Fly Little Herder, Fly [Claire]

If cold of between stole the breath from his lungs, then the beauty of the world from aloft gave it back tenfold. Dalibor Weyr was below, just visible beyond the brilliant blue shoulder of the dragon upon whose back he rode. Brillith, magnificent Brillith, and I upon him in the sky. Who would have thought that I would sit astride one of Pern’s great dragons? Regardless of the outcome, this adventure has repaid its price in full.

His head turned to observe the wings that stretched out away from him on either side, they appeared so fragile to him, yet here they were carrying not only the dragon aloft but also his rider and their charge. He scrutinized the way the membrane stretched and rippled from the force of the wind, and, even if he did not understand the science behind dragonflight, he could appreciate the magnitude of this opportunity.

He felt the blue shift and, shifting his weight in response, his calves tightened around the muscled neck: Although he could see the finer similarities between riding a runnerbeast and riding a dragon, he couldn’t help but hold tighter to the neck ridge he straddled—the ground was very far below. Would the rider know he was nervous, would his dragon?

Probably, but who wouldn’t be nervous? He had lived his entire life on the ground—or several feet above it while astride an animal who ran on four legs—there was no shame in feeling a moments discomfort at viewing the world from on high. Still, his momentary anxiety was forced to pass as he focused again on the view of Pern unfurling in front of him like a dragon's wing across the sky.

The steady bank of the dragon’s wings became a steady descent down toward the great sandy bowl of the Weyr, and as he shifted again to maintain his balance—if the dragon would even notice, but who wanted a sack of potatoes sitting on their neck?—he scanned the island on which Dalibor sat. Remote, though not lonely he acknowledged from the glimpse of a Hold he had caught on the landmass to the South, but full of life, and the surrounding area appeared to have good riding trails for runners—If we’re allowed to have them, there may not be space—still he could not concede that he would probably enjoy his time spent here.

Dust swirled up to meet the trio like a ribbon dancing in the sun as the blue touched the bowl, powerful wingtips grazing the warm sand on his last powerful downstroke to cushion his landing and lower is forequarters to the ground, and the Dragonrider wasted little time helping Sebolaren dismount. “Shoulder, to forearm, to ground. Safe and sound!” the rider called to him cheerfully as he sank into the loamy footing. Sebolaren smiled up at him and nodded before turning to share that smile with the swirling eye of the blue dragon, “Thank you, to you both, Brillith is an amazing creature,” and he echoed his statement with an appreciative thump on the expansive leathery flesh. Safe indeed, and a dragon to thank for that, and his rider of course.

J’von gave him exact directions to certain points of interest, and assured him that he would run into another person of the Weyr before he could become lost, but unfortunately had to depart immediately. The eggs were hardening on the sands, and there was always more work to be done during those times: So he gave Sebolaren another smile, this one more reassuring than the last in response to the boy’s uncertainty, and with a parting salute the pair rose to the sky again.

Sebolaren gazed after them for a moment, his mind simply processing the forces at work as the blue wing membranes scooped at the air and propelled the large body skyward, and, when they disappeared between in the time it took him to blink, he shook his head with bemusement and turned back to the Weyr. Dalibor Weyr. His new home…indefinitely.

He couldn’t help but loiter there, on the sands in the middle of the bowl, a feeling of distinct melancholy sunk into his heart; here he was, only a handful of turns away from walking the tables, and he’d been chosen to be a Dragonrider. Yet would he really have been happy living out his turns at Ruatha or some other hold, caring for runnerstock he didn’t own himself? Perhaps not, he conceded, and he had never been the type of person to turn down an opportunity. Still, if someone had told him even a sevenday ago that he would have ridden a dragon to a Weyr he would call home, he would have told them they’d been too long at the drink.

A smile broke out on his lips at that thought, and he could only shake his head, square his shoulders, and try to find a place for himself here.