August 23, 2004
B'den has something to ask of R'hyn, and is turned down.

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From the galleries, B'den comes up the steps from the anteroom.

From the galleries, The obstreperous Wingleader climbs into the lowest set of seats and heads along the walkway, one hand on the railing and his eyes searching out across the sands. "Weyrleader?" he calls quietly once he's more or less near the midpoint of the room.

R'hyn is up near the galleries, leaning up against the railing, apparently deep in thought. B'den's call results in a turn of the rider's head, followed by the rest of his body, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "Wingleader." Slowly said, but with a nod of greeting. "Er. Can I do something for you?"

From the galleries, B'den immediately stops at the other man's voice, turning to locate him and then moving along the railing until he's nearly directly on top of the Weyrleader. "Yeah. Wanted t' talk t' you." There's an almost animal-like wariness in his voice as he asks, "Has T'ren talked t' you about Dovryth's flight?"

The light grows wan as the spring day gives way to evening. A blanket of gray clouds cloaks the skies, blotting out the sky so that everything seems uncommonly dark and chilly. The spring air is cool, still brisk but no longer icy. (55F, 13C)

R'hyn clearly has a distinct disadvantage in position, and takes a few steps back from the railing, so that at least he can look upwards in more comfort. "Of course," he says, slowly, his head tilted slightly to the side as he considers the Wingleader. "No, not as of yet. What about her flight?" He's turned slightly, vaguely, pink at mention of the queen.

From the galleries, "I don't want t' be here for it," B'den answers bluntly, leaning on his forearms on the railing. "Want your permission t' take Durreth t' Southern or something until she's gone up."

R'hyn tries desperately to keep the surprise from showing on his face - but it's there. "Why?" he asks, simply.

From the galleries, "I don't want t' be here," B'den repeats carefully. "Sir, I... shells." His head drops as he contemplates his interlaced fingers, then up again to fix R'hyn. "Durreth's not going t' catch her. S'a fact. He's never caught a gold, and he's not going t' catch this one. And I... I don't want. I don't want t' have t' deal with the afters."

"There are plenty of bronzes who haven't caught queens yet," says R'hyn, almost smoothly, and with a certain kind of confidence. "It doesn't mean it'll never happen. I appreciate that you don't want to-- deal with," he waves his hand for emphasis, and moves on, "But no, I'm sorry. I want to make sure Dovryth has an excellent flight, and that means having all hands on deck. You'll stay, or you'll face the consequences."

From the galleries, R'hyn might not be able to see B'den's chin jutting out, but he's been in enough meetings with the man that he'd likely be able to correctly visualize it within the man's silence. What -is- obvious is the bronzerider straightening off the rails, and his sullen, "Sir." Which isn't -precisely- agreement.

R'hyn heaves a sigh, shaking his head. "B'den." Pause. "It's good of you, to try and avoid trouble, but it's something you're going to need to learn to control. You'll be at that flight. And afterwards, someone will escort you home - if you don't win."

From the galleries, "/When/," he corrects with a savage twist on the words. "And are you going t' be the one t' dare? Sir? Shells. Just... forget I said anything." And he heads back for the antechamber at a brisk stride.

R'hyn opens his mouth to say something else, but apparently thinks better of it - his mouth snaps shut again. Another sigh sounds from down upon the sands, and quietly, "I just-- never mind."

From the galleries, B'den heads down the stairs to the anteroom.

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