Tea, Interrupted
Who: G'thon, Yevide, I'zul.
When: Day 6, Month 3, Turn 1 of the Seventh Pass.
Where: Council Chamber
What: I'zul, having returned from his consultation at Benden Weyr, brings G'thon a gift.
Council Chamber
This chamber combines comfort with formality. The majority of the room is reserved for a long table, its dark wood surface highly polished. Surrounding this table are chairs upholstered in the richest fabrics, ideal for long sessions without a break. The colors here complement the tapestries that cover the walls and generally follow those shades that High Reaches claims as its own. On the far end of the room is a long table that is kept stocked at all times with pitchers of ice cold water as well as wine, ale and small easily procured finger foods.
This room may be +watched (+help watch).
Contents:
I'zul
Yevide
Weyrleaders' Office (WO) Out (O)
The evening hour has come and with it a certain peace. The council chamber enjoys a rare occupant, the foreign goldrider Yevide, who has spread out a number of charts over one end of the long table. Its high gloss reflects back the weights she's used to pin the charts' corners-- a teacup here, a teapot there, a plate with crumbs and half a crescent elsewhere. The other half is being used as a sort of pointer and sprinkles flakes of pastry in a broad swath between Igen's desert and High Reaches mountain ranges. The desert woman's free hand is curled over the table's edge and takes her weight as she leanes over the charts, studying the path she's drawn in crumbs. Her lips move in silent count.
The approach of footsteps is long-warned, though faint; their sounds echo so softly from the tunnel's entrance that they could, for a while, sound like falling water in the distant twists and turns of the Weyr's upper gut. But after a time it's inescapable that the slow, uneven pace is that of someone walking, and eventually even ownership might be divined from the combination of stunted stride and origin. And then he's in the entryway, a little cool air from the tunnel behind him sliding in around him as he steps through. "My tea," he jests in teasing reproach, by way of warning or greeting.
"My tea," Yevide corrects. She hasn't looked up, not once as those ragged steps approached. Too busy sailing half of that pastry up an invisible river until its destination, this very Weyr, is reached. A shred of the crescent is dislodged by this action and finally forces her to brush the veiling crumbs away, scattering them all to the floor before looking up to favor the Weyrleader with a grin. "It sat here neglected so I've saved it from an ignoble end. Wasting such a blend with being thrown out is a crime, G'thon. You should know better." This scold delivered, she returns the pastry to its plate and slides said plate off of the chart's corner. This frees it for re-rolling. "Would you bring me the tube there on the side table?"
The Weyrleader's movement stops abruptly, then restarts toward the table; during the pause he has a split-second to stare at the woman in a mixture of appalled surprise and possessive pout. Such an expression cannot last long on his weathered countenance, and by the time he changes course for the tube, he's pointing out with mild reproach, "This is the first time I've made the trip back down since I made the trip up. You could at least find the other cup for me." G'thon's hands curve around the tube, bring it near but not to hand it over; it becomes a hostage of sorts in his pale fingers, held just above the table's height, well out of the way of his observation of the map. "Or at least tell me what you're up to."
"I hope I'm not interrupting?" So muted are these words that they're almost a buzz of sound, scarcely to be heard in any less intimate setting. But I'zul is there-- simply, quietly there-- a death-pale thing stretched against the curve of the bowl entrance, arms crossed beneath the fall of his cloak. Cool blue eyes trickle over the Weyrleader's frame, thin lips purse. "Oh, Ganathon," he breathes, placidly sympathetic. "G'thon? Which is it, now?" The bronzerider essays a frail smile that might, charitably, be called pained. "I scarcely know what to say. You're... thinner." A thoughtful pause follows, as his attention drifts to G'thon's companion. "But then you would be. Lexine, however--" he indicates Yevide with the spear of his chin-- "has a vibrancy about her that I haven't seen in Turns."
Yevide, who had been holding her hand out in expectation of that tube being delivered out, can only reward the man with a look of surprise at being denied. "Why, I'm studying of course." That expectant hand now shifts into a fist and props itself against the swell of her hip. The freshly rolled map is tapped against the opposite leg. "Trade routes. And what are--" The good-natured retort fades when a stranger's voice is heard. Brows lift and pale eyes turn to meet those even paler than her own. "You are, in fact, interrupting." The goldrider's response comes only after a second filled with scrutiny and her tone seems to reflect Yevide's assessment of the fellow: a certain distaste for his appearance. She smooths the slight immediately after by smiling, presenting her back to him in order to lift another of the charts; more cups are hidden beneath it. "Tea, gentlemen?" she offers without correcting I'zul's naming her as Lexine.
G'thon puts the map-case down on the table for the goldrider's convenience and straightens, his hands finding a rest behind his back. I'zul, he fixes with an immediate smile, high on the right side, eyes full of welcome and wary guard. "My name is an honor to those we have lost, including Hirth," he informs the wiry wingleader, smooth as waltz, as if he has rehearsed it since the day he awoke in the infirmary below; and perhaps he has. This, too, is well-rehearsed: "Please, with a little sweet for me. - I take it you have not yet had an opportunity to be welcomed home by the Weyrwoman, Wingleader." Still buttery, but the words are chosen with honed precision: opportunity, home, rank-titles. "So allow me. You have been missed."
I'zul maintains his study of the Igen weyrwoman as she turns from him to the business of the tea. His eyes narrow just a little, pale brow furrowing as if he were shielding them from a bright light. "She's been nowhere to be found, I'm afraid," he intones. "Sir. I had hoped to find you together, but..." The man trails off into a vague silence, his gaze briefly downcast as if he's stumbled upon something better left unseen. "Well. If I'm interrupting, then I'll be brief. And then you and-- whomever this is--" Yevide get an arch, lost glance, the sort with which one favors a dinner guest not on one's list-- "can return to your tea. None for me, thank you." The bronzerider pushes away from the wall and sweeps towards G'thon, his regard swimming back to the man before him. "I came to pay my respects, Sir, and to bring you something from Benden. My own choice." With an air of quiet pride, he produces a parcel a little larger than his spread palm, tied up in cloth of High Reaches blue.
The maps rustle unhappily as they're folded off to the side so that Yevide can right a single teacup. "You'll have to accept my apologies for being so short with you, Wingleader." This is said as she busies herself with the work of filling that cup and sifting a hint of sugar into the barely steaming liquid. "Long days and little sleep a grumpy woman make. Yevide, gold Ulyath's of Igen." The introduction is presented to I'zul while she presents G'thon with his tea, having stirred it and set it secure on a saucer. Then she turns to include both men in the arc of her gaze, taking special interest in the package being presented. She folds her arms across her chest and sets her hips back against the table's edge while a smile returns to play about her lips.
"Lexine," and lest it be thought G'thon uses the Weyrwoman's name by chance, silvery brows slide upward on the second syllable, "is so good as to take care of some business I cannot, while I am a little bit restricted, I'zul." The man's large hands slip out from behind him for a subtle brush down his front, as if he were flattening the hem of the shirt-front, but the gesture's true suggestion has to do with the thick scars about his groin and upper legs that must twist beneath his clothes. Pageant and counterfeit he has no room for, now, with the blade of the wingleader's frame present, and having made this remark upon his condition without the offers of abashment or depreciation, steps forward to offer those hands out, one to take the tea and one to offer a new perch for the apparent gift. "Oh? If from Benden, I must assume it is quite something indeed." The smile grows incrementally larger, though does not even come close to threatening light in his eyes.
"Of course." I'zul makes an attempt to answer the Weyrleader's smile with his own, indulgent, but it's as wan as his porcelain features. "I did happen across young E'sere, and I'm sure he'll convey my greeting. Peas in a pod, those two." Where another man might chuckle, the bronzerider merely settles his parcel in G'thon's hold; there may be felt a subtle twitch to those spidery digits, a hint of excitement held in check. "Please, sir. I hope you'll like it," he encourages, before giving Yevide's features another searching look. "I'zul, bronze Pelth's, weyrwoman..." Puzzlement returns, pinches the corners of his eyes. "Have you been at Igen long?" Perhaps that's it.
"I beg your pardon?" His question is met in kind, Yevide's regard lifting from gift to bronzerider. Her face seems the open sort, betraying a steady flicker of expression-- surprise, confusion and finally a kind of uncertain amusement. The fingers of both hands flex and roll once in sequence against leather-clad forearms, a holding gesture before an answer is cobbled together. "All of my life until I arrived here. Unless you meant to ask if I've been here in the Reaches for very long, in which case I would have to tell you no. I arrived the day before first 'fall here." Try as she might, she can't prevent the casting of a quick glance towards G'thon, a look betrayed by lash-flick and the immediate redirection of her gaze towards the floor afterwards. When her eyes lift again, they hold an echo of the smile twisting her lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you, I'zul. Do please convey my respects to your Pelth."
G'thon has not provided introductions for either party; this oversight could be attributed to his condition, but such attribution would be disingenuous at best. He passes the tea beneath his nose, then straightens that arm so he can place the saucer on the table, leaving both hands ready to loose the tie from about the fabric and free the scarf within, fine fur and precisely colored leather spilling over the open curve of the Weyrleader's pale palm, flowing out in contrast there. "My word," he says, a reaction which allows easily for an interpretation of surprised delight; but he has recognized the hue of that hide, and the knife has its sharp-edged way for a moment in which the bald pale man is breathless. It is brief; then he's smiling, looking up with eyes which might actually be touched behind the level balance they hold specifically for I'zul, and his voice is dry in observing, "How thoughtful of you, wingleader. Thank you." He pulls the scarf free, tossing one furred end over his shoulder with too much good-natured dignity to be concerned with ridiculousness, and while wrapping the other end remarks at last, "Weyrwoman Yevide attends the Caucus now, I'zul."
I'zul looks on in placid silence as the Weyrleader makes his show of pleasure and thanks. There's a subtle curve to the man's lips, knife-thin, the prelude to a grin that never quite arrives. "You should be careful with that, sir," he offers softly. Thoughtfully. "It's quite rare. I need scarcely tell you that it was an effort to find a tanner willing to work in that particular material, but..." He trails off, spreads his long, cruel fingertips in the distribution of a boon. "My whims have always been indulged at Benden Weyr. Waste not, want not, I say." The bronzerider does smile then, far too briefly; it's an inward-turning thing, private, a mock of good-fellowship. "And I know how you like to cut a fine figure, sir. Wear it in memory of those departed, as you say." For Yevide he has only an amused, sidelong glance and a murmured, "Ah. Welcome then, weyrwoman. I won't take up any more of your time." With a swirl of his fine cloak, the spectral figure is wheeling to go.
Yevide is left to wallow in confusion again as her eyes roll from G'thon in his new finery to I'zul. The woman has the look of someone missing a crucial piece of information and is feeling the lack. The confusion that knits her brows together is alien to her face and sits oddly there. "Thank you, Wingleader. It was a pleasure," she repeats by rote. Then focus shifts once more to the Weyrleader and his striking new accessory. She pushes away from the table to close the distance between them and reaches out without invitation to try to snare a furry hem between finger and thumb. "A handsome gift. It's good to see that such things are not local only to Igen."
"Apropos," the Weyrleader tells I'zul, and "Thank you. Good evening." He's silent after that, but as Yevide's hand comes out for the end of the scarf, it's sliding away from G'thon's neck such that the length of it begins to pile loosely into her palm. The fur facing moves against G'thon's skin and against the lesser leather of his jacket, the hide glinting with greater than craftmaster perfection in the glowlight, as though the supple leather were designed for finer futures than those a scarf might expect. The Weyrleader pauses in slipping free of its clinging embrace to watch the exit, to be sure the thin man leaving does not think better of his farewell and turn about; and, certain of that much, with a sudden jerk of his hand he flips the scarf out of Yevide's grasp, finishing its unwrapping to let it fall over the seatback of the chair directly before them. Something agitated, something dark and diseased, has come over his expression; it twitches there about the corners of his mouth and threatens his pale face with ghostliness. "I'zul puts a lot of thought into what he gives people," he generously remarks, eyeing the scarf. Past it, his hand reaches for the tea, clattering the cup in the saucer.
I'zul departs the council chamber.
I'zul has left.
"As he should. That is the nature of gift-gifting, isn't it?" Yevide is not unintelligent but she is plainly uncertain here of how to handle this odd sequence of events. The fingers that had enjoyed the caress of fur and leather now curl into her palm as if she could hold onto that sensation after it's been ripped away. She gives G'thon a searching look while flexing her hand about. And then it comes, the realization of just what she'd held and what I'zul found suitable as a gift. "He didn't!" Her feet carry her back, away from the Weyrleader and more importantly away from the chair that holds that...foulness. "G'thon..." Words fail. The goldrider curls an arm over her belly to restrain the stomach that's now doing ill somersaults and steps gingerly forward again. "I'll take it away. Burn it. Or have Ulyath take it between...that would be better. Who *was* that? He's one of your *wingleaders*?"
"No." G'thon's hand trembles; the tea ripples in the cup, but he steadies his hazel gaze upon the dancing surface of the liquid and with a few laboured breaths he forces it to quiet, then still. When he has control of his hands, he uses them to take tea, the deft dignified fingers of the one lifting the cup while the other keeps the saucer, and with absurd serenity the Weyrleader sips. Then the tea is reassembled and replaced on the table and he takes up the scarf, doubling and quartering it in one palm. The movements are slow and smooth; loving, even. "You may not burn it. It's probably from a 'score, the excess from the dragonhealer's scalpel. Maybe deadly. Benden has had losses enough." While he takes up the blue cloth and rewraps the terrible gift, he walks down the table's side, passing by a couple of chairs in his shortened, uneven stride. "I'zul's Benden-trained. And a wingleader, yes. I might have excuse to change that, now that Thread's falling - " he's thoughtful already, closing up the package to cover the contents, to make it decent once more. But he does not give it up into the Igenite's hands; he's met her halfway, and stops, looking up, surprised to find her there. "He can't avoid them forever. It will be regrettable, what I might have to say about Pelth."
Yevide stands her ground long enough for a deep study of the Weyrleader's eyes. Her own are troubled and more to see him so calm. "Avoid them?" She echoes him quietly but only to fill the silence. Something must needs be said until the woman is able to regain her equilibrium. When that's managed, she gives way while lacing her fingers behind her back. There'll be no chance touching of that hateful package or accidental contact with the man who's agreed to carry it. "Benden-trained and here as a wingleader." This is more thoughtfully said. Connections are being made and theories forge. "I see. I think..." Yevide draws herself up and gives a sigh. "I think perhaps more tea will need to be fetched. This is cold. Will you stay here, G'thon? I'll bring a fresh pot, or we can venture to the living caverns together."
The Weyrleader's free hand slides over the top of the package, closing the strange contents in the dual embrace of blue cloth and pale hands. "Let's go down, if you'd be willing to help me watch my step. I think there's a table in the back of the kitchens we might find a little peace at." He slips the scarf-bundle into his jacket, heaves a sigh of his own, and puts on a mildly smiling face. "We'll talk."
When: Day 6, Month 3, Turn 1 of the Seventh Pass.
Where: Council Chamber
What: I'zul, having returned from his consultation at Benden Weyr, brings G'thon a gift.
Council Chamber
This chamber combines comfort with formality. The majority of the room is reserved for a long table, its dark wood surface highly polished. Surrounding this table are chairs upholstered in the richest fabrics, ideal for long sessions without a break. The colors here complement the tapestries that cover the walls and generally follow those shades that High Reaches claims as its own. On the far end of the room is a long table that is kept stocked at all times with pitchers of ice cold water as well as wine, ale and small easily procured finger foods.
This room may be +watched (+help watch).
Contents:
I'zul
Yevide
Weyrleaders' Office (WO) Out (O)
The evening hour has come and with it a certain peace. The council chamber enjoys a rare occupant, the foreign goldrider Yevide, who has spread out a number of charts over one end of the long table. Its high gloss reflects back the weights she's used to pin the charts' corners-- a teacup here, a teapot there, a plate with crumbs and half a crescent elsewhere. The other half is being used as a sort of pointer and sprinkles flakes of pastry in a broad swath between Igen's desert and High Reaches mountain ranges. The desert woman's free hand is curled over the table's edge and takes her weight as she leanes over the charts, studying the path she's drawn in crumbs. Her lips move in silent count.
The approach of footsteps is long-warned, though faint; their sounds echo so softly from the tunnel's entrance that they could, for a while, sound like falling water in the distant twists and turns of the Weyr's upper gut. But after a time it's inescapable that the slow, uneven pace is that of someone walking, and eventually even ownership might be divined from the combination of stunted stride and origin. And then he's in the entryway, a little cool air from the tunnel behind him sliding in around him as he steps through. "My tea," he jests in teasing reproach, by way of warning or greeting.
"My tea," Yevide corrects. She hasn't looked up, not once as those ragged steps approached. Too busy sailing half of that pastry up an invisible river until its destination, this very Weyr, is reached. A shred of the crescent is dislodged by this action and finally forces her to brush the veiling crumbs away, scattering them all to the floor before looking up to favor the Weyrleader with a grin. "It sat here neglected so I've saved it from an ignoble end. Wasting such a blend with being thrown out is a crime, G'thon. You should know better." This scold delivered, she returns the pastry to its plate and slides said plate off of the chart's corner. This frees it for re-rolling. "Would you bring me the tube there on the side table?"
The Weyrleader's movement stops abruptly, then restarts toward the table; during the pause he has a split-second to stare at the woman in a mixture of appalled surprise and possessive pout. Such an expression cannot last long on his weathered countenance, and by the time he changes course for the tube, he's pointing out with mild reproach, "This is the first time I've made the trip back down since I made the trip up. You could at least find the other cup for me." G'thon's hands curve around the tube, bring it near but not to hand it over; it becomes a hostage of sorts in his pale fingers, held just above the table's height, well out of the way of his observation of the map. "Or at least tell me what you're up to."
"I hope I'm not interrupting?" So muted are these words that they're almost a buzz of sound, scarcely to be heard in any less intimate setting. But I'zul is there-- simply, quietly there-- a death-pale thing stretched against the curve of the bowl entrance, arms crossed beneath the fall of his cloak. Cool blue eyes trickle over the Weyrleader's frame, thin lips purse. "Oh, Ganathon," he breathes, placidly sympathetic. "G'thon? Which is it, now?" The bronzerider essays a frail smile that might, charitably, be called pained. "I scarcely know what to say. You're... thinner." A thoughtful pause follows, as his attention drifts to G'thon's companion. "But then you would be. Lexine, however--" he indicates Yevide with the spear of his chin-- "has a vibrancy about her that I haven't seen in Turns."
Yevide, who had been holding her hand out in expectation of that tube being delivered out, can only reward the man with a look of surprise at being denied. "Why, I'm studying of course." That expectant hand now shifts into a fist and props itself against the swell of her hip. The freshly rolled map is tapped against the opposite leg. "Trade routes. And what are--" The good-natured retort fades when a stranger's voice is heard. Brows lift and pale eyes turn to meet those even paler than her own. "You are, in fact, interrupting." The goldrider's response comes only after a second filled with scrutiny and her tone seems to reflect Yevide's assessment of the fellow: a certain distaste for his appearance. She smooths the slight immediately after by smiling, presenting her back to him in order to lift another of the charts; more cups are hidden beneath it. "Tea, gentlemen?" she offers without correcting I'zul's naming her as Lexine.
G'thon puts the map-case down on the table for the goldrider's convenience and straightens, his hands finding a rest behind his back. I'zul, he fixes with an immediate smile, high on the right side, eyes full of welcome and wary guard. "My name is an honor to those we have lost, including Hirth," he informs the wiry wingleader, smooth as waltz, as if he has rehearsed it since the day he awoke in the infirmary below; and perhaps he has. This, too, is well-rehearsed: "Please, with a little sweet for me. - I take it you have not yet had an opportunity to be welcomed home by the Weyrwoman, Wingleader." Still buttery, but the words are chosen with honed precision: opportunity, home, rank-titles. "So allow me. You have been missed."
I'zul maintains his study of the Igen weyrwoman as she turns from him to the business of the tea. His eyes narrow just a little, pale brow furrowing as if he were shielding them from a bright light. "She's been nowhere to be found, I'm afraid," he intones. "Sir. I had hoped to find you together, but..." The man trails off into a vague silence, his gaze briefly downcast as if he's stumbled upon something better left unseen. "Well. If I'm interrupting, then I'll be brief. And then you and-- whomever this is--" Yevide get an arch, lost glance, the sort with which one favors a dinner guest not on one's list-- "can return to your tea. None for me, thank you." The bronzerider pushes away from the wall and sweeps towards G'thon, his regard swimming back to the man before him. "I came to pay my respects, Sir, and to bring you something from Benden. My own choice." With an air of quiet pride, he produces a parcel a little larger than his spread palm, tied up in cloth of High Reaches blue.
The maps rustle unhappily as they're folded off to the side so that Yevide can right a single teacup. "You'll have to accept my apologies for being so short with you, Wingleader." This is said as she busies herself with the work of filling that cup and sifting a hint of sugar into the barely steaming liquid. "Long days and little sleep a grumpy woman make. Yevide, gold Ulyath's of Igen." The introduction is presented to I'zul while she presents G'thon with his tea, having stirred it and set it secure on a saucer. Then she turns to include both men in the arc of her gaze, taking special interest in the package being presented. She folds her arms across her chest and sets her hips back against the table's edge while a smile returns to play about her lips.
"Lexine," and lest it be thought G'thon uses the Weyrwoman's name by chance, silvery brows slide upward on the second syllable, "is so good as to take care of some business I cannot, while I am a little bit restricted, I'zul." The man's large hands slip out from behind him for a subtle brush down his front, as if he were flattening the hem of the shirt-front, but the gesture's true suggestion has to do with the thick scars about his groin and upper legs that must twist beneath his clothes. Pageant and counterfeit he has no room for, now, with the blade of the wingleader's frame present, and having made this remark upon his condition without the offers of abashment or depreciation, steps forward to offer those hands out, one to take the tea and one to offer a new perch for the apparent gift. "Oh? If from Benden, I must assume it is quite something indeed." The smile grows incrementally larger, though does not even come close to threatening light in his eyes.
"Of course." I'zul makes an attempt to answer the Weyrleader's smile with his own, indulgent, but it's as wan as his porcelain features. "I did happen across young E'sere, and I'm sure he'll convey my greeting. Peas in a pod, those two." Where another man might chuckle, the bronzerider merely settles his parcel in G'thon's hold; there may be felt a subtle twitch to those spidery digits, a hint of excitement held in check. "Please, sir. I hope you'll like it," he encourages, before giving Yevide's features another searching look. "I'zul, bronze Pelth's, weyrwoman..." Puzzlement returns, pinches the corners of his eyes. "Have you been at Igen long?" Perhaps that's it.
"I beg your pardon?" His question is met in kind, Yevide's regard lifting from gift to bronzerider. Her face seems the open sort, betraying a steady flicker of expression-- surprise, confusion and finally a kind of uncertain amusement. The fingers of both hands flex and roll once in sequence against leather-clad forearms, a holding gesture before an answer is cobbled together. "All of my life until I arrived here. Unless you meant to ask if I've been here in the Reaches for very long, in which case I would have to tell you no. I arrived the day before first 'fall here." Try as she might, she can't prevent the casting of a quick glance towards G'thon, a look betrayed by lash-flick and the immediate redirection of her gaze towards the floor afterwards. When her eyes lift again, they hold an echo of the smile twisting her lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you, I'zul. Do please convey my respects to your Pelth."
G'thon has not provided introductions for either party; this oversight could be attributed to his condition, but such attribution would be disingenuous at best. He passes the tea beneath his nose, then straightens that arm so he can place the saucer on the table, leaving both hands ready to loose the tie from about the fabric and free the scarf within, fine fur and precisely colored leather spilling over the open curve of the Weyrleader's pale palm, flowing out in contrast there. "My word," he says, a reaction which allows easily for an interpretation of surprised delight; but he has recognized the hue of that hide, and the knife has its sharp-edged way for a moment in which the bald pale man is breathless. It is brief; then he's smiling, looking up with eyes which might actually be touched behind the level balance they hold specifically for I'zul, and his voice is dry in observing, "How thoughtful of you, wingleader. Thank you." He pulls the scarf free, tossing one furred end over his shoulder with too much good-natured dignity to be concerned with ridiculousness, and while wrapping the other end remarks at last, "Weyrwoman Yevide attends the Caucus now, I'zul."
I'zul looks on in placid silence as the Weyrleader makes his show of pleasure and thanks. There's a subtle curve to the man's lips, knife-thin, the prelude to a grin that never quite arrives. "You should be careful with that, sir," he offers softly. Thoughtfully. "It's quite rare. I need scarcely tell you that it was an effort to find a tanner willing to work in that particular material, but..." He trails off, spreads his long, cruel fingertips in the distribution of a boon. "My whims have always been indulged at Benden Weyr. Waste not, want not, I say." The bronzerider does smile then, far too briefly; it's an inward-turning thing, private, a mock of good-fellowship. "And I know how you like to cut a fine figure, sir. Wear it in memory of those departed, as you say." For Yevide he has only an amused, sidelong glance and a murmured, "Ah. Welcome then, weyrwoman. I won't take up any more of your time." With a swirl of his fine cloak, the spectral figure is wheeling to go.
Yevide is left to wallow in confusion again as her eyes roll from G'thon in his new finery to I'zul. The woman has the look of someone missing a crucial piece of information and is feeling the lack. The confusion that knits her brows together is alien to her face and sits oddly there. "Thank you, Wingleader. It was a pleasure," she repeats by rote. Then focus shifts once more to the Weyrleader and his striking new accessory. She pushes away from the table to close the distance between them and reaches out without invitation to try to snare a furry hem between finger and thumb. "A handsome gift. It's good to see that such things are not local only to Igen."
"Apropos," the Weyrleader tells I'zul, and "Thank you. Good evening." He's silent after that, but as Yevide's hand comes out for the end of the scarf, it's sliding away from G'thon's neck such that the length of it begins to pile loosely into her palm. The fur facing moves against G'thon's skin and against the lesser leather of his jacket, the hide glinting with greater than craftmaster perfection in the glowlight, as though the supple leather were designed for finer futures than those a scarf might expect. The Weyrleader pauses in slipping free of its clinging embrace to watch the exit, to be sure the thin man leaving does not think better of his farewell and turn about; and, certain of that much, with a sudden jerk of his hand he flips the scarf out of Yevide's grasp, finishing its unwrapping to let it fall over the seatback of the chair directly before them. Something agitated, something dark and diseased, has come over his expression; it twitches there about the corners of his mouth and threatens his pale face with ghostliness. "I'zul puts a lot of thought into what he gives people," he generously remarks, eyeing the scarf. Past it, his hand reaches for the tea, clattering the cup in the saucer.
I'zul departs the council chamber.
I'zul has left.
"As he should. That is the nature of gift-gifting, isn't it?" Yevide is not unintelligent but she is plainly uncertain here of how to handle this odd sequence of events. The fingers that had enjoyed the caress of fur and leather now curl into her palm as if she could hold onto that sensation after it's been ripped away. She gives G'thon a searching look while flexing her hand about. And then it comes, the realization of just what she'd held and what I'zul found suitable as a gift. "He didn't!" Her feet carry her back, away from the Weyrleader and more importantly away from the chair that holds that...foulness. "G'thon..." Words fail. The goldrider curls an arm over her belly to restrain the stomach that's now doing ill somersaults and steps gingerly forward again. "I'll take it away. Burn it. Or have Ulyath take it between...that would be better. Who *was* that? He's one of your *wingleaders*?"
"No." G'thon's hand trembles; the tea ripples in the cup, but he steadies his hazel gaze upon the dancing surface of the liquid and with a few laboured breaths he forces it to quiet, then still. When he has control of his hands, he uses them to take tea, the deft dignified fingers of the one lifting the cup while the other keeps the saucer, and with absurd serenity the Weyrleader sips. Then the tea is reassembled and replaced on the table and he takes up the scarf, doubling and quartering it in one palm. The movements are slow and smooth; loving, even. "You may not burn it. It's probably from a 'score, the excess from the dragonhealer's scalpel. Maybe deadly. Benden has had losses enough." While he takes up the blue cloth and rewraps the terrible gift, he walks down the table's side, passing by a couple of chairs in his shortened, uneven stride. "I'zul's Benden-trained. And a wingleader, yes. I might have excuse to change that, now that Thread's falling - " he's thoughtful already, closing up the package to cover the contents, to make it decent once more. But he does not give it up into the Igenite's hands; he's met her halfway, and stops, looking up, surprised to find her there. "He can't avoid them forever. It will be regrettable, what I might have to say about Pelth."
Yevide stands her ground long enough for a deep study of the Weyrleader's eyes. Her own are troubled and more to see him so calm. "Avoid them?" She echoes him quietly but only to fill the silence. Something must needs be said until the woman is able to regain her equilibrium. When that's managed, she gives way while lacing her fingers behind her back. There'll be no chance touching of that hateful package or accidental contact with the man who's agreed to carry it. "Benden-trained and here as a wingleader." This is more thoughtfully said. Connections are being made and theories forge. "I see. I think..." Yevide draws herself up and gives a sigh. "I think perhaps more tea will need to be fetched. This is cold. Will you stay here, G'thon? I'll bring a fresh pot, or we can venture to the living caverns together."
The Weyrleader's free hand slides over the top of the package, closing the strange contents in the dual embrace of blue cloth and pale hands. "Let's go down, if you'd be willing to help me watch my step. I think there's a table in the back of the kitchens we might find a little peace at." He slips the scarf-bundle into his jacket, heaves a sigh of his own, and puts on a mildly smiling face. "We'll talk."