A Meeting of Minds and Meatrolls (Ruin)

His eyes were cool and expressionless as he regarded the twin flits that rested on one of his giant hands. He had not expected both of them to be available today, but as they were—he decided that some training was in order. Unfortunately; as he did not condone training with food, he was the one suffering for lack of a meal. He was however resolved to teach both of these young Blues how to be proper and dutiful members of the Weyr. Currently he was running them through their paces with carrying increasing weights; even to the point of carrying things as a pair: Those sea-grey eyes were hardened steel as he affixed an image into both of their minds. They warbled over it momentarily and then returned it to him—ensuring that they had received what they were intended. He cast them from his fist as one—like trained preybirds—and spoke his guttural command for action: they went between

Sighing softly he relaxed back into his seat and waited—knowing that it wouldn’t be long if they executed the maneuver properly: Indeed he had only taken a handful of breaths before they appeared above him. Both clutched merrily to one end of an oiling brush: small now due to its intended use on a hatchling—one of Tigreaths. He accepted it into an outstretched hand which the brush covered fully, and then allowed them both to land on his fist with proud murmurs and headrubs. Of course they had to return the brush; else Xiro would hunt him down in a huff. The return of the brush went off without a hitch—as far as he knew—and when they were again settled onto his hand and wrist he settled down to a conversation of images so they could rest between positive work-outs.

Being quite so involved with the twins; he actually neglected to notice Reylia, so when she clattered down onto the table in front of him—a bustle of trays and bowls and food and salutations—both he and the flits reacted. Sebolaren by flinching physically, and the flits by leaping to wing with startled and chiding squabbles. He turned his head to regard them at their most annoyed, as if they could control this two-legger and scare her off, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to echo that emotion. He chuckled heartily with a genuine smile on his face and then called to them with soft mind-touches. They weren’t particularly happy that their bonded (or blood brother to their bonded) wasn’t doing his level best to also chase off this new threat, but they did settle down after a few moments. As much as they could at any rate. Each of them chose one of the tunic-clad large shoulders to settle on—as alike, as different—tails curling around Sebol’s neck from either side to form a torque of alternate coloured blues.

He tried not to laugh again as the twins assumed a rigid and protective posture, their eyes swirling on this new two-legged female with mistrustful oranges and yellows, but if they expected Sebolaren to echo their gaze—he did not. The eyes that finally turned to Reylia were full of mirth, and soon appreciation when he realized what she offered. He swept the warm mug from her hands with an ease that showed gratitude, and not possessive grabbing, before speaking cheerfully ”evening yourself, m’lady. You have certainly pegged the situation true, and I would be most pleased to partake in any food you offer—don’t let these two fool you though; while I appreciate their guarding—they will not be praised for their continued ire.”

He accepted the proffered plate with relish, and began tucking in immediately—shoving spoonfuls of the stew into his mouth as if the plate might disappear at any moment. Between these spoonful he shoved in mouthfuls of bread covered in stew, or meatroll, or even meatroll covered in stew—didn’t really matter what it was as long as it was going in. That is—until his eyes returned to Reylia, and until those sharply observant sea-grey orbs alighted on her dainty and quite noble way of eating. All at once he felt rather awkward and every bit the Herderboy he actually was. There had been only a handful of occasions where he’d actually gone inside the Hold proper for a formal meal—and they’d kept him well enough away from the well-to-do that he hadn’t embarrassed anyone…or himself. However here, far from home—former home he reminded himself—and in front of this slender woman who seemed to eat as if a bird; well…

He swallowed the mass of food he’d been working on chewing and then attempted to go about this whole eating business with some form of dignity: Even going so far as to straighten his elbow-supported slouch—to angry chitters from the flits on his shoulder. ”Thank you, I’m sorry—I spent more time eating in the fields with the runnerbeasts than anywhere near a table. I hope I haven’t offended you.” At the very least he didn’t flush red with embarrassment; he still had that much control over himself, but it was certainly hard. He drew a long warm draught from his mug of klah and then started again; even attempting to mimic how she held her cutlery by spying from the edges of his eyes.

He did his level best not to chuckle or speak around his food; instead swallowing before he answered her with a gamely smile—his awkwardness fading in the face of questions and good company. ”Well, it’s less that I feel the need, and more that I understand the possibility. Even if it’s from a tunnelsnake. Good beasts are always protective of their owners—you remember Requias; she saved me out riding once from a falling branch that surely would have crushed me otherwise. So I appreciate their willingness to guard who they perceive as theirs—but I have not indicated to them that I am troubled by your presence; so they should take my cue.” He did not bother to show either of the Blues attention, they were still quite unsure of this woman who sat across from their current perch; when they finally gathered their wits about them and realized that Sebolaren was perfectly capable of choosing his company—he would spare them a glance.

He laughed softly and gave her a genuine smile; grateful that she had not been offended; but had also seen the humor in the situation from both sides—that proved she wasn’t a snobbish Holderbred too set in her ways to loosen up. ”Thank you, and yes I can see how we both might be silly; but I can’t help but be jealous of your training. Here—as a Dragonrider, I might be expected to meet with a Lord Holder to discuss Searches, or tithes, or deliver messages for my Weyrwoman—I would not want to disgrace my Weyr by disgusting my hosts. So, in that regard, you are certainly at an advantage.”

It was sort of a wistful thought that passed through his head; what if he could be so refined—exercise such control. Perhaps even one day he could go to a Gather and make an impression—dance with someone! He snorted softly under his breath at that. ”They do indeed feel more than we do; firelizards can sense Thread before it falls—or so I’ve been told; and Harpers speak of ‘lizards chasing their bonded into the safety of water or stone.” He wondered idly how the Blues on his shoulder would react to Threadfall, but those were questions for the future, were they not?

”That’s it exactly. They love unconditionally, and they don’t judge. I take Requias out when I need to think, and she never stops to tell me I have better things to do. A dragon will be like that; except they will tell you when your energies could be better spent—but they’ll love you while saying it so much that you can’t doubt it is for the best.” That—that was certainly something he looked forward to the most. They would be a pair, ever-moving toward some great new thing. He took another long pull on his mug of klah, and then went back to eating—somewhere between shoveling and feather-like.

”Perhaps you are correct, Reylia—perhaps you are.” Of course he said that while brandishing a meatroll at her for emphasis—but she was right! ”Actually I find that repetitive tasks soothe me: Oiling leather, washing runners, working on my drafting or scrolling—Daymar has been teaching me how to send proper letters with ornate scripting. Otherwise the letter you received might have been—how to say—rather unimpressive.” She probably wouldn’t have even believed it if he’d been allowed to write it as he once would have; long ago, before her brother had decided to teach the Herderboy something that would actually be useful to his Weyr.

”I’m actually in the opposite predicament: Grew up with all the animals I could stand—now devoid of them. I would love to train a runner, but with the Hatching so close—if I do Impress this time; well, there won’t be much time for anything but my dragon: Especially not time enough to train two intelligent animals to their full potential. So I’m waiting it out.” He too took another bite of stew, washing it away with klah before elaborating. ”I actually had not intended to Impress one of these—they are Twins, and not both are mine—the egg I found was meant only for Xiro’el, but he unceremoniously dumped one into my lap and—well,” he shrugged

Of course they hadn’t expected the twins to share a bond so tight with each other that it mingled the bond they shared with the two men—and they had both been side-by-side during the feeding to boot. So now both flits would spend time with either men, and were trained by both—though one was trained for good, and the other for bad: Let you guess which was which. ”Impression will be…everything. A hole filled that you didn’t know was empty. Part of you that you didn’t know was missing. All of the love and support you could ever need coming from something you will be bonded to tighter than simply love.”

Perhaps his words were a typical level of Harpersong; for all that he was a Herderboy he had some fanciful ideas about Weyrlife—duty—protection—serving—leading—living—flying, but at least the words he spoke were honest: He believed them with every ounce of who he was. ”Hopefully, I will experience it at this Hatching, as will you—then we can compare notes together afterward.” For their part, the flits had decided that this woman was speaking about them; so therefore she must be good people. Together they both churruped into one of Sebol's ears, and with a feigned pained sigh he gave them both a meatroll to work on.

”I would never regret it, and neither will my Weyr when they can send me to Conclave’s or Gather’s to represent them if need be. Of course I will certainly appreciate it—and can pay for anything we may need; and help you with anything you might need.” Which he meant. Trader he might not be, but he never simply took without giving in turn. He had learned a long time ago the value of building up your acquaintances based on barter—the giving and taking with payments of needed things: This made you valuable, and if you were valuable no one would tread on or abandon you. Unless you were Delilah anyway—but he had nothing she wanted. He probably didn’t have anything Reylia wanted—honestly he probably didn’t have much anyone wanted, but at least a few people enjoyed his company. That he could give freely.

”You could even start now, by yelling at me to keep parts of myself off of the table and how not to stab my food as if it were prone on fleeing from my knife.” Not that she had to of course, but there was no time like the present to begin learning. He flashed her a brilliant grin to the rejoinder and nodded fervently: ” The moment my dragon decides he’d rather sleep on the Rim than be bothered—I shall find myself a proper and sturdy Ruathan colt to train.” How glorious it would be as well—he would spend hours with that colt, and probably in the company of friends; they’d all watch him as he went about his work with trademark thoroughness: Then get bored and wander off only to check in later. The thought made him smile.

”Of course you do, I didn’t Impress last time, so I decided to study everything anyone could teach me—I’m better prepared now: Stars above know what they would’ve done with me had I actually Impressed—I can’t think of a thing I’d have been able to do as a Dragonrider then. Deliver runnerfoals during Fall? I think not.” He wrinkled his own nose at how ill-prepared he had been then—but now…now so many moons later he was confident to a fault: Not only in his abilities, but also in his Impression. He snorted softly at her hesitant question and gave her an even brighter smile.

”The boys are harmless, they just have a streak of dimness in them: A good shake sets ‘em right—much like a glow.” His eyes indicated that of course he would never shake one of the darlings—much as he would like sometime, and he offered his fist to the twins—which they took to gamely with a soft command from his lips: Part word, part sound. From there he simply stretched his long arm across the table and left it sit there close to the woman. ”They’ll try to crawl on you most likely, they love hair—and women, so if you don’t want them to simply tell them ‘no’—firmly. They know better than to disobey that word.” He hoped.

He gave a bright smile and clasped his large hand over the woman’s slender wrist. ”Deal met and made, and witnessed by the twins who will doubtlessly tell Xiro’el that his friend has been doing odd sorts of things.” When she commented about her forced method of riding horseback his eyes did indeed knit together with indignation. ”Proper, yes—but certainly not one with the beast, and certainly not how you will ride your dragon against Thread: I can teach you a better seat easily!” And he would be adamant about that; runnerbeast riding would lay a foundation for dragonriding—a foundation she would need as Impression now would mean joining Wings fighting Thread upon graduation from Weyrlinghood—and he certainly did not plan to lose her between or otherwise due to a poor seat.

He watched the woman interact with the flits; mildly amused, but always attentive: He would probably never find it in him to lose that attentiveness around animals—even when he had a large dragon to back the force of commands with his predatory mindvoice. Still; no great disaster befell their party at this time, even when Avsiran hopped gamely onto one slender wrist, his wings mantling around her briefly to catch his footing with the size difference between male and woman. The smile that tugged at him was genuine as he watched her fawn; of course the Holderbred had no idea what happened to a spoiled beast, but the firelizards would do as they pleased regardless—so her attentions would not break them so long as he remained firm.

Which was why Sigard remained hesitant to join his brother. He had not been given a command; and though he wanted to go to her—he was loyal, and had been instilled with at least some small sense of duty to his bonded. Which Sebolaren appreciated enough to release him into her questing hands with a soft word; at which the lighter Blue readily hopped onto that proffered arm only to sidle quickly up to her neck and lose himself into her hair. Which didn’t necessarily please the ex-Herder, but if he didn’t tangle himself there wouldn’t be a problem. Regardless, now he was free to feed his stomach again—which he fell to with vigor. ”The dark blue marked with light is Avsiran, and is Xiro’el’s. The light blue marked with dark is Sigard, and mine. They’re far larger than most Blues of their age—and will probably be the biggest of their colour when fully grown. Surprising considering they came from one very large egg and should be smaller.” Then again; the entire situation had been interesting considering to whom they had bonded.

Left with nothing to do but eat, he did so; adopting the manly expression of: well…nothing. The stew he bit in to could have been the best stew he ever tasted from that quiet pleased-with-himself look, or it could have been the worst—who knew? Really he was just looking around with feigned curiosity covering his need to constantly watch—not minding how she interacted with the flits. He wouldn’t spoil them, but they deserved it—so let others do it for him. He had to be—at all times—their Gold: Such a proud and noble Gold he was! That would have warranted a chuckle if it wasn’t such a natural thing for him to suppress his louder emotions. You know; until they spilled out and the people around him assumed he was suddenly hysterical because he actually had emotions. Oh well.

He noticed that she was looking at him; more than once, and he read a quiet womanly defiance in her as if she’d been raised by too many men who tried to control her and wanted Weyrlife to be vastly different from that. He wondered if she was aware of Flight Lust; unlike her brother. That, of course, wasn’t much of his concern—and wouldn’t be hers either until she Impressed. Perhaps she’d even sit a male and do her share of domineering equally strong individualistic women. He felt no urge to answer those eyes with anything other than his usual false openness: I am just a man eating food; completely oblivious to everything around me, and oblivious to the fact that you are throwing daggers with your eyes.

Things like this could always change later, but she seemed a different sort than those he had let closer: Run her through her paces, test her out as he would a young gangly runnerbeast, and—if she proved sound—perhaps even take her for a little ride. Such as friendship was. Do not laugh at that, Sebol. My but the stew was quite lovely today!

He watched her as she watched him, and didn’t feel a twinge of emotion pass through him. She lacked the skill G’dan possessed, and she was devoid of the hidden secrets under which Xiro’el’s defenses had failed. She was observant, but nothing more, and had likely pegged him as something he was not. Possibly harboring an emotion he was not. Which also didn’t bother him. Perhaps if they had met when he first arrived he would have gone out of his way to secure her interests, but he had a firm foundation of support, and far less angst to break his walls down.

He did need her, as a teacher, and they could easily build a friendly relationship on that without ever crossing into an emotional zone—which suited him. A person needed friends who were simply friends, along with those who were foundations and supports. When she asked her question his smile was simple, and genuine—so she had taken him for his expression and assumed what she would. Well; there was no reason to mislead her: Not when they could serve mutual purpose.

“I am not wary of you; I was this past day due to the implications of your arrival, but those events have gone beyond my reach. What transpires will do so between you and Daymar.”

Looking back and wondering; well he was no stranger to that—but he was accepting that which he could not change. Possibly never know or understand. ”I was upset only for the prospect of Daymar being hurt. It is certainly kind of you to travel so far for your brother; especially transferring from one Weyr to another.” He of course meant that, and though he would not say it—he wondered if her dragon would be born at Fort and between while she left the sands alone here. Did that happen? Considering it; he wasn’t sure if he would transfer away from Dalibor until he aged out: Regardless of what new events might transpire should he too remain unImpressed.

Or should his secret be discovered by those who would not keep it in confidence. If he was unwelcome and shunned—perhaps they would foist him off onto another Weyr simply to be rid of him: Did Dalibor not suffer enough scrutiny with their spectacular sport colours and subQueens Impressing to males? Well. He had made it this far without the vast majority of the Weyr becoming wise to him—only a handful of moons and he would Impress. Then. Vindication, and freedom. ”Aye, I rarely leave an opportunity untaken; live with no regrets. Your choice is the one I would have made.”

He took another draught from the klah, his hands cupping its warmth, and then he smiled ”I hear that Couineth will Rise, and soon; it will be her first time—which can indicate a smaller clutch. The Hatching past was that Queen’s second clutch, and yes—I was there.”

Not that thick… the thought rose unbidden on the heels of her words. Yet…at the same time. Was it not thicker in other areas? Abandoned by the blood of his blood; but wholly accepted by the blood he had shared—mingled—sworn in oath. Yes. It was thicker. Thicker, and dirtier, and heinous, and troublesome—it stained, and clotted, and dried up to nothing. Yet it remained; and was needed. Lifeforce. ”Aye, if we all Impress; Fort will have lost—at the very least—four fine Dragonriders.” He did make sure to end the title ubiquitously; although he much preferred Dragonmen as an all-encompassing word—perhaps she would not; and that wasn’t a debate he was willing to delve in to currently.

His mug echoed hers with a near unconscious act—you always returned a toast; always, and then he offered the flits that still rode her a softer smile. ”I found their egg on the beach, discarded by a Green mother—they’re quite inattentive. There is always a chance of finding loose eggs here. I actually came upon the idea to look due to Candidates ahead of me finding eggs.”

He nodded at those next words with a soft light dawning in his eye; it was rare to speak of the hatching. Perhaps once his eyes would have tinged darker, but now—with his confidence restored—he was able to look back and appreciate how wondrous the entire experience had been. ”It was amazing. Dragon’s thrum goes through you like a wave of tiny bubbles. The excitement is catching—the Stands erupts with noise for every egg that cracks, and every Impression made. Hatchings can have rough spots, the dragonets are new to the world and some are less willing to cope than others. Some are more aggressive—some are more passive and it’s easy for these personalities to clash. The noise that drives the Candidates to a higher level of thrill—can often confuse an eggwet newborn. So they certainly aren’t monsters, but those unfamiliar with predators and newborn beasts could conceive them as such—which is a pity.”

”It would certainly be good for him, I think he would do well with a lovely Yellow—I have heard they are sweet-natured and kind: Perhaps she would even ease him into dragonlife.” Such as Flight. Which the man still didn’t know was a fact of Weyrlife. How he was able to cling to his blindness—Sebol was not certain, but he was grateful. He settled back into his cup; the light of that Standing fading from his eyes into a warm happiness, but he listened attentively as she asked her question—an important one, and one he would answer to completion.

”The most important thing you can do on the Sands would be to pay attention. Which is going to be hard—your eyes will want to wander over everything; and perhaps you should let them. There will be colourful people in the Stands, rows of Candidates and all of their expressions, the Gold Mother and her Rider guarding over the clutch—and the eggs themselves. Shining, and rocking, and ovoid, and full of possibility.” He finished his klah with another drag on the mug’s lip then set it aside, leaning forward onto his arms, hands lacing together in front of him. Avsiran joined him then; skittering across the table to clamber on to his head—as if that would somehow make his words more authoritative, but Sigard maintained his vigil on the girls shoulder; chattering into her ear and pawing at her if she didn’t focus on his bonded.

Not that they needed to do any of this; but they recognized the man’s serious posture, and when serious things were said—you paid attention! Otherwise you might be chided or even worse—ignored. Didn’t this girl want head rubs and treats? Of course she did. So she must listen! Sebolaren stolidly ignored them; though he did feel an inward tinge of mirth for their over-attentiveness: Hopefully they wouldn’t bother Reylia with their demanding natures. ”The dragonets are drawn to the Candidates; some will simply stare into every face and judge the man or woman for their worth,” his thoughts fondly turned to Prith and her swirling eyes before he continued, ”but some may come with frustration in their hearts. Perhaps one of their clutchmates irked them, perhaps a certain fleck of colour on their hide has soiled their mood, perhaps they spent far too long wandering and now their hide is drying and itching and causing them discomfort, or perhaps they stumbled over their wings and tore the delicate membrane or scraped their sensitive muzzles on the hot sands.”

He shrugged—it could be anything. They were intelligent babies, and for all that most of them would remain calm; the ones that did not could be set off by even a piece of broken shell that happened to lay in an offending way on the sands. ”Yet there are ways to tell; perhaps not as easily as I will read the posture, but—dragoneyes indicate mood as much as posture does: Red or orange will be colours of which to be wary. Posturing includes mantled wings, splay-legged posture, lowered neck, open mouth. In terms of sounds there can be growling, and hissing, and challenging roars. Does the hatchling approach calmly, or quickly, or even in a slinking manner—as if a lapcat stalking a vtol.”

He gathered up a mug and juice pitcher; pouring himself a glassful and taking a sip between words and thoughts. ”All of that said; you have two options if a hatchling is coming toward you with intent: Defend or deflect. While no one would blame you for defending yourself—there are very few ways to do it which won’t incur the wrath of the Queen Mother and possibly the Rider and Candidatemaster; besides—though you may walk on to the Sands assured that you will defend yourself, that resolve will melt in the face of so many people, the large Gold, and even the hatchlings themselves. So the best method is deflection.”

Again he paused, mulling over how best to advise a Holderbred lady—he had learned how to evade and move around a runnerbeast so while the animal might be trying to crush him with fourteen hundred pounds of flesh; he couldn’t quite catch him, and was instead deflected around the man. ”The smartest is to stay always attentive and move out of the way; this is especially true for the dragonets who are blundering around as if in their cups—because they don’t have intent so much as confused baby-sharp talons. However, side-stepping can also work on dragons with intent to maul. You must wait until the last moment—but if you watch them you can avoid them easily. For all that they appear majestic—they are quite clumsy at birth.” Which was certainly a thing to keep in mind—the dragonets could be avoided—easily—with attention to posturing.

”Another thing; one which you will have to determine for yourself case-by-case, is how to react to those that are angry—but simply gaze. Personally I have found it is bad form to turn away from any predator—this shows weakness, and will certainly be taken as such by the intelligent predators that dragons are. You will not enjoy meeting that gaze; no one does, not even myself” and that was true; he remembered the gaze of Prith’s sister as vividly—the anger there had burned, ”but you should meet it anyway. Feel free to bow if you wish—and certainly bow to the clutchlayer when you enter—and be cautious with your laughter: Though you may be doing it out of joy, a hatchling could interpret it as a slight against themselves. It is like a game of strategy; keep your wits about you and outplay the hatchlings—which is very easy, they are babies new to the world: Remember that you hold the power and do not give in to fear.” Brave words, but he had left the sands unscathed.

The spell of serious conversation broken, Sebolaren nodded and returned to the task at hand; eating. Of course with as stop-and-go this meal was turning out to be; he’d probably never actually reach a state of satiation. Still; this allowed him to tuck in again as if the meal had just begun: though the stew was lukewarm it was quite delicious; as were all the lovely, lovely meatrolls. Also returning to normal was his general quietude, so when she gave him thanks he accepted it with a warm smile and a nod—it was a lot to think about; but he didn’t doubt she could process it.

With time. Besides, she was far more likely to take to those Sands than Daymar—at least in that case Sebol could stand beside the man and offer him comfort; he would certainly lead the nervous man onto the sands and offer him comfort—perhaps even protection—against the dragonets. Certainly he would offer up his own flesh to save Daymar’s the man would abandon the Weyr if he were mauled and not Impressed: Possibly even if he was Impressed, and that wouldn’t do.

His eyes rolled up to consider the over-arching form of Avsiran and then returned to Sigard and the woman who showed him affection.