Katrineth lands, Arien slides down, a Turns-coordinated movement that's most certainly not surpassed by the latter's stumble for relative dryness beneath the queen's wing.

Arilynne steps somewhat slowly from the mouth of the Hatching Grounds, seeming somewhat hesitant to leave. The light mist doesn't dampen Aril's mood, although her physical body quickly becomes saturated. Gold's landing is noticed as Aril pauses under an underhang, eyes blinking to make out the rider in the drizzle. "Weyrwoman," she greets, deciding that the title seems safe enough.

Katrineth rumbles, pleased, agleam in jewelfaceted eyes beneath their single lids; water beads on her deep-hued hide, runnelling off her body, off winghooks. "They told me where to find you," Arien begins.

Arilynne recognizes the voice, and then the form, "Weyrwoman Arien," she greets again, stalling as her mind races. They? Uh-oh, has Aril been caught again. "Alright," she confesses, "I know that sticking crawlies in Prat's cot wasn't very nice, but -" And then she remembers that Arien rides for Fort. That couldn't be it. Gulp. Wide eyes peer out from beneath sodden lashes as Aril drips uncertainly from her alcove. "They?"

Arien doesn't answer; she doesn't even smile. Katrineth does, though, canines showing glossy white as if she sharpens them on someone's bones. What the woman does do is hold out her hand, a dark -- something -- curled in its palm.

Arilynne hopes that's not a dark crawlie. Peering closer, she inches out of the rain, one eye on Katrineth and her pearly whites. Squinting, she tries to take a closer look, the fog maliciously obstructing her view until Aril's a bare foot or so from the weyrwoman.

Arien steps out, then, out from Katrineth's shield; the dragon draws her wing back, leaving her further in the thick of it. The dark curl proves to be centered around a yet smaller object: a shred of klah-bark? a bead?

A stone? Water is wrung from Aril's dripping hair, a useless maneuver as water quickly alights and seeps in yet again. Blink. Blink. Alright, Aril's got to ask. "Wh-what is it?" Rude, perhaps, tactless, definitely, but Aril wouldn't be Aril if she didn't ask. What does sink in is that it's a present and Arien and Katrineth get a beam of excitement, the golden queen's rather sharp, shiny teeth even forgotten in the excitement.

Ping! "The agate's from Fort's rivers," Arien begins. "I know you're not to wear anything on the sands, but -- " her own smile warms a moment, then like the tide recedes into a kinder ease. "/But/. It might show on a wrist, but the braidwork, it can fit an ankle too. Good luck."

Arilynne doesn't know what to say, speechless at the gesture, she peers up at Arien in wonder. "For me? Th-thank you," she stammers out. "But why? Not that I'm not grateful," she rushes out, trying to cover her impudent question. "It's lovely. Truly." A hesitant hand reaches towards the braided charm, rain forgotten for the moment.

Arien flicks the knotted cord to her, the agate balancing its slingshot; it's an easier gesture than tossing a knot of rank. "Why not? I can't promise I'll be up there in the stands, but if I will, it'll be for Fort, for healers, someone to remember, whatever happens." She hesitates. "Including if you're hurt; I'd want someone to be there."

Taran comes in from the south.

Taran says, "hiya."

Arien's standing out in the drizzle, near Arilynne; her head turns, then. "Hello," she returns.

Taran greets with a wave.

From Taran's shoulder, Harkel crunes softly.

Arilynne rather ineptly catches the good luck charm, fumbling slightly, there's a moment of suspense when it seems like it'd fall into the mud, but she retrieves it before that happens. Light fingers caress the braidwork and trace over the agate as she smiles up at the weyrwoman. "Do you give gifts to all Fort's-" leftovers... "Former candidates?" A glimmer of hurt is all that's seen in greenish brown depths before she blinks it away. "Whatever happens, though, it'll be nice to know that I'm not really alone. Although it may seem so sometimes." Stranger's noticed and Aril's head turn to smile in his direction, "Hello as well," she adds her own greeting.

Katrineth, further off, tilts her great head to stare at the human and his littlewing through the encroaching darkness.

Arien says, not quite gently enough to be pity, "No, not to everyone. After all, I /did/ braid it with my own two hands," and there's the smile, there in her voice.

From Taran's shoulder, Harkel tilts his head toward the draconic attention.

Katrineth warbles, suddenly, playful -- but loud.

From Taran's shoulder, Harkel chitters a greeting toward Katrineth.

Arilynne feels warm and fuzzy all over, the gift healing that last bit of hurt, not magically but psychologically. She'd felt if no one cared and yet it seems someone did. "I must thank you again, Weyrwoman Arien," she repeats herself, overwhelmed, her brain seems like a record stuck on one setting. "I do hope you can make it to the Hatching," she adds softly, water droplets tearing down her chin, nose, and cheeks unnoticed. "I'd like to think I had Fort's support, no matter what the outcome."

Taran sits down and gets some wherry out of his pouch and commences to feeding Harkel.

From Taran's shoulder, Harkel chirrups excitedly. /food/!!

Nisha comes in from the south.

Nisha heads south towards the eastern end of the bowl.

Taran says, "hi :)"

Arien gestures to herself: one spare-framed woman, with Katrineth shadowed behind. "Such as we are. Go well, Arilynne -- " her nod notes the stranger, too -- "And I must return."

Taran nods. "Bye."

Arilynne nods her mutes assent, peering up to add the proper farewell to the rider, "Clear skies, weyrwoman." Still fingering the twined charm, she smiles softly in the rain, almost radiant with hope once again.

Arien watches her a long moment, then steps away, steps up -- slips a moment, on that rain-wet hide, and with a rueful grin pulls herself the rest of the way.

Arien makes her way up Katrineth's burnished neck.

Taran waves goodbye.

Arilynne needs to get out of the light drizzle herself and into the warm cavern. She waits only to watch Fort's weyrwoman depart before she pockets her gift and heads back towards the living cavern and to the warmth of the hearth. Words and feelings rumble within her in a mismatched pattern, a jigsaw that'll work itself out eventually.

Katrineth wings up, up -- and then, just barely off the ground, she's gone.

Katrineth bunches her muscles and springs into the air.