Softer Touch
Location: G'thon's Quarters
Time: Afternoon on Day 24, Month 8, Turn 3
Players: G'thon and Roa
Scene: Roa pays Gans a visit for...really, she doesn't even know what. The conversation that ensues, however, is most assuredly not it.
Interesting, perhaps, that for all of his interest in all things Instigator, Gans has not shown up before now at the weyrleader's door - or, possibly more likely, at the weyrwoman's. Interesting that, on a day like this, after the official word has come out and the Weyr has somewhat settled, the ethics instructor is also settled rather than up to some mischief, offering his perspective or advice to the Weyr's leadership at the very least. But so it would seem he is: Gans retires with tea in his rooms, the door left open to invite students of Caucus and less formal sorts alike. The gaunt, pale man sits at his writing-desk, where he reads and makes remarks upon essays and such; today he makes remarks instead in a small book, a journal.
If Mohammed will not come to the mountain...Maybe Roa had been waiting for a visit from the gaunt and balding once-weyrleader, or maybe she is only seeking respite from the questions and inquires of others. Something finds her outside of the Caucus instructor's door, hand lifting to rap her knuckles lightly against the doorframe, rather than just walking in. She looks quiet, composed and mostly as she ever has, save that she is somewhat rounder in certain places. "Am I interrupting?"
Gans looks up. "Weyrwoman," he of course says, immediately, and closes his journal, tipping the pen against the inkwell to drain it before setting it down atop the leather binding. "What a pleasant surprise," he adds while rising from his chair, with a half-smile and twinkle that confirm at least 'pleasant' if not 'surprise.' A few long strides take him around the side of the desk to a space roughly center of the room, and there he welcomes her in with an outstretched open palm. "Come in, won't you? Can I get you some tea?"
A few steps carry Roa inside and it's just a flick of her fingers, really, that nudges the open door shut behind her. "Yes, thank you," she says with a small smile. "I'd love some." She moves towards the table where tea is most often served. "How've you been?"
Gans had been moving off the ball of the forward foot, ready to go to the door to close it - that she saves him the trouble means only that he turns around his momentum and starts for the tea-cart instead, beside the table toward which Roa's now heading. "Very well. I was able to see Miniyal the day after her birthday, just for a moment. She and Peloth seem to be doing well." Premature hunting, injuries and arguments aside. Long hands tend to tea, emptying old from the pot and starting new with leaves and tea-ball and water. "And you?"
"Leave it to the dragon Miniyal impresses to decide she ought to be able to hunt at age two months," the weyrwoman notes with a faint smile. "Peloth killed a herdbeast, too. Did she tell you? This isn't easy for her. She hasn't any faith in her own abilities." Roa pulls out a chair and sinks down into it with a small sigh. "I'm..." she shakes her head. "I have no idea what I am. Still functioning successfully."
"Peloth - ?" Gans pauses in his tea-making and glances up, watching Roa select her chair and seat herself; he does interrupt himself with a little asided murmur of apology for not getting the chair for her, but it's drily put. "Without help? I was under the impression - well. And she was not hurt? Impressive." Is it a bad sign that the ethics instructor seems more bemusedly approving than upset? But he remembers, as if suddenly, what the cause of Roa's visit must be - "Oh, forgive me, weyrwoman. Of course - I assume you have - well." Maybe he'd better not assume. Instead he overturns teacups into saucers and fusses over the preparation of little dishes of sweetener and cream. "This must be very interesting for you."
"I can't say it looked to have been killed properly, but it was most certainly dead when I got there, and Peloth was most certainly claiming it as her own. So. There you have it." Roa moves to settle her hands in her lap, only to remember that she has rather less lap now, and settles them on the table instead. "And for you," she replies quietly, dark blue eyes regarding her host as he arranges the tea service.
"Rather less than I might like," Gans replies, lightly. "This is a blend of my own, herbs from Ista and dried strawberries from Tillek," he notes, lifting the lid of the pot for a check. Of course it hasn't steeped enough yet; the movement serves only to fruit the air with fragrant steam. "A little bit sweet without sweetener. I thought you might especially like it." But since he can do nothing else with the tea for now he glances up at Roa, his smile a little droll - knowing - then gets out from the cart a basket to put out on the table. Pastries, of course. "Please help yourself if you like," he notes, then takes up a waitful position, hands behind his back, no point in seating himself before the tea's done. "Ah - should I expect that you have had at least a letter by now?"
She inhales slowly at the smell and repeats, her tone bemused, "Ista and Tillek. That sounds very nice." And then...pastries. Roa murmurs her thanks as she selects one that's flakey with a light drizzle of chocolate. As usual, she sets it down on a plate without actually eating any of it. "A letter?" she queries. "From Lord Sorel, do you mean, or from the other Weyrs?"
Gans looks down at the unbitten pastry with a dry expression that might pass as mildly disapproving. Then he glances up at the door across the room: yes, still closed. "From your father," he says, then, looking back at Roa, expression a little bemused, a little pained: obviously?
Obviously not. The weyrwoman blinks, startled, and then she clears her throat and lowers her gaze to study her own pastry. "Oh." There is a small shake of her head and an equally small shrug. "No."
A moment's awkward - or perhaps merely gracefully respectful - silence passes, and Gans softly replies, "I'm sorry." He allows a little more quiet, and tends to checking again on the tea. This time the scent is stronger, more sweet and heady with the richness of dried berries, and Gans deems it good enough to pour into cups. "I presume, of course, that he's there."
"There's no need," Roa says with a small wave of her hand. "It wasn't anything I was expecting. Some connections died a long time ago." Roa smiles faintly as the tea pours. "That really does smell very nice. The berries especially." She waits until the teacup is set down before she notes, "I would think that that would be a very good presumption."
"Then I would think he has some understanding that a letter would not go amiss," sniffs the former weyrleader, bending over the table to place tea before the small weyrwoman. Sweetener and cream and a tiny spoon are provided also, his slim hands ever-efficient at this most common of his rituals. "I thought this tea might especially suit you right now," he says, a little brighter, then gets his own cup squared away and at last slips into the chair across the table from Roa. "If you will forgive my asking - Roa - " If there is emphasis in her name, rather than in her title, it is -very- gentle. "Have you - plans to offer any kind of contact?"
"Super special pregnant weyrwoman tea is it?" Roa chides as she curls her fingers around the cup and lifts it carefully. She blows over the top, pushing the steam away, and it buys her a bit of time to formulate an answer. "Yes. Lord Sorel's writing Odern, and R'vain and I are going to send a messenger to speak to him as well. We're not going to to cover fall there until Odern's explained himself. But we want them to know that, and we want to make sure they have charts and whatever else they'll need to do it themselves." Blow. Sip. "None of this is repeatable just yet."
Gans' smile does not falter, but he does dip his head, as though he might make his smile more private for a moment, eyes downcast. "I am not the most subtle," says the ethics instructor, perhaps more coming off as pleased than regretful that the weyrwoman has identified the purpose of the tea they share. "It should be good for the stomach, and for faintness, if you're given to that. And if not - " Gans looks up, long enough to share twinkling fondness before he, himself, steals a tiny sip. "I find the flavor pleasant. - I shall repeat nothing, of course, weyrwoman; trust me to have some discretion." These words barely wait for breath before he's speaking them, as if they relate to the prior subject of tea. They contain no correction; only invitation. "Are there, you think, persons there who require - particular care?"
With another small smile, Roa sets her cup down and it clinks softly against the plate. "Considering the circumstances, I cannot imagine otherwise," Roa murmurs quietly. "This must be strange for you. For anyone who was there, I suppose."
"I meant - well. Do you suppose Odern is - " Gans' smile shrinks slightly, remaining one-sided. "Strange," he echoes, instead of continuing. He leans back into his chair, holding his cup in the large palm of his hand, crossing his legs. For as reposed as he makes himself, there is an uncharacteristically awkward tension in what remains of his smile. "Hardly an adequate word. I can hardly come up with a list of words that, all together, would summarize the situation - ah." He looks down at the surface of the tea. "Perhaps 'inevitable' would suffice."
"Perhaps," Roa concedes softly. She turns her teacup slowly, watching the little ripples the motion causes. "Do I suppose Odern is..." the weyrwoman glances up, brows lifting a tiny bit in question. She cannot be unaware of the tension, and there is an unusual stiffness in her own shoulders, but perhaps they are both pretending things are better than they are.
He regards Roa for a moment in silence, one pale brow slowly arching while he clearly considers - though whether her question, or his reply, he makes no sign. "In danger," Gans explains, at length, quietly, grave yet droll.
That calls up several bewildered blinks before Roa slowly shakes her head. "I...don't know. Maybe it depends on why they've come. What they plan to do, now that they're here. Can't say I know that, either."
Since Roa seems unable to say, Gans infers. "Then you think he may be cooperating with them." His smile increases slightly and he lifts his tea, though does not sip; its sweet steam must perfume the air beneath his grand nose, as he smiles incrementally more upon drawing a long breath. "And that they intend to stay, and enforce for themselves some sort of power - if only enough to ensure their own safety, at least."
"There has to be a reason they jumped even though the weyrlings were too young. I can't imagine that was...a dragonrider's idea. Makes more sense, if you assume they're working with Odern. Not very impressive, to appear from between with a bunch of wailing dragons that give away your location immediately."
"Unless giving away your location is hardly a concern," Gans observes. He indulges in the tea more fully after that: a breath of steam, then a sip to enrich the flavor. He keeps his eyes on the drink once he's lowered the cup. "They do have with them - it seems? - possible sources of ideas aside from dragonriders."
"Still seems a poor entrance, if you're planning a hostile takeover." Roa crosses her legs at the ankles. "It's possible. Unconfirmed."
"Well," says Gans, his mouth tilting even higher on the right side while his brows tip crookedly in turn, "we have no evidence of hostility aside from their somewhat politically charged choice of landing site." He allows a moment to pass before adding, drily, "Confirmed evidence, anyway?"
"None that I'm aware of," Roa agrees with a small nod and another sip of her tea. The poor pastry remains un-nibbled. "Some would say that their arrival, alone, would be enough. WHy didn't they..." The weyrwoman gives a small shake of their head. "If they wanted Pern to see them as any other than criminals, they picked a poor ally. Which in turn makes me wonder what it is that they -do- want."
"Perhaps we might hope for them to improve matters at Five Mines," Gans replies, finding a little more smile and a little more sparkle for the very idea, though he does not present it with the wryness that would imply contradiction. Instead he uncrosses his legs and leans forward to replace the cup into the saucer, looking up with head downtilted, an unusual perspective for him to take. He prompts, though very gently, brows twitching back into parallel position, sympathetic: "Why didn't they - ?"
There is a small and unconvinced laugh for the idea of exiles improving any situation. "By providing him with dragons. By adding over a hundred more people to whatever he's planning. Forgive me my skepticism, Gans." Roa brushes her fingers along the rim of her teacup. "Why didn't they pick somewhere else to land."
"I forgive you," laughs the ethics instructor, the chuckle that enriches his tone light, endeared. He leans back again and bridges his fingers, elbows on the arms of his chair. "Perhaps because Odern has made the invitation he has, and therefore they know they will have a little time there. Time, perhaps, to prove their purpose. I - " Gans dips his chin and lets a rueful gaze settle on his teacup before him on the table. "Well, I am ever the optimist. But it keeps me smiling, Roa."
"And what does your optimism suggest, then?" Roa asks, her head tilting to the side, brows lifting. "What is it they wish to do that Odern can allow and nobody else? What are they concocting to turn the world's anger and fear into something that won't see them stake out, one and all, once a conclave is called?"
"That Odern can allow? Why, be there at all," replies Gans, overturning a hand while the other curls in place; when the gesture's complete he reknits his fingers. "Have shelter and succor. If they came to any other place on Pern they'd have to be conquerors or risk being driven out. Where they are, they can at least be peaceful, if not well-thought-of - and what have they lost by being ill-thought-of, in any case?" One brow flicks back up, dry. "Odern has made Five Mines a dangerous place. What if the Instigators," a word he so easily uses, now that it's been once said, "choose to remedy what he's done?"
"The Instigators," Roa replies dryly, "do not have a history that lends itself to anticipating peaceful solutions from them. Or rational ones. If they came to fix Five Mines, why at the cost of six weyrlings? Why not wait? I don't...ugh. It smacks of desperation, to me. Not forethought. Or, at least, not any forethought I find at all comforting."
"I think it would be unkind to assume they could never have cause for desperation," says Gans, gentle again. "I, at least, know little about their last ten turns."
"They could have asked," Roa says softly into her cup. "For most, this action confirms the worst."
"And you would have said what?" But Gans untwines and overturns his hand again, dismissive. "I am certain they're aware of the public perception. We can trust that they intend to take action to improve it, and if they do not, trust that Pern will respond appropriately. Or, I suppose - " He pauses a split-second, refolding his fingers. "Query them on their intentions."
There is little the weyrwoman seems to be willing to say to any of that save for a quiet, "Moot now, isn't it." With a slow breath she adds, "We can, at least, trust Pern to have an opinion. Them, I trust far less."
"I'm sorry to hear it," replies Gans, mildly regretful, sympathy resonant in his quiet voice. "But I recognize that their actions do not give you much to work with. I am sure they must realize the same."
"Then I suppose we do what we must to keep our own safe in case of the worst, and wait for some sort of sign from them that they intend something else." The last of the tea is swallowed down, and Roa sets the empty cup gently onto its saucer. *tnk*
"I suppose we do," echoes the former weyrleader, one pale brow twitching before being resigned to letting all of the questions he might press go by the wayside in favor of a gentler, almost pained demeanor. "Roa. I am sorry for - how this must affect you. I had really expected - well." His chin comes up: mild disapproval cools his gaze and makes it distant. "I had hoped for a somewhat softer touch."
The empty cup is turned so that the handle faces away from Roa, and then the saucer is turned so that the handle points at her once again. "Not all of them are well-meaning," she says quietly. "Not all of them wish us to be allies, if any do. They stole criminals tried and convicted. They demonstrate themselves in league with a man who seems to be set on making Faranth knows what mischief. Nobody but you, Gans, is an optimist. They haven't left me very much recourse for softness."
"Not yours, Roa." Gans is apologetic the instant he understands her point, though it takes him a moment to achieve that apparent understanding. "The softer touch I'd hoped for would be theirs." For the Reaches' weyrwoman, he offers a smaller, rueful smile.
Her own smile, tired, bemused, flickers over Roa's lips as she exhales a weak little laugh. "On that, we can agree," the weyrwoman murmurs, her eyes still down on the empty cup. "Thank you for the tea," she adds after a moment, inching her chair backwards from the table. It requires now, a bit more inching than it used to.
"Oh, weyrwoman." Gans' voice is rueful now, too, and apologetic all over again. But he rises as she begins to, hurrying himself that he might come over and make an effort to assist with her chair, one hand at ready for her should she like to have it for help up. "I confess I have missed talking with you. You are -always- welcome here, and I shall have tea for you any time."
She pushes up into a stand on her own, slender fingers brushing his longer, cooler ones only once she's risen and it can be a gesture of appreciation rather than one of dependence. "I know," Roa says quietly. "I always mean to stop by more often, but I never seem to manage it. You're welcome to visit me, as well, should you ever be so inclined."
His fingers curl under hers, and Gans bends a little to Roa - just enough to be courtly, not enough to draw more attention than would ever be present to the gap in their heights. "Perhaps I shall," he replies to her invitation. "And try to bring more comforting conversation with me." There may be a query in those words, lifted as they are at the end. Yet, Gans flattens his hand and turns a little so as to escort his visitor to the door; Roa need not reply.
As she doesn't have to answer, Roa chooses not to, instead allowing herself to be led to the door. "I can't help but think I'll be paying a visit to Fort Hold before all of this is ended," she says with only a tiny glance up towards the taller and older man. "Hear their baths are a sight to see."
Gans' brows twitch at mention of Fort Hold - but they arch high over absolutely dancing eyes when mention of the Hold's baths follows. "So I have heard," replies the old weyrleader, tipping his head only slightly to the side where Roa stands, his gaze cornered toward her. "Perhaps you'll have a chance to stretch your legs while you're there."
"Perhaps I will," she agrees quietly. "Longer legs, now. If not by so much." There is another quick glance up and over towards G'thon, a faint shadow of his amusement in her own features. "Until next time, then."
"Thank you for stopping by, weyrwoman," says Gans, by way of farewell, opening the door for her. "I shall see you again soon."
With another of her little nods, Roa slips out the door and heads down the hallway, no more words offered from her end.
Time: Afternoon on Day 24, Month 8, Turn 3
Players: G'thon and Roa
Scene: Roa pays Gans a visit for...really, she doesn't even know what. The conversation that ensues, however, is most assuredly not it.
Interesting, perhaps, that for all of his interest in all things Instigator, Gans has not shown up before now at the weyrleader's door - or, possibly more likely, at the weyrwoman's. Interesting that, on a day like this, after the official word has come out and the Weyr has somewhat settled, the ethics instructor is also settled rather than up to some mischief, offering his perspective or advice to the Weyr's leadership at the very least. But so it would seem he is: Gans retires with tea in his rooms, the door left open to invite students of Caucus and less formal sorts alike. The gaunt, pale man sits at his writing-desk, where he reads and makes remarks upon essays and such; today he makes remarks instead in a small book, a journal.
If Mohammed will not come to the mountain...Maybe Roa had been waiting for a visit from the gaunt and balding once-weyrleader, or maybe she is only seeking respite from the questions and inquires of others. Something finds her outside of the Caucus instructor's door, hand lifting to rap her knuckles lightly against the doorframe, rather than just walking in. She looks quiet, composed and mostly as she ever has, save that she is somewhat rounder in certain places. "Am I interrupting?"
Gans looks up. "Weyrwoman," he of course says, immediately, and closes his journal, tipping the pen against the inkwell to drain it before setting it down atop the leather binding. "What a pleasant surprise," he adds while rising from his chair, with a half-smile and twinkle that confirm at least 'pleasant' if not 'surprise.' A few long strides take him around the side of the desk to a space roughly center of the room, and there he welcomes her in with an outstretched open palm. "Come in, won't you? Can I get you some tea?"
A few steps carry Roa inside and it's just a flick of her fingers, really, that nudges the open door shut behind her. "Yes, thank you," she says with a small smile. "I'd love some." She moves towards the table where tea is most often served. "How've you been?"
Gans had been moving off the ball of the forward foot, ready to go to the door to close it - that she saves him the trouble means only that he turns around his momentum and starts for the tea-cart instead, beside the table toward which Roa's now heading. "Very well. I was able to see Miniyal the day after her birthday, just for a moment. She and Peloth seem to be doing well." Premature hunting, injuries and arguments aside. Long hands tend to tea, emptying old from the pot and starting new with leaves and tea-ball and water. "And you?"
"Leave it to the dragon Miniyal impresses to decide she ought to be able to hunt at age two months," the weyrwoman notes with a faint smile. "Peloth killed a herdbeast, too. Did she tell you? This isn't easy for her. She hasn't any faith in her own abilities." Roa pulls out a chair and sinks down into it with a small sigh. "I'm..." she shakes her head. "I have no idea what I am. Still functioning successfully."
"Peloth - ?" Gans pauses in his tea-making and glances up, watching Roa select her chair and seat herself; he does interrupt himself with a little asided murmur of apology for not getting the chair for her, but it's drily put. "Without help? I was under the impression - well. And she was not hurt? Impressive." Is it a bad sign that the ethics instructor seems more bemusedly approving than upset? But he remembers, as if suddenly, what the cause of Roa's visit must be - "Oh, forgive me, weyrwoman. Of course - I assume you have - well." Maybe he'd better not assume. Instead he overturns teacups into saucers and fusses over the preparation of little dishes of sweetener and cream. "This must be very interesting for you."
"I can't say it looked to have been killed properly, but it was most certainly dead when I got there, and Peloth was most certainly claiming it as her own. So. There you have it." Roa moves to settle her hands in her lap, only to remember that she has rather less lap now, and settles them on the table instead. "And for you," she replies quietly, dark blue eyes regarding her host as he arranges the tea service.
"Rather less than I might like," Gans replies, lightly. "This is a blend of my own, herbs from Ista and dried strawberries from Tillek," he notes, lifting the lid of the pot for a check. Of course it hasn't steeped enough yet; the movement serves only to fruit the air with fragrant steam. "A little bit sweet without sweetener. I thought you might especially like it." But since he can do nothing else with the tea for now he glances up at Roa, his smile a little droll - knowing - then gets out from the cart a basket to put out on the table. Pastries, of course. "Please help yourself if you like," he notes, then takes up a waitful position, hands behind his back, no point in seating himself before the tea's done. "Ah - should I expect that you have had at least a letter by now?"
She inhales slowly at the smell and repeats, her tone bemused, "Ista and Tillek. That sounds very nice." And then...pastries. Roa murmurs her thanks as she selects one that's flakey with a light drizzle of chocolate. As usual, she sets it down on a plate without actually eating any of it. "A letter?" she queries. "From Lord Sorel, do you mean, or from the other Weyrs?"
Gans looks down at the unbitten pastry with a dry expression that might pass as mildly disapproving. Then he glances up at the door across the room: yes, still closed. "From your father," he says, then, looking back at Roa, expression a little bemused, a little pained: obviously?
Obviously not. The weyrwoman blinks, startled, and then she clears her throat and lowers her gaze to study her own pastry. "Oh." There is a small shake of her head and an equally small shrug. "No."
A moment's awkward - or perhaps merely gracefully respectful - silence passes, and Gans softly replies, "I'm sorry." He allows a little more quiet, and tends to checking again on the tea. This time the scent is stronger, more sweet and heady with the richness of dried berries, and Gans deems it good enough to pour into cups. "I presume, of course, that he's there."
"There's no need," Roa says with a small wave of her hand. "It wasn't anything I was expecting. Some connections died a long time ago." Roa smiles faintly as the tea pours. "That really does smell very nice. The berries especially." She waits until the teacup is set down before she notes, "I would think that that would be a very good presumption."
"Then I would think he has some understanding that a letter would not go amiss," sniffs the former weyrleader, bending over the table to place tea before the small weyrwoman. Sweetener and cream and a tiny spoon are provided also, his slim hands ever-efficient at this most common of his rituals. "I thought this tea might especially suit you right now," he says, a little brighter, then gets his own cup squared away and at last slips into the chair across the table from Roa. "If you will forgive my asking - Roa - " If there is emphasis in her name, rather than in her title, it is -very- gentle. "Have you - plans to offer any kind of contact?"
"Super special pregnant weyrwoman tea is it?" Roa chides as she curls her fingers around the cup and lifts it carefully. She blows over the top, pushing the steam away, and it buys her a bit of time to formulate an answer. "Yes. Lord Sorel's writing Odern, and R'vain and I are going to send a messenger to speak to him as well. We're not going to to cover fall there until Odern's explained himself. But we want them to know that, and we want to make sure they have charts and whatever else they'll need to do it themselves." Blow. Sip. "None of this is repeatable just yet."
Gans' smile does not falter, but he does dip his head, as though he might make his smile more private for a moment, eyes downcast. "I am not the most subtle," says the ethics instructor, perhaps more coming off as pleased than regretful that the weyrwoman has identified the purpose of the tea they share. "It should be good for the stomach, and for faintness, if you're given to that. And if not - " Gans looks up, long enough to share twinkling fondness before he, himself, steals a tiny sip. "I find the flavor pleasant. - I shall repeat nothing, of course, weyrwoman; trust me to have some discretion." These words barely wait for breath before he's speaking them, as if they relate to the prior subject of tea. They contain no correction; only invitation. "Are there, you think, persons there who require - particular care?"
With another small smile, Roa sets her cup down and it clinks softly against the plate. "Considering the circumstances, I cannot imagine otherwise," Roa murmurs quietly. "This must be strange for you. For anyone who was there, I suppose."
"I meant - well. Do you suppose Odern is - " Gans' smile shrinks slightly, remaining one-sided. "Strange," he echoes, instead of continuing. He leans back into his chair, holding his cup in the large palm of his hand, crossing his legs. For as reposed as he makes himself, there is an uncharacteristically awkward tension in what remains of his smile. "Hardly an adequate word. I can hardly come up with a list of words that, all together, would summarize the situation - ah." He looks down at the surface of the tea. "Perhaps 'inevitable' would suffice."
"Perhaps," Roa concedes softly. She turns her teacup slowly, watching the little ripples the motion causes. "Do I suppose Odern is..." the weyrwoman glances up, brows lifting a tiny bit in question. She cannot be unaware of the tension, and there is an unusual stiffness in her own shoulders, but perhaps they are both pretending things are better than they are.
He regards Roa for a moment in silence, one pale brow slowly arching while he clearly considers - though whether her question, or his reply, he makes no sign. "In danger," Gans explains, at length, quietly, grave yet droll.
That calls up several bewildered blinks before Roa slowly shakes her head. "I...don't know. Maybe it depends on why they've come. What they plan to do, now that they're here. Can't say I know that, either."
Since Roa seems unable to say, Gans infers. "Then you think he may be cooperating with them." His smile increases slightly and he lifts his tea, though does not sip; its sweet steam must perfume the air beneath his grand nose, as he smiles incrementally more upon drawing a long breath. "And that they intend to stay, and enforce for themselves some sort of power - if only enough to ensure their own safety, at least."
"There has to be a reason they jumped even though the weyrlings were too young. I can't imagine that was...a dragonrider's idea. Makes more sense, if you assume they're working with Odern. Not very impressive, to appear from between with a bunch of wailing dragons that give away your location immediately."
"Unless giving away your location is hardly a concern," Gans observes. He indulges in the tea more fully after that: a breath of steam, then a sip to enrich the flavor. He keeps his eyes on the drink once he's lowered the cup. "They do have with them - it seems? - possible sources of ideas aside from dragonriders."
"Still seems a poor entrance, if you're planning a hostile takeover." Roa crosses her legs at the ankles. "It's possible. Unconfirmed."
"Well," says Gans, his mouth tilting even higher on the right side while his brows tip crookedly in turn, "we have no evidence of hostility aside from their somewhat politically charged choice of landing site." He allows a moment to pass before adding, drily, "Confirmed evidence, anyway?"
"None that I'm aware of," Roa agrees with a small nod and another sip of her tea. The poor pastry remains un-nibbled. "Some would say that their arrival, alone, would be enough. WHy didn't they..." The weyrwoman gives a small shake of their head. "If they wanted Pern to see them as any other than criminals, they picked a poor ally. Which in turn makes me wonder what it is that they -do- want."
"Perhaps we might hope for them to improve matters at Five Mines," Gans replies, finding a little more smile and a little more sparkle for the very idea, though he does not present it with the wryness that would imply contradiction. Instead he uncrosses his legs and leans forward to replace the cup into the saucer, looking up with head downtilted, an unusual perspective for him to take. He prompts, though very gently, brows twitching back into parallel position, sympathetic: "Why didn't they - ?"
There is a small and unconvinced laugh for the idea of exiles improving any situation. "By providing him with dragons. By adding over a hundred more people to whatever he's planning. Forgive me my skepticism, Gans." Roa brushes her fingers along the rim of her teacup. "Why didn't they pick somewhere else to land."
"I forgive you," laughs the ethics instructor, the chuckle that enriches his tone light, endeared. He leans back again and bridges his fingers, elbows on the arms of his chair. "Perhaps because Odern has made the invitation he has, and therefore they know they will have a little time there. Time, perhaps, to prove their purpose. I - " Gans dips his chin and lets a rueful gaze settle on his teacup before him on the table. "Well, I am ever the optimist. But it keeps me smiling, Roa."
"And what does your optimism suggest, then?" Roa asks, her head tilting to the side, brows lifting. "What is it they wish to do that Odern can allow and nobody else? What are they concocting to turn the world's anger and fear into something that won't see them stake out, one and all, once a conclave is called?"
"That Odern can allow? Why, be there at all," replies Gans, overturning a hand while the other curls in place; when the gesture's complete he reknits his fingers. "Have shelter and succor. If they came to any other place on Pern they'd have to be conquerors or risk being driven out. Where they are, they can at least be peaceful, if not well-thought-of - and what have they lost by being ill-thought-of, in any case?" One brow flicks back up, dry. "Odern has made Five Mines a dangerous place. What if the Instigators," a word he so easily uses, now that it's been once said, "choose to remedy what he's done?"
"The Instigators," Roa replies dryly, "do not have a history that lends itself to anticipating peaceful solutions from them. Or rational ones. If they came to fix Five Mines, why at the cost of six weyrlings? Why not wait? I don't...ugh. It smacks of desperation, to me. Not forethought. Or, at least, not any forethought I find at all comforting."
"I think it would be unkind to assume they could never have cause for desperation," says Gans, gentle again. "I, at least, know little about their last ten turns."
"They could have asked," Roa says softly into her cup. "For most, this action confirms the worst."
"And you would have said what?" But Gans untwines and overturns his hand again, dismissive. "I am certain they're aware of the public perception. We can trust that they intend to take action to improve it, and if they do not, trust that Pern will respond appropriately. Or, I suppose - " He pauses a split-second, refolding his fingers. "Query them on their intentions."
There is little the weyrwoman seems to be willing to say to any of that save for a quiet, "Moot now, isn't it." With a slow breath she adds, "We can, at least, trust Pern to have an opinion. Them, I trust far less."
"I'm sorry to hear it," replies Gans, mildly regretful, sympathy resonant in his quiet voice. "But I recognize that their actions do not give you much to work with. I am sure they must realize the same."
"Then I suppose we do what we must to keep our own safe in case of the worst, and wait for some sort of sign from them that they intend something else." The last of the tea is swallowed down, and Roa sets the empty cup gently onto its saucer. *tnk*
"I suppose we do," echoes the former weyrleader, one pale brow twitching before being resigned to letting all of the questions he might press go by the wayside in favor of a gentler, almost pained demeanor. "Roa. I am sorry for - how this must affect you. I had really expected - well." His chin comes up: mild disapproval cools his gaze and makes it distant. "I had hoped for a somewhat softer touch."
The empty cup is turned so that the handle faces away from Roa, and then the saucer is turned so that the handle points at her once again. "Not all of them are well-meaning," she says quietly. "Not all of them wish us to be allies, if any do. They stole criminals tried and convicted. They demonstrate themselves in league with a man who seems to be set on making Faranth knows what mischief. Nobody but you, Gans, is an optimist. They haven't left me very much recourse for softness."
"Not yours, Roa." Gans is apologetic the instant he understands her point, though it takes him a moment to achieve that apparent understanding. "The softer touch I'd hoped for would be theirs." For the Reaches' weyrwoman, he offers a smaller, rueful smile.
Her own smile, tired, bemused, flickers over Roa's lips as she exhales a weak little laugh. "On that, we can agree," the weyrwoman murmurs, her eyes still down on the empty cup. "Thank you for the tea," she adds after a moment, inching her chair backwards from the table. It requires now, a bit more inching than it used to.
"Oh, weyrwoman." Gans' voice is rueful now, too, and apologetic all over again. But he rises as she begins to, hurrying himself that he might come over and make an effort to assist with her chair, one hand at ready for her should she like to have it for help up. "I confess I have missed talking with you. You are -always- welcome here, and I shall have tea for you any time."
She pushes up into a stand on her own, slender fingers brushing his longer, cooler ones only once she's risen and it can be a gesture of appreciation rather than one of dependence. "I know," Roa says quietly. "I always mean to stop by more often, but I never seem to manage it. You're welcome to visit me, as well, should you ever be so inclined."
His fingers curl under hers, and Gans bends a little to Roa - just enough to be courtly, not enough to draw more attention than would ever be present to the gap in their heights. "Perhaps I shall," he replies to her invitation. "And try to bring more comforting conversation with me." There may be a query in those words, lifted as they are at the end. Yet, Gans flattens his hand and turns a little so as to escort his visitor to the door; Roa need not reply.
As she doesn't have to answer, Roa chooses not to, instead allowing herself to be led to the door. "I can't help but think I'll be paying a visit to Fort Hold before all of this is ended," she says with only a tiny glance up towards the taller and older man. "Hear their baths are a sight to see."
Gans' brows twitch at mention of Fort Hold - but they arch high over absolutely dancing eyes when mention of the Hold's baths follows. "So I have heard," replies the old weyrleader, tipping his head only slightly to the side where Roa stands, his gaze cornered toward her. "Perhaps you'll have a chance to stretch your legs while you're there."
"Perhaps I will," she agrees quietly. "Longer legs, now. If not by so much." There is another quick glance up and over towards G'thon, a faint shadow of his amusement in her own features. "Until next time, then."
"Thank you for stopping by, weyrwoman," says Gans, by way of farewell, opening the door for her. "I shall see you again soon."
With another of her little nods, Roa slips out the door and heads down the hallway, no more words offered from her end.