Who

Bailey, Tuli

What

Bailey and Tuli have a nice little chat about Ja'kai's demise and possible future poison victims.

When

It is the forty-sixth day of Spring and 93 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.

Where

Boardwalk, Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Boardwalk

Ancient-cut stone stretches broad, smoothed by the wind and the weather and the rain to create a boisterous center of commerce. Wood overlays stone in places, patterned and pretty, to attract the eye of those traversing the strip to particular vendors. Though not the size of the tremendous markets of the North, the boardwalk's offerings show the knowledge of ageless crafters: Smith contraptions, Herder-certified animals, Starcraft maps and Weaver textiles are only some of the things that may be purchased, among the spicy scents of beach food and the contrast of bright shells and dark stones from the shoreline.


Damn but it's a nice day. The sun is shining, the breeze is soft, the Interim Weyrleader is dead. Wait. Did I say that last one out loud? No doubt there are souls in the Weyr genuinely mourning Ja'kai's passage, but they are not here, not this morning: this is a morning for smiles and sunshine. Tuli's step sure has an extra spring to it. The tall woman has abandoned her recuperating dragon to sun herself silly on the beaches (in fact one can just see her from here; an ominous dark jagged splotch on the sand, one wing still tucked up firmly in its complicated sling) to stroll amongst the boardwalk's merchants. She comes to a hovering halt at a Farmer stall. The journeyman on duty is evidently familiar to her, as they begin without preamble to dicker over some arcane point of fertilizer.

No, not here. Here there are goldriders blissed out from the lack of Ja'kai's obnoxious face; Tuli with her sunning and Bailey with her perpetual oversight on the boardwalk merchants. It doesn't mean she actually has to be on DUTY, just that she has to be here. It's nice when your mere presence drives fear into the hearts of men. "Tuli," comes the broad welcome, Bailey's smile genuine for her fellow goldrider. "Fertilizer, really?" A brow quirks in time with her lips. "Though I suppose we have less of that now, without Ja'kai wandering around spewing his bullshit."

"That sort of fertilizer would pickle the plants in their beds," says Tuli, half turning to shoot Bailey a quicksilver grin. The Igenite (ex-Igenite? She's been at Southern for a WHILE, now) holds up a finger to her Farmer friend, obviously putting their conversation on hold. Later. Later they shall talk literal shit. "Fertilizer is important, anyway," the woman says, authoritatively. "You'd never guess it, but this tropical soil, it's not all that rich, generally speaking. If we want to grow crops around here, it pays to be careful." BUT ANYWAY. "How're you? Other than," mouth twitch, "speaking ill of the dead?" Quieter: "Richly deserved ill, but…"

"True enough," Bailey breezes in reply. "It's your specialty, not mine, so I'm sure you'd know best." She flashes the farmer a quick smile for STEALING his conversation, but it's not really apologetic. The fairer goldrider rolls her eyes to the sky and seems to nod along about Tuli's discussion about soil lacks in Southern. BLAH BLAH BLAH. "Pfft, whatever. I was getting laid when he died, so it's not like anyone can pin this shit on me. Though I'm sure some have tried," Bailey's voice is dark. "Anyhow, I just hope they find the sonuvabitch who did it, so I can give them a goddamned medal."

Bailey, are you not RIVETED by Tuli's explanation of tropical soil problems? How can you not be RIVETED? (Tuli certainly fails to notice her compatriot's zoning: when it comes to plants, she's happy to lecture to a class of none.) She drifts away from the Farmer's stall, beckoning Bailey to come and lean with her on the boardwalk railing. Damn, but LOOK at that gorgeous ocean. "I barely knew him," observes Tuli, mildly, "so I'd have no reason… I'm sure if anyone did it, it was probably some Nowtimer bronze asshole, anyway." Because they are the WORST. Her voice turns painfully practical at the other woman's medal-giving sentiments, even if there's a hint of a smile to suggest she found it JUST A LITTLE funny. "I dunno. I mean, I like being able to drink wine without being afraid I'm gonna fall over foaming at the mouth, you know? Bad precedent to set, that."

Bailey follows along placidly enough, shooting a sharp look to a street-vendor of fruit-pies heckling passer-bys. TOO LOUD. "Nowtimer bronze asshole seems quite apt. They all hate them, though. It's the only thing they can all agree upon. I've heard the guards are having difficulties paring down a suspect list because everyone had something on him." Bailey seems to find this a great lark. But that's probably because she's a BITCH. The goldrider twitches at the thought of anyone poisoning anyone *else*, though. But then… she RELAXES. "Oh, come now. We all know if they are going to poison any goldrider it would be me. Or you. Or Hannah."

"He was quite the charmer," Tuli agrees, drily. "I can't believe he was one of ours." Ours here, presumably, meaning 'Oldtimer'. She leans idly on the railing, flicking a wayward pebble out into the water. "Lendai, surely," the woman posits, morbid. "If any one of us was going to go out on a poisoning, it'd be Lendai. Mystery present, fancy wine, boom, done." Says the goldrider, IN PUBLIC, because why NOT talk about how to kill your host and clutchmother where everyone can hear you?

"Of — oh. Yours." Bailey makes that verbal distinction as well, being the rare and curious creature of a nowtimer goldrider herself. "Except she'd probably survive it, somehow, and go on a killing rampage of anyone not wearing pink. We could sell pink ribbons for an insane profit," Bailey muses aloud — what, don't look at her, she would totally try to get rich off the apocalypse itself if she COULD. "And complain about how the poison ruined a perfectly good blush wine."

Just imagine Bailey during the Comet, selling meteorite-proof helmets at a premium. No wonder she and Br'er are friends (even if Br'er's settling into sedate middle age, and barely takes advantage of anybody anymore). "It would be blush," says Tuli, condemnatory. "And - well, that's true. If only because Talicanitath would give death itself the skull eye until it went away." She sounds fond. Well, it IS her dragon's mom. "She, Lendai I mean, once made me wear skirts and ribbons for a MONTH, did I ever tell you?"

Oh, she would have made a KILLING during the Comet. No … okay, pun intended. "Of course it would be. Pink." Bailey's voice is broadly amused once again. "She… she did what?" Bailey's look is vaguely baleful. "She made us cut our hair." One hand reaches up to gesture at her still-short locks: apparently Bailey knows better than to cling to something that can be so easily taken away from her, even something like her hair.

"I sort of had it coming," Tuli confesses. "Though she handed the job of teaching me," finger quotes, "'ladylike behavior'," end finger quotes, "off to this awful little simper of a boy, that part sucked." She shakes her head, doleful with the memories, before shooting a sideways glance over at the other goldrider. "I heard about that - the hair thing." Her own is longer than it looks, probably, in the way of curls, but coils up to mere shoulder-length. (But it brings the VOLUME.) "Don't s'pose someone would murder someone over hair, though." Pause. "Probably."

"A boy? A boy taught you how to be a lady." Bailey's voice is a little incredulous. Or maybe she's just holding back laughter. Kind of hard to differentiate, come to think… "Well. I wouldn't. I don't know about Hannah. She's a little… feral about things, sometimes." And that is SAYING something coming from Bailey, the woman who-almost-killed-a-candidate-because-she-didn't-like-the-way-he-looked. (Sorry D'tri. SORRY NOT SORRY, that is.) The goldrider rolls her eyes into the air and looks only a MITE more serious. "I suppose I do hope they find whoever is responsible. It wouldn't do to have a rabid murderer running about."

"You didn't meet this particular boy," says Tuli, darkly. And that's all she has to say on the subject. "Hannah's little but she's bitey, you're right." Like a chihuahua or some other inexplicably dangerous tiny dog. (Or maybe she's just a hobbit.) At the other woman's acknowledgement re: murderers, Tuli snorts. "No, you're right. This isn't Igen, you don't want everyone constantly on edge at everyone. I have no idea what possessed Q'fex to promote the man, and it's hard to mourn him, but it's still wrong - if only for the sake of his poor dragon."

"Bitey. That is an EXCELLENT word." Bailey's voice is full of confidence on that part. "An excellent word for her." Hannah the chihuahua. "Ilayth was such a calming influence on the weyr," Bailey's voice shades to the sympathetic for the first time: that's right, the DRAGON didn't dserve it. "Mmm. I should probably get back to work," Bailey stirs for the first time. "Before they price-gouge all of our customers and make it so we don't have any." Her voice is a little dark: the only one allowed to do price-gouging is BAILEY HERSELF, obviously.

"I know," preens Tuli. "I have a fucking awesome vocabulary." She nods once, solemn, at the other woman's words: the dragon didn't deserve it, however awful the rider. That's always the way of it, isn't it? The quiet expression flickers with underlying humor as her conversation partner makes to go do WORK. "I should get back to figuring out what fertilizer I'm ordering. I'm helping the Farmers," her voice has a note of RELISH to it, "with a little manure experiment, and -" And Bailey needs to RUN FOR HER LIFE, before Tuli gets going at length and without pause for breath on the (literal) subject of shit.

"That sounds EXCELLENT. Have fun picking out the perfect shit!" Bailey calls over her shoulder at Tuli as she BOOKS IT away, sandaled feet slapping against the boardwalk as she waves. "I hope you aren't the next poison victim!" She waves, as if that is the PERFECT farewell.

"I'm sure it's gonna be YOUR MOM," is Tuli's mature retort, before she returns to her Farmer conversation.

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