Fires and Zombies and Flights, Oh My!

Xanadu Weyr - Deep Forest
The wooded areas closer to Xanadu Weyr represent a compromise between man and mother nature, but to the north and west, no such arrangements have been made. The deep woods between the Weyr and the mountains are less traveled, the wider paths fit for man and beast less present. The noises of mankind are barely audible here, brief ghosts on the wind, and the quiet thrum of forest life presses in on all sides. The snapping of a twig, a bird's cry, the low cadence of insects; all of these things seem louder. Closer. The deeper one moves into the trees, the more it becomes obvious that one passes through nature only at her allowance.
The cover of trees is more severe in this area of the wood and only occasional shafts of sunlight lance down through the canopy, the sky visible in brief patches. A rough path has been blazed back towards the Weyr. It does not appear to be a heavily frequented path, but the few who have chosen to pass through this area appear to use it more than other avenues available. Only the very foolish or the very experienced would ever wander far from the path.

As darkness descends upon the Weyr, so Xanadu's destruction begins. Sort of. There's a glowing gold who turns toward the pens to blood, her siren song of a romantic waltz broadcasting about the Weyr as she prepares to be caught only by her Prince Charming. She's filled with dreams of true love, and she shows no hint of discrimination in sharing that desire with all of Xanadu. Over by the edge of the woods, there's a very different sort of fairy tale being told. Nessalyn is no Disney princess. She's here for the stories of old, where happy endings were rare and at least one person died a horrible death. She's brandishing a torch, her gaze distant and unfocused as she indulges in this moment with Tineangrath, the last moment before the conclusion truly becomes inevitable. But despite the distance in her gaze, she's still keeping some of her focus here, ready to deter any potential mates with flame. (Seriously, why does she have fire?) She may also be growling under her breath. It's an auspicious start, guys.

Garouth isn't particularly Charming, Prince-type or otherwise, but he still arrives in answer to that love-song. His mind is the shadowed forest and the creatures moving in the darkness. Golden wolf-eyes watch as he the dragon leaps to blood and follow, their howls a different song entirely… not un-suited to the romantic fairytale, but likely cast in the role of challenge instead of true love. Out in the less-metaphorical forest, the growls and glares are coming from the bearer of the fire, but it's not enough to keep her pursuers away entirely. D'lei is quiet as he comes through the woods, slipping from the shade of one tree to the next in a manner not unlike those ancient wolves… and like them, he keeps his distance from the fire. He merely seeks, and waits… and watches.

Z'tan? Well, Z'tan has had an pretty stellar last few seven days of his own, and the Half Moon Weyrleader just can't seem to get off the Bad Idea Bears train it seems - for while Tanit is reportedly missing from Half Moon, Zel has done some vanishing of his own - only to appear at Xanadu - at this particularly time.. after all, what could possibly go wrong? Ysgieuth is more than happy to indulge the young, romantic gold (particularly given the stark contrasts to Chauth), while Z'tan has gone wandering.. drawn by a bit of light in the forest. A bit of light that is held by an angry looking gold rider. "Shards, what is it with fire and angry women.." He mutters, lingering far enough to remain in the shadows, at least temporarily.

This was only supposed to be a quick run to drop off a newly promoted Journeyman and to bring home an apprentice the next morning. Just a… slightly longer turn and burn but it seems like poor L'gan is stuck for the time being. Granaeth is participating in the LAST THING L'gan wanted to deal with so the man struck out to deal with this nonsense the best way he knows how. To hide out in the woods with some choice alcohol and drink himself into a stupor. He found a tree, a comfortable one, one with a nice little crook between gnarled roots for him to settle down between with his flask and a couple of jars. The flames, they summon those honey hued eyes and he rolls his eyes, groaning while those fingers work quick to free the flask of it's lid and he's taking a long wince inducing drink before coming up for air. "Please don't fucking be Risali. PLEASE." Because the pull is getting too stronger to resist. « It's the loud one that you need to worry about! HAHAHAHA. » The bronzerider pauses as he moves to pick up a jar, tilting his head to take in the sounds of other unfamiliar and clearly male voices. "I ain't sharing."

Varequoth is within the pens, the muscled bronze partaking in his kill while sending sweet, honeyed words of adoration to the gold. His own song is a just low whistling tune, not overly melodic but…intriguing. He may not be quick, but he has brains and quite the silver tongue. He may be getting as close to dragon as he dares while V’ayn…well he’s doing quite the opposite. The baker turned rider is standing a good /ten/ feet away from Nessalyn and trying very hard /not/ to get closer, despite Varequoth’s pull to do the opposite. From the looks of it, V’ayn came straight from the kitchens, drawn by that siren call. His black pants are partially hidden by a waist-apron and his button down red shirt has the sleeves rolled to his elbows. At least it will be easy to hide the blood? Still, despite trying to maintain distance his gaze is /quite/ affixed to Nessalyn, "I'd rather not die in the dirt…." But surely death isn't on tonight's menu?

Look, contrary to popular belief, Ch'ill is not dead. It's a very common misconception. He's just a reaaaaaally deep sleeper and the High Reaches rider's nap choice of place today just happens to be deep in the Xanadu forest. In response to either the light or possibly the stirring of dragons at the pens, he lets out a loud snore and flops over. Huluth meanwhile is ready to cast himself as Prince Charming if this casting call is still open. No show is complete without at least a few snacks and so the overly plump bronze joins the fray down at the pens, claiming a large porcine for himself.

From out of that darkness would things come. Whether it is the stuff of nightmares or Prince Charming, well, maybe a little of both. Zyddagath's hide sheens from the remnants of ocean water trickling off his charred and corroded back, his skeletal features sharp and daunting, Dagger'd talons slow-curl into soil as he arrives at the pens, beckoned by sirens just as any man of the sea may. Fortunately, he has the appearance of already having run up upon those rocks and sunk, only to rise again, so hesitation bares no mark in his approach ended by fang of haunted figurehead felling one more shrieking beast in those pens. Quite similarly though with far more grace and poise from turns of practice, Ki'lian melts out of the shadows of the forest, a figment made whole as the firelight falls upon more darkness- that black outfit of his, those kohl-rimmed eyes quite clearly set on Nessalyn despite her growling. At least he's used to it, for the most part.

Teimyrth is more than happy to answer that siren call, his own a flurry of snow and biting cold and the promise of warmth somewhere beneath all of that pine-white forest. Ila'den? Well. Ila'den would clearly rather be anywhere else, but he does come. He's as quiet as D'lei, more predator in the wings than one willing to get much closer to Nessalyn and her FLAMING DEATH. Instead he stays slightly apart from the pack, further back, pacing back and forth, back and forth, as if the man can't quite decide whether he wants to just take Nessalyn down and be done with it, or flee right back towards his weyrmates. For now, at least, he remains.

It's definitely not Risali, at least. BUT THAT MIGHT NOT BE A GOOD THING. "Don't come any closer," Nessalyn warns, waving her torch back and forth as she catches on to male voices in her proximity. "I will burn all that handsome skin off without a second thought, JUST WATCH ME." It's apparently meant for any and all men in hearing distance, although her eyes do fix on V'ayn for a long moment. So, maybe there will be dying tonight, who knows? There's another low growl from the goldrider, before her gaze goes unfocused again. By the pens, Tineangrath finishes with her bloody work and launches into the skies, a streak of flaming gold heading for new heights. And just as those marigold wings unfurl to propell her toward those lights dancing in the skies, Nessalyn just… turns on her heel and runs into the depths of the forest, with only the dancing flames to mark her location. Why should the dragons have to do all the chasing?

D'lei glances about at the sounds of others, observing them before his gaze returns to the fire-bearer. There's a tip down of his head, a slight sound of amusement before his head snaps up at the same time as Tineangrath launches, that moment before Garouth leaps to the air in order to follow her, his wings beating strongly as he seeks to assure himself of a good position in the pack. Down below, D'lei's head tilts, a duck of his chin as his eyes re-focus on Nessalyn. One corner of his mouth lifts, as she runs, and D'lei follows - though he doesn't seem terribly inclined to catch her. Garouth's trying to actually get a good position. D'lei? He only intends to follow, keeping himself to the shadows as he keeps the torch-lit Nessalyn in sight… but he lets the rest of those chasers take the positions in between. Go ahead, boys! Get burned and/or murdered. He'll watch!

Ysgieuth is generally the stable, sensible one, but that hasn't stopped the Half Moon Bronze from joining in the blooding at Xanadu, nor does it stop him from launching upwards after Tineangrath as the gold takes to the air - if it is nothing unexpected, how could it possibly be illogical? Zel, well, no one ever called him smart, and despite the threats, despite the other men, the visitor is drawn in, slowly creeping from the shadows to close the distance towards Nessalyn, even as Ysgieuth is attempting the same overhead. And then, just as he feels like he is getting close, she is off into the woods, and without regard for his safety (or the wisdom of this plan) is he off chasing dancing light, drawn in by the golden will-o'-the-wisp. "Waaaait." He hisses as he pursues, glancing over his shoulder to eye the other shadowy forms suspiciously.

Burn off? L'gan looks at the flames, then glances down at his shirt soaked with little bits of alcohol that made it past the edges of his mouth and he just responds by taking another drink. If he burns, at least it's from flames and not some plague brought on by breeding with the Senior Weyrwoman. "You can keep that batshit over there, thank you." Though the heated blood coursing through his veins sings otherwise. Granaeth doesn't waste his time with his recent kill, having his fill before he takes to the night with predatory need. This bronze isn't Prince Charming, he is NOT going to sweep her off her feet under a blanket of stars with moonlight glimmering off her skin. Granaeth is the villain in this story, old and decrepid in appearance but his vitality says otherwise. « IF YOU DON'T CATCH HER, I WILL. » "Damnit," the Fortian bronzerider mutters as he scoops up his jars, shoving then none too carefully in the large pockets of his coat and he pushes himself onto his feet with a snarl. For now, he'll play along. He'll trail behind.

"How…fierce." Was that supposed to be a compliment? V'ayn holds up both hands because he doesn't /intend/ to get closer only….then Nessalyn is running, "She's going to set the whole fucking forest on fire." His voice has dipped into a low growl, which is /quite/ different than his usual tone of voice. But he isn't the first to move, just as Varequoth isn't the first to take flight. The bronze's orange gaze is quickly flicking around to the competition, sizing up each one before he /does/ finally take flight. He won't rush forward after the gold, instead continuing his barrage of compliments while hanging back. Varequoth is waiting, waiting until the /right/ opportunity. V'ayn will eventually follow the rest but takes on some of Varequoth's strategies….Z'tan can definitely go first!

Huluth might look at least half disappointed in having to leave his fat, juicy porcine mostly unblooded, but when Tineangrath decides to change the channel, he can't help but surf along with her, rising up into the air on the tails of everybody else. Ch'ill rises up from his resting place as well, rubbing at sleepy eyes and blinking at the torchlight in the not to distant distance. "Who in Farnath's name brings fire to a flight?"

Zyddagath licks his jaws as the gold takes off skywards, following her with rapidly whirling eyes upon sharply angled face. A hiss follows, though it's not outrightly an unpleasant thing. Cruel, yes, but not displeased. Tattered black sails do rise just as he launches himself upwards into the oceans of the sky. Where battles will ensue and cannonfire will rattle bones- in theory. The tickle of hair-rising on the back of the neck, the foreboding hint of dense fog roiling and seething and curling over pitch dark ocean that carries the promise of more beneath its leagues. What light lives far below, long forgotten by all but those are trapped there forevermore. Ki'lian is in that ring of firelight, but not so close that he can't dodge the torch if it comes flying at him. A stark possibility, though he almost behaves as if it isn't. He doesn't pace nor hide, but the predatorial man looks like he ought to be. Instead he's far too arrogant for that, and lingers there for her next move, next threat, next whatever, and he isn't disappointed in his wait. Well, he is. Since she runs for it. There's a grand moment of a heavy exhale, closing his eyes and rubbing his face roughly with his good hand. He doesn't run much- ever-, but without much of any sort of barrier between himself and the one above, he starts out at a jog after her.

Teimyrth lowers himself to the ground and launches himself into the skies after Tine, not so much a creature of grace and wit as he is of cunning. So he moves, trying to position himself in a way that might put him in a position to gain a better vantage while allowing the other male dragons to (hopefully) tire out before he does. BUT LOOK AT THEM ALL BEING RUDELY SMART. That might require a change in tactics later; for now, Teimyrth falls back, but climbs high. Ila'den's own growl answers Nessalyn's threat - as if maybe the older man likes the inherent danger in possibly going up in flames just to catch her. And then she's running, and his feet move of their own accord - slow and sedate, as if much like Grannyth (I SEE YOU, GRANAETH), Ila'den is the villain on the ground. What's the number one less we learned in horror stories, kids? THE KILLER ALWAYS CATCHES UP. And Ila'den intends to, even when it seems like maybe he doesn't.

For those not so dogged in their immediate pursuit, there's a light somewhere off to the right, one which seems to flicker like the tell-tale signs of flame… but should anyone get closer, it turns out that it's just a torch stuck into the hollow of a tree. Someone should probably grab it, before the entire forest catches on fire. Then another light, up ahead. A trill of slightly hysterical laughter sounds in the direction of that light, which shows no sign of moving - although it does appear to be attached to a hand, for the moment. "TO THE DEATH," Nessalyn crows, at the same time that Tineangrath's song swells into talk of dancing through the night. She wants a hero, but it is true that sometimes the true hero is the one you least expect, isn't it? None can be ruled out just yet. But while the young queen stretches her wings to outrun her pursuers, Nessalyn demands a blood sacrifice. "He's getting too close. He might win. You should get rid of him." Her voice is aimed no no one and everyone in the darkness. "FIGHT." Aaaand she's off again, abandoning her second torch before she sprints into the darkness.

From the shadows, in the darkness, D'lei is sometimes navigating by the flicker of torchlight as much as any clearer view. His steps slow, stop, as his gaze flicks from the one in motion, the one where voices follow… to the other light. D'lei hesitates, though Garouth does not. His wings continue to beat strongly, keeping himself after Tineangrath unerring… though he makes no attempt to close the distance, nor even to gain the higher ground or better angle. He's only following, wings steady and seemingly untiring. D'lei, though… he starts moving again, but it's away from the rest, toward that flickering torch to find out what's burning and… do his part to have it not be 'the entire forest', at least not tonight, by extinguishing it against a patch of shaded dirt.

Z'tan is quite used to being a sacrifice at this point - and he continues headlong after Nessalyn, clearly missing all the signs from the males more familiar with the woman that maybe this is possibly like, a Bad Idea. And so, the distance light is missed, and instead he is drawn to the sound, pausing to lean down, hands on his knees for a moment as he attempts to catch his breath. "What are yo-" he starts, and then the torch is abandoned and any sense of what direction to go is lost. Eyes flick momentarily to the torch - after all, Zel has burned more than enough recently - but it seems he is willing to let his streak continue for he is bumbling off into the darkness after the disappearing goldrider, pausing now and again to try and figure out what noises in the woods are hers - and which ones won't probably kill him. Ysgieuth is not as close in his pursuit as Zel is - remember, he is the smarter of the two - but as the gold's song swells, he is drawn closer, stretching those wings to try and gain a little more height, a little more speed - to make it to the top of that tower, drawn by the gold - Well, smarter than Zel is a low bar.

Are we sacrificing Z'tan now? Tanit wouldn't mind, right? Ila'den, on the other hand, is easy to beat. Just put a cousin in front of him or something. Maybe even a walker with those neon colored tennis balls on the feet. R'hyn can swap them out for wiffle balls with little bells later. Then he can have some bling on his mad ride. Kilyanna would be proud. Don't worry, Nessalyn, just don't go up any stairs and don't sleep with Ila'den and you'll be fine! That's how most horror films end, right? Granaeth maintains his course but doesn't rush to fill in the gap between the queen and himself. Let the overly confident, overly vain, overly hungry spend themselves in her wake. The bronze rumbles deep, hissing at Teimyrth as he falls a safe distance away from rival talons. L'gan is still pursuing on foot, though there's no sinister smile on this man's face. His movements are smooth and full of purpose, his eyes locked on the fleeing Nessalyn. Through the haze, through the fire and the need for blood, there's still some reason. Enough for his own boot to grind it's heel into the flaming tip of the torch as he passes it by. One fire extinguished in exchange for another. The bronzerider removes his flask, taking another quick drink from it before shoving it back into his pockets, the jars clicking against eachother with each purposeful step.

"Fucking insane…fucking dirt, fucking fire, fucking…murder," V'ayn is not a happy camper and yet he is unable to truly keep himself away. It's at this time that Varequoth sees what he /thinks/ could be an opening to reposition himself. He trails behind Teimyrth, letting him to clear a path to higher grounds….only to then dive down, perhaps a tad dangerously, to try and get in front of some of the others. At the same time V'ayn picks up his pace to a run, seeking those dancing lights only to…find himself at a torch that is sans-Nessalyn. There's a groan of irritation because that means all of this /continues/, but he keeps moving forward.



Z'tan, what is that rustling off to the right? Is it a goldrider, or… ANOTHER ZOMBIE CHILD????

This is definitely Ila'den's fault.

Probs a zombie child. RIP Zel.

Is that a /SHRIEK/? Yes it is. That is V'ayn letting out a /shriek/ as he tries to scamper away from that diseased zombie child of /doom/!


Zyddagath churns higher, with little regard for those beside him. There's no charm to the looks nor current manner of him, this Black Pearl'd beast who would have no qualms with getting too close to the other males. Like, Varequoth for instance. Just because he is very close to the other bronze's wing, and intruding dangerously into his space- that's an accident, surely. A bone-chilling sound of a mixed hiss-creel rumbles up from corroded, oily throat. The slower pace of the jog that has now tapered off into a walk as Ki'lian trespasses through the woods, owning the shadows and night and Dark as he does, and Zyddagath's instigation has him somewhat behind V'ayn in this ground pursuit. However, he loses him after a couple of beats since he's not about this running life, yo. As focused as he is on the treasure (fire-wielding, death-harrowing treasure it may be), time-worn habits fix a steadier pace to him now. He avoids the torch in the tree which is aptly put out by other, and hangs back this time… just for her to take off again.

Oh, Ki'lian? What's that little voice beside you mumbling, "Mommy?" in the total darkness?

LISTEN, L'GAN. Ila'den will only fall for it if there are badass little flames painted on the sides in red and orange to really drive home the point that he was, at one point in his life, a badass, okay. (Shhh, let a man dream). Teimyrth, for what it's worth, seems wholly unconcerned with all the other males around him; even when Granaeth hisses, the bronze simply keeps his focus on Tinangrath - as if the rest are unimportant, as if the rest are insignificant, as if the rest are beneath his notice. And in this… aren't they? Because the prize is that gold and everybody else is simply collateral, an obstacle, a thing to be aware of, but certainly not to interrupt his focus. Ila'den is much the same, moving at that slow, steady, sedate pace, confident in his stride, in his movement, in the way he avoids going after stray lights or zombie children. He does, however, spare words of, "What the fu -" because honestly. Why is there so much noise going on in this forest? HONESTLY, NESSALYN. WHAT ARE YOU DOING.

The real question is whether Nessalyn even knows what she's doing. There's a hoarse shout which might just be Ch'ill, as the bronzerider either gets eaten alive by zombie children, or just… trips over a root and faceplants somewhere awkwardly. Again, there's that disturbing cackle of laughter from the goldrider as she goes for a tree and attempts to scramble up it, away from the promise of unsettling children and increasingly frustrated bronzeriders. It's from this perch that she can lob things at any forms which might be foolish enough to wander the grounds beneath her. Tineangrath surveys her pursuers, old and young alike, though her sweet song does hit a slightly sour note when Zyddagath comes just this side of too close to one of his rivals. There's no need for that! Certainly, her hero would never stoop to such petty tactics. The strain of pushing to outrun those suitors is beginning to wear on the gold, and she glances back again, seeking out the one who's meant to be her true love - at least this time.

The torch is extinguished, and D'lei is in darkness. He looks for the light of another torch, one that was carried by another being chased… but after a flicker of light, there's darkness there too, crushed beneath L'gan's heel. D'lei ducks his chin, shoulders hunching forward as if in a crouch… then laughs, a short bark of sound against the forest. His chin lifts as part of a single motion that draws his body erect, as if echoing Garouth's launch to the air as his mind mingles closer to that of his dragon. He's behind in the ground-pursuit, his way uncertain amid the shadows… but there's still a chase where the way forward is clear, where the quarry remains in sight. D'lei joins himself wholly to that chase, being Garouth as his body merely stands below, muscles tensed and unmoving. D'lei's holds his head upturned, his eyes unseeing - his ears unhearing - as he - Garouth - veers to the side to avoid the risk of fouling wings in Varequoth's reckless dive (or Zyddagath's cruel retort) before sweeping back in his own pursuit. Garouth's still in this hunt, though D'lei has lost - and lost himself to Garouth, rider unheeding and leaving Nessalyn to be caught by some other - or no-one - even as the bronze seeks to fly faster, a howl of wolves beneath the rush of air past wings. Is he the Beast for this Beauty?

That sound of movement draws Zel in, and after a moment, the rustling stops.. only to be followed by a loud shriek and a panicking, creeped out by whatever it was in the darkness, the Half Moon bronze rider scrambling backwards, struggling to regain his feet, and instead ending up under a tree, back against the trunk - hopefully not getting pelted by too many things if it happens to be one that Nessalyn is in. Why the sudden distraction? Ysgieuth has decided to make his move while the other males veer, dive, and otherwise get in the way of each other. Hanging back for just a moment, he hesitates, waits, and then makes a move of his own, hoping to sneak in while the others are distracted.. even if his single minded focus has completely distracted his rider, and left him confused in the dark forest. That seems like an appropriate start for an old-fashioned fairy tale.

Children? Why in Faranth's tailfolk are there children wandering around the forest at night. L'gan continues his pace but the sound of tiny voices brings the hair on the back of his neck to stand up on end. Everyone's worrying about zombies but no one is mentioning the possibility of these rogue children being bait for Renegades hidden in the shadows. Dragons can't fit between the shadows of the forest trees, not without risk of injury or being trapped in the boughs themselves. Hopefully the stench of moonshine on his breath and clothes is enough to deter him. Ila'den has all the candy and the most recent rare pokemon cards, kids! Granaeth draws in his breath, stretching his wingsails to their limits as he beats one powerful beat after another. The bronze snarls, pumping harder and harder to close the gap. Pitch black talons vanish in the night but those talons are extended and ready to tear into shreds any one that gets in his way. L'gan staggers to a stop, fists and teeth clenched as he lowers his head. The bronzerider closes his eyes, heaving one heated breath after another and then through the silence the breathing breaks, slowly being replace by a quiet laughter. The laughter growing louder, maniacal as it echos Granaeth's in the sky. The villain on the heels of his doomed princess. Z'tan can be one of those 'children of the corn' without the corn prey or something.

V’ayn has would like nothing more than to /leave/ the forest right now, but unfortunately there is a /lot/ of dragon testosterone preventing him from doing so right now. It’s frankly a miracle he doesn’t try and whack the sickly zombie-child with a stick, but he doesn’t. Instead he goes far /far/ away and this time he’s /much/ more cautious about following more lights. In the skies though Varequoth is /quite/ aware of Zyddagath’s proximity but the bronze doesn’t flinch. Instead his wing tip just /barely/ brushes against the other bronzes. It’s not an aggressive move, in fact it’s almost gentle….because he is /definitely/ taunting his clutchsib. « Ya courtin’ me, or the lovely lady? » Unfortunately, he is so distracted between his bronze brother that he /almost/ misses his window of opportunity…almost, but not quite! He’s a touch later than he’d like but at the last second he dives down and then surges upwards, trying to catch her from below. Hold it right there!

Ki'lian freezes, reaching beneath his jacket for something when the child's voice comes out of nowhere. That something is probably a blade, and nobody is going to see this since it's dark and creepy out here anyway. However, there's no weapon where he reaches, and his gaze is far too distanced, distracted to actually hone in on that mummified target. And one, two, three, he's already turning away as if the whole event is forgotten. A growl from him is low and annoyed, his relatively quiet bootfalls and rustle of his jacket as he lets it fall back into place following in his wake as he moves deeper into the woods a little further. Then pauses. The man's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowed in the survey that follows of the ground- then upwards to the branches in the faint reminder of who exactly is the woman he's pursuing, hunting. He shifts his weight to stand closer to a tree trunk, and let Zyddagath have everything. Zyddagath doesn't seem deterred by his clutchmate's stalefastness. Expected. It would be an utter disappointment had he done anything less, of course! There's another sound, a chuff that is something of a draconic laugh, before he takes advantage of that distraction. If violence hadn't been his intent, that surely was. Tattered sails collect the waters of the sky, dropping him after the golden Tin, to surge upon the tides of tales lost in attempts to catch her as his own.

Remember those zombie babies? One rolls up and is all 'you my uncle-daddy?'

Hopefully, at least some of those involved who aren't the lucky winners will have the presence of mind to pick up those wandering children and safely return them to the infirmary. Or just… herd them in the general direction if they're too afraid of catching the plague. Poor Z'tan, he has indeed found the most inopportune area to hide. Nessalyn never lacks for things to throw, and a number of said things are lobbed in the direction of a shadowed form which looks distinctly masculine beneath her perch. In the skies, Tineangrath twists away from the potential embrace of one - not her Prince Charming, thank you! - and goes tumbling straight into the figurative arms of another. It's Teimyrth who claims the prize, as Tineangrath finally finds her true love… at least until she starts glowing again next time. For her part, Nessalyn leaps from her branch without much regard for who might be beneath it, searching out Ila'den in the darkness. Maybe there will be some more zombie children soon, wink wink.

Well, something came up as 'Not the worst outcome possible' as far as Z'tan was concerned - though he was pelted from above with various objects. As the goldrider flees, Zel lingers for a moment, before managing to get to his feet, still disoriented as he attempts to find his way back to Ysgieuth - the bronze having peeled away without success. Of course, a disoriented, confused, disappointed Z'tan, scratched up from chasing and fleeing from various terrors in the woods is about to return to a weyr he was rather unceremoniously moved out from - what could possibly go wrong with -that-?

Garouth, uncatching, veers away to continue on. D'lei, eventually, comes back to being himself instead of his bronze, with that whole thing of two bodies and two minds that are only linked instead of the same. And once he's done that, he'll probably even be trying to get zombie children out of the haunted forest and into the safety of the infirmary where no young eyes will be scarred (and also nobody will be eaten. Probably not, anyhow.)

Granaeth abandons the flight and simply glides off into the darkness, leaving his rider with the quick draining of blood from his face. L'gan takes a deep shuddered breath and swallows deep. Part of him is seething with anger at the loss and the other forever grateful that he didn't fall prey to this one. Still, needing a distraction, the children resurface at his thoughts and he glances about, quietly calling them one by one and beaconing them back to the weyr at large. When he sobers up, someone is going to be made his hand puppet at letting them out into the darkness at all. Flights are no place for children.

Varequoth takes the loss gracefully enough, scarlet wings flaring so that he can glide back down to the beach. Is there disappointment on V'ayn's face? Perhaps. But maybe also relief….because now he can leave these horrible woods, and horrible children. Hopefully? Unlike some of the others he's letting them fend for themselves! For now the pair will retreat to their weyr and likely partake in a /lot/ of alcohol.

And Ila'den is still walking, still moving through the forest, over roots, through the foliage undeterred by the sounds and sights of chaos erupting all around him; he just keeps pressing forward, as if the bronzerider knows that there's no other outcome - as if Ila'den knows that either Teimyrth will succeed and he will find Nessalyn regardless of how far she runs, how dark the night, or he will lose. Teimyrth will lose and - but he doesn't. The bronze catches Tine in his claws with a roar of victory, and Ila'den moves faster, faster, until he's running, ignoring the snag of branches on leathers as he moves almost instinctively towards where Nessalyn is. And there she is, and the bronzerider pauses only a moment, chest heaving, before stalking, ground-eating steps propel him forward, have calloused hands catching at smaller frame and hauling her in against him. Guest weyrs? Privacy? Please. Ain't nobody got time for that.

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