==== September 10, 2013
==== Bailey, Sytin
==== Sytin visits the boardwalk for the first time and encounters a weyrwoman!

Who Bailey, Sytin
What Sytin visits the boardwalk for the first time and encounters a weyrwoman!
When There is 1 turn 3 months and 6 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr - Boardwalk

bails_2.png Sytin-Young_Icon.jpg


Ancient-cut stone stretches broad, smoothed by the wind and the weather and the rain to create a boisterous center of commerce. Wood overlays stone in places, patterned and pretty, to attract the eye of those traversing the strip to particular vendors. Though not the size of the tremendous markets of the North, the boardwalk's offerings show the knowledge of ageless crafters: Smith contraptions, Herder-certified animals, Starcraft maps and Weaver textiles are only some of the things that may be purchased, among the spicy scents of beach food and the contrast of bright shells and dark stones from the shoreline.

Rukbat's last glimmering rays cast long shadows across the boardwalk, amber hues giving a warmth to the scene as glows are uncovered and allowed to breathe their light into the gloom. Merchants and traders alike show off their wares with impassioned cries and flashy displays, hoping to catch passerbys attention. The air is filled with the sounds of surf, the bleats of animals, and the thrum of conversation, forming a strangely harmonious cacophony that invites the curious to come explore the lively scene with all the senses.

Wandering through the crowds, Sytin's gangly form might be confused for an adult, were it not for the look of boyishness about him and the bright curiosity in his eyes as he soaks in the boardwalk for the first time. Amber eyes dart from place to place, trying to take in all the sights and smells at once, the lad bouncing from booth to booth with the energy only a boy could have after working all day long in a Smithy. He does look to have cleaned up slightly before he came: his features are not smudged with ash and dirt, though his shirt still bears the tell-tale signs of his rank of Smith Apprentice.

Amongst the glows and the cheery frenetic pace of the boardwalk roams the single mobile goldrider of the Weyr, at this given moment: Bailey, dressed smart in pants and a crisp linen shirt, her glorious curls spilling out as flame-licked locks over shoulders and trickling down to the small of her back. She has a small smile, as if internally amused — oh so amused — by something that remains her secret, and her mystery alone. She ends up in front of Sytin by chance, unintentionally blocking his way to the next booth, her back to him.

Unfortunately for junior weyrwoman, Sytin is too busy being engrossed in the contents of the booth he is browsing, so when he goes to move to the next one he runs right smack into her turned back. It isn't a terribly hard shove — he wasn't going full tilt just yet — but he does back up hurriedly, hands in front of him and muttering profuse apologizes. "Oh, I didn't see you there! Are you all right?" He actually has to look up to Bailey, since she' got a good half foot on him. "All my fault, miss." He does look genuinely apologetic. "Can I make it up to you?"

Oof. Lower center of gravity and all that; Bailey has to steady herself with a hand against the back of the nearest personage, being generally unprepared for sudden collisions. The man looks a little outraged until he seems to recognize the woman on sight; she has an apologetic look for him before turning grey eyes onto the offending lad. "I'm fine," Bailey returns, her voice rich with a Benden accent from the present-time, a mellow alto, mellifluous. "Do you make a habit of running into people, child?" Her eyebrow ticks upwards in query.

"N-nooo…." Sytin swallows, wringing his hands together for a moment and then straightening, putting his hands firmly at his sides and doing his best grown-up impression. "I wasn't watching where I was going. I should have been, so I take full responsibility." That should lessen the punishment, right? Right? RIGHT?! He clears his throat with a self-conscious combing through his tousled locks. "It was an accident though, I swear!" Amber eyes dart momentarily, hoping for an escape but not finding any. Chin up, then. "You won't tell Vorick, will you?" He finally notices the black-eye Bailey is sporting, his eyes going wide and lips pursing. Oh, stars and stones is he in for it now!

"Full responsibility. Do you even know what that word means?" Bailey crooks her head just SO, that eyebrow lifted in cool amusement. It's a blessed thing he's so young, to avoid the otherwise full-on Raith-vibe that she normally radiates. A blessed, blessed thing. "And just who is Vorick?" She folds her arms over her chest, her lips slowly spreading in a smirk as she awaits THIS explanation.

"Yes," Sytin does his best to look credible. Look at that face, don't you trust it? Those innocent features and sincere eyes! Her black eye is ogled a bit more, and fortunately the Apprentice is still too young to even pick up a hint of her court blanche vibe. "He's my foster-da," the boy admits, swallowing nervously. His hands start to come together to fidget and he drags them apart by sheer force of will. "I'll do anything you want me to, just please don't tell him." There's a glimmer of fear in the boy's eyes that he's trying to hold in.

Hopefully he's a better foster-father than SOME individuals had. Sytin doesn't have any foster-sisters does he? Hopefully not. Carrying on: "I wouldn't extort you, child." Because he doesn't have anything that she really WANTS, the only reason being. Bailey does flicker long, articulate fingers at the lad, however, half-turning back to face the length of the Boardwalk: "Walk with me." It's not particularly a suggestion. "What is your name?" It could be that he'll get out of this easier than some others… considering he may remind her, just a tad, of her own kid brother.

And what if Sytin does have a foster-sister? Oh, dear. The boy swallows and tries not to look too relieved as Bailey seems to let him off the hook. Well, for a moment anyway. Her invitation — if it can even be called such — is not refused, as there is still half a brain upstairs to warn him against the dire consequences of that. The Smith falls into step beside the goldrider, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from wringing them together. "Sytin, ma'am," he offers in response. His eyes can't seem to decide where they should rest, flicking back any forth between looking up at her and trying to watch where he's going for a change, resulting in some amusing skull yo-yoing.

"Sytin." Bailey tastes the name - names have power, after all - and considers the young man once more. "And what do you do here, Sytin?" Color her interested. The woman pauses at a glowlit shop not too far down, to gaze at a glass bauble with a faint wistfulness, quickly covered with a half-turn to stare down the poor Smith apprentice.

Swallowing, Sytin looks at Bailey as they paused at the shop. "I just enlisted in the Smith Craft," the boy admits, amber eyes trying to measure Bailey and determine if telling her his name and profession might be a mistake. "I've only been at Southern Weyr a little over a sevenday," he adds, as if that newness might somehow temper her response to him and keep her from swallowing his soul. "I really like it here. It's very beautiful!" Will flattery spare his tender psyche from her ravenous consumption? Perhaps he's hoping so.

"Smithcraft. With Aaron, then?" Bai's words are thoughtful, distant, a bit distracted. As if she's drawn inward by something… or someone. "Well-then, Sytin. Welcome to Southern. And do try to be more aware of your surroundings," Bailey comments, apparently one to let him off earlier this evening: "You could hurt someone." She looks at him blandly, giving him full opportunity to run, should fleeing be his first priority.

"Aaron was kind enough to take me in," Sytin concurs, observing the contents of the booth with curiosity, the glass-crafted goods eating up the glow-light and causing fascinating refractions. The Apprentice does manage to tear his eyes away from the hypnotic sight to look at Bai again, offering her a smile that seems just a bit forced, like he's trying to portray a casualness he doesn't quiet yet feel. "Thank you." A pause and a more genuine grin now, starting to feel more at ease — possible a disastrous state, if rumor is any indication — and he nods eagerly. "I definitely will be, miss!" A beat and then he peers again at her black eye, curiosity creeping into his eyes. "Did you have a date with a rock?" His gesture adds clarity to the question, just in case it wasn't.

"Hmmmm." All Bailey has to say on the topic of Aaron. Then: "Do you think that is an entirely tactful question to ask a complete stranger?" Her voice is stern, though her eyes are laughing — laughing at him, alas, in this case. "Someone whose name you don't even know?" To the far side of Sytin, a brownrider staring at baubles is edging away at the laugh that Bailey offers after her question.

"Uhm." Sytin bites his lower lip at this question, clearly reconsidering his rash vocalization. "Probably not." Unconsciously he takes a half step back, one hand balancing on the ledge of the table they're beside. "Since I'm on a roll tonight, might I know the name of my captor?" His voice is a touch strained with forced humor, amber eyes clearly showing the mental calculations of his error going on behind the scenes. He's a bit deer-in-the-headlights right now, but the brownrider's calculated shuffle does not go unnoticed. Adam's apple bobs in his throat. Ulp.

"Intelligent answer," Bailey replies, dry. The woman pivots again to face Sytin, amusement writ in the lines of her face: "You might." She inclines her chin, sharply in belated greeting, "My name is Bailey, Khalyssrielth's own. It is… probably a stretch to say well-met, Sytin, but I will say it nonetheless: well-met."

Torn between fleeing in abject terror and not appearing a coward, pride wins out — or maybe the beginnings of testosterone poisoning — and keeps Sytin from turning tail in the face of this pale predator. "Well-met, Bailey." The name is clearly not ringing a bell with the boy, though it probably should, especially if he values his life and hide. "Khalyssrielth is a pretty name." More flattery for the sultry rider. "What's she like?" Somehow Sytin is positive the dragon is female. Maybe he's not totally impervious to her charms after all?

What's Khaly like? The Queen of Air and Darkness, the owner of the icy reach, mistress of winter and weathered iron and wickedness; but that's a bit of a mouthful, isn't it? Instead, Bailey screws her lips to the side, barely covering a laugh with a polite little cough. The lack of comprehension is obvious. "She is herself," she replies, tone a little sardonic, as if laughing at an internal joke: "Does a damned fine job of… whatever it is she does." Bailey, in contrast, is the queen of vague answers. "Well, Sytin, I do believe that it is time for me to retire for the evening. Watch where you're heading from now on, hmmm?" Again: her voice brooks little suggestion, and she shakes her head before stepping around the boy in mild pace towards the upper bowl.

Puzzlement at the circuitous answer Sytin is being given is evident in his face, the slightly dumb-founded glaze in his eyes. But, clearly he should have known better than to expect a straight answer from one of the Sidhe. Or something. He struggles for a witty comeback to that not-answer and is fortunately saved from the embarrassment by Bailey's announcement of departure. "Most definitely!" he assures her with a bobbing head. "Have a pleasant evening… Bailey." It rolls off his tongue awkwardly, like an over-eager pup that can't decide where all the paws go. He watches her for a moment and then shakes his head, turning his mind elsewhere, and becoming lost in the milling crowds, dignity and manhood mostly intact.

It would make sense, somewhat, to cast Bailey as Titania: the force which keeps her fair fey counterpart balanced. And — the red hair and all. Her laughter is the only thing to follow him, as she disappears into the evening, quiet footfalls heralding her exit.

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