[Log] A Most Appropriate Arrangement

[brazenbronzer]

Who: E'sere, G'mal (NPC), Issa
When: Unknown
Where: Weyrleader's Office, Igen Weyr
What: G'mal makes E'sere an offer he can't refuse.
Notes: Backdated to the day of Yevide's flight.

Igen Weyr: Weyrleader's Office
     This broad, open cavern provides workspace for Igen's weyrleader as well as a makeshift conference room for matters small or private enough to be better conducted outside of council chambers. Open to a dragonledge on the southwest end and stairs that lead into the bowl on the southeast, there is a constant gentle wind that creates the illusion of coolness during the day's hottest hours. Drapes at each entrance offer shelter from the bitter chill of the desert night.

Contents:
Issa
G'mal

Obvious exits:
Out

Igen must have strange customs: there is waiting, on the wide ledge on the southwest end of the Weyrleader's office, a lone young bluerider and his beast. The pair keep a steady and silent guard, as though what conspires within might be of the greatest import. Yet, the southeast stairs that lead down into the bowl lack any such courtesy escort; this late in the evening they are bare, scorched by the red of the desert's lowering sun. Even in winter, Igen is hot and mostly dry; a few trace clouds wither in the sky. Light glows from both entrances of the office, warm and golden.

Though the sun is setting on the day, business for the Reachian pair is far from over. Finally settled into their quarters, the two wing their way to the Weyrleader's quarters with a diplomatic greeting to deliver. Vibrant green wings dip in and out of the waning light, the dragon toying with the new air beneath her as they pass across the bowl. A rumble of greeting to the blue on the ledge and Oshisyth has landed and Issa finds her way down with more difficulty than usual, hindered by the white, gauzy skirt she wears. "Sharding thing," she mumbles, then passes an apologetic glance to E'sere and composes herself quickly. Nothing is said to the bluerider; that she leaves to the burly man, perfectly capable of carrying such things out.

Morelenth tags along easily beside Oshisyth, less playful in his flying than she. The bronze echoes her rumble in a deeper note as they land; E'sere at once sets about dismounting, sliding much more easily down his dragon's side than Issa does. "At least it's cooler?" is his wry comment on her skirt, glancing over at it as he steps over to the greenrider and offers an arm, predictably. "Shall we?" That said, he's quick to set out for the Weyrleader's office, whether she obliges him with her own hand or not.

Issa takes the arm with her left hand, draping it gently, as she gives her skirt a final swish with her right. And she lets him lead them on.

The bluerider, given no greeting, offers none. His dragon, however, lets out a friendly little chirrupy bugle and shows off his wings for Oshisyth's approval.

Inside, the office is all but empty. There is a man, seated cross-legged on a rich violet sisal pillow on the floor; before him is a low table bearing a sweating pitcher and three glasses, and to either side of him at that table's edges rest two more pillows. One might wonder how thoughtfully the scene has been arranged, as one pillow shines a brilliant green and the other, burnished olive-brown. The room is otherwise devoid of furniture, devoid of people, devoid of anything save the simple desert and dragon scenes embroidered in the tapestries on the wall - and of those there are but two. The rest of the cavern's walls are laid bare for the admiration of those interested in the beauty of cut stone. The hands that rest, idle and relaxed, upon the man's knees are infamous identification - old, old scars, shaped in the letter 'T,' mark the backs of each sun-browned wrist. Upon hearing his guard's mount's greeting outside, G'mal raises his head and opens dark eyes. "Welcome," he says, voice sandy and surprisingly gentle. His gaze flicks from one to the other in turn and he greets them minimally: "Wingleader. Greenrider. Please, join me."

Issa takes in the whole room as a mere peripheral impression; her gaze is steadily on G'mal and the low table. Instant judgements play through her mind, but all that materializes on her face is a smooth, warm smile spreading gradually wider as they near. "Weyrleader," she greets, returning title for title, with a brief dip of respect before she lets her hand drop from E'sere's arm. With a grace that makes up for her rather clumsy dismount from dragonback, as she steps to the proper pillow and sinks, folding her legs to one side demurely.

Like Issa, E'sere has attention only for G'mal as they enter. "Weyrleader," is, likewise, his greeting as he settles very carefully to his own pre-appointed pillow, long legs folded carefully as he shifts to something approaching comfort--this is not a man used to sitting on the floor. Still, he manages to achieve a reasonably polished appearance despite himself. Then, he's still and silent, deferring further speech and action to the Igen Weyrleader first.

G'mal allows an uncomfortable silence to descend while he takes up the pitcher and pours three times. The rattle of ice inside the pitcher interrupts the desert quiet, and the Weyrleader smiles his thin, vaguely unpleasant smile in offering each of his guests a glass. Setting the pitcher aside, he takes up his own glass - the liquid inside is milky and tiny bubbles rise through it - to raise a silent toast to the Reachians. He drinks only slightly, but without hesitation, then replaces his glass on the table. Apparently this concludes his ritual, since thereafter he says, "Welcome to Igen Weyr. I trust you will find your quarters comfortable and the evenings a cool relief from the day. I appreciate that you have taken the time to visit." A glance at E'sere, significant. "I hope you will be able to take some time to watch the wings at work in their drills, Wingleader."

Issa does not falter in her silence all during the pouring, though her fingers twirl in and out of the dangling end of the blue and green scarf tied about her hips. She takes a moment when G'mal looks down to slide a glance sideways at E'sere, an inquiry or a plea or something else entirely, but still paired with a silent and serene smile. Taking a small chance, she reaches for one of the other glasses as G'mal lifts his own to them. Then words from the mysterious man. "Thank you," she replies, then pausing to take a sip herself, "We have had a brief chance to explore your Weyr. Quite beautiful." With the compliment, she drains another sip.

When G'mal finishes his pouring ritual, E'sere takes a glass for himself, his sip as small as the Weyrleader's before he sits it back down. There, it sits, untouched further, while the bronzerider focuses on their host, with only a quick flash of a smile offered to the greenrider at his side. "Thank you for having us, sir. It's an honor to have the opportunity. I am looking forward to it--observing your wings in action. I'm sure your wingleaders and I could share quite a few techniques back and forth," E'sere tells the Weyrleader.

"I am certain you will," replies G'mal. The words are smooth, if sandy, and the thin smile that the weyrleader attaches to them cannot be taken as anything less than thoughtful good tiding. There is no trace of an order to it, yet it sounds absolutely certain - the expression of a foregone conclusion. "Have you taken a liking to any particular parts of it?" The question is posed to E'sere, but after a moment the dark-hued man turns his sharp gaze upon Issa and nods once, as though granting her permission to include herself in the question - a question that was, after all, inspired by her comment.

Relegating her fidgeting hand to her lap with a new stillness, Issa lets the other drift languidly along the base of her glass, fingertips dragging through the condensation already gathering there. At the posing of the question, she takes a moment to again check E'sere with a quick glance. She does include herself then, taking the initiative to answer and gauging G'mal's reaction with an intense gaze veiled with a pleasant expression. "Well, I noted your records, though there wasn't time to search very far. It appealed to my weakness for a good read, I must admit."

"I've not had the chance," E'sere notes apologetically, "to really take anything of that nature in yet. Still, I'm looking forward to the prospect, and being able to take some new drills back to my wing. It's always good to stretch their minds on something new; otherwise, I've found they can get a little lax for the repitition." Idly, he reaches for his glass and takes another small sip before replacing the drink in the same spot as earlier. To Issa, he offers a smile, remarking, "I suppose you've exhausted our records by now?"

There it is: a flicker of something strange on the Igenite's dark face. Tiny, fine lines around his eyes, struck there by sun and squinting, deepen and become somewhat more apparent than usual. The expression is confusion - then softens into disappointment. "Ah, of course. You will want them to be well prepared ahead of your leave," the Weyrleader observes, and overturns a long thin hand in a dismissive gesture: of course, of course, how could I have been at all confused? He smiles upon Issa then and notes, "Your weyrleader's handmaiden who visited me to make the arrangements was also incredibly pleased with our records. I like to think that they, like everything here, are efficient and accurate. If there is anything you would like copied, only leave me a list when you return to High Reaches and I shall make sure it is sent later."

"Nearly a hundred times over," Issa responds to her bronzeriding companion briefly, her small laugh low and rippling. Raising her glass in one hand, she leaves it there, momentarily set aside, "Oh, I'm sure that won't be necessary. I wouldn't want to cause any extra work on my behalf. I'll just selfishly indulge in them while I enjoy the rest of your gracious hospitality." Her smile flashes more intense then is hidden behind the milky liquid. Eyelids dip downward as she pauses to consider. "I wasn't aware," she continues after swallowing, "that someone preceded us. Nor of any arrangements." Eyebrows draw together slightly and she looks to E'sere for confirmation of this new fact. "Excuse my ignorance."

E'sere is no fool; at once, picking up on that tone and the odd expression sliding across G'mal's face, his own shifts into wary confusion. "Sir?" he queries simply, brows knitting. The Weyrleader's other words, Issa's as well, are ignored as focuses on the mention of arrangements.

There is an uncomfortable pause. G'mal sits there, back straight, one hand idle upon his knee, glass raised in his other hand as if he might at any moment drink, and affects a weak smile. But he allows that moment to stretch, whether from some cruel flair for the dramatic or from needing a little time to decide how best to play his cards, before he speaks again. "I apologize," he says then. "I have only this evening sent our Swift wingleader, J'cor, with documents to transfer the weyrwoman Yevide to High Reaches. I will be awaiting his return with documents regarding - " G'mal is not much for awkward. His pause is just that: time in which he obliges his guests to wait if they wish to hear what he says next. "- Wingleader, I was under the impression you knew." And he smiles, showing teeth, as if he were under no such impression at all.

Issa keeps her gaze steady, her eyes held rigid on G'mal's face though her attention, her mind, flies elsewhere on hearing that brief mention of Yevide's transfer. Though her smile tenses, confused, it remains a smile still. But for the moment, she deems it best to leave E'sere to the talking.

"The weyrwoman Yevide," E'sere repeats, bland in face and tone. "I see. No, I wasn't made aware of anything of the sort." His regard of G'mal is plainly expectant, awaiting some further elaboration on just what these documents are about.

G'mal's shoulders rise the merest increment and fall back into place. "Yes, to become Reaches' new junior. Lexine, you know, has taken up keeping at Telgar." He takes a quenching sip from the glass in his hand, then surrenders it to the table, tucking down his upper lip to clean any of the milky beverage from it before he speaks again. "Considering the - ah, need for new riders at High Reaches, compared to our own forces here, it seems a most appropriate arrangement."

"I fail to see," Issa begins coolly, "how transferring one of our finest wingleaders to Igen will benefit High Reaches when Thread is falling." The smile finally fades to a more subdued calm, the glass now abandoned on the table growing warmer by the second. "We hardly need another junior and would proceed just fine without one, I would say." Perhaps a hopeful prediction, but she delivers it with a confidence in her home Weyr that cannot be shaken. "Seems a rather uneven trade on our part." Any offense to the Igen weyrwoman, though not pointed out, is also not apologized for.

"As I know," agrees E'sere, his voice still bland. Idly, he reaches for his own glass, studying the liquid in it rather than taking a sip as G'mal does. Finally: "I should agree, sir, that considering our situation, able fighting dragons would be more necessary, when our queens' wing is well-stocked with the Caucus' offerings--including your own Yevide already--as well as our Citalth and Nenuith," remarks the wingleader. And though he doesn't directly answer Issa's words, he inclines his head toward her, awknowledge of her own input on the subject.

"Alas," says G'mal, foisting a fond and patient smile - it does not become him at all - upon the greenrider. "But your Weyrleader and I disagree with you." He turns his head with angular precision, blocking Issa from his field of vision, to focus upon E'sere. No smile for the Reachian bronzerider. "A queen's wing hardly fights Thread," remarks the Igenite Weyrleader; and perhaps that reflects his outlook upon his own wings' performance, then, since the statement is so certain. He is, as if instructing his own protege, merely restating the obvious. "I have adequate riders here to fill out a new wing, E'sere. It is my hope you will consent to train it."

No. No, no no. Rebellion reigns on Issa's face as the Weyrleader turns away, a frown deepening the faint creases on her forehead and her eyes obtaining a definite squint as she stares at the man. But subtly schooling her expressiong into a tamer configuration, she questions, "

"E'sere has no choice?" her voice controlled, asking as if it were just a point of interest and not the desperate protest it is.

"High Reaches is my home," answers E'sere, shaking his head slowly and still studying his drink. "I do not care to leave it, particularly considering its own condition at present, particularly considering you offer me no more than I already have." Frowning, he cuts his eyes up at the older man, frowning; he lets Issa ask that unavoidable question for him, his steady regard of the Weyrleader not faltering.

Piteous and vehement as the protests may respectively be, G'mal is unmoved. In fact, it seems suddenly as if the infamously strange Igen Weyrleader has just stepped out of his body. His eyes roll high; his lids threaten to obscure his pupils entirely. He is utterly, completely still - and then alive again, his near-black gaze caught upon E'sere's frown. A smile spreads thin upon his lips. "Ah, but I offer you much more. Right now you have the promise of a Weyr in despair. I would give you the promise of one in fighting form. I require a good wingleader. G'thon and I have decided." But that closing statement - answer though it may be - has a certain lilt, soft and sandy, in its last syllables. The hint of a crack, an almost-open door.

If Issa resents the Weyrleader's reference to her home Weyr, it doesn't affect her face any more than the shocks before it have. One of her fingers begins a frantic tapping against the leg of the table next to her, a quiet enough venting of inner frustrations. And with that quick tempo, her mind races, fumbles for a way out of this situation. If she's put all the pieces together correctly... oh, if she's predicted right, the consequence is much more than just a lost wingleader. "I'm afraid we do have more of a choice than you grant," she happens upon with an insinuating tone. "Or wings at least."

"Be that as it may," begins E'sere, shaking his head again and setting down the half-full glass. "Igen is still not my home. My loyalty is to the Reaches; I have never cared to even imagine serving any other Weyr." A glance to Issa then, eyes sliding away from G'mal for a brief moment. Then, to the man: "You'd have me willingly turn my back on my home, my family, my friends, for a nebulous promise of my own gain, so that you can send your weyrwoman into the very situation you try to lure me away from," he sums up, frowning. "I still fail, sir, to see how this arrangement would benefit any of those involved. Our Weyrleader--" He doesn't finish, only shakes his head. That's a whole 'nother can of worms.

"No. I would lure you away from Reaches to benefit my wing and my riders." G'mal arches a brow sideways at Issa, then lets that brow fall. He gifts her with a quick smile and even - if she blinks, she'll miss it - a wink. Approval. That is all she has won, however; he does not trouble to answer her remark. He tends to her bronzerider companion instead, turning back to continue in measured, gentle speech. "And unless you think yourself a very poor rider, you must not continue to assert that there is no benefit for those involved - for I assure you, I _am_ involved." A thin smile shows white teeth. "And I certainly do not do it so that I can send your High Reaches a weyrwoman. That I have done quite independently, and I expect by now it is done. Word will be pounded out to the Halls and Holds in the morning. All that remains is this matter of my new wing."

But that is _not_ all that remains. Though it is made subtle and soft by the distance of half the continent, the reach of a queen rising is long and deep. She is no Reachian queen - but perhaps that is exactly why awareness of her flight, already in progress, ripples so quickly through the queens here at Igen and from them to the dragons around them.

That approval evokes a subtle seething sigh from Issa, a mere breath full of ill intentions flung his way. Her eyes dance away from the scene, grasping for something intangible, wandering over those tapestries that were ignored at their entrance. A pause, a fading, almost imperceptible, but her shoulders fall as if wilting under the news. "Oh," finally escapes her mouth, a moan of despondency. Then stiffly, "You Igenites don't waste time, I'll say that."

The only hint of E'sere's awareness of goings-on outside the Weyr is a slight stiffening of his shoulders and the return of that bland smile. "Indeed," is his simple agreement with Issa's remark, the wingleader's expression setting when he again looks to G'mal. "My hands seem rather tied at the moment, my Weyrleader having already promised me away so readily. I'd have not expected it of him. But, you get your wingleader, High Reaches gets its queen--I suppose it is a win-win for all the Weyrleaders involved."

"Well," says G'mal, and now he really shows his teeth. So gentle and soft is his voice, it hardly seems appropriate to come from between those white points. And yet, it does so. "I would not say _all_ weyrleaders." Then, all at once, movements smooth and swift, the Igenite unfolds his legs and rises, pushing himself up to his feet through sheer power of will and muscle. The lightweight fabrics of his unadorned, loosely wound trousers and tunic warp and whisper around him, but he himself is silent until he's trod - barefoot - halfway across the cavern. "My agreement is with G'thon," he muses, gazing up at one of those sparing tapestries. "And while I suppose some men would not go back on the decisions made by their predecessors, there are always other men that might."

Turning her eyes to E'sere, Issa shakes her head slightly. Remaining on the floor while she listens to the Weyrleader speak, she leans back onto a straightened arm as if she needed the support. "There's no telling who will win," she utters, quietly to him. No sure bets on that path. But a questioning hopelessness in her eyes, as she searches for something more appealing in his, speaks to the fact that she can think of nothing else.

"When a High Reaches queen," says E'sere, "gives us a new Weyrleader, perhaps I'll take that issue up with him. I've more distaste for prostrating myself before an usurper and begging for my place back than I do for finding another avenue for my service." Issa is almost forgotten in the exchange, the wingleader focusing entirely on G'mal for now. "Every man has his own line; that is mine, Weyrleader."

G'mal turns around. The turn is swift; his smile is slow. "Very well, Wingleader," he replies. "Then I welcome you to have a look at our empty weyrs while you're visiting. I have reserved a few specially for the purpose of preferred transfers and the newly promoted." As if offering a most gracious hospitality indeed, the tall man singly nods and reapproaches the table and his guests. "May I assume I will be asking permission to transfer - " A pause. He glances at Issa. "- yourself, as well?"

Issa's eyebrows take on a new upward slant as E'sere offers up his objection, a single sigh of disbelief racing through her. You stupid, prideful man. "Well, if you're so inclined, I don't see why I'm discussing this further," Issa throws at E'sere, her eyes dropping to her lap momentarily before she moves to rise. Standing is a trifle unsteady, but she reaches her feet, now on a more level playing field as the Weyrleader... as far as body language goes, anyway. "I'm afraid not, Weyrleader," she answers, reverting to the formal language she greeted him with, "No, I afraid I'm only a courier for your new wingleader."

E'sere remains the only one seated, rather calmly considering. Certainly he's giving no outward sign of the feelings Issa displays so readily. Instead, he continues, decidedly mildly, "Yes, sir, I will. I trust you'll give me time to settle matters at the Reaches myself, and find a suitable replacement for my wing? I belive they, at least, deserve such a courtesy."

"Of course, Wingleader." Is it somehow possible that the way G'mal inflects that title has changed, that the smile he wraps around it now that E'sere is as good as _his_ wingleader has changed in character? "And thank you both for your time. I expect you'll be wanting to take up perch on a ledge to hear the news once the drums bring it. I, for one, will be retiring. Good evening." And since Issa's the one who's standing, it's she the Igen Weyrleader puts out his hand to, a handshake proposed.

"Thank you for your generosity. You are too kind." There's a deathly depth behind the shallow words of diplomacy presented as Issa enters into the handshake, her grip fleeting but firm. "I hope that we get the chance to speak again."

At the Weyrleader's plans to depart, E'sere rises as well, nodding. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, and good night," he tells G'mal with a nod, offering his own hand to the man before he glances back to Issa briefly, expression unreadable in turn before he starts to exit.

G'mal accepts the second handshake upon completing the first. "I am sure we will," he remarks, smiling and improperly sly, aside to Issa. Then he sets out for the stairs.