Who

Renalde, Bailey, Quentin

What

Bailey comes to pay a visit to a cheerful Renalde.

When

It is midmorning of the fourth day of the twelfth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Ice Fields- Base Camp

OOC Date

 

renalde_default.jpg bailey_default.jpg quentin_default.jpg

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Base Camp

Here rises the dark-grey monolith of massive caverns, open-facing and airy. The arches, far above, make this space ill-equipped for centralized heating but excellent for campfires. The caves go deep, grey-walled caverns that tempt with enigmatic promise. Some are lofty as this main entrance; some are cozy enough for a tall man to bump his head. They all lie in nascent mystery, ripe and ready for the claiming by those strong enough to hold them.


Timor: moon3.jpg
Belior: moon8.jpg


Changes are being made, slowly but surely, as this camp becomes a home. At this time in the morning people are finishing breakfast and beginning to move. Talk fills the air as they gather in various doorways, disappearing within and coming without as they work to continue to change this place into their home. Off to one side some children have escaped whatever work they were assigned and have begun to build an arsenal of snowballs, though at the moment none of them are taking flight. Right in the middle of the bustle, leaning over a table with a smith journeyman, Renalde is engaged in a brisk conversation.

And here comes a goldrider to knock all the progress about. The only redhead of the bunch — that should be portent enough that she brings an ill wind with her. Or perhaps that's just the gimlet glare of her pocket-gold up the ways, looking entirely too comfortable with the frozen turf and considering the BEST way to blow the hold down. "Renalde." That's Bailey, comfortably interrupting, a smile tugging one side of her lips upwards; "Journeyman," to the other. Lightly, a brow arches.

A figure appears in the near distance, trudging towards the base camp with a brace of smaller shapes dancing around his heels. As Quentin nears, it becomes obvious that his companions are a pair of canines, of the small, wiry-haired terrier variety - the sort used for hunting out tunnel snake nests, rather than working the herds or the spits. Both canines seem to be well-behaved… at least, neither is barking nor seeming too distracted by the confusion of the morning activity, though it's clear they've the energy to spare for it. The boy himself, wrapped in an oversized coat that swallows his gangly form, seems a bit phased by the shift in climate from sultry Southern to this icy place.

A pause in industry has Renalde lifting his eyes from the hide before him. A smile, real and rather unusual on the Headman's face spreads across his lips as the speaker is identified. "Weyrwoman." Some hint of warmth breaks into that simple phrase. Eyes no longer focused on the work before him, he allows his gaze to pass over the industry. "What brings you up to the Fields today?" The apprentice's movements are watched, though for the moment, Renalde does not call out to him.

"Headman," Bailey replies, warmth in her voice for the lean man before her. "I came up to see you before travel becomes… unlikely." She gestures behind her, absently; Khaly already looks heavier, egg-gravid, her hide stretched tight. "Since I hear you will likely be up here during my exile to the Sands." She makes a face, Bailey does, at the thought of being Sandsbound. "How goes the progress? It seems as though this looks much more finished than it did at first." Her eyes roam across the expanse of in-work, then land upon Quentin's pups, her lips turning upwards. "Lost?" she calls to Quentin.

There's a pause in Quentin's procession as one of the canines comes to a stand-still, black nose quivering as he lifts his head and tests the air. There's a soft, inquisitive whine from the pup, though his partner seems oblivious, frisking at the apprentice's feet. Quinn's eyes are sharp on the curious dog, but when it appears that the source of the elusive scent isn't nearby, he calls both to heel and continues his trek. At Bailey's call, his head shoots up, eyes unfocused for a moment before sharpening on the weyrwoman, and he inclines his head respectfully. "No ma'am," he replies politely, with a wary smile. "They asked me to bring these two up and see if they could find anything. Sirs," he adds, nodding to Renalde and the Journeyman.

"I had heard about her flight." Or experienced it since it happened here. Renalde's tone is smooth though, as he obeys the first rule of Flight Club. Don't talk about it. Looking around again he surveys his temporary domain with an increasing smile. "She should lay soon, correct? There has been a great deal of progress. Perhaps soon I will be returning to the weyr, I hear Ardestelle is filling in for me." The journeyman, sensing he isn't going to be needed for a bit nods to both Renalde and Bailey and takes himself off, probably back to work. As her attention shifts to the apprentice also, Renalde gestures for the apprentice to come closer. "Did they find anything boy?"

Bailey shifts her gaze between the canines, thoughtfully, but she doesn't comment on their antics, instead looking to Quentin: "Ah. Probably about those ice tunnelsnakes everyone is rumor-mongering about." Then, brightly on the heels of that to Renalde: "I heard you've created yourself some kind of ice-man monster, have you? So many rumors flying up to the weyr. Wildlings. So supersticious." Her expression is bright and maybe cheerfully malicious. Then, belatedly: "Yes, she'll take to the Sands soon enough. Within the sevenday, should I miss my mark." Her voice is absent - it's not as though she'd have reason not to know. "Ardstelle is… a remarkably capable woman, once you take her away from her butter." Her lips twitch with mirth.

"Scent," is Quentin's absent reply to Renalde as his attention is stolen by the inquisitive terrier again. It's clear that the pup has caught a hint of something, though whatever it is is faint - or old - enough that he doesn't seem to be able to track it. "They're snake trackers," he adds, brow furrowing as he crouches, watching as the canine plants his nose on the ground and begins snuffling in a widening circle. "Though snake isn't all they'll track. Whatever it is, though, it's not right here." The second pup is following the first, though she seems less inclined to sniff and is content to let her partner do the work. "Have there been sightings, then?" he asks curiously of Bailey.

Renalde look skywards at the mention of the ice-man monster. A small shake of his head as some of that smile leaves his lips. "I have done nothing of the sort. Nonsense rumors passed around by hunters made too tired by virtue of the snow. They will pass." He waves his hand slightly to show how useless the rummors are. "I believe Journeyman Fresco was hoping to make sure of some of them later today," and he points towards a doorway.

"Hmmm. I don't know, they come back quite descriptive. Two stories tall! Covered in gore and dirty-snow fur. Teeth and claws, and a hissing roar." Bailey's eyes dance with mischief, ill-hidden. It's for Quentin's benefit, surely, that she lists out the common complaints from this… illusive yeti. She considers the pups, then Renalde, then Quentin, and sighs out a voiceless complaint, straightening slightly. "I haven't felt cold like this since I left the Reaches."

Renalde sees what she did there, and lets out a rather exasperated sigh. "I would hope you would not continue to spread baseless rumors. We are trying to build a new home here." His rather possessive use of 'we' slips in, a strange enough remark from the headman. As conversation turns to the weather, he smiles coolly. "I find it a pleasant change from the oppressive heat. The children," and here he nods towards where the younglings are continuing to build their snowball piles, "find it very entertaining."

Sweetly: "We?" Bailey would bat her lashes up at him, but that's too much effort. "Are you getting soft on this iceland you've found yourself, Renalde? Southern's heat too much for you, now?" Her eyes drift to the children and their snowballs, and she shakes her head in semi-exasperation.

"I find the cold…" A momenetary pause as Renalde considers the best word. His gaze drifts around his new found duty, surveying it for what it is. Finally, his gaze settles back onto the weyrwoman "…diverting. There is much to be said for putting something to rights from the begning rather then cleaning up the mess of others. Tell me, what does your lifemate feel about this place?"

"Like home." Bailey's voice is soft, perhaps a bit conflicted. Benden wasn't necessarily the BEST of memories for at least one person in this conversation… but home will always be home, isn't that right? "Hmmm." Her gaze rests thoughtfully upon him for a minute, then she gives a shrug. "Khaly? She loves the cold. She thrives in it. She'd live out of this cavern if she could. Right now she's plotting on how to kill everyone here and find a way to erase the memory of it from the collective enterprise." Her voice is mild. Not joking. What? That's not appropriate for conversation? Whups.

Renalde allows the comment about home to drift for a moment, watching the emotions shifting across the face of the young woman before him. But, then there is the not-quite-a-joke. "If she could perhaps begin with those hunters who continue to bring back nonsense." Wait, Renalde is going to sanction such murder? Turning he looks towards where the teacup gold is. "Perhaps we might be able to enlarge one of the ice caves enough that she could have her own place." Speculative now he glances towards at the plans for the fields spread across the table. "Once the eggs are laid and hatched of course."

There is a WIDENING of Bailey's eyes, reflexive, when Renalde makes hunting suggestions for Khaly. "Are you… was that a joke, Renalde?" Her voice lifts a bit in query. Maybe a bit in surprise. And then MORE surprise when he makes that suggestion. "I'd never get her away from this place if we did. They'd have to teach me how to do some… icecrafting, or something." Bailey gestures briefly.

Renalde does something strange, he actually laughs. It's a small chuckle, but it is firmly there. "Perhaps. As for never leaving, I am sure you would be able to find ways to entice her away. We need to make a place for vising dragons anyway…" He lifts his eyes up from the hides, "the weyr will be stationing a rider here correct?"

Bailey can't help the quick flash of surprise, followed by an expression that seems almost… weirdly satisfied. What? Don't judge her. She's got dadd… uh, Renalde issues. "Indeed. A watchrider, as is fit. We might do two in lieu of adding a wher and a wher-handler," Bailey's nose wrinkles lightly at the thought of the stinking halfbreeds. (That's what she'd call 'em, at least.) "Not sure, yet. And…" And whatever she was GOING to say flees along with her, "Ah, sorry, I'll see you later, Renalde!" She's HURRYING back towards her lifemate. What? Maybe Khaly decided to really try to eat someone.

"Lovely, I feel for the whers when it is cold." See, he does too have a heart. When abruptly the woman has to seek an extra Renalde will just watch, arms folded across his chest as she goes. "Farewell Weyrwoman." Just as she hurries away one of the children raises up a snowball to throw it and Renalde's smile falls abruptly. "Save that for later, when there is less chance of hitting someone." And he's off to admonish the child.

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