Getting Wood

Xanadu Weyr - Arbori Prime
Up among the branches of this massive tree, every breath of wind is felt upon the skin, every shaking leaf is heard. Every tremble in the earth or movement along the boughs is communicated in delicate shivers that run through the flesh of the tree. And yet despite all of this, there is serenity to be found, calmness. The higher you climb, the more isolated you become, away from the world, from the ground, even from the other branches themselves. There is another world above the forest floor where grapplers barter with tree birds for an undisturbed haven and insects carry on quiet, non-aggressive lives before your eyes. No matter how deeply you breathe, there is always more air, sweet and pure and heavily laden with the scent of leaves and warm wood. The existence of gravity seems almost an affront to this place, the very notion that something could pull you away, offensive.

The massive tree known as Arbori Prime in the forest of Xanadu is a handy landmark for those coming from the sky, as well as those making the trek on foot. It's especially handy when one's destination is a glade not far off from the bohemoth with enough space for a dragon or two to land beside what has become a dumping ground for raw materials for not only the Woodcrafters posted to the Weyr but to any ambitious (or ambitious-by-necessity) homestead owner whose home is in need of repair or upgrade. This clear morning, the glade might seem empty at first glance, save for all those storm-felled trees stacked and strewn on one half of the open space, some larger, some smaller, all surely dragon-delivered to this place. There is no sign of bronze hide although one might be spotted in the sky vaguely near the place. Balanced somewhere amid the enormous pile, however, is one large bronzerider, cargo pants dirty and torn in places, but good for the work at hand, which appears to be assessing some of the smaller pieces for… well, possibly F'yr doesn't really know, but he's here and he has an axe and a saw and a purpose and that's good enough to go on with (if not as effectively if he was armed with more experience).

With a house build in full swing far enough away that the chopping of wood and low murmured conversation between crafters and laborers is muted by older growth trees, a certain woodworking greenrider from Fort Weyr makes his way towards probably one of Xanadu's more recognizable landmarks. He's helped, not only by his familiarity with the area over the last couple of sevendays, but also by the gliding green dragon body high above in the sky. Distant and unknown to him renegade ties aside, M'ti was not trained in stealth, and so he can be heard from quite a ways away be it through snapping twigs or the rustling of underbrush. As he draws nearer to the clearing, he can be heard talking aloud, words lost to lingering distance but the tone firm enough to indicate that supplies may not be the only reason necessitating stepping away. Snap. Crunch. Crunch. Snap. Snap. Stepping out of the trees, there's a bit more muttering and a soft snort before there is silence as M'ti stops short upon looking up and hazel eyes home in on all that bronzerider. Quiet, appraising, hair is tucked in a gentle scoop of fingers behind the curl of one ear and with awkwardness he bobs his head in a wordless greeting. The greenrider was all casual in his simple beige trousers and a thin summer tunic, it's sleeves shoved up past his elbows. A slender, almost willowy little thing, no taller than five foot eight and still in his late teens. Awkwardly, he stands there for a few moments longer, then starts to turn towards a large pile of felled trees.

To be fair, meeting strangers in the woods toting axes and saws might be a little unnerving. Here, where those items are contextually appropriate, probably less than other places, but it might account for the way that the bronzerider pauses in his work as those many sounds of approach reach his attuned ears. Would Glorioth ever forgive him if he were ambushed? At least not until he forgot about it, anyway. It means that blue eyes take M'ti in as he enters the clearing. The first glance assesses quickly and slides away to what he was looking at and mental note made, he turns away from it to more properly address the new arrival, probably just as the awkwardness changes to motion. "Hey." His lips are curved in a slight smile that's friendly as meeting-a-stranger smiles go, but he doesn't move from his current position, hands seeking pockets to tuck in and stay. There's a beat of a pause before there's a little squint of his eyes that lasts only half a heartbeat and he hazards, "Do you know anything about wood?" Maybe M'ti is, presently, the answer to the uninformed's hopes and dreams.

Exactly. If there was a lesson on what to do when meeting armed strangers in the forest wilds, M'ti must have been sick that day and it never made it onto any exams. F'yr glancing his way seems to be reason enough to remain still, no sudden movements and all that, and his looking away brings a soft breath and notable relief. To live another day and not be chopped into a million unrecognizable pieces? Priceless. With that, yes, M'ti turns and takes a single step if just to freeze and cast his gaze back the bronzerider's way, "Hello," he says, hopefully with enough umph behind his greeting to allow it to carry all the way over there. They were close enough, however, that the tentative smile afforded politely between strangers registered and is returned with exacting faintness. The question posed to him sends Matty's eyebrows sliding upwards a tad, "Ah, y-yes…in fact…" A sudden glance down to his unfortunately knotless shoulder, having left things back at camp, leaves the greenrider to uneasily rub at the naked spot, "I've only just been confirmed as a Journeyman of the woodcraft…" With a harper's drum of a pause, he turns himself to be angled more towards F'yr, head tilting slightly to one side, "Is there something I can help you with?"

For all of F'yr's rigorous attention to training on etiquette and everything else a weyrling is supposed to learn, the man is from the world of call-me-Risa Weyrwomen and personally pranking the Weyrleader as a form of entertainment; if there was an appropriate amount of distance or ceremony that was supposed to follow this, the big blonde does not know it. He's of a height with Ru'ien, if broader in the shoulder and that's enough to make him aware of his own effect on people, strangers in particular, and thus when he comes nearer, it's only enough steps to bring them more conversationally comfortable in distance. "Congratulations to you, then. That's quite the accomplishment," and the, "sir," is definitely an afterthought. "Do you mind if I pick your brain?" It's asked with courtesy but since M'ti did offer, he launches into his question. "My dragon busted the railing on my top balcony and I'm looking to replace it. My homestead was built by one of yours," a woodcrafter, he means, "so I'm sure he knew just what kind of wood he was using and why, and I just don't want to… tarnish his work by picking wrong." He glances back the way he came, "I did bring a piece of the rail with me to compare but… it's been sealed and it looks different than what's here." He hesitates a moment before adding with a dubiously squinted eye, "Would you mind taking a look for me?"
That seven inches or so (but whose counting) of height difference is plenty enough to warrant caution, even if that pang of warning originates from the more primitive stem of Matty's brain. It comes across, thankfully, less like a general wariness than it does mild nervousness as some can be when meeting new people. Regardless, there is a decided lack of guardedness, suggesting that even a modicum of familiarity with the greenrider would allow for an open read of whatever he might be feeling or perhaps thinking. The congratulations instantly brings a rosy bloom of color to otherwise pale cheeks, making the stiffness of his gender appropriate shoulder breadth begun on the bronzeling's approach all the more notable, "Ah, th-thank you…" This airy reply is accentuated with the sort of fleetingly shy— but nonetheless genuine— smile that M'ti is probably unaware could impact the receptive like a fist to the solar plexus, once again brushing hair behind his ear, however this time unnecessary, "You don't need to call me sir though, that's…" Taking a breath he clearly needs, the greenrider waves the formality aside and focuses instead on what is being asked of him. He listens with his full attention, seeming to relax the more F'yr speaks, glancing between the elements as they are brought into play. When finished, M'ti bobs his head once and smiles again in that exacting way, "I take it your woodcrafter isn't the sort that would…react well…to being told his work's been compromised?" he asks first off, gesturing towards bronzeling for him to show him towards said sample.

M'ti's smile sparks a brighter one from F'yr in answer, still friendly, just warmer. He's not unaffected by the look, but he remains where he is, as unassuming as he can manage to be within the limits of his natural and worked for gifts of body. "Is there something I could call you instead?" The question is posed with a slight lift of his brows and tilt of his head. The rest makes his smile shift into something slightly abashed. "Well, the truth is that the woodcrafter has just retired to the Weyr his daughter is at after spending the better part of his life improving the homestead I had the good fortune to claim, and he was not keen on letting go to begin with. So…" The big man bites his lower lip, briefly giving it a chew, "Suffice to say," he goes on a moment later, "I'd really rather not give him any reason to come see what's become of the place. My dragon has some… unusual tastes… in decorating." To put it mildly. His hand shifts in turn to indicate where he came from before turning to lead the way back to where he left his tools. He bends to sweep up a finely treated log slightly less thick than bicep, splintered at both ends in spectacular fashion. He spins the wood up into both palms before turning to hold it out toward the woodcrafter as if it were some oversized staff weapon, but then… they're not here to fight. "I'm glad you came along," even if he hasn't identified the wood yet. "I can repair things as well as the next farmer, but picking the materials… that was never my place in it. I'm built for labor," and he can be amused about it now that he's not back on the farm doing the countless chores that would have been the lifelong fate of Stefyr the Farmer.

There was no denying the overall impression of the woodsy greenrider, something in way he held himself that strongly implied he was one of those rabbit types, more likely to turn tail and make a break for it than aggressively descend upon diversity. Warming smiles and a friendly approach is all too effective in making the lad an even easier target, what pathetic defenses may have been in place melting away like ice cream on a warm day such as this, "O-oh! S-sorry…" he flusters, pinking up rather nicely even as he thrusts a hand out through the space between them, "I'm M'ti, green Cherith's from Fort…" He might tack on that whole 'greetings to Xanadu and her queens' given half a chance, but regardless as to whether or nor he manages it, his interest remains distinctly focused on the task that's been awarded him. Nodding several times over, the greenrider ah's as the picture F'yr paints becomes clearer, displaying that he understood perfectly what the old retired woodcrafter would be upset about. Well, aside from broken railings. "Still, having abandoned the property physically and moved on…" No, M'ti did not moonlight as a Harper, but neither was it his work that was being gutted and demolished. Following after the Weyrling, there's a chuckle as to 'unusual tastes', "Cherith is no better, worse actually…" he clarifies without actual clarity, ceasing all propulsion once they arrive at their destination and waiting for the conclusion of all that flourish before accepting the offering with a quick flash of pearly white teeth, "You're lucky," is breathed out, bringing one splintered end towards his face after feeling and palming the heft of the piece, giving it a sniff and a squint, "I'm here in Xanadu on commission and will be for…a while longer…" As long as it took really. The woodcrafter's long slim fingers are scarred, dozens of little nicks and thin white lines from turns of using the types of tools better not left in the hands of children, but this was Pern and not old Earth. Looking up, then down and over towards F'yr, "…because you aren't going to find this here sadly." Handing the shattered slat back, "This wood is native to considerably colder climates, like High Reaches, and was probably chosen because of it's sturdiness…" A bit of a crooked grin there, very reminiscent of a particular absent greenling to a frightening degree, "Your lifemate must have had quite the run at it."

Really, M'ti might not get a chance get out all those phrases learned by rote for etiquette's sake because F'yr's stepping forward into the space to clasp wrists with the woodcrafter, his, "Good to meet you, M'ti," more colloquial than the traditional 'well met.' "I'm F'yr." He releases the greenrider's wrist with a smile for the Fortian. "It's… really hard to imagine something 'worse' than Glorioth," terrifying, really, "but I'll not deny any rider their personal… challenges." What a diplomatic word for very creative dragons. "It's not so much that I'm concerned about him having any rights to the homestead, so much as I don't want him showing up to check on it like I don't know how to care for it. I've given up on being embarrassed by a lot of the shenanigans Glori gets up to, but I might be well and truly embarrassed by surprise, unofficial inspections if it came to it." It's his turn to color very slightly at the thought of it, though he doesn't linger on an embarrassment that isn't even a real situation… yet. Blue eyes take in the whole of M'ti's inspection with genuine interest in the process, not just the result. "High Reaches, hm?" F'yr considers that. "Alright. I can go there." He will be sure to ask for the details of what to look for when he does. Surely somewhere, there will be the right wood, if he looks hard enough. "My lifemate…" How to describe Glorioth in brief? "… is unstoppable once he has a goal." Literally. Unstoppable. You should see what he does to rock. If he forgets to ask about the details of the commission… oops? That can be a delightful surprise FOR LATER.

It was all automatic, not instinctual, but certainly ingrained in M'ti what to do when F'yr moves in and clasps his extended appendage: He returns the favor with the friendly warmth of a smile no less lacking in impact despite it's intent. Someone needs to tell that boy no teeth. Looking up to meet blue eyes with his hazel, a true mix of color thanks to his attire rather than leaning to one or another as they tended to do, the greenrider chuckles a bit, "Ah, s-somehow I doubt that…" he teases on the name before he can stop himself, thoughts moving too quickly into too many directions to line his ducks up in a row which might have allowed him to make some pretty vital connections. It's followed by round of laughter as he lets go of the man's wrist, "You don't know Cherith." With a truly lopsided grin, Matty's shoulders lift and drop again in a shrug, but he doesn't elaborate further, "I don't think it'd make much of a difference even if you did," comes with no small amount of amusement born from perhaps far too much experience in the matter. Challenges, after all, were part and parcel of being a dragonrider. As F'yr explains a perceived dynamic, the greenrider nods a few times with a thoughtful expression, "Well," he says in time, "We woodcrafters do get a bit attached to our work. It sounds like this homestead of yours was a place the man made his own, so I can definitely understand if he still has a deep enough connection to the place to show up and check in if he catches wind of any damage." M'ti will also definitely not mention the shaming guilt trip that would likely be attached to such a visitation. It's the blushing of the bronzeling's cheeks that births a pause, gaze skimming over handsome features before skittering away quickly with a soft sup of the fresh air surrounding them, and so focus is thrust upon the shattered post in his hands. "Mhmmm, yes…" is murmured in confirmation, pulling himself back to the here and now, and blushes instantly for the intense interest he finds coming at him from the other side, "High Reaches." Clearing his throat, returning the piece, "That's not necessary…" he breathes out, distractedly, a slight crinkle appearing between drawing brows, "…I can probably get you what you need." Shortly thereafter, his smile returns albeit more thinly then before, "But as far as the work goes? I'm afraid you'll either have to wait until I've completed my current project or do the repairs yourself…"

The bronzerider's smile goes a little lop-sided in answer to the tease. The word, on his lips, is F'ihr, as the word 'fear' might be pronounced were one to have an old Earth Scottish accent, truncated instead of given the full depth of 'ea' in the word fear. And yet, to the ear, it's certainly close enough. "If you can think of a way to make my name into another word that he hasn't already thought of," the great bronze jester in the sky, who would never approve of such a description of his EXCEPTIONALLY HEROIC self, "I'll owe you a drink. F'yrfully, F'yrociously, F'yrtively," he rattles off a few of the favored adaptations, "F'yrsome when he's particularly pleased with me." Thankfully, the bronze weyrling seems amused not annoyed. Helpful to those missed connections is the fact that the weyrling, in his work clothes, is not presently wearing his knot; he could be any young bronzerider. With three (four within the next turn) clutching golds at Xanadu, he could be from some past clutch still young in his ownership of the particular homestead in question. He could be anyone. Okay, no, he'd still be F'yr and that means that he's listening with what certainly could be described as an unnerving level of focus to what M'ti shares of his lifemate, the man's blue eyes on hazel and the face that surrounds them to take in expressions and body language in his periphery. "Maybe one day Glori and Cherith will come across one another and then we'll all get the experience firsthand." Dread the day. DREAD IT. Worse, probably, if a certain chaos-loving green happens to be present. "I'm sure you're right about having made this place his own. I wish things had happened differently as I'd hoped not to see any damage done to it, but that was probably overly optimistic. With the masterpiece I think it is, I wouldn't blame him for his attachment, I just don't want to deal with the consequences of it if I don't have to." Better that the woodcrafter never know. Their little secret, right? The blonde flashes a smile that implies it even if he doesn't ask for M'ti's discretion aloud. He looks down to the wood, "I don't mind making the trip and I wouldn't want to put upon you for the supplies. The labor I can manage. Building fences is a frequent task on a farm like the one I came from." He seems fairly sure of his abilities in that much. He steps closer to M'ti to put his hands on the wood the greenrider holds, though not touching the greenrider's own hands, examining it more closely as though watching M'ti's evaluation has given him a new way to look at it (even if he has no real idea what he's doing; fake it til you make it). "So how do I find this in High Reaches?"

It was true, M'ti had heard 'Fear' just as he heard 'Ruin' regardless of the connotations and pronunciation given and returned. He just went there without any sort of permission and really there's no apology for it, not when F'yr accepts so readily and launches off into a musing of his own and dragon's making. The greenrider laughs freely, "I don't drink, but if I do manage to come up with something worth mentioning…" He'd, uh, mention it? Yeah, something like that. With the awkwardness of sudden and unexpected meetings with a stranger in the woods over, M'ti appears to be relatively relaxed now, although there are spikes of this and that throughout. Whatever responses might occur do so with a swiftness that marks them as entirely genuine, decidedly lacking the generic politeness typical of those who choose to hide behind it, easily betraying M'ti as either the trusting and good natured sort or just plain naive to the darkness that awaits out there in the world. In hindsight? It's probably a bit of both. His initial wariness? Well, that doesn't appear to be much of an issue anymore. "It sounds as if you have a good relationship, though, you and your Glorioth." As it should be. "Mostly, I've learned to immediately redirect Cherith. Safer for everyone that way." Smiling as he might be as he says this, he keeps any clarification to himself, and surely that far brow edge on the right was twitching coincidently. His high flying lifemate, for she was riding the air currents high above their heads without much rhyme or reason other than it felt nice to have air beneath her wingsails, markedly does not fill in the wide gaps between what is known and unknown. Rest assured, however, she was all too aware as dragons tended to be but without her help M'ti remains painfully in the dark. A state that extends to sideways glances and quiet scrutiny on F'yr's end, the woodcrafter completely ignorant of it, their discussion blooming with the ease normally awarded to good friends. This, however, does not extend to the implied, and blushing considerably M'ti suddenly seems to be having some notable difficulty stringing thoughts together, "W-w-w-well, I…uh…uh…suppose that's…I mean…" All flustered out of the blue, this condition worsens seconds later as he turns red all the way up to his eartips, "Oh! Oh! I thought…mmmm…nevermind…what I…" Brows furrowed and waving a hand dismissively, "Yes, of course, surely…" If it were possible, the poor lad's eyes would have gone swirly as steam rose up over his head, and he presses his lips together quickly in order to keep any further misinterpretation at bay. Yes, silence is best young greenrider, that hole you've dug was deep enough by far. Leaping at the chance to recover what little dignity remained him, M'ti latches back onto his crumbling professionalism with both hands fiercely, he scrambles to piece it all back together even if it's haphazard, "I-It is yours now, you should be able to do what you want to it…" Losing ground and quickly at that, "…but I-I-I guess I can understand it from both sides." Eyes widening a touch, it was time to take a mental break when that smile appears, even if it's just to breathe and so Matty focuses on the wood in his hands, too frazzled of his own making to appreciate the man's expression for its true intent. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things. It wasn't as if all woodcrafters knew each other and what was the likelihood that they'd run into one another anyway? Nodding and honestly not even sure why for several heartbeats, which doesn't help, neither does that step forward and the sharing of a single broken rail between them. FWOSH, there it is. Hazel eyes lift, taking in features and lines far less discreetly than F'yr had, but within two drumbeats he yoinks his attention back down. Yeah, he's not really seeing what's in front of him anymore, warring emotion ripping across his face. "I know someone…" he blurts out, wincing for the abruptness of his own voice even if it was relatively quiet, stiffness finding his frame as awkwardness returns to rear its ugly head, "I mean, s-s-s-someone that can find the tree and bring it over. You j-just have to p-pay…" Lingering for a two count, shoulders are scrunched and Matty releases his hold of the railing piece so he can step back, leaving it soley in the bronzeling's hands, "It-it'll be easier than sending y-you up there to trounce around and…" Another hand wave and a nervous sounding laugh, hair in his face redirected back behind an ear. With that familiar gesture and distance reclaimed he seems to find his way back to some form of normalcy, though really all of that was just as normal for him given the right set of circumstances. A smile flashed, awkward not even beginning to cover it and yet still possessed of impact, the greenrider points upwards, "I can have Cherith contact Glorioth when its here in Xanandu…" See, it's fine. Everything is fine.

The shrug that lifts broad shoulders is an easy dismissal of the fact that M'ti doesn't drink. It makes no nevermind to F'yr. Drinks are currency to the young and apparently new variations of his name are worth paying for. If the greenrider's general relaxation is unusual for so new an acquaintance, F'yr is blissfully unaware, doing what he always does: taking a person as they come. His expression weighs the slighter man's words with a slight purse to his lips. He gives a slight side to side nod of his head that acknowledges the observation, though doesn't wholly agree. More or less, yes, a good relationship. The 'less' is elaborated in a tug to his lips that brings a smile of easy humor, "He's the damage and I'm the damage control. Redirecting isn't always an option, but so far he hasn't completely decimated the Weyr's herds and one of the golds only occasionally has to sit on him," figuratively. As opposed to all the time, which would plainly be worse. Neveremind that plenty of dragons live their whole life through without ever having to come directly under the individual commanding influence of a gold. "I hope you have more consistent luck in redirecting your Cherith." That's wry but genuine. F'yr wouldn't wish his struggles on anyone else, nor does he need to measure one to another. Each has their own and each is equally valid in his book. By contrast to the aware green, the bronze who is up there somewhere (please, still be up there and not murdering herdbeasts), is completely unaware because F'yr is only blathering on and it's not praise of him and therefore he has no real reason to pay attention. Some dragons, amirite? The mood subtly shifts on F'yr's end when M'ti becomes flustered. The big man stills, lips pressing together just slightly. Blue eyes steadily take in the trouble as it extends, the man's expression shifting to something quietly supportive, leaving room without haste or pressure for the greenrider to re-master himself. It's quite likely the blonde has no idea what triggered just that devolution into stammers and blushes, but he can guess easily enough that he had something to do with it, a foot put wrong? In his mouth maybe? He might review his words, but he must come up empty. In truth, F'yr might be bad news for the awkwardness for the exact reason that he has a non-typical reaction: it doesn't faze him at all. He's patient without making it seem significant, attentive when M'ti needs to take his time to get the words out, no trace of judgment in his expression for when the rhythm of the phrasing comes off in a way that's a little unusual by normal conversational standards. Unfortunately, too, for the greenrider, F'yr's support comes with the language of touch and though they don't know each other nearly well enough (not that F'yr knows that), while one hand is occupied holding that large piece of the balcony's rail, the other lets it go, trusting the weight to the flex of that one arm while the other reaches to briefly touch M'ti's bicep, just a light touch and then gone, something that's meant to assure him everything is fine, a gesture there to try to curtail the spin of anxiety. His smile is quite genuine when he redirects the conversation, saying, "I like trouncing around in the woods." Some people and their hobbies. "Time and willingness, I have. Marks…" He shrugs. "Farmer then gardener then assistant then Glorioth." It doesn't leave a lot in the way of high pay to save from. He'd really rather get it himself, apparently.

For M'ti, alcohol had never had a place in his life, gone from childhood to apprenticeship to weyrling and back again. He may now be free from the binds of obligation now, youth in no short supply, but any personal interest in picking up a mug of ale or glass of wine was lost to him ages ago. Not that it would be impossible to convince him to try it, should the right person insist, but the blanket appeal simply didn't exist for him. As far as the rest goes, yes the same, for the most part. This was new ground for the greenrider, even if F'yr didn't know it, and ridiculously the former was flailing about within it successfully up to a point, "That sounds, oddly and disturbingly familiar…" Matty's sigh is riddled with good humor if not weighted in the reality in which he lived and breathed, "Though Cherith is more the dangerous potential for damage then actual, you really wouldn't want her to exact even a fraction of what she thinks about daily…" There's a shudder for that, even if he tries to center it in a playful note, something about it still suggests he was doing Pern a great service by keeping his lifemate grounded. So to speak. Brows lift uniformly at mention of gold intervention, whistling low, "And that sounds like you've got your hands full…" As for his success personally? M'ti shrugs his shoulders some, his expression a strange mix difficult to discern, "Ehhhhh…no one's died?" Yet, is strongly implied there, but what can he say? Seems they both had their daily challenges to face, though he wasn't about to start making comparisons or give examples. Heck no, this wasn't the sort of thing that should be a competition! No one'd come out a winner. Speaking of losers, enter Matty's social awkwardness, already a detriment to everyday interactions and only amplified by the sometimes mind boggling mannerisms of the man with which he spends the majority of his free time. Misreading after misreading, contradiction accompany impulse, F'yr's attempts at being supportive and gentle just end up flustering the greenrider all the more. In a talespin, reeling, that single solitary touch to his arm is enough to bring a firm red shade to his face but hardly out of anger. There's a pause as their eyes meet before M'ti swallows hard, a second later guilt of all things spreads across his features and he pulls back despite the brief contact's end and remarkably unsoothed by that smile. Taking a beat, air exchanged and the world set back into pinpoint focus, he nods once, "Right." Business. All business was good, so was not making direct contact physically or otherwise, the greenrider soon rummaging around far too long within the satchel slung across his chest. Whatever it contained jangles and clanks, coming up with a scrap of paper and a pencil after a time. Breathing. Breathing. "This is what y-you want to l-look for…" Jotting down some very short but pointed notes on the general location and appearance of said desired tree, the color on Matty's face slowly starts to subside and is replaced entirely with the kind of gut-wrenching regret that could be nothing less than confusing.
The greenrider's admission of familiarity with F'yr's similar problem quirks a smile from the bronzerider, and a compliment of, "Good on you for managing the potential." If anyone knows how challenging it is, it's probably this man. He does not choose to elaborate on the nature of his own lifemate's ideas for likely similar reasons. His expression briefly tightens when the phrase 'no one's died' passes M'ti's lips, his eyes briefly dropping to the ground before returning to the Fortian's face. "My hands are always full," comes with a short laugh that's ha-ha-SOB (minus the actual sobbing), but the weyrling is, by now, well resigned to that fate. His gaze flicks briefly skyward and some touch of worry fleetingly manifests before he looks back to the woodcrafter again. With the increased degree of flustering, F'yr seems to sense yet another misstep in dealing with this man and his hand returns to his broken rail. See? No touching, his hands are right here. He's quiet while M'ti goes looking for the writing utensil and paper, watchful but not rushing whatever he's doing. There's an appreciative smile when the woodcrafter proceeds to jot down the necessary information. It's when he's nearly finished that F'yr's voice sounds in sudden low curse, "Shells." His eyes are skyward again. "I'm— I'm going to need go." And quickly, by the sounds of it. He holds out his hand for the paper, one hand meaning to clap over M'ti's briefly in gratitude. "Thank you. Really." But then the big bronzerider is taking his broken rail and hurrying to collect his tools before he's taking off into the woods at a jog to do his best to perform his routine role as damage control to whatever chaos F'yr's over-active lifemate has invented for himself this time.

M'ti wordlessly smiles, albeit thinly. Good on him for keeping people alive and not allowing randoms to be kidnapped and thrust into ornately constructed cells they had to figure out how to escape from one after the other? Yeah, okay. He won't press F'yr for details anymore than the bronzeling was him, attributed more to the fact that they'd only just met than out of any sense of personal propriety. That sort of thing usually only cropped up when people got to know one another better anyway, right? Matty couldn't say, trying not to let what he was feeling and experiencing himself to get in the way of what shreds if professionalism he hadn't already thrown out the window with his colored and stammering display. Really now. The reaction garnered by his omission is not lost on M'ti and is reason enough to reel himself purposefully back in, perceptive in some ways but severely lacking in other is he. Although admittance that the bronzeling's hands were always full brings a regretful "I bet…" to be muttered beneath his breath before he can stop himself and instantly there is a compounding wince, busying himself with digging around in his bag rather than let himself linger on his own social ineptitude. Among, other things. How had this gotten so far out of control so quickly? Paper and pencil in hand, scritching and scratching down pertinent information, the greenrider is already trying to forget every action and reaction while attempting to maintain the rest of their initial meet and greet, "Almost done…" he promises with a few more hasty notes, soon thrusting the paper and accepting that handshake. Short, sweet, and straight to the point, and not only because he understood the urgency to dragon tame. "I won't keep you, clear skies F'yr and good luck!" He won't hang around to watch the flurry of tool collection and leg movements, already taking his leave to get back to his original reason for being in the clearing to start with. Eventually he'll make his way back to camp and if he just so happens to throw his arms around Ru'ien and press his face hard enough into his chest to smother himself, so be it.

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