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Mustela and Musk trotted through the tournament grounds, seeing what there was to be seen. Or it might be more accurate to say that Musk was running around trying to get into all the new things at once, and Mustela was being dragged along and trying to keep him from getting into anything he shouldn't, which was probably everything. The Tannercrafter had constructed sturdy harness modeled after dragon riding straps, onto which she'd clipped a thick, braided leather leash. The wher had proven so energetic that she's feared he'd manage to tear through a leash that wasn't as reinforced as she could make it, and the woven leather was the toughest thing she could think of that wasn't supplemented by metal. It was all her own work, of course, every inch of it built to stand up to her wher's energetic use.

They had only just arrived, and Mustela had meant to immediately find where they might sign up for the races. But of course Musk had his own ideas about what they should do first, even if those ideas changed every time he saw something different. Still, as Mustela dragged him away from one stall or another, she kept an eye out for some official or sign that could tell her where race sign-ups where. Maybe they had pens that competitors could be locked up in or something.

Mirta knew her beloved Mirtask was fast and agile in the air, and probably she even knew that she should enter the green in the races if she wanted a guaranteed win. The wher, though slow and lumbering on land, could put on quite a show in the skies.

Didn't matter. Not one bit.

Mirta wasn't looking to race in the skies. She was going to get that win elsewhere.

The beauty pageant.

Mirtask gave a low bellow as she plodded along a few paces behind her handler. Hungry. Hungry. Mirta paused so that the wher might catch up, quick hands moving to deliver some intense scritching to Mirtask's eyeridges.

"Come on, then, Mirtask," the wherguardswoman purred softly to her beloved, most beautiful and perfect wher as she doled out a few scraps of dried wherrymeat. "We're going to win the pageant, yes we are, aren't we?"

Mirtask gave a low, wet grunt as she noshed on the wherrymeat, her dull eyes locked on Mirta's hands.

More?

"Later. Come, now."

"Of course," B'shir agreed, as he tried to remember if he actually knew where the registration booth was. He'd helped build the damn thing, but that had been some time - and several drinks - ago.

"You can follow me. Unless your wher has other plans?" Although his facial expression didn't change, B'shir's tone implied that he was not terrifically impressed by the woman's ability to control her beast.

He knew she couldn't help it. She was only a woman, and really shouldn't be dealing with anything as large and difficult as a brown wher, but that didn't mean that in the back of his mind he didn't believe that she was not really measuring up to whatever unexpressed standard he was holding her to. Once again he thought how much he preferred dragons to whers, and then quickly reminded himself that he wasn't ever going to have a dragon again, so he'd best shut up and move on. And maybe have another drink in the near future.

The darkly tanned man waited with the insouciant air of someone who had all the time in the world. Like a unionized construction worker, almost.

"First tournament?" B'shir asked, nodding toward the leashed wher. Those had to be some of the strangest markings he'd ever seen.

He managed to come off as sort of knowing and nonchalant, as if it was not also the first time he had attended a wher tournament. In snowy High Reaches, gatherings like this simply didn't happen. There was something very decadent about the whole idea of a tournament devoted to showcasing whers that the former dragonrider could only assume was a sort of southern softness.

He took a moment to crane his neck and peer around for the registration booth. He wasn't terrifically tall, but he was tall enough that he could see more or less where he wanted to go. There should really be a sign up. It wasn't as if people in the south were illiterate. They'd probably appreciate a nice label saying "REGISTRATION." If B'shir cared more, he'd suggest it, but frankly he didn't really care all that much.

"This way," he said, beginning to walk in the direction of the registration booth.

Cary was much too old to be running through the grounds barefoot, playing tag, and so instead she slouched through them with a look of practiced boredom and disdain. In fact, she was kind of excited about the event. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been to anything like this. But she was from the Weyr, and that meant she couldn't very well admit to finding whers even comparably interesting to dragons. Particularly not when there had been a hatching so recently.

But Cary hadn't Impressed in that hatching, so she was going to go to the wher tournament and have fun. Maybe she'd buy some bubbly pies. Those were always wonderful. And wine! She could probably buy some of that and sneak it back into the candidate barracks. It wasn't like it was impossible to get wine as a candidate, but it was frowned upon to have one's own stash, and Cary thought that was stupid. Sometimes a girl just needed a drink, y'know?

Mostly, though, she was here because she had heard there would be a wher beauty pageant, and there was no way she was going to miss a spectacle like that. It would probably be the funniest thing she saw all turn.

_____

B'shir deftly slapped the prying fingers of a young child trying their luck at his marks. To be honest, the would-be thief probably would have been disappointed even if he had been successful since the ex-rider had no money on his person. It was a state of affairs that amused him somewhat, but not enough to draw a smile. Not much drew smiles from B'shir, even before his dragon died.

"Looks it," he agreed. He was agreeing that the wher looked young, but he might just as easily have been saying that it looked like the pair's first tournament. "Watch out for pickpockets, by the way."

But of course that was a foolish warning. The girl had a wher to deter thieves. He had been targeted because he didn't. And possibly because he was wearing good boots, despite their filthy and battered state. He still had his riding leathers carefully stowed where carnies and thieves wouldn't easily get their hands on them. And where he couldn't easily get to them to sell them in a fit of bad temper or drunkenness.