him first).

« I don't care. » There's not ire, exactly, in Ily's wildly-sparkling mind — supreme indifference, though, in droves. The anger lurks in the swift current of wind and nebulous half-formed images, too distracted to fully pull them into being. Garouth's plight isn't so much observed as noted and moved on from, agitated mind drifting back to Cita's distress. « You worry for nothing. Don't be a hatchling, Garouth, it doesn't suit you. » Hurt feelings? What feelings, those fall by the wayside in the face of her rider's upset, and also the terrible itching and something building under her skin, in her bones, her toenails. And there's Teimyrth — not coming to join her in the wind and snow, but nearby, a familiar cold and forest-smells and not here, still. « There is. » She agrees, and maybe it's Kouzevelth nearby or maybe familiarity with the bronze, but she doesn't drag him by the mental ear up to the spire. Small mercies. Instead, she sends kittens skittering and spitting, somewhere between mollified and deeply irritated. All systems normal. And Cita? Startled. MAYBE she should have been paying attention to something other than her cold-ass fingers and the stupid-dead-fire, but she wasn't and here we are, with a foreign goldrider spinning on a foreign bronzerider, weilding a sharding knife and — oh. "D'lei." Keep It Cool, Cita. "You're…here. Hi." She glances around the bronzer, like Risa might be hiding, having seen her almost-stabbing. Nope! Safe. Not from retelling, though, probably. Alas. "What's that?" She regards the crinkling, metal-looking blanket with wide eyes. "Is that…cooking foil?" IS HE TRYING TO COOK HER. CUE WIDE EYES. Except Ila's here and the door is still closed and. BETRAYAL. "I tried to light a fire." The goldrider starts, expression falling dramatically. "It wouldn't start." Which he KNOWS. Because he was HERE. While D'lei might or might not have been offering to COOK HER. The rage will come back. Don't worry. For now, oblivious entirely to any posturing about to start up, the goldrider hands over her knife with narrowed eyes. Maybe it's best if she doesn't stab anybody. Yet.

And that's a knife being pointed at him, isn't today a great day of training exercises? D'lei is learning so much. His hand shift, to the spread position that shows he has no weapons, only things that may or may not be cooking gear, before… theeeere we go. "I am." The brief flick of a grin, and while they're at it in terms of trading obvious but previously unobserved facts, "So are you." TRUTH. But Risali, well. She is not. There is only one goldrider here, which, let us be honest, is PROBABLY ALREADY TOO MUCH. « Your concern is for your rider. » Clouds come in to cover Garouth's mind, born on the wind and making a reflective shield that captures heat beneath to the forest and lets the cold winds blow along the upper strata of the atmosphere as he answers Ilyscaeth's words with… only that observation, and silence. His is there, up in the tower, and Garouth is where he is… though he shifts to adjust his position to a more stable one for longer sitting, now that D'lei has disembarked and come to HEAT THINGS UP. LIKE CITA. But wait, there's more! In the form of Ila'den, and D'lei flicks his eyes thataway for a moment's study. Hmmm, soooo… yeah. "That would be one explanation," the younger bronzerider replies, his tone smooth as he looks away, back to Citayla. D'lei has priorities, and Ila'den? You been dismissed. You can start that fire, which is much better use of that knife than stabbing anyone, while D'lei extends the blanket again. "It'd be warm, wouldn't it? Like roast herdbeast, skin crackling under the glaze. Which I forgot, so, you're safe." This time.

Teimyrth's there a moment longer, a rush of wind and ice that might have been an attempt to pet spitting kittens and cajole clearly-upset proddy golds, but may have also been laughter. « I am also here. » And then the violence of his mind quiets, a flicker at the edges that never completely retreats (unless Ilyscaeth shuts him out). Which leaves Ila'den to focus on Citayla, as she wields a knife with daring at D'lei (and yes, he's ENORMOUSLY amused at that show) before the goldrider is looking his way and extending fire-making material with narrowed eyes. "I saw," Ila'den says, and despite the amusement in his tone, there's something like pride in that raspy burr. Praise, perhaps? It's what he vocalizes, anyway. "You did good, little bird." And with callous-roughened hands in possession of things that could be used to make him bleed and probably die (or maybe not because D'LEI IS SEARCH AND RESCUE AND GAROUTH IS THERE), Ila'den's reaching out to place one hand on the top of Cita's head, to lean in and press lips to her temple before he sinks into a crouch and, rifling in one of his jacket pockets, withdraws kindling. SO THAT is what he was up to, okay. YOU CAN'T START A GOOD FIRE WITHOUT SOMETHING TO START A FIRE WITH. D'lei's words merely earn Monaco's Wingleader a wolfish smile, one that says Ila'den might have found something particularly funny about words and that subsequent dismissal even if Ila'den doesn't pursue that not-so-humorous humor. Because priorities, and fires, and angry Citas who need fires to be properly cooked. So Ila'den looks away, works in silence striking steel to flint until the fire catches and he goes about the tedious work of adding slightly larger sticks and shielding with his hands to keep that flame from going out again.

What can only serve to make an already interesting situation worse? The addition of one more dragonriding male into this already jam-packed scene. « THREE BRONZERIDERS WALK INTO A ROOM, DIAMETRICALLY OPPOSED FOES. » "Xermiltoth, cut it out." Breathless, perhaps, from a madcap dash across the entire bowl in response to Ilyscaeth's mayday, R'hyn pushes in through the door and kicks it back shut behind him (hopefully fast enough not to endanger Ila's baby fire, SORRY NOT SORRY), pausing a moment to take in the scene before him, shoulders shaking with laughter wisely held silent. « BUT— » "We aren't foes," R'hyn says as much for the people in the room (coughcough mostly Cita) as the dragon whose sunbright mind pours over everyone else's present as much as does his daughter's. Apples, far from trees - the point is, he's loud, he's dizzy-dazzling, and he's thankfully keeping his distance for now, parked on a distant crag of the bowl with a certain languid smugness, despite distance. At least he seems friendly, R'hyn even more so, flush from the run (or something else) as he untucks a bottle from inside his coat and passes it to Citayla, because she's given up setting cushions on FIRE, so clearly she needs SOMETHING to do with her hands now, right? That's his logic, anyways: give the goldrider the glass bottle to keep her from wielding her TINY FISTS next because I dunno about y'all but D'lei's words are not a comfort, or at least aren't when R'hyn adds a low-drawled, "She doesn't need a glaze. She's sweet enough as is." CHEEK-PINCH for the proddy goldrider because why bother developing a sense of self-preservation now, and then R'hyn turns his attention to D'lei proper, acknowledging with a lift of his chin and an amused, "Good to see you're still alive. We were worried." SOME ANIMALS EAT THEIR MATES OKAY, R'hyn doesn't know what went on on that beach in Monaco after he left! It's a tease, though - he winks to show he doesn't mean anything untowards about his dslgksdjfdaughtertwitch before he stoops down to brush shoulders with Ila'den, observe his progress with a glittering of 'I should stop this, but I'm not gonna' in the gaze that lifts to peer the minor distance between them. "Syn's gonna be mad you're lighting her weyr on fire without her." Threat? Challenge? Probably both; Cita isn't the only one questionably less-than-sober-and-possibly-about-to-get-worse.

It might be too much. True. Trust Citayla to not care, though. She's here, and she's cold, and she's about ready to crawl out of her skin, and fly! a beautiful butterfly! Off into the snow. Or possibly just cry, because she's cold, and Ily's snapping lightning and thunder and itchy and. « She is mine. » It's a declaration, an explanation, a — « They are hers. You are hers-of-hers. » R'hyn's there, or nearly, his plight observed with indifference. Sure, he's running across the entire bowl. He'll be fine. He's probably fine. Cita is maybe a little concerned that D'lei wants to cook her, but also? Worth it. Because it's cold and even with the liquor burning in her veins, it's been long enough that she's getting cold all over, and, "I'd make a good roast." That's Cita's wisdom of the day. If you can count the muttered contemplation as wisdom, as she takes the blanket, because why not. A Cita-roast is better than a Cita-sicle. "Is Risa bringing the roast?" She's hopeful, voice lilting up at the end as she wraps the blanket around herself, then eyeing Ila with something between amusement and irritation. Miss any posturing still? You bet. It's probably for the best. "Ryn'd bitch for a turn." She contradicts, and doesn't stab Ila when he kisses her forehead. Ila has wood. And also kindling. He's magical. "Where did you get that?" The healer ventures, sounding mystified and very much impressed, because honestly. He's making fire and there aren't even any trees in here. How does it work? She doesn't need to know. It's fine. Ilyscaeth, for her part, meets Xermi's sparkling with fire — or, actually, just a blaze of nebulous energy, vibrant and shiny and probably more harsh than she really intends. « MINE WILL DESTROY THEM. » She roars, because — oh, there's Ryn with the sense, and she settles a little, tail lashing grumpily. Hrmph. Cita blinks sluggishly when R'hyn arrives, then snorts, narrowing her eyes briefly. "You'd better not be." There's danger in them there hills, ma. "You're red." It's a day for scintillating observations from our Citayla, who looks briefly concerned before completely distracted by the liquor. "Faranth." What a day! Ilyscaeth dragged three helpful souls to her aid, bringing the essentials: blanket, fire, liquor, and this is apparently enough to soothe Cita out of what might have been a temper. Or could still be. Hard to tell. For now, though, she just looks a little smug, uncapping the bottle and taking a drink, only slightly attempting to snap R'hyn's fingers right off when he pinches her cheeks. Careful; she really will. with…love. Or something. "Risali wouldn't hurt him." Confidence, here, a brief grin for D'lei, and who is Cita to not rise to a challenge? There she goes, sharing the liquor cordially with the pillow and scooting it with a foot towards Ila'den. This much about fires, she knows: they don't mind pillows soaked in booze. "Fire."

D'lei would still rather not find out just how close to bleeding out he could get. He's BORING, OKAY? But he keeps offering that foil roasting jacket to Citayla, even so. It's okay, she's handed away her first knife, he only has to survive like… five more of those? Six? He doesn't know, and today may or may not be the day he finds out. Though, he'd rather it not be. Again, BORING. Ila'den is the one lighting all the fires here, not D'lei. D'lei just cool. Well, bordering on cold, really, but details. Garouth's fine, though! He needs no fire, but the explanations are helpful… even if he does see the need to clarify a few things. « I am of mine. Mine's his is hers-of-yours, but I am not hers-of-hers-of-yours… though there will be those who are hers-of-hers-of-yours and mine, when ours are ready. » Got all that? Good! "More like roasting herself," D'lei replies to Citayla as she takes the blanket and asks about Risa. "Leirith is certain the eggs are going to hatch any day now. The dragonhealers think another week or two, but… she says they're badass enough to be done early. So, I had last night's eggsitting, and she's got it today." Because Leirith requires an audience for how badass her eggs are, that's why. And speaking of audiences, they are SET UPON THE STAGE by the XERMILTOTH IN SPIRIT who is still too big for the room but has sent his minion in the form of R'hyn to JOIN IN GLORIOUS BA- CONVERSATION. Garouth's shadows are undaunted by bright and dizzing sparkle and fiery maelstrom alike, because hey, every flaming sun and sparkly diamond needs some constrast to make it shine all the brighter, right? « Why are you concerned with their diameters? » the younger bronze asks Xermiltoth with a shift of cool breeze and curiosity. « Are you saying they are fat? » Inquiring Garouths want to know! And D'lei wants to not be stabbed, because he is greedy (and also boring). He steps back, with a turn to see who new - oh, it's R'hyn. That makes sense, which is why D'lei blinks before accepting it, with a glance past to Ila'den - hmm now, okay then - before his gaze goes back to Citayla. Who has booze now! Better and better. "That marinade'll help, too," Dash observes. "Keep things tender." Like Risali's affections? D'lei laughs to R'hyn's tender concerns, with a grin to Citayla to follow them. "I mean, there are risks. But, that's true of anything worth doing." Like setting things on fire, and risking the whole Weyr going up in flames. This is fine. Probably.

« Xermiltoth, » comes Teimyrth's mind, brushing in against sunbright familiarity with snow that attempts to block out all that noise (and fails), and dim all that light (failing harder), and - « Shut up. » It's probably an exchange between ledge-mates that's passed down those intricate nuances of dragonbond more often than not, one that Ila'den doesn't acknowledge because he's heard it half a million times before and Xermiltoth can handle Teimyrth well enough without his interference (IT'S BEEN TIME-TESTED AS TRUEFACTS FOR TURNS, OKAY). Speaking of interference, Ila'den would have been handling that fire pretty well if not for Ryn's interference from halfway across an entire weyr (okay, so here now), whose door opening (and wind-welcoming) presence is more than enough to snuff what very little progress Ila'den's made. Where did Ila get his things? "That's for me to know, little bird." And her to NEVER FIND OUT (he totally just picked up stray bits of things that probably were stuck to boots and got conveniently abandoned or blown in from wind). An exhale, but no visible signs of agitation from the oldest rider of four, who instead waits in silence for that door to close, who's watching R'hyn from that crouch on the floor as he makes his rounds - with Citayla, with D'lei - in that overtly aggressive manner he always seems to adopt when his weyrmate walks into a room. Feral. Famished. A dying man seeking God even if that hyper-tension eases into humor as R'hyn's fingers find Cita's cheeks in punctuation of a rebuttal delivered to D'lei. And there's R'hyn, shoulder to shoulder with him near the floor, Ila'den tilting his head to meet that gaze with a wolfish smile and a breath of husky, rasping laughter that's gone nearly as quickly as it came. "Syn should learn to keep up, then." A beat, and amused, "How did you get away from her, anyway?" Speaking of keeping up (or getting way), that grey eye flickers towards D'lei, lingering for a moment on the younger bronzerider, a mutual assessment of what he sees before Ila half-growls, "D'lei," and that smile is almost civil. "Well met. Will you finish this? Cita is capable of marinating herself." Cita, who is next to receive Ila'den's attention because she is pushing alcohol doused pillows his way (because she's THE MOST helpful) and earns more rumbling laughter from Ila for her impatience. "Working on it," comes Ila'den's response, accent thick with amusement as he holds out flint and Cita's commandeered knife for D'lei to take (or at least, waiting for him to take it). "Try not to singe your eyebrows. I somehow doubt Risali's roasting is limited to herself and eggs." Meaning Ila'den values his life, thank you very much.

« YES. » WANTON DESTRUCTION. Xermiltoth meets fire with the heat of a thousand suns because he is GAME. « WHAT ARE WE DESTROYING AGAIN? » Because his earlier commentary might very well have been mere wordplay, repetition snatched from the dark depths of unreliable dragon memory, reguritated because, « IT SOUNDED GOOD. » This to Garouth. « IT ALSO SEEMED FITTING. OR SHOULD I SAY, FIT-ING. GET IT? BECAUSE THEY'RE FAT. » A beat. « WELL. ILYSCAETH IS NOT FAT. THE REST OF YOU… » He lets that dangle, teasing flickers of sizzling-hot diamonds dancing around the edges of the mental shield he's plonked up almost lazily to combat Teimyrth's attempts to snowblind him. Tale as old as time. It's much more interesting to poke at newfound shadows. « THE REAL QUESTION IS- » Oh boy. « -IF HERS-OF-HERS-OF-YOURS-AND-THEIRS SHOULD FIND ENJOYMENT IN HERS-OF-MINES-AND-YOURS-AND-HIS, WHAT DOES THAT MAKE THEIR PROGENY? » This is just getting ridiculous. R'hyn's likewise ignoring draconic goings-on, if only because there are stares and observations and maybe he's red because Ila'den's eyebanging is as customary as it is welcome but occasionally lights him up like a fucking Christmas tree and, "You're red." PARRY. "It's cold, and we've been drinking." That's his story and he's sticking to it. "OW. Shame the same can't be said of you!," R'hyn grouses of tenderness and not hurting people as he snatches his hand back to his person, eyes rolling droll towards D'lei. "I don't know. I think she needs significantly more tenderizing. And maybe a big old sign that reads: Proddy Goldie, Do Not Touch." Twinkle. The weyr might survive, but he might just die here. "Drink up, Cici." And then there's raspy laughter in his ear and R'hyn's attention is stolen right back to Ila'den to peruse his visage in a slow drag of blue-grey eyes, lips jerking to one side in a crooked grin before he shrugs. "I used all of my manly wiles and fended her off." Well. "Just kidding. I left her. I thought there might have been an…" Eyeballs. Right on that alcohol-soaked cushion. "…Actual emergency." Yeahp. He's just… gonna leave that for D'lei, beaming up at the equally-foreign bronzerider all like 'this is your problem now, thank you for volunteering as tribute.' By merely existing? Yes. By merely existing.

Booooo-riiiiiing. There may or may not be knives or scalpels on Cita's person. It's hard to tell, since she's still bundled up pretty thoroughly in her riding gear. « Ugh. » Normally, it's possible that Ilyscaeth would have been all over the tongue-twister mind-coaster, but just now. Well. The wind is cold, and she is not, and: « Yours? » Glorious context! Cita shares, and Ily bubbles over with joy, excitement suddenly sweeping through her very being. Sparks and whales swim again, dolphins flash in and out of existance, floating somewhere gleefully in space. « Yours! I will see the babies. Mine's, we will see the babies. » That's an order! Not like, you know, they'll be protesting probably. Cita's not, grinning brightly, not quite as overjoyed as her dragon is but somewhere in the vicinity. "Hrmph. M'not tender." Says certainly the tenderest of them, a little crabby, but more focused on the liquor than anything else. "No risks. Just rewards." Cita is a loyal friendmother. She might not be the wisest of them, but she sure is loyal. Risa is ALL RIGHT, NO WRONG. Ilyscaeth might cackle little bursts of amused thunder at Tei's shushing of Xermiltoth, and she doesn't bother to hide it, but she's content now — Cita's immediate desires have been met. She's good. Cita, well. She is good, but only because she's been mollified out of biting Ila for his sass, too, for all that she favors him with a narrow-eyed look. A look that takes on a massive eyeroll for the hungry look, but honestly she's used to it, and just takes a swig of the liquor. Nothing to see here. Nothing to worry about, here. "I'll marinate you." Ila's laughing, though, which earns him a look that's not quite as severe as her dire?? threats might be. "Faranth's sake, give me the knife and I'll start the fire." Impatience flashes, but she's not back around to anger yet, only stomping a damp boot a little as outside, Ilyscaeth screeches. « ANYTHING. » Anything she wants is what she'll destroy. « YOU, MAYBE. » She'll reconsider that if neither of these two geniuses tries to ruffle her brainfeathers, OKAY. Cita doesn't have the willpower to try and keep up with any dragons, too busy taking another long drink of the liquor. That, and favoring R'hyn with a look of purest 'yeah sure', before he's confirming her non-tenderness. "Hrmph." Damn right. "Do Not Pinch." The goldrider clears, because honestly. She's not totally unreasonable her. Really. As for wiles, that gets a flatly amused look over the bottle, because she's on a mission, and that mission is to be warm. With her roasting blanket and the liquor, she might get there. Maybe. SURE WOULD BE NICE IF THERE WAS A FIRE THOUGH, suggests the arch look thrown around at large. As for poor D'lei, well. She's not eaten him, yet. So there's that.

« Maybe you should say fat-ting, » Garouth replies, his darkness turning to dappled shadows as flaming diamonds fall through and… plop right back to Xermiltoth, because what are physics anyhow? Were they ever even gone? WE JUST DON'T KNOW. But Xermiltoth has yet another question to pose, a brain teaser for the ages, one to stump many a dragon or rider but not Garouth. Cold shadows are prompt in their answer, brisk and matter of fact in their reply. « It makes them badasses. » Got any more easy ones? Because Garouth has got this. He's even got his marching orders (well, showing orders) from Ilyscaeth, and he protests these orders not at all. « You will. » He even shows a glimpse of the clutch as it sits now, because hey, Leirith is there and she has these eggs and they are also Garouth's and by the magic of telepathy (or science but shhh, whatever) they can be shared! Seee? EGGS. And if you hold them to your ear and listen carefully, you can hear the Leirith throbbing with her own excitement. Or. Maybe that's just the carrier wave for that transmission of shared vision, either way. D'lei grins for Citayla's dedication to the cause of Risali's awesomeness, but he answers it with a, "You should come visit us sometime." Because that doesn't answer the question at all, now does it? NOPE. Which is exactly how it should be, at least according to a certain bronzerider's grin. And then D'lei has got bronzerider eye on him, but not like R'hyn does, because that particular one-eyed beast is not something for first meetings, okay? KEEP IT IN YOUR WEYRMATE, ILA. OR. ON. THE GAZE, I MEAN, THOUGH YOU COULD ALSO - OKAY ANYHOW, D'LEI DOES NOT NEED TO THINK ABOUT HIS FATHERS-IN-WEYR LIKE THAT. JUST. NOPE. The gaze he has on him from Ila'den's remaining eye is an assessing one, and it is returned with a steady one, and his name and greeting is recieved with a slight nod. "Ila'den," D'lei answers, because he's not dumb and he can put two and two together. Or, you know, two and one and a description. He's got this, if by this we mean the meeting of eyes to eye and the sort of light smile that plays on lips and is somewhere between affably polite and amused at a joke that wouldn't make the translation into words. "Certainly." He tilts his gaze to that offered flint and knife, taking them before he steps to the side to let Ila'den by to join Cita and R'hyn while D'lei gets himself to where that poor fire has been trying to get a start and turn into a maelstrom that can destroy the entire stony Weyr but… just needs a little help getting from spark to firestorm. Everyone needs a helping hand, sometimes! "You have a drink to enjoy," D'lei informs Citayla to keep her busy with more important things… and also out of the way as he crouches next to the tinder and sticks and reaches for…yes, that booze-pillow. It's helpful! Or at least, the tender innards are. So D'lei slits the fabric of the pillow - along a seam, he's not a savage - and scoops out some of that soft cotton stuffing. Such tender wispy threads of plant material they are. So soaked in flammable alcohol. Truly, a worthy replacement for the tinder that R'hyn's grand entrance doomed to an ignoble and windy fate. D'lei fluffs those fibers up into a soft pillow-cloud with sweet dreams of fire. Well. Once he casts sparks from the flint and blade, anyhow, the quick-burn of drunken cotton the flash that helps catch a slightly-larger twig… come on, slightly larger twig. You can do it! D'lei believes in you. Also he's cupping his hands around the flame and gently blowing it to encourage that fire to burn, baby, burn. BEFORE CITA EATS HIM RAW.

"I hate him," Ila'den informs Cita and R'hyn, in a voice that's not at all attempted to be quiet (though be calm - it's playful) because D'lei could start the fire when R'HYN RUINED HIS LIFE AND PUT OUT HIS MUCH COOLER FIRE even if Ila'den COULD HAVE DONE IT but was probably testing D'lei's manliness because he's whatever you want to call it weyrmated to his daughter and I hope you enjoyed this run on sentence because I SURE DID NOT BELIEVE IN GRAMMAR OR COMMAS FOR THIS ENTIRE THING YOU'RE WELCOME IS IT HURTING YOUR BRAIN YET IT'S HURTING MINE I JUST MADE A SIZEABLE POSE OUT OF THIS HOT MESS AND YOU CAN'T EVEN STOP READING IT AND THERE ARE NO COMMAS (okay there's like TWO commas) JUST ILA'DEN'S PURE UNADULTERATED JEALOUSY AND HATE AND RAGE.

« NEITHER OF YOU ARE ANY FUN, » Xermiltoth pretends to chide for those LOOPHOLE-AS-FUCK answers to his perfectly-acceptable braintwister thank you, but where words attempt to obfuscate amusement, his mindvoice leaves little to the imagination: it veritably crackles with amusement, sending glittering golden mantas spiralling about whales, leaping alongside dolphins like the majestic flapflaps they are, one even ducking alongside a diamond to careen through one of Garouth's mystical interdimensional space-travel shadow-pockets to lead the charge of thoughts back into his own mind. « I HOPE THEY POSSESS LEIRITH'S GIFT FOR MUSIC. » Lord knows they need more wubba-wubba in their lives. There it goes now, a booming thump thump that— oh, no, that's just Xermiltoth laughing for Ilyscaeth's screeching. « YOU WILL HAVE TO CATCH ME FIRST, SMALL ONE, » he addresses literally the largest dragon on Pern right now. This is fine. Maybe she won't notice. He is retreating, though, pitching himself off the rim of the bowl with a certain lack of regard for any other dragon, tipping a wing to carry him forestwards with an inviting, « I HUNT. » Smugger: « I DESTROY. » R'hyn, meanwhile, perks for mention of visiting Risa, piping up with an, "Oh, good. I have something for her, I'll make sure it gets to you before you go if it's before the hatching." Though at this rate? Possibly not. "Or I'll send it along with you," D'lei, he means. "Doesn't matter, and it's not like it can't wait, it's just a book of sheet music and it has one of the songs we were talking about… aunt used to sing it when she… gardened and stuff and… why am I still talking?" Stumbling words come to a halt with a wince and a, "Be careful with that stuff. It's potent." To Cita? To D'lei as he uses alcohol-soaked cotton to SET STICKS ABLAZE? Maybe both. Maybe mostly to explain himself as he goes a little shifty, grin lacking its usual affability as he pushes floppy hair back with one hand. "Anyways, if nothing else, we'll be there for the hatching. We're excited." Understatement, possibly, but he's off his kilter and seeking Ila'den to ground him. Don't worry, D'lei. ILA KEEPS IT IN HIS WEYRMATE PEWPEW THOSE WERE FINGERGUNS I GOT YOUR THINLY VEILED HINT AND RAISE YOU A 'WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, IF IT'S NOT VAGUELY INCESUTUOUS YOU AREN'T DOING IT RIGHT.' The Monacoan bronzer doesn't much have to worry - Ila's much less flirty-eyeing and much more visually-stabbing D'lei and, "You can't set a fire with your eyes," R'hyn drawls with a knock of his shoulder to Ila'den's and an equally amused, "and you don't hate him. It was my fault the first one went out." THERE. HE TOOK THE BULLET FOR YOU D'LEI. He's GOT YOUR BACK BRO. … Son? Fuck this family… "But alright. Since nothing important is on fire and Cita is clearly in possession of all her limbs and is not, in fact, dying as I was made to believe, I'm going to go help Syn finish getting things ready. Dragonhealers say clutching will be any time now and she's insistant on there being a shebang." Which is his polite way of saying PEACE OUT SUCKAS as he tucks an arm around Ila'den's neck and uses it to pull the bronzerider closer for a kiss to his cheek, a mumbling of words, and a crisp smack to his ass because now you're thinking of your step-dad(s) like that, enjoy. He repeats the act with Citayla in side-hug and forehead-smooch only, blessfully sparing D'lei any similar treatment (FOR NOW, give him some more booze though and WE'LL SEE) by offering a hand for shaking. "It was good to see you again. If you're ever in Half Moon, look us up. I promise it won't be…" A handgesture at ALL OF ILA and his GLARING SELF. "Well. It probably will be exactly," a second hand gesture, "but what can you do." Wink. And then he's off, hopefully not putting out D'lei's fire too because RUDE as he sneaks back out the door.

« I see! » She does. She sees the eggs, warm and safe and pretty, and Leirith's, and Garouth's too, and excitement flashes in an echo of the distant Leirith's drums. Or maybe that's cymbals, crashing enthusiastically, a cascade of thunder behind. « I love them. » Quick, fervent; then flashing with laughter at Citayla's amusement at her weyrmates. D'lei might be able to distract her with the drink, too, because well — it's so warm, and she is not. "I'll show you drinking." The healer-rider mutters, maybe a little sullenly, because SHE DOES WHAT SHE WANTS, and what she wants is to drink, okay? Okay. "Your technique is nice." Of pillow-ripping. Cita approves of the gentle dispatching of the innocent pillow; probably a safer route than the wholesale slaughter she was going for. The goldrider hums indulgently for Ila, blissfully unaware of anything untoward happening with grammar, but reaching over to tweak his nose gently. All of the rage, yes. Sure sure. "Of course you do, love." She tuts, absently, swishing the remnants of the liquor around and flopping maybe a little dramatically onto a pillow. Not the soon-to-be fiery one. A different one. « I'LL SHOW YOU FUN, XERMILTOTH. » Ilyscaeth threatens, an echo of her rider, but entirely more likely to follow through when the bronze is least expe…no you know what, they're about equal there. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Oh no. « LET US SHOW XERMILTOTH HOW TO HUNT. » It's an open invitation; RIP Fort's herds. Errr. Somebody might need to be running interference. Maybe Leia. There go Cita's eyes, though, getting a little droopy but also starry and warm, fond. Aw. "Did she?" The rider hums, quiet, and — "It's nice of you to give them to your daughter, then." It's payback for trying to warn her off of the liquor, maybe. Or possibly just Cita's an asshole, and she fits right in. As for dying, she huffs, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Who's to say I won't die, if the fire never starts." It's not an entirely unreasonable thought, but her words are getting spaced further apart, now. Forehead-smooches are acceptable, met with a pleasant kind of two-note mumble of amusement. "They're always like this. I'm…not." She tells D'lei very seriously, in what is probably an almost entirely un-wordly mumble. Alas. Goodnight, sweet Cita. Maybe the fire is snuffed again. Maybe it blows up and Cita really does become a roasty toasty Cita. SHE WON'T KNOW. Because now she is asleep, sudden and deeply, snoring like whatever a pernese chainsaw would be.

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