To Assist Her
Location: The halls of the Weyr
Time: Afternoon on Day 22, Month 11, Turn 2
Players: G'thon and Roa
Scene: Things are said and not said, but mostly understood.
The door is closed. But a split-second later, it isn't. Gans, perhaps prepared to leave - he has the greatcoat on, one hand on the door and one in a pocket as if ascertaining the placement of his gloves - appears as the entryway opens. Behind him the room is as usual: tea lately had, a basket on the table which may or may not contain pastry, a couple of books and a number of hides strewn across the writing-desk, a woven throw draped over the back of the divan as extra guard against cold in the sleepless nights the room's occupants spend.
It happens, of course, that the little weyrwoman has made her way down the hall, hand lifted, fingers curled into a fist that is ready to knock at G'thon's door. Except that is it not a door, but a greatcoat, that her knuckles nearly collide with. Roa jerks back, arm pulled down, eyes widening briefly at the unexpected arrival. "Woah," she laughs, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I'll come back when you've a moment."
There's a moment's startle for Gans, too - he'd been looking down, not just down far enough to regard a short-statured goldrider, but down enough that he could check his gloves for left versus right before pulling them on. He glances up quickly, blinking, the gloves clutched in one pale hand, mighty contrast. "I have a moment," he informs her after that surprised beat, smile suddenly present, wry and half-mouthed. "Please," he adds, stepping backwards, angling so he can, with the gloves, suggest her in past him. "I was only going for a walk. Unless you might like to walk with me?"
"Riding coats are useful for chilly walks," Roa notes with a faint smile, one hand tapping the leather jacket wrapped around her person. "I'd be glad to walk with you. How have you been, sir, since last we spoke?"
"Then let's walk," replies Gans with a low chortle flavoring his words. He draws back through the doorway, allowing time and space for Roa to precede him into the hall, then pulls the door shut behind them. "Where would you like to walk? I used to go up the long back way around records past the council chambers." So dry, his humor; so self-effacing. He tips his chin down a little, a schoolboy at sixty-seven, abashed. "I'm afraid I've become accustomed to dressing for a cooler trip some time since. The bowl, sometimes; the tunnel, often. The weyrlings, rarely."
"It was your walk, Gans," Roa notes with a soft chuckle. "In this, you shall lead and I shall follow. I would prefer, however, a route that might keep us out of the public eye overmuch." Her hands move to bury themselves in her pockets. "I think Miniyal is cross with me. Well, perhaps not. I frustrate her, I think. I don't entirely understands what it is she wants, but it seems to be something I'm not providing."
"I should hope Miniyal's crossness to be of a kind that would not object particularly to our walking together," tosses back Gans, tugging on one glove with a practiced awkwardness, the second glove still tucked in the palm of his hand. He starts off with purpose down the hall toward the main network of the lower caverns, then holds back a bit on remembrance that he walks behind someone of the height he does, and improves his walk with shorter stride once he's caught the speed of hers. "She would like to be your equal in the sense of humanity, Roa. She resents being used." There is a silent pause as they pass an assistant to one of the headwoman's assistants, someone that Gans offers her a special smile and nod, and receives something of acknowledgment in return. When he speaks again, it is more softly. "I should tell you, I suppose, what it takes - if you intend to keep her."
This will be the second time, then, in their time of knowing one another, that Gans has modified his pace to keep up with a small Roa in a long hallway. She listens in silence for a while, noting, after the assistant passes, "Is that what I'm doing? Using her?" And then a little more listening to his words. "I'm not certain she wishes to be kept. But I would know, at least, how to do so if that were not the case."
"She perceives service to a higher rank as a kind of usefulness, Roa, and she has greater ambition - " A pause, and he becomes somber, sparing a sidelong glance at the weyrwoman to help her understand his sudden sobriety. "I should be most grateful if you would never tell her I used that word." Sobriety gives way to wry bemusement just that quickly. They pass through the main lower cavern, some more nods obliged from each of them as they go. "Still, I think it most appropriate," Gans continues, not missing any further beats. "She has greater ambition than to be useful. She would like to assist, certainly. But she would like to be assisted."
"Assisted in what, though? We have discussed, albeit awkwardly, what she wants for herself. Her answer was that she did not know, she did not wish to know, and it was unfair that I should ask her to find out." Roa lengthens her own pace a little so G'thon does not have to shorten his quite so much. "If she does not know where to begin, how am I to help her?"
"She told you the truth. She does not know what she wants for herself, in these common terms of employment, of service, of personal gain. I suggest you ask her about her other wants." He slows a little as Roa draws out longer strides, then gains speed again, adjusting his own steps to rematch hers. "Those not personal. Begin with vision, perhaps. The thing is: she shall treat you as she believes you treat her." Gans leads, turning into one of the halls that will take them slowly upward toward the tunnels that flank the bowl at ground level, passing through and by the backs of caverns that open out there. "And if she finds her own behaviour in doing so to be loathsome, she'll have to come to quits with it."
"Mmm," is Roa's helpful reply as they pass through tunnels and into caverns. Her gaze drifts down to her feet, watching them and their longer-than-normal strides. "She keeps her secrets very tightly. She wants to know all of mine. But I don't always feel that's because of the job or her integrity. I will try, though, to hear more about her vision. I'm afraid, as of late, I've been a bit too wrapped up in my own to ask."
Back into tunnels and winding passages, bound for the bowl or, if they went far, eventually for the tunnel that leads out of it. There are few people now, and likely fewer ahead - cool air faces them, lurking around curves and turns, blown in from outside. "You might make a simpler performance of it by explaining that vision in broad strokes, Roa. I doubt it would sound unfamiliar to her." Gans tucks his gloved hands into his coat-pockets, his posture suddenly uncharacteristically casual, and fights back an urge to move faster that's apparent in the way he clips back his stride, even now.
Her head ducks down into the collar and against the cold. "Been having some long talks into the night, have you? You and her?" Roa sounds bemused. "And you have things in common? I can't say I'm really surprised. She was so quiet for so long, even now, she seems to dislike having to use her voice to be heard. Why doesn't she use me? If we have so much in common, why not use me to speak for the both of us? For all of us. I don't do it right, in her eyes. Everything has been a mistake, to her. I appreciate the honesty, but there are times where it's tiring."
"We sleep poorly," Gans affords, with one of those self-effacing angling cants of his head, gaze slipping a bemused sideways. "We have had opportunity to talk. How strange, that you and I have not, and yet - " Here he withdraws a gloved hand, overturning it. It hardly looks like his own, cased in coal-hued leather, but the gesture is familiar, a wry spreading of fingers and curving of palm. There you have it. "We hardly need to. Some things are obvious, to the likes of you and I." The hand closes, descends, slips back into its pocket. "I assure you they are obvious to her as well. But you are forward, Roa. Courageous, perhaps; brave, surely." He makes some distinction between the two, thus. "You could come to danger. She's wary. I should be." He turns his head toward her a bit, to give her the full advantage of the champagne-dry sparkle with which he regards her. "But I understand you to be well-cared for."
It is Roa's turn to arch a brow as she steps out into the bracing cold of the bowl. "I did not need to speak, " she notes, "I only needed to listen for things to become clear. As for well-cared for, I suppose that depends on which rumor you happen to listen to at the moment. But if you're asking me, yes. I think I am."
"Then we shall have no more incidents in the baths." There is some bitterness in this, try as he might to disguise it with something that sounds like dry wit. It fails; he knows it fails; in all truth he might not have meant for it to succeed, but this may be less apparent. Discontented with his effort Gans ceases to smile, and in a few steps more ceases to hurry. They are in high visibility, here, but there is minimal traffic; he glances up, eyes bright and unwincing against the chill tallying ledges without even meaning to, a habit that became instinctive tens of turns ago. "I listen to rumors, weyrwoman." She becomes this, 'weyrwoman,' now, outside the comfort of passageways he knows to be half-private. "But that is all. Even without Hirth I have better ears to hear with than those gossip could give me."
"They were never kind, but they've gotten a little nastier. A little more...they're looking for an excuse. Any excuse. I won't be surprised if you end up in the rumors next. We're walking, after all, and speaking to one another. We've even made direct eye contact." Roa is smiling, but there is an edge to her easy tone. A hint of something more than mere bemusement at the stories that float about.
"We have," Gans agrees, though they are most certainly not doing so now, not making this direct eye contact; no, his gaze scans the wall of the bowl, and his expression is more intent than charmed. "And yet I find myself at a loss, were I to try to put to words not just your ambitions, but your designs." Perhaps he finds something he's been looking for; the scan stops, and a moment later he turns and now does face Roa directly, and withdraw from his pocket a hand to offer her. "I have a visit to make, weyrwoman. So the rumor will say we parted company in public, and you may rest assured little will come of it. May I fare you well?"
Her hand, ungloved and reddening in the cold, settled in his leathered palm. She offers nothing in response to his question, or perhaps his invitation. All Roa says, softly, is "I hope your visit is a pleasant one."
Time: Afternoon on Day 22, Month 11, Turn 2
Players: G'thon and Roa
Scene: Things are said and not said, but mostly understood.
The door is closed. But a split-second later, it isn't. Gans, perhaps prepared to leave - he has the greatcoat on, one hand on the door and one in a pocket as if ascertaining the placement of his gloves - appears as the entryway opens. Behind him the room is as usual: tea lately had, a basket on the table which may or may not contain pastry, a couple of books and a number of hides strewn across the writing-desk, a woven throw draped over the back of the divan as extra guard against cold in the sleepless nights the room's occupants spend.
It happens, of course, that the little weyrwoman has made her way down the hall, hand lifted, fingers curled into a fist that is ready to knock at G'thon's door. Except that is it not a door, but a greatcoat, that her knuckles nearly collide with. Roa jerks back, arm pulled down, eyes widening briefly at the unexpected arrival. "Woah," she laughs, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I'll come back when you've a moment."
There's a moment's startle for Gans, too - he'd been looking down, not just down far enough to regard a short-statured goldrider, but down enough that he could check his gloves for left versus right before pulling them on. He glances up quickly, blinking, the gloves clutched in one pale hand, mighty contrast. "I have a moment," he informs her after that surprised beat, smile suddenly present, wry and half-mouthed. "Please," he adds, stepping backwards, angling so he can, with the gloves, suggest her in past him. "I was only going for a walk. Unless you might like to walk with me?"
"Riding coats are useful for chilly walks," Roa notes with a faint smile, one hand tapping the leather jacket wrapped around her person. "I'd be glad to walk with you. How have you been, sir, since last we spoke?"
"Then let's walk," replies Gans with a low chortle flavoring his words. He draws back through the doorway, allowing time and space for Roa to precede him into the hall, then pulls the door shut behind them. "Where would you like to walk? I used to go up the long back way around records past the council chambers." So dry, his humor; so self-effacing. He tips his chin down a little, a schoolboy at sixty-seven, abashed. "I'm afraid I've become accustomed to dressing for a cooler trip some time since. The bowl, sometimes; the tunnel, often. The weyrlings, rarely."
"It was your walk, Gans," Roa notes with a soft chuckle. "In this, you shall lead and I shall follow. I would prefer, however, a route that might keep us out of the public eye overmuch." Her hands move to bury themselves in her pockets. "I think Miniyal is cross with me. Well, perhaps not. I frustrate her, I think. I don't entirely understands what it is she wants, but it seems to be something I'm not providing."
"I should hope Miniyal's crossness to be of a kind that would not object particularly to our walking together," tosses back Gans, tugging on one glove with a practiced awkwardness, the second glove still tucked in the palm of his hand. He starts off with purpose down the hall toward the main network of the lower caverns, then holds back a bit on remembrance that he walks behind someone of the height he does, and improves his walk with shorter stride once he's caught the speed of hers. "She would like to be your equal in the sense of humanity, Roa. She resents being used." There is a silent pause as they pass an assistant to one of the headwoman's assistants, someone that Gans offers her a special smile and nod, and receives something of acknowledgment in return. When he speaks again, it is more softly. "I should tell you, I suppose, what it takes - if you intend to keep her."
This will be the second time, then, in their time of knowing one another, that Gans has modified his pace to keep up with a small Roa in a long hallway. She listens in silence for a while, noting, after the assistant passes, "Is that what I'm doing? Using her?" And then a little more listening to his words. "I'm not certain she wishes to be kept. But I would know, at least, how to do so if that were not the case."
"She perceives service to a higher rank as a kind of usefulness, Roa, and she has greater ambition - " A pause, and he becomes somber, sparing a sidelong glance at the weyrwoman to help her understand his sudden sobriety. "I should be most grateful if you would never tell her I used that word." Sobriety gives way to wry bemusement just that quickly. They pass through the main lower cavern, some more nods obliged from each of them as they go. "Still, I think it most appropriate," Gans continues, not missing any further beats. "She has greater ambition than to be useful. She would like to assist, certainly. But she would like to be assisted."
"Assisted in what, though? We have discussed, albeit awkwardly, what she wants for herself. Her answer was that she did not know, she did not wish to know, and it was unfair that I should ask her to find out." Roa lengthens her own pace a little so G'thon does not have to shorten his quite so much. "If she does not know where to begin, how am I to help her?"
"She told you the truth. She does not know what she wants for herself, in these common terms of employment, of service, of personal gain. I suggest you ask her about her other wants." He slows a little as Roa draws out longer strides, then gains speed again, adjusting his own steps to rematch hers. "Those not personal. Begin with vision, perhaps. The thing is: she shall treat you as she believes you treat her." Gans leads, turning into one of the halls that will take them slowly upward toward the tunnels that flank the bowl at ground level, passing through and by the backs of caverns that open out there. "And if she finds her own behaviour in doing so to be loathsome, she'll have to come to quits with it."
"Mmm," is Roa's helpful reply as they pass through tunnels and into caverns. Her gaze drifts down to her feet, watching them and their longer-than-normal strides. "She keeps her secrets very tightly. She wants to know all of mine. But I don't always feel that's because of the job or her integrity. I will try, though, to hear more about her vision. I'm afraid, as of late, I've been a bit too wrapped up in my own to ask."
Back into tunnels and winding passages, bound for the bowl or, if they went far, eventually for the tunnel that leads out of it. There are few people now, and likely fewer ahead - cool air faces them, lurking around curves and turns, blown in from outside. "You might make a simpler performance of it by explaining that vision in broad strokes, Roa. I doubt it would sound unfamiliar to her." Gans tucks his gloved hands into his coat-pockets, his posture suddenly uncharacteristically casual, and fights back an urge to move faster that's apparent in the way he clips back his stride, even now.
Her head ducks down into the collar and against the cold. "Been having some long talks into the night, have you? You and her?" Roa sounds bemused. "And you have things in common? I can't say I'm really surprised. She was so quiet for so long, even now, she seems to dislike having to use her voice to be heard. Why doesn't she use me? If we have so much in common, why not use me to speak for the both of us? For all of us. I don't do it right, in her eyes. Everything has been a mistake, to her. I appreciate the honesty, but there are times where it's tiring."
"We sleep poorly," Gans affords, with one of those self-effacing angling cants of his head, gaze slipping a bemused sideways. "We have had opportunity to talk. How strange, that you and I have not, and yet - " Here he withdraws a gloved hand, overturning it. It hardly looks like his own, cased in coal-hued leather, but the gesture is familiar, a wry spreading of fingers and curving of palm. There you have it. "We hardly need to. Some things are obvious, to the likes of you and I." The hand closes, descends, slips back into its pocket. "I assure you they are obvious to her as well. But you are forward, Roa. Courageous, perhaps; brave, surely." He makes some distinction between the two, thus. "You could come to danger. She's wary. I should be." He turns his head toward her a bit, to give her the full advantage of the champagne-dry sparkle with which he regards her. "But I understand you to be well-cared for."
It is Roa's turn to arch a brow as she steps out into the bracing cold of the bowl. "I did not need to speak, " she notes, "I only needed to listen for things to become clear. As for well-cared for, I suppose that depends on which rumor you happen to listen to at the moment. But if you're asking me, yes. I think I am."
"Then we shall have no more incidents in the baths." There is some bitterness in this, try as he might to disguise it with something that sounds like dry wit. It fails; he knows it fails; in all truth he might not have meant for it to succeed, but this may be less apparent. Discontented with his effort Gans ceases to smile, and in a few steps more ceases to hurry. They are in high visibility, here, but there is minimal traffic; he glances up, eyes bright and unwincing against the chill tallying ledges without even meaning to, a habit that became instinctive tens of turns ago. "I listen to rumors, weyrwoman." She becomes this, 'weyrwoman,' now, outside the comfort of passageways he knows to be half-private. "But that is all. Even without Hirth I have better ears to hear with than those gossip could give me."
"They were never kind, but they've gotten a little nastier. A little more...they're looking for an excuse. Any excuse. I won't be surprised if you end up in the rumors next. We're walking, after all, and speaking to one another. We've even made direct eye contact." Roa is smiling, but there is an edge to her easy tone. A hint of something more than mere bemusement at the stories that float about.
"We have," Gans agrees, though they are most certainly not doing so now, not making this direct eye contact; no, his gaze scans the wall of the bowl, and his expression is more intent than charmed. "And yet I find myself at a loss, were I to try to put to words not just your ambitions, but your designs." Perhaps he finds something he's been looking for; the scan stops, and a moment later he turns and now does face Roa directly, and withdraw from his pocket a hand to offer her. "I have a visit to make, weyrwoman. So the rumor will say we parted company in public, and you may rest assured little will come of it. May I fare you well?"
Her hand, ungloved and reddening in the cold, settled in his leathered palm. She offers nothing in response to his question, or perhaps his invitation. All Roa says, softly, is "I hope your visit is a pleasant one."