Renalde, C'ren


Renalde asks C'ren to help, and C'ren is utterly disinclined to do so.


It is noon of the fourth day of the eighth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.



OOC Date


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Stone benches rise, black and showing the lack of polish from a thousand seats — by the look of it, these have not been used in… forever, if ever indeed.

Southern winters are warmer than others. So chill cannot be a reasonw why the southern headman has sought out the galleries for his afternoon break. What reasoning is there will have to remain a mystery, at least for now. For Renalde is there, leaning against the bar looking down at the clustered eggs below.

Perhaps it's the natural, unending curiosity of the human for the potential dragons housed in those ovoids hardening on the Sands; certainly, it's why C'ren is there — that, andthe memory of his own dragon hatching forth and choosing him. And so, the mountain man appears, climbing the stairs noiselessly, his attention fixed on the sands and its precious clutch, well guarded by its mother.

Perhaps. But Renalde rarely deals in metaphysics. His eyes track the former mountain man as he mounts the stairs upwards. An idea tickles the back of his mind as ice blue eyes peer. "C'ren." The rider's name drips forth slowly. Speculatively.

C'ren's hands are steady on the rail as he shifts his dark gaze to Renalde, steady and polite. "Yes, Renalde?" A brow raises slowly, the slender young rider hitching a hip up against the rail as he resettles himself where he might keep an eye on this Headman.

"I have a project I was hoping you or Maosa might assist in." Actually, it isn't really his project, but it's happening with his blessing therefore, his. "It would only require a few hours of your time."

And there it is — the request. "Would it, now." The mountain man drawls softly, brushing an errant bit of hair from his foreheadbefore crossing his arms over his chest, continuing to study Renalde with bland attentiveness. "And the details of this… project of yours?"

Renalde does not shift his posture. He is asking a favor, not for the rider's first born child. (Which might honestly already be incubating.) "Prymelia, formerly trader with the Finn clan and now an independent attached to the weyr, as well as Weyrwoman Bailey are embarking to help our newest residents adjust to the weyr life. Their primary goal is those who have found the cleanliness requirements to be a struggle. They intend to rectify it. As I have only sparse knowledge of these individuals it would be better for the adjustment if someone with more knowledge," that's your C'ren, if you didn't pick up on that, "were to assist."

"Interesting." C'ren's lips twitch suspiciously — might he be laughing on the inside? POSSIBLY. — as he gives all due consideration to the request. However, his attention begins to shift — away from Renalde and out over the sands and those eggs. Such fragile things that house so much complexity. "Well. Yave you not considered that they have nothing — to their minds — to gain from bathing? You have to offer them sufficient… " Oh, what's the word? The absent twitch of C'ren's fingers suggests a search. "… motivation."

Renalde is a serious individual. Whatever laughter might be hidden behind the rider's eyes is none of his concern. "I have considered the thought. I asumme you will be able to suggest such motivation to Prymelia." It isn't a question.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." C'ren counters smoothly, more amused than ever at the pedantic Headman's determind forward march to tame the wildings. "We are not interchangeable entities — each one is of a different clan, and what each clan considers 'motivation' is as widely differing as plants in the jungle." His head tilts, thoughtful. "You understand that, and you begin to understand the wildings."

"Be that as it may." Renalde's voice is smooth as his own attention moves towards the sands and their precious burden. "I am sure they will understand that no longer is the weyr going to accept their particular reservation about bathing." Undertone, they're going to bathe if they like it or not. "It would be better if motivation could be found."

C'ren snorts softly. "Have they understood thus far, these troublesome wildings?" C'ren rises, stretching lazily ere he returns his gaze to Renalde. "You would be as ill-suited to the mountains as these are to the Weyr. Whose idea was it to drag them into the Weyr as it is? I certainly would not have recommended it." Mountain boy though he is, cleanliness had been one of his clan's rules — one cannot hunt well if one stinks of dirty human. The clan would starve.

"I am very sure they have understood perfectly well so far." Renalde arches an eyebrow skywards, turning to cast just the smallest of looks at the rider. He pushes himself upright, and steps away from the observation platform. "As for the decision making, you might ask the senior weyrwoman seeing as the Weyrleader is currently unavaliable." Approach an injured Q'fex? Renalde would rather not thanks.

C'ren offers a small, crooked grin at this. "Perhaps I shall. If I understood why they're even here, I might be of more help." Possibly, at any rate — one never knows what small insult might erupt into a feud amongst the jungle boys. At last, he gives a little shrug. "I will give you an answer in one week's time." He bends a look on Renalde, full of dry, weary humor. "I do not fancy babysitting. BUt I might be willing to do this. It will cost you, however, if I decide for it, rather than against."

"It will cost me nothing rider." Renalde transfers that very cool gaze of his fully onto the former mountain man. His arms fold neatly behind his back. "The instructions of the weyrwoman are mine to carry out. You would provide a valuable insight to aid in this endeavor. However, should you choose to not lend your assistance, that is, of course, your prerogative." His voice is clipped, precise, and oh-so-cultured, without a hint of a smile reaching onto those lips. He could very well be an ice statue. "I am sure trader Prymelia would appreciate your assistance. Good day rider." And with that Renalde will move past C'ren towards the stares and out, unless he is stopped.

C'ren smirks. "Ah, but the trader did not ask me. You did. And, to be frank, it bothers me not if the wildings choose not to bathe — it is their perogative, as far as I am concerned. So, Renalde, what's in it for me to spend time trying to convince flea-bitten curs to bathe?" He pushes himself off the railing, strolling towards the Galleries ledges and his dragon. "Think it over — you have a week to think of something. I am certain you will." And with that, he's gone, as noiselessly as he came.

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