Chapter Text
"Blue"
There was nothing like training Weyrlings to strengthen old arms. Just the one sack left now, and C'gan had a feeling that Tagath wouldn't want him to throw this one to someone else.
We can fight! They need us!
He chuckled, and threw a hefty rock towards Tagath's gaping maw. A few more, and he'd build up a good flame.
The blue slowly wheeled back towards the leading edge, steady wingstrokes lifting them upwards towards the fighting wings, chaos, and the brutal realities of age. Thread fell too fast for Tagath's flame, or C'gan's reactions.
Too late, they jumped between.
"Food"
Jora sat in her weyr, alone, bored out of her mind. She could start on another piece of tapestry, she supposed, but that meant descending the steep steps out of her weyr, and there was no-one to walk with her. She could call someone up, but why bother? To be sneered at unsympathetically, or to hear some snide comment about her waistline?
No, she'd stay put today. And at least she had her darling Nemorth with her. Nemorth, who would never leave her side, or insist on terrifying her. Jora smiled at her queen, and reached for another sweet pastry.
"Broken"
There were too many candidates in Benden Weyr. Soon, the dragons would break shell to choose their lifemates. Eight times, he'd seen it. He was so afraid that this time would be no different. He was better than all these babes... wasn't he?
Beterli watched in sickened fascination as the boy fell slowly backwards over the barrow, still clinging on to his shovel. His head struck its rim, then the whole thing toppled, blackrock and metal clattering noisily onto the ground. Almost loud enough to mask the sound of breaking bones, but not quite.
It was the sound of dreams breaking.
"Light"
K'van stands proudly, free of his crutches at last. He's still the smallest in the class and has a lot of catching up to do, but he's determined to do just as well as the others in today's drill.
The Weyrlingmaster beckons him forward, and gestures for another lad to pick up the waiting sack of firestone. It's barely enough for a green, but it looks pretty big from K'van's perspective, and even bigger and heavier as it hurtles through the air towards him.
A sack that size ought to feel light, easy... but he wonders if it ever will.
"New Year"
Benden’s annual Turnover festivities were in full swing, but for some reason F’lessan simply wasn’t enjoying himself. Well… if he
thought
about it, there were several reasons— all of them female. The ones he
wanted
to dance with were treating him like a tunnelsnake, while the ones he
didn’t
kept appearing at the most inopportune moments. Remembering an old argument, he reached out to his dragon.
Golanth, tell me Mirrim wasn’t right? Please?
About your reputation?
What else?
Dryly, Golanth reminded him that Turnover was the traditional time for turning over new leaves, and that perhaps he should consider it...