==== December 17th, 2013
==== G'deon, Nylanth, E'don, Qianvaelth, T'ral, Esanth
==== G'deon checks up on the weyrlings for what is probably the last time.

Who G'deon, Nylanth, E'don, Qianvaelth, T'ral, Esanth
What G'deon checks up on the weyrlings for what is probably the last time.
When Mid-morning. There are 0 turns, 5 months and 12 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

Gid11.png edon7 t-ral_intent.jpg


Training Grounds
A broad and sheltered swoop of bowl lies bare for the talons and tread of countless weyrlings that-will-be, encased by stone scoured and scarred by those-that-were. Dirt lies as neatly as dirt can lie, swept and raked daily, at the mouth of the caverns that must indubitably be the weyrling barracks. Devoid of decoration, the place stands strangely absent of pressence when empty, the everpresent wind of Southern giving strange acoustics to those under the shelter of the towering bowl-wall.
It is the forty-eighth day of Winter and 70 degrees. Sunlight shines brightly behind partly cloudy skies.

G'deon must be feeling some sort of chill in his old bones, because, while it's not all that cold this overcast mid-afternoon, he's still bundled up in a light riding jacket, complete with scarf. "Let's see… Nyls, who's here already?" he can be heard to mumble as he finishes removing something from where it was attached to Nylanth's riding straps. The bronze's reply is a silent one while he stretches his wings before folding them neatly to his back.

Since being minted with a bit of responsibility to his knot, E'don has become an early arrival to weyrling drills. He has, after all, a reputation of laziness to dispute. Dragon and rider are doing a mental count of the grounds, a new daily task that the rider is now used to doing; taking counts and reporting to Yules. "We're still waiting on a few more," E'don calls out to the Weyrlingmaster, motioning the number of stragglers on his hand. Qianvaelth is a quiet, steady monument as always, perched back on his haunches, wings nearly tucked against his back.

T'ral and Esanth are nose to nose engaged in some intent conversation that has eyes flickering back and forth - one set awash in color and spinning, the other a twitching of brow and lids. Hard to tell if its friendly or not, what with them squinting at one another. At G'deon's quiet question to his 'mate their… discourse is cut short. T'ral squares up, at attention. Esanth sits, tail wrapped neatly about haunches, wings cattywampus and neck drawn back into its characteristic casual curve topped by the confident tilt of a heavy-jawed head. His eyes flick to E'don, to Qianvaelth, to G'deon, Nylanth and back to the 700 dragonlength stare.

"Ah! Quite all right, thank you, E'don," G'deon calls back before heading toward the bronze pair. "I will not be keeping you for long today. Let's get started with you two." He gives T'ral a brief salute while Nylanth follows at what to him must be a snail's pace, careful not to walk past his rider. "Any physical complaints, either of you?" G'deon asks E'don, while Nyls asks his own version of the question of the younger bronze.

"Not a pro—" There's an awkward false start of a sentence, and E'don is giving the older bronze rider a salute before he's turning back towards the protection of his dragon's shadow. Qianvaelth finally creaks to life with a clattering of spars as he extends wings for his own draconic show of strength. "Not really much, sir." E'don replies back with a slight glance back towards Qian. "He's finally mastered his wings; so no more awkward starts."

T'ral returns G'deon's salute and stands quietly by as E'don and Qianvaelth deliver their report.

"Excellent, excellent," G'deon replies to E'don before returning the wingsecond's salute. "You're both coming along fine, from what I've seen. Keep up the good work! Now… T'ral? Same question to you and yours. Any issues currently for either of you?"

"None that aren't improving, Sir." T'ral looks up over his shoulder at Esanth, "Esanth still lands like a palette of bricks, but I've compensated." The Healers said his chipped teeth shouldn't present any problems and already filed their reports with the weyrlingstaff, so he doesn't bring it up.

"Really?" G'deon asks while frowning up at the blue for a moment. Nylanth settles down to a lounging position while he towers over the young blue just a little bit. "His wings are okay? Legs? Most dragons get the hang of that by now. Especially the smaller ones."

Esanth draws himself up, forelegs lifting from the ground as he spreads his wings wide. He's only as big as the largest of the greens, his wings are shorter, broader. The source of his great agility. And probably the rough landings. Not a lot of finesse to this pair yet. "Doesn't seem to bother him any, Sir. He wouldn't keep on if it hurt." Pretty much word for word what Arianne had told him.

G'deon nods a couple times while watching the blue's display, then he turns back to T'ral. "How about you? Any thoughts or concerns? You and the others could get tapped into the full wings any time now."

T'ral takes a breath, brows screwing up, lips closed. He shakes his head, letting the breath out. "No, Sir." Nothing to do with health.

G'deon squints at T'ral. Then at Esanth. Then back. "That feels like there's a 'but' that you didn't mention yet," he prompts, plucking at the scarf at his neck.

"No 'but,' Sir. I just don't know where we fit. In the wings." He clears his throat, "Not that we get a say." Esanth rumbles. Reassurement? Affront? Hard to say, his noises aren't any of them pretty.

G'deon purses his lips briefly and tugs his collar snug. "Well, T'ral… not to belittle the frustration, for it's one I've known myself throughout the Turns, but it isn't really your job to figure out where you fit in. It sounds harsh, but you need to trust the Weyr's leadership. They will find a good spot for you." He glances back at Nylanth briefly, then to Esanth, and then the weyrling again. "Worst case, you have to try another wing… or another. But generally, they've had all sorts of practice at placing weyrlings."

T'ral sighs, "That's why I didn't say anything, Sir."

"It's still worth addressing," G'deon counters. "If it's on your mind, and there's an explanation, why not talk about it?"

"I trust the Weyr leadership to choose the best place for us, Sir." Truth. T'ral's jaw works. "I don't know what we should be focusing on. Do we push to be able to fly a whole Fall? Do we focus on agility?" He grimaces, nodding, "Whatever my wingleader wants. I know. I just want them to have as many options with us as possible." Blue is hard. So many choices. In this dragon and rider agree.

"The landings will come. Or they won't," G'deon answers, sounding unconcerned. "While building endurance is always good, it's rare for even a full grown blue to fly an entire Threadfall. It might be good to work on sudden directional changes," he suggests, "but as you said, it will likely depend on your new wingleader." He shrugs more deeply into his jacket and glances around the training grounds. "I think perhaps I should go find something hot to drink, then return. Might be coming down with something. Was there anything else before I go?"

Flying a full Fall as a blue, rare, yes, but a goal nonetheless. And a bone of contention between the blue pair about the worthiness of that goal. And which side of the argument either one is on changes day to day. "One thing," T'ral clears his throat, brow furrowing, lips pursing. "In case I don't get to say it later. It's been an honor to train under you, Sir."

G'deon shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket, frowning briefly at T'ral until he says his piece, at which point Gid's expression clears into a pleasant smile. "Well, thank you, T'ral. It's been a learning experience for Nylanth and me, but I hope we have done well in your training. I look forward to seeing how you do as a full fighting pair." Nylanth rises to his feet with a low rumble, says his farewells, then turns to go. G'deon is not far behind. "Clear skies, bluerider, and best of luck with your new wing, whichever it ends up being." He salutes a last time, then turns toward the caverns for something to warm his old bones.

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