Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north.
Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.
Even with the increase in rain toward the end of the drills, even with the humidity that settles the wintry chill into the bones, regardless of the layers and quality of riding gear, even with Arekoth's leg clearly aching as he cautiously lands in formation with the rest of Avalanche, H'kon seems more at ease as he dismounts. The end of drills, really, have been an almost golden time for the brownrider, who has otherwise been showing the stresses of his quasi-position. It could be that the onus of leadership is squarely on Sisha, as it has always been. It could be the physical and mental discipline. Or maybe, today... he just likes being sopping wet. He doesn't even go to the greenriding wingleader, once she's nodded dismissal to him. Just takes his time to dismount, even in full downpour. And exhales a happy not-quite-there cloud of condensation.
The end of drills comes as a complete relief for Z'ian, Tsanth making light of their landing into the bowl. The bronzerider has been nursing some sort of wet cough this last seven, one that at least appears to be on its way out finally. Still when he dismounts from the smaller bronze, he takes a moment to catch his breath against the dragon's side. He leans with his back up against him, unclipping his riding helmet and letting it dangle from between his fingers. Digging through his pockets he comes up with a handkerchief that he holds to his face as he clears his throat. H'kon across the way draws his silent attention, his eyes lingering on him as he slips off of his brown with that ease. There's something speculative in his gaze, even if it's not an intense one.
Silent gazes are becoming, more and more, a daily thing - a constant thing even - and it might be more on account of the fact that he looks to Z'ian that he is even aware of it. Certainly, the prickles hat the back of his neck have been going so long he doesn't notice them anymore. That bubble into which he'd breathed his sigh bursts under the bronzerider's gaze, and H'kon forces back the start of a frown, takes one accelerated step, and then stops wholly and turns to Z'ian full-on. "I've the remains of a rub. Herbs, the like. It might help clear the rest." Green eyes settle pointedly on the handkerchief, if only as a reason to look away from the man himself.
Z'ian at least, has tried not to stare the brownrider down too pointedly these past couple of sevens. His mouth presses into a line when it looks as if H'kon has noticed and is intending on strolling on past him, not that he makes a move to stop him either. It's an honest expression of mild surprise that draws his eyebrows upwards when the other man so abruptly stops. His eyes drop to the handkerchief in his hand and he begins to fold it up again, the disgusting part kept inward. "I'd appreciate that." He finally manages, simple. It's not as if they were close before, but there's a certain weight behind the silence that wasn't there before.
Still helmeted against the rain, there might be something almost comical in the curt nod H'kon gives, all serious, businesslike, and prepared for any eventual falls, even as Arekoth grows tired of waiting in the rain, and starts to leave. He can find somehwere warmer than this, surely. "It will do best applied at night. Before bed. If you'd rather not wait, I could see to finding you in the supper hour." A quick glance away, to a bluerider as he passes, with that same uncertainty in returning that rider's gaze. "Otherwise, at tomorrow's drills." Z'ian is now a safe haven, maybe, from other interaction.
Seeing as how he's sick, keeping that helmet on probably wouldn't have been a bad idea. Z'ian rakes his fingers through hair that's already damp from the falling drops. Tsanth remains behind him, shifting only so that he can extend a polite wing over both his rider and H'kon. It should give them some temporary relief from the sheets of straight down rain. He follows the path of the bluerider that passes them before flickering his gaze back to the man in front of him. "I think we both try to make it to supper with the wing, when we're able to. But I understand that you're probably busy with-" He cuts himself off to take a breath, "-things. Whenever you can get it to me."
H'kon gives Tsanth a quick, grateful nod. Arekoth, as he departs, just gives him an over-the-shoulder look. Any comment to the effect of 'brown noser' is likely kept at bay only by the look that H'kon gives to his dragon to set him back on his way. A thumb comes up to swipe water from his eyebrows, and when looking back to Z'ian, it's with a strained sort of expression. "Indeed." Things. "I will try to get back to my weyr," the same one that he'd had since before this debacle, "before evening. At least there is nothing scheduled, otherwise. Though there are always those things which are," grimace, "unforeseen."
Tsanth remains largely oblivious to Arekoth, look or not. There's something about it that seems largely intentional on his part, but there's nothing spoken between them today. Z'ian's helmet bounces up against his bronze with some reproach, likely in response to some internal monologue. He stuffs the used piece of cloth into one of his outer pockets, digging the heels of his boots against the damp, frozen ground. "Unforeseen." There's a grim smile for that, not exactly bursting with humor. "Seems to be the state of things these days. More of that than anything else."
H'kon's expression is much that which an old man might wear when having to set out, once again, across a treacherous ice sheet that forms outside his door every winter. "Indeed," comes again, this time more guttural, if not rightly growled. "Untested as well," is the voice of that man with the ice sheet out front. H'kon swallows, and reaches to tug his jacket into place, more for something to do than any necessity brought on by his lack of movement before the bronzerider. "Fortune has an ill sense of timing."
Z'ian's mouth is closed, tongue running across his front teeth as the brownrider shifts around in front of him. Their wingmates have largely left the bowl, in search of warm, dry places. "A man doesn't know what he's worth until a test comes. S'what my father likes to say anyway." There might be a touch of wry humor in that, for what exactly isn't explained. He looks away from H'kon, taking a breath and then clearing his throat again, giving his chest a couple of good thumps. The bronzerider allows what's said next to come out casually, slipped into their conversation as easily as he shifts his gaze back to him once more. "What you're doing. It doesn't go unappreciated."
"And mine would say that a man's worth is in his character. Character is cultivated by action. Action occurs every day of life." Each sentence, H'kon punctuates by a bit of a bob of his head, even seeming to relax into the familiarity of the philosophy he offers back to Z'ian. More attention is put into the gaze he holds on the other man now, and it's a much deeper nod. Z'ian has been initiated into the brownrider code of communication. "Character does not change with position. That is far from meaning every position suits." Looking out, now, under the dragon's wing, into the mostly-emptied bowl, "It will be a good day, when there is a restored stability and order in our home." It sounds faintly less of apology than it might have, a month ago. Still, his head is faintly ducked.
"Maybe it's some of both. Character and worth cultivated by actions, self-realized by life's trials." Z'ian lifts his shoulders, mouth pulled to the side now in a crooked sort of smile. He's no philosopher, for sure. "But I think I like yours better, if it came down to having to make a choice." The bronzerider laughs quietly then, one eyebrow drawing upwards. "Some people would quote the old, absolute power corrupts absolutely at you. Of course if you're capable of being corrupted by power you probably weren't wholly suited to the task you were given to begin with, yeah?" He rakes that damp hair again, settling a steady look onto H'kon. "Agreed. The 'Reaches will make it past this, out to the other side."
"Perhaps," the brownrider is willing to allow, though there's no smile to meet Z'ian's. No, H'kon has gone pensive. Or, maybe, stayed that way from the start. Z'ian's messing with his hair has the shorter man lifting a hand toward his helmet, though fingers stop once it's been brushed, and drop back to his side. "We will see if it makes it unbroken. And hope the power that comes at the resolution does not corrupt." A long look now goes toward Tsanth, being the nearest dragon. "Or at least, that the adage does not work in degrees as well."
Z'ian begins to work himself out of the lean, the one that's had his back braced against his bronze for the majority of the exchange. Turning his back to the other rider, he clips his helmet to Tsanth's straps. Unconsciously his hands begin to wander over the leather that's near him and he casts a glance towards H'kon from the corner of his eye. "Some might say that power is doing a good job at further corruption already." He tucks picks at a bit of loose stitching, lips pursed unhappily at it. What comes next is phrased conversationally, "She's potentially going to upset the balance of the wings, the way she treats Glacier over the others. Some favoritism is overlooked, but." He pauses, considering. "It won't be forever, it's already not."
H'kon keeps his mouth studiously closed, though there's agreement in his eyes that he can't hide - maybe he doesn't know to, maybe he simply doesn't try. His silence remains for some time even once Z'ian is seemingly finished. At length, he straightens his back, and then does indeed reach up for his helmet. Bareheaded, and with quite the hat head showing at the flattened forwardmost tuft of hair: "And any wings she would disadvantage, I would hear." The promise is made firm, but it only lasts a moment before discomfort has set in again. "I will see that rub gets to you promptly." And he's scanning the rain beyond Tsanth's wing, planning his exit.
"That's good to know." Z'ian responds, looking past H'kon to that rain as well. He narrows his eyes briefly before bringing his gaze back down to the brownrider, it's that weighty silence again. It doesn't appear as if he has anything else to say however or maybe not anything else to add that's terribly appropriate right now. "Thank you. For the rub." One of his hands goes to the side of his lifemate and fixes the brownrider with a serious look, "I meant what I said before, it doesn't go unappreciated." Sensing his discomfort, the bronzerider doesn't push that topic any further. "See you at dinner?"
Z'ian's expression of appreciation earns him another of those deep, super-secret brownrider nods. "Dinner," is a confirmation. He rises slightly on the balls of his feet, shoves the helmet back over his head, and with that, hurries forward into the rain. Toward the caverns. Toward some other task that doesn't quite fit his character. But, come the supper hour, he'll be at the wing table, with a little jar of highly aromatic rub. 'Cause he said he would.
H'kon disappears into the rain, leaving the bronzerider behind. Tsanth has a soft warble for the departing man, uncharacteristic for him really. It's enough to make Z'ian shoot him a quick look, momentarily perplexed. "Yeah, yeah. Lets go." Dragon will cover rider across the bowl as far to the entrance as he can get before letting him duck inside. And at dinner he'll accept that little jar of rub gratefully. Maybe even try some light conversation with him over non-consequential things, a temporary reprieve.
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