Myths & Legends

He felt the bed shift as the person behind him stirred, but it wasn't until he heard Em'ry's sleep-hoarse and grumpy question that G'brihl finally silenced Rioghan with a mental command.  She continued to circle and dive through the weyr, as though fascinated by the clutter in a space that she was accustomed to being neat and orderly, while Zaman settled down to perch on the bed's foot board.

"Problem?" G'brihl echoed, one hand scratching over the stubble on his cheeks (he needed to shave) before he flicked his fingers out in the general direction of the messy weyr.  "That.  In the post-flight state of my arousal I failed to notice the condition your weyr was in.  Had I noticed it prior to us climbing into bed my testicles might have shrunk and squirmed their way up into my abdominal cavity and I would have run screaming.  My pants are out there somewhere."

With a chirp of recognition at the word, Rioghan dove and snatched something from the floor, laboring under the weight of the fabric as she carried it over to her pet and dropped it into his lap.  G'brihl made a sound of relief as he picked the pants up--and immediately flung them away from him as though he'd found a tunnelsnake hiding in one of the pockets.  Those were not his, and they'd touched him, and there was no telling if they were clean or dirty...

"I do not... I cannot..."  For a moment he laced his fingers through his hair and pulled, and then quite suddenly he was out of bed and on his feet.  Let's see, the door was here, so they'd come through there--aha, there was his shirt!  G'brihl snatched it up before proceeding, discovering next his boots, the socks not far away, and quite thankfully when he found his pants a moment later his underwear were bunched up inside and not lost somewhere in the midst of this travesty of a weyr.  He dressed hastily, but rather than immediately fleeing for the baths, he rounded on Em'ry.

"How mortally offended would you be if I cleaned this?" he asked, his voice harried, his arms again spreading to indicate the whole of the weyr.  "All of this.  I cannot fathom how you can bear to live here when staying for more than five minutes makes me want to scream, and I know we do not know each other beyond a pleasurable night in the wake of a lost mating flight and that this request might seem... strange to you, but this is an offensive travesty to all things proper and civilized and it needs to be rectified.  Please."

G'brihl woke slowly, the sort of lazy ascension to consciousness he'd come to associate with having spent the evening before involved in pleasurable pursuits.  The haziness of those memories and a few aching muscles suggested a mating flight--and that he could remember.  A green had gone up, and being the young male that he was, Kiverath had given chase.  He hadn't won, and G'brihl didn't rightly know who had beaten him, but that hadn't been much of a concern.  There were flight moths a-plenty in a Weyr, or if you were so inclined, one of the other losing parties was generally open to finding a bit of relief with someone who was every bit as eager for it as they were.  Such had been the case here, and he could roughly remember that it was a man, that they'd escaped to whoever's weyr was nearest, and then they hadn't paid much attention to anything else beyond sating flight-driven lusts.

His internal clock suggested that it was later than the normal hour he roused at--which was to say that the sun was already peeking over the rim of the Weyr instead of only just beginning to turn the sky pink.  The weyr itself was still dark, though there was a faint glow from between the woven strands of a closed basket that suggest glows were sitting on a bedside table, ready to be flipped open when needed.  Moving slowly, G'brihl carefully extricated himself from beneath the furs, trying not to rouse the person whose bed he was in, at least not yet.  It would be discourteous to leave without waking them, he always felt, and sending for klah even if he didn't stick around to share it, but he generally preferred to at least have his pants on before he did it.  Which meant he had to find them, and to that end he sat up, reaching over to partially unshield the glows as he started to swing his feet over the side of the bed--

And froze, toes inches from the floor.

There were too many shadows for him to see things properly, but there was enough light for him to spot some suspicious looking lumps on the floor.  A dark blob against a wall might have been a chair, though it was strangely misshapen, and the equally indiscernible mound of gray-shaded black in front of it might be a table... possibly.  Feeling his trepidation mount, and suddenly willing to risk the light of the glowbasket waking the man in bed with him, G'brihl reached over, flipped it fully open, and then snatched his feet back into bed like he was afraid the floor was going to grow mouths and gnaw off his toes.

It very well might, at that.  Those suspicious lumps?  Piles of clothing, whether clean or dirty he couldn't tell.  Dark blob against the wall?  It was a chair, but it had things that might have been sleeping furs or more clothes piled in the seat, and the thing in front of it was a low table, equally covered with stuff, among which he could discern a tray with dishes on it that he quickly began to wonder if might be sprouting sentient mold-creatures even as he sat there.  How had he not noticed this the night before?  He hadn't been that blinded by his own libido, had he?

And to make matters worse, his own clothes and boots were out there in that mess somewhere.

He was stuck.  He could never leave this bed again, and Faranth help him maybe it wasn't really a malignant cesspool of disgusting, odorous filth, but his skin was crawling and the only thing he wanted to do right now was go jump in a bathing pool and scrub himself for an hour.  Except that meant getting out of bed, and he might step on something.  And if he had to go out into that weyr to find his clothes he might as well tidy the place up a bit; his hands were all but itching to do so, the urge to fix this horrible mess warring with his inherent disgust at just being here at all.  Was it considered rude to scrub spotless the weyr of a man you didn't really know except that you'd slept with him the night before?  Or was that one of those 'weird things' his brother sometimes told him about?

This was not something he'd ever wanted to wake up to.  Ever.  Drawn by their pet's shock, disgust, and dismay at his current predicament, Zaman and Rioghan abruptly burst into the weyr from between, the bronze silently scanning the room for the source of this disturbance while the green immediately began to shrill and chatter at it, as though she might scare it away just by being loud.  The noise would surely wake his bedmate, but for the moment G'brihl honestly couldn't bring himself to care, especially not when he was fighting down the urge to shove the man out of bed and make him find his clothes so that he could escape to the public baths.

Of all the bronzes in the Weyr who might have caught the queen and made their rider Weyrleader, G'brihl still could not quite believe that Mirkath had won and that T'raev now led Fort Weyr for the foreseeable future.  If he'd been the sort of man to believe that he warranted particular, specific attention from fate, he might have thought it had happened simply to spite him.  Surely it was a practical joke on some grand, cosmic scale that the one man he had been so fervently thankful was not a Wingsecond or even a Wingleader to which he would need to report was now Weyrleader of all of Fort.  Even in the midst of his dismay, however, G'brihl was not immune to the sheer fantastic irony of it, though the amusement it prompted was of the dark, rather morbid variety.

T'raev, whose didn't press his clothes, who shaved only when the threat of a beard became an imminent hassle, whose idea of combing his hair was probably little more complicated than dragging his fingers through it until it looked passably neat, was now in one of the most detail-oriented and demanding jobs on the planet.  Words like 'finesse' and 'patience' did not, G'brihl was relatively certain, exist in T'raev's vocabulary.  Had he the support and guidance of a skilled Master Harper to help smooth over the inevitable bumps and bruises of what would surely be a rough few months starting out, then G'brihl might not have worried so, but with Tintage holding that title and already bitter against dragonriders... between political tensions and the growing arid heat that was being called a drought in all but name by this point, the entire northern half of Pern was a primed tinderbox ready to be set ablaze with the slightest of sparks.

Focus, Kiverath interrupted his thoughts, giving his wings a subtle flick that made him dip slightly in place before resuming his position, a draconic version of taking his rider by the shoulders and giving him a shake.  There is Thread to be fought, and I will not have you distracted while we are trying to do it.

Which was true enough, and G'brihl gave himself a slight shake further before settling down again in his straps.  This was not his first Threadfall post-graduation from Weyrlinghood, but it was their first 'Fall with T'raev at the helm of both Wing and Weyr.  Add to the mix that he'd only just begun adapting to T'van's style of leadership, and it didn't take a man as smart as he was to know that he'd have to be on his proverbial toes today.  It was unsettling, having a routine he hadn't even started to settle into suddenly changed like that, and G'brihl could but hope that T'raev didn't try anything supremely foolish because he felt the need to prove himself during his first 'Fall as Weyrleader.

And then there was no more time for thought, the silvery strands of Thread a slow and mesmerizing rain on the horizon.  Kiverath's challenging growl was but one of many as the Wings moved forward to meet their foe, but unlike the bronzes and browns, the young blue did not immediately surge up into the fight.  In his youth he was eager, undoubtedly, but he was far from stupid, so rather than charge in flaming he waited for the bulldozers and tanks that were the larger males to start charring clumps of Thread to ash and immediately began to concern himself with the smaller bundles and flyaway strands that they missed or were otherwise too slow or cumbersome to catch.  This was what he was built for; let the bronzes and browns be the hammer to smash Thread against the anvil.  He and the other blues and greens were the needle in the tapestry, weaving Thread's fate with quick, accurate precision.

The flight was well and truly underway, the queen and those males chasing her not even distant specks in the Fortian sky anymore.  That didn't remove the general effect of the flight itself, though the pressing lust generated by the dragons did lose its edge of urgency, at least for the moment.  But, just as Imogen had noted, G'brihl had also noticed the distinct lack of V'turo's bronze among the dragons who had gathered to chase; he hadn't seen if the former Weyrleader had taken his bronze out of the Weyr to prevent him from chasing, or if maybe Kavath actually was chasing but had inserted himself among the competition surreptitiously.  If V'turo did deliberately remove himself from the running...

Well, that would certainly be interesting.  Bronzeriders weren't generally known for removing themselves deliberately from the Weyrleader's post.

"There are bronzes and browns who, if they manage to sire a gold egg, might continue the bloodline lost when Mardra and the rest of the queens failed to make the journey between times," G'brihl mused speculatively.  And any eggs laid at Fort were considered of Fort, whether their parents had come from other Weyrs or not.  Speaking again to Gavin, he continued.  "V'turo and Kavath are the current Weyrleaders--at least, they are until this flight is concluded.  Kavath might have been among those chasing, though I didn't spot him off-hand, but... perhaps V'turo did not favor a second Turn in Leader's boots.  There are a number of rumors as to why that might be the case, though the simplest answer could be that he has no desire to deal with the current tumultuous set of politics."

"Not everything of Istan make is destined to disappoint."

This from another voice slightly behind Gavin and Imogen.  In spite of the early hour, G'brihl was clean shaven and neatly dressed, his hair still slightly damp and his clothes still showing the faintly crisp lines of having been recently folded and tucked into a clothing chest.  He looked a deal more alert than Gavin, which could perhaps be attributed to the mug of still steaming klah held in one hand, or perhaps indicated that he was used to being up at an early hour.  Regardless, his attention was mostly focused on the ruckus at the feeding pens, though he did spare a moment to be glad that Kiverath was blue and thus would take no interest in this particular flight.

Which didn't mean that he wouldn't have some sort of interest; gold flights in particular tended to be rather 'loud', so to speak, especially for the people of the Weyr, and to say the notion of finding someone to pass the time with hadn't crossed G'brihl's mind would be a lie.

"Shaynun and her Zynkawraith get the honors this time," he said, mostly to answer the young Harper's (or former Harper, seeing as how he was at the Weyr) question.  "Replacing Sorilea and her Ianth as Weyrwoman.  Both are from Ista, as it were, though Shaynun is younger and lacks Sorilea's rather... colorful history."

Well, T'raev might have been unkempt and disheveled (and his grammar was horrendous; 'don't necessarily have anything'?  Really?) and by all appearances a less than respectable sort of person, but he wasn't stupid.  Yes, it was true that age did not always equate with an individual's level of maturity and their penchant for childish behavior.  Such a notion was perfectly clear just by taking stock of the people sitting at this particular table, so when G'brihl gave a thoughtful nod of agreement at the bronzerider's statement, it wasn't necessarily complimentary,  Quite likely it was T'raev himself G'brihl had in mind when considering the truth behind those words.

"Perspective does indeed play a crucial role in our determinations of our daily life," he mused over another sip of wine, his supper all but forgotten for the moment save for when Rioghan caged a tidbit of roast wherry out of him.  Then, to Amaryn; "And if all of the Wings are performing well lately, then I hardly have a reason to complain about being placed in this one, do I?"

Except maybe that Amaryn did look vaguely like she wanted to try and bite him; there was something in the look she was favoring him with that made him subconsciously sit up just a little bit straighter before he realized he was doing so and then immediately made himself relax again.  There were all of the stereotypical rumors to consider, of course; that greenriders were wanton, that they didn't think far beyond their dragon's next flight, that they'd bed anything with a pulse.  But given all the stereotypes about Harpers (excellent singers, charming and personable to a fault) that he himself had never fit, G'brihl was reluctant to put Amaryn into that sort of mold.  Something about her made him think that it would be particularly dangerous and not likely end well for him if he did.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Amaryn," and then he turned to T'raev to extend the same remark (even if he didn't truly mean it, it was generally considered rude to leave people out) and ask his name, except P'tai then seated himself, followed by what seemed to be a miasma of feline fur.  Normally, G'brihl liked felines; they didn't bark or slobber or chew the way a canine did, and most of them were neat, clean creatures.  Either this one was too young to know better or simply an exception to the rule, but he was prompted rather quickly to place a hand over his glass lest a floating ball of feline fluff manage its way into his wine.

"Ah... T'raev," the bluerider continued after a moment, with a nod at the bronzerider.  "And you as well, P'tai.  As your wingmate has said--and I am afraid I am unfamiliar with your name, bronzerider, my apologies--I am the newest addition to the Wing, just tapped from my Weyrling class.  I am G'brihl, of blue Kiverath."

Eferiath says that her rider does, indeed, bite. And not just when she is hungry, Kiverath interrupted him suddenly, and the reason for his interruption made G'brihl bite his tongue.  Well then.  That was interesting... and he couldn't quite keep himself from giving Amaryn a long, thoughtful look.

Charmed, I assure you, Kiverath said in a decidedly distracted aside to Wyth--though he was eyeing the older blue rather suspiciously.  Hm... he didn't seem to be overly interested in Eferiath, and the green seemed way more intent on him than on Wyth anyway.  If he were the preening type Kiverath would have, but instead he simply puffed out his chest a little more at the sensuous attention.

You are certainly a delight to behold, Eferiath, he told her, the reply also a soft, intimately singular response to her alone.  He wasn't much into this flirting thing, was Kiverath, so he elected to stick with the simple truths rather than to try anything flowery or over the top.  Your hide very nearly glows.

Kiverath would be lying if he said he hadn't been paying an undue amount of attention to Eferiath over the last several days.  Which was... well, it was kind of annoying.  It was very hard to focus on what he should be doing when all he wanted to do was stare.  She was a lovely little green, sleek and nimble and elegant.  She could all but turn on her tail-tip in the air, and when the sunlight struck her hide in just the right manner, dappling it with verdant highlights and a lustrous glow....

He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.  It was frustrating to be so--what was the word?  'Smitten', G'brihl had called him, and Kiverath had called him something less than pleasant back.  Why should he be smitten with Eferiath?  He barely knew her.  They had talked, yes, and he had watched her preen and bask in the sun, and it was completely illogical that he should be annoyed that she'd skipped out on Wing drills that morning and he was still distracted, this time because she wasn't there.  Kiverath just wasn't a fan of this, this... emotional thing, whereby his hind-brain seemed absolutely determined to turn him into a drooling wherbeast of a dragon at the sight of a single green.  A very lovely, sleek, sensual...

So when he noticed her blooding her kills that afternoon it was something of a relief.  A burgeoning mating lust would certainly explain his aberrant behavior, and with that knowledge he could just give himself a shake, maybe take a swim, and go on with his life.  Except then Eferiath reached out to him, her presence a sultry purr twining around his mind and oh, oh, oh he was going to catch her.  He was going to chase her and no one else was going to have her because he was going to have her.  He was the fastest, the most agile, and not even she would be able to outrun him and G'brihl was, well, he wasn't surprised, not even a little, it almost sounded like he was laughing and Kiverath huffed because he--

Shut up! the blue growled inelegantly as he let his rider mount up for a quick ride down to the Weyr bowl.  It wasn't funny and if G'brihl wasn't his rider, why, he'd knock him over with his tail!  As it was he did leave the young man standing in a cloud of dust as he launched back up to a cliff to perch and wait, his body all but thrumming with impatient excitement.

For his part G'brihl was not surprised by Kiverath's reaction to Eferiath's imminent flight.  If anything he was a touch relieved; his blue had been a bit slower to reach that level of maturation when compared to his clutch-siblings, that was all.  It did happen sometimes, though from what he understood it was normally brown dragons who were slowest to reach full maturity.  That Kiverath did indeed have a healthy sexual appetite meant that he was normal, with no unseen abnormalities--not that G'brihl had ever let his dragon know that he was concerned in that respect.  He'd have never heard the end of it if he had, at least until Kiverath forgot about it.

Truth be told, G'brihl had been anticipating this since the night when he was inducted into T'van's Wing, when he'd first met Amaryn.  Kiverath's actions then had been indicative enough that he knew the blue would chase when Eferiath rose, and Amaryn herself was certainly a lovely specimen, so it would be no hardship at all if his dragon managed to win.  While he was not overly sexual, G'brihl did enjoy it as much as the next man when the opportunity presented itself, and given the various warnings issued to Weyrlings about flight lust and the reaction one had to one's dragon when they wished to give chase,,, even from a purely theoretical standpoint it was an experience he wished to try, even if for no other reason than to determine for himself the difference between standard human lust and flight-enhanced lust.

He didn't plan to tell Amaryn that.  He had a feeling she wouldn't take it very well.  Or perhaps she would; it was difficult to accurately judge one's character when their dragon was proddy.

G'brihl mounted the steps to her weyr two at a time with ease, his long legs bridging the distance with little effort.  There were others converging on the same location, of course, which while not unexpected would still prove unpleasant; being stuck in a weyr full of randy, flight-lust driven men hardly sounded like his idea of a good time.  Regardless, he slipped inside and found himself an inconspicuous place against a wall away from the main throng of other riders, though once he was inside G'brihl found it was much easier than he had anticipated to ignore them and focus solely on Amaryn herself.