Routine [Open]

The taste of morning sinking through his nostrils and over his tongue had always pleased him in a deeply personal way—the majority of his life had been spent either rising well before Rukbat, or ignoring its passage entirely: Watch never slept unless in shifts, and shifts would change when necessary. Perhaps if he hadn’t been Apprenticed so early, mornings would have held only the bitterness of waking—as they did for most Holderbred, but that was not the case for Sebolaren—and never would be. This day saw him in the stables well before light heralded its arrival by turning the morning a smoky grey; inside those stone walls he was mostly oblivious to the shift in colours that announced not only Rukbat, but the Red Star herself.

A handful of sevendays was all that remained to separate the people of Pern from the reality of Threadfall; a reality that had been a distant consideration for the generations previous and was soon to be the only consideration of those who were alive. His was the quiet solemnity of a man waiting to watch his friends rise to meet Fall, at least until he too was preparing fragile dragon’s wings to flame the sky. Yet even these, his quiet thoughts, could not distract him from the task at hand. Any day now would see the start of Reylia’s riding lessons, and Sebol wanted to ensure Requias' moons of being ridden free of tack had not gone to her head: She stood before him illuminated by the quiet glowlight, and highlighted by the pre-dawn morning as it chased away night’s shadows.

Groomed thoroughly, she now sported her saddle and pad, cinchstrap and chestband, and even a bridle: Reylia would not have the experience to use Sebolaren’s bitline, and doubtless it would only cause the mare harm; however he had decided to use a bitless bridle assembly. It would give the woman the illusion of a bit without ruining Requias’ mouth should Reylia prove heavy-handed: The mare needed no such metal anyway. Before they departed, he loosed the stirrups from their tied position; allowing them to droop and knock against her barrel would tell Sebol everything he wanted to know regarding her tolerance. One last check to ensure every line was secure, and that the reins were knotted and hooked around the pommel where she couldn’t step on them, then he gave her the quiet command to follow—taking his leave for the Bowl with her in tow.

More a canine than runner, she ambled alongside him; her head beside his shoulder with a relaxed droopiness—though one cocked ear never left his position. Of course the only actual beast feeling she had concerning all of this was that it was quite early, and she would have much rather been dozing than working, but she was far too amiable to fuss: This gave Sebol the chance to cast a glance to their surroundings, and his eyes settled on another pair making their way out into the wide expanse made to hold Wings not runners: They looked so serene; slender girl with hair to match the dark points on her young filly, but if he had intended not to disturb their moment—he had lost his chance.

Between the jangle of Requias’ harness, and his own words; not to mention the sound of their movement; they were well and truly exposed: So rather than feign ignorance, stupidity, or simply be rude, he fell into step alongside her, leaving space between them enough for two runners. Two humans flanked on the outside by their beasts and walking through the grey morning with no discernable destination in mind—It pleased him. That set his heart to a lighter tone than usual; so-much-so that instead of maintaining his typical quietude, he chose to break the morning silence with a quiet salutation, ”morning.”

He offered a soft smile for the return greeting, but the woman made no further motion for conversation; so neither did he. Perhaps she was happier with silence, or perhaps she was quietly considering if it was best to bid him go or suffer through his being there—either way; Sebolaren was not a man of many words to begin with, even less when there was the possibility he had interrupted something private. He continued on with that which he was here to do; still maintaining his distance, and yet also keeping at pace, with the girl.

Requias had not made a move to leave his shoulder even though she returned the nicker to the filly gamely; Sebol found himself quietly pleased: Certainly she should not be reclusive, but also should never be inattentive to her rider. He turned his head to watch her as she moved, eyes scanning for any sign that she was avoiding the leather that wrapped around her—or reacting badly to the stirrups that lightly bounced into her chest and forelegs. So far she showed absolutely no indication of discontent even if her absolute freedom had been taken from her. Perhaps she would be satisfied as long as she had no metal bit in her mouth.

The walk was a good idea anyway; her lessons under Reylia would be exercise enough without additional time beyond the Weyrwalls on those days, so a morning stretch and warm-up would be healthy; especially what with her middle-age years. Not that she suffered any apparent lack of energy or motivation—she was well aged. Like a bottle of Benden—oh how he would miss the stuff should he Impress. Content, for now, that the grey mare was going to remain quiet, his gaze returned forward: He had no hair with which to hide a sidelong glance, so he simply did not take one. Everything he could however glean from his periphery of his vision was mulled over quietly.

His eyes followed the movement of her hand and, while he showed no outward signs of recognition or even mirth, inwardly he had a smile bright as the dawn above. Perhaps he would require further proof to be certain, but no simple Holdbred would sell the sky to him in such a way. He certainly was acquiring a group of them here unlike any he’d had at Ruatha—a fact that was wholly unexpected. How could he have known that the Holdless would consign themselves to stone walls and a duty that went beyond themselves and their kin? It was truly an unexpected delight. Of course the act of Searching had exiled most of them, those that were not already Oathbreakers, but it had been their choice, in the end, yes? Regardless, he was not going to simply offend the woman by assuming; especially when if she was a holder lady it would be a slight against her person.

”Aye, lovely indeed; although different from the mornings of my home. Here the wind tastes of ocean salt, rather than mountain dew swept down across fast grassland.” There were days even now that the tang of the sea rang too true in the dawn; these were the days he missed the quietude of home. There the blankets of mist would settle low into the edges of the long valleys and sweep across the plains, runners bathed in wispy white, and refracted light painted the world colours that weren’t possible. Here, however, it went from false dawn to true dawn with little preamble—all that protected the Weyr from Rukbat’s rays was the smallest edge of the Western Continent: Then it was a vast reflecting metal of endless ocean waves.

Her query caused his eyes to dance across the mare before returning to her own; a bright trademark grin replacing his simple smile. ”Requias; borrowed, but well-trained.” He gave the filly beside the woman a more appraising look, his eyes scanning across her beastflesh with a thoroughness that had been trained into him over the turns. ”Your filly is lovely, Keroonian Traderstock in her? Weaned young in their ways I assume.” She would grow into a lovely worker, and he found himself wondering if the woman worked her, and at which method, but questioning a person’s training methods was—in many ways—worse than offending how a woman mothered her children: So he would avoid the topic until it was brought up, and then approach it with curiosity—and respect.

If he had caught the annoyance in her face, which he had, his own bespoke it not; he had no intention of spoiling a perfectly fine morning, and meeting, on thoughts that would ignore the woman who walked alongside. Of course it had been a curious thing to annoy her—weather—and he couldn’t rightly puzzle out why it had occurred. Perhaps she was from Southern and despised the Northern Traders, could be anything, really—so why make assumptions. He tucked that curious look within his mind and instead allowed that grin of his to persist; hand reaching to give the grey mare beside him an affectionate pat on the neck.

”Actually she’s being tested. Her owner is a Dragonrider, and I bartered her services for bubbly pies. You can take the Herder from his runners, but not the runners from the Herder unfortunately. She’s been ridden tackless since early summer, but I’m to start teaching a new Candidate; so I’m ensuring she hasn’t picked up a dislike for the wherhide. Wouldn’t do to have her shying from the saddle and unseating the girl.” A chuckle rolled from him softly and he nodded to the woman as she replied to his own query. ”They grow on you, even if you had no intention of it. Smarter than they look, and affectionate.”

Of course there would be no question in the stock he would buy when given the chance to train his own runner; he would be loyal to the Ruathan bloodlines far beyond his broken loyalties to his father and Craft. Bred to be willing, agile, intelligent, and fast—the things that could be done with them. Still; he could appreciate the breeding of Pern’s runners as a whole, was there really any of them that he wouldn’t work with willingly?

A nod of his head was an affirmation to her reiteration of his response. Tested indeed, and the mare was doing spectacularly; not that he had doubted it. Well, most of him hadn’t doubted it, but she had been allowed her freedom quite a bit. Je’kyll was far too good a man to have trained her improperly; of course she was a pliant tool in the hands of a person familiar with runners. ”She knows how, I suppose, but she was raised a Lady in a Hold, daughter of the Steward, and there they believed that only sidesaddle would do.” He snorted softly at that; sidesaddle indeed, and then when something spooked the beast, or something occurred that had not been planned.

Well, then they’d see how good sidesaddle was for the rider. Sidesaddle indeed. ”So I’ll be re-training her. May as well be entirely new to it for how different it’ll be, but necessary. You’re never more connected to an animal than when you sit astride it, be that creature runner or dragon.” Of course, using Requias as a schooling beast might be a bit of cheating, but hopefully the mare would know the difference between a seasoned rider and one that was green. Sometimes the grey was a bit too easy to sit.

”Runners can be well trained to work under any form of harness, and as the rider’s skill increases even more tack can be left on the sidelines. Requias works bare save for a modified head harness of my own design; and while even that is not necessary for her—there are reasons to retain some physical control between the rider and the mouth. Of course there is absolutely nothing wrong with a runner who is a friend: Never ridden, but enjoyed. That is, of course, if a Trader can forgive an animal who does not earn its keep.”

The smile he had at those words was proof enough that he meant them, but in a way that bespoke understanding. He knew the dangers of the road; at least in practice, and understood the costs—an animal who couldn’t work was a burden, pets were for pampered Holderbred. ”Sebolaren,” the words matched his hand as it extended to the woman palm-up. ”Though most call me Sebol—I take that back, everyone calls me Sebol. Dragon Candidate, are you as well?”

The smile that spread across his face at not only her agreement, but obvious knowledge of beasts, was genuine. Not that Dalibor lacked for Herders, Traders, or other folk of the same bearing, but any man of the craft could appreciate a like-minded individual. Of course Requias was not so well-mannered that she was above demanding attention of her own: Upon seeing the scratches lavished upon Cake she threw her large rectangular head against Sebol’s chest and rubbed her poll against him furiously. Laughing he grabbed her prehensile upper lip between his fingers and wiggled it; luckily he was a large man—he might have been thrown to the ground otherwise.

”Aye, that’s what I expect. Especially what with bareback riding: Dragons have no saddles, stirrups, or otherwise.” Of course he’d only been astride one, and it seemed ages ago now, but that one time had been enough to sell him on dragonriding. Glorious. In some ways it was unfortunate that his Impression would coincide with Threadfall—to be a Dragonman during a Pass; free to fly—well if it weren’t for the intrigues that seemed to plague Dalibor’s history. Still; there would be infinitely less freedom while worrying about where Fall would occur.

”She’s got the conformation for hard work; not that I’m saying you’d be putting her to it, just that you can tell her breeding is more for pulling than say, racing. She’d do well under harness; and it would probably be a joy to train her even if she never draws a wagon. Though you could always train her and entertain the crèche children.” Chuckling softly he shrugged at his own suggestion; he was good with children, but he wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of them, and rarely did he expect that other people were—still; he had meant what he said, she was a beautiful mare. ”Well met,” he echoed squeezing her hand; pleased to find them calloused with work.

”They do at that, and they’re hard work to maintain I’ve been told. I’ve built a lot of harnesses and equipment for the runners over the turns, so I’ve started to adapt that knowledge into flight leathers: Practice early, work hard—tends to be my motto for things.” There would, of course, be differences, and many of the harnesses he had already finished would be unusable—he also would need to know what size he could expect his dragon to be. All of this required time, and waiting, and Impression. None of those hang-ups convinced him that he shouldn’t spend ample time with his leatherworking.

”Children love runners, I’m sure she would be fantastic with them, and you’d be a new favourite among the little ones.” Not entirely sure how much time the crèche children had for the animals, he could only base his judgments on how thrilled he would have been to receive runner-rides at a young age—if he hadn’t been practically born into a saddle. Of course there were probably children like Daymar who would flee in absolute terror, but certainly those children would be few and far between, yes?

”Aye, I can do that. There’s also a Herdcrafter with Leatherworking experience based here from Keroon—name is Alennar. He’s been helping me on the more advanced aspects of strap-making such as seaming hide together in such a way as to not have it snap under your weight in mid-air.” Truth be told he would love to teach another about harnesses and strap-making, it would strengthen his own knowledge, expand his experience, renew his work with fresh blood, and serve to keep him busy. However he would not pretend to know everything, so it was always best to supply another teacher—in this case the Journeyman—and if she so chose they could work together with him to—well—tan all of the knowledge.

”Well, if there’s a Red hatchling I’d expect a lot of blood, ichor, and possibly death. Otherwise we might get away with an ornery green who only cripples and maims.” She seemed a woman who could take the straight talk—any Trader could, predators, death, wounds—those were facts of the road. ”Not to say it’ll be horrible, it’s an amazing experience, but keep in mind any training you’ve had against fighting off wild whers or other such large predators while Trading. Dragons maybe be smart—older—but they’re still eggwet, new-to-the-world predators. S’why they won’t let any stand who are injured, the beasts might find them easy prey.”

Recognizing the cautious look Adaline gave the dragons, Sebolaren gave her an encouraging smile as his eyes flashed briefly to the sedate mare who puttered on by his side with her head down and eyes half-lidded. "She'll grow used to the dragons eventually."