Hannah, T'ral


T'ral catches up with Hannah to deliver some belated congratulations.


It is noon of the thirteenth day of the second month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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A connection between the bowels of the weyr and the heart of the leadership, this hallway sweeps along a majority section of the inner section of the weyr: the residential quarters. Glows light the way, but little adorn the rough-hewn walls. It is a place of transition, not a place to linger.

It is the forty-third day of Summer and 99 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.

Hot Southern afternoon, the internal confines of the jungle weyr at least affords a dry coolness that lurks within the deeper recesses of the mountain, a break from the sweltering, oppressive heat. Hannah stands with one of the lower caverns workers, going over a manifest of things to do for the day. "If you move that here and that here, then you can get that done without having to break that part up," is what the Senior Weyrwoman is in the middle of suggesting, with her finger pointing at the clipboard. "Oh, I see. Then we could get the gardens of the Leadership Courtyard taken care of here."

T'ral's ringing strides clatter down the hallways, his eyes are fixed on some thought beyond the weyr's liminal spaces. Communion with Esanth? Considering some issue of Weyrling or Candidate management? He's moving with intent, carrying a package cradled in an arm tucked to his chest, right arm swinging purposefully as he maneuvers around people, situational awareness sufficient to avoid collisions. Though not sufficient to notice the august personage of the Weyr's new Weyrwoman. Clack, clack, clack the bootheels. Clack, clack-skid. T'ral's momentum arrested abruptly, he sways, catching himself. He spins on his heel, a look of bemused triumph. Stepping to the side of the hall so as to be out of the way of traffic circulating he draws up and waits politely for Hannah to finish her Weyrwoman-ry.

Hannah's brief conference with the woman by her side comes to a natural conclusion with brief nods by both parties. Finally, the Weyrwoman stands alone, her thoughts held safe behind the mask of her reserve, eyes staring off into the middle ground between paying attention and lost to her thoughts, before finally something tickles the corner of her peripherals. "Afternoon," Hannah turns to fix T'ral with a emerald green stare that carries a hint of that feral otherness held since the flight, but her expression is held to a reserved kindness, a touch of neutrality. Her smile is brief, but genuine. "T'ral, is it? Assistant Weyrlingmaster."

T'ral studies the woman as he waits, admiring the efficiency and ease with which she attends to her duties. Listening. Guiding. Gracious. When T'ral comes under that enigmatic green regard, he draws up to offer courtesies, "Afternoon, Ma'am." T'ral delivers a crisp salute, comfortably rendered, lending a gentility to the military precision, "Yes, T'ral, blue Esanth's. I've a number of matters to discuss." He quickly adds, "None pressing." Dark eyes flick up and down the hallway. "Where is your next appointment?" because certainly she has one, "I'll walk you to it?" He inclines his head to the Weyrwoman in inquiry.

"I'm on my way towards the council rooms," Hannah answers as she starts to walk down the hallway in that direction, tilting her head up towards the Assistant Weyrlingmaster. "A number of matters?" Head cants to the side a little as not much is given away in the depths of gaze but that reserved kindness. "I fear if they are related to wings and your duties, you should take up Cha'el's time. I know better than to trod into his sphere of influence." It's humor that flashes, almost a light tease before she settles back into juggling the mantle of responsibility. "Well met, T'ral. I remember you Impressed one of Dhiammarath's babies." She keeps track, see.

T'ral nods and falls in to Hannah's right, shortening his steps with some effort. T'ral's not one to slow down, particularly. He holds out a forestalling hand, with a smile to soften his words, "Nothing like that, Ma'am. No. I find I'm remiss in offering my congratulations," he switches the package in the crook of his arm to the arm opposite. "To you and Th'seus, on Etheran." He hitches the package in his arm, a light musical sloshing can be heard. "But this," he holds out the cloth-wrapped package, "Is for you for the new Weyrleader," he holds the package forward, "With my further congratulations." He grins, lopsided, "Less remiss." Head canted to look down at her, eyes sparkling with humor.

For a short woman, Hannah's stride isn't too, too hard to shorten to as she's had her entire life to acclimate to a world of giants. The clatter-clatter-clatter of hard soled shoes is the staccato beat of her life, an echo of what's remained the same. That is until T'ral halts their forward progress. At first a light blend of curiosity lurks in her features, captured in expression. "Oh. Oh." A smile, genuine and bright, curves her lips as the Senior Weyrwoman tips her head back to once again turn intensity of stare on the bluerider. "Thank you. We are very happy with the health of son." She might even let that reserve slip enough to curry a blush to cheeks. "T'ral, you needn't," she murmurs taking the package. "The Weyrleader and I," that's right, Cha'el, she's totally speaking for you here, "thank you." Quick fingers make work of the wrapping to divest the present of it's trappings. What is it? Someone might like unwrapping presents a little too much, here.

Warmth in the smile T'ral gives at the Weyrwoman's response, eyes dropping briefly at her faint blush and coming up as she utters ageless disavowals of gift giving necessity. The cloth wrappings fall away… Oh, the Weyrleader will thank him all right, it's a bottle of white Istan nut rum, with the gold label, made by Masterbrewer Dawson. "Congratulations, Ma'am." A thought strikes as he looks down at the intent regard, the delicate proportions, the warmth, underlain with hints of that wild strength… She's just the woman that should lead Southern Weyr - a queenly feline in heels. He blurts, "It suits you." Uh. T'ral's eyes flicker wide at the breach in propriety. "I'm proud to serve you both," he smoothes, bowing over an arm folded. He straightens, patting the breast of flight leathers, with a seeking air. Ah. "This, this is just for you," he holds out the folded paper, sealed with blue wax and a single word, 'Congratulations' written in T'ral's neat hand.

"Thank you," Hannah turns the bottle over, looking at the liquid inside. "We will have a toast with it," she tips her head back, smile genuine but the layer of reserve is back in place. It's a struggle to balance life with responsibility and Hannah probably doesn't do it well just yet, but perhaps it's enough that she tries. "The rum?" She misunderstands his blurted thought, turning back to the bottle. "I cannot wait to try it then. Thank you, again. This is a very lovely gift." As for the slip of folded paper, Hannah takes it and opens the seal. With a brief scan of eyes, her expression softens once more. "It's beautiful." Deeper reading will be taken at home, possibly with Th'seus and baby, for the gesture is sweet and lovely. With reverent fingers, she slips the folded bit of paper into a pocket of her dress. "Now, how about let us go find the council rooms. I shall eagerly await the tasting of my present after all the pesky meetings are done. Maybe rum will calm the Weyrleader's agitation. I think the lack of knowledge of the killer of Ty'ai has put him on edge." She resumes walking, tilting a smile up to the thoughtful bluerider.

Happy to have been misunderstood, T'ral simply nods through Hannah's thanks, murmuring polite proprieties. The bluerider goes still as Hannah reads the note, a little tense, a little uncertain, always a measure of putting yourself out there when you give something you've made to another. Especially something so personal. He beams at the shift in her pronouncement, "If you don't know the melody, I can teach you," he can still hear his mother's soft alto singing to him as storms raged outside. Storms she loved so. Hannah's version is infused with that love of wildness, a mother's hope for grace in the face of trials sure to come and peaceful rest. "Hopefully it'll make him feel more at home," T'ral bares his teeth in a wince, "Since I understand he wasn't exactly welcomed before." Brows draw down at that last, "We're not looking at D'rak for that?" It was widely known the brownrider had vanished after the murder. Possibly after the flight. The pair, goldrider and bluerider, are rounding a corner into the living caverns when a breathless weyrling skids to a halt in front of T'ral. Wheezing. Straightening to deliver a salute and syllables tumbling forth in a rush, a word salad so tossed it's fit for the buffet on the far wall. T'ral returns the salute, "Slow down. Slow down," he eases the weyrling. "Take a breath, salute the Weyrwoman," his voice is easy, patient. He gives Hannah a look sidelong, 'I gotta take care of this.' He salutes Hannah as well, "Afternoon, Ma'am, I hope your meetings are swift and productive." The weyrling chokes, eyes bugging at Hannah, drawing up and saluting her, then saluting T'ral again. All the salutes. With a tight smile just for the Weyrwoman, T'ral draws the boy off, the two of -bluerider and goldrider- off to their separate duties.

A conversation arrested, Hannah salutes both weyrling and assistant weyrlingmaster before a light smile is turned their way. Steeling herself for the meetings ahead, she goes armed with rum. As to everything else T'ral had commented on, all that was presented was a sort of calm reserve prior to their interruption minus a murmur of, "We're looking into it," in regards to D'rak and, well, the murder. Then? Why then, the day resumes and things are attended and duties seen to as the brief interlude comes to a natural end.

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