Highly Recommended

Xanadu Weyr - Weyrleaders' Office
Office and retreat, this is the domain of Xanadu's Weyrleaders. The door is in the southern wall, quite close to the western end while the northern wall is dominated by big, expansive windows, framed by sumptuous deep blue drapes edged with a brilliant gold braid and tied back with a thick rope of braided gold and blue cord. In between, the western wall is covered floor to ceiling with shelves that house all sorts of records, manuals and supplies that are used on a day-to-day basis.

The southern wall has the Weyrleader's desk — plain fellis wood, well polished and masculine. From behind his desk, the Weyrleader can look straight through the windows and out onto the main airspace of Xanadu. The eastern wall is where the Weyrwoman's desk resides: a lovely piece of furniture made of warm cherry wood. From her seat, a glance sideways gives her an equally good prospect out the window. There are a few other seats, some comfortably arranged around a low round table for small, informal meetings while there also some that can be drawn up to one of the desks.

On the west side of the door, the space is occupied by a low oblong table where refreshments can be set without someone needing to intrude. There is also an 'incoming' tray where incoming correspondence or similar items can be left.

Ierne is known for many things, but being traditional when it comes to structure is not even close to one of them. It might explain why the brown riding leathers of the man knocking on the door to the Weyrleader's office with a polite rap of knuckles on wood have seen better days. Doubtless, they've been maintained as well as they can, but the leather bears evidence of places where the sea air just did not agree with it enough to leave cracks in its wake threatening to tear, no matter the amount of oil rubbed in to try to deal with the damage. Tears, however, have been patched, and the brownrider has a clean-cut appearance otherwise, a solid picture of what a thirty-ish assistant weyrlingmaster ought to appear. Tucked under one arm is a leather folder that doubtless holds important papers as might be wanted in an interview sort of situation. Having knocked, M'tras rocks back on his heels, stepping slightly to the side such that he won't be uncomfortably close to anyone who might open that door. In the clearing, the currently Iernian brown is settled comfortably, but alertly, taking in the air traffic and the patterns of movement ongoing in this place that is Xath's proposed new home. If he's speaking to one or another of the greens that move in and out of the clearing, can he really be blamed? They're probably well-informed not just a little glowy.

Despite the summer sun without, it is a dripping wet R'hyn that approaches down the administrative hallway, the faint squeaking squelch of several pairs of boots preceding the small party at his flanks. Though he's talking, the weyrleader's voice is pitched low enough so as not to carry, less to keep the conversation private and more to keep from disturbing the hall's many occupants. Folders of his own collected from one assistant, swiftly thumbed through, and a full half get passed to the much taller man on his left with a rueful smile. Sorry not sorry. Quiet words, a laugh, and a clasping of shoulders exchanged, and only then does R'hyn turn to face the newcomer waiting just outside his door. Though there is little judgment for the state of M'tras's leathers, perhaps the kindness will not be returned; there is certainly much to make of the sliding splatter of wet that used to be snow down the front of metal-touched grey, namely the clipping of a childish flower pin to one lapel, and the replacement of a more formal zipper with what looks suspiciously like Pern's idea of a paperclip. "Good afternoon," accompanies the offering of a handshake, fingers cold and bare but at least dry as he takes himself back out of M'tras's personal space with as much speed as he entered it, unhurried but unwilling to linger, either. "My apologies, I intended to be here earlier, but there was a bit of a snow squall up north." They had to leave slowly for safety's sake, there for the brownrider to interpret if he will. "Come in." The office is slow to warm in the absence of its typical humanity; though homey touches exist, someone's been along to straighten them into formality, lights straining slow to gain adequate illumination. The room is almost respectable - time to ruin it. Fwap go folders onto one seat, fwump goes his flight jacket on the back of another, open chairs surrounding the low table gestured to with a nod, assuming M'tras has followed him in. "Have a seat." He'll choose one of his own, posture relaxed without traipsing into laziness, foot coming up to rest on one knee, hands folding into lap, gaze fastening on the for-now-Iernian rider, expectant.

A certain taller rider has, surely, become used to the propensity for large stacks of a number of someone's paperwork for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that it's his job, and one he does with enough competence to have warranted being given such stacks, even if some is surely destined to be filed where it will never again be found. The return of words comes with a lop-sided smile and soft chuckle before he's taking himself off with whatever duties he's just been handed into one of the other offices along the hall. There may, even, have been a promise to see that a hot resupply of the standard drinks and snacks were sent along (or a meal if one might have been missed; he's good like that). The approaching strangers with their quiet exchange do draw M'tras' eye, but that dark gaze only lingers because the size of the knot on R'hyn's shoulder is distinct and tell-tale that this is the man he's come to see. It makes him adjust, shifting to the side of the door so he's out of the way and rolling his shoulders just slightly into something more resembling attention. Given the dripping approach, perhaps he can be forgiven for not saluting. There isn't judgement in his face, though, in fact, it's just… unreadable. Maybe someone who knew him would find meaning in the stoic look, but seeing as how that definition does not fit the bronzerider, it's anyone's guess what, if anything, is going on inside the man's head. His eyes drop to the flower pin and back to R'hyn's face, hand extended in turn to clasp with the the man he would like to call his Weyrleader (along with the rest of the Weyr). He'll call him that now, in fact, "Weyrleader." It's greeting with a distinct respect for the title even if whether or not that respect will be for the man who fills it is rather more elusive given the road to that is only just unfolding before them. Rather than commenting on the man's tardiness or his wetness, what is offered as he follows the older man in is a polite but also apparently genuine, "Thank you for taking the time to consider my request." His jacket is already open in deference to the heat of Xanadu's summer, and he shrugs out of it once they're in the office, the grey shirt beneath suitably professional, if with a more functional look to the pockets and small loops flat on its front; this item is markedly newer than the rest, but maybe that denotes that effort has been made here, to put forth a bid for a good first impression. It's possible that the reason M'tras doesn't comment on the northern squall is because he sees nothing that needs his opinion there, especially since taking care in a storm would presumably be the choice of any man with two eyes who would apply for the position of assistant weyrlingmaster. His eyes track to the folders, the jacket, then with an efficient movement long-practiced, his flips into a single vertical fold and tucks it on the back of the chair he then settles into, folder coming to balance on his thigh. With the expectant gaze turned on him, his jaw shifts just slightly, almost like he'd more naturally wait for R'hyn to lead the way, but after a moment, a shift, he starts. "Is it correct to assume Weyrlingmaster C'con spoke to you about my request?" Certainly, M'tras was the one to submit the write up of his history in brief with the request for a meeting to discuss the transfer and knot, but not before he spoke to Xanadu's head trainee-wrangler.

The lack of salute is noted with relief, more than anything; the use of R'hyn's title is more than enough, enough to have lips twitching up at their corners in expression of fleeting amusement and acknowledgment, but no attempt to decline its use. Not now. Not yet. "Of course," is what comes instead, meaning no less genuine for its professionalism as he adds, "with eggs on the sands, and candidates in the barracks, you couldn't have picked a better time to request a transfer." Shoulderblades meet seatback, blue-grey eyes attentively fixed as the brownrider picks his seat and settles into it, missing little, making meaning out of scraps of information that might otherwise be inconsequential. Whatever he finds, it loosens his posture just enough to find his foot bouncing, a one-two-three beat before it's swung down to the floor. "It is," accompanies further movement, elbows finding thighs, hands left to press together between knees, as if M'tras's acquiescence to fold first, to offer inquiry into the pervasiveness of R'hyn's silence was his cue to engage. "I am told by him that you come highly recommended." A beat, a play of something that passes as amusement over the weyrleader's features. "Which would probably make you the only one of us to come with commendations, but nevertheless. An assistant weyrlingmaster request out of Ierne would have caught my attention, even if that had not." It's an opening to discuss the whys and whynots of that particular happenstance should M'tras be so inclined, but not, perhaps, an expectation this time, given the uptick of brows, and the relative immediacy of the, "And yet, all of that in mind, why you?" Ah, the most favored of interview questions, the request to justify one's own existence, followed by the red-ribbon winner of, "Why Xanadu?" Of all the gin joints in all the world, why this one? At least one might take comfort in the fact that - by all appearances - R'hyn is actually invested in the answer, gaze attentive without traipsing into the outright weird. Maybe. Something something, the eye of the beholder.

"Highly," Rau returns, the edges of his lips twitching in a way suggestive of a smirk that does not make an appearance, despite the dry edge to his deep voice, "may be overstating things. Perhaps having them, in this case, is enough to warrant the term." He won't really quibble over being made to sound better than he apparently views himself. "Time may also soften memory." This is offered with an underlying sobriety, though there is a touch of humor to the words as well. "I've been in Ierne for the past four or so turns-" and there he hesitates, dark eyes skipping away from what had been consistent eye-contact before that moment. It's not a lie he's concocting - that would be faster to come to his lips, wouldn't it? This is, instead, an unfortunate wound brushed by the whole nature of this experience, an almost imperceptible flinch in his face, and a fleeting downturn at the edge of his lips in that pause offer depth of feeling to what presented dryly on the paper previously provided - his reason for having left Telgar and the job of assistant weyrlingmaster to begin with. He continues, evenly in spite of it, "-frankly trying to get my head on straight after we lost weyrlings." It happens. His eyes touch R'hyn, then the floor before he shifts and brings his eyes back to the Weyrleader who has the details in brief already, not offering them now, easier to leave it to the realm of written words. "I can see why a request from Ierne might be notable," but the tilt of M'tras' head invites, rather than requires, R'hyn to expound upon his personal reasons beyond the obvious of just where Ierne dragons are hatched and begun. The brownrider's hand, resting on his thigh opens, and closes into a fist, a gesture of trying to grasp at something unseen, and maybe he gets it, or the tail of it because he does answer after a moment. "Xath and I… we tried all the wings at Telgar. Nothing-" He hesitates again, the fleeting look this time wry, "-calls to us the way training does," the very slight shrug invites R'hyn to make of that what he will, "But in that it calls us, we work hard at it and were good at what we did." Hence, of course, the references. "Xanadu is not Telgar." This is obvious, of course. "More importantly, to me, it isn't like Telgar. I've spent some time speaking to your people," who exactly, he doesn't name, "watching how this world-" one hand lifts to articulate in a gesture that rounds, indicating a whole, "-flows." Whatever that means. "I can't say it won't be an adjustment for me," because who could say that and be truthful? "But it's a place I'd like to be part of, if you'll have me." That is the question they're here to answer, of course.

That might have been the joke, the return of that tempered smile implies - that having them at all makes him more qualified than even the weyrleader, where the written esteem of others is concerned. But the brownrider doesn't know him, has only his reputation to go off at best, nothing at worst, and so it doesn't bear pointing out. It doesn't mean he doesn't laugh for the notion that time heals all wounds, or at the very least, lets people forget why they misliked you, eyes scrunching at the corners along with a grin that lingers well past the brevity of his chuckle. "That it does," is solid agreement, but it's all he offers, silence descending as M'tras goes about explaining himself. It's a nod that meets that swift eye contact, encouragement, understanding, appreciation, somehow encapulated in just one gesture. There is no press for more details - details he has but that hit different coming from the source, where those subtle tics and tells can inform R'hyn of so much that written words lack. It's one thing to pen remorse, resolve, and another to feel it, to show it, to be it. The display - however minor - eases the weyrleader's reserve in some unspoken way, has shoulders dropping out of formal tension, finds lips dropping from their polite poise into a sympathetic purse. He doesn't respond to that invitation to expound on his surprise about Ierne (the answer is exactly that they have no sands, bear no clutches), instead issuing a thoughtful sound in response to these reasons why. "Admirable," explained with, "I've met many a person that has denied their calling, for worse reasons." Than legitimate, justifiable loss. "But you're correct, this isn't Telgar. We don't play by the same rules, don't observe the same restrictions. We are careful, but we are not cloistering." A beat, a slight tip of his head, a continuing of that friendly, even tone, despite what meaning might be taken from his words. "I am sure C'con told you of our rules for candidacy and weyrlinghood," along with a heaping helping of everything else, "but I feel it's important for anyone presuming to help raise our youth to understand that." It might not be a democracy, but it's not an autocracy, either. "They'll have every hardass from Rubicon to Ressac up their rear ends about the quality of their salute, but at the end of the day, they are young." Or at least, younger than the both of them, even the oldest of human halves made younger by their potential pairings. "And they are going to need you, both to inform them of their boundaries, and to remind them that they have none." To guide them through the functionality, but also things that matter. "Is that something you feel equipped to take on?" It's an honest question, and is phrased as such, not a demand, not an assertion or colored by any presumptions, but an acknowledgment that M'tras has not had it easy, and would not be to blame if - by teaching or by circumstance - the answer was anything but clear.

The purse of M'tras' lips disagrees with the choice of word: admirable. "Unavoidable," he counters, as if bargaining down his own value to what he finds reasonable. Of course, when a person wants not a job or a knot, but a home, a fit that won't chafe, being honest seems the safest course. The explanation comes slowly but without having to be asked for, "When you grow into yourself surrounded by those who help you even when help is the last thing you want to accept, it… has a way of getting into you that you owe something to someone, maybe to anyone you can help, to do so." Altruism. It's not quite explained that way and maybe there's nuance here that is not wholly selfless in motivation, but it's reasonable, given he was fourteen at impression. Doubtless he had many willing "helpers" and probably some that were less than qualified. For his own qualifications, he draws a slow breath, not too quick to answer. "I trust that C'con and the other assistants among others I meet can help me adjust my cultural expectations to suit." He's willing, certainly. "I grew up with Telgar's strictures," such as they were, "and have lived the last four turns in Ierne's freedoms," extensive as they were. "I don't expect Xanadu to be a happy medium, but I do see the promise of something that… fits." That last is for lack of a better word. The way his eyes come back to R'hyn's gives the Weyrleader the opportunity to read in the deep dark of them a resolve that shows nowhere else but the set of his jaw. "I'd like the chance to try." To try to do right by the up and comers of Xanadu, by the world that is built by many but guided by this man's hand.

R'hyn's shoulders roll for the correction, perhaps the type of human used to hearing such corrections, used to making them himself. 'Call it what you want,' that gesture says, 'but it is what it is.' Eyes, beholder, et cetera, the explanation thereof not nearly as important as the one being offered, one that R'hyn hears out with that selfsame attentive focus. Though features are hard to read, parked on the casual side of inscruitable, the answer satisfies him. One hand extends, flat, fingers barely tilted in such a way that it is clearly a request for the folder still perched in the brownrider's lap. It is paged through upon receipt, but judging from the fast flick of eyes, the too-quick paging through contents, it is more to be sure things are in order than to actually read them, to judge the contents of every page. Well. Almost. A series of words catches his gaze, the resultant smile pulling at lips despite a very real effort to keep it at bay, but the folder is flicked shut before mirth becomes outright laughter. "Good," is tinged with amusement nonetheless, blue-grey eyes dancing by the time they focus on M'tras's face again. C'mon, R'hyn, get it together. "I think there's something to be said for learning multiple walks of life, and bringing that to the table. Nothing speaks like experience… or is that deeds?" He hums under his breath with another shrug, this one distracted as the bronzerider finds his feet, walking to his desk where neat stacks of files are kept in organized disarray. The folder of recommendations goes into one with a spoken, "C'con wished for these to be documented, you can speak with him to claim them when he's through," and a pair of pages are extracted in return, one folded and sealed with an elaborate rendition of Xanadu's symbol in wax, the other very apparently lacking any such official ornaments. "For the Weyrlord, or whoever might need it," said as the weyrleader resumes his seat, stamped letter pushed over the low table separating them. "And for your records," of the second, which he is welcome to slide open to reveal an officially-scripted and signed transfer approval, indication of how to go about arranging his move with the weyr, and a welcome made less generic by R'hyn's spoken, "I'd like you to have the chance, too." Had apparently decided that well before the once and future assistant weyrlingmaster even entered his office, based off the presence of official documents and the enigmatic amusement of his smile, but listen. Some things just need confirmation. "Do you have questions for me?" Because listen, he's been doing a lot of answering; perhaps the shoe should be on the other foot for a change.

The folder is handed over without complaint; it's why it was brought, after all. M'tras remains impressively impassive, himself, as R'hyn flips through the pages and maybe his eyes catch which of his recommendations drew the smile. More impressive that he manages to remain neutral in the face of that. Actually, one might call the look he wears exceptionally bland to an almost comic degree. It's not going to help keeping that laughter at bay, but it doesn't aim to make it worse, either. "If nothing else, it lets a man speak with authority about what not to do." That is probably a joke, given that Rau's lower lip tugs slightly into the ghost of the smirk that still does not really manifest. But now is not the moment for war stories, even if the look in his dark eyes promises getting a beer with this man might just result in an evening's entertainment worth having. He tracks the Weyrleader as he moves, but doesn't leave his seat, waiting to accept the documents handed to him, but handling them like they are precious; they are, after all, the key to the door that opens to a new chapter of his life. Amusement does show in his face because R'hyn is so well prepared. "Thank you, Weyrleader R'hyn," he offers with sincerity as the humor is swallowed by something shy of solemnity, but serious all the same. The papers are fingered ever so slightly. "Nothing that suits a formal meeting," he replies after a moment, inclining his head slightly. It might be enough to make a person wonder though. The papers tap one thigh and he lifts them slightly. "I'm eager to get these into the hands that need them." Then he will slip a finger into the second and open it to let his eyes rove over the contents with the kind of hunger that probably makes this choice a promising one: he's a man who wants to be here, and those sorts tend do have a vested interest in doing their jobs well enough to stay.

Alas that R'hyn is too tactful to actually comment, but the sheer and utter blandness of the brownrider's features are enough to earn a look that catches and holds, that says I know you know I saw that and promises much of the same - that another time, another place, he would be indulging in comments of a ridiculous nature… But for now, he chooses the high road and lets that go with a slow, slow drag of his eyes down to the acceptance papers that are being so carefully handled. "Yes," perhaps comes a bit more droll than he'd like it to be, not trusting himself to any further syllables for the moment, lest they begin to quake and wobble with the telltale signs of 'laughing one's ass off on the inside'. His throat clears, and finally, "Yes, I suppose some lessons can only be learned the hard way," emerges without much in the way of hiccups. This is fine. Perfectly normal. As perfectly normal as, "And you are welcome, Assistant Weyrlingmaster M'tras." A beat. A gentle tensing of the space around his eyes. "Unfair. It doesn't sound as sassy, with so many syllables." That sigh is put-upon, but the playful moue does not linger long. Curiosity surges in its wake, brows lifting for the notion that there are informal questions that need asking, stormcloud eyes lifting to catch and hold. Alas. If R'hyn indulged in every mystery that passed under his nose with immediacy, he'd never get anything done. "Very well," is issued instead of questions or demands, blue-grey gaze sweeping the brownrider's features. It means he notices nuanced changes as amusement shifts to sobriety, and sobriety shifts to something close enough to ambition that, "I'm glad to hear it. We're eager to get you settled in," feels appropriate to say. Alas, that its admittance heralds the end of their discussion, perhaps the end of their time together as a whole, for now. Though R'hyn doesn't stand, there's a ring of finality, of dismissal in his words as previously-abandoned folders and pulled to his person. Clearly, the weyrleader intends to settle in with his work right here, rather than taking up any kind of formal station behind his desk. "If there's anything you need in the meantime, or if you change your mind," about the questions, the job, or otherwise, "my door is open."

M'tras' head tips ever so slightly, only half hiding the smirk that is really, actually there in the wake of the sigh, the highlight of life's egregious unfairness. "Just one of the perks," is so low a murmur in that deep voice that it's clearly done that way because that's how the delivery is funniest. Try not to laugh now, Mr. Professional Weyrleader-man. He does then ask as his face comes back up, not quite as rocked back in his seat as he was the moment prior. His eyes are not exactly bright, but they lack some of the layers of tension that might not have been recognized for what they were until this moment when they are gone. He rises to his feet with the agile flex of a man well in command of his body, self-possession that lacks in ego as an obvious source for this quiet confidence showing in his stance. He pauses once he's on his feet, just enough to imply the respect of a salute, but, again, does not offer one. He does pick up his jacket, folding it over an arm and still holding the papers carefully, he turns away from the soggy bronzerider. It's only once he's at the door that he pauses, twisting back. "In less formal settings," which is left obviously, intentionally vague, "do you prefer R'hyn?" Perhaps he's heard a rumor.

No laughter. On the contrary, it's R'hyn's turn to wear the look of unfathomable unamusement, brows low, eyes dull, lips pushed into a narrow line. HA HA, YOU ARE SO HILARIOUS, SIR, NOW GET OUT OF MY OFFICE, that look says, while the what the bronzerider actually says is, "Perks. Is that what they're calling it now?" A tug of amusement at one corner of his lips makes sure to communicate he's joking, aware as ever that this man does not know him, nor his sense of humor. It resumes its former professional plasticity as M'tras finds his feet, eyes lifting to mark the brownrider's rise, chin tipping in a nod in recognition of the salute-that-is-not-one. R'hyn likewise forgoes the entrapments of formality, remains seated rather than standing and offering a further shaking of hands, M'tras's answer clear in posture and lack of procedural observations long before words come his way. "In all settings, I prefer R'hyn," follows a lengthy look of consideration, shoulders reclining back against his chair again. "Followed by weyrleader and sir, in that order." Why that order is anyone's guess, but even a man as open of a book as R'hyn is allowed to create a few mysteries to shroud himself in. He certainly doesn't look like he's about to explain, the pause that follows marked only with another uptick of brows, as though to say, 'anything else?'

"Understood," carries just enough humor to cover it all. Yeah, yeah, R'hyn's the only one allowed to be funny here, obviously. It is his stage office, after all. There is, however, something in M'tras' demeanor that might be hard to pinpoint (the inclination of his head, the tilt of his chin, the placement of his shoulders? Just something) that carries a modicum of genuine appreciation for the response. The folded edge of the papers touches to his chest very briefly as he offers, in turn, "Rau. M'tras. Assistant Weyrlingmaster." Beat. "Unless you're inclined to trade your knot for a weyrling's, in which case," kiss my -… "Sir," but there's so much humor knotted up in that last word, there's a story there from the man who began his work in this field as a 'junior assistant' for a few turns while he was still growing up so maybe it's' the kind of story that can be guessed without being told. More genuinely and quieter, though he said it before, "Thank you," the papers are flicked in the air in evidence, and then Rau is gone, leaving R'hyn to be the funniest man in the room. All alone. Unless his large assistant (or one of the smaller ones) happens to take pity on his forlorn audienceless state and arrive to give him competition enjoy his company do some work for once?? speak with him.

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