Who

Aztrexia, Zavyr

What

Two strangers meet at the Oasis. No one can play nicely.

When

It is evening of the tenth day of the third month of the eighth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen - Lost Oasis

OOC Date 20 Jun 2016 07:00

 

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Igen - Lost Oasis

Blocked from view in the south by one of the largest sandstone formations jutting from the desert, this lovely oasis is truly a hidden jewel in the sand. Leagues away from any trace of civilization, it boasts a tranquil blue pool of fresh water and shallow stream fed by an unseen spring beyond a dark crevice in the bluff. Trees spring up against the rock, providing merciful shade and filling in the narrow recesses surrounding the water. The height of the outcropping funnels a near-constant light breeze through the place, cooling the air considerably in comparison to the desert beyond.

However, for all its beauty, there is an unaccountable air of fear and uncertainty about this oasis. At night, the otherwise friendly wind can cross the space with a low, unnerving howl, and creatures passing in the shadows do so in nervous, unseen movements. This has, unfortunately, been a place of grisly discoveries for Igen Weyr - most likely due to its out-of-the-way nature. Sweep riders have observed no renegades, bandits, or criminals of any other stripe in the area thus far, adding to the mystery here.


Aztrexia has been camping in the oasis for days now. Her last quest for information had set a tail on her behind. Damn it. Who had she tipped off? Someone had been following her those last couple of days in Igen. She's been safe in the oasis thus far, thank Faranth for finding it on her way here. For now, she has a fire going, set so that she produces little to no smoke, and some poor desert creature was unlucky enough to be Trexa's dinner. The Zingari spy turns it on a spit, trying to cook it evenly. She curses as she knocks a wooden cup full of juice over and scowls. Well, there goes the last of her juice, thankfully she has water and whiskey to drink. Her runner huffs impatiently and tugs on his tethers, eager to be away from this self imprisonment. "Few more days yet beasty, sorry." Trexa shakes her head. She really must be more careful on her forays for information.

The outlying Kunkaul Hold initially counted five runners missing, including the Lord's prize stallion. But several herders were chastised for their slovenly lack of care the morning following the raider's sly robbery, for a sixth animal was discovered missing. This non-descript gelding, easily overlooked in his shabby basic sandy brown, is unremarkable in conformation as he is in temperament. He is, indeed, professionally forgettable. And he is ridden by a figure equally-well wrapped in sand-brown cloth. The figure's eyes are closed; perhaps he sleeps, with that bowed head. The runner's reins are loose atop his neck, and the rider has secured six foot staff to the saddle that sits atop the runner. The runner had, sometime back, scented water; his pace had picked up to the point that now, he nearly jogs in toward the pools. It's his halt, the sudden drop of his head to plunge muzzle into the liquid, that jolts the rider into a muzzy wakefulness. Blue eyes glance around, blinking.

Aztrexia 's quiet hideout is suddenly an area of activity as the unexpected runner explodes into the oasis and heads to drink from the pool of water there. Trexa springs into action, lifting the spit and kicking sand over her fire. There's nothing to do about her yurt or her runner, but Trexa herself is behind the boulder and out of sight before the runner drops his head. She peers around the boulder, boot knife in one hand, sizzling spit in the other. She curses under her breath as the smell of her cooking food still permeates the area. Damn. She peers at the rider of the runner from behind her boulder. Can't be an Igen guard, and it's not one of her own people so, who is this intruder. Trexa's hazel eyes narrow, she could use an extra runner.

Dismounting is not usually a procedure that lasts this long, but the last time Zavyr spent this much time in a saddle was never. The cloth is partially untangled from where it looped down, and finally one lean leg is freed, and a ragged boot which does nothing to hide the toes within swings stiffly over the mount, as slender hands make an appearance and grasp at the saddle, to help lever a body so sore that it does not heed the usual orders, to the ground. This runner, an older creature, turns to eye Atrexia's runner, and whickers at that one, his own ears pricked forward. "Right." A tenor rusty from disuse croaks, even as the figure sinks onto knees by the oasis, and drinks a few long sips. That liquid goes some way to softening syllables, "But he's not here right now, so he can't argue with our being here, right, Muffin?"

Aztrexia's mount whickers back, stomping a great plate sized foot into the ground. He dances, though the movement is restricted by the long lead he's tied to. It's the only movement from Trexa's camp, though the spy adept still watches from behind her boulder. She'll not out herself unless she has a reason to. Muffin? What kind of name is that for a runner. Trexa shakes her head and peels a bit of flesh from her spit to eat. Might as well not let it get cold.

Muffin seems content to stay by the water. The youth begins to unwind the cloth, though pausing with a panicked motion to check the safety of an object that has been held up against his chest, evidently. A fabric-cushioned object is drawn out of his tunic and secured in one of the saddle packs, along with a few other items, and a belt. The lad - for the partial disrobing reveals short white-blonde hair and skin so pale that he could rightly be taken for an albino, sharp thin features and a frame with so little flesh on it as to appear more skeletal than any particular gender - finally toes off his boots to reveal ghostly pale legs and feet. Then, sliding his hand along the runner's neck, until he runs out of runner, the lean lad walks into the pool and, with tunic and pants still on, dives in, only to resurface some distance out. Confident strokes take him across the breadth of the pond, and from these vantages, those pale eyes scan, on the lookout for the missing human.

Aztrexia watches like a hawk as she devours what little meat had been cooking on her spit. She then quietly drops the spit, wiping her hands on her pants after. Sharp hazel eyes find the youth invading her campsite once more, out in the pool. Thank Faranth for the size of this boulder, Trexa is easily hidden. Trexa's runner however, becomes uneasy, pulling on his tether as he flattens his ears.

The old gelding follows the line of the shore, where a few brave little plants have managed a foothold, despite all odds. The rhythmic sound of his munching can be heard, when the youth is not splashing in his movements in the pool. Seems that the lad is now washing his clothes. The pants are off, and being swooshed through the water. Then they are donned, and the lad dips deeper into the pool and similarly removes the tunic. Seems that has a garment under that tunic, that loops over his shoulders and around his chest, likely to make him appear to have more bulk, or a place to secret objects.

Aztrexia watches the youth bathe, curious about the extra set of garments around his chest. Hmm. Trexa has used similar disguises in the past, and she wonders… Slipping out from her hiding place, she strides to the shore of the pond, hazel eyes narrowed. The youth is a bit far from shore to stop her should she do anything, so she fears nothing at this point. "Dangerous place to be, you know." She calls out, fists planting themselves on her hips. She figures she can take this youth if need be, she faster than she looks.

There's absolutely a startle from the youth; it's the water that reveals such, though, in shivers of extra circles that emote from where the lad is, "Is it? I thought water-holes were neutral territory." Returned, an accent that isn't strong with any regional geography, but seems to have a touch of its own quirk. Those blue eyes, wide and pale, stare from a ghostly-pale face, washed out even more in the harsh light of day. The youth dips down underwater and after a bit of swishing there under, returns to drag in another breath. The tunic's on again. "I'm neutral. Are you neutral? Be lovely if we both were. We'd get along just fine, and could just be equally neutral, in our own little sections. You can draw the line there," Zavyr nods toward the beach, "If you want."

Aztrexia smirks, "You must be very sheltered if you think this area is neutral territory." Something lethal passes through Trexa's eyes as a dark smile crosses her lips. "Hordes of bandits and the like out here, ya know." Trexa begins moving towards the runner on the shore. "Where'd you steal this beasty from, eh?" She asks, knowing from the looks of the 'boy' that he couldn’t own the runner.

A snort from the lad in the water, even as he starts wading to shore — mind you, not toward Atrexia's little spot, but an area on the far edge, "Muffin? Stole Muffin? Lady, if I were going to risk being staked out in Thread, or whatever they do to runner-thieves, to steal a runner, this sure as hell wouldn't be the one I'd steal. He's a plug through and through, which you'd know if you have eyes in your head." But the woman starts toward his runner, so Zavyr changes tactics. He dips under the water and begins swimming toward her runner. When he comes up, he checks on her progress toward Muffin, who is still meandering along the shoreline, his reins looped up around his neck so not to step on them, "But if you want to trade, we sure could!" A bright smile is trotted out at that, even as Zavyr achieves the shore.

Aztrexia says, "Mmm-hmm. Sure." Trexa says as she eyes the runner, Zavyr's trek towards her own runner is noted, however, and she begins moving back towards her camp at a speedy clip. She isn't worried about Zavyr taking her mount, oh no, she is worried about what her mount might do to him. "It's a nice idea, in theory. Get too close to that runner boy and he'll peel your face off." Even as things stand the black draybeast has his ears flattened, and he stomps the ground. Aztrexia slips up next to the boy, leaning in to speak into his ear. "And that's if I don't get there first." Trexa grins and moves towards her yurt, from which she pulls a bottle of whiskey and takes a drink. "Best if you just…move along." Trexa doesn't need someone potentially exposing her, either to the weyr, or to her own people. "

Aztrexia wouldn't be able to get all that close to Zavyr. The bare-foot lad just slides sideways, just out of the woman's reach, and likewise, the feint toward the black runner ceases as soon as Aztrexia quits pursuing old Muffin. "Ah, blast, runners like me. We'd get along just fine, oh lone one." Zavyr take the opportunity to backpedal to where his boots are, and picks them up in fingers that are still dripping from the soaking cloth hanging from him. From there, he'll nod toward the runner, "We'll be moving right along from your little vacation spot here, as soon as we're done." Another quick smile and salute.

Aztrexia is betting she could get closer than she tried, she is a spy after all, not that Zavyr has knowledge of this. "I think you'd be crazy approaching that beast without my say so, he's very loyal." She nods curtly when Zavyr mentions leaving. "Probably a smart thing to do…" Trexa eyes Zaavyr from her peripheral vision and raises a brow. "Where are you headed?" Trexa asks, raising a brow. She can't risk reports reaching Igen of her whereabouts.

"Elsewhere, as per your suggestion." Zavyr responds. He vaguely brushes his hand across the horizon, "And given how utterly friendly you've been so far," Zavyr sends a quick look over, "With my well-being and future success so foremost in your intention, I do believe I shan't belabor you with the weight of my future destination and fate." An elaborate bow is given at that, from Zavyr's new position on a rock near where Muffin has found a patch of grass. "And where are you headed?"

Aztrexia can certainly appreciate the lad's cheek, but she really does need to know where he's going. "I am headed into tomorrow, and someone else may not be, is all you need to know." Trexa examines the bootknife she still hold sin hand. "There are some what want me found, however, and I cannot risk you leading me to them…." There's an edge of threat to Trexa's words as she slides her gaze over to Zavyr.

"Well then, I think I'll lie to you. Because I sure as hell won't be telling you any sort of truth, in case it'd be wrong. So. You tell me - what's the best answer, because certainly your situation is far more important than my situation, and because you hold the little sharp knife, then your wishes will trump mine, yes? Your mother certainly would be proud - but WAIT - I'm sure there's' some sad story there, too, which drives you to be a total prick who assumes the world revolves around them. It's an old story, new chapter, with a cocky, pretty new villainess for a change. — How much did I get right?" Yes, the lad does have his boots on, and he //is/ on the far side of Muffin now.

A moment is taken on Trexa's part to eye this youngster before she starts moving towards him with a deadly grace. "Lucky for you, you are not the intended target for this wee little knife here. Oh, no, it has a much more worthy target." Trexa palms the knife and it seemingly disappears, out of sight for the moment. The comment about her mother sets Trexa's teeth on edge, though outwardly her grin just becomes a bit more vicious. "I am more villainess than you know, and you'll not lie through your teeth if you know what's good for you. I've tracked better men than you." There's a reason that Trexa is a spy adept at such a young age.

"Well then. Let's get going." With the woman striding toward him, Zavyr has one basic choice, and the swim limbered up muscles that were so damn sore from riding. The water refreshed him, and fear has been a near-constant companion, motivator and, often, reason he's alive for over two turns now. He swings up on the runner, knees and heels urging the plain brown steed as if he rides bareback. Easy balance is demonstrated as the youth leans forward to unloop the reins, though both remain on one side of the runner. "See you down the road, sweetheart. Fair travels!" Another salute, before Zavyr taps the side of his staff, perhaps to ensure that it's secure in its rigging, and the amiable gelding launches into an easy lope away from Atrexia and the water.

Aztrexia is spurred into action. It takes next to nothing for Trexa to unhobble her runner and set him to chasing after Zavyr, his giant hooves spraying sand all around as he launches himself after gelding and boy. Aztrexia narrows her gaze on the pair, heart hammering against her chest as her runner lopes across the sand. Something akin to a war-cry leaves Trexa's throat as the chase begins. She CANNOT be outed.

The little brown runner is desert-bred and lean, selected for endurance. Granted, he's had a rough day this past, and not so much rest to show for it. But old Muffin gets a head-start and Zavyr takes advantage of that. They straight-line out, away from the oasis, at a goodly pace that, while it is not faster than Aztrexia's mount, the pace can be kept for a good while. They make no effort to cover their tracks, and head for what Zavyr knows best: Rocks. And what might be visible on the horizon, here, that is comprised of rocks…?

Aztrexia is hot on Zavyr's heels, even as she realizes he's headed for the weyr. Though, after a few moments, her head realizes where the lad is headed and she pulls her mount up short, causing him to rear and whinny in protest. "Damn it!" She hisses, watching the shadow of rider and runner disappear into the distance. "Shit!" follows before Trexa heads back to her camp, likely to pack up and move elsewhere. She can't risk being found here. Shit! Shit! Shit!

When the pursuer turns away, Zavyr eases up the pressure on his own mount, gentling the old boy with hands and voice to a more sedate speed. The pale youth does keep vigilant watch, however, for some trick, some attempt for the woman on the big black runner to try to outpace and flank him, or circle around in front of him. Never-the-less, the rocks will become the destination; not that Zavyr has any idea that they are, indeed, the Weyr; they are only a way not to go in circles, forever, in featureless sand. After another ten or twenty dragonlengths, Zavyr will twist around in the saddle, and rummage around in the pack, to pull out, once more, the precious firelizard egg he'd found, and tuck that in the fabric around his chest, once more over his heart.

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