Who

T'zaim, Cha'el

What

Cha'el has a request to make of T'zaim

When

It is sunrise of the seventh day of the seventh month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, Nighthearth

OOC Date 30 Mar 2016 22:00

 

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"When I'm face down in a puddle of my own drool and gibbering like a fool."


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Nighthearth

A comfortable nook, this natural extension of the living room is cozily attired with overstuffed chairs and a couple of well-worn loveseats. All have been covered in various shades of green, giving the very incongruous appeal of a miniature forest hidden away inside… a grove of man-made proportion. Fish stews and spicy white-wherry chili are often kept hot on the minor hearths east and west of the main, for those whose hours defy when meals are kept. Ornate, the largest hearth towers high, rich with carving and utilitarian in fashion: it holds court by providing the weyr with rich klah, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon wafting.


No, really. T'zaim is having his oatmeal. You'd think a man who's had more than a year offa work would learn to sleep in, waste his morning, generally behave like the unemployed but - aside from the fact that he seems to have eschewed shaving more than every three days avoids the crowds in the living caverns in favor of the smaller grouping in the nighthearth - T'zaim manages to come across like any other working schmuck. He hunkers over a bowl, has some toast sitting on a plate on a side table (next to a cup of tea), and is chatting with an auntie about why she doesn't like to put raisins in her oatmeal and why he does. Most exciting life ever.

You know what's just as exciting? Wait, no. T'zaim wins the prize there on the easy life. A life in complete contrast to that of the brownrider that exits from the direction of the bathing caverns all freshly bathed, shaved and ready to face the day ahead. Just ignore the exhaustion pulling about his face or the yawn he tries to stifle behind a fist. "Raisins look like ticks," Cha'el states inserting himself into the conversation to side with the old aunty. What? She's good babysitter material! T'zaim on the other hand… "Just the man I was coming to find."

"Tasty, tasty ticks," says T'zaim unfazed, digging one out of his bowl and putting it in his mouth and chomp-chomping it gleefully. The old woman, who nodded agreeably with Cha'el (a boy! after her own heart), makes a disgusted face and goes back to her knitting, leaving the bronzerider with a not-so-secret smile. He mashes a bite of toast in with the raisiny oatmeal already in his mouth, cheeks puffed with food so that his, "Oh?" is muffled. Chewing, he has to settle on a beckony 'what can I do for you' smile-and-wave to invite Cha'el to 'splain.

Cha'el can't help it, in as much he tries to curry favour with the old aunties, he's male. "Mmmm," he agrees, "Specially when they're fat and juicy and pop in your mouth." Sorry, old lady, please not to be too grossed out, says the everso charming smile flashed her way. Hauling his ass over, Cha'el plunks it into the chair adjacent to T'zaim's. "Reckon you're going to be getting busy soon what with Dhia and Bryn having made the two-backed dragon in the sky." Cover your ears, aunty dearest! "Was wondering if you might be looking to hire staff."

She rattles her knitting needles fiercely and falls deep into conversation with a middle-aged woman on the other side of her, probably about how the Weyr is falling to shit because idiots are running things (namely, the tick-talking Weyrsecond and Weyrlingmaster before her). T'zaim watches this with mouth-filled amusement, then clears his throat, takes a quick swallow of tea, and puts on his business face when Cha'el starts talking about dragon-sex and its implications. "I've got Nyssa. S'nar and P'quil, too." He doesn't mention Varvara, but only because his player's not totally sure of her status, and it seems like something T'zaim would actually know. "But another few hands couldn't hurt. Weyrlings are fantastic idiots, after all. Why? Do you want a new job?" He's totally joking.

With idle amusement Cha'el watches the pair of biddies conversing and flicks a smirk over to T'zaim when suggestion of their transgressions is made. He'll wear that like a badge! A nod is forthcoming for the assistants mentioned along with murmured comment that they are each excellent at their jobs. Lifting a booted foot to prop his ankle onto the knee of the opposite leg, the brownrider is quiet a few seconds, his attention squarely placed on the jesting Weyrlingmaster and then he nods. "Aye, reckon I do. If you'll have Sikorth and I."

Simply, "Wait. What?"

Cha'el's mouth quirks to one side, faintly amused by T'zaim's reaction. "Looking to make some changes. Figure now's as good a time as any." What with eggs about to be dropped on the hatching sands, "Reckon you must be at least one pair of hands short since your competition dropped dead on Hannah and you got that fancy knot thrown at you." Cue the tilted grin.

T'zaim puts all his breakfast dishes onto the side table, brushing off crumbs, as though these mundane tasks will help him wrap his head around having this conversation. "Of course, I'd be very happy to have you, your experience, et cetera." He doesn't often utter the 'uhm' word, on account of all them years of diction training, but it seems appropriate here: "Just, uhm, why? If you don't mind my asking, that is. It seems like a bit of a step down. For you?"

Silent while T'zaim goes through that little ritual of setting himself to rights and gathering his thoughts, Cha'el drops his boot back to the floor and leans forward with forearms planked over knees. Hands link and thumbs graze over one another. "I suppose you could see it as that in terms of rank," he agrees about taking a step down. "But the girls are getting old enough now to understand what it means when the wings gather in the bowl in full fighting gear. There's a certain way a kid hugs you on those days that lets you know they're doing with it their hearts in their mouths, not sure if you're coming home again." The brownrider pauses for a moment and lifts his gaze before carrying on, in those bright blue eyes of his, lies fierce determination. "Could be Carella or Saenia in a few turns," try ten at least, "that finds a dragon out on those sands and I aim to be there for them."

The answer makes T'zaim pensive, truth be told, his brows drawn and a crooked frown forming while he marries the idea of Cha'el, who at the very least doesn't fear old ladies or fishhooks, to someone worried about, like, dying and leaving his family behind. "I suppose that's a better reason than someone died and then K'ane handed me his knot," he decides after a few seconds, scratching the back of his neck around a shrug. "If you want the job, it's absolutely yours. You'd be doing me an incredible favor, since I hadn't yet figured out how I was going to credibly convey how helpful it can be to drill maneuvers and formations outside of 'because Thread hurts bad, trust me.'"

Dying doesn't bother Cha'el nearly as much as what it might do to those he leaves behind. In fact, that fall over the Boardwalk with Ksenia's shop obliterated had been a very sudden and unexpected wake-up call. "Heh," comes quietly given for T'zaim's first. "K'ane knew what he was doing," a half-smile there to break up the grey clouds that have scudded across the conversation. "Thank you." Cha'el leans further forward with his hand extended to shake on it. "I appreciate the chance. You won't regret it." Well, T'zaim might as the brownrider adjusts from Weyrsecond barking orders to trying to ply a kinder, more subtle approach that goes beyond: Do it or die. Actually, that might work. "My mother was a harper," he suddenly shares out of nowhere. "Figure the teaching gig can't be all that bad." Boy, is he in for a surprise!

Fuck that. Bark orders. T'zaim would 100% approve of this methodology (for most weyrlings). But that's all meta and thus beside the point! "Did he? I always thought of him more like a tornado and, if you were in his path - well, you just sort of went along with it, because what's the alternative? Obliteration." It's an almost fond comment, though, if a person can be fond of an act-of-nature. The 'mother was a Harper' note has him quirk a brow; "Hopefully, you won't find yourself wishing you could get your old job back in a few months. Most of the time, it's not so terrible. But then there are the odd ones that already know everything and…" He punches his fist into his palm to demonstrate.

There's a gruff chuckle on the matter of K'ane and nod of head, expression fond for the big blond bronzerider. "Should make that his wing tag: Hurri'K'ane." A shiteating grin breaks free that holds through talk of regretting his decision and the weyrlings that might put grey strands in his thick head of thus far, unblemished hair. "You forget who my weyrmate is," Cha'el says. "And how often my shit gets dumped off the ledge." Good-natured there. "Reckon I can handle a couple of know-it-alls."

"Wow." It's hard to tell if T'zaim is actually in awe because the pun was that good or because it was that bad. He blinks owlishly at the erstwhile Weyrsecond for a good ten seconds afterward, though, then clears his throat, snickers about all the crap getting thrown off Cha'el's ledge (rumors circulate, yes). "I'll trust that you've had the good sense to break the news to Ksenia in advance." Beat. "And K'lir? He's not going to come after me for poaching his 'second, right?"

T'zaim's reaction draws a smirk into being. Yeah, Cha'el knows how bad that was but he'll totally own it too! Serious for a moment. "Aye." That's for having discussed things with the feisty former trader he shares his life with. As for the Weyrleader, the brownrider inhales, holds the breath for a moment and then slowly lets it out. "Not yet. Figured there was no point to putting the cart before the horse if you were full up with assistants." Hands to thighs, Cha'el pushes up to his feet. "Hoping to catch him now before the meeting with the wingleaders."

T'zaim pats his pockets absently, commenting, "I haven't got a knot to give you." He hasn't figured out how his predecessors always seem to have those on hand! "But, assuming it goes well with K'lir, you can get one out of my office," yes, he has one, "later today. And I'll…" A vague wave. "…bring you up to speed tomorrow, I suppose. We've sort of just been coasting for a bit." Fuck all, now he's going to have to work. :(

Watching as T'zaim gives himself the pat-down, ever present amusement lurks in bright eyes. "Its okay. I'll get one of the girls to braid a shoelace or something for now." Asshat. You might still regret this mister Weyrlingmaster, sir. A scrub of jaw reveals a smile when his hand falls away from his face. "I look forward to it." And indeed, anticipation has swiped away some of the exhaustion. Perhaps its true what they say, that a change is as good as a holiday.

"I'll remember you said that." In six months. When Cha'el is all OMG THEY'RE KILLING ME SLOWLY

Stepping away from the circle of chairs to head off and track K'lir down, Cha'el flashes his soon-to-be boss a grin. "When I'm face down in a puddle of my own drool and gibbering like a fool." Yup, he has a bit of an idea what he's in for. A sharp salute is snapped off in a reversal of roles. "Thanks again…Sir." And then he's off doing a quick sidestep around a serving girl dashing from the kitchen to the living caverns with a pile of hot and crusty rolls.

T'zaim dies. Sir.

Cha'el is nothing if not a stickler for the correct procedures. At least while in the public eye.

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