====October 22, 2013
====Gritta, Sadaiya, Chel, Jovie, Maryam, Tanmorand, Vergora, Stavros (NPCed by Zarolan), We'bey, Tallarn, Jharlodar
====Another raid in the Bazaar, this one at one of the Flight's private shindigs!

Who Gritta, Sadaiya, Chel, Jovie, Maryam, Tanmorand, Vergora, Stavros (NPCed by Zarolan), We'bey, Tallarn, Jharlodar
What Another raid in the Bazaar, this one at one of the Flight's private shindigs!
When There are 0 turns, 11 months and 0 days until the 12th pass.
Where The Night Flight, Igen Weyr

maryam04.jpg


ROOM

The Night Flight
If one is familiar with The Night Flight's daytime layout, what happens to this luxurious shop after nightfall is nothing less than wondrous. Gone are the fabrics on display, the employee's counter and the changing room. The shelves that line the walls are hidden behind tapestries that depict rather decadant scenery: noble hunting parties chasing elk and deer on horseback with hounds at their heels; picnics in intricately embroidered gardens attended by ladies in colorful sisal dresses; ballrooms filled with Pern's glitterati awhirl on a marble dancefloor. The carpets remain on the floor but space has been given over to a variety of tables with seating options.
There are lounging areas for those with a mind to simply drink, see and be seen, where one may recline on an elbow around low tables and clink glasses with fellow guests. There are rings of thickly piled cushions where those of even more indolent inclinations may likewise recline, or perhaps dandle their "niece" on a knee while being served by young veiled women. And finally, the true purpose of this den, there are the gambling tables. These are most luxuriously outfitted, with chairs to cradle pampered seats and gleaming wood to receive chips, cards and the glasses from which these lucky few drinks.
The atmosphere is one of rich merriment, of secret pleasures and illicit tradition.


-- On Pern --
It is sunset
It is 5:22 PM where you are.
There are 0 turns, 11 months and 0 days until the 12th pass.
It is Winter and 39 degrees. It is slightly overcast.


The Night Flight is already hoppin'. A group of entertainers plays on old, well-polish instruments on a corner stage. Music plays, liquor flows, there is already dancing and hands of dragon-poker being played. A few of Pern's low ranking cothold holders came as soon as the doors opened, their first invitations to the festivities, and they plan on capitalizing. They have exchanged their spouses, left at home for their 'diplomatic trip' to the weyr, for mistresses - or local girls purchased for the evening in the bazaar. Talk is cheap, booze is flowin', dealers are quick of hand. Everyone is sharply dressed, of course, it may be illicit, but it's a classy affair. The matron of the evening's festivities bustles about greeting her clients with low bows and shakin' hands, the occasional man forward enough to lift her delicately wrinkled hand briefly to his lips. Gritta cuts a fine figure tonight, the only person without a mask, her red dress pulled at the waist and flowing outward, swooping neckline shows of her regal neck without being scandalous, especially for an older woman.

Recognizable to some by his tradmark shamrock tights, a lanky lad wearing a mask which covers the right half of his face, a long feather of matching green flows out of it sits with dangling crossed leg swinging lightly to the beat, the other lounges over the back of a chair, the other's long fingers curl around a glass of liquor, at a table with several other young men. "Oh, suga', a mole where? Say you'd didn't marry the girl!" Joining in with their uproarious laughter, before bidding them farewell to make his rounds.

Where Gritta is attired in crimson, Maryam has chosen softer shades of blue and green, her costume meant to summon up thoughts of lagoons or coves, peaceful and watery places. One of the Flight's own creations, surely, it whispers from shoulders to toes in a rippling array of color-blending fabric and crystals to catch the light, while a matching half-mask shows the lower portion of her face, for once! And so, everyone present is treated to the sight of smiles without cloth hindering the view as the young woman circulates. She offers gentle words and bows, instead of handshakes and kissed knuckles, but it would seem her role is not dissimilar from that of the owner and her grandson. "…I will see the girl brings you another drink, of course. Thank you so much for coming," she murmurs to one minor Holder before turning to seek out a servant.

It probably went something like this… Quiet, homeless-looking girls with big ears are good at overhearing things. And when such ears also happen to belong to rather resourceful young women, it's not really all that hard to have a bath and put together a bit of a costume or to slip in amongst a group of people who were actually invited. Jovie, not that anyone knows her name or would be likely to recognize her, has styled that brittle blonde hair into a wild arrangement of spiky knots about her head, tied with scraps of black fabric to create an overall edgy and exotic looking fashion. A length of dark lace covers her eyes and a rather fine, midnight blue dress that looks many times too big for her has been cinched about her skinny waist, hanging generously below her prominent collarbones as if it was meant to do that. And now she moves confidently through the party, a silent figure with a cool smile, having procured a glass of something to finish off the effect that she belongs here. As long as no one looks too closely.

Sadaiya's resplendent in lavender silks, and likely her costume is meant to summon up thoughts of letting her weyrmate see her nonnies. But, y'know, tastefully. With linked arms, she and Tanmorand make their rounds, though not without looks of suspicion being wordlessly exchanged between the two. "Oh, nonono, the tithings have been alright. I promise, food rations will improve…" and other such small-talks follow, though, finally, they are left alone around a snack tray. "Sweetheart, does this seem like a strange party to you?" she asks, daintily selecting a couple fingerfoods for her plate.

Tanmorand ducked into the Flight dressed in black from head to toe, though the fabric is nice and the fit obviously tailored to his large frame. Edged in lavender, it's meant to be a subtle signal that he's here with another - the one who wears that color most prominently. A mask around his eyes and tied behind his head with ribbon is simple but nicely made, though he keeps fidgeting with it. "Every party seems strange to me," the big Smith says down to his 'mate with a slightly crooked smile.

Done up in an elegant blue that effortlessly flatters her skin tone, Chel seems not to notice except when the material bothers her, and she pinches or tugs in awkward places. After hugging to her torso, it blooms as a bustle in the back, while her mask is made of an array of feathers, draping her facade as an exotic bird — who truly might desire to take flight. Still, discomforts aside, she trolls the Flight floor as if she fancied herself a bouncer instead of a colorful guest. Elaborate decorations there may be, and gambling aplenty, but eyes half-hidden by the shadows of the mask's holes, and those floating wisps of feathers, dig in on the guests; watch the people, reading. Extraneous seems the booze in her hand most of the time, except those rare moments when she breaks watch to take indulgent sips.

A stowaway. And they are so careful too. Invitations sent in secret, people who owe them things. Of course this one was a little different one has to suppose. In any event, this will be the second time a guard loses his knees due to a slip in into The Night Flight's nighttime activities. But that will be handled later. For now Gritta is tip-tapping to the front of the room to greet the newest entrents into her store. "Welcome, welcome." Is coo-ed softly to the lady in lavender and her black-to the toes date. "Please, find a seat, dancing over there, games in the back. Someone will be by to take drink orders, and food will be out shortly." The hand not occupied by her cane, swooshes through the air to indicate the various places things can be found. "Do watch out for the man dressed as a fox, he's a few already. But he's harmless…" The last part half-song as she's moving on the girl. No, she doesn't recognize her, but this is the very thing that causes the older woman to lift a brow, but a warm smile is offered and she waves her in, "Dear, don't stand in the door way, come in, come in." This is all the greeting the mystery guest will get as Gritta moves by.

Stavros glides into The Night smoothly, his charcoal tunic and trews blending well into the shadows, his upper face hidden behind a matching mask that hides the color of his short hair. Alone, he is … as always. His step is slow and graceful as he prowls toward the gambling tables, this being what his palms have been itching for since the moment his wagon pulled up in the area of the Weyr. A tumbler of amber liquid is snagged as he moves purposefully in a single direction.

A-achoo! "And this MASK!" Sadaiya grouses to her mate, dabbing carefully at her nose. "It's my own fault for getting one with feathers. But everyone looks so sharp in them. Do you suppose it's a new fad… oh! Gritta! Thank you so much for inviting us. Everything's so lovely. It's been so long since I've attended a proper gathering, and never one like this." Gently, she pushes her domino up to her forehead, using a hankie to blot carefully at her sparklingly make-up'd eyes. "I'm looking forward to getting to know more of your friends and peers."

"Told you she'd forgive you." The green-decked lad coo's, awfully reminiscent of Gritta, into Maryam's ear, as he gently plants a foot and finishes the distance with a twirl. "I'm surprise she invited me." Eyes twinkling as he whispers to the female, its all in jest after all, tonight is a night of pleasure, of excess, of fun. "Oh a pleasure to see you, Yonkus." Is addressed to a man who walks by an offers a hand, the slender lad offering his hand draped over the top of the man's, who seems to take it in good grace, as they both laugh and the younger offers a fluttered wink. Passing on, the boy turns back to the female. "Are you have fun, love?"

What /does/ the fox-man say? "Thank you, ma'am," Tanmorand says with a low bow of respect to the unmasked woman. "Want to trade?" he asks softly of his date, though he eyes her feathered mask with some trepidation. "Not like they actually hide who we are…"

With Gritta juggling the weyrwoman and guest, and the sneaky sneakerson, Maryam lets her eyes wander on to others in the crowd. Chel is noted, gifted with a small but warm curve of lips meant to welcome- before the shamrock jester accosts her and causes a bit of a startle. "You!" she scolds, half a hiss, half a whisper, and reaches out to tweak the lad's dangling feather. "What are you doing, sneaking up on me?" It's all an act though, this level of ire; when he's finished with his greeting ritual of Yonkus, she slips her arm through his and turns him in the direction of the gambling tables. "I am not at all surprised she invited you. It is pretty, yes? Everyone masked, all of the colors." Not to mention the money. Marks don't exactly clink when handled but they do click and clatter, drawing the eyes to a dealer pulling in a fortune for the house.

Vergora isn't hiding who is is at all. Then again, who would bother inviting her these days? It is likely only the fact she's been a customer here for some time that she is allowed through the doors at all, though her old sense of style has been degrading right along with her grey matter. Her hair is brushed, at least. Dress is clean, likely neat as of this morning, though showing signs of wear now. She wanders farther into the room, wide, brown-eyed gaze flicking left and right. She has enough faculties left to realize she's missing something.

Jovie puts a thin smile of apology on her face when Gritta ushers someone — is it her? — not to crowd the doorway. Unrecognized as she may be, there is, on topical glance, little noticeable about her, wearing the same color as everyone else, drifting idly through the gathering as though she were just a touch bored. Perhaps the looseness of her dress is all just in fun — a costume. At least there's the glass in her hand to occupy her. Perhaps it's the look on Vergora's face, but as Jovie ends up beside her, she says nothing but cocks a questioning brow to the older woman.

Maryam's greeting is returned tightly, for Chel's already put herself on a mission: follow Stavros towards the gambling and guffawing at the tables. With the expertise of a waitress, the young girl weaves the crowd, putting out a hand only to steady an already quite drunk man as he fumbles by. Reaching her mark, she's none of the natural blending grace of the hostess, instead taking to prowl — a gait so wasteful for the fabric, and in what design, she wears. Beady little eyes search out tells and overly exuberant laughter, as well as suspiciously quiet fellows, as dedicatedly as though she were told to, as a lesson.

It doesn't take long for Gritta's gaze to fall upon the werywoman-emeritus, and swoop in to greet her. "Madame Vergora." An appropriate enough greeting considering no one really has handle on the woman's exact title, and crazy-as-a-rabid-feling probably isn't the most polite. The propreitor of The Night Flight is nothing if not proper, "Would you care for a drink? A place to sit?" Unfrazzled by yet another hired-guard mistake, much more serious than the previous, a soft smile is given to the x-goldrider. "Please, follow me." And to a small table close enough to hear the band but out of the way of the bustling crowd the woman will attempt to lead the other. "I am so glad you could make it."

This unknown quantity that is Stavros frankly leers at the serving girls, one in particular keeping such close attendance to him. An appraising stare is given Maryam as she prowls nearby, lips licked enticingly as grey-blue eyes shine with anticipation. He leans against a table, nodding to the dealer briefly to include him in the current hand as his small stake is set upon the table, deft fingers producing it from seemingly nowhere.

At one table two political rivals sit sipping whiskey, and shooting dice. The older of the two has a scantly clad woman perched upon his knee, her arms wrapped round his neck, "I just dunno know why you won't tell your wife 'bout us." Her nasally voice pierces the ears of those around the table. "Shut up, woman!" The greasy haired man grumbles at her even as his arm wraps round her waist, "The men here are trying to do business." A mark is slapped down in the middle of the table. "Waddya say?" The other man snorts a laugh, gives a nod and snatches up the mark.

With Maryam on his arm, the tight wearing lad turns her towards the music, his head dips down toward her ear. And whatever he says is accompanied by a general motion of an arced arm towards the floor.

"You are a lifesaver, sweetheart," Sadaiya murmurs, swapping masks with Tanmorand so that now he wears the feathery confection and she the more understated hypoallergenic. Vergora's entrance has her standing stock still, and she makes her way over to the older woman's table, possibly dragging her date along. "Hey, do you want anything to eat, Vergora?" she asks, softly, reaching out at first as if to rest her fingers on the former rider's shoulder, but then taking them back. The change in locale has her getting a lot of speculative glances from a minor Lordling, and a couple of Traders that start casually making their way over. Y'know, totally on accident.

You overhear We'bey mutter, "… … … … … … … rather … … thinking … are looking quite lovely … … … … … dance, if … … … get … … … … look?" to Maryam.

Tanmorand has /feathers/ on his face now. This is why he only goes to parties when Sadaiya begs him. He lets his date's hand go when she moves to Vergora though, giving her a 'I'll be over there' nod and making his way to the bar to get himself a pint. When one of the more suggestive ladies comes up to lean against him though, there's an amusing mild panic look to his eyes as he lifts his pint - like she was trying to /steal/ it - and softly but firmly turns her down. Well, he fumbles through it, but the end result is still 'no thank you' and she leaves him alone.

Vergora draws herself up when she spies Jovie's questioning look, then more so when Gritta approaches. At least the latter is a familiar face. "I… no," she responds, balking at being prodded in any direction whatsoever. "I'm just… I was… looking." She goes on looking all around her before taking in Jovie's appearance, top to bottom, then Gritta's, then… "Why are there masks?" she asks either of the two women. Then Sadaiya is there. Vergora must be having one of her more lucid evenings. Too bad for Sadaiya. "Not from you," she retorts, lip curling, tone suddenly icy. She steps back from those nearby, suddenly far more on her guard. Hands clench, then she turns to wind her way through the next nearest cluster of people.

Vergora does create quite a flurry of activity and Jovie watches in silence as all the most notable figures swoop in to attend her. Herself, she has the opposite reaction, drifting away from the focus of attention, sipping her drink as she lets her eyes slide off in another direction. It's the gaming tables she moves toward, the lively clatter of marks. Chel's overly-done laughter does draw her gaze and for a moment, she lets her eyes linger over the prowling young woman, though whatever she makes of her is utterly hidden behind both the lace of her mask and her impassive expression.

Ah, dancing! With so many people milling about, perhaps it's time to set the example for entertainment. Maryam's attention is drawn away from the gambling tables and transferred to We'bey, whom she graces with (yet another) smile. Clearly going with half of her face visible has gone right to the young woman's head. "With you, always," she murmurs before allowing herself to be steered out to take up a position facing the greenrider.

'Seemingly nowhere' peaks Chel's attention. Being leered at had her ready to dismiss Stavros, but after starting to leave she backpedals — not an easy feat in a bustle dress, her feet realize — and sticks around nearby. The man laughing too hard now near her left shoulder, her mouth tics with a slight disparaging comment that never comes out. Humor lifts her eyebrows beneath the mask, so maybe it wouldn't have been that negative at all. No one will find out, for she keeps quiet, twisting to address another table where she can still keep an eye on Stavros' while she sips.

"Looking, yes, we can find you a place away to…" But the woman has wondered off, and with a soft shake of her head, a look of sympathy for the departing woman, Gritta turns her attention to the goldrider who is present, both physically before her and mentally. "I'm so glad you could make it, dear." Reaching out to pat the younger woman's hand. "I would be safe in assuming you are here for the cards? The music is lovely. Not your harper music, of course, but a band of the people." The people. Does the weyr remember them? "A waitress should be by soon…" And with a single glance a woman does come by to see to Sadaiya. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must make the rounds. The job of a hostess I'm afraid."

Attention is turned toward the game at hand though Stavros keeps his eyes on the game, his ears and peripheral vision keeps Chel under observation. She piqued his curiosity and that is never good in his line of work, having drawn attention so early in his presence is never good. Though he shows no sign of nervousness, the hand that lifts his drink trembles the barest flicker before he forces stillness. His bid is gathered in by the house, his expression wry as he makes a new opening bid for the next hand.

Maryam's acceptance of his request and the fabulously dressed male leads her out to the floor. It would be apparent to any one who stopped to watch they are familiar partners. The steps to the local dance as second nature as breathing to all who grew up in the bazaar, and especially to a pair who learned to dance as part of their finishing together. As easy as the movement, however, a respectful distance is maintained, as is proper. "It's been a while, friend." Is offered with an easy smile as he leaders her out for a spin.

Hushed whispered at a table by the dance floor, "…..isn't the bouncer normally one of the Steen boys?" The woman's husky voice answers much to sexy for the conversation, "Yah. Strange ain't it?"

"Completely understood, and definitely the cards," Sadaiya responds to Gritta, smiling with a definite sad tilt to her lips. "Are you… certain, Vergora? I can have someone else bring it if it makes you feel be… excuse please. HEY!" Homing back in on Tanmorand, she uses her ample hips to check herself in between the interloper and her weyrmate. "Not a chance, sister. Sorry, hon. Didn't mean to leave you alone to be drooled over. So many people asking me for appointments soon. I'm going to be bu-syyyyy~"

Tanmorand clears his throat. "I told her no, Sadie," he murmurs with a small frown. "I'm not /that/ socially incompetent. And really? Scheduling appointments here?" He sips his pint and eyes the dancing area. "Suppose you want a few turns around the floor?"

"Looks like the Steens thought themselves too good for this crowd," another patron remarks to his fellows, voice dry as bitter sand. "The old bird finally lets normal folk in and they don't show up, it figures." His companion, a buxom lass from Rosie's Daughters, isn't shy about elbowing him in the ribs lest Gritta overhears.

A cotholder and a woman distinctly not his wife are busy making out in the corner, and her hands are NO WHERE appropriate. Gritta seems to appear, her long neck tilting her head to the side in an arc, just as the situation escalates. "Now, now, dears. There are rooms a plenty at the Rosie's. But you don't seem like that kind of girl, do you, love?" The warm smile is matched by the coolness in her eyes. You want to play at the flight, you have to spend your marks. "An open spot at the card tables, m'dear." Is said to the male, who's marks no doubt the one's being spent. Knowing better than to huff, the male slips out from Gritta's gaze, pulling his date with him to the table.

Tanmorand turns his head to frown at the mutterings about the Steens not being good enough. "Better mind your manners boy," he murmurs, voice low. "You're not too good to get thrown out, no matter how many marks you spend."

But one of the Steens is here. Maryam moves smoothly in We'bey's arms, the fluttering of her costume a lure intended to draw others out onto the dance floor. "Too long," she agrees, giving the greenrider a smile that is immediately apparent as genuine. Rare, those, and a better treasure than the crystals adorning her half-mask. But her attention is wandering, pale eyes shifting from her partner to those still milling around the card tables, around the sitting areas. As if she were looking for someone.

Tipping her chin upwards regally, Sadaiya backs up her darling Smith. "They ARE here, at least a couple," she refutes in her best Important Person voice. "As for dancing… how about we play a round of cards first? You can help me figure out if it's the COLORS we match or the NUMBERS. I always forget when you do that." A slight glimmer is in her eye, a furtive wink for her love. Seems like swindlers come in all packages.

An older gentlemen, not from the area, no familiar with the faces slips up next to Vergora. He doesn't say much. Just waggles his eye brows at her. Hey, baby.

Stavros finishes his drink as soon as he has lost his third hand and frowns, perhaps trying to keep his attention divided this way is working against him. He deposits a new bid on the table and concentrates fully on the game at hand. He looks away briefly to signal a server to bring him a new drink while the dealer attends to the other players, the safest time to take his eyes away from the cards.

The dance around the floor slows to a stop and We'bey offers his partner a fluttered wink, but now is the time for business. He flourishes bow, one foot dropping behind the other as his left arm pulls across and his arm flies back dramatically, and then slips away to flop stylishly next to Stavros. Who is this guy? One leg slips over the other as he spreads his arms out behind him in a relaxed sort of way, "Cards, eh?" If the man was looking for a chance to look around unfettered he certainly miscalculated. Don't mind the green feather that hangs dangerously close to the strange man's face. "Webley, love. What's your name?" A wink is accompanied by a the soft curling of his lips.

Tanmorand slips his arm around Sadaiya's waist with another frown to the grumpy gus over there, and leads her towards the tables. "I can barely remember myself, it's been so long," he mutters under his breath, but /just/ loud enough.

Tightly clad, but fully covered women move between tables and chairs offering desserts and wines.

"Strange though." One obese man, with sweat stains under his arms, pauses his comment to dab away beads of prespiration from his forehead with a silken hanky. "Usually there are holders from other places here. And I don't see the craftmaster…" But he pulls off from stating just which craftmaster as a card is dealt to him, having forgotten the train of though, "And could swear some of these people are riders. They never invite people from the weyr." Because the bazaar is not the weyr.

Maryam sinks into a low curtsey to We'bey before he departs to play the dutiful (and impish!) relative. With the greenrider gone, she signals to the assembled musicians to play something with more pep to it, music with tribal drums fit for a group dance rather than the staid partner dancing so favored by Harpers. While brightly decorated young women stream onto the dancefloor to draw the eyes and lead the dance, Maryam shifts her attention to surveying the crowd. Who isn't happily engaged in drinking or gambling? They may well find themselves targeted for some impromptu dragging into the thick of things.

Zarolan says, "Don't see why they wouldn't invite the riders at least." Stavros' comment is just loud enough to be heard by the table he's playing at. "They've got to have marks just laying around … begging to be spent." He isn't from the Weyr himself, nor from the Bazaar though he is known within the enclave by a select few. Even if only as an addicted gambler when he's in the area. Nodding to the dealer, the next card is noted and a new bid placed as the dealer turns back to another player."

"It's a complicated matter, love." The slender lad leans forward to watch Stavros' game, an elbow proped up on the table the top of which he uses to rest his head in the air. "Not a whole lot of trust between the bazaar and the weyr. We tithes, they'll protect us from thread. It's about the extent of the relationship. Especially now." Long lashes pull the male's lids down over his eyes briefly in thought, "You know, sugs'. There's more to do here then just gamble." Like people watch, which is what the feathered male is doing now, his eyes flitting across the room landing on a person every now and then with pause.

"Marks?" Sadaiya likes that word. "I have those! Can someone maybe be kind enough to teach us to play?" The batting of her lengthened eyelashes is a bit overdone, her plum-stained lips a shade too winsome. "My weyrmate and I are looking forward to meeting new people here, as well, if you're willing to have us."

Tanmorand takes a seat beside Sadaiya, but pulls it back away from the table so he can only see her hand, and make it clear he's not the one playing. "I think you try to match the colors," he murmurs, clearing his throat. "Let's just play, I don't think anyone wants to take the time to teach us…"

Jovie has no doubt overheard plenty of snippets of conversation, though none, it would seem, that spark any particular interest. One glass was finished and another, and perhaps she's lost count, since there's a bit of dreamy langor in her demeanor now. The backward tilt of her head that throws a pale neck into view, the sling of a hip, it was enough to have someone well in their cards and their cups looking for a bit of a lucky charm. And Jovie has been game to oblige, taking a seat at the gentleman's side, wrinkling her nose for him to call instead of raise, or whatever the gambling terms might be. A boon in his favor earned her a mark of a tip, largely in jest but she takes it anyway, and as the music strikes up, her gaze turns to the swirling skirts on the dancefloor.

Looking up over his cards a man in a hat that was probably expensive 10 turns ago squints his eyes at the doorway, "Hey! Where did the bouncer go?" A few other men at the table turn to look. Something is not right.

At the mention of a runaway guard the ever poised Gritta raises her head, from her discussion with the a well to do master of some craft or another, no one is wearing their knots after all. Her eyes scan across the room and meet Maryam's. Surely this isn't cause for alarm. And as if to prove just that the woman laughs softly and offers the younger girl a wink. Rest easy weyr- inhabitants. Gritta is not shaken by this sudden change events. What could possibly go wrong?

The audience assembled is too well-bred to hoot and holler as the dancing girls begin to dip and bend, but the number of people gathered to the side of that little square begins to grow. Several men and women are pulled in as the girls perform a circuit of the dance floor, eager and bejeweled hands grasping other hands, arms, even the occasional fistful of tunic to bring their prey into the crush.

A long fingered hand carefully guards Stavros' cards and marks in an automatic gesture as his eyes flick to the feathered lad who addresses him. Grey-blue gaze takes in the slender body and enticing eyes as he shrugs and turns back to his game when it comes around to his turn once more. Waving off another card, an increase in bet, and a challenging glance goes to the other players as well as the dealer. The charcoal clad man is feeling rather confident in this hand.

Tallarn circulates through the room from table to table, head down, making as little eye contact as possible. He has a simple mask, white, with eyeholes, festooned with a couple feathers. His tray is laden with treats and nibblings. Less so, the farther into the room he goes.

The talk of guards gives Sadaiya pause as she half pulls out a chair amongst the card sharks. "He probably just took a break, is all. Or he's watching the entertainment from a quiet corner. Hey. Hey. Tanmorand. Lookit the dancers! I don't think I could EVER move like that." Briefly, she scratches under the tie that holds her mask in place, then gets a cunning expression, leaning in towards her weyrmate with A Look in her eyes.

"You did last night," is Tanmorand's see-how-good-a-weyrmate-I-am? reply, as he gives the cavorting women a brief glance and then returns his focus to the game - and his pint.

You overhear Sadaiya mutter, "… … can try, … … … juuuust … have … … … … in … sevenday … you're interested … … … of … … … your … right. … … … … but …" to Tanmorand.

You overhear Tanmorand mutter, "I play cards terribly, Sadie, but … get … anyway." to Sadaiya.

Maryam, on catching that wink from Gritta, lets her lips shape a wan curve. Not a smile so much as recognition, or acknowledgement. The women on the dance floor continue their wild gyrations- and how odd that this would be considered fitting, in the traditional Bazaar- sending the fringe and spangles of their costumes flashing, flying. More patrons are lured in thusly, and where people hesitate, Steen's daughter is there with a soft touch and an encouraging word. The heavy tribal drumbeats thrum strong enough to rattle bones as she circulates. "Please, dance! Everyone…yes, go on," she says, ushering a lanky and wide-eyed young man who has the look of remote cothold written all over him towards a grinning dancer.

Not two shakes of an 'in over his head with the wrong people gambler' after Sadaiya's assurance that the man is probably on break, the guard deputy busts through The Night Flights door. Apparently it is Ladivos night off, but the armed forces of Igen Weyr have trespassed into the bazaar staple for the first time since it opened. "Nobody move! You run, you're guilty!" Not that anyone at this particular instant is involved in anything legal.

Screams from the panicked dancers on the floor echo in through the party. One faints on the dance floor. A rather compassionate group they scatter in all directions leaving the poor unconscious woman to fend for herself.

"Cheeze It! It's the guard!" Rather than heeding direction to men try to make a break for it, only to be man handled down by two new recruits of Igen's new and improved guard. Who else wants to play?

Tanmorand surges to his feet with a curse and a clatter of the chair as the not-that-small Smith reaches for his weyrmate's shoulder and shoves her none-too-gently behind him. Instinct, as he drops his hand to the blade on his hip and draws it. That's instinct too. Stupid, stupid instinct.

To anyone who sees her, Gritta's reaction to the guards appearance is not shock, but the twisted look of a woman who has won some battle everyone thinks she has lost. Locking eyes with the night's leader of the guard they stare at each other for a single moment in silence, before her lips pull up in a knowing smirk, a heavy tap of her cane on the ground singles something to someone and then she disappears into the crowd and out an exit that is not marked for any o f her remaining guests.

Do you have any idea what a rarity it is to see Jharlodar out of his lair? The last time he set foot beyond the Dustbowl's door was probably… the Hatching: the old tavernkeeper is otherwise more attached to his territory than a wher to its lair. So NATURALLY, the one time he ventures out, the guards show up. There's poor old Jharl, at a side table, talking with a relative. He looks up at the sound of commotion, and does the following: blink. Then SIGH. He is too old for this :(

It doesn't take much to clue even a questionably-sober Jovie in that something is amiss and as the excitement of the dancing rises, it's those hints of 'not right' that tingle her spidey sense. Surely in the panic that follows the call for a raid, it's not impossible for the shadowy girl that no one recognized to slip out into the night.

PANIC EVERYONE PANIC. Chaos ensues. Guests, without the calming presence of Gritta are flying in every direction. But is the one with the knife that the guard spots first. "You. drop your weapon!"

Tallarn is standing alone, eyes wide behind his mask. And then he's swamped, frozne amidst the swirl and bustle of the dark flight of partygoers. He's bumped and shoved and pushed, but keeps his tray aloft, eyes fixed on the guards.
"If you'll excuse me, love." We'bs all but coo's in a hushed tone to his new friend the every greasy Starvos. "Looks like that is my cue to run." And with that the man slips away from the table, into the crowd and disappears into the night. As if he'd been planning his escape all along.

At the sound of 'Nobody move!', Stavros … moves. Sweeping his bank off the table and tucking it away, the charcoal clad and masked man attempts to slink into the shadows. He is a bit too smart to draw a weapon here, with the guard bearing down but there is a dagger close to hand as he edges along the wall, trying to find a way to slip away all quiet-like.

"Like hell I will," Tanmorand snaps. "I made this blade." He's not going to /drop/ it. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Tan, no!" chokes Sadaiya, slightly horrified, peering out around his muscled frame with wide-eyes and gripping his hips bracingly. Her face is still hidden by the mask she wears, but her stature is unmistakeable.

"Are you disregarding the orders of the Igen guard, while in Igen weyr?" The guard in charge is clearly in no mood. "Drop your weapon or be taken in for threatening the guard while they are on official duty. You'll be coming in anyway." He glances around, "As you are involved in this affair." He snorts. "Where is the owner of The Night Flight. We have a warrant." The paper is held in the air. "If you resist you will be thrown in the brig. Otherwise you will simply be questioned, if you are found to be here through no fault of your own you will be allowed to leave." Of course who can hear this little speech remains to be seen as most people are attempting to make hasty exits, only to find they are stopped by heavily armed guards.

Tallarn is definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. He blinks, eyes still wide. Those extra marks… He's not getting paid, is he?

Tanmorand grits his teeth and then sheathes his blade, his hand shifting back to grip Sadaiya's shoulder. Stay behind him. "This is a private party." As for the other questions, Tanmorand is tight lipped and pissed. Why are their dates always ruined?

Oh look, this marks the second raid that Maryam has found herself in. This time, however, she remains supernaturally calm when the guards intrude. Rather than stand to be jostled and pushed by those fleeing, she slips towards the side of the room where she takes up a position not far from the not-an-exit through which her friends have fled. Nothing to see here, just a half-masked woman observing the proceedings with impassive mien.

It's at Jharlodar's side that Chel reappears, from having slipped off of the gambling tables. Tearing at the feather mask that's gotten itchy in the past while, letting parts of it litter onto the floor, she slips both hands around his forearm, tugging with some insistence and a tic of a nearly adventurous expression. "Come on— " with an expectation that he will follow, and they will become another pair that's merely disappeared in the bustle (not her skirt, but the crowd).

It's with an old man's querulous expression that Jharlodar tsks his young relative. "Just hold your runners, child." He has to get his CANE. He has to finish his DRINK. He has to acquire his HAT. But then he's willing to let Chel take his arm, moving with old-school regality into the crowd. Jharlodar does not excel at blending.

Stavros finds his way blocked by a burly guard and snarls silently, eyes darting for an easier escape route. A heavy sigh is just a barely breathed groan as his hand closes on the hilt of his dagger briefly. Things could get ugly … for him if he is taken into custody.

"'Fraid not." Is all the guard has to offer with Tanmorand, with a disgusted sneer in his direction. Gambler. Out with loose women. Criminal. With the rest of the guard subduing those trying to run - he points a stubby finger at the back wall. "All of you, line up, hands where we can see them. No quick movements. We'll deal with you individually."

Smith extraordinare, out with his sharding WEYRMATE, and as straight laced as they come. With a low growl of irritation, Tanmorand snatches up his pint (thank you VERY much) and stomps to the back wall as directed, glancing sidelong at Sadaiya. Then the feathers of the mask tickle his nose and set him on a very undignified round of sneezing (six, like always) and do nothing to improve his mood until he yanks the stupid mask off and shoves it into a pocket. Grr.

"Wait!" calls Sadaiya, stepping out from behind Tanmorand after drawing a breath and pushing her domino to her forehead again to reveal her face. "I am Junior Weyrwoman Sadaiya, and this is my weyrmate, Senior Journeyman Tanmorand. We were invited to this party and, on the name of Jivayath, I have witnessed so far nothing more than conversation, dancing, and a bit of card playing. I'm certain this is all a big misunderstanding."

/Senior/ Journeyman, bitches.

Goldriders involved with the underground of the weyr. What has Pern come to?

It's all the damn oldtimers.

The unmasking of the junior weyrwoman does cause the guard's acting captain to pause. His eyes even shift around to the other guards looking for some support. What the fuck do they do now? His jaw sets tightly as he comes to stare at her again, "Junior weyrwoman, you may go. Your date stays. I am under orders to stop the illicit activities at The Night Flight. I will be documenting that you were here and it will be in my report to Corelle." With that he turns back to the those on the wall. That is all the leeway she will get from the man.

Stavros hangs back near the door, sticking to the shadows and praying no one sees him. If there is the possibility of getting away, he's going to take it. He is not going to get caught … not tonight. Maybe after he's relieved himself of his wares but … not at a party. He blinks as the Weyrwoman is unmasked and ponders if he could make this work to his advantage, like trail out on her train if she takes the out the guard seems to have given her.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Sadaiya faces the captain with flashing eyes, a pint sized ball of wrath and pure steel. "I don't think you understand. Me, goldrider. You, guard." This is illustrated by her pointing at her chest with a thumb first, then at the guard before returning her arms to their crossed position. "I just vouched for the entire room that nothing untoward was happening here other than folks having a good time and making friends. Is it illegal now to simply play cards and listen to music?"

Tanmorand pauses and turns when his little weyrmate is sticking up for the weyr. And he walks back up to stand beside her. Not against the wall, nope. Disobedience! "They're just pissed they weren't invited."

A sudden shriek of outrage precedes a wide-eyed Vergora dragging one of the smaller guards into the open. Her height has to come in handy at some point, right? "Gritta? Gritta?!" she calls out, hair now a mess, half of it covering her face like some monster out of Ringu. "This man touched me!" Only then does she realize there are Other Things going on, and that Gritta is nowhere to be found. "What is the meaning of this?" the woman demands, acting for all the world like she still had a glittery, shiny knot on her shoulder and dressed to the nines, rather than… no knot, and dressed in something just a degree above sackcloth.

"I don't think you understand, junior weyrwoman." The guard waves the warrant in the air again, "I have orders from the senior weyrwoman. And I don't intend to disregard them. So, take your leave, or get along the wall. I have work to do." And he doesn't bother with her anymore. A glance at Tanmorand, "If he won't get against the wall, make him." He scoffs at the male who clearly doesn't understand the law of the weyr. Sucks to be him, "Oldtimers, no wonder this place is going under…" Is mumbled under his breath as he walks to start taking accounts from the people who actually seem to understand what the fuck is going on here.

You overhear Tanmorand mutter, "… … … be okay. You need … … and … going … here." to Sadaiya.

Tallarn shakes out of his fugue and retreats to the wall. Still clutching his tray of delicious hors d'oeuvres. Hungry anyone adjacent?
Tanmorand has had some ale and is feeling a bit feisty, so he stands his ground and lets a few guards bully and push him back against the wall. He's a big Smith, that's not easy, but he seems to enjoy making the guards work to get him back 'under control'.

One of those people- sheeple?- is Maryam, who continues to just stand quietly awaiting her turn at questioning. No more is she playing assistant hostess. Instead, she observes the proceedings with interest- interest that peaks with Sadaiya's defense of the room and its occupants. Oh. This will make for interesting gossip on the morrow.

"EXCUSE me, but you did raid. And I am telling you, here and now, that it was unfounded. You did your job and there is no evidence of anything AND the word of the rider of a queen to vouch so you can just go ahead and leave. Don't you turn your back on me! Hey!" Ripping her mask off of her forehead, Sadaiya hucks it at the guard's back with all her fury behind it. "Look at me when you're insulting me. And would someone PLEASE take care of Vergora? There are more important things happening now because, congratulations, you've upset innocent people at a party!"

Stavros finally figures out that he's just not going to get out of here that easily and slinks like a beaten cur to the line, trying to slink behind someone large enough to hid him so he won't have to answer any questions. Besides, he has no idea why The Night Flight would be raided. He just doesn't want to answer questions … about anything.

Jharlodar is in the line, somewhere. He's doing a lot of dignified old man staring at the guards, wielding the disdain of the aged like a cudgel. WHIPPERSNAPPERS. It's not like he has any useful information to divulge, anyway; what are they going to do, press him for details on family gossip? Take his clearly-medicial-use cane? Ask him who his haberdasher is? (Actually, they should totally do that last one — these guards could stand some CLASS.)

Tanmorand sighs. "Sadie," he says, voice low and firm and…trying to be commanding? "Go on."

"No evidence?" He may pay for it later, but the guard is enjoying his little power trip, and he's certainly not turning back around now that the woman is being hysterical. At least for a moment. Yes, he'll let her behavior linger in the air for all to see before he finally turns to her in disgust. A slow sneer pulling across his face. Yah, that's how she's acting right now. Dispicable, and surely lower than her rank should dictate. And so he just watches her for a moment. "I won't lose my job over your outburst." But he also won't stand directly opposed, the man takes the middle ground, "Take all of their names. A statement of how they came to know this activity would be taking place tonight. Then let them go. Let the goldriders figure it out. And they say the guard is why nothing can get down around here. I suppose we really know why now." Weyrwomen can't get it together.

"No, Tan. This is more important than that, and I'm within my rights to press my rank… see, at least that guard has the right idea," Sadaiya huffs as a guard gently leads Vergora out of the area and to freedom. "Unless you're going to interrogate her now, hrm? What evidence DO you have, anyway? A drinking glass? Some finger foods? A couple freaked out dancers? Be certain that I WILL make sure this is taken care of, but I will insist that you let me do that. I'll talk to Corelle myself immediately but, please, take your egos and get the hell out of the now-ruined party. Thanks a lot, by the way. It's not like I wanted to enjoy myself tonight for once."

Tanmorand just sighs again, rubbing a hand over his face. What can he do? She's in a mood. He tried.

"I'll take my report to Weyrwoman Corelle, I'd rather have it filed by someone who wasn't at an illegal party." The guard is insistent as he pulls a piece of parchment from a pocket to start jotting down names. Aww was her fun night ruined cause she chose to go to an illegal party. Smirk. Not his problem.

That's it. With surprising skill, Sadaiya cracks her palm across the guard's cheek with a ringing SMACK noise. Even foley artists would be envious of the perfection of the sound. "Insult me again, I dare you, you over-stuffed, testosterone filled teenager. Or is your guard outfit your costume for the party so you can fulfill your dreams by pretending to be a real man?"

Tanmorand lunges forward at the sight of his weyrmate /striking/ a guard, trying to put his bulk between the guard and her. "/Sadie!" he says, trying to wrap an arm around her petite frame. "STOP."

In the time it takes the head guard to reach his hand to his palm in shock, two other guards have the junior weyrwoman in custody. It was a reaction, a (recently) trained reaction to the assult of another guard, only then they are left staring at their prisoner, and then at their ranking officer, who is now wide-eyed at both the stinging of his face and the the fact his man have a goldrider in their grasp. Who thought good training would do them just as much harm as when they were bad at what they did. Stupid. Fucking. Women. The guard is smart enough, at least, to not voice this opinion. "Take her in. Don't put her in a cell. But don't let her leave." Her dragon probably won't like this. "Better do it quick. I'll go get the weyrwoman." A finger is jabbed at a man against the wall, "Get all of their information and then let them go." With that the man turns on his heels and briskly walks out of the reputationally tarnished Night Flight.

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