Burnout.
The scoop: T'ral comes to talk with D'ven about the way he's burning the candle at both ends, and to ensure that he gets at least one decent night of sleep.
Weyrlingmaster's Office
Like any office, this one is entirely given over to the business at hand. Large enough to call several weyrlings onto the carpet, should the need exist, its walls are lined with storage cabinets and chests holding everything from spare straps to old records describing antiquated drill lessons to emergency first aid equipment for humans and dragons. The center of the room is taken up by an immense desk and whether it's neat or chaotic depends on the resident weyrlingmaster. A semi-circle of four chairs sit opposite the desk, facing the single chair that decorates its proper side.
Contents:
D'ven
Obvious Exits:
Out (O)
T'ral's entrance is announced briefly by heavy footsteps, and by a few greetings from weyrlings, returned in some way that presumably doesn't involve words. And then the Weyrlingmaster's door flies open, the entirety of the doorway taken up with 6'4 of Bendenite brownrider, grinning broadly. "On your feet, weyrling!" he positively roars, one fist thumping into the doorframe beside him.
D'ven blinks several times, before a broad grin breaks out and he slowly stands. "I do believe that's my line." He comments, even as a salute presents itself. "I bet there's an awful lot of kids out there wondering why I'm not roaring my head off right now. How have you been?"
"Do believe so," T'ral replies, sauntering in. "Word is, you've got it doing good work." The hand that didn't slam against the doorframe comes out from behind his back, to reveal a bottle, and his grin broadens. "Let the kids wonder. Not being sure keeps 'em on their toes, right? I've been good, but thirsty."
"Well, come on in and I'll find us some glasses then." D'ven replies with a laugh, doing exactly that and sliding them across the desk to T'ral. "So what have you been up to, man?"
T'ral pauses only to push the door shut, and it crashes with the amount of force he puts into that gesture. "Not so much," he replies, strolling across to haul out a chair, and thump down into it, ignoring the groans of protest it produces. "But I'm bored, so I'm done leaving you to it. Have a drink, man, kick back. You can afford a bit of time off."
D'ven considers this for a moment, glancing at his schedules. "Yeah, I guess I can at that." He agrees with a nod, leaning back into his own chair as he settles back down. "Been a little while since I've had time off. Long seven or two."
"You know you have a couple of hours without looking at a list to tell you so," T'ral replies with a quick frown, leaning forward as D'ven leans back, so he can pour two drinks. Generous drinks. "Burnout, don't be an idiot," he tells his friend, sliding one drink his way. "The're going to be a while growing up. And then after that, there'll be more. Pace yourself for the long road."
"Yeah, I know, but I want to know what's going on in those two hours." D'ven replies, taking a drink and tipping some of it back quickly. "And yeah, I know. I don't think I risk burnout, but I have to give them my all. Not fair on them otherwise."
"That is something on which we're going to have a lengthy discussion at some point," T'ral replies, lifting his glass, then throwing back most of the contents. "Do any one thing too hard, too long, too often, it pales for you. Spare it a bit, you'll do better by them. Course, it depends whether you want to do your best, or feel like you are."
There's a growl, just for a moment. "You know I don't want to do any less than my best for them, Tiv. But you gotta cut me some slack. I know you care about me, and you're only saying it because you care. But I have /Weyrlings/ who reckon they know how to do my job better than I do." D'ven sighs then, slumping back in his chair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I love it that you've come down here to see me, and the first thing I do is bite your head off." There's a long pause. "Alright, fine, maybe it's getting to me more than I want to admit."
T'ral leans forward slowly, sets down his glass, and picks up the bottle, waggling it at D'ven once more. "It's quite late," he observes. "All you got to be able to do is walk out of here without swaying so they can see, and I know you've got practice at that. So you're knocked off for the evening. Give me your glass, we're drinking up." He pauses, bringing one huge hand up to cover his mouth for a moment, rub over his chin. "I remember a group of weyrlings who thought they had a better idea of how to run things than their weyrlingmaster."
"Yeah, whatever happened to them anyway?" D'ven replies with a thoughtful grin, sliding the glass over as directed. "And yes, I have plenty of practice at walking without swaying. It'll be fine, anyway. Mostly they're all too eager to stay out of my way."
"Got hollered at a lot," T'ral replies with a grin. "Ran a lot of laps of the bowl, plenty of press-ups, and in the end they came out of it pretty well. Made something of themselves." The glass is filled with a quick slosh that runs up the sides, but not over the edges. "Thing is, their weyrlingmaster only /seemed/ to be around all the time."
D'ven shakes his head. "Nah, he was. Either he was, or that bronze of his was, or something who reported to him was. He had eyes /everywhere/." He chuckles at the memory. "Wonder how much he'd yell and swear if he knew what I was doing now, and where I got a lot of my ideas."
"I beg to differ," T'ral replies, taking up his own drink -- not refilled just yet. "He certainly wanted you to think so, though. I watched him later on, when you'd gone to Caucus." He takes another swallow, and wipes his mouth clear with the back of his hand. "I reckon he'd laugh until his drink came out his nose, myself. Perhaps we should go back and see him some time."
"Maybe we should. Could be a lot laugh." D'ven agrees, taking a gulp of his own drink. "I need to find time to go up to Harper, also, or send someone up there for me. Course, it would have to be someone who could be trusted to be discrete."
"Could be," T'ral agrees, looking down at his drink for a moment. "What d'you need with Harper?" He looks up, and grins. "Or does my discretion extend to not asking that question?"
D'ven laughs softly. "Ha, no. I need someone to get me some records. About female greenriders. Oldest records they can find, and anything related of interest. Should really go up myself, but..."
"But, what would be easier would be if someone else went for you," T'ral replies, finishing off his glass, and setting it down as he reaches for the bottle again, lifting his hand to gesture for D'ven's glass. "Hurry up, man. Do harper hold that stuff? Other weyrs wouldn't be better? I suppose if they're that old, maybe harper."
D'ven considers for a moment. "It'd be easier time wise. In terms of me getting what I wanted, it might be better if I went myself to hunt around." He's quick to swallow down the rest and pass the glass over. "Other Weyrs wouldn't have what I wanted. If what I want is anywhere, it's in Harper."
"Let me take a first pass," T'ral volunteers, sitting forward on his chair so he can refill both glasses, not bothering to tip up the bottle as he passes it from one to the other. "If I don't come up with anything, you can go yourself. I can give you an idea about how much there is to go through." He pushes the other glass across, and lifts his with another grin. "Cheers."
D'ven lifts his own glass, smiling. "Cheers." He echoes, before something occurs to him. "No." He suddenly says with a shake of his head. "Bad idea. Bad, bad, idea. It's real kind of you, but I can't send you."
"What?" T'ral's voice holds mild surprise, brows lifting. "Drink up, man," he instructs his friend, before he continues, taking a sip himself to set a good example. "I did something to the harpers to piss them off?"
"No. It's more complicated than that." D'ven replies, taking a gulp of his drink. "I work for High Reaches, Tiv. Just like R'vain and Roa are, when I'm at work, I'm Reaches. Even though it'd be just a favor to me from your point of view, people would notice. See you running an errand for the Weyrlingmaster. Of Reaches. One day Ginella will go back to Benden, and you'll be wanting to go to. This'd send the wrong kind of signal to M'arik."
"What now?" T'ral wrinkles his nose, lifting one large hand to wave off those protests. "I'm a wingrider, and while I'm at Reaches, I'll do my duty, and oblige any senior rider who asks me something. When I'm at Benden, I'll do the same. Going to look at something for you doesn't make me an errand boy. Assuming it's even something which M'arik would even register, which I doubt. You going to keep up with me here, or not?" He lifts his glass, and drinks again.
"M'arik would register it, Tiv. The entire world is watching this Office, right now. And more so, they're watching that Compound outside with that little blue in it." D'ven points out, knocking back more drink at the chastisement. "I'm keeping up, I'm keeping up. And trust me, it's not as simple as that. M'arik is...a proud man, you know that. Everything has meaning to him, sometimes layers of it."
"What M'arik wants to see is me doing my duty, so he can assure himself that that's what I'll do back at Benden," T'ral replies, waving his drink about without downing much of it. "Screw Benden, I've had enough of it lately. Been back to see Ginny there." That news -- his first visit in the turns since his transfer -- is delivered as though it's nothing, swept past. "Didn't feel like I thought it would. Stop being paranoid. Next 'fall's nearly a seven away, and we're not rising for it. I'll get up to Harper tomorrow or the next day."
D'ven frowns thoughtfully. "I'm not being paranoid, Tiv." He replies firmly, even as he drinks more. The news is allowed to be swept past for the moment, for various reasons. "And there's slightly more to it than that. Like I say, everything has layers to him." He lets it drop there, for now. "Am I kept up with you yet, or am I still behind?"
"Whatever, whatever," T'ral replies, waving his hand again, and sweeping away that issue. He's got something else that troubles him more, and he shakes his head slowly, clicking his tongue. "Are you kept...? Man, this is really getting to you. Look, put it this way." There's a flash of a grin, as he downs the contents of his glass, and sets it down on the desk with a thump, and reaches for the bottle. "Here, finish yours off and put your glass down, idiot."
"It's not getting to me." D'ven protests, before finishing the glass and watching the bottle move. "Ok, maybe it is getting to me if I've slipped that far behind." There's a blink several times, as the alcohol begins to hit. "Tiv...why dosn't Ginny like me?"
"I'm telling you," T'ral insists, leaning forward so he can first slosh his own glass full, and then D'ven's. With another shake of his head, he pushes his glass on a careful course around a pile of hides, until it rests in front of his friend. "Down those two, you'll be back on track, you slow bastard. Hurry up, one two!" He barks the last four words, the sort of sharp command that's more fitted to a Weyrlingmaster's role.
"One!" D'ven yells back, slamming the first one back. Before the additional alcohol has time to take effect, he's already grabbed the other glass. "Two!" And there it goes, swiftly returned to the desk empty. "Ummm..." There's a thoughtful frown. "I had a question." And now he can't remember what it was, though so much alcohol so suddenly has him grinning like he dosn't care much anyway.
"Right, right, about Ginny," T'ral agrees, reclaiming his glass, and sliding it back so that he can refill them once more. "She doesn't hate you, she hates when we take off and do what we do. She just goes on and says it's your fault I get home late because she knows damn well I'm far too perfect in every conceivable way," -- the last three words are punctuated by splashes into D'ven's glass -- "for it to be mine. Ready for the next one?"
D'ven frowns at that. "She hates me, Tiv." He replies, somewhat petulently. "Sometimes we get on, then I relax around her and next thing I know she's all cold and unfriendly and sounds like she never wants to speak to me again. I can't keep her friendly for long without something going wrong." At the comment about the next one, he nods and sinks this one as well.
"Jays, man," T'ral replies with a snort, lifting his glass in a toast without actually downing anything. "I was down in the kitchens cadging food this afternoon. I'd say you sound like the girls down there, but they've got better things to do than fret about who likes them. Ginny thinks you're fine. You've got my back, she knows that, and she knows what it means."
"I do not sound like kitchen girls!" D'ven protests indignantly. "Besides, normally I don't give a damn about who likes me. But Ginny's different, since she's so often there when I pay a call on you and she's important to you. But whatever." There's a drunken shrug, which almost tips him out of his chair.
"No," T'ral agrees. "Pitch your voice slightly higher, then you'll have it." The brownrider studies his drink for a moment, then shifts his bulk, coming slowly to his feet. "Start knocking before you charge on in, she gets cranky when she thinks about you catching her in her underwear," he advises sagely.
"I'd say that's nine tenths of it. Now, finish this up so I can haul your ass off and dump you in bed, right?" His own drink is set down solicitously in front of the bronzerider, as he circles the desk.
D'ven growls at the comment about his feet, before grinning slightly at the comment about Ginny. It's a childish grin, apparently the fact that Tiv said underwear being somehow funny. "I guess that would make her cranky." He agrees, before finishing the drink as directed. "Ummm, Tiv. If we've been keeping up..how are you going to dump me in bed? I mean, I feel pretty...pretty good. We're never gonna make it up, man."
"She gets a real frown up," T'ral agrees, clapping D'ven on the shoulder, and carefully tightening his grip there to make sure he doesn't send him slithering from his seat. "Sure we're gonna make it," he continues, getting his hands under the Weyrlingmaster's arms so he can heave, with the aim of getting him on his feet. "I'm holding mine ten times better than you, you're working too hard. I'm telling you, you've got to set this up for the long run, not just surviving the next month. Up you get."
Allowing himself to be hauled about, and getting settled on his feet, D'ven shakes his head. "I'm....I've got a good ten turns in me maybe, way I figure it. Not just a few months." He protests, even as he works to stay on his feet and looking like he's relatively sober/
"You know I win most of my bets," T'ral replies, clapping the bronzerider on one shoulder, and making the movement a shove towards the door. He picks up the bottle with one hand. "And this is the safest bet I'll make all turn: you go on like this, you've got under one turn in you, forget about ten."
D'ven squares his shoulders as best he can, beginning with his friend to make for the door. "Bah, you're just trying to scare me. Never thought I'd make thirty anyway, so there's something." He shakes his head, immediately regretting the motion. "I've got more than a turn in me, even if I do keep up like this."
"Get out there to your dragon," T'ral replies -- he has only drinks in him, and his stride is easy as he follows. "We'll continue this discussion when you're not having to concentrate so hard on missing the doorframe, you dopey bastard. I'm telling you, safest bet I've got. I'd put down marks, except I'm a better friend than to profit from your misfortune. And I intend on slowing you down somehow. Get moving."
D'ven does indeed get moving, though it takes a few tries. "Get to my dragon." He echoes, opening the door and very slowly, stiffly, and carefully beginning to progress to that goal. He's doing a good job, but then he's had a lot of practice. And luckily, the Weyrlings are mostly busy.
The brownrider follows the bronzerider patiently, eyeballing those weyrlings who do look up with a sternness that's usually foreign to him. Darageth, dark and shadowed, is settled beside his bronze brother, but it's not to his own dragon that T'ral heads. Instead, he strides across to Teraneth's head, to stand beside one large eye, and reach up to rap a fist against the bronze hide. "Don't spill him off, he's wobbly," he instructs the dragon, but quietly. Perhaps too quietly to be heard. Certainly his next words are. "He wakes before dawn, you nudge him back asleep. Dara'll be down here to tell you if anyone cries."
Teraneth seems to understand these are words that should not be heard, for the only acknowledgement is a slow, deliberate, breathing out all over T'ral. It's a definite acknowledgement, however, and a flash of gratitude is sent towards Darageth. As Tiv is talking to his dragon, D'ven is ascending. Well, sort of. After a few false starts and failiures, anyway.
"Get a toothpick," T'ral replies, though he slaps at the dragon's nose affectionately, and walks down to watch his rider mount up. "Want the rest of the bottle?" he asks cheerfull, waving it with a grin.
"Sure." D'ven replies, happily reaching for said bottle as best he can with an answering grin. Teraneth merely rumbles in amusement at the affectionate slap, head turning to watch the two men interact.
"Attaboy," T'ral replies, handing it up, and stepping back out of the way, so he's not caught in the backdraft when the bronze rises. Hopefully very carefully.
The bronze does indeed rise extremely carefully, and the entire thing is helped by the fact D'ven is braced for Teraneth's usual take-off. And slowly, gently, the bronze shape makes its way toward the Weyrlingmaster's ledge.
T'ral watches them all the way up, until he can be sure that his friend's dismounted safely. Then he turns back to the dark brown, who has settled with his head angled towards the barracks. "Better take it seriously," he concedes to some silent comment. "Can you ask Ane -- damnit, Benden. Fine then, wake up Br'ce, I need to get home." There's a pause, and then he snorts laughter at some other silent observation, turning to walk out to a particular point in the bowl, to wait for his long-suffering friend.
Weyrlingmaster's Office
Like any office, this one is entirely given over to the business at hand. Large enough to call several weyrlings onto the carpet, should the need exist, its walls are lined with storage cabinets and chests holding everything from spare straps to old records describing antiquated drill lessons to emergency first aid equipment for humans and dragons. The center of the room is taken up by an immense desk and whether it's neat or chaotic depends on the resident weyrlingmaster. A semi-circle of four chairs sit opposite the desk, facing the single chair that decorates its proper side.
Contents:
D'ven
Obvious Exits:
Out (O)
T'ral's entrance is announced briefly by heavy footsteps, and by a few greetings from weyrlings, returned in some way that presumably doesn't involve words. And then the Weyrlingmaster's door flies open, the entirety of the doorway taken up with 6'4 of Bendenite brownrider, grinning broadly. "On your feet, weyrling!" he positively roars, one fist thumping into the doorframe beside him.
D'ven blinks several times, before a broad grin breaks out and he slowly stands. "I do believe that's my line." He comments, even as a salute presents itself. "I bet there's an awful lot of kids out there wondering why I'm not roaring my head off right now. How have you been?"
"Do believe so," T'ral replies, sauntering in. "Word is, you've got it doing good work." The hand that didn't slam against the doorframe comes out from behind his back, to reveal a bottle, and his grin broadens. "Let the kids wonder. Not being sure keeps 'em on their toes, right? I've been good, but thirsty."
"Well, come on in and I'll find us some glasses then." D'ven replies with a laugh, doing exactly that and sliding them across the desk to T'ral. "So what have you been up to, man?"
T'ral pauses only to push the door shut, and it crashes with the amount of force he puts into that gesture. "Not so much," he replies, strolling across to haul out a chair, and thump down into it, ignoring the groans of protest it produces. "But I'm bored, so I'm done leaving you to it. Have a drink, man, kick back. You can afford a bit of time off."
D'ven considers this for a moment, glancing at his schedules. "Yeah, I guess I can at that." He agrees with a nod, leaning back into his own chair as he settles back down. "Been a little while since I've had time off. Long seven or two."
"You know you have a couple of hours without looking at a list to tell you so," T'ral replies with a quick frown, leaning forward as D'ven leans back, so he can pour two drinks. Generous drinks. "Burnout, don't be an idiot," he tells his friend, sliding one drink his way. "The're going to be a while growing up. And then after that, there'll be more. Pace yourself for the long road."
"Yeah, I know, but I want to know what's going on in those two hours." D'ven replies, taking a drink and tipping some of it back quickly. "And yeah, I know. I don't think I risk burnout, but I have to give them my all. Not fair on them otherwise."
"That is something on which we're going to have a lengthy discussion at some point," T'ral replies, lifting his glass, then throwing back most of the contents. "Do any one thing too hard, too long, too often, it pales for you. Spare it a bit, you'll do better by them. Course, it depends whether you want to do your best, or feel like you are."
There's a growl, just for a moment. "You know I don't want to do any less than my best for them, Tiv. But you gotta cut me some slack. I know you care about me, and you're only saying it because you care. But I have /Weyrlings/ who reckon they know how to do my job better than I do." D'ven sighs then, slumping back in his chair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I love it that you've come down here to see me, and the first thing I do is bite your head off." There's a long pause. "Alright, fine, maybe it's getting to me more than I want to admit."
T'ral leans forward slowly, sets down his glass, and picks up the bottle, waggling it at D'ven once more. "It's quite late," he observes. "All you got to be able to do is walk out of here without swaying so they can see, and I know you've got practice at that. So you're knocked off for the evening. Give me your glass, we're drinking up." He pauses, bringing one huge hand up to cover his mouth for a moment, rub over his chin. "I remember a group of weyrlings who thought they had a better idea of how to run things than their weyrlingmaster."
"Yeah, whatever happened to them anyway?" D'ven replies with a thoughtful grin, sliding the glass over as directed. "And yes, I have plenty of practice at walking without swaying. It'll be fine, anyway. Mostly they're all too eager to stay out of my way."
"Got hollered at a lot," T'ral replies with a grin. "Ran a lot of laps of the bowl, plenty of press-ups, and in the end they came out of it pretty well. Made something of themselves." The glass is filled with a quick slosh that runs up the sides, but not over the edges. "Thing is, their weyrlingmaster only /seemed/ to be around all the time."
D'ven shakes his head. "Nah, he was. Either he was, or that bronze of his was, or something who reported to him was. He had eyes /everywhere/." He chuckles at the memory. "Wonder how much he'd yell and swear if he knew what I was doing now, and where I got a lot of my ideas."
"I beg to differ," T'ral replies, taking up his own drink -- not refilled just yet. "He certainly wanted you to think so, though. I watched him later on, when you'd gone to Caucus." He takes another swallow, and wipes his mouth clear with the back of his hand. "I reckon he'd laugh until his drink came out his nose, myself. Perhaps we should go back and see him some time."
"Maybe we should. Could be a lot laugh." D'ven agrees, taking a gulp of his own drink. "I need to find time to go up to Harper, also, or send someone up there for me. Course, it would have to be someone who could be trusted to be discrete."
"Could be," T'ral agrees, looking down at his drink for a moment. "What d'you need with Harper?" He looks up, and grins. "Or does my discretion extend to not asking that question?"
D'ven laughs softly. "Ha, no. I need someone to get me some records. About female greenriders. Oldest records they can find, and anything related of interest. Should really go up myself, but..."
"But, what would be easier would be if someone else went for you," T'ral replies, finishing off his glass, and setting it down as he reaches for the bottle again, lifting his hand to gesture for D'ven's glass. "Hurry up, man. Do harper hold that stuff? Other weyrs wouldn't be better? I suppose if they're that old, maybe harper."
D'ven considers for a moment. "It'd be easier time wise. In terms of me getting what I wanted, it might be better if I went myself to hunt around." He's quick to swallow down the rest and pass the glass over. "Other Weyrs wouldn't have what I wanted. If what I want is anywhere, it's in Harper."
"Let me take a first pass," T'ral volunteers, sitting forward on his chair so he can refill both glasses, not bothering to tip up the bottle as he passes it from one to the other. "If I don't come up with anything, you can go yourself. I can give you an idea about how much there is to go through." He pushes the other glass across, and lifts his with another grin. "Cheers."
D'ven lifts his own glass, smiling. "Cheers." He echoes, before something occurs to him. "No." He suddenly says with a shake of his head. "Bad idea. Bad, bad, idea. It's real kind of you, but I can't send you."
"What?" T'ral's voice holds mild surprise, brows lifting. "Drink up, man," he instructs his friend, before he continues, taking a sip himself to set a good example. "I did something to the harpers to piss them off?"
"No. It's more complicated than that." D'ven replies, taking a gulp of his drink. "I work for High Reaches, Tiv. Just like R'vain and Roa are, when I'm at work, I'm Reaches. Even though it'd be just a favor to me from your point of view, people would notice. See you running an errand for the Weyrlingmaster. Of Reaches. One day Ginella will go back to Benden, and you'll be wanting to go to. This'd send the wrong kind of signal to M'arik."
"What now?" T'ral wrinkles his nose, lifting one large hand to wave off those protests. "I'm a wingrider, and while I'm at Reaches, I'll do my duty, and oblige any senior rider who asks me something. When I'm at Benden, I'll do the same. Going to look at something for you doesn't make me an errand boy. Assuming it's even something which M'arik would even register, which I doubt. You going to keep up with me here, or not?" He lifts his glass, and drinks again.
"M'arik would register it, Tiv. The entire world is watching this Office, right now. And more so, they're watching that Compound outside with that little blue in it." D'ven points out, knocking back more drink at the chastisement. "I'm keeping up, I'm keeping up. And trust me, it's not as simple as that. M'arik is...a proud man, you know that. Everything has meaning to him, sometimes layers of it."
"What M'arik wants to see is me doing my duty, so he can assure himself that that's what I'll do back at Benden," T'ral replies, waving his drink about without downing much of it. "Screw Benden, I've had enough of it lately. Been back to see Ginny there." That news -- his first visit in the turns since his transfer -- is delivered as though it's nothing, swept past. "Didn't feel like I thought it would. Stop being paranoid. Next 'fall's nearly a seven away, and we're not rising for it. I'll get up to Harper tomorrow or the next day."
D'ven frowns thoughtfully. "I'm not being paranoid, Tiv." He replies firmly, even as he drinks more. The news is allowed to be swept past for the moment, for various reasons. "And there's slightly more to it than that. Like I say, everything has layers to him." He lets it drop there, for now. "Am I kept up with you yet, or am I still behind?"
"Whatever, whatever," T'ral replies, waving his hand again, and sweeping away that issue. He's got something else that troubles him more, and he shakes his head slowly, clicking his tongue. "Are you kept...? Man, this is really getting to you. Look, put it this way." There's a flash of a grin, as he downs the contents of his glass, and sets it down on the desk with a thump, and reaches for the bottle. "Here, finish yours off and put your glass down, idiot."
"It's not getting to me." D'ven protests, before finishing the glass and watching the bottle move. "Ok, maybe it is getting to me if I've slipped that far behind." There's a blink several times, as the alcohol begins to hit. "Tiv...why dosn't Ginny like me?"
"I'm telling you," T'ral insists, leaning forward so he can first slosh his own glass full, and then D'ven's. With another shake of his head, he pushes his glass on a careful course around a pile of hides, until it rests in front of his friend. "Down those two, you'll be back on track, you slow bastard. Hurry up, one two!" He barks the last four words, the sort of sharp command that's more fitted to a Weyrlingmaster's role.
"One!" D'ven yells back, slamming the first one back. Before the additional alcohol has time to take effect, he's already grabbed the other glass. "Two!" And there it goes, swiftly returned to the desk empty. "Ummm..." There's a thoughtful frown. "I had a question." And now he can't remember what it was, though so much alcohol so suddenly has him grinning like he dosn't care much anyway.
"Right, right, about Ginny," T'ral agrees, reclaiming his glass, and sliding it back so that he can refill them once more. "She doesn't hate you, she hates when we take off and do what we do. She just goes on and says it's your fault I get home late because she knows damn well I'm far too perfect in every conceivable way," -- the last three words are punctuated by splashes into D'ven's glass -- "for it to be mine. Ready for the next one?"
D'ven frowns at that. "She hates me, Tiv." He replies, somewhat petulently. "Sometimes we get on, then I relax around her and next thing I know she's all cold and unfriendly and sounds like she never wants to speak to me again. I can't keep her friendly for long without something going wrong." At the comment about the next one, he nods and sinks this one as well.
"Jays, man," T'ral replies with a snort, lifting his glass in a toast without actually downing anything. "I was down in the kitchens cadging food this afternoon. I'd say you sound like the girls down there, but they've got better things to do than fret about who likes them. Ginny thinks you're fine. You've got my back, she knows that, and she knows what it means."
"I do not sound like kitchen girls!" D'ven protests indignantly. "Besides, normally I don't give a damn about who likes me. But Ginny's different, since she's so often there when I pay a call on you and she's important to you. But whatever." There's a drunken shrug, which almost tips him out of his chair.
"No," T'ral agrees. "Pitch your voice slightly higher, then you'll have it." The brownrider studies his drink for a moment, then shifts his bulk, coming slowly to his feet. "Start knocking before you charge on in, she gets cranky when she thinks about you catching her in her underwear," he advises sagely.
"I'd say that's nine tenths of it. Now, finish this up so I can haul your ass off and dump you in bed, right?" His own drink is set down solicitously in front of the bronzerider, as he circles the desk.
D'ven growls at the comment about his feet, before grinning slightly at the comment about Ginny. It's a childish grin, apparently the fact that Tiv said underwear being somehow funny. "I guess that would make her cranky." He agrees, before finishing the drink as directed. "Ummm, Tiv. If we've been keeping up..how are you going to dump me in bed? I mean, I feel pretty...pretty good. We're never gonna make it up, man."
"She gets a real frown up," T'ral agrees, clapping D'ven on the shoulder, and carefully tightening his grip there to make sure he doesn't send him slithering from his seat. "Sure we're gonna make it," he continues, getting his hands under the Weyrlingmaster's arms so he can heave, with the aim of getting him on his feet. "I'm holding mine ten times better than you, you're working too hard. I'm telling you, you've got to set this up for the long run, not just surviving the next month. Up you get."
Allowing himself to be hauled about, and getting settled on his feet, D'ven shakes his head. "I'm....I've got a good ten turns in me maybe, way I figure it. Not just a few months." He protests, even as he works to stay on his feet and looking like he's relatively sober/
"You know I win most of my bets," T'ral replies, clapping the bronzerider on one shoulder, and making the movement a shove towards the door. He picks up the bottle with one hand. "And this is the safest bet I'll make all turn: you go on like this, you've got under one turn in you, forget about ten."
D'ven squares his shoulders as best he can, beginning with his friend to make for the door. "Bah, you're just trying to scare me. Never thought I'd make thirty anyway, so there's something." He shakes his head, immediately regretting the motion. "I've got more than a turn in me, even if I do keep up like this."
"Get out there to your dragon," T'ral replies -- he has only drinks in him, and his stride is easy as he follows. "We'll continue this discussion when you're not having to concentrate so hard on missing the doorframe, you dopey bastard. I'm telling you, safest bet I've got. I'd put down marks, except I'm a better friend than to profit from your misfortune. And I intend on slowing you down somehow. Get moving."
D'ven does indeed get moving, though it takes a few tries. "Get to my dragon." He echoes, opening the door and very slowly, stiffly, and carefully beginning to progress to that goal. He's doing a good job, but then he's had a lot of practice. And luckily, the Weyrlings are mostly busy.
The brownrider follows the bronzerider patiently, eyeballing those weyrlings who do look up with a sternness that's usually foreign to him. Darageth, dark and shadowed, is settled beside his bronze brother, but it's not to his own dragon that T'ral heads. Instead, he strides across to Teraneth's head, to stand beside one large eye, and reach up to rap a fist against the bronze hide. "Don't spill him off, he's wobbly," he instructs the dragon, but quietly. Perhaps too quietly to be heard. Certainly his next words are. "He wakes before dawn, you nudge him back asleep. Dara'll be down here to tell you if anyone cries."
Teraneth seems to understand these are words that should not be heard, for the only acknowledgement is a slow, deliberate, breathing out all over T'ral. It's a definite acknowledgement, however, and a flash of gratitude is sent towards Darageth. As Tiv is talking to his dragon, D'ven is ascending. Well, sort of. After a few false starts and failiures, anyway.
"Get a toothpick," T'ral replies, though he slaps at the dragon's nose affectionately, and walks down to watch his rider mount up. "Want the rest of the bottle?" he asks cheerfull, waving it with a grin.
"Sure." D'ven replies, happily reaching for said bottle as best he can with an answering grin. Teraneth merely rumbles in amusement at the affectionate slap, head turning to watch the two men interact.
"Attaboy," T'ral replies, handing it up, and stepping back out of the way, so he's not caught in the backdraft when the bronze rises. Hopefully very carefully.
The bronze does indeed rise extremely carefully, and the entire thing is helped by the fact D'ven is braced for Teraneth's usual take-off. And slowly, gently, the bronze shape makes its way toward the Weyrlingmaster's ledge.
T'ral watches them all the way up, until he can be sure that his friend's dismounted safely. Then he turns back to the dark brown, who has settled with his head angled towards the barracks. "Better take it seriously," he concedes to some silent comment. "Can you ask Ane -- damnit, Benden. Fine then, wake up Br'ce, I need to get home." There's a pause, and then he snorts laughter at some other silent observation, turning to walk out to a particular point in the bowl, to wait for his long-suffering friend.