The Final Touches [Open]

His fingertips slid through his wet hair before unceremoniously tussling it—scattering hundreds of water droplets like a fine mist in all directions. He continued this maneuver as he ambled up the stone steps toward the candidate barracks and what he assumed would be a good night’s rest—maybe. The hatching would occur any day now, and even if the glows placed out didn’t speak for themselves, the general buzz of the Weyr spoke volumes. Even now it was if he could hear the hum of excited kitchen drudges talking over their work, or Candidates talking in hushed whispers unable to sleep. When would the dragons start thrumming: When would they herald in the next generation of eggwet dragonets, ready to find their other half?

Would he be one of those halves? He paused near the entrance to the Stands, his eyes caressing Callistath’s body—muted by the darkness and starlight—she was a fit mother, and protective. Her clutch was doing well, but would they hatch well? He had heard the stories, dragonets confused and angry—a cluster of sharp talons and teeth and softened skin and wing membranes. Many blinking between without a seconds hesitation. It would not be an easy day for any involved although, he supposed, the newly Impressed would forget any wounds or mishaps sooner than those who walked away without a mind touch: Only ichor-stained memories.

He exhaled softly, less than a sigh, and turned on his heel to walk across the bridge. A smile tugged at his mouth when he saw Qosis hard at work. The man was often busy—a trait that Sebol appreciated: He would make a fine addition to the Weyr. A Dragonrider compelled by duty who didn’t know what it meant to shirk or balk. There was very little doubt in his mind that Qosis would impress: In the short span of sevenday’s he’d had to interact with the fellow he’d never known him to be relaxing or completely still. Always something that needed doing in the Weyr.

Really though, were any of them much different? Perhaps—we all worked but some more than others—he continued walking forward, now more to the man where he sat. His hands were busy and Sebol saw the telltale sign of needlethorn on cloth. Sewing then. A skillset that he himself did not possess—one he had needed to barter. He sat down next to the man, keeping an armslength of distance between them: Legs slung over the edge of the bridge on one side and the rock on the other.

“Evening, Qosis,” was all he said. He rested his arms on his thighs and leaned forward; his attention turned outward to the glowlit Weyr, and the Watchdragon above.