It -WAS- a Weaverhall. At one point. A long time ago, in a land… well, only 8 breaths away if you go adragonback. But whatever. And for whatever reason, Arianne is there amidst the tapesties, walking across what is now a dance floor. Her destination is apparently one of the small tables some would normally sit at while taking a break from the dance floor; and soon, she settles in there and starts pulling items from her backpack to lay out on the table, and then across the stage. One by one, as if they are there to be examined. "Just in time." she chirps gleefuly, glancing toward's the grand room's entrance while waiting for the poor bastard who's been summoned here.

Said 'poor bastard' arrives right on Arianne's heels with a puzzled look on his face. "Arianne?" T'ral peers into the wide flung doors and whistles low, taking in the high flung ceiling and the tall tapestries, dense and detailed. He steps into the room, ducking unnecessarily ducking his way in and halting a little at the sharp report of his boot on the gleaming floor. Curious chases puzzled from his face as he draws up on Arianne, peering at the array of objects she's laying out. Familiar things, but… what is she doing with them. "It's…" he cranes around and pokes a thumb over his shoulder, "There's…" Uh. "Can I help?"

Familiar things, yes. But -useful things-?? That has yet to be seen. "Prompt as always, T'ral." As if she expects anything less at this point. "I was just thinking I'd test out a new sort of Dragonhealing lesson. Obviously, I had to do it far enough away that gossip dragons didn't gossip. It's always either rote memorization, or frantic learning on the job right now. So…" she tips her chin towards the array of, uhm… things. There's some stock-in-trade items. Several herbs easily found in Southern's jungles, a rolled up bit of vine, a selection of large (like, really large) leaves set far apart from one another, a couple of rocks, a piece of wood.. and some cloth that looks like it was torn from someone's tunic. Fortunately, it appears to have been a clean tunic. "What types of dragon injuries do you think we could treat with all this?" Chop, chop, T'rguyver!

T'ral stills at 'new lesson' shoulders straightening as his focus shifts to Arianne, watching her closely. He's always on board for new lessons and new ways of teaching. Maybe that's why Arianne called him out? Dark eyes sharpen and he steps forward. The herbs are sniffed, categorized. The vine considered, uncoiled, the skin tested with a nail, cut ends sniffed, sap tasted. The wrinkle of T'ral's nose at the pungent taste is still there when he runs a hand along the leaves, noting the structure. The rocks give him a bit of pause and he leans in sniffing those too. A glance flickers to Arianne and back to the items. Wood, hands run along it, checking strength and smoothness. The strip of cloth is examined, also sniffed — apparently T'ral learns a lot about things by sniffing them? The strip of cloth goes down and he peers along the line of items. A finger pokes at the cloth, "Tourniquet for a laceration on a small limb or large vessel, tie for a," he skips the rocks and points at the wood, "Splint." One of the leaves is flipped over, showing spines along the central rib. He carefully breaks one of the spines off. It snaps clean. "Damn." He leans closer and scores the leaf rib with a nail in two places before breaking another spine off. It comes free and tears a long strand of leaf fiber with it, "There!" He tests the fiber and winces at it but ultimately nods, "Suture kit." The large leaves are still there, he squints, "Wound covering." The vine, his nose crinkles in memory, "Disinfectant. Mashed up a poultice base." He points at the herbs, "Poultice material for packing wounds." The rocks are not addressed.

Arianne follows along, walking beside T'ral as he tests out each new item in various ways to try and match its properties with a healing method of some kind. Every time he finds something useful, she nods or smiles along with him. Except for all the sniffing. That she just looks vaguely bemused at. "Yes, exactly! What do you think? Could we use something like this as a field lesson? Maybe stage it as an injury that happens during sweeps? Or to a dragon following alongside the ground crew?" she wonders, stuffing both hands into her pockets now. Her gaze is both curious and intent, in different measures while she waits for an answer. None of this, of course, explains why they are in a converted weaverhall that is now a ballroom. But whatever.

"Yeah." T'ral nods, warming to the idea, "I like it." He's surveying the items arrayed again, "Yeah. That's a great idea." He's nodding still, eyes whirling with the places they could spring an emergency first aid drill on Southern's riders. "Our Weyrlings will be ::betweening:: soon. Maybe we start with them?" Most vulnerable dragons, most vulnerable riders. "Or. Maybe test it out on some hardier, more seasoned-" poor bastards, "-riders first?" Who would Cha'el offer up? He picks up the rocks, "Mortar and pestle? Oh!" A grin, joking, "Anaesthesia!" He slams the together, SMASH. A flake of stone goes flying and a spark, struck from the rocks, arcs into the open collar of T'ral's leathers. He drops the rocks with a great echoing clatter that reverberates around the ballroom, flailing at the ember inside his jacket. He fumbles the fasteners open and finds only a blackened smear on his shirt. "Whew." He grins at Arianne, stooping to gather up the chipped rock, "Well. Uh. If that's flint, could make a knife. But," he puffs out a breath, "Wow, that'd take a long time." He bounces the rock in his hand. "When do we start?"

"More experienced riders first. So we can gauge how the younger ones might react." Arianne decides, nodding when T'ral guesses at mortar and pestle for the rocks. "Exactly. Eeep, that might not be… wait…" *CRACK* Stone chip goes flying and she claps her hands over her eyes. Nope, nope! Don't want to look! But, eventually, her eyes can be seen through the space between fingers. "Great Faranth, T'ral." she mutters, eventually reacing back into her pocket to pull out a new stretch of fancy purple ribbon. "There. You can weave this into your knot now. No more trainee. This was your last test. Full Dragonhealer now." She sounds nearly as proud as if she'd just gotten promoted herself, there. "And the other reason I figured to drag you all the way out here is to ask what you think of the dance floor here. Is it pretty comparable to what they're using at most Gathers? Someone needs lessons - far away from prying eyes. This might be good. Right?"

"Soon though," concern there. "I'd like to get the Weyrlings thinking about it before they get off into trouble." T'ral remembers his clumsy dragon. And there're a number of the current lot giving Esanth a run for his money. And some that just bear watching. Syzaith. Niamyth. T'ral watches the rock arc up and down and blinks at Arianne holding out the ribbon. "What? I just had to … set my shirt on fire?" T'ral's grinning but there's pride there too. T'ral looks down at Arianne, eyes full. He sniffs, breaking eye contact, head drooping. He laughs away the tightness in his throat, "This doesn't come with a new hairdo, does it? Catryn might object." Eyes tip up and he takes the ribbon, wrapping it around his fingers before sniffing again and then, on impulse, wrapping the brownrider, his mentor, Wingleader and friend up into a fierce hug. Something like 'thank you,' is muffled by hair. He laughs, arms easing and, uh, maybe setting Arianne back on her feet, "Long way from 'stool samples.'" A beat, he grins down at the ribbon, "Ma'am." Eyes trip out to the ballroom and back, he cocks his head at the non sequitur. He stomps lightly on the floor and bounces a bit, "Yeah…" slowly said. "Someone? A… 'friend' maybe? You just had to ask. Wait. Arianne. You're a fine dancer. I've seen you pl-" Wait for it… wait… any moment now. DING! "-ooooh. K'lir." T'ral stomps again. It echoes around the room more than you might expect given the enormous tapestries. "Yeah." He busies himself unfastening his knot so he can weave the ribbon in right very here! "This'd do just fine, I think."

"A written test would have been too… normal. And we're patching up dragons after every threadfall, so a practical seemed pretty anticlimatic. So really, it was more like I had to do -something- for propriety's sake. And this seemed just unusual enough to fit." Arianne explains, her smile broadening at the mention of Catryn likely not appreciating if he had to get a new hairdo. "Haaaaaah! No. That was your initiation. We have to keep you looking spiffy for a graduation of sorts, right?" she jokes, letting go a squeak when she's suddenly wrapped up in a hug and then set down on her feet. "You're more then welcome. You've earned it. Probably past due at that." she admits, and gives his upper arms a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "Oh no. Not lessons for me. .. Right, exactly. I managed to show him a waltz. The easiest kind. But he'll need at least one or two more simple dances before the next formal Gather. And this is far enough out of the way. Perhaps you cold bring Catryn here with us. Sometimes it's easier to see a third party doing the dancing first? Before trying it?" Yeah, she has no idea.

"Written test," Pshaw. "I'd have been pretty disappointed. I'd have aced it. Naw, this was good." He snorts, and shakes his head. It's pretty rare that T'ral breaches the physical divide in more than pragmatic ways. Rough-housing. Sure. A leg up so another healer can reach a spot a ladder can't get her to on an injured dragon — of course! But affection… and something as overt as a hug… rare indeed. As rare as an unfettered smile out of his father. It has him looking a little sheepish until he runs a hand through his hair and looks out over the ballroom. "Waltz, mmhmm," T'ral considers other dances. In his mind the room is full of people, moving to stately music, "Depends on where the gather'd be. Catryn would love that, I'm sure." He finishes threading the ribbon into his knot and refastens it on his shoulder, lifting his arm to admire the effect. Green and black braid sparkling with blue thread and, now, woven through with a crisp purple ribbon. He smiles, a wolfish flash of teeth before straightening, shoulders back, chin tucked. It's a dancer's posture, side-on to Arianne -new ribbonside, of course- and he offers his hand to Arianne, formally an invitation to dance. "No reason we shouldn't take the floor for a test run." Who knew the tired old Foxtrot could be fun? The impromptu gather is cut short by draconic summons — Threadfall! Over the Weyr!