G'tan, Il'ian


A pair of Whirlwind bronzeriders take shelter from the storm with mixed results.


It is afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the sixth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Dustbowl Cantina, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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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.

OOC Note: the Dustbowl's owner (currently: Jharlodar) functions as an NPC when not logged in. Don't do anything too drastic with him, but he and his staff may be referenced in poses.

Timor: moon2.jpg
Belior: moon3.jpg

-- On Pern --
It is 2:35 PM where you are.
It is afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the sixth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the twenty-fifth day of Summer and 100 degrees. A strong, dry wind blows across the desert that raises and carries along a massive cloud of sand that obscures Rukbat and drowns Igen in darkness. Visibility is reduced to nothing as sand pelts the weyr. Torrents of sandy wind lashes exposed skin, and grits in the eyes and nose of anything that dares to brave the elements.
In Southern:
It is the twenty-fifth day of Winter and 57 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to be mostly gone with only the occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the twenty-fifth day of Winter and 12 degrees. It's really damn cold out.

The cantina is as packed as a dust storm day could ever hope to be; in that sense, the windows that look to the outside world are dimmed and shuttered, though occasionally a shutter will fly open in the face of the strong winds outside. Those who manage to brave the stinging winds carry with them the hint of heat and scent of grit and dust. Misery is in the eyes of every Igenite that struggles to drown their duststorm driven sorrows into gritty glasses of cheap booze. In the corner, sprawled in a chair alone, sits Il'ian with his long legs jutting out. The soles of his boots are caked with sand and grit, as are the rest of his leathers, hinting that the young man's braved the outside long enough to get dirty. Sand grains cling to his face, to the stubble that lines the purity of jaw, except for the clean lines that hint to where his goggles were. Blond hair is mussed and stiff from sweat and wind. Idly, he twirls the glass with amber liquid in it, watching the content swirl around with each top-spinning spin.

The Dustbowl would seem to be the place for blonde-haired, blue-eyed bronzers to escape from this sandstorm. Ducking in from the blast of the grit-laden gale comes G'tan, leathers dirt-blasted and face swathed in a scarf that looks like it's probably dark blue beneath the brown coating. Sputtering and cursing as he shuts the door in his wake, he pulls the thing away from his face and strips away his goggles… Well. He basically looks a lot like Il'ian just now. Rum is ordered, a seat in the crowd searched out, and when there seems to be one near the younger bronzerider, that's where he wanders. "Il'ian," he greets his wingmate with a nod, getting some of the liquid into his mouth to clear away lingering dust. "Mind if I invade?"

Given that most of the familiar faces that surface through the crowd are those of the bazaar flavor, it doesn't take much to draw the eye of Il'ian to his fellow wingrider. Brows lift a hitch, a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth as he watches G'tan try and chase the grit away from the back of his throat with rum. "By all means," he gestures, the smile fully forming as he lifts his own glass, delicately held between his fingertips, to his lips. Ducking his head, this serves to better allow a re-situation of his sprawl in nearly boneless movement that has him essentially re-settled in the same position, but just more comfortably so. "Think we're gonna be trapped in here for a while." This provokes a grin. Pity, right? All the booze either of them could want! "Zinakoth?" The other bronzerider's dragon's name is pitched in such a way that the uplift of interrogative contains a whole question there, obviously, on the dragon's health. Or maybe on the dragon's thoughts on the storm. Eh, he leaves it up to interpretation.

"Doin' good. Loves this," G'tan grumbles about Zinakoth and the sandstorm, taking his own sprawl in the chair he drops into but with a bit more care. He's a big guy, after all; he can encroach on some else's space without knowing it. "Actually, that's not completely true," he amends, yanking loose the fastenings on his jacket and shrugging it off onto the back of the chair. "Storms are worse this Turn, and he knows it. He says they hurt sometimes, and for him to notice is somethin'. It was rough comin' in." He eyes his drink, tosses a fair amount of it back, and sighs roughly. "Worse places to be trapped, I guess." Though if the storm hadn't forced them down right away, he'd certainly be somewhere else. "How about Sargaeroth?"

Il'ian just doesn't care if he encroaches on someone else's space, but such is the life of a confident young man who's yet to fully learn the effects he can have on his surroundings. "They worse this turn?" The cropped sentence is delivered around a mouthful of glass and booze, which must be some good rotgut given the strength of the scent coming off of the glass itself. Pushing the glass across the scarred wood of the table, the younger bronzerider leans back and stacks his hands behind his head. His own jacket is looped on the back of his chair, barely clinging as the leather fights gravity to stay hooked to the point of wooden frame. The pale cream of his tunic, opened at the throat, shows hints of a pendant worn beneath the shirt as the silver chain crosses across the lean expanse of visible, exposed chest. "Sargaeroth is indifferent to the sandstorm. Not really caring for or against the rougher elements." Words are sparsely driven through the quicksilver of smiling lips. "Got booze, eh?" He lifts a finger to a passing waiter, pointing to his glass for another.

G'tan lifts his glass to the waiter as well, tapping his finger against it with a look to the man in silent request. His will be gone in short order. "Seem so to me," the older bronzerider notes, nodding. "And I know you can usually see 'em coming, but these ones lately seem to come up damn fast. And hard. Desert's pissed at somethin' this Turn." Or something like that. Across the room, a small, somewhat rowdy group is playing darts, groans and scoffing occasionally welling up to overcome the general din. G'tan watches as a particularly inebriated man tosses a dart wide of the target, a tiny chip of stucco flaking off the wall as it and the dart clatter to the floor amid a flurry of jeering, and he chuckles a bit, turning his attention back to Il'ian. "You from here, or somewhere else?"

"Is it?" Il'ian turns the question idly back to G'tan, watching the older bronzerider from beneath sandy lashes. "Huh. S'for the harpers to figure out, right?" Brows lift upwards as the young man pauses to consider, "Or maybe that's starcraft. Whichever craft, s'not me or you, eh?" That provokes a half-smile that curves his lips upwards in a devil-may-care freefall smile that adds sparkle to bright blue eyes. Sprawled as he is, he languidly allows his vision to stray from the dirty glass with it's swallow of rotgut whiskey left to swish around the bottom to the rowdy dart-throwing crowds. It's a quick flick from the rowdy crowd to G'tan, a shuttered look passing to the elder bronzerider before giving a little shrug. "Born, raised in the bazaar," the response laconic, but not for rudeness. Il'ian just isn't given to effluence. "Impressed, what. Almost two turns back?" Or more; who's counting the turns? Whenever Elicheritath was caught by E'pha's bronze. "You?" Query presented with the curious inflection to liquid baritone, attention shifting fully to G'tan.

"Dunno. If a desert could be pissed…" This is how G'tan imagines it might be embodied. "But yeah. Glad we don't have to figure it out." They have to fly in it though, and Zinakoth likes to know the why of a change, so he has reasons to be curious. He nods at Il'ian's answer with a quiet 'ah'. "I'm was a weyrbrat. Ista. So all this?" He gestures toward the shutters that rattle incessantly beneath the passing storm. "Shittiest weather ever, for an island boy. Gimme a hurricane. At least I grew up with those." Abruptly, there's a bit of growling from over near the dart players, and G'tan slips a glance over to eye two men standing toe to toe and drunkenly spouting off insults in each other's faces. He watches them warily, sipping his rum but not moving. Yet. Hopefully it won't necessitate him doing so…but he's not holding his breath.

"Hear, hear," Il'ian tilts his glass towards G'tan and finishes off that last swallow. The empty thing is once again pushed away from him, hand lying flat on the rough and scarred wood of the table. He tap-taps his calloused hands against the table, the fingernails manicured well enough to not be nail bitten beneath the quick. Criss-crossing his ankles, the young man's eyes stray from G'tan to the rowdy group. Where the older bronzerider eyes them warily, the younger eyes them with a sort of assessing curiosity. "Ista, huh? Imagine it's hard for me. Like me and water. Used to the beauty of the desert more than getting wet from the sky." Not that Igen doesn't have her storms, but the water doesn't linger! "So why'd you come if you hate the weather so much?" The drunken spouts of violence hold his attention partially arrested but as there's no trouble yet — brewing, maybe, but nothing exploding — he focuses on his fellow Whirlwinder.

"Got plenty wet over the spring," G'tan notes, eyes shifting from the maybe-brawlers and scanning the room. "It does have its good point. Zin sees 'em more than I do still, but I'm learning. There is something beautiful about the desert, in its way." Il'ian's last question earns a snort. "I broke my old wingleader's nose," he answers simply. "Disagreement. Igen seemed the best option out of all my choices, plus I knew a few people here already, so." He shrugs. "Here I am. I am glad I came, though. Good place to be. Even if a lot of the other Weyrs still rag on it." A flicker of movement off to the right; the stockier of the two men near the dartboard shoves the other, causing him to stumble into a table. Still no punches thrown, but G'tan figures its only a matter of time. The last of his rum is downed, his glass set on the table and pushed hard enough to touch Il'ian's with a dull tink.

In the midst of G'tan's waxing poetic over the desert, the waiter comes by with both of their refills. Rum for G'tan and another 'round of that rotgut whiskey for Il'ian. "Knew a few folks?" That's the salient point that the younger man pulls from G'tan's mixed bag of words, though it's obvious by now that the boy is processing everything he's hearing, but choosing to weigh his own words for their effectiveness and efficiency rather than only hearing bits and pieces of what his fellow wingrider states. "What's the ocean like?" This query is almost out of place, though the weighted pause before it's given yields a hint of the consideration it takes to ask it. Where G'tan probably has good stone on him for pure muscle, if G'tan is the brawn, Il'ian is the assassin, all lean, svelte cut of muscle that poses the possibility of a quick shift from potential to kinetic energy. Still, his only outward reaction to the escalation of tempers and the clink of G'tan's glass to his is the uplift of brows. "Hrr?" is a sound that poses a nebulous question, the hand not resting on the table reaching up to drag a thumbnail down the side of his partially scruffy jaw. The scruff roughens up the baby fineness of too-sweet jawline.

"Cha'el, before Southern got 'im," G'tan replies. "And Erissa. Spent some Turns with 'em at Ista. Guess it felt sort of natural to follow the flow of Ista riders up to Igen." The ocean question catches G'tan a bit off-guard, and he chuckles a bit, a grin slanted at the younger man. "It's like the desert, but wet." Sea of sand, sea of water. "Which probably doesn't help. It's a little hard to describe, if you haven't lived around it all your life. The way you see the desert is how I see the ocean, if that makes any sense. Beautiful, dangerous, constantly shifting. Blue inside of blue…" He's prevented from doing any more poetic waxing by the unmistakable sound of flesh impacting flesh, fist against face, and his attention jerks around. "Uh-huh. Thought so. Wanna gimme a hand?" he asks Il'ian, standing up and straightening his shirt with a resigned huff. The brawn is going to break up the fight, but the assassin's help would be most welcome, of course.

Il'ian is a great listener, and while G'tan is talking about the desert and the ocean, the younger bronzerider is busying pulling from memory the faces of Cha'el and Erissa to file them away for later. The intensity of blue eyes is possibly unsettling were they left to stare at the other man. Alas, he's eyeing his full glass of whiskey with a heavy contemplation while his wingrider's words fall into the silt of his thoughts. "Hhnn." It's a grunt of possible agreement when the other man likens how he views the desert to how G'tan, himself, views the ocean, the correlation not lost on him for that. Possibly, he actually would have had a thought to form on the subject had the slap of the meaty part of a fist not crashed into the flesh of someone's face, the dull thud coming just after the slap of skin-to-skin. Forlornly does he eye the whiskey; there will be no relaxation on this sandstorm day! With the sudden ambulation to an internal glee, Il'ian pushes himself out of his sprawl in one smooth motion. Dumping the contents of the whiskey down his throat with a great swallow, he leaves the glass upside down, froth still sliding slowly down the clear sides. With the shake of his head, he flashes G'tan an all together dangerous smile. "Why not." What young man doesn't like a good bar brawl?

G'tan's been in the midst of his share of bar fights…though he's usually the one ending them and not starting them. Such as now. Grinning at Il'ian's smile, the bigger bronzerider gives a nod and steels himself, barging forward into the mist of the crowd forming a circle around the grappling men and shouldering people aside until he can reach the action. "Alright, guys, c'mon! Break it up!" Bringing his arms up, he goes after the bigger of the pair, burly arms snaking around his neck and waist as he attempts to pull him away from the other. He can't quite successfully dislodge the attacker, however - even with his captive still flailing. Yeah, he's going to need Il'ian on the other man, for sure.

This is when questionable scruples come to play. While G'tan is off playing the good guy, he is off weaving through the crowds. While it's true he doesn't carry as much pure bulk as G'tan, in height he is not spare and in musculature he carries svelte, lean lines cut with very little fat to sheath the muscles. The life of a dragonrider has given him subtle strength; enough strength that while all eyes are busy listening to and watching the older Whirlwind wing rider, he is able to slip to the shadows behind the other man in the fight. Where G'tan grabs ahold of the other guy, trying to manhandle him off, Il'ian is already in play to grapple the other agent of chaos into a half-nelson. For all his lack of "bulk", he holds his own well. Height, stance, and a steely determination ensure that. Unless the crowd gets involved, then it could become a free for all. Over the heads of others, the young man catches G'tan's eye. One brow quirks, even though the exertion of holding onto his captive is starting to show in the veins that bulge and the flush to fair skin. At least they aren't fighting?

They both have their ways, and they both seem to be working! Both men struggle in the grips of their respective bronzeriders, but are both too drunk to make much more of a resistance. Some of the crowd - friends of the brawlers, most likely - start to shuffle toward them, and G'tan raises his voice. "Next person to throw a punch gets tossed outside!" he bellows, knowing that it'll likely be an effective threat for now. No one wants to be back out in that again with out prior planning. The stocky guy he has hold of stops squirming quite so much, but Il'ian's is still trying to be slippery. G'tan knocks a booted foot against the man's knee. "We're all gonna calm down, go sit still somewhere for a bit, and make sure Jharlodar here doesn't need to add some broken furniture to our tabs, aye?" The man in G'tan's grip grunts a few curses but agrees, and G'tan shoves him away toward the opposite end of the room before eying Il'ian's captive again. This one looks a bit less convinced, but he calms enough that G'tan gives the younger bronzer a nod. Let him go; we'll see what happens.

The ripple of unrest stirs through the crowd, a crowd that lusts for drama and violence. The threat might still them for the moment as the sands whip around the building, stripping any coat of paint that might have existed prior to this fateful afternoon. The howl of nature's wrath is the backdrop for G'tan's voice. Il'ian doesn't speak, though he holds onto his squirming, slippery captive with a surprising ease. A whisper is dropped into the man's ear, intimately placed for a hiss to be relayed to the man without anyone else interceding. The man's eyes bulge a little, and though his thrashing doesn't end, it's enough of a change that when G'tan nods his way, Il'ian will slowly let him go. Hands up, palms out; the younger bronzerider backs away with an arrogant swagger rolling his hips and a half-smile quirking the side of his mouth. From his pocket, he fishes out a toothpick, plucking it between his lips before rolling it to the corner of uplifted smirk. "Better to drink than fight, mate." Low-slung tone is pitched to soften threat, though the crowd still hums with potential energy.

G'tan watches as Il'ian deals with his man, curious as his eyes follow the smaller fellow away. The older bronzerider levels a warning look on the surrounding onlookers, who reluctantly start to break up a bit. Idly, he plucks up the darts resting on the nearby table, which he scoots back into place with a quick tug. "Nice," he comments to the younger man, taking a dart between two fingers and eying the board. "What'd you tell 'im?" The sails, hits the board with a dull thunk, and G'tan grimaces as it sticks fast into a blue wedge. Damn. Stupid bar fights, throwing off his game.

As the crowds slowly dissipate with grumbling complaint, Il'ian watches from the corners of his eyes, head angled slightly downward as he rests on the balls of his feet. A dart is plucked up and turned over to see-yet-not-see what's in his hand as attention rests elsewhere. "What?" Focused fully, finally, on G'tan, for praise isn't necessarily something that registers beyond the flash of quicksilver smile that pulls at the corners of his eyes and tilts his brows almost adorably though perhaps doesn't quite reach the hue of blue of the iris. "Oh, that? Told 'im he'd regret pushing me." He taps the pointed end of the dart against his temple and allows that smile to lengthen into a grin. "Almost wanted him to keep fighting." Pulled to the dartboard, he watches at G'tan sinks it wide of his mark. "You glad you came to Igen?" This is asked just before he half-asses a throw at the dartboard that doesn't land too far off of G'tan's.

"Hmmm," is G'tan's counter to Il'ian's reply, intrigue sparking briefly in his eyes beneath a smirk as he takes hold of another dart. "Seems like some people with Bazaar ties can say something like that and scare a lot of people into doin' something else," he observes. He tosses the dart, this time lodging it squarely in a bronze segment. That's better. "Woulda made things a lot more interesting," he concedes with a chuckle. "I kinda wanted to see how tossing him out in the sandstorm would've sobered him up. Like Igen's equivalent of throwing someone off the dock." Which he's done. He gestures for Il'ian to take another throw, nodding. "Yeah. I am. It's got it's share of shit, but where doesn't? Some good people here."

"Had an interesting childhood," is all Il'ian has to say about that, though he doesn't deny that having bazaar ties does him in a good stead from time to time. "Learn to hold your own." Once again, his brevity comes to play as words are sparsely used and given only after a moment's mull of thought. He does, eventually, take up another dart and hefts it in his hand a few times before slanting a look at G'tan. "Hmnngh," is his initial response to Igen having good people. More of a grunt than verbal acknowledgement. He turns and lobs the dart, letting it fly directly into the brown wedge. Unconcerned for his apparent stroke of ill-luck, blue eyes find the other bronzerider from the veil of sandy lashes. "I like it here. It's got people." Good and bad. The flash of his smile shows hints of teeth. "Can't complain about the wing either." Let's face it. Whirlwind is best!

G'tan makes a noise that's somewhere between a snort and a laugh, smiling crookedly. "Yeah, it's got people alright." He has come to know both sides of the coin a little more lately. A hand is raised to catch a waiter's attention, drinks summoned to the bronzeriders once more before G'tan turns back to the board. The crowd is kept in constant peripheral watch, but otherwise, the remainder of the storm passes in darts and alcohol, any further fighting kept to a few random arguments until the calming of the wind releases those trapped within the Dustbowl out into the sand-coated Weyr once more.
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