Who

Nik'las, Iaela

What

Fruity flavors galore! Just two people, one going fruity, the other going… what?!

ridiculousness

When

It is the fifty-fifth day of Spring and 91 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day with a gentle wind.

Where

Dustbowl Cantina, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 01 Jul 2019 07:00

 

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"Profit is power."



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.


Boy, spring sure has sprung! Ninety plus degrees means that Nik'las — who is much more used to Southern's humidity — has escaped the dry heat for the Dustbowl Cantina. It's crowded but not overly so as most folks are still out and about doing their daily duties; for Nik, there's little to do as it's a rest day, but he does opt to shuffle through hides that likely means he's studying up on Sirocco business. He's got a tall pint of beer bubbling in the perfect foam. Indeed, the tall brownrider is quite content to be in the shade, even if it is with pseudo work.

This heat is nothing for a young woman who was raised on the shores of Igen River; indeed, Iaela looks cool as a cucumber as she airily enters the Cantina in muted swishes of her palazzo pants. She hasn't bothered with a veil, having slowly but surely trained the merchants that she manages that not all businesswomen must yield to the stricture of tradition. The tall woman makes her way up toward the bar, angling for a gap; it's how she ends up leaning rather than sitting next to Nik, waiting for the barkeep's attention. It isn't that she didn't notice Nik'las; it's simply that she judged him rightfully a weyr denizen deep in his work.

At that moment, the tiniest little cupcake arrives. It's a sad affair, slightly tilted and definitely not craft-made. A single little candle winks feebly at the top that makes Nik'las smile. The tall young woman who arrived in between his last refill and his attention turned to the cupcake earns a blink in surprise, though he dutifully shuffles over to give her more room. Ever the gentleman, this brownrider. "Excuse me," he even adds with a rueful smile while he tucks his tiny cupcake next to his pint. Neither of which he touches. Yet. The pale ale bubbles gently and the rider turns back to his boring work. Where did this mystery cupcake come from?

Iaela seems more interested in Nik'las now that there is a mystery assigned to him: she stares at that cupcake and her eyebrows slowly crease toward one another as if the mere existence of the thing vexes her. IS THAT A WEED CUPCAKE NIK'LAS? "No, you were here before me," she replies to him as if by reflex, her own river-touched voice light and fluid. The bartender's tied up down the way, so she allows her attention to rove over Nik'las briefly. "May I ask?" she asks anyway, gesturing toward the cupcake in particular.

"Mmmm," Nik'las's noncommittal response is given with a slight smile, though it's consumed by the pint when he takes a sip. Beer foam exists on his upper lip until it's licked away. "What?" He blinks at her, turning his full attention to Iaela as if she's spoken some strange foreign words. "Oh!" Gaze drops to the cupcake. Who knows what's in it. It's colored a nondescript beige. "That." Shifting on his seat, he shrugs. His voice is deep and fluid, like fine whiskey with a hint of sauce to it. It's flavored mostly with Southern but not the weyr. A deeper accent from further in the savannahs. "It's my turnday. Figured I'd celebrate a little."

"Did you order it, or did it just arrive?" Iaela seems incalculably curious regarding this phenomenon. She follows-up with, "Happy turnday," even as the bartender swoops by and asks, "Your normal?" to which she responds with a handsome smile and nod. Her attention diverts to the rider next to her once more. "You're new?" she tests out as well, finding it suitable for the man with a sensible dip of her chin even before he acknowledges her assertation.

"It just arrived," Nik says with a straight face, in complete deadpan fashion. "Thanks." He lifts the pint in a subtle toast before tipping it back for another long sip, but he doesn't gulp it. This round (for surely it's not his first) is for savoring. "Yeah. Kind of. A month or so. So not fresh-off-the-the-transfer new, but new enough to not know where I'm going still." That last is added with a quirky smile and dimples in full force. Such self-depreciating humor even reaches ice-blue eyes, giving them a sparkle. "I assume you're not," he adds, though question hovers at the end.

"Ha ha, very funny," Iaela replies, her voice dry. She cuts him a look askance that isn't swayed even by those remarkable dimples. The assistant bazaarmaster deals with her fair share of pretty people (Nik certainly belongs in that category!) and while she wouldn't count herself in the bracket, well. She's generally inured. "You've found one of the only establishments worth patronizing," she says instead, with the cadence of a joke to it, amusement tugging up one side of her mouth. "No," the woman says to his last, answering; "I suppose I'm not new anymore." The bartender returns with her drink with a flourish: "Hibiscus cider for the lady," he says, and Iaela smirks at the man in response.

"Yeah, I ordered it. I do it every year." Nik touches the cupcake, getting icing on his finger. He licks it off with a touch of glee, and turns back to Iaela. "Were you new once, then? Not born here?" He couldn't decipher an Igen accent from an Igen area accent, truth be told. The cupcake, see, still isn't ready for consumption yet. But her drink arrives before he can pump her for more information and he makes the most god-awful face. "What is that??" That… that… that thing getting served to her!

"Well, good. At least I know we don't have a firelizard infestation dropping surprise cupcakes on deserving citizens," Iaela lightly responds, drawing her drink closer to her. It is a bold, vivid color: that hue between blush and red, distinctly floral but deep enough to remind someone of darker intentions. In many ways, it's a drink that rather suits this particular young woman. "Yes," she affirms that she was once new herself; "I'm of the Rivern. The river traders," clarification given in due course. "And this is good Igen Hold hibiscus cider. It is delicious." She takes a long draw of it, smiling as she settles her glass back down.

"It's a pity, that." Nik comments, tone mock-mournful. "Think of the cupcakes." Delicious, delicious cupcakes. But it's her drink that captures his attention: the hue, the flavors, the everything. "Huh." Ice-blue gaze flicks up at Iaela and back down to her glass and then to his cupcake. Yep, that's apparently his cue. With a quick grab, he takes the cupcake between two fingers and pops it in his mouth. "Hnnnnh." Listen, the cupcake is delicious and this keeps him from having to answer on the pink thing. "I've not heard of the Rivern," he finally says, half-way apologetic. "But that means little since I barely can keep the, uh, Steens and the uh, Azkhan separate." It's too much, okay? "Is it?" Finally, his question comes with heavy dubiousness.

"But who would make them?" Iaela questions, and more importantly, "Who would profit?" Sounds like a loss to this woman. She rests her glass down and gives in to watching the brownrider eat his cupcake. "The Steen and the Akzhan would probably consider that fighting words, given… a few less-than-admirable relations between those esteemed houses," she informs him. "There are many houses in the bazaar. Steen, Akzhan, Auvergne…" The bazaarmaster gestures about her. "This establishment is under the aegis of the Tlatoani, another house. It's quieter than the others, but influential in its own way." She laughs. "We have caravans, too, but that might be advanced theory." And then she lifts her glass toward him, because even this woman is not without an impishness. "Would you like to try a sip?" (a wild CHALLENGE has appeared!)

"Why does anyone have to profit?" Nik fires back, tipping his head to the side. He understands the mercenary ways of the world, but is saddened by it. His is another life: idyllic and lost in the wilds of Southern where little is as it is here. "I don't know who would make them. The weyr's head kitchen chef?" As for the bazaar families, his brows furrow in thought. "Good thing I have been made aware of my gross error from the get go. I am not yet fully understanding of the bazaar and it's families." He shrugs, and polishes off his pint. It was getting low and dinner looms in the not so distant future. AND THEN THERE'S A CHALLENGE. "Sure." Nik isn't one to back down from a challenge. "Gimme."

Iaela's look for Nik is something that combines dubiousity, superiority, and pity all in a single glance. "Profit is the singlemost important thing in the world for those of us not engaged in saving it," she succinctly sums up, gesturing between the two of them. "Profit is power." That might as well be her life's motto, really. And then her own smile deepens — he's not the only one with the power of dimples at his disposal — and she hands over her glass. Hibiscus cider really is delicious, if you're pre-disposed to enjoy dry, fruity palettes. Those expecting something sweeter might find it lacking.

"Life's about more than power," Nik speaks softly, though not with any real hope of convincing her. Calloused fingers take her glass and in response to her dimpled smile, he gifts her one of his own. As he tips her glass to his lips, he holds her gaze over the rim of the glass. Slowly, the red liquid approaches his lips and then stains them with the first taste of the drink. He keeps his reaction contained, but doesn't break contact. Finally, the pulls the glass away and hands it back to her, licking the fruity liquid from reddened lips. "Interesting." A wealth of information lingers in that single word, but that's where he leaves it. Another grin breaks free, crooked and charming. "It's been nice to meet you, strange girl at the bar." With a hand, he offers a shake. "Nik'las, rider to brown Vulheimurath and of Sirocco Wing." It's an introduction by way of farewell. "Dinner calls." And it's Indian and a free birthday entree voucher. Yum, yum! Fourth wall, broken.

"And this is why you're a dragonrider, and I'm an assistant bazaarmaster," Iaela lightly returns. Her hazel eyes catch and hold his blue ones, amber glinting in her own gaze as he tries her drink. "A good interesting, I hope," she says only, wrapping long fingers around her drink and pulling it back to cradle next to her, almost protectively. She shifts it to her free hand and shakes his. "Iaela," she responds with her name only; she's given her rank already, has she not? "The bazaar's finest compliments to you and your wing, rider. Clear skies."

Tipping an invisible hat, Nik'las gives a little bow. "Clear skies, Iaela of the Rivern." As to the drink… well, mischief rides the moment and all he does is wink for what his reaction is. And just as easily, Nik disappears into the crowd, to seek out his dinner. Or his player does. Either way! What a charming interlude to be had in the Dustbowl Cantina for this newly minted Sirocco wingrider and Igenite.

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