Scrambled Eggs [Open]

It had been a long wearying day, and Sebolaren was grateful for the few moments he could spend relaxing in the cool stone caverns—it definitely beat baking in the hot unfiltered sun. Having finally settled in to life here, mostly anyway, he was always careful to wash up after any activity that left him sweating: Perhaps it was a habit he adopted in Ruatha where appearing Holdless earned you mistrust at the very least, and, he thought to himself with a small throaty chuckle— More than the smell of a stable to make Holderfolk mistrust you, have you . He tugged the cuffs of his long-sleeved tunic involuntarily, but maintained the ground-eating stride that was carrying him to the Hall.

A savory snack, something to appease his generally ravenous-at-all-hours-stomach, and possibly a cool drink would certainly please him well enough: If these Weyrfolk knew the best way of doing something, it was most certainly feeding men. He strode into the dining area giving the room a cursory glance on his way to the food trays, all but empty save for the few workers finding odd bits to do until the next meal, and two persons who seemed quite involved in something—or at least the female was quite involved in something, for her voice carried across the room, and this gave Sebolaren time to puzzle over what sort of painting project was underway.

Luckily, he thought anyway, he recognized the larger man as one of the many who had been present on the stone steps overlooking the clutch, and there really wasn’t any reason to pretend he was oblivious—who could be oblivious to that bubbling red-headed woman. He smiled to himself, plucking a few meat rolls from a tray before heading toward the pair: He had finally made the connection in his mind, the red-head reminded him of a runnerbeast filly; all legs, ambition, curiosity, drive, and courage, in a tiny little package—otherwise known as acting like a sun crazed wherry.

He walked around the table where they sat and his feet promptly decided that they were in control of the situation. Hooking one of the chairs with a stray step, he at least managed a dignified thud into the next chair down—which was much better than the floor as far as he was concerned. Flashing the pair a smile, because it wins more than a frown, Sebolaren commandeered one of the mugs of chilled juice and began quietly nibbling on one of the meat rolls; leaving the others within easy reach of the man and woman across from him. He took a moment to stare at the painting in question, or rather the egg painting, that the red-head had been questioning, but returned to gazing at the pair curiously.

Sebolaren leaned back in the chair and flashed the red-headed girl a smile; though he did not know her, he found that she seemed inquisitive and kindhearted. He studied the way she sat briefly, and assumed her willingness to befriend possibly anyone she met—at the very least anyone here—based on her open kneel and familiarity with strangers.

“Hello,” he replied, his voice a rich baritone tinged with cheerfulness borrowed from Tasakhorik. Sebolaren hesitated for a heartbeat when his eyes were drawn to the painted egg by a query from the Candidate across from him, and the smile on his face wavered—though it was concentration that wiped his features clean, not emotion. He met Qosis look-for-look, pale olive to stormy sea-grey, and, now that he had the man’s full attention, he studied him openly.

The Candidate was well dressed, and well groomed; Sebolaren considered briefly if he was a Lord Holder’s son, yet dismissed that notion: One of the hands that cradled the painted egg was missing a fingertip, and the man had a distinctive odor. Perhaps it was something the other Candidate had bathed with, but it reminded Sebolaren of an animal smell—one that you acquire through close contact. Quick, nearly frantic, movement behind the pair across the table—heads red and light brown—broke his concentration, and he gave Gesseridan a cursory glance: He didn’t recognize him, but he recognized a creative idea come to life when he saw one.

“Actually,” Sebolaren said, eyes returning to Qosis, waving him off with a gesture that begged forgiveness rather than dismissed. “While I have spent much time drawing the runnerbeasts at home, and would claim some proficiency sketching with a writing tool, I have never had the marks for paints such as those—and I fear they would be wasted by my ignorant use of them.” Still, for Sebolaren, it was a curious question: Those pigments were very expensive, and more than that, how did he acquire them here in Dalibor Weyr?

He smiled as the red hair swept into his vision, its bearer snagging a mug of juice for herself, and he had to agree with her sentiments—as curious as he was. “I do agree,” he nodded to Qosis as he reached for another meat roll, “not only is it beautifully executed, but the use of an egg makes it unique.” He flashed a quick smile and, when Tasakhorik returned her attentions from the man behind her to the table, he addressed them both.

“My name is Sebolaren. I believe you,” he motioned to Qosis curiously, “are a candidate, as I am. Though, I admit, I am basing that solely upon observing you at the clutching.” He turned his eyes to the red haired woman and tilted his head curiously. “Are you a Dragonrider, Lady? I did not see you at the clutching. You seem completely at ease here: You welcome everyone as if you are welcoming a new member into your household or keep.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said in response to Qosis. “If a plant can be dried from the inside out, why not an egg? I assume it has been boiled by the way you hold it, so you would only need worry about the innards drying. I noticed that the sands the clutch sits on are incredibly hot, are they always so? Perhaps after the mother and her children have gone you can find a safe place for this egg in the sands and preserve it?” He had seen painted eggs before, though nothing like this one—those had been emptied through holes on the top and bottom: This did make them fragile though.

He met Qosis' gaze while Tasakhori was waving energetically, and gave him a softer smile when he pantomimed to the egg—perhaps it wasn’t a masterpiece, he would concede that, though he still felt intrusive to make his mark upon it. Still, what he did take away from that exchange was the care with which the other candidate had handled it, careful not to openly mock or even accidentally mock the red-head: Of course he meant her no harm in his comparison, but all the same he exhibited a tenderness that wasn’t outwardly apparent.

Then, just as suddenly, Tasakhori turned and threw herself fully into answering his question: Of course she was a Greenrider, he should have put two and two together. It was going to take him time to learn the subtle differences between the Dragonriders and the key identifiers as to which colour they might ride. He had met Greenrider J’en the day he had arrived at Dalibor: Both he, and Tasa showed characteristic friendliness, and fun-loving attitudes. Though J’en had seemed more a thrill-seeker where this red-haired Greenrider seemed just thrilled in general.

By this point Tasakhori had run down through her list of reasons for being the way she was, and all Sebolaren could do was smile. It was rare to see such selflessness in a Hold where rank and appearance always mattered, so she very nearly disarmed him with her honesty: Tasa was doing nothing more than being who she was, and he appreciated the openness. “Flattery thought it might seem, a few good words between friendly parties has led to many good bargains struck,” he retorted with an arched brow, taking the runnerhair brush from Qosis—careful not to waste a drop of paint with an errant movement.

He had never drawn a dragon before, but the dragons of Pern had always struck him as subtley runner-shaped, so he began his mark assuming that: First a slender head with dainty ridges, and an elongated neck leading into a supple body. He did his best to make the outline detailed—as sillouhetted against a fading sky—but left small slivers of bright highlights along the wingspars and body, as well as only mutely painting over the membrane so it would appear that some light passed through. Yet as careful as he was, the Greenrider’s slap upon the table—light or not—caused him to swoop too low with a careful stroke. He paused momentarily, head tilted, and then smiled “And two tines for the forked tail!” He detailed the accidental-yet-now-a-tail swoop with ridges and then sat back.

“Pleased to meet you, Tasa, and there, fellow Candidate—a dragon on wing, my mark is made.” Sebol lifted the mug of juice to his lips with one hand while offering the brush back with the other, pleased to see he hadn’t wasted a drop of paint—unaffordable or not. “Thank you, Tasa. Talk in the stable is that there are many more Candidates than eggs this time.”