Abriem, Ember


Ember helps Abriem offload a bunch of rotgut.


It is midmorning of the twenty-eighth day of the fifth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.


Weyr Entrance, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 18 Mar 2016 04:00


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"I have no clue what I want to do with my life."


Weyr Entrance

No standard weyr-arch for Southern, no, not when an open-air bridge could curve so gracefully into the exterior of the bowlwall, the concave swoop of the weyrbowl itself nestled against the far high-rise of the rivercliffs. A pocket of white marble is delineated in gorgeous architecture at the termination of the bridge, a staircase switching back to a terace above; the stone buildings of the guard compound rise in a vivid vein against the rough-hewn darkness of the cliffs it settles against. The classic arcs only possible by ancient stonecutters show through, Southern's ageless beauty to be admired by all who trespass her walls.

Fuck the rain. Except it's not raining, which is awesome. What's not awesome is the mud and muck that's traversed through the Weyr Entrance from the greater clearing area as the carts and people and ponies make their way through Southern Weyr's tight-packed entry point. At least, by the time the traffic reaches Ember, lingering by the swinging door (OMG BOOZE) of the Sexy Kitten, it's mostly been dried up into clumps and not splashing. Some guy is off to the side trying to sell his wares in the middle of the busy traffic area - "HOT BREAD! Get your HOT BREAD!" - while another man is trying to sneakily steal the apple from the cart, so to speak. With her dark hair pinned up and away from her face, her fair skin contrasts to the deep, sienna brown leather jacket worn smartly over a red shirt and black pants. Idly, she toys with the beady necklace around her throat, the first two fingers caught up in the strands. For all that she leans a casual stance against the wall, Ember's eyes are watchful on the crowds. Maybe she's looking for someone.

Abriem should be wearing mud from head to toe, considering he's part of the train making its way into the Weyr. He ought to be splattered and coated and ruined by it, but he's actually not looking too gross. His rickety wagon, hauled by one tired looking mule, is a different story. He cluck-cluck-clucks at the mule to keep him moving through the line, and the stubborn beast goes along pretty well, rolling right up to some kind of parking place near the Kitten, at which point he hops smartly down (into the mud) and asks the first person he sees (Ember), "You know where deliveries go?" Never mind that she might have been deep in her own thoughts; his shit takes precedent.

Abriem and his wagon are barely a flicker in the eye of her attention. That is until he hops so smartly down into the mud - which splatters - and causes her to jump back a step. "My boots!" Outraged - or is she? Some life sparks in her attention when she settles it on the traveler and that life speaks to a certain level of humor. "That way," she jerks her thumb over her shoulder, pointing helpfully (not) back towards the weyr proper. "Or unless you're looking for the Tavern," her words roll of her tongue with ease, confidence set in her demeanor. "Then that is right here, but I wouldn't recommend going in there just yet." Just in case he was. She executes a nonchalant shrug that suggests its no skin off her back if he does, however… "Someone pissed on the floors and it reeks. Some asshole didn't close up the bar last night correctly. I refuse to work in those conditions. So I let Bailey know and peaced right the fuck out." So maybe she's looking for drudges? Who tf knows.

First, he looks that way. He tilts his head just enough that dark eyes can see vaguely in whatever direction that was, then he rolls his attention back onto the girl with the soiled boots (sux 2 b u), and is probably on the verge of saying more when she clarifies about the Kitten. This time, his head cocks with interest rather than doubt, and it's on the tip of his tongue to ask why-not when she goes ahead and supplies that info. "Mopping floors not part of your job, I take it?" This while he thumbnail-scratches his lip, looking not at Ember but at his wagon, with its paltry couple of crates and barrels in the back. Hmmmm.

"Fuck no," Ember's mouth sometimes gets away with her, and at the last moment (which is really the too-late moment) she ducks her head and huffs out a sound. "I don't work in the Kitten regularly. I get assigned there if there's no one to work there, and my job description does not include mopping up other people's messes." Because ew. She shakes out her boot a little - knee-high and swanky - before lifting her attention back to Abriem. Those large blue eyes dominate her expression but still a hint of disgust lingers. Though that attention is easily caught by the paltry goods the other guy has. "What're you sellin'?" Intentionally nosy, the girl even takes a step forward in the direction of that wagon.

"Fair enough." Well, really, it's 'fair nuff,' but typing out an accent is a PITA; suffice it to say, Abriem hasn't got the cleanest diction on the planet, but he's intelligible, and the accent is so muddy and varied that it's obvious he's been here-and-there in his life. He ought to get all possessive and defensive about his piddly crap, but (really) there's nothing to see in there except what he says there is: "Wine from upriver and rotgut from up north. Good for cleaning the piss smell more'n drinking." Brand new marketing campaign, he flashes a salesman smile at Ember to see if the pitch works?

Ember's own accent seems to stem around the High Reaches Area, or the area between High Reaches and Tillek. Folding her arms across her chest, she smirks in a way that suggests she's more than happy to let her replacement come and clean up the piss. She outright laughs at his pitch, giving him a side-glance full of terrible mirth. "Maybe I could take the rotgut, then, and throw it on the floor. At least it'll smell better." Maybe. Not really. "Wine from upriver." Curiosity gleams in her expression. "Like from Black Rock? I've heard things about that place. How danger it is, yada yada." Clearly, she expects him to dish.

Returning to the wagon himself, Abriem climbs up onto the outside railing and parks on the corner, putting his feet on a muddy wheel and perching there, as good a place to wait out the piss as anywhere. "Take away," he invites, gesturing to the couple crates behind him. "So long as I get paid." There's just a little doubtful inflection there, since he's pretty sure Ember's not an authorized deal-maker in this establishment. Her blatant curiosity gets a short chuckle out of him; "Not from Black Rock, just some shitty holding upriver." Lies lies lies. "Can't go to Black Rock with one shitty wagon, I'd just get robbed."

Laughing, Ember puts one hand on the wagon's side, watching as Abriem clambers onto it before leaning over to touch one of the grates. "Sure, I can promise you payment as soon as I promise you desert-front property in Southern." Laughter edges her tones, and she leans back to give him a fully assessing regard. Her eyes slightly narrow, shifting her countenance to one a touch more serious. "They're bloodthirsty, then," she murmurs, the gears of her thoughts fully churning down the BAD IDEA path. "Too bad the shitty upriver cothold gave you such shitty offerings. You know, you should start trading in some other materials. I've heard tales of a potential bakery opening up." She will just let that little nugget drop. "And the craft shops are always looking for fine cloths." Maybe she thinks he needs help.

"Enh," to the bloodthirstiness of the bad guys. "More like, they're just happy to pick low-hanging fruit." He kicks one muddy boot against the side of his shoddy wagon as a perfect example of that low-hanging fruit. Abriem listens to Ember, though he's got his attention mostly on the door to the Kitten - waiting for signs of life - except for the occasional side-glance in her direction. "Expert advice from a fill-in cocktail waitress. Howcome you don't do it yourself?"

"I am no skeevy waitress," Ember is quick to come back with, archly. "I fill in where I'm needed, and so I get to do a variety of odd jobs." Tugging on the lapels of her jacket to straighten it, she lifts her hands and fluffs the dark hair while looking to the side, in the direction of the weyr. "Besides," her attention is back on Abriem, "I have no clue what I want to do with my life. So why lock myself in? I don't want to be known as no skeevy bar maid or some klah place's server or some clothing store's resident expert in lingerie." Briefly - quick enough to showcase that it's more instinctive habit - her fingers toy with the necklace around her neck. "I believe I can make my own destiny more interesting than that." Laughter wells when she turns the question back on him, "How come you just trade in sad little wagon supplies? You seem like someone who'd be more successful." Maybe it's the truth, maybe it's flirtation, maybe it's Maybelline: Ember's expression doesn't give much other than an almost-startled look attributed to the brightness and roundness of her eyes.

What he thinks of Ember's lofty goals isn't completely transparent, but there's obviously some skepticism there, conveyed in the black-eyed glance and the snicker. Far be it from Abriem to start a fight with a girl who has plans for herself, though, so he just keeps his own verbal counsel to himself. "'Cause I took some advice from this chick outside a shitty bar who told me I should get into trading, since I seemed like I'd be more successful. Turns out…" He tsks his tongue against his teeth, disappointed-like. "Hey, maybe your destiny and the big life you're looking for starts with buying a wagon offa some guy. I know one for sale. Cheap."

At least she's not a slacker? Ember laughs and steps back. Once again she folds her arms across her chest, her weight resting primarily on one hip to give a subtle 'attitude' with her stance. "Just callin' it. At least for the size of your," beat, "goods." She lets her eyes get real round, the dark lashes pulled back to layer on a surprised (shhh, it's fake) look. "Really. I could buy your wagon? You'd let me spend all my marks on this sketchy investment?" A hand comes to press to her chest, "I'm flattered, but I won't be chained down by a wagon, but I'll do you one better." A look to the left, a look to the right, and then she steps forward, bold as brass. And maybe it almost looks like something naughty, but when she's close enough that she can comment in a low tone, she says, "I know a guy who buys shitty booze. Well any booze. Not technically on the up and up, if you know what I mean, but." The look she gives the trader suggests maybe he's okay with that. "Better than this place."

She'll do him one better: "Will you now." Considering she's doing all that stepping closer and now murmuring at him, can Abriem be blamed for mis(?)construing that remark? "Yeah?" he asks after attending Ember's suggestion, a look cutting from her to his precious (and sad) cargo. "This where I follow you around the corner and you kick my ass and steal my stuff?" So he might have some trust issues.

If she catches his misunderstanding, perhaps it's held in those oh-so-expressive eyes. "Me?" Ember fakes innocence, "Little ol' me? If that were my plan, I'd have my monster of a boyfriend around the corner, ready to take you and your wagon." More laughter edges into her demeanor. "Maybe I just want to ruffle your pockets or maybe I actually do have a contact." Dancing back, she looks back towards the weyr proper. "You wanna find out, you can come with. Or stay here until my replacement comes that will clean up piss." She shrugs, not a care in the world if he follows her or not - and yet, she tosses back with hand-weighing motions: "Profit now? Or profit later? Either way, you come away with something, right?" Listen, broken bones are totally profit!

No, he actually kind of has to agonize over this deal. I mean, sure 'follow pretty girl or sit here and wait till piss is cleaned up' shouldn't be all that tough a decision to make, but here's Abriem's whole life in a rickety wagon, with a mule that's trying to eat the post where he's tied, in a Weyr that's not exactly known for having the world's best security, so he scratches his lip with his thumbnail and thinks about it. Apparently, 'fuck it' wins, since he quickly ties down a tarp to at least hide his unprotected stuff while he's gone, hops down, and mud-sloshes after Ember.

Ember's whole expression lights up when he hops down and starts to follow after her. She places her finger on her bottom lip, nibbling the nail while smiling around the digit. "You won't regret it," she promises and then turns and skips a little away. Maybe that's her whole schtick? Lure men into whatever dark trading shadows there lie within Southern? Either way, the 'Kitten is getting abandoned (because she's terrible) and left to whomever goes in there and finds the travesty of human piss that stinks up the entire place. And on that, we call a wrap! Until next time.

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