Promotion
R'vain summons T'ral to his weyr. They discuss wing reform, and R'vain makes T'ral an offer he wisely chooses to accept.
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 19:01 on day 12, month 10, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
Ruvoth's requests, Threadfall and drills aside, tend to be just that: requests. There is always (or almost always) a sense that the big bronze is a little bit inclined to roll over and beg for belly-rubbings instead of commanding his will. His rider, too, tends to err on the side of permissiveness; jovial men suit him better on the ground and trouble him not at all in the sky, and as he might himself point out, who's he to discipline them during their personal hours, anyway?
But today saw Thread at High Reaches Hold, which always makes the Weyrleader a little edgy, and tonight Ruvoth does not only call, but command. << He wishes to see yours, >> begins the somber refrain, not to be completed with 'as soon as convenient' or anything such like. Ruvoth curls a little tighter on his ledge, making room already; the drape is drawn back, light and shadow from the fire playing on the walls within. << Come. >>
Last 'fall, over Tillek, Darageth and T'ral rose. This day, their wing played no part, and they're rested. Darageth's dark and shadowed mind lacks the tired edge that trails after many of the dragons who exerted themselves today. He notes, acknowledges, and withdraws -- it's only five minutes before he touches down, in the bare minimum of harness necessary to give his rider something to hang onto. T'ral perhaps had plans, for he's wearing a decent shirt, clean pants. "Sir?" His call is cheerful, announcing his presence as he crashes down to the ground beside his dragon, and makes his way past the drawn-back drape.
In the weyr, there's quiet-- but R'vain's weyr is usually quiet, or inasmuch as he invites people here, it is quiet when they arrive. The fire crackles; Ruvoth rumbles hello as T'ral walks by and offers a wordless similarity of greeting for little-spoken Darageth. Otherwise there's silence broken only by the distant echo of sounds in the bowl outside. R'vain, rather than enjoying the fire on his sofa or sprawling with wine in a chair, sits behind the desk with elbow on its surface, cheek against his palm, one of the big books of hides out of records open before him. There's a pen and ink, way out at the corner of the desk where they're probably only within reach if he stretches. And though he should know, from Ruvoth and from that echoed 'sir' that T'ral approaches, R'vain only looks up when he hears the drape whisper, when he might expect to actually have the brownrider in view. "Pull up a chair," he rumbles, then.
T'ral's step falters as he makes his appearance, and the brownrider turns his head to complete a quick survey of the room. The Weyrleader's voice directs him, and he turns to cross over to the desk, hand settling on the back of the chair set out for guests. For a moment he seems set to disobey, fingers curling right around it -- then he hauls it out, and thumps down into it in silence. His head turns, in the beginning of a glance back towards his dragon, but the movement halts, and corrects itself, and he glances back to the bronzerider.
Darageth has companionable enough company-- but that's a measure that would assume Ruvoth is some other bronze. Some nobler, more withdrawn bronze, suited to some other Weyrleader. Ruvoth would be, if not effusive, at least friendly; tonight he is simply there, mind all but empty for all it seems open. Perhaps he just has nothing to say. His tail might think otherwise-- it twitches spastically-- but that is all.
"Thank you," rumbles the Weyrleader, as if maybe he's aware that there might have been a moment's resistance there. He lifts his head and with the hand that just held it, flips down a wriggle of fingers to display the pages to which the records book is open, below. It faces T'ral, and holds what is-- even after a few modifications that the Weyrleader must have very recently, like in the last hour, penned into the margin-- recognizable as the 3A roster. There are a few pairs pulled from 3C, including three of Bendenite origin; so that might explain why R'vain asks, "D'you see problems likely with this setup?"
T'ral's brows crowd together in thought, and he settles on the edge of his seat, leaning forward so he can settle his hands on his knees, and inspect the chart without touching it. "Br'ce'll be pissed, if that's a problem," he offers absently, before he lapses into silent study once more, teeth catching at his lower lip. "I haven't watched 3A much, sir, but I've watched 3C, and you've got some of the nimbler ones here." His gaze lifts to R'vain, though he stays where he is, leaned over the roster. "Was that intentional?"
"Br'ce'll have t'work it out with me," R'vain rumbles, "But he knows I'm doing a little lifting, knows I expect him t'train some /new/ nimbler ones." He looks up with a flash of a grin, brief, then turns his gaze back down to the book with brows pulling down. "Yeah. Intentional. Be a strength f'th'new wingleader there. More t'his talents in th'sky." All of this is spoken in a distant rumble, a thundercloud a long way off, no threat to field or farm-- omen, but not ominous. Again, the bronzerider flicks up a look, this one more serious, and readdresses what he apparently considers the greater concern. "Still figure he'll be pissed. Ain't a problem, I expect it."
"Br'ce being pissed is a pretty mild experience," T'ral replies with a shrug, easing back in his chair, making himself comfortable. "He splutters a little. For you, probably a very little. Just give him a long look, congratulate him on his devotion to duty, you're done." The big brownrider shrugs, and dusts his hands together. Done, just like that. "If you want 3A flexible, then that's what you'll have. I was saying to Br'ce recently, I wouldn't wonder if you took one of his lads for 1C. We're losing one of our greens, pregnant, and his are good."
"Could do it," R'vain allows. "Hadn't got farther than this, and a little thinking on three-bee, and Br'ce-- " Sure, there's more there. But the Weyrleader's letting it go with a ripple of his shoulders and leaning back so his posture echoes T'ral's, bringing up his paws onto the chair's arms to perch like a statue lion's. "Don't want t'wreck three-cee. Am aiming t'mesh it a little more with th'rest of th'wings. Where d'you think I should pull replacements from? F'these." Another wriggle of fingers defines the names noted in the margins on the pages below. "Don't want t'shuffle too much, but-- if it's going t'be done." He shrugs and looks up, a brow relaxing, eyes a little keen. May as well be now?
T'ral pushes his lower lip out thoughtfully for a moment, tilting his head to one side, then the other -- a sort of a horizontal shrug. "Round the Wingleaders up, let them play poker for the best wingriders," he offers with a grin. He leans forward once more, though, obliging, to run his eyes down the page. "They're a little separate from the rest of the wings, so many Bendenites, but they're bloody good at what they do. Does it matter, so long as they've got loyalty within their wing? Or is it," -- and he glances up here, thoughtful -- "that they're bloody good at what they do? If you're taking out flexible ones, you need to put the same back. You could rotate down from the first flight. Ours get very good at the zippy stuff."
"Considered it," R'vain rumbles, of playing poker for the wingriders, but the smirk with which he makes this remark defies any chance at truth it might have had. It just fills space, affirms that he's listening-- and listening is absolutely his domain for a little time, for the bronzerider rests behind his desk and watches, attentive, brows low, eyes narrowed, like there's more in T'ral's words to hear than the words themselves. "Thinking on a little tuning in one-ay," he admits, slowly, like he's thinking about it in real time rather than some time before now. "Here," and all of a sudden he lunges into life, leaning over the desk so he can stretch out a paw to turn pages until it's his own wing's roster shown. "Ideas." Apparently that's a request.
T'ral accepts that measuring glance from the Weyrleader for a few moments, then elects to return to his study of the page before him. The bronzerider's hand comes into his view, therefore, and he eases back an inch as he pages flip over, before leaning in to examine them once more. "I'm never in the air with your wing, sir," he begins, one hand coming up to rub over his shorn hair, as though he's feeling out the bristles. "I've seen you drilling, I thought your blues and greens looked pretty good. You looked balanced, but I'm not telling you anything you don't know."
R'vain glances up at the motion of T'ral's hand, and the grin he gets on then, twisted and full of teeth, is not a 'sir' grin-- so whatever remark might have been held behind it remains behind it, though twitching beneath his eyes and at the corners of his mouth suggest it takes a little work to bite back the thought. He has to look down at the book to get to where speaking's even a possibility. "Yeah, yeah," sounds too happy, not nearly dismissive enough. "But if you were /going/ t'make changes. Not sure I want t'do too much t'th'other first wings-- better me than them, eh?-- unless you see real need, in bee or cee, t'shift someone down t'three-cee for that 'zippy' stuff." Upglance, brow crooked.
If T'ral has in mind what it might be that's caused the red man opposite him to bite back his response, he doesn't put voice to it either, merely observing the mirth he's caused, and slowly running his hand back until it rests at the back of his neck. He joins R'vain in studying the page once more, pushing out one cheek with his tongue. Prolonged silence, and then abruptly, words, as though the brownrider made some effort to hold them back. "If you want to try something with your wing, why don't you have more of the younger riders in it? There's some young bronzes in the second flight that're agile, and they want to impress you, they want you to know them. Get some of them up into your wing, where you can see them all the time, get to know them. Tomorrow's Wingleaders, however trite it sounds. Let them fly together, so they know each other, and under you, so you know their strengths, and so you can build the loyalty that you get in a wing, not just in a weyr." As abruptly as he began, he halts, easing back in his chair once more. "That'd be quite disruptive, though."
And for all of that R'vain answers, initially, with just a soft rumble, an 'mmm' of thoughtful consideration. He draws back his hands from the book and perches them again on the chair's arms, moving slowly, shoulders shifting as if he's need of stretching the joints. "Mmm," he allows again, twisting his mouth around it so it has a different tone, like he's thought of something else. This time the something bears explanation. "Wouldn't be bad. Do it a little at a time, over a month, won't be /too/ rough on th'second flight wings. There'd be some competition, maybe." The grin appears, sprawling over his mouth, betraying perfect teeth. "You manage that kind've thing better'n me."
T'ral doesn't look like a man who's waiting for judgment to be pronounced, but his mouth quirks a little at R'vain's first words. "It wouldn't be too rough, you'd be giving them first flight riders in return. Who could complain?" He pauses, and tilts his head to one side. "Barring the first flight riders. You'd want to watch that pretty carefully, I suppose." He shrugs, shoulders rising and falling. It'll be for someone other than him to be pretty careful. "Manage what, sir? Competition? Or disruption?" His own mischief matches R'vain's, there.
"Might be a couple. One or two. Three at th'outside. Who'd like t'get out of my wing anyway." R'vain is not quite good enough-- skilled enough maybe, but not a good enough man-- to have said this deadpan; the wicked gleam fails to leave his eyes and the smirky grin fails to leave his mouth. He does have decency enough to look down at the records pages afterward, to even reach out and drum his fingers meaninglessly on the page: dum de dum. "Th'former was what I meant, though s'well as disruption seems t'follow you 'round I figure you've got a handle on that too." A beat; he looks up. "Y'might need it."
Maybe to another audience T'ral would have a deadpan response -- for R'vain, he allows himself another quirk of his lips, a flash of that smile in his eyes before he follows the Weyrleader's example. He looks away, rather than down, to where his shadowy brown is crouched next to the bronze on the ledge. Darageth has not sprawled, but remains curled, as though he might move at any moment. "No disruption since I got here, sir," T'ral corrects the Weyrleader, faintly uncomfortable at that label. "That's what got me here in the first place, and I haven't gone near it since. I won't, either, it was a mistake."
"Maybe I got a real low expectation of 'disruption,'" rumbles the bronzerider, leaning back again, drawing back his finger-drumming paw from the book and then from the desk onto his lap. "But somehow I don't think that's th'mismatch between what I said and what you're hearin'." R'vain taps a finger on the arm of his chair, taptaptap, a very soft sound that's very unlike him to make, and runs his tongue over his teeth, more to the point. His gaze sinks, falling to something on his side of the desk-- on its face, not its surface. "I ain't afraid of a little disruption. Sometimes it's th'only way you get things done."
T'ral nods, non-committal, now. "In my case, causing a disruption got my ass transferred out of Benden, and left me here, proving to a new Wingleader that I wasn't --" He shrugs, looking back to the bronzerider once more. "Anyway," he concludes, obliquely, adding a shrug for punctuation, at this ungramattical end to his sentence.
R'vain's nodding before T'ral's done. There's a rumble real low, somewhere in the back of his throat-- it's a laugh, a chuckle at least. His gaze drops a little more, red lashes lowering over emerald slits, making him look almost sleepy as he shakes his head. "Sometime I'll tell you what I make of that. Sometime when I ain't so recently educated about it as I am now." He holds his pose for a moment, then peels it away one bit at a time: lashes rising, gaze rising, head raising. "Sometime," he says, unsmiling, yet not quite serious-- there's a warmth in his voice that defies sternness-- "you'll tell me." This said, he's instantly in motion, leaning forward, pawing open the lone drawer of his desk. "C'mere." Like, closer?
Sometime, T'ral will tell that story, but not today. Today he's a touch too uncertain, head lifting abruptly in response to that summons. To come closer requires that he rise and circle the desk, or that he haul his chair forward. He settles, for now, for shifting to the edge of it, hands on his knees, and asking a question. "Sir?"
R'vain flips out of the drawer a knot with a simple fling of fingers; it arcs up a few inches, then skids to a halt onto the record lain open between them. Wingsecond's in make, Reaches' colors, not quite finished-- it waits still for the thread that belongs to its new bearer, to his dragon's hide. But R'vain's paw keeps moving, and his eyes are on the drawer, not the knot he's just turned out of it. What he hunts for, in that drawer, is harder to scramble out from the stuff stored therein. "C'mere," he repeats. "I want you close enough I can black your eye, y'say no."
R'vain's eyes are on the drawer, so there's no chance for him to spy T'ral's widening, or his hands shifting so he can dry his palms off against his pants. "Sir," he replies evenly, unfolding slowly, and coming to his feet, so he can circle the desk. "I like my eyes. Girls say they're one of my best features." Which indicates, perhaps, that he does not intend on offering an excuse to black either of them.
"Your girl'd thank me," R'vain points out, sounding pretty damned certain of this statement. He glances up, paw paused in the drawer-- T'ral will be able to see why it takes the Weyrleader a while to find what he wants, for in that drawer rests all manner of things, knots all tangled and wingbadges and a broken stylus and three dice (one of which has had the dots inked in by someone very bored) and a wooden knitting needle that's splintered at one end and some random string and a spare thread that looks like Ruvoth's and a blue button with a velvet cover and a woman's hair comb and-- anyway, R'vain glances up, blinking once before his eyes narrow and shift to their corners, a sparing gesture at the knot on the records. "Pick that up, you ain't daft." And he looks back into the drawer, fishing more slowly now with fingertips suddenly agile, separating out wingbadges into small lumpy piles.
The Weyrleader's prediction as to Ginella's response draws a faint smile from her weyrmate, who inclines his head to concede that point, looking down at the drawer for a moment. "Yessir," he murmurs, after he's had his moment, reaching out to claim the knot -- it lies in his palm for brief inspection, spread there, and then he closes his fingers over it. "I mean, no sir. I do my best not to be."
"Nerves don't serve you," notes R'vain, casual, and plucks out into his paw the badge he's looking for. Thanks to the splayed, curved shield of his hand and fingers its shape and make are a blur until he lifts it up, flat in his palm, for the brownrider to inspect. To take. He wastes no real time in doing this, shoving the drawer shut with his elbow and turning toward T'ral so he can look up from his seated position-- quite a ways up, then-- and gauge the expression that will witness the first wing's badge waiting in its wingleader's hand.
After a quick beat, the Weyrleader does curl a loose fist by his hip and heft it. Just in case.
"Well no," T'ral allows, turning his new knot over in his fingers. "But if there's a time to be nervous, it's -- oh, shit --" His sentence swerves, and changes direction seamlessly, as he identifies the badge waiting in the bronzerider's hand. "Are you kidding me, man?" There goes his formality. The hand that isn't busy holding onto his new knot comes up to take the badge, balks, then reaches forward to take custody of it. "Shit, /seriously/?"
R'vain does not seem to see the humor-- and when the brownrider's hand balks, the fist at the Weyrleader's side hefts a little higher, wrist twitching up to show the knuckles. T'ral was warned, after all! But then the badge is swept out of his freckled hand and R'vain lets out a sigh that sounds a little too much like relief, slumping, hands falling to the chair's arms for their usual curled perches there. "Serious," he says, needlessly; he looks serious enough, and a little tired. But in another breath's time he finds, and provides, a bit of a weary grin, teeth sparingly glinting. "You got plans f'morning?"
"Serious," T'ral echoes quietly, looking down at the knot and badge in his hands, and missing the weary grin. "I don't have plans any more, do I?" He shifts, stuffing his new decorations into one pocket, and shifts his attention to the bronzerider once more. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best not to fuck it up. I --" He cuts off there, not nervous now, but rather careful, shifting his weight once more. "I have questions. Another time, when you're not sacked out after 'fall."
"You can have plans," R'vain shrugs. "You do, it means we're a day later on making out th'list of these bronzeriders I'm going t'move." He shoves back the chair, making enough space that he can get to his feet without looming close enough to the brownrider to make a blackened eye seem likely after all. "Best way not t'fuck it up, I'll tell you right now: don't get killed." Beat. Grin. "Nothing new t'you, man. G'wan, you were going somewhere t'night, don't let me stop you." He tips down his head, tips down his eyelashes, looks up through the bars of that lurid, splayed cage. "Benden?"
T'ral grins, the good-natured, boyish grin that opens his face, and suits him so well. "Breathing's my second best feature, right after my eyes," he replies, almost laughing. "I was just -- yeah, Tillek. That bar, actually, that you showed us." A step back, preparatory to taking his leave, and the grin threatens to broaden further. "I'll come back in the morning." With a shake of his head, the name of his former weyr is promptly dismissed. "What about Benden? I've heard of the place, sure."
Red brows fly up with a speed they rarely know, a suddenness they rarely accomplish. Severe as they may be, R'vain's emotions are not generally so fast to betray themselves. He stretches his jaw, however, backs up a step so his legs bump against the chair behind him, turns his head one way and the other, and lets that go with a slow exhalation. "Don't have t'be early. When y'ready." He grins, tips down a nod toward the badge, the knot. "I'll save making y'girl angry with me f'imposing on y'time f'next sevenday. She can love me f'that long."
"Right, will do," T'ral replies, failing utterly to diminish his grin. "I think she'll be looking on you with a kindly eye for a little time yet," he predicts of Ginella, stepping back once more. "Thank you, sir." One last pass at that gratefulness, and then his hand comes up in an automatic salute, as he takes his leave, turning for where Darageth already has his head up, and is unfurling his wings, quiet as ever.
R'vain returns the salute, but saves his grin-- relieved-- for T'ral's back. Then the Weyrleader can slump in safety into the chair waiting behind him and let out a huge, cheek-blowing sigh. Ruvoth has to wait for the brown to be off before he can lift his head and let out a loud, long rumble of satisfaction, mind instantly swirling with suppressed thoughts, and in a moment more he's off from his ledge on the wing toward another.
Thank you, R'vain. Such a kickass scene.
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 19:01 on day 12, month 10, turn 3 of the 7th Pass.
Ruvoth's requests, Threadfall and drills aside, tend to be just that: requests. There is always (or almost always) a sense that the big bronze is a little bit inclined to roll over and beg for belly-rubbings instead of commanding his will. His rider, too, tends to err on the side of permissiveness; jovial men suit him better on the ground and trouble him not at all in the sky, and as he might himself point out, who's he to discipline them during their personal hours, anyway?
But today saw Thread at High Reaches Hold, which always makes the Weyrleader a little edgy, and tonight Ruvoth does not only call, but command. << He wishes to see yours, >> begins the somber refrain, not to be completed with 'as soon as convenient' or anything such like. Ruvoth curls a little tighter on his ledge, making room already; the drape is drawn back, light and shadow from the fire playing on the walls within. << Come. >>
Last 'fall, over Tillek, Darageth and T'ral rose. This day, their wing played no part, and they're rested. Darageth's dark and shadowed mind lacks the tired edge that trails after many of the dragons who exerted themselves today. He notes, acknowledges, and withdraws -- it's only five minutes before he touches down, in the bare minimum of harness necessary to give his rider something to hang onto. T'ral perhaps had plans, for he's wearing a decent shirt, clean pants. "Sir?" His call is cheerful, announcing his presence as he crashes down to the ground beside his dragon, and makes his way past the drawn-back drape.
In the weyr, there's quiet-- but R'vain's weyr is usually quiet, or inasmuch as he invites people here, it is quiet when they arrive. The fire crackles; Ruvoth rumbles hello as T'ral walks by and offers a wordless similarity of greeting for little-spoken Darageth. Otherwise there's silence broken only by the distant echo of sounds in the bowl outside. R'vain, rather than enjoying the fire on his sofa or sprawling with wine in a chair, sits behind the desk with elbow on its surface, cheek against his palm, one of the big books of hides out of records open before him. There's a pen and ink, way out at the corner of the desk where they're probably only within reach if he stretches. And though he should know, from Ruvoth and from that echoed 'sir' that T'ral approaches, R'vain only looks up when he hears the drape whisper, when he might expect to actually have the brownrider in view. "Pull up a chair," he rumbles, then.
T'ral's step falters as he makes his appearance, and the brownrider turns his head to complete a quick survey of the room. The Weyrleader's voice directs him, and he turns to cross over to the desk, hand settling on the back of the chair set out for guests. For a moment he seems set to disobey, fingers curling right around it -- then he hauls it out, and thumps down into it in silence. His head turns, in the beginning of a glance back towards his dragon, but the movement halts, and corrects itself, and he glances back to the bronzerider.
Darageth has companionable enough company-- but that's a measure that would assume Ruvoth is some other bronze. Some nobler, more withdrawn bronze, suited to some other Weyrleader. Ruvoth would be, if not effusive, at least friendly; tonight he is simply there, mind all but empty for all it seems open. Perhaps he just has nothing to say. His tail might think otherwise-- it twitches spastically-- but that is all.
"Thank you," rumbles the Weyrleader, as if maybe he's aware that there might have been a moment's resistance there. He lifts his head and with the hand that just held it, flips down a wriggle of fingers to display the pages to which the records book is open, below. It faces T'ral, and holds what is-- even after a few modifications that the Weyrleader must have very recently, like in the last hour, penned into the margin-- recognizable as the 3A roster. There are a few pairs pulled from 3C, including three of Bendenite origin; so that might explain why R'vain asks, "D'you see problems likely with this setup?"
T'ral's brows crowd together in thought, and he settles on the edge of his seat, leaning forward so he can settle his hands on his knees, and inspect the chart without touching it. "Br'ce'll be pissed, if that's a problem," he offers absently, before he lapses into silent study once more, teeth catching at his lower lip. "I haven't watched 3A much, sir, but I've watched 3C, and you've got some of the nimbler ones here." His gaze lifts to R'vain, though he stays where he is, leaned over the roster. "Was that intentional?"
"Br'ce'll have t'work it out with me," R'vain rumbles, "But he knows I'm doing a little lifting, knows I expect him t'train some /new/ nimbler ones." He looks up with a flash of a grin, brief, then turns his gaze back down to the book with brows pulling down. "Yeah. Intentional. Be a strength f'th'new wingleader there. More t'his talents in th'sky." All of this is spoken in a distant rumble, a thundercloud a long way off, no threat to field or farm-- omen, but not ominous. Again, the bronzerider flicks up a look, this one more serious, and readdresses what he apparently considers the greater concern. "Still figure he'll be pissed. Ain't a problem, I expect it."
"Br'ce being pissed is a pretty mild experience," T'ral replies with a shrug, easing back in his chair, making himself comfortable. "He splutters a little. For you, probably a very little. Just give him a long look, congratulate him on his devotion to duty, you're done." The big brownrider shrugs, and dusts his hands together. Done, just like that. "If you want 3A flexible, then that's what you'll have. I was saying to Br'ce recently, I wouldn't wonder if you took one of his lads for 1C. We're losing one of our greens, pregnant, and his are good."
"Could do it," R'vain allows. "Hadn't got farther than this, and a little thinking on three-bee, and Br'ce-- " Sure, there's more there. But the Weyrleader's letting it go with a ripple of his shoulders and leaning back so his posture echoes T'ral's, bringing up his paws onto the chair's arms to perch like a statue lion's. "Don't want t'wreck three-cee. Am aiming t'mesh it a little more with th'rest of th'wings. Where d'you think I should pull replacements from? F'these." Another wriggle of fingers defines the names noted in the margins on the pages below. "Don't want t'shuffle too much, but-- if it's going t'be done." He shrugs and looks up, a brow relaxing, eyes a little keen. May as well be now?
T'ral pushes his lower lip out thoughtfully for a moment, tilting his head to one side, then the other -- a sort of a horizontal shrug. "Round the Wingleaders up, let them play poker for the best wingriders," he offers with a grin. He leans forward once more, though, obliging, to run his eyes down the page. "They're a little separate from the rest of the wings, so many Bendenites, but they're bloody good at what they do. Does it matter, so long as they've got loyalty within their wing? Or is it," -- and he glances up here, thoughtful -- "that they're bloody good at what they do? If you're taking out flexible ones, you need to put the same back. You could rotate down from the first flight. Ours get very good at the zippy stuff."
"Considered it," R'vain rumbles, of playing poker for the wingriders, but the smirk with which he makes this remark defies any chance at truth it might have had. It just fills space, affirms that he's listening-- and listening is absolutely his domain for a little time, for the bronzerider rests behind his desk and watches, attentive, brows low, eyes narrowed, like there's more in T'ral's words to hear than the words themselves. "Thinking on a little tuning in one-ay," he admits, slowly, like he's thinking about it in real time rather than some time before now. "Here," and all of a sudden he lunges into life, leaning over the desk so he can stretch out a paw to turn pages until it's his own wing's roster shown. "Ideas." Apparently that's a request.
T'ral accepts that measuring glance from the Weyrleader for a few moments, then elects to return to his study of the page before him. The bronzerider's hand comes into his view, therefore, and he eases back an inch as he pages flip over, before leaning in to examine them once more. "I'm never in the air with your wing, sir," he begins, one hand coming up to rub over his shorn hair, as though he's feeling out the bristles. "I've seen you drilling, I thought your blues and greens looked pretty good. You looked balanced, but I'm not telling you anything you don't know."
R'vain glances up at the motion of T'ral's hand, and the grin he gets on then, twisted and full of teeth, is not a 'sir' grin-- so whatever remark might have been held behind it remains behind it, though twitching beneath his eyes and at the corners of his mouth suggest it takes a little work to bite back the thought. He has to look down at the book to get to where speaking's even a possibility. "Yeah, yeah," sounds too happy, not nearly dismissive enough. "But if you were /going/ t'make changes. Not sure I want t'do too much t'th'other first wings-- better me than them, eh?-- unless you see real need, in bee or cee, t'shift someone down t'three-cee for that 'zippy' stuff." Upglance, brow crooked.
If T'ral has in mind what it might be that's caused the red man opposite him to bite back his response, he doesn't put voice to it either, merely observing the mirth he's caused, and slowly running his hand back until it rests at the back of his neck. He joins R'vain in studying the page once more, pushing out one cheek with his tongue. Prolonged silence, and then abruptly, words, as though the brownrider made some effort to hold them back. "If you want to try something with your wing, why don't you have more of the younger riders in it? There's some young bronzes in the second flight that're agile, and they want to impress you, they want you to know them. Get some of them up into your wing, where you can see them all the time, get to know them. Tomorrow's Wingleaders, however trite it sounds. Let them fly together, so they know each other, and under you, so you know their strengths, and so you can build the loyalty that you get in a wing, not just in a weyr." As abruptly as he began, he halts, easing back in his chair once more. "That'd be quite disruptive, though."
And for all of that R'vain answers, initially, with just a soft rumble, an 'mmm' of thoughtful consideration. He draws back his hands from the book and perches them again on the chair's arms, moving slowly, shoulders shifting as if he's need of stretching the joints. "Mmm," he allows again, twisting his mouth around it so it has a different tone, like he's thought of something else. This time the something bears explanation. "Wouldn't be bad. Do it a little at a time, over a month, won't be /too/ rough on th'second flight wings. There'd be some competition, maybe." The grin appears, sprawling over his mouth, betraying perfect teeth. "You manage that kind've thing better'n me."
T'ral doesn't look like a man who's waiting for judgment to be pronounced, but his mouth quirks a little at R'vain's first words. "It wouldn't be too rough, you'd be giving them first flight riders in return. Who could complain?" He pauses, and tilts his head to one side. "Barring the first flight riders. You'd want to watch that pretty carefully, I suppose." He shrugs, shoulders rising and falling. It'll be for someone other than him to be pretty careful. "Manage what, sir? Competition? Or disruption?" His own mischief matches R'vain's, there.
"Might be a couple. One or two. Three at th'outside. Who'd like t'get out of my wing anyway." R'vain is not quite good enough-- skilled enough maybe, but not a good enough man-- to have said this deadpan; the wicked gleam fails to leave his eyes and the smirky grin fails to leave his mouth. He does have decency enough to look down at the records pages afterward, to even reach out and drum his fingers meaninglessly on the page: dum de dum. "Th'former was what I meant, though s'well as disruption seems t'follow you 'round I figure you've got a handle on that too." A beat; he looks up. "Y'might need it."
Maybe to another audience T'ral would have a deadpan response -- for R'vain, he allows himself another quirk of his lips, a flash of that smile in his eyes before he follows the Weyrleader's example. He looks away, rather than down, to where his shadowy brown is crouched next to the bronze on the ledge. Darageth has not sprawled, but remains curled, as though he might move at any moment. "No disruption since I got here, sir," T'ral corrects the Weyrleader, faintly uncomfortable at that label. "That's what got me here in the first place, and I haven't gone near it since. I won't, either, it was a mistake."
"Maybe I got a real low expectation of 'disruption,'" rumbles the bronzerider, leaning back again, drawing back his finger-drumming paw from the book and then from the desk onto his lap. "But somehow I don't think that's th'mismatch between what I said and what you're hearin'." R'vain taps a finger on the arm of his chair, taptaptap, a very soft sound that's very unlike him to make, and runs his tongue over his teeth, more to the point. His gaze sinks, falling to something on his side of the desk-- on its face, not its surface. "I ain't afraid of a little disruption. Sometimes it's th'only way you get things done."
T'ral nods, non-committal, now. "In my case, causing a disruption got my ass transferred out of Benden, and left me here, proving to a new Wingleader that I wasn't --" He shrugs, looking back to the bronzerider once more. "Anyway," he concludes, obliquely, adding a shrug for punctuation, at this ungramattical end to his sentence.
R'vain's nodding before T'ral's done. There's a rumble real low, somewhere in the back of his throat-- it's a laugh, a chuckle at least. His gaze drops a little more, red lashes lowering over emerald slits, making him look almost sleepy as he shakes his head. "Sometime I'll tell you what I make of that. Sometime when I ain't so recently educated about it as I am now." He holds his pose for a moment, then peels it away one bit at a time: lashes rising, gaze rising, head raising. "Sometime," he says, unsmiling, yet not quite serious-- there's a warmth in his voice that defies sternness-- "you'll tell me." This said, he's instantly in motion, leaning forward, pawing open the lone drawer of his desk. "C'mere." Like, closer?
Sometime, T'ral will tell that story, but not today. Today he's a touch too uncertain, head lifting abruptly in response to that summons. To come closer requires that he rise and circle the desk, or that he haul his chair forward. He settles, for now, for shifting to the edge of it, hands on his knees, and asking a question. "Sir?"
R'vain flips out of the drawer a knot with a simple fling of fingers; it arcs up a few inches, then skids to a halt onto the record lain open between them. Wingsecond's in make, Reaches' colors, not quite finished-- it waits still for the thread that belongs to its new bearer, to his dragon's hide. But R'vain's paw keeps moving, and his eyes are on the drawer, not the knot he's just turned out of it. What he hunts for, in that drawer, is harder to scramble out from the stuff stored therein. "C'mere," he repeats. "I want you close enough I can black your eye, y'say no."
R'vain's eyes are on the drawer, so there's no chance for him to spy T'ral's widening, or his hands shifting so he can dry his palms off against his pants. "Sir," he replies evenly, unfolding slowly, and coming to his feet, so he can circle the desk. "I like my eyes. Girls say they're one of my best features." Which indicates, perhaps, that he does not intend on offering an excuse to black either of them.
"Your girl'd thank me," R'vain points out, sounding pretty damned certain of this statement. He glances up, paw paused in the drawer-- T'ral will be able to see why it takes the Weyrleader a while to find what he wants, for in that drawer rests all manner of things, knots all tangled and wingbadges and a broken stylus and three dice (one of which has had the dots inked in by someone very bored) and a wooden knitting needle that's splintered at one end and some random string and a spare thread that looks like Ruvoth's and a blue button with a velvet cover and a woman's hair comb and-- anyway, R'vain glances up, blinking once before his eyes narrow and shift to their corners, a sparing gesture at the knot on the records. "Pick that up, you ain't daft." And he looks back into the drawer, fishing more slowly now with fingertips suddenly agile, separating out wingbadges into small lumpy piles.
The Weyrleader's prediction as to Ginella's response draws a faint smile from her weyrmate, who inclines his head to concede that point, looking down at the drawer for a moment. "Yessir," he murmurs, after he's had his moment, reaching out to claim the knot -- it lies in his palm for brief inspection, spread there, and then he closes his fingers over it. "I mean, no sir. I do my best not to be."
"Nerves don't serve you," notes R'vain, casual, and plucks out into his paw the badge he's looking for. Thanks to the splayed, curved shield of his hand and fingers its shape and make are a blur until he lifts it up, flat in his palm, for the brownrider to inspect. To take. He wastes no real time in doing this, shoving the drawer shut with his elbow and turning toward T'ral so he can look up from his seated position-- quite a ways up, then-- and gauge the expression that will witness the first wing's badge waiting in its wingleader's hand.
After a quick beat, the Weyrleader does curl a loose fist by his hip and heft it. Just in case.
"Well no," T'ral allows, turning his new knot over in his fingers. "But if there's a time to be nervous, it's -- oh, shit --" His sentence swerves, and changes direction seamlessly, as he identifies the badge waiting in the bronzerider's hand. "Are you kidding me, man?" There goes his formality. The hand that isn't busy holding onto his new knot comes up to take the badge, balks, then reaches forward to take custody of it. "Shit, /seriously/?"
R'vain does not seem to see the humor-- and when the brownrider's hand balks, the fist at the Weyrleader's side hefts a little higher, wrist twitching up to show the knuckles. T'ral was warned, after all! But then the badge is swept out of his freckled hand and R'vain lets out a sigh that sounds a little too much like relief, slumping, hands falling to the chair's arms for their usual curled perches there. "Serious," he says, needlessly; he looks serious enough, and a little tired. But in another breath's time he finds, and provides, a bit of a weary grin, teeth sparingly glinting. "You got plans f'morning?"
"Serious," T'ral echoes quietly, looking down at the knot and badge in his hands, and missing the weary grin. "I don't have plans any more, do I?" He shifts, stuffing his new decorations into one pocket, and shifts his attention to the bronzerider once more. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best not to fuck it up. I --" He cuts off there, not nervous now, but rather careful, shifting his weight once more. "I have questions. Another time, when you're not sacked out after 'fall."
"You can have plans," R'vain shrugs. "You do, it means we're a day later on making out th'list of these bronzeriders I'm going t'move." He shoves back the chair, making enough space that he can get to his feet without looming close enough to the brownrider to make a blackened eye seem likely after all. "Best way not t'fuck it up, I'll tell you right now: don't get killed." Beat. Grin. "Nothing new t'you, man. G'wan, you were going somewhere t'night, don't let me stop you." He tips down his head, tips down his eyelashes, looks up through the bars of that lurid, splayed cage. "Benden?"
T'ral grins, the good-natured, boyish grin that opens his face, and suits him so well. "Breathing's my second best feature, right after my eyes," he replies, almost laughing. "I was just -- yeah, Tillek. That bar, actually, that you showed us." A step back, preparatory to taking his leave, and the grin threatens to broaden further. "I'll come back in the morning." With a shake of his head, the name of his former weyr is promptly dismissed. "What about Benden? I've heard of the place, sure."
Red brows fly up with a speed they rarely know, a suddenness they rarely accomplish. Severe as they may be, R'vain's emotions are not generally so fast to betray themselves. He stretches his jaw, however, backs up a step so his legs bump against the chair behind him, turns his head one way and the other, and lets that go with a slow exhalation. "Don't have t'be early. When y'ready." He grins, tips down a nod toward the badge, the knot. "I'll save making y'girl angry with me f'imposing on y'time f'next sevenday. She can love me f'that long."
"Right, will do," T'ral replies, failing utterly to diminish his grin. "I think she'll be looking on you with a kindly eye for a little time yet," he predicts of Ginella, stepping back once more. "Thank you, sir." One last pass at that gratefulness, and then his hand comes up in an automatic salute, as he takes his leave, turning for where Darageth already has his head up, and is unfurling his wings, quiet as ever.
R'vain returns the salute, but saves his grin-- relieved-- for T'ral's back. Then the Weyrleader can slump in safety into the chair waiting behind him and let out a huge, cheek-blowing sigh. Ruvoth has to wait for the brown to be off before he can lift his head and let out a loud, long rumble of satisfaction, mind instantly swirling with suppressed thoughts, and in a moment more he's off from his ledge on the wing toward another.
Thank you, R'vain. Such a kickass scene.