Renalde, rhuysarr


Renalde asks questions, Rhuysarr doesn't answer. It doesn't go well.


It is evening of the tenth day of the third month of the fourth turn of the 12th pass.



OOC Date 26 Feb 2015 07:00


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The stone stables of Southern sweep breezily in arches and vaulted ceilings, done in the same architecture that figures so prominently within the inner caverns. A half-loft in the back shows neatly stacked hay bales, the sweet scents from the fodder drifting down to commingle with the aroma of runner and leather and sweat. There, broad box stalls house inhabitants safely away from the fancies of dragons: nickers and restless stompings fill the air, nirvana to those so inclined.

Evening shadows have begun their creep across the Weyr's grounds, deepened by overcast skies which seem to drain some of the color from the world. Rain falls lightly and erratically, drizzling down upon Southern to worsen the day's dour mood. Up in the loft of the stables, there's a rustling noise coming from behind hay bales. A bit of scuffling, a grunt, and then Rhuysarr appears from behind one of the bales with errant pieces of hay caught in his curls. The man climbs down the ladder with ease, jumping free from the rungs a few feet from the ground and landing heavily on his feet. A few seconds later a young woman awkwardly makes her way down the ladder as well. She glances at him with a blush, and then vanishes into the rain. The wildling candidate spares her exit a single glance, before settling himself on an overturned bucket to enjoy a bit of solitude.

Which is probably the worst time ever to have stiff and proper Renalde walk into the stables. His eyes sweep from candidate, to female, and then back again. A clearing of his through before he's asking, very abruptly, "Do tell me, candidate, that what I saw is not what I believe I saw." It's more than an order, as Renalde's ice blue eyes fix upon the Wild folk.

Rhuysarr glances up as a throat is cleared, looking curiously at the man who announced himself thus. It's probably for the best that his companion has already made her swift exit, as she'd be far more inclined to balk at the Headman's pronouncement. The wild man, however, merely shrugs. "What?" Whether he's asking what Renalde saw or what he has potentially done wrong, it seems he's not inclined to expand upon the question.

Oh, Renalde will track her down if necessary. RULES. They are IMPORTANT. But right now the wild folk in front of him has all of his icy-blue attention. "Candidate. I did not ask you a question which was in in way, shape, nor form difficult. You have been informed of the rules regarding fraternization with the opposite sex while you seek to have the honor," he's so stiff when he says that word, "of standing upon the sands for the chance to impress one of Southern's dragons. So I will say one more time, as I assume you are not an ignorant savage as so many would categorize your folk," See, Renalde doesn't, but he has a habit of putting things in the worst possible way ever, "Is what I saw and thus infer, different from reality?"

Rhuysarr's gaze narrows a bit as Renalde denounces 'fraternization', a word which apparently goes straight over his head. That mild bewilderment flattens into apathy as the Headman continues, no doubt employing other words which escape the wild man's stunted vocabulary. "I did not bed her," he finally says, exonerating himself for a moment - but that moment is brief. "There is no bed there." He lifts a hand to gesture toward the loft, his lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk. Slowly he gets to his feet, kicking his makeshift seat aside with the heel of his boot.

"Why," hear the tone of extreme patience in Renalde's tone? The one that comes as his gaze narrows and the candidate stands in front of him and kicks that sea of his. "Young man." He's not a teenager, but he does have a white knot. Thus Renalde is on his most stick-up-butt-ish-ness. "Did she leave flushing?"

What is it with the people in this place calling him young man? Any vague sense of cooperation on Rhuysarr's part vanishes with those words, which he has heard one too many times now from various directions. The man's face hardens, and he's obstinately silent for a few moments before he lifts his shoulders in a slow, deliberate shrug. This situation might require ultra extreme patience, if there is such a thing.

Renalde's probably one of the few people that could totally get away with saying 'young man', and having footing to mean it. His pure blond hair hides any signs of gray, and his skin is more than ageless. But he's closer to fifty than forty nine now. "An answer is required candidate." Pointed is Renalde's tone. All the patience.

It's pure principle at this point that's driving Rhuysarr's frustration with the term; logic has little to do with it. His arms cross over his chest, and he stares the Headman down with an impassive expression. An answer may be required, but he doesn't seem inclined to give it. Instead, he moves just a bit so that he can lean up against the frame of one of the stalls, regarding the other man with indifference.

Renalde can be patient. But it requires the ice of the hold to bring it to the fore. Right now Renalde is needed elsewhere in the weyr and the candidate is taking up extra time. A deep breath is inhaled, in through the nose, and then out through his mouth. "Very well then." His tone is clipped and precise. "You, Candidate Rhuysarr," see, he totally knows the man's name. "will be spending the next sevens day in the Harper area. There you will receive lessons in the proper way in which to answer questions directed towards you. In addition, you will not be allowed into the jungle until you have proven to me that you are able to answer reasonably poised questions in a manner befitting one who is seeking to impress a dragon and join a group where rank and authority are absolute, and your defiance and lack of communication might cause harm to others than yourself. You may nod, or you may express your understanding as you wish."

It rankles, the fact that these people all seem to know his name. He made the mistake of saying it once, and now it haunts him. Rhuysarr listens as his punishment is explained, his expression carefully schooled so that only the hint of annoyance slips through that cool facade. But when Renalde speaks about seeking a dragon, the man cracks a why smile. He's seeking nothing and almost says as much, but to do so would require him to open his mouth. Instead he pushes off from the wall, stands up straight, and simply nods. "Done?" he asks after a moment's pause, the word surprisingly calm in spite of the punishment just leveled in his direction.

Maosa is the rider of blue Osweith of Southern Weyr and Siberian Wing.

"I understand that your ways are not ours." Renalde has the talent for saying very little in a whole lot of words. Despite the words sounding understanding though, there is not change in his chastising tone. "But you have agreed to be a part of this particular world, and have stepped out of yours. There are several who have made the shift; C'ren and Maosa," Renalde names two successful wildfolk to rider conversions, though 'strange' is the only way to describe either of them, "have made the sift. If this," Renalde gestures back at the weyr, "is not what you wish, then relief is a simple action away. Until then, you will be gifted with the lessening required to join the ranks if you should happen to impressed. The choice, once it has made, cannot be undone. The bond is forever and one which cannot be severed without the loss of one's heart. And yes," there is a hint of a sigh, "I am done. Do you understand?"

For just a moment as the names of the wildling riders are mentioned, Rhuysarr's expression flattens into a scowl. Traitors, the both of them. But that distaste is fleeting and soon masked with that blank, slightly grumpy expression that rarely seems to leave his face. The threat of forever isn't one he has considered deeply - nor is it one he seems to take into account now, even as Renalde holds that promise of permanence over his head like a noose. "Yes," he answers without pause, already moving to follow the direction his former companion chose. "The girl talks." That's his only offering as he slips out, forgetting (of course) to offer any sort of salute or proper farewell.

Renalde's eyes will roll upwards as the Wildling Candidate makes his way out of the stables. Give him patience to deal with every new group as they roll through his care either onto new beginnings or back to their old lives as they choose. And perhaps, once the young man has turned away, there is a flash of pity in his eyes. For he has a feeling the wildling hasn't understood the full consequences of his thought. They never do. Back out he'll go, into the night and his own duties, divergent from the candidates. Though checking up on that young lady makes his to-do-soon list.

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