==== October 21st, 2013
==== Renalde, T'ral
==== The headman seeks an introduction to his son's new lifemate.

Who Renalde, T'ral
What The headman seeks an introduction to his son's new lifemate.
When Late Morning
Where Southern Weyr

renalde.jpg t-ral_nonplussed.jpg


Training Grounds
A broad and sheltered swoop of bowl lies bare for the talons and tread of countless weyrlings that-will-be, encased by stone scoured and scarred by those-that-were. Dirt lies as neatly as dirt can lie, swept and raked daily, at the mouth of the caverns that must indubitably be the weyrling barracks. Devoid of decoration, the place stands strangely absent of pressence when empty, the everpresent wind of Southern giving strange acoustics to those under the shelter of the towering bowl-wall.

Renalde has found his way to this far flung corner which isn't quite his domain, though it flirts on the hinges of it. More obviously he is inspecting a doorway which had been squeaking, less obviously, well, he may be waiting for someone.

Esanth is crouched, body tucked into a compact bundle, his muzzle poking out from between mantled wings. T'ral has one hand over his eyes and is walking away from the dragonet one slow measured step at a time, counting aloud. "…Three. Four. Five." He keeps his eyes covered, "Is this far enough?"

Renalde leans against the doorway he had just been inspecting, mostly hidden from the small dragon and the young man speaking to it. For the moment he does not call out, just watching for now.

T'ral snorts, teeth flashing in a grin and rueful shake of his head, and paces out three more long strides. "Six. Seven. Eight." He opens his mouth, about to say something and stops. Nodding. The dragonet's wings raise marginally. Rustling and scraping from under the wing-brella, Esanth scuttles in place, turning like a turret, to reorient himself. BOGEY IN OUR AIRSPACE. T'ral cocks his head and… listens. Then turns, eyes still closed, slowly, slowly, towards Renalde. He stops on a mark, as if at a command, squared up on the headman. "Full ahead, aye." T'ral puts an arm out low, guarding against anything close, he knows there's a wall coming up here soon, "I'm running out of runway, pal." He moves forward carefully, but at a good pace, and walks straight into Renalde. "Oof! Esanth! I'm sor- Uh. Hello." T'ral falls back a pace a mix of feelings flickering through his eyes.

Renalde held his peace all the way up to the moment when it became apparent that T'ral was about to walk into him. Arms are extended and hands take a strong grip on the young man's arms, helping keep him upright. Only after T'ral is back steady on his feet does the headman let his hands fall again, curling behind him. "T'ral. Will you introduce me to your friend?" Renalde nods to the small blue.

T’ral blinks. Friend. His eyes grow distant. Esanth sits on meaty blue gray haunches, drawing his head and neck back and up into a regal counter curve that manages to convey both skepticism and respect. Small wings snap smartly into place with a … wait. No, the left one didn’t fold correctly. Esanth swivels his head to inspect the malfunctioning limb. He cocks his head and growls. The wing stretches and refolds - properly this time - and Esanth resumes his expectant regard. T’ral nods at his father, eyes narrowing briefly with worry, he looks over at Esanth, who is now sitting up and awaiting the approach of visiting dignitaries. Not budging. “‘Friend’ is… it’s… too small a word.” T’ral makes a gesture for Renalde to join him as they cover the distance to Esanth. As they arrive under Esanth’s regard, T’ral takes up a position (at parade rest) perpendicular to and between the two. He draws himself up straight(er), “Father, this is Esanth.” A smile is mostly in his eyes as he looks back and forth between the two.

Renalde's steps are measured as they approach the young blue. He inclines his head just slightly to the baby. "Well met Esanth. I hope T'ral has been treating you well these first few sevendays." Though overly directed to the young blue, Renalde's eyes shift instead to his son, expecting him instead to answer the query.

Esanth’s head cocks this way and that, regarding the headman - an equal… he is uncertain - and gives a throaty blat. Affirmation? Though as the headman looks away, directing his question at T’ral, Esanth slooooowly angles his body away from the headman and flops his tail over his right rear foot. There’s a bandage there from when dragonet had blundered into a chair, gotten his foot woven into it in pursuit of Chorzeczoyth through the barracks. Again.

“Yes, Sir.” T’ral scratches his jaw, “Some mishaps. They assure me it’s normal.” His eyes flicker with worry and drop to Esanth’s foot and the tail, so conveniently placed. He snorts, but looks back at his father, a naked curious and expression on his face. He’s too well-trained to ask what his father thinks and heeds the training this day. Renalde will tell him or he won’t. At parade rest, arms clasped behind his back, he fiddles with the leather band.

"They are babies first, small dragons next. Accidents are to be expected. If I recall correctly you managed a few scrapes on your skin when young. " Renalde turns his attention back to the blue, eyes following the silver in the blue hide. His expression is reserved, fully that of the headman for one who lives within his scope of responsibility. If one was to look at the pair it would be hard to see the father son connection. "You are learning your new lessons well?"

“Ah.” With flicker of disappointment, T’ral fixes his eyes straight ahead and falls into the role of one of many in his father’s domain. “To the best of my ability, Sir.”

Silence bites into the moment, as Renalde continues to inspect the young dragon before him. Finally, he lets out a breath, one that perhaps neither had been aware he had been holding. He turns to his son, eyes meeting eyes. One elegant hand reaches out to grip T’ral’s shoulder just briefly, his grip strong but not meant to hurt. Then, his hand drops and Renalde turns back to the doorway. “Be well Tar, T’ral.”

At the touch, T’ral locks eyes with his father’s unfathomable regard. To T’ral, the eyes seem fixed in a formidable glower by decades of disappointment. But elegant, refined, intelligent. He should have been a Harper, T’ral muses. There’s tension in the arm, in the hand that grips his shoulder. Intensity. Import. T’ral opens his mouth, a sense of something stirring behind the glacial ice. Behind the mask. Before he is really sure what he’s glimsed, Renalde turns away. That sounds like goodbye. What’s going on in there? Esanth utters a low grinding croon. A sound T’ral has come to recognize as Esanth’s offer of comfort when his crew- er… clutchmates are hurting. The little blue’s eyes normally blue-green are shot with pale yellow. The young man moves closer to Esanth and puts a hand down to soothe the creased slate brow. Softly, “We will… Father.”

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