English is a sordid affair of a language, but it comes with one unique quality. It has the largest repertoire of words in the world. And hey, sad to say, Size Matters. There's nothing that can quite compete with a large vocabulary, if you catch my meaning.

And you did, didn't you? Because, that's the thing about the English language. There's a word for everything. There is no senseless, roundabout defining of term we haven't got a title for. Other languages may sound more elegant, but who needs elegance? Communication is a matter of getting the point from person A to person B, and for that, you need a utilitarian language. One that isn't afraid to brutally take advantage of other langauges when need be, and more importantly, one that isn't afraid to bloody well do as it pleases and make up new words when new words are due. When someone with a true mastery of the english language avoids the specifics, its because he wants to, not because he has to. When someone with a mastery of english is driven to speechlessness, it is because he or she is experiencing something incommunicable, not because he or she lacks the words to make a point. English speechlessness is worth about one and a half times other speechlessnesses, in my personal opinion.

And "speechlessnesses" itself raises a particularly valid point. Like I said earlier, English does not fear the creation of a new word! Anyone reading this saw "speechlessnesses" and, after noting that is has far too many S's and E's for a sane word, was forced to admit that it got the point across. I didn't have to say "suffers a round of speechless behavior." I made up a word, and anyone with a full comprehension of English read it and understood. Yes, such creativity can be done in other langauges, but can it be done with the sheer thoughtlessness?English speakers never bother to search for a word, they just create the one that suits the situation best. And that malleablility, that freedom of creation, is what makes English truly the king of languages.

Oh, Italy might have its music, France might carry the banner of romance, and Spanish has undeniable exotic flair, but no one can deny that when it comes to getting the point across- and that is the entire purpose of language- English is the superior choice. English does not fear stealing away a pinch of vocabulary when it must, does not fear creating a new term when the need arises, and truly, it is the finest lagnuage in all the lands.

Go ahead. Prove me wrong. I dare you.

Vodka first. She always starts with the vodka. It doesn't have a taste, and god it burns her nose, the fumes are harsh, but she'd rather begin with the bland and work her way up. Three shots, tonight. Three of each. Because she wants nothing more than to forget, and it takes alot to wipe clean a mind as sharp and fresh as Cen's.

After the vodka, its the rum. By then, she's a bit giggly, but its all fake. She wants to be giggly, so she acts that way. It's easier to convince herself its real, when she's tipsy. And rum is a funny drink, anyway. The discarded remnants of sugarcane, and yet there is nothing sweet about it. It is vicious, cutting into her gumline where it splashes. It hurts, honestly. She never takes more than one order of rum, but in keeping with her rules, it's a triple.

Then the whiskey. By the time she gets this far, her body is beginning to vibrate. She imagines this is what people call the buzz, and it feels like bees are building hives under her skin. Sometimes, when the memories are paricularly persistent, the paranoia manifests itself by whiskey, in the form of imaginary bugs constantly needed to be swatted. She's usually still aware enough to know she must look like a meth head, slapping bugs that don't exist. But, she can't be bothered to care. Whiskey tastes like apathy. It leaves a film on her mouth, reminiscent of peanuts, and if she wasn't already out of her own mind, it would disgust her.

Usually, she stops at whiskey, but it seems that three times three isn't the magic number tonight. She still feels the pain, keenly slicing into her side, just beneath the ribs, and radiating throughout her body. Next is tequila. It comes next because she hates it. Even being half way to wasted isn't enough to keep her from reviling the flavor. Usually, one shot is enough to stop her from continuing. Tequila is next because it is an obstacle, one that should serve to stop her. But not tonight.

She doesn't get past tequila often enough to remember what comes next. It takes a long time to remember, swimming through a head too full of battle scars and minor faults that seem so much bigger in her own eyes than anyone else's. Oh yes. That was it. Brandy. Now, this is becoming expensive. Or it would be, if she was paying, but there's always a way. Stealing, teasing, taking, whatever. There's always a way to do it through someone else's wallet. Akira usually keeps brandy in a flask. It's another obstacle. If she wants to keep going, she has to act calmly and cleanly enough to steal it away from under her own commander's eyes. She does.

Each drink is another challenge, and she passes them all easily. By the time she reaches number eight, her body is beginning to reject this behavior. Then again, she is staring into the third shot of Triple Sec- disgustingly sweet, clinging to her teeth like bananas- and somewhere the number twenty four floats dully through her head. Three dozen. She'll kill herself in a single night, fi she keeps this up. She tips the little tumbler back, and the syrupy, vile liquer drips down her throat.

But, she's won. She can't remember her own bloody name- it's such a long ass, stupid name- let alone why she started all this. Come morning, when she's violently ill and filled with regret, whatever she was running away from will rear its ugly head again. But not tonight. Tonight, she wins.

And gods above, she relishes the victory. She never wins.

The joy lasts nearly four minutes, before she sways in her seat, and her forehead hits the counter top with a disturbingly loud thud.

Hmm. She looks like me, but... I have never seen myself as anything but the silent tag along, the grieving mother, the background image in a greater tapestry. Who is this woman, who carries my face and yet wields a warrior's blade?

She looks at me, and I know that she is me. Only I can know that I exist, after all. The film of exhaustion peels itself away from my vision, if only for a little while. Everything is little, compared to Eternity. She cannot see me, but her eyebrows knit together in a familiar way, and I smile. She seems satisfied that whatever presence she feels, it will bring no harm.

And of course, I would not. I would never.

"C'mon Very, we've got serious grinding to do if we're ever gonna get there!" My smile widens, that voice is so familiar. A pretty young blond boy jogs past her, and she rises with an elegance that I have never had. The grace that only indomitable strength can bring.

How can she have such strength, if she lives to serve, as all my selves do?

But, then again, she carries a blade and wears no armor, so perhaps it is only a ruse to better please her beloved.

The little group, seven in all, spends nearly the full day riding atop foreign creatures I have never seen before, faster and stronger than horses, though the seem almost like zebras in a way. I like this world, and perhaps I will be able to stay here longer than I usually remain.

Night falls on them, and the stars overhead are so bright that the sky seems to never darken at all. The moon cannot possibly be a moon, it is too huge, to nearby. Perhaps this is a... ah. I have't used the word in so long. Well, I will remember it one day. I have enough time that I can wait.

And the woman who wears my skin sets the thin blade aside, unrolling a mat for sleeping on. I can not help examining it. It seems so harmless, compared to Ari's heavy fighting staff, or his sister Nell's battered axe. Such thin, supple metal. Surely if it met anything arder than flesh it would bend, or even break.

The night passes quietly, and the group begins to rise as the sky turns dawn-grey. The weird zebra beasts are untied from their trees, and the camp is dissembled with practiced ease.

It is only after all is packed and loaded that the... creatures strike. Wide bodies, covered in matted, once-white fur. Their faces are covered by hand-carved masks in permanent scowls, and they easily dwarf the all too human group. First goes Nell, her thin, linked armor and wide edged axe seem the most suited to this task. Servan and Kin, with thier wickedly sharp arrows, try to thin the masses of monsters before they can get to Nell, but even when they do she seems to defeat them with an alarming ease. Impossible, for someone so small to take down such huge creatures! But, each beast takes no more than two blows before they collapse.

Still more pile in upon her, focusing on killing the tiny woman who has destroyed their bretheren. She screams, blood curdlingly high in pitch, and I feel a vague terror. That is why I am here, then. I am here to watch her die.

But no, Ari wades into the furious battle, crawling over the creatures almost unnoticed, and stabs the heavy staff into the center of the raging swarm. I do not know what he has done, but Nell comes crawling above the swell of fur and muscle after a moment, and though her armor is missing an arm, and her flesh is raw red, she seems undamaged. Ari returns to the edges of the battle, abandoning his sister once more to the fray.

"Don't do that again, Nell!" He cries back, receiving an annoyed growl in response.

"You think I dunno how to kill 'em? It was a freak lucky shot." Servan and Kin laugh aloud at that, and even Very smiles lightly.

Apparently, this bizarre scene is to be expected. The two archers cleanly shoot through another handful, and Nell is obviously thinning the swarm easily enough.

It seems I am not here to watch her die, after all. So, I much wonder why this world has kept me for so long now? Do the powers that be feel some remorse for condemning me to this?

Eventually, it seems that a good three hundred of the great white creatures have been dealt their deaths by this tiny group of humans. How impossible the odds were, and how easily they dealt with them, I will never be able to truly comprehend.

And through all that, Very never once raised her blade. I believe that the power in her motions is, as I thought, only a rouse. Ari and Nell keep her along because they want her, not because she is useful. The blonde woman Ari makes his bed with every night, Lee, offers a useful enough skill. It seems that she can make a fine meal out of nothing but the surrounding local plants, which is an impressive talent. And the smallest member of the group, a girl whose equivalent from my own home I must not have known, though she is only eleven at the best, has a gift. The missing arm of Nell's armor is easily replaced, new links fashioned at an unnerving speed from a vast spool of wire she carries. They call her Tinny, for her skills, but Servan who she calls father, says her name is Tenor.

I have stayed invisible by their sides for nearly two full weeks. It is nice, to rest in one land for awhile. Very- the one who is me- even seems comfortable around my unnerving, unnatural presence now. She nods to me, though I know she cannot see or understand me, each night before she sleeps.

Each morning seems to consist of another impossible swarm of beasts, who Nell charges head first into, drawing their attention away from the other, more vulnerable members of her group. Ari seems to be able to repair even the gravest injury with a sharp jab from his great staff, and he keeps her alive when the odds are too high even for her skill. Servan and Kin, of course, do little more than thin the numbers from afar, keeping the amount in the swarm down to a level that Nell can handle unhindered. And, Very simply watches and smiles.

One morning, if it could be called that, the members of the group all seemed to wake at the same moment, and everyone scrambled to pack as quickly as they could. Their terror was palpable. I could not imagine what kind of creature must be threatening them, if it could terrify this impossibly strong group.

"C'mon Very, we gotta go!"

And the other-me simply smiled that same calm smile. I have worn it myself, many times, but never when everyone around me was in danger of death.

They run away on their zebras, fleeing through the sparsely wooded hills as fast as they can. Everyone among them fears for their life.

The beast that finally reached them seemed so... harmless. They have fought wild cats, armored serpents, and countless more of the great white tribesmen. And here, they all fled from a small, golden bird. I am confident that even I could destroy it.

I am wrong, as well. It passes with terrible ease through Lee armor, diving through the back of her chest and through the neck of her mount. There is no blood, but it is obvious that she is dead.

Kin and Servan follow. Tenor, it seems, is too young to be a target. The bird dove towards her, but did little more than land on her shoulder. its voice was so beautiful it nearly ripped me apart. "Too innocent. You do not kill, you defend. For that, you live, little human."

And it returned to the air, gliding in wide, lazy circles above the heads of the living. "Who among you cares to try a fair fight. I have taken half your numbers. It seems you deserve a chance to save the rest."

Nell dismounts from her Zebra, but before she can yell her rash challenge, Very stands as well, not even bothered to drop from the terrified beast she rides. "You are a beast, and nothing more. Play your battle out with me, and we shall see who wins."

The bird sings a few notes, and it takes a moment for me to realize that it is laughing. "You have more confidence in you than most, Soothsayer. Do you see yourself winning this battle? Surely you have heard the tales of my kind. We make all visions false, all magic falter. We are gods among your world."

"I will have my victory, and when you are crushed beneath my boot, you will bring life back to those three you stole from us." She cried back, goaded the little golden bird. And then, she turned to me, taking her eyes from the sky once more. "You have been called here to see this, to have this gift. Summoned, if you like."

The bird loses altitude, his circles becoming spirals as he drift down. He has no need to rush this fight. Very finally jumps from her mount's back, landing lightly on the soft earth beneath her feet. Nell looks completely enraged, but I suspect the bird has trapped her somehow, for the livid warrior does not move towards her pale companion. Ari, too, is froze in place.

Very smiles, unsheathing the thin blade. From the bag on her hip, she pulls a slip of stiff paper. A playing card, perhaps, but I do not recognize the symbols.

More of the bird's musical laughter washes down on us all. "That is your plan? You silly little fool." Clearly, he recognizes the design of the card.

Very simply smiles the same unworried smile, and I cannot help myself: my own face mirrors it. I have seen this image so many times before, it doesn't hurt the way it should. You stop feeling terror at your own death after the thousandth time.

She tosses the blade into the ground, and it slides easily into the dirt. With what seems to be practiced ease, she stands over the pommel and holds the card against her forehead.

"I've placed my bet, beastie. Take your shot."

The bird knows his cue, and more of their laughing music fills the ear as he dives for her neck. Nell's scream is impossibly loud in my ears as Very's body stiffens. I feel the echoes of my own soul as hers passes away.

Tenor is the first to move. The bird has not come out the back of Very's body as it did with all the others. She remains standing tall, her fingers pressing the card against her rapidly cooling forehead, but the bird does not reappear.

It takes only a moment for the little girl to pry the card from Very's hand. "Impossible." She declares. "Completely, utterly not possible."

Nell and Ari do not hear the words. Ari is huddled above Lee's empty body, and Nell is doubled over on the ground, eyes screwed shut. I hear the words, though. And I see what Tenor sees. The card is still riddled with undecipherable symbols, but beneath the cage of those foreign words, the bird is trapped in the midst of his dive.

Tenor seems to recognize the card's use, perhaps these cards are common in this world. She mashes it awkwardly against her small forehead, and begins muttering. The chant- I recognize one when I hear it- is filled with stutters and stumbles. This is something Tenor has heard a thousand times, and never once tried.

Suddenly, the bird is back, his dive halted.

"You know your command, little golden god." Tenor tells it, her eyes colder than her metal links. Such a little girl should not have such violent eyes. The bird is quiet now, perhaps unable to speak. But, suddenly, Kin and Servan straighten their backs, and their riding beasts rear back, throwing them to the ground. Lee rises so quickly that the smack of her forehead against Ari's own is audible. And, Very reaches towards Tenor, silently asking for her card back.

The white robed woman places it beneath her foot. "Crushed beneath my boot, as I swore you would be." Once again, the bird is gone. Very picks the card from the grass, and makes her way to Nell, peeling open the other woman's eyes with her own fingers. She waves the card in front of Nell's nose.

"This should sell for more than enough to keep up well dressed for the next six generations."

I do not know what I have witnessed. But, Very looks at me once more. I think, perhaps, this impossible woman can see me. We are impossible together, I immortal and she unkillable. The bird is summoned again, this time alighting on his mistress's shoulder.

"My command, you useless god-thing, was to return them all to life. All. Every single one."

And then, there is the brutal sensation of my self being ripped away. I have rested in this world far too long, it seems, and it is time for my journey to continue once more.

Once upon a time, there was a small family, living in an equally small village. It was a quiet place, left separate from the various wars and battles of the greater world. Their home was small, but the family was happy. The mother was a stay-at-home wife, always cleaning the tiny house and cooking savory dinners. The daughter was studying under her mother's guidance, but often dreamed of marrying and living in a grand estate near a city. The father was a tailor, though he rarely made fine clothes, usually sewing together new and sturdy work outfits for the other men. And, the son was too young to do much, but he wanted more than anything in the world to be a great hunter.

Il etais un fois, il y avait une petite famille. Ils habitaient dans un egalment petit village. C'etais un endroit calme, separait de les guerres du monde. La famille avait une petite maison, mais ils etais heureux. La mere etait un femme-au-foyer, et toujour elle nettoyait la maison et preparait bon repas. La fille etudiait le menage avec sa mere, mais elle voulait marier et vivre dans une grande maison pres d'un grande ville. Le pere etais un tailleur, mais il a fait rarement des vetements elegant. Souvent, il faisait les vetements de travaille pour les autres hommes. Finalment, le garcon... Il etais tres petite. Il n'a pas assez ans faire beaucoup. Mais, il voulais etre un chausseur, savait a toute le monde pour ses dexterite et force!

One day, the little boy decided to go explore the forest outside the village. It was large, but welcoming on the edges. He felt no fear, and marched bravely through the leaves on the ground. In time, he was exhausted. He heard the rushing of a river near by, and went towards it. For a long time, he sat beside the river. He enjoyed the cool breeze and the spray of the water. A few times, he thought he heard laughter, but it was only the bubbles in the water.

Un jour, le garcon a decide aller explorer le foret pres de la village. C'est un grand foret pittoresque. Le garcon n'a pas le craindu, et il a marche bravement sur les feuilles et le terrain. Temps a passe, et il a eu fatigue. Il a entendu une riviere pres dont. Il lui a couru. Pour beaucoup de heures, il a reste a cote de la riviere. Il a aime le vent frais, et l'eau dans l'air, parceque son voyage faisait lui chaud. Parfois, le gracon entendais du ris, mais le bruit etais des brulles dans la riviere.

Eventually, he decided to go home. But, he was very thirsty and first he wanted to take a drink from the river. Of course, at only six years old, he wasn't tall enough to lean over the edge of the water safely. He reached, and reached, but the water always seemed a few centimetres away. When his cupped hand touched the surface of the river, he slid towards the cold, fast, violent stream.

Finalement, le garcon a decide retourner a son maison. Mais, premiere, il avais soif. Il voulait de l'eau de la riviere. Mais, il a eu suelement six ans, et il n' a pas ete grande. Il a etire pour le eau. Il a etire, et a etire, mais il n'a pas atteindu l'eau. Quand il a le attendu, il est se coule a l'eau froid et furieux.

For a single moment, the little boy knew what the fear of death felt like, but then, suddenly, a hand pushed against his chest, forcing him back up onto the bank.

Pour un moment, le petit garcon a su le craindu du mort. Mais, soudain, un main a pousse son torse, et le a mis sur le terrain encore.

"Little boy," said a voice coming out of the river, "You have kept me such fine company today. I would not want you to hurt yourself, though, and so you must not come back here until you are older. Old enough to be safe." A girl with blue hair and white skin followed the hand and voice out of the river, studying the terrified boy's face. "I will wait for you, until then." she said, and then, with a laugh made of bubbles, she disappeared back beneath the water, gone once more.

"Petit garcon," a dit un voix dans la riviere. "Vous etaiez un bon ami au'jourdhui. Parce vous etes mon ami, je ne veux pas pour vous vous blesser. Si, ne retourner pas ici jusque vous avez assez ans ne pas etre dangereux." Une fille avec cheveux blanche et peau bleue a suivi la voix dehors la riviere. "Je vais attendre, jusqu'a la nous prochaine reconnaitre."

 Horatio was not, nor had he ever been, a wordsmith. People he could manipulate with the skills that only a man born into tenuous power and fighting to stay there could ever acquire. But, his voice was not his most formidible weapon in that arena. People often thought he was an idiot, for his inability to speak with the eloquence that oozed from all those around him. Even riddled with utmost madness, simple women had been more poetic than he, and often more forceful.

But, then, he had turned that into his own favor as well, cultivating a particular image. Silent, thoughtful, and always ready with a masterstroke the seal the fate of another man's plans. If he could manage to explain it, at least.

So, staring at the empty sheafs of paper before him, he felt a terror that had been absent from his life for months now. The same earth shattering fears that had assaulted him as he'd watched every one he'd ever loved die within an hour's time. Murder, suicide, or simple accident.

And it was his uncherished duty to make people yet unborn understand the pain and horrors that had wracked Denmark on that one day. How could he ever hope to explain to convolusion? The revulsion? The agony and overwhelming pressures that had driven an entire court to insanity and destruction? Ink drizzled in untidy splashes across his paper, as his hand stood poised in the air mere inches above it. 

His eyes closed, and he thought back to that day. Tears no longer dared to mar his cheeks, his task was his punishment for refusing to help his one true and undeniable friend avenge a wrongful death. It would be foolish and unmanly to cry. Not again.

The tip of the quill touched the rough surface of the papers, and he let himself think of all the words that others had said. No, he was not a story teller, but this was a story that could tell itself.

==-==
Someone asked me once why I picked Horatio, pointless little bugger, to name my best and brightest character after, when the were hundreds of stronger, smarter, kinder, braver, crueller and generally better men and women to choose from.

That's why.

TBC



==-==-==
*.1: Been spending too much time rotting on TV Tropes. This references the Kardashev scale, a "societal energy output" measure that describes the advancedness of a race in terms of its energy creation and/or expenditure. Earth resides at .72 on a four point scale (theoretical five points by some arguments). For comparison, earth uses an approximate 1.6*10^13 watts. On the other end of the scale, God, creating the universe, would need to have individually expended a minimum of 7.41944339 * 10^112 watts. God, and god-like beings are identified as the upper limit of the scale, and beings capable of such feats are what are often identified as "type five" in the theoretical arguments. I don't expect that the Kardashev scale is likely to come into greater use in the Chandra-verse, on the grounds that even Horatio as an individual is capable of personal type-3 expenditure, and for christ's sakes she's far from abnormal. But, it worked well for that sentence, up until I started typing this explanation.

 

Assila's birthing pangs faded as the last of the blood and filth stopped flowing. She could feel the sweat cooling on her bare arms, and wished she could revel in the wash of exhaustion and freedom that was overtaking her. But, it was not fated to be. Instead, powerful guilt and more than a little fear was creeping into her muddled mind. Nearly ten minutes ago, her hopes had been dashed. It was another daughter.

“What will she be called?” the healer asked, oblivious to the poor woman's state of mind.

“I... don't know.” Assila wracked her mind. All the names she had thought of sounded indescribably masculine. Thoughts of Taverelse- her often vengeful husband- further suppressed her ability to conjure names. This was his third daughter, and he would doubtlessly be enraged, when another girl was presented to him. He wanted nothing more than a son, and Assila seemed to be incapable of bearing one.

Cool fingers splayed across her slick forehead then, and Sinta- her first born, from her first marriage- spoke in that soft as steel voice of hers. Always making decrees, never requests.

"Verites. Call this sister of mine Verites."

Assila nodded, grateful that someone had taken the burden from her shoulders. It was a nice name. Feminine, and with a pleasant ring. It started so strong, and faded delicately into a hissing whisper. It almost seemed to echo in her weary mind.
 

Round and round, the name spun. There was a wail, somewhere. Someone was crying, and in such a weak, tiny voice. Who was crying?

It had seemed like such a simple birth. The girl- Verites- had been small, and her mother had been well experienced: three children before this one.

But Assila's skin was greying. The sweat on her neck cooled too quickly. The healer handed the newborn babe, still misshapen and covered in viscera, to the sister who had named her.
 

"Verites. Oh... I wish you could have known Senert..." Sinta's own face paled, and her eyes scurried back and forth, from her sister to her mother. Assila had not spoken of Senert in turns. "He wasn't like these Bitrans. He had Telgar's honor. He treasured his daughters. Beautiful, graceful..." Assila's words were weak, and Sinta knew the look of fearful concentration on the healer's face could only mean something terrible.

"Her womb is bleeding into her abdomen." The man muttered, but Assila heard nothing.

"You will be beautiful and graceful then, won't you, Verites? To make your father love you?" Those were Assila's last words. A command that Verites always followed, though she wasn't old enough to remember it. Be beautiful, be graceful, make your father love you.
Sinta had been growing so distant, lately, and Verites understood why. Her sister, so strong and independent, felt not only insulted but betrayed by Verites' own passive behavior. It would not mend things between them, this beautiful portrait she was painting as the newlyweds spun around the dance floor of the Gather. But, it would help. And from there, Verites could decide what to do next.

The rich purple tones of her sister's dress looked so lovely, against the inky black ringlets of her hair. Chason's own tunic was a shade of green that even a dragon could envy. It had cost Verites almost all her meager life savings, to obtain those lovely garments in time for their first gather as husband and wife. She had done the embroidery herself. The package had no name on it- Verites had long ago forgotten how to spell it- but Sinta undoubtedly knew who had sent it.

It was there, while she sat in her corner, creating this second half of her wedding gift, that the dragonman found her.

The rider laughed. He had a nice laugh, deep and rich. He probably could have been a Harper, or a least a local talent, with a voice like that. "You're right, of course. Painting isn't really all that interesting. You, though, are quite captivating indeed." Any other girl would have blushed deeply, between the triple assault of his voice, his words, and the reputation that preceeded every dragonrider. Verites' features remained smooth as ice. "My Kynath agrees sincerely."

There were heavy, recognizable footsteps from somewhere to her left, and Verites had a rare moment of gratitude. The first time her father had seen her conversing with a dragonrider explaining candidacy to her, he had nearly killed her, locking her away in some cellar for four full days, to wither away in the damp. When it happened again, the brutal man had understood the fear washed across his youngest child's face, and instead taken his frustrations out on the rider, who had easily knocked Taverelse to the ground and pinned him.

But here, in so public a place, he would not try anything.

"I am sorry, rider of Kynath. But, whatever proposal you are about to make, I think my father will passionately disagree." For a moment, the rider seemed to prepare a protest, but as easily as she schooled her features into apathy, Verites rearranged her face into a vicious glare, one she had learned from Taverelse himself. The man backed away, then, and returned to the dancing and merry making.

She listened to her father's retreating footsteps, and was once more filled with gratefulness, this time that he had not stepped around her canvas.

Eventually, the bright, cheerful music drowned the deep thuds. A crisis had been averted. Now, there was a portrait to complete.

Still, that kind of random comment deserved a response. "Guh? I asked for a name, not a job description. ...Also... What the hell, Nathan? He's not a fertility god!"

The other occupant of my sitting room, a hazel eyed lad Nathan had brought over without warning or suitable introduction, simply nodded sagely. "Of course I am. Would you like proof?"

Immediately Nathan jumped off his little ottoman- the boy refused to sit on the couches. "Don't you dare! She's a lady!" His hands were waving frantically in the air, and after a moment of this madness, he turned back to me. "Don't say yes. He's just going to show you that he's got the biggest wang in this hemisphere."

I could feel the expression on my face crumpling. I wasn't sure whether the be vaguely disturbed or overwhelmed by laughter. Whatever noise I made, it wasn't laughter. The fertility god- if that was what I was going to have to call him, so be it- just smirked. "Whatever." I finally managed, schooling my face back to a proper look. "If you're a fertility god, you can help me rescue my poor pomegranate. It had all these flowers, but then it got rained on, and now I think its dying."

There was another one of those sage nods. Nathan was watching me, looking weird. But, then again, he was so very good at looking weird. It would be foolish to think otherwise. I stood up, so did the "god," but Nathan settled more deeply into his ottoman. "I'm gonna watch something retarded on tv. I think I've been gathering too many IQ points lately. Watching you tend to plants isn't going to help me get rid of them." he joked. I thought it was a joke. Sometimes, Nathan was hard to understand.

I shrugged, and led the other one off towards the sunroom. "You got a name?"

"Call me Corey, if it makes you feel better." I should have known, of course, that one of Nathaniel Jones's friends would have some sort of ridiculous taboo about names. It was just like him, picking up the weirdest ones he could. Of course, it did make me wonder why I was his associate as well, but that wasn't the point.

We turned the corner, into the sunroom. Everything was wonderfully bright, warm, flowery. But, of course, the poor pomegranate- Klara- was looking ready to drop dead at any moment.

What happened next was terribly surreal, but at least it fixed Klara. I figure, he probably was a real fertility god, to be able to pull off that. Or, the best gardener in the world, with bizarre, unorthodox practices. I'm leaning towards the god thing, though. There was proof.

Corey left, after fixing Klara up. He had other things to tend to, gardens and lovely young maidens without any idea what to do with a plant, besides shove it in the dirt and wait. It took me another ten minutes to get back to the sitting room- only twenty, thirty feet away at the most. Nathan was waiting, with literally the single most obnoxious grin that has ever been grinned by anyone, anywhere.

"Not a word. Come on. We're going to Trust. That's why you came in the first place, right?"

Nathan snickered, and a resisted the urge to slap him. "Oh, I'll be you came in first place." Of course, by this point, i was far too steel-eyed with annoyance to be blushing. Still, he had made his point.

"Come on, you snarky little bitch." I turned on my toe, stalking out the door and to the car.

Nathan put on his best wounded voice, "Oh, you hurt me with you words!" he shouted, full of more melodrama than one person should ever know. But, he followed without any further complaint, and I had to be grateful for that.

Moreso, I was grateful that throughout the whole trip to Trust, nearly two hours, he made no more obnoxious statements. Just sang along with the radio.

Trust, of course, was his boarding school. Two hours from my place, but nearly four from his own parents. They had moved, after he started attending. The Trust Academy for Advancement. It was a name pulled straight from a generic sitcom, but it was a drop dead gorgeous school. I wish I could have gone there, for high school. But no, I had to go to public. Damned be the world of finances.

He'd spent spring break at my house, but the last two days he'd be home with his mom and dad. Now, somehow, it had become my responsibility to drive him back to his school.

Then again, I also wouldn't see him again until the end of the semester, so I couldn't help feeling bad for snapping at him when we were leaving.

He was pulling me out of the driver's side before I even knew what was happening. When had I parked? Ugh. I was getting lost in my thoughts again. That damned Corey had probably ruined my logic for the day. Pitiful.

"Come on, come on. You haven't been here since Chirstmas! I've got a new dorm. It's mega better than last semester's. Plus, the guy across the hall is retarded sexy."

I let myself be dragged along, but I had to raise an eyebrow at that. "Retarded sexy? As in, a sexy retard? That's creepy, Nathan. Really fucking creepy."

Nathan just laughed his favorite deranged laugh. "No, he's so sexy it makes everyone else into retards!"

"Well then. This, I have to see. How come you get to go to the big, awesome school with all the sexy retards?" I half-whined. It was all in good humour.

"Pfft. Because I'm goddamn loaded, and you're not. The priviledges of wealth! Ahaha!"

I sighed dramatically. Nathan could bring out the overactor in anyone. "Alas, I shall have to bide my time, until  your parents force you to marry me for cover, and you buy my silence with all the gold covered diamonds I could ever dream of!"

That was a running joke. Lately, though, it had been sounding like less and less of one. Nathan and I... We spent alot of time together. He was without a doubt my best friend... but his Mom and Dad, well, they didn't like his lack of interest in the female population. It had mostly been subtle hint dropping- I think Nathan hadn't even noticed it until he went home over winter break- but they were clearly hoping he'd end up married to me- for propriety's sake.

And there I was, losing myself to idle thoughts again. Because no we were in the hallway, where his new room was located. Lounging against the wall beside the door to his room were two of the sexiest things I had ever seen, for entirely different reasons.

I knew immediately which one Nathan had been talking about. Tall, defined muscles but not creepy bulging masses, enough tan to say he was outside alot, but with a pinkness on his cheeks that said "not often enough though," and precisely the fluffed up waves of close-sheared hair Nathan had always preferred.

And then, there was his- what, roommate? Totally the opposite end of the spectrum. Scrawny to the point of looking silly, with a face to round and young-looking to be conventionally attractive. But, I liked that look. I had enough cheekbones to cover for any deficit a guy might.

I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow. "You have had jockstrap over there, but I get dibs on Ginger."

==-==-==

More to come. Ran out of time.

Bling, perhaps, but she wasn't deaf. It was strange, trying to describe her lacking senses when there were not words for them. What Fae had ever lost their visions? But then, what Unseleigh had ever had them before? Even her title, Seer, had been stolen from another culture. She wondered how long her empire would last now that she was gone, but word of the battles of the Fae wouldn't spread this far across the voids of space, and even the Bedt'wein, vast a race as they were, could not keep the UDB updated in real time. She would not know of the fall of her people for years and years after it happened.

Not without her Sight.

And yet, though she could not see the future, she could feel the many minds around her. Her ability to read others, at least, was not harmed. It hadn't been something given to her by birth after all, but a skill she had fought for, honed, and practiced as long as she had lived. And so, when Third Gaia came into view from the non-magnified settings of the screens, and the hundreds of souls aboard the ship began tensing with readiness to disembark, their nerves pulled her from sleep.

Sleep. That was another new experience, something that blindness granted her. Her mind had never before been allowed to simply wander in its own confines, as her body rested. Senda knew, now, why sleepers spent so much of their waking life thinking about their dreams. Hers were filled with the same face, the human child, skin dark as burnt food, hair wild and puffy like some strange shrub.

And those eyes, impossibly deep, impossibly rich. Brown was such a plain, boring color, but somehow, though the human-child was all the same shade of it, she looked more amazing than even the brightest of Senda's previous consorts.

As the shuttles began loading, headed for the human's fourth homeworld, Senda could barely restrain her own nerves, and the sensation of hundreds of bodies and minds all around her, filled with excitment or terror of their own was making her sick. For the first time she could remember, her stomach heaved and she inelegantly spewed yellow bile into a little bag provided for that very purpose. It was disgusting.

It would be worth it.

Her journey, the journey of millions of lifetimes, was finally coming to an end. After so long.

All that was left was the find this human girl, and take her away. She would last only the handful of decades a human could, and then, finally, Senda would have someone to follow into the emptiness.

Everything, every second of terror, pain and loneliness, would be assuaged by that one human. She was so certain, a surety that could only come from watching an endless parade of events prove true.

There was one problem, though. Humankind seemed to exist with the sole purpose of overpopulating their worlds. That and killing foreigners. Third Gaia was just the same, nearly fourteen billion lives, and every single one would be violently trained to flay open the flesh of an off-worlder. Senda could keep wings and ears hidden by the magic of Fae, but she had never been trained in glamour, and it would only last so long.

And she didn't even know the little human-child's name.

My name.... I don't even remember what my name is, the one that belonged me so many eternities ago? I simply do not know it. There wasn't enough room, in my mind, for that piece of knowledge to remain.

And yet, I know that name. The name that woman gave. I know it, in the depths of my livelihood, whatever twisted force that may be.

I should have died, so long ago. My people were never immortal- I remember that word, it is my only piece of identity- they always died, mostly before their children did. But, apparently, I was stronger than they were. My two genetic halves combined to form a whole more complete and perfect than any that had come about in my society's long history.

I didn't realize it, didn't really, truly notice it, until the first one died. She stayed beside me, for those early days, bringing me back from the dead more times than I care to remember. She remained with me, until her skin had lost its black shine, looking ashen and dull. Her hair was whiter than any I'd ever seen, nearly blue, nearly transparent, when she left me for the last time.

I don't remember her ever leaving me, any time before that, but I know that was the last time.

After her, for more lifetimes than I can recall, I picked up new and mortal companions. Once or twice, I chose races known for their immortality, but they even chose to left the plane of existence before I could be killed.

After so long watching people die, all around me, changing me from whatever strange innocent I had been and into a creature of malice and apathy, I lost myself. I could never take my own life, but I could put myself in more danger than one person could possibly hope to survive. I lived through all of it. I survived gaining and losing and gaining once more my sanity, throughout countless eons.

Most recently, I chose a planet. One where nothing could move, where the only things that lived were those that stayed in the very place of their birth. All by myself, a god among the plants. I stayed there for... A long time. Millions of local years. I changed the very pattern of that planet's life, covering it with whatever I wanted, creating a world just for me.

And, eventually, I outgrew it. That is the trouble with being born to travel the stars. No matter how big a place is, staying in it too long will drive you mad.

So, I teased the little world into a place where a different kind of me wanted to be. Still covered in plants, sweet smelling fruits dangling heavily from every limb, but now with natural deposits of expensive, rare minerals barely a meter from the surface, everywhere. And from these minerals, I learned, in six thousand years, how to build my own ship, my own tiny, tiny version of the Arjuna.

And once, in the last years of it, forgot myself. My mind left me, drifting along the currents of another world. And I stayed crouching on the ground, with my hand half buried in wires. After a time passed, a long time once again, those wires shocked me, and I fell. It hurt, every part of me hurt, and all I could think was "Momo. Momo will fix it."

I do not know who Momo is, I do not have a memory of a face, of a voice, of a personality. I don't even know the gender of the Name. But, somewhere, it feels a little positive.

And then, my ship was ready, and I spent one of my little planet's years relearning all the things that had changed since my disappearance.

And I decided to do something I had never done. I decided I would go to a little drug-consumed world full of sentients for sale. Since the Rani had fallen- since I had helped topple them myself- things had changed. I thought them to be darker, but then, I was a foreigner to it all, a remnant from a different world. It wasn't mine to make judgments on.

And on that sales planet, I found a lovely little girl, who stank of magic. After a moment's study, I realized the magic wasn't hers at all- though she had her own, to be certain.

"What's you name, little one?" I must have soudned strange, my accent unknown and thick.

"Thea."

"And are you for sale, Thea?"

"Until now. Some lady came to buy me. She'll be out, in a moment, to set me free." The prostitute paused, her eyes hazy. The pollen from the drugged flowers of the world was making it hard for her to think, even if she'd never eaten the petals. "Or, to take me away. But she doesn't seem the sort to take. More, someone who gives away a wealth that isn't theirs to begin with. D'you know?"

"I know that sensation."

And then, a woman appeared, silent as travelling through space. Everything about her was blue, the same placid shade. It was almost hard to look at. Her eyes, matching her hair, matching her clothes, her makeup, the jewels that dripped all over her shoulders, and the combs that styled her locks into something more elaborate than sensible.

This woman was looking at me in a strance way. Not angered, not amused, not annoyed. Judgmental, neutral and free of opinion, but still judging me.

"Mistress Amoritia." The slave greeted, and I was not surprised that this strange woman with her faerie ears and her monotone attire was the buyer.

I lowered my head, and stepped aside. I had been trespassing on her newly bought property.

And I realize now: I know that name. I do not know who she was, I do not know how she lives, but I know that, once upon a time, I knew her. I don't have a face for the name to match, nor an identity. All I have is a vague sense, something positive.

I do not remember my own,

But I know that name.

Do you remember what an LJ cut means? It means that freaking Gaia has ruined anything resembling self-resistance and willpower, is what it means! GRAR!

( Also, fanfiction. That too. )

She settled into the plush bedding, to take another hour-long rest. Her body was acclimating to the new schedule, no one unit of sleep long enough that missing it would be devastating. This way, she could stand ever ready, when the creature left the safety of the Shakti's watchful guardians. Perhaps, after this, she would send word to Tsehaynesh of the Shakti's co ordinates. Wasn't the ship's entire crew wanted for something, or something else?

After six months of carefully biding her time, of reading every word of research, UDB or otherwise, done on his ridiculous, unstable race, the imposter finally took his first actions planetside. And now, she pounced, like a primitive feline on rodentiae, as the humans liked to say.

It was over all too quickly, there he was, trembling like a child's toy in the corner, separated from his newfound friends, and his so-called loving crew. No one to come to his rescue.

The smile on The's face would have been enough to freeze Rey-kobold blood.

"Do you know, creature, that you are now charged with not only the death od researchers, and the destruction of their work, but with impersonating the Imperial family? White skin. You are an ignorant idiot. And those wings, you disgusting freak of nature. How could you be so oblivious as to give yourself a woman's wings?" She sneered, years of frustration at this chase welling to the forefront of her mind, as her own wings expanded gracefully.

The creature's foreign- and so well trained- face fell, as his skin rippled wwith new colors. Pink as her own, and accompanied by long strands of orange hair, spots in her own patterns, eyes of the same wide green irises. Even the clothes slithered and shifted, from the short loin-covering of a slavish male, to the longer and more elegant, gauzy wraps of a ranking woman.

The stared at her reflection, briefly awed by his skill. It was amazing, after all, what he could do. No doubt, he was one of the finest shifters in all the worlds of all the galaxies. The smile on her face grew prideful.

"You are amazing, Ranisvelion. And, you are mine at last." She flung herself at the mirror image, her arms ready to slam the false body into submission, even as her tail flicked towards the noble-gas chamber held weightless on her belt.

But, apparently, the creature had learned hwo to maneuver, in his time inhabiting a Rani body. Her own tail was gripped in the iron-like tail of her mirror, and The realized that in all her time studying the creature, she hadn't ever thought that it would shift so subtly, but suddenly the tail wrapped on hers was steel or stone, and the arms that gripper her wrists weree copies of the clever golden metal of her bangles, heavy and cold, locking her in place. Every place her wide feet met was cold and jaggged, tearing her skin open.

"How long have you been following me, Rani Hunter?"

The only hissed in response, reviled as the face changed seamlessly ffrom her own visage to that of the empress.

"I ask again," the tail around her own went malleable just long enough to tighten before the stone returned, "How long?" The cleanched her jaw. This was not how it worked. She was The Hunter, not some little contract-hired imbecile.

"The." she spat, abruptly. "I am The. Not Rani. You, vile wretch, are Rani. You are a liar, a thief, and a murderer." She let the pronunciation of Rani slip off her tongue like vomit, not with the halfhearted reverence the word usually garnered.

The metallic grip on her arms tightened, and the creatures on feet met her stomach with all the unforgiving power of the titanium they had become.

Her back hit the ground with a terrible thud, and The had just enough time to realize the she was being taken prisoner, before her mind slipped away.

When she awoke, Rani's face stared down at her. But, his eyes were no longer Imperial lavender, even if his skin was still pale as snow. Instead, he had kept her gaze.

"You are impressive, Ranhelion. And now, you are mine."
Blind.

Her vision remained unharmed, but stripped of one of her senses, all that Senda can think of herself is that she is blind. She knew, undoubtedly, that the last of her visions had come to her already. Two days ago, and it had consumed heer with a vengeance she had not known since her long forgotten childhood.

There had been no images, though. Only terror and flight. And a name.

"Samantha's my name. A good, Old Earth name."

And then, Senda had felt her entire world shatter.

Once, long ago, she had convinced one of the Unseleigh's great mages to splinter her soul, and send a fraction of it into a vessel on another world, where her visions were needed. A little human girl had been born with her name and her mind, though not her life. And when the human child had been killed, Senda had felt it. An icy coldness as part of her disappeared into the blackness for all time.

Now, she felt that chill again, but it was terrible. All consuming.

Whoever she sought now, whoever's safety she wanted, it was a human. A human by the name of Samantha. Somewhere, in her mind, there was a spark of familiarity. But, after so many millions of years of life, that was only to be expected. She had heard every name endless times.

Without her visions to guide her, she had to make use of the technology at hand. The networks would tell her what places were safe, what routes would get her to New Earth fastest, what ships would take on Unseleigh anonymously, without questions.

Finally, as her gut grew knotted and cold, she had her plan arranged. And, blinded, she could not know if it would work at all, nor how she would find one human among the swarms of them.

But, when her guardians brought her next visitor, she was already gone.

When she labored to read the Databases, rather than simply pluck information she needed for a time in the future when she already knew it, Senda was often amazed by the abilities of the Bedt'Wein. Perhaps it had to do with the training of their monoculture, but each entry sounded exactly like the ones before and after it, no matter how widely varied the authors were. As though each of their designless eyes saw precisely the same images, and each mind made precisely the same judgments. People might call the Djinn identical, and the Humans foreign, but nothing could be so strange as a race with countless individually sentient minds, and not a single differing opinion.

There was no need to simplify the Bedt'wein, as there was with other races. They were simply the writers of history and fact, nothing more and nothing less.

Not like the Unseleigh, notorious in thousands of worlds for their ruthless tactics and willingness to kill and consume innocents. Or the Humans, so well known for only a single trait: the fear of outsiders. When someone said that all Naykobold were sluts and harlots waiting to be taken, they always knew there were exceptions to the rule.

Not so, with the bedt'wein. Such an amazing race, completely dependant upon their technology, for not a single one had ever shown magic in their blood. Each life lost was the same as the new lives that swelled in to replaced. They could almost have been mistaken for a hive-mind culture, and yet, each could function as its own entity.

Lately, Senda had been reading their works more often, for suddenly she could not learn what she needed from her future self. Suddenly, paths of events were blurring into darkness, unable to be discovered any longer.

Suddenly, she found herself growing blind.

And so, when she caught an echo of herself, fleeing her home for reasons unknown, with the only goal being a human girl from Third Gaia, she actually had to learn how she would get there. Which routes and ships would take her, especially without asking who she was or why. She had to discovered in texts and images the tricks making Humankind let you into their sanctuary, if you did not belong to their elite fold.

After twelve days of such study, the image returned, stronger now- though perhaps only because it was all she could see, no other paths remained open to her vision more than four or five minutes ahead of herself. And so, she ran.

==-==-==

TBC: How Senda met Sam, Chandra-verse

It took a bit of unfamiliar sneaking, and by the time he'd found pants in his room suitable for swimming his heart was racing faster than it had any right to do, but Zafir eventually found himself back in the familiar heat of the sun. It would be good for him, anyway. His skin was almost the color- he paused to think of the formulas and swatches he'd seen- of cotton fibre dipped in walnut dye, rather than the rich, deep tones of ovine fibre dipped in onion dye.

Yes, he'd certainly need at least a full afternoon of sunning to get back to the right color. He smiled to himself, as he set off for the shore. Besides, he had a reputation to protect- apparently- and how could he be considered one of South Boll's most shameless flirts if he spent his entire life carving spindles? He shook his head, as he changed from a purposeful stride to an unabashed sprint. How that rumour had started, he'd never know, but all of a sudden, the female apprentices kept making faces at him- and more than a few of the males as well. Apparently, his complimentary nature had been warped by gossip into something different.

And to think, he was probably the only one among them who hadn't yet shared his bed.

The shore was coming into view, and the water was a gorgeous shade of almost-green, something that visitors from other holds insisted was unique to the region. Well, to this, Southern, and Ista. All the other beaches of Pern were dismal grey stretches of rock and fog. It was terrible to think of, a beach that you couldn't waste clear, sunny days at baking yourself to a shade that would put even the lovliest of dinner rolls to utmost shame.

It was irrational to think he'd get as plush a position as one in Southern Hold when he became a journeyman, but Zafir still held hope that he would be so lucky. In a single move that he was pleased to know his muscles still remembered, he shucked his shirt and tunic, and half-flew into the water. He carefully ignored the sounds of a gaggle of young women on the shore snickering at him. He wasn't sure whether it was because he was so pale compared to the majority of South Boll natives at the moment, or if it was because they'd heard the stories about him, and he had no interest in finding out.

The salt stung his nose and eyes as he swam for the deeper waters, but already he could feel his old playful self re-emerging. It had been far too long since he'd let himself do anything that wasn't study. Even in the free hour he was granted every night before dinner in the crathall, he was usually found pouring over records or practicing his stitches. He'd made enough tiny stuffed flitters, runnerbeasts and ovines to staff his own beasthold.

He burst out of the water, and imagined that if the girls were giggling because they recognized him, they were going to be treated to an true show. Weaving itself wasn't a labor intensive craft, nothing at all like seacrafting, and he'd lost much of his muscle mass, but there was enough running, stirring, and lifting that he was by no means a frail and fragile harper, either. And, from what he knew, girls did enjoy watching wet things. Perhaps he was only encouraging the rumours, but at least he had a reputation. That was more than many could say, and he would do what he could to protect it.

The sound of more bell-like laughter did not reach his ears, though. Instead, there were a handful of gasps, and then a rush of wind that nearly toppled him over. He spluttered back above the skin of the water, his eyes stinging as they focused. On the sands, a pale blue dragon had spread its wings widely, catching the sunlight now, rather than the wind. His eyes were so brightly green they could almost have rivalled Zafir's own, and clearly the beast was pleased with something.

Ah. It must be a search rider. Weren't they usually blues? He'd heard of the clutch at Ista Weyr- who hadn't heard of any clutch on Pern? But, South Boll was firmly under Fort's juridiction. Why would Ista searchriders come all the way here? Surely enough candidates were available in Keroon and Nerat? Zafir squinted a bit, as more of the stinging water dripped into his face, and wondered which of the girls was going to stand for their Queen hatchling.

Instead, the bluerider stamped to the water's edge, decked out in riding leathers and almost certainly boiling in his skin, and began waving at him.

Zafir knew, in some far off part of his mind, that he must look very silly, standing there with his head tilted over like an inquisitive wherry, but this wasn't right. He wasn't meant to be a dragonrider, he was meant to be a tailor, the finest in all of Pern, who would put all the tanners and their leatherwork to utmost shame, even though he'd begun his apprenticeship years too late.

Abruptly, he found himself again, and began paddling back to the shore.

"My, but aren't you hard to find. I was assured by your masters that you'd be holed up in your room, making dyes just as you'd been assigned to. They seemed quite shocked that you weren't there."

Zafir had no real response to that, and instead eyed the rider's hand warily. A roll of thin papers was settled within his easy grasp. "I... think you haven't got the right person. I'm barely good enough as wishy washy judgement making to have gotten out of the seacraft alive." he knew he was rambling, but his mouth wouldn't stop moving. This was so odd. Usually, he was much more composed under stress. Then again, this was a completely foreign kind of stress, not even a bad one, necessarily. "I certainly couldn't be trusted with a dragon, or to fight thread. That's... It wouldn't work out at all. Not at all."

The rider simply smiled some kind of knowing smile, and Zafir wondered if he'd been a crafter, before Impressing. "Well, that's your decision to make, isn't it. But, here are your papers, should wish to stand at Ista. The hatching should be in about three weeks." Zafir flinched as the rider ruffled his uneven hair after handing over the rolled documents. "Salinanth and I look forward to seeing you there, Zafir the Weavecrafter." The dragonrider even had the audacity to laugh at what Zafir realized must have been a dumbstruck look on his face, before turning back to the dragon.

He had already mounted and taken back to the air by the time the tangle of yougn women reached Zafir's side, crooning at him.

"A candidate! Oh, you have to go!"

"I wonder if mother will let me go to watch you!"

"You'll impress a big bronze, I'm sure."

"No, you can't go! All those weyr women... You know how they are!"

"Aha! He'll fit right in then, don't you think?"

Finally, Zafir found his voice again. "I... I think the Masters know I'm missing now. I'd best get back to the hall." He muttered, breaking from the little throng, and racing back to his tangle of clothes. He had less than no intent to return to the crafthall before sundown, but a less occupied stretch of beach would be welcome. As he made his way across the sands, he felt his mind reorienting. He could almost fear the decision making happening without him, but it would be slow going. He wouldn't dare think of it truly for a few hours yet.

A dragonrider? Out of someone who couldn't even read the winds well enough to sail? Complete, utter madness.