==== February 18, 2014
==== Thierry, Chel, Zeyta, Teyaschianniarina, Reilan, Jharlodar, Mayte, Rhiex
==== Bazaarfolk meet Weyrfolk on an Igen evening.

Who Thierry, Chel, Zeyta, Teyaschianniarina, Reilan, Jharlodar, Mayte, Rhiex
What Bazaarfolk meet Weyrfolk on an Igen evening.
When It is sunset of the first day of the second month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
Where Igen Bazaar Sidestreet

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Bazaar Sidestreet
No matter the time of day, the darkness here is almost absolute, adding a certain je ne sais quois that borders on the treacherous. Here and there, cobblestones have gone missing and leave holes that are perfect for snagging the feet of the unaware. The stench is also criminal, a mixture of urine, rotting meat, and other things best left unexamined in the heaps that pile up next to the back doors of certain of the bazaar establishments.


Dipping low on the horizon, Rukbat's light is fading and leaving the bazaar in that pre-twilight rosy glow. It might even be somewhat an appealing shade, if it wasn't for the actual /setting/: there's nothing that could be described as especially appealing about the naturally darker sidestreets that are home to some of the bazaar's shadier and shade-loving folks. Amongst those that fall into at least /one/ of those categories is Thierry, stalking along the sidestreets, puffing on his near-ubiquitous toke even though he looks like he might be on patrol… he's dressed for it, anyway. He might even have an air of /authority/ to him. Or arrogance. One of the two!

With lights fading, there's a sense of futility beginning to rise in Chel's purpose striding up and down the mucked trenches of the Bazaar side streets, as well as something needling and unwise about her presence there. While her wear is that of a male Igenite, her figure's unmistakable in what light remains — especially the very obvious betrayal of the near dreadlocks of dark hair billowing out from the hair-tie barely keeping them in place. Her minute sense of femininity is in the cloth she holds, though not daintily, at her mouth as she scrapes a foot bravely, or stupidly, forward and leans over a slimy heap of Faranth knows. Even though reinforced, her boot toe hesitates to quite prod at the likely rotting material. She balks, stepping back and shaking her head out with a flare of personal disappointment in herself.

Not quite back to androgynous-wiry, the taller of the two brownriders who duck into the sidestreet's shadows is none the less ranges closer to it than she has these last few months; her everyday leathers fit neatly once again, all clean military lines in shades of brown. "It's a shortcut," she assures her shorter companion, cheerful if low-voiced as she re-adjusts the sling that hooks across the front of her. Not for injury, this: from within the occasional small snuffly-squeak. Her knot says wingrider; her badge says Mirage; the confident ring of her boots in familiar beat-cop time says more-to-her-than-that. "Just - hold your breath a bit, sometimes."

Teyaschianniarina totally remembered her name in there, shh.

"Tch. You act as if I do not know the layout of the bazaar by now," Zeyta chastises her company in her flat monotone, punctuated by the clip of heels that mark steady staccato rhythm to their winding progress. "Backdoors let me circumvent the damned crowds." Such a collection of contrasts, this one: a lavish spender who hates the marketplace, today she also distinguishes herself as a rider far removed from the tell-tale signs of attire. In fact, the diminutive brownrider wears no signification of her rank and station other than her knot, fixed on her shoulder; the rest of her drapes itself in black from head to toe, from dark veils spread around her face to blooming taffeta skirts that sweep the floor. It's an outfit of mourning - perhaps for the curious bundle latched to the front of her company, drawing frequent looks of scowling intrigue. "So help me, Teyaschianniarina," she warns, employing /full/ name, "if it starts crying…"

That's quite a display Chel's putting on - enough so to put a halt to Thierry's stalk-strutting while he watches her from the intersection between two alleys. He pulls on his toke, puffing out smoke rings with a highly amused, crooked curl to one corner of his mouth, especially so when Chel reacts as she does to that indescript pile of better-not-known. Intrigued, he strides towards her, eyes flickering down to the balk-worthy heap as he gets closer. Thierry is /about/ to say something to Chel in line with the jeering sort of smile he wears, but the appearance of two more women has him biting his tongue. They're so clearly /not/ bazaar that they're more immediately interesting, though he still flicks his gaze head to toe over Chel, clicking his tongue at her before eying the riders - particularly the black-clad one. Now /that's/ curious, because the voice is familiar even if that outfit doesn't make it easily recognisable. "Lost?"

"They're faster, too." Though truth be told when Teya was mapping the bazaar-streets through the soles of her boots it was with rank to guard her; now she carries herself with the same unconscious ease despite it. It's not an unobservant ease, though: that has too many turns of guard-training behind it to ever be entirely shed, so she's aware of both woman-incognito and uniformed guard, as well as the street's … less pleasant aspects. "I fed him before we left, and changed, and if he does then he does," is to her companion, the short to her tall, the skirts to her pants, the obscured-pretty to her revealed-plain. "Guardsman," is to Thierry, with a quick salute - guard to recruit (ingrained) rather than wingrider to guard (learned). "No, just taking a shortcut. How goes your patrol?"

Double interest; two different remnants of conversation attract Chel's turn, as well as a piqued sense of warning when roaming these less than hallowed spaces. Before engaging, she convinces herself to thrust her foot to nudge the pile. With a shudder, it collapses into itself, releasing the scamper of a sewage covered critter who darts across the street's path in front of Zeyta before disappearing into the black. The newcomers' attire and attitudes are marked in time to the booted feet and then, last, and whatever judgment that passes on him, Thierry. Maybe she would've moved on, continued with her strange excavation of the street muck, but her sidle slows when it means to take her by them. When it's led her to come up beside the taller woman, she murmurs, "Sorry," then with a toss of her head, her voice grows sharper, "Teyaschianniarina?"

So small a stature cultivated temerity, not timidity in Zeyta; pair it with her privilege and she knows no fear of corridors more likely to house those of sinister intent. Behind the opaque layers covering her face she wears an expression of unmasked discontent, her hauteur putting upon airs of superiority that carry over into her aggressive stride, combative and prepared to shoulder past those that would position themselves obstacles in her path. Let the scum rotting in a pile acquire mobility, however, and she pauses, pulling back the fronts of her dress as she scoffs in disgust. "This place is /rotten/," she grits through bared teeth, forgetting her complaints of children to gripe over this much more /fetid/ dislike. "No, we are not /lost/. Do not waste your breath, Teya, this is no High Reaches; the guards are incompetent as the rest of their lot here." Hidden, still, she clarifies with a bitter acerbity, "Yes, that is Teyaschianniarina, rider of brown Ryglinath. What of it?"

"Bless you," is Thierry's reaction to the… spew of letters that come from Chel's mouth. He draws one last breath from his toke before stamping it out on the ground, blowing out a plume of blue-grey smoke into the air between himself, the riders and Chel. The salute given to him isn't returned in kind, even if it /is/ acknowledged with the tiniest head-dip; he just looks warily at Teya, unsure of her interest in what he's doing. What's it to /her/? The skirted lady's reaction to the scuttling critter earns her a smirk, though. "If you're not lost you'd best be on your way, then," he says, /so/ helpfully sarcastic, stepping aside and gesturing them on with sweeping arms.

Not /all/ the smells of the sidestreet are horrible. Why, there's a little bakery right there, and a few distinctly herbal scents wafting from beneath the awning of a tea shop. A lilac awning, to be precise, where Reilan appears into the less than savory air. He takes his time however, the transition from inside to out requiring the replacement of the cloth across his mouth and nose, adjusting it while peering one way down the path…then the other. It's a wary expression, one met with surprising results as they land on Thierry and..company? Lost company? /Not/ lost company? The teen puffs out an air, billowing the cloth before his mouth slightly as he sidles up alongside the guard, casting a quick look up at the taller boy before piping up, quite near cheerfully. "Incompetent? That's hardly accurate..unskilled or inadequate maybe…but that's just the guard. Some of the guard. /This/ guard is quite different ,and certainly helpful if you need it."

Teyaschianniarina side-steps the scurrying rodent neatly, with a quick tip of a lopsided grin at Chel for the apology; an acknowledging dip of her head for the recognition, her voice warm over, "Chel," with quick bump of her elbow at Zeyta's - jostlejostle - for her response. "This is no High Reaches, sure, but this High Reaches is not ours. Igen is." Even the gross parts of it. Back to Chel, though: "My regards to the Tlatoani, and your grandfather in particular. How's," she glances at Thierry, finishes, "business?" out the side of her mouth, then offers the guardling a, "You must be a new recruit?" her interest obviously piqued. Reilan's comments earns the younger boy an outright grin, a quick flash of warmth over, "Igen's guardhouse has been one in need of cleaning for some time. I started," there's a brief glance back to Zeyta here, almost apologetic for it, before returning back to Reilan for, "and hopefully the tradition is continuing. Well met, recruit." Back to Theirry.

Few riders ever see a gleam of acceptance in Chel's eyes — ones who rag on the Bazaarfolk as incompetent get much the opposite — but Teya remains a steadfast exception. Chel's mouth warms on one side, slipping up, "And respects to you and," just a slight hitch, "yours." Perhaps the mentioned dragon not quite accepted, or the little bundle that receives a drive up of one of Chel's dark eyebrows in unflattering consideration. Luckily, it's when Teya's looking elsewhere. Briefly, Chel follows her look to Thierry, gifting him with half-smirk and raised eyebrow both. "Ain't he cute?" She asks the rider in a tone another person might've reserved for the baby. She waits for the guard to stop being addressed. Then, with a sweep of her hand across her thickening dreadlocks, it's back to the woman. "The bar thrives. There's somewhat of a…" Sucking on her lip, she reroutes, "thriving… ness. To it." Smooth as shit. "And the errant N'thu?"

Seeing Jharlodar outside his domain, for any reason other than a major gathering, is a bit like spotting a rare unicorn, or some other mythical beast: it happens so rarely, people might well make tapestries to record the event. The old man's cane announces him in advance, a steady beat struck against the dusty street. "We thrive indeed." His voice, so calming, comes with the barkeep himself: he moves towards the little group with a regal serenity. They can wait a dang moment for him to get there. Jharl don't hurry. The familiar face of Chel is glanced at, the faintest browlift a mute signal of 'My, my, what's all this about?' Out loud: "The Dustbowl's regards to Igen's riders. And our other loyal customers."

"Incompetent, insufficient, /and/ insolent," Zeyta amends, prompted by Reilan's heroic counter. And then, she shows her face; far from some hideous gorgon (as tone and foul disposition suggest), the woman behind such hostile words is striking once she parts her veils. Familiar, too, to the guard recruit she belittles, curbing her attitude after exchanging measured glances with her fellow brownrider. "You did start to reform the guard. Until they relieved you and every other decent member among your former ranks." Embittered, she stews in a momentary silence, leaning to investigate the gurgling bundle strapped to Teya. "I'll be along when I /feel/ like it." The smile she adopts is little comfort; it's too saccharine, and not a little predatory with a flash of teeth as she directs her attention at Thierry. Your move.

Who /else/ would defend Thierry in such a way as Reilan? The guard recruit turns to give his little friend a scowl, reaching out to thwap him on the back of his pretty blonde head. "/Rei/," he hisses warningly, not quite the sort of response expected in return for praise. There's a moment of brown-on-blue eye contact there in which he wordlessly communicates to the younger teen, before he looks back at the riders, at Chel. "Guard is what it is." Whatever that may be. As for being well met, he nods, even manages an awkward twitchy attempt at a smile, that turns to tongue moistening his lower lip when Jharlodar appears. The man's recognised for who he is, and Thierry offers him, too, a head-bob greeting. When Zeyta is revealed, he grimaces, shrugs, and turns back to Reilan. "Hey, Worm. They'll get along when they feel like it," he repeats the brownrider's tone, mockingly. Then he looks skywards, where twilight has almost faded to darkness. He makes a little hand signal at Reilan - a secret sign language that only the blonde will understand.

Reilan shakes his head ever so slightly, making a faint tsking noise in the back of his throat. "I don't know about how clean the guardhouse is..but if the floor needs scrubbing, I'm sure that guard named Terrian is the best one for the job. Says his legs in terribly good shape..he'd make quick work of it. Wouldn't he, Thierry?" Whack? /Whack/? The teen huffs at the contact, hands lifting to brush the guard completely away from him as he takes a few steps to the side. One finger does lift toward his friend, /pointing/ at him silently. His eyes narrow on Thierry, but then the teen simply sweeps away again with at nod to the riders, hurrying down the street. Sure, there's a discreet nod to both Chel and Jharlodar as he passes, but he keeps on trekking, hurrying out and around a corner.

"Errant, as always, but well — has a greenrider he's sweet on," Teya answers Chel, expression still acquaintence-friendly. "I'm glad to hear that," she doesn't cut herself off sharply, no, but she doesn't finish the sentence either: instead she lights up just a shade, crooked smile warming her face as Jharlodar makes an appearance and answers her inquiry for himself. "Sir," is respectful, deferent without being stilted; he may not be her family, but. But. "Igen's regards," she offers back, before returning her attention to sighing at Zeyta for the other brownrider's commentary. (Accurate though it may be). Instead of a verbal response she tugs down the edge of the sling, so that Rickety (yes, Rickety) may pass further inspection. "The guard abides?" she asks Thierry, both eyebrows up; her nose wrinkles slightly as Reilan makes mention of the guardhouse's floors. "At least," could be directed at him; it could also be directed at anyone, really, to judge from her tone, "they've fixed the stairs."

Sight and sound of Jharlodar straighten Chel's shoulders with an instinctual pride alongside the familial warmth. Tempered just a bit by the slight sky-ward roll of her eyes as she affords him a muted hand signal describing the collision of Bazaar and riderfolk as generally 'dumb'. Okay, so the official translation is a little less sassy, but put a Chel twist on it. Biting her lip in a manner that suggests she'd like to hear more about this 'greenrider', layered indelicately over a general dismissal of anything called 'greenrider' being relevant to her relative, she yet remains silent while hop-skipping a step closer to the approaching Jharlodar. She stops somewhere near his elbow and stands there like a proud guard. A flick of her eyes down and up. "You're gettin' muck on your cane." Might be a tease, considering the putrid who-knows all over her boots. And that she's wearing boots.

"My goodness, what a nice looking baby you have." Jharlodar beams benevolently upon Teya and her pink potato, waving a hand at the child as if to bless him. (And to you, young Rickety, I grant the gift of MELLOW.) He returns Thierry and the departing Reilan's nods with a polite inclination of his head, before his attention drifts towards his relative. At whom he squints, affably. Idly, he scratches the side of his nose; the signal for 'interesting. Let's see what happens.' Out loud: "I've waded through these streets since before your dad was a twinkle in his dad's eye," the old man says, serenely. "Canes, and boots, can be washed."

"I don't oversee the guard." Or anyone, for that matter, and Igen thanks Faranth for Zeyta's lack of rank. Tyrannical enough in bearing, she passes a pleasant-enough smile (sharpness muted) at Jharlodar, although her attention rivets itself on young Rickety. Dare she touch him? Yes, with a lone finger that brushes his cheek stirring the brownrider's poor, shriveled heart. But something /does/ catch and distract from the corner of her eye. Lifting her skirts, she murmurs to her frienemy(?), "Mm, I'm reminded I should pick up a perfume I ordered concocted. Retrieve me when you are ready to — proceed, Teya." With a small curtsey she excuses herself, gone to barge her way into some poor merchant's shop and raise hell until she's once more summoned on whatever wayward adventure two Oldtimers and a baby first embarked on that led them here.

It's been a long day, and Mayte looks just a little worn as she steps out, broom in hand, to the front of Corks and Works. What's all this, then? The apprentice eyes the crowd with interest, noting with annoyance that the blond is leaving, and leaving his brunette buddy. The little pull of a moue on her lips? Jharlodar's voice is heard and dark eyes widen a bit; broom is leaned against the wall and Mayte sallies forth. Sit to the edge? No, no, Mayte moves right next to Thierry. O HAI. "Good evening, sirs, ma'ams," with barely a flick of an eye to Zeyta's departure. And then one up at Thierry, though that smile has more whites than genuine friendliness. What's the fuss? Tell me what's a-happenin'!

Terrian scrubbing floors. Now /that's/ an image Thierry can snort a laugh about. Reilan's finger-pointing quickly quells that mirth though, and he meets narrowed eyes with narrowed eyes, watching as the young blonde leaves. All the cooing over babies makes his lip curl in distaste, and he hovers awkwardly on the edge of the little group as he fumbles about with one of his tokes, setting it up for lighting. The pick-up of Zeyta's skirts does bring a smile to his face, even if it's a somewhat dry one - and he's not exactly secretive in the somewhat /approving/ look he gives for her garb as she makes her excuses. "Suits you," he murmurs smokily as she passes him, before… oh shards. A Mayte. Right next to him. His next exhaled, smoke-laden breath is directed at her as he returns her smile with an equally-laden glower, and a flicker of his eyes across her form… no doubt inspired by their /last/ meeting. Since she's not improved much in the spot where his gaze lingers a fraction longer than it should, he smirks, gives a tiny, dismissive shake of his head, and turns to stalk off down the alley after his blonde buddy with only as much as a farewell nod for Jharlodar. When he's at the corner that Reilan ducked around he, too, disappears, slipping into the evening's gloom.

"Still working," is tired, oh it is tired from Teya, conversational enough that those nearest her will hear but modulated enough that it won't carry far, "on the guards themselves." But for those who make their farewells she has a lifted hand and a wave - no salutes, this time. Ah, well. "He looks less like a potato," she informs Jharlodar, "not that he wouldn't be a dear if he looked like a potato forever, but." Considering her own countenance, that's definitely relief that he's less spudly. "Evening, apprentice," is warm for Mayte's arrival, but that doesn't mean she's forgotten Chel - or missed that lip-bit look. She has a double-eyebrow lift and half-grin of her own in return. Do ask. Do.

"Ohhhh, and that's why you're seen out so much in them, grandfa?" Big, batting eyes up at Jharlodar as Chel winds a couple of fingers under his shoulder. It's a brief jab at his infrequent outings, and none able to disguise the girl's nearly fluorescent pride when near him. The trace of her hand acknowledges his command, however, and then falls to rest. Mayte's entrance brings an actual genuine smile to usually wry lips but no greeting is uttered. Perhaps she doesn't quite trust herself when faced with the biding of Teya. Time old tradition of needing to tease one's family wars with a less inviting custom, and she lets her eyes fall and pretends to not see Teya's pressing advances. At the expense of any other conversation.

"All babies look a bit like tubers at first, and then like old men for a bit longer," observes Jharlodar, mildly. "Chel here did." Because he is her GRANDFATHER, and it is his solemn duty to share embarrassing information. If Pern had photography, he would have a wallet absolutely OOZING baby pictures, some of them from people old enough to have grandbabies of their own. Mayte's arrival is noted with a smile, a nod, and an "Apprentice. Good evening to you." The old man watches Thierry's departure with a keen eye for potential trouble - he IS an old Igenite, after all - and then asks, as serene as a statue: "The Bazaar treating everyone well tonight?" A leading question if there ever was one.
The clip of heels announces Rhiex' arrival as much as his crisp-cut guard uniform. Nothing to see here; carry on. He closes in on the little knot of people in the investigatory way of his rank. yo dawgs, we herd u liekd creepers…

Oh darn, Mayte has managed to fend off Thierry. A sniff at his retreating back and Mayte's not poorer for the departure. Chel's grin gets one in return, and Teya too, even if Mayte's eyes linger slight on Potato. Jharlodar, however, gets a very polite, if short, bow slash curtsey, responding, "Good evening, Master Jharlodar," in tones like Mayte's been practicing in front of a mirror, or made to. "Corks and Works," Shopkeeper's Assistant Mayte will volunteer, "is quite well, thank you. Journeywoman Eollyn sends her regards." Nominally, of course, as Eollyn doesn't appear to confirm or deny. Instead, Mayte looks over at an all-too-familiar flash of hair, and goes stock-still. Awkwarrrrd!

Teyaschianniarina and her eyebrows will be appeased, apparently: she doesn't push Chel to engage, but engages with those already engaging her. "Some of my little brothers did," the brownrider offers, a little muted - some of those little boys are now several hundred turns gone, but. She doesn't linger. "The Bazaar is treating us as well as it ever does," she answers Jharlodar, "which is fairly good, I hear. I'm still bringing him," a finger-wiggle toward the baaaaaaby, "'round." The familiar cadence of guard-heels on sidestreet-ground catches Teya's interest, for reasons far different than Mayte's: she salutes, and this time it is the salute of one guard to another, but her, "Guardsman," is warm and inquiring. "How are your patrols?" It's the same she asked of Thierry, but this time her interest shades more toward the familiar than the cursory.

"Good, good." This seems to be to the entirety of the small remaining group, including creeper!Rhiex. Mayte's good manners win her a warm smile, and the observation, "Tell your journeywoman I said hello. I hope she and her son are doing well. I'll have to visit sometime and see him." He LIKES babies. Speaking of which, to Teya: "Bring your little one around to the Cantina sometime," yeah sure Jharl INVITE A LADY TO BRING A BABY TO A BAR, "during the early hours, before there's customers," oh okay, "and I'm sure the barmaids will gush and coo. And probably give you a free lunch." AFFABLE SMILE. Speaking of bars, and barmaids… "My granddaughter and I ought to be on our way. Good night." And thus he makes his stately progress off. Jharl don't hurry.

Rhiex comes to a halt solidly, heels literally clicking as he throws a crisp and precise salute to Teyaschianniarina: it is literally High-Reaches-Hold-guardforce textbook. He shifts into parade rest afterwards almost on reflex. "They go unremarked this evening, lady brownrider. If all nights were so blessed." He watches Jharl's procession head off with a slight smile before he finally notices Mayte — and he freezes a minute, the unenviable creep of red flushing abruptly up from his collar.

Watching Teya react to Rhiex coming closer curiously, Mayte can't stop her very faint grin at the sight of Rhiex's blush, but he gets a reprieve because Mayte nods and murmurs a polite, "At your convenience, Master Jharlodar." Said master is moving off, so Mayte turns back to the other tw… three standing there: "Guard," so Mayte is playing nice tonight, is she, "How kind of you to wander this way and keep our streets safe tonight." For all the over-the-top words, the vintner apprentice doesn't seem to be smirking. Much. Just a little, alright?

"I'll be sure to," Teya offers the departing Jharl, with a nod for Chel as well. It's Rhiex and Mayte that hold her attention, though: Rhiex, for the familiarity of that salute; Mayte, for the quiet cheek present in her words. (Their responses to each other are noted, but - filed). "If only they were, guardsman, if only they were." And then, because she did recognize it, her lopsided grin broadens over, "High Reaches Hold," because duh. "You had a fine guard corps, there. What," she glances at Mayte, but her expression is encouraging there, rather than quelling, "do you think of Igen's?" Inquiring minds want to knooowww.

There's still high color to Rhiex's cheeks, but there's a man somewhere among the guard-face too, because his eyes haphazardly wander down her figure and back up — lingering on her neck on the upstroke — before he replies. "Vintner. My fine thanks for your… commitment to service. In the wine industry." There's still that color to his face when he turns to Teya. A quick, relieved smile: "That they did, ma'am." His voice has quiet pride for High Reaches of olden days… and then a quick, brittle grimace of apology for Igen's corps. "Ladivos is a fair Captain, but… begging your pardon, ma'am, but a mute a great Captain does not make."

Yes. The wine industry. Mayte shifts a little uncomfortably at Rhiex's scrutiny while trying to keep her grin affixed, resulting in a slightly wobbly look overall. Way to turn the tables. "Thank you, Guard. Please stop in if you ever…" What, want a drink? Bump uglies? Lose your pants again? Mayte's NOT blushing, "Wish to avail yourself. For wine." Good cover, maybe he didn't notice. Or Teya, as Mayte's eyes flick in the rider's direction.

The guard may not have noticed, but the former-guard did: Teya catches Mayte's eye when the apprentice looks her direction, bites her lip to quell a grin. It still lingers when she answers Rhiex, her, "In that, at least, we're in full agreement." Not that it's her place to make adjustments from the top-down, anymore, but - knowing the rank and file, that counts for something. Speaking of, she adjusts her bundle (the baby squeaks a faint protest, but it's a sleepy one. good baby), giving herself a moment to think before she blurts out, "I'm sorry, it's just that you're so familiar. Teyaschianniarina - Teya," thumb-jerk toward herself, "High Reaches Weyrguard. If you've got more than four turns in," so two here, two pre-jump, probably, "we might have worked together at some point. Or-," and here it's her turn to blush, for vastly different reasons, "-you've just got one of those faces." This time when she looks to Mayte, it's with a 'back me up, right?' expression.

Rhiex looks so STRANGELY at Teya, as if he can't quite understand what she's saying. He clears his throat, and then asks, a little embarassedly, "How's my nephew doing?" Those blue eyes pointedly look down at her baby bundle. (NOTABLY, this brilliant confessional prevents him from turning a flaming shade of fire-red in return to Mayte's … hospitalities.)

Mayte takes a few moments to regroup, the final lock in place of her assured self locked into place with a crossing of her arms, adding a shiver in case anyone thinks she's being bratty. Potato's little squeak earns the baby (because 'it' is just so rude) a blinking, curious look until she has to nod to Teya's look: "Very distinctive, in a common way." What does that even mean? "I said something like that to him a few days ago myself." Nope, not blushing because Mayte's jaw is too busy dropping: "Nephew?" is all that escapes. What are the odds? And then Mayte's teeth click shut, even if her eyes are still wide.

Strange looks all around: Teya lifts a hand to her mouth over, "You're not one of m-" because let's face it, having half-siblings from her father's side turn up has happened to her before. But her eyes are avid over Rhiex's face, and the familiarity of his features clicks into place and the moment of clarity is clear across her own as she says, "Oh," and then more rapidly on its heels, "Oh, Faranth, I'm going to kill him, you're family and you're here and—" and there was a question, wasn't there? "Your nephew's - fine. Would you like to hold him?" Mayte hasn't been forgotten, though, because someone has to be on her side in this, right? So, a little breathless-stunned she offers the gist of tonight's revelation in, "He's K'ane's brother. I am," Potato squeaks, and Teya sighs and strokes his cheek. "Honestly."

Rhiex glances from Mayte to Teya and back again. WHAT? HOW IS THIS NE… "He never told you?" His voice is a little rueful but not quite surprised. And this man isn't afraid of a child; he glances around briefly as if to make sure there's nobody getting assaulted RIGHT THIS SECOND and then steps forwards with his arms just-so, because he knows how to hold a baby. "I would love to. Did you ever settle on a name? I'd heard through the," he gestures briefly to indicate not-his-lousy-brother, "There were issues."

BOYS. Mayte's eyes start to narrow a little, figuring things out. "So… Wingrider K'ane is your brother," is her question to Rhiex, "but he didn't even mention you were around?" JUST like a man. But while Mayte could get a big mad-on, she rolls her eyes, shaking her head knowingly. BOYS. She doesn't lean forward to eye the baby; in fact, she's quick to turn when there's someone calling her name from Corks and Works - something about why the damn step hasn't been swept yet. Still, the girl's looking pretty easy-going when she turns back to the two newly-found relatives: "Uh, I'd better go. S'my other Journeyman." A thumb is hitched over her shoulder in the right direction, "I should go see what he wants." Mayte takes a step or two back before turning to make her way back into the store, a little wave the last sign of her before the apprentice disappears within.

"No," Teya says, and there's something frustrated in her voice as she says it, and something a little bit sad too. "Idiot," is exasperatedly fond, however. "Not you, the other one." While she's talking, she's scooping carefully, extracting Rickety from his sling and transferring him over to Rhiex. "He knows ever one of my relatives who made it over, even the ones I don't actually like all the time, and you're his brother." Once the baby is successfully transferred, Teya takes a step back to take Rhiex in; she takes in the sidestreet beyond him as well, because old habits die hard. "His name's Rickety," she offers, "Tuli helped with it. And Rickety," yes, she's addressing the vaguely-cognizant baby, "This is your uncle."

"Ma's at Southern," Rhiex absently reports. "You know Ri… K'ane. He doesn't do the family thing." His voice is a little sad, too, but in a way much more pitched to resignation than lingering angst. "He's there when we need him. Just as we'll be there for you, won't we, little Rickety?" That last is pitched in a gruff-cooey masculine baby-voice, after he's scooped up said baby carefully, supporting his neck with painstaking care and doing that dumb half-sway half-bounce that people do when they have babies and really don't want them to start crying. Look, little human! Novel sensations, don't freak out because I'm not your mom! "He is going to grow up to be a little charmer," Rhiex announces.

"—he's got grandparents." Or at least parent, singular, but that's significantly more than he had a moment ago. "I — know. But I didn't realize that extended to not telling me he had living relatives here, the ass." Assured that for the moment there isn't anything that needs guard or former-guard attention, she steps in to interrupt Rhiex's sway-bounce with an impromptu hug from the side. "Your dipshit brother might not do family, but I do, okay? So you're his," chinjerk down toward the tiny human who is gearing up to squall his displeasure over the movement having been stopped. Or over Rhiex not being mom. Hard to tell. "And as far as I'm concerned, I'm yours. So," Rickety squalls his indignation, and Teya breaks off and breaks away with a laugh, making gimme hands and an apologetic face. "The middle of the back-end of the bazaar is really a terrible place for this. Come see me after your shift," pause, "in like a couple days, maybe? We'll do dinner. You can hold the baby some more." With less screaming this time.

Rhiex does hand over the baby — willingly, because he REALLY doesn't want to get spit-up on his uniform, kthx — and offers Teya one of those slight, wholly confident smiles of his. In some things, the brothers are very much alike. "My pleasure, Teya." He doesn't try that whole name. Heck no. "I will be sure to send you a message when I've a bit of time away from the drunks and the crooks," beat, "And people other than my fellow guardsman, even." A wry, wry smile. Then he's clipping his heels together again and smartly saluting her — baby and all — before heading back to his rounds. Duty before all, and all of that muckity-muck.

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