Cookery and Shenanigans [Ruin]

Currently; the only thing he could focus on long enough to do was eat. Of course this was easily managed as he was fully capable of filling his belly in his sleep—bottomless pit as it was. There were far too many things running through his mind currently to spare any thought for those around him—unusual, but decidedly certain. There would be a birthing in the stables tonight; which meant he would probably not eat again until tomorrow. Then there were considerations of Delilah—Delilah and her ongoing abandonment of yours truly. Which he probably deserved more than he was letting on; and that pulled at his heart with a gentle ache: Food continued from plate, to hand, to mouth, and his mind continued to run in circles. Cou would be flying soon—very soon, any day now actually; and that meant there would only be a handful of months left between his current life—and his next. He had to give a soft breathy chuckle at his recently-found confidence. Much better than assuming he’d be tossed out with the kitchen scraps.

He ran through the list of things that he had done—and would do—today, hands alternating between food and drink with a rhythm that belied his typical enjoyment of food. Now he was just sliding through the meal—feeding his belly and stoking his fire—then he would be gone again: Possibly without incident, though there was always the chance that Agnith would heave herself into his mind and cause him to sprawl out on the Dining Hall floor again; without Xiro’el to help him to his feet or threaten knives upon those who laughed. Not that it wasn’t funny; falling that is: He certainly did it enough to have gotten used to it. However the situation was decidedly changed when it was caused by Agnith: at those moments he was wracked with such emotion that laughter was salt in the wound. Ah well; what could be done of it—she refused to see him, and he refused to get mauled by an angry dragoness.

He slowly became aware that someone was speaking to him; someone who had apparently sat next to him—someone he didn’t know. Which was rare indeed, not many people were willing to approach him without introduction: This of course was due to his size, but really he didn’t typically give off the appearance of needing company; what with being followed by the Trader as if he were a puppy. When it wasn’t Xiro’el it was Gess, or even Daymar (except in that case Sebol would be doing the leading as if the man were blind). Even Delilah at one point—but not now. Luckily the boy beside him spoke his name twice; otherwise the ex-Herder would have been out that knowledge and possibly been discovered as rude or neglectful. As it was, he managed to drag his thoughtful brain out of the streaming thoughts so that he could catch the rest of the one-sided conversation; and then answer.

”If it is your meatroll, then it tastes quite good—I’ve never cooked anything aside from warming meat on a fire: So you’re off to a better start than I. Moreso because they’ve banned me from the Kitchens barring special circumstances.” He rubbed his greasy hand off on his thigh with little consideration for the trousers which would most likely be covered in birthing fluid by day’s end, and then extended his palm to the boy. ”Dragon Candidate Sebolaren—call me Sebol, everyone does so I won’t recognize my full name if you use it. I’m assuming you are new—Standing? And of course, the usual—from whence have you come?” There. That should be all of the typical and somewhat necessary questions for the start of all new encounters. And he might have actually come across as serious—if a Blue Firelizard didn’t steal that moment by appearing over his head to drop a mostly devoured tunnelsnake into his lap.

He nodded without really understanding as the man expressed the need for more—moreness into the meat. What did he know of spices—the only plants of which he was aware were used to numb or to ward off the numbness: All else was simply food or not food. And he wasn’t in the habit of running out to stuff random plant life into his mouth. Far more likely to stuff random food stuffs into his mouth. Speaking of which—he went back to doing as the man rambled on, because if there was anything Sebolaren appreciated in someone else: It was chatty. Chatty meant he could do as he did best—and not speak. And what he did best currently had the added benefit of allowing him to continue eating: Which he would need tonight, so he did that.

”I have not been to Crescent, but I do not doubt the adventure—I too remember the Blue wings which brought me here from Ruatha.” As if it was yesterday in fact. The next wings he would see would most likely be his dragon’s own. He continued on with his food gamely and then turned a bright smile on the lad; his face honest. ”Then perhaps I can cook—and have never had the opportunity; we will word it as such. You’ll teach me?” That last was certainly a surprised query—not that he would ever turn down learning anything, but to be offered tutelage so soon was a new experience: Certainly this man jumped into things feet first—he was reminding Sebol of Xiro’el mixed with Agnith: No too little crazy flush full of passion and willingness.

Which meant he was probably in to be cut, bled, trampled, mauled, and possibly left for Thread; but when had he run away from a new experience—especially when it came with the offer to learn a new tradeskill. And he would have immediately taken the man up on his offer if not for Sigard. His lips tightened into a thin line as he gazed up at the hovering firelizard. ”No, they do not do this often. In fact this would be a first. Which leads me to only one possible conclusion—which is Xiro’el.” He sighed and unfolded himself from his seat, standing to his full height which brought him at eye-level to the firelizard; at which he brandished the tunnelsnake—what was left of it anyway.

Seriously. No. Xiro’el The images were like disappointed daggers into that attentive mind; and those whirling eyes flushed with an anxious yellow at his bonded’s displeasure; yet he still returned the images to check for accuracy. Sebol nodded and handed the carcass off to Sigard; who disappeared between a heartbeat later. ”There. That mess will be returned to the person responsible.” He glanced down at himself; but was pleased to see he hadn’t been covered in offal. By the time he had checked himself; the Blue had returned—claws devoid of tunnelsnake—and settled on Sebolaren’s broad shoulder with a mournful chirrup: For his part, the ex-Herder did not chide him further, but he wasn’t going to lavish praise on him for following a command he already knew.

”If you are still offering—I am quite willing: Though I may have cutlery brandished at me.”

”Xiro’el, yes,” and what to say about that man, his blood brother. ”Best if you meet him yourself, probably—he is bonded to the twin of Sigard,” his hand implied the Blue that sat his shoulder, though otherwise perhaps there would have been confusion. ”Former Trader current Cyanweyrling.” And, to be honest, it wasn’t his place to say much more than that. Did the darkly hued man not beget trouble? Had he not snuck himself in to Sebol’s room? Did he not seek to run himself ragged around the Weyr at all times? Yes to all of the above; but that was his knowledge—for now—and should remain as such until this man had formulated his own opinions. As long as the new-comer didn’t decide to shun his Trader like Q’sis; there wouldn’t be any reason to drive him off.

He didn’t mind the stares that Sigard received; in fact he’d grown used to them—no one had expected him of all people to Impress a firelizard: He who was raised with the understanding that pets were useless. At least he could put the Blue to work—good work, and he did his work commendably when he paid attention—when he didn’t listen to Xiro. ”They are more useful than they look; working as a pair they can carry far beyond what one can, but even singly they prove their usefulness with messages, bandages,” and his words faltered just a moment for the memory of Gess crumpled against those sharp rocks, ”food—anything that isn’t nailed down.” He chuckled softly eyes filled with a mirth that never faded. Perhaps someday they would change for this man; as they had for a small few before him, but for now Sebol was two dimensional and comfortable as such.

Even when that hand alighted in his own his expression did not waver—though inside he lurched as if it had been a shove and not a friendly tug. Of all the things he had not expected to find at Dalibor, it was people who would touch him. Nearly two turns with no physical contact before he arrived—then so much. Xiro’el and his constant need to touch the brand that graced Sebol’s arm beneath thick long-sleeved tunics. Then Delilah’s. Then Gess’. Now this. He had regained his confidence, his certainty, his foundation—but this was not so easily washed away by passing moons; and probably wouldn’t be until he gave himself over to a woman and her bed. That alone was far enough away to prove his words correct; another turn on top of two when he Impressed.

Of course he was soon distracted away from that touch by the angry glares sent his way by the drudges—oh how they certainly were not pleased to see him being dragged into their midsts; along with a flit—who Sebol was now certain had been set to pilfering things for Xiro. Fantastic. He ducked away from a brandished spoon; warding the woman off. ”Taavetti is going to teach me the proper way to treat a kitchen, ladies—it should please you.” Of course they wouldn’t be pleased if he managed to knock over their trays of food—and this was signified by their quick removal of the tray containing all the bubblie pies; and that one of meatrolls, and then doing away with the sharp knives that he would probably impale himself on.

”I could stand to eat.” Well…he could. It didn’t really matter what.

”Firelizards have a race-memory,” he offered a quiet look to the Blue who sat his shoulder not unlike a statue, and then continued. ”from their predecessors they receive events, local maps; hunting, and mating structure—social structure. This is why they can go between at birth, and why Thread will trigger the response of firestone chewing and herding their bonded inside.” He gave the young man a smile and a half shrug which was somewhat hampered by Sigard’s wings. ”Other than that; if I have been there—and the memory is concise—he can go there. “

Having no reason to speak of Xiro’el further, and still being accosted for the Kitchens; he decided to supply further information should the lad choose a firelizard as a companion. ”Their memory far surpasses dragon memory as well; they are quite capable of remembering humans who have been kind to them turns later—though in the case of those who do not: They may not remember why. Say for instance if Sigard were to be chased out of the Kitchen for overturning something; he would simply know that they did not like him—not that he had caused it.” As for the firelizard express; well.

”Important messages are sent a’dragonback; inter-Weyr messages can be sent by firelizards. I have not heard of a system utilizing firelizards as continent-wide messengers; the only thing that would compare, I suppose, are the drum messages.” Of course by this point they were there, and Taavi was doing his level best to dissuade the women from bludgeoning him to death with their spoons—which Sebolaren appreciated for the simple fact that he was in no position to argue his worth. Although he supposed things would be easier if he wasn’t in possession of a firelizard. A soft word—half language half sound—and Sigard shifted from his shoulder to his closed fist; ”Xiro’el” and his tone made it command as he tossed the Blue with enough force to give him lift within the closed cavern.

Not that the little one needed much space to between what with his still-tiny size; perhaps in the future it would become an issue. That done, Sebol returned his full attention to the boy and he offered up a trademark grin: At least they weren’t doing anything against the rules—yet. ”To get banned? I tend to say that Pern calls me to her like a lover to her bed; and I am helpless to listen. This generally leaves a wake of destruction—and ruined food—in my wake.”

Sebolaren listened to the man’s story quietly; neglecting to mention that—at ten—he’d already been three years Apprenticed to Beastcraft, and it would have never occurred to him that amusement could come from harassing animals. The lad seemed nice enough—and interested enough—that he could write it off as a typical Holderbred ideal. If they weren’t coddling animals into pets, they were turning them sour through mistreatment: Unforgiveable, but typical. He, however—this Taavetti—had been Searched, and if Sebol’s curious stranger had taught him anything it was this: Dalibor dragons were quite keen.

He watched the man tie up his hair, but the ribbon sparked something other than judgment—a memory. So poignant that it brought a stupid-happy smile to the ex-Herder’s face: Xiro’el always adorned himself in flashy Traderclothes. One of the man’s favourite things was the colourful sashes he tied around his hips and left trailing. Yes. Somehow he was pretty certain these two would hit it off swimmingly—hopefully it wouldn’t cause Sebol to be dragged before the Candidate master…again. ”Xiro’s been meaning to add some colour to my wardrobe. Colour and—style—I suppose, and aye—much like the dialects of Traderspeak; drum messages are for a certain few.”

He watched the man as he gathered the ingredients; at least having the excuse of learning for his observation and intense scrutiny; which saved him from flinching away from the clap on his back. He grinned good-naturedly at the boy and nodded, ”Luckily, aside from losing my feet in the Kitchens, I can’t say I’ve ever had a lady remove me from her bed—quite the opposite: They’d often seek me out in the hay.” And oh how he missed them. Milchmaids, Daughters of the Holderfolk who wanted to stretch their legs from the yolk of structured life, and sometimes even the Ladies; though those had been few and far between. All sorts seemed attracted to the quiet Herderboy—his education had been long, arduous, and left him quite versatile. Not that he’d find occasion to use this hidden skillset for at least another turn.

Helpless in a Lady’s bed indeed—”most of us have been helpless at one point or another; wheedles out the ones who can’t keep up, aye?” He found himself relaxing slightly; allowing himself to jest freely with this boisterous man. He was curious to say the least—interested for certain. Did as he was bid; his eyes never left the workplace of the Bakercraft boy, and he was amused at the lack of measurements—but pleased. Fewer things to remember.

Milk. That he could help with. He strode across the Kitchen as agile as a ferret—no, that was a lie, he did stumble over one of the cooling racks. Of course the women had expected this and someone saved it before all was lost. He gave a cheerful grin and his trademark half-bow bidding the women let him live; then grabbed up a jug of fresh beastmilk from the coolroom and returned it to his teacher, a bright grin on his face; ”least I didn’t lose us our supper…this time.”

As the silence dragged on between them and Taavi’s mind strayed; Sebol took the long moment to study him fully. Of course not knowing the man he couldn’t make sense of the emotions that flickered across the dazed eyes—not did he have a reason to delve at this point, but he did tuck the information away as possibly useable. He saw no sign of deep despair or shattered resolve as he had witnessed around Xiro; nor the absolute fear that suffused Daymar. Curious. A puzzle; perhaps one not for him to solve, but it certainly piqued the ex-Herder enough that his scrutiny would continue for the rest of the evening—at least when the newcomer wasn’t prone to see.

Soon enough the man had gathered his scattered thoughts and was off at it again, Sebol matching his new pace with a trademark grin that belied knowledge of the long pause. ”I suppose, they want me ready for the next Gather. Dancing and—representing the Weyr I suppose. In a way I don’t mind; these are things I feel I should learn—like baking—on the other hand though…what use will I have for dress clothing—even if they manage to find me a dressy pair of leathers.” He shrugged his broad expanse of shoulders. He didn’t understand the drive to beautify things, but all of what he knew was work—and that work was not suited for fine clothing and conversation.

”I’ll try, Taavetti, I will certainly try—I would not want to offend your…wholesome sensibilities.” His eyes twinkled at that, and mirth spilled over into a deep chuckle at the reproachful spoon-throw. Oh women. His mind alighted on Delilah briefly; with a twinge, but he gathered that up and tucked it away. ”I’m grateful that, for once, they’ve found someone to hit other than yours truly; perhaps I’ll leave here without a bruise for once!” Of course he spoke that too soon; as the cooling rack would flush his thigh with a lovely mark—though he would only find it late into this night.

He was unabashed and not at all shameful of his tripping—he had warned the man; but he listened astutely as if every rule Taavi spoke would save him from certain death—and perhaps it would; on a warm day between. Of course his rambling reminded the ex-Herder of long-ago met woman who wore a wild coif of auburn hair and never ceased speaking…she and this boy would also get along well. Not that he played friendship matchmaker or anything: Most of the time. His eyes, too, swept to the cooks; though he didn’t try to charm them—they’d only throw him out on his arse for his efforts: They knew better about him at this point. He watched the milk stir into the mixture and did his level best to maintain an expression that wouldn’t imply he felt Taavi slightly crazy.

That—analogy—was certainly colourful, creative, and not really anything related to the bedding he had done, but hey; perhaps they did things differently at Crescent. Apparently with multiple partners in one go as ingredients…or something. The mixture in the bowl had gone smoothe—for all that it did not remind him of bedding women, so he nodded—though was forced to answer the latter question by recognizing the former. ”Searched Spring, been around..”’ he tabulated quietly the sevendays since Callistath’s hatching. ”half a turn give or take a sevenday.”

”Aye, a Dragonrider has need of many skills, not only those he may have been taught by a Crafthall or learned from the strength of his back.” He chose to simply listen as the man made another analogy; at this point settling in to the speech and thought pattern—ah yes, there—the exhuberant youth had talked far away from the topic at hand. Sebol didn’t think it would be too hard to influence the conversation; perhaps even learn more about this newcomer—if he could select the proper questions, and give them room to flourish. ”It has been some time since my stomach knew the pleasure of a banquet—are they hard to prepare in terms of cooking?”

He gave a good-natured grin and then shrugged, ”truth be told, we haven’t heard of it either—but there’s likely to be one at some point, eh?” If Sebol was fixated on anything, it was preparation. As he prepared to Stand again, so he would prepare for any event that was forthcoming: Especially those ones which required something from him. Such as looking something other than a simpleton. The ex-Herder’s eyes were quite caught by the flourish of Taavi’s wrist that rendered the egg split neatly in two, and he snatched one up to try the same. Balancing it between thumb and two fingers he gave it a deft whack against the edge of the counter-top: Smashing it and leaving the slimy contents dripping down to the floor. He turned dark eyes on the tittering women behind him and huffed a sharp sigh before scraping as much of the mess up into his hands as he could—disposing of it into the compost pile before plunging his hands into the sweetsand washing basin.

”I fear it is my flowery feelings that have been hurt, I suppose you made that look far easier than it actually is.” Which was a pity, because the grace of it had caught Sebol’s eye—not that he could go around cracking eggs in two to impress the women, but certainly he could please himself over it. At least his hands could possess an ability his feet did not: certainty in movement. His mostly-feigned moping was washed away by the gentle teasing from the lad and he gave a brilliant unabashed grin ”I never claimed to be a gentleman; in fact I’ve been told that my heart is Holdless through-and-through—though that was followed with the assertion that I would die if I tried to live as the Caravanners do..” those final words trailed off into a mock confusion; as if he wasn’t sure whether he had been complimented or offended.

The answer, of course, was that he rarely felt shame and had therefore decided having the heart of a Tradesman but the duty of stone blood was much to his liking. The good black one…cooking sheet…thing: At least he knew what Taavi was seeking, and he plucked it from its place on a high stone shelf and handed it over to the Baker with excitement. ”Don’t suppose I could try some of the dough raw…” the eager boyish words bespoke many a slap on the knuckles for attempting to delve into sweets early, and though he was just shy of a foot taller than the man—he knew better than to assume his hands would be safe if he tried to do the plucking without permission. He was like a large Bronze compared to a dainty Green: liable to be hit before he’d even seen the reprimand coming.

”One; Callistath’s second clutch. This will be my second; however I’ve heard it will be Couineth who Rises—and it will be her first clutch; first-time egg laying typically produces a smaller number of eggs: Viable or otherwise.” He answered precisely as could be managed while still salivating at the thought of the sweet batter in that bowl. The Baker’s second question drew his attention yet again and he offered a softer smile. ”Dragons and Whers look to different people. While it is true that some Dragon Candidates could stand for whers; and some Wher Candiates could stand for dragons—most would not want to. Dragon’s require an empathetic mind to form a link that runs deeper than the soul but they are an intelligent bond: An adult dragon is less likely to lash out simply because his Rider is angry. Wher’s on the other hand, bond less deeply: The death of a Handler or his wher rarely results in the death of the other, but what they lack in that bond, whers make up with predatory passion. They have a bestial quality that must be—for lack of a better term—handled carefully by those who bond to them.”

His word certainly bespoke his great appreciation of Wherhandlers; he was not one of those who looked down on them as if they were simply trained dogs. They guarded Hall, Hold, and Weyr by dark of night as surely as the dragons rose to defend them by day, and they complimented the shortcomings in each other. What dragon forgot; wher remembered. Where wher could not fly; dragon flamed, and what one could scent but not see, the other might see without intent. Perhaps…if he left the sands alone; if he aged out of Impression—perhaps he could stand and bond.

”I have never tried to shift a Gold wher. I have, however, been tackled, maimed, bruised, drowned and roughed up by rampaging weyrling dragons who were mostly larger than a wher of any colour. Still; I enjoy eating food—not so much cooking it; though it would be a useful skill to have—so that I could cook…and then eat. You never know when a stay overnight might be necessary.” Or longer! Perhaps he’d be caught out in Thread and need to seek shelter in a cave—while chasing Xiro’el across the Northern Continent no doubt. Shard the man and his ideals of freedom.

Sebol caught those drooping shoulders, and felt bad for even mentioning it, but he agreed with Taavi’s following words whole-heartedly; his head nodding in affirmation. ”Yes, there must be one at some point, and as I have been here over half a turn without seeing one—it should be soon!” He believed this—he only hoped that he wouldn’t look back on this day over a turn from now and contemplate how wrong he had been. He was rarely incorrect. It vexed him.

He did have to smile at the Baker’s words, ”well, if there is one thing I’m good at, it is practicing the things I’m not good at” and practice he would, because that flourish still fed his mind with imagery of fanciful cooking—kitchens full of synchronized egg-cracking. Which was silly, and Sebolaren rarely had silly thoughts, but he had also never witnessed a man execute such a thing—the right amount of force, and the shell had broken flawlessly. Perhaps as his knife-work improved so would his control. He hoped. Then he thought he might give as well as he got, and throw out his own analogy: ”egg splitting is like knife fighting, if you do it incorrectly; it leaves a huge mess.”

Scallywag, him? My, my, what would this man think of Xiro’el when he saw him—all bright colours with a trailing sash: Feet never still with a dragon following him like a canine, and an actual canine sighing as if human? Scallywag indeed. ”Waggling or otherwise, Xiro is the one who holds the silvertongue—not I” for once it wasn’t meant as a warning, this boy would probably be immune to the Traderspeak if only because he could run illogical circles around it: Tangential and vivid. Even Xiro’el might find himself worn down by this lad’s exuberance. Then again…probably not.

That boyish light burned more brightly in his eyes at the inclusive conspiratorial tone, and he found himself drawn closer for it with a grin spreading his lips and flashing his teeth. ”That sounds lovely!” It did too, genuine happiness and excitement at that; of course it was over food—and who wouldn’t roll their eyes at Sebolaren admitting he was excited about food, but at least he was excited. Better than all those days he spent depressed, better than worrying about whether Delilah would speak to him again, or how to tell Daymar he’d sent a return letter to his father. Yes. Cookie dough was better than all of those things.

His eyes widened and then it was his turn to adopt the speech of conspiracy, he leaned closer and chuckled. ”The Stands are all about the wagers, but yes—of course there are betting tables set up all across the Weyr; even in the Holds prior—though they are mostly made here. I myself won thirty marks last Hatching. Eight correct guesses of which egg would hatch what colour, and two correct guesses of what colour would Impress to which Candidate!” He was actually quite pleased with himself over this—he had been fairly new then, arriving right around the Clutching, and he had done fairly well for himself right off. It hadn’t eased the pain of leaving the Sands alone, but time—and friends—had taken care of that for him.

”He should, although I’m sure he needs no urging from an ex-Herder-turned-Dragon-Candidate.” Which was an honest statement, not a criticism of his person; he approved of the Baker’s honesty about bonding though. It took a man who knew himself to understand the full extent of his skills, and from that understanding came the ability to learn new and better things—to build on the foundations of things already taught. Doing as he was bidden, he padded his hand with a many-times folded swath of rag—which had probably been a robe of some sort at one point—and used it to pluck open the requested oven door. He was already salivating at the thought of the cookies—he couldn’t help it!

He chuckled at the analogy, but his attention was caught by this so-called rumor. Dalibor was certainly a place full of rumors, and drama, and hidden agendas. He had learned this in his first few sevenday of being here. Weird occurances, assassinations, strange bugs—not to mention all of the sport colours. It was interesting to hear that other places had their rumors as well; and that he hadn’t managed to simply wind up at one of the weirder places. ”Feline hunting eh? Dangerous, but I ‘spose wher’s are mighty dangerous as well. I would love to see a full grown wher hunt.” He loved to watch the dragons prey on herdbeasts in the bowl; so his love of large predators was nothing really new—he had simply never seen a wher take down prey. It was probably magnificent.

”No,” he chuckled, lifting a hand to forestall what would probably be a slow descent into some form of anxiety—not all people enjoyed the thought of knife fighting he had found. ”No, knifing is my own private study with a ruffian; not one mandated for Candidates.” He just had to be prepared, yes? Weyrfolk worked their differences out to first blood; and he would not fall behind in studies and then be tried for them. Not Sebolaren. If it was a possibility; then there must be preparation. ”Oh and, in terms of your allergy—don’t make as if to attack Xiro’el.” Word to the wise, as it were—more than he would typically say about the Cyanweyrling, but where Taavi was flighty and boisterous…well: Hopefully Sebol would be the only person the Trader would stab while at Dalibor.

He flashed a bright smile and nodded; of course he would show the lad where to bet if that was his game—he was rather looking forward to betting again himself; though his recent acquisition of money made it a rather frivolous expenditure. His eyes slid sharply back to the shorter man as he stumbled over his words, and the reaction was automatic—he closed one large hand lightly on that smaller shoulder and offered up his best encouraging smile. ”Should’ve seen me when I arrived. Herderboy grown up with animals, but with a Master who hated dragons. Followed a group in to see the Clutching and what’s the first thing my eyes alight on? The largest predatory mother I’ve ever seen—was a shock to me. They teach us mothers of any kind are dangerous much less ones that feed on those whats smaller.”

Fond memories flashed across his eyes, but of course the lad had asked him a question; he gave that shoulder one last squeeze then nodded, ”Aye, there is quite a difference in size between say—an egg that’ll throw a Black, and an egg that’ll throw a Bronze. Some might be no bigger than this breadbox, while others would take up this tabletop. You’ll see for yourself though, they always let us view the eggs from the Stands. Typically the Candidates can Touch them—but here most of the Queens are very protective; so it didn’t happen.” The ruckus from the tray entering the oven broke what would have possibly become a long litany of words, so he simply laughed ”as sane as can be, friend.” The clap on his shoulder was still a surprise, but now that he had initiated his own touch—it didn’t quite scathe.

”Firm studies are important when you Handle a large predator.” He could not say if he agreed with the teaching method, not knowing the situation past rumor, but it was interesting none-the-less. He wondered how he would react to hunting with a beast—hunting with his dragon. He certainly looked forward to sharing kills with the dragon as a symbolic act of bonding, but that was for the future. Red raw meat and all—perhaps that would be his form of blood bonding to the dragon, or perhaps it was something else entirely.

He laughed softly and his large shoulders shrugged, ”I rise well before Rukbat light and finish early; sometimes I barter my chores off to others in turn for freedom. More often than not it is stolen hours out of the day and nothing more.” He was certain it would become significantly less once he had his dragon, but at least he could still talk to friends and classmates—while oiling, rubbing, learning, flying, riding, fighting. Threadfall would certainly cleave the freedom of any rider; and then there were Wing duties, drills—perhaps even someday leading one against Fall, or seconding one. It was an interesting thought that he was free to consider: Now that he was certain of Impression, or as certain as one can be.

He did not respond to the words, though he wondered if the Renegade fight he had only briefly heard about involved dragon-on-Rider fighting, or if it had simply been dragon against dragon; either way—he knew that these dragons were capable of so much more than most people suspected. Of course if the Rider was of sound mind then certainly the dragon would be as well—one controlling the other, complimenting. Except in the case of Flight Lust where one overpowered the other—even then he had heard that dragons were mauled from the skies—even killed. A quirk of a smile fit onto his face as he accepted the proffered chair, straddling it and leaning his chest into the backrest; arms crossed atop: Though he had tucked his back against the oven to leave a path for the kitchenfolk. ”Best advice is to keep your eyes open and stay focused.”

He wondered how much depth he should add to his advice; not wanting to inadvertently scare the Bakerboy off from the possibility of Impression. ”They are babies too stupid to know they shouldn’t maul those who Stand for them, but too smart to ignore any slight they perceive against them—and that slight can be anything from laughter, to a glance, to the colour of their hide.” Wasn’t that the truth, so much death in the face of an off-coloured hide. Senseless. ”Treat them as you would a protective and possibly hostile canine: I wouldn’t advice looking away from a predator, and showing weakness will earn attention. Though it honestly shouldn’t be disastrous,” unless a Red was born. Perhaps this once it would be a sweet, loving Red—ha.

Crawler-sized runnerbeasts indeed, he didn’t know if Daymar would be pleased—or die from fright. He could almost hear it in his head ’now they’ll get inside and trample me while I’m sleeping’ ”Grey dragons are the size of lapcats when born, true they don’t get much larger than a runnerbeast, but it’s amusing. Perhaps one will hatch out this time so we can see it for ourselves.” Hatch out and not be devoured by an angry Red—that would be the real miracle. ”Aye, the females here simply don’t appreciate it; from what I’ve been told—and I’m alike in mind not to fuss about it. The view is better from the Stands anyway—even if you cannot feel the shells.”

He laughed softly and shrugged; ”They are elegant and wonderful, but they are also animals, and predators at that. They have the opinions of people and the minds of beasts; now tell me what would you do if you walked into your kitchen and found all of your baked goods smashed and all of your ingredients trampled? That’s about the world a hatchling will be born into when they hatch late.” Irritable creatures, but adorable none-the-less; as long as they weren’t underestimated. He would rather Taavi over-estimate them. He didn’t hesitate, however, to snag some of the dough up with his own spoon; tasting it experimentally before lapping at it as if it were hard candy: His eyes tinged with pleasure though he did take a moment to compliment the boy.

”I think it is fantastic, and everything I have ever dreamt of cookie dough” and it was. It had a subtly to it that he had not expected, it wasn’t overwhelmingly sweet which was too his liking, but it melted off into it. He probably looked rather ridiculous, but he had never had occasion to partake in sweet foods—his father certainly did not spoil him. ”I believe there are only two Grey’s,” he answered once his initial pleasure had passed and he could simply enjoy every lick and nibble on the dough. ”And no, not often aside from hunting wild whers and other large predators off the fieldlands.”

He had spent a lot of time with a bow doing that, dirty disgusting work, but necessary. ”Runnerbeasts are quite large and somewhat intelligent fourteen-hundred pound animals, however, so it was easy to apply that—and predator knowledge—with body language and communication around the hatchlings. It didn’t help once they were bonded, larger, and friends with me—but at the hatching it worked out just fine.” He took a few more nibbles, but the next question nearly made him pause. Ah hah, just as he had thought—a secret troublemaker. The lad and Xiro would get along swimmingly. Fantastic.

”There is, it runs from the Candidate Barracks to the sands so we can get in with great speed—otherwise it’s the usual entrance for us.” Leave it at that and see what he plans to do with the information.

He was surprised to find his example had been so close to home, but the images that came to mind from Taavi’s talking made him smile brightly; though he did try to contain his laughter to a few polite chuckles. ”Only child, but Apprenticed quite young—and we could get into as much trouble as a team of Herderboys than most siblings; or so I’ve been told.” Although most of that could have been due to the fact that their Master was also his father; but that was neither here nor there—certainly not now after being disavowed. ”Good that you were able to keep your anger in, fine dragon’ll pick you what with that calm attitude.”

He continued at his dough nibbling, swiping more whenever his spoon ran low—why did people even bake this stuff? To him, it tasted better raw than it probably would baked; but at least the cookies would be warm and squishy after they came out. Warm and squishy being preferable food textures to hard and crunchy—at least for Sebolaren. ”Would be happy to have you down at the stables, I’m to be giving a fine young lady riding lessons; you are always welcome to come then and observe. Or, alternatively, you can also take on riding lessons during your spare time. Of course if you’d rather avoid the riding bit all together you can simply stop by and watch me work.”

Whatever he chose, it would be entertaining for Sebol; most Candidates were Herders—so he hadn’t exactly found a reason to introduce people to his Craft, or his borrowed runnerbeast. It seemed like maybe he’d found a new assortment of Searched that hadn’t spent their lives elbow-deep in muck. Of course the young man did reclaim his attention quickly; what with his secretive posture. Well that sealed the deal—that right there. This boy was going to be as much a handful as Xiro. Well. Answer honestly and then, if it progresses, pawn him off on the Trader and wash your hands of it.

”I don’t see why not, what with the Candidates using it when the Hatching starts if they’re late, and as there are no eggs hardening on the sands it’s safe, but I won’t be taking you down there eggs or otherwise—you can do that with the power of your own two feet. Not that I can see why you’d want to. The view from the Stands is far better, and when there are eggs you’re likely to be eaten by their Mother.”