==== December 20th, 2013
==== Renalde, T'ral
==== Renalde comes 'round to check on T'ral.

Who Renalde, T'ral
What Renalde comes 'round to check on T'ral.
When There are 0 turns, 5 months and 3 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

renalde_icon.jpg t-ral_intent.jpg


Ground Weyrs
Neatly ordered are a series of ground-weyrs, each generic and functional rather than ornate. The caverns are unevenly staggered in a variety of sizes: some so small as to be a snug fit for the smallest of nowtimer greens, while others are roomy enough to fit two oldtimer queens. Each ground-weyr is fitted with a reed-strewn couch and a cozy nook with a bed and clothespress.

Studiously absent from anywhere near the infirmary has been the Southern Headman. While Nora had spent her days since the shocking fall over Keroon caring for the injured Renalde had continued to run the lower caverns. Meals were delivered promptly, and everything sparkles from his focused and minute attention. But there is only so long the man can stay away. Renalde picks his way through the ground weyrs, already knowing where he is heading- towards a medium sized blue dragon. His hands are folded precisely behind his back and there is no wavering in his step.

Esanth is the first thing Renalde can see on entering the ground weyr. His normally blue gray hide is grayer. Dull. The little blue is sitting, peering towards the infirmary, eyes yellow-gray. The only reaction Esanth gives to Renalde entering beyond looking at him is a twitch of his tail. T'ral is seated on a bench in the sparsely furnished groundweyr. He's stripped to the waist, an array of jars and bowls and rolls of gauze spread out in front of him. Eyes haggard, he's peering down at his chest, dabbing numbweed onto the long score that twists along his ribs and onto his belly. Esanth gives him a heads up and T'ral stands to greet the formidable Headman. "Father," he says, putting the paddle aside.

"T'ral." Renalde comes to a full stop, several paces away from the young man and his dragon. "You look less then well." That utter understatement uttered, Renalde moves briskly on. "How are you healing Tar… T'ral?"

Greeting offered, he sits back down and resumes applying the numbweed. "We are less than well." He catches the slip on his name and eyes flick up, "Fine, Sir. It's minor. No infection." He runs a hand through his hair, an automatic gesture, and grimaces. Now he's gotta scrub up again. He does so, his hands are dry and red-tinged from all the scrubbing. He's not yet got the hang of preventative hygeiene, so he's been scrubbing up. A lot. Patting hands dry on a towel, the fun part begins. Bandaging. He clips a length of gauze free from the roll and presses it along the length of the score. The gummy numbweed holds it more-or-less in place and T'ral starts the awkward process of winding the gauze around his chest. Prymelia made it look easy. But then, she wasn't wrapping herself, either. Esanth rumbles, shifting, agitated, eyes fixed towards the dragon infirmary. "I know. Just give me a minute." T'ral sounds very tired. "Caverns seem to be running well." A question?

"That is good. I have heard that Cerise's Jiamoth is injured quite badly." A statement? An invitation for T'ral to expand? Whatever it is, Renalde does not particulary make it clear. "Yes, the lower caverns have risen to the occasion. Everyone has risen to the occasion with little adjustment." For once, Renalde's perfect posture is a bit off kilter, and his eyes follow T'ral's hands as he works to place the gauze upon himself.

Esanth croons hoarsely. T'ral's hands pause in his work. "She is." He resumes winding bandanges. If Renalde wanted to know more than that, he could ask Cerise. It was Cerise's business. Hers to share. It seemed unlikely that Renalde would ask the greenrider. The ambivalence his father bore to the oldtime traders was practically an item of record. And the feelings were mutual. He nods at Renalde's report of the Caverns, a fond smile twitching as his hands fumble with tying off the bandages. This was the hard bit. He looks up at Renalde, eyes flicking up and down, noting something off. "What?" T'ral looks back down and fumbles some more, dropping the ends of his bandage, the whole lot of it uncoiling. Esanth croons anxously. T'ral sets his jaw and begins winding the bandage back up to a point where he can wrap it back up again. At least it's cut to the right length now. Next go would be a little less tricky.

Unrolling the bandages stop just short of Renalde's very clean foot. He doesn't hesitate this time, but reaches down to swiftly reroll the bandages. This brings him the last few steps to stand right before his son, Esanth standing behind them now. Without words he offers the bandages back to T'ral, the words on the tip of his tongue not yet becoming realized.

"Thanks. Put it there." He gestures to the table with his chin. He'd been warned sternly and often about the risks of infection. Dropping the roll meant he had to cut a new one. He flexes his hands, studying them. A light tremble. He balls his hands into fists and then, sighing, begins to wrap again. He's still waiting on those words as he begins winding the bandages again.

T'ral will simply have to keep wating for whatever Renalde had been on the verge of saying. With an obvious switch of topic, Renalde offers, "Would you like some help?"

T'ral nods, "At then end, when I have to tie off, yes." Winding the bandages in silence. Winding. Winding. There. He indicates to Renalde with a gesture where and how to place his fingers.

Renalde's fingers reach out to hold the bandages, applying just the perfect pressure to them. The silence between the two of them stretches, as Renalde stands silent as stone waiting for T'ral to finish.

Which T'ral does. The ends are tied and tucked and shifting this way and that to test the fit. Seems okay. Not as good as when Prymelia does it, but good enough. He had to get back to work. He gets up to collect his work clothes -no different from his weyrling uniform except sacrificed to stains and tears. Back to Renalde, he carefully shrugs the shirt on, buttoning it, head down. He repeats, a little more demand in the query than before, "What."

Nope, today will not be the day. Renalde steps back and away from T'ral. "Let someone know if you need some extra support when you and Esanth return to your own weyr. There are many in the caverns who would drop anything to run any errand. They know they have have my full blessing to do so long as the rider in question is injured." His hands have folded firmly behind his back again, his posture erect. Whatever words he had been about to say are lost.

T'ral nods, back still turned, and finishes buttoning his shirt. He turns around, eyes taking his father in and noting the restored posture. "Thanks. I will." He walks forward, hand extended, "Thanks for coming by."

Renalde reaches out a hand and grasps T'ral's in a firm grip. "They said you did well, T'ral," the headman says, his voice dropping low. "Keep coming back."

T'ral's brow furrows. Who said? Why was anyone talking to Renalde about him? Why was anyone talking about him at all. He hadn't done anything beyond what was expected. He gives Renalde's hand a squeeze and drops it, "That's the aim, Sir."

Words are left upon the floor, the ones T'ral wants Renalde to speak, and the ones that seem to catch in Renalde's throat though more than evident in his heart. Turning, Renalde begins to make his way back to solid footing, away from the pain and discomfort of the ground weyrs.

T'ral has more or less given up on Renalde telling him anything clear or direct about what happened behind that collected exterior. Things did dribble through regardless. He'd come by. He'd helped. He'd offered the help of his underlings (granted, for any rider), he'd praised him. 'Keep coming back.' The man might as well have cried and hugged him. All told a rather effusive visit, really. Esanth's crooning shifts and T'ral nods. "We're going. Come on, pal."

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