Who

Renalde, Qielle

What

Renalde can manage to offend women even out in the middle of no where.

When

It is afternoon of the thirteenth day of the twelfth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

The Ice Fields

OOC Date

 

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The Ice Fields

The air is fine and crisp and sharp and spare, threatening to vanish within the lungs of those who risk such altitude. Vast and sprawling lies the ice shelf of the Southern continent, bleak as far as the sharpest of eyes can see. Here there is meddling by mortal forces, a road ice-cut and gravel-trod from the mountain pass below to the looming caves ahead.


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There's a new face in Southern, these days. In this case, it belongs to Qielle — the woman is currently crossing the ice fields at a ginger walk atop a sure-footed mountain pony bred for the Crom region. It's shaggy and not nearly as elegant as her normal mounts, but it is a damned sight better on all this ice, putting each hoof down with the sure-footedness of one of her caprines. The woman pulls up the shaggy pony at a point not too far from where the shelf of ice ceases and starts into the rocky turf leading up to the hold, and instead scans her eyes over the far-off roaming of the southern wastes. It's quiet and cold, and she's bundled up so much that it's ALMOST comic.

The sound of the wagon coming down the mountain can be heard long before it is seen. The clatter of rope against wood, and the crunch of gravel as it is pushed further into the ice gives some vague hope that there is life out here. When that wagon comes around a turn it is driven by none other then Renalde. He seems to be… alone? Well, at least no one else can be seen in the heavy laden wagon that makes its way across the ice. The runners pulling the wagon are as burly as the one on which the woman rides. Closer they come, and with a slight tug Renalde draws the wagon to a stop. "Afternoon. What brings you up to the fields?"

Renalde, running a wagon HIMSELF? This has to be a new thing. Even though Qielle is obviously completely unaware of who he is. She pets her mount on the neck as the draft runners pull abreast of them, and nudges the gelding into a pretty sidepass to give the wagon-pullers a bit more space. Qielle's eyes go to Renalde at the the greeting, and she lifts a hand in a bit of a wave/hail. "Just scouting out possible long-term solutions for animal grazing. Fodder is a strange thing, this far South." Her eyes are bright and her cheeks are as pink as the tip of her nose with the biting cold. "Importing feed gets old quick, or so I hear."

"What have you found so far?" Renalde is sure that a report will come to him at some point, but he is much to much of a micro-manager to not ask now when there is a chance. The reigns of the wagon are wraped around one hand as he bends down to retrieve an insulated bottle from below the seat. This he offers to the woman, noting her nose and cheeks.

"There's not much on this side — er, that is to say, to the west. I'm faintly optimistic about the east, since it's seawards, but I'm thinking the grazing is going to have to extend more north than the dragonmen would like to hear." Qielle's dismissal of such concerns is obvious: dragonriders will do what holders damned well tell them to. She peers at the bottle suspiciously: "That's not applejack, is it?"

"The riders will adapt." Renalde inserts smoothly, allowing his gaze to wander from the woman off into the expanses. Her suspcision brings a slight narrowing to those eyes as they wanter back. "Klah my dear woman. It would be folly to offer anything else. Still warm, though not for much longer." As in, take this now or I'm putting it away man.

"Hmmm." Qielle has a polite noise for Renalde's confidence in riders. "I suppose you'll have had more experience with them than me, so I'll just have to take your word on it." She does take the klah, though, unstoppering the bottle to take a quick sip, then a longer draw, recaps it and offers it back. "It's not quite the same as a good brandy, but better than nothing, I suppose." Her voice is a bit higher-class than the rest of her, especially in a moment such as that: deigning to declare klah a passible warmer.

With knots and the like hidden under layers of fur, Renalde is just going to make a guess here. "Herder, correct?" The bottle is taken back and stowed under the seat again properly, making a proper thunk when it hits the ground. "I do discourage drinking while one is working."

There's a single, arching eyebrow. Qielle does the expression well. Then those blue-green eyes of hers narrow, suddenly. "I'm sorry, I believe I failed to make an introduction. My apologies. Qielle of Herder Hall, senior journeyman." There's a measure of suspicion in her expression, the 'and you are…?' going unvoiced.

Her arched eyebrow will meet cool disinterest. "I was told that a senior journeyman would be surveying, I wasn't aware it would be a woman." Renalde moves the reigns so they are back in both hands now, ready to head off the moment this conversation is done. "Renalde, Southern headman and current overseer of the Ice Fields."

This isn't going to go well. Qielle draws herself upright on her pony — she's hardly taller than him in this arrangement but she is going to make the MOST of it, since she's not necessarily a tall woman in any situation — and she treats Renalde with a look cold enough to be one of his own. "And does that make a difference," her words are hot where her expression is icy, "Headman? That I am a woman?" WANNA FIGHT RENALDE?! WANNA FIGHT?!

Now it is Renalde's turn to arch an eyebrow. "A might touchy. I do hope you will contain that temper of yours when you arrive at the fields." Right, because that is totally going to difuse the situation. Mildly he continues, "Is there an issue with you being a woman? Or my remarking upon it?" His eyes flick downwards across her body, though it would work better if she wasn't bundled up.

"Only touchy when it sounds as though I'm being judged by a characteristic I was born with." Qielle's mount is dancing from the tension of his rider, chomping at the bit. To his question regarding if it IS an issue, her eyes narrow further. "No, no issue, other than you are just another standard run-of-the-mill man." Her smile is viper-sweet thereafter. "I'll be sure to get you a full accounting of my findings, headman."

Watch carefully Qielle, Renalde is going to smile at her. Small, icy, but it is there. Breaking away he flicks the reigns of the wagon to send the creatures pulling forward again. "I look forward to hearing it Journeyman.."

She can't help it. She's a little woman with a big personality. That's why Qielle stands in her stirrups and twists around to call, "That's senior journeyman to you!" Why, Qielle, that didn't sound petulant at ALL. She grumbles under her breath about dumb redheaded men and turns her runner back to the path leading to the hold proper.

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