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He was sulking. He could admit that. Sulking. Hiding. Avoiding everyone and everything. Well, except the gold flit who perched on his right shoulder; she went everywhere with him. She was getting quite big already, and she was only a week old. The warm heavy presence of her, and her soft-skinned tail coiled about his neck were some comfort at least. Looking down at his splinted left arm, Conomor sighed. Once again, he wouldn't so much as make it to the Touching. At least he had Gilden now, and despite the weight of his disappointment she could still bring a smile to his lips.

He had come to sit outside the Weyr in the evening air to catch a break from his foster mother. Her fussing over him was not helping in the least. He knew she was disappointed too - for him rather than in him - but it wasn't much help. Her constantly reminding him that there would be other clutches only underlined the fact that he'd missed yet another chance at a dragonet.

"You know," he murmured softly to Gilden, "I'm starting to think I might be cursed."

The small gold crooned in response, and Conomor got the impression from her that she might like a piece of the spicy smoked meat he had in a pouch on his belt. Smiling a little to himself, he directed the flit to get off his shoulder so that he could get some out for her. Having only one working arm was a pain. At least, he considered as he fished out a piece and tossed it for the flit to catch, he would be able to devote himself to training and raising her. Had he Impressed, he wouldn't have had much time for her. For such a big cloud over his head it was a pretty small silver lining, but it was there at least.

Conomor sighed internally. Well, company would probably do him some good anyway if if he didn't feel he wanted it. "He's no trouble," he assured the younger boy as he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, wincing slightly as his broken arm objected to his movement. Gilden gave a concerned cheep at his grimace, but he was able to clam her with a soft feeling of calm and assurance. Cheeping again, cheerfully this time, the gold flitted into the air and over to the other firelizard in order to investigate him.

Smiling a little at the curious flits' energy, Conomor turned back to the child that had appeared with the brown. He was very young to have a flit. Too young really, but what was done was done. If it had been a gift, then the giver was irresponsible and earned Conomor's contempt though they might never have met. If it had been an accident, well, such things happened.

"I'm Conomor," he said after a few moments of silence, "I think I've seen you about the last few weeks." A Candidate. Yes, he was sure of it now. Just what he needed. Well, he was going to have to practice taking his misfortune with good grace eventually; he supposed he might as well start now.

The boy was too young for a flit, and too young for a dragon too. Far too young; he needed another couple of turns before he'd be ready for such things really.

Conomor never had understood why people were allowed to stand for Impression so young when there were plenty of Candidates. Had he not broken his arm he might have become a rider within a couple of weeks, perhaps a brown or bronze rider and then perhaps he would have been able to ask about the things he found foolish in the way the Weyr operated. Perhaps next time there was a clutch. He'd been telling himself 'perhaps next time' since he'd been just fourteen turns old and missed out on his first chance thanks to a fever. One day his luck would change. It had to. The only thing he'd ever done with his life was work towards being a dragonrider.