Renalde Donatien


Donatien is feeling more than a little bit green.


It is afternoon of the nineteenth day of the sixth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.



OOC Date


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Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master.

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Renalde is putting up with the administrations of the healers with just barely concealed ire. His morning routine had been abruptly interrupted when one of the masters had demanded that he show up for a check-up, threatening to go to the weyrleadership if Renalde didn't get himself to the infirmary. There that same master is ignoring said headman's ire to run though a physical for Renalde with briskness that only comes of being a master.

When Donatien sweeps in with his cane, the nurses swoon, the Healers stare (in admiration) and the Infirmary comes to a halt. Or, it doesn't, but the one male healer that does stare is getting a little creepy, and the swooning nurse (singular) has been known to be a bit silly on men. Also? Dien doesn't look anything like his gentlemanly self, a bit pallid and holding a kerchief before his mouth. That nurse does settle him in to a bed quickly though and when she moves away to go check on something, Dien turns to see poor Renalde next bed over. "Good afternoon, Headman," Dien tries gamely for his usual self but the attempt makes him look a bit green.

Donatien is a welcome relief from the poking and proding of the healer who is checking that all of Renalde's functions still do work properly. His ice blue eyes sweep over the weyr's weaver and an eyebrow arches upwards. "Feeling a bit pale today Senior Journeyman?" A nearby bucket is spied and Renalde catches it up to hand it over.

"Oh surely I don't look that poorly," the Weaver replies with a hint of a smile, but he takes the bucket anyways, placing it very close by. The kerchief moves briefly for him to say, "An angry hardboiled egg snack after lunch is the culprit." Just in case anyone worried it might be catching. "And yourself?" Dien eyes the Healer attending Renalde, "Surely your leg has healed by now?" He sounds a little puzzled.

"You look like perhaps the whole of Madame Ardstelle's kitchen has declared your gut to be a battle ground." At least Renalde can find delight in someone else sharing in his confinement to the infirmary for the moment. The healer performing the physical has disappeared, but Renalde doesn't leave. "It has, more or less. But the healers seem to feel that I must be checked on once a month less I rebreak it." SARCASM there. Renalde's a little annoyed.

"Ahh," Dien's face breaks into a contented smile, "Madame Ardstelle's cooking brings a smile to my face and a pooch to my stomach." A long-fingered palm pats at Dien's stomach that doesn't show sign of it - but the man's a weaver, and well dressed for his figure. The leg is examined from an amateur eye: "That seems rather… rigorous, even for being in charge of healing the Headman?" Sympathy, man. Sympathy.

"It is nonsense which will end soon enough." Renalde casts a glare at the back of that master healer who is studiously IGNORING IT as he talks to another at the far side of the room. Giving up his icy looks Renalde returns his gaze to the weaver. "I daresay that perhaps you should avoid some of Ardstelle's favorite foods for a bit, unless, of course, you feel that it would improve the decor of your workspace to change the colour with your vomit?"

An eyebrow arches so briefly but settles again, instead turning into a grin: "I don't think the scent or various colours of vomit would truly increase any Weaver production," Donatien says cheerfully, until he urps a little and starts to resemble the colour he's referring to. The bucket is reached for again, and Dien hmphs: "Have you tried her croissants? Little cornets of wonder, those, no matter how much butter she has to use…"

"I have heard multiple complaints about her butter usage. She might appreciate hearing that at least once does not mind her additives." Renalde says this speculatively as he eyes the pale green weaver. "Do try not to throw up until I am able to retire Donatien. I have no desire to stay a moment longer than is necessary." The brief change in conversation only lasts a moment before he's pondering the weaver, a hint of humor seeming to melt some of the ice in his eyes.

"I assure you, sir," Dien says verrrrrry slowly, battling back some small heaves, "I will do my utmost to restrain myself." That charming little Healer woman comes back and leaves some water for Dien, cooing gently before she's called away again. Dien lies back for a little and tries to regain some self-control, the bucket slung in one arm. A few breaths later, he asks, "So, how fares the Ice Hold, as I've heard it fondly called?"

"Your attempt to do so is noted." Renalde's ire as slowly settled. Perhaps having someone a touch more miserable than himself around has helped him to gain some perspective. He, at least, was not clutching a bucket. Small silver linings. When the healer returns Renalde falls silent, watching with that half-smile of his. "It fares well, though the winter there is much colder than was anticipated. I am sure that your craft has noted the increase of requests for wool clothing?"

Silver linings, but not for Donatien. Even the nod makes the poor weaver look a little more emerald than jade: "We have, and it's fascinating," pause for breath, "to put together warm boots when the summer sun beat upon us." A little grin to go with that wobbles, but doesn't last long. "Alas, I fear my knees will not take me that far south, without imobilizing me." So, don't expect to see Dien there any time soon. "I do have a promising apprentice, though, should you need any urgent Weavering down there."

"I have noticed a particular stiffness." Renalde admits this with a wry twist of his lips, as he reaches down to rub at his leg. "But, it is beautiful. When summer comes and the weather warms up a touch, you should come. It has a beauty not found elsewhere in Pern." Renalde loves the place, just ignore that hint of longing that comes when he speaks of the Ice Hold. "As for your apprentice, I would be more than willing to take him off your hands for a sevens day. A new batch of workers has arrived to begin sculpting one of the indoor rooms properly, and, of course, none of them came properly dressed." A travesty which Donatien should understand.

Donatien hmms quietly and looks off to the far wall thoughtfully: "Perhaps, come next summer, I shall find my way there to… examine the walls." A little grin, "For tapestries, of course. Surely a Weaver cannot stand by and let a new Hold not bear some of his stamp." So elegantly put, but with the effort of that thought, Dien coughs a little, then grins, "Rather like my first stint in the more northern Weyrs - fortunately, I was quite capable in making my own boots for winter up there!" Ahh, fond memories…

"We have a very forlorn hall which could do with a hint of colour." Renalde taps a finger on his leg speculatively as he ponders what tapestries would be best. "And the healers agree that our springs are more than helpful for stiffness." The smile on his lips grows into something more real. With no healers coming back Renalde's patience has worn out, and he stands, pushing the leg of his pants down.

Honey to a starving man's bread: Donatien looks over and chortles; unfortunately that burble turns a bit choked as he bites back some bile. Ew. "Hot springs," he's assuming, of course, "Sound marvelous, Headman. I look forward to the chance to decorate your hall," Dien's looking more and more green with each word, "and test your springs…" Finally, the poor Weaver's stomach reaches T-0 and the bucket is pulled close so he can make some awful retching noises into it.

The retching brings a twist of distaste to Renalde's lips. Ew. But he'll comment not, instead he raises his voice, "Really, I believe the Senior Journeyman has waited long enough for something to calm his stomach?" While Donatien heaves Renalde will make good his escape, proceeded only for a moment by a brief clap to the man's shoulder in a semi-reassuring way.

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