Discussion, Disaster, and Other Fine Things [Ruin]

He ran. For no other reason than to run, he ran. For what was probably the first time since his arrival at Dalibor; aside from one brief stormy day on a beach—he ran. He was insulated against the cooling change in temperature by his typical long-sleeve tunic; one that would no longer earn him looks as if he was well dusted and twice mad. His legs swept across the Bowl clad in matching trousers that tied off around his waist above the hips, and then they stretched to greater effort as he pelted up the incline toward the Weyrwall and Dining caverns. Why was he running? He had no idea, but it was cathartic, and it carried him on to his friend faster than ambling along at his typical pace.

He slowed only upon reaching the gaping maw; well-lit from baskets of glows, and the illumination forced his eyes to focus as he stepped in from dusky sunset. A quick scan of the dining hall bid him wave and smile to a few pairings that recognized him, and then he bid his leave with apologies heading toward the kitchen—much to the understandable surprise of those aforementioned parties. As it stood; Sebolaren had been banned from the Kitchen proper for half a turn, and was to be banned for an additional turn—due to his bartering away a private table: Today, however, he was allowed entry.

And oh what an unwelcoming entry it was indeed. It seemed as if he was passing through a hallway lined with every manner of dangerous—and primed—utensils, and it appeared as if they’d cleared most of the walkway from the door to the hearth—where his friend sat—from all but the largest of holding racks. A brilliant grin broke out on his face completely obliterating the idea that he might have felt some shame; to the contrary he felt much like a small boy sneaking to where he knew he did not belong. Which was an especially accurate description; considering the man awaiting him was none other than Xiro’el.

Xiro’el, his Lakeeti, and a rather large firelizard egg that Sebol had rightfully claimed as his own from the beaches. Clutched and left for him apparently. Though Requias had nearly trod upon it; he had been quick and nimble. Though he did quite enjoy firelizards, and had wanted one—it seemed an undertaking too close to probable Impression: Nothing should distract him from his charge, correct? Nor would he have the time to devote for training—he wouldn’t want his firelizard to become a nuisance. So, though the egg would probably hatch a glorious Bronze or even Queen; Sebolaren had decided that the Trader would make far better company for a growing flit than himself. There was always the future for such things, the same with a runnercolt.

His hand had echoed the wave the man had sent, but he waited to speak until he had reached the hearth, his legs folding somewhat gracefully underneath him as he sat down beside the trader; his eyes intent on the warming sandpot that held the egg. “The tidings I have for you, O Trader,” the token grin he bestowed on the man belied none of the rough edges that his heart still felt surrounding the news he was going to impart, but he handed the Cyanweyrling two pieces of well-read parchment—knowing without a doubt that the Trader would need no hints—were they not, now, quite similar? “How is your egg?”

“Ha,” he laughed explosively, still filled with a great deal of mirth at the situation concerning the drudges and their apparent want to see him seated and minding his own where they could watch both men. “Best not have cooked it, was already lucky enough to find an egg of such size just sitting out on the beach. Thought Gold flitters were smarter than that.” Certainly was a mystery, but not one he’d turn his nose up at; a firelizard egg was a firelizard egg—and it was also what his friend had wanted. Sebolaren definitely had a soft spot for bestowing fine gifts upon those who were loyal to him; hopefully it was something to which the Trader would become accustomed.

Although what happened next was not as Sebolaren had expected—in any manner of it, and he often ran through conversations and scenarios in his head. It gave him an advantage when he spoke to people; allowing him to control the flow of information around certain points he had set up in his mind. Of course the people in question needed to be willing, but most people were willing to follow him—or be carried by him as the situation might arise. This conversation, for instance, had gone something along the lines of: Xiro’el’s mouth dropped in utter shock and dismay when he realized just how hurtful the message was.

That was not happening—at all. In fact; when Sebolaren accepted the pieces of parchment back his face had assumed a pale and somewhat pained expression. He had brought news of an incredible betrayal to his bloodbrother—granted that oath was sworn against his will—and all he received was a pert smile and an ‘I see’? He felt an alternating flash of hot, and then cold, and he strove to understand what had happened. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth to stymie words that would probably be hurtful, and instead focused on the Trader’s face, the look he had given the papers, and that smile. A smile completely devoid of his typical charisma: A rather stupid smile to be honest. A spark blossomed within the ex-Herder’s mind and the rush of realization pushed away his temporary hurt; flooding his face with enlightenment.

“Tradermine, I believe you are quite illiterate.”

Sebolaren did not trust that blithe silvertongue any further than he could throw him; which would certainly not be far—and if he had learned one thing: The more obvious a Trader Xiro’el was, the more uncomfortable he felt. Curious. Not curious enough to dig, because what other reason could there be for such a swift recovery than shame, and it was a legitimate emotion when Weyrfolk; especially Dragonriders, would be required to pen messages—not only to one another, but to those they guarded over.

He ignored the Trader’s further words as a dangerous smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, one that indicated he’d had a ridiculously good idea—out of the blue, and unplanned, and as his grin grew so did the idea. Nestling itself deep within the soft tissue of his brain where he would allow no man to deny it from him. “I have a proposition for you, Tradermine,” he began languidly, relaxing backward onto his large hands and staring at that man with both rapt fascination and poorly hidden excitement. He drew this out for a few long moments, basking in his own brilliance, and then suddenly leaned forward as if to conspire with the man.

“It seems we could both teach each other a valuable lesson—one that the other does not know. I will teach you how to read, and write—I swear you will have mastered it thoroughly by the time my dragon can fly, and at that point I will even teach you what I know of scrolling,” he paused for effect and then continued with a brighter grin. “And you, dear trader, shall teach me how to kill a man with a knife. All the tricks of the Caravanners, every underhanded method of disarming and picking at your prey until they fall—and every openly honorable way as well.”

He arched his brow coyly; offering no further information on the parchment at this time, but instead offering his hand to the man who sat behind him—scarred palm extended face up.

Sebolaren was well pleased to have that bargain sealed. Having already made teachers with most of his friends, he knew that fighting would be what Xiro’el had to teach him—he also knew that the Trader would not simply offer up such knowledge for free: Or even for some insanely cheap barter such as labour. No, it had to be a fair deal around; and this one had walked quite happily into his lap as it were. The smile on his face was as genuine as it was pleased; and though the reminder of the parchment did slowly drain that happiness—it was more that the conversation was moving in a serious direction: Not that he was ready to mourn.

Though that could change of course. He gathered the parchments into his fingers, callused tips tracing along the wear lines that each piece of paper had been folded and refolded along as he read them—studied them—memorized them. Somehow the need to speak them aloud was almost asking too much of him: It had always been hardest for him to keep his composure when speaking. As if the very act of it was confirmation of whatever pain ate at him. Which it was, he supposed.

He wasn’t, however, going to make Xiro’el feel any additional shame for something that was not necessarily his fault, and he wanted to share the words with his friend; as painful as they would be. So he gathered his courage around him much as Daymar would gather his clothing, and he began the story. ”I wrote to my father a few sevendays ago; I didn’t tell anyone—because honestly I did not expect a response. This day past I received a reply. I should have known it was trouble; it was sent by way of dragon: Not something I would expect my humble self to rate.” He laughed at that, but it was bitterness—the notes in his hand holding the truth behind that special treatment.

He caught a breath in his lungs and then plunged on doggedly. “The parcel I received held two letters and…” from inside his shirt he drew out the full purses, five in total, all branded a Ruathan. He dropped them between them, discarding them for what they were to him; a bribe. “One of the letters was from my father, the other was from the Steward of Ruatha. His letter reads,” and he handed it back to Xiro with a ‘you might as well start now’ expression; ”Make us proud, Sebolaren, son of Ruatha” He sighed softly and then handed the Trader the second letter, far more worn; though luckily the letters were still intact. “This one reads only, ‘Master Herder Tytallen has no son Sebolaren’” and the pain flared up powerfully enough to stopper his mouth against any jest.

He watched the man cautiously; uncertain what the reaction would be now that the truth was known: Perhaps they had become close so many sevendays ago on that beach for the very first time—but openness between himself and the Trader was still a new test only recently solidified into existence. It had been a powerful experience for Sebolaren; to be honest—but it was fresh. So it was hard for him not study the man who sat so impassive beside him and seek out any hint of scorn, or laughter, or—well anything other than what the ex-Herder needed, and wanted—not that he even knew what he was seeking. Daymar had given him comfort; had tethered him through that first emotional outpouring, but here he was…seeking something.

Something that was beyond what he could have suspected, something that was freely given and swept his heart up in such emotion that he felt it catch in his throat rendering him speechless. It wasn’t what the Trader did next that stunned him so; though he felt a shudder run through him as he nearly reached out to stop that the movement that had been belied by the man’s statuesque stillness. That in and of itself was an impressive display of care from the Cyanweyrling for the Candidate who sat beside him; and Sebolaren felt as if a string within him snapped at the destruction of the note he had spent so much time reading and re-reading. It would, eventually, fade to simply a fuzzy image within his head; never to be found and restored to all of its brightness: Now it was ash.

However, what followed that burning brought tears to his eyes; though for the first time in a long time they were tears spawned by such a rush of happiness that he couldn’t find the space within him to contain it. He had known this day would come; he had seen it that day long ago on the beach, but he had not expected it to be so moving, so poignant. His left hand reached out for Xiro’s right to complete the circle, orange firelight bouncing off of both smooth scars, the words he spoke filled with a vehemence that even surprised him. “Tytallen has nothing now, save for his beasts, and Sebolaren does,” his eyes flickered up to meet the Trader’s own; ”have a brother worth more than any Master Herder of Ruatha.”

Sebol would have gladly fought over those quiet words; knowing full well what the Trader was implying with his silvertongue, but a curious sound stopped the both of them from tossing off into a discussion on semantics. The Trader heard it true for what it was before Sebolaren; but once the ex-Herder understood himself, he motioned for one of the drudges suffering no loss of excitement even if the creature would not be his. It happened quite quickly after that first sound, and as soon as the drudge arrived at Sebol’s side with a bowl of meat he began handing pieces to the Trader: Nothing prepared him for the actual creature hat hatched.

”Twins!” he crowed excitedly; which quickly became a yelp when Xiro piled one into his lap—and of all things Sebol had been holding meat meant for the Trader, meat the Blue hatchling was already chomping into from between his fingers, and then creeling at him for more eyes swirling the deepest crimsons he’d yet witnessed on a dragon—or otherwise. He took the bowl of meat from the drudge with a quick quip of gratitude, and placed it between himself and the Trader so they could both stuff meat into the hungry mouths. Sebol’s hungry mouth in question was currently scant inches from his face, forclaws latched firmly into his scruffy beard, hind legs snatched around his thick tunic while the tiny tail was attempting to make a necklace of itself—yet still far too small to accomplish this goal.

Piece after piece after piece of raw meat disappeared into the hungry mouth, ”I believe I’ve found something to rival even my bottomless pit,” he spoke with wonder, not even sure if Xiro would hear him, not really even caring at this point—soaking the entire process in. While he fed the creature meat with his fingers, he fed him images with his mind—so many images. As if he was telling the little Blue his entire life story; as if that would solidify their bond more deeply. Perhaps it would. Sebolaren didn’t know, the only thing he did know was that the little guy was hungry; so very, very, very hungry, and he would not hesitate to stuff the little creature to contentedness.

Which actually required another bowl of meat for the twins—which was surprisingly supplied without question by the drudges; though they may have had a vendetta against the two boys—they certainly wouldn’t discriminate against an adorable hungry creature. At long last the creature had been stuffed so full his belly was distended and bumpy, and without further ado he simply curled into a ball in Sebol’s giant hands, wings folding over body curled around until his tailtip covered his face. Of course he wouldn’t stay this small forever, but for now—he lost himself to it.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there gently stroking the dark lines that crossed that light blue body, but when he did look up he found Xiro’el had done the same and all he could do was meet the Trader’s eyes with a dazed look and a dumb expression. ”Must’ve been a Green egg, they always forget…what will you call yours?”