Finn, Roslin, M'yck, Zeyta


Glowery dragonriders descend on the Reika train in a game of annoy-the-other one upmanship. Roslin and Finn strike up a friendship.


It is midmorning of the twenty-eighth day of the fifth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Igen Weyr, Reika Encampment

OOC Date


finn_default.jpg roslin_default.jpg m-yck_default.jpg zeyta_default.jpg


Caravan Grounds

Deep grooves in the hard packed earth criss-cross a large patch of denuded ground, bearing mute testament to the caravans that frequent this area. Despite the midden holes set back a ways from the main center of traffic, the air is sweet, redolent with the sagebrush that forms a loose perimeter around the flattened expanse. In what is as close to its center as the vague boundaries suggest, a stone ringed fire pit has been dug and surrounded with the odd log or two, ash overflowing from its darkly blackened core.

It is the fifty-eighth day of Spring and 69 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.

Late morning on the Caravan grounds. A beautiful day by all accounts bright and sunny with just a hint of chill in the air. Clouds high and sparse against the clear blue stretch and disappear to form again, thin plumes stretched like runner tails. Tink ta-tink tinktink… Tink ta-tink tinktink… Rhythmic musical ringing underscores the bustle of the gathered wagon train and the Reika clan about their business. Scents of smoke from cookfires, roasting meat, the acrid tang from a small portable forge, runners -always runners- and, thankfully downwind, the reek of tanning. The Reika wagons are sober, rustic affairs. Sturdy, well-built, the joinery fine and fit. If the bustle is muted, consider that many of these traders attended the Hatching… and some haven't even been to sleep yet. Finn is working at the forge. Heavy leather apron and gloves. Tink ta-tink tink tink. He pauses to examine the piece he's working on and, satisfied, puts it in a barrel near to hand. The barrel bubbles alarmingly. He exhales a breath that puffs his cheeks and swipes a forearm across his forehead. Squinting up at the sun with reddened eyes he guages the time and looks over at a wagon nearby, "'Nari!" He takes a step or two towards the wagon, "'Nari! You done with lunch yet?" He stretches, kneading the muscles of his lower back.

Not time for any of her lessons or chores just yet, Roslin's doing what any teenager would do in their free time— wander about aimlessly. That's normal, right? Moreso, the girl is still trying to learn her way around, and sometimes, getting lost can help with that, surprisingly. Noise and bustling about will always grab a person's attention, and so she heads in that direction, perhaps being a little nosey what they've got going on. With hands in her pants pockets, Roz takes slow, deliberate steps, pausing now and then to get a better look at whatever happens to grab her eye. At the moment, it's the yelling man. He's interesting enough to stop and check out. "What are you working on, sir?" Nosey, sure, but respectful, always.

Scarring the wispy clouds above, a blue mass approaches from the distance, soaring towards the Weyr. Slow and steady, Oroqaith dives suddenly, aiming himself for the caravan grounds below. As the dragon nears the dusty ground below, only then does his rider become visible, misery atop a beast. The instant the pair touch down, the rider swipes his goggles and helmet from his head, unclip's his straps, and slides to the ground with a thump. There is a growl, though judging by facial expressions, it is not clear from where it originated: rider or dragon.

"'Nari!" Finn shouts. Silence. Finn squints at the wagon and gives his belly an admonishing pat. As if he hadn't eaten his weight at the post-Hatch festival. How could he be hungry again? And then a strange voice, quiet. The very softness standing out amidst the clamor, "Mmm?" The trader turns, spotting a stranger amidst the wagons. And a young 'un. His eyes dart about to see who she's with and finding none, return to her. "Come see," he beckons her over with a toss of his head, holding up a hand to stop her when they get close to his work area, "There's good. This can splash," he gestures at the barrel. With tongs he fishes a length of metal, a curious twist, still deep red from shedding heat. It glistens and drips fluid back into the barrel. Not water. Oil? "Doesn't look like much, does it? It'll be a new pair of tongs whe—" DRAGON. Whoa! Finn puts the pre-tongs back into the bath and hangs his tools. He grins at the girl and takes a few steps towards the dragon, shielding his eyes from the eddying dust with a gloved hand. Grumbly-puss rider totally ignored to marvel at the dragon. Growling? That brings Finn to a halt. Marvelment turns to wary inquiry, "Help you, Sir?"

Apparently, momma never told this one not to talk to strangers or not to follow them when they say come, because Roslin follows without a second thought or a moment's hesitation. But she does listen when he tells her to stop, because, well, who wants to get hurt? Not this girl. Eyes widen with appreciation at his explanation of what the drippy metal will be, but then she, too, is distracted by the arrival of dragon and rider. This time, though, she stays back when Finn walks towards the pair, perhaps peeking again where the soon-to-be-tongs are. Now that's something to marvel at. At least she doesn't try to touch it. Hands definitely stay in her pockets. For now.

Finn's question results in a snap of lidded eyes from M'yck, but does not provoke any speech. It's clear the man is grumpy, evidenced by the absolute indifference on his face and the lack of social interaction. When his eyes lose their lock on the smith, they flick to absorb the young girl for a moment. They ultimately return to Finn, and he takes another step towards the man. Scanning the area around the three, "Looks like it's a late start today." Casual conversation with an accusatory tone is always a good thing.

Pardon Finn if he bows up and makes a small adjustment to put Roslin behind him. Not to where she can't see, of course, but grumbly rider. He turns his head to glance at Roslin in periphery and sees her peering at the forge. His brows knit briefly before turning back to the growly bluerider, "Au contrair, Rider," a weary smile, "It was an early start. What brings you and your dragon to the Reika? Need leather or findings for straps? Or," he tips his head and peers at the rider's belt, his boots, "A blade?"

Roslin's not necessarily afraid of grumpy riders. Being the daughter of a goldrider, she's used to being around riders in all sorts of moods, and her father, well, he wasn't exactly all sunshine and flowers. But hey, being on her own, she'll take all of the protection she can get. And so, from behind the safety of Finn-the-protector, Roz murmurs, "Or perhaps he can forge you a better mood?" Amused with herself, as she always is, there's a big smirk on her face, even as she peeks out to look at the angry rider, not afraid at all if he happened to hear her. But hopefully, he didn't.

As the girl is brought under Finn's protection, M'yck merely cocks one eyebrow upward. Again, his eyes move towards Roslin, and the slightest of grins attempts to take hold when she provides her suggestion. Composing himself and reassuming his miserable gaze, "You lot make quality wares? Haven't run into this band much." Each words spills out with a touch of disdain.

Another dragonrider emerges from the direction of the bazaar to contribute another ill-begotten mood to the gathering throng. Zeyta marches along, arms held out above her to balance the wrought iron legs of a stool, turned upside down to support the square cushion against her head. The addition of furniture on her person adds to her meager height as she paces forward, path cutting towards the pens where her lifemate awaits. Until then, she bears the weight of her purchase and hauls it herself; the physical labor explaining the grim set of her face.

Finn keeps a careful wheeling-dealing mug in place but at the first opportunity grins wickedly at Roslin. Against the clipped disdain, Finn merely smiles, "We're newly arrived. Reika - specializing in leatherworks, forged goods and runnerstock." He looks to the dragon beyond and his eyes widen a touch of that wonder sparking again, "You don't need a runner, but come take a look," He back towards his work area and, doing so, spots a woman holding a … stool on her head? It looks heavy. He blinks, looking a moment longer and then with a shake refocuses on M'yck and Roslin, "Blades, tools, findings, fastenings," a swept hand crosses over a small table arrayed with finished goods. They're not displayed with any panache or even particularly fancy themselves. Solid work. Functional. And if there's beauty in being well-suited to a task - they have that. But no ornament. He lifts the apron over his head and hangs it on a hook. The light colored shirt underneath is grimy with forgework and sweat. Tugging gloves off and setting them aside, he looks at the two. Eyes glance up to track the stool-bearing woman's progress curiously. Then back down to his custome- new friends.

With the standoff seemingly over, Roslin once more turns her attention to Finn and his wares, since M'yck appeared to grin at her comment and she doesn't have to worry about him stabbing her or feeding her to his dragon or anything horrendous like that. A hand emerges from her pocket to push a mass of her hair back out of her face, and then it's shoved back into her pants as she eyes the struggling Zeyta, but being a short girl herself, she couldn't offer much help to her. Because then there would just be two girls struggling to carry the stool. Mouth opens to suggest that, perhaps, G'rumpypants should help her, but considering she could be in his good graces now, she shuts her mouth to not screw that up, and so she turns back to admire Finn's goods. The goods on the table, that is.

Watching Finn market his goods with a look of disinterest, Zeyta's arrival is noted through his peripheral vision. It results in a quick few strides and a grabbing of the stool from her grip. If the brownrider doesn't loosen her grip quickly, the hunk of metal is tugged away and held at his side. "And where did you dig this up from?" Apparently she's done this before. Once the stool is firmly in his grasp, the bluerider's eyes resume their scanning of the offered trinkets and tools. "Seems solid enough." You will receive very little in terms of compliments from him. As for Roslin, well, M'yck simply moves about the table as if she was not there.

Intercepted, Zeyta relinquishes her grasp of the chair, allowing M'yck to handle her cargo with a threatening, "Be careful." Brought into the vicinity of the trader-smith's wares by this exchange, she too turns to examine the products spread out for viewing. Expression cold and distant, she splays a forced smile at the girl, leveled out into a contemplative purse of lips when she walks in front of Finn. Quipping, "I didn't dig. I found it," she folds her freed arms below her chest, bound to her company whilst M'yck possesses her stool.

"You like to fish?" Finn inquires quietly of Roslin when the bluerider goes off to snatch the stool from the other woman. He laughs quietly, voice pitched low, "Let's hope he knows her," the trader smith's work-battered fingers play over a shiny cluster of flashing metal disks that conceal a wicked hook. He looks up at the bluerider's return and eyes drop to the stool with professional curiousity at the iron-work. More frippery than he had time or inclination to forge, but solid work. He looks inquiringly at the small woman, formidable by her gaze and carriage to see what answer she gives. "Good morning," offered.

As M'yck leaves to assist Zeyta, Roslin turns to make a quip to Finn, but his question stops her from being sassy for the second time. "Uh." Ah, teenager eloquence. "Never been fishing, actually." …And now it's time to be sassy. Before they can hear her, of course. "Do you always attract such foul moods?" Eyes widen for a moment before Roz shakes her head, then she goes back to seriously looking over the goods in front of her. "I don't know about them, but I might be interested in something. You do custom work?" But then, suddenly remembering his question to her, she goes back to that conversation as if she didn't just ask him something. "Do /you/ fish?"

"Found it after digging, I'm sure." M'yck's eyes still dance along the table as he speaks, stool in hand. Suddenly, he tears his gaze from the table in a search for Finn. "Smith, what would the value be if we gave you this stool for melting?" Obviously unaware of the technical work required, the bluerider apparently assumes control of the item. "It's useless as is, and a stool can be chopped from wood." Seemingly aware that there will be aftermath, M'yck avoids looking in the direction of Zeyta.

The weaponry attracts Zeyta the most, leaning closer to inspect the clean lines of steel tapering to a sharp point, lethal in simplicity. "It is a morning. Hello." Shrewd study conducted, she straightens, stiff and collected upright to make the most of her stature. Stepping away from M'yck, she treads nearer the metal discs Finn gestures over, lifting a brow as she catches Roslin's last inquiry to him. Quick to replace this mild pique of interest with a schooled look of apathy, she foists a censuring glare on the bluerider. "We are not giving anything. This stool is mine, and more than you are able to afford. Its utility is matched only by its beauty; I'm sure the smith can attest to its form and function."

"No?" some shock registers on Finn's face that Roslin has never slung a line and sat awaiting the tug of a catch. Well, she'd be reelin' boys in soon enough. He grins, "I do, I love to fish," he winces, nose wrinkling, "But… this IS a desert, isn't it?" The realization of that little gem seems to set in and he looks momentarily forlorn. He grins, mock-philosophically, "The universe seeks balance," he straightens and spreads his hands, "And there's only so much sunshine it can bear before-" a wicked glint for Roslin turns simply pleasant as the rider and his formerly-stool-bearing companion approach. "AH. Rider. Uh…" He considers the man's request seriously, reaching out to touch the stool and run fingers along the iron-work, with a wary look at the woman, "Takes higher temperatures than I can muster to re-melt cast iron." He watches the formidable woman closely, noting her disavowal of the goodness of the morning. He looks up at the sky. Feels the breeze on his skin. He gives a little conspiratorial smile at Roslin. "Try one," he gestures at the blade, "They feel even better than they look." That offer is made to all three, equally. As to the beauty of the stool, "It's solidly built, for sure," is all he offers.

Ooh. See, this is where being nosey could potentially pay off. Drama. Though, Roslin does make sure to take a step or two, subtly, away from M'yck and Zeyta, just in case things get violent with the stool. There's a smile shared with Finn for his comments, before his attention does direct her downwards to the table. Tentatively, almost as if afraid someone's going to yell at her for touching such a thing, fingers do reach out and pick up a blade like he instructed, but past holding it, Roslin's really not quite sure what to do with it. "Feels good," she says, even though she doesn't have the slightest idea how one should feel. "Looks good, too." Clueless.

When Finn admits his inability to melt the steel, M'yck's gaze slowly turns to Zeyta. "Ok, it'll stay a stool, then." Whether he was obeying her command, or simply responding to Finn, is difficult to tell. What can be seen, though, is that he is done here. Abruptly setting the stool down, "I'll review your wares another time, smith." And, once again, he's managed to interact without names. As for Zeyta, she'll get a salute before he strides back to his blue, quickly mounts and bursts into the air.

Zeyta samples a blade when bidden, lifting it gingerly to heft it between her fingers, testing the weight of the blade against her opposite palm. "It's plain." A factual statement, comparison drawn to the ornate, ivory-handled knife holstered at her hip with a flickering glance. Setting it back down, she opens her mouth to speak when M'yck deposits her stool beside her and flees with his brisk salute. "Little does he know, the stool is going in his weyr," she confides in the two non-riders, bending to lift the chair and place it above her head. "If you'll excuse me." She's making her exit too, chasing after the grump; their vacation of the area leaves it much more pleasant in atmosphere.

Finn takes up a blade himself and shows Roslin the proper grip and - importantly - the way to hold her wrist. He peers around, looking for "Ah!" he produces a small hunk of wood with long flat shavings peeled away. He demonstrates how to hold the block and how to hold the blade and with steady strokes, carves away thin shavings of wood. "Always cut away from your hand," he offers the block to the girl and looks up to see the rider departing. He looks with interest between M'yck and Zeyta, clearly some history playing out here. When the rider departs, he offers, "The Reika are at your service, Rider." He watches Zeyta handle a blade, clearly the woman knew how to … is that a fighting grip? She's put the blade down and commented on it so quickly, he really didn't have time to see. At her pronouncement of where the stool will ultimately reside, he barks a laugh, "Well met…" he closes his mouth with a snap at the stool-laden woman's sudden and aloof departure. Grinning widely at Roslin he ventures, eyes wide with mock-fear, "There's a vaccuum of surliness, quick! Make a mean face or who knows who'll show up!" Maybe the Weyrleader! His stomach growls noisily. Don't mind that.

"Is it that obvious?" Roslin asks with a touch of color to her cheeks as he hands her the block of wood after his demonstrations. Apparently, she needs to work on her lying, since he was able to see through her. She's too focused on not cutting herself, or anyone else for that matter, that the departure of both riders is noted but ignored in favor of trying to shave the block. She does so, but certainly not as smoothly as Finn did. There's a snort, however, for his comment, and the girl does try to come up with something nasty to say, but in the end, Roslin just laughs. "Sir, I'm holding a knife. I'm afraid if I try to be funny by being mean to you, someone might get the wrong idea, and I'd end up in the custody of the guards." Hey, it could happen. "Though, that'd be laughable, me threatening you." Given their height and size difference. Not to mention that she's a girl and he's a man. Unfortunately for him, the noise is heard, and Roslin suddenly looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry, sir. Am I holding you up from getting something to eat? I can—I can go," she stammers out, gesturing, with the blade, over her shoulder.

Finn's eyebrows go up as he nods sympathetically, "Yeah. It is." He adds off-handed, "Everyone starts somewhere. You live in the Bazaar?" She's not dressed like it as far as he can tell, but a girl untrained in knife skills would hail from the Bazaar, right? Or the Weyr? What does he know? He laughs, "It'd be quite a sight, wouldn't it." He holds up his hands at Roslin -a guard in his imagination- "She just came at me, Sir, all fierce and angry looking!" He grins. Grimacing he pats his stomach. "No, my sister," he raises his voice to be heard over the din, "'Nari!" and lowers it again, "…is supposed to be making lunch." He shrugs. Sisters. Whaddya do?

"Uh." Again, with such eloquence. It's Roslin's trademark, apparently. And here's where things could potentially get awkward. "Well, that's complicated. I live at the Weyr. But I'm from High Reaches." The girl goes to gesture to herself, but with the hand that's holding the blade, and so she gets halfway before she stops, using the other hand instead. "Oldtimer." That admittance has stopped many a conversation, so while she braces internally for Finn's reaction, outwardly she continues on as if there's no problem. "Ah, little sisters. They can be a pain. Little brothers can be, too. Being the oldest has its advantages and disadvantages for sure. But, apparently…it doesn't…help…" That line of thought is cut off with a grunt of frustration as Roslin pauses in her cutting in the block of wood, because her knife is stuck and she can't push it anymore. "Do you offer lessons with the purchase of a blade?" is asked with a laugh, attempting to use her all of her strength to wiggle it free.

Oh? Finn's eyebrows tick up, curious, concerned, "Oh." He'd heard stories about things that had driven the Oldtime riders and others forward. He'd even seen one of the craters himself. "That had to be hard, leaving everything like that." He winces and flinches forward to stop the knife, but Roslin's realized the danger and corrected things herself. He nods sympathetically about brothers and sisters. His eyes widen when she puts all her strength into tugging the knife free. It's at this point that Finn takes a hand, putting his quickly over hers to still them. He takes the block and knife and braces the block against the table, pressing it down. "Like that," he indicates she should try again, "Then work the blade back and forth slowly. Don't use any more strength than you need to." He grins at her question, drawing up quite grandly, "Lessons upon request," a forestalling finger, "With purchase." He's curious about what being the oldest doesn't help with, but he'll get back to that. After the sale.

Roslin makes the smart choice not to go into all of the details of just what she had to leave behind, simply because it is still a touchy subject for her. There's certainly some hurt pride and embarrassment that she's not picking up how to manuever the blade as easily as she had hoped, and so a frown wrinkles up her forehead as she watches him do it. "Maybe some people just aren't meant to have a blade," she murmurs, lips twisting as she tries to figure out what Finn is doing right and she's doing so wrong. "I mean, I would like to have one. For protection purposes. But if I can't even cut wood, how am I supposed to cut a person if they attack me?" But enough being defeated. Roslin takes the blade again and attempts to do as he's instructed her to do. It's more successful than her previous attempt, but still not as smooth as Finn.

Finn notes Roslin's reluctance, or is it her frustration at whittle-fail? Either way, he doesn't prod more. He'd heard rather enough and it wasn't good, most of it. "You're here now," he ventures a fond grin turned skyward, eyes closed briefly, "And it's beautiful. Dragons rise to meet Thread," he corkscrews a finger at the sky, "And that, because of them," the dragons, "We can fight." Not like great chunks of burning, caustic stone in hateful smoking arcs. "Maybe not that blade. It's rather bigger than I'd recommend for you." He purses his lips, eyes scanning the wares, "Here…" he holds out a forestalling finger once again, "Try…" he bends down out of sight and brings up another blade, smaller. It's clearly old and worn, but still sharp. "This one." Much lighter than the other and more suited to a smaller hand. "Whaddya think of that one?"

Roslin still doesn't have much to say, but for his attempt at turning the conversation around, she does smile at him, noting, "I am here." She's then distracted by his rummaging, and when he returns with the "new" blade, dark eyes widen in excitement. "That seems more my speed." After putting down the other blade, Roz rubs her hands together as her eyes continue to look it over. "But do you think the guards would still take me seriously if I threatened you with this one?" she asks, face lighting up with mischief for a flash before getting serious again. "I mean, I trust you. I trust your recommendations. Whatever you tell me I need, whatever is good for me, I'll take it."

Finn holds his hand over the knife, "This is a tool, not really meant for defense," he lowers his hand to rest on Roslin's, "Were you serious about fighting?" Concern, wariness. He'd heard the Bazaar could be dangerous, but… he blinks at the rapidfire words that follow. "At this point… Probably not." he shrugs, hard truths are hard, "They've got truncheons, better reach, more experience." He grins, rueful, "I can tell you, if you were pointing it at me, I'd take it very seriously." Finn made it a point (ha) not to end up on the pointy end of knives, however unskilled the wielder. "Sadly. I can't sell this one to you. I mean, I made it. But it's my sister's." He considers, rubbing a stubbly chin with a vague grin on his face, "Our older brother is at the bazaar provisioning… Join us for lunch," Roslin can eat the aforementioned brother's share, "And see what she'll sell it to you for." He smiles, blue eyes clear like the sunlit sky above, "Whaddya say?"

"Well…" Roslin hesitates, and unfortunately, this is the point where she has to go into her past just a little. "My parents stayed back, but they made me come forward, so it's just me. Here. On my own. All by myself. My father taught me self defense. He wanted me to be sure I could protect myself if need be, you know?" Eyebrows furrow together once more as she looks from Finn to the blade, lips pressed together firmly. A sigh, resigned, and when she looks up at him, she's got her smile back. "Probably pointless to want one as a weapon, because you're absolutely right. If anyone tries to attack me, I'm probably screwed." And for some reason, Roz doesn't seem all that upset by that realization. It's laughable to her. His offer, however, causes her to pause, as if she actually needs to think it over. "I'd love to come. Even if she doesn't want to sell it to me. I'll come on the provision that perhaps someday… you'll take me fishing." Since that sounds more fun than stabbing someone with one of his blades.

Finn swallows at Roslin's admission, breath catching a little. He rearranges stuff on the table that needs rearranging. Suddenly. Oh. Look, that's not straight either. He can't imagine being sent away from his family… forever. To where he couldn't visit or even write (not that he can really write beyond keeping a ledger, but still!). He picks up on a thread that's more comfortable, "So you do have some training," he nods. It was frustrating to think women needed such training, but there were terrible sorts out there. The young smith has settled back into a listening posture, brow knit with concern, "No, I don't know, but my sister will." And Ma AND Pa will want to hear this story. "Come on," he tidies his workspace and banks the forgefire, "Let's get some grub and—" he laughs, "Listen to you! Who's the trader here?!" Any reason to cast a line, he mimes spitting on his hand and sticks it out, "Deal."

There's a small grin especially for Finn and the fact that he didn't comment or acknowledge her admission, because even though she told him about it, obviously it's a sore subject for Roslin. "Ew!" is the first thing she has to say to his pretend spit-in-hand, but then, proudly, she stands up taller (even if that really doesn't help her out much), and says, "Trading is in my blood, I'll have you know. My father is… was a gem trader." And even with that little slip up, Roz still carries that pride in her voice and it's clear as day on her face. Her hand is placed into his and given a firm shake before she asks, "What's for lunch, anyway?" But then, another more pressing matter enters her brain, and Roslin softens, tilting her head slightly as she looks at him. "I'm Roslin, by the way."

Finn cocks his head, I like is better, he thinks, imagining the girl's gem-trading, self-defensing father plying his trade back, centuries ago. But he doesn't voice the thought. She seemed to be speaking of it only with difficulty, and even if he was a big dolt in some areas, family Finn understands. Her pride, incites his own, the young man's chin raises. For lunch? "No idea!" he shrugs, "I just turn up to eat. Guests always wash up though." He raises hands palms outward, helpless, "It's tradition." Lips curling, he looks at her sideways to see if she's buying it. A broad grin cracks scruffy features, "Finn. Nice to meet you, Roslin."

Roslin's face feigns insult, mouth going agape as she looks up at him. "Guests wash up? Oh, so I don't look good enough like this?" It's a trap. A hand reaches up as if it's about to playfully smack his arm, but the girl stops halfway, realizing she really doesn't know him that well to be abusing him, so her hand is quickly snapped downwards and both plunge into her pockets. "Nice to meet you as well, Finn. And I'm glad we're about to have lunch, because there for awhile, your stomach was making so much noise, I was worried it was going to eat me!"

Misunderstanding Finn can use, definitely, "No, dishes. Guests wash dishes." Totally innocent the look he turns on Roslin. "Hah. Well, it was eyeing my spine! I was worried myself for a bit." He pats his belly, frowning as another rumble sounds. "Hush you," he directs at it. He grins at that aborted slug and bumps her shoulder with his, "You'll like Onari." What wasn't to like?

"Oh." Dummy. Such. A. Dummy. Please excuse Roslin while she beats herself up over and over again in her head for being, yes, a dummy. If only she could erase the flush that seems to spread from her cheeks all the way down to her chest. Embarrassment can sometimes be embarrassing. "Oh?" Yes, finally, another subject to latch onto and perhaps forget about what just happened. "Why will I like her?" It's a genuine question, causing Roz to peer up at him with a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "Obviously, she can use a knife and has probably been fishing, so we can't be all that similar." But then, Roslin halts in her walking, a worried look taking over her face. "Or is Onari your brother?" Because if that's the case, well, she probably will want the ground to swallow her up right then and there.

Sweet. Embarrassment would guarantee that Finn wasn't doing dishes today. He doesn't feel too guilty, because Onari wouldn't let it happen anyway, but he lets the girl regain her footing and coloration in peace. "Everyone likes her, she's likeable," he makes a dismissive snort, waving at the air, "She's pants at fishing." Compared to me, the boast says. "No, she. Sister." He stops, eyeing her curiously. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Sorry," and out comes a nervous laugh from Roslin, shaking her head at herself as a hand rubs at her forehead. "I sometimes… I guess I can be kind of awkward and say dumb things. I've always tried to emulate my mother, because she was so good at speaking, but…" The redfruit falls far from the tree on that one. "I'm the one person who you can always guarantee will stick her foot in her mouth." But hey, at least she can admit it. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to fixing the problem. But then, with a little frown, Roslin delves deeper, whether Finn's ready or not. "I don't have any friends here, either. So, when there's a chance I could become friends with someone, I… I get all weird and awkward and mess things up." Which could be her subtle way of saying she'd like him as a friend.

Finn leans back, using the momentum to keep them moving towards the wagon and FOOD. "Oh. Wow," he shakes his head, "I say dumb things all the time! It'll be nice to have company." Does he? Or is he being nice? Time will tell. He spins on his heel to turn his backwards walking towards the wagon FOOD into forwards walking towards the wagon FOOD. "You didn't know her as a girl," her mother, "She mighta been eating foot stew every day. Good way to learn is make mistakes. LOTS of mistakes. GLEEFULLY make mistakes." He waves a hand at his head, "Get all stuck up in here and you'll stop before you start." Getting stuck in his head is CLEARLY not a problem Finn suffers. "Don't get anywhere if ya don't start." Talking good? Friednship? About being friends with someone, he misinterprets, "Oh, well, then. Onari is AWFUL. You'll hate her." He pauses, "And her cooking is terrible too."

Roslin can't deny the good points he makes, and she accepts his advice with the bobbing of her head, even going so far as to give him a big ole smile. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. It's just hard, sometimes. I always second guess myself, because… I don't have anyone else to ask or talk to about these things. I just kind of got placed here." But then, there's a little wince and a laugh. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to make myself sound like a sob story. My life is great, I shouldn't make it sound all doom and gloom." Even with the misunderstanding, Roz continues to press on with the issue of friendship and more importantly, Finn's friendship. "And what about you? Are you awful and is your cooking terrible?" There might even be a light, playful bump of her shoulder against him, perhaps trying to get him to realize what, and who, she's talking about.

"Well run 'em by me, then," he offers. Whatever 'em' is. How far away is that wagon FOOD? "If I think it's stupid," he nods solemnly, clear eyes wide and glimmering with humor, "It's real stupid." And Roslin can take that to the money-lender. On second thought, don't. This is Igen. And kneecaps are handy. At her prodding, "Me? I'm the worst!" he admits proudly. "My cooking is good, though" he sobers, tapping a finger to his lip, agreeing with his assessment. Wait. Is this still the opposite game? He blinks, now he's confused himself. "What? You think I feed everyone I want to sell a knife?" Mock-offense casts his face in grave affront. "That's bad business, Roz." He drops the nickname without thinking.

And that's just what she needed to hear. But again with the cheek and chest flushing. What is up with that? Roslin's head nods up and down a few times, lips quivering in an attempt to keep a big smile off of her face, but in the end, she can't help but lift her head and display that happiness to Finn. After all, he deserves to see it the most. "I didn't know. I thought maybe it was some sort of weird business strategy. Or that you took pity on me because I'm the homeless, family-less girl who can't hold a knife and has never fished." But before he can even answer her, she's pointing a finger up at him with wide accusing, but teasing, eyes. "Admit it! That's a real possibility!"

Finn smiles in answer to Roslin, it's hard not to. Try it! "Oh, I admit it! None of those are mutually exclusive," mutua-what? Big words, trader man. He nods, a solemn look on his face, "I definitely pity you for the fishing." He winces, "And me." He stops, "Roz! Where are there fish around here?" What is he gonna do!? "It's a desert. Why hasn't this occurred to me until now?!"

There's a burst of loud laughter as Roslin, too, stops, shaking her head ruefully at the man, even going so far as to place a gentle hand on his forearm. In a soothing and reassuring voice, she replies, "Finn. There are these things out there called dragons, and if we want, they can take us to some place that has water so we can fish. Provided, of course, that you are able to travel." Roz isn't really quite sure the specifics of his job as a trader, since her father worked solo and was able to go about as he pleased. Oh, and hopefully he will be able to hear the sarcasm in her voice, since she's not all that great at hiding her amusement at his outburst.

He settles at her hand on his arm, eyeing that hand in with amused suspicion. "Heh," the trader looks at Roslin sidelong, "You got a dragon in your pocket you can whistle up to fly you around?" He kicks at the dirt, grinning. "Must be nice." And they're there. At long last. That wagon must straight up be on the moon. Timor, not Belior. Pfft. Wagon on Belior… That's just silly. He raps on the door, "Onari! We have a guest!" He opens the wagon door and peeks in, "'Nari, you finished with lunc-" He makes a happy sound, "It's not even my turnday!" He grins wide at what he's glimpsed. "You're in for a treat." What is it?

"You forget, sir, that I am the daughter of a goldrider and a trader. I have many friends and allies in my back pocket." Really, it's not meant to sound snobby, more teasing than anything else. But realizing how it could have sounded, Roslin softens up with a much more light-hearted smile. "But seriously, whenever you want to go and are free to go, I can make it happen." And then, when they are finally there (and Roz has surely worked up an appetite of her own on that walk), she turns a little bit more inward, a much more shy girl standing beside Finn than before. Sure, she may have won him over, but now she has more people to talk to. It's daunting, to say the least, but with his words fresh in her mind, she's ready. Hands are wrung nervously, but excitement definitelty dances in her eyes as she peers up at the trader. "I can't wait." And the truth couldn't ring out any clearer in her voice and in her stance. "Shall we?"

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