I will be posting these for B'rok and Jandor soon, too. If anyone actually still reads these. :)

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The momentary disorientation and freezing cold of an emergency jump between was something that S'ol had long grown accustomed to. Xalth had vanished at his command to avoid an erratically spinning clump of thread. As it always did, the momentary pause in the chaos gave him a split second to close his eyes and re-focus his concentration and energy.

And then the sky was blue again and the cracking 'fwoosh' of fire filled his ears as Xalth resumed his attack.

<< Blue Illyriath has suffered a score on his wing. He reports he can still fly. >>

<< Send him home. We're not going to loose someone else. >>

It had been a strange fall. His first as Wingleader, it was just like his luck to be thrown into something unusual his first time in real command. Still further his luck that it should be over Moon Bay Hold. There was a time that he had considered that home – his mother and his father were still there, as far as he knew, as was his brother and sister.

There was a time that he could not help writing a letter home every month. There was a time too, that he couldn't summon the courage to be proud of who he was. His parents had made that difficult. He had never really realized how badly leaving home scarred him. That he had failed hold and family by leaving.

Adversity changes people, so they say.

<< Between. >>

This time, just before Xalth vanished S'ol spied Green Hycath diving towards them to catch the wayward line of thread that his bronze was evading.

Good, he thought. At least something was going right.

It had been a handful of years that had changed both he and his lifepartner immensely. Towards the end of his time as a Weyrling, Xalth had began to challenge him more and more. It was oddly not in the lessons of B'rok, or Issa that he found his solution but from the guard captain, Ashwin.

He had taught him that to control Xalth, he had to first learn to control himself. And to control himself, the first step was accepting who and what he was. It was not quite that simple, but it was proof that wisdom could be found in places where one did not expect.


And then came graduation, and his daily work as part of one of High Reaches' fighting wings. Surrounded with the turmoil of the exile's return to the Weyr, and the frightening lack of able flyers in the Weyr he was unable to make it 'home' as he planned. Nor did he have time to write.

'I'll write a letter' next week had become 'next month' and then 'next year' and before long, S'ol rarely thought of his roots. His promotions, first to wingsecond and then to wingleader were the final nail in the coffin and after that he simply did not think of family at all. There was too much for him to do, too many people that were relying on him.

It was easy to assume that his folk simply did not approve of him as well. His father had told him that he would never find a way to make a difference if he left home. And that was what people from his family did, he was told.

It was just easy to forget. There were no reminders. Until now, until a thick fall over Moon Bay.

<< Firestone. >>

Thoughtlessly, he supplied Xalth with rock from his carried stores as the wing plunged out of the other side of the fall. Raising his hand and giving a mental command he signaled for the upper layer to wheel and begin their slice into the fall once again – except that there was no thread to sear. There were still a few falling clumps but they were quickly dealt with by agile blues and greens. Rukbat was shining clear and impeded.

<< Brown Vorshath and Green Jakin report minor injuries. They will fall out to the infirmary once we return to High Reaches. Blue Ormyir has gone between, and Y'ril with him. The wing is forming up alongside of us to go home. >>

He would never get used to this, S'ol realized. Hearing the list of injuries, or hearing the calm and level way that Xalth delivered them. He would be raging later, but his bronze had learned to control himself admirably in fall once he realized that others depended on him.

He looked to his left. Brown Hirinth and his rider, G'onn. His wingsecond and one of the rocks of his wing. On his right, Bronze Tilonth and his rider, K'rl, third in command under G'onn. Beyond each, the wing hovered – waiting and ready for his command.

He looked down, far below him at the occasional flashes of flamethrowers in the hold as ground crews cleaned out a couple of burn-ins. People had just begun to emerge from shelter; eyes canted upwards towards the mass of dragons hovering in the sky.

<< Xalth, tell Hirinth and G'onn to take the wing home. We are not returning to High Reaches. Make sure that Vorshath, Jakin and Illyriath go straight to the infirmary. >>


<< We are not going home? >> There was the faintest edge of a grumble upon Xalth's mental voice. S'ol really could not blame him, either. He was tired and stained with soot. A couple of minor abrasions glistened in the sunlight. S'ol was little better; face and leathers almost black and the lines in his forehead deepened by exhaustion.

<< Soon, old friend, soon. Do you see the building with two chimineys? >>

<< Of course. >>

<< Land us there. >>

He did his best to ignore the startled hold folk that crowded around Xalth soon after he made his landing. He never was good with people. Fortunatly, nobody recognized him – they probably assumed that he was on official business from the Weyr. All were polite, too, as he asked for volunteers to scrub the soot away from his bronze's hide. A crowd of local children took care of that and soon, the 'intimidating' and 'savage' bronze of the Weyr was stretched upon his chest in the shallows of the local leg, swarmed over by attentive children and as much in his sway as any house pet.

That left only one thing to do.

As he approached his old doorway, he hesitated for a moment. Would he even be recognized? It had afterall, been over six turns and he was closer to thirty than to twenty now. He found it briefly surreal that he was going to knock on a door that he had once barged in and out of without heed – because it was his own.

The knock, he thought, sounded hollow and empty. The door had the same creak to it though, and a second later he stood eye to eye with his father.

The man looked blank for a moment, until recognization finally danwed after ten seconds.

“Sivoril?”

“Father.”

“S'ol, I should say. Where is Xalth?”

“Yes, S'ol. He is with the children. I am surprised you remember his name.”

This wasn't what he expected. At the very least, he expected to be able to carry on some sort of conversation. But the tense, clipped tones from each reminded him of their final argument so many years ago.

“Your mother is going to be beside herself and cry.”

“That is nothing new.”

“That knot means something, doesn't it? The last searchrider here wore it.”

“I am a Wingleader.”

The halting talk faded away completely then and ey stared at each other in silence for a moment until S'ol, somewhat desperate finally pushed past his father and into the darkness of the cottage.

“Son? Siv – S'ol?” The question was asked to his back. Slowly, he turned; face impassive as he waited for the expected verbal barb. After six years, his father was going to get the last lick in.

“Will you not shake your old man's hand, at least?”

When he extended his hand, his father finally threw his arms around his shoulders; heedless of the soot that clung to his body.

“I didn't mean what I said, years ago, son. I'm.... proud of you. That you've found a way to make a difference.”

“......thank you, Father.”

“Now, come on. Let's get the crying over with, so we can hear your stories.”

<< That did not go as badly as you thought it did. >>

<< No, it didn't, old friend. It is good to be home. >>

I decided to have S'ol write his first letter home to his mother, with no preparation. I timed myself for fifteen minutes and started to write without thinking much about it. I like how it turned out. I have established some history for his leaving home now, which was a very small and traditional hold. I gather that it was a bad leaving. :)

Nonetheless, it captures him well. There will be more letters over time.

( I miss your bubbly pies, Mother, and I love you both so much. )

There has been some drawing of the beard lately.

This post will be updated over time with anything new that may come his way.

( Beneath the cut, lies the sordid beard. )

To understand this, one needs to realize that Moon Bay Hold -- where both Jandor and S'ol are from -- was once a booming community. Iron Ore had been discovered there, but an accident caused the mines to be closed and the Hold's economy crashed, leaving only a very few people.

Jandor's parents were minecrafters, and had been stationed there to develop the tunnel. They left before the accident happened and left him at the hold. He feared for a long time that he'd never matter, that he'd never be anyone of substance. It grew to a level of paranoia, when the accident happened. He got involved in some of the medical work to save some of the injured people and decided to become a healer because it would make him someone who mattered. He felt important, doing it.

He's still very much addicted to the adrenaline rush of saving people, and the self worth that he gets as a result. He's not evil, and genuinely wants the right thing for his paients.. but he most defenatly has a selfish streak that he won't acknowledge.

This is a glimpse of what might have happened if he didn't become a healer...

( Call him a nobody, would they? )

So, a little bit of RP inspired me to do a bit of writing.

Mediocre, but I'm pleased with it nonetheless.

Rated Zomgblud for some healer bleeding.

( Because you're worthless to anyone you know; you're worthless to anyone you love. )