A Light Bit of Stalking (Ruin)

He slicked his wet hair back with one large hand and filed into the Dining Hall; his legs automatically following the flow of Candidates, Dragonriders, Weyrfolk, and Crafters. The scent of spiced meat touched his nose and sparked salivation—Shards he was hungry. Not that this was anything new. He felt as if he’d never have a full belly what with all the work he did every day; it did take a lot to fuel his large form—even if he didn’t run like that twice dusted Trader. Who wanted to blow themselves out around the Bowl like a mad-man only to have nothing left when something should happen? Not that anything would happen here—though it had in the past, hadn’t it?

His mind was wandering as were his feet; a certain catharsis had swept his soul that second day on the beach, and lately he had found it easier to think about the future of men and dragons. A smile pulled delicately at his lips as he mused to himself: He wasn’t aware that he was being hunted. However, the moons had done wonders for him, as had the release of all that poison he carried; so instead of greeting the man with a look fit to kill—he went in stride. As soon as his eyes landed on the face he recognized it: The Pink's sleeping master. The greeting was returned with a firm and welcoming grip fit to match the man; not overwhelm him, and what was a small smile flourished into a bright trademark grin.

The Blue appearing turned that grin into a shining brilliance, and he listened as the man swept off into an energetic flow of words that left Sebol doubtless to who he was—or had been. Though this lad was certainly correct—the food smelled wonderful. He tapped the man lightly on what had been his extended forearm and bid him follow as he headed to gather meat onto a tray of his own; words following his feet. “I assume Puff would be the Pink Firelizard that Xiro’el and I fed fewday ago?” Hands starting to fill his tray, and adding extra for this man and his ‘lizards, he answered the question.

“Herder turned Dragon Candidate, and you are a Tradesman turned…?” He left the question hanging between them as he finished plating his food, turning and motioning the man to find them seats—because the Trader had possibly been seated previously—Sebolaren knew he couldn’t be a Dragon Candidate: So what then was he?

”Puff and Wonderland,” he said with a bright smile, snapping those names into connection with the flits in his mind—he wouldn’t forget them then, nor try to chase them off even if they got onto Daymar…again. “Lovely names and lovely animals.” He followed the man with earnest curiosity, back to where he presumably had been sitting—claiming a seat for himself and giving a fresh grin as he gave to Puff a piece of meat. “Hope you didn’t mind Xiro’el and I spoiling her something fierce, we typically do not give so many treats to animals; but she was far too adorable for us to say no—and quite intelligent. She showed us your picture when we asked!”

Wher Candidate, that explained it, and Sebol was of course quite interested in that fact—having already giving himself a small mission of making friends of as many Wher Handlers—future or otherwise—as possible, both to prove that they were every bit a valuable member of society; and because they were simply damn entertaining. Most of them seemed to wear their emotions as open books—and use those emotions just as frequently without tact. Though he couldn’t judge this man so early; he would watch, and learn, and then determine if he fit the Wher mold.

“Haven’t been to Crescent yet, they don’t give us much occasion to simply sail away at will—been trying to find a shipfish to do it for me. You are too correct about the surprises—there weren’t as many interesting people around at Ruatha, especially in the fields tending runners.” He took that opportune pause in conversation to nibble on some meat, sure that the Candidate would find more to question or comment on—he seemed extremely chatty and opinionated. Which was fine by Sebol; letting others do the talking gave him a chance to look around—and catch sight of someone he knew.

“Aye, animal lover, and you’d be hard pressed to find a better group of people than those who were with me that day; although one of them did attempt to crush poor Puff with a mug due to his fear of animals. Xiro’el deflected the mug with his face, as you will see because he’s heading this way right now brandishing the shiner on his cheek like a trophy, and in terms of camaraderie—I adore Wherfolk, and believe the sky brothers should mingle more with those who allow us to sleep safely in our beds by night.”

His eyes followed the hand that drew out the quick message, sparing a quick moment to memorize it himself: Interesting that the man would have need to write down a plan—one he had only just made. Sebolaren wondered curiously if perhaps the Wher Candidate’s memory was slightly touched, and if it would be possible to distract, and thus dissuade, him from the task at hand—that being Daymar. Certainly if Puff had not remembered she still wouldn’t, and the Blue seemed keen enough to avoid the confrontation what with his obvious chiding—but how to do it. The man was well outside social mores, yet seemed keen enough on certain conversation: Well there was always—

”I’ve often heard that shipfish have sex for the pleasure of it, actual sex—it can’t even be called mating because it is for no purpose. Males are even known to partake with each other. I’ve had many women, but never a male—have you had males before? Perhaps both? Would you consider yourself something of a shipfish in terms of sexual interests?” It was worth a shot wasn’t it? Even a hesitation in stride or a curiosity could turn this wave of anger away from shore and back to sea—of course it was a risk, a gamble even, but worth it.

Didn’ t Daymar have enough to deal with on most days when those days didn’t involve an angry Wher Candidate come to put fear into him for threatening his firelizard. Not that Sebol didn’t mostly agree, the Candidate couldn’t continue going about the Weyr throwing mugs at firelizards—and people—alike: His eyes spared a brief and sympathetic glance to Xiro’el for his purpled war-wound. Ah Daymar; hopefully this would be yet another thing Sebol could redirect from his path without the man being any wiser for it.

Sebolaren listened attentively as Edison began speaking to Xiro’el; mostly he was waiting for when the man’s attention became focused on the Cyanweyrling enough that he could—yes, now! Stumbling again, but on purpose this time, the ex-Herder pinwheeled his arms for added theatrics as he twisted in mid-air and plowed his entire body into Edison at the waist. Nearly gaining air he was able to throw all of his weight into his fall, even managing to trip up the Wher Candidate’s legs with his own. The fall seemed to be in slow motion from his perspective, as firelizards squealed and winged away from their once-safe perch; wings of pink and blue flashing past Sebol’s face dangerously close.

He landed on the man as they collided with firm ground, and he hadn’t really planned on doing that as he knew his frame to be quite large, but he was committed and determined to keep Edison from chasing Daymar out of Dalibor with his rage: The nervous Dragon Candidate would never survive an assault of this magnitude. Flailing around clumsily, and not yet removing his weight from the man beneath him, Sebol cast a look up at Xiro’el as if to say: What in the shards now?