Goran, Onari


Goran comes across Onari preparing to leave on a journey the following morning and is his usual ‘charming’ self.


It is late night of the tenth day of the seventh month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Igen Weyr, Caravan Grounds

OOC Date


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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 seventieth day of Summer and 84 degrees. It is a calm, clear night.

Timor: 1_m20.jpg
Belior: 1_m12.jpg

It's a clear, calm evening - a relatively mild one, too, considering the season. Traces of daylight still linger, preventing the sky from being completely black, but the stars are readily evident, and glowbaskets hang all about the Reika camp, making up for the light usually supplied by the central fire. (It's much too hot for the usual bonfire, of course.) The Caravan Grounds are quiet, the day wound down, though Onari is out near the back of the circle of wagons at the beast pens, brushing down Gola and checking over her tack and saddlebags. From the look of things, she's preparing for a trip - not tonight, but certainly in the morning. Glowlight provides plenty to see by, though it casts pretty features in oddly hued shadows as she works on her nearly night-camouflaged runner.

Come rain or high water, sandstorm or frost, Goran is never without that long black leather coat of his. Except of course, when he’s in camp and the myriad of concealed pockets worked into it are of little purpose. Fresh from bathing and with sleeves rolled up to his elbows so that the thick leather braiding at his wrist is on display, the enigmatic Bitran ambles down to where the runners are corralled, the cherry red glow of a toke releasing a fragrant scent of spices not unpleasant to the nose though with a hint of something indefinable as a base. “Onari,” the girl’s name spoken in a rasping purr of sound as he nears, steel-blue gaze flicking briefly over every feminine curve before flicking to her runner. “Planning on leaving us?”

Onari catches a whiff of that toke before seeing who carries it, though she can make a reasonable guess as to who that might be. To her slight chagrin, she's right, and she turns at the sound of that raspy voice, giving the Varas tannersmith a small, polite small. "Good evening, Goran," she says, reaching out to stroke the glossy flank of her whickering companion. "No longer than a seven," she answers. "I'm heading out to the River Hold and some of the outliers again, in the morning. Father has some deliveries for me to make for us; I've got a little trading I'd like to do…" She could leave it at that, but she remembers Finn's reminder about the Varas being good earners and so, in spite of her continued suspicions about that particular family, she brushes her hands off on her skirt and offers, "Is there anything you'd like me to take for you? Deliveries, or some of your wares you'd like me to try getting some good marks for you on?"

Coming to a halt at the railing sectioning the animals off, Goran hikes a boot onto the bottom horizontal pole and fits Onari with a privately amused look. Such a sweet little thing. She’d be so easy to… That thought is flicked away with the ash from his toke and inhales a fragrant lungful before offering a reply. “Got a package you could drop off with old man Nehan. Save me the trouble of doing so myself.” Trouble - That which lurks behind flinted depths of blue. “He knows how much he owes me.” Another draw, the cherry tip glowing bright, his head tipping back to idly view the twin moons. “Your brother going with you?”

Trouble, indeed. And to think she'd rather had a crush on Goran when his family had first become associated with hers. That was before some of their lot had conspired to kidnap Onari's father and landed them with an obligation to Igen Weyr… That part isn't so much the issue now as her continued wariness, but Goran is still one of Onari's people. Innocent until proven otherwise. And at least Goran is one of the more sociable of the Varas - if on the shadier side. She shakes her head at the question, folding her arms and leaning against the railing a good arm's length from the man. "Not unless he changes his mind. Kalfor has his route off to the Telgar Steppes tomorrow, but Finn plans to stay. I'm used to riding this route alone." After a moment of silence, she make yet another offer. "I'll get it to Nehan. Do you have it with you? I can pack it now, if you do. Must save your hard-working hands the trouble at all costs, of course," she adds with the slightest of smirks.

Innocent until proven otherwise is a cloak Goran wears about him with smug pride for he has yet to be caught doing anything underhanded. When its revealed that Finn will be remaining behind, features twitch though it’s hard to tell toward which end. Onari’s little dig and the smirk attached earn her a grunt of amusement – the kitten was growing up. Lifting his free hand, nails are given idle inspection in the faded glow of moonlight. “Get the package to Nehan and bring me his debt and maybe there’ll be something in it for you.” The Vara man returns, what appears to be sultry invitation set into the gravel of his voice soon gone when he glances over his shoulder back to where his wagon is situated. “Don’t have it on me. I’ll get it to you before you leave.”

Onari certainly can't tell which way Goran's expression goes, but whichever way that might be, she briefly entertains the notion of asking Finn to come along because of it. And she certainly doesn't miss that suggestive tone to his voice, but the only reaction it gets from her is a raised eyebrow. If only he knew just how much she's grown up since the caravan took to the road. "If it's a piece of your work, I certainly won't say no," she counters amicably enough. Goran is good at his craft; she knows that much. Being that they do much of the same sort of work, it even makes her a little competitive with the steel-eyed man. To his last, she nods. "I'll be up with the dawn. Just so you know." Early start, for her. "So don't have too much fun this evening, or you might miss your chance," she adds on with another smirk. Regardless of the company, she just can't help it.

A laugh, low and smoky greets comment of curtailing whatever evening plans he might have had, Onari set with a hooded look that shades the thoughts tripping through Goran’s mind. Taking a last drag of his toke, the remnants are dropped and ground beneath his bootheel. “Cheek straps repaired for a bridle his runner broke when he was here.” He tells her of the item to be delivered. “And a little something for his wife.” There’s an unapologetic smirk for that one. And then, “You want an escort to the fork in the road?” Dawww, he cares. Or does he?

Unwittingly, Onari raises her chin just a little at Goran's remark, the shadows cast by the glowlight adding a somewhat dramatic deeping to the mild hauteur the movement casts over her features. Brown eyes snap a bit under gracefully slanted brows, and she gives an almost inperceptible snort. "I'll see they make it to him," the trader girls says, the subtle drawl to her tone giving away some of what she happens to think about the implications of his statement, and she pushes away from the fence, brushing past him to where Gola's bridle is draped over the rail just behind him. "No, thank you," she answers, adjusting a few buckles and moving to pull the strappy thing over her arm to take back to where she came from. "I've been out that way plenty of times; I can probably ride it in my sleep, if need be."

Aaaah. And there it is. Just the reaction Goran had been hoping for. The kitten is growing claws. What fun! Betrayed in the flash of approval that smokes through his gaze before it dissipates back to mild disinterest. Shoulders lift and fall in a shrug when his offer is turned down though there is a sardonic comment to follow. “Probably best you don’t try.” Running an expert eye over the bridle that is deposited nearby, the Vara man fingers one of the silver circles holding it together. “There’s something else you might do for me…” The sentence deliberately left with a trailing end.

"Aye; I know why not firsthand from when I was younger," Onari agrees ruefully, though she doesn't look at Goran as she speaks. Not a good memory, that. The distance from a runner's back to the ground is much greater when one is ten. When Goran reaches over to inspect her bridle, she almost goes still; they're closer than an arm's length, and she'd rather not be…though she doesn't want to show that he unsettles her. Seventeen and perceived as sweet she may be, but she's also seventeen and thinks she can take whatever comes her way, naturally. At the trailed off words, she simply looks up at him. Give him an inch… "Oh? What might that be?"

Does Goran know he unsettles, the Reika girl? Quite possibly given the flick of eyes her way and the knowing smirk that makes a brief appearance, a thin line of challenge set in that curl of lips. Dropping the circle of metal he’d been toying with, the Vara trader glides closer, eyes doing one of those slow foot to head assessments. Give him an inch and he’ll put it to good use. Almost within Onari’s personal space, he comes to a halt and dipping his head, murmurs against her ear, “Tell Finn I have a job for him.”

…And he'll take a mile. A mile that Onari does not appreciate, as the quick half-step she shuffles away from him indicates. She'd go farther, but that same stubborness and refusal to reveal more of her unsettled state keeps her there, eyes flint-hard and obsidian-dark in the dim light and still snapping, latched to his under a now stern set of brows. Once they've stopped roaming her, that is. "Why not tell him yourself?" she questions with quiet tightness. "If it's anything other than bladework…"

When Onari shuffles away from him, there’s a predatory light of satisfaction that flares briefly in those otherwise unreadable eyes of his. At her tight reply a brow lazily tilts upward, amusement patterning across rugged good looks. “Because I have an engagement in a few and I need him first thing on the morrow and you’re likely to see him before I do.” A pause in which Goran boldly reaches for a lock of wavy brown hair, twines it about a finger and then drops his hand away. “Now, be a good girl and pass the message on, eh?”

"Oh, I'm sure you do," Onari snaps on the matter of Goran's 'engagement,' eyes widening a bit when he deicdes to play with her hair. She sends a backhand at his offending hand, but proves to be just a fraction too slow and misses as it drops away, recoiling a little as a strange, crawling sort of feeling makes its way down the back of her neck and across her shoulders. "Aye, I'll tell him. If only to make sure you don't come looking for me to be sure I did," she says, her tone bordering on scathing as she pulls the bridle free of the fence and moves past him back toward Gola. "Have your delivery ready by daybreak," comes without a backward glance. "Good night, Goran." And with that, all her attention - and nervous energy needing an outlet - goes right back to finishing her preparations for the morning's journey.

With laughter husking in his throat, Goran steps back and away, eyes glittering with unspoken mirth. “Careful, Onari, your claws are showing.” Smug satisfaction for having elicited such a reaction warming through him like alcohol on a chilly winter night. Ticking two fingers to his temple, the Vara trader pockets his hands and meanders away, whistling a bawdy Bitran tune as he departs seemingly without a care in the world. Another night, another bit of fun. Life is good!

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