Who

Veresch, E'pha, Cha'el, K'ane, Prineline, Reilan

What

A Weyrsecond in tights and ruffles, a bronzerider in a dress and a messenger all gussied up Bazaar style, walk into a bar. It goes downhill from there.

When

It is the fifteenth day of the second month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr, Dustbowl Cantina

OOC Date

 

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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.


At least it's not as cold during the day as it is at night. Nonetheless, it's still rather too chilly to be prancing about wearing next to nothing, or so goes the grumble coming from the Weyrsecond as he shoulders open the door leading into the Cantina. Wait. That surely can't be the Weyrsecond can it? The hair and eyes are the same but the beard is gone as is everything else that would define his appearance. Beneath a tunic of dark blue, belted with a black leather band are worn, a pair of black tights that appear just a tad too tight. Yes, people, tights! Still grumbling and looking about as comfortable as a wher caught out in daylight, the brawny brownrider ducks his head and tries to look as inconspicuous as possible because he knows might be here. At least he doesn't look nearly as bad as the other guy…erm, woman (?) entering close on his heels.

Bad, you say? How about smears of accentuating kohl above big brown eyes and the hint of darkened lips behind the wispy beauty of a bright red veil, obscuring part of the face and twining into the hair where only a few black wisps escape around the forehead. Tall and a bit powerful for a woman, but not poorly shaped. Gold, green, and red swirl in the fabrics down to the floor, hiding— rather bold steps. A tenor voice chides the non-Weyrsecond, "Are you complaining to me? Are you complaining to me right now?" Tis E'pha, or the bulky woman he might have been born as otherwise. Eyeing the Cantina with a scrunched nose mussing his veil, the bronzerider cracks his neck something strong and loud, causing a nearby patron to doubletake. "Yah, what?" as they go by.

The people stare. Some of them even gape, and a few of the waitresses can't quite muffle snickers. Who wouldn't, seeing that walk in? Well, the ones that aren't eyeing his legs. At least Veresch is obviously not here to see them and laugh her scrawny head off, right? Right. It's only when they're a bit into the Cantina and the snickering has grown to epic proportions that a slim figure in blue slowly walks closer, face veiled behind dark ultramarine and possessing a curious quality of walking. "Sirs," she greets softly, voice modulated low. "This way please, there is a table for you." With that, she leads the way, essaying a light sashay on the way over. The nickering, which stopped as E'pha cracked his neck, starts up again as they pass.

Said be-tighted man turns and fits his rather husky ‘female’ friend with a narrowed look. “You’re not the one with his junk being squished to Between and gone,” Cha’el grouses and plucks at the fabric stretched across a muscular thigh, trying to tug it down a little so as to straighten that ‘cowboy’ gait he’s got going on. Thankfully his tunic is long enough to actually hide said abused male nether bits. There is however a snort at the growl E’pha tosses out. “He wants you.” The brownrider-in-disguise states of the one that had done the double-take. And then its his turn to do so unfairly thick black lashes dropping and lifting in a blink when Veresch come sashaying in. Ummm…Well now. With as much dignity as a man can muster in such a situation (How do you DO it, W’rin!?), Cha’el follows after her scowling at a woman staring a might too long at his legs.

In a low tone that at least keeps their — nearly marital — argument between themselves, E'pha grumbles, "Well, guess which one of us is gettin' a chill breeze on his— " Sight of a sightly woman approaching straightens him out, and he deftly covers his grotesque train of conversation with the smooth curse: "Balls." Utterly defeating the purpose, like a pro. A somewhat paranoid glance is shot over his shoulder at the man Cha'el thusly pointed out as he shuffles a tad more discreetly after the leader. "Maybe y'should stop touching it," he mutters in suggestion over the uncomfortable garb, meanwhile plucking a couple of fingers at the veil itching his face.

Balls… they're the problem here, see? There are some men that just don't get it, not even with a tenor voice, husky shoulders and all the other minute signals that, likely, only women normally pick up. "Hey, sexy," he growls and reaches out to palm the, ah, colourfully dressed woman's backside. There's a pinch somewhere there too. "Why don't you come and sit on ol' Merris' lap and tell me your name." His eyes, more drunk than leering, settle on Cha'el's walk. "Got more down m'pants than your boy there." the woman in blue, on the verge of pulling a chair out for herself, can't do anything but groan. Well, that and not look at Cha'el's pants to ascertain the possible truth of the statement. Her eyes, also kohl-lined, droop, lashes veiling them. Must not laugh. Must not. Got a role to maintain!

Low the chuckle that rumbles from Cha’el at E’pha’s inopportune curse – Busted! It reads. “If I don’t it gets all scrunched up in my cra… OY!” The guy that’s just made a grab for his ‘woman’ is glared at. Or maybe it was the questioning comment about the state of the family jewels. And yes, the unknotted brownrider tugs his tunic DOWNward. “She’s mine!” He growls and grabs E’pha by the elbow lest he should decide to try and do something ‘unladylike’ such as deck the moron. “Focus, you prat. We got a job to do.” Old married couple. Yup. Drilling and flying and preparing to either live or die together in the air as wingmates will do that to a guy. Scraping back a chair, Cha’el eases himself into it, scared that any sudden movements might result in his emitting a girlie scream. “Yeah, yeah, yuck it up.” He goes on to grumble at Veresch, setting her with a narrowed look. There is however the very faintest vestige of approval in that look for her having taken his advice about blending in.

Motherofa— ! Cha'el is wise, very wise; it wasn't for the butt-grab or the come-on that E'pha reacts, but the slight against his Weyrsecond. His elbow hikes powerfully backward, and is thus caught by his 'man'. Hauled, he acquiesces. It may be because otherwise he'd step on his expensive set of skirts. "Focused! I'm focused," the insistence comes, even in a slightly higher pitch than his usual, playing havoc on his Cromese accent. As Cha'el sits, and is obliged to release E'pha's arm however, the man spares a second to turn and execute an extremely rude gesture back at dear old Merris. Who probably likes it. You never know anymore. Grabbing and spreading the skirts to let himself sit, he does with surprising grace, pausing only to bow his head deeply and respectfully at the similarly veiled Veresch. Then, plop, and he's not sure what to do with his legs anymore, and he desperately wants to scratch his face.

Veresch can't look down, because that'll expose her to Cha'el's full, tight-wearing glory. She can't look up, because that'd expose her to E'pha's all-over glory. Instead she settles for looking away to one of the grimy, empty tables, staring at it fixedly. "You're not making it easy," she mutters through her teeth, what little control she has relaxing enough for a sliver of her normal voice to shine through. "You were right though, it's easier getting around like this." There's a sideways glance for E'pha that she surely picked up from a Zingari somewhere, all amusement for the hand gesture which Merris, indeed, enjoys. "My beauty pales before yours, madam. I thank you for joining us. It wouldn't have been quite proper otherwise." It still isn't proper, but only because she has to clench her fists not to burst out laughing. "Closer together," she advises in a strangled whisper. "Hold them closer together." Pause. "I found the man."

“Aye, focused,” Cha’el snorts and kicks at the leg of chair, shoving it out for E’pha’lina (?) to take a seat. Such a gentleman. Not. But then she-he is flipping the randy old coot a birdie and the brownrider-in-disguise rolls his eyes and sighs. “You know, if you were really my woman, I’d put you over my knee and…” The drawled comment is cut off when Veresch cuts in. Slumping back in his seating, legs akimbo, forgetting that his tunic is now so not covering what it should be, Cha’el eyes the veiled young woman. Thinking she’s talking to him, he glances downward catches the ‘package’ on display and almost immediately the tips of his ears glow red. “Sharding tights.” And he shoves his chair in closer to the table. Nothing to see now folks. Back to the business at hand for the sooner its concluded, the sooner he can get out of his ridiculous outfit (still better than yours, E’pha) and into something that allows for breathing room. “You sure it’s the same guy?”

"Sharding skirt," E'pha's muttering at the same time, obligingly slicing his legs closer together with a hard knock of his knees. Since he's the absurdly ordered back-up, the drag-rider stays from talking, instead notching an elbow up on the table. Smashing his veiled cheek into his hand, he, for all anyone can tell, stares with dedication and admiration at his be-tighted man. When he's settled, with his knees a proper, ladylike, distance, he calms to a not utterly outrageous vision. Hefty, but not hideous. (So there, Cha'el!) Really, lines of make-up on his face are questionably well done at closer inspection, whenever Veresch can manage. Beyond it all, the intent scrutiny he was likely actually brought for; he keeps a subtly critical eye on the room and its temperature while the others pass words.

Veiled Veresch frowns and glares at Cha'el, managing only a pretty sort of pique with her mouth hidden away like that. "Of course it's the man. He might have scared the piss out of me, but I'm not blind." Not so ladylike, not when she's distracted from concentrating on it. "I can go and show you two now if you want, but I thought it'd look better if we came here to enjoy a cup of wine first, or…" She falters at that; for all that she's playing dress-up she's not wise in the ways of the Bazaar, and E'pha's curiously well-done kohl keeps distracting her. No fair! She leans just a little closer to the table. "Ah… who is your new wife?" E'pha gets another look. "Weyrmate?" There's another pause, and then she's curiously leaning forward on a hand as well. "What thing with your knee?" That, of course, is asked absolutely innocently.

Brows beetle upwards at the teen’s show of pique, and then drop into a contemplative frown when Veresch confirms that she indeed has eyes on the man in question. Finally, Cha’el gets himself together and drawing the air of a man IN LOVE about him, reaches out for that hand that E’pha’lina has smooshed against her cheek. If ‘she’ll’ allow, he’ll lace fingers through his and draw her uh…not-quite-so-delicate hand to his lips and brush a kiss across the back of it. “Would you like some wine E’pha’lina, love? Or perhaps one of those fruity cocktail things they make?” Smirk. Back to Veresch his gaze travels. “This is my betrothed, E’pha’lina. E’pha’lina….” A name is scrambled for, “meet Rescha. A girl from the Bazaar who has managed to find a bolt of that pink floral fabric you wanted so badly for your wedding dress.” As to what thing with his knee, Cha’el simply fits the girl with a devilish grin. “The thing where impudent women are taught their place.” He is of course, joking. Maybe.

Whoa! E'pha'lina was using that hand as support, and it's dragged out from under his cheek with a hard rock of his body before he recovers. Recovers enough to stare painted eyes at Cha'el like the Weyrsecond's a man infected. In that way, his fingers become easily laced, and then take on a grip more like they're about to arm-wrestle and it's not quite certain who would win. The kiss tenses all the muscles in his hand, harshly squeezing Cha'el's in either surprise or warning. But when he speaks, an elated, "Fruity cocktails!" E'pha's managed to adopt the role with a husky woman's voice. It's not overplayed to comedic effect, so still a bit low, but at least not foolishly overdone. "I do know how much you love your fruity cocktails, darling." Tipping his head to find Veresch, "Rescha, well met. I can't believe you found it. You must be awfully resourceful. Quick, then, tell us where." Cha'el's hand, meanwhile, is locked in place. He wanted this, he's not getting out of it. E'pha looks at him with a little too much honesty. "So we can get to showing you how impudent I can really be."

'Rescha' observes the interplay between the two with dreadfully intent fascination — so is half of the cantina by this time, because it's a seriously epic love story playing off here. The scene then: it's evening and the cantina is full with the normal crowd, all swilling their drink of choice and watching the floor entertainment show. That show, being in one of the back corners, is addictively intriguing. The Weyrsecond is perhaps the most recognisable figure at the table, but what sets him apart tonight is the pair of tights he's wearing, with only a thin frill of tunic between him and dubious decency. He's clutching - struggling to clutch - the hand of a tall figure in a bright confusion of clothes, ostensibly a woman, but no one is really sure. The third at the table, a sloe-eyed, slim reed of a woman, is forgettable, at least next to the two of them, especially with her face behind an indigo veil. "But it's for your wedding!" she says lightly, yet loudly enough to be heard. "How could I not find it for you, darling E'pha'lina Come on, let's have a drink first before we go." Translation: come on, let's embarrass Cha'el more before we go.

In tromps K'ane. It's not unusual: the big bronzerider is a force of nature that often frequents the Cantina, familiar with Jharlodar and his family and long-term enough to have his favorite whiskey stocked — on the top shelf, of course. The bronzerider STOPS in his tracks however when he notices .. the SITUATION. He can't resist that, and bulls his way through the crowd forming to cross substantial arms in front of his chest and cooly look down at Cha'el; that all-things-serious-business look would work better if, up-close-and-personal, it didn't look like he was fighting off a hilarious bout of laughter. "Ma'am," to E'pha'lina presumably, "Are y' quite alright, ma'am? Is this…" pause, "…man bothering you?"

That challenging grip of hand about his causes beard-free, Cha’el to grimace-grin at his ‘wifey’ to be, “Fruity is as fruity does, dearest.” He tells her with a waggle of brows and then turns to Veresch, shooting the slip of a girl a narrowed look when she suggests a dallying round of drinks. Tights suck, doesn’t she know!? Things are itching awkwardly and he’s pretty sure given that they’re one-size-too-small, his voice just went up an octave. But the farce has to be convincing and so he forces a smile to appear. “Fruity cocktail for the lovely lady,” E’pha’lina darling what a strong grip you have, here have a shove of knee to thigh under the table, wench, “And a rum for…Aw fuck.” That a discomforted mutter when K’ane is seen charging for them. “Bloody Lords and Ladies arses!” The Weyrsecond curses and tries to extricate his hand from ‘wifey’s’, sending the bronzerider a tight and entirely unhappy look.

"Oh," Rescha mutters with delicious, unfeigned delight as K'ane appears and things start going hideously wrong. "Is he doing that thing with his knee where he tries to discipline you, E'pha'lina?" she trills loudly, hands white-knuckled to prevent an entirely gargling snort of inappropriate laughter to spill free. "Three of the Nooners, please!" she orders from the nearest goggling barmaid. "We're celebrating their soon-to-be wedding!" Pause. "And something for the rider — welcome to the party, K'ane. Please have a seat." Yes, she's the adult at the table.

E'pha's returning the under-the-table favor by getting ready to stomp Cha'el good against his shin when he, too, notices K'ane. The intent goes awry and he ends up stomping his own foot pretty hard with a reacting clench of teeth. Some blessing, perhaps, as that keeps him from some extremely unladylike cursing. But as Cha'el struggles, the coin flips. The Weyrsecond will find his wife's hand incredibly difficult to release as it's squeezed and dragged towards the dress' faux-bosom. "We're so fine, thank you, sir!" At least it's not E'pha's voice, and his face is partially covered, but they are dragging part of his name around, so. "We're getting— " and then Rescha beats him to it and he nods enthusiastically instead. "Married! Can you believe it?" His other hand slides out to squeeze Cha'el's shoulder. "What a catch!" And don't forget that wink in Veresch's direction. "You know, he's unruly where it counts."

K'ane has recognized 'Rescha', his expression an amused twitch towards her. It doesn't take him long to realize who E'pha'lina is, and when realization happens it PHYSICALLY CAN BE SEEN HAPPENING. "Oh," the big man states, pausing a moment. "My apologies, miss," he states diplomatically to the Bride-To-Be. And then … and then, because he is K'ane and is a fucking sadist at the best of times, he LEANS DOWN into Cha'el's personal space. "Y'know," his voice a husky burr, "If y'ever get second thoughts about marryin' your bride, th' lay of your tights looks just like somethin' I'd like t' get into." He shifts his gaze down, indelicately, to Cha'el's lap and then back up.

This time a brow arches from Rescha's side, and the shiver of clenched fists isn't just for amusement's sake. K'ane gets a poisonous, poisonous look over the edge of the veil, and her gaze flickers to E'pha'lina. Is she going to let the other bronzer mess with her man? will the Nooners arrive before tempers spark too much? Is Cha'el going to spontaneously combust? These are all questions the audience would dearly love to have answers to.

First Rescha is gifted with a furious glare and then E’pha’lina when Cha’el finds his hand dragged to the sock-squished softness of fake bosom. But then Veresch is doing the worst possible thing and inviting K’ane to join them. No! No, no… the brownrider begins furiously mouthing only to be cut short when he finds himself unable to pull his hand free from his bride-to-be’s. Then there’s talk of unruliness and discipline involving knees and…K’ane’s comment is the last frigging straw. Something snaps in the mortified Weyrsecond’s mind and slowly lips curl about a deep smirk. “Oh, E’pha’lina here doesn’t mind sharing, do you, love?” Bright (with death) the look Cha’el fits his ‘intended’ with and then back to the one ‘propositioning’ him. “Maybe you could be a bridesmaid at the wedding. I’ve heard a lot of grooms get the last of the sowing done with the bridesmaid.” His gaze shifts to Veresch then, “What do you think, Resch? Is there enough of that pink fabric you found to dress my friend here?” Emphasis on dress.

There's a thoughtful, measuring look, up and down K'ane's muscular length. "Well, he's not got much of a chest," she points out sweetly. "That'll save some fabric, even if we do lose it in the legs again. Yes, I think I can procure some more." Pause. "He'll look fetching."

"Uhh…" Okay, fine, Cha'el wanted his hand? E'pha releases it to gesture both palms out reading I'm out! as it turns to sharing and the matter of involving K'ane. Bringing a nail to his mouth to nibble in a decidedly male-E'pha fashion, he rocks in the chair, waiting out the sweetness before using that rocking momentum to bring him forward, more personal, amongst the group. "Umm," he coughs, clearing his throat because he'd lost his 'voice' for a second. "Not to knock— all this," a hand swirls to indicate what's happening here; he glances to make sure the barmaid's still preoccupied trying to find the recipe for that damned new drink. "But our purpose seems to have been body-slammed off the track with the ruckus…" Then again, he's not the mastermind here, he's the poorly dressed muscle. "… hasn't it?" Someone? Anyone? Should he sit back and let the boys talk like a good girl? In his searching eyes, that option remains.

K'ane chuckles, deep in his chest, flickering his eyes to Rescha for her words. "Sweetheart," that would definitely be to the pretty one — uh, Cha'el, that is, "There ain't no six-foot-three women runnin' around in pink frills, unless someone got Tules ass-nasty drunk an' got her t' lose a bet." She's totally 6'3 with her fro. His voice lowers and he places both hands on the table, leaning in like a man about to levy a persuasive argument. His words come after E'pha's statement that they have some kind of purpose. "But if a fancy little weddin' group needed a roughshod bodyguard, ain't nobody quite like an ex-guard t'go makin' sure ain't nobody rough-housin' such pretty little people, ain't it?" His eyebrow cocks, his smirk for all of them: it's KIND OF OBVIOUS that something is up. "Unless y'd rather I'd break down this little gatherin' an' give ya'll some time t' make a tidy exit." See? He can be nice. Even if his eyes POINTEDLY go to Cha'el's tights again, laughter in cornflower blues.

With the gig up and his hand returned while E’pha nibbles at his, Cha’el leans back in his chair and casually flips K’ane the bird both for the faux endearment and that pointed look at his legs unhappily squished into tights. There’s even a smirk for the sideways comment made about a certain weyrwoman. “Eh, there’s a person of interest down the Bazaar that Veresch here says gave her a letter or something for K’vvan. Some shifty looking guy. The get-up,” there the Weyrsecond plucks unhappily at his tights, “is an unfortunate coincidence of this one,” a jut of chin goes the truly pretty one’s way, Veresch, “trying to prove a point about women getting ogled.” Because he would NEVER do such a thing. Shyeah right.

And thus her point is proved! The mastermind of the notion turns her gaze on E'pha as he mentally retreats; whatever sulk she might have had is well-hidden behind the veil. "Indeed," she says as she abruptly stands in a smooth, decisive moment. One hand flicks in the air indecisively, pointing K'ane to Cha'el to make his final appeal. "There's aren't fancy wedding parties where we're going, so one of you will have to play the brainless, rich trader." From the look at Cha'el for that confession, it's clear who her first choice for that role is. She turns, finds the waitress almost at their table and takes one of the Nooners, lifting her veil to slug it down decisively. Then, as one hand reaches down to capture one of E'pha's, she pulls to get him up — dresses are uncomfortable enough to earn him mercy. "This way," she announces.

Prineline does not appear to be the usual little cloud of collected fury and doom today, no, today the Headwoman appears to bedare we sayrelaxed. Or as relaxed as a Headwoman can be with a slight limp to her step and a dozen rolled up lists popping out of her pretty pink apron. She takes a moment to wince as he left leg is jostled a bit on the step up. Sharp eyes survey the attendance and fall with clear exasperation on the small knot of… those people. And by people she means riders. And by riders she means useless annoyances. Lightly gimpy steps take the Headwoman to her usual bar stool, already covered with a soft cushion Jharlodar has provided. Gingerly settling down, Prineline gives a genuine smile to the bar owner as he passes a very large glass of wine across the bar top. Some people just get her. And by people she means Jharlodar. And by 'get her' she means free booze.

Eyebrows lift the entire time Veresch is chugging and the finger he also raises to try and object is rethought, brought to his lips, curled into a fist as he hums, and then dropped, like the subject. Standing is not a pleasant notion for E'pha, who wasn't particularly prepared beneath the table, but he obliges with only a minor waver and some emergency adjustments of those decorative skirts. He sure has some popular hands today, but never mind. If they're going to get this thing done, he's game, and he turns his head against his shoulder to chart that Cha'el and K'ane aren't groping each other in the corner now that they're alone. Since he's there with Veresch, his arm naturally tries winding with hers in a rather sisterly fashion.

K'ane cocks his eyebrows at Cha'el. "You guys," his voice is a little incredulous, "You guys just decided t' go after a shifty-lookin' guy dressed in that kinda getup?" His eyes rove the table. "Are y'tryin' t' not get within fifty feet of your target?" His skeptical glance shifts from person to person in this little tete-a-tete. As E'pha and Veresch leave, he settles down across from Cha'el, lifting an eyebrow in a quite obvious are-you-seriously-an-idiot kind of face. Thankfully for everyone involved, he hasn't noticed Prineline yet. "D'you need real backup?" He will totally be exiting otherwise, or so the question seems to imply.

Watching as Veresch hauls E’pha to his multi-skirted feet, Cha’el gingerly stands, adjusts those crotch-choking tights and turns a long look onto K’ane. Carefully he lowers himself back into the chair, all ludicrous commentary and farce displaced by hard eyes and a tight smile. “I wasn’t born yesterday, mate. I’ve tracked a couple of bastards in my time. I don’t plan to take him on or even make contact just yet. I just want to get a look at him. See what I might be dealing with.” There is however appreciation in those sea-blue eyes for the loan of muscle that K’ane is offering. “Won’t say no to a third. Vee’s a nice kid but if shit goes south, I don’t want her involved.” Which would be why he had E’pha on hand.

Ohhellshit. Veresch didn't see the headwoman until she turned to get E'pha out of his seat. Oh gods. Please let there not be recognition. She ducks her head down, resting it on E'pha's shoulder as if she suddenly, against all indications to the contrary, became a delicate little flower that needs a sistah to lean on. "Shells," she whispers to him as she nods to the door. "That guy is so nosy. Come on, we have to head to the Wher." To whit: one of the most ass-nasty gambling dens in the back of the Bazaar, where all the scummy people go to get lessons in how to be even more scummy. Definitely not the kind of place where a female teenager should have been wandering around in the first place. "He stays at an inn near there, and I don't know how the hell I'm going to track him down if we lose him now. We can stop along the way for you to change." Yes, all the paternal riders may now have the shitfits.

Prineline is adamantly not getting involved. Not because she couldn't. She could. She's got the temperament for it. She just… doesn't care. There's wine. And her knee hurts. And she's rolling out one of her lists for inspection. And now she's hiccupping a little. And now shut up. And now… wait a minute. Prineline pauses and squints. Is that..? Veresch's slightly obscured face gets a long, looooong inspection. Prineline sips, squints, hiccups, squints some more… meh. The Headwoman returns to her booze. Free booze. Kids these days. She's staying out of it. Also, shut up.

In an instinctive move, E'pha's completely melded to Veresch's new position, supporting her gently despite his head jerk when the den's name is recognized. "We have to head to the— " his head twists; Cha'el, hey, Cha'el, support! But Cha'el's occupied, so E'pha adjusts Veresch against him to peer at her veiled face. "Those are terrible places for you, kid." He looks like he wants to tweak her nose and send her shuffling home, but all he manages is to rock his head indecisively and then scratch at his leg. "And if I'd known that…" Damn skirts get a ruffle. But, all said — or mostly trailed off — he brings a hand up to encouragingly squeeze the back of Veresch's neck while staying contemplatively at the Cantina exit. And not that guy eyeballing them from a few chairs down.

"Fine, then." K'ane rubs his jaw absently, squints across at Cha'el. "Count me in. Bazaar's used t'me, even th' rough sides." He's rough enough to hang with the rowdiest of crowds and big enough to not be an easy target - a good combination for the desert weyr's black market. The bronzerider is at a table with Cha'el — who is in TIGHTS and RUFFLES, the bitchass pretty boy — while E'pha'lina is dressed up in a dress, Veresch is all formal and behind a veil, and Prineline don't give two fucks, mostly because her knee hurts and she has free booze. Fuck intrigue.

Glancing up and over in the direction that Veresch and E'pha had headed in, the bronzer in disguise is awarded a stiff nod of approval for managing to keep his teenaged charge from dashing off all guns a'blazin', or whatever the Pernese equivalent would be. Prineline is given a brief note of attention but with the young messenger having not yet clued HIM in on where the man is that she'd encountered, attention draws back to K'ane. "Much appreciated, K'ane." Because who says no to a powerhouse of muscle? Not that Cha'el isn't completely capable of taking care of himself but there are few thick enough to fuck with a broad well muscled front of solidarity and lets face it, where they're going, there are some pretty stupid individuals scaling about. "I need to change first," the brownrider notes, "I'm not gonna get more'n two steps out that door and my balls'll be in my throat." Sorry, Veresch but the tights and ruffles have GOT to go.

"I'm fifteen!" the 'kid' in the veil hisses to her new support system, though his hand is allowed to cup her neck and she sighs for a moment at the warmth of it. "Besides, you don't know what he looks like." She's still idling along to the doorway when a new arrival's face makes her stop, blink, stare. Oh hell no. Busted. She tries to communicate with said figure, eyebrows doing crazy teen girl semaphore on her face. She is, of course, trying to signal 'I am not really clinging onto the arm of a guy in a dress, really!', but as anyone knows, that's a difficult sentence to pull off with just two eyebrows. Nor, particularly, does she want Rei to know she's contemplating going to the Wher again, albeit with riders in her pocket. Even through the veil, she's wincing as that sentence from Cha'el flowers across her consciousness. Seriously, man, she can't just unhear that kind of shit.

What exactly has Reilan walked into? The teenager halts a few feet into the cantina, paused even in tugging the cloth away from his face. There is a table over there…a table and surrounding area populated by such weirdness that he can only gawk. Veresch's dress he does recognize, pinpointing the girl with a little stare before he finally starts himself moving again. Eyebrow conversation is taken advantage of, his own furrowing downward in utter confusion at the odd communication. Away he goes to the counter! He has a purpose for coming here, after all, and it's to get himself a /drink/. Not stare at ladies. Or not-quite-ladies. Or ruffles.

The general noisy banter that ebbs and flows through the Cantina suddenly drops a level with every rider in the area going stiff. And then, in a scramble of chairs being scraped back and drinks being banged sloppily to table tops, there’s a mass exodus. Men and women alike are shrugging into flight jackets while they beat a hasty exit. Cha’el is amongst them. With features tightening he flashes a look at K’ane and then he’s on his feet despite the OH MY GOD THE PAIN of pinches where pinching shouldn’t occur. “Gotta go Veresch. Don’t you go anywhere until I get back.” E’pha probably needs no encouragement either for the call had gone out Weyrwide. Thread over Igen Hold.

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