When volunteers were requested, for assistance tendered to Southern Weyr, M’tej and Temyrth were first in their wing, to step up.  One might argue that the man stepped forward first or was nudged forward in his dragon’s hurry to draw rare attention to himself.  But both were clearly on board for some break from the monotony of wing-drills, and too many new Weyrlings underfoot and the constant shortage of herd-beasts in the pens for those beasts.  Helping down at Southern, in addition to the opportunity to hunt in the thick jungles, appealed to both.  So now M’tej, with a small green lizard sitting on his shoulder imperiously inspecting the surroundings, vtol-lines to the klah-pot with a mute approval, pouring himself a mug.  Temyrth, outside, watches the jiggerings of two blues and a brown trying to charm a glowing Southern green.   No doubt other Weyrs have sent representatives, so a collection of knots stand in huddles, even as M’tej surrenders the space by the klah pot, to find himself a section of wall to lean his brawny frame on.  Hurry up and wait - life in the military establishment of Pern’s Weyrs.

It was with a pang as they entered the airspace over Southern that T’ral felt Esanth sifting through his memories of the place. It’s graven in his bones, this place. Where Esanth was shelled that he doesn’t now remember. Where T’ral had fallen in ways both metaphoric and literal. The on-again-off-again (now on) home of his father. It’s always a curious mix of emotions that rise up to greet him with the green, growing canopy that spreads. The first thing that strikes him is the haze in the air and the skim of white ash settled over everything. Esanth has settled with Temyrth to watch the Southern dragons at their leisure. With his Wingleader returning to duty, T’ral has a free hand to make a trip to Southern. It is strange to be here with a wingrider’s knot… it’s been over a decade since he was a weyrling here and most of that time under the burden of leadership. It feels strange to be waiting to be told what to do. He was the establishment until not too terribly long ago and the lack of that bus-y-ness still sits strangely on his shoulders. He similarly assumes a position of waiting, klah in hand, though without M’tej’s lean. “Helluva thing, High Reaches.” He closes his eyes briefly, the wrenching feeling of those lost, reverberant still. For him anyway.

“Yeah. Like Hogback.”  M’tej murmurs.  “Think there’s any chance I could get a transfer over to Ista?  We’d be willing.”  The Oldtimers came forward to fight Thread.  Geographical loyalties no longer particularly exist in this particular brownrider; need encompasses Pern, even if manifesting so clearly in a few places at this particular moment.  M’tej glances to T’ral for a few seconds at the end of that question.  The former Weyrsecond is a good man to ask.  “Seems Igen’s sitting well enough for the moment.  Southern has some need, perhaps.  But if High Reaches has pulled…”  A touch of annoyance at that Weyr’s movement; Temyrth was shelled at High Reaches and M’tej loves the area as much as he despises the heat and sand of Igen.   The swarthy man lifts and drops a shoulder, slanting his look to a Southern-knotted rider who enters.  When nothing immediately comes of that man’s entrance, M’tej looks back over at T’ral.  “Do you know if Igen’s thinking of sending help there?”  M’tej’s brief stint as Hogback’s wingleader is far removed from the present Weyr hierarchy, and he avoids the new Senior, his old lover, as much as possible.

“Yeah.” Like Hogback. Dark eyes track to M’tej’s at the notion of transfer. “Maybe?” He blinks, running over counts, inasmuch as he access to those. It’s dragonhealing data he references now. His voice sharpens at the annoyance in  M’tej’s voice at High Reaches’ decision to contract their coverage area, “We were close to doing the same. It’s harsh calculus waging a decades long war.” His stomach clenches. The kind of harsh calculus that brings ulcers and gray hair and restless nights. “Put in.” He snorts, “Real charitable to volunteer to Ista when the need is in High Reaches.” He cuts a look at M’tej and back, straightening a bit when the knot enters and settling again to wait. “Can’t say I blame you. It’s nice to be out of the heat.” Winter at Southern was always T’ral’s favorite. “I … probably. We are stretched a bit thin.” If those lean pens are any indication. “It might be good for us to offload some pairs for a while.”

M’tej raises both hands in a quick warding motion, despite the klah mug he so adroitly maintains, “Ah. Forgive me. Seems that if Ista was trying to stretch to cover the area High Reaches wasn’t, that the need was there, not at High Reaches. I don’t follow politics, T’ral.  Don’t care.  We fight Thread, Temyrth and I.  That’s it.  Wherever we’re needed, I’d be happy to go.  Temyrth is up to it.  Neryk seems about as good as he’s going to be for a while and I can still come back and visit.  I can’t seem to convince Cayl to move to Southern, where I think the weather’d be better for her, but I can check on her too. Nothing more binds us to Igen, particularly. Or anywhere else.”  There’s Kaitlein, but his sometimes-lover also travels, and Temyrth can *between*.  M’tej shrugs, “No offense meant.  I don’t have favorites.”  He’ll take a sip of klah and settle back again.  The green lizard on his shoulder rearranges herself primly and settles as well, her demeanor echoing her human’s.  

“Ista’s stretching because High Reaches withdrew.” There’s a flurry of thought whirring behind dark eyes, “When High Reaches recovers,” he’s working on a ‘when’ not ‘if’ scenario, “What will Ista do?” He shrugs, taking a sip of klah, “I can’t even begin to speculate, but if you want to keep clear of politics, I wouldn’t go anywhere near either place on anything approaching a permanent basis.” He gives M’tej a weighing look, “And here I thought you picked Ista to get away from the sand and the snow.” A grin slants across his face, wry, he inclines his head in concession. “You’re a fine pair, M’tej.” The door creaks open again and a couple more riders enter. Ocelots. T’ral gives them a nod, but continues speaking to M’tej without looking at him. “You and Temyrth are no small part of why we didn’t have to adjust our coverage.” He clamps jaws shut on a thought before it takes life in words, a look of guilt flashing over his expression, there and gone.

“Ah. Well.  I was born in Ista.  Blacksands.  When the volcano there erupted, we had the choice of a couple places to be sent to.  I went for High Reaches because I was a stupid teenager, figured it was as far as I could get from where I’d been, and that the Weyr’d have a lot of lovely women in it.”  M’tej’s grin is quick. “I was correct on all counts, and don’t regret that choice.”  He takes another sip of klah. “And I don’t…We don’t much care where we go. Am looking to leave Igen.  Bit uncomfortable, what with Diem Senior now.   She’s a good woman, will do a fine job.  And I’ve long figured, since F’in’s bronze caught Zsaviranth the first time she went up in Igen, that they’d be better suited.  But time for me to move on.” A wry smile to that.  “Considered Southern, but not sure that they’re doing so much Threadfighting with the jungles grubbed.  We come here for vacation, anyway.”  M’tej grins again. “Best hunting anywhere.”  

The bluerider grunts, nodding. “Right.” Ista. That bit of history escaped him. Granted, it was centuries gone. “I thought you came to Igen from… ah. Yeah.” Fort. Diem. Estrangement. “As   you say.” He tips a look at M’tej, sympathetic, but not probing. Over beers maybe, but not here. One small correction, “Does a fine job.” Present tense. “If I’ve any weight to lean on a recommendation for you I will. Ista’s Senior was my first Senior here at Southern.” He squints at his coffee, “Still think you’d serve better at High Reaches. Though, by all accounts, it’s not the one you left centuries ago. They need you more, but… you wouldn’t …fit …there.” That M’tej is a bit of a reprobate has not escaped T’ral’s notice. There’s no evidence to confirm T’ral’s suspicion, naturally, but enough vaguery over the turns puts the brownrider squarely in that category in T’ral’s book. He flares his free hand, palm up, offer made.

“I misspeak again.”  M’tej murmurs. “‘Is’. Forgive me.”  He flashes another grin and engages in a small shrug, “Time to move on.  Clear the deadwood and history for Igen’s senior pair.”  M’tej nods.  “I’d appreciate any help to get moved, but not to watchrider anywhere.  We fight Thread.  Like to be useful somewhere, but I’m not keen on restrictions, either.” Or being watched too closely.  “Igen’s been good to us.  But definitely time to move on.”  He offers no details on the relationship between himself and Diem, or what ended it.  The brownrider merely looks back at the gathering, the restless riders who await with mixed feelings, whatever Southern will require of them or theirs.  “Love volcanos.  Grew up in the shadow of one.  My father’s buried there.”  Paint M’tej as one of the folks looking forward to whatever assistance is needed by Southern.  “You miss it here, T’ral?”  Another look to the bluerider.

Deadpan, “If you don’t care for politics, may I recommend not getting involved with goldriders?” T’ral flares hands, just the fingers of his klah-bearing hand, in forestalling gesture, signalling the harmlessness of his advice. A grin steals across bearded features, “Well. If you don’t like restrictions, Southern’s definitely the place, then.” There’s a bit of wry candor in that statement. Stories aplenty. “I can definitely talk to folk here for you.” T’ral clears his throat and gives M’tej a bit of a cut-off, hand slashing at his throat. Quietly, sotto-hissed, “Ix-nay on the ol-cano-vay alk-tay.” Too soon, M’tej. Too soon. Stars, man. He is taken aback at the query and now thunks back, to lean against the wall as M’tej does. “Yes.” The humidity. The swelter. Green growing things. Onion crotch. Mildew. Stunning waterfalls. Incredible vistas. Impression. First flight. First weyr. First love. First Wing. First child. So many firsts. “It was not exactly my choice to leave.” He shrugs a shoulder, “We go where we are needed.” The refrain of the day. Duty calls. “Igen’s home now.” A beat, “I miss my friends, though. Some good folks here, if you do move.”

“I sure try as Shards not to get involved with goldriders. Temyrth has other ideas, though.  Seems to me that you’ve the right of it. A woman with no dragon to muddy up relationships.  But…”  M’tej considers… “Old fellow down the road from me used to tell me I should stay single and raise ovines.  Get into far less trouble that way.”  He offers a wane grin at that.  “I do figure though, I’ve the luck to live in two different times, at three different Weyrs, and with the finest dragon ever shelled even if he can be an arse from time to time. He assures me that the feeling is mutual.”  Another easy expression of pleasant humor.  “Was an honor to lead what was left of Hogback.  To be an AWLM, however long those lasted.  But I’m content as a wingrider, left to my own devices when off duty.”  Even if Temyrth - ambitious Temyrth - is not.  “And,”  M’tej rubs his beard lightly, gaze playing over the riders present in the room, “I’ve been lucky enough to have been with some exceptional women, for as long as they’d have me.  It’s been a good run, all said and done.”  But the swarthy fellow who keeps to the shadows, and who eschews any real recognition, doesn’t appear to be finished with that run, either.  

“Who your dragon chooses scarcely has anything to do with who you choose.” T’ral states this with an air of repetition, the muscles of his jaw clenching when M’tej suggests that T’ral has the right of things. “Yes.” Dry. “It’s a real picnic when Esanth chases. Particularly the part where she can’t understand the bond. A joy.” There’s no ire in the reply, just a vast gulf of bleak and arid humor, “Truly.” At the rundown of M’tej’s milestones, T’ral smiles, breaking in only once to rebut, “Second finest.” T’ral drains his mug and pushes off of the wall, stretching forward to set it on the long table before settling back again, “I’m not.” He twists and his face scrunches briefly. “Content.” He twists again and shifts to scratch at his side. “I miss being at the table.” T’ral’s eyes flicker around the room at the riders gathered. There are Lynx riders here. Serval. “Seems we Impressed the wrong dragons.” T’ral’s smile for M’tej is tight. While the brownrider lead Hogback, Temyrth’s ambition became well known to the then Weyrsecond, as well as the nigh-allergic reaction M’tej had to anything resembling authority. “It’s a shame you don’t want a knot. You’re a born leader.” There’s distaste there, a faint echo — Renalde’s son — and that alloyed guilt.

“Ah.”  M’tej’s odd accent drawls out the single syllable in his bass voice, “I’m not weyrmated with anyone.  Just the dragon, and we’ve reached an understanding over twenty or so turns.  He only chases golds, and we get into big fights about whether or not he chases Senior golds.   So I don’t have to deal with that, much, and he loses most of the time, so I don’t have to deal with that much, either.”  M’tej flashes a grin.  “Temyrth is not the wrong dragon for me, but perhaps I’m the wrong rider for him.  I don’t have the skills to lead, but appreciate the comment.  Cayl wrote all my reports for me.  She read everything that needed to be read.  But I can’t keep her in my pocket, and…”  He lets that trail off. Cayl is, likely, the last of her Clutch to still be alive; G’deon’s death hit her hard.  “Don’t know of any wing that needs a wingleader that can’t manage their own reports and scheduling and such.  N’tael,”  M’tej admits, “Was kind enough to color code duties after he figured it out.”  M’tej shifts his weight slightly and rolls his head to the side, letting a pop sound, before he puts his mug down.  “So, lad picked the wrong fellow, and is stuck with wingridering, me’thinks.  But since we hunt and camp and go exploring whenever we get a chance, I think I’ve made up for thwarting his ambition.”  

The light of a hundred glowbaskets dawns in T’ral’s eyes. “Ahhh.” He makes one slow, long, exaggerated nod. He can’t read. There’s a profound look of relief on T’ral’s face. A puzzle long-vexxing finally solved. So much that was strange makes sense now. “You’re aces at hiding it.” He purses his lips thoughtfully and glances over at the mention of Cayl with a tightening of his expression and an understanding nod. The bluerider’s expression grows fond, “That sounds like Nate.” The bluerider straightens, Did you know?, “He was one of my first weyrlings,” and, “He was the first person I met here.” T’ral points at the ground, but the sense is here here… Southern. “A ray of Rukbat after a long sea voyage.” Dark eyes grow momentarily distant recalling that long-ago day. “He’s a good man.” At M’tej’s disavowal of his suitability for leadership, T’ral snorts, “You shepherded a gutted Wing through a dark time. A Wingleader needs to lead. And you can do that. I’ve seen it. ‘Seconds can write reports. Temyrth has your measure better than anyone, I reckon. And he,” ambition incorporated, “Picked you.” T’ral shrugs, conceding the disavowal clearly bone deep in M’tej’s psyche. Old dogs, new tricks. “I imagine you’ve tried to learn, over the Turns.” A beat, “To read and write?”

“My mother had been a Journeyman Harper when my father convinced her to marry and stay with him at the cothold.”  M’tej answers, “She tried every trick she could.  Asked the local Harper.   I was kicked out of TannerCraft because I couldn’t get folks to do the hidework for me.  I was put in classes at the Weyr, after I Impressed.  I…” He shrugs, “Get nauseous and headachy when I even try to figure the numbers and letters.  So I learned to memorize well. And I have a couple friends.”  M’tej’s smile is thin, and likely intended for T’ral, but not actually aimed at him.  He rubs his beard again, lightly.  “Not to hard to convince folks you can do something you can’t, if you pay attention to what’s going on.  But maps are even difficult for me.  I…”  He hesitates, “I stayed on at Hogback because they wanted me.  They needed someone who was not one of them, so there was no rivalry.  But long term…I’d be afraid of putting riders and dragons in danger, because of my shortcomings.  And N’tael is a good man. Good leader.”  

T’ral listens, cataloguing the ways in which M’tej attempted to learn and then overcome the deficit. He makes a sound in his throat, “Have you tried recently?” Brains change over time. “If you care to take another run at it, let me know.” OOC I have an idea… He lifts a shoulder and flares fingers, it’s an offer. Standing. T’ral’s huff of a laugh is heavy-laden with sympathetic sentiment, “I don’t think there’s a Wingleader alive who doesn’t feel that way.” Probably there are a few who don’t, exceptions that test the rule.

“Nah, haven’t tried recently.  Got a fairly busy life. I do the leatherworking.  Tanning.  Temyrth hates herdbeasts if we can get out and hunt.  We camp, when we have some time, a rest-day.  Lady-friend I visit now and again.”  In other words, without the necessity of a position that would require it, M’tej isn’t inclined to attempt to, in his mind, pound his head against the wall.  “Just letting you know, so you’re understanding that if I’m transferred out, they’re not getting the full package. We do fairly well as wing-riders.”  M’tej’s hand, lightly covered with scars that were, no doubt, accrued in his chosen hobby and in violence, reaches to draw his hair back.  “And happy to help… If we’re needed.”  The soul-dark regard flicks over the Southern knots again, as if willing one of them to step up and make some pronouncement.

“Don’t we all.” The door opens to admit a group of Knots who spend a few moments shaking rain from their outer clothes and chafing the chill from their bones. Riders, Crafters… in other words… the meeting is afoot. T’ral stands forward as the riders from out-of-Weyr announce themselves, speaking his and Esanth’s names. Last minute klah circulates. “Leaders are always needed,” a soft aside to M’tej before things get well and truly underway. “Let me know what your plans are.” For putting in word. For learning to read. For… anything.

“Transfer somewhere. Out of Igen.”  M’tej returns, quiet in basso voice, before also introducing himself.  T’ral might note the reaction of the Fort Weyr riders, to M’tej’s name; the few turns he’s been absent have not erased - and may never - the rather spectacular venue in which M’tej finally arranged his and Temyrth’s transfer back to Igen.  But the brownrider remains largely quiet, during the meeting, easy and relaxed and agreeable to the tasks assigned the group he is put with.  When all is said and done, and much more klah is drank, and the sundry exploits done, and debriefed, Rukbat will be well down before the Igenites and their dragons will be returning to Igen Weyr.  Any further assistance, rendered, will come through official channels, more than likely.  

“Timing. M’tej. When.” Side chatter is unappreciated and T’ral snaps his mouth shut at a look from one of the Crafters. Esanth and T’ral, M’tej and Temyrth, lend their eyes and ears, wings and minds and find themselves home by nightfall. Home for one pair. Former home, perhaps soon, for another…