Weyrling
Adult
Many said that he should have become a racer or a horse breeder, but it was rare that he even allowed people to put him on the back of a horse. Instead, he ran with them, running alongside them for miles at a stretch, his legs growing sleek and muscular like a horse�s. He could out run any child, and any adult for that matter.
Many hated him for that, but he always smiled and let it slide over him, not letting it even slightly ripple his calm good nature. Anyone who looked at him, though, had to admit that he resembled nothing less than a horse made human, with his sleek, muscular frame, brown skin, a thick head of pure black hair that reminded people of nothing so much as a horse�s mane, and his liquid brown eyes.
Those eyes enchanted most people, almost always having a trusting look in them and always betraying his emotions, from joy to betrayal.
His original name, Paylen, was replaced with the nickname Jiraciar, an old word for Wind King, which eventually became his name.
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He woke quickly at the battle scream of the watch horse and lifts his head, checking the air. He had quickly learned that he was a horse shifter, and had taken full advantage of that, escaping into the wild and gathering his own herd around him.
Jiraciar snorts and cautiously approaches the watch horse�s area, looking for trouble, his liquid brown eyes holding a fire within them that would have scared off the hungriest of predators. The wild cat that leaped at him met with a hard kick in its chest, shattering some of its ribs and leaving it broken on the ground.
The battle rage was up in him now, he was not going to let any stupid felines take his herd!
With that, he charges into the clearing where he had heard the sound of battle, yowling cats and shrill whinnies of horses. Rearing the moment he entered the clearing, his flailing hooves caught a cat on its shoulder, knocking it over. He didn�t stay to watch it drag itself off, instead he leaps across the clearing, rearing and kicking to clear the cats from his path, battle light blazing in his eyes.
With a last kick he broke through to the center where the main body of his herd stood, rearing and kicking with all their might, placing themselves in a loose circle so that the cats couldn�t get behind them. Jiraciar slips into the circle, his eyes red clouded with rage that he lets loose on the cats.
It was unusual that such a large pride would attack, but his herd�s manner of defense was unusual as well. Only the strongest, and usually smartest, horses survived within his herd, he made sure of that.
A swift, violent kick sent the last of the cats reeling, to slink off into the underbrush as quickly as if it was a ghost. He stood there, his hooves planted firmly, shivering with exhaustion. Fighting wasn�t anything new to either side of him, horse or human, but both sides, especially his horse side, were revolted at the blood spilled across the clearing.
Lifting his head, he lets out a shrill whinny, making the other horses turn to him. Then, turning slowly, he walks out of the clearing, leaving that bloodied clearing behind with relief, a relief that he could sense mirrored in the others of his herd.
Travel though the thick forest was sheer torture after having fought off cats to the point of exhaustion, but he didn�t, no, he couldn�t stop until he was sure of his herd�s safety. His mind picked out the pros and cons of every place he passed, and found them all wanting. Everything was wrong, not enough grazing, the scent of a predator, too enclosed, too many hiding spots for predators.
By the time he had found a proper place, he was almost on the ground with exhaustion, and most of the others were as well. Jiraciar casts a considering eye over the entire place, his mind fogged with tiredness, but he was aware enough to judge that the clearing was as close to perfect as he was ever likely to find in his state. With slow, weary steps he crossed into the center of the clear and surveyed it, caution thrown the wind.
The place was spacious, fairly flat, with few hiding spots for predators. There was even a small spring flowing through it, and the grass was thick. Perfect for a time.
Just as slowly as he had walked into the clearing, the rest of his herd followed him, sniffing around warily. They were not inclined to trust anything to chance, even in their exhausted state. One stallion in particular was entirely thorough with his search, cautiously exploring the edges and any place that any other animal could hide.
That stallion, Nres by name, was the exact opposite of Jiraciar in coloration, being jet black with black mane and tail where Jiraciar is an almost ghostly white, with equally white mane and tail. Nres took after his father, though, in all his cautious ways, and his love for running. He was also starting to demand that the herd be left in his control, and some of the herd was starting to agree with him.
Jiraciar lies down on the soft grass, nibbling a bit of it. It wouldn�t be too bad to give up the position of top stallion� he shakes his head, his white mane flying, now was not the time to think about that. He would think on it later, when he was rested.
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The herd had spent several days in the clearing, regaining their strength and healing. He had watched Nres closely through those days, judging him. In many ways the jet black stallion was his equal, and he did have the advantage of being raised a horse instead of a human, even though he did have the ability to shape change. He was young� but had fought well and had been careful about his explorations of the clearing, making absolutely certain that the place wasn�t dangerous.
On one hand, it would be hard to give up leadership, but on the other, Nres was a better choice than many others.
That decided him. He rose up off the ground and walked, slowly, over to Nres. With careful, controlled movements, he indicated his submission to Nres and watched with amusement as the black stallion stood there, too stunned to do anything in return. With a horse grin and a �have fun and keep yourself in one piece� gesture, Jiraciar turns and trots off into the forest, aware that the herd, and Nres, was staring at his ghost-like form in something akin to shock.
He quickly set off at a smooth canter, following the fairly straight deer path. Once again he was a horse traveling alone, without a single one of his kind for company. But this time he wasn�t looking for other horses to band together to make a herd, this time he was looking for something new, exciting, his human side demanded variety. ___________________________________________________________________________________________
He didn�t know where he was headed, that was part of the interest, after all, but somewhere in this general area was supposedly a human habitation.
His ears prick upwards and he looks around carefully. Trees, trees, grass, rocks, soil, sand� sand? His head turns back quickly towards his slight glimpse of sand, his eyes wide. He hadn�t known that a body of water was this close and, sniffing, he finally figured out what he had been smelling and hearing all this time, the ocean.
Jiraciar stomps a hoof, fully annoyed with himself. What sort of lazy take-everything-for-granted creature was he not to recognize the ocean when he heard it?! And to not even realize he heard it until he was almost within its waters? How embarrassing!
Flicking his ears again, he shifts himself to human form, reaching out a hand to catch his balance against a tree� that wasn�t there. He growls and struggles back up onto two legs, brushing dirt, sand, and leaves off his white clothes.
�Why must humans have this stupid walk-on-two-legs adaptation anyway? It�s way too� unbalanced,� he mutters to himself, his voice a light baritone deepened by his annoyance.
With a shrug he starts off again at an easy, ground eating lope, heading towards where he figured the town would be, if he were lucky. Which he wasn�t.
He growls to himself, looking up and down the beach with annoyance. The minute he could, he was going to find a way off this stupid continent and back to somewhere civilized, maybe a flat plain or something similar.
Glancing at the sun, his eyes narrow, it was almost night and he was nowhere near a town. With a sigh he slides down the cliff edge and settles down on a ledge, watching as the sun slowly sank into the ocean, its blood red glow tingeing everything a strange red color that, as the sun sank, faded to pink and then blackness.
The ledge he had chosen was hard and very uncomfortable, and he spent much of the night restlessly moving about, trying to find a way to get comfortable.
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He awoke the next day stiff, tired, and generally not welcoming the light. Grumbling, he pulls himself up the cliff face and onto the ridge, slow going because, in his bad temper, he didn�t check hand and foot holds for stability and kept slipping backwards. By the time he finally got to the top, the air was almost blistering with the words he had growled under his breath, many in old languages that he had been forced to learn when his parents had been trying to keep him away from horses.
Jiraciar looks up and down the cliff edge, then shrugs and heads north, choosing that direction randomly.
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He looks down on his position over the town, watching the humans with care. It had been several hard days of travel just to reach here, but it looked promising. Boats were docked at the harbor, true, ocean going ones, not fishing boats. The whole place looked decent enough, truthfully, but all he cared about was getting on some other continent.
With a casual attitude he only slightly felt, he walks down into the town, his now gray clothes standing out against the bright colors of the merchants and other fairly wealthy men. He shrugs off questions, walking down towards the dock and examining the ships. Having little in the way of money, he couldn�t afford to pay for passage of most of them, but maybe�
He glances at the smallest of the ocean going boats, sizing it up, and then walks over to it briskly, presenting himself to the captain.
�How much to sail with you?�
�Three Tarx.�
�Four Arcx.�
�Two Tarx, ain�t goin lower than that,� the captain responds.
�Four Arcx and three Caz.�
�One Tarx, final offer, take it or leave it.�
Jiraciar shrugs then reaches into a pouch, drawing out a golden coin with a rearing horse on the front and a crown on the back and tosses it to the captain, who deftly catches it out of the air and examines it.
�A�right, get yerself up on there then, I�m sailing at the tide�s turn.�
He shrugs and walks up onto the ship, the captain following him to point out where he was to sleep.
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Jiraciar leans against the railing on the ship, watching the waves. So far it had been easy going, the winds were good, the sailing easy. The captain seemed uneasy, though, something about the thin line of clouds slightly to the west and how dangerous they were.
He shades his eyes and looks to the west, examining the clouds. Personally, he couldn�t see anything bad about them, they were just a thin line of clouds on the horizon.
Turning away from the railing, he walks back to his cabin and lays out on the bed, has arms behind his head. The movements of the boat making him slip off into sleep once again.
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He awoke rather abruptly with the sharp cracking of timbers. Scrambling to his feet, he bolted out of the cabin, staring at the chaos around him. The mast was splintered beyond repair and had crashed into the deck, ripping holes in the ship that the towering waves eagerly filled. Of the crew there was no sign.
A wave comes up behind him and knocks him off his feet and into the water. Desperately, he grabs at some shattered timber and pulls himself up onto it as far as he could. Jiraciar pulls in a great breath of air, daring only to shift his shape slightly towards his horse form, giving himself slightly bigger lungs and stronger muscles, and also his ghostly white coat for what warmth it provided.
He frees one hand and fends off other debris that was thrown into the water, his eyes frantically scanning the dark water for dangerous objects. Choking out the water he breathes, he tries to keep his head above water, succeeding until a piece of something slams into his back, making him lose his grip on the timber and go under.
He opens his eyes and holds his breath as best he could, trying to swim away from the wreck. Clawing his way to the surface, he coughs up water and gasps in air, but getting almost as much water as air.
A strong, taloned paw grips his arm and pulls him up slightly, just enough to be above the water long enough to inhale a true lungful of air. Looking up, he sees a blue dragon, with a man riding on the blue�s back and extending his hand. Jiraciar grabs it and, with the help of the dragon and the rider, finally pulls himself up onto the dragon�s back, behind the rider.
�Thanks�� he says, still trying to regain his breath fully.
�You�re welcome,� the rider responds, �What�s your name, anyway?�
�They call me Jiraciar, you?�
�M�naz. And this,� he affectionately slaps his dragon, �is Falaath.�
Jiraciar rubs his arms, trying to get some warmth back into them, allowing himself to shift back to fully human, �Where are we going?�
�To Opal Moon Weyr, Falaath thinks that you�d be a good candidate there.�
"This isn't Lakrai anymore, is it," Jiraciar asks.
M'naz shakes his head, "Nope, things like that seem to be happening a lot recently. One minute your on your own world, the next your somewhere else."
He shrugs, mentally thinking that he did want to visit somewhere else, �Alright, I'll be a candidate.�