Winter, Turn 2511
A drought has lasted for more than a Turn in the Fortian region. Although cold, the weather remains dry, with very little snowfall. The water-level in the lake is low, and the lower caverns are now rationing non-essential water (for bathing, laundry, et cetera).
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Messages - G'brihl
« on: May 22, 2013, 06:03:44 AM »
After being confined to the bleak, gray winter at Fort Weyr for so long, emerging from between into the bright, gaudy tapestry of summer at Southern seemed almost obscene. The near blinding panoply of colors made G'brihl squint, and though he and Kiverath had only just left the frigid nothingness of between a moment before the bluerider quickly opened his heavy winter jacket against the abrupt prickling of sweat against his skin. As accustomed as he was to northern weather, the opportunity to come south had been an all but irresistible lure, though the shock of heat after such cold did make him slightly queasy at first. The thick humidity in the air more than made up for it; normally he preferred a slightly drier clime, but Fort in the midst of this drought was all but a desert.
That and no matter how many people bathed in the invitingly clear blue-green water of the ocean it would not become cloudy with detritus and filth from their bodies.
G'brihl was a neat man. Fastidious, he called himself, where others might consider him an uppity weirdo with control issues and a ninny who couldn't handle a little bit of dirt. That wasn't true, of course. There was no avoiding getting a little bit dirty during the course of an average day as a dragonrider, and he was fine with that... so long as he was granted the opportunity to rectify the situation in a timely manner. At first, that had not been an issue, but now, with the Headwoman rationing how frequently the bathing pools were changed, hardly a day went by that he felt truly clean. He understood the logic behind the decision, truly he did, but how could one expect to be properly clean when they were bathing in the same water used by any of the thousands of people who resided in Fort for the last several days? It was disgusting, and even though he tried his very best to be the first in line when the water was changed...
Needless to say, G'brihl had a hefty bag of soapsand tied to Kiverath's harness, along with two decently sized sacks of clothing. If the bathing water was allowed to get to such a repulsive state, he dared not think of what the washing water now looked like.
You will bathe me first, of course, Kiverath informed his rider as he circled down to land on a vacant patch of beach.
Of course, G'brihl replied, even though Kiverath had been bathed only the day before and was not in any particular need of a good scrubbing. Zaman and Rioghan would make the task faster and easier--assuming they weren't too busy flittering up and down the beach, exploring various nooks and crannies. If there was a wild fair nearby and Zaman could convince them that he and Kiverath were no threat, well, all the better. Firelizards were remarkably helpful when it came to bathing a dragon, and if he could keep them occupied washing Kiverath then G'brihl wouldn't have to worry about them getting into his clothes and strewing them up and down the beach.
« on: February 27, 2013, 08:47:58 PM »
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."
« on: February 27, 2013, 03:44:27 PM »
Kiverath grumbled a bit as Wyth immediately hared off after that first tangle of Thread, but he didn't argue, nor did he attempt to pursue as well. Young he might be, but he was smart enough to know (and to take a cue from his rider) that both of them chasing the same clump would be dangerous, not only for themselves but for the gap it would leave in the Wing's formation. So he stayed, occasionally belching at small slivers and shreds of Thread that were within his reach, focusing on keeping each blast of flame economical and precise to avoid wasting it before he truly needed it.
That came in handy when the long tendril of Thread floated in toward his side, strangely beautiful in its own alien, deadly fashion. Though he wasn't quite as nimble as some of the smaller blues or greens and thus not really able to turn on a dime, Kiverath was still able to lunge forward out of the way before flaring his wings open. Following through with a backwinging twist allowed him to pivot rather neatly in the air and hover there as he charred the Thread that would have scored him, his flame racing up the strand until it was naught but ash and char.
Neatly done, G'brihl praised his blue, though he was already craning his neck to spot more Thread even as one hand reached down to give his firestone sack a tug, judging the heft and weight of it to see if he needed a change. Another concern was Kiverath's well-being; he was a mid-sized blue, and while he had outlasted the smaller greens and blues and managed slightly longer than half the 'Fall, he was tiring. And while they both might want to try and last the full 'Fall, G'brihl at least knew the wisdom in what had been imparted on them during Weyrling training. One of the worst things to do was to let your dragon push himself beyond what he was capable of, and young dragons especially would try it with often disastrous results. I think that's it for us today. Tell Mirkath.
We grow weary, Kiverath passed to the bronze, though he personally would have preferred to stick it out for just a while longer. We are going back to the Weyr.
« on: February 22, 2013, 08:35:16 PM »
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.
« on: February 21, 2013, 07:01:23 PM »
.... well, brandy certainly was a way to warm oneself on a cold day, G'brihl had to admit. It wasn't exactly the reaction he was hoping for, or the first idea he might have suggested if someone had asked him how he might go about warming himself on this particular morning. But then, unless Gavin had the world's best poker face, it almost, almost looked like he hadn't quite kenned to what G'brihl was asking him. He was Craftbred, to be sure, and while the Crafts generally weren't as repressive about such things, they still weren't as liberal as the Weyr, either. Perhaps he was just trying to be discreet...
.... or maybe he was flustered to the point that he mostly forgot how to speak and all but ran away as soon as the opportunity presented itself. And all before G'brihl could inform him that liking girls did not automatically preclude the ability to like boys, as well.
I told you your flirting was terrible.
I don't recall asking your opinion on the matter, the bluerider replied a touch frostily, taking a sip of his quickly cooling klah before he too turned and strolled back into the living cavern. There was bound to be someone less apt to reject his advances as to how they might spend the duration of this gold flight.
« on: February 20, 2013, 06:27:55 PM »
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.
« on: February 19, 2013, 02:05:55 AM »
G'brihl kept silent on the matter of brown dragons and their siring abilities. It didn't make much sense to him that browns, who did occasionally find themselves catching a gold, were utterly incapable of producing a gold in turn. Perhaps if the brown was large enough and the queen small enough to help make up for the size gap that usually meant a shorter flight if a brown did catch a queen... but it was a moot point, really, since more often than not it was a bronze that did the catching. Arguing the semantics of it now, in the middle of a flight, was certainly pointless.
As to the Weyrleader, or ex-Weyrleader if Kavath was indeed absent from the flight, G'brihl was of a somewhat differing opinion. He didn't know V'turo, not really, so it was difficult to judge him as a person. It was less hard to judge him based on a Weyrleader's primary duties; that is, the continued successful fight against Thread, which went well enough these days. They might not finish each 'Fall completely unscathed, but they didn't lose half a Wing during the battle either. Rumors that V'turo couldn't stop hop-skipping from one goldrider's bed to another, now... well, to be honest most bronzeriders seemed to accumulate the notion that they were something of a lecherous breed. V'turo's bedroom habits were little of his concern, really, since the bronzerider favored female partners, but...
"There are a number of ways to warm oneself on a morning such as this." It was pitched low, this statement, and intended primarily for Gavin's ears. G'brihl still faced in the general direction of the Weyr bowl, but dark eyes were fixed keenly on his fellow ex-Harper, and his gaze was intent. That Gavin was an attractive young man had not escaped his notice, and with the day dawning on a gold flight, the bluerider was of a mind to take advantage of the atmosphere hanging over the Weyr. Certainly he wouldn't be the only one, either. "If you're of a mind to pursue them, that is."
« on: February 15, 2013, 06:55:20 PM »
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."
« on: February 06, 2013, 03:50:53 PM »
Truthfully, G'brihl wasn't overly familiar with Fort's most junior Weyrwoman, which wasn't too surprising, all things considered. Luka was a queenrider and he only a recently graduated bluerider, but even he found it odd that she did not fly in the Queen's Wing with the others. No one seemed to have much to say as to why that was the case, though the common consensus was that Luka did not willingly omit herself from Threadfall.
"Wasn't she grounded from fighting by Sorilea?" he asked after a sip of klah, a slight frown furrowing his brow as he regarded the chaos left behind in the feeding pens now that the dragons were off on their chase. "In which case she can hardly be blamed for following the Weyrwoman's decree... though that may yet change since we now have a new Weyrwoman. Though if we're weighing the benefits of local blood versus imported stock, then not even Ariyamuth qualifies as a Fortian queen, in truth. She was laid here, yes, but her bloodline is Telgar's, and she'd have been hatched there had that particular trade not been arranged."
Mention of 'that mess of holders' made G'brihl's frown deepen, as it touched on a subject he did not much care for. Tensions between Craft and Weyr were growing, and it was inevitable that the Holds eventually become embroiled in the conflict, one way or the other. And when they did... well, he truly hoped they had the good sense to side with the Weyr; a Hold could survive the loss of a Crafter if that Craft's Master elected to pull his people from it, but no one would survive if they spurned the Weyr and made forfeit the protection that their tithes earned them.
« on: February 03, 2013, 12:16:06 AM »
"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."
« on: January 20, 2013, 09:01:48 PM »
It took a tremendous amount of effort on G'brihl's part to not take up the skin T'raev pushed at him and hit the bronzerider over the head with it. Not because he disliked the man, or thought his advice was unsound, but because most of his mind was overwhelmed by Kiverath's lust, his driving need, and that was telling him that T'raev was competition and should be driven out by any means necessary. A face full of wine would certainly put him off, but it was Amaryn's wine and thus likely to be a very good vintage and she probably would not appreciate it being wasted in such a fashion. Hell, G'brihl would not normally approve of good wine being wasted in such a fashion, and so while he initially glared daggers at T'raev... he did finally lift the skin to his lips for a quick swallow.
And it did help. A little. He didn't feel quite so much like he needed to growl and snarl at every other rider in the room until they left and then throw Amaryn down onto the bed and--which in and of itself was an, uh, interesting sensation...
Kiverath was in even less of a mood to be placated, and as the flight wore on, he grew less and less so. At first he'd had some semblance of a plan, some idea of how he might best give himself an advantage over the other males chasing Eferiath, but now... whatever ideas he'd had had clearly flown out the window. He was chasing, pursuing the green with every ounce of strength he had left. The young blue was hot on her tail, a red-eyed demon of fury; anger that these other males were chasing his female, rage that Eferiath was playing so coy, sheer, utter annoyance that he hadn't managed to catch her yet for all of his effort at doing so.
When she dove, so did he. When she turned, he was a split second behind her. When Eferiath zigged and zagged and all but turned on a wingtip, Kiverath was right there behind her--truthfully, he wasn't quite as agile and couldn't make those turns as fast or as nimbly as she could, but neither could the green shake his dogged pursuit. But the ferocity of the chase was getting to him; each passing moment made the burning of his wing muscles that much more intense, He could outlast Eferiath, true, but he lacked the stamina and endurance of the larger males, and that combined with his all-out chase to catch this female was beginning to take its toll.
« on: January 11, 2013, 05:31:04 PM »
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.
« on: January 06, 2013, 12:19:59 AM »
They hefty slap of T'raev's hand against his shoulder sounded loudly in the weyr, and if G'brihl was surprised by the sudden contact he seemed even more so over the bronzerider's current demeanor. T'raev was... well, what G'brihl would consider unusually jovial toward what was essentially a rival male. In his experience most men didn't want competition, especially when it came to women, and Kiverath certainly wasn't pleased that so many other males were taking a shine to Eferiath's invitation. That T'raev was apparently so delighted to see him there was, quite frankly, worrisome. Did he know something that G'brihl didn't? Was there more to Amaryn's reputation aside from the previously established possible penchant for biting?
Too late now. Kiverath was off like a shot; the minute Eferiath launched herself into the air, the young blue threw himself from his perch and began winging his way after her. It was much easier for him to keep up with her than it was the larger males, but all that prompted in him was a sense of smug satisfaction. Where he might normally plot and scheme and plan, all he could think of right now was winning, his normal habits and intellect drowned in this, his first heady experience with flight lust. On one level it was infuriating; the logical, more rational part of his mind knew he should be pacing himself, that he needed to take care and consider a multitude of possible situations and outcomes, but it was a pitiful, pathetic whisper against the thundering surge of hormones and instinct.
Win. He needed to win. Eferiath was right there, glowing in the sunlight, she was so beautiful and powerful and she could be his if he was strong enough, fast enough. Surely Kiverath was smart enough, even if he couldn't quite think around his own libido at the moment; in time that would change, but this time, his first time, instinct was everything.
And in the wake of his dragon's need, G'brihl didn't quite know what to do with himself. Lust was not something that he was wholly unaccustomed to, but it had never been like this before. He was too hot, even with his back pressed against the cool stone of the weyr's wall. He couldn't stand completely still, his weight shifting back and forth from one foot to the other, and his fingers practically itched (he'd always thought that was simply an expression, hadn't known it could be an actual physical sensation) to reach out and grab Amaryn. She was right there, it would be so easy...
« on: January 02, 2013, 09:36:38 AM »
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.
« on: December 30, 2012, 12:28:23 AM »
T'raev drew his attention first, and G'brihl had to but look at the bronzerider before his fingers gave a slight twitch and then clenched a bit more firmly together. He needed to shave. And comb his hair. Probably cut it as well. His clothes were wrinkled, there was mud on his boots (was that what those suspicious looking flecks lingering on the corner of the table were?), and he was going after some hapless tidbit of lunch stuck between his teeth with a will. Not a bad looking man by any stretch of the imagination, but even if G'brihl had been the sort of person to swoon over rugged handsomeness he was far too put off by T'raev's unkemptness to appreciate the current specimen... and he didn't like being laughed at.
He could but hope that this man was not a Wingsecond. True, blues were generally considered lower on the pecking order than any bronze, but so long as T'raev did not hold an official rank he could be more easily circumvented when necessary.
"I am not a child," G'brihl replied coolly, aware that they were getting off on the proverbial wrong foot but unwilling to prove himself an easy target for mockery. "And since I could still be sitting there--" with a nod toward the Weyrling's table. "--or lost somewhere between during my training, yes, I am honored. Particularly when it is worth noting that this Wing has a good performance record during Threadfall as of late."
Which was, mind, information that had come mostly through the Weyr scuttlebutt as opposed to anything official, but while G'brihl didn't believe all the gossip he'd heard since coming to Fort, time spent as a Harper had taught him not to ignore it completely. There was a trove of useful information to be found in what the common folk of a place were saying if you knew how to decipher it.
A glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye, and reflexively the bluerider flicked out one long-fingered hand to catch the cup of wine, though it slid to a stop just shy of his fingertips. Rioghan hissed as the sudden flexing of muscles in the shoulder she was perched on jostled her, and while G'brihl soothed her with a soft humming sound his eyes were on Amaryn. His general preference for men aside, she was a lovely young woman, but it was more her pose that kept his attention. She looked like a spring wound taut, her body all but trembling with the promise of sudden, perhaps violent action if properly triggered. But why? Amaryn didn't look angry, per se, just... vaguely predatory.
"I am--was..." That was still a bitter pill to swallow, and it showed in the bite of his voice, the flicker of fire in dark eyes. "Of the Runnercraft. I'm used to being out on a trace by myself for days at a time, not crammed shoulder to shoulder with so many people. It was only recently that I finally became accustomed to the group over yon, and suddenly I find myself here." A brief, encompassing gesture with both hands to indicate the table and the group of riders seated at it. "It is a touch... discomfiting."
G'brihl tried on another smile, this one a bit more successful as he reached for the wine and lifted the glass slightly in a toast to Amaryn before taking a swallow. Hm, a more than passable vintage, and he let it roll across his tongue for a moment to savor the taste. "My thanks, greenrider," he said, using a title in lieu of a name because, well, he didn't know hers yet. "Though I must confess that I doubt the veracity of your statement; if one must reassure others that one is not prone to biting, then it can be inferred that one has a reputation for doing so."
Teasing? G'brihl? Surely not.
If that was your version of flirting, that was terrible, Kiverath said in a quiet aside to his rider, though he sounded amused--and distracted. He was not a blue prone to having his head turned by every little green dragon that sauntered by him; indeed, he had yet to participate in his first mating flight even though most of his male siblings were already testing their wings against every female that took to the air these days. But there was something... different about Eferiath, some sort of intangible quality that he couldn't put a name to. It was mildly infuriating. Intriguing. And though he was not the type to be full of bluster and pomp, Kiverath found himself arching his neck and puffing out his chest slightly, wings flaring in a brief display of masculinity.
I thank you, the young blue answered, and though he wasn't purring there was a definite note of attentiveness in his voice. Kiverath might not be smitten but Eferiath certainly had his attention. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.