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Sharding Malvren and it's bloody runty dragons. W'lin was not pleased with the turn of events in the world.... especially not after he'd learned that some sharding fool had decided to go and kill H'trel in Benden's name... and Eirlyn refused to listen or see reason. Nobody listened but they sharding well all complained.

Except, of course, for his darling Goldriders. Everything depended on them. He'd rejected the offers of surrogate golds on the basis that three would simply be too much for the weyr - Queens were notoriously territorial, after all.

And so, he'd taken the two under his wing. He was due to leave for the meeting later in the week. News of Abigail's injury had reached him on flit's wings almost as soon as it had happened it seemed like. It felt like the world was spiraling out of control, and if the truth was told, it was. He refused to allow Malvren's runts or their half-baked good stock in Benden... was still convinced of Malvren's guilt. Everything they'd found in the days after had pointed to that misbegotten ill-run, sharding troublesome upstart Weyr.

With a heavy sigh, the man shifted on his stool as he sat beside two large tubs of oil, a pile of rags, a couple knives with frighteningly keen edges, and a fair of flits coerced into cooperation by his lovely Gold Salva. They weren't dragons, no, but the young queens could command them nonetheless. They each needed to learn to lead, to command... and to defer to the Wingleaders and Weyrleaders.

Checking the water clock, his gaze turned to the entrance to the large cavern then flicked back to Bruinth as the bronze huffed and curled on the opposite side, quite bored with this all. The females were too young to care about yet, after all, and he could neither remember siring them nor roaring like a madman at their hatching. It made W'lin shake his head - for all that lack of memory was bad, it was also good. He'd like to live in the present so fully as the dragons did.