Q'nav had been better about parties than he had. Shards, Plath had been better at parties, and that blue had been a rain cloud with wings. It was always too loud no matter where he was, and--

Stop it.

L'shir slightly shook his head and tried to follow the thread of conversation he had lost again. Macleith supplied it: something about re-evaluating how candidates would be measured, or else being more critical of Searchriders in the future. A new turn without bothering with the niceties involving their rambunctious, uncouth neighbor in Western Weyr. A fresh start for everyone, really. L'shir said nothing--he usually didn't supply his opinion unless it would actually contribute, and the wingleader speaking hadn't said something he disagreed with--and continued listening more attentively until a natural lull in the conversation presented itself.

"Excuse me, I need to refill," he said with a small smile, gesturing with his tea cup.

"Again with that. You sure you don't want to celebrate even a little?" one of them asked. "They're breaking out the good wine tonight since it's so sharding cold."

"I'm fine, thank you. There's an astoundingly good mint chamomile tonight, and I'd hate to let it sit unwanted." With a polite nod, L'shir bowed out.

Warm cup in hand, he exited the main building to take a seat outside at one of the hall's balconies. It was a hellishly cold evening to be sure, but he was used to it. He had grown up in the weyr and had all but been bred with ice in his bones. Even Macleith didn't mind the bite that night as he sat curled at the bowl, watching others placidly. He sent His an image: a snowy landscape more white than the gray slosh it had turned into, with some of the newer weyrlings that didn't mind the temperature gamboling.

Careful they don't decide to make you the base for their snow sculptures, L'shir told him with a hint of a chuckle.

Macleith responded by showing a time lapse required for such a feat. One day...two days...three days...ah, they were half way there! Four days...