Is there some sort of universal rule that men reach a certain age will always group together to gripe about the weather while playing cards? Maybe or maybe there's some other reason that brings F'mond out to this quaint corner of the bazaar after his regular patrols. The bronzerider looks like he's been a while with a couple of men that look like they were cut from the same cloth. The latest hand has been played out and the rider is busy counting his winnings when a firelizard appears to chide at one of the other men. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's always the runners, ain't it?" There's a bit of a head nod as the men make their farewells and the crafters depart, leaving F'mond to stretch back until his chair is precariously balanced on only two legs.

Sometimes these men group together to gripe about the weather and play cards, or in the case of another set at one of the other tables, to tell terrible dad jokes and reminisce about the past. It's the later scenario that has taken Zeisral from his studies, or brooding in the archives: his Journeyman is set up with some of his older compatriots, going over past foibles and hilarious-to-them puns. But lo, the apprentice has been left to his own devices, to loom sullenly next to the tree, without a seat to call his own. That is until F'mond's tablemates leave him all on his lonesome, and suddenly there is a grumpy looking harper's apprentice staring at him from across the table. "Can I use one of these chairs?" he intones, sliding a cautious glance towards the table of crafters.

Maybe it's all the dad jokes in the air are contagious because F'mond settles his chair back on all fours as he gives Mr. Grumpy Apprentice a once over for that question and he responds with a shrug. "Can? Probably. Looks like you got a butt and legs that bend." And then with a big self-satisfied grin that comes with such a joke, his foot nudges out the chair closest to the kid (and all apprentices are kids to F'mond). "May is a different story." At least the chair is now closer to Zeisral.

Ouch! That was a classic dad joke, or possibly a running theme with harper teachers, because the apprentice immediately grimaces and looks to regret the question. "May I use one of your chairs?" Zeisal asks, and immediately looks grateful for the proffer, despite his slip-up. "Are you a rider?" is quite an obvious question, but one the young man asks nonetheless, as he takes a hide - that has seen better days - from the depths of his pocket and unfolds it. "My name's Zeisral, harper senior apprentice. It seems appropriate to introduce myself since I'm taking up space at your table." Manners? Never.

That grimace just makes F'mond grin even larger, as if he's just feeding off the teenage annoyance. "Yes, yes you may." He may also live to regret asking such a question, but the chair usage will be allowed! As for the rider question, the flight jacket drapped over the back of his chair probably gives the answer away, but the man will confirm with a nod. "Yup. Wasn't born with all this marks." Not that he has very dramatic threadscore scars on his face, but there's still the traces of dots from some ash may have caught in his face from time to time. "Was a herder once upon a time too. Now I'm just F'mond. And bronze Travith is around somewhere." Probably wrangling up a herdbeast or two for his own dinner.

Careful deliberation is given the hide for a moment longer, his thin fingers smoothing out the creases incurred in the folding-and-storing process, but adolescent curiosity is a strong emotion. "Herder apprentice? Or did you ever walk the tables?" Zeisal queries, dragging his blue-eyed gaze from the collection of harper-drawn illustrations to the man across the table.

"Mostly apprentice. I was journeyman for ohhhh about a month before Igen came around on Search?" F'mond has to scratch his jaw as he thinks about that. "Don't think they had stopped by the Hall on Search in turns until that point. But they did. And now here I am." For the short story. Who needs thirty turns of details anyways? By right now, F'mond's going to be nosy for details about the apprentice before him and crane his head to try and sneak a peek at those hides across the table Zeisral keeps fidgetting with. "Got your own exams coming up? About that time with Turn's end in a couple months."

"How could you give up everything?" It is innocent enough of a statement, but easy to read into given the sharpness of the Zeisral's stare. He is easy to disarm though, given the fluidity with which he moves from his own questioning to answering the bronzerider's questions. "I'm prepared for whatever they can swing at me. This is a little," he pauses, "light reading?" He turns the hide around to reveal some crude maps of Igen Weyr and scrawled notes. "If I'm to be here for a while, I'd prefer not to get lost all the shard— ah, all the time."

F'mond shrugs yet again. It's a habitual gesture. "Honestly? I was young and dumb and didn't fully think it through. Thread was still turns away. Plus, as a kid that had only seen a watchdragon or a sweeprider at a distance, I swear those big whirling eyes must be hypnotizing or something." He swipes up those abandoned cards from the other men and starts shuffling them in to the main deck. There is a nod for the reasoning for the extra studying. "Smart, but just a heads up… I'm pretty sure those carts in the bazaar rearrange about once a seven. Just to mess with the unfamiliar."

"Do you regret it? You put in turns of studying and everything, and you gave it all up in an instant for" Zeisral stops there, because it seems he isn't sure what the rider gave up everything for. "You could have been a Master you could have been somebody." Why does this apprentice care so much? He looks back down at the hide, then cocks a wary look at F'mond. "The bazaar is strange. I haven't figured it out, but I get the sense a lot of weyrfolk don't get it either."

F'mond tilts his head and stares at Zeisral as if he's growing a second head. "Kid, you're saying that like I'm nobody right now. And trust me, based on my classwork, I would never have been a Master. I got Travith out of the deal and it's been mostly good." At least, when they don't end up getting much too close to comfort with some thread clumps. But he's still living to tell those tales. There's a brief laugh for the last. "Yeah, but that might be design. If you get lost, you see more, and more chances for folks to hawk at you."

"No, but-" Zeisal turns a smidgen moody. "You studied for turns. You had chores and got kicked around like- it's a waste." He clearly doesn't get the whole lifemate part of it. "I would hate to dedicate my whole formative years to this to give it up for a cave in a mountainside," is mumbled. Why he cares so much, no one may ever know! Moody apprentice continues to be moody: "Yeah, but I don't have any marks to spare anyway." Apprentice pay.

"Nothing's a waste, kid," F'mond will deal with the moody while idly shuffling those cards. "Those turns of study made me who I am. I still have them." He raises a finger to thumb at his temple. And as for the last, he snorts. "You really think most holds are much more than caves? Sure, there's a handful of major holds that are fancy and stuff, but where do you think they send all the juniorest journeyman once they get their knots? Chances of you getting somewhere like Benden Hold versus somewhere like Vtol Swamp Hold?" And another snort of amusement for the lack of marks. "Doesn't mean someone ain't gonna try and pickpocket what you can't spare."

"You don't use it," Zeisral points out, "not in a way that counts. You could have been-" He stops himself from going any farther and runs a hand roughly through his short hair. "I just don't see the sense in it. I have a plan, a goal. I got into this to achieve it. I couldn't imagine shutting down all of that, but I guess- uh, that's why we aren't the same person." His gaze flicks from the bronzerider, to the crafters, and then back again. "It would suffer through that for a better posting, eventually. I could- I will succeed and they'll see that, one day. It's all apart of the- the plan." THE PLAN, OK!? "How can they do that when my pockets are empty?" he says, frowning - no sense of humor.

"Sharding right we aren't," That's at least one thing F'mond can heartly agree with the moody teenaged harper about. "And maybe you should just try being a little thankful there are some folks that are willing to 'throw it all away' to end up dragonriders. It's not like that's an important job, right? Maybe you wanna just help the farmers protect the fields you'll be eating from with only flamethrowers?" As for the last, F'mond just rolls his eyes. "Maybe the pickpockets will do us all a favor and steal your attitude."

It shouldn't come as a surprise anymore when people react adversely to Zeisral's sullenness, but his expression is just that, of surprise, when the dragonrider speaks his piece. "I, uh, sorry," he responds, "I think I was too hasty in my assumptions. I have a lot of learn and I guess that's part of why they- they could have sent me anywhere, but.." His slim shoulders lift and fall, and he sends another uneasy look towards his mentor. "What are you most proud of, of.. of being a rider?"

If it's any consolation, F'mond appears equally perplexed with the confusion and subsequent apology and that's clear on his face as well. "Isn't it your job to teach kids the Duty song? Or will be anyways." He'll at least save the 'kids these days' rant for when he's catching a beer with those herder buddies, but he does soften just a tad at the mention of being sent anywhere and ending up here. As for the last question, he pauses before answering. "Flying again. For a while, they said we wouldn't. Travith's stubborn though." And stubborn enough to recover.

"I don't think I'd be a good teacher." Zeisral delivers that news deadpan, but who would be shocked by that revelation. "I want to be a recordkeeper, an archivist, at the Hall." Beat. "One day." He shifts in his seat and starts to re-fold the hide up into fours, as it's evident his time spent by the oven is less about reading and more about socialization at this point. "Did you get, what do they call it- grounded? Injured during Fall?" Curiosity returns full scale.

F'mond certainly isn't shocked, but he does shake his head a little bit. "You might want to work on that whole teaching thing. How do you think there will ever be new archivists trained if archivists aren't also teachers? You know, one day?" As the questions turn back to him, he idly starts reshuffling that deck of cards. "Yeah, we were grounded. Took one right to the wing," he winces at the mention of it. "It was… bad. Almost a turn."

"There will always be- others." Not him, evidently. "Would you want me to teach you?" Zeisral at least has some concept of his own unpleasant personality type, though it's nothing close to self-deprecating. "It's not one of my strong suits. You can be a- a rider and not be good at everything, right?" He appeals to this other man, but maybe he's reasoning with himself. "Was that a scary thing to endure? Being injured while you're.." Blue eyes lift to the sky. "But you can fly again."

"Why would I need you to teach me? Not like I'm gonna be an archivist anytime soon," Or every, really. F'mond writes well enough that Eala hasn't strangled him yet after he's turned in sweep reports. As for the questions, he nods. "You mean the whole actual…" He lets out a whistle and makes a little plummeting hand motion. "Terrifying." And he's man enough to admit it. "And nearly died of boredom waiting for the injury to heal."

Frustration reads clearly across the apprentice's face, for a second or two, and is then replaced with a sort of forced calm. "If you were an apprentice, or a kid, or anyone- who needs teaching," Zeisral specifies, keeping it cool. "Dragons can't just- do that going between thing? You had to fall all the way?" Genuine interest registers in his voice. "It's better you waited it out instead of flying until you were ready. I'd- imagine." Because what does he know! Not much. Not much indeed. "How long did it take?"

"No," is the short and sweet answer F'mond will give for if he'd want Zeisral teaching anybody. For like, a whole list of reasons. As for the questions about the injury, the rider wrinkles his face in confusion as he tries to sort out what exactly the harper was picturing and then shakes his head. "No, no, no. Once you get hit, you immediately go between. Cold kills Thread so quicker you get between the better. But you come up over the Weyr bowl and then still have the injured wing and hope somebody's there to catch you." Clearly someone was in this case. "Can't just between to the ground or might just end up in it." This got morbid real fast and F'mond shifts uneasily as if just realizing this might not be the conversation to be having with a young harper. But that's not going to stop him from answering more questions. "All told, about a turn. Still not back to where we used to be, but good enough."

A whole list of reasons and then some, and Zeisral doesn't look insulted by the honest answer in the least. "It sounds like a tricky thing to perfect- ah, the between thing, and not getting stuck there or in the ground." Or other places. "Do they let you fly Thread again? Don't you get scared of it happening again?" It may not be clear, but the apprentice is actually nineteen and not a six year old - their similarities abound.

"Tricky and then-some," F'mond will NOT be going into the details of that or the poor kid would probably never be willing to ride a-dragonback again. Probably something a harper is going to need to do at least a few times in his career. But he will continue to answer questions with a nod. "Yeah, we're flying again. Lower flight, since we're a bit slower, but have stayed out of trouble." For the most part. As for the last one, he shrugs. "Yeah, but we can't not do it. We have to." Dragonmen must fly after all, and for this dragonman, he's finally getting up slowly and only one knee gives a bit of a creak while he stands and grabs his jacket. "But I think that's enough questions for one day, don't you?"

"You are right," avers the harper apprentice, "riders must fly against Thread." At least, Zeisral knows this much from the teachings and the ballads. He starts when the bronzerider gets up, and slowly stands up himself while the other man collects his jacket. "I- sorry. I asked too many questions. Thank you for answering them," he says, dipping his head in a solemn nod. "And thank you for the- uh, seat." That thing, yeah. Then, he'll sink back in it, to wait out the remainder of his time until his mentor wants to get back to the craft quarters.

F'mond gives a nod to the apprentice as he slips into his jacket. "You're welcome. And clear skies." And with that, he'll swagger on off to the Cantina most likely. Nothing like lots of questions to work up the need for a beer. And if Zeisral is really lucky, maybe one of those old aunties will take pity on him and share some of the fresh bread hot from the ovens. They may even insist.