Dunsmith had worn many different kinds of knots in his life. His Semaca knots were not especially strange, but he'd never really been a guard before. He supposed he'd be alright at it - he knew the sorts of things to look out for as far as suspicious behavior went, and Dunsk was fairly keen on this kind of work. He'd be doing all of the truly dangerous stuff anyway, so Dunsmith had thought it seemed like a fair compromise.
However, since it was very different from his usual line of work, it had taken some time for him to get used to it, not to mention the fact that guards apparently weren't supposed to chat while they worked? Something about being "distracting"? Dunsmith didn't see how anyone was supposed to stay awake - let alone alert - during their shifts if they weren't allowed to wander and chat with their fellow guards.
Once he felt like he was starting to get the hang of it, though, he decided that it was well past time for him to check in on Quentin, the young now candidate he'd come here with. He'd even stayed up 'late' to go have breakfast with them (dinner for him, of course, Faranth, but the Weyrs really were sticklers for having their handlers be as nocturnal as the whers weren't they?).
He grabbed some kind of dubious-looking omelet type thing (the cooks here certainly were creative, he'd give them that) as well as a sausage roll and some fruit and a glass of wine before finding Quentin and sitting down across from him. "Quentin, my dear friend," he said by way of greeting. "How are they treating you in the candidate barracks? You getting along alright with everyone? No one giving you a hard time? Keeping up with your new lessons alright?" If it looked like Quentin wanted to answer verbally or sign, he'd give them the space to do so, but he was used to their quietness by now and would be equally content with headnods.
"You know, I'd heard Semaca was rugged, but Faranth! I'm only a guard and it's already quite backbreaking stuff, let me tell you! Those gates are heavy, and I'm expected to hold them open all on my lonesome! With these weak little arms!" He held up the wiry limbs as limply as he could. "And do not even get me started on the local fauna! The other day, I had to wrestle a bird that was trying to carry off Dunsk! The size of this thing would be enough to get a notable reaction even out of you, my statue-faced friend. And as if that weren't bad enough, the very next day I nearly got eaten by a plant. A plant! You expect that sort of thing of spotties or whers, fo course, but a plant? I fear I won't last the week if even the plants decide they have a hankering for my flesh." He relayed all this with as much drama and enthusiasm as he could.
Dunsk, lingering near the entrance of the dining hall so as not to crowd it with his bulk, let out a huff of fond annoyance. Is embellishing again, he informed Quentin, not wanting the young person to take the old man too seriously. Bird was hawk, just landed on my back. And plant had thistles. Was barely big enough to cut thumb. Was trying to pick it.
Dunsmith put an arm to his forehead dramatically. "That brute is always ruining all my very delightful stories. He's turning me into a liar rather than a lovably eccentric old man!"
YOU make YOURSELF liar, Dunsk grumbled at him.