here there be dragons...
Title: Ficlet One: Bob
Rating: General Audience
Fandom: Bandom/Dragonriders of Pern crossover (posted for bandom_pern)
Pairing: Gen (Bob Bryar-centric)
Warnings: None
Words: 860
Summary: Bob has no dragon.
Ficlet One
Bob
Bob heard them before he saw them. That little ripple at the edges of his thoughts. A tentative,"Hello?" that he never acknowledged.
He wondered if it hurt their feelings that he never replied, but still, that wasn't enough to make him face them. He quickly finished up at the forge, letting the fire die down slightly, and putting all of the half worked pieces of metal into the cold water, out of harm's way, and the finished pieces on the bench, where the riders looking for them could find them easily.
Bob took off his heavy wher-hide gloves and apron and hung them in place, replacing the apron with his hooded jacket, before slipping out through the side door and into the sunshine.
He knew that Brian wouldn't expect him to stay when the riders came to the Hall. He'd even offered to let Bob work on other projects instead, but Bob's unique understanding of how the equipment would be used made him the ideal craftsman for the job.
Usually he disappeared deeper into the lower caverns of the CraftHall, where no dragonrider was likely to stray, and where the voices of the dragons were muted and distant. The ache of loss was not so easily ignored, however, and today the urge to just see a dragon was too strong.
Bob stayed in the shadows of the great window ledges, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and made his way slowly around to the eastern wall. From there, it was easy to see up to the ledges on the cliff where it met the front of the Hall. It was a perfect place for dragons to stretch out and enjoy the sunshine from the clear, thread-free skies.
There were two dragons today. Bob recognised the young green that had come the last few times a delivery had been required from the Weyr, accompanied today by an older brown. Bob knew him and his rider. And his rider knew Bob. He shrank back further into the shadows, leaning his shoulder against the cool stone of the wall. The green dragon was stretching out her neck, enjoying the attention of the brown who lay in a more relaxed posture, but betrayed amusement with the whirling blue showing behind partially lidded eyes. There was a hint of interest there, too, and Bob wondered briefly if the green was going to rise soon, and if the brown knew it.
That thought brought with it familiar pain, and a wave of anger and hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut against the bitterness that now overshadowed sense memories of triumph and exhilaration. He clenched his jaw, breathing slowly in and out, waiting for the tingling to fade from his scarred leg.
He was distracted from his efforts by the sound of approaching conversation. The green stopped swaying her head around and looked down toward the hall doors.
Penth?
Bob heard a brief assurance in his mind, sent in a confident tone, followed by a laugh. The rider's voice sounded younger than the thought, though older than the maturity of the dragon suggested. For a brief moment, Bob was distracted from his inky black thoughts by curiosity. 'Penth' was not a name for a rider. That was a name for a dragon.
Three figures emerged from the Hall. Brian was carrying a large basket. It was obviously heavy, but not a problem for Brian's compact, wiry strength. The brown rider, Rubano, was balancing two coiled, heavy wher-hide straps, suitable for attaching the basket to the back of a dragon. He was scowling at the other rider.
"It's not my fault that Mastersmith Schechter handed them to you. Obviously he saw your superior strength."
This was evidently the owner of the thought and the laugh. Bob leant forward to see more.
A young man walked ahead, swinging his riding helmet from one hand, the other pushing hair off his face. His long torso swayed easily with his strides. He grinned over his shoulder at the others as Rubano rebuked him for his lack of respect for wing heirarchy. Bob wasn't close enough to see him clearly, but the smile was bright enough that even from several feet away, Bob felt his breath catch in his chest.
Miloth. Ready to go? Time to stop flirting.
Bayth can admire me if he likes. It helps pass the time. Did you see the Other One?
Not today. He was too fast.
Bob was distracted from following the conversation by the familiar smell of the weyr. Wafts of firestone combined with the scent of warm air off the rock and stirred up dust in the stone courtyard as the dragons landed to meet their riders. The accompanying wave of longing had Bob gasping out loud and stumbling from his hiding spot to stagger past them, and into the relative sanctuary of the Hall.
He heard Brian call after him, but he didn't turn around, even when he heard the woosh of the dragons taking off.
That didn't stop him picturing the spread of their wings or imagining the way the wind would be feeling against the riders' faces before they got enough height to go between.
~
next
A/N: I have decided to handwave the convention of contracting the dragon riders' names for this cycle of ficlets.
Thankyou to maple_mahogany and miss_diverse for the read throughs and to reni_days for the beta.
Disclaimer: The Pern universe and the world, creatures and customs that belong to it remain the intellectual property of Anne McCaffrey, and the characters referenced in this piece are fictional representations of real people. No offense or infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
Rating: General Audience
Fandom: Bandom/Dragonriders of Pern crossover (posted for bandom_pern)
Pairing: Gen (Bob Bryar-centric)
Warnings: None
Words: 860
Summary: Bob has no dragon.
Ficlet One
Bob
Bob heard them before he saw them. That little ripple at the edges of his thoughts. A tentative,"Hello?" that he never acknowledged.
He wondered if it hurt their feelings that he never replied, but still, that wasn't enough to make him face them. He quickly finished up at the forge, letting the fire die down slightly, and putting all of the half worked pieces of metal into the cold water, out of harm's way, and the finished pieces on the bench, where the riders looking for them could find them easily.
Bob took off his heavy wher-hide gloves and apron and hung them in place, replacing the apron with his hooded jacket, before slipping out through the side door and into the sunshine.
He knew that Brian wouldn't expect him to stay when the riders came to the Hall. He'd even offered to let Bob work on other projects instead, but Bob's unique understanding of how the equipment would be used made him the ideal craftsman for the job.
Usually he disappeared deeper into the lower caverns of the CraftHall, where no dragonrider was likely to stray, and where the voices of the dragons were muted and distant. The ache of loss was not so easily ignored, however, and today the urge to just see a dragon was too strong.
Bob stayed in the shadows of the great window ledges, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and made his way slowly around to the eastern wall. From there, it was easy to see up to the ledges on the cliff where it met the front of the Hall. It was a perfect place for dragons to stretch out and enjoy the sunshine from the clear, thread-free skies.
There were two dragons today. Bob recognised the young green that had come the last few times a delivery had been required from the Weyr, accompanied today by an older brown. Bob knew him and his rider. And his rider knew Bob. He shrank back further into the shadows, leaning his shoulder against the cool stone of the wall. The green dragon was stretching out her neck, enjoying the attention of the brown who lay in a more relaxed posture, but betrayed amusement with the whirling blue showing behind partially lidded eyes. There was a hint of interest there, too, and Bob wondered briefly if the green was going to rise soon, and if the brown knew it.
That thought brought with it familiar pain, and a wave of anger and hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut against the bitterness that now overshadowed sense memories of triumph and exhilaration. He clenched his jaw, breathing slowly in and out, waiting for the tingling to fade from his scarred leg.
He was distracted from his efforts by the sound of approaching conversation. The green stopped swaying her head around and looked down toward the hall doors.
Penth?
Bob heard a brief assurance in his mind, sent in a confident tone, followed by a laugh. The rider's voice sounded younger than the thought, though older than the maturity of the dragon suggested. For a brief moment, Bob was distracted from his inky black thoughts by curiosity. 'Penth' was not a name for a rider. That was a name for a dragon.
Three figures emerged from the Hall. Brian was carrying a large basket. It was obviously heavy, but not a problem for Brian's compact, wiry strength. The brown rider, Rubano, was balancing two coiled, heavy wher-hide straps, suitable for attaching the basket to the back of a dragon. He was scowling at the other rider.
"It's not my fault that Mastersmith Schechter handed them to you. Obviously he saw your superior strength."
This was evidently the owner of the thought and the laugh. Bob leant forward to see more.
A young man walked ahead, swinging his riding helmet from one hand, the other pushing hair off his face. His long torso swayed easily with his strides. He grinned over his shoulder at the others as Rubano rebuked him for his lack of respect for wing heirarchy. Bob wasn't close enough to see him clearly, but the smile was bright enough that even from several feet away, Bob felt his breath catch in his chest.
Miloth. Ready to go? Time to stop flirting.
Bayth can admire me if he likes. It helps pass the time. Did you see the Other One?
Not today. He was too fast.
Bob was distracted from following the conversation by the familiar smell of the weyr. Wafts of firestone combined with the scent of warm air off the rock and stirred up dust in the stone courtyard as the dragons landed to meet their riders. The accompanying wave of longing had Bob gasping out loud and stumbling from his hiding spot to stagger past them, and into the relative sanctuary of the Hall.
He heard Brian call after him, but he didn't turn around, even when he heard the woosh of the dragons taking off.
That didn't stop him picturing the spread of their wings or imagining the way the wind would be feeling against the riders' faces before they got enough height to go between.
~
next
A/N: I have decided to handwave the convention of contracting the dragon riders' names for this cycle of ficlets.
Thankyou to maple_mahogany and miss_diverse for the read throughs and to reni_days for the beta.
Disclaimer: The Pern universe and the world, creatures and customs that belong to it remain the intellectual property of Anne McCaffrey, and the characters referenced in this piece are fictional representations of real people. No offense or infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.