Anyone else would have walked away at this point.
He'd tracked Silverhair all the way south of the Mire, picking apart their tracks until he'd found their camp and ambushed them. He'd even tracked the original buyers further still, to the open waters as they attempted to make their escape. At each step, he'd thwarted the Cult of Valtharn's plans to the best of his ability and now, all three of the eggs they'd stolen from the Jacadon families in the Mire sat comfortably in Traveller's saddlebags, bundled under blankets and other belongings to keep them warm and safe during the brief trip back around the edges of the Mire to the first place he'd landed - the edges of Jacadon territory, made up of clearings that he now knew as the various nests and landing grounds of the larger males. Technically, he had achieved exactly what he'd wanted, by obtaining younglings that he could raise himself, train from birth into loyal companions, and use in order to start a new breeding program in Scalvoris, where they would create the foundations for a new sanctuary.
He could have gone home and left while he had everything he could have asked for. Instead, there he was, back where he'd started.
Steadying himself, as he prepared to do something... a little different.
Not right away, though. He'd spent more than a few days tracking Silverhair through the dense undergrowth and more still flying out to the ship after waiting for the right opportunity, so just a few more trials to catch his bearings and plan out his method of approach wouldn't end the world. Instead, once Traveller had landed and folded up his wings to slip deeper beneath the treeline, Nir'wei wove the entrance to his Safe Camp into a ring of thick branches to create a comfortable haven, and a flame conjured by Gaddwin was used to steadily dry out the mud of a comfortable nearby space for Traveller to settle without muck sucking at his legs and belly. Peace, despite his still-significant size, found it easier to drop in and out whenever he pleased, and Nir'wei raised no queries. The bird's silent presence was a blessing, not a necessity. Vabina remained hidden in spirit-form to avoid taking up more room, and because even the Safe Camp was cramped for the likes of her. The others, likewise, kept to themselves.
Over the next five trials, every day, he watched, and listened, and quietly recorded the sounds the Jacadon made in his head.
Some were very familiar. He had spent arcs of his life around them every single day back in the Skye Verath Lodge, learning to pick up body language and the cadence of their grunts and squeaks to determine whether they were in pain or discomfort, whether they were hungry or agitated. However, that had been a long time ago, in a very different place. Now, he silently stalked through the outskirts of their nesting grounds relying on the olfactory camouflage of Karem's blessing to remain undetected, and listened to the families of parents and young chatter between each-other. The hungry squeaks and soft churrs, the strange noises the siblings made between each-other in their nesting grounds, he listened until it almost felt like he could make out what they were saying to a noise; how they asked for fish, not snakemeat, the complaints when mud sucked at their toes or the annoyed grunts when one complained of something poking in its wing-joint every time they took off.
More important than that, though, was the way the families spoke between each-other. Jacadon were highly social creatures, towards their own at least. Their children played and fought together under the watchful gaze of parents, they challenged each-other not out of dominance, but for the sheer sport and for the playful competition, even amongst elders. They shared spots they knew food was plentiful, places to avoid where the mud of the Mire had grown too thick for creatures and plants to flourish. They existed as a single, very large and somewhat-prosperous community. They respected one-another. They'd have to, if they all agreed to migrate together from Rynmere. It was what he was counting on, in fact. The one reason he knew that there was even a chance that his plan might work; because if he really could speak to them, and appeal to them as intelligent creatures, then the decision they reached would not hinge on just one, even just a few. It might have a chance of swaying them all.
Five trials of watching, and waiting, and listening. Until it felt like not only could he make out their sounds and expressions, but intuit the meanings behind the sounds they made that he hadn't heard before. Until he was confident in his expression, the cadence of the noises he made himself in the quiet of the Safe Camp. Only then did he steel himself, pull the three still-warm eggs from the comfort of the nearby fire and the blankets in his saddlebag, and return to that small clearing at the edge of the Jacadon nesting ground territories. The low, warbling sound he made was one he'd heard plenty of times before - an announcement of an arrival, that they'd make when one returned back with a fresh kill, or with news that needed to be shared with others. It was a friendly sound, one meant to show that it was a friend returning, and not an invader; but he mixed it, as he'd found they sometimes did to convey more complex sounds, with a wider, louder warble of an announcement of sorts. Something not just meant to call upon one family, but many at once, as when they spoke in larger groups.
Finally ending in a shorter, shrill cry. Young. He'd returned, with young.
The eggs were laid out on the ground before him, all three presented neatly while he stood several steps back, noticeably distant from the offerings, but refusing to hide himself. Of course they would come, out of curiosity if nothing else, since his voice, while it could match their sounds enough to be understood for their distinctive communicating cries, was no substitute for a Jacadon itself. He kept repeating himself, that mixture of cries, of friend, returning, eggs. Friend, returning, eggs. He even mixed it with a sound he'd heard once before, yet never quite understood its significance until then. No harm. The adults said it to their young in order to stop their play-fighting from growing too rough, for those that did not understand their own strength, but he'd heard something similar back in the Lodge, when Jacadons chattered between each-other. He could only assume that they'd said it referring to the stablehands, or the riders themselves. It made sense; he wasn't the only one to forge familiar bonds with these creatures, so they may have forged some calls specifically referring to humans they deemed 'acceptable', or otherwise.
He'd tracked Silverhair all the way south of the Mire, picking apart their tracks until he'd found their camp and ambushed them. He'd even tracked the original buyers further still, to the open waters as they attempted to make their escape. At each step, he'd thwarted the Cult of Valtharn's plans to the best of his ability and now, all three of the eggs they'd stolen from the Jacadon families in the Mire sat comfortably in Traveller's saddlebags, bundled under blankets and other belongings to keep them warm and safe during the brief trip back around the edges of the Mire to the first place he'd landed - the edges of Jacadon territory, made up of clearings that he now knew as the various nests and landing grounds of the larger males. Technically, he had achieved exactly what he'd wanted, by obtaining younglings that he could raise himself, train from birth into loyal companions, and use in order to start a new breeding program in Scalvoris, where they would create the foundations for a new sanctuary.
He could have gone home and left while he had everything he could have asked for. Instead, there he was, back where he'd started.
Steadying himself, as he prepared to do something... a little different.
Not right away, though. He'd spent more than a few days tracking Silverhair through the dense undergrowth and more still flying out to the ship after waiting for the right opportunity, so just a few more trials to catch his bearings and plan out his method of approach wouldn't end the world. Instead, once Traveller had landed and folded up his wings to slip deeper beneath the treeline, Nir'wei wove the entrance to his Safe Camp into a ring of thick branches to create a comfortable haven, and a flame conjured by Gaddwin was used to steadily dry out the mud of a comfortable nearby space for Traveller to settle without muck sucking at his legs and belly. Peace, despite his still-significant size, found it easier to drop in and out whenever he pleased, and Nir'wei raised no queries. The bird's silent presence was a blessing, not a necessity. Vabina remained hidden in spirit-form to avoid taking up more room, and because even the Safe Camp was cramped for the likes of her. The others, likewise, kept to themselves.
Over the next five trials, every day, he watched, and listened, and quietly recorded the sounds the Jacadon made in his head.
Some were very familiar. He had spent arcs of his life around them every single day back in the Skye Verath Lodge, learning to pick up body language and the cadence of their grunts and squeaks to determine whether they were in pain or discomfort, whether they were hungry or agitated. However, that had been a long time ago, in a very different place. Now, he silently stalked through the outskirts of their nesting grounds relying on the olfactory camouflage of Karem's blessing to remain undetected, and listened to the families of parents and young chatter between each-other. The hungry squeaks and soft churrs, the strange noises the siblings made between each-other in their nesting grounds, he listened until it almost felt like he could make out what they were saying to a noise; how they asked for fish, not snakemeat, the complaints when mud sucked at their toes or the annoyed grunts when one complained of something poking in its wing-joint every time they took off.
More important than that, though, was the way the families spoke between each-other. Jacadon were highly social creatures, towards their own at least. Their children played and fought together under the watchful gaze of parents, they challenged each-other not out of dominance, but for the sheer sport and for the playful competition, even amongst elders. They shared spots they knew food was plentiful, places to avoid where the mud of the Mire had grown too thick for creatures and plants to flourish. They existed as a single, very large and somewhat-prosperous community. They respected one-another. They'd have to, if they all agreed to migrate together from Rynmere. It was what he was counting on, in fact. The one reason he knew that there was even a chance that his plan might work; because if he really could speak to them, and appeal to them as intelligent creatures, then the decision they reached would not hinge on just one, even just a few. It might have a chance of swaying them all.
Five trials of watching, and waiting, and listening. Until it felt like not only could he make out their sounds and expressions, but intuit the meanings behind the sounds they made that he hadn't heard before. Until he was confident in his expression, the cadence of the noises he made himself in the quiet of the Safe Camp. Only then did he steel himself, pull the three still-warm eggs from the comfort of the nearby fire and the blankets in his saddlebag, and return to that small clearing at the edge of the Jacadon nesting ground territories. The low, warbling sound he made was one he'd heard plenty of times before - an announcement of an arrival, that they'd make when one returned back with a fresh kill, or with news that needed to be shared with others. It was a friendly sound, one meant to show that it was a friend returning, and not an invader; but he mixed it, as he'd found they sometimes did to convey more complex sounds, with a wider, louder warble of an announcement of sorts. Something not just meant to call upon one family, but many at once, as when they spoke in larger groups.
Finally ending in a shorter, shrill cry. Young. He'd returned, with young.
The eggs were laid out on the ground before him, all three presented neatly while he stood several steps back, noticeably distant from the offerings, but refusing to hide himself. Of course they would come, out of curiosity if nothing else, since his voice, while it could match their sounds enough to be understood for their distinctive communicating cries, was no substitute for a Jacadon itself. He kept repeating himself, that mixture of cries, of friend, returning, eggs. Friend, returning, eggs. He even mixed it with a sound he'd heard once before, yet never quite understood its significance until then. No harm. The adults said it to their young in order to stop their play-fighting from growing too rough, for those that did not understand their own strength, but he'd heard something similar back in the Lodge, when Jacadons chattered between each-other. He could only assume that they'd said it referring to the stablehands, or the riders themselves. It made sense; he wasn't the only one to forge familiar bonds with these creatures, so they may have forged some calls specifically referring to humans they deemed 'acceptable', or otherwise.
