| A Meeting of Chance |
| M’han paced restlessly over the strange earth, head up, shoulders tilted forward as if their determined set would cast his unease behind him. The Healing Den, the miraculous Healing Den, from whence his beloved Shibboleth sprung, the place that had indirectly given him both dignity and speech, was no longer familiar. Little was as he remembered, and the earth itself was strange beneath his feet. His troubled musings were interrupted as an enormous white backwinged smoothly down to a landing. Pearlized hide glistened in the light, and Shibboleth betrayed a sudden flash of interest. A short, lithe young woman slid gracefully down the white’s shoulder, her indigo eyes wide as she surveyed her surroundings. She had the knot of a Talis Weyr rider on her shoulder, accented against her ghost-gray leathers. His legs seemed to take on a mind of their own as he strode toward her. I don’t want to take care of a prejudiced greenie, he thought in dismay, but he was already in talking distance, and to turn away now would be rude. {M’han, rider of Shibboleth,} he greeted her, offering his hand. She took it with a firm, steady grip, but her hands were as cold as ice. “K-k-kythe, rider of white m-male Rutanth.” She did not seem to be afraid, only having difficulty speaking. A male? Certainly the white was sleekly handsome and narrow in the hip, but who’d ever heard of a lass riding a /white/ male? M’han had understood that they Impressed male-to-male or female-to-female, but obviously this was something different. Kythe studied the darkly handsome M’han with an inner frown. Old scars split the rich Egyptian brown of his hand, warm and assured around her own. Eyes the color of aged brandy, wide-set in his head, were veiled by his long lashes, but she was sure she had seen him start when she mentioned Rutanth’s masculinity. His face was oddly expressive, especially his eyes, but that sensitive mouth seemed not to move at all when he talked. Ex-ventriloquist? she wondered, caressing Rutanth absently. He was talking again, and she hastened to bring her wandering attention back. {…and welcome to the Healing Den,} M’han finished, smiling at her. Her lifemate’s silver-velvet wrapping around her mind murmured curiosity. <<Who is Shibboleth? More important, what color is Shibboleth?>> Swallowing, Kythe framed the white’s question in polite terms, willing her voice not to wobble. He arched an eyebrow at her and gestured to a very small dragon, curled watchfully in the shadows. {Shibboleth is…uniquely colored, Rider Kythe. You may call her what you will. She is beautiful, is she not?} In echo to his words, the dragon broke her serpentine pose, pacing forward on white-taloned feet. Shibboleth’s body was wine-red, a deep, lush crimson that did not detract from the play of powerful muscles beneath that sanguine hide. Rings and half-circles of white dots adorned her neck, limbs, and tail, like some fantastic jewelry. Peach-kissed 'sails stretched broad and opaque between her spotted ‘spars. Minute peach horns slid from her skull in a graceful curve. Rutanth stood stock-still at her approach, but his eyes glowed with a fervent passion. <<She’s…beautiful,>> he whispered to Kythe, almost in awe. <<She must be in the flight, she must. If she is not, I will withdraw from it, to save my strength for /her/.>> Only then did Kythe notice the detail that her lifemate had noticed right off: that vibrant color was not entirely just a detail of her birth. Shibboleth was glowing, dimly, readying herself to fly. The Rider’s lips went thin as she considered. Shibboleth was entirely different from anything /she/ knew, but was this a bad thing? And what sort of children might she have, if Rutanth flew her? <<Does it matter?>> the white’s wisp of thought inquired, wistfully. <<They will be ours. They cannot be less than wonderful.>> |