A F'yrfully Awesome Experience

Xanadu Weyr

The knock that comes on Shiloh's room door has a rhythm. That might be strange, but it's a rhythm uniquely F'yr's, which, if the bronzerider had ever knocked on the BeastCrafter's door before, he'd know. Since he can't, it may come as a surprise to find F'yr standing outside his door in the early evening - between the typical end of the duty day and the evening. Yet, here he be, short hair just barely still damp, clothes fresh (which means not funky from the sands, so bonus) and with a press of his lips, edges turning just a little up at the edges in a way that suggests … well, probably nothing good for poor Shiloh.

Silence. Then shuffling. Then the slide of the bolt. And if Shiloh was expecting someone, it probably wasn’t F’yr. But the bronzerider is met with a curious look all the same, one that goes a bit wary at the press of lips and turned-up-edges of that expression. “F’yr,” is acknowledgement and greeting in one, and he pulls the door open enough to be conversational. He might not be recently washed, but he’s clean enough (that is to say, he’s definitely rinsed off the dust and grime of his chosen profession and swapped out pants and shirt for something fresh and less… odorous than might otherwise be on his person). A beat. Two. And he wonders, “is this the part where I have to go wash Glorioth?” And doesn’t he just sound so excited at the prospect? No. Nope. That’s definitely sarcasm.

"No." F'yr's lips twitch the smile just a little bit more into existence. He'll let that word hang for juuust long enough before he delivers deadpan, "I washed him already. This is where you get to help me oil him." There is a slight cant to F'yr's head after that and the smile that reappears, but softer. "But only if you want to try. I think it would help." Him? Shiloh? Well, Glorioth if no one else. "We can talk while we work." Is this a good thing? A bad thing? Who can say. "Up for it?" This is a real choice, handed to Shiloh. For all that F'yr seems confident in this idea, he's not one to force another, or even to push much.

It’s that twitchy smile that keeps Shiloh suspicious, dark eyes narrowed for that single word. And so there’s a bit of a sigh when the rest comes, and an arched eyebrow because, “is that somehow better than washing him? Sounds messy.” Like… maybe the sort of messy that results in a clean and shiny dragon but an utterly disgusting person (very similar, in fact, to what happens when one grooms a runner; as if all the dirt simply migrates from beast to person). There’s a moment of thought, complete with squinty eyes and pursed lips, before Shiloh simply shrugs. “Sure. Why not.” Why not indeed? And while he doesn’t sound particularly thrilled with the idea, he’s game enough to shove his feet back into his boots, snag his hat and step out into the hall. “Can’t be worse than his attempt at eating me.” Never mind that Shiloh knows Glorioth wouldn’t have actually eaten him.

"It's less wet," F'yr replies. This doesn't necessarily mean it's better or worse. What he does say is, "It's messy. Nice in its way. Like grooming a runner. Once you find a rhythm." Nevermind that Glorioth probably adds up to a number of obnoxiously full of themselves studs. "If you keep talking about that, he's just going feel you're giving him his just due with your fear. He'll probably give you his thanks." He does that. There's a wryness to F'yr's voice. "Did the egg hatch yet?" His brows lift. "It's like oiling a firelizard, but much larger and a lot less delicate." This as he's turning to take a step only to turn back and add, "Maybe don't wear a set of clothes you love?" He gives a glance toward the less odiferous clothes and makes a gesture asking if Shiloh needs to change. "He's waiting for us in the training area." Near the sands.

“Lovely,” decides the beastcrafter, for Glorioth’s thanks. At least there’s a touch of something that could become dry amusement, if Shiloh worked at it a little bit. “It did,” he confirms, for the egg. The little snake brown is happily curled up and sleeping on a pillow, a state which is distinctly less bitey than normal and one which Shiloh is loath to alter. Nope can just stay right where he is while Shiloh heads to his doom. At least it is a less distinct doom than last time? The stop of F’yr comes with a stop of Shiloh as well, the beastcrafter glancing at his attire and weighing it’s worth in his mind before deciding, “It’s fine. Not particularly attached to either.” Shirt or pants. It’s just… clothes, really. And not particularly fancy clothes. But a moment of thought and he decides, “a moment,” and heads back, vanishing into his room. When he returns, shirt and pants are the same but the boots are distinctly different. This pair looks like what it is — a second-hand pair snatched from the stores for the very specific occasions in which Shiloh does not want to wear (or ruin) his other pair. The hat is gone too. Just in case. (these are the important things, clearly). “Alright.” And, as Glorioth would say… ONWARD!

F'yr's not in any hurry, really, so when Shiloh changes his mind to deal with his boots, the bronzerider only steps off to the side of the hall to wait it out. There's a ghost of a smile for Shiloh as he reappears. GLORIOTH IS DULY UNDERSTANDING OF YOUR NEED TO QUOTE HIS AWESOME AWESOMEHOOD. And F'yr leads the way. It's a silent walk, but not uncomfortably so, just in the quiet way that a day can pass on a farm with much work done in companionable and easy silences between words that need to be said and those that don't. Once they arrive at the weyrling training ground, Glorioth is in evidence in all his SHINY, HEROICALLY GORGEOUS GLORY, sprawled out on the ground near the Dragonhealer's Annex. There's vats of oil there with paddles and cloths all for their use. Evidently, F'yr had time to set up after the bath. "Tending their hide isn't nearly so taxing once they're grown, but it's still just something they rely on their lifemate's for," is simple explanation for the uninitiated. He moves toward the dragon and the oil and offers a very direct set of directions about how to go about the task. It might seem strange, almost ominous that the bronze hasn't directed any of his attention to Shiloh, but he appears to be holding court deep in conversation (apparently ones sided) with a grotesque looking little brown firelizard perched in front of him. "Any questions?" F'yr asks as he finishes up the micro-lecture that wasn't any more complex than an intro to grooming, even using similar lingo. Different day, different breed of beast, but the basics are simple enough.

Silence is not something that is uncomfortable for Shiloh. At least, he feels no need to fill it; no pull toward small talk or mindless chatter about the weather. Absent his hat, he squints in the general direction of where they are going, fingers shoved into his pockets, and just… walks. It is not until they come upon the decidedly glorious Glorioth that a change occurs; a stiffening of frame that leads to a gait not quite as smooth as it once was. But he carries on, side-eyeing the bronze as he follows F’yr toward the vats of oil and all the tools used to put it onto dragons. And he’s definitely listening, even if he’s looking somewhat dubious about the prospect of oiling the bronze, if just for his sheer size. “Makes sense,” he allows, for the dragons needing assistance. “Can’t expect a runner to groom itself or pick its own hooves, either.” Not *quite* the same, but close enough for Shiloh! As for those questions? “Yes,” he decides, slanting another side-eye at Glorioth. “Is there anywhere he doesn’t want to be touched? Or anywhere I should steer clear of?” Cause the last thing he wants to do is give the bronze cause for offense.

Former farmer F'yr will certainly allow the familiar comparison to pass muster, only nodding for the aptness of the way of thinking about it. He takes Shiloh's other question seriously, truly, but it does make him chuckle, because, "No. Glorioth isn't particularly sensitive anywhere, but I'll take care of the tail," being a generally more sensitive area at least wherein those important bits of dragon anatomy exist: BUT DON'T ASK QUESTIONS ABOUT THIS MYSTICAL KNOWLEDGE; it is simply known. "Glori has the unique perspective," among so many unique perspectives, "that pain is simply a form of encouragement." He deadpans it because it's the only way he can get through it with a straight face, because it's completely true and also completely ridiculous. "So even if you did hurt him, you're not in any danger of anything more than his heartfelt thanks, although he'll probably want to know what you're encouraging him to do. That can get dicey," F'yr says with experience. "The wrong quest dreamed up can have pretty disastrous results. Learned that early when he and Inasyrh were just babies and managed to break into the Caverns." He gets started as he talks, starting to lug a smaller, more portable pot from the bigger vats and gesturing for Shiloh to follow. "We'll start with his head while Roderick is still distracting him." That's the brown, a hand indicates the firelizard perched on Glorioth's snout. "I expect that it will be more comfortable for you to do it with me, and while you don't have his undivided attention." But, oh, Shiloh will surely get some portion of it.

“Maybe you can do the head and I’ll start at the neck.” It’s not really a suggestion so much as a statement. Shiloh is def. starting with the neck. But he’ll offer a glance and a shrug and a simple, “Never used one of these-“ paddles for oil “-before. Would hate to encourage him with a poke in the eye or a knock on the headknob.” Makes sense, right? No need to draw that unwanted attention any faster than it might naturally come. A squint comes for Glorioth’s right hand man firelizard, and perhaps a quick check of Shiloh’s neck before he remembers that his own little Nope rope is back at his room snoozing on a pillow. A sobering breath and a brief squaring of shoulders, and Shiloh is ready to go to war. Or… oil a dragon. “Right then. Let’s do this.” And he will. Just as soon as F’yr does.

"You're here to get over your concerns. The neck isn't going to do that for you." F'yr points out quite practically. "You use your hands on the face. It's not so large that it takes so long that you can't. The paddles are more for the sides and belly where there's a sizable expanse. « ARE HIS EFFEMINATE SENTIMENTALITIES KEEPING HIM FROM DARING TO SEE THE RADIANCE OF VALOR WITHIN MY EXTREMELY NOT SHIFTY EYES, MY F'YRIGHTFULLY FORTUNATE CARETAKER? » So, lesson here is that F'yr won't call Shiloh a coward in so many words, but Glorioth doesn't give a shit. That would be his head swinging around to regard Shiloh with a judgmental whirling eye. « IT IS MOST AMUSING, MY PETRIFIED PANSY, THAT YOU FEAR MY COUNTENANCE. MY HEARTFELT THANKS FOR YOUR KEEN UNDERSTANDING OF MY FEROCIOUSLY FEROCIOUS HONOR. » Sucks when the beast being groomed can have an opinion, huh? Roderick, meanwhile, has taken flight because, uh, nope, he wants nothing to do with this. Just in case anyone was lacking clarity, « WHY, YES, MY DEVOTED STATUARY, » that's the grotesque little brown, « I DO BELIEVE YOU ARE CORRECT THAT HIS BOOTS ARE JUST THE RIGHT SIZE FOR HIM. » It should be noted, of course, that Roderick is slightly addled and though no one ever hears the brown but Glorioth (AND REALLY, DOES HE?? DOES HE???) but he appears to never tell the truth, so that's probably not even a compliment from the brown. F'yr, to his credit, is remaining creditably neutral, so he just shifts a blue glance to Shiloh and makes an inviting gesture to the smaller vat, even as he dips his arms in to the elbow and moves, dripping over the air, to where he can reach the bronze's head, fearlessly taking that muzzle right in his hands to start rubbing the oil into the hide. At least F'yr is chest to face with the dragon, which means if Shiloh decides to grow some, he can come work on the wedged head along the side instead of where he might get eaten.

“Is that why I’m here?” Apparently, Shiloh is not opposed to a little sass. There’s a grit of his teeth and a flash of dark eyes that hints at something like anger, though it’s not really directed at anyone specifically. Not even Glorioth (though that might be self-preservation talking). “Didn’t realize being afraid of a creature that could swallow me whole was weakness. Seems damn smart to me.” Cause listen; he’s maybe not seen what they can do to herdbeasts, but does he really need to? Imagination is a wonderful thing, and Shiloh has it in abundance. It really doesn’t help when Glorioth starts swinging his head around. Particularly while he is also talking. Rather eerily similar to how they met, and not a thing Shiloh wishes to repeat. There might be a half-step back and the tightening of his hands on that paddle (like it would do any good in a fight) before he’s meeting that giant eye (to be fair, kind of hard to NOT look right at the giant whirling eye) aimed his direction. “Yeah, sure. You’re welcome,” comes with just a little bit of attitude for that heartfelt thanks. F’yr might go chest-to-face with the giant beast, but he gets zero bravado-points for it, since Glorioth happens to be his dragon. Roderick, for all his eccentricities, is mostly ignored after a little side-eyeing. Because really, of the two, Shiloh’s gonna pay attention to the one whose head is as big as his torso. A grit of his teeth and a little curl of his lip (really, he is super not happy and clearly not doing a thing to pretend otherwise) and he shoves his hands in the oil to coat them and moves toward the giant bronze. Another look is shot at F’yr before he turns to start smearing oil on Glorioth’s cheek.

Blond brows rise in answer to the sassy cowboy. F'yr manages to look quite thoughtful. "That was why I thought you were here. Won't manage a posting of any length where there are dragons if you can't abide dragons." Nevermind that it may well be his in particular that poses the problem. "It is if they wouldn't," is F'yr's even reply, as his hands work across hide as one long accustomed to the practice. This is, naturally, overridden by the ONLY OPINION THAT MATTERS, OKAY? « BUT OF COURSE IT IS COWARDICE AND WEAKNESS, MY LACKING, SLACKING BUCKAROO. » He doesn't need to explain, it just is. FEEL ALL THAT VALOROUS VALOR HE'S RADIATING? IF ANYONE IS AN AUTHORITY HERE ON COURAGE, IT'S THE COURAGEOUS COURAGEOUS GLORIOTH. "It would take an extreme for any dragon to injure one of us on purpose. It's just how they are." There's the smallest smile on F'yr's lips as he adds, "The first time Glori imagined a renegade, it came out with a herdbeast head, because that's something he can and will slaughter without a second's thought or hesitation." One might validly wonder if any thoughts occur in that great dumb head of his, but. The bronzerider glances over at Shiloh as he joins in with the oiling and his soft smile is there to perhaps encourage or simply approve. "As you were," F'yr encourages the little brown and he zips down to perch back on Glorioth's nose (if perhaps SLIGHTLY RELUCTANTLY, it's fine), evidently reengaging the dragon's attention. "If this weren't safe, Shiloh, I wouldn't have asked you to do it. The candidates for the clutch routinely help me out," because it's one of their chores, "to get practice dealing with them." So others have come before and survived the ordeal. That must, at least, be somewhat reassuring?

“I abide dragons just fine.” In a very ‘live and let live’, ‘you do your thing and I’ll do mine’ sort of… avoidance-way of abiding. But Shiloh’s not gonna explain further. He’s just gonna grump and look perturbed about Glorioth calling him cowardly. For a moment, he looks about ready to argue with the bronze. It doesn’t get any further than the beastcrafter opening his mouth to reply before he seems to think better about challenging the creature that could swallow him whole. Potentially pissing off Glorioth just seems like a bad idea all around. “That’s why you can running from the baths, hm? Because I was in no danger whatsoever?” LOOK. Listen. Shiloh’s stressed. And he apparently deals with that stress by being kind of a dick and using a whole lot of sarcasm. But he’s here. And he’s doing the thing. And maybe he’s not happy about it, but he’s sticking it out. Baby steps. The idea of renegades with herdbeast-heads at least gets a pause and a tip of his own, an eyebrow arched at Glorioth and then F’yr before Shiloh carries on carrying-on, smearing that oil over the big bronze head of the creature that won’t-but-could eat him. “That’s an image,” he has to admit, finding at least a measure of amusement with the thought. As the oiling progresses without grievous injury, he manages to relax. A little. Maybe. He’s at least not standing as far away as possible to do this oiling business. “Alright,” he agrees. “That I will believe.” If the candidates made it, then Shiloh will probably make it. It is perhaps this thought that has him braving an eyeridge, though he’s exceedingly careful to avoid Glorioth’s actual eye.

F'yr isn't buying it, Shiloh. See that look? That's F'yr's very polite look that goes with his, "Uh-huh." It's not strictly challenging but it's distinctly disbelieving. It's good in the end that Shiloh doesn't argue with Glorioth, not because it might not do Shiloh some good to work out all that, but rather because Glorioth is RUDE and cares EXACTLY ZERO about anything that is not ABOUT HIMSELF. So much for being a hero~~ In fact, speaking of things about Glorioth, F'yr's lips are pressed together in some small amusement. "I came running because my lifemate was very excited to have entrapped a shifty-eyed foe-villain." Which, mentally, couldn't possibly have been Shiloh, of course, because exactly no one is reminding Glorioth of his previous success or suspicion. "Trust me when I say there are some occasions you run for your lifemate." He starts to open his mouth to try to explain this but just closes it again as Glorioth HELPFULLY BOOMS, WITH A GOUT OF MENTAL FLAME AND THAT HEADY SMOKE, « BUT OF COURSE MY F'YROCIOUSLY PROUD LIFEMATE WOULD COME TO CELEBRATE MY SUPREMELY SUPREME SUCCESSFUL SUCCESSES. » Not least of all, of course, because these moments are times F'yr might want to intervene to avoid certain things, like a long interrogation. "You assumed I was there for you," which was not the case. Sorry, Shiloh. #1 in F'yr's world will always be Glorioth. "If it happened now, I'd come for you both." Because friends show up for each other, Shiloh. LIKE RIGHT NOW. One of Glorioth's multiple eyelids flicks closed in automatic reflex. Not that this means he can't still see Shiloh, but at least a misstep wouldn't result in unhappy injury. "But it wouldn't happen now because your face is in my memory with a name. It doesn't mean he won't ever be suspicious of you, but you'll probably only cross his mind when you come into sight." Out of sight, out of mind. Busy Glorioths need as much time to think about Glorioth as possible.

“What else was I supposed to think?” It’s a semi-serious question, coupled with a slant of dark eyes toward F’yr. “Your dragon was bearing down on me, and you show up all wet and ridiculous looking having run from the baths.” And the obvious conclusion is that a lack of F’yr might have resulted in a lack of Shiloh. Because he’d been eaten. Or squished. Probably squished. “It’s not like I knew anything about dragons!” He still knows nothing about dragons, despite currently slathering one with oil. And this is clearly cause for irritation, even if it’s just a front for embarrassment, a glower directed at the bronze, if just because he’s the thing immediately in front of Shiloh. “I’d rather not cross his mind at all, thanks.” And he means it. Shiloh would be just as happy if Glorioth never thought of him ever again. Not looking at him is also great, and much appreciated if just because Shiloh would rather not accidentally poke the big bronze in the eye. To that end, he’s working his way back toward a headknob, though he apparently knows enough about dragons to be gentle there as well.

"You tell me." F'yr replies, the tone very much one that might well be used amidst the familiar task of grooming runners rather than oiling a ridiculous dragon. The scenario is delivered with easy pacing as hands follow the contours of the underside of the jaw and along toward the neck. "If you were out of sight at the barn, and heard a runner that you'd helped foal, that you'd raised and trained and was nearer and dearer to you than your own heart make noise enough to bring you running… are you there because your runner made noise or because someone might be in danger from your runner?" He waits only a beat as he twists and dips his arms again to come up and shift a little farther so he's standing across from Shiloh, more or less, working along the other side of the dragon before he offers an easy look of understanding over at the BeastCrafter. "So you know nothing about dragons." Beat. "Learn." Simple. "You're smart enough. Open-minded enough when you're not caught up in a tangle of feelings." Yes, it's obvious, Shiloh, especially to a man as empathetic as F'yr. "No one but you is faulting you for not knowing what you've never had cause to know before." Not F'yr, at any rate.

“Not the same,” argues Shiloh. “Runners aren’t predators; far more likely to be in danger from one.” A tip of his head and a slide of his gaze and he decides, “If it was a canine I’d raised, barking and growling up a storm like it just cornered something dangerous, I’d be running for both.” The canine, and the cornered-creature. Really, they could probably go back and forth all day, but it likely wouldn’t change anything. At the end of it all, Shiloh is likely to remain convinced that Glorioth is a threat, even if he’s elbow-deep in oil and well within snatching distance of those jaws. A moment more and he mimics F’yr’s return to the oil to re-coat his hands before sliding back into the easy rhythm of rubbing it into bronzed hide. A snort accompanies Shilohs, “that simple?” for learning about dragons. He hasn’t any comment for the rest however, though he’ll tighten his jaw and briefly glare at the big, bronze headknob he’s oiling. “How would I even start?” At least it only leans toward being sarcastic and sounds much more like a legitimate question. Where does one start to learn about dragons, if one is not a dragonrider themselves?

"People aren't prey to dragons." Full. Stop. This, in fact, will draw steady blue eyes up to Shiloh. The tone is perhaps maddeningly calm, but there's an unyielding edge under the statement. "They're more intelligent than canines. Some are probably smarter than either of us." NOT GLORIOTH, but. "If you keep thinking of them as threats, you're going to miss out." He keeps it simple. There's no persuasion to his voice, simply the world presented as F'yr sees it. For all Glorioth's SUPPOSED threat, he's quite quiescent now. In fact, his head is driiifting toward the ground, ever so slowly. HE'S NOT TIRED, THO'. NOPE. Don't mind the shuttering of lids there. Completely meant to make a foe-villain MISTAKE him for a VERY TIRED DRAGON. He's definitely still keeping watch. Talking with Roderick who definitely isn't settling in between freshly oiled headknobs for a nap of his own. "How would you start learning anything you don't know? Ask people who do. Seek opportunities to learn." F'yr's hands keep moving methodically down the neck, taking care with neckridges, and on and on. (Endless bronze hide~) "The Weyr is a community, Shiloh. Like anywhere, there're assholes and there are good people. But dragons are a way of life here, for more than just the riders. It's not like it once was, but a lot of what goes on in a Weyr comes back to them. Most riders will answer questions if you have them. I had a lot. I asked a lot. I tried a lot. You could ask to volunteer a bit of time with the dragonhealers if you wanted more technical know-how, but just talking to riders or to their dragons… Some will talk to you directly," or BOOM HEROICALLY, "and some will speak through their riders. Most riders like to talk about their dragons." That pops a grin onto his face. "Nothing comes close to the bond of lifemates. Some might be private about it, but many don't love to talk about anything more." Notice how F'yr is doing a very good job of not gushing about Glorioth to Glorioth's No. 1 Fan!

There’s a want to be stubborn; to cling to that idea that dragons are dangerous. Or at least, that dragons are not to be trusted. But while Shiloh can absolutely be hardheaded about a great many things, he would not be so good at his job with runners if he wasn’t willing to lean into the idea that his assumptions might be wrong. That he might be wrong. So while there’s still that obstinate set to his jaw, that hard line of his mouth, it is not as hard as it once was. He carries on with the oiling, following along with neck and ridges, working diligently to not miss a single place because he’s pretty sure that’s the point. Get all the hide. Even the hard-to-reach places. Like between his toes. That causes a pause, and a squint, and a very long study of those very big claws. “How do you hear him?” is the question that eventually comes, honestly asked without the bite of sarcasm that might have colored his previous words. “I know how I hear him.” All booming voice and DOOM-DOOM-DOOM. “But is that how Riders hear their dragons?”

Of all the people Shiloh could end up working alongside when there comes the need for a stretch of silence in which the work of hands takes the priority, F'yr is probably one of the best. There's something deeply, comfortably (if one likes this kind of thing) about his company. The conversation wanes for the time and F'yr doesn't need words to carry on. He does, at some point shift and grab a smaller bucket to carry up with him as he expertly hauls himself up onto the bronze's back to work the high reaches of the tiny immense bronze. At some point, and who can say exactly when, F'yr does start humming to himself but it's a very idle sound, melodic and rhythmic. It might conjure some memories of songs from home, if Shiloh knows any, for all that they come from different farms in different regions - there has to be some overlap there, as there is with these men. When the question finally comes, the hum has either faded or simply broken for some moments while F'yr works the place carefully between the wings, sitting reverse on Glori's back, long legs splayed over his spine. It's tricky work because everything's so slick, but he's been doing this a while now, so, on with it he gets. The question causes a low hum of a different kind, "Hm." There's no judgment for the question, nor any evident surprise, but rather F'yr simply taking a moment to wrangle his thoughts together to give a real answer. Thinking before he speaks is how F'yr rolls, almost always. "I imagine I hear him much like you hear him, in terms of words. Maybe with some added sound effects and visuals. I've heard some riders say it's like being in each other's skin because their connection is so intensely close. Mine isn't like that. We had the opposite problem. I had a hard time overlapping my mind with his even if we were always connected." There's a beat before he adds, with a smile that makes his face gooey-in-love, "For all his rough edges," and it must seem like he has no smooth ones, really, "what he seems inside, for just me, is amazing. The most boundless forest. Enchanting. The perfect stage for any adventure. He was a little like that in the egg, too. And just as over the top, but in a different sort of way than he is now." Glorioth must be asleep now or F'yr would never dare to speak so freely in front of him. At least not without the bronze's interjection.

There is no way on Pern that Shiloh is climbing up onto that dragon. All of the nope right there. But he’ll continue along at ground-level (which might be the less-safe option given the claws and stuff), working his way back along the massive beast with oily hands and an attention to detail that might be admirable. There’s a mild grimace as F’yr begins, if just because how Shiloh hears Glorioth does not seem conducive to long-term sanity. But he listens as the bronzerider continues, a little frown on his face, curious if nothing else. And even after there is a pause, a silence as Shiloh seems to work through these puzzling revelations, before he decides, “I can’t picture it. What you’re saying about overlapping minds. It’s just…” Too damn foreign, frankly. “I don’t think I’d like it.” Says the guy whose only experience with telepathic beasts has been overly-loud dragons and his own little nope-rope of a firelizard, who isn’t much better in terms of demanding things. But the forest visual has him cocking his head to the side, a glance slide up (and up, and up) to where F’yr is perched on his dragon’s back. “That part doesn’t sound so bad,” he admits. “Are all dragons like that? Forests and things?”

"No," F'yr agrees, amused, if mildly. "I couldn't either. Those questions I told you I was asking? A lot of them were like that one. What was it like? How did it work? And there was a lot I could understand, a lot I could translate into something that sounded like something I'd known in one way or another before, but there was a part of it that no one could explain to me, not for lack of trying." There's a fond smile at some private thought or memory that is full of affection. When he glances back down toward Shiloh, he's rolling a shoulder in a shrug. "I got it when I impressed. I've yet to meet a dragonrider who doesn't love being paired with their dragon, who would trade it for anything else. We might not always like what our dragon is getting up to, or how they're behaving," CAN SHILOH IMAGINE THIS OF F'YR AND GLORIOTH??? SURELY NOT. "But that doesn't change loving them." Why else would he be oiling this tiny massive creature with care? Notably, though, F'yr does it with less exacting attention to detail as Shiloh - because he has the benefit of understanding the long term picture: he'll be back at this again all too soon and the oil will surely get worked into whatever he missed this time to no detriment to the dragon, one of the few benefits of repetition. He slides further down the length of his dragon. "Every dragon is different. I gather many of them feel different to their rider than they do to anyone else. Even to not just their riders, the dragons mindvoices are as different as yours and mine and Averil's, but more complex in their differences because there are more dimensions to them. Ask around." He reiterates the advice. A gesture goes to the rest of the dragon. "We're making good progress. It won't take that much longer." Yes, it will. He's sliding down in a way that actually looks fun, landing not far from Shiloh with his empty bucket to go load it up again. "Not as bad as you thought it would be?"

“How could you explain,” agrees Shiloh. “It’s something only dragonriders experience. Stands to reason it’s somethin’ only dragonriders can understand.” And while Shiloh might want to understand, at least a little, he’s willing to accept that it is something he won’t ever really comprehend. Another voice in his head? Another mind interwoven with his own? Incomprehensible. He keeps on keeping on with the oiling, thoughtful furrow firmly in place as he listens to F’yr and works with too much diligence at bronze hide. An eyebrow cocked for an inner thought, though Shy isn’t dumb enough to speak it. Dragons and dragonriders. He knows enough to know that one is not about to think (too terribly) ill of the other. “Makes sense,” he decides. “For dragons to sound different to their person than to others.” Back to that unique experience of linked minds, even if Shiloh can’t comprehend it. But for the final encouragement there’s a brief scrunch of his nose and perhaps a suppressed roll of his eyes, before he asserts that, “I will.” Even if he might not really want to. If Xanadu is to be his home, he might as well do as advised and get to understanding the dragons a bit better. Even if it is a feat he is sure will be impossible. Stepping back at F’yr’s descent, there’s a look directed his way at the idea that this won’t take much longer, followed with a pointed eyeing of the rest of Glorioth’s to-be-oiled hide. Right. “We’ll be here till supper,” is his estimation, drawled out with dry amusement at the prospect. “But nah,” he decides, stepping in to get back to work. “Not as bad as I thought.”

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