Fiery Water, Frigid Soul [Sakky, Azh]

The flash of brilliant sky-blue snapped his gaze from the water itself to the forms leaping into it. Dark skinned youth and striped Cyan behind could only mean one person—Xirofel, now Xiro’el. The Trader seemed happier, and who wouldn’t be, and of course he had been running to his watery destination. Sebol still wondered if perhaps somewhere, deep inside the man, he remembered the freedom that was tasted once. Perhaps Impression hadn’t solved everything, a fact that—if he heard it—might help Sebolaren content himself to wait, and not feel so crestfallen and hopeless. Still, regardless of his negative emotions, he had only a bright cheerful smile for the newly-made Dragonrider.

“Ho, fren!” his smile deepened and he saluted with his right arm, fist to chest and out, in response. “Cours’ not. They’s jus keepin’ me busy, what with ye all gone an’ few o’ us Candidates left.” His eyes had been questing after the sneaking Cyan as she made her way toward her Rider, keeping to Xiro’s face as not to give away her game. When she pounced upon him and submerged him, Sebol could only laugh and give another nod—this time to the dragon herself. “Allo’ there yerself, Stripey!” His amusement in the pair was not tinged with bitterness, and he was surprised—but he had come to feel Xiro a comrade of sorts, and how could he be envious of that which his friend had needed most? He waited patiently until the Traderman surfaced—returning a witty, knowing, smile to those bedraggled eyebrows—and to clear his mouth of lakewater, before speaking again.

“Ah see ye take t’ bein’ Dragonman like a shipfish takes t’ sea, Xiro!” he chortled softly under his breath and leaned forward, resting most of his weight on the palms of his hands; oblivious of the biting stone. His eyes raked across the two as if he could rip the secrets of Impression from their interaction or existence. Yet this Holdless—formerly Holdless—man seemed no different. There was no radiating glow, nor dazed expression. The two just seemed to co-exist, be one and the same with another. It was curious. So Impression would not fix all of his problems, but perhaps enough of them that he could fix the others himself.

Sebolaren laughed heartily and fixed appreciative eyes on the Cyan beast as she scrabbled her way to achieving the top of his perch—scrabble for sure, as all four of her legs made good use of motion in the attempt to scale what looked, to him, like a less suitable route. Ah well. “Liken a feline an’ five times ah’ curious! Eh, Xiro?” He considered those claws—still sharp as a baby’s—and nearly winced for sure. “’M thinkin ye be a mite right ‘bout that. She looks t’ be intent on climbin’ e’erythin’ in sight.”

He kept his eyes on the large dragon as she continued to fight the slope, knowing his Traderman wouldn’t feel neglected—you always watched the large beasts no matter how intelligent they may seem. He went the entire hatching without getting himself mauled and he wasn’t going to end up limping to the healers now due to some rambunctious catdragon. “Aye! Shipfish, tho’ be seemin’ ye got one ‘ere all fer yerself. Be certain t’ go find ‘em we will. ‘avent ‘ad a chance t’ go down t’ th’ sea. They let ye’ll free offin? Not ty’in ye up wit too many lessins an such?”

His bright eyes flashed to Xiro hopefully and he gave the Dragonman a bright smile. “I truly hope so, Xiro. With’in all me ‘eart.” Sebols eyes widened at the offer to share the Cyan and her bugle bid him turn to face her—watching her haphazardly flailing canter across the rock to directly behind him. He laughed at the waterdrops, which splashed against him, from her wings and body as she seemed to move every inch of herself to stand and regard what was rightfully hers. He gave a warm smile and a wink to Xiro at his final comment, saying everything he never could with that one look: How do you say thank you to the person who makes you feel like you still belong, still have a chance, and a purpose?

He regarded the Cyan again his eyes filled with mock horror. “Ye ‘ear that, Catdragon? Yer man down there be sayin he kin share ye wit me. Ye might need’ta ‘ave it out wit ‘im over this great injustice." With that said he gave her a good...mock comforting...pat along her ribs like he would a canine then motioned to the dastardly Xiro. "Inn’it enough t’ deal wit one man much less two? Ah think ye kin make a mighty fine jump from ‘ere an use them wings o’ yers to tackle ‘im right good!”

A sharp intake of breath followed the Cyan’s departure from the rock face, and he instinctively ducked: Her wings shrouded him a brief moment of cool shadow and a swirl of cooler air. Her passing was that awkward sort of fledgling flight but she was as magnificent as a preybird from where Sebolaren sat—the jealousy his heart felt was not for a bond he did not share, but for wings, and freedom, he did not possess.

To fly! True…perhaps it wasn’t flight—he thought as her wings clutched at the air as a babe clutches to a dress—but it was glorious none-the-less. And her pounce! A catling indeed. Sebol did have the decency to feel a moments chagrin at the plight of his friend: Only a moment though, because how absolutely amusing was that! By the time Xiro had surfaced, and gained control of his Catdragon, Sebolaren was quite beyond himself with rare mirth; laughing heartily and nearly rolling across the stone.

Sebol watched the two interact with a deep sense of pleasure; this was a healing interaction—for him at least. He hadn’t been absolutely sure that any of the Candidates-turned-Weyrlings would remember him much less want to interact. I meant more than any words he could use to express it. Perhaps he really had done well by himself.

And for Dalibor, being here and continuing to exist within these stone walls—although exiting them once or twice would be a pleasure as well. Still, he recognized the the glowering appearance of the bedraggled Dragonman and attempted to school his appearance into something far less amused—it didn’t work. “Cat-scratches for the Catdragon!” Snort. Snuffle, and a hiccup of a contained chuckle before he could speak in response to Xiro’s earlier comments.

“I kin get b’hind tha’ idea, Trader-mine. Shipfish by moonlit’ sounds pleasant.” He was mildly amused at the idea of Weyrlings being just as busy as before—but with a growing dragon to care for; that could not be an easy task. Especially an easy task with this dragon. He almost found himself saying to Xiro that he wasn’t envious—almost.

His hand flashed up and then retreated in an accepting shrug. “Place a brush in my hands when we meet, and then not accept congratulations when they are in order—from one of the few who didn’t laugh at you for your Impression.” There was always a chance that Sebol would have been less out-spoken if he’d fully understood the Tanrider’s movements; but what does a herder know of the knife? Used as a tool and used to finish kills—not begin them. All he read in the man was a disdain for the words spoken: Was Q’sis simply mistrustful or had the gavel rung in judgment over his unimpressed state. The man’s next words brought a smile back to the herder’s face; however he waited for Xiro to finish his own rejoinder.

“Actually, it isn’t simply hearsay or observation—I stood beside you on the sands. ‘There you are, woman’ –you spoke the words as if every turn you’ve spent living was waiting for her.” he paused, motioning to the tan with his chin as if the emphasis was needed. “Perhaps it could be simply Impression, but why attach the gender—you’ve always been concise with your words. They rang of deeper meaning. Tell me I’m wrong, Dragonman.”

He eyed the man with speculation; something that was—due to equal height—easier for him than Xiro. The grin that broke out on his face with the Tanrider’s language speculation was genuinely amused. "Xiro is correct. More like campchit for me—when the Traderfolk would pass through Ruatha. It’s fun to use it—practice it—and I didn’t think I’d get a chance once I arrived here. Until I met Xiro.” He turned that smile on his friend-in-question and was inwardly surprised at what he saw there—though his smile never faltered.

This was blatant atypical behavior for the Trader, and to Sebolaren’s reasoning the only thing that had changed was Q’sis himself—but why? They both would ride females so it couldn’t be fear of future mating flights, and Q’sis didn’t seem likely to beat another weyrling into the ground—that could only cause repercussions for their dragonets…right? “Why so serious, Trader?”