D’tol gave him a patient look. “You aren’t partnering Anyghari. Jyvadoth and Inyxith are working together. You need to be there so that you can learn too.”
Anyghari’s nose wrinkles as she gives G’yr a sideways glance. “How come blues always get to be wingleader in the exercises? Greens can fly better’n they can. It’s not fair—Inyxith is one of the best fliers in the whole class, and we have to ride in Mr. Thermals slipstream.”
D’tol gritted his teeth, and said ever-so-reasonably, “G’yr and Anyghari, the reason you are drilling together is not for socializing, nor to determine who is ‘better’. You are practicing together because your dragons have complimentary skills, and /you/ both have a lot of practice. If you don’t want to end up like this again, I recommend exercising beyond your classes.” He smiled grimly at the pair and moved off.
The ex-Archivist and the greenriding Holder’s daughter stared with undisguised loathing at each other. G’yr’s arms crossed irritably over his thin and lanky frame, and Anyghari tapped her toe with regal impatience.
With a blind eye to their rider’s mutual dislike, Inyxith and Jyvadoth were playfully jostling each other, dealing the odd buffet with their wings. Their general body shape was very similar—the long, tapering wings and compact bodies. As their stone-faced riders mount up and take to the air, their different styles become apparent.
Inyxith’s flight darted and swooped, like a hummingbird’s. Lime-splashed wings were all over the sky as she stretched her wing muscles.
Jyvadoth used the air much more subtly, lofting up and diving on the invisible columns of air. He advanced in a straight line with eye-watering speed, and has hardly exerted himself.
D’tol’s Easoth’s pale wings /cracked/ against the air as he gained altitude. D’tol’s voice and Easoth’s acerbic commands put the blue and green weyrlings through their paces. Alone, they flew with grace and purpose. On team efforts—such as a firestone-sack throw—they did…somewhat less.
“Toss!”
<<Move your rump, Inyxith! You’re falling behind!>>
G’yr hurled the sack into the air, barely clearing Jyvadoth’s wing.
Inyxith was not so lucky. She fell, with a cry, as one wing crumpled against her flank beneath the weight of the stones. Easoth, alarmed, was there to catch her, supporting her weight with his spine.
Jyvadoth dove, ignoring his rider, eyes whirling wide with distress. He paralleled the Weyrlingmaster’s brown as he lowered Jyvadoth’s stricken clutchmate to the ground.
D’tol’s unusual light green eyes were snapping as he ran his hand along the frantically keening Inyxith’s wing. “Scorch it!” the Weyrlingmaster hissed, as he felt the throbbing heat along the wing’s ‘elbow’ joint. “It’s a sprain, Anyghari,” he told her, and she went white as milk. A sprain would ground Inyxith for several months, several all-important months during Weyrling training.
Eosath’s growl rebounded inside G’yr’s skull. <<Numbweed! Get the numbweed, you wretched crawlie. My D’tol will talk to you later.>>
to see her full-grown
to see him full-grown