Ground Riding - Clutch 53

Northeastern Bowl
The northeastern arc of the Weyr Bowl seems somewhat isolated from the rest of the weyr - with necessity, for this is the training grounds for young riders and dragons, the Weyrlings. The main entrance to the weyrling barracks is just north of here, and the ground there is well-trampled and firm, as if many feet, both human and dragon, have wandered over it dozens of times a day. Further up in the northwest corner of the bowl is the waterfall, tumbling out of the Weyr face several dragonlengths above, misting the area in a rainbow glow. On the south side of the bowl lie the ashpits and firestone supplies for the entire Weyr.

Since the weather doesn't seem to be doing a good job of removing volcanic or forest fire ash from the air any time soon, the weyrlings and weyrlingmasters have all been issued face masks. @Whee. S'eron stands with his clipboard against his side, charcoal stick poised between his fingers. "Okay weyrlings. Get your straps on your dragons and get ready for inspection."

T'ab is wearing his assigned face mask as he walks quickly into the bowl, Tyroth on the other hand is wanting to make his strutting entrance, his drunken head bobbing with each one of his steps. "Yes sir." T'ab politely gives a salute with his free hand, the other holding the well sewn straps. Turning to the bronze he pats the head, "You ready for this bro? Of course." He draps the straps over and begins to buckle up the pieces checking the leather's strength. "Not chafin' is it bro?" He pats the bronze's side before turning to his attention to the weyrlingmasters.

Nymerith is not being exceptionally cooperative with getting her straps on — she is fascinated by the face masks and isn't holding still, instead bouncing around to get up in /everybody's/ face and peer at theirs, curious and amused. T'zyn manages to get her straps half on before she hops away again to inspect S'eron's mask, muzzle pushed right up close as her glittering eye stare at him. "Shells, Nym, are you trying to make me /never/ graduate? Hold /still/." T'zyn is probably defeating the purpose of his face mask by moving it aside off his nose and mouth every time he needs to talk. He scurries after the green hatchling to try and finish buckling her straps onto her — the straps he has made are serviceable enough, secure and comfortable, but they are by no means pretty. His sewing leaves something to be desired; what he lacks in quality of stitches (the loops uneven) he makes up for in quantity, having traced and retraced his stitching to make sure that the straps are secure. At length he finally manages to get them all buckled on properly. He looks very triumphant when he finishes.

Tyroth Sun-dazzled brilliance marinates drunken shine into a length of wine-chased masculinity: a drama of besotted bronze, he is, an adventurer never far from his nightcap. Brazen, bronzen, cast in daring dalliances and pyrite's false glow, whiskey's golden fire glows bright from tip of impishly cocked muzzle through the drunken sweep of headknobs and lazily arched ridges to the tip of soused tail. Drunken swaggers of gold and glistening buckskin twine past lithe chest to long, straight legs planted well in toasted coconut-rum 'paws. Overlarge, overkill, his wings are of dramatic, poetic, ne'erending proportions swung wide in lo! yet grander scope: only his lank and lean and rangy form could possibly balance those gloriously indulgent 'sails.
Plain, naturally colored straps wrap around the golden whiskey neck of the dragon, contrasting the brightly colored body with dull, yet strong, leather pieces. At the front of the neck, some woolie padding as been added to prevent chafing, and all the way up the stitches have been hammered to to create a smooth surface. Notches of bronzen metal have been added as grips to help the mounting of the large beast, and buckles to clasp rider in are made of the same well-shined metal that shines similarly to the rum-dappled body.
Tyroth is 1 month and 24 days old.
He is 14 feet (4m) long, with a wingspan of 23 feet (7m).

The very essence of bold femininity finds a clever masque within the frame of this svelte, petite dragon; she is a huntress trapped within a lady's garments. Farflung reaching of fern green 'sails glide above her tiger-barred frame, chartreuse knifing through forest with unpredictable irregularity: the scheme repeats itself from densely-patterned tip of narrow tail to the pale point of long-faced muzzle. Sleek and seamless, she is a daredevil of a wraith composed of grace and silk-sculpted lines, so long and smooth and free and agile as to be prowess incarnate. A hunter's moon illuminates her masquerade domino, leaving that stippled and impish mask argent-dusted while a frolicking wayward breath of that silver-spill't moonlight highlights the high arching elegance of her leading neckridges.
In contrast to the sleek and graceful creature who bears them, Nymerith's straps are clunky, clumsy things; comfortable and serviceable, certainly, but not attractive. The leather, though kept oiled and in good shape, is a rather drab brown, the metal buckles plain and dull. The stitches, their uneven crude loops pounded down flat against the strips, have been done by an unskilled hand.
Nymerith is 1 month and 24 days old.
She is 8 feet (2m) long, with a wingspan of 13 feet (4m).

T'zyn will have /plently/ of opportunities to practice sewing. PLENTY. like, the REST of his LIFE. S'eron blinks awkwardly when there is a dragon in his face, staring at him when he least expects it. He squints at her and rolls his eyes, turning to inspect Tyroth first. He is sitting still. "Okay, guys," Ron speaks up to get past the muffling effects of the mask. "If your straps check out, you can ride your dragon around the bowl. If not, then you're just going to have to learn to sew better over time." He walks up to Tyroth's shoulder and starts yanking on the young bronze's straps. Now, let's try side impact.

T'ab stands next to the bronze as he watches S'eron inspect his straps, all this time spent learning to sew hopefully has paid off in the first strap sew. He smiles brightly to the weyrlingmaster, his hand placed on the wing of the bronze, as if reassuring him that they will hopefully be able to ride around. "Yes sir." The weyrling nods to the greenrider, doing a little prayer that the straps hold up, being tugged and apparently side-impacted.

Nymerith stretches her wings and then folds them back against her sides as T'zyn walks around to make sure the straps are settled on her comfortably. "S'eron?" he wonders once he is satisfied they are all set. "Do all the straps /have/ to be leather?"

"Hmmm. They'll do." Ron looks over at T'ab and Tyroth. "You'll get better. Go ahead and mount up. It's good not to try and hold on to the wings." He turns away, pauses, then turns back. "And stay still til I say." He then turns back to Nymerith and T'zyn. He eyes the straps long before he pulls on them. "Um. Nice needlework." He slips his hand underneath. "The problem is, T'zyn, that there are few materials that are as strong as leather and won't chafe her skin. Why?"

T'zyn shifts restlessly from one foot to the other as S'eron inspects the straps. His nose wrinkles and he looks down at the ground. "Just rather not use dead people if I don't have to," he explains. "But I guess if there's nothing else —" He shrugs, exhaling a slight sigh as he looks over the leather straps.

Tyroth bobs his head with a quiet croon to the response, T'ab patting his side and nodding to S'eron, "Aye sir." He then does one more check over the straps and then pats the bronze's head, "You ready for this bro? Remember no moving until he says so." And then with a careful examination of the straps he slowly pulls himself up, with a good grunt before he is mounted atop the bronze with a bright smile placed on his face. "There we go boy. Whoa whoa, don't move anyway." He pats the neck as the dragon's tail sways with a few anxious twitches.
Tyroth offers a coconut-rum arm to help T'ab climb up to his golden whiskey neckridges.

"Nymerith is going to be eating those beasts anyway. I suppose it's a little weird to be thinking about them as people, but I guess I thought of it as an efficient use of resources." S'eron finishes the professional tugging of Nymerith's straps and nods to T'zyn. "You can get up now." S'eron turns back. "Feels weird, doesn't it? It's going to feel weirder. Try not to tense up or anything and if you start to feel sick, stop." Ron gives a few other instructions while stepping back, checking a few more straps and watching people mount up.

From Tyroth's neck, T'ab holds softly onto the bronze's neck a moment, giving it a few good pats as he chuckles happily. "See ain't all that bad, is it? You feelin' good? Anythin' chafin' bro?" A turn to Tak as he nods, "Ain't all that bad." His eyes fall on S'eron giving a few understanding nods to the comments, although Tyroth is drunkenly shifting from foot to foot in time with the twitch of his tail.

"They aren't making leather out of the ones she's going to be eating." T'zyn still doesn't look entirely happy with the idea, but he presses his lips together as he takes hold of the straps and pulls himself up, scrambling a little to get up onto Nymerith. He settles himself between two ridges, reaching down to pat the dragon lightly on her silver-dusted neck.
Nymerith lowers her head, allowing T'zyn to climb up and settle between her neckridges.

"Eh? Really?" S'eron is surprised by this. "Huh. I could have sworn that when I butchered those 'beasts, I dropped off their hides…" He shakes his head. He moves over to Lenculoth, expending more energy to mount a much larger dragon. Yep, they get bigger. He gets comfortable. "Okay guys. We are moving once around the bowl and returning to this very spot. Walk slowly, get used to the feel of your life mate." This should be especially fun for T'zyn and Nymerith.

It isn't as hard for Tyroth to move slowly, and so T'ab nods to the weyrlingmaster as he pats the side of his neck, "Okay, bro, slowly and carefully. Remember I am on top of you." The bronze gives a drunken rumble as he sways his head and starts to smoothly lope across the surface of the bowl. A little stumble, but surprisingly the bronze moves quickly enough to catch himself as he attempts to maintain his graceful movements « No one saw that did they? » A laugh from the permanently smiling T'ab as they follow the much larger green.

From Nymerith's neck, Nymerith has a bit of a harder time with this moving-slowly thing. She makes a valiant effort to restrain her usual exuberance, really! But her steps are still more /bounce/ than /walk/, and once she starts moving her habitual energy takes over. "Ackohowack," T'zyn oofs as he is jolted around. Nymerith stops, looking chagrined, and moves again more slowly — if not particularly more smoothly. T'zyn's back is going to be less than happy when this is through. His teeth grit as he hangs on tight to the straps.

S'eron does not laugh at the misfortune of the young riders. Oh no. He just smirks from his superior position on a larger dragon whose movements are smooth somewhat because she is larger and a good deal more because she is inclined toward grace and stealthiness. (Go ninja, go ninja go.) "You guys can do it. Just hold on. It gets better from here - well, until take off."

From Tyroth's neck, T'ab smiles brightly as he looks up to S'eron, "Oh, well it ain't so bad." And he of course speaks too soon as Tyroth takes a mistep and leans forward quickly, sending T'ab leaning forward quickly and then backward as the bronze adjusts his position. Yep, that won't feel good on the neck tomorrow morning. "Whoa bro, just slow it down. There is no hurry, and ladies like it when you move smoooooooth." He laughs, seeing the trigger in Tyroth's mind as he starts to strut again, now all he needs is a little strutting music and he'd be good.

From Nymerith's neck, « Take off? » Nymerith perks up at these words, eyes lighting with interest as her wings spread. "Ohhhh no," T'zyn tells her firmly. "That part doesn't happen yet. Unless you're /trying/ to break my neck." Reluctantly, Nymerith folds her wings again.

"And this would be why straps are necessary. If you weren't strapped in and buckled well - well…" S'eron does not feel the need to finish this sentence. He's a little distracted by T'zyn's words. "Hey, no. I don't think she could get lift off yet. You are a bit too heavy still for her wings." Lenculoth chimes in. « yes. do not break his neck. »

« Who just said take off? » Tyroth starts to unfurl his wings but T'ab, with wide eyes strokes the bronze's whiskey ridges, "Not yet bro, I know you have big muscles, but not yet. Give it time, we gotta get this walking down. Keep following Lenculoth." The man then laughs as the bronze seems ready to follow the large green lady, offering a light croon as a message to Lenculoth, « You can tell by the way I walk, I'm a woman's man ». And there he goes, continuing to strut all drunken-sexy-like.

From Nymerith's neck, "If I weren't strapped in I'd be breaking my head as well as my spine," T'zyn finishes, grimacing slightly as he is bounced around. Nymerith skitters ahead faster to catch up to Lenculoth. « I won't break any necks. T'zyn is small. How hard could it be to fly with — » She does not finish her thought, distracted by Tyroth's strutting. She doesn't say anything. She just stares at the bronze — with amusement rather than appreciation.

S'eron stiffens slightly, eyes narrowing. « One should keep in mind that not all females are seduced by the same sentiment. » S'eron chokes lightly and frowns. Lenculoth is not finished yet. « You will hurt yourself trying and then it will take longer before you can fly properly. Please wait. »

From Tyroth's neck, T'ab pats his lifemate's side as he rocks forward again, the bronze halting for a moment as his eyes swirl to examine the much larger green. He will not be denied, but he'll have to figure out a different way of approaching it. "Come'on bro, can't win 'em all over." « Maybe you should hit on her bro first » "… ah, remember not now." T'ab chuckles lightly with a shake of his head as they resume their smooth movements, the bronze's tail flicking in time as in a tenor sing-song voice he drunkenly chants, « I'm just struttin' / Oh yeah struttin' / All the ladies / Love my struttin' »

From Nymerith's neck, « Are /any/ females seduced by that? » Nymerith is skeptical. She doesn't ask about flying anymore, though, contenting herself with bouncing along in Lenculoth's wake.

Lenculoth's head swings from side to side, unimpressed and perhaps a bit put upon. « You will be surprised as you grow, Nymerith, what some females will find attractive. »

Tyroth just stops walking again, his head raising indignantly toward the green, is she ignoring him? Really? Well, he'll follow his own path then, instead of trailing behind the green, Tyroth starts to strut smoothly cutting the corner so that he is able to be side-to-side with the full grown green. "Hey now Tyr, just relax, chillllll." T'ab's hands are white-knuckled gripping on the straps at the pick up of speed, not wanting to let go in case the bronze decides to stumble again. "Okay, slow it down." The rider's eyes raise to S'eron witih a moment of worry, since he doesn't want to get in any more trouble.

From Nymerith's neck, « Alcohol does cloud judgement, » Nymerith adds, laughter dancing through the sugary tones of her voice. "Is Tyr trying to get you in trouble again?" T''zyn wonders, squinting at the bronze as he speeds ahead to catch up to Lenculoth. "Cuz uh I thought we talked about that this morning. Trying to hit on /weyrlingmasters/ is /really/ the opposite of discreet."

Lenculoth steps out in front of Tyroth, close enough that he can't turn, but not close enough that he can't stop. She looks down at him as cool as ice, her mind voice sharp like lightening and having the distinct metallic sent of it. « Breaking formation will end lives. Do not let it be your own. Mine has nursed many a dragon through Threadscore and fire burns. Heed him. He will keep you safer. »

From Tyroth's neck, "Listen to the lovely lady bro." T'ab pats his lifemate's side as Tyroth does reluctantly slow down and return to his position in the line of young dragons following Lenculoth walking around. His drunken head perks in a moment of clarity, drunken tones smoothed out « I apologize for my transgressions m'lady, you and yours' wisdom shall be observed from this point forward. » Even T'ab shakes his head with a smile, slightly surprised by his lifemate, as they continue their relatively slow pace.

From Nymerith's neck, Even Nymerith sobers a bit at Lenculoth's words, though she hasn't left her own position in formation. She does slow, her bouncing smoothing out to a more dignified walk. For a few steps, at least. "— Did you ever get burned by Thread?" T'zyn's head tilts curiously, examining S'eron.

"When I was younger, Lenculoth used to find scars sexy. She always wanted to get one so she'd have something to show off. Unfortunately, when we did get burned, it wasn't a big deal." S'eron pauses for a moment. "Er, well, wait. Fortunately. It is not fortunate to get scars." S'eron looks down at Lenculoth and shakes his head. "I guess some things are still sexy." They don't talk about this much, apparently.

From Tyroth's neck, T'ab watches S'eron a moment as he discusses and then smirks carefully, leaning more with his slinking lifemate. Tyroth perks his head up toward the full grown green, « My bro says that he thinks scars are sexy too, maybe your bro could show my bro some of his scars. » And with that T'ab turns a nice shade of red, patting the bronze's hide a few times to indicate that they probably should slow down and move to the back of the group so that they are essentially not there anymore.

From Nymerith's neck, « Scars are nice if they have good stories, » Nymerith decides. T'zyn's eyes widen, baffled. "/Wanted/ to get burned? Eesh. But what if you'd gotten really hurt! Or dead." His nose wrinkles. "Dead is /so/ not sexy."

"Eh, it wasn't like that." S'eron and Lenculoth lead the group back to start and he dismounts, brushing his hands off on his thighs. "She's obsessive about doing things correctly and fighting as well as she can. Her striving for perfection always came before her desire to scar. Her favorite flights were with heavily scarred browns."

From Nymerith's neck, "Huh." T'zyn still looks somewhat perplexed as they get back. His dismount is extremely ungraceful, stumbling as he lands and then only straightening partway, his back and neck too stiff and sore to move properly. He winces, leaning against Nymerith's side. "You know what else is not sexy? Whiplash."

Nymerith lowers her head, rumbling a friendly farewell as T'zyn slips off her neck and back to the ground.

"Oh so sexy. Len and I are heading up to the 'Reaches to get some ice for you lot. We'll be back soon." S'eron goes around, dragon by dragon making sure everyone is okay.

"Mmph," is T'zyn's eloquent response to this, as he tries to turn his head but stops as his neck protests the motion. "I think I will take a long hot bath. I may never come out again."

"Try not to melt away." S'eron laughs and turns back toward Lenculoth. "See you in a while."

"Melting away sounds pretty appealing, actually!" T'zyn rolls his shoulders slightly and grins at S'eron. The other weyrlings salute the weyrlingmaster as the lesson ends. T'zyn just waves, cheerful — until the motion twinges his shoulder the wrong way and he grimaces instead. Oh well. Off to the baths with him.

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