"And little ambition to overreach you. Sir."
Who: G'thon, Ch'dais
When: Day 27, Month 2, Turn 1 of the Seventh Pass
Where: Weyrleaders' Office
What: G'thon summons Ch'dais to discuss leadership of the leaderless wing 1B, and of the Weyr's wings as a whole.
> The summons comes in the form of one of the weyr's number of children too young to work and too old to be left playing all day: a sprout of perhaps nine turns, coming to confirm rumor spread by dragon-mind. Where-ever it may be he finds the bronzerider, it's two things certain - on foot and in a hurry, maybe at a meal or dashing through passages in the caverns by chance. But his message is simple enough. "The... uh. The Weyrleader," he decides on the spot, "wants to see you, sir. Up in th'Weyrwoman's office." Which is a strange way to name the place, and the lad backsteps a pace, executes the most awkward of bows, then bolts.
Ch'dais climbs the stairs that lead from the bowl.
Ch'dais has arrived.
The young bronzerider's booted step may be heard on the stairs leading up to the complex shared by the Weyr's leadership. He's come from the living caverns, not in haste but with deep deliberation, wind-whipped in his sort trip across the sands of the bowl. It's a testament to his distraction that he's brought along the mug from which he was drinking when the Weyrleader's errand boy-- so strange a messenger for a dragonman!-- caught him. With a soft mutter, Ch'dais bends to set this aside on an upper step before stalking into the office chamber.
Within, the Weyrleader waits. But this waiting is of the effective kind; once, G'thon might have sat at ready in the upholstered chair behind the writing desk, or stood with firm patience with tea in hand by the sandtable, in either case doing nothing at all in his certainty that the man he's summoned will appear in all immediacy. No longer. He is mid-letter, a pen in hand and hide trapped flat to the desk beneath the other, bent over the desk as if he hadn't the time to sit down. The sound of footfalls alerts him, poor replacement for the mental alarm from a watchward gargoyle cast in bronze that once might have lurked nearby. The man looks up, eyes serious, mouth grim - but crooked, like a smile might be teased out from that higher right-hand side. "Ch'dais," he observes, voice rough. "Forgive me having you interrupted." He overturns a hand toward the chair nearest the sandtable, leaving off his writing to straighten and step around the desk.
"One doesn't neglect the Weyrleader's summons." It's an offhand remark, self-evident in its flatness, but Ch'dais can't keep from a longer study of the older man's features than is entirely polite. Is he looking for weariness? Weakness? Resolve? Grey-green eyes signal only a certain reticence. He finds a smile then, stiff as the stubble of his beard. "I'm glad to see you're awake, sir." He crosses to the chair, pulls it back. "Suspect there are times when you wish you weren't."
The smile creeps up incrementally on that one side, promise briefly fulfilled, then slips away into a grim nod. "I had that wish, when first I awoke. It hasn't troubled me since." No; G'thon's features - held firm and patient beneath the big man's gaze, accepting that study - betray troubles in spades, but this one he'll deny is among them. Toward a tea-table set up near the entrance to his own weyr he strides, gait a bit shorter than befits a man with legs so long, stunted by scars and pain. But his walk is still purposeful. There, he takes up a pitcher, turns around to face his guest while pouring; asks, "So how did it go?"
Ch'dais follows the man with his eyes, noting posture, pace; his opinion of these causes him to moisten his upper lip before seting both in a severe line. The query, though, sets him back for the space of an arched brow. "Sir?" But swiftly enough an exhaled breath flares the rider's nostrils. "It was a close thing." Subdued, his tone. "R'vain would have us nominate your replacement, sir." An uncomfortable pause follows, during which the burly man studies the seat he has yet to occupy. "I argued that you should have your choice of a 'second, and that was carried. This time."
One cup poured, apparently of plain clean water, G'thon turns to take up another and repeat the task. With his eyes on the water, on the flow from pitcher to cup, the Weyrleader's reactions would be somewhat disguised, if indeed there were any. It seems there are not. "R'vain would be my replacement," he simply replies, in a voice neither pleased nor disgusted. "I must confess I wonder if the knot would steady him. The one he has now did - for a time." He leaves the pitcher and carries both glasses to the sandtable, setting them down upon the solid plank that covers it by half. "And I have had my choice of a 'second. R'hal would know better than any of our bronzeriders how to lead the wing he's helped manage for six turns." Only now do those pale hazel eyes sparkle, for the briefest moment - blink, and it's gone. "But I suppose a more permanent replacement is called for."
"R'vain is a drunkard and an opportunist. I liked him better when he was stagger-sloppy." Not quite an outburst, but as close as Ch'dais will come in this company; the words are taut, rumbled in the back of the bronzerider's throat and spoken between the teeth. Only then does he settle into the offered chair with a creak of worn leathers and a soft groan of protest from the wood. His eyes lift to meet the Weyrleader's, steadily for all that a touch of concern swirls in their sea-green. "Frankly, sir, people want certainty and they need it soon. Tell them that R'hal has your voice to lead them when you're..." Unable. "Needing assistance. Or E'sere. The boy all but expects it, I think, and no one will be surprised." It seems not to occur to the bronzerider that 'the boy' is roughly of his own age.
G'thon murmurs a note of, if not approval, at least bemusement behind closed lips as response to the bronzerider's outburst regarding his chosen Weyrlingmaster. If nothing else, the Weyrleader must be accustomed to such words about R'vain, and inexplicably takes them in stride. He draws up a chair from among several at the edge of the room, lifting the lightweight wood clean from the floor to carry it to the sandtable and there seat himself in it. His is more a perch than a repose, a bit tender about it. But he takes up one of the water glasses and swirls it, musing, "Do you think there would be anything short of riots if I named R'hal our leader in Threadfall until the next senior flight?" Not a word about E'sere. Not a word.
For a time, Ch'dais says nothing. His pale brow furrows as he watches his senior, then his gaze cuts away to the second of the water vessels, seeking any handy distraction from this awkward business. He curls his hand beneath a hanging braid or three, clears them from his view. "R'hal has experience, and he rides first wing," the bronzerider starts, picking over the words as if they were rotting fruit. "Right now there aren't any rival claimants, but that might change if E'sere thinks he's been slighted." The big man heaves a soft sigh. "R'hal will carry them or he won't. Someone has to try. You're--" He breaks off, grinding the words between his molars. "The wingleaders may have some advice for you, sir. Don't leave them to settle this amongst themselves."
"E'sere," finally touched upon as if the topic is regrettably inevitable, "Might lead this Weyr someday. Perhaps soon. But I am not looking for a Weyrleader." G'thon pauses for a sip of the water, then replaces the glass not far from its pair which presumably is intended for the big man on the table's other side. Then the older man slips up out of his chair, pacing those abbreviated strides in a slow arc away from the table and back. "His claim will be no better if it comes from his mother. I'd sooner put the knot on R'vain." G'thon pauses, refocusing a gaze that had slid into middle distance, now back upon the bronzerider by the table. "I am aware your wing requires leadership as well." Intoned with sympathy, the words sound pained through the man's roughened throat and hollowed demeanor. "Who would you suggest?"
Ch'dais twitches his lips into a wan smile, there and gone. "We're a bit thin on deck," he concedes, the sourest of jests. He's still focused on his untouched water, eyes half-narrowed now and printed with lines at the corners. Such is the frustration in that look that he seems as if he might shatter the glass by the force of his glare alone. "Our wingleader--" well, everyone knows-- "and our 'second in no condition to ride Fall." A pause, and then softly, "I haven't always done right by them, I know. Haven't trusted them. And for that I haven't always earned theirs." The bronzerider closes his eyes for a moment, touches a thick thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his bent nose; when he looks back to the Weyrleader, he's achieved a perilous degree of calm. "But it's different now," he grates. "Arinth and I are the senior pair, and we know the work. I can keep the wing flying, sir, I know that."
"Indeed." There is a trace of pleasure, a wan smile, present in the two syllables, softly intoned. G'thon turns away again, stiffly crossing the space to a side table. There lies a small wooden box, lid carved and sides ornamented by paints. It might in fact be a tea chest, and even if it weren't it does take on a certain tea chest quality from the way in which the Weyrleader's hands gently slide the lid off of the base. From within, from among divided spaces segmented out by thin planks of lightweight wood, he takes something out, then another something, both palmed with fingers closed over them. "I believe the wing trusts you well enough. I believe the Weyr does." The box is relidded, and the older man returns to the sandtable, a deft gesture turning out of his hand a wingleader's knot onto the thick glass next to Ch'dais' water. The other thing, whatever it is, remains beneath his pale fingers. "Who would you name 'second, then?"
Only for a moment do the bronzerider's brows lift with curiosity, his massive frame leaning a little to one side to follow G'thon's ministrations at the table. By the time he turns, Ch'dais has resettled his craggy features; part acceptance and part dismay, it looks like thin-lipped resignation. When the knot goes down, black and vibrant blue, his eyes rest upon it as if it were a lead weight. "Someone you can trust, sir," he murmurs at last. "If that's not E'sere, then someone else. With..." And then the tall man trails off. He flicks a genuinely black glance to whatever the Weyrleader still holds, then forcibly returns his attention to the sand-table's glass cover. "With standing. But no personal following." Miserably, he finishes, "And little ambition to overreach you. Sir."
G'thon is severe for a moment, eyes shadowed from the bottom up as if light's natural cast downward from the sun were reversed upon him. His jaw moves, molars grinding in silence within. But when he speaks, his voice is strangely gentle, the ghostly refrains of his manner drained from this one aspect. It is a concession, an effort to be kind. "Not what I meant, Ch'dais." His hand opens again, and there lies a badge meant for a rider's formal leathers, one just like his own - first wing, first flight, the Weyrleader's wing - aside that weighty wingleader's knot. An odd combination they make, reflected in the glass' curved wall, refracted upside-down through the water to the other side. "Who'll lead the second wing, if you're not doing it?"
"You meant a 'second for my wing." Suddenly, unaccountably, Ch'dais laughs; it's a sharp sound, a bark that cuts into the chamber's stillness, bleeds off some of the tension in his broad shoulders as he considers that second insignia. The man is left wiping beneath one eye, a gesture that ends when he rubs his bearded chin with the back of that hand. For just a moment, he looks up at the Weyrleader with unguarded good-fellowship lighting the green of his eyes. "If I name one now, will you give this'n--" a nod at that strange new burden G'thon has placed-- "to someone else?" But the rider sobers swiftly enough, settled by the grave needs of the moment. "P'iren, sir. He's a little young to lead a wing, but he's diligent and he learns quickly."
The laugh's suddenness brings a little light to G'thon as well, creeping upward in the right-hand side of his mouth. It almost touches his eyes, lifting some of the shroud from their jovial hazel, and as silvery brows slide up in bemusement the Weyrleader's hand moves just far enough from the things left there on the slab to take up his own water glass. He drinks rather than answer that question that has no good answer, no answer the younger bronzerider wants to hear. After the drink, the smile is gone. "Then send P'iren up, Ch'dais, next you see him. I'm afraid it will be a day or two before I'm going back and forth to the caverns regularly enough to set a snare for him." Watching the big, ruddy-haired man over the rim of the glass, he softly ads
The laugh's suddenness brings a little light to G'thon as well, creeping upward in the right-hand side of his mouth. It almost touches his eyes, lifting some of the shroud from their jovial hazel, and as silvery brows slide up in bemusement the Weyrleader's hand moves just far enough from the things left there on the slab to take up his own water glass. He drinks rather than answer that question that has no good answer, no answer the younger bronzerider wants to hear. After the drink, the smile is gone. "Then send P'iren up, Ch'dais, next you see him. I'm afraid it will be a day or two before I'm going back and forth to the caverns regularly enough to set a snare for him." Watching the big, ruddy-haired man over the rim of the glass, he softly adds, "R'hal will work with you. R'vain's probably afraid of you, common-sense as you are. It'll work." He lowers the glass to the table, bending to slip back into his chair as he does so.
As the silver-haired Weyrleader sits, Ch'dais uncoils to his feet. He reaches for those knots, businesslike, but pauses just before touching them; his strong hand hovers, fingers splayed, reflected in the table's glass. "Sir," he rumbles, gaze downcast, "May I ask you a question?" When he lifts his eyes to the older man's their green has ceded to grey, like the sea darkened beneath a storm. Thoughts heave there, unvoiced. He takes a careful breath, and then says, "Are you doing this because it's best for you, sir? Or because it's best for the Weyr?" No accusation, this, but an open question; indeed, there's something almost tragic about its earnestness.
G'thon arranges himself as if he were the same man he'd been days before. It must cost him something, settling deep back into the chair and lifting the one leg to cross the other at the knee, so many bends and twists of a body so battered. These aches and pains are not permitted upon his face; as he lifts his chin to catch and meet that gray regard, there lies only the neverending loss in his eyes, the abyss looking back. "I could argue that what is best for me is a long rest in a warm hold known for rich, spiced teas." What his tone lacks in friendly irony it makes up for with flat gray monotone. "Assuming you believe I have something, at this stage in my life, to gain personally from extending the length of the waltz we are all ridiculously dancing to, then indeed. I am doing what is best for me." He waits a moment too short to speak in, allowing the timing of silence to assure the frankness of his words. "And I believe that what is best for High Reaches is, by definition, best for me. Else I'd be somewhere south of here, maybe offering myself as a tutor to some Lord's best son. Is there anything else, Ch'dais?"
Ch'dais doesn't /quite/ wince, but the pain of that explanation filters over the seams and hollows of his features-- gathers in wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, on the verge of lips that draw back into the cinnamon of his beard. The bronzerider's gaze breaks away to the tabletop. "Nothing else, sir," he murmurs, rueful. "I'll send P'iren along." A breath lifts the man's shoulders, and then, with an air of decision, he snatches the offered insignia into the shelter of his grasp. "Thank you for this chance. I'll give it what I have." Such understatement would be rude were it not for the note of iron, of mountain's stone, that sounds in them and makes them true. And then, with a murmured, "By your leave, Weyrleader," he's turning to go.
Leave is granted with a nod and a latecomer smile, wan and one-sided and fleeting. "I know, Ch'dais. And I thank you for it." G'thon unfolds himself, slides up out of that chair, too glad to be back on his feet and unbent at first opportunity. As the big man makes his exit, the Weyrleader leaves the water glasses there for some later reclaim, striding back to his letter in progress to take up the pen anew and complete it.
When: Day 27, Month 2, Turn 1 of the Seventh Pass
Where: Weyrleaders' Office
What: G'thon summons Ch'dais to discuss leadership of the leaderless wing 1B, and of the Weyr's wings as a whole.
> The summons comes in the form of one of the weyr's number of children too young to work and too old to be left playing all day: a sprout of perhaps nine turns, coming to confirm rumor spread by dragon-mind. Where-ever it may be he finds the bronzerider, it's two things certain - on foot and in a hurry, maybe at a meal or dashing through passages in the caverns by chance. But his message is simple enough. "The... uh. The Weyrleader," he decides on the spot, "wants to see you, sir. Up in th'Weyrwoman's office." Which is a strange way to name the place, and the lad backsteps a pace, executes the most awkward of bows, then bolts.
Ch'dais climbs the stairs that lead from the bowl.
Ch'dais has arrived.
The young bronzerider's booted step may be heard on the stairs leading up to the complex shared by the Weyr's leadership. He's come from the living caverns, not in haste but with deep deliberation, wind-whipped in his sort trip across the sands of the bowl. It's a testament to his distraction that he's brought along the mug from which he was drinking when the Weyrleader's errand boy-- so strange a messenger for a dragonman!-- caught him. With a soft mutter, Ch'dais bends to set this aside on an upper step before stalking into the office chamber.
Within, the Weyrleader waits. But this waiting is of the effective kind; once, G'thon might have sat at ready in the upholstered chair behind the writing desk, or stood with firm patience with tea in hand by the sandtable, in either case doing nothing at all in his certainty that the man he's summoned will appear in all immediacy. No longer. He is mid-letter, a pen in hand and hide trapped flat to the desk beneath the other, bent over the desk as if he hadn't the time to sit down. The sound of footfalls alerts him, poor replacement for the mental alarm from a watchward gargoyle cast in bronze that once might have lurked nearby. The man looks up, eyes serious, mouth grim - but crooked, like a smile might be teased out from that higher right-hand side. "Ch'dais," he observes, voice rough. "Forgive me having you interrupted." He overturns a hand toward the chair nearest the sandtable, leaving off his writing to straighten and step around the desk.
"One doesn't neglect the Weyrleader's summons." It's an offhand remark, self-evident in its flatness, but Ch'dais can't keep from a longer study of the older man's features than is entirely polite. Is he looking for weariness? Weakness? Resolve? Grey-green eyes signal only a certain reticence. He finds a smile then, stiff as the stubble of his beard. "I'm glad to see you're awake, sir." He crosses to the chair, pulls it back. "Suspect there are times when you wish you weren't."
The smile creeps up incrementally on that one side, promise briefly fulfilled, then slips away into a grim nod. "I had that wish, when first I awoke. It hasn't troubled me since." No; G'thon's features - held firm and patient beneath the big man's gaze, accepting that study - betray troubles in spades, but this one he'll deny is among them. Toward a tea-table set up near the entrance to his own weyr he strides, gait a bit shorter than befits a man with legs so long, stunted by scars and pain. But his walk is still purposeful. There, he takes up a pitcher, turns around to face his guest while pouring; asks, "So how did it go?"
Ch'dais follows the man with his eyes, noting posture, pace; his opinion of these causes him to moisten his upper lip before seting both in a severe line. The query, though, sets him back for the space of an arched brow. "Sir?" But swiftly enough an exhaled breath flares the rider's nostrils. "It was a close thing." Subdued, his tone. "R'vain would have us nominate your replacement, sir." An uncomfortable pause follows, during which the burly man studies the seat he has yet to occupy. "I argued that you should have your choice of a 'second, and that was carried. This time."
One cup poured, apparently of plain clean water, G'thon turns to take up another and repeat the task. With his eyes on the water, on the flow from pitcher to cup, the Weyrleader's reactions would be somewhat disguised, if indeed there were any. It seems there are not. "R'vain would be my replacement," he simply replies, in a voice neither pleased nor disgusted. "I must confess I wonder if the knot would steady him. The one he has now did - for a time." He leaves the pitcher and carries both glasses to the sandtable, setting them down upon the solid plank that covers it by half. "And I have had my choice of a 'second. R'hal would know better than any of our bronzeriders how to lead the wing he's helped manage for six turns." Only now do those pale hazel eyes sparkle, for the briefest moment - blink, and it's gone. "But I suppose a more permanent replacement is called for."
"R'vain is a drunkard and an opportunist. I liked him better when he was stagger-sloppy." Not quite an outburst, but as close as Ch'dais will come in this company; the words are taut, rumbled in the back of the bronzerider's throat and spoken between the teeth. Only then does he settle into the offered chair with a creak of worn leathers and a soft groan of protest from the wood. His eyes lift to meet the Weyrleader's, steadily for all that a touch of concern swirls in their sea-green. "Frankly, sir, people want certainty and they need it soon. Tell them that R'hal has your voice to lead them when you're..." Unable. "Needing assistance. Or E'sere. The boy all but expects it, I think, and no one will be surprised." It seems not to occur to the bronzerider that 'the boy' is roughly of his own age.
G'thon murmurs a note of, if not approval, at least bemusement behind closed lips as response to the bronzerider's outburst regarding his chosen Weyrlingmaster. If nothing else, the Weyrleader must be accustomed to such words about R'vain, and inexplicably takes them in stride. He draws up a chair from among several at the edge of the room, lifting the lightweight wood clean from the floor to carry it to the sandtable and there seat himself in it. His is more a perch than a repose, a bit tender about it. But he takes up one of the water glasses and swirls it, musing, "Do you think there would be anything short of riots if I named R'hal our leader in Threadfall until the next senior flight?" Not a word about E'sere. Not a word.
For a time, Ch'dais says nothing. His pale brow furrows as he watches his senior, then his gaze cuts away to the second of the water vessels, seeking any handy distraction from this awkward business. He curls his hand beneath a hanging braid or three, clears them from his view. "R'hal has experience, and he rides first wing," the bronzerider starts, picking over the words as if they were rotting fruit. "Right now there aren't any rival claimants, but that might change if E'sere thinks he's been slighted." The big man heaves a soft sigh. "R'hal will carry them or he won't. Someone has to try. You're--" He breaks off, grinding the words between his molars. "The wingleaders may have some advice for you, sir. Don't leave them to settle this amongst themselves."
"E'sere," finally touched upon as if the topic is regrettably inevitable, "Might lead this Weyr someday. Perhaps soon. But I am not looking for a Weyrleader." G'thon pauses for a sip of the water, then replaces the glass not far from its pair which presumably is intended for the big man on the table's other side. Then the older man slips up out of his chair, pacing those abbreviated strides in a slow arc away from the table and back. "His claim will be no better if it comes from his mother. I'd sooner put the knot on R'vain." G'thon pauses, refocusing a gaze that had slid into middle distance, now back upon the bronzerider by the table. "I am aware your wing requires leadership as well." Intoned with sympathy, the words sound pained through the man's roughened throat and hollowed demeanor. "Who would you suggest?"
Ch'dais twitches his lips into a wan smile, there and gone. "We're a bit thin on deck," he concedes, the sourest of jests. He's still focused on his untouched water, eyes half-narrowed now and printed with lines at the corners. Such is the frustration in that look that he seems as if he might shatter the glass by the force of his glare alone. "Our wingleader--" well, everyone knows-- "and our 'second in no condition to ride Fall." A pause, and then softly, "I haven't always done right by them, I know. Haven't trusted them. And for that I haven't always earned theirs." The bronzerider closes his eyes for a moment, touches a thick thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his bent nose; when he looks back to the Weyrleader, he's achieved a perilous degree of calm. "But it's different now," he grates. "Arinth and I are the senior pair, and we know the work. I can keep the wing flying, sir, I know that."
"Indeed." There is a trace of pleasure, a wan smile, present in the two syllables, softly intoned. G'thon turns away again, stiffly crossing the space to a side table. There lies a small wooden box, lid carved and sides ornamented by paints. It might in fact be a tea chest, and even if it weren't it does take on a certain tea chest quality from the way in which the Weyrleader's hands gently slide the lid off of the base. From within, from among divided spaces segmented out by thin planks of lightweight wood, he takes something out, then another something, both palmed with fingers closed over them. "I believe the wing trusts you well enough. I believe the Weyr does." The box is relidded, and the older man returns to the sandtable, a deft gesture turning out of his hand a wingleader's knot onto the thick glass next to Ch'dais' water. The other thing, whatever it is, remains beneath his pale fingers. "Who would you name 'second, then?"
Only for a moment do the bronzerider's brows lift with curiosity, his massive frame leaning a little to one side to follow G'thon's ministrations at the table. By the time he turns, Ch'dais has resettled his craggy features; part acceptance and part dismay, it looks like thin-lipped resignation. When the knot goes down, black and vibrant blue, his eyes rest upon it as if it were a lead weight. "Someone you can trust, sir," he murmurs at last. "If that's not E'sere, then someone else. With..." And then the tall man trails off. He flicks a genuinely black glance to whatever the Weyrleader still holds, then forcibly returns his attention to the sand-table's glass cover. "With standing. But no personal following." Miserably, he finishes, "And little ambition to overreach you. Sir."
G'thon is severe for a moment, eyes shadowed from the bottom up as if light's natural cast downward from the sun were reversed upon him. His jaw moves, molars grinding in silence within. But when he speaks, his voice is strangely gentle, the ghostly refrains of his manner drained from this one aspect. It is a concession, an effort to be kind. "Not what I meant, Ch'dais." His hand opens again, and there lies a badge meant for a rider's formal leathers, one just like his own - first wing, first flight, the Weyrleader's wing - aside that weighty wingleader's knot. An odd combination they make, reflected in the glass' curved wall, refracted upside-down through the water to the other side. "Who'll lead the second wing, if you're not doing it?"
"You meant a 'second for my wing." Suddenly, unaccountably, Ch'dais laughs; it's a sharp sound, a bark that cuts into the chamber's stillness, bleeds off some of the tension in his broad shoulders as he considers that second insignia. The man is left wiping beneath one eye, a gesture that ends when he rubs his bearded chin with the back of that hand. For just a moment, he looks up at the Weyrleader with unguarded good-fellowship lighting the green of his eyes. "If I name one now, will you give this'n--" a nod at that strange new burden G'thon has placed-- "to someone else?" But the rider sobers swiftly enough, settled by the grave needs of the moment. "P'iren, sir. He's a little young to lead a wing, but he's diligent and he learns quickly."
The laugh's suddenness brings a little light to G'thon as well, creeping upward in the right-hand side of his mouth. It almost touches his eyes, lifting some of the shroud from their jovial hazel, and as silvery brows slide up in bemusement the Weyrleader's hand moves just far enough from the things left there on the slab to take up his own water glass. He drinks rather than answer that question that has no good answer, no answer the younger bronzerider wants to hear. After the drink, the smile is gone. "Then send P'iren up, Ch'dais, next you see him. I'm afraid it will be a day or two before I'm going back and forth to the caverns regularly enough to set a snare for him." Watching the big, ruddy-haired man over the rim of the glass, he softly ads
The laugh's suddenness brings a little light to G'thon as well, creeping upward in the right-hand side of his mouth. It almost touches his eyes, lifting some of the shroud from their jovial hazel, and as silvery brows slide up in bemusement the Weyrleader's hand moves just far enough from the things left there on the slab to take up his own water glass. He drinks rather than answer that question that has no good answer, no answer the younger bronzerider wants to hear. After the drink, the smile is gone. "Then send P'iren up, Ch'dais, next you see him. I'm afraid it will be a day or two before I'm going back and forth to the caverns regularly enough to set a snare for him." Watching the big, ruddy-haired man over the rim of the glass, he softly adds, "R'hal will work with you. R'vain's probably afraid of you, common-sense as you are. It'll work." He lowers the glass to the table, bending to slip back into his chair as he does so.
As the silver-haired Weyrleader sits, Ch'dais uncoils to his feet. He reaches for those knots, businesslike, but pauses just before touching them; his strong hand hovers, fingers splayed, reflected in the table's glass. "Sir," he rumbles, gaze downcast, "May I ask you a question?" When he lifts his eyes to the older man's their green has ceded to grey, like the sea darkened beneath a storm. Thoughts heave there, unvoiced. He takes a careful breath, and then says, "Are you doing this because it's best for you, sir? Or because it's best for the Weyr?" No accusation, this, but an open question; indeed, there's something almost tragic about its earnestness.
G'thon arranges himself as if he were the same man he'd been days before. It must cost him something, settling deep back into the chair and lifting the one leg to cross the other at the knee, so many bends and twists of a body so battered. These aches and pains are not permitted upon his face; as he lifts his chin to catch and meet that gray regard, there lies only the neverending loss in his eyes, the abyss looking back. "I could argue that what is best for me is a long rest in a warm hold known for rich, spiced teas." What his tone lacks in friendly irony it makes up for with flat gray monotone. "Assuming you believe I have something, at this stage in my life, to gain personally from extending the length of the waltz we are all ridiculously dancing to, then indeed. I am doing what is best for me." He waits a moment too short to speak in, allowing the timing of silence to assure the frankness of his words. "And I believe that what is best for High Reaches is, by definition, best for me. Else I'd be somewhere south of here, maybe offering myself as a tutor to some Lord's best son. Is there anything else, Ch'dais?"
Ch'dais doesn't /quite/ wince, but the pain of that explanation filters over the seams and hollows of his features-- gathers in wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, on the verge of lips that draw back into the cinnamon of his beard. The bronzerider's gaze breaks away to the tabletop. "Nothing else, sir," he murmurs, rueful. "I'll send P'iren along." A breath lifts the man's shoulders, and then, with an air of decision, he snatches the offered insignia into the shelter of his grasp. "Thank you for this chance. I'll give it what I have." Such understatement would be rude were it not for the note of iron, of mountain's stone, that sounds in them and makes them true. And then, with a murmured, "By your leave, Weyrleader," he's turning to go.
Leave is granted with a nod and a latecomer smile, wan and one-sided and fleeting. "I know, Ch'dais. And I thank you for it." G'thon unfolds himself, slides up out of that chair, too glad to be back on his feet and unbent at first opportunity. As the big man makes his exit, the Weyrleader leaves the water glasses there for some later reclaim, striding back to his letter in progress to take up the pen anew and complete it.