| Erifel was a passionate young man. Vividly, startlingly passionate, his tall, skinny frame bursting with the thought of it all. The firstborn of six, he lived a sheltered life for the first nine years. His parents were dock-workers at Garth Mannanon, and he, too, was meant to be. But Erifel was born weak and pale as snow, and the lord’s daughter, a healer-to-be, took a fancy to him. When he was five, she began to teach him how to dance. Erifel could dance. He danced so well that Mannanon’s lord, Dasiron, astonished, gave permission for the slender albino boy to absent himself from normal tasks and continue his dancing lessons to the exclusion of all else. He danced so well that the Garth’s entertainer, Journeywoman Mahanna, requested to take over his teaching. At the age of nine, his world came crashing down around his young ears, for Dasiron died. In his place was his middle son, Pavano. Lord Pavano did not approve of male dancers. Lord Pavano did not approve of drudges who rose above their station. Lord Pavano did not approve of ‘freaks’. Lord Pavano did not approve of Erifel. Zhaneel was another person Lord Pavano disapproved of. A short, muscular young woman, shadowed by a five-year-old, she was Erifel’s antithesis: dark-skinned and dark-haired, her hazel-green eyes sharp as daggers. And while she either gave nothing or everything, she was never shy about stating her opinion. Zhaneel had not lived a sheltered life. Her world as she knew it had ended when she was twelve. When she was twelve years old, her mother suicided. The young Zhaneel knew exactly why, and her thoughts burned with a vast anger at the two people she thought she had loved most: her father, and Matrieka, her cousin. Matrieka, the betrayer. Matrieka, now wife of Steward Azhan Isel. She could stay no longer when Azhan Isel began to pay his youngest daughter, Azhalan, a twisted show of court. Taking the child with her, Zhaneel fled from Flintbrook Keep, across the mountains to the sea, and Garth Mannanon. Zhaneel and her ‘daughter Zhaline’ stayed at the Garth only through winter. Come summer, they were sailing from one side of the Gwynllaith peninsula to the other, on any ship they could book, for Zhaneel loved the ocean, and was proud to earn her keep that way. The wanderer and her scion ate with the servants, a splash of vivid reds in the double-line of brown uniforms. Zhaneel was not a pretty woman, though she was a prim 4’6. Perhaps prim was not the word to use, for Zhaneel was all-over muscle. Besides, her face was square and belligerent, a crook-nosed incongruity that complimented the lash of her curl-barbed black braid. A bitter tongue of envy licked at Erifel’s soul as he stared. Brusquely, he turned his head away. The line of tired, dirty people had moved very little, and the albino boy occupied his thoughts with this for a while. Almost unconsciously, his feet moved into one of the familiar positions… With a crack, his neighbor’s cane came down on his leading leg. Erifel clamped his jaw on the yelp of pain, and knelt down, feeling the tendons he’d worked so hard to condition. Finding that the leg wasn’t broken—it only felt as if it were—he stood with a wince, eyeing the stony expression of the granther who’d smacked him. The line crawled on. Zhaneel was busy, far, far too busy to notice the over-tall albino boy who moved with a grace at odds with his skinniness. Azhalan—no, she reminded herself, Zhaline—spotted him instead, glued to her sister’s side as she took her food back to her place. The end farthest from the great hearth was the wanderer’s berth, and she carried her fish chowder and flatbread to the scant space with a steady step. Zhaline tugged on her sister’s wrapped jacket insistently. “Look!” she said in a harsh whisper. “Was he drowned?” Zhaneel shuddered as she looked at the lad. Stick-thin, paper-white, and haunted-looking, he did look like the body they’d found in warmer waters. “No, Zhal. He was born that way.” The twelve-year-old stamped and squeezed a little further onto the end of the bench. “It’s cold here, Neel. Can’t we sit closer to the fire?” The wanderer shook her head. “This is where Lord Pavano told us to sit. We have to stay here.” She stiffened as the tall, pale boy took his food and moved to eat opposite her. Zhaline was fascinated, her dark eyes following every move the albino made. Zhaneel made a sound of irritation deep in her throat, and thrust her hand out. “Zhaneel,” she offered, and when her sister only looked at her with a stupefied expression on her face, she added, “and this is Zhaline.” His thin, sculpted face and pale blue eyes were uniquely expressive as he looked up at her, startled. “Erifel,” he replied, taking her hand up in a firm, graceful motion. He flinched as if it had burned him, and let go as quickly as was seemly. Erifel hated the sudden rush of information that came with the brush of his skin on other people’s, but especially when it was as dark as Zhaneel’s. It all came in a rush, and made his heart skip. A tall man bending down to kiss a child’s lips…a sharply beautiful face smiling condescendingly…a short plain woman exulting in a brief moment of flight as she fell toward the sea…flight, days of terror and rage and grief… He could see again. “Do you travel often, then, Zhaneel?” he asked politely, the handle of his spoon digging into his palm. Absently, he scooped a hole in the thick chowder, and watched it fill with liquid. She arched a dark brow at him. “I travel with the ships. The fishing boats,” she continued softly, “need the most help, but the freighters are better to sail on, and they go farther.” Erifel bit his lip, envisioning far coasts. “They don’t need part-time help, do they? Only at night?” Zhaneel shook her head, and her braid flickered like a whip. The scullery girl next to her looked up indignantly. “Everyone on board’s expected to help most of their waking hours.” Glumly, Erifel pretended interest in his chowder. I don’t like the water anyway, he told himself with a shiver. He could feel the younger girl’s fascinated eyes on him. Uncomfortably, he shifted. “And what do you do, Azhalan?” he asked, when the silence proved too much for him to bear. The girl blinked; Zhaneel jumped as if she’d been shot. “What did you call her?” He had the dim notion that the name was not the one given to him, and put his head in his hands. “Forgive me,” Erifel sighed into his soup. Things might yet have gone badly for him—Zhaneel was looking angry and afraid both—if the Bondsearcher hadn’t come in just then. She could tell he was a dragon-bonder right off. He was dressed in custom-dyed leathers, and had an absent cast to his sharp blue eyes that all bonders developed. But mostly, Zhaneel thought with some aggravation, because he’d asked everyone in the room to come and stand in the Inner Court, and led them to his dragon. It was a bizarre dragon, even allowing for the variation of colors amidst Alskyr’s draconic population. Metallic, but shifting from silver to bronze and back again. It was large, and very handsome. The silver-bronze also seemed to be a discriminating sort of dragon. He rejected countless staff members, snorting and nosing the sky. Zhaneel watched with interest as Erifel went up. Now there was an unfit bonder if she’d ever seen any— Her jaw dropped as the bizarre boy was gestured onto the dragon’s back. Erifel was going to be a /dragoner/? But Zhaneel forgot about that anomaly when she, too, was called up. She shivered a little as the great beast shoved its muzzle against her shoulder. The dragoner, Madoc, nodded to her. “You too. Up on his back, now. You’re to go to Talis Weyr, the both of you.” “Zhaline,” she protested, but Azhalan shook her head, quickly. The scamp was nothing loathe to live on Lord Pavano’s generosity… “Felenri says Zhaline would be well-fit for a seadragoner, and is to go to Agendor Cove,” Madoc replied amiably, and Zhaneel was not disposed to argue with him. |
| Zhaneel/Erifel |
| Dragon pictures (c) to Talis Weyr. Dollz bases by Shard Dollz colored by me! No dragon pics were altered in the making of this tableau. |
| Three dragons hatched at once, two blues and a green. The blues were almost direct opposites, one pale and sleek, the other dark and muscled. They knew who they wanted, and without hesitation walked to the candidates, one to the boys and one to the girls. Surprisingly, it was the dark blue that approached Erifel. <<We are opposites, the burly blue said, but we are meant for one another, and you are meant for the Weyr. Here you can dance as often as you like, with no one and nothing to stop you.>> The albino smiled almost wistfully. "It won't be the same." Then he brightened a bit. "But it won't have to be, because now I have you, Gulknoth." Zhaneel watched as the other blue wandered her way, unable to look away. He seemed to sense her watching him and met her gaze. <<As my previously hatched brother told his Bond, we are opposites, but are meant for one another. In the Weyr you and your sister are as free as you can be. You can both become whatever you'd like, without worry. My name is Tethrath, and hers is Azhalan. Not Zhaline.>> Zhaneel and Erifel struck up a cautious truce during the days of their weyrlinghood—for that is what they called it here—and the blue brothers’ very difference entwined them together. The skinny-tall albino boy and the dark, muscular woman weren’t attracted to each other as mates—but they found in each other an odd comfort. They were at an impasse. Two dragons, one dark and one light, faced off, eyes fixed on each other. Their riders were stiff-legged and wary, eyeing each other dangerously. Dark and square-featured as his brother’s bond, Gulknoth snorted and tossed his head. <<Tethrath, this is ridiculous! Dragons don’t dance or sing.>> The pale, handsome Tethrath switched his tail. <<If we can fly in formation, we can dance. If we can hum for hatchings, we can sing. Don’t be such a defeatist.>> “Look,” Zhaneel said irritably, “either we practice now, or we need to go inside. The fiddle’s going out of tune, and it’s bloody hot here.” Both dragons gave her a wounded look. In unison, they all turned toward the last member of their little group. Erifel shrugged. “We dance. It’s just for practice, Neelie. When we graduate, we can go our separate ways. I’ll find some top-rate instrumentalist and torment him. And Gulknoth can sing for me.” Gulknoth gave him a sarcastic look from beneath one eyebrow, but did not dissent. Even he, as heavy-boned and economical of movement as he was, enjoyed watching Erifel dance. His rider could do anything, from waltzes to ballet, from swing dancing to step dancing, and he made it look effortless. And Gulknoth, unlike Zhaneel, could sing. <<Count it off, please?>> Tethrath asked his rider. Teth was grace itself in the air. He floated. Just now he got into position, his wiry musculature shifting under ice-blue hide. “One…two…three…ready…play…now!” Zhaneel projected, and set her bow to her fiddle with a will. Gulknoth’s deep, reverberant tones were deeper and sweeter than any base or viola, and Tethrath danced with Erifel. |
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| Tethrath, Gulknoth, Zhaneel & Erifel |
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| “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture.” “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like…” The first voice was very familiar—with that coastal accent and mellow voice, it could only have been the rider Madoc. The second, however, was entirely new, and all four participants broke off to look. Across the landing field, a tall, handsome woman was glaring at Madoc, and the dragonrider was giving as good as he got. She broke it off, however, to smile at them. “G’day, Erifel, Zhaneel. And to your lovely lifemates as well.” She inclined her head in the direction of the two blues. “You’re quite a talented group, I see.” The woman opened her mouth as if to continue, but Madoc beat her to it. “Efellai! What are you doing here?” His voice was light and mocking, infused artfully with surprise, but it was clear that there was little love lost between the two. The lady, Efellai, glowered. “I might ask you the same thing. And don’t interrupt, please, Caerlord.” Her tone had lost a little of the brightness that she had been projecting at them. “You weren’t,” Madoc said pleasantly, “planning to steal away my first set of riders, were you? After I found them, Searched them, and sent them here?” Efellai snorted, the strong, sarcastic arch of her brows flattening above her blue-green eyes. “You weren’t planning on taking with these two talented young people, were you? Since they did bond off-world, and since one does have something more than his five senses… I was under the impression that Caer Llwyd was to be entirely Alskyran.” Madoc shook his head with a sort of forced cheerfulness. “Oh, no, if I went by that rule, I wouldn’t be allowed! Felenri’s from your home, you should know.” “Nevertheless, I have already obtained permission from the Weyrwoman to recruit these two. First come, first serve.” “I had the right to request their transfer as soon as I Searched them,” Madoc gritted. The two scowled immovably at each other, muscles tensing. Zhaneel planted her hands on her hips. “You’re arguing about who gets us?” she asked incredulously. Erifel merely smirked. It was dark Gulknoth who broke the steadily thickening ice. <<There are two of us, Caerlord, Lady Efellai. Why don’t you each pick one?>> Tethrath, ever the peacemaker, sensed another war in the making. <<We could switch every season, or every year, or however you would prefer it. That way, you will both reap the benefits of our unusual…talents.>> The two leaders stepped back a little, looking thoughtfully at the dragons and their riders. “It might work,” Madoc said cautiously. “As long as there is equal time between the two of you…and your riders have no objection.>> Zhaneel and Erifel mutely shook their heads. The dancer’s eyes were very wide; the woman’s were narrowed in calculation. <<They agree.>> <<Rider should always trust dragon, as dragon trusts rider,>> added Gulknoth. “Then I,” Efellai said quickly, “will take Erifel and Gulknoth first. I need more support in Donnólë Talon.” Madoc nodded his satisfaction. “And I have need of your…forceful…personality, Zhaneel, as well as an agile dragon for border-patrols.” Still thunderstruck, the pair went bemusedly back to their temporary weyrs to pack. Tethrath, of course, had the last word. <<You did say you wanted to travel.>> |
| These two characters were made with the Fantasy Character Generator by Baeris Kshau. These are their outlines: Erifel Male servant, 15, 1 of 5 children (all legitimate) Sickly, 6’6, real skinny, albino, hair to ears, tightly curly, ice blue eyes Moderately polite, intense focus, illiterate, moderately handsome, very giving Remembers things he shouldn’t know, loves the Great Outdoors Wants to travel overwhelmingly Hates/fears enclosed spaces overwhelmingly Dislikes horses Is very nervous of water Dancer, servitor Zhaneel Female wanderer, 19 3 of 4 children (all legitimate) Iron health, 4’6, muscular, Dark brown skin, black floor-length curly hair, hazel-green eyes *unusual Literate, unmannered, hot-tempered, average focus, not a looker Very generous, absolutely unselfish, Hates cousin, loved her mother, who suicided, loves the sea, wants to marry badly, hates/fears her father, who ran away with her maternal cousin |