Erikkhan, T'ral


T'ral tracks down Pern's most prominent painter to commission a painting.


It is afternoon of the first day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th .


Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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Erikkhan and Realilina's Quarters

This part of the domain serves as an office and studio, Journeyman Harper Erikkhan's to be precise. To the left is a wall with deep shelves carved into it. These shelves are stocked tightly, but neatly with various types of art supplies, from small jars of pigment to large canvases. Several bare wooden frames meant for stretching canvas lean against the only blank part of the wall. The right wall is lined with a few easels, two of which have overed canvases on them, and Erikkhan's desk which is orderly and has a stack of hides for incoming and outgoing commissions. The back wall has two doors and what empty space there is left is occupied by samples of Erikk's work.

It is the sixty-first day of Summer and 118 degrees. Mercilessly bright, Rukbat's light heats the desert as a small dark cloud appears on the horizon.

The usually quiet area that is Journeyman Harper Erikkhan's studio is ravaged by hectic noise today. Instead of an empty room with a solitary artist within, the room bustles with activity, with Erikk at it's center booming orders. Apprentices run around like scared puppies, attending to the duties given them: Some carefully pack finished paintings into oiled hides made to keep the moisture out, some pack supplies, some are boarding up Erikk's cabinets, to ensure the safety of the paintings within during his absense. White sheets are going over easels and the once messy tables are being organized and cleared off. Erikk lets his hazel eyes scan the goings on around him, shouting orders when needed, but his eyes keep darting to the door as if expecting someone.

Is that someone a Southern rider? If so, one enters, blinking rapidly and unclenching against the hide-stripping heat and brightness of Igen's Summer sun. He clearly can't see very well, squinting about as he pulls down the veil covering his mouth, spit at the grit in his mouth and grimacing, "… … sandy … this … forsaken … … pit of … …." Shouting he can hear, though. That voice of authority. His head comes up, eyes still not really landing in focus on anything as the green-haze of sunblast fades from his vision. He's wearing neat charcoal gray leathers with some haphazardly placed red leather zags, abstract those zags, and all together, rather warmer than the Summer warrants. He's sporting the knot of an assistant weyrlingmaster. He spits again, wiping a hand across the neat, dark beard that brackets his jaw and mouth.

Erikkhan is in the middle of chastising an apprentice for spilling linseed oil, an expensive item, all over the floor, when T'ral enters. "It'd best not happen again, it's expensive and not easy to replace. Get this cleaned up and start packing my chalks, you can't do any harm there…" Erikk turns and approaches the rider, a much more pleasant look on his face. "To what do I owe the pleasure of having a Southern Rider in my studio?" Erikkhan asks, a charming smile on his face as he takes in the rider's state of dress. "If you'd like to come through to my living room, I have wine, whiskey and juice for refreshment."

As the Harper approaches, T'ral's vision is clearing. He smiles at the striking man, "Erikkhan?" A smile, transformative given the surly grimacing and spitting, brightens the young man's features. He advances a step, hand extended, "T'ral, blue Esanth's." He nods in silent acceptance of Erikkhan's invitation to adjourn to his living room and paces along, hands tucked behind his back as he surveys the hustle of activity in the studio. A sympathetic look tendered to the apprentice on hands and knees, cleaning up the mess. Keen eyes rove the fascinating space, he hadn't seen the like for turns now. Not since leaving the Hall. "I'd like commission copies of a portrait. Is that something you do? Or one of your apprentices?" Was just copying beneath the reknowned painter? "Water… or anything cold would be most welcome." The bluerider undoes the neck of his leathers, the lapels falling open to reveal a crisp-looking, despite being sweated rather completely through, white shirt and a blue neckerchief.

"Aye, forgive me for being so rude. I am Journeyman Harper Erikkhan yes, you can call me Erikk if it makes things easier. Please, come…" Erikk waves the way to his living quarters and issues one last bout of commands to the apprentices. He leads the way into his comfortable living space, listening raptly to what the rider is requesting. "But of course sir, how many copies do you need commissioned?" Erikkhan asks, hazel eyes reflecting friendly interest and a charming smile on his lips. He looks through some of the shelves carved into the walls and produces a bottle of something cold, because there's condensation on the outside. "Lovely thing about living in caves, things stay cool if you want them to and you know where to store them." He retrieves two glasses and pours out a light, sweet smelling juice with a tart flavor. "Please…make yourself comfortable." He hands T'ral his drink and waves at the couches, or the chairs.

Living Quarters
This is a comfortable living area. A small kitchen likke area is off to the side, a neccesity for an artist who forgets basic needs sometimes. A couple of comfortable, if not very slightly worn couches sit along the walls with matching tables, awaiting guests to come sit in them and visit. Shelves are carved into the walls and things that mean something to the harpers that live here line them. A large rug covers most of the floor. The only other furniture in the room is a small dining set, and a set of high backed, plush chairs. Some of Erikk's work hangs on the walls, accompanied by paintings of scores of Lina's favorite music. Glow baskets and candle holders also litter the walls.

The rider takes the blessedly cold glass and inclines his head. "Thank you, Erikk." As a rule, T'ral doesn't use nicknames unless they're specifically requested. It is very difficult not to say 'sir' for the man's rank and age. For all T'ral's ability to endure the humidity of Southern, there's something about Igen's bitter heat that saps the man. Making his way to a chair, T'ral folds himself onto it, placing the already half-drained glass of tart juice, the crisp coolth cutting right through the dust, bright and refreshing, onto a low table. From the inside breast pocket of his leathers, the rider fishes out a small palm-sized object. Unwrapping it carefully from a protective wrap of cloths and a leather folio, he looks down at the image in his hands for a long moment, "This," he stands and hands the little portrait to Erikkhan. It's a woman, young, perhaps as young as T'ral looking out from the image with vibrant, bright eyes and shimmering red hair, vivid and alive as if she'd blink, or breath or tuck the stray strand behind her ear and laugh at any moment. "I'd like two copies of that, if you would." A pause, "She was my mother." Another beat, "Her name was Tara."

Erikkhan draws on his own juice as he watches T'ral make himself comfortable. When offered the portrait he takes it, coming to sit near the blue rider. He inspects the picture with avid attention, drinking in the details. "I believe I can copy this. What size do you want them to be? And would you like name plates on them?" Business Erikk breaks through and his mind starts dreaming up frames and color selections already.

"Um," T'ral really hadn't really considered size changes. "Maybe one half again as large and one twice as large?" He reseats himself and looks with brows cast up at the painter. His brow furrows briefly, "No, no name plates. Not on the front anyway. Simple frames. Um, a storm motif… if that'd work?"

Erikkhan nods along. "I think we can manage this. I leave for Ista tomorrow and then I'll be in Southern in a fortnight. I can have them ready for you by then." He grins. "I think I can manage a storm theme to them… I'll have to make a stop in the Zingari camp before leaving, they have some of the pigments I'll need." Erikkhan gets up and retrieves a stylus and journal from the cubby holes in the walls and begins jotting down a list.

That's it? T'ral blinks, smiling. Then wrinkles his nose, "How much?" The two spend a moment dickering over the price, T'ral isn't a hardcore haggler and Erikkhan well knows his worth as an artist. It's not like his mother's memory is priceless or anything. When they're both satisfied, he sits back in the chair and picks up the glass, knocking the condensation loose with a crooked knuckle, "What fruit is this?" It might not even be one… "Fruits?" The bluerider's saliva glands cringe at the tartness, but boy is it tasty. He watches the list growing under Erikkhan's hands. "Pigments," what he recalls from his early training at least, "Sure have funny names."

Erikkhan enjoys the small haggle with T'ral, and is satisfied with the results. He continues penning his list of pigments and chuckles at T'ral's comment. "I have no idea what it is, my wife discovered it when she was pregnant and we've kept it in the home since then. I enjoy it as well." He looks up briefly from his list and grins. "I'm certain ly glad you brought your business to me T'ral, I'm honored, surely you have painters amongst the harpers in Southern?"

"Well. It's delicious." As to why T'ral chose Erikkhan, "Well. Yes, we do." He scratches at his jaw, "But you're highly recommended," please don't tell the Southern painters, "And it's a bit of a surprise. My father's the Headman and knows EVERYTHING that happens under his roofs. I mean," T'ral gestures at the little portrait, "He gave me this to get copied, but… I don't want him to know when to expect it."

Erikkhan glows with pride. "Well, I'm glad my business goes that far." A slight smile uplifts his lips and he closes the journal, tucking the portrait inside. He chuckles. "It's hard having parents in high places eh? In the old time, my mother was MasterHarper." He shudders, going a bit pale. "Woman was a madwoman, crazy and mean. She had no business holding her status." His face softens in a second though. "It's a nice surprise you've planned for your father. I'll stick these on the top of my priorities list."

"It can be. Especially one who is so… involved in everything." T'ral laughs, commiserating and then blinks a bit at Erikkhan's assessment of his mother. Whoa. Stumbled onto issues. For all that Renalde was aloof, he wasn't insane. T'ral stands, placing his empty glass carefully on the table with maybe a tiny longing glance at the condensation sweating pitcher, "Erikk," he extends a hand, "Thank you. This," he opens his mouth and closes it, a little indrawn breath, "This is important to us. Thanks for taking it on."

Erikkhan takes T'ral's extended hand. "It's my pleasure T'ral. It's an honor to serve a Southern Rider in such capacity, after all, I owe it to Southern's walls for my current day fame. If someone long ago had not thought to stash the artwork in the walls, I would have been lost to time and nowhere near where I am now." Erikkhan beams and shakes hands once firmly before letting go. "I shall let you know when they are finished and they shall be delievered proptly upon my arrival in Southern. It was nice meeting you T'ral, I hope to see you again soon." Erikk pours the man another glass of the cold juice and hands it to him. "Leave the cup with the kitchens, slake your thirst man. Then tell the cook you want a skin of 'Lina's favorite juice', He'll know of what you speak, and perhaps, what's in it."

T'ral nods smiling through Erikkhan's gratitude to Southern. In point of fact, that's the chief reason that T'ral knows of him, because of those paintings. "Likewise, Journeyman. I look forward to seeing them." Another glass of the juice and instructions on how to get more. Bounty upon bounty. T'ral might have to reconsider his opinion of Igen hospitality. Well. Adoptive Igen hospitality. He gives the harper a toothy grin, "I'll do that. Fair… sands? Erikk." The bluerider grins rakishly and bows, retreating through the studio, leaving a deposit with Erikkhan's aide and venturing off into the bazaar's tumult.

Esanth has located his favorite green and it's this way that T'ral heads.

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