A Better Solution
Who: G'thon and M'arik (NPC)
What: G'thon visits the Benden Weyrleader on business of J'cor's. But G'thon and M'arik go back a bit more than J'cor does...
Where: Benden Weyr, the Weyrleader's quarters.
When: Early in the 3rd month of the second turn of the 7th pass.
No tea ceremony here. The Bendenite is expecting company, this tale is told by the plate set out on M'arik's low table, accompanied by a pitcher, and glasses. Perhaps the precise moment of G'thon's arrival is not known, however -- or perhaps M'arik is simply a dreadfully busy man, unable to take his leisure while he waits on visitors. Whichever the case, although a weyrling loiters in the bowl to escort the dragonless man to visit Benden's 'leader, M'arik is not waiting on tenderhooks. Rather, he stands by one of the glow sconces set into the wall, a series of hides fanned out in both hands, glaring at them.
The Reachian bronzerider makes the trip smoothly, glad for the weyrling's attendance - only, apparently, because the young man gives the old one someone to talk to, to trade duties and greetings with. He closes his conversation at the entrance to the Weyrleader's room, admiring with a few simple words the form and dedication of the weyrling's mount. Then G'thon says his farewell to that rider and attends to the greeting of a greater one: "Weyrleader," first, and two steps into the room to punctuate those syllables before lower, more warmly, forcing familiarity as he has always so easily done: "M'arik."
M'arik looks up from his hides, regarding G'thon for a moment with an intent expression -- his smile is put on a few moments later, although it does reach all the way to his eyes when it finally arrives. "G'thon." His voice is loud, low, made for cutting over the top of others. The hides go down on a side table, and he turns to stride across the weyr, extending one hand as he nears the other man. "Interesting times, my friend."
"They are indeed." G'thon has saved up a small stock of his low, rippling chuckles for precisely this kind of occasion and spends one willingly at this time. He takes M'arik's hand in the formal, proper handshake, but only leaves it that way for the briefest second before his other hand chases after and his cool, dry palms embrace the other man's. He holds that for a moment, smiling his one-sided, bright-eyed smile, then draws back his hands to smooth away imaginary lint from the trim of his greatcoat. "You know, then, that I am come on our Weyrleader's word? Will wonders never cease. I did bring you something - " One pale hand disappears beneath the lapel of his coat, then returns with a tiny, flat flask. He tips it up; brown blown glass all but obscures the twinkle of liquid within.
M'arik folds his other hand -- larger, hairier, not at all cool -- around G'thon's, squeezing briefly. "On your Weyrleader's word," he echoes, with the air of one trying out the phrase. "I am not accustomed to that, yet. I hear G'mal is still scowling over at Igen." True or not, the words please M'arik, and his broad mouth twists to a brief smile as he reaches out for that flask. "I have a girl bringing up water for your tea. What is this I have in return?" The flask is held between two fingers, inspected.
"I'm not accustomed to it myself," replies G'thon brightly, only a little bit sly, and follows it with another of those precious little laughs. His eyes follow the flask until it has M'arik's attention; then, with the danger of eye contact diminished, the Reachian considers the Weyrleader's face while explaining his gift. "Pear brandy," reveals G'thon simply, then explicates: "Our own hold's, out of the winter four turns before Pass. The early frost turned the fruit to sugar, so it's exceptional stuff. I bought a small supply of it - Anshuman pressed it upon me as if it were his own son's distilling. That is the last -full- flask I have left, and I could think of no better palate to appreciate it." And if the fact that it's not wine, nor even of the grape, is to be considered amusing - G'thon, with his deep little chortle, laughs first.
M'arik is comfortable in G'thon's presence -- unthreatened, or perhaps even not displeased to see the other man. The pleasure does not leave his face as he examines the flask, and his lips press together briefly, brows going up to signal that the Bendenite is impressed with the gift. G'thon's last words draw hearty laughter, the bronzerider tipping his head back and lending his loud voice to an extended chuckle. "No better palate, indeed," he agrees, turning away to regard the offerings on the table. "Sit, eat something, they'll bring your hot water along now they've spotted you arriving, I don't doubt. I'll enjoy this tonight. Sit, and tell me what your Weyrleader has to say to me, G'thon."
"You are too kind, thinking of my tea," murmurs G'thon as an afterthought, the merest of asides, while he follows the other man's requirement and his regard to the tableside. "As always, you offer too much." Dead Hirth's rider lowers smoothly into a seat, but awaits his host's intentions for the pitcher and glasses and the rest. "Ah, my Weyrleader. Interesting times indeed," he muses. "And interesting requests. You and I have spoken a few times about the situation with our riders after the 'fall over High Reaches. There are a number of fellows in three-cee who are raving to get back into the sky, but of course your brother and I have agreed that a few pairs isn't what he needs to get the job done." Of course, the chances of I'zul and G'thon having had any such conversation are slim, but who could deny that they would each, as dragonmen, agree on this proposed opinion? "Unfortunately, J'cor feels that he can't in good faith simply stock the wing up - he doesn't know his pairs well enough yet, nor feel he can rely on what coin of trust he has in his men, to make such sweeping changes just now."
M'arik's chair creeks beneath him as he settles into it, and the Bendenite 'leader listens with his head cocked as he reaches forward to pull the cover off the dish that awaits them -- beneath, fingerfood to tempt almost anyone, but none of it sweet. Rather, small rolls and pastries, sandwiches, cheese and meat. "Nabol," he echoes in a mutter, a faint scowl drawn on his ruddy features for that Hold's name. "Difficult for all of you," he finally agrees. "It's hard on them, keeping them out of the sky. No safer when they finally do get back up, either." Neither man can speak with experience, for every weyr is feeling its way through the vagaries of 'fall. Nevertheless, M'arik's tone carries certainty on this count. "I suppose I'zul is champing to get back up there as well. What are you going to do with him?" There's a shrewd glance sideways as M'arik claims a large sandwich and pushes the platter closer to G'thon.
"Oh, this is really too much," murmurs G'thon in low appreciation of the spread before him. Also in low appreciation - very low indeed - he takes a little of the food. The smallest of the sandwiches; the least bit of cheese; whatever of the pastries looks most like it might contain fruit or klah-candy or anything, -anything- resembling sweet. "Ah, I would it were my decision to make," the older man adds through a warm, rueful smile. Once the selected food items are upon his plate, pale fingers begin prying apart tiny fragments of the pastry. It is to these he largely attends, but from time to time he glances up, amicable light in his eyes. "I believe J'cor would like to elect his own, new wingleaders. This of course will take some time. Perhaps - " A pause; in this one, he looks up quite deliberately. "- No, probably not," he adds after that, perhaps a tiny bit sadly, and pops a bit of pastry into his mouth.
M'arik snorts, loading his plate up far more generously, and popping a piece of cheese into his mouth to tide him over until that process is completely. "Not even a little your decision?" There's patent disbelief in that tone, large brows drawing together. "I've met your new man, he's not foolish enough to discount experience when he needs it." Another piece of ham, and his eyes snap up at that pause to meet G'thon's gaze. "No, go on." This, offered around a mouthful. He swallows, and presses on. "What were you going to say?"
G'thon provides a patient, if wry, smile for that snort, for the words that follow it, and though he chews very slowly (perhaps disappointed that the pastry is no sweeter than it is) and allows for the other man to complete his questioning before he swallows and replies, it is to that snort, to that derision, that the bald man first speaks. "He does hear me, of course. I expect that will last until he's more confident - either in himself or in his weyrwoman. But he understands the importance of appearing to make his own decisions, too." The Reachian bows his head once in a singular, deferential nod, then goes about prying apart bits of the small sandwich he's claimed. "After that I - I was just thinking aloud, really. Mouth got ahead of me - it happens, after a few turns, M'arik." He looks up again, smiling very wry indeed now, eyes bright as he can make them. "I am here to tell you our Weyrleader's request, not use you as my sounding board!" This is obviously meant to be funny, self-depreciating. More seriously, after a sigh: "J'cor would like to offer I'zul back to Benden. An honorable transfer."
"Hmmph. Appearing to." These are the words that M'arik picks up on, folding over a piece of cheese, and sandwiching it up against a meatroll. "What's his Weyrwoman like, then? I'm told you're the man to ask." M'arik is receiving gossip from High Reaches, and this is his declaration. G'thon's little joke earns an obliging chortle, in between mouthfuls, but M'arik's jaw ceases mid-mastication at the offer that's made. After a second or two he resumes, swallows, and then brings one hand up to chase crumbs away from his mouth. "Would he just? And what am I to do for him?"
G'thon puts down his barely nibbled, somewhat battered bit of sandwich and lets his smile take over for speaking for a moment. When he does find words they're warm and wry and perhaps a little rueful - he is an old man, after all, to carry on like this. But he will not allow his rue to keep him from answering so direct a question. "Yevide is energy and life, M'arik. She is a light as bright as any sun could hope to be. She wears Arinya's influence without Arinya's ways - and G'mal must be sore to have lost her." Silver brows slip up and back down; as they descend, so too does the Reachian's pate and his gaze, as though he were a good deal younger and a little bit abashed. His jaw works a bit before he can answer the second question. "I believe J'cor would consider the granting of the transfer favor enough. But - " Ah, it is not G'thon's place to say, 'but.' He lifts a pale hand and waves away whatever that intention had been, then takes up the sandwich again.
"Mmmm, but G'mal gave her to you," M'arik disagrees, lips quirking with a hint of something conspiriatorial. "Or lost her to you, would that be more accurate?" His grin is definitely a member of the 'You old dog, you' genus. More eating, but M'arik's not concetrating on the food at hand anymore. It's an excuse to stay silent for a few moments, that time spend bunching together a wad of ham, although his eyes are on G'thon and his mock-coyness. "But what, man? We've gone this too many turns for these half-finished sentences. You're not Reaches any more, you have no need of games."
"I would not like to reflect too much on that possibility," replies G'thon quietly, but his tone is wry and when he looks up he has a sly smirkiness about his one-sided smile which speaks very well to doghood indeed. He sets down his sandwich once more, this time with a certain satiated finality. "That's the thing, M'arik - I'm not quite used to not being Reaches anymore. I feel constantly as though I'm speaking out of turn. I don't want to give offense - here or at home." He overturns a pale hand and shakes his head once, expression telegraphing helpless acceptance. He will not make the Weyrleader protest again. "It's just that I think there may be a better solution, which upon your - delicate - proposal, J'cor's assent may be won. Will you let me share it with you?"
A wink is as good as a nod, and so on. M'arik grunts his amusement, although his mouth twists to wry sympathy for G'thon's explanation. Which is listened to with apparent interest, for the other man edges forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You just speak freely, and we'll dress up what was said later on for public consumption, how about that? G'mal's man will be learning the ropes for a little while yet." And with a jerk of M'arik's chin, J'cor is consigned to the sidelines.
One silver brow twitches, but G'thon keeps it otherwise in place; no expressive arches will echo one another up the length of his forehead thise evening, not in response to that jerk of M'arik's chin. Not now. The old man is on spot, and performs it. "High Reaches Weyr," not its Weyrleader, "is in need of good pairs. We have R'vain's latest - and he has been more dedicated to them than Lexine would have expected - but they won't join the wings for two months yet, and be as raw as any new riders when they do." A little shrug, slightly stiff, betrays the man's common defensiveness of his handpicked weyrlingmaster - and that will be no surprise to M'arik, and therefore quite permissible emotional display. G'thon takes pains to smile afterward, almost apologetic. "It is my hope that Benden might spare us a few pairs - greens, perhaps a blue - that could strengthen threecee and get them back into the air." That unnamed man is already dismissed with a careless flick of pale fingers. "Perhaps I'zul could return here and get back into the sky without having to worry about the - ah - fellowship of his men. His wing would be seeded for him, then, should he choose to return."
M'arik listens, deadpan, offering not a flicker of a smile for G'thon's, not a nod of encouragement -- but he's listening, leaning forward, meatroll dangling forgotten between two fingers. "G'thon," he finally replies, solemn as the grave. "I cannot simply accept my brother back without offering J'cor some recompense. He is a bronzerider, and a wingleader. Further to that, young I'lyan is here with Lamre, so I cannot even offer him as a temporary measure. High Reaches is still recovering from the loss of a wing, and must not be under-manned while your J'cor tries to find his feet. Tell him I insist on a trade. I can send you half a dozen pairs immediately, four more to follow as I select them. Men who are trained to ride together."
Something along the lines of 'Of course' is poised upon the Reachian's pale lips, but voice never fills them out and sends them free into the air for hearing. No doubt this is because M'arik is still talking. And G'thon, therefore, listens. And whatever he might have said that bland, accepting 'Of course' to does not come, for at the end what G'thon instead has to say is, "Your generosity - " And then words apparently fail him. He lifts a hand and drags soothing fingertips from temple to the center of his forehead, eyes closing a moment. When they reopen and his hand drops back to his lap, what remains in his gaze could only be interpreted as deep, touched gratitude. Nothing else, after all, would make sense. "M'arik - I am overwhelmed. The Reaches thanks you, and I am sure our Weyrleader thanks you." His smile is weak; the high corner of it trembles a bit. "I thank you."
"No thanks are necessary," M'arik replies, maintaining his gravity without an ounce of visible effort. "We are all brothers. We have far more in common with each other than with anyone else. Benden will always heed Reaches' need." His hands slap at his thighs, as though he would push himself up. "Tell my brother to pack his things." A beat, and a penitent glance. "Should J'cor approve, of course. I shall have half a dozen to you within a sevenday, and the other four to follow when they're selected."
G'thon takes the gesture as cue and pushes himself up in smooth silence, sliding the chair back to let himself out from behind the table. "I will carry the word to our Weyrleader," says the man who prior held that title with a pleased grimace of a smile that does not last for long. "And see to it as best I can, sir, that he takes my advice on -this- thing at least." Now he allows his brows to slide up - now that their doing so conveys bemusement and satisfaction rather than surprise. "Thank you, M'arik, like it or not. I'm sure I'll see you again soon." He offers out hands for that clasping handshake that makes up for in warmth what his hands lack in temperature. Not long after he's accompanied back to the bowl by another of Benden's weyrlings, chatting drolly away about flight training and first betweens.
What: G'thon visits the Benden Weyrleader on business of J'cor's. But G'thon and M'arik go back a bit more than J'cor does...
Where: Benden Weyr, the Weyrleader's quarters.
When: Early in the 3rd month of the second turn of the 7th pass.
No tea ceremony here. The Bendenite is expecting company, this tale is told by the plate set out on M'arik's low table, accompanied by a pitcher, and glasses. Perhaps the precise moment of G'thon's arrival is not known, however -- or perhaps M'arik is simply a dreadfully busy man, unable to take his leisure while he waits on visitors. Whichever the case, although a weyrling loiters in the bowl to escort the dragonless man to visit Benden's 'leader, M'arik is not waiting on tenderhooks. Rather, he stands by one of the glow sconces set into the wall, a series of hides fanned out in both hands, glaring at them.
The Reachian bronzerider makes the trip smoothly, glad for the weyrling's attendance - only, apparently, because the young man gives the old one someone to talk to, to trade duties and greetings with. He closes his conversation at the entrance to the Weyrleader's room, admiring with a few simple words the form and dedication of the weyrling's mount. Then G'thon says his farewell to that rider and attends to the greeting of a greater one: "Weyrleader," first, and two steps into the room to punctuate those syllables before lower, more warmly, forcing familiarity as he has always so easily done: "M'arik."
M'arik looks up from his hides, regarding G'thon for a moment with an intent expression -- his smile is put on a few moments later, although it does reach all the way to his eyes when it finally arrives. "G'thon." His voice is loud, low, made for cutting over the top of others. The hides go down on a side table, and he turns to stride across the weyr, extending one hand as he nears the other man. "Interesting times, my friend."
"They are indeed." G'thon has saved up a small stock of his low, rippling chuckles for precisely this kind of occasion and spends one willingly at this time. He takes M'arik's hand in the formal, proper handshake, but only leaves it that way for the briefest second before his other hand chases after and his cool, dry palms embrace the other man's. He holds that for a moment, smiling his one-sided, bright-eyed smile, then draws back his hands to smooth away imaginary lint from the trim of his greatcoat. "You know, then, that I am come on our Weyrleader's word? Will wonders never cease. I did bring you something - " One pale hand disappears beneath the lapel of his coat, then returns with a tiny, flat flask. He tips it up; brown blown glass all but obscures the twinkle of liquid within.
M'arik folds his other hand -- larger, hairier, not at all cool -- around G'thon's, squeezing briefly. "On your Weyrleader's word," he echoes, with the air of one trying out the phrase. "I am not accustomed to that, yet. I hear G'mal is still scowling over at Igen." True or not, the words please M'arik, and his broad mouth twists to a brief smile as he reaches out for that flask. "I have a girl bringing up water for your tea. What is this I have in return?" The flask is held between two fingers, inspected.
"I'm not accustomed to it myself," replies G'thon brightly, only a little bit sly, and follows it with another of those precious little laughs. His eyes follow the flask until it has M'arik's attention; then, with the danger of eye contact diminished, the Reachian considers the Weyrleader's face while explaining his gift. "Pear brandy," reveals G'thon simply, then explicates: "Our own hold's, out of the winter four turns before Pass. The early frost turned the fruit to sugar, so it's exceptional stuff. I bought a small supply of it - Anshuman pressed it upon me as if it were his own son's distilling. That is the last -full- flask I have left, and I could think of no better palate to appreciate it." And if the fact that it's not wine, nor even of the grape, is to be considered amusing - G'thon, with his deep little chortle, laughs first.
M'arik is comfortable in G'thon's presence -- unthreatened, or perhaps even not displeased to see the other man. The pleasure does not leave his face as he examines the flask, and his lips press together briefly, brows going up to signal that the Bendenite is impressed with the gift. G'thon's last words draw hearty laughter, the bronzerider tipping his head back and lending his loud voice to an extended chuckle. "No better palate, indeed," he agrees, turning away to regard the offerings on the table. "Sit, eat something, they'll bring your hot water along now they've spotted you arriving, I don't doubt. I'll enjoy this tonight. Sit, and tell me what your Weyrleader has to say to me, G'thon."
"You are too kind, thinking of my tea," murmurs G'thon as an afterthought, the merest of asides, while he follows the other man's requirement and his regard to the tableside. "As always, you offer too much." Dead Hirth's rider lowers smoothly into a seat, but awaits his host's intentions for the pitcher and glasses and the rest. "Ah, my Weyrleader. Interesting times indeed," he muses. "And interesting requests. You and I have spoken a few times about the situation with our riders after the 'fall over High Reaches. There are a number of fellows in three-cee who are raving to get back into the sky, but of course your brother and I have agreed that a few pairs isn't what he needs to get the job done." Of course, the chances of I'zul and G'thon having had any such conversation are slim, but who could deny that they would each, as dragonmen, agree on this proposed opinion? "Unfortunately, J'cor feels that he can't in good faith simply stock the wing up - he doesn't know his pairs well enough yet, nor feel he can rely on what coin of trust he has in his men, to make such sweeping changes just now."
M'arik's chair creeks beneath him as he settles into it, and the Bendenite 'leader listens with his head cocked as he reaches forward to pull the cover off the dish that awaits them -- beneath, fingerfood to tempt almost anyone, but none of it sweet. Rather, small rolls and pastries, sandwiches, cheese and meat. "Nabol," he echoes in a mutter, a faint scowl drawn on his ruddy features for that Hold's name. "Difficult for all of you," he finally agrees. "It's hard on them, keeping them out of the sky. No safer when they finally do get back up, either." Neither man can speak with experience, for every weyr is feeling its way through the vagaries of 'fall. Nevertheless, M'arik's tone carries certainty on this count. "I suppose I'zul is champing to get back up there as well. What are you going to do with him?" There's a shrewd glance sideways as M'arik claims a large sandwich and pushes the platter closer to G'thon.
"Oh, this is really too much," murmurs G'thon in low appreciation of the spread before him. Also in low appreciation - very low indeed - he takes a little of the food. The smallest of the sandwiches; the least bit of cheese; whatever of the pastries looks most like it might contain fruit or klah-candy or anything, -anything- resembling sweet. "Ah, I would it were my decision to make," the older man adds through a warm, rueful smile. Once the selected food items are upon his plate, pale fingers begin prying apart tiny fragments of the pastry. It is to these he largely attends, but from time to time he glances up, amicable light in his eyes. "I believe J'cor would like to elect his own, new wingleaders. This of course will take some time. Perhaps - " A pause; in this one, he looks up quite deliberately. "- No, probably not," he adds after that, perhaps a tiny bit sadly, and pops a bit of pastry into his mouth.
M'arik snorts, loading his plate up far more generously, and popping a piece of cheese into his mouth to tide him over until that process is completely. "Not even a little your decision?" There's patent disbelief in that tone, large brows drawing together. "I've met your new man, he's not foolish enough to discount experience when he needs it." Another piece of ham, and his eyes snap up at that pause to meet G'thon's gaze. "No, go on." This, offered around a mouthful. He swallows, and presses on. "What were you going to say?"
G'thon provides a patient, if wry, smile for that snort, for the words that follow it, and though he chews very slowly (perhaps disappointed that the pastry is no sweeter than it is) and allows for the other man to complete his questioning before he swallows and replies, it is to that snort, to that derision, that the bald man first speaks. "He does hear me, of course. I expect that will last until he's more confident - either in himself or in his weyrwoman. But he understands the importance of appearing to make his own decisions, too." The Reachian bows his head once in a singular, deferential nod, then goes about prying apart bits of the small sandwich he's claimed. "After that I - I was just thinking aloud, really. Mouth got ahead of me - it happens, after a few turns, M'arik." He looks up again, smiling very wry indeed now, eyes bright as he can make them. "I am here to tell you our Weyrleader's request, not use you as my sounding board!" This is obviously meant to be funny, self-depreciating. More seriously, after a sigh: "J'cor would like to offer I'zul back to Benden. An honorable transfer."
"Hmmph. Appearing to." These are the words that M'arik picks up on, folding over a piece of cheese, and sandwiching it up against a meatroll. "What's his Weyrwoman like, then? I'm told you're the man to ask." M'arik is receiving gossip from High Reaches, and this is his declaration. G'thon's little joke earns an obliging chortle, in between mouthfuls, but M'arik's jaw ceases mid-mastication at the offer that's made. After a second or two he resumes, swallows, and then brings one hand up to chase crumbs away from his mouth. "Would he just? And what am I to do for him?"
G'thon puts down his barely nibbled, somewhat battered bit of sandwich and lets his smile take over for speaking for a moment. When he does find words they're warm and wry and perhaps a little rueful - he is an old man, after all, to carry on like this. But he will not allow his rue to keep him from answering so direct a question. "Yevide is energy and life, M'arik. She is a light as bright as any sun could hope to be. She wears Arinya's influence without Arinya's ways - and G'mal must be sore to have lost her." Silver brows slip up and back down; as they descend, so too does the Reachian's pate and his gaze, as though he were a good deal younger and a little bit abashed. His jaw works a bit before he can answer the second question. "I believe J'cor would consider the granting of the transfer favor enough. But - " Ah, it is not G'thon's place to say, 'but.' He lifts a pale hand and waves away whatever that intention had been, then takes up the sandwich again.
"Mmmm, but G'mal gave her to you," M'arik disagrees, lips quirking with a hint of something conspiriatorial. "Or lost her to you, would that be more accurate?" His grin is definitely a member of the 'You old dog, you' genus. More eating, but M'arik's not concetrating on the food at hand anymore. It's an excuse to stay silent for a few moments, that time spend bunching together a wad of ham, although his eyes are on G'thon and his mock-coyness. "But what, man? We've gone this too many turns for these half-finished sentences. You're not Reaches any more, you have no need of games."
"I would not like to reflect too much on that possibility," replies G'thon quietly, but his tone is wry and when he looks up he has a sly smirkiness about his one-sided smile which speaks very well to doghood indeed. He sets down his sandwich once more, this time with a certain satiated finality. "That's the thing, M'arik - I'm not quite used to not being Reaches anymore. I feel constantly as though I'm speaking out of turn. I don't want to give offense - here or at home." He overturns a pale hand and shakes his head once, expression telegraphing helpless acceptance. He will not make the Weyrleader protest again. "It's just that I think there may be a better solution, which upon your - delicate - proposal, J'cor's assent may be won. Will you let me share it with you?"
A wink is as good as a nod, and so on. M'arik grunts his amusement, although his mouth twists to wry sympathy for G'thon's explanation. Which is listened to with apparent interest, for the other man edges forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You just speak freely, and we'll dress up what was said later on for public consumption, how about that? G'mal's man will be learning the ropes for a little while yet." And with a jerk of M'arik's chin, J'cor is consigned to the sidelines.
One silver brow twitches, but G'thon keeps it otherwise in place; no expressive arches will echo one another up the length of his forehead thise evening, not in response to that jerk of M'arik's chin. Not now. The old man is on spot, and performs it. "High Reaches Weyr," not its Weyrleader, "is in need of good pairs. We have R'vain's latest - and he has been more dedicated to them than Lexine would have expected - but they won't join the wings for two months yet, and be as raw as any new riders when they do." A little shrug, slightly stiff, betrays the man's common defensiveness of his handpicked weyrlingmaster - and that will be no surprise to M'arik, and therefore quite permissible emotional display. G'thon takes pains to smile afterward, almost apologetic. "It is my hope that Benden might spare us a few pairs - greens, perhaps a blue - that could strengthen threecee and get them back into the air." That unnamed man is already dismissed with a careless flick of pale fingers. "Perhaps I'zul could return here and get back into the sky without having to worry about the - ah - fellowship of his men. His wing would be seeded for him, then, should he choose to return."
M'arik listens, deadpan, offering not a flicker of a smile for G'thon's, not a nod of encouragement -- but he's listening, leaning forward, meatroll dangling forgotten between two fingers. "G'thon," he finally replies, solemn as the grave. "I cannot simply accept my brother back without offering J'cor some recompense. He is a bronzerider, and a wingleader. Further to that, young I'lyan is here with Lamre, so I cannot even offer him as a temporary measure. High Reaches is still recovering from the loss of a wing, and must not be under-manned while your J'cor tries to find his feet. Tell him I insist on a trade. I can send you half a dozen pairs immediately, four more to follow as I select them. Men who are trained to ride together."
Something along the lines of 'Of course' is poised upon the Reachian's pale lips, but voice never fills them out and sends them free into the air for hearing. No doubt this is because M'arik is still talking. And G'thon, therefore, listens. And whatever he might have said that bland, accepting 'Of course' to does not come, for at the end what G'thon instead has to say is, "Your generosity - " And then words apparently fail him. He lifts a hand and drags soothing fingertips from temple to the center of his forehead, eyes closing a moment. When they reopen and his hand drops back to his lap, what remains in his gaze could only be interpreted as deep, touched gratitude. Nothing else, after all, would make sense. "M'arik - I am overwhelmed. The Reaches thanks you, and I am sure our Weyrleader thanks you." His smile is weak; the high corner of it trembles a bit. "I thank you."
"No thanks are necessary," M'arik replies, maintaining his gravity without an ounce of visible effort. "We are all brothers. We have far more in common with each other than with anyone else. Benden will always heed Reaches' need." His hands slap at his thighs, as though he would push himself up. "Tell my brother to pack his things." A beat, and a penitent glance. "Should J'cor approve, of course. I shall have half a dozen to you within a sevenday, and the other four to follow when they're selected."
G'thon takes the gesture as cue and pushes himself up in smooth silence, sliding the chair back to let himself out from behind the table. "I will carry the word to our Weyrleader," says the man who prior held that title with a pleased grimace of a smile that does not last for long. "And see to it as best I can, sir, that he takes my advice on -this- thing at least." Now he allows his brows to slide up - now that their doing so conveys bemusement and satisfaction rather than surprise. "Thank you, M'arik, like it or not. I'm sure I'll see you again soon." He offers out hands for that clasping handshake that makes up for in warmth what his hands lack in temperature. Not long after he's accompanied back to the bowl by another of Benden's weyrlings, chatting drolly away about flight training and first betweens.