Quality Time (J'fel)

[Slim]

Chadath crawled out onto his ledge, hooking his talons on the rim of the stone and skimming the face of the bowl until he found the weyr that used to be his. If Jordeth were sitting out there, he thought it would be interesting to see the other bronze's physical response, in addition to his mental one.

S'lyn suggests a meeting between him and yours. He says, we have hardly spoken since the flight was won. Chadath alluded casually to Jordeth's victory in the queenflight, his tone not in the least bit bitter: to him, the lost flight was not worth getting upset about. It was over, and after all there would be others. He went on politely, as he'd been instructed. We would be your guests this evening, if you and yours have time. S'lyn offers to bring drinks.

With that, Chadath fell silent, flexing his claws. Three of them were still growing back from an injury he'd sustained flying against a green, and he felt a pleasant strangeness when he put pressure on them. It reminded him of a fun race.

[Omnia Munda]

Jordeth was indeed sitting there on the ledge that used to be Chadath's. He was, rather, lounging there; he had been much of the morning in the company of Aderes' queen, and like a man might be in similar straits the weyrleader's bronze seemed much satisfied simply to doze in the sun.

At the first words of Chadath's request, that satisfaction faded. Jordeth rolled, graceful and slender as his dam, from his sleek side onto his paws and raised his head on serpentine neck. He knew, apparently, where the bronze he'd ousted weyred. The direction of his focus was unerring.

We will of course make time, replied Jordeth after a pause long enough that surely, surely he had spent the interim in conference with his rider. And he had - but whether J'fel's 'busy schedule' allowed for such a meeting had most definitely not been part of their conversation. We will see you after supper. Drinks would be welcome; yours is too generous.

Jordeth grew quiescent again. He had been better than polite - warm, even, as if it might mean anything to a dragon who his sire had been, or his former weyrleader.

But as evening came on, Jordeth waiting on his ledge and J'fel waiting inside the weyr with the curtain thrown back for a view of the bowl and the presumed arrival of their guests, the new weyrleader's bronze worked to suppress a strange agitation. If Chadath's rider wished to make of his own a pawn, it was late to come to the board, thought Jordeth. J'fel was pushed this way and that by hands and paws enough.

With some effort he revised his ways of thinking, adopting more constructive ideas. Perhaps S'lyn only wished to give his advice or make some request. Jordeth had good faith that J'fel could handle that.

[Slim]

Chadath was waiting on his own ledge, but his eyes were on the inside of the weyr. The usual cabal of Sleet riders had gathered, but tonight they had to pay back their leader's hospitality by helping him carry a crate full of beers out to the ledge. The bronze who was sitting on it, having shooed away the other dragons, crouched close to the edge to give them room.

"You sure you want to bring him the whole thing, S'lyn?" a watching greenrider asked wistfully. "We'd make much better use of it back here."

"I don't know about that," grinned another one. "I think J'fel can make pretty good use of so much beer."

"None of that," S'lyn said sharply, directing his burly helpers to put the box down. He brushed his arms off and cracked his neck. "I especially don't need it now." He walked out to Chadath, quickly scaling the bronze shoulder. "You'd better not break anything, either," was his last injunction, drawing a laugh out of his riders to mediate the rebuke.

Chadath wrapped a forepaw around the crate, pulled it to his chest, and took off for Jordeth's ledge. We're coming now, he warned the other bronze. It wasn't much of a warning: in a few more seconds, he swept in for a landing and S'lyn slid down his shoulder. Chadath crooned a greeting to Jordeth, and remained (with the beer) on the ledge.

After a quick nod to Jordeth, the former Weyrleader walked into the current one's abode. "Good evening, J'fel. I appreciate your making time for me."

[Omnia Munda]

Gracious, thought Jordeth at the crate Chadath held, the emotion if not the specific word leaking through his bond to J'fel. It served as announcement: their guests had arrived.

Lacking the expressive brows of his rider, Jordeth's bemused alarm was ill-conveyed to Chadath. It was the source of a certain stiffness about him as he eased onto his haunches to sit, making much room for the bulkier beast upon his ledge. Welcome be, he said, and with such words his manner could be mistaken for mere formality.

His rider, by contrast, could have had an iron rod driven through his spine and still seem casual, so there was little of that stiffness to be found waiting within. "The appreciation's mutual," came a response through a grin. J'fel was leaning on the side of the mantel; there was warmth from coals within, last night's fire recently stirred to fight what chill even a summer evening in Telgar's mountains would bring. There was no sign of merry-making here - not, anyway, of a nature that card games and ale could produce. The weyr's manner of dress had been gentled by the 'touches' the boy had requested for the benefit of other, more feminine guests - no flowers remained, but throw pillows and such spoke little of warrior ways.

The weyrleader pried himself from the mantel, striding past a low table boasting a bowl of roasted nutmeats and a wedge of hard cheese. He spread his arms and with a flick of fingers encompassed the room in gesture: heavy (and familiar) chairs by the fire, an indulgent (and less familiar) couch nearby. Though he came through the space to greet S'lyn from less distance, he offered none of the formality that salute or handshake would imply. "Have a seat? Ah, but Jordeth says there's a - box." That raising of brows the dragon could not accomplish was done now, something wry in the young man's eyes beneath.

[Slim]

Chadath took Jordeth's response at face value, snorting lightly at the formal greeting and deepening his original croon into a rumble. Thanks. It feels good to put this down. He tapped the crate gently with a claw, but he was watching Jordeth the whole time. What was it with these young bronzes being so formal all the time? You'd think they were riders, from the way some of them acted.

Inside the weyr, S'lyn tugged his chin back at the crate Chadath had just been complaining about. "Those are the drinks," he explained, with a quick hint of a smile. "Some for tonight, and the rest a gift for later. I hope you like Telgari brew." Chadath.

His bronze forgot about the awkward young thing he was talking to, and looked at his rider. Oh. Yes. Picking the crate up again, he did an awkward three legged shuffle towards the inside of the ledge. He didn't actually go inside the weyr, figuring it might aggravate the already stiff Jordeth, but he did manage to stretch his leg in and put the crate within a reasonable range of the humans. S'lyn was even close enough to pat his paw, and did so.

With his dragon's role finished, S'lyn took over again, returning his attention to the young Weyrleader. "I can help you move it somewhere that's less in the way. Easiest to move it now, before the crate is opened and the bottles have room to start clanking around." So he wouldn't be taking that seat just yet, though a gracious nod at the time it was offered indicated he appreciated that gesture of hospitality, as well. Awaiting J'fel's decision on the matter, S'lyn stood with his hands at his sides.

[Omnia Munda]

Though the boy weyrleader could probably not pull off 'stiff' so ably as his dragon, the happenstance of his position had brought him ever closer to a skillful rendition of 'bemused.' He executed this expression quite well while Chadath made his careful delivery.

What have I done that rates an offering from S'lyn of all men, he asked Jordeth, mostly rhetorical. The bronze answered wordlessly with an emotional shrug, as apt as a shake of the head would have been, and came back down onto all fours as Chadath withdrew from the weyr.

That is, Jordeth remarked at last, a lot of beer. His tone was no longer anything that could be considered formal - a deeply suppressed laughter saw to that, chasing away stiffness with surprise. He tilted his head, settling comfortably onto his belly and crossing one forepaw over the other. He now held the other bronze in a more sociable regard, the tilt of his head inquisitive. Is he meant to consume it or to dispense it?

The question could have come across as a joke, had Jordeth meant it as such.

J'fel, meanwhile, had found his tongue. "Of course I like Telgari brew." It was practically a splutter, though a grinning one. He started toward the crate and the man beside it; a jerk of his shoulder gave away some kind of gesture aborted by mistrust. Nevertheless he bent deep-kneed to lay hands on the crate and looked up, then over to the dark end of the weyr between his sleeping alcove and the dragon's couch, farthest from the hearth. "Coldest there, along that wall," said he, and since no other reason for such a location could be so good as that one, said no more.

[Slim]

S'lyn remembered that cold spot, where Chadath had often tried to tuck himself on too-hot nights. Fortunately, such things were rare in Telgar, but the sight of a grown bronze curled up like an embryo would have been memorable even if you only saw it once. S'lyn's lips twitched as the memory came back to him, but he merely nodded at J'fel.

Crouching to take the other end of the crate, he prepared himself. "On three, then. One. Two. Three." Up it went, and while S'lyn's muscles complained about having to do this a second time, he wasn't about to show it to front of J'fel. He did his part carrying the beer over to a corner, and held on to put it down gently once it reached it destination. There.

He clapped his hands together, surveying the thing. "I didn't bring anything to pry it open with," he admitted, looking at J'fel. There was still no hint of why he'd come: the mundane issues of moving so much heavy beer seemed to have consumed his purpose for the moment. Attempting to inject some light humor into his end of the conversation, as Chadath seemed to be finding in his, he remarked dryly, "The crowbar would not fit in my pocket."

Chadath had made himself comfortable on his old, familiar ledge, finding an old groove that he'd always liked to rest his belly in. He rumbled at Jordeth's comment on the beer, amused whether or not it was a joke. Probably both. There was no point bringing any less when they might need more. Need was his word, although one he seemed to give no thought to. Whether he was repeating something his rider said or simply giving a draconic gloss-over to the intricacies of human interaction, it was hard to say.

Besides, the older bronze added, blowing a snort, you are Weyrleaders now. Don't you have many guests? That one was certainly carelessness from Chadath, whose tone (and the mental shrug that came with it) had none of the bite that would suggest a dig about J'fel's many rumored sexual liaisons.

[Omnia Munda]

He's shorter than I remember, J'fel thought as they carried the crate, grateful - for two-man carries with most men always made him feel small and with heavy things hurt his shoulders, too - but a little surprised. Once the beer was put into its new home, he put his hands on his hips and tilted his head at S'lyn.

"I've got a knife to pry with," he said after a long moment, perhaps a measuring one - or maybe the boy was just that slow to think of something that would do the job. He was not slow to act on the thought once he'd had it, though. "Just a sec." Without waiting for reply he started off toward the draped bedchamber.

Some riders kept blades on their belts and in their boots, but Jordeth's rider's mode of dress would have permitted nothing but the smallest of penknives on his person. He was, besides, at home. The knife, a small dagger like those dragonmen used for throwing competitions and (though this was not well-looked-upon) fights, came from inside a drawer behind the drape; the scrape and slide of the drawer's workings were telltale enough. So were J'fel's footsteps and the whoosh of the drape as he threw it back again, either unconcerned to leave his guest that long or faking it.

Many guests, agreed Jordeth while his rider strode back toward the sometime subject of draconic conversation, the beer, inside. The bronze's head tipped and though his faceted eyes, like any dragon's, gave away little of where his focus lay, it seemed from his manner and his mind that he was watching what could be seen through the weyr's ledgeside entrance. But rarely all at once.

Working the blade of the knife between the wall and the lid of the crate in one place after another to loosen the nails, J'fel said, "Care to get us glasses?" You know where they are, he neglected to add.

[Slim]

And S'lyn, who did occasionally carry a knife because you never knew when you might have to saw through a rope or something, certainly wasn't going to bring one to a parlay with the new Weyrleader. The right attitude had to be struck in all considerations, including attire that did not include weaponry. This, more than the ungainliness of crowbars, was what had brought him here with a crate he was unprepared to open, much as it galled him to be unprepared for anything.

While J'fel disappeared in search of the knife, S'lyn to another moment to look at the room and note the (hospitable) changes. His nostrils flared, but his expression didn't change beyond that, allowing no trace of the objection he felt to make itself known. "Of course," he answered the request for glasses mildly. "They're still - ah. Yes." Taking himself over to the very familiar sideboard, he pulled a couple of glasses out and brought them to the low table where J'fel had invited him to sit, earlier. There he waited, making no motion to seat himself while the Weyrleader was still prying nails off a crate.

Chadath glanced in at his rider, but he had his own conversation to tend to, and S'lyn would just have to pass the time with his own thoughts to keep him company. It'll keep, Chadath told the other bronze, rustling his wings. In truth, he had no idea if it would, but presumably S'lyn thought of such things and came prepared for them. Or you can have them over all at once, and use it that way. "Them" being all his guests.

Shifting slightly, he turned his attention towards his own ledge, and snuck out a paw to bump Jordeth towards doing the same. The dragons he'd chased away so he could take off with the crate had already gathered there again, and his once empty ledge was now stuffed with chromatic dragons curled up amiably with one another. Chadath was slightly jealous, stuck with this awkward young thing (for so he still thought of Jordeth), but envy was not his purpose in pointing them out. It's fun when the wing gets together. That would do it. They drink quite a bit.

[Omnia Munda]

Chadath had conscientiously made no digs at the ways J'fel spent his time - or the 'company' he preferred to keep. Jordeth was not quite above doing it himself, however, and it required no words to do: when the elder bronze suggested having all the guests over at once, the younger one simply turned his head and leveled a long stare at Chadath, an amused fog of silence heavy in the air around him. Perhaps the line of his long, lean mouth curved upward beside one cheek, revealing a glimpse of fang. Perhaps, like his rider often did, Jordeth smirked.

"Thank you," J'fel said between prying out nails. When only one side of the crate's top still had nails in it he slipped knife, then fingertips under the opposite side and used the wood itself to pry the rest out, opening the crate for good. He let the lid slide to the floor, leaning against the crate, and tucked the knife right in among the beers for now; that left him free-handed to pull a couple out. At last he straightened, scoped the weyr for his guest, and moseyed over, using the heel of one palm to pry up the flip wire on one of the bottles, freeing the stopper. He offered that one to S'lyn. "Know the brewer?"

The wing does, agreed Jordeth, of drinking quite a bit. Though he does not. It was almost devoid of tone or emotion. It is, perhaps, after a fashion, a gift from yours to those men with whom he flew before.

Toneless the remark might have been, but not rhetorical.

[Slim]

Chadath's tact had been less a product of diplomacy and more a product of his utter inattention to what J'fel did with his free time. Meeting a prolonged silence from the other bronze, Chadath pulled his gaze away from the gathering on his ledge and looked back at Jordeth, the blue in his eyes whirling faster at the emulation of a smirk.

If you like, he answered simply, resigning himself to a more charged conversation than he'd hoped for. Blowing a sigh, he stretched his neck along the ledge and fixed his gaze up at Jordeth. You could not tell them the beer is from us, but they would hear about it from mine, wouldn't they? He shook his wings, a sort of draconic shrug. So it's a gift.

S'lyn took the bottle J'fel had opened for him, nodding his thanks. "Journeyman Acclar. Good man. Only a journeyman, but he supervises his own operation." And while his name was not a famous one, Acclar had a decent reputation for himself in the Telgar area. S'lyn stepped back towards his once-offered seat, pausing in front of it to raise an eyebrow at J'fel so that the offer might be renewed.

[Omnia Munda]

Jordeth knew that shrug; he was well capable of doing it himself, and did so. I hardly said otherwise, he noted, not correctively so much as in a manner suggesting it was the appropriate punchline to a joke the other dragon had offered. As much as he might have liked to charge the conversation, Chadath's expertise in defusing charges was greater. Just as his guest settled in for a talk that did not quite meet his wishes, the host relaxed and expected the same.

Unfortunately, it might seem that Jordeth lacked much capacity for conversation of any other kind. He could pick the words that would make for nice small talk, but something about his tone and demeanor made even them sound like he was angling for something. How goes it with Sleet?

His rider had a more natural gift for small talk. (Some might say he had no gift for any other kind.) "Sounds delicious," said J'fel, the sort of thing a man who knows neither alecrafting nor beer would say, pouring himself the second glass; he glanced up from the pour to note S'lyn still standing there, and cracked a grin. "Oh, quit it and sit down," said the younger man, a laugh buoying his words. Then he took up his beer and retreated to the next chair across, so they might have an unobstructed view of one another a comfortable distance from the hearth.

It occured to him at that moment that he should probably suggest a toast, and not a single thing even remotely appropriate came to mind. Well, he doesn't seem to want a formal visit, thought the boy weyrleader. Perhaps I can forgo formalities.

[Slim]

It goes well, Chadath answered, mastering the casual tone that Jordeth had such trouble with. Arcaith is my second now. He learns. His tone was analytical, but there some hint of approval in there. He curled his paw up to his mouth, fitting the once-broken talons against his teeth and nipping at them to sharpen the edges. Meanwhile, he politely returned the inquiry. Blizzard?

S'lyn cracked a small smile, conceding - in the face of J'fel's easy laugh - that he'd been a little too stiff. He, the bringer of beer! He dropped into his seat and pulled his glass after him, getting comfortable enough to toss one ankle over his knee and sit there cross-legged.

The young Weyrleader had guessed correctly that he didn't want a formal visit, and it didn't even occur to S'lyn to suggest a toast. He got straight to the point. "I won't dictate to you how to lead this Weyr. I've kept my distance while you established your own methods of doing so. But you are new to this, and six months is too long to go without consulting your predecessor." What was that about not dictating? Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but S'lyn was too accustomed to telling people what to do to notice the discrepancy. He took a drink, his manner unaffected by the introduction (at last!) of the real topic.

Really, in an ideal world, S'lyn and Jordeth could talk about charged issues to their hearts' content while Chadath and J'fel relaxed and hung out. Alas, they would have to deal with a little imperfection in their roles.

[Omnia Munda]

Better than expected, replied Jordeth, and by the shift of his eyes in their sockets and the lacking of emphasis in his words it was clear that the expectations exceeded had been his own. It is a good mix.

The easiness that made J'fel successful with some of what remained in Blizzard (and presumably all of what he'd newly put there these last months) stayed with him well into the former weyrleader's words - even 'dictate,' which raised a happy brow in wry expectation. He raised his beer and his mouth curled a perch on the rim of his glass, for a moment thoughtful before he drank. The drinking delayed his answer and he allowed it, couth about swallowing before replying. "I've had no shortage of counsel from my predecessor's counselors," he said then, "but perhaps you're correct. Obviously," and if it weren't obvious, a self-depricating flicker of his fingertips at himself illustrated it, "I'm not yet accustomed to having predecessors at all."

J'fel rested his free hand again on the arm of the chair and set the glass down in the protection of his curled fingers on the other. "I meant no offense." Besides, I can keep my men alive well enough, and on what else would I think your advice to be safe? But the weyrleader had a better education in what the honor of dragonmen was supposed to be than to suggest outright it could be lacking in one so eminent as S'lyn. "Hopefully I have not done so poorly these months; I trust you'd have corrected me already, if so. As I trust there's a correction to be expected now." The weyrleader smiled. Disarming, that smile, barely short of ingratiating on account of the near-tangible ego that rode behind it.

He overturned his hand again, cheerfully supplicative. "Educate me?"

[Slim]

Chadath rumbled, opting to take pleasure in the evident suitability of his old wing rather than wonder just what Jordeth had doubts about in the first place. It is. They are. I've missed flying with them, but it's also been good to meet different dragons. Gears were turning in his rider's head, and Chadath tipped his own head slightly sideways to peer inside at him, but found nothing worth keeping his attention and so returned to Jordeth.

S'lyn's gears, meanwhile, were working on a response to J'fel. It had been years and years since he'd paid out the nose for private speaking lessons from a harper, but the impact of spending all his spare marks on those things had been that the lessons were permanently imprinted on his mind, and he could never launch into a speech without hearing that harper's voice harangue him about one thing or another.

Don't let yourself become irrelevant. When I question you, don't ignore the question, but don't let it dictate to you, either. Make it feed back into your topic.

S'lyn nodded solemnly, allowing J'fel's charm to wash over him unnoticed. He maintained his original manner, straightforward but (in intent, at least) not abrasive. "Since you asked," he began, "it'd be dishonest for me not to tell you that I think you should send the Caminar away. But that's hardly news to anyone, and really, not the reason I'm here.

"The reason I'm here is what I already stated. Six months is too long. Beyond a certain point, it stops looking like respect for your space and starts to look like a feud. Frankly, I'm tired of it. When my own wingriders get nervous about saying your name in my presence - as though I might burst into apoplectic rage at any reminder that a man other than me is Telgar's Weyrleader - then, J'fel, it has gone on too long."

S'lyn leaned back in his chair, sweeping an analytical gaze over his successor. "That's another reason I brought beer," he said. "I insist we stop holding each other at arm's length, but just in case it turns out we can't stand each other up close, in fact as in speculation, getting drunk should help take the edge off it." He finished his speech oh-so-dryly, but he made no move for his beer at the moment, signaling that he did not yet consider its intervention necessary.