[Log] The Search Is On
Who: Cailin, Cynara, M'yr, R'dur, Shimshon, T'bay, V'lano
When: Day 2, Month 11, Turn 6, Eleventh Interval
Where: Pond, Beastcraft Hall; Apprentice Lounge, Beastcraft Hall
What: Ista's Search and Rescue Team and Telgar's Thunderbolt Wing team up in the search for Master Learan.
MBH - Pond
This pond is big enough for a dragon or two to bathe in, as long as they don't insist on being completely submerged. A small stream wind its way through the meadows from the west, emptying here, so that the water stays nice and fresh. Reeds grow around the edges of the pond, more by the trees along the north side of the pond. Meadows are on the east and west side; the grassy bank provides a lovely spot to rest.
The water is empty of waders; no one is fishing at present.
One of the meadows next to the pond looks as if it has seen many dragon landings.
Contents:
T'bay
Cynara
M'yr
Sarevith
Marsath
Soldreth
Obvious exits:
LOunge Kitchens Avians Meadow Bovine and Ovine Field Caprine, Porcine, and Llama Field Road
T'bay
Freckles dapple a rounded face. Pert apple cheeks stand out when T'bay smiles, enhancing dimples around his mouth and nose and drawing attention to the neatly-trimmed crop of goatee over the cusp of his rounded chin. Orangeybrown hair has been trimmed rather recently, blunt edges revealing the touch of an amateur barber as well as revealing leaf-green eyes.
The youthful man is a more than a trifle stout, though much of his rotund form has reluctantly given way to muscle. He's dressed in his best, a new russet brown light tunic with an edging of deeper brown woven trim that matches trous so new they're even fitted at his full waist. A sometimes-present jacket to ward off the cold, complete with a black and white Telgar Wingleader's knot laced with a cord of brown hanging from one shoulder, leaves the other to bear the patch of the Thunderbolt wing. His usual footwear has given way to a thick-soled pair of softened leather boots for comfort on the hatching sands.
Sarevith
Pale sienna sweeps across this young brown's hide, wrapping him in a desert-hued cloak. Close up, the traceries of reddish chestnut appear in random patterns, rivulets of rain-dampened sand marring that undisturbed patina of color. Gossamer tendrils of ice blue highlight wingsails, mirroring the skies above, and random hints of shadowed green glimmer through here and there. A streak of dark charcoal from the nape of his neck to a tip of his tail--a path, perhaps, through the endless wasteland of his hide, leading home. Barrel-chested but not particularly large, he moves with a natural grace that belies his size, that will only get more refined with age. He is 31.5 meters long and his wings span 52.29 meters tip to tip. He appears to be about 7 Turns old.
Cynara
Perhaps in her mid to late teens, this young woman has curves, but not, or not yet, full-bodied ones. Small in height and build, she barely tops five feet and would be considered 'petite' by most. Elfin features would seem even more delicate were it not for the deep tan that marks her skin. Stubborn black curls surround her face, cropped short to fit under a riding helmet, but still appearing as if the comb has no effect on them. Her best feature, perhaps, is her eyes, which are a startling, deep green, and sparkle with life and laughter.
Her dress reveals her profession, she's wearing relatively new riding leathers in a shade of rich, dark brown, cut to neatly fit her form. Black boots complete the outfit, the leathers tucked into them so as to expose no skin to the cold of between. Even in this outfit, the muscle she carries is actually visible. At her shoulder is a black and orange knot with a single strand of blue.
She seems to be about 17 Turns, 10 months, and 0 days old.
M'yr
Is it brown or is it black? Difficult to say what color the short mop of straight hair is on this lad of 22 Turns, 4 months, and 19 days, other than to deem it.. naturally streaked. Though his hair is well out of his eyes, he habitually rakes his fingers through it though being so straight, it never stays where he puts it. Equally dark eyes and brows accent his rather long face, chin prominently jutting out and slightly to the left, as if a remnant of a tussle long ago that's left behind its mark. This characteristic tends to alter his smile into a wide, lopsided grin that hints of a teasing nature. His long torso is visibly too thin, accenting long legs and arms that somehow manage with decent attempts to keep this youth upright. Both hands are large and strong, calloused from turns of hard work, circling one finger is a rather large ring (+detail). One might think him bowlegged, though he will adamantly insist the runners are responsible for making him that way!
Styled with the intent of being casual but also comfortable is the trademark of M'yr's short-sleeved shirt. Woven carefully with hues ranging from sand to brass, it has been designed to fit loose about the shoulders and chest. The sleeves extend to each elbow before being thickly tapered by matching threads in such a way that it may seem undetected at first. Along the collar, a more pronounced 'V' is evident, dipping forward from his collarbone by a finger-length. With the intent to be worn in or outside of trousers, the use of lighter weaves and flaxen combinations were very important, which resulted in an overall soft quality and feel. The trous themselves are made from a durable weave of blues, dyed to a deep navy color. Fitting to his waist, beltloops are firmly stitched at intervals. Intended for Istan weather, they extend past his knees by two fingertips. Well worn but highly polished boots are laced up snugly. Over his shoulder is the knot of Ista Weyr, black and yellow with a twine of bronze for his lifemate, Soldreth, designating him as a member of Timor Wing. An additional patch on his sleeve denotes him as the Leader of Ista Weyr's Search and Rescue Team.
Marsath
Lithe and sleek, this young dragon has filled out a little, yet he is neither burly nor bulky, but rather has an athlete's or an acrobat's build. Those wings, set at a particularly effective angle, promise aggressive acceleration and torque to spare. A broad neck provides a stable base for his rider, while narrow but strong hindquarters propel him powerfully into the air, his hindlegs shorter than some but with more leverage thereby. As for his hide, for all its luxurious sheen, it boasts no grandiose changes of hue or value but instead a subtler sophistication: faint striping that parallels his ribs all the way to rangy flanks, artful highlights along aerodynamically curved neckridges, and an odd little squiggle right down his long and inquisitive muzzle.
Marsath is now 2 Turns, 9 months, and 25 days old and roughly 29 meters long, with a wingspan of 48.14 meters.
Soldreth
Such a streamlined bronze should be smooth, shiny, gleaming with molten light; this one refuses the status quo right down to his hide. Although the pale dragon can't escape the sleek build he inherited - a frankly delicate head, sinewy shoulders and narrow flanks, persistently youthful limbs - there's a grittiness about him, a sunbleached, dusty patina that catches and holds light and all but obscures the lustrous metal beneath. Not uniformly so, of course: it thickens into duskiness along his lean belly, and on his translucent wings becomes swirled and marbled with clouds of gilded smoke. The hint of underlying polish even shows, here and there, as if some especially daring hand had risked swiping dust away. A flaxen shine emphasizes offset headknobs, and as sharp, spiked neckridges make a wayward trail down his spine, that same blond highlights each with a point of light. For all that is askew about him, this rebellious lordling wears his rags with heavy-lidded, watchful confidence.
Soldreth is 2 Turns, 9 months, and 25 days old.
He is currently 35.8 meters in length with a wingspan of 59.4 meters.
M'yr's cheeks puff out as a long breath is exhaled once he's ground-ward. Looking what might appear worried, his dark eyes survey the area, slight hesitation about heading toward the Beastcraft lounge apparent. "Well, I guess we should get on with this, Cynara. Maybe Shimshon won't be here and we can..." Just about then, the Telgari brown is seen, M'yr expecting to see the Telgar colors but not necessarily the rider. A hand moves to his brow as he looks up, watching the dragon's descent. Soldreth snorts, waddling to the side to make more room - but not too much room.
Cynara slips down from the blue's neck, nodding as she pats Marsath once, the lanky dragon settling easily as his rider glances at M'yr. "If he isn't here, we will only have to come back when he is. Best to get this over with. I don't...know that I trust that guy."
Gliding slowly downward comes a modified Thunderbolt wing, the riders so contained in tight formation that its difficult to ascertain their number, though they squeeze in near Soldreth where room's been made. Once they've landed, it's clear that they number five, their leader the largest of them. "Hoy, what've we here? Try not to kick up the dust, fellows, or tear up the grass. We could benefit from well-fed animals, you know!" A chuckle from some of his wingmates, then he's ground-ward headed. "Telgar's duties, all," he adds, eyes scanning for the ranking knot. "Who doesn't trust whom? I'm T'bay, I assure you, harmless."
M'yr agreeably nods to his SAR companion, lips pursing tightly as yet another glance is sent to the Hall. "I don't trust any of them, what with all that's going on right now. I've heard rumors that they have sent out a call to bring in their rankers, some sort of meeting? I'm not sure, though. We'll have to see if we can find out what's going on, hmm?" Said quietly, the Istan turns a smile on for T'bay as he dismounts. "Ista's duties to Telgar and her lovely Queens," a pause, "Wingleader. I'd be M'yr, rider to that bronze lump over there - the one that grudgingly moved so you all could land. So considerate. This is Cynara, rider of blue Marsath, and the rest of us," hand sweeps toward his team which number five as well, counting Cynara, "are part of my Istan Search and Rescue Team. Well met!" The trust information is not mentioned at this moment, only the introductions.
Immediately behind T'bay and Sarevith are R'dur and Alidaeth, the brown stretching out over the ground lazily. R'dur, glancing around, unstraps himself slowly and slides down the dragon's neck to the ground, taking up a position at Alidaeth's shoulder and shifting his weight.
T'bay tugs off his riding gloves, tucking them into his jacket pocket. The beads of sweat along his forehead are quickly removed with the back of his hand, the rider glancing up toward the rest of his abridged searcher-wing and waving them to dismount. "Bring in their rankers?" His lips swell with distaste, and he spits while shaking his head. "Can't say I like the sounds of that. You don't think there'll be an execution, or anything messy like that? I just ate." He pats his round stomach, making light of the situation. "Well met, M'yr and Cynara. I'm Sarevith's," the brown whuffles and settles in for a quick nap while T'bay mentions the rest of his group, noting especially the presence of his 'Second, Alidaeth's R'dur.
Cynara hrms. "They could be simply working out what to do if Learan can't be found." Shimshon is only the /acting/ craftmaster, after all. "At this point, that possibility has to be considered." She tugs off helmet and gloves, tucking the latter into her belt, setting the former down next to her dragon. Marsath warbles quietly to the other dragons, and then flops his head down. Flop.
M'yr mutters in such a low voice that it may just be heard by him, 'An execution may fit in just nicely...', but instead of bringing that to the fore, he tries stifling a laugh, his first attempt at being polite. "It's good to see Telgar's, what did you say, Thunderbolt wing? I was in Timor Wing, but, well, I've been shuffled around quite a bit lately by one of yours, V'lano. The man's reasoning eludes me most of the time. I hope that's not the way of all Telgari." That summons a wink from him before he goes on, "Anyway, we should go in, as much as I'd like to avoid this meeting, personally. Perhaps we can find out more of what's going on. Oh! T'bay, did you get a chance to review the maps I gave R'dur for you? Didn't seem profitable to me to have our efforts overlapping."
R'dur finds nothing humorous about the current situation, his eyes cutting rather disapprovingly toward his wingleader and then back straight ahead without a word. Perhaps it's just the spitting he doesn't approve of, though, for he frowns briefly at that action. And at M'yr--more badmouthing of V'lano? There's something to be said for Weyr loyalty.
"Acting?" T'bay continues to make the 'bitters in his ale' face as he stretches. "Wait, the possibility of no trust, or of the executions? Hoo, at least my last meal was a good one." Sarevith opens one eye consideringly, then closes it again while his rider takes a moment to belly laugh. "Thunderbolt we are. Ah, V'lano. He making good trouble for you all over there? Miss that lout hundredfold--we were holdmates, long ago, Lemos proud, and he ditched us for a girl. Hah." Leaning in and quieter, he notes, "I'll pass on any bad mouthing you have for him though, be aware." He pats his jacket where it's lumpen, unfazed. "Surely I did, though R'dur's the expert on that course."
Cynara brushes back some of her short-cropped curls and shakes her head. "Come on. We should find Master Shimshon...before he sees us coming and goes and hides in his record room or something," the petite bluerider quips, her tone still...no, not amused. Wry would be the best word for it. Marsath curls up a little, this is as good a place to be as anywhere. Right?
M'yr dares a chuckle, fingertips sliding easily into his pockets in a more relaxed stance than before, as he scopes the Telgari Wingleader. "You know, I think I'm going to like you." is his best comment, then, "V'lano knows what I think and pretty much what I do, certainly placing me in trouble's way more than on one occasion. I must say I do like him. At times." There goes another amiable wink to T'bay and R'dur before an affirmation is given to Cynara. "You see how my team takes care of me? I hardly have to think anymore, they do it for me. Yes! Tis true, time to hunt the acting Craftmaster down. At least we should be able to find /him/, eh?" The remaining members of his Team fan out, finding a resting place, while the others take on the Beastcraft.
Cynara goes west, entering the lounge.
Cynara has left.
M'yr goes west, entering the lounge.
M'yr has left.
You stoop, and enter the poorly-lit lounge.
MBH - Apprentice Lounge
The atmosphere in the Herders' Apprentice Lounge is cheerful and homey, yet with a hint of roughness around the edges (much like the personality of many a Herder). The solid rock floor and walls were smoothed out from the Hall's former wher kennels Turns ago and the room's lack of hearth makes it fairly unuseable to all but the most hardy during the winter months.
A long heavy, wooden table in the middle of the room usually holds several empty glasses, bowls, and assorted Herder odds and ends. Carved into it are the names of Herders who have spent many an hour in this lounge. Glowbaskets hanging from straps of leather attached to the ceiling over it give enough light to study a hide or two by.
The lounge's most popular attraction is its sturdy, wooden serving table that sits near the back of the room. Being a fairly self-serve lounge, the 'menu' items here are plainly visible. Sitting in any one of the scattering of chairs in front of it provides an excellent view of the entire lounge. The auntie picking up dirty dishes and replacing empty serving plates near the table is usually more than happy to tell visitors the 'story' about how the lounge came to be.
A severely overstuffed chair - by far the most comfortable chair in the lounge - and a small footstool sit off in a corner away from the main table under a swinging glowbasket for maximum light. Despite the room's heavy traffic, this chair stays mostly empty.
A huge portrait of former CraftMaster Lorianne hangs on the room's far wall and a large hide map display is available for your '+view'ing pleasure.
You blink as your eyes adjust to the low light.
Contents:
M'yr
Cynara
Cailin
Shimshon
Obvious exits:
Hallway Pond
T'bay stoops as he comes into the lounge.
T'bay has arrived.
Shimshon
With a presence that makes him seem taller than his 5'8", Shimshon is a solidly built man somewhere around his early 20s. Shimshon's forehead is broad and pronounced, moreso given that his chestnut hair (if the beard and eyebrows are any indication) has been totally shaved off bald. He's grown a well kept goatee, and looks rather malefic for it. His skin is lightly tanned, and his small, perceptive eyes are dark brown. While Shimshon's features are well sculpted and interesting, he's not handsome and his thin lips lend an almost pompous aspect to his appearance. Comfortable in his skin, Shim's posture is arrogant and his smile is biting.
Wearing the standard shirt, tunic and pants combo that most men of Pern use, Shimshon's style is a bit casual. The rusty brown tunic is sleeveless and made of cotton, cinched over the pants with a dark brown leather belt, complete with a big buckle in the shape of the Beastcraft's badge. The collar of Shim's long-sleeved, light blue, sisal shirt, flops over the tunic's neckline. A pair of sturdy sandstone brown trousers are tucked into klah-brown wherhide boots at mid-calf. A belt knife and runner hoof pick are strapped to his side, and his knot is that of a Beastcraft Master.
Cailin
A curtain of light, sun-streaked brown hair falls in gentle waves to the middle of her back when unbound; just now, it's contained only by two braids at her temples, curved back until they join into a single, ribbon-threaded strand. Her lightly tanned, but fair complexion, is dappled with freckles across her pert nose and spreading out to her cheeks. While pale-green eyes seem to darken with her mood, though that might be just a trick of the light. Her height is a rather unremarkable average, (about 5'6"), but her form is fairly athletic and she carries herself with a certain amount of self confidence, on most occasions.
Mossy green sisal accentuates toned form, from the chest to the waist. Close fitting sleeves end in double, ruffled cuffs -- A short outer layer of matching fabric laying over a slightly longer, print layer with the pattern of matching colored leaves on pale cream. While the v'd neckline is graced with a wide, floaty ruffle of it's own. A trail of cloth covered buttons start, from under the ruff at the point of the v, and trace down the front. Close fitting trousers run the length of long legs, covering them in a warm, medium brown that end at her ankle's base, covering part of the lace-up, black boots. On her shoulder is the complex knot of a Master Herder.
Shimshon's sitting on the arm of a chair by Cailin, looking like he's had a day, and chatting in a darkly humorous sort of way. "Convinicing anyone to take a nine turn old seriously, when 'Teen's your best mate..." He trails off, catching sight of the parade of riders. Ista, Ista, Telgar, Telgar. Huh. Shim straightens a little in his perch and says a succinct, "Beastcrafts greetings to your Weyrs."
V'lano stoops as he comes into the lounge.
V'lano has arrived.
V'lano
Tousled curls frame a sun-drenched face, skin made rough over bridge of nose and above thick brows by much time spent outside. Dark, expressive eyes framed by rather absurdly long lashes are most often sparkling and brilliant, though a deeper weight of being can rarely be found there. His nose is a little narrow, but wide cheekbones and a slender jaw are not an unpleasing mix, and sparing curls of a moustache complement a smooth and even mouth. His hands are slender and as expressive as his eyes, softened by much time in dragon-hide oil. He appears to be somewhere in his early twenties.
His simple shirt of pale golden cotton, loosely laced twice below the throat, provides little purchase for the knot of Ista's Weyrleader, and badges have been disposed with entirely in favor of keeping the fabric lightweight. Trousers of rough, light linen, crisp but loosely fit and cuffed just above tanned, sandaled feet, complete the image of a rider at leisure.
"It'd be hard for him to be conspicuous, considering his new rank," come the echoes of T'bay's booming voice as he makes entry into the crafthall. "That's the secret of all command--finding a competent team who make you look good. Works for me, anyway." The remainder of the Telgar riders lurk behind, waiting for instruction, while the 'leader and his 'second trail the Istans. "Telgar's greetings and duties to your hall as well," he returns, eyes scanning the room for any further indication of ...well, anything.
With her glass in hand, Cailin's demeanor could only be taken as relaxed. Shimshon she answers with a dry chuckle, "Yes, well. 'Teen does rather have that effect, doesn't he. Heard from him since he was posted?" The parade also catches her eye, but she allows Shimshon the lead in the greetings. Merely inclining her head slightly and then giving each in turn a sharply measuring look.
The room is, perhaps curiously, pretty empty this evening. A stray resident or apprentice wanders through, but other than the masterly duet chatting, it seems a quiet night at the Hall. Of course, there IS Joynice in the corner there, listening to everything.
M'yr steps into the Lounge, chin mostly in an upright position as he takes a good look at the Lounge. Any semblance of a grin or smile have left him back at the pond, a much more reserved and formal attitude overtaking him. "Ista's duties to your craft, Craftmaster Shimshon. Er, acting Craftmaster Shimshon I should say." Tone somewhat clipped, it is nonetheless presentable. For M'yr. Moving further into the room to make space for the others, he steps toward the serving table, making note of the contents before turning back to the group. "We're a competent team. More than competent, and he knows it." is offered to T'bay when the wingleader draws closer. "Right, Cynara?"
Ducking inside in T'bay's wake, R'dur's wide blue eyes glance about, taking in the details of the room and finally settling on the two Herders, if dubiously. "Telgar's duties, ma'am, sir," he echoes T'bay to Shimshon and Cailin. A glance, then, over at the Istans, his brows knitting briefly at M'yr's words. He does not, however, dispute them.
So perhaps this is the team in which the Istan Weyrleader has put his faith, to 'make him look good' as T'bay would say. Or just did say. Even someone a few wingbeats behind, a few footsteps late, well behind those who precede him in could hear that brownrider's cavern-filling voice, and perhaps that's why V'lano comes in with a grin bending his mouth and eyes so darkly sparkling merry. He tips a nod to those inside and murmurs formal duties very softly indeed, as if he might like to go unnoticed by his own riders and onetime mates just a moment longer.
Cynara flanks M'yr, casually. "Definitely. And Ista's duties," she adds to the acting craftmaster, nothing in her tone other than respect for rank and position. She's wearing her leathers, with the bluerider's knot and the SAR patch, and she carries herself as if this was all buisness, but she's still very relaxed.
T'bay takes in the ample room's contents, nodding a greeting to the busybody aunties in the corner just as cheerily as the relaxed measuring from Cailin, who earns a once-over in return. For the moment, he's quiet as well, brushing his hand through his short hair back-to-front to tidy it while he listens. V'lano's arrival earns a hearty, "'Lo, trouble! Long time, no pester. You need to get out more." His surroundings recalled, he sombers, taking a belated cue from the bronzerider's demeanor. "Telgar's duties to Ista, and her queens," he adds, much more subdued.
Shimshon's eyebrows are the most expressive of his inner thoughts, the left one twitching upwards in a small, almost tic like motion. He sips at his innocent glass of juice, listening to the riders make their circuitious introductions, like they do. It's M'yr who gets a lingering look of scrutiny, the skulking V'lano going unnoticed. "Wingleader, Wingseconds, riders. To what do we owe the, ah, pleasure?" The slight lift to the final word implies something else.
At T'bay's greetings, R'dur turns, glancing over one shoulder and breaking into a smile as he sees V'lano there. "Sir! I mean, ah. Weyrleader, sir," he greets the man brightly, reining in enthusiasm with proper manners and blushing besides. Shimshon's voice serves as his chastisement, as the shy brownrider ducks his head and turns quickly to give the craftmaster his proper attention.
It's Shimshon's use of the word pleasure, the implication his tone carries that draws a crooked smile to Cailin's lips. One that is soon hidden behind a sip from her drink as she gives the acting Craftmaster her attention for the span of a few moments. Some hint of dark humor still lingers in her gaze, but over all her expression turns to something more akin to welcoming than amused, "Quite the gathering this has become." And at last, that touch of formality for their guests, "Beastcraft's duties."
M'yr's quickened shift of sable eyes to T'bay might infer a questioning 'Trouble? What trouble, and who needs to get out more?' were it not for the familiar V'lanoic form across from him, within the host of Telgari and Istan contingency. His lips part, a quick muscle twitch pulling them home again to rest before his attention is turned to Shimshon, then the words flow with precise method. "We've met to assure ourselves that our search efforts are not overlapping, and to ask for whatever might be the current update on the matter at hand. I personally," he steps into tentative ground without a shift or slip of formality, "am interested in the quelling of rumors, however that isn't paramount at the moment. What news have you for us, Master?" Cailin catches his attention, a polite nod and exchange of greeting is given before he's back to Shimshon.
V'lano's smile broadens, though his ears flame red as T'bay calls him out on having followed. "It's too much one thing after another," he tells his old friend by way of apology - a poor excuse for one it is, too. He speeds his stride to catch up to the other riders, making the invasion's force a full quintet. A sidelong glance to M'yr; then, as -he- goes on with formal business for the Craftmaster, V'lano provides a grin for Cailin. "Forgive the intrusion. I've told my old mates at Telgar that the Hall's hospitality is legendary - and I myself couldn't resist." His smile is sparkling, his eyes shining, perhaps too much so.
Cynara does not speak, she's backing up M'yr, but quietly...of course, she's far from the most intimidating of riders, being young, small, and female. The short curls are brushed back again from her face, and she just watches Shimshon. Politely, but warily. Cailin? She's studied for a moment, but only a moment, Shimshon having all of the bluerider's attention right now.
The portly Telgari allows a half-shrug to serve as a reply, as M'yr's noted V'lano's presence on his own. He does, however, watch the air between them for evidence of palpable tension, though that focus drifts toward Shimshon as he's addressed. "We're grateful for the hospitality, it's true, but Thunderbolt brings her best," a glance hastily cast toward R'dur: stand up straight, quit with that abashedness, etc., "and is eager to return to the search. After all, the more time passed..." T'bay trails that, as they all know its meaning.
Shimshon purses his lips a little when V'lano's cover is blown, but keeps a poker face that could last a few hands of no-limit hold'em at Bitra's Even Odds. His dark eyes shoot at Cailin, narrowing in a second of dubiety, that is cleared up by M'yr's verbal vomiting. "Nothing pertaining to the search has changed as of yesterday, when I send our updated news in to Telgar and Ista," says Shimshon, equitably enough. "Sent the same to both," he adds, prehaps presuming M'yr's pricklishness due to some errant confusion over who's on first.
The Weyrleader's attempt at charm is something wasted on the Hall's Apprentice Master. But then Cailin, to those who've paid attention, has never been much like an ovine that follows meekly along with the flock. "I suppose that is all a matter of perspective," she tells the man, tipping her head V'lano's way so there is no doubt of whom she addresses. All traces of that prior amusement has already been erased as her cool green gaze works it's way down the Istan ranks from one to the next, starting from the top. Her glance turns back then to the Telgarian wingleader and there she grants a shadow of a smile again before the gesture slips away when she meets Shimshon's gaze again.
R'dur's eyes are on the floor somewhere between himself and the pair of Herders, and as such, he misses T'bay's glance. As though it would do any good on him.
M'yr's focus swiftly changes to watch V'lano, an odd expression overtaking his guarded expression for a moment, let loose when the Istan Weyrleader's sweetenerish words are extended to Cailin. Back to the group, he nods slowly, sparing a downward look to his teammate, Cynara. "My team is prepared to continue with our land and air scourings of the Bitran and Keroon areas, certainly. We've been to Benden as well, but could certainly add more time to that area. Has there been anything said that would warrant our looking anywhere else at this time? And have you given thought to how long you plan on maintaining the search? I know we've been led astray from the bounty of testamonies from those who felt they knew exactly what happened or where he went, but nothing has turned up from any of that misleading information. I presume Telgar has experienced the same?" Gaze set upon the Wingleader and his Second now, M'yr waits for confirmation from them, if so.
Cailin's response is chilly - and this too might be a bit legendary - but V'lano's smile only turns from sparkling to satisfied. "So many things are," agrees the Weyrleader, and quiets to listen while M'yr talks. Or rather, to attend to M'yr's audience; it is finally the Craftmaster who holds the attention of those dark-shining eyes. T'bay - well, the old friend will have to forgive the Istan Weyrleader; Vel stays silent and leaves him to fend for himself.
And, once more, the bluerider remains a silent sentry at the bronzerider's side. Whatever Cynara's thinking is kept quiet. She's listening, observing, witnessing what goes on. The look he gives her is, of course, returned, levelly, evenly. As for how long they continue to search...there will have to be a limit. She knows that. So does anyone with half a brain.
T'bay's eyebrow creeps skyward, though he tames it with a ferocious effort covered by another good look at the furnishings. The extra riders of the Telgari group having made themselves scarce leaves T'bay and R'dur the sole representatives of their weyr, and as such, T'bay is compelled to suck in his gut a trifle, prepared for the business at hand over rekindling friendships. "Hoy, rumors and dead ends, if you'll pardon the term under these grave circumstances. We've every faith that someone, somewhere, must know something, but finding that someone is proving...difficult. R'dur, notice anything else?"
R'dur cuts his eyes sideways at T'bay, frowning slightly. "I... no, sir," he answers after a moment, with a quick shake of his head. "I don't--well, I don't know anything, sir," admits the wingsecond. "I just can't understand why..." A shrug.
Shimshon abandons Cailin to her own defenses (or, perhaps, V'lano to his), and shakes his head a little, "If Lord Tallo Whump isn't blowing it out his backside, we're back to Bitra. Of course, they've more of a problem with thieves and holdless than anywhere save Igen Hold." Shim hesitates, looking thoughtful as he savors what Telgar brings to the party (for which R'dur gets a smirk). "Dead. Yes, well. I should mention we're in the process of making permanent leadership changes to the craft, working on the possibility that even if Learan's found alive, he may not be in any shape to serve as craftmaster." There's a faint degree of off-handedness to this addendum, as if Shim would like to say it, have it there, and ignore the red dragon in the room, thank you very much.
"Benden has been doing some searching of its own." Cailin speaks up smoothly, "Even if not formally asked as were the coverage areas most effected." A significant glance is given to the searching leaders and their team on each side, with a certain exclusion easily noted. Shimshon's latter comment is what actually brings the lady's attention back to her fellow crafter. She only nods, as if to emphasis the statement, but there is a certain stillness about her now as she turns her gaze back to the searchers. Perhaps she simply abandons the overly satisfied Weyrleader to think what ever he will as well. Either that, or she finds continuing to battle beneath her.
M'yr forces the word slowly, "Bitra. So there is continued focus back there, still? I thought Lord Vorlin was exonerated of any implications?" This he sends to Shimshon. "As was.. Master Cailin?" Here he pauses, a glance offered to Cynara then a quick one to V'lano. "Or do you mean that there may be wrongdoings he is not aware of? You see, this is part of our mission here, to avoid... rumors... and to gain the facts. The longer we go, the more difficult it is to find a secure and righteous trail, I'm afraid."
"Back to Bitra. We could split the region, or double-lap it at 4 hour intervals?" This proposal comes from T'bay, and seems directed toward M'yr. "Better chance of catching people with their pants down, if they've anything to hide. Though I understood Lord Vorlin to have been cleared of charges, right, as the Istan sugggested." He purses his lips here, then forces a broad grin at 'righteous trail.' "They're probably getting sick of seeing us."
R'dur's brows knit at that, and though he remains silent now, he frowns at Shimshon's pronouncement. A quick glance to the side takes in M'yr and the bronzerider's explanations as well as his own wingleader's proposals.
Again, the short-curled hair is brushed back. It needs cutting, apparently. Still, Cynara isn't contributing anything beyond her presence, although M'yr knows her well enough to know that she's listening, taking it in, and will comment later. Or if asked. Probably discussing it with her blue, too.
"'Any' is such a broad word." Actually, it's quite a narrow one: two syllables, barely a consonal sound at all surrounded by a flicker of vowels. But V'lano has had his little say upon the matter of Lord Vorlin and moves on to remark a bit lower, head tilted forward so it might seem he speaks in part to his old mate from Telgar. "Bitra's never sick of seeing anyone with jingling pockets. It's a wonder they haven't sent letters thanking us for our help."
Shimshon's lips quirk, as if the thought of a 'word' (i.e. Bitra) having that much power over a person is funny. "Lord Vorlin and Master Cailin had nothing to do with the dissaperance, but Vorlin is not synonymous with Bitra, nor Learan with Beastcraft." Shimshon finishes his juice and puts the glass down on a end table. "We did have someone /here/ pretending to be a drudge, not that long ago, if that helps. Seems similar to the rumors from the thieves about impersonators by their caves. Not that I'd suggest anyone go there without an army..."
"His Lordship and I were both exonerated, yes." Cailin replies, reiterating Shimshon's comment and identifying herself clearly for the first time. "This fact of course also doesn't rule out the fact there are more than likely those that might wish to see Bitra look guilty and are apt to have planted some of those false leads you find; either to cover their own tracks or taking advantage of it to do damage. Thus accounting for some misdirection. The only fact in common with all these leads is that there are enough possibilities that many are hard to rule out as being implausible. We are aware of this. And so the diligence in searching is appreciated, even when some might seem to be clearly untrue as certain ones certainly are."
M'yr clasps his hands behind his back, his gaze on Cynara briefly, though no words are exchanged, before sucking in a long, deep breath to expel it slowly, thoughtfully. "Have we received any thanks for our efforts?" is sent off to V'lano, but he must not be expecting a reply for his attention revolves around the gathering to stop at Shimshon with a tick of his eye. "I do have to say that there have been a few isolated incidents of shouting and name calling at my land Team while at Bitra. We took it in stride at the time, but now I'm wondering what the motivations just might have been. Well, yes, then, T'bay. I would say it may be a good idea to concentrate our efforts on Bitra together. I..." only now faltering, he looks directly at V'lano, "It will not be easy to complete with that timing. You see," back to the Telgaris, "Ista has had increasing tremor activity and there has already been a cave-in. Our time... while we do the best we can, is at times, limited to our weyr and its safety."
T'bay tugs on his belt, as though its tautness were a mite much for his continued comfort. Despite the Istan Rescue leader's need for appreciations, T'bay stands firm, his slow-drawn breath indication of his thought upon the matter before he speaks. "Possibilities or no, it's likely best to run down those rumors in order to discern the truth from the fictions." He releases the breath in a slow sigh. "I don't imagine Thunderbolt's too afeared of some caves, though we'd want to be well-armed and well prepared. And traveling in daylight." A sidelong is cast toward M'yr: "We've received no such reception; though that could be because I always leave Bitra with lighter pockets than when I arrived."
"From Bitra? No. I have assumed it was not our work which cleared the Lord's good name." That, aside to V'lano's searchrider-leader. Then the Weyrleader's smile fades at last. Now: -his- turn to say something serious, attention back on Shimshon. "A Weyr -is- an armed force, Craftmaster. If it is the Hall's wish that we move, Ista would be glad to discuss it." His chin tilts down, his lashes descending in a parallel gesture that leaves his gaze narrow and upturned. It is a strangely demure, even darling expression, at odds with what he says. "It sounds like Telgar has at least one wing that would be game."
Cynara again returns the gaze. Then, for the first time, she speaks, albeit quietly. "Which is why we need to coordinate our efforts, because we may be needed at home at any time." She's worried, but trying her best not to show it. As for a weyr being an armed force. Not something she...or the blue outside...wants to think about, yet she shows no outward reaction to that. Politics? Not her thing. She's just here to do her job.
Shimshon's lips compress a smidge. "Yes, well." Non-commital and non-explanatory, Shim runs a hand down his beard. "Frankly, Bitras theives are their own to deal with. Autonomy, you know. Unless you're proposing a reverse-Fax, weyrs and crafts invade the holds, Weyrleader."
Cailin's focus goes to T'bay and she give what might be her most genuine smile yet, "I have a fondness for your predecessor. It's good to see Telgar's Thunderbolt is in the hands of a sensible soul." And while she listens to all, Cynara being given a distinct nod along the way, it's Shimshon that she ends up glancing at as she murmurs an assent on the matter of autonomy, "Bitra is, as ever, best equipped to deal with her own." Her gaze rests flickering to then to the one he addresses as she watches for the reply.
M'yr moves on the opportunity of shifting discussions to aim himself at the serving table at the one side of the room where he gets himself a drink of 'something' in a pitcher. Returning to the group, he curls his hand around the glass, the other slipping into his pocket. "For now, our efforts have been contained within my team, but it may be possible to enlist the assistance of perhaps Timor Wing. I'm sure Jasia would consent to freeing up a couple additional riders to sweep in tandem with the Team and Thunderbolt if it would come to where the Team was needed at home upon occasion. Hopefully that won't be the case." That said, he waits for V'lano's reply to Shimshon, an interested look sent to Cailin.
T'bay's brows knit as he works to decipher this smile from Cailin, and his own turns more authentic as well. "As have I; she's left some weighty shoes to fill." A less-friendly short gaze goes V'lanoward at this, some blame cast his way, though the Wingleader shakes his head as the Istan Weyrleader speaks. "Search missions needn't take that turn, I'd reckon. Though if there are Bitra's own to be tended, we may not glean much of help from their ranks. If that be the case, my apologies. And if you've numbers," this toward M'yr, "I'm sure R'dur could help to coordinate them. He's a fine hand at organization, right, R'dur?"
V'lano affects an empty-headed, slow blink. "Is a theives' cave now a Hold?" His jaw tenses. "If there's cause to think Master Learan is to be found there - for better or ill - then you're quite right to suggest Bitra, itself, should be looking. So I assume they are." A sigh, frustrated, out of him - he assumes nothing of the kind, quite obviously, and his gaze sticks to Shimshon with exclusive agitation.
Cynara has fallen back into that silence, but at M'yr's words she shoots him a look that shows all the worry and concern she's feeling, right now, about her home Weyr and the state it is in. Those tremors *do* worry her...weyrs are dormant volcanos after all. And what would Pern do if it lost an entire Weyr, never mind her own personal danger. After a moment, the young woman shakes her head a little.
Startled back to attention by T'bay's words, R'dur glances sharply sideways, eyes wide. "Ah. I... suppose so? Sir," he volunteers after a moment. "I mean, I don't--I don't mind--I'd be happy to help, sir. I'd... Yes, sir." He half-winces at his fumbling, nodding quickly in case his meaning's unclear.
Shimshon shrugs. "The thieves' cave lies in Bitra's auspice," he temporizes slightly. "And Bitra is looking. I've gone on their search parties myself, as have others from our Hall. Mark my words, I have faith that Bitra looks out for Bitra first."
M'yr lifts his glass toward T'bay and R'dur, an action signifying he's in agreement. "Numbers, yes, as well as modifications to the maps you have there on your person, T'bay. Who knows, though. The areas where we've been can certainly be revisited by those who would do Craftmaster Learan harm. So while I can say the maps are accurate, they are only so at the time we completed the search. That day, that time." A hefty sigh is let go, before he diverts his attention back to the others to ask clarification. "So if Bitra is looking after Bitra, does that mean that we should desist our searching there?"
The look sent her way from M'yr is met levelly, as if inviting him to speak on what ever he considered. Yet Cailin skips back to T'bay when he speaks, as he dolls out that look, she's smiling again as she inclines her head and replies, "I'll tell her you said so. I think she'd be pleased." But three are more serious matters on hand and she gives over to them with a certain measure of calm patience, "What I would suggest is that if we are to know the truth of what might be found in such a cave. A team should not just consist of the searchers you assemble, but a certain delegation of those who know the area best, working -with- Bitra proper. Just as you coordinate with each other, isn't progress apt to be made in coordination with the areas searched?"
Shimshon arches one eyebrow at M'yr and after Cailin's small rant is spewed, he placidly says, "If Ista is too strained to offer their full assistance, considering your own crisis, then by all means, we understand."
T'bay grins winningly back to Cailin, pleased that good things might be passed on, even so. "And send her my fond hellos, if you would." Then he tries so hard not to roll his eyes at R'dur's fumbling stutterings, but he does nudge an elbow at his wingmate. "Show some pride," he hisses oh-so quietly, possibly too low for even R'dur to make out. "You're plenty capable. If you get stuck, ask Bri." Louder, he can't supress a snort. "Well said, Master Shimshon." M'yr gets a nod, and he pats the lumpen part of his jacket that contains said maps. "Understandable. Revisits will be necessary, of course, and local coordination is a good idea." A nod to R'dur; he'll handle all that business, right?
R'dur frowns, mumbling an apology to T'bay that breaks off in the middle at that snort. The wingsecond frowns, brows furrowing at the slight to his weyrmate, but he says nothing on the subject and only offers a muted, "Yes, sir" to his wingleader.
V'lano's confrontation with Shimshon has come to an apparent agreement of no-action on those caves the Weyrleader apparently finds so tempting a target, so he just offers his observation regarding Ista's search team: "We are not yet in crisis, Craftmaster." A sharp short look for M'yr, in case he should think otherwise. "But if something should happen, please do forgive us if we have to divide our attention." Then, his attention turns to Cailin and T'bay, gaze going between them as if he could divine the meaning of the conversation he's missed. And after a moment, he does. Softspoken: "Take her mine also." That's all. Then he's backing up a step: "M'yr, is there anything else the Craftmaster can tell us?"
M'yr must be chewing at the back of his lip, judging from the slight movement there. "I had thought about local assistance, but to be honest, some of the false leads came from those at the hold." A memory pops a smile easily. "One woman latched onto V'slas' arm, insisting that she had a scrap of the Craftmaster's coat at her home. Poor V'slas came back with wisps of hay all over him: in his hair, his clothing, his trous." A wink signifies that may have been the area of the most telltail wisps, if not of a lass' hair. "Seems she had 'other' plans for him than showing him a Craftmaster's smidge of coattail." As the glass is rising to his lips, his Weyrleader's attention is noted, for once, no comment is returned. Until his question comes. "Anything else? I have no further questions. Oh. Other than to ask how the quelling of the rumors about our Junior Goldrider are coming."
Cynara shakes her head a little at the mention of that, both angry and amused at Nolee being accused. A green firelizard flickers out of between to settle to the young rider's shoulder. For the most part, she ignores it.
Shimshon doesn't appear to have remotely considered anything to even resemble a confrontation. "Of course, Weyrleader. Can't expect the world to put itself on hold for a Craftmaster." Shimshon's voice is so thinly schooled, it touches on sarcasm, but seems to more be in the camp with irony. After M'yr speaks, any trace of amusment has faded. He scratches the back of head and seems to take longer in answering, "Wingsecond M'yr, I've come to understand that your vested interest in those rumors stems from a personal involvement with the Junior Weyrwoman. To which I have only the following advice: rumors will come and haunt anyone of greatness, be greatness due from their own native intellect, their drive, their circumstances or their dragon. We all learn to take the whisper of truth that birthed the rumors, and move on."
The nod of assent and the smile to go with it that Cailin casts T'bay's way turns to a measuring look that lingers on V'lano for a time. Perhaps weighing the sincerity of the request, or just deciding her response to it. Her council as to which it is, is kept her own...but in the end, he gains the faintest of nods. She listens as ever to the rest, picking and choosing when she'll speak. It's M'yr's last that draws an amused snort, a surpassing of a true outright laugh, "Oh please. Don't you realize you are the one keeping them going, bronzerider? Every time you make such public noises over their needing to be stopped, people just -have- to hear what they were missing and go hunting out the very tales you wish to quell."
Mostly ignorant of the change of topic, T'bay tennis-courts his gaze back and forth from Weyrleader to Acting Craftsmaster, the tension pliable in that exchange. He clears his throat, nudges R'dur again. "I'm afraid we ought to be getting started on that coordination now, what say you, R'dur, my man? The longer we dawdle, the more daylight's burnt." He salutes crisply, then smiles in a more genteel manner. "If you'll all excuse us?"
A quiet 'oof' on R'dur's part, frown deepening at the continued nudging; the brownrider nods once to him, blushing. "Yes, sir," he tells the wingleader, still not entirely cheerful. "Ah, good--good day, sirs, ma'ams," he offers good-byes to the others, before turning to trail after T'bay.
Shimshon has a moment of 'whoa' at Cailin's reponse on the heels of his own jab at M'yr. "Er, yes, thank you very much, Wingleader, 'second. Telgar's help is appreciated."
Quite plainly, V'lano does not see the irony. But he has only a second to reflect upon it, because there goes M'yr, and there goes Shimshon in reply, and there goes Cailin in reply as well. And V'lano just lifts his hands in an 'I'm helpless here! You go right ahead' gesture, bends a shallow bow to the two masters, and turns away. As much as T'bay might be trying to escape, it now seems Vel has the same exit in mind, and intends to join the Telgari on their way out. M'yr has called his battle - and even his Weyrleader looks inclined to let him fight it himself.
M'yr's jaw drops, the Istan's mouth falls open as he falters with what to say or do, his mind swirling through so many sensations at the moment. Glaring at both Shimshon and Cailin, then an even more intensive one to V'lano, he swivels on his heels to plop the glass down on the serving table and join the departing. "Another day." is shot toward the crafters, along with the traditional sharp salute before he's out the door toward his waiting lifemate.
Cailin gives another nod now. This one as graciously polite, as one might expect from a Lady, "Yes. Thank you and your wing for your assistance, Wingleader." Another such nod is given to R'dur as well. If Istan's Weyrleader will sneak away, then he is left without any share as she then turns back to her fellow Master with a faint shrug at her prior actions and she calls after M'yr's back, "Indeed. Until then, rider. Clear skies and our thanks."
Cynara shakes her head. She glances around, then she turns to follow M'yr, although the look on her face...is more thoughtful than anything else. Cailin, after all...has a real, serious point with that. Best to let the Nolee matter drop. But she doesn't say anything, right now.
Shimshon waves a little, his face still schooled and firm, "Thank you, Weyrleader, wingsecond. Ista's help is appreciated, contrary to, heh, rumors."
M'yr's foot pauses in mid air at Shimshon's parting snag, his cheeks reddening in reaction, though nothing is said. For now.
T'bay leaves the lounge through the door to the fields.
T'bay has left.
M'yr leaves the lounge through the door to the fields.
M'yr has left.