Of Men and Food [Claire]

Meatroll after meatroll after meatroll. Perhaps not as quickly as he would have liked—but he knew better than to completely fill his gullet after day of hard work in the stables. Each bite seemed to stoke him with another lick of energy however, so he would eat a handful more: At least until he could barely sense the edges of his full stomach as a mild discomfort. Bottomless indeed. And chased from the kitchens again. He thought they would’ve gotten over that little mishap by now—but alas—the cook held grudges worse than a rabid wherry. Was nastier about it too. His train of thought left his face with a mild—if somewhat falsified—frown.

Ah but how refreshing the redfruit juice was here, such a rare treat on watchduty in the runnerfields of Ruatha: Yet here it was scattered in chilled pitchers with abundance. How did they chill those pitchers anyway? He mulled over that for a moment and then shrugged—he’d have to ask G’dan if he knew the secret next time he saw the Greenrider. His thoughts were scattered and somewhat bemused, the past sevendays had been busier than when he’d been a Candidate for the first time! It was as if all those who knew him had sensed the sorrow in his heart and come out from the woodwork to comfort him. Perhaps that was what being a Weyrman meant. Even a Dragonman: Though he did not have a dragon now, most assumed he would.

It was a network of unspoken understanding—but there was a troubled unhappiness even in that thought. Only one of them understood that his uncertainty was founded not in his own soul, but in the skin-deep markings that labeled him as something to be hated. Feared. That one person had truly become his pillar of reasoning, however, and she seemed to think him not less a man for bearing the scars of his past. Were there not many folk here in Dalibor who bore their own scars? Would his be so different because they were black? His thoughts continued as he ate, and he allowed his eyes to wander around the sparsely populated room with mild interest.