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Post by tarra on Apr 15, 2010 11:03:16 GMT -5
The Sands were warm, warmer than he'd remembered, and he winced in spite of his boots. Someone cursed vividly at his shoulder, causing the Candidate Master to turn with a frown. Arlendiren ceased his shuffling as the older man's gaze glared sternly at the boy behind. Gos'far, it was said, had the ears of a feline and could always pick out the boy who'd mis-spoken no matter how tight-knit the crowd; a fact for which Arlendiren was grateful now, seeing how easily it could have been mistaken for him. There would be no cursing in the Weyrwoman's presence, and miscreants could be bared from even entering the place at all. The candidates knew that as well as their Master did, and no one wished to be made the fool in front of everyone else.
Satisfied, the brownrider shuffled aside on the burning Sands, a curt nod indicating his respect to the Weyrwoman and her watchful gold as he signalled his candidates forward. There was no immediate rush of enthusiasm after his recent rebuke, and muted silence prevailed as the youngsters trickled forward towards the eggs. Arlendiren wondered if they had grown larger since he last came for a Touching too - they seemed to tower above them, huge and ominous. In the awed atmosphere inspired by the gold dragon's stare, he slipped between two massive shells and found himself confronted by a third, smaller and altogether more welcoming than the rest. The sight gave him pause, and with soft fingers he reached out to it, his own limbs small before its openness, its welcome. Had he seen himself he would have known he smiled - a smile as soft as his touch had been, an expression that tickled the senses but went no further. Not yet.
Nodding to it one more time, he shuffled around it on the simmering Sands and went on his way through the maze of eggs, his mind still half on the egg now behind. Maybe, he thought, I will find my dragon in this Hatching. Maybe that one will be mine. Like Rouleth is Gos'far's, and he is Rouleth's.
Mine.
Mine.
Ysaloth's tone, familiar with suppressed amusement, drew him in a whirl from the burning Sands and the hushed anticipation of the Touching. He found himself swathed in furs. The ground at his back, though warm, was neither hot nor hard as sand. Realization came an instant later, and with a sigh that was more chuckle than sigh he stirred in the covers of the bunk as morning shadows shifted on the ground alongside with Ysaloth's shuffle and stretch of wings. The brown yawned, gaping jaws showiing gleaming teeth as he arched his back.
You were having pleasant dreams.
Aye, Ar'ren let the word run muffled and drowsy through his thoughts. He roused at his own time, taking the moments to savour the lingering feel of the dream as he pushed the furs aside and began to rise. On the ledge, the pale-hued brown extended his wings under the early sun, catching its rays. He turned towards his waking rider, the light catching in sheens across his neck as he moved.
When you are ready, Mine, I would like to make a trip to the Feeding Grounds.
Again? He reached for and pulled over a tunic from a nearby chair - Selenitas nights were so warm he never bothered to sleep with a top on. Sliding it on over his head as he stood, he started towards the nearby wardrobe, You ate less than a week ago.
The days are hot, our drills vigourous, and my metabolism increases accordingly, Ysaloth's reasoning tone was mild, his logic sound, and his entire demeanour sincere. Ar'ren smiled as he slipped on leggings and started to pull a belt off a hanger. Strapping it on, he paused to consider the harness hanging from its peg near the open ledge. A quick flight to the Feeding Grounds...not something that would require its use. He grunted as he tightened the belt cinch and smoothed down his tousled hair to a presentable form, You are such a glutton, Loft. Come, quickly and then we can get a bath.
The brown rumbled agreement as he lay on his stomach, shoulder offered for Ar'ren's easy mounting. He shinnied up the pale arch of arm and withers, onto the space between the neckspines where a rider might sit easily secure. Ysaloth rose, tucking his feet beneath as he unfurled his wings proper, then slid off the ledge and pumped his wings once, twice, before settling into a long smooth glide across the swirling river towards the Feeding Grounds. He veered as he neared the western canyon wall, following the line of the cliffs with continual wingbeats, slow and measured, that eventually worked him up towards the level of the ground above. There would be no fast or untoward movements while his rider rode bareback. Trees and buildings alike loomed on his left as he came up, and he turned for the Feeding Grounds at a soft angle.
He came down just as softly, miniscale adjustments of his sails lending balance and control to his wingbeats. Ar'ren propped a leg over his back and slid down as the brown landed in a crouch. Ysaloth rose again in the next moment, his crouch and spring a single fluid motion as he beat down once with both wings and overflew the pens, quick eyes seeking his first meal. His rider watched him go, leaning against one of the outer fences with a barely suppressed yawn. It was still early, the day was yet young, and few were up and about.
Which was good for him. He was not yet a fixture at Selenitas; and with the Weyr's entry into the Wars it seemed few were willing to forget he had had a part in bringing them into it. The hostility had died little since he first came, and accustomed though he was to it, there were times he grew weary for a friendly face, a kindly gesture.
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Requiem
Weyrleader S'rei WM M?ta Rider A'nd Harper/Handler Dmitri Weyrbrat Miguel
Posts: 2,861
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Post by Requiem on May 1, 2010 23:31:47 GMT -5
Twenty turns ago to the day. Must we always count the turns like your 'marks'? Not important. Just thought I'd remind you of the day you made the biggest mistake of your life. What fun is it if I can't mock you for it? Twenty turns ago. Twenty. Long. Turns. It's karma. Pick the wrong rider and he never conveniently dies on you, F'ur teased mercilessly. I always meant to pick the scrawnier one behind you. Much less of a bore, the blue-black creature returned in woeful tones (as if he recalled anything of his Hatching so many turns before but F'ur himself) as he coiled through the air currents lazily, a large feline dangling from each foreleg. Dinner.
You suppose this really works? Not much like a human head ornament - beasts don't speak the same violent language, he finished with dry amusement. Not sure, but I doubt the smell of slaughtered felines draws them, anyway. Unless it was a F'urMine feline. We shall have to hope there are none of those then, won't we? Probably safe. I doubt Pern could handle more than one of you at once, in any species. As always, I am blown away by your tender affection for me. It's a terrible fate, being bonded to you, but someone has to do it.
F'ur strode lightly along the edges of the trees from the direction of the Weyr, shirt left unbuttoned to hang open in this heat, staff resting along the line of his shoulders as his hands draped over it lazily. Clearly no longer needed for walking, he'd grown fond of it, and now it had joined the peaked straw hat of a rice paddy farmer as one of his most favorite outdoor - accessories. Bare toes dug into the warm loamy dirt, the man letting out a small sound of satisfaction. Niiice.
Who are you snarling at? F'ur asked his blue, as a flicker of cold distaste flashed across their bond. Ysaloth and His. I'd return the favor and see how Ysaloth's tastes, but I'm likely allergic and will swell up to ugly proportions. Hm, perhaps a good thing not to attempt then. Behave yourself, Ino. And when have I ever misbehaved? the blue questioned silkily. As he calmly tore apart the underbellies of his felines right near the pen closest to the trees, scattering intestines about and cracking open the ribs to get at the tender organs beneath. Nothing quite like a feline for breakfast. Except maybe a plump brown dragon. Ino. Behaving.
Not once changing his pace, F'ur ambled for the fields where the runners were scattering, eyes flicking briefly toward the pale brown that was burned into his memory now - even though he'd seen him plenty of times at Fort, like as not. Hunting here? Sure, the herds were for Selenitas dragons, but mostly for the weyrlings or the more sickly dragons, when it came right down to it. Wild whers, felines, and wherries abounded, and you could almost always find enough to sate yourself on along the river if you were patient. All creatures needed water after all. Sliding up to the pen, he ducked beneath a wooden railing, stepping over the one below it and sliding easily into the enclosed pens. The small, limber frame - more muscular than most would have expected from the deceptively thin bluerider where the shirt fell open - was quite typical of those born and bred at Fort Weyr. As was the slight pallor of the skin, the features of the face. Clearly weyrbred at a glance to any others who'd shared a similar upbringing.
An upbringing he picked out easily in Ar'ren's younger features.
Sliding his hat back, the staff remained held at ease and out of play along his shoulders, stance almost lazy, though Ar'ren might well notice how he was angled slightly to present a smaller target. Old habits as opposed to any genuine distrust. He tossed his head, hat sliding back until the string about his neck arrested its fall. A grin split the smaller man's face, an arm snaking down from the staff, which found the ground beside him, F'ur leaning upon it and extending a hand to the brownrider in pure friendly fashion. "Ar'ren. Not exactly the friendliest or most familiar of faces, but welcome just the same," he commented briskly, in the crisp accent that was distinctly Fort. Five turns behind him, F'ur had had little reason to pay much attention to the brownpair that had made it into the regular ranks after F'ur and Inocenth were already on D'loro's fighting wing - however they weren't unknown. Chromatics were of some interest on occasion, and wingseconds usually were at least noted by the bluepair that had left Fort just three turns earlier.
"Have you always been so tall?" He squinted up at him with one eye, as if that would yield the answer, then shrugged. "I regret to inform you that I am, as you can see, most definitely alive and whole," he added teasingly. "Though I must say, such attention is rather flattering. Afraid I've gone a bit soft since tramping around the Nerat foothills, however. Apart from this beastly heat, how is Selenitas treating you? Coldly, I imagine. Quite alright. I had a lovely jumping off her weyrledge awhile back, or making the attempt." Eyes flashed merrily. "And after I'd been here for turns. Broke my heart. Truly."
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Post by tarra on Jul 13, 2010 6:40:04 GMT -5
Ysaloth stalked his prey from the air with alacrity, his movements measured and pacing as the soft thrust of his wings and the instinct that flowed through his senses. He chose his target, made his way in smooth glide directly over it, then dropped like a stone to the kill. The weight of his stoop broke the herdbeat's neck and spine at once, but his pulsing senses warned of hostility before he could dip his jaws to draw blood with his teeth. He raised his head to watch the scarred blue tearing his kill not far off, eyes whirling with the clear feel of the other's enmity even as they flickered with the hunger in his gut. For a long moment he regarded Inocenth with cool detachedness, meeting hostility with fearlessness and the blue's indirect aggression with calmness that bespoke unaffectedness. He turned back to his own meat, and began shredding hide with his talons to expose the innards.
Inocenth, he said, in response to Ar'ren's questioning pulse of thought. The brownrider returned with another pulse of acknowledgement without ever looking towards the blue dragon ripping into his kills. If there was tension within his frame it did not show, though the alert might note how he half-turned to keep the approaching bluerider at the periphery of his vision even as his feet spread and angled (ever so slightly) to make it easier to move. He had led an attack that had damaged this rider in particular, had nearly killed him even. To believe there might be some retaliation in the works was not a stretch of reality by any standard. F'ur might have acted out of long habit in positioning himself to make a smaller target; in contrast Ar'ren was all wariness, all caution in this strange land with its unknown dangers. He turned his head to meet F'ur's gaze only when the other spoke.
"Ar'ren. Not exactly the friendliest or most familiar of faces, but welcome just the same,"
The barest of smiles twitched the corner of one lip as the brownrider regarded F'ur with unreadable eyes. Not the friendliest or most familiar indeed. He inclined his head in acknowledgement to the older man, his hands hanging easy at his sides and feeling the lack of his belt knife keenly even as he replied with sarcasm to match.
"Well-met, F'ur. It has been...a while."
A while indeed: a few turns at least, if anything. Ar'ren could dimly recall the bluerider's reputation as a fighter and member of D'loro's wing - no mean feat considering he had stayed on it for an impressive ten turns. That he had stayed alive so long after moving to Selenitas (and after the pummeling he had received at Dreamyth's jaws) was sure testament to his skill and resilience.
"Have you always been so tall?" Ar'ren cocked his head at the question, amusement glinting in one eye even as he withheld his answer. It didn't seem the sort of question that required one, and sure enough F'ur went on, " I regret to inform you that I am, as you can see, most definitely alive and whole. Though I must say, such attention is rather flattering. Afraid I've gone a bit soft since tramping around the Nerat foothills, however. Apart from this beastly heat, how is Selenitas treating you? Coldly, I imagine. Quite alright. I had a lovely jumping off her weyrledge awhile back, or making the attempt. And after I'd been here for turns. Broke my heart. Truly."
The little tirade might have drawn a chuckle from Ysaloth's rider had the situation been lighter. Though stern to a fault, he was jovial enough with his fellow riders (metallics excluded, of course) and could aways see the brighter side of a jibe any day. As it was, however, he only smiled.
"No regrets there, old man," there was no sarcasm in his choice of words for F'ur; if anything, it bordered on the respectful, perhaps even affectionate, "Though I'm not so certain you would like such attention on a daily basis. Not that you're far off on the cold treatment though - but hey, it's expected. I assure you that being my height hardly precludes me from that. I'm sure they must treat you that much better here."
And now there was indeed sarcasm - in that last sentence at least. Ar'ren glanced back at Ysaloth, neatly decapitating his kill now, and tried to hide the smile threatening to break out fully. There had been some gossip back in Fort about F'ur's preference in bedmates; nothing major, just little whispers here and there, too little to hold water when tested. Not that the brownrider cared much for them, he had never been one to judge on such things (Faranth only knew, after all, what he himself was capable of in the heat of flightlust or just for the heck of it. Yes, the prim and proper brown was very much capable of experimentation too). He did, however, use what he knew to advantage now.
"So, whose weyrledge did you jump this time? Last I heard, you were into 'hes', not 'hers'. Or maybe both perhaps?"
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Requiem
Weyrleader S'rei WM M?ta Rider A'nd Harper/Handler Dmitri Weyrbrat Miguel
Posts: 2,861
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Post by Requiem on Jul 18, 2010 8:19:18 GMT -5
His eyes slitted slightly in clear venom as he settled in for a more sedate feeding right outside the pens, his attention gradually shifting toward the herd beasts. After the initial terror of being hunted, they were settling again, some even returning to their own meals while they kept glancing toward the two dragons. Inocenth thought on that with a detached interest. Animals were all alike, weren’t they? Whether sentient or not, throw the same threat at them - even a lethal one - and eventually it became…commonplace. Unremarkable to any but those directly affected. Perhaps that explained the oddity of the dragons here.
F’ur scratched absently at his nose with the hand that had been ignored by the other rider - a far more glaring tell of Ar’ren’s tension than what F’ur would likely never note as anything other than a stance natural to someone accustomed to violence - making certain that the injected thought about the herd beasts had adequately distracted Inocenth from provoking Ysaloth more directly. The bluerider didn’t keep much from Inocenth, but learning how to redirect his dragon when the male was edging toward a particularly dangerous mood was more a matter of survival than ought else; Fort dealt with dragons that attacked other Fort dragons harshly. (Not that it was actually that typical for Inocenth to seriously attack another dragon. He was more than good at making others think he intended to, however, and when not engaged in that…provoking them into attacking him seemed almost like a recreational activity when he was more than just a little bored.)
So no handshake then. He didn’t take offense. It was probably wise not to let a man known for hand-to-hand mastery to touch you when you’d more or less decided he was to die by dragon bite the last time they’d crossed paths. The hand found his pocket, mouth twitching with a private amusement. “Depending on your point of view. Some might say not quite long enough,” he responded lightly, clearly not serious. Equally as clearly appreciating the irony. F’ur was a war dog, however, and that fact was one of the reasons Benden riders weren’t met with hatred. Orders were orders, war was war, and the opposite side was supposed to try to kill you. No war without an enemy. No purpose for someone like F’ur without a war. He’d simply end up making up crazy inventions, hunting down dangerous predators and pulling wild pranks.
Old man? A brow rose in amusement. F’lix was the only one who called him that around here, and it was to tease him. Nevertheless, he took it as it was clearly intended, not offended. Living for awhile when your occupation was killing was…a compliment. As was having that age acknowledged. Of a sort. He snorted softly at the man’s next few comments. “Right enough. A body isn’t made to handle that sort of attention on a daily basis. Good to know that you don’t get any special treatment for your inches, though,” he added good-naturedly, flicking his fingers vaguely upward to indicate the tall brown rider.
“Hes, hers, this was more literal,” he responded dismissively. “The weyrledges are fairly conveniently spaced for using them as a rather awkward step ladder. I was just having a casual romp down the cliff face, and a greenrider happened to be picnicking out on her ledge. Not really an issue except she apparently decided that I was a monster from the other side of the moons, because first she comes up swinging, then backpedals and makes a dash for the weyrledge. It was a most odd encounter that I don’t care to repeat. A word for the wise: if they’re going to jump off a cliff to get away from you, let em. Chances are people will thank you for it. Irritating creature, Dorava.”
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Post by tarra on Jul 25, 2010 22:58:41 GMT -5
Ar'ren, it was true, had not even noticed the offer of a handshake from the bluerider; his nerves were already strung as it was, and it was F'ur's face he watched - the cold blue eyes that, if they shifted, might indicate an impending attack. But the bluerider was not far in his conjecture that the handshake would have been rejected even if it had been noted, or if accepted would be a limpid and hasty affair at best. Skilled though he himself was in bare-handed fighting, Ar'ren wasn't about to take liberties around a reputable killer with a grudge against him.
“Depending on your point of view. Some might say not quite long enough.”
He shrugged. A valid comment, considering their reunion had not been...cordial, to say the least. Not that the brownrider cared much who lived or died in this instance: he was too hardened a warrior to regret what he might have done to a fellow soldier, and given the right circumstances he would do it again. Orders were orders, after all. Ar'ren despised wastage and unnecessary loss of life, but that didn't mean he would not do what was needed in the course of his duties all the same. Only the small and weak or poor (or the odd girl, here and there) would receive his pity - unhappiness reflected in his eyes, his thoughts, even as he finished them off.
“Right enough. A body isn’t made to handle that sort of attention on a daily basis. Good to know that you don’t get any special treatment for your inches, though.”
No response from Ar'ren here, though his smile did lift slightly in acknowledgement of the other's humour. Yes, there had indeed compliment in his choice of words for F'ur; a tacit acknowledgement from one soldier to another of the other's prowess in a field known for the short lifespans of its professionals. After all, they were both killers when it came down to tit, even if one did more of his killing from afar and through the hands of his Wingriders.
“Hes, hers, this was more literal. The weyrledges are fairly conveniently spaced for using them as a rather awkward step ladder. I was just having a casual romp down the cliff face, and a greenrider happened to be picnicking out on her ledge. Not really an issue except she apparently decided that I was a monster from the other side of the moons, because first she comes up swinging, then backpedals and makes a dash for the weyrledge. It was a most odd encounter that I don’t care to repeat. A word for the wise: if they’re going to jump off a cliff to get away from you, let em. Chances are people will thank you for it. Irritating creature, Dorava.”
The brownrider raised a brow at this, "An...awkward step ladder? Well...that's innovative. I suppose she must have taken affront at your landing on her front porch and into her picnic then? Not that I intend to try, but I'd certainly note should I ever decide to take a jaunt down the cliffs and crash a picnic myself. And I shall make sure to avoid this...Dorava."
It was hard to hide the humour in his voice; he was amused, even if he wasn't laughing. Not that he believed Dorava was irritating either - he could well imagine how the woman must have felt at having the bluerider fall out of the sky into her food (though jumping off the weyrledge was...overdoing it a tad). He cocked his head at F'ur, distantly aware of the hunger fading from his brown's consciousness as the dragon began to eat.
"So, apart from skipping down weyrledges and crashing others' picnics, how do you spend your days here? It seems quieter than what we might be used to, but I'm sure there's always more to things than seems at first glance. And since I'm probably gonna be here long-term, might as well find out how everyone else is doing."
Everyone else that had come over from Fort, that is. It would be interesting to see how F'ur responded to this direct assertion that they were now members of the same Weyr, and thus on the same side of this war in name, if nothing else. Whether or not the bluerider actually gave him any hard information about Selenitas was besides the point (though it would be a bonus). His aim now was more towards testing reactions to his presence, should the wily older rider give anything away by his response.
Ysaloth, for his part, kept Inocenth in his line of sight, but otherwise paid him no attention as he ripped into his kill with relish. He knew this dragon, plucking memories out of his rider's mind as and when he required (not that Ar'ren always liked when he did, but hey, it was an occupational hazard of being Bonded), and knew how he should react accordingly. Baiting could be fun for the baiter (depending on his nature), but for the target it would always be taken with a pinch of salt. One part of him was constantly with Ar'ren, as usual; his hunger and the satisfaction of it, however, occupied the majority of his attention.
Further contemplation on the nature of other dragons could always come later.
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Requiem
Weyrleader S'rei WM M?ta Rider A'nd Harper/Handler Dmitri Weyrbrat Miguel
Posts: 2,861
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Post by Requiem on Aug 4, 2010 10:04:35 GMT -5
F'ur's eyes narrowed slightly, his grin turning half-mocking in response to Ar'ren's words. He shrugged eloquently. What a man assumed was his own business, and the bluerider didn't much care if the younger Fort wingsecond thought his weyrledge skipping was crazy or not. (If he'd paid much attention to the opinion of others, did you really think he'd be hopping around on them to begin with?) Clearly didn't believe him about Dorava. Well, he'd find out soon enough, if he ever came across her. F'ur had never met anyone so inconstant in his remembered life. One moment she was terrorized, the next demure, the next aggressive, the next arrogant - and all manner of Doravas in between. He tended to remember those who seemed intent on his life, and it was surpassing queer to him that the woman would attempt a nosedive off a cliff at mere sight of him, then summarily a few minutes later get mad at him for suggesting she was fat - thus why he wasn't interested in taking advantage of her on her own ledge - and trying for a knee to the groin and to brain him against the wall besides. He liked his brains comfortably unscrambled, thank you, and she'd paid for the attempt with a busted nose. Since then he'd kept as wide a berth as was reasonable. Unstable females were so not his thing. Apparently Benden females were not the same as Benden males. A shame. He enjoyed his games with the men from that Weyr. Of course, there was always the chance that she'd been PMSing...wasn't that the generic excuse of the ovary-bearing 'fairer' sex? (As a random sidenote to the mental digression, F'ur was fairly certain that men could lay claim to some sort of hormonal imbalance as well. That or Sel'n was a woman. Which would...be disturbing on quite a few levels. Hello lover of three turns. How did I not know your dick was fake?)
By this point Inocenth had left off his feeding and was rumbling helplessly at the thoughts of His. Should I ask Kaaoloth if His has a fake member, F'urMine? Shards, Ino. I don't want to know! It's already giving me the willies. The blue half-choked on the feline, somehow managing not to strangle himself on the liver of the large beast. So cruel you are. I'm sure he didn't lose his manhood until after you came and went, Gaoler of my Hearts. F'ur let loose an exaggerated mental sigh. Well! That's a relief, then. A pause. Weren't you pretending not to love me? You've been failing at that of late. Note the use of the word 'gaoler.' Imprisoned me through our bond, you have. It is no expression of love. As you say, my midnight blue.
"Everyone else," F'ur repeated, with just the barest hint of questioning. "Meaning Ka'rys, E'yan, Sel'n, T'san, Katar? Selenitas at large sits on her lazy, sloven arse, licks her wounds and waits for rescue," he commented cheerfully, almost as if he wasn't entirely serious. "Only so far the Weyrleader and Weyrsecond can drag such an overweight beaut when she won't waddle in the right direction on her own." His eyes searched Ar'ren appraisingly. "We do well enough here, Ar'ren. Discontent, at times, but you no doubt can divine the reason. It was a singularly unhelpful answer. F'ur had little doubt the brownrider could find out what he wanted to know on his own, should he put the effort in. The older bluerider had little intention of being that portal, however.
One would hope Ar'ren wasn't fool enough to believe he'd be welcomed back at Fort. Fool or no, however, if the man ended up back there you'd best believe they'd milk him dry before killing him (or more likely Ysaloth). F'ur had no intention of personally giving him anything that might be used against them later. 'Probably' and 'long-term' was an uncomfortable marriage of words, to one who had left Fort of his own devices. Left the rule of the one Ar'ren served, in fact. The 'mad dog' - an amusing nomiker, particularly in that blueriders were so rarely gifted enough attention to earn one - was not known for his sanity, as his name implied. One might assume his reasons for leaving were mere impulses. The others' reasons, such as he knew them, would not be known to Ar'ren.
"As you no doubt can guess, I've had little contact with anyone but healers and fellis dreams of late, so you'll have to excuse my ignorance," he stated amiably. "I'm sure they'd answer your questions if you asked them direct. For my part, I'm pretending at an active lifestyle until my knee decides to indulge me." A teasing grin. All the Fort riders here had chosen to come. So forgive him if F'ur didn't trust Ar'ren as far as he could spit, especially given what the man had already let slip. How long until he went skipping back to Fort with his skirts tucked into his waistband? Bend over and assume the position, brownie. That's all he'd be getting from them.
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