Mild Musings

The Academic and The Librarian

2008-12-02T06:23:06Z

Amarik and Misha discuss books, hobbies and acting.

Emergency! There, out in the courtyard, a brief drama has begun and concluded. The weather was cloudy, overcast, but there were moments of no rain. And it was during one of those brief interludes that Misha began her trek across the courtyard, with a few hide-wrapped volumes, themselves wrapped in another hide. Then, as befits someone who has spells of Very Bad Luck, the clouds opened up. Misha, more concerned with the books, her inanimate charges, getting wet than herself, had hunkered over her bundle like a hunchback looking for a bell to ring, and hobbled thusly across the courtyard and now, finally, up the stairs as fast as that awkward pose might let her. So, once she's achieved the porch, the woman shakes her touseled hair, shakes the bundle and sets it on a dry portion of one of the many benches, so that nimble fingers can speedily unwrap, the faster to assess the damage. "DAMN!" That would be LibrarianSpeak for 'oh dear, it got wet'. Or at least, Misha-Librarian Speech.

Amarik is sitting on the porch when Misha arrives, his long legs propped up against one of those benches, wine glass in hand and simply soaking in the glorioius mugginess that only his beloved Boll can bring to a summer's day filled with rain. With her exclamation, he unlaces his legs, and sets them down to turn to regard the librarian, "as in 'Oh dear they got wet?'" If he wasn't Marryn's brother he would be the librarian. Standing swiftly, he moves across the porch to bend over the hides as well, "not seriously I hope?" A brief rattle of basso tenor rumbles worry and the wine glass is set on the railings as he continues his inspection. "That's not the new one from Telgar Smith is it? I've been waiting for that for half a turn." She may wholly thank him for any budgetary increases in new acquisitions.

"As in 'Damn', but you could translate it that way, yes." Misha retorts, without looking up, as she nods, "Yes. I was just picking them up. Waited two bloody candlemarks for the rain to quit and it does and it's not even a /long/ trip--!" Someone needs to show Misha the underground passages, evidently, from /there/ to /here/. "Blast and dammit," she scowls, fingers carefully working the pages together, while she wipes each hide with her sleeve. She hasn't time to look up, to note who her conversant is, and instead asks, "Have a hanky, a towel or something?"

A hanky can be provided and nimble fingers will pull one out and let it drift down to dangle in front of her. Ignore the lace, his mother is a bit of a freak about that sort of thing. There is however a nice masculine 'A' embroided in one corner. "Will this do?" Amarik's concern for the scrolls has him reaching around with his free hand to pull one that seems only slightly damp to the side. "We do have umbrellas," he offers as an afterthought, "this is Boll. It rains." And yes, he knows who she is, though a sober regard will watch her with a tilt of his head.

"I think," she replies sourly, taking the hankerchief with no regard to its decoration, and hastily scooting more moisture out of the hides, "That you have all the umbrellas on /this/ side of the courtyard, because there were none to be had on that side. Nor did the coachman want to bring me this far. And your new Watchrider isn't exactly the most communicative man on the planet, so I couldn't ask for dragon wings to cover. This..." She frowns at the wet volume, "Is a disaster." Her breath eases those words out, and she shakes her head until she realizes that her hair, hanging down, is including drips onto the volumes to her side. "Well!" Hastily, Misha straightens and pulls her hair back, the hanky left on the book. Only then, when her hair is looped in a tight knot, does she blanch slightly. "Lord Amarik." A moment's pause. "Your volume has arrived."

"Has it indeed?" Amarik will forage an eybrow across his forehead with a quick grimace. Having straightened at the same time as Misha, he now looks at her though lips will frown briefly in annoyance and the sigh heaved is long suffering for a moment, "the one from Telgar?" Fingers will ruffle through his beard, "blast and dammits it is then!" A quirk at the corner of his mouth may reveal that Amarik is much more easy going then that and lets his countenance dwell on greater things then damp books. "Well, we'll just have to order another then, and see if it arrives before next turnover."

Echoed, "The one from Telgar. Yes." She waits for his words, then glances down, "Not sure that it's ruined. But," she'll admit, "It's not pretty. I'm sorry. Must have had a hole in the oilcloth I was using, to cover them. I'll try to dry them." This is added, with another dubious glance at the volume on top, the most precious and the most ruined one. That one is, finally, gingerly picked up and placed upright on the bench, leaning against the back, while she procedes to inspect the others. Another has a wet corner. "Rains too much here. Can't you folks /do/ something about that?"

Rather drolly, Amarik lifts his eyebrow and chuckles, "I'll speak to Marry and see that he decrees it for next season Misha. Alas, I can do nothing more then that. Second son, simply decorative at best." The truth being that Marryn is much more goodlooking then Amarik, though the younger son doesn't seem to express any rancor in that statement and teeth flash in a grin. His concern turns back to the books, "what others arrived? I've been corresponding with a Starsmith and he's promised to send me something, and then one of the Healers at Fort has promised me the loan of something on exoctic plants grown in southern that we think might do well here." His interests are wide ranging it would appear.

"This one, I asked to borrow from another library, on various games of poker," Misha taps, "Figured your brother would like it, m'lord." Her tones, her expressions, have become more muted, though she did afford a quick grin at the 'simply decorative' part. "And the one under that, I think, is on martial strategies used by Fax, back in the day, and that one there is -- Is that your exotic plant book?" This one is surrendered, a hefty volume, while Misha sends a quick look at the poker book.

There's a sigh of pleasure that only a good book can bring to a mind that likes to dwell on them as Amarik takes the book, fingers curling around the hefty tome in appreciation. "Yes," and the basso tenor rumbles with pleasure, though the other book will peak interest as well, "Shards and shells, don't show him that. I'll be rescuing him naked from some Southern Weyr and then where will we be." His vernacular plays with new weyr verbage just because it annoys his mother and she does tend to dote on him. The twinkle in his eye is purely at his brother's expense, "we'll leave him the volume on Fax and see what he does with it and I'll read the poker book first." Anything to pick up hints and tips.

Misha wanted to read the poker book first, actually, but she stops herself from mentioning it, instead reaching to deftly suggest that her hand can take the weight of the volume in his, "Well, then, if you're going to read that one, I'll put this one up in the library for you, m'lord. Can't be paying good attention to more than one book at a time, I'm told. And I don't have to show him the poker book, if you think it a bad idea. Don't know the man, thought it might suit his... Risk-taking personality." The last is spoken in rather droll tone.

He has a better suggestion, "You read it first, then I'll read it, then we'll entice Marry into a game no?" His love for his brother is solid and secure, but Amarik is not above a little loving torment on occasion. His hand goes to switch back the volumes, taking the treatise on plants, "and this one should not stay overly long as I've promised I'd return it by the end of summer." His confidence grows that Misha might have a fit if she were to glimpse Amarik's office. Books and scrolls squirrelled away from all over pern, although no fault would be found in the neatness of their order. Teeth are revealed at the droll tone and his amber gaze squints to the accompaniment of a chuckle, "I believe it would." The younger son is not without his moments, but tempers the risk taking of Marryn with more considered thought to consequences rather then overt action and be dammed them.

"*I* am not playing him, cards. But," Misha grins, "I will read it first, then you can read it and I'll cheer you on, while you beat him." Misha has great straight teeth, which is good, considering their rather runnerlike size. "And you'll be responsible for returning the plant, book, I trust? Otherwise, you know, I have to give you a due date back to me. It was, after all, sent care in /my/ care. But I will abdicate control to you, if you so deem and," she adds with another quick grin, "Have references."

Amarik grins and arches his eyebrow high, "I've a few yes, though some have dubious backgrounds and reputations I'm told." He might be referring to his own relatives or others in his social network. Misha's adamant denial against playing Marryn earns a brief chuckle and he simply nods to the wiseness of that particular course of action, "probably a good idea." Besides, everytime Marryn and Amarik do something together, they usually get into trouble or wind up naked, and while innocent - when cast in any light it doesn't show well at all. With humour curling the corners of his mouth and setting the moustach to dance he wonders, "What are the fines if I dare to be late?"

"Favors. Sworn to secrecy." Misha nods. "And more volumes. For every volume you lose, you provide two more of equal worth. For every sevenday you are tardy, a favor. Understood?" Misha adopts, for a moment, an expression far better suited to some matronly Auntie in charge of the tweens of a Weyr. Surely, a more difficult audience could not be found, for discipline or respect. "And I make it a habit of not playing cards with my employer."

Amarik will lift hand to heart and clutch it with mock sobriety, though the glint in his eye is impressed. He's amused but values the books in equal measure, "On my honour, I do swear I'll do my best to get them returned to you in plenty of time." His head nods gravely that he does understand but can't help asking because the curiousity is resident. He chin drops and he wonders, "what favours would you be needing kept secret Misha?"

"Now then, if I told you, m'lord, they would not be secret anymore, and you, as yet, do not owe me any favors, so it is not exactly an honorable step, on your part, to try to part me from my secrets just yet, don't you think?" Misha quirks a brow at him, and glances out to where, of course, it's not raining anymore. Figures. Back to the second Bollian son, "Returned in plenty of time, safe and sound and I hope," she gestures to the oilcloth and the wet book, "That you've learned a lesson from this, m'lord."

Amarik's head quivers in disbelief and he bends down low, "and what lesson am I to have learned Misha?" His expression is perplexed but amused.

"One should /not/ try to carry volumes through a rainstorm, wrapped in oilcloth." One long finger taps on those which the rain has warped, and she shakes her head. "Expensive lesson, that one, and it's be cheaper if we split it, you know. Both learned the lesson. Two, price of one. A regular bargain."

Amarik nods his head sagely and "aahhhs" at the revelation. Fingers stroke the volume in his arms tenderly however, "Well, yes it would be wise. However," and light quirks his eyebrow high, "I usually carry an umbrella to and fro, rather then just fro." Teeth are revealed again and a dimple quirks brightly, it's shadow only revealed by the concealment of the beard. The amusement lessens and he will acquiesce, "but I will an equal burden of that lesson and the ruined volumes will be replaced in time." Amarik's pet project is to see their library becomes the best on Pern. An admirable goal for a young man questing knowledge simply for knowledge's sake.

Again: "It might not be ruined." She /does/ feel guilty about that, and looks down at it again, her voice catching sobriety on the next syllables, "I'll do what I can. I'm sure the Harpers have tricks, to get... To fix this sort of thing, m'lord. I'll inquire. I'm sorry." The umbrella thing. Right. Well it was /not/ raining when she walked out, and... "Perhaps you've already learned a lesson, similiar to this. And it'd only be a replacement lesson. A booster lesson. Refresher. I thank you," she reaches for the hanky, one hand and then two to display it, "For your assistance, timely."

Amarik will give the situation the sobriety that Misha offers back, not mockingly but because he believes she is just that serious. Taking the handkerchief with a nod, he'll fold it before slipping it back into his pocket, "Indeed Misha, think nothing of it. Books are to be treasured, but they cannot be kept under glass all their lives or nothing would ever get read and your concern over our library is appreciated." The apology is dismissed and Amarik will lean against the railing, wine taken back to hand, "how have you been spending your time since you joined us Misha? You're enjoying the Hold?"

Wheelll. By day, she is the mild-mannered, smart-assed librarian that amuses much of the hold, and by night she dresses up and wanders the dank alleyways and viscious streets of the worst part of Boll, playing cards, drinking and gambling and gathering information. Misha studies him, as if this is not an easy question, before she finally responds with a simple, "Yes. Yes, I am. The library work, it's interesting. Love the old man Harper in there, and most of the patrons are commendable in their concern and attention to getting the books back in time." One might wonder how many Secrets and Favors the librarian has accrued, really, with that statement. "Lovely Hold, really. My compliments to the cook."

Amarik would wonder that, but would never underguess the abilities of anyone who spends their days amassing knowledge. His gaze studies the woman intently for a moment before it softens to a smile, "Ah yes. Well he's earned his respite from overtaxing duties and that's where you come in." A tilt of his head wonders, "no hobbies to keep you busy besides all that. Swimming, sailing, long evenings spent chatting with the weavers while they knit?" Amarik paints, and flies off to Fort Weyr at every opportunity.

"Oh. I read and... Listen to gossip, here and there." Mostly there. "Have some interest in clothes, yes." Men's, bulky, dirty. "Do a little navigation, trying to learn the lay of the town." ... Most of its bad areas, anyway. She tries to think if that sounds like it fills up much time, "And I have an interest in acting. Yes. Yourself?"

"Acting? Really!" Amarik will be intrigued, bottom lip pushing out in acquiesed interest. "You'll have to do something for the next gather. His fingers will curl around the porch's railing as he settles back, "Myself? Oh some painting and sketching mostly." He's done his own investigations on occasion. "Reading when I get the chance," Spying and nearly getting himself killed. "Some sword play." Ditto on the getting killed part, though he doesn't like to talk about that. "Helping out Marry when I get the chance to." Ie. tormenting his brother and keeping him humble so that in fact, the history in the book about Fax won't be repeated. "Working as an amabassador of sorts." That would making love to weyrwomen, well one.

"I did, last Gather." Misha returns with a grin. "No one asked for an encore. I'd have to think pretty hard on that, m'lord." She nods. "Poetry. But I haven't done much of that lately. What do you paint?" Please don't say nekkid Weyrwoman. Misha doesn't want to think that, even. "And what sort of projects do you help Lord Marryn out with?" Let's just get right off the topic of acting, yes sirrreee.

There is only one picture of Fort's Weyrwoman naked and Amarik will not reveal that either and it's currently in her possession. Honestly, do you think he wants Mom to stumble across that! Has she met Lady Auryn? The wine glass is drained. After the decanter is fetched from the table near his original resting spot, "Wine Misha?" There is a second glass as standard on the tray, "Ah yes, I vaguely remember that." A shrug of his shoulders and he returns to his position on the rail, "landscapes, people, whatever strikes my fancy. I sit and often act for him with the Holder's councils, hear the complaints, find common solutions." Marryn makes the decisions on things that cannot be resolved, but the drier stuff Amarik helps out on. "Some hidework, records, notes, inventories, tithes. A little bit of everything I suppose." The newly filled glass of wine is lifted but held in waiting to see if she takes one herself. "What group have you found to continue acting with?"

Misha shakes her head at the wine, or perhaps the group, "No thank you, m'lord. And no group. I just like to study it, watch it. Intrigues me, that grown men and women -- Harper-trained and all -- get paid to play Pretend, in front of others. But of course a disciplined pretend. And those watching, are moved to emotion. It is... In fact, very much like Harpering, but then there's the acting that is more impromptu, like children. Less watched and not paid. But all, interesting to study."

Amarik nods, his interest not waning but climbing, "You'll have to take me one day. Show me what you mean as it sounds quite fascinating." His own son is nearing the age where play becomes the impetus to learn and practice new things and Amarik is intrigued.

As soon as Between becomes a warm and fuzzy place, Misha will be sure to do that, Amarik. "Oh. Of course. That'd be grand." Look! See? She's acting. Misha straightens, finally, and glances down at the volumes, to collect them. "We'll definately have to arrange a time to do that, yes." She piles volume atop volume and glances at the oilcloth, sodden now, and picks it up as well. Waste not want not. "I do think I have to be getting back, though. Have a meeting that just about slipped my mind, and I'd hate to keep him waiting." She does tend to cultivate this idea, around the hold, that Misha /might/ have a gentleman friend on the side. "By your leave, m'lord?"

Amarik will nod, "Yes of course Misha. Have a lovely evening." He will remain and spend the quiet moments of the evening in thought.

Darts!

2008-11-06T08:26:18Z

Amarik gambles Southern Boll away to Fort Weyr!

You head through some ornate doors and find Fort's turned a small storage area into a little gaming room.
Game Room
Fairly small, packed with distractions, Fort's new game room is still getting stocked with intersting things to do.
You see Fort Darts and Fort Chess here.
R'ish, Avarra, and Nomi are here.
Obvious exits:
Lower Caverns

Nomi is standing near R'ish looking about to throw a dart at the board... upon which appears to be a cartoon of the Weyrleader's head. They're in quiet discourse with a hobbled Candidate. Perhaps they keep them like that so they can't get away.

It mightn't be a bad idea, considering the rumours about Fort. But nonetheless, Amarik strides into the room rather purposefully, apparently having been misdirected by someone and now finding himself in unfamiliar Fort Weyr territory. Amber eyes sweep across the room. It's been a while and so he rather misses identifying his cousin, but his beard will twitch, "Tai?" He's on the hunt for a goldrider.

Avarra looks immensely relieved as both women seem to agree not to turn her in for hiding. That settled she turns back to the food spread on the table and snatches more cheese. Really, where did this stuff come from?? She's going to start squeaking soon at this rate. A drink is needed though so she eyes the skin despite R'ish's warning and hefts it testingly, glancing aside to see if anyone protests. "Thera?" she echoes, finding herself addressed again. "Um, nope, don't think so. And no, it's not broken - just sprained. I fell backwards into a wall. Just hurt like a blasted shell is all." The dart board dcor raises a chuckle, then green eyes shift toward the entrance as another new voice speaks up.

R'ish smirks over at Nomi. "Looks like I'll be throwing with my bad arm for this one." R'ish says with a smirk as Nomi's dart goes wild. Amarik's arrival captures her attention for the moment, though she just looks at him briefly before turning back to the others. She's not seen Tai in a long while. Though she will speak to him. "I'm not sure where she is.." She'll say to the man. As for Nomi's questions R'ish will shake her head. "Nope, nor am I. That'll be difficult." R'ish says. "I can't say I'm looking forward to it." Al will be wanting to go.. R'ish will be wanting to go.. It's not going to be nice.

Rayosia arrives from the caverns.

Nomi does the hand gestures that go along with Thera being about "This tall, and this wide, with dark hair.... nevermind. Sidijith can find her." And her wayward weyrmate. "That's good that its not broken." The rodent-esque Candidate is suddenly forgotten though, and even R'ish's injuries and trouble are left uncommented. "Amarik?" The Bollian finds a goldrider, but not the one he was searching for. "Cousin!" Nomi forgets she's still got two more darts in her hands and turns to get a better look at the boy... no, not a boy anymore.

Offering a short if frustrated sigh at the lack of finding Tai and his son, Amarik nods courteously at R'ish and Avarra. The goldrider found though is a pleasant surprise and does much to temper his pique. "Cinnamon stick?" He turns his attention and the jaw drop of surprise turns quickly to a grin, teeth flashing between moustache and beard. Arms are offered, although the darts will no doubt find much more appreciation aimed in other directions then upon him, "Last news Marry mentioned had you ... away?"

Nomi hugs her much-improved (ie:older and handsomer) cousin long enough to threaten him with a whisper in the ear -- and those darts seem very very close to the skin. "Don't ask." Nomi says this in such a way that it is both charming and entirely serious at the same time. She'll back up and regard him, tip to toes, and grin again. "I've seen your son, by the way. He looks like a Barlord." That may or may not be a good thing. Then the little Weyrwoman turns to the greenrider as well, "Your ride, m'lord Amarik?"

Oh, you just know Avarra can't help but grin at /that/ greeting. Nomi's alias is filed away for future reference. Now who has some explaining to do? Green gaze switches between the two, waiting for introductions, and widens slightly at not only the reference to the man's title but that there's yet another striking new arrival behind him. Cheese anyone?

R'ish chuckles. "Maybe we'll save darts for later. When My arm is improved and you're not..." Though she'll trail off as Nomi seems drawn to this new arrival. She'll eye the man briefly though settle back into her chair. She'll peer at the new arrivals.. and then over at Avarra who.. has her skin.. "Oi!" She'll reach out for it. "That's.. not for you. I'd share, really but.. You don't want to drink any of this." She'll smile softly and try and take the skin back.

Avarra hugs the skin as R'ish notices she has it. Shards! Didn't get it wrapped in the folds of her ridiculously too-big shirt well enough! Reluctantly she hands it back to the brownrider, still looking hopeful. "Why not? I've had some pretty strong stuff, ya know. I'm sure I can handle it." Aw, can you resist that green-eyed puppy-dog look? "Just a taste?" Sure candidates aren't supposed to drink but she isn't supposed to be here anyway so might as well! Right?

Greenrider? Oh right, that's her. Rayosia steps off to the side of the entrance to get out of the way, preventing anyone from bowling into her - or from her running into anyone on their way out. She clearly gave a hapless look around, peering at Nomi only for a split second before her eyes turn down - though was that a nod if it needed to be...

Nomi will get a nod. He won't ask then, though Amarik's gaze remains curious and concerned up until the point of mention of his son, and a smile splits his face again. "He looks like me!" Nothing like a proud father to strut around and beat his chest, "He's wonderful. Brilliant too." Also like his father, but Amarik is modest. Turning to the crowd he wrinkles his nose, "just Amarik or Rik if you prefer. M'lord means you'd have to off my brother and I reserve that complete right for when he annoys me." Which is daily usually. Gregarious greeting for relatives is tempered to polite interest. The greenrider is turned and smiled at, "No, but I would have been delighted too. I came on our Blue. You need to retire him soon though. We did pit stops at Keroon and Ista. He's getting a little confused."

Nomi breaks off the reunion with her foster-family long enough to play weyrwoman for a minute. "No this you won't, Avarra." Not Candidate, not in here, not rank pulled out like taffy and used to stick her to her place, no, Nomi gives her a name but puts any stop to her sharing the brownrider's laced drink. R'ish has earned to right to drink whatever by Rukbat she wants. Nomi will not have risk what few braincells Candidates share between them on fellis'd wine. Back to Amarik and the greenrider whom Nomi should know but can't seem to summon up a name until, "Rayosia isn't it? Come in, come in. /You/ can share whatever it is R'ish is consuming today if she'll let you." To Amarik, "Yes yes yes. Brilliant and wonderful and clever and wise, all at the same time." Nomi grants anyone a title that might be Holder, one day, but will indulge him in this. "Amarik then." She'll look concerned at the blue, "Its still Aikanth and Troy?"

R'ish shakes her head and wiggles her fingers for it, taking it when it's handed back. R'ish can resist those eyes pretty well. Especially in this case. "It's not the alcohol in it that I'm worried about." She'll say.. as she herself takes a pull from it. She won't be responsible for getting a Candidate addicted to Fellis. And when Nomi backs her up.. R'ish will nod at Avarra. "What she said.... er What the Weyrwoman said!" Yes.. see. Though she'll arch an eyebrow as Nomi grants others the right to share her wine. Now she'll have to or else look stingy and unfriendly. Nggh.

Avarra pouts again, arms firmly recrossing her chest. Looking like a honey-topped marshmallow stuck on toothpick legs she leans quietly against the table for a few moments longer, listening as names are given and filing them away. Runner habits die hard. You never know when the odd message will need to be delivered so she always tries to remember names and faces. But with cheese consumed and nothing to wash it down she quickly decides to seek sustenance elsewhere. Pushing off the table she gathers the one lone crutch she brought with her and once again braces it under her arm to support a thoroughly bandaged foot. "Well, it's past quitting time now so probably safe to attempt an escape. Good night." A quick salute is given the riders, a nod the visiting lordling-in-denial, and she's off at a decent paced wobble.

"Saironth and Kr'lin" Amarik responds to Nomi, though he will be diplomatic and keep a straight expression. "Marryn was using Thera and hers for a while, but..." and his eyebrow lifts at how that turned out. To the assembly he does offer, "I brought some of Boll's best." Because that's all Fort drinks right? None of this traiterous smuggling in of Benden or other weaker attempts. His smile transfers to Avarra and R'ish, "ahh a candidate. Good advice that. Stay away from the Fellis."

"Yes," comes a stiff word from Rayo in response to Nomi, clearly out of her element in the room of people she doesn't know - other than in passing of course. It seems she's almost fidgeting close towards the door as if second guessing her own arrival in the room. Yet, curiosity takes the best of her as she regards all the faces in turn, taking a special interest in Amarik as he speaks of his ride in. But that's it, for now, she looks completely odd in the surrounding of the game room - unable to really approach the reason she came without looking silly for doing it.

Nomi likes Amarik even more. "You always know what to bring, 'Rik. Find us a table and let the lovely R'ish and Rayosia entertain you a minute while I attend to something?" She's going to try and find Taini, yes, among other things she was supposed to be doing. "We're trying out the old dart board..." Nomi has the look of someone who, like Avarra, is about to exit the games, but her radar picks up signals from the greenrider enough that she'll stay a few minutes more... 'course her radar could be really off and Rayosia's trying to conduct business with someone else. "Does anyone else want anything? Klah? Nibbles?"

R'ish can't help it.. Her eyes move to Rayosia and she gives the woman the obligatory look over. A small smirk pulling at a corner of her lips. She'll watch the woman for a moment.. watch her and her fidgeting. She can't help it.. she really really can't. Her head tilts slightly as she does this. Though Nomi's intent to attend to something else catches her attention away from the greenrider and R'ish herself rises, if slowly. "Actually, pardon my rudeness.. there are a few things that I should attend to myself. If you'll forgive me." Not that she wouldn't like to sample some of the treats the man has brought along with him. Though she'll wait a moment longer as not to seem /too/ rude. That.. and she intends to follow Nomi out, the brownrider has a few questions for the Weyrwoman.

Rayo's eyes snap up at the mention of the dart board, her gaze sweeping quickly to see where the old thing apparently hangs. Meanwhile, she's trying to ignore the strange look she gets from R'ish. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Flinch. This is when she has it in her enough to move away from the wall, at least a few steps, before inquiring to those there, as if it were almost out of order for her to even do so: "Could... Could I try it? The dart board?" She's not known to often dwell far from her private weyr, other than for the basic needs or to visit the garden - so clearly she's uncomfortable in a social setting outside of what duty requires of her. That or her safeguard (N'ic) isn't around to get her around that hump. She does find herself shaking her head politely at Nomi's inquiry if anyone needed anything, gnawing on her lip though as she once more regards the dart board, waiting for someone to give her the ok to try it.

Amarik grins, eyebrows dancing as he glances at the dart board, "Anyone winning? And what are the stakes?" His brother might not be pleased if Amarik games away the Hold, but he has some interest and skill. Bitran blood parboils against the Bollian influence. "I could throw a round or two before finding Tai and Tarik." The offer is gently made he shakes his head at Nomi. Nope, no nibblies needed here. R'ish just gets a curious look in return.

Nomi grins -- carefully -- and keeps her voice at a respectable level. She talks softly to Rayosia like a stablehand to a runner, the darts she holds (2 blue ones) offered up on her open palm like carrot sticks... albeit oddly colored ones. "Here, you take my place and play R'ish. Just don't be surprised if you lose." She'll back away and then give Amarik a mock-punch onto his shoulder. "Be a good boy, 'Rik, and don't skin my Riders? We're short enough on marks as it is. I shouldn't be long."

Nomi will, in fact, be hours, but she's the weyrwoman, she's allowed to claim Busy and disappear.

R'ish glances over at Nomi and presses her lips together. Then turns to look at Amarik and Rayosia. "I would love to play.. Though I really do have a few things that I need to attend to." She'll offer a respectful nod of her head to Amarik and a rather pleasant smile to Rayosia. "But.. I would love to play you some other time." She says to the woman. "My darts are over on the board, if you two wish to play. Again I apologize for running out on you." She'll take her wineskin then and head for the door... after Nomi.

"Ow!" Something that little has a rather hard whallop and despite his attempt at feigning innocent, Amarik simply grins at Nomi. "I am a good boy Cinnamon. I'm dating one of your riders and populating your weyr." Boll supports Fort in more then tithes! A wave will follow her out before he turns back to the remaining participants, eyebrow arching towards R'ish, "Are you that good?" When she indicates her own exit, his attention returns to the greenrider, "I believe we've chased them all away." A twinkle in his amber gaze and he'll lean in close (but not overly) "anything stuck between my teeth I should know about?"

Rayo takes the offered carrot sticks - er, darts - with a quick smile flashed at Nomi and a bobble head for added thanks. Her lips hang open as if to protest the apologies so quickly handed out, her eyes showing confusement as R'ish heads out with a promise to play again. Rayo blinks down at the darts in her hand, shaking her head and peering back over her shoulder as if those who just left were ... different. Side glancing at Amarik, she considers too his words, "Really, I don't want to put anyone out tonight. I... I'm good to try it on my own." Her lips bunch up together, her fingers closing around the darts as she steps toward the dart board. She stares next at Amarik when he leans in close, and in return she lifts her finger, "Right there I think. It's kind of nasty actually--" though, with the glint in her own eye, it was clearly a tease as her lips pulled up in a quiet smile.

"Really?" Amarik will wipe at his teeth with mock severity despite the tease, "must remember to fire the cook." Taking a step backwards his arm sweeps towards the board, "It's been awhile, what say we both practice and learn together?"

You erase the scores on the dartboard.
You have started a new game.
You carefully take aim at the board, then throw.

Amarik's dart sinks squarely into the brown ring.

Rayosia can't help but snicker as she shuffles over toward the line behind which they're supposed to stand, "OH I wouldn't do that. You just have to make sure you scrub your teeth before you talk to a bunch of women." She considers the dart board with a nod, "I'd be up for a practice. Though I know a bit of how this all works."

Rayosia takes aim then flicks her dart at the board.

Rayosia's dart flies towards the board.

Rayosia scores a gold!

Amarik snorts and his eyes narrow briefly, "Just a bit?" he responds rather dryly, double blinking as Rayosia's dart lands in gold. "Well then, we shall just have to see." Sleeves are rolled up and he swaggers up to the line and assumes a competitive pose. "Shall we play for stakes?"

Rayosia steps back to allow him room, keeping her grin from getting too big on her face at his astonishment. Pinning a strand of hair behind an ear, she rests her head at a tilt to watch him with his sleeves and take on that competitive stance. Her voice is louder now, that the crowds have gone off. She's much easier going with a few people around than in a crowd. "What did you have in mind?" Her finger rolling over the feathered end of the one dart left in her palm.

Amarik will consider this thoughtfully, "Good Bollian wine? All the redfruit you can eat?" Course the weyr probably gets those in tithes as well. Lean shoulders will shrug as he shifts his position, "the hospitality of Boll? Anything in particular you want?" As to what she can offer, this too is considered and he takes the easiest and obvious choice, "have dragon will travel."

"Flowers," she says neatly, as if without hesitation, "specifically white flowers. As many as you can get." Easy enough? She'll let him debate that while she leans over to grab ... there has to be some sort of munchie around? Cheese? That candidate from earlier had cheese, and so, Rayo scavenges whatever pieces remain. At least one piece pops into her mouth as her eyes drag down the man's form and right back up again, swallowing her chunk of cheese before she says with amusement hanging in her tone, "Don't trust Troy?" The hand with the dart slips across her chest to hold up her elbow so that she can nibble at the cube of cheese, "I suppose, if you win, I could do that for you.No problem. The stakes are set, then."

"Flowers," hmmph. Amarik mutters to himself, "shouldn't be too hard to come by. It being spring." He'll return the look from tip to top with a much more placid smile. "They are." He'd even spit and shake on it, but his mother would give birth to kittens. Amarik's foray into the world of riders being barely tolerated. Taking aim with a rocking motion he leans back on one foot and lets the dart fly.

You carefully take aim at the board, then throw.
Amarik's dart strikes the outer edge of the blue ring.

"Of course, they cannot be simply cut or picked--" she adds in with a sly twinkle in her eye, "they must be able to be potted. And a variety too. I don't want to be growing the same plant in twenty different pots." And then she nibbles some more as she watches the man poised for his throw, a brow lifting as she considers the set of his feet - cough. Feeling a little warmth in her cheeks, her eyes do lift in time to catch the man's throw. She smiles gently, "How long has it been since you've played?" She does say a little easier now, stepping up to take over, not wasting a moment in repositioning herself for a second throw - the first though of the game. She takes aim, shoulders brought back until with that same sort of rocking motion she rolls them forward and extends her arm... letting her dart fly.

Rayosia flicks her dart at the board.
Rayosia's dart flies towards the board.
Rayosia's dart strikes the edge of the board

Amarik manages a mocking 'so sorry' expression as her dart hits the edge of the board before he flashes the woman a smile, charming by all standards, if a little bushy. "A few days at least?" and he winks. "Potted. White. Plants." His chin nods, repeating to make sure he has the order. "I know a few locations out in the back fields that might yield something," he'll raise an eyebrow, "should I lose of course." His original stance is retained and he aims carefully. Pausing, poised on actually throwing. "I'm terribly sorry greenrider, I did not get your name? I'm Amarik." The the dart is let loose.

You carefully take aim at the board, then throw.
The dartboard shakes from the impact as Amarik's dart SLAMS deeply into the brown ring.

There is a little annoyance showed in her face - she really didn't count on the dart being skewed so much by the stance she had taken. Though she does catch his mockering, which causes her shoulders to shrug and a whisper to come out: "Oops." Shuffling back, she nods, "A few days? I should be able to get consent from the proper people, if that's what you wish - should you win." She adds in the last with another quiet smile that doesn't pull her lips apart. "It sounds odd, but it's a hobby of mine. It's something I've liked doing since I impressed," she says in regards to the plants, as she takes note of his stane again. Studious of the way he throws, she sucks in her breath as he scores on the brown ring, "That was luck--" she notes with a teasing tone, stepping up to the dart board to retreive some more darts. Upon her route back, she adds, "It's Rayosia. Rayo for short if you like." She nods at him, "Amarik. Pleasure, but, I am going to beat you." A little confidence as she sets herself up like him and throws her next dart.

Rayosia throws her dart at the board.
Rayosia's dart flies towards the board.
Rayosia scores a gold!

Amarik doubletakes on that one and he'll turn and look at Rayosia, "Beginner's luck?" Good humour quirks the corner of his mouth and he bows rather low, "Should I even bother to throw again after that last one?" This time he'll mimic /her/ stance. Not to full of himself to try to even the odds. "That's an interesting hobby? I sketch when I have the time," which these days is not as often as he would like. "Have you collected many then or perhaps I should ask when you impressed?"

You carefully take aim at the board, then throw.
Amarik frowns slightly as his dart scores a blue.

Rayosia claps her hand once as she turns a look toward him as if to say 'beat that mister.' Rolling her shoulder, she passes him a dart if he needs it, "You must throw again. I can't say I've beaten you if you forfeit." She encourages him on with a wave of her hand, finger pointed at the dart board. "To me it is," she says quietly, "it's relaxing. The smell with white flowers isn't as powerful as others, but more, ... how can I say this, less pungent... Refined." She lifts her brows at that, "I wish I would've known that sooner. Would've added a sketch to the stakes." She muses, a little bit saddened by his last, "I actually lost most of them recently. I was... going through a rough time personally, and didn't care for them well enough. The last bit of winter nipped the tropical ones."

Rayo also steps up when it's her turn, repositioning and throwing when she's steady.

Rayosia throws her dart at the board.
Rayosia's dart flies towards the board.
Rayosia's dart lands solidly in the blue ring.

Amarik scratches at his beard thoughtfully, "I'm afraid I hadn't noticed about the smell, but that's interesting." He'll have to test this idea out. Rather scientific in his bent, Amarik spends alot of time studying when not required to help his brother. Another arch of his brow and he'll file that away for future thought. A sympathetic glance and he nods, "Aye, that can make it difficult to focus on our hobbies. I'm sorry to hear that. I've had some rough patches to get through as well but the hobby was always there to fall back on." A quick grin, "keeps some of us sane." His final dart is delivered with more of a casual toss.

You carefully take aim at the board, then throw.
Amarik's dart scores a blue.
There is a scoreboard next to the dartboard:

"There is an exception though..." she murmurs about the flowers, "there's this certain cluster of small flowers that rise up in forested areas, or just on the outskirts of them. They appear like weeds all over and trust me, they /stink/ ... I didn't have them for long before I tossed them *between*." She shrugs however as she watches his last throw, wincing a little as the direction strays for the blue ring again, her face sympathetic because she knows she only has to match his throw to secure a win. However, the conversation isn't lost on her as she replies to the earlier sentiments before his throw, "It's fine. I'll get some more stock now that it's spring." She considers him for a much longer period as she questions, stepping up to the plate, "What sort of sketching do you do? I mean, what subjects do you usually sketch?" She takes a moment then aims another dart and throws.

Rayosia takes aim then flicks her dart at the board.
Rayosia's dart flies towards the board.
Rayosia frowns slightly as her dart scores a blue.

There is a scoreboard next to the dartboard:
                                   Round: 6
Player                    Score                      Round
------------              -----                      -----
Amarik                    120                        5
Rayosia                   140                        5

There's a small flourish as Amarik bows to Rayosia's win of the game, accepting the defeat. "I shall have to go home and practice diligently I think." The tone is a little chagrined and as he straightens he shrugs. "Scenery, family. I've been trying to sketch my son." He'll make shakey and squirmy motions with he hands and chuckle fondly, "only he wriggles a little too much that I end up giving him a beard and a moustache not unlike my own. I think I'll have to wait for a while. At least until he can hold his own head up." The board is eyed again and he'll nod decisively, "white flowers for pots that don't stink. I'll send them on the next tithe train. Will that do?" He assumed sending them adragonback will cause them to freeze.

"It would be wise," she notes as she regards the dart board, saying in after thought, "Though you didn't lose by much, so I might have to brush up too." Her fingers push back her hair over her shoulder, movement halted only once as she hears of his son. Why wouldn't he have one? Yet again, a smile that is barely there shows on her face, "Or you could leave them on your sketches, so that people know he's your son when they see the drawing?" A light laughter, though short, is pleasant to the room. With a shake of her head, she gives the ok for the items to be brought by tithe train, "I could give you a lift back to your .. Hold if you wanted? If you had to leave today.. tonight."

Amarik will shake his head, mouth twitching with laughter at the suggestion. "I might just do that." To hear him speak of his son, the baby is a genius in accomplishing the simple act of spitting up. Moving to clear the evidence... er score board, he pauses and glances back. "No, that's not necessary, but I thank you for the offer. I'll be staying the night and possibly two here at the Weyr. I've some errands to run on behalf of Marry and with the conclave looming ahead, i'll take whatever time I can to see Tarik." The darts are tucked away for the next user, "You however are more then welcome to stop by Boll and check my collection progress." The smile parts to flash teeth again and Amarik dusts hands off on trousers, "as to now, unfortunately I should track down my cousin and see where she found. It was nice meeting you Rayosia. Clear skies?"

Rayo decides to sneak one of the last pieces of cheese that was left behind, rolling the cube in her fingers as she listens to Amarik - an added snickering for his quick removal of the evidence. She turns to nibbling again, nodding as he explains in depth why he could not accept. "Certainly a no thank you, would've done?" She tilts her head, "It's not like I actually.. pay attention to all that stuff." And why should she? She's but a greenrider. Though she does stumble for some sort of apology even so, "Sorry, I let my mouth run away with me. I didn't mean... any offense." Clearly, as she looks abashed and crams in the piece of cheese to stall her from saying another word. In the end, she bobs her head to his offer, finishing up that cube of cheese to speak: "As it was you. Enjoy your evening."

Noogies and news!

2008-10-28T06:11:00Z

OOC: What started as an OOC noogie quickly turned into an IC one. We just went with it (because grown men stick their fingers in each other's ears all the time, right? Okay, maybe not - but they beat their chests and grunt on occasion! I'm sure it's in the rule book.) Fun!

Residential Hallway
This long hallway runs the length of the hold from north to south. All the living quarters of the residents and staff of the hold lie off of it. A thick red carpeting and mostly covered glow-baskets give it a somewhat somber atmosphere. A metal nameplate on each door identifies the residents beyond it.
To see a list of residents living in this hall, type 'dir'.
Marryn is here.
Obvious exits:
Down/Garden Hall Dormitory Up/Drumheights

Amarik tackles his big brother, pins him to the floor and gives him a noogie.

Marryn laughs and rolls for a sneak-attack pin!

Amarik uses his arm and curls it round his brother's neck and then licking his finger, sticks it in Marry's ear for a wet willy to end all wet willies. "Where have you been all my life beautiful.... Oh wait, you're not Taini?" He'll feign surprise and stick out that bottom lip, amber flecked gaze trumping the copper one in amusement.
Marryn roars like a bear and rears backward. Amarik better have a really good hold because he turns like a top trying to toss the slightly smaller man off. "You. Are. A. Dead. Man!!" Marryn informs him with a growl, backing up to the nearest wall. "Taini will have to find another lover to warm her bed."

Marryn roars like a bear and rears backward. Amarik better have a really good hold because he turns like a top trying to toss the slightly smaller man off. "You. Are. A. Dead. Man!!" Marryn informs him with a growl, backing up to the nearest wall. "Taini will have to find another lover to warm her bed."

Amarik is in such a good mood that he's probably okay with that. "No one can make babies like I can make babies Marry. " The younger man crows at his brother, totally disregarding the threat. Cocking his head to the side he debates, "she might object to that you know and then you'd have to up the tithe to Fort and that would mean paperwork and more meetings, and some negotiations and lots of time on the runner trails and..." Honestly, Is it truly worth the effort? He'll bear hug his brother before patting the top of his head, "You ever feel //good// Marry. Just plain old, dance on top of the wagon, kiss the harper lass, life is great - good?"

Marryn leans back hard, pressing Amarik between himself and the wall hoping to loosen the wiggly-worm's hold. The pat on the head merely heightens his scowl, amusement still scarce after that fierce wet willy but /perhaps/ looming on the horizon. "She probably wouldn't even notice. Plenty of bronzers up there to keep her company." Usually he wouldn't even try to distract his brother with emotional tactics but since attaching himself to the goldrider Amarik has been full of surprises. "You're not going to feel so good in about two seconds!" Muscles tense and bunch across his back and along his arms as he tries to break the younger man's grip around his neck.

Amarik is exceedingly pragmatic and practical even in his excessive spirits at the moment. "That's very true brother, but she picked me first." Perhaps a shadow crosses that gaze though - the inevitable or eventuality forcing for a man who really doesn't want to share. Jaw set with determination though he continues to smile gleaming teeth out of that furry face. "You could cover me in oil and set me on fire and I'd still feel good." This is avowed with conviction and he'll suddenly release the other man. Tactical error perhaps but there's a quieter assessment at play here, spiced with worry. "You didn't answer my question brother?"

Marryn whirls the instant pressure is released and slams his palm against the other man's chest, fingers curling into his shirt as he is shoved back against the wall. A solid thunk greets the connection, though its obvious to someone who knows him as well as his brother that he isn't using nearly the strength he has available. Thick brows furrow as Marryn looms close and gets his first good look at his sibling's face. "Just what are you grinning like that for? You look like a wherryheaded fool who woke up with a death wish today and doesn't even know it!"

Amarik spent a morning with his son and his mother. He's happy and his face, for the most part, stays that was as he's thudded into the wall. An 'ooof' stealing the breath from him so he's forced to shrug helplessly. His brother may have the strength on him, but he allows the man to use it. After a moment he wheezes, "You on the otherhand look far from it. What's wrong?" Alright, so maybe it's been a good few years since they wrestled, but Amarik needs to get back into practice. He's got a legacy to pass on in teaching his son how to torment his cousin.

"Nothing's wrong with me other than I don't like getting someone's slobber all shoved up in my ear," Marryn snorts, dropping his hand then instantly lifting it to shove the side of Amarik's head. "And if you didn't look so sharding happy I'd hang you from the fireheights by your underwear. So what's up?" Narrowed gaze threatens dire circumstances if it isn't something monumentally worthy of taking one's life into one's hands.

Amarik's own smile continues to grow wider and wider, teeth gleaming and the little hairs of his bear twitching in near glee. "Tarik smiled at me." Really it was probably gas, but this Dad's interpreting it how he wants to. This outstanding news is delivered in tones that suggest his son is a blooming genius, will single handedly remove the threat of thread from the world and reform the economic system, not to mention solve unsightly wherhide chaffing. Important stuff.

Those dipped brows do an about-face and rise to disappear behind long-ish bangs instead. "I see," he drawls, arms crossing. The urge to downplay the news nearly wins out but as he observes that distict look of utter pride on his brother's face his own experiences as a new father - twice! - take over instead. "I'm sure he was calculating some mathimatical equation or somesuch," he suggests with a slight grin. "He'd not be your son otherwise." Tilting his head he gives it a shake and lifts his shoulder to nudge against his ear. Sharding Amarik! "Couldn't just tell me, could ya? I have some news to tell you as well so does that mean I get to plant a good one in your ear?"

Amarik chuckles and just nods, a little like a loon, but he's been on a high for days and it just gets higher. Course the schedule they've got worked out doesn't really give him the burden of babycare, so Taini may have an entirely different opinion on the matter. Turning his head just a little presenting his ear and laughs, "Tell me your news and plant it right there. I need a good wax clearing."

Marryn frowns at that, grumbling something about Amarik haveing been adopted. His chin tilts downward, dark eyes narrowing at his sibling whose features resemble his own enough that there could never be any doubt they are brothers. "Alright, but I'm starting to wonder if it's fair to foster you off on yet another niece or nephew."

Of good and over abundant cheer, it takes Amarik a moment to figure out what his brother is saying and then his eyes twinkle with a grin. "You're just jealous cause you son thinks I give the best runner rides ever."

"What? He does not!" Marryn protests, eyeing Amarik closer. A shove is directed at the other man's shoulder and he relents with a bit more detail. "Aeroulyn came and told me the other day. She's moved back into her old room." Amusement slips to the sidelines for a moment as his expression grows more serious. "I'm going to make sure she stays this time."

Amarik grins, "Congratulations Marry." Really they should beat their chests or something. They own the word virility! "Between us we're going to populate hold, hall and weyr!" His arm will clasp around his brother's shoulder. "Let me buy you a drink," and do what men in these situations do. Boast and get silly!

Without ship, whip or firelizard!

2008-08-01T19:28:29Z

Amarik finds Vyune at The Broken Staircase

The sultry Istan atmosphere slows the fall of afternoon towards evening, creating a liquid, golden sense of time that seems to stretch on forever. In the language of taverns it's known as happy hour, when alcohol helps the workaday world slip away into something far more gentle and relaxing. A contented hum fills the Staircase at such a time, and for once Vyune does nothing to interrupt the flow of drink and conversation. She's behaving herself admirably, stepping away from grabby hands and topping off emptied mugs without protest or plaint.

Cautious and wind blown from a precarious ride atop the Bollian watchdragon, who should have retired a pass or two ago, Amarik pauses just inside the entrance to scan the patrons of the establishment enjoying the Happy Hour. They are really his secondary concern and his attention halts across the familiar server though his expression stays neutral. Fingers thread walnut waves back into some semblance of order and then he moves towards a free table, taking the seat that enables him to watch the room with hooded amber eyes and wait.

The addition of one more body to the milling throng means little to Vyune, save that a new body more often than not means a new drink. Betwixt Boll's younger son and his inadvertent Nemesis lie enough thirsty men to delay Vyune's arrival at the table (small, and out of the way - the sort of table to be eschewed until the room's nearly full). Arrive, ultimately, she does - alighting only briefly, like a vtol with flyaway hair and a fist full of empty mugs. "Welcome ta th' Staircase, sirrah. What kin I be--" When her eyes alight as well, the words stop in her throat.

Amarik has enough contacts to have figured out where she was once she was remembered and remembered she has indeed been, so his expression is not one of surprise. However, often what we play out in our heads does not seem to play out in words. He tracks her movements across the crowded room in short glances and now she is here, and clearing throat his hand rises to stroke beard and he nods, "an Ale if you please... Vyune." The name slips out higher then the normal basso tenor might allow but there it is, revealed.

The column of her throat flexes and hollows as Vyune swallows hard. "Aye, m'lord." She's swift to bob a curtsey, relief hovering at the periphery of her expression and then concealed in her about-face. If a drink will placate him, then a drink he shall have. She cleaves through the crowd once more with greater swiftness than that with which she arrived. The empty mugs find a new home in the hands of the other maid on duty, while she herself draws a fresh tankard of Ista's own crisp wheaten brew. Foam flirts with the pewter lip but does not spill on the return trek, nor as she carefully nestles it to rest before Amarik. Again she curtseys and makes as if to turn away.

"Stay!" That one word slips from Amarik's lips softly as he watches her return. "I'll do you no ill and perhaps we have things to discuss?" Shadows form about the crinkles of his eyes but they are neither sinister or grievous, replaced perhaps by other memories, no less disquieting but that are not tortuous, "I believe I owe you an apology." His fingers drop to thread through the handle of the mug but he does not drink.

Vyune engages in a strange compilation of blink and blanch, but as Amarik makes no move to touch her, she remains indeed. A furtive glance from side to side proves that she's got a moment's breathing room. One hand, small and scarred and calloused, yanks out the chair opposite the lordling to allow herself a moment's respite for her feet. No permission asked - but then, no gaze met, either. She dodges the face of those memories. "Ye owe me nothin', m'lord. I know I'm only walkin' 'bout now 'cause ye don't see a reason ta toss me in th' brig."

Amarik's eyebrows rise in some sense of amusement that has nothing to do with her statement though he will sigh and takes the moment to taste the ale, wiping the foam that clings to his moustache with the back of his hand. "No, that won't happen Vyune and not just because of... Ben, but before, I mean after." A short sigh of frustration, "I suspected but I've decided I was wrong." He sounds assured in that conviction at least, though the irritation at the awkwardness of his speech may show through.

Vyune does not track his expression while he talks, feigning greater interest in stretching the tendons in her lower legs with slow flexes and rotations of her ankles. Nor does she guard her own reactions. At the insinuation of their shared lust the smoldering almond eyes jerk up involuntarily and showcase the spurt of heat that sears down her spine at the memory. She drops her gaze almost immediately but a flush lingers, tinting the gold of her cheeks. The flat, weary tone of her voice jars incongrously. "Aye, ye were wrong - but a Turn earlier and ye wouldn't ha' been. It don't make no nevermind, m'lord. Been a thousand folk wrong afore ye, an' there'll be a thousand after, an' even iff'n everybody's right, somebody's still goin' ta be hurt, like as not."

The fingers curled in the handle of the ale move the mug in slow circles, the sound of tankard against wood drawing out even in the relatively noisy room. Amarik's hair moves first as he nods to her statement, dipping low across his brow, but the heat is caught and returned as briefly through a swallow and the jerk from something that awakens within. "It matters. Doesn't time offer redemption, even in part, for some?" Focusing his gaze more squarely on her he wonders again, "and pain reminds us that we live, breath, beyond more then just being."

"An' did I say that pain were always so bad, then?" The ardor earlier dodged she embraces for this moment; Vyune lifts her chin and catches his look full on, her wide lips parting in a smile gamine and a little cruel to show the small ivory teeth of which he knows the exact sharpness. Torrid tumult surges in her blood, the sting of the whip innate to her character far more believably than the near-tender maternalism that has come to rule her of late, but redemption has no place in her dictionary as of yet and the passion crashes. "R'demption? Ye be askin' th' wrong shell 'bout that, m'lord." Deadened, she shakes her head from side to side, once. "Iff'n ye've come t' me fer it, I don't know what I'm ta tell ye. I ain't wronged by you, s'far 's I ken, an' iff'n I am, I don't feel it. No harm done." She won't damn him - not that way, at least.

Amarik will sit back, shaking his head to echo the denial forming on his lips, "I didn't come for it and I don't offer it. I don't have that right." His fingers slip from the glass and they drum for a moment on the table while the amber gaze slips to the Smith drooling in the corner, "You find it yourself." The full extent of the unknowing, that draw, reflects in his expession as he returns to look at her; frustration, the echo of desire, the lingering remnants of lust and something more look at her in a confused pallate of emotions. "I don't know why I came. I wanted to, no, I needed to." A half smile of irony will grow as mobile brows light upwards briefly, feral intensity well cloaked within the mask of propriety, breeding and privilege, "it's not bad, no." Perhaps he wants the damning, at least from her.

Vyune's lips part again, though this time it's confusion that drops her jaw slightly and leaves a wondering 'oh' upon a mouth he might find hauntingly plush now that it's not pressed into a tight line. Both feet find firm floor again to provide enough stability for her forward lean, head canted and eyes baffled. "Ye needed to... what?" If he isn't certain what he's here for, she's absolutely without a clue.

"Speak with you without ship or whip?" Amarik muses back candidly and perhaps bluntly, "without firelizard or fear?" Or perhaps with all those things and inspite of them. "Find you, because you pull me for faranth knows whatever reason and that's intoxicating and I need to know?" Really, he has no idea and maybe he's here to be sent away so that he doesn't need to know.

Vyune indulges in a long, slow blink generally reserved for members of the feline family. Her thoughts, scattered like hens surprised by a fox, scramble to regroup into some semblance of understanding. Eventually she props her chin on her palm and lowers the dark curtain of her lashes to near-closed, peering at the man across from her through shallow cinnamon slits. "Aye. Well. No ships 'ere, an' no whips, far's I ken." Her other hand waves around to demonstrate this lack. "We don't 'low 'lizards in th' 'Case, neither. An' fear... well, ye'll fergive iff'n I don't think yer fearin' me. So." Fingertips fall to the tabletop and drum once. "Speak."

Amarik starts to laugh and in the middle heaves a sigh so that he's half choking. Taking a moment he rubs his hand along his jaw, bristling the beard, "I deserve that I suppose," and his grin lingers. Restless, he shifts forwards and leans against his forearms, "is it that easy? String words together prettily and I draw you in? I'm not my brother... I don't woo... or I can't..." Beneath the beard his skin flushes perhaps with realizaton and suddenly the words trail off and sobering, Amarik suddenly stands. Offering her a cordial nod but looking more then a little ashamed, "My apologies Vyune. I shouldn't be bothering you. This is hardly trade negotiations and I should not expect nor should I wish you to feel... you're a lovely woman, you deserve happiness and health."

Mouth and eyes go wide at once and as the Bollian stands, Vyune's face tilts up to follow the motion. "Draw me in? Happiness an' health?" It's difficult to tell which notion she finds the more incredulous: that he'd seek to entice her, or that he actually considers her lovely and worthy of a fine life. The desire to believe is there, stretched into the earnestness of her gaze, the faint spark of hope that's kindled deep within the sooted confines of her eyes. The clatter of a mug to the floor three tables away provides a dose of reality, bitter salvation at best. The woman swallows hard and despite it her low voice comes throatier than usual. "Nay, I don't - lissen, m'lord. Am.. Amarik?" Anxious at the naming, as if she mightn't have it right. "O'er at th' Weyr, t'was..." Heat floods her cheeks, turns them damask. "'S been long, an' I'd enjoyed it. It ain't done, from what I hear tell, among th' Holder ladies." Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, both nervous and lascivious. "But I ain't a Holder lady, no matter iff'n I were tryin' me hardest at it." Eyes and words skitter away but the blush lingers, along with the ambiguity of her confession.

Looking down, his gaze matches her in incredulity for but a moment and Amarik frowns, mobile brows drawing down over the amber in his eyes, darkening it. "You enjoyed it?" He reacts with a jolt and then smiles confession in that rather simple, "so did I," and the desire is there flaring blatant for a moment before controlled. Pressing fingers against the wood of the table, he leans down closer, voice lowering, "does it matter that you're not a Holder Lady? Does it truly matter? We are what we are and find the best in it. I am surrounded by Ladies, in fact they are paraded by me for inspection at regular intervals, but it's my choice that is important. Other factors are there certainly, duty and responsibility, but if I can manage them then I get to choose for myself to be happy or not." Pausing, his other hand lifts to brush towards her cheek, but bold he is not by nature and this visceral voyage is both liberating and confusing, so it stays in the air. "We have to be who we are and find contentment in that I think." He blinks for a moment, "Well I'm trying, you should to."

Vyune's gaze tracks the uncertain descent of his hand and lingers where it stops for but a breath before she brings it back to his face. The uncertainty has vanished somewhere in the moments between and left behind only the low smolder of carnal intent. "I'm happy not ta be a Holder lady. An' iff'n yer ever happy not ta have a Holder lady, well." A smile slides across her face as she rises, cheek passing dangerously near the curve of his hovering palm. "Ye know where I'm ta be found." Nimbly she steps away from the table, not dropping the bold, inviting stare 'til she's forced to turn and thread her way once more back towards the bar, and waiting customers.

Harpers and Politics

2008-07-26T19:04:23Z

Amarik meets Harper Emmerson OOC: Sorry for posting out of order. I should be flogged... er again?

Emmerson is lying on one of the hammocks, idly plucking a lyre he had managed to finesse into his satchel before coming to join the Enlanders. The soft notes trill into the night air, floating away with the breeze.

Amarik comes out of the Hold with a glass of wine in one hand and follows a ritual he's done since he was a lad first drinking wine. He lifts the glass and toasts the evening and Boll before taking a sip. The music is noticed and a quick glance is aimed in that direction before clear white teeth part between the moustach and goatee and he smiles, nodding, "Evening Harper." He knows his knots.

Emmerson nods and says, "Good evening to you. And might I add that that was a lovely toast. I admire a man who can be thankful for the things he has." His smile is slow and easy, content one might say. Still plucking at the instrument, he sways slightly in the hammock. "Is it always this nice during the winter months down here? Fort would be hellishly cold by now."

Amarik settles onto the railing and lets one leg dangle, "we have our fair share of storms now and again, but they do the land good and clear the air." The wine will be sipped again and then he'll nod, "would you care for a glass, then you can join me in toasting Boll." Even as his basso tenor speaks a nod is being granted to one of the attendants by the door.

Emmerson is envious of a nod granting wishes like that. He thanks the man, eagerly awaiting the forthcoming quaff. "Why thank you sir. And as a matter of formality, as you have been so generous as to offer a poor harper some wine, I would like to introduce myself. I am journeyman harper Emmerson. At your service." He bows his head in lieu of the fact that he is almost prone at the moment and can't perform the sweeping sort of bow harpers are known for.

"Amarik," is offered back simply with a returning nod of equal if somewhat more casual formality. Amber eyes flicker with amusement and he smiles, "otherwise known as Lordling or Boll Minor or annoying brat if you speak often with my brother." Though in truth, he hasn't been called that for many a turn. The attendant does indeed return with a tray bearing a decanter and one glass and some light nibblies in the form of cheese and crackers. "Thank you Carn," is murmured at the man and a wave of his hand suggests that is all. Attention is focused back on the Harper, "What brings you to the Hold Journeyman Harper Emmerson"

Fingers fumble for a moment on the lyre. They pick up again quickly enough, and the harper says "I've been assigned to the Enlander Clan as their harper for the time being. Seems they needed one since the last harper get preggers and ran off with her mate, and I needed a means to travel to all the outlying cotholds and halls to spread the teaching ballads to the younglings and those who needed a refresher course."

Amarik nods, "a worthy endeavour indeed. Test the Lord while you're at it, he was always rotten at them." A brotherly grin will quirk the edges of his mouth before he sets the glass down on the railing. "How long will the Enlander clan be here. Wintering over or just in passing?" These things are always good to know.

Emmerson shrugs in the way of a man who has no clue as to what he's gotten himself into. "I was told we'd be headed toward the Enlander holdings somewhere near Ista by this time, but...." he gestures to the courtyard and the obviousness of that statement. "So I would assume you have us on borrowed time." He grins toothily. "Any requests?"

Amarik blinks slightly and leans forward, "From the Enlanders or from your Lyre?" His shoulders will shrug slightly, "you may wish to speak with my brother. He'll have need of a Harper sooner or later." His tone may suggest he prefers later, but in the aim of familial harmony is resigned to the sooner. "A sea shanty perhaps, given the location."

Emmerson smirks. "I'm afraid WagonMaster Gepard has forbidden me from trading after I sold a couple of goats for less than what she thought they were worth." He sniffs slightly in the recollecting. "I think it was fair. But I'm not the one setting the market price. So, my lyre it will have to be." He lays back once more, plucking the strings now, creating a stocatto beat.

Amarik will lean back against the porch post and listen politely then, "a fair offering," is quietly remarked. "I never learned to play much beyond the basics, though our Harper tried his best." A crinkle forms at his eyes for that memory. "I think with the Passionfruit Pit, your'll find our local lads well versed in their teaching ballads. Many sing there for marks." He offers a quick shrug, "your Hall may tap a few new apprentices there if you have a mind to."

"Who's to say we haven't?" he winks mischievously. "Of course we would make our intentions known before we wisked them away. But there might be some promising apprentices in the area." Taking a quick sip of the offered wine and likin it, he strums his lyre now to a slow, relaxed tune, local to the Boll region. "So, Boll Minor. What exactly does one do with his days if he's not having to Lord over all......this." he juts his chin out to the outlying buildings and such.

Amarik chuckles but the humor isn't all that obvious in it. "I imagine you think I do just what you're doing now. Lie about the place sipping wine and strumming ... tunes." Curling his fingers around the railing he offers a tight smile, "You're the harper, trained in politics. What do minor's usually do?"

A noncommittal shrug and the harper states "Mostly ad hoc ruling. When the lord is away, the Minor is asked to make hold decisions or know which ones need to be put off till the Lord is returned. He will be the lord's proxy when the lord cannot travel to one of the holdings. And if the lord holder should pass on from this mortal coil, the Minor would take over his holdings and all that that encompasses." Simple really. "So I would guess it's mostly being ready for that possible eventuality."

Amarik shrugs and tilts his head to the side, "That's about the gist of it." He'll stand then, stretching, "Well I'll leave you to your tuning then Harper." A quick nod, "I have to see a man about a runner before bed."

Emmerson sighs. "I know what you mean." he says in a worldly fashion. Funny what a sevenday with traders will do to a man.

About jailing Smiths

2008-07-26T18:55:19Z

IC - Amarik is on his way to Nerat to do some investigating of Nienan. It's a slow and meandering path and he has some personal chores to undertake along the way. Amarik meets Marjani again and Mika.

In the time between Happy Hour and Dinner Hour, The Staircase experiences a bit of a lull. Those that have been drinking all afternoon are deep in their cups and likely drooling onto tables while those that can still find their feet have wandered off home or to the Hold for sustenance and nourishment. A few tables are occupied and the barmaid is at the counter wiping things down and doing her tasks. At a back table, Boll Minor sits, a hide spread out in front of him and he sketches idly, small vignettes of bar life. Amarik has a glass of ale to the side and a plate of half eaten meat rolls, looking comfortable as if this was how he intends to spend his evening.

Marjani has come to this bar, as have so many Smiths, for longer than she's been drinking in it. And so it's not that uncommon to see her climbing the stairs, exchanging polite nods here and there. The bartender on duty gets a shake of her dread'ed head, and one lighter-palmed hand raises to indicate that she doesn't need a drink. There's a low grumble, "'asn't 'ad a drink here since she got promoted, that one," to his fellows, ("Maybe," a chortle, around his glass, "she's settin' a good example!") but Marjani doesn't appear to hear. She brings her expanded but not obvious self toward a corner, intent on lurking. This brings her past Amarik's table, and if they make eye contact, her lips will set in a thin smile, and she'll voice an overly polite, "Sir." If they make eye contact.

Oh yes, Amarik makes eye contract, and with a passing glance up to try and get the angle of that Smith sitting across the bar just right, Marjani comes into his view. Well blocks it briefly really. A light of surprise will glimmer brightly in the amber of his eyes, "Ah, the Smith who hasn't managed to visit our jail. Marjani is it?" is offered with a quiet quirk of his lips between the moustache and beard. A closer inspection will have him frowning mildly, "the warrant is woefully out of date with your description, care to sit down and I'll sketch you a better portrait for the wanted poster?" His tone suggests lightness and the soft cadence of a jokester, but the question remains, is he?

Marjani sometimes wishes she were more, well, generic in appearence. She nods, tenses a bit, but at least does not completely lock up and begin to glare. After all, he isn't his brother any more than she is hers. "Well, I've the sense to stay where I belong, sir." She shifts, uncomfortably, and a bit paranoid, "Out of date?" She does, however, see no way to politely avoid taking a seat, and so she sets herself down. "Though I can't imagine why I'd still be wanted, seeing as how the culprit served time. And was returned to the Hall in rather a sorry state." The chide is out before she thinks, and so her own coppery eyes turn down. "My apologies, Lord Amarik, no offense meant to Boll." Just the future Lord of it.

Amarik will shrug and accept the chiding as his due on behalf of his brother, "you are not if that's a worry." Waving the statement away with an airy hand, "My attempt at bad humour, excuse me," and really the man does look a little worse for wear on the whole. An eyebrow will raise in a mobile dance and the smile he offers is somewhat rueful if a token of peace, "can I get you something Smith?" He makes no apologies for the state of the other Smith's return, instead putting the charcoal down and threading fingers through his walnut locks, "they have a bit of a history, those two. Seem to run on emotion more then thought. I take it he's hale enough though? I haven't seen or heard of any complaints from the Hall."

Marjani bites her lip, "Not a worry, exactly." She's not really familiar with how he's supposed to look, but still, there's a hint of reassurance--maybe just so that the man doesn't feel she's offended--in her tone. "I just didn't know what you meant." The woman straightens her shoulders, listens, expression calm. To his offer, first there's a shake of her head, and then, "Well, perhaps some tea. I'm avoiding alcohol." A lie, too personal and too quick, is offered, "Gives me restless nights, and there's work to be done too early in the morning to sleep poorly." In fact, though he can't know it, she's talking far too much considering his place in society and her unfamiliarity with him. Still, there's more to respond to. "Yes, quite a history, I've heard." Any darkness in her tone disappears with a snort, "As well as ever. Able to do his work," and inexplicably, Marjani smiles, small but decidedly amused. This is erased with a nervous clearing of throat. And thus, silence ensues from her end.

Amarik sits with Marjani at a table in the corner. The establishment is quiet this evening, though patrons do mill about. Amarik offers his own returning snort, though affectionately delivered for one part of that pairing, "both brainless wherries at times I think." Leveling an eye at the girl he says with authority if a quick grin, "I'll deny I said that." Nodding his head towards one of the serving girls and raising a hand, tea is quickly requested and dispatched for. Casual he may be, but he does wield the aura of one raised in priviledge, well raised with knowledge of responsiblity, but priviledge nonetheless. "Did he ever apologize to you? If not, let me do it for him," is offered in a resigned tone of one who often sweeps after the messes of that particular brother.

Mika steps into the broken staircase, a little nervously. The slim young woman has a neat stack of hides mixed with a few papers under her arm as she looks for a place to sit, and hopefully a familiar face. The blue/grey eyes sweep the room and spot someone she knows, but she approaches slowly, anyway. Known is not always the same as welcome.

"Only," Marjani begins with more ease than she should, "if I can deny agreeing with it on behalf of A-our apprentice." She slips back into silence as he orders the tea, though there's a proper smile for whomever brings it--obviously someone she's familiar with, and a soft, "Thank you." to the Minor Lord. She has none of that authority, of that assurance of privilege, still in many respects a respectful apprentice. So, there's no small amount of suprise as the apology is extended. "Apologize to me? I'm not sure why he would." Shaking her head and pulling the tea close, "In fact, we've never properly met." Mika is not yet noticed, but when she is there will be a look of surprise, a tentative smile, perhaps a curious, soft, "What brings you to the Hold?" in lieu of a greeting, eyes glancing over the hides.

Amarik leans back in the chair, arm extending to curl a hand around the half drunk ale and he tilts his head in a shrug. The other hand strokes his beard thoughtfully, "well if you don't know then I guess he's off the hook, though what I heard was rather ... forward, even for my brother." His gaze will note the oncoming girl with the hides and he pauses to incline his head in a polite nod before offering a pleasant, "evening." Then he waits as the two obviously know each other, concentrating on sipping his ale.

"I.. I just came down to pick up a few documents for Kezia... I just have to wait for a ride back to the weyr," The rider who had dropped her off had several other errands and hadn't sent a firelizard back yet to. Mika looked from one to the other. "I hope I"m not interupting?"

Marjani snorts again, "Oh, I know /what/ he could apologize for. I just don't know why he would." If that is self-depricating, it is at least realistic in terms of their differing ranks. Especially at the time. The tea is actually brought to her lips, though she blows at the hot liquid, steam disappating into the air, before taking a long swig. Head turning to look at Mika, there's the barest hint of relief. "Not at all. Please," and she really means please, as conversing with someone who could, in unfortunate circumstances, Lord over an entire major Hold, is more daunting than she lets on, "join us. I haven't seen anyone--well, I did see Emilia. Hardly anyone from the Weyr, since I left." Not that Marjani got particularly buddy-buddy with anyone. An acquantaince is much preferred over the high-ranking brother of the high-ranking man who locked up Aodien. Oh yeah, and spit alcohol all over her, and kissed her without permission. That too.

Amarik smiles rather politely to that, if just a little tight. Coversational shifts are in order he decides. Standing up and pulling a chair from another table he offers it to Mika, eyebrow rising as he glances between the two women, "so, you two know each other from...the weyr?" That much he can deduce by the use of the name Kezia, specifics notwithstanding. Honestly, he's polite and as nonthreatening as Lordlings can be.

Mika relaxes and nods to Amarik politely, "Yes... we were candidates together, sir." Her eyes drop before she turns towards Marjani, and pulls up an empty chair. "Alright. Things are going along, it's quieter without eggs on the sands.... I'm helping Kezia out these days between clutches..."

Marjani lets Mika confirm Amarik's question, just nodding in agreement and attending to her tea again. A soft 'mm', to acknowledge Mika's statement issues, though there's an even, "The weyrlings aren't stirring up any trouble, then? I heard an apprentice, just come back from a job at the Weyr," her jaw tightens here. It's a job she would have liked to go on, "saying something ridiculous about brawling?" A pure fabrication on his part. "Was saying he got a black eye from one of the new blueriders, but I expect he got it from one of the other apprentices. Probably a girl, judging by how many times I came across him telling the story in earshot of his fellows." A snort, and then, realizing she's just prattled on, she busies herself some more with tea.

Amarik will chuckle at the tale, both ones. "Definately a girl if he was bragging. We do like to do that on occasion." He'll speak on behalf of his gender for the moment, pump them up a bit, "all for you ladies of course." Mobile brows wiggle over the ale and he smiles at Mika, "could I get you anything." His hand is already in the air summoning.

"I haven't heard of any brawling, but the weyrlings are betweening now. In fact the Weyrlingmaster set them to between to each of the weyrs." Mika chews her lower lip considering. "without Weyrling Master assistance. They're to find someone to give them a reference." She doesn't mention any of the rather vocal reactions to that little decission...

This attitude of men is actually a sore spot for the dark-skinned woman, and her commentary comprises of a derisive snort and another long swig, treating her tea very much like alcohol. Then, Mika's words earn a widening of eyes. "I... can't imagine how that's a good idea. I may not know much about weyrlife, but certainly learning to go between isn't... I have heard of weyrlings being lost even with precautions." Marjani's face sets in a grim line. "It's not exactly pleasant even with a rider who knows what he's doing."

Amarik raises an eyebrow and shrugs, his holding is to Fort Weyr where they have other challenges. "I imagine it'll make them very careful about the images they use," is remarked in casual passing. Weyrlife is not as foreign to him of late as some may assume. "I imagine though that has some in arms." He can imagine the vocal reactions to that decision.

Mika shrugs to the both of them. "they'd have to get the image from someone anyway..." MIka points out. "Dragons have to know where they're going. So they can either fly straight or get the image from someone. I don't know if it's any more or less dangerous than a lesson. There's alot of debate."

Marjani leans back. "Well, like I said, I don't really know that much about weyrlife. Certainly not how to teach weyrlings. Can barely train my firelizard." Pause, "But it's troubling. Like... like setting a brand-new apprentice to the forge after one lesson. Maybe he'll know about the tools involved but without someone to watch he's like to get burnt." Everything in life is comprable to working metal. "Not to mention the mess he'll make of the metal." She shakes her head again.

Amarik nods his agreement to Marjani's assessment of the situation before turning his attention back on Mika, "did you want something...er miss, you never did answer me." He still actually doesn't even have her name. The ales is finished and for lack of anything better to do he gathers the hides into a pile, "I suppose I should go see the Steward about a guest room for the evening."

"Oh, sorry," Mika blushes, "No. I don't need anything. I'm just waiting for a ride back to the weyr that's all..." She explains hastily. "I came here looking for a place to sit down..." She shrugs at Marjani, "I honestly don't know what he was thinking. BEtweening's risky no matter what. No one's died yet so..." She trails off there.

Marjani winces. She really should have introduced Mika earlier. "Lord Amarik, this is Mika, of Ista Weyr." That part perhaps being obvious.Shifting slightly, as though physically uncomfortable, her eyes travel from the man's hands, gathering hides, to the other woman's face. "I imagine if someone does he'll face the consequences of his actions." It's stated plainly enough, no hint of the recrimination that such words could carry. She turns her attention back on Amarik, "Thank you again for the tea, sir." Pause. "And the apology." Although it won't do much for her opinion of the brother, it does for her opinion of him.

"Mika then," and Amarik stands, nodding his head to the girl with a smile that reveals the straight white teeth between beard and moustache that are the family's heritage, "charmed I'm sure. Good travels then back to your Weyr and with your duties." The hides are gathered into his arms before he turns his attention on Marjani, "My pleasure Marjani. I wish you luck and you really have nothing to worry about with regards to the warrant." Slightly over candid perhaps, but it had been sent far and wide, "I'll make certain of it as I am able. I am here for a few days myself, perhaps we'll run into each other again." Another polite nod and he'll dispatch a mark to the nearest server to cover their charges before he leaves.

Mika mouths the word 'warent' with a puzzled expression on her face but doesn't quite bring herself to ask. "Have a good evening, sir..." Mika says quietly as he leaves. She shrugs at marjani, "If someone died in normal training he'd still face the concquences." She does not envy the man his job.

Marjani provides a proper smile in gratitude. Not that she'll be going to Southern Boll anytime soon, having no forseeable need. Though if Aodien lands himself in the jail again, she may just charter a ship. Not that she can charter a ship. These thoughts produce an interesting whirl of expression, but when she snaps out of it Amarik is gone. She relaxes somewhat, though the topic is not particularly restful. "True. But as a leader, I'd be harsher on him if someone died on an excercise he sent them on unsupervised. Not that I expect I'll ever be a leader of anything." A shrewd expression. "No, nothing I can say I want for myself."

Mika nods and shrugs, "I'm not looking for a leadership position myself... just helping out and..." She trails off as a little blue firelizard pops into the air next to her and chitters demandingly. "Oh. They're back. I have to go. I'll see you if I get sent up this way again?" She makes sure she has all her hides and papers and stands with more haste than decorum. Habits die hard and she doesn't care to keep anyone waiting.

Marjani holds up her hand in departure, "Certainly. You can always ask for me at the Hall." She stands as well, long having drained her tea. "Send my regards to--" ah, but she can't think of anyone to send regards to. It comes to her only after Mika is halfway down the stairs. So, whomever she may have wanted to say anything to is lost to anyone other than herself. Which is fine. There's always letters if she really wants to keep in touch. Taking her mug to the table directly, she engages in some banter with the bartender about how she hasn't spent a single 32nd on alcohol since being /allowed/ to, and then wanders back to the Hall, possibly to sleep, regardless of the hour.

About the little blonde bimbo from Nerat!

2008-07-26T18:48:51Z

Amarik meets his nephew

It is a cool (for a Fall Boll) morning, the room refreshed by the open windows that allow the air to circulate through the family room and bring in the blended scents of citrus, flowers and salty sea air. For the moment it looks well lived in and used. Family articles are stewn about, a number of hides scatter the tables and there are empty trays set about showing the end of breakfast by the family. There is only one occupant however, the family having departed to see to their duties. Amarik has apparently slept in for once and is seated before a small table containing a half eaten breakfast and positioned beneath the open window. A mug of klah is curled within his fingers, but he is staring out the window in thought. Dark circles shadow his amber gaze and his beard seems more bushy and untamed then normal.

While Aeroulyn hasn't been outside the door long enough to ware into the floor, she has been pacing in the hall outside the family suite, shoulders tense and expression indecisive. Wrapped in her arms, half-supported in a sling fashioned over one shoulder and increasingly popular with mothers 'on the go'. Thoughts race through her mind. What if Amarik isn't the one to answer the door? What if its Marryn, or worse, Auryn who opens the door? What does she say to them? Then again, what choice does she have? Who else might listen? Amarik is certainly her best bet, for even if he doesn't approve of any of her and Marryn's recent history, they do have two things tying them together: their love for the Bollian Lord Elect and-- A glance slides down to the child with the dark copper-flecked eyes that are so reminiscent of Marryn's. With a deep breath that steels her tingling nerves, she stops her pacing outside the door, squares herself to it, and knocks confidently, even if there is no confidence in her.

"Enter," is called out in Amarik's basso tenor voice that entirely believes it is one of the kitchen servants come to get the breakfast trays. The knock is enough to half pull his gaze from the window though and focus on one of the hides set out before him. Rather with out thought he presses one of the creases out. "Is that you Rosa? I'm still eating, but you're more then welcome to take the other trays..." He stops mid sentence as he looks up expectantly.

No, there is no familiar form of Rosa, but the nervous Aeroulyn who steps through the door. Her features flood with relief upon seeing Amarik sitting at the table; a small blessing that she's timed the visit alright so far. Without invitation, she moves towards the man. "Amarik, I know I'm probably far from your favorite person in the world right now, but I-- need to talk to you. About Marryn." She swallows, hesitating still some paces from him shifting the child that the rumors say she's named Rouwin so that she can gesture with a hand to a seat near him. "I was hoping to catch you alone, as-- well, I need your advice." She sucks her lower lip into her mouth, a further clue to her ill-at-ease state.

Amarik schools his surprise by standing up, pushing from the chair and opening his mouth to reveal the similar set of gleaming white teeth before they are pushed into a smile. "Aeroulyn?" He manages a polite nod and a bit of a stammering, "No, of course not, whatever passed between you and Marry has no impact on my impress... I mean, Marryn can be... and you..." Sighing in the middle of trying to express what he's never really understood anyways, he finally offers, "I'm sorry." A half chuckle follows at his own expense and for his sudden uneasiness and he grins despite it, shaking the walnut locks and rubbing at his chin. "Do please sit down Aeroulyn." Amber eyes assess her curiously and the sling containing the baby, "How have you both been and what can we do for you?"

In silence, Aeroulyn moves to the chair she indicated and settles herself. She shifts the baby boy and then shifts him again, a little gurgle that might be protest or enjoyment leaving the bundle as eyes focus on nothing in their still fairly newborn state. She clears her throat, "Well, its not what 'we' can do for me its rather what you can. And its not really for me. Its for him." Pause. "Only, before I begin and go into-- anything-- I must have your word that you will keep this conversation between us. I-- I know I've done damage. To him. And to his-- slightly precarious? as I understand it position as Lord elect. I know Boll is more important to him than anything and I don't want to hurt his chances for being confirmed or--" And here her carefully controlled voice chokes with emotions that are shoved back down to whatever depths they are forced to reside in for the time being, "--or for being happy. With her. If--" And here Aerou cuts herself off, shaking her head, "I have to have your word on the love that you have for him that this is just between us." And she now regards him with her stormy blue eyes, so different than the baby's.

Amarik listens quietly, head bent in thought as he often does when he wants to hear the full impact of spoken words. His brother tends to act first then think of the consequences, but he is the opposite. Academic, thoughtful and one who is very careful of the consequences of his actions, despite the odd recent rumors to the contrary. Perhaps those can be chalked up to 'sowing oats of youth'. Carefully he shifts and moves to sit in the chair across from her, settling his lean form so that he is leaning bent over his knees, fingers steepled. With a slow nod to his head he speaks low, "Aeroulyn, I am more then willing to help you regardless of what has passed between you and Marryn. He was an unthinking fool to toss you in the cells and I have let my opinion of that be known to him, but I know and understand his reasons as well. I will keep our conversation between us," and he pauses to look at her sharply and directly, amber gaze blazing just briefly to show the extent of his care and concern for his brother, "only if what you tell me will not hurt him or harm him in any way. Political or otherwise. Only an unthinking fool makes blind promises, and I'd like to believe at least that I am not one of those."

Aeroulyn seems satisfied for this requirement, for: "Hurting him is the farthest intent from my mind. I- am not a pirate." This is said more softly, and the weight with which she lends the final word shows that it now hold more meaning that the usual 'ugly good for-nothing pirates', but the broader sense of someone who harms another for vengeance or other selfish motivations. Then with the sucking in of a breath, she begins: "I lied." There's a silence in which she shifts the child so that Amarik may have a better view of him. "I told Marryn that Irwin is the father of my child. And I lied." She looks up and away from the baby to find Amarik's amber gaze. "I call him Rouwin, but his name is Laeryn. He is your nephew - your brother's son." She swallows, "After everything, I was-- afraid-- that Marryn or your mother who I don't know at all well mightn't let me raise him as I see fit if they knew. And now--I don't want to tell him because-- well, if Nienan makes him happy and makes the Lords happy and--" She shrugs a little helplessly though the pain is clear in her expression, "Who am I to stand in his way. I will tell him, someday. But only when I think it would increase his happiness and not create more problems for him." She swallows, "There's something else. I know Marryn to be a father now. But--I-- think perhaps not a father twice-over. I may be going mad, but I'm not at all sure that Nienan's child is as she claims him to be; and-" Here the emotion breaks and there is a touch of desperation to her face, "-if that's why he's marrying her, and its not true, he should know, right? So he could choose for himself, right?"

Amarik will roll back against the chair with an expression of shock and surprise in a movement that if he had been standing would have had him off his feet instead. Hands fall to brace against the chair's arms, fingers curling tightly and he simply stares at her. His mouth opens between moustach and beard, but for a moment no sound eminates. His initial reaction is anger and he'll work to control that though he half growls, "Why would you think...?" That is contained, no, now is not the time for recriminations and his jaw works to contain it. Her news is full and as he processes it, he stands up again swiftly, and turns to pace the space between the chairs. After a moment, "I knew it!" and he practically grins. Speaking to the room at large more then Aeroulyn, "Three days, Marryn doesn't lose three days from drinking. Never has, never will. Not unless he was drugged, and then, well, then! I had my doubts, I didn't believe it, but so much had happened and he wasn't thinking all that clearly and then..." Swinging around, he turns to look at her, intensity and familial protectiveness rising hard within him. "Are you sure? I want the details of how you came to this conclusion. What makes you think this." The act of turning brings him in clear sight of the baby and he stops again; this time the full impact and weight of her news descending, "Laeryn?"

"Because I'm the Ruathan-rooted daughter of a dragonrider with no Blood ties and until recently thought that your brother wished that he had never been in love with me. And a silly girl too boot." Aeroulyn responds with a sigh to the half-asked question. "Now I keep it because-- I want him to be happy." Swallow, "Even if I cannot be a part of that happiness." Her brow furrows, "Is that how she says it happened? When exactly? Marryn asked me to trust him in that he hadn't lain with other women while he was with me-- and-- well, she and I must have conceived at nearly the same time, and we were most decidedly together then." The Smith says with resolve. "You'll have heard that Nienan and I happened to end up in the infirmary at the same time? I was there a full day before she came in and-- as you might well imagine I was rather exhausted by the time she came, but I could swear I heard her swear something about the child's father being a fat idiot and a name-- Dernel? Drenal? Something--" She looks quite cross for a moment, before with frustration she says, "I wish I could remember exactly. But-- if Marryn's not the father..." She trails off, leaving 'he might choose to be with me instead' unspoken and instead changes her line of thought. "We could find out, couldn't we? By inquiring in Nerat? That's where she said she was from, isn't it?" Then there's a soft smile as her attention shifts to follow his own. "Yes, Laeryn. Would you like to hold him? I--made sure Marryn was the first to hold him. It-- he'll be so cross with me when I tell him someday. But it was right for Laeryn's father to be the first to hold him." The baby is offered carefully up to Amarik, should he wish him.

Amarik's expression softens and he'll nod, quickly stepping towards her to take the infant. "Laeryn... Ryn?" and his smile will grow large as fingers curl around the baby and he settles him into his arms. For a moment the baby gets all his attention, "Hello young Ryn, I'm your Uncle Rik." A swell of emotion rises in his chest and he releases his next breath slowly stroking the child's head. His attention will turn back to Aeroulyn and his eyes get sharper, "Silly girl I might just buy," is remarked back with a serious chiding tone before he relents. "Aeroulyn, my brother is many things, but he rarely lies and he does try to keep his promises unless his temper gets the best of him. If he asked you to trust him I would. His feelings for you.." shaking his head he growls softly in frustration so as not to scare the babe. "No, I won't betray his confidence, even if he is an bovine-headed stubborn ass at times." The chuckle will return and he shakes his head as he lowers himself and the baby back into the chair. Focusing back on what she's been telling him, "Nerat. Dernel or Drenel? And in labor she claimed another as father to her child?" His expression darkens for a moment, "We can find out. I will admit that I have not trusted nor warmed to this woman as much as Marryn has wanted. I'll make some inquiries." His gaze turns back to the infant, "don't keep him from him too long Aeroulyn. He'll need joy in his life if what we think proves true."

"Actually, you can call him Ryn anyway." Aeroulyn says softly, "Rouwin-- Rin, if you shorten it." The is commented idly as she watches the babe become wrapped in Amarik's arms, the warmth growing in her smile. This is the reception she hoped the child would have. The Smith gives a roll of her shoulders, "At the time, we were at odds. Rather grievously. And Irwin offered to claim the child to ensure I could raise him. I learned I was pregnant the night he threw me in jail. When you had them take me to the infirmary. You can-- perhaps -- understand better why I made the decision I did then." Why she has stuck with it? That's another matter entirely, and one that the confusion that momentarily claims her features will indicate she probably doesn't wholly understand herself. "It might've been something else. I was-- in a lot of pain." She gestures towards the child. "And that's just it, Uncle Rik," She uses the introduction he gave to the babe softly, "If we're not right, then he deserves to have joy in his life. And me-- trying to find out... it will appear as meddling. But you-- you can go where you like whenever you like, right? Will you go yourself to make inquiries? I don't think it should get back to them if-- It just wouldn't seem right if its not true." She nibbles on her lower lip. "But if we are right, I promise he'll know soon enough. I-- cannot help hoping that we are right." This is the selfishness speaking. She wants Marryn for herself. Not for that little blonde bimbo from Nerat.

Amarik will roll his own shoulders and lift one hand from the baby to thread across the walnut shaded locks, pushing them back to reveal a brow crinkled with worry. "I'll keep your secret for now Aeroulyn. I understand why if I don't necessarily agree with it. A father should know his children, all his children and I know my family. Hard headed, work driven they may be, but they would never have prevented you from raising your child or taken him from you." A thin tone of insult may be heard in his voice but he'll wave it and the rest away as he works out plans, "I will go myself. That can be easily arranged and without Marry's knowledge. A few days away and he and Mother will assume I'm ...," the accompanying smile is quick, "at Fort Weyr. I've been promising Tai a camping trip South once the eggs cracked, and if that's not feasible, then we'll find some other way. I wonder why..." but his voice trails off. There are other reasons he won't explain at the moment that make him willing to do this task. Looking again at the baby, his expression softens and he offers the child another caress while he simply agrees, "I hope we are too Aeroulyn."

"I'd heard you had found a companion in the Weyrwoman. Is she well? And the eggs?" These seem politely-made inquiries on Aeroulyn's part. Weyr and Craft-bred though she may be, she's not wholly without manners. "You'll write me and keep me apprised? I can do what I can to keep my eyes on her here in case she lets slip anything that might be of use to us and send you information through Scraps. If she can find you. She can find Marryn well enough, so perhaps it wouldn't be so hard for her to find his brother?" Aerou ruminates on this a moment, then shakes her head. While little Laeryn can't properly focus on Amarik's face, little fingers grab in the air at nothing and legs shift a little, but without much muscle control, its really more like twitching than actual 'moving'. "At least he'll have always known his uncle." Rou's voice comes softly, "For that, I am grateful." She flicks her blue gaze up to seek out Rik's amber one, "Thank you for not thinking I was some crazed jealous ex-lover. I already have tried to convince myself I was just hearing things, but- I don't think I was." She pauses, "You're welcome to come see him anytime." She nods towards the child.

"Fine," is his response with a nod, "both and soon if what Birgith tells Tai is accurate." Though his relationship is not a secret, he does tend to keep the two separate. Amarik is well aware of the prejudices against riders that run through this particular Hold and then his smile grows larger and his gaze dances just a little, "Mother's opinion of riders is well known and she's had to soften it a little, which will likely be of benefit for you in the long run." Offering the child back to its mother with one lingering and fond look he laughs, "He'll need an Uncle to look out for him if he takes even vaguely after his father in character. We will, and my Ben will check back with you. He's good at running messages and finding people. I'll send him to you so that he knows you."

Aeroulyn nods her head slightly, "Marryn also thought it would go a long way that I turned down the opportunity to stand at Ista. Riding, while I certainly have deep respect for the work done, is not my path in life." There's a rather rueful laugh from Aeroulyn as she accepts the child back into her arms, hugging him close a moment, "Amarik, between your brother's stubbornness, and my hot-headedness, Laeryn is practically doomed to lead a life full of misadventures. I juts hope that whatever else it is, that it is a happy life." She nods to the words about the firelizard before getting to her feet. "I'd best not linger. I'd rather if Marryn didn't find out anything he'd ask questions about for now. Travel safely, Amarik. And do keep me apprised, please." Of course, he's already said he will. She makes her way to the door, child now tucked back in the sling that keeps him to her chest. She pauses at the door, turning back a moment to say simply, "Thank you." One last time, and then out the door she goes.

Moody

2008-07-26T04:04:07Z

Marryn calls it PMS! Amarik calls it 'Protecting Marryn's Sorry....' again!

Marryn saunters into the suite with a tired gait, his path aiming directly across the room to the table by the wide open window where he plunks his form noisily into one of the wicker chairs. Scooping up one of the cushions lying nearby (no firelizards using it at the moment) he simply fluffs, sets it on the table, and lets his head fall forward.

Amarik was way on the opposite side of the room trying to find something in the mish mash of objects that are strewn in little piles for keeping just in case. Bent over he has a spare part to a flamethrower in one hand and a doily in the other and he's frowning thoughtfully. "Don't suppose you've seen my pencil case," is asked as he hears rather then sees someone enter. The sound will make him straighten and turn, eyebrows rising as he watches his brother face plant into one of the pillows. "Smothering yourself won't help matters much Marry, or are you hung over?" That pain he knows, in recovery himself a few times the past sevenday.

The muffled response sounds something like, "I'm not hung over. I want a second opinion. I haven't seen your pencils." Following that Marryn does turn his head toward the window, taking in a deep breath of the crisp evening air drifting in on a light breeze before turning the other way to regard his brother. "/What/ are you doing?" he asks, eyeing the metal part and rag.

"A second opinion?" and Amarik's eyebrows stay up. He may as well just glue them there for all the times he has to raise them at something his brother says, "about what?" The metal part and doily are both glanced at in a feign of surprise and he drops them back onto a table before moving towards Marryn, "I'm looking for my pencil case. The one that holds charcoal neatly so that it doesn't mess up the bottom of my pack." Amarik tends to be neat for fastidious sake, rather then just to get girls.

"That smothering myself won't help matters," Marryn replies wryly. Eyeing the pillow, he considers trying it again, but instead lifts a hand to rake through his hair and feather it back into place. "It couldn't hurt. You'd inherit and I'd be off the hook." He snorts softly at the description of the pencil case, adding, "On second thought, nevermind. I wouldn't do that to you. I haven't seen the pencil.... oh wait, was it this size?" He marks dimensions in the air. "Because I saw Jerry and Ben playing around with something shiny this morning when I was headed out."

Amarik mutters something about wringing Jerry's little annoying scrawny neck next time he sees him because Ben is way too well behaved and so that part of the troublemaking equation is discounted and discarded. Little bronze gets away with murder, really. "I don't want to inherit thank you kindly. Bad enough folks ask me questions when you're away." He doesn't mean that, but makes a nice grumbly attempt at it. Taking the opposite chair he slides into it, "Off what hook? I thought you liked her." Perhaps this is more keenly said then normal and his amber eyes sharpen considerably on his brother. He does not... like her.

Jerry, being the innocent little blue that he is, and certainly the older and wiser of the two, would certainly take exception to that, if he were intelligent enough to understand. As it is, he won't hold anything against the slandering human. Marryn drops his arm into a dismissive gesture, saying, "I do like her. I do." Is he convincing himself? He didn't have to question who Amarik was refering to, nor seems surprised that his sibling knew exactly what he was thinking of, at least in part. "I just don't know how I can live feeling torn in two like this. I have a /son/, Rik. A son! I will marry Nienan and everyone will be happy. But every time I see Aerou I want her." The pillow becomes the target of his angst, getting thwapped with one fist and summarily turned over. He was just fluffing it, uh-huh. "And as if that weren't enough, I finally got the jail emptied and several trade agreements settled only to go back to the office and find a line-up of cotholders who I was supposed to have met with this afternoon and didn't make it back in time." Thick brows arch suddenly. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

Amarik will sit quietly watching his brother for a few moments, hand stroking his beard thoughtfully. "You have a son Marryn," he agrees and there is no doubt in his voice for that claim, though he is probably not referring to the same child as Marryn is. Clearing his voice suddenly he straightens, "Camping," is said succinctly, "a short trip, to do some drawing and spend some time... spend some time." His voice trails off and he shrugs, "they'll make new appointments and I'm sure and their anger won't last long."

"Camping?" Marryn echoes, both brows arching at that surprise. "Hmm... do you have to go tomorrow? I could use you as a stand-in at the hearings. You could leave right after that." He sounds hopeful, thinking his suggestion nothing out of the ordinary and camping nothing time-sensitive. Amarik has sat in his brother's stead numerous times when the cotholders and residents alike get their usual weekly afternoon (just a couple hours really) to present issues and disputes they think warrant Holder attention. "Please?"

Amarik nods slowly, "I can do that," and he'll also become the first Bollian male to time it, which actually gives him the willies, but it's a small price to pay for this particular endeavour. "We'll leave afterwards then," the we being implied if not identified. Fingers tap against the side of the chair in an uncharacteristic nervous twitch, "anything else?"

A ghost of a smile touches his lips as Amarik agrees. "Thanks, Rik. I need a good solid chunk of uninterupted time in my office to get those reports in order - Faranth help me if I didn't have Zarl! - not to mention inventories and projections to sign off on. In fact, if you don't see me before you leave would you please come check my pulse just to make sure I'm still alive?" A small, bitter chuckle. "I may just run away with you. Camping sounds like a lot more fun. Wait.... who's /we/??" Canting his head he eyes the other man closely. He almost missed that one but once caught his curiosity is spiked.

Amarik stands abruptly then, his expression turning into a scowl, "Faranth Marryn, I said I'd help and I have been helping." He'll grab the pillow and fluff it a few times himself, "what else do you want?" The pillow gets tossed down on the table, "who do you think we is." And without waiting for an answer he stalks off to his bedroom. He gets to be the moody one for once.

Marryn blinks, a deep frown creasing his brow as he watches Amarik leave. "I was just asking!" he yells after the other's retreating back. Snatching up the pillow he throws it back to the floor where he got it. "Shards! What spiked your klah today??" he mutters and crosses his arms, gaze turning to the window and the much more peaceful scene outside. No way is he following Rik into the bedroom right now. He might not get his favor and he simply isn't in the mood for a fight. So he makes a mental note to hunt Amarik down before he leaves and lets his mind drift to other topics for now.

Trump card!

2008-07-07T19:44:54Z

In what has become an unplanned competition of late to see who can screw up their lives the most, Marryn finally trumps Amarik. In spades Brother, In spades!

Marryn enters the room with the restrained calm of the eye of a storm - deceptively holding back the maelstrom emotions of what he's really feeling. Not that would ever fool the few who know him well enough to read past any front he raises. Crossing the shared room of their family suite he rips a chair from the table and sits, palms immediately raising to press against his brow. Bare to the waist, a smattering of dust and wood chips stick to him here and there and smudge his charcoal trousers, attesting to the chopping he was out doing this eve.

Amarik sits on one of those chairs, feet propped up on a coffee table where his heel has gently nudged aside whatever new project or collectable is laying there. He is staring at a blank hide tacked down to a board and angled into his waist and braced with one hand. The other holds a piece of charcoal but is dangling from fingers as his hand is pressed to his mouth thoughtfully. Marryn's entrance causes him to glance up, though for a moment he doesn't say anything and simply lets the amber gaze roam over his brother as he crosses the room and takes his final position. With a toss of his head that forces back the walnut waves, he begins to sketch, slender fingers moving across the hide, "Don't move a muscle and out with it." Subtle he no longer is. As they age their lives are twirling in separate circles, but the essence of brotherhood remains, stripped down to what one needs and can give to the other and it is as tightly wound in familial love and responsibility as if it were bound by thread.

Marryn half obeys, only dropping his arms limply to his lap. His head rises and falls back as a maniacal laugh erupts, lasting a few seconds before fading. His eyes stare out the open window with a brooding darkness. "You are not going to believe what just happened," he starts, jaw working furiously. One hand rises slightly, his hand balling into a fist as he grips some imagined thing in mid-air, his instructions for stillness forgotten. "We were so close, Rik! So close! Aerou and I. Now it's well and truly over and not because of anything /we/ did." He shakes his head, tossing that fisted hand in a helpless gesture. And another laugh follows, even shriller than the first.

Alright, this is unexpected and not really what Amarik wishes to capture for eternity on hide. Amarik lays the board aside and sets the charcoal carefully back in its container. Concern growing by the moment, "Marry?" Moving across to his brother he grabs a chair and sits close mirroring the same position, "What happened. That young Smith again?" The mobile brows furrow down across his gaze in worry. Tentatively, and not accusatory, but he does know the man a little bit, "You were reconciling with Aerou?" So in otherwords, what did you do?

At the scraping sounds of another chair being pulled up, Marryn finally looks away from the window and brings the full weight of that tightly held maelstrom to bare in the tortured gaze of two copper-fired eyes. "She's pregnant," he blurts, as casually as if saying 'pass the salt, please'. "With my son - and I don't even remember. Can you believe that? What sick sort of irony has determined to utterly screw with my life so thoroughly??" Information is dropped in mixed up chunks that may or may not make any sense whatsoever to the younger man, but reflect the mixed up emotions that have pushed Marryn to a breaking point.

Amarik's eyebrows sail high and then drop again, "Who is pregnant? Aeroulyn obviously, but I thought you said..." Amarik is not a dumb man and despite his recent experiences with trying to fill in a memory, he's rather disbelieving. He atleast knew the face if not the connection. "How can you not remember?" The question is asked even with full knowledge of his brother's reputation and a straight face. "This last turn you've been more then circumspect." Previous turns, eh, those are up in the air. A child showing up would have Amarik in full sympathy mode, but Pirates had a way of calming the elder down or at least refocusing his attention and so he waits for details.

Amarik's questions seem to focus Marryn somewhat, that troubled gaze searching his brother's face for a moment as if he might find some sense there, for surely his life doesn't make any sense otherwise. A heavy sigh moves his chest and again his arm rolls in a feeble gesture. "No, no, not Aerou. Well yes, Aerou too, but Nienan. Her name is Nienan. She says we met in Nerat and well, apparently spent some time together. Now she's pregnant and says its my son she's carrying!" His voice does rise at that, lined with the remains of the shock he initially felt. "And yes, the real kicker is that I don't remember her at all. She's beautiful, Rik, even big as a barrel pregnant. I can't believe I don't remember her."

Beautiful he would believe, Marryn tends for nothing less. Amarik continues to frown though, hand coming up to stroke his beard thoughtfully, "No memory at all isn't like you Marry, your liver is too well preserved." Alcohol being really the only thing that contributes to fuzzy memories in this family, "When were you in Nerat last?" Marryn does seem to get around, but usually Amarik knows. More serious his tenor turns near basso, "and what are you going to do?"

Marryn shrugs at Amarik's first point, shaking his head and grimacing. He would agree. His memory is usually better for faces and names thanks to having to learn all those of rank for public affairs, but in more casual evening settings he did tend to indulge, sampling the local wares of both the alcohol and female sort. "Six or seven months ago, I believe. The usual stop to feel out the Lord Holder's political leanings. Which would put things just about right if her size is any indication." Sitting up suddenly and leaning forward he rakes long fingers back through his hair, elbows braced on his knees. "It gets worse, Rik! I can't even just acknowledge the child and give her my support. Her uncle is Lord Nabol himself, and apparently he's determined that I handfast the girl or he won't back me with the Conclave - and he has an awful lot of influence over several other major holders. It could be a disaster as far as my confirmation efforts."

Amarik's eyebrows rise at the last bit of information and his expression darkens. His brother is screwed with that tidbit of news. "Shells Marryn, I'm sorry," is offered quietly and he'll reach over and clasp his hand on his brother's shoulder and squeeze gently. His other hand continues to drag through his beard in an attempt to digest it all. Taking a deep breath he grimmaces, "So you're going to?" and the eventual outcome of that scenario is all too evident even if unspoken.

Marryn doesn't move for a few moments, just resting his head with fingers threaded through his hair as if he doesn't have the strength to rise. "It couldn't be worse timing, Rik," he starts again, letting one hand fall and turning his head to glance at his brother. "I went out to the smith shacks the other night, right after the Gather ended, because one of the smiths came back and said Aerou was out there all alone during that really bad storm. I know that was the point of their experiments but still - not alone, with the weather and bandits about. So I went to talk her into coming back or at least finding someone to stay out with her but when I found her..." He pauses then and a shudder sweeps over him, all the more obvious as bared muscles tense. His sits up abruptly, flopping back in the wicker chair which creaks in protest. "She'd broken the window and was just sitting there in the dark getting pelted by wind and rain and bits of glass. I lost it. I barely got her to the next empty shelter. She snapped out of it and we spent the night together. Rik - it was amazing. We connected like we haven't in so long. In the morning we talked and I really felt like we had a chance of making things work." His head falls back and eyes squeeze shut. "By Faranth's tail how am I ever going to tell her about this? How can I handfast someone else? What am I going to do, Rik?" His voice cracks at the end, heartache plain in a way he'd never bare to anyone else.

Amarik stares at his brother, soaking in the pain and torment and not being able to do one thing about it. "Marry," he begins and trails off. His hand slides off his brother's shoulder with a deep sigh. The heartache is acknowledged but again he doesn't know what to do with it. From what he knows about Aeroulyn, she doesn't seem to be the type to content herself with the label mistress. Nor can he advise Marryn to give up on the confirmation. Fingers curl in frustration for not being able to give any advice to this man. "I don't know Marryn. This is a tough one." Fingers will push through his hair and he shakes his head, "What did Mother have to say or haven't you talked to her yet?"

Marryn groans at that reminder, another slow shake of his head ending with a glance over his shoulder at the closed door to their mother's room. "No, you're the first. I just now came from talking to Nienan. She found me outside chopping wood. She's staying at some nearby cothold but expects me to talk to her uncle immediately. I can only assume she'd move in here once we got engaged." The walls seem to shimmer and move of their own volition, crowding in upon him till claustrophobia kicks in. "I'll have to tell Aerou right away before she hears about it." Another darting glance at the door behind them and he adds wryly, "I wouldn't be surprised if Mother already knew somehow. I expect her to come raging out that door any second."

Then Amarik is beating Marryn to the door if that's the case. Although really, this might make Tai look like a Sainted Queen comparatively speaking, if Pern had either religion or royalty. Instead he offers the best bit of advice he can. "I'd advise you to get dressed first brother," is sympathetically given. That's a conversation he would not want to have. His expression though remains uneasy. The Marryn he knows does not lose three days because of a drunk. He was drunk at Ista and knew that he had not slept with Aadi the last time. "Tell me if there is anything I can do Marry. I, I don't envy you this one."

Marryn manages to pull a slight smile for Amarik's offer, reaching over to return the shoulder squeeze of earlier. "And I wouldn't wish this one on you for anything in the world, dear brother. Thank you - I don't know that there's anything you /can/ do, but I appreciate you listening at least. Maybe I can get my head straight before having to confront anyone tomorrow." Most notably on that list: Mother and Aerou. At that thought he archs a dark brow and adds with mock seriousness, teasing, "Unless of course you'd like to break the ice to Mother for me?"

Amarik's expression says a flat out No, thank you for the kind offer but really he'd rather be stripped naked, hung by his toenails and flown through thread. And this is coming from a man who has experienced a healthy dose of pain from Pirates. Really, there's no comparison to be made. His own eyebrow arches back and he'll grin wryly, "care to tell her that I've a gold dragon in my head sending happy thoughts?"

Marryn chuckles softly, bantering with his brother the salve that always works best at hammering out the kinks of jumbled emotions. Rising slowly, as if every sinew and tendon in his body protests, he turns toward the bedroom and the soft pillow that is sounding more and more wonderful by the minute as stress and a woodchopping workout catch up with him. Giving Amarik a clap on the shoulder to propel him along the same route he quips, "Actually you should follow up with that after I give her my news and then she probably won't even bat an eye at it."

Invoking memories

2008-07-07T19:41:22Z

Short RP between Amarik and Marryn

Woodshop
Tools line the walls of this small shop, hung in neat rows that use every available space. A large worktable centers the room, covered with scratches and grooves from it's longtime use, though it's surface is cleared of any instruments now. While once upon a time the air was ever filled with the fresh scent of newly cut wood and the sounds of hammer and chisel, the shavings that used to cover the floor have long-since been replaced by a thin layer of dust sprinkled over most everything and a quiet feeling of disuse has settled over the place. It's only occupants appear to be scuttling crawlers that scurry out of sight as soon as the creaking of the door alerts them to intruders.
Marryn is here.
Obvious exits:
Courtyard

Marryn sits on a stool by a side window with one sandaled foot braced on a low rung. Sunlight floods inward through the open slats of the window casting its rays over his bent head, highlighting the copper in those obsidian locks. One hand rests on the old countertop, slim fingers tracing a random pattern in the dust. He appears to be deep in thought, until, "That you, Rik?"

Amarik moves into the workshop slowly and then leans back against the doorjamb, inhaling the smells in a deep and thorough breath. Despite the lack of talent that Marryn displays in this area, he loves this workshop, the smell of it, the general peace of it. A grunt of acknowledgment and his voice is hushed as it responds, "Yes, it's me Marry. What are you working on?"

Marryn sighs, a long drawn out breath that visibly fills out his loose white shirt and drops his shoulders slightly afterwards. "Nothing," he replies, still not looking up. Long-ish bangs have fallen forward but he doesn't move to push them back, instead staring blankly at the widening trail in the dust. "Sometimes I miss him like it was just yesterday, ya know?" His jaw works for a moment as if he might say more, but memories of their late Father are richer here within the walls of his favorite haunt and no words come.

Amarik will be silent for a moment, shifting himself into the workshop further and raising his hand to trace his hand along a shelf before fingering a dusty tool. Drawing back his fingers with light examinations, he wipes the dust away upon his pants and nods, "I know. I do too" is returned simply in a sudden emotion choked tenor. Marryn's memories may be more potent then his own, but this is the place they come to seek their father. "I wonder what he'd think of us, tell us. What advice he'd give and if he'd be.." but the last word remains unsaid and instead he runs his hand across his beard and up the side of his face, concern flashing in his amber gaze. Clearing his throat he asks, "You okay Marryn?"

A slight huff marks the nod of Marryn's head as he listens to Amarik muse, his own thoughts mirroring those of his brother. Instead of answering the question asked, which is probably more telling than if he had, he sighs again this time looking up to face the sunlight. Closing his eyes he lets it bathe his face in warmth, soaking up some of the chill of old pains. Without turning aside he says, "I feel like I'm coming to a crossroads and I don't know if I like some of the choices I might have to make. Do you think he ever felt that way, Rik? I mean, him and mom always seemed so happy. He was always laughing and joking around... is it so awful to just want that for myself?"

Amarik takes the circular route around the work table until he is across from his brother. The bushy eyebrows will furrow down across the amber in his eyes and his shoulders jerk in a motion of ironic sympathy, "We all make choices Marry. He must have had to as well. I think the trick is in making the right one." Not that that is easy. His fingers will idly draw a sketch in the dust and then he sighs, blowing out the breath so that the force tickles his own mustache. "Don't be so hard on yourself brother. Where do each of the roads lead?"

Marryn grins softly at that - a first since he entered the old woodwright shop. Opening his eyes he cants his head from the sun and levels a wry gaze on his sibling. "That's the trick, actually, isn't it brother? If I knew where the roads led then it wouldn't be so hard to pick one." Dropping his eyes to the counter he notes the random marks and drags his hand across them all, smearing them and raising a small cloud of dust. "Sometimes I feel like it doesn't matter what I do, things are going to go in a certain way no matter what." He pauses a moment, considering, then, "I tried to warn Taini that any solid future between the two of you would be impossible. Short term. Light. Sure. I like the girl! But you're from two different worlds. I only did it because I care about you both. But she took it wrong and it turned out a mess. That's the way things keep going for me lately. The best of intentions get all screwed up." Most of that was blasted out in quick succession as if afraid Amarik would interrupt before he could get it all out, but as he finishes his tone slows and deepens with disgust.

Amarik will laugh rather sharply and then leans forward and places his hand on his brother's arm, gripping tightly and giving it a shake. "You don't think I don't know that? Shards Marry. I need your interference, but I get to make the decisions, and I'm sure they'll be stupid ones. Just for once, I went with my heart instead of thinking things through and trying to figure out what would happen... It feels pretty good actually. And don't feel the need to try and be the Lord of screwing up. You didn't go and sleep with your girl's brother's ex pirate-in-law-I-have-no-idea-what-the-faranth-she-is, but who was chained to you on that.." He blows out a growl of frustration, "and it lingers." That one, above all else threatens to screw him up royally. His hand will slam down on the worktable, "Forgiven!" Because his expression says it has to be, that he needs his brother as much as Marryn needs him. "Go ahead and screw up, we'll work it out eventually." Amarik, the quiet, calm and sensible brother, is going to go where the wind takes him, or the mid-life crisis just came a tad early.

A measure of relief brushes some of the angst from Marryn's strong features. "The Lord of Screwing Up. I kinda like that," he chuckles dryly. One hand rises to cover a cough from the dust that rises after Amarik's energetic gesture. He shakes his head slightly, finally raking back those long-ish bangs and casting a side-long smirk towards the younger man. "You certainly have his optimism, Rik. Mother always says I may look like him but you act like him." His smile softens for a moment, another poignant memory sapping some of his humor, then, "Speaking of screwed up, things are so messed up with Aeroulyn I don't see how we're ever going to figure things out. The woman I love hates me and is pregnant by another man. How messed up is that? Do you think there's some sort of cosmic irony involved or am I just damn unlucky?"

Amarik will release a breath, drawn again to the memory of their father, and let it flicker around him for a moment before the image fades. Shaking his head, "I don't know about cosmic irony Marry, but someone's having a good chuckle." Moving around the table he offers a mild punch into the other man's shoulder saying with complete affection, "Come on then Major Screw Up, let the Minor one buy you a drink and we'll toast a long and illustrious career."

And so they go.

Barlords, they take lovers like dewdrops!

2008-06-29T00:52:11Z

An evening at South Boll's Gather.

Afternoon turns to dusk and the crowds have thinned as people make their way to settle children to bed or claim their suppers and the players of Harper Hall have not yet taken the stage for the evening's entertainment. Amarik is slouched in lazy arrangement upon a bench, legs sprawled out and an arm hooked across the table near the barkeeper's booth, a glass of amber liquid in his hand that matches the swirling depth of the amber in his eyes. Pensive, confused and just a touch frustrated, he occasionally lifts his gaze to cast over the crowd then drops it back to the liquid respite of his thoughts.

Marryn strolls along, his pace sure and pose light. He appears to be in a pretty good mood considering all that's been weighing on his mind of late. The Gather must be doing him some good. The liquor booth is, of course, a favorite haunt so in that direction he goes. And as a pair of lovely ladies pass he gives them a nod - and practically trips over Amarik's long legs. "Whoa, hey there!" he mutters, stumbling. "There you are little brother! I've been looking for you. I say we've done enough work for today - it's time to celebrate, eh?" Giving the other man's foot a nudge he cocks his head, dark brows furrowing slightly at the other's demeanor. "What's eating you tonight? Not upset about getting older, are you?"

Amarik chuckles and draws his legs in but makes no move to reseat himself into anything but the sprawl that is so comfortable. The glass gets lifted in a celebratory salute that suggests he has already begun, "You should talk old man. Ready to retire those aging bones and that greyed temple of yours to the ancients table?" The tilt of his lips and the flash of light in his eyes suggest the humor in his tone, but the rest of him retains a near broodiness. "You missed the excitement, the guards hauled away some groper and I saw.. well, I remembered..." A hand threads through his hair before dropping and he shakes his head, "nevermind. It's not important." Nodding his head towards the barkeep, "Indeed, have one on me Uncle."

Marryn chuckles softly, raising a hand to rake back through his still very black mane. Long-ish bangs sweep forward again but he doesn't seem to notice. Signaling to the current tendor of the booth he nods toward Amarik and orders a mug of "Whatever he's having". Deciding his sibling looks pretty well settled where he is, and having no objections to being so close to the liquor, Marryn claims a seat on the bench as well. Sprawling just as much as Amarik was when he first arrived, he lifts his own mug in a belated return salut. "The ancients don't hold a candle to us, brother. We'll be dancing and swooning the ladies till they put us in the ground." His gaze sweeps outward momentarily, his voice lowering. "A groper, you say? Hmph. The jailhouse is going to be too full by the end of the Gather at this rate." He takes a small sip. "Did he at least get smacked for it?"

Even in the dusk, Nienan shades herself with a large, white parasol, and fans herself with her hand. The obviously-pregnant girl, accompanied by an older woman, crosses the gather grounds without, seemingly, particular purpose, chatting in low tones to her companion as they walk. Every so often, the pair stop to consider the wares of one booth or another, primarily at the younger woman's instigation - for the elder, a woman in her fifties or so, seems intent upon pulling her charge away, and into something more serious. "No," says Nienan, firmly, voice carrying. "Not yet. I don't want to-- it's a party, Dela. The timing is bad."

Amarik shakes his head and his shoulders jerk in a half-amused gesture, "No, there was something funny about it. The fellow barely touched her before the woman started screaming and he seemed almost happy to be led away. I didn't get a close enough look before the woman was sobbing hysterics all over me." Another sigh of frustration, "I handled it badly but I was distracted." Snorting he finishes his drink and raises his arm for anothers. "You'll be swooning them, not I brother. I'm happy with what I have." Though his tone does not sound as confident as it should, likely just the liquour.

Marryn pauses mid-drink to eye his sibling over the rim. At first amused by the details of the tale, dark brows rise at the tone of Amarik's admission. Watching another drink appear in his hands Marryn lowers his own to say, "Hitting it kinda hard awfully early, aren't you?" with a touch of teasing humor. Propping one elbow on the back of the bench he sounds more serious as he adds, "You don't look like a man who's happy. What's bothering you? Spill."

Apparently, Nienan wins only a short reprieve, for though she continues on to the next booth, Dela trailing behind her, the older woman begins to search through the crowds, evidently looking, quite intently, for someone in particular. The younger woman picks up a fine shawl, similar to the one she wears over her own shoulders, though dyed a richer, deeper purple, smoothing it through her hands, as Dela spies something, and pulls at her arm. "Just a minute," complains the girl, sulkily, setting the shawl down again reluctantly. "Where?" She looks, then shakes her head. "Not him. Don't push, Dela. We'll find him. In my own time." Dela's voice does not carry the way Nienan's crystalline tone does - but there is definitely something about 'if we wait for you, the baby'll be born already'.

Amarik will sigh, frustrated and the beard and moustach will crinkle together into an expression comical but not representative. "Remember that flight at Ista I told you about. The one that happened so fast I just got lost." An eyebrow will lift above the glass as he fortifies himself with a long sip and it is with a derogatory snort that the liquid is swallowed. "I remember who it was now." Amarik's tone does not bode well. "It was that.. it was Vyune. T'jano Barlord's Vyune." He'll glance at his brother for a moment, shadows crowding beneath that brow and then softer spoken, "The one they had me chained to on that ship."

A soft whistle brushes past Marryn's lips, surprise marking his features as he eyes Amarik. The mug lowers to his lap, forgotten for a moment. "You sure can pick'em, Rik. First a goldrider, and now a pirate. And both Barlord-related." The synopsis is put as a statement, not a question. "You'd better be well padded when Toncho finds out, let alone Thadd. No wonder you're drinking like there's going to be a shortage soon."

Nienan, over by the stalls with her older companion, seems finally to have given in to something. "Perhaps we'll just go and have a cool drink," the girl suggests, and Dela, looking hot and bothered, and a little worse for wear, seems to agree with this notion, for the pair begin to weave their way towards the food and drink stalls. As she passes, not far from Amarik and Marryn, Nienan gives the latter of the pair a long glance, though it lasts only a few moments; then, with a cheerful expression, and more energy than the state of her pregnancy might suggest she should have, engages with a server to purchase a fruity drink for herself, and one slightly more alcoholic for her companion.

A dragon lands in the courtyard, and unloads a few passengers from Fort. Taini waves her thanks to the blue, smiling and turning toward the Gather grounds, intently searching for someone. She nods and greets a few folks here and there, hampered on her way by well-wishers, people expressing congratulations on Birgith's clutch. Each person gets a polite smile and nod, but there are no lingering words for them tonight. Tai's looking for him.

Amarik eyes his brother carefully and nearly chokes on his statement. Dry tones spread throughout his basso tenor like the Igen sand fields, "Thanks so much brother, you're emotional support is truly touching." The rest of his drink is downed again in a gulp and he'll signal for yet another before his hand goes to the back of his neck and kneeds at the tension. Darkness broods within his gaze for a moment, "Oh wait, it gets worse. I took one look at her and I think I wanted her still. She practically helped crack that lash Marryn, and I'm attracted to her." The fist at his neck is released and dropped down onto the bench in a resounding punch of knuckle against wood, "I love Taini Marry. What in Faranth's bloody offspring am I going to do?"

Marryn shrugs once and his gaze is caught for a second by a lovely young woman, obviously pregnant, over Amarik's shoulder. Pulling his attention back to his sibling he raises his mug for brotherly support and takes a drink. "Just stating the facts, Rik. You know I'm here for you - always. It's just ironic that once you decide to widen your horizons... you /really/ go in two-feet forward. Quite unlike you, actually. You're usually more cautious." And speaking of irony, he stops there for a drink, only to have the next bit of news nearly send his ale flying as he chokes. Sitting up straighter he turns in his seat to settle that intense dark gaze on those of amber. "Listen, Rik, if anyone understands getting pulled in different directions it's me. You've got to stay away from both of them until you figure out what you want to do. Believe me, woman are evil. You won't be able to think straight around either one of them."

Taini continues to move slowly through the gather, and her smile becomes even more plastic as she moves. For those who don't know her, it's perfectly polite, perfectly correct. However, those who know her could see that it's clearly put on, clearly just for show. /Finally,/ as she walks toward the area where the drinks are served, she sees the familiar form, walks right up to him, and grabs him in an embrace and a moderately intense kiss. As she pulls away, she sighs, relief evident on her face. "/Rik./ There you are."

Nienan's companion gives her a poke, nearly spilling the younger girl's drink; Nienan winces, steadying the glass, giving the woman a silent nod. Well. If she must. She hands her parasol to her companion, and then, holding one hand over her belly, strides - if in a dainty, ladylike kind of fashion - towards Marryn and Amarik, though her attention is most distinctly upon the former. It's as she approaches that Taini does likewise, and though her expression shifts, just slightly, as she registers that particular exchange, she doesn't pause. "Marryn?" She sounds breathy - and slightly faint. She obviously expects him to recognise her, for she continues without hesitation, words toppling out in a distinctly youthful fashion. "Oh, Marryn. I need to speak to you. Not now - I think I need to go lay down, all this heat. But soon. Can we? It's important."

To say Amarik is surprised is rather akin to saying thread is a little annoying. Taini's kiss distracts him momentarily and his eyes are wide if somewhat panicked for a moment. On the heels of Marryn's advice about women, one of them appears. "Tai!" gets blurted out in greeting and he manages a lopsided grin before he is distracted by the woman engaging Marryn in conversation. The bruised and bloodied knuckles of the hand that just slammed into the bench come to his lips. "Accident," gets mumbled as he winces.

Marryn tsks, lightly clicking his tongue over Amarik's physical display of anger. Before he can tease his brother though, one of the very women he warned him about appears, and elegantly makes his point for him. Dark brows rise as he grins slightly in a 'I told you so' look cast to his love-lorn sibling. Then his own name is called and he gets the second surprise within moments - its the lovely young pregnant woman. Confused, but polite, he gives her a nod, saying, "Of course!" But before he can inquire further she is leaving so he sets his curiosity aside for the time being, simply watching her as she leaves. Voices pull his attention back and he looks to the pair beside him. Clearing his throat pointedly, he scratches at his chin, saying with amused sarcasm, "Don't mind me, of course, but hello Taini. Nice to see you."

Taini watches his expression, as it's a little different than normal. His hand is noticed with a frown, and she nods. "Need something on it?" Just because she's a worry wart like that. Marryn is given a nod. "Hello, Marryn." She says, with a smile, just a little dry herself. "Sorry..." She is leary of losing his good graces. "...Just haven't seen him in awhile..." She turns back toward her lover with a worried expression, wrapping her arm around his waist. "Is everything okay, Rik?" She asks, watching his face intently.

Amarik nods, "fine. Just telling Marryn about some nutcase the guards put into jail this afternoon. I handled it badly, I don't even think he did anything and seemed way too happy when the guards took him." Bitran roots curl a deflection that while strictly not a lie does try and smooth out something he doesn't want to pursue for the moment. Snorting at his brother's look, he moves over to allow Taini room to sit. "Wine love?" but his hand will be up signalling it before she answers. "How are you. I'm sorry I didn't make it to the clutching. I didn't hear about it until the watchdragon came back." A wry chuckle and he'll raise an eyebrow at Marryn, "Taini's Bee is going to have babies." He'll glance back to her again, "How many. 30, 40?"

Marryn scoots slightly, but not much. He does lean back in his seat and assume that casual stretched-out pose again, making anyone walking too close veer slightly to avoid tripping over his long legs. He takes another drink, simply smirking into the ale over the sickening display beside him. Poor Amarik, he thinks, sending mental condolences. He's got it bad. Amarik's babbling garners a supportive nod and 'Ahhhh,' of acknowledgement before he dives back into another drink. "We'll have to make a point of visiting to see them," he notes politely.

Taini nods, taking in his words, and a little uncertainty with them. "Really? He was happy to go to jail? That's kind of weird." She moves to sit beside him, nodding at his offer of wine. "Sure. Sounds good." A slow shake of the head when he mentions the numbers "Not quite that many." She says, shrugging. "Twenty-three." She leans on his shoulder, and looks out at the sky. "It's okay. I wasn't sure you'd be able to make it. It kind of happened fast." She sighs, and nods to the older brother's comments. "Yeah, we'd like that."

Nodding, "I did want to be there," Amarik assures in a low tone. When the drinks arrives, he hands Taini the wine glass and then takes his own, nodding to the server his thanks before adjusting his free arm to go round her shoulder. Glancing at Marryn his brow crinkles in thought and he frowns, "Brave enough to go to back to Fort again?" He digs a little at his brother and then concentrates on drinking.

Marryn grunts, turning his head to cast a raised brow at Amarik. "Those Barlords don't scare me," he says, feigning a serious expression. It holds for a moment, then he pushes an elbow against Taini's side. "Present company excluded, of course. You're female /and/ Barlord. That's much scarier than your muscle-bound big brother, by far!" Catching the attention of the barbooth tenant before he retreats Marryn orders another up for himself.

"And I would really like to have had you there." Taini says, settling into the embrace and taking a long drink of the wine. "But it didn't work out that way." She tolerates the poke in the ribs, switching hands with her drink to thump Marryn lightly on the shoulder. "I'm not scary. /Toncho's/ scary. I'm..." She grins, a little of the family's predatory nature showing through. "I'm perfectly innocent." She drains her own drink, nodding for another. She turns to Amarik, and lays her head back on his shoulder. "I missed you." Sorry Marryn. Feeling mushy. "Thadd's got another kid on the way." She shakes her head. "And Thera's run off." The wine's loosened her tongue too. "If you see her," This to Marryn. "Let me know, please. Thadd wants to talk to her."

At the jostling of Taini, Amarik looks at Marryn and scowls rather severely and then squints one eye shut, "Stop manhandling my woman." There is a rather wobbly if drunk smile that forms on his face and he will attempt to leer at Taini, though that eye is still shut. "Not too innocent I hope," and then he laughs and then frowns all in the same moment, "Thera's having Thadd's kid and ran off?" This is how very bad rumours get started. Drunk men!

Marryn jerks as if poked by a hot iron, dark head snapping around to Taini and swinging those long-ish bangs forward again. "Thera is missing?" he echoes, stretching his gaze to frown past her at Amarik. The other man's words register sluggishly as he wasn't totally listening to Taini and only caught part of her comments. Blame those finely dressed gather ladies who insist on passing by and tossing flirtatious smiles and waves at the pair of Bollian royalty. Did he say she was pregant by Thadd too? "Teej isn't gonna like that!" he notes with an emphatic swing of one arm. A bit of ale sloshes from his mug.

Taini shakes her head quickly, after raising it from his shoulder to smile in his direction. "No, babe." She says, gently. "Seana's the one having the baby. Fort's watchrider. Thadd's lover." She clarifies. "Thera's situation is something else." She chuckles at her drunk man, and, when her own refill comes, drinks it down rather quickly. Seems to be the thing to do right now. "Maybe we just outta get a skin?" She wonders aloud. That's how she does it. Saves a lot of getting up and down. Marryn's comment gets a slight shrug, unwilling to move too much in the comfort of Amarik's embrace. "I don't know /what/ Teej is thinking. Last time I talked to him, he..." A sad frown. "Kinda grumped at me." /She/ didn't like that. "Of course, Mrrth is glowing again." Like they need to know all this. But she's talking.

Amarik has a very difficult time keeping any of the Barlord's straight, their women seem to mix and match with incredible regularity. Downing the rest of his glass he sets it down and then hiccuping, he lifts his hand to push his own hair back from his brow and rubs it softly until it is sticking up like a fried porcupine. "That can't be good. But she has her dragon so is safe from pirates." Even drunk he comes back to that worry. At the mention of Seana, Amarik frowns again, brows creasing into a hawk like squint, "Th'deus' lover? Did I know that? What about our Nomi?" She is afterall family and he lives by the rule that family and loved ones come first.

Marryn struggles to keep anger afloat amidst all the alcohol thickening his blood, let alone the twisted stories. Yes, for his liquor-addled brain Taini is talking in circles. "Is she in danger?" he blurts, sitting up straight. Worry creases his brow, sincere though confused. You'd think he would've learned his lesson the last time he got drunk while at Ista Weyr but here at home, on his own turf, the danger seems remote. "Is anyone looking for her? Have they sent out the the wings? Someone's got to find her!" he insists, and slaps one thigh mightily, causing a large portion of his drink slosh to the ground. The rest of Amarik's comments only fuel the fire of indignation, and he snorts loudly. "Remember they're weyrfolk, Rik. They take lovers like dewdrops." That for Thadd, not Nomi, for whom he adds, "We should check on her though when we go visit the eggs." Apparently his present company has been excluded again, even if she is weyrfolk herself. Marryn lurches to his feet. "I will go find Thera!" And off he goes, straight toward the hold. If he makes it to his bed it'll be amazing.

Taini exhales over closed lips. "I don't ask." Taini says, referring to Nomi. "I think they had an understanding. Thadd's like Grandpappy Tru." She says, with a shrug, snuggling even closer. "He..." She snorts. "Tru got tossed out for having two women." More that the men really didn't need to know. But, if they're more closely connected with the family, it's part of the history. "The reason they put the bright blue 'S' on his forehead." Glass is drained again, and more signaled for. "I try /not/ to know these things about my brothers. But, Thadd and Teej especially revel in making sure I know. Or seems that way sometimes." She frowns, trying to remember. "Nomi's a cousin right?" She wonders, trying to figure out the familial connections. Marryn's actions make Tai giggle, and she shakes her head. "I don't think she's in danger, Marryn." She says, his name drawling out slowly, sounding more like Thadd now that she's got a few drinks in her, as well. "Thadd thinks she went home. You go home too." Which he seems to be doing. "G'night!" She calls, and then turns her attention to Amarik.

Amarik turns to look at his Barlord, cuddling her close and then he smiles crookedly but the free arm that was rubbing his head now waves towards Marryn. "Night Marry," is offered rather drunkly and half-lidded into Taini's gaze. "Don't mind him," he says and holds up his hand pressing two fingers close together, "little crush, teensy tiny. Something about how she can name more dead Lord Holders then he can." He leans in, "you though, you I might just keep. Don't need anyone else." He is swaying quite a bit at the moment.

Taini watches him wobble, and finds it a little funny. "Thera?" She wonders aloud. "Watch out if she hits him. That's how she got started with Teej. Slugged him right in the guts. Then, he pinned her against the wall..." Taini says, grinning. "So..." She wonders, looking him over, spiked hair and all. "Thought I'd return the favor." She reaches into the pocket of her leathers, and draws out a folded hide. " 'Cept I brought a gift." She grins, and unfolds the hide, a well-painted picture of her sitting with Birgith. "Thought you could use something to brighten up your office. Dark place." A little shrug, and she hands him the picture. "Happy Turnday, love." See, she remembered, too.

Amarik takes the picture and looks at it closely before smiling and for the moment sobering, "Tai, it's wonderful. You couldn't have chosen a better gift. Now I can have you close all the time." Leaning in he kisses her quickly if drunkenly, they are still at the Southern Boll gather. "Thank you love." The romantic gesture is rather spoiled when a hiccup occurs, but he'll grin it away, "Maybe we should go back to my office and you can show me where to hang it." Though the tone suggests other activities might occur too.

Taini attempts to stand, doing fairly well, and offers him a hand up. "Well, we already checked out /my/ office..." She says, thinking that terribly funny. "Let's get there first." She says, wondering if he'll make it the whole way. He is pretty far gone. "C'mon."

With motivation such as that, he just might. Though unsteady, Amarik uses the excuse of loping his arm around hers and leading her back to the Hold.

Fight!

2008-06-20T18:12:55Z

Anger explodes in Boll's Passionfruit Pit

OOC: I should know better then to play with these guys in the wee hours of the night. I can't think against their creative energies at all! Thanks for the RP folks - much much much fun!

Marryn appears like a thunderstorm and stomps his way over to the bar with just as much noise as one. Landing one fist on the counter with a loud thud he demands the hardest liquor available - in the largest mug.

Perhaps surprisingly, the man that one might expect to arrive with such an outburst, does not. Rather, Fort's Weyrleader, dressed in bland greys of his Weyrling-graduation outfit (well-repaired, though it was once a work of elegance), prowls in. No doubt some of Boll's Finest also accompany the infamous man in; they arrange themselves not-so-casually at a table near the door, weapons within easy reach, as the knotless rider arrives at the bar, a shadow that has manifested behind Marryn, "If you're buying a headache, I've a other suggestions, might not draw the same sort of headache, Marryn." Soft-spoken, though Th'deus' gravely baritone is likely distinct enough.

"Marryn" is the bellowed name that precedes Amarik's entrance into the Pit. "Where the crackdusted shells are you and what the faranth did you do?" Long angry strides bring Amarik into the Pit and at first he doesn't notice the Fort Weyrleader's presence, so intent on finding his lame brained brother who has just destroyed their room.

Marryn's head whips around at the sound of Th'deus' familiar voice, setting obsidian locks askew and across one eye. With a rakish look and anger burning bright in his eyes his mental state is rightly to be questioned. "Well, well, this is a surprise," he quips, "Your appearance, that is, not your offer. You and I seem to always get back around to that don't we?" Before he can explain further his name is voiced for a second time, and this one is completely expected. Marryn's drink conveniently arrives at exactly that moment, and so he slowly picks it up and takes a drink rather than acknowledge his brother.

"Popular, you." Th'deus' comment tails Amarik's. "If this is a bad time," Th'deus' voice has a touch of steel in it, "I could ask Amarik to take a number." A pause, before Th'deus will glance back to his sister's lover, mild acknowledgement in his study, "All's good as long as your men don't think they're taking me any farther into the rock than I am now, Marryn. I wanted to talk about Aadi. You know her, aye?" He expects an affirmative answer.

Amarik will pause and greet Th'deus with a considered nod, "Excuse me for a moment Weyrleader," and then his hand will close around the back of Marryn's shirt and he yanks him backwards. Face a mask of anger and amber eyes glaring, "What in Faranth name did you do to the room. Isn't it bad enough I find out that you made Taini cry and there's this mess with Aadi, but what has got into you now?"

Marryn slides a side-long glance toward the weyrleader, knowing how the man hates to be enclosed. His current proximity to the hated jail cells that have been his home on more than one occasion is reason enough for the sarcasm. His response to Th'deus' question is a sharp huff, then "You could say that." Another drink is cut abruptly short by the sudden tightening of his shirt as it gets yanked against his chest. The mug tips, splashing half it's contents on the counter, but is held in a quickly tightened grip. Marryn whirls, jerking his arm upward to break Amarik's hold as his body turns to fully face the younger man. "I decided to do a little rearranging," he barks. "So what?" Mention of Taini garners a slight hesitation as he shifts his shoulders to straighten his shirt. "I didn't /make/ her cry. She was already a mess when I found her. And that's /your/ fault." Anger blossoms red beneath his deep southern tan. "Blast it all, can't a man get a decent drink around here without getting jumped on from all directions??"

An alliance has the distinct possibility of forming; this fact is recognized as Th'deus also steps very deliberately away from the Lord Elect. In fact, the one-eyed glance at the representatives of the militia may be a warning, and at the same time, it might be a summons. Th'deus' fists tighten, his stance shifts to one more balanced and he steps to put a stool between himself and Marryn. As if summoned, Alyx erupts with a hissing challenge from *between*, clearing the immediate area of firelizards with the fury she emits. Th'deus waves her down to a perch, and sends a hard look now at Amarik; that brief alliance might be crumbling. "Y'all are hell on my sisters, are you? Taini's crying and Aadi's gone mad?"

Amarik scoffs at his brother loudly and his low tenor shifts to near baritone ranges, "Rearranging? You call that decorating? You trashed the place and you'll get to drink in peace when you start behaving like anything other then a watch wher's ass. She was crying when I found her and that was a day after she met you because of something you said." His own anger is barely controllable though he will flick a glance at Th'deus before returning his vent on Marryn, "Shards Marryn, first you throw Aeroulyn in jail and now you're attacking Taini and sure as shards Taini's not blaming you for Aadi, but someone needs to be held responsible for that."

Any glimmer of morbid amusement at Th'deus' ironic observation is immediately smothered. Marryn's features contort into a mask of rage at Amarik's accusations, the older brother rising to his full height and giving his chin another jerk that not only tosses long-ish bangs out of his eye but serves to angle his view down his hawk-ish nose. The mug is thrown to the floor at Amarik's feet, splitting into a dozen pieces with a loud crash and splashing the remnants of his drink in all directions. "You too, Rik? Am I to be villianized by false accusations from everyone now? I'll not be responsible for anything I didn't do and I'm sick and tired of defending myself!" Who else has been flinging accusations he doesn't say, but Amarik may be able to guess being privy to Marryn's recent frustrations. Nevertheless Marryn has reached his last rung and balances lightly on his heels as if spoiling for a fight.

"Then," Th'deus' voice is whisper soft, "What is it, that you did /not/ do to Taini, that made her cry for a day, Marryn?" Th'deus keeps his pace distance, but no doubt the guards are on their feet at this point, one having stepped out to see where Zarl might be, at present moment. "And what did the Lady Smith do, that drove Aadi to the healer's hall, where she sits terrified of even /me/? What is happening here, that your allies and friends, Marryn, are falling like vtols in winter? And if you're the Lord Elect, but not responsible, who is?" This, from Fort's Weyrleader, whose smile is sudden and grim, "At Fort Weyr, it's always my fault. If you've some other way of running an establishment I'd sure like to be hearing about it."

Amarik holds his ground even as the mug smashes at his feet. His eyes narrow beneath the bushy brows and his teeth flash meanly. "How have you been villianized brother dear?" and at the moment there is not much affection in that moniker but neither is he as deadly calm as others in the room. A glance at Th'deus and he nods tersely, "alright, I'll be reasonable. You tell me what's going on and then I'll decide if I'll punch your glows out?"

Marryn is so consumed that he doesn't even pay attention to anyone outside their trio, which is highly unusual for the sociable young man. At the moment his dark gaze darts between the two attackers, as he sees them, with anger quickly over-riding coherent thought. "It doesn't matter - take your pick!" he yells at the Weyrleader first. "I seem to have a knack for getting everyone I care about hurt." One arm swings in frustrated gesture, coming dangerously close to thumping Amarik in the chest. It's not like the brother's have never fought, even coming to physical blows, but not as much the older they've gotten, and certainly not in such a public manner. One step is taken closer to Amarik before Marryn growls, "You wanna try it, little brother?"

The movement is instinctive, really. Marryn's swing and step forward, toward Amarik, triggers the martial reaction in the massive bronzer; Th'deus has moved the barstool with his own forward motion, and his hands come to grip Marryn's shoulders, fingers tightening on the man's musculature. Somewhat superior height, weight and the relative freedom of movement within the bar's aisle, and Th'deus pulls back on the Lord Elect, to try to off-set the man's balance, to pull Marryn into himself and himself away from the bar and Amarik, "Nay then, Marryn!"

"Oh I do big brother, I really do," and there is a mean smirk on Amarik's face as he speaks. Even as Th'deus pulls his brother back, he is following, jaw clenched beneath the moustach and beard, fist drawn back before he lets it swing towards his brother's chin.

Marryn folds to the rider's prodding, not expecting it at all. His attention was more focused on threatening his brother so muscles easily acquiesce when pushed in an unexpected direction. His balance isn't completely lost but he does step back one pace rather jerkily, his head beginning to turn in the other man's direction. His angry scowl changes to one of shock as a split second later yet another surprise is delivered - delivered right to his chin. Head whipping aside, he stumbles back another few paces and nearly tumbles into Th'deus with a loud grunt.

And of course this was expected by the Bollian guards. No matter what Lord Marryn has told them, and no matter how the /other/ Barlord, the stablemaster has behaved (though there are still some wicked rumors about that man), and no matter that Th'deus /did/ Impress a dragon and might hold a lofty position gained by dragon's wings, MOST Bollian guards will remain convinced until the day that they are laid in their graves, that the biggest Barlord cannot be trusted. Now as he steps in to manhandle, to secure their Lord Elect against their other Lord, they move forward as a certain trio, beliefs verified by their own witnessing. The sound of fist against jaw hastens their stride, concretes their resolution so that the quickest of murmured strategies ends with two of the man hurling themselves at the tangle of Weyrleader and Lord Elect; the third comes behind Th'deus, with the glint of silver in his hand.

As Th'deus' goal was to separate the two and use his own body as buffer for Marryn's fall, Marryn does not have far to fall against Th'deus, and Th'deus' balance is now upset so that he takes a stumbling step back, grip on Marryn's shoulder loosening. The guards hit at that point, in an attack that would make their trainers proud. One bodyslams the off-balance Th'deus against the bar, and as the rider twists, the other slides himself between his lord and the Weyrleader. Th'deus reaches out and blind luck secures for him one of the guards, pulling him down as Th'deus moves to stagger forward and back toward Marryn. He is stopped then by the unmistakable feel of cold steel to his throat. And this guard is not delicate about the application.

Amarik makes connection with Marryn's chin and follows through, though he is off balance as well and stumbles a step forward. His head jerks upright just in time to see the guard push Th'deus against the bar and then that flash of silver. His face begins to register shock and then protest though his arm will flail out to grab hold of Marryn and send them both forward into the guard trying to block.

Amarik may be smaller than his brother but his swing still packs a whollop, especially when unexpected. The glows flicker for a moment, as far as Marryn can tell, as light flashing before his eyes. The solid feel of a body slamming into him is real enough, though he can't register it fast enough to do anything but fall with the momentum. The air is knocked out of his lungs as he goes down in a tripled tangle of arms and legs. Voices, lots of them. Curses and groans. With a shake of his head he tries to swing his hair back so he can see, arms tucked painfully askew, and barks in a strained tone, "Get OFF me!" to whomever it might apply.

Once Th'deus is stopped with the knife, his arm begins to rise. A hard jerk of that knife at his throat without the slicing motion that would part skin and tissue halts the massive man's arm. The other guard, stepping clear of Marryn, pulls a long-knife to urge Th'deus back a few steps more. This is more quickly done, for the bar has cleared out to the fringes, where a press of anxious people watch the procedings. The third guard reaches to haul Amarik away from the tangle of legs, so that once he is up, and pulled away, Marryn is free to rise. The fourth guard has not shown up again. Yet. Outside, distantly, Xanth's roar may be heard in the absolute silence that now descends on the Pit.

The anger that washed over him begins to dissipate just a little as Amarik is unceremoniously hauled off his brother. Any momentary silence is broken by a grown of, "Lay off of me!" There may be double meaning in that and though he may only be minor, he has the same rearing as major and he twists against the guard's grip. Bollian guards are too well trained for there own good and for now he stays fast. Gaze sliding angrily to the guard with a blade at the Weyrleader's throat comes with the realization that things are getting out of hand.

Marryn climbs to his feet, already smoothing his shirt and raking a hand back through thick black hair. Working his jaw a bit he holds it gingerly between forefinger and thumb, shooting daggers at his brother for half a second before turning enough to register the glint of metal threatening Th'deus. Waving his arm in a sharp gesture he barks, "Stand down!" As the guards hesitate he says it again, tone deepening into a growl, "I said, stand down - now!"

Quivering Alxy could be a harper's sculpture of taut spun gold, still upon the bar, her attention riveted on the guards who have subdued her bond. Glittering red eyes are met by Th'deus' single one, for he has turned his attention to the lizard, perhaps in a bid to keep her quiet and keep him from getting his throat inadertantly cut. Now Xanth's roar sounds nearer. The guard holding his knife against the so-still rider's neck, blanches. Marryn's words are a relief, and both men smartly step back, their knives recoiling to more subtle position, though neither will yield to Th'deus a corridor to either Bollian brother. "Alyx-Go." And the gold is up and between. Th'deus sends a look at Marryn, at Amarik, and decides that this is the time to deal with a rampaging bronze dragon, rather than stand around and wait to be hauled to the prisons. "Now then," Th'deus murmurs softly, "My concerns have not been addressed, Marryn. Aadi. Taini." He'd come with only one, but leaves now with two worries. Deliberately cutting a wide path around Marryn and Amarik, the Weyrleader sends his monocular stare at both other men before he exits. --Into, of course, a pile more of guards for whom Th'deus is only too happy to step aside; they will pour in.

Amarik is released and though his anger is dissipating he'll take a step towards Marryn, "Now are you going to tell me what's going on." Course he just decked the man and wouldn't be surprised to have it reciprocated. Th'deus' exit is only noted periperally but the guards milling awkwardly about are. Another growl is directed at them, though they might not listen, "At ease!"

Marryn is still tenderly working his jaw and gives Amarik a very sour look for his question. "I'm going to have you skinned and served for breakfast on a pastry roll if you've loosened any teeth, little brother," he mumbles with considerably less heat than the last time he used that phrase. Tempted as he is to return the favor, events have distinctly cooled his own temper and he gaze casts about briefly at the roomful of eyes and ears focused on their every move. He nods at the guards, twitching one hand to follow up Amarik's last direction. "I don't know about talking just yet, but collect some fresh ale and we'll see about finding a quiet place to get good and drunk, eh? Then we'll see what happens."

Being seriously tempted to whack Marryn upside the head

2008-06-17T09:04:53Z

More of the loving Bollian brothers roleplay.

Garden Hall (#3209J)
Sunlight streams into this central hall, shedding light on what appears as almost an indoor oasis. Several glass panels in the ceiling allow the natural lighting. The floor is flagstone covered, and the perimeter is a soil bed for the various local plants which grow indoors here. A small man-made pond ripples quietly, and is usually stocked with fish, if the firelizards can be kept out. A grand staircase leads up to the second level balcony, and several cushion-covered divans grace the hall.
A large bowl of fresh 'fruit' decorates a central table, inviting anyone passing by to try a sample. Clucking rather loudly and strutting around the room as if it's his own personal space is an infamous little fellow named 'Clyde', unofficial mascot of the hold.
You see Slavik and Iseult here.
Obvious exits:
Front Hall Dining Hall Up Stairs Down Stairs Passionfruit Pit

Lush greenery and myriads of tropical flowers provide a serene outdoor feel to the Garden Hall; fittingly underscored by the soft ripple of running water into a well stocked pond. It's near the pond that a pair of legs can be seen - if one is looking for such a thing - sticking out at bench level from behind a rather large plant. Sprawled lazily, there's also a pole above the legs - aimed toward the pond.

He hasn't lived here all this long to not know where Marryn hides and where to look. Amarik makes a vtol line in that direction, one eyebrow twitching as he spots the pole. He can't help but grin and rounding the curve of lush greenery he snorts at his brother, "Mother is so going to tan your hide."

Marryn would have jumped at Amarik's unexpected arrival if he wasn't already so distracted. As it is he simply turns his gaze briefly to his brother before rolling it back to the pond with a scoffing chortle. One arm is stretched out along the back of the bench while the other holds the fishing pole, it's end propped in place between his thighs. A skin lies on the seat beside him, still slightly bulged with the ale left inside. "She has to catch me first." A flick of one hand indicates the empty space to his right on the bench in silent invitation. "I put'em back anyway so I figure no one will notice. Just me and the fish - well, and you now. But I know where you sleep so I'm not worried about you turning me in for parental favor." A slight twitch crosses his lips for his youngest sibling, Mother's precious baby boy, already the lucky recipient of a larger share of her motherly instincts.

Amarik will grin at his brother and slip into the seat, propping his own legs up on the edge of the fish pond. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he offers slyly, amber gaze considering the demeanor of his brother. One arm reaches behind the bench and fishes in some foilage before drawing out a second pole. He flashes teeth between his moustache and beard in unrepentant chagrin then. "And I've slipped a few notches on the parental ladder lately, or haven't you noticed?" The line gets unwrapped and a moment later there is a small plop as the hook and sinker joins the other in the water.

Laughter peels several layers off Marryn's downcast demeanor as he watches Amarik set his own pole. Twitching his own cast he ensures the line won't cross that of his brother and settles again to wait. "I shouldn't be surprised," he says, a genuine grin appearing. "You did learn from the best, after all." His arm slips from it's perch on the bench back and snatches up the skin. "Drink?" he offers with an apologetic shrug. "I've barely touched the stuff since since Ista. Tonight I just thought blast it, I need a good stiff dirnk." Note of his brother's parental approval rating merely rates a knowing shake of his head. "And yes, keep going at the rate you are and /I'll/ look like the 'smart' one for a change."

Amarik snorts loudly and takes the skin, popping the cap before he takes a draw, "Like that'll ever happen. I listend to the Harper, and didn't chase the help." Mostly. He will smile broadly back at his brother and nod, "to the best." And another long draw from the sack before he offers it over with a long sigh, taking a moment to tug up on the pole and try and encourage the hook towards one of those brightly glinting fish hiding under some floating leaf. "When did life get so complicated Marry?"

Marryn sighs heavily, the last remaining button of his crisp white shirt straining to hold the material across his chest. "When we got stupid, Rik. We should just stick with each other and swear off women." Bending his arm he braces his head on his palm, not even bothering with the bangs that slip in front of his eyes. "I'm a grown man. I'm strong. I've had more women than I can remember. 'Love' was a word I used to get lucky." A pause grows for a few seconds before he adds, "I hate that she changed that. I hate that I love her so much." No need to explain that reference further. "Trust me, brother, have your fill with Taini but don't give her your heart."

Amarik stares at the glinting surface of the pond quietly for a few moments, face still before he too will lift his hand and rub it across his chin before sliding back to massage his neck. A heavy sigh is offered, "I don't know where that is going Marryn. My head says one thing, that it's a little crazy. She's a goldrider for Faranth sake. But I like her too. I like spending time with her." He'll glance at his older brother somber and thoughtful all at once, "And is it really that easy to not give your heart away. Doesn't it just happen despite your best efforts?"

Marryn sits up suddenly, jerking the pole a few times before cursing under his breath as an empty line is wound backward from the pond. "You're spookin' my fish," he accuses lightly. Re-baiting and casting, he scoops up the skin for a drink before leaning back again. "Yes, a rider. A gold rider. You sure know how to pick'em, Rik." A shrug moves his wide shoulders then. "I used to think so, but not anymore. I'll never let anyone do that to me again. Never."

Amarik doesn't dispute the idiocy of the statement and simply nods, "A gold rider. A Barlord gold rider. Mom birthed those kittens yet?" Holding out his hand for the skin, "not as bad as a Smith apparently," and then offers Marryn a halfhearted grin. "Though I'd say tossing her in jail wasn't the best way of trying to win her back."

Marryn chuckles first, leaving his opinion of their mother's response to that. "You've always been the thorough type and that's about as far as you can go for shock value." Handing over the skin he raises his hand to rake back those obsidian locks finally, giving his pole a testing tweak just in case the fish fell asleep or something. His expression sours at mention of the jailing, thick brows furrowing and jaw setting stiffly. "I was trying to keep from losing her again, not win her back. The blasted fool woman is going to get herself taken again and I swear I'll leave her to'em this time since she obviously doesn't want me protecting her." Bitterness hardens his tone, pose slouching a bit.

Amarik avoids the shock value comment, still for all intents and purposes of a quiet and studious natures and there is regret there for the worry he causes his Mother. "No you wouldn't," gets offered quietly back, his own tenor growling out the truth of this statement. Amarik, his mother, his sister all have part of that man's heart and so if Aeroulyn does too, then Amarik is quietly confident that Marryn would never let that happen.

Marryn nods once, resolve strengthened by Amarik's support. Never again will he let a woman have his heart - never again leave it open to the possibility of getting trampled on so thoroughly. Just when he opens his mouth to say something the pole nearly jerks out of his hand. Snapping it back is the wrong reaction but unfortunately the response is automatic and for a few seconds he hisses through clenched teeth for the damage done to the more sensitive parts of his body. Two hands grip the pole and carefully wind it in. "What the shards is /in/ there??" he manages after a few moments. Grunting as the object on the other end resists he gives it a good yank and something comes flying out of the water and straight at Amarik's chest. A fish, yes, but only a size to have tugged on the lure. Along with it is an over-size boot and a good amount of water from inside as it squishes loudly into Amarik.

Amarik jerks backwards as the boot falls into his lap. Blinking in surprise he begins to laugh, a low rumble of mirth. The boot gets lifted and he upends its contents back into the pond, "Alright brother here's the deal. You fall in love again and I'll kick you in the arse with this boot. If I look like I'm getting too lost with Tai, you do the same." His expression will grow sober for a moment as he considers the boot in his hands, seriously tempted to wack Marryn upside the head with it and then follow suit on himself.

Aye, ye know me.

2008-06-09T06:29:13Z

Quae rises and Ben gives chase. Amarik and Vyune find themselves chained together again.

Central Bowl (#876J)
Although Ista is smaller than the other Weyrs, the bowl still stretches over 3000 feet in length. To the north and east, you can see the jagged rock fingers towering thousands of feet above you. On the tip of the most northern finger lay the Star Stones, the heralds of the coming of thread. The Queens' Weyrs and the Hatching Grounds lay to the northeast, while the Weyrling Training Grounds and Barracks lie to the north. To the northwest lies the waterfall, where the weyrlings and full-grown dragons alike are bathed, and the weyrfolk can enjoy a swim. Due east, you will find both the Living and Lower Caverns, and to the west is the Feeding Corrals and the Plateau on the edge of the Bay. Great gaping maws dot the inner mountainside and occasionally you can see dragons swooping gracefully in and out of their rocky homes.
It is a spring afternoon. Partly cloudy skies allow for a gentle, if breezy day.
You see Khast, Rhyolith, Glissiereth, Nafanth, Snypiper, Quae, and Ben here.
Velura and Vyune are here.
Obvious exits:
Eastern Bowl Southern Bowl Training Grounds Feeding Pens (Beach)
Moved.

Quae's beak splits into a wide yawn, the young queen stretching languidly on her tiny ledge high upon the Weyr's wall. A flash of cinnamon and cumin, with cayenne saffron building hot and bright within her hide. The laziness will not last long.

Snypiper perches on the fence of the feeding pens, reddish hued copper skin reflecting sun and his slightly flapping wings showing his anxiety at the moment.

Ben arrows in, all liquid syrup and over indulgence to land on some small crag. An inner call peaked his interest and he's not above taking advantage, eyes a glow to watch the queen with interest.

Down below, Vyune pauses to lay her hand to her forehead, squinting against a spate of unexpected vertigo. A young woman beside her, helping to carry the laundry load, pauses as well and offers polite concern that the swarthy visitor seeks to wave off impatiently. Above her head, two flashes of bronze announce the arrival of Ut and Ne; they, too, are dismissed with her hand to spiral upwards. Out of sight, out of mind... or so she thinks.

Quae flares her piquant wings, clutching the edge of the ledge in harsh talons before she launches herself fiercely into the crosswinds that buffet the area. Her feral tumble downwards is not without purpose; a tunnelsnake lurking in the recesses of a crevice meets his unfortunate end between her jaws.

Snypiper flutters up off the post then settles again when he sees the gold eat, wings shaking with the slightest tremor as his dark talons split the wood just a touch beneath him.

Ben folds neat wings against the bourbon's glint and leans over, way over to watch the gold take the tunnelsnake. Admiration for form and function combine to offer the barest croons of encouragement.

Quae tears at the hide, tears at the belly and the entrails, but only tears - the insides of the snake scatter across the rocks in waste. Her greedy muzzle dips, finally, but only towards the spill of blood to siphon it towards a throat now glowing with very different hunger. It seems she's only sipped a mouthful before imperative need flings her airborne and keening.

Snypiper splinters a piece of wood off as he pushes himself off the post, russet body tight except for wings spread wide for lift.

The very air in Vyune's throat scorches, swelling like cotton to choke her breath even as she attempts to inhale. Her face tilts up, written with stunned astonishment, to track the streak of phoenixfire across the sky in incomprehension. It's the caverns girl who puts two and two together after her own glance upwards. She places a solicitous hand on Vyune's arm and urges the young woman back towards the cool darkness of the caverns.

Casamir appears from the west.

The clouded Istan sky seems endless to something as small as a firelizard, but that will not dampen Quae's efforts to conquer it whole. Straight up she arrows, convinced that height will translate to rule over all, so very sure that the flick and twitter of shadowed males behind her cannot dream to reach what altitudes she soars towards.

Of Vyune's fair, Ut is the elder bronze, and yet it's Ne who climbs the more rapidly. The pair surge alternately, one overtaking the other, then falling behind, but both far distant from their queen's tailtip. Three needs beat on glistening wings against Vyune's mind today, setting her cheeks aflame and perhaps excusing the sway to her step as she makes for the Weyr's innards.

A flicker where there wasn't one before, and soon bronzed hide appears, working wing fluttering and with a tiny bugle of challenge. Casamir, zipping along the warm tropical breezes, heads into the chase with fresh vigor and unfettered enthusiasm. His trill to the queen both announces his presence and an arrogant challenge to the other males.

Amarik and missive have been released from the Boll watchdragon's landing and while he heads off with a jaunty step towards the administrative caverns, it slows as his firelizard seems to have other ideas. Upon the launch, his amber gaze goes wide beneath the bushy eyebrows and the tanned skin beneath beard will slip pale and wan, "Faranth's eggs," is softly admonished in a tenor's bass range.

Ben launches from his crag, wings unfurling to kiss the breeze and glide him down then shoot upwards with the quick pump of bourbon soaked wings. He is in the chase now, and announces his own intention with a croon that slithers force in contralto's voice.

Snypiper has no human to even touch his mind at the moment. Voice is quiet to save his breath for the moment.

Human? What insignificant thing is that? Quae admits no master, and no mistress either, not even the wind that buffets her as she reaches the tumultuous altitudes above the Weyr's peak. Even the dragons down below look small now, and she caws her triumph over them simultaneous to a surge in the tides of her ichor. Suddenly mere dominion is not enough; she craves something more and dips a head beneath her wing to taunt her suitors.

Ne is possessive of his queen, the small bronze hissing at the cloud of wings that surround him in joint pursuit; Ut, more languid, perhaps flies only for his own pleasure, and yet will not abandon the quest. He's snapped at by his younger 'brother' and swerves out of Ne's way - and into the path of another chaser.

Casamir banks sharply to avoid colliding with the other bronze; Ut is avoided, just so, and the quick little lizard makes up for lost time in a swerve of wings angled just so to bring him back around toward the group. Hissing at Ut in particular but sparing none of the others his annoyance, he drifts along near the back of the pack, saving his energy for when it will truly count. Now is just keeping up, which he's only just able to do.

Vyune's errant path carries her within the purview of the visiting dignitary; their destinations are not so different, and her trajectory lacks a firm purpose to keep her from straying into orbits she's not destined or designed to follow. The girl escorting her towards the caverns is first to spot Boll's emissary and calls out welcome and duties; Vy can only let her head loll to one side as she stares at the man, face flushed and eyes lightly glazed.

Ben is angling from below so greets the Queen's taunting call with sweet determination and a will that slides with the persistence of nature's demand. Wings will beat a rhythm of call and caress against the sky and he has no need to hiss at the others, just fly doggedly onwards.

Too far below! Too pathetic to reach her! Quae is so very disappointed - and so very needy that she will fold her wings and plummet towards the cloud of furious hearts, snapping the membranes open again just barely in time to keep from falling amongst them totally. There, now, she is closer, she is almost within reach - is this enough for you, little bronzes?

Amarik seems to be caught in something that he is rather determined to fight and is failing fast. Amber gaze sweep over the young ladies and it is a cordial nod of the most terse motions that he offers to them before focusing on one. A flicker of memory quickly comes and goes and his own breath is ragged as he rakes his gaze across hers and her.

Ben will catch the air draughts as he can and surge though the currents, wings angled to take him along side the gold where tail might twine to catch. It is a perilous attempt born of inner need that pushes caution to the winds where wings find them.

Vyune's chin lifts, the servility she's subjected herself to for turns now washed away in the surge of raw emotion she's bombarded with - an emotion she's repressed for even longer. All the memories of dark, sweaty nights within echoing Weyr walls, all the sweetness and the pain she'd thought buried springs fresh into her mind and she sways hard enough to disrupt her companion's footing. The Weyr girl, abashed, attempts to steady her black-haired friend and mutter apologies to Amarik at once, neither with much success. "I'm sorry, sir, but she's not well at the moment - come on, 'Yune, get a hold of yourself..."

Amarik takes a step forward, then falters, his own gaze now glassy and unfocused as bronze intent seems to sweep over him in flashes of heat that has nothing to do with Istan climate. He murmurs his own apologies, husky and unclear, "No, it seems to be...," a little helpless then and he raises his swarthy mask to the sky only to drop it with a shake of his head. "I know you?" It's not accusatory, but invites and teases a hope on bated breath.

Vyune's palm smooths back stray strands of hair frizzed with humidity, the curtain of her lashes rising and falling and rising again before she can focus enough on the bronzed man in front of her for conclusions. "I..." Searching for a familiarity part of her doesn't even want to find, she's forced into admission by virtue of distraction; she can't concentrate enough to disavow this. "Aye." Her voice may ring clearer in the annals of his mind - always low, a little rough, deeply accented, and today exceptionally husky. "Aye, ye know me."

So they're acquainted. The caverns girl drops her hands from Vyune's side and catches up the laundry basket again, giving the former a little nod, and Amarik a sidelong glance. "I'll tell 'em what's happened, 'Yune, so they won't be worrying after you. Sir." She bobs a swift curtsey and moves on with an echo of a sigh.

Bronze Cas, hardly daunted, finally makes his move. Stretching his wings and swooping, he'll gain a little speed in attempt to reach the front of the flight; quick though perhaps not quite so accurate, it will be luck alone should he actually manage to grasp gold in his claws.

"Oh that's good," he offers low, relief palpable against Amarik's own holdbred norms and blocking out any ring of truth or memory. A bare nod is offered the other girl though in truth it is likely just the motions of the bronze above seeping through his subconcious. "I... Aye!" The cinnamon of her eyes are trapped beneath his amber own like the sap that coils an ancient exchange. A hand then lightly raises towards her face and the tendrils that defy her own palms, "you missed one." Distraction and enticement each.

Bugling triumph, Ne forces himself ahead of the pack once more with forearms extended for the catch. It's this moment Ut chooses to reassert his own dominance, buffeting his brother from the side to take his place beneath Quae's trajectory. Soon enough to divert, he is yet too late to catch the queen in her teasing plunge and the cardamom-tipped tail slips through his grasp as well - just beyond the cannonballing Casamir. It's bourbon-splashed Ben who will score the prize, perhaps by virtue of avoiding the familial squabbles.

Casamir will soar past; he's defeated, and he knows it, and accepts it with some measure of grace. Crooning, he spirals down to the bowl perhaps seeking his bond or to dive into the Weyrlake. Soon, he'll have dropped out of sight, and sound eventually follows.

Not so much with Ut and Ne, who settle into squabbling with each other in the time-honored manner of siblings as they too arc out of sight.

Ben curls his own sweet pecan hide around the spice infused gold to drop through the air. Neck and tail becoming a tangle of passion while wings mantle bronze over gold to drop in its throw.

Serendipity: Amarik's touch coincides to the moment with Quae's ensnarement, the merest brush of the man's hand transformed into a buffet of pure physical response. A gasp only half escapes from Vyune's lips and she lists forward, keel dangerously uneven, too close to tumbling towards this not-quite stranger. The sound she makes might have been the beginning of a word but it comes out only as whimper, her eyes clenched tightly against the mingled impact of buried past and bullying present.

Sweet and spicy pecans? Quae finds the combination delicious, the spread of her own wings augmenting the ease of their slow, sensual descent towards the earth

Fingers slip to push that tendril away but do not stop there and continue to slide a light touch back to hold her head even as his own dips down close. Breath hot against already fired flesh and muscles tense with sensation, and tight with strain will hold firm to catch and brace with his own body. Yielding then only as both meet and his arm seek to steady. Amarik's lips seek to catch her wimper, soft in claim at first then deeper in its descent as the pair above slow their sensual spiral.

There's a moment of resistance, the brief heartsped panic of a wild thing captured, or the clash of propriety against instinct, but only a moment. Vyune capitulates to the passion swiftly and completely, civilization's tenuous ties no match for the feral demands filtered through her link to the lambent queen. Experience guides her hands to his frame, knowledge informs the movement of her body against his, and the blatant intimacy of her kiss could only come from practice.

There is memory in this as well, that coils its loop beneath Amarik's walnut waves. Of something familiar and unfamiliar, wanted yet abhorrent but in the end chained together within the intensity of their kiss. Intimacy is met and matched as arms seek to pull her closer, pressed tight as if to mold the lines of flesh and muscle. Possessive movements down her body flow from his hands as they draw slow caresses of sinuous sensation.

There's an elegant subtlety to Amarik's caresses that escapes Vyune's appreciation, her appetite at the moment reserved for hard, fast, and now. The workbitten hands that bury themselves in his hair urge his domination, her body pressed fast to his with the promise of unreserved capitulation the moment he desires it. She kisses him the way a starving man gorges on a feast after weeks of fasting.

Amarik may not be starving, but he shows no reservation in his appreciation of the buffet presented before him, respendent in its sumptuous offerings. As she reveals her intent he will reveal his own, raw and primal against the feral instincts of this woman known and not known. The muscles of his arms curl tight to slip around her waist and hips and draw her up against him. His lips barely break the seal of passion to reveal a hoarse and husky question of "Where? yes?" before continuing a quest to taste and kiss the length of jaw and ear while she answers. Pulling her into the shadow of the looming bowl, his groan of want is his own answer.

Vyune writhes like an eel in his grasp, or perhaps more like a serpent, as her goal is to capture and constrict rather than slip free. "Aye - th' ground weyr? ta th' east..." It's the first location her lust-fogged mind latches on to, the infirmary space already haunted with ghosts of her past passion ready for the further palimpsest of the impending episode. How far the tryst-haven is, she cannot say - nor if it will be close enough to cloak the consummation of their want. She does not seem likely to release him for long enough to find the space.

Amarik moves then with at least a modicum of hold bound intent, lifting her then he wrap her legs around his hips. But the lust and urgency of his desire does not leave him unfettered to move even as he heads east. The bowl reveals every shadow, every nook to the two bodies lashing together. Whether they make it or not, the deed has begun and its actions cannot be halted nor swayed and the rocking motions of move, stop, kiss, taste, fondle and move again do nothing to prevent the consumate goal of two and heighten his own desire for this woman. The cloth is breached and torn in his own quest to find the body beneath and make it part of his own for now.

Vyune's fervor far outweighs her slight physical presence, though serving to buoy and hasten their tangled journey rather than inhibit it. She flickers against his touch with the very fire of need that sets her veins blazing and heats her golden skin to scorching; like the flame she is not gentle, but bites and burns with double-edged intent. The line between safe and searing shall become very blurry, indeed, once their urgencies meet, and it is unlikely that either will walk away unscarred in body or settled in mind from this fortuitous encounter. Ah well, at least the firelizards are happy.

Survivors

2008-05-04T07:07:13Z

Taini visits South Boll and runs into Amarik

Taini steps into the big hall with a smile on her face, chuckling softly at something. She glances around, and the smile lessens a little. "He's not in here..." She says, softly, more to herself than to be heard by anyone else. "Probably up in their room." She rolls her eyes a little, looking over at the stairs. "Wonder..." She says, her mouth wrinkling in thought for a moment. However, she decides to wait instead, so the young woman finds a place to sit near one of the windows, and sighs.

Sequestered behind a number of ferns and potted tropical plants that despite the winter season, threaten the ceiling, Amarik sits thoughtfully by the indoor pond. He has been watching the fish swim in lazy paths, until the sounds of the young woman's entrance caused them to dart into corners. He'll frown and lean backwards, bushy eyebrows raising above an amber gaze as he glances over towards the window and recognizes the woman. A slow smile will form beneath his moustache. "I'll offer a 32nd in trade for your thoughts if they cause such sighs," drifts the quiet voice from behind the greenery.

Taini looks up, startled slightly by the fact that she didn't notice someone else was in the room. "That might be an interesting bargain. You might get the lighter end of the deal, as I was mainly wondering where my Da was. You haven't seen him, have you?" She asks, still looking around. When her gaze falls on Amarik, she smiles. "Amarik." A respectful nod in greeting. He's not a rider, so she doesn't have to salute, but she'll stay respectful. Weyrlinghood is interesting. "I wanted to talk to him about some stuff." Tanav is often found down in this hall, playing his gitar or tromping around somehow. The old harper likes living at Boll, and is easily noticeable wherever he goes.

Amarik will move with an easy stride from behind the plants and settle on a chair next to her, legs outstretched and crossed casually. "Hmmm" is thoughtfully considered, and then he shakes his head, voice apologetic, "I haven't recently I'm afraid. Though there was a trail of yarn leading towards the beach earlier that could only have belonged to Tessas. Perhaps your parents took a walk, or went down to see the latest digging?" A thoughtful smile will be offered then, "It's good to see you Taini. I hear congratulations are in order."

Taini laughs at the thought of her mother leaving a trail of yarn like breadcrumbs. "Sounds just like her. Maybe so. He /would/ be excited by the discoveries, and Momma would follow right along behind him..." She grins. "Thank you." She says, looking down for a moment, then returning her gaze to the man now sitting near her. "It's good to see you too..." A short pause, and she chews on her lip. "I heard about Marryn and that Smith. I met her, briefly, but don't remember her name. Forgive me. How is he?" Marryn's been a friend, so she worries about him. "And is there any word of her?" Tai hadn't heard they'd gotten home yet. "Aodien was with us backwhen, so I hope he's okay too..." She frowns.

Amarik's smile fades and he rubs at his beard thoughtfully before letting the hand drop. "They have been. Aeroulyn is her name and Marryn's better for that atleast. I'm grateful to Th'deus for helping me keep him somewhat sane until they found them." He'll offer his own sigh then and shrug while looking away. "She's..." He hesitates for a moment over the words then straightens, leaning his head to the side to weigh them with consideration. "She's as good as can be expected I suppose. Aodien too, though they both are in fairly rough shape. Nothing they can't survive though." Turning his head back, the amber gaze will watch her for a moment, then query gently, "But you'd know that I think?"

Taini nods. "Yeah. I'm /still/ dealing with it..." Tai says, seeming to reach for something, then realize that it's not there. "I started just writing everything out. I mean /everything./ I was only there six months and luckily got really really sick, so they didn't have much time to..." She looks down again. "I'm glad they're found. Still no sign or word of 'Hira." Her voice is somewhat sad. Her twin's been gone for Turns now. "You too, huh? How long were you there?" Tai can't remember "And you were on the boat with Aadi and Teej, right? Or on a different one?" She thought she remembered that he'd saved her brother's life. "He's dealing with it now too. Mrrth went up, and it didn't..." She cuts off her sentence, looking away from the man. "Qi caught." His best friend. "Didn't go so well."

Amarik isn't aware of the intracies of weyr life so just nods blandly, gaze thoughtful for a moment. A cheek muscle will twitch before he nods, "Not long..," he'll say carefully. His spine moves unsettled in that thought's discomfort for a moment, a provoked response from memories. Quietly he comments, "Long enough though. I bare paler shadows of his marks and a few others." He'll acknowledge it, but is deliberately vague or perhaps just private. "If I hadn't had Marryn to talk with...," a smile will grow then, "might have done something monumentally stupid." Another long pause then matter of factly spoken "Your brother was my ransom."

Taini nods, looking down at her hands for a moment, her face expressionless. "Yeah. Between Thadd and..." She gives a small smile. "Anyway, I think I did something stupid even /with/ Thadd around to help. He was so busy at the time." 'Busy' meaning getting stabbed, beaten up, Xanth catching Sid, and then the messes after that. She looks at him again. "Sometimes, it's the scars you /can't/ see that hurt the worst." She shakes her head. "I didn't think I had anything to deal with until a friend pointed it out to me. That I wasn't dealing with something." She frowns. "Oh, that's right." Tai is concurrently trying to remember everything and forget all of it, so sometimes, her thoughts are jumbled. "Sometimes, I wish I could personally repay all of them, especially that bosun for the trouble he's given our family, but I'm finding out that wouldn't make things any better, either." She shrugs.

Amarik returns to stroking his beard, fingers grooming the rough hair, though Taini will get his full and sober regard. He'll prompt, "Between Thadd and ?" Readjusting his position, he'll lean forward slightly and drop his arms to his knees, "We all do stupid things Taini. It's what we learn from them that marks just how stupid or not they'll remain." A flash of teeth though, and he'll agree, "I would not object to repaying anything to the bosun."

Taini blushes a little. "Well, when there were two goldflights in as many sevendays,..." She starts as an explanation. "I started spending time with I'nigo." She frowns. "He doesn't like Thadd, though, and did /not/ approve of, nor appreciate us going back in time, and so, hasn't talked to me except to tell me about all the stupid decisions I made...." She frowns. "So, yeah. It helped, but it more buried it than dealt with it, and now..." Now it's all coming back, especially watching her brother (and his) deal with stuff.

Amarik is inclined along the lines of his brother and the concept of timing seems to confound him, but there is curiosity there. He'll grin at the blush, "Brothers never like who their sisters are interested in. It's a family thing, just ask Shel or even Nomi. We'll never approve of it, at best, we'll ignore it." Settling back in the chair, he'll rest his elbows on its arms and steeple fingers together. "You seem to be doing rather well though. You are recognizing it." It is a compliment for what it is worth and just a hint of admiration rests with it.

Taini snorts. "Actually, I finally got Thadd to realize that it was something I wanted..." She shrugs, looking kind of wistful for a moment. "It was mostly on Nigo's end. Still thinks all of the Barlord men wear the big blue S on their forehead." S marked a shunned man. "I am now, yeah..." Taini says, a slight tilt of her head.

Amarik will grin at the head tilt and incline his back at the exact same angle. Chuckling he nods to the woman, "Entirely his loss." One of the steepled hands will dismiss it as something she shouldn't concern herself with. "Well, you are always welcome to wile away your free hours here, if you don't mind Smiths and Pirates that is." An eyebrow will waggle in jest, "That is until Toncho manages to impress a dragon and then we'll just call ourselves South Boll Weyr and you can all stay." The grin shifts to amused consideration and teases at the older Barlord's expense, "I wonder what colour he'd ride. Blue? Brown?"

"Ha!" Taini laughs quickly, trying to envision Toncho on a dragon. "Southern Boll Weyr. Ha!" Tai laughs, considering. "Brown. I think it'd be a brown. But he's usually older than they let stand, so he's safe." She grins. She imitates his dismissal movement. "Smiths are fine, and pirates, well.. we have a /use/ for them. Called punching bags." A more feral grin appears on her face, one not seen since before her Impression, and she laughs. "Anyway. Toncho's always worried about overstaying his welcome here. He'd never say it, but he does." A small family secret slips out, and Tai doesn't even notice.

Amarik won't tell, unless it was to appear that Toncho was leaving, then he may just spill that one to his brother. His own chuckle continues to follow Taini's, "Oh, I don't know, I was thinking Gold myself," and he'll wink evily back at the woman. Shaking his head quickly, he'll waggle a finger at her, "Don't you dare tell him I said that. I'd have no teeth left."

Taini laughs and laughs, her thoughts of pirates forgotten. "Oh, seriously. No, it'd be more his way to take the strap to you. Although..." She chuckles. "He'd not do it to /you.../" She shakes her head. "Don't know if he has enough 'issues'. Most everyone who knew of T'jano's dream to ride a green dragon knows of his thoughts that metallic riders are chosen because of their instable personalities. Or at least, their litany of personal problems. This didn't change when his family Impressed metallics, brother and son bronze, sister gold. "He's the most sane of all of us, I think. He got handfasted, settled down, has a kid..." Not necessarily in that order, though, but no one's complained yet. "Still runs things like Da wasn't around, even if he is." She shakes her head. "Does a good job, though."

Taini does not have to tell Amarik this, but he nods "I know that. Don't know him too well myself, but Marryn speaks highly of him." He'll settle into comfort again, grinning at the woman. "So what does a Weyrling goldrider do all day to pass the time, and tell me about your dragon." An eye will glance towards the courtyard, "Not inclined like Xanth to torment the guards I hope?" This is said mildly enough without any implications of chastisement.

Taini laughs again, thinking of what Bee'd do if she could talk to the guards. "No, she's almost the opposite in that respect. Birgith thinks like she was a guard recruit herself. She grins, glancing involuntarily toward the door, out past which her gold dragon is sitting in the sun. "She likes the sun better than the snow, but she's not alone in that." Tai thinks for a minute. "She likes fire, and is kind of disappointed she won't get to flame thread with the boys and greens." As to her free time, Taini grins. "Well, I haven't had a lot of free time lately. Between going over to Ista to get some training from M'cay and sitting in on the lessons for the little ones at Fort.." She pauses. "Mainly to prove I'm being 'good'," She shakes her head. "There hasn't /been/ alot of free time. Now, though, I've been filling my journal, worrying about my sibling, and sitting with Bee to watch the sky darken when it's not too cold. I haven't really gotten into the whole goldrider training much yet, but I will soon, I'm sure."

Another chuckle of laughter escapes between moustache and beard and he nods, regard direct. A hand will rise to rub the back of his neck and Amarik feigns a sudden pout. Sighing sadly, he'll shake his head, "So what you're telling me is that you have no time left in your day to grace our beaches with your lovely presence? I'm so disappointed."

Taini laughs, and a slight tinge of pink creeps up on her cheeks. "Well, since I do have immediate transportation, I could be convinced to spend what free time I /do/ have here, maybe..." She grins. "I can write and worry anywhere. I do like your beaches."

Amarik leans forward, amber eyes gleaming just a little wickedly. "Then you must allow me to be your personal escort the next time you come. My brother only /thinks/ he knows where all the lovely spots are." He taps his chest soundly, "But I really do." Rising, almost reluctantly, he'll smile down at the woman. "Taini, it was a pleasure to see you again. I do hope you'll visit us soon. Unfortunately, I've some tasks Marryn's asked me to do and you wanted to see your father."

Taini nods. "I did, I did." She says, grinning. "Thank you. If you see me around here after I find him, maybe we can talk again." She really enjoyed it. "Thank you." She stands up, and walks toward the door to try to find her brother, mother or father.

Pillow talk?

2008-05-02T18:37:59Z

Amarik has to get inventive to keep Marryn sane and force him to rest. But why is Marryn naked?

OOC: Head butting grapes is now going to be considered the newest South Bollian sport. Begin practice sessions immediately!

Marryn's voice bellows from the bedroom, several octives lower than usual. "AMMMMARIIIIIK!"

Amarik ignores the voice for a moment, yawning to himself as he reads a dispatch. He is curled up in a chair, long legs propped casually across onto another one. "I'd say you need another half candlemark of sleep," is finally called out towards the other room. He'll stretch then and smile, rather smugly to himself, before adding "And no! I'm not bringing you any clothes and you won't find any in there anyways! I've hidden them."

The door to the boy's room flies open and Marryn appears, sans clothing, but with a pillow gripped tightly in front of his... personals. One quick glance around the room to assure they're alone and he crosses the room in just a couple swift steps, dropping the pillow when he reaches his brother and gripping the front of the other's collar in a vise-like grip. "What have you done??" he demands, scowl fierce as the positively smug expression on Amarik's face is noted. "I am going to wring your scrawny neck and hang you out for the carrion birds to peck to the bone!"

Amarik glances up, way up, one eyebrow rising over his grin even as he is yanked up from his rest by his collar. Legs come to the floor and the hide slips from his fingers. "Oh good. You're back," is offered to the irate man lightly. His own hand will come to ease some of the throttling, but his face is quite calm.

"You drugged that drink, didn't you?" Marryn accuses, eyes sharp as he shakes Amarik slightly. "I've lost /hours/." Nudity seems to have been forgotten and his brother's calm reaction only fuels his anger more. The rest appears to have done him more good than he realizes - his arms bulge with the renewed strength needed to hold the smaller but still sizeable culprit at eye level.

A hand gets placed over his brother's wrist, Amarik's expression imperturbable and voice pitched low, "You see brother dear, there is a very interesting little yellow five-pointed blossom with a rather small and dark berry-like fruit. Rather handy though, when someone gets completely unreasonable and is about to do themselves damage which they might regret for the rest of their lives because not only will I get stuck with a rather horrid and obscene amount of responsibility, but they might just lose the one person who seems to have made a dent in that 'love em and leave em' veneer." It is quite the speech really, and there is only the hint of a smile forming around his mouth. Amber gaze darkens with serious concern. "I find it rather amusing to finally see my brother stop acting like a bronze dragon rider for once." The smallest amount of pressure will curl around Marryn's wrist. "Now that you're rested and thinking clearly. You do get to act!" His gaze will drop just slightly and a small polite cough will be given despite the twinkle in his eyes which hover beneath bushy brows. "Marry, you seem to have lost your pillow?"

A low growl rolls from the scowl that twists Marryn's over-grown goatee. With a jerk he releases his hold, thrusting Amarik slightly harder than is necessary. "Sharding busy-body," he mumbles. Purposely ignoring the pillow for a moment to spite the comments about his randy habits he lowers his chin and levels a dangerous gaze on his brother. "What have you done with my clothes?" Obviously he means to rush head-long right back into the vicious cycle of work, search, and stress that got him here in the first place.

"Clothes come after breakfast!" cheers the younger Bollian brother after stepping backwards from the thrust. Ignoring the dangerous gaze entirely, he'll turn and head towards the table by the window. "That pretty little redhaired girl from the kitchens should be bringing something up shortly. Lilia.. Lilla... something like that." Amarik frowns over the name for a moment before glancing back over his shoulder and his smile will be all teeth amidst moustache and beard. "So really. You will need that pillow Marry. Unless you want the tongues set wagging more then they already are." He pulls out the chair and makes a sweeping gesture for the man to sit even while his gaze turns serious. "Everything you asked me to do last night has been done. There is nothing more you can do but be patient for a bit Marryn. You need to be sharp and rested when they find them. Do that for her."

Marryn's expression falls like a crashing wave from anger to mortification. He takes two steps toward Amarik, fingers clasped to put a gaping hole in that infuriating smile. Not that he would really do so but the mere intent is a release, which is probably why Amarik never need fear his big brother's direst threats. To that point, Marryn stops and bends to snatch up the pillow, still shooting metallic daggers with a heated glare. Plopping into one of the wicker chairs set around the table he purposely slouches and lets the pillow rest on his thigh. The chair creaks in protest but is well made. "Great, that's all I need," he murmers, thinking of the pretty kitchen girl he bedded once and couldn't avoid afterwards. "I had to eat my meals in the office for a month before she'd quit following me around - which you well know!" The last is snapped in Amarik's direction. And finally a quick flash of remorse at the last of the other's advice. Patient? He doesn't know the meaning of the word. He does offer a brief, but sincere 'thank you', however. "You /are/ going to run interference?" he adds, letting some of his anger show again to cover chagrin. He definitely doesn't need to deal with Lilliana today of all days.

Timing works out perfectly as there shortly comes a rap at the door, "Interference at the ready Sir," cheeks Amarik back. Flashing Marryn a grin, he does run it. Crossing the room to open the door, he'll block the view in, well as best as he can. Lilliana may see a flash of skin sitting by the window, but the younger brother murmurs something polite in the way of greeting to the girl and plucks the tray adroitly from her hands. "Thank you Lilliana, I'll take the tray and let you know if we need anything else." Lilliana tries to bounce a look over his shoulder, but the door is promptly and firmly pulled shut. Amarik will turn and cross back to the window and slide the tray onto the table. Liberating one of the mugs of klah for himself, he holds it in one hand while threading fingers through his hair wearily. While the older brother may look rather refreshed and rested, the younger is looking a little threadbare round the edges. "It was a wonderful lesson in why one shouldn't bed the help, I agree. Glad you learned it." An eyebrow will rise and he'll nudge the tray, "Eat and tell me again about this Smith, and have you told Mother?"

With the sound of that rap Marryn's cavalier attitude is instantly charged to discretion. Sitting up sharply he moves the pillow into a more helpful position, jaw grinding at the little cover it provides. A vow forms to come up with some truly diabolical way to get Amarik back for all this, and is quickly filed away for future brainstorming. Marryn purposely turns toward the window, finding something fascinating in the sway of treetops outside until the door clicks shut. He snorts once at Amarik's observation, acknowledging if not openly agreeing. "Did you /see/ her on the beach last summer?" he asks, dark brows quirking. In lighter times such a comment would digress into the various options of obtaining his little brother some feminine company, but these are not lighter times. Plucking a grape off the tray he pops it into his mouth, cringing slightly at the question asked of their parent. "She knows," he states. "I didn't have to tell her."

Amarik snorts softly, "Not with the gossip that has been running rampant. You might want to though." Ever the peacemaker, he will shake his head, "Don't think so." Joining Marryn in the chair across from him, he'll yawn and then blink. Watching his brother brood will colour worry across his face. "Marry. If it is who we think..." He will hesitate for a moment, "She'll survive it. It will take time, but she will." Unspoken words in his gaze will prove testament to that survival.

And just like that the anger dissipates like morning dew under the hot southern sun. Marryn looks across the table at his brother with an expression equally sad and understanding. "This is exactly why I didn't want to fall in love, Rik," he confides. "I thought I was going to go insane when you were kidnapped. Knowing what you went through.... Blast-it, I nearly killed you myself on the beach!" He shakes his head, long-ish bangs feathering forward over one eye. Remorse runs rampant over his features, arms crossing with a jerking motion. "I knew I couldn't go through that again. But now I am - and as much as I can't believe it - it's a hundred times worse!" Dark eyes implore the other man for resolution. Been there, done that. Take it all away. To anyone else, Marryn would always keep up the stronger front, but Amarik is the one person to whom he truly opens up. "You're a man," he states flatly, "I know Aerou is strong, but she's a woman. She's got this soft side... she can be so tough one minute but she's also so innocent." The shadow of a smile haunts the edges of his lips at the memory of stolen moments when that particular side of the smith was discovered.

Amarik doesn't like talking about it, but will to his brother. "I was there," he offers quietly in confirmation, "but survival had nothing to do with sex Mar. It's about the heart and if I hadn't had your support at the end, I just might have chosen not to. I cried like a baby, and I imagine she will too." Amber shaded eyes will turn towards the window, "You can do it Marryn, I have faith in you. If she is what you say she is, it'll be worth it. I imagine it won't be easy, but then the good things in life never are." He'll turn back and lean forward, clasping a hand on his brother's shoulder, affection and warmth suddenly thick in his voice, "and you were there for me so I know you can be there for her."

Marryn smiles truly then, though it's a tired sight and doesn't raise an equal spark in his dark eyes. Snatching another grape he toys with it a second before lashes rise to level his regard on the other man. "Don't think this is going to get you out of one second of the severe embarrassment I am going to devise to get you back for all of this, bro." Chiding tone is the lightest heard from the beleaguered Lord-Elect in weeks and so said, he lobs the grape at Amarik.

With a quick jerk of his head, Amarik head-buts the grape back at Marryn. He'll stand for a moment and stretch, corded muscles pulling against the taut skin of his back. A leisurely stride will take him across the room in seconds. "Is that a threat my brother?" is asked in the mildest of tones. One hand leans against the doornob to the hall gently, "I imagine you'll have to think of very inventive and creative ways... You might want to start practicing that thinking now." Teeth flash in a grin, "since it might take you and your pillow a little while to figure out how you'll collect our wardrobe from the Passionfruit Pit." And the younger brother is through the door with his own cautiously feral movements, laughter resounding in the hallway, for now.

Marryn is up in a flash but Amarik is faster. The soft thud of the pillow hitting the door as it closes is followed by the second bellow of the morning from Marryn. "Amaaaaaariiiik!!!"

Emotions

2008-05-01T14:50:14Z

Marryn worries about Aeroulyn's disappearance and Amarik worries about Marryn

Location: Family Rooms at Southern Boll Hold
Timeline: Shortly after Aeroulyn and Aodien (the Smiths) disappear.
OOC: This log was edited a 'smidge' from RP. If you are going to RP at 4 am in the morning, you get to claim the ability to fix typos and grammar boo boos.

Marryn stands in the open window, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he gazes outward. The stillness of his stance speaks volumes for the barely restrained emotions that are coiled inside the young man. The only movement visible is a few loose strands tugged by the incoming breeze.

Amarik is yawning as he enters the room, rather impolitely in truth. The hand that was heading to cover his mouth paused to scratch his beard on its way. It is with this expression that he sees Marryn. Widened eyes snaps mouth shut, "That" he points out calmly "will not get them found any sooner." He'll stop to scoop up a hide off of a table and come stand by his brother. "I think you were in the same position when I left? Should I check for spinners' webs?"

Marryn whips around at the first sound of a voice, dark eyes already narrowed. "Oh. You," he says mechanically, visibly relaxing at sight of his brother. His normally immaculate visage is rumpled and unkempt, features drawn with lack of sleep and worry. Dark brows arch slightly at the jest, not the slightest spark of humor lightening his tired expression. "I've moved," he counters. He turned, didn't he?

"Yes. me," Amarik offers back mildly, not offended in the least. He'll glance at the hide and frown, then place it neatly on another table. Another glance to his brother, worry lurking in his gaze, and he ads gently, "They'll find them Marry."

Marryn sighs, unflinching at the nickname that only Amarik is allowed to use. Anyone else would be risking life and limb. His stare has returned to the window, or rather, something well beyond the mango tree-tops and white-crested tides. Strong features are stone hard, emotions burned from the top level of his psyche and leaving only the blandest of poker faces to the world. All the world, except Amarik, that is. Only he and their mother can read him well enough to know how much is revealed by other subtle hints. "No they won't. They can't feel her like I can. I should be out there." Feel her? Has Marryn finally lost it, or suddenly morphed into a dragon with telepathic abilities?

Amarik sighs slowly and follows his brother's gaze with his own amber hued one. "If you go search for her, you'll be putting her at risk and yourself too." He'll turn his head then to watch his brother carefully and ask mildly in an attempt to temper those hidden emotions, "What can you feel?"

Marryn's head whips alone the second time, the rest of him just twisting at the waist as he turns toward his sibling. "I /have/ to, Rik! I can't stand just waiting anymore." Frustration strains his normally rich tenor. "Trying to look at inventories, settle disputes, plan crops..plan?? plan! How can I plan anything? It all seems so worthless and petty when Aerou is out there somewhere going through Faranth knows what!" With a growl he shakes his head, setting lengths of disheveled mocha brown astir about his drawn face. "It's her green. Scraps. I can feel things through her sometimes." Dark eyes bore into those of amber. "Rik, if what I'm sensing is only a glimmer of what she's going through. I.. I don't know if I can take it. I'm going to go insane if I don't /do/ something."

Amarik frowns for a moment and then reaches over to clasp his hand firmly upon Marryn's shoulder, "Marry. Then we'll do something. But lets just think things through first. Can Jerry get to her? Could mine? Scraps is just out of the shell so she can't be making too much sense. And you can't go insane because /that/ is what they want. So sit, we'll plan things out." His frown will intensify, brows knitting together for a moment, "Did I tell you I saw that Bitran lacky Rugen at Ista Weyr? The bastard insinuated that he had heard our beaches weren't safe."

Marryn jerks his shoulder at first, resenting any dissenting opinion to his urge for action. Almost immediately he relents though - he can't stay mad at Amarik. A scowl lingers, marring his handsome features. "No," he snaps, petulant. Then, softer, "I tried." A sigh rakes his lungs, chest heaving. "She doesn't send enough to recognize anything - just blurry darkness. It's the emotions it must be what Aerou is feeling." One fist rises, slamming into the wall beside the window. "It's awful, Rik. I can't sleep. I can't eat. How can I plan when I don't know where to start?" A pause occurs while the change of direction sinks in, the new name slow to register. "I hope you gave him a good black eye," he finally notes, knowing even as he says it that his diplomatic brother would find a way around violence if possible.

Amarik steadies his hand and keeps it there, watching him carefully. Chuckling shortly and without humour, "I was tempted, but I didn't. I did meet Weyrwoman Quinn briefly though and a flurry of second-cousins." He'll drop his hand to his knees and smile. But his intention is to distract and focus his brother, so he makes another attempt. "Alright, then let us look at this from another angle. Thread will be falling soon, that means whoever has them will have to take shelter. We can expand out efforts and pinpoint some locations where anyone might take cover. That's a better use of our resources?"

Marryn is barely listening, though mention of their pretty cousin snags his attention briefly. He lets his fist fall to his side, fingers still curling stiffly. Knuckles will probably be bruised tomorrow for that little display of anger. Something in his demeanor stiffens at mention of thread - the most insiduous enemy known to Pern. The merest flicker of interest reflects the copper highlights in his eyes, which bore into his brother. "That's a good idea. Cover the caves along the shoreline. I've got to get word to the ships immediately!" Spinning on his heels he lurches toward the door only to trip on the leg of a wicker chair and stumble into Amarik, vision blurring as the room spins.

Amarik catches his larger brother with just a little sagging of his knees. Drawing one of Marryn's arms across his shoulder, he'll support the man's weight. "Walk with me brother," is said with a quick grin as he half moves, half pulls the man. "We're going that way, towards the bedroom and you are going to get some sleep. Because I don't think you're going to get anything accomplished until you get some rest." He'll pause to slip his free arm under his brother's shoulders. "Don't argue either."

Marryn does argue, his features contorting angrily as he tries unsuccessfully to push off Amarik's smaller form. "I can't /sleep/! I've got to tell the ships to search the coastline caves. Ama-/riiiiiik/!" He leans despite protests, seething at the necessity of it but not willing to risk falling down. Broad shoulders easily out-weigh his brother, but turns of wresting for the best slice of bubbly have surely taught the younger a few tricks, especially with the advantage of mental clarity on his side.

You say, "Marrrrrry you are being quite contrary," Amarik responds back in a similar whine, "You will sleep so that you will find Aerou faster and then I will get to spend more time sleeping on the Front Porch with Clyde." He may be weedy, but all that Healer therapy apparently has paid off and he'll keep the man firmly constrained. "If you think you can trust me...," and his own tone jokingly debates that, "then I'll go down and tell them.""

Marryn says, "Am not," Marryn snaps sullenly, his head drooping as he sighs. Amarik's jest works its magic, worming past his staunch defenses. He doesn't smile, too sunk into misery to do that yet, but the light of renewed interest sparks a bit brighter in his demeanor. Raking one hand through his hair he feathers back long-ish bangs and snaps a sharp salut to his brother. "Alright, boss, I'll go." Purposely straightening, he keeps a lighter hold on Amarik just in case, but pauses before moving any further. "Rik, go now, ok? Every minute counts." Dark brown eyes search his brothers face imploringly, trust fully there. Conceding, he gives the younger man's shoulder a squeeze and lets him lead the way to their room."

Amarik will release the man and shove him gently towards the bedroom. "I will brother. Just remember who won this round," and then he'll wink and grin cheekily (beneath that beard and moustache) and goes now.

Fruitful Dice

2007-12-17T08:44:19Z

Taini and Marryn are playing dice in the Passionfruit Pit when Amarik toddles in.

The Passionfruit Pit
It's immediately apparent that this tavern's a great place to have a cold drink and to relax after putting in a hard day at work. A fresh breeze lightens the atmosphere, additionally cheered by the red-and-white checkered tablecloths and the flower arrangements that sit next to each glowbasket; barmaids roam about to take orders from the customers. Many drunks are hanging onto the bar so they don't end up on the floor; over in a corner, an occasional argument rises over a card game. A perch set next to the long bar provides housing for the firelizards that frequent this place seeking handouts. Welcome to the Passionfruit Pit! Enjoy yourself and have a good time.
You see Kazimir and Kat's Dice here.
Marryn and Taini are here.

Marryn cringes over-dramatiacally, clutching at his heart. "Bested on the first roll. In my own hold. I shall never live it down." Matching her drink with one of his own, he nods, casting a quick glance at the closest occupants of other tables as if they might have overheard. "Indeed. If I am to lose at least it is to someone I can enjoy looking at while consoling myself." And they say chivalry is dead.

Marryn rolls Kat's Dice. They roll off of his fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Brilliant Brown ...&... Beautiful Blue

Taini laughs, and lifts the glass. "Indeed." She says, thinking for a moment. "Although, if one of my brothers saw me playing dice with you,..." The sentence remains incomplete, the implication clear.

Taini rolls Dice. They roll off of her fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Beautiful Bronze ...&... Baleful Red Eye

Taini eyes the dice. "That makes us even, sir." She says, laughing.

Instead of the usual thump thump of the cane, you hear more of a hissing slide as the tip is more or less drug across the floor when Amarik enters. His pace is slow and jumbled, his cheeks rosy and pooched, while those shinning amber eyes gleam a little brighter tonight. "Ah, there you are, Marry," he teases, angling toward their table, "I was looking for you." The Lord-in-Waiting would clearly recognize his brother as drunk, which is a rare occasion indeed.

Whoa now! Thick brows perk at that insinuation. Marryn looks anything but deterred by the very idea, instead he leans forward on the table crossing his forearms and tips his head, lowered tone eliciting a more private air, charged and amused. "Now what could they possibly find wrong with a simple game of dice, hm? I haven't even suggested a suitable wager.. yet." Long fingers pick up the dice and roll them in his palm, waiting a moment as his gaze roams over his opponent. So intent is he, that he doesn't hear Amarik's approach until his name is spoken - or rather, the nickname only one person is allowed to use. His demeanor changes sharply as soon as he looks up at his brother, all light-hearted flirting washing away in the wake of concern. "Is everything alright, Rik?" he asks with a firm, clear tone. Stretching out one leg under the table he kicks out the last empty chair toward Amarik

Taini watches Amarik come in, and smiles. "Hello, Amarik," She says, nodding. "Care to join us in a game of dice? We're two throws in, so you could catch up..." Tai doesn't mind. She rolls her eyes. "You're the eldest, aren't you?" She asks, frowning. "Because elder brothers assume all sorts of interesting things about younger siblings-especially sisters-that may or may not be so." She grins a little less warmly. "A /wager?/" She takes another sip. "Of what sort?"

A sparkle in his eyes, Amarik further parts the 'satche from the beard with a broad grin. "I'm more then alright. I'm perfect," he explains, slipping into the chair his brother so lovely prepared for him. The cane is propped up against the table as he cocks a gaze at the dice, and then Taini, "Evening, madam, are you letting him cheat? Everyone lets him cheat. Take him for all he has!" Tone a tad too merry, he bubbles out a bit of alcohol induced laughter at himself. A quiet hand waves off the offer of playing, punctuating it with a smile so it doesn't come off as rude.

Marryn spares a smile for Taini, previous playfullness ghosting over the serious set of his lips. "That depends. I don't recall what it is you trade - any particular specialty?" Amarik's accusations almost spark an adamant display of denial, but concern lays too heavily on his mind. Instead he just waves off the teasing, giving Taini the patently patient look of the besieged - a quirked smile and eye roll - before addressing his younger brother. "You wound me, brother. Darkening my repuation with the lady right before my very eyes. I'll have you know these are perfectly legitimate dice." He opens his palm to demonstrate, but still watching Amarik closely.

Marryn rolls Dice. They roll off of his fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Brilliant Bronze ...&... Beautiful Gold

Marryn groans. "I should have made a wager before that one."

Taini laughs. "Your loss, sir." She says, grinning. "As there is no wager, I probably won't complain too loudly about weighted dice. Well, actually, I can't, considering we were even before you threw the weyrleader pair." The colloquial name for that throw. "No real specialty. I've traded about everything. I /know/ cloth fairly well, and some metals. But, I can get marks for about anything." The girl says, grabbing the dice and rolling.

A few covert looks are cast toward the trio from neighboring patrons. It's a rarer sight to see the younger Lord out of sorts from sipping the skin than the older.

Taini rolls Dice. They roll off of her fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Dazzling Bronze ...&... Baleful Red Eye

Taini snaps her fingers. "Oh, shells." She says, covering her mouth. "Pardon."

Amarik smirks, and squints at Marryn, "You need to have another drink, brother, you're being far too serious tonight." A wave of his hand directs someone to his need, and he holds up three fingers, circling it around to include the whole table. The man levels a gaze at Taini, taking her in for the first time with a strange intensity. Then in a bold move he mutters, "For a Barlord, you're not half bad," though what he is commenting on he doesn't elaborate on.

Marryn's gaze lingers on Taini for a moment, tweaking his opinion slightly. He smiles to acknowledge her verbal slip, but doesn't comment since he's heard (and says!) much worse on a regular basis. Either more innocent or more sheltered than the usual trader, if she thinks that was worth apologizing for. But then he remembers Th'deus' comments about her experience with the pirates, and he wonders. Lifting his mug of mango liquer, he intends to drain the last of it, but Amarik's timely observation sends the liquid down his windpipe instead and Marryn pounds his chest in a fit of coughing. Figuring a cover is needed, he snatches up the dice, all intentions of wagering gone for the moment as he tries to catch his breath.

Marryn rolls Dice. They roll off of his fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Beautiful Gold ...&... Hideous Red Star

Marryn tosses his hand in the air at yet another bad roll, then puts that hand back to use on his chest.
Taini turns toward Amarik. "In what way?" She says, frowning. She picks up the dice again, after looking at his roll. "So, if I get a Weyrleader pair, we're even again." She says, shaking her head. "Like that'll happen." She rolls the dice again.

Taini rolls Dice. They roll off of her fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Brilliant Blue ...&... Spectacular Gold

"Ha! Beat you there." The Barlord says, grinning.

Now that was unexpected. Taini wasn't supposed to ask for an explanation of the compliment. Amarik covers his struggle for a proper answer by standing and patting his brother on the back, asking with an exaggerated amount of concern, "You okay, Marry? Drink slower. I know you have a hard time keeping up with the Barlords, but really, do you have to best all of them at everything? Tsk tsk." It's a tease and a distraction all in one.

Marryn casts a watery glare upward at Amarik as the younger pats his back. Waving him off he gestures toward the vacated chair. "Sit back down before you hurt yourself," he advises, clearing his throat huskily. Realizing he isn't going to get much out of his brother in this state, and with so many witnesses he doesn't want to anyway, he turns his attention back to Taini. Plenty of time later back in their shared quarters to squeeze the story out of his sibling. "So...." A small jerk of his chin tosses those long-ish bangs back again. "You said metal, Taini? I might have some interest in that, if you can find me what I need." He resumes his earlier pose of leaning on the table, the last vestiges of breathing issues gone. "Care for a wager on the last roll? You meet me for lunch tomorrow and I'll tell you what I'm looking for. If you win, you can set the price on the first shipment. No bartering. If I win, I set the price." Thick, dark brows quirk, challenging.

Amarik nods to Marryn and sits back down without a word. His drink arrives, along with one each for the others. Curling long fingers around the glass, he knocks back half, and then settles into sipping while he watches the game being played out before him.

Taini quirks her own brow, in thought. "That's a daring bet." She says, considering. "However, it might be worth it." She reaches up, twisting her braid in what those who know her would know is a nervous gesture. "I'll take it. I believe I know where I can get some." She says, nodding. "Thanks." She says, to Amarik, tossing off the last of the first drink and starting on the second. "Why not." She offers her hand to seal the bet.

Marryn is distracted for just a second as the drinks arrive. Watching Amarik slug his back, he catches the server's eye over his brother's shoulder and shakes his head ever-so subtly. The server nods and leaves, not waiting to offer refills. His smile returns as Taini accepts his offer, and he reaches to secure the wager by shaking her hand soundly. "Done!" Scooping up the dice, he shakes them within his cupped palms, twitching his hawk-ish nose and hunching his shoulders as if to persuade the dice by sheer mental force to fall in his favor. Bitran blood beats loudly in his ears; this, the thrill of gaming a deep inbred trait he can't ignore. "Here goes nothin'!" he chimes, and tosses the dice from his fingers.

Marryn rolls Dice. They roll off of his fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Brilliant Brown ...&... Brilliant Green

Taini may regret this in the morning. In fact, she may regret this after the dice fall from her hands. But the deal has been sealed, and the girl rolls the dice. "That was a good roll. Hard to beat." She says, nodding. "Here goes."
Marryn nods, lips setting in a thoughtful line. "Not /too/ bad.... not too bad... " he chants, sounding pleased nevertheless. Gonna give /this/ Barlord a run for her marks at least.

Taini rolls Dice. They roll off of her fingers...
They land and stop giving sides:
Intense Bronze ...&... Intense Gold

Taini cackles loudly. "Well, I will meet you for lunch tomorrow sir, and I will be naming my price on the first shipment of metal." She says, a wide grin on her face. "Thank you for a great game of dice." She tosses back the drink and looks over at the Lord and his brother.

Amarik does not but bark a bit of laughter at the dice. The glass is set aside and teeth shine through the rugged beard. "Oh, that hurts."

Marryn throws both arms into the air, emiting a long, loud groan that draws the surprised looks of everyone in half the room. "Bested by beauty, be still my beating heart," Marryn intones, voice rife with mock despair. Well, mostly mock. Part of him despairs of explaining to Auryn how he managed to make such a deal when she sees the ledgers. Sitting back with a heavy sigh he simply shakes his head. "It couldn't even be close, for Faranth's sake. Stab me where it hurts." Visibly shaking off his disbelief, he looks to Taini. "I'll look forward to our lunch. Be kind, oh Lady, I beg you." He lowers his tone and leans toward her to add in his normal voice, eyes alight with injured humor, "And feel free not to tell your brothers about this."

Taini stands up and chuckles. "Well, we'll have to see. I won't take you for too much, but I do have a couple presents to buy--Handfastings, and births, and such...." This ought to worry the man a little. She stands. "Hate to leave you after such a wonderful game, but I've got to find my brother." She says, nodding. "Evening, sirs, and I shall see you on the morrow."

The Mountain comes to Boll

2007-12-16T05:28:06Z

Amarik and Marryn are squabling like the siblings that they are when in comes Th'deus.

Family Room (#9288LJ)
You see a bright and cheerful room with a busy, lived-in feeling about it. To the left and right are doors leading to the bedrooms. Straight ahead is a large window, shutters thrown wide open, inviting you to sit on the wide window seat and admire the jungle scenery. Near the window is a smallish table with a closed glowbasket sitting on top, and several wicker chairs surrounding it. Cushions and pillows lie on and around the chairs, a particular pile in one corner appearing to be a favorite firelizard spot. On the wall to your left is a beautifully restored old 'tapestry' of Mango Beach.
All manner of odds and ends lay scattered about the room, especially stock-piling on shelves lining the wall to the left of the window. Most people would call it junk, but, being the pack-rat that she is, Auryn swears she might have need of it someday - every last tid-bit. Unsurprisingly, this habit has worn off on Shel, who has added her own touches and creations over time. And now that Marryn and Amarik have grown into young men and are making their own mark, well, who knows what will happen.
Marryn is here.

Marryn kicks his boots off and leans back in his chair, the wicker frame groaning under his weight. Having situated himself with a good view of the jungle through the window, he props his feet up on the window seat and stretches. "What a day!" he proclaims to the room in general.

The room in general proclaims back, "Wasn't it?" or if you prefer, Amarik who happens to be entering from their room, albeit a bit slow. Growing much more adept with that cane, he ambles awkwardly toward the nearest chair to his brother and promptly sits.

Marryn partially opens one eye to regard Amarik, aka The-Room-In-General. "You look like crap," he notes tactfully, and closes his eyes again, tipping his head back. "But your day couldn't possibly compare to mine." A familiar challenge. "I had to settle a debate between that fat cook with the pretty eyes and the young one - you know, with the long legs? Thought they were going to kill each other over a simple cake recipe. Women. Oi."

Marryn pauses to see if Amarik has anything comparible to offer.

Amarik certainly does not. How do you compare two broken pencil leads, a bent quill, and something being spilled on your finished drawing with the hazards a Lord in training must face. "I think you win today. I'm still way ahead though," quietly indicating his aching legs.

Marryn peeks again, and grunts. That's a hard one to argue. Too bad - he was just getting started on a good long list of ever-growing, life-or-death issues with which to entertain Amarik. "You're going to use that one for a while, aren't you? Too bad my arm has finally healed or I'd give you a run for it." His lips quirk slightly as he sits straighter and sets his hands casually together on his crossed legs. "I could always have another clash with Thadd and see what we could manage."

Amarik turns his full regard on his brother, sober as a church mouse, if Pern had churches. "Why would you do that? I say why not find someone more your size," and yes that was a zing. Leaning back in his own chair, the bearded chap closes his own eyes, examining the way the light still shines through the thin lids. "Do you suppose that is why dragon shave multiple lids?" he asks the question without letting Marryn in on the topic.

Marryn returns that regard with brotherly smugness, which melts into an amused frown once Amarik closes his eyes. "Forget it, I'd rather just pick on you," he notes, at the same time picking up a small wood block from the table and throwing it at his sibling. Used to Amarik's habit of issueing seemingly random thoughts, he shakes his head with affectionate tolerance, but feigns confusion to play along. "/What/ are you talking about? No, wait! Don't answer that. I don't think I want to know." Picking up another wooden block, this one partially carved, he flips it between his fingers idly.

Amarik would have dodged the block had his eyes been open, but since they weren't it merely thumps off his noggin. That got them open. "You know," he questions, "I was just saying... Th'deus is not someone you should try tangling with. He's big, you're... well," and it drifts off kindly without finishing. "I know talking about dragon's multiple lids. I was wondering if it was to allow defused light in sometimes, and total blackness other." Considering this quietly, he leaps to another thought, "Maybe it's for water? Protecting the lids... Do they like to swim?" Questions fly all over the place.

The tap of a guard, and then the door is opened, for some poor, nervous Bollian guard to whisper into it, "The Weyrleader of Fort is --" A glance sidelong, before he looks back in, brown eyes wide, "/Here/. What do you want me to tell him." Something is murmured, outside in the hallway, thick baritone. "He's /here/," this is emphasized by the guard. "I've alerted Zarl." He done good, right?

Marryn jerks his head back slightly. "Just what are you implying?? Check out these barrels, little brother. /Pure/ muscle, I tell you. Solid as a rock!" Sitting up straight, but with his feet still crossed and propped on the window seat, he flexes first one arm then the other in demonstration, even twisting slightly in his seat to give Amarik various viewpoints. The wicker chair protests further. Slapping his elbow on the table, and flexing his fingers in an offered grip he proclaims, "Come on - right now! I'll show ya. Down in two seconds flat or I'll give up my favorite pillow for a sevenday." Yes, the goosedown one Auryn gave him on his last turnday. Very soft, and probably not even too loaded with Marryn-cooties yet. However, realizing he's lost Amarik to further musings he picks up another block, preparing to toss it with even better aim - when he is suddenly interupted. "Huh?" he grunts, turning to look over his shoulder. Understanding sinks in slowly, unexpectedly. "Who? What? Well let him in man! Let him in!" Dropping his feet and turning in his seat he rises to greet their guest. "And be sure to tell Zarl everything is /fine/," he adds for the guard, tacking on a reassuring smile.

Amarik finds a moment to mutter, "I don't want your musty old pillow," before he reacts to the door. He too stands, but slowly, and waits for the Barlord to make his grand entrance. On the side he whispers to his brother, "Lets see you try and arm wrestle him! Beating your wimpy brother is one thing... " and not a very impressive thing either.

Th'deus strides in, once the guard has stepped aside with a bow. The guard bowed. Th'deus does not, but he'll grin insetad, once the door is shut and the guard isn't there to see him. "Marryn. Lord Amarik." The one is regulated to friend, without title; the other, Th'deus isn't sure about, so he falls back on the default of respect. It does appear... Lopsided, perhaps, even to his own ears. So it is that Th'deus' regard lingers on the younger Boll, "You're healing, then? Better than me, I hope." Th'deus /is/ still criss-crossed with the fading bruises and healing cuts from his various scuffles. Interestingly, perhaps, the man /is/ wearing some nice clothes: Earthen tones, or Fort's colors, all, but finely made and made to fit his giant frame. Only one knife hangs from his belt. "Toncho was asleep, so I thought I'd see how you were. The guard was kind enough to bring me here without a visit first to the cells. Give him a raise or a commendation or whatever it is that you do." Th'deus' humor is dry enough to suck water from a cactus.

Marryn shoots Amarik a grin before striding forward, crossing the room in a minimum of long-legged steps, to thump Th'deus soundly on the shoulder. A hearty laugh erupts, quick and sharp, at the rider's jest - for which he slips in a quick response. "Is that so? He must've missed the morning briefing then. Don't worry, I'll speak to Zarl and we'll be more on the ball for your next visit." Then he steps back to allow Amarik to speak, taking the moment to look their visitor over.

Amarik's gaze goes lopsided on Th'deus when he calls 'him' Lord and not Marryn. So of course the response is a dip of his head and a vigilant, "Weyrleader," nothing more except for a light smile. Wounds. Oh yes, and then he remembers the kindness and quickly adds, "I'm healing fine, thank you," and that little reminder has him seeking his seat again. Having a sword to the back of both knees is one wound that heals slow because every time you move it opens it up again.

Only once, does Marryn' thump Th'deus on the shoulder, before that man's other hand comes up to catch the offending fist. "You don't know what that shoulder looks like, Marryn, or you'd not be doing that." Thicker tones, and the wince wasn't fully suppressed. "That bosun that cut my brother's back to shreds put a knife in right about there, and B'real hit me in it a few nights later. The stiches broke. Let's treat Th'deus like he's hurting for another few sevenday, then I'm hoping to have a conversation with you, with some dulled swords, so we can break you of this insane desire to run into them." The last is yielded with a grin, but there's sincerity in it as well. Th'deus has already spoken to Dominick about borrowing some dull swords, for this particular game. "And my next visit will be stealing you away for a while." Th'deus informs Marryn. "Now then, you." Th'deus' one-eyed attention rounds on Amarik, "What exactly happened with you?"

After all that Amarik isn't sure he wants to talk about running into swords. "Just a little flesh wound." His smile is just a tad too bright.

Marryn blinks, caught by surprise. That's typical though - he tends not to think before he acts. In this case, to note the extent of Th'deus injuries before giving him a most energetic greeting. "Shells, sorry Thadd," he says sincerely. Crossing his arm, he listens, unconsciously posing in a self-restraining way. "Dulled swords or not, we seem to always manage to get hurt one way or another," he replies, grin for grin. Dark brows arch at the future forcast, a wary regard beneath. He waits long enough for Amarik to make his own reply, adding an extended grunt for his opinion on his brother's choice of adjectives, then erupts, unable to keep curiosity at bay. "What do you mean stealing me away? For what? To the weyr?"

Amarik too is interested, and swivels his gaze back and forth between the taller and smaller men, ears peaked as he rustles with his beard.

Marryn belatedly realizes they are still standing while Amarik has sat. Auryn would shoot him for lack of good manners at this point. "Have a seat?" he offers Th'deus, arm swinging toward the wicker chairs and table with it's jungle view.

"At the Weyr, we've a technical phrase, Lord Amarik, to describe what it is, that you're telling me." Th'deus' stare comes to settle back on the younger man, but I'll just be suggesting to you that as I was the leader of that ill-fated expedition, and your wound, ultimately my responsibility, it'd be the better if you'd tell me what happened, should there be any way to avoid it in the future." Marryn grabs Th'deus' attention again. "Nay, somewhere where neither of us will be harassed for doing something stupid. I'll be telling them we're going fishing. So remember that. I'll take you down to Southern Continent. Lovely beaches down there, and I can teach you what I want to teach you -- maybe -- I've never taught it before -- without your guards or ... Whomever, coming after us to tell us what we should or should not be doing." The seats are given a brief and dubious glance -- will they support his frame? "A wine snob such as yourself," Th'deus observes mildly, "Should at least be offering what passes for good wine, too, shouldn't he?"

Amarik is a bit bitter to have to talk about his stupidity, and grumbles a back, "My technical phrase for it would be 'taken out at the knees', which I'm sure is a common occurrence for battle wounds." Indeed it didn't take much, just a wrong whirl and - slice - you're down. "I can get it," he suggests and pulls himself up to get the wine, glad for the distraction.

Marryn isn't /completely/ self-absorbed, no, not when it comes to his sibling in particular. He regards Th'deus with interest, surprised by the seriousness of his approach to Amarik's injuries. When the rider expands on the explanation to his own question though, his eyes widen with surprise. "I have to say I rather like that plan," he concedes. Another laugh follows, for Th'deus reminder of his visit to the weyr. "Indeed! We've the best, you'll see. The Pit is infamous for it's unique flavoring." He nods to Amarik, "Thanks," and returns to his earlier chair. Waving one hand to another seat, he grins up at the rider, rightly guessing where the big man's thoughts may have gone. "Don't worry, they make a lot of noise but they'll hold."

Th'deus will settle then, stiffly, into a chair. He engulfs it, really, rather than the chair's looking like it has any say in the matter. Th'deus doesn't relax until the chair is done with the most of its protest noises. Then he'll exhale a sigh. "M'lord Amarik, you're expecting a full recovery?" Th'deus asks this, though he does not look at the younger lord, for Amarik has passed out of his immediate vision and Th'deus isn't turning his head much today. "I look forward to the best, then, Marryn," Th'deus confides in quieter tones. "This mantle of leadership -- keeps slipping off my shoulders. I am unused to it and do not notice even when it falls. Nomi tells me.... 3-5 turns before Sidijith rises once more. Or, as I'm sure the weyrfolk are praying, Liette's gold may rise again, and she, to become Senior. How is the news taken here, of this particular turn of events?" Th'deus asks the Lord elect, of the populace within the Hold.

The decanter of wine is brought on a tray with three glasses and set on a table near Marryn. Amarik pours quietly as he listens, offering a brief, "I will be complete soon," and he means it. A glass is handed toward each man.

Marryn sits upright in the chair this time, sensing a serious tone to come. Arms rest lightly on the table as he fiddles idly with several small blocks of wood in various stages of carving. A knife sits off to the side, stuck in a larger piece of wood, but he doesn't reach for it. He listens to Th'deus and nods, strong features settling further into somber lines. Concern etches his voice as well. "It can be heavy sometimes, eh?" he empathizes all too well, and tries for a companionable grin. It quickly slips away again. "I'll not pull your tail, Thadd, the responses are mixed. You know what your reputation was like around here before. It takes folks a while to trust again after something like that." Copper sparks earnest in his gaze as he relays first the bad, then the good. "But your work at the docks hasn't gone unnoticed, in fact, I'd say it's what kept people from writing the weyr off altogether when the news came." He pauses thoughtfully. "Give'm more time, Thadd. They'll come around." Amarik's timely return saves him from having to deliver more bad news. "Ah, here we are! You'll never be able to drink wine elsewhere again, Thadd. Here you go." He swirls the wine in his already filled glass, adding with returning humor, "They'll really come around the more I tell them how their Lord kicked your lumbering rider butt."

Th'deus grasps and takes the glass, bringing it to his nose to draw in the odor. "I might," he murmurs in oblique compliment, "Visit more often." A nod to Amarik, to Marryn, "Thank you. And I'm glad. I've enough blood on my hands for one lifetime. Don't care to entertain crippling either." Th'deus will sip the wine, then, for a long moment, before his one-eyed regard turns fully toward Marryn, though it glances over the wood, the knife, lightly. "Now then. If you're thinking to kick my lumbering rider butt, m'lord, then you'd better do it soon, before I'm healed. Or have your guards poke my other eye out." So confidence speaks, lightly and warmly, from the huge ex-trader, "Or be bribing my brother to train you. And quit running toward pointy-things that are aimed toward you." He nods to the other news, then. "Marryn. This is why I'd come to talk to you. I'm wanting Fort Weyr to follow Ista's lead. I've invited that StarSmith to Fort, and I'd invite you to come interview him as well. THe one," Th'deus' glance goes from his wine to his friend, "Who says that Thread is returning. I guess... I'd rather be in N'lon's camp, and be thought a fool in the event that the Thread does /not/ come, instead of be the fool caught flat-footed, if it does." Anticipate, prepare. "Besides, the dragonriders should do something to earn their tithes -- sweeps and practice and be /here/ and /there/. Visible. Not hiding away in the Weyr. People should see what glorious creatures their work and goods support. I have also written N'lon and asked him to meet with me, to speak with me... So I'd have some idea what to do." He exhales heavily, whatever else breath he'd had, before drawing another and explaining, "Most of the older riders there will have nothing to do with me. My Weyrsecond won't speak with me, on account of the botched attack on the pirates, and that L'ton was hurt. I truely am not sure what to do, but to bring more of a martial direction to the entire Weyr. Give them all real jobs -- as if Thread were coming, even if it is not. Burning greenery. Inspecting Holds. Moving people and helping them get ready, at the Holds. --This, I think, we need to do. What thinks you two?" Th'deus asks, of the man his own age, and that man's little brother.

The light thump of the canetip proceeds Amarik around the chairs back to his own, a quarter glass of wine in hand. Resting, he sighs softly, eyes closing for a brief respite. Th'deus rambles on in the room around him, and when he stops the youth open those amber eyes and mutters playfully, "I thinks you are windy tonight." That's all he'll say on the matter, this is for Marryn, not him.

Marryn merely chuckles at the rider's suggestions, halted in his consideration of demonstrating bulging muscles again by the serious turn of the conversation. He sips as well, noting off-hand that Th'deus doesn't choke or gag so must approve - then again, how could he not? He is quiet during Th'deus recital, all playfulness wisking away as the dire situation unfolds. A touch of warmth raises his soul, for the trust Th'deus lays at their feet in confiding such personal internal weyr matters. And concern too, for the grim outlook it presents. Copper gaze moves to Amarik for a moment once Th'deus is done, and despite his younger brother's reluctance, addresses him. "The StarCraft. Isn't that something you were looking into, Rik?" Maybe not so much the craft, but the stars. something like that. Furrowed brows display his lack of detailed memory. The other matter is left for the moment. He certainly knows how Th'deus feels, having had to confront doubt himself in striving toward his title and rank.

Attention diverts to Amarik once more. Th'deus considers him, but offers, "I have spoken to MasterSmith Vezdia and while she will not /confirm/ the man's claims, neither has she denied them. But with Boll and Fort and so many smaller holds depending on the Weyr... I can't ignore the possibility. I'd rather be wrong and overly safe, than unprepared. What -- can Boll do, to assist, in this?" Quietly spoken, and Th'deus will take another sip of wine. "Think on it, Marryn. Amarik. And think what we can do, for Boll -- that we are not doing already. And we will speak of, perhaps, lighter things now?"

Marryn's question to him causes nothing more then a shrug from Amarik - he's thought of just about every craft on Pern, though maybe the stars did get a longer perusal. They certainly are interesting. The talk of Thread is unsettling though, so he just remains quietly listening to the back and forth, sipping on the wine. Boll has his full attention, as do these two, but he's a quiet man, especially these days, and matters such as this he has to think over at length first.

Marryn frowns, recognizing the gesture for what it's worth and knowing he'll have to work harder and/or just wait to draw Amarik out further. Th'deus is given a definitive nod of agreement. "We'll talk again soon," he promises, and lifts his glass for a swig to accede to the suggestion of topic change.

Th'deus exhales on that question and upon his own consideration. "Aye. Nomi." Breathed, that name. Th'deus turns his seeming attention to the wine. "Nomi. Have you ever felt when your world is turned upside-down, and all your expectations are scattered across a floor and maybe they're all wrong, and you're left picking up the pieces? Nomi."

It's done!

2007-12-08T07:48:55Z

Or so they think. Pirates meet Seacrafters and Bollians and weep!

It was L'ton's idea, and Th'deus made sure everyone knew it. Everyone from those who helped to refit the barge in the isolated docks. Everyone who helped hollow out and rebuild the bottom, who helped construct the little shack in which the firestone was hidden. Everyone who assisted in determining how the ship would be moved with this new ballast knew it was L'ton's idea. Those in the know -- they knew. The common laborers did not. Those who hauled enough sandbags into the barge to approximate the small green's weight, had no idea why the SeaCraft and that crazy bronzerider Th'deus wanted all that sand in the boat. And then it wasn't good, adn the sand came out again. But the captain, the guards who accepted the hazardous and dull duty to ride this ship on what might be a dry run, or what might be one of the most dangerous situations of their life -- they all knew it was L'ton's idea. Pablo knew. Boll knew. And so the barge was refitted so that the green dragon could lay flat and barely appear to be more than a pile of nets, her wings carefully furled and out of the way. ANd once it was done, the ship had hauled the barge to a remote bay, and the tests had begun. --If the dragon could get in. If she fit. If she could launch from the barge. Ballast was shuffled. Fittings remade. Planks refastened. And then there was the practice -- the lift-off from the barge, the attempts --and finally success, of having the green dragon be able to land onto the barge in the open ocean. It was seen to, all. Th'deus wanted nothing left to chance and was a miser on the point. And then finally, the anticlimatic ending. The send-off, with a SeaCraft ship looking weighted with goods, hauling out into the trade currents with the barge behind it, with the dragon hidden within and K'lora finally getting a few days off. For, though she could leave at night and return in the morning with firelizard bearings, Th'deus had asked her to remain on the ship, with the two only leaving for short jaunts. The featureless open sea has little to navigate by. So this, the third night out, all hands are relaxing on both ships, and the sound of flute and boot-stomping on deck can be heard over the water as Dorianth dozes, as the Bollian guards who remain underneath the decks during day, come to breath fresh air and enjoy a bit of space. The rest of the Seven, going about their other duties somewhat more equiped with ropes and manacles and firestone attached to their dragons' harnesses, remain largely vigalent of Dorianth's status; the green has to request some peace to sleep, with the near-constant inquiries.

And K'lora knows. Or 'Kora', as she is today, sitting there on the barge with her back to that netting and a bored expression on her wrinkled face. She sits and occupies her hands by sewing up holes in a fishing net. The Whatzit at her back is bored, and cranky, and keeps threatening to move, so Kora hums old songs, tuneless songs, songs that cover the comfort she sends through bone and back to the bulky cargo on the barge.

Fedo, a jaunty little crusty old guy is doing a happy jig and singing his own words to the song being played. Food still clings to his beard from the evening's meal, and couple drops of amber ale nestles between hairs, both dispersing as he lands extra hard on an off foot. The man is not even close to drunk; everyone knows it'd take more barrels of ale then this barge can hold to put old Fedo down. He's just having a good time while there is still time to be had. A retired guard of Boll, he's been off the path for a few turns and knows very well this rustiness could cost him what he holds most dear - his life.

Three guards sit around a makeshift table of crates, with a small basket of glows open just enough to make the cards readable. No beverages, but there are cards. And a few grumbles from one paunchy old guard who's just lost some wages. "Tollog, that's the third time ye've won. I'm out. If I lose more, I'll have naught to drink for a sevenday."

Later, when they think of it, when the stories are told over wine and ale and to funeral faces, the first memories will be the sound of the man Largo's falling. Someone will later say that they thought old Largo had fallen asleep, they'd opened their mouth to make a crack, when the next arrow hit the wall next to him with that horrifying thrum of Absolute Reality. And that noise became the solo that lit into a symphony of such sounds, with the howls and whoops coming from the pirate's ship, oh-so-near, how-did-it-get-so-close? That will be the first of it. The first memories, with Largo's form flopping about like one of the bigger fishes pulled out of the sea -- not quite dead, but not far from it. His blood will make the immediate deck slick, and his thrashing will tip the fire-barrel onto that slick deck.

L'ton didn't need every instant to accustom himself as a deckhand although he'd never been on anything larger in his short life than a two-man craft. But enduring Ikaroth's freakish flight is two Turns worth of invaluable rehearsal and L'ton takes being surrounded completely by saltwater in perfect stride. In fact, he'll take back home and safeguard a dozen prolific sailor oaths. But the young man doesn't stray much from what he knows best. Seaspray in his hair, he's waxing the string of his recurve bow while earnestly watching the gamblers.

A small rangy canine sniffs around at the dragon, enjoying the odd scents he ferrets out. When the song comes to a stop Fedo lands on both feet and spins about, searching for his mutt. "Tun," he calls low, not wanting his voice to carry across the open sea. The small rat-like head pops up at the name being called, and quickly he scampers to the man's side. "I said stay close. You don' wanna be dragon bait!" The ex-guard snaps the dog up and heads to where the boys are playing cards, peeking over their heads to see their hands and snickering at just the right point. Then all starts.

The last time Amarik was in a similar situation he was a completely different person, with a ranginess of the Holdness and the insanity of a tortured watchwher. Today he is another creature all together, dressed from head to toe in elegantly tailored midnight blue clothes to blend with the evening sea, and wearing a solemn yet quiet expression as he waits with the other passengers, mostly guards he's known since he was a little weed. The closest pair of these have hemmed themselves to the young man's side in a protective gridlock that won't allow him into harms way.

As the old paunchy guard stands, he notices Largo fall, and the arrow whiz by. "Lads, this be it." He says, shutting the basket of glows all the way. Tollog and Begord stand up, the latter asking in a loud whisper. "What're ya seein' Jobol?" The large man merely nods toward the fallen guard. "Aw, poor Largo," The lucky Tollog says, earning him a fierce look from his fellows.

The Ill Wind flanks the SeaCraft's boat, the Dancing Shipfish, as the Ruthless Packtail sweeps across the bow, to the other side. It is a fat prize tonight, that they've spied as the sun was setting. And now, howls break loose from both ships, filling the air with fierce yodeling cries and shouts. More arrows, and now, the grappling hooks. Wind snaps a canvas sail, as its angle is shifted, as it is drawn taut again.

K'lora checks first to make sure the 'cargo' has not shifted or snagged on anything of late and remains, as yet, under cover: wait wait wait follow the plan, wait for the others. There's a fight alreay -- a predictable battle -- between the green and her rider, but its one Kora wins and so she moves from cover to cover to try and reach Largo's side. Blood stains her already stained trousers, and her wrinkled hands as she lays them to his wound. "It'll be okay," she lies, as he dies, "You dun good."

The moment the chaos hits Amarik is ready, so when a grappling hook lands near him, pinching itself to the deck, he whips out his sword and swings it over the side of the deck to slice through the rope it's attached to. The two ole boys next to him are in tandem, swords held at the ready.

Fedo tosses Tunnelsnake into a wooden crate and goes for his sword hemmed to his side, and he too is stoically awaiting the arrival of the foul creatures that feed on the innocent.

Horror is easy to see when you're expecting it. L'ton is untested, very raw, and still buoyant with great ideals. How the mighty will fall when the mayhem and blood clear. The teenager is transfixed on Largo's writhing body, a grotesque poppet surely, no human has ever made those kind of movements in his world. And horror breeds. The barrel containing their second best weapon spills with Largo's blood and L'ton jumps over crates and shoves, with his size, pushes, a man out of his way to right the barrel, protecting his hands with his sleeves. Facing K'lora and the first casuality, L'ton asks with tight optimism, "is he...?" Sounds roar behind him, boots on planks, stretching sails, lusty pirate taunts. Having dropping his bow he now searches for it as if his life depended on it. It does.

The dragon Xanth arrives over Southern Boll with a highly unusual roar that is generally only reserved for his visits to other weyrs. Within his apartment, Toncho would surely hear that roar, as well as Taini. And Bo Blue's appearing where Taini is, then disappearing, might be enough to summon her. The bronze, already chewing firestone, lands in the courtyard, clearing it of any and all who might be there. Th'deus calls for Marryn, but this day, Marryn is nowhere to be found. Yet Th'deus waits for his sister, as well.

From under the netting -- that odd-smelling netting -- comes the distinct noise of rock being ground into ash with single-minded determination. The cargo, it seems, is eating something and, as it goes on for some time and then starts again, it probabaly isn't the little dog: crunch crunch crunch. Luckily there is enough noise and madness around to cover the ingestion of the hidden firestone. Nearby, Kora looks up at L'ton with ageless sadness in her rhumey eyes. "Aye lad, he's gone. Lets make sure he did not die for naught, eh Li?"

Taini runs out, having been expecting said call. "Is it time?" She asks, a feral look on her face, and several knives in sheaths strapped on her person. She reaches up to mount on to the dragon quickly, and gives her brother a quick squeeze.

Four other dragons -- brown, blue and green -- appear over Southern Boll, then. The last of the Seven, and already feeding their dragons firestone. Another moment. Taini is helped upon the small bronze, and Xanth threatens to launch, before she's quite strapped in. Th'deus catches her, and the bronze settles, impatient and fierce. News of Marryn is slowly brought out. Confirmation. He is not here, and Bo's images show deep forests, and a number of guards. Some other trip, something else. Th'deus will not wait. Once Taini is in, Xanth rises.

Nothing is going to keep 'Tun' out of the fray, and with a good nudge he's freed himself of the crate. Pattering hurriedly toward Fedo, the little dog weaves in and out of feet, pausing only once to smell at a hook that attaches itself to the ship's rail. "I told you to stay you ole stinker. Come on," the man invites, and the canine places himself between the man's feet; a fierce little picture of tiny sharp razor teeth, ready to bite anything that doesn't smell quite right.

The trio of Boll's Finest race toward the edge of the vessel quickly, brandishing their weapons as they do. "Jobol, where're ya?" Begord calls, losing his fellow in the clashes. "O'er here, lad. Jest get to it." The older man, a sometime mentor to several of the others, starts to pull on a grappling hook, forcing the unlucky pirate to near more quickly than planned. The young man is skewered on a sword before his feet can touch plank again.

Within the cargo compartments of the pirate ships, in the 'brig', the recent captives and those who have refused to pass the 'test' of killing a captive, wait in tense and crowded silence, hushing any fool who might speak and keep the others from hearing how their captors fare. Tejano and Taini had probably told Th'deus of this; strict orders -- not to fire upon the ships until someone got over there, to release those captives. Someone. Someones. The someones have not yet arrived.

Boots strike the deck with soft thuds, as the one-eyed bosun of the Ill Wind looks out toward this soon-to-be captive. He hears the resistance; more and more the ships upon which the pirates prey, have boasted swords and men who could use them. By Jerran's figuring, that keeps his own men from getting lazy. Or it thins them out suitably enough that fresh blood -- and ideas -- are always needed. This is not always a bad thing. Fingers curling over his whip, the bosun studies the distant shadows under the dim moon, lets his regard slide over the barge again. So low in the water it rides, that the pirate has high hopes for much-needed supplies. "Go on there, lads. The sooner they're taken, the sooner their women are enjoyed, their booze is ours for the drinking!"

Where one grappling hook is slew another is born. In the process of trying to saw this one free, Amarik's attempts are stalled as two pirates force him back, both moving hurriedly up the now splintered rope. So the fight begins for the Bollian, though he's barely allowed much before the two old guards shove him back to take on the invading scourge. That's okay, there's plenty of stanky fish to fry and Amarik gets the next that scurries up the line, and the fight ensues.

Taini remembers those captives, having been one for awhile, and she tugs at Thadd's shoulder. "Don't forget those beneath." She's reminded him several times, but it is extremely important, especially as Tahira may be one of the prisoners. She looks toward the fight, and her expression hardens.

L'ton's glancing is limited to frantic jerks of his head until the range weapon is there, under someone's boot. The crude chop to said person's calf can be overlooked giving the circumstances. He attains an arrow, the tine only sharpened wood - metal tips too precious to spend on sinking raiders. He nods solemnly to K'lora - words lost on his tongue. The aim and firing sequences are muscle memory in operation only. L'ton's targets have never been his own kind. Ikaroth in all this has been painfully high above and although his rider doesn't see him, the dragon is all around: in his mind and alive in terrible screeches for the public to rally to or recoil from. Ikaroth /blares/. Without the luxury of fresh firestone, the pulp in his stomach is weak. The preliminary flame is short and dies quickly, but it's enough to kindle one fellow's upper body in strong fire. The scream ceases when he lunges overboard.

Cute little 'Tun' turns into vicious little 'Tunnelsnake' when a pirate appears over the lip of the rail. A quick leap and the small canine is attached to a cheek, locking his jaw as teeth tear through flesh. The pirate hollers to the night, and Fedo's only response is to snicker. The distraction was good enough that the old man was able to dispatch the first lad to attempt up that rope, and the second is stuck fighting while balancing over the sea.

K'lora certainly isn't leaving her netted dragon or the relative safety of the barge: her bones are old, her muscles wiry but unpredictable these days, and she has not taste for blood. Her firelizards and all those that came with Dorianth, wink in now for cover -- they have no qualms about launching themselves at the arriving pirates with teeth and claw. The air is suddenly filled with dozens of pissed off arrows that join L'ton's wooden ones. Ki will draw Largo's body out of L'ton's way as best she can before pulling a small blade from within her tunic just in case. Self defense. Dori would never forgive her if she got herself killed. She moves back towards where the dragon lies buried, knowing she won't stay netted much longer: these 'supplies' will soon fight back. "Easy Do, easy Ri," humming her old familiar tune. "We don't want them to slip away."

As the three guards continue to fight, a pirate jumps across the edge of the barge, and gets the drop on Begord. He slashes wildly at the young man's chest, but Beg turns quickly, receiving a shoulder wound instead of the promised stab to the heart. Tollog rushes over, dispatching the pirate, and leading his comrade to a seat to tie up the wound. "We'll return to it, ye sit and get those we miss." A wink, teasing tone. The man will grumble under his breath and clean off his sword, readying it for when it is needed again.

Speaking of firelizards: Amarik's bronze blinks in just in time to rip claws through dirty hair as the Bollian lad catches his balance he lost, which would have been deadly hadn't Birinj showed at just that moment. How fortunate. One of the two close guards sinks his sword through soggy meat, while the other whirls to slice a throat. They make a great team. Both turn to help the young man, and that pirate is lost to the sea before a fresh bout arrives to be dealt with.

On the heels of Dorianth's launch, comes the roaring entrance of four dragons from on high. Together, snappily, they enter as one and together, they arrow down toward the ships. Each rider as eager as the next, with goggles and flight helmets on each rider, except for the one passenger on the small bronze. Three dragons flame, as the dark serpant slides ahead, toward the Packtail. Random pick, and Th'deus picks the wrong ship, but both likely contain captives. A coiled rope, secured to Xanth's harness and tied with knots along its length, is loosened. Once the dragon backwings to a brief hover, Th'deus lets the coiled rope slide loose, whiplike, toward the ship. Unstrapped from his own safety straps, he begins clambering down the rope, Taini instructed to come after him. They, the two Barlords, will endeavor to find and release the captives. Xanth attempts to hover, as best he can, while the other dragons distract.

Taini, her face as hard as stone, clambers down the rope after her brother. She nods quickly, and steps in behind Thadd. "Over here, I think." She says, gesturing toward the stairs to belowships. "Looks awfully familiar." She takes a second to shudder, and returns focus.

Two sides to the ship, and the SeaCrafters who had backed off to let the professional deal with the grappling hooks of the Ill Wind now find themselves facing the fierce men of the Packtail. Cries come now from those men, as the flanking pirates find more success, more purchase on the Dancing Shipfish. Now a party of three cohorts, filthy and broken-teethed, begin to cut their way through the Crafters who launch up posts, rigging and whatever they might. This, and now the wind begins to play havoc with all three ships.

It just wasn't a fair fight; the pirate boy never had a chance hanging out there on a rope over the ocean. His body falls, only to be replaced by another. Tun leaps up on the rail and throws out a barrage of barks in fierce anger to the approaching pirate. Fedo grins gleefully and shouts, "You'd best heed that warning, lad!" Then they two are locked in battle.

Begord stands up, a little wobbly, glad that the wounded arm is not his sword arm. Instead of joining his fellows, he heads to the opposite side of the boat, where the battle seems fiercer. Jobol notices, while clanking one pirate on the head with his hilt and nicking another one in short order. "Lad!" He calls. However, the man is lost in the press of swords and swashbuckle.

Toncho's training and blinding adreniline serve Th'deus well, though the huge rider is handicapped by his one eye, compounded by serious night-blindness. "If I start swinging, Tai, get behind me." But he responds to his sister's tug and though his legs threaten to drop out from under him, Xanth's rider trails along. Xanth, now to play Distraction, does his bid well. Flame shoots out over the top of the ship, for an instant lighting brilliantly the wooden world below. Heat sizzles and now the playing field is level; the pirates are blinded as well as SeaCraft, and as much as Th'deus. Two men spy the conspicuous pair and start toward them, pause, and after their eyes re-adjust, they set upon the big man with shrieking hollars. Women are too valuable at sea to randomly cut down. But Th'deus -- he is recognized. And for the first time in three long turns, Th'deus finally fights back. Metal clashes, grunts as blows land, edge sometimes, and sometimes sloppy flat of blade. Hissing breath, and the sweat of fear and anxiety and fury mingle with the newer odor of tangy copper. Above, Xanth carols, but the sound breaks to a hiss, and flame blasts again, higher, lighting the arena long enough that all three men re-engage.

L'ton's personal supply of ten arrows is weakened by six, seven, eight. The remaining two are withheld as he runs from where the locus of attacks are and stays tight to K'lora. If it comes down to a hand-to-hand front, he is no doubt in trouble. Desperately, "quick, gimme some cloth!" Teeth to tunic, a stripe of fabric is spit into his hand, speared into a wad on the second to last arrow and dunked into the glowing barrel. The combustion is instant, but without an oil L'ton is dubious at how well it will take. He sets his sights on the mainsail of the Ill Wind, fortune alone sees to it that it was not the ship Th'deus and Taini boarded. Ikaroth, all too conscious of deep water, is that much more protective of his airspace. Masts are indiscriminately thrashed at, splinters the size of a man's forearm pared as clean as toothpicks. But this is done to the Ruthless Packtail where the Barlords try for emancipation. That bronze is ship-sized himself, powerful wings toying with the air pressure around the boats to add further instability to an erratic wind.

The pirates' focus on the large bronzerider and brush-off of his smaller sister may be some of their undoing. Taini is a Barlord, and when roused fights as fiercely as do her brothers, although more scrappily than they. She unsheaths a knife, and begins to wend her way toward the stairs, helping to clear a path and lessen the numbers of ne'er-do-wells attacking the SeaCrafters.

Ki adds her hanky to L'ton's flaming arrow and then gets out of the way. She has her own ship to launch. A little boat. A dory. Her small knife works on the bit of netting that did get caught on those dilly-green wing and then Dorianth is free -- roaring and snorting and flamingly free -- and most of the elder green's fire is luckily aimed at more grappling pirates and the ship that's closer. K'lora will abandon L'ton though and leap onto her dragon then, where she's safest and most comfortable, and strap in as Dorianth drops along the side of the barge, knocking pirates off as easily as a runner swats flies. She roars again, that little dragon, joined in her anger by all the nearby winged beasts -- and beasts they be.

Dragons! Jerran looks up. Orders sharply given, and those archers who remain on the boats turn their bows up, toward the two nearby bronzes. The bosun, not himself a man to panic, redirects another two toward the large spears on this captured fishing boat. Spears with long cords attached, they are meant to snag the largest of the ocean-going fish, to let them tire out, and to drag them down. Hastily, ropes are re-tied to heavy barrels, while the others of their company try to rig the spear-throwers to go /up/ instead of down. Fear makes teamwork that much smoother. Within minutes the first spear is launched over the top of the Dancing Shipfish, toward the bigger bronze that harries it.

Many bodies shift on deck, restless as the sea itself, and one more among them hardly takes extra notice. Only told apart from the others by movement and the rags it's dressed in, a captive that kept out of the hold tonight by some miracle. Dirty, skinny and lean, the waif is armed only with a broken broom handle, and creeping from the shadows, the mad thing shall try and bludgeon anything near, be it friend or foe. By now, there's no real way to tell the difference.

Fedo hollers out, "There ya go, lass!" as the green dislodges the pirate he had just been fighting with - the third. Tun catches the scent of the passing green and howls before dashing down to the man's feet and hiding. That big ole thing is moving! Laughter echoes from the old man before he turns his attention to a near pirate, who he engages with his sword. "Boll wins - again!" he shouts, counting his firelizards before they hatch.

Matching her leap to one of Dori's hops, K'lora sails upwards and catches hold of the straps, quickly settling between her favorite neckridges.

The three guards continue to fight, keeping their swords swinging quickly. Tollog complains loudly. "Faranth, my arm is sore." His mentor replies, as he chuckles. "More training, then. Should be able to keep at this for several hours. Why, I heard tell of a man..." And the story is cut off by an inventive pirate who knocks his sword out of his hand. The old man is undaunted, however. He reaches out, and grabs the sword out of the man's own hand, and pierces him with it.

The battle joined, Th'deus fights with a will, and with the longer of his deuling swords in his right hand, while the shorter one fends and blocks and feints, in his left. And he remains where he is, staunch of the defense of Taini's retreat below-deck. When Th'deus finally manages to damage one pirate enough that he backs off, the room is warrented for another to take his place. Silent-cursing, breath coming in wheezes and gasps, and heartbeats' race quirted higher by the jarring meeting of blade on blade, or blade on flesh, the three men fight. Th'deus' strength and skill surpass his opponents', but the fact that the rider fights nearly blind has cost him some of his skin and blood already.

K'lora is happier now that she's back on her dragon -- they fly well, these two, these elder Fortians, spinning away from the spear to follow its source back towards Jerran and his ship. Still crackling with energy -- and all but smoking with 'stone -- Dorianth sends a jet of flame out across those scoundrel's sails.

Three pirates converge once the heels of their greasy boots pound the planks of the Dancing Shipfish. They're too much alike in height and appearance - not that anyone wastes time looking at pirates to think of them as individuals. Those three, bristling with short swords and one with a well-beaked lance, peg Amarik and his guards as volunteers to slick their weapons crimson.

Taini steals down the stairs, returning a few moments later. "Unlocked." She says, five prisoners following behind her. "Those that can and care to, grab steel and defend yourselves." One is a frail woman, and Tai leads her up the stairs personally. "Just stay behind me." She says. She wields daggers again, assisting her brother, should he need or allow it.
Retaliation. The pirates handling the spear-gun do not need to see Jerran's wild indications of the elderly green dragon; they've already begun to swing the gun around to bear on Dorianth. Wild, weaving aim, but wings are a large target. The second spear launches.

It wasn't like they were just standing around, but Amarik and his boys have had it easy up until this point. They were taking a small, and I mean tiny, breather when the three show up to bring them back to the here and now. The two guards on either side, and at the front, Amarik crouches, short sword at the ready. The collision has a sharp silvery air as metal meets metal in a combat of both wit and physicality.

Sidijith winks in from ::between:: and just about get hereslf killed by blinking in a frayed second after the second spear is launched. Nomi is lucky to receive only a glancing blow on her shoulder, a blow stil hard enough it sends her careening into the neck of her lifemate.

Dorianth is weaving in and out of the ships, flaming anything she know for certain is Pirate. Her fire is weaker though, near-spent, so its limbs and tail and wings as much as flames that dash the bastards into the sea.

"Bloody shardin'--" Th'deus curses then, and redoubles his efforts as the Ill Wind's sails catch, and begin to flame full and well, "Tai -- the other ship --" A brief moment, and Th'deus winces back, before refocusing and redoubling his attack on the man who'd hit him. That one, finally, falls in a slump of gristle. Th'deus' sword, tangled in his flesh for a moment as the huge man tries to swing the other man's body toward his second attacker in instinctive defense. This is partially successful; the second pirate is knocked aside, but Th'deus' good sword snaps at the handle. Startled, for a moment, Th'deus throws the handle at the off-balance man, "Tai -- the other ship -- no one let them out there, and it's on fire." Th'deus crouches to pull a boot knife out, and he'll shoulder into his remaining opponent as that one straightens. Identical grimaces grace the features of both men, as Th'deus' knife irrevocably disrupts the order and sequence of the other man's gut. But the bronzer is pushing through, then, heading back toward the far end of the ship, where Xanth likewise heads. The little bronze's knotted rope yet hangs, looping and snapping in the wind. "Come, Tai!" At some point then, Th'deus becomes aware of another, much larger, dragon.

Taini follows, dutifully, leading the frail woman behind her. "Come along. Have you been adragonback before, lass?" She'll slip into her brother's vernacular now, a little, anyway. "Shards. I hope..." Unvoiced hopes remain that way. "Let's get /someone/ over there to..." Nuff said.

Sidijith circles up and out of range of the melee whilst Nomi is a ragdoll in her straps. Its hard to tell if the rider moves or not as the young queen spirals higher and higher above the fight.

Ikaroth takes his first arrow high in the breast with the point not biting dangerously far. Any projectile fired straight up sheds inertia readily. The bronze feels only a tightening at the location, one that L'ton, too, senses superimposed on his own sternum. Righteously the Fort dragon dares to sink deeper into direct danger (like that D alliteration?), foreclaws poised and sprung against a tall, grizzly man of the Dancing Shipfish. Ikaroth climbs, dark pinions dour, eating air and still conserving the human in his grasp. When the sounds of battle grow insignificant still the dragon covets the playground of early clouds. Only then is pirate is freed from Ikaroth's black claws and with that fall comes a bronze's steady blood-red witness. He wants, and waits, for the splash.

Though differentiating those onboard is hard in the moonlight, the others that came up from below deck draw the notice of the gangly stray, and with snappish gait the waif moves to be among them, now told apart visually only by the broom handle clutched in skinny hands and the angry red patch over one eye; a mark of birth, not a wound, and mostly swallowed up by shadow and the ratty mess of russet hair. Refusing a new weapon, for this one keeps a better range from attackers, the little mouse shall move forward, disintegrating into the mob once again and become apart of it.

Two hits on two dragons. The pirates of the Ill Wind are jubulent, hooting and spitting insults. Another spear is found, this without the hanging tail of barrel and rope, but yet with the fierce hook. Again, the spring-gun is made ready, but then Dorianth's wing clears the deck and the gun, half-cocked, stands alone. Jerran, sword now in hand, has joined his own. Fierce, skilled and smart, he begins to even the score, to take toll on the Shipfish defenders as the two ships remain tied to one another. Flames from the Ill Wind will, if the wind shifts even slightly, begin to threaten Boll's ship as well. The pirates yet fight, and fight fierce and strong. The early deaths, from over-eager youth hoping to prove themselves, have slowed; those who remain are the cagey and experienced men of the sea, and they are fighting for their lives as well.

Tun finds the ankle of the nearest pirate and bites down, drawing blood as Fedo takes the man's surprise and uses it to his benefit, sword a blinking flash across the throat to dispatch his life in an instant. Fresh blood flows to mingle with already gelling purple, and the spray of sea water that trashes over the sides from the turbulent ocean.

Jobol holds his spot, regaining his stance after the ship rocks. However, the man is tiring, regardless of what he's told his protogee, he's not done this for this long before, either. His slashes become spaced further and further apart, and the old man steps back, letting a younger seacrafter take his place. Tollog works his way toward the old man, assessing him with worry. "Will ye make it?" He asks, sincere concern on his face. "Aye," the response comes. "Let an old man get his breath." Bergod is seen briefly, glimpses between friend and foe alike. He seems to be doing well.

Dorianth is rather ticked off that these smelly humans dare shoot at Dragons; her queen, her bronze, they /dare/. Her anger finds more fire in the last of the 'stone and she sends it searing along the already burning ships mainsail forgetting in her ire that some of the smelly humans on that ship are good ones. K'lora remembers though, and she convinces her dragon to drop down through the fire where she finds enough courage to slip onto its rocking deck. Small and wiry, like a ratty little dog, the old rider goes unseen through the smoke to join anyone else attempting to free the second set of captives. Dorinath turns her pique on that sharding gun and anyone near it.

The Dawn Sisters, Pern's own less celestial figures, go to work repelling and grating against the warm metal. The shortest one swoops low for Amarik's kneecaps while the other two are pit against the armed guards. The opposition, while clothed threadbare, are clean and very normal in appearance. The pirates have a face and these three are no different than what compose Southern Boll, or any other Hold's, populace. "This 'ere likes to bite hard." The man with the tipped lance threatens just before a resumed strike.

Sidijith circles like some giant golden carrion bird casting long, dark shadows over any deck she passes. Uninjured, her flight is almost lazy in its circles if only because she is trying to keep herself smooth and easy on the wind.

When Ikaroth abandoned his attack on the Packtail, M'lot and his lifemate picked it up. And aside from flailing Xanth, who tries to 'fish' for Barlords, off the Packtail deck, the other dragons instinctively set themselves between Sidijith and danger. Below, Th'deus shakes his head at Taini, "She -- Ikaroth will come get her. We have to go over there. Or you stay here --" The choice is to be made quickly; when the rope comes, Th'deus begins to launch up it, dagger in his teeth and smaller sword slid filthy into its sheath. Taini's decision must be made fast, for Th'deus only climbs up far enough to clear space, and the tail swings wild with his movements. Xanth waits another split-second, for her decision, then begins to wing over to the Ill Wind, to deposit his cargo on the deck.

It's a horrid night; it's a glorious night, and Amarik fights well. The two soldiers at his brother's behest keep close contact, fighting with deadly precision against the trio of pirates that have set upon them. The Bollian lad wings about, just sure his sword will find purchase in a throat or chest, when the pirate does an artful dodge, followed by a thrusting swing of his own, taking the young man down at the knees, slicing right through flesh and just barely touching tendon. The two guards rally to his aide while still fending off their own attackers.

Taini decides as quickly as she can. "Lass, you will be retrieved. Someone will be here..." The girl says, giving a slight reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before she sheaths her knife and follows her brother up the rope. "Hurry, willya?" The girl is smaller, more dextrous than the burly man. "I wanna see..." Again, hope remains unexpressed. Less disappointment that way.

L'ton's arrows have all since been dispersed. He makes his living next navigating around the pairs and trios locked in fights: kicking in knees, stabbing, and swiping all the length his four-inch blade can raise to help his comrades. One Seacrafter plants a thank you on L'ton's back. "Go for the hooks!" The separation of the three ships is paramount if the Dancing Shipfish is to dodge the holocaust that consumes the Ill Wind. L'ton, armed only with a belt knife, sets to work sawing at the ropes.

Sidijith circles again, and then without ever entering the fray, wings ::between::. Her mournful cry is cut shockingly short.

Less than gracious, will be the Barlords' landing upon the deck. Xanth's distraction at fault there. Th'deus, reeling already from his feeble attempts at keeping track, his high hopes at coordination, lands heavily. Adreniline still drives him, and his weapon comes out again, "Tai, go." It is then, that the one eyed man is stabbed in the back by another one-eyed man. Fortune, for once, favors Th'deus; he'd been turning, and the bosun's sword catches the thickest part of the leather of Th'deus' 'new' flight-jacket. The new pain jolts the bronzerider forward, but lubricates the turn, the defense and then offense with which he joins battle with Jerran.

Puny though he may be, Tun is one massive mutt when it comes to teeth. Most especially when they are placed just /right/. A truly large Pirate turns on Fedo, grinning broad at the little old man, thinking he has this one in the bag. "You are going to be fish jerky by morning, " he taunts, grinning toothlessly. The old Bollian grins back, and deadpans, "I may be jerky, but you're a jerk," and just then Tun leaps up between the guys braced legs and takes a bite out of his history. Think Rudolph's 'abominable snowman'.

Begord gets surrounded. There are too many of them to effectively fight off, so he snarls loudly, and just begins hacking indiscriminately. Luckily, some of the seacrafters have seen the man mad before, and know to back away. A rage takes over him, and he slashes, inconsiderate of whom or what he may hit. Several pirates go down before the young man finally sustains a hard blow to the head, and a stab to the chest. Not long after that, the man stops moving. Jobol watches, and having gained his second wind, turns toward the few remaining in that area, and forces them down.

Taini rushes quickly down the stairs of the second ship, freeing its prisoners. There are more here, and more of them are in bad shape. In fact, Tai is wiping her mouth and her eyes glint with determination. She takes a deep breath, giving the prisoners the same directive as before, and then eyes her brother. "If you require assistance," she says, as cold as *between* itself, "Allow me.

Onboard the Packtail, the skinny mouse shall make another appearance for only a moment. Moonlight flashes off darkly dirty rags as the broomstick-bearing captive swings at heads, not wildly, but certainly more of a reflex than a calculated attack. Seemingly caught between defense and aggression, this half-starved creature doesn't seem to know what their next move will be until it's already been done. Few of these land, but a good distance from aggressors is maintained effectively, it seems.

Ikaroth has returned from his stint as lammergeier, one of the few proactive of the vulture species. Xanth's immediate request has been taken over by the serpent bronze himself so his clutch brother is free to rain further havoc on the Ruthless Packtail. The remainder of the mast, a barbed stump, is clasped in dragon claws and hung to. The propulsion of the dragon 'tugging' the vessel wrenches timber and the ship moans fearful of capsizing. But not all of the ropes are cut leading to the Dancing Shipfish and what effects one ship totes the Seacraft's along. "Ikaroth!" L'ton's voice snaps as he works at a frenzy with a Seacrafter to liberate the wounded Bollian ship. Th'deus is on the Packtail, there, in the gloom of lurid pale smoke. News of Nomi and Sidijith's visitation has the rider sighting the black sky, right where his eyes shouldn't be.

Down in the Ill Wind, K'lora is there, too, with Taini, aiding an abetting their escape with her quiet efficiency. She looks terrible, with blood on her forehead and Dori's anger brightening her gaze, but there's a feral, delighted grin on the little old woman's face and she'll keep them captives moving. "First ones out gt to ride the dragon, so be quick -- and quiet -- and here, you, know how to use a knife?" Ki will give hers up to one of the stronger looking woman -- pissed off looking woman at that. "Have at'm," she suggests with a dark nod. K'lora can't kill people herself, but she isn't above encouraging it in others.

Dorianth turns Sidijith's cry of dismay into her own roar of victory; that frakking spear-gun is finally ripped off its pedestal, taking some of the deck with it. With hard wingbeats, she manages to lift it with her up off the Ill Wind and drop it back into the sea -- that's for you, Ikaroth. Then she'll circle Jerran's ship, snapping at pirates and trying to find her lifemate.

It's not an epic battle, despite the personalities involved. The leader of the little wing of dragonriders, armed now with a bootknife and short-deuling knife, is engaged with the pirate who has earned the nefarious title of '/the/ bosun'. Jerran has kept his position by virtue of his abilities, and he is better-armed than his opponent, despite not having Th'deus' extreme raw power. The deck is thick with roiling smoke, lit up here and there by dragon's fire beyond, and light and movement seem shrouded by lack of visibility interspersed with the pitching darkness itself. It's Jerran's sea-legs that truely decide the direction of the battle - he /could/ get the upper-hand, likely, in this venue. But he could also escape. And so it is that Jerran reaches down and pulls a throwing knife, tossing it at the ample target of Th'deus' chest. The bronzer's attempt to deflect the projectile likely saves his life. The throat-aimed knife thuds instead into Th'deus' flight jacket, his previously-wounded shoulder. And Jerran himself slips into the murkey grey of the ship, just as Taini has arrived back on the scene.

The corrupt Dawn Sisters, one felled by a wayward crossbow bolt, corrugate onto Amarik's small corps of hired guns. The two of them are steady on each guard until Lunt makes the decision to take Amarik fully out of the picture. His small sword is swung high, exposing his middle, what little there is of the man who can't be a whisker above 5'3.

The fire has truely engulfed the sails of the Ill Wind, and now the Packtail is aflame. Bodies, alive and dead, litter the dark waters, even as smoke and dragons' roars fill the air. Freed captives, somehow finding their way to the green dragon as well as the decks of the Shipfish and her barge, cling and hide, while the last of the battles begin to wind down. At least one boat, if not several, have been launched, though the chances of these men finding land before thirst takes them, is slim. And there are others who bob in the water, pretending their own deaths, to at least evade their own capture. One jubulent group of seacrafters did manage to take a captive, and that man is bound with every type of knot that a sailor can tie, and then a few extra for good measure. Th'deus, coughing, seeks to catch ahold of Tai, to head back over to an edge of the boat, to grab ahold of the rope that hangs from Xanth's harness.

Taini shrieks, watching her brother get hit. She walks toward him, knife still out, eyes still wary. She'll reach for an arm or a shoulder, the unwounded one, and try to reassure herself that he is okay. Those prisoners that can are cleaning up the remaining lackeys and Tai concentrates on her brother. She walks with him toward the rope, watching the captives go quickly toward Dorianth. "Hurry, folks." She'll call.

Carnage swarms in the water. Blood brings an unnatural pink to parts of the sea that previously only saw the color from a doting sunset. Wood and bodies bob, but something else stirs in the ink of the Southern Current. Fleeting triangles skim the wreckage as fins, unnoticed, probably even by the living humans they begin nudging curiously to shore.

Two on two is better odds, and even though the two old guards are being worn into the thin veil of their existance, they manage to hold off the intrusion on the young man's life they aim to protect. But! It is Amarik who has the final say as he spots a clear opening, and even though he was felled to the deck, he manages to bring his sword about to slice a clean parting of flesh across that belly. The effort brings him into the haze of unconsciousness, but the pair of guards can finish the job, and both take to the last Dawn Sister with a force to be reckoned with.

Dorianth finds K'lora aiding some of the younger captives up out of the hold. She keeps a wary eye on the fires as accepts more than she safely should -- there is no room for her Rider. "Boll then, Dori, and come back quick." Ki has no desire to join the blood and boards in that fin-cut sea. "Real quick."

The pair of old dogs, Tun and Fedo, start to tire, and the tallest of the pair leans against the railing to peer down into the sea. "Well now, that's an odd sight," he mutters, though he has no idea what he is looking at. The tiny canine, spurned by the curiosity, leaps up on the rail and begins barking at the black waters, and whatever is moving about out there. "Mayhap the fish is eatin' them. Serves em right," and the old cod decides on his own that every body out there is a pirate and not a friendly - it's best for what is left of his sanity.

Between Jobol's skill, and Tollog's speed, the two men finish the cads who killed their friend. Weary from the fighting, Jobol leans against a rigging, sliding down to rest, clutching at his chest. He begins breathing slowly, allowing his heart to slow, and gets himself under control. Tollog, however, wanders to the other side of the boat, where a lone pirate is seen heading toward a small waif. The man will hack at his opponent vehemently. After taking the last pirate out, he heads over to where Fedo is. " What're ya seein, old one?" He asks, ever curious.

Fedo grins manically, and points, "There's those bodies that are moving when they aren't swimming." Tun continues to protest loudly with a high spiking bark.

Dragonsight spies K'lora. Xanth backwings, dragging Th'deus and Taini backwards, upwards, and then takes them clear of ship at all. Higher and clearer of smoke, and Taini at least will get a decent view of the flaming ships below. The view becomes larger, becomes larger, as the dragon lowers the pair toward the safer deck of the Shipfish. No sooner have those two been dropped, then Xanth wings to try to dangle the rope near Dori's rider. Searing flames from the topsails are met with dragonflame, and the conflaguration swells higher, bursting with heat and energy, and then dying down enough that Xanth can get in closer, so that rope flops near K'lora.

The dill-green dragon carries her screaming cargo of captives out through the smoke like some odd roller-coaster car that's lost its rails. They scream because, well, it /has/ been a horrible, glorious night, and because Dori's flight is erratic at the best of time, and overladen she is down right dangerous. Then those screams (and laughter) are cut off as well as she ::winks:: them home -- to Boll at least -- the shipfish will not hold them all.

K'lora eyes the rope, but trusts that little bronze dragon. She sends the lass beside her up first, finding everyone else has found their way off, and then forces old muscles to get her aboard Xanth as well. "Thanks mate", she says as she straps herself in.

The remaining lines hindering the Dancing Shipfish - what remains of her - are severed. It's a Seacrafter's true challenge to man a vessel with rent sails and a decimated compliment of sailors. L'ton is pulling coarse hemp fibers from the softer parts of his left hand when he's reeling too far on that side from the plant of a boot. Said boot's operator, a sea raider, razes the tunic on the young man's chest and into pectoral muscle. The homemade weapon on that hand, teeth or bones of some kind strapped in leather to a man's knuckles, is pulled back for a coup de grace. L'ton is scrabbling backwards until his hip touches the side of the ship. It's sink or swim, Li. Not hesitating he pitches his bent legs up over the edge to connect with warm seawater. His attacker does likewise, but in self-preservation not pursuit.

Tollog looks down into the water, his young eyesight somewhat better than his older informant. "Them ain't /folks/, man." He says, watching them move. "Least not any I've seen." There's enough fire nearby to illuminate the sources of the movement. "Dunno what they are." The land-bound man will say. "Ain't folks though." He repeats. After that, he's turned to go assist Jobol. "Ye'll live, then, will ye?" He'll ask, half-worriedly, half-jestingly.

Fedo shrugs, and starts to turn away when he sees the young bronzer hit the water, and with a shout he points again. "Dragonman overboard!" Can't let any of those sorts go floating to fish knows where. Tun gives up barking as he starts to go hoarse, and it's the man's voice that becomes a repeated stain on hearing. "Dragonman! Dragonman in the water!"

The knife in Th'deus' shoulder served the purpose of keeping that wound from bleeding. Now, his having pulled the thing out, Th'deus bleeds. The knife is used to cut away part of a fallen man's tunic, and it's that that Th'deus holds to himself, to staunch the bleeding. Walking right by the spot where L'ton went over, with no idea of its significance, Th'deus seeks out the captain of the Shipfish. Words exchanged. A bare handshake. And Xanth relays various orders to various dragons - some to fetch healers. Some are to continue to flame the wreckage of the ship, so that nothing remains that might help the bid of a survivor. Others yet are to convey the captives and wounded back, and bring more crafters and items to repair, to the ship. Th'deus then returns to his sister, standing near her for a long, silent moment. "I'm sorry, Tai, that we didn't find her. Maybe next time." His hand, on her shoulder, trembles. And then the rope snakes down, Xanth's wingbeats heard overhead. "Let's go home."

Dorianth ::winks:: in again and circles in towards the Dancing Shipfish. There isn't enough room to land so she circles the ship and finds herself hovering over the patch of dark water where Ikaroth's Rider hit the sea. She has no rope to offer him, even if she could see him, and has to swoop out of the way.

Taini seems to collapse, between the exertion of the fight, the horrors witnessed below, and the overwhelming disappointment of not finding her twin. Her posture falls, grasping ahold of her brother to steady herself. Silent tears stream down her cheeks. Not trusting her voice, she nods her assent.

K'lora will shoo Th'deus off, as well, if only to get Xanth off the deck so Dorianth can land and the rescue mission can begin. "Go get yerself patched up Th'eus... again." Taini is just offered a sympathetic look, what else is there for such disappointment?

Ikaroth nags the Ruthless Packtail continuously until the bulk of the mast, once a noble pine rooted in Tillek soil, crumbles absolutely. His maw rages a short grunt for either the injury his rider sustained or the two arrows needling his chassis. There isn't any visual contact with L'ton which means a nervous dragon is an inherently cagey one. Ik wheels over the Ill Wind, now unrecognizable as a giant pyre of noise and light. It hisses at it sinks into the sea which is nothing to the complaints Ikaroth mounts, a monotone keen that is too subtle to mean his life mate among the dead. L'ton is in fact very much alive, struggling to balance on his back where his arms don't have to work so hard. "Hey!" A bump jabs into a butt cheek below the surface. He's insistent he doesn't get eaten!

"Aye, sir." Th'deus replies to K'lora. Xanth is too large to land on the deck, but he can take up the entire airspace above it, while he waits for Th'deus to hook himself to that rope. And the bronze will reel the rope in with his forelimbs, some distance away, so the actual altitude that both Th'deus and his sister must attend, is that much shallower. Once achieving Xanth's neckridges, Th'deus loops the rope in stiffly. And about that time, Xanth conveys the dilemma with L'ton. Th'deus, startling with echos of Jill's threat in his mind's ear, leans down and, of course, sees nothing. But the rope is lured out again, and Xanth begins to try to ease his way in to the area between ships, where L'ton struggles. "L'ton is in the water." He evidently didn't hear the seaman's cries. Too much stimulation.

Exhaustion and excitement take over the little man as Fedo begins jumping up and down like an excited troll, pointing dramatically to the sea. "I see him! He's floating! He's alive!" This is too much for Tun and even though his voice has largely diminished to no more then a whisper, he begins to bark enthusiastically. The bloody sword thunks the rail to get attention, "Don' let him get eatin' by the fish!"

Another of the duo, once trio of pirates, falls under Amarik's hand - the same he cut down only moments before. Short One chokes on his own blood, holding the part of his abdomen that flows freely with blood. His mate, seeing this and not wishing for identical treatment, immediately falls to his feet and casts his sword away in preparation of mercy. "Stop! I beg you!" These are the pleas of a desperate (and marked) man.

An energetic SeaCrafter scampers over to where Fedo is leaning over the rail. "Them ain't fish, old one." He'll say, knowledgeably. " 'Least none I seen..." He thinks for a moment, scratching his scruffy beard. More of the 'Crafters are called over. "Hey. What're these?" The young man will ask his superiors.

Dorianth will keep circling, hampering as much as she is helping the rescue operation. Once she tries plucking L'ton from the dark and roiling sea, and catches herself one of those shipfish by mistake -- it would be difficult to say which is more surprised, the dragon who finds her claws full of dolphin, or the shipfish who finds he can fly. Luckily for both of them, Dori drops him back into the sea. That was /not/ Ik's rider.

Amarik is quick to apply mercy and shouts just before the man is cut down, "Stop! Let him live in the mines!" As hazy as he is, he is ever the mild man who decrees justice of the kindest sort over violence. It's a huge change from last time he faced these bastards. Heeding the call of the lad, the two guards, much beaten down, take the pirate into custody as the Bollian youngster allows himself to fall onto the planks and examine the stars in the sky. "Lovely... wish I had a farseer," he mutters to no one in particular, pain an agony he wishes to ignore.

Jobol, who is leaning against a nearby rigging, starts digging in a crate. "Think I saw one here a while afore, " The old man will say, in deference to a member of /his/ family--the one he lives to protect. "Lemme see.." It gives him something to do that lends some semblance of normalcy to this abnormal scene. After a few minutes of digging, he finds a pair. "Hereyeare."

Fedo's eyes widen as he sees a fish takes to the sky, "Oh! That's a big'un!" Tun yaps himself into tomorrow, unsure of which is more exciting, the flying beasts or the floating objects that move. The worst is over and the old man lives, as does his little ratty dog, and both seem to ignore the gory mess left on all three decks, enjoying more the sights they will never again see in their lifetimes. "Them dragons make great fishers! Sound join them to the Seacrafters. Every hold on Pern would eat themselves gleeful!"

Older, more wizened, more experienced Crafters will wander over to the side. "Oh. Them's the Shipfish." They'll say, reassuring the Bollians. "Useful critters," one will say, tentatively. "Really? I heard th' tales," another one will say, and look at his fellow with a frown. "True. Most of 'em, anyway." The first will say. "Savin' folks, and such like." Fedo's comment gets a scathing look from one of the oldest. "Naw. Not 'fer eatin.' "

Taini climbs up, and hangs on., still not speaking, which for Tai is a bad sign. She'll buckle herself in, and wait for home. Enough time to think and feel later.

The little bronze dragon, absorbing the pain that seeps from his rider, finally hisses at the elder green out of frustration. Get /out/ of the way and let me drive and I didn't ask for directions, did I? And I'm not /going/ to. We'll get there! Th'deus, gripping the harness, tries to lever the rope around to slap it across the surface, but again, he might as well be trying to shoot catfish in a barrel, "Hollar, L'ton. I can't bloody well see you!"

K'lora leans along the railing, biting her own tongue as Thadd, at least, asks for directions. "There he is -- yes, by that fin. C'mon L'ton. Grab the sharding rope. That's an order!"

Tun starts to even get on Fedo's nerves so the man clamps gentle fingers over the canine's maw. "Okay, they know. They heard ya." Pulling the ancient pup off the rail, he holds him close as he examines the weird big fish in the water. Shrugging, he comments, "Too bad... that's a lot of fish." The sword now sits leaning up against the side of the ship largely ignored. He gleefully watches the rescue going on below.

L'ton has disconnected.

[Pirates] Amarik: Ouch.
[Pirates] K'lora: He drowned!
[Pirates] Amarik: Oh, now that sucks.
[Pirates] K'lora: Sunk into RL.
[Pirates] Amarik will break the news to N'lon. ;)
[Pirates] Nomi: Oh let N'vyn do it. He likes playing Death's raven.
[Pirates] Amarik practices, "Well see, Ki and Th'deus let your boy drown. I was busy trying to not bleed to death."
[Pirates] Jerran LOL.
[Pirates] Amarik: Good point.
[Pirates] Jerran imagines L'ton waking up at his keyboard in a little while.

K'lora waves to where L'ton remains buoyed -- or annoyed -- by finfolk. "Just try again Dorianth? Aim for the one not saying 'Fishfishfish' in your head?" K'lora has met shipfish before it seems. "Yes. Ikaroth's. Just pluck him up carefully, more like you do the grandbebbies than you do the fuzzy bits you call dinner." Helpful Ki, very.

Dorianth tries agian, this time using Ikaroth for focus and careful snagging the flotsam that is L'ton up out of the ocean. She flies him around the Dancing Shipfish once, giving Xanth time to get out of the way, and then swoops in to a rough back-winged landing with the young Rider in her claws. L'ton is laid very gently to the deck of the ship to the chirrped applause of all firelizards. Ki claps as well. "Oh well done you, Dodo. Very nice."

Fedo is a leaping sprite again, and even Tun has found the energy to pogo himself off the deck in excitement. "Now if he'n still alive, he'll be fine!" The little fireball canine bounds over to L'ton to lick the salty wetness from his nose. "Ah come back here! That'd ain't gonna hep!" and as he calls, Tun gives one quick bark at the green and leaphops his way back to his master, making one last dash into the man's arms.

Then, with the rest being taken care of, and no fanfare, the much-smaller bronze flips *between*.

The eldest, highest ranking seacrafter will walk toward K'lora. "Ye've dealt with the Shipfish before, rider?" He'll ask, and make a plan to talk to her about her experiences. When she has free time, of course.

Peeling Amarik off the deck, the two oldtimers make for the onship healers. "How'd we do?" the Bollian boy inquires, so blurry now he can barely manage even those words. "We're fine, sir. Did good. The dragons sunk and burned the last of em," one of the guards imparts as they drag him through troughs of blood and gore. "Good. My brother will be relieved. I hope he is okay." Amarik didn't know that Marryn never made it to the ship.

K'lora will leave L'ton in the care of those on the barge -- they stocked it with Healers, as well as swords -- and will look to Dorianth's straps to make sure they're still safe. One hand on that hide, she'll turn to the seacrafter. "Aye sir, only in so far as they pester Dorianth about schools of fish, sometimes. Or will tell her where to hunt... Help me get a last load of injured on board? I'll make one more run to Boll." And then that's it, by the look of her, and the pale mint green of the usually dark and vibrant Dori.

The two elder guards make sure Amarik is the next loaded on the green for Boll, "It's Marryn's brother! Auryn's son. Step aside, he's wounded!" The man argues, "I'm not that bad! There are worse, don't worry," though he cannot walk, the cut behind his knees effectively making that impossible. "Yes, sir, whatever you say, but you're next," and they hoist him up to be loaded upon the dill green dragon, thanking the rider repeatedly and reminding her, "He's Marryn's... make sure they know it's Amarik." Perturbed, the youngster hisses, "I'm no consequence! Don't worry about me!" but his words come out so slurred they barely make sense with the lifeblood flowing readily out of him.

K'lora will load Amarik, the good will of Boll is part of her Job, and the worst of the wounded the other Seven have helped ship away. She nods to all those nearby, being too tired to say more, and then joins Amarik onboard her dragon. "Away, then. Away."

Matching her leap to one of Dori's hops, K'lora sails upwards and catches hold of the straps, quickly settling between her favorite neckridges.

Amarik never even knows he went between, the cold black being nothing more then what he is already fighting with in his own head. The pass down to the Boll courtyard is the last of his consciousness, and he never even sees the crowd that brings him toward the inner infirmary. He'll thank Dori and K'lora later.

Maebelle is spotted!

2007-10-26T06:11:09Z

Got the pox? Okay, so that wasn't what I meant. Amarik finds Maebelle in the stables.

Stables (#732oJ)
A sturdy building, made from the forest's finest trees to protect the animals within from the southern storms that often rage against it's walls. Inside are several stalls, some filled with local runners, some empty for visitors. The clinking of various tools comes from the work area in back, everything from shoeing instruments to shovels and buckets and pitchforks. The pungant smell of fresh straw fills the air, and sunlight pours in the wide windows, a southern style that lets the slightest breeze pass through.

The steady pound of the rain outside is muffled within the stables, which are lit to combat the darkened skies without by many glowbaskets. Still, the light given off is not quite strong enough to reach every corner of the building, and shadows are prevalent. One particularly shadowy part happens to be the hayloft, which is why Maebelle is currently hiding. It's dark and warm, but she's getting bored of her hiding and is pacing up and down - though no matter how softly she treads, the sound can still be heard through the boards to anyone below.

Amarik has been doing his own hiding, ensconced within a dusty straw packed corner on the main floor. About him are strewn various hides, and a basket of glows sits on the floor at his feet. The noise above has been heard, but presently ignored, so engrossed in what he is doing that he is. Then it starts itching at his nerves and forces his attention upwards. The man's head tilts, eyes directed up at the floor up the loft, expression caught somewhere between curious and confused.

Maebelle, obviously, does not know about Amarik being beneath her. As far as she can tell, no-one came in or out within the last, well, ages, so she believes she's alone. The pacing continues, back and forth, back and forth, her skirt rustling gently as it sweeps over the hay stored around her. For all there's apparently no-one there, she's still trying not to make too much noise.

Recent events have caused Amarik to seek caution over his previous carefree manner, so very slowly, with a quiet that would be muffled by her own thoughts, the hides are drawn aside and he pushes to a stand. Muted steps through the straw bring him out from under the lip of the loft, and curious amber eyes draw upwards, stabbing at the shadows there.

Maebelle's pacing takes her to the edge of the opening to the hayloft, which is where the access ladder rests. Either she's not very good at this game or she's just not bothered, because as she sweeps around her skirts whirl about her, giving a definite glimpse of them to anyone who might happen to be looking. But then the pacing stops with a gentle thud, as Maebelle flops down onto a handy bale, head down and encircled with her hands.

Amarik's brow furrows, crinkles showing at the corner of his eyes as he catches sight of the skirts. Without a word, he moves stealthily up the ladder with a slow hand over hand carefulness. Halfway up the ladder groans faintly with the weight, and he halts, eyes shrinking even more as he waits in the following still to see if there is a consequence.

Maebelle looks up briefly, but doesn't see Amarik. Putting the noise down to the runners below or the rain or something, she shakes her head, exhales deeply, and goes back to holding her head. She's quite a way in from the ladder, a good few steps at least, so being able to see halfway down it most likely wouldn't be feasible, anyway. Besides, she rests assured in the fact that she hasn't heard anyone downstairs for a long time.

Amarik remains stalled for a little while, thinking things over in his head. The sight of 'skirts' specifically doesn't give him pause at first, but then memories, dark ones, start to cloud into his mind and with a nod to himself he extracts the belt knife. Carrying it in his hands makes things difficult for the next couple rungs, so he gives up and switches it to his mouth, pressing it carefully between teeth and lips before proceeding. So when he arrives up to the little space that spills into the loft he looks the proper, if very clean, pirate - bearded, dark, suspiciously slanted eyes, and a the knife in his mouth to top it off.

Someone bursting into her little haven isn't quite what Maebelle expected, and the noise startles her. At first she doesn't realise who it is, but she knows for sure that it's not one of those who've been helping her out, and so quick as a flash, she's on her feet and backing away. "What do you want? I've got nothing here for you...!"

Maebelle is instantly recognized by Amarik! He's been keeping an eye out for her, though the small dark part in him that was created on that ship had him wishing she sunk to the bottom of the bay like oh so many of her kind. That part of him suddenly presents itself with a flare of eyes as he makes the last leap into the loft, knife out of his mouth and in his hand so quick it surprises even him. "You!"

Maebelle peers into the darkness, leaning forward and squinting to try and get a better look. That voice is familiar, but it takes a while to place it - making out who the shadowy body belongs to comes considerably later. "Oh! You! Waitwaitwait, you don't understand!" She backs up, hands waving protectively in front of her, until she's almost at the wall. "Don't come near me, or I'll scream!"

Something greasy rides across the smile that Amarik presents her with, bringing him so far out of character he might not recognize himself when he later thinks back. "Go ahead... scream," he urges, but rather then move closer to her, he merely remains blocking the only exit.

Maebelle looks about her, eyes shifting to the windows either side of her - but she knows that, firstly, the distance is just too far for her to be able to make it without being apprehended, and secondly, that there's a bigass drop outside that she wouldn't come out of uninjured. "Just you listen to me - you've got it all wrong, you have! You'll have to trust me... please... please just trust me, hear me out!" It's exclaimed more than questioned, as her tremulous voice rises a few pitches until it's squeaky with fear.

"Alright, if I am mistaken, then you won't mind coming down with me? I have a great place for us to... converse over what I'm supposed to be thinking," Amarik tries, though something in his voice is angry. Choking that back, he puts on his usual, and very mild tone to explain, "You hiding up here makes you look very bad, and well, we all know why else I question you, but if you are truly innocent, then you'll come with me without hesitation so we can talk someplace a little less... dark." A knock of his head backwards urges her to follow him down, and he takes one step back to see what she will do.

Maebelle has to consider this option very seriously, and takes a few long moments to come to a decision. "I'll come, but you understand I'm trusting you in doing this.... if anything should go wrong, you'll have higher powers than yourself to answer to, y'hear?" She takes a few tentative steps forward, hands still up in protective submission, but awaits a confirmation from Amarik before continuing.

Amarik bites back a response to that; she's submitting, so he'll keep his thoughts to himself. Slowly he backs down the ladder, while the knife is kept in his hand. It really wouldn't do to get kicked in the head with a blade in his mouth. This causes his progress to be slow, but soon he is on the floor, well out of her range if she should decide to turn on him. Then he backs slowly to let her down without threat. All the while through this his features are tautly blank.

Maebelle isn't about to turn on anyone - she waits at the top of the ladder for Amarik to finish his descent, and once he's on the ground she begins her own. She goes slowly, as it's not quite as easy to climb down ladders in full skirts like she's wearing, and each movement is tested to ensure that her garments aren't caught. On the ground once more, she sighs, turning to face Amarik, shoulders sagging. "Lead on, then."

"No, you lead on," Amarik suggests, knife still in his hand, but not held out with any threat, though it's obvious he considers her a risk. "Out toward the courtyard... " he vocally nudges, and follows it up with a nod toward the door as he moves around behind her to sort of 'herd' her forward.

"As you wish," Maebelle sighs softly, leading the way out of the stables and into the courtyard. Once she's there, she pauses, the rain slowly but surely working it's way through her clothing, causing her shirt to cling and her skirt to go considerably darker with the wetness. "And where to now?"

Courtyard (#2837J)
|> A wide clearing in the jungle
| @@@@ @@@@ @ |~ serves as a courtyard for Southern
/\___/\___/\ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@ /--------\ Boll Hold and Weaver Hall.
| # # # # | @@@@@@@||@@@ |===$$===| main hold lies to the south, where
| # __--__ # | || || || I ...... a few steps lead up to the porch.
| I__[]__I | || || .......... Above the hold a red and white
..................................... banner snaps in the breeze. To
................................. the west, a cobblestone path leads
.......................... up to the main entrance of the
weaver hall.
It is a summer afternoon. A hard, steady rain is falling.

Amarik dips his head toward the hold proper, wincing away from the rain as it dapples his walnut hair. "Just keep moving inside." A guard sees the Bollian with the knife, the way they are interacting, and makes a decision to collect a few more and follow, keeping a slight distance. Marryn would have their hide if something happened to Amarik again, and the man definitely seems off kilter, and his strained and defended attitude to her isn't lost on them.

Maebelle is unsettled by the guards, and stops. "I'm not entering there and making some sort of spectacle of myself - I've got a reputation to uphold, you know!" She's turned to face Amarik, and while her expression may be relatively bland, her eyes convey her emotion all too well. "I've told you I'll come quietly, and come quietly I will, but not with a damn entourage!"

Now Amarik has backup, and they curl in around Maebelle - defiance in the face of the son of Auryn doesn't sit to well with them. "You want me to go into what your reputation seems to be to me, in public?" he threatens, conjuring visions of the way her and Belk were entangled on the ship. "I'll happily do so. That or we can go inside and have a nice private chat." Well, as private as one gets with an ever increasing guard patrol at your back.

Maebelle looks about her uneasily, her brown curls now plastered thickly to her head from the rain. "I'm working for someone who's got a lot more influence than you do," she says softly, moving closer to Amarik so that the guards cannot hear her. There's no threat in her tone, nor her presence, and the words are stated flatly. Whether or not her approach will cause the guards to close in she doesn't seem to mind - or perhaps she's just confident in her story?

If her moving forward didn't cause the guards to react, Amarik's growl of, "Jerran has no influence here! Stay you, evil spawn of pirates!" Everything she has said has only worked against her case, and her attitude confirms it. Suddenly she is surrounded by the armed men, and is being roughly ushered inside at the order of the young son of the Lady Holder. "To the jail... She can have her say there when she is fully contained." Then to Jarl who arrives quickly beside him the bearded man mutters, "You should check around with your men. Where there's one pirate, there is liable to be more. I found her in the loft, and it looked like she might have been there for awhile. Her lover is a scabby man named Belk; keep an eye out for him. He was particularly happy to show me the bottom end of his boot several times while I was on the ship." The older man hisses at the girl and charges off to start a thorough search of the Hold and surrounding areas.

Maebelle gives a squeal of protest at being grabbed and stuggles. "Amarik, you're making a mistake!" Her struggles become enough to cause one of the guards to pin her arms behind her back, the much stronger man easily restraining her, while another slips a pair of cuffs over her wrists to stop those flailing hands of hers. Then, unceremoniously, she hoisted up over one guard's shoulder, struggling legs held by another as they march her towards the jails, her protests continuing.

The knife is put back in the sheath - Amarik knows the guards have the girl in hand - she can't be that dangerous. Then he follows quietly in, ignoring her protests for the moment.

Southern Boll Jailhouse (#2041J)
The front office, manned by at least two soldiers at any time the cell is occupied, is first through the door, followed by a series of four small cells, each with it's own locks. Each of the first three cells contains two small cots, a recepticle for bodily functions, and lacks in all privacy from the others. The fourth cell, farthest back, is similar to the others in being small and open, but differs in terms of security. The sturdy bed in this cell is bolted to the back wall. The pulley system that had been the pride of the fourth cell, is gone, and a gaping hole in the ceiling where the pulley had been attached.

The guards must find the struggling Maebelle rather amusing - though to make things easier for themselves, they've managed to fasten what looks like a hasily-snatched shawl around her legs so that her feet won't be able to do any more kicking. Without a gag though she keeps up the stream of 'you don't know what you're doing' and the like to Amarik, in between the occasional cry of anguish. A cell door is opened and she's dropped, rather roughly, onto the bench inside, then the bond is removed from around her legs. She's on her feet quick enough - but the guards are quicker. They back out and close the door, though Maebelle was only apparently trying to get to the bars to speak to Amarik, not escape. "You really don't know what you're doing here... you're jeopardising my position, you stupid fool! It's taken /months/ to get this far!"

Amarik is becoming less and less amused by the moment. Everything she does - everything she says, just makes him all the more suspicious. The light of his amber eyes is reduced to mere slits as he stares at her, watching her struggle, listening to her lies. Once she is safely behind bars, he turns to go, calling over his shoulder, "Cool down in there and get your arguments ready. I'll go look for my brother." To the guards he warns, "She sounds like she has people working with her, so keep an eye. I wouldn't want them to let her out. There are many many who would like to get their hands on a live pirate. She might know if Jerran lived or not... that camp that was found might have been theirs." With that he leaves through the door, and guards station themselves beside said door, and near the jail itself, quite alert. The bloody recent events have everyone on edge, and alertness is one of the handy byproducts.

"What the... hey, you can't leave me in here like this!" Maebelle is /not/ impressed at the situation she's in. "Don't you get it? I /can't/ tell you!" But when he's through the door and gone, she slumps against the bars, her shackled hands uncomfortably behind her. "Can you at least come and undo these from me?" She requests of the guards, some of her fiestiness gone. "My Lord will not be happy when he hears what's been done to me... not at /all/."

"Your Lord appears to be Jerran, woman, according to Amarik, and I don't care," a particularly dashing young guard says as he comes up to the bars, expression fierce - he's lost so many to those blasted pirates. "Turn around," he orders. The others just watch.

Maebelle does as she's told, and waits for the cuffs to be released before replying to the guard. She can't help but notice his good looks - in other circumstances, she'd be more than happy to flirt. But right now is not the time. "If only you knew, lad. That scum Jerran is no more a Lord to me than you are," she hisses, pressing up close against the bars, her hands grasping them. "You'll see. You'll all see what sort of mess you've got us into."

"There is no /us/ you scab," the guard growls, and turns to drop the cuffs on the desk. There is no way they are going to believe her over the mild mannered Amarik, especially with her attitude worsening their opinion by the moment.

In frustration, Maebelle bangs her fists off the bars. The result is that the metal rings dull for a few minutes, and the Smith has to nurse her hands. "Whatever," she mutters, before retreating to the bench to cradle her now sore hands in her lap. With her back against the wall and her feet up on the bench in front of her, she looks set to stay put, brooding over the mess she's got herself into.

When she no longer seems a problem, two of the guards peel off and go back to their duties. The handsome youngest one, and an old brute stay to keep her silent company.

What do you think?

2007-10-22T08:50:30Z

Does this look like father and son or what?

Throw in mom and you got Amarik!

Is she a traitor or not?!

2007-10-22T07:34:35Z

Onboard the Muddweller for one last time – Vyune and Amarik meet, and Jerran butts in for a couple of moments.

It's sunset on the sea, with clouds like long feathery plumes fanning out from the western horizon, as if a peacock had roosted on the sun and set his tail aflame. The tips have burned to embers and then to ashes in a saffron cream and periwinkle sky, but the glow of Rukbat's furnace keeps the heart of darkness alight yet. Into such glory Vyune rises, a hulking brute in step with her joined by heavy manacles - the haute couture this season. The dwindling light is flattering, lending her a softness of feature she doesn't own.

Amarik is lying against the rail in an awkward position, trying to keep the fresh lashes from the salty timbers. When Vyune arrives, his mild expression turns to pure spitting spite, and that is what he does, right at her feet. So very unlordly of him.

Blankness infects the girl's look, turned on Boll's second son, spreads through her expression and bearing. She's like an automaton as she stares down at the spittle globbed on the deck, straightening as if her spine were welded into one piece. She's fairly clean, the shirt he'd last seen torn and bloodied replaced by something mostly whole and loose-fitting. Beside her, the brute shifts uneasily with a quiet clank of metal.

Searching red-rimmed eyes trace across first the girl, then the man. It's a confusing picture to be sure, but what Jerran said yesterday comes clear into his mind and brings about the final assumption. "You get to whip this one, you lying sack of herdbeast dung?" Curses don't come too easy to lips that are used to soft speaking.

If only Amarik knew Vyune, knew the way she always moved as if expecting a blow, knew the shallow black slashes of her ever-suspicious gaze. Then he'd be forced to wonder what would suck her vitality out and leave this hollow, staring shell. As is, he can only see cold fatalism, heartless unconcern. To her, there is no hulking man half-cowering on the other end of her tether. There's barely a fuming lordling, just enough to warrant scratchy monotone. "Save yer spit, Boll, an' yer breath. Ye'll need it fer th' screamin'."

Venomousness comes off awkward on the youthful bearded face, but Amarik gives it a good go. "I almost feel sorry for that Tejano, he seemed to actually care for you, and to think you are the one who is going to be responsible for his death." Amber eyes reflect sunlight in sharp metallic flecks that sear into the girl before him; all he can see is despicable deception all around him. Hateful people who don't deserve even the ounce of pity he now gives to the youngest male Barlord. "I hope to the egg you are sterile."

Vyune's mouth works a few times in conjunction with her mind as it wrestles with the illogic she finds in Amarik's words. "Death?" Slowly the inky streaks of her brows inch together. "He ain't goin' ta die. Yer daft, Boll." Leaving the door open for so many interpretations - torture probably the foremost among them. The furrowed forehead deepens, and a small hand drops to cover her lower abdomen, something stunned flicking in her dark rusted eyes.

"My guess is that whatever you and your... boson have planned for him will make him wish he was dead, " Amarik fumes, but quickly sputters out and flags against the rail again. He isn't used to such hatred, and even this one seems oddly bothered by what he said. A beast such as her should be laughing in his face. Orders are something he is used to, and while usually they are applied with gentleness, this time he just snarls, "Go away. Leave me alone." There's a shift to his aching body and he's peering out over the rail to the sea, searching for something pleasant to focus on in lue of a woman he presently wishes dead.

A gold firelizard flicks into existance, not far from Vyune. Yo clutches a rolled hide in her claws, and her eyes, a blazing red, find the woman first. Quickly, for she is afraid, the gold zips around Vyune, dips low and then up into the rigging. And she darts over the top of the sail and comes back down again. Searching.

"Daft," repeats Vyune, voice died down to the rasp of rope against railing. "Ye can't harm a man ye ain't got hold of." Though quiet, she speaks with a vehemence reserved for those aching to reassure themselves of some desperate truth. Eyes wide shut, her palms rise to press heels into their sockets and rub in short circles; she too turns away, to face in the opposite direction. Her captive gaoler does his best to look small and uncertain, and it's clear he's been chosen for his acting skills as much as size.

The gold is seen but ignored; there is no recognition for Amark in her. His words are weak as they are sent sailing toward Vyune, "Well, your perfectly laid plan will take care of that, won't it? Soon Tejano will be turned over to you, and then you can punish him for his love." The young man seems very disturbed for the part his family might play in this; better to die then be the cause of ones death.

Vyune feels the raking breeze of Yo's passing, and knows it to not be of the sea. Thus she unobstructs her view, head leading a turn of her entire body back towards Amarik. Her eyes stretch upwards, seeking the gold in turn. "Yo..." But a whisper, and edged in fear. Sharpness returns to her features when she brings a hard look on the younger Boll. "What's that? What plan? Where's Tejano?" The questions crack with the same merciless intonation as her uncle's whip.

Everything about the woman is perplexing, and for a long while Amarik is quietly looking her over. Why, on a ship full of burly men, would they chain a woman to a prisoner? Why not chain the man to the deck, like him? All these questions couple with hers and suddenly he's squinting, and it's not because of the sun, it's at his back. "The plan where I am exchange for Tejano?" The answer is laid out in the form of a question as he observes her expression.

The gold disappears around the other side of the ship. There's a voice, a cry and the furious trill of two queens, challenging this interloper. Then Yo bursts out of *between* once more, ever-so-briefly, in front of Vyune. That's all, and then she's gone, the blast of cool air from between teasing the woman before the star's heat banishes that.

"Exchanged fer..?" Two quick steps bring Vyune within the orbit of Amarik's chains, rolled onto the balls of her feet with the strength of her denunciation: "-- ye ain't worth half a hair on his head!" Links clatter together as her hand jerks towards the knife hilt sheathed at her hip - but that one, her left, is the one that's been chained. Just as the man on the other end of it takes a step back - presumably away from her intended violence, though the pull of the tether would prevent it - Yo's appearance elicits a recoil and gut-deep moan from the girl. "No! Keep--" But the gold's already gone.

Amarik has nothing further to say, his confusion so deep his thoughts are a jumble within his walnut clad head. Things crawl on this boat, and they have begun to crawl on him, causing him to repeatedly flutter itching fingers in his beard, and mussed hair. The gaze is kept on the girl, switching only to the man attached to her very briefly.

Jerran walks like a feline on the ship's deck, fingers clutching a rolled hide, and his expression -- even on the scarred and patched visage, nothing less than pleased -- quite similar to the gloating, hedonistic pleasure Vyune had seen before, as he'd enjoyed his time with her. "Now then. 'Kumi. And Amarik. Pity that the note didn't come a little later, lad. I was going to give you a choice of whether you'd rather keep your powers of speech, or any chance you had at fatherhood, for your next 'piece'. But they've - he," Jerran's brow pulls down slightly in puzzlement, "The trade is on. --But, understand. If this is a trick..." And Jerran might even hope it is, with his expression, "I'll double the pieces, and slow the rate I take them, you understand?" --As if Amarik might have some control of this.

It's unusual for Vyune to be the mouse, but in Jerran's presence, that's exactly what she is, mincing back and away from him as swiftly and subtly as her painfully stiff movements will allow. There's not a mark visible on her, but her normally well-oiled limbs are carried gingerly, steps curtailed into a shuffle better suited to an auntie or small child. The brittleness of her mouth's set suggests either, or both.

Jerran's presence causes Amarik to whither only fractionally. While the whipping will live with him forever, it is probably nothing to what other's have lived through in this man's presence; therefore, it's a strong chin he shows, though the words are absent to follow such a show of defiance. He will keep track of Vyune though, warm brown gaze swiveling back and forth between the two.

"Excellent." Jerran murmurs, then. "So, buck up, laddie. You'll be going home soon enough." Vyune is given a smile, private and knowing, and Jerran will turn to head back. "Good work." That, quitely, to Vyune, as he steps by her.

Vyune would, and has, suffered the presence of tunnelsnakes in her lap more willingly than her uncle. It's his insinuations that find the backbone in her still, and she'll draw herself up best she can against his invasive smile. "I do me best, given th' snakeshit I've got ta work with." The venom there will show that he's not the only one in the family with a serpent's tongue.

Now Amarik is confused again, crinkles showing at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Then she is a traitor! The mild sunstroke coupled with everything else, including a lack of water, and consistent pain has him so completely turned upside down he'll easily forget all the evidence that had him almost convinced of her innocence. Now she's as guilty as that nasty little Maebelle, and even more so since she is so easily bringing about death of a man she probably bed.

Jerran disappears around the curve of the ship, no doubt to find his office, and there, compose an answer to Tejano, and, with the other officers of the ship, a plan.

Vyune watches Jerran go, hunched towards the rail away from him; her eyes fall to the chain around her wrist, and there's a furtive ripple along its length to match the spark of plot in her face. A shift of the man at the other end, however, recalls him as a factor. Slender shoulders fall in defeat. Her head, for the first time in a long time, hangs.

Amarik is tired of trying to guess what is up with the confusing woman, and instead attempts to find some way to allieviate some of his discomfort. "You got any water?" he questions mildly, head spinning in such a speed he has to close his eyes briefly to make it stop. Just think if this pampered prince actually had to spend some real time on this ship.

There's a flinch in answer, a startled lurch away from the direction of that voice that can tell Amarik that Vyune had forgotten him til just then. But once he's recalled, there's no further wariness; the look she gives him over her shoulder hold only weary defeat. "Water? Aye." She has to motion to her keeper/slave to hand over the canteen, but he produces one from somewhere and permits her to toss it to the deck by Amarik's feet.

"Oh thank the mother wherry," Amarik says while diving for the canteen. The lid is screwed off and he's greedily guzzling with gluttonous gulps. Some spills down the front of his dirty bare chest, but is ignored. It feels just as good on his skin as it does in his parched throat. He drinks until it threatens to come back up, and then slowly screws on the cap, but makes no move to hand the container back. A testing wiggle tells how much is left, and he'll do his best to ferret it away between his back and the boat. This will tell, if nothing else, if she is with or against him; or so his wildly casting mind things.

Vyune may have seen the move; mayhap not. She makes no indication either way. Her partner in chains is staring and looking decidedly uncomfortable. In a few heartbeats he moves - back towards the hatch. She chooses, or is chosen, to follow.

More mixed signals for Amarik to boil over, but he does so quietly, for the moment content to turn and peer out over the ocean. Delight dazzles his amber eyes when he sees his silver friends again. There they are playing in the waves, closer this time. Close enough that he can see the gentle sloping angles of their head and tail, and hear the way they chatter playfully to one another. Far more welcome then the memory of the whipping, he imprints this moment on his mind, trying to override the darkness with the bright display of the shipfish.

Holdless Muddweller brings pain

2007-10-21T02:58:57Z

Beware, Jerran is aboard.

Holdless Muddweller
You see nothing special.
Jerran is here.
Obvious exits:
Jump

The headache with which the youngest son of Lady Boll awakens, will be one to rival a lifetime of future headaches, for the title of 'the worst'. And his quarters are evidently comprised of the square yardage that he can reach with the chain and single manacle, attached to one of the uprights on the deck. And so, exposed to Boll's sun, Boll's son is already burned, already dried from want of water and loss of blood, and the stink that hangs about him, he would have previously associated with those that man the stables, or dig the new latrines, or butcher. No boots -- someone else owns them now. And no weapons. And the prompt for his awakening, those nice boots nudging him in sore ribs. "You still alive then?" Mild-voiced, that, and the visage that looks down on Amarik would suit the worst of nightmares.

The urging toe prods at one of many bruises and the man rolls just enough to peer up, but quickly flinches away as the sun sears into his light amber eyes. Amarik will suppose the movement is enough of an answer, so instead seeks relief from the brutal Rukbat, clambering over to crawl on his belly until the clinking of chain brings to realization his predicament. Blurry still from a head that will just not stop screaming and howling at him, the young man curls his head under and lets his back to the burning fire create a shield. "You know, it was my turnday. Happy turnday to me." His voice is almost soft, and certainly there is sarcasm, but it's light, almost gentle. Amarik does not yet know what is standing over him.

Jerran
Short and deeply-tanned, this man could be anywhere in his late thirties to fourties - he is possessed of the sort of face and demeanor that defies good guesses at his age. That, and other notable features tend to distract The eye-patch that covers the man's left eye doesn't quite hide the ragged scar that rips down his cheek and up his forehead into his scalp. A permanent tilt to his nose and the fact that Jarren is missing half his right ear sort of Balances his incongruencies. He has the sort of blond hair that only lightens in the sun, so it started out a washed-out pale yellow but has since stained slightly a sea's green hue that suggests the source of the man's wash-water. Beard and moustache have been grown out overlong, ragged, and also a similar algae-tinged blond that clashes rather violently with the one remaining bright blue eye. Jarren is bulked with the sort of muscle earned from constant and hard labor, though his skin is also criss-crossed with scars from both edged weapons and, perhaps, a whip. His clothing is barren of color, moreso a stained brownish tunic draped over darker pants, with utilitarian boots. Several edged weapons, and a whip, hang coiled at his belt.

'What' is surely more appropriate than 'who'. Ask around. But then the figure chuckles, a rough sound, and what might pass for a grin cracks the scarred features. "I got a present, for your turning-day, I'd say. And perhaps I'll get another. We'll be seeing how much your mother values you, we will." Jerran picks something out of his hair, examines it between filthy nails, and tosses it overboard. Bon voyage. And presently, his study turns back to the captive. "Fancy that, catching you. High value, trumped only by your brother, I suppose. And the note was delivered. Care to guess," Jerran asks, "For what, you are being ransomed?"

Not really apparently, and so Amarik's response is more along the line of immediate need. "Water? Please?" The request for shade will come next, and possibly a bath, a nice soft bed... Now that his head has settled, the Bollian pulls himself around till he is sitting on his rump, knees pulled up to rest arms on as he angles a wincing gaze through the sunglare to Jerran. Before he has a chance to reel it back in, "Shards... " slips through his cracked parched lips, thick brows sweeping high on his forehead when eyes open wide. "Who're you?"

"I'm the bosun." Jerran answers only the last, "You can call me 'sir'." There's another flash of mismatched teeth. "You're to be answering my questions." Another kick, at that, designed to put Amarik back where he had been, or at least approximate the young man's previous position. Jerran again finds an itch in his scalp and worries at it with a dirty fingernail. Whatever causes the itch this time, however, eludes him.

And onto his back he goes. Amarik did manage to keep his head from hitting the deck though, which is a vast improvement over yesterday, or was that today? Or, ... time has gone completely wrong in the young man's head. "You know, people respond much better to a gentle please then all those kicks," he says while cupping a hand to shrouds his eyes from the blaring light. "Okay, so I'll bite... I'm not worth as much as Marryn, obviously, so just what is a useless little brother worth these days?" trying to downplay his value as best he can. "Probably less then a gold dragon eggs, so I'd say... 5 marks?" is said in a toying irritated fashion.

"The younger Barlord. If anyone can lay hands on that snake, it'd be the Boll Lord and Lady, I'm supposing." Jerran's fingers move to work through his beard, then, tugging a touch on the left, which might explain the overlong excess on that side, the slightly less curl in it. "And the letter was delivered. By the daft older one. I'd take his dragon in trade, too, if only to butcher it and let it rot on the bottom of the ocean." Dark fury, then, reminds Jerran of the dragons' attack on the third ship, which now adds to the coral reefs off Boll's coast. "And we'll be sending pieces of you, daily, until we get him. Today, it'll be blood." Jerran mentions this with the casual air that suggests its probably considered appropriate dinner conversation in his circles. --While they are gnawing raw meat off still-trembling bones.

There isn't much of a reaction to be seen to the news, but then Amarik's hand is held to shield the sun from his eyes, and likely works as a pretty good screen against Jerran seeing the horrified expression that dawned his features. Voice primed as if unaffected, he says, "You must be kidding, right? You pick me as bait for the Barlords? Good luck with that... " Really though, it's his fortune that he's thinking about. "Why not just take one of their own? Even if Tejano is too slippery for your likes?" He still hasn't seen any other prisoners, and figures for some odd reason he got the lucky draw.

"Price on that one's head is 100 marks, for the last three sevenday, and he's not been brought in. And Nokumi, she wasn't able to bring him in, though she got him to the dock....Let's see. You'll know her," Jerran speaks with that same easy quiet, "As Vyune. And she got you, but she did fail us in not bringing the Barlord. He -- he has a debt to pay. Never-the-less, she's below with water and a bed, and resting now. Mayhaps you'll be seeing her later, and good luck to you." Jerran's eye turns ice-blue in that, and a chill promise slides through his voice. "And we were looking to get ahold another of the Barlords, aye, but evidently that didn't work out." No details are provided.

Stunned, and then not-so-stunned, Amarik drops his hand for only a moment, but it's long enough for Jerran to see the glare that is directed right through him to the 'lady' named Vyune. There are several mumbled, if light, curses that rumble about between bearded lips. A trick! The hand is replaced just as the crinkle of confusion spikes about his eyes. But it seems the Barlords might have been tricked too. Finally, he spits with a venom that has probably never passed over those lips before, "I can't wait," teeth clenching down in angry anticipation.

His grin is quick, this time. Jerran studies the youth with a nod. Then he'll reach down and unfasten the flask on his side. Water, laced with bad rum, is proffered to the youth. "Don't be spilling any. Wash your mouth out first, and spit over the side of the boat. Then drink." His arms, scarred and thick, cross over his chest. "So," Jerran might start all conversations this way, "Ever been whipped, Amarik?" His attention remains strict on the youth, and Amarik might notice that where Jerran is, none of the other crew happen to be. He carries isolation around him like a fluid, invisible cloak, a buffer of space and fear that separates him from the others.

The flask is hesitantly taken, and with the action of Jerran, Amarik is able to find shady solace in his shadow long enough to tip it back for a sip. The young man really didn't have to be told to spit it out, because it comes back rather unexpectedly as the body-warm water and nasty rum hit his taste buds and taunt his throat. It almost makes the sea, but the majority dribbles down the inner rail. There is only a fraction of a hesitation though, and another drink is taken, this one more gingerly at first. Greedy gulps are made until he nearly sputters again in surprise at the question. Wiping at droplets from his mustache and beard with the back of a hand, Amarik responds, "Not that I can recollect... am I about to be?" The last vestiges of youth trickle into his voice with the preceding, making him suddenly sound and seem far younger then his usual maturity might allow.

"Oh aye. Excellent." And now, perversely, true enthusiasm, a sort of childish delight touches the man's one eye. "I love a virgin. Aye, you're going to be whipped, so I can be sending to your dear mother, the first piece of you, do you recall?" Jerran studies him, and takes fiendish pleasure in the torture of expectation, "See the longarm yonder? I'll be having a couple of men tie you up there, to that. Your feet will barely touch the ground, I figure, and your wrists, they'll be secured with ropes. And we'll be seeing how thick of skin, the younger brother of a soon-to-be Lord Holder has." A touch of jeer in that, while lips worm themselves into a parody of glee, "The crew, they'll be taking their ease, and helping me count. Nothing like a good whipping, to restore morale to a ship. Especially the whipping of someone of rank."

A thirsty as he is, and as good as it might have actually tasted once he got used to it, the watered down rum sours on his tongue. For all the sunburn, Amarik suddenly goes very pale and limp taboot. Flask still held, amber eyes gaze at it, and with the assumption of what he just possibly coming back up in the near future, the man hold sit back toward Jerran. "Thank you, I appreciate the consideration. The promotion as well... I've never been a man of 'rank' before." The back already stings, and this brings the realization that he's about to learn pain is without its limits; headache is long forgotten.

The pirate does not possess the common courtesy of thanking the other man for his flask back. He merely clips it back onto his belt, with a nod. "Good then. And I'll want you thinking of what -- and who -- helped you get there, when you're up there. I'll have you tied up, here now in a few moments. And I was going to go eat, then be back to...Get your blood." The last three words are drawled, amused. And with that, Jerran turns to head off. And there's a signal, and three burley fellows start toward the younger Bollian, a certain feral expression of anticipation about their features.

Amarik actually seems to be thinking, considering, tending to the plethora of thoughts and how to deal with them. First order is to not resist, it's useless, and cowardly. Yesturday fighting for an escape had its place; he could have gotten away with enough struggles. Today, its just a stiff jaw, and a quick rustle of the beard as he slants a look that is forcibly vacant, which is hard with eyes and brows that characteristically announce expression from moment to moment. The burnt and bruised body goes stiff with the dry mouth anticipation.

Two of the fellows get ahold of an arm each, while the other is nominated by his fellows to deal with Amarik's feet. The manacle is left undone, but shoved up against the wall, with its chain. The third fellow trails behind the first two, as Amarik is brought to the longarm. He is, evidently, charged with lashing the man's hands to the railing. "Now --" Left Hand warns Third, "Not as tight as last time. We don't want him losing the hand." Right hand chimes in, "Yet." And thus, Amarik is stretched, but lashed with his hands over his head, to the ship. There, he is left, under the guard of Third, to wait. And wait. And wait. And perhaps during his waiting, will Amarik see a few younger fellows, less grizzled, more desperate, with the remains of SeaCraft knots on their shoulders, send sympathetic looks toward the bound man. Not everyone on the boat, is his enemy.

The more bound he becomes, the more Amarik shakes. He can put on a brave face, but his terrified and his body gives this away with shudder after shudder until it's just a constant of quaking that works on his muscles, tensing them, and over time causing them to burn. The man spots these folk, but isn't sure how to take their presence, so merely looks away. There's enough motion to deal with right now without the added confusion of trying to puzzle out what brings /anyone/ to a place like this - a life like this.

The first part of torture is anticipation. Amarik is left, under his silent guard, to wait for this unearned punishment for well over an hour. An hour of waves slopping against the boat's sides. An hour of passerbys and their cruel quips, or perhaps more telling silence. An hour of Amarik's imagination, his hands going slowly tinglely from their altitude over his head and his heart. An hour of wondering what it will be like, and the inevitable what-ifs. And hour of Amarik, awake and alone with his mind and knowing his immediate fate, and perhaps more terrifying, not knowing his fate after that.

Sweat pours off the elegantly trimmed beard now tugged every which way in disarray. Light walnut darkens to near black, streaks muted by the wetness that plasters to his skull. The torn, bloody, dirt encrusted shirt is almost transparent as it sticks to his skin. This from a man who is used to heat, even in such blazing torrents - it's fear that has him sweating like a frozen snowball in Ista. Quietly to himself, "By the egg, why won't they just get this over with," his voice barely there even in his ears.

Whatever Jerran is doing, wherever else he was, pleased him. He is whistling, an absurdly merry sea-shanty, as he finally makes his appearance, crosses the deck toward this captive, and pauses briefly by Amarik, to watch him. Something of a sneer, then, as his hand comes and grasps the back collar of Lady Boll's son's shirt. A sharp movement, quick pressure against the youth's throat, and the shirt is torn, exposing the man's back. "She'd recognize this cloth, I'm supposing, though it was someone else's mother, what made this shirt." Bunching the shirt in his hand, Jerran reaches with the other, to slide his fingers over the unblemished, sleek skin of his captive. And he makes a sound in his throat, before leaning close. "New canvas. You'll not be seeing the younger Barlord again, once we have him back. But his back... It's art. The pity is, it never skins well. His back, I'd frame, if I could get the hide off clean." With that, Jerran steps away, tucking the shirt into his belt for temporary storage. Cool breezes caress the sweat of the man, and it's as if someone blew a whistle, called in the entire crew, though in silence they were beckoned and in silence, they have arrived. They sit on barrels, perch in the rigging, sit across the rail and stand - way off to the side, to watch.

Amarik emits a surprise gag as the shirt tears across his throat, but his body didn't know true shivers until Jerran's fingers trace alone the now seemingly fragile fabric of his back. So rocked by the words and the touch, the man's spine stiffens and frame spasms as if he were in the throes of an orgasm, rather then stark raving madness of fear. There's some gasping; he's been holding his breath, maybe even off and on for an hour now. Each person that walked by caused him to jerk with nervous energy. Pinching the dark-lashed eyelids tight, he waits like a man on the outside, and a screaming boy on the inside.

Silence. Silence. Silence, then the sound of narrow and solid lash drawing across clean ship's deck. The first hit is merely a slap - a test. Intended only to check reactions, nerves, solidity of the flesh under the skin. The whip hits lazily across the young man's skin and is called off, without real force or friction.

Amarik could have been hit with a dragon when it finally comes, so startled by something actually finally touching his skin. That hour did wonders for his nerves. That's it? I can do this, -- he mutely converses with himself, relaxing just a spot.

Excellent. Amarik, of course, will not see the smile on Jerran's features. Some of those men nearest the bosun will shudder, turn toward Amarik instead, for his pain seems easier to bear than Jerran's pleasure. The second lash of the whip comes near-silent and quick, though Amarik will soon learn to recognize the faint hiss of the lash, before the knot and thong bite into his skin, slash down to shove his flesh out of its path. And the second hit comes quick on the first, with the ends of Jerran's whip lubricated with Amarik's blood. Then the bosun will pause, observe his handiwork and its effect on the youth.

As the whip sears through his flesh, skin splitting in its wake like a fault, Amarik emits a startled yowl that stings his ears. The second comes so fast he doesn't have time to close his mouth, let alone muster up another sound other then the harsh sucking of breath into shocked lungs. A coughing sputter brings it back out, and tears are pinched off. Those eyes will remain closed until they are forced open. The mouth is pinched vehemently closed, lips refusing to part again and give satisfaction.

Murmurs in the audience, indistinct, blend with the faint hissing that is the next cuts' only warnings. Should Amarik count, he will find that Jerran favors even numbers, and this time, the whipscore equals ten. Ten stripes, either welling blood or welted violently across his back. Someone in the audience, perhaps for the captive's benefit, mentions something about 'only ten'. Perspective. And then there's nothing for a few buzzing moments, before that light cloth is laid upon Amarik's back, and Jerran's obscenely gentle touch smooths the cloth against the whipscore, to soak up the blood. "Very good." His voice, suffused with pleasure, might be another man's after he's made love. "Do give me reason to enjoy myself again, Amarik." The cloth is taken, then, and Jerran pads off. As if they need wait for his aura to dissipate, the other pirates pause before stepping forward to cut down the captive, to return him to his leg-iron.

Amarik is strong, in nature, mind, as well as body, but this is beyond anything he's ever even thought of enduring, so when it's done - finally truly done - his face is streaked with fluid that leaked out no matter how hard he fought against it. When his shirt once again touches his skin there is no recognition, the pain now flaring so hotly that a feather would elicit a quiver of anguish. Then he's brought down, and the muscles and flesh condense again to create double the pain; pulling cuts apart, and muscles back into their proper position. When he is latched again, Amarik will climb the side of the rail so he can peer tiredly over, amber gaze searching for any sight that can soothe his wounded soul. --- There, there it is in the distance, a flash of slivery grey, followed by another - shipfish play as if today was just like any other day. A smile warms the lips, red-rimmed eyes alighting with the brilliance as well.

And the rest of the crew will, mostly, leave the man alone. There is, finally, one other youth about his age, who sidles over, when twilight has deepened into a shadowy darkness that defies easy recognition, "M'lord Amarik," the youth speaks, accent pinpointing him to Boll's SeaCraft, "If there's anything I can do, to make this easier on you..." He shakes his head, "You'll be telling me, alright?" --But he's off, before he'll let the other make a response.

By this time Amarik has given into his tiredness and was barely hanging onto the side of the boat. The surprise of the words and gentle voice cause him to let go and land on the deck on his rump, back smarting against a post. Quick eyes search the dark, a hand coming up to scrub in the beard as if it might tune his sight to better focus. Frustration and endless quiet take over the young man, and finally he submits to a fitful sleep, curled in a crescent - a full ball too painful with the lashing on his back.