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C’ross could tell before he even put the riding straps on that Merceth was in fine form today. Some days, the brown was almost complacent, too tired after long shifts of patrolling to put up a fight. Other days, when the routine patrolling turned up something less-than-routine (which was thankfully rare) and Merceth’s strange streak of violence was sated, the brown would be almost friendly, a valuable partner with a predator’s drive. But when the days stretched into nothing but monotony and errand-running and that drive had no outlet…

Well, just because dragons couldn’t hurt humans didn’t mean they couldn’t perfect the art of the Nonviolent Bother. It had taken C’ross a full fifteen minutes to get the riding straps on his dragon, a process that had involved wrangling the big brown rather like an enormous bad-tempered bull.

Explain to me again why it’s our job to greet the newcomers. Once the straps were on, the game was over. They both understood how it worked: shenanigans were only tolerated to a limited extent. Draw too much attention and the Squadleader would come to yell at both of them to cut it out – an outcome that neither C’ross nor Merceth wanted. And for C’ross’ part… While he would never admit it (and continued to maintain that his dragon was a Terrible Beast) he didn’t exactly mind occasionally pitting himself against Merceth. If nothing else, at least it kept life at Warden’s interesting.

But today C’ross wasn’t going to tolerate any of Merceth’s s**t when it came to the new arrival. “We’re going,” the squadsecond growled, “because L’iv told us to. She’s busy. And so help me if you scare them off I will tell every beastcrafter at the pens that you’re only allowed caprines for the rest of the week. Small, stringy ones.”

Merceth snorted and took off without warning, surly frustration written in the tension of his flight muscles as he powered away from their weyr, more quickly than was strictly necessary. But they spotted the newcomer green quickly enough, and there was no snarl in his voice or red-orange anger in Merceth’s eye as he hit the ground a reasonable distance from Nicoth… Only the wary eyeballing of a scarred predator gauging another scarred predator. At least she looks like a fighter, he shared privately with his rider.

“I’saak?” C’ross inquired, sliding easily off Merceth’s back and striding towards the man busy disentangling himself from his green’s straps. “Of Nicoth? Honshu told us you’d be coming.”

Merceth shifted, wings mantling warily, head held low instinctively to shield his vulnerable throat should the green decide to lunge for it. He didn’t snarl in response to the green’s briefly bared teeth, but only reluctantly: C’ross was in his head, the threat of no herdbeasts for a week still hovering over him. He’d be… reluctantly civil, at least.

C’ross watched the man struggle with the buckles on his riding straps with some dismay. Really? Shards, the man was hardly a weyrling… Well, he’d been grounded. Injured, they’d said. Maybe he’d been grounded for longer than C’ross had assumed. Still, he made no comment aloud, and his expression was as much a poker face as it always was.

He accepted the transfer papers, acknowledging the man’s introduction with a little nod. Former Watchman. Hmm. “Squadsecond C’ross, and the enormous brown lump goes by Merceth.” He flipped through the transfer papers briefly – yes, everything in order, no behavioral issues, unusually glowing performance review for a Warden's rider, transferred for therapeutic purposes, cleared by the healers… Well. C’ross wasn’t a healer. So he supposed he would defer to their decision. Nonetheless, he wasn’t entirely convinced that Honshu healers understood what life at Warden’s was like.

“Always glad to have more riders,” he stated frankly, and that was the truth. They were all overworked. “Healer’s note here says something about physical therapy… We fly shifts here, four hours on, four hours off. Anything I should know that would prevent you from that kind of strenuous flying?”

It was a blunt question, but not asked with any particular malice. C’ross wasn’t out to shame anyone, but he damn well wasn’t going to be responsible for the new greenrider dropping out of the air.

The wince did not escape C’ross’ notice. No one wanted to be the inconvenience shipped off elsewhere because they couldn’t handle the work. He took a moment to survey I’saak with greater attention to detail; there was a certain anxiety to him, but also a quiet desperation. If he was at Warden’s because the Watch had cast him aside…

C’ross recalled what it was like, when Merceth had lost his eye. The brown had been virtually unmanageable for months afterward, and to this day he was still head-shy with anyone who wasn’t C’ross – strange healers especially. The Watch had given away his wingleadership, and though C’ross had proved himself and Merceth capable dozens of times over, his old position had never been offered to him again. It was the end. He’d had only once chance and it vanished like the smoke after a dragon’s flame. So yes, he knew at least part of how I’saac must be feeling.

“I don’t doubt that.” Snagging a piece of charcoal from his pocket he made a quick, concise note at the end of the transfer papers, explaining aloud, “I’ll note for them to keep you off brush-clearing duty; that’s more or less the only thing around here that requires firestone. It’s generally discouraged to flame at prisoners.” C’ross’ voice was wry at the last statement, making it clear that it was black humor rather than a warning he felt I’saac actually needed. Not that dragons could harm humans directly, but it was damned easy for fire to spread and for accidents to occur. “You’ll likely take every other shift for the first few days – most people do. The schedule here is different from your normal weyrs - flying day and night, for instance - and it takes some time to adjust.”

Surviving on catnaps in the middle of the afternoon, for instance. But I’saac would discover that on his own soon enough.

C’ross gazed at the transfer papers with a furrowed brow and a small frown, as if they would somehow give up more information than they already had. “Well, you’ll be assigned to a squad, but I’ll be damned if I know which one,” he confessed. “So I suppose the next logical step would be to get you and your green a weyr so you can settle in. Likely one of the Wardens will want to speak with you at some point as well, so be ready for that.”

He paused, glanced briefly back at Merceth (who was still eyeing Nicoth with bloody murder in his posture and expression) and then shrugged. “Ah, shards, why not. Today’s one of my rest days. Want a tour of the place?”

“I get that,” C’ross replied, “Merceth’s been testy with everything since the day he hatched.”

The brown made an indignant noise. C’ross glanced back over his shoulder at his dragon, and Merceth made the noise again. I know what you’re going to ask, and there is no way on Pern I’m going to leave you alone with that psychotic-

Go home, Merceth.

It was the tone that brooked no argument. Merceth bugled furiously, launched himself into the air like a bat out of hell, and blinked between. “He’ll find something else to do with himself.” C’ross addressed I’saak as if the previous exchange with Merceth hadn’t even happened. Hopefully Nicoth would be calmer without another dragon around. “Come on, the vacant weyrs are this way.”

He started walking, keeping his pace relatively slow for I’saak’s sake – he wasn’t sure to what extent the greenrider was injured, but he’d mentioned having trouble getting around. “Your previous wingleader thought the world of you, if your papers are anything to go by.”

C’ross likewise ignored Nicoth’s stinkeye; he couldn’t give a shard if the green disliked him, as long as he was on good terms with the rider. It didn’t seem like Nicoth was terribly keen on anyone, really, so at least it wasn’t personal… And even if it was, the brownrider was used to being disliked. He was still going to do his best to make I’saak feel at home. Fortunately there were weyrs not far from the landing field where Nicoth had set down; C’ross was fairly confident there were still some vacant wallows by the riverside that would give the two of them comfortable access to the water.

He kept his stride slow and leisurely, one eye on I’saak’s halting limp. The greenrider seemed reluctant to talk about his past experiences, so C’ross focused on the present. “Well, there’s some similarities between the Watch and how things are at Warden’s Weyr, but we’re not very traditional here. Do you have any questions, or should I just give you the spiel?”