It’s Dornan who finds them.
He pads his way into the altar hall; tired from having sparred with Stellan, Perrin, Stellan again, and finally facing off against Morak who had taken a leaf out of Torra’s book and thrown his sword in efforts to distract. Effective, but Dornan had spent years with a sword in his hand and weight balanced on the tips of his toes, deflecting the heavy weight and cutting off Morak’s second attack before he had a chance to follow through.
It was a good fight, and the last straw that saw Dornan admitting he was tired and accepting the desire to grab a drink, as well to check on Thæon and invite him on a hunt that the others are planning. He had expected the Fireheart to jump at the chance to show him up, with the good weather having lured him outside, but Dornan had taken his eye off of Thæon for a moment and he’d snuck back inside, either to weigh himself with reciting prayers for The Twelve, or to sit with Anther’s head in his hands and a story on his lips.
It was hard to compare he who stood vigil for the sleeping dragon with the man that Dornan thought he knew: seemingly quick to anger, but phlegmatic in the face of true argument; loyal and devoted to those he called friends (and those considered as such, but not outwardly acknowledged); having built himself up as uncomplicated, unfriendly and someone that none would want to cross swords or magic with, and yet Thæon was yet to raise anything more than a hand sparking with magic to ward off teasing remarks, knowing that there were more important things that needed his energy.
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