Who | |
What |
Rocio tracks T'ral down to ask a favor. |
When |
It is evening of the sixteenth day of the fifth month of the ninth turn of the 12th pass. |
Where |
Igen Weyr |
OOC Date | 09 Nov 2016 08:00 |
“‘Bamboozle me?’ I think it works better if you don’t tell me that up front.”
Administrative Corridor
This hall must once had a glory about it, surely: there is a grand geometry to its graceful archways, and a grave beauty to its even stonework. Yet this hallway bears the veneer of disinterest as plain as the rest of the Weyr. The floors go unswept, the walls unwashed: a thin layer of green growth coats many a corner. (Moss, feeding off the light of the glows. Well - let's hope it's moss.) Grime clings to grout lines, spinner webs dangle from the glorious archways. Only the occasional footstep stirs the dusty floors, for most of the Weyrfolk have little occasion to venture here.
It is the forty-sixth day of Spring and 84 degrees. It is a clear night.
Positioned just outside of the council chamber is one greenriding huntress sitting with her back up against the craggy stone wall and a crossword puzzle book in hand. Rocio must’ve stolen it from the archives since it’s conveniently just a few doors down from Igen’s sacred room. “Well, that ain’t right.” Mumbled and rightly so. Turning her writing utensil upside down, she starts to erase what she just wrote when muffled voices are heard from behind the door. Voices? Ack! There’s only supposed to be ONE person in there! Scrambling to her feet, Rocio stuffs the writing utensil into the blonde bun atop her head and grips the puzzle book before bolting into the latrines. Unfortunately for her, she missed the ladies room and dove into the mens room.
From one of the stalls a man exits, starting a bit as he espies a woman in the men’s room. He laughs, a catch in his throat, and ambles to the washbasin. Laving his hands, one crooked in the other, rubbing as he looks at the woman in reflection, “There are better places to meet men, Ro.” The voices in the hall draw close. Closer. The door thumps and creaks open a hair. “I’ll be sure to mention it,” comes an (unsurprisingly) masculine voice from outside. The door doesn’t push open, thumping closed instead. The voices beyond carry on, muffled now.
Rocio attempts to hide behind the door so that when it swings open, it’ll conceal her long enough so she can slip out UNDETECTED before anyone sees her. However… The person she thought was outside is now inside with her. Mind. Blown. “Mister T’ral!” Sounding a little shocked, a quick salute is snapped to the Weyrsecond as Rocio stares at him all wide-eyed. Why is he in the ladies… room. The greenrider looks around and spots urinals. Uh. Damnit. “Glad I caught ya.” Nonchalance, thy name is Ro. A hand reaches up to pluck the writing utensil from her blonde bun like she’s about to write something in her crossword puzzle book. “Can you use ‘bamboozle’ in a sentence?” Squint.
The voices move off. They will be undetected for a bit. Until the restroom steward returns. Restroom steward? Yes. There is a man assigned to fuss over visiting Lords Holder, spritz them with cologne, hand them towels, polish their boots. He has stepped out momentarily. T’ral finishes washing up and fetches his own hand towel. That’s the kind of down-to-earth man he is. With Rocio, he’s learned to roll with it, pivoting on a heel, his eyes cast upwards, flickering over Rocio as he goes, assessing. Is she okay? Wow. She really favors her mother. How did I not noti- “Oh. Rocio! I’ve been carrying this around!” He hastily finishes drying his hands and folds the towel over the washbasin lip. An envelope fished from the breast pocket of his jacket is only a little rumpled and fat with missives from home, if the hand on the envelope is any indication (HINT: It is). “For you. There’s more, but I can’t exactly carry it around.” Care packages. He steps back and casts eyes upward again, “Bamboozle. Bamboozle.” Hands folding behind his back, T’ral adopts a very Renalde-like pose. “The bazaar merchant tried to bamboozle me by selling Apprentice-made goods at Journeyman prices.” Truly a daily occurrence in the bazaar. Caveat emptor.
Whatever Rocio was planning to scrawl is momentarily forgotten when the envelope is presented to her. Light colored eyes blink as she slips the writing utensil behind her ear and reaches out to grab the little packet. “What’re these?” Letters. Notes. The envelope is cracked open enough that she recognizes her father’s handwriting instantly. “Ohh.” Stunned just a tad. “How did you-” A few more parchments are flipped through — the rest from her brothers. The crossword puzzle book is then tucked beneath her arm when she lifts her gaze to T’ral. “When’d ya see Rodric?”
“I was down at Southern on a diplomatic mission.” T’ral doesn’t mention seeing his father in his cups and hopeless. He’s still not entirely sure what to make of that. “Helping shore up their medical supplies.” He looks from the messages to Rocio’s face. “A seven or so ago. Everyone seems well, they’ve avoided the worst of firehead. Your mother was,” his face shadows, “Sad, I think. I pieced together she’s had bad news from home.” Rocio’s mother isn’t chatty. Hospitable, yes, but not chatty. The brothers were a better font of information and happenings. “The quarantine is all but lifted.” Brows tick upwards, suggesting she take advantage.
Rocio twitches a little after T’ral mentions ‘firehead’ and returns her gaze to the envelope in hand. She busies herself by flipping through a few of the folded letters and then quickly lifts her eyes again when her mother is mentioned. “Home? Keroon?” It’s been an age since she’s thought of the Hold. The greenrider shifts her weight onto one leg and slips the thick packet into her back trous pocket, shoulders lifting into a shrug. “Pretty sure if I caught firehead it’d probably take me out.” And it could be that Rodric says so in one of the letters. Rocio grabs hold of the crossword puzzle book again and runs her thumb along a corner as she sniffs a sneeze away. “Y’ain’t looked at my chart in a while have ya?”
The weyrsecond nods, confirming Keroon. It’s a bit of a guess, he isn’t totally sure where ‘back home’ is for Rocio’s mother, but the family was from Keroon before Southern. “Your father said something like, ‘You tell that daughter of mine to stay well clear of here until this is all over.’” He flares hands, helpless, “I wouldn’t defy a father’s wishes.” The voices outside return. The staccato cadence of one says one of those inbound belongs to the attendant. T’ral winces, looks quickly to and fro, then moves to a stall and props the door open, jerking a chin for Rocio to enter. Hopefully the attendant has been attentive. “Not in a while.” Dark eyes unfocus to recall the chart last time he’d seen it. Herbs. Tinctures. Climate was the biggest factor. “You seem better.” Eyes narrow, “That sniff worries me.” The door creaks open and T’ral’s eyes widen. He jerks his chin to the stall again.
Yeah, Rocio forgot she was in the mens room again. She feels a sneeze coming on and quickly touches an index finger to the tip of her nose to prevent full manifestation — hey, it works. Try it. The voices are heard just outside the door and she pivots quickly to look in their direction before taking a hint and diving into a vacant stall. “Ain’t nothin’ t’ worry about!” Stage whispered, that. Thank Faranth she dresses like a boy most of the time because her footwear won’t be giving her away from beneath the stall. Rugged leather boots are all anyone sees of her as she shuffles awkwardly within the cramped quarters. “Uh.” Her face screws up and she isn’t fast enough to prevent the squeak of a sneeze that jars her entire body. Apparently it’s a powerful squeak since it sends her stumbling backward. THUD.
The attendant bustles in, holding the door for a dignitary who T’ral had been in conference with. The weyrsecond gives the men a polite smile and nod-THUD. T’ral grins with a few too many teeth and clears his throat, “You okay in there,” a beat, “R’o?” He stands blocking the door to Rocio’s stall. It’s closed, but still… He smiles a disarming smile to the attendant and the dignitary, a forestalling hand flared, lips pursed, shaken head, eyes scrunched all say: nothing to worry about, gentlemen, move along.
Sensing that the Weyrsecond is tending to some poor lad behind the stall’s door, the attendant clears his throat and begins to usher the dignitary toward the far end of the latrines to give T’ral and R’o some space. This is the opportune moment for Rocio to slip out of the stall and out of the washroom entirely, and she makes her move without waiting for T’ral’s signal. Before the bluerider can tell her to hustle, she’s already sidled up next to him with her back pressed against the stall door in an attempt to hide behind T’ral’s frame. Good thing she’s small! She whispers: “Mister T’ral, you gonna head back t’ Southern anytime soon?” Because there’s a reason she’s been stalking him to ask.
T’ral stiffens as Rocio, sharp-eared Rocio, slips out of the stall and slips up behind him. He shakes his head turning somewhat to keep her yet shielded. There are mirrors to consider as well. It’ll be tricky. He shakes his head again, murmuring low, “No, not that I know of. Leadership might send me again.” He shrugs and leans at Rocio, bringing up buffering hands to give her a little nudge out the door. Silently. “Why?” At the door he, opens it and leans into the hall to check. All clear. Propped wide, T’ral gestures Rocio out into the hall ahead of them.
Feline movement allows Rocio to pad silently toward the door and slip out into the hallway without the attendant or dignitary noticing. She lingers just outside for a moment to continue the whispered conversation. “I was hopin’ you’d bring back my brother Lonnie since I—” Rocio turns her head and lifts an arm to sneeze into the crook of her elbow. Whew. “Can’t.” Reaching around to her back pocket, she pulls out a green handkerchief and blows her nose. Loudly. “Figured I’d bamboozle ya into fetchin’ him for me.” See how she twinkles when she looks up at T’ral mid snuffle?
T’ral returns the superfluous handkerchief to the pocket he’d fished it from when Rocio bowed away to sneeze. “‘Bamboozle me?’” He laughs, gesturing again down the corridors so they can walk and talk. “I think it works better if you don’t tell me that up front.” He walks along a moment, recalling his visit, not long ago. The family’s long-legged cot near a pretty little waterfall, one of hundreds, thousands, that splash and fall through the jungles to the Azov. It’s getting a little crowded in the old homestead.
“Okay fine. Next time I won’t tell ya’ when I’m bamboozlin’.” The handkerchief is stuffed back into her pocket as they both make their way down the corridor. There’s a moment of silence before Rocio speaks again with eyes cast near the library’s door. “And if ya happen t’ run into Mister Renalde when you’re at Southern, tell ‘im…” She wilts ever slightly. “That I miss ‘im.” Not that it means much to the former Lord Warder given all that’s happening on the southern continent right now. Still, there’s a soft spot for the man that used to put up with her shenanigans on a regular basis.
“Baby steps.” T’ral’s eyes are forward, nodding here and there at weyrfolk as they move through the corridors and the bustle of everyday traffic in the inner caverns. Mention of Renalde sees T’ral’s forward gaze fixed on a distant point, brows furrowed, “I will.” Renalde is unlikely to parse any such sentimentality on a regular day. These days, it might not even register. “You heard that Rylov was kidnapped? He’s … it’s rough.” Understatement. He nudges the conversation to, hopefully, happier subjects, “Why do you want Lonnie ferried here?”
Rocio nods and has definitely heard of the troubles that Renalde is going through. She’s hesitant to change the subject so quickly, but would rather not tread on prickly territory if T’ral is not willing to talk about it. “Lonnie is the best outta the bunch t’ come visit. I mean, can ya picture Rodric up in here? He’d stick out like a sore thumb.” The Bazaar is a different kind of jungle to navigate and the greenrider has doubts about her father’s ability to survive inside a Weyr like Igen. “I wonder what’s goin’ on back at Keroon.”
T’ral senses Rocio’s hesitation and fondness for the greenriding huntress wells for her concern and when she lets Renalde’s pain lie, unspoken of. T’ral tosses his head with a bright bark of laughter, “Rocio, standing out has its advantages in the Bazaar.” And it’s disadvantages. “I think he’d be twitchy as a long-tailed feline in a room full of rocking chairs.” Too many people. Not enough air to breathe. News from Keroon isn’t encouraging, “Trouble. Those herds are still missing.” How hundreds of head of cattle can up and vanish is anyone’s guess. “They’ve gotta be holed up somewhere.” Sweepriders haven’t turned up anything. It’s distressing.
“Mister T’ral.” Rocio says, quite serious. “We’re s’pose t’ blend. BLEND.” It’s what hunters do. It’s what Rodric does. “I’m insulted that ya think otherwise.” The corner of her mouth twitches into a smile and her light colored eyes glint with amusement. Truth be told, Rocio barely blends in at Igen on a good day. Then rather suddenly she halts and snaps a hand out at T’ral, grabbing his arm as he does. “Wait.” She casts her gaze up at him with concern. “Do you know somethin’ I don’t? If the herd’s missin’…” Rocio puts the pieces together in her mind as her grip loosens on T’ral’s arm. “Then why ain’t people… trackin’ ‘em.” She goes a bit wide-eyed, perhaps because her imagination is running wild about her Southern family, or perhaps because she realizes that she just got grabby with the Weyrsecond. Ahem. She smooths T’ral’s sleeve before lowering her hand and eyes.
“We are tracking them.” Sweeps have doubled over Keroon. Though maybe that’s the trouble. What if the cattle aren’t in Keroon? “Ro.” T’ral freezes, noting Rocio’s arrest and smoothing of his sleeve with a part of his mind that notes such things when the rest of his mind is doing Important Work. “Do you think Lonnie and Rodric could help track the herds? It’s a lot different from jungle tracking, but they’re from Keroon. They know the land.” As if the bereft herders aren’t tearing the countryside apart. Something Very Strange is going on. Very strange indeed.
There is a large part of Rocio that’s well and truly miffed when T’ral asks if her family can track the missing herd. She takes a step back and straightens, chin lifting a tad as she eyes the Weyrsecond. “What’s wrong with me doin’ it? I’m from Keroon, too!” No one ever said the huntress assesses all facts when she’s bristled. “You don’t think I can do it?” Rocio pales at another thought. “You think I’m broken, don’t ya? You think I’m all washed up ‘cause I ain’t all up in the jungles no more. Just the other day I shot a tunnelsnake with my bow!” She won’t say where she shot said vermin. “Is it ‘cause of the herbs I take for my headaches? Am I too much of a risk? Faranth, I’m high maintenance now ain’t I!?” Twitching like she’s about to flee, Rocio hasn’t felt this flaily in a long, long time.
“I think I’m glad you can’t chew firestone, else I’d be boots and ash.” T’ral takes a deep breath and turns into the barrage, brows climbing as Rocio winds up and up and up. “Are you done?” He doesn’t seem appreciative of the tone Rocio has taken. “I can’t spare you for the sevens it would take to track them afoot. You’re welcome to participate aloft on sweeps,” like the rest of the dragonriders. “We need you and Niamyth here.” T’ral sets the statement with a look directly at Rocio drawn up in her flaily fury. “Understood?” She might recall this tone from riding with T’ral in Lynx.
Understood? “Yeah.” She really should stop here. “I understand that y’ain’t got any faith in me findin’ that herd, that ya rather have Rodric and Lonnie do it.” Rocio isn’t exactly grumbling, nor is she really accepting what T’ral is telling her. There is a lot of huffing and puffing and stomping around that she’s doing all on the inside that can be seen in the way she scowls. “Ya know what? Nevermind.” Now she’s bucking up with arms folding across her middle and everything. “Y’ain’t gotta bring Lonnie here ‘cause I’ll be too busy doin’ stuff.” Other stuff that doesn’t involve tracking herdbeasts. Like crossword puzzle books — which she really ought to return to the library. Good thing the door is just across the hallway.
It’s a measure of T’ral’s regard for Rocio that he doesn’t end the conversation there. Decisively. Alongside that regard there is a surge of anger, both for her attitude and her misapprehension, “You’re right, I would. Because I know you’d go all out and we need you ‘all out’ on Thread.” It is a simple explanation and probably unsatisfying in its simplicity. The weyrsecond’s chin dips marginally at Rocio’s testy withdrawal. He nods. “You can guarantee it. Report to Th’bek for extra duties. Dismissed.”
It takes all that Rocio has to not epically roll her eyes at T’ral and her newly assigned duties. A punishment of sorts, no doubt. And then he’s dismissing her, which means that she’s unable to respond without getting even more duties stacked onto her shoulders. This is a risk she’s unwilling to take. A salute is snapped at the Weyrsecond before the greenrider turns to make her way down the corridor, passing the library’s door with a slight scuffing of her boots where a rug is laid to catch sand. She’ll return the puzzle book some other time.
Further duties would depend on the nature of Rocio’s response. Still, discretion is the better part of valor, as they say. T’ral returns Rocio’s salute and watches her stalk off, face a stern study as she goes. When she finds those duties assigned, they’ll be in the form of sweeps — Niamyth’s endurance taken into mind — out over the eastern reaches of the protectorate because it's not entirely a punishment. And some hidework. Because it is.
Renalde would totally give Rocio affection~ She's not like his bastard never-does-what-he-is-told-damn-his-Independence son.
kidding~ or maybe it's just cuz he's not in charge of her. >.>