Mango Island - Main Beach
The wide open ocean stretches onward in all directions, waves upon its surface reflecting the hue of the sky above. There's a darkness to the water, its depth unfathomable from above, and cold too, even under the Istan sun. But here and there floating seaweed or the occasional dolphin breaks the stretch of blue and blue, while numerous small jungle islands are visible on the horizon, though most visible even at this distance are the volcanic spires of the weyr itself. Reaching skyward, Ista Island dwarfs the rest, a beacon in this endless-seeming expanse.
The sun is harsh in the early morning, illuminating Mango Island's shoreline with harsh clarity. The sunlight brings to light an — interesting — situation on the shores of two Istan Weyrwomen's hideaway. It might be a beautiful day, but that seems pretty much lost on Cenlia and Jaziera. Propped up in the shade of a nice mango tree are they, surrounded by mango-pits and a small stockpile of dark brown bottles, not to mention the occasional rather sandy pillow. Jaziera's whistling in a rather off-key fashion, and…well…massacreing, there's no other word for it, yet another poor mango. The fruit in one hand, a machete in the other, she deftly (if terrifyingly) peels off skin and flesh from the pit, munching contentedly on the fruit and occasionally extending a chunk out on the blade of the machete to her companion. Cue the peaceful music. Isn't that always when things go to hell in a handbasket?
One of many sent out by the Weyrleader and several other key members of Tiger's Eye, Malphath soars above the treeline of the beach skirting Mango Island, casting a dark shadow across the sea licked shore as he blots out the shinning light of Rukbat. Strapped in upon him, is his rider, P'rel. As the two goldriders were away without leave, and their lifemates showing signs of flight, it was no wonder that people had started to panic. Whether he wanted to or not, Py had indeed followed orders and gone out looking with the rest, despite how he and his dragon was feeling about leaving the weyr on this particular errand. Something catches the pair's attention, be it a flare off one of those bottles or a glint reflecting on Jaziera's machete, they circle until finding a spot that suits the male's girth. Malphath lands gracefully, moving into a slowing gait until he stops, chuffing with irritation. His whirling crimson facets are a normal accent to the bronze's head, but the flecks of pulsing yellow and icy blue are not. "Shut up," Py growls, unstrapping himself and sliding down to the sand with no aide from his mount. "We found em, so ya can stop freakin' out already. Not like she's gunna go out right this second or anythin'." Just as annoyed as his lifemate, the blond bronzerider glares golden eyes down towards the two ladies seemingly safe, sound and having a grand old time down there with their booze and mangos. Grrr.
Malphath> Dun, dun, dun. Early morning at Ista Weyr tends to be a quiet time of day, when the tourists are still scarce and the only ones awake are the drudges and kitchen crew, the smells of breakfast already wafting into the living caverns. Usually, this is the time Cen steals away to the gardens, to get some planting or weeding done, but today, the orchard workers and groundskeepers might notice the absence, probably chalking it up to a late night with a bronzer and a rum bottle. But one who isn't holed away is Nziekilth. No, up at the crack of dawn, the massive gold has been /pacing/. Across the length of the bowl, across the beach, along the bowl rim. The restlessness has accompanied a slight shift in color, which even the least observant rider would recognize. It's become brighter, as Rukbat rises, heralding the onset of a rising of another sort, the ominous and bloody kind Zeek has become known for. Indeed, in the span of less than half a hour the truth becomes undeniable: Ista's senior gold, a full half-turn early, is glowing. And while the diplomatic wing and upper management might go to breakfast, it becomes even more apparent.. that Nziekilth's rider is not around. Indeed, when the Headwoman brings out the days paperwork, there's a bit of a puzzled discussion about some fancy gold coin and dropping opff paperwork at midnight, before strangley enough, after midnight, no one's seen Cenlia. And in fact, her weyr hasn't been slept-in at all, from the looks of it.
One of many sent out by the Weyrleader and several other key members of Tiger's Eye, Malphath soars above the treeline of the beach skirting Mango Island, casting a dark shadow across the sea licked shore as he blots out the shinning light of Rukbat. Strapped in upon him, is his rider, P'rel. As the two goldriders were away without leave, and their lifemates showing signs of flight, it was no wonder that people had started to panic. Whether he wanted to or not, Py had indeed followed orders and gone out looking with the rest, despite how he and his dragon was feeling about leaving the weyr on this particular errand. Something catches the pair's attention, be it a flare off one of those bottles or a glint reflecting on Jaziera's machete, they circle until finding a spot that suits the male's girth. Malphath lands gracefully, moving into a slowing gait until he stops, chuffing with irritation. His whirling crimson facets are a normal accent to the bronze's head, but the flecks of pulsing yellow and icy blue are not. "Shut up," Py growls, unstrapping himself and sliding down to the sand with no aide from his mount. "We found em, so ya can stop freakin' out already. Not like she's gunna go out right this second or anythin'." Just as annoyed as his lifemate, the blond bronzerider glares golden eyes down towards the two ladies seemingly safe, sound and having a grand old time down there with their booze and mangos. Grrr.'.
Cenlia sprawls against the mango tree's trunk, a shovel with its blade buried in the ground and handle sticking straight up in the air easily within reach, a pair of flip-flops lying beside it. The Istan weyrwoman is clad in the same clothes fro mthe night before - plain, loose beige pants and shirt, messy bun with sand in it and wisps of hair falling free to frame her face, as well as one bright red bandanna tied around her neck, though it's probably it was on her head at some point. Also, her knot, which is hers and not S'gam's, at least! She stifles a yawn halfway and squints at the slice of mango offered, "Shards, would be 'fraid to take m' finger off that way," commenting on the machete but popping the offered fruit into her mouth, munching away and shifting in the sand. There is a vaguely apparent twitch below her left eyem but other than that, the weyrwoman is the picture of a lazy beach bum. All she needs now is a painfully colorful shirt and a big straw sunhat.
Jaziera's eyes lazily track the circling dragon overhead, but, unconcerned, she nods Cen-wards with a little smirk. /She/ has wiggled out of most of her overclothes, and is sprawling contentedly in a tank-top-ish green shirt and matching shorts that aren't much there. Beach bum awesome, check. "Nah." There's a sleepy smile for her companion, as she goes back to peeling flesh from the mango's pit with the machete, shrugging one shoulder. "I got this." The machete — shiny, freshly sharpened, and covered in a great deal of sticky fruit-gunk — is waved absently in the air for a moment before being put back to its' task. A moment's quiet contemplation, then, as she munches on another slice of mango and glances around for their newly-won company with a longsuffering frown. "Think we've been had." A beat. "Maybe we should'a gone somewhere further away." The woman sighs in a put-upon kind of way. Well, they /were/ having a grand old time with their booze and mangoes! Another moment, another slice, another extended to Cen with a sidewards smirk and Jazi nods at something. "We can take 'im. You got your shovel, I got your back." …ah, proddy-logic. At least she's not screaming.
Malphath snorts, his head jerking up and facets widening. "Tell Ittisieth I ain't their freakin' babysitter," P'rel snaps, and points an accusing figure at his lifemate. "I dun care Malphath! That's yer thing not mine, just make sure ya tell him where we are so he can help me haul them back. Faranth knows what kinda fight their gunna put up. I'm only one dude, and Cenlia alone ain't just some chick I can toss over my shoulder and haul back." A pause and the bronzerider prickles, "Fuckin' DO IT." This done, Py marches off down the beach towards the sunbathing beauties, his face set into an even deeper frown than usual. When he gets close enough, he stops, a safe swath of sand between himself, shovel and machete. "Ya got any idea how long we've been lookin' for ya?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He was wearing his riding pants, and a fitted black tank top that gathered at the edge of his pants there at narrow hips. His pierced brow quirks as he looks from one woman to the other. Malphath in the meantime has passed on what he needs to pass, and is anxiously pacing his section of the beach, his attention, focused back over the water towards where a proddy gold is making her way across the bowl.
"Damn right y'ain't - scram, kiddo," Cenloa orders from her oh so dignified mango-tree leaningpost as she nabs another offered slice of mango from Jazi. The bronzerider talking aloud to his dragon has the generally-toughpants weyrwoman giving a snort, "What's wrong with 'im, he go mindvoice-deaf or somethin'?" ignoring exactly /what/ Py is saying in favor of reaching for her shovel, "Shardin' /bronzers/, right proper pain even when they're yer own brat." Apparently, he's not above waving a shovel at her 'adopted' bronzerider there. "Shoulda goen to South Boll," is said idly to Jaziera, "Ain't /nobody'd/ find us there." A snort as she hauls herself unhurriedly to her feet, agreeing with her fellow goldrider, "Can totally take 'im." And then lifting her head to stare down P'rel, she hoists the shovel and points it blade-tip at him, "Ya wanna /try/ it, kid?" A pause, and lazily but deliberately, she issues her challenge, "Will /duel/ ya first." Oh, she so totally means it, feet already unthinkingly flattening and shifting in the sand to a more brawl-worthy stance.
At least the bronzerider has enough sense to keep a healthy distance between them. Jaziera eyes the young man as he approaches like she's considering making hamburger out of him, green eyes sharp in spite of her prone, relaxed position. "Suck it up, kid." Is her lazy snort for the irritated rider, as she grins sidelong at Cenlia. "Your boy's got his panties in a twist; think he missed ya? What do you expec, though, Cenlia. Only one thing on their mind, ever. The lot of them!" A bright grin takes up residence as she eventually nods, lips pursing a little. "True. True. Next time." Conceded with a little nod as to South Boll. Rising carefully after the younger rider, she absently grabs a spare article of clothing from the ground and (after hawking up something and spitting it on the blade) cleans off the machete. Shift. Maybe the look she gives the young bronzerider isn't /quite/ a glare, but the goldrider does lift an eyebrow as she agreeably stands alongside Cen, shiny machete loose at her side. Jazi doesn't /need/ it. Look at those arms! Delicate and dainty, this one ain't. "Run on back home, kid, and tell them to stop lookin' for us. We're /busy/." Obviouslt.
Py's brow jerks up higher, to match his chin as Cenlia goes for her shovel and the boy's arms loosen some, perhaps in preperation of defending himself. "Ya've got to be shittin' me, Cen." he says, sounding both irritated and slightly disbelieving at the same time. Course, he might very well mean the shovel that the woman had there, pointed pointedly at him considering those golden eyes of his are coming to focus on the sharp tip stuck out at him. "I ain't gunna hit a girl, especially one that fights dirty." He drops his arms then, to his sides, one gesturing breifly to the shovel, of which he was steering clear. He didn't even have his hunting knife on him, boot laces loose and his long hair tied back at the base of his nack in a hasty runnertail. Seems the call had gone out to search rather quickly, and had caught P'rel unaware. At least he was there, right? And hey, he found them. That should count for something. He glances breifly towards Jaziera as she speaks, and of course her machete. Another pause, long and building an adbrupt snap over his shoulder, back at the pacing bronze down the beach. "I am not gunna fuckin' punch them out and carry them back. I promised, Iess I'd stop hittin' girls."
Though it was perhaps a rather unpopular decision, sending the diplomacy wing out on a search for the missing weyrwomen, the relief when they are found is just about palpable on the other end of the mental transmission. S'gam is on the whole unsurprised that they're out in the middle of nowhere munching on mangoes at a time like this, but the tension leaves his shoulders with the discovery just the same. Passing the news on to the Headwoman results in a fun, colorful conversation to say the least, and the chat he has to have with Ittisieth promises to be even better. By the time he's through, in the air, and leaving the weyr, S'gam's in as much of a foul mood over the awol riders as P'rel was, heavy brows set in a steep downwards notch. "Couldn't've sharding gone out a week ago, no. Self-serving, self-righteous…" On he goes, muttering through the morning winds on a flat, fast track across the ocean abreast a beast that's surly on a good day. Today is not one of those days. Ittisieth breaches the ocean just offshore with an uncharacteristic crash. There's little room for two irritable bronzes on the strip of beach, realistically, but today the bronze is all for sacrificing dignity for the sake of a showy, watery landing, complete with miniature tidal waves that go racing to shore where a very interesting scene is playing out. S'gam briefly forgets to be mad, shimmying up Ittisieth's neck to raise a manly brow, glancing between goldriders and bronzerider several times before issuing a loud but simple, "Well."
The fact that Cenlia is young, and generally prone to violence anyway, probably isn't helping matters. Because chances are, she doesn't even /know/ what's going on back at the weyr, where her gold is possibly giving Keonath the EYE and is already patrolling the feeding grounds (and keeping a few poor, but smart dragons from getting breakfast). Jaziera's comment is greeted by another short snort, Cen glancing sidelong at her fellow goldrider as they menace the poor boy with their favorite implements, "Yeah, only /ever/ one shardin' thing on their minds. An' half the time, they ain't even got the balls t' admit it," rolling her eyes back towards the bronzerider. "What's the matter, ya afraid've a tussle? Shards, anybody wants a piece of this, gotta /know/ how t' take a tumble," and despite how that sounds, she is giving him a huge, toothy lopsided grin. "We ain't goin' -nowhere- without a fight," and this too, she totally means, though anything else she has to say is abruptly cut off with a great big bronze splash-landing in the water, tidal wave whapping her sidelong as she just stands there. And drips. Cough. Slowly, the weyrwoman turns to /eye/ Ittisieth, but it's Sig's raised, manly brow her gaze is drawn to. "Well /what/? You got somethin' t' /say/? Get down here an' /say/ it. C'mon, I'll take ya BOTH on! BARE-handed!" shovel point shifts to jab in the direction of Sig's face, "I'll duel ya too! I'll.. I'll duel your shardin'.. shardin' EYEBROW!" Yeeah, someone's dragon has gone off the glowing-end very very fast. Uh oh.
"Sweetheart, you couldn't /take/ either of us." Uuuup goes the eyebrow again, and Jazi smirks. Just a little. Then her face settles into bland expressionlessness — of course, that doesn't last long either. That big ole bronze is /eyed/, and /glared/ at, and okay, maybe even if she isn't in contact with Keonath it's leaking through. "Get your prissy-ass dragon and get out of here." /Now/ the machete is raised, and pointed unerringly at…at…Ittisieth. And it stays that way, even as they're splashed magnificently by that bronze-wave, and Jazi doesn't even blink. Maybe it's the proddy, maybe it's just that Jaziera takes things in stride, but she completely ignores the fact that she's dripping as she turns back to Cen. "AYE. C'mon! Think you can take both of us? TRY it." But she's shifting, shoulders rolling, man-biceps flexing as she pins S'gam with a glare that might singe those eyebrows off without them having to do anything at all. "We'll cave in your faces." She doesn't even yell, but she's still shifting, eyes growing a little wider. Twitching. She even bares her teeth a little; maybe it's a grin, maybe she's trying to say she'll use them to rip their throats out. Who knows.
Golden eyes seem to keep coming back to the machete pointed their way, that wasn't in any situation, a laughing matter. Not that P'rel was prone to smile, if laugh all that often. When Cenlia makes her comment about what bronzerider's want, the boy's shoulders slump. "I'm standin' right here, ya know." he grumbles, his irritation level rising with each passing moment. He doesn't bother defending others of his kind, letting the slight roll off him like water to an avian's back. Course, that was easier said than done considering the way that Ittisieth touches down and soaks at least him and Cenlia in the process. For a second, much like the Senior Weyrwoman, Py stands there and drips, then is easily bristling once again. "What the fuck, S'gam!" he barks, but a moment later seems to remember the machette and snaps his jaws closed tight, the muscle at the joint clenching. When Cenlia turns her ire upon her Weyrleader, the boy narrows his eyes at Jaziera. "Yer seriously damaging my calm pointin' that thing at me. I dun want to hurt ya, lady, but I ain't gunna get stuck. If that means breakin' yer wrist and draggin' yer ass back kickin' and screamin' so ya can get yer shiney ass and yer dragon elsewhere before it's too late then so be it." There wasn't even a sliver of anything in his tone, so deadpan serious it might of been frightening. "Cenlia's yer problem, man." he tells S'gam, "I got my hands full, here." It was hard to tell who was getting the better deal there. Course then both drunk, and proddy chicks are turning their attention to S'gam, and so P'rel goes ahead and take the oppertunity to grab at the machette handle and try wrenching the thing out of Jaziera's grasp. Even if he has to plant a foot in her gut and kick her away to do it.
It'd been a rather long, trying morning, and Sig just wasn't in the mood to deal with proddy argumentativeness from his errant weyrwoman - that's the excuse he'll give later as to why the normally-sane bronzerider slid calmly from his dragon's neck into the shallows, striding right up the beach with the clear intent of walking past that shovel point and squaring off with Cenlia. Luckily for P'rel, Sig's too busy trying to look like a badass to really register the foul-worded comment aimed at him, or he totally would've asked Py if he kissed his mother with that mouth. As it is, he barely catches and nods to the statement that Cen was his problem, but that was just a little bit implied by her words and his body language. S'gam's gaze flicks back to Cenlia, but he keeps his eyebrow right where it's at, shoulders back, hands on his hips, head tilted just a little to one side. "Go ahead, duel my eyebrow. You'll /lose/," he says in a challenging tone. "As for what I have to say, it's this: what in Faranth's name could possibly be going through your head that would give you /any/ inclination that running off to an island while your bloodbath of a proddy dragon stomps around the weyr was a good idea?" Or at least, that's what he intends to get out. He's given Cen a good minute and a half's reaction time, more than enough to put that shovel to good use. Monologuing. Gets them every time.
Well, at least the two goldriders aren't going at each /other/? Because the weyr might be truly doomed then. As it is, Zeek's growling at the nearest bronzes around the bowl instead of at Keonath. Thank Faranth for small favors? The /last/ thing anyone needs is for the golds to start brawling /each other/. Possible, the arrival of the bronzeriders has thankfully forstalled that battle.. for the moment, but hiw long that lasts remains to be seen. "Ya just try it," Cen agrees wholeheartedly with Jaziera, giving her fellow goldrider a quick lgance before turning back to S'gam. She'll just deal with her weyrleader's eyebrow there, and leave P'rel and Jaziera to duel it out, between peeved bronzerider and machete-wielding proddy goldie. Even as the two make to wrastle for the blade, Cen is lifting her own implement of destruction, menacing the approaching Sig. Or rather.. his still-elevated brow. The man barely gets to the word 'lose' before that shovel is being swung, Cenlia shifting minutely on her feet before CHARGING forward with, luckily, more growly-faced chellenge than, say, skull-splitting force. But if the bronzerider doesn't move, it'll be a miracle if he escapes with just an injured eyebrow! Concussion ho!
Between what's going on in front of her and what's going on around her rider, Keonath is — slightly distracted. Just a little bit. The gold's head swings one way and the next; and actually, that's about what Jazi looks like. The goldrider's eyes dart here and there, her hand flexes around the machete, and she focuses a glare that might melt the very air itself on the also-monologuing P'rel. Damn men. "Kid, I was usin' this machete when you were in /diapers/. I know how to use 'er." And okay, maybe that has no relevance to anything at all, but it doesn't really matter since she's throwing poor Sig over there a terribly rude hand gesture — which, yes, distracts her. "Mmph!" The attempt at disarming her gets a pained grunt from the startled rider, who promptly tosses the machete aside and does what comes naturally; she rears back and aims a punch at the poor guy's jaw. Whether or not it lands, Jazi bares her teeth in a feral growl, taking a step back. Then turns to eye Cen. Then Sig. Then the other rider again. Then — really, she's lived in Ista for a while, they should know — she /flees/. Like the fire of a thousand suns is on her heels. Into the jungle. Hoo.
P'rel growls at Jaziera, letting go as soon as it becomes clear that the woman was not coming off the machete, and easily side steps her drunken proddy attempt to punch him in the face. There's obvious relieve that the weapon that the woman had been wielding is discarded instead of say, being thrown at his head, even if there is that attempt to him him instead. "Unwise." he grumbles, golden eyes narrowing considerably. He goes back to a ready stance as he waits for her to decide to do, readying himself for whatever attack she might be preparing, if only to stand there like a gaping idiot and blink at her as she turns tail and runs. Blink. Blink. He had not been expecting this, clearly. He's so busy, gawking that he misses Cenlia and her shovel swinging. It's fortunate for the blond bronzerider that the aim is not to himself, but rather S'gam's head. "Hey!" he exclaims, as his wits return to him and he snarls, not even thinking as he abandons his weyrleader to the ire of the senior weyrwoman, in favor of taking out Jaziera.
"As for what I have to—OOF!" Well, I guess that's all the farther S'gam made it into his monologue. With a dizzied sway from the shove's impact, the bronzer raises one finger, opens his mouth, and promptly crumples to the sand. It might not have been a lethal swing, but that's going to be a formidable goose-egg to the left of his eyebrow by the time the morning's over! Ittisieth lets loose an uncharacteristic snarl upon his rider's impact with the ground, sidling out of the water to drip in the air as crankily as possible over Cenlia. Jaziera's flight into the forest is marked, and a none-too-subtle squint of draconic lids underlines a mind at work. « Nziekilth. » It's probably dangerous to poke the mind of a proddy gold, but with P'rel and Jaziera gone, it's either that or she takes an unwilling ride home on one bronze or the other. « Please speak reason to your rider, or I may have to return her in whatever way I see fit. » An image rides the waves of blue and maroon, in which the bronze lowers his mouth down over Cenlia and goes NOM in order to give her the spittiest trip back to Ista EVAR. In the meantime, a prone S'gam is carefully lifted into one paw, narrowed eyes never leaving Cenlia, daring her to run.
RAWR! Feeer shovel-wielding weyrwomen! Though really, a proddy goldrider wielding pretty much anything might be terrifying. The -WHACK- she gives S'gam's head with a shovel seems to surprise her a little, so much that she pauses mid-charge, as if she'd expected himk to duck or maybe retaliate. The man going down does earn the briefest slightly smug smirks, but only so long as it takes the bronze over there to snarl. But this goldrider is in full-on rawr-mode, and Cenlia snarls right BACK! GRR! "Ya want a piece've this too?!" she waves the shovel at Ittisieth, "/Do ya/, Ittibits?" GLAAARE-GRR. She's probably totally forgotten about Malphath over there, though she does halt her possible swing at the weyrleader's dragon as the voices behind her provide some distraction, half-turning to blink at the fleeing P'rel and Jaziera. "Oy!" clearly, the left-behind machete confuses her - what about the /brawl/? As for Niekilth, she's still too busy snapping and growling at the gathering bronzes around the bowl to truly appreciate the other glowing gold, and it's just as he attention starts in that direction that Ittisieth interrupts whatever threats she was tossing at her future persuers. Her mind is like a melstrom, broken glass shards of smashed bottles and a bloody tinge accompanying the near-overwhelming roar of flowing booze, or is that /burning/ booze? Such a mindscape, this is what greets the bronze upon contact, lashing out in unfocused FURY, though his request only gets a, « WHAR'S THA' GAL GONE? TELL ME NOW. YOU GIT 'ER BACK ROIGHT- WHAR'S YER RIDER? HE THAR? » Queue abruptly shifting priorities « MAKE 'EM MAKE BABEHS THIS INSTANT! CEN NEEDS ONME NOW! » Or maybe she does, but hey, there's /some/ time yet, and the antsy gold is ignoring any possible imagery, her own searing sunset hues grasping onto the bronze's mind like a desperate man might grab someone's collar, and SHAKES. Only, y'know, mentally. SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE. Cenlia, meanwhile, has forgotten about the looming dragon and is totally heading after Py and Jaziera, "Oy! Get back 'ere!"
Proddy, proddy Jaziera — while Keonath grows more and more worried sans her rider, still unwilling to go back on her orders to stay where she is — doesn't even get to see Cen brain the Weyrleader with a shovel. Woe. She might have just collapsed into giggles then and there, honestly, but alas! Instead, she flees like mad, making a mad dash for it in the first few yards and then kind of…disappearing. It may have been two decades ago, but this /is/ the woman who spent six months living on a jungle island not unlike this one, not to mention other mapmaking ventures. It's easy for her to slink over roots and find the areas of bare rock — granted, she's half out of her mind with what looks like fear, so she's bound to make some mistakes. Meanwhile! « FIND HER! » Bellows Keonath, apparently catching the screaming baby-mama vibes, tail lashing as she eyes the dragons gathering around them angrily. Anything to say about human hatchlings, though? Nope. She really has nothing. It's probably for the best?
Malphath is doing more and more of the pacing and irritated thing over there, especially with all the proddy golds going on back at the weyr that he can't get to or start to get to because his rider was now chasing after a female fleeing into the jungle. "What the fu…" P'rel begins, making a valiant attempt to catch up to Jaziera before she vanishes. Sadly, this is not the case apparently. The bronzerider comes to a jog, and then a stand still, wincing as the ire of Keonath lashes back on him via his own lifemate, causing him to stumble and catch himself with a hand against one of the thickened mossy trunks. "I dun remember signing up for this shit." He seethes past clenched teeth, only half noticing that Cenlia was in pursuit now that she'd taken out S'gam.
Fear the proddy! Rawr! Really, by now the whole weyr must know what's going on out on that island, or have a decent, to good idea, though Zeek's added insistance of humping the weyrleader can't be helping any. At all. « YEA, FIND 'ER A'READY! » is ordered of.. well, everybody, which does little to dissuade the bronzes from gathering. Even Tzimisceth, who was probably not far from where the search for the weyrwomen was going on, has probably turned back, battling his instinct to obey the glowing queen and that to stick close and follow, as Nziekilth has come dangerously close to rising - it's like Benden all over again. Except this time, there's /real/ danger, with two proddy golds in very close proximity. Maybe that's why the nearest /blue/ in Tiger's Eye, and a few S&R riders start heading that way. Find the weyrwomen! Clearly, someone's got the message. Which probably doesn't do Py too much good, as there's a shovel come swinging toward the back of his head. Whether it hits or not is probably moot, because the next instant there is a SQUAWK and wielded shovel becomes FLYING PROJECTILE SHOVEL OF DOOM as Cenlia kets go of the thing mid-swing and is promptly lifted off /her/ feet. Maybe Ittisieth's the only sane one there, because he's nabbed Cenlia in his TEETH and is off back toward the weyr! With a mouthful of swearing weyrwoman.
