==== October 2nd, 2013
==== Bailey, Renalde
==== A chance meeting has to old companions talking about the merits of new situations.

Who Bailey, Renalde
What A chance meeting has two old companions talking about the merits of new situations.
When There is 1 turn 1 month and 0 days until the 12th pass.
Where Leadership Courtyard

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Leadership Courtyard
Nigh palatial, this gorgeous sweep of cultivated bowl: a courtyard proper, a fountain bubbles in the middle of a grove of orange-trees, next to a stone bench that has weathered many a turn. Rare metal stands out at the sweep of steps upwards to the landings of queens'-weyrs and other administrative personnel; handrails to prevent… mishaps, and sparse doors of spiraled cast-iron to lock out any vagrants.

Bright and sunny slowly drifts into colourful and shadowy, especially in this more protected nook of the weyr. Renalde strolls through the area, his feet taking him elsewhere in the weyr. As he passes by the fountain an out of place leaf catches his eye and he pauses momentarily to fish it out of the water, closing it in his hands to bear away when he goes.

It is the loveliest part of the day, to some; where blues and greens appear so very vivid, deep and fathomless amongst the shadows. Bailey maneuvers the iron-guarded steps from the last landing of the leadership ledges, long legs carrying her to the bowl in ground-eating but unhurried steps. Grey gaze glances about, catching the form of the Headman, and she corrects her course to veer in his direction, her groundeating amble delivering her to his vicinity promptly. "Renalde," she greets, her Benden-accented alto relaxed in the fashion that one eases into after a long day of work.

Renalde looks up from his examination of the fountain to watch the last few steps of the weyrwoman's approach. "Weyrwoman Bailey," Renalde greets with a slight incline of his head to the woman and a faint smile. "How are you on this beautiful evening?" The offending wet leaf drips and the man holds it out to shake the water off of it and prevent further mess.

"I am fine, Headman, many thanks for the asking. It is lovely, isn't it?" Bailey comes to a halt, casually brushing up against the fountain, hitching one hip slightly against the lip. Her eyes fall to his leaf and she smiles briefly. "Out catching errant leaves?" serves as her response, "Or did it offend the aesthetic of the hour?"

The last drop is cast from the and Renalde tugs out a handkerchief in which the leaf is deposited into, then tucked back into a pocket. Only when this is done does the Headman respond to the woman's question. "Fix it now, or fix it later." The phrase is said with the quiet tone of a phrase that is oft repeated, and accompanied with the same small smile.

Bailey watches the precise movements of the headman with an absent appreciation. "Faranth only knows it will require twice the effort to fix it then rather than now," she quips lightly, affecting a higher lilt to her voice than is often in there — as if she is, perhaps, making a slight jest at someone of mutual acquaintance. "I've heard they've made progress with the bone room," as many have taken to calling the cavern unearthed packed with bones of herdbeasts long dead.

Her quick response has the small smile broadening till it could almost be called a grin. "Yes, and it does help that the bones were not human this time. The workers seem to have a particular aversion to where they might be ill will waiting." One eyebrow is upraised as the man says this, "and, of course, they'll not believe there is nothing to fear from the dead."

Bailey matches Renalde's wider expression with one of her own: this one, the humor touches her eyes, changing her face subtly — and simultaneously vastly — different from the goldrider's typical sarcastic smirk. "A superstitious lot," she agrees. "Still," her voice turns contemplative in an inward fashion, as if considering an idea newly-wrought, "I find the population here… refreshing, in some ways. Hardy. Those that work, that is," commiserating the last with a flickered roll of dove-grey eyes.

"Hum," Renalde murmers, his gaze moving from the face of the weyrwoman to rest in the horizon where the sun makes its final move beyond the horizon, the shadows deepening without the direct light to cast the contrast. "Yes. Many have been drawn by the allure of an easy life, only to be disappointed by the amount of work required of them. I am… however… pleasantly surprised by the performance of particular candidates.

Bailey allows fair-ruddy 'brows to cast aloft, arching in question. "Oh? Are there particular ones that… would have seemed predisposed to slack?" The way her lips twist in amusement as the question is delivered seems to indicate she's perhaps answered her own question. Her eyes draw too, eventually, to the violet-touched sunset peeking into the weyrbowl over the near western weyrwall.

Humor glints in Renalde's eyes, small winkles appearing at the edges to highlight the emotion. "I find myself hopeful that this will be the direction that they need to find…. stability."

A wistful glint overtakes Bailey's expression. "There is certain irony in that statement." She shakes her head, red curls shifting over one shoulder with the motion, a spill of sanguine silk in the growing dark. "Stability in risking one's life against Thread." A topic that looms pre-eminent as the days tick closer, ever-closer… if one is to believe what the oldtimers foretold, what the starcrafters decree.

"Aye." Quiet shifts onto the conversation as Renalde folds his hands behind him, straightening up. After a few moments of silence the man shakes his head. "What is a weyr else, if not the home many search for?"

"Now you are just trying to play with words," Bailey protests in a vein of sudden levity. "Isn't the weyr the one supposed to be on Search?" Amusement smoothes from her brow after a moment, however, and a thoughtful furrow replaces it. "Weyrs are where all the ones who don't quite-fit-in end up, in a sense."

"On search for the quirks which will protect our world from the coming scourge." There is no hint of levity in the headman's voice as he says this, simply a wery sigh. "But if we did not accept them, who would?" Though phrased as a question, the Headman does not seem to wish an answer from the woman as he continues to speak, his eyes moving to rest upon the readhead. "My dear, even for a weyr, this place is much different from the North… dead bodies to one side."

Bailey has only silence for Renalde's commentary — until the end, when she nods, thoughtfully. "It is without needing words to be said," the young woman slowly states, "That I never perhaps fully… wholly fit, myself. In Northerly latitudes." She tilts her chin and therefore her face skywards, eyes closed, as if she can sense the last rays of Rukbat better than see them. "In some regards it is refreshing, here."

"Refreshing." Renalde rolls the word around his mouth, a certain hint if irony clinging to his utterance. "Perhaps it is the air, or water." What the man means by this is left unexplained as he unfolds his hands from before him. "Are you happy here my dear? Among all which is new?" Blue eyes rest upon the woman awaiting her answer.

"Refreshing." Bailey is bold enough to shift, willing wholly to catch Renalde's eye for the affirmation. "It isn't that I hate what I was born into." A pause. "Well. Perhaps what I was born into." Renalde would be one of the few to know of the absolute wretches of poverty in which she was raised, the squalor and extremity of a small northern Benden cothold. "But here…" Her smile is soft, and her answer candid. "Yes, Ren. I never thought I would be, exactly, but here… I am happy. Among all which is new."

"A little strange is a small price to pay for such happiness." There is understanding in the warm smile that spreads onto Renalde's face. "There is still much to be finished tonight. As always, my doorway stands open if you require anything my dear."

Maybe there was a little doubt — a little insecurity, that only a tiny, TINY handful of people would ever catch Bailey exhibiting symptoms of. That was until those words, and Bailey's smile blossoms forth like a teenager catching approval from a favored peer, or perhaps that really young and hunky english comp professor. Teaching assistant. Whatever. It's a beautiful smile. "Thank you, Headman." Her lilting voice is teasing, a tad. "If you need anyone eaten, Khalyssrielth's mentioned she's feeling a touch peckish." She inclines her chin in a deep nod. "Good night, Renalde." Then she's back to her original course, moving with swift purpose towards the hatching caverns.

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