Dry Lionblood Aelious, half-dwarf and self-proclaimed Strong Man of the Westland, was currently trying, and failing, to stifle his laughter. He would blame it on the aftereffects of that strong, well-aged wine he drank last night, but really, it would take much more than just a bottle to make him feel tipsy. What had just occurred simply reminded him too much of that harlequin show he had attended the week past, when a troupe had passed by the castle. Of course, in the show, they used a pig instead, and had a whole array of fanciful devices used to capture animals, but the effect remained the same. Watching his fellow recruits swing around their Raiments, toss their pillows, and making a huge mess of things in the presence of a chaotic falcon was really rather funny. 

Especially so when the falcon first exploded into activity after that ponytail boy tried calming it down. That, Dry had thought, was utterly hilarious.

His mother had always taught him to smile in whatever situation, and even though his bedsheets were thoroughly ruined and feathers were drifted every which way, Dry's whole morning attitude was turned positive by the fact that he chose to think of what had happened as a comedy. Watching as a fellow Westlander, the elf Armendir, try his hand at calming the bird, the half-dwarf called in an act of moral support, [b]“Good skill, my fellow countryman!”[/b]

After all, luck had nothing to do with it, regardless of how awkward 'Good skill' sounded. Dry wasn't known for being eloquent, after all.