Ringo - originally written around 2001

He's always been a little off. A bit rough around the edges. Riringo was adopted by a pair of gentle folk in Dawnlight many turns ago. And only a couple turns after that, when he was about 6, he was struck by a wagon as it passed quickly by, and nearly died.

The scar on his face is not from thread, nor from that accident. It was from a knife fight. The boyish face that his adoptive mother so loved was destroyed not by the lad who cut Riringo, but... By her own foster son's anger and arrogance.

How could he let himself be so ... The woman watched her son drift farther and farther away. She couldn't quite remember when they adopted him, or who the parents had actually been. Only that someone passed him on to them, and they eagerly accepted.

She wondered why, now. Now that she was hearing, some 16 turns later, that the boy she'd raised was now some outlaw running around the south lands with a bunch of disreputable thieves and killers.

How could he do that to her?

***

Pretty easily, actually. While Riringo is angry, he's also a bit mad, as in touched, as in crazy. And it isn't just because he has been hit in the head too many times by guards, or by being struck by that wagon turns ago. Perhaps if it hadn't been for that wagon, his own unique genetics would have surfaced.

Like his grandfather, stuck out of time and on a dragon no one sees, Riringo has strong mental abilities. Though he can only sense the already-dead.

The voices in his head stopped speaking to him recently. But he doesn't know why.

They're angry with me, he thought. They just don't want to share anything with me any more. They hate me. Well, Riringo turned and looked bitterly at nothing, I hate them too.

He paced. The others in the camp gave him wide berth when he was like this. The skinny young man was well known to have a temper that had gotten people hurt. Perhaps even killed, if the rumors were true. But he still packed a mean punch, and knew where to strike, and he also knew when to go in from Threadfall. His charm -- what there was of it -- extended to the soft hearted of a hold or cothold. But even so, since they had hit many of the local area holds already, the group was becoming known for their blond leader.

"Don't betray me like this," he muttered, looking wildly around with his pale blue eyes. Though frightened, one of the members of the camp stood and held his hands up in a tame gesture.

"Riringo, it's time to hunt. Let's go get something to eat, all right?" He said, and hoped that the hunt didn't turn bad. The wild look in Riringo's eyes softened and finally the blond man nodded. His curls bounced around his face.

They took spears with them, though Riringo obviously preferred hunting with a crossbow. His companion didn't trust him with one of those weapons.

One of the benefits of wandering around holdless was that the outlaws didn't much care if they hunted someone else's animals. This time, however, the opposite was true: the owners of the herdbeast did care, quite loudly!

And unfortunately for Riringo and Skel, this land holder had a fire lizard.

Riringo started toward the land holder, but the flitter already had its orders: find a dragon rider, find anyone, and get this thief off my land!

That fact didn't seem to bother Riringo, though. He stepped toward the holder, and motioned with his spear to back into the wall nearby. The herdbeasts around made their mindless fear sounds, when moments later, a dragon dropped from between and landed nearby.

"Stay away," Riringo said, "Stay clear or I'll kill him!" The knife he'd pulled out of its sheath was nasty, two blades and slightly serrated. The holder looked so intensely afraid, that the rider nodded, holding his hands up and quietly standing still.

Then the rider got a very odd look.

"You can't be serious," he said, a whisper. "Absolutely not."

But for some reason his dragon kept on him. This man, the blond one with the curly hair and the terror in his heart, was dragon rider material. It was in his blood. Or it was somewhere else, missing from him for too long.

He speaks with the betweened, the dragon said to his rider. And they tell me that they've missed him. Something about him has gone wrong.

"You've got that right!" D'run growled to his blue Oskerth. "He's insane! We can't bring a crazy candidate to Ryslen!"

Skel looked at the dragon, a tall blue, and whispered, "you can't take him... he's nuts!"

"I HEARD THAT!" Riringo said, and swung his hand with the spear against Skel, smacking him with the shaft. The rider took that moment to urge the land holder away from Riringo. "Curse you!" Riringo yelled, "ahh!"

He clutched the sides of his head, dropping the spear. It looked like he was having another attack, and Skel (even though he'd been stung by the force of the strike) knelt down to help him.

"Riringo, you've got to relax. We ..." he looked up at the holder and the rider beside him. "When we go hungry it gets worse. I'm sorry... Sometimes he goes into fits, and sometimes he talks to himself."

"Oskerth says he talks to the dead," D'run muttered. Even the Holder looked skeptical about that. But D'run shrugged. "But... We've an odd clutch on the sands, at Ryslen. And it looks as though he's been Searched. Much though I wouldn't want a man like this riding a dragon. They know best."

Skel nodded, helping Riringo up. "You'll be all right. We'll get some food for you, and your head will stop pounding."

With deeply blood-red eyes, Riringo looked fearfully at his friend. "Soon? I think so... I will go with him soon. He wants me to come back. I can't see him any more... And I can't hear him with words... Why won't they talk to me any more?" He babbled more, and thankfully, passed out moments later.

***

Ryslen weyr was a good place. Riringo decided that he liked it and he would stay there if only the berry pies kept coming. He liked them.

Something gave him a good feeling about the place. Perhaps it was that he'd all but forgotten that the voices in his head had stopped. There was so much to do and see, the people of the Weyr kept him occupied most of the time, and then he slept. While he slept, had he but tried, he would have been aware of a touch from a mind long-forgotten.

You will do well, but... my child, you will not last... Even the most beautiful stars only glow so long before they burn out... So brilliant your star could have been... I am sorry. Live well with what you have...

Riringo woke with a start from his strangely desert-tinted dream. The dry winds of some foreign northern desert stung his eyes still, though it was a mild Spring day at Rislen. He quickly forgot any content from his dream. It left him with an odd feeling in his gut, though.

But that was likely explained by the hatching. The humming of the dragons filled the air, and finally filled Riringo's stone heart.

He stood with the others, in his modified Candidate robe. That was a nice touch. Hadn't other Weyrs kept with tradition long enough? He'd never had to stand with one of those heavy woolen robes, so he didn't know the distress of being so hot. A bronze... or was it a white? Hatched first... It was a light-bronze, a beautiful combination of his sire and dam. White and gold, of course -- what else could possibly hatch here?

Riringo watched as another dragon -- white and brown -- hatched. This would be quite the occasion, wouldn't it! The excitement of it all actually caught up with the normall dour man. His face contorted into a broad smile. He was scaring people who looked at him.

Two green-whites, then a blue-white, then another light-green came out of their shells and Impressed. Riringo was actually so caught up in watching them all impress that he hardly gave a thought to why he was there at all. A golden-white, then another green and blue light-colored dragons hatched. Then a lighter colored brown hatched, impressing nearby.

But it was the darker brown-and-white which caught Riringo's eyes. Something about the dragon captured him entirely. It was as if he'd been ... alone all his life and now--

Khalbalahath

Bespoke the dragonet, his only word. R'ingo nodded once. He repeated the name to the records keeper, but he kept his eyes on the dragon. Here was a mind, here was a dragon, who knew him inside and out.

But did he approve?

***

Khalbalahath watched R'ingo as he sharpened a knife.

What do you need that for? I have teeth and claws, do I not?

R'ingo looked at the dragon oddly. "I need it because I'm going hunting. Not you."

You are not hunting for me?

R'ingo stood in the narrow passage beyond their weyr, looking at the two-toned dragon. Khal had grown considerably, and was a bigger than average weyrling brown. But he'd rarely spoken to R'ingo even this much, conversations with the dragon were short and to the point, mostly.

So this one bothered the man. His blond hair dropped into his eyes, and he swept it away with the hand holding the knife. The glimmer of the blade brought purpose back to R'ingo.

He'd been ready and waiting for this for a long time. Perhaps it would be soon. He wanted to practice, and he needed to do that in private. Yet... How could one man with one dragon impressed to him ever be "private"?

R'ingo walked out of the weyr, and Khalbalahath watched as long as he could. Then, he kept track with his mind. But R'ingo was very difficult to track that way. It was almost as if he were half-invisible. Even to his own impressed dragon! So hard to speak with. So sharp, and edged, and hurt.

The dragon waited, until R'ingo came back into the weyr hours later, blood all over his skinny arms.

You did what you had to?

"I did what I wanted to. When the time comes," he looked at the blade, "I'll have everything I need all waiting..."

Uncomfortably, the dragon put his head back down and tried to sleep. Unfortunately, this dragon remembered everything he had seen and heard. Everything from his hatching to now... Clearly. Like a human, perhaps?

***

R'ingo had been talking to himself for days. Khalbalahath watched him with swirling, worried eyes.

R'ingo, please do not keep this up. You must sleep.

"I must have SILENCE!" R'ingo yelled, and paced around further.

We can join a proper wing, the dragon suggested. I know you like it when we fly and I flame Thread.

"I don't want to do that forever," R'ingo hissed. There was blood coming from his lip, he'd bitten it so hard in anger moments before.

Why are you angry, R'ingo?

"Why won't they answer me?" He shouted in response.

...They, my rider?

"My ghosts... the..." the anger drained from the blond man, in a wave. He wiped his hand over his face, and noticed the blood on it. "Damn... I need to get cleaned up. If I'm going to Dawnlight's gather tomorrow."

He sped out of the weyr and left Khalbalahath with an odd feeling. The dragon flew out off their ledge, and went between to consult with another dragon of the Protectorate.

R'ingo bathed with a half-pleasant smile on his face. It terrified the drudges who had attended him while he was at Ryslen Weyr. They knew something was wrong with the rider, yet he'd impressed and he had obviously become good at what those dragon pairs did. They remained quiet as he bathed. He took his clean clothes from them, and went back to an empty weyr.

Without noticing that his dragon was not there.

The Gather was loud and busy. Dawnlight's wares were spread everywhere in booths and tents all over their large inner courtyard. R'ingo and many of the other dragon riders strode proudly through the gather grounds with hands full of Marks to their name.

R'ingo had seventeen marks to spend. On what, he pondered. Spending money wasn't one of his strong points: he had always just taken what he wanted from wherever or who ever he wished.

"That one over there, it's worth twice what this piece of wherry dung is!" Said a rider to one of the leather crafters in the nearest stall.

"Then perhaps you ought to go buy it there then," said the Journeyman in the stall with a grin. He was obviously hoping to haggle with the man. R'ingo on the other hand found the action particularly bothersome.

"He's right you know," R'ingo said to the other rider. "It's easier to buy from them. Their salesmen are friendlier." He eyed the goods, "and their wares are considerably better quality."

The Journeyman growled at Ringo but didn't bother to try getting his customer back.

R'ingo chuckled to himself. "Another good deed." Then he stopped midstride. There he was, the bastard Holder himself. Deon.

You do not have to do it, Khalbalahath bespoke, as if from half a world away. He sat in the dragons' glen nearby, where they were treated to wherry buck and herdbeasts at their leisure.

Yes I do, rang R'ingo's mind so clearly it was painful to the Light-brown dragon.

***

The other dragons stirred. Something was happening, rippling through them and their riders were only poorly aware of it. Their dragons minds were murmuring to one another on such a level that most of the riders thought it was just gossip and dragonny things.

They were wrong.

While R'ingo paced around the edge of the stalls near the Lord Holder, several Protectorate dragons arrived in the air above the gather. Shard on his blue Jeremoth was among them, and his weyrmate Rue on her green Beirissath besides. A huge bronze, H'lis' Synesth, trailed by great brown Nukath ridden by T'ver.

Several people looked up and thought that perhaps it was an honor guard of sorts, for the graceful Golden dragoness who came a moment later, Triia on Chvehath followed by her best friend Jade upon green Lravaath.

But that was not what it was at all. The entourage of dragons and riders got to the dragon's flat and conversed indepth and quickly, before scattering to the grounds.

***

R'ingo licked his lips. This would be beautiful. Lord Holder Deon was such slime. No one would actually miss him, would they? He had heard that there was an attempt on his life some years back -- oh yes, he'd been there then too.

When he was posing as a guard in the Dawnlight service. When he'd had fun with that one flame-haired woman, Demona was her name. He was amazed that she'd survived. But Deon would not. He could not.

When R'ingo pounced on the Lord Holder, he had his knife out in one hand and cat-claws spread across the knuckles of his other. Deon sputtered in anger, and squealed in fear.

There was a moment of panic, of chaos, when the nearby stall holders suddenly realized what was going on. Deon was in the hands of... A maniac. A madman with a knife!

A rider--

"R'ingo please!" Triia screamed. They had been, much to Shard's disgust and to Rue's surprise, lovers many years before. "Put your weapons down!"

R'ingo laughed hard, and bit down on Deon's ear, drawing blood quickly. Deon stood stiffly, quivering.

Around the edges of the stalls the rest of Shard's crew circled. Shard was too late to have jumped the skinny man which was what he would rather have happened.

Too brave a thought, Jeremoth bespoke.

If he'd get clear of the people I could --

No you could not, E'tan bespoke from somewhere else. Let her handle it.

Triia held her hands out to R'ingo. "Please, just come back to the Island and we'll--"

"We'll what!? We'll sing songs and make nice nice friendly like?" R'ingo teased. Deon snarled.

"You hoodlum... How you ever got out of--"

"Your little trap?" R'ingo said, "Oh, I got out of it all right. You filthy bastard." R'ingo pressed the double-bladed knife into Deon's chubby neck. "If you wanted me, you could have at least paid for me like a holder's wife."

R'ingo pressed his knife down, and a trail of blood welled up along the blades. Then, his hand went slack as a spray of his own blood was strewn across Deon's head and shoulders.

Rue stood with a small crossbow in her steady hands. She lowered the weapon only after R'ingo's lifeless body slumped to the gather ground. From halfway across the Hold's grounds, Rue had shot the man not out of self defense... But because Khalbalahath had requested it.

He is done now, the dragon bespoke broadly. He will harm no more people. I am ... ashamed of him.

"You'll be all right," H'lis asked the dragon, his huge bronze laying his wing across the white and brown dragon's back.

I will be. I am... I am also ashamed to say that I cannot bring myself to suicide over this loss. You will forgive me?

"We'll all get over it," Rue said, crying. Triia and Shard had joined her while the Lord Holder stood stunned, unmoving, with blood of his own being mopped up by his attendants.

***

Khalbalahath's story continues on his own pages...