Frustrated Incorporated

Writers: Halyonix, Iluva
Date Posted: 5th August 2024

Characters: S'yen, M'rhas
Description: Misery loves company ... or does it?
Location: Dragonsfall Weyr
Date: month 9, day 26 of Turn 11
Notes: Mentioned: T'lonas

S'yen

M'rhas

If it wasn’t for his unshakeably bad mood all day, Merhaskel might have forgotten the Hatching yesterday and the irritating fact that he hadn’t been picked. His craft time in the forge had been unbearably hot, and hard, which was the only real upside to this day. He was finally tired enough to feel something other than frustration, leaving only a mild rage and, weirdly, gratitude to the supervising Journeyman who had left him alone with the hammer.

Another day of candidacy, another stint in the smithy meant there was no rush to get back to the barracks.

Once he reached them, however, his pace immediately quickened. Someone’s brother had apparently Impressed and there was plenty of excited chatter humming between the walls about the next clutch and how the next time would be _their_ time.

The next time someone said ‘next time’ to him, they were getting a swift punch in the face. The next time wasn't _this time_ and so in lieu of a dragon, Merhaskel had clean clothes and dirty hands.

It was nearly in his hands and unceremoniously shoved into his trunk with everything else, but the first few shirts were obviously not his. Did... he even own anything in this color? Rhas wasn’t sure. After scrubbing most of the grime from his hands, he stood staring at the stack of folded clothes on the foot of his bed. Considering the cots around him for a moment, he caught sight of Syerin and gave a slight nod in greeting. “Hey man. You missing anything?”

"Is that a rhetorical question or do you want an honest answer?" Syerin muttered without looking up from his book. Before Merhaskel could answer though, he let out a long sigh and then looked up. At the sight of the shirts, his expression turned angrily puzzled. "How did you get those?" he asked.

Shrugging, Merhaskel gave him a 'how should I know?' look and flopped down next to them. "Grab whatever's yours." He added. It was anyone's guess if he, his dad, or one of his brothers had picked them up earlier. He gave laundry the same thought and attention as he did Lord Zathris-- none. It didn't help that his thoughts were constantly circling that one totally elusive, totally infuriating thing: "Something else this Hatching screwed up."

"Oh, aren't you singing the truth," Syerin said bitterly. He began looking through the shirts and found three that were his. "How many Hatchings have left you rejected?" he asked.

"All of them." Merhaskel scoffed, in a boneless state of dejection across his cot. It had never occurred to him to count them, since he always went in assuming (now hoping) that _this was it_. "More than I thought I would." He admitted a little more quietly, almost puzzled. Forgetting that Syerin had been there as long as he could remember, he asked, "What about you?"

"More than I thought too," Syerin admitted with a matching quieter tone. He re-folded the shirts in his hands and then just balled them up, tossing them on his bed angrily. "When the dragons Search you, it's...it's a dozen possibilities opening up. It's...it's hope! It's hope, that's what it is. It's offering you a life that won't be whatever it was going to be back at the Hold. And then, when they _don't_ choose you..." He trailed off, looked away. His eyes glittered with unshed angry tears.

Merhaskel's brow furrowed, hearing what he couldn't quite see. "Yeah it's like a kick in the teeth." A hand subconsciously touched his own chin, his mouth, drifted up to tangle in his gritty hair. "It's not much better over here. Both my parents got Searched and Impressed in the same Turn. One clutch. Done." What normally brought unnecessary pride now felt like an unspeakable offense. "I'm just tryin' to ride their coattails in the dark. At least a dragon told you you've got 'it', that's not nothing. If you don't Impress I'll help you punch their rider out." He offered, not exactly joking. Unless of course it was Fianwyth.

Syerin huffed ruefully. "Thanks." He looked at Merhaskel. "You've still got a chance though. You're what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Seventeen?" Merhaskel looked at Syerin sharply, smiled slowly. That lifted some of the gloom laying on top of him like a pall and he stretched his long limbs in lazy satisfaction. "Shells, I should see if I can sneak into a tavern or something. And look in the restricted section at the Printer Hall. And... Maybe I should grow a beard." His hand ghosted his chin again, as if growing a beard at his age was something one could simply decide. "What do you think? Could I pull it off?"

Feeling as though he was the only one on a timetable and that everyone else still had a solid chance, Syerin still managed to give Merhaskel a cocked smile. "Depends. Do you grow that annoying fuzz type or something you can actually work with?"

"Oh yeah, enough. Probably." Merhaskel could have sounded more confident or nonchalant here, but he really didn't. "I just haven't grown it out in a while, you know, so I dunno _exactly_." He studied Syerin briefly and nodded acknowledgment, "You could pull it off though."

Syerin shook his head though. "It looks far too rough on me," he said, stroking his chin. "I prefer to be neat. Clean." He caught far more fish maintaining his boyish looks and he preferred to keep it that way. He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Not like the dragons care what we look like anyway."

"Right." Merhaskel looked thoughtfully yet gently suspicious back; it was a little hard to believe that someone who wore more jewelry than his mother would pass up an opportunity to decorate another part of themselves, but Syerin appeared to know what he was talking about. And he did have a nice face.

Reverting to the previous topic however took the wind out of his sails, a similar sigh blowing through him. "Look man, I don't think _they_ know what they want sometimes." It was a momentary consolation at best. After all some people swore by superstitions-- a bronze first was unequivocably considered a good omen, but maybe that was all invention and belief too. A way to feel in control when so many aspects of a hatching couldn't be predicted. But it also made it feel all the more nebulous and mysterious, like trying to catch smoke.

Merhaskel frowned. "Y'know what. There's no way the dragons don't want _us_." They were some of the most sensible choices among the candidates, after all. "Betcha five marks we're next to Impress. And I'm not shavin' til then, either."

"Five marks?" Syerin echoed. His lips quirked in amusement but his expression said he didn't believe it would happen. Still, he said, "You're on. But don't expect me to join you in not shaving. I'd still like to get laid."

"Booooo," the other candidate chucked a clean shirt at Syerin's clean face. 'Cmon. Put some of your beads and jewels and stuff in it. We can handle daily reminders of our failures right on our faces, can't we?" This time he asked rhetorically, this time realizing how dead he was inside.

The next part Merhaskel said exactly as he would and had and did everything else: unthinkingly. "Doubt you'd have a problem with that either way, man."

Then, Merhaskel briefly thought about dying. It took him a second to get up to speed with himself, flushing where his face freckled. Oh boy. He sat up, but didn't try to retract the slip. Instead his heavy hand rubbed his curls around a few times before his glance caught on the book Syerin had been reading. Forgetting his embarrassment, Rhas nodded toward it. "What were you reading?"

Syerin scowled. No, he didn't have a problem either way but he didn't like being reminded daily of his failures. "Nothing interesting." He stuffed book and shirts into a spot to handle later. Slipping off the bed, he said, "I'm going to get food," leaving it to Merhaskel to decide if he was coming along or not.

Merhaskel was good at upsetting others -- but it didn't have the same effect when it wasn't intentional (which it wasn't), nor was it the surprise of serendipitiously frazzling someone really getting on his nerves (which Syerin wasn't).

Instead, Syerin's abruptness etched Rhas' face with a frown, and most of it at himself. "Shit sorry, man." He started after the older Candidate, either stupid or undeterred. "Alright, alright. So, since your book sucks, I heard this crazy thing about T'lonas today. Apparently, -- according to Tyvor-- a firelizard got into his office during the Hatching and..."

Last updated on the August 29th 2024

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