Holy Rotting Sod!

Xanadu Weyr - Weyrling Barracks
A long and roughly oblong cavern. About a third of the space is open, used for classes or chores as required. The rest of the space is filled with couches of varying sizes, all with plenty of space between them. Some couches are obviously intended for the very young weyrlings while the largest ones at the back are for the older weyrlings.

There are supplies for the care of dragons tucked back against the walls. A barrel of oil sits with scrub brushes and soft clothes, and a thick hardwood table is used to prepare meat in bite-sized pieces for the young dragons. There's also a few supplies for the weyrling humans, like bedding for cots or extra pillows for those sleeping on their lifemate's couch.

"… I don't follow." The words were unconsciously a quote of his three-day old lifemate.

Three days. Stefyr had been F'yr for three days, had known Glorioth for three days. He'd had three days of scattered and broken sleep, three days of not knowing what the time was, not being sure he wasn't dreaming the reality that was cycles of feeding, oiling, ENCOURAGEMENT and adventures. When Glorioth crashed after extended ACTIVE activity, he crashed hard.

This time, F'yr had crashed harder, much to his dismay. That he had woken second was something he could understand, could grasp.

This… this he couldn't grasp.

Meaty dragon breath wafted over the blond man's face as the bronze's enormous maw hung open in front of him, dripping bloody drool onto his feet.

« It's quite simple, my groggy guardian, while you lazed about all morning- »

F'yr squinted at the clock on the wall. An hour, maybe less, since he finished oiling the already too-big baby and apparently fell asleep against this oil bucket. Why hadn't someone woken him? Maybe they'd tried. Glorioth might even have tried. That was neither here nor there when he had more pressing things to deal with.

« -I bravely went on a brave journey full of dangerous danger and doomly doom and I have returned, WITH HONOR AND GLORY. »

The man who was, whether he wanted to be or not, the hero's lifemate was torn between a show of being impressed and just being relieved that the barracks appeared to be more or less intact and not a smoking ruin behind his lifemate. But then… firestone was months off yet, thank Faranth. It didn't Glorioth from flaring a tongue of fire in his mind to snatch back his lifemate's wandering attention: IMPORTANT THINGS HERE, F'YR.

A door opened in the bronze's mind, a heavy mental clap tipping the man's consciousness into the barracks-cum-maze fraught with perilous perils. He was treated to his dragon's rendition of his GLORIOUS escapade: slaying the stinky sock (sorry, V'ro), obliterating the pukey pillow (oops, Ru'ien; don't ask how it ended up pukey to begin with, you don't want to know), annihilated some pink monstrosity with EVIL SHIFTY EYES that were an obvious indication of extreme EVILOCITY, shredded a boot belonging to that man with the SINGLE SHIFTY EYE beyond any hope of resurrection, and devastated a VILE FEATHERED AVIAN-SHEEP-HYBRID that he BRAVELY, BOLDLY scattered across the entirety of the barracks.

By the time that F'yr's mind staggered (can minds stagger without legs?) out into the verdant wilds of the beautiful mindscape the bronze shared only with his rider, the red-tinged spot of drool at his feet had turned into a puddle soaking his heels.

« AND THIS, my clueless custodian, » which should have warned him, but Glorioth called him so many things in the course of a day, it was hard to keep track of what titles should sound alarms, « IS MY PLUNDER. »

Huh? "A rock?" F'yr squinted at the roundish, ovalish grey object covered in dragon slobber, nested on warm dragon tongue.


It was probably an empty threat, although, with Glorioth, F'yr could never be sure. It wasn't meat, but it was in Glori's mouth and that might be reason enough. Maybe it had gotten some blood splatter on it and tasted like meat?

He fumbled at first, struggling to sit up, wincing at the radiating pain that went through his chest, but bronze maw shoved right into his lap. He reached for the…

"Is this… an egg?" SPOILER ALERT: It was an egg.

« SHREWD OBSERVATION, WELL DONE. You see, creature, on occasion one must use his wits as well as his might. » The literal pat on the head was unnecessary but F'yr gritted his teeth and endured, because Glorioth's joy was so fierce as he gazed at the grey ovoid and his lifemate couldn't bring himself to spoil the moment; that would have to come, but not yet. « Finally! Through every trial and hardship, through countless enemies, I have endured. Now, to claim my prize! »

"Glori," F'yr's tone was gentle, apologetic. "I'm sure this belongs to some—"


F'yr stared at the bronze, his empty hand reflexively closing on the meat chunk. Seriously, what the sod?!


F'yr yelped two octaves high when a sudden slice of sharp talon pierced the egg's shell. It was done so delicately that despite the big blond's defensive flinch back, things didn't end in an outpouring of ichor. It would have been ichor, if it had been anything.

Though the egg had felt hardened, the flinch of his fingers crushed through the shell and gripped… a grey-hued brown firelizard that literally spilled out of shards and into his hand. That coloring alone indicated that maybe the egg should've been left to go a while longer. Hopefully Glorioth's meddling hadn't caused any permanent damage.

F'yr was frozen, staring as egg goo seeped down fingers and dripped onto his pants the floor. He just gaped. Gaped at the firelizard. At the dragon. At the meat. WHAT THE SHELL.

And with a creel the dizzied little beast dove from one hand the short distance to his other and he was left juggling… Glorioth's new companion, newly impressed to F'yr himself.

The rider choked while the dragon crooned his delight, nose coming all too close to the little monstrosity. « You need a name, my little ally! » A beat. Two. « I think I'll call you Roderick. »

And that was it. Addle-brained Roderick would forever fated to be at Glorioth's side, whether the little lizard liked it or not, hearing tales of dastardly do and heroly heroics and above all GLORIOUS GLORY. « HUZZAH! »

What. The. Shell.

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