Ruin
Wingrider 
ruinct[M:-786]
We build the worlds we wouldn't mind living in
Posts: 1,137
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Post by Ruin on Jun 18, 2011 17:39:27 GMT -5
The light was fading from an evening sky when he found himself completely free of any responsibility. His hair hung with a limp wetness around his face, and spoke of the bath he had just taken to wash away the salty crystalized crud from a day’s sweat. The air was cooling into night, but his thoughts could find no cozy perch to bring him rest; so he had abandoned the pretenses of sleep, and the Candidates Barracks, to wander an aimless path—a small shape in the Weyr Bowl proper for the Watchdragon on high. His thoughts were a flow of cool water across hot flesh, and he could only be grateful they were organized—if fast. This journey without destination had been a long time coming: Typically he would put purpose or motivated action to his thoughts; whether it was practicing his scrolling with Daymar, enjoying the company of Agnith and her Delilah, or shipfish hunting with Xiro’el. Every moon that had passed since his arrival at Dalibor had been spent in action. Now was the time for reflection.
The summer was moving on. He could taste it in the hidden chill within the wind. He doubted the foliage would change so brilliantly here as it did in Ruatha, but he could taste that autumn tinge with goose bumped flesh and indrawn breath. Another moon gone. Ever forward to another chance. He was excited, of course, but now that he was on this quest for self-improvement he wondered if there would be time. So he could pen better than ever before—but to whom? He hadn’t even met the Weyrwoman, much less have a reason to send her a letter. He hadn’t ventured to the nearby Halls nor met anyone who was able to explain the politics of Weyrlife with as much depth as he required. What sort of Dragonman would he be for a dragonet of Dalibor? Maybe he would exhaust himself with work until that second Standing only to find that he was still an unfit man.
Dragon’s choice. If he had learned anything from his friends who had become Weyrlings it was that dragon’s choose who they are meant to be with—their perfect match. His simply had not been there…that was what they said, yes? Yet there was a quiver in his soul. There had been one dud egg—of course it happened in all clutches—but what if he had been the cause? If he had been fit perhaps that egg would have hatched into a dragonet he could pairbond with. Sebol scoffed under his breath at his own silly thoughts. He had not been the only Candidate left standing. Even if that were the case—which it most certainly was not—the egg and dragonet inside could have been intended for another. It would have been worse if hatchlings had gone between; such had been the case at the previous hatching—he had heard. Dalibor even lost a Copper Queen, what would have been only her second such dragon.
Would that not have been more terrible an idea—that he had been cheated a lifemate by his dreagon’s very own clutchmate? He felt a tremor of emotion ripple through him. That thought had not been pleasant—and it was dangerous. What if it compelled him to intercede at his next Standing? Dangerous. Even the Gold Callistath had not stopped her children from squabbling. Would stepping in be seen as forcing the nubile mind of a dragon to choose him? Paired with his vile markings his mind could patch together the course which the minds of others would follow. Harper songs about the darkly disfigured man who snatched away a proper dragonet from his true Rider—saved him and held him indebted—betrayer. His heart chilled and skipped a beat so suddenly that every muscle in his body went ridged and he stopped—everything about him ceasing as if he’d gone between in spirit only.
Would they say that anyway? His tongue licked a nervous path along his lips as his taut muscles relaxed and allowed him to step forward again on his senseless path. Dragon’s choice. Or something more sinister. This entire time he had been under the assumption that Impression would liberate him from the shackles the Traders had placed on him—shackles as literal as they were permanent. Now he felt a deeper sense of doubt that would nestle its way into his very core. He did not know much about Dalibor’s past with the Renegades, but he did know that it had been Dragonman against Dragonman. Until that point he had assumed that all were the same—their dragons binding them to a contract their soul had signed: Service unto the people, not harm. Yet here was an example of dragon against dragon; and Rider against Rider.
Would they cast him beyond the stone walls of the Weyr with his newborn—betrayer and renegade and untouchable? He sat suddenly—without even realizing that he was near something that could be sat upon; and his eyes were brought into focus as his hands caressed and then gripped a well-worn railing he had not touched since he had arrived at this place. The sands of the cavern floor radiated their heat at him in a wave that was surprising—though it was probably due to his mind slowing enough to recognize the sensation. Here he had been to see the clutch Callistath had laid upon the sands; and there, there in that spot, he had stood before she the mother and her hatchlings—and left alone. Was it cruelty to stand again? A thought that had not crossed his mind; so selfishly he had been consumed by his own vindication.
Was he damning a dragonet of this Weyr to life as an exile? Had he been so incorrect about his assumed redemption? If there was one thing he had come to believe wholeheartedly; it was that he wanted to serve his Weyr—but he had never considered that the Weyr would decline his offer of loyalty even after Impression. He felt a beacon of anger within him that had only been present as a very dull ache—and now it burned like a poker in his belly and lanced his neck with ice. He had assumed without thought that this would be a surmountable obstacle in his life—because when had he ever truly failed at something he strove to achieve through hard work, and dedication?
The men who had done this to him…perhaps they were seeking to indoctrinate the Holders to their ideals of freedom, but all they had done was to strip it from him. Unable to even work bare-chested or enjoy a swim when the bowl was bathed in light—perhaps unable to be the guardian of the people he had never had a reason to hate or mistrust. And still the worry of Impression. Still the wonder if he would be suitable at all. Then the fear of damnation and exile. Concern, after concern, after concern. Worry, after fear, after burning anger. He felt a small sliver of himself seeking to harden, and he realized now how older men could be both cold and distant after turns of defeat. It was not something Sebolaren wanted for himself—even in the face of such self-defeating emotion. His knuckles ran white as he gripped the railing.
They had changed his flesh. They had not—would not—change his spirit.
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Kila
Sr. Weyrleader 
kilact[M:217]
Let's move to a cloud so we're never under the weather
Posts: 1,574
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Post by Kila on Jun 19, 2011 14:17:13 GMT -5
Klah, old boy? O’sho asked, looking towards the distant pair of glowing eyes that regarded him from his ledge. The Bronze King said nothing, but snorted and turned and disappeared into the dark, going to lay with Kalith. O’sho chuckled and continued on, a steaming cup of klah in each hand. The Weyrleader had been working all day and, as he did often, had taken a break to stretch his legs and get a mug of comfort. The second mug he carried back towards his weyr was for Fajra, who could always use such a break but rarely took one.
As O’sho approached the stairs, however, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Turning, he saw a figure disappear into the Hatching Sands. The Weyrleader frowned; Whers rarely patrolled inside the Caverns, and Dalibor had had too many cases of theft and sabotage to leave such a thing uninvestigated. Reaching out to touch Daidoroth’s conscience, he felt that the great dragon sensed no danger. Better safe than sorry. Making his way silently across the Bowl, O’sho pressed his back to the edge of the wall and looked inside.
A lone person stood inside, hand on a rail as he stared out over the sands. O’sho relaxed; he had not suspected danger, but this confirmed it. Instinct and educated guessing told him that this boy, for the silhouette was clearly masculine, was only a Candidate. ”Hello there,” he called softly, not wishing to startle the boy. O’sho stepped away from the wall, making himself visible, and waved. He moved forward and stood next him, surveying the Sands as he had been doing. ”Incredible, huh?” he asked. ”So full of promise.” He turned to the boy a smiled, his eyes crinkling around the edges, and held out one of his mugs of klah. ”Care to sit for a while?”
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Ruin
Wingrider
ruinct[M:-786]
We build the worlds we wouldn't mind living in
Posts: 1,137
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Post by Ruin on Jun 20, 2011 11:43:16 GMT -5
His head turned to the salutation, and his eyes scanned the man who stood there: He seemed to have powerfulness about him that Sebolaren couldn’t quite puzzle out, and his black hair was greyed with age. He had a kind face; well it was kind now, and the man’s words rang true that the Candidate was not in any trouble for being here—yet. There was no wher following the man, nor matching muskiness that wafted toward Sebol: Aside from the spicy scent of klah that filled his nostrils as the man approached him. For a moment the Herder felt a pang as he wondered what it would be like to have a dragon; one who could simply tell him whether the man who came toward him was a Dragonrider: Perhaps for just one night they could be simply…men. They were just men who enjoyed the taste of a warm drink, and the company of one another.
His eyes followed those of this man in looking out over the sands, before returning to that aged face to accept both company and klah. “I’m not one to turn down company,” he said accepting the warm mug of klah. “Nor klah, thank you. Please,” he motioned to the stone bench upon which he sat. “Best seats in the house.” He returned his gaze to the warm sands below and gave a faint smile. “It is incredible,” he replied, but then stumbled over his next words uncomfortably. “It wa—is full of promise.” Well that hadn’t sounded very convincing did it; he contained a grimace that wanted to spread across his face: Nothing like sounding ungrateful. "For a lot of people," and for him?
He lifted the warm mug to his mouth, inhaling the rich earthiness as it mingled together with a sweetness that words could not describe. The drink he had rarely tasted at Ruatha had become one of his favourites—and oh how he wished they had served it during runnerwatches. He had wondered how the Dragonmen and Whermen were able to keep their constant vigils while accomplishing so much. Probably a little bit of broody; like him, and a healthy dose of this marvelous drink.
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Kila
Sr. Weyrleader
kilact[M:217]
Let's move to a cloud so we're never under the weather
Posts: 1,574
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Post by Kila on Jun 21, 2011 23:11:48 GMT -5
O’sho thanked the boy when he offered him a seat, happily handing over the klah and resting his weary bones. He found it incredible that one could get so tired from sitting around doing nothing all day, but there he was lowering himself down onto the bleachers with a sigh of relief and contentment. When he had gotten comfortable, he leaned back and sipped his klah. It was a simple pleasure, really, but not one he undervalued in the least.
O’sho did not miss the way the boy stumbled over his words uncomfortably when he spoke of the sands; to do so only could have meant that he was not paying attention. To the contrary, though O’sho was relaxed and his gaze lingered ahead of him rather than on the face of his newfound companion, the Candidate had his undivided attention. The Weyrleader cared about people, especially those in his Weyr, and his empathy extended to beyond those who he knew by name.
”So you’ve stood on these sands before, then,” he deduced, not letting the silence linger and provide a place for whatever sad emotions the boy felt to fester and grow. ”Then you know firsthand.” O’sho sipped his klah, his moustache, growing shaggy from neglect, tickling the edge of the mug. He then cupped it gently between his hands in his lap, protecting it as though it were something precious but all the same without a thought. ”It’s hard, you know,” he said gently, ”To be passed by. I’ve talked to a whole lot of people who were heartbroken when they weren’t chosen the first time they stood. When they impressed at later hatchings, though, they changed their minds right quick. It was absolutely worth it, they’ve told me, because when the dragon hatches that’s just right for you, you know that any other one would have been wrong.” He fell silent and resumed sipping his klah, letting his unbidden words sink in.
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Ruin
Wingrider
ruinct[M:-786]
We build the worlds we wouldn't mind living in
Posts: 1,137
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Post by Ruin on Jun 22, 2011 23:44:59 GMT -5
The man beside him had not missed his stumble, and Sebolaren wasn’t sure that this displeased him. The assurances of late had been from those who cared for him; it was an entirely new experience to be assured of the possibilities that would lie on these warm sands from an outside source: Someone who wouldn’t know him to condemn him for his worries. The stranger was entirely correct about his first-hand knowledge, and the way in which he phrased those words was not lost on the Herder. “Aye, it’s a day I’ll not soon forget,” at least until he Impressed himself—if he Impressed at all. In that case the previous hatching would become just a distant memory. It seemed like dreams to him.
He worried his hands over the warm mug before raising it to his lips; drinking as the man spoke on. He pondered the quiet words which were said; allowing them to absorb fully into him where he could puzzle them out. After resolving himself to anonymity he replied softly, “in my heart I know that my dragon—if I am to have one—was not at that hatching, and I know that I would never want any dragon save the one which is meant for me; however I worry less about finding my dragon, and more about whether or not I’m fit to Impress.” Or whether I should at all… rose the unspoken words within his heart.
He quarreled with the tension and sorrow in his chest; knowing he could not be fully honest—even here with a stranger; yet at the same time wishing there were more concrete answers. Answers that would give him rest at night; rather than worrying his way through the sevendays until that next Hatching. Teasing the mug at his lips he hesitated; lowering it to his lap and speaking again. “How much faith does a Weyr place in Searchdragon choice? With so many Candidates to find—to ensure no hatchling is left unImpressed: Are they not sometimes likely to choose those—less suitable, less worthy?”
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Kila
Sr. Weyrleader
kilact[M:217]
Let's move to a cloud so we're never under the weather
Posts: 1,574
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Post by Kila on Jun 29, 2011 15:12:10 GMT -5
Though the Sands were dark, O’sho could sense the boy’s emotions welling up inside him like caged things. Empathy was one of the Weyrleader’s strongest suites, and Sebol’s steadfast repression of his darkest fears made them all the more prevalent. Through turns of experience, especially his time at Dalibor, O’sho had learned that the lines left unspoken were often the most important ones. But he liked the words that were spoken. Sebol was eloquent and thoughtful. He did not whine or complain, but he had enough trust and good sense to confide in other when help was offered, however subtle.
”It’s true,” O’sho allowed, ”There are Candidates left standing on these very sands at every Hatching. What’s more, there are Candidates left standing in every cavern of sand that plays host to a Hatching.” He paused to sip his klah and chuckle. ”I know that doesn’t make you feel any better, but it’s something to remember. Here, however, very few of our Candidates are left standing. There are those rare few, of course, but it’s never a surprise to the weyrfolk when they do. It’s not hard to pick out the people who don’t have what it takes to stick around, you see. Most who are left standing opt to try again and impress at subsequent Hatchings. It’s the ones that doubt themselves and give up that are never chosen.”
“We have excellent Search Dragons,” he continued, his words now reassuring. ”Every Candidate who is brought here has some potential. I am very proud of the Dragons and Riders who find and bring new people here to us. I have known a few young Searchers to be overeager on their first days out, but I’m sure that it was no youngling that brought you to us.” O’sho set down his now-empty mug of klah on the bench beside him and leaned back and grinned at Sebol, the smile showing mostly in his old eyes. ”I can’t make and promises, but I wouldn’t worry if I were you. You don’t seem like a quitter to me.”
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Ruin
Wingrider
ruinct[M:-786]
We build the worlds we wouldn't mind living in
Posts: 1,137
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Post by Ruin on Jun 29, 2011 16:59:58 GMT -5
The smile that lit his face when the man finished speaking was flushed with a quiet pride, and none-too-little gratitude. For a brief moment he wondered who this stranger was; willing to speak so freely, and with so much confidence—and support, but the man’s words had melted away his curiosity. For all that Sebolaren needed to know this man was a figment of his imagination, bourne from duress and emotional trauma, and here to soothe his raw nerves.
Soothe him and say all the right things that many people seemed to skirt around. The honesty in those words shattered Sebol to the core; but, instead of striking at his hope, it seemed to hammer his doubt and loosen it from his heart. He felt those ragged edges falling away like strings cut free in the wind: He knew they would still be connected, in places far within where he would have to systematically hunt them down and shun them, but he would certainly be able to cope with them now. Now that he could belong here—that he could make himself belong here. He realized that his brooding had left the man in silence for longer than would be socially acceptable, and he offered an apologetic smile, his fingers curling around his still-warm mug.
“Thank you. I had never considered, well…most of that. It is a different—and welcome—perspective. I have never known defeat in terms of what I can work for, and having tasted it on the Sands I wondered if perhaps the Searchrider had made a mistake with me. Since that day I have been working to better myself; I study fine scroll writing with my new room-mate, and technical drafting with a former Candidate who Impressed.” His grin pulled wider and he chuckled, “perhaps none of this will matter to my dragon, but I know it will matter to my Weyr: I was ill-prepared to be here when I first Stood; in more ways than one—so I chose to spend my time between chores studying things I never had occasion to learn in the Ruathan runnerfields.”
He leaned back slowly against the warm stone, and then continued; his voice filled with a certainty that spoke of confidence he once had—and had lost—but was slowly regaining. “I am no quitter, and that wasn’t something I saw in myself. I work because I must, as I have been taught to do—as I enjoy doing. Giving up has never been an option. I want nothing more than to find a place here within the Weyr, and if a dragon finds me fit I will gladly rise a Dragonman against the coming threat of Thread.”
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Kila
Sr. Weyrleader
kilact[M:217]
Let's move to a cloud so we're never under the weather
Posts: 1,574
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Post by Kila on Jul 2, 2011 13:26:07 GMT -5
O’sho listened with a happy heart as Sebolaren spoke, his words reflecting the confidence that the Weyrleader had suspected was there. ”I am glad to hear it all, young man,” he said. ”The Weyr needs people who are dedicated and brave, hard-working and willing to rise to the challenge. Dalibor is no easy or conventional place to stay, so only the toughest make it and stay here.”
O’sho began on part of a speech he had given to many Candidates and dragonmen before. “Each person who is brought to us has their own kind of talent; some strength, some intelligence, some kindness, and so on. Those individual talents brought together are what make us strong. We work as a whole. The dragons know this- the dragons sense this. They are far more perceptive than us, even as hatchlings. I can only hope that they see what I see, because I look forward to having you in our ranks.”
In the back of his mind, O’sho felt Daidoroth reach out to him, searching his mind to make sure that all was well with his Rider. The Bronze expected him to get up early tomorrow so they could fly and train for threadfall. Drills and practice were a necessity now, for the red star loomed ominously close on the horizon. I suppose I have been gone for a while. O’sho stood up, a symphony of cracks accompanying him. ”Ho-oh,” he groaned, putting his hand on his back to straighten himself out. His joints had begun the habit of telling him just how old he was supposed to be. Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t straighten out, though! Picking up his empty mug, he clapped Sebolaren on the back. ”It was nice talking to you, m’boy. Get some sleep and don’t you fret-“ he winked- ”I’m certain I’ll see you around the Weyr.” And with that he wandered back out into the night. Fiera, his little Orange, appeared and greeted him chidingly as he exited the Hatching Cavern, demanding to know what had kept him out so late. He chuckled and rubbed her head, apologizing for making her worry. ”Come on, my beauty, it’s time for bed.”
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Ruin
Wingrider
ruinct[M:-786]
We build the worlds we wouldn't mind living in
Posts: 1,137
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Post by Ruin on Jul 4, 2011 1:38:56 GMT -5
The wise words filled him with warmth, and the honesty of those words gave credence to the stranger’s faith in him—this man had no reason to show him any kindness; or feed him false information in an attempt to mislead him back to his bed. He spoke simply from his heart, and Sebolaren soaked up every word like a cloth left dry too long. It was easy for his friends—mostly Weyrlings—to comfort him; they had their dragons and they loved him, but this man did not know him enough to judge him, nor love him enough to be blinded by the reality of his person. If he saw good in the Herder, even if over a conversation, it must be a goodness that Sebol had never noticed in himself.
It was, and really he came away from this with fewer questions that needed answering, and fewer doubts to tear at him—those that remained had been loosened to the point where the Candidate could work on them himself: Easing them loose with studies, and chores, and building around him walls of belonging. Perhaps even with a release—he certainly had as much built up anxiety and self-doubt to match what Xiro’el had loosed on that shoreline sevendays ago. He met the stranger’s parting wink with a warm smile—more grateful than his words could ever be; more healed than it had been simply before stepping into the cavern this night.
He kept his seat after the footfalls had faded, and he had to admit it was wholly to conceal the stranger’s identity. He didn’t even want the direction of their paths to give away any information as to who his gentle adviser had been—perhaps it had all been a dream, an illusion, but it was his. The words were for him regardless to whom they had been previously spoken, and they gave him a hope he would not risk having taken away by accidentally discovering the man might not have any idea of dragon’s choice. Then, once he felt sure that he would be a future Dragonman alone among Wherhandlers—and perhaps a slender Trader—he followed in the older man’s path out of the Stands, and from there to the Candidate Barracks: Finally he would find sleep, that night and every other. So deep were the reassurances he had received that they would even hold up against the abandonment he would know on a night much like this one—a handful of sevendays away.
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