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Ennrik had almost expected Mal to flee instantly, though he wasn't quite sure why. He'd never given him any reason to expect a reason to run. Guilt, he supposed, which proved, in spite of Mal's claims, that he had something resembling a conscience. It wasn't a subject he'd ever bring up to Mal, though, because he was confident Mal would deny it vehemently. He was somewhat surprised when Mal actually spoke to him, but then he noticed that the former harper was edging toward an escape.

His smile wasn't reassuring, he knew, and looked totally false, but that was on purpose. Really, he was thrilled to see his old mate, even after the circumstances under which he had left. He was just waiting for the right moment. In the mean time, it was fun to make him nervous, though it had probably given the girl with the firelizards the idea that he was an intimidating bully. Which was laughable, if one was to look at him. He simply didn't have the look of a bully. Too slightly built, and too quick. More like prey than predator.

As Mal drew close enough to make a break for it, Ennrik lunged forward to catch him by the wrist, taking care that the clay pot he carried wasn't upset. It was usually preferable not to damage others' things, even if they were ugly clay pots. He wasn't what anyone would term exceptionally strong, and he was wary of receiving some sort of grip-breaking blow on his wrist, but that had been part of why he'd gone for the hand which held something: so whatever was in the hand couldn't be used to hit him. Not that he thought Mal was much more inclined to violence than he was, but he was definitely a slitherer-outer.

"Funny story, that. Let me tell you all about it over a drink." His voice was firm, and didn't sound like he would accept a refusal, though in fact if Mal decided to flee he had no intention of chasing the man all through the Gather.

"I'm not going to hit you, by the way. If that's any incentive."

Conomor hurried along beside his companion, weaving easily through the crowds towards the smell of food. He got enough practice moving through tightly bunched groups of people back at the Weyr these days. The place had been crowded for as long as he could remember, but things were really coming to a head now.

"Well," Conomor laughed and came to a halt as they drew near to a particularly dense area of food stalls, "looks as though we're spoiled for choice again." Everything smelled wonderful, but Conomor knew from painful experience that it was best to make sure the stall you bought from looked clean no matter how good it smelled and might taste even. No meal was worth spending the next three days vomiting over.

Ennrik finally broke into a smile. He would do anything to avoid creating a scene. Oddly, his stage-fright didn't usually translate into an unwillingness to create scenes, but he felt he was now under constant surveillence, and wanted to do nothing to hurt his chances at Impressing. It seemed unlikely that an unhatched dragon would care one way or the other if he caused scenes, but the Candidatemaster might. Again, he didn't think he would be denied access to the Hatching, but he couldn't be sure. The Weyrs were very close-lipped when it came to discussing their ways with outsiders.

"I thought you liked making scenes," he teased as they walked back toward the stand he'd been at before, half hoping that the girl he'd been speaking to would have departed so he wouldn't have to make introductions and excuses and so that he could actually talk to Mal.

Nevertheless, he did immediately release Mal. Grabbing him had gone against the grain, but he was certain he would have lost him if he hadn't done so. There was much to catch up on. He had no intention of trying to make Mal feel guilty for leaving, because he, too, had left, and hypocrisy was something he despised, and had no desire to embody. He slid back onto his stool and ordered a glass of cheap wine, and then looked to Mal in askance: what would he be drinking? The obvious choice would be wine, but he could be mistaken.

"So, what are you doing here? I can't think of a single half-decent reason for you to be here. Even indecent reasons are a bit scarce at the moment. Ista's not an easy place to accidentally end up."

He would have liked to know what Mal was doing with himself for the past turn or so, but for the moment refrained from asking. Because that would mean he would eventually have to admit to being unable to overcome his stage-fright. He was still angsting over that, but he tried to do it as privately as possible, so that he wouldn't annoy others with endless repitions of the same boring "woe is me" chorus. He annoyed himself with it.

Riordan grinned and joined the line as well. It moved fairly quickly (though not fast enough!) and they were soon at the front of the line with all the delicious smelling food right under their noses. Riordan got a plate loaded with meats and tubers. "Mmmm!" Now to just dig into this...

Riordan ducked into the area with Conomor and started in on his own food. Ah... it was bliss! Then again, pretty much anything edible would've been heavenly to the boy at that point. He chewed the mouthful he had and swallowed it before commenting. "Eh, the Holders aren't too fond of the dragonriders. So the Weyrs probably get the toughest herdbeasts. This was probably a younger, tender one."

He'd overheard some comments at Ista Hold about the dragonriders eating up food and not having anything to show for it. "There's some that don't believe Thread will fall again." He frowned and sighed, glancing around the crowd before tearing back into his food. Some people could be such dimglows.

"It's mainly just a few that think it won't... but they're the loudest most of the time." He shook his head and sighed. "Hopefully so, it'd be nice to get meat like this again..." He ate a bit more before continuing. "It'd be nice to Impress, too.." Chuckling, he hoped that he'd Impress this time around. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he didn't. He didn't want to go back to the Hold... maybe he'd stay on at the Weyr. He still had a few Turns to go before he'd be considered too old to stand.

Conomor winced and nodded his agreement. "I hope I Impress as well. There might be forty or so eggs, but there are more Candidates pouring in every day. Good for the hatchlings chances of finding a perfect match, but not quite so good for our chances." It was a selfish thought but, well, nobody was perfect. Of course he'd rather it was him that ended up with a dragon than some other person, though he now found himself hoping strongly that Riordan would Impress as well.

"I hope I get to fly against the Thread with you some day," Conomor commented aloud. "Even if we don't both Impress this time, there will be other clutches before very long that we can try for if needs be."