Group Hug!

Xanadu Weyr - Training Grounds
A wide, grassy expanse, nestled into the gentle bowl shape where something's taken a bite out of the mountain. It's high above the level of the beach, and there's a good eastern view of the lake and a long path leading down to that sandy shore. Granite cliffs surround it on the other sides.

While much of the grounds are left in their natural state, one area has been trampled and trodden by enough feet that the grass struggles to grow. A running track circles a set of equipment - straw dummies with wooden frames, obstacles of various sizes and shapes, and targets for flaming, archery, and whatever else.

There's a dragon-sized opening to the south that leads to the cavernous weyrling barracks, and a smaller tunnel to the northeast - large enough for dragons newly emerged from the sands, but quickly outgrown by hatchlings who are then forced to take the long way around - at least, until they learn to spread their wings and fly. Between them in both position and size, a jagged crack in the stone leads to a dim cave with the sound of water.

« AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH HAHAHAHAH HAHAHA! » Hear that booming baby laughter? There he goes, that should-be-waddling-but-instead-is-running, wingspars drawn up in the most heroic manner, just outside of the barracks. It's easy for him to out-distance his rider already, since he was shelled longer than the man is tall and has none of the usual baby clumsiness. Oh, and also, F'yr is wheezing and turning red, tears in the corners of his eyes as he jogs after the energetic hatchling. The bronze looks all the more fierce since he's freshly oiled, but not all of the blood from his most recent meal ended up completely cleared away, so his jaw has a ferocious red gleam that isn't part of his natural coloring. He halts suddenly, throws himself back onto his feet and roars, because he can, and then « ONWaaaaaAAAAaaaaAAaaaarrrrd! » is trilled with an equally off-key warble as he is off again and F'yr stays where he's at, hands braced on his knees, half-doubled over, but in an awkward pose because letting his spine be anything other than straight is painful, too. "No, Glori, stop," it's said as a token objection but he's already too tired of saying it to put any feeling into it. These words mean nothing to the young bronze, obviously, since he continues his rapid progression away from the entrance to the barracks. ZOOM BABY ZOOM.

« WATCH OUT, MINION! WE HAVE A BADASS OVER HERE. » That's Leirith, in case you were wondering, the massive gold appearing in lieu of her rider and right in the path of tiny, heroic baby dragons as they charge ONWaaaaaaaaAAAAAaAAaaaarrrrDDD!! WHUMP goes that mustard colored butt, her too-big head swinging and tilting from all-the-way-up-here so that she might take in poised spars and tireless bronze-limbs painted fierce with DEAD THINGS. COLOR LEIRITH INTRIGUED. « YOU LOOK FIERCE. » comes that thrum of bass and drums, effervescent cheer coalescing into every word, sunbright and brilliant and LOUD. It's Risali who comes second, who catches sight of the little bronze Leirith has seen fit to impede and then Stefyr — and she can't help it. She tries, Stefyr. She really tries. But those hands are pushing over the evidence of space-hogging twins as she executes an awkward waddle across the training grounds to laugh at him. Laugh with him? We'll go with that one, though she's pressing her lips together in an attempt to stifle laughter even if they quiver enough to warrant teeth sinking into the pliant give of her lower lip. "You, ah…" A beat, as grey eyes take Stefyr in, as she swallows down air and hesitates in touching him if only because there are baby dragons afoot and yes, Leirith can reel him in and keep him busy, but it's so much more complicated than that, isn't it? Then she does it anyway, knocking her shoulder into his arm and then leaning her insubstantial weight against him, hands at rest on her stomach as she leans forward just enough to tilt her face up and look at Stefyr (not that she wouldn't have had to do that anyway, but this is a posture that speaks to commiseration — or mischief; mostly mischief). "You look like you need something. Don't tell me." A beat, two, three, "Water? Oxygen? A new lifemate?" LISTEN. SHE KNOWS ALL ABOUT THAT, and maybe it's why the pull of her lips quiets into something a little bit more sympathetically supportive. "Are you okay?"

BOUNCE goes the baby. It might actually make a sound as the baby bronze rebounds off mustard hide or maybe that's just a mental reverberation courtesy of Glorioth (in addition to theme music, it is sometimes necessary to provide one's own sounds for dramatic effect). For all that Leirith is NIGH IMPOSSIBLE to miss, Glorioth missed her. Well, not missed her, obviously, since he bounced off her, but prior to that sudden contact, he had no notion of the gold's presence. This is why it is necessary for him to look up, up, up, up after he shakes his jarred, helm-embossed-but-not-actually-protected head (adding one to the tally of blows to the head since birth; not yet hundreds, but doubtless he'll get there). He stills, eyes whirling faster and faster. « You sound familiar. F'yrless One, do you recognize that voice? » F'yr might be trying to answer verbally, but there's wheezing and a finger extended to mean, 'Moment,' but Glorioth, naturally, does not wait. « I think that's the very gold that found you for me. » How does he know? Probably there was rifling through his rider's mental repertoire of faces and impressions and among them, Leirith is first in the crispness of memory as his first real dragon encounter and so much besides. Or maybe he's remembering something from his time as an egg. Or maybe he's just making things up. Who can say with baby dragons? All the same, Leirith requires a bow, a sinking down and down and she is showered with his real, truest heartfelt thanks. It might be overwhelming in the radiance of his valor and gratitude. He's not a grateful creature by nature, but for his F'yrless Leader, he is grateful. All that love twined with the gratitude might be enough to cause a man to tear up. Maybe that's just the ribs though. One hand rises to pinch the bridge of his nose and it takes him a moment to register Risali, real Risali, there. He sniffs, he brushes the tears away, he slowly, slowly straightens, grimacing. Shifting his weight onto the foot nearest the woman who is his friend and so much more, to the Weyr, to him, because yes, Risali, yes, it's so much more complicated than that. It doesn't stop him from leaning just enough of his weight to be pressure returned. Maybe Glorioth hasn't acquired the affectation that will come later of being bothered by contact, or maybe he's just too distracted by Leirith in this moment. "I'd trade it all for a full night of sleep," he says wistfully, and then, while the baby is distracted, he turns to lean down to press his forehead to hers for a steadying heartbeat, two, three, before he pulls away and removes his contact because Glorioth won't be distracted forever. "I love him. He's…" But whatever he was going to say is lost in his sudden attention on his lifemate and the way that bronze is looking at the big gold. "I think he remembers her," is a whisper so low and tinged with awe that it might be true; or it might just be Glorioth's story of truth; it appears to be moving all the same, as one of F'yr's hands rises to press against his heart as though he could keep that organ from overflowing, if those feelings were even really housed there to begin with.

Leirith's bombastic to a fault, all humor that manifests as more drums, more bass, more sound when Glorioth bounces right off of her. « DO I? » comes amid laughter — not quite condescension, but certainly burdened by an amusement for statements bearing obvious conclusions. Ba dum, da dum, thrum boom — « I CANNOT CLAIM SOMETHING SO BADASS, TINY BRAVE ONE. I FOUND MY MINION. SHE IS SLIGHTLY DISAPPOINTING, BUT SHE IS MY DISAPPOINTMENT. IT WAS YOU WHO FOUND YOURS FOR YOU. » And sure, Leirith may have been a catalyst for getting him onto the sands, but the rest was up to those little eggs and those beings they were doing their damndest to become. Leirith can claim no more responsibility for this forever bond than Ilyscaeth or Xermiltoth can in their roles as parents. Glorioth bows, and Leirith tilts her head to watch. It's with another mind-rattling thrum of laughter that the senior queen rises, that massive body coming to it full height — which is less impressive, for the record, than Ilyscaeth's — so that she might sink herself into a bow. It's awkward, but what of the queen is not? Between slightly gnarled talons, the wrongness of wonky headknobs, and a wholly boxy appearance, she's certainly not a pretty queen. THEN SHE JUST FLOPS ONTO HER SIDE FROM THAT DIP, flinging one of those massive, unending wings out to drape over the bronze, ducking her head so that she might see him beneath the unsolicited shelter of her sail. « ALL OF MY FRIENDS CALL ME LEIRITH. OR AT LEAST THEY WOULD, IF ANY OF THEM WERE ALIVE. » A beat. « OR IF I HAD ANY FRIENDS TO BEGIN WITH. » And now she's laughing again, UNLIKE RISALI, whose expression is easing towards concerned — and then dawning realization. "Oh, Faranth. Your —" But what was she going to say? Those lips press closed when F'yr drops his forehead to Risali's and Risali, for half a fraction of a second, frames his face between her hands and goes up onto the tips of her toes to meet him halfway for that contact. It's brief, but enough to stall words in favor of listening to what F'yr has to say. "I — yes. It's like finding a part of yourself you never realized was missing and —" And he remembers her. Risali's lips press into a smile that says she isn't focused on that now, but is trying to very politely be. And then she huffs laughter, pressing her hands over the weyrling's against his heart and — "Maybe. But your ribs, F'yr. Faranth. Why are you out here running?" She might not be a healer, but she certainly knows there are RESTRICTIONS, DUDE.

There is a long silence after Leirith speaks. One that just extends and extends as Glorioth slowly straightens and stares at the mustard colored monstrosity that is his Queen. Calling it a pregnant pause would be too kind and though the backdrop of clashing weapons and sizzle of flame hasn't diminished proving that he's still there, there are no words. Not all through her dip, not through the drape of that wing into the privacy of their own little world or her introduction. Finally, finally, « … You've lost me. BUT NEVERTHELESS, LEIRITH OF THE LACKLUSTER LIFEMATE, I am Glorioth. » CUE THE THEME MUSIC. It's horribly, horribly off-key but it is EXTREMELY HEROIC. He doesn't do anything so mundane as invite her friendship. No, that can be for lesser dragons. He is her stalwart shield, obviously. Except right now when she's technically his, but Glorioth is not the kind of dragon to get hung up on specifics. « My F'yrless companion and I came in search of adventure and evil doers doing evil. HAVE YOU SEEN ANY PASS THIS WAY? » This cannot go poorly at all. It does probably explain half the reason that F'yr's response to Risali is a helpless smile and gesture toward the bronze, "I'm running because he's running. He's always running," « HEROICALLY RUNNING, » it must be interjected, an interjection that should make F'yr grimace or glower or any other negative expression given the pain he must be experiencing with the running that is probably restricted if he had actually retained whatever the healer told him the night before (which he didn't, in case anyone worried), but instead the blond's grin is incandescent in his fierce joy. YOU JUST TRY TO TELL THAT FACE HE SHOULDN'T BE DOING EVERYTHING THAT MAKES THAT BABY JUST AS HAPPY AS HE IS RIGHT NOW. G'head, Risali, we'll wait. Just kidding. He turns that grin on Risali. "I knew something was missing," he tells her simply, but still wearing that face, "I just never imagined this." Who could?

« AND NOW I HAVE FOUND YOU, MY GLORIOTH. » JUST THERE, UNDERNEATH HER WING. NOOOOSE BOOOOP. Leirith thrums laughter, inserting her own mind amid that off-key theme-music so that she might provide ONE. SICK. BEAT. NOW HE'S TECHNO HEROIC, like a TINY, VALIANT HOUSE PARTY OF DOOM. BRAVE DOOM. And yes, okay, her shield, even if she is the one who's providing cover to him but mind your damn business, HOWBOUDAH. « I HAVE SEEN IT. I HAVE GAZED UPON SUCH TERROR. COME QUICKLY. I HAVE A FEELING YOU'RE GOING TO BE THE MOST FIERCEST BADASS THEY'VE COME ACROSS AND NOBODY ELSE CAN VANQUISH THIS FOE BUT YOU. » And there Leirith goes, rising and starting off in a DIRECTION. ANY DIRECTION. Go on, Glorioth. Chase he for a while because, SPOILERS SWEETIE: there's nothing there. Just one enormous distraction provided courtesy of one effervescent queen and the rider who begged a favor down some private line of communication. Maybe that's why Risali's lips pull to the side in a grimace, a soft sounding, 'Ah,' escaping her as that tiny frame twists and takes in gold and bronze alike. "Leirith can entertain him at least for a little while. You really should sit down." So she's catching F'yr by his upper arm and, though she be but smol, she is fierce, and absolutely attempting to steer the much-larger-in-all-respects man towards where he might able, in fact, to sit. "Tell me about it. About him, I mean," comes softly, a hint of her usual smile returning as she juts her chin towards her lifemate and his. "About all of it, really — unless you don't want to, of course." Because, as with anything, he doesn't have to answer that.

It so happens that Glorioth enjoys sick beats. What he enjoys more, though, is the chance that there is an evil doer DOING EVIL that he can personally THWART, preferably by extremely violent means. Seeing as how Leirith is his queen, even if she was regrettably incorrect about her understanding of the situation with his lifemate, he is completely willing to follow her lead on the off chance that it results in death and devastation for his foes. Or bugs. Or straw? Grass? Dirt? Really, anything will do today; he was born hatched yesterday. Despite the fact that there is nothing there, there's a very real chance that he will eventually return, triumphant with a VERY DEAD shifty-eyed foe. And it if happens to be an oil rag that's torn to shreds? So be it. BUT HE WILL SUCCEED AT THIS IMPOSSIBLE QUEST, IF ANY DRAGON COULD. F'yr is forever changed, but not in the ways that matter between them (or if he is, it's not apparent yet) and so, of course, when the smol-but-mighty goldrider drags him to a set of nearby crates holding yet more supplies for the busy barracks, he settles on the edge of one. His eyes follow Glorioth, some concern innate in his expression for being at any kind of distance from the dragonet, but at least he has the self-control not to jump up and run after him, this time. After a moment, he lets his focus come slowly back to Risali, probably once he's assured himself that Leirith isn't intentionally taking him to some real foe. "He's…" he starts and then breaks into that dopey lovesick grin. Then he laughs at himself only to wheeze and ow and wrap his arms around his shaking ribs. Eventually, he can manage. "He reminds me of you, sometimes." It might not always be a compliment, but F'yr certainly means it as one the way his eyes might seem to glow when he looks at her and then briefly away to the dragon under discussion. "Spontaneous, adventurous. Heedless of consequences." For that he must deadpan and give her the serious F'yr face. But then he grins. "I think you'll like him. I hope you will. I love him," helpless, total. "I'm sure he's going to drive everyone crazy. Myself included, sometimes." Maybe that's not the part he means to parallel to Risali, although if we're being fair… "I didn't know I would be this tired. Is this what it's like with babies too?" He asks of the mother to be, and then he's reaching to try to catch her hand and squeeze it with some kind of urgency, "Are you well?" Is she? A glance goes to her belly and back up. Are they all well? Did he miss anything? It probably feels like an age even though he was just in the office yesterday and talking with her on a personal level only days before that.

Don't worry; Leirith will conjure many foes upon which Glorioth can exert his daring — LIKE THAT SHADOW! EN GARDE! Or her VILLAINOUSLY FORKED TAIL that CERTAINLY could learn a lesson or five about valor and why you don't TWAP BRAVE baby dragons on their heads… or their shoulders… or their snouts. Bonus: it will allow him to exercise those muscles, practice the art of coordination on new-ish limbs (even if, okay, he's pretty good with them already). And Leirith, for all that she is massive and uncoordinated herself, shows exemplary restraint in her taunting of tiny bronze beasts, showering his every effort with praise. SEE? REST EASY, F'YR. SHE'S GOT THIS. And Risali, Risali has got the big weyrling, taking full advantage of lifemate distractions to navigate the actual discomfort of crate sitting. The tiny (pregnant) weyrwoman hauls herself up onto one and scoots back, bringing her knees up despite the fact that she can't quite tuck them in against her chest while those grey eyes take in the expression on F'yr's face, riveted by an emotion she surely must have felt when Leirith graced her in a time that feels so far away now. It's when his eyes come back to hers that Risa smiles, not quite embarrassed for having been caught staring (because she was watching something important). Those first words of revelation earn F'yr a slow raise of brows, a flickering glance back towards where her lifemate occupies the much smaller dragonette with a ROLLING BOOP OF HER NOSE. GOTCHA! … Or does she? "That's a compliment, right?" comes around a soft huff of laughter, nose scrunched when Risali tilts her chin back towards Stefyr, even though she goes quiet to listen. So many complicated things, but… she understands so many of them. "Leirith still drives me — and everybody — crazy. But I wouldn't trade her for the world." And that smile that comes is soft, muted, speaking to an affection deeper than bone, more permanent than soul. "I'm sure I'll like him." Because she knows all about having lifemates who challenge the boundaries of 'difficult'. HE SHOULD KNOW. HE HAD THE HONOR OF FILING HALF THE COMPLAINTS RECEIVED ABOUT HER. But the focus is back on Risa (or, more specifically, the twins), and Risali's focal point shifts to her own stomach. "Yes… and no. You wake up for feedings and your schedule, as much as you wish for just five more minutes of sleep, is dictated by them. You worry, constantly. Are they still breathing? Did they get enough food? Are they warm enough? Are they too warm? Your every minute is ruled by their wants and their needs, but they can't walk." Or broadcast your thoughts. Literally. A beat, and greys rise to find blue. "I'm well. R'hyn is well. They are well." NOTHING TO MISS, NOTHING TO SEE. JUST RISA'S GROWING DISCOMFORT. "The office hasn't burned down yet, so that's a wonder." IN THAT WHOLE TWO DAYS. "What did the healers say about your ribs?"

OOOH, HE IS COMING FOR YOU, FOE-SHADOW. SHADOW-FOE. BOTH OF YOU. Glorioth's sword sways in its eternal scabbard as his tail twitches and his spine shifts to make that POUNCE, and that ROLL, and that « AHAHAHAH! » of — okay, it can't be triumph, can it? There's nothing there after all. But he sounds incredibly pleased with himself anyway. But, then, that might be his general state of being. Once there is a tail, no matter how offensive it's being by daring to bap and boop a creature of such MAJESTIC GRACE and BOLD BRAVERY (he means him, Leirith, keep up), things get more interesting. Hopefully baby talons can't break grown up dragon hide too easily because he WILL try to catch that VILLAINOUS TAIL, which is probably POSSESSED by some UNKNOWN EVIL or JUST MAKING BAD LIFE CHOICES independent of the Senior Queen's questionable higher functions (don't worry; it seems to manifest in a lot of Xanadu dragons that way). « MY HEARTFELT THANKS! » is repeated well more than once for all the praise that is his due. None if it surprises him but he seems heartily heartfelt in his responses. Obviously she should praise him. HE IS THE VERY DEFINITION OF EPIC. There can be no one more epic than he. Not even his future self. If Glori's baby brain ever were to linger on higher existential questions (don't worry, it never does), that might be the top of his list; is it that he becomes more epic or that epicness as a concept has to expand to contain his GLORY? Don't think for even half a second that just because Leirith can SO EASILY boop his nose that he's any less FIERCE AND FEROCIOUS AND MERCILESS ('cuz that'd be a painful lesson to learn for someone). F'yr, meanwhile, is thinking deep thoughts too. Or… well, no, he's probably thinking stream of consciousness because he's already tired even this short night and some hours later. "Possibly the best I could ever give," F'yr's words are heartfelt, really. But don't look at them too closely, Risali, they might be the kind of thing to make a breath hitch. It's unquestionable that F'yr has the deep and abiding love most riders feel for their dragons, and in his case it is, thus far, an uncomplicated complete feeling; unconditional and acceptance of the same variety. And if that's what he loves… in that way… and she's like him… WELL. It's not the day for talk like that and F'yr seems hardly aware of what depth his words might have taken them briefly to. Glorioth doesn't even stir; they can be oblivious together this time. "Wait," DID HE CATCH IT? "They?" Nope. That's a different catch made by the young man. MAYBE HE DID MISS SOMETHING IMPORTANT IN THE LAST COUPLE DAYS. He looks to Risa with that adorably perplexed puppy look, his eyes going from her, to her belly, his hand twitching like he might want to reach out and touch her, but he restrains himself. His ribs aren't important now, but he also has met the goldrider a time or two so he rattles off, "Cracked but not broken, could've been worse. Limited activity for four to six weeks and I should be good as new." HAR HAR HAR.

SUCH FIERCE, MUCH FEROCITY. Leirith — if she had any daunts — would be DULY PLACE-PUT, QUIVERING IN GOLDEN HIDE FOR HAVING BEHELD — BEHOLDEN? — BEHELDEN (SHUP) SUCH RADIANT VALOR. LO, SHE IS BUT A SMOL NOTHING IN THE WAKE OF SUCH STRIKING GLORY. And she booms just that, a thunderous sound of too-damn-much-noise, a cacophony of relentless, enthusiastic encouragement that knows no bounds. How many different ways can you tell somebody that they're a badass? Leirith will discover it, exploit it, and expand upon it. So don't be surprised by the ad nauseam reiterations of, « I HAVE NEVER SEEN SUCH BAD OR ASS IN MY LIFE, » she croons to a new-hatched dragon, the very one who has absolutely no business thinking about asses — bad, or otherwise. F'yr, on the other hand, is spared a certain goldrider's introspective revelations if only because there are some things that Risali is poignantly ignorant to. Her worth, for example. So she laughs, lifts her shoulders towards her chin and rolls her cheek to her shoulder in a tilt aiming to see the weyrling beside her better. "Then thank you," comes next, because she is WATCHING YOUR DRAGON ATTEMPT TO MURDER HER DRAGON'S TAIL, AND SOMEHOW THAT DOESN'T FEEL VERY COMPLIMENTARY, F'YR. It's that hiccup of twins that — "Ah," makes Risali realize she made a mistake. She drops her feet so that she can swing them, tilting her face up towards the sky as if it might abolish her mistake or at least some of her guilt. "They." A beat, and then soft, "Sorry I didn't tell you." In the rush of too many things, she probably forgot to mention that major detail. Now she's turning a quiet smile back onto him and — "Limited. Running, F'yr, is not limited." Wiggle, shift, onto her feet she goes with one hand held out to take one of F'yr's. Why? SHE SAW THAT LOOK, and she's putting his hand on her stomach. IT'S FINE TO TOUCH, probably. "You're going to puncture a lung and then where will we be?"

Yes, Leirith, you are definitely responsible when Glorioth, booms laughter and declares, « SEE THE RADIANCE OF MY VALOR AS IT SHINES FORTH FROM MY BADDEST OF ASSES, » so thank you for that. AND LISTEN, what's a little ichor between friends? The more it hurts, the more it ENCOURAGES. In fact, that's F'yr's too innocent answer to Risali, "Feeling terribly encouraged to heal?" If not dead. There's an inside joke there, but not one that will be a secret very long; the world will know soon. The blond weyrling would be only too pleased to move on from this topic that is a no-win conversation because he's not about to try to tell impossible-to-tell-Risali that impossible-to-tell-Glorioth will not heed the paltry "limitations" no matter how often they're repeated to him (at least not for sevens yet). His smile softens as she takes his hand and places it for him. Once this consent is given, his other hand isn't far behind, so gentle in their touch. "The last time I felt — something like this," because it was different then, okay? "Was with my niece." There's nostalgia in his face as he looks at Risali's belly, even covered in clothes and impulsively he leans forward to tell that belly, those babes in there who probably can't understand him yet, "You are the luckiest babies to have your mum. Just wait 'til you feel how loved you are." By their dad, too, surely; but this isn't about R'hyn right now. Glorioth even gets distracted from his latest attempt to CATCH (OKAYOKAYOKAY A.K.A. MURDER) Leirith's golden tail to cast a look of disappointment toward his rider. There's a rumble in his chest that is disapproval. But F'yr persists a moment longer in his touch, and hopefully it's not too weird that he caresses his hands across her stomach in a way he probably DIDN'T DO ON HIS SISTER (they're not that kind of family, okay) before he lets his hands drop away and he looks up at the goldrider. "Thank you. For coming to see us." A pause and then… quieter, more vulnerably, "Don't forget me, okay? Us. I know your focus needs to be where it is and mine needs to be here, but I'm not going to forget you, couldn't." And friend, don't forget him either? Pretty please? There's a snort from Glorioth as he halts his pursuit of the gold and wanders back toward his lifemate. « CEASE YOUR F'YRFUL SNIVELING, » he's sweet, right? « WE ARE UNFORGETTABLE, MY F'YRSOME FRIEND. » See? He actually is. In the weirdest of weird ways.

You know that look Ila'den gets when he's particularly unimpressed? Watch his tiny, effeminate doppelganger adopt it with undeniable aptitude, and execute it through her lashes. OKAY, FUNNY MAN. RISALI SEES YOU. But she lets it go — for now; she allows herself to be distracted by the press of hands on her stomach and the cadence of F'yr's voice, allows herself to hear his words and then to stop just shy of pressing her forehead to his again, though not quickly enough. Her hands were already rising, poised to bridge the distance between them, to drop her forehead back to his, before she forced them still. Suspended fingers curl into fists, and after a moment of inaction, Risali brings them behind her, shoves them into back pockets as if this might prevent further temptation. "What a lucky niece," comes soft, honest, around the quiet edges of a smile. She meets F'yr's gaze when he looks up, that smile going bright, suffused with warmth despite confusion seeping in, pressing her brows together. "You don't forget important things," Risali whispers, as if F'yr should already know this, as if this conversation were moot before it even began. Now the press of her lips into a line doesn't meet her eyes, a brief outward pull that doesn't reach her eyes because there's something sad. "I plan to visit, you know." But Glorioth's wandering back, and Leirith's mind is in Risali's, so the goldrider knows too, steps back to put distance between them, to tilt her head and see the UNDENIABLE MAJESTY OF ONE SO HEROIC. "Hello, Glorioth," comes around a smile, a shift of her body as Leirith moves to join them as well. "Leirith tells me that you are quite fierce. I don't need her to tell me though." Those fingers extend, wiggle as if she means to pet the bronze but, thinks better of it. He's still young, and she needs her fingers for IMPORTANT THINGS. LIKE WRITING. AND HOLDING BABIES. "I can see that you're… a paragon of heroism." That nose scrunches, and Risali presses her other hand into Leirith instead with another look for F'yr. "We should go," because of the emotions, because of Glory's interest in it. "But don't be a stranger." One push, two for BIG GOLD SNOUTS. "Good luck." On the BEING DRIVEN CRAZY THING, SHE MEANS. "You've got this." Just in case he doubted himself.

"The luckiest," F'yr's agreement is fierce, actually, and not because the niece has him for an uncle. "She was dreamed of, wished for and is deeply loved." He murmurs, but not for the belly. This time, for Risa. His eyes are touched with sadness though when he smiles up at her. "She doesn't speak." Three simple words that might explain so much that no one's ever asked him. But Glorioth is there, in the next moment and he moves to snag that helmeted snout with a hooked arm. The fact that Glorioth yanks his head back and F'yr pulls in some ritual MAN BONDING that is probably restricted also, shh, and causes the man to eventually wince and settle for eye-ridge scratching instead is something we don't need to address now, right? Glorioth considers this woman. This smol woman who is Leirith's disappointment. « Risa, » he names her. Maybe it's more significant to those who understand he refers the the various greens in his clutch by made up monikers not actual names. « MY F'YRSOME FRIEND SPEAKS HIGHLY OF YOUR BRAVERISM. THAT IT CAN BE NOTHING NEXT TO MINE CANNOT BE HELPED, » it's just your burden to bear. His nose comes forward though, and then he examines her closer, closer, peeks over her shoulders to look down her back to where her hands are. « ARE YOU HIDING WEAPONS? » HE WHISPERS (ahahah) WITH FAR, FAR, FAR TOO MUCH INTEREST FOR A NOT YET A WHOLE DAY OLD. And then he whuffs a meaty breath down on her. « DO YOU NOT WISH TO TOUCH ME? I AM MAGNIFICENT. » It is a gift after all. An honor he's offering. Besides, as far as he's concerned, that's how his rider functions with Risa. Touch. It's critical in what he interprets of their dealings with one another, so obviously it's somewhat perplexing that she's not all up on this specimen of dragonlyness. A side glance is given to F'yr, because maybe she just has very poor taste. Only that can't be right because F'yr is his lifemate, and he obviously has superb taste. How perplexing. He … doesn't follow. And really, even when he's not always-with-the-shouting, his thoughts are loud enough to be RIGHT THERE for anyone not brain-deaf.

'She doesn't speak.' Risali's smile changes — not so much gutters, but presses and pulls at the corners, sheds humor, aligns with something more akin to quiet support, unspoken compassion. "I'm sorry," she whispers, because it's all she can say. "I'm sure she's beautiful." Though there is, of course, something much more important than vain affirmations. "And strong." Because even without a voice, there are plenty of ways to be that something that will not fade with time. Risali knows it, even if she's never been burdened by such altering circumstances. And while that is important, it's not what's relevant to now. Now is bronze dragons as they blossom into life, rattling a space Risali has shared so often with more than just Leirith — if only because there are so many dragons within Xanadu who deign, at their own leisure, to imprint their variant impressions upon her mind. It's her name this time, though, and Risali laughs — for that and the compliment (that is definitely not making her cheeks flush, shut up). "Or next to his, braverism. You chose well. I think you found the bravest, most fiercest companion to almost match your daring — but of course, it's you, Glorioth, so I'm not surprised." AND IS SHE HIDING WEAPONS? Risali's posture doesn't change, but she's pressing her lips in an attempt to not laugh at the question. "Only the kind that gets rid of the really villainous foes," a beat, as Risali pulls her most somber, serious face and whispers, "The ones you can't see." AND NONE SO SHARP OR CUNNING AS THE TINY BRONZE, CLEARLY. But for as much as it is a joke, it's not. Risali's only current possession is her mind, and that is being inundated with COMPULSIONS TO TOUCH GLORY. Glori? BOTH. Just kidding. COMPULSIONS NEED NOT APPLY, because Risali does step forward, parting with a huff of laughter, running hands the length of Glorioth's maw, scaling eyeridges with curved fingers, practically hugging him if he doesn't pull away so that she can go up on the tips of her toes and run the flat of her hand along the top of his head between those headknobs. "You are magnificent. I don't think anybody exists who would disagree." SHE WILL INDULGE YOUR EVERY CONCEIT, GLORIOTH. DON'T WORRY. SHE GOT YOU. But now those grey eyes are on F'yr again, that smile breaks into more laughter, nose and eyes scrunched, face still flush, perhaps brimming with just an edge of Leirith's errant joy as the gold drops her head down on Risali and Glori ALL AT ONCE. « WHY ARE YOU ALL THE WAY OVER THERE, F'YR-SOME MINION OF THE MIGHTY GLORIOTH? AHAHAHAHAHA. » Look. GROUP HUG. At least, that's what that wide sweep of golden wing curling around F'yr says (if it's not a low-key GET IN ON THIS, MINION).

LOOK, LEIRITH. F'yr didn't go that far after he definitely didn't beeeend healer restrictions by not quite roughhousing with the bronze's head. He just stepped a little to the side. It is thus that it's quite an easy matter to usher him in, even if you are ROBBING HIM of the joy of watching Risa and Glorioth share a moment of delight with one another. Okay, well, let's face it, Glorioth's delight is pretty much in Glorioth and Glorioth alone, and she gets, « MY HEARTFELT THANKS, SLIGHTLY DISAPPOINTING RISA. » And Risa can thank her own lifemate for that one. But hey, Leirith taught baby Glori about asses today, so they might be even overall. F'yr's arm comes gently around the goldrider's shoulder, his cheek touching briefly Glorioth's head. Obviously this is the moment when this is simply too much effeminate sentimentality for the baby and he wiggles his mightiest wiggle to try to dislodge them all and back out of the cuddle puddle. « OUR FOES WILL TAKE ADVANTAGE OF OUR DISTRACTION. COME, F'YRLESS FOE-FINDER. WE MUST FIND THE FOES THAT CANNOT BE SEEN. » And then… Grrrruuurrururrrrggggllellerrrgggg. « HARK! THE UNSEEN FOE WITHIN STIRS. QUICKLY, MY CUNNING COMPANION, WE MUST BEAT IT TO THE BATTLE! » And off runs the baby in the direction of the nearest meat. And F'yr flashes a grin to Risali and runs after him. OH WELL. RIP restrictions.

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