==== June 13, 2013
==== Zeyta Shea Br'er Khaida Siraji Webley
==== The night starts off well enough, then Zeyta shows up.

Who Zeyta Shea Br'er Khaida Siraji Webley
What The Night Flight shows it's darker underbelly, everything is delightful until the riders show up.
When 2 turns, 0 months and 0 days until the 12th pass
Where Igen Weyr


The Night Flight (TP Room)
The Night Flight is dark, but isn’t this what your invitation said? The door is open…

At the back of the store, the room where the merchant sometimes disappears to retrieve clothing has a soft light flickering from it. Just inside the door is a man; though he is rather unassuming he is what stands between the store and another door.

Once inside the backroom of ‘The Night Flight’ the whole world has changed. The atmosphere is dimmed, but still seems to be sparkling with light. Loud and rambunctious, the elite of Pern are here, rubbing elbows, sharing drinks and losing money. Colors abound, the place is decorated to the nines, the tables are of custom build and master quality. Chairs are plush and comfortable. You don’t really want to get up do you? Pull out another mark. Girls in skimpy clothing bustle about serving free drinks, and sharing chit-chat with winks and giggles. Many of the holders are here sans their wives but with replacement dates. If they are mistresses or paid company no one asks. It is all laughter and thrills here tonight. Politics mixes with booze and raunchy jokes. Any and every type of card game is set up to be played, and there are more private booths for conversations or snogging in the back.

It is night at 'The Night Flight', this is where the real action happens. The cover of fabric and clothing store has dissipated into the brilliance of where The Flight really makes its money, and its mark on Pern (pun intended). Men arrive without their wives as escorts, they brought them here to shop, because they love them so much, but few of Pern's elite show up without a date. Dressed in the finest, and ready to outdo their counterparts the rich of Pern are here to play. The man at the door discreetly checks invitations, as people enter. The only person to show up without one was none the wiser when he was directed away from a 'family dinner' in back. Women in short skirts are teased by the same men who would call them whores in day light. Booze, abounds, a man pours wine down a tower of wine glasses. A non-Harper sanctioned dance happens on a small stage near some private booths. Colors scream for attention by gambling tables. Come in! If you have the coin, and the invitation.

Into the shop walks a redhead and a brunette - and no, this is not a bad joke, it is more like the beginning of a nightmare. Said brunette, diminutive of stature, throws open the doors with a blast of cold air as she exposes the crowd of patrons to the brutal outside elements. Not that she cares, wanting neither for warmth nor decorum as she cuts through people, decked out in a luxurious, chaste white coat as pure as fresh fallen snow - but made of fur. The thick pelts drag behind Zeyta in an obnoxious train that threaten to trip those unfortunate to walk behind or around her. Except the redhead to her immediate flank, giant, downy arm locked with hers in a display of solidarity. Rare for her, she giggles, leaning to whisper into her friend's ear as they venture into explore. Chances are, the two weren't invited judging by the novelty of their faces - but, the brown-haired one likely paid off the bounce.

Dark mahogany hair is put up in elaborate braids with colorful ribbons streaming down either side of Chalantrial's face. Gold threads are woven into a shimmering ivory dress casting a luster that catches the light. Golden embroidery trim the hem and the low-cut bodice, a style reminiscent of the new-comers then something of this day and age. A sleek golden choke necklace encircles her neck and accentuates her her slim neck and the slight dip at the base of her throat. There's an air of uncertainty along with a devil-may care look as she walks in. A light lick of the lips and a faint murmur to herself as she looks around.

What makes Shea, in contrast, stand out — besides the fact that she's attached to a relaxedly intoxicated Zeyta who stands out all on her own — is not her clothing (which is mostly black and pretty boring) but her hair, the unusual finger-wave style fitting entirely in with the theme of the party unbeknownst to her. She steps more around people than pressing through the group, though she's almost as cavalier about caring who she might bump into and would probably laugh if her companion's coat actually tripped someone. "Cervilaevarth," she says with a tiny little laugh in her voice, "thinks I should play cards. After he decided I should drink. And also wants us to drink more. Maybe you should play cards." Just because her dragon is a master schemer does not, at all, mean that Shea is good at poker.

Webley has slipped away from the candidate barracks, he has obligations after all, he too is even more stylish than usual, tight black trousers, a fitted black jacket, with a sleek blue scarf tucked in. He is hob knobbing with some Holder or other, but then Zeyta is spotted. A quick assessment of the situation in his means one fired bouncer, but for now there is nothing to be done but show the women a good time. A waitress in a short red skirt which was clearly designed by aforementioned man is caught by the elbow gently and whispered too. Disappearing she re-emerges with a tray of tea, and heads for the brownrider and her friend. The clothier has moved on to another table, and shouts of 'Web!' or 'Webs!' and things like, 'We didn't think you'd be here, with that shiny white knot…' though that for the moment has been traded for a less knotted look. "No, no gentlemen," He reassures them, "You are my priority," A slender finger is glided toward a particularly high paying client, "Especially you, and who is your lovely date for the night. Your wife? She must be using some lotion from the traders, miracle really." A row of laughter, as Webley waves to the table and moves on. And who would he come upon but Chalantrial, "Oh! Lovely dress, love. The top is brilliant." Some things do not change, "Come on in, there are open seats at some of the tables. Don't mind the looks, first time girls got cards. But you look beautiful, you'll fit right in." He waves her forward and slips on to the next.

Br'er does, technically, have a date. It's just that his date is a twelve-turn-old, a fact that gives the doorman a hell of a pause - but this isn't the greenrider's first time at the rodeo, and it takes but a smile and few murmured remarks about 'learning experiences' to get them past. The greenrider is dressed formally, but mutedly: only the bright red of his elegantly draped scarf (that most requisite of Igenite accessories) could be remotely described as 'flashy'. Men really get the short end of the formalwear stick. As they walk into the main ruckus, the man can be heard to make a quiet remark to the child: "Now, I'm not here to babysit you. Remember what I said, mind your manners and behave yourself. I've got business here tonight, so don't tail me." Though the words are brusque, his tone is not: it's quite kindly, in fact. Someone is being a Terrible Parent tonight, evidently.

Khaida is a date! Sort of. Maybe a father-daughter date sort of thing. Only, most normal fathers would not bring their daughter to this sort of event, and certainly not at this age! She is dressed very formally, in an outfit that would usually be reserved for a Gather. It's a very subdued color of red, standing out against the darker color of her skin and hair is twisted into a very neat bun. "Yes, I'll remember… And be polite, and mind my manners." As for his business, well, she smiles. "I won't listen in on your conversations." Is promised with a cheerful, innocent smile. Maybe not so innocent, considering. With that, she's slipping away from her Terrible Parent, and moving to mingle with the crowds to learn and observe.

Webley is still working the crowd, nothing can throw him from his game. He's in his element, his zone, all charm and laughs and doing a little twirl of happiness he finds himself face to face with a PRE-TEEN, "Oh. I. Um." Lithe hand cups his chin in bewilderment. "You're a child." One finger lifts from his face to point at the child. He blinks thoughtfully at her for a moment, if there is one thing the man doesn't know how to deal with it is children. Perhaps he truly is Br'er's protege. "Would you, like something to drink? Wine? No that isn't right." Flabbergasted the man finally has and ephany, "Water? Water!" They have that, somewhere, stored away he thinks. "Um. What else do kids drink? Klah? Do you like klah?" He can find some that isn't for adults only. Blink blink. What is happening tonight? People sneaking in, which never happens. People bringing kids, which never happens. This is what happens when Webley is away from the store. This is all Zeyta's fault. He peers over the crowd to give her a good glare, before returning his attention to the child. "Would you like to sit?"

Chalantrial turns around a little and then she faces Webley and gives a little smile "Thank you, it's one of the designs that I've adapted to sell. Da's fit to be tied about it, but luckily he's been in bed a lot lately with his health having taken a turn for the worst." There's a slight frown and then a shrug. "But, what he doesn't know, won't get me in trouble and I am hoping that wearing this will also bring in more business. We need it." she notes and then she gives a tip of her head as she moves off to mingle with some of the people as she heads over towards the tables. She does pause a moment to eye Zeyta's outfit, or namely that coat. She shakes her head a little and rolls her eyes. "Some people have no fashion sense." she murmurs to herself.

"I don't drink," answers a bellicose Zeyta, face flushed red from the spirits she imbibed early in the night, the cinnamon dusting of freckles across her nose all the more poignant given her florid hue. "I don't gamble either," she asserts, lips loose enough to curve upward in a smile at her best friend. When someone behind her steps on her coat tails, she yanks it from under him, yanking Shea along to usher her closer towards the cards tables. If the (indeed, intoxicated) brownrider spies her recent candidate-victim from the corner of her eye, call it feigned ignorance by which both she and Webley mutually benefit. She does spot Br'er though. "YOU. /SCOUNDREL/." And, she beelines towards him, daughter or not there to watch.

Shea can't make a comment about how Zeyta doesn't drink the same way she doesn't drink, because she's too busy being derailed by the person caught by the coat-bait. "Watch your step," she says cooly to the unwitting victim, giving him a decidedly dirty look. It was, of course, all that person's fault; they need to watch where they're going! "You don't gamble like you don't drink," she finally gets a chance to add, once she's gotten her smug-satisfaction face back on — not that it lasts, because suddenly gambling has turned into CONFRONTATION. She may not know what Br'er did this time, but she's got a suspicion, and she's also certainly not being left behind — bluerider stays in step with brownrider to find out what's going on. And maybe yell a little.

Whoops! There's the host. Khaida blinks at Webley and smiles just a touch, "yes, sir." There's her politeness, and minding her manners. True to her word, this one is. "Wait, can I have wine?" There's a look towards Br'er over there, just a little one. He never said anything about drinking. "Water would be nice, too." The question on a seat earns a shake of her head before her gaze is following after Zeyta for her call, and then her beeline towards Br'er. Brown eyes follow the scene, all of her interest honing in on that situation for the moment.

Br'er handles being suddenly shouted at with the ease of a man who has often be suddenly shouted at in his life. (This isn't even the first time he's had an Oldtimer woman call him a scoundrel, specifically. Br'er keeps it real.) Five steps away from his target - a table full of men with faces sly and too-innocent, the greenrider comes to a languid halt, turns his head, and smiles. Pleasantly. All bright teeth and mild demeanor. "May I help you -" now that he's gotten a real look at her, the coat earns itself a PAUSE, before he soldiers through "- young lady?" Drink away, Khaida: your Bad Parent is obviously too distracted to notice.

Siraji is here for the gambling. Or for the schmoozing. Or, most likely, for the chance to make connections, as the grand majority of hers - of her trade- rather than blood-related - are some four hundred turns in the past. The knot at her shoulder - because there is a knot at her shoulder, here in far-future Igen - is grey and white and red and blue, and while her caravan's colors may not be familiar the gleam of gold cord that declares her its leader is. That probably explains the invitation. Against Igen's chill she has conceded: breeches, and an oldtimer-styled tailored vest and longcoat in brown; no concession has been made on her hair however, still long in the middle and short on the sides. Not gifted with height, rather than stand on her toes to look for familiar faces she gets a little bull-marchy through the crowd, but pleasant. See her smile. Mind the teeth.

If it is underground, blackmarket, or otherwise shady, and involves the uppidity up of Pern it probably happened at a night like this. No one pulls rank here, because who can? What are they going to do, admit it later? No, The Night Flight has something on them. Trader and Holder exchange ill gotten funds for political favors, and out in the open. There are even congrats given for the deals. There are some looks up from tables at the yelling. This may be a place of tantalizing skin and illegal ventures, but there are rarely words of anger. "Uh. Wine?" Webley shrugs, maybe it will make her go to sleep. "Sure. Just don't throw up inside." And with that he's sashays through the crowd a certain unmet, but certainly known trader has arrived. "Hellllloo, love." Is positively coo-ed as he slides up to her through a throng of people, "Glad you could make it. Welcome to 'The Night Flight'. Not how it normally looks, but as you can see, we have a certain clientele that can only make it out at night. Can I get you something?"

Chalantrial has settled herself at a table with a few other women and some younger men. She watches the current game, or more like she watches the other people. There's a thoughful frown and a slightly frustrated loo befire she shrugs and then just decides to enjoy herself. That is until the angry words are said and she looks around and then snorts "Figures it'd be the walking flea factory." she murmurs and then blushes at a look and shrugs. What can she say? "Well, I've seen better coats on the spits, where'd she ever get that get-up?" She does take a glass of wine as a server comes to the table and takes a sip. "Hmm, much better than the last batch I had." she murmurs.

"I don't," Zeyta insists with a sly wink over the soft-white mountain of fur draped over her shoulder. Waiting until Shea bolsters her ranks by sidling in next to her in front of Br'er, she employs Feminine Wiles aka the removal of her coat. Tossing it over a vacant chair she claims by default of the maneuver, she bares all beneath: a creamy expanse of white skin clad in a scandalous LBD. That's right, she donned the most powerful tool in her arsenal: the little black dress. Mounting a hand on either hip, she glares at Br'er. "Young lady? I am Zeyta of High Reaches and you, thieving tunnelsnake, you STOLE my records and gave away my KNOT." What on Pern is the delusional female brownrider screaming on about? If anything, Nowtime Conservatives: 1, Women: 0 after that outcry.

Since Br'er doesn't look to see where she's at, and the situation with him has not yet picked up, her attention turns to Webley as her request is met with a positive answer. "Thank you, sir." The girl is positively beaming. Who knows, she could end up hating wine. "I promise I won't." Another absolutely beaming smile is given before he wanders away to welcome more to the shady shindig. She will make herself partially scarce so she can be found when needed. And then, the situation heats up with her Terrible Parent and attention is slipping back over there. And she doesn't get any closer, because she promised, after all.

It wouldn't be fair to say Br'er is entirely unaffected by the LBD deployment: his eyes widen, and there's an instinctive moment of 'hello, breasts'. But he gets it under control right QUICK. And he has a tool of in his own arsenal, perfectly poised for use: the expression of perfect Reason. A glance is shot at his would-be tablemates, smile apologetic, brows lifted. 'Women', it says, clearly. 'So crazy!' And then to Zeyta, so mildly, so reasonably: "I beg your pardon, yo - Zeyta of High Reaches. I don't know what you're talking about?" And then, so gently: "Perhaps you should sit down, have a glass of water? I think you might perhaps be overheated." Smile!

Normally Shea would've done along the lines of same, as far as clothing is concerned, but today she has continued to opt for pants, letting Zeyta be the one who stands out in clothed glory. (Shea's jewelry is fancy as can be in a subtle, understated way, but no one's looking that closely.) This is brilliant entertainment for her, at least as long as Zeyta has what seems to potentially be the upper hand — which, really, she probably doesn't considering at this point they both look nuts. It isn't as if people think Shea is normal anyway: a girl in Whirlwind. And now there are three of them! Br'er's quick glance to the breasts, she notices (because she was watching for it) and lets out a tiny giggle. "Well, you did take records from the 'Reaches," she points out as if this was an obvious statement everyone knows everything about.

While Webley's face may not be familiar his demeanor is, and Siraji - aggressive, anti-social Siraji - flashes him a smile that's decidedly pleased to make his acquaintance … to a point. "You must be Webs," is full of interest as she takes in the surroundings, "proprietor an' clothier. Been meanin' to look you up," for the regular kind of business. "Figured t'night's as good a night as any. I don't suppose you have any-" oh, and then her attention is caught, and this time she does rise up on her toes to investigate the source of a familiar voice. The shouting one. Whatever her original intent, she changes it abruptly to, "cake."

As if Zeyta forgot to accessorize herself. Embracing her Igenite heritage, and honoring her Reachian upbringing, the jewelry adorning her neck in a clunky necklace and cuffing her risks is as obnoxious as her coat with its ostentation: a sparkling gold inlaid with dark, master-cut sapphires. Little as she is, she summons a lioness ferocity in her sharply construed features, aristocratic bearing gone deadly as she visually mows down the mocking men around her, honing in on Br'er. "Oh, please as I'm not one of those dimglow goldriders you FOOLED with your charm. As if a man could bring me down." Great, now she sounds BUTCH. Zeyta is hitting all the stereotypes about brownriders and women tonight. "You heard me. You STOLE records from Oldtime High Reaches Weyr and I want them back. Shea, arrest him!" Nevermind she has the wrong bluerider. She is drunk and hence, a degree unaware of her surroundings (especially to the growing threat of Death By Cake).

"Yes. Business, love. Good." Webley offers a soft little wink, and shows off the room with a sweeping of hands, "We'll get to that, though. Have a seat. I'll make sure cake is brought out, what kind?" Because they have plenty. A hand palm up, waves towards an empty chair at a both, "You might find that, particular holder very interesting." Perhaps he's heard about her goods some, and has connections for her. Unfortunately, the bustle isn't settling down. "If you'll excuse me just a minute, love. I'll be back to find you later." A promise, no doubt. "That cake'll just be a minute." And with that, hips swaying back and forth he slides into a seat next to Br'er, and the loud women. "Br'er, really? Stole records?" Little clucking noises are made at the greenrider. No ranks tonight, sorry lovelies. "However, I can tell you something about this place." Eyebrows waggle, "Stickier situations have been solved right here." Even though he's sure he'll end up having extra latrine duty somehow for all of this. He opened the door for the wrong woman. "Why, Minor Lord Harid thought, Lord Rical had something to do with his wife's death. Didn't you? And now look at 'em. Old chums." The two men raise their hands in acknowledgement, and Webley waggles fingers at them. "You see, sugas'. All we have to do is figure out what the price is, and then," His fingers close together to make a little flower bulb in the air and then spring open, "Poof." An eyebrow is raised at Br'er. "Now, Zeyta. See I told you, you fit right in - " A reference to knot stealing perhaps? And he's managed to learn her name from someone too, a Webley has his ways. "And Br'er, suga. Really? A comet hits and you take records from the hapless. Still I've heard of worse. Surely you could repay the debt…" The voice trails off as if it is something he should probably consider.

"I did not." Br'er's voice rings clear and calm, and a little amused. His smile doesn't waver a millimeter. "We were given records to bring forward, and we copied records. But there was certainly no theft from our… gracious host." He holds his hands out before him, palms up in a mute entreaty: not to Zeyta (who is OF COURSE unreasonable) but to the spectators so eagerly enjoying the show. The greenrider's mouth takes a wry little uptick at the corners, eyebrows up a half-centimeter. Who are they going to believe: the respectable, sober Nowtimer, or the drunken Oldtimer trollop? Indulgent, almost, the way he says, "But if you have concerns, ma'am, I would be happy to discuss them with you… in private?" To Webley, though, he is less indulgent: the Candidate earns a faintly dour stare. Sooooomeone isn't liking having his drama honed in on! "There's no debt to be paid. The girl is drunk; that's all."

"The cake kind," is Siraji's helpful response, but it serves its purpose: Webley is already on his way to soothe ruffled feathers, and she has the entire attention of the indicated holder. "Evenin'," has just enough rough-edged warmth in it to keep it on her, "hear you an' I might have some things t' discuss." With that she leans against the table and her voice drops below the rise and fall of the background noise, becomes part of the call-and-answer of the crowd as she works rusty, sharp-edged charm while biding her time until cake arrives. The service here is good, she'll give it that: soon, as promised, she has acquired cake; it is very cake-like. It is even deliciously cake-like, if her expression is any indication, and she very nearly leaves it at that. She doesn't, though, and it's with regret that's very nearly genuine that she disengages, her, "I'm sorry, there's some old," four-hundred and five-or-so turns old, "business I need to take care of; we're on th' caravan grounds, though, can't miss us. Come by an' tell 'em Saji sent you, 'f I ain't around." Sorry, Br'er, here's one more person honing in on your drama: Saji starts wending (elbowing) her way through the crowd, inexorably.

Khaida is enthralled by the argument, or, really the shouting done by Zeyta. Eyes are wide, ears are open, and she's simply taking it all in. Scandal! Though she's snuck a little closer, she flits away hopefully before she can be noticed. Learning, indeed, but one must wonder who she's learning from in this situation. However, she is drifting back around to settle closer to Webley. He clearly is a good source to learn from, after all: he's given some advice previously.

Apparently, Shea holds her alcohol better than Zeyta, at this point; she does, at least, remember who she is and where she is, which means that she also knows who she is not. "I would, darling," she says softly, more a whisper than anything else, "if I were M'yck and if I had any standing here besides being a wingrider." She's not about to apologize to Br'er, though: much as her loyalties are torn because Teya's her cousin, Zeyta also deserved that knot. "Out of curiosity," she adds, stirring the pot, "who gave 'em to you?"

"Mnnn, consider yourself deputized." Zeyta has always been skilled at wielding authority not officially her own; she tries it now with Shea. Scowling at both Nowtime men - candidate and rider - addressing her, she shakes her head. Her fury freezes behind a frigid veneer of cooler anger that overcomes her. Volume, however, carries along for all to hear. First, she threatens Webley: "Candidate. I, mm, may be new here, but I do believe your presence her violates a number of rules." As topaz gaze alights on Br'er, again, she shoulders past him to better speak to the men. "Oh, no. I would prefer to discuss it here in public. I have nothing to hide." All the while cake looms nearer..and nearer… "I brought a list verifying all the documents borrowed and copied from my archives signed by Weyrwoman Rhaeyn," turning to the gamblers, smile slicing, "the selfsame goldrider with whom dearest Br'er had a tryst." Oh, that's right: not only an archivist, but a skilled gossip girl (Shea can testify). "And also notarized by goldrider Tuli here in Nowtime." (NEVERMIND Zeyta learned how to forge her signature) "So no. I do not think privacy is required. In fact, I might as well visit High Reaches myself and check for the records alleged to be missing."

Webley is fine with private, "There is some space over there, if you are serious, love." He comments to Br'er, ignoring the look, because he safe, at least here, tonight. Fluttering look is given to a woman passing by, the man turns to see just who it was, but spotting Webley only gives a good hearted laugh and a waggled finger of a good joke. Tonight he's king of his store, do you see his loyal subjects? Puppets. Tomorrow, on the other side of the weyr, may be another story. Zeyta tirade is given a look as cool as the one yesterday in the store, "My presence here violates no rules." Which is true. He was very careful, and has not touched a drop of alcohol. Unless there is a rule about wining and dining people making illegal deals in ones store, he might be breaking that rule. "However, if you," A slender finger is twirled toward the brownrider, "Would like have Br'er in some sort of trouble for your story? Yes?" A smirk, "Do you really think calling him out for stealing, over 400 years ago, in a den," A FABULOUS den mind you, "Of gambling and illegal deals would cause the biggest scene?"A brief pause, "If you'd like the guard captain he's right over there." A hand shows the way, to the man who's currently pre occupied with a woman who is in his lap. Must be getting late. "Really, timing is everything."

So sorry, Br'er. So sorry, Webley. So sorry, She- okay, not actually sorry, Shea; family and friends don't get solicitous meta-apologies. (Or actual ones, in fact.) "Excuse me," is the only warning: hello, yes, there is a much smaller though certainly not slighter redhead stepping out from behind a lookie-loo and up to Zeyta's side - Zeyta's other side, non-Shea side, that is. "Old business," is side-mouthed to Webley, all the explanation Siraji gives before bringing one hand up to sla- oh, no, not to slap the short-coupled brownrider, but to smash that delicious, delightful cake into the inebriated brownrider's face, provided no-one steps in to stop the delivery. There will just be extra spatter if they do.

"Weyrwoman Rhaeyn did," Br'er tells Shea, tone even - and then sharp, sharper than it's been all night, when Drunky J'Accuse dares speak That Name. Did you know the oil-slick greenrider was capable of frostbitten tones of unveiled distaste? You do now! "We most certainly did not, and I'll thank you not to impugn the reputation of the -" only the tiniest of halts "- dead." Because she is. Very definitely. For about four centuries, at this point. "You're quite welcome to check up against the records, brownrider, but -" Oh, never mind, there is cake. Br'er gapes. And, at his close proximity, gets splattered. It's hard to tell what he's choking over: the sudden presence of cake-shrapnel in his mouth, or the sheer WTF of it all.

Zeyta, daughter of the north channels all her wintry regard into one glacial glance. "Weyrwoman Rhaeyn did not authorize what you stole. Greenrider and brownrider we may be, think you can pit your word against a goldrider or my beloved," (because she will namedrop without shame), "and noble Weyrsecond when I confront them with the truth?" Huffing as she stands on her tiptoes with indignance, she opens her mouth to speak yet again when - an incoming projectile of cake pummels her in the face. Zeyta: making enemies WHENever she goes. Also throwing tantrums whenever, as, drunken, she flings frosting and from her eyes and hollers.

"WhatareyoudoingI'mdaughterofaWeyrleaderandmyfamilyrunstheguardIwillBURYYOUKCZYSLAWBORTHAH." Little of what she screams is discernible, and most of her arsenal of threats she instinctually runs off the tip of her tongue reference dead people … people dead for 400 turns. So instead, she stoops to grab two handfuls of cake. Then she throws. One at Br'er. One in the direction of her ASSAILANT, if Siraji escapes too fast for her to identify her face.

Such an interesting learning experience. If the young girl was expecting anything from this endeavor, it was certainly not this. Nonetheless, interest has danced across various conversations and yet always wanders back towards the Terrible Parental figure. She's even managed to sweet talk a glass of wine from someone (she's learning!). Though, it is promptly handed over to someone as if she hasn't had a sip from it once the taste is determined not to be to her liking. Attention is going back to the drama afoot, entirely curious all over again.

CAKE? That is the last straw. Riders may rule the weyr, but yelling in a 'private' business (even if it is less than legitimate), cake throwing and rather bad manners will NOT be tolerated. The merchant-prince turned candidate slips from his seat, a willowy finger coolly wipes icing slowly from the shoulder of his jacket and plops it in his mouth, hopefully this will distract from his other hand which is snapping at several large men who were casually sitting at table, but are, as can clearly, be seen now the real bouncers. "Gentlemen. I believe these ladies, have over stayed their welcome." 'Natural' smile has slid from his face, and there is an air of authority which fills the void left but the sudden departure of flamboyancy. "They'll be much happier outside." A finger is pointed at Br'er, "He may stay. I like him." A dirty smile at Zeyta. Does he really like the man? Or does he hope this will cause him more trouble later. When the operator of 'The Flight' asks one to consider something, perhaps one should. And as the rather large men converge on the unfortunate women, Webley has already turned his back on the scene and moved on to smooth talking a holder. Riders? What riders?

"I … think we are leaving now," Shea says in a softly-diplomatic tone; never mind that all she really did was stand there, because she would have done more. Potentially. Because she is, in her very nature, a pot-stirrer. At least she hasn't thrown cake: two of her closest people might have been shoving cake at each other but she managed to dodge it. Mostly. There's a little bit in her hair, somehow, and she actually stops to taste the frosting. "Also, this is very good, Candidate," she calls at the back of Webley's head before offering Zeyta her arm. "We will leave willingly and on our own four feet," she tells the bouncers, icily polite. "Come on, Yza, you should get to bed."

Br'er takes his cake to the face with resignation: he knew it was coming, he saw it was coming. Why bother to dodge? Tonight has already gone to pot. Dripping with excess dignity, like unto a wronged feline, the greenrider steps to the side, away from the brownriding harridan, and fastidiously clears cake off his abused features. It's during this process that the man's gaze happens to come to rest of Khaida. Khaida and her ALCOHOL. "Who gave that child wine?" comes his sudden, scandalized voice. "She's twelve, she can't drink! People are going to say I'm a bad parent!" Says Br'er, regarding the abandoned daughter he brought into a den of crooks. Hate to tell you this, man: that ship? Sailed.

"An' so was I," Siraji answers back, because she's ducked just far enough away to be free of potential limbs - but not further cake-throwing. She totally gets caught with the flung handful of icing, which she proceeds to finger-swipe from her coat-front and then consume off her finger. "Th' cake is delicious - that was for my wedding, brownrider," she reminds, gargoyle grin bright. Recognizing a bouncer when she sees one, she raises both hands in the clearly understood signal for no-muscle-needed; then she shoots a finger-gun toward the contact made earlier, and starts to haul ass toward the door. Not without being stopped once or twice to collect names of intrigued parties, and once to deliver unto Khaida the benevolent gift of smashed cake-remnants to pair with her illicit wine. That said: she is at the head of the semi-disgraced Oldtimer exodus, and once they three are clear the evening carries on with barely a pause. And considerable more gossip.

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