Penance [Open]

[tarra]

The soft light of day waned with the passing moments, casting reflections of light over waters shimmery beneath the pale winter sky. At ease on the sandy sunning beach, surrounded by coils of fresh-made riding straps, brushes and an empty oil bucket, Ar'ren sat with his hands full of wood and steel. The air was cold, exceptionally so for this time of the turn (or so he'd heard); but the cold held little comparison to the frigid, bitter chill of Fort, and so he hardly felt it even with only a cloak about his shoulders for warmth.

Having spent the afternoon with strap-making and general dragon care, he was now concluding it with exercising his (rather limited) bow-making skills, aided by a stake of oakwood chosen several days before and a small carving knife. Sunlight slipped over his hands as he worked, drawing out bumps and calluses generally hidden in the curves of his fingers and palms. He paused, once, to look again at the growing wrinkles on the back of his hands, brown eyes darkening. But no words escaped to express his thoughts, and with a sigh he went back to the whittling in the dying rays of the sun.

A turn had passed since he first came (or crashed, rather) into his life at Selenitas, but he would lie if he said he felt he belonged. There would always be enmity, or uncertainty at best, between two persons who had once danced death with the other's demise in mind, and he understood fully how the local riders must have felt (and still feel) at having to receive a former enemy into their midst. Shards, even turncoats would have an easier time fitting in than he - they had chosen their path, but he had had his made for him.

I disagree, came the dry voice of the one who shared his mind, I actually believe we are becoming fixtures here. They accept us more, day by day. They owe us, in fact, if you consider it point by point. We gave them invaluable information, we teach them skills they urgently need where they would learn, we would fight for them, we're at their disposal. Even the burning of their wooden structures seems to have done them good - I had never seen a Weyr so exposed to attack, but improvements have been made since then.

Ar'ren smiled, long and wry, at the light-coloured brown lounging nearby. Ysaloth, freshly oiled, had positioned his spread wings to catch the paling hues of sunlight; they almost glowed despite the dimming day. His rider notched another sliver of wood from the oak, and shook his head.

That would be the day, indeed. No, Loft, they have only taken what's their due. All that's left is for us to make our penance as best we may. That's the best way forward, and we'll take it. At least A'emi seems to be settling in, anyway. I just hope...I just hope Lelian's doing well too. Wherever she may be now.

[Rowana]

A walk was sometimes the best time to think. Roivao enjoyed sunset especially. It was the beginning of his day now, and one of the only times he was actually awake to see the sun. It was unusual for Roi to be out without one or more of his bondeds, but Roisk and Tiida were still sleeping. Puddleglum was awake, but he was off doing whatever it was he did during the day. For once, Roi was alone. A couple years ago, this might have led to a deepening depression, but he was more confident now. At least when he was alone he wouldn't have to worry Roisk with sad thoughts of home. It hadn't been all bad, after all.

The dragon came into view first and Roi almost turned around. Dragons still made him uncomfortable, and this wasn't Kaaoloth. Still, he did look for familiar. Curiosity getting the better of him, Roi sighed and walked forward. Someone had had a busy afternoon, it seemed. The straps were in good repair and the brown practically shown with health. The rider was also familiar, but Roi's memory of the old days still wasn't at its best. He was definitely from Fort, though, Roi was sure of that.

Not very talkative at the best of times, Roi watched the other work in silence for a few moments. The man was sure to have noticed him by now, so it would probably be rude to say nothing. "It's a good bow," Roi said simply, nodding at the work. He glanced up at the sky to watch the sun for a moment, his eyes getting distance and sad. "How do you like Southern sunsets? It's different without the mountains."

[tarra]

Ysaloth was the first to see the approaching wher-handler, mild eyes whirling a pale shade of contented blue as he sent his rider a pulse of alert. Ar'ren acknowledged it with a mental touch of his own, but gave no further indication in his actions that he'd noticed Roivao. There had been no alarm in his brown's notification, and for all he knew the man might simply be passing by. A second pulse came when he stopped to watch the brownrider work, and he angled his position slightly by turning on his limbs (as if he were stretching discomfort out of them from sitting too long) to keep the wher-handler on the periphery of his vision. Ysaloth, openly watching the man with no little curiosity, spoke.

A wher-handler.

The whermaster, Ar'ren corrected, dropping another sliver of wood onto the sand. In the turn he had been here, he had taught himself to recognize all the major personages of Selenitas, if by their appearance only. Names still eluded him for some of them, but he could identify most of them on sight. The whermaster, however, had unsettled Ar'ren more than once on sight - he knew this man, could somewhat remember him as being a rider within Fort's Wings. The colour of his (previous) dragon eluded him, but the dim recollection of his presence back then remained. And the fact that he was obviously dragonless now forbid further enquiry - no dragonless liked being questioned about his lost mindmate.

"It's a good bow."

Ar'ren raised his head at the words, calm eyes surveying the speaker. Yes, now that he was examining his features directly, there was no doubt this man had once been a Fortian rider. He nodded his appreciation of the comment, noting the sadness that flashed over the other's features.

"How do you like Southern sunsets? It's different without the mountains."

He nodded, "Very. Can't say I'm very used to them yet, but they have their own beauty."

He took two more notches at his half-formed bow, "Ar'ren, of brown Ysaloth, by the way. Care to take a seat?"

[Rowana]

Roivao nodded, glancing over to see the darkening sky. It felt good to speak with someone about his former home, if only briefly. It was hard to think about it, but that didn't mean he didn't miss it. He'd lived his whole life in that place and now he would never go back. Parts of him were glad. The memories were too painful to relive, but the rest of him missed the mountains, the lakes, and the winter storms. It wasn't like he could just pretend that part of his life had never happened.

"R'vao, of..." he stopped short and swallowed. He'd been so lost in the past he'd nearly used his old name. Ar'ren's name he did recognize a little. He'd been a weyrbrat as well, a few years younger. He'd also impressed a few years behind, but Roi wasn't quite sure how many. They might have served on the same wing for a time, but it was hard to be sure. Roi was still a little fuzzy when it came to people he'd known and he hadn't had that many close friends. Friendship had been hard to come by in those times.

"Roivao, of Bronze Roisk," Roi finished. He took the offer, and sat with his knees partly bent in front of him. He'd thought about offering his hand, but Ar'ren was clearly still busy with his bow making. Roi watched the sun for another moment, trying to think of what to say. Teaching had helped talking with people, but Ar'ren was from Fort. Somehow, that made it harder. "Do you miss it?" He didn't specifically say Fort, but his meaning was fairly clear.

[tarra]

He has aged, Ysaloth's voice crept unbidden into his mind, echoing his own thoughts. The man before him looked older, wearier, worn - the turns, it was certain, had not been kind to him. He had nearly raised a brow when Roivao slipped up and mentioned the name he must have carried once as a rider. But he had caught himself just in time. The poor fellow hardly needed another reminder of what he had lost, and Ar'ren was not about to give one to him. Though he was a Fortian born and bred, he had never participated in any executions, whether those of riders or dragons; and hardened though his perspectives were, the trade of dragonless saves always brought a sour taste to his mouth whenever his mind ventured onto it. He could only imagine what Roivao must have come through to arrive in the South, and in a Weyr of all places too. He was not too certain he would hve come back to one if he ever lost Ysaloth.

Faranth forbid, said the brown, shuffling his wings to catch more of the fading sun. Ar'ren cast an affectionate glance at his stoic form, and smiled.

"Roivao, of Bronze Roisk," the other man clarified himself as he dropped into a seat alongside. Ar'ren nodded an acknowledgement as he continued to whittle , his gaze turned so that he could keep both the bow and the wherhandler in his sights at the same time. No matter what he had been through, the former rider had clearly made good on his life. Unlike some of his kind, the brownrider saw little reason to despise whers or their handlers. They were important in their own ways, and the contributions they made to any setting were unique and generally invaluable.

Turning his bow over to examine it, he felt the tension in his arms drain away as the wood slipped limpid between precise fingers. Amusement flared in him as he realized he had been tense from the moment he saw an approaching other, another Weyr inhabitant out to taunt him or give him the cold shoulder. The thought of Roivao, formerly R'vao, and altogether not such a person, was utterly calming. For a moment he almost fancied himself in Fort again. Minus the general atmosphere of fear the northern Weyr always had, of course.

"Do you miss it?"

Roivao's voice brought his head around, and the dim smile tracing his features widened. There was never doubt in his mind of what the wherhandler meant, and cautious though he was by nature, his reply lacked the straight and stern dictation that generally characterized it.

"...Somewhat."

He was silent a moment, gathering his thoughts as he watched the rider drift by, "It's strange. I've been here a turn, and I still miss it. It's true the South is kinder, mostly to its own but still...and you know you're being treated well, cared for and looked after. And yet, it's like you always feel you'll belong ...somewhere else"

He was quiet again, leaving a space for Roivao to fill if he should so choose. The unspoken question hung in the air: did the wherhandler feel that way too about Fort, and Selenitas? Or was his heart now with Selenitas, and nowhere else?