Battling Through {Ruin!}

Before leaving the Dining Hall he checked his satchel carefully, and the sack within that had been carefully prepared by the kitchenfolk. Everything was there, even a taut skin of win—Benden by the smell—and none of it was for him. Which he didn’t mind in the least. Over the past few sevenday he’d spent every night in the Stands for at least an hour, occasionally he had even stolen time during the day, sometimes he’d stolen more than just an hour, and his attentions had not gone unnoticed by the Weyrwoman whose Queen guarded her eggs. Sebolaren wasn’t certain if he could be in trouble for spending time there, but Rayna had promised not to chase him off if he agreed to bring her food and drink when he had the chance—a pact which he made willingly.

Hadn’t Delilah told him that he’d be as bad a brooder himself if his dragon lay on the Sands around a clutch? In that way, at least, he could find an empathetic connection with the young woman and Couineth’s first clutch. It had to be incredibly stressful, but joyous. Striding out into the harsh winter chill did nothing to dampen his mood, in face he reveled in the cold. Tucking his rust-brown and cream scarf around his ears and neck, and following that by folding up the worn wherhide collar (reminding himself that he’d be purchasing better at the Gather), he strode out into the Rukbatlight and the ankle-high snow, with a sense of purpose. Direction. Footfalls crunching as he went.

That all changed, however, when he caught sight of the young girl wallowing uncomfortably through the slushy mess on a bad leg, and he hurried to her without fail when she slipped and went down. Sigard detached himself from his bonded’s shoulder and winged over to the nervous trio of firelizards that circled the girl, his warbles were a calming baritone as he landed in the snow beside the crumpled form even as Sebol drew alongside her, offering her one strong arm and a bright smile. ”There now, let’s get you back on your feet.”