The ground weyrs are beginning to feel more like home in the eight months since Tavuqth's impairment from Thread. Though courteous about the state of his brown, he cannot help but think he sees the long looks and whispers from the healers as to when they'll be able to have this portion of the ground weyrs available once again. In this sabbatical from active duty, Th'bek is on a razor edge of want and need, both of which are to be back in Arroyo again, full force. He hides that yearn from Tavuqth and that process, coupled with the 'hands tied' feeling, has made the brownrider adopt both hobbies and a feline, an orange one nesting on his cot while he plucks guitar strings quietly enough to disturb no one.

Amarante's presence in the area is normally all professional; while she is no dragonhealer, she does tend to injured riders who insist on being closer to their dragons. Perfectly healthy ex-wingleaders are not oft on her list, though it seems she has put profession aside in exchange for friend-mode. The sort of friend who has the privilege to come up on your living space entirely unannounced and without your permission, in this case. She has those soft-soled shoes and close to silent walking feet, but no doubt if Tavuqth were awake he would have noticed her even if Th'bek weren't aware of her approach. What she actually says is just, "I didn't know you played," in a soft but surprised tone.

Be lucky Tavuqth is abroad on the landing stones, having redeemed a modicum of flight ability— very short glides. Coupled with a long ground-sky stride, he's a terror to behold as a harpy. "Hnn?" He stops and looks up simultaneously. "Not since four, maybe five months ago. A rider who was a harper was convalescing, oh, you must know F'zaal, turned me onto it." And with an abundance of free time, voila. "Harper Hall hasn't reached me for a performance or anything, but!" The instrument is placed aside and he stands. The brownrider is in lightweight civilian clothes. "Not that you need formalities, but come in. You want something to chew or sip?"

"I'm not going to let myself into your personal space any more than I already have," because Amarante isn't going to pretend she didn't do at least some of that, just now, "without an invitation. I hope no one else has been, either." Disapproval for her colleagues, right there. She remembers F'zaal clearly enough, and nods a couple of times. "It's something to do with your hands, and I also see you have a new friend … I hope my feline hasn't been bothering you too much. I'll take a drink if you've got something just hanging about that needs to be consumed, but no need to waste limited resources, if they are so, on me. I was just …" She has to think for a second for the right words. "Hadn't seen you in a bit and wanted to make sure you hadn't gone totally mental?"

Th'bek's sandals are kinder to the floor than his riding boots as he guides himself to a small table with a tiny pantry above it. He rifles through the contents, intent on maybe finding something in particular. "Oh just come in," he makes a flap of a hand. "Somebody gave me this preserve from Faranth knows where, but it's so good I almost hate to eat it," evidently he's about to offer his friend some if he hasn't already consumed it all. "We're treated respectfully, no one barges in without identifying themselves. Tavuqth might have something to do with that." He has the inate charm of a pit viper. Th'bek splits the remainder of half-water, half-wine and room temperature and provides Amarante her portion. He looks toward the cat as he offers the healer a seat as he takes the cot. "Do I look crazy to you?" He locks eyes. Nothing about him looks terribly different, accept maybe dimmed chutzpah. "Note, I brag about your honesty to everyone. Don't let me down."

While Amarante makes a show of thinking about it, she loses the thoughtful expression and pursed-lips glance after a few seconds and laughs. "No. You just look the kind of tired resulting from not having enough mental stimulation." She perches on the edge of where she's sitting rather than relaxing, though that's habit more than anything, and takes a thoughtful sip. "That's always a mistake. Saving some special food for a special occasion — I've had to throw out my fair share of nice things because they went off before I got around to enjoying them." The cat is catching her attention too; will they wake up and demand pets, ignore her, continue lounging? They're all different. Hers is loud.

Th'bek reacts with a truncated laugh blurted. "What d'you mean? I pull guitar strings, pack firestone, last seven I escorted a tithe wagon on runnerback. And that new wingleader of Sirocco, he asked me for a word of advice. So look at me," lodging a palm against his chest, "I'm still useful to the Weyr." It's bittersweet, Th'bek not known to use the lance of sarcasm at its sharpest site of injury. "I mean, it sometimes feel like we're languishing, but I won't be like him. And wallow in Pity Lake." He exhales, needed to get that out, and looks for biscuits he ate yesterday. Not finding them, he slams the pantry door without breaking it and tries for a deep, cleansing breath. Nor is he known for unnecessary outbursts. The feline, shorthaired and orange, slivers her green-blue eyes.

The feline isn't the only one who reacts there; Amarante tenses slightly, though she tries to keep it out of her face. While it may look like she starts to stand up, she also stops, and stays right where she is. "That is," she agrees, encouraging. "Mentoring another very young Wingleader. I used to think you were so much older than I." A more self-conscious smile; see, he is still more awesome than her, even if he does not currently rank par with R'ku. "It's important, and I don't doubt that you'll get your wing back, when you're ready, if you want it." Her concern is mostly being kept partitioned in parts of her that don't show it in body language, but it's there in the eyes if one were to look close: she looks the slightest bit shaken and worried.

"I've not taken him under my wing," he simplifies as he licks an old spoon clean and comes back to Amarante. "I'll be twenty-five in a couple sevens." More or less. He doesn't know his true birthdate. As for assuming Arroyo one day, Th'bek is quiet and sits back on the cot, not far at all from the guest. "Here," offering her the jar of preserves after taking a spoonful to eat plain. "That spoon's clean. And what sort of things have been occuring with you? Candidate screenings mostly?"

Close enough. Amarante is still shy of that, but he's not the number of turns older she originally suspected. "Thanks," to the preserves, because really, who needs bread? and, "I'm putting those on Xieli as much as I can. She's actually got a project that needs that information and wants to be doing it, I — would rather be patching together holes in people. The long-term data's more useful for her and saves me time, though I hear a few asked for me. I was actually away at the time." She's not trying to avoid people directly! "You might consider talking to her, too, actually. Oh. This is very good."

Th'bek accepts the entire spoonful in his mouth, somewhat chews, then lets the jam filter to his core. After a minute, he's making grabby motions to refill his spoon. "Sorting people by their strengths and plugging them into where they're best suited is good fun. Makes your heart muscle proud." Infering that he should talk to another healer makes him roll his eyes sweetly, there's a grin there at the end. "It's bad enough I spilled my guts to you. Kinda bad form. You think it's a type of melon? It tastes melon-y to me." An again empty spoon is shaken lightly in contemplation.

"No, it's okay, it means you might think about trusting me someday." Amarante's just grinning back, and not pushing the issue of a mindhealer. It's not that she thinks he's nuts! It's that Xieli might be interested in the impact of a grounded dragon on a healthy rider, that's all. She's certainly going to favor what seems like trust over being pushy at someone who isn't even her patient. "That's not something I've ever done, but I was always afraid of authority, so," shrug. Another taste. "Some yellow-orange melon. Sounds right."

Th'bek could eat the rest of the medium-sized jar himself but knows the lesson of moderation. Besides, company can have the option whether or not to hog the unique snack. "I trust you with my life. If it's between your steady hand and a gaping hole, I'd take your hand every time." Can you just feel the commendation? "Hey, if you can stay another few moments, I'll play this number one of the tradesmen that was just at the Weyr taught me. Not complex, and it suits my vocal range near perfect so you'll think I'm a better singer than I really am…"

Company chooses to share the unique snack 50/50. And who is Amarante to say no to a good serenade? "I'll stay," she says with a shyer grin, "I'm flattered by that endorsement, after all." And because she's so trustworthy, even if he were a bad singer, she'd never tell. Though Th'bek is in luck: that's not her opinion. She sticks around until eventually work pulls her away, and probably even gets to pet the feline once or twice before having to go back to patient care.