Who

L'xan, F'in | Nokteryth, Rhakanth

What

Poor L'xan just wanted to get away from his troubles. Too bad he finds more… for F'in, at least: Counterfeiters!

RP-Tag Round 4

When

It is late night of the twenty-second day of the ninth month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date 19 Aug 2017 07:00

 

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"I don't know if I could go back to being an ordinary wingrider anymore at least."


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The Night Flight Ruins

The ash has been swept away, but the charred clay bricks and timbers remain. What wasn't useful, at least. Enterprising merchants have made a new market square of sorts, squatting their turf in the sooty remains, awnings strung from the broken spars of charred rafters. The acrid smell of burning still lingers.

It is the twenty-second day of Autumn and 89 degrees. The night is clear. Stars twinkle merrily.


There are times when Southern's Weyrleader escapes the pressing weight of his duties. And when he does so he prefers to do so in the shabby streets of Igen Weyr's bazaar, that den of slight-didginess that he patrolled when he was a mere Parhelion wingrider. This particular Autumn evening is one of those times, and the sandy bulk of L'xan can be found pacing past the former locale of The Night Flight, the still uncleared ruin and the enterprising 'free-market' merchants that have set up shop causing him to pause with all of those instincts developed as a Parhelion wingrider tingling. There is a definite narrowing of his eyes as he strides closer to investigate the newest occupants of one of the more prime real estate locations in the bazaar. "Evening." He greets the first merchant, all loose charm and golden affability.

Merchants turn their best smiles to L'xan in return, sweeping hands over wares, making earnest claims. His knot does not go unnoticed, there are marks to be made. Good ones. A deep grating shift of stone on stone, Rhakanth's greeting to Nokteryth. « Welcome. » Walls shift to align a corridor, a rare straight shot through the winding paths of the Labyrinth, it is an announcement of sorts, Igen's Weyrleader approaches. F'in makes his way down the darkening streets flanked by two guards, smiling when he see the bluff form of L'xan. "G'd ev'nin,' Southern. Ta what d' we owe th' pleasure?" He draws up next to L'xan, perusing the displayed wares. The guards hang back, keeping an eye on the larger area.

L'xan grimaces. He'd totally be more inconspicuous without that damned fancy knot, but no, in his haste to escape he forgot to take the thing off. Which completely undermines his dashing stranger routine with the merchants making equally earnest and honest claims I'm sure. "Weyrleader." L'xan returns the greeting with equal formality, even as his eyes continue to scan the merchandise and the merchants selling it. "Felt like a bit of home." The man is born and raised Igen after all. "Somewhere we're I'm not the root of all evil… Or something." He shrugs, one large finger reaching out to finger a diaphonous scarf in vivid sky blue. "I hope that isn't because of what happened down my way." He nods his head at F'in's guards. Clearly something about the wild jungle Weyr agrees with L'xan as he is missing similar chaperones. Nokteryth for his part returns the greeting by very politely NOT knocking down any of those restrictive walls. « Thanks » Comes his irreverent reply. « Nice place you've got here. It's so barren. » The oozing midnight rainbows of water are muted by sticky sand that gets everywhere.

"Well, 'ere 't is." F'in grins, sweeping a hand over the grimy plot. Posturing between the families have meant that the Night Flight's carcass remains just that. He leans forward, looking closely at the wares spread. This is a display of glass and clay pipes. He rumbles appreciatively. "Rough go, eh?" At the furling of the skyblue cloth, F'in tips his head, "Fetching. Sets off yer eyes." He gestures at the merchant, "How much?" And L'xan has said something… Hmm? The bronzerider tilts his head, "Oh? Th' guards? Aye. After… uh." He squints, "Before yer time, but aye. An' they're not so much fer me, but I dinna feel right puttin' 'em on th' weyrwomen an' not havin' ta 'ave 'em myself. Yanno? Seemed fair." And given that Southern's last leadership team was nearly murdered, reasonable. Rhakanth clarifies, « Stark. » Grains of golden sand mingle with the motes that shed from Rhakanth's tumbling golden cord weaving through the ways of the Labyrinth. High hedges with dense leaves and cruel thorns and bright blossoms whisper, unceasing, mysteries undiscovered just around the next bend. Or the next. Or… was it there? The hedges hung with colorful lanterns give way to a broad plaza where oozing midnight rainbows might feel less confined. "A quarter mark," grates the codger manning the table.

"So long as it goes with Selaine's eyes, I think I can live with it." L'xan obligingly drapes that scrap of filmy cloth across his face and flutters his lashes. Sure he's still convinced red > ALL other colors, but the past couple of turns weyrmated have seen him develop some understanding of the greenriders tastes. Seeing that L'xan has actually taken the scarf, the merchant immediately promises the bargin of the PASS. And in short order L'xan is handing over a mark piece of his own. "Honestly, if you're not screwing around with poison, I don't think you've much to worry about. Not at this late date at least." Sure it was before his time, but the HIDEWORK, that was all his. Of course Weyrleaders get ALL the money, so he holds his hand out for change, like a good little shoppper. Onwards those nocturnal rainbows flow, leaving behind a sulphurous residue that promises nothing good. « Yeah. Barren. » There is a glimmer of humor that dances in the latern's light, of course it is dancing to it's own beat, but there is dancing to go with those prettypretty lights.

"Ah. Aye. Eyes fit ta drown in. 's a good choice." F'in nods at the cloth and grins at L'xan, batted coquettery, "Ye'll give a man ideas ya look at 'im like 'at." His brow furrows, "Poison? What're you on about?" And… this is Igen. Daggers in the shadows, bodies on the midden, Igen. The exchange of marks and goods goes unremarked, though something seems strange. It's not enough to derail his thoughts, however, "'ow is Selaine. An' Akitith," Akitith, Akitith. "An' ye've wee ones too, aye?" The Labyrinth is vast and welcomes, keeps, plenty of things that promise no good. « Our fight is a bitter one. » On his perch, Rhakanth rumbles and steps off to spread great wings and catch the night breeze, winging west, motes trail behind him an invitation, should Nokteryth feel like stretching his wings.

"No boobies." Honkhonk, L'xan is quick to decline the idea's F'in mentions, complete with explanatory gestures. However the purchase is complete, and he is given that delicate scarf in an equally delicate bag. Oh and his change, which he spends more than a few moments rubbing in between thumb and forefinger with a frown that belies his pleasant tone. "She's doing well… I think. It's hard to catch up." F'in understands that right? "And our twins are growing up so fast!" L'xan speaks with the surprise of a man who has had little to do with children prior to the ones of which he speaks. The frown deepens as the rubbing takes on a more urgent speed. "Huh…" He's thinking, even as he drops his gaze down to his busy fingers. Busy, stained fingers! That's not right! « A fight is a fight brother! » Nokteryth counters enthusiastically. « It's never going to be pretty. » And the twilight-ruined bronze relishes that, even as he takes to the air on his own over-sized wings. « As I said, I like it » But Nokteryth likes many things he probably shouldn't.

"More's th' pity." F'in's great heart is broken. Though he does look at bit wistful, "I've n' 'mate, nor wee ones, so take this with a grain o' salt, but, ah," he clears his throat, scowling as the coloring on L'xan's fingers, "Ya get a moment t' yerself an' yer 'ere?" He grins, spreading his arms wide, taking in the gritty ruin, "How c'd anyone blame ya?" He squints again at the Weyrleader's fingers. "'s 'at?" The movement of stone on stone, distant, unseen, grates its grinding music. « … » Rhakanth processes that Nokteryth meant 'barren' as a compliment. He bellows to the watchdragon as they wheel and dip over the caldera's rim to skim over the rocky scrub.

"Where else would I go? Igen delivers entertainment like no other place on Pern!" Well Bitra probably has some of the same 'entertainments'. "Like a merchant stupid enough to pass along a fake one-eighth mark to a knotted Weyrleader." The more he talks the brighter his tone becomes as he lifts the offending counterfeit mark up for closer inspection. Sure it's small and roughly the same shape, but it's not skybroom, and there is a distinct possibility that the 'wear' was just painted on. And that's what is staining L'xan's fingers. "Boy I'm glad I ran into you and those guards of yours." L'xan's smile turns a little feral even as he turns to return to the stall with the dodgy coinage. Nokteryth is going to dip and wheel and otherwise frolic, waves of dark amusement radiating from his mindscape even without words. Not only does the older bronze like 'barren', he's also more than passing fond of 'confusion.'

"Oh, I dunno. Into yer 'mate's lovin' arms?" The one he couldn't give a status update on. Or, "Ta dandle yer bairns on yer knee?" F'in's played uncle to many a bairn. Is dandling something fathers do or only uncle thing? And Grampas? Sometimes uncle grampas. F'in laughs at the jest, a hearty guffaw, "Ach. That'd be somethin' 'd 'appen 'ere, aye!" Wait. "Ahaha. Hah. Heh." His laughter trails off. "Yer not kiddin.'" He holds his hand out for the mark and studies it. At a gesture from F'in, one of the guards approaches. Rhakanth own mindscape sprawls outward, it is confusion embodied. Or is it? « Here. » It is an oasis, surrounded by the windbreak of stony cliffs. Greenery crowds the shallow pool. On one cliff face, the huddled forms of caprines sleeping on improbable outcroppings. The bronze folds wings and stoops, drawing up sharply, the wash of his passage ripples the water and sends sand swirling away in whirling gyres.

L'xan was distracted by chicanery okay? "She's busy. She's still persuing her dragonhealing studies. And the twins? They're apparently causing minor riots in the nursery." It is a quick aside, listing all the reasons he is here rather than there. "Also, I needed to get away." Cos there is something rotten in Denmark, and he's close to finding it! Finding the counterfeit mark was just pure luck on his part. That grin of the Southern Weyrleaders grows broader in the face of all that laughter. "This should keep you entertained for a while too! I know you've got Parhelion, but a Weyrleader should take a personal interest in this type of thing yeah?" The merchant in question has no place to escape, and in the face of such large looming men he cowers, speaking of seven starving children and an intelligence only slightly higher than a drudges. « It's an oasis! » Nokteryth crows brightly, contrasting with the never-still slicks in his mind. « They're not barren at all. » A point he demonstrates by ignoring the water and aiming for one of those sleeping caprines. Cos he's like that. The panicked bleating of fleeing goats drowning out the far more terrified screams of Nokteryth's next snack. « Thanks! » Never let it be said he doesn't appreciate his hosts hospitality.

"O' course, o' course." F'in lifts a hand away, dispelling the need for explanation. "I 'ear ya. I got away ta Southern not too long ago." It was a while ago. Time blurs. "I met a dolphin! I met three!" As the import of the Weyrleader's discovery sinks in, F'in's aspect changes. For all that he is sunshine embodied, when that good nature is eclipsed, the transformation is whole. Unsettlingly whole. It is not feral, or pleased, the look that settles on him, but a deep and smoldering thing. Look at that! It got late. The other merchants, sensing the shift, deem the day's dealings done and begin to oh-so-non-chalantly pack up their wares. F'in growls to the merchant, "This is no way ta see them fed." To his guard: "Voestik. Take this man an' 'is goods inta custody." The older of the pair of guards salutes and moves off, nodding patiently at the cascade of pleas spilling from the merchant's lips even as he hauls him away. Through the 'link, a summons to R'xim, issued. The remaining merchants slip into the shadows, like rain into dry sand. F'in watches their retreating backs, recalling as best he can the faces assembled. Someone will know something. "What're yer plans, if yer Nokteryth doesn't catch again? We c'd use ya." At the oasis, Rhakanth slams into the cliff, cutting off the flight of one of those startled caprines, crushed and killed instantly with the bronze's great and sudden weight. The night air, scented here with jasmine and now blood rings with fearful bleats and the scrape of tiny hooves on stone, fleeing the ghastly crunching that follows. As he digests, Rhakanth listens to the wind's voice, shrieking along the cliff's face. It blends with the crying of the caprines and the soft hiss of sand.

Volcanoes, Long lonely nights far from mate and family and Thread, L'xan takes all these in his stride… but the question that F'in asks once all the commotion is over wipes the grin from his face and he falters. There is a moment. A moment pregnant with thought rather than reaction. "To be honest with you. I don't think I've stopped long enough to think about that since the first time Nokteryth caught." It's a sheepish admission, but honest. "They really could use me down there too. Even if I were no longer Weyrleader." He uses the departure of the other squatting merchants to gather thoughts that have flown like a flock of pidgeons. "I… I don't really know." But he's gunna think about it a lot now that that idea-seed has been planted. "I don't know if I could go back to being an ordinary wingrider anymore at least." Nokteryth makes quick work of the captured caprine, albeit messy work. But it is an oasis, and the water is clear and he makes some show of civility as he dips his muzzle clean. Primal apex predator that he is, the noises of the oasis do not change his course of action, just as the noises of the bazaar or the jungle do not change him. He just is, and he is eternal.

F'in grunts, nonplussed by L'xan's vacillation. He squints at the man, "What's one bronze more or less, eh?" That could be an argument for staying at Southern or coming home. F'in is wearing the Weyrleader's mantle, now, dark and heavy. "I've a man for you." Guards arrive, summoned by F'in's remaining bodyguard. The younger of the pair directs them to the stand. "M'tej. A brownrider. A good rider an' a good man. I'd like a blue an' two greens fer 'im offa ya." A beat, "We'll sending a half-dozen of our newest ta High Reaches when they're ready ta be tapped, an' I'm not keen on losin' breadth and depth all in a go." F'in blinks and glances at L'xan's hand, "Eh. What color's 'at dye?" He tosses a chin at the Weyrleader's fingers.

L'xan holds up his offended hand helpfully, the smudging evident as a slight darkening of the entirely wrong hue to his usual complexion. "I'd be inclined to call it 'shit-brown'." But L'xan frequently has such inclinations, and only rarely is allowed to indulge them. "Oh, we work our blue and greenriders hard at Southern. It's a matter of pride to be tapped into Lynx or Serval." Wings that cater to the strengths of chromatics. There is a squinty regard for the sudden Weyrleader-y direction the conversation has taken. "I'm not sure that is a good deal. You just had a double-clutch." He points out, even as he wipes his fingers on a hankerchief provided. EVIDENCE! "But write it down somewhere, so that everyone and their canine can take a look at it." Back at the Oasis the sunset-gilt headknobs rise as summons cross the hemispheres. « We should do this again sometime. » Nokteryth refers to the meal, and not the conversation before, even as he takes off. That last comment about all the farewell the anarchic bronze has. "Gah!" L'xan throws up his hands, as the communication is forwarded to the brains of his partnership. "I should have known they'd think to look for us here." He grouses even as he nods at all and sundry. "If there is anything else, send word. Else I trust, our business is done for now?" He taps a temple significantly with one hand, even as he waggles that little bag with the other. "Clear skies, F'in." He'll totally drop the formalities even as he gives a lazy salute and escapes the ruins of The Night Flight, before it occurs to anyone that he hasn't really given his statement yet.

"Ach. Brown's no' gonna be easy ta trace." Dammit. F'in nods, noting the Weyrleader's pride. He briefly had one of those Southern-trained blueriders as a Weyrsecond. "Aye, we 'ave, an' we're sendin' twice what I'm askin' from you ta High Reaches." To help with the Wing-wide hole ripped in their ranks. "We c'n send more, maybe as many as a dozen, if I c'n backfill a bit." Guards trundle to and fro, cutting — with apologies — between the Weyrleaders. "Ye'll 'ave it in th' mornin.'" He lifts a hand in farewell to the departing Weyrleader — knowing well the relentlessness of duties, hell, he just dumped a pile of it in L'xan's lap. "'ey, L'xan. Good catch." He gives his fellow Weyrleader a nod, "I'll let ya know wha' comes of 't." F'in gestures at the merchant's stall. Out at the Oasis, Rhakanth rumbles and surges to his feet. Mounting the cliffs he springs aloft to see his guest home, the enigmatic bronze sending a warding loop of golden cord in farewell, a wish for safe travels, echoed by his rider, "Clear skies."

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