Small Dark Boxes Are Not Cool [Ruin!]

Luckily for him, the entrance of the twins caused enough of a ruckus to hide his own reaction to their mental barrage. He was not a man without fears, but his fears were controlled, and understood, and certain—this terror was not. It was pure, unadulterated, and entirely unexpected. He had been practicing his baking, or attempting to while under the scrutinizing gaze of the kitchenfolk, but he had been succeeding. Partially. Something could be said for his tenacity and willingness to learn; even in the face of a skillset that was so different from the ones with which he was already familiar. Now, however, the bowl which had held his forming materials had slipped from his hands to rock unsteadily against the stone counter tops; spilling contents left and right even as he tried to steady himself against those waves of panic.

They lapped at him like icy cold ocean fingers, and when shaking his head did not clear them he was left no other option than to bring the twins to him with a firm mental voice—bordering on a shout—that broke through their litany of terror. Yet even after this they could not tell him what was occurring, only that it still happened, and something was deeply wrong. And it involved Xiro’el. He scooped the bowl into the sink and begged the womens' forgiveness before excusing himself—to where? He had no idea. Somewhere dark enough to require glows. Somewhere in the Weyr then, unless the man had taken glows to a cave outside, which didn’t seem likely; but where inside? Could be anywhere.

He focused his attention on the flits and tried to impress upon them the urgency of the knowledge he needed. He couldn’t very well help the Cyanweyrling when he had no idea where the man was. Lips pursing into a thin angry line he went in the only direction he could at the moment—the darker cavern corridors. Close to the kitchen and glows were necessary, but why would the Trader even come down here? A sigh rasped from between his lips as he glared at the two Blue firelizards on his shoulder. They gave him several more pitiful wailing croons before leaping from him; disappearing between. Hopefully they would return with more information.

With the two firelizards gone, Sebol did the only thing he could; continue his search without them. Without knowing where he was, where he should be, or where Xiro’el was. He hadn’t even spent much time in these caverns beyond speaking with Kalenna, and the occasional instance of necessity—which was rare indeed. Long legs carried him further into the depths of those corridors, his hands had long since wrangled up a set of glows, and he passed door after door. Each he checked in turn, the glows casting light from his fingertips: Though he brandished them well beneath his line of sight—his saw quite well in the dimness for a human and he didn’t want to foil that clarity by glowblinding himself. Still, every room was empty.

What could the man have done? Had he broken his leg somewhere down in the recesses? Wouldn’t a Wher find him sooner or later? Not that he would give up the search—but certainly if he were laying out somewhere he would be found, right? Why wasn’t he shouting? Why was the Trader so afraid? If it weren’t for that consuming terror the twins would surely be able to guide the man out, or in the very least lead Sebol to him. Thick fingers traced the rough stone edges of the walls as he passed them by; though this was also a precaution against his own stumbles which came frequently In his haste through unfamiliar territory—especially when he could not watch his step for fear of flashing his eyes full of glowlight.

Where were the blasted flits anyway? A knot of uncertainty had formed in the pit of his stomach, a worry that reminded him distinctly of the incident concerning Daymar. But the flits hadn’t been bonded to Daymar, had they? What if the situation was more dire than even Sebol could guess? He steeled his resolve and continued his search. Door, after door, after door. Corridor after corridor. No sign of the Trader. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the flits popped back into existence on top of him. How they could find him and Xiro’el, and still manage to not help them find one another; he did not know, but shards was it infuriating.

Sigard; ever the more stoic of the two, took up his post with a calm that did not match the viscious swirl of those yellow eyes. Avsiran took far longer to find his own perch, and Sebolaren could only feel a deep concern for the two—one which found its way echoed to Tigreath. Stars above where was she, and how was she taking this? Too old to between herself, yes? And not bespeaking him—sleeping then, certainly, otherwise she’d have the entire Weyr awoken to the Trader’s cause. A cold edge of terror crept into the recesses of his heart as—for one moment—he considered the possibility that she’d already gone between and that was the source of all this darkness and pain, but that was pushed away by the image the twins sent to him.

An image he could do absolutely nothing with—save for turn around and head back. He recognized the groupings of that area; most of those corridors were mirrors to each other, so it was somewhere nearer to the Healers quarters than the Wher’s, and probably less frequently patrolled seeing as how those tunnels were caught snug between Bowl and Handler space, but which one? He entered the main branching area and knew that if he wanted to save himself any time at all, he’d need more answers. One hand each was given to flits, caressing them as he soothed them with quiet murmurs. Once more they’d need to work. He set the vivid image into their mind, and formed it into a question with focuses on all the major branches. Which way did you go, Trader?

Patiently, he had waited there, it wouldn’t do to go running off down the incorrect passage and be turned around ill prepared for whatever images the flits brought him, but as soon as Avsiran appeared above his head he set his legs to moving. Brilliant marking it in colour, a trick he hadn’t thought to use himself—but that was for later. Down that corridor he went hastily, one large hand stroking the dark blue firelizard that clung to his tunic: His long stride, general speed, and overall good timing saw him in a cavern with only one other passage—one he recognized from the first image, and which was quickly affirmed by Sigard: The Blue having only just appeared and alighted on his bonded’s shoulder again.

He practically dove headlong into the tunnel, heedless of its dark depths or tightness: True, he certainly wasn’t accustomed to these stone corridors, and he wouldn’t choose them over the open sky, but he had been Hold raised. Xiro’el hadn’t. At once he alighted on a reason for terror that might not be complete destruction; perhaps the man was simply lost, or stuck, or—even if he was injured perhaps it wasn’t any more threatening than a scratch. This darkness would be threatening though. A wry smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he tried to find some comfort in those thoughts, soft croons and murmurs escaping his lips for the benefit of the firelizards who clung to him—shards but this hallway lasted forever. Where was he located in terms of the Weyr proper?

Did it even matter? ”Xiro?” he called; his voice echoed down the long expanse of stone, and his steps hurried to follow the waves of his passing voice; his free hand—free as it was though it still contained the glows—trailed along the side of the stone wall, and onward he walked: Trotted was more like it. It’s entirely possible that he might have missed the storeroom door in his haste, but as it happened he was not given the option: The Trader’s voice responded to his query with his own name, rippling through that stone door in a peculiar way and bouncing down into the depths with its own echo.

Almost immediately the flits abandoned their perches to bombard the Cyanrider with their own happiness, but Sebolaren had other far more pressing matters to attend with; such as why had the man simply not left the storeroom in the first place? He was worried; for one moment, that the door was broken: Forever locked and requiring the smiths to come and destroy it, but when he set his large hands against the latching mechanism it gave way with surprising ease: Splitting the heavy reinforcements apart. Surprised at their weightlessness; doubtless a Smithcraft hinge mechanism, he had probably swept them apart with far more flourish than intended.

While he had expected something, what that was supposed to be was not the Cyanweyrling clinging to him. Of course that had come after he had nearly appeared from between those opening doors as if he’d come from between, still Sebolaren could not deny him a comfort when he felt waves of relief washing against him from the firelizards, and from the man himself if the words pouring out were any indication. An exhale pulled from his lips as he did his best to relax, finally recognizing the worry he had felt for this entire situation and allowing it to dissipate; one large arm wrapping around those slender shoulders in comfort: His own eyes searched the dimly glow-lit storeroom while the man spoke.

”Do you think someone closed it as a joke?” He didn’t bother hiding the barbs in his voice over that one, he knew the Tanweyrling would never risk a dragon to between, but that didn’t rule out the possibility of some lessor drudge or Wher Candidate having a good laugh: Sebol did not approve of laughs. Not at all. His eyes had caught the movement of worried hands upon flesh and he chuckled softly. ”Tried to open it with yourself, did you? I hope there’s no lasting damage. You’re safe now, and what’s better—I can go in there and fetch the oil you need, then we can make our way back to open air, aye?”

”I’ll always come to get you.” That promise was simple, quiet, and every line of his body and unhidden honesty in his eyes proved it true. Dangerously so. Yet he would not call those words back to his mouth, nor mar the seriousness of them with a smile—although he wanted to, knowing that the meaning behind them would not be lost on the Trader; rattled as he was. Or maybe they would be, but he doubted it. What self-respecting Holdless man missed a turn-of-phrase? None who wanted to live a long life or have a full belly that was certain. Having been placated in his concern that he would need to hunt someone down and drag them before the Weyrleaders, he was content to play along with the man and answer his questions.

Sigard had joined his brother—though on Xiro’el’s opposite shoulder, and the two were thoroughly contenting themselves with ensuring their human was safe, sound, loved, and in one piece. If only Daymar liked firelizards perhaps he’d be better off after his trip into the river, or any other sort of traumatic experience that he’d stumble in to—willingly of course. ”I was attempting to bake, it probably wouldn’t have turned out proper anyway, and I’m sure the kitchenfolk were glad to see me go. Only a small mess in my wake; which I’m sure they remedied. You honestly caused no problem. I was worried about you, thought maybe you’d broken something. Feel free to fetch me next time you need to go hunting about in the storerooms; it’s like a terrible maze down there.”

He’d certainly want to be on the buddy system if he ever had a reason to go inside, but he’d probably be steering quite clear after this. Only the worry for the Trader had kept his own nerves from fraying; it wasn’t as if exceptionally large men enjoyed shoving themselves into exceptionally tiny spaces—not ones who had grown up surrounded by runner legs, dew-covered grass, and with nothing above but a blanket of star flecked sky. No; while the Weyr did not bother him, those stone corridors certainly did. Certainly not as much as they bothered the Trader, however.

The trademark grin was bright at those words, and he laughed softly. ”I believe I’d still be as well if not for Taavi. Speaking of which, have you met him yet? Gave him a flitter egg—I feel it’ll become my newest project here at the Weyr: Sebolaren the Flit Finder. Yes. At any rate: You two will get along swimmingly—like shipfish. Exactly like them actually.” Much to the destruction of the Weyr he was sure. ”Bakercraft lad, so decided to teach me, never know when I might need to feed myself of my own cooking—you know, should I have to leave the Weyr for any reason. Such as rescue missions, or sweep riding, or Searching. Things like that.” His words trailed off into a quiet smugness.

Although it did fade when he realized the Trader was shaken enough to swear off all lower cavern activity, but he supposed there wouldn’t be much of a reason for a Dragonrider to quest down into those depths anyway, and regardless—that was something Xiro’el would need to overcome himself: If he so chose. ”Of course they didn’t mean it, probably have to keep the place shut tight to ward off tunnelsnakes. Maybe the door needs oiling so it opens from the inside—I’ll mention it to someone. No use leaving it as an accident to happen again.” He stopped himself before asking the Trader what might have happened if not for the flits—no reason to send him into a fit considering that one.

They did in fact have the twins, two wonderful boys who looked to them both and had already proven themselves worth the trouble time and time again.

”The better question, Tradermine, is what projects haven’t I started: Sewing would be one of them.” A bright, cheerful grin split his mouth as he shrugged. He was a man on a mission at this point; Impress and serve a duty for the Weyr. Of course the Trader would have no sense of this; being that he was still planning on running away when the possibility arose, but there was still time to prevent that. ”He’s about your height, brown hair that’s messy and quite…everywhere…and he prefers to go shirtless if I heard him right. Can’t miss him, and unfortunately you won’t want to—I foresee the two of you causing this Weyr a great deal of trouble.” Perhaps if he made another friend of similar constitution who did not have designs to flee, he’d be compelled to stay put.

”It wouldn’t be hard, and we’ll get the word out; they’ll check from now on. No one will find themselves shut into a storeroom” those words he meant with a decisive certainty: Someone would hear about this; as small an issue as it seemed—without the twins (and in this case, a dragon as well) it could have been an undetermined amount of time before someone trapped down there would be found. That was inexcusable; couldn’t have people being shut into storerooms within the bowels of the tunnels. ”I’ll deal with it, worry not, friend.”

Grey eyes tinged with mirth watched the flighty man pace back and forth, and when those slender legs carried him away it was with enough forewarning that Sebol was able to fall into step beside him easily; clumsy though he may be at all the wrong times, at least he could keep up with folk. At least at a walk. ”Lead the way.” Not that the man seemed like he’d be stopping.

His responses came after they had set off across the Bowl, actually his first comment was in response to a question he had heard, but filed away to answer other questions first. ”I can throw meat on a fire and char it, but that isn’t exactly respectable cooking—couldn’t feed a family on that. I sort of just chew on the half-bleeding cut until my stomach is full: Or as close as it can get.” Speaking of which, that sounded amazing now that he mentioned it; food—he’d have to get some of that at some point, but only after he was sure the man was better off.

”You are the specialty of trouble; you beget it. Like a shipfish.” He quoted a previous conversation with a certain Wher Candidate, not that they’d actually managed to see shipfish yet, but damned he if wasn’t certain Xiro’el would get along…well…for lack of a better term—swimmingly. He followed along quietly enough as they settled in, and when they reached the lake—and that often used rock—he simply smiled and clambered up to stand beside the Trader; his own eyes turning out across the placid expanse of water. ”You know; the last time I was on this rock, I fell off of it,” and with no further prompting he gave the man a firm; if surprisingly gentle, shove off of the rock.

”No, I would eat constantly and see if being full was an actual possibility or a lie perpetuated by everyone I have ever met.” Like his father, fellow apprentices, holders, the cooks who chased him out. He believed it was an absolute lie—there was no full. Maybe if he worked less; not that he would ever consider that as an option, but maybe if he were some sort of perpetually lazy person he wouldn’t feel the urge to fill himself over and over again.

The question over his previous question made him grin more brightly. ”I was trying to dissuade him from killing Daymar of course, so I went with the strangest question I could think of at the time. Which ended up being a mix of shipfish and sexuality. Go figure.” Hadn’t worked either, at least not the question: Edison had taken it all in stride. Of course he didn’t have any time to further contemplate this what with his devious plan to help Xiro’el forget he’d been locked inside a storeroom for possibly two hours.

”I know,” he said, his eyes becoming immediately sorrowful and his expression going slack with guilt—which didn’t last long: A grin swept away that mock angst and replaced it with smug brilliance. ”I am funnier.”

The twins had been far from pleased to find their perch suddenly pushed out from under them, and then submerged. They certainly didn’t want to be doused in the somewhat chill water which was slowly dropping in temperature as they grew nearer to the cold months. So instead they flashed between as the Cyanweyrling fell, and reappeared about Sebol to scold him loudly while he bantered playfully with the Trader. Of course, somewhere, the ex-Herder knew it was a dangerous sort of game to play; teasing a Tradesman, but he also knew that a joke could not be played if the hand was already forced.

He was very good at forcing. So without further ado, he threw himself into the lake after the Cyanweyrling; making sure to spread his huge body enough that he could swamp the smaller man in his entrance splash and subsequent tidal wave. The water was chill, but from someone who had spent plenty of time doing winter water rescues in the river that ran past Ruatha—not to mention the forced winter survival training that all Herdercraft Apprentices underwent—this may as well have been a hotspring; though it did recall him to the distant memory of a night swim where he met Delilah.

Breaking the surface with a happy exhale; he began to swim lazy circles around the Trader. Having long since gotten used to the added weight of being fully clothed in water, the trailing fabric did not impede him: If he could oceanswim then the lake was certainly no trouble. ”I always have a plan, Tradermine, always.”

The flash of brilliant sky-blue mixed with sea-foam green was both a surprise, and yet not—so much not. Tigreath would always find a way to involve herself in everything and if it could be said that Sebolaren had a plan to go with every action; Tigreath certainly was all action and no plan—not even a hint of plan. Not even a thought for a hint of a plan. As soon as he caught sight of her flesh moving toward the edge of that rock ledge he kicked off in the water to gain as much distance from the beast as he could: This action was helped along by the wave caused by that nearly twenty foot form plowing into the water like a boulder.

Of course even then he wasn’t safe; her mindscream had stunned him momentarily and this had given her plenty of time to zone in on him—as a target—he heard his moniker warbled verbally even as it caressed his mind like a hammer mentally: And here she came. But she missed! By some great star above the giant overgrown child had missed her mark; yet he knew as sure as Rukbat rose that Xiro’el was somewhere beneath those flailing sails—hopefully safe.

Hopefully; but why would anything be safe. If he had learned anything in his time at Dalibor it was that his friends and water did not mix. His friends and anything did not mix. The whole lot of them were likely to be consumed by Thread before they even Rose in a Wing to fight it—just through sheer dumb luck. Dumb horrible luck. He turned on himself; legs kicking beneath the lake, and he started casting off in the direction of that dragon and her currently lost Rider, but he didn’t get far before her hesitant chirp and following mindtouch brought him up short.

Short before sending him off again. He dragged in lungfuls of air and then dove beneath the surface of where that triangular head had pointed, and luckily she was smart enough to follow him down—though more like she was just curious and wanted to witness the going’s ons. Regardless her head was beside him and was moving somewhat faster, so he grabbed on to that pointed muzzle and used it to propel him further through the murky depths—through and to the Trader who was clawing at the rocks which had caught him.

Caught his trailing clothing apparently. And of course being that he was both vain and dim he was attempting to save himself by dislodging rocks which had been wedged there for turns. He would have rolled his eyes if he’d had time to spare for it; instead he pushed himself away from that cyan snout and ran into the Tradesman from behind. Avoiding any protest the smaller man might have made by simply acting, he pulled his knife from its sheath against his back and cut the sash free. Gathering himself like a dragon fit to take off; he pushed off the bottom of the lakebed and dragged the Cyanweyrling with him: One large arm wrapped around that slender waist.

Once their heads had broken the surface of the lake he exhaled sharply to clear his lips of water, and though he wanted to be serious—he could not, not in the face of the absolute anger in Xiro’el’s eyes. So he laughed; his hand lifting from the lake-water still wrapped around the hilt of his dagger—a colourful strip of cloth hanging from it limply. ”Beget trouble indeed!”

Oh yes, the Trader was quite angry, and for some reason this only entertained Sebol further, not that he didn’t feel bad, but the man really did find himself in far too much trouble—constantly, and at least the thought of the dark constricting room was far away now. The ex-Herder watched the younger man swim sullenly away, and did his best to maintain a somewhat serious expression; of course he couldn’t have anticipated what was coming next. Tigreath rarely used her wings in congruence with a human, and she certainly had never attempted to pick him up.

He had to admit that being bodily moved was a somewhat foreign feeling; sure runners could pull you off balance, but only if you let them—or they could nudge you out of the way, but this was different. He felt those forearms wrap around him and his mirth was washed away by surprised, which was quickly replaced with mirth again—he couldn’t be afraid of this overgrown catdragon, but he had no idea what she was attempting to accomplish.

He felt her reposition those muscled cyan legs against the lakebed and then he was mostly dangling above open water, his torso pressed against those powerfully muscled forearms while his back was fit snugly to her chest; distinctly he could feel the beat of her heart and the tightness that spread through those forequarters when she breathed. For one long moment he was lost in that intimacy; which was probably not the expected reaction, but he gave himself over to that wonder. He couldn’t wait to Stand all the more, to hear his own dragon’s heart beating so close. Powerful chest and wings.

Xiro’el’s words brought him back to the moment and he tried to erect a smug brilliance over a face that was probably lost in the beauty of the moment. ”Tigreath, how can you gather up your Mine with your arms so full? This is why men sit astride dragon’s necks. You aren’t very dangerous with your hands full now are you?”