To Help A Weyrling (Ruin)

Everything ached. This was to say that it was a typical day as usual, minus the fact that he couldn’t shake the protest in his deep tissue. Pulling Daymar from the river shouldn’t have caused such a slew of consequences for one so fit, but there had been a checklist of happenstance which collided to lock him up as certain as the strings on a harp. The long flight across the Bowl followed by cold water, adrenaline, pulling, dragging, and never a moment to slow down—all of that had turned in to this; and it had added with it the trepidation of the siblings first meeting. Which he still hadn’t received word about; not that it was really any of his business, but shards he might get a good night’s sleep (in his own bed no less) if he knew it was safe to return.

There wasn’t any way he’d wind up with a shiner like Xiro’el, not for all his troubles—no fly-by muggings here! Of course he should have been in the stables, but Atenna had fixed that by telling Sebol in no uncertain terms that his disquiet would be the death of the foaling runner they were attending: Which was well and away from what he wanted. So now he was here. Meandering around the Bowl attempting to quiet his restless thoughts and having no real luck doing it; he could always wander off and practice his dancing, but how could he attempt to find bodily grace when his mind wouldn’t cease running in circles? Sigard was very little help; the Blue sat his bonded’s shoulder like a statue, tail curling around the ex-Herder’s thick neck to form a half torque—he offered no advice, nor even any recognition that he should.

Emotions though the flit lacked—for these two-legger problems—he was smart enough (or possibly troublesome enough) to see a possibility when it appeared, and in the shape of a larger like-him, female like-him, and the human both owned. He chattered quietly into Sebolaren’s ear to gain his bonded’s attention and then flashed him the image that was already in front of his eyes: Which while appreciated, made the Candidate suppress an eye-roll. Apparently Sigard had chosen their company for him, but what fine company Dragonfolk were, and he would never pass up a chance to interact with a Weyrling. As he gained ground on the lake, and drew closer, he did quietly hope that this Cyan would not be as rambunctious as Tigreath.

His feet carried him just shy of the water, and there he stood with his large hands braced lightly at his hips—he had probably watched this Cyan Impress, but what with being new there hadn’t been time to meet much less learn the names of everyone who Stood that day: So he was cautious enough to extend his greeting to both Rider and dragon lest one take offense and he find himself summarily trampled. ”Afternoon, ladies.” Hopefully they wouldn’t be too quick to chase him off—he always appreciated observing dragon husbandry.