He Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog
10-25-2006 (J'cor, R'vain):
Weyrleader's Weyr
Rank allows slightly more comfortable furnishings than can be found elsewhere in the Weyr. Done in warm tones, the walls have been white-washed and hung with sunny tapestries to match the shades of the area rugs and the bed coverings. Those rugs divide the room into sections. There is the seating area, suitable for conversation and informal meetings, with its couches and low central table. There is the working area, occupied by a desk and shelves for hidework. Last but not least, there is the living area where the Weyrleader sleeps and stores his clothing and riding gear.
The weyr has two exits. The first is a simple doorway that leads to the stairs and back down to the shared office. The second is a curtained archway that leads to the couch and ledge sized for a bronze dragon. The ledge is some distance above the bowl and accessible only from the air.
Another evening, another dinner taken up to the weyr. J'cor has retreated to his desk where he's just cleaning up his plate, using a broken piece of bread to swipe up the remaining sauce. Karth, having squeezed himself carefully through the tunnels and stairways, is still in the process of reclaiming his weyr, rolling and rubbing his nose enthusiastically on the furs of his couch.
R'vain comes up by foot. This is a sign. It shouldn't stop him from being pre-announced-- Ruvoth's thoughtful rumble has long since proven able to reach Karth from distance-- but come unannounced he does, footfalls heavy through the office and down the passage to the weyr. The Weyrlingmaster halts there and loudly clears his throat, raising a fist to thump out something of a knock on the stone of the entryway. "Weyrleader," he says, but so lowly and so roughly that it could almost sound like a second throat-clearing.
J'cor raises his eyes from dinner as soon as he notices those footfalls, but the pause lasts only a moment, and by the time R'vain arrives he's back to his meal, now leaning back in his chair while he takes a casual sip. Karth is another matter - he freezes in place, still twisted into an odd position of rubbing his nose against the couch. Since J'cor's mouth is full, he can only offer a nod and a waved hand to beckon R'vain in; it's his bronze who answers the Weyrlingmaster vocally with a low rumble of his own.
The Weyrlingmaster steps in, but halts again after just a few paces. "I got your report. Uh, I ain't done something like this in turns. Not one like this. It's just-- numbers and field. No map." R'vain bends his head after that, stealing a look at the rolled hide in his arm, then at the floor before his boots, then up and around. Of course, the first thing to claim his attention is Karth. And he can't look there long... for some reason. So he looks at the Weyrleader instead, and where keen cleverness would be more becoming in his eyes there's something a lot like pained anxiety. Isn't this awkward. "Th'dead one from Benden was a blue," he boltingly offers, then looks back at the floor.
J'cor allows the other man as much time as he needs to be awkward, watching him levelly as he tromps into the room. He slowly sets down his glass, his hand lingering on it for a second before he brings it back to his stomach and folds it together with the other one already there. "I'm certain your report will suffice," he answers. He hasn't once glanced at the actual hide, mind, but keeps his eyes trained on R'vain throughout. Karth does also, for a while, but noting R'vain's apparent discomfort in looking back at him, the bronze's eyes wheel a bit faster and then he ducks his nose away, resuming his snuffling re-exposure to the hides. Nevermind he's had several days to do this: it's still fascinating. "How many flew?"
"Fifty-nine riders out of High Reaches, Benden and the rest of the Weyrs," replies R'vain, voice lowering. He glances sidelong at Karth again. He can't help it, no more than he can help looking away. "Thirty from-- not from th'Weyrs." Thick red brows crouch low over emerald eyes and the Weyrlingmaster glances from J'cor then to a chair not far from the man and his supper remnants. He starts toward the chair after that; there'll be time enough in the travel for his Weyrleader to deny him the seat if it comes to it. "Ten brown, ten blue, ten green. A brown and rider were scored bad and went between."
J'cor does not welcome R'vain to the seat, but neither does he deny it. He simply allows it to be taken, while he (at last) shifts his focus from the Weyrlingmaster to the hide he carries. "All of which will be contained in that report, no doubt, so I needn't ask about it, need I?" A single eyebrow raises slowly as he says this, and only once the eyebrow's reached its highest point does he shift his gaze back to R'vain. He gives the expression just long enough to register before dropping back to neutrality. "What is there that's not in the report?" Behind, Karth turns his back on the discussion, having decided to rub his shoulders against the other end of the couch. In doing this, he leaves his injured wing facing outwards, though with the way he keeps it folded, only the mutilated joint (and not the wingsail holes) can be seen.
He drops into the seat, but stays there only long enough to register the shift of gaze from the hide he carries to he himself. Then he's up again, stepping forward to offer surrender of the document. "Numbers, yes, and rough notes on formation. I didn't completely catch how they were arranged when they appeared. We were all-- kinda shocked. Stunned." A broad shrug shakes through his shoulders. As for Karth's movements-- R'vain may as well be wearing blinders. He's determined not to look, so his eyes burn against the surface of the table over which he's held out the hide. "There's names, from th'Reaches and best I know from th'rest. A couple of th'youngest dragons from elsewhere, Ruvoth couldn't place names for th'riders. And th'strangers-- well, they ought t'be th'same thirty, except th'one, and there ought t'be records of them..." He trails off, and glances up at the other man's face again, defeat in his own. "I don't know 'em all. Didn't want Ruvoth pryin'."
J'cor unfolds a hand from his stomach and leans forward to accept the document, giving it a tilt of thanks once he has it safely in his grasp. As he settles back in, he props the hide at an angle between his knees and the desk, holding the top up with a hand and allowing gravity to take care of unrolling the rest. His eyes flick back and forth across the assembled information - not lingering long enough to study the whole report, just enough to take in the basic background. "Ah," he says at last. His other hand comes forward to roll the hide back up; while he does, he looks back at R'vain. "So there was no contact made, then?" One hide rolls up, another unrolls: Karth is beginning to settle into his bed for a nap, and as he does that R'vain-tormenting wing slowly starts to droop, beginning to show just the edges of a hole in the sails.
"There was contact. The blue-- " R'vain retreats from the desk and sinks again into the chair, knees wide with arms over them, hands draped between. He watches J'cor look over the report, and picks up where he left off after a rough noise in the back of his throat. "-- addressed us all. Glad t'see help. Trellazoth asked 'em t'cooperate. I asked Ruvoth t'make sure th'blue-- " Who must certainly have a name, and perhaps the Weyrlingmaster would have warmed up to /using/ it, if his blinders hadn't failed him and he weren't just now gaping open-mouthed at the torn and healed edge of that hole in Karth's sail. Fast, man, get your jaw together; he does so, and clacks teeth in his hurry. Suddenly he's leaning forward, talking to the floor between his feet. "Make sure he'd follow Trellazoth's orders. /Our/ leader. Safest bet. That's all."
J'cor has grown used to the holes in Karth's wing; it's possible he's also grown used to other people's reactions upon seeing it, because his eyes remain steadfastly (if not even disconcertingly) fixed on the gawping Weyrlingmaster. "Their leader, then," he gives a pause to make sure the suddenly hunched-over man is still listening, "their leader was the blue?" If R'vain finds the nerve to look up again, he will find nothing but calm patience from J'cor - and more holey-wing views from his bronze, who has settled into the usual habit of allowing his wings to simply drape over the floor in all their now-injured glory.
"Vellath." It doesn't answer J'cor's question. But then again-- yes, it does. R'vain props his head up just enough with a bend of his neck to narrow eyes on the Weyrleader. Maybe the purpose is to ruin his field of vision enough to blur Karth into a bronze sheen, a backdrop for conversation; maybe it's just to squint at J'cor. Whichever, it seems to help him hold a gaze. "Their formation, when they arrived. He led it."
J'cor's question does seem to be answered, for he gives an understanding nod - perhaps, in preparation for the meeting, he has been reading up on exiles. Perhaps he knew them already; perhaps he's faking it. "So they were in formation, supplied with their own firestone, and apparently capable of flying Thread alone. I assume they flew competently, with thirty riders." No explanation for why he connects those two facts, but his eyebrow arches up again. Karth has been safely relegated to bronze blur looming silently in the background, motionless except for the rise and fall of breath.
"They flew good." R'vain shrugs a little, keeping his squint tight and gaze hard. He's wound like a spring, shoulders so tense they can hardly manage the gesture. "Th'one loss. We-- th'Weyrs-- didn't do any better, by numbers. By percentage a bit better. But it's trivial. They flew, and blew fire, and th'whole nine yards."
J'cor has not been affected by the other man's tension. He leans back into his chair again, settling the hide on his lap and his refolded hands across his stomach. If only he had his pipe, the scene would be one of complete relaxation, but happily for R'vain, the pipe lies untouched on a corner of the desk, far away from J'cor. "Curious," he remarks, only half-paying attention to the Weyrlingmaster's reflections. "They left, as I understood from Karth -" one can never quite escape the bronze's influence - "immediately after Threadfall. No parting theatrics?"
"None that I saw. They'd lost th'brown, and struggled-- we all did, but them worst, with so many greens and blues-- toward th'end." His fingers twist and wriggle until the tips meet between his knees, then flick each other at the nails with an audible *whift* sound and fall idle again. "Probably in a hurry t'regroup and get fixed up-- there were some lesser scores and burns, o'course-- and-- well, if I was them I'd want t'get gone in right time. Wouldn't you?"
J'cor's attention reverts, slowly, fully to the Weyrlingmaster at that question, but his only direct answer is another raised eyebrow. "Very well," he inserts after a pause. "Is there anything else I should know?" Karth stirs at the question, resuming his interest in the conversation just long enough to turn his head over his wing and peer back at them, eyes whirling a slow blue.
"No, sir." R'vain senses his dismissal, of course, and shoves up out of the chair without being bid. Problem with this is that it gets him upright and has him moving his gaze around again, and of course he becomes aware that Karth's looking at them. So R'vain looks back. And keeps looking, jaw setting firm and hard, a tendon pulsing in his thick neck. "Anything I should know, sir?" Weird question, gruff and gritted through tight teeth.
J'cor doesn't move to see his guest out, but his eyes follow R'vain's every motion, and eventually they follow his focus to land on Karth. The bronze remains wholly untroubled by the Weyrlingmaster's hard focus, even giving his shoulders a small shake that sets the wing moving, the weak edges of the holes in his wings registering a disturbing ruffling noise. Since the focus of confrontation now lies between Karth and R'vain, J'cor's mild comment just gets to float in from the sidelines: "Is there something you do not know already, R'vain?"
Snap. R'vain turns his head, which isn't at all necessary, to refix his gaze on J'cor. There is some glint there, hard-edged, but not keen. It is not the hunger he should have, nor does it come with his infamous display of perfect teeth. "Ain't right," he says, simply. "I'm sorry."
Cue another eyebrow. "It is what it is," he replies, with a drawn-out rumble of (presumed) agreement from his dragon. Karth, now that his attention has been drawn to his wings, begins nuzzling at them, keeping his nose carefully away from the injured parts. J'cor glances at him, then continues, "But I appreciate your concern."
"Uh." R'vain's gaze slips back to Karth, as if it might succeed in not doing so if the bronze would stop moving. After a moment in silence the Weyrlingmaster's head tilts and his regard softens strangely, brows furrowing, mouth slacking at the corners. Sure, sure. The wing-nuzzling is cute. "He goin' t'be able t'fly? I mean, not-- Threadfall." Or anything else strenuous. "T'get around a bit. Or-- ?"
J'cor allows his own attention to slip back to Karth, though he seems less affected by the cuteness of his dragon's self-grooming. He considers Karth for a while, letting his folded hands slip off his belly to dangle freely at the sides of the chair. "No," he admits, glancing back to R'vain. "He cannot get any lift." The bronze grunts at hearing this, drawing his nose in towards the base of the wing and nibbling testily at a sudden itch that springs up there.
He fits his paws over his hips and lets out a steamy snort. "Shit," the Weyrlingmaster grunts, the hint of rage behind his voice now to lend it hiss. "What'll you do, then, after this? I mean-- " Back from Karth to J'cor, frowning. "Ain't my place, sir. Never any good at watching my tongue. I just-- I can't believe it. How you came here was a mess. But you've practically been through th'trashpit fires since and-- " Eyes back on Karth, then, head shaking, eyes wide as they get, which is not very. "This is just fucked. You don't deserve t'leave like this." To leave, maybe! Like this, no.
J'cor's eyes widen at that first word - controlled surprise, but surprise nonetheless. It's enough to kick him out of his rigid demeanor, and as his expression settles back towards neutral (and his eyes reduce in size), he tilts his head and watches R'vain intently, listening. At a few points, his lip twitches at the corner, but it never goes far enough to form an expression to offer any words of interruption. Certainly no interruption: even after the other man stops speaking, there's a long silence while J'cor considers his answer and Karth considers R'vain. A draconic rumble breaks the silence and prompts the rider, who repeats gently, "What will I do. I suppose there are several options, but the most appealing one right now is - a rest." His gaze meets Karth's for a moment, and then it's both rider and dragon watching R'vain. "I find it difficult to plan much for the future, given my present; given my past, I think a rest seems in order." He offers a thin smile, a small shrug, and no word at all on the injustice of the way he's been forced out.
The silence is long enough that the Weyrlingmaster skates a glance between dragon and Weyrleader and back again, anxious, and then steps back a pace, pretty certain he's about to be 'escorted' out by some quick words. That this does not happen may be what stays him-- curiousity is powerful stuff. "Rest," he repeats when the man's had his say. "Yeah. I guess I can see that." R'vain stands there a moment, then backs up another step, eyes on J'cor again. "Sorry," he repeats. "Guess I should be goin'. Anything you-- need from me?"
J'cor brings his hands back up to his belly, folding them there contentedly once more. "No, R'vain, thank you. That will be all." And he makes no effort to escort his guest out, though Karth offers a parting whuff before he settles into his couch once again, grooming and spying left behind.
A last look at Karth, and R'vain turns away. Shaking his head, pocketing his hands, he departs disgruntled. No worse, then, than how he came.
Weyrleader's Weyr
Rank allows slightly more comfortable furnishings than can be found elsewhere in the Weyr. Done in warm tones, the walls have been white-washed and hung with sunny tapestries to match the shades of the area rugs and the bed coverings. Those rugs divide the room into sections. There is the seating area, suitable for conversation and informal meetings, with its couches and low central table. There is the working area, occupied by a desk and shelves for hidework. Last but not least, there is the living area where the Weyrleader sleeps and stores his clothing and riding gear.
The weyr has two exits. The first is a simple doorway that leads to the stairs and back down to the shared office. The second is a curtained archway that leads to the couch and ledge sized for a bronze dragon. The ledge is some distance above the bowl and accessible only from the air.
Another evening, another dinner taken up to the weyr. J'cor has retreated to his desk where he's just cleaning up his plate, using a broken piece of bread to swipe up the remaining sauce. Karth, having squeezed himself carefully through the tunnels and stairways, is still in the process of reclaiming his weyr, rolling and rubbing his nose enthusiastically on the furs of his couch.
R'vain comes up by foot. This is a sign. It shouldn't stop him from being pre-announced-- Ruvoth's thoughtful rumble has long since proven able to reach Karth from distance-- but come unannounced he does, footfalls heavy through the office and down the passage to the weyr. The Weyrlingmaster halts there and loudly clears his throat, raising a fist to thump out something of a knock on the stone of the entryway. "Weyrleader," he says, but so lowly and so roughly that it could almost sound like a second throat-clearing.
J'cor raises his eyes from dinner as soon as he notices those footfalls, but the pause lasts only a moment, and by the time R'vain arrives he's back to his meal, now leaning back in his chair while he takes a casual sip. Karth is another matter - he freezes in place, still twisted into an odd position of rubbing his nose against the couch. Since J'cor's mouth is full, he can only offer a nod and a waved hand to beckon R'vain in; it's his bronze who answers the Weyrlingmaster vocally with a low rumble of his own.
The Weyrlingmaster steps in, but halts again after just a few paces. "I got your report. Uh, I ain't done something like this in turns. Not one like this. It's just-- numbers and field. No map." R'vain bends his head after that, stealing a look at the rolled hide in his arm, then at the floor before his boots, then up and around. Of course, the first thing to claim his attention is Karth. And he can't look there long... for some reason. So he looks at the Weyrleader instead, and where keen cleverness would be more becoming in his eyes there's something a lot like pained anxiety. Isn't this awkward. "Th'dead one from Benden was a blue," he boltingly offers, then looks back at the floor.
J'cor allows the other man as much time as he needs to be awkward, watching him levelly as he tromps into the room. He slowly sets down his glass, his hand lingering on it for a second before he brings it back to his stomach and folds it together with the other one already there. "I'm certain your report will suffice," he answers. He hasn't once glanced at the actual hide, mind, but keeps his eyes trained on R'vain throughout. Karth does also, for a while, but noting R'vain's apparent discomfort in looking back at him, the bronze's eyes wheel a bit faster and then he ducks his nose away, resuming his snuffling re-exposure to the hides. Nevermind he's had several days to do this: it's still fascinating. "How many flew?"
"Fifty-nine riders out of High Reaches, Benden and the rest of the Weyrs," replies R'vain, voice lowering. He glances sidelong at Karth again. He can't help it, no more than he can help looking away. "Thirty from-- not from th'Weyrs." Thick red brows crouch low over emerald eyes and the Weyrlingmaster glances from J'cor then to a chair not far from the man and his supper remnants. He starts toward the chair after that; there'll be time enough in the travel for his Weyrleader to deny him the seat if it comes to it. "Ten brown, ten blue, ten green. A brown and rider were scored bad and went between."
J'cor does not welcome R'vain to the seat, but neither does he deny it. He simply allows it to be taken, while he (at last) shifts his focus from the Weyrlingmaster to the hide he carries. "All of which will be contained in that report, no doubt, so I needn't ask about it, need I?" A single eyebrow raises slowly as he says this, and only once the eyebrow's reached its highest point does he shift his gaze back to R'vain. He gives the expression just long enough to register before dropping back to neutrality. "What is there that's not in the report?" Behind, Karth turns his back on the discussion, having decided to rub his shoulders against the other end of the couch. In doing this, he leaves his injured wing facing outwards, though with the way he keeps it folded, only the mutilated joint (and not the wingsail holes) can be seen.
He drops into the seat, but stays there only long enough to register the shift of gaze from the hide he carries to he himself. Then he's up again, stepping forward to offer surrender of the document. "Numbers, yes, and rough notes on formation. I didn't completely catch how they were arranged when they appeared. We were all-- kinda shocked. Stunned." A broad shrug shakes through his shoulders. As for Karth's movements-- R'vain may as well be wearing blinders. He's determined not to look, so his eyes burn against the surface of the table over which he's held out the hide. "There's names, from th'Reaches and best I know from th'rest. A couple of th'youngest dragons from elsewhere, Ruvoth couldn't place names for th'riders. And th'strangers-- well, they ought t'be th'same thirty, except th'one, and there ought t'be records of them..." He trails off, and glances up at the other man's face again, defeat in his own. "I don't know 'em all. Didn't want Ruvoth pryin'."
J'cor unfolds a hand from his stomach and leans forward to accept the document, giving it a tilt of thanks once he has it safely in his grasp. As he settles back in, he props the hide at an angle between his knees and the desk, holding the top up with a hand and allowing gravity to take care of unrolling the rest. His eyes flick back and forth across the assembled information - not lingering long enough to study the whole report, just enough to take in the basic background. "Ah," he says at last. His other hand comes forward to roll the hide back up; while he does, he looks back at R'vain. "So there was no contact made, then?" One hide rolls up, another unrolls: Karth is beginning to settle into his bed for a nap, and as he does that R'vain-tormenting wing slowly starts to droop, beginning to show just the edges of a hole in the sails.
"There was contact. The blue-- " R'vain retreats from the desk and sinks again into the chair, knees wide with arms over them, hands draped between. He watches J'cor look over the report, and picks up where he left off after a rough noise in the back of his throat. "-- addressed us all. Glad t'see help. Trellazoth asked 'em t'cooperate. I asked Ruvoth t'make sure th'blue-- " Who must certainly have a name, and perhaps the Weyrlingmaster would have warmed up to /using/ it, if his blinders hadn't failed him and he weren't just now gaping open-mouthed at the torn and healed edge of that hole in Karth's sail. Fast, man, get your jaw together; he does so, and clacks teeth in his hurry. Suddenly he's leaning forward, talking to the floor between his feet. "Make sure he'd follow Trellazoth's orders. /Our/ leader. Safest bet. That's all."
J'cor has grown used to the holes in Karth's wing; it's possible he's also grown used to other people's reactions upon seeing it, because his eyes remain steadfastly (if not even disconcertingly) fixed on the gawping Weyrlingmaster. "Their leader, then," he gives a pause to make sure the suddenly hunched-over man is still listening, "their leader was the blue?" If R'vain finds the nerve to look up again, he will find nothing but calm patience from J'cor - and more holey-wing views from his bronze, who has settled into the usual habit of allowing his wings to simply drape over the floor in all their now-injured glory.
"Vellath." It doesn't answer J'cor's question. But then again-- yes, it does. R'vain props his head up just enough with a bend of his neck to narrow eyes on the Weyrleader. Maybe the purpose is to ruin his field of vision enough to blur Karth into a bronze sheen, a backdrop for conversation; maybe it's just to squint at J'cor. Whichever, it seems to help him hold a gaze. "Their formation, when they arrived. He led it."
J'cor's question does seem to be answered, for he gives an understanding nod - perhaps, in preparation for the meeting, he has been reading up on exiles. Perhaps he knew them already; perhaps he's faking it. "So they were in formation, supplied with their own firestone, and apparently capable of flying Thread alone. I assume they flew competently, with thirty riders." No explanation for why he connects those two facts, but his eyebrow arches up again. Karth has been safely relegated to bronze blur looming silently in the background, motionless except for the rise and fall of breath.
"They flew good." R'vain shrugs a little, keeping his squint tight and gaze hard. He's wound like a spring, shoulders so tense they can hardly manage the gesture. "Th'one loss. We-- th'Weyrs-- didn't do any better, by numbers. By percentage a bit better. But it's trivial. They flew, and blew fire, and th'whole nine yards."
J'cor has not been affected by the other man's tension. He leans back into his chair again, settling the hide on his lap and his refolded hands across his stomach. If only he had his pipe, the scene would be one of complete relaxation, but happily for R'vain, the pipe lies untouched on a corner of the desk, far away from J'cor. "Curious," he remarks, only half-paying attention to the Weyrlingmaster's reflections. "They left, as I understood from Karth -" one can never quite escape the bronze's influence - "immediately after Threadfall. No parting theatrics?"
"None that I saw. They'd lost th'brown, and struggled-- we all did, but them worst, with so many greens and blues-- toward th'end." His fingers twist and wriggle until the tips meet between his knees, then flick each other at the nails with an audible *whift* sound and fall idle again. "Probably in a hurry t'regroup and get fixed up-- there were some lesser scores and burns, o'course-- and-- well, if I was them I'd want t'get gone in right time. Wouldn't you?"
J'cor's attention reverts, slowly, fully to the Weyrlingmaster at that question, but his only direct answer is another raised eyebrow. "Very well," he inserts after a pause. "Is there anything else I should know?" Karth stirs at the question, resuming his interest in the conversation just long enough to turn his head over his wing and peer back at them, eyes whirling a slow blue.
"No, sir." R'vain senses his dismissal, of course, and shoves up out of the chair without being bid. Problem with this is that it gets him upright and has him moving his gaze around again, and of course he becomes aware that Karth's looking at them. So R'vain looks back. And keeps looking, jaw setting firm and hard, a tendon pulsing in his thick neck. "Anything I should know, sir?" Weird question, gruff and gritted through tight teeth.
J'cor doesn't move to see his guest out, but his eyes follow R'vain's every motion, and eventually they follow his focus to land on Karth. The bronze remains wholly untroubled by the Weyrlingmaster's hard focus, even giving his shoulders a small shake that sets the wing moving, the weak edges of the holes in his wings registering a disturbing ruffling noise. Since the focus of confrontation now lies between Karth and R'vain, J'cor's mild comment just gets to float in from the sidelines: "Is there something you do not know already, R'vain?"
Snap. R'vain turns his head, which isn't at all necessary, to refix his gaze on J'cor. There is some glint there, hard-edged, but not keen. It is not the hunger he should have, nor does it come with his infamous display of perfect teeth. "Ain't right," he says, simply. "I'm sorry."
Cue another eyebrow. "It is what it is," he replies, with a drawn-out rumble of (presumed) agreement from his dragon. Karth, now that his attention has been drawn to his wings, begins nuzzling at them, keeping his nose carefully away from the injured parts. J'cor glances at him, then continues, "But I appreciate your concern."
"Uh." R'vain's gaze slips back to Karth, as if it might succeed in not doing so if the bronze would stop moving. After a moment in silence the Weyrlingmaster's head tilts and his regard softens strangely, brows furrowing, mouth slacking at the corners. Sure, sure. The wing-nuzzling is cute. "He goin' t'be able t'fly? I mean, not-- Threadfall." Or anything else strenuous. "T'get around a bit. Or-- ?"
J'cor allows his own attention to slip back to Karth, though he seems less affected by the cuteness of his dragon's self-grooming. He considers Karth for a while, letting his folded hands slip off his belly to dangle freely at the sides of the chair. "No," he admits, glancing back to R'vain. "He cannot get any lift." The bronze grunts at hearing this, drawing his nose in towards the base of the wing and nibbling testily at a sudden itch that springs up there.
He fits his paws over his hips and lets out a steamy snort. "Shit," the Weyrlingmaster grunts, the hint of rage behind his voice now to lend it hiss. "What'll you do, then, after this? I mean-- " Back from Karth to J'cor, frowning. "Ain't my place, sir. Never any good at watching my tongue. I just-- I can't believe it. How you came here was a mess. But you've practically been through th'trashpit fires since and-- " Eyes back on Karth, then, head shaking, eyes wide as they get, which is not very. "This is just fucked. You don't deserve t'leave like this." To leave, maybe! Like this, no.
J'cor's eyes widen at that first word - controlled surprise, but surprise nonetheless. It's enough to kick him out of his rigid demeanor, and as his expression settles back towards neutral (and his eyes reduce in size), he tilts his head and watches R'vain intently, listening. At a few points, his lip twitches at the corner, but it never goes far enough to form an expression to offer any words of interruption. Certainly no interruption: even after the other man stops speaking, there's a long silence while J'cor considers his answer and Karth considers R'vain. A draconic rumble breaks the silence and prompts the rider, who repeats gently, "What will I do. I suppose there are several options, but the most appealing one right now is - a rest." His gaze meets Karth's for a moment, and then it's both rider and dragon watching R'vain. "I find it difficult to plan much for the future, given my present; given my past, I think a rest seems in order." He offers a thin smile, a small shrug, and no word at all on the injustice of the way he's been forced out.
The silence is long enough that the Weyrlingmaster skates a glance between dragon and Weyrleader and back again, anxious, and then steps back a pace, pretty certain he's about to be 'escorted' out by some quick words. That this does not happen may be what stays him-- curiousity is powerful stuff. "Rest," he repeats when the man's had his say. "Yeah. I guess I can see that." R'vain stands there a moment, then backs up another step, eyes on J'cor again. "Sorry," he repeats. "Guess I should be goin'. Anything you-- need from me?"
J'cor brings his hands back up to his belly, folding them there contentedly once more. "No, R'vain, thank you. That will be all." And he makes no effort to escort his guest out, though Karth offers a parting whuff before he settles into his couch once again, grooming and spying left behind.
A last look at Karth, and R'vain turns away. Shaking his head, pocketing his hands, he departs disgruntled. No worse, then, than how he came.