Mother Clucking Quackers

Xanadu Weyr - Storm's End
Just kidding, y'all, IlaCitaRyn's place may be called 'Storm's End' but we promise, the storm is just beginning… DUN DUN DUN~~

It's the dark of a Turnover Night… if by dark one means as soon as the the sun has set. The plan may have been to wait until later but GREATNESS WAITS FOR NO MAN, WOMAN OR DRAGON! Rhodelia has raided the stores and found all the black clothing for both her and F'yr and has bundled up like a fearsome shadowy pile of laundry as she theatrically creeps closer to the missions target. The creeping would be a LOT more effective if Inasyth wasn't helping by humming a theme song. « Dunnnn-NahNahNah- NUUUUUH! NAh-nuh-nah! »


Nono, it's totally fine that Inasyth is humming. Who can hear it over the HEROIC ENTRANCE THEME?! CHAAAAAAARGE. Okayokayokay, not charge, but « ONWAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAARD! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHH HAHAHAAHAHAAHAHH AHAHAHAHAHHAHAH HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!! » Honestly, with Glorioth living on one of the immediately neighboring properties, this is probably not the first time that VALIENT EXCLAMAITIONS OF IMPENDING HEROICISM have disturbed the sleep of the neighbors, but L I S T E N, R'hyn had met Glorioth before he did the Very Nice Thing (he probably now DEEPLY REGRETS) in making sure F'yr was able to get his TOTALLY SWEET homestead that he takes ALMOST NO ONE TO, ever, in the whole like… 3/4 of a turn that he's owned it. Yes, they're getting that old. It's fine. TIME IS PASSING, not just in the turn and the days of their lives, but in moments that are leading a SWOOPING BASTION OF GLORIOUS GLORIOUSNESS toward their destination, while his lifemate (only at Rhodelia's insistence) has dressed up like a TAR-PIT MONSTROSITY, with too tight pants and an over-sized shirt that might actually have been a simple dress at some point in its many made-over lifetime. It was all F'yr's fault that R'hyn-and-company ended up with Rhodelia's chicken. IF ONLY HE HADN'T THOUGHT OF THE DAMNED GOOGLEY EYES.



Did Rhody also procure black outerwear for R'hyn and Ila'den's children, or do they just come like that? Perhaps it's a strange mix of both, black pants and boots that fit matched with a sweater so baggy the young, leggy girl of eleven is practically swimming in it, and a knit cap several sizes too large jammed over her head to hide vividly-dyed locks. "Faranth, aren't you s'posed to be sneaking?," the grey-eyed twig also known as Ibsyglei hisses from the shadows, head popping up over the top of a bush with an overdramatically aggrieved sigh. "Mom could probably hear your dragons coming, and you sent her off to High Reaches. Sheesh!" Crashing her way out of the underbrush (because if the jig ain't up already, her dads aren't going to notice her), Ibsy adds a play-grumpy, "Luckily every dragon is loud all the time, everybody just tunes them out. Now. Dad's keeping—" A beat. A look at Rhody. "Clucky? Lady Bawk?" Because names are important at a time like this. Enough so that she's not continuing without it.

WHAT'S ILA'DEN DOING, YOU ASK? THINGS. PROBABLY. MANTASTICALLY PURE FEATS OF MASCULINE… MAN… LINESS. Look. LISTEN. The dragons are ringing the proverbial alarms, but the intruders haven't quite made it inside yet and it would APPEAR THAT, SANS ONE ERRANT IBSYGLEI (and probably Heribly, if that sarcastic, 'Yeah, like, we almost didn't hear you coming. Maybe you should be louder,' from a bush that as-of-yet has failed to produce what is assuredly another black-garbed child-proper is anything to go by), NOBODY FROM THE INSIDE HAS COME TO CHECK THE OUTSIDE EITHER. Maybe they're used to the dissidence of living nextdoor to Glorioth. Maybe they're so caught up in PANCAKES AT MIDNIGHT (they're not, but they could be, but they're not) that they don't CARE about the impending DOOM encroaching upon their lawn. MAYBE THEY'RE PREPARING THE FRYING PANS, BECAUSE //THE WILL USE THIS. The better question is why Teimyrth hasn't come rolling out like a draggo-style super saiyajin to threaten the whole neighborhood with violence. MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, THE SILENCE IS MORE OMINOUS THAN ONE MIGHT THINK, AND MAYBE IBSY'S ABOUT TO GET THAT ASS WHOOPED. Right after F'yr and Rhody, of course.

Stranger things have happened than Rhody somehow getting a mix of clothing to who knows how many children? She's not at all surprised by Ibsy's sudden arrival although there is an eyebrow raise at the mention of Cita being sent anywhere, but doesn't actually question and just moves on while giving a quick glance back to Inasyth. The gold gives a massive sigh and quits with her own attempt at sneaking. She'll be a stationary, shiny lookout. "I think Mother Clucker was what I settled on… for the time being." Rhodelia has probably given the chicken at least fifty names in constant fits of indecisiveness. "Where are the rest?" Rhodelia's non-existent spinner senses might be beginning to tingle at the LACK OF BRONZERIDERS, aside from the F'yrsomely Clad one she has brought with her.

Listen. No, really, LISTEN, hear how F'yr is the best at mid-of-night break-ins right along with his lifemate? Yeah, that's his shriek of surprise an octave too high as Ibsyglei melts out of the darkness.


That memo has never once reached bronze or lifemate, sorrynotsorry. It's at least giving the opposition a FAIR SHOT to keep Cluck This from the clutches of its loving mistresses. BUT ALSO LISTEN, F'yr did not do that. See how he's clearing his throat and looking from one child to another and then to Rhodelia, straightening up to make himself LESS AN OBVIOUS ENORMOUS BLACK-CLAD TARGET IN THE DARK. Ila'den's self-defense lessons at work, folks. (No, probably he had a little to drink before this plan was enacted - he has a bad track record with these things on turnover eve.) "Pretty sure," he stage-whispers ineffectively to the present, "that this is only a success if we're fast." Could anyone be fast enough where the STRONGHOLD OF ILARYNCITA AND GANG (like, street gang, scary, trained monkey street gang) are concerned? "Let's go," he encourages, MOVING LIKE A CRASHING THIEF THROUGH THE UNDERBRUSH (okay, slightly quieter; he is actually good at forest stuff, even at night - there's been practice after getting lost with a certain goldrider related to this bunch of turn-coats). The aerial lookout (DO NOT TELL HIM HE'S NOT WAITING FOR THE MOMENT TO CHARGE; WAITING IS ALREADY NOT HIS STRONG SUIT) is NOT HELPFUL to stealth. « AHAHAHAHAH HAHAHAHAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! »

Ibsy will get her ass whooped if her dads can catch her; given that they're both gimps, it's far more likely she'll just be grounded until she's old enough to stand for a dragon of her own. But those are consequences, and she'll consider those later. "Oooooooh, that's a bad name, I'm telliiiiin'," she croons, rocking eagerly back and forth in her boots as eager grey eyes flick to F'yr just to WIDEN COMICALLY AS HE BARRELS ON PAST. "No, wait, you don't even know where Clucker— aaaaand, he's gone." Flat 'yeah, he's doomed' eyes roll back towards Rhodelia, offering her a dry, "The chicken is in the room at the top of the stairs. Be careful, it got into mud earlier," THAT DIRTY MOTHER CLUCKER, "so Daddy's showering in the bathroom right underneath. Dunno where dad is. Everyone else is in on it. You'd better deliver." Fifteen minutes of chicken-time a week. EACH. Okay, maybe not each, but the deal is the deal!! "We'll create a distraction." A squint skywards towards the CACKLING BEAST OVERHEAD. "How loud can he and Ina be?" Maybe they can use this to their advantage?


AND STILL ILA PERSISTS IN ILA'DELAYING. By which we mean, the man is a no show — not yet, anyway. AND LISTEN, F'YR. THAT'S NOT A CHILD. THAT'S A BUSH. A very CLEVER bush, that has taught itself how to speak Pernese, but NO LESS A BUSH. That's why it's suspiciously non-verbal when he looks its way. Maybe he had WAY MORE TO DRINK THAN HE REALIZED. Is the bush laughing? Maybe a little. We mean, NO. GO FORTH, VALIANT DO-GOODERS. RIGHT THE WRONGS OF R'HYN AND HIS MOTHER CLUCKING THIEVING POSSE. The deal is the deal, and that means NO FUNERALS, NO MOURNERS. CLUCKINATORS, ROLL OUT. What? YOU COME UP WITH A BETTER NAME. … That's what we thought. (STOP SHAMING US).

Rhodelia cackles at that question. "Ohhhh, plenty!" And given the queue, Inasyth starts up a delightfully off key and full throated warble about the wonders of the Turn and her favorite things. But that means Rhody almost misses F'yr's roll out call. "Ohhh, shi—- taki mushrooms!" She jerkily bounds after F'yr and his longer legs. And tries to whisper while running. "Keep an eye out for Ila'den…. how long do you think it actually takes R'hyn to shower?" Could they be planning a counter-offensive as they sneak?

Sometimes, one releases a thought into the universe and the only thing that follows it is REGRET. HOW LOUD CAN GLORIOTH BE?! Well, listen, first things first, he's LEADING THE CHARGE here. Now, finding the right place to land in order to enact his EXTREMELY LOUD (HEAR ALL THAT MUSIC?! THOSE BLARING HORNS, THE VERY MIND-MELTING OFF-KEYNESS OF IT ALL?!) APPROACH might be a problem. Frankly, F'yr didn't mean to get separated from his assault team, he didn't mean to end up in the lead for oh so many reasons, including just how VERY DANGEROUS it can be to GO FIRST, but HERE HE IS, AND YES, MAYBE HE HAD MORE THAN HE WOULD ADMIT TO HAVING HAD TO DRINK BEFORE ALL THIS BEGAN. THE POINT IS, it's begun now. There's no taking it back, because even if he doesn't know where the Chicken of a Thousand Names is, nor did he really pay attention to an of the intel his scouts offered, he does know the lay of the land and he's going to STEALTH HIS WAY IN, as soon as he finishes tripping on that poorly located shoe. It's fine. CRASH. No one heard that over Glorioth anyway, right?


PARTY IN THE FRONT YARD? PARTY IN THE FRONT YARD!!! C'mon, Bushy, now's no time to be shy. The hat is OFF, purple hair left to glow in the minimal light as Ibsyglei shimmies her way into the middle of the yard and boogies down, because this is the most perfectly normal way to handle this, of course. And if Glori makes it down to inflict his physical self as well as his mental upon them, why, the more the merrier! R'hyn, meanwhile, hears that EARTH SHATTERING KABOOM and pokes one very soapy, comically bubbly head out of the bathroom door. "Everyone okay? … Baby? Kids?" The house is quiet. TOO QUIET. THIS IS SUSPICIOU— "Augh, my eyes!"


Luckily for HUSTLING RHODIES and ERRANT F'YRS, soap chooses that exact moment to drip right down into his eyeballs and with a grumble and a slam of the bathroom door, R'hyn retreats to his perfectly safe bubble of obliviousness. PERFECTLY NORMAL. QUICK. GET WHILE THE GETTING IS GOOD!!

LEAVE BUSH-Y ALONE. You know whose hearing of the kaboom is questionable at best? Ila'den's. Because the man STILL ISN'T RESPONDING, not to ominous crashes, not to the sound of his weyrmate's voice, not to the altogether comical, 'Augh, my eyes!' that erupts from — JUST KIDDING. That earns an answer, some low-pitched, husky laughter rumbling from some UNFATHOMABLY DARK CORNER OF THE HOUSE. Who just SITS IN THE DARKNESS LIKE THAT? Who becomes ONE WITH THE SHADOWS and adopts utter VILLAINY when there are mother clucking plots afoot? Ila, that's who. But then there's silence again, a silence so abrupt, so complete that it's hard to really say where it came from. THE HOUSE ECHOES. IT'S A BIG HOUSE. Was it from THAT THERE TABLE? Empty. THE BATHROOM IN WHICH R'HYN THINKS HE'S ALONE? Unlikely. FURTHER UP THE STAIRS? Perhaps. One will just have to venture further into the realm of the Big Bad Wolf to figure that out, won't — welp. There it is, the sound of unbooted feet not bothering to disguise their approach, the opening of a door that sounds like it probably belongs to the same room R'hyn just soaped his eyes from, a click of it closed, and then SILENCE. Also, Rhodelia: TOO LONG. Or not nearly long enough. It depends on who you ask. About the shower, we mean.

Well, soap in the eyes was an unexpected VICTORY for this assault force! Rhodelia doesn't slow down as F'yr trips and crashes over that shoe, she vaults all dramatic action star like past him, which would be so much more effective if she had brought her super-rhody cape but it didn't go with the whole black ensemble.


Any sneaking has long since been abandoned as she gives a yell maybe even Glorioth would be proud of. "WHAT HO YOU PALTRY POULTRY THEIVES! WE'VE COME TO RECLAIM WHAT IS RIGHTFUL OURS!!! OR UHHH… mine." She's not even made it anywhere near the stairs by this point, just lunged and fist jabbed into the air for DECLARATIONS.

Who's got two thumbs and suddenly DOES NOT WANT TO BE DOING THIS? F'yr. It's fine, his dragon won't let him back down, not now that Glorioth has joined— no, wait, he's not anywhere near the front yard. My, but that's strange. MAYBE SOMEONE TOLD HIM that F'yr and Rhody weren't really just getting into position to sing his praises while he RESCUED THE FEATHERED FIGUREHEAD SO CARELESSLY LOST (good job, F'YR). Maybe a CRISIS required the most heroically heroic hero to be ELSEWHERE? MAYBE, just maybe he knows something by instinct that F'yr and the dancing distractions out front DON'T KNOW. (Probably Teimyrth knows, damn him. NOT THAT ANYONE'S WORRIED ABOUT WHAT SHARP CLAWS CERTAIN BIG BADS HAVE, BUT NO ONE WANTS TO SEE REPEATS OF EVENTS THEY CAN'T REMEMBER, HOKAY? And DEAD DADS HAD BETTER JUST STAY DEAD THIS TIME AND NOT RESURRECT TO CHALLENGE THEIR OBVIOUSLY SUP(IN)FERIOR SONS.) (Un)Fortunately, F'yr's biggest known problem right now is the way he freezes when he hears R'hyn's voice, and then the SOUNDS OF PAINFUL DISCOMFORT, and the not at all TERRIFYING raspy laughter. But he's already COME TOO FAR, and has no idea where to find this chicken, so he'll just pick his way through the dark(ish) house and— you know, trip about three dozen more times between toys and cats and whatevertheshellelse this DEATH TRAP EXPANSIVE HOME has in store for him as he searches for his ticket to Rhodelia's good graces.


IT'S TOO LATE, O F'YRFUL ONE. IN FOR A PENNY, IN FOR A POUND. Rhodelia has declared open hostilities and of course you know, this means war! "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED," comes booming from the bathroom door that's suddenly been kicked ope- oh, no, that's muffled swearing about the solidity of mahoghany, give us a second… "NOW YOUR CHALLENGE HAS BEEN ACCEPTED," comes booming from the bathroom door that's suddenly been carefully opened and then thrown wide, steam pouring out of it around R'hyn's form for dramatic effect. "If that's how it's going to be - I'm here to kick your butt and use bath towels, and I'm alllll out of bath towels." Which should come as no surprise, considering he's sporting at least four of them: one for his waist, two tucked around his body toga-style, and one twirled jauntily upon his head in a twisty turban. "HAVE AT YE, INVADERS!" GASP. There must be a traitor amongst the children, because R'hyn is armed and dangerous, forearm curled around an entire tub of rubber duckies.


"YOU THINK YOU CAN COME INTO MY HOUSE?! HAHAHA!" There goes a rubber duck, hurled right at F'yr's tripping form!! Alas that they are not so aerodynamic as their waterfowl cousins. It has a better chance of hitting Rhodelia than the young bronzerider with that trajectory. "TAKE THAT!" Whip! "AND THAT!" THONK-EE.

BUT WHERE IS ILA'DEN, you might ask? First there's the fiasco with the door, then there's the fiasco with the towels, and then there's the rubber ducky death-grenades that are much less full of DOOM and much more full of WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL IS THAT. Ila'den, however, is not one to miss out on the action, no. Here he comes, somehow defying THE LAWS OF PHYSICS (like a GD BADASS, A CERTAIN GOLD MIGHT SAY, SANS THE GD, BECAUSE SHE'S THE ONLY FEARLESS LEADER 'ROUND THESE PARTS) to SLIDE INTO THE FRAY OPPA GANGNAM STYLE. EYYYYY, SEXY LADIES! He does it on his stomach, and it's absolutely ridiculous, this execution of somehow stilling on the floor between R'hyn's legs, arms extended out to lob WATER BALLOONS.


RHODY? F'YR? It's hard to say who (if ANYBODY) gets hit, but once Ila'den is out of squishy ammunition, he's pulling out the WATER GUNS. THAT AREN'T SHAPED LIKE GUNS AT ALL, BUT SQUIRT WATER ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU CANNOT CALL ANY SOCIETY CIVILIZED IF THEY DO NOT HAVE SOME CONTRAPTION FOR GETTING EVERYBODY HECKING WET. He even, from his position down on the floor, rasps, "Incoming, baby," before he tosses one up for R'hyn to take. RELOAD, RELOAD, RELOAD. He's scooting back, rolling to duck back behind the frame, and then reappearing with a sideways glance while lobbing ANOTHER WATER BALLOON. TAKE THAT, SUCKERSSSSSSS.

Rhodelia dodges, ducks, and dives as suddenly R'hyn reappears with duck-ball. Shelter options might be limited, but she crouch-runs over to the couch and snags one of the throw pillows for a shield just in time for one of the ducks to make contact with the pillow with a squeak. Foolishly, Rhody lowers her pillow shield just in time to get one of those water ballons splattering on her shoulder and the woman shrieks. "WHY DID YOU HAVE TO USE COLD WATER???" Because Ila's are cruel probably, but the shock does remind her of the mission and the target and so she charges up the stairs. "Cover me, F'yr!" But before she can make it to the final landing on the staircase, Inasyth's music and champagne flood out to everybody (and especially the three bronzes)! « STOP!!! IN THE NAAAAAAAAME OF LOVE! OR ME! Hahahahaha! Let's break some hearts and make some eggs, alright??? »


Regardless of the answers, the suddenly very shiny gold leaps off towards the feeding grounds and all color drains from Rhody's face. "She isn't…" But the denial doesn't run very deep today as she's turning tail and running. "You can keep the chicken!!!" Which you she's bequeathing it to is probably debatable.

Technically, if anyone asks, Rhody did ask F'yr to save her. That (and the booze) combine to explain why F'yr is suddenly surging up off of his 6,000th trip of the night and toward that door to use his CHEATER HARD-EARNED MASSIVENESS to, indeed, cover Rhodelia's lunge for the stairs. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so we'll skip the next thousand + and let you enjoy this accurate portrayal of F'yr's HEROIC EFFORTS:


Where did he even get the glass of water? Who can say. What is for certain is that by the time Rhody is pelting up toward that landing, F'yr is thoroughly soaked and dancing his way toward the buddy in the doorway (RUN). He's reaching for a towel when, « AHAHAHAHAHA HA AHAHAHHAHAHAHA HAHHHAHAAHH! NEVER FEAR, MY BUXOM BEHEMOTH. MY HEARTS BEAT ONLY FOR GLORY AND VALOR. I SHALL NOBLY PUT TO SHAME THOSE UNWORTHY OF CONTEST. » With him. For her. Let's all remember, Inasyth (yes, even Inasyth, sigh) is only the prize that proves Glorioth's supreme supremacy. "CLUCK! DUCK!" FORGET IT. He'll remember how to swear later. FOR NOW, he's just the right kind of friend to make a snatch for the towel at R'hyn's waist and turn to book it out the way he came after the goldrider, because what kind of partner in crime would he be if he didn't slow the pursuit (and towel off some before he tracks an excessive amount of mud/dirt/underbrush/whatevertheshellthatstuffis into the guest weyr and or barn wherever he's following his heart (or whatever other body part - who's checking) toward.

HAHA, F'YR, THE JOKE IS ON YOU! For underneath that towel, R'hyn is wearing another, smaller towel, as though he was expecting just such a brotrayal. Granted, the effect is rather that he's wearing a mini-skirt slitted up to the hips where a very, seriously inadequate knot has been tied, but listen. AT LEAST YOU AREN'T BEING BLINDED BY WEYRLEADER MANDINGLE. Ya welcome. But listen, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Clearly there was a moment long before this in which Rhodelia dashed for the stairs, and R'hyn dropped his bucket'o'ducks to catch the firearm (waterarm?) that Ila's launched up at him, and it would all be very smooth if only his face didn't stretch to comical oopsie-doopsie proportions as he fumbled the catch once, twice, before finally settling it in his hands. "COVER THIS!," immediately precedes an attempted hosing of the goldrider making a madcap dash up the stairs, though the assault is foiled again by F'yr valiantly taking a facefull of water — by his own hand. This serves its likely purpose in giving R'hyn pause, imitation flamethrower lowered so he can squint at the vision before him. "Did you steal a glass from our bar?" A beat. "Where were you hiding it?" But this is no time for logic! Dragons are bugling, and towels are being ripped to reveal loincloths and an illegal amount of thigh, and R'hyn is shouting "AND STAY OUT!!!" at volumes that would - and does - make his dragon proud as the beast rises from where he had been hiding behind the weyr THE WHOLE TIMEEEEEEE to make haste for glory and gold. "Well that was a resounding success," he comments to the tune of raspy laughter from the bathroom where Ila'den is still refilling his Pernese squirtgun. "Whaddya say we make this a flight to remember?" Is there a pump action on that waterthrower? There is now, inadequate towel flipflapping in the breeze as he strides off perfectly barefoot, weyrmate in tow, into the Xanadu night.

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