The career planner
Who: Sefton and G'thon
Where: The Caucus office
What: G'thon and Sefton share a chance moment and deliberate conversation.
The Caucus Office: Repository of many records, many reports, many letters. Of timetables and instructions, frequently of the Headmaster's assistant, often of various staff members, and just as often of the Headmaster himself. Just now, he has the place to himself, and is standing by one of the shelves, curls in his eyes, leafing through a sheaf of the hides the room houses, these more elderly than most.
G'thon has completed, just, a breakout section of his ethics class. Trust idle hands to invent work; the former weyrleader's have done so by splitting his section into smaller groups that, while requiring not so much more of the students' time, demand much more of his. He strides into the office, which contains among so many other things G'thon's rolled large parchment that has the bizarre thought-map bubble outline of key concepts his class has stumbled over since its inception; it did not, apparently, get to go to class today. But G'thon comes to it, with notes and a stylus in one hand; though he notes, certainly, the Headmaster he delays his greeting until he is halfway to the rolled hide propped in the corner. "Good afternoon," he says, along the way. "You won't mind me taking a moment with a flat surface, I hope?"
"G'thon," Sefton drawls, without lifting his head from his work. "By all means." He reads on for several more pages, flicking back and forth for some silent comparison, and frowning faintly at whatever it is that he finds. Only when this task is complete does he lift his head, shaking his curls back from his eyes -- although he doesn't turn to look over at the older man. "How is Miniyal settling, do you know? Quite the surprise." His tone doesn't sound that surprised.
Gans does not do too well at getting his hide collected and spread out. He pauses next to it, the fingertips of one long hand poised on the end of the roll, and looks at Sefton instead. "I saw her in the morning. She and Peloth seem to be getting on about as they should be." No, it was not so surprising, at least not as far as he's concerned, and he does not bother to try to sound as if it was. He looks down at the hide beneath his hand instead and asks, "Did you enjoy the celebration? I didn't happen to see you there."
"Very good," Sefton murmurs, drawl low and lazy, as though it amuses him to lend his stamp of approval to Miniyal and Peloth's progress. "I suspect you know that I am rarely allowed to celebrate at such events. The gathering of dignitaries tends to mean that open season is declared, and I am as valuable a prize as any, most times. I was pinned in various conversations for the most part."
"No doubt the most fascinating ones," G'thon replies, his voice bemused, taking on a little late the easy rhythm and roll of pleasant conversation. He picks up the rolled hide now and strides over with it under arm to the desk nearest the Headmaster; over that he bends slightly, and unrolls the chart of ideas, holding it in place with one spread, pale hand while the other uses books to pin the corners down. "I spent most of it, I will admit, with Lord Tillek. He does find a chance to celebrate at most of those affairs, and I think he objected to me regarding our new bluerider," as though they haven't a number of them, "on the same premise at least three times in the course of conversation."
"I suppose I am bound to cultivate that impression," Sefton drawls, flicking back to a previous hide, and regarding it for a long moment, before the pile is abruptly shuffled into line, and ignored. "Our new bluerider" - as though they haven't a number of them - "was one of the more fascinating topics of the evening. I must say, I will regret the loss of my breakfast from her. I had just begun to regain enough favour to merit her meals once more. I am not aware of another like her at any time. Perhaps you know more of weyr history than I?"
"I suppose so," echoes Gans amicably while he lets down at last the notes he brought in with him onto the center of the chart. He steals a dry glance over at Sefton, then, head shaking slightly, mouth crooked high on the right-hand side, plucks up the stylus and begins transcribing, drawing first a line with another line at th end of it, upon which he inscribes two words, 'Greater Good.' "I am afraid," he remarks then, glancing up another time - more overtly, this time - "that if such a pair like them has occurred before, that it is a secret kept from us both." He pauses, regard on the other man, one brow lofted high - then goes back to his drawing.
The Headmaster looks up to meet the Instructor's second, more overt gaze, dark eyes dwelling on his face for several long moments. "I do not imagine the weyrling barracks offer ample opportunity for the keeping of such secrets," he replies, his lazy amusement colouring his drawl. "And if they ever have, we cannot use an example of which we do not know." A beat, as he sets down his hides, one hand coming up to rake his curls back from his eyes. "I imagine hatchings must be testing for you." Not quite as sympathetic as it could be, in that moment, his drawl.
Gans lets out a droll chortle while pale, slender fingers direct the stylus again to create a line, from 'Greater Good' to a line upon which he writes, 'Individual Privilege.' He looks up after that, just in time to catch sight of Sefton's fingers in his curls. "In adequate time, a record of most anything may be lost," notes the ethics instructor, but he's straightening, the other man's second remark key enough to cause him to set down his stylus and set aside his notes in favor of direct regard of the Headmaster. "Testing," he muses. "Not trying, nor exhausting? They are not the hardest thing. Not yet, in any case."
"In adequate time, we shall all be forgotten, no matter what our accomplishments," Sefton replies with an easy grin. "History will only remember us for so long. I wonder sometimes whether there is anything one man might do that would merit anything more. Events, certainly. The Crossing -- for all we are not sure entirely was it involved -- we have recalled. Faranth's name, we know. Perhaps there is no room any longer for such deeds." He angles one hip in so he can lean against the desk he stands beside, making himself more comfortable. "Testing something self-imposed, I imagine," he replies. Then, idly: "What is the hardest thing?"
"There is room," supposes Gans, who stands unaided in perfect balance, tall, becoming almost prim as he slips his pale hands behind him into a latch at the small of his back, "for the likes of Moreta, too. I would argue names mean less than deeds - that the Crossing should have earned better record than Faranth's first eggs - but names are, for most men, easier to remember." Something unpleasantly pleased brightens the old man's eyes there, as if he has made some private joke with himself. And yet, this word, his answer to a question much more simply posed, is even and unfunny: "Dancing."
"We remember Moreta now," Sefton agrees. "We have other records of names from that time." He studies the older man, posture a relaxed contrast to his upright stance, eased back against a desk like one of his younger students. "Even Moreta's will fade, eventually, though perhaps the stories of her ride will last. Her deed." His lashes lower for a long moment, and he studies a wrinkle in one of the rugs that line the floor, before his dark gaze comes up to fix square on the instructor's face. "I do not know that we have, or will ever have, such memorable deeds to our name. Or am I wrong?" The whimsy that belongs with that question is missing from the brief curve of his smile, though he retrieves it from wherever it fled in time for his next words. "I suppose at least dancing has compensations, if it is a trial."
"Most trials do," allows the ethics instructor, essentially dismissive with the quick quirk of pale brow that accompanies his words. Sefton's level gaze may not be so easily dismissed, however, and G'thon's half-made smile creeps higher up that one working side of his mouth as he dips his head, ducking out of the glare of those dark eyes. The gesture and the smile together make him creatively shy, knowingly self-depricating, admittedly false. "Oh, I would imagine -you- will, in time, have deeds enough to etch your name upon the ages. What you do will define the potential of the title Headmaster of Caucus - " Here he looks up, eyes too twinkling, and unlatches a hand from behind his back to gesture, solicitous, palm up. "Your position is an enviable one, indeed."
"Mmmm," Sefton allows, amused cynicism entering his drawl. "Master Jerion was the very first Headmaster, and already his name begins to fade away. Bailie will finish her education soon enough, and at some point after that we will move to Fort. Perhaps I will have swayed the manner in which classes are taught, but if I have, my name will not be attached to that for very long. Another will come after me, and another." His own hands lift -- modesty. "I am but one man in a chain, and having been accorded the honour of becoming a link, I do my best."
"Master Jerion did not - could not - become an example of the position's potential," the older man informs, bemused though arch, as if he speaks from a position of such wisdom; he lifts his chin, too, as though to raise his height over the other man's. Whether he might succeed at that, he can certainly succeed at affectation of the manner of looking down one's nose; G'thon has such generous slope of nose from which height he may regard, bright-eyed and half-smirking, his ranking superior. "You have done that. Those 'links' in the chain after you will benefit from the lesson - so if your place in history is enviable, the position of your successor may be even more so."
As is his habit, Sefton cedes the advantage in height and positioning, easing his weight back so he can lean on his palms. "Perhaps," he concedes, with regard to Jerion -- his shoulders rise an inch, then fall. "I imagine the links that come after mine will wish to take credit for the position in which they find themselves, rather than defer to any efforts of mine." He pauses, and his white teeth flash against his olive skin in a brilliant smile. "It is the way of things. Perhaps I will join their ranks, and strive to improve the position solely for my own benefit. I understand that nobler aims than that are rarely imputed to me by others, regardless."
"Perhaps you will," G'thon allows, all of the advantage of his height and distinguishing features surrendered in turning away and letting out a little laugh that lends his words a fluttering sincerity. He bends again to the task of his notes, copying swiftly two more items onto freshly-drawn lines adjoining 'Greater Good' like a geometric octopus' arms. "But it seems to me that bettering your future suits would be more to your advantage. There are benefits, I'm sure, to be reaped from more subtle sowing."
"Perhaps," Sefton murmurs once more -- as G'thon moves, he stands, raking his curls back from his eyes. "The manner in which I increase my influence as Headmaster may later decrease my influence as Lord Fort." He pauses, and produces another grin. It is audible in his voice. "It is a delicate dance, but an enjoyable one. I am lucky that I do not find dancing quite so testing."
The ethics instructor completes his note-transferring and crumples the scrap of hide which came with him from class. He sets it aside and removes from the greater document the items which held down its corners, straightening while it rolls itself. "No doubt," by which Gans of course means there must be -some,- "I would prefer the simpler steps." Into his slender hands he takes up his rolled hide and inclines a nod to Sefton, his departure from the office obviously imminent. He smiles, one-sided. His eyes twinkle, wry and bright. "To live and die Headmaster, and exert all necessary influence - and make my mark on history - from a post I need never bid an unwilling farewell."
All courtesy, Sefton pauses in his efforts to get his hair out of his eyes to nod, once. "To each his own," he drawls, dark eyes fixed once more on the other man's face, failing to match his bright-eyed smile. "But I have no intention of dying Headmaster. Just what I will, we must wait and see." His dark gaze shifts then, down to the rolled up sheet on which the other man was transcribing the results of his class. "The greater good," he muses, shifting subject abruptly, as though he can read it still, through the hide that conceals the written words. "Perhaps I will sit on on one of your classes soon. I have been thinking on the subject myself. But I am keeping you, I think."
"Of course not," says Gans, and again allows laughter to play in the rafters of his voice as he speaks, an alternative to actually laughing that nevertheless allows him a certain dismissive seeming. "I speak of my ideals, not your own. - Ah, yes." A glance down at the hide cradled in his slim, pale palms. "The greater good. A notion that keeps arising in our discussions of injustices. Whether it is truly 'greater' or not is, I will note, a matter of some debate. Do come sit in; you are always welcome." And though he will not admit the headmaster keeps him, he does append, "Good day, sir," and after a moment's twinkling smile, depart.
Where: The Caucus office
What: G'thon and Sefton share a chance moment and deliberate conversation.
The Caucus Office: Repository of many records, many reports, many letters. Of timetables and instructions, frequently of the Headmaster's assistant, often of various staff members, and just as often of the Headmaster himself. Just now, he has the place to himself, and is standing by one of the shelves, curls in his eyes, leafing through a sheaf of the hides the room houses, these more elderly than most.
G'thon has completed, just, a breakout section of his ethics class. Trust idle hands to invent work; the former weyrleader's have done so by splitting his section into smaller groups that, while requiring not so much more of the students' time, demand much more of his. He strides into the office, which contains among so many other things G'thon's rolled large parchment that has the bizarre thought-map bubble outline of key concepts his class has stumbled over since its inception; it did not, apparently, get to go to class today. But G'thon comes to it, with notes and a stylus in one hand; though he notes, certainly, the Headmaster he delays his greeting until he is halfway to the rolled hide propped in the corner. "Good afternoon," he says, along the way. "You won't mind me taking a moment with a flat surface, I hope?"
"G'thon," Sefton drawls, without lifting his head from his work. "By all means." He reads on for several more pages, flicking back and forth for some silent comparison, and frowning faintly at whatever it is that he finds. Only when this task is complete does he lift his head, shaking his curls back from his eyes -- although he doesn't turn to look over at the older man. "How is Miniyal settling, do you know? Quite the surprise." His tone doesn't sound that surprised.
Gans does not do too well at getting his hide collected and spread out. He pauses next to it, the fingertips of one long hand poised on the end of the roll, and looks at Sefton instead. "I saw her in the morning. She and Peloth seem to be getting on about as they should be." No, it was not so surprising, at least not as far as he's concerned, and he does not bother to try to sound as if it was. He looks down at the hide beneath his hand instead and asks, "Did you enjoy the celebration? I didn't happen to see you there."
"Very good," Sefton murmurs, drawl low and lazy, as though it amuses him to lend his stamp of approval to Miniyal and Peloth's progress. "I suspect you know that I am rarely allowed to celebrate at such events. The gathering of dignitaries tends to mean that open season is declared, and I am as valuable a prize as any, most times. I was pinned in various conversations for the most part."
"No doubt the most fascinating ones," G'thon replies, his voice bemused, taking on a little late the easy rhythm and roll of pleasant conversation. He picks up the rolled hide now and strides over with it under arm to the desk nearest the Headmaster; over that he bends slightly, and unrolls the chart of ideas, holding it in place with one spread, pale hand while the other uses books to pin the corners down. "I spent most of it, I will admit, with Lord Tillek. He does find a chance to celebrate at most of those affairs, and I think he objected to me regarding our new bluerider," as though they haven't a number of them, "on the same premise at least three times in the course of conversation."
"I suppose I am bound to cultivate that impression," Sefton drawls, flicking back to a previous hide, and regarding it for a long moment, before the pile is abruptly shuffled into line, and ignored. "Our new bluerider" - as though they haven't a number of them - "was one of the more fascinating topics of the evening. I must say, I will regret the loss of my breakfast from her. I had just begun to regain enough favour to merit her meals once more. I am not aware of another like her at any time. Perhaps you know more of weyr history than I?"
"I suppose so," echoes Gans amicably while he lets down at last the notes he brought in with him onto the center of the chart. He steals a dry glance over at Sefton, then, head shaking slightly, mouth crooked high on the right-hand side, plucks up the stylus and begins transcribing, drawing first a line with another line at th end of it, upon which he inscribes two words, 'Greater Good.' "I am afraid," he remarks then, glancing up another time - more overtly, this time - "that if such a pair like them has occurred before, that it is a secret kept from us both." He pauses, regard on the other man, one brow lofted high - then goes back to his drawing.
The Headmaster looks up to meet the Instructor's second, more overt gaze, dark eyes dwelling on his face for several long moments. "I do not imagine the weyrling barracks offer ample opportunity for the keeping of such secrets," he replies, his lazy amusement colouring his drawl. "And if they ever have, we cannot use an example of which we do not know." A beat, as he sets down his hides, one hand coming up to rake his curls back from his eyes. "I imagine hatchings must be testing for you." Not quite as sympathetic as it could be, in that moment, his drawl.
Gans lets out a droll chortle while pale, slender fingers direct the stylus again to create a line, from 'Greater Good' to a line upon which he writes, 'Individual Privilege.' He looks up after that, just in time to catch sight of Sefton's fingers in his curls. "In adequate time, a record of most anything may be lost," notes the ethics instructor, but he's straightening, the other man's second remark key enough to cause him to set down his stylus and set aside his notes in favor of direct regard of the Headmaster. "Testing," he muses. "Not trying, nor exhausting? They are not the hardest thing. Not yet, in any case."
"In adequate time, we shall all be forgotten, no matter what our accomplishments," Sefton replies with an easy grin. "History will only remember us for so long. I wonder sometimes whether there is anything one man might do that would merit anything more. Events, certainly. The Crossing -- for all we are not sure entirely was it involved -- we have recalled. Faranth's name, we know. Perhaps there is no room any longer for such deeds." He angles one hip in so he can lean against the desk he stands beside, making himself more comfortable. "Testing something self-imposed, I imagine," he replies. Then, idly: "What is the hardest thing?"
"There is room," supposes Gans, who stands unaided in perfect balance, tall, becoming almost prim as he slips his pale hands behind him into a latch at the small of his back, "for the likes of Moreta, too. I would argue names mean less than deeds - that the Crossing should have earned better record than Faranth's first eggs - but names are, for most men, easier to remember." Something unpleasantly pleased brightens the old man's eyes there, as if he has made some private joke with himself. And yet, this word, his answer to a question much more simply posed, is even and unfunny: "Dancing."
"We remember Moreta now," Sefton agrees. "We have other records of names from that time." He studies the older man, posture a relaxed contrast to his upright stance, eased back against a desk like one of his younger students. "Even Moreta's will fade, eventually, though perhaps the stories of her ride will last. Her deed." His lashes lower for a long moment, and he studies a wrinkle in one of the rugs that line the floor, before his dark gaze comes up to fix square on the instructor's face. "I do not know that we have, or will ever have, such memorable deeds to our name. Or am I wrong?" The whimsy that belongs with that question is missing from the brief curve of his smile, though he retrieves it from wherever it fled in time for his next words. "I suppose at least dancing has compensations, if it is a trial."
"Most trials do," allows the ethics instructor, essentially dismissive with the quick quirk of pale brow that accompanies his words. Sefton's level gaze may not be so easily dismissed, however, and G'thon's half-made smile creeps higher up that one working side of his mouth as he dips his head, ducking out of the glare of those dark eyes. The gesture and the smile together make him creatively shy, knowingly self-depricating, admittedly false. "Oh, I would imagine -you- will, in time, have deeds enough to etch your name upon the ages. What you do will define the potential of the title Headmaster of Caucus - " Here he looks up, eyes too twinkling, and unlatches a hand from behind his back to gesture, solicitous, palm up. "Your position is an enviable one, indeed."
"Mmmm," Sefton allows, amused cynicism entering his drawl. "Master Jerion was the very first Headmaster, and already his name begins to fade away. Bailie will finish her education soon enough, and at some point after that we will move to Fort. Perhaps I will have swayed the manner in which classes are taught, but if I have, my name will not be attached to that for very long. Another will come after me, and another." His own hands lift -- modesty. "I am but one man in a chain, and having been accorded the honour of becoming a link, I do my best."
"Master Jerion did not - could not - become an example of the position's potential," the older man informs, bemused though arch, as if he speaks from a position of such wisdom; he lifts his chin, too, as though to raise his height over the other man's. Whether he might succeed at that, he can certainly succeed at affectation of the manner of looking down one's nose; G'thon has such generous slope of nose from which height he may regard, bright-eyed and half-smirking, his ranking superior. "You have done that. Those 'links' in the chain after you will benefit from the lesson - so if your place in history is enviable, the position of your successor may be even more so."
As is his habit, Sefton cedes the advantage in height and positioning, easing his weight back so he can lean on his palms. "Perhaps," he concedes, with regard to Jerion -- his shoulders rise an inch, then fall. "I imagine the links that come after mine will wish to take credit for the position in which they find themselves, rather than defer to any efforts of mine." He pauses, and his white teeth flash against his olive skin in a brilliant smile. "It is the way of things. Perhaps I will join their ranks, and strive to improve the position solely for my own benefit. I understand that nobler aims than that are rarely imputed to me by others, regardless."
"Perhaps you will," G'thon allows, all of the advantage of his height and distinguishing features surrendered in turning away and letting out a little laugh that lends his words a fluttering sincerity. He bends again to the task of his notes, copying swiftly two more items onto freshly-drawn lines adjoining 'Greater Good' like a geometric octopus' arms. "But it seems to me that bettering your future suits would be more to your advantage. There are benefits, I'm sure, to be reaped from more subtle sowing."
"Perhaps," Sefton murmurs once more -- as G'thon moves, he stands, raking his curls back from his eyes. "The manner in which I increase my influence as Headmaster may later decrease my influence as Lord Fort." He pauses, and produces another grin. It is audible in his voice. "It is a delicate dance, but an enjoyable one. I am lucky that I do not find dancing quite so testing."
The ethics instructor completes his note-transferring and crumples the scrap of hide which came with him from class. He sets it aside and removes from the greater document the items which held down its corners, straightening while it rolls itself. "No doubt," by which Gans of course means there must be -some,- "I would prefer the simpler steps." Into his slender hands he takes up his rolled hide and inclines a nod to Sefton, his departure from the office obviously imminent. He smiles, one-sided. His eyes twinkle, wry and bright. "To live and die Headmaster, and exert all necessary influence - and make my mark on history - from a post I need never bid an unwilling farewell."
All courtesy, Sefton pauses in his efforts to get his hair out of his eyes to nod, once. "To each his own," he drawls, dark eyes fixed once more on the other man's face, failing to match his bright-eyed smile. "But I have no intention of dying Headmaster. Just what I will, we must wait and see." His dark gaze shifts then, down to the rolled up sheet on which the other man was transcribing the results of his class. "The greater good," he muses, shifting subject abruptly, as though he can read it still, through the hide that conceals the written words. "Perhaps I will sit on on one of your classes soon. I have been thinking on the subject myself. But I am keeping you, I think."
"Of course not," says Gans, and again allows laughter to play in the rafters of his voice as he speaks, an alternative to actually laughing that nevertheless allows him a certain dismissive seeming. "I speak of my ideals, not your own. - Ah, yes." A glance down at the hide cradled in his slim, pale palms. "The greater good. A notion that keeps arising in our discussions of injustices. Whether it is truly 'greater' or not is, I will note, a matter of some debate. Do come sit in; you are always welcome." And though he will not admit the headmaster keeps him, he does append, "Good day, sir," and after a moment's twinkling smile, depart.