Last Call

From the bleak treachery of the wide ledge outside, the bar's interior is a veritable paradise. Nothing here matches: there's five shades of brown found just in the leather of the random scattered chairs, and all the tables are painted different mottled shades of earthen tones. Nothing symmetrical to be found here, no order, just a long bar along the far-edge of the weyr-converted, nestled into the nook that would normally be a private weyr's bedspace. The bottles that gleam behind that reclaimed counter of scarred and burned skybroom are rare and precious, with most of the joviality in the air coming from the tapped keg standing in the middle place of honor behind the bar. The decorations are sparse, entertainments few: dragonpoker and darts and fellow patrons provide the typical bar atmosphere, while a niche in the corner stands ready with stool and gitar-rack for the stolen Harper or musically-inclined rider. A weatherbeaten shingle hung precisely over the middle of the bar declares the house rules.

Getting over the anxiety of landing a very big dragon on a very small ledge is part of the charm of living in Igen Weyr, and the rider of every large dragon has had to go through this rite of passage. Some dragons are better at it than others out of simple necessity. Some are… a lot better than they look like they should be, such as the vast sweep of brown Odskovith's wings, faded to white at the ends of their spars. His rider drops down off his neck to give one of the dragon's forearms a fond pat, before turning to saunter inside. Ah, this is the life. Finished with duties for the time being, and enough time to sidle over to the gitar rack, looking over the offerings before selecting a dusty but serviceable lute, and climbing onto the stool. From then, the sound of music fills the Last Call – rough and unpolished, as though more ideas being fleshed out on the fly than a finished composition. Despite her dusty leathers and the faintest hint of sunburn, Zetali looks approachable enough, vivid sea-green eyes keeping tabs on the rest of the room. Later, there will be cheap wine, but for now this is a good way to shake off the dust of the day.

Iandeleoth, though an amalgam of imported and native dragonblood, is compact salience. Lines and reach are slighter than even Odskovith but he does reduce his shape when the brown comes in to land the ledge. Within, Ze'ran's standing and speaking with one of Arroyo's blueriders regarding his narrative on a sweep circuit Ze'ran passed the day prior. It's dry stuff about geography and the angle of light in the sky, but when both parties are engrossed in dull conversation, the good ones have a way to make it interesting. "So the slope you said was like this but you're sure it wasn't that way the last time you flew over?" Ze'ran's flat hand is tipped in front of him. When Zetali enters, she almost seems to bring the heat with her and both males look up. Neither happen to be share her wing, but they don't appear miffed at the intrusion of hand puppetry.

It's been a long while since she has set foot in this high up haunt. The sound of music greets Agertha's ears as she dismounts and shoo's her dragon off to an empty ledge to make room for others. The greenrider emerges into the Last Call with a bundle of hides tucked under her arm. Oh look. People. The urge to duck out pops up, and is squashed just as quickly. The hidework is settled again (not that it needed to be), and Agertha makes her way the rest of the way into the weyr turned lounge. Once there she parks herself at a table that is mostly free with a smile to whoever may be seated there and a nod to a former wingmate.

"Don't stop on my account." The former Harper half-smiles from the stool with the languid nonchalance of a feline. Neither do her fingers stop over the frets to speak, completely unconcerned with having to listen, talk, and play the lute at the same time. "Seismic activity? Or could the angle of the light have been off? Sun and stone can play tricks on a 'rider." It's not pointed out with any particular malicious intent; merely an off-the-cuff suggestion as her fingers continue over the strings. Chords weave their way through the room; first bright and optimistic, now smoky and mysterious, partly muted by long fingers, strings left to buzz only faintly in controlled dissonance. "Zetali. Brown Odskovith's. Sirocco wing," she offers, by way of introduction for herself. As before, she doesn't so much as foul a note to do so, speaking clearly. Agertha's entrance catches her, though, and sea-green eyes flit over to the door. Zetali raises her head and inclines it, since her hands are too busy to wave.

Ze'ran hasn't made it a point to mingle with a variety of riders outside of Parhelion so the brownrider, though she might have a familiar face, he couldn't pull her from a line-up. Feel free to do something criminal, Zetali. Not prepared for the conversation to gain another person, the bronzerider at first stiffens, territorial. "That's what we were trying to determine: if our visits were at the same or different times of days. The odds are that they were different." His initial speech is Igen in origin, but not Weyr-centric. A tenor too, but nothing so polished as to win over crowds. Sounding instead as if he might need to sometimes clear his throat. As Agertha also makes an entrance, both riders seem to see if she'll interlope with her own experience. "Ze'ran, of Parhelion. You might have passed Iandeleoth on the ledge." The Arroyo bluerider drops his own details, "S'chen. You wouldn't have seen Etengath." His smile is shy. "He's entrenched at the lake."

Agertha settles the stack of hides in front of her, then looks up at the mention of names, "Agertha, green Kestrath," though like S'chen's blue, her own green has lifted herself off to some place else. The aforementioned blue has been seen many times by the lake, "He's a handsome blue," so says her own bond, and leaves it at that.

That feline nonchalance never really lets up. If Zetali is bothered by Ze'ran sudden caginess, she doesn't let it show. Her fingers go right on strumming those strings, one leg drawn up to prop her boot on the stool's lowermost rung. "Sounds like it might have been different after all." Her own voice stamps her as a native of Keroon Hold, or close by, although the quirks of Igen have begun to creep into her inflections. "Fallen out of touch with most of Parhelion's riders," she admits, sea-green eyes slanting down to negotiate the strings for a moment. "Flew it for a little while, though. Good riders." S'chen is eyed a moment, and her mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Day like this, Oddy likes to camp out in the lake, too. Damned miserable out there, really, but that's life in the desert." She looks Agertha over with interest. There are always new faces at the weyr, but sometimes she goes a while without seeing them. Zetali's reputation is pretty simple: 'Workaholic.' "Well met," she offers, to all three riders, and Agetha's observation has the brownrider grinning. "Well. We all think that of our own lifemates, don't we?"

Ze'ran makes a slow reach to some sketches on many-times reused hides. They're suffering from high temps as much as the living things, the skins drying out and flaking in places. What little can be seen are landscapes and marginal notes, things Ze'ran neatly crams into an outside pocket once they're folded in old creases. S'chen, who was in Arroyo with Agertha at one stage, favors her with a smile he can put his heart in, being more comfortable around her than either of the Z-people. "I know there are calculations to measure the height of Rukbat, a Siroccon might know." S'chen looks to Zetali with doe-like eyes. "Ahh, the weather chasers. They could help." Ze'ran also pins a look to Zetali, except his has a challenge to it, a flinty sort of 'amaze us now or later.' "Kestrath, Th'bek likes her." Coining his older half-brother though they looks assimilar.

Agertha chuckles, "He likes her agility, and fool hearty risks." Ah Th'bek, that's one she's been dodging. Back to Arroyo? Agertha isn't sure she's ready for that move. The shifting planes of the sand has been a facination to the greenrider for some time, "Could be shifting in the sands?" is suggested, she's seen that happen many times over the Turns she's been at Igen.

The former Harper almost winces when those parchments are unceremoniously stuffed into an exterior pocket. Although part of her wants to comment on treating them more carefully, at least until they can be transcribed, it isn't important enough to call out. The question seems to take her off her guard a little. Oh, so they're not the Geek Wing when someone actually needs their information! Zetali tilts her head and considers. "Can't say I picked that trick up as handily as the rest of the wing, though… I was Harpercraft, not Starcraft." She does raise a slow brow at Ze'ran's intense stare, apparently not concerned by the edge of challenge in the least. "No reason I can't give it a try, though." Zetali inclines her head to Agertha. "Could be shifting sand, too. Wind's always playing tricks out over the dunes, yeah?"

Had Ze'ran a drink imbedded in hand, he'd lift it to Agertha as she separates from their small pack. But he does not and so the young rider merely watches her emigration to a table further up with wordless regard. S'chen, watching his one tiny anchor in a sea of strangers splinter off the group, turns more inward. "I hope you find what you want." He's done, peace out, peace be with you, rest in peaces. Ze'ran's hands collect behind him in standing rest, waiting Zetali out while he can admire the rockcutter's work hewing this place out untold ages ago. "I have hide if you need it," separating one out and setting it on a tabletop with a piece of charcoal with a good tip. "Just flip it over, the back's less full."

Fingers strum a final bright chord, flicking the strings with a short nail to really make them ring. Once it fades, Zetali twists to stow the lute back into its rack, hopping off the stool and gesturing somewhat impatiently for the supplies. Agertha is given a wave once the greenrider files off. Once Zetali's handed hide and charcoal, she collects both and brushes past Ze'ran, plunking down at a table and spreading the back of the hide out. Those sea-green eyes turn down in laser-focus to sketch out a few marks, frowning thoughtfully. She follows it up with another series of marks, working through it at a fast but methodical clip, but she doesn't look too certain about it. When she finally straightens, drawing back to eye it and check it over, she sighs and slides the hide over to Ze'ran with two fingers. "Short answer; I have no idea if that's correct or not, and you're probably going to get a straighter answer out of the Starcrafters." She pauses, rubbing at her jaw and ignoring the smudge of charcoal it leaves. "Mmmn. Maybe. My bet is 'sand,' though." It's easy enough to blame for everything else, right?

As the barest of breezes drifts over his face from Zetali's brusque passing, he wasn't sure if she'd actually drop her original purpose to perform formulae on a dime. Or square of hide, as it were. There's no decision to cast shade behind her shoulder, he makes it look like a meandering walk when it's really a survey at a distance. At her response to social pressure. "I have no idea either but I'll figure it out." Planting a finger on the hide, he slides it over where he might return it to his pocket after a quick glance at the math to it. "Could be." He'll join the chorus without singing much more on the subject. "Did you come to play?" Referencing the lute and what Zetali's original function here might have been.

"I wouldn't put too much stock in it." Zetali kicks back in her chair, folding her arms behind her head. "Consider it an amateur's work." Did she come here to play? "No. Well, not just," she corrects herself, leaning back in her chair. "I came here for the wine, actually, but the fact that they keep a few spare lutes around is fine by me. It beats having to go fetch mine. The more attention I draw to mine, the more Oddy wants to try and play it, and that's an awkward conversation I've been putting off for a lot of Turns." One she'll keep putting off, by her tone of voice. "I was a senior apprentice. Harper. Luthier, actually, but nobody really pays much attention to the finer details. Doesn't much matter, anyway." She reaches up, raking fingers through clean but sun-bleached brown hair, pulled into an equally messy braid. "Threadfighting is my trade, now."

Unlike some who would have saw the equation and burnt it, numbers are like puzzle pieces for Ze'ran to assemble back together. No savant, more a bear trap mind. As this work-related pursuit was the last in today's daily grind, Ze'ran assumes to be the occupant of the plank of bench across from Zetali but just a fraction diagonal so he can better see the entrance and who comes and who goes. "You seem like you're from the area. Katz Field or…" He'll take a stab at her origins via what accent he can track and trace. "How long have you been a rider, Zetali?" In lower volume, casual conversation, the quality of his voice improves, sheds some of its tarnish.

"Keroon Hold. Close enough not to matter, anyway," Zetali offers, shrugging. It doesn't take her long to get the wine she came here for; a minor interruption at best. "My father has a small hold. Herders by trade, the rest of my family, but that wasn't for me. I trained as a Harper." The former Harper settles more comfortably into her chair. The last question actually seems to take her off her guard, and she squints slowly into her wine, thinking. "You fall into a routine. Especially when the Thread's raining down. Seven Turns, for me. And here I'd expected to go right back to walking the tables after failing to Impress…" She snorts, amused. "Wouldn't trade it for the world, though. I think I'm better with this than I ever was at the luthier's trade."

Ze'ran rubs at the column of his throat where sunburn got to it yesterday. Another couple days and it'll look like lizard skin. Indentation of his prints are white before the general fade back to red. That his general area of placement was right doesn't stoke his ego, he remains staring at a wall fissure, more a visual defect than anything, before redirecting a slow gaze graze to Zetali. "I haven't heard you play, but I'd have to agree." He also leans back, some level of comfort attained though he looks up to the bar and wills his spirit with those spirits there. After four, five full blinks, he makes the attempt to walk by several Arroyo riders in their chief hangout. Whatever's open and available becomes his choice, no looting the good stuff as a sort of transient. The cracked glass is raised to the Arroyans with a firebrand grin. "Being a brownrider hasn't hindered you? Conservatives still abound in Igen." His last two words are affected by the shift of him folding to sit.

"Oh, that I can still do." Zetali flicks the fingers of her left hand, illustratively. "I still make sure to play the lute. I just don't know that I could trust my memory to build one, after seven Turns of riding that big loveable idiot into Threadfall. Got to let go of the old to accommodate the new." She tilts her head, tapping at a temple with a long finger. "And in this case, the new is a lot more important." She pauses, watching him raise his glass to the Arroyo riders and shrugging one shoulder cheerfully. There's a bit of mirth in those sea-green eyes. "Seems to me they don't have much of a leg to stand on when the dragons are choosing the girls, and the girls are fighting Thread with the best of the boys." A sip of cheap wine, and she shrugs again. "I welcome them to try. I work as hard as any bronzerider in this Weyr, and I don't mind saying it." She tilts her head, studying Ze'ran thoughtfully. "Sounds to me like you're not any more of a native to this desert than I am. Where are you from, bronzerider?"

Ze'ran silently marvels at this cracked glass in hand that isn't leaking. The glazer had to have been a wizard. "I bet he feels the same way." Ducking his head only slightly to draw a distant rider into focus. Older, Impressed during Interval, a meat and potatoes sort of bias. His glares to Zetali have been furtive but growing less. Ze'ran must be drinking the same label wine as Zetali and it lacks a certain impression. "I was born here though neither parent was from Igen." Sensing a wetness, he wipes some wine from the side of his mouth. Maybe the crack isn't so benign. "And I was fostered with traders. At my sixteenth turn," a legal adult, "I came here to Impress." Frank, concise. "But I worked with the guard a few months while waiting for eggs. Iandeleoth's three." Pause. He looks restive. "But if you aren't going to play, I'm going to leave."

Leaning forward, Zetali rests her elbows on the table, plopping her chin into her hands and regarding the bronzerider through lidded sea-green eyes. No particular emotion, there; simply an unconcerned study. Unperturbed as a feline, this woman brownrider. If she's experienced the pointy end of conservative views in Igen Weyr, she doesn't much show it. "Hmmmmm." It's a thoughtful sound, just this side of amusement, but not quite open about it. In fact, she's about to open her mouth to make some kind of wise observation (or feline jest) when her eyes abruptly slide out of focus. The tried and true sign of someone talking to their lifemate, or vice-versa. After a few seconds of mental back-and-forth, Zetali blinks back into focus, frowning. "As much as I'd like to stay and regale you, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short. Look me up again sometime; I'll owe you a song. Ask after me. I spend some time here in the Last Call… Oddy likes the challenge of squashing onto the ledge." Her glass is raised and drained before she grins, sidling away. "Clear skies, bronzerider." With that, if she isn't stopped, she'll melt away into the crowd – as much as those eyes can be lost in a crowd – and out the door.