There's a lot of this going around.
Who: G'thon and T'zen
What: T'zen requests a new wing assignment.
It is 21:32 on day 13, month 9, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It is quiet enough this time of evening, with dark creeping in around the corners of the office's far nooks and alcoves, slinking up the tunnels that lead to the weyrwomen's and weyrleader's weyrs and crawling down the stairs into the drenched bowl below. Quiet enough that a sudden grunt of disgust fills the room, echoes outward and dies as suddenly as it started, a severe interruption in the peace. It comes from the Weyrleader, who of course has tea at ready on a cart here - but who also has a low glass with something golden and sparkling in it, and also has a fair sheaf of hides sprawled every which way out on the sandtable's glass cover. One hand clenches the drink; the other lays broad-palmed across a couple of the hides, and G'thon has risen from his chair to lean on that hand as if only his bodily weight stops it crumpling the words beyond recognition.
There is no knock on the door. Instead, it cracks open, the sounds of rain spilling in from outside. And a voice slips in as well, mid-conversation, "-stepping in now. 'Course he's expecting me. And-" There's a pause as the door remains ajar. "Been cleanin' up the mess in my weyr, but yer welcome to help me mess it up again.." There is a slap, and the door swings wide open, carrying with it a rider in full, though unbuttoned, leathers, decently soaked through by the steady rain. Blonde hair matted over his forehead and one cheek, and the other cheek bearing the red mark of a lovely petite hand. The back of said woman is seen stalking away.. most likely one of the assistants. T'zen freezes, realizing he's now actually /inside/ the office. Nobody saw, right?
G'thon looks up without straightening, just turning his head and lifting up his chin. Light eyes glance past T'zen and follow the shape of the retreating assistant; after a moment the pale brows slink upward over a somewhat skeptical expression, and the Weyrleader focuses on the cause of this disturbance all anew. "Welcome, bluerider," says the older man in a wry, bemused tone unwarmed by anything like a smile. And only then he straightens, draws back that long pale hand from the hides it had almost abused, and with it gestures at the tea service. The other hand lifts his glass: "May I get you a warm-up of some kind? I believe we have business." Just not the pre-arranged kind.
Blinks rapidly as he realizes that is the Weyrleader talking to him, the very person he had every intention of getting on the good side with, and now instead stands before him, drenched, beaten by a mere woman, and completely uncomposed. "Business?" He straightens suddenly. Well, one thing can be fixed. "Business, yes, sir!" He closes the door behind him, shutting out the sound of rain and the beginnings of laughter from a nearby rider. He puts an involuntary hand to the tenderized cheek, but otherwise better bears the look of a wingrider. He looks at the tea cart, and nods cautiously, "Er.." He looks over the cart, searching, trying to recognize something. Finally, he manages a vague, "Tea, thank you." He steps forward, taking the invite for a drink as a welcome to approach. "And.. apologies for the intrusion. I did intend to knock." He tries to grin, but it doesn't manage to get past an awkward smirk. The weight of the office and leader before him clearly throws off whatever misplaced bravado he had outside.
This is simply done. The Weyrleader takes the few steps to the tea cart, moving around to the opposite side so he may lift the pot and a cup, pour, and offer out the result for the bluerider to take all while observing the young man's entrance peripherally. Dryly, he provides with taciturn tact, "No trouble. Have a seat?" G'thon's broad gesture this time encompasses the chairs which, scattered some few steps from the mess he's made of the sandtable with all of his hides, stand sort of ready to accept guests. "I would suggest you avoid angering the staff, however, if you wish to continue to be allowed into every nook and cranny of the Weyr's secure places. I'll leave you to make your own amendments." This latter sentence has the tone of a new subject, explained by a tip of a nod to the sweetener and cream in pots with the tea service. "Sorry I haven't a towel for you. I should begin a habit of keeping a few during the wet season." Now, just now, his eyes seem to sparkle, crinkling wry around the corners; and then the smile is gone.
T'zen accepts the cup, humbly nodding before the older Weyrleader, mumbling a "Yes, sir," at his 'suggestion'. He takes a sip of the tea, and immediately sets to with the sweetener, dumping far too much in. Then stirring what was once tea, he makes his way over to one of the offered seats. There seems to be no room for small talk, and as his own tension rises, he settles on the purpose of his visit just as he settles in the chair. "Sir. Weyrleader. I wish to transfer wings," he says after clearing his throat. Then for good measure, "Out of 3C, sir."
"Oh?" G'thon has set aside his non-tea whatever-it-was in favor of taking up another cup and saucer to pour for himself. The motions are ritual; he hardly needs to look at the cup to aim the pot's spout, nor to know when it's near-full and set the pot aside. Thus he can glance up at the bluerider now and again while he does so. "Too much rest for you, being off-duty so much while we try to build numbers?" Try indeed! With precisely zero transfers into 3C since the day it fairly burned the sky down with death, the Weyrleader -must- mean these words with dry wit. But his wit is mild, if present, so dry that what he's said hangs in the air and seems to suck the humidity right out of it. He waves a hand to dismiss them and pauses to sweeten his own tea - sparingly. "If you just miss the sky, I can arrange a temporary assignment with four-a?"
Seat and tea forgotten (luckily set down moments before), T'zen is standing again, fear in wide open eyes. "Sir! I am fully able to fly Thread," he speaks with a force that was completely missing moments before. Suddenly realizing he has come very close to being accused of raising his voice against the man, he backsteps, literally hitting the chair behind him with a leg. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. You don't understand. I was not injured." He was certain everyone knew that by now.. his brows furrow slightly. "Or Uneth. Made it clean out, despite what I'zul did." Title so easily forgotten now, and then he remembers. "Wingleader I'zul. And sir." His voice takes on a more plaintive tone, "Ain't nobody transfering into 3C. Ain't nobody following I'zul again. Me included." With the agitation comes more of his native obscure High Reaches accent, the stunting, clipping of words. ANd with a breath, before he fears he loses the chance. "A fighting wing, sir. E'sere's allowed me to volunteer on his wing. Done well, sir. And I can do better.. One- One-A.." It all comes out in a rush.. daring as much chance as he can muster.
The rush washes over G'thon; he is mild and stable as a tree on shore, unbothered by the rush of this small flood. As the waves recede he even smiles so very slightly, the right-hand corner of his mouth just cocking up the tiniest bit. This small betrayal of amusement he squelches behind a tip of the teacup; he savors the sip a long moment, long enough to rejoin cup and saucer in the palm of one hand, long enough to begin a purposeful, slow pacing of thought. Finally he observes, "No. There are very few willing to follow I'zul - at least, not into Threadfall." Another sip of the tea, swifter swallowed, whets his lips for a more to-the-point reply - but by now he's stopped his paces and gazes off toward the back of the office where a tapestry offers an idealized scene of dragons in flight and flame, green pasture below. "E'sere does not lead one-a."
The extraordinary demeanor of the Weyrleader gives T'zen his own pause for breath. Initial fright seemingly averted, he watches the Weyrleader carefully, and finally nods slowly, though he remains standing. "Yes, sir. He leads Two-C. All I am saying, is I can do better than 2nd Flight. I can be at the front." He finds his foothold on the topic of flight, his voice a bit steadier now, if passioned. A momentary pause, and then he adds. "You need every rider, do you not? I mean. The number of weyrlings seem few. No golds have risen. And all the while I am in a wing that doesn't fly. That is hardly a wing!" He finally remembers his teacup, and plucks it up.. almost fearing it offense to leave it unattended.
G'thon's own teacup rests unrattling in the broad expanse of his pale palm, dwarfed by the size of his fingers. He slides the other hand needlessly beneath, making the tea absurdly secure. It suits, perhaps, his absurdly mild reply: "I see." Then he's turning from his regard of the tapestry to observe T'zen directly; one might get the distinct impression that in the interim, he has schooled his expression from something rather else into what it is now: stern but not unyielding. "You and Uneth are among the Weyr's most reliable in flight. Swift, clever, agile." The merest pause to make it dreadfully, darkly obvious that his next question is another of those humorless jests: "I do recall correctly - T'zen and Uneth?" Some hundred pairs and no Hirth to extract dragons' names from; perhaps he's simply memorized them.
Ah. So he has heard. The stance T'zen takes, surely noticeable under the scrutinizing eye of the Weyrleader, has just the slight tilt of cockiness in it, and it goes a long way to making him appear much more relaxed than his voice and far less sturdy hold of his teacup reveal. He simply answers straight, completely missing the jest as he rides on compliment, "T'zen and Uneth, yes, sir." He pauses at that point, clearly expecting more from the Weyrleader. Teacup is drawn to his lips, its sugary contents sipped.
And so, as is expected, more comes. With complete grace, as if he speaks from a script, G'thon lowers his chin in a single ghost of a nod. "Then you would be wasted in the first flight." He turns away with a purposeful simplicity which defies any seeming of abruptness - but surely the turning is abrupt; surely he does not -need- to attend to warming his tea with another pour from the pot. Nevertheless, this is what he's doing, and while his hands busy with this work he goes on speaking, just as mild as ever. "A blue or green in the first wings rides outermost flank - resupply, occasional gouts to char wayward Thread that might endanger the main ranks. It's interesting flying, perhaps, but hardly Threadfighting as you and I think of it." This notion is emphasized by a gesture of one hand - the one not now adding cream to his tea - tossing out an invisible line from T'zen to himself, linking them as men of like minds. Perhaps it is a slight stretch, but of this possibility the Weyrleader seems completely unaware. He looks up, planting hands on the tea-tray on either side of the pot, bent just slightly. "Hardly fit for your skills."
T'zen listens carefully, another sip taken of his own cup. Chair is still forgotten, nor would he even consider it as the Weyrleader also remains standing. He clearly registers surprise at the notion that he could be too /good/ for 1A. For, of course, what else could the Weyrleader mean? Still, he seems on a good course, and ventures a tentative, "I see. I just thought." Dreamed. "Helping protect the Weyrleader in flight." He quickly corrects, "Flight leader.." The notion fades on his lips. He absently brushes some of his still-damp hair off his forehead, leaving a mess further back on his head. He senses some level of equalizing.. at least if he hasn't already thrown it off-balance by the injudicious referral to a flying Weyrleader. He ventures again, "What do you propose, Weyrleader?"
G'thon smiles faintly. "Protect him on the ground," he might be heard to say - but then his head is lowered again, attending most carefully to the addition of a little sweetener to his refreshed cup of tea, and if the man spoke at all he spoke so softly as to leave doubt. In any case, he soon picks up the cup and lifts his head, fixing those light eyes upon his damp guest in all of their unmeasurable thoughtfulness. "Plainly, E'sere values your loyalty." Is the beat left silent here intentional, or caused by attention to his tea, the sudden catch of his hand as if the cup might have slid from that broad palm to the floor? Whatever: no spill, no harm done, and the Weyrleader reapproaches the bluerider, this time casting out his other palm to catch up the back of a chair and draw it near. But he does not sit. "The second wings work the smaller pairs hardest, to my mind. They bear two challenges: sheer quantity of Thread, and wind or stormblown bits which have escaped those above. They must prove strong, fast, and agile all at once - rare combination in the browns. I would have you serve there, and assist E'sere." And now, for a little extra weird to sweeten the tea: "If you and Uneth will permit."
So, this is it. T'zen listens to the Weyrleader sell the virtues- for what else are challenges?- of the second flight wings. And after comprehending this change in focus, and realizing the man has just granted the transfer, T'zen's eyes widen again, and a grin forces its way onto his face. He replies crisply, "Yes, SIR! Uneth and I are ready and willing, sir! Eager." His grin widens at the slip. "Thank you, Weyrleader! Thank you." And automatically his free hand is held out to shake the Weyrleader's.
G'thon transfers cup from one hand to the other so he may meet that enthusiastic shake with his own palm, cool and dry. "Very good, then. I'll inform E'sere next I see him, and he'll make the transfer official with a badge." The pale brows that went up upon the bluerider's arrival have stayed a bit raised - and now they nudge up incrementally more, revealing sparkling light in the depths of the eyes below. Again, and with persistence now, those crinkles in the corners show.
T'zen nods eagerly, quite unable to knock off his grin and the upwelling of both anticipation and relief. "Thank you, sir. The danger is good he'll hear from me first, but of course, your word is the official one." He steps back from the handshake, tea downed in one grotesque sugary gulp, and he begins for the door, but pauses in half turn. "Sir, if I may ask." The grins now is shelved for a more serious expression. It's mostly curiousity now, but his eyes show something a tad deeper, in spite of his own clear joy at the assignment. "What is to happen to I'zul?"
"If he hears from you first, it'll be your business to convince him of your badge," replies G'thon, but his voice offers no objection, no reprimand for this possibly brash course of action. A flick up of one pale brow might instead provide encouragement. With the handshake done and these last words exchanged, he goes to find a place for his cup - he clearly pauses by the sandtable, but it might be an affront to the tea to place it upon the hides, and so the man continues on to the service. But: "Hm?" He turns, faces the door and the man now beside it. "I'zul? The investigation is ongoing. Benden has become involved." Which is no answer - but with a wan smile G'thon allows, in silence, that no answer exists. "Thank you," he adds, as if the question was an offer of condolence - and of dismissal.
T'zen frowns briefly at the answer, or lack of one, regarding I'zul. But his own mission accomplished, he has no desire to push it. "Thank you, sir. Good day." And he opens the door, again revealing rain and an inrush of cold wind. He steps outside closing the door. Though muted, a whoop of delight can be heard a few moments later.
What: T'zen requests a new wing assignment.
It is 21:32 on day 13, month 9, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It is quiet enough this time of evening, with dark creeping in around the corners of the office's far nooks and alcoves, slinking up the tunnels that lead to the weyrwomen's and weyrleader's weyrs and crawling down the stairs into the drenched bowl below. Quiet enough that a sudden grunt of disgust fills the room, echoes outward and dies as suddenly as it started, a severe interruption in the peace. It comes from the Weyrleader, who of course has tea at ready on a cart here - but who also has a low glass with something golden and sparkling in it, and also has a fair sheaf of hides sprawled every which way out on the sandtable's glass cover. One hand clenches the drink; the other lays broad-palmed across a couple of the hides, and G'thon has risen from his chair to lean on that hand as if only his bodily weight stops it crumpling the words beyond recognition.
There is no knock on the door. Instead, it cracks open, the sounds of rain spilling in from outside. And a voice slips in as well, mid-conversation, "-stepping in now. 'Course he's expecting me. And-" There's a pause as the door remains ajar. "Been cleanin' up the mess in my weyr, but yer welcome to help me mess it up again.." There is a slap, and the door swings wide open, carrying with it a rider in full, though unbuttoned, leathers, decently soaked through by the steady rain. Blonde hair matted over his forehead and one cheek, and the other cheek bearing the red mark of a lovely petite hand. The back of said woman is seen stalking away.. most likely one of the assistants. T'zen freezes, realizing he's now actually /inside/ the office. Nobody saw, right?
G'thon looks up without straightening, just turning his head and lifting up his chin. Light eyes glance past T'zen and follow the shape of the retreating assistant; after a moment the pale brows slink upward over a somewhat skeptical expression, and the Weyrleader focuses on the cause of this disturbance all anew. "Welcome, bluerider," says the older man in a wry, bemused tone unwarmed by anything like a smile. And only then he straightens, draws back that long pale hand from the hides it had almost abused, and with it gestures at the tea service. The other hand lifts his glass: "May I get you a warm-up of some kind? I believe we have business." Just not the pre-arranged kind.
Blinks rapidly as he realizes that is the Weyrleader talking to him, the very person he had every intention of getting on the good side with, and now instead stands before him, drenched, beaten by a mere woman, and completely uncomposed. "Business?" He straightens suddenly. Well, one thing can be fixed. "Business, yes, sir!" He closes the door behind him, shutting out the sound of rain and the beginnings of laughter from a nearby rider. He puts an involuntary hand to the tenderized cheek, but otherwise better bears the look of a wingrider. He looks at the tea cart, and nods cautiously, "Er.." He looks over the cart, searching, trying to recognize something. Finally, he manages a vague, "Tea, thank you." He steps forward, taking the invite for a drink as a welcome to approach. "And.. apologies for the intrusion. I did intend to knock." He tries to grin, but it doesn't manage to get past an awkward smirk. The weight of the office and leader before him clearly throws off whatever misplaced bravado he had outside.
This is simply done. The Weyrleader takes the few steps to the tea cart, moving around to the opposite side so he may lift the pot and a cup, pour, and offer out the result for the bluerider to take all while observing the young man's entrance peripherally. Dryly, he provides with taciturn tact, "No trouble. Have a seat?" G'thon's broad gesture this time encompasses the chairs which, scattered some few steps from the mess he's made of the sandtable with all of his hides, stand sort of ready to accept guests. "I would suggest you avoid angering the staff, however, if you wish to continue to be allowed into every nook and cranny of the Weyr's secure places. I'll leave you to make your own amendments." This latter sentence has the tone of a new subject, explained by a tip of a nod to the sweetener and cream in pots with the tea service. "Sorry I haven't a towel for you. I should begin a habit of keeping a few during the wet season." Now, just now, his eyes seem to sparkle, crinkling wry around the corners; and then the smile is gone.
T'zen accepts the cup, humbly nodding before the older Weyrleader, mumbling a "Yes, sir," at his 'suggestion'. He takes a sip of the tea, and immediately sets to with the sweetener, dumping far too much in. Then stirring what was once tea, he makes his way over to one of the offered seats. There seems to be no room for small talk, and as his own tension rises, he settles on the purpose of his visit just as he settles in the chair. "Sir. Weyrleader. I wish to transfer wings," he says after clearing his throat. Then for good measure, "Out of 3C, sir."
"Oh?" G'thon has set aside his non-tea whatever-it-was in favor of taking up another cup and saucer to pour for himself. The motions are ritual; he hardly needs to look at the cup to aim the pot's spout, nor to know when it's near-full and set the pot aside. Thus he can glance up at the bluerider now and again while he does so. "Too much rest for you, being off-duty so much while we try to build numbers?" Try indeed! With precisely zero transfers into 3C since the day it fairly burned the sky down with death, the Weyrleader -must- mean these words with dry wit. But his wit is mild, if present, so dry that what he's said hangs in the air and seems to suck the humidity right out of it. He waves a hand to dismiss them and pauses to sweeten his own tea - sparingly. "If you just miss the sky, I can arrange a temporary assignment with four-a?"
Seat and tea forgotten (luckily set down moments before), T'zen is standing again, fear in wide open eyes. "Sir! I am fully able to fly Thread," he speaks with a force that was completely missing moments before. Suddenly realizing he has come very close to being accused of raising his voice against the man, he backsteps, literally hitting the chair behind him with a leg. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. You don't understand. I was not injured." He was certain everyone knew that by now.. his brows furrow slightly. "Or Uneth. Made it clean out, despite what I'zul did." Title so easily forgotten now, and then he remembers. "Wingleader I'zul. And sir." His voice takes on a more plaintive tone, "Ain't nobody transfering into 3C. Ain't nobody following I'zul again. Me included." With the agitation comes more of his native obscure High Reaches accent, the stunting, clipping of words. ANd with a breath, before he fears he loses the chance. "A fighting wing, sir. E'sere's allowed me to volunteer on his wing. Done well, sir. And I can do better.. One- One-A.." It all comes out in a rush.. daring as much chance as he can muster.
The rush washes over G'thon; he is mild and stable as a tree on shore, unbothered by the rush of this small flood. As the waves recede he even smiles so very slightly, the right-hand corner of his mouth just cocking up the tiniest bit. This small betrayal of amusement he squelches behind a tip of the teacup; he savors the sip a long moment, long enough to rejoin cup and saucer in the palm of one hand, long enough to begin a purposeful, slow pacing of thought. Finally he observes, "No. There are very few willing to follow I'zul - at least, not into Threadfall." Another sip of the tea, swifter swallowed, whets his lips for a more to-the-point reply - but by now he's stopped his paces and gazes off toward the back of the office where a tapestry offers an idealized scene of dragons in flight and flame, green pasture below. "E'sere does not lead one-a."
The extraordinary demeanor of the Weyrleader gives T'zen his own pause for breath. Initial fright seemingly averted, he watches the Weyrleader carefully, and finally nods slowly, though he remains standing. "Yes, sir. He leads Two-C. All I am saying, is I can do better than 2nd Flight. I can be at the front." He finds his foothold on the topic of flight, his voice a bit steadier now, if passioned. A momentary pause, and then he adds. "You need every rider, do you not? I mean. The number of weyrlings seem few. No golds have risen. And all the while I am in a wing that doesn't fly. That is hardly a wing!" He finally remembers his teacup, and plucks it up.. almost fearing it offense to leave it unattended.
G'thon's own teacup rests unrattling in the broad expanse of his pale palm, dwarfed by the size of his fingers. He slides the other hand needlessly beneath, making the tea absurdly secure. It suits, perhaps, his absurdly mild reply: "I see." Then he's turning from his regard of the tapestry to observe T'zen directly; one might get the distinct impression that in the interim, he has schooled his expression from something rather else into what it is now: stern but not unyielding. "You and Uneth are among the Weyr's most reliable in flight. Swift, clever, agile." The merest pause to make it dreadfully, darkly obvious that his next question is another of those humorless jests: "I do recall correctly - T'zen and Uneth?" Some hundred pairs and no Hirth to extract dragons' names from; perhaps he's simply memorized them.
Ah. So he has heard. The stance T'zen takes, surely noticeable under the scrutinizing eye of the Weyrleader, has just the slight tilt of cockiness in it, and it goes a long way to making him appear much more relaxed than his voice and far less sturdy hold of his teacup reveal. He simply answers straight, completely missing the jest as he rides on compliment, "T'zen and Uneth, yes, sir." He pauses at that point, clearly expecting more from the Weyrleader. Teacup is drawn to his lips, its sugary contents sipped.
And so, as is expected, more comes. With complete grace, as if he speaks from a script, G'thon lowers his chin in a single ghost of a nod. "Then you would be wasted in the first flight." He turns away with a purposeful simplicity which defies any seeming of abruptness - but surely the turning is abrupt; surely he does not -need- to attend to warming his tea with another pour from the pot. Nevertheless, this is what he's doing, and while his hands busy with this work he goes on speaking, just as mild as ever. "A blue or green in the first wings rides outermost flank - resupply, occasional gouts to char wayward Thread that might endanger the main ranks. It's interesting flying, perhaps, but hardly Threadfighting as you and I think of it." This notion is emphasized by a gesture of one hand - the one not now adding cream to his tea - tossing out an invisible line from T'zen to himself, linking them as men of like minds. Perhaps it is a slight stretch, but of this possibility the Weyrleader seems completely unaware. He looks up, planting hands on the tea-tray on either side of the pot, bent just slightly. "Hardly fit for your skills."
T'zen listens carefully, another sip taken of his own cup. Chair is still forgotten, nor would he even consider it as the Weyrleader also remains standing. He clearly registers surprise at the notion that he could be too /good/ for 1A. For, of course, what else could the Weyrleader mean? Still, he seems on a good course, and ventures a tentative, "I see. I just thought." Dreamed. "Helping protect the Weyrleader in flight." He quickly corrects, "Flight leader.." The notion fades on his lips. He absently brushes some of his still-damp hair off his forehead, leaving a mess further back on his head. He senses some level of equalizing.. at least if he hasn't already thrown it off-balance by the injudicious referral to a flying Weyrleader. He ventures again, "What do you propose, Weyrleader?"
G'thon smiles faintly. "Protect him on the ground," he might be heard to say - but then his head is lowered again, attending most carefully to the addition of a little sweetener to his refreshed cup of tea, and if the man spoke at all he spoke so softly as to leave doubt. In any case, he soon picks up the cup and lifts his head, fixing those light eyes upon his damp guest in all of their unmeasurable thoughtfulness. "Plainly, E'sere values your loyalty." Is the beat left silent here intentional, or caused by attention to his tea, the sudden catch of his hand as if the cup might have slid from that broad palm to the floor? Whatever: no spill, no harm done, and the Weyrleader reapproaches the bluerider, this time casting out his other palm to catch up the back of a chair and draw it near. But he does not sit. "The second wings work the smaller pairs hardest, to my mind. They bear two challenges: sheer quantity of Thread, and wind or stormblown bits which have escaped those above. They must prove strong, fast, and agile all at once - rare combination in the browns. I would have you serve there, and assist E'sere." And now, for a little extra weird to sweeten the tea: "If you and Uneth will permit."
So, this is it. T'zen listens to the Weyrleader sell the virtues- for what else are challenges?- of the second flight wings. And after comprehending this change in focus, and realizing the man has just granted the transfer, T'zen's eyes widen again, and a grin forces its way onto his face. He replies crisply, "Yes, SIR! Uneth and I are ready and willing, sir! Eager." His grin widens at the slip. "Thank you, Weyrleader! Thank you." And automatically his free hand is held out to shake the Weyrleader's.
G'thon transfers cup from one hand to the other so he may meet that enthusiastic shake with his own palm, cool and dry. "Very good, then. I'll inform E'sere next I see him, and he'll make the transfer official with a badge." The pale brows that went up upon the bluerider's arrival have stayed a bit raised - and now they nudge up incrementally more, revealing sparkling light in the depths of the eyes below. Again, and with persistence now, those crinkles in the corners show.
T'zen nods eagerly, quite unable to knock off his grin and the upwelling of both anticipation and relief. "Thank you, sir. The danger is good he'll hear from me first, but of course, your word is the official one." He steps back from the handshake, tea downed in one grotesque sugary gulp, and he begins for the door, but pauses in half turn. "Sir, if I may ask." The grins now is shelved for a more serious expression. It's mostly curiousity now, but his eyes show something a tad deeper, in spite of his own clear joy at the assignment. "What is to happen to I'zul?"
"If he hears from you first, it'll be your business to convince him of your badge," replies G'thon, but his voice offers no objection, no reprimand for this possibly brash course of action. A flick up of one pale brow might instead provide encouragement. With the handshake done and these last words exchanged, he goes to find a place for his cup - he clearly pauses by the sandtable, but it might be an affront to the tea to place it upon the hides, and so the man continues on to the service. But: "Hm?" He turns, faces the door and the man now beside it. "I'zul? The investigation is ongoing. Benden has become involved." Which is no answer - but with a wan smile G'thon allows, in silence, that no answer exists. "Thank you," he adds, as if the question was an offer of condolence - and of dismissal.
T'zen frowns briefly at the answer, or lack of one, regarding I'zul. But his own mission accomplished, he has no desire to push it. "Thank you, sir. Good day." And he opens the door, again revealing rain and an inrush of cold wind. He steps outside closing the door. Though muted, a whoop of delight can be heard a few moments later.