E'bert, Jonteim, Veresch, W'rin


There's a lot of talk about W'rin's package.


It is midmorning of the nineteenth day of the twelfth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Central Bazaar, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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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.

Who doesn't love the smell of commerce in the morning? Even on a brisk, winter morning such as this one? It's not so busy as it might be in a few hours when it's warmer out, but there are a few milling customers and more than a few busy merchants, setting up their wares for a day's work. Jonteim is somewhere in between, it seems, for he keeps an eye on the nearby herbalist shop that's lately fallen under his charge - no more than a few meters away and likewise guarded (if you can call it that) by a tired-looking young man in his mid-teens, slouching in the stone archway - but he also waits in the short line in front of a food vendor. Gotta load up on carbs to face a day like today.

Who doesn't love? W'rin doesn't love. Anything. Even this morning as he marches into the bazaar with a determined look on his face as he engages in fierce combat with tights that have ridden up into places. Lift of leg, yank of fabric, and if the sudden unplugging unleashes a bit of wind, would any dare call him out? Apparently he is unware that wedge picking and quiet farts are all out of style this season, as he unabashadly pokes his head into the first stall he finds, looks around, grunts disapproval and moves on to the next. One after the other, in the general direction of slouch-mcslouchy teenager fellow. Who also receives an audible puff of air, luckily from his mouth hole, and in some symblance of a greeting.

There are others far more slender and far less given to breaking wind (and wearing tights) than the Weyrleader or indeed most of the male populace around. Veresch, for once clad in bazaar-gear, is is dark blue, wrapped up tight against the lingering cold. Emerging from a bakery some distance down the street, she approaches Jonteim from the other side. There's a nod for both the men as she arrives in their vicinty; "Sir," she greets W'rin, and scoots a little to the side to have a look at the herbalist's store, poking in around the simples and medicine, packets and still-to-be-grinded.

Walking slightly behind a skipping girl that looks like she can't be older than seven or eight Turns is a young man dressed in riding leathers, "I just don't understand why you have to be so happy this early?" The girl he follows stops her skipping to turn and stare up at him, "What? You're not? You're awake, which means you're still alive and you have that really gorgeous brown lifemate! What's not to be happy about?" oh boy, this is going to go well it isn't. E'bert looks at his sister for a long moment, then turns to walk away, "Don't you have chores, Zisiene?" said in a caustic tone. Then. People. Weyrleader type people. A salute is given, and he's ducking into a nearby shop. Leather is needed, he still has to make a new jacket.

Watching out of the corner of his eye, Jonteim keeps tabs on how the first morning's customers (kinda?) make their way toward the shop, competent enough at ordering breakfast that he can get that taken care of without completely ignoring what the sleepy teenager is doing. And that would be yawning hugely, at first, then nearly choking on the yawn when the Weyrleader-in-tights decides to grace the shop with his presence, his bleary eyes evincing borderline panic. "Uhhhh, good morning," he stammers out usefully, shooting a look toward Veresch immediately afterward; halp. The interlude is not yet long enough for Jon to finish his errand and swoop in to the rescue, but he should be along shortly.

If there is any delightful glee in illiciting such reactions out of people, the ducking out E'bert, the the teenager before him looking like prey about to be devoured, but trying not to show it, W'rin gives no indication. Of any emotion really. The line of his jaw tensing and relaxing beneath his beard as he simply stares at the kid for a few moment. Silently. Eventually, some sound which has the correct syllables to be, "Good Morning." Emerges from the weyrleader's throat. Veresch is spotted next, given a nod of acknowledgement and then he's back to the teen. "This your place? What do you sell?" The mountain of a man trying to peer over the boy's shoulder into the shop.

Zisiene is making her way towards the herb shop. E'bert pokes his head out to watch the girl for a moment, then disappears again. Zisiene does manage get her overly enthusiastic greeting of, "Good morning!" down to something that's within the realm of tolerable instead of obnoxious. Eventually E'bert does step out with his purchase rolled, and tied. It's not exactly what he's looking for, but it's at least serviceable, "Morning," the brownrider offers as he comes up behind his sister. He's not had his klah yet, so he's not completely awake.

Veresch is generally helpful, but some tasks are beyond her capacity. Keeping W'rin from talking distance is definitely one of them. Murmuring her good morning to Zisiene and E'bert as well, she leaves the three to terrorise the poor youth as she starts to shop, taking a few packets to get a pinch of this, a pinch of that according to a list written down on one forearm.

"No?" It's not his place, and the kid, with no help despite his panicky eyes, points through the thin crowd toward where Jonteim is just finishing his purchases, explaining, "His place, and he sells, uh." A quick look around doesn't seem to supply him with much information, as everything looks generic to the uninitiated, but he ventures, "The same stuff his gramma did, like all herbs and stuff." It's about this time that someone who can speak coherently (namely Jonteim) arrives, carrying a trio of portable breakfast pastries in one hand and a few fruits cradled against his body with his other arm. "Good morning," he adds in echo to everyone else, but with a much more 'may-I-help-you' quality about it. The kid looks blatantly relieved.

Tone moves from grumpy consumer to suspicious weyrleader in zero seconds flat, "Not your place? Why are you standing around it…" Only then the real owner, supposedly, actually shows up and W'rin's beady little eyes manuever toward the only slightly older man. "Morning. This is your place then?" The herbs and things are eyed with great disappointment, and he sighs. "Well, nevermind then." With a lift of his shoulders in defeat. "Only…" A pause, "It's just that, you know, women." And under the vague belief that Veresch has wandered off he speaks to the males conspiratorially, "You know how they decorate about their…" Large hands cup underwhere his womanly parts would be if he were so endowed. "Their clothing, make it sparkly and such. To drag our attention there…"

"Faranth protect me," Veresch mumbles as the conversation is heard in part (the best parts), certainly sotto voce enough to be missed in the whole big blingsplanation. Hovering over a particular little bowl, she leans down to sniff at it, frowning. A pinch of that goes into a baggie too; when she's finally gotten enough for her tastes she counts the packets, nods to herself and idly saunters back towards the little conversational knot. There's little haggling; the guy is busy, so she keeps it short. Done, she gives W'rin a good-luck wiggle of her brows as she passes, and greets the others.

E'bert would stare except he's looking around the shop. He knows that there's something he needs to make sure that Zisiene gets, but he just can't quite remember what it is. Something for teething, or something like that? The girl on the other hand is happily checking the herbs on offer, and can't quite keep her hands from clapping when she finds what she's looking for, "I need some of this," she points to the chamomile, and mint tea, "Mama says about an ounce should be good," E'bert's a bit late in stopping his sister from butting in, but he can stop her from speaking further with a slight shake of his head, "Sorry," he offers. Little sisters. Bain of big brothers everywhere. Zisiene blinks, then blushes as she realizes she has indeed barged in and she steps back. It can wait.

There's some transfer of goods, the useless youth getting one of the pastries and a fruit, before he runs off, leaving Jonteim to nod at W'rin's question about ownership while he arranges the remaining edibles on a side-counter. Thankfully, this leaves him turned just far enough from W'rin that no one needs to see the expression that crosses his face when the Weyrleader starts in about, you know, women, though he chimes in like they're speaking of some alien species, "I have heard of them." Turning back, eyes on the girl pawing through his wares, he's clearly torn between talking with W'rin about jiggly bits and the sparkliness applied to them, and not doing exactly that in front of a child. And a girl-child at that. "I do know what you mean," to W'rin, "and are you buying or just browsing?" to E'bert and Zisiene. Not awkward at all.

Even W'rin's eyes fall to the girl, "Uh. Young, um. Lady. If you go away now I'll leave something for E'bert to buy you treats with." A giant paw waves the girl off in some direction. The brownrider, however, is not so easily dismissed as the weyrleader yanks his head toward the group to motion him toward them. "Look sir. I'm just saying. They dress up their yonkers and we have a tendency to do as they please." Eyebrows lift at sharp angles, "But who says we can't do the same? Some shine, some show, on my…" Hands make a little bowl to highlight his own bits. See people looked. "Then I can play their game. No more goldriders waltzing in short dresses with their badonkadonks out, thinkin' they can play me." That's right. The Weyrleader wants to bedazzle his junk.

Zisiene sticks her tongue out at E'bert, "Mama needs some chamomile and mint tea, and something to help sooth teething," she can't keep from giving her brother a 'so there' look. E'bert snorts, and manages to keep from laughing at what W'rin says, "Sir," is offerred to the Weyrleader as he and his sister come up beside him. Zisiene looks up at W'rin, "Why do you need to do that? You're Weyrleader. Ladies are stupid," says the girl who is actually fast on her way to joining that very rank herself.

"Precocious, isn't she," comments Jonteim, otherwise staying out of the matter of trying to chase the little girl away from the big boys' conversation. Since he can't tell if anyone's actually here to buy anything, he avails himself of at least part of his breakfast, though his first bite sticks in his back teeth for a couple of extra seconds when he, yep, looks right at W'rin's junk, leaving him giving his breakfast pastry an uncertain frown afterward; maybe breakfast's off today, on second thought. Despite the girl's contribution, despite the bite he's not quite ready to swallow, he adds, "With all due respect," for a man in tights who wants to put glitter on his dong area, "I'm not sure that women work that way."

"Ladies aren't stupid, m'dear." W'rin squats down his bulky frame so he's closer to eye level with the small child, "They are sly, vicious and vindictive. They'll just as soon get their way by shoving their breasts in your face than trying to have a rational conversation. And while your good ole weyrleader here is mostly immune," A pause. "At least in council chambers, it seems I oughta level the playing field. Eh?" His tone as sweet as it could possibly be as he regales the child with the facts of life, and with a hefty grunt he lifts himself back up to his conversational companions. Slowly he levels a gaze at Jonteim. "Hmm? You're young yet. Maybe they don't work that way for you…But have you seen this." Tight-clad bronzer turns about-face, and gives his perky little ass (so-dubbed-by-several-women) a good wiggle. And then he's got his correct cheeks aimed back at the males. "Look. Maybe it doesn't work cause we've never actually tried it." His lips pull thin as he gives a meaningful look at the two.

Zisiene snorts, "See? Stupid," and that ends that as far as the girl is concerned. E'bert slaps the palm of one hand to his forehead, "Zisiene," shoot him. Shoot him now. Fortunately he's managed to get the tea into a bag, and holds it out to Jonteim, "And Ravene needs some numbweed for teething," he adds, because he hasn't managed to find that, "Then you can get out of here, Zisie," and stop embarrassing him. At least for now.

Yep, breakfast is off. Jonteim unsticks the one bite he got, swallows it unhappily, and sets aside his barely tasted pastry. Fact: W'rin's milkshake does not bring all the boys to the yard. "You make a convincing argument," for something. "Although, if it doesn't work, won't you just be the jackwagon with glitter on his. Area?" This is asked while he (happily) allows himself to get half-distracted with the transaction between himself and E'bert, weighing the bag and quoting a good price on it, though he has to add, "I don't have numbweed, sorry. It's far too big an undertaking to prepare, I'm told," and shrugs apologetically before giving back the purchased bag.

No one who has visited the Weyrleader's yard has complained about anything they received there. "If it doesn't work," W'rin pauses, suddenly realizing he hasn't asked the man's name. "Merchant. Than I'll just take it off. Faranth's Egg Hole, man, it isn't like I'm having the glitters sewn onto my Jons'n." E'bert gets a sidewards glance, "Numbweed, boy? The healers have to give that out. Stuff can be dangerous! Wouldn't be peddled round here…at least not at a fine establishment like this." Right. RIGHT? Accussing glare goes back to the merchant. "Anyway, if you'd just point me in the right direction to find a penis pouch - I'll come back and report the results in a few seven days." Maybe they can start a new fad.

E'bert hands the bag to Zisiene, and physically turns her towards the door. Go away now? Zisiene blinks and looks at W'rin for a moment, "Mama says the best way to a man's heart is third rib down on the left," and with that she leaves the shop. E'bert's left to bury his face in his hands and groan, "Zisiene!" Do you see what he has to deal with? Do you see? "That's not what Ravene said. She said the best way to get a man's attention is with a good meal, and rational discussion," clearly E'bert's paid attention to his foster mother. Though he isn't sure that Zisiene hasn't heard that from somewhere, "I'll go t'the healers next then," see? E'bert can follow directions.

"Forgive me for pressing the issue." When he could just let it drop and hope W'rin moved on. "But even a fleeting embellishment may leave a permanent stain," Jonteim cringes just a touch on that choice term, given the subject matter, "on your dignity, no?" He shakes his head a fraction, immediately realizing that he's talking to a man in tights (who just shook dat ass) about dignity. And about, "Codpiece. It's called a codpiece, not a…" He waves his hand to fill in the blank, not sold on saying words like 'penis' in front of precocious little girls. "And you might ask a weaver to make one for you." Oh, to be a fly on that wall. He has nothing to add about how to get to a man's heart, just folded lips and a quick nod for going to the healers next, good plan.

"The third ribs the better choice, m'dear." W'rin offers to the disappearing Zisiene, only to add after she's gone, "Less likely to end up pregnant." Jonteim receives a resigned nod, "More than likely, good sir. And I appreciate the concern, but my duty to the Weyr outweighs even my own pride. So if this'll get the goldriders off the tables, and back into chairs. Then I think perhaps I should give it a…" Cough. "Whirl." Cheeks lift upward as he squints at the man, "Cod? This..THIS!" Piece is cupped as if making a little throne for it. "Is no limp fish. I don't need a cod piece. Shard'n politeness be damned. What I need is a ornemental pecker pack." And with that the fuming weyrleader stomps off back into the crowd, throwing over his shoulder loudly, "You'll see. It'll drop 'em to their knees!"

E'bert blinks a couple of times, and shakes his head. What did he miss? Sometimes E'bert is really just clueless.

Let's be honest: Jonteim is relieved. Sure, there was some morbid interest about the whole conversation, but he's happy to let W'rin go off on his mission. Blowing out a long, slow breath once the man is gone, business concluded with E'bert, he sags against the counter and looks woefully at the breakfast he put aside. "Rough start," he shares with no one in particular, trusting that the day can't possibly get any weirder, at least.

Dreaming of W'rin is akin to nightmares.

Sienna likes, Jesha didn't seem to mind, Sadie keeps coming back for more….

Shudders. Quiet shudders.

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