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This is your last warning

Poecai had never felt that her future hinged on being a candidate and impressing a dragon alone, but it had been sobering, all the same, to be told that one more big fight and she would no longer be a candidate – sobering and frustrating. It was her fists that flew but was it her fault that she could not abide the attitudes of some of her fellow candidates? Weyrborn, Holdborn, it didn't matter. When the lights were off and the backs were turned, some people became predators to their fellows and she was the one standing in their way. She had had every right to hit some of those people, and – she felt – it was they that should be getting their warnings, not her.

Poecai wold try anyway, though, to keep from fighting. Resolving things with well-chosen words was definitely appealing, and – of course – wold put her on moral high ground when the fights did happen, which made her feel more than a little smug. Not that her fellows ever listened to her words. There was little point these days, it seemed, in talking to them and not just hitting them a few times. Still, she would try, yet again, to be reasonable.

She was sure that the candidatemaster had his reasons for his warning and that they were logical and very good reasons, and that she would agree with them if she fully understood them because she frequently did with these sorts of things. M'ka, however, had been very bad at explaining.

She checked her clothes before putting them on, shaking them out to make sure they were not a horrible mess. She brushed them down over her young frame, smoothing them, before glancing in a looking glass to make sure her hair was in order. Good. She wanted to look decent and presentable, like a good candidate should.

She'd been told that M'ka was no longer her squiremaster, and that she would be meeting her new one today - S'ol of Blue Zaqueth, if she remembered what she had been told correctly. She had never met him before and she wanted to make a good first impression.

All things taken care of to her confidence, she strode stiffly out of the candidate barracks, perhaps a little bit nervous.

Poecai saluted back on reflex, looking him over with some measure of appraisal. So this was S'ol of Zaqueth. He looked tough and respectable, in a well groomed, able, whippy way. He looked ordinary, for a rider, but Poecai did not put much stock in appearances.

M'ka had looked interesting but had been strictly ordinary and, while approachable and pleasant to talk to, she had not the most attentive or interesting squiremaster. She wondered just what she was in for now, aside from her last chance to stand.

“I am Poecai,” she said, her expression serious, “Sir.” She released her salute and stood at an easy attention, hands behind her back, watching him now with the intense uncertainty of a youth in a new situation. “And I am Squired to you.” she confirmed.

Poe didn't know what she had been expecting, or even if she had been expecting anything at all from her new Squiremaster, other than a last chance.

So far, though, so good. she thought.

Poecai had been expecting a walk, maybe chores or additional lessons. Mainly, with M'ka, it had been things like 'help me with my straps, Poe' or 'help me with the dragon oil, Poe', and maybe some tall tales on occasion.

“Er...” she said, haltingly. Mounting. For flight. M'ka had never taken her flying. M'ka had made her a valuable source of information on how to deal with drudges, lower caverns workers, and the more mundane aspects of dragonrider life, but... not for things like flying.

She looked up at Zaqueth with ... not exactly misgiving. She was, though, wary. “Vaguely, sir.” she said, “I am...” she hesitated at the dragon, “Familiar with the, uh, concept.”

Poecai steadied herself on Zaqueth's foreleg, nervously trying not to make a fool of herself in front of her new squiremaster as she attempted the next part of the mounting process – without using his hand. Somehow securely on the handsome blue, she felt slightly giddy – after all, she was going to go flying.

Flying

On a dragon. Yes indeed, this was looking like a far more interesting squireship than she had had with M'ka. She muddled with the straps a little, managing to figure out how they attached – though they were slightly twisted at her thigh.

”Well, sir.” she said, trying not to sound as excited as she was, ”Where to?”

Poecai flushed with embarassment as she looked down and saw that, yes indeed, the strap was twisted. She fixed it hastily before looking up.

“I see.” she said, squinting at the peak. It was far away, but on a dragon's back... such distances meant nothing. “We're just flying there...” right?

Oh shards of the first shell she was flying. The moment of takeoff, that time of complete disconnect from the solidity of the ground, had her gripping the handholds, her knuckles white with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. She gasped at the sensation of weightlessness, and the nearly crushing force that followed the dragon's first wingbeat. Soon, all was too far – and falling – below them, and she looked down as people and environs she had known her whole life became reduced to the scale of toys, then of insects.

No, not insects. Mere seeds on the breadroll of the weyr. She didn't like insects, but wasn't sure which thought disturbed her more. She knew she probably shouldn't look down, but look down she did – over the dragon's side as his wings beat and carried her across her home and away at a speed that, now that she was actually in the air, seemed almost impossibly fast.

“I'm...” she shivered at the cold and at the thought that, down there and now away, was her whole life. “Fine.” She tore herself away from the view and looked at S'ol. Her new squiremaster was in control of this situation. It was every day, almost, for him. “Fine.” she repeated.

Landing Poecai decided, Wasn't so bad. It was a little disappointing, actually – being groundbound was a bit of a letdown, though the renewed closeness of the ground wasn't so bad.

“I'm okay.” she replied, managing a passable dismount with some hesitance – she was lucky, she supposed, that her squiremaster was not a rider of a larger dragon. Those thoughts were left buried and completely unsaid or emoted: She didn't want her new squiremaster to think she was weak or sensitive.

Self conciously aware of the jolt in her legs from her less-than graceful dismount, she somehow managed to stand, watching her squiremaster with attentive and respectful interest.

Well. What now.