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Viskal was a bit pale and dizzy, but at least the adrenaline had died down since landing and being dragged everywhere. His things were in a room he wasn’t quite sure he could find again, his instructions were to report to some supposedly bossy woman in the morning, and his last meal was spilled messily over the side of the landing area in some ditch. Flight, unsurprisingly, hadn’t been the majestic, fanciful thing described in song. It had been lurching and jerky along with mildly terrifying, and before Viskal had gotten used to the rocking, bobbing motion of the great blue dragon, it had blinked between. That undid his stomach more than the jostling had, and after being dropped on the ground with his things, he’d hurled away his grand entrance to the weyr and entirely missed the slight of the dragon taking off and disappearing again.

After being run about the more important parts of the weyr (none of which he had made much sense of), he’d been pointed in the direction of the mess hall and shoved off. Happy to avoid anymore hectic tours, he ignored instructions and followed his nose to the hall. It was loud, messy now that dinner was mostly over, and overcrowded. And it was the most welcome sight of the day. He stood to the side of the room, eyeing the tables for empty seats away from too many people and close to the less picked-over bowls and platters. There were a few boys (other candidates?) eyeing him not far away, smirking when they exchanged glances. The looks made Viskal’s skin crawl with aggravation, but he wrote them off as idiots and continued to deliberate the benches. He probably looked remotely absurd here. A tall, skinny boy of fifteen turns dressed in simple hold clothing, his hands cut and dyed a slightly darker shade than the rest of his skin? Out of place, but harmless, perfect for whatever stupid comments they were muttering about.

Viskal hadn’t been paying much attention to the man walking by, not as busy as it was with people rising and mixing on the benches. He stepped forward, finally thinking he’d spotted a good seat, and very nearly collided with the man. He jerked back, though they hadn’t been that close to hitting one another, and looked the fellow over. His mouth tightened in affirmation to his own guesses as the man gave his abbreviated name. A rider, he guessed. “I’d consider being a candidate my very least skill,” he remarked, half to himself, “but yes. I was picked up earlier this evening. I’m Viskal.” He made a curt nod toward their difference in rank before asking directly, “You’re one of the riders then?”

A brown, as if it weren’t enough that he was a dragonrider in the first place. To Viskal, the blue that had taken him form his hold had been monstrous enough. Imagining a larger dragon pushed his imagination somewhat, though he might have not had much to begin with. He followed the rider a bit unsurely. A glance at the candidates showed they had lost interest with him, and he wasn’t sure how usual it was to eat with a rider. Weyrs supposedly worked very differently from holds, but surely the difference in rank made this a little informal and… strange? Or perhaps not. He took a seat by S’ren, shrugging as he worked his gangly legs between the bench and table. “A leatherworker apprentice. I mostly make armbands, belts, a few decorative saddles for runners, straps for carts and things. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I’ll probably be rather behind in my work when they sent me back.” He frowned distastefully at the platters before him, momentarily putting off his appetite with the thought.

Viskal took after the rider, grabbing things for his plate. He didn’t seem too picky about what bits of meat or bread he got. Burned, fatty, or soft didn’t matter. He was after mass – something to fill his aching, voided stomach. At least he’d had the grace not to foul his own clothes earlier. “It’s not about optimism,” he answered, tearing a roll open to stuff a heaping of veggies inside. “I just thing that blue that picked me was delusional or bored. I don’t look like rider potential, do I?” It was a rhetorical question, and he plowed on without waiting for some silly encouraging answer. “I already have a lot in life picked out for me. I mean, it’s not impossible I guess – a dragon that is.” He glanced at S’ren for a moment, as if considering the rider’s outfit on himself and then finding it too ridiculous. He managed not to smirk or shake his head. “If it’s not some mistake and they don’t send me back though, even then I might not impress, and if I do there’s no telling how many hatchings it would take. I’ll practice my craft until then.”

He usually wasn’t one to talk this much, especially to a relative stranger, but the narration was helping him plan and gather himself in this strange new situation.

Maybe he could learn to make the equipment for the riders in the weyr. There must already be a few people on hand for the job - perhaps one would teach him. If not, he might be able to repair broken or worn harnesses until he learned enough to start piecing together his own. He eyed S'ren while he tore into his roll, but was pulled from his private conjectures by the rider's last opinion. He thought for a moment, chewing quietly until he had a reply. "Maybe," he admitted. "It's just hard to believe. And I don't really know what quality dragons judge candidates on anyway. I doubt I have that much in common with the other boys here, so I don't really understand the Choice." Hard to say if it was pride or bitterness that made him think himself different from the boys that had been smirking at him from another bench. He didn't like thinking along that line though, so he shifted and brought up a question that would give him a little more time to eat while S'ren answered. "So how are the hatchings? I don't know what they're like outside of idealistic songs."

Exciting. Well, he'd surmised as much and frowned, finding the explanation lacking. He didn't know enough about hatchings to ask more direct questions, so he guessed. "Have you ever seen a dragon not pick a candidate?"

Viskal’s mouth tightened, or would have had it not been full of food. S’ren wouldn’t have had spoken with such gravity if there had been Impressions. Having had his first taste of between earlier in the evening, he didn’t find the thought appealing. “I’d half thought them going between was just a melodramatic song lyric,” he commented after swallowing. “What a waste.” He knew next to nothing of dragons except casual street knowledge, but his earlier flight, though it brief and ended with an upset stomach, had dome plenty to impress him with the importance of the creatures.

“Three, four?” Viskal’s mind was still determinedly churning darker thoughts, undeterred by such ugliness. He had little use for pleasantry, even with himself. He did, however, save enough focus to answer a bit more thoroughly. “My mother sent me to a master before I cared much about my age, so I decided to study under him rather than find out what he’d do if I refused.” He gave a wry little smile at that. “What did you do before Impression?” he asked, raising his head a bit more alertly for the answer.