Kultir, S'yn & Veresch


A pair of wayfaring strangers comes to Igen Weyr to sample the local culture and encounters an unlikely tour guide.


It is mid-morning of the sixteenth day of the eighth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Central Bowl, Dustbowl Cantina, The Pit, Sidestreet, Cloth Corridor, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


kultir_default.jpg Sytin-Young_Icon.jpg veresch_default.jpg


Central Bowl

Cradled, childlike, in an easterly mountainous embrace, the steppes of the central bowl nestle cozily between lake and weyr. The latticework of dusty adobe paths spider out from the southerly Weyr Road, the wagon-ruts of which curve lazily to the northeastern bazaar, the adobe sprawl of the New Weyr reflected in the lake that dominates a large portion of outdoor Igen. A small footpath, just as abused, ambles away from the shores, travelling over rock and hill to the northern dragonet complex and branching itself due west to end at the entrance of the blessedly cool inner caverns. One cracked path, faint with disuse, leads southeast to the crumbling ruins of Igen-that-was. All around, the dizzying heights of the caldera's sharp-sloped sides are pocked here and there with ledges, the weyrs' draconic occupants needing no path to guide their way.

The morning sun is just starting to peer over the lip of the caldera when a coppery dragon appears from between to hover over the desert Weyr. The air is already warm and Iaxryth plays over the unfamiliar thermals to test the air as he slowly makes a circuit around the lip of the dormant volcano to give him, his rider and their passenger a good view of the unfamiliar location to further solidify the image in his mind for later use. Finally the pair spiral down toward the bowl proper, abustle with residents trying to get their tasks done before the day gets unreasonably hot. The nimble dragon lands easily on his hindlegs with a swooping backwing, stirring up some of the dust in the basin before settling gingerly forward to allow his rider to dismount. S'yn unclasps the straps holding them securely onto his bond, already undoing his flight jackets buckles before he climbs down the penny bright side rather than sliding down, still favoring his injured left leg much as his lifemate is. "Well, go get comfortable. I'm sure you'll love the sun you solar lump." The bronze rumbles — a sound that seems almost like laughter — before he wings off to find a perch, leaving the youth standing there and soaking in the unfamiliar sights for the first time.

Kultir slides easily down the coppery side to land nimbly beside the young rider before unfastening the flight jacket that he'd donned against the cold of between. Looking around, he draws in a deep breath of the dry, hot air of the arid Weyr and sighs it out gustily. Shielding his eyes from the dust raised by the dragon's withdrawal to some sunny spot, he glances at his companion and chuckles. "Where shall we go, little brother? What sights do we want to see?" He may have been here before some three or four turns back but he doesn't recall much about the place since he'd only been there a few days before stowing away on a ship bound for Southern Weyr.

A lucky day — no sandstorm in sight to spoil the splendours of Igen. Most of them are a trifle dull-looking though, with dirt-coloured buildings on one side and dirt-coloured bowl on the other. Even the people seem to prefer the shade, when they don't wear the dark blues that are better desert-garb than many think. There are other splashes here and there, from the cloth stalls in the Bazaar to the colourfully-dressed Traders. Over here, however, on the 'official' Weyr side, there're only dragon-shadows and the like, with one extra now painting along the ground as Iaxryth lofts into the air. From the shadow emerges a young woman - girl? - with dignified step, clad in sky blue and a darker shade, and runners' shoes. Her pace is vastly too sedate for a runner though, perhaps due to the tight sling-thing wrapping her right shoulder and binding that arm to her chest. Currently her eyes are lifted to the sky, staring first at the strange bronze that took off, then the two that dismounted. Her forthright gaze is perhaps spoiled by the tiny brown in the crook of a slinged arm, and a blue sitting on her head, wings draping down lazily towards her ears. "Hello," she offers in greeting, soprano voice strong. "Welcome to Igen. From Southern?" Their knots, see.

"There're sights and I want to see them." Because that's helpful, but then again S'yn is something of a stranger in a strange land, having never been to Igen before in his entire life. Shoulders roll in a shrug that happens to divest the jacket in the same motion, the black leather slithering down his arms to be caught in his right hand and slung over the shoulder of his thin, emerald tunic. "Truth be told, I dunno, but shade and a drink sound like splendid starting points." Amber eyes lift to peer at Rukbat just starting to leer at them over the bowlwall before suddenly they are being greeted — obviously them, since there seems to be no other knots of their ilk to be seen — and it draws the youth's eyes back down to peer at the scamp — technically older than him — and smile crookedly. "Your powers of observation are astounding. Are you always this observant?" For all his sarcasm the tone is one of good humor and mild mirth. "S'yn," he offers by way of informal introduction. "I'll let my scruffy companion introduce himself. And you are?"

Kultir slips his arms out of his own dusty brown jacket, well worn and cracked with use, to catch it over his arm as he laughs at his companion's unhelpful answer. "Okay, well … sights, shade and a drink … probably get those in the Bazaar unless you want to go to the main cavern here in the Weyr proper." Glancing up at the welcoming greeting, he nods politely to the girl before his friend's comment hits his ears. An elbow comes up to nudge the younger, shorter man as the taller tracker mock-glares at him. "Scruffy!" Snorting with humor, he turns to the girl again and chuckles. "I'm Kultir and yeah, from Southern."

"No," Veresch says clearly, with a trace of amusement of her own. "Just when it's right in my face, like the knots are." There's an uptilt of smile to go with the sassy answer, and from the very blandness of it the girl's likely an oldtimer, given her ease around said knots. "I'm Veresch, one of the Weyrwoman's assistants." The same one that, apparently, had something to do with the disaster in Southern. She steps forward, nodding to both of them in greeting. "Pleasure to meet you. If you're in the mood for drink and shade, there's the Tea Room, though I think that's a bit trashed at the moment, or Corks and Works, the wine place. I can show you where they are, if you wish."

A derisive snort escapes the youth at the idea of spending their adventure in another stone-walled living caverns. "What's the point of going someplace if we just do something we could get at home?" The dry heat — though it isn't bad yet — still stings his sinuses, so used to the damp air of Southern and makes S'yn snort again for good measure to clear the dust from his nostrils. "Well, Veresch, you've been nominated tour guide. What would you recommend as the best place to sit and sip for a bit to soak up some local culture?" Because one should trust the natives above all else, right? That elbow is returned — and not judiciously either — into the tracker's ribs. "Quiet you scruffy looking wherry herder." A smile plays over his lips, the youth in good spirits despite still in convalescence for his ill gotten Threadscore. A vague gesture in the direction of the Bazaar is made, mostly over Veresch's head. "Lead on, m'lady. We shall follow at your mercy." Trust a fourteen-Turn-old to toss caution to the wind. Or is he?

"That's why I asked … sheesh! There's a cantina I remember from the last time I was here but didn't know if you wanted to go that direction." Kultir grins at the younger man but oofs as that elbow connects a little harder into his ribs than he'd expected. A mock growl is given to the young bronzerider though the golden eyes sparkle with good humor. "Arrg … ye watch it, boy. I'm still bigger 'n you." He shakes his head slightly and rolls his eyes as if to say 'little brothers' as he looks back to Veresch and nods. "Someplace I can get a nice stiff drink so I can put up with him would be appreciated." The young man is willing to follow his companion's lead in accepting the young woman's guidance for now though his expression turns thoughtful. "You know if they've got anything going on in the Pit today? Was thinking of checking it out."

One finger lifts to tap-tap at Veresch's lips as she considers the pair. "My plate's clean for the moment," she murmurs thoughtfully. "If it's culture you want to see, I'd say stick to the tea room. The place might be a bit banged up, but it's more culture than you're going to get at the Corks and Works… unless you're in the mood for viticulture." The snorting makes her brows furrow; her good hand digs into a side pocket and emerges with a small tin of salve, which gets handed over. "Here. Smear that on and inside your nose, it'll help." Some kind of rendered, clear animal fat. "The first time I visited Southern my nose clogged up so fast I couldn't breathe. All those trees and wet around, no doubt." Her gaze transfers to Kultir, and there's a wider smile. "Or the Cantina, yes. It's up to the two of you, and there's something going on at the Pit every day. I think there's a prize fight later today, however… might be wrong." Not the kind of locale she normally goes to.

S'yn chuckles at the good natured brotherly growling they're going, having not had some proper fun in a while; too long for a boy his age, to be certain. "So you are, Kul, but I do have the bigger knot." It's a joke, their weights equal but in different ways. His tongue sticks out at the tracker before he turns back to Veresch. "Do you see what I put up with? I bring him here and all he does is complain about how unbearable I am." His head shakes and eyes roll in an overdramatic way. "Well, since he's apt to be the only one having a stiff drink I suppose the cantina will do. At least I can get something to keep my throat from drying out." The offered salve is taken with a grateful expression and applied in a thin but thorough layer on the inside and out of those tender membranes being abused by the hot, thin air. "Thanks." The tin is handed back to their female companion before he frowns at Kultir. "Kalea will kill me if you get hurt in the Pit, Kul. K-I-L-L M-E." For emphasis he drags his finger across his throat in a garroting motion. "I'm too young to die."

Kultir laughs softly at the brotherly jibing, having missed that repartee for the last few sevens and shrugs. "Bah, give the kid a bronze and look what I have to put up with … pulling rank." His broad shoulders lift in a shrug as he turns back to the young woman and nods slightly at the information, his expression still speculative as his hand brushes his left thigh. His eyes sparkle with mischief at his friend's overexagerated motions and shakes his head. "Naw, she'd kill me if I got hurt. She'd only kill you if I got killed in the Pit, which wouldn't happen since I have no intention of entering that kind of bout." The young tracker is more interested in the drink rather than the fight right now though so he doesn't push to go visit the arena just yet.

Veresch watches the two, eyebrows going up helplessly at the talk of knots and weights and brothers and killing washes over her. "Actually…" Her conversation fades to allow the two to continue talking, and she just wiggles a hand in the correct direction. Still, as she walks, after a quick peek she smiles. "You're old enough to die in 'fall, so I guess that makes you old enough to drink too, if you want. I'm not sure, I've never asked Chel, but I drink there." Okay, so she drinks frou-frou drinks where the alcohol content is minimal, but it still counts! "No bloodsports then?" Hooray, she won't have to explain visitors getting killed.

"The only one who gave me something was Iax, and even that's debatable." S'yn's gaze goes briefly to his bronze who has found himself a nice spot to soak in the heat, seeming impervious to it and gleaming brightly against the sandstone. "You'd better not. I don't want to have to explain how I got her weyrmate killed in a fit of testosterone driven idiocy." He'll no doubt be dealing with such things himself in due time, but for now he's trying to be a somewhat level head, all jokes aside. The jacket dangles over his shoulder as he moves to follow Veresch where she leads, his long strides actually having to shorten to accommodate the girl, making his walk a little awkward and shuffling. "S'what I say, but I s'pose it depends on your perspective." Still, he looks old enough to drink, has a bronzerider's knot, and risks life and limb to protect Pern. Who's to say he shouldn't be allowed to drink? "No bloodsports for me, that's for sure." And it's off from the dusty Weyrbowl to elsewhere.

Kultir grins at the younger man and shrugs slightly. "No worries, little brother. No bloodsports quite yet. Maybe a short 'first blood' bout later on … I haven't decided yet." He smiles as the turns to follow the young woman as she leads them through the Bazaar, his gaze turning as he looks about him and tries to decide if it looked like this when he was here before. "So long as you're sober enough to direct your dragon to get us home, I don't see why you can't have a drink if you want one. There was this stuff the traders make … I got to try it last time I was here. Sure would like to take a bottle of that home with me but I'm not sure if they sell it."


Dustbowl Cantina
To enter the Dustbowl Cantina is to descend: the heart of the ancient tavern lies half underground, at the foot of ancient steps, insulated from summer heat and winter cold by the volcanic rock surrounding it. A windowless place well-lit by glows, it is homey, even cozy, with a certain bijou charm — but for the deep gouges worn in wooden table and solid stone, some clearly lingering evidence of boisterous brawling. The wall behind the well-polished bar, though, remains free from scars or graffiti, as does the door into the small kitchen, and the stairwell up into the owner's quarters: the barkeep and his staff reign, and they guard their territory well. After all, only a fool angers the source of the booze.

The young woman leads them into the bazaar, past a dozen little stalls and finally to the Dustbowl Cantina; from the looks she gets when she enters and the lifted hands, she's enough of a regular here to be recognised in some form or another. Leading the two Southerners to one of the smaller back tables, Veresch seats herself awkwardly and gestures for them to do so similarly. "Well, it's obvious that it's not going to stunt your growth." That to S'yn, who is already tall enough at fourteen to tower over her, even though she's not especially short for a woman, and Kultir is even worse. "So have what you sharding well want, I say." Cheerfully delivered, that. "And no. Whatever you do, do not drink the local cactus-juice. Not even if you want to die, because you won't, you'll just hallucinate and run around naked in the Bazaar, and it'll be awkward." For herself, she orders a Nooner, a very frou-frou drink.

"I'm not getting in the ring, if that's what you're thinking Kul, so put that right out of your addled head." The youth snorts softly at the very idea. "And I doubt a couple brews will dim my wits overmuch. What you drink might though." The sights — such as they are — are soaked in by S'yn as they are lead along the beaten path toward the cantina, steps kept short to not run over their guide nor any of the dozens of other people milling about the Bazaar. The descent into the Dustbowl proper is a relief to the senses as they get out of the dry heat and someplace darker and cooler, the bronzerider glancing about at all the unfamiliar faces as he ducks obstacles as necessary to his height, though it isn't too bad once he's down the steps into the establishment. Veresch is followed to that perch and the young man settles into his seat and faces the door as per his usual wont, amber eyes scanning the various tables in a assessment to see who might be trouble even as his jacket is hung over the knob on the back of his chair. "The running joke is that Southern's water makes one insanely tall. The jury's still out on that one." The warning earns a jaunty salute. "I have no desire to display my giblets to all of Igen, I assure you, so I shall refrain. I would love a good, local microbrew if such a thing can be had though."

Kultir follows the other two into the cantina and glances around at the people greeting the girl leading the small group. Pushing the door closed against the growing daylight, he's a bit surprised at the people already about and drinking since it's barely dawn here. At the warning about the local cactus juice, he looks a bit speculatively before shaking his head. Probably not a good idea for the tracker to hallucinate and run around naked … unless it's in his home jungle anyway. The young man orders a whiskey-sour on the rocks and slumps into a chair at that table Veresch leads them to. His head shakes now that they are stationary and out of the rising heat of the day. "Naw, not with that score you're not. And I wasn't thinking of asking you to either." His expression is somewhat serious since he really does care what happens to the younger man, despite his brotherly belly-aching from earlier.

A good microbrew. Goodness. Talk about being special, and a whiskey sour? Easy to tell these aren't natives. Veresch passes the orders on dubiously and turns a little, having grabbed the seat with its back to the shelves. The sweep around the Cantina reveals the normal locals, most craftsmen and bazaarfolk, with the women scarved and chattering in little groups, and the men muttering at the sight of the girl stretching legs in trous to the side. With how voluminous the robes are, even the women could be dangerous; the way in which Veresch stretches shows the tip of a knife sticking out the boot, and her hands have worked in her life already, with tiny nicks from learning knife-work. "A score?" she questions off Kultir, strapped-down hand's fingers wiggling slowly. "I empathise." That to S'yn. "Bad fall. I hate not being able to move as I want. Ironically, I lost my arm temporarily in one of your falls too. I think Southern's bad for me."

S'yn settles with his back in a sheltered corner, amber eyes scanning the layout of the room to get a feel for those natives and soaking in the various odd looks they get. It's really no wonder with their height and foreign knots, but the youth isn't keen to start trouble. It's far too early in the morning for that. At least at Igen. "Yeah, probably gonna be on light duty at least another seven. Sharding Thread. At least we've been able to fly Fall still." The coppery beast wouldn't have it any other way. The Assistant's question earns a rueful expression from the bronzerider. "Bad Fall a seven and a half ago, clump of Thread blew right into me and my dragon. Got a good scoring out of it. I'm just glad it didn't eat my straps." Because free falling was not on the menu that day. A sympathetic wince is given for the broken bone and arm in the sling. "Seems Southern's been bad for Igen lately in general." He keeps his voice low, another sweep of his gaze combing the room with a faint hint of nervousness as he finds himself reconsidering the wisdom of this trek at this time.

Kultir isn't entirely comfortable in the seat he's been left with but manages not to keep craning his head around to watch the people at his back. It's just not polite to seem too mistrustful of the locals though he does keep his senses alert to potential trouble. The young man isn't totally unarmed, the dagger at his belt is obvious but he's probably got a few more blades secreted on his person somewhere. Seeing his friend's nervous gaze, he touches a toe to the younger man's boot beneath the table and gives a minute shake of his head. Despite having his back to the potential for trouble, he's still between his friend and anyone that comes at them, surely his reflexes will be good enough after that. He grimaces at Veresch and nods slightly. "That's as may be but the same could be said the other way around. No offense intended, Veresch, but it could be." He shrugs a shoulder though he keeps his own voice low so as not to be overheard. He settles back into his chair again as a drink is set before him and looks up with a polite smile of thanks. Lifting the glass, he sips at the potent liquid and savors the way it burns at the back of his throat.

This is what happens if you let hosts sit first — they grab the best seats. "I envy you," she says thoughtfully. "This is probably going to take me a few months more to heal all the way, and I have to keep it quiet until it does." It's a punishment for the too-active girl. "I'm wondering who's going to fill in Tuli's spot on our queen wing though, now that she's out of commission for a while. More people with flamethrowers, I guess, but those are scarce too." With her good hand cupping her chin now, her smile is hidden behind a cage of fingers, and she takes a long, slow sip of her Nooner. "So the two of you came to Igen to see the sights, hm? A turn through the Bazaar, most likely, because you can't leave here without spending some money on lovelies for the girls back home, and a trip to the Pit for that prize fight?" Her eyes flick from S'yn to Kultir. "How deeply did you want to go into the Bazaar? Rosie's? The Wher? Or just skim along the top?"

The nudge of his best friend against his booted toe makes S'yn aware of his nervous ticks and he draws in a deep breath and sighs it out slowly, forcing himself to relax — at least visibly — for the benefit of the locals. Best not to make trouble by looking out for it, right? So the youth does his best to look nonchalant despite his own dagger and no doubt other things, habits picked up from who knows where. Once he has a mug in hand the bronzerider takes a long drink — the alcohol will certainly take the edge off — and contemplates Veresch's inquiry with a low "Hmm…" After a few thoughtful moments the shoulders roll in a helpless shrug. "I suppose I ought to find something to take home to Aleile, but beyond that, I hadn't honestly thought about it. More of a, strike out and see where it takes me." Oh, for the wanderlust of youth. "What do you think, Kul? Besides getting your arse handed to you in the Pit."

Kultir nods slightly at the young woman's explanation and concerns about her arm, his lips pursing in concern for the girl though the requirements of a weyr not his own doesn't overly bother him since he's not a rider. At the woman's and then his brother's inquiry, he shrugs slightly as he considers what else he wants to do while here in Igen. "I was going to find something for Kalea, maybe for the twins as well if there are any interesting looking toys. And I wouldn't get my arse handed to me, Sy … you should know me better than that." Looking up at Veresch, he shrugs again as he smiles. "I guess as deep in as it takes to find the little trinkets we want?"

"Oh, goodness, if you two only want things like that, then we don't need to go in very deep at all. I had thought to take you past the caravan grounds so you could meet some of the traders like the Reika or the Zingari, but if you don't have time that's ok!" Veresch, warming up to the business of playing a tour guide, leans a little forward on the table. "I know a shop that sells the most beautiful glassware and perfumes. A little bit really goes a long way, and there's sand-art and sand-jade jewelry and little toys for the kids…" Her face is aglow, describing the Bazaar's things, and there's a sense that she's totally in love with the place. "I mean, you're men, so I won't bore you with talk of the material and so on, but there's really a lot to see." Her mouth furls. "If you just want to loosen your limbs I can take you there, but… well, okay. It's not on the crummy side of the Bazaar at all, so it won't be a problem. You two need to watch out for pickpockets though, and if a guy comes past trying to sell you a fast trick, just ignore him and walk away, okay? Knots don't always protect people back there."

"As far as I'm concerned we have the whole day. Maybe more." S'yn takes another swig of his ale and savors the nuances in the local brew, not quite certain what goes in it but finding it appealing enough to his still developing palate. Kultir's assurance he wouldn't get his arse handed to him earns a dry chuckle. "I know you wouldn't, Kul, but I know I would." Hence why he isn't even thinking of stepping into the ring. Not even a toe. Veresch's description sort of whirls around his head and he offers her a faintly baffled smile at all the wonders described. "I wouldn't mind meeting some of the traders, make some friends." It never hurts to have friends in merchant places. Another swallow of the ale is taken and he files away the information being given about the fast tricks. He's not exactly certain what a fast trick is, but he hopes he'll be able to discern is when the time comes. "I never count on my knot for protection," he assures their tour guide in a low, faintly grave tone. "I may be a bronzerider but when it comes to dying, I bleed just like any other man." Or boy, but, semantics!

Kultir chuckles softly at his friend's assertions and shrugs slightly as he grins at the younger man. "I know, which is why I haven't suggested you enter the ring yet. You need to put on a bit more muscle and weight to be able to hold your own." Turning to Veresch, he nods as his eyes brighten at the thought of meeting some of the Traders. "I wouldn't either. There's some kind of brew they make that I got to taste way back when I was travelling with a caravan … I wouldn't mind finding a bottle of that to take back with me either." Besides the other less spectacular gifts he wants to get for those important to him. A soft snort is given at the mention of the 'fast trick' man and pickpockets, the tracker a bit more confident of his ability to defend his purse and person.

There's a true smile for them then, the kind that suggests she'll watch them lope through the streets. "Alright," Veresch states. "Drink up then. We have a tunnelsnake fighting ring too, not that women are allowed inside, and the aforementioned tea- and wine-shops, and a host of stalls that you'd likely not find anywhere else. On the subject of the Pit, it's said that generations ago, a man called Father Steen paid the leaders of the Weyr for the space, and they dug it out and prettied it up — sort of. You wouldn't believe the number of marks floating through it at times, especially on some of the bigger fights. There are dressing rooms and sparring areas beneath, I'm told, but I don't have much call to go there." A scrawny girl like herself, likely not. "I'll have to change before I can take you in there; I can't go there looking like this. Afterwards I'll take you on a curve through the stalls. Igen cloth is famous, and our glassware nearly so, and then the caravans." Her nose wrinkles, and she grins engagingly. "I hope you've brought a full pouch of marks!"

A soft chuckle rolls from S’yn. “Presuming I ever put on enough muscle.” One would hope, but it may be a while before he stops growing up long enough to fill out. The mention of a bottle of the trader’s brew earns a quirked eyebrow, a mixture of curiosity in the youth’s gaze along with puzzlement. Veresch’s admonishment has him working faster through his ale, the liquid mercifully cool and doing much to soothe the throat irritated by the dry Igen air. Her information about the Pit earns a raised eyebrow from behind his mug, though he doesn’t comment on it, simply filing it away for later information. A soft snort is given to the expressed need for lots of marks, the youth having been rather spendthrift with his beyond what he absolutely needed. “We’ll see.” He drains his mug and lets it thump lightly on the table with a hollow sound, tongue darting to clean up the remaining liquid on his mouth before he fishes into his marks-pouch for suitable payment for their three drinks. Never let a lady pay for her own meal, that’s his policy.

Kultir chuckles softly and shrugs at the younger man. "Give it some time, you'll get there." The encouragement for them to finish their drinks has the young tracker draining the whiskey in a couple swallows and thunking the glass down with a soft hiss of satisfaction though the drink burns a bit at the back of his throat. When the bronzerider pays out for the drinks, he smiles a little wryly. "Thanks, Sy. You're a little faster than me on the markspouch." He listens to the young woman's ideas for where to take them and nods slightly though he looks a little curious. "Why would you have to change clothes to go to the Pit? Looks like you're dressed okay to spectate." The young man doesn't touch his marks pouch where he's got it tucked away but he grimaces at the thought of needing a lot of marks and hopes that he'll be able to find a few deals for gifts.

The gallant gesture makes Veresch's eyebrows arch, but she nods at the bronzerider. "Thank you," she says earnestly, and stands from her seat. "I don't know how it was last time you were at the Pit, but it's very much a man's world, and I wouldn't want to create more tension by barging in in clothing they don't find appropriate. Please excuse me for a moment. You may wait outside as well if that's better for you." With that she's away from the table and gone, and it's about ten minutes before she returns again. This time, garbed like a proper Bazaar woman, she's got a scarf and even a little makeup on; in the blue dress her step is graceful, even swaying, as if it's another persona in the dress. "This way please," she says quietly, leading the way to the Pit.

S'yn shrugs at the assertion. "I've probably got more marks to spare, since you've got more folks to buy for." Besides, what's he going to do with them, given that the Weyr provides him with home, food, and clothing by and large, so his basic necessities are taken care of. Veresch's assertion that the Pit is a man's world earns a frown, though the youth can't decide how he feels about it right at this moment, so comment is refrained from. When Veresch runs off, he glances toward Kultir with a little frown, though again stays quiet, not really sure what to say. It's a strange culture Igen has, at least around the woman in his estimation, particularly in a Weyr run by a woman. Still, he sets those thoughts and musings aside when their guide returns in that lovely garb. It's enough to set his amber eyes roaming and he quickly lifts his gaze to her face once he realizes he's doing it, a silent curse thought at Iaxryth for the bronze's influence on him. "That dress looks lovely on you." He coughs softly as he stands and moves to follow her. "Er, not that you didn't look good before." Oh, the awkwardness of youth.

Kultir snorts softly and nods ruefully. "This is true and you have a regular stipend whereas I have to work for the few marks I manage to get in a moon." His tone isn't bitter though it could be, it's more teasing than anything else. He echoes that frown as Veresch takes off but shrugs his own confusion. "Dunno why she's gotta change just because it's a man's world though." When the young woman returns the young hunter blinks at the change in garb and the fact that she's veiled makes him frown a bit deeper. Kul isn't too bothered by the fact that his eyes roam the womanly form that is more revealed now than it was before but he doesn't linger long either. "Igen is so weird …" His voice is low as he murmurs a soft aside to S'yn as he stands to follow the younger woman out of the cantina.

The Pit
One does not enter The Pit so much as descend into it. Why else the name? The Steen ancestors paid for their square footage with sweat, excavating the area and building curved walls up around it. Wide, smooth steps descend into a large entry area that overlooks the pit and galleries. Floors, ceilings and walls have been whitewashed with limestone paste, increasing the amount of light reflected back from the numerous glow baskets hung on the walls. A rounded doorway to the north leads one into the business' office. Continuing on through the lobby brings one to another set of six stairs that descend into the galleries surrounding the sand-filled pits. A low wall separates audience from combatants, but even at its highest point, those in the galleries are never more than twenty feet away from the action. The sand is raked daily, with fresh sand added whenever the blood to soil ratio becomes too great.

Whatever smile the young woman might have had at the compliment is hidden behind the veil, but her eyes narrow slightly in appreciation. What she meant becomes clear the closer they get to the pit through the warren of streets; there are very strictly defined gender roles in the Bazaar, especially this deep into it, and most of the female riders that walk around in pants are at least stared at, if not as much commented on as before, and she would have been a total stand-out in her weyr clothes. The Pit, when she leads them into it, is a building dedicated solely to fighting: prizes, blood, less savoury things. Through the lobby they go, until they arrive on the galleries, and she fastidiously holds her skirts close to her body. Women are rare, not enough to be overtly stared at, but it's definitely a man's world, this. "Behold the Pit," she says softly, voice almost not carrying over that of the cheering crowd.

"No kidding," S'yn murmurs in reply as he hangs back to make his remark before they head outdoors. His bright eyes soak in the sights and other things, noting smells, garb, people, stalls, and so on as they walk. The subtle and not so subtle changes as they get closer to their destination are noted in silence, though there is a measure of discomfort that tightens the lanky youth's shoulders. The bronzerider forces himself to relax despite his jangling innards as they descend into madness, gaze roaming the corners of his vision even as he makes himself stay focused forward as they move deeper into that abyss. He stops behind Veresch and to her left side as they come to a halt, however brief and he does his best to contain his alarm at the sights before him. "Behold is right." Brows knot briefly before they are forced smooth and a sidelong glance is given to his brother. "People do this for fun?" he asks in a very soft voice, just barely audible above the cacophonous din.

Kultir's nostrils flare at the scent of fresh blood on the air. He winces slightly at the din echoing back from the stone walls but his interest is drawn to the fight currently going on in the Pit before he tears his gaze away. "It's just like I remember it … though I can't say that I was up here looking down." His grin is a bit lopsided as he glances at his young friend to see how the young man is reacting to the spectacle before glancing around at the crowds cheering on the combatants below them. "Hmm … I can see why you changed now, Veresch. It's pretty different from what we're used to though." Kul settles into a spot to the right of his young friend, but to Veresch's right as well though behind her, and lifts a steadying hand to rest on his friend's shoulder. "Only if you want to, Sy … you won't be coerced into participating. And it's more for marks rather than 'fun' though it can be fun if one enjoys this sort of thing."

"For fun… and a lot of marks," Veresch confirms quietly as she stares down at the spectacle. "I've seen only one woman in my life spar here, and that's one of your dolphincrafters down south. Mailli, I believe her name is. Giant of a woman, but they sure as hell didn't jeer once they saw her punch." Grimacing behind the veil, she nods her thanks for her attendants and, touching S'yn's elbow briefly, points out a section of relatively empty seating towards one side. There at least the din won't be so immediate, and there's an easy path to get there. Her gaze is not as forthright as before, but busier, making sure the urchins running around doesn't steal from their little group. When they finally make it to the correct section, she wrinkles her nose and pulls out a cloth from her seat, dusting off the bit she wants to sit on. "Our Weyrleader once wrestled down there. He's gigantic as well, and as strong as two draybeasts pulling together. fought against a man named Cullen. Trader. So it's not just bazaarfolk."

Risking life and limb to protect something you care about, that makes sense to the young rider. Risking life and limb for fun and profit is another animal altogether and not a pleasant one to look at. Still, S'yn manages to maintain his composure despite the inherent wrongness of the scene to him, at least for now. "Trading blood for profit. Now I think I see where the term blood money came from." Whether that's an accurate assessment or not, that's the one the boy is sticking to. The amber gaze follows the pointing finger when his elbow is captured and nods, eager to be out of the din that is pounding against his eardrums so violently. Weaving through the cheering crowds right behind their guide, the bronzer is glad when they arrive at their destination, even if the din is only a little less bothersome. At least his ears aren't ringing so badly anymore. "I suppose I can see the appeal of testing yourself," he admits softly before laying his jacket leather-side down on the seat, gesturing for Veresch to sit on it. "Wouldn't do to despoil that lovely gown," he explains before taking out his own cloth to dust the seat beside her off before settling into it awkwardly, his leg making it a little difficult to sit down on the low bench.

"Hmm … Mailli? I've met her. Yeah, I can imagine they wouldn't have jeered at her too much." Kultir chuckles softly at the thought of how the dolphineer might have done in the bout she'd taken part in. When Veresch leads them to that section, he follows, his own eyes and senses alert for those ghostly fingers plucking at his garments as they try to find his small marks-pouch. The young tracker waits until both of his companions have seated themselves before moving to Veresch's opposite side to settle unconcernedly on the dusty bench. The young man smiles at the other two, his nod slightly approving as the bronzerider proves to be gentlemanly despite his discomfort at the violence going on in the arena below them. "It is a test of oneself for some … it was for me, at least. More folks just do it for the money though I had heard the last time I was down here that some folks are forced into the ring to pay off their debts. Unfortunately."

"I… oh. Thank you." S'yn's actions get him a confused stare — evidently not very many gentlemen in the young woman's life — and she gingerly takes advantage of the offer. Meticulously, fussily, she folds the sleeves in so that they're not squashed, and smoothes down her gown. "You know, it's the first time someone's ever said it looks lovely. You know, a guy." See, a little flattery goes a long way; her attitude's lighter there, less guarded. "It's an easy way to get richer quickly; I know many families that are supported by their men fighting there. There's a ranking of sorts, but I've never understood it." She nods solemnly to Kultir, evidently in agreement. "It used to be worse here before the purge happened; we took some of the worst elements out of the bazaar and crime's fallen a little, not to mention little criminal empires. With the guard sharper as well, it's getting safer at night." She pauses, considers. "I don't think I need to warn you, you seem very courteous, especially you, S'yn, but if something happens in the street and there's a woman involved, be careful? Rather let one of the female women on the guard deal with her. Don't touch their veils under any circumstance, not unless invited."

S'yn ponders the name for a bit before it finally rings a bell. "I think I met her a while back." The memory is a bit hazy but it seems to strike a chord so he rolls with it. Veresch's confused thanks earns a small smile and a little shrug. "Of course." Chivalry isn't dead! At least not to this kid. "Oh." Cheeks color in a slightly awkward blush. "I think the color brings out your eyes." Because that's a safe comment, right? Kultir's commentary accompanied by Veresch's earns some further brow furrowing as he considers the circumstances he was in between his father's death and the time he was fostered. Could he have ended up in a similar situation? It gives him pause and rouses a kindling of fire at the injustice of such a system, though he quickly swallows down that burgeoning anger. Not here to cause a scene. It's what he tells himself but it doesn't make him feel better about it. Attention is turned to heed their guide's warning with a nod, trying to soak in the strange culture of Igen and the rules surrounding women, even more confusing than the ones back home. "Thanks for the tip." He hopes he won't end up in a situation where he has to put it to use, but one never knows, so it's filed away.

"Hmph. It's good to know that doesn't happen as much now. It was rife when I was here before." Kultir grimaces slightly as his memory goes back to the bouts he'd fought here, the one he'd entered willingly and the few he'd been coerced into because he'd been young and had a terrible temper. He nods slightly at the information on possible skirmishes in the Bazaar itself. "Thanks … hadn't been aware of that. The veil thing …" His eyes turn back to the bout going on in the ring below and sighs as it is obviously drawing to a close, one of the combatants staggering and dripping blood into the sand from more than one cut. He frowns slightly as he finally takes note of the weapons. "They allow swords? I thought it was daggers but those are wherry skewers."

Awww, that's sweet! It causes Veresch to stare a little more before there's the suggestion of movement behind the veil, as if she smiled with pleasure. "Thank you." Kultir's comment draws a very visible frown, however, and she leans closer to the barrier to look at those on the sands. Her shoulders stiffen a little. "I've heard tell that weapons were used sometimes, and it's safe to carry a knife around at least, but they shouldn't be fighting with them now… ah!" Her gaze lifts across the bowl, to a couple of men loitering. "Over there, see? Two guards, and the Steens are very controlling about what goes on on their sands. Thank you for spotting that though." She glances to each side, hesitant. "If it's not your cup of tea, I could show you a few other things," she murmurs quietly. "There's a man here that sells odds and ends. Fascinating, strange stuff. I love having a poke around there sometimes."

Unable to tell if he's inserted mouth into foot, S'yn decides to veer off the topic of compliments entirely, at least for now. Better to quit while he's ahead, right? Never mind the dragon in his head trying to point out the exposed portions of Veresch's bosom. Nope, not gonna look. Fortunately for the rider, Kultir's comment draws his attention back down to the ring and he grimaces at the obvious wounds the man has suffered. His emotions on the matter are confusing so it leaves him indecisive for a long moment before he crams that returning ire back into its box, unwilling to cause trouble on his very first visit to the desert Weyr. Amber orbs lift to spy the guards watching the proceedings and it makes him feel slightly better knowing that there are rules to the engagements, though lips tug into a thin line as he wonders just how many of those rules are adhered to when night falls. "I dunno," he admits finally, uncomfortable with the senseless violence and the idea that some of those folks might be down here fighting for their freedom against their will. It galls him and makes him want to do things that he's in no position or shape to do, which makes his hands curl into frustrated fists, though that's the only visible sign of his discomfort aside from the tension across his shoulders. "What do you think, Kul?"

Kultir chuckles softly as he shrugs at her comment. "I prefer to participate but I'm not going to give Sy cause to berate me if I get a black eye … I'll come back another time and have some fun." His eyes sparkle with mischief as he glances across the young woman to his younger friend. "We can certainly go if you'd like though." The mischief fades as concern takes its place in his amber gaze as those curled fists are spotted. Pushing himself to his feet, he glares at the people who have to look around his rather solid bulk to see the end of that bout beneath them. "Come on … let's go browse the bazaar, maybe by the time we get through there it'll be around supper time and we can get something different to eat than what we get at home."

Given her training from Sadaiya and A'lory, Veresch is well able to spot a dangerous situation and, at that moment, the young rider seems to be heading that way at all speed. As Kultir stands, she nods and stands as well, sweeping her skirts to the side as she gathers up the jacket she had been sitting on. That is picked up and dusted off, then folded over her good arm before she slowly, gracefully makes her way between the throngs of people, leaving the two strangers to follow her. Outside, as they pass through the lobby and out again, the din fades behind them and she finds a little alley, a moment where she can stand and gather her thoughts. "It's always so noisy in there," she mutters, eyes scanning their faces to read expressions. "Personally it's not really my thing. I run and spar with my mentor for fitness, but it's not to my taste to make people just bleed for the pleasure of it. I'm guessing not the tunnelsnake fighting ring either then. Hm. This way, please."

"I wouldn't be the one to berate you." S'yn knows he'd never hear the end of it from the tracker's weyrmate, however. His humor is a bit terse at the moment as his throat works to swallow against the tightness that grows as he clenches his jaw unthinkingly. Head tilts upward to peer at the taller man when Kultir stands, offering the other a faintly puzzled expression as he tries to smooth out the ruffles in his feathers for the sake of his companions. "If you're sure…" Before he can get a proper answer in words Veresch is giving him one with actions and he feels obliged to follow the lady outside and not leave her unescorted in this dangerous — to his mind — area. Admittedly once they are beyond the din and smells of blood and other less savory things his stomach does start to settle from its churning, at least a little, the fresher air outside a relief as a wave of belated nausea hits him and makes him lean against the building wall, eyes closed as he catches his breath, albeit not as discreetly as he'd like as his insides squirm. "At least tunnelsnakes aren't people. They're vermin." Several short, rapid breaths are drawn in and breathed out to quell the lingering upset of his stomach, doing his best to man up in the presence of his companions. "Where to?" His inquiry is a little thready but he manages to follow their guide anyway.

Kultir smiles at S'yn as the younger peers up at him and shrugs as the woman moves on out of the Pit. The young tracker shakes his head as the noise leaves him temporarily deafened, or so it seems when one or the other speaks once they are outside. "Hmm, may be vermin but the tunnelsnake fights could almost be worse at times. But then, I deal with tunnelsnakes on a daily basis so they don't hold much interest for me unless I can skin them and tan the hides." Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck to loosen the tension in his neck and shoulders, he sighs softly and glances around at the question. "Why not the Bazaar stalls? Just stroll through the shops and little booths that the merchants have set up for a while before we decide to buy something?"

The young woman doesn't laugh or make other comments. This time Veresch ensures that they get to the quieter stretches of the bazaar pretty quickly, and once they're there she takes a much slower pace, giving them some time to idle in between the cooler stretches of the place. With the midday sun almost on them, it's wise enough to do so, and once or twice she points out vendors that sell water and drinks, impressing upon them the need to stay hydrated in the fell Igen sun. It's only once they've all had something that she leads them down one alleyway, then the next, gesturing mysteriously.


Cloth Corridor
Countless cloths of every cut, color, and size obscure the open air of this bountiful booth. Extravagant silks embroidered in so fine a metallic thread drape in diaphanous folds, billowing in the wind as one parts through veil upon veil of hanging fabric on display. Beyond, yet more plain or patterned cloth tower in neat stacks, the likes of which are oft seen wrapped about many a stylish Igenite.

Hydration is important in Southern too, though for perhaps different reasons. Still, a dry heat and a damp heat are not terribly different when it comes to sweating, which S’yn is certainly doing after his flirtation with those disquieting thoughts and the ensuing nausea. The faint taste of bile in his mouth has him taking up their guide’s suggestion and getting himself a good skin of clean water to wash that acid down with, tossing one to Kultir as well. The leisurely pace Veresch sets gives the teenager time to regain his composure and smooth away the disturbing images marring his serene mindscape with murky ripples. Soon they find themselves rolling down the corridor of cloth and all the bright colors and find fabrics actually do pique the rider’s interest, admitting that he could do with some more varied tunics. “Wow, I didn’t know you could even get cloth in these colors.” He doesn’t care to shop for clothes, but he does need them, so he makes himself give them a second look. “Ooh, I bet Ali would love this.” A sheer fabric of cerulean is discovered and fingered lightly. “I wonder if she could get a dress made of it.” Perhaps Iaxryth is influencing the youth’s thoughts here.

Kultir catches the skin when it is tossed to him, a nod of thanks given to his brother as he pulls the plug out and lifts the skin to his lips for a long drink. The short pauses in the shady spots of the corridor feeling very pleasant after the overheated confines of the Pit and the punishing sunlight. As they move into the cloth strewn corridor, his expression lightens as he takes in the bright myriad of colors. "Well of course you can, Sy … we just don't have this sort of Bazaar down in Southern, that's all. Haven't you been in Donatien's shop … or maybe it's his office? Whatever." He glances at the cerulean his friend is admiring and nods. "I'm sure she would, it's very pretty. Though I think this emerald green with the gold threads would suit Kalea better. I wonder if they might have something already made?"

Veresch leaves them for a few moments to dig around the bales and curtains of cloth, only returning a few moments later when everyone she knows has been greeted. "Those two fabrics would be lovely," she declares stoutly, and gives a few steps closer to peek at their selections. "But there are ready-made clothes as well, at least in part, and there's a new fashion starting here from the islands that might do well for Southern…" She trails off as she leads them three stalls over, into an old granny's shop, and greets her with a quick smile and bob of the head before pulling out a long length of cloth. "Here, like this," she mutters as she has them hold the one side of the fragile blue material. "It's meant for nothing else but unders, so it won't rest good on these clothes now, but it'll give you an idea. There's normally a short-sleeved shirt that goes along with it as well, which you wear underneath the cloth. They…ah! Like this." And there they have it, a sari slowly tucked and pinched into place, with the gauzy fabric turning less and less translucent with the layers, until it's quite lovely. "It's a bit costly, but…" Lot of cloth, after all.

"Psh, no!" Unless Aleile is dragging her brother along to such things. "Why would I go there?" It isn't like the kid has stopped growing long enough to warrant truly tailored garments. The emerald-gold fabric that his brother has selected is eyed. "Seems like something she'd like; I don't think I've seen her wear a color other than green." Not that he pays particular attention to such things, but that's what S'yn gets for letting his mouth run away with his stream of thoughts. Then Veresch is inserting her likely more qualified female opinion into the matter and the teenager opts to follow, suspecting the girl knows a thing or two about dressing given her current outfit. When the fabric is held once they are in the shady confines of the shop he takes hold of it for her and watches as she wraps herself up in the long, augmented cloth. Finally she's done and the amber eyes regard her with an interest that goes perhaps beyond polite as he considers the possibilities of such a sheer fabric wrapped around a nearly nude form. "It's lovely." Stop salivating, Sy.

Kultir grins at his brother and shrugs slightly. "Well, I guess then you'd not know. And no, she seldom wears something other than green unless I buy it for her." His eyes shine at that but then most of what he does buy for her caters to her tastes which runs to green. Following Veresch as she leads them toward that little shop and watches as she displays that extraordinary length of cloth. "Hmm … that'd be interesting to take off someone …" The young man doesn't even realize he's spoken aloud until the words reach his own ears and causes him to blush and glance around, hoping no one heard that wistful comment. "It is beautiful. Do they … ahh, yes, they do." The tracker steps to one side of the shop and touches a silky sheer green length of cloth with delicate gold flowers embroidered around the edges.

It'll be a hot day in Embarrassment Hell before Veresch blushes; thankfully her scarf hides her smile well enough, until it's only a mysterious movement underneath the cloth. "They have them in all kinds of shades," she encourages gently. "Blues, greens, pinks. Around here it's mostly the Zingari that wear material like this, but your climate is so hot and humid over there most of the time it's like walking into warm water, and I thought this might suit for days they want to be cool." With that, and the old woman shopkeeper's eyes twinkling, she withdraws just a little so that they can make their own choices; it'll be their marks spent after all. The choice of green; well, they do come from Southern.

His brother's comment along with the not so subtle jibing his lifemate does make S'yn lift his gaze up politely to meet Veresch's eyes rather than her more notable assets that young hormones are starting to notice. The hunter's second comment is a suitable excuse to break his gaze and the bronzerider glances toward the fabric Kultir has selected, the garment no doubt as beautiful as the fabric it's made from. "I'm sure she'll love wearing that on her restdays." It's a straight-faced delivery so clearly the teenager isn't going anywhere else mentally with that notion; not with his brother's weyrmate. Their guide's commentary draws him back to thinking and he nods. "It does get pretty hot and wet down there." Trust Sy to say something dirty without meaning anything by it. "I know this color will look lovely on Ali; she'll tell me it matches her eyes." Clearly the younger sister's duty is to give fashion lessons to her uneducated sibling. "She probably has matching shoes already." Because fashion is important for a woman, right?

Though Kultir is rather absorbed in admiring the various shades of green, he keeps coming back to that pale green with the golden flowers embroidered on the edges, he still hears his brother's comments. Nodding slightly at the first, the second makes him do a double-take at the younger and bite his lips to keep a snicker from escaping too loudly. Unfortunately, his thoughts are rather plainly written on his face which is turned more toward both Veresch and the elderly woman who owns the shop. Getting himself back under control, he smiles up at their young guide and nods. "It is rather different from here and some days it does feel like you have to chew the air before you can breath it. But I think Lea will like this." He turns to the elderly woman and lifts the edge of the pale green cloth. "How much?" The answer causes him to blanch briefly as he considers the weight of his markspouch before he starts haggling in earnest, his experience with bartering better than it had been but still somewhat lame.

Veresch Heard Nothing. No, even though her eyebrows hitch a little, she Heard Nothing. Her keep-your-face-straight training under Sadaiya must be fabulous; either that or she's saving it up to go and howl later on. Her eyes flick to Kultir when he starts bargaining - ouch, that sounds expensive - before her attention drifts to S'yn, who has still not made up her mind. "They sell slippers a few stalls down, so I'm sure you can pick something up later on if you want to give her a matched set." With the length of cloth unwrapped from her body, she idles on a few steps, going through the shades available. "What's her favourite colour?" she asks curiously.

Sometimes naiveté is a wonderful thing. S'yn remains pointedly oblivious to the effect his remark had on his two companions, mercifully absorbed in trying to get something his sister will like. It's an agonizing prospect under the best of circumstances and he isn't even able to ask her opinion before he buys. Oh, the pressure. Fortunately Veresch comes to his rescue after a fashion, offering her Female Wisdom to his cause. "Blue." Because that narrows it down. The swath that the assistant unwraps from her body — avert your eyes and stop undressing her, Sy — nets a long look, fingers reaching out to trace over the pale cloth. "She likes Harper blue well enough, but her absolute favorite is stuff like this. Sea blue, like the Azov, or turquoise stones." The sky blue sari with the pearly silver edging really holds his interest and he bites his lip softly. "I think she has some white sandals that she'd wear with this." Don't hold him to that, mind, but that's this theory and he's sticking to it. "Looks long enough to last a while even if she gets taller." Which seems likely.

Kultir sighs softly as he finishes his bargaining with the elderly lady, the expression on his face one of slight satisfaction since he managed to get the woman down to only half his saved-up marks. Nodding his agreement to the final price, he fishes out the required amount as the woman wraps up that length of fabric and, with a wink to the young tracker, adds a matching gold mini-sleeve tunic to go under the sari. He smiles his gratitude and hands over the agreed upon marks willingly as he accepts the package with a nod of thanks. "Thank you for bringing us here, Veresch. Though I'm glad Kalea isn't here with us … I'd never get her out of here." His attention turns toward the length his friend is looking at and looks over the blue fabrics the younger man is examining. "I'm sure she'll like just about anything you bring her, Sy. But I think that one or this one would look the best on her … with her coloring." The tracker points at the sky blue before carefully touching a length that is almost shimmery with a hint of lilac to it.

As much as Veresch might try to deny it, she is a girl, and watching Fashion happen around her is heartening and disappointing, given that she's still saving up for one of these outfits. "I'm not sure what her colouring is precisely, but if it's as Kultir said, then I think that one perhaps." She points to the one that he's been eyeing all along, delicate blue and silver, and leans forward to check the drape of it over the back of one slim wrist. "That's the beauty of clothes like these, you don't have to let them out the whole while as you grow. It's certainly fancy enough for Gathers and Hatching parties and the like, so I'd suggest it." She lets the fold of cloth slip off, and gives Kultir a slight grin, seen only in the quirking of her eyebrows and slight narrowing of her eyes. "You're very welcome. I wouldn't walk around too much longer though, it's about to get to siesta time, so I can show you two to an inn, or back to your bronze."

S'yn will have to trust Kultir on his assertion about Kalea, not being mated to the woman. Female politics are complicated enough to understand already, thank you very much. The opinions that his brother offers are considered and weighed as best as his young brain can, the intricacies of color choice beyond the teenager. If it's comfortable and fits, you wear it, right? Veresch's opinion gets a lot more weight in the kid's mind, since she seems to know what she's doing, even though he thinks the lilac is nice, he agrees with the guide's assertion that the sky blue will look best on his Harper sibling. "Let's do this one." He lays claim on the one that he's been eyeing since the assistant donned it. "Then you can guide is back to Iax. We may come back in a few candlemarks after stashing things." Because there are still mementoes to be had but other friends and family! His bartering skills are less than great, but fortunately the bronzerider has some coin to spare to help cushion his efforts at haggling with the older woman, and perhaps she even takes a little pity on — or liking to — him because he's so baby faced. Either way, he gets what he wants and a matching top to go with it at a not horrible rate and pays up before cradling the garments close to his chest. "Shall we?"

Kultir sighs happily as he carefully cradles his wrapped purchase and follows the other two from the shop with another nod of thanks to the elderly proprietor. The growing heat of the sunnier areas they pass through on the way back to where the coppery bronze lounges nearly takes his breath away after the cool dimness of the cloth shops. "Whew … I can see why Igenites take a nap in the middle of the day. Almost need to in order to get away from the heat." The sweat that immediately popped out on his brow evaporates almost as quickly leaving a sticky salt clouding his bronzed skin.

With both of the young men seemingly satisfied with their purchases, Veresch offers her greetings to the old woman, feeling peculiarly successful. It had been a good day, right, exposing Igen's products to a new field? The heat, hitting like an anvil, seems to affect her less; indeed, in the robes she's wearing it'll be markedly more comfortable than leathers and Between clothes. Still, the effect of Rukbat at its brightest hammering against the bronze's hide is enough to make even her eyes squint, and she grimaces at the sudden, quick stabbing pain. "You're welcome back later," she murmurs quietly as she guides the two men the last few steps, then turns to peer up at them. "There are still quite a few treasures in the Bazaar, and the food around here might be to your liking." She pauses for a moment, then tilts her head. "Could you tell the people back home about the good deals here? The less savoury sections can be avoided."

Following their guide back out into the blistering mid-day heat, S'yn finds it easy to fathom why most natives take a nap during the middle of the day. His riding leathers are decidedly uncomfortable, but he does his best to take it like a man, a man, we say, holding the delicate cloth over his covered arm so that it won't soak up his sweat and discolor. Iaxryth seems perfectly impervious to the intense heat, his burnished hide practically blinging in the intense midday sun. The beast does seem to have some courtesy for his ambles over and shelters the three of them under his enormous wing, providing some shade from Rukbat's intense regard, filtering through the citrine membrane. "We'll definitely have to come back soon; I enjoyed seeing someplace different." Despite some of the darker aspects that disturbed him the lighter ones were worth the trip. "I'm certain Ali will tell everyone where her new outfit came from; it's sure to go over well." His head jerks toward his bronze in gesture to Kultir. "Climb up and I'll tuck these away." He moves to stash his spoils in one of the pouches attached securely to the riding straps. "Thank you for showing us around, Veresch. We'd have been utterly lost without your expertise." Flattery? Probably not, coming from him.

Kultir grins at Veresch and nods at her request. "I'm sure Kalea will tell folks too. I think that's something women do, right? Tell others where they get their new clothes?" The young tracker has no idea but he's figured that's the way things go. His eyes sparkle as he nods again at Veresch. "Thanks again for guiding us around. Can't wait to come back again." At his brother's gesture, the young man climbs up the straps and settles into the secondary seat between the bronze's ridges. Clipping on the straps, he curls his arm around the package and waits patiently for his brother to finish his own goodbyes.

She watches them secure the packages with a small smile, and gives a single grateful glance for the large wing over them. Then, having seen dragons take off before, Veresch gives a good few steps back, enough that the downrush of air won't flip sand all over her during turbulence. The last that they'll see of her, should they look down, is a small hand held up to wave at them, and the whipping of blue desert robes. "Goodbye, S'yn! Goodbye, Kultir! Goodbye, Iaxryth!"

The tracker's protectiveness of his package — or perhaps the elder simply didn't hear the offer — earns a soft quirk of an eyebrow from S'yn before it is shrugged off as Kultir ascends the bronze's side to settle between the ridges. His own stowed and secured he turns back to Veresch to offer her a half bow, his lifemate still sheltering them from the sun. Unfortunately that shelter isn't to last as the youth climbs up the brassy side carefully and swings over to settle between the ridges and strap himself in. Iaxryth's hindquarters bunch as he settles back onto them, wings cupping before that coil is loosed and sends the beast skyward, wings swooping downward to kick up loose sand and grit. The wave is returned by the youth even as their guide watches their departure, but soon the hand is dropped as the teenager focuses on their destination, sending them home to Southern Weyr in a snap of frost as they vanish between.

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