Who

Th'bek, Amarante

What

Th'bek is kind enough to get Amarante a drink as she escapes merchants trying to take advantage of her locally clueless nature.

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of the eleventh month of the fifth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Central Bazaar, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 20 Sep 2015 04:00

 

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"I get solicited for dresses all the time too."


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Central Bazaar

All roads in the weyr ultimately lead here, to this center of commerce. Canvas awnings jut out over time worn, sandy cobblestone, sheltering customers and wares alike from the majority of Igen's elements, and funnel scents both mouthwatering and vomit inducing through the thin streets. Almost all store fronts are open air, delineated by sandstone arches with intricately carved facades. The insides of these stone-shingled buildings act as an amplifier for the salesmens' bawled enticements, and are held up by the chipped swirls of marble pillars.


When the weather's on your side, commerce booms. Extreme heat is no issue this autumn day, nor have any arid desert winds kicked around a component of dust. Th'bek is one of many in the dense crowds buying and selling, except he's invested in neither. The brownrider is taking stock of the repairs completed roughly two turns ago when quakes shook parts of Igen and a portion of the bazaar collapsed. The masons did their work with usual aplomb and he has no reason to expect fractures reassuming or facades to cave in. Long hair oiled off his forehead, he does respond to greetings, two congratulations on his promotion to Wingsecond, and one well-known tavern crawler saying he's a sorry son a bitch for being closer under Zeyta's thumb. Rev buys him an ale.

Amarante isn't exactly lurking so much as she is curiously looking around the bazaar's corners like every merchant's favorite person: someone new to the area who has no idea what she's getting herself into. Her naivete to the ways of the bazaar is, as a result, pretty blatant and it takes no time at all for her to be approached by someone peddling wares she most certainly does not want for prices that are far too high. For, probably, the fifth or sixth time. But she isn't holding any bags and has clearly yet to actually get around to purchasing anything — instead, she's just as obviously listening in on various pieces of conversation as she is attracting unscrupulous sellers looking to make a deal out of someone young and clueless. As a result she (shamelessly) overhears Th'bek's exchange with the not-quite-drunk, and laughs out loud at his conclusion. "Was that meant to be a compliment?" she asks, because he's probably less likely to bite her for talking out of turn than some of these other people.

Well, he hadn't so much named Zeyta directly as saying 'soul-sucking brownrider'. Th'bek knew who he meant. The eternal quasi-drunk doesn't ration the ale in cadence with conversation, he drinks it like a nomad needs the water and flags down another man who claims he owes him a drink for the last pit fight. Th'bek, a social drinker, now has a void to fill. "I haven't decided, but the man is right," he turns to see to whom he's addressing, sees a pretty girl, and already it's an improvement. "The ancients had a phrase back when they had different languages. I can't remember it exactly," in vinos veritas, "but it meant 'in wine there's truth'. That fella' Gaoli, he's one of the wisest men in the bazaar, he'll tell you where the wherry shits in the woods— uh, excuse me." Used to the companionship of rough dragonriders, Th'bek's face flames. "Now that I've offended your good senses, I'm Th'bek, brown Tavuqth's."

"Oh, that's hard to do, I spend most of my time dealing with gangrene," Amarante says brightly, of her sensibilities. It's not entirely true in that she has a lot of hands-on experience with gangrene (she has some) but that when she's not getting her hands on work-related things she's probably reading about gangrene. "I just wasn't sure if being under the thumb of a soul-sucking brownrider was something you were proud of? Or that he was. I at least now know who to find if I need advice on anything: seek out someone drunk. Maybe that one in particular. I'm Amarante, sorry, should have said that first." She only manages one more cautious glance around, focus remaining largely on Th'bek … but she's still just a little edgy about being followed by aggressive merchants.

"Gangrene?" A halved second ago Th'bek just swallowed the lukewarm ale and repeating the highly unexpected word has micro droplets of drink airborn. Well, Amarante's used to contagions, right? A quick sweep of his lips hopefully prevents that again. "Wingleader Zeyta's complicated." Completely accurate and completely understated. "But a man's fortunate to have her respects. You'll have to meet her to see." And dropping his volume by half but leaning in to make sure his advice counts: "wear a double set of undergarments if you have advance notice." Now that Amarante's known to be friends with gangrene, Rev feels he can bring underpants into the equation. "Let me buy you a drink."

At least Amarante wasn't drinking yet: she is at least politely ducking her face when she laughs at the wingsecond's advice, but she probably would have had a similar choking response had she been trying to swallow. "I probably do not actually want to know why that's the particular recommendation or how you learned it might be a good idea," she says, trying to dampen her amusement a little and likely failing. "But I guess if I'm going somewhere there's likely to be Wingleaders present I'll be sure to have extra clothing. And — " She's checking the time, though who knows how without a timepiece: glancing over her shoulder and thinking for a second is apparently enough of an answer. " — Yes. I can happily accept a drink. Don't let me have two."

This is no intimate setting which for strangers is no real dampener. "Soladan red? No. What about a local Coastal type? Not that huh." Rev's striking out here, or perhaps the vendor has limited stock or was wiped out during the day's boon. Th'bek starts to grasp. "Anything from Tillek?" The vendor reacts to this, but whether or not Amarante truly gets a drink sourced from the north is anyone's guess. It's within a pretty glass, a rarity of blue glass. An appealing vessel almost always makes the drink more attractive. There's no seats so Th'bek plants an elbow on the limited counter space. "How long have you been a healer?"

Amarante watches the exchange with the curious-impressed expression of someone who knows little to nothing about wine; she'll have no clue if she's actually being given what Th'bek ordered for her or not. "Oh, that's very pretty," does get commented on, though, the glass having accomplished its goal at the least. "And, hm," she tastes, and concludes, "Pleasant flavor as well. This is my fifth turn of study? Almost six, now." There was definitely some counting of months in her head, there. "How about you? Not — healing, I mean, riding."

Th'bek's own ale is nearly gone, so he rations to sips and makes room when a Zingari orders two strong ales. "About three turns now. Tavuqth's," hazel eyes sweep the visible portion of the Weyr's unique wind-scarred pinnacles. "Up there somewhere, fighting for a top position in the sun." He doesn't spy the brown to indicate him. "The bazaar has something for all tastes, though 'pretty' sometimes is overwhelming." Says the I Hate Shopping shopper. "Have you browsed much?"

It doesn't stop Amarante from looking, as if she'd be able to place the correct brown somehow. There's one brown she knows, and all the others are just dragons: of course, this endeavor fails entirely. "Pretty's also not really specific enough," she says, taking another slow sip and managing not to seem awkward standing around a stall and sipping wine from an elegant glass without having anything to perch on. Not any more awkward than she seemed earlier slipping around corners and trying to surreptitiously peek at things. "Most of the time if you ask a retailer for something pretty you get everything. I haven't looked as much as I should have, probably; I keep getting approached by people who want to sell me dresses that cost as much as — oh, something ridiculously expensive that probably is more than the value of the dress." She does stand out wearing pants. Probably a lot less so than she might have with all the Oldtimers around, but it's still something for a merchant to point out. "I was actually looking for a head scarf, since I'm new to the whole dust-and-sandstorm phenomenon and so is my hair … but being given a glass of wine by a polite gentleman who didn't mind me butting into his conversation is a nice alternative."

"I get solicited for dresses all the time too," Th'bek lamenting what is a complete fallacy. "But if you're looking for face protection I'd try more on the southern end where the clothing vendors seem to be most entrenched." His clothing is usually commissioned which cuts out this process of breaking through crowds, haggling until you want to wreck the displays, then getting something inferior you then cannot return. "Where were you from prior?" Downing the last of the ale, one eye still on the apprentice.

As he explains, Amarante nods, processing information and drinking (still slowly: inside her head, that makes it okay to be drinking before an evening shift) with an amicably neutral expression. "I appreciate straightforward advice — my brother's lived here for ages," a shrug that indicates she does not, actually, remember precisely how long, accompanied by a slightly embarrassed smile, "and didn't have anything useful to tell me at all. That or he just didn't want to. Keroon, though, is the answer, but I've been at Healer Hall so long that I've mostly forgotten what prairie life is like and my skin has definitely forgotten what parched air is like." As soon as she finds the lotion vendors, they will be making a mint, even if they don't overcharge.

Th'bek is ready to blow his popsicle stand now that his one tie to it, his drink, is gone and the vessel returned to the vendor. "I may know your brother then, I've lived in the Weyr all of my remembered life." Indeed, the young rider's speech pattern is no different than many if not most of the vendors. "Last I knew lotions and balms are sold en route to the clothiers. You'll suffer without them." He is honest, his earlier Latin reference bearing some fruit. "Welcome, then, to Igen." His head inclines at an angle favoring the right.

"A'dein, he rides in Hogback," Amarante's avoidance of his dragon's name is probably because she doesn't understand the relevance of etiquette and not because she can't remember it. It happens to be Imrilath, also a brown. "Is my useless brother, or else he's useless at introductions — you've done a far better job and you don't even remotely owe it to me." She's on her last sips of that wine; just another minute or two and Th'bek can make his escape without being even a little bit rude. "My hands tend toward constant dryness from work already and this air really is going to put cracks in 'em if I don't find a good cream, you're very right about that. Thank you. For the welcome and for not sending me in the wrong direction because it's funny." Maybe that was A'dein's version of 'helping.' "As well as for the drink."

Th'bek doesn't have any internal bells chime at the rider's mention, and could press Tavuqth for details but doesn't think it necessary. "At least, then, you'll have one familiar face despite the verdict on his usefulness." He grins pleasantly as a peasant, having no siblings his own age (that he's aware of) except for toddlers. Amarante's profuse talking points makes her engaging company, though Veresch has provided him with practice on communicating with quick-thinking females. "How do you know I didn't give you the wrong direction?" Stated with contained humor.

"I was paying attention." Amarante remembered, see: "I don't actually know you didn't, but I suspect you didn't because that was where I came in. People who are drinking telling the truth. And since you've been drinking," her smile grows, turning more impish, "I assume you wouldn't want to prove yourself incorrect by telling me a lie." With that, she downs the last of her glass with gusto, tilting her head back and then returning the glass to the vendor with a, "My compliments," even though he probably isn't looking at her or paying any attention to her words, seeing as how she's been paid for. All the vendors really need to know is that she's not stealing the glass.

Th'bek keeps up, virtually, picking up key words as they issue from the girl's mouth. "You got me." The hand barely hanging to the counter gives it a slight trounce for emphasis of wit, Amarante holding himself up to his own words. Perhaps too much acuity. "That old phrase never did say how much wine it takes to yield truth." And without Romans living and breathing today they'll never really know the answer. The healer's right, the vendor is watering down his remaining brew to prolong it, unseen behind the counter and ignorant of whether or not people like his stock once they pay. "And truthfully, I wasn't even drinking wine…" Just whine. He won't let it go.

"That's fair. And a detail I hadn't considered; I may well find out that you've given me bad directions after all. It isn't as if brownriders have generally painted themselves to me as trustworthy," comes with a grin that Amarante will hope is clearly being painted as all mocking toward her brother and no actual shade meant to Th'bek. Who has actually, so far, been completely trustworthy even if he doesn't want to admit it. "Perhaps your penance for lying, if you turn out to have and then I manage to catch you again, is that you'll have to let me experiment and see how much wine it takes before you start spewing truth from your lips and … before you start spewing anything else." She looks satisfied at the idea of getting to test the phrase, even if her intended victi—subject did nothing to deserve that fate and would be wise not to volunteer for it.

Th'bek blurts out a laugh that had been gathering strength for the past few minutes. 'Spewing' is a worthwhile trigger under nearly any circumstances. He habitually throws the scarf around his neck higher though there's no great need to ward against what's not an immediate risk. "If I didn't know any better I'd say you were a harper and the part about gangrene was just to throw me off. Well met, truly, and pleasant shopping." IN THE WRONG DIRECTION OR NOT.

This is probably the point where Amarante should realize she's supposed to be working, and also that she should stop burbling while she's ahead. Thankfully, after letting herself catch the giggles for a few seconds — someone else laughs, she laughs, even if she is attempting to exercise restraint — she figures that out on her own and just allows herself a grin. "You might believe that until you see my handwriting. Sometimes even I can't figure out what it says. Lovely to meet you, Th'bek." She even remembered his name! Eventually she will learn that he's a wingsecond, a tidbit she didn't manage to overhear, and potentially end up embarrassed or guilty. For now? She gives him a nod, a, "Hope to run into you again sometime," that seems entirely earnest, and heads in the direction that she thinks will yield lotions, balms and headscarves (and the inevitability of failing to haggle and being broke).

In a short span of distance three people have wadded between them already but Th'bek does lift a stationary hand in a finite sign of farewell.

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