Nataquin style. Emilia and Aromi are pulled into the battle zone.

Eastern Curve of the Bowl
This area of the bowl, just outside the lower caverns, is constantly awhirl with activity! People come and go with amazing regularity and relative randomness as to any direction they might be going at any particular time; firelizards, mostly in Fort colors, zip past with seeming disregard for personal safety; and, of course, multicolored arrays of dragons can usually be seen swooping through the skies above.
The lower caverns lie directly to the east; the infirmary and ground weyrs are located in the somewhat quieter area to the southeast and south respectively.
It is a winter afternoon. The vault of sky is still, empty, freezing cold.

Chair legs half buried in snow, N'tan sits and watches the bundled little boy romp in a pile of frozen white. There's a tiny mound atop that suddenly moves and out pops a bronzed head, and beside it a green. The pair are trying to stay warm but Nataquin keeps shoveling snow over the top of them, thinking it hilarious each time they manage to find their way out. "Careful, Taq," his father warns.

Aromi moves through the snow by way of a previous walker's footprints, hopping from one to the next with quiet giggles. The drudge has one hand out for balance, and her other hand is holding on to her Candidate knot tightly. She's not going anywhere in particular - just following where this mystery person went.

Emilia is trudging across the bowl with a bounce each third trudge, a basket at the hip filled with various and sundry to run the errands required of her. Hearing the giggles she glances towards the moving snow and arches an eyebrow, the abundant mop moving with her around a cloak of dark gray. "They'll nip you if they get too cranky," is called out in soft warning, though there is a smile there, before she nods to the girl and the man, "afternoon."

If Puff and Sangua were really annoyed, they'd leave, but the truth of the matter is they'd do anything for Nataquin, including endure yet another heaping of snow on their heads. Spotting the girl gives the firelizards a temporary reprieve as the boy hunkers down behind the pile, wadding up a ball of snow. N'tan watches this with a faint hint of a wicked approving grin until he's distracted by Emilia's greeting. "It is," comes the terse response. The snowball is fired toward Aromi.

Aromi catches the snowball full in the face, and her dimenior instantly changes. She draws herself up to her full (but still shrot) height, and plants her hands on her hips. Her face is a scowl, "Alright! Who threw that?" she demands.

"Oh well then, I'm relieved, my Harper lessons paid off. I can tell time. My parents will be so pleased the education wasn't wasted," gets quipped back, the edge of sarcasm bleeding behind a bright and perky smile before curls bounce backwards towards Aromi and then Emilia eyes the general direction of where Nataquin may be. "I wonder," she says musing out loud for the girl's benefit, one hand surreptitiously pointing in that direction. "You all right?"

Nataquin is no coward and as soon as Aromi calls him out, out he comes, winging another snowball at her in the process. "Fight back, girrrrllll," he challenges, drawling the feminine word out snidely. N'tan merely nods to Emilia, expression as blank as artic ice.

Aromi looks rather affronted. She turns to stare at N'tan and gets a snowball in the ear for her hesitation. She dives for a drift, digging into it for cover. Packing a snowball together she wings it back at the boy. Her aim isn't very good. She throws like, well, like a girrrrllll. "Come help!" she calls to Emilia.

Emilia will step back and out of the way of the impending snowball fight, dropping her basket and bending down to arm herself just in case. Whether she'll fire waits to be seen. "I've never actually done this before," is called out to Aromi, the rider being dismissed as easily as he dismisses. "Though the weyrlings seem to enjoy it." The mound where Nataquin hides is assessed and she'll use her height (not alot of it too) and dance a step forward. "Drop your weapons and we'll go easy on you." A glance now over her shoulder, "Isn't that what they say to renegades and outlaws?" Why she figures the rider will know is just a hunch.

Sangua and Puff find themselves in the middle of a war and make sounds of alarm before leaping up to get out of the way, and that is when the bronze takes Aromi's snowball to the head. He squawks and disappears immediately between. The green is hot on his heels. "You hit Puff!" Nataquin charges and runs around the far side of the pile to build up an arsenal of snowballs. When Emilia turns toward the seated man she finds a snowball rocketing toward her, with a blank-faced N'tan staring off toward the boy as if he'd always been.

Aromi shakes her head at Emilia, "Neither have I!" she says, digging snow out of her freezing ear. She giggles, though. She shrugs in reply to Emilia's question, also looking at the rider. A brown firelizard circles down from above, landing on Aromi's shoulder and chirping curiously. Aromi squeaks when her snowball goes awry, "I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!" she yells, horrified.

Beaned right in the kisser! The whollop of snow takes Emilia by surpirse as much as the poor bronze flit. Alas, her skills at disappearing between are not quite so refined, but she didn't grow up in a weyr full of boys not to know how to defend herself or develop a bit of an arm. The guard ball in her hand is immediately aimed and launched back at N'tan and without checking on hit, "Take that!" she's gathering cloak and skirts and moving towards Aromi. "Behind that pile there. It looks a good defense." A quick grin at the girl and she shakes her head, "don't worry about it. Flits can take care of themselves, now it's our turn." Another small green blinks out from between but this one is waved away, "No no, Moerae you stay with Gema."

Vengeance is mine! says the boy's expression as he climbs to the top of the mound and fires not one, but two snowclods at the girl. Nataquin then leaps down and disappears; no dummy is he. The little veteran of many snow-wars speedily balls snow, building up his own pile in the depths of his armory. Throw two, make four more! When the snowball hits N'tan in the chest to splash up against the square chin, the man affects an expression of offense. "Why'd you do that?" The murky eyes focus on the woman with the abundance of hair.

Aromi giggles as she tightens her coat around herself and hurries to try and make snowballs. It's clear she's never done this before - all of hers are too big and lopsided. She hastens after the pile as directed by Emilia, "I'm Aromi!" she introduces with a quick grin.

"Emilia, and I've only done these with sand, dirt and water, sort of mud balls rather then snow, when I was a child." She too hunkers down, drawing her cloak up around her ears, but adrenaline has kicked in and she nigh bounces in her crouch. No doubt the cascade of frizz will pinpoint exact position. "Well met Aromi," is directed back before she dares to lift her head and gauge the position of the Nataquin and N'tan. "Directionally challenged are we rider?," is ever so sweetly sailed in the brownrider's direction, although a snowball is lobbed towards the boy before she tries to remold one of Aromi's.

Nidhgoth watches from his ledge, head hovering just above the battle zone below. The stairs behind N'tan's chair lead up to the wide low ledge, and Nataquin is positioned directly below the brown's muzzle. When the unexpected snowball comes sailing at him, the boy is slow to dodge and catches it with the knit cap on his head. A shiver rocks his spine as some of the residual makes its way down the back of his jacket. Climbing the hill again, Taq fires from above, splitting the barrage in half, one each for the females. The rider sits quietly in his chair watching, long bronzed hair trailing down across the chairback.

Aromi grins, "Well met, Emilia." She squeaks when they're under seige, ducking under their makeshift shelter. "I can't make these stupid things!" she cries when a snowball splits in two in her hands. "I'll shore up our defenses." She begins scooping snow up the edge of the bank, packing it in to raise it higher.

Emilia might be older, but she's taking about every hit that comes her way and soon enough her hair and shoulders are covered with the shattered remains of Nataquin's barrage. "We have a defense?" is perked up and for a brief second a pair of hazel eyes blink in surprise at her fellow ally. A quick shrug and she's back trying to repack Aromi's efforts and send them sailing across the divide. With each successive lob, her accuracy diminishes over time and the snowballs begin to aim rather wild.

Nataquin is having a good time, running up and down the hill with armloads of tightly packed hand grenades. He isn't actually attempting to get out of the way of the ones fired at him, since being tagged is part of the point of the fun, so he too becomes a wet mess, long brassy tresses sticking to the rounded crimson-flushed cheeks. Nidhgoth takes one of those wild ones up the nose, forcing him to sneeze pellets of ice in a rain down upon the child below. "Yuck, Nidh!" Taq yells with a scowl. Out of the blue N'tan stands up and repositions his chair well away from the mound and ledge. A moment later the dragon is pushing a large wall of snow off his ledge with the flat of his muzzle - so much for defenses. The boy is sacrificed in the name of revenge and gets buried beneath.

Aromi squeaks when she's suddenly showered in snow. She has a moment of panic as she tries to scramble to the top of the small avalanche. "Where's that kid?" she calls, looking around, "Emilia?"

"Oh!" The quick cry is suspended in that moment of time in deciding whether to laugh or be worried and then it's a moot point as any sound she makes is muffled when Emilia finds herself in a small landslide of snow. There's an instinct though, in swimming to the top, for air, and it's a few moments before white wet curls shoot upwards in a springy bid for freedom. "omi," the the first of the three syllables is lost in a mouthful of snow that's going to start chattering any moment. Nataquin is searched for, her neck arching back to peer behind the now larger mound.

N'tan stands and makes for the spot Nataquin was last seen, strides long, if not quick over uneven footing. At one point a boot sinks further than expected, jarring the man and causing him to wince, hand flying to cradle a faint bulge beneath his jacket. Just like before the small mound of snow moves, giving the father direction enough to allow him to reach down into the loose snow and pull the child above the surface. Taq blinks away snow that clings to his long lashes and then bursts out laughing. Assured his son is okay, the brownrider drops to the pile of now and lies down, letting the pain from the exercise ebb to a tolerable level. Nidhgoth warbles apologies from above.

Aromi scowls up at the dragon, shaking wet hair from her face. "You okay?" she calls to the three people. "Hey, are you hurt?" she asks, frowning at N'tan. She 'swims' through the snow in his direction. "Truce?" she asks the child, hands up. "That was fun."

Half way there in a flurry of movement herself, and with the small boy free of snow, Emilia finds herself slowing to stand above the brownrider, peering down. Aromi is left to negotiate peace with Nataquin for the moment while she peers at the man. "You're not that old rider that a little effort should put you down? Are you hurt?" She'll echo the candidate while looking the man over. The mound as yet unrevealed is spared only a curious glance and while her lip starts to turn blue, two hands are placed upon hips and then one is dropped and held out in an offer to help the man up.

Nataquin looks toward N'tan when Aromi inquires. Upon looking back he explains, "The Weyrleader crushed his ribs. He'll be okay," the child assures. N'tan is not so sure, but a good dose of fellis will right all wrongs. Grinning agreeably at the girl, the boy invites, "It was fun. Come play with my dragon?" His typical bad attitude is pocketed in lieu of possible fun to be had. A small finger juts upwards, pointing the way, and realizing he's pointing at a live dragon, redirects toward the stairs, "Madri gave it to me." His father is slower to respond to Emilia's inquiry, but finally leaks with a dispassionate, "I'm fine," while gingerly curling himself upright. Squinting sidelong at the woman, the lengthy man questions, "Who're you?"

Aromi frowns, "Th'deus crushed your ribs?" she asks N'tan, "How did that happen?" She smiles briefly at Taq. "Sure, I'll play after I hear this story. It sounds like a good one."

Emilia raises an eybrow at the boy and then Aromi's subsequent response. She's a little more inclined to be blase about a child's statement. Her own daughter has labelled every man with dark hair "Poopa" in the attempts to identify Dad from strangers. "I'm Emilia, formally of Igen Weyr by way of Ista Weyr. I recently came to," her shoulders hesitate briefly and she'll move her chin from peering down to peering up, "help out in the lower caverns." The hand, since it's not being taken, is lowered, "and you are?" A brief glance and a grin is spared for Aromi. That was fun.

Nataquin's small features darken with frustration; he's heard this story too many times now and he wants the girl's attention. Stepping up, the boy nudges at her and grumbles, "He kicked him. Broke a bunch... he'll be okay!" Patience is not a known virtue in this family. Slowly pushing to a an unstable stand, the brownrider turns to look at Emilia, faint scowl evidence of his rotted opinion of, "Ista Weyr," that is venomously spat. The child fidgets with impatience and eagerly fills in the blanks, "He's N'tan, my daddy, and I'm Nataquin... " a moment's pause and he corrects, "Taq."
Aromi bristles, "What do you have against Ista Weyr?" she asks. She glances down at Taq, "What color's your dragon?" she asks, hoping to distract him long enough to hear more from the rider.

Emilia's eyebrows move in a 'okay then, suit yourself' motion and she makes a mental note not to ever make Istan bubbly pies with a cream filling; which would be highly unlikely anways given a propensity towards injury in kitchens. A brighter smile in the face of that venom is offered cheerfully or as armour, "Well, I wasn't there for long, so I don't claim it proper." Courtesy of Nataquin, the mound beneath the jacket is now identified as broken ribs and she'll twitch her nose and take a step closer, "You may as well take the help rider since it's offered." Her voice brokers the tone that it'll be his loss if not and won't be granted again. "As much as I enjoy a good argument, I'm soaked through and need to get to the dorms and change. I can't afford catching my death." A turn and a half of responsibility drapes a new cloak over Em's often flighty shoulders. Aromi will be spared a nod as well, "as should you and the lad as well."

Nataquin winces in anticipation of his father's response. If you ask N'tan a question you'd better be ready for the answer. "It's spineless, useless weyrwomen, and a crack pot lunatic brownrider." There's probably more, but that's apparently enough. With that out, the boy dabbles in fantasy and says to the girl, "Any color I want." On the heel's of what Emilia says, the man shakes his head, "Don't need help," and then turns to pick his way back to the chair. An idea hits home and jars the brownrider to glance back once he's met his goal, "Unless you want to carry the chair into my weyr?" Hawkish brows arch with the inquiry.

Aromi nods slowly at N'lon's reply, tucking the information away. Then her attentions are focused on Taq, "What color's your favorite?" She glances at Emilia and rolls her eyes.

Said the spider to the fly. A hesitation may be marked, but with Aromi venturing up, she will follow. "If I can use your fireplace, surely," is canted back. Emilia's own basket is apparently forgotten and lost to snow for the moment, or until spring, but she grabs the chair and hefts it easy with muscles that have only been defined well in the past turn. "Never met the Istan Weyrleader actually." She makes no defence or gripe against the Weyrwoman. Aromi's eyerolling is noted and winked at. Turning back to N'tan at the bottom of the stairs she pauses to look him over and with greater attention then before, heels bouncing against the cold seeping through the snow sogged cloak.

"Haven't either," comes the stray comment as N'tan heads toward the stairs and then on up. Nataquin takes a moment to glance at Aromi and then he too dashes for the stairs, chasing his father up onto the ledge and within. Nidhgoth has already brought himself into the warmth and is settled by the tunnel from his couch that leads down the slope into the hearth-heated living area.

Aromi blinks at Emilia, "Is this safe? Going up into a rider's weyr like this?" She looks at the stairs and bites the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.

"Only if you're afraid of heights," and really that could be interpreted so many ways. Emilia will give Aromia a quick smile and motion for her to precede her. The fire will bring warmth and take the edge off and hopefully they will not catch their death of colds. Lugging the chair behind, she follows.

FTB for now.