"Hi!" said the kid excitedly.

He couldn't have been more than eleven, Jarsha decided. He seemed friendly and innocent, but the silver dragon who was curled up behind him seemed reclusive, less willing to associate. The kid from Teirm, however – his name was Slakk – didn't appear to notice; evidently, he'd habituated himself to Arget in the few months since his dragon's egg had hatched.

"Hiey" grinned Jarsha, shaking Slakk's hand. Beside him, Milda pulled her face into an odd, wise expression:

"No, Jar, when someone comes over to you and says 'hi!' to you, you have to be playful. A mere 'hi' won't suffice; you've got to answer him with as much cheer and – eh – bounciness as you can. Don't you know how to approach slightly younger kids?"

Slakk was indignant. "I'm right here, you know," he told Milda crossly, tapping her shoulder. "And, now that you mention it, I'll be fine with a simple 'hey', y'know."

"Smart kid!" exclaimed Milda, ruffling Slakk's hair. "Learn that not everything has to make sense in life, buddy."

On Jarsha's other side, Nanette blinked, shifting her gaze slowly from the two Shur'tugalar to where Iganì was stepping over with Crimson Flame to touch snouts with Arget. The three dragons appeared to be communicating quietly together – even Crimson Flame, she thought, from the way his wings were beating excitedly on his back. They, on their claw, seemed much more intelligent than Milda was being right now; Slakk just looked confused.

"Crimson Flame," she murmured, extending her mental probe to his subconscious. Can you hear me? Or, more like, can you understand me?

A warm sensation of happiness met her tendril of thought and she grinned, watching as he trotted over to her. Dropping to her knees, she began stroking him, watching and listening as the voices of the other three floated to her ears. Crimson Flame gave a strange, pained sound, but she didn't notice.

As soon as Milda had finished her extended ranting, Slakk pushed a thick brown curl behind his ear and removed something from a satchel that stretched from his left shoulder and hung just above his opposite hip. When he resurfaced, Jarsha blinked himself; clutched in his hand was a tiny, ruby-red sphere.

"What's that?" he asked interestedly.

Slakk winked. "You'll find out," he said, brought it to his mouth, and blew into it.

Nothing happened.

Jarsha blinked; nothing had changed when Slakk returned the whistle to his pouch. Instead, all he could tell was that the three dragons had gone completely still and inert.

Well, that's a change. Jarsha strained his eyes, intently observing the three beasts; nary an ear twitched as a blot on the horizon enlarged, gaining size as it sped toward them.

"What's tha—?" Nanette began to ask, but the arrival of two shadows on the ground cut her off. Speechless, she jumped about a foot backwards – how'd she do that? thought Jarsha – her mouth dropping open and her entire body as straight and as still as a lifeless ramrod pole.

"Who's that?" Milda was panicking and had the power to mince words for once. "Slakk, what's happening?"

Slakk happily raised two fingers. He ran forward on quick feet, winking again before turning to glance before himself. For there, standing on the sun-drenched golden grass, stood a dragon.

This dragon was tall and brilliant, prowess radiating from its every movement. Its bright brown scales coiled smoothly, its cinnamon eyes impassively fixed upon the Riders, their dragons, and in whichever category Jarsha would have fit into. Before, it had been gliding with its gigantic fudge-coloured wings spread out in a fan; now, it curbed smoothly to a halt before them, revealing the teenager seated upon its back.

The teenager scrambled from his saddle, jumping acrobatically from his dragon's neck to her leg before hopping onto the ground. Now, standing beside the dragon, he gave it a faithful pat and strode forward. He was a tall, lean specimen, this eighteen year-old Argetlam; in fact, he gave Jarsha a strong resemblance to an athlete. As the mysterious Rider eagerly approached, shaking his mass of thin black hair tied into a ponytail, Slakk bounded forward.

"Hi, Tosaën!" he called brightly. "Having a good time?"

The teenager, Tosaën, nodded with a faint smile. He communicated mentally with his dragon; he turned slightly and went rigid for a few seconds. Shortly after he turned back, a grin affixed onto his face as he nonchalantly brushed away a lock of hair. "Aye," he answered slowly, coolly running his hand through the single curl, "Aye, I've been having a good time."

"A fine Rider you'd make!" came a jeering yet affable voice from somewhere behind the little group. Tosaën calmly turned his head, while the others likened more to pivoting on their heels. For there approached Mirofr, nose quivering and pointed ears twitching. Behind him followed Keltra, a steely glint in her eye and her mouth a hard, resolute line.

"You'd be one to carry the name of Argetlam!" Keltra called back as she and Mirofr finally came to stand, hands akimbo, before Tosaën and his dragon. "A fine spectacle of your strength and power you put out up there, what with the smooth playing with your hair and the exceptional acrobatics!"

"We'll yet you leave the aerial magic to the elves, eh, Tosaën?" Mirofr crossed his arms, a full figure standing before their group. "After all, we – unlike you – have natural talent."

"What would Ferondal think?" Keltra demanded, her eyes expressive steel. "What would your fair friend of a dragon think, Tosaën? How dare you mutilate the name of Shur'tugal as you do?"

Tosaën pushed his hair behind his neck, revealing ears with slightly pointed tips. His strong blue eyes surveyed them all without a word; instead, he cocked his head to the side and waited patiently.

Then, it came.

All of a sudden, a deep bass voice filled everyone's mind – it was a deep voice which hidden within lay radiance of the sun, intelligence of the magician, sense of the elf, bravery of the human, perseverance of the dwarf, hidden strength of the tiger, and deep wisdom of the dragon. The mental summons, when it had been put to thought and sent to everyone's mind, was distinctly female – female, female as in a tigress, a huntress, a cunning enchantress. And there was no mistaking where it came from.

Actually, I quite like Tosaën's adolescent idiocies, the voice said. They amuse me.

-------------------------------------------

Milda was shocked. Speechless, too – definitely an odd sight to anyone who knew her. Not that she particularly minded; this situation was a perfect one in which to be astonished so much that the power of speech could leave one. Not that Milda didn't know this, and she had to admit, she was amazed with what she'd seen, heard and felt.

Yes, felt. What Milda – and the rest of them – felt was that here they were, standing and staring at one of the legends themselves. This dragon gave the impression of being older than Arget, Crimson Flame and Iganì together; from her cavernous size one would expect that she would have been at least a year old.

My name is Ferondal. The dragon paused to pass a long red tongue over her floe-white teeth. Well met, peeps.

"'Peeps'?" quested Slakk, who was still in shock. Apparently he hadn't met Ferondal before that day.

"What are you saying?"

I'm being who I am, Ferondal replied cryptically, thumping her scaled tail against the golden plains. In a dignified, stately walk – seemed that many dragons walked like that – she strode toward Milda. The human girl stood quivering from one untidy cowlick to the soles of her booted feet yet still calm herself as Ferondal walked calmly past everyone, everyone gathered there as if ignoring them completely, everyone as if she had not a care in the world but to speak with the nervous fifteen year-old now standing, shivering, before her.

What Ferondal said next shocked everyone, Tosaën and the elves included.

You're an odd one.

Those simple four words. That was it, that was all. Those were the only four words Ferondal uttered entirely for Milda (even if everyone could hear them), but the young Shur'tugal wasn't shocked. Quite the opposite, in fact, though definitely not chatty for once – dang that über-annoying adolescence!

So, what did Milda say? you may ask.

The answer is simple. "You're an odd one, too,"she observed, reaching out a hand to pat Ferondal's snout. The immense brown dragon blinked, and it was as such that the two instant friends walked away.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pikasqueaks was aghast, horrified. "Ferondal is such a Mary Sue," he observed, glaring at Fanficcer, whose quill was in its paw again as it pored over a pad in a corner of the room. "Don't try and tell me she's not."

"Is she really?" asked Clara, raising an eyebrow. "Look at it this way, Pikasqueaks – she's wise, and she's weird. One good thing, one neutral things."

"She's got no faults against her."

"So maybe she's not important."

"Um, kupo?" Magic appeared, nervous as he called to TCF. "Do you think she is?"

"She's not important, and her – uh – strangeness can annoy the elves at times." Without missing a beat in its writing, Fanficcer made a mental note to make that a plot point later in this fanfic's editing. "Any more questions?"

Pikasqueaks observed the demented quiller through a critical eye. "Yes," he replied, "you're insane."

TCF shrugged. "Meh." The word was dismissve, noncommittal. "Give me something I don't know."