[Statistics] [Candidate] [Adult]

The story of the flights of frenzy, as they had become known, circulated around the Weyr wildly. Nobody could guess how many eggs would be laid, nor of what strange blend of draconic features the hatchlings would be. The famous Stunt dragons were involved, after all, and they alone produced the strangest of offspring.

One of the more curious, was Mylamor. Grown up in the Weyr to two dragonrider parents who had, unlike most of their kind, not given him up to fostering, Mylamor had what was considered a closeness to dragon-kind. Two firelizards followed him closely on his journeys - a rare queen and a brown whom he referred to merely as Girl and Boy.

A strange, quiet child, Mylamor often seemed more at home amongst his firelizards and his beloved dragons, speaking rarely to humankind and frequently to his draconic companions. He had apprenticed to the Dragonhealer the moment he was old enough to do so, and spent all his time tending to the dragons of the Weyr.

He had a quick mind for learning new lore, as well. His Master had told him often, if he were older, he would walk the tables soon enough. But rarely does a seventeen-turn-old Journeyman join the ranks of the crafters.

On this particular dark and overcast morning, the tale of the frenzy fresh in his mind, Mylamor could hardly resist. The Hatching Sands lie just yonder, he told himself. Not so hard to take a peek. But would there even be eggs there yet? He knew how to heal dragons, not how to judge their matings.

A frown crossed his features at this thought. He was a candidate, now. Candidate for one of those strange, perhaps as yet unlaid eggs. He should know these things.

And so, Mylamor stopped. Standing abruptly still, a dragonlength from the entrance to the Hatching Sands, he cocked his head thoughtfully. 'If you're going to do something, do it right,' his bronzeriding father had always told him. And if he were to be a candidate, he should act a candidate. He should know things a candidate should know.

And so, his course changed abruptly. Mylamor found himself heading steadily towards the Weyrlingmaster's quarters - for who else but he would know if such things? He would surely be pleased with a boy who yearned for such knowledge. With a boy who wished to do things right.

Mylamor absently ran his fingers across closely-cropped dark hair, phrasing his questions silently. The sky grumbled ominously, and he shifted forwards, quickening his pace.

Behind him, two firelizards bickered and preened and followed his plight haltingly, the larger golden one obviously attempting to get the smaller brown under her check. Nothing she did worked, until finally she stormed off, landing on her master's shoulder, promptly ignoring her companion.

The brown stopped mid-air, suddenly without a playmate, and chirruped pathetically. The queen, content in her rebuttal, ignored him.

Mylamor glanced at the golden one fondly, giving her a scratch and commenting, "One day he's gonna get big enough to catch you, Girl. Then you'll be sorry."

The queen squawked indignantly and disappeared between.

The candidate, now with only one companion, continued walking.