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Aberolingarn: Faranth only knows why that horrible name got attached to the boy. Previous children of Ceroy and Banele (2) had nice pronounceable ones. Cerele. Enela. But when she bore her first boy-child, apparently both parents suffered a fit of temporary insanity, and called him Aberolingarn (Grandpa Abero, Uncle “Lin” Kanylin, and Grandma (Garn’a) Agarrana.
Rinar, as he gamely called himself (at the age of two, for which he is seriously embarrassed), suffered very little on account of his name, other than the evolution of Rinar into Arinar (say it slowly…get it?). The boy’s sole motivation was to avoid work at all costs.
Brown-eyed, brown-haired, and olive-complexioned, Aberolingarn is best described as ‘nondescript’. He isn’t astonishing in any way—ordinary in height, weight, looks, and carriage.
As is to be expected, Arinar has little interest in being gainfully employed. He works occasionally with the cooks of the Hold as a baker, as long as he isn’t assigned any demanding tasks.
He keeps up with his sisters by way of two-line notes in reply to their letters. Ditto the parents. Girls have never been interested in him, and he considers pursuing them far too much effort. He’s on good enough terms with his fellow holdfolk, though an occasional irritation to those who actually want to get something done.

Aberolingarn was a typical slacker, and proud of it. He’d perfected the art of disappearing just as a task was announced, and considered himself a patron of the minimalist work ethic. And most importantly, when he /was/ cruelly forced to labor, he’d learned how to insinuate himself in such a way that he had the fastest, easiest, and least messy job.
“Arinar! Are you going to finish frosting that /today/?”
He looked up from the maddeningly slow squirt of frosting, hand still clenched around the bag. “Just trying to be thorough, Marna,” he said peaceably. As long as you said the right thing in the right tone, he’d discovered, the taskmasters would leave a long time between visits. And if you were quiet and polite, you didn’t attract any negative attention.
The cook scowled at him. “If you’re any more thorough, Ar, the frosting is going to turn into plaster. Hustle it up.”
“Yes’m,” he murmured, and sped up not a whit. If he could drag out frosting the cakes until it was dish-time, he could escape in the general confusion. A whorl of frosting crept toward the cake’s center with glacial speed.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. With a sigh, Aberolingarn turned again. “Yes?” It hadn’t even been three minutes, and here was someone bothering him again…
“I’m T’mael,” the young man introduced himself. “Will you come outside, please?”
Aberolingarn eyed the man dubiously. “Is it important? I’m awfully busy…” He carefully modulated his voice to carry just the right amount of petulance, exasperation, and resignation.
T’mael nodded briskly, a slow sly grin curling across his face. “Very, very important. It needs immediate attention.”
Inwardly, Aberolingarn made a face. Urgent matters were worst of all, because people expected him to put effort into his labor. “Yessir,” he mumbled. “Just let me get washed up, if you will.”
The rider nodded, and Aberolingarn minced toward the laundry with small, exact footsteps. If he was slow enough, the event might be over before he got there. And as soon as he’d reached the other room…
He passed under the brick lintel with a smile. The laundry room had several entrances; once his hands were clean, Aberolingarn simply walked out a different way.
“Easy as pie,” he said to himself, and laughed.
Nearly half an hour passed before his absence was noted. The tall rider, T’mael, apprehended him in the Bachelor’s Hall.
“For Faranth’s sake,” the rider fumed, “I’ve been looking for you for hours! Didn’t you hear me? This is important! It’s important for /you/! Now come on, before I try to talk Alnath around one more time.” And ere Aberolingarn could make good his escape, T’mael snared his arm and levered him determinedly toward the courtyard.
With the iron-hard feel of /that/ grip, he ceased to consider skipping out or struggling. The rider worked hard, that was for certain, and he obviously intended that Aberolingarn follow his example.
/Ruddy riders. Always insisting that people follow their predisposition for self-sacrifice…/
Once they were actually outside, in sight of T’mael’s enormous blue lifemate, he was released. Rubbing his arm sullenly, Aberolingarn swallowed his ire and inquired, “What can I do for you that’s so dreadfully important?”
<<It’s not what you can do for him, it’s what I can do for you,>> an impish voice lilted. <<Stand and be measured, Aberolingarn. Stand, indeed, for Moire Weyrhold. It will not be half so onerous as you fear, nor half so easy as it appears.>> The NoWheran boy blinked and watched in disbelief as the blue swung his head toward his rider.
T’mael made a face. “I guess that means you’re coming with us, Aber-whatever-your-name is. Hop aboard. We’ll send someone back for your stuff—I don’t think I want you out of my sight until I set foot on Moire’s dark earth!”

T’mael had kept a weather eye on him, and Aberolingarn felt irritated at the presumption of the man. He was good enough to be Searched; what made the bluerider so certain that he would skip out on a chance for a dragon?
But Moire’s next hatching came and went with little fuss—and no dragon for Aberolingarn. There was another fellow there, by the name of Tamtarell, who’d been Standing for ten years and six clutches, and never Impressed.
“They’re shipping me off,” the lanky boy said grimly as he packed his bags.
Aberolingarn eyed him disinterestedly, flopped full-length across the bed. “Oh? And what’s wrong with you, then? If the dragons don’t want you, the dragons don’t want you.”
Tamtarell paused, startled. “But they still /do/ want me, Arinar,” he said softly. “I’m just going to Stand at Quinalt Weyr. They don’t think that there’s a dragon for me at Moire.”
“Quinalt, schminalt,” Aberolingarn scoffed, rolling over on his stomach. “They’re getting rid of you. Just watch, they’ll unload me on the first unwary Weyr to come along. They /liked/ you. They just tolerate me.”
Rolling his eyes, Tamtarell continued to pack. “They’d like you better if you put a little effort into something, one of these days.”
Stung, he scowled. “Oh yeah? I bet they unload all their unImpressed candidates on other Weyrs. And when I find my dragon, I’ll show you! Moire only wants fresh meat!”

The Slacker was on the lookout for T’mael, and when he discovered him in the Weyrbowl, he couldn’t have been happier. “Temmie!” he greeted jovially. “I’ve got a request for my gracious hosts.”
Suspicious, T’mael cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t give out letters of exemption, Arinar.”
“Stop it.” The ordinary candidate snapped. “I want to transfer to a different Weyr to Stand. I don’t think my dragon is going to be on these Sands.”
“Fine, wonderful, great!” the dragonrider said with enthusiasm. “Moon Shadow Weyr is looking for one last candidate. I’m sure you’ll do. C’mon, up on Alnath’s back, and we’ll away!”
Aberolingarn didn’t know whether to feel satisfaction or consternation at the swiftness with which his request was granted.

“So, Pyaerth, what do you want to do now?” A’rinar asked sleepily, patting his blue’s shoulder. It had been a glorious hatching with a few surprises, and he was still rather surprised to find himself with a blue dragon who seemed imperturbable. He was rather surprised to discover that his lifemate was still there this morning.
<<I don’t care,>> Pyaerth replied, stretching contentedly.
“No, really. Are you hungry? Are you itchy? Are you tired? What do you need?” He was astonished to discover that he didn’t mind the thought of this work.
<<Really, I don’t care.>> The blue’s voice was starting to get petulant.
A’rinar propped himself up on an elbow. “Pyaerth! You have to do /something/!”
The blue first-lidded his eyes at his rider. <<Probably. But I don’t want to. It’s too much work, and I want choosing you to be the most important decision I make.>>
Sighing, A’rinar poked his dragon in the side. “C’mon, then. All the other weyrlings are eating, and you probably should too.”
<<If you like. Do they have wherry or herdbeast?>>
“Does it matter?” A’rinar asked, grimacing.
<<No.>>

Pyaerth had grown with astonishing rapidity, outstripping many of his clutchmates. The Weyrlingmaster said that this was because Pyaerth never wasted a drop of energy, so all that potential movement went to his bones.
A’rinar sniffed to himself. Pyaerth was merely a conservationist, a voice of reason in the mad frenzy of activity that was Moon Shadow Weyr. And he wasn’t hard to please…
<<A’rinar, there’s some loony purple female out here with scales that claims we need to sign up for a flight at Pelar. Blues, purples, whites, and silvers, she said. Whoever heard of a silver dragon?>>
The dragonrider punched his lifemate lightly on the elbow. “Whoever heard of a purply scaly one? Do you want to go?”
<<I don’t care,>> the dragon replied laconically, tail swishing.
Gritting his teeth, A’rinar glared at the blue. “Fine, Pyaerth. If this female, what’s-her-name—“
<<Uthnath,>> his partner inserted helpfully.
“—thinks it’s a good idea, then we’ll go. I’m not asking you for your opinion any more!”
Pyaerth snorted. <<Liar.>>
“Lump.”
<<Good-for-nothing.>>
“Wishy-washy.”
<<Idiot.>>
“Overgrown watchwher.”
<<Dolt.>>
“Let’s be going, then!”
<<Fine.>>
“Fine!”
<<Fine.>>