Bailey, Il'ian


Bailey visits Igen and runs into a most peculiar bronzerider.


It is afternoon of the nineteenth day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass. In Igen: It is the seventy-ninth day of Summer and 120 degrees. Overnight, the temperatures plummet to a reasonable heat. Sand coats everything.


Dustbowl Cantina, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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To enter the Dustbowl Cantina is to descend: the heart of the ancient tavern lies half underground, at the foot of ancient steps, insulated from summer heat and winter cold by the volcanic rock surrounding it. A windowless place well-lit by glows, it is homey, even cozy, with a certain bijou charm - but for the deep gouges worn in wooden table and solid stone, some clearly lingering evidence of boisterous brawling. The wall behind the well-polished bar, though, remains free from scars or graffiti, as does the door into the small kitchen, and the stairwell up into the owner's quarters: the barkeep and his staff reign, and they guard their territory well. After all, only a fool angers the source of the booze.

SUMMAH TIIIIIIIMEEEEE… and the livin's easy. Or at least, Il'ian wishes the living were easy. Igen Weyr bakes beneath the relentless heat of Rukbat's punishing light, a light that leeches all color into nothing short of glaring bone-white light. Everything is reflective in the pale creams and reds of the desert abodes. Ducking into the Cantina, the boy pulls off his goggles — don't judge, they help with the glare — which lends a raccoon look given the sand that clings to every inch of explosed flesh. And there's a lot of exposed flesh: short sleeved tunic opened at the throat, unlaced all the way down to mid-chest so as to avoid dying. The only observance to propriety are the breeches of umber leather, tight-fitting to cling to narrow hips. The straight blond hair sticks up in wild array around his head, partially because of sweat and partially because of the wind that tousled it. Trudging — for it's not cold enough in here to put a spark to his step — he ambles towards the bar. "Whiskey." Beat. "Sour."

Southern is cold. The Ice Fields are even COLDER. And Igen? Igen may be too hot — especially now with one once-Igen goldrider whisking into the Cantina with ill regard for what Igen propriety is. Off comes her jacket, narrow, tanned shoulders gleaming with health and displayed for all the world to see in her skinny-strapped shirt. She's shaking sand from her hair - bizarre as it is, some fashion nouveau trend no doubt, shaved close to the scalp on one side, flowing in waves to just past her shoulder on the opposite side - as she steps up next to Il'ian. "Jharl!" she calls to the elderly bar-proprieter, a smile lighting up her face as she waves. There's a more cursory smile for Il'ian, her attention remaining on the deep-voiced bartender as he picks his way across from down the way.

Bailey's arrival will absolutely steal one's attention from waiting on one's drink, especially given the way the foreign goldrider sweeps off her jacket to reveal such decadent things as a skinny-strapped shirt. However, if Il'ian has anything, Il'ian has prudence when it comes to women. Regardless of whether they be Igen women or Southern women or Ruathan women; women are women and therefore unpredictable. When his drink arrives, coicidentally at the same time Jharlodar does, he tucks it between his elbows where they rest on the counter and leans over it. With hands clasped behind his head, if Pern had religion, the bronzerider could almost be in prayer. But no, the young man is merely resting his eyes and letting the somewhat cooler confines of the cantina soothe the burned flesh that Rukbat crisped. He's got a great farmer's burn going on right now, by the by. The cursory smile is met with one of his own, and a mumbled, "Ma'am."

Oh, the farmer's burn. Bailey chats amicably with Jharlodar for a handful of moments, ending with a warm tease and forever the vain extension of payment — the first seems to always be on the old man, who pours her a shot from a jar hidden far above the bar and goes about his way. Bailey hides a private smile and takes a glance back over to Il'ian; the goldrider shifts to better assess the state of the bronzerider. "Did Igen try to eat you?" she questions lightly, her voice a polyglot of accents but still faintly Benden-bitter.

At first, Il'ian is lost to his own thoughts — whatever they may be for his face is a good one for never giving them away, residing within stoic regard — and lets the banter back and forth between the barkeep and Bailey to sort of ebb and flow around him as the ambiance of the Cantina. Finally, he opens his eyes and lets out the stiffest of sighs before pulling his hands from behind the back of his head, leaving tousled blond hair in their wake, to reach for his glass. One hand comes to lie, palm down, on the rough wood of the bar, while the other hand cages the rim of his glass to lift to his lips for a sip. He's so lost to his own little world that it takes a while to realize that the goldrider's speaking to him. Briefly, the boy freezes, with the glass halfway between lips and bar on the downward spiral to being set back down. Slowly, he turns his head and questions, "Eat — oh. No. Hot out." Brevity is not rudeness in the boy, he's just not a talker. Oh but wait: "Ma'am."

"Hot out. Better than below freezing. Try a round at the Ice Fields, it'll cure you of your distaste for the heat quickly enough." Bailey takes a lips-dampening sip of her whiskey, allows a smirk to smoke through her lips and trend her expression towards a cunning amusement: she is as a tiger, watching the lonely lamb. "New to all this, are you." It's more of a statement than a question, but honestly, she's cheating: it isn't as though Il'ian isn't fresh-faced, obviously too young to be an old hat.

"Is it?" Il'ian combats her question with a question of his own, though it could entirely be rhetorical since he's not really chasing down an answer. He does, however, watch her from the corner of his eye, one part curious and three parts wary. The aqua hue is as warm as the tropical ocean, and very carefully does his gaze not linger below her chin. Okay, a dip or two will occur until he drops his attention back to his drink. Which is angled upwards for another sip, the whiskey licked off his lower lip. "New?" Again, a glance is given the goldrider over the curve of one leanly muscled shoulder. "Uh. Nah. Igen born and bred." Assumption made, the response is slow and methodically given as if he chews over the sparse words tendered before uttering them. "Heat's in m'blood."

"Riding," Bailey corrects, tone absent as she takes another sip of her whiskey: just another heat to be relished. Her grey eyes scan the bar, apparently looking for… something. Someone? Perhaps. "You look like the day's taken something out of you." She glances archly once at him, shaven-side, the slate of her eyes startling against the plush darkness of her lashes. The tips tell the flaw of whatever cosmetic Bailey uses to darken them: they are as ruddy as the flame of her hair.

Il'ian is a touch mesmerized by the shaven half of Bailey's hair for how strange the hairstyle is for a woman to wear. "Oh." That. As to that, he lifts his glass and swishes the whiskey at her in a brief toast, "Not all that long. Two turns…ish." Easily does the bronzerider concede that he's a newbie when it comes to the life of a dragonrider. "S'hot." That's given for the day and the fact that it's sapped every ounce of energy from the boy that it possibly can. "Sweeps are a bitch in this heat." Further explanation before he's lifting his drink to his lips, but this time, he partially shifts on the stool to keep the goldrider in sight. "You visiting?"

So Bailey's rockin' a Rihanna kind of look right now. So what? Oh… right. Pern notions. "Hmmmm," she draws out at the notion of two turns. "Just a baby." Her eyes are perhaps fae-bright as they take in Il'ian, again. "Sweeps, ah, yes. One of the few things to make me glad of my lifemate's color," she casually comments. "No boring flights over the desert." Her brow crinkles: "Don't you all have a bandit problem?" half-distracted. At his inquiry, she snorts, not-ladylike. "Well I'm not staying if that's what you mean," is drawled.

Il'ian assesses Bailey for a long moment, eyes held mysterious by the way he does this with head downcast and gaze watchful through the fringe of sandy lashes. A single brow quirks when he calls her a baby, though smirk that curls at the corner of his mouth seems to hint that he agrees with her. "Mmmm. Boring and hot." Humor is as dry as the desert weyr he calls home, deadpan delivered so that the words are flavored somewhat sardonic. "'d rather scrape my face off with a rusty cheesegrater." But that's too close to the actual sharing of thoughts that lie behind those aqua blue eyes of his. "Touche," he lifts his glass towards her and takes a sip, allowing silence to settle like a thick blanket. "Eh." Bandit problem? He's got no thoughts on that that's appropriate for polite company. Although, the proverbial eyeroll and disappointment are conveyed in the tone that delivers that single utterance.

"Boring and hot. Kind of like you, then?" Bailey is bold in her assertations, sliding a step closer to infringe (likely most uncomfortably) into Il'ian's space, the feminine curviness of her a scant breath away from touching his arm. "At least you don't speak much." See, that is a total bonus in Bailey's voice. Wait. Wait. Is she hitting on him? (Probably. And she's not even drunk yet, the hoyden.) Her voice drops to a murmur, ostensibly for his ears only.

You overhear Bailey mutter, "Why … you … … ALL … … … bandit …" to Il'ian.

If Bailey thinks to get Il'ian to rise (haw haw) to her bait, then she will be waiting until Igen lies buried under snow. If there's one thing Il'ian is confident of, it's in himself and what he stands for, and it shows in the subtle lift of brow and the play of sly demeanor that slides across his features before he bows his head and once again sips of his whiskey. That she invades his space gives him pause, but it does have the desired effect of drawing his eyes back to the woman. Boldly does the young man lean forward, pushing to make contact with the feminine curves with sudden desire for entropy. Slowly, does he set the glass down and lean forward so that his whispered words could be the taunt of a caress not fully realized against the curve of her ear.

You overhear Il'ian mutter, "Our Bandit problem … in … … … … inept … … … … … these … … … bandits. … … … … … … … … … Hold? The … are rather … … … I? Just … A … … at that, … … … … … … … old … … … … … better." to Bailey.

No stranger to this teasing dance, Bailey curves against Il'ian shamelessly, arching her neck to best hear whatever words he has for her. Whatever they are, they evoke a sudden and surprisingly husky laugh from the woman. "Somehow I think that's the most words you've said in sevens, rider," she smirks up at him, placing a hand against his chest the better to push off of, back to her side of this, casual as the day is long. Hers is a face better suited for a cynic's mien, and that is what is displayed, arranged in straight brows and the smirked moue of her naked lips. "Sounds like Igen, all right."

Il'ian is a living, breathing man with eyes and for all the strange hairstyle the woman has chosen to employ, she's still fair of face and lush of form. Boldness is something that he can appreciate, see, and so perhaps he lingers overlong in the discourse of whispered mutters than he might otherwise. "Perhaps," he allows with affable shrug, "Don't usually have a whole lot to say." Or better yet, after a moment's consideration, he adds, "Of things people are willing to listen to." He is not a bronzerider of wasted breath. When she slips back to her side, the contact broken, the bronzerider is once again lifting his glass in silent, sardonic toast. Either for the goldrider herself or for her words. An ending thought to that muttered statement is quite simply, "Ridiculous." Then it's down the hatch, baby!

Bailey's boldness is like a second skin for the woman. Her confidence is as effortless of the cynical amusement shining in grey eyes, and the telling flicker of her attention to Il'ian's lingering presence. She shakes her head, unaware of the import of the numerous speeches she received from the reticent rider, picks up her single with a wisp of whimsical smirk. "Be well, bronzerider. Inasmuch as Igen allows you to be." She lifts her glass in wry salute before sliding towards a table clustered with familiar faces. While there is a bit of natural hipswing for Il'ian's viewing pleasure, hers is a casual, confident stride. It's like she knows she should swagger but can't be bothered. It just stands as statement to the fact that some things never change.

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