Ryott, Cascabel


Ryott bumps into some people.


It is afternoon of the seventh day of the seventh month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.


Racetrack, Igen Bazaar

OOC Date 21 Mar 2018 04:00


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"You could just run away."



The Racetrack has been a fixture of Igen Weyr for several centuries, though it's situated a little walk from the Weyr proper towards the steppe. The great sweep of the oval course is overseen at one end by a wooden structure of tiered seating. Races take place on a regular basis and the annual championship draws crowds from as far away as Keroon Sea Hold. The desert track is famous for providing a demanding and treacherous race, and seeing runners and riders risk their necks is all part of the appeal. This doesn't stop people bringing their children along, and race days are a curious split between a family day out for some and a chance for others to seriously misbehave. Gambling, drinking and whoring are all encouraged in the few adobe buildings that cluster at one end of the track — and the guards are far enough away that it's usually privately hired Akzhan muscle that keeps the peace.

Behind the Racetrack are the training grounds, used to prepare both jockeys and the runners bred by the family. Akzhan stock is famous across the northern continent for its speed and stamina.

Another bright and sunny summer day in Igen, perfect weather for the races being held. The crowd is moderate, and the drinks are flowing to keep everyone cool. Ryott is dressed for the heat, wearing a short sleeved tunic in breathable cotton, overtop a pair of linen pants over sandals. Around her head, a shawl is wrapped to keep the sun mostly off her head and face. All of her clothes are various degrees of black. This youth trodges along at an indifferent pace, a mien of pure disinterest frozen on her teenage face, a slight scowl to her dark eyes, or is that just the way she looks? To the casual observer, the kid is bored. To a keen observer, Ryott's near ebony eyes are constantly looking around her, flitting from person to person, coldly analysing.

Cascabel dresses in a way to hide most of her person most of the time — opaque gauzy veil, long skirts, et cetera — but it's generally also, and arguably primarily, to keep the sun off her. She's also not that often seen in such social places as the Racetrack during busy times, especially not in places that have an expectation of activities like drinking. Which she is keeping far, far away from doing … in fact, it seems as if as soon as the man whose arm candy she was wandered off to talk business, Cascabel was doing precisely what Ryott is: watching people. Slate-pale eyes meet the dark ones for a second, and Cas even offers the unfamiliar teen a shaky little half-smile, curiosity abound, before having to stop and pay a moment's heed to an overdressed woman in an ornate hat muttering some kind of order at her.

If Ryott acknowledges meeting Cascabel's eyes and the accompanying half-smile, it will be with the barest hitched of one dark eyebrow. Continuing her ambling circuit of the betting areas, finally she seems to fall into step behind someone, discretly, and at first it looks to be totally at random. But then she is quickening her pace and raps the man on the shoulder, "I think you dropped some marks there Sir." she says as she points to the ground behind him. The man quickly turns his head to search, bumping into Ryott's elbow in the meantime. After a bit of looking he finds a couple of 1/8 marks on the ground a few steps behind him, but when he reaches for his belt pouch to put them with the rest of his marks, he only finds a carefully slit leather strap. He looks around birefly for Ryott, but she has already moved off, and besides, as soon as she said marks, he wasn't looking at her anymore. He mumbles something under his breath and storms off, maybe to find a guard or at least security. Ryott pops back out of the crowd a little further away, closer to Cascabel and the ornate lady, now, with her shawl pulled over the bottom part of her face.

Perhaps Cascabel saw some of that exchange, for she's covered her mouth with her hand for a moment. Hiding, likely, a smile: though she's mixed in with the wealthy and up-and-coming, she doesn't seem to have any fondness for them or any issue when they're dumb enough to fall for thieves' tricks. Nor does she have any fondness for the woman she's with, whose demands she has now started to visibly ignore. And Cascabel? Does not carry a purse, or anything that may have been holding money: she carries nothing except for the jewelry on her fingers. But the older woman? She has a purse. A sizable one, at that, and she seems mildly intoxicated to boot.

Ryott may have seen Cascabel smile, but she has now resumed her bored wandering, huffing and sighing in that most exasperated way that only teens seem to be able to manage. She has indeed noticed that the fancy lady seems to be a little worse for the drink and is carrying quite openly a rather sizeable purse. Poor woman is basically asking to be taught a very expensive lesson. For a moment, it looks as if Ryott has moved off, and drops out of sight for a long moment. But then, when a boisterous group of men, all stinking of wine and beer, wander pass the two women, she stumbles out from among them and bumps right into the ornate woman, sending her tottering dangerously. "Oh no! I'm so sorry ma'am!" She says quickly and with near perfect sincerity as she puts her hands on the woman's arm and waist to steady her, holding her while the woman gets her feet back under her. Once she's no longer tottering, Ryott with bobs her head again, keeping head tilted down, shawl obscuring most of her face. "Sorry ma'am. So sorry." she continues as she quickly scampers backwards and is off again, dipping between two nearby adobe buildings.

How long would it normally take the spice shop matron to determine that she'd completely lost something she'd been carrying? Normally, who knows, but with a commotion around her — longer, at the very least. It's also given Cascabel a chance to firmly separate herself from the lady, who is likely hunting out her son to insist that they go home now away from all the ruffians. That is when she slips off after the young girl, weaving away from her family on light feet, offering a quiet enough, "What a clever diversion, were they with you?" when she thinks she might be in earshot. Of Ryott and not of any of the guard.

Ryott turns and looks Cascabel up and down once and shrugs her shoulders idly as she gives a little shake of her head. "I have no idea what you are talking about." her voice is softly deadpan, and utterly even with no hint of the overly sorry girl, or even the helpful girl who dealt with the first man. Her expression is inscrutible, but her eyes are sharply piercing as they search this woman's face, narrowing slightly, she flicks her gaze back towards the crowd of rich bazaar folk. "You're one of them." she states simply as she leans back on the wall of one of the buildings they are standing between, crossing her arms over her chest. Was that a soft tinkling sound as she settled?

Of course not. If Cascabel heard anything, she certainly won't make mention of it, or let the serene expression draw from her face. "I'm — " That statement is met with bewilderment, then a soft light noise that might be considered laughter from someone a little less … unusual than the slight sense of 'off' that emanates from Cascabel at times. "No. No," she repeats, relaxing a little, "I belong to them. To, not with. There is a line. Be careful, there are eyes," she gestures backward toward the crowds. "If you didn't know the drunkards, they may have been guards."

Shaking her head softly, a very dry chuckle eminates from Ryott for the briefest moment before she shuts it down, mouth returning to it's firm line, "No. Not guards." she says with certainty, and almost looking a little offended at even being asked that. At the other woman's clarification of her status with thr bazaar's wealthy, she narrows her eyes slightly, "There's always eyes. And I have my own." she doesn't elaborate on her last but she does lean forward, "So when you say you belong to them…Like an escort?"

In reality? Not entirely unlike, though far be it from Cascabel to think or say that. "A wife," she says simply, because among a lot of the elite, being someone's wife is being their property. "An ornament for social engagements, supply organizer, order-keeper." She doesn't have anything against Igen's guards herself; clearly she thinks enough of them that they might be clever enough to hide in plain sight as criminals. Some of them probably are. It's Igen's elite that she has less confidence in.

"I see." Ryott answers simply in response, but her permanent scowl softens just slightly as she shakes her head, as she reaches up under her tunic and pulls out the spice matron's purse, which is quite hefty indeed. Without a second thought, she offers it in Cascabel's direction. "You could run away." she says simply, still in that same even, impassive voice, as if it would be the easiest thing in the world, her look completely serious, lips pulled in a straight line.

As if it hadn't been considered and discarded; Cascabel offers a simple, still serene, "No." And then, with a single shoulder-shrug, "I could not. Things are rarely if ever that simple, and I value the air I breathe." Important life advice from soneone only barely out of her teenage turns herself. The 'no' seems to be one of double meaning, though, as she isn't taking the purse back either. "I also would prefer that any excess wealth go to being sure that others have enough to eat, and not to line her pockets, but there is little I can do about that." Ryott, with the day's shopping money, though, could do plenty about it!

Shrugging her shoulders as if she isn't going to make the offer twice, Ryott lifts her pant leg where she has a strange pouch strapped to her calf. Upending the purse of marks, she transfers them from one to the other. Once empty, the purse is balled up tightly and stepping away from the wall she was leaning on, she tosses it up onto the roof of the nearest adobe building. Dusting her hands off when she's done, the girl turns back to Cascabel to nod slightly at her words about making sure others eat, careful not to give the older woman any hint to what she will be doing with her ill-gotten gains. But she will hold her hand out, "I'm Ryott." she offers softly.

It's probably not what Cascabel might want, but she sometimes lives in a little bit of a mental bubble where she can let herself believe that good things happen lots of places where she isn't. Therefore, as she's been silently complicit in robbery, what she wants to have happen is what she's going to believe does happen. Even if it doesn't. "Cascabel," by way of introduction, comes with a shake from those be-ringed fingers. "Eryem's wife, of the spice traders."

Ryott raises her brow just the slightest bit as she shakes the woman's fingers, her eyes not even flicking down to the rings there. After she releases it, she offers the barest hint of a curl at the corners of her lips. "Well met Cascabel." the rest of her 'title' is not repeated, but the name of the woman's husband is tucked away at the back of her mind for safe keeping. "So who was that woman anyway? She seems nasty." She remarks coldly as she leans back on the wall again, reaching up and pulling her shawl off her head so she can scratch an itch under her shortly cropped dark hair.

"She is — " Someone who is probably nearly noticing Cascabel's absence, though not enough to actually be sending anyone off looking for her yet: Cas still hesitates, glances behind her as if a timepiece or a person watching her will be able to tell her how long she's been gone. "That is my husband's mother, we live with her — she lives with us," is a very firm correction, as if something that Cascabel is trying to remind herself of rather than truly clarify, "The single most dismal human being I have known." (This is actually saying a lot, because: Divale's grandmother.)

More mental notes for Ryott to file away as her masklike expression gives away nothing. Scratching furiously at her scalp for a moment before replacing the shawl over her head, she snorts dryly, "Well then I don't feel too bad lightening her load." With a curious headtilt though in the older woman's direction, "She won't take this out on you or anything will she?" there is no hint to what Ryott may do if that is the case, her tone is as deadpan as ever, although her gaze narrows slightly, searching the woman's face carefully.

"She was tipsy enough," That was tipsy, that was not drunk, there's a firm enough difference in Cascabel's mind over what is acceptable in public and what isn't, and that is something that may or may not have been groomed by the matron herself, "That I do not think she will notice for some time, and if I make sure not to be seen with you — " There is another glance around, though Cas has not dropped her veils, they're still clearly hers. "Truly, I'm not even sure she registered you. I doubt it."

"They usually don't." Ryott will comment on the woman's last with a sardonic tone entering her voice as she also flicks her gaze around. "Well I shouldn't keep you. I've done well enough." Well enough for what? Who knows? Pushing off from the wall again, the girl will reach up and settle her shawl over her head and face again. soon only her eyes are peeking from between the fabric. "Maybe we'll bump into each other again." That could have been a joke, but her even drawl doesn't speak to humor as she turns on her heel and with little more than a backwards wave, slips around the far side of the building and is gone.

Whether or not it was meant to be one, after a second's hesitation Cascabel still laughs; she must have read it as a joke, though it's far too late for her to profess that she has nothing to make her worth bumping into. Not directly, anyway. Instead she makes no attempt to hinder the escape, though if a couple of folk associated with Igen's guard later ask her where she went? For a walk, for some air, that's all.

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