Who

Renalde, T'ral

What

In which Renalde swears, hunkers, has stubble, complains, lets a stain go unattended AND asks for help. One more broken Seal and the Apocalypse will be upon us.

Renalde swears. So… it's not terrible, but shocking nonetheless.

When

It is afternoon of the seventeenth day of the fifth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date 15 Mar 2016 07:00

 

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"Damn lot of good the moisture is doing when I feel like I am drowning in my own lungs."


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Garden Terrace

Tucked-away and bejeweled, here is a hidden treasure of Southern, beckoning and beguiling those who may trod the entrance of weyrbridge: steps cut upwards, switching back and outer-railed, to terminate in a sheltered ledge of stone. Here, greenery blooms in fragrant profusion, scenting the air and quieting the minds of those who stroll amongst the cultivated rows of cultivars. Flowers, and tiny fruit-bearing trees limn the walkways. Tables and benches scatter organic throughout the rambling concourse, providing easy rest for those who challenged the stairs… or the craft shops beyond the scrolled wooden door at the innermost part of the terraced ledge.

It is the forty-seventh day of Autumn and 55 degrees. Still dark and overcast, the autumn rain has picked up and become heavier, albeit still pleasant.


Every day Renalde gets a LITTLE bit stronger. He's being allowed out of the infirmary under WATCH from a healer, and he's pretty much done at this point. The actual fever is gone. All that's left is that stupid cough that he can't seem to shake, and his physical weakness. That cane, which he usually can ditch upon getting to the weyr, is now completely important to him not falling down as he walks, less from his old leg injury, and more from exhaustion. He's made it this far, away from the healers and is just going to take a BREAK now in one of those little overcast alcoves. Never mind the rain, it's dry enough under here for him to cough freely in the damp air. It's dry inside the shops, okay? He's working on getting that far.

T'ral got collared by one of the healers when Renalde made his 'break' from the infirmary. The bids for freedom are a daily (more than once daily) occurrence and it's really not a matter of if so much as when. There are betting pools and everything. Loser has to bird dog the Lord Warder. Except this loser is smart. He snagged the man's son for the honor and went back to work. Thus it is that T'ral joins Renalde at his repose with two mugs of tea from the Clef. Do they not let folk leave with those? He'll blame Lisette. "Afternoon, Sir." He helps himself to a seat. "You're looking… less pasty." Concern is writ on expressive brow as T'ral slides a mug to Renalde, "How's that cough?"

Respectful, reserved Renalde is on hold for a little bit. Instead, when T'ral slides in beside him the man will curse lightly under his breath. "I do not require a mother hen." He manages that in a horse whisper that is all his currently raw throat will accept. But T'ral brings Tea, and said throat is very much going to accept that warmth. It's a tired Renalde that reaches for the cup and takes it careful in his hand, using both to support it. The question of that cough answers itself, as after just one sip Renalde has to lower the cup and attempt to cough out what sounds like a lung.

"No, Sir." T'ral agrees. Or doesn't argue. It's not exactly the same thing, but here he is all the same. He studies the tea before him, steam curling into the damp, drizzly air, "Always fancied myself more banty rooster than mother hen." He straightens, puffing up his chest to underscore the point before settling more comfortably. He eyes the lung expulsion with some concern, "Have the healers given you an idea of when they'll release you?"

T'ral needs to talk to Lisette then, because she didn't seem to have a single problem arguing with Renalde the other day. Renalde's posture is hunched. He may be getting better, but the weight of the lingering illness still weighs him down. "They would rather the cough subsided before allowing me to return to the hold." So, no deadline set, it's all up to Renalde's lungs clearing up? "This infernal rain is not helping." A glare upwards at the drip from above. Slow shallow breaths help avoid the cough, but they don't help with the being tired part. "I am very behind on reports." Renalde, complaining.

T'ral rather knows the futility of arguing with a stubborn Renalde. They are cut from the same cloth after all. The technique is familiar to matadors the world over. Sidestep. "Moist air is good for irritated lungs. You'll do better here than there." He sips the tea, wincing at the too hot temperature, but enjoying the spread of warmth as it goes down. "If you furnish me with a list, I can see your reports are delivered." He tips his head at the older man, "Did you never find an assistant?"

"Damn lot of good the moisture is doing when I feel like I am drowning in my own lungs." Irritation layers itself upon Renalde's already raw vocal cords, making the words harsher than normal. Closing his eyes Renalde sips at his tea, though he avoids breathing in the extra humidity. The warmth can do what it will with the backup of gunk in his lungs. "I have been unable to get through the reports." He's quieter there. Renalde, not able to finish his work. "Will you do me a favor?" Out of the blue kthanks.

Renalde must be feeling very poorly to sit hunched and to swear. T'ral studies him over the rim of his mug. "Just let me know what you need." I'll make it happen. The Lord Warder's implacability is living another life in his son. The bluerider knows how upset his father will be, unable to tend to his duties. And stress is not going to be good for that cough. Ergo, make that hidework happen, posthaste. Renalde's best medicine is work. "Do you need an assistant? I think the assistant Weyrharper could probably scrounge a capable attache on short notice." A bit of a smile there. His brows trip upwards and he inclines his head in invitation for Renalde to make his request.

"I know Catryn's delivery is close." Just so T'ral knows that Renalde is aware of what he is asking. "Could you please try to check on Rylov? Audra is more than competent and I know he is well." The 'but' hangs heavily in there. For all of Renalde's confidence in Audra, she isn't Renalde and T'ral is as close as the three year-old is going to get at the moment. Reaching upwards Renalde rubs a hand against a cheek. His fine hair makes a beard almost impossible to see until it grows out, but there's a faint rasp of skin on hair showing that particular part of Renalde's grooming regime has fallen off schedule. "I am in no condition to refuse an assistant. But I need a place outside of the infirmary. I am… uncomfortable there." There are layers to those words which Renalde does not go into. T'ral's the healer in this family, Renalde generally tries to avoid the place.

T'ral is loathe to leave Catryn and this flashes on the planes of expressive face. But Renalde never asks for help. "I'll do it tonight." He'll only be three heartbeats away. Catryn will be left with a squadron of attentive firelizards. He can shift this. Get that infirmary appointment moved. Yup. "Tonight." He nods."Is there anything you'd like me to tell him or take him?" T'ral laughs and clicks the mug down on the table, "I'd venture a guess to say that most folk in the infirmary are uncomfortable, but let's get you moved to guest quarters." That should be easy enough to arrange. The healers will find T'ral immovable on the point and he'll carry Renalde out if he has to. He's done it before, though under wildly different circumstances.

Renalde glances over, and at that flash of expression he's opening his mouth to take back his request. But no because T'ral is already saying he will. So instead a soft, "Thank you." is uttered instead. For the question, Renalde simply shakes his head. "No, I just wish to know he is well." There's a slow click of Renalde's finger nails against the china of the mug before, again, "That would be helpful." The helpful gets cut off by a fit of coughing, and Renalde's cup of tea is in serious danger of becoming a lap of tea.

T'ral half-rises to take Renalde's mug when the contents start sloshing alarmingly. But what a coincidence. It's LAPsang souchong tea! Whoops. The stubbornly independent (or siezed by a coughing fit) Renalde defies T'ral's attempt to ease the mug away. Did it slosh? Whoops. T'ral winces, "I'll find out and let you know." He's eying the tea.

Lapsang souchong tea now has a double name as KNEEsang souchong tea, because that is exactly where some of the contents of the tea end up. If T'ral's not fast enough to get out of the way he'll end up with some of the liquid sloshed over that helping hand also. They can BOTH be a smelly mess that way. A soft, "Damn it." Renalde, all the swearing today. Carefully, Oh-So-Carefully Renalde settles the cup to one side and heaves himself to his feet while his hand reaches out to grip the cane in his non-tea hand. "I had hoped to make it further than this."

T'ral hisses at the spill more than the pain of the splash. He is johnny-on-the-spot with a handkerchief. "Here, before it can set." Tea stains. The rising count of expletives is cause for concern, "Would you like me to retrieve some clothes as well?" That'd be efficient. Renalde likes efficient. Here's some more efficiency, "We can stop by the laundry on the way to a guest room. That's probably as far as you're making it today." Pops.

"Yes, please." Fervency there in Renalde's tone. He's wearing clothing the healers and weyr have provided which allow for easy healer-y access. Renalde wants his suits back. Ties. Sharp shoes. As for the stain, "No. This is not mine." Layers there, Renalde, not caring about the clothing he's wearing. "Walk with me?" So many requests in one day! Someone touch Renalde's head to see if he's not still feverish.

Easy enough. Changes of clothes for Renalde, more reports (because surely there are more) and check on Rylov. If he's not careful T'ral may discover that he's Renalde's new assistant. "Consider it done." T'ral would have made a superlative Headman. He looks from the handkerchief, to Renalde's be-tea-ed knee, to Renalde's face. Stubbled. Troubling. T'ral will definitely sneak a touch in there to the older man's forhead, see if it's still hot. He moves out, hands clasped behind his back lend him a slight forward lean. The pace is slow. The conversation, sparing. Renalde is the world's worst patient. That healer owes T'ral. It doesn't take long to get Renalde settled into a guest room that is, T'ral assures the healers, 'both likely to reduce the man's stress,' a good thing, and 'befitting his dignity,' hair flip, 'and I guarantee you he'll be more compliant when he is more comfortable.' WON'T HE? >:| Two complete changes of clothes, Renalde's nightshirt — because he totally wears a nightshirt and cap — and a report on young Rylov are awaiting Renalde after the evening meal. A Harper apprentice is loaned to the Lord Warder (poor bastard) to be valet and scribe for the rest of his 'visit.' It's a Southern apprentice, not one of those interlopers. That should do it, right? Renalde will be fixed right up.

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