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Life as a candidate was, in some ways, as busy or busier than life training up in the crafthalls. Primarily, Dolmar reflected as he dipped his pen into his inkwell, delicately tapping off the excess before putting pen to paper again, because many of his duties in the hall had carried over, been layered and heaped atop those responsibilities that came with a white robe and a place on the sands. The pen scratched over the bit of paper he'd been at, carving swift, sure dark strokes against the paler sheaf.

Inter-weyr relationships were tricky things, of late. Not to mention those between hold and hall and weyr. Aside from what fell under the wings of High Reaches, Pern had long since shed most of the system that records claimed kept things working, kept things ready for threadfall. People had panicked. People had died. Crops had been all but obliterated in some regions. The weyr would grow too busy to produce for itself within a few turns, they suspected, going off the histories. That was why the tithing had been a system at all. No one would be thrilled with that sort of 'tax' returning, but without food the weyrs (what weyrs were left at least) would fail, and then the holds would be helpless.

No, no one would like it. But it might become that or death soon enough.

Thankfully, he'd made some...not friends. Dolmar didn't have friends. But he'd done some networking in his time at the courtesan hall, and though none held positions of real power, they would be a sensible, sympathetic ear to his arguments in other minor holds and cotholds across the planet. No one could say for sure where or when the seeds would be planted in the right minds, but a bit of correspondence wouldn't hurt.

But ah, his ink was running low. He placed a small weight over the pages to keep them in place before standing up, intent on getting more.

Dolmar was usually very attentive, always minding his step and the distance between himself and others. He had a very rigid personal bubble, and never, ever liked it being intruded upon. But it was late, most people were abed (and he planned to be soon too) and no one really came around this little area he'd staked out of the barracks to work in.

So he wasn't exactly looking around as aptly as he usually did. He'd later come to blame himself in part, and take it as a firm reminder to not drop his guard again. For the moment, he rebounded off of someone (unusual in itself, given most candidates in his age group, in this part of the barracks, didn't come near to his height) and sucked a sharp breath as the inkwell flipped up out of his hand, flinging dark droplets across his fifth-best tunic before dropping to shatter on the floor.

"..."

He slowly raised his now empty hands, regarding the smudged stains across them. Olive green eyes flicked to the all but trembling man...boy...?...that'd knocked into him. "Sharding wherry-minded dimglow of a—" The insults started as little more than a murmur, and didn't grow much in volume, as he didn't want to wake the whole wing of candidates, but the biting behind them was clear.

His twin had only ever been the one person he would never raise his voice to, after all.

His twin had been devoured by thread beside his father, and everyone else he'd known as a boy, and now there was no one in all of Pern who he would hold his tongue from when they deserved it.

His nostrils flared as Dolmar took a deep, steadying breath. He did not like to let his temper flare, despite the somewhat twisted delight he found in cutting someone down with his words. Getting angry wasn't dignified, and if this had been more of a diplomatic situation he would have graciously waved off the incident. But there was no rank among candidates, not really. Everyone was equal until they either impressed or aged out, and that meant that there were...well, probably still some, but not as many repercussions for letting his fury fly.

"Nel, right. Now I know who I'm going to report as having broken that, then." He jabbed a finger down towards the shattered remains of the inkwell. "I certainly don't mean to pay my marks for your mistakes." He scoffed at the repeated, irritating apologies. "I've heard you, Nel. If it means so much to you, then consider it forgiven." He sidestepped the mess (it wasn't HIS mess!) intent on continuing to go and get the ink he needed. "You look to be at least in your late teenaged turns, I'd think you'd be above crying over spilled milk...or ink, rather, in this case. Tsk."

Tsk. How Nel had even managed to become a candidate boggled Dolmar. Weren't dragon riders supposed to be stronger willed than this? Something wriggled in the back of his mind as he stared at the bent over form of the boy, sniffling and plucking up the broken shards of the inkwell. A thought, half-formed, but not strong enough to break through everything else making up the mire of his mind and come to full consciousness. Like a tooth only just gone loose, that you bump with your tongue and can tell is off, but not how so just yet.

Inexplicably he found himself sighing, and turning around to kneel beside the other boy. "Here. I'm going to the store rooms anyway. May as well not have both of our hands filthy with ink." He began to pluck up the pieces, slim and deft hands snaking out to grab any bits before Nel managed to touch them. "You just...go find a broom. You can manage that much at least, right?" He shook his head at his own behavior, though it probably looked more like he was being doubtful of the other kid's abilities to even fetch something. He must be more tired than he'd thought. The urge to card a hand through his hair was stymied both by the close cropped style he'd adopted and the still-wet stains on his hands, though he'd reached half way up before catching himself. A long-time habit he'd fought hard to break, and here it was again? Yes, certainly he must just be exhausted.

Shards and shells, man. Dolmar honestly hadn't left his bed that morning planning to make a guy cry. He didn't really care mind, but still. He eyed the guy and he returned with the broom, biting back a sharp retort for...some reason he couldn't articulate. The shards had all been grabbed, and he did hold up his hands full of them, a look as if to say 'how did you think I could take that when I have all this in my hands?' "A moment, then, huh?" He managed with a great effort of will not to roll his eyes as he found the nearest waste bin and let the pieces of the inkwell drop, tinkling like a wind chime, into it.

"Why don't you just go on then, huh?" He took the broom and swiftly, almost artfully rolled the last of the mess into a pile, and then onto a slip of paper he'd grabbed from one of the tables. "I certainly wouldn't be eager to remember an encounter like this, so why don't you just get back to...whatever it was was you were doing, hm? I'm sure it was important." He rapidly finished cleaning up, frowned at the lingering stain on the floor from the ink—someone was going to end up assigned to clean that, the next time they got into trouble, no doubt—and then turned to head off, as he'd originally intended, for the store rooms. "My work certainly is, so you'll excuse me if I find I've spent long enough with this entire...this."

He was really only half listening as the boy prattled on about his woes. Everyone on Pern had enough issues all their own without heaping on those of anyone else. Most people seemed to also think though that 'sharing' somehow split the burden. No thank you, honestly. And he was still going on by the time Dolmar came back with ink too. He really might need a mindhealer, he vaguely decided.

"That's exactly why you should find a way to sleep," He huffed, as if speaking to a child. "If we don't impress, aren't able to fight thread, then more people will suffer the way we have." An unnoticed slip on his part, that was. "I'm writing to holds. Cotholds, minor holds. I have friends here and there," He explained as he sat down to swiftly finish off the few messages he'd left waiting. "We need to be ready, down the line, and as things stand Pern is a mess." He paused a moment, aiming the pen at Nel. "It's also why you need to pull yourself together. I know losing family hurts, more than some here might," Another slip. "But lying awake might get you sick enough to not be allowed to stand, and if we don't stand, don't impress, then soon it'll be everyone on Pern that's lost their families." A few more sharp pen scratches.

"Crying won't bring our mothers and fathers and brothers back, none of ours. Now come on. I've done this, and I'm not getting in trouble for not dragging you back to bed when you turn up missing in the morning." He swiftly was packing away the letters, and rounded on the other teen, reaching out to grab him by the arm, just above the wrist (and he was forcing away the memory of doing the same, night after night after night, to a much younger boy, when he himself was much younger to boot) to lead him back towards the barracks proper.