Special Delivery

… with emphasis on the special.

Xanadu Weyr - Storm's End
For a weyr with absolutely enormous amounts of space, it is rather lacking in the open, airy feeling one might expect. This is perhaps achieved through the excessive use of wood and stone, the space carved straight back into the cliffside like the weyrs of old. The first room off the ground entrance is a dense livingroom, the space close and cozy and dominated by golden wooden hues. The couch is plush and comfortable, surrounded by squashy chairs of various comfort and sturdiness, including an enormous wingback chair clearly meant for someone of Gaston-like stature. The chairs normally circle a low-slung, wide coffee table, but can be drug up to a functioning fireplace when the weather turns cool. From the dragon's sleeping area below comes a low, sloped hallway that allows access to the enormous dragon couch draped with blankets and cushions of lustrous gold and ruby red, big enough to play host to several large dragons. Cream and rouge pillows are scattered about liberally to accent the room, lending the space an extra dash of comfort and respectability.
The livingroom wraps naturally around to a dining room-kitchen hybrid that looks like it could host a wild party or an intimate, classy dinner depending on the mood. Several stately chairs, benches, and an honest to goodness couch circle a pair of tables that could host an entire wing if put together. Either table can easily be broken down or stored for less boisterous occasions. Against one wall is a fully stocked bar, complete with stools and a long, slick counter begging to have drinks slid down its length. The opposite wall hosts wooden cabinetry, beneath which stands a refrigeration system complete with ice box and a simple brick-lined stove. A well-stocked pantry is tucked into the empty side of the room, and is consistently refilled as if by magic.
Between the two rooms there is a narrow set of stairs framed by wrought iron, which leads up to a lofted study. Though high catwalks lead through the rafters to a seating space above the kitchen, a dim space lined with pillows and soft mats for quiet seating, the study is clearly the focal point of the loft. Tucked just below the loft stairs is a bathroom, the rustic sensibilities of the rest of the weyr present even here. The sink has been carved into an enormous piece of driftwood, and even the shower is decorated with polished wood to keep with the theme. A small window opens to keep the room from growing damp, complete with a shutter for the sake of privacy.
Despite the weyr's best efforts at stateliness, there are, of course, the ever-present hallmarks of a big and boisterous family that comes and goes in a typical whirlwind: toys strewn here, pillows piled there, books or paperwork left lying where hastily abandoned to tend to food, kiss boo-boos, or push a rain-wet dragon back downstairs. The more rugged effects are perhaps ruined by baby-gates blocking off stairs, sharp edges dulled by towels and pillows but hey: if anybody's going to have their cake and eat it, too, it's these three idiots and their ridiculous family, so. Are you even surprised? Thought not.

Though it's been quite a few hours since Rukbat has risen into a weak blue sky, the day is still cold, the wind, brisk. For a certain acid-wash green, this is an unwelcome change from the warmth of a summer sunbeam she'd been enjoying only moments before a trip between, and she is not hesitant to remark as such to her rider as the tiny woman picks a careful path down her dragon's forearm. "Oh, suck it up, buttercup. Ain't like we're gonna be here long, yeah?" She wrestles with the zipper on a flight jacket several sizes too large for her, dragging it down in skips and starts as she saunters her way right into a familiar weyr without a single introduction or by-your-leave. "WHAT'S UP ASSHOLES!," the diminutive greenie shouts into the billow of heat and relative quiet inside. It takes only a fraction of a second for her to realize there might be other kids here, and so with a wince she amends to, "I mean uh. SASS… BOWLS. YEAH. SASSBOWLS!" Totally what she meant the whole time!

LOOK. ILA'DEN ISN'T ALWAYS COMPLETELY DRESSED, BUT WHEN HE'S NOT, NOBODY EXCEPT RYN WANTS TO BE PRESENT SO MIND YA BUSINESS ABOUT WHY HE IS IN HIS OWN HOUSE STILL DRESSED IN ALL HIS LEATHERS. Because he is, you know, and maybe it's because he was about to go somewhere important (there is a pregnant woman existing in his space, after all, and that requires a constant stream of snackrifices to keep the pregnant-grumpies at bay FIGHT ME) or maybe he's just more comfortable in a ridiculous amount of layers at the most it's-actually-ridiculous-for-you-to-be-dressed-like-this times. WHAT HE ISN'T ALWAYS DOING IS HAULING HIS YOUNGER WEYRMATE AROUND IN A HEADLOCK. Nope, that's definitely not normal, nor is the way he only stops shoving what looks suspiciously like a pastry in R'hyn's face because SOMEBODY called a BAD WORD INTO THEIR LIVINGSPACE. If you thought he was going to let R'hyn go to investigate, you're super wrong though. That's why he's all unruly hair and one suspiciously narrowed grey eye when he peeks from around a corner and then steps a little more into view. "Impressive save, Syn," comes dry, though no less lacking his usual hints of humor. "I'm sure if the children were present, they would have definitely only heard 'sassbowls'." WHERE IS CITA? At least, the way one brow rises and Ila leans back, looking over his shoulder, says that he's sure the goldrider is going to appear from somewhere. "You look good," comes then. Because hey, the man can pay compliments. Even if he's probably lowkey murdering R'hyn.

Does Citayla have a manic gleam in her eyes? DOES SHE? DOES. SHE. …yes. She does. She very much does, actually, complete with grin that looks almost fixed, and a kind of greenish cast. Look. She's been stubbornly Not barfing since she woke, and so far? Triumphant, barring whatever snackrifices Her Hangriness has demanded most recently. Triumphant is also the noise that Ilyscaeth blasts the poor Weyr with, on spotting that acid green overhead — « NOT LOST AROUND TELGAR, THEN. » well. Maybe triumphant is a little bit strong for 'having caught Cita's impatience pretty badly'. "Sassbowls?" The goldrider's greeting is roughly as wild as her hair, which is maybe just shy of tragic, caught only theoretically in a braid behind her as she skitters into the room behind Ila. And…Ryn. Ryn also, which gives Cita only the shortest of pauses before she's throwing herself at Syn; if the greenrider doesn't dodge the affection with a quickness. "You're here!" Obviously.

Oh, Ila. How dare you give Sygni gifts like this. Blue eyes hone in on the pair of bronzeriders, riveted, a half-wild smile slow to stretch but almost inhumanly wide as she considers every aspect of the scene laid out before her. Ila's headlock. Ryn's state of half-dress, pajama pants riding low on his hips. The pastry he doesn't seem nearly alarmed enough about, and has taken to graze-chewing not unlike a bovine put to pasture. "Well," she breathes, headtipping to one side even as she jerks the last of her zipper free, "I suspected you were into things, given… you know…" Smirk. "Everything, but this is… Mm. Well. Do go on. I'll watch." She does cant one hip back against the sofa, but it's more to brace her body against something solid as Cita comes for her, turning to present her side to the goldrider so as to not jostle the pair of small bundles bound up in wraps and blankets against her chest. Amusement bubbles up out of her, happy and bright, as though all those quasi-sexual overtones were a joke, as if this is what is real: smushing her cheek up against Citayla's and offering her giddy tinkled laughs and return chirps of, "I am here! In the flesh! And you! You look beautiful." This as she aims to ease Cita back by the shoulders, only just enough to look her over and find not a thing lacking. "And then there are these whers you've taken up with. I can see why you do it," she drawls, affecting a purr as she makes claw-hands over at Ila'den in response to his compliment, "but I don't know how you do it." Patpat. "Anyways, sorry we're late. Morizanth didn't want to come," she says, blithe and unrepentant, though anyone that knows the green in question (right down to Ilyscaeth « Kindly bite me, O Gravid One. ») will understand that's less of the horribleness inherent to her personality and more straight facts. "That and Skyllar was fussing about the noise of it all. Took a couple laps around the bowl until he conked out." Syn's personality sinks back into the shape and fit of her skin for the words, blue gaze almost mild without its fierce luster as she raises it to peer between the three of them, only then shrugging the coat wide enough to expose a pair of dusky golden crowns. "Want to see them?"

LISTEN. IT WAS PROBABLY THE LAST PASTRY AND SOMETHING LED TO SOMETHING THAT LED TO THIS and it's just better if nobody questions it. Ila'den lets pastry-bovine Heryn of the R'hyn go eventually, the arm applying PHYSICAL ABUSE only moments before coming to rest on Weyrmate Number One's lower back while the other brings that pastry lazily to his mouth for a bite. And then that grey eye watches as Cita descends and brings all her… her with her, slamming into Syn and earning a huff of laughter from Ila'den before he extends the pastry back towards his weyrmate. WANT SOME MORE DEATH FOR BREAKFAST, LOVE? "I think the better question is how we do it." BECAUSE HAVE YOU MET CITA? Literal force of nature, the likes of which Ila'den finds TOO COMMON in the women surrounding him but no less a feat because LOOK AT THEM. MAJESTIC AND BETTER THAN HE DESERVES AND - wait but that pastry was really good. So he takes his time with another bite and then - he pauses, goes still, fixates on Syn's every movement as he reveals two little lives that he helped create and for a moment, just a moment, there's something in the bronzerider that goes quiet. Despite A THOUSAND BABIES, this is always new. It's never less, never diminished by experiencing that same rush of - "They look good," comes a little huskier, burr evident even as he hangs back. LISTEN, HE MIGHT BE THE DAD OKAY. But he's not the baby crazy one of this bunch, and he's content to let everybody else have first go because that just means he will get a longer one once the excitement has worn off the others. Maybe. This is Cita and R'hyn, so that statement is up for actual debate.

It doesn't even look like Cita's processing any Shenanigans that might have been going down between the pair of bronzeriders — whether by constant immersion or one-track baby mind, who's to say. Not Cita. She's too busy trying to squeeze the stuffing out of whatever part of Syn she can wrap her arms around safely, all wonky emotional state and maybe a little mania. It's fine. "You do, too, look at you." Cita sniffs, super duper not like somebody who's about to burst into tears at the slightest provocation. STILL FINE. "They've certainly got the manners of whers, if nothing else." Does it take away the bite from the words that the goldrider is making dewy doe eyes over at the pastry-sharing pair? Probably. "I don't blame her. Wish I could have joined you up there, I imagine it's…nicer." Than the frigid badness happening outside?? YEAH. Ilyscaeth's « NOT ENOUGH MEAT TO BE WORTH IT, » is probably not entirely covered up by the mournful cooing noise that Cita's doing for Skyllar's fussiness, but look. She tries, and she's definitely not going to leave to give the gold the sock to the nose that she deserves, because they're there. They're there, and Cita's laser-focused on those little heads, taking in every detail she can spot with a long, long stretch of silence, only broken by maybe a glance maybe only a little bit frantic between Ila'den and R'hyn. "Look at them. Shells." Cita murmurs, once Ila's broken the silence, on a blinding smile for the producer of these two tiny ones. Instead of immediately doing her best to dismantle whatever system that Syn has in place for the infants' support, to, y'know, Gollum them away to the nursery, Cita instead ducks in against the less-occupied side of Ila. It fulfills one desire, at least, which is to hug something, one arm doing its best to wrap and wiggle around both dubiously-dressed men. "Faranth, they're lovely." INCH. INCH. She's going to drag them to baby-town if she has to do it with some sort of pregnant lady hulk strength.

SHH. SHHSHHSHH. You are ruining how Syn pictures their life, wild and hedonistic and not nearly as domestic as 'reverse fighting over the last pastry.' Alas. Her dreams had to get shattered one day, and apparently this is the day, because it's a decidedly dirty look that R'hyn flicks towards Ila for that re-offering of the pastry he didn't want anyways, still working at devouring the unexpected chonk he was made to eat at the bronzerider's hands. He makes up for the glare by bending his arm at an angle, catching at Ila's fingers and drawing them back up over his shoulder to rest there. And become his napkin. Because if you thought you were gonna get away without this being as gross as it is adorbs, ya wrong tho. Ila's women: MAJESTIC AND AMAZING. Ila's men: flaming hot messes. Alas that huffed laughter doesn't have long to manifest itself, that blue-grey eyes are quickly stolen from his husband's features - Syn reveals the two small forms held against her body, and though the warm, adoring quality does not leave his gaze, it changes in some deep, elemental way. He watches Syn divest herself of wraps and layers, ignores her muffled swearing as a particularly stubborn knot refuses to come untied, joins Citayla in shimmying their weyrmate closer so he can help. "Thanks," Syg says, dimpling up at the younger of the bronzeriders before asking Cita to assist with another knot with a murmured, "Think you can get this one for me?" Because she - she is hefting the first of those tiny forms out of the folds of so much fabric, hands deft and sure as she handles Skyllar's tiny form, presses him against Ila'den's chest with faith he'll take him up as she goes about freeing Ardyn next. "Upsie-daisy, sweetheart, Mama Cita wants to give you all the hugs and kisses in the world, I can just tell," Syn breathes as she finally manages it, offering the tiny little girl out to Citayla even as she flicks an impish, border-line apologetic look up at R'hyn. "Sorry I didn't make a full set. Maybe next time, eh?" WINK, one that's overdramatically saucy and only makes the smoochy face that she makes up at Ila'den even worse. R'hyn just laughs, arms coming up to tug the greenrider into the circle of bodies and small, sleeping forms, gaze as warm with affection as his tones when he says, "Don't be silly. They're perfect."

I mean, to be honest, Ila'den doesn't look in the LEAST like having R'hyn's pastry-mouth smeared over the back of his hand bothers him. HE DOESN'T EVEN MAKE A FACE ABOUT IT. It's kind of rude actually, all things considered. He could AT LEAST look repentant but he can't even manage that, not when there's a hum of appreciation for one weyrmate's actions, and the acceptance of his other against his side. He brings his other arm down around Citayla's shoulders, leans in to press a kiss against her temple and then finds himself moving forward at the behest of BOTH so that he can be the recipient of one itty-bitty Skyllar. JOKE'S ON YOU, SYN. ILA DIDN'T CATCH THE BABY AND NOW IT'S FALLEN AND IS CRYING AND ILA'S NEVER GOING TO LIVE IT DOWN AND - just kidding. Strong hands pulls away from R'hyn and Cita both so that he can gather up that tiny potatosack of newborn boy to rest cradled against his body and along the length of one forearm, calloused curving around a TINY BOTTOM so that little legs can dangle and BE FREE. BUT LISTEN. Despite the wonder that we aren't going to go into on Ila'den's face, despite the way that this stupid big man looks himself like he's suddenly lost, like fatherhood for literal turns still hasn't prepared him for the reality that another tiny, fragile life is going to be dependent on him in some form, Ila'den isn't SO FAR GONE that he can't husky growl a, "Next time, Syn?" THERE WILL BE NO NEXT TIME. "Next time, I think it's R'hyn's turn." BUT JOKE IS ON ILA. POSSIBLY TEIMYRTH. BECAUSE OF COURSE THERE WILL BE A NEXT TIME, and anyway, that tug at the corner of Ila'den's lips makes it pretty damn clear he's (probably) joking. BUT WHILE R'HYN PULLS SYN BACK IN (and Ila leans down to press a kiss against her crown, because she gave him the gift of babies and maybe he's not the kind of man to express it so outwardly but she did good and he's proud of her and they're beautiful), ILA'DEN BRINGS HIS OTHER ARM BACK AROUND CITA and leans over her shoulder to peer at that baby girl too.

Ila's women: ALSO A MESS, because look. If Cita knew what mascara was, it would be all over the place. She's not noisily crying, but there are definitely some sniffs going on here, in spite of the ridiculousness happening over there. She's also leaving Ryn to be the responsible one, yes, because no way is Ila not getting dragged into it, and Cita's more than capable of continuing the task herself. With gusto! In spite of the fact that all it would take would be, you know, any sort of request to move that mountain more than likely…sheer stubbornness requires a lot less showing of teary face, maybe? Terrible stubborn healer? One, both. Temple kisses nearly tip the scales into full bawling nonsense, but Cita KEEPS IT TOGETHER as Ila takes Skyllar. SHE DOES. "I do want to." The rider agrees after a beat, clearing her throat and taking baby Ardyn carefully. It takes another several breaths before the healer can formulate words, or actually share the baby-face with Ryn and Ila in a more reasonable way. That she does, though, leaning back against the both of them and huffing something in the vague vicinity of a laugh, quiet. "There's always next time. Don't you have family, here? It's nice, visiting Xanadu, isn't it." Is Cita's agreement, maybe a little too strained-not-crying-damn-it to be as mischievous as she would like. Ignoring Ila's rebuttal of the next time? YOU BET. "Look at the nose on her." Cita murmurs, after a beat, beaming again. Ilyscaeth's distant thread of thought, along the lines of 'cuter on the baby', is at least quiet enough that the staccato strings don't bust through the (relative) quiet of the moment. Thankfully.

WELP. IT'S BEEN REAL, Y'ALL, but this is TOO MUCH EMOTION FOR SYN. Don't get it twisted, she definitely leans into the embrace of the trio of humans that intend to take over the parentage of children that she played an awful big part in bringing into the world, but this… this was the plan all along. This was her intent, in bringing two beautiful little lives into the world, and, deed done, she's only too happy to extract herself, to back away with smudges of oversized sleeves against her eyes, laughter thick but present as she aims a scoff in Ila's general direction. "I don't get to play at making babies with him anymore. That's your job." If it were kosher to fingergun, she would; instead, she points a finger right at Cita, head tipping in the goldrider's general direction. "She's got the idea. I have so many cousins here. So many," emphatic as she lays one of her blankets out to make a satchel for the rest, shoving them in quickly as though, if she moves fast, she can rid them all (read: Ila) of room to protest her words. "And I've been so uninvolved. Bad Syn, bad." Self-hand-spank. "And now there's these runts! Next time Mori needs some wind in her sails, perhaps we'll just happen to be at Xanadu, and the good the captain can drop his anchor into this harbor." INSERT CACKLE HERE, because this is how a Sygni do, and before anybody can to much to stop her, she stoops to kiss one baby leg, another baby cheek, and then she's off with a breezy, "See ya 'round, sassbowls." R'hyn, whose laughter has come intermittent between savage promises, returns her sassy salute with one of his own, watching as she hoists her Santa Claus bundle out to her dragon before he finally risks a glance at his weyrmates. Ila's expression finds fingers tangling in wayward locks, the younger man's big body rising on tiptoe to bring foreheads together over the tiny form in Ila'den's arms. He lingers there for a long moment, misty-eyed gaze focused on little Skyllar, free and toying with the inner curve of a foot that looks too small to one day bear the weight of his own little world. Then Ryn's chin tips up, dropping a kiss right in the center of Ila'den's brow before he stoops to follow Cita's direction, leaning against the goldrider's body only just so all three of them can share the view, a view he interrupts by running a single finger along the length of said nose. "I hate to inform you," he finally speaks, brain working along Ilyscaeth lines as a faint smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth, "but I think she got that from you."

OKAY LOOK. LISTEN. HEAR ME OUT. SYN IS RUDE. But Ila'den answers her with a rumble of husky laughter and then she's gone like a tiny Syn's Baby Giveaway Santa ("Clear skies, little bird.") and there Ila'den is: left with with Citayla and R'hyn, both of whom are a mess in the face of two very precious, very itty, very bitty babies. OKAY SO THEY ARE NOT THAT LITTLE (EVEN IF IT FEELS LIKE IT, ILA IS A BIG GUY OKAY), but they are still little enough for Ila'den to cradle Skyllar on ONE FOREARM as he turns first into R'hyn's hand, and then presses into that second contact of foreheads with a low rumble of sound that's definitely approval. He doesn't chase the kiss. Instead he lets his attention be driven into the IMPOLITE DISCUSSION OF HIS NOSE (or the origin of his daughter's, anyway) FIRST BY ILY (DISHONOR!!!) then by HERYN (DISHONOR ON YOUR COW!!!). "Well," he rumbles, because it's the only thing he can think to say given an amalgamation of emotion. "At least I can help her cope with all the rejection that's going to come her way." He punctuates it with a kiss to tiny foreheads and then clears his throat because definitely just COLD and DRY AIR and it's GETTING TO HIM AFTER SO MANY TURNS IN AS HUMID A PLACE AS HALF MOON BAY AND DEFINITELY NOT EMOTION OR BABIES OR WEYRMATES. "Alright." HERE, R'HYN. HERE IS A SKYLLAR FOR YOU. "I'm going to go make some Klah. And — " a beat, a pause as Ila'den looks hard and long at Citayla and draws out the syllables in, "— water. Because it's going to be a long night." DON'T MIND HIM. HE'LL BE OVER HERE.

Cita, bouncing the tiny (she IS, OKAY) Ardyn carefully, smiles a weird smile — between goofy and rueful, twisted down 'round the edges — at the retreating rider. "You do, rather. I'm certain the four who've been pestering the steward are yours." She mutters, and sure, it's strained, just this side of going back to tears, but IT'S ALRIGHT. SHE'S GOT THIS. "Plenty of chaos for you to look in on, whenever you want." HINT. HINT. Hinting like a freight train, or…charging wher? Something. "Please, do." Does an eyebrow-waggle work on somebody who's still actively dewy around the eyes? Maybe not, really. Whatever. Cita waves Syn off with considerable affection, but let's be real. She can see Syn any time, in theory: this, now, this is the first time she's got eyes on the newest members of their considerable household. "It's a fine nose." IGNORE THE SNORT from Ily, here, okay. She knows not this DISHONOR. "Rakish." IS it a rakish nose, Cita. She definitely stealths a kiss to the Elder Nose of the two when he bestows one on the baby if it's not taken from her stealth range, but there's Skyllar, too, and oh, look at him. The healer doesn't even mention the froggy throat, because OBVIOUSLY IT'S THE DRY AIR, got a bunch of dry air going on here. ALLERGIES. WINTER ALLERGIES. Damn all those felines. "Ginger water?" Cita ventures, after a beat, meeting Ila's eyes with a sunny smile. "Hate to ruin this with sicking, wouldn't I, Skyllar. No, no." Cita swoops low to smooch a baby cheek (she WAS promised baby kisses, alright), goes back high to bump shoulders with Ryn, half-steering, half-affection. "C'mon." Let Ila go in peace? Not if she can help it, but well, she can probably be distracted. "See if they fit in the highchairs, yet." Absolutely not. But LOOK. It's a good excuse, anyways.

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