I'll Take You All On. (Rii, Open)

Czervon had been fully dissolved in his thoughts, and the sounds of footfalls behind him hadn't truly surpassed the noise of the milling-about of Weyrbound people beyond his immediate area. It was a bit of a startling when a voice was suddenly there, right in his ears, yet he had no indication of a person anywhere around him.

Tall.

Czervon peered around himself, and became suddenly aware of something much smaller than himself down around his feet. He took a step to one side, putting some space between himself and this new...Wher. It was certainly a Wher; and from the lessons he had gotten up to now, he knew feral ones didn't speak. At least, didn't bespeak any person. So this one had to have a keeper somewhere.

He looked around the immediate area, only to spy what he could assume was the indicated person coming up to follow his - it was definitely male, judging by the build, though Czervon was somewhat amused at his...lack of stature - bonded. At first glance, it could have passed for an Iron, but a quick reminder of size hit him full force in the frontal lobe. It was too small to be an Iron. Had to be a Gray, on that account, but he wasn't sure if it was male or female. Oh well. Czervon was certain he would be informed soon enough.

A short snort of a breath through his nostrils, though there was nothing short of the whisper of air to accompany the movement as far as sound, before he peered back down at the Gray at his feet. There was no other movement from him, no indication of acknowledgement to the Priderunner coming up on them from behind, though Czervon was loathe to balk at being at least mannerly to those who now outranked him. For now, at least.

He turned his body somewhat, so that Der would not be presented with his back - Czervon didn't know this man, and while he understood that Candidates were lower on the proverbial totem pole, he also understood that there was pretty close to nobody in this place he knew, or that knew him. The only ones to now that he had interacted with were Audren, and those responsible for giving him lessons and chore duties. He'd done his best to do his chores without companionship, when possible, and when he had to work with another, not a word had been said between them. Nothing beyond formalities.

And so, a one-word greeting served to receive a one-word response.

"Short."

Czervon's otherwise cold expression warmed slightly - though not nearly enough to be ascertained by anyone but a creature used to seeing such a minute change. Well, the Whers in this place seemed personable enough. This one hadn't backed down, and hadn't shown any measure of recoil when he had restated the opposite to it. It also wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, so it appeared. It was also revealed, soon enough, to be a she.

His eyes shifted from Desk, back to the water's surface. His hands remained in his pockets, and when Der offered his own, Czervon took several long minutes to finally turn his attention from the water to the offered appendage. Great. So he's one of those.

Heedless to the prospect of being bothered - as anyone who spoke to him essentially bothered him, but that went without saying, he was used to it by now - he blew a long breath out into the world beyond his stubble-clad face, reaching up to pull the fleece cap a bit further down across his ears, atop the bandanna that kept his hair out of his eyes and face.

Czervon frowned. So he did have rank, though that, too, went without saying. They wouldn't bond a Wher to just anyone, after all - so he figured, anyway, and so lessons had said. Begrudged, he retracted a gloved hand from within his coat pocket, and a fisher's and sailor's grip returned a short, blunt handshake to the Priderunner.

Your name, you unmannered cur. Tell him your sharding name.

"Czervon. Candidate, for now." He looked down towards Desk, as if to wordlessly introduce the same, before shoving his hand back into his pocket once more and reverting his eyes to the waterline.

"Given this Weyr's past...problems, I can't say I'm surprised she hasn't come looking around someone new. Interesting or not."

The man's cheeks had colored, and Czervon wasn't so daft to not notice it - though it could attribute to any number of things. Someone had, in their chattering at him during chores, mentioned that some Wherhandlers were reclusive or even shy at Impression. Something that Czervon couldn't precisely wrap his mind around, but even at that he understood how being confined to night-time territories would leave anyone relatively reluctant to socialize. That was something he -could- understand. Perhaps it was simply the weather, or the exercise in not-so-swiftly chasing down his Gray. Czervon's eyes hardened. He wasn't hideous, but he wasn't particularly or overly handsome, either. He refused to believe it was anything close to that neighborhood of emotions. Not for him.

He could see from being closer than he was, that while Der was smaller-statured, the man was by no means small-built. At least, from what Czervon could see for his clothing. Darker skinned like most Pernese, though a bit darker than he remembered seeing anywhere but some of the warmer climates. His eyes narrowed against their focus on the water, feeding off a mental snapshot taken when he had shaken the other man's hand. He was sturdy, perhaps more than most his size that the Fisher had encountered prior. He'd have done well on a boat. Maybe cage-baiting, perhaps net-trolling.

Nothing distracted him fully, however. Not the stars he was studying, not the water's surface, not Desk or Hers. No, even though his eyes were elsewhere, there was no question that his attention was still fully on the pair in his immediate area.

Czervon seemed unphased by the chatter; it wasn't as if he was really saying much of anything to start with. He adjusted his hands in his pockets, eyes remaining where they had been for most of the makeshift conversation, and most of the time he had been out here - on the waterline. Der wasn't standing right on top of him, which stood to reason that perhaps the smaller man was just as prone to avoid social interactions as he was. Had the Wher instigated it? It appeared to be the case. Czervon's stubble-clad lips etched a frown. Could there be a chance that his own Wher, when he obtained one, would do the same thing?

Czervon wasn't keen on the idea of being forced into anything, let alone social situations with people he hadn't any desire to speak with. It was plausible to work on a team without saying many words - his ship had made use of that. It made the words that were said all the more meaningful, at least he gathered.

"Wher, yes."

He looked upwards towards the stars. Counted out the span of several, found the constellations among them. Pieced them together, tried to think of where his ship would be right now, if it hadn't sunk.

All hail the Northern Star!
Bring aft and stern to near and far!
Sweep the gailing winds to port,
The seawhers and the storms to thwart!
What do you do with a drunken sailor!
Throw him over, hang him sober!
Haul him up, set him on bailer,
Never sail without a jailer!

So sing you now your shanty songs,
Til sea and wind are all but gone,
Sea legs never fade away,
As stars will do in Rukbat's day....

Czervon's eyes narrowed. He'd be lying if he said he didn't miss it. He had lived his entire life on the sea, and to have it taken from him by bad luck had soured his entire demeanor. Being bound to the earth, never to sail another vessel had borderline destroyed him, but he was struggling to make the best of it.

"They seem to appreciate someone willing to work, must be a lack of those around here that do that if they're willing to take me on. I've noticed some of those Candidates are little more than weyrbrats with a need to feel important. Too busy worrying about who's rolling in the furs with whom and who's friends with who to pick up a bucket and a mop without being forced."

It took a considerable effort to drag his vision from the skies, back to the water, before those cold-toned grey-green orbs settled on Desk, then back - finally - to her Handler.

"Work. Usefulness. Unwilling to sit on my backside in a sea port and suit myself with trying to get Master knots in a place where there's ten thousand trying to do the same thing. Lost the vessel I was on board with, came back injured, got slighted, and next thing I know they're telling me about a Plague and saying that there's a need for more Wherhandlers at Dalibor. Never heard of the place more than a name before I started looking into it, outside of some rumors about twin dragons and some catastrophe at a Hold Gather."

He had to admit, it was somewhat reassuring to see that Der was just as reluctant to have any sort of physical contact with him, as he was with the Priderunner. Some people did seem to have a sense for when they were standing uncomfortably close, and it appeared the Grayhandler indeed possessed it.

Something to be grateful for, at least.

The night air coursed across his face, drew a chill in his bones that he hadn't felt in some time. Not since he had spent long candlemarks on the deck of a ship. It never really got this nippy anywhere else that he had gone; land-based, at least. The seas got cold when one ventured far enough one way or the other. Reaching up, Czervon pulled his hat down further on his head, across his ears.

"Knew more than a few people who I suspect wouldn't grow up even if someone told them they'd die if it didn't happen. Even at that, it's a little concerning that they would act the way they do when they're responsible for more than just themselves. Probably harder to corral an irresponsible person when they've got a giant creature with claws and teeth to back up their antics. Then again, Audren and Kalenna seem pretty good at screening for the Whers, at least. I don't know a thing about the whole Searching process with Dragons, but it seems like there's more children - both in mind and body - who are trying to Stand for those. One of the ones I had to work with the other afternoon said something about Dragons pick them."

He exhaled a slow, shallow breath, rubbing his face before he shoved his hands back into his pockets. No matter how cold it got, Czervon found a sense of comfort in being close to large bodies of water. Well, relatively, anyway. He hadn't asked Audren or any of the other higher-ups than himself if he was permitted to venture down to the beaches or not. He hadn't seen any other Candidates head that way, and most of them seemed inclined to stay close; not to mention he'd heard the rules about ten different times from different people so far, and all of them felt the need to push that they weren't allowed out without being accompanied. Czervon cracked a small smirk. Like he needed an escort. Please. It took everything he had to stifle the snort.

"It's my last shot," he shrugged, when Der mentioned Dalibor being an odd but good place. "I screw up here and get kicked out, it's back to Tillek and spending the rest of my life working in my grandfather's shop. Sitting on the docks and piers wishing someone would give me a shot on another boat, but it'll never happen. I'm a marked man, as far as they're concerned. If I don't get a Wher, there's nothing else left but Master knots for me. I'd rather do something productive with the some sixty or so years I probably have left on this world."

He wasn't the sort of person to do things when he was idle. No rocking back on his heels, no fiddling or twitching or bad habits. Nothing outside of the hard stare of a man who had looked down the barrel of death's flamethrower twice now, and lived to tell about it. Every time he thought about going overboard, it made his side hurt. The nightmares came back, sometimes. Changed, depending on what had happened. He remembered the fear he felt, when that first breath missing air and made entirely of water rushed past his nose and into his lungs. Panic. The feel of helplessness when you were drowning and there was nothing to save you.

Czervon closed his eyes, blew a breath out without a sound out of habit. It had been silent. He was surprised, that had been the biggest sensation. Raging storm above the waterline, but the moment he'd sunk with the ship about 3 meters down, everything had been silent. The only sound was the pounding of his heart in his eardrums.

The boat had rolled as it went down, and he'd caught the edge of a hole in the hull. As it rolled over, it pushed him up. He'd breathed in that lungful of water, and coughed half of it up, adrenaline forcing him to--

No. No, don't think about it. That's all you'll think about. That's all you'll ever think about.

"I heard there's been a lot of stuff happen here. Fires, poisonings, mauling deaths, plagues. Powers that be have it in for you lot, don't they, but then again I suppose you don't get stronger and more resilient sitting on your backside all day and waiting on other people to fly Thread for you."

Czervon knew what Thread was. Anyone who lived on Pern knew what Thread was, but he'd never seen it until the time had come. Until he'd had to learn to fight it on a ship, in the middle of the ocean, with no Dragons to sweep overhead and save them. It made him hard, it made his crew hard. It made anyone outside a Hold or a Weyr hard. He wasn't afraid of it. If anything, it should be afraid of him.

He met Der's gaze, and there was nothing meant to stare the other male down behind his half of the engagement. Czervon's eyes tended to hold the expression of nonchalance. He didn't really care about Der's size, or who he was beyond his rank. No personal attachments, that had been - and for as long as he hoped, would always be - his motto. He could be civil enough, he could even creep towards that edge of friendliness when people found a shared interest or common ground with him; and Der had, both with Desk (as he was Standing for Whers, which would mean eventually they would be somewhere close to the same rank), as well as his no-touch mannerisms.

Czervon looked away from him, back to Desk, before pulling his eyes back to the lake.

"Does it usually snow a lot here?"